Considering the immense number of rats which form an article of
commerce with many of the lower orders, whose business it is to keep
them for the purpose of rat matches, I thought it necessary, for the
full elucidation of my subject, to visit the well-known public-house
in London, where, on a certain night in the week, a pit is built up,
and regular rat-killing matches take place, and where those who have
sporting dogs, and are anxious to test their qualities, can, after such
matches are finished, purchase half a dozen or a dozen rats for them to
practise upon, and judge for themselves of their dogs’ “performances.”
To quote the words printed on the proprietor’s card, “he is always at
his old house at home, as usual, to discuss the FANCY generally.”
I arrived at about eight o’clock at the tavern where the performances
were to take place. I was too early, but there was plenty to occupy my
leisure in looking at the curious scene around me, and taking notes of
the habits and conversation of the customers who were flocking in.
The front of the long bar was crowded with men of every grade of
society, all smoking, drinking, and talking about dogs. Many of them
had brought with them their “fancy” animals, so that a kind of “canine
exhibition” was going on; some carried under their arm small bull-dogs,
whose flat pink noses rubbed against my arm as I passed; others
had Skye-terriers, curled up like balls of hair, and sleeping like
children, as they were nursed by their owners. The only animals that
seemed awake, and under continual excitement, were the little brown
English terriers, who, despite the neat black leathern collars by which
they were held, struggled to get loose, as if they smelt the rats in
the room above, and were impatient to begin the fray.
There is a business-like look about this tavern which at once lets you
into the character of the person who owns it. The drinking seems to
have been a secondary notion in its formation, for it is a low-roofed
room without any of those adornments which are now generally considered
so necessary to render a public-house attractive. The tubs where the
spirits are kept are blistered with the heat of the gas, and so dirty
that the once brilliant gilt hoops are now quite black.
Sleeping on an old hall-chair lay an enormous white bulldog, “a
great beauty,” as I was informed, with a head as round and smooth as
a clenched boxing-glove, and seemingly too large for the body. Its
forehead appeared to protrude in a manner significant of water on the
brain, and almost overhung the short nose, through which the animal
breathed heavily. When this dog, which was the admiration of all
beholders, rose up, its legs were as bowed as a tailor’s, leaving a
peculiar pear-shaped opening between them, which, I was informed, was
one of its points of beauty. It was a white dog, with a sore look, from
its being peculiarly pink round the eyes, nose, and indeed at all the
edges of its body.
On the other side of the fire-place was a white bull-terrier dog, with
a black patch over the eye, which gave him rather a disreputable look.
This animal was watching the movements of the customers in front, and
occasionally, when the entrance-door was swung back, would give a growl
of inquiry as to what the fresh-comer wanted. The proprietor was kind
enough to inform me, as he patted this animal’s ribs, which showed
like the hoops on a butter-firkin, that he considered there had been a
“little of the greyhound in some of his back generations.”
About the walls were hung clusters of black leather collars, adorned
with brass rings and clasps, and pre-eminent was a silver dog-collar,
which, from the conversation of those about me, I learnt was to be the
prize in a rat-match to be “killed for” in a fortnight’s time.
As the visitors poured in, they, at the request of the proprietor “not
to block up the bar,” took their seats in the parlour, and, accompanied
by a waiter, who kept shouting, “Give your orders, gentlemen,” I
entered the room.
I found that, like the bar, no pains had been taken to render the room
attractive to the customers, for, with the exception of the sporting
pictures hung against the dingy paper, it was devoid of all adornment.
Over the fireplace were square glazed boxes, in which were the stuffed
forms of dogs famous in their day. Pre-eminent among the prints was
that representing the “Wonder” Tiny, “five pounds and a half in
weight,” as he appeared killing 200 rats. This engraving had a singular
look, from its having been printed upon a silk handkerchief. Tiny had
been a great favourite with the proprietor, and used to wear a lady’s
bracelet as a collar.
Among the stuffed heads was one of a white bull-dog, with tremendous
glass eyes sticking out, as if it had died of strangulation. The
proprietor’s son was kind enough to explain to me the qualities that
had once belonged to this favourite. “They’ve spoilt her in stuffing,
sir,” he said; “made her so short in the head; but she was the wonder
of her day. There wasn’t a dog in England as would come nigh her.
There’s her daughter,” he added, pointing to another head, something
like that of a seal, “but she wasn’t reckoned half as handsome as her
mother, though she was very much admired in her time.
“That there _is_ a dog,” he continued, pointing to one represented with
a rat in its mouth, “it was as good as any in England, though it’s so
small. I’ve seen her kill a dozen rats almost as big as herself, though
they killed _her_ at last; for sewer-rats are dreadful for giving dogs
canker in the mouth, and she wore herself out with continually killing
them, though we always rinsed her mouth out well with peppermint and
water while she were at work. When rats bite they are pisonous, and
an ulcer is formed, which we are obleeged to lance; that’s what killed
her.”
The company assembled in “the parlour” consisted of sporting men, or
those who, from curiosity, had come to witness what a rat-match was
like. Seated at the same table, talking together, were those dressed
in the costermonger’s suit of corduroy, soldiers with their uniforms
carelessly unbuttoned, coachmen in their livery, and tradesmen who had
slipped on their evening frock-coats, and run out from the shop to see
the sport.
The dogs belonging to the company were standing on the different
tables, or tied to the legs of the forms, or sleeping in their owners’
arms, and were in turn minutely criticised--their limbs being stretched
out as if they were being felt for fractures, and their mouths looked
into, as if a dentist were examining their teeth. Nearly all the
little animals were marked with scars from bites. “Pity to bring him
up to rat-killing,” said one, who had been admiring a fierce-looking
bull-terrier, although he did not mention at the same time what line in
life the little animal ought to pursue.
At another table one man was declaring that his pet animal was the
exact image of the celebrated rat-killing dog “Billy,” at the same time
pointing to the picture against the wall of that famous animal, “as he
performed his wonderful feat of killing 500 rats in five minutes and a
half.”
There were amongst the visitors some French gentlemen, who had
evidently witnessed nothing of the kind before; and whilst they
endeavoured to drink their hot gin and water, they made their
interpreter translate to them the contents of a large placard hung upon
a hatpeg, and headed--
“EVERY MAN HAS HIS FANCY.