Amongst other pretexts by which men seek to excuse selfishness, is the assertion that its victims have little or no consciousness of suffering, and that their death is so unexpected that it cannot excite their terror. This monstrous fiction is eloquently exposed by Gleïzès, as it is, indeed, by the commonest everyday experience:-- “The instinct of life among animals generally gives them a presentiment and fear of death--that is to say _violent_ death; for as for natural death it inspires in them no alarm, for the simple reason that it is in the course of nature. And it is the same with man. He is not afflicted with the thought of dying when he knows his hour is come; he resigns himself to that fate as to any other imposed upon him by necessity. The sensations of other beings differ in no respect from those of men; and when the horse, for example, is condemned to death by the lion, that is to say, when he hears the confused roar of that terrible beast which fills space, while the precise spot from which it emanates cannot be determined, which takes from the victim all hope of escape by flight, the perspiration rolls down all his limbs, he falls to the earth as if he had just been struck by a thunderbolt, and would die of terror alone if the lion did not run up to terminate the tragedy.”[230] “There exists so great an analogy, so strong a resemblance, between the life of man and that of other animals who surround him, that a simple return to himself--simple reflection--ought to suffice to make him respect the latter; and if he were condemned by Nature to rend it from them, he might justly curse the order of things which, on the one hand, should have implanted in his heart the source of feeling so gentle, and, on the other, should have imposed on him a necessity so cruel.... And if this man have children, if he bear in his heart objects which are so dear to him, how can he unceasingly surround himself with images of death--of that death which must deprive him one day of those whom he loves, or snatch himself away from their love? And if he be just, if he be good, how will he not have repugnance for acts which will continually recall to him ideas of ingratitude, of cruelty, and of violence? There exists in the East a tree which, by a mechanical movement, inclines its branches towards the traveller, whom it seems to invite to repose under its shade. This simple image of hospitality, which is revered in that part of the world, makes them regard it as sacred, and they would punish with death him who should dare to apply a hatchet to its trunk. Our humble fellow-beings, should _they_ be less sacred because they represent, not by mechanical movements, but by actions resembling our own, feelings the dearest to our hearts? Ah! let us respect them, not alone because they aid us to bear the burdens