neither prestige nor numerical strength, for the four-fifths’ standard made vegetarians of many who had tolerated—­while it lasted—­the principle of equal rights, or two ounces of each animal.  A transposition of parties occurred.  But none abstained from opening the floodgates of their wrath on the authors of the latest menu.  The authors’ apologists, for—­tell it not in Gath!—­they had apologists still, argued that there were restaurants in Paris where cooked horse was a speciality.  But special pleading so palpable only aggravated the prevailing resentment to the dish.  There were a great many customs in Paris equally foreign to our, shall I say, Imperial ways; together with a plethora of scientific chefs who could metamorphose anything—­rats as well as horses.  There were revolutionaries in France in sufficient numbers to make traffic in gruesome dietary pay; and plenty of fodder, besides, with which to “fatten” beasts.  All this gammon respecting Continental precedent and taste was beside the question; it only invited gratuitous vituperation of the French nation.  An ugly feature of the traffic was suggested by the fact that horses were dying from sheer starvation.  The Sanitary Authorities had become experts in the use of the revolvers with which they expedited the demise of the poor beasts.  Everybody has doubtless known of the repulsion one feels against partaking of the flesh of a cow that dies a natural death.  All of us, perhaps, have unconsciously relished it at one time or another, when butchers were above suspicion.  But when it was a question of a horse—­well, I will not conjure up the horror of the situation.  The horses used for food were all slaughtered; but the suspicion existed that they might not have been, and to lay the bogey in minds governing old-fashioned stomachs was not easy.  These old Whigs argued that the meat we ate was “dead” meat, from “dead” animals (which was indisputable).  All this apart, however, it was manifest even to the devil-may-care fellows who are usually satisfied with enough of a thing, that the horses were “too thin.”  The Authorities kept inviting owners to sell their beasts for “slaughtering purposes”; good prices were offered for “fat horses.”  Advertisements (in huge capitals) to this effect disfigured our newspaper for a long while, and though we did not regard it as such it was a nice piece of humour.  The “fat” horses were all too few for fighting, and were reserved for fighting.  The artfulness of “slaughtering purposes” can be appreciated accordingly.

Wednesday was interesting, Colonel Chamier having persuaded Kekewich to let him off on a little expedition.  He took with him a small battery of guns, a picked force of mounted men (on “fat” horses), and wended his way towards Alexandersfontein.  On the journey he divided his force and left half of it with a Maxim at a Mr. Fenn’s farm.  The jolly Boers had evidently, and not unnaturally, assumed that they had cured us of our weakness for