The Game fowl may justly be called the pure British fowl, and there is no breed of fowl that can in any way compare with the Game in the delicacy, whiteness, and richness of flavour. How grand the Game cock looks with his gorgeous black and red plumage, proudly strutting, and yet attentively watching his female train, and, like a good soldier or citizen, always ready to protect them from harm. Some are very spiteful. We had one that took such a hatred to a servant that he could never cross the yard without a stick. On one occasion having neglected to do so, hearing shrieks, I looked out of my dressing-room window, and then saw the cause. The cock had flown up to this tall man's throat, had firmly fixed his toes in his waistcoat, and was pecking furiously at his face. A few minutes' more delay and he might have been deprived of his eyesight. Nothing can daunt the spirit of the thoroughbred game cock, for when unable to move, and lying wounded to death, he will crow for crow with his conqueror as long as life lasts.

The hens are beautiful birds, marked in many instances exactly like a partridge. The chickens, from their earliest infancy, are pretty also, and their pugnacity is shown from the moment their combs begin to grow. The eggs have a most delicious and delicate flavour, but are, generally speaking, of a moderate size. Many people object to keeping game fowl on account of their fighting propensities, as very many instances have been known where a whole brood have been destroyed as soon as they were completely feathered, by the cocks and hens (for they fight indiscriminately) tearing each other's eyes out, stripping the skin off each other's heads; in fact, so wounded, bruised, disfigured, and injured do they become that it has been necessary to wring their necks, so that the expectation of the breeder has been utterly disappointed, and his eggs and time in the hatching wasted.