Two turtle doves and a cartridge in a pear tree.

Boston is allowed to be the head of our civilization, because she has a barren sort of stony ground about her, somewhat resembling Attica, and because she is near Plymouth Rock and Bunker Hill, all undeniable (and hard) facts. But she has a few relics of barbarism still, and, in some respects, is no better than New-York or Philadelphia. A match for $400 took place a short time ago between two Presidents of gentlemen's clubs for the killing of a flock of pigeons with guns, and the creatures were killed accordingly. Now, why not kill rats instead? Rat-killing has a quality of use in it, and we can pardon dogs when they go in among the vermin, "and maunch, and maunch, and maunch." But that shattering of pigeons--also called turtle doves--it is not a fitting business for the civilized and solid men of Boston. Dog-fights, rat-fights, cock-fights, fist-fights, all have a spirit-stirring, warm-blooded sense of contest in them. But that calm, critical winging and maiming of the birds is a cold-blooded sport, and therefore too fishy for Boston. We hope Chih Tajen and Sun Tajen will not carry the story home with them.

(c) NYTimes 1868. Original Article