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THE
LOGIC OF VEGETARIANISM

ESSAYS AND DIALOGUES

BY

HENRY S. SALT

AUTHOR OF

"ANIMALS' RIGHTS, CONSIDERED IN RELATION TO SOCIAL PROGRESS"

SECOND EDITION, REVISED

LONDON

GEORGE BELL AND SONS

YORK HOUSE, PORTUGAL STREET

1906

THE MORALIST AT THE SHAMBLES.

Where slaughter'd beasts lie quivering, pile on pile,

And bare-armed fleshers, bathed in bloody dew,

Ply hard their ghastly trade, and hack and hew,

And mock sweet Mercy's name, yet loathe the while

The lot that chains them to this service vile,

Their hands in hideous carnage to imbrue:

Lo, there!—the preacher of the Good and True,

The Moral Man, with sanctimonious smile!

"Thrice happy beasts," he murmurs, "'tis our love,

Our thoughtful love that sends ye to the knife

(Nay, doubt not, as ye welter in your gore!);

For thus alone ye earned the boon of life,

And thus alone the Moralist may prove

His sympathetic soul—by eating more."

PREFACE

In preparing this "Logic of Vegetarianism" for a new edition, I have carefully re-read a sheaf of press opinions which greeted the first appearance of the book some seven years ago, with the hope of profiting by any adverse criticism which might point out arguments that I had overlooked. In this, however, I have been disappointed, for, apart from a few such objections as that raised in all seriousness by the Spectator—that I had not done justice to the great problem of what would become of the Esquimaux—the only definite complaint which I can find is that the representatives of flesh-eating whom I have introduced in the dialogues are deliberately made to talk nonsense. "It is easy," said one critic, "to confute an opponent if you have the selection of the arguments and the framing of the replies."

I ought not, perhaps, to have expected that the assurance given in my introductory chapter (p. 2) as to the authenticity of the anti-vegetarian pleadings would shield me from this charge; indeed, the Vegetarian Messenger, in a friendly review of the book, expressed doubt as to the policy of using dialogue at all, because, as it remarked, "the arguments against vegetarianism are often so silly that it looks as if the author had set up a man of straw in order to demolish him." Yet, as the Messenger itself added, "there is not an argument against vegetarianism quoted in this volume which we have not, time after time, seen seriously brought forward by our opponents." Surely it would be a strange thing if food reformers had to avoid any terse presentment of their adversaries' reasoning for the very fact of its imbecility!

And there is this further question. If I have failed to include in my selection the effective arguments against vegetarianism, where and what are they? Looking through those cited in the press notices, I can discover none that seem to be formidable; but rather than again be suspected of unfair suppression, let me frankly quote the following specimens of the beef-eater's philosophy:

"The proof that man should eat meat is that he always has done so, does now, and always will."

And again:

"Nobody will want to make out that he (the advocate of vegetarianism) is wrong, but folk will just go on suiting themselves as before. Shelley and Thoreau, Wagner and Edward FitzGerald, were vegetarians, but, then, Wellington and Gladstone partook of the roast beef of Old England, and were none the worse."

There is a sublime simplicity about these statements which is most impressive, but I cannot think that any wrong is done to the case against vegetarianism by not including them in a discussion which purports to be a logical one.

H. S. S.

CONTENTS

THE

LOGIC OF VEGETARIANISM

INTRODUCTORY

It is the special purpose of this book to set forth in a clear and rational manner the logic of vegetarianism. To the ethical, the scientific, and the economic aspects of the system much attention has already been given by well-accredited writers, but there has not as yet been any organised effort to present the logical view—that is, the dialectical scope of the arguments, offensive and defensive, on which the case for vegetarianism is founded. I am aware that mere logic is not in itself a matter of first-rate importance, and that a great humane principal, based on true natural instinct, will in the long-run have fulfilment, whatever wordy battles may rage around it for a time; nevertheless, there is no better method of hastening that result than to set the issues before the public in a plain and unmistakable light. I wish, therefore, in this work, to show what vegetarianism is, and (a scarcely less essential point) what vegetarianism is not.

For though, owing to the propaganda carried on for the last fifty years, there has been an increasing talk of vegetarianism, and a considerable discussion of its doctrines, there are still very numerous misunderstandings of its real aims and meaning. In this, as in other phases of the great progressive movement of which vegetarianism is a part, to give expression to a new idea is to excite a host of blind and angry prejudices. The champions of the old are too disdainful to take counsel with the champions of the new; hence they commonly attribute to them designs quite different from those which they really entertain, and unconsciously set up a straw man for the pleasure of pummelling him with criticism. Devoid always of a sense of sympathy, and mostly of a sense of humour, they absurdly exaggerate the least vital points in their adversaries' reasoning, while they often fail to note what is the very core of the controversy. It is therefore of great concern to vegetarianism that its case should be so stated as to preclude all possibility of doubt as to the real issues involved. If agreement is beyond our reach, let us at least ascertain the precise point of our disagreement.

With a view to this result, it will be convenient to have recourse now and then to the form of dialogue, so as to bring into sharper contrast the pros and cons of the argument. Nor will these conversations be altogether imaginary, for, to avoid any suspicion of burlesquing the counter-case of our opponents by a fanciful presentment, I shall introduce only such objections to vegetarianism as have actually been insisted on—the stock-objections, in fact, which crop up again and again in all colloquies on food reform—with sometimes the very words of the flesh-eating disputant. It is not my fault if some of these objections appear to be foolish. I have often marvelled at the reckless way in which those who would combat new and unfamiliar notions step forth to the encounter, unprovided with intellectual safeguards, and trusting wholly to certain ancient generic fallacies, which, if we may judge from their appearance in all ages and climates, are indigenous in the human mind. Many of the difficulties which the flesh-eater to-day propounds to the vegetarian are the same, mutatis mutandis, as those which have at various times been cast in the teeth of the reformer by the apologists of every cruel and iniquitous custom, from slave-holding to the suttee.

To show the unreality of these sophisms, by clearing away the misconceptions upon which they rest, and to state the creed of vegetarianism as preached and practised by its friends rather than as misapprehended by its foes—such is the object of this work. To make "conversions," in the ordinary sense, is not my concern. What we have to do is to discover who are flesh-eaters by ingrained conviction, and who by thoughtlessness and ignorance, and to bring over to our side from the latter class those who are naturally allied to us, though by accident ranged in opposition. And this, once more, can only be done by making the issues unmistakable.

Incidentally, I hope these pages may suggest to our antagonists that vegetarians, perhaps, are not the weak brainless sentimentalists that they are so often depicted. It is, to say the least of it, entertaining when a critic who has just been inquiring (for example) "what would become of the animals" if mankind were to desist from eating them, goes on to remark of vegetarians that "their hearts are better than their heads." Alas, we cannot truthfully return the compliment by saying of such a philosopher that his head is better than his heart! It cannot be too strongly stated that the appeal of vegetarianism, as of all humane systems, is not to heart alone, nor to brain alone, but to brain and heart combined, and that if its claims fail to win this double judgment they are necessarily void and invalid. The test of logic, no less than the test of feeling, is deliberately challenged by us; for it is only by those who can think as well as feel, and feel as well as think, that the diet question, or indeed any great social question, can ever be brought to its solution.

WHY "VEGETARIAN"?

The term "vegetarian," as applied to those who abstain from all flesh food, but not necessarily from such animal products as eggs, milk, and cheese, appears to have come into existence over fifty years ago, at the time of the founding of the Vegetarian Society in 1847. Until that date no special name had been appropriated for the reformed diet system, which was usually known as the "Pythagorean" or "vegetable diet," as may be seen by a reference to the writings of that period. Presumably, it was felt that when the movement grew in volume, and was about to enter on a new phase, with an organised propaganda, it was advisable to coin for it an original and distinctive title. Whether, from this point of view, the name "vegetarian" was wisely or unwisely chosen is a question on which there has been some difference of opinion among food reformers themselves, and it is possible that adverse criticism would have been still more strongly expressed but for the fact that no better title has been forthcoming.

On the whole, the name "vegetarian" seems to be fairly serviceable, its disadvantage being that it gives occasion for sophistry on the part of captious opponents. In all controversies such as that of which vegetarianism is the subject there are verbalists who cannot see beyond the outer shell of a word to the thing which the word signifies, and who delight to chop logic and raise small obstacles, as thus:

Verbalist: Why "vegetarian"?

Vegetarian: Why not "vegetarian"?

Verbalist: How can it be consistent with vegetarianism to consume, as you admit you do, milk, butter, cheese, and eggs, all of which are choice foods from the animal kingdom?

Vegetarian: That entirely depends on what is meant by "vegetarianism."

Verbalist: Well, surely its meaning is obvious—a diet of vegetables only, with no particle of animal substance.

Vegetarian: As a matter of fact, such is not, and has never been, its accepted meaning. The question was often debated in the early years of the Vegetarian Society, and it was always held that the use of eggs and milk was not prohibited. "To induce habits of abstinence from the flesh of animals (fish, flesh, fowl) as food" was the avowed aim of vegetarianism, as officially stated on the title-page of its journal.

Verbalist: But the word "vegetarian"—what other meaning can it have than that which I have attributed to it?

Vegetarian: Presumably those who invented the word were the best judges of its meaning, and what they meant by it is proved beyond a doubt by the usage of the Society.

Verbalist: But had they a right thus to twist the word from its natural derivation?

Vegetarian: If you appeal to etymology, that raises another question altogether, and here, too, you will find the authorities against you. No one has a better right to speak on this matter than Professor J. E. B. Mayor, the great Latin scholar, and he states that, looking at the word etymologically, "vegetarian" cannot mean "an eater of vegetables." It is derived from vegetus, "vigorous," and means, strictly interpreted, "one who aims at vigour." Mind, I am not saying that the originators of the term "vegetarian" had this meaning in view, but merely that the etymological sense of the word does not favour your contention any more than the historical.

Verbalist: Well, what does "vegetarian" mean, then? How do you explain it yourself?

Vegetarian: A "vegetarian" is one who abstains from eating the flesh of animals, and whose food is mainly derived from the vegetable kingdom.

The above dialogue will show the absurdity and injustice of charging vegetarians, as the late Sir Henry Thompson did, with "equivocal terms, evasion—in short, untruthfulness," because they retain a title which was originally invented for their case. The statement that vegetarians have changed the meaning of their name, owing to inability to find adequate nourishment on purely vegetable diet, is founded on similar ignorance of the facts. Here are two specimens of Sir Henry Thompson's inaccuracy. In 1885 he wrote:

"It is high time that we should be spared the obscure language, or rather the inaccurate statement, to which milk and egg consumers are committed, in assuming a title which has for centuries belonged to that not inconsiderable body of persons whose habits of life confer the right to use it."[^[1]]

Observe that Sir Henry Thompson was then under the impression that the name "vegetarian" (invented in 1847) was "centuries" old! Nor, names apart, was he any more accurate as regards the practice itself, for it can be proved on the authority of a long succession of writers, from the time of Ovid to the time of Shelley, that the use of milk and its products has been from the first regarded as compatible with the Pythagorean or "vegetable" diet. The fact that some individual abstainers from flesh have also abstained from all animal substances is no justification of the attempt to impose such stricter abstinence on all vegetarians on peril of being deprived of their name.

Thirteen years later Sir Henry Thompson's argument was entirely changed. His assertion of the antiquity of the name "vegetarian" was quietly dropped; in fact, its novelty was now rather insisted on.

"They (the "vegetarians") emphatically state that they no longer rely for their diet on the produce of the vegetable kingdom, differing from those who originally adopted the name at a date by no means remote."[^[2]]

But our critic was again absolutely mistaken. There is no difference whatever between the diet of those who adopted the name at the date by no means remote and that of those who bear it now. Now, as then, there are some few vegetarians who abjure all that is of the animal, but the rule of the Society now, as then, is that the use of eggs and milk is permissible. At the third annual meeting, held in 1850, it was stated by one of the speakers that "the limits within which the dietary of the Vegetarian Society was restricted excluded nothing but the flesh and blood of animals."

To avoid any possible misunderstanding, let me repeat that it is no part of the case for vegetarianism to defend the name "vegetarian" in itself; it may be a good name or a bad one. What we defend is our right to the title, an indefeasible historical claim which is not to be upset by any such unfounded and self-contradictory assertions as those quoted.

But it may be said that even if the title is historically genuine, it would be better to change it, as it evidently leads to misunderstanding. We should be perfectly willing to do this, but for two difficulties: first, that no other satisfactory title has ever been suggested, and secondly that, as the word "vegetarian" has now a recognised place in the language, it would scarcely be possible to get rid of it; at any rate, the substitute, to have the least chance of success, would have to be very terse, popular, and expressive. Take, for example, the name "flesh-abstainer," or "akreophagist," proposed by Sir Henry Thompson. The obvious objection to such terms is that they are merely negative, and give the notion that we are abstinents and nothing more. We do not at all object to the use of the term "flesh-abstainer" as explanatory of "vegetarian," but we do object to it as a substitute, for as such it would give undue prominence to our disuse of flesh food, which, after all, is merely one particular result of a general habit of mind. Let us state it in this way: Our view of life is such that flesh-eating is abhorrent and impossible to us; but the mere fact that this abstinence attracts the special attention of flesh-eaters, and becomes the immediate subject of controversy, does not make it the sum and substance of our creed. We hold that in a rational and humanised society there could be no question at all about such a practice as flesh-eating; the very idea of it would be insufferable. Therefore we object to be labelled with a negative term which only marks our divergence from other persons' diet; we prefer something that is positive and indicative of our own. And until we find some more appropriate title, we intend to make the best of what we have got.

The whole "Why 'vegetarian'?" argument is, in fact, a disingenuous one. The practical issue between "vegetarians" and flesh-eaters has always been perfectly clear to those who wished to understand it, and the attempt made by the verbalists to distract attention from the thing in order to fasten it on the name is nothing but sophistical. Of this main practical issue, and of the further distinction between the "vegetarian" or flesh-abstaining diet and the purely vegetable diet, I will speak in the following chapter.

THE RAISON D'ÊTRE OF VEGETARIANISM

Behind the mere name of the reformed diet, whatever name be employed (and, as we have seen, "vegetarian" at present holds the field), lies the far more important reality. What is the raison d'être, the real purport of vegetarianism? Certainly not any a priori assumption that all animal substances, as such, are unfit for human food; for though it is quite probable that the movement will ultimately lead us to the disuse of animal products, vegetarianism is not primarily based on any such hard-and-fast formula, but on the conviction, suggested in the first place by instinctive feeling, but confirmed by reason and experience, that there are certain grave evils inseparable from the practice of flesh-eating. The aversion to flesh food is not chemical, but moral, social, hygienic. Believing as we do that the grosser forms of diet not only cause a vast amount of unnecessary suffering to the animals, but also react most injuriously on the health and morals of mankind, we advocate their gradual discontinuance; and so long as this protest is successfully launched, the mere name by which it is called is a matter of minor concern. But here on this practical issue, as before on the nominal issue, we come into conflict with the superior person who, with a smile of supercilious compassion, cannot see why we poor ascetics should thus afflict ourselves without cause.

Superior Person: But why, my dear sir—why should you refuse a slice of roast beef? What is the difference between roasting an ox and boiling an egg? In the latter case you are eating an animal in embryo—that is all.

Vegetarian: Do you not draw any distinction between the lower and the higher organisation?

Superior Person: None whatever. They are chemically identical in substance.

Vegetarian: Possibly; but we were talking, not of chemistry, but of morals, and an egg is certainly not morally identical with an ox.

Superior Person: How or where does the moral phase of food-taking enter the science of dietetics?

Vegetarian: At a good many points, I think. One of them is the question of cannibalism. Allow me to read you a passage from the "Encyclopædia Britannica": "Man being by nature {?} carnivorous as well as frugivorous, and human flesh being not unfit for human food, the question arises why mankind generally have not only avoided it, but have looked with horror on exceptional individuals and races addicted to cannibalism. It is evident on consideration that both emotional and religious motives must have contributed to bring about this prevailing state of mind."

Superior Person: Of course. Why read me all that?

Vegetarian: To show you that what you call "the moral phase of food-taking" has undoubtedly affected our diet. The very thought of eating human flesh is revolting to you. Yet human flesh is chemically identical with animal flesh, and if it be true that to boil an egg is the same thing as to roast an ox, it follows that to butcher an ox is the same thing as to murder a man. Such is the logical position in which you have placed yourself by ignoring the fact that all life is not equally valuable, but that the higher the life the greater the responsibility incurred by those who destroy it.

Or it may be that the superior person, instead of denying that morals affect dietetics, himself poses as so austere a moralist as to scorn the wretched half-measure of merely abstaining from flesh food while still using animal products. The result is in either case the same. The all-or-nothing argument is sometimes put forward in this fashion:

Superior Person: Well, as far as the right or wrong of the question is concerned, I would not care to be a vegetarian at all, unless I were a thorough one. What can be the good of forswearing animal food in one form if you take it in another?

Vegetarian: But surely it is rational to deal with the worst abuses first. To insist on an all-or-nothing policy would be fatal to any reform whatsoever. Improvements never come in the mass, but always by instalment; and it is only reactionists who deny that half a loaf is better than no bread.

Superior Person: But in this case I understand that it is quite possible to be consistent. There are individuals, are there not, who live upon a purely vegetable diet, without using milk or eggs? Now, those are the people whose action one can at least appreciate and respect.

Vegetarian: Quite so. We fully admit that they are in advance of their fellows. We regard them as pioneers, who are now anticipating a future phase of our movement.

Superior Person: You admit, then, that this extreme vegetarianism is the more ideal diet?

Vegetarian: Yes. To do more than you have undertaken to do is a mark of signal merit; but no discredit attaches on that account to those who have done what they undertook. We hold that "the first step," as Tolstoy has expressed it, is to clear one's self of all complicity in the horrible business of the slaughter-house.

Superior Person: Well, I must repeat that, were I to practise any form of asceticism, I should incline to that which does not do things by halves.

Vegetarian: Of course. That is invariably the sentiment of those who do not do things at all.

Asceticism! such is the strange idea with which, in many minds, our principles are associated. It would be impossible to take a more erroneous view of modern vegetarianism; and it is only through constitutional or deliberate blindness to the meaning of the movement that such a misconception can arise. How can we convey to our flesh-eating friends, in polite yet sufficiently forcible language, that their diet is an abomination to us, and that our "abstinence," far from being ascetic, is much more nearly allied to the joy that never palls? Is the farmer an ascetic because, looking over into his evil-smelling pigsty, he has no inclination to swill himself from the same trough as the swine? And why, then, should it be counted asceticism on our part to refuse, on precisely the same grounds, to eat the swine themselves? No; our opponents must clearly recognise, if they wish to form any correct notion of vegetarianism, that it is based, not on asceticism, but æstheticism; not on the mortification, but the gratification of the higher pleasures.

We conclude, then, that the cause which vegetarians have at heart is the outcome, not of some barren academic formula, but of a practical reasoned conviction that flesh food, especially butchers' meat, is a harmful and barbarous diet. Into the details of this belief we need not at present enter; it has been sufficient here to show that such belief exists, and that the good people who can see in vegetarianism nothing but a whimsical "fad" have altogether failed to grasp its true purport and significance. The raison d'être of vegetarianism is the growing sense that flesh-eating is a cruel, disgusting, unwholesome, and wasteful practice, and that it behoves humane and rational persons, disregarding the common cant about "consistency" and "all-or-nothing," to reform their diet to what extent and with what speed they can.

THE PAST AND PRESENT OF
VEGETARIANISM

But, it may be said, before entering on a consideration of this reformed diet, for which such great merits are claimed by its exponents, the practical man is justified in asking for certain solid assurances, since busy people cannot be expected to give their time to speculations which, however beautiful in themselves, may prove at the end to be in conflict with the hard facts of life. And the first of these questions is, What is the historic basis of vegetarianism? In what sense is it an old movement, and in what sense a new one? Has it a past which may serve in some measure to explain its present and guarantee its future?

Such questions have been dealt with fully from time to time in vegetarian literature.[^[3]] I can here do no more than epitomise the answers. Vegetarianism, regarded simply as a practice and without relation to any principle, is of immemorial date; it was, in fact, as physiology shows us, the original diet of mankind, while, as history shows us, it has always been the diet of the many, as flesh food has been the diet of the few, and even to this day it is the main support of the greater part of the world's inhabitants. Numberless instances might be quoted in proof of these assertions; it is sufficient to refer to the people of India, China, and Japan, the Egyptian fellah, the Bedouin Arab, the peasantry of Russia and Turkey, the labourers and miners of Chili and other South American States; and, to come nearer home, the great bulk of the country folk in Western Europe and Great Britain. The peasant, here and all the world over, has been, and still is, in the main a vegetarian, and must for the most part continue so; and the fact that this diet has been the result, not of choice, but of necessity, does not lessen the significance of its perfect sufficiency to maintain those who do the hard work of the world. Side by side with the tendency of the wealthier classes to indulge more and more in flesh food has been the undisputed admission that for the workers such luxuries were unneeded.

During the last half-century, however, as we all know, the unhealthy and crowded civilisation of great industrial centres has produced among the urban populations of Europe a craving for flesh food, which has resulted in their being fed largely on cheap butchers' meat and offal; while there has grown up a corresponding belief that we must look almost entirely to a flesh diet for bodily and mental vigour. It is in protest against this comparatively new demand for flesh as a necessity of life that vegetarianism, as a modern organised movement, has arisen.

Secondly, if we look back for examples of deliberate abstinence from flesh—that is, of vegetarianism practised as a principle before it was denoted by a name—we find no lack of them in the history of religious and moral systems and individual lives. Such abstinence was an essential feature in the teaching of Buddha and Pythagoras and is still practised in the East on religious and ceremonial grounds by Brahmins and Buddhists. It was inculcated in the humanitarian writings of great "pagan" philosophers, such as Plutarch and Porphyry, whose ethical precepts, as far as the treatment of the lower animals is concerned, are still far in advance of modern Christian sentiment. Again, in the prescribed regimen of certain religious Orders, such as Benedictines, Trappists, and Carthusians, we have further unquestionable evidence of the disuse of flesh food, though in such cases the reason for the abstinence is ascetic rather than humane. When we turn to the biographies of individuals, we learn that there have been numerous examples of what is now called "vegetarianism"—not always consistent, indeed, or continuous in practice, yet sufficiently so to prove the entire possibility of the diet, and to remove it from the category of generous aspiration into that of accomplished fact.[^[4]]

But granting that there is historic basis for the vegetarian system, the question is asked whether, on ethnological evidence, it does not appear that the dominant races have been for the most part carnivorous, and the subject races vegetarian—a line of argument which always appeals strongly to the patriotic Briton.

Patriot: Come, now; it is all very well to talk of philosophers and poets, and I have no doubt you can point to such names among the founders of your creed, but what I ask is, Were the founders of the British Empire vegetarians? Were any great empires ever founded by vegetarians? Was Julius Cæsar a vegetarian? Was Wellington a vegetarian? Can you give me any instance of vegetarianism as a fighting force?

Vegetarian: As regards the rank and file of conquering armies, there are many such instances, both in ancient and modern history. The diet of the Roman soldier was not that of a flesh-eater, and the Roman Empire was assuredly not won by virtue of flesh-eating, but by the hardihood which could subsist on simple rations of wheat, oil, and wine. So, too, the armies which built up the earlier empires of Egypt and Assyria were, for the most part, vegetarian. That is to say, while the rulers and wealthy classes of fighting nations have been carnivorous, the bulk of the soldiery, drawn from the frugal peasant class, has been unaccustomed to such luxuries. The idea that the flesh-eating races have everywhere subjugated the vegetarians is quite illusory.

Patriot: But surely in India the flesh-eating Mohammedan has always conquered the vegetarian Hindu?

Vegetarian: Not by any means always. It took him centuries of fierce fighting to do so, with all the advantages of religious fanaticism on his side, as against an enemy weakened by internal dissension and an enervating climate. But that Mohammedanism does not depend on flesh food for its fighting qualities may be seen from the case of that special ally and favourite of yours, the Turk. Let me read you what the Standard said of him some twenty years back: "From the day of his irruption into Europe, the Turk has always proved himself to be endowed with singularly strong vitality and energy. As a member of a warlike race, he is without equal in Europe in health and hardiness. He can live and fight when soldiers of any other nationality would starve. His excellent physique, his simple habits, his abstinence from intoxicating liquors, and his normal vegetarian diet, enable him to support the greatest hardships, and to subsist on the scantiest and simplest food." Have I said enough to show you that vegetarianism may be a fighting force?

It will be objected, perhaps, that when food reformers claim these fighting qualities for their diet they are proving just a little too much for their principles, as, for example, in the reference to the sanguinary Turk as a practical vegetarian. If the outcome of vegetarian diet is to be war and massacre, how is the system any better than that which it fain would supersede? This brings us back to the starting-point of the present chapter, the distinction between what may be called the old and the new vegetarianism. We have seen that, so far as the common practice is concerned, abstinence from flesh food is as old as history itself, and that rarer instances may be cited of practice and principle combined; but when we regard vegetarianism as a propagandist movement, a conscious endeavour to benefit not merely the individual man, but human society itself, we have to recognise that it is a new movement. From a mere habit of the many, or piety of the few, it has become a reasoned principle, an organised system, with a name and nomenclature of its own: in vulgar language, it is an -ism, and, like other kindred -isms, a part of the great humanitarian impulse of the past hundred years.

The significance of this distinction is considerable. Modern "vegetarianism" is the same, yet not the same, as the "flesh abstinence" that dates from earlier times—the same in so far as the actual dietary is concerned, and in some fewer cases the same in principle, but different altogether in the spirit by which that principle is informed; and for this reason it would be ridiculous to judge vegetarianism as a whole by the character of those races who happen to have been abstainers from flesh, and who are merely quoted as proving the physical sufficiency of the diet. In a word, ethnical vegetarianism and ethical vegetarianism are two very different things.

It has also to be remembered that the modern vegetarian appeals not to humane instinct only, but to physiological facts, and that the movement has now become to a very large extent a scientific and hygienic one, thus again differing widely from the merely empirical and unconscious vegetarianism of earlier times. These several aspects of the system will be reviewed in succeeding chapters; it is enough here to repeat that vegetarianism as a practice is immemorial, as a precept is of great antiquity, but as an organised cult is one of the new revolutionary forces of modern times.

STRUCTURAL EVIDENCE

We have seen, then, that vegetarianism, though new as a propagandist doctrine, has its historical record; but if we wish thoroughly to understand its origin, we must go back beyond history to the more ancient and more durable evidence of the organic structure of Man. Here we come in conflict with what is, perhaps, the strangest of the many strange prejudices that oppose the humane diet—the superstition, so common among the uneducated, and connived at, if not shared, by some of the "scientific" themselves, that the verdict of comparative anatomy is fatal to the vegetarian claims. So far is this from being the case that the great naturalists, from Linnæus onward, give implicit judgment to the contrary, by classing mankind with the frugivorous family of the anthropoid apes. Thus Sir Richard Owen says:

"The apes and monkeys, which man most nearly resembles in his dentition, derive their staple food from fruits, grain, the kernels of nuts, and other forms in which the most sapid and nutritious tissues of the vegetable kingdom are elaborated; and the close resemblance between the quadrumanous and the human dentition shows that man was, from the beginning more especially adapted 'to eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden.'"[^[5]]

And here is the more recent verdict of Sir Benjamin Richardson:

"On the whole, I am bound to give judgment on the evidence of the teeth rather in favour of the vegetarian argument. It seems fairest of fair to read from nature that the teeth of man were destined—or fitted, if the word destined is objected to—for a plant or vegetable diet, and that the modification due to animal food, by which some change has been made, is practically an accident or necessity, which would soon be rectified if the conditions were rendered favourable to a return to the primitive state.... By weighing the facts that now lie before us, the inference is justified that, in spite of the very long time during which man has been subjected to an animal diet, he retains in preponderance his original and natural taste for an innocent diet derived from the first-fruits of the earth."[^[6]]

Yet, in spite of such testimony, and more of an equally authoritative kind, it is quite a common thing for some flesh-eating "scientist" to allege against vegetarianism the conformation of the human teeth or stomach.

Scientist: But our teeth, my good friend, our teeth! What can be the use of your talking about vegetarianism, when we both of us carry in our mouths a proof of the necessity of flesh-eating.

Vegetarian: But surely you do not hold the popular fallacy that man's canine teeth class him among the carnivora?

Scientist: They prove at least that he is an eater of flesh as well as of vegetables. Why else has he got such teeth?

Vegetarian: Why has a gorilla got such teeth? "For the purpose of combat and defence," Owen tells us, not of food. And if a gorilla, with "canines" much more developed than man's, is a frugivorous animal, why must man with less developed "canines" be carnivorous?

Scientist: Well, well; let us turn to the digestive organs, then. Look at the immense difference between the human stomach and that of the true herbivora. How can mankind get the required nutriment from herbs, when we have not the necessary apparatus for doing so?

Vegetarian: But it has never been argued by us, nor is it in any way essential to our argument, that mankind is herbivorous. What have the herbivora to do with the question?

Scientist: I have seen them quoted in your books as instances of strength and endurance——

Vegetarian: To dispel the illusion that there is no chemical nutriment in anything but flesh food; but that is quite a different thing from asserting that man is himself herbivorous. The point at issue is simple. You charge vegetarians with flying in the face of Nature. We show you, from your own authorities, that the structural evidence, whatever that may be worth (it was you who first appealed to it), pronounces man to have been originally neither carnivorous, nor herbivorous, but frugivorous. If you think otherwise, what do you make of the apes?

The close similarity that exists between the structure of man and that of the anthropoid apes is the hard fact that cannot be evaded by the apologists of flesh-eating. In the conformation alike of brain, of hands, of teeth, of salivary glands, of stomach, we have indisputable proof of the frugivorous origin of man—indeed, it is not seriously questioned by any recognised authority, that man was a fruit-eater in the early stages of his development. As far as comparative anatomy throws light on the diet question, mankind and the apes are, so to speak, "in the same box," and he who would disprove the frugivorous nature of man, must also disprove the frugivorous nature of the anthropoid apes, a predicament of which the more intelligent of our opponents are keenly aware. And this brings us to the second branch of the subject of this chapter.

Whatever his original structure, it is argued, man has extended his resources in the matter of food, and has long been "omnivorous," while his middle position between the carnivora and herbivora indicates that he is naturally suited for a "mixed diet." Omnivorous, it will be noted, is the blessed word that is to bring comfort to flesh-eaters, and the inconvenient apes, whom the naturalists class as frugivorous, have somehow to be dragged in under the category of "omnivorous." But, first, a word about the meaning of this saving term.

Now, I wish to make it plain that vegetarians are not wedded to any a priori theory that the lines of dietetic development are stringently limited by the original structure of man. If the flesh-eater appeals, as he so often does, to physical structure, with the intent of attributing carnivorous instincts to mankind, we confront him with an array of scientific opinion which quickly makes him wish he had let the subject alone; and if he insists on the "evolutional" rather than the "natural" aspect of the problem, we are equally ready to meet him on this newer ground. But we decline to fall victims to the rather disingenuous quibble that lurks in the specious application to mankind of the term "omnivorous."

For what, in the present connection, does the word "omnivorous" mean? It cannot, obviously, mean that man should, like the hog, eat everything, for, if so, it would sanction not only flesh-eating, but cannibalism, and we should have to class mankind (so Professor Mayor has wittily remarked) as hominivorous! It must mean, presumably, that man is fitted to eat not everything, but anything—vegetable food or animal food—implying that he is eclectic in his diet, free to choose what is good and reject what is bad, without being bound by any original law of nature.[^[7]] To the name "omnivorous," used not in the hoggish sense, but in this rational sense, and not excluding, as the scientists would absurdly make it exclude, the force of moral and other considerations, the vegetarian need raise no objection. Man is "omnivorous," is he? He may select his own diet from the vegetable and animal kingdoms? Well and good: that is just what we have always advised him to do, and we are prepared to give reasons, moral and hygienic, why, in making the selection, he should omit the use, not of all animal products, but of flesh. The scientists cannot have it both ways. They cannot dogmatise on diet as a thing settled by comparative anatomy, and also assert that man is "omnivorous"—i.e., free to choose what is best.

But let us return to our monkeys.

Scientist: You just now quoted the gorilla as a frugivorous animal, but, on further consideration, I cannot admit him to be so. He is omnivorous—like man. I have Sir Richard Owen's authority for it.

Vegetarian: What! Does the ape rush upon the antelopes, and rend them with those canine teeth of his? How horrible!

Scientist: Not exactly that; but it was stated by Sir Henry Thompson that "Sally," the large chimpanzee once so popular in the Zoological Gardens, was not infrequently supplied with animal food.

Vegetarian: Well, and how does that prove that the chimpanzee is not naturally frugivorous? I should imagine that any one of us, if placed in a cage, and stared at all the year round by a throng of gaping visitors, might be liable to aberrations. Even a vegetarian might do the same.

Scientist: But in their wild state also the baboons are known to prey on lizards, young birds, eggs, etc., when they can get them. Perhaps you were not aware of this when you called the apes frugivorous?

Vegetarian: I was quite aware of it, and in view of the exceedingly small importance of these casual pilferings as compared with their staple diet, I maintain that they are, for all practical purposes, frugivorous. Indeed, so far from this mischievous penchant of the apes being an argument against vegetarianism, it is most suggestive as explaining how the early savages may have passed, almost by accident at first, from a frugivorous to a mixed diet.

Scientist: Well, at any rate, it indicates that apes have a tendency to become omnivorous.

Vegetarian: Yes, if you like to express it so; and it is still more evident that men have that tendency. But the question is whether the tendency is rightly interpreted as giving a sanction to flesh-eating. For flesh-eating, as we use the term, means the breeding, destroying, and devouring of highly-organised mammals, and is a very different thing from the egg and lizard hunting in which the monkeys sometimes indulge. If you would confine your flesh-eating to a few insects and nestlings, you would have a better right to quote the example of the apes.

Has flesh-eating been a necessary step in man's progress? Without access to the flesh-pots, it has been asked, would not the race have remained in the groves with the orangs and the gorillas? I do not see that vegetarians need concern themselves to answer such speculations, which, interesting though they are, do not bear closely on the present issue. For though, as we have seen, the testimony of the past is in favour of a frugivorous origin, the problem of the present is one which we are free to solve without prejudice, and whether the past use of flesh food, by a portion of the world's inhabitants, has helped or hindered the true development of man is a matter for individual judgment. We may have our own opinion about it. But what we are concerned to prove is that flesh-eating can offer no advantages to us now.

THE APPEAL TO NATURE

Of the many dense prejudices through which, as through a snowdrift, vegetarianism has to plough its way before it can emerge into the field of free discussion, there is none perhaps more inveterate than the common appeal to "Nature." A typical instance of the remarkable misuse of logic which characterises such argument may be seen in the anecdote related by Benjamin Franklin, in his "Autobiography," of the incident which induced him to return, after years of abstinence, to a flesh diet. He was watching some companions sea-fishing, and observing that some of the fish caught by them had swallowed other fish, he concluded that, "If you eat one another, I don't see why we may not eat you"—a confusion of ichthyology and morals which is ludicrous enough as narrated by Franklin, but not essentially more foolish than the attempt so frequently made by flesh-eaters to shuffle their personal responsibility on to some supposed "natural law."

But let the carnivorous anthropologist speak for himself:

Anthropologist: Now, understand me! I think this vegetarianism is well enough as a sentiment; I fully appreciate your aspiration. But you have overlooked the fact that it is contrary to the laws of Nature. It is beautiful in theory, but impossible in practice.

Vegetarian: Indeed! That puts me in an awkward position, as I have been practising it for twenty years.

Anthropologist: It is not the individual that I am speaking of, but the race. A man may practise it perhaps; but mankind cannot do so with impunity.

Vegetarian: And why?

Anthropologist: Because, as the poet says, "Nature is one with rapine." It is natural to kill. Do you dare to impugn Nature?

Vegetarian: Not at all. What I dare to impugn is your incorrect description of Nature. There is a great deal more in Nature than rapine and slaughter.

Anthropologist: What? Do not the beasts and birds prey on one another? Do not the big fish eat the little fish? Is it not all one universal struggle for existence, one internecine strife?

Vegetarian: No; that is just what it is not. There are two principles at work in Nature—the law of competition and the law of mutual aid. There are carnivorous animals and non-carnivorous, predatory races and sociable races; and the vital question is—to which does man belong? You obscure the issue by these vague and meaningless appeals to the "laws of Nature," when, in the first place, you are quoting only part of Nature's ordinance, and, secondly, have not yourself the least intention of conforming even to that part.

Anthropologist: I beg your pardon. In what do I not conform to Nature?

Vegetarian: Well, are you in favour of cannibalism, let us say, or the promiscuous intercourse of the sexes?

Anthropologist: Good gracious, my dear sir! I must entreat you——

Vegetarian: Exactly! You are horrified at the mere mention of such things. Yet these habits are as easily justified as flesh-eating, if you take "Nature" as your model, without specifying whose nature? The nature of the conger and the dog-fish, or the nature of civilised man? Pray tell me that, Mr. Anthropologist, and then our conversation may not be wholly irrelevant.

The idea that the Darwinian doctrine of the "struggle of life" justifies any barbarous treatment of inferior races is ridiculed by so distinguished an authority as Prince Kropotkin, who points out that Darwin does not teach this. "He proves that there is a struggle for existence in order to put a check on the inordinate increase of species. But this struggle is not to be understood in a crude and exclusive sense; there is a law of competition, but there is also—what is still more important—a law of mutual aid, and as soon as the scientist leaves his laboratory, and comes out into the open woods and meadows, he sees the importance of this law. Only those animals who are mutually helpful are really fitted to survive; it is not the strong, but the co-operative species that endure."[^[8]] So, too, with reference to the strange notion that a guide for human conduct may be deduced from some particular animal instinct, taken at haphazard from its surroundings, a timely warning is addressed to such crude reasoners by Professor J. Arthur Thomson: "What we must protest against is that one-sided interpretation, according to which individualistic competition is Nature's sole method of progress.... The precise nature of the means employed and ends attained must be carefully considered, when we seek from the records of animal evolution support or justification for human conduct."[^[9]]

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]]

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.

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.

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]]

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]]

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.

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]]

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]]