_ANIMAL FIGHTS_
I.—CRICKET FIGHTS
China never knew those horrible arena fights which were the passing
pleasures, and will be the eternal shame, of ancient Rome. We never gave
for the amusement of our refined folk the sight of bloody fights between
men and wild animals, “the whilom joy of the young vestal virgin.” So it
will be useless to look in China for any statue of a dying gladiator, or
to search the ruins of the Colosseum. Nor has the bull-fight—last vestige
of the tragic Circenses of long ago—ever been seen in China. We do,
however, have animal fights, but it will be seen that there is nothing
very terrible about them.
To begin with, we set crickets to fight against each other. Yes,
crickets. The modest denizens of the grass are terrible fighters, good
company as they also are. Their fights, though wanting in _mise en
scène_, are none the less interesting, and the people crowd to witness
them. The crickets, once collected for the purpose in the fields, are
very carefully trained, each prisoner being lodged in a little bamboo
cage. Its food consists of grains of rice, to which a few leaves of
salad are added. After having been trained in this way for some days,
the captive is set at liberty temporarily, that is to say, and in a very
relative manner. The object of his release, as a matter of fact, is only
to give him the opportunity of trying his strength against some veteran
of the cricket-ring.
The two combatants are placed in a bowl, which is generally made of wood,
so as to prevent them from slipping about too much. The trainer tickles
their heads with a hair, to work them up to a sufficient degree of hatred
and bad feeling. When this point has been reached, they dash violently
against each other, and the first shock upsets one of the combatants, and
decides the victory. The vanquished withdraws, ashamed and resigned. The
victor, intoxicated with delight, claps his hands, and celebrates his
triumph with piercing cries.
As soon as the fighting powers of the different insects have been tested
by successive rehearsals, the more robust are picked out, and on these
devolves the honour of appearing as champions in the public arena.
Bets will be made on each of them with as much interest and passion
as in Europe are made about horses. I hasten to add that these bets
never exceed a few pence in value. The bettors are thus able to indulge
themselves in their favourite pastime more frequently.
II.—QUAIL FIGHTS
We have just witnessed a very bloodless tournament. There are others
of a more serious nature, and in which the combatants get rather more
hurt. I speak of our quail-fights. Please do not think that I am about
to describe such sanguinary spectacles as are afforded, for instance,
to the English in their cock-fight. The quails fight, but only with the
weapons with which Nature has provided them. They have no artificial
spurs, and none of those perfections which add to the natural ferocity
of the kings of the poultry-yard. The birds are trained for a few days,
until their owner thinks them sufficiently prepared for the fray. The
hour of battle has sounded. The quails, placed face to face, are excited
by their masters. At last they dash at each other, each trying to seize
his adversary while protecting himself against the other’s blows. They
chase each other, pursue, follow, run, jump, dodge, return, and escape
again. At last they seize each other, feathers begin to fly, a body to
body fight begins, until, at last, one of the combatants is obliged to
own himself defeated, and hastens to escape, with drooping wings, from
the beak of his cruel vanquisher.
There is little cruelty in all this—it is rather a struggle than a fight.
The combatants rarely hurt each other much, and if there is victor and
vanquished, it may at least be said, as was said in the French comedy,
“We know how to kill each other, and neither will die.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]