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the non-living. It was regarded almost as an axiom of chemistry
that no organic compound whatever could be put together from its
elements—synthesized—in the laboratory. To effect the synthesis
of even the simplest organic compound, it was thought that the
“vital force” must be in operation.
Therefore a veritable sensation was created in the chemical world
when, in the year 1828, it was announced that the young German
chemist, Friedrich Wohler, formerly pupil of Berzelius, and
already known as a coming master, had actually synthesized the
well-known organic product urea in his laboratory at Sacrow. The
“exception which proves the rule” is something never heard of in
the domain of logical science. Natural law knows no exceptions.
So the synthesis of a single organic compound sufficed at a blow
to break down the chemical barrier which the imagination of the
fathers of the science had erected between animate and inanimate
nature. Thenceforth the philosophical chemist would regard the
plant and animal organisms as chemical laboratories in which
conditions are peculiarly favorable for building up complex
compounds of a few familiar elements, under the operation of
universal chemical laws. The chimera “vital force” could no
longer gain recognition in the domain of chemistry.
Now a wave of interest in organic chemistry swept over the
chemical world, and soon the study of carbon compounds became as
much the fashion as electrochemistry had been in the, preceding
generation.
Foremost among the workers who rendered this epoch of organic
chemistry memorable were Justus Liebig in Germany and Jean
Baptiste Andre Dumas in France, and their respective pupils,
Charles Frederic Gerhardt and Augustus Laurent. Wohler, too,
must be named in the same breath, as also must Louis Pasteur,
who, though somewhat younger than the others, came upon the scene
in time to take chief part in the most important of the
controversies that grew out of their labors.
Several years earlier than this the way had been paved for the
study of organic substances by Gay-Lussac’s discovery, made in
1815, that a certain compound of carbon and nitrogen, which he
named cyanogen, has a peculiar degree of stability which enables
it to retain its identity and enter into chemical relations after
the manner of a simple body. A year later Ampere discovered that
nitrogen and hydrogen, when combined in certain proportions to
form what he called ammonium, have the same property. Berzelius
had seized upon this discovery of the compound radical, as it was
called, because it seemed to lend aid to his dualistic theory. He
conceived the idea that all organic compounds are binary unions
of various compound radicals with an atom of oxygen, announcing
this theory in 1818. Ten years later, Liebig and Wohler undertook
a joint investigation which resulted in proving that compound
radicals are indeed very abundant among organic substances. Thus
the theory of Berzelius seemed to be substantiated, and organic
chemistry came to be defined as the chemistry of compound
radicals.
But even in the day of its seeming triumph the dualistic theory
was destined to receive a rude shock. This came about through
the investigations of Dumas, who proved that in a certain organic
substance an atom of hydrogen may be removed and an atom of
chlorine substituted in its place without destroying the
integrity of the original compound—much as a child might
substitute one block for another in its play-house. Such a
substitution would be quite consistent with the dualistic theory,
were it not for the very essential fact that hydrogen is a
powerfully electro-positive element, while chlorine is as
strongly electro-negative. Hence the compound radical which
united successively with these two elements must itself be at one
time electro-positive, at another electro-negative—a seeming
inconsistency which threw the entire Berzelian theory into
disfavor.
In its place there was elaborated, chiefly through the efforts of
Laurent and Gerhardt, a conception of the molecule as a unitary
structure, built up through the aggregation of various atoms, in
accordance with “elective affinities” whose nature is not yet
understood A doctrine of “nuclei” and a doctrine of “types” of
molecular structure were much exploited, and, like the doctrine
of compound radicals, became useful as aids to memory and guides
for the analyst, indicating some of the plans of molecular
construction, though by no means penetrating the mysteries of
chemical affinity. They are classifications rather than
explanations of chemical unions. But at least they served an
important purpose in giving definiteness to the idea of a
molecular structure built of atoms as the basis of all
substances. Now at last the word molecule came to have a distinct
meaning, as distinct from “atom,” in the minds of the generality
of chemists, as it had had for Avogadro a third of a century
before. Avogadro’s hypothesis that there are equal numbers of
these molecules in equal volumes of gases, under fixed
conditions, was revived by Gerhardt, and a little later, under
the championship of Cannizzaro, was exalted to the plane of a
fixed law. Thenceforth the conception of the molecule was to be
as dominant a thought in chemistry as the idea of the atom had
become in a previous epoch.
CHEMICAL AFFINITYOf course the atom itself was in no sense displaced, but
Avogadro’s law soon made it plain that the atom had often usurped
territory that did not really belong to it. In many cases the
chemists had supposed themselves dealing with atoms as units
where the true unit was the molecule. In the case of elementary
gases, such as hydrogen and oxygen, for example, the law of equal
numbers of molecules in equal spaces made it clear that the atoms
do not exist isolated, as had been supposed. Since two volumes
of hydrogen unite with one volume of oxygen to form two volumes
of water vapor, the simplest mathematics show, in the light of
Avogadro’s law, not only that each molecule of water must contain
two hydrogen atoms (a point previously in dispute), but that the
original molecules of hydrogen and oxygen must have been composed
in each case of two atoms–else how could one volume of oxygen
supply an atom for every molecule of two volumes of water?
What, then, does this imply? Why, that the elementary atom has
an avidity for other atoms, a longing for companionship, an
“affinity”—call it what you will—which is bound to be satisfied
if other atoms are in the neighborhood. Placed solely among
atoms of its own kind, the oxygen atom seizes on a fellow oxygen
atom, and in all their mad dancings these two mates cling
together—possibly revolving about each other in miniature
planetary orbits. Precisely the same thing occurs among the
hydrogen atoms. But now suppose the various pairs of oxygen atoms
come near other pairs of hydrogen atoms (under proper conditions
which need not detain us here), then each oxygen atom loses its
attachment for its fellow, and flings itself madly into the
circuit of one of the hydrogen couplets, and—presto!—there are
only two molecules for every three there were before, and free
oxygen and hydrogen have become water. The whole process, stated
in chemical phraseology, is summed up in the statement that under
the given conditions the oxygen atoms had a greater affinity for
the hydrogen atoms than for one another.
As chemists studied the actions of various kinds of atoms, in
regard to their unions with one another to form molecules, it
gradually dawned upon them that not all elements are satisfied
with the same number of companions. Some elements ask only one,
and refuse to take more; while others link themselves, when
occasion offers, with two, three, four, or more. Thus we saw that
oxygen forsook a single atom of its own kind and linked itself
with two atoms of hydrogen. Clearly, then, the oxygen atom, like
a creature with two hands, is able to clutch two other atoms.
But we have no proof that under any circumstances it could hold
more than two. Its affinities seem satisfied when it has two
bonds. But, on the other hand, the atom of nitrogen is able to
hold three atoms of hydrogen, and does so in the molecule of
ammonium (NH3); while the carbon atom can hold four atoms of
hydrogen or two atoms of oxygen.
Evidently, then, one atom is not always equivalent to another
atom of a different kind in combining powers. A recognition of
this fact by Frankland about 1852, and its further investigation
by others (notably A. Kekule and A. S. Couper), led to the
introduction of the word equivalent into chemical terminology in
a new sense, and in particular to an understanding of the
affinities or “valency” of different elements, which proved of
the most fundamental importance. Thus it was shown that, of the
four elements that enter most prominently into organic compounds,
hydrogen can link itself with only a single bond to any other
element—it has, so to speak, but a single hand with which to
grasp—while oxygen has capacity for two bonds, nitrogen for
three (possibly for five), and carbon for four. The words
monovalent, divalent, trivalent, tretrava-lent, etc., were coined
to express this most important fact, and the various elements
came to be known as monads, diads, triads, etc. Just why
different elements should differ thus in valency no one as yet
knows; it is an empirical fact that they do. And once the nature
of any element has been determined as regards its valency, a most
important insight into the possible behavior of that element has
been secured. Thus a consideration of the fact that hydrogen is
monovalent, while oxygen is divalent, makes it plain that we must
expect to find no more than three compounds of these two
elements—namely, H—O—(written HO by the chemist, and called
hydroxyl); H—O—H (H2O, or water), and H—O—O—H (H2O2, or
hydrogen peroxide). It will be observed that in the first of
these compounds the atom of oxygen stands, so to speak, with one
of its hands free, eagerly reaching out, therefore, for another
companion, and hence, in the language of chemistry, forming an
unstable compound. Again, in the third compound, though all hands
are clasped, yet one pair links oxygen with oxygen; and this also
must be an unstable union, since the avidity of an atom for its
own kind is relatively weak. Thus the well-known properties of
hydrogen peroxide are explained, its easy decomposition, and the
eagerness with which it seizes upon the elements of other
compounds.
But the molecule of water, on the other hand, has its atoms
arranged in a state of stable equilibrium, all their affinities
being satisfied. Each hydrogen atom has satisfied its own
affinity by clutching the oxygen atom; and the oxygen atom has
both its bonds satisfied by clutching back at the two hydrogen
atoms. Therefore the trio, linked in this close bond, have no
tendency to reach out for any other companion, nor, indeed, any
power to hold another should it thrust itself upon them. They
form a “stable” compound, which under all ordinary circumstances
will retain its identity as a molecule of water, even though the
physical mass of which it is a part changes its condition from a
solid to a gas from ice to vapor.
But a consideration of this condition of stable equilibrium in
the molecule at once suggests a new question: How can an
aggregation of atoms, having all their affinities satisfied, take
any further part in chemical reactions? Seemingly such a
molecule, whatever its physical properties, must be chemically
inert, incapable of any atomic readjustments. And so in point of
fact it is, so long as its component atoms cling to one another
unremittingly. But this, it appears, is precisely what the atoms
are little prone to do. It seems that they are fickle to the last
degree in their individual attachments, and are as prone to break
away
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