Notes for week of February 3

Upon first reading William Hone's entries for Shrove Tuesday (now best known as Mardi Gras), it would seem there are many, many sins to confess. It's strange how the day itself is, historically, such a juxtaposition of guilt and excess.

Chickens may have been gifts at this time, when it was best to gobble down any meat, cheese, eggs and butter before Lent arrived. For most, these items were probably already consumed--only the richer folks would have made an elaborate show of rich indulgence. But hens could have provided one last full meal.

Instead of gratitude, though, for a treat before a period of scarcity, hens and roosters were shown a fair amount of cruelty. "Threshing the hen," briefly mentioned in this week's episode, involved tying a hen to the back of a man, along with various bells, and giving chase to both. Blindfolded men, with sticks, would try to find the pair of unfortunates. Beating also came to those hens that didn't produce eggs before Lent. There was even a kind of game, like horseshoes, involving the throwing of sticks at roosters. Eventually, metal figurines replaced the live animals, and this game took over in England and Scotland. Cock-fighting was also provoked, in both England and ancient Greece.

It's tempting to look at Hone's works as simple collections of harmless, amusing tales. But Hone, while his days as a radical were largely over, was only 45 years old when he began work on his day-books, and his days of speaking up for the voiceless weren't that far away. Hone does add a few editorial comments about the barbarity of these customs, but his own custom is to bring in other voices. "The Hen that Spoke" is heard from in this week's episode, but only briefly.

Here, then, to give longer life to her words, is the complete speech:

On Shrove Tuesday, at a certain ancient borough in Staffordshire, a hen was set up by its owner to be thrown at by himself and his companions, according to the usual custom on that day. This poor hen, after many a severe bang, and many a broken bone, weltering in mire and blood, recovered spirits a little, and to the unspeakable surprise and astonishment of all the company, just as her late master was handling his oaken cudgel to fling at her again, opened her mouth and said—

"Hold thy hand a moment, hard-hearted wretch! if it be but out of curiosity, to hear one of my feathered species utter articulate sounds.—What art thou, or any of thy comrades, better than I, though bigger and stronger, and at liberty, while I am tied by the leg? What are thou, I say, that I may not presume to reason with thee, though thou never reasonest with thyself? What have I done to deserve the treatment I have suffered this day, from thee and thy barbarous companions? Whom have I ever injured?

Did I ever profane the name of my creator, or give one moment's disquiet to any creature under heaven? or lie, or deceive, or slander, or rob my fellow-creatures? Did I ever guzzle down what should have been for the support and comfort (in effect the blood) of a wife and innocent children, as thou dost every week of thy life?

A little of thy superfluous grain, or the sweeping of thy cupboard, and the parings of thy cheese, moistened with the dew of heaven, was all I had, or desired for my support; while, in return, I furnished thy table with dainties. The tender brood, which I hatched with assiduity, and all the anxiety and solicitude of a humane mother, fell a sacrifice to thy gluttony. My new laid eggs enriched thy pancakes, puddings, and custards; and all thy most delicious fare. And I was ready myself, at any time, to lay down my life to support thine, but the third part of a day.

Had I been a man, and a hangman, and been commanded by authority to take away thy life for a crime that deserved death, I would have performed my office with reluctance, and with the shortest, and the least pain or insult, to thee possible. How much more if a wise providence had so ordered it, that thou hadst been my proper and delicious food, as I am thine?

I speak not this to move thy compassion who hast none for thy own offspring, or for the wife of thy bosom, nor to prolong my own life, which through thy most brutal usage of me, is past recovery, and a burden to me; nor yet to teach thee humanity for the future. I know thee to have neither a head, a heart, nor a hand to show mercy; neither brains, nor bowels, nor grace, to hearken to reason, or to restrain thee from any folly. I appeal from thy cruel and relentless heart to a future judgment; certainly there will be one sometime, when the meanest creature of God shall have justice done it, even against proud and savage man, its lord; and surely our cause will then be heard, since, at present, we have none to judge betwixt us. O, that some good Christian would cause this my first and last speech to be printed, and published through the nation.

Perhaps the legislature may not think it beneath them to take our sad case into consideration. Who can tell but some faint remains of common sense among the vulgar themselves, may be excited by a suffering dying fellow-creature's last words, to find out a more good-natured exercise for their youth, than this which hardens their hearts, and taints their morals? But I find myself spent with speaking. And now villain, take good aim, let fly thy truncheon, and despatch at one manly stroke, the remaining life of a miserable mortal, who is utterly unable to resist, or fly from thee."

Alas! he heeded not. She sunk down, and died immediately, without another blow. Reader, farewell! but learn compassion towards an innocent creature, that has, at least, as quick a sense of pain as thyself. (Gentleman's Magazine, 1749)