THE CAT'S MEAT MAN

Copyright Sarah Hartwell, 2014-2018

The cat's meat man used to be a common sight in London and other large towns between the mid 1800s and the 1930s. Let me clear up one misconception first - this trader sold meat FOR cats, not meat from cats! During that period, most towns had their own abattoirs and horse slaughterers (knackers) and ineveitably there was meat unfit for human consumption, though it has to be said that the definition of “fit for human consumption” was probably wider than it is today. Horsemeat, along with meats that were “on the turn”, fly-blown or showing signs of disease could be purchased by traders who hawked their wares in the street. He was such a common sight that the phrase “the butcher, the baker and the cats’ meat man” was sometimes used to mean delivery-men/household callers in general or as the equivalent to “every Tom, Dick and Harry.” To prevent unscrupulous traders from re-selling the meat as fit for human consumption or using it in pies, it became the practice to dye the meat blue or green. Whether the dyes were toxic to cats is not mentioned, though a good many Victorian and Edwardian dyes turned out to be noxious to humans and animals alike.

EARLY MENTIONS

The earliest reference I have found to the trade comes from Bell's Life in London and Sporting Chronicle, 18th August 1822. In a report on court cases was this one entitled “CATS’ MEAT AND CONJUGAL DIFFERENCES.”: "A gentleman next appeared to answer the charge of a lady. The former was wholesale slaughterer of horses at Battle Bridge; the latter was a retail dealer in food for the canine race — or, other words, a barrow-hawker of cats’ and dogs’ meat. It appeared that the parties were man and wife, but that of late divers unhappy differences and disputes had arisen between them.’ The complainant was in the habit weekly of disposing of some three or four pounds’ worth of horse flesh, in the way of her trade, and there being a pretty decent profit attached, as well to the wholesale as the retail dealer, tire defendant thought it was nothing but fair, as he was the complainant’s husband, and a wholesale dealer in flesh, that she should come to him to buy her meat. The complainant had, however, thought proper to carry her ready money to another market, and the defendant, being displeased with this bad treatment, threatened the complainant what lie would do, provided she persisted in this course. It was for this that the present warrant had been granted. After hearing the parties at great length, Mr. Sergeant observed, that it appeared their object was a separation; but had not power to separate them. The defendant replied, that the magistrate was quite mistaken, for wanted his wife to come back and live with him and be comfortable. The complainant— Yes, yes, your worship, he wants to come back and live with him, and then for my earnings to support another woman and a young family of children, that will have by her; but that’s what I’ll never do, your worship’ The worthy magistrate observed, that if the lady refused, he could not compel her to live with her husband. If the husband could not coax her back his winning appearance and actions, there was another course open to him, but he must take special care that he did not commit any breach of the peace; be therefore recommended them to depart, and behave civilly to each other. They then left the office, neither of them at all satisfied with this decision."

He was one of the many familiar roundsmen who delivered door-to-door and was described in "A Looking Glass for London - Markets, Smithfield and Billingsgate." (The Penny Magazine Of The Society For The Diffusion Of Useful Knowledge, August 12th, 1837) "The shops and the hawkers are the conduits and the pipes by which the supplies of the markets are distributed over the whole surface of the metropolis. The hawkers are a numerous and indefatigable generation. Manifold are the voices to be heard in every suburban district and retired street proclaiming whatever in its season is thought likely to sell. In the morning, mingling with the curious scream of the milkwoman, may be heard the long-drawn sound of" water-cresses!" then comes round the cats'-meat man, his little cart drawn by one or two dogs, while the household cats, as he approaches, recognise his voice, and manifest lively and unequivocal symptoms of interest; and, perhaps, before breakfast is over, a sound that is more a yell than a cry, emitted from iron lungs, and seemingly intended to reach the deepest recesses of the kitchen, announces that "hearthstone" is at hand. Breakfast is scarcely well over when the bakers' and the butchers' men begin their rounds;—the bakers with baskets or barrows, the butchers, some on horseback, others with oval-shaped wooden trays upon their shoulders. Now come the men with their live soles, their eels, or their mackerel; with these are to be seen the venders of the cabbage, the cucumber, the onion, the lettuce, the cauliflower, peas, turnips, potatoes, or fruit; and the spaces which are left are filled up by itinerant hawkers of brooms, brushes, ornaments, &c, with now and then an Italian boy with his figure-tray, or a strolling minstrel with his hand-organ or his guitar. In the afternoon the hawkers go round again, for "supper" time is drawing nigh. Has the stock of vegetables or of fish been unsold in the morning? It will disappear in the evening."

HENRY MAYHEW'S SURVEY (1861)

Social researcher and journalist Henry Mayhew wrote about cat's meat vendors in his record of London life: London Labour and the London Poor Volume One (1861). He counted 300 such vendors (though his reports also mention 1,000 such vendors).

The supply of food for cats and dogs is far greater than may be generally thought. "Vy, sir," said one of the dealers to me, " can you tell me 'ow many people's in London?" On my replying, upwards of two millions; "I don't know nothmg vatever," said my informant, "about millions, but I think there's a cat to every ten people, aye, and more than that; and so, sir, you can reckon." [I told him this gave a total of 200,000 cats in London; but the number of inhabited houses in the metropolis was 100,000 more than this, and though there was not a cat to every house, still, as many lodgers as well as householders kept cats, I added that I thought the total number of cats in London might be taken at the same number as the inhabited houses, or 300,000 in all.] "There's not near half so many dogs as cats. I must know, for they all knows me, and I sarves about 200 cats and 70 dogs. Mine's a middling trade, but some does far better. Some cats has a hap'orth a day, some every other day; werry few can afford a penn'orth, but times is inferior. Dogs is better pay when you've a connection among 'em."

The profit the carriers make upon the meat is at present only a penny per pound. In the summer time the profit per pound is reduced to a halfpenny, owing to the meat being dearer on account of its scarcity. The carriers give a great deal of credit—indeed, they take but little ready money. On some days they do not come home with more than 2s. One with a middling walk pays for his meat 7s. 6d. per day. For this he has half a hundred-weight . This produces him as much as 11 s. 6d., so that his profit is 4s ; which, I am assured, is about a fair average of the earnings of the trade. One carrier is said to have amassed £1,000. at the business. He usually sold from 1 to 2 cwt. every morning, so that his profits were generally from 16s. to £1 per day. But the trade is much worse now. There are so many at it, they say, that there is barely a living for any. A carrier assured me that he seldom went less than 30, and frequently 40 miles, through the streets every day. The best districts are among the houses of tradesmen, mechanics, and labourers. The coachmen in the mews at the back of the squares are very good customers. "The work lays thicker there," said my informant . Old maids are bad, though very plentiful, customers. They cheapen the carriers down so, that they can scarcely live at the business. "They will pay one halfpenny and owe another, and forget that after a day or two." The cats' meat dealers generally complain of their losses from bad debts. Their customers require credit frequently to the extent of 1s. "One party owes me 15s. now," said a carrier to me, "and many 10s.; in fact, very few people pay ready money for the meat."

The carriers frequently serve as much as ten pennyworths to one person in a day. One gentleman has as much as 4lbs of meat each morning for two Newfoundland dogs; and there was one woman - a black - who used to have as much as 16 pennyworths each day. This person used to go out on the roof of the house and throw it to the cats on the tiles. By this she brought so many stray cats round about the neighbourhood, that the parties in the vicinity complained; it was quite a nuisance. She would have the meat always brought to her before ten in the morning, or else she would send to a shop for it, and between ten and eleven in the morning the noise and cries of the hundreds of stray cats attracted to the spot was “terrible to hear.” When ‘the meat was thrown to the cats on the roof, the riot, and confusion, and fighting, was beyond description. “A beer-shop man,” I was told, “was obliged to keep five or six dogs to drive the cats from his walls.” There was also a mad woman in Islington, who used to have 14 lbs of meat a day. The party who supplied her had his money often at 2 pounds and 3 pounds (sterling) at a time. She had as many as thirty cats at times in her house. Every stray one that came she would take in and support. The stench was so great that she was obliged to be ejected. The best days for the cats’ meat business are Mondays, Tuesdays, and Saturdays. A double quantity of meat is sold on the Saturday; and on that day and Monday and Tuesday the weekly customers generally pay.

"My father was a baker by trade," said a carrier to me, " but through an enlargement of the heart he was obliged to give up working at his trade; leaning over the trough increased his complaint so severely, that he used to fall down, and be obliged to be brought home. This made him take to the cats' and dogs' meat trade, and he brought me up to it. I do pretty comfortably. I have a very good business, having been all my life at it. If it wasn't for the bad debts I should do much better; but some of the people I trust leave the houses, and actually take in a double quantity of meat the day before. I suppose there is at the present moment as much as £20 owing to me that I never expect to see a farthing of."

The generality of the dealers wear a shiny hat, black plush waistcoat and sleeves, a blue apron, corduroy trousers, and a blue and white spotted handkerehief round their necks. Some, indeed, will wear two and three handkerehiefs round their necks, this being fashionable among them. A great many meet every Friday afternoon in the donkey-market, Smithfield, and retire to a public-house adjoining, to spend the evening.

A " cats' meat carrier" who supplied me with information was more comfortably situated than any of the poorer classes that I have yet seen. He lived in the front room of a second floor, in an open and respectable quarter of the town, and his lodgings were the perfection of comfort and cleanliness in an humble sphere. It was late in the evening when I reached the house. I found the "carrier" and his family preparing for supper. In a large morocco leather easy chair sat the cats' meat carrier himself; his "blue apion and black shiny hat" had disappeared, and he wore a "dress" coat and a black satin waistcoat instead. His wife, who was a remarkably pretty woman, and of very attractive manners, wore a " Dolly Varden" cap, placed jauntily at the back of her head, and a drab merino dress. The room was cosily carpeted, and in one corner stood a mahogany " crib" with cane-work sides, in which one of the children was asleep. On the table was a clean white table-cloth, and the room was savoury with the steaks, and mashed potatoes that were cooking on the fire. Indeed, I have never yet seen greater comfort in the abodes of the poor. The cleanliness and wholesomeness of the apartment were the more striking from the unpleasant associations connected with the calling.

It is believed by one who has been engaged at the business for 25 years, that there are from 900 to 1,000 horses, averaging 2 cwt. of meat each— little and big—boiled down every week; so that the quantity of cats' and dogs' meat used throughout London is about 200,000 lbs. perweek, and this, sold at the rate of 2d. per lb., gives £2,000 a week for the money spent in cats' and dogs' meat, or upwards of £100,000 a year, which is at the rate of £100 worth sold annually by each carrier. The profits of the carriers may be estimated at about £50 each per annum. The capital required to start in this business varies from £1 to £2. The stock-money needed is between 5s. and 10s. The barrow and basket, weights and scales, knife and steel, or blackstone, cost about £2. when new, and from 15s. to 4s. second-hand.

The slaughtermen are said to reap large fortunes very rapidly — indeed, the carriers say they coin the money. Many of them retire after a few years, and take large farms. One, after 12 years' business, retired with several thousand pounds, and has now three large farms. The carriers are men, women, and boys. Very few women do as well as the men at it. The carriers "are generally sad drunkards." Out of five hundred, it is said three hundred at least spend 1s a head a week in drink. One party in the trade told me that he knew a carrier who would often spend 10s. in liquor at one sitting.

The carriers then take the meat round town, wherever their “walk” may lie. The sell it to the public at the rate of 2-and-a-half pence per lb, and in small pieces, on skewers, at a farthing, a halfpenny and penny each. Some carriers will sell as much as a hundred-weight in a day and about half a hundred-weight is the average quantity disposed of by the carriers in London. Some sell much cheaper than others. These dealers will frequently knock at the doors of persons whom they have seen served by another on the previous day, and show them that they can let them have a larger quantity of meat for the same money. The class of persons belonging to the business are mostly those who have been unable to obtain employment at their trade. Occasionally a person in bred to it, having been engaged as a lad by some carrier to go round with the barrow and assist him in his business. The boys will, after a time, find a “walk” for themselves, beginning first with a basket and ultimately rising to a barrow. Many of the carriers give light weight to the extent of 2 oz and 4 oz in the pound (weight).

The best districts are among the houses of tradesmen, mechanics, and labourers. The coachmen in the mews at the back of the squares are very good customers. “The work lays thicker there,” said my informant. Old maids are bad, though very plentiful, customers. They cheapen the carriers down so that they can scarcely live at the business. “They will pay one halfpenny and owe another, and forget that after a day or two.” The cats’ meat dealers generally complain of their losses from bad debts. Their customers require credit frequently to the extent of £1. “one party owes me 15s now,” said a carrier to me, “and many 10s; in fact, very few people pay ready money for the meat.”

Some people scraped a living by supplying skewers to the cats'-meat man. This excerpt from an article in the Penny Illustrated Paper (19th April 1873) describes a skewer-maker who whittled sticks into skewers for the cats’-meat man. She lives in a house where each room is occupied by a whole family, all of whom are a step away from the workhouse. "SPRING IN LONDON STREET . . . a street in St. George’s-in-the-East. It contains about seventy four-roomed houses, and the inhabitants average four to every room. In yet another room of the same house was an old woman, miserably dressed, half leaning against, half sitting on, her squalid truckle bed. A table and broken chair were all her furniture. On the table were two strong knives and a whetstone, with some pieces of wood such as might be picked up in a carpenter's yard; the floor was covered with chips. Her occupation was that of making wooden skewers for dogs’ and cats’ meat; she got eightpence a thousand for them, and found her own wood. The news was just out that the dog tax would be rigidly enforced, and thousands of dogs would be destroyed. She had tried to extend her trade by making butchers' skewers, but the gipsies threatened to undersell her, and she was in despair, and was just making up her mind that she must come to the workhouse at last.”

The Journal of the Society of Arts, 1868, gives us some additional figures: "He had pursued some independent inquiries with regard to the question of using horsemeat for food, and he did not find the same difference as Mr. Bicknell had between the amount slaughtered and that accounted for. In round numbers, there wore 1,300 cats' meat men, but who preferred to be called " carriers" in London, and their vocation was to feed something liko 150,000 dogs, and 250,000 cats. He believed he was correct in saying that about 46,000 horses were annually slaughtered in London, many being brought up from the country on purpose by contract; the prices being from 15s. to 55s each. Allowing 250 lbs. of dog's-meat to be produced from each horse, there would be about 11 million lbs. as a total. On inquiry as to each carrier's daily average, he found that the total amount sold did not very largely differ from this."

The Dundee Evening Telegraph of 19th October 1882 reprinted a short item from the Gentleman’s Magazine: THE CATS OF LONDON. Is it not startling to hear that the cats of London - the real household pets - are said to number three hundred thousand, without any sort calculation for houseless wanderers, whose nasal yells disturb nocturnal peace? The amount annually spent on purchasing horse-flesh from the cats’ meat men of London is said to be £100,000! This, according to vulgar notions, should be a proof of the folly of elderly spinsters, who are generally supposed to have a monopoly of feline affections The great cat show held in London a few years ago, however, betrayed a very different state of domestic matters, the male exhibitors being so numerous and so successful that they carried off thirty-two prizes; fifteen more were secured by cat-loving matrons, while to the much maligned old maids there were only awarded four prizes!

ELSA D'ESTERRE KEELING'S REPORT (1896) AND OTHER DESCRIPTIONS

Another author also interviewed a cat’-meat man and her report was published in “The Gentleman’s Magazine”. It was also reproduced as “The Cats’-Meat Man” in the Aberdare Times, June 20, 1896:

Under the title of "Henry," Elsa D’Esterre Keeling contributes to the new number of the “Gentlemans Maqazine” a not altogether in appreciative sketch of the London cat’s meat man. After describing his childhood, with its environments, and his early youth, the writer says: The calling which this youth follows is one which seems to be peculiar to these islands - he is a cats' meat hawker. It will have been noticed by some, if not, perhaps by all readers of this, that the cats'-meat man is a person not to be looked for in the grandest, and also not to be looked for in the lowliest, places - that is, in his professional capacity, In his private character he may be met anywhere, even in the old Court suburb of London. If any cats'-meat man here plies his trade, however, it is only with moderate success the great field of action for this commercial body is in northerly regions. There is one North London suburb where the calling of cats'-meat man could probably not be overstocked. The reason of this is that more than in any other region of London, there is a delightful preponderance of the class which is not rich and is not poor, but is an intermediate English thing for which there is, unfortunately - and unaccountably - no name [note: there was a name “middle class”]. This class is the one which gives out its washing and buys cats'-meat, and which, on the score of being able to do this, considers - and, mayhap, rightly considers itself – a credit to England and the whole earth. Henry, who is gifted with business talents of no mean order, plies his calling among this class, and that he does not make his fortune by so doing, but remains bitterly poor, can only be explained on the ground of his large philanthropy. Not only is he to all his friends that ‘friend indeed who is friend in need,’ and that, when at all possible, in a very practical way, but at 20 years of age he wholly supports two persons besides himself. One is his blind kinswoman, the other is a kinswoman in the possession of all her senses, except when, as on one or two day of every week, she goes on what he calls euphemistically, “visits to her friends." That way madness lies, and she becomes for that time a mad woman. Inquiries concerning her made by persons of plainer speech are usually made in the formula, “Maria on the drink again?" a formula this which does not offend Henry, though he is sufficiently attached to Maria to hold his home open to her. It also does not offend him when the facetious among his familiars ask after his blind kinswoman in the words, “How is the Old Hundredth?" words containing an allusion either to her great age or great piety. Levity never displeases him, yet so little is his soul a clod that he has visions. In these he sees himself the happy man that he will be when these two women are gathered to their foregoers, for then he means to marry a young lady to whom he is warmly attached. This young lady is one of 12 damsels in the employ of a collar-dresser, who takes out their work and disposes of it, for he does not work himself, being a sweater [sweat-shop owner]. She is paid miserably, howbeit she refuses to allow Henry to contribute an iota towards her sustenance while she is a maid. One could not say that all is sweet and commendable in her nature, but this in it is sweet and commendable – she loves Henry to ecstasy, and by a curious defect of mental vision sees in him not a hero, which in some respects he is, but a thing which he is really in no respect, a brilliant and fascinating "gentleman."

This paragraph from an article about the sights and sounds of a “Modern Babylon,” describes the tradesmen in London (Daily Gazette for Middlesbrough, 27th February 1886) “We get our breakfast, and start out for a walk. Setting out from the vicinity of Camberwell Green, we wend our way towards the heart of the city by the Walworth-road. Here the butchers', greengrocers', bakers', and other shops are open and in full swing, shutters down and all, and doing a roaring trade; while the pavements are crowded by housewives, who are out in deshabille, marketing for their Sunday's dinner. All along the pavement there are costermongers with their barrows filled with apples, pears, grapes, nuts, vegetables, and other eatables, while a cat's-meat man is cutting up and disposing of his feline dainties to a small knot of little girls, who are out purchasing a morsel for their favourite cats. Two of them have kittens in their arms, and the famished creatures are with difficulty kept from pouncing upon the boiled horseflesh which is being retailed for their benefit.”

”London Society [full title: London Society. An Illustrated Magazine of Light and Amusing Literature for the Hours of Relaxation] in its current number cannot fail to please by its tasteful variety. [. . .] Mr. James Greenwood enlightens us in the fourth of his Studies of Street Life,” on the vicissitudes which beset the existence of the Cats’-meat Man.” (Morning Advertiser, 6th December 1871). James Greenwood, was a social historian of London's underbelly in the 1870s and 1880s and his paper told readers, among other things, that in London there are no fewer than a quarter of a million specimens of the feline tribe, to feed which two hundred and twenty thousand pounds of horse flash are required weekly. Putting the dogs’ provender to that quantity, the writer calculates that, for the up-keep of the domestic pets, two hundred and fifty horses are sacrificed every week all the year through, providing more than 90 tons weight of horse-flesh.

One meets with strange company in a train, and occasionally the conversation turns upon very strange topics. This afternoon I was on the London and North-Western, the other side of Willesden, and the compartment being decidedly “stuffy,” I asked an agreeable-looking man in the corner to open his window. [. . .] I thought I would indulge his disposition to talk. I soon learned that he was a wholesale cats’ meat man. One of the only four in all London. He informed me that over a thousand carcases were required weekly for the metropolis, and that he had had a bad week when he did not over four hundred of these. [. . .] Liverpool provided the biggest horses in the United Kingdom, though no animal “boiled” to more than a fifth of his live weight in “cats’ meat,” which is always bought and sold without a morsel of bone in it. “You must not believe all you hear about horses being sent to the Continent,” he added, “though I admit that we have a very awkward competition to face from that quarter, since they can afford to outbid us and pay a pound a head for carriage in addition. But then (this apologetically) they always buy the pick of the lot for their sausages.” Another item of information confided was that the retail man, who goes on his round with his barrow, often clears a sovereign a day prfit by his industry, and the parting shot was exactly this – “Mind you, all the horses cut up for human food don’t go to the continent.” (Irish Times, 22nd June 1892)

An article in the Sunderland Daily Echo and Shipping Gazette (Cat's Meat Man. All About His Strange Trade, 27th May 1901) described the trade, especially the value of the “walks” which were bought, sold, inherited and protected by the traders.

“Very few folk have any idea or the importance the somewhat peculiar trade followed by the cat's-meat man. The majority of householders and a great many lodgers keep a cat or dog, and most of these people buy cat's-meat; but many imagine that it is almost a charity to do so, as they cannot conceive that the men who—as they think—are reduced to this means of getting a livelihood are in the enjoyment of a comfortable position and tolerable income. Yet such is the case, and the fraternity of "Domestic Animal Providers," as they now prefer to describe themselves, are a fortunate body of men. It requires a not inconsiderable amount of capital to embark in the trade. London is divided into numerous "walks," each the private property of a dealer in cat's meat. To obtain one of these "walks” it is necessary to wait till its actual possesser retires from business or desires to "better" himself, when he may be tempted to sell out, and even then the worst "walks" in London are worth £20, while the best will fetch as much as £150 or £200, and the lucky proprietors keep a smart pony and cart wherewith to carry their goods around and to take themselves and family for drive to the "Welsh Harp” [Brent Reservoir] - their favourite resort —on Sundays.

Trespassers Beware. It is very surprising how strictly the rules relating to these "walks" are kept. The man who first creates a "walk," and by dint of crying “me-at!” obtains a regular round of customers, feels that he has acquired by his labour a business property, which, naturally enough, he will not yield without due compensation, and all his fellow tradesmen in the same line will unite in helping him to keep intruders away. But few attempts, however, are made to interfere with the legitimate owner of the “walks.” Only one instance is known of man who seriously attempted to sell cat's-meat on a “walk" he had not purchased; he was so soundly pelted with— remarkable to relate - twopenny loaves, that he soon sought safety in flight. At Camberwell also, some years ago, an intrusion of this sort might have brought about a disastrous result. After selling a “walk" for an extravagant price, a cat's-meat dealer thought fit return to his ancient round, and the new purchaser was so exasperated by this unfair dealing that he procured a revolver and threatened the interloper, and but for the intervention of the police a tragedy might have occurred.

Hereditary Purveyors. The greater proportion of cat's-meat dealers are born and bred in the business, and inherit the "walks” from their fathers, though there is a good proportion of butchers who resort to this trade when they have failed in supplying the wants of man. Several coach-painters, whose health has been injured by the paint, have also bought “walks," and there was formerly in Marylebone a Crimean and Indian Mutiny veteran, who proudly wore on his breast his Victoria Cross, and who used to warn customers of his near approach by warbling a ditty anent cat's meat, the words and tune of which were both of his own composition, and varied day by day.

How London is Saved. These men nearly all do well, and the failures are chiefly those who can seldom pass a tavern without entering it. One man is known to have purchased a row of small houses out of his savings from his profits. The fact is that it is difficult to realise the immense number of cats which must be kept to protect us against the ever-recurring invasion of mice and rats. It has been said that these rodents would, left to themselves, soon demolish London, and naturalists allege that if a pair of rats were supplied with food, and in no way molested, they would so multiply that at the end of three years they would have produced family of no fewer than 6,800 members. The wine-cellars are especially exposed to these noxious animals, where, but for the cats, they would soon devour the straw envelopes that protect the bottles; and paper warehouses are also infested by them. Over 500 men and women gain livelihood in London alone as “domestic animal food providers," as one of the fraternity has styled himself on his cart, and over 400 horses are slaughtered every week in London alone.“

According to the Nottingham Journal (15th February, 1904) "The cats' meat man is almost exclusively a London institution, but few provincial towns, comparatively, encouraging the 'animals' meat purveyor' to any reat extent. Certain London rounds have been sold for as much as £300 as going concerns, and many such rounds change hands at a price for the goodwill of from £20 to £100. Several London cats' meat men have made considerable fortunes, and one of them in South-east London is said to be worth £30,000. Out of London a certain Leeds caterer for cats made a competency by selling portions of fish instead of bits of meat." (Goodwill means the buyer gets the customer list and a promise that the seller will not compete with him for those customers.)

Even among static vendors the rivalry could be fierce: “Stephen Henry, a vender of cat's-meat, residing in Lumber-court, St. Giles's-mews, was charged with cutting and wounding J. McGrath, a rival cat's-meat man, carrying on business in the same classic locality. The complainant, whose head and face was covered with blood, stated that on the previous night he was busy in his shop skewering up some cat's-meat, when the prisoner came out from his shop and began chaffing him. Witness desired him to go away, and not to annoy him. - The prisoner then put up his fist, and said, "You old humbug, look at this; you are an old man, and I will spiflicate you." Witness, not wishing to have any words with him, refused to speak to him. The prisoner then began calling out as loud as he could, "You are a pretty fellow to sell such swindling bunches of tripe; I will expose you." Witness was at this juncture called to serve a customer, and for that purpose had occasion to lay down his knife on the block. The prisoner immediately seized hold of it, and, rushing upon witness, swore he would do for him. Witness tried to avoid him, when he made a blow at him, and cut him across the head, inflicting a ghastly wound, from. which the blood flowed in torrents. Witness screamed out " Murder!" and the prisoner was about following up his murderous attack, when a constable came to the shop, and took him into custody. This evidence having been corroborated by a policeman and another witness, the prisoner, in defence, said complainant was always chaffing him, and taunting him about his shop. On the previous night, he went to complainant's shop, and began a little friendly chaff with him when he (complainant) flew in a violent passion, and knocked him (defendant) down. He certainly did take up the knife and throw it at him, but not with the intention of cutting him. Mr. Hardwick fined him £5, and in default committed him to the house of correction for two months, with hard labour.” (Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper, 11th February 1849)

In “Londres Pittoresque et la Vie Anglais," M. Henri Bellenger gives an account of what to him were the most striking features of the habits and customs of the Britishers. . . . Le Cat's Meat Man, . . . furnishes food for a whole chapter, wherein the author observes that while in France domestic animals are fed with the scraps of the table, or with a patee made from the trimmings from the butcher's, in England, where the pot-au-feu and ragout are unknown, meat is so dear that the butcher's trimmings serve to feed the poor, and Pussy and Doggy's wants accordingly necessitate the special industry, which he fully describes in a lively and interesting manner. M. Bellenger forgets, however, to state that, although our poor may possibly live on butcher's trimmings, the Paris humbler folk exchange places with Pussy and Doggy, and leaving them the “trimmings," regale themselves with delicate horse-steaks or ragout d'Ane. (The Graphic, 21 October 1876)

In London and Londoners in the 1850s & 1860s, a memoir written in 1924, Alfred Rosling Bennett recounts a tale of a friend's pet cat who 'stole' meat from the Cats' Meat Man to feed her owner. “ The cats'-meat man was in daily attendance with his barrow and basket, and well did the felines know his time for reaching their door. A friend brought a cat from Scotland (where "meat" is unknown), and for some little time the merchant's cry fell meaningless on inattentive ears; but it was a little time. Not in vain had puss been bred on t'other side of the Border. Within a week she had discovered what the cabalistic sound meant, and then was as prompt as any of the others in welcoming the vendor. Another friend had a little cat that always brought her any mouse or bird it succeeded in catching, and she was sometimes able to rescue sparrows - on one occasion a thrush - alive. Pussy was particularly attentive and insistent in this way if her mistress happened to be indisposed, apparently under the impression that at such times she required something really nice to eat. Lying down one afternoon, this lady was disturbed by a tremendous mewing intermitted by loud purring outside. In vain she told the cat to go away, and at last rose and opened the door. Pussy immediately backed into the room, dragging a huge lump of horseflesh, weighing a good many pounds. This she laid at her mistress's feet, with every evidence of delight. " There, [-49-] help yourself, she seemed to say. The cats'-meat man had, it appeared, left his barrow to serve customers at their doors, and in his absence puss had ravished the sirloin that formed his main stock-in-trade and dragged it through the garden, up several steps, along a passage and finally upstairs to the first floor. And, after all, to see the maid take it back to the wondering proprietor on a fork!”

CATS'-MEAT MEN. (London Daily Chronicle, October 1901). In view of the dinner to the cats' meat men which is to take place soon, the following facts, supplied by one who claims to know much of the class which purveys meat for the domestic pet, may be of interest. Two cases which have within the last few years come before different courts of law amply show how profitable a trade, in London at least, supplying cats’ meat is. In one of these cases a probate suit, a certain testator had left £20,000, every penny of which had practically been made in a little over twenty-seven years by means of a West End cats’ meat round, which the testator had originally acquired, for a payment of £600, from his father, who, according to one of the witnesses, spent a fortune in “following horse races.” The same witness declared that the testator would have left twice as much as he did, but for luckless speculations in music hall and public house property. The other case was one that came before the magistrate at Southwark. A comely young woman, about 25 years of age, appeared in the witness box with a profuse display of really fine diamonds. The magistrate — at that time Mr. Fenwick — seemed astonished when the witness told him that she was “a domestic animals’ butcher,” and further questions elicited the fact that her father had left her the business two years before, and that she cleared out of it £10 a week regularly.

To those who have inquired into the facts of this trade, such a statement would represent but a commonplace. A cats’ meat round has frequently yielded anything from £300 to £800 when it came into the market, and there is one well-known West End round that changed hands for £1,200 about a couple of years ago. But this trade, like many another, is largely an hereditary one, most of the best rounds having been in the hands of the same families during three or four generations. The huge buildings let out into flats, and now so common, have increased the monetary value of cats’ meat rounds to a wonderful extent. One single building of this kind is reckoned to be worth £200 a year clear to himself by the “purveyor” who has the sole right of supply, and though this is an exceptional case, other great blocks of flats are proportionately valuable. Certain public buildings, like the government ones in Whitehall, have a high value when a round comes into the market.

It must always be recollected that, although most of the purveyors buy daily in one great central market, yet are the varieties of meat they acquire almost as much diversified as in the case of meat for human beings, and the West End cats’ meat provider obtains prices that would be absolutely impossible even in genteel villadom. But, in regard to the latter class, there is a Dulwich cats’ meat man who is a property owner on a very extensive scale; and another South London dealer, who still does his own buying and delivering, has given a university education to certain of his sons, one of whom is a clergyman.

Those of the public who may imagine that there is no room for initiative and ingenuity in the cats’ meat trade are vastly mistaken. In Kensington an enterprising young fellow is making a fortune through the happy idea of supplying, on request, fish instead of meat for the cats on his round. The pets of the prosperous can obtain meat at almost any time, and they will not look, for the most part, at the wares of the cats’ meat man. But no cat can resist a tasty bit of fish, be it offered when it may, and a huge success is the result of the innovation. Again, there are certain purveyors who take trouble to obtain a close knowledge of every single animal on their rounds, and its little peculiarities. This knowledge once gained, the cats’ meat man buys and cuts his portions accordingly, taking care that each cat gets its favorite bite. All chances of rivalry is removed at once by this means, for a cat will not for weeks, unless driven by desperate hunger, touch the strange cuts of a new purveyor.

Certain of the London cats' meat men rely largely, both for the extra income and for continued patronage, upon their skill in doctoring "pussy," and one of the craft told the present writer, giving names and dates, that he had frequently received as much as a sovereign for restoring a cat to health, while on two occasions he had been paid five times as much. His "cat powders" have not only brought him a regular harvest of coppers for years, but have served as an introduction to some thousands of customers for meat.

SOME HAZARDS OF THE TRADE

The occupation was not without hazard as the report “Godsend for Cats” in the Evening Express, August 5, 1898 indicates: "A purveyor of eats' meat named Laybon was plying his trade in Redcross-street, Borough, and in an ill-fated moment left his barrow unattended by the pavement. A vehicle, driven by a Mr. Hawkes, came along, collided with' the barrow, turned it over, and shot all the cats' meat onto the roadway. Then, there was great rejoicing .among all the cats who had their dwelling in the Borough, and they promptly devoured the succulent meat which had been placed in their way by a kind providence. As a result of the accident Mr. Laybon took proceedings against the driver of the vehicle which had caused the mischief, and the case came before Judge Addison on Thursday at Southwark County-court. The Defendant: I should have paid the money only he's charged me for repairing a bad leg which was tied up with rope when the collision occurred. The Judge: You damaged the barrow, and it could not be repaired without putting in another leg. The Defendant: Had he any right to leave his barrow in the read? The Judge: There are regulations as to that, but if there is anything in the road you must not run over it, whether it is a donkey or a barrow. This is your misfortune, and you must pay plaintiff 12s. 3d. and costs in three monthly payments."

Another peril faced by a cats’ meat man was reported a few years earlier in the “Illustrated Police News” of Saturday 26th August, 1876: "A CATS’-MEAT MAN ATTACKED BY DOGS. On Friday last week, within a mile or so of Middleton, James Bryant, an itinerant purveyor of meat to dogs and cats, was going his usual rounds, when to his infinite surprise and alarm a pack of hounds rushed at his barrow and the basket he carried, and proceeded to devour the food so ravenously that the poor cats'-meat man began to think that he was himself destined to fall a victim to his voracious assailants. Resistance was out of the question, Bryant , therefore let the animals eat up the dainty viands without, attempting to offer any opposition. To his great relief, assistance at length arrived. The keeper of the dogs, accompanied by a companion, hastened to the spot, and with a heavy whip he managed to keep them in subjection while he fed them from the meat in the barrow, which was very soon devoured. James Bryant was amply compensated by the master of the hounds, and is none the worse for his fright. It afterwards transpired that the dogs belonged to a gentleman residing in the district, and that for some cause or another, which is not at present made manifest, the animals had been a long time without food. The gate of the yard in which they were kept had been accidentally left open, and hence it was that they rushed out and made an onslaught on the cats'-meat man."

Seeing our local cats' meat man coming round the corner followed by a motley mob of dogs and cats, I stopped and inquired after the state of trade. " Well, you sort o' get used to it," he replied, dexterously apportioning a ration of slices on skewer. " I've been working this district now for eight years more, feeding close to 500 dogs and cats daily, and if they don't know me by this time—well, they ought to. I know them well enough, anyway. They're queer lot, some of 'em. The dogs are honest enough—or, least, straightforward—but the cats are shocking thieves. I bet there's one my basket now," he added, glancing at the receptacle on the railings. “Thought so. Can't leave it minute. It's the strays and the old toms who've been away for the week-end end and come back hungry that I have to watch. Can't cope with 'em, anyway. The dogs won't steal from the basket, but the big rough'ns are devils to fight. They seem to like scraps o' this sort as much as those give 'em. Here's my dog, 'Buller.' He follows me on my 10-mile tramp every day, and, if ever gets the chance, he'll pinch another dog's dinner and start looking round for another. Of course, - that's stealing right enough, but it's not the sly, shop-lifting kind like the cats go in for. It's sort of highway robbery—demanding meat with menaces. 'Buller' don't want the meat; he gets plenty. It's a scrap he's after. Dogs differ, of course. Some of the little quiet ones'll share a bit o' meat with one another and never grumble. I know most of 'em, dogs and cats, by name and character as well as they do the time I come round—which is saying something. There's old 'Nob' there, begging like a pauper. Nice little dog, him, but he's got a weakness. Follows prams about in the hope that the kid inside'II drop a cake, when he's off with the goods. Never seems to lose his appetite. Funny thing! Then there's 'Raffles' — that there cat with the embroidered ears. He's a stray and a perfect rascal. Lives on his his wits, and does well, too. But it don't do to let 'em steal - and with meat at 32s. hundredweight —better give it to 'em"— and he does. (Daily Herald, 13th July 1922)

WHERE DID THE MEAT COME FROM?

Horses were the main motive power in towns and cities in Western Europe and North America before steam-lorries, motor-vehicles and electric trams . They transported both people and freight and were often overworked. Heavy horses in railway yards rarely lasted beyond 2 years before becoming worn out. Omnibus-horses were worn down by the stop-start nature of their work. Cab horses might be raced along the streets in order to pick up as many fares as possible in a highly competitive trade. Anna Sewell described the conditions faced by working horses in her book “Black Beauty” which was written to draw attention to their circumstances. For a long while, horses and motorised vehicles coexisted and the horses always came off worse in any collision. After death, these horses were recycled into leather, glue and, of course, cat- and dog-food. Contaminated or diseased meat from other livestock was also sold as petfood, but every good-sized town had a specialised horse-butcher. The high mortality rate made the horse-butchery business a necessity. In 1868, Charles Dickens described a visit to such a business in London "All The Year Round." The horsemeat was boiled in great coppers, then delivered by cart to branches of the butchers. Here are some excerpts relating to the cats' meat trade.

At six, Mr. Potler, as spruce as ever, but with a butcher's steel suspended from his waist, drives a lighter vehicle in, and, standing up in it, performs a remarkable feat of artificial memory. He is going round to between thirty and forty customers, all dealers in cats' meat, who have given him their orders on a preceding day. He has neither book nor note, but calls out their names and quantities with a precision that never seems to fail. "Threequarter Twoshoes and six penn'orth!" "Art" a 'undred Biles and three penn'orth!" "Arf fourteen Limey and two penn'orth!" "'Undred and a arf, 'undred and three-quarters Till and nine penn'orth!" went on in rapid succession until we made bold to ask Mr. Potler where his memorandum was, and how he knew the different quantities required. "All in my 'ed, sir" (tapping it with a sly laugh). "'Aven't got no books nor pencils, I 'aven't, and don't want to," was his reply, which is corroborated by the stout proprietor, who stands at the scales, watches the weighing, and enters all Mr. Poller's items methodically on a sort of tradesheet he carries in his hand. The first number,

such as the "'undred and a arf," referred, it was interesting to learn, to the cats'meat of ordinary horse-flesh; the "penn'orths" are "tripe," and divide the quantities of each customer in the cart. "Tripe" is for the dog and cat of jaded appetite, who cannot relish plain food. Mr. Poller has no check upon his memory. He drives round in a certain direction, calling at the same houses in regular rotation, and delivers the "meat" as ordered, without scales or weighing-machine, and purely by eye and head. He is said rarely to make a mistake, and on his return at eleven o'clock will bring back from ten to twelve pounds sterling and an empty cart. Cash on delivery, is his motto, and the amount he hands in always tallies with the entries in the trade-sheet of his employer.'

[Dickens asks] What affects the price of cats' meat? [The butcher creplies] Why the cost of horses, and the number of them. Sometimes they drop off like rotten sheep, at others the season's healthy and the supply low. We buy 'em dead and alive, remember. We've standing contracts with many of the largest employers of horses to take their diseased and worn-out and dead ones at a fixed price all round.

From this time, about half-past six, until half-past eight the flow of customers was strong and steady. The food was carried off in a variety of ways. Shabby-genteel women brought perambulators; children,baskets and barrows; men and boys, little carts. "Mind my doggie don't bite yer!" was shouted in the ear of one of our party, which made him jump away from a harmless panel-fresco of a Newfoundland dog who was eating "royal cats' meat" with an air of an epicure. Most of the carts had pictorial panels. Some were scenes in high life. The late Prince Consort, her majesty, and the royal children dispensing cats' meat from silver spoons to a litter of spaniels at their feet; an archbishop, seated in his study, in lawn sleeves, tempting a poodle to sit up by the promise of cats' meat; and an elderly lady of evidently high rank, for her coronet stood on the breakfast-table at her side, like a coffee-pot, coaxing a monster tabby with milk and meat, were among the pictures on the cart- sides. The ponies drawing them were smart trotters, well groomed and cared for; but the most celebrated were not brought out througb the wetness of the morning. The owners were as artistic as their vehicles: some in long drab coats reaching to their heels; some in strange jackets in which one patch of colour had been so intertwined with another that the original hue was lost; some in nondescript garments, of which it was difficult to discern the beginning or end; all wonderfully brisk, funny, and personal. One man takes away a bag of horse-tongues, which are so wonderfully like those we see in the windows of ham and beef shops that we avoid asking its destination; others purchase horses' hearts, which we, at least, could not distinguish from those of bullocks; but the majority take the " meat" as it comes, pay for it, and go on their way. "It's a curious thing," said the stout proprietor, "that they're all so particular about having it boiled fresh. The act of parliament says horses are only to be slaughtered in certain hours ; but that part of it has become a dead letter, simply because cats prefer the taste of horse-flesh which has been newly killed. Custom, sir, has overridden law, as it often does, and all because the London tabbies are so dainty that they don't like horse that's been killed too long over-night. Do the old favourite horses I told you of as being slaughtered to prevent their ever being ill treated—do they get sold for cats' meat too ? I ask. That's just as gentlemen like. They can have the body buried, and, if they prefer it, we'll send men to their own places to kill for them. If they come here, it can be made quite private. We'd a baronet here, with an old pet, only yesterday. We always close these gates at such a time; for, hang me (with much vigour) if people don't seem to rise out of the pavement when anything's going on on the quiet. The great thing we guarantee is that a horse shall be put out of the way painlessly, and in the presence of witnesses, if it's wished; and that he'll not be found, ill-treated, in a cab, perhaps, ten years after he's supposed to be killed, as I've known happen before now."

IT is calculated that there are somewhere about 300,000 cats in London. This rough calculation was made some years ago, allowing a cat to every inhabited house — an allowance which is under the mark, for it takes no account of what may be called the ' itinerant cats,' who have no settled abode, but trust to casual hospitality. However, it is better to err on the safe side, and understate rather than overstate the case. Supposing, therefore, that there are only 300,000 cats in London, it is clear that even this modest number must be supplied with food. It is not with us as with country folks, where milk is no object. We set far too high a value upon the blue liquid, which does duty among Londoners for the produce of the cow, to set our cats down to lap up a basin of it. [Note: this bluish milk resulted from dilution and adulteration].

Hence the demand for cats' meat has created a supply, and the vending of food for the cats and dogs is a regular branch of street trade. If we take a walk in the morning in some quiet neighbourhood, we shall very likely meet with an elderly gentleman in a shiny hat, and black plush waistcoat, with his shirt-sleeves tucked up above the arm, his body tightly girt with a coarse blue apron, and a multitude of neckerchiefs encircling his bull-like neck. He wheels in front of him a small barrow very much like an ordinary gardener's wheelbarrow. This is filled with meat, part of which is cut up into fragments and spitted upon wooden skewers, and part left uncut in a rough mass of coarse offal, which certainly does not look very inviting, at least to the human appetite. The cart is provided with a small ledge or shelf in front, on which the remainder of the meat can be cut up into slices at the pleasure of various customers. This is a merchant who purveys for the wants of the cats and dogs of London. The meat in his little cart is not, as might be thought at first, the refuse of an ordinary market; it is meat which he specially provides, with a view to the palates of his customers. It is horse-flesh. The richer representatives of the trade buy it in large quantities from the ' knackers,' who carry away horses which die in the streets.

The writer remembers seeing a number of legs hanging up in the back-yard of one of these sellers of cats' meat. Though the flesh is generally kept in tolerable preservation, the odour arising from it is so disagreeable, that it is not always easy for an extensive dealer in cats' meat to secure a local habitation. People are naturally rather sensitive on the subject of having horse-flesh forced upon their notice. One dealer in the article told the writer that he had been driven from one place to another in London, owing to the objection of the neighbours to the stench arising from horse-flesh being kept on the premises. The cats, however, are by no means sharers in this prejudice. As the cats' meat man passes by the different houses, and announces his approach by a peculiar nasal yell, the cats may be seen furtively stealing up their respective areas, and eagerly seizing the meat which is thrown down to them. In large warehouses or breweries in the city, where numerous cats are kept, ' feeding-time' is a scene almost worthy of the Zoological Gardens.

For the convenience of all parties concerned, the meat is fastened on email white skewers and thrown down into the areas. Of course, casual customers pay for the meat as they get it, but it seems that people who deal in large quantities pay by the week, and look for the approach of the cats'-meat man with the same regularity as they would for the coming of the milk-man. So fond are our London cats of this meat, that after being long accustomed to it, they turn away with a well-bred disgust when anything else is offered to them as a substitute. Nor is this altogether matter for surprise. Unpalatable as the food would be to many of us, it may easily be believed that there is many a half-starved human being, buried in the hopeless abyss of some London court, who in his hungry agony would even swallow eagerly the worthless offal which is cast to our cats and dogs.

There is probably no branch of street-trade in which there are so many different degrees of success as in this. We find men, like our friend in the picture, who earn a very fair livelihood in this way, and do their best to maintain a respectable appearance. On the other hand, this branch of street trade numbers among it men, whose sole worldly possession is the miserable basket, in which they carry their merchandise, and women, who can just manage to crawl along from house to house with their scanty baskets of horseflesh. It is impossible exactly to state the number engaged in this business in our streets, but there must be many hundreds. And, if Mr. [Henry] Mayhew's calculation, that £100,000 is annually spent in London and the suburbs on the purchase of cats' meat be correct, the statement is a little startling. When it is remembered that human beings are sometimes left in this great Christian city to die of starvation, this care of dumb friends first seems very like reviving the old order, and casting ' the children's bread to dogs.' We would not have one cat or dog less well fed, but we should be thankful if the thought that these dumb animals are thus supplied, should stir men up to a more tender care for the bodily wants of many a brother and sister in Christ who is less carefully fed than many a cat, less tenderly housed than many a dog.

Most horses, even famous steeds, ended up as cat or dog food. “THE END OF FLEET STEED: The papers announce an interesting death, that of Caradoc, the mare on which Lieutenant Zubowitz rode from Vienna to Paris. She died at the stables of a horse-dealer in the Champsa Elysees, who had bought her from the Austrian. Her body was sold for 50f. to a cats’ meat man. “(Dundee Courier, 30th August 1875) Another source of horsemeat were the racehorses which “went to the dogs” when their racing days were over, or if they lacked ability. Because the yearlings had been out at grass, some breeders fed them on cattle cake so they “put on condition” for the sales. “How far all this stuffing is necessary or advantageous to an animal destined for activity of the training gallops instead of the grim carcase repose of the Metropolitan Meat Market. What useful end is served by this laying on of fat, which may be regarded as matter out of place in bodies not intended for food, until the merciful hand of Jack Atcheler places them out of their misery for ever, and their remains are hawked about by the cats' meat man.” (Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News, 19th May 1877) and “The number of [thoroughbred racehorse] yearlings sold at the large meetings is astonishing . . . Many a one "goes to the dogs," and is hawked about on sticks by the dog and cat's meat man, despite his lofty pedigree and perhaps many valuable engagements.” (Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News , 29th November 1884) No wonder that the cats’ meat man and his wife might enjoy a day out at the races, knowing that even if he didn’t win a few bob by betting on horses, the both winner and losers would eventually end up on his barrow: “ASCOT DAY. —The road through here on the morning of the Cup Day was all alive with vehicles of every description, from the cat's meat man and his wife, with a small pony front of his "trap" and a loud tiger's skin behind, to the splendid team of greys of Colonel Whitmore's. “(Middlesex Chronicle, 17th June 1876).

When a working horse, pony, mule or donkey could no longer be worked there was no room, or money, for sympathy and retirement. The carcase was sold for whatever it would fetch and the animal was replaced. A case reported in the Croydon Chronicle and East Surrey Advertiser, 24th December 1910 questioned the fate of a horse that was sold to the cats' meat man. Stephen Page, of Grand-parade, Streatham-road, Mitcham, was summoned on charges of cruelty when Inspector Ellis, of the RSPCA, supported by Frank Hill, MRCVS, found Page’s horse to lame on three legs. Page claimed he had bought the horse for 20 guineas only two weeks previously and had not worked it since the Inspector had called his attention to its lameness. He claimed he had sold it to a cats’ meat man for £5 (less than a quarter of the price paid for it) and it had been destroyed. The Inspector asked for evidence that the horse had been sold for slaughter or destroyed.

THE MEAT OF A MILLION CATS (Pearson's Weekly, 26th May 1894) also gave a description of the trade in horseflesh.

“ALTHOUGH London is not one of those towns, like Newmarket, where horses occupy a primary and mankind a secondary position among the inhabitants, yet one may often see almost as many horses as human beings in a busy London thoroughfare, especially at night-time. It is very natural to wonder what becomes of all those honest hard-working cattle [a term used for working animals in general] when their short lives of usefulness are ended. A day never passes in which hundreds of horses in cabs and buses, drays and tradesmen's carts, may not be seen whose lives have reached their very lowest ebb, and who have long since earned a rest from their labours in the sleep of death. Almost every one of these, when its last load has been drawn, or when it has actually fallen dead in its harness, is taken to the knacker's yard, where day and night the work of slaying and flaying, boning and boiling down, goes on incessantly. The horses, when they are dead, make food for the cats and dogs. One firm alone kills, and afterwards retails, nearly 30,000 London horses in a year.

Horseflesh, as everybody knows, or ought to know, is eaten in France, but in England the trade is not carried on openly, although the cook at our favourite restaurant may occasionally play us false, and call the cab horse of yesterday curried mutton a la Bombay; with boiled rice, 10d. For the present purpose, therefore, we may suppose that all these 30,000 horses go to feed the dogs and cats of London. The carcase of a French horse is said to yield 450lbs. of meat, but the meat from the average horse in a London knacker's yard turns the scale at about 300Ibs. Six hundred horses slain in a week, yielding 300lbs. apiece, give 180,000lbs. of meat, and each pound cuts up into half a dozen ha'porths, as retailed on the streets. It will be seen that this one firm, therefore, supplies meals for over 1,000,000 cats and dogs, and the trade in horseflesh is large enough to employ at least thirty other wholesale men in London. As for retailers, with their carts and barrows and perambulators, they are a multitude. The skewers on which the meat is threaded are thrown in by the knackers, although it takes no less than half a ton of them to deal with a whole day's consumption. It is almost incredible that one firm alone should use over 180 tons of deal in a year in fixing up cat's-meat, and yet this is the case.

Now and then there comes a time when there is a glut in the meat market, and horses come pouring in at the knacker's gate much quicker than the cats and dogs can eat them. Under these circumstances the meat is stored away in a refrigerator—vast underground cellars, in which nearly three hundred carcases can be accommodated, in a temperature which only an Arctic explorer would care to face for long. If you venture to poke your nose inside, you see on all sides piles of meat frozen solid and glistening with crystals of ice, while overhead and at the back of this strange larder the beams are thick with pure clinging snow, and even as you put your foot inside the flakes begin to fall in a listless way and float down on to the silver covering which wraps the bodies of those faithful creatures, whose lives have been spent in the service of man. It is far from pleasant to spend even a few minutes in a knacker's yard, but it is a thousand times pleasanter to stand and watch the blow which mercifully ends the days of the poor creatures than to see them with sunken eye and protruding thigh bones staggering along the streets with burdens they have not the strength to pull, and wincing in their patient way beneath the cruel cuts of the whip. There are few sights in the world which give me more genuine satisfaction than seeing a brute arrested for ill-treating his horse, or for using it when it is obviously unfit for work. The heavier the hand of justice presses on that man the more delight it affords one. “

It’s a strange irony that in modern times, horsemeat is not used in pet-food in the UK even though surplus wild ponies, failed racehorses and unwanted horses. The only reason for this is a strange English taboo against eating horsemeat. Previous generations were much more pragmatic about the disposal of horse carcases (for those interested, poleaxing – similar in its effect to a captive bolt pistol - was a usual method of dispatch).

According to Frances Simpson (1903): "One of the strangest and most profitable trades in London is the wholesale and retail business of horsemeat for cats. In barrows and carts the hawkers of this horse-flesh cry their wares throughout the city and suburbs, and find a ready sale for them. It is stated that 26,000 horses, maimed, or past work, are slaughtered and cut up each year to feed out household pets. Each horse means on an average 275 pounds of meat, and this is sold by pussy's butcher in half pennyworths skewered on bits of wood. The magnitude of this trade can be estimate by the fact that it keeps constantly employed thirty wholesale salesmen. I may mention that a cats'-meat men's supper was organised last year in London but the editor of Our Cats, assisted by Mr Louis Wain and others; and a most successful entertainment was given at the City of New York Restaurant. The applications for tickets were so numerous that 400 men had to be refused; and when the 250 guests were seated, it was clearly proved that every available inch of accommodation had been utilised. Having been present, I can testify to the excellent supper and entertainment provided for the cats'-meat men of London."

Not everyone saw the cat's meat trade as a valuable one. For example, in Beeton's Book of Poultry and Domestic Animals (1870), the authoress [the domestic goddess of her era] wrote: "Never allow your dog to eat what is commonly known as 'cat's meat.' I am loth to say a word that may work ill towards any branch of industry, but there is little doubt that the abolition, of the "cat's-meat" business would be an immense benefit to the canine and feline races. Consider the long odds that exist against the chance of the horseflesh being nutritious? First, It may be safely reckoned that at least a fourth of the number of horses killed are diseased. Secondly, it is generally pitched into the cauldron almost before it is cold; and as it does not in the least concern either the wholesale or the retail dealer, whether the meat be lean or tough, very little attention is paid to the boiling. Thirdly, the retail dealer—the peripatetic cat'smeat man—as a rule, brings the meat hot from the copper, and though, perhaps, equally as a rule, yet by no means as an exception, souses it into cold water to make it cut "firm." After these explanations, the owner of a dog may judge of the nutriment to be derived from cat's-meat.

This excerpt from the memoir "Peter: A Cat o' One Tail" by Charles Morley (published c. 1917) illustrates a suspicion about the cat's meat man having the opportunity to poison cats if he disliked their owner badly enough. In this case the alleged motive was the fact the owner fed her cats on prime mutton from the butcher rather than discount meat from the cat's meat man. "We had often laughed at the odd old lady who lived two doors higher up, for the anxiety which she displayed when any of her pets were missing . . . This same old lady [Mrs. Mee] was very fond of her cats, and had nine of them at the time I am writing of. Mrs. Mee was not very popular in the neighborhood, except with the milkman and the butcher. The cats'-meat-man, indeed, who supplied various families in our road, positively hated her — so I gathered from our servant, — and had been heard to say sotto voce in unguarded moments, "Ha! ha! I'll be revenged." It was not unnatural, as the cats were fed on mutton cutlets and fresh milk, and cats' meat was at a discount. ... Mrs. Mee, in the short space of three or four days, had lost no less than five cats by a violent death [...]"

Some cats’ meat men did very well out of the trade. According to Time Magazine, 11th November 1929 "In a London magistrate's court a Mrs. Albert Cratchitt, estranged from her husband, was being sued for non-payment of bills. Trouble reconciled the Cratchitts. In the dock Albert Cratchitt, beaming, prosperous, appeared beside his wife. "It's all right, Your Worship," said he. "Mrs. Cratchitt and I, we've forgotten our little differences. I've arranged to pay all her debts. As a matter of fact, I've done pretty well. For 30 years I've had a cat's meat round in the City, and if I do say so I'm a man of independent means." "What," cried the magistrate, starting beneath his wig, "you made a fortune out of cat's meat?" "Yes," said Meatman Cratchitt. "Funny, isn't it?" However, after a lot of digging around in old London newspapers, it appears that Time Magazine fabricated ther story of Mr and Mrs Cratchitt, basing it on a real-life case of Mr and Mrs Etteridge. According to the(Daily Herald, 9th September 1929: "A FORTUNE FROM CATS' MEAT - “I don't do any work really; I have an income," said a witness in a case at Marylebone Police Court. Magistrate: You are of independent means. Is that what you have saved? Witness: Yes, sir. I had a cats', meat round for 30 years. Magistrate: And made fortune out of cats'-meat, did you?” “Yes, funny, isn't it," replied the man, laughing." while the Dundee Evening Telegraph, 9th September 1929 gives details of the couple’s name, which was Etteridge, not Cratchitt: "It was revealed at Marylebone, when Mrs Rose Etteridge, aged 53, was remanded in custody, accused of attempted suicide, that her husband had made a fortune by selling cats’ meat. The husband had retired, it was stated, and had ordered a house to be built for him."

A BRITISH "CURIOSITY"

The business of cats’ meat man was quite a curiosity in the USA. The Chicago-based Daily Inter Ocean, 15th May 1887, printed an interview with a cats’ meat man, headed “THE TOILERS OF LONDON” [in which] Robert P. Porter Interviews a Cat’s Meat and Divulges Trade Secrets. A Way of Feeding Family Pets That Will Be Read with Interest Here. Dark Hints Anent Sausage Manufacturers — Woman in the Business — Some Fortunes Amassed.

An army! Of what? Cats in London. At least half a million strong. [. . .] How is this army of toms and tabbies of high and low degree fed? That is a practical question. There are In London at least three thousand men and women who earn comfortable livings as caterers to cats. This trade, while It extends somewhat into the West End, does not flourish in the wealthy neighborhoods, where the cats are often fed with dainty scraps from the table. In the East End, with its two millions of human beings closely packed in single rooms, in narrow streets, there are no spare scraps from the table. “We are obliged to eat close,” said a Bethel [Bethnal] Green woman to me; “our cats get no dainties. The old man or the young ‘uns get the last dainties, and often times the last bones.” A vast majority, therefore, of the half million or more of London cats have to live on boiled horse-flesh, and the “cats’ meat man,” of whom I am about to speak, is the purveyor of this meat for the poorer, middle, and lower cats of the metropolis.

An able-bodied cat can live comfortably on half a pound of cats’ meat per day. The cost of this meat at a cats’ meat shop is a penny per pound. If the entire army of cats were supplied with a full half pound of meat; It would take about 833 horses per day to keep them supplied, as the average product of meat of a dead horse, I am told, is about 500 pounds. A considerably less number of defunct horses than this is made to go round, owing to the skill of the cats’ meat man.

“The greatest h’art is in the cutting up,” said an experienced cats’ meat artist to me last Friday night

“You tell me,” said I, “that you have a route embracing 600 customers, and that you use one hundred weight (112 pounds) of meat a day. Now how do you cut up a hundred-weight into 600 half pounds?” -

“Well, you see, a nice dry piece of meat is better than h’under done. It looks more on the skewer. Between two bits o’ nice and dry we claps a little bit o’ rough, and ‘olds it up on the skewer, and the customers say ‘that is something like a rosy ha’p’orth Mr. Cats' Meat Man.’ The h’art is, sir, to make five ounces look as much like 'alf a pound as possible. Some men adulterates their meat, but I don't do that unless meat is very scarce.”

“Adulterate the meat,” I remarked, with surprise. “why what meat is cheaper than horse-flesh?” -

“Why lights is cheaper; bullocks lights. We buy ’em seven pounds for threepence (6 cents) all ‘ot and fresh. But the trouble with lights is the cats don’t like ’em. We as understand the ropes do our best to cultivate their taste by throwing a bit down to see if they will eat it, but cats are getting that dainty as ‘alf of 'em won’t. If a cat don’t eat it of course we can’t put none in the meat. We ‘ave to be very h’artful or else we should never get on.”

The man who thus addressed me seated on a bench in a little back work-shop in a court not far from Shoreditcb Church. He is said to be one of the most popular purveyors of cats’ meat in London, and is known among his class as “Wag.” He was a good-natured fellow, and something of a wit in his way. On his head he wore a saucy billycock, and around his throat in place of the customary neckerchief was a collar and scarf, ornamented with a large silver pin in imitation of a stirrup. His waistcoat was long, with a double row of buttons. His manner was that of the regular cockney type, with a dash of the Artful Dodger. When I entered Wag was busily engaged in making skewers for the next day's trade. Offering him a cigar, which he examined carefully in order to be sure and light the right end, the conversation was continued.

"Is the cats’ meat business a profitable one?” - “Middling, so I think. It all depends, you see, on what kind of a walk you ’ave. The ‘orse slaughterers, or knackers, as we call ‘em, have all gone into one large company, and that has done away with competition, excepting with country and foreign meat.”

“Then foreign meat comes into London?” - “Oh, yes It comes all the way from the north of England, Scotland, and even ’Amburg, in Germany. But the foreign and country meat don’t suit the appetite of the cats. What they like best is fine old London trammers or drayers. ‘Ansom cab ‘orses are not to be despised, though the worn-out nd broken-down ‘growler’ is little relished by the class of cats as I serve.

“How much can you make a week?” - “Well that again depends on the walk. There are two ‘undred, one ‘undred, ‘alf a hundred and quarter ‘undred walks. A good ‘undred pound walk ought to be worth four pounds a week. I ‘ave about six ‘undred cats on my walk, and generally make a ‘undred weigh go round. The meat costs me from eight shillings ($2) to twelve shillings ($3) per ’undredweight, and I make out of it by h’exercislng the legitimate h’art of the trade six ’undred ’ansome-looking ‘aporths.”

“Don't your customers ever complain about short weight?” - “We ’ave to be keerful. Some old ladies as I serve likes their cats better than their children, and they will sometimes examine and even weigh the meat. You see, we ’ave the best meat in one corner of the basket, a little better in the middle, and the awful at the end. If the old lady ain’t about, and the cat is, we can run in a bit o’ rough on even the most fastidious on ’em. In such oases the danger lies with the cat. If she eats it up close, all right, If not, all wrong."

“How do your customers regard these pleasant tricks of the trade?" - “Some of 'em takes it jokingly like, and they say, ‘You wicked butcher, you gave my poor cat such a rare old ‘aporth yesterday, that it took her twelve hours to eat it.’ I takes the hint, and don't try it on them again. If they growl too much we chucks 'em up and gives the tip all round, and the next man that comes along gives her less than I did, so you see she is bound to come back."

“Then the cat’s meat men stand together?” - “If we didn't don't you see we couldn’t sell our rounds. For example; I paid £60 ($300) for my walk, and some walks sell for £100, and so on down to £10 and £15. Another dodge is the h'area trick. If we see the cat down the h'area we sling it down very much under weight. If the cat is not there, we thrown full weight, for fear the missus might see it.” [The ‘area’ was the small front courtyard outside the basement rooms.]

“Do the cats get to know you?" - “As I go along a street what I serve, the cats kick up a row and almost fly into my basket. They are my customers. These same cats pay no more attention to the other cat's men that pass down the street than they would to you. I ‘ave had cats come from Central street, St Luke's, right across 'ere after me if I have been late. Suppose I am an hour late; why all the cats are flying about as savage as the master himself would be if breakfast wasn't ready. Know me? You can just bet a pot of fourpenny they know me.”

“Have you ever been able to classify the various cats of your acquaintance?" - “Only generally. We observe the drift like of its appetite. We ’ave the dainty cat as won’t stand no rough and is squirmish over the awful, and leaves the gristle all round where the missus can see it. Nothing but very nice will suit this kind of a cat. Then there is the every-day sort of cat, as can stand a bit o' lights when meat is dear, and don't turn up ‘er nose at a cut o’ 'Amburg or of country. Lastly comes the devil-of-a-cat. To that sort of cat we give some ‘ard pieces of gristle to amuse ‘er. Give such a cat as that very nice, and before the missus could turn her back it would be gone."

“So there are all sorts and conditions of cats as well as of men. I am sure your experiences will be amusing on the other side of the Atlantic; and I should like to know what other purposes horse-flesh is used for, if any.”

At this question I thought our friendly informant would have a fit so violently did he wink both eyes, and so hard did he try to suppress his emotions at the childish innocence displayed in my inquiry.

“Other purposes,” the cats’ meat man repeated when he had sufficiently recovered from his droll proceedings to answer me, “why, much of the best of it, and some of the worst, goes into German puddings and sausages. I once dealt with a horse slaughterer who was a great sausage man.”

“Tell me all about the sausage man.” - “I used to go in there sometimes of a night when it was dark, and I would hear them draw a cart slowly across the ground, and then I would see ’em load up 'alf a ton of 'orse-flesh. All the best of the meat used to go for sausages and German puddings. The result was the poor cats had to suffer. So the cats meat men held an indignation meeting at a public ’ouse, and agreed to go down to ‘im and ask ‘im why he could not leave off supplying the German pudding maker who had twelve or thirteen ‘undedweight a week. ‘Ave you ever noticed how lean those puddings are. The bits of fat are stuck in and it sells at a good price; you cannot buy German sausage at any shop under eight-pence per pound.”

“Do they use horse flesh very much?” - “One man I know used to have fourteen ’undredweight a week off him. I ‘ave seen some exceedingly bad stuff go into sausages. The ’orse flesh is always taken into the pudding makers’ at night, as it would not do to have it seen. A little while ago there was one man fined two ‘undred pound for selling ‘orse flesh in sausages, [so-and-so] of Bishopsgate street. That is the second time he has been fined. Then there is a man named [so-snd-so] in the Bethnal Green Road, got fined sixty pound, and he was a man that everybody thought had good meat.”

“Did it ruin him?” - "Yes, it ruined his business, but he had tinned his kettle, and, having a kettle full of quids, I don't suppose he cared. I know one man that did nothing else but supply sausage-makers. We used to call that ‘ung-up stuff. He did not sell for cats; he was one of those that was above selling for cats. They have a very good line of business among them. Nobody knows what line of business they carry on. The ‘ung-up stuff is for German puddings.”

“Who boils it?” - “The sausage-maker boils it. They always chop it up and fill the skins with the mixture before it is boiled."

At this juncture I asked “Wag" if he would allow me to take a look at his cart, which, I had been informed, had rather a taking sign on it. “With pleasure.” he said, and. leading the way into the back of the premises, pointed to the device upon the little two-wheeled cart, which he remarked was his own idea. It read as follows: “V.R. Purveyor of Meat, to Her Majesty, the Queen's Most Humble Servants, the Cats.” The letters were printed on green on orange background, and the whole arrangement was very effective for a royal highness-loving people.

Resuming our conversation, I remarked: “Are many women engaged in the cats’ meat business?” - “There are six or seven hundred girls that have walks, and some of ‘em cut up a ‘undred weight a day. Wives with walks of this sort are not despised among the trade and out of it, too, for that matter. Why a friend of mine who was in the bedstead line married a cats’-meat girl, and a beauty she was too. That girl now presides over the bedstead shop, and nobody would know she had ever been a cats’-meat girl."

“Some cats’ meat men have made fortunes?” - “Yes, I know of one who bought twenty-one houses not so long ago. He ’ad learned the ’hart of cutting up, too; that he ’ad. But then him and his wife are teetotallers and did no boozing."

“Is boozing, as you call it, a common fault with the trade?” - “Some in our business is diabolical fellows. They will go on the booze for a day or two and neglect the cats that shamefully. Once let him get a taste of the unsweetened, and tight they are, sir. Then, of course, we 'ave our respectable ones. I know a young cat’s-meat woman who is a Sunday-School teacher. She's a tulip, I tell you, and it's a treat to see her with her class well in hand Sunday. I know one man who conducts a mission ‘all; and so it goes.”

Among other things I learned from this interesting young cats’ meats vendor, were that all kinds of horses went into cats’ meat, diseased and otherwise; that in buying their meat they were obliged to take it just as it came; that some cats’-meat men owned trotting horses, others fancied dogs, and indulged in a little private “scrap” sometimes, Sundays, at a friend's house, while the tastes of others ran to fighting chickens. So far as he was personally concerned his ambition was a country “pub," which he hoped some day to keep. A business I thought peculiarly fitted for one so skilled in the “h’art” of adulteration. If he made as many glasses of beer out of a barrel as he did half pounds of meat out of a hundred weight, a beerage and ultimately a peerage would be within range of possibility. Who knows?

Altogether my hour with the cat's-meat man was amusing, and would have been instructive did my tastes and fancies run to German puddings and sausages. As a type of the peculiar people we meet in London he is certainly worth a niche in this series, and my artistic friend, Mr. Hitchcock, has faithfully represented him in the accompanying sketch. Robert P. Porter.

THE CATS-MEAT MAN. A UNIQUE FIGURE PECULIAR TO THE STREETS OF LONDON. — Frederick Stansbury in N. Y. News. (The Evening Republican, 22nd March 1893) The true home of the cats’-meat man — do not make the mistake of calling him the cat-meat man — is London. In America, he is as yet a fragile flower — a transplanted growth that has not taken strong root in the soil. In London, however, this gentleman flourishes like a green bay tree. Dickens would have immortalized him, but he was a household word before Dickens appeared, to charm his age and be freely criticised by the generation that succeeded him. Dickens is out of fashion now, but the cats’-meat-man is still dear to the British heart. He has his niche, too, in the temple of fame. Does not Tennyson sing: “The curse has come upon me! Cried the cats'-meat man?"

The cats’-meat man of London is a unique figure in the life of that great city. How he acquired his original right is as much a mystery to most people as is the legend, “ancient lights,” which confronts the visitor to London from many a dingy wall. A cats’-meat route is valuable as property, is transferable, is saleable. So sacred is the right to it held that there is no suit at law on record for the recovery of a claim of this kind that has been “jumped.” The cry of the cats’-meat man is as well-known as the tinkling bell of the muffin man, or the hoarse roar of the wretch who peddles coals. For an illustration of the methods of the person in question let us select a street, say within the purlieus of Red Lion or Russell Square — Lamb’s Conduit street, will answer the purpose. Here are rows of doorways, exactly alike, mostly Queen Anne in type, though some are of the Georgian period. The hour approaches when the welcome presence of the cat’-meat man will make itself known. We know this because each doorway contains a cat, on whose face is plainly written anxious expectancy. “We know he will come,” the faces seem to say, “but what if he should not!” But now anxiety gives place to agreeable certainty. A cheerful purring pervades the air, and, echoing softly from far down the street comes the refrain “meat-meat!” On one doorstep sits in great dignity a magnificent Persian with solemn whiskers. Next door is a huge tom, of the variety known as “yaller,” whose eyes are of the color of the sea. Further on, a white mother with amber eyes plays decorously with some young parti-colored kittens, keeping an eye, the while, in the direction from whence comes the welcome sound. Nearly every doorstep contains a cat. They are of all colors, races and breeds, but the sober gray, tiger-marked, seem to predominate. As the presence approaches they become uneasy and restless. They arch their backs, walk to and fro with glistening eyes and quivering tail. But, soft you now! The cats’-meat man stands before us. He has a basket on one arm. In his disengaged hand is a skewer, on which are pitted certain “slithers” of cooked meat—beef, horseflesh or liver, as the case may be. “Meat, meat,” cries the cats’-meat man, as he agitates the knocker or rings the bell. He pays no attention to the cats, most of whom hold him in awe. The more bold among them rub their highly-arched spines against the sides of his trousers, but offer no further familiarity. Someone comes to the door and takes the skewer from him, and, selecting another from the basket, he passes to the next house. In a few minutes the cry of “meat, meat” becomes more and more faint, and before he is out of sight not a solitary cat is to be seen in his wake. They have retired for breakfast.

The Philadelphia Inquirer, 22nd March 1897 mused on the proposed ban on the sale of horse-meat for consumption and how such a thing could not possibly happen in London: “Among the important bills introduced at Albany on the 10th inst., was a measure, ‘to amend the penal code, prohibiting the sale of horseflesh as an article of food.' It provides that any person who sells or offers for sale horseflesh as an article of food shall be guilty of a misdemeanor.”—Evening Post. If such a bill as this were introduced into the British Parliament, the Prime Minister would soon have a deputation of cats’ meat men after him. The sale of horseflesh as an article of food for cats is an important industry, especially in the deserts of Whitechapel. I recall some amusing facts in connection with this peculiar business, which I gathered in a morning’s talk with some “cat’s meat men,” as they are popularly called. It might be interesting to an enterprising reporter to find out how the army of toms and tabbies of high and low degree in this metropolis are fed, and whether the law proposed by Assemblyman Soper will interfere with their rights. That is a practical question. In London I found an army of at least 3000 men and women who earn very comfortable livings as caterers to cats. London people, especially in the East End, eat close, and a vast majority of the half million cats of the metropolis have to live on boiled horseflesh, and the “cats’ meat man” becomes the purveyor of this meat for the poorer, middle and lower class cats of London. An able- bodied cat can live comfortably on half a pound of cats’ meat per day. The cost of this meat at a cats’ meat shop is a penny per pound.

THE CURIOUS BUSINESS OF THE FAITHFUL “CAT MEAT MAN” (The Star press, 23rd August 1914). Constantinople has been celebrated for the great number of dogs that roved the streets, and this glimpse of a London neighborhood might give the uninformed an idea that cats were quite the animal familiars in the streets of London. But the familiar sight is not so much the cats as the "cat-meat man,” whose dally coming is eagerly anticipated by Tom and Tabby. The "cat-meat man” is a vendor of horseflesh, which seems to be a highly appreciated fare; though a London wit, in disputing this fact, contends that the cats would be every bit as satisfied with porterhouse roast. The “cat-meat man” himself admits this argument unanswerable, but the owners of the cats are glad that they do not have to pay porterhouse prices. The cats, however, are not complaining and they are so familiar with the voice of the vendor that they detect it from afar, sometimes meeting him a quarter of a mile from their homes. And they follow him until the food is bought and they get their share.

THE LONDON CAT’S-MEAT MAN By Vincent Edwards (The Whitewright Sun, 12th August 1943). It seems appropriate that the city of Dick Whittington should have always had a warm place in its heart for cats. Still, one of London’s most cherished memories is the cat’s-meat man. That familiar figure in the battered old hat, the long coat and apron, was no ordinary tradesman. Every day he made his rounds with his jounty little cart, peddling meat for Pussy and all her relations. Americans who were lucky enough to see the cat’s-meat man roll up in the old days never forgot the sight. From hidden alleyways, from dark cellars, from warm firesides even, cats by the tens and twenties suddenly appeared to greet the driver.

The cart alone was a magnificent spectacle. It had pictures on it just like a circus wagon, and over the top there was a gaudy sign: “Purveyor of Meat to the Canine and Feline Patrons of the Metropolis.” But Pussy’s choice in meat couldn't be guessed in a week. It was horse meat! Beef and lamb and chicken were all right in their place, but she preferred something less common. There was one cat’s meat peddler by the name of Dobbin whose cart had a picture of a fine, sleek cat that had invited a very thin cat to supper. “Ah,” says the guest, “This is indeed a treat.” The fat cat replies, “Glad you enjoy it. We buy all our meat of Dobbin.”

At soon as the cart would pull up, the driver would step out with a large basket on his arm. It held about as curious an assortment as was ever sold off to the public. The basket was filled with meat on small, wooden skewers; there were pieces of various sizes, depending on the cost. A half-penny bought no more than a mouthful for Pussy, but three-pence was enough for a Christmas dinner. The meat wasn’t raw, but had all been boiled for about two hours.

FEEDING HORSE MEAT TO PETS NO NEW IDEA (Santa Cruz Sentinel, 11th September 1943). Some interesting sidelights on the horse meat situation were revealed in a letter recently received by the Sentinel-News from James Bewley of 106 North Branciforte avenue. Bewley tells how horse meat was utilized in England a hundred years ago, where it was used in the city of London to feed cats and dogs which were abundant there at that time. Most of the work of preparing the horse meat for sale was done at night, as the process included skinning, disjointing and cooking, after which the meat had to be cooled. In the morning it was ready for delivery in different parts of the city. The lean meat went to the cats while the tripe or tougher parts were Rover’s share. Bewley’s inside knowledge on the trade comes from the fact that his father was a “Cats Meat Man,” besides which he used to walk three miles each day to deliver the meat when he was about five years old, which he recalls very clearly in spite of the fact that he is now 89.

CAT’S MEAT MEN IN SONG AND STORY

A common threat in the mid 1800s was "to make cats' meat of someone," for example "if you don't do as I tell you, I'll make cats' meat of you!" Another saying (1885) was "That's what I call self-evident preposition, as the cat's meat man remarked when the housemaid told him he worn't a gentleman."

One of the recurring characters in the Dr Doolittle sereies of books is Malcolm Mugg the cats' meat man who is a friend of John Doolittle. The Music Hall and Theatre Review (August 1906) mentions a duet called The Allisons who performed a well-received quarrelling duet between a cats'-meat man and his daughter who has just returned from boarding school and who is a little ashamed of what she terms "a purveyor of feline food." In 1908, a new drama put on by Mr Bustle in Buckinghamshire was called "Love on an Icerbeerg; or the Cats' Meat-man's Revenge." The Yorkshire Post and Leeds Intelligencer (18 May 1912) mentions Edith Lyttleton's play "Peter's Chance," set in a Mission house in Stepney, which features "Meatie, the cats' meat man, and a herd of tramps and thieves.

According to reviews, 'Mr. Charles Williams is a favourite here with his topical songs. His verse, however, about an old lady and the cat’s-meat man is now so ancient that it reminds us more of the way in which news travelled before the time of stage coaches, than of “a topic of the telegraph wire.” '(London and Provincial Entr'acte, 19 February 1876) (This verse is at the bottom of this article.) "Mr. Walter King tunefully relates the experiences of a “Cat’s-Meat Man,” and the trouble that is brought to him by a wife who has a weakness for pawning his belongings" (London and Provincial Entr'acte, 4th May 1895) and again, "Mr Walter King is comedian with real sense of humour, and his patter very funny. In the character of a cat’s-meat man lets his hearers into some of the secrets of the trade." (The Era, 13th September 1902)

‘Paynton Jacks, Gentleman,’ is one of those books which, although very slight, is distinctly amusing. Plot there is but little; we are introduced to old Josiah Jacks, an ex-cat’s-meat man, who wishes his son to be a gentleman and succeeds in his desire. The son then falls in love with a poor but well-born maiden, who for many years will have none of him, but finally capitulates in Kensington Gardens, and all ends well. The characters are all well drawn, and the authoress has succeeded admirably with her two fathers-the vulgar cat’s-meat man and the aristocratic squire; there is considerable humour, too, occasionally in the descriptions. (Guardian, 14th June 1893)

THE KING OF THE CATS’ MEAT MEN

This tale appeared in the Southern Reporter, 4th January 1872, and had been reprinted from the South London Press. At the time many common and humble trades were reputed to have kings, for example the king of the chimney sweeps.

The general public are perhaps not aware that there are kings of low as well as of high degree, and that we have many of them dwelling in our midst. A gentleman, whom we will call Mr Johns, happened to be entering one evening a well-known hall, to join a meeting of a certain committee of which he was a member, when he felt a tug at his watch chain. Looking around he observed a man running away. He glanced down and some his watch chain dangling with nothing at the end of it. The audacity of the affair astounded him, and for a moment he could scarcely realise the fact that he and his valuable gold watch had parted company. He started in pursuit, but soon found his way impeded by two or three vagabond-looking fellows who hustled him until the thief had got away, and them made themselves scarce. Finding that time had flown, he sought the good offices of a detective. But what could the officer of the law do? Mr Johns could neither give him a description of the thief not of the fellows who had hustled him.

The officer weighed the matter over in his mind a few moments, and then said: - "l can give you little hope, sir, of recovering your watch. Of course we'll do all we can; but the trick was done by a professional, and probably before this time the cases will have been battered up and sold to some old Jew dealer, who knows how to set his own price upon such things." Then a bright idea seemed to strike him: " Sir," said he, with a knowing wink, "there is just one hope. Go to the King of the Cats'-meat Men, get into his Majesty's good graces, then state your case. He is a host in himself, and will have a better chance of recovering your watch than all the detectives in London put together."

Mr J. thanked the detective, got from him the monarch's address, and at once hurried on his strange errand. He found his Majesty at home, asked him out to liquor up, and soon discovered that a right jovial monarch was he. When heard the story of the robbery he knitted his eyebrows, scowled, and gave utterance to an expression rather unbecoming a king. A moment's pause, and then—" Drink up," said he, “I'll put my nag in the trap, and we'll see what can be done."

In five minutes more Mr J. look his seat in the trap, and was driven off by the king, and in another five minutes they were travelling through innumerable dismal-looking back streets. Every now and then his Majesty pulled up at the top some dingy court, giving the reins to Mr J. while he prosecuted his inquiries. After visiting about a score of these dens of wretchedness and crime, his Majesty's efforts were crowned with success - one of his subjects "peached" upon a “pal," and the king returned to the trap with the joyful news. His Majesty then drove off with his guest to the residence of the thief as fast as the nag could carry them. These were moments of suspense; but soon the king pulled up at another those dingy courts. Leaping out of the trap his Majesty said, " You had better come with me, sir."

Mr J. felt some trepidation, but nerved himself to the task. Passing down the dark passage the king went direct to a house at the bottom of the court, and gave a loud knock at the door. Instantly there was a sound from within as of snuffling feet, then a murmur of hushed voices, and the door was opened, and his 'Majesty and Mr J entered a squalid-looking apartment. There were three men and two women there, all vile-looking characters; but when their eyes fell upon the ki