We went to a cockpit in New Orleans on a Saturday afternoon.  I had never seen a cock-fight before.  There were men and boys there of all ages and all colors, and of many languages and nationalities.  But I noticed one quite conspicuous and surprising absence:  the traditional brutal faces.  There were no brutal faces.  With no cock-fighting going on, you could have played the gathering on a stranger for a prayer-meeting; and after it began, for a revival—­provided you blindfolded your stranger—­for the shouting was something prodigious.

A negro and a white man were in the ring; everybody else outside.  The cocks were brought in in sacks; and when time was called, they were taken out by the two bottle-holders, stroked, caressed, poked toward each other, and finally liberated.  The big black cock plunged instantly at the little gray one and struck him on the head with his spur.  The gray responded with spirit.  Then the Babel of many-tongued shoutings broke out, and ceased not thenceforth.  When the cocks had been fighting some little time, I was expecting them momently to drop dead, for both were blind, red with blood, and so exhausted that they frequently fell down.  Yet they would not give up, neither would they die.  The negro and the white man would pick them up every few seconds, wipe them off, blow cold water on them in a fine spray, and take their heads in their mouths and hold them there a moment—­to warm back the perishing life perhaps; I do not know.  Then, being set down again, the dying creatures would totter gropingly about, with dragging wings, find each other, strike a guesswork blow or two, and fall exhausted once more.

I did not see the end of the battle.  I forced myself to endure it as long as I could, but it was too pitiful a sight; so I made frank confession to that effect, and we retired.  We heard afterward that the black cock died in the ring, and fighting to the last.

Evidently there is abundant fascination about this ‘sport’ for such as have had a degree of familiarity with it.  I never saw people enjoy anything more than this gathering enjoyed this fight.  The case was the same with old gray-heads and with boys of ten.  They lost themselves in frenzies of delight.  The ‘cocking-main’ is an inhuman sort of entertainment, there is no question about that; still, it seems a much more respectable and far less cruel sport than fox-hunting—­for the cocks like it; they experience, as well as confer enjoyment; which is not the fox’s case.

We assisted—­in the French sense—­at a mule race, one day.  I believe I enjoyed this contest more than any other mule there.  I enjoyed it more than I remember having enjoyed any other animal race I ever saw.  The grand-stand was well filled with the beauty and the chivalry of New Orleans.  That phrase is not original with me.  It is the Southern reporter’s.  He has used it for two generations.  He uses it twenty times a day, or twenty thousand times a day; or a million times