An Ethical Problem Part 3

One of the English critics of the abuses of vivisection a century ago was Dr. John Abernethy of London, a Lecturer on Physiology at the Royal College of Surgeons, the founder of the medical school attached to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and the most distinguished surgeon in Great Britain during the first quarter of the nineteenth century.

Abernethy was by no means an antivivisectionist; he insisted upon the utility of certain demonstrations, but he was profoundly opposed to those cruelties of research which, in our day, by the modern school of physiologists, are either forgotten or condoned. curiously enough, one of his strongest utterances against such cruelty was made in one of his lectures on physiology. Therein he said:

"There is one point I feel it a duty to advert to. Mr. Hunter, whom I should not have believed to have been very scrupulous about inflicting suffering upon animals, nevertheless censures Spallanzani for the unmeaning repet.i.tion of similar experiments. Having resolved publicly to express my own opinions with regard to the subject, I choose the present opportunity, BECAUSE I BELIEVE SPALLANZANI TO HAVE BEEN ONE OF THOSE WHO HAVE TORTURED AND DESTROYED ANIMALS IN VAIN. I do not perceive that in the two princ.i.p.al subjects which he has sought to elucidate he has added any important fact to our stock of knowledge; and, besides, some of his experiments are of a nature that a good man would blush to think of, and a wise man would have been ashamed to publish."[1]

[1] "Physiological Lectures," London, 1817, p. 164.

This is a unique expression. One may be absolutely certain that no professor of physiology during the past forty years has thus openly condemned in a physiology lecture any of his contemporaries for the cruelty of their experiments.

In his Life of Abernethy, his biographer, Dr. Macilwain, refers to experiments upon living animals, "WHICH ARE SO REVOLTING FROM THEIR CRUELTY, that the mind recoils from the contemplation of them." This, too, is a noteworthy utterance, coming from one who was a distinguished London surgeon and a Fellow of the Royal Society. In a subsequent work ent.i.tled "Remarks on Vivisection," published some seventeen years before the date ascribed by Professor Bowditch as that marking the beginning of criticism, he refers again to the views of Abernethy:

"As for experiments on living animals involving suffering, Mr. Abernethy disapproved of them, and seldom alluded to them but in terms of distrust, derision, or disgust."

That the criticism of experimental cruelty did not begin in 1864, as imagined by Professor Bowditch, the quotations here given sufficiently demonstrate.

Beyond this demonstration, does the history of these savage tormentors have any lesson for us to-day? They belonged to another century.

Should they not be forgiven, and their experiments condoned? Why not confine attention solely to the laboratory of to-day? Why blame Brachet and Magendie and Spallanzani, to whom anaesthesia was unknown?

There is a false suggestion in this protest, which, in one form or another, we hear often to-day. It is the gratuitous a.s.sumption put forth in defence, that if anaesthetics had only been known to physiologists before 1846, they would invariably have been used. Any such suggestion is manifestly false. If these experiments of Brachet and of others to be mentioned were to be made at all, it was necessary that the animal should be conscious of the agony it experienced. In the most complete laboratory for vivisection of the present time--in the Rockefeller Inst.i.tute, for example--no scientist could drive a dog INTO A FRENZY while it lies absolutely unconscious under the influence of chloroform! We may say this of the experiments of Magendie on the nervous system, for aside from the preliminary cutting operation, such experiments demanded the consciousness of the victim. That which humanity has a right to censure in these physiologists is the spirit of absolute indifference to animal suffering, the willingness to subject a living creature to agony without adequate reason for the infliction of pain. The discovery of chloroform or ether made no change in human nature. Some of the worst of vivisections have been made, not merely since anaesthetics were discovered, but within the present century. Over twenty-five years after the properties of ether had been discovered, the most prominent vivisector in England told the Royal Commission that, except for teaching purposes, "I never use anaesthetics where it is not necessary for convenience, " and that an experimenter "HAD NO TIME, SO TO SPEAK, FOR THINKING WHAT THE ANIMAL WILL FEEL OR SUFFER."[1]

[1] Evidence before Royal Commission, 1875, Questions 3,538, 3540.

Unrestricted vivisection is the same to-day as a century ago. In many cases its operations involve little or no pain; in many cases there seems to be the same absolute indifference to the agony inflicted that was manifested by the vivisectors of a hundred years since. Where the law does not interfere, EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE. Whether there is cruelty or consideration depends on the spirit of the vivisector. It was no ignorant layman, but the president of the American Academy of Medicine, who, in his annual address, declared that there were American vivisectors who "seem, seeking useless knowledge, to be blind to the writhing agony and deaf to the cry of pain of their victims, AND WHO HAVE BEEN GUILTY OF THE MOST d.a.m.nABLE CRUELTIES, without the denunciation of the public and the profession that their wickedness deserves."[1] And that vivisector of to-day, who suggests that if anaesthetics had been known to Magendie or Brachet, they would invariably have been used, is either ignorant or insincere. Surely he must know that the very nature of their experiments precluded the use of ether, and that in their time, as to-day, if the experiment were to be tried at all, it was necessary that the pain be felt.

[1] Address before American Academy of Medicine at Washington, D.C., May 4, 1891, by Theophilus Parvin, M.D., LL.D., professor in Jefferson Medical College of Philadelphia, Pa.

There are other reasons why we should not permit the past to be forgotten. We are confronted by the challenge of the laboratory.

Behind the locked and barred doors of the vivisection chamber, to which no man can gain admission unless known to be friendly to its practices, the vivisector of to-day challenges society to prove the existence of cruelty or abuse. The vivisector demands absolute freedom of action, he demands the most complete privacy, he demands total independence of all legal supervision--and then challenges the production of proof that any criticism is justified! Within the sacred precincts of the laboratory a Brachet, a Magendie, a Claude Be'rnard may be experimenting to-day with a profusion of victims, protected by their seclusion from every possibility of complaint. For in what respect does the spirit that animates research to-day differ from that manifested by experimenters of the past? In all the literature of advocacy for unrestricted vivisection can one point out a word of criticism of Magendie or Brachet or Be'rnard, or anything but expressions of exculpation, of admiration, and of praise? An English writer on animal experimentation, Mr. Stephen Paget, had occasion, in a recent work, to refer to the experimentation of both Magendie and Sir Charles Bell. Does he criticize or condemn Magendie's cruelty?

No. He tells us, incidentally, that Bell always had "a great dislike to the school of Magendie," adding, with indifference, "LET ALL THAT Pa.s.s." These words aptly express the sentiment and the wish. Gladly, indeed, would the physiological laboratory hide the past from the memory of mankind; I do not believe in acceding to that desire. When the leading physiologist of his day, addressing an audience of physicians, refers to an early criticism of physiological cruelty as a collection of "blood-curdling stories," there is desire not to investigate, but to ridicule and discredit historic facts. When men of science put forth what they claim to be, "a plain statement of the whole truth," without one word of reference to the abuses of the past, they practically throw dust in the air to hide the truth from the public eye. That it may have been done ignorantly and without any wish to deceive is not sufficient to earn exculpation, for in either case the evil is accomplished.

Of one English physiologist of that period, Sir Charles Bell, it is impossible to speak except in terms of admiration and esteem. Born in 1774, his long and useful life terminated in 1842, four years before the discovery of anaesthesia. No one can read his correspondence with his brother, published many years after his death, without recognizing the innate beauty and n.o.bility of his character. When news of the Battle of Waterloo reached England, he--the leading surgeon of his day--started for the battlefield. The story of his experience is one of the most graphic pictures of the effects of war to be found in modern literature. It was Sir Charles Bell who made to physiology the greatest contribution which had come to it since the discovery by Harvey of the circulation of the blood, and yet this discovery was made by reasoning upon the facts of anatomy rather than by experimenting upon animals. An English physiologist, Sir Michael Foster, admits this:

"To Charles Bell is due the merit of having made the fundamental discovery of the distinction between motor and sensory fibres. Led to this view by reflecting on the distribution of the nerves, he experimentally verified his conclusions...."

In his lectures on the nervous system Bell himself states that his discoveries, so far from being the result of vivisections, were, "on the contrary, deductions from anatomy; and I have had recourse to experiments, not to form my own opinions, but to impress them upon others."

That which determines the judgment of the world upon human actions is the spirit that animates them. Sir Charles Bell was not an antivivisectionist. When experiments on animals seemed to him absolutely indispensable, he had recourse to them, but always with repugnance, and with desire to avoid giving of pain. In his lectures on the nervous system he speaks thus of some of his work:

"After delaying long on account of the unpleasant nature of the operation, I opened the spinal ca.n.a.l.... I was deterred from repeating the experiment by the protracted cruelty of the dissection. I reflected that the experiment would be satisfactory if done on an animal recently knocked down and insensible."

And on another occasion, writing to his brother, he says:

"I should be writing a third paper on the nerves; but I cannot proceed without making some experiments, which are so unpleasant to make that I defer them. You may think me silly, but I cannot perfectly convince myself that I am authorized in Nature or Religion to do these cruelties .... And yet what are my experiments in comparison with those which are daily done, and are done daily for nothing?"

Such extreme sensibility, such sympathetic hesitancy to inflict great suffering in an attempt to discover some fact, would be ridiculed at the present day in every laboratory in Europe or America. It is typical, however, of a sentiment that once prevailed. Are we any better because it has so largely disappeared?

For great cruelty was there ever great remorse? The cases are not many; before the self-condemnation of a dying man and the final scene, friendship may feel it best to draw the veil. Yet one case of this poignant regret is worthy consideration, and shall have relation.

CHAPTER V

A VIVISECTOR'S REMORSE

About the middle of the last century there died in Scotland in the prime of life a physiologist, now almost forgotten, whose fate excited at the time an unusual degree of compa.s.sionate interest. Born in 1809, John Reid received his medical degree when but twenty-one years of age. A part of the two years following he spent in Paris, where Magendie was at the height of his notoriety for the ruthless cruelty of his vivisections. What attracted the young man we do not know, but Reid seems to have become greatly interested in physiological problems. Returning to Scotland, he pursued his investigations with all the zeal of youth, and apparently with little or no regard for the animal suffering he caused. For instance, of experiments which he made to prove a certain theory, he tells us:

"I have exposed the trunk of the par vagum in the neck of at least thirty animals, and in all of these the pinching, cutting, and even stretching of the nerve WERE ATTENDED BY INDICATIONS OF SEVERE SUFFERING. It was frequently difficult to separate the nerve from the artery ON ACCOUNT OF THE VIOLENT STRUGGLES OF THE ANIMAL."[1]

[1] "Physiological Researches," by John Reid, p. 92. (In all quotations the italics are the compiler's.)

Regarding the pain inflicted by him in certain other vivisections, Reid is equally frank in his admissions:

"In repeated experiments upon the laryngeal nerves, we found in all animals operated upon (except two dogs, which appeared CONSIDERABLY EXHAUSTED BY GREAT PREVIOUS SUFFERING) ample ground for dissenting from the statements of Dr. Alc.o.c.k.... With the exceptions mentioned, VERY SEVERE INDICATIONS OF SUFFERING ... ATTENDED THE PINCHING AND CUTTING OF THE NERVE."[1]

[1] "Physiological Researches," p. 73.

Some physiological observers have remarked that among the more highly organized species of animals the creature struggles against the ligatures previous to a second operation more than it did at its first experience. It is evident that in such cases, in animals as well as among human beings, the memory of agony endured creates a mental condition of terror and fear. But what effect would the emotion of terror have upon the heart's action if certain nerves were first severed? Brachet relates an experiment wherein he tortured a dog in every conceivable way, yet the heart's action was not notably quickened if such nerves were first divided. Reid determined, therefore, to experiment for himself upon this emotion of TERROR induced by memory of previous pain, and six dogs were selected for his purpose. The nerves were first "cut in the middle of the neck, and a portion of each removed." He then tells us the results:

"After the operation, the pulsations of the heart were reckoned when the animal was lying or standing on the ground, and AFTER IT HAD BEEN CARESSED FOR SOME TIME TO CALM ITS FEARS. It was then lifted up on the table, on which it had been tied, and operated upon; and after having been spoken to HARSHLY, the pulsations were again reckoned."

In every case Reid noted that the heart's action increased from 20 to 40 beats per minute on lifting the animal to the vivisection table, whereon it had previously suffered torment. He adds:

"In those experiments it was particularly observed that the animals made no struggles in carrying them to and from the table, and consequently the increased excitation of the heart MUST HAVE ARISEN FROM THE MENTAL EMOTION OF TERROR. In a seventh dog this was conjoined with violent struggles. The pulsations, eight hours after the operation, were 130; WHEN PLACED ON THE TABLE AND MADE TO STRUGGLE, the pulsations were about 220; when he had been SUBJECTED TO PAIN, and struggled more violently, they became so frequent that they could not be accurately reckoned. These experiments...prove that after the section of the vagi the pulsations of the heart may not only be quickened by muscular exertion, but also by MENTAL EMOTIONS."[1]

[1] Reid, "Physiological Researches," pp. 168-171.

Objection is often made to the citation of vivisections which occurred before the discovery of ether or chloroform. But in these experiments of Reid--as in those of Brachet--the use of anaesthetics, even had they been known to him, would have been a hindrance. HOW CAN ANYONE EXPERIMENT ON THE "MENTAL EMOTIONS" OF AN ANIMAL WHILE IT IS PROFOUNDLY INSENSIBLE TO ALL EXTERNAL INFLUENCES? The idea is an absurdity. The biography of Reid thus refers to this very point:

"Allusion has been made to the infliction of suffering on living animals.... This suffering was not merely incidental to dissections, but in many of the experiments recorded WAS DELIBERATELY INFLICTED.

In many of the experiments, EVEN IF ANAESTHETICS HAD BEEN KNOWN at the period of his observations, THEY COULD NOT HAVE BEEN EMPLOYED.... It was essential to the settlement of the question that the animal should be left TO EXHIBIT ALL THE PAIN IT FELT, AND SHOULD BE EXPRESSLY SUBJECTED TO TORTURE."[2]

[2] "Life of John Reid," by Geo. Wilson, M.D., 1852, p. 153.

And precisely the same apology is put forward to-day. More than once, by high scientific authority, the public has been comfortably a.s.sured that nowadays "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 repet.i.tion 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 pa.s.sed. 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 not merely death which confronted him, but death by the most mysterious and agonizing of human ailments. In June, 1848, he wrote to a friend: "I have a strong conviction that my earthly career will soon come to a close, and that I shall never lecture again."

And then, gradually, to the ever-increasing agony of the body, came the anguish of REMORSE. He remembered the trembling little creatures which again and again he had lifted to their bed of torment, and "made to struggle," that he might observe how the heart-beats of a mutilated animal were quickened "from the emotion of terror"; and now, in the gloom of horrible imaginings, TERROR held HIM with a grasp that would never loosen or lessen while his consciousness remained. He remembered the the evidence of "severe suffering" he had so often evoked by the "pinching and cutting and stretching" of nerves; the creatures he had first "caressed to calm their fears"--and then vivisected; the eyes that so often had appealed for respite from agony--and appealed in vain; and now, NATURA MALIGNA, to whom pity is unknown, was slowly torturing him to death. He pointed to the seat of his suffering as being "THE SAME NERVES on which he had made so many experiments, and added: 'THIS IS A JUDGMENT UPON ME FOR THE SUFFERING I HAVE INFLICTED ON ANIMALS'"[1]

[1] "Life of John Reid," by Dr. G. Wilson, p. 273.

More than once during the last months of his life he recurred to the same subject.

His biographer says: