Chapter XVIII: Part 18

Again, I spoke of the produce of fermentation as "spirit of wine." Now what a very curious phrase that is, if you come to think of it. The old alchemists talked of the finest essence of anything as if it had the same sort of relation to the thing itself as a man's spirit is supposed to have to his body; and so they spoke of this fine essence of the fermented liquid as being the spirit of the liquid. Thus came about that extraordinary ambiguity of language, in virtue of which you apply precisely the same substantive name to the soul of man and to a glass of gin! And then there is still yet one other most curious piece of nomenclature connected with this matter, and that is the word "alcohol" itself, which is now so familiar to everybody. Alcohol originally meant a very fine powder. The women of the Arabs and other Eastern people are in the habit of tingeing their eyelashes with a very fine black powder which is made of antimony, and they call that "kohol;" and the "al" is simply the article put in front of it, so as to say "the kohol." And up to the 17th century in this country the word alcohol was employed to signify any very fine powder; you find it in Robert Boyle's works that he uses "alcohol" for a very fine subtle powder. But then this name of anything very fine and very subtle came to be specially connected with the fine and subtle spirit obtained from the fermentation of sugar; and I believe that the first person who fairly fixed it as the proper name of what we now commonly call spirits of wine, was the great French chemist Lavoisier, so comparatively recent is the use of the word alcohol in this specialised sense.

So much by way of general introduction to the subject on which I have to speak to-night. What I have hitherto stated is simply what we may call common knowledge, which everybody may acquaint himself with. And you know that what we call scientific knowledge is not any kind of conjuration, as people sometimes suppose, but it is simply the application of the same principles of common sense that we apply to common knowledge, carried out, if I may so speak, to knowledge which is uncommon. And all that we know now of this substance, yeast, and all the very strange issues to which that knowledge has led us, have simply come out of the inveterate habit, and a very fortunate habit for the human race it is, which scientific men have of not being content until they have routed out all the different chains and connections of apparently simple phenomena, until they have taken them to pieces and understood the conditions upon which they depend. I will try to point out to you now what has happened in consequence of endeavouring to apply this process of "analysis," as we call it, this teazing out of an apparently simple fact into all the little facts of which it is made up, to the ascertained facts relating to the barm or the yeast; secondly, what has come of the attempt to ascertain distinctly what is the nature of the products which are produced by fermentation; then what has come of the attempt to understand the relation between the yeast and the products; and lastly, what very curious side issues if I may so call them--have branched out in the course of this inquiry, which has now occupied somewhere about two centuries.

The first thing was to make out precisely and clearly what was the nature of this substance, this apparently mere scum and mud that we call yeast. And that was first commenced seriously by a wonderful old Dutchman of the name of Leeuwenhoek, who lived some two hundred years ago, and who was the first person to invent thoroughly trustworthy microscopes of high powers. Now, Leeuwenhoek went to work upon this yeast mud, and by applying to it high powers of the microscope, he discovered that it was no mere mud such as you might at first suppose, but that it was a substance made up of an enormous multitude of minute grains, each of which had just as definite a form as if it were a grain of corn, although it was vastly smaller, the largest of these not being more than the two-thousandth of an inch in diameter; while, as you know, a grain of corn is a large thing, and the very smallest of these particles were not more than the seven-thousandth of an inch in diameter. Leeuwenhoek saw that this muddy stuff was in reality a liquid, in which there were floating this immense number of definitely shaped particles, all aggregated in heaps and lumps and some of them separate. That discovery remained, so to speak, dormant for fully a century, and then the question was taken up by a French discoverer, who, paying great attention and having the advantage of better instruments than Leeuwenhoek had, watched these things and made the astounding discovery that they were bodies which were constantly being reproduced and growing; than when one of these rounded bodies was once formed and had grown to its full size, it immediately began to give off a little bud from one side, and then that bud grew out until it had attained the full size of the first, and that, in this way, the yeast particle was undergoing a process of multiplication by budding, just as effectual and just as complete as the process of multiplication of a plant by budding; and thus this Frenchman, Cagniard de la Tour, arrived at the conclusion--very creditable to his sagacity, and which has been confirmed by every observation and reasoning since--that this apparently muddy refuse was neither more nor less than a mass of plants, of minute living plants, growing and multiplying in the sugary fluid in which the yeast is formed. And from that time forth we have known this substance which forms the scum and the lees as the yeast plant; and it has received a scientific name--which I may use without thinking of it, and which I will therefore give you--namely, "Torula." Well, this was a capital discovery. The next thing to do was to make out how this torula was related to the other plants. I won't weary you with the whole course of investigation, but I may sum up its results, and they are these--that the torula is a particular kind of a fungus, a particular state rather, of a fungus or mould. There are many moulds which under certain conditions give rise to this torula condition, to a substance which is not distinguishable from yeast, and which has the same properties as yeast--that is to say, which is able to decompose sugar in the curious way that we shall consider by-and-by. So that the yeast plant is a plant belonging to a group of the Fungi, multiplying and growing and living in this very remarkable manner in the sugary fluid which is, so to speak, the nidus or home of the yeast.

That, in a few words, is, as far as investigation--by the help of one's eye and by the help of the microscope--has taken us. But now there is an observer whose methods of observation are more refined than those of men who use their eye, even though it be aided by the microscope; a man who sees indirectly further than we can see directly--that is, the chemist; and the chemist took up this question, and his discovery was not less remarkable than that of the microscopist. The chemist discovered that the yeast plant being composed of a sort of bag, like a bladder, inside which is a peculiar soft, semifluid material--the chemist found that this outer bladder has the same composition as the substance of wood, that material which is called "cellulose," and which consists of the elements carbon and hydrogen and oxygen, without any nitrogen. But then he also found (the first person to discover it was an Italian chemist, named Fabroni, in the end of the last century) that this inner matter which was contained in the bag, which constitutes the yeast plant, was a substance containing the elements carbon and hydrogen and oxygen and nitrogen; that it was what Fabroni called a vegeto-animal substance, and that it had the peculiarities of what are commonly called "animal products."

This again was an exceedingly remarkable discovery. It lay neglected for a time, until it was subsequently taken up by the great chemists of modern times, and they, with their delicate methods of analysis, have finally decided that, in all essential respects, the substance which forms the chief part of the contents of the yeast plant is identical with the material which forms the chief part of our own muscles, which forms the chief part of our own blood, which forms the chief part of the white of the egg; that, in fact, although this little organism is a plant, and nothing but a plant, yet that its active living contents contain a substance which is called "protein," which is of the same nature as the substance which forms the foundation of every animal organism whatever.

Now we come next to the question of the analysis of the products, of that which is produced during the process of fermentation. So far back as the beginning of the 16th century, in the times of transition between the old alchemy and the modern chemistry, there was a remarkable man, Von Helmont, a Dutchman, who saw the difference between the air which comes out of a vat where something is fermenting and common air. He was the man who invented the term "gas," and he called this kind of gas "gas silvestre"--so to speak gas that is wild, and lives in out of the way places--having in his mind the identity of this particular kind of air with that which is found in some caves and cellars. Then, the gradual process of investigation going on, it was discovered that this substance, then called "fixed air," was a poisonous gas, and it was finally identified with that kind of gas which is obtained by burning charcoal in the air, which is called "carbonic acid." Then the substance alcohol was subjected to examination, and it was found to be a combination of carbon, and hydrogen, and oxygen. Then the sugar which was contained in the fermenting liquid was examined and that was found to contain the three elements carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen. So that it was clear there were in sugar the fundamental elements which are contained in the carbonic acid, and in the alcohol. And then came that great chemist Lavoisier, and he examined into the subject carefully, and possessed with that brilliant thought of his which happens to be propounded exactly apropos to this matter of fermentation--that no matter is ever lost, but that matter only changes its form and changes its combinations--he endeavoured to make out what became of the sugar which was subjected to fermentation. He thought he discovered that the whole weight of the sugar was represented by the carbonic acid produced; that in other words, supposing this tumbler to represent the sugar, that the action of fermentation was as it were the splitting of it, the one half going away in the shape of carbonic acid, and the other half going away in the shape of alcohol. Subsequent inquiry, careful research with the refinements of modern chemistry, have been applied to this problem, and they have shown that Lavoisier was not quite correct; that what he says is quite true for about 95 per cent. of the sugar, but that the other 5 per cent., or nearly so, is converted into two other things; one of them, matter which is called succinic acid, and the other matter which is called glycerine, which you all know now as one of the commonest of household matters. It may be that we have not got to the end of this refined analysis yet, but at any rate, I suppose I may say--and I speak with some little hesitation for fear my friend Professor Roscoe here may pick me up for trespassing upon his province--but I believe I may say that now we can account for 99 per cent. at least of the sugar, and that 99 per cent. is split up into these four things, carbonic acid, alcohol, succinic acid, and glycerine. So that it may be that none of the sugar whatever disappears, and that only its parts, so to speak, are re-arranged, and if any of it disappears, certainly it is a very small portion.

Now these are the facts of the case. There is the fact of the growth of the yeast plant; and there is the fact of the splitting up of the sugar. What relation have these two facts to one another?

For a very long time that was a great matter of dispute. The early French observers, to do them justice, discerned the real state of the case, namely, that there was a very close connection between the actual life of the yeast plant and this operation of the splitting up of the sugar; and that one was in some way or other connected with the other. All investigation subsequently has confirmed this original idea. It has been shown that if you take any measures by which other plants of like kind to the torula would be killed, and by which the yeast plant is killed, then the yeast loses its efficiency. But a capital experiment upon this subject was made by a very distinguished man, Helmholz, who performed an experiment of this kind. He had two vessels--one of them we will suppose full of yeast, but over the bottom of it, as this might be, was tied a thin film of bladder; consequently, through that thin film of bladder all the liquid parts of the yeast would go, but the solid parts would be stopped behind; the torula would be stopped, the liquid parts of the yeast would go. And then he took another vessel containing a fermentable solution of sugar, and he put one inside the other; and in this way you see the fluid parts of the yeast were able to pass through with the utmost ease into the sugar, but the solid parts could not get through at all. And he judged thus: if the fluid parts are those which excite fermentation, then, inasmuch as these are stopped, the sugar will not ferment; and the sugar did not ferment, showing quite clearly, that an immediate contact with the solid, living torula was absolutely necessary to excite this process of splitting up of the sugar. This experiment was quite conclusive as to this particular point, and has had very great fruits in other directions.

Well, then, the yeast plant being essential to the production of fermentation, where does the yeast plant come from? Here, again, was another great problem opened up, for, as I said at starting, you have, under ordinary circumstances in warm weather, merely to expose some fluid containing a solution of sugar, or any form of syrup or vegetable juice to the air, in order, after a comparatively short time, to see all these phenomena of fermentation. Of course the first obvious suggestion is, that the torula has been generated within the fluid. In fact, it seems at first quite absurd to entertain any other conviction; but that belief would most assuredly be an erroneous one.

Towards the beginning of this century, in the vigorous times of the old French wars, there was a Monsieur Appert, who had his attention directed to the preservation of things that ordinarily perish, such as meats and vegetables, and in fact he laid the foundation of our modern method of preserving meats; and he found that if he boiled any of these substances and then tied them so as to exclude the air, that they would be preserved for any time. He tried these experiments, particularly with the must of wine and with the wort of beer; and he found that if the wort of beer had been carefully boiled and was stopped in such a way that the air could not get at it, it would never ferment. What was the reason of this? That, again, became the subject of a long string of experiments, with this ultimate result, that if you take precautions to prevent any solid matters from getting into the must of wine or the wort of beer, under these circumstances--that is to say, if the fluid has been boiled and placed in a bottle, and if you stuff the neck of the bottle full of cotton wool, which allows the air to go through and stops anything of a solid character however fine, then you may let it be for ten years and it will not ferment. But if you take that plug out and give the air free access, then, sooner or later fermentation will set up. And there is no doubt whatever that fermentation is excited only by the presence of some torula or other, and that that torula proceeds in our present experience, from pre-existing torulae. These little bodies are excessively light. You can easily imagine what must be the weight of little particles, but slightly heavier than water, and not more than the two-thousandth or perhaps seven-thousandth of an inch in diameter. They are capable of floating about and dancing like motes in the sunbeam; they are carried about by all sorts of currents of air; the great majority of them perish; but one or two, which may chance to enter into a sugary solution, immediately enter into active life, find there the conditions of their nourishment, increase and multiply, and may give rise to any quantity whatever of this substance yeast. And, whatever may be true or not be true about this "spontaneous generation," as it is called in regard to all other kinds of living things, it is perfectly certain, as regards yeast, that it always owes its origin to this process of transportation or inoculation, if you like so to call it, from some other living yeast organism; and so far as yeast is concerned, the doctrine of spontaneous generation is absolutely out of court. And not only so, but the yeast must be alive in order to exert these peculiar properties. If it be crushed, if it be heated so far that its life is destroyed, that peculiar power of fermentation is not excited. Thus we have come to this conclusion, as the result of our inquiry, that the fermentation of sugar, the splitting of the sugar into alcohol and carbonic acid, glycerine, and succinic acid, is the result of nothing but the vital activity of this little fungus, the torula.

And now comes the further exceedingly difficult inquiry--how is it that this plant, the torula, produces this singular operation of the splitting up of the sugar? Fabroni, to whom I referred some time ago, imagined that the effervescence of fermentation was produced in just the same way as the effervescence of a sedlitz powder, that the yeast was a kind of acid, and that the sugar was a combination of carbonic acid and some base to form the alcohol, and that the yeast combined with this substance, and set free the carbonic acid; just as when you add carbonate of soda to acid you turn out the carbonic acid. But of course the discovery of Lavoisier that the carbonic acid and the alcohol taken together are very nearly equal in weight to the sugar, completely upset this hypothesis. Another view was therefore taken by the French chemist, Thenard, and it is still held by a very eminent chemist, M. Pasteur, and their view is this, that the yeast, so to speak, eats a little of the sugar, turns a little of it to its own purposes, and by so doing gives such a shape to the sugar that the rest of it breaks up into carbonic acid and alcohol.

Well, then, there is a third hypothesis, which is maintained by another very distinguished chemist, Liebig, which denies either of the other two, and which declares that the particles of the sugar are, as it were, shaken asunder by the forces at work in the yeast plant. Now I am not going to take you into these refinements of chemical theory, I cannot for a moment pretend to do so, but I may put the case before you by an analogy. Suppose you compare the sugar to a card house, and suppose you compare the yeast to a child coming near the card house, then Fabroni's hypothesis was that the child took half the cards away; Thenard's and Pasteur's hypothesis is that the child pulls out the bottom card and thus makes it tumble to pieces; and Liebig's hypothesis is that the child comes by and shakes the table and tumbles the house down. I appeal to my friend here (Professor Roscoe) whether that is not a fair statement of the case.

Having thus, as far as I can, discussed the general state of the question, it remains only that I should speak of some of those collateral results which have come in a very remarkable way out of the investigation of yeast. I told you that it was very early observed that the yeast plant consisted of a bag made up of the same material as that which composes wood, and of an interior semifluid mass which contains a substance, identical in its composition, in a broad sense, with that which constitutes the flesh of animals. Subsequently, after the structure of the yeast plant had been carefully observed, it was discovered that all plants, high and low, are made up of separate bags or "cells," as they are called; these bags or cells having the composition of the pure matter of wood; having the same composition, broadly speaking, as the sac of the yeast plant, and having in their interior a more or less fluid substance containing a matter of the same nature as the protein substance of the yeast plant. And therefore this remarkable result came out--that however much a plant may differ from an animal, yet that the essential constituent of the contents of these various cells or sacs of which the plant is made up, the nitrogenous protein matter, is the same in the animal as in the plant. And not only was this gradually discovered, but it was found that these semifluid contents of the plant cell had, in many cases, a remarkable power of contractility quite like that of the substance of animals. And about 24 or 25 years ago, namely, about the year 1846, to the best of my recollection, a very eminent German botanist, Hugo Von Mohl, conferred upon this substance which is found in the interior of the plant cell, and which is identical with the matter found in the inside of the yeast cell, and which again contains an animal substance similar to that of which we ourselves are made up--he conferred upon this that title of "protoplasm," which has brought other people a great deal of trouble since! I beg particularly to say that, because I find many people suppose that I was the inventor of that term, whereas it has been in existence for at least twenty-five years. And then other observers, taking the question up, came to this astonishing conclusion (working from this basis of the yeast), that the differences between animals and plants are not so much in the fundamental substances which compose them, not in the protoplasm, but in the manner in which the cells of which their bodies are built up have become modified. There is a sense in which it is true--and the analogy was pointed out very many years ago by some French botanists and chemists--there is a sense in which it is true that every plant is substantially an enormous aggregation of bodies similar to yeast cells, each having to a certain extent its own independent life. And there is a sense in which it is also perfectly true--although it would be impossible for me to give the statement to you with proper qualifications and limitations on an occasion like this--but there is also a sense in which it is true that every animal body is made up of an aggregation of minute particles of protoplasm, comparable each of them to the individual separate yeast plant. And those who are acquainted with the history of the wonderful revolution which has been worked in our whole conception of these matters in the last thirty years, will bear me out in saying that the first germ of them, to a very great extent, was made to grow and fructify by the study of the yeast plant, which presents us with living matter in almost its simplest condition.

Then there is yet one last and most important bearing of this yeast question. There is one direction probably in which the effects of the careful study of the nature of fermentation will yield results more practically valuable to mankind than any other. Let me recall to your minds the fact which I stated at the beginning of this lecture. Suppose that I had here a solution of pure sugar with a little mineral matter in it; and suppose it were possible for me to take upon the point of a needle one single, solitary yeast cell, measuring no more perhaps than the three-thousandth of an inch in diameter--not bigger than one of those little coloured specks of matter in my own blood at this moment, the weight of which it would be difficult to express in the fraction of a grain--and put it into this solution. From that single one, if the solution were kept at a fair temperature in a warm summer's day, there would be generated, in the course of a week, enough torulae to form a scum at the top and to form lees at the bottom, and to change the perfectly tasteless and entirely harmless fluid, syrup, into a solution impregnated with the poisonous gas carbonic acid, impregnated with the poisonous substance alcohol; and that, in virtue of the changes worked upon the sugar by the vital activity of these infinitesimally small plants. Now you see that this is a case of infection. And from the time that the phenomenon of fermentation were first carefully studied, it has constantly been suggested to the minds of thoughtful physicians that there was a something astoundingly similar between this phenomena of the propagation of fermentation by infection and contagion, and the phenomena of the propagation of diseases by infection and contagion. Out of this suggestion has grown that remarkable theory of many diseases which has been called the "germ theory of disease," the idea, in fact, that we owe a great many diseases to particles having a certain life of their own, and which are capable of being transmitted from one living being to another, exactly as the yeast plant is capable of being transmitted from one tumbler of saccharine substance to another. And that is a perfectly tenable hypothesis, one which in the present state of medicine ought to be absolutely exhausted and shown not to be true, until we take to others which have less analogy in their favour. And there are some diseases most assuredly in which it turns out to be perfectly correct. There are some forms of what are called malignant carbuncle which have been shown to be actually effected by a sort of fermentation, if I may use the phrase, by a sort of disturbance and destruction of the fluids of the animal body, set up by minute organisms which are the cause of this destruction and of this disturbance; and only recently the study of the phenomena which accompany vaccination has thrown an immense light in this direction, tending to show by experiments of the same general character as that to which I referred as performed by Helmholz, that there is a most astonishing analogy between the contagion of that healing disease and the contagion of destructive diseases. For it has been made out quite clearly, by investigations carried on in France and in this country, that the only part of the vaccine matter which is contagious, which is capable of carrying on its influence in the organism of the child who is vaccinated, is the solid particles and not the fluid. By experiments of the most ingenious kind, the solid parts have been separated from the fluid parts, and it has then been discovered that you may vaccinate a child as much as you like with the fluid parts, but no effect takes place, though an excessively small portion of the solid particles, the most minute that can be separated, is amply sufficient to give rise to all the phenomena of the cow pock, by a process which we can compare to nothing but the transmission of fermentation from one vessel into another, by the transport to the one of the torula particles which exist in the other. And it has been shown to be true of some of the most destructive diseases which infect animals, such diseases as the sheep pox, such diseases as that most terrible and destructive disorder of horses, glanders, that in these, also, the active power is the living solid particle, and that the inert part is the fluid. However, do not suppose that I am pushing the analogy too far. I do not mean to say that the active, solid parts in these diseased matters are of the same nature as living yeast plants; but, so far as it goes, there is a most surprising analogy between the two; and the value of the analogy is this, that by following it out we may some time or other come to understand how these diseases are propagated, just as we understand, now, about fermentation; and that, in this way, some of the greatest scourges which afflict the human race may be, if not prevented, at least largely alleviated.

This is the conclusion of the statements which I wished to put before you. You see we have not been able to have any accessories. If you will come in such numbers to hear a lecture of this kind, all I can say is, that diagrams cannot be made big enough for you, and that it is not possible to show any experiments illustrative of a lecture on such a subject as I have to deal with. Of course my friends the chemists and physicists are very much better off, because they can not only show you experiments, but you can smell them and hear them! But in my case such aids are not attainable, and therefore I have taken a simple subject and have dealt with it in such a way that I hope you all understand it, at least so far as I have been able to put it before you in words; and having once apprehended such of the ideas and simple facts of the case as it was possible to put before you, you can see for yourselves the great and wonderful issues of such an apparently homely subject.

End of Yeast.

WILLIAM HARVEY AND THE DISCOVERY OF THE CIRCULATION OF THE BLOOD.

THE CIRCULATION OF THE BLOOD.*

([Footnote] *A Lecture delivered in the Free Trade Hall, November 2nd, 1878.)

I desire this evening to give you some account of the life and labours of a very noble Englishman--William Harvey.

William Harvey was born in the year 1578, and as he lived until the year 1657, he very nearly attained the age of 80. He was the son of a small landowner in Kent, who was sufficiently wealthy to send this, his eldest son, to the University of Cambridge; while he embarked the others in mercantile pursuits, in which they all, as time passed on, attained riches.

William Harvey, after pursuing his education at Cambridge, and taking his degree there, thought it was advisable--and justly thought so, in the then state of University education--to proceed to Italy, which at that time was one of the great centres of intellectual activity in Europe, as all friends of freedom hope it will become again, sooner or later. In those days the University of Padua had a great renown; and Harvey went there and studied under a man who was then very famous--Fabricius of Aquapendente. On his return to England, Harvey became a member of the College of Physicians in London, and entered into practice; and, I suppose, as an indispensable step thereto, proceeded to marry. He very soon became one of the most eminent members of the profession in London; and, about the year 1616, he was elected by the College of Physicians their Professor of Anatomy. It was while Harvey held this office that he made public that great discovery of the circulation of the blood and the movements of the heart, the nature of which I shall endeavour by-and-by to explain to you at length. Shortly afterwards, Charles the First having succeeded to the throne in 1625, Harvey became one of the king's physicians; and it is much to the credit of the unfortunate monarch--who, whatever his faults may have been, was one of the few English monarchs who have shown a taste for art and science--that Harvey became his attached and devoted friend as well as servant; and that the king, on the other hand, did all he could to advance Harvey's investigations. But, as you know, evil times came on; and Harvey, after the fortunes of his royal master were broken, being then a man of somewhat advanced years--over 60 years of age, in fact--retired to the society of his brothers in and near London, and among them pursued his studies until the day of his death. Harvey's career is a life which offers no salient points of interest to the biographer. It was a life devoted to study and investigation; and it was a life the devotion of which was amply rewarded, as I shall have occasion to point out to you, by its results.

Harvey, by the diversity, the variety, and the thoroughness of his investigations, was enabled to give an entirely new direction to at least two branches--and two of the most important branches--of what now-a-days we call Biological Science. On the one hand, he founded all our modern physiology by the discovery of the exact nature of the motions of the heart, and of the course in which the blood is propelled through the body; and, on the other, he laid the foundation of that study of development which has been so much advanced of late years, and which constitutes one of the great pillars of the doctrine of evolution. This doctrine, I need hardly tell you, is now tending to revolutionise our conceptions of the origin of living things, exactly in the same way as Harvey's discovery of the circulation in the seventeeth century revolutionised the conceptions which men had previously entertained with regard to physiological processes.

It would, I regret, be quite impossible for me to attempt, in the course of the time I can presume to hold you here, to unfold the history of more than one of these great investigations of Harvey. I call them "great investigations," as distinguished from "large publications." I have in my hand a little book, which those of you who are at a great distance may have some difficulty in seeing, and which I value very much. It is, I am afraid, sadly thumbed and scratched with annotations by a very humble successor and follower of Harvey. This little book is the edition of 1651 of the 'Exercitationes de Generatione'; and if you were to add another little book, printed in the same small type, and about one-seventh of the thickness, you would have the sum total of the printed matter which Harvey contributed to our literature. And yet in that sum total was contained, I may say, the materials of two revolutions in as many of the main branches of biological science. If Harvey's published labours can be condensed into so small a compass, you must recollect that it is not because he did not do a great deal more. We know very well that he did accumulate a very considerable number of observations on the most varied topics of medicine, surgery, and natural history. But, as I mentioned to you just now, Harvey, for a time, took the royal side in the domestic quarrel of the Great Rebellion, as it is called; and the Parliament, not unnaturally resenting that action of his, sent soldiers to seize his papers. And while I imagine they found nothing treasonable among those papers, yet, in the process of rummaging through them, they destroyed all the materials which Harvey had spent a laborious life in accumulating; and hence it is that the man's work and labours are represented by so little in apparent bulk.

What I chiefly propose to do to-night is to lay before you an account of the nature of the discovery which Harvey made, and which is termed the Discovery of the Circulation of the Blood. And I desire also, with some particularity, to draw your attention to the methods by which that discovery was achieved; for, in both these respects, I think, there will be much matter for profitable reflection.

Let me point out to you, in the first place, with respect to this important matter of the movements of the heart and the course of the blood in the body, that there is a certain amount of knowledge which must have been obtained without men taking the trouble to seek it--knowledge which must have been taken in, in the course of time, by everybody who followed the trade of a butcher, and still more so by those people who, in ancient times, professed to divine the course of future events from the entrails of animals. It is quite obvious to all, from ordinary accidents, that the bodies of all the higher animals contain a hot red fluid--the blood. Everybody can see upon the surface of some part of the skin, underneath that skin, pulsating tubes, which we know as the arteries. Everybody can see under the surface of the skin more delicate and softer looking tubes, which do not pulsate, which are of a bluish colour, and are termed the veins. And every person who has seen a recently killed animal opened knows that these two kinds of tubes to which I have just referred, are connected with an apparatus which is placed in the chest, which apparatus, in recently killed animals, is still pulsating. And you know that in yourselves you can feel the pulsation of this organ, the heart, between the fifth and sixth ribs. I take it that this much of anatomy and physiology has been known from the oldest times, not only as a matter of curiosity, but because one of the great objects of men, from their earliest recorded existence, has been to kill one another, and it was a matter of considerable importance to know which was the best place for hitting an enemy. I can refer you to very ancient records for most precise and clear information that one of the best places is to smite him between the fifth and sixth ribs. Now that is a very good piece of regional anatomy, for that is the place where the heart strikes in its pulsations, and the use of smiting there is that you go straight to the heart. Well, all that must have been known from time immemorial--at least for 4,000 or 5,000 years before the commencement of our era--because we know that for as great a period as that the Egyptians, at any rate, whatever may have been the case with other people, were in the enjoyment of a highly developed civilisation. But of what knowledge they may have possessed beyond this we know nothing; and in tracing back the springs of the origin of everything that we call "modern science" (which is not merely knowing, but knowing systematically, and with the intention and endeavour to find out the causal connection of things)--I say that when we trace back the different lines of all the modern sciences we come at length to one epoch and to one country--the epoch being about the fourth and fifth centuries before Christ, and the country being ancient Greece. It is there that we find the commencement and the root of every branch of physical science and of scientific method. If we go back to that time we have in the works attributed to Aristotle, who flourished between 300 and 400 years before Christ, a sort of encyclopaedia of the scientific knowledge of that day--and a very marvellous collection of, in many respects, accurate and precise knowledge it is. But, so far as regards this particular topic, Aristotle, it must be confessed, has not got very far beyond common knowledge. He knows a little about the structure of the heart. I do not think that his knowledge is so inaccurate as many people fancy, but it does not amount to much. A very few years after his time, however, there was a Greek philosopher, Erasistratus, who lived about three hundred years before Christ, and who must have pursued anatomy with much care, for he made the important discovery that there are membranous flaps, which are now called "valves," at the origins of the great vessels; and that there are certain other valves in the interior of the heart itself.

(FIGURE 1.--The apparatus of the circulation, as at present known. The capillary vessels, which connect the arteries and veins, are omitted, on account of their small size. The shading of the "venous system" is given to all the vessels which contain venous blood; that of the "arterial system" to all the vessels which contain arterial blood.)

I have here (Figure 1) a purposely rough, but, so far as it goes, accurate, diagram of the structure of the heart and the course of the blood. The heart is supposed to be divided into two portions. It would be possible, by very careful dissection, to split the heart down the middle of a partition, or so-called 'septum', which exists in it, and to divide it into the two portions which you see here represented; in which case we should have a left heart and a right heart, quite distinct from one another. You will observe that there is a portion of each heart which is what is called the ventricle. Now the ancients applied the term 'heart' simply and solely to the ventricles. They did not count the rest of the heart--what we now speak of as the 'auricles'--as any part of the heart at all; but when they spoke of the heart they meant the left and the right ventricles; and they described those great vessels, which we now call the 'pulmonary veins' and the 'vena cava', as opening directly into the heart itself.

What Erasistratus made out was that, at the roots of the aorta and the pulmonary artery (Figure 1) there were valves, which opened in the direction indicated by the arrows; and, on the other hand, that at the junction of what he called the veins with the heart there were other valves, which also opened again in the direction indicated by the arrows. This was a very capital discovery, because it proved that if the heart was full of fluid, and if there were any means of causing that fluid in the ventricles to move, then the fluid could move only in one direction; for you will observe that, as soon as the fluid is compressed, the two valves between the ventricles and the veins will be shut, and the fluid will be obliged to move into the arteries; and, if it tries to get back from them into the heart, it is prevented from doing so by the valves at the origin of the arteries, which we now call the semilunar valves (half-moon shaped valves); so that it is impossible, if the fluid move at all, that it should move in any other way than from the great veins into the arteries. Now that was a very remarkable and striking discovery.

But it is not given to any man to be altogether right (that is a reflection which it is very desirable for every man who has had the good luck to be nearly right once, always to bear in mind); and Erasistratus, while he made this capital and important discovery, made a very capital and important error in another direction, although it was a very natural error. If, in any animal which is recently killed, you open one of those pulsating trunks which I referred to a short time ago, you will find, as a general rule, that it either contains no blood at all or next to none; but that, on the contrary, it is full of air. Very naturally, therefore, Erasistratus came to the conclusion that this was the normal and natural state of the arteries, and that they contained air. We are apt to think this a very gross blunder; but, to anybody who is acquainted with the facts of the case, it is, at first sight, an exceedingly natural conclusion. Not only so, but Erasistratus might have very justly imagined that he had seen his way to the meaning of the connection of the left side of the heart with the lungs; for we find that what we now call the pulmonary vein is connected with the lungs, and branches out in them (Figure 1). Finding that the greater part of this system of vessels was filled with air after death, this ancient thinker very shrewdly concluded that its real business was to receive air from the lungs, and to distribute that air all through the body, so as to get rid of the grosser humours and purify the blood. That was a very natural and very obvious suggestion, and a highly ingenious one, though it happened to be a great error. You will observe that the only way of correcting it was to experiment upon living animals, for there is no other way in which this point could be settled.

(FIGURE 2. The Course of the Blood according to Galen (A.D. 170).)

And hence we are indebted, for the correction of the error of Erasistratus, to one of the greatest experimenters of ancient or modern times, Claudius Galenus, who lived in the second century after Christ. I say it was to this man more than any one else, because he knew that the only way of solving physiological problems was to examine into the facts in the living animal. And because Galen was a skilful anatomist, and a skilful experimenter, he was able to show in what particulars Erasistratus had erred, and to build up a system of thought upon this subject which was not improved upon for fully 1,300 years. I have endeavoured, in Figure 2, to make clear to you exactly what it was he tried to establish. You will observe that this diagram is practically the same as that given in Figure 1, only simplified. The same facts may be looked upon by different people from different points of view. Galen looked upon these facts from a very different point of view from that which we ourselves occupy; but, so far as the facts are concerned, they were the same for him as for us. Well then, the first thing that Galen did was to make out experimentally that, during life, the arteries are not full of air, but that they are full of blood. And he describes a great variety of experiments which he made upon living animals with the view of proving this point, which he did prove effectually and for all time; and that you will observe was the only way of settling the matter. Furthermore, he demonstrated that the cavities of the left side of the heart--what we now call the left auricle and the left ventricle--are, like the arteries, full of blood during life, and that that blood was of the scarlet kind--arterialised, or as he called it "pneumatised," blood. It was known before, that the pulmonary artery, the right ventricle, and the veins, contain the darker kind of blood, which was thence called venous. Having proved that the whole of the left side of the heart, during life, is full of scarlet arterial blood, Galen's next point was to inquire into the mode of communication between the arteries and veins. It was known before his time that both arteries and veins branched out. Galen maintained, though he could not prove the fact, that the ultimate branches of the arteries and veins communicated together somehow or other, by what he called 'anastomoses', and that these 'anastomoses' existed not only in the body in general but also in the lungs. In the next place, Galen maintained that all the veins of the body arise from the liver; that they draw the blood thence and distribute it over the body. People laugh at that notion now-a-days; but if anybody will look at the facts he will see that it is a very probable supposition. There is a great vein (hepatic vein--Figure 1) which rises out of the liver, and that vein goes straight into the 'vena cava' (Figure 1) which passes to the heart, being there joined by the other veins of the body. The liver itself is fed by a very large vein (portal vein--Figure 1), which comes from the alimentary canal. The way the ancients looked at this matter was, that the food, after being received into the alimentary canal, was then taken up by the branches of this great vein, which are called the 'vena portae', just as the roots of a plant suck up nourishment from the soil in which it lives; that then it was carried to the liver, there to be what was called "concocted," which was their phrase for its conversion into substances more fitted for nutrition than previously existed in it. They then supposed that the next thing to be done was to distribute this fluid through the body; and Galen like his predecessors, imagined that the "concocted" blood, having entered the great 'vena cava', was distributed by its ramifications all over the body. So that, in his view (Figure 2), the course of the blood was from the intestine to the liver, and from the liver into the great 'vena cava', including what we now call the right auricle of the heart, whence it was distributed by the branches of the veins. But the whole of the blood was not thus disposed of. Part of the blood, it was supposed, went through what we now call the pulmonary arteries (Figure 1), and, branching out there, gave exit to certain "fuliginous" products, and at the same time took in from the air a something which Galen calls the 'pneuma'. He does not know anything about what we call oxygen; but it is astonishing how very easy it would be to turn his language into the equivalent of modern chemical theory. The old philosopher had so just a suspicion of the real state of affairs that you could make use of his language in many cases, if you substituted the word "oxygen," which we now-a-days use, for the word 'pneuma'. Then he imagined that the blood, further concocted or altered by contact with the 'pneuma', passed to a certain extent to the left side of the heart. So that Galen believed that there was such a thing as what is now called the pulmonary circulation. He believed, as much as we do, that the blood passed through the right side of the heart, through the artery which goes to the lungs, through the lungs themselves, and back by what we call the pulmonary veins to the left side of the heart. But he thought it was only a very small portion of the blood which passes to the right side of the heart in this way; the rest of the blood, he thought, passed through the partition which separates the two ventricles of the heart. He describes a number of small pits, which really exist there, as holes, and he supposed that the greater part of the blood passed through these holes from the right to the left ventricle (Figure 2).

It is of great importance you should clearly understand these teachings of Galen, because, as I said just now, they sum up all that anybody knew until the revival of learning; and they come to this--that the blood having passed from the stomach and intestines through the liver, and having entered the great veins, was by them distributed to every part of the body; that part of the blood, thus distributed, entered the arterial system by the 'anastomoses', as Galen called them, in the lungs; that a very small portion of it entered the arteries by the 'anastomoses' in the body generally; but that the greater part of it passed through the septum of the heart, and so entered the left side and mingled with the pneumatised blood, which had been subjected to the air in the lungs, and was then distributed by the arteries, and eventually mixed with the currents of blood, coming the other way, through the veins.