Two dead horses are being skinned; but all the other animals—of the four-footed class we mean—are bullocks, in different stages of disease, and they are seven in number. These latter have not been condemned by the Inspector, but have been brought here to undergo a last effort for the purpose of being made saleable—washed and scrubbed, so as to have the chance of finding a purchaser by torchlight at some very low price; and failing in this, to be killed before they die, or cut up as soon after they die as possible. They were all distinguished by slang terms according to the nature and stage of their diseases. The two best of these bad bullocks are designated as “choppers;” the three next, whose hides are torn in several places, are called “rough-uns;” while those who are in a drooping and reeking condition, with literally a death-sweat all over them, are playfully called “wet-uns.” To this latter class belongs our poor ox, who is now brought in, and formally introduced by the Inspector, as diseased, and _condemned_. The others he does not see—or, at least, does not notice—his business being with the ox, who was the last comer. Having thus performed his duty, the Inspector retires! But what _is_ this ceaseless rattling tattoo that is kept up in the adjoining premises? The walls vibrate with it! Machinery of some kind? Yes—it is a chopping machine; and here you behold the “choppers,” both horses and diseased bullocks, who will shortly be in a fit state for promotion, and will then be taken piece-meal next door. Ay, it is so, in sober and dreadful seriousness. Here, in this Sharp’s Alley, you behold the largest horse-slaughter-house in the city; and here, next door, you will find the largest sausage manufactory in London. The two establishments thus conveniently situated, belong to near relations—brothers, we believe, or brothers-in-law. Now, while the best of the diseased bullocks or “choppers” are taken to the sausage machine, to be advantageously mixed with the choppings of horse-flesh (to which latter ingredient the angry redness of so many “cured” sausages, _saveloys_, and all the class of _polonies_ is attributable), who shall venture to deny that, in the callousness of old habits, and the boldness derived from utter impunity and profitable success, a very considerable addition is often made to the stock of the “choppers,” from many of the “rough-uns,” and from some of the more sound parts of the miserable “wet-uns?” Verily this thing may be—“’tis apt, and of great credit,” to the City of London. But a few words must be said of the “closing scene” of our poor condemned ox. We would, most willingly, have passed this over, leaving it to the imagination of the reader; but as no imagination would be at all likely to approach the fact, we hope we shall be rendering a service to common humanity in doing some violence to our own, and the readers’ feelings, by exposing such scenes to the gaze of day.