FOOTNOTES:
[A] We learn from a German writer the origin of this cruel custom. When the Danes ruled In England, the native inhabitants of some town formed a conspiracy to regain possession of it by murdering the Danish usurpers. Their design, however, was defeated by the crowing of some cocks. When the English afterwards regained authority, they instituted the barbarous and childishly resentful practice of throwing at cocks tied to a stake on the commemoration day of their disappointment through the vigilance of the cocks.
[B] “At St Petersburgh, in Russia (says Dr Granville), they have no cock-pits; but they have a goose-pit, where in the spring they fight ganders trained to the sport, and to peck at each other’s shoulders till they draw blood. These ganders have been sold as high as five hundred roubles each; and the sport prevails to a degree of enthusiasm among the hemp-merchants. Strange that the vicious and inhuman curiosity of man can delight to arouse and stimulate the principles of enmity and cruelty in these apparently peaceful and sociable birds!
The barbarities of which the human character is capable from habitual indulgence in such brutal sports are almost inconceivable.
Every one has heard the horrible story of Ardesolf of Tottenham, who, about forty years since, bring disappointed by a famous game-cock refusing to fight, was incited by his savage passion to roast the animal alive whilst entertaining his friends. The company, alarmed by the dreadful shrieks of the victim, interfered, but were resisted by Ardesolf, who threatened death to any who should oppose him; and in a storm of raging and vindictive delirium, and uttering the most horrid imprecations, he dropped down dead. I had hoped to find this one among the thousand fanatical lies which have been coined in the insane expectation that truth can be advanced by the propagation of falsehood; but to my sorrowful disappointment, on a late inquiry among the friends of the deceased miscreant, I found the truth of the horrible story but too probable.”—Mowbray’s Treatise on Poultry.
ALEXANDER AND THE TREE.
“From this tree it was that the Voice came which spake of old to Iskander (Alexander the Great), saying, as an oracle, ‘Iskander indeed cometh into India, but goeth from thence into the Land of Darkness.’”—Apocryphal History of Alexander the Great.
The sun is bright, the air is bland,
The heavens wear that stainless blue
Which only in an Orient land
The eye of man may view;
And lo! around, and all abroad,
A glittering host, a mighty horde—
And at their head a demigod
Who slays with lightning-sword!
The bright noon burns, but idly now
Those warriors rest by copse and hill,
And shadows on their Leader’s brow
Seem ominous of ill:
Spell-bound, he stands beside a tree,
And well he may, for through its leaves
Unstirred by wind, come brokenly
Moans, as of one that grieves!
How strange! he thought:—Life is a boon
Given, and resumed—but how? and when?
But now I asked myself how soon
I should go home agen!
How soon I might once more behold
My mourning mother’s tearful face;
How soon my kindred might enfold
Me in their dear embrace!
There was an Indian Magian there—
And, stepping forth, he bent his knee:
“Oh, king!” he said, “be wise!—beware
This too prophetic tree!”
“Ha!” cried the king, “thou knowest, then, Seer,
What yon strange oracle reveals?”
“Alas!” the Magian said, “I hear
Deep words, like thunder-peals!
“I hear the groans of more than Man,
Hear tones that warn, denounce, beseech;
Hear—woe is me!—how darkly ran
That stream of thrilling speech!
‘Oh, king,’ it spake, ‘all-trampling king!
Thou leadest legions from afar—
But Battle droops his clotted wing!
Night menaces thy star!
“‘Fond visions of thy boyhood’s years
Dawn like dim light upon thy soul;
Thou seest again thy mother’s tears
Which Love could not control!
Ah! thy career in sooth is run!
Ah! thou indeed returnest home!
The Mother waits to clasp her son
Low in her lampless dome!
“‘Yet go, rejoicing! He who reigns
O’er Earth alone leaves worlds unscanned;
Life binds the spirit as with chains;
Seek thou the Phantom-land!
Leave Conquest all it looks for here—
Leave willing slaves a bloody throne—
Thine henceforth is another sphere,
Death’s realm, the dark Unknown!’”
The Magian paused; the leaves were hushed,
But wailings broke from all around,
Until the Chief, whose red blood flushed
His cheek with hotter bound.
Asked, in the tones of one with whom
Fear never yet had been a guest—
“And when doth Fate achieve my doom?
And where shall be my rest?”
“Oh, noble heart!” the Magian said,
And tears unbidden filled his eyes,
“We should not weep for thee!—the Dead
Change but their home and skies:
The moon shall beam, the myrtles bloom
For thee no more—yet sorrow not!
The immortal pomp of Hades’ gloom
Best consecrates thy lot.
In June, in June, in laughing June,
And where the dells show deepest green,
Pavilioned overhead, at noon,
With gold and silken sheen—
These be for thee—the place, the time;
Trust not thy heart, trust not thine eyes,
Behind the Mount thy warm hopes climb,
The Land of Darkness lies!”
Unblenching at the fateful words,
The Hero turned around in haste—
“On! on!” he cried, “ye million swords,
Your course, like mine, is traced;
Let me but close Life’s narrow span
Where weapons clash and banners wave;
I would not live to mourn that Man
But conquers for a grave!”
M.
IN PROSE AND VERSE, FROM THE GERMAN AND OTHER LANGUAGES.
(Translated for the Irish Penny Journal.)