“Do you believe in phrenology, Doctor Marston?”
“Most assuredly I do not.”
“Will you perform an experiment upon me to test the reasonableness of your doubt?”
“Do you mean by that, will I assume your case surgically?”
“Exactly.”
I turned to the window again. Here was certainly an opportunity to contribute something to the discussion of a vexed scientific question. Are the functions of the brain localized in its structure? So say Gall, and Spurzheim, and not a few other eminent anatomists. Well, every practical experiment looking towards the solution of this question has its value. Here was a strong, vigorous man, evidently possessed by the amative mania. It would be an operation of little difficulty and no great degree of danger to uncover the occipital protuberance at the base of the brain, where phrenologists claim that the organ of love is situated, and then—
“Well, will you take the case?”
The clergyman’s hand was on my shoulder. I turned and looked him squarely in the face. “Is it understood that you assume all the risk, and that you do not hold me responsible for the psychological result of an experiment which, so far as I am concerned, is purely physical in its character?”
“Certainly. We will have it so understood.”
“Then you may call at my office to-morrow morning at eleven. Eat a light breakfast, and, as far as possible, avoid excitement of every kind.”