A History of Science, vol 4, Henry Smith Williams [best books to read in life txt] 📗
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principle meant so much and in whose hands it extended so far.
Of course this entire principle, in its broad outlines, is
something with which every student of anatomy had been familiar
from the time when anatomy was first studied, but the full
expression of the “law of co-ordination,” as Cuvier called it,
had never been explicitly made before; and, notwithstanding its
seeming obviousness, the exposition which Cuvier made of it in
the introduction to his classical work on comparative anatomy,
which was published during the first decade of the nineteenth
century, ranks as a great discovery. It is one of those
generalizations which serve as guideposts to other discoveries.
BICHAT AND THE BODILY TISSUESMuch the same thing may be said of another generalization
regarding the animal body, which the brilliant young French
physician Marie Francois Bichat made in calling attention to the
fact that each vertebrate organism, including man, has really two
quite different sets of organs—one set under volitional control,
and serving the end of locomotion, the other removed from
volitional control, and serving the ends of the “vital processes”
of digestion, assimilation, and the like. He called these sets of
organs the animal system and the organic system, respectively.
The division thus pointed out was not quite new, for Grimaud,
professor of physiology in the University of Montpellier, had
earlier made what was substantially the same classification of
the functions into “internal or digestive and external or
locomotive”; but it was Bichat’s exposition that gave currency to
the idea.
Far more important, however, was another classification which
Bichat put forward in his work on anatomy, published just at the
beginning of the last century. This was the division of all
animal structures into what Bichat called tissues, and the
pointing out that there are really only a few kinds of these in
the body, making up all the diverse organs. Thus muscular organs
form one system; membranous organs another; glandular organs a
third; the vascular mechanism a fourth, and so on. The
distinction is so obvious that it seems rather difficult to
conceive that it could have been overlooked by the earliest
anatomists; but, in point of fact, it is only obvious because now
it has been familiarly taught for almost a century. It had never
been given explicit expression before the time of Bichat, though
it is said that Bichat himself was somewhat indebted for it to
his master, Desault, and to the famous alienist Pinel.
However that may be, it is certain that all subsequent anatomists
have found Bichat’s classification of the tissues of the utmost
value in their studies of the animal functions. Subsequent
advances were to show that the distinction between the various
tissues is not really so fundamental as Bichat supposed, but that
takes nothing from the practical value of the famous
classification.
It was but a step from this scientific classification of tissues
to a similar classification of the diseases affecting them, and
this was one of the greatest steps towards placing medicine on
the plane of an exact science. This subject of these branches
completely fascinated Bichat, and he exclaimed, enthusiastically:
“Take away some fevers and nervous trouble, and all else belongs
to the kingdom of pathological anatomy.” But out of this
enthusiasm came great results. Bichat practised as he preached,
and, believing that it was only possible to understand disease by
observing the symptoms carefully at the bedside, and, if the
disease terminated fatally, by post-mortem examination, he was so
arduous in his pursuit of knowledge that within a period of less
than six months he had made over six hundred autopsies—a record
that has seldom, if ever, been equalled. Nor were his efforts
fruitless, as a single example will suffice to show. By his
examinations he was able to prove that diseases of the chest,
which had formerly been classed under the indefinite name
“peripneumonia,” might involve three different structures, the
pleural sac covering the lungs, the lung itself, and the
bronchial tubes, the diseases affecting these organs being known
respectively as pleuritis, pneumonia, and bronchitis, each one
differing from the others as to prognosis and treatment. The
advantage of such an exact classification needs no demonstration.
LISTER AND THE PERFECTED MICROSCOPEAt the same time when these broad macroscopical distinctions were
being drawn there were other workers who were striving to go even
deeper into the intricacies of the animal mechanism with the aid
of the microscope. This undertaking, however, was beset with
very great optical difficulties, and for a long time little
advance was made upon the work of preceding generations. Two
great optical barriers, known technically as spherical and
chromatic aberration—the one due to a failure of the rays of
light to fall all in one plane when focalized through a lens, the
other due to the dispersive action of the lens in breaking the
white light into prismatic colors—confronted the makers of
microscopic lenses, and seemed all but insuperable. The making of
achromatic lenses for telescopes had been accomplished, it is
true, by Dolland in the previous century, by the union of lenses
of crown glass with those of flint glass, these two materials
having different indices of refraction and dispersion. But, aside
from the mechanical difficulties which arise when the lens is of
the minute dimensions required for use with the microscope, other
perplexities are introduced by the fact that the use of a wide
pencil of light is a desideratum, in order to gain sufficient
illumination when large magnification is to be secured.
In the attempt to overcome those difficulties, the foremost
physical philosophers of the time came to the aid of the best
opticians. Very early in the century, Dr. (afterwards Sir David)
Brewster, the renowned Scotch physicist, suggested that certain
advantages might accrue from the use of such gems as have high
refractive and low dispersive indices, in place of lenses made of
glass. Accordingly lenses were made of diamond, of sapphire, and
so on, and with some measure of success. But in 1812 a much more
important innovation was introduced by Dr. William Hyde
Wollaston, one of the greatest and most versatile, and, since the
death of Cavendish, by far the most eccentric of English natural
philosophers. This was the suggestion to use two plano-convex
lenses, placed at a prescribed distance apart, in lieu of the
single double-convex lens generally used. This combination
largely overcame the spherical aberration, and it gained
immediate fame as the “Wollaston doublet.”
To obviate loss of light in such a doublet from increase of
reflecting surfaces, Dr. Brewster suggested filling the
interspace between the two lenses with a cement having the same
index of refraction as the lenses themselves—an improvement of
manifest advantage. An improvement yet more important was made by
Dr. Wollaston himself in the introduction of the diaphragm to
limit the field of vision between the lenses, instead of in front
of the anterior lens. A pair of lenses thus equipped Dr.
Wollaston called the periscopic microscope. Dr. Brewster
suggested that in such a lens the same object might be attained
with greater ease by grinding an equatorial groove about a thick
or globular lens and filling the groove with an opaque cement.
This arrangement found much favor, and came subsequently to be
known as a Coddington lens, though Mr. Coddington laid no claim
to being its inventor.
Sir John Herschel, another of the very great physicists of the
time, also gave attention to the problem of improving the
microscope, and in 1821 he introduced what was called an
aplanatic combination of lenses, in which, as the name implies,
the spherical aberration was largely done away with. It was
thought that the use of this Herschel aplanatic combination as an
eyepiece, combined with the Wollaston doublet for the objective,
came as near perfection as the compound microscope was likely
soon to come. But in reality the instrument thus constructed,
though doubtless superior to any predecessor, was so defective
that for practical purposes the simple microscope, such as the
doublet or the Coddington, was preferable to the more complicated
one.
Many opticians, indeed, quite despaired of ever being able to
make a satisfactory refracting compound microscope, and some of
them had taken up anew Sir Isaac Newton’s suggestion in reference
to a reflecting microscope. In particular, Professor Giovanni
Battista Amici, a very famous mathematician and practical
optician of Modena, succeeded in constructing a reflecting
microscope which was said to be superior to any compound
microscope of the time, though the events of the ensuing years
were destined to rob it of all but historical value. For there
were others, fortunately, who did not despair of the
possibilities of the refracting microscope, and their efforts
were destined before long to be crowned with a degree of success
not even dreamed of by any preceding generation.
The man to whom chief credit is due for directing those final
steps that made the compound microscope a practical implement
instead of a scientific toy was the English amateur optician
Joseph Jackson Lister. Combining mathematical knowledge with
mechanical ingenuity, and having the practical aid of the
celebrated optician Tulley, he devised formulae for the
combination of lenses of crown glass with others of flint glass,
so adjusted that the refractive errors of one were corrected or
compensated by the other, with the result of producing lenses of
hitherto unequalled powers of definition; lenses capable of
showing an image highly magnified, yet relatively free from those
distortions and fringes of color that had heretofore been so
disastrous to true interpretation of magnified structures.
Lister had begun his studies of the lens in 1824, but it was not
until 1830 that he contributed to the Royal Society the famous
paper detailing his theories and experiments. Soon after this
various continental opticians who had long been working along
similar lines took the matter up, and their expositions, in
particular that of Amici, introduced the improved compound
microscope to the attention of microscopists everywhere. And it
required but the most casual trial to convince the experienced
observers that a new implement of scientific research had been
placed in their hands which carried them a long step nearer the
observation of the intimate physical processes which lie at the
foundation of vital phenomena. For the physiologist this
perfection of the compound microscope had the same significance
that the, discovery of America had for the fifteenth-century
geographers—it promised a veritable world of utterly novel
revelations. Nor was the fulfilment of that promise long delayed.
Indeed, so numerous and so important were the discoveries now
made in the realm of minute anatomy that the rise of histology to
the rank of an independent science may be said to date from this
period. Hitherto, ever since the discovery of magnifying-glasses,
there had been here and there a man, such as Leuwenhoek or
Malpighi, gifted with exceptional vision, and perhaps unusually
happy in his conjectures, who made important contributions to the
knowledge of the minute structure of organic tissues; but now of
a sudden it became possible for the veriest tyro to confirm or
refute the laborious observations of these pioneers, while the
skilled observer could step easily beyond the barriers of vision
that hitherto were quite impassable. And so, naturally enough,
the physiologists of the fourth decade of the nineteenth century
rushed as eagerly into the new realm of the microscope as, for
example, their successors of to-day are exploring the realm of
the X-ray.
Lister himself, who had become an eager interrogator of the
instrument he had perfected, made many important discoveries, the
most notable being his final settlement of the long-mooted
question as to the true form of the red corpuscles of the human
blood. In reality, as everybody knows nowadays, these are
biconcave disks, but owing to their peculiar figure it is easily
possible to misinterpret the appearances they present when seen
through a poor lens,
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