As was said by one of the best informed minds[9] of the eighteenth century: “It is not to Cæsalpinus, because of some words of doubtful meaning, but to Harvey, the able writer, the laborious contriver of so many experiments, the staid propounder of all the arguments available in his day, that the immortal glory of having discovered the Circulation of the Blood is to be assigned.”
William Harvey was born on April 1, in the year 1578, at Folkestone, the eldest of seven sons of a well-to-do Kentish yeoman. When ten years old he was sent to the Grammar School at Canterbury, and remained there until he was fifteen. He then proceeded to Caius College, Cambridge, where after three years’ residence he took the usual degree. Desiring to enter the medical profession, he adopted a course, not unusual at that time, of going abroad to study at a Continental University, a course due to the absence of scientific teaching in the English Universities on the one hand, and to its excellence in those of the Continent on the other. Consequently, in the year 1597, when nineteen years of age, Harvey directed his steps towards Padua, then famous throughout Europe for its medical school, and especially for its school of anatomy. Earlier in the century the chair of Anatomy had been filled by Vesalius; it was now occupied by another celebrated anatomist, known as Fabricius of Aquapendente. Harvey enjoyed the advantage of studying anatomy under this great teacher, and the visitor to Padua to-day can see the little anatomical theatre with its carved desks, over one of which, no doubt, our illustrious discoverer leant with eager attention whilst Fabricius demonstrated on the body below. We can see the professor with pride explaining to his pupils the valves in the veins which he had discovered, yet not appreciating their meaning and importance; that was to be done a few years hence by the young student listening above. It is very interesting to learn that at this time Galileo was also a professor at Padua, and was lecturing with such success that students flocked to hear him from all parts of Europe. Surely it is difficult to imagine any seat of learning more distinguished and attractive than the University of Padua must have been during the five years Harvey spent there. At the end of this time he received his degree of doctor, the diploma for which is couched in the most eulogistic language, showing how by his studies and abilities he had attracted the attention and earned the commendation of the distinguished professors who then held the chairs of Anatomy, Medicine, and Surgery in the University. He now returned to England, and was granted the degree of Doctor of Medicine by the University of Cambridge.
Soon after, Harvey settled in London and began to practise. In 1607 he was elected a Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians, and in 1615 was appointed Lecturer in Anatomy to that ancient and important foundation. In 1609 he had been elected physician to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.
In 1616, the year Shakespeare died, Harvey probably began in his classes to teach that doctrine which has immortalised his name. He began to show his pupils, and whoever else desired to be present, from dissections of the human body and of animals, and by experiment when necessary, the true office of the heart, the true course of the movement of the blood in the body. This he continued to do for more than ten years, listening patiently to objections, indeed inviting criticisms so that the complete truth might be discovered free from any falsities or misconceptions. At last, upon the earnest entreaties of his most distinguished medical friends, he was persuaded to publish his discovery to the world. These facts are of interest in throwing some light on Harvey’s character. A discoverer who waits years before publishing what he is firmly convinced in his own mind is a new idea, not to say a great discovery, must be possessed of that calmness of mind and abnegation of self which we associate with the true philosopher. A discoverer who employs so long an interval to give opportunity for criticism, and to deal with objections, must indeed be wedded to truth.
This devotion to truth, however, had its reward, for it resulted in one of the most remarkable scientific treatises ever written. When, in 1628, Harvey published at Frankfort-on-Main, his book on “The Movement of the Heart and Blood,” he gave his reasons for believing the blood to circulate, and explained the use of the heart in language so simple, so clear, so exact, that now, nearly three hundred years afterwards, the most accomplished physiologist can hardly improve on it. This assuredly is a fact almost unique in the history of science.
And yet with all this the fact remains that Harvey never really knew, from the nature of the case could not know, how the blood passed from the arteries to the veins—how, in other words, an essential part of the circulation was actually accomplished. The blood passes from the arteries to the veins through minute microscopic tubes termed capillaries. In Harvey’s day the microscope was not sufficiently powerful to reveal such fine structures to human vision, and he was therefore necessarily ignorant of their existence. Looked at from this point of view, the discovery affords a very good example of what has been aptly termed the scientific use of the imagination. Although, with his imperfect microscope, it was impossible for him to know how the blood actually passed from the arteries to the veins, yet as the result of his observations and experiments he was able to infer and to state the grounds for his inference in clear, forcible, and most convincing language, that the blood must circulate, and circulate in one direction only, viz. from the heart into the arteries, thence to the veins, by which it was brought back to the heart again. His imagination was thus enabled to bridge over the gulf between the arteries and veins which his eyes, with the imperfect instrument then alone at his disposal, were quite unable to cross. It was not until four years after Harvey’s death that the microscope had been sufficiently improved to enable an Italian anatomist named Malpighi,[10] in the year 1661, to actually observe the capillaries uniting by their networks arteries and veins.
The work was published at Frankfort doubtless that it might be more easily disseminated over the Continent. It made a sensation among the learned of all countries. Its conclusions were opposed by the older physicians; but by the younger scientific men it was by no means received with disfavour. Amongst the latter was the philosopher Descartes, whose name was then a power in Europe. The philosophical, yet keenly practical mind of Descartes grasped the discovery with avidity and supported it with ardour. In his celebrated “Discours de la Méthode,”[11] he refers to the discovery of “an English physician,” and describes with enthusiasm the anatomy and use of the heart. Although we have no certain information on the point it is quite possible that Descartes may have known Harvey, for in the year 1631 he is said to have paid a visit to England; and in his second reply to Riolan Harvey refers to “the ingenious and acute Descartes,” and says the honourable mention of his name demands his acknowledgments. Thus the discovery became widely known and largely adopted.
One result of the publication of his discovery was only in keeping with the experience of many great and original minds before and after his time. In the things of this world his discovery was of little service to him. His practice fell off. Patients feared to put themselves under the care of one who was accused by his envious detractors of being crack-brained, and of putting forward new-fangled and dangerous doctrines. One who knew Harvey writes as follows: “I have heard him say that after his booke of the Circulation of the Blood came out he fell mightily in his practice, and ’twas believed by the vulgar that he was crack-brained, and all the physitians were against him, with much adoe at last in about 20 or 30 years time it was received in all the universities in the world, and as Mr. Hobbs says in his book ‘De Corpore,’ he is the only man perhaps that ever lived to see his own doctrine established in his lifetime.”[12]
There was one striking exception to this treatment. The King, Charles I., not only appointed Harvey his physician, but showed the liveliest interest in his discovery. Harvey explained his new doctrine on the body before the King. Whatever opinions may be held regarding the moral and political character of that unfortunate monarch, it must be admitted that in aiding and befriending Vandyke and Harvey he showed himself an enlightened patron of both art and science. Harvey continued the King’s physician, and held this position when, in 1641, Charles declared war against the Parliament. It is here curious to learn that although openly declared enemies the Parliament was still mindful of the King’s person, for not only with their consent, but by their desire, Harvey remained his physician.[13] Notwithstanding his intimate connection with the Court, Harvey appears to have taken no active part in the great political struggle now taking place. The little solicitude he had for it is shown by an anecdote told of him at the first battle of the Civil War. “When King Charles,” says a contemporary author,[14] “by reason of the tumults left London, Harvey attended him, and was at the fight of Edgehill with him: and during the fight the Prince and the Duke of York were committed to his care. He told me that he withdrew with them under a hedge, and tooke out of his pocket a booke and read. But he had not read very long before a bullet of a great gun grazed on the ground near him, which made him remove his station.” This anecdote well illustrates Harvey’s calm and peaceful character. This was also shown by the restrained and dignified manner in which he treated the many writers who attacked him, sometimes in anything but choice language, after the publication of his great discovery. Anything like controversy for controversy’s sake was wholly foreign to his nature. “To return evil speaking with evil speaking,” he remarks in a reply to one of his critics, “I hold to be unworthy of a philosopher and a searcher after truth. I believe I shall do better and more advisedly if I meet so many indications of ill breeding with the light of faithful and conclusive observation.”[15] To many of the attacks made on his discovery or on himself, he therefore did not condescend to reply. And when from the eminence of his opponents he felt called upon to do so, he replied with the utmost courtesy and kindliness. But whilst admitting the high claims to distinction on other grounds of his antagonist, he proceeded on this particular question to utterly demolish him with clear facts and stern irrefutable arguments and experiments. He called upon his opponents to observe the facts and make the experiments for themselves, instead of citing the opinions of authors centuries old, or making long discourses on spirits, fuliginous vapours, and the tides of Euripus. This is well illustrated in his replies to Riolan. The arguments of Riolan would hardly seem to have entitled him to the honour of the special notice of the great discoverer. But probably his position as Anatomist in the University of Paris, and of physician to the Queen-Mother, Marie de Medicis, made Harvey pick out his criticisms as a suitable excuse for replying to his opponents. Harvey’s mode of argument is well shown by the following admirable remarks on the Manner and Order of Acquiring Knowledge, in his introduction to the work on “The Generation of Animals”: “Sensible things are of themselves and antecedent; things of intellect however are consequential and arise from the former, and indeed we can in no way attain to them without the help of the others. And hence it is that without the due admonition of the senses, without frequent observation and reiterated experiment, our mind goes astray after phantoms and appearances. Diligent observation is therefore requisite in every science, and the senses are to be frequently appealed to. We are, I say, to strive after personal experience, not to rely on the experience of others: without which indeed no one can properly become a student of any branch of natural science.” Referring to his own particular work he says: “I would not have you therefore, gentle reader, to take anything on trust from me concerning the Generation of Animals: I appeal to your own eyes as my witness and judge. For as all true science rests upon those principles which have their origin in the operation of the senses, particular care is to be taken that by repeated dissection the grounds of our present subject be fully established. . . . The method of investigating truth commonly pursued at this time therefore is to be held erroneous and almost foolish, in which so many inquire what others have said, and omit to ask whether the things themselves be actually so or not.”
When the King made Oxford his headquarters, Harvey was with him, and was appointed head of Merton College. But in 1646, on Oxford surrendering to the Parliamentary forces, he gave up his wardenship and quitted the city. Having no call to take an active part in the political contest, and now verging on threescore-and-ten, he retired from his position of physician to the King and went to London, where he was hospitably entertained in the houses of his brothers, who were wealthy merchants in the City. Here he no doubt once again devoted himself to scientific observation, the nature of which became evident, when in 1651 he was persuaded, somewhat against his own inclination, by his friend, Dr. George Ent, to allow the publication of his book on “The Generation of Animals.” In this work he appears as a pioneer in the difficult science of Embryology, working under most adverse conditions, for he had no microscope worthy of the name. Whilst, therefore, of no great value in the light of our present knowledge, it is a monument of the author’s industry and of his enthusiastic devotion to physiological research. It contains a great number of acute and interesting observations; and he had evidently made many more, for he says that his papers on the Generation of Insects were lost as a result of the tumults which arose at the outbreak of the Civil War. He told Aubrey that no grief was so crucifying to him as the loss of these papers. The King took a direct personal interest in these investigations,[16] and supplied him with deer from the Royal Parks in order to further them.