inactive. It was necessary to cause that
organ to perform its function; and for that
purpose I gave you a mercurial. Those pills
you seem so grateful to. So the relief afforded
in one case by blue-pill, or calomel, might be
derived, in another, from ipecacuanha, or
antimony, or from a steam-bath without any
medicine at all."

"Or a stiff tumbler of hot grog, eh?"
suggested Mr. Bagges.

"Not impossible," replied Newby, "hazardous
as the remedy would be."

"Punch cures the gout, you know, the song
says, as well as the cholic—eh?—and the
phthisic," reasoned Mr. Bagges.

"Well," said the medical man, "probably
it is as likely to do so as any other specific."

"But what do you mean, then," demanded
Mr. Bagges, "by the cure of a disease? I
always thought that the medicine you give
acted by destroying the disease—neutralising
some poison in the system—eh?—as an acid
does an alkali—at all events putting a stop to
the complaint."

"Curing a disease," answered Mr. Newby,
"on our part, means, literally, taking care
of it. It is nature that cures in the sense
of healing. All that we do, or can do, is
to influence and regulate the natural
operations. But, now, what do you imagine a
disease to be?"

"Eh?" answered Mr. Bagges, "why I
should say—some morbid principle in the
system—a certain noxious something—"

"No, sir," said Newby; "that is just where
you are wrong, and where the generality of
the British public, and too many members,
perhaps, of the British faculty, are wrong too.
A disease is not a something."

"It can't be a nothing," Mr. Bagges argued.
"Gout, now—the deuce!—do you call that
nothing?"

"What I mean," explained Mr. Newby,
"is, that a disease is not a particular thing,
but a state of things. People are apt to speak
of it as a substance or essence, a sort of being,
comparable to a fiend or demon in possession
of the human body; and they look on the
doctor as a species of conjuror—"

"When very often," interposed Mr. Bagges,
"that is just what he is not."

"Or exorcist," continued Mr. Newby, "who
casts out the evil spirit by the aid of certain
drugs. Now diseases are processes—not
individualities. There are certain processes,
you know, that necessarily take place in the
human body."

"Digestion, for example," remarked Mr.
Bagges.

"Yes!—digestion; the conversion of food
into chyme, of chyme into chyle, of chyle into
blood; respiration and the aëration of the
blood; the circulation of this blood; the
extraction from it of various substances by the
apparatuses called secreting organs; the
deposition of new flesh, and absorption of the
old: and so on. These are the ordinary
processes of life. Disease is an extra-ordinary
process."

"Well, it is extraordinary. It is very
extraordinary that we poor mortals should be
subject to disease," Mr. Bagges moralised.

"Disease, however, has an object; and, as
perhaps I could show you, a beneficent one,
Mr. Bagges. I said it was an extraordinary
process. It is not one which occurs regularly,
as a matter of course; certain circumstances
are required to give rise to it. What are
these circumstances—that is to say, the causes
of disease? Why, sir, they are exposure to
cold, for instance; breathing bad air; habitual
contact with deleterious substances; eating
unwholesome food; partaking too copiously,
Mr. Bagges, of food and drink, which may be
harmless in themselves. I might add, sedentary
occupations, mental emotions, and a variety of
causes; all of which, however, may be classed
under one general head of injuries."

"What injury can affect the child who is
born diseased? " inquired Mr. Bagges.

"Injury, the effects of which are
transmitted by one or both of his parents," replied
Newby; "and, therefore, you see that a man,
in impairing his own health, may inflict a
wrong upon his offspring."

"Eh?—the deuce—yes—to be sure! " said
Mr. Bagges.

"Disease, then," pursued Newby, "is a
process occasioned by injury. Now, what I
am going to say may appear a truism; but no
matter. Disease cannot take place in the dead
subject."

"Well," Mr. Bagges said, "I certainly
should have supposed that we wanted no
ghost from the grave—eh?—or the anatomical
theatre—to tell us that."

"No! And yet decomposition takes place
in the lifeless body. What is the difference
between decomposition and disease?"

"Ahem!" was the reply of Mr. Bagges.

"Why, decomposition is a merely chemical
process, and simply destructive. Whereas
disease is a vital process—one to which life,
mark you, is essential."

"Humph!"

"Moreover, it is not one of mere
destruction."

"Ha!"

"Let us," continued Mr. Newby, "consider
a simple bodily injury, and its result. We
will take a case in which we can see what
takes place with our eyes. Say, a burn.
Apply the actual cautery to a dead body, and
you only burn a hole in it; nothing ensues.
But suppose I apply a hot poker to a given
portion of your exterior."

"No, I thank you!" cried Mr. Bagges,
instinctively rubbing himself.

"Were I," Newby proceeded, "to perpetrate
this outrage, I should do something more than
occasion a breach of the integrity of Mr.
Bagges's surface. Redness and swelling,
accompanied with pain and heat, would—after
the immediate sensation from the burn had