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A Book of HUMAN

ANATOMY & PHYSIOLOGY

(As Per New PCI Syllabus)

Dr. Ashwani K. Jangra•Dr. Sushma Maratha
Himanshu Kumar

V. M. BOOKS

HUMAN ANATOMY & PHYSIOLOGY

HUMAN ANATOMY & PHYSIOLOGY
Dr. Ashwani K. Jangra
Dr. Sushma Maratha
Himanshu Kumar
V. M. BOOKS
(Publishers & Distributors)
V. M. BOOKS
(Publishers & Distributors)

All rights reserved. No Part of this publication may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means–electronic or mechanical, including
photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system–
without permission in writing from the publisher.
The views and opinions expressed in this book are solely those of the original
contributor(s)/author(s) and do not necessarily represent those of editor(s)
and publisher of the book. Every effort has been made where necessary to
contact holders of copyright to obtain permission to reproduce copyright
material. If any have been inadvertently overlooked, the publisher will be
pleased to make the necessary arrangements at the first opportunity.

Copyright © Publisher
First Edition:2023
A Book of Human Anatomy & Physiology
ISBN: 978-93-94027-11-4
Published by: Neeraj & Gaurav Singh, V. M. BOOKS Head Office: 193,
Ground Floor, Rajender Nagar, Sahibabad Uttar Pradesh - 201005
Laser Typeset by V. M. BOOKS
Printed in India
Visit our web site at http://www.vinayakmbooks.com

Preface
This book has been written to help the graduate students of pharmacy
(D.Pharm, B.Pharm) to meet the requirements of the revised syllabus of
prescribed by the Pharmacy Council of India.

The book is designed as a small and humble effort to compile the necessary
information which covers the subject Pharmaceutics including all the basic
concepts, questions asked in various competitive examinations, simple and
effective way to learn and revise.

The book has been written in lucid and easy language so that it is easy for the
students to understand the concepts. At the end of each chapter questions
have been given so that there is clear understanding to the chapter.

I hope that the readers will find the book useful. Their comments and
suggestions for the improvement of this textbook will be appreciated.

Our special thanks to Mr. Gaurav Singh and Neeraj Sharma V.M. BOOKS
(Publishers & Distributers) India for untiring efforts in the direction of
bringing out this book in time.

Authors v

Syllabus
1. Scope of Anatomy and Physiology.Definition of various terminologies.
2.Structure of Cell: Components and its functions.
3. Tissues of the Human Body: Epithelial, Connective, Muscular and Nervous
tissues–Their sub-types and characteristics.

4.Osseous System: Structure and functions of bones of axial and appendicular

skeleton. 3 Classification, types and movements of joints, disorders of joints.
5.Haemopoetic System
• Composition and functions of blood
• Process of Haemopoesis

• Characteristics and functions of RBC’s, WBC’s and platelets

• Mechanism of blood clotting
• importance of blood groups
6. Lymphatic System

• Lymph and lymphatic system, composition, function and its formation.

• Structure and functions of spleen and lymph node.
7.Cardiovascular System
• Anatomy and Physiology of heart
• Blood vessels and circulation (Pulmonary, coronary

and systemic circulation)

vii
viii
A book of Human Anatomy & Physiology
• Cardiac cycle and Heart sounds, Basic knowledge of ECG
• Blood pressure and its regulation
8. Respiratory System
• Anatomy of respiratory organs and their functions.
• Regulation and mechanism of respiration.
• Respiratory volumes and capacities (Definitions)
9. Digestive System
• Anatomy and Physiology of GIT.
• Anatomy and functions of accessory glands.
• Physiology of digestion and absorption
10.Skeletal Muscles
• Histology
• Physiology of muscle contraction

• Disorder of skeletal muscles

11.Nervous System
• Classification of nervous system
• Anatomy and physiology of cerebrum, cerebellum,

mid brain
• Function of hypothalamus, medulla oblongata and
basal ganglia
• Spinal cord - Structure and reflexes
• Names and functions of cranial nerves.
• Anatomy and physiology of sympathetic and
parasympathetic nervous system (ANS)
12.
Sense Organs
Anatomy and physiology of

• Eye,
• Ear,
• Skin
• Tongue
• Nose

Syllabus
ix
13. Urinary System
• Anatomy and physiology of urinary system

• Physiology of urine formation

• Renin - angiotensin system
• Clearance tests and micturition.
14.Endocrine System (Hormones and their Functions)
• Pituitary gland

• Adrenal gland
• Thyroid and parathyroid gland
• Pancreas and gonads
15.Reproductive System
• Anatomy of male and female reproductive system
• Physiology of menstruation
• Spermatogenesis and Oogenesis
• Pregnancy and parturition

Contents
Preface .................................................................................................. v
SyllabuS ...............................................................................................vi

1. Scope of AnAtomy And phySiology ............1–16

SCOPE OF ANATOMY AND PHYSIOLOGY ..................................... 2
DEFINITION OF VARIOUS TERMINOLOGY .................................... 3
GLOSSARY .............................................................................................. 13

2. Structure of cell ..................................................17–44

THE CELL AND CELLULAR LEVEL OF ORAGMISATION ......... 17
MEMBRANE PROTEINS ...................................................................... 18
CONCENTRATION OF SOLUTIONS ................................................ 24
RIBOSOMES FUNCTION ..................................................................... 31
ENDOPLASMIC RETICULUM ............................................................ 31
GOLGI APPARATUS ............................................................................ 33
MICROTUBULES ................................................................................... 34
MITOSIS ................................................................................................... 35
HOMEOSTATIC ..................................................................................... 38

3. tiSSueS of the humAn Body .............................45–64

KEY TERMS/LEARNING OBJECTIVES ............................................ 45
INTRODUCTION ................................................................................... 45
Body FLUIDS .......................................................................................... 62

4. oSSeouS SyStem ........................................................65–92

INTRODUCTION ................................................................................... 65
THE AXIAL SKELETON ....................................................................... 66
THE APPENDICULAR SKELETON ................................................... 79
THE JOINTS ............................................................................................ 88

xi
xii
A book of Human Anatomy & Physiology
SKELETON IN A NUTSHELL ............................................................. 91

5. hemAtopoietic SyStem ......................................93–104

HEMATOPOIETIC SYSTEM ................................................................ 93
CLOTTING FACTORS .......................................................................... 95
CELLULAR COMPONENTS OF THE BLOOD ................................. 97
HEMATOPOIESIS .................................................................................. 99
BLOOD GROUPS ................................................................................. 101
6. the lymphAtic SyStem .....................................105–110
COMPOSITION OF LYMPH .............................................................. 105
FUNCTIONS OF LYMPH ................................................................... 105
STRUCTURE OF THE LYMPHATIC SYSTEM ................................ 106
LYMPHATIC ORGANS ...................................................................... 108

7. cArdiovASculAr SyStem ...............................111–126

INTRODUCTION ................................................................................. 111
HEART ................................................................................................... 113
STRUCTURE OF HEART .................................................................... 114
ANATOMY OF HEART ...................................................................... 115
THE CONDUCTION SYSTEM ........................................................... 116
THE HEARTBEAT ............................................................................... 118
HEART SOUND “LUB-DUB” ............................................................ 119
BLOOD PRESSURE .............................................................................. 121
THE LYMPHATIC SYSTEM ............................................................... 123
THE VASCULAR SYSTEM ................................................................. 123
PULSE .................................................................................................... 124

8. reSpirAtory SyStem ..........................................127–142

RESPIRATORY SYSTEM ..................................................................... 127
THE LUNGS .......................................................................................... 133
INTERNAL RESPIRATION ................................................................ 136
RESPIRATORY VOLUMES AND CAPACITIES ............................. 138
LUNG VOLUMES AND CAPACITIES VALUES ........................... 140

9. digeStive SyStem ................................................143–162

KEY TERMS/LEARNING OBJECTIVES .......................................... 143
INTRODUCTION ................................................................................. 144
STRUCTURE OF THE DIGESTIVE SYSTEM ................................... 144
Contents xiii

LAYERS OF THE GI TRACT .............................................................. 145

ORAL CAVITY ..................................................................................... 146
PHARYNX ............................................................................................. 149
OESOPHAGUS ..................................................................................... 149
STOMACH ............................................................................................ 149
SMALL INTESTINE ............................................................................. 151
PANCREAS, LIVER, AND GALL BLADDER ................................. 151
LARGE INTESTINE ............................................................................. 153
PHYSIOLOGY OF DIGESTIVE ORGANS ........................................ 153
LIVER: STRUCTURE OF THE LIVER ............................................... 157
PHYSIOLOGY OF LIVER ................................................................... 158
METABOLISM ...................................................................................... 160

10. SkeletAl muScleS ...............................................163–176

INTRODUCTION ................................................................................. 163
THE STRUCTURE OF SKELETAL MUSCLE .................................. 163
PHYSIOLOGY QF MUSCLE CONTRACTION ............................... 165
DISORDERS OF SKELETAL MUSCLES ........................................... 172

11. the nervouS SyStem .........................................177–214

INTRODUCTION ................................................................................. 177
FUNCTIONS OF NERVOUS SYSTEM.............................................. 177
STRUCTURE OF NEURONS .............................................................. 178
TRANSMISSION OF IMPULSE ......................................................... 179
SYNAPSES AND NEUROTRANSMITTERS.................................... 182
INFORMATION TRANSMISSION ................................................... 183
THE NERVOUS SYSTEM.................................................................... 184
NEUROGLIA ........................................................................................ 195
MENINGES ........................................................................................... 198
CEREBROSPINAL FLUID (CSF)........................................................ 199
REFLEX ACTION ................................................................................. 208
THALAMUS.......................................................................................... 210
RECEPTORS .......................................................................................... 210
ELECTROENCEPHALOGRAM (EEG) ............................................. 211

12. SenSe orgAnS ........................................................215–232

THE EYE ................................................................................................ 215
EYE STRUCTURE ................................................................................. 216
xiv A book of Human Anatomy & Physiology

SENSE OF SMELL ................................................................................ 223

SMELL PHYSIOLOGY ........................................................................ 225
TASTE SENSATION ............................................................................ 225
THE EAR................................................................................................ 227
13. urinAry SyStem ....................................................233–244
ORGANS OF URINARY SYSTEM ..................................................... 233
MICTURITION ..................................................................................... 237
URINARY PHYSIOLOGY ................................................................... 238
RENAL CLEARANCE ......................................................................... 243
URINE COMPOSITION ...................................................................... 243
DISEASES OF THE URINARY SYSTEM .......................................... 244

14. the endocrine SyStem

................................245–260
(hormoneS And their functionS)
KEY TERMS/LEARNING OBJECTIVES .......................................... 245
INTRODUCTION ................................................................................. 245
ENDOCRINE GLANDS ...................................................................... 246

15. the reproductive SyStem .............................261–286

INTRODUCTION ................................................................................. 261
MALE REPRODUCTIVE SYSTEM .................................................... 261
FEMALE REPRODUCTIVE SYSTEM ............................................... 269
MAMMARY GLANDS ........................................................................ 276
COPULATION AND FERTILIZATION ........................................... 276
MENSTRUAL CYCLE ......................................................................... 278
PREGNANCY ....................................................................................... 279
ASSISTED REPRODUCTIVE TECHNOLOGY (ART) .................... 281
BIRTH AND LACTATION ................................................................. 284

1
Scope of Anatomy and Physiology
Anatomy is the study of structure, and physiology is the study of function.
These approaches are complementary and never entirely separable. In some
of its facets anatomy is closely related to embryology, comparative anatomy
and comparative embryology, through common roots in evolution. Anatomy
is subdivided into gross anatomy (or macroscopic anatomy) and microscopic
anatomy.
Gross anatomy (also called topographical anatomy, regional anatomy, or
anthropotomy) is the study of anatomical structures that can be seen by
unaided vision. Microscopic anatomy is the study of minute anatomical
structures assisted with microscopes, which includes histology (the study of
the organisation of tissues), and cytology (the study of cells).

The history of anatomy has been characterized, over time, by a continually

developing understanding of the functions of organs and structures in the
body. Methods have also advanced dramatically, advancing from
examination of animals through dissection of cadavers (dead human bodies)
to technologically complex techniques developed in the 20th century.

Anatomy should not be confused with anatomical pathology (also called

morbid anatomy or histopathology), which is the study of the gross and
microscopic appearances of diseased organs.

Physiology has traditionally been divided between plant physiology and

animal physiology but the principles of physiology are universal, no matter
what particular organism

1
is being studied. For example, what is learned about the physiology of yeast
cells may also apply to human cells.

The field of animal physiology extends the tools and methods of human
physiology to non-human animal species. Plant physiology also borrows
techniques from both fields. Its scope of subjects is at least as diverse as the
tree of life itself.

SCOPE OF ANATOMY AND PHYSIOLOGY

1. Anatomy: Anatomy is the Science of body structures and relationships

among the structures.
2. Physiology: Physiology is the Science of body functions, that is, how the
body parts work.
3. To inquire into fascinating complexity of human body.
4.As gateway to careers in health related fields. Mass therapy and Athletics
training.
5.As a foundation to advanced scientific studies.
6. To know the structure and function of human body.
7. For understanding pathology, of disease and pathological changes.
8. For determining techniques of surgeries.
9. To know parameters of normal health.
10. Factors affecting various physiological processes and its effects.
11.Overall effective maintenance of individual and community health.
12. The Principles of Anatomy and Physiology to meet the existing
requirements of introductory anatomy and Physiology courses.
13. It also gives values, simplicity, direction and sort of power to the learners.
14. Human Anatomy and Physiology is formidable body of knowledge to
present in an introductory course and mastering subject.
15. It also highlights the practical application of anatomical and physiological
concepts to students.
16.The dynamic physiological constancy known as Homeostasis is the
cardinal theme in principles of Anatomy and Physiology.
17. By studying concepts of Physiology, we know, how the various feedback
mechanisms work to maintain physiological processes within a narrow range
that is compatible with life.
18. It is needed to understand how individual structures are related to the
composition of entire body.
Therefore anatomical nomenclature such as regional names, directional terms
and planes to sections that enable the learners to precisely describe the
relationship of one body structure to another.

DEFINITION OF VARIOUS TERMINOLOGY

Anatomists and health care providers use terminology that can be

bewildering to the uninitiated. However, the purpose of this language is not
to confuse, but rather to increase precision and reduce medical errors. For
example, is a scar “above the wrist” located on the forearm two or three
inches away from the hand? Or is it at the base of the hand? Is it on the palm-
side or backside? By using precise anatomical terminology, we eliminate
ambiguity. Anatomical terms derive from ancient Greek and Latin words.
Because these languages are no longer used in everyday conversation, the
meaning of their words does not change.
Anatomical terms are made up of roots, prefixes, and suffixes. The root of a
term often refers to an organ, tissue, or condition, whereas the prefix or suffix
often describes the root. For example, in the disorder hypertension, the prefix
“hyper-” means “high” or “over,” and the root word “tension” refers to
pressure, so the word “hypertension” refers to abnormally high blood
pressure.

Anatomical Position
To further increase precision, anatomists standardize the way

in which they view the body. Just as maps are normally oriented with north at
the top, the standard body “map,” or anatomical position, is that of the body
standing upright, with the feet at shoulder width and parallel, toes forward.
The upper limbs are held out to each side, and the palms of the hands face
forward as illustrated in Figure 1. Using this standard position reduces
confusion. It does not matter how the body being described is oriented, the
terms are used as if it is in anatomical position. For example, a scar in the
“anterior (front) carpal (wrist) region” would be present on the palm side of
the wrist. The term “anterior” would be used even if the hand were palm
down on a table.

A body that is lying down is described as either prone or supine. Prone

describes a face-down orientation, and supine describes a face up orientation.
These terms are sometimes used in describing the position of the body during
specific physical examinations or surgical procedures.

Regional Terms
The human body’s numerous regions have specific terms to

help increase precision. Notice that the term “brachium” or “arm” is reserved
for the “upper arm” and “antebrachium” or “forearm” is used rather than
“lower arm.” Similarly, “femur” or “thigh” is correct, and “leg” or “crus” is
reserved for the portion of the lower limb between the knee and the ankle.
You will be able to describe the body’s regions using the terms from the
figure.

Directional Terms
Certain directional anatomical terms appear throughout this
and any other anatomy textbook (Figure 1.2). These terms are essential for
describing the relative locations of different body structures. For instance, an
anatomist might describe one band of tissue as “inferior to” another or a
physician might describe a tumour as “superficial to” a deeper body structure.

Commit these terms to memory to avoid confusion when you are studying or
describing the locations of particular body parts.

• Anterior (or ventral) Describes the front or direction toward the front of the
body. The toes are anterior to the foot.
• Posterior (or dorsal) Describes the back or direction toward the back of the
body. The popliteus is posterior to the patella.
• Superior (or cranial) describes a position above or higher than another part
of the body proper. The orbits are superior to the oris.
• Inferior (or caudal) describes a position below or lower than another part of
the body proper; near or toward the tail (in humans, the coccyx, or lowest
part of the spinal column). The pelvis is inferior to the abdomen.
Frons or forehead (frontal)
Oris or mouth (oral) Mentis or chin
(mental)
Axilla or armpit (axillary)
Brach um or
arm (brachial)

Antecubitis
or front of elbow (antecubital)

Antebrachium
or forearm
(antebrachial)

Carpus
or wrist
(carpal)

Pollex
or thumb
Palma or
palm (palmar)

Digits (phalanges) or fingers (digital or pha angeal) Cranium or skull (cranial)

Facies
or face (facial)
Patella or kneecap (patellar) Oculus or eye (orbital or ocular)

Bucca or cheek (buccal) Auris or ear (otic)

Nasus or nose (nasal)
Cervicis or neck (cervical)

Thorcis or
thorax, chest
(thoracic)

Mamma
or breast
(mammary)

AbdomenTrunk (abdominal)

Umbilicus
or navel
(umbilical)

Hip
(coxal)
Pelvis (pelvic) Inguen or groin (inguinal)
Pubis
(pubic) Femur or thigh Crus or
(femoral) leg (crural)

Tarsus
or ankle
(tarsal)

Digits (phalanges)
or toes (digital or Pes or foot phalangeal) (pedal)

Hallux or great toe

(a) Anterior view

 Regions of the Human Body. The human body is shown in
Figure 1.1:
anatomical position in an (a) anterior view and a (b) posterior view. The
regions of the body are labelled in boldface.

• Lateral describes the side or direction toward the side of the body. The
thumb (pollex) is lateral to the digits.
• Medial describes the middle or direction toward the middle of the body. The
hallux is the medial toe.
• Proximal describes a position in a limb that is nearer to the point of
attachment or the trunk of the body. The brachium is proximal to the
antebrachium.
• Distal describes a position in a limb that is farther from the point of
attachment or the trunk of the body. The crus is distal to the femur.
• Superficial describes a position closer to the surface of the body. The skin is
superficial to the bones.
• Deep describes a position farther from the surface of the body. The brain is
deep to the skull.

Body Planes
A section is a two-dimensional surface of a three-dimensional

structure that has been cut. Modern medical imaging devices enable
clinicians to obtain “virtual sections” of living bodies. We call these scans.
Body sections and scans can be correctly interpreted, however, only if the
viewer understands the plane along which the section was made.

A plane is an imaginary two-dimensional surface that passes through the

body. There are three planes commonly referred to in anatomy and medicine,
as illustrated in Figure 1.3.

• The sagittal plane is the plane that divides the body or an organ vertically
into right and left sides. If this vertical plane runs directly down the middle of
the body, it is called the midsagittal or median plane. If it divides the body
into unequal right and left sides, it is called a parasagittal plane or less
commonly a longitudinal section.
• The frontal plane is the plane that divides the body or an organ into an
anterior (front) portion and a posterior (rear) portion. The frontal plane is
often referred to as a coronal plane. (“Corona” is Latin for “crown.”)
• The transverse plane is the plane that divides the body or organ
horizontally into upper and lower portions. Transverse planes produce images
referred to as cross sections.
Superior

Cranial Right Left

Posterior
or dorsal

Proximal Anterior or

ventral

Lateral

Caudal Proximal
Distal

Distal
Inferior

Figure 1.2:Directional Terms Applied to the Human Body.

Paired directional terms are shown as applied to the human body
 Planes of the Body. The three planes most commonly used in
Figure 1.3:
anatomical and medical imaging are the sagittal, frontal (or coronal), and
transverse plane

Body Cavities and Serous Membranes

The body maintains its internal organization by means of membranes,

sheaths, and other structures that separate compartments. The dorsal
(posterior) cavity and the ventral (anterior) cavity are the largest body
compartments. These cavities contain and protect delicate internal organs,
and the ventral cavity allows for significant changes in the size and shape of
the organs as they perform their functions. The lungs, heart, stomach, and
intestines, for example, can expand and contract without distorting other
tissues or disrupting the activity of nearby organs.

Subdivisions of the Posterior (Dorsal) and Anterior (Ventral) Cavities The

posterior (dorsal) and anterior (ventral) cavities are each subdivided into
smaller cavities. In the posterior (dorsal) cavity, the cranial cavity houses the
brain, and the spinal cavity (or vertebral cavity) encloses the spinal cord. Just
as the brain and spinal cord make up a continuous, uninterrupted structure,
the cranial and spinal cavities that house them are also continuous. The brain
and spinal cord are protected by the bones of the skull and vertebral column
and by cerebrospinal fluid, a colourless fluid produced by the brain, which
cushions the brain and spinal cord within the posterior (dorsal) cavity.

The anterior (ventral) cavity has two main subdivisions: the thoracic cavity
and the abdominopelvic cavity. The thoracic cavity is the more superior
subdivision of the anterior cavity, and it is enclosed by the rib cage. The
thoracic cavity contains the lungs and the heart, which is located in the
mediastinum. The diaphragm forms the floor of the thoracic cavity and
separates it from the more inferior abdominopelvic cavity. The
abdominopelvic cavity is the largest cavity in the body. Although no
membrane physically divides the abdominopelvic cavity, it can be useful to
distinguish between the abdominal cavity, the division that houses the
digestive organs, and the pelvic cavity, the division that houses the organs of
reproduction.

Abdominal Regions and Quadrants

To promote clear communication, for instance about the location of a

patient’s abdominal pain or a suspicious mass, health care providers typically
divide up the cavity into either nine regions or four quadrants.
The more detailed regional approach subdivides the cavity with one
horizontal line immediately inferior to the ribs and one immediately superior
to the pelvis, and two vertical lines drawn as if dropped from the midpoint of
each clavicle (collarbone). There are nine resulting regions. The simpler
quadrants approach, which is more commonly used in medicine, subdivides
the cavity with one horizontal and one vertical line that intersect at the
patient’s umbilicus (navel).

Membranes of the Anterior (Ventral) Body Cavity

A serous membrane (also referred to a serosa) is one of the thin

membranes that cover the walls and organs in the thoracic and
abdominopelvic cavities. The parietal layers of the membranes line the walls
of the body cavity (pariet- refers to a cavity wall). The visceral layer of the
membrane covers the organs (the viscera). Between the parietal and visceral
layers is a very thin, fluid-filled serous space, or cavity.
Visceral
pericardium
Pericardial cavity
Visceral
pericardium
Air space

Balloon
 Serous Membrane. Serous membrane lines the pericardial cavity
Figure 1.6:
and reflects back to cover the heart—much the same way that an
underinflated balloon would form two layers surrounding a fist.

There are three serous cavities and their associated membranes. The pleura is
the serous membrane that surrounds the lungs in the pleural cavity; the
pericardium is the serous membrane that surrounds the heart in the pericardial
cavity; and the peritoneum is the serous membrane that surrounds several
organs in the abdominopelvic cavity. The serous membranes form fluid-filled
sacs, or cavities, that are meant to cushion and reduce friction on internal
organs when they move, such as when the lungs inflate or the heart beats.
Both the parietal and visceral serosa secrete the thin, slippery serous fluid
located within the serous cavities. The pleural cavity reduces friction between
the lungs and the body wall. Likewise, the pericardial cavity reduces friction
between the heart and the wall of the pericardium. The peritoneal cavity
reduces friction between the abdominal and pelvic organs and the body wall.
Therefore, serous membranes provide additional protection to the viscera
they enclose by reducing friction that could lead to inflammation of the
organs.

GLOSSARY

Abdominopelvic cavity: division of the anterior (ventral) cavity that houses

the abdominal and pelvic viscera.
Anatomical position: standard reference position used for describing
locations and directions on the human body.
Anterior: describes the front or direction toward the front of the body; also
referred to as ventral.
Anterior cavity: larger body cavity located anterior to the posterior (dorsal)
body cavity; includes the serous membranelined pleural cavities for the lungs,
pericardial cavity for the heart, and peritoneal cavity for the abdominal and
pelvic organs; also referred to as ventral cavity.
Caudal: describes a position below or lower than another part of the body
proper; near or toward the tail (in humans, the coccyx, or lowest part of the
spinal column); also referred to as inferior.
Cranial: describes a position above or higher than another part of the body
proper; also referred to as superior.
Cranial cavity: division of the posterior (dorsal) cavity that houses the brain.
Deep: describes a position farther from the surface of the body.
Distal: describes a position farther from the point of attachment or the trunk
of the body.
Dorsal: describes the back or direction toward the back of the body; also
referred to as posterior.
Dorsal cavity: posterior body cavity that houses the brain and spinal cord;
also referred to the posterior body cavity.
Frontal plane: two-dimensional, vertical plane that divides the body or
organ into anterior and posterior portions.
Inferior: describes a position below or lower than another part of the body
proper: near or toward the tail (in humans, the coccyx, or lowest part of the
spinal column); also referred to as caudal.
Lateral: describes the side or direction toward the side of the body.
Medial: describes the middle or direction toward the middle of the body.
Pericardium: Sac that encloses the heart.
Peritoneum: serous membrane that lines the abdominopelvic cavity and
covers the organs found there.
Plane: imaginary two-dimensional surface that passes through the body.
Pleura: serous membrane that lines the pleural cavity and covers the lungs.
Posterior: describes the back or direction toward the back of the body; also
referred to as dorsal.
Posterior cavity: posterior body cavity that houses the brain and spinal cord;
also referred to as dorsal cavity.
Prone: face down.
Proximal: describes a position nearer to the point of attachment or the trunk
of the body.
Sagittal plane: two-dimensional, vertical plane that divides the body or
organ into right and left sides.
Section: in anatomy, a single flat surface of a threedimensional structure that
has been cut through.
Serous membrane: membrane that covers organs and reduces friction; also
referred to as serosa.
Serosa: membrane that covers organs and reduces friction; also referred to as
serous membrane.
Spinal cavity: division of the dorsal cavity that houses the spinal cord; also
referred to as vertebral cavity.
Superficial: describes a position nearer to the surface of the body.
Superior: describes a position above or higher than another part of the body
proper; also referred to as cranial.
Supine: face up.
Thoracic cavity: division of the anterior (ventral) cavity that houses the
heart, lungs, esophagus, and trachea.
Transverse plane: two-dimensional, horizontal plane that divides the body
or organ into superior and inferior portions.
Ventral: describes the front or direction toward the front of the body; also
referred to as anterior.
Ventral cavity: larger body cavity located anterior to the posterior (dorsal)
body cavity; includes the serous membranelined pleural cavities for the lungs,
pericardial cavity for the heart, and peritoneal cavity for the abdominal and
pelvic organs; also referred to as anterior body cavity.

2
Structure of Cell
THE CELL AND CELLULAR LEVEL OF ORAGMISATION

The cell membrane is an extremely pliable structure composed primarily of

back-to-back phospholipids (a “bilayer”). Cholesterol is also present, which
contributes to the fluidity of the membrane, and there are various proteins
embedded within the membrane that have a variety of functions.

A single phospholipid molecule has a phosphate group on one end, called the
“head,” and two side-by-side chains of fatty acids that make up the lipid tails
(Fig. 2.1). The phosphate group is negatively charged, making the head polar
and hydrophilic—or “water loving.” A hydrophilic molecule (or region of a
molecule) is one that is attracted to water. The phosphate heads are thus
attracted to the water molecules of both the extracellular and intracellular
environments. The lipid tails, on the other hand, are uncharged, or nonpolar,
and are hydrophobic—or “water fearing.” A hydrophobic molecule (or
region of a molecule) repels and is repelled by water.ome lipid tails consist of
saturated fatty acids and some contain unsaturated fatty acids. This
combination adds to the fluidity of the tails that are constantly in motion.
Phospholipids are thus amphipathic molecules. An amphipathic molecule is
one that contains both a hydrophilic and a hydrophobic region. In fact, soap
works to remove oil and grease stains because it has amphipathic properties.
The hydrophilic portion can dissolve in water while the hydrophobic portion
can trap grease in micelles that then can be washed away.

17

The cell membrane consists of two adjacent layers of phospholipids. The

lipid tails of one layer face the lipid tails of the other layer, meeting at the
interface of the two layers. The phospholipid heads face outward, one layer
exposed to the interior of the cell and one layer exposed to the exterior (Fig.
2.2). Because the phosphate groups are polar and hydrophilic, they are
attracted to water in the intracellular fluid. Intracellular fluid (ICF) is the
fluid interior of the cell. The phosphate groups are also attracted to the
extracellular fluid. Extracellular fluid (ECF) is the fluid environment
outside the enclosure of the cell membrane. Interstitial fluid (IF) is the term
given to extracellular fluid not contained within blood vessels. Because the
lipid tails are hydrophobic, they meet in the inner region of the membrane,
excluding watery intracellular and extracellular fluid from this space. The cell
membrane has many proteins, as well as other lipids (such as cholesterol),
that are associated with the phospholipid bilayer. An important feature of the
membrane is that it remains fluid; the lipids and proteins in the cell
membrane are not rigidly locked in place.

Phospholipid Molecule
Figure 2.1:
MEMBRANE PROTEINS

The lipid bilayer forms the basis of the cell membrane, but it is peppered
throughout with various proteins. Two different types of proteins that are
commonly associated with the cell membrane are the integral proteins and
peripheral protein (Fig. 2.3. Cell Membrane). As its name suggests, an
integral protein is a protein that is embedded in the membrane. A channel
protein is an example of an integral protein that selectively allows particular
materials, such as certain ions, to pass into or out of the cell.
Figure 2.2: Phospholipid Biloger

Another important group of integral proteins are cell recognition proteins,

which serve to mark a cell’s identity so that it can be recognized by other
cells. A receptor is a type of recognition protein that can selectively bind a
specific molecule outside the cell, and this binding induces a chemical
reaction within the cell. A ligand is the specific molecule that binds to and
activates a receptor. Some integral proteins serve dual roles as both a receptor
and an ion channel. One example of a receptor-ligand interaction is the
receptors on nerve cells that bind neurotransmitters, such as dopamine. When
a dopamine molecule binds to a dopamine receptor protein, a channel within
the transmembrane protein opens to allow certain ions to flow into the cell.

Transport across the Cell Membrane

One of the great wonders of the cell membrane is its ability to

regulate the concentration of substances inside the cell. These substances

include ions such as Ca++, Na+, K+, and Cl nutrients including sugars, fatty
acids, and amino acids; and waste products, particularly carbon dioxide
(CO2), which must leave the cell.

The membrane’s lipid bilayer structure provides the first level of control. The
phospholipids are tightly packed together, and the membrane has a
hydrophobic interior. This structure causes the membrane to be selectively
permeable. A membrane that has selective permeability allows only
substances meeting certain criteria to pass through it unaided. In the case of
the cell membrane, only relatively small, nonpolar materials can move
through the lipid bilayer (remember, the lipid tails of the membrane are
nonpolar). Some examples of these are other lipids, oxygen and carbon
dioxide gases, and alcohol. However, water-soluble materials—like glucose,
amino acids, and electrolytes—need some assistance to cross the membrane
because they are repelled by the hydrophobic tails of the phospholipid
bilayer. All substances that move through the membrane do so by one of two
general methods, which are categorized based on whether or not energy is
required. Passive transport is the movement of substances across the
membrane without the expenditure of cellular energy. In contrast, active
transport is the movement of substances across the membrane using energy
from adenosine triphosphate (ATP).

Passive Transport
In order to understand how substances move passively across

a cell membrane, it is necessary to understand concentration gradients and

diffusion. A concentration gradient is the difference in concentration of a
substance across a space. Molecules (or ions) will spread/diffuse from where
they are more concentrated to where they are less concentrated until they are
equally distributed in that space. (When molecules move in this way, they are
said to move down their concentration gradient.) Diffusion is the movement
of particles from an area of higher concentration to an area of lower
concentration. A couple of common examples will help to illustrate this
concept. Imagine being inside a closed bathroom. If a bottle of perfume were
sprayed, the scent molecules would naturally diffuse from the spot where
they left the bottle to all corners of the bathroom, and this diffusion would go
on until no more concentration gradient remains. Another example is a
spoonful of sugar placed in a cup of tea. Eventually, the sugar will diffuse
throughout the tea until no concentration gradient remains. In both cases, if
the room is warmer or the tea hotter, diffusion occurs even faster as the
molecules are bumping into each other and spreading out faster than at cooler
temperatures. Having an internal body temperature around 98.6°F thus also
aids in diffusion of particles within the body.

Whenever a substance exists in greater concentration on one side of a

semipermeable membrane, such as the cell membranes, any substance that
can move down its concentration gradient across the membrane will do so.
Consider substances that can easily diffuse through the lipid bilayer of the
cell membrane, such as the gases oxygen (O2) and CO2. O2 generally diffuses
into cells because it is more concentrated outside of them, and CO2 typically
diffuses out of cells because it is more concentrated inside of them. Neither of
these examples requires any energy on the part of the cell, and therefore they
use passive transport to move across the membrane.

Before moving on, you need to review the gases that can diffuse across a cell
membrane. Because cells rapidly use up oxygen during metabolism, there is
typically a lower concentration of O2 inside the cell than outside. As a result,
oxygen will diffuse from the interstitial fluid directly through the lipid bilayer
of the membrane and into the cytoplasm within the cell. On the other hand,
because cells produce CO2 as a byproduct of metabolism, CO2 concentrations
rise within the cytoplasm; therefore, CO2 will move from the cell through the
lipid bilayer and into the interstitial fluid, where its concentration is lower.
This mechanism of molecules moving across a cell membrane from the side
where they are more concentrated to the side where they are less concentrated
is a form of passive transport called simple diffusion.

Simple Diffusion across the Cell (Plasma) Membrane

Large polar or ionic molecules, which are hydrophilic, cannot easily cross the
phospholipid bilayer. Very small polar molecules, such as water, can cross
via simple diffusion due to their small size. Charged atoms or molecules of
any size cannot cross the cell membrane via simple diffusion as the charges
are repelled by the hydrophobic tails in the interior of the phospholipid
bilayer. Solutes dissolved in water on either side of the cell membrane will
tend to diffuse down their concentration gradients, but because most
substances cannot pass freely through the lipid bilayer of the cell membrane,
their movement is restricted to protein channels and specialized transport
mechanisms in the membrane. Facilitated diffusion is the diffusion process
used for those substances that cannot cross the lipid bilayer due to their size,
charge, and/or polarity (Fig. 2.4. Facilitated Diffusion). A common example
of facilitated diffusion is the movement of glucose into the cell, where it is
used to make ATP. Although glucose can be more concentrated outside of a
cell, it cannot cross the lipid bilayer via simple diffusion because it is both
large and polar. To resolve this, a specialized carrier protein called the
glucose transporter will transfer glucose molecules into the cell to facilitate
its inward diffusion.

Facilitated Diffusion
As an example, even though sodium ions (Na+) are highly

concentrated outside of cells, these electrolytes are charged and cannot pass
through the nonpolar lipid bilayer of the membrane. Their diffusion is
facilitated by membrane proteins that form sodium channels (or “pores”), so
that Na+ ions can move down their concentration gradient from outside the
cells to inside the cells. There are many other solutes that must undergo
facilitated diffusion to move into a cell, such as amino acids, or to move out
of a cell, such as wastes. Because facilitated diffusion is a passive process, it
does not require energy expenditure by the cell.
Figure 2.4

Water also can move freely across the cell membrane of all cells, either
through protein channels or by slipping between the lipid tails of the
membrane itself. Osmosis is the diffusion of water through a semipermeable
membrane.

Osmosis

The movement of water molecules is not itself regulated by cells, so it is

important that cells are exposed to an environment in which the concentration
of solutes outside of the cells (in the extracellular fluid) is equal to the
concentration of solutes inside the cells (in the cytoplasm). Two solutions
that have the same concentration of solutes are said to be isotonic (equal
tension). When cells and their extracellular environments are isotonic, the
concentration of water molecules is the same outside and inside the cells, and
the cells maintain their normal shape (and function).

Osmosis occurs when there is an imbalance of solutes outside of a cell versus

inside the cell. A solution that has a higher concentration of solutes than
another solution is said to be hypertonic, and water molecules tend to diffuse
into a hypertonic solution (Fig. 2.6). Concentration of Solutions). Cells in a
hypertonic solution will shrivel as water leaves the cell via osmosis. In
contrast, a solution that has a lower concentration of solutes than another
solution is said to be hypotonic, and water molecules tend to diffuse out of a
hypotonic solution. Cells in a hypotonic solution will take on too much water
and swell, with the risk of eventually bursting. A critical aspect of
homeostasis in living things is to create an internal environment in which all
of the body’s cells are in an isotonic solution. Various organ systems,
particularly the kidneys, work to maintain this homeostasis.

CONCENTRATION OF SOLUTIONS

Another mechanism besides diffusion to passively transport materials

between compartments is filtration. Unlike diffusion of a substance from
where it is more concentrated to less concentrated, filtration uses a
hydrostatic pressure gradient that pushes the fluid—and the solutes within it
— from a higher pressure area to a lower pressure area. Filtration is an
extremely important process in the body. For example, the circulatory system
uses filtration to move plasma and substances across the endothelial lining of
capillaries and into surrounding tissues, supplying cells with the nutrients.
Filtration pressure in the kidneys provides the mechanism to remove wastes
from the bloodstream.

Active Transport
For all of the transport methods described above, the cell
expends no energy. Membrane proteins that aid in the passive transport of
substances do so without the use of ATP. During active transport, ATP is
required to move a substance across a membrane, often with the help of
protein carriers, and usually against its concentration gradient.

One of the most common types of active transport involves proteins that
serve as pumps. The word “pump” probably conjures up thoughts of using
energy to pump up the tire of a bicycle or a basketball. Similarly, energy
from ATP is required for these membrane proteins to transport substances—
molecules or ions—across the membrane, usually against their concentration
gradients (from an area of low concentration to an area of high
concentration).

The sodium-potassium pump, which is also called Na+/K+ ATPase,

transports sodium out of a cell while moving potassium into the cell. The
Na+/K+ pump is an important ion pump found in the membranes of many
types of cells. These pumps are particularly abundant in nerve cells, which
are constantly pumping out sodium ions and pulling in potassium ions to
maintain an electrical gradient across their cell membranes. An electrical
gradient is a difference in electrical charge across a space. In the case of
nerve cells, for example, the electrical gradient exists between the inside and
outside of the cell, with the inside being negatively-charged (at around 70
mV) relative to the outside. The negative electrical gradient is maintained
because each Na+/K+ pump moves three Na+ ions out of the cell and two K+
ions into the cell for each ATP molecule that is used (Fig. 2.7. Sodium-
Potassium Pump). This process is so important for nerve cells that it accounts
for the majority of their ATP usage.

Sodium-Potassium Pump
Figure 2.7: Sodium Potassium Pump

Active transport pumps can also work together with other active or passive
transport systems to move substances across the membrane. For example, the
sodium-potassium pump maintains a high concentration of sodium ions
outside of the cell. Therefore, if the cell needs sodium ions, all it has to do is
open a passive sodium channel, as the concentration gradient of the sodium
ions will drive them to diffuse into the cell. In this way, the action of an
active transport pump (the sodiumpotassium pump) powers the passive
transport of sodium ions by creating a concentration gradient. When active
transport powers the transport of another substance in this way, it is called
secondary active transport.
Symporters are secondary active transporters that move two substances in the
same direction. For example, the sodiumglucose symporter uses sodium ions
to “pull” glucose molecules into the cell. Because cells store glucose for
energy, glucose is typically at a higher concentration inside of the cell than
outside. However, due to the action of the sodium-potassium pump, sodium
ions will easily diffuse into the cell when the symporter is opened. The flood
of sodium ions through the symporter provides the energy that allows glucose
to move through the symporter and into the cell, against its concentration
gradient.

Conversely, antiporters are secondary active transport systems that transport

substances in opposite directions. For example, the sodium-hydrogen ion
antiporter uses the energy from the inward flood of sodium ions to move
hydrogen ions (H+) out of the cell. The sodium-hydrogen antiporter is used to
maintain the pH of the cell’s interior.

Other forms of active transport do not involve membrane carriers.

Endocytosis (bringing “into the cell”) is the process of a cell ingesting
material by enveloping it in a portion of its cell membrane, and then pinching
off that portion of membrane (Fig. 2.8). Once pinched off, the portion of
membrane and its contents becomes an independent, intracellular vesicle. A
vesicle is a membranous sac—a spherical and hollow organelle bounded by a
lipid bilayer membrane. Endocytosis often brings materials into the cell that
must to be broken down or digested. Phagocytosis (“cell eating”) is the
endocytosis of large particles. Many immune cells engage in phagocytosis of
invading pathogens. Like little Pac-men, their job is to patrol body tissues for
unwanted matter, such as invading bacterial cells, phagocytize them, and
digest them. In contrast to phagocytosis, pinocytosis (“cell drinking”) brings
fluid containing dissolved substances into a cell through membrane vesicles.

Three Forms of Endocytosis

Phagocytosis and pinocytosis take in large portions of

extracellular material, and they are typically not highly selective in the
substances they bring in. Cells regulate the endocytosis of specific substances
via receptor-mediated endocytosis. Receptor-mediated endocytosis is
endocytosis by a portion of the cell membrane that contains many receptors
that are specific for a certain substance. Once the surface receptors have
Another random document with
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of taking chances of happiness, as Sophia Western takes them with
Tom Jones (very good chances, to my way of thinking); it is a
question of unalterable laws by which the gods limit our human joy.
But there is no sharp sense of disappointment awakened in our
hearts when we read “Lady Rose’s Daughter,” as when more
powerful currents of emotion turn awry. That Henry Esmond should
have married Lady Castlewood, or rather, that he should not have
married Beatrix, I count one of the permanent sorrows of life.
In an exceedingly clever and ruthlessly disagreeable novel by
Mr. Bernard Shaw, “Cashel Byron’s Profession,” there is a brief, clear
exposition of that precise phase of life which novelists, as a rule,
decline to elucidate. Cashel Byron is a prize-fighter, a champion
light-weight, well-born (though he does not know it) and of cleanly
life; but nevertheless a prize-fighter, with the instincts, habits, and
vocabulary of his class. A young woman, rich, refined, bookish,
brought up in a rarefied intellectual atmosphere which has starved
her healthy sentiment to danger point, falls helplessly in love with his
beauty and his strength, and marries him, in mute desperate
defiance of social laws. The story closes at this point, but the author
adds a brief commentary, designed to explain the limited possibilities
of happiness that exist for the ex-pugilist and his wife.
“Cashel’s admiration for Lydia survived the ardour of his first love
for her, and she employed all her forethought not to disappoint his
reliance on her judgment. She led a busy life, and wrote some
learned monographs, as well as a work in which she denounced
education as practised in the universities and public schools. Her
children inherited her acuteness and refinement, with their father’s
robustness and aversion to study. They were precocious and
impudent, had no respect for Cashel, and showed any they had for
their mother principally by running to her when they were in
difficulties.... The care of this troublesome family had one advantage
for her. It left her little time to think about herself, or about the fact
that, when the illusion of her love passed away, Cashel fell in her
estimation. But the children were a success, and she soon came to
regard him as one of them. When she had leisure to consider the
matter at all, which seldom occurred, it seemed to her that, on the
whole, she had chosen wisely.”
Here are conditions which, if presented at length and with
sufficient skill, might hold us spellbound. Here is an opportunity to
force conviction, were the novelist disposed to grapple with his real
work. As it is, Mr. Shaw contents himself with adding one more to the
marital failures of fiction. Dr. Johnson said that most marriages would
turn out as well if the Lord Chancellor made them. The Lord
Chancellor would assuredly make them better than that blundering
expert, the novelist.
 OUR BELIEF IN BOOKS
What pleasantness of teaching there is in books,—how easy,
how secret! How safely we lay bare the poverty of human
ignorance to books, without feeling any shame! They are
masters who instruct us without rod or ferule, without angry
words, without clothes or money. If you come to them, they are
not asleep; if you ask and inquire of them, they do not withdraw
themselves; they do not chide if you make mistakes; they do not
laugh at you if you are ignorant. O books, who alone are liberal
and free, who give to all who ask of you, and enfranchise all who
serve you faithfully.—Richard de Bury, Bishop of Durham,
A. D. 1459.

Enough has been written in praise of books to fill a library. It is not

always so eloquently worded as is the Bishop of Durham’s
benediction; but the same general truths—or fallacies—are repeated
with more or less pride and persuasiveness. At the same time, a
lesser library might be compiled of the warnings uttered by the
anxious ones who hold that the power of books is more potent than
benign, and that if one half of the world’s readers are being led
gloriously to high and noble truths, the other half is being vitiated by
an influence which makes for paltriness and degradation. Under all
circumstances, we are asked to believe that we are dominated by
the printed page. It is this conviction which induces so much of
austerity—not to say of censoriousness—in our counsellors, whose
upbraidings are but the echoes of those sterner protests with which
church and state were wont in earlier days to direct the reading
courses of the public. That books have always been deemed
formidable antagonists is proven by their frequent condemnation.
The fires that were kindled for sorcerers and for heretics flamed just
as fiercely for the stubborn volumes which passed the border-land of
orthodoxy. Calvin burned all the pamphlets and manuscripts of
Servetus at the same time that he burned their author; in
consequence of which thoroughness, “Christianismi Restitutio” is
said to be one of the rarest dissertations in the world.
For some books that perished at the stake the antiquarian can
never mourn enough. An act passed in the short reign of King
Edward VI commanded the wholesale destruction of all “antiphones,
myssales, scrayles, processionales, manuelles, legendes, pyes,
prymars in Lattyn or Inglishe, cowchers, journales, ordinales, or
other books or writings whatsoever, heretofore used for the service
of the churche, written or prynted in the Inglishe or Lattyn tongue.”
Owners of these precious volumes were commanded to give them
up (heavy fines being exacted for disobedience), that they might be
“openlye brent, or otherways defaced and destroied.” None were
spared, save the “Prymars in the Inglishe or Lattyn tongue set forthe
by the late Kinge of famous memorie, Kinge Henrie the eight;” and
even from such hallowed pages all “invocations or prayers to
saintes” were to be “blotted or clerelye put out.” Orthodoxy is a costly
indulgence. What treasures were lost to the world, what—
Small rare volumes, dark with tarnished gold,
shrivelled into ashes, that the Book of Common Prayer might rule in
undisputed authority and right!
Queen Elizabeth was strenuously opposed to “schismatical”
works, as well as to those of a political or diplomatic character. With
broad-minded impartiality she burned all books and pamphlets which
presumed to deal—no matter in what spirit—with subjects she did
not wish discussed. Like the old Tory lady who objected to her Tory
butler’s sentiments, seeing no reason why butlers should have
sentiments at all, Elizabeth punished the too effusive piety and
patriotism of her subjects as severely as she punished their
discontent. The hall kitchen of the Stationers’ Company witnessed
many a bonfire of books during her reign; and many an incautious
author discovered with poor Peter Wentworth that “the anger of a
Prince is as the roaring of a Lyon, and even as the messenger of
Death.” James I favoured St. Paul’s churchyard as a spot singularly
suitable for the cremation of books; and Oxford and Cambridge had
their own exclusive auto-da-fés for two centuries and more.
Edinburgh, with fine national feeling, burned Drake’s “Historia Anglo-
Scotica,” because its English tone offended Scottish pride; and
England burned the Rev. Arthur Bury’s “Naked Gospel” in 1690,
because she conceived that a rector of Exeter should veil his truths
more decently from the eyes of the feeble and profane. The last
book to achieve such unmerited distinction in Great Britain was a
copy of Mr. Froude’s “Nemesis of Faith,” which, being discovered in
the possession of an Oxford student, was publicly burned by the
Rev. William Sewell, Dean of Exeter, in the college hall, on the
twenty-seventh of February, 1849. “Oxford,” says Mr. James Anson
Farrer, “has always tempered her love for learning with a dislike for
inquiry.” The incident, being at best unusual, gave such a healthy
impetus to the sale of Mr. Froude’s work—which had won no wide
hearing—that it went into a second edition, and became an object of
keen, though temporary, solicitude. Well might the Marquis de
Langle say that burning was as a blue ribbon to any book, inspiring
interest, and insuring sales. There are those who affirm that the
“Index Expurgatorius,” by which the Roman Catholic church still
seeks to restrain the reading of her children, is a similar spur to
curiosity. This I do not believe, having never in my life met a Roman
Catholic who knew what works were or were not upon the “Index,” or
who had been incautious enough to inquire.
The decline of church discipline and the enfeeblement of law
permit books now to die a natural death; but the conviction of their
powerful and perilous authority still lingers in the teacher’s heart. If
he knows, as is often the case, much of letters and little of life, he
magnifies this authority until it seems the dominant influence of the
world. A writer in one of the British quarterlies assures us with almost
incredible seriousness that we are at the mercy of the authors whom
we read.
“We take a silent, innocent-seeming volume into our hands, and,
when we put it down, we shall never again be what we were
before.... St. Augustine opened the book, and one single sentence
changed him from the brilliant, godless, self-satisfied rhetorician into
a powerful religious force. Here, on the other hand, is a youth who
opens a mere magazine article written against his faith. He throws
off the early influence of home like a mantle, and plunges
thenceforward into the ‘sunless gulf of doubt,’ with the unspeakable
morasses at the bottom.”
This is a little like the man who left the Unitarian church because
“somebody told him it wasn’t true.” How is a soul so sensitive to be
kept in—or out of—any fold? A religion which dissolves before the
persuasions of a magazine article must necessarily be as short-lived
as the love—“the slight, thin sort of inclination”—which is starved, so
Elizabeth Bennett tells us, by a sonnet. “Ten thousand difficulties,”
says Cardinal Newman nobly, “do not make one doubt;” but the
thinker who cannot surmount the first and feeblest of the difficulties
should never have essayed the perilous pathway of the alphabet.
Neither was St. Augustine’s inspiration a flashlight upon darkness.
The “self-satisfied rhetorician” was not converted, like Harlequin, in
one dazzling moment. There had been a long and bitter struggle
between the forces of life and death, of the spirit and the flesh,
before the word of St. Paul penetrated with overwhelming sweetness
into a soul cleared by hard thinking, and cleansed by a passion for
perfection.
Man may be an unstable creature,—we have been told so until
we believe it,—but he parts reluctantly from his convictions, and is
slow to break the habits of a lifetime. Hear what Robert Burton has to
say about the obstinate perversity of heretics.
“Single out the most ignorant of them. Convince his
understanding. Show him his errors. Prove to him the grossness and
absurdities of his sect. He will not be persuaded.”
He will not, indeed, whether persuasion take the form of a
sermon, a magazine article, or the stake. Luther said that the more
he read the Fathers of the early Church, the more he found himself
offended; which proves the strength of a mental attitude to resist the
most penetrating of influences. Neither are political heretics any
easier to enlighten. “Who,” asks Lord Coleridge, “ever convinced an
antagonist by a speech?” On the contrary, there is a natural and
healthy sentiment of revolt when views we do not share are set forth
with unbroken continuity and insistence. In the give and take of
conversation, in the advance and retreat of argument, in the swift
intrusion of the spoken word, made overpowering by the charm of
personality, we encounter a force too subtle and personal to be
resisted. Unconsciously we yield at some point to the insidious
attack of thoughts and ideas so presented as to weaken our
individual opposition, and adroitly force an entrance to our souls. But
books, like sermons, fail by reason of the smoothness of their
current; because there is no backwater to stir the eddies, and whirl
us into conflict and submission. We feel that, could we have spent
our “mornings in Florence” with Mr. Ruskin, have looked with him at
frescoes, tombs, and pavements, and have disputed at every point
his magnificent assumption of authority, we might have ended by
accepting his most unreasonable and intolerant verdicts. Could we
free our souls by expressing to Mr. John Morley our sentiments
concerning Mr. Gladstone, we might in return be impelled to share
the enthusiasm of the enlightened biographer. But neither Mr. Buskin
nor Mr. Morley has the same power of persuasiveness in print. The
simple process of leaving out whatever is antagonistic makes
demonstration easy, but inconclusive. Sometimes the robust
directness of the method inclines us peremptorily to resistance. It is
hard for a generous heart not to sympathize with the exiled Stewarts,
after reading Lord Macaulay’s “History of England.” Mr. Froude must
be held responsible for much of the extravagant enthusiasm
professed for the Queen of Scots. And I once knew an intelligent girl
who had been driven by Mr. Prescott into worshipping Philip II as a
hero.
People who have contracted the habit of writing books are
naturally prone to exaggerate their importance. It is this sentiment
which has provoked the attitude of fault-finding, of continuous
grumbling at readers, which is so marked a characteristic of modern
criticism. The public is reproached, admonished, warned by Mr.
Frederic Harrison that if it feels contumacious—which is not
infrequently the case—it should pray for a “cleanlier and quieter
spirit.” Whenever a handful of books is presented to a community,
addresses are made to show, on the one hand, that reading and
writing are better than meat and drink, and, on the other, that the
people who read and write are on the brink of abysmal destruction. I
have heard a lecturer upon one of these august occasions gloomily
prophesy that many of the volumes waiting to be perused would
“deprave the taste, irritate the vanity, exaggerate the egotism, and
vitiate the curiosity of their readers.” This seemed an unfortunate
result for philanthropy to achieve; but the speaker went on to excite
the godless interest of his audience by warning them that romance—
of which the new library was reasonably full—would exercise a
“bewildering and blinding effect” upon their minds, “filling them with
false hopes and enervating dreams.” He then defined a good novel
as one which should “stimulate a healthy imagination, a sober
ambition, a modest ardour, an eager humility, a love of what is truly
great;” and left us oppressed with the conviction that the usefulness
of our earthly careers and the salvation of our immortal souls
depended upon the fiction that we read.
“There is no harm,” says Mr. Birrell sweetly, “in talking about
books, still less in reading them; but it is folly to pretend to worship
them.” It is folly to exaggerate their controlling influence in our lives.
We are not more modestly ardent after reading “Vanity Fair,” nor
more eagerly humble after spending long and happy hours with
“Emma.” No sober ambition stirs chastely in our souls when we lay
down, with a sigh of content, “Pride and Prejudice,” or “Guy
Mannering,” or “Henry Esmond,” or “The Ordeal of Richard Feverel.”
Even “Anna Karénina” fails to inspire us with “false hopes and
enervating dreams;” and while we are often bewildered by Mr. Henry
James’s masterpieces, we have never been blinded by any. As for
the ordinary novels that tumble headlong from the press, it is
impossible to imagine them as inspiring either ardour or ambition,
egotism or humility. They may perhaps be trusted to weaken our
literary instincts, and to induce mental inertia,—“the surest way of
having no thoughts of our own,” says Schopenhauer, “is to take up a
book every time we have nothing to do,”—but they are not, as their
writers and their critics fearfully assert, the arbiters of our destinies.
A belief in the overpowering influence of books was part of
Carlyle’s gospel. He had a curious modesty about giving advice,
even when it was sought; and—born dictator though he was—he
realized that his own literary needs were not necessarily the literary
needs of other men. He said as much quite simply and sincerely
when people asked him what they should read, holding always, with
Dr. Johnson, that inclination must prompt the choice. To be sure, like
Dr. Johnson, and like Emerson, he presupposed inclination to be of
an austere and seemly order. Emerson never wearied of saying that
people should read what they liked; but he plainly expected them to
like only what was good. Carlyle was firmly convinced that
authorship carried with it responsibilities too serious for trifling. He
reverenced the printed page, and he expressed this reverence, this
confession of faith, in the most explicit and comprehensive assertion.
“The writer of a book is he not a preacher, preaching, not to this
parish or that, but to all men in all times and places? Not the
wretchedest circulating library novel which foolish girls thumb and
con in remote villages, but will help to regulate the actual practical
weddings and households of those foolish girls.”
More than this it would be impossible to say, and few of us, I
hope, would be willing to say as much. The idea is too oppressive to
be borne. Only authors and critics can afford to take this view of life.
Personally I believe that a foolish girl is more influenced by another
foolish girl, to say nothing of a foolish boy, than by all the novels on
the library shelves. Companionship and propinquity are forces to be
reckoned with. Mind touches mind like an electric current. The
contagion of folly is spread, like other forms of contagion, by
personal contact. Books may, as Carlyle says, preach to all men, in
all times and places; but it is precisely their lack of reticence, the
universality of their message, their chill publicity of tone which
reduces their readers to the level of an audience or of a
congregation. If we recall the disclosures with which we have been
favoured from time to time by distinguished people who consented to
tell the world what books had influenced their lives, we cannot fail to
remember the perfunctory nature of these revelations. It was as
though the speakers had first marshalled in order the most enduring
masterpieces of literature, and had then fitted their own sentiments
and experiences into appropriate grooves. This reversal of a natural
law is much in favour when what are called epoch-making books
come under public discussion. There are enthusiasts who appear to
think that Rousseau evoked the French Revolution, and that “Uncle
Tom’s Cabin” was responsible for the Civil War. When the impetus of
a profound and powerful emotion, the mighty will of a great event
finds expression in literature,—or at least in letters,—the writer’s
mind speeds like a greyhound along the track of public sentiment. It
does not create the sentiment, it does not appreciably intensify it; but
it enables people to perceive more clearly the nature of the course to
which they stand committed. These sympathetic triumphs are
sometimes mistaken for literary triumphs. They are often thought to
lead the chase they follow.
If, on the other hand, we ask ourselves soberly what books have
helped to mould our characters or to control our energies, we shall
not find the list an imposing one. There will be little or nothing to tell
a listening world. Rather may we incline to the open skepticism of
Lord Byron: “Who was ever altered by a poem?” Even presuming
that we are happy enough to detach ourselves from contemporary
criticism, and to read for human delight; even presuming that, after a
lifetime of effort, we have learned to recognize perfection in literary
art, and to turn of our own free will to those lonely works which “in
the best and noblest sense of a good and noble word, should be,
and forever remain, essentially unpopular;” even then it does not
follow that we are mastered by the books we love. There still
remains to us that painful and unconquerable originality, which is not
defiant, but only helplessly incapable of submission. “Giving a
reason for a thing,” says Dr. Johnson, “does not make it right.” Let us
hope that being unable to give a reason for a thing does not prove us
wrong. The Rev. Mark Pattison, who was the most unflinching reader
of his day, who looked upon money only as a substance convertible
by some happy alchemy into leather-bound volumes, and upon time
only as a possession which could be exchanged for a wider
acquaintance with literature, understood better than any scholar in
England the limitations and futilities of print. He did not say with
Hobbes, “If I had read as much as other men, I should doubtless
have shared their ignorance,” because he had read more than other
men, and was very widely informed; but he pointed out with startling
lucidity that a flexible mind fortifies itself rather by conversation,
which is the gift of the few, than by reading, which is the resource of
the many. “Books,” he said, “are written in response to a demand for
recreation by minds roused to intelligence, but not to intellectual
activity.” There is something pathetic in his frankly envious
admiration of the French, who can and do convey their thoughts to
one another in a language wrought up to be “the perfect medium of
wit and wisdom,—the wisdom of the serpent,—the incisive medium
of the practical intelligence.” He quoted with melancholy appreciation
Lord Houghton’s story of the Italian who, after submitting to the
heavy hospitality of an English country-house, drew a newly arrived
Frenchman into a corner with the eager request: “Viens donc causer.
Je n’ai pas causé pour quinze jours.”
Mr. Lang is responsible for the statement—spoken, let us hope,
in the enjoyment of a sardonic mood rather than after dispassionate
observation—that the average Englishman or Englishwoman would
as soon think of buying a boa-constrictor as buying a book. He or
she depends for intellectual sustenance upon that happy lottery
system which has been devised by circulating libraries, and with
which Americans are so well acquainted,—a system which enables
us to put in a request for Darwin’s “Origin of Species,” and draw out
the Rev. W. Profeit’s “Creation of Matter;” to put in a request for
“Lady Rose’s Daughter,” and draw out “The Little Shepherd of
Kingdom Come.” It is evident that reading conducted on this basis is
as sure a path to cultivation as a roulette table is to wealth. It has all
the charm of uncertainty, and all the value of speculation. It
eliminates selection, detaches quantity from quality, and replaces the
elusive balancing of results by the unchallenged roll-call of statistics.
It expresses that unshaken belief which is the gospel of the librarian,
—namely, that the number of books taken from his shelves within a
given time has something to do with the educational efficiency of his
library.
Our power of self-deception—without which we should shrivel
into humility—is never so comfortable nor so resourceful as in the
matter of reading. We are capable of believing, not only that we love
books which we do not love, but that we have read books which we
have not read. A lifelong intimacy with their titles, a partial
acquaintance with modern criticism, a lively recollection of many
familiar quotations,—these things come in time to be mistaken for a
knowledge of the books themselves. Perhaps in youth it was our
ambitious purpose to storm certain bulwarks of literature, but we
were deterred by their unpardonable length. It is a melancholy truth,
which may as well be acknowledged in the start, that many of the
books best worth reading are very, very long, and that they cannot,
without mortal hurt, be shortened. Nothing less than shipwreck on a
desert island in company with Froissart’s “Chronicles” would give us
leisure to peruse this glorious narrative, and it is useless to hope for
such a happy combination of chances. We might indeed be wrecked,
—that is always a possibility,—but the volume saved dripping from
the deep would be “Soldiers of Fortune,” or “Mrs. Wiggs of the
Cabbage Patch.”
It is at least curious that if people love books—as we are
perpetually assured they do—they should need so much persuasion
to read them. Societies are formed for mutual encouragement and
support in this engaging but arduous pursuit. Optimistic counsellors
cheer a shrinking public to its task by recommending minute
quantities of intellectual nourishment to be taken twenty-four hours
apart. They urge us to read something “solid” for fifteen minutes a
day, until we get used to it, and they promise us that—mental
invalids though we be—we can assimilate great masterpieces in
doses so homœopathic that we need hardly know we are taking
them. But this is not the spirit in which we pursue other pleasures.
We do not make an earnest effort to enjoy our friends by admitting
one for fifteen minutes’ conversation every morning. If we like a thing
at all, we are apt to like a good deal of it; and if we are working con
amore, we are wont to work very hard. To turn to books, as Jeremy
Collier counsels us, when we are weary alike of solitude and
companionship, to value them, as he did, because they help us to
forget “the crossness of men and things,” is to pay a sincere, but not
an ardent, tribute to their worth. Even the Bishop of Durham praised
his library, which he truly loved, because it soothed his unquiet soul.
The friendly volumes forbore, as he gratefully noted, either to chide
his errors or to mock at his ignorance; and there were
contemporaries—like Petrarch—who affirmed that, for so ardent a
bibliophile, the good Bishop had no great store of learning. His words
echo pleasantly through the centuries, breathing the secret of quiet
hours stolen from stormy times; and we repeat them, wondering less
at their eloquence than at their moderation. “O books, who alone are
liberal and free, who give to all who ask of you, and enfranchise all
who serve you faithfully.”
 THE BEGGAR’S POUCH
Just Heaven! for what wise reasons hast thou ordered it that
beggary and urbanity, which are at such variance in other
countries, should find a way to be at unity in this?—Sterne.

A rich American, with a kind heart and a lively sense of humour,

was heard to remark as he crossed the Italian frontier, en route for
Switzerland: “Now, if there be any one in the length and breadth of
Italy who has not yet begged from me, this is his time to come
forward.”
It was a genial invitation, betokening that tolerance of mind rarely
found in the travelling Saxon, who is fortified against beggars, as
against many other foreign institutions, by a petition-proof armour of
finely welded principle and prejudice. He disapproves of mendicancy
in general. He believes—or he says he believes—that you wrong
and degrade your fellow men by giving them money. He has the
assurance of his guide-book that the corps of ragged veterans who
mount guard over every church door in Rome are unworthy of alms,
being themselves capitalists on no ignoble scale. His irritation, when
sore beset, is natural and pardonable. His arguments are not easily
answered. He can be vaguely statistical,—real figures are hard to
come by in Italy,—he can be earnestly philosophical, he can quote
Mr. Augustus Hare. In the end, he leaves you perplexed in spirit and
dull of heart, with sixpence saved in your pocket, and the memory of
pinched old faces—which do not look at all like the faces of
capitalists at home—spoiling your appetite for dinner.
This may be right, but it is a melancholy attitude to adopt in a
land where beggary is an ancient and not dishonourable profession.
All art, all legend, all tradition, tell for the beggar. The splendid
background against which he stands gives colour and dignity to his
part. We see him sheltered by St. Julian,—ah, beautiful young
beggar of the Pitti!—fed by St. Elizabeth, clothed by St. Martin,
warmed by the fagots which St. Francesca Romano gathered for him
in the wintry woods. What heavenly blessings have followed the
charity shown to his needs! What evils have followed thick and fast
where he has been rejected! I remember these things when I meet
his piteous face and outstretched palm to-day. It is true that the
Italian beggar almost always takes a courteous, or even an impatient
denial in wonderfully good part; but, should he feel disposed to be
malevolent, I am not one to be indifferent to his malevolence. I do
not like to hear a shaken old voice wish that I may die unshriven.
There are too many possibilities involved.

So sang a withered Sibyl energetical,

And banned the ungiving door with lips prophetical.

Mr. Henry James is of the opinion (and one envies him his ability
to hold it) that “the sum of Italian misery is, on the whole, less than
the sum of the Italian knowledge of life. That people should thank
you, with a smile of enchanting sweetness, for the gift of twopence is
a proof certainly of an extreme and constant destitution; but—
keeping in mind the sweetness—it is also a proof of a fortunate
ability not to be depressed by circumstances.” This is a comforting
faith to foster, and more credible than the theory of secreted wealth
within the beggar’s pouch. It takes a great many pennies to build up
a substantial fortune, and the competition in mendicancy is too keen
to permit of the profits being large. The business, like other roads to
fortune, is “not what it once was.” A particularly good post, long held
and undisputed, an imposingly venerable and patriarchal
appearance, a total absence of legs or arms,—these things may lead
to modest competency; but these things are rare equipments. My
belief in the affluence of beggars, a belief I was cherishing carefully
for the sake of my own peace of mind, received a rude shock when I
beheld a crippled old woman, whose post was in the Piazza S.
Claudio, tucked into a doorway one cold December midnight, her idle
crutches lying on her knees. If she had had a comfortable or even an
uncomfortable home to go to, why should she have stayed to shiver
and freeze in the deserted Roman streets?
The latitude extended by the Italian Church to beggars, the
patronage shown them, never ceases to vex the tourist mind. An
American cannot reconcile himself to marching up the church steps
between two rows of mendicants, each provided with a chair, a little
scaldino, and a tin cup, in which a penny rattles lustily. There is
nothing casual about the appearance of these freeholders. They
make no pretence—as do beggars at home—of sudden emergency
or frustrated hopes. They are following their daily avocation,—the
only one for which they are equipped,—and following it in a spirit of
acute and healthy rivalry. To give to one and not to all is to arouse
such a clamorous wail that it seems, on the whole, less stony-
hearted to refuse altogether. Once inside the sacred walls, we find a
small and well-selected body of practitioners hovering around the
portals, waiting to exact their tiny toll when we are ready to depart.
“Exact” is not too strong a word to use, for I have had a lame but
comely young woman, dressed in decent black, with a black veil
framing her expressive face, hold the door of the Aracœli firmly
barred with one arm, while she swept the other toward me in a
gesture so fine, so full of mingled entreaty and command, that it was
worth double the fee she asked. Occasionally—not often—an
intrepid beggar steals around during Mass, and, touching each
member of the congregation on the shoulder, gently implores an
alms. This is a practice frowned upon as a rule, save in Sicily, where
a “plentiful poverty” doth so abide that no device for moving
compassion can be too rigidly condemned. I have been present at a
high Mass in Palermo, when a ragged woman with a baby in her
arms moved slowly after the sacristan, who was taking up the
offertory collection, and took up a second collection of her own, quite
as though she were an authorized official. It was a scandalous sight
to Western eyes,—in our well-ordered churches at home such a
proceeding would be as impossible as a trapeze performance in the
aisle,—but what depths of friendly tolerance it displayed, what
gentle, if inert, compassion for the beggar’s desperate needs!
 For in Italy, as in Spain, there is no gulf set between the rich and
poor. What these lands lack in practical philanthropy is atoned for by
a sweet and universal friendliness of demeanour, and by a prompt
recognition of rights. It would be hard to find in England or in America
such tattered rags, such gaunt faces and hungry eyes; but it would
be impossible to find in Italy or in Spain a church where rags are
relegated to some inconspicuous and appropriate background. The
Roman beggar jostles—but jostles urbanely—the Roman prince; the
noblest and the lowliest kneel side by side in the Cathedral of
Seville. I have heard much all my life about the spirit of equality, and
I have listened to fluent sermons, designed to prove that Christians,
impelled by supernatural grace, love this equality with especial
fervour; but I have never seen its practical workings, save in the
churches of southern Europe. There tired mothers hush their babies
to sleep, and wan children play at ease in their Father’s house.
There I have been privileged to stand for hours, during long and
beautiful services, because the only available chairs had been
appropriated by forlorn creatures who would not have been
permitted to intrude into the guarded pews at home.
It has been always thus. We have the evidence of writers who
give it with reluctant sincerity; of Borrow, for example, who firmly
believed he hated many things for which he had a natural and visible
affinity. “To the honour of Spain be it spoken,” he writes in “The Bible
in Spain,” “that it is one of the few countries in Europe where poverty
is never insulted nor looked upon with contempt. Even at an inn the
poor man is never spurned from the door, and, if not harboured, is at
least dismissed with fair words, and consigned to the mercies of God
and His Mother.”
The more ribald Nash, writing centuries earlier, finds no words
too warm in which to praise the charities of Catholic Rome. “The
bravest Ladies, in gownes of beaten gold, washing pilgrims’ and
poor soldiours’ feete.... This I must say to the shame of us English; if
good workes may merit Heaven, they doe them, we talk about them.”
The Roman ladies “doe them” still; not so picturesquely as they
did three hundred years ago, but in the same noble and delicate
spirit. Their means and their methods are far below the means and
methods of charitable organizations in England and America. They
cannot find work where there is no work to be done. They cannot lift
the hopeless burden of want which is the inevitable portion of the
Italian poor. They can at best give only the scanty loaf which keeps
starvation from the door. They cannot educate the children, nor
make the swarming populace of Rome “self-respecting,” by which we
mean self-supporting. But they can and do respect the poverty they
alleviate. Their mental attitude is simpler than ours. They know well
that it is never the wretchedly poor who “fear fate and cheat nature,”
and they see, with more equanimity than we can muster, the ever
recurring tragedy of birth. The hope, so dear to our Western hearts,
of ultimately raising the whole standard of humanity shines very
dimly on their horizon; but if they plan less for the race, they draw
closer to the individual. They would probably, if questioned, say
frankly with Sir Thomas Browne: “I give no alms only to satisfy the
hunger of my Brother, but to fulfil and accomplish the Will and
Command of my God.” And if the “Religio Medici” be somewhat out
of date,—superseded, we are told, by a finer altruism which rejects
the system of reward,—we may still remember Mr. Pater’s half rueful
admission that it was all “pure profit” to its holder.
When Charles Lamb lamented, with innate perversity, the decay
of beggars, he merely withdrew his mind from actualities,—which
always annoyed him,—and set it to contemplate those more
agreeable figures which were not suffering under the disadvantage
of existence. It was the beggar of romance, of the ballads, of the
countryside, of the merry old songs, whose departure he professed
to regret. The outcast of the London streets could not have been—
even in Lamb’s time—a desirable feature. To-day we find him the
most depressing object in the civilized world; and the fact that he is
what is called, in the language of the philanthropist, “unworthy,”
makes him no whit more cheerful of contemplation. The ragged
creature who rushes out of the darkness to cover the wheel of your
hansom with his tattered sleeve manages to convey to your mind a
sense of degraded wretchedness, calculated to lessen the
happiness of living. His figure haunts you miserably, when you want
to forget him and be light of heart. By his side, the venerable, white-
bearded old humbugs who lift the leather curtains of Roman and
Venetian churches stand forth as cheerful embodiments of self-
respecting mendicancy. They, at least, are no pariahs, but
recognized features of the social system. They are the Lord’s poor,
whose prayers are fertile in blessings. It is kind to drop a coin into
the outstretched hand, and to run the risk—not so appalling as we
seem to think—of its being unworthily bestowed. “Rake not into the
bowels of unwelcome truth to save a half-penny;” but remember,
rather, the ever-ready alms of Dr. Johnson, who pitied most those
who were least deserving of compassion. Little doubt that he was
often imposed upon. The fallen women went on their way, sinning as
before. The “old struggler” probably spent his hard-earned shilling for
gin. The sick beggar whom he carried on his back should by rights
have been languishing in the poorhouse. But the human quality of
his kindness made it a vital force, incapable of waste. It warmed sad
hearts in his unhappy time, as it warms our sad hearts now. Like the
human kindness of St. Martin, it still remains—a priceless heritage—
to enrich us poor beggars in sentiment to-day.
And this reminds me to ask—without hope of answer—if the
blessed St. Martin can be held responsible for the number of
beggars in Tours? The town is not pinched and hunger-bitten like the
sombre old cities of Italy, but possesses rather an air of comfort and
gracious prosperity. It is in the heart of a province where cruel
poverty is unknown, and where “thrift and success present
themselves as matters of good taste.” Yet we cannot walk half an
hour in Tours without meeting a number of highly respectable
beggars, engrossed in their professional duties. They do not sin
against the harmony of their surroundings by any revolting
demonstration of raggedness or penury. On the contrary, they are
always neat and decent; and on Sundays have an aspect of such
unobtrusive well-being that one would never suspect them of
mendicancy. When a clean, comfortably dressed old gentleman, with
a broad straw hat, and a rosebud in his buttonhole, crosses the
street to affably ask an alms, I own I am surprised, until I remember
St. Martin, who, fifteen hundred years ago, shared his mantle with
the beggar shivering by the way. It was at Amiens that the incident
occurred, but the soldier saint became in time the apostle and bishop
of Tours; wherefore it is in Tours, and not in Amiens, that beggars do
plentifully abound to-day; it is in Tours, and not in Amiens, that the
charming old tale moves us to sympathy with their not very obvious
needs. They are an inheritance bequeathed us by the saint. They
are in strict accord with the traditions of the place. I am told that
giving sous to old men at church doors is not a practical form of
benevolence; but neither was it practical to cut a military cloak in
two. Something must be allowed to impulse, something to the
generous unreason of humanity.
And, after all, it is not begging, but only the beggar who has
forfeited favour with the elect. We are begged from on an arrogantly
large scale all our lives, and we are at liberty to beg from others. It
may be wrong to give ten cents to a legless man at a street corner;
but it is right, and even praiseworthy, to send ten tickets for some
dismal entertainment to our dearest friend, who must either purchase
the dreaded things or harass her friends in turn. If we go to church,
we are confronted by a system of begging so complicated and so
resolute that all other demands sink into insignificance by its side.
Mr. John Richard Green, the historian, was wont to maintain that the
begging friar of the pre-reform period, “who at any rate had the
honesty to sing for his supper, and preach a merry sermon from the
portable pulpit he carried round,” had been far outstripped by a “finer
mendicant,” the begging rector of to-day. A hospital nurse once told
me that she was often too tired to go to church—when free—on
Sundays. “But it doesn’t matter whether I go or not,” she said with
serious simplicity, “because in our church we have the envelope
system.” When asked what the system was which thus lifted church-
going from the number of Christian obligations, she explained that
envelopes marked with each Sunday’s date were distributed to the
congregation, and duly returned with a quarter inclosed. When she
stayed at home, she sent the envelope to represent her. The
collecting of the quarters being the pivotal feature of the Sunday’s
service, her duty was fulfilled.
With this, and many similar recollections in my mind, I own I am
disposed to think leniently of Italy’s church-door mendicants. How
moderate their demands, how disproportionate their gratitude, how
numberless their disappointments, how unfailing their courtesy! I can