illustrations.
Sir Robert Clayton, as commander of a troop of British cavalry, which after service on the Continent was disbanded in the city of York, and the horses sold, could not bear to think that his old fellow-campaigners, who had born brave men to battle, should be ridden to death as butcher’s hacks, or worked in dung-carts till they became dogs’ meat, he therefore purchased a piece of ground upon Knavesmire heath, and turned out the old horses to have their run for life. What made this act to be the longer had in remembrance, was the curious fact, that one day, when these horses were grazing, a thunder-storm gathered, at the fires and sounds of which, as if mistaken for the signs of approaching battle, they were seen to get together and form in line, almost in as perfect order as if they had their old masters on their backs.
Sir James Prior tells us, in the last year of the life of Burke, that a feeble old horse which had been a favourite with young Richard—now dead—and his constant companion in all his rural journeyings and sports, when both were alike healthful and vigorous, was turned out to take the run of the park at Beaconsfield during the remainder of his life, the servants being strictly charged not to ride or in any way molest him. This pour worn-out steed it was that one day drew near to Burke, as the now childless and decrepit statesman was musing in the park, and after some moments of inspection, followed by seeming recollection and confidence, deliberately rested his head upon the old man’s bosom. The singularity of the action, the remembrance of his dead son, its late master, and the apparent attachment and intelligence of the poor brute, as if it could sympathise with his inward sorrows, rushing at once into his mind, totally overpowered his firmness, and throwing his arms over its neck, he wept long and loudly.
John Howard writing home from the Lazaretto, himself sick and a prisoner: “Is my chaise-horse gone blind or spoiled? Duke is well, he must have his range when past his labour; not doing such a cruel thing as I did with the old mare. I have a thousand times repented of it.”—Jacox.
outlines and suggestive comments.
What a cruelty of the wicked is, at its words, words might seem wanting to show, after it has been said that the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel. But “a righteous man regardeth the life of his beast.” Jacob, as flock-master, is studiously careful for his flocks and herds as well as for his tender children; “if men should over-drive them one day, all the flock would die;” so “I will lead on softly,” said he to Esau, “according as the cattle that goeth before me is able to endure.” The angel of the Lord standing in the way, rebukes Balaam for smiting his ass three times: that unrighteous man, wishing there were a sword in his hand, too literally regardeth not the life of his beast. . . . We certainly ought not, pleads Plutarch, to treat living creatures like shoes or household goods, which, when worn out with use, we throw away; and, were it only to learn benevolence to human kind, we should be merciful to other creatures. To be kind to these our fellow-lodgers is common humanity. To be cruel to them is to be below it. It is almost, if not quite, to be a little lower than themselves. It is, maintains, Sir Arthur Helps, an immense responsibility that Providence has thrown upon us in subjecting these sensitive creatures to our complete sway, and he avowedly trembles at the thought of how poor an answer we shall have to give, when asked the question how we have made use of the power entrusted to us over the brute creation. . . . The question of interposing law has been a vexed one, upon which the humanest have differed. . . . So hard-headed and cool-headed a thinker as Stuart Mill is decisive and incisive in his arguments in favour of legal intervention. Mr. Lecky’s suggestion of a doubt whether cruelty to animals can be condemned on utilitarian grounds, is met by the obvious answer that a utilitarian may rationally include in his definition of the greatest number whose happiness is to be the aim of human beings, not only human beings themselves, but all animals capable of being happy or the reverse; besides which it is urged that, even if we limit our view to the good of our own species, the argument is as strong as can be desired. “If the criminality of an action were to be measured simply by its direct effects on human happiness, we might probably urge that the murderer of a grown-up man was worse than the murderer of a child, and far worse than the torturer of a dumb animal. Yet, as a matter of fact, we should probably feel a greater loathing for a man who could torment a beast for his pleasure than for one who should ill-use one of his equals.” For such cruelty is held to indicate, as a rule, a baser nature. A murderer, though generally speaking a man of bad character, is not of necessity cowardly or mean; he may not improbably show some courage, and possibly even some sensibility to the nobler emotions. The tormenter of animals, on the other hand shows callousness of nature, a pleasure in giving pain for the sake of giving pain, which has about it something to be described as devilish. . . . John Foster declared it to be a great sin against moral taste to mention ludicrously, or for ludicrous comparison, circumstances in the animal world which are painful and distressing to the animals that are in them; the simile, for instance, “Like a toad under a harrow.”—Jacox.
Lit. “knoweth.” The Authorised Version gives the right application, but the words remind us that all true sympathy and care must grow out of knowledge. The righteous man tries to know the feelings and life even of the brute beast, and so comes to care for it. “Tender mercies.” Better “the feelings, the emotions” all that should have led to mercy and pity towards man. The circle expands in the one case, narrows in the other.—Plumptre.
When the pulse of kindness beats strong in the heart the warm stream is sent clean through the body of the human family, and retains force enough to expatiate among the living creatures that lie beyond. . . . Cruelty is a characteristic of the wicked in general, and in particular of antichrist—that one, wicked by pre-eminence, whom Christ shall yet destroy by the brightness of His coming. By their fruits ye shall know them. The page of history is spotted with the cruelties of papal Rome. The red blood upon his garments is generally the means of discovering a murderer. The trailing womanish robes of the papal high priest are deeply stained with the blood of the saints. The same providence which employs the bloody tinge to detect the common murderer has left more lasting marks of Rome’s cruelty. The Bartholomew massacre, for example, is recorded in more enduring characters than the stains of that blood which soaked the soil of France. The pope and his cardinals rejoiced greatly when they heard the news. So lively was their gratitude that they cast a medal to record it on. There stands the legend, raised in brass and silver—“Strages Huguenotorum” (the slaughter of the Huguenots)—in perpetual memory of the delight wherewith that wicked antichrist regarded the foulest butchery of men by their fellows that this sin-cursed earth has ever seen. That spot will not out with all their washings.—Arnot.
It is better to be the beast of a righteous man than the son of a wicked man; nay, it is better to be the beast of a righteous man than to be a wicked man. For the righteous will do right unto his beast; the merciful man hath sense of mercy wheresoever is sense of misery, and while in mercy he regardeth the life of the beast that is beneath him, he is made like unto God, who is so far above him. But the wicked man’s tender mercies are “mercies of the cruel,” or else his tender mercies are cruel, hurting as much as severe cruelty; and therefore many times a wicked father’s fond affection is the utter undoing of a petted child, and sparing pity, where evil should be chastised, is the breeding nurse of mischief which cannot be helped. The fond mercies whereby the wicked favoureth himself in sloth and idleness, whereby he pleaseth himself with pleasures and delights, whereby he pampereth himself with delicate and luscious meats, whereby he restraineth not his lusts and desires—what are they but cruelties whereby he tormenteth his body with sickness and quickly killeth it, and whereby he wilfully destroyeth his soul.—Jermin.
The worldly care of a high prosperous man may seem very tender to those dependent on him and towards others; but the very tenderness of an impenitent example is the higher snare, the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel. . . . Religion has no austerities that make a true saint careless of the life or feelings even of his beast. On the contrary, it breeds the most pervading tenderness; whereas the wise worldling, however careful of his home and tender towards all who have any claim upon his care, yet in admitting that there is a hell, and neglecting all prayer for his household, and all example, except one that braves the worst, breeds children simply to destroy them.—Miller.