Читать книгу An Ethical Problem - Albert 1845-1916 Leffingwell - Страница 11

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 compassionate 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. Alcock. … 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 assured 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 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 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:

"He could not divest his mind of the feeling that there was a special Providence in the way in which he had been afflicted. He had devoted peculiar attention to the functions of certain nerves, and had inflicted suffering on many dumb creatures that he might discover the office of those nerves; and HE COULD NOT BUT REGARD THE CANCER WHICH PREYED UPON THEM—IN HIS OWN BODY—AS A SIGNIFICANT MESSAGE FROM GOD."[2]

[2] Ibid., p. 250.

Again and again he repeated the conviction to which his mind continually reverted in the midst of his torment. To him conscience brought no message of Divine approbation, but only a sentence of condemnation upon his past pursuits. Nor was Reid alone in this feeling of apprehension and questioning. We are told by his medical friend and biographer that many of his brother physicians were startled by learning

"that Dr. Reid is doomed to die by a disease WHICH REPEATS UPON HIS OWN BODY NOT IN ONE, BUT IN MANY WAYS, the pains which he had imposed upon the lower animals."[1]

[1] Reid's "Life," p. 252.

Undoubtedly, friends of the tormented vivisector attempted to comfort him with the assurance—so often repeated in our day—that his experiments on living animals had been carried on "for the benefit of sick and suffering humanity." But Reid was too honest a man to permit himself to be thus deluded while under the very shadow of death. For him the time had come when the specious apologies for the infliction of torture—so current in our day—could be of no avail in lessening the poignant feeling of Remorse. In the dying hour men speak the truth about their actions. It was so with Reid.

"He confessed to having thought much of Scientific FAME in his labours, and IT WOULD BE UNTRUE TO SAY THAT THE ALLEVIATION OF HUMAN SUFFERING was the motive always before him when he inflicted pain on the lower animals."[2]

[2] Ibid., p. 65.

An operation seemed to hold out hope of relief from his terrible agony. It was deemed best to perform it—as Reid had experimented—without anaesthetics, "that the sufferer, with every sensation and faculty alive, might literally become an operator upon himself." In the course of a second operation, Dr. Wilson tells us: "THE SAME NERVES and bloodvessels which had been the subject of Dr. Reid's most important inquiries WERE LAID BARE IN HIMSELF, BY THE SURGEON'S KNIFE." But all remedial measures were in vain. The two years of apprehension, suspense, recognition, despair, of slowly increasing physical torment and the agony of remorse, came at last to an end. In July, 1849, he found the long-wished-for peace.

Seventy years ago the religious sentiment of Scotland easily favoured that doctrine of Divine displeasure which seemed probable to Reid and his friends. In our day, however, we are less certain of being able to interpret the "judgments of God"; and if we regard it as a remarkable coincidence, it is as far as we may safely go. Coincidences of some kind are a universal experience.

That notorious vivisector, Dr. Brown-Se'quard, devoted many years of his life to experiments on the seat of all that is concentrated and exquisite in agony—the spinal cord. It was a curious coincidence certainly, that in his last days the vivisector was affected by a disease of the spinal cord, which at one time compelled him to go on all-fours like a beast. Even the remorse of Reid finds a parallel, for toward the end of his life, Haller, one of the greatest physiologists that ever lived, is said to have expressed in letters deep regret for the suffering he had inflicted upon living animals.

We cannot doubt, however, that the experience of excruciating agony affecting the very nerves upon which he had so often experimented must have brought to the dying man a deeper realization of the pain he had caused than he could otherwise have known. A noted surgeon, whose finger was the seat of a felon, asked his hospital assistant to lance it, at the same time cautioning him to be particularly careful to cause as little pain as possible. "Why, I've often heard you tell patients coming to the hospital not to mind the lancing—that the pain to be felt was really nothing at all," replied the assistant.

"Ah, yes," rejoined the surgical sufferer, "but then, remember, I was AT THE OTHER END OF THE KNIFE!" In watching the phenomena elicited by experiments upon animals, there have been vivisectors who forget what was felt "at the other end of the knife," and so became utterly oblivious to the suffering they caused. A leading physiologist of England once declared that he "HAD NO REGARD AT ALL" for the pain of an animal vivisected, and that "he had no time, so to speak, for thinking what the animal would feel or suffer"; that he never used anaesthetics, "except for convenience' sake." Can such a man realize the meaning of the word "PAIN"? Without sharp personal experience, can anyone, adequately comprehend what it signifies?

Remorse may be evidence, not so much of exceptional delinquency as of exceptional sensitiveness to ethical considerations. By the baser and more degraded souls it is rarely experienced. The greatest criminals usually meet their doom, untouched by any feeling of remorse. Perhaps it does not greatly matter how this infinite regret is occasioned. Sometimes—

" … pain in man

Has the high purpose of the flail and fan."

It separates and purifies. To one whose great suffering from disease is long continued, there must come a clearer vision of the infinite littleness of all transitory ambitions. Such supreme regret as that which came to Reid has great value. The poor soul once so longed for "fame"—which means only a little wider recognition to-day, and a little more enduring remembrance by posterity than that which is gained by the generality of mankind. Of that horde of torturers, avid also for "fame," whose causation of unreckonable anguish brings into their ignoble natures no thought of pity, no emotion of regret, everyone comes at last to rest in that deep forgetfulness which he deserves. Here, however, is the story of one whose penitence gives reason for longer remembrance, who greatly erred and greatly suffered, whose contrition atoned, whose example admonishes—JOHN REID, physiologist.