(1)
(A Letter to the _Daily Express_, 1913.)
Writing from the standpoint of one whose love of animals at one time
caused him to enjoy the spectacle of them performing tricks and capers,
into the educational history of which he never thought of going, I
believe I well understand the attraction of “the animal show” in
music-halls or circuses. Nor do I doubt that there are animal trainers
with such a natural gift and love of beasts that the process of training
becomes almost pleasurable to creatures who are not by nature intended
to ape mankind.
I even believe that there may be animals, especially among dogs, who
grow to appreciate the glamour of the footlights, and the sense of their
own importance. But when all this is said, I have come to abominate the
thought of the whole thing, and I fancy that any one who takes the
trouble to think the matter out, any one who does not allow his natural
delight in animals to run away with his sense of proportion and the
fitness of things, must come to the same conclusion.
To simply bring a horse, a dog, a cat, or even an elephant or camel on
the stage as part of the atmosphere or machinery of a play, treating it
with the kindness that is invariable I believe in such cases, is one
thing, and I by no means object to it. But the deliberate training and
use, for the purpose of making a living out of them, of numbers of
animals, taking them from place to place, hall to hall, suitable or
unsuitable, is a very different “proposition,” as Americans would say.
The very nature of it invites suffering. And I do not well see how any
amount of inspection and the granting of licences is going to do away
with the greater part of a wretchedness that comes from forcing
creatures away from more or less natural to highly unnatural conditions
of life; nor can I see how, for the purpose of granting licences,
satisfactory evidence is ever going to be obtained that training (which
is and must be quite a private affair between trainer and animal) is not
accompanied by cruelty.
In a word, I would like to see the “animal show” abolished in this
country. It is too ironical altogether that our love of beasts should
make us tolerate and even enjoy what our common sense, when we let it
loose, tells us must, in the main, spell misery for the creatures we
profess to be so fond of.
(2)
(A Speech made at Kensington Town Hall, 1913.)
I am here to say a very few words on the whole question of the treatment
of animals by our civilized selves. For I have no special knowledge,
like some who will speak to you, of the training of performing animals;
I have only a certain knowledge of human and animal natures, and a
common sense which tells me that wild animals are more happy in freedom
than in captivity—domestic animals more happy as companions than as
clowns. And, quite apart from the definite question of inhumanity, it is
perfectly clear to me that these animal shows are among the many
surviving evidences, the lingering symptoms, of a creed that—thank
Heaven!—is beginning to pass, and must pass, from us. That creed said:
We human beings have the right, for our pleasure, convenience, and
distraction, to disregard, in the matter of dumb creatures, those
principles which our religion, morality, and education fix as the
guiding stars of our conduct towards human beings. (Please note that I
do not touch on the question of our rights over dumb creatures in so far
as our actual self-preservation is concerned; I limit my words to
pleasure, convenience, profit, and distraction.)
Now, “Do unto others as you would they should do unto you!” is not only
the first principle of Christianity, but the first principle of all
social conduct—the essence of that true gentility which is the only
saving grace of men and women in all ranks of life. And I am certain
that the word “others” cannot any longer be limited to the human
creature. Whether or no animals have what are called “rights” is an
academic question of no value whatever in the consideration of this
matter. But, lest there be any one who wishes to take up this point of
abstruse philosophy, I admit at once that animals have no more rights
than have babies under the age when they may be said to have duties (on
which rights, we are told, depend), that animals have no more rights
than imbeciles, or those who are deaf, dumb, and blind. Rights or no
rights, I care not; the fact remains that by so much as we inflict on
sentient creatures _unnecessary_ suffering, by so much have we outraged
our own consciences, by so much fallen short of that secret standard of
gentleness and generosity, that, believe me, is the one firm guard of
our social existence, the one bulwark we have against relapse into
savagery. Once admit that we have the right to inflict unnecessary
suffering, and you have destroyed the very basis of human society, as we
know it in this age. You have committed blasphemy, the only blasphemy
that really matters—against your conscience. For the true conscience of
this country is proved by the wording of the law, with its ruling that
the infliction of unnecessary suffering is an offence; and in a country
like this, the law does not precede, but follows, conscience. Let me
quote the law, and the latest judicial _dictum_ upon it.
Section 1 (1) of the Protection of Animals Act, 1911:
“If any person (_a_) shall cruelly ill-treat any animal . . . or
being the owner shall by . . . unreasonably doing or omitting to
do any act . . . cause any unnecessary suffering,” he shall be
guilty of an offence.
And Mr. Justice Darling, on November 19th, 1913, said:
“Where unnecessary suffering is caused by some act of an owner,
it cannot be justified on the ground of old custom, and of
benefit to commercial persons.”
Nothing so endangers the fineness of the human heart as the possession
of power over others; nothing so corrodes it as the callous or cruel
exercise of that power; and the more helpless the creature over whom
power is cruelly or callously exercised, the more the human heart is
corroded. It is recognition of this truth which has brought the
conscience of our age and with it the law, to say that we cannot any
longer with impunity regard ourselves as licensed torturers of the rest
of creation; that we cannot, for our own sakes, afford it.
In all this matter, then, of the treatment of animals it comes to the
definition of the words “unnecessary suffering.” And I say this: All
suffering that is inflicted merely for our pleasure, distraction, and
even for our convenience, and profit, as distinct from our preservation,
is unnecessary and an abomination. And the fact that it is inflicted on
creatures unable to raise hand to help themselves, or voice to tell us
what they suffer, makes it ever the more abominable. Whether it be the
destruction of mother-birds (with their whole families of nestlings) for
the sake of the nuptial plumes to be worn in the hats and hair of human
mothers, or the painful docking of the tails of horses, their sole
weapon against the torment of stinging flies, for the sake of an ugly
fashion; whether it be the treacherous sale of horses worn out in our
service, the snaring of rabbits in needlessly cruel traps, the turning
adrift of friendly but unwanted dogs and cats; whether it be the
unnecessarily slow and painful slaughtering of animals for food, the
wretched keeping in captivity of wild song-birds, the prisoning of
eagles, hawks, and many another creature that cannot bear confinement,
in zoos and other places; whether it be any of these, or this sometimes
distressing and always unnatural training of performing animals, in all
suffering is inflicted for our pleasure, distraction, convenience or
profit, and all of it is unnecessary, all against the conscience of the
age.
To those who, tempted by the devil of irreflection, say “But this is the
creed of sentiment and softness,” I return the answer, “Sirs, no man
ever became a stoic, and acquired the virtues of fortitude and courage,
by inflicting pain on others.” There is nothing in this new creed that
prevents any one from inflicting on himself as much hardship, risk, and
privation as he considers needful to inspire him with fortitude.
Let me draw your attention to an anomaly, which accounts for most of our
callousness towards the sufferings of animals. Nearly every one who
witnesses with his own eyes the infliction of needless pain on an animal
feels revolted, and even hastens to the creature’s aid; yet these same
men and women, or the vast majority of them, merely hearing or reading
of such things, pass by on the other side, with the feeling that to pay
attention would be either credulous or sentimental. Now, in regard to
credulousness, note that it is hardly ever to the interest of any one to
draw attention to cruelty—certainly not to fabricate such a charge;
very much the contrary. And in regard to sentiment, there seems to be a
slight confusion as to the meaning of that word. A man only moved by
cruelty seen with his own eyes is no whit less sentimental than the man
who takes fire at the mere recital of it; he is only more deficient in
understanding, more cautious in judgment, or more sluggish in blood.
Just as sentimental, but less sensitive. The longer I live the more I
become convinced that people only use that favourite
reproach—sentimental—to stigmatize sympathy with sufferings that they
themselves have been unwilling or unable to realize. The moment they do
realize, they become just as “sentimental,” just as moved by pity and
anger—for that is what sentimental means—as those at whom they sneer.
Ah! but—says the public—even if there be suffering for animals, the
pleasure that their freaks or their fur or their feathers give us is
greater than this suffering; we are entitled to weigh the one against
the other. Yet few of that same public would dream of saying this if
with their own eyes they saw the tortures; for then the pleasure they
talk of would have vanished in the memory of those quivering visions.
Out of sheer sluggishness of imagination, out of mere laziness of mind,
then, is made that rather pitiable plea—our pleasure is greater than
their suffering.
Yes! Nearly all the suffering we inflict, whether on human beings or on
animals, comes from our not thinking. Many people gravely distrust that
practice. For all that, I venture to suggest that a little more thought
will do no harm to any of us.
We pass this way but once, but once tread this world, and live in
communion with these furred and feathered things, many of them
beautiful, in a thousand ways so like ourselves, often friendly if we
would let them be, and yet who, one and all, are so simple and helpless
in the face of our force and ingenuity. Shall we, as we vanish, say: “I
have lived my life as a true lord of creation, taking toll from the
captivities and sufferings of every creature that had not my strength
and cunning!” Or shall we pass out with the thought: “I wish I had not
given needless pain to any living thing!”
V
VIVISECTION OF DOGS
(Letters to _The Times_, 1913.)
(1)
Whatever one’s beliefs concerning the whole question of experiments on
the living body, the vivisection of dogs is a strange anomaly. Even if
it be granted that the dog, by reason of its intelligence and nervous
organisation, is more fitted than other animals for certain
vivisectional experiments (though I believe this is disputed), there are
yet basic considerations which make such treatment of the dog a
scandalous betrayal. Man, no doubt, first bound or bred the dog to his
service and companionship for purely utilitarian reasons; but we of
to-day, by immemorial tradition and a sentiment that has become almost
as inherent in us as the sentiment towards children, give him a place in
our lives utterly different from that which we accord to any other
animal (not even excepting cats); a place that he has won for himself
throughout the ages, and that he ever increasingly deserves. He is by
far the nearest thing to man on the face of the earth; the one link that
we have spiritually with the animal creation; the one dumb creature into
whose eyes we can look and tell pretty well for certain what emotion,
even what thought is at work within; the one dumb creature which—not as
a rare exception, but almost always—steadily feels the sentiments of
love and trust. This special nature of the dog is our own handiwork, a
thing instilled into him through thousands of years of intimacy, care,
and mutual service, deliberately and ever more carefully fostered;
extraordinarily precious even to those of us who profess to be without
sentiment. It is one of the prime factors of our daily lives in all
classes of society—this mute partnership with dogs; and—we are still
vivisecting them!
I am told that pro-vivisectionists are fighting tooth and nail against
the Bill (now in committee stage in the House of Commons) which has for
object the exemption of dogs from all vivisectional and inoculative
experiments. If it indeed be so, I ask them: “Would you, any one of you,
give your own dog up to the vivisector’s knife, or respect a man who
gave or sold you his dog for your experiments?” I take it they would
reply: “We would not give our own dogs. We should think poorly of the
man who sold or gave us his dog. The dogs we use are homeless,
masterless, dogs.” And in turn I would answer: “There are no dogs born
in this country without home or master. The dogs you use are those who
have already fallen on cruelty or misfortune, whom as kindly men you
pity or should pity; these are the dogs, the lost dogs that you take for
your experiments, to make their ends more wretched than their lives have
been!”
If this be sentiment, it is not mere cultured sentiment, but based on a
very real and simple sense of what is decent. Miners, farmers,
shepherds, little shopmen, gamekeepers, and humble men of all sorts, who
own dogs, have precisely the same feeling—that the dog is essentially
the friend of man, deserving loyal treatment. We all have this feeling;
yet, when for our alleged benefit we want to violate it, we can still
say: “Oh! it does not matter; this dog is already down!” In a word, what
we would not do with our own dogs we have no right to do with dogs that
have not had the luck to be ours. It is not so much a question of love
of dogs as of good faith in men.
I do not wish to enter here into the general question of vivisection,
but I do plead that, whether we believe in vivisection or not, we are
bound, in common honour, to make a clean and whole-hearted exception of
the one creature whom we have trained to really trust and love us. By
not doing so we injure the human spirit.
(2)
I answer the rejoinders to my plea for the exemption of dogs from
vivisection in no spirit of hostility to science, with all respect for
investigators who are inspired by the desire to lessen the sum of
suffering in the world, and not at all assuming that those who support
the vivisection of dogs must needs be without fondness for their
companionship.
I suggest that there is a distinction between being “vivisected” (and in
that word I include inoculations) to save your own life or lessen your
own suffering and being vivisected by your neighbours to save their
lives or lessen their sufferings. The distinction indeed might almost be
called profound. And if my contention that the dog has earned for
himself a consideration from man, I do not say equal, but analogous, to
that which man has for his own species, be admitted, it would follow
that if we approve of cutting up and inoculating the dog, not for his
individual benefit, but for our benefit and for that of his fellow-dogs,
we must also approve of cutting up and inoculating our children and
ourselves, not for our individual benefit, but for the benefit of the
race, having regard to the immeasurably more direct results which
science would secure from vivisections and inoculations on the human
body. It is possible, indeed, that some vivisectors are prepared, in the
interests of the scientific treatment of disease, to say: “I am so
entirely, so definitely, convinced of the benefits to the human race of
these experiments that I am ready to give not only my dog but my child,
my wife, myself if necessary, for the good of mankind.” But I
personally—and I venture to think there may be others of the same
opinion—am not prepared to go so far. And I plead simply that if we are
not ready to make martyrs of our children and heroes of ourselves, the
time has come when we are no longer entitled to make martyrs of dogs.
The issue raised, in fact, is whether or no the dog has reached a
position where it becomes unethical to treat him as if he had not
reached that position.
There are innumerable people in all ranks of our civilized world who
would echo the words I heard last night: “If I were condemned to spend
twenty-four hours alone with a single creature, I would choose to spend
them with my dog.” Granting that most people would make two or three
human exceptions, the saying expresses a true feeling. There is a quiet
comfort in the companionship of a dog, with its ever-ready touching
humility, which human companionship, save of the nearest, does not
bring; and I assert that this boon, to mankind—of dog’s
companionship—does raise the dog on to the peculiar plane of ethical
consideration which we apply to ourselves. There is no need to adduce
stories of how “Dash” or “Don” saved the gardener’s baby from setting
herself on fire, or swam to the rescue of little Thomas who was
drowning; we have only to watch dogs in house or street. I noted three
yesterday afternoon, the only three in the street at the moment. The
first, a fox-terrier, was trotting along quite by himself with an air of
mastery of London that could not have been excelled by the best “man of
the world” amongst us. No other sort of animal could have even begun to
walk the streets of man with that quiet busy confidence. The second, a
spaniel, was looking up at his mistress—it is not often that children
and their mothers have the confidence in each other that those two
certainly had. The third, a retriever, was towing an infirm old
gentleman.
Yes, the position of the dog is unique. We have made him intelligent;
and it is sinister ethics to choose him for vivisections or inoculations
because of the very intelligence we have implanted. We have taught him
faith and love, and I feel are ourselves bound by what we have taught
him. Into other animals we have not instilled these qualities, we are
therefore not bound to the same special faith with them that we owe to
the dog.
My plea being simply that men cannot make friends of dogs and then treat
them as if that relationship did not exist, I am not concerned to
discuss the disputed question of whether or not special benefit does
arise from experiments on dogs; but, in regard to suffering in such
experiments, take the Home Office Returns for 1911: “Dogs and cats
experimented upon _without anæsthetics_, 452. Dogs and cats allowed to
recover after serious operations, 393”; and the words of the Report of
the Royal Commission on Vivisection: “It is clear that even if the
initial procedure may be regarded as trivial, the subsequent results of
this procedure must in some cases, at any rate, be productive of great
pain and much suffering.”
After all, we have not only bodies but spirits, and when our minds have
once become alive to ethical doubt on a question such as this (there are
870,000 signatures to a petition for the total exemption of dogs from
vivisection), when we are no longer sure that we have the right so to
treat our dog comrades, there has fallen a shadow on the human
conscience that will surely grow, until, by adjustment of our actions to
our ethical sense, it has been remedied.