'No sooner were the doubtful people set,
The match made up, and all that would had bet,
But straight the skilful judges of the play;
Brought forth their sharp-heel'd warriors, and they
Were both in linnen bags—as if 'twere meet,
Before they died, to have their winding-sheet.
Into the pit they're brought, and being there,
Upon the stage, the Norfolk Chanticleer
Looks stoutly at his ne'er before seen foe,
And like a challenger began to crow,
And clap his wings, as if he would display
His warlike colours, which were black and grey.
'Meantime, the wary Wisbich walks and breathes
His active body, and in fury wreathes
His comely crest, and often with a sound,
He whets his angry beak upon the ground.
This done, they meet, not like that coward breed
Of Aesop; these can better fight than feed:
They scorn the dunghill; 'tis their only prize
TO DIG FOR PEARLS WITHIN EACH OTHER'S EYES.
'They fought so nimbly that 'twas hard to know,
E'en to the skill'd, whether they fought or no;
If that the blood which dyed the fatal floor
Had not borne witness of 't. Yet fought they more;
As if each wound were but a spur to prick
Their fury forward. Lightning's not more quick,
Or red, than were their eyes: 'twas hard to know
Whether 'twas blood or anger made them so.
I'm sure they had been out had they not stood
More safe by being fenced in with blood.
Thus they vied blows; but yet (alas!) at length,
Altho' their courage was full tried, their strength
And blood began to ebb.
Their wings, which lately at each blow they clapp'd
(As if they did applaud themselves), now flapp'd.
And having lost th' advantage of the heel,
Drunk with each other's blood, they only reel.
From either eyes such drops of blood did fall
As if they wept them for their funeral.
And yet they fain would fight; they came so near,
Methought they meant into each other's ear
TO WHISPER WOUNDS; and when they could not rise,
They lay and look'd blows into each other's eyes.
But now the tragic part! After this fit,
When Norfolk cock had got the best of it,
And Wisbich lay a dying, so that none,
Tho' sober, but might venture Seven to One;
Contracting, like a dying taper, all
His strength, intending with the blow to fall,
He struggles up, and having taken wind,
Ventures a blow, and strikes the other blind!
'And now poor Norfolk, having lost his eyes,
Fights only guided by antipathies:
With him, alas! the proverb holds not true—
The blows his eyes ne'er saw his heart most rue.
At length, by chance, he stumbled on his foe,
Not having any power to strike a blow.
He falls upon him with his wounded head,
And makes his conqueror's wings his feather-bed;
Where lying sick, his friends were very chary
Of him, and fetch'd in haste a Pothecary;
But all in vain! His body did so blister
That 'twas incapable of any glyster;
Wherefore, at length, opening his fainting bill,
He call'd a scriv'ner and thus made his Will.
'IMPRIMIS—Let it never be forgot,
My body freely I bequeath to th' pot,
Decently to be boil'd.
****
ITEM: Executors I will have none
But he that on my side laid Seven to One;
And, like a gentleman that he may live,
To him, and to his heirs, my COMB I give,
Together with my brains, that all may know
That oftentimes his brains did use to crow.
****
To him that 's dull I do my SPURS impart,
And to the coward I bequeath my HEART.
To ladies that are light, it is my will
My FEATHERS shall be given; and for my BILL
I'd give 't a tailor, but it is so short,
That I'm afraid he'll rather curse me for 't:
****
Lastly, because I feel my life decay,
I yield and give to Wisbich COCK THE DAY!'(70)
(70) The passages left out in the Will, as marked by asterisks, though witty, are rather too gross for modern eyes.
To quote from Pegge once more:—What aggravates the reproach and disgrace upon us Englishmen, are those species of fighting which are called—"the battle royal and the Welsh main"—known nowhere in the world, as I think, but here; neither in China, nor in Persia, nor in Malacca, nor among the savage tribes of America. These are scenes so bloody as almost to be too shocking to relate; and yet as many may not be acquainted with the horrible nature of them, it may be proper, for the excitement of our aversion and detestation, to describe them in a few words.
'In the battle royal, an unlimited number of fowls are pitted; and after they have slaughtered one another, for the diversion (dii boni!) of the otherwise generous and humane Englishman, the single surviving bird is to be esteemed the victor, and carries away the prize. The Welsh main consists, we will suppose, of sixteen pairs of cocks; of these the sixteen conquerors are pitted a second time; and, lastly, the two conquerors of these are pitted a fifth time; so that (incredible barbarity!) thirty-one cocks are sure to be most inhumanly murdered for the sport and pleasure, the noise and nonsense, nay, I may say the profane cursing and swearing, of those who have the effrontery to call themselves, with all these bloody doings, and with all this impiety about them—Christians!' Moreover, this ungenerous diversion was the bane and destruction of thousands, who thus dissipated their patrimonial fortunes. That its attractions were irresistible is evident from the difficulty experienced in suppressing the practice. Down to a very recent date cock-fighting was carried on in secret,—the police now and then breaking into the secret pits, dispersing and chasing a motley crew of noblemen, gentlemen, and 'the scum of rascaldom.'
The practice is very far from having died out; mains are still fought in various parts of the country; but of course the greatest precautions are taken to insure secrecy and to prevent the interference of the police.
In connection with cock-fighting I remember a horrible incident that occurred in the West Indies. A gentleman who was passionately fond of the sport, and prided himself on the victories of his cocks, had the misfortune to see one of his birds so terribly wounded in the first onset that, although not killed, it was impossible for it to continue the fight. His rage at the mishap knew no bounds, and he vented it madly on the poor creature. He roasted it alive—standing by and hearing its piteous cries. In the midst of the horrible torture the wretched man became so excited that a fit of apoplexy supervened, and he positively expired before the poor bird at the fire!
CHAPTER XII. THE TURF, HISTORICAL, SOCIAL, MORAL.
It appears that horse-races were customary at public festivals even as early as the times of the patriarchs. They originated among the eastern nations, who were the first to discover the physical aptitudes of the noble animal and the spirited emulation of which he is capable. The Persians, the Greeks, the Romans, in succession, all indulged in the excitement; and it is a curious fact that the Romans, like the English jockeys of the present day, rode in different colours.
Horse-racing began very early in England. Fitz-Stephen, who wrote in the time of Henry VIII., mentions the delight taken by the citizens of London in the diversion. In the reign of Queen Elizabeth it appears to have greatly flourished, and to have been carried to such an excess as to have ruined many of the nobility.