wadays "anaesthetics are always employed," in severely painful
experiments, EXCEPT "in those instances in which THE ANAESTHETIC WOULD
INTERFERE WITH THE OBJECT OF THE EXPERIMENT." Truly it is a broad
exception. For all we know, it is the laboratory's excuse, even for
the present-day repetition of the experiments of Magendie, Brachet,
and Reid. "The anaesthetic would interfere." But what was the value of
all this experimentation upon mind and body, this "mental emotion of
terror" in a dog, and this calming of its fear by caresses, followed
by the torment of the operation? There was no value so far as the
treatment of human ailments is concerned. Reid's experiments led to
no change whatever in medical practice. Reading of certain
experiments, one is constantly reminded of the old peasant's reply to
his grandchild, who had found a skull on what once was a battlefield.
Holding it in his hand, the old man told the story of the Battle of
Blenheim, and the awful suffering it had caused:

"`But what good came of it at last?'
Said little Peterkin;
`Why, that I cannot tell,' quoth he,
`BUT `TWAS A FAMOUS VICTORY!'"

At the early age of thirty-eight the physiologist seemed to see before
him the bright prospect of a long and happy life. He possessed
unusual physical strength, robust health, and a resolute and
courageous spirit. His home was happy. No one considered him a cruel
man; indeed, we are told, he was rather fond of animals. "In his own
house he always had pet dogs and cats about him, and he was as ready
as Sir Walter Scott to rise from any occupation to humour their
whims." In his profession he had made somewhat of a reputation, yet
higher honours and wider renown and increased financial prosperity
seemed almost certain to await him in the not distant future.

But one day, in November, 1847, he noted in himself the symptom of a
disease that gave cause for alarm. The pain at first was doubtless
insignificant, but the symptom occasioned anxiety because it would not
disappear. Some of his friends were the best surgeons of Scotland,
and he asked their advice. They were careful not to add to his
discouragement, and they suggested the old, old formula--"rest and a
change of scene." A year passed. The disease made constant progress,
and there came a time when of its malignant character there could be
no possible doubt. Finally, the vivisector recognized that it was n