In olden days the herd led his flock, going first in the post of
danger to defend the creatures he had weaned from their natural
habits for his various uses. Now that good relationship has ceased
for us to exist, man drives the beasts before him, means to his
end, but with no harmony between end and means. All day long the
droves of sheep pass me on their lame and patient way, no longer
freely and instinctively following a protector and forerunner, but
DRIVEN, impelled by force and resistless will--the same will which
once went before without force. They are all trimmed as much as
possible to one pattern, and all make the same sad plaint. It is a
day on which to thank God for the unknown tongue. The drover and
his lad in dusty blue coats plod along stolidly, deaf and blind to
all but the way before them; no longer wielding the crook,
instrument of deliverance, or at most of gentle compulsion, but
armed with a heavy stick and mechanically dealing blows on the
short thick fleeces; without evil intent because without thought--
it is the ritual of the trade.
Of all the poor dumb pilgrims of the road the bullocks are the most
terrible to see. They are not patient, but go most unwillingly
with lowered head and furtive sideways motion, in their eyes a
horror of great fear. The sleek cattle, knee deep in pasture,
massed at the gate, and stared mild-eyed and with inquiring bellow
at the retreating drove; but these passed without answer on to the
Unknown, and for them it spelt death.
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