DOI Heft:
July 29, 1882
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17753#0056
48 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [July 29, laaa.
CRICKET HITS.
[By Dumb-Crambo, off his own Bat.)
A Drive to the Pavilion. Holding a Catch.
A HANDBOOK OF KNOWLEDGE.
No. YIL—The Butcher.
Q. What is a Butcher ?
A. The subtle tyrant of large households, and the scourge and
terror of small ones.
Q. I fear you mistake me. I am y,ot referring to an autocratic or
a military “ butcher”—in the sense m which Caligula or the Duke
of Cumberland could be so called—but to the affable, and commonly
adipose, person in blue who acts as retail purveyor of meat to the
! community. Can your answer possibly apply to him ?
j A. Distinctly.
Q. But how is this terrible tyranny of a mere, and apparently
amiable, tradesman manifested ?
A. By his compelling the community to purchase whatever
meats he may choose to supply at whatever prices he may please to
] exact.
Q. How does he manage to do this ?
A. His system comprises many subtle devices and ingenious con-
trivances. One of these is known as “ calling for orders.”
Q. Is not this a convenient and legitimate practice ?
A. In itself, yes ; the mischief lies in the way in which the Butcher
works it.
Q. But if you give your orders in a clear and definite way, will he
not, like another tradesman, carry them out, as a matter of course,
j to the letter ?
A. Not at all. The difference between the weight and price of a
leg of mutton—for example—as ordered and as delivered, will at
once serve to explode so amiable a theory.
Q. Have you not the remedy in your own hands of returning the
joint upon his ?
A. Certainly. But it is easy to make this practically impossible
by delaying delivery until your choice will be between that parti-
i cular mutton and no meat. Indeed, the Butcher’s plan of operations
generally is based upon a profound study of human nature and
domestic exigences. He knows well that the ordinary British house-
holder will rather face the probability of future loss than the cer-
tainty of immediate inconvenience. He robs indeed, but rather like
| an adroit usurer than an imperative highwayman.
Q. You sav he robs ? Is not this a serious charge to make against
a British tradesman ?
A. It is. The Butcher himself would probably select another
word to describe his practice of wilful misunderstanding and
deliberate overcharge.
Q. Is no account rendered at the time of delivery ?
A. Skewered on to the joint-—if it have not been dislodged in
transit—may perhaps be found a greasy scrap of paper, bearing
some undecipherable scrawl, supposed, to have reference to the
weight and. price of the meat. As it is frequently lost on the road
by the butcher-boy, a,nd always disregarded as unintelligible by the j
cook or housekeeper, it affords no certain clue to cost, and presents no \
insuperable barrier in the way of subsequent overcharge.
Q. But what if, by weighing the joint yourself, you detect such
overcharge ?
A. The Butcher then has an alternative of two perfectly safe
courses. If you cannot furnish proof, he will dispute your accuracy;
if you can, he will regret his own—or rather his shopman’s—
“mistake.” A discovered overcharge is always a “mistake.” An
undiscovered “mistake” is always an overcharge. “That is the
humour of it.”
Q. But suppose you go to the shop to select a leg of mutton for
yourself P
A. The Butcher will probably demur to cutting a leg for you, and
dissuade you from selecting any leg already cut, but will confiden-
tially counsel you to “leave it to him,” as he will “have one up
presently that’ll just suit you.” “ Them legs,” he will intimate,
slapping one of them derisively with his knife, “ though well enough
for the common herd, will not do for you," whose superior taste he
can gauge to a nicety.
Q. Suppose that, resisting these blandishments, you insist upon
! selecting one before you, and on seeing it weighed ?
j A. He will yield with mournful dignity, as sorrowing to see a
customer of his so lose caste, and probably—it may be in mere com-
passion—send you home quite another joint.
Q. Even if you have paid on the spot for that particular one ?
A. This he will not permit you to do if he can possibly help it.
“ Oh ; better let me book it, Sir—or Madam he will say, with a
lofty smile, subtly suggestive of the abject contemptibleness of the
contrary plan. “ And why not let me send my young man round
for your horders ? ” he will add, with a look as subtly expressive of
his sense of the “ bad form” of the opposite practice.
Q. And suppose you resolutely decline to allow him either to
“call for orders” or to “ book” P
A. The British Butcher cannot treat with common civility the
customer who so violates the interested etiquette of his trade. His
very soul revolts against personal calls and cash payments, as mean
devices, hampering the happy freedom of imposition, and limiting
the pleasant possibilities of “ mistakes.”
Q. Do you mean to imply that the Butcher is — I was about to
say less honest, but will rather express it as “more ingenious ” than
other tradesmen P
A. His trade, from its very nature, affords fewer facilities than
many others for that particular form of competition which harsh
moralists call “ adulteration.” His “ ingenuity ” is therefore taxed
to devise substitutes for that great standing resource of the British
Shopkeeper.
Q. With what results ?
A. Such as it would take long indeed fully to describe. I have
already mentioned one or two of them. The task of keeping up the
price of meat, in spite of all causes which naturally would tend to j
bring it down, is one which continually taxes, but which never |
exhausts, the resources of this “ ingenuity.” The skill with which !
he will combine open depreciation of “inferior foreign stuff” with I
the secret vending of it as, and at the price of, “ prime English,” is
admirable—from a certain point of view. In the “ cutting up ” of j
joints, and the apportionment of bone, fat, and offal, with a view to
getting the “ best price ” for the same, he does greatly shine. He is
very adroit, also, in the management of the scraps and fragments
known as “make-weights.” A block of bone may be introduced
into a joint with whose normal anatomy it has nothing to do, and by
carefully-arranged accident one particular “ scrag ” may be weighed
and sold with half-a-dozen or more “best ends”—by simply being
“left behind” when the joint is despatched to its destination.
Moreover, in Butchers’ book-keeping the terms “posting” and
“ double entry ” may be made to bear meanings that would hardly
be recognised by a punctilious accountant. If the public were made
free of "the little greenhouse-looking structures where, during the
slack hours of the day, greasy-locked youths or smart-ribboned
dames wile away the weary hours in transferring credit-entries from
one book to another, it might find that the—of course accidental—
discrepancies between the first and the second entries, though
dexterously “distributed over,” tottled up to a tidy balance-noil
exactly in favour of the customers.
Q. Are all Butchers equally—ingenious ?
A. Probably not. Nature and Fortune do not so equally dis-
tribute their favours. There are simple, plain-dealing Butchers,
just as there doubtless are unsophisticated lawyers and guileless
Israelites.
Last week’s Illustrated London News has a portrait of “ Lord
Charles Beresford, in charge of the Police at Alexandria.” What
has this gallant Officer done to be “ in charge of the Police ” P We
thought that he was looking after the Police, not the Police looking j
after him.
CRICKET HITS.
[By Dumb-Crambo, off his own Bat.)
A Drive to the Pavilion. Holding a Catch.
A HANDBOOK OF KNOWLEDGE.
No. YIL—The Butcher.
Q. What is a Butcher ?
A. The subtle tyrant of large households, and the scourge and
terror of small ones.
Q. I fear you mistake me. I am y,ot referring to an autocratic or
a military “ butcher”—in the sense m which Caligula or the Duke
of Cumberland could be so called—but to the affable, and commonly
adipose, person in blue who acts as retail purveyor of meat to the
! community. Can your answer possibly apply to him ?
j A. Distinctly.
Q. But how is this terrible tyranny of a mere, and apparently
amiable, tradesman manifested ?
A. By his compelling the community to purchase whatever
meats he may choose to supply at whatever prices he may please to
] exact.
Q. How does he manage to do this ?
A. His system comprises many subtle devices and ingenious con-
trivances. One of these is known as “ calling for orders.”
Q. Is not this a convenient and legitimate practice ?
A. In itself, yes ; the mischief lies in the way in which the Butcher
works it.
Q. But if you give your orders in a clear and definite way, will he
not, like another tradesman, carry them out, as a matter of course,
j to the letter ?
A. Not at all. The difference between the weight and price of a
leg of mutton—for example—as ordered and as delivered, will at
once serve to explode so amiable a theory.
Q. Have you not the remedy in your own hands of returning the
joint upon his ?
A. Certainly. But it is easy to make this practically impossible
by delaying delivery until your choice will be between that parti-
i cular mutton and no meat. Indeed, the Butcher’s plan of operations
generally is based upon a profound study of human nature and
domestic exigences. He knows well that the ordinary British house-
holder will rather face the probability of future loss than the cer-
tainty of immediate inconvenience. He robs indeed, but rather like
| an adroit usurer than an imperative highwayman.
Q. You sav he robs ? Is not this a serious charge to make against
a British tradesman ?
A. It is. The Butcher himself would probably select another
word to describe his practice of wilful misunderstanding and
deliberate overcharge.
Q. Is no account rendered at the time of delivery ?
A. Skewered on to the joint-—if it have not been dislodged in
transit—may perhaps be found a greasy scrap of paper, bearing
some undecipherable scrawl, supposed, to have reference to the
weight and. price of the meat. As it is frequently lost on the road
by the butcher-boy, a,nd always disregarded as unintelligible by the j
cook or housekeeper, it affords no certain clue to cost, and presents no \
insuperable barrier in the way of subsequent overcharge.
Q. But what if, by weighing the joint yourself, you detect such
overcharge ?
A. The Butcher then has an alternative of two perfectly safe
courses. If you cannot furnish proof, he will dispute your accuracy;
if you can, he will regret his own—or rather his shopman’s—
“mistake.” A discovered overcharge is always a “mistake.” An
undiscovered “mistake” is always an overcharge. “That is the
humour of it.”
Q. But suppose you go to the shop to select a leg of mutton for
yourself P
A. The Butcher will probably demur to cutting a leg for you, and
dissuade you from selecting any leg already cut, but will confiden-
tially counsel you to “leave it to him,” as he will “have one up
presently that’ll just suit you.” “ Them legs,” he will intimate,
slapping one of them derisively with his knife, “ though well enough
for the common herd, will not do for you," whose superior taste he
can gauge to a nicety.
Q. Suppose that, resisting these blandishments, you insist upon
! selecting one before you, and on seeing it weighed ?
j A. He will yield with mournful dignity, as sorrowing to see a
customer of his so lose caste, and probably—it may be in mere com-
passion—send you home quite another joint.
Q. Even if you have paid on the spot for that particular one ?
A. This he will not permit you to do if he can possibly help it.
“ Oh ; better let me book it, Sir—or Madam he will say, with a
lofty smile, subtly suggestive of the abject contemptibleness of the
contrary plan. “ And why not let me send my young man round
for your horders ? ” he will add, with a look as subtly expressive of
his sense of the “ bad form” of the opposite practice.
Q. And suppose you resolutely decline to allow him either to
“call for orders” or to “ book” P
A. The British Butcher cannot treat with common civility the
customer who so violates the interested etiquette of his trade. His
very soul revolts against personal calls and cash payments, as mean
devices, hampering the happy freedom of imposition, and limiting
the pleasant possibilities of “ mistakes.”
Q. Do you mean to imply that the Butcher is — I was about to
say less honest, but will rather express it as “more ingenious ” than
other tradesmen P
A. His trade, from its very nature, affords fewer facilities than
many others for that particular form of competition which harsh
moralists call “ adulteration.” His “ ingenuity ” is therefore taxed
to devise substitutes for that great standing resource of the British
Shopkeeper.
Q. With what results ?
A. Such as it would take long indeed fully to describe. I have
already mentioned one or two of them. The task of keeping up the
price of meat, in spite of all causes which naturally would tend to j
bring it down, is one which continually taxes, but which never |
exhausts, the resources of this “ ingenuity.” The skill with which !
he will combine open depreciation of “inferior foreign stuff” with I
the secret vending of it as, and at the price of, “ prime English,” is
admirable—from a certain point of view. In the “ cutting up ” of j
joints, and the apportionment of bone, fat, and offal, with a view to
getting the “ best price ” for the same, he does greatly shine. He is
very adroit, also, in the management of the scraps and fragments
known as “make-weights.” A block of bone may be introduced
into a joint with whose normal anatomy it has nothing to do, and by
carefully-arranged accident one particular “ scrag ” may be weighed
and sold with half-a-dozen or more “best ends”—by simply being
“left behind” when the joint is despatched to its destination.
Moreover, in Butchers’ book-keeping the terms “posting” and
“ double entry ” may be made to bear meanings that would hardly
be recognised by a punctilious accountant. If the public were made
free of "the little greenhouse-looking structures where, during the
slack hours of the day, greasy-locked youths or smart-ribboned
dames wile away the weary hours in transferring credit-entries from
one book to another, it might find that the—of course accidental—
discrepancies between the first and the second entries, though
dexterously “distributed over,” tottled up to a tidy balance-noil
exactly in favour of the customers.
Q. Are all Butchers equally—ingenious ?
A. Probably not. Nature and Fortune do not so equally dis-
tribute their favours. There are simple, plain-dealing Butchers,
just as there doubtless are unsophisticated lawyers and guileless
Israelites.
Last week’s Illustrated London News has a portrait of “ Lord
Charles Beresford, in charge of the Police at Alexandria.” What
has this gallant Officer done to be “ in charge of the Police ” P We
thought that he was looking after the Police, not the Police looking j
after him.