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A specialist in eighteenth-century British literature and culture, Kathryn Shevelow is a professor at the University of California in San Diego. She is the author of Charlotte: Being a True Account of an Actress’s Flamboyant Adventures in Eighteenth-Century London’s Wild and Wicked Theatrical World and Women and Print Culture. She lives in Solana Beach, California.
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Introduction: Saved
A gray tabby cat with gorgeous green eyes and fuzzy white paws like bedroom slippers sits purring on my lap as I write: a loving creature with a big personality, he likes to watch the cursor scurry around the computer screen. His name is Graham, and my husband and I met him seven years ago at our local humane society shelter here in California, where he had arrived as a kitten, malnourished and sick, his beautiful coat filthy and matted. The police, responding to neighbors complaints, had investigated a foul-smelling house where they found more than seventy emaciated, flea-ridden cats. Graham’s rescuers administered food and antibiotics, cleaned him up, gave him his improbable name (for a cat)âa name that we could not change, for it suits him perfectlyâand put him in the kitten adoption room, where he claimed the attention of everyone who entered. We were lucky to arrive shortly thereafter, and he went home with us that day: he was irresistible then, and he remains irresistible now.
Graham shares our home with two other cats. Our calico, Chloe, whom we adopted from the same shelter eighteen years ago, is the undisputed matriarch of us all. She still loves to drape herself over my shoulders and ride regally around the house. Young Maxine, whose lynx-point coloring and stocky, bowlegged body give her the appearance of a Siamese cat crossed with a bulldog, had been found on the street as a sickly stray kitten and taken to our veterinarian. Now sleek and healthy, she requests our attention by tapping us gently with her paw, gazing up at us with her endearingly crossed blue eyes.
My stepdaughter in Washington, D.C., adopted Elsa, a loving brindle pit bull mix, from a local shelter: Elsa had been removed from a backyard littered with feces and broken glass, where she had been tied up, starved, and exposed to the weather; she was restored to health, put up for adoption, and now enjoys watching television on the living room couch. My sister in Ohio has a sweet Labrador retriever, Molly, who was discovered twelve years ago when she was an abandoned puppy, wandering the streets of her town. The animal control officer, a friend, picked her up, took her to a vet, and then called my sister: now Molly enthusiastically dives into the family pool after tennis balls. Another sister and her husband, who live on an Ohio farm, foster horses that the humane society has rescued from their abusive owners. Their current resident, a Thoroughbred named Hank, came to them a living skeleton; only the photograph taken at the time of his arrival makes it possible to connect that frail beast with the chestnut beauty frisking in their pasture today.
Most of us take these kinds of stories for granted. Many of us know someone who has adopted a rescued animal, and quite a few of us have done so ourselves. Sadly, the other side of this coin is that animals so commonly need to be rescued. Whether by running a dogfighting ring or a disease-ridden puppy mill, by leaving horses to starve in a grassless paddock, or by obsessively hoarding and neglecting cats, humans are capable of extraordinary cruelty to the nonhuman animals over whom they have power. Often the stories are simply heartbreakingâsometimes owners are too sick, elderly, or poor to care for their pets, as was probably the case in Graham’s original home. Other stories supply horrifying examples of negligence and cruelty. There is nothing new in this.
What is new, howeverâquite new, historically speakingâis that we have laws designed to protect animals from mistreatment. We hold their abusers accountable. Rescues like those that saved Graham, Elsa, and Hank are often the result of investigations conducted by authoritiesâpolice, animal control officers, and humane law enforcement agentsâwho upon receiving reports of suspected animal abuse are empowered to enter private premises, confiscate animals if their condition warrants it, and often make arrests. Abusers may find themselves in court, and if convicted they face penalties ranging from a fine and probation to prison.
It is all too true that our current animal cruelty laws are woefully inadequate, covering too few animals and permitting too many exemptions, inconsistent enforcement, and slap-on-the-wrist punishments. Political progress on animal welfare issues is slow and uneven. Pets may now have protection from abuse, but, like all other beasts, they are still viewed as property. Large categories of animalsâmost importantly, those in our politically powerful industrial agriculture systemâare exempt from most anticruelty laws. Nonetheless, there is progress: animal protection laws do exist and, however slowly, they are increasing in number and strength.
Furthermore, animal protection and animal advocacy have acknowledged places within our society. The television channel Animal Planet airs several animal protection programs whose online fan sites register thousands of hits every month. Newspapers and television news programs routinely carry exposés about animal abuse. The U.S. government gives official sanction to animal advocacy groups that work against individual and corporate cruelty, and that, through local offices, engage in animal rescue, such as the ASPCA, the Humane Society of the United States (HSUS), People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA), Farm Sanctuary, the Fund for Animals, and many, many more. Whatever their ideological and practical differences, these organizations are registered charities; our donations to them are taxdeductible. In many cases, particularly as regards our factory food system, such groups have been far more responsible for advances in alleviating animal suffering than our legislatures have been.
Behind our existing animal welfare laws stands another historically new development: a social consensus that the abuse of animals is wrong. Granted, what constitutes “abuse” is still very much debated in our society, even among animal welfare advocates, and many people feel much more affection and compassion for some animals, such as cats, dogs, and horses, than they do for others, such as cows, pigs, and chickens. (Sympathy grows even scarcer when we leave the realm of mammals and birds altogether and begin to consider reptiles and insects.) Many of us might be animal lovers, but that does not necessarily mean we will support animal protection for all animals equally, embrace the concept of animal rights, or avoid eating feedlot-produced beef. The recent prosecution of the highly lucrative dogfighting ring associated with the NFL star Michael Vick and the exposure of the subculture that profits from it have provoked a defensive backlash invoking class, race, and the nature of dogs that is strikingly similar to arguments against animal protection made two centuries ago.
Despite these inconsistencies, however, most of us would probably agree with the general proposition that animals are sentient fellow creatures that deserve protection from cruel treatment (however variously we define that term and however far we believe animals’ claims upon us extend). Many of us also believe that the law is a fitting instrument for securing that protection, and want to see the laws extended. Whether we consider animals as pets, as food, or as subjects in scientific experiments, many of us would shrink from arguing that humans have the right to treat all other creatures however we wish, that their fate at our hands is not worth considering, or that our legislatures have no business passing laws to protect at least some of them.
But people did not always see it this way. Quite the contrary: not so long ago, the very concept of animal protection would have seemed preposterousâor simply been unimaginableâto most people. There have always been humans who felt a particular bond with, and compassion for, nonhuman animals. But widespread public concern for the well-being of animals is a historically recent phenomenon, and laws designed to protect them from cruelty came about only after a long, slow process of reform, which is far from over. The world’s first national animal protection law did not appear until 1822. Why then? How did it come about? What had begun to change in society’s thinking and feeling about animals that made a national legislature, for the first time in history, take this step to protect some “dumb brutes” from some of the suffering humans had for so long inflicted upon them?
The answer to these questions takes us to Englandâjust as it would if we were to search for the origins of other reforms, such as the abolition of slavery and the improvement of conditions in mental hospitals and prisons. For animal welfare was inextricably tied to other humanitarian causes: it was part of a larger wave of reform that swept England in the later eighteenth century and began slowly to achieve results over the subsequent decades. But the seeds of animal protection had begun to germinate much earlier, and had especially begun to grow during the previous one hundred and fifty years, when Britons, both at home and in their American colonies, began, slowly but in increasing numbers, to think differently than they had before both about the nature of animals, and about humans’ relationship to, and responsibility for, them.
The abuse of animals had been so common and so widespread that England had gained a reputation as the world’s cruelest country, yet it was that country whose parliament passed the first national animal protection law in history. How this came to happen is the story of this book: how concern for animals, once a matter of the individual feelings of a small number of people, came to touch a public and then a political nerve. How citizens began the process of giving animals a status that the laws of our country, incomplete though they still are, have built upon. And how a social and political movement dedicated to protecting animals became possibleâa movement that would one day ensure that a gray tabby kitten did not die of hunger and disease, but instead was saved to grow up into the beloved cat named Graham who sits on my lap, purring.
AT THE POINT when animal protection sentiments began to coalesce into something resembling a political movement, there were more sheep in England than people. The country’s economy was still predominantly agricultural, with a great many animals, domestic and wild, living in rural villages and the countryside. But for some time, the human population had been moving from the country to the larger cities, particularly to London. During the previous century and a half, that city’s population had swelled, and by 1800, more than a million people lived there. London was the world’s largest city, the muscular capital of a wealthy country that was rapidly industrializing at home and extending its imperial sway to the far reaches of the globe.
Because London was the seat of national government, it was there that the cause of animal protection was centered: it was primarily the situation of urban beasts that caught the attention of the first reformers. The city was filled with animals, and in conjunction with the human society to which they were intimately connected, animal society had its hierarchies, its specialization of trades, its elites, its downtrodden. Walking along the pedestrian paths that ran along the sides of the city’s busy thoroughfares, one encountered many extremes of animal life. Teams of four well-fed and matching horses trotted smartly by, drawing carriages in which wealthy women bedecked in furs and feathers cradled pampered lapdogs. They shared the street with emaciated donkeys panting as they staggered under impossible loads, and exhausted cows stumbling the last few miles of their long journey to market. Pigs roamed the town, rooting through garbage dumps and eating household waste, and milkmaids made their rounds with their cows and she-asses, whom they milked on the spot. In certain neighborhoods, a banging drum and the shouting of boisterous children would alert pedestrians that a bear or bull was being paraded along the street en route to the bear garden.
An aristocratic house might display a beautiful gilt-framed painting of a horse by George Stubbs, while a spaniel in a jeweled collar proudly posed in the lower foreground of a family portrait. Mastiffs lounged in the hall, while outside the town houses, half-starved mongrels fought over scraps of offal, and urchins stoned cats to death for fun. The fashionable set rattled off to Newmarket for the horse races, whose contestants and their aristocratic owners were listed in the London newspapers. Visiting a country estate in the fall, one would hear the gunfire of shooting parties intent upon bringing down grouse, or the cries of the hounds and hunters as they galloped after foxes and hares.
Pets were joining households in unprecedented numbers. Despite the abundance of working animals, as more and more people of all ranks moved from the country into the city, pets became for many of them the most immediate, and often the only, source of regular personal contact with beasts. Then as now, the attachment to companion animals ran deep. Middle-class girls wrote sentimental poems mourning the demise of finches and squirrels; the novelist and clergyman Laurence Sterne tugged the heartstrings of many readers when he wrote of the caged starling that lamented, “I can’t get out.” Women poets used the idea of the transmigration of souls, borrowed from both the ancient Greeks and the Hindus, to imagine their cats’ afterlives in verse; grown men wept when a favorite dog died. Street vendors were trailed by their faithful mongrels, while the proprietors of stalls at Covent Garden market cried, “Buy a fine singing bird!” (Shedding a tear for Sterne’s starling did not necessarily preclude keeping one’s own caged bird.) Wealthier animal lovers added to their Englishborn menageries creatures such as macaws and monkeys, tigers and giraffes, for Britain’s imperial reach, which brought home silks, brightly colored feathers, and rare skins for the milliners and haberdashers the rich patronized, also created a flourishing trade in live exotic beasts.
Animals featured prominently in the theater, fairs, and street entertainments: horses provided verisimilitude at the opera, performing dogs gave the audience some relief after a few acts of bowdlerized Shakespeare, and white doves were released inside the playhouse to conclude a spectacle. The Giant Hog was a perennial favorite at Bartholomew Fair, while the Learned Pig and his many sagacious barnyard brethren astonished crowds with their ability to solve mathematical problems and read minds.
Cockfighting, dogfighting, and the baiting of bulls, bears, badgers, monkeys, cats, and ducks (and any other animal that could be tied to a stake and attacked by dogs) attracted fervid spectators from across the social spectrum, often women as well as men. Although these sports increasingly came to be seen as disreputable, there were many cockpits and animal-baiting arenas throughout London. Bloody spectacles may have been popular in squalid neighborhoods such as Hockley in the Hole or raffish boroughs such as Southwark, but they were by no means restricted to such places. Cockfighting was a sport of aristocrats: there was a famous cockpit near the Inns of Court and another in Westminster, the seat of Parliament and the Crown. Throwing clubs at tethered roosters was a favorite Shrovetide pastime in much of the country, and entire towns celebrated the annual baiting of a bull.
Most working animals, of course, labored in occupations other than entertainment and sport. Some carters took good care of their horses, but many others, whether from poverty, drunkenness, or simply ignorance and indifference (the latter three traits by no means unknown to their social superiors), did not. It was extremely common to see horses, ribs visible through ragged coats and sores festering under their harnesses, straining to pull overloaded wagons through mired roads as their masters beat them on the head with cudgels.
Visiting in the middle of the sixteenth century, the Mantuan diplomat Annibale Litolfi quipped that England was a paradise for women, a purgatory for servants, and a hell for horses. However debatable with respect to women, his comment about horses was often repeated in following centuries, for it rang all too true. Carriage horses, hunters, and racehorses who could no longer serve their wealthy masters were typically sold to pull hackney coaches and wagons, and when they grew old or sick, their new owners often found it economical to cut back their feed and drive them until they dropped, after which they could be sold to the knackers, where horses awaiting slaughter were not fed, and often died of starvation before they could be killed. The violence perpetrated against cows, pigs, and sheep at Smithfield and the other slaughterhouses made even callous Londoners blanch. At outbreaks of disease such as rabiesâa fearsome contagion and poorly understoodâthe common official response was to order that all dogs and cats on the street be hunted down and killed.
Donna Haraway quite rightly observes in her Companion Animal Manifesto that humans’ relationship with animals cannot be reduced to issues of compassion and protection. Today, that relationship seems to become more extensive and complex every moment as we learn more about the nature of animals’ capacities, further discredit the label of “anthropomorphism” that has too long blocked our recognition of animals’ consciousness and feelings, and think more seriously about the ways in which human and animal life are intertwined. But in earlier times, to posit that we have the moral obligation not just to treat animals kindly but also to pass laws that institutionalize protection for animals, and to assert that animals might even have a right to that protection, was as significant an advance as it is now to consider, for instance, that our hunting of elephants and caging of chimpanzees have inflicted upon them dysfunctional mental states that, in humans, we would readily call depression, trauma, and even psychosis. To many people not so long ago, the idea that animals are even capable of suffering was an absurdityâand an irrelevance.
THERE HAD ALWAYS been individual Britons who deplored cruelty and indifference to animals, but it was not until the later eighteenth century that enough voices were raised on animals’ behalf to prompt parliamentary attempts to protect them, and not until the early nineteenth century that animal protectors won their first victory. Amid a storm of public agitation, vicious name-calling, and heated debates in the legislature, in the newspapers and in the streets, the British Parliament passed the Ill-Treatment of Cattle Act in 1822. (The term “cattle” covered most large working animals, including horses and donkeys.) In the words of Richard Ryder, a present-day animal rights campaigner, the Ill-Treatment of Cattle Act was “the first national law anywhere in the world, passed by a democratically elected legislature which dealt specifically and entirely with cruelty to animals.” Prior to this moment, laws that governed the treatment of animals viewed them as property. Injuring another’s beast was a crime against the animal’s owner, not against the animal; injuring one’s own beast was not a crime at all. The Ill-Treatment of Cattle Act was the first national law to give animals some degree of protection for their own sakes.
Richard Martin, member of Parliament for Galway, Ireland, wrote the billâknown popularly as Mr. Martin’s Actâand drove it through Parliament. One of Martin’s supporters, referring to the Irishman’s direct, emphatic political style, compared him to a bullet, an apt metaphor in more ways than one. Stocky and compact, Martin in a surviving portrait looks rather like a bullet (albeit a modern one, the musket balls of his own day being round). He had an intimate acquaintance with actual ammunition, too, for he was a notorious duelist and bore scars on his body from past gunfights, including one to avenge the killing of a dog. To his political and personal enemies, he was an eccentric, unpredictable, even buffoonish troublemaker. To his friends and admirers, however, he was “Humanity Dick.”
Two years after the passing of Martin’s Act, a clergyman named Arthur Broome called a meeting whose agenda was to discuss the continuing struggle to protect animals from cruelty. More than twenty men responded to his summons, including Richard Martin. A young journalist named Samuel Carter Hall covered the meeting, and later recalled that memorable day. The group was small, but what it lacked in size, it made up in enthusiasm, thanks to Martin’s “Irish heartiness.” Although he was seventy years old, Martin radiated a “warmth, fervour and energy” that pulsed through the room, inspiring and rallying the others. The Irishman’s every movement projected “indomitable resolution,“ Hall remembered. When the other men expressed pessimism about Parliament’s willingness do anything more to protect animals, Martin burst out, in his strong Irish brogue: “By Jaysus, I’ll make ‘em do it!”
Another prominent man at the meeting was William Wilberforce, the Evangelical Christian MP from Yorkshire who had courageously led the long parliamentary fight to outlaw England’s slave trade. Wilberforce was loved and admired by many people for his great charm and his sweet, eloquent voice, raised so frequently and persistently in the service of reformist causes; and he was hated and despised by others who saw him and his fellow “Saints” as joyless, hypocritical apologists for forces of intolerance and repression. Like other Evangelical MPs, Wilberforce had strongly supported animal protection legislation from its introduction in 1800, and lent his considerable moral authority to the continuing battle.
More legislators and Anglican clergymen were at the meeting as well, but those present also included a doctor, a newspaper editor, a poetically inclined barrister, and a Jewish businessman and inventor. Their first priorities, they determined, should be to ensure that Martin’s Act was enforced, to educate the public about animal welfare, to investigate the condition of animals in the markets, streets, and slaughterhouses, and to pass stronger laws that would extend greater protection to more kinds of beasts. To do this, they agreed to found an organization: they would call themselves the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
The first several years of the SPCA’s existence would prove difficult, as the organization struggled with disagreement and debt; Arthur Broome, the society’s first secretary, would end up bankrupting himself supporting the group and be thrown into prison. Despite Martin’s incessant efforts, years of heartbreaking failure, contempt, ridicule, and obstruction on many fronts came before the SPCA achieved other parliamentary victories for animal protection. But the group persevered. In 1840, Britain’s young queen, Victoria, took the organization under the sponsorship of the Crown, making it the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animalsâthe RSPCA. Twenty-seven years later, on April 10, 1866, the legislature of the state of New York chartered the first American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Other cities, states, and countries followed suit.
THE PASSAGE OF Martin’s Act and the founding of the SPCA were early, halting steps, but they blazed a trail that would subsequently be trod and widened by people around the world. These hard-fought early milestones, Richard Martin optimistically proclaimed, represented a new era in legislation, a new era in the treatment of animals. But the official events that inaugurated this new era in the 1820s would not have occurred in the first place if their foundation had not already been laid.
This is the story of the laying of that foundation, of the changes and events that made possible these early milestones in the history of humans’ relationship to animals. It is the story of how we came to care for animals, both in the sense of assuming responsibility for their wellbeing and in the sense of feeling a bond with them. This story is complex and multifaceted, for the course of animal protection was never a direct, unimpeded march of progress from some prior historical moment to the years 1822 and 1824 (nor has it been that since). The cause has always proceeded by fits and starts, progressing and regressing. Nor can it be captured in the biography of a single person, although the last part of this book does have a particular champion in Humanity Dick Martin. But he did not act alone. The early history of animal protection actually involved a great many people, most of them unknown to one another, who from different motives, in different ways, and at different times contributed to the cause over a period of many decades.
In order to explain why people would feel moved and outraged enough to take up the fraught, frustrating cause of animal protection, I have had to write, at times explicitly, of the abusive acts commonly perpetrated against animals in their day. The sections that deal directly with the issue of cruelty, specifically chapters two and seven, were sometimes difficult to write and may not be easy to read, either, though I have tried to be as unsensational as I can. These chapters can be skipped, but the anecdotes and information they contain are a fundamental part of this history. Just as the Humane Society of the United States, PETA, and the ASPCA must post painful instances of abuse on their Web sites, so, too, must I give my readers an idea of what animals experienced in eighteenth-and nineteenth-century Britain, and what the vast majority of the human population took for granted. Only by knowing this context can we fully appreciate the courage and tenacity of the early animal protection campaigners, who persevered, in the face of overwhelming hostility and ridicule, in their efforts to change practices so long entrenched.
Many of the men and women who supported animal protection were, like Martin himself, involved in other humanitarian struggles of great significance: to extend legal rights and the vote to Roman Catholics; to improve the terrible conditions in prisons and mental asylums; to restrict the death penalty; to provide relief and legal representation to the poor; to ease England’s deadly colonial grip on Ireland; and to end Britain’s involvement in the horrors of slavery and the slave trade, to name just a few. Certainly, many reformers had mixed motives, and inevitably they spoke from the prejudices of their class and nation. Some were really more concerned with disciplining the lower classes than with protecting animals. (This concern was evident in many other reform movements as well.) A very few may have been less moved by human suffering than by that of animals. But in most cases, this was an unjust caricature spread by their opponents; rather, many animal protection advocates believed that human and animal causes were interconnected battles against oppression.
The animal protection reformers insisted that just as no society that claimed to be civilized could excuse the enslavement of other humans, neither could any civilized nation continue to countenance the appalling cruelty toward beasts that had too long been associated with the English people. No physical difference, whether that between white skin and black skin or that between bare skin and fur, could justify tyranny. It does not matter, wrote the Reverend Humphrey Primatt,
whether we walk upon two legs or four; whether we are naked or covered with hair; whether we have tails or no tails, horns or no horns, long ears or round ears; or, whether we bray like an ass, speak like a man, whistle like a bird, or are mute as a fish; Nature never intended these distinctions as foundations for right of tyranny and oppression.
When given voice by the abolitionists, the slave addressed the British people, asking them poignantly: “Am I not a man and a brother?” Horses, cows, dogs, and cats could not speak comparable words. But there were those who believed that animals, too, were kindred spirits, who were beloved by God and whose suffering was equally intolerable. And so they spoke for the creatures who could not speak for themselves, asking: Are not dumb beasts, man’s animal slaves, worthy of compassion too?
Excerpted from FOR THE LOVE OF ANIMALS by Kathryn ShevelowCopyright © 2008 by Kathryn ShevelowPublished in 2009 by Henry Holt and Company.
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