Chapter XL: Gleïzès. 1773-1843

Of all the enlightened and humane spirits to which the philosophic eighteenth century gave birth, and who were quickened into activity by the great movement which originated in France in its last quarter, not one, assuredly, was actuated by a purer and more exalted feeling than Jean Antoine Gleïzès--the most _enthusiastic_, perhaps, of all the apostles of humanity and of refinement. He was born at Dourgne, in the (present) department of the Tarn. His father was advocate to the old provincial parliament. His mother’s name was Anna Francos. After attending preliminary schools, he applied himself to the study of medicine--urged, says his biographer, more by love of his species than by predilection for the profession. His intense horror of the vivisectional experiments in the physiological torture-dens soon compelled him to abandon his intended career: the experience, however, gained during his brief medical course he was able to utilize more than once in his after life for the benefit of his neighbours.

The earlier period of the Revolution had been hailed by him, still very young as he then was, as the hopeful beginning of a new era; when its direction, unhappily, fell into the hands of fanatical leaders, who, following too much the examples of the old _régimes_, thought, by wholesale executions, to clear the way for the establishment of a universal republic and of lasting peace. The youthful enthusiast, whose whole soul revolted from the very idea of bloodshed and of suffering, withdrew despairing into solitude, and devoted himself to scientific and literary studies, and to calm contemplation of Nature.

In 1794, at the age of 21, Gleïzès married Aglae de Baumelle, daughter of a writer of some repute. At this time he seems to have entertained the hope of instructing his countrymen, by engaging in public teaching; but, disappointed in a scheme for the inauguration of a course of historical lectures in the central school of his department, he retired altogether from the active business of the world, and settled down in a happy and peaceful home, in a small château belonging to his wife, at the foot of the Pyrenees near Mezières. It was here, amidst the magnificent solitudes of Nature, that in 1798, in his twenty fifth year, he determined upon abandoning for ever the diet of blood and slaughter. Until the moment of his death, forty-five years later, his diet consisted solely of milk, fruits, and vegetables.

So great was his scrupulousness, that there might be no possibility or mistake Gleïzès prepared his own food; and he always ate alone (his wife being unable or unwilling to follow his loftier aims), since he could not endure either the smell or the sight of the ordinary dishes. And this intense aversion it was, indeed, that compelled him to forego in great measure his intercourse with the world, or, at all events, to shun the ordinary celebrations of social “festivity.”

Full of enthusiastic belief that the transparent truth and sublimity of his creed could not fail to commend themselves to the better spirits of the age amongst his countrymen, Gleïzès addressed himself to some of the more thoughtful of his contemporaries; amongst others to Lamartine, Lamennais, and Chateâubriand. Lamartine--the author of the _Fall of an Angel_, in which he gives expression to his akreophagistic sympathies--responded, if not with the enthusiasm that might justly have been expected from the author of that poem, at least in a friendly spirit. The others kept silence. This indifferentism of those who should have been the first to lend the support of their names naturally affected him; and made much more sensible the intellectual and moral isolation of his existence. He was not left quite alone, however. There were found three or four minds of a loftier reach who had the courage of their convictions, and followed them out to their logical conclusion. These were Anquetil (the author of _Recherches sur les Indes_), Charles Nodier, Girod de Chantrans, and Cabantous, dean of the Faculty of Letters at Toulouse. His brother, Colonel Gleïzès, a member of the Academy of Sciences of the same university, also declared for the reformation. It is superflous to say that these converts were all men of superior moral calibre to their contemporaries, however high they might be exalted by popular estimates of worth.

Deeply sensible as he was of the profound selfishness and indifferentism of the world surrounding him upon the subject which to him had all the interest and importance of a new religion, he yet constantly displayed the benevolence of his disposition, and the beneficence of his morality, in his efforts for the good of all with whom he came in contact, and particularly in respect to his domestics and his tenants, amongst whom his memory was long held in reverence. “His exalted nature,” states his brother, “glowed with enthusiasm for everything true and good.” His “life-sorrow” seems to have been the want of sympathy on the part of his wife, to whom, nevertheless, he proved an indulgent husband.

His first book, _Les Mélancolies d’un Solitaire_, appeared in the year 1794, in 1800 his _Nuits Elysiennes_, and four years later his _Agrestes_; all more or less advocating the truth. A long interval elapsed before he again essayed an appeal to the world. His _Christianisme Expliqué: ou l’Unité de Croyance pour tous les Chrétiens_ (Christianity Explained: or, Unity of Belief for all Christians) was published in 1830. Seven years later it appeared under the title of “Christianity Explained: or, the True Spirit of that Religion Misinterpreted up to the Present Day.” In this work, says his estimable editor and translator Herr Springer, “he sought to prove, from the standing-point of a protestant christian, that Christ’s mission had for its end the abolition of the murder of animals (_Thiermord_), and that the whole significance of his teaching lay in the words spoken at the institution of the ‘Supper,’ that is to say, the substitution of bread instead of flesh, and wine instead of blood.” This undertaking, it is needless to remark, admirable as was its motive, could hardly, from the nature of the case, be successful.

His last work was his _Thalysie: ou La Nouvelle Existence_, the first part of which was published at Paris in 1840, the second in 1842. He survived this his final appeal to the world on behalf of the new reformation but a few months. He had reached the proverbial limit of human existence; but that his life was shortened by disappointment and the bitter weariness of hope deferred, “by that sorrow which perpetually gnaws at the heart of the unrecognised reformer” (as his biographer well expresses it), we have too much reason to believe. The _Thalysie_--his _magnum opus_--excited, it appears, little interest, or even notice, upon its first appearance. It found one sympathising critic in M. Cabantous, to whom reference has been already made, who delivered a course of lectures upon it from his professorial chair. A few years later a Parisian advocate, M. Blot-Lequène, wrote a treatise in terms of strong recommendation of its principles; and Eugène Stourm, editor of _The Phalanx_, also eloquently advocated its claims upon the public notice. At length it was criticised in the _Révue des Deux Mondes_ by Alphonse Esquiros, known to English readers by his contributions to that Review on English life and manners. We are hardly surprised that the criticism was conceived in the usual supercilious and prejudiced spirit.

No attempt appears to have been made to re-publish the _New Existence_ until Herr Springer undertook the task for his countrymen. His German version, with an interesting notice of the life and labours of Gleïzès, was published at Berlin in 1872. Criticising a flippant article in _The Food Journal_ in the same year, Herr Springer eloquently rebukes the easy and arrogant tone--so successful in appealing to popular prejudices--and observes: “Gleïzès at last published his eminent work, which, as Weilhaüser says, he has written with the blood of his own heart. If it be eccentric, as Mr. Jerrold asserts, it has only _the eccentricity of a gospel of humanity_. Gleïzès was so eccentric as to write the following lines, which were found amongst his posthumous papers: ‘God, pure Source of Light, in order to obey thy commands I wrote this book. Be gracious to protect and to support my efforts; for the humble creature which raises its voice from its grain of sand may, perhaps, be speechless to-morrow, and deep silence reign in the desert.’ Yes; Mr. Jerrold is right: that theory was to its author a religion. In the _Thalysie_ we are instructed in the highest questions concerning the health and happiness of mankind. Surpassing all naturalists and philosophers, he explained to us the great mystery of Nature--that robbery and murder [in its full meaning] arose only by corruption, and by alienation from the original laws of creation, and that man, instead of favouring the corruption, as he has done till now, would be able to abolish it. In this way, and in contradiction to the hollow phrases of optimism and the depressing contemplation of pessimism, Gleïzès restores the peace of our mind, and bestows upon us the hope for a future reign of Wisdom and Love.”[223]

In the preface to the _Thalysie_ Gleïzès thus expresses his convictions, his hopes, and the general purpose of his labours:--

“The system which I now publish to the world is not, as the usual
acceptation of that word might seem to indicate, a collection of
principles more or less probable, and of which it depends upon
each one to admit or reject the consequences. It is a chain of
principles, rigorously true and just, from which man cannot depart
without incurring penalties proportionate to his deviation. But, in
spite of these penalties which he has suffered, and which he still
suffers, he is not aware of his lost condition [_égarement_]. His
fate is that of the slave, born in servitude, who plays with his
chains, sometimes insults the freemen, and carries his madness to
the point of refusing freedom when it is offered to him, and of
choosing slavery.

“It is not that _all_ men have allowed themselves to be carried
willingly down the fatal descent: a large number have struggled
against the press, but their diverse and scattered efforts have
resembled the eddies of the flood, which ends with forcing together
all the diverging waters and hurrying away with them into the gulf
of the ocean. Or, if some few have raised and kept themselves above
the rapid current, no permanent advantage has resulted from it to
the human race, which has been none the less abandoned to itself.”

We know that the greatest intellects amongst the Greeks[224] had taught the better way; but they failed, says Gleïzès, inasmuch as their doctrine was too exclusive and esoteric.

“The condition of the human race is a plain witness of its error.
This condition, in fact, is so alarming that it might seem
desperate, if it were certain that men had acquired _all_ their
knowledge. But, happily, there is one branch of it--the most
essential of all, and without which the rest is scarcely of any
account--which is yet entirely ignored. This knowledge is precisely
that of which these great men had glimpses, and of which they
reserved to themselves the sole enjoyment;[225] and it is this
knowledge, or, rather, this wisdom (and we know that with the
Greeks these two things were comprised under the same denomination)
which I publish. I shall give it an extension which it was not
possible for _them_ to perceive or to give; because Nature refuses
its life-giving spirit [_esprit de vie_] to solitary and isolated
seeds, and makes those only to fructify which enter into the common
heritage of mankind.

“With such support, the most feeble must have an advantage over
the strongest without it. I have, besides, another advantage. Men
feeling to-day, more than ever, the privation of what is wanting
to them, invoke on all sides new principles, and demand a higher
civilisation. It is not the first time, doubtless, that such a
state of things has been manifested. It has been seen to supervene
after all the moral revolutions that have left man greater than
they have found him. But that of which we have been the witnesses
[the revolution in France of 1789--the reforms of 1830] seems to
have something more remarkable, more complete--one would almost be
tempted to believe that it must be the last, and terminate that
long sequence of vain disputes across which the human kind has
painfully advanced, seeing it rise in the midst of the _débris_
of all the old-world ideas which have expired or are expiring at
one’s feet. What a moment for rebuilding! No more favourable one
could exist; and it is urged on, so to speak, by the breeze of
these happy circumstances that I offer to the meditation of men the
following propositions....

“I shall add but a few words. The principles which I have laid down
are absolute--they cannot bend [_fléchir_]. But there are _steps_
on the route which conduct to the heights which they occupy; and
were there but a single step made in that direction, that single
step could not be regarded as indifferent and unimportant. Thus
this work--guide of those whom it shall convince--will be useful
also to the rest of the world as, at least, a moderator and a
check; and, I shall avow it, my hopes do not extend beyond this
latter object. I should feel myself even perfectly satisfied, if
this book should inspire in my contemporaries enough of esteem
and favour to prevent them from arresting and impeding it at its
start, and to allow it to follow its course towards a generation, I
will not say more worthy, but better prepared than the present to
receive it.”

Gleïzès divides his great work into twelve Discourses, in two volumes, supplemented by a third volume which he entitles _Moral Proofs_. It is an almost exhaustive, as well as eloquent, _résumé_ of the history and ethics of the subject. The only fault of this, perhaps, most heartfelt appeal to the reason and conscience of mankind ever published is its too great discursiveness. The manifest anxiety of the author to meet, or to anticipate, every possible objection or subterfuge on the part of the hostile or the indifferent, may well excuse this apparent blemish; and the slightest acquaintance with his _New Existence_ can hardly fail to extort, even from the most prejudiced reader, a tribute of admiration to a spirit so noble and so pure, devoting all its energies to the furtherance of an exalted and refined morality.

In the earlier portion of his book he reviews the dietetic habits and practices of the various peoples of the younger world, and notices the various philosophic and other writers who have left any record of their opinions upon flesh-eating. He next treats of modern authorities, and, after quoting a large number of anti-kreophagistic testimonies, in his fifth Discourse he applies himself to answer the sophisms of the chief opponents, and particularly of its arch-enemy--his countryman, Buffon, in his well-known _Histoire Naturelle_--and he may be said effectually to have disposed of his astonishing fallacies.[226]

“What most strikes the observer when he throws an attentive glance
over the earth, is the _relative_ inferiority of man, considered as
what he is, in regard to what he ought to be: it is the feebleness
of the work compared with the aptitude of the workman. All his
inspirations are good, and all his actions bad; and it is to this
singular fact that must be attributed, without doubt, the universal
contempt that man exhibits towards his fellows.... We must remount
to the source, and see if there is not in man’s existence some
essential act which, reflecting itself on all the rest, would
communicate to them its fatal influence. Let us consider, above
everything, the _distinctive_ quality of man--that which raises him
above all other beings. It is clear that it is Pity,[227] source
of that intelligence which has placed him at the head of that
fine moral order, invincible in the midst of the catastrophes of
Nature. His utter failure to exhibit this feeling of pity towards
his humble fellow-beings, as well as to his own kind, engages us
to inquire what is the _permanent_ cause of such failure; and
we find it, at first, in that unhappy facility with which man
receives his _impressions_ of the beings by whom he is surrounded.
These impressions, transmitted with life and cemented by habit,
have formed a creation apart and separate from himself, which is
consequently beyond the domain of his conscience, or, if you prefer
it, of the ordinary jurisprudence of men. Thus men continue to
accuse themselves of being unjust, violent, cruel, and treacherous
to one another, but they do not accuse themselves of cutting the
throats of other animals and of feeding upon their mangled limbs,
which, nevertheless, is the single cause of that injustice, of that
violence, of that cruelty, and of that treachery.

“Although all have not these vices to the same degree, and it is
exactly this fact which aids the self-deception, I shall clearly
prove that all have the _germs_ of them; and that, if they are not
equally developed, we must thank the circumstances only which have
failed them.

“It is thus that many Europeans, whom their destiny conducts to the
cannibal countries, after some months of sojourn with the natives,
make no difficulty of seating themselves at their banquet, and of
sharing their horrible repast, which at first had excited their
horror and disgust. They begin with devouring a dog: from the dog
to the man the space is soon cleared.

“Men believe themselves to be just, provided that they fulfil, in
regard to their fellows, the duties which have been prescribed to
them. But it is goodness which is the justice of man; and it is
impossible, I repeat it, to be good towards one’s fellow without
being so towards other existences. Let us not be the dupes of
_appearances_. Seneca, who lived only on the herbs of his garden,
to which he owed those last gleams of philosophy which enlightened,
so to speak, the fall of the Roman Empire, also thinks that crime
cannot be circumscribed: _Nullum intrà se manet vitium_. And if,
as Ovid affirms, the sword struck men only after having been first
dyed in the blood of the lower animals, what interest have we not
in respecting such a barrier? Like Æolus, who held in his hands the
bag in which the winds were confined, we may at our will, according
as we live upon plants or upon animals, tranquillize the earth or
excite terrible tempests upon it.

“I am too well aware that a subterfuge will be found in excusing
the crime by necessity, and calumniating Providence. According to
the pretended belief of the greatest number of people, if other
animals were not put to death, they would deprive men of the empire
of the earth. But it is easy to reply to this objection by the
examples of people who, holding in horror the effusion of blood,
and robbing no being of life--even the vilest or most hateful--are
by no means disturbed in the exercise of their sovereignty.[228]
And it would result from the examples of these people, if one had
not other proofs besides, that man is absolutely master of the
means of increasing or limiting the multiplication of the species
which are more or less in dependence upon him. And it is not less
evident that the earth, in this latter hypothesis, would support
an infinitely greater number of the human species. Thus will the
vegetable regimen be _necessarily_ adopted one day over the whole
earth, when the multiplication of our species shall have reached
a certain number fixed and pre-established by that imperious and
irrevocable law which is intimately connected, for the most part,
with humanity, justice, and virtue--the number at which it is
slowly arriving, arrested by the very causes which I am striving
to destroy, and which, for that single reason, ought to arm
against them all generous beings who appreciate the benefit of
existence.”[229]

Amongst other pretexts by which men seek to excuse selfishness, is the assertion that its victims have little or no consciousness of suffering, and that their death is so unexpected that it cannot excite their terror. This monstrous fiction is eloquently exposed by Gleïzès, as it is, indeed, by the commonest everyday experience:--

“The instinct of life among animals generally gives them a
presentiment and fear of death--that is to say _violent_ death; for
as for natural death it inspires in them no alarm, for the simple
reason that it is in the course of nature. And it is the same with
man. He is not afflicted with the thought of dying when he knows
his hour is come; he resigns himself to that fate as to any other
imposed upon him by necessity. The sensations of other beings
differ in no respect from those of men; and when the horse, for
example, is condemned to death by the lion, that is to say, when he
hears the confused roar of that terrible beast which fills space,
while the precise spot from which it emanates cannot be determined,
which takes from the victim all hope of escape by flight, the
perspiration rolls down all his limbs, he falls to the earth as if
he had just been struck by a thunderbolt, and would die of terror
alone if the lion did not run up to terminate the tragedy.”[230]

“There exists so great an analogy, so strong a resemblance, between
the life of man and that of other animals who surround him, that a
simple return to himself--simple reflection--ought to suffice to
make him respect the latter; and if he were condemned by Nature to
rend it from them, he might justly curse the order of things which,
on the one hand, should have implanted in his heart the source of
feeling so gentle, and, on the other, should have imposed on him a
necessity so cruel.... And if this man have children, if he bear in
his heart objects which are so dear to him, how can he unceasingly
surround himself with images of death--of that death which must
deprive him one day of those whom he loves, or snatch himself away
from their love? And if he be just, if he be good, how will he not
have repugnance for acts which will continually recall to him ideas
of ingratitude, of cruelty, and of violence? There exists in the
East a tree which, by a mechanical movement, inclines its branches
towards the traveller, whom it seems to invite to repose under
its shade. This simple image of hospitality, which is revered in
that part of the world, makes them regard it as sacred, and they
would punish with death him who should dare to apply a hatchet to
its trunk. Our humble fellow-beings, should _they_ be less sacred
because they represent, not by mechanical movements, but by actions
resembling our own, feelings the dearest to our hearts? Ah! let us
respect them, not alone because they aid us to bear the burdens
of the world, which would overwhelm us without them but _because
they have the same right with ourselves to life_.... A reason which
is without reply, at least for generous souls, is the trust and
confidence reposed in man by other animals. Nature has not taught
them to distrust him. He is the only enemy whom she has not pointed
out to them. Is it not evident proof that he was not intended to be
so? For can one believe that Nature, who holds so just a balance,
could have been willing to deceive all other beings in favour of
man alone? It has been observed that birds of the gentle species
express certain cries when they perceive the fox, the weasel,
&c., although they have nothing to fear from them, without doubt,
by reason of the analogy which they offer. They are the cries of
hatred rather than of fear, whilst they utter these latter at sight
of the eagle, of the hawk, &c. Now, it is certain that in all the
islands on which man has landed, the native animals have not fled
before them. They have been able to take even birds with the hand.”

Gleïzès rejects the common fallacy that, because men have _acquired_ a lust for flesh, _therefore_ it is natural or proper for them.

“It is a specious but very false reason to allege that, since man
has acquired this taste, he ought to be permitted to indulge it--in
the first place because Nature has not given him _cooked_ flesh,
and because several ages must have rolled away before fire was
used. It is very well known that there are many countries in which
it was not known at the period of their discovery. Nature, then,
could have given man only _raw_ or _living_ flesh, and we know that
it is repugnant to him over the whole extent of the earth. Now it
is exactly this character which essentially distinguishes animals
of prey from others. The former, those at least of the larger
species, have generally an extreme repugnance, not only for cooked
flesh, but even for that which has lost its freshness. Man, then,
is not carnivorous but under certain abnormal conditions; and his
senses, to which he appeals in support of his carnivorousness, are
perverted to such a degree, that he would devour his fellow-man
without perceiving it, if they served him up in place of veal, the
flesh of which is said to have the same taste. Thus Harpagus ate,
without knowing it, the corpse of his son.”

Gleïzès instances the case of Cows and of Reindeer who, in Norway, have been denaturalised so far as to feed on fish, and readily to take to that unnatural food.

“It would be too long to enumerate here all the causes which may
have produced so great an aberration. This will be the matter of
another Discourse. I shall content myself for the moment with
saying some words upon that which perpetuates it. It is essentially
that lightness of mind, or, rather, that sort of stupidity, which
makes all reflection upon anything which is opposed to their habits
painful to the generality of mankind. They would turn their head
aside with horror if they saw what a single one of their repasts
costs Nature. They eat animals as some amongst them launch a
bomb into the midst of a besieged town, without thinking of the
evils which it must bring to a crowd of individuals, strangers to
war--women, children, and old men--evils the near spectacle of
which they could not support, in spite of the hardness of their
hearts.... To-day, when everything is calculated with so much
precision [he remarks with bitterness], there will not be wanting
persons with sufficient assurance to attempt to prove that there
is more of advantage for the domesticated animals to be born and
live on condition of having their throats cut, than if they had
remained in ‘nothingness,’ or in the natural state. As for the
word ‘nothingness,’ I confess that I do not understand it, but I
understand the other very well; and I have never conceived how man
could have had the barbarity to accumulate all the calamities of
the earth upon a single individual; that is to say, to slaughter
it in return for having caused its degeneracy. But if he thinks
himself to escape from the influence of an action so dastardly and
so infamous, he would be in a very great error....

“I shall finish these prolegomena with an important remark. I have
known a large number of good souls who offered up the most sincere
wishes for the establishment of this doctrine of humaneness,
who thought it just and true in all its aspects, who believed
in all that it announces; but who, in spite of so praiseworthy
a disposition, dared not be the first to give the example. They
awaited this movement from minds stronger than their own. Doubtless
they are the minds which give the impulse to the world; but is it
necessary to await this movement when one is convinced of one’s
self? Is it permissible to temporise in a question of life or
death for innocent beings whose sole crime is _to have been born_,
and is it in a case like this that strength of mind should fail
justice? No! Well-doing is, happily, not so difficult. Ah! what
is your excuse, besides, pusillanimous souls? I blush for you at
the miserable pretexts which keep you back. It would be necessary,
say you, to separate one’s self from the world; to renounce one’s
friends and neighbours. I see no such necessity, and I think,
on the contrary, that if you truly loved the world and your
neighbours, you would hasten to give them an example which must
have so powerful an influence upon their present happiness and upon
their future destiny.”[231]

We have reason once again to lament the perversity of literary or publishing enterprise which will produce and reproduce, _ad infinitum_, books of no real and permanent value to the world, and altogether neglect its true luminaries. This is, in an especial manner, the case with Gleïzès. The _Nouvelle Existence_ has never been republished, we believe, in the author’s own country; while it has never found a translator, perhaps scarcely a reader, in this country outside the Vegetarian ranks. Germany, as we have already noticed, alone has the honour of attempting to preserve from oblivion one of the few who have deserved immortality.