nature.
Sheep next. The sheep-pens are up here, past the Branch Bank of
Paris established for the convenience of the butchers, and behind
the two pretty fountains they are making in the Market. My name is
Bull: yet I think I should like to see as good twin fountains – not
to say in Smithfield, but in England anywhere. Plenty of room;
plenty of time. And here are sheep-dogs, sensible as ever, but
with a certain French air about them – not without a suspicion of
dominoes – with a kind of flavour of moustache and beard –
demonstrative dogs, shaggy and loose where an English dog would be
tight and close – not so troubled with business calculations as our
English drovers’ dogs, who have always got their sheep upon their
minds, and think about their work, even resting, as you may see by
their faces; but, dashing, showy, rather unreliable dogs: who might
worry me instead of their legitimate charges if they saw occasion –
and might see it somewhat suddenly.
The market for sheep passes off like the other two; and away they
go, by THEIR allotted road to Paris. My way being the Railway, I
make the best of it at twenty miles an hour; whirling through the
now high-lighted landscape; thinking that the inexperienced green
buds will be wishing, before long, they had not been tempted to
come out so soon; and wondering who lives in this or that chateau,
all window and lattice, and what the family may have for breakfast
this sharp morning.
After the Market comes the Abattoir. What abattoir shall I visit
first? Montmartre is the largest. So I will go there.
The abattoirs are all within the walls of Paris, with an eye to the
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receipt of the octroi duty; but, they stand in open places in the
suburbs, removed from the press and bustle of the city. They are
managed by the Syndicat or Guild of Butchers, under the inspection
of the Police. Certain smaller items of the revenue derived from
them are in part retained by the Guild for the payment of their
expenses, and in part devoted by it to charitable purposes in
connexion with the trade. They cost six hundred and eighty
thousand pounds; and they return to the city of Paris an interest
on that outlay, amounting to nearly six and a-half per cent.
Here, in a sufficiently dismantled space is the Abattoir of
Montmartre, covering nearly nine acres of ground, surrounded by a
high wall, and looking from the outside like a cavalry barrack. At
the iron gates is a small functionary in a large cocked hat.
‘Monsieur desires to see the abattoir? Most certainly.’ State
being inconvenient in private transactions, and Monsieur being
already aware of the cocked hat, the functionary puts it into a
little official bureau which it almost fills, and accompanies me in
the modest attire – as to his head – of ordinary life.
Many of the animals from Poissy have come here. On the arrival of
each drove, it was turned into yonder ample space, where each
butcher who had bought, selected his own purchases. Some, we see
now, in these long perspectives of stalls with a high over-hanging
roof of wood and open tiles rising above the walls. While they
rest here, before being slaughtered, they are required to be fed
and watered, and the stalls must be kept clean. A stated amount of
fodder must always be ready in the loft above; and the supervision
is of the strictest kind. The same regulations apply to sheep and
calves; for which, portions of these perspectives are strongly
railed off. All the buildings are of the strongest and most solid
description.
After traversing these lairs, through which, besides the upper
provision for ventilation just mentioned, there may be a thorough
current of air from opposite windows in the side walls, and from
doors at either end, we traverse the broad, paved, court-yard until
we come to the slaughter-houses. They are all exactly alike, and
adjoin each other, to the number of eight or nine together, in
blocks of solid building. Let us walk into the first.