Sir Charles Bell was a physiologist who distinguished himself by a really important discovery; and it has been cited as an example of the successful application of the mode of inquiry in question. This is entirely an error. Whoever will read his book, will at once perceive the truth of that which he himself judiciously observes; namely, that physiology is much more a science of observation than experiment. As to the influence of experiments on animals, in his own discoveries, we have the best possible authority for denying it; viz. Sir Charles Bell himself. He states very clearly the object with which he was _reluctantly_ induced to make some experiments. They had, in fact, nothing to do with his _discovery_. They were made in reluctant concession to the slowly-paced perceptions of others. This he had the manliness to acknowledge, and the benevolence to regret. In short, examine what series of such experiments we may, we always find them either wholly unproductive, or, if they appear to prove anything of value, it is always something that is much more _logically_ deducible from sources altogether unobjectionable. But if this be so, is there no mischief in unproductive modes of inquiry? Again—putting aside the brutalizing tendency of such practices as part of the moral question—Is life so long? Is Science so easy? Is Physiology, and especially the deplorably halt condition of Medical Science, in such a state that we can afford to waste time in _vicious modes_ of inquiry? We think not. Is there nothing mischievous in our endeavour to obtain by the evidence of sense (the eye) that insight into nature which Lord Bacon has so emphatically warned us is the office of higher—in fact, of our intellectual—perceptions? If we are not allowed to indulge in feelings of disgust and abhorrence at all that is revolting to common sense, and our best and kindliest sentiments, can we read, without distrust, of experiments which so disgust by their nature that we know not how to describe them; or which are so revolting, from their cruelty, that the mind recoils from the contemplation of them? Is it possible to read many of the experiments of Spallanzani[24], without feeling the same disgust that Abernethy used to express in regard to them; or to read of opening animals alive, dividing them with instruments, breaking their bones, or running red-hot wires into their cavities, without feeling (if, indeed, any thing better is to be regarded as merely "mawkish sentimentality") that at least valuable time has been wasted in pursuits which have been brutalizing and unproductive?