Chapter II: Part 2

It may be said, however, that though man is fitted to co-operate peacefully with his fellows, he is not bound by any such ties of brotherhood to the lower animals, and that it is "natural" that he should prey on the non-human races, even if it be not natural that he should seek pleasure at the cost of his fellow-man. But, in reality, Nature knows no such bridgeless gulf between the human and the non-human intelligence; and it is impossible, in the light of modern science, to draw any such absolute line of demarcation between man and "the animals" as in the now discredited theory of Descartes. We are learning to get rid of these "anthropocentric" delusions, which, as has been pointed out by Mr. E. P. Evans, "treat man as a being essentially different and inseparably set apart from all other sentient creatures, to which he is bound by no ties of mental affinity or moral obligation"; whereas, in fact, "man is as truly a part and product of Nature as any other animal, and this attempt to set him up as an isolated point outside of it is philosophically false and morally pernicious."[10]

Footnote 10:

"Evolutional Ethics and Animal Psychology."

The talk, then, about Nature being "one with rapine" is a mere form of special pleading, which will not stand examination in the full light of fact. If man is determined to play the part of tiger among his less powerful fellow-beings, he will have to go elsewhere than to Nature to obtain a warrant for his deeds, for as far as the indications of Nature carry weight, they suggest that man, by his physical structure and his compassionate instincts, belongs unmistakably to the sociable, and not the predatory tribes; and that by constituting himself a "beast of prey" on a vast artificial scale, he is doing the greatest possible wrong to nature (_i.e._, to _his own_ nature) instead of conforming to it. Our innate horror of bloodshed—a horror which only long custom can deaden, and which, in spite of past centuries of violence, is so powerful at the present time—is proof that we are not naturally adapted for a sanguinary diet; and, as has often been pointed out, it is only by delegating to others the detested work of slaughter, and by employing cookery to conceal the uncongenial truth, that thoughtful persons can tolerate the practice of flesh-eating. If Nature pointed us to such a diet, we should feel the same instinctive appetite for raw flesh as we now feel for ripe fruit, and a slaughter-house would be more delightful to us than an orchard. It is not Nature, but custom, that is the guardian deity of the flesh-eater.

But we have not quite exhausted the appeal to Nature; we have still to speak of the common objection to vegetarianism that "it is necessary to take life."

ANTHROPOLOGIST: I have a most important argument to put
before you. Must you not face the fact that, in this
imperfect world, it is necessary to take life? How can
it be immoral to do what necessity imposes?

VEGETARIAN: We do not say that it is immoral to
"take life," but that it is immoral to take life
_unnecessarily_. It is not immoral, for instance, to
destroy rats and mice, because it is necessary to do
so. It _is_ immoral to kill animals for the table,
because it is _not_ necessary to do so. Did you ever
tread on a beetle?

ANTHROPOLOGIST: Yes, by accident. I could not help it. I
am a most humane man.

VEGETARIAN: Of course. But supposing that you wished to
murder someone, would you think yourself justified in
doing so because you had trodden on beetles—because, in
fact, sometimes it is "necessary to take life?"

ANTHROPOLOGIST: Certainly not. How can you suspect me of
being so immoral? There is a great difference between
taking the life of a beetle by accident and of a man by
design. There are _degrees_ of responsibility, you know.

VEGETARIAN: Ah! you have got your answer, then.

How is it, we wonder, that rational beings can commit themselves to such irrational arguments as this appeal to what is called "Nature" but is in reality only an isolated section of Nature, viewed apart from the rest? Let Benjamin Franklin himself supply the answer. For in narrating that incident of the cod-fish to which I have alluded, he humorously hints that his philosophical conclusion, "If you eat one another, I don't see why we may not eat you," was not uninfluenced by the fact that he had been "a great lover of fish" in early life, and that the fish smelt "admirably well" as it came out of the frying-pan; and he sagely adds that one of the advantages to man of being a "reasonable creature" is that he can find or make a "reason" for anything he has a mind to do. Such is the logic of the flesh-eater, in which the wish is father to the thought, and mixed thinking leads by a convenient process to a mixed diet.

THE HUMANITARIAN ARGUMENT

It will have been noted that the anti-vegetarian arguments which have so far come under review have been mainly such as are based on purely _materialistic_ grounds, as if the question were wholly one for doctors and scientists to decide; and it has been shown that, even thus, there is no sort of warrant for the supercilious dismissal of vegetarianism as a theory condemned in advance by some superior tribunal. But the question is not one for the _ipse dixit_ of the specialist. It is also a moral question of very great moment, and this fact gives a new significance to such unwilling admissions as that made by the _British Medical Journal_, that "man can obtain from vegetables the nutriment necessary for his maintenance in health"—_i.e._, from vegetables only, much more, therefore, from a vegetable diet with the addition of eggs and milk. The practicability of vegetarianism being thus fully granted, it is impossible to pretend that moral considerations are not relevant to the controversy, and that in forming an opinion on the vexed problem of diet we should not give due weight to the promptings of humaneness.

People often talk as if the humanitarian plea were some fanciful external sentiment that has been illogically thrust into the discussion; whereas in truth it is one of the innermost facts of the situation which no sophistry can escape. Our humane instincts are unalterably implanted in us, and we cannot deny them if we would; to be _human_ is to be _humane_. "There is something in human nature," says an old writer,[11] "resulting from our very make and constitution, which renders us obnoxious to the pains of others, causes us to sympathise with them, and almost comprehends us in their case. It is grievous to see or hear (and almost to hear of) any man, or even any animal whatever, in torture." And now that modern science has demonstrated the close kinship that exists between human and non-human, the greater is the repulsion that we feel at any wanton ill-usage of animals.

Footnote 11:

Wollaston, "Religion of Nature," 1759.

This is now so generally admitted that the point in dispute is not so much the duty of humaneness, as some particular application of that duty, as in the present case to the slaughter of animals for food. What have humane people to say to the tremendous mass of animal suffering inflicted, in the interests of the table, on highly-organised and sensitive animals closely allied to mankind? By the unthinking, of course, these sufferings, being invisible, are almost wholly overlooked, while the deadening power of habit prevents many kindly persons from exercising, where their daily "beef" and "mutton" are concerned, the very sympathies which they so keenly manifest elsewhere; yet it can hardly be doubted that, if the veil of custom could be lifted, and if a clear knowledge of what is involved in "butchery" could be brought home, with a sense of personal responsibility, to everyone who eats flesh, the attitude of society towards the vegetarian movement would be very different from what it is now. If it be true that "hunger is the best sauce," it may also be said that the _bon vivant's_ most indispensable sauce is _ignorance_—ignorance of the horrible and revolting circumstances under which his juicy steak or dainty cutlet has been prepared.

BON VIVANT: What is this? "Vegetarian" you call
yourself?

VEGETARIAN: And you? You are a _bon vivant_. You "live
well," I understand.

BON VIVANT: Not ashamed of enjoying a good dinner, but
not greedy, I hope.

VEGETARIAN: Nor cruel, I suppose?

BON VIVANT: Cruel! I subscribe regularly to the Society
for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

VEGETARIAN: And _eat_ them.

BON VIVANT: Why not? A speedy painless death is no
cruelty, is it?

VEGETARIAN: While you are finishing that choice beef
steak, I will tell you something of the speedy painless
death of steak-producing animals. It may serve as an aid
to digestion, like a musical accompaniment.

BON VIVANT: Oh, you won't spoil my digestion. Fire away!

VEGETARIAN: Let us suppose, then, that our friend (on
your plate there) hails from Ireland, and at one of
the fair grounds, of which there are several thousand
in that island paradise, he meets the first agent in
his euthanasia—the drover. "On such occasions," says
the Report of the late Departmental Committee on the
Inland Transit of Cattle, "animals already, perhaps,
exhausted and foot-sore from a walk of many miles, stand
for hours on the hard road, bewildered by the beating
they receive and their unaccustomed surroundings.... It
was repeatedly asserted by responsible witnesses that
many of the drovers are brutally harsh." So ferocious is
the treatment that in many cases, when the animals are
slaughtered, the hide, as butchers testify, simply falls
off the back, and is worthless even for use as leather.
I hope your steak is nice and tender?

BON VIVANT: But why are not the brutal drovers punished
for it?

VEGETARIAN: Perhaps because it is not for themselves
that they are driving. Then there is the journey in the
railway-trucks, and we learn on good authority (Report
of the Liverpool S.P.C.A.) that "the animals have
frequently gone twenty to twenty-four hours without food
at the time they are driven on the boats." As for the
delights of the sea-transit, you have read, I suppose,
of what happens in cattle-ships?

BON VIVANT: Well, of course, in stormy weather there may
be accidents——

VEGETARIAN: No, I am speaking of the ordinary scenes of
the cattle traffic, and say nothing of the occasions
(not so rare, either) when the boats come into port with
blood pouring from their scuppers——

BON VIVANT: Thank you, thank you! that is enough!

VEGETARIAN: We find it stated, in the Report of the
Committee of Inquiry into the Irish Cattle Transit, that
"the damage sustained by cattle is very serious, and
that the principal portion of that damage is due to
their treatment during shipment, while on shipboard, and
on debarkation." On landing there is more thrashing and
tail-twisting, another railway journey, and then—the
slaughterman. You have visited a slaughter-house, of
course?

BON VIVANT: No, really, I must protest——

VEGETARIAN: Ah, then it should interest you! The
drover's task accomplished, the butcher's begins.
Yard by yard and foot by foot, with chains fastened
to his horns and sharp goads applied to his flanks,
the struggling animal is dragged into the dark,
blood-stained shed, where he is lucky indeed if he
be killed by the first blow of the pole-axe——

BON VIVANT: Shameful! I do not believe you. It cannot
be.

VEGETARIAN: Then many well-known eye-witnesses must have
strangely perjured themselves. Dr. Dembo, for example,
says: "Cases in which several blows are required are
very frequent. On my first visit to the Deptford
slaughtering yards I found that the number of blows
struck was five and more," and he goes on to describe a
case which he saw in London, when _twelve minutes_
elapsed before the animal——

BON VIVANT: Stop! I will hear no more.

VEGETARIAN: You will hear no more—but will you _eat_
more? It is on _you_, not on the brutal drover or
slaughterman, that the responsibility falls. For this is
the "speedy and painless" way in which animals must be
slaughtered that _you_ may live well.

"I will hear no more." That, said or implied, is the most common and the most insuperable argument by which the vegetarian is confronted. It is the one great stronghold of flesh-eating which remains from age to age impregnable. For how can even truth convince the deaf and the blind? The horrors of the journey by sea and journey by rail, of the savage drover's goad and the clumsy butcher's pole-axe—if the ordinary man and woman, unimaginative and unfeeling though they are, could see or even hear of these things, the end of the controversy would be nearer. By the few flesh-eaters who have made inquiry, accidental or conscientious, into the facts of the cattle traffic and butchering trade, it is not denied that fearful cruelties are committed. Thus the _Meat Trades Journal_, which is not a sentimental paper, remarks of the sea and land transit, that "our cattle, sheep, and pigs are carried by sea and rail with the minimum care and maximum cost; they are bundled and shunted about as if they were iron."[12] Again, Dr. T. P. Smith, writing in opposition to vegetarianism, allows that the indictment of the slaughter-house "hits a grievous blot on our much-vaunted civilization."[13] There is a mass of printed testimony to the same effect, which can be confirmed, as often as confirmation is needed, by a visit to the shambles. But that is a visit which the ordinary man will neither undertake himself nor hear of from the mouths of others.

Footnote 12:

December 29, 1898.

Footnote 13:

_Fortnightly Review_, November, 1895.

Much also might be said of certain special cruelties, such as those involved in the supply of white veal or _pâté de foie gras_, and other so-called delicacies; but it is unnecessary to dwell on such refinements of torture, because it is the ordinary every-day aspects of flesh-eating that are here under debate. It is a terrible fact that the very prevalence of the habit serves, more than anything else, to conceal its full import; and thus a large number of people, who, in any other department of life, would indignantly refuse to profit by the cruel usage of animals, are (without knowing, or at least without recognising it) dependent for their daily food on the continued and systematic infliction of sufferings which, in their magnitude and frequency, surpass all other cruelties whatsoever of which animals are the victims.

These horrors, as I have said, are not realised by those who are personally responsible for them. Or, rather, they are not _directly_ realised; for indirectly it is evident enough that the more sensitive conscience of mankind is far from easy about the morality of butchering, and would show still greater uneasiness but for the quieting assurance that flesh food is a strict necessity of existence. This sense of compunction has found at least partial expression in many non-vegetarian works, as, for example, in Michelet's "Bible of Humanity." "Life—death! The daily murder which feeding upon animals implies—those hard and bitter problems sternly placed themselves before my mind. Miserable contradiction! Let us hope that there may be another globe in which the base, the cruel fatalities of this one may be spared to us!"

Now, in view of these facts and these feelings, we have a right to press the advocates of flesh-eating for some more explicit and coherent statement than they have hitherto accorded us of their attitude towards the ethics of the diet question. If, as the scientists themselves admit, there is no such "cruel fatality" as that which Michelet pictured, and if flesh-eating is not to be regarded as necessary, but only as expedient, then it is in the highest degree unreasonable to rule out _humane_ considerations from their due share in the settlement of this many-sided problem. The _British Medical Journal_ has said that "there is not a shadow of doubt that the use of animals for food involves a vast amount of pain." The same paper has said that "man can obtain from vegetables the nutriment necessary for his maintenance in health." Can it be doubted, that if the average Englishman were made aware of these two facts, he would at least think vegetarianism worthy of a serious trial? To ask, as a superior person of science has asked (not merely in these dialogues, but in actual debate), "How or where does the moral phase of food-taking enter the science of dietetics?" or to take refuge in the common saying that "one man's food is another man's poison," is simply irrelevant. For diet, like other social questions, has its moral aspect, which claims no less and no more than its due importance; and it is because the "scientific" antagonists of vegetarianism have overlooked this fact that their judgments have hitherto been so warped, illogical, and unscientific.

PALLIATIONS AND SOPHISTRIES

It is instructive to note the desperate shifts and subterfuges to which our antagonists have recourse when they find themselves face to face with the humanitarian impeachment of the slaughter-house. If one-half of the popular prejudices were true, it might be supposed that, in the discussion of so "fanciful" and "Utopian" a theory as vegetarianism it would be its supporters who would take refuge in metaphysical quibblings and sophistries, while its opponents would hold sternly to the hard facts of life. But no! for when butchery is the theme we find the exact opposite to be the case, and it is the flesh-eaters, those level-headed deriders of the sentimental, who suddenly became enamoured of the imaginary _what-might-be_ and the hypothetical _what-would-otherwise-have-been_, and are disposed to turn their attention to anything rather than to the unpalatable _what-is_.

Now, when the apologists of any form of cruelty are reduced to the plea that it is "no worse" than some _other_ barbarous habit, the presumption is that they are in a very bad plight indeed. Yet we frequently hear it said that the fate of animals slaughtered for the table is "no worse" than that of other animals—those perhaps that are used for purposes of draught or burden—a quite pointless comparison, because, even if the statement be true, the one act of injustice can obviously be no excuse for the other. Or it may be that the mortality of man himself, and his liability to disease and accident, are alleged in mysterious justification of his carnivorous habits, the suffering of the animals being represented as brief and momentary in contrast with the pathetic human death-bed—an argument which reached its culminating point in Mr. W. T. Stead's delightful assertion that of all kinds of death he would himself prefer "the mode in which pigs are killed at Chicago," which mode, as he incautiously let out, he did _not_ go to see when he visited that city. I do not think we need further discuss such remarkable preference; it will be time enough to do so when we hear of Mr. Stead's lamented self-immolation in the Chicago pig-shambles.

But it is said that domesticated animals owe a deep debt of gratitude to mankind (only to be repaid in the form of beef and mutton), because, by being brought within the peaceful fold of civilisation, they have been spared all the harrowing fears and anxieties of their wild natural life. This, however, is a fallacy to which the great naturalists give no sort of sanction; for it is obvious that, though the life of a wild animal is liable to more sudden perils than that of our tame "livestock," it is not on that account a less happy one, but, on the contrary, is spent throughout in a manner more conducive to the highest health and happiness. Thus, Dr. Alfred Russel Wallace says: "The poet's picture of nature red in tooth and claw, is a picture the evil of which is read into it by our imagination, the reality being made up of full and happy lives, usually terminated by the quickest and least painful of deaths." And Mr. W. H. Hudson: "I take it that in the lower animals misery can result from two causes only—restraint and disease—consequently, that animals in a state of nature are not miserable. They are not hindered or held back.... As to disease, it is so rare in wild animals, or in a large majority of cases so quickly proves fatal, that, compared with what we call disease in our own species, it is practically non-existent. The 'struggle for existence,' in so far as animals in a state of nature are concerned, is a metaphorical struggle; and the strife, short and sharp, which is so common in nature, is not misery, although it results in pain, since it is pain that kills or is soon out-lived."

Let us proceed, then, to the great sophistical paradox that it is better for the animals themselves to be bred and slaughtered than not to be bred at all—that most comfortable doctrine which of late years has been a veritable city of refuge, or grand old umbrella, to the conscientious flesh-eater under stress of the vegetarian bombardment. Hither flock the members of the learned professions, academies, and ethical societies, and fortify their souls anew with this subtle metaphysic of the larder.

SOPHIST: Of all the arguments for vegetarianism, none,
in my opinion, is so weak as the argument from humanity.
The pig has a stronger interest than anyone in the
demand for bacon.

VEGETARIAN: Indeed? And is that the view the pig himself
takes of it?

SOPHIST: It is the view _I_ take of it, speaking in the
interests of the pig. For where would the pig be if we
did not eat pork? He would be non-existent; he would be
no pig at all.

VEGETARIAN: And would he be any the _worse_ for that?

SOPHIST: Yes, for he would lose the joy of life. And not
the pig alone, but all animals that are bred for human
food. Their death is the little price they necessarily
pay for the inestimable boon of existence.

VEGETARIAN: Now, let me first point out to you that it
is not only flesh-eating that would be justified by
this argument. Vivisection, pigeon-shooting, slavery,
cannibalism, any treatment whatsoever of animals or of
mankind where they are specially bred for the purpose,
might be similarly shown to be a kindness. Do you really
mean that?

SOPHIST: I assume, of course, that the life is a happy
one, and the death as painless as possible.

VEGETARIAN: Neither of which conditions is in reality
fulfilled! For the wretched creatures that are bred
and fed for the shambles have none of the true joys of
life, but from the first are mere animated beef, pork,
and mutton, while their death is nothing better than a
prolonged and clumsy massacre.

SOPHIST: But it need not be so. It is a mere question of
police and proper supervision. It should be imperative
on all those who confer life on animals to ensure
absolute painlessness for the last moment.

VEGETARIAN: It "_should_ be"! So it seems that this
remarkable kindness of yours is, by your own showing,
not an actual but a hypothetical benefit. The animals
fulfil their part of the compact by being killed and
eaten, and you _might_ fulfil your part by killing them
painlessly—only you _don't_! Are you serious in talking
this stuff?

SOPHIST: This "stuff"? Let me remind you, sir, that
I have the authority of such eminent philosophers as
Sir Henry Thompson, Mr. Leslie Stephen, Professor D.
G. Ritchie, and Dr. Stanton Coit. Do you call their
academical reasoning "stuff"?

VEGETARIAN: What else can it be called? For, as a matter
of fact, quite apart from the conditions, good or bad,
under which the animals live and die, it is a pure
fallacy to say that it is a _kindness_ to bring them
into existence.

SOPHIST: How so, if life is pleasant?

VEGETARIAN: Because it is impossible to compare
existence with non-existence. Existence may, or may not,
be pleasant; but non-existence is neither pleasant nor
unpleasant—it is nothing at all. It cannot, therefore,
be an _advantage_ to be born, though, when once you
_are_ born, the good and the evil are comparable. The
whole question is a post-natal, not a prenatal one; it
begins at birth.

SOPHIST: Well, but supposing you were an animal, would
you not prefer——

VEGETARIAN: Oh, that is a very old question. You will
find it all in Hansard. It was asked by Sir Herbert
Maxwell when he defended the sport of pigeon-shooting in
the Debates of 1883. "He wanted to ask the hon. member
whether, if he were a blue-rock, he would rather accept
life under the condition of his life being a short and
happy one, and violently terminated, or whether he would
reject life at all upon such terms."

SOPHIST: Hear, hear! That is just what I say.

VEGETARIAN: Then you had better think over Mr. W. E.
Forster's reply, which puts the case in a nut-shell. He
said that Sir Herbert Maxwell "made one very amusing
appeal, by asking him [the member who introduced the
Bill] to put himself in the position of a blue-rock. But
this would be difficult, for the position was not a
blue-rock in existence, but a blue-rock before it was
born." Whereat the House laughed, and sophistry was for
the moment disconcerted.

But for the moment only; for there have since sprung up many other professors of this metaphysic of the larder, though none of them, with the exception of Dr. Stanton Coit, have had the hardihood to expound their theory in detail—a wise reticence, perhaps, when it is seen how Dr. Coit fared in his conscientious but humourless essay on "The Bringing of Sentient Beings into Existence."

"If the motive," he opined, "that might produce the
greatest number of the happiest cattle would be the
eating of beef, then beef-eating, so far, must be
commended. And while, heretofore, the motive has not
been for the sake of cattle, it is conceivable that,
if vegetarian convictions should spread much further,
love for cattle would (if it be not psychologically
incompatible) blend with the love of beef in the minds
of the opponents of vegetarianism. With deeper insight,
new and higher motives may replace or supplement old
ones, and perpetuate but ennoble ancient practices."[14]

Footnote 14:

The _Ethical World_, May 7, 1898.

The "Ox in a Tea-cup," be it observed, may henceforth become the emblem of the concentrated humanity of the ethical societies!

"But we frankly admit," continues Dr. Coit, "that it
is a question whether the love of cattle, intensified
to the imaginative point of individual affection for
each separate beast, would not destroy the pleasure
of eating beef, and render this time-honoured custom
psychologically impossible. _We surmise that bereaved
affection at the death of a dear creature would destroy
the flavour._"[15]

Footnote 15:

_Ibid._

What a picture is conjured up by the sentence I have italicised—the bereaved moralist, knife and fork in hand, swayed in different directions by the call of duty and the scruples of affection! And then Dr. Coit goes on to express a fear that mankind, if they adopted vegetarianism, might become "less powerful in thought"! I respectfully submit that, in view of the arguments quoted, there is not the smallest possibility of _that_.

The plea that animals might be killed painlessly is a very common one with flesh-eaters, but it must be pointed out that _what-might-be_ can afford no exemption from moral responsibility for _what-is_. By all means let us reform the system of butchery as far as it can be reformed—that is, by the total abolition of those foul dens of torture known as "private slaughter-houses," and by the substitution of municipal abattoirs, equipped with the best modern appliances, and under efficient supervision; for there is no doubt that the sum of animal suffering may thus be greatly lessened. There will be no opposition from the vegetarian side to such reform as this; indeed, it is in a large measure through the personal efforts of vegetarians that the subject has attracted attention, whereas the very people who make this prospective improvement an excuse for their present flesh diet are seldom observed to be doing anything practical to carry it into effect. But when all is said and done, it remains true that the reform of the slaughter-house is at best a palliative, a temporary measure which will mitigate, but cannot possibly amend, the horrors of butchery; for it is but too evident that, under our complex civilisation, when the town is so far aloof from the country, and pastoralism can only be carried on in districts remote from the busy crowded centres, it is impossible to transport and slaughter vast numbers of large and highly-sensitive animals in a really humane manner. More barbarous, or less barbarous, such slaughtering may undoubtedly be, according to the methods employed, but the "humane" slaughtering, so much bepraised of the sophist, is an impossibility in fact and a contradiction in terms.

THE CONSISTENCY TRICK

It is certain, then, that the practice of flesh-eating involves a vast amount of cruelty—a fact which cannot be lessened or evaded by any quibbling subterfuges. But, before we pass on to another phase of the food question, we must deal more fully with that very common method of argument (alluded to in an earlier chapter) which may be called the Consistency Trick—akin to that known in common parlance as the _tu quoque_, or "you're another"—the device of setting up an arbitrary standard of "consistency," and then demonstrating that the vegetarian himself, judged by that standard, is as "inconsistent" as other persons. Whether we plead guilty or not guilty to this ingenious indictment depends altogether on the meaning assigned to the term "consistency."

For, as anyone who tries to do practical work in the world will rapidly discover, there is a true and there is a false ideal of consistency. To pretend that in our complex modern society, where responsibilities are so closely interwoven, it is possible for any individual to cultivate "a perfect character," and stand like a Sir Galahad above his fellows—this is the false ideal of consistency which it is the first business of a genuine reformer to put aside; for no human being can do any solid work without frequently convicting himself of inconsistencies when consistency is stereotyped into a formula. On the other hand, there is a true duty of consistency, which regards the spirit rather than the letter, and prompts us not to grasp foolishly at the ideal, like a child crying for the moon, but to push steadily _towards_ the ideal by a faithful adherence to the right line of reform, and by ever keeping in view the just proportion and relative value of all moral actions. Let it be remembered that it is this latter consistency alone that has any interest for the vegetarian. His purpose is not to exhibit himself as a spotless Sir Galahad of food reformers, but to take certain practical steps towards the humanising of our barbarous diet system.

Herein will be found the answer to a class of questions frequently put to vegetarians, as to how they find it "consistent with their principles" to use this or that form of food or animal substance. It depends entirely on what their principles are. If their aspirations were of the Sir Galahad order, some of the "posers" would indeed be formidable; but as they do _not_ aim at moral perfection, but merely at rational progress, the charge of inconsistency hurtles somewhat harmlessly over their heads. But here let the consistency man have his say:

CONSISTENCY MAN: But what I want to know is this—how you
can think it consistent to use milk and eggs?

VEGETARIAN: Consistent with what?

CONSISTENCY MAN: Why, with your own principles, of
course.

VEGETARIAN: Or do you mean with your idea of my
principles? The two things are not always identical, you
know.

CONSISTENCY MAN: You condemn flesh-eating because of the
suffering it causes, but it seems to have escaped your
notice that the use of milk and eggs is also responsible
for much. It is strange that it has never occurred to
you——

VEGETARIAN: My good sir, it has occurred to us years
and years ago. The question is as old as the movement
itself. The cock-and-bull argument, I presume?

CONSISTENCY MAN: I ask, what would become of the
cockerels and bull-calves under a vegetarian _régime_?
At present your supply of milk and eggs is easy enough,
because the young males are killed and eaten by us
carnivorous sinners. But are you not, to a certain
extent, participators in the deed?

VEGETARIAN: Yes, frankly, to a certain extent (a very
limited extent) I think we are. We are content to get
rid of the worst evils first.

CONSISTENCY MAN: But is one sort of killing worse than
another?

VEGETARIAN: Immeasurably worse. Even if it were
necessary under the vegetarian system, to destroy some
of the calves at birth, as the superfluous young of
domestic animals are now destroyed, it would be
ridiculous to compare such restricted killing of
new-born creatures with the present wholesale butchery
of full-grown and highly-sentient animals in the
slaughter-house.

CONSISTENCY MAN: You say "if" it were necessary, but is
there any doubt of it?

VEGETARIAN: It is not by any means so certain as you
suppose that the slaughter of calves would be
unavoidable. Vegetarians use milk sparingly—far more so
than flesh-eaters—and a limited amount of milk is
obtainable without killing the calf. Nor is there any
reason, as Professor Newman has pointed out, why a
number of oxen should not be employed as formerly in
working the land. But I do not wish to take refuge in
future possibilities. I prefer to take the bull-calf
argument "by the horns," and admit that, under present
conditions, we are indirectly responsible. Call it
inconsistency, if you like. If it be inconsistency not
to postpone the abolition of the greater cruelties until
we also abolish the minor ones, we are willing to be
called inconsistent.

It may be noted, in passing, that the zeal with which flesh-eaters urge this counter-charge of "inconsistency" is designed, unconsciously perhaps, to hide an important admission—viz., that where eggs and milk are used there is no necessity for butchers' meat, or, in other words, that vegetarianism is a perfectly feasible diet. "Eggs and milk," says Dr. T. P. Smith, when objecting to their use by vegetarians, "contain a much larger quantity of nutritive material than an equal amount of meat, for which, therefore, they may easily serve as substitutes."[16] If this be granted, the rest is a mere battle of words.

Footnote 16:

_Fortnightly Review_, November, 1895.

But the cock-and-bull argument, with which may be linked the objection to the use of leather, is only one of many departments of the consistency trick. Another favourite method of convicting vegetarians of inconsistency is to start from the false assumption that vegetarianism is the same thing as Brahminism, and that any destruction of even the lowliest forms of life is therefore reprehensible. "As for the argument based on the cruelty of slaughter-houses," says Mr. W. T. Stead, "I don't see that it bears upon the question, unless you take the extreme Hindoo doctrine as to the wickedness of taking sentient life, even in the shape of lice and adders." That is to say, the terrible and quite unnecessary cruelties inflicted on the most highly-organised and harmless animals in the cattle-ship and slaughter-house do not even "bear upon" the morality of diet, unless we also abstain from killing the most noxious and lowly-organised forms! Of the same nature is the foolish "when-you-drink-a-glass-of-water" fallacy, which argues that, as we necessarily swallow minute organisms in drinking, we need have no scruples as to the needless butchery of a cow or a sheep. The savages who in the good old times used to eat their grandfathers and grandmothers might have justified their dietetic habits on precisely similar grounds.

Nor is it only insects and "vermin" on whose behalf the consistency man is concerned, for plants also have life, and therefore if the vegetarian holds that "it is immoral to take life" (which he does _not_), he must be inconsistent in eating vegetables. As an instance of a common but strange misunderstanding of the vegetarian principle on this subject, I must here quote a passage from the "Science Jottings" of Dr. Andrew Wilson. Note the triumphant tone of the unscientific scientist as he rushes to his absurd conclusion:

"I have not yet finished with the food faddist. Suppose
I find a vegetarian who, more consistent than the run of
his fellows, will not touch, taste, nor handle milk,
eggs, cheese, or any animal product whatever. I think it
is still possible to show him that he is infringing the
code he lives by, in so far as its pretensions with the
sacredness of life are concerned. Plants, no less than
animals, are living things. Their tissues contain living
protoplasm, which is the essential physical basis of
life everywhere.... I am afraid that the consistent
vegetarian must no longer kill a cabbage if he is to
live up to the standard of morals he sets up as a kind
of fetish in his diet regulations; and to lay low the
lettuce, or pluck the apple from its bough, is really a
direct infringement of the code which maintains that
you have no right to kill any living thing for food.
Really this is a monstrous doctrine when all is said and
done."[17]

Footnote 17:

_Illustrated London News_, May 14, 1898.

It _is_ a monstrous doctrine; and what are we to think of a man of science who attributes such absurdities to vegetarians, and thereupon holds them up to public contempt as inconsistent, when by making inquiry he might at once have learnt that the blunder was on his own side? Once more, then, be it stated that it is not the mere "taking of life," but the taking of life _unnecessarily_ that the vegetarian deprecates, and that no criticism of vegetarianism can be of any relevance if it ignores the fact that all forms of life are not of equal value, but that the higher the sensibility of the animal, and the closer his affinity to ourselves, the stronger his claim on our humaneness.

Before leaving this question of "consistency," as affected by the _gradations_ of our duty of humaneness to animals, a few words may be said on the practice of fish-eating. It was humorously suggested by Sir Henry Thompson, who, as I have proved in the second chapter of this work, wrote in complete ignorance of the facts and dates of the vegetarian movement, that, as vegetarians have "added" milk and eggs to their diet since their society was founded (a statement quite devoid of truth), they may perhaps still further enlarge their dietary so as to include fish. Here, again, Sir H. Thompson only showed his unfamiliarity with the subject, for his novel proposition was in fact an old one, which has been debated and rejected by the Vegetarian Society in its adherence to its original rule of excluding fish, flesh, and fowl, and nothing else, from its dietary. So far, then, as organised vegetarianism is concerned, those who eat fish are not within the pale of membership; but looked at from the purely _humane_ standpoint, it must be admitted that there is an immense difference between flesh-eating and fish-eating, and that those unattached food reformers, not few in number, who for humane reasons abstain from flesh, but feel justified in eating fish, hold a perfectly intelligible position. And I would further note that the very fact of there having been some disposition, wise or unwise, within the vegetarian ranks to recognise the comparative harmlessness of fish-eating, corroborates what I have asserted throughout—that the _raison d'être_ of vegetarianism has not been a pedantic hard-and-fast crusade against "animal" substances, but a practical desire to abolish the horrors of the slaughter-house.

This, then, is our parting word to the professors of the Consistency Trick. If they had charged us with the _real_ inconsistency—that is, with sacrificing the spirit to the letter by overlooking graver cruelties while denouncing minor ones—we should have been fully prepared to meet so serious an accusation. But as they have not done this, but have merely twitted us with not attempting everything at once, and with allowing the subordinate evil to wait until the central evil has been grappled with, we cheerfully admit the impeachment—coming as it does (such is the humour of the situation) from those who are themselves desirous of perpetuating _both_ kinds of suffering, the greater and the smaller alike! We beg to assure them that we would much rather be inconsistently humane than consistently cruel.

THE DEGRADATION OF THE BUTCHER

But this question of butchery is not merely one of kindness or unkindness to animals, for by the very facts of the case it is a _human_ question of no slight importance, affecting as it does the social and moral welfare of those more immediately concerned in it. Of all recognised occupations by which in civilised countries a livelihood is sought and obtained, the work which is looked upon with the greatest loathing (next to the hangman's) is that of the butcher—as witness the opprobrious sense which the word "butcher" has acquired. Owing to the instinctive horror of bloodshed, which is characteristic of all normal civilised beings, the trade of doing to death countless numbers of inoffensive and highly-organised creatures amid scenes of indescribable filth and ferocity is delegated—in the large towns, at any rate—to a pariah class of "slaughtermen," who are thus themselves made the victims of a grievous social wrong. "I'm only doing your dirty work. It's such as _you_ makes such as _us_," is said to have been the remark of a Whitechapel butcher to a flesh-eating gentleman who remonstrated with him for his brutality; and the remark was a perfectly just one. To demand a product which can only be procured at the cost of the intense suffering of the animal and the deep degradation of the butcher, and by a process which not one flesh-eater in a hundred would himself under any circumstances perform or even witness, is conduct as callous, selfish, and unsocial as could well be imagined.

For butchery, as Sir Benjamin Richardson used to point out, is essentially a "dangerous trade." It not only deadens and destroys the moral sympathies, but it has the physical effect of straining the nerves and weakening the heart of the slaughterman, and thus naturally induces a tendency to have recourse to drink. How often, too, in reading of some murderous crime, has one seen it stated that the criminal was a butcher; as, for instance, in the Austrian "ripper" case, when, as the papers stated, a woman of the "unfortunate" class was killed by a young butcher of herculean frame, by whom it is supposed a previous victim had also been slaughtered. To have accustomed one's self to a total disregard for the pleading terror of sensitive animals and to a murderous use of the knife is a terrible power for society to put into the hands of its lowest and least responsible members.

The blame must ultimately fall on society itself, and not on the individual slaughterman. No one had a better knowledge of this subject than the late Mr. H. F. Lester, and this is his opinion:

"We must take into consideration the fact that the ranks
of slaughtermen are habitually made up from persons
in whom one could hardly expect to find the sentiment
of pity strongly developed; yet, even among these, there
is a certain air of dissatisfaction with the work they
are compelled to do, and a mixture of insolence and
shamefacedness, of swagger and evident dislike of
inspection, which makes one think they know their trade
is a nasty one, only bearable from lack of other
employment and from the good wages earned. But there are
plenty of men engaged in this work of killing animals
for food who are much too good for the business. These
will tell you openly that they dislike the job, but
'people will have meat,' and if they were to give it up,
someone else would step into the work."[18]

Footnote 18:

"Behind the Scenes in Slaughter-houses."

Again, subordinate to the actual butchery, there are certain disgusting, if not dangerous, occupations, such as that of the women who work in or near the cattle markets at the malodorous task of "preparing animal entrails for commercial uses," of which process the following account has been given:[19] "The women's share in the ugly business begins when the greasy, slimy intestinal skins come to them for the scraping off of all fat and substance still attaching to them. They are washed, twisted up, dressed with salt, and are ready for the sausage-makers, on whose behalf they have been thus prepared." The journalistic comment is, that "in an ideal world men would not permit women to do work from which every instinct of refinement and even decency shrinks," but that all is over-ruled by "the demands of present-day cheapness." This, as things go, is undeniable; but it would be well that conscientious flesh-eaters should at least realise what their diet imposes on other people.

Footnote 19:

_Daily Telegraph_, July 19, 1897.

That, however, is just what they are mostly determined _not_ to realise, doubtless from a subconscious apprehension that, if once they begin to look into this unsavoury subject, they may be pushed to the verge of certain awkward conclusions. Nothing is more significant than the extreme unwillingness of philanthropists and members of ethical societies, who debate almost every problem under the sun, to give serious attention to the question of butchery—a reluctance which may be taken as one of the strongest possible tributes to the pertinence of vegetarianism. This is said to be especially true of the philanthropists of Chicago—that great centre of the killing trade. "No one who goes to Chicago," says an eye-witness, "should fail to see the shambles. They are the most wicked things in creation. They are sickening beyond description. The men in them are more brutes than the animals they slaughter. Missions and institutes have been built in the respectable parts of the city from the profits, and the employees of the shambles have been left to go straight down to the devil.... It is the duty of everyone interested in social questions, of everyone whose demands necessitate this kind of labour, to wade through this filth to see these poor wretches at work."[20]

Footnote 20:

_New Age_, November 25, 1897.

And so they go their ways, the philanthropist to build "homes," the ethical folk to talk learnedly, and the social reformer to concoct schemes for the amelioration of the human race. Yet, meantime, these very persons are themselves perpetuating, by their mode of living, the evil conditions which they profess to be anxious to remove, and condemning the pariah slaughterman to a life of sheer bestiality. "The meat-eater," says Mr. Lester, "accepts the results of this man's demoralisation of character. Pious and professed Christians are content to allow the deep degradation of the nature of a whole class of men, set apart to do the nation's dirty work of slaughtering, without an apparent thought of the baseness of their conduct."

Here, as I said at the outset, is a distinctively _human_ question, and one which cannot be evaded, even by those slippery reasoners who would shuffle out of the duty of humaneness to animals by pretending (in the face of evolutionary science) that there is no bond of consanguinity between the animals and mankind. By no possible sophistry can "educated" people be justified in placing this heavy burden of butchery on the hands of their social "inferiors." The vivisector and the sportsman have at least the courage to do their own devilries; and the work even of the hardened agents of "murderous millinery" and the fur-trade is diversified to some extent by travel and adventure. But the slaughterman's task is one of unrelieved, unmitigated brutality, involving the constant and systematic doing of deeds that are inhuman in themselves, degrading to the rough men who do them, and trebly disgraceful to the polite ladies and gentlemen at whose behest they are done.

THE ÆSTHETIC ARGUMENT

Closely connected with the humane argument is the æsthetic argument, the two being, in fact, twin branches of the same stem. For "humane," as the Latin shows, has the double meaning of "gentle" and "refined"; so that "humanity," in the original conception of the term, implies not only a moral regard for the rights of our fellow-beings, but also an æsthetic appreciation of what is beautiful and pure. Culture and good-breeding, together with justice and compassion, are the characteristics of humane man; and the fact that this twofold sense of the word has been well-nigh forgotten in the education of the modern "gentleman" may serve to explain why there is often such a grievious lack of gentleness in persons who claim to be refined. Our _literæ humaniores_ are a mere academic course of book-learning, the _humane_ element being altogether left out of account; and to such bathos has this divorce of gentleness and refinement carried us that, in some quarters, a "professor of humanity" is—a teacher of Latin grammar.

We are prepared, then, to find that the æsthetic or artistic faculty of the present day is deplorably narrow in its scope, and is so ignorant of the true relationship of humanity and art that it actually prides itself on omitting from its ken all humane considerations, while it diligently searches for the beautiful and the picturesque, as if beauty were a thing detached from the realities of every-day life! The bare idea that there is an æsthetic side to the diet question, beyond the mere delicacies of cookery and embellishments of the dining-table, would be scouted as ridiculous by ninety-nine out of a hundred of our artists or literary men; for the very force of habit which has made them so quick to resent the least technical flaw in their special departments of work, has left them blindly indifferent to the hideous and revolting aspects of flesh-eating. To these æsthetes, so-called, the sight of an ugly house, for example, is a sore trouble and grievance, but the slaughter-house, with all its gruesome doings, is a matter of supreme unconcern—nay, rather a thing to be indirectly patronised and defended. I have known a case where an æsthetic lady, of great personal culture, and the centre of a polished circle, stained the floor of her charming suburban villa with bullock's blood brought from the shambles in a bucket.

Yet the æsthete does not usually vindicate his carnivorous diet and its appurtenances with the old unhesitating heartiness of the barbarian; he is somewhat ashamed of himself—unconsciously, perhaps—in these latter days, even as the cannibal is ashamed when the discussion turns upon "long pig." Like all the apologists of flesh-eating, in their respective spheres, he is shifty and evasive in his defences, and is not too proud, in his moment of extremity, to have recourse to the "consistency trick," and to try to trip up his vegetarian persecutor with the retort of "You're another." From which signs of grace it may be surmised that the æsthete, in spite of his brave exterior, is not quite at ease in his dietetic philosophy, and that the products of butchery are, in a very real sense, the "skeleton in the cupboard" (the larder cupboard) of literature and art.

ÆSTHETE: Pray, why do you address yourself to _me_ in
that significant manner?

VEGETARIAN: Because I understand that you cultivate
the artistic sense. You love to have beautiful things
about you, do you not? So you must needs wish to be a
vegetarian.

ÆSTHETE: I love beautiful things, certainly. Art is my
vocation. But what has vegetarianism to do with it?

VEGETARIAN: Have the arrangements of the dinner-table
nothing to do with it—the cloth, the silver, the
glasses, the dessert, the flowers?

ÆSTHETE: A great deal, obviously. There is much art in
dining well.

VEGETARIAN: Yet the meats that are served at the
table have nothing to do with it! Is not that rather
contradictory?

ÆSTHETE: I did not say that. The cookery is an essential
point, of course.

VEGETARIAN: But what of the meat—the thing cooked? What
_is_ it? What _was_ it? And how did it come to be on
your plate?

ÆSTHETE: I never think of such questions. So long as it
is nice, I am content. It must satisfy my taste, that is
all.

VEGETARIAN: But are you sure that it _does_ satisfy your
taste in the same way that other things do? I think not,
for you have never put it to the trial. In no other
branch of art do you take things wholly on trust, but
you try them by the standard of an independent and
educated intelligence. In diet, and in diet only, you
"shut your eyes and open your mouth," as the children
say, and never distinguish between a real innate liking
and the liking that is merely traditional.

ÆSTHETE: _De gustibus non est disputandum._

VEGETARIAN: About genuine tastes, I admit, disputation
is idle. But the proverb is not true of the sham tastes
to which I refer. There is a great deal to be discussed
about _them_.

ÆSTHETE: But I assure you my liking for a ham-sandwich
is a genuine taste.