For we would be honorable to the
party we deserted; we would fulfil fate, and so at length,
perhaps, detect the secret innocence of these incessant tragedies
which Heaven allows.
"Too quick resolves do resolution wrong,
What, part so soon to be divorced so long?
Things to be done are long to be debated;
Heaven is not day'd, Repentance is not dated."
We are double-edged blades, and every time we whet our virtue the
return stroke straps our vice. Where is the skilful swordsman who
can give clean wounds, and not rip up his work with the other
edge?
Nature herself has not provided the most graceful end for her
creatures. What becomes of all these birds that people the air
and forest for our solacement? The sparrows seem always
_chipper_, never infirm. We do not see their bodies lie about.
Yet there is a tragedy at the end of each one of their lives.
They must perish miserably; not one of them is translated. True,
"not a sparrow falleth to the ground without our Heavenly
Father's knowledge," but they do fall, nevertheless.
The carcasses of some poor squirrels, however, the same that
frisked so merrily in the morning, which we had skinned and
embowelled for our dinner, we abandoned in disgust, with tardy
humanity, as too wretched a resource for any but starving men.
It was to perpetuate the practice of a barbarous era.
