bed of sickness, were, according to their
theory, criminals of the deepest dye, daily
and hourly attempting to alleviate pain, and
to avert the death which had been pronounced
upon all men. On this point it was
with great truth remarked, that "whatever
is true in point of fact, or humane and merciful
in point of practice, will find no condemnation
in the word of God."

The objections of hostile physicians
assumed another form. One condemned a
remedy, which rendered a patient, as he
asserted, "drunk and insensible." Another
asserted that pain was desirable and salutary,
and that the expression of it should be
regarded as a healthy indication. Even the
chief of the army medical staff recommended
the surgeons, during the Crimean war, not to
use chloroform; as the pain inflicted by the
knife was a wholesome stimulus, and its
abolition likely to be injurious. Practitioners
were found who did not hesitate to affirm
that much which was said about suffering
and agony was sentimental nonsense, and
that doctors who pandered to the morbid
tastes of dilettanti patients were committing
a moral wrong. In justice to the profession
in general, however, it must be said, that
such expressions of opinion were quite
exceptional.

The community generally, who are not
troubled with theological or professional
scruples, had two principal objections. First
the dread of losing consciousness; and,
secondly, the fear of fatal results. The former
arises purely from the absence of experience,
and a distrust of encountering whatever we
are unaccustomed to. The same suspicion
attaches itself to most innovations; extending
even to matters of luxury or convenience.
Lord Campbell in his Lives of the Chancellors
tells us that when he first travelled from
Edinburgh to London in the mail-coach, the
time was reduced from twelve or fourteen
days—which the journey had previously
occupied—to three nights and two days.
"This new and swift travelling from the
Scotch capital," he adds, "was wonderful, and
I was gravely advised to stop a day at York,
as several passengers who had gone through
without stopping, had died of apoplexy from
the rapidity of the motion."

Whatever dread a person may at first feel
to inhale a dose of chloroform, nearly always
vanishes with the first trial. Our consciousness
is always destroyed in natural sleep, and
we voluntarily yield ourselves up to it night
after night without compunction or regret.
The only real difference between this and
anæsthetic sleep is, that we yield ourselves
up to the former to cure corporeal fatigue,
and that experience has made us so familiar
with it, that we resign ourselves confidentially
to its embraces; to the latter we submit for
relief from physical pain: but, in default of
experience, we dread to do so.

The objection that chloroform has
produced, and may again produce, death, is by
far the most valid; and one which demands
the gravest consideration. It must be remembered,
however, that when we hear from time
to time about fatal cases, no mention is
made of the thousands of instances in which
chloroform is constantly given with impunity
and with the happiest results. The uninitiated
may be led to suppose that it is seldom
given; and, when it is, only at considerable
hazard. The truth is, that this agent has
been administered in Europe and America,
probably hundreds of thousands of times, and
the reputed deaths collected from all these
quarters are very little over half a hundred.
Although used most extensively to abate the
pangs of maternity, there has not in these
cases been a single death recorded when the
agent was administered by a qualified medical
man. It may, we think, be affirmed without
exaggeration, that every one who starts on a
railway journey encounters an almost equal
risk; and the proportionate number of accidents
which occur from sea-bathing and
skating are annually greater. The danger,
indeed, of inhaling chloroform is fractional,
while the benefit it confers on humanity is
incalculable. The science of anæsthetics is
yet young. Further experience will probably
still further diminish the slight risk
which anæsthesia entails.

  TWO LEAVES FROM THE DEVIL'S
                       BOOK.

MY dear and excellent friend Albion Bull,
who knows, and often deplores, my too great
affection for all things Parisian, had thought
it necessary to administer a few nasty knocks
to the French nation, the last time I saw him
before starting for the metropolis of France.

"Above all things," said this good and
unprejudiced gentleman, at the conclusion
of a somewhat lengthened address; "above all
things, I entreat you to observe the atrocious
nature of French literature generally,
but more especially as it developes itself in
the plays which appear, from time to time,
upon their demoralised stage. And let me
hear," he added, "when you get back, what
you can possibly have to say in defence of a
drama which is one continual exposition of
vice and immorality, which will shake your
excellent principles to their centre, and send
you out of the theatre degraded in your own
eyes by what you have had the misfortune to
witness."

Now, it so happened that, during my stay
in the French capital, I had the opportunity
of attending some of the earlier performances
of two plays destined to take a high place in
the favour of the play-going public (which
means the whole public) of Paris, and with
one of which the play-going public (which
does NOT mean the whole public) of London
has been made acquainted through a recent
adaptation.