Malpighi on the Silkworm.
Malpighi’s treatise on the Silkworm (1669) is an almost faultless essay in a new field. No Insect—hardly, indeed, any animal—had then been carefully described, and all the methods of work had to be discovered. “This research,” says Malpighi, “was extremely laborious and tedious” (it occupied about a year) “on account of its novelty, as well as the minuteness, fragility, and intricacy of the parts, which required a special manipulation; so that when I had toiled for many months at this incessant and fatiguing task, I was plagued next autumn with fevers and inflammation of the eyes. Nevertheless, such was my delight in the work, so many unsuspected wonders of nature revealing themselves to me, that I cannot tell it in words.” We must recall the complete ignorance of Insect-anatomy which then prevailed, and remember that now for the first time the dorsal vessel, the tracheal system, the tubular appendages of the stomach, the reproductive organs, and the structural changes which accompany transformation were observed, to give any adequate credit to the writer of this masterly study. Treading a new path, he walks steadily forward, trusting to his own sure eyes and cautious judgment. The descriptions are brief and simple, the figures clear, but not rich in detail. There would now be much to add to Malpighi’s account, but hardly anything to correct. The only positive mistakes which meet the eye relate to the number of spiracles and nervous ganglia—mistakes promptly corrected by Swammerdam. Had the tract De Bombycibus been the one work of its author, this would have kept his memory bright, but it hardly adds to the fame of the anatomist who discovered the cellular structure of the lung, the glandular structure of the liver and kidney, and the sensory papillæ of the skin, who first saw the blood-corpuscles stream along a vessel, who studied very early and very completely the minute structure of plants and the development of the chick, and whose name is rightfully associated with the mucous layer of the epidermis, the vascular tufts of the kidney, and the follicles of the spleen, as well as with the urinary tubules of Insects.
All that we know of Malpighi commands our respect. Precise and rapid in his work, keen to discover points of real interest, never losing himself in details, but knowing when he had done enough, he stands pre-eminent in the crowd of minute anatomists, who are generally faithful in a few things, but very unfit to be made rulers over many things. The last distinct glimpse which we get of him is interesting. Dr. Tancred Robinson, writing to John Ray, from Geneva, April 18th, 1684, tells how he met Malpighi at Bologna. They talked of the origin of fossils, and Malpighi could not contain himself about Martin Lister’s foolish hypothesis that fossils were sports of nature. “Just as I left Bononia,” he continues, “I had a lamentable spectacle of Malpighi’s house all in flames, occasioned by the negligence of his old wife. All his pictures, furniture, books, and manuscripts were burnt. I saw him in the very heat of the calamity, and methought I never beheld so much Christian patience and philosophy in any man before; for he comforted his wife, and condoled nothing but the loss of his papers, which are more lamented than the Alexandrian Library, or Bartholine’s Bibliothece, at Copenhagen.”[3]
Swammerdam on the Honey Bee.
Swammerdam’s great posthumous work, the Biblia Naturæ, contains about a dozen life-histories of Insects worked out in more or less detail. Of these the May-fly (published during the author’s life-time, in 1675) is the most famous; that on the Honey Bee the most elaborate. Swammerdam was ten years younger than Malpighi, and knew Malpighi’s treatise on the Silkworm—a not inconsiderable advantage. His working-life as a naturalist comes within the ten years between 1663 and 1673; and this short space of time was darkened by anxiety about money, as well as by the religious fanaticism, which in the end completely extinguished his activity. The vast amount of highly-finished work which he accomplished in these ten years justifies Boerhaave’s rather rhetorical account of his industry. Unfortunately, Boerhaave, whom we have to thank not only for a useful sketch of Swammerdam’s life, but also for the preservation of most of his writings, was only twelve years old when the great naturalist died, and his account cannot be taken as personal testimony. Swammerdam, he tells us, worked with a simple microscope and several powers. His great skill lay in his dexterous use of scissors. Sometimes he employed tools so fine as to require whetting under the microscope. He was famous for inflated and injected preparations. As to his patience, it is enough to say that he would spend whole days in clearing a single caterpillar. Boerhaave gives us a picture of Swammerdam at work which the reader does not soon forget. “His labours were superhuman. Through the day he observed incessantly, and at night he described and drew what he had seen. By six o’clock in the morning in summer he began to find enough light to enable him to trace the minutiæ of natural objects. He was hard at work till noon, in full sunlight, and bareheaded, so as not to obstruct the light; and his head streamed with profuse sweat. His eyes, by reason of the blaze of light and microscopic toil, became so weakened that he could not observe minute objects in the afternoon, though the light was not less bright than in the morning, for his eyes were weary, and could no longer perceive readily.”
Comparing Swammerdam’s account of the Bee with the useful and amply illustrated memoir of Girdwoyn (Paris, 1876), it is plain that two centuries have added little to our knowledge of the structure of this type. Much has been made out since 1675 concerning the life-history of Bees, but of what was to be discovered by lens and scalpel, Swammerdam left little indeed to others. It is needless to dwell upon the omissions of so early an explorer. Swammerdam proved by dissection that the queen is the mother of the colony, that the drones are males, and the working-bees neuters; but he did not find out that the neuters are only imperfect females. In this instance, as in some others, Swammerdam’s authority served, long after his death, to delay acceptance of the truth. It is far from a reproach to him that in the Honey Bee he lit upon an almost inexhaustible subject. In the 17th century no one suspected that the sexual economy of any animal could be so complicated as that which has been demonstrated, step by step, in the Honey Bee.
Lyonnet on the Goat Moth.
In Lyonnet’s memoir on the larva of the Goat Moth (Traité Anatomique de la Chenille qui ronge le bois de Saule, 1760[4]) we must not look for the originality of Malpighi, nor for the wide range of Swammerdam. One small thing is attempted, and this is accomplished with unerring fidelity and skill. There is something of display in the delineation of the four thousand and forty-one muscles of the Caterpillar, and the author’s skill as a dissector is far beyond his knowledge of animals, whether live or dead. The dissections of the head are perhaps the most extraordinary feat, and will never be surpassed. Modern treatises on Comparative Anatomy continue to reproduce some of these figures, such as the general view of the viscera, the structure of the leg, and the digestive tract. Nearly the whole interest of the volume lies in the plates, for the text is little more than a voluminous explanation of the figures.
It is not without surprise that we find that Lyonnet was an amateur, who had received no regular training either in anatomy or engraving, and that he had many pursuits besides the delineation of natural objects. He was brought up for the Protestant ministry, turned to the bar, and finally became cipher-secretary and confidential translator to the United Provinces of Holland. He is said to have been skilled in eight languages. His first published work in Natural History consisted of remarks and drawings contributed to Lesser’s Insect Theology (1742). About the same time, Trembley was prosecuting at the Hague his studies on the freshwater Polyp, and Lyonnet gave him some friendly help in the work. Those who care to turn to the preface of Trembley’s famous treatise (Mémoires pour servir à l’histoire des Polypes d’eau douce, 1744) will see how warmly Lyonnet’s services are acknowledged. He made all the drawings, and engraved eight of them himself, while Trembley is careful to note that he was not only a skilful draughtsman, but an acute and experienced observer. When the work was begun, Lyonnet had never even seen the operation of engraving a plate. Wandelaar, struck by the beauty of his drawings, persuaded him to try what he could do with a burin. His first essay was made upon the figure of a Dragon-fly, next he engraved three Butterflies, and then, without longer apprenticeship, he proceeded to engrave the plates still required to complete the memoir on Hydra.
Lyonnet tells us that the larva of the Goat Moth was not quite his earliest attempt in Insect Anatomy. He began with the Sheep Tick, but suspecting that the subject would not be popular, he made a fresh choice for his first memoir. Enough interest was excited by the Traité Anatomique to call for the fulfilment of a promise made in the preface that the description of the pupa and imago should follow. But though Lyonnet continued for some time to fill his portfolio with drawings and notes, he never published again. Failing eyesight was one ground of his retirement from work. What he had been able to finish, together with a considerable mass of miscellaneous notes, illustrated by fifty-four plates from his own hand, was published, long after his death, in the Mémoires du Muséum (XVIII.–XX.).