“A bold virago stout and tall,
Like Joan of France, or English Mall,”
clad in blue, with a rare display of ribbons, and other insignia of her
high office, who by close of day generally imbibes so much of the
inspiring spirit of sir John Barleycorn, as to make her fully verify the
words of Hamlet, viz.--
“Frailty, thy name is woman.”
Thus the amusement continues, until night puts a stop to the
proceedings; the baited animal is then slaughtered, and his carcass sold
at a reduced price to the lower classes, who to “top the day,” regale
themselves with a supper of bull beef.
So ends this jovial sport, which, as Mr. Lowe says, “stands without a
rival.” In conclusion, it only remains for me to state, that I have been
more than once present at this “bull-running,” and am far from forming
the idea that it is so cruel as some represent it to be; fatigue is the
greatest pain the bull is subjected to; and, on the other hand, the men
who so courageously cope with him are in imminent danger of loss of
life, or broken limbs, whilst they possess not the most distant idea of
doing any thing more injurious to the animal than irritating him.