Capacity for Welfare Across Species

Tatjana Višak
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Capacity for Welfare across Species
Capacity for Welfare
across Species
TAT JA NA V I Š A K
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To Miko
 Acknowledgements

Special thanks for helpful discussions and support throughout the years
goes to Roger Crisp, Jeff McMahan, and Peter Singer. I am also grateful to
everyone else—colleagues, friends, and my husband and kids—who showed
interest in me and this book project. Thank you, Verena, for going through
the whole manuscript and checking my English! The book profited from the
valuable feedback from two anonymous referees and the helpful suggestions
from my OUP editors. I dedicate this book to my dog Miko, who, familiar
and mysterious, has been present throughout the whole writing process and
has taught me a lot about the topic.
 Contents

1. Introduction 1
1.1 Comparisons of Welfare across Species 2
1.2 Assumptions 4
1.3 The Difference-View 8
1.4 The Equality-View 11
1.5 Theories of Welfare 13
1.6 What Ought We to Do? 16
1.7 Outline of the Book 19
2. The Difference-View 21
2.1 Kagan’s Objective List Account of Welfare 21
2.2 Singer’s Whole Life Preferentialism 28
2.3 Mill on Higher and Lower Pleasures 31
2.4 McMahan’s Notion of ‘Fortune’ 36
2.5 Wong on Experiential versus Absolute Welfare 40
2.6 Budolfson and Spear’s Formula 54
3. The Equality-View 60
3.1 Animal Welfare Science 60
3.2 Welfare as Self-Fulfilment 65
3.3 An Evolutionary Perspective 74
4. Welfare across Time 88
4.1 Harm of Death 88
4.2 The Relevance of Different Lifespans 96
4.3 An Application of the Total-Duration View 99
5. Practical Implications 112
5.1 Moral Status 113
5.2 Promoting Welfare by Creating Welfare Subjects? 130
5.3 (Dis-)Counting Animals 137

Bibliography 143
Index 151
 1
Introduction

Assessments and comparisons of individuals’ welfare are common in every-

day life. We answer questions about how we are doing. We enquire about
the welfare of others and do or do not believe the answers that we get. We
compare welfare across time. It might, for instance, worry me that, due to
some illness, my friend is worse off these days than she was last month.
I might, furthermore, wonder whether my dog is better off in my family
than he used to be when he was still living in the streets of Romania. We
also compare welfare across individuals. For instance, a father’s judgement
that his daughter is currently worse off than his son might motivate him to
give her some special attention. I might wonder whether my dog, with his
playful and carefree life, is better off than I am. The latter would be a
comparison of welfare not only across individuals of the same species but
across individuals of different species.
This book is mainly concerned with a central question related to cross-­
species comparisons of welfare. The book inquires whether welfare sub-
jects of different species have the same rather than a different capacity for
welfare. Without an answer to this question, welfare cannot be compared
across species. There is currently no agreement and only a little discussion
about the important question of cross-­species capacity for welfare. Before
I further introduce the issue of cross-­species capacity for welfare (sec-
tions 1.3 to 1.6) and present an outline of this book (section 1.7), I will
illustrate the practical relevance of comparisons of welfare across species
(section 1.1) and mention some assumptions that underly such compari-
sons (section 1.2).1

1 Parts of chapters 1.1 and 1.2 are reproduced with permission from Palgrave MacMillan
from Višak (2017).

Capacity for Welfare across Species. Tatjana Višak, Oxford University Press. © Tatjana Višak 2022.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192882202.003.0001
2 Capacity for Welfare across Species

1.1 Comparisons of Welfare across Species

Comparisons of welfare across species are of practical relevance. They may,

and often do, inform considerations of consumers, policymakers, activists,
and ethicists. Let me mention a few examples.
Policymakers formulate animal welfare considerations in species-­specific
rules. Since what one may or may not do to a member of an animal species
is supposed to be related to the impact on the welfare of the individual in
question, cross-­species comparisons seem to be necessary. For instance, in
the Netherlands it is legally permitted to take calves but not piglets from
their mother immediately after birth. Does this suggest that such a sep­ar­
ation is more harmful for piglets than it is for cows? Most probably, the rea-
son for this difference is the economic interest in milking the cow but not
the sow. But since such regulations are part of animal welfare legislation,
one might justify or question the difference in terms of the animals’ welfare
(Bracke 2006).
Likewise, the Dutch decision to ban mink farms on animal welfare
grounds may raise the question whether minks are worse off than, for
ex­ample, hens in cages. Again, other considerations may explain the ban on
mink farming, such as the public opinion that fur, as opposed to eggs, is a
luxury product. But if a certain treatment is forbidden for one species but
not for others in animal welfare legislation, one might justify or question
such rules by an appeal to cross-­species comparisons of welfare (Bracke 2006).
There are many examples of possible appeals to cross-­species compari-
sons of welfare: consumers, for instance, may decide which animal products
to consume or to boycott based on such assessments. One might, for
instance, reject the use of meat, but accept the use of wool based on a com-
parison of the welfare of the animals that are used for these products. Here
as well, other considerations, such as the availability of alternatives to the
products in question, may play an important role. Still, animal welfare con-
siderations may at least be part of such a decision.
Similarly, animal rights or animal welfare activists may prioritize their
campaigns based on cross-­species comparisons of welfare. For instance,
they may decide to campaign against the use of great apes in invasive bio-
medical research or they may campaign against the use of elephants in cir-
cuses, rather than against the use of other animal species that are expected
to suffer less in these practices. Again, other considerations may be relevant,
for instance the expected success of the campaign. I do not here want to
defend the correctness of any of these cross-­species comparisons of welfare.
The examples are just meant to illustrate their practical relevance.
 Introduction 3

Ethicists as well appeal to comparisons of welfare across species. For

instance, utilitarians aim at maximizing welfare. They need to know how to
make the best use of their resources, such as time and money. So, they need,
at least in principle, to compare the effects of various actions on welfare and
this often involves comparing welfare across species. The same holds for
effective altruists, who are not necessarily utilitarians, but who want to
make the greatest positive difference with the time and money that they
devote to charitable causes. Prioritarians, in turn, hold that the worst-­off
individuals deserve our special attention and thus they need to determine
how individuals fare as compared to each other. Egalitarians also care about
how welfare is distributed and strive for an equal distribution of welfare.
Thus, they cannot do without cross-­ species comparisons either. Other
moral theories as well are likely to encounter situations where such com-
parisons are asked for.
From a normative perspective, comparisons of welfare across species are
important just in case the welfare of individuals from different species is
morally relevant. That both human and non-­human animal welfare matters
for what we have reason to do is widely accepted among ethicists and ­people
in general. It is an assumption that I take for granted in this book. (In sec-
tion 5.1 I take up the question how much the welfare of various species of
animals matters.) However, the question about the capacity for welfare of
different species as well as the issue of cross-­species comparisons of welfare
can be considered interesting, independently of its relevance for what we
have reason to do.
Even though it is easy to see the practical relevance of cross-­species com-
parisons of welfare, surprisingly little has been said so far about how exactly
to compare welfare across species. Mark Budolfson and Dean Spears (2020,
606) characterize what they call ‘the challenge of interspecies comparisons’
of welfare:

Animal welfare is almost never included in policy analysis [. . .] increas-

ingly also because we do not currently have good methods for quantifying
animal wellbeing consequences and putting them on the same scale as
quantified human wellbeing consequences.

Thus, Budolfson and Spears suggest that even if we wanted, for example, to
assess the harm of climate change for both humans and non-­humans, we
are lacking any principled guideline for how to do it. Not merely are we
unsure about certain details, but we may have no clue about how to com-
pare welfare across species even in principle. According to Budolfson and
4 Capacity for Welfare across Species

Spears (2020, 606), it is possible and relatively easy for animal welfare scien-
tists to find out how well off an individual human or non-­human welfare
subject is relative to its potential or capacity for welfare. Even lay people may
be able to assess, for example, whether a particular dog is leading a good or
a bad life for a dog. They can make up their minds about the question to
what extent the dog fulfils his potential for welfare. The much harder ques-
tion, according to Budolfson and Spears (2020, 606), is getting grip on the
relative potential or capacity for welfare of different species:

[. . .] the most difficult problem that needs to be solved in connection with

interspecies comparisons, [. . .] is how to estimate the wellbeing capacity
(wellbeing potential) of members of a non-­human species relative to the
wellbeing capacity of humans.

One may add that not only do we need to know how another species’ poten-
tial for welfare relates to that of humans, but we also need to compare the
welfare potential of various non-­human species with each other.
We need a grip on capacity for welfare across species if we are to count
the welfare of different species on the same scale. This book aims at address-
ing this challenge and thus at illuminating what the relative capacity or
potential for welfare of individuals from different species is. Comparisons
of welfare will differ enormously, depending on what answer to the question
about cross-­species capacity for welfare one gives. Before I introduce the
main positions about cross-­species capacity for welfare, I will pause to make
explicit some assumptions behind comparisons of welfare across species.

1.2 Assumptions

Comparisons of welfare across species are based on various assumptions.

First, it is assumed that animals of different species have a welfare level.
This does not mean that all animals are subjects of welfare. Whether any ani-
mal is a subject of welfare depends on which theory of welfare is correct as
well as on empirical facts about the animal in question. For instance, accord-
ing to hedonism the amount of pleasure—­usually understood broadly as
enjoyment minus suffering—­in an individual’s life determines how well off
the individual is. According to this account of welfare, only those who can
experience enjoyment and/or suffering are subjects of welfare. It is an empir-
ical question what animals are capable of enjoyment and suffering. According
 Introduction 5

to most accounts of welfare, non-­sentient animals are not welfare subjects. If

any of these accounts of welfare is correct, we need to know which animals
are sentient if we are to determine who qualifies as a subject of welfare. This
is a question that empirical scientists need to answer, keeping in mind,
though, that the information that scientists provide (e.g. about observable
behaviour or brain structures) and the one that ethicists require (e.g. about
subjective experiences) does not always fit together in a straightforward way.
Scientists who work on demarcating the boarders of sentience often
focus on the detection of pain. Pain needs to be distinguished from mere
nociception, which is ‘the non-­ conscious detection of tissue damage’
(Browning 2019, 11). It is controversial how to distinguish the capacity of
feeling pain from the capacity for nociception. Scientists propose different
criteria (e.g. Sneddon et al. 2014).
There is a broad consensus among scientists that at least all mammals
and birds are sentient. These animals possess a similar nervous system and
brain structure as can be found in humans and show similar reactions to
stimuli (Low et al. 2012, 2; Proctor 2012). Several scientists argue in favour
of sentience in fish, based on alleged behavioural evidence (Proctor 2012;
Braithwaite 2010). Others are unconvinced and point out that fish lack the
allegedly required brain structures and connectivity (Key 2016; Cabanac
2009, 1998). Fish may process pain in a structurally different way than
mammals (Sneddon et al. 2014). The issue is unsettled, and different capaci-
ties may be available to different fishes (Allan 2011). However, there seems
to be a growing consensus in favour of fish sentience and even in favour of
sentience for some invertebrates, such as cephalopods and decapods (Birch
et al. 2021). Whether animals such as snails, earthworms, or insects may be
sentient is more doubtful. These animals also lack the structures that prod­
uce sentience in mammals (Proctor 2012). Nevertheless, some scientists
hold that the function of sentience does not necessarily require these struc-
tures and that the animals in question seem to meet some behavioural or
physiological criteria for sentience (Sneddon et al. 2014; Jones 2013;
Ginsburg & Jablonka 2019, 351). On the other hand, which criteria they
meet, if any, is still controversial and meeting only some criteria may not be
enough. Currently, we do not have strong evidence for the sentience of
these animals and the scientific consensus in favour of the possession of
certain ethically relevant properties can be expected to be weaker than ethi-
cists make it seem (Allen 2006). Since most animals are in fact insects,
which might not be sentient, most animals may not be subjects of welfare.
But nevertheless, many of them—­and certainly mammals and birds—­are.
6 Capacity for Welfare across Species

A second assumption behind cross-­species comparisons of welfare is that

an animal’s welfare level can in principle be measured on a (semi-) quantita-
tive scale. Thus, we can at least rank an individual’s welfare level as low,
medium, or high (Bracke 2006). It seems that we can describe welfare levels
as negative, neutral, or positive and we can even provide estimates of wel-
fare scores, such as 8 out of 10.
A third assumption is that the welfare of different animals, including ani-
mals from different species, can be measured, and compared on a single
scale. This means that we are talking about the same thing, welfare, in case
of both humans and non-­human animals (Bracke 2006).
Are these assumptions warranted? It seems that they are. After all, lay-
persons and experts alike have been found to compare welfare across spe-
cies without hesitation, apparently using a common scale across species
(Bracke 2006, 63). Even legislation, for instance about animal experimenta-
tion, requires weighing the discomfort of different species on a common
scale. Furthermore, we use one word, ‘welfare’, for different species. Lastly,
as we saw, many moral theories require cross-­species comparisons. These
metaphysical, psychological, linguistic as well as political and ethical per-
spectives suggest that it is plausible to assume that these comparisons make
sense in principle (Sandøe 1996).
There is some controversy about the possibility of cross-­species compari-
sons of welfare based on preferentialism, which is a specific theory of what
welfare consists in (Broome 1998; Scanlon 1991). But this discussion con-
cerns possible difficulties for this theory of welfare, and not the impossibil-
ity of these comparisons in general. Nevertheless, if preferentialism were
the correct theory of welfare and couldn’t account for cross-­species com-
parisons of welfare, the latter would not be possible. But this can be con­
sidered an implausible implication of preferentialism and thus an argument
against the plausibility of this account of welfare rather than an argument
against the possibility of comparing welfare across species. I am inclined to
think that these comparisons are possible, even based on preferentialism. I
will not discuss the alleged problem of preferentialism with cross-­species
comparisons of welfare in this book. Instead, I go along with the widely
accepted view among ethicists today, according to which these comparisons
face no principled objections.
Even though I assume that there is no principled objection to compari-
sons of welfare, there can, of course, be practical challenges. Welfare cannot
be directly measured. To measure welfare, we first need to settle on a theory
of welfare that tells us what welfare is. (Section 1.5 introduces theories of
 Introduction 7

welfare.) Whatever welfare consists in is likely to be something that cannot

be directly measured either. For example, assume that welfare consists in
having pleasant mental states. We cannot directly measure how pleasant a
mental state of an individual is, since we do not have direct access to other
individuals’ experiences. In some cases, we may be able to ask the in­di­vid­
uals about their amount of felt pleasure and take their responses as indica-
tors of their felt pleasure and thus of their welfare. In addition, or
alternatively, we may find other indicators, such as behaviour, heart rate, or
brain activity. Whatever indicators we chose, we can never be sure whether
the same score of two individuals regarding the indicator really goes
together with the same subjective experience.
Assume that I offer two dogs the same treat and that they show different
behavioural and physiological reactions. Does the one with the faster heart
rate and tail wagging enjoy the treat more? Or is this animal merely show-
ing a stronger reaction to the same subjective experience? How can we tell?
As Browning (2019, 138) points out:

Within-­species differences in individual behavioral and physiological

responses to positive and negative stimuli are common [. . .] and it is diffi-
cult in these cases to determine whether or not results imply a welfare
difference.

This is what Browning (2019, 136) calls ‘the comparison problem’.

Browning’s challenge does not concern the principled, theoretical, issue
of comparisons of welfare across species. It concerns the identification of
indicators for doing so. Those who are pondering the question whether the
different heart rates of the two dogs upon receiving my treat indicate real
differences in felt pleasure or merely different physiological reactions based
on the same amount of felt pleasure, are already assuming that the dogs feel
pleasure and that their felt pleasure, whatever it is, grounds their welfare. They
are, thus, not casting doubt on the principled comparability of welfare.
They are only pondering how we can practically do it. I say ‘only’ from a
philosopher’s perspective here. For animal welfare scientists, the practical
question of how to do the comparisons and what indicators to rely on is, of
course, a major issue. This practical challenge concerns comparisons within
species and even more so between species. This practical challenge of what
indicators to rely on will not be addressed in this book (see Browning 2019).
In one of the classical contributions to the philosophical discussion
about welfare, Wayne Sumner (1996, 14) introduced what he called the
8 Capacity for Welfare across Species

‘four cardinal virtues’ for theories of welfare. One of them, the virtue of
generality, says that a theory of welfare should be applicable to all beings
with welfare:

We make welfare assessments [. . .] concerning a wide variety of subjects.

Besides the paradigm case of adult human persons, our welfare vocabu-
lary applies just as readily to children and infants, and to many non-­
human beings. It is perfectly natural for me to say that my cat is doing
well, that having an ear infection is bad for her, that she has benefited from
a change of diet, and so on. In making these judgments it certainly seems
to me that I am applying exactly the same concept of welfare to my cat that
I habitually apply to my friends. A theory of welfare will therefore [. . .] be
incomplete if it covers only them and ignores her. (Sumner 1996, 14)

I will take it for granted in this book that comparing welfare across species
is possible in principle. Indeed, theories of welfare should be able to handle
such comparisons. If we are to determine how to compare welfare across
species, we cannot avoid the issue of cross-­species capacity for welfare, to
which I will turn in the remainder of this book.

1.3 The Difference-­View

Before getting into the philosophical details and controversies concerning

capacity for welfare across species, it is worth asking what a common-­sense
approach to the issue would be. Shelly Kagan describes and defends a view,
which he thinks is widely accepted. According to this view,

people are generally better off than animals (and chimpanzees, than mos-
quitos); they have lives of higher quality, providing greater benefits to the
individuals whose lives they are. Putting the point in slightly different
terms, by virtue of the tremendous differences in their capacities for wel-
fare and flourishing a person generally has a significantly higher level of
well-­being than a dog, say, or a cow; and a dog, in turn, has a significantly
higher level of well-­being than a snake or a fish. It is because of facts like
these that a loss of life, for example, harms a person more than it harms a
mouse. The person would normally be incomparably better off than the
mouse; so what she stands to lose is incomparably greater as well.
(Kagan 2019, 46)
 Introduction 9

‘People’ or ‘persons’, as Kagan uses the term, are individuals with certain
higher cognitive capacities, no matter of which species. Normal human
adults are people in that sense. In Kagan’s terminology, very young humans
are not people yet and some humans with severe cognitive disabilities may
never be people. Meanwhile, some non-­humans, such as, perhaps, great
apes or cetaceans may well be people. Thus, when Kagan contrasts people to
animals in the above quotation (and in other passages that I will quote),
‘animals’ refers to non-­human animals that lack the capacities that are
required for personhood. It is an empirical question what capacities par-
ticular animals have.
Kagan’s view implies that animals with lower cognitive capacities are gen-
erally worse off than people. Kagan somewhat confusingly says that people
are ‘incomparably’ better off, but this is not to say that their welfare cannot
be compared on the same scale. Kagan assumes that the welfare of in­di­vid­
uals from different species can be compared on the same scale. It’s just that,
according to this view, people are capable of, and generally have, much
more welfare than dogs, which, in turn, are capable of, and generally have,
much more welfare than mice.
Kagan (2019, 46) assumes that ‘most people’ would find this view ‘uncon-
troversial’. Indeed, Kagan is not its only proponent. Even though I doubt his
claims about the wide agreement with this view among the public, it is a
prominent and perhaps the dominant view among philosophers who are
writing on the issue. For example, Kagan (2019, 47) approvingly quotes
Kitcher (2015, 298), who claims that

a fly’s life doesn’t amount to a lot, even at the best of times.

Furthermore, Kagan (2019, 47) approvingly quotes Frey (1996, 13), who claims:

The fullest mouse life there has ever been, so science would seem at the
moment to suggest, does not approach the full life of a human; the differ-
ence in capacities, and what these additional capacities make pos­sible by
way of further dimensions to human existence, is just too great.

John Stuart Mill (1963/2002, 13) famously exclaimed that ‘it is better to
be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied, better to be Socrates
dissatisfied than a fool satisfied’. According to this common philosophical
view different welfare subjects have different capacities for welfare, based on
different cognitive capacities.
10 Capacity for Welfare across Species

Some authors focus on emotional, rather than cognitive, differences

between species. They may refer to the capacity for having more complex
emotions, or more intense pleasures and pains. Typically, those who focus
on emotional differences, or on hedonic differences, relate them to cogni-
tive differences. Thus, they may believe that the complexity of one’s emo-
tional life is linked to one’s cognitive complexity or that a greater number
of brain neurons allows for a broader range of enjoyment and suffering.
However, in principle, cognitive and emotional capacities may come apart.
For example, individuals may have a certain complexity of neural affective
pathways or concentrations of neurotransmitters without having complex
cognitive capacities. (I will discuss hedonic capacity in detail in sections
2.5, 2.6, and 3.3.)
I will call the view, according to which different cognitive or emotional
capacities are the basis for different capacities for welfare among welfare
subjects the ‘difference-­view’ about capacity for welfare across species, DIF
for short.

DIF: Welfare subjects, such as humans, dogs, and mice, have fundamentally
different capacities for welfare, due to their different cognitive or emotional
capacities.

Kagan (2019, 46) considers an objection to DIF. According to this objection,

the view expresses a mere prejudice that humans tend to have in favour of
the value of their own lives. If we asked a dog or a squirrel, each of them
would possibly rank the lives of its own species as the best. To this objection
Kagan replies that if those animals could contemplate comparisons of wel-
fare across species, they too would be people. Kagan also claims that the
mere fact that only humans express the above-­mentioned view about the
value of lives doesn’t disqualify it as prejudiced. I agree with both observa-
tions. Nevertheless, as Kagan admits, humans should take care to avoid
prejudice and parochialism and should be open to new and developing
empirical insights about the lives and capacities of non-­humans. Kagan
(2019, 47) considers it ‘extremely unlikely’, though, that we will discover any
empirical facts about the lives of animals that make us abandon the judge-
ment that our lives are more valuable than theirs. I also do not expect that
new insights about the capacities of animals will be likely to cause that
change of mind. Yet, I seriously doubt the line of reasoning that leads Kagan
to conclude that people are generally better off than dogs and that dogs are
generally better off than mice. The problem with DIF, as I see it, is not the
underlying assumptions about different cognitive or emotional capacities of
 Introduction 11

different species of animals. I am happy to grant that people have a range of

cognitive and emotional capacities that dogs and mice lack. However, I
doubt their relevance for welfare. I hope that the philosophical investigation
along with some empirical findings that I present in this book will show
that DIF is on weaker ground than Kagan and likeminded authors make
it seem.

1.4 The Equality-­View

Even though DIF is a possible view about cross-­species capacity for welfare
and apparently prominent among philosophers, not everyone seems to
agree with it. It is particularly remarkable, I think, that animal welfare scien-
tists hold views that may be incompatible with DIF. This is not to say that
animal welfare scientists take an explicit stance on cross-­species capacity for
welfare. They don’t. But what they have to say about animal welfare seems to
be in tension with DIF. Animal welfare science is concerned with the scien-
tific study of the welfare of animals in different settings, such as in zoos, in
laboratories, on farms, as pets and in the wild. The world’s first professor-
ship in this discipline was appointed by Cambridge University (UK) in
1986. Animal welfare science aims at investigating animal welfare using
rigorous scientific methods. Nevertheless, in their conceptualizations and
theories of welfare, animal welfare scientists enter the field of philosophy,
specifically value theory. After all, to know what to measure and compare
scientifically, they first need to settle on what welfare is. (I will have more to
say about the views of animal welfare scientists in section 3.1.)
Here is an example of an animal welfare scientist’s assessment of welfare.
Mark Bracke (2006) compares the welfare of different species of animals
that are kept in different husbandry systems. Among others, he compares
the welfare of laying hens in battery cages and dairy cows on pasture. As
depicted in Table 1.1, Bracke provides a list of needs—­such as food, water,
and rest—­that the animals have. (Bracke adds many other needs that are not
shown here.) He uses a ranking scale from 1 (worst) to 4 (best) that indi-
cates to what extent each need is fulfilled for the animal in question. In
Table 1.1, we see that the need for food and water is maximally fulfilled for
both species in both systems. The need for rest is not entirely fulfilled in
case of battery hens, since they have no perch and only a wire floor, which is
not what they need to rest appropriately. Adding the scores for all needs
gives us an animal’s welfare score. To refine the assessment, one can give
more weight to more important needs, as Bracke (2006) points out.
12 Capacity for Welfare across Species

Table 1.1 Fulfilment of needs as indicator of welfare.

Need Laying hens in battery cages Dairy cows at pasture

Food 4, ad libitum 4, ad libitum

Water 4, clean nipple, easy to reach 4, clean trough in pasture
Rest 2, no perch; wire floor 4, proper surface, pasture
… … …

This results in a welfare score for dairy cows on pasture and for laying
hens, which is the average score of the overall need fulfilment for each ani-
mal. These welfare scores can be directly compared. In case of cows on pas-
ture the average score, based on all relevant needs that Bracke included (and
that are not all shown here), was 3.19. In case of battery hens, it was 2.16.
Bracke concludes, among other things, that dairy cows at pasture are better
off then battery hens and he can explain why this is the case: they can fulfil
their needs to a greater extent.
Something along these lines seems to be a common way of comparing
welfare across species among the public, even if it is not always done as
explicitly as Bracke does it here. I assume that Bracke would have used the
same procedure in comparisons of welfare between mice, dogs, great apes,
and all other welfare subjects. This view on comparing welfare across spe-
cies implies that welfare subjects have an equal capacity for welfare, despite
different cognitive or emotional capacities. I will therefore call it the
‘equality-­view’ about capacity for welfare, EQU for short.

EQU: Welfare subjects have fundamentally equal capacities for welfare,

despite their different cognitive or emotional capacities.

So, we’ve got two opposed views: DIF and EQU. Even though I have pre-
sented only rough sketches of these views so far, it should be clear that they
may have wildly different implications. According to DIF, even a barely
happy human may be much better off than the happiest of pigs. Meanwhile,
EQU implies that a barely happy human is probably worse off than the hap-
piest of pigs. The barely happy human may have many unmet needs, while
the very happy pig may be completely satisfied.
Throughout this book, I will have much more to say about each of these
approaches to find out which of them is more plausible. I will ultimately
reject DIF and defend EQU. My rejection of DIF will not be restricted to
Kagan’s version of it, but I will also discuss and reject other defences of such
 Introduction 13

a view. I will argue in favour of a view along the lines of EQU, even though it
need not be the one that Bracke proposes. Before I present the book’s out-
line, it will be helpful to introduce the notion of welfare and point out how
welfare is discussed in the philosophical literature.

1.5 Theories of Welfare

Substantive theories about welfare, i.e. philosophical theories about what

welfare consists in, are concerned with personal good, which refers to the
goodness of lives for the individuals whose lives they are. They aim at speci-
fying what makes someone’s life good for this individual. A lot of things can
be good for me, such as food and shelter. However, theories of welfare are
not interested in instrumental goods, but in basic goods. So, for example,
one would need to ask: What is it about food and shelter that makes these
things good for me? Perhaps, for example, they ultimately make me happier.
If so, happiness would be the basic (or final) good and food and shelter
would be only instrumental goods (Zimmerman 2015). Theories of welfare
are interested in basic personal goods and when I talk about goods in this
book, I refer to basic goods, unless otherwise indicated.
Theories of welfare have four tasks and answer one central question
related to each of these tasks. The four tasks of theories of welfare are:

1. Identification: What states of affairs are goods?

2. Measurement: How good is each good?
3. Analysis: What are the kinds of goods (or basic goods) under which the
goods can be subsumed?
4. Explanation: What is the good-­making property in virtue of which
goods are good for the individual? (see Lin 2014)

Table 1.2 provides an overview of various theories of welfare and what they
view as particular goods, basic goods, and good-­making properties. A hedon-
ist, for instance, typically holds that instances of S taking pleasure in something
are the particular goods or good tokens. All instances of S taking pleasure in
something are good. Thus, S taking pleasure in something is the good kind. The
goods are good in virtue of S’s experiencing pleasure. So, S’s experiencing
pleasure is the good-­making property. A preferentialist may hold that states of
affairs that S desires are goods. The good kind consists in being a state of affairs
that S desires. Any such state is good in virtue of S’s desiring this state.
Table 1.2 An overview of some accounts of welfare and what each of them views as particular goods, good kinds, and good-­making
properties.

Account of welfare Particular goods/good tokens: Good kind(s): Good-­making property/

The following particular goods are All of the following goods are good for S: properties:
good for S: The particular goods are
good for S in virtue of:

Hedonism Particular instances of S taking pleasure All instances of S taking pleasure in S’s experiencing pleasure
in something something
Preferentialism Particular states of affairs that S desires All states of affaires that S desires to have S’s desiring these states of
to have affairs
Pluralist account with Particular instances of S realizing All instances of S realizing knowledge, S realizing knowledge,
knowledge, knowledge, spirituality and spirituality or mathematics spirituality or mathematics
spirituality, and mathematics
mathematics on
the list of goods
(Objective list account
of welfare)
Pluralist account with Particular instances of S experiencing All instances of S experiencing pleasure S experiencing pleasure or
pleasure and pleasure or satisfying a desire and all instances of S satisfying a desire satisfying a desire
desire-­satisfaction
on the list
(Subjective list account
of welfare)
Nature fulfilment Particular instances of S fulfilling her All instances of S fulfilling her nature S fulfilling her nature
theory nature
Self-­fulfilment theory Particular instances of S realizing her All instances of S realizing her S realizing her self-­fulfilment
self-­fulfilment self-­fulfilment
 Introduction 15

I will not defend any theory of welfare in this book. Instead, I will point
out what follows from the main theories of welfare about the capacity for
welfare of individuals from different species.
When philosophers present and discuss substantive theories of welfare,
as the ones presented in Table 1.2, they need to have at least a rough under-
standing of what ‘welfare’ means and thus of what the theories of welfare are
theories about. In other words, they need a conceptualization of welfare.
Most philosophers who write about welfare may not have a detailed con-
cept of welfare in mind. Instead, they rely on a rough picture of what ‘wel-
fare’ refers to. This rough picture includes, for example, the idea that welfare
is related in specific ways to concern: if I am concerned about myself or
others I am concerned about their welfare. Welfare, according to the rough
picture, is also related to pity and to envy: I pity those who are doing poorly
and envy those who are doing well. Furthermore, the rough picture of wel-
fare appeals to the idea that sacrifices involve reductions of welfare. As I
said, many philosophers take this rough picture to provide a sufficiently
clear idea about the concept of welfare (Campbell 2016).
Other philosophers present detailed and explicit conceptualizations of
welfare. Conceptualizations of welfare aim at telling us what it means to say
that something, p, is good for some individual, S. So, in contrast to substan-
tive theories of welfare, conceptualizations of welfare do not make pro­posals
as to what is good for S, but they just propose what ‘being good for S’ means.
For example, the rational care analysis of welfare holds that ‘p is good for S’
means ‘if S is worthy of care, then there is reason to desire p out of care for
S’. According to the locative analysis of welfare ‘p is good for S’ means ‘p is
good simpliciter and is located in S’s life’. According to the positional ana­
lysis of welfare ‘p is good for S’ means ‘p contributes to the desirability of
being in S’s position’. Lastly, according to the suitability analysis ‘p is good
for S’ means ‘p is suitable for S in that it serves S well’ (Campbell 2016). I
will not commit to a conceptualization of welfare in this book, but this little
overview should suffice as a very rough indication of what the concept
refers to.
Accounts of welfare, such as those presented in Table 1.2, are commonly
divided into those that consider welfare to be attitude-­dependent and those
that consider welfare to be attitude-­independent. It is often claimed that this
distinction tells us something deep and significant about the characteriza-
tion and evaluation of accounts of welfare (Sumner 1996; Dorsey 2017,
199). In the relevant literature, attitude-­dependent/attitude-­independent
distinctions go under different names, such as subjectivist/objectivist or
16 Capacity for Welfare across Species

internalist/externalist distinctions (Singer & Lazari-­Radek 2014, 214–215;

Lin 2014, 148, note 6; Sarch 2011, note 1; Haybron 2008a, 193–95). In fact,
theories of welfare can be attitude-­dependent or independent in different
ways (Fletcher 2013). While it is common to divide the field of accounts of
welfare based on attitude (in)dependence, different authors seem to have
different ideas about what the distinction is supposed to track and how best
to draw it. In this book, I will leave these characterizations uncommented.
For example, I will follow the common usage of calling some theories of
welfare ‘objective list accounts’, as indicated in Table 1.2, without further
commenting on what, if anything, is particularly ‘objective’ about them. We
will, however, find out that different theories of welfare have different impli-
cations for the issue of cross-­species capacity for welfare. This can also be an
alternative way of characterizing accounts of welfare: they may be more in
line with DIF or rather with EQU.
This book’s exploration of cross-­species capacity for welfare will have
theoretical implications for the philosophical discussion about welfare. It is,
after all, still unclear what the most plausible theory of welfare is. There are
no knock-­down arguments against one theory or the other. Instead, evalu­
ations of the various theories rely on a careful assessment of each theory’s
implications. For each theory, it needs to be assessed how plausible its
implications are. This should include each theory’s implications on the issue
of cross-­species capacity for welfare. Thus, this book’s exploration of cross-­
species capacity for welfare will inform evaluations of the plausibility of
philosophical theories of welfare.

1.6 What Ought We to Do?

In this book I defend EUQ: the view that welfare subjects of different spe-
cies have an equal capacity for welfare. EQU has implications for compari-
sons of welfare across species, which, in turn, are likely important for what
we have reason to do. Many readers may be eager to know: What follows
from EQU (or indeed from DIF) for how we ought to act? This depends, of
course, on the importance of welfare considerations for how we ought to
act. It is an open question whether what we have reason to do is based on
what is valuable. If it is, then to know what we have reason to do, we need
to know what is valuable. I take it to be uncontroversial that well-­being
is a value. Many ethicists believe that well-­being or welfare is a value that
grounds normative reasons for action. I agree. This means that at least
 Introduction 17

sometimes facts about welfare are relevant for what we have normative
­reason to do. When I speak about what we ‘should do’ or ‘ought to do’, I am
talking about what we have, all things considered, normative reason to do.
I believe that the effects of our actions on welfare are at least part of what
determines what we should or shouldn’t do.
For example, the fact that smoking is bad for Tom may count, for Tom,
against smoking. If this is so, the fact that smoking is bad for Tom is a prima
facie reason for Tom not to smoke. The fact that Tom enjoys smoking may,
in turn, be a prima facie reason for Tom in favour of smoking. There may be
different prima facie reasons of different strengths, some of which may
count against smoking and some in favour of smoking. These reasons at
least partly come down to effects on Tom’s well-­being, and perhaps also to
effects on the well-­being of others. Whether Tom has all things considered
reason to smoke depends on the balance of these prima facie reasons. There
are different theories about the nature of normative reasons for action and,
for example, the relationship between normative and motivational reasons.
Normative reasons for action concern what I am justified in doing.
Motivational reasons for action, in contrast, concern my motivation to act
in some way. These are, at the very least, different concepts. Perhaps one can
have normative reasons for action independently of one’s actual motivation
to act in this way. For example, Tom may have an all-­things-­considered nor-
mative reason to quit smoking, even though he lacks the motivation to do
so. I do not take a stance on the relationship between normative and mo­tiv­
ation­al reasons for action in this book. I assume, though, that welfare is at
least part of what constitutes normative reasons for action.2 Without this
assumption, comparisons of welfare across species would not be practically
relevant but could still be of theoretical interest.
Welfarists about normative reasons for action hold that welfare, and only
welfare, is the basis for normative reasons for action. There are different
kinds of welfarists about normative reasons for action. For example, egoists
about normative reasons for action hold that only the consequences for
one’s own welfare determine what one has reason to do. Egoists are, thus,
partial when it comes to the promotion of welfare.3 Utilitarians, on the
other hand, believe that the effects of one’s actions on the welfare of all

2 For more about the relationship between normative and motivational reasons, see
Alvarez (2017).
3 Egoism about motivation is a different kind of theory, which answers a different question.
It is about what motivates us and not about what we have normative reason to do.
18 Capacity for Welfare across Species

affected individuals must be taken equally into account. According to them

we have reason to do what is impartially best. There are also proponents of
dual-­source views, which accept both partial and impartial welfare-­based
reasons for action. Within utilitarianism, act utilitarians evaluate actions as
right just in case they impartially maximize welfare. Rule utilitarians, in
contrast, consider actions right if and only if they are in line with an opti-
mific set of rules. This is a set of rules that has the best consequences for
everyone’s welfare. There are also forms of utilitarianism that can roughly be
described as combining both act-­based and rule-­based reasons for action.4
Welfarists may not only focus on welfare as such, but also on how it is
distributed. For example, egalitarians hold that it matters whether welfare is
distributed equally, prioritarians want to make sure that the positions of the
worst-­off individuals are as good as possible, and sufficientarians hold that
everyone should have enough welfare.5
Non-­welfarists, in contrast, believe that welfare does not determine nor-
mative reasons for action, or at least that welfare is not the only thing that
counts when it comes to what we should do. Non-­welfarists typically do not
focus on the consequences of one’s actions in terms of welfare, but on differ-
ent considerations, such as the principles from which one acts, rights, or
virtues. Nevertheless, these other concepts may themselves be based on
welfare considerations in some way. For example, one understanding of
rights is that they serve to protect welfare. Furthermore, even non-­welfarists
often accept that at least sometimes welfare is at least part of what grounds
normative reasons for action. For example, non-­welfarists often hold, in
contrast to welfarists, that there are moral limits to what can rightfully be
done to individuals in the name of promoting welfare. They may also accept
that moral agents should have options to do things other than promoting
welfare. But even non-­welfarists tend to believe that welfare considerations
provide at least defeasible normative reasons for action.
This book is primarily concerned with the capacity for welfare across
species. This issue is of theoretical interest and can be explored in­de­pend­
ent­ly of one’s views about the relevance of welfare for what we have reason

4 For an exploration of egoism and utilitarianism, see Sidgwick ([1907] 1981) and Singer &
Lazari-­Radek (2014). For defences of a dual source view, see Crisp (2006a), Phillips (2011), and
Parfit (2017). For a defence of rule utilitarianism and its contrast to act utilitarianism, see
Hooker (2000). For a pluralist version of utilitarianism with elements of both act and rule utili-
tarianism, see Woodard (2019).
5 Kagan (2019) provides an accessible introduction to a variety of welfarist views. For a
defence of egalitarianism, see Temkin (2003). For a defence of prioritarianism, see Parfit
(1991), and for a defence of sufficientarianism, see Crisp (2006a).
 Introduction 19

to do. Considerations about welfare as such are axiological considerations,

i.e. considerations about value. In contrast, considerations about reasons for
action are deontic considerations; they concern the question how we should
act. As I said, one need not be a welfarist to accept that effects on welfare are
at least sometimes relevant for what we have reason to do. I assume that the
book is of practical interest for everyone who believes that at least sometimes
welfare matters for what we have reason to do. I do not take a position about
the different normative views about how we ought to act. If any axiological
view has practical implications, these are always the implications of the axio-
logical view in combination with a particular normative view about what we
should do. Thus, I will not defend any claims about how we should act in this
book but focus on the issue of cross-­species capacity for welfare. I will, how-
ever, occasionally point out what EQU or DIF imply when combined with
certain normative (and empirical) assumptions, most extensively in chapter 5.

1.7 Outline of the Book

In chapter 2, I criticize the difference-­view about capacity for welfare. For

this purpose, I present and reject the major proposals in the philosophical
literature that appeal to the idea of different capacities for welfare. I discuss
Kagan’s (2019) defence of DIF based on an objective list account of welfare,
Singer’s (2011) defence of DIF based on whole life preferentialism, and
Mill’s (1998) classical appeal to higher and lower pleasures. I also evaluate
McMahan’s (1996, 2002) appeal to ‘fortune’, Wong’s (2016) distinction
between experiential and absolute welfare, as well as Budolfson and Spear’s
(2020) take on cross-­species capacity for welfare. I conclude that despite the
prominence of DIF in philosophical discussions about the topic, its founda-
tions are weak.
Chapter 3 is devoted to a defence of the equality-­view about capacity for
welfare. The chapter starts with an exploration of how animal welfare scien-
tists understand and assess animal welfare and points out that this seems to
be in line with EQU. As an example of a philosophical theory of welfare that
is in line with EQU, I then present the self-­fulfilment account of welfare. An
evolutionary perspective on hedonic capacity, which can be seen as a proxy
for capacity for welfare, lends further support to the equality-­view. I con-
clude that EQU has much going for it.
Chapter 4 extends the discussion to capacity for welfare across time. This
means that we are not only interested in the level of welfare that different
20 Capacity for Welfare across Species

individuals experience at any given point in time (i.e. synchronic welfare),

but we are considering the amount of welfare that individuals of different
species can gather throughout their lives (i.e. diachronic welfare). In particu-
lar, the welfare-­loss due to a premature death and the relevance of different
species-­specific lifespans for an individual’s capacity for welfare will be
explored. Do species with longer natural lifespans have a greater capacity
for welfare, simply because of their longer lives? I distinguish what I take to
be the main views and arguments on this issue and conclude that consider-
ing welfare across time requires more exploration in further research.
Chapter 5 addresses practical implications. The implications of EQU or
DIF for what we ought to do depend on the correct answers to several nor-
mative and empirical questions. It depends a lot on the issue of moral status.
I introduce the issue and argue against hierarchical views of moral status
(Kagan 2019). It also depends on whether we have reason to promote wel-
fare by creating more welfare subjects. I introduce the discussion and
defend the view that we ought to promote welfare only by improving the
lives of those who live or will live. The book ends with a brief overview of
ways of counting (or discounting) animals, which places the debate about
cross-­species capacity for welfare in a broader context of philosophical
controversies.
 2
The Difference-­View

DIF has been defended based on specific accounts of welfare. Shelly Kagan
defends DIF based on an objective list account of welfare (section 2.1). Peter
Singer’s defence of DIF was (formerly) based on whole life preferentialism
(section 2.2). A classic defense of DIF is John Stuart Mill’s distinction
between higher and lower pleasures (section 2.3). Jeff McMahan’s take
on cross-­species capacity for welfare introduces the notion of ‘fortune’
(section 2.4). Kevin Wong distinguishes what he calls ‘experiential’ and
‘absolute’ welfare to capture species-­specific differences in welfare capacity
(section 2.5). Mark Budolfson and Dean Spears use the number of brain
neurons as a proxy for cognitive capacity, which they take to be related to
welfare capacity (section 2.6). I will point out what I see as serious short-
comings of each of these defences of DIF. My aim is to show that DIF is far
less plausible than it is often assumed.

2.1 Kagan’s Objective List Account of Welfare

As we already saw in this book’s introduction, Kagan (2019) accepts DIF

and argues that humans are typically better off than dogs, which, in turn,
are typically better off than mice, due to higher cognitive capacities. Let us
now check out in more detail, how Kagan defends this view. Kagan (2019,
47) says:

To put the point simply, if a bit crudely, there are goods which people are
capable of possessing—­ and which, in a reasonably full life, they do
possess—­that animals either lack altogether, or, alternatively, possess in
smaller quantities, or possess in less valuable forms. And something simi-
lar holds when comparing significantly different forms of animal life as
well. If we think that dogs have more valuable lives than fish, say, that is
because we think that the goods available to dogs are, overall, better (in
quantity and quality) than the ones available to trout or salmon.

Capacity for Welfare across Species. Tatjana Višak, Oxford University Press. © Tatjana Višak 2022.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192882202.003.0002
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 Now, it was our hostess’s turn to entertain. We intimated as
much. She responded, first by much talk, much consultation with
Solange, and finally by going to one of the shelves that held the pans
and taking down some paper-covered books.
There was more consultation, whispered this time, and much
turning of pages. Then, after some preliminary coughing and
humming, the music began—the woman’s rich alto blending with the
child’s shrill but sweet notes. And what they sang was “Tantum ergo
Sacramentum.”
Why she should have thought that an appropriate song to offer
this company of rough soldiers from a distant land I do not know.
And why we found it appropriate it is harder still to say. But it did
seem appropriate to all of us—to Sergeant Reilly, to Jim (who used
to drive a truck), to Larry (who sold cigars), to Frank (who tended a
bar on Fourteenth Street). It seemed, for some reason, eminently
fitting. Not one of us then or later expressed any surprise that this
hymn, familiar to most of us since our mothers first led us to the
Parish Church down the pavements of New York or across the Irish
hills, should be sung to us in this strange land and in these strange
circumstances.
Since the gracious Latin of the Church was in order and since
the season was appropriate, one of us suggested “Adeste Fideles”
for the next item on the evening’s program. Madame and Solange
and our ex-seminarian knew all the words and the rest of us came in
strong with “Venite, adoremus Dominum.”
Then, as if to show that piety and mirth may live together, the
ladies obliged with “Au Clair de la Lune” and other simple ballads of
old France. And after taps had sounded in the street outside our
door, and there was yawning, and wrist-watches were being
scanned, the evening’s entertainment ended, by general consent,
with patriotic selections. We sang—as best we could—the Star
Spangled Banner, Solange and her mother humming the air and
applauding at the conclusion. Then we attempted La Marseillaise. Of
course we did not know the words. Solange came to our rescue with
two little pamphlets containing the song, so we looked over each
other’s shoulders and got to work in earnest. Madame sang with us,
and Solange. But during the final stanza Madame did not sing. She
leaned against the great family bedstead and looked at us. She had
taken one of the babies from under the red comforter and held him to
her breast. One of her red and toil-scarred hands half covered his fat
little back. There was a gentle dignity about that plain, hard-working
woman, that soldier’s widow—we all felt it. And some of us saw the
tears in her eyes.
There are mists, faint and beautiful and unchanging, that hang
over the green slopes of some mountains I know. I have seen them
on the Irish hills and I have seen them on the hills of France. I think
that they are made of the tears of good brave women.
Before I went to sleep that night I exchanged a few words with
Sergeant Reilly. We lay side by side on the floor, now piled with
straw. Blankets, shelter-halves, slickers and overcoats insured warm
sleep. Sergeant Reilly’s hard old face was wrapped round with his
muffler. The final cigarette of the day burned lazily in a corner of his
mouth.
“That was a pretty good evening, Sarge,” I said. “We sure were
in luck when we struck this billet.”
He grunted affirmatively, then puffed in silence for a few minutes.
Then he deftly spat the cigarette into a strawless portion of the floor,
where it glowed for a few seconds before it went out.
“You said it,” he remarked. “We were in luck is right. What do you
know about that lady, anyway?”
“Why,” I answered, “I thought she treated us pretty white.”
“Joe,” said Sergeant Reilly, “do you realize how much trouble
that woman took to make this bunch of roughnecks comfortable?
She didn’t make a damn cent on that feed, you know. The kid spent
all the money we give her. And she’s out about six francs for
firewood, too—I wish to God I had the money to pay her. I bet she’ll
go cold for a week now, and hungry, too.
“And that ain’t all,” he continued, after a pause broken only by an
occasional snore from our blissful neighbours. “Look at the way she
cooked them pomme de terres and fixed things up for us and let us
sit down there with her like we was her family. And look at the way
she and the little Sallie there sung for us.
“I tell you, Joe, it makes me think of old times to hear a woman
sing them Church hymns to me that way. It’s forty years since I heard
a hymn sung in a kitchen, and it was my mother, God rest her, that
sang them. I sort of realize what we’re fighting for now, and I never
did before. It’s for women like that and their kids.
“It gave me a turn to see her a-sitting their singing them hymns. I
remembered when I was a boy in Shangolden. I wonder if there’s
many women like that in France now—telling their beads and singing
the old hymns and treating poor traveling men the way she’s just
after treating us. There used to be lots of women like that in the Old
Country. And I think that’s why it was called ‘Holy Ireland.’”
 THE GENTLE ART OF CHRISTMAS
GIVING
IF A dentist stuck a bit of holly in his cap and went through the
streets on Christmas morning, his buzzing drill over his shoulder and
his forceps in his hand, stopping at the houses of his friends to give
their jaws free treatment, meanwhile trolling out lusty Yuletide staves
—if he were to do this, I say, it would be said of him, among other
things, that he was celebrating Christmas in a highly original manner.
Undoubtedly there would be many other adjectives applied to his
manner of generosity—adjectives applied, for instance, by the
children whom, around their gayly festooned tree, he surprised with
his gift of expert treatment. But the adjective most generally used
(not perhaps in adulation) would be “original.” And the use of this
adjective would be utterly wrong.
The holly bedecked dentist would not be acting in an original
manner. He would not be following the suggestion of his own
philanthropic heart. He would be acting in accordance with tradition,
a particularly annoying tradition, the evil and absurd superstition that
a gift should be representative of the giver rather than of the
recipient.
Now, I am aware that there is high literary authority for the
dentist’s Christmas morning expedition. The dentist himself would be
the first to disclaim having originated the idea; if you were to
question him he would tell you, as he deftly adjusted his rubber dam
in your mouth, that the credit belonged to the late Ralph Waldo
Emerson.
“Emerson,” the dentist would say as he sharpened the point of
his drill, “said that a gift was meaningless unless it was a genuine
expression of the giver; it would be unfitting, for instance, for a poet
to give his friend a house and lot, and a painter, his friend, a
diamond necklace. The poet should give a poem and the painter
should give a painting. Therefore it naturally follows that a minister
should give a sermon and a school teacher should bestow upon his
expectant pupils an extra page of mathematical problems. This,” the
dentist would say, “is the gift most expressive of my personality.” And
the drill would seek its goal.
Now, there is much to be said in favour of the Emersonian theory
of giving. Certainly it has the advantages of cheapness and
convenience. Many a poet could more easily give his friend a whole
ode or a sequence of sonnets or a bale of vers libre than he could
give a box of cigars, or a cigar. Many a painter could more easily
cover his children’s Christmas tree with his own cubist canvases
than with peppermint canes and toy locomotives and dolls and little
trumpets. A storekeeper or a manufacturer of any sort can more
easily select his gifts from his own stock than he can select them
elsewhere. Should a brewer, for instance, desire to help make Mr.
Bryan’s Christmas happy, it would be a simpler matter for him to put
in that gentleman’s stocking a case of beer than a case of grape
juice.
But cheapness and convenience are not the chief reasons for
this sort of giving. A poet who gives a poem when he should give a
pair of fur gauntlets, a painter who gives a painting when he should
give a doll, does so, it often happens, in spite of the fact that he has
thousands of dollars in the bank and lives within a block of a
department store, which he much enjoys visiting. He gives the gifts
that he does give because of his selfishness and conceit. He gives
his own wares because they advertise his talent.
The poet knows that his friend will not say, to inquiring admirers
of his fur gauntlets, “These were given me by Ezra Dusenbury,
author of ‘Babylonian Bleatings’ and other Lyrics: Smith, Parker &
Co., $1 net.” The painter knows that the infant he has enriched will
not say to her young companions: “‘Bettina’ was given me by the
illustrious Gaspar Slifestein whose incomprehensiblist canvases are
now on exhibition at the Microscopic Mania Gallery, 249 Fifth
Avenue, New York City.” These gentlemen take a violent interest in
their own work, and when they give presents of that work they are
trying to force their friends to share that interest and to extend it to all
the world. They are trying to force their friends to become their press
agents.
Of course there are exceptions to the rule that a giver should not
give his own wares. Any man who deals in wares that are universally
delightful may express himself in his gifts to his heart’s content and
no one will criticise him. So let no brewer or cigar-maker or money-
changer of my acquaintance puzzle his head long in the effort to
discover in the marts of the world something appropriate to my
peculiar tastes. These honest citizens may be as Emersonian in their
giving as they wish.
As I said, there is much to recommend the idea that inspired the
hypothetical dentist on his Yuletide denting; there is much to
recommend the gift-expressing-the-giver theory. It is convenient, it is
cheap, it is satisfying to the giver’s conceit. It is in many respects
excellent. But it does not happen to be suited to Christmas Day. It is
suited to the celebration of Emerson’s birthday, if any one knows the
date of that festival.
You see, unselfishness is supposed to be a characteristic of
Christmas giving. And unselfishness, true unselfishness, was known
to the philosophy of the Transcendentalists as little as it is known to
that of the Nietzscheans. He who gives really in accordance with the
spirit of the feast gives not to express his own personality, to call
attention to his own prowess as a painter or a poet or a candlestick-
maker, but to make his friend happy. If his friend remembers him
when he enjoys the gift, so much the better. But the essential thing is
that he shall enjoy the gift.
James Russell Lowell represented the Founder of the Feast of
Christmas as saying: “Who gives himself in his gift feeds three;
himself, his suffering neighbour and me.” But in Lowell’s mind when
he wrote this was no idea of justifying the poet who thrusts poems
into his friends’ Christmas stocking and tips the elevator man with a
villanelle. He was thinking of sacrificial giving, of giving which
necessitates a sacrifice on the part of the giver rather than on that of
the recipient. And it is no sacrifice for a poet to give his poem or his
book of poems. James Russell Lowell’s distinguished kinswoman,
now living in Boston, knows this. If Miss Amy Lowell really loves you
she will give you for Christmas an automobile or one of her Keats
manuscripts, rather than an autographed copy of “Sword Blades and
Poppy Seeds,” or “Men, Women, and Ghosts.”
Few Bishops resemble Mark Twain. But there once was a
Bishop who resembled Mark Twain in this respect (and in no other)
—he is known to many thousands who do not know his real name.
Mark Twain has thousands of friends who never heard of Samuel
Langhorne Clemens. And hundreds of thousands of children yearly
are gladdened by Santa Claus, yet have no association whatever
with the name of Saint Nicholas of Bari.
Yet the amiable Nicholas (who is the patron of sailors, of
prisoners, and of children) is the benefactor of humanity caricatured
during December in every shop window and on every eleemosynary
corner. His mitre has degenerated into a hat trimmed with doubtful
fur; his embroidered cope has become a red jacket. But (except
when he rings a little bell and begs for alms) he has retained his
extra-episcopal function of giving. Saint Nicholas was a master of the
art of giving; and since we have taken him so seriously as to
transmogrify him into Santa Claus, we should profit by his illustrious
example and model our giving upon his.
How and what did Saint Nicholas give? Well, he gave tactfully
and opportunely and appropriately. There was the nobleman of Lucia
whose three daughters were starving to death. Saint Nicholas gave
them marriage portions, throwing purses of gold in at the window at
night. When he was in Myra he gave to the poor people all the wheat
that was in the ships in the harbour, promising the owners that when
they arrived at the port for which they were bound their ships would
still be full of wheat; and so it came about. To a drowned sailor and
to children who had been killed by a cannibal he gave the gift of life.
And to innocent men accused of treason and imprisoned he gave
freedom.
 His first gift, you see, was money, his second life, his third
freedom. And thus he set an example to all the world. Now, it may
not be convenient for us to celebrate Christmas by throwing money
through the windows of apartments wherein repose dowerless young
women. Nor are life and freedom gifts for our bestowal. But it is at
any rate possible for us to imitate Saint Nicholas’s manner of giving;
to give tactfully, opportunely, and appropriately. There was nothing
especially characteristic of his episcopal functions in the gifts that
Saint Nicholas gave. Nor did he worry about whether or not they
reflected his personality. Let us make Santa Claus resemble Saint
Nicholas as closely as we can.
This business of expressing one’s personality by one’s gifts has
been carried to extraordinary lengths of late years. There are people
who actually select for all their friends and relatives things that they
themselves would like. If they consider themselves to be dainty—as
all women do—they give dainty presents, disregarding the fact that
the recipient may suffer acute physical pain at the mere thought of
daintiness.
They wish their beneficiaries to say on Christmas morning, “How
characteristic of Mrs. Slipslop to give me this exquisite Dresden
china chewing-gum holder,” instead of “How generous and
discerning of Mrs. Slipslop to give me this pair of rubber boots or this
jar of tobacco or this hypodermic syringe!” But what every child and
every grown person wants to receive is a gift suited to his tastes and
habits; it is a matter of indifference whether or not it expresses the
personality of the giver. Perhaps it will in his eyes supply the giver
with a new and charming personality.
You have hitherto regarded Mr. Blinker, the notorious efficiency
engineer, with disfavour. You have regarded him as a prosaic
theorist, a curdled mass of statistics. On Christmas morning you find
that he has presented you, not with an illuminated copy of “Rules for
Eliminating Leisure,” or a set of household ledgers or an alarm clock,
but with a cocktail set or a pool table or an angora kitten or some
other inefficient object.
 At once your opinion of Mr. Blinker changes for the better. He
assumes a new and radiant personality. Your Sunday school teacher
has always exhibited to you virtues which you respect but do not
enjoy; she has seemed to you lacking in magnetism. If she gives you
for Christmas a Bible or a tale of juvenile virtue, you will write her a
graceful letter of thanks (at your mother’s dictation), but your
affection for the estimable lady will not be materially increased. But if
your Sunday school teacher gives you a bowie knife or a revolver or
a set of the Deadwood Dick novels! then how suddenly will the
nobility of your Sunday school teacher’s nature be revealed to you!
To elevator men, janitors, domestic servants, newspaper
deliverers, and other necessary evils we always give something
appropriate—money. And money does not express the personalities
of most of us. We—that is, the general public, the common people,
the populace, the average man, the great washed and the rest of us
—do our duty in this matter, following religiously the admirable
tradition of the Christmas box. But our retainers—if they will permit
us thus picturesquely to address them—do not. They serve us during
the year, and are duly paid for it, but they do nothing picturesque and
extraordinary at Christmas time to justify our gifts to them.
As a matter of fact, they are not upholding their part of the
tradition. It is not enough for them to bow, and say, “Thank you,”
while they feverishly count the money. They should revel
romantically, as did their predecessors who established the custom
by which they profit. The elevator boys should sing West Indian
carols under our windows—especially if our apartment is in the
twentieth story. The janitor and his family should enact in the
basement a Christmas miracle play.
It is pleasant to think of the janitor attired as a shepherd or as a
Wise Man, with his children as angels or as sheep, to picture the
Yule log on the janitorial hearth, and to hear in fancy, rising up the
dumbwaiter shaft, the strains of “The Carnal and the Crane,” or of
the excellent carol which begins:

The shepherd upon a hill he sat;

 He had on him his tabard and his hat,
His tarbox, his pipe and his flagat;
His name was called Joly Joly Wat,
For he was a gud herdes boy.
Ut hoy!
For in his pipe he made so much joy!

In some places the newspaper deliverers and the telegraph boys

feebly support this tradition by writing, or causing to be written, a
“carrier’s address” and leaving printed copies of it with their
customers. It would be better, of course, if they were to sing or to
recite these verses, but even the printed address is better than
nothing. It is a pity to see even this slight concession to tradition
disappearing. In bygone days some of the most distinguished of our
poets were glad to write these addresses—the late Richard Watson
Gilder wrote one for the newspaper carriers of Newark.
And then there are the numerous public servants who nowadays
receive from the public no special Christmas benefaction—How
gracefully they might obtain it by infusing into their occupations a
little Yuletide pageantry! As it is, the subway guards celebrate the
golden springtime by donning white raiment. Let them on Christmas
day be wreathed with mingled holly and mistletoe, and let them
chant, in lusty chorus:

God rest you, merry gentlemen!

Let nothing you dismay.
Please slip us some coin, you’ve got money to boin,
And this is Christmas day.

Few subterranean voyagers could resist this appeal.

And the street cleaners, how comes it that they are unrewarded
of the public? Their predecessors, the crossing sweepers of London
fifty years ago, exacted tribute from pedestrians not only at
Christmas time, but on every day of the year. Let our street cleaners
assume holiday garb and manner, let them expect Christmas gifts,
but give in turn a Christmas spectacle. Methods of doing this will
readily suggest themselves—an appropriate thing would be for them
to procure mediæval attire at any theatrical costumer’s, and build
great bonfires at such points of vantage as Columbus Circle, Times
Square, Madison Square, and Union Square. Over these bonfires
boars’ heads should be roasted and great bowls of steaming punch
should hang. From passersby who partook of their hospitality the
street cleaners, through one of their number dressed as an almoner,
should request a golden remembrance. These things may yet come
to pass. They are not so archaic as seemed in nineteen-thirteen a
worldwide war. And the municipal Christmas trees are a good
beginning.
But to return to our muttons, or, rather, to our geese and plum
puddings, the most important thing for us to remember in the
selection of Christmas presents is their suitability to the person for
whom they are intended. We may like books, but let us not therefore
feel obliged to sustain our literary reputation by giving books to our
neighbour who wants a box of cigars or a jumping-jack. We have the
precedent, furnished by Saint Nicholas, and we have a higher
precedent still. For the first great Christmas gift to humanity was
what humanity most needed, and always needs—a child.
 A BOUQUET FOR JENNY
SO FAR as I know, in no other library but mine is to be found a
book illustrated by Jenny Hand. Therefore, more than much vellum
and crushed levant, more than first editions and association copies
bearing famous signatures, do I prize a certain fat volume, a foxed
and dog-eared and battered volume, which was published by Grigg
and Elliot (God rest them!) in Philadelphia at number nine North
Fourth Street in 1847. This is a book of poetry, but it is no slender
little pamphlet of a thing, the shelter of one bardling’s lyrical
ejaculations. Five full-grown poets, two of them men of noble girth,
comfortably share this stately tenement. The book’s solid and
imposing name is “The Poetical Works of Rogers, Campbell, J.
Montgomery, Lamb and Kirk White.”
A detailed consideration of this volume might, to the profit of the
reading public, fill all of one issue of any book-review supplement or
literary, so to speak, section printed in America. But for the moment I
would write, not of the excellencies of the volume in general, but of
the distinguishing feature of my copy—its unique virtue, which gives
me the right to pity all other bibliophiles now rejoicing in this
illustrious Grigg and Elliot imprint. I refer to the illustrations by Jenny
Hand.
Messrs. Grigg and Elliot illustrated, to the best of their ability,
every copy of this work. They illustrated it with what they doubtless
termed “elegant steel engravings.” These steel engravings are
indeed “elegant,” also they are “appropriate,” also they are “chaste.”
Take down from its shelf your copy of “The Poetical Works of, etc.,”
and you will find, facing page ninety-four, a representation of
“Morning among the Alps,” painted, the legend tells you, by T.
Doughty, and engraved by George W. Hatch. The sun is rising, much
as Mr. Belasco might direct, and upon a pleasant little pond in the
foreground are three of those famous Alpine early birds known as
swan. This picture is designed to accompany Samuel Rogers’ “The
Alps at Daybreak,” lines which I may recall to your memory by saying
that they begin, “The sunbeams streak the azure skies.” The picture
was not intended by the artists to be Alpine in character, but it is a
nice picture, very harmonious with the text.
Furthermore, the generous Messrs. Grigg and Elliot, being
greatly moved by those lines of the ingenious Kirke White which
begin: “Behold the shepherd boy, who homeward tends, Finish’d his
daily labour.—O’er his path, Deep overhung with herbage, does he
stroll With pace irregular; by fits he runs, Then sudden stops with
vacant countenance, And picks the pungent herb”—being greatly
moved, I say, by these lines, they determined to give them a
supplementary embellishment. Therefore they caused one O. Pelton
to engrave on steel a picture first “Drawn by Cristall” (as who should
say “Painted by Raphael”). This shows us a plump youth, with the
vacant countenance celebrated by the poet, standing upon the side
of Vesuvius, carrying over his shoulder a large spade, and in his left
hand a basket of potatoes. In their sensational journalistic way,
Messrs. Grigg and Elliot affixed to this picture the caption, “The
Shepherd Boy,” and forthwith the poem was illustrated.
But while you will take pleasure, if you are a worthy possessor of
this volume, in these altogether admirable engravings, you will look
through your copy in vain for expressions of the genius of Jenny
Hand. The Jenny Hand illustrations are two in number, and they are
to be found only in my copy.
One of the advantages of illustrating a book with steel
engravings is that it necessitates the inclusion of blank pages. When
a steel engraving occupies one side of a page, there may be nothing
whatever printed on the reverse.
There may be nothing printed, I said, on the reverse. But on the
reverse anything in the world may be drawn or written. Therein we
see the origin of the entertaining practice of extra-illustration. To the
eager pencil of Jenny Hand, these virginal white pages, oases
among pages of dry verse, offered irresistible opportunities. And my
library is therefore the richer.
This book never belonged to Jenny Hand, except so far as
anything belongs to one who makes it more beautiful and interesting
and useful. The book belonged to Jenny’s sister, Esther. On the fly-
leaf is written “Mifs E. C. Hand, with regards of C. F. Q.” Obviously
E. C. stands for Esther Conway. Obviously, also, Esther did not
herself draw pictures on the beautiful volume of poesy (with gold
scroll work all over the cover) which the amorous and tasteful Mr.
C. F. Q. presented to her. This delightful work was done by Esther’s
younger sister, who in 1847 was aged perhaps thirteen, and should
have been and probably was named Jenny. C. F. Q. stands for
Charles Francis Quigley. This is not a random guess; it is a wholly
logical deduction from the portrait of the gentleman drawn by Jenny,
who knew him well.
It was one summer afternoon in 1847 that Jenny first began to
improve “The Poetical Works of Rogers, Campbell, J. Montgomery,
Lamb and Kirke White.” At three o’clock Jenny had been out playing
—keeping the porch and the front gate well in sight, for she knew
that not for nothing had Esther put on her pearl necklace and her
blue sash and spent three-quarters of an hour over her hair. Jenny’s
suspicions were justified and her vigilance rewarded. At four o’clock
the front gate clicked and the gravel walk resounded under a manly
tread. Charlie Quigley, in a high stock, a flowered waistcoat, a long
black coat, tight blue trousers and a tall silk hat, came to call on
Esther. And he brought a gift. Was it a box of candy? If so Jenny
would, as a dutiful sister, help to entertain the company. She would
wait—Esther was unwrapping the present. No, it was not a box of
candy—it was a book. And it was not even a novel, it was a book of
poetry, of all things in the world! How could that Charlie Quigley be
so silly?
Well, Jenny lost interest in Charlie and his gift for a while. She
rolled her hoop and played with the puppy while Esther and Charlie
sat on the porch and looked at the foolish book. When Jenny came
up on the porch, toward sunset, they had gone into the parlour. They
had left the book open face downward on a bench, open to Thomas
Campbell’s “Song,” beginning “Oh, how hard it is to find The one just
suited to our mind”—certain lines of which Charlie had roguishly
underscored.
Jenny turned the pages of the book, but found therein little
entertainment. At length, however, she came upon “Morning in the
Alps,” with its blank and inviting reverse. Among the jackstones in
her pocket was the stub of a pencil, and soon that pencil was at its
predestined task of depicting the event of the afternoon—for my
edification some threescore years later.
Jenny drew a side view of the broad stone steps, with a little of
the railings and Grecian pillars. She drew the locust tree, and since
she knew that there was a robin’s nest in it, she outlined two little
birds against the skyey background. She drew Esther, grand in her
hoopskirts, necklace, curls and blue sash—no, it wasn’t blue, it was
green plaid, and the fabric was satin, for, as I live, there is a faded
corner of it in this very book, sentimentally cut off and placed there
by Esther herself! Why was Esther so particular about saving a
fragment of that sash? Was this really a momentous afternoon? Was
this the sash that Charlie’s black broadcloth sleeve surrounded when
Esther consented to become Mrs. Quigley? And were they married,
and did Charlie’s friends all make flat jokes about his claiming the
hand of Hand?
And were all these things going on while the artistic Jenny was
busy on the porch? Possibly. Probably. But with such conjectures the
author of this serious essay in art criticism has no concern. To return
to the account of the picture—Jenny drew next the renowned
Charles Francis Quigley. But now her pencil was dipped in a mild
solution of venom—imparted to it, I fear, when she thoughtfully
placed its point between her small lips. For those same lips had
desired chocolates—and the chocolates had turned out to be nothing
but poesy. Therefore she sacrificed realism to satire, and made
Charlie (really a very nice fellow, whom she came to like very much
in later years) something of a fop. She made the cut of his coat too
extreme, his hair too curly, his mustache too obviously waxed. She
deliberately gave his eye a sentimental expression; she smiled
derisively as she padded his pictured sleeve.
 And then she gave her drawing its crowning charm—she put in
the “selbst-portrait.” She drew the little cedar tree that flanked the
porch, and she drew herself kneeling beside it—seeing, but not seen
by, the rapt Esther and Charlie. Far from being ashamed of this act
of sisterly espionage, she gloried in it, and brought all her art to the
task of immortalising it.
So in my book the locust tree is forever in leaf and two little birds
poise always against the summer sky. And always Charlie, hat in
hand, presents to the radiant Esther “The Poetical Works of Rogers,
Campbell, J. Montgomery, Lamb and Kirke White.” And always the
little artist, with long curls hanging over her white frock, laughs at the
lovers from behind her cedar tree.
The light was fading now, but Jenny had found another blank
page—that preceding the section devoted to Kirke White’s verses.
Supper wouldn’t be ready for fifteen minutes, so she started on a
picture more difficult than the simple incident just drawn. She chose
for her scene Riley’s Riding Academy, where she and Esther spent
every Wednesday morning. There was Esther, seated with the
sedateness appropriate to her eighteen years, upon the tamest of
nags. And there was Jenny, in her fetching habit, perilously poised
upon her wildly careering steed. With enthusiastic pencil did Jenny
depict her own brave unconcern, and Esther’s timorousness. How
firmly Esther clutches the reins of her mild beast, how startled is her
face as she looks upon her daring and nonchalant younger sister!
Did the Quigleys and the Hands, I wonder, shed tears over Mr.
Southey’s “Account of the Life of Henry Kirke White”? Did they know
Francis Boott, of Boston, the young American gentleman who
placed, Mr. Southey tells us, a tablet to Henry’s memory in All Saints
Church, Cambridge? Were they moved by James Montgomery’s
“Prison Amusements; Written during nine months confinement in the
Castle of York, in the years of 1795 and 1796”? Mr. Montgomery tells
us in the prefatory advertisement, “they were the transcripts of
melancholy feelings—the warm effusions of a bleeding heart.” Did
they read “Gertrude of Wyoming,” “Theodric; a Domestic Tale,” and
the “Pleasures of Hope”?
 Did they read the memoirs prefaced to the various selections? If
so, I hope they found them as delightful as I do. There is the
inexhaustibly fascinating “Memoirs of Charles Lamb,” in which the
anonymous critic improves the occasion by reproving sternly the
Lake Poets, or the “Lakers,” as he calls them. “The thousand
Songs,” he tells us, “of our writers in verse of past time dwell on all
tongues, with the melodies of Moore. But who learns or repeats the
cumbrous verses of Wordsworth, which require an initiation from
their writer to comprehend?” Later this gentleman has occasion to
refer to “Another School of Poetry,” which “arose in opposition to that
of the Lakers.” “Their talents,” he writes, “are before the world. To
this new school belonged the late poet Shelley, whose lofty powers
are unquestionable; Keats, also now deceased; and Leigh Hunt.”
Keats, also now deceased! What porridge fed the writer of this
memoir?
Well, my concern is not with the poor hack who edited this book
and wrote the memoirs. I hope Messrs. Grigg and Elliot paid him
well. And as for Charlie and Esther and Jenny and the robins in the
locust tree—well, Charlie Quigley’s dust and his good sword’s rust,
and his soul is with the saints, I trust. I hope Esther married him. I’m
glad he brought her “The Poetical Works of Rogers, Campbell, J.
Montgomery, Lamb and Kirke White,” even if Jenny was
disappointed. For if she’d made her drawings on the cover of a
candy box they would not now be in my library.
 THE INEFFICIENT LIBRARY
THERE ARE young gentlemen whose delight it is to tell their
married and established and venerable friends how to form libraries.
Generally, these young gentlemen wear spectacles rimmed with
tortoise shell, and the condensed milk of their alma mater is yet wet
upon their lips. They peer at your laden shelves and say: “It is better
to have one good book than a dozen bad ones. Of any standard
work you should have the definitive edition—not necessarily a rare
imprint or something in fine binding, but the most modern and
comprehensive edition. It is better to have one good anthology than
a shelfful of third-rate poets. Go through your shelves and throw
away all the rubbish; buy sets of the classics, a volume at a time,
and in this way you will gradually build up a useful and really
representative library, something appropriate and coherent.”
When a young gentleman talks to you in this wise, the only thing
to do is to lead him gently away from the bookshelves and make him
sit in a comfortable corner and talk to you about hockey or socialism
or some other of his boyish sports. He knows absolutely nothing
about libraries. Probably he lives in the shadow of Washington Arch,
and his own library—on the bureau—consists of the “Life of General
Ulysses S. Grant,” inscribed “To dearest Teddy, from Aunt Mag.,
Xmas, 1916,” and a copy of the New Republic for last August,
containing a letter in which he took exception to an editorial on the
relation between pragmatism and Freud’s second theory of the semi-
subconscious. To-morrow he will sell General Grant to a second-
hand book dealer for fifteen cents, and thereby diminish his library by
one half. What right has he to tell you what books you shall keep and
what you shall destroy?
Now, it would not be so bad if this raving about a library was
confined to young persons like him I have mentioned. But the trouble
is, there are people of means and reputation for intelligence who are
actually putting into practice the evil theories he advances, who are
deliberately “building up libraries,” instead of surrounding themselves
with books they like. Against this pernicious heresy it is the duty of
every honest bibliophile to protest.
We need waste no words on the purchaser of “subscription sets”
and many-volumed collections of “Kings and Queens of Neo-Cymric
Realism and Romance,” and “The Universalest of All Libraries of
Super-extraordinary Fiction,” in forty-eight volumes, fifteen dollars
down and five dollars a month until the purchaser is summoned to a
Better Land. Either these people want books for mere shelf-furniture,
or else they are the victims of voracious book agents, and deserve a
tear of sympathy rather than a rebuke. Our concern, the concern of
those who have at heart the good name of printed literature and the
liberty of the individual householder of literary tastes, is with the
person who is highly literate and possessed of an account with a
bookseller, and is abusing his talent and privilege by “efficiently”
building up a library.
When efficiency confined itself to the office and the factory, it
was bad enough. When it (loathsome animal that it is!) crawled up a
leg of the table and began to preach to us about our food, babbling
obscenely of proteids and carbohydrates, we felt that the limit of
endurance had been reached. But no sooner do we cuff efficiency
from the dining table than it pops up in the library. And this is not to
be endured. Efficiency must be plucked down, kindly, of course, but
resolutely, from the bookshelves, and put in a covered basket to
await the coming of the wagon which shall convey it to the lethal of
the S. P. C. A.
Except for an efficient family, what could be less interesting than
an efficient library? Think of the sameness of it—every study in a
block of houses containing the “Oxford Dictionary” and “Roget’s
Thesaurus” and the “Collected Essays of Hamilton Wright Mabie”
and similar works of reference, with a few standard fictions such as
Arnold Bennett’s “Your United States,” and Owen Wister’s “The
Pentecost of Calamity”! There would be no adventures among books
possible in such libraries. Indeed, efficiency in the library would soon
reduce it, if logically developed, to a collection of anthologies and
reference books, and possibly some such practical jokes as ex-
President Eliot’s “Five Foot Shelf.”
An advocate of the efficient library, a spectacled young
gentleman of the type already described, once engaged in some
ignoble literary task—book-reviewing I believe it was called—while a
guest at my house. The volume of which he was writing a criticism
had to do with a single-tax experiment in New Zealand, and
therefore he wished to include in his review a quotation from the “Life
of Benvenuto Cellini.” He did not find the “Life of Benvenuto Cellini”
on my shelves, and therefore reproached me, and made my library
the object of his callow disapproval.
I reasoned with him. He had read Benvenuto, I said, and
Benvenuto was waiting for him in the public library if he desired to
renew his acquaintance with him. Here, I said, are many volumes of
biography and autobiography in place of the one for which you cry.
Here is a book entitled “The Life and Labours of Henry W. Grady, his
Speeches, Writings, etc., Being in Addition to a Graphic Sketch of
His Life, a Collection of His Most Remarkable Speeches and Such of
His Writings as Best Illustrate His Character and Show the
Wonderful Brilliancy of His Intellect, also Such Letters, Speeches,
and Newspaper Articles in connection with His Life and Death as Will
Be of General Interest.” Here, I said, is “Colonel Thomas Blood,
Crown Stealer,” by Wilbur Cortez Abbott, a highly entertaining book.
Here, I continued, as a preface to this collection of the “Essays in
Prose and Verse of J. Clarence Mangan,” is an illuminating
biographical essay by Mr. C. P. Meehan, together with Mr. J. Wilson’s
“Phrenological Description of Mangan’s Head,” and “The Poet’s Own
Recipe to Make Tar Water.” Here is—
But my friend rudely interrupted my well-meant remarks, and
went in quest of Cellini to the south-west corner of Fifth Avenue and
Forty-second Street, where he found a library more suited to his
efficient tastes. In doing this he was perfectly justified. Public
Libraries should be efficient. They are places to which you go to get
useful but uninteresting information. But there is no more reason for
your own library to resemble a public library than there is for your