CHAPTER I.
Birth and family of Sir H. Davy.—Davy placed at a preparatory school.—His peculiarities when a boy.—Anecdotes.—He is admitted into the grammar-school at Penzance.—Finishes his education under Dr. Cardew at Truro.—Death of his father.—He is apprenticed by his mother to Mr. John Bingham Borlase, a surgeon and apothecary.—He enters upon the study of Chemistry, and devotes more time to Philosophy than to Physic.—The influence of early impressions illustrated.—His poetical talent.—Specimens of his versification.—An Epic Poem composed by him at the age of twelve years.—His first original experiment in chemistry.—He conceives a new theory of heat and light.—His ingenious experiment to demonstrate its truth.—He becomes known to Mr. Davies Gilbert, the founder of his future fortunes.—Mr. Gregory Watt arrives at Penzance, and lodges in the house of Mrs. Davy.—The visit of Dr. Beddoes and Professor Hailstone to Cornwall.—The correspondence between Dr. Beddoes and Mr. Davies Gilbert, relative to the Pneumatic Institution at Bristol, and the proposed appointment of Davy.—His final departure from his native town.
Humphry Davy was born at Penzance, in Cornwall, on the 17th of December 1778.[1] His ancestors had long possessed a small estate at Varfell, in the parish of Ludgvan, in the Mount's Bay, on which they resided: this appears from tablets in the church, one of which bears a date as far back as 1635. We are, however, unable to ascend higher in the pedigree than to his paternal grandfather, who seems to have been a builder of considerable repute in the west of Cornwall, and is said to have planned and erected the mansion of Trelissick, near Truro, at present the property and residence of Thomas Daniel, Esq.
His son, the parent of the illustrious subject of our history, was sent to London, and apprenticed to a carver in wood, but, on the death of his father, who, although originally a younger son, had latterly become the representative of the family, he found himself in the possession of a patrimony amply competent for the supply of his limited desires, and therefore pursued his art rather as an object of amusement than one of necessity: in the town and neighbourhood of Penzance, however, there remain many specimens of his skill; and I have myself seen several chimney-pieces curiously embellished by his chisel.[2] ]
I am not able to discover that he was remarkable for any peculiarity of intellect; he passed through life without bustle, and quitted it with the usual regrets of friends and relatives. The habits, however, generally imputed to him were certainly not such as would have induced us to anticipate a high degree of steadiness in the son.
His wife, whose maiden name was Grace Millett, was remarkable for the placidity of her temper, and for the amiable and benevolent tendency of her disposition: she had been adopted and brought up, together with her two sisters, under circumstances of affecting interest, by Mr. John Tonkin, an eminent surgeon and apothecary in Penzance; a person of very considerable natural endowments, and whose Socratic sayings are, to this day, proverbial with many of the older inhabitants.
To withhold a narrative of the circumstances that led Mr. Tonkin to the adoption of these orphan children, would be a species of historical fraud and literary injustice, by which the world would not only lose one of those bright examples of pure and disinterested benevolence, which cheer the heart and ornament our nature, but the medical profession would be deprived of an additional claim to that public veneration and regard, to which the kind sympathy of its professors has so universally entitled it.
The parents of these children, having been attacked by a fatal fever, expired within a few hours
of each other: the dying agonies of the surviving mother were sharpened by her reflecting on the forlorn condition in which her children would be left; for, although the Milletts were originally aristocratic and wealthy, the property had undergone so many subdivisions, as to have left but a very slender provision for the member of the family to whom she had united herself.
The affecting appeal which Mrs. Millett is said to have addressed to her sympathising friend, and medical attendant, was not made in vain: on her decease, Mr. Tonkin immediately removed the three children to his own house, and they continued under the guardianship of their kind benefactor, until each, in succession, found a home by marriage.
The eldest sister, Jane, was married to Henry Sampson, a respectable watchmaker at Penzance; the youngest, Elizabeth, to her cousin, Leonard Millett of Marazion; neither of whom had any family. The second sister, Grace, was married to Robert Davy, from which union sprang five children, two boys and three girls, the eldest being Humphry, the subject of our memoir, and the second son, John, now Dr. Davy, a Surgeon to the Forces, and a gentleman distinguished by several papers in the Philosophical Transactions.
Humphry Davy was nursed by his mother, and passed his infancy with his parents;[3] but his childhood, after they had removed from Penzance to reside on their estate at Varfell, was spent partly with them and partly with Mr. John Tonkin, who extended his disinterested kindness from the mother to all her children, but more especially to Humphry, who is said, when a child, to have exhibited powers of mind superior to his years. I have spared no pains in collecting materials for the illustration of the earlier periods of his history; as, to estimate the magnitude of an object, we must measure the base with accuracy, in order to comprehend the elevation of its summit.
He was first placed at a preparatory seminary kept by a Mr. Bushell, who was so struck with the progress he made, that he urged his father to remove him to a superior school.
It is a fact worthy, perhaps, of being recorded, that he would at the age of about five years turn over the pages of a book as rapidly as if he were merely engaged in counting the number of leaves, or in hunting after pictures; and yet, on being questioned, he could generally give a very satisfactory account of the contents. I have been informed by Lady Davy that the same faculty was retained by him through life, and that she has often been astonished, beyond the power of expression, at the rapidity with which he read a work, and the accuracy with which he remembered it. Mr. Children has also communicated to me an anecdote, which may be related in illustration of the same quality. Shortly after Dr. Murray had published his system of chemistry, Davy accompanied Mr. Children in an excursion to Tonbridge, and the new work was placed in the carriage. During the occasional intervals in which their conversation was suspended, Davy was seen turning over the leaves of the book, but his companion did not believe it possible that he could have made himself acquainted with any part of its contents, until at the close of the journey he surprised him with a critical opinion of its merits.
The book that engaged his earliest attention was "The Pilgrim's Progress," a production well calculated, from the exuberance of its invention, and the rich colouring of its fancy, for seizing upon the ardent imagination of youth. This pleasing work, it will be remembered, was the early and especial favourite of Dr. Franklin, who never alluded to it but with feelings of the most lively delight.
Shortly afterwards, he commenced reading history, particularly that of England; and at the age of eight years he would, as if impressed with the powers of oratory, collect together a number of boys in a circle, and mounting a cart or carriage that might be standing before the inn near Mr. Tonkin's house, harangue them on different subjects, and offer such comments as his own ideas might suggest.
He was, moreover, at this age, a great lover of the marvellous, and amused himself and his schoolfellows by composing stories of romance and tales of chivalry, with all the fluency of an Italian improvisatore; and joyfully would he have issued forth, armed cap-à-pié, in search of adventures, and to free the world of dragons and giants.
In this early fondness for fiction, and in the habit of exercising his ingenuity in creating imagery for the gratification of his fancy, Davy and Sir Walter Scott greatly resembled each other. The Author of Waverley, in his general preface to the late edition of his novels, has given us the following account of this talent. "I must refer to a very early period of my life, were I to point out my first achievement as a tale-teller; but I believe most of my old schoolfellows can still bear witness that I had a distinguished character for that talent, at a time when the applause of my companions was my recompense for the disgraces and punishments which the future romance-writer incurred for being idle himself, and keeping others idle, during hours that should have been employed on our tasks." Had not Davy's talents been diverted into other channels, who can say that we might not have received from his inventive pen a series of romantic tales, as beautifully illustrative of the early history of his native country as are the Waverley Novels of that of Scotland? for Cornwall is by no means deficient in elfin sprites and busy "piskeys;" the invocation is alone required to summon them from their dark recesses and mystic abodes.
Davy was also in the frequent habit of writing verses and ballads; of making fireworks, and of preparing a particular detonating composition, to which he gave the name of "Thunder-powder," and which he would explode on a stone to the great wonder and delight of his young playfellows.
Another of his favourite amusements may also be recorded in this place; for, however trifling in itself the incident may appear, to the biographer it is full of interest, as tending to show the early existence of that passion for experiment, which afterwards rose so nobly in its aims and objects, as the mind expanded with the advancement of his years. It consisted in scooping out the inside of a turnip, placing a lighted candle in the cavity, and then exhibiting it as a lamp; by the aid of which he would melt fragments of tin, obtained from the metallic blocks which commonly lie about the streets of a coinage town, and demand from his companions a certain number of pins for the privilege of witnessing the operation.
At an early age, but I am unable to ascertain the exact period, he was placed at the Grammar-School in Penzance, under the Rev. J. C. Coryton; and whilst his father resided at Varfell, he lived with Mr. Tonkin, except during the holidays, which he always spent with his parents.
He was extremely fond of fishing; and I have been lately informed by one of his earliest companions, that when very young he greatly excelled in that art. "I have known him," says my correspondent, "catch grey-mullet at Penzance Pier, when none of us could succeed. The mullet is a very difficult fish to hook, on account of the diminutive size of its mouth; but Davy adopted a plan of his own contrivance. Observing that they always swam in shoals, he attached a succession of pilchards to a string, reaching from the surface to the bottom of the sea, and while his prey were swimming around the bait, he would by a sudden movement of the string entangle several of them on the hooks, and thus dexterously capture them."
As soon as he became old enough to carry a gun, a portion of his leisure hours was passed in the recreation of shooting; a pursuit which also enabled him to form a collection of the rare birds which occasionally frequented the neighbourhood, and which he is said to have stuffed with more than ordinary skill.
When at home, he frequently amused himself with reading and sketching, and sometimes with caricaturing any thing which struck his fancy; on some occasions he would shut himself up in his room, arrange the chairs, and lecture to them by the hour together.
I have been informed by one of his schoolfellows, a gentleman now highly distinguished for his literary attainments, that, in addition to the amusements already noticed, he was very fond of playing at "Tournament," fabricating shields and visors of pasteboard, and lances of wood, to which he gave the appearance of steel by means of black-lead. Thus equipped, the juvenile combatants, like Ascanius and the Trojan youths of classic recollection, would tilt at each other, and perform a variety of warlike evolutions.
By this anecdote we are forcibly reminded of the early taste of Sir William Jones, who, when a boy at Harrow School, invented a political play, in which William Bennet, Bishop of Cloyne, and the celebrated Dr. Parr, were his principal associates. They divided the fields in the neighbourhood of Harrow, according to a map of Greece, into states and kingdoms; each fixed upon one as his dominion, and assumed an ancient name. Some of their schoolfellows consented to be styled Barbarians, who were to invade their territories and attack their hillocks, which they denominated fortresses.[4]
On one occasion, Davy got up a Pantomime; and I have very unexpectedly obtained a fly-leaf, torn out of a Schrevelius' Lexicon, on which the Dramatis Personæ, as well as the names of the young actors, were registered, as originally cast. This document appears so interesting, that I have thought it right to place it on record.
| Father | Cunnack. |
| Harlequin | Davy. |
| Clown | ....[5] |
| Columbine | Hichens. |
| Cupid | Veale. |
| Fortuna | Scobell. |
| Ben | Billy Giddy. |
| Nurse | Robyns. |
| Maccaroni | Dennis. |
The performers, who, I believe, with one exception, are all living, will perhaps find some amusement in examining how far their future characters were shadowed forth on this occasion. At all events, I feel confident that they will receive no small gratification at having their recollections thus carried back to the joyous scenes of boyhood, connected as they always are, and must ever be, with the most delightful associations of our lives.
From Penzance school he went to Truro, in the year 1793, and finished his education under the Rev. Dr. Cardew, a gentleman who is distinguished by the number of eminent scholars with which he has graced his country.
That he was quick and industrious in his school exercises, may be inferred from an anecdote related by his sister, that "on being removed to Truro, Dr. Cardew found him very deficient in the qualifications for the Class of his age, but on observing the quickness of his talents, and his aptitude for learning, he did not place him in a lower form, telling him that by industry and attention he trusted he might be entitled to keep the place assigned to him; which," his sister says, "he did, to the entire satisfaction of his master."
It is very natural that an anecdote so gratifying to the family should have been deeply imprinted on their memory; but we must not be surprised on finding that it did not make a similar impression upon Dr. Cardew. From a letter lately addressed by that gentleman to Mr. Davies Gilbert, the following is an extract:—"With respect to our illustrious countryman, Sir H. Davy, I fear I can claim but little merit from the share I had in his education. He was not long with me; and while he remained I could not discern the faculties by which he was afterwards so much distinguished; I discovered, indeed, his taste for poetry, which I did not omit to encourage." Dr. Cardew adds, "While engaged in teaching the classics, I was anxious to discharge faithfully the duties of my profession to the best of my ability; but I was certainly fortunate in having so many good materials to work upon, and thus having only 'fungi vice cotis,' though 'exsors ipse secandi.'"—To the truth of this latter part of the Doctor's quotation, will his scholars willingly subscribe? It may be fairly doubted how far Dr. Cardew was able to descend into the shadowy regions of Maro, without the "donum fatalis virgæ."
Mrs. Millett thinks that the deficiency just alluded to may be attributed to Mr. Coryton, rather than to the inattention of her brother; the former having, from his neglect as a master, given very general dissatisfaction. From what I can learn, at this distant period, of the character of Mr. Coryton, it appears at all events, that the "exsors ipse secandi" could not have been justly applied to him; and that, owing to an unfortunate aptness in the name to a doggrel verse, poor Davy had frequently to smart under his tyranny.
"Now, Master Dàvy,
Now, Sir, I hàve 'e,
No one shall sàve 'e,
Good Master Dàvy;"
when the master, suiting the action to the rhythm, inflicted upon the hand of the unlucky scholar the verberations of that type and instrument of pedagoguish authority—the flat ruler. Here we have another example of the seduction of sound, argued by our great jurist Mr. Bentham,[6] to have determined the maxims of that law, which has been pronounced by its sages the perfection of reason.
From a letter, however, written by Davy a few years afterwards, respecting the education of a member of his family, he would appear to have entertained an opinion not very unlike that of John Locke; for, although he testifies the highest respect for Dr. Cardew, he seems to consider the comparative idleness of his earlier school career, by allowing him to follow the bent of his own mind, to have favoured the developement of his peculiar genius. "After all," he says, "the way in which we are taught Latin and Greek, does not much influence the important structure of our minds. I consider it fortunate that I was left much to myself as a child, and put upon no particular plan of study, and that I enjoyed much idleness at Mr. Coryton's school. I perhaps owe to these circumstances the little talents I have, and their peculiar application:—what I am I have made myself—I say this without vanity, and in pure simplicity of heart."
His temper during youth is represented as mild and amiable. He never suppressed his feelings, but every action was marked by ingenuousness and candour, qualities which endeared him to his youthful associates, and gained him the love of all who knew him. "Nor can I find," says his sister, "beloved as he must have been by my mother, that she showed him any particular preference;—all her children appeared to be alike her care, and all alike shared her affection."
In 1794, Mr. Davy died. We cannot but regret that he did not live long enough to witness his son's eminence; for life, as Johnson says, has few better things to give than a talented son; but from his widow, who has but lately descended to the tomb, full of years and respectability, this boon was not withheld, she witnessed his whole career of usefulness and honour, and happily closed her eyes before her maternal fears could have been awakened by those signs of premature decay, which for some time had excited in his friends, and in the friends of science, an alarm which the recent deplorable event has too fatally justified.
In the year following the decease of her husband, Mrs. Davy, who had again taken up her residence in Penzance, apprenticed her son,[7] by the advice of her long-valued friend, Mr. Tonkin, to Mr. John Bingham Borlase, at that time a surgeon and apothecary, but who afterwards obtained a diploma, and became an eminent physician at Penzance. Davy, however, for the most part, continued to pursue his own plans of study; for although his friend Mr. Tonkin, without doubt, intended him for a general practitioner in his native town, yet he himself always looked forward to graduation at Edinburgh, as a preliminary measure to his practising in the higher walk of his profession.
His mind had, for some time, been engrossed with philosophical pursuits; but until after he had been placed with Mr. Borlase, it does not appear that he indicated any decided turn for chemistry, the study of which he then commenced with all the ardour of his temperament; and his eldest sister, who acted as his assistant, well remembers the ravages committed on her dress by corrosive substances.
It has been said that his mind was first directed to chemistry by a desire to discover various mixtures as pigments: a suggestion to which, I confess, I am not disposed to pay much attention; for although he might have sought by new combinations to impart a novel and vivid richness of colouring to his drawings, it was the character of his mind to pursue with ardour every subject of novelty, and to get at results by his own native powers, rather than by the recorded experience of others.
I must here relate an anecdote, in illustration of this statement, which has been lately communicated to me by the Reverend Dr. Batten, the principal of the East India College at Hayleybury. This gentleman was one of the earliest of Davy's schoolfellows, but as he advanced in age, different views, and a different plan of education, carried him to a distant part of the kingdom; the discipline and duties of a cloistered school necessarily estranged him from his native town; and it was not until after his admission at Cambridge, and the arrival of the long vacation, which afforded a temporary oblivion of academic cares, that Mr. Batten returned to Cornwall, to revisit the scenes, and to renew the friendships of his boyish days. Davy, who was at that period an apprentice to Mr. Borlase, received him with transport and affection; but he was no longer the boy that his friend had left him; he had become more serious and contemplative, fond of solitary rambles, and averse to enter into society, or to join the festive parties of the inhabitants. In fact, his mind was now in the act of being moulded by the spirit of Nature; and, without the constraint of study, he was insensibly inhaling knowledge with the wild breezes of his native hills.
In the course of conversation, Mr. Batten spoke of his academic studies; and in alluding to the principles of Mechanics, to which he had lately paid much attention, he expressed himself more particularly pleased with that part which treats of "the Collision of Bodies." What was his surprise, on finding Davy as well, if not better acquainted with its several propositions! It was true that he had never systematically studied the subject—had never perhaps seen any standard work upon it, but he had instituted experiments with elastic and inelastic balls, and had worked out the results by the unassisted energies of his own mind. It is clear that, had this branch of science not existed, Davy would have created it.
During this period of his apprenticeship, he twice a week attended a French school in Penzance, kept by a M. Dugast, a priest from La Vendée; and it was remarked that, although he acquired a knowledge of the grammatical construction of the language with greater facility than any of the other scholars, he could not succeed in obtaining the pronunciation; and, in fact, notwithstanding his extensive intercourse with foreigners, and his residence in France, he never, even in after life, could pronounce French with correctness or speak it with fluency.
While with Mr. Borlase, it was his constant custom to walk in the evening to Marazion, to drink tea with an aunt to whom he was greatly attached. Upon such occasions, his usual companion was a hammer, with which he procured specimens from the rocks on the beach. In short, it would appear that, at this period, he paid much more attention to Philosophy than to Physic; that he thought more of the bowels of the earth, than of the stomachs of his patients; and that, when he should have been bleeding the sick, he was opening veins in the granite. Instead of preparing medicines in the surgery, he was experimenting in Mr. Tonkin's garret, which had now become the scene of his chemical operations; and, upon more than one occasion, it is said that he produced an explosion, which put the Doctor, and all his glass bottles, in jeopardy. "This boy Humphry is incorrigible!"—"Was there ever so idle a dog!"—"He will blow us all into the air!" Such were the constant exclamations of Mr. Tonkin; and then, in a jocose strain, he would speak of him as the "Philosopher," and sometimes call him "Sir Humphry," as if prophetic of his future renown.[8]
His sister has remarked that, as he advanced in life, he always preferred the society of persons older than himself; and one of his contemporaries informs me that he never heard him allude to any subject of science, although he remembers that while one of his pockets was filled with fishing-tackle, the other was as commonly loaded with specimens of rocks. With those, however, who were superior to him in years, he delighted to enter into discussion. At Penzance, there still resides a member of the Society of Friends, whose ingenuity entitles him to greater rewards than a provincial town can afford, with whom Davy, as a boy, was in the constant habit of discussing questions of practical mechanics. "I tell thee what, Humphry," exclaimed the Quaker upon one of these occasions—"thou art the most quibbling hand at a dispute I ever met with in my life."
For the surgical department of the profession, he always entertained a decided distaste, although the following extract from a letter of my correspondent Mr. Le Grice will show that, for once at least, he had the merit of mending a broken head. "The first time I ever saw Davy was on the Battery rocks; we were alone bathing, and he pointed out to me a good place for diving; at the same time he talked about the tides, and Sir Isaac Newton, in a manner that greatly amazed me. I perhaps should not have so distinctly remembered him, but on the following day, by not exactly marking the spot he had pointed out, I was nearly killed by diving on a rock, and he came as Mr. Borlase's assistant to dress the wound."
It was his great delight to ramble along the sea-shore, and often, like the orator of Athens, would he on such occasions declaim against the howling of the wind and waves, with a view to overcome a defect in his voice, which, although only slightly perceptible in his maturer age, was in the days of his boyhood exceedingly discordant. I may be allowed to observe, that the peculiar intonation he employed in his public addresses, and which rendered him obnoxious to the charge of affectation, was to be referred to a laborious effort to conceal this natural infirmity. It was also clear that he was deficient in that quality which is commonly called "a good ear," and with which the modulation of the voice is generally acknowledged to have an obvious connexion. Those who knew him intimately will readily bear testimony to this fact. Whenever he was deeply absorbed in a chemical research, it was his habit to hum some tune, if such it could be called, for it was impossible for any one to discover the air he intended to sing: indeed, Davy's music became a subject of raillery amongst his friends; and Mr. Children informs me, that, during an excursion, they attempted to teach him the air of 'God save the King,' but their efforts were unavailing.
It may be a question how far the following fact, with which I have just been made acquainted, admits of explanation upon this principle. On entering a volunteer infantry corps, commanded by a Captain Oxnam, Davy could never emerge from the awkward squad; no pains could make him keep the step; and those who were so unfortunate as to stand before him in the ranks, ought to have been heroes invulnerable in the heel. This incapacity, as may be readily supposed, occasioned him considerable annoyance, and he engaged a serjeant to give him private lessons, but it was all to no purpose. In the platoon exercise he was not more expert; and he whose electric battery was destined to triumph over the animosity of nations, could never be taught to shoulder a musket in his native town.
That Davy, in his youth, possessed courage and decision, may be inferred from the circumstance of his having, upon receiving a bite from a dog supposed to be rabid, taken his pocket-knife, and without the least hesitation cut out the part on the spot, and then retired into the surgery and cauterized the wound; an operation which confined him to Mr. Tonkin's house for three weeks. The gentleman from whom I received an account of this adventure, the accuracy of which has been since confirmed by Davy's sister, also told me, that he had frequently heard him declare his disbelief in the existence of pain whenever the energies of the mind were directed to counteract it; but he added, "I very shortly afterwards had an opportunity of witnessing a practical refutation of this doctrine in his own person; for upon being bitten by a conger eel, my young friend Humphry roared out most lustily."
The anecdote of Davy's excising the bitten part with so much promptitude and coolness, derives its interest from the age and inexperience of the operator. In the course of his practice, every physician must have met with similar cases of stern decision; but I will venture to say that they have never occurred except in instances of persons of acknowledged courage. Not many days since, a veteran officer, distinguished for the intrepidity with which he rescued the person of George the Third from the fury of a desperate mob, in St. James's Park, informed me that he had formerly been bitten at Vienna by a dog afterwards ascertained to have been rabid; he immediately entered a blacksmith's shop, and by threats compelled the person at the forge to heat an iron red-hot, and burn his leg to the bone. The blacksmith, after first stipulating that he should strap his eccentric customer to the anvil, reluctantly complied; and my friend showed me a scar which sufficiently testified the complete manner in which the son of Vulcan had performed his engagement:—But to return from this digression.
At this time of day, no one can surely believe with Pope, that a "Ruling Passion" is an innate and irresistible affection antecedent to reason and observation: on the contrary, ample experience has led us to the conclusion, that
—— ——"men's judgments are
A parcel of their fortunes, and things outward
Do draw the inward quality after them."
The prevailing bias of great minds may thus be often traced to some accidental, and apparently trivial, impression in early life; and the acute biographer, in the course of his observations, will continually discover traits of character that are readily referable to such a source, even as in the magical colouring of Rembrandt's works, the practised eye will recognize the chiaro-oscuro of his father's mill, in which the artist passed his hours of childhood.
In like manner, that marked aversion to arbitrary power, which ever distinguished the actions and writings of Dr. Franklin, has by himself been referred to the sense of injustice early imprinted upon his mind by the severe and tyrannical conduct of his elder brother; while, at the same time, he tells us that he was indebted for his habit through life, of forming just estimates of the value of things, to his having, at the age of seven years, "paid too much for his whistle."
But circumstances, however disposed and happily combined, although they may direct, can never create genius; it is possible that Cowley might never have been enamoured of the Muses, nor Sir Joshua Reynolds have courted the Graces, but for the casual circumstances recorded by the biographer; and Ferguson might not have turned his attention to mechanical inventions, had not an accident befallen the roof of his father's cottage; and even Priestley, the founder of a new and beautiful department in science, might very probably never have been led to think of pneumatic chemistry, had he not lived in the vicinity of a great brewery: still, however, such men could not have shone dimly, if true genius be correctly defined by Dr. Johnson as "a mind of large general powers accidentally determined to some particular direction."[9]—So with Davy; his mind was as vigorous as it was original, and no less logical and precise than it was daring and comprehensive; nothing was too mighty for its grasp, nothing too minute for its observation; like the trunk of the elephant, it could tear up the oak of the forest, or gently pluck the acorn from its branch.
That circumstances in early life should have directed such energies to a science, which requires for its advancement all the aids of novel and bold, and yet patient and accurate research, is one of those fortunate events which every unprejudiced mind will view with triumph.
It is surely not difficult to understand how it happened that a mind endowed with the genius and sensibilities of Davy, should have been directed to the study of Chemistry and Mineralogy, when we consider the nature and scenery of the country in which accident had placed him. Many of his friends and associates must have been connected with mining speculations: "Shafts," "Cross Courses," and "Lodes," were words familiarised to his ears; and his native love of enquiry could not have long suffered them to remain strangers to his understanding. Nor could he have wandered along the rocky coast, or have reposed for a moment to contemplate its wild scenery, without being invited to geological enquiry by the genius of the place; for were we to personify the science, where could we find a more appropriate spot for her "local habitation?" "How often when a boy," said Davy to me, on my showing him a drawing of the wild rock scenery of Botallack Mine, "have I wandered about those rocks in search of new minerals, and, when fatigued, sat down upon the turf, and exercised my fancy in anticipations of scientific renown!"
Such scenery, also, in one who possessed a quick sensibility to the sublime forms of Nature, was well calculated to kindle that enthusiasm which is so essential to poetical genius; and we accordingly learn, that he became enamoured of the Muses at a very early age, and evinced his passion by several poetical productions. I am assured by Dr. Batten that, at the age of twelve years, he had finished an epic poem, which he entitled the "Tydidiad," from its celebrating the adventures of Diomede on his return from the Trojan war. It is much to be regretted that not even a fragment of this poem should have been preserved; but Dr. Batten well remembers that it was characterised by great freedom of invention, vigour of description, and wildness of execution.
At the age of seventeen he became desperately enamoured of a young French lady, at that time resident at Penzance, to whom he addressed numerous sonnets; but these, like the passion that produced them, have long since been extinct.
Several of his minor productions were printed in a work entitled the "Annual Anthology," published in three volumes at Bristol, in 1799; two of which were edited by Southey, and one by James Tobin;—a work of some curiosity, independent of its merits, as the first attempt in this country to establish an "Annual," a species of literary composition which has lately been made very popular and amusing.
These volumes have now become extremely scarce, for which, and other reasons, I have thought it right to place Davy's productions on record in these memoirs; for although they are marked by the common faults of youthful poets, they still bear the stamp of lofty genius. There is, besides, a vein of philosophical contemplation running through their composition, which may be considered as indicating the future character and pursuit of their author; an ardent aspiration after fame seems, even at this early period, to have been felt in all its force, and is expressed in many striking and beautiful passages.
There is still a higher motive by which I am induced to introduce these specimens into my memoir, that of showing the bias of his genius at this early period, with a view to compare it with that which displayed itself in the "last days of the philosopher." We shall find that the bright and rosy hues of fancy which gilded the morning of his life, and were subdued or chased away by the more resplendent light of maturer age, again glowed forth in the evening of his days, and illumined the setting, as they had the dawning of his genius.
His first production bears the date of 1795, and is entitled
THE SONS OF GENIUS.
Bright bursting through the awful veil of night
The lunar beams upon the Ocean play,
The watery billows shine with trembling light,
Where the swift breezes skim along the sea.
The glimmering stars in yon ethereal plain
Grow pale, and fade before the lucid beams,
Save where fair Venus, shining o'er the main
Conspicuous, still with fainter radiance gleams.
Clear is the azure firmament above,
Save where the white cloud floats upon the breeze,
All tranquil is the bosom of the grove,
Save where the Zephyr warbles through the trees.
Now the poor shepherd wandering to his home
Surveys the darkening scene with fearful eye,
On every green sees little elfins roam,
And haggard sprites along the moonbeams fly.
While Superstition rules the vulgar soul,
Forbids the energies of man to rise,
Raised far above her low, her mean controul,
Aspiring Genius seeks her native skies.
She loves the silent solitary hours,
She loves the stillness of the starry night,
When o'er the brightening view Selene pours
The soft effulgence of her pensive light.
'Tis then disturb'd not by the glare of day;
To mild tranquillity alone resign'd,
Reason extends her animating sway
O'er the calm empire of the peaceful mind.
Before her lucid, all-enlightening ray,
The pallid spectres of the Night retire,
She drives the gloomy terrors far away,
And fills the bosom with celestial fire.
Inspired by her, the Sons of Genius rise
Above all earthly thoughts, all vulgar care;
Wealth, power, and grandeur they alike despise,
Enraptured by the good, the great, the fair.
A thousand varying joys to them belong—
The charms of Nature and her changeful scenes;
Their's is the music of the vernal song,
And their's the colours of the vernal plains.
Their's is the purple-tinged evening ray,
With all the radiance of the morning sky;
Their's is the splendour of the risen day,
Enshrined in glory by the sun's bright eye.
For them the Zephyr fans the odorous gale,
For them the warbling streamlet softly flows,
For them the Dryads shade the verdant vale,
To them sweet Philomel attunes her woes.
To them no wakeful moonbeam shines in vain
On the dark bosom of the trackless wood,
Sheds its mild radiance o'er the desert plain,
Or softly glides along the chrystal flood.
Yet not alone delight the soft and fair,
Alike the grander scenes of Nature move;
Yet not alone her beauties claim their care,
The great, sublime, and terrible, they love.
The Sons of Nature, they alike delight
In the rough precipice's broken steep,
In the black terrors of the stormy night,
And in the thunders of the threatening deep.
When the red lightnings through the ether fly,
And the white foaming billows lash the shores;
When to the rattling thunders of the sky
The angry Demon of the waters roars;
And when, untouch'd by Nature's living fires,
No native rapture fills the drowsy soul;
Then former ages, with their tuneful lyres,
Can bid the fury of the passions fall.
By the blue taper's melancholy light,
Whilst all around the midnight torrents pour,
And awful glooms beset the face of Night,
They wear the silent solitary hour.
Ah, then, how sweet to pass the night away
In silent converse with the Grecian page!
Whilst Homer tunes his ever-living lay,
Or reason listens to th' Athenian sage;
To scan the laws of Nature, to explore
The tranquil reign of mild Philosophy;
Or on Newtonian wings sublime to soar
Through the bright regions of the starry sky.
Ah! who can paint what raptures fill the soul
When Attic Freedom rises to the war,
Bids the loud thunders of the battle roll,
And drives the tyrant trembling from her shore!
From these pursuits the Sons of Genius scan
The end of their creation; hence they know
The fair, sublime, immortal hopes of man,
From whence alone undying pleasures glow.
By Science calm'd, over the peaceful soul,
Bright with eternal Wisdom's lucid ray,
Peace, meek of eye, extends her soft controul,
And drives the fury Passions far away.
Virtue, the daughter of the skies supreme,
Directs their life, informs their glowing lays—
A steady friend; her animating beam
Sheds its soft lustre o'er their latter days.
When life's warm fountains feel the frost of time;
When the cold dews of darkness close their eyes,
She shows the parting soul, upraised sublime,
The brighter glories of her kindred skies.
Thus the pale Moon, whose pure celestial light
Has chased the gloomy clouds of Heaven away,
Rests her white cheek, with silver radiance bright,
On the soft bosom of the Western sea.
Lost in the glowing wave, her radiance dies;
Yet, while she sinks, she points her ling'ring ray
To the bright azure of the orient skies—
To the fair dawning of the glorious day.
Like the tumultuous billows of the sea
Succeed the generations of mankind;
Some in oblivious silence pass away,
And leave no vestige of their lives behind.
Others, like those proud waves which beat the shore,
A loud and momentary murmur raise;
But soon their transient glories are no more,—
No future ages echo with their praise.
Like yon proud rocks amidst the sea of time,
Superior, scorning all the billows' rage,
The living Sons of Genius stand sublime,
Th' immortal children of another age.
For those exist whose pure ethereal minds,
Imbibing portions of celestial day,
Scorn all terrestrial cares, all mean designs,
As bright-eyed eagles scorn the lunar ray.
Their's is the glory of a lasting name,
The meed of Genius and her living fires,
Their's is the laurel of eternal fame,
And their's the sweetness of the Muse's lyres.
D.—1795.
THE SONG OF PLEASURE.
The genial influence of the day
Had chased the lingering cold away;
Borne upon the Zephyr's wing,
Sweetly smiled the radiant Spring:
Her mild re-animating breath
Wakes Nature from her wintry death;
Attended by the laughing Hours,
She rises clad in flowers,
And lightly as she trips along,
The vernal warblers raise the song.
Rich in a thousand radiant dyes,
Around her steps the flow'rets rise,
The Zephyr sports, the sunbeams sleep
On the blue bosom of the deep.
And now, within my throbbing breast
I feel the influence of the Spring,
To ecstasy I tune my string,
And garlanded with odorous flowers,
I hasted to the shady grove,
I hasted to the roseate bowers
Where Pleasure dwells with Love.
There Youth, and Love, and Beauty, bound
The glowing rose my harp around;
Then to the daughter of Desire,
To bright-eyed Pleasure gave the lyre:
She tuned the string,
And smiling softer than the rosy sea,
When the young Morning blushes on her breast,
She raised the raptured lay,
I heard her sing,
The song lull'd every care and every thought to rest.
Sons of Nature, hither haste,
The blessings of existence taste;
Listen to my friendly lay,
And your cares shall fly away,
Quick as fly the wintry snows
When the vernal Zephyr blows.
Let others, courting war's alarms,
Seek the bloody field of arms;
Let others, with undaunted soul,
Bid Bellona's thunders roll;
From the lightnings of their eye
Let the trembling squadrons fly;
Sons of Nature, you shall prove
A softer fight, the fight of love.
While you in soft repose are laid
Underneath the myrtle shade,
Amid the murky glooms of Death,
The sons of battle pant for breath.
Let the philosophic sage,
His silver tresses white with age,
Amid the chilling midnight damp,
Waste the solitary lamp,
To scan the laws of Nature o'er,
The paths of Science to explore;
Curb'd beneath his harsh controul
The blissful Passions fly the soul.
You, the gentler sons of joy,
Softer studies shall employ!
He to curb the Passions tries,
You shall bid them all arise;
His wants he wishes to destroy,
You shall all your wants enjoy.
Let the laurel, Virtue's meed,
Crown his age-besilver'd head,
The verdant laurel ever grows
Amid the sullen Winter's snows:
Let the rose, the flower of bliss,
The soft unwrinkled temples kiss;
Fann'd by the Zephyr's balmy wing,
The odorous rose adorns the Spring.
Let the Patriot die, to raise
A lasting monument of praise.
Ah, fool, to tear the glowing rose
From the mirth-encircled brows,
That around his dusky tomb
The ever-verdant bay may bloom!
Let Ambition's sons alone
Bow around the tottering throne,
Fly at Glory's splendid rays,
And, moth-like, die amidst a blaze;
Before delicious Beauty's throne.
Lo! Theora treads the green,
All breathing grace and harmony she moves,
Fair as the mother of the Loves.
In graceful ringlets floats her golden hair;
From the bright azure of her eye
Expression's liquid lightnings fly.
Her cheek is fair,
Fair as the lily, when, at dawning day,
Tinged with the morning's bright and purple ray,
Yonder scented groves among
She will listen to your song.
In yonder bower where roses bloom,
Where the myrtle breathes perfume,
You shall at your ease recline,
And sip the soul-enlivening wine;
There the lyre, with melting lay,
Shall bid the soul dissolve away.
Soft as the Morning sheds her purple light
Through the dark azure of the Night,
So soft the God of slumber sheds
His roseate dews around your heads.
Such the blessings I bestow!
Haste, my sons, these blessings know!
Behold the flow'rets of the Spring,
They wanton in the Zephyr's wing,
They drink the matin ether blue,
They sip the fragrant evening dew.
Man is but a short-lived flower,
His bloom but for a changeful hour!
Pass a little time away,
The rosy cheek is turn'd to clay:
No living joys, no transports burn
In the dark sepulchral urn,
No Laurels crown the fleshless brows,
They fade together with the Rose.
D.—1796.
ODE TO SAINT MICHAEL'S MOUNT, IN CORNWALL.
The sober eve with purple bright
Sheds o'er the hills her tranquil light
In many a lingering ray;
The radiance trembles on the deep,
Where rises rough thy rugged steep,
Old Michael, from the sea.
Around thy base, in azure pride,
Flows the silver-crested tide,
In gently winding waves;
The Zephyr creeps thy cliffs around,—
Thy cliffs, with whispering ivy crown'd,
And murmurs in thy caves.
Majestic steep! Ah, yet I love,
With many a lingering step, to rove
Thy ivied rocks among;
Thy ivied, wave-beat rocks recall
The former pleasures of my soul,
When life was gay and young.
Enthusiasm, Nature's child,
Here sung to me her wood-songs wild,
All warm with native fire;
I felt her soul-awakening flame,
It bade my bosom burn for fame,—
It bade me strike the lyre.
Soft as the Morning sheds her light
Through the dark azure of the Night
Along the tranquil sea;
So soft the bright-eyed Fancy shed
Her rapturing dreams around my head,
And drove my cares away.
When the white Moon with glory crown'd,
The azure of the sky around,
Her silver radiance shed;
When shone the waves with trembling light,
And slept the lustre palely bright
Upon thy tower-clad head;
Then Beauty bade my pleasure flow,—
Then Beauty bade my bosom glow,
With mild and gentle fire!
Then Mirth, and Cheerfulness, and Love,
Around my soul were wont to move,
And thrill'd upon my lyre.
But when the Demon of the deep
Howl'd around thy rocky steep,
And bade the tempests rise,—
Bade the white foaming billows roar,
And murmuring dash the rocky shore,
And mingle with the skies;
Ah, then my soul was raised on high,
And felt the glow of ecstasy,
With great emotions fill'd;
Thus Joy and Terror reign'd by turns,
And now with Love the bosom burns,
And now by Fear is chill'd.
Thus to the sweetest dreams resign'd,
The fairy Fancy ruled my mind,
And shone upon my youth;
But now, to awful Reason given,
I leave her dear ideal heaven
To hear the voice of Truth.
She claims my best, my loftiest song,
She leads a brighter maid along—
Who bids the mounting soul assume
Immortal Wisdom's eagle plume,
And penetrating eye,
Above Delusion's dusky maze,
Above deceitful Fancy's ways,
With roses clad to rise;
To view a gleam of purest light
Bursting through Nature's misty night,—
The radiance of the skies.
D.—1796.
THE TEMPEST.
The Tempest has darken'd the face of the skies,
The winds whistle wildly across the waste plain,
The Fiends of the whirlwind terrific arise,
And mingle the clouds with the white-foaming main.
All dark is the night, and all gloomy the shore,
Save when the red lightnings the ether divide,
Then follows the thunder with loud-sounding roar,
And echoes in concert the billowy tide.
But though now all is murky and shaded with gloom,
Hope, the soother, soft whispers the tempests shall cease;
Then Nature again in her beauty shall bloom,
And enamour'd embrace the fair sweet-smiling Peace;
For the bright-blushing morning, all rosy with light,
Shall convey on her wings the Creator of day;
He shall drive all the tempests and terrors of night,
And Nature enliven'd, again shall be gay.
Then the warblers of Spring shall attune the soft lay,
And again the bright flow'ret shall blush in the vale;
On the breast of the Ocean the Zephyr shall play,
And the sunbeam shall sleep on the hill and the dale.
If the tempests of Nature so soon sink to rest—
If her once-faded beauties so soon glow again,
Shall Man be for ever by tempests oppress'd,
By the tempests of passion, of sorrow, and pain?
Ah, no! for his passions and sorrow shall cease
When the troublesome fever of life shall be o'er;
In the night of the grave he shall slumber in peace,
And passion and sorrow shall vex him no more.
And shall not this night and its long dismal gloom,
Like the night of the tempest, again pass away?
Yes! the dust of the earth in bright beauty shall bloom,
And rise to the morning of heavenly day!
D.—1796.
EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM
ON MOUNT'S BAY.
Mild blows the Zephyr o'er the Ocean dark,
The Zephyr wafting the grey twilight clouds
Across the waves, to drink the solar rays
And blush with purple.
By the orient gleam
Whitening the foam of the blue wave that breaks
Around his granite feet, but dimly seen,
Majestic Michael rises. He whose brow
Is crown'd with castles, and whose rocky sides
Are clad with dusky ivy: he whose base,
Beat by the storm of ages, stands unmoved
Amidst the wreck of things, the change of time.
That base encircled by the azure waves,
Was once with verdure clad: the tow'ring oaks
There waved their branches green,—the sacred oaks
Whose awful shades among, the Druids stray'd
To cut the hallow'd miseltoe, and hold
High converse with their Gods.
Where the wild Tamarisk whistles to the sea blast,
The Druid's harp was heard, swept by the breeze
To softest music, or to grander tones
Awaken'd by the awful master's hand.
Those tones shall sound no more! the rushing waves,
Raised from the vast Atlantic, have o'erwhelm'd
The sacred groves. And deep the Druids lie
In the dark mist-clad sea of former time.
Ages had pass'd away, the stony altar
Was white with moss, when on its rugged base
Dire Superstition raised the gothic fane,
And monks and priests existed.
On the sea
The sunbeams tremble; and the purple light
Illumes the dark Bolerium,[10] seat of storms.
High are his granite rocks. His frowning brow
Hangs o'er the smiling Ocean. In his caves
Th' Atlantic breezes murmur. In his caves,
Where sleep the haggard Spirits of the storm,
Wild dreary are the schistine[11] rocks around
Encircled by the wave, where to the breeze
The haggard Cormorant shrieks. And far beyond
Are seen the cloud-like Islands, grey in mists.[12]
Thy awful height, Bolerium, is not loved
By busy Man, and no one wanders there
Save he who follows Nature,—he who seeks
Amidst thy crags and storm-beat rocks to find
The marks of changes teaching the great laws
That raised the globe from chaos; or he whose soul
Is warm with fire poetic,—he who feels
When Nature smiles in beauty, or sublime
Rises in majesty,—he who can stand
Unawed upon thy summit, clad in tempests,
And view with raptured mind the roaring deep
Rise o'er thy foam-clad base, while the black cloud
Bursts with the fire of Heaven—
He whose heart
Is warm with love and mercy,—he whose eye
Drops the bright tear when anxious Fancy paints
Upon his mind the image of the Maid,
The blue-eyed Maid who died beneath thy surge.
Where yon dark cliff[13] o'ershadows the blue main,
Theora died amidst the stormy waves,
And on its feet the sea-dews wash'd her corpse,
And the wild breath of storms shook her black locks.
Young was Theora; bluer was her eye
Than the bright azure of the moonlight night;
Fair was her cheek as is the ocean cloud
Red with the morning ray.
Amidst the groves,
And greens, and nodding rocks that overhang
The grey Killarney, pass'd her morning days
Bright with the beams of joy.
To solitude,
To Nature, and to God, she gave her youth;
Hence were her passions tuned to harmony.
Her azure eye oft glisten'd with the tear
Of sensibility, and her soft cheek
Glow'd with the blush of rapture. Hence, she loved
To wander 'midst the green-wood, silver'd o'er
By the bright moonbeam. Hence, she loved the rocks
Crown'd with the nodding ivy, and the lake
Fair with the purple morning, and the sea
Expansive mingling with the arched sky.
Kindled by Genius, in her bosom glow'd
The sacred fire of Freedom. Hence, she scorn'd
The narrow laws of custom that control
Her feeble sex. Great in her energies,
She roam'd the fields of Nature, scann'd the laws
That move the ruling atoms, changing still,
Still rising into life. Her eagle eye,
Piercing the blue immensity of space,
Held converse with the lucid sons of Heaven,
The day-stars of creation, or pursued
The dusky planets rolling round the Sun,
And drinking in his radiance light and life.
Such was the Maiden! Such was she who fled
Her native shores.
Dark in the midnight cloud,
When the wild blast upon its pinions bore
The dying shrieks of Erin's injured sons,[14]
She 'scaped the murderer's arm.
The British bark
Bore her across the ocean. From the West
The whirlwind rose, the fire-fraught clouds of Heaven
Were mingled with the wave. The shatter'd bark
Sunk at thy feet, Bolerium, and the white surge
Closed on green Erin's daughter.
That the Genius who presided over the destinies of Davy should have torn him from these flowery regions of Fancy, and condemned him to labour in the dusky caverns of the mineral kingdom, has furnished a fruitful theme of lamentation to the band of Poets, and to those who prefer the amusements to the profits of life, and who cherish the hallucinations of the imagination rather than the truths of science. If, however, we regret that Davy's Muse, like Proserpine, should have been thus violently seized, and carried off to the lower regions, as she was weaving her native wild flowers into a garland, we may console ourselves in knowing that, like the daughter of Ceres, she also obtained the privilege of occasionally revisiting her native bowers; for it will appear in the course of these memoirs, that in the intervals of more abstruse studies, Davy not unfrequently amused himself with poetical composition. But, in sober truth, is it possible that any reasonable being can regret the course in which he has been impelled? A great poetic Genius has said, "If Davy had not been the first Chemist, he would have been the first Poet of his age." Upon this question I do not feel myself a competent judge: but where is the modern Esau who would exchange his Bakerian Lecture for a poem, though it should equal in design and execution the Paradise Lost?
As far as can be ascertained, one of the first original experiments in Chemistry performed by him at Penzance, was for the purpose of discovering the quality of the air contained in the bladders of sea-weed, in order to obtain results in support of a favourite theory of light; and to ascertain whether, as land vegetables are the renovators of the atmosphere of land-animals, sea-vegetables might not be the preservers of the equilibrium of the atmosphere of the ocean. From these experiments he concluded, that the different orders of the marine Cryptogamia were capable of decomposing water, when assisted by the attraction of light for oxygen.
His instruments, however, were of the rudest description, manufactured by himself out of the motley materials which chance threw in his way; the pots and pans of the kitchen, and even the more sacred vessels and professional instruments of the surgery, were without the least hesitation or remorse put in requisition.
While upon this subject, I will relate an anecdote which was communicated to me by my late venerable friend Mr. Thomas Giddy.[15] A French vessel having been wrecked off the Land's End, the surgeon escaped, and found his way to Penzance; accident brought him acquainted with Humphry Davy, who showed him many civilities, and in return received, as a present from the surgeon, a case of instruments which had been saved from the ship. The contents were eagerly turned out and examined by the young chemist, not, however, with any professional view as to their utility, but in order to ascertain how far they might be convertible to experimental purposes. The old-fashioned and clumsy glyster apparatus was viewed with exultation, and seized in triumph!—What reverses may not be suddenly effected by a simple accident! so says the moralist. Reader, behold an illustration:—in the brief space of an hour, did this long-neglected and unobtrusive machine, emerging from its obscurity and insignificance, figure away in all the pomp and glory of a complicated piece of pneumatic apparatus: nor did its fortunes end here; it was destined for greater things; and we shall hereafter learn that it actually performed the duties of an air-pump, in an original experiment on the nature and sources of heat. The most humble means may certainly accomplish the highest ends: the filament of a spider's web has been used to measure the motions of the stars; and a kite, made with two cross sticks and a silk handkerchief, enabled the chemical Prometheus to rob the thunder-cloud of its lightnings; but that a worn-out instrument, such as has been just described, should have furnished him who was born to revolutionize the science of the age, with the only means of enquiry at that time within his reach, affords, it must be admitted, a very whimsical illustration of our maxim.
Nor can we pass over these circumstances, without observing how materially they must have influenced the subsequent success of Davy as an experimentalist. Had he, at the commencement of his career, been furnished with all those appliances which he enjoyed at a later period, it is more than probable that he might never have acquired that wonderful tact of manipulation, that ability of suggesting expedients, and of contriving apparatus so as to meet and surmount the difficulties which must ever beset the philosopher in the unbeaten tracks of Science. In this art, he certainly stands unrivalled, and, like his prototype Scheele,[16] or that pioneer of pneumatic experimentalists, Dr. Priestley,[17] he was unquestionably indebted for his address to the circumstances above related. There never, perhaps, was a more striking exemplification of the adage, that "necessity is the parent of invention."
It would however appear that, imperfect as must have been his apparatus, and limited as were his resources, his ambition very early led him to the investigation of the most abstruse and recondite phenomena. He was not more than seventeen when he formed a strong opinion adverse to the general belief in the existence of caloric, or the materiality of heat.
As I shall hereafter have occasion to draw a parallel between the intellectual qualities of Davy, and those of the celebrated Dr. Black, the father of modern chemistry, it may not be irrelevant to state, in this place, that the subject of heat was also amongst the first that attracted the attention of this latter philosopher; indeed, he tells us himself, that he "can scarcely remember the time, when he had not some idea of the disagreement of facts with the commonly received doctrines upon this subject." The tendency of his mind, however, was in direct opposition to that of Davy's, for he insisted upon the materiality of heat, and was the first to conceive the bold idea of its being capable, like any other substance, of entering into chemical combination with various bodies, and of thus losing its characteristic qualities.
Black's theory could not be more opposed to that of Davy than was his conduct upon the occasion; for, although an experiment suggested itself to his mind, by which, as he thought, he could at once establish the truth of his favourite doctrine, he delayed performing it, because there did not happen to be an ice-house in the town in which he lived. With Davy, on the other hand, the conception and execution of an experiment were nearly simultaneous: no sooner, therefore, had he formed his opinion, than his eager spirit urged him to put it to the test.
Having procured a piece of clock-work, so contrived as to be set to work in an exhausted receiver, he added two horizontal plates of brass; the upper one, carrying a small metallic cup to be filled with ice, revolved in contact with the lower one. The whole machine, resting on a plate of ice, was covered by a glass receiver, and the air was exhausted by the very syringe, ingeniously modified for the purpose, with which the reader has already been made acquainted: for, as yet, he had no air-pump, and, what is still more worthy of notice, had never even seen one! The machine was now set in motion, when the ice in the small cup was soon observed to melt; whence he inferred that this effect could alone proceed from vibratory motion, since the whole apparatus was insulated from all accession of material heat, by the frozen mass below, and by the vacuum around it.
The experiment was afterwards repeated with greater care, and by means of a more refined apparatus: it was modified in different ways; and the results were ultimately published in an Essay, to be hereafter noticed, "On Heat, Light, and the Combinations of Light," which appeared in a provincial collection of tracts, edited by Dr. Beddoes, at Bristol.
Mr. Davies Gilbert, in describing the above experiment in his late address to the Royal Society, very justly observed that it does not at all decide the important matter in dispute, with respect to an ethereal or transcendental fluid; but that few young men remote from the society of persons conversant with science, will present themselves, who are capable of devising any thing so ingenious.
Dr. Henry, in a paper published in the "Memoirs of the Manchester Society," on entering into a review of this and similar experiments, very truly states, that the mode of insulation is not only imperfect, but that, according to Count Rumford, caloric will even pass through a Torricellian vacuum.
The most prominent circumstance in the history of this period of Davy's life, is his introduction to Mr. Davies Giddy, now Mr. Gilbert, the late distinguished and popular President of the Royal Society. The manner in which this happened is as curious as its result was important; and it furnishes another very striking illustration of the power of simple accident in directing our destinies. Mr. Gilbert's attention was attracted to the future philosopher, as he was carelessly swinging over the hatch, or half gate, of Mr. Borlase's house, by the humorous contortions into which he threw his features. Davy, it may be remarked, when a boy, possessed a countenance which, even in its natural state, was very far from comely, while his round shoulders, inharmonious voice, and insignificant manner, were calculated to produce any thing rather than a favourable impression: in riper years, he was what might be called "good-looking," although, as a wit of the day observed, his aspect was certainly of the "Bucolic" character. The change which his person underwent, after his promotion to the Royal Institution, was so rapid, that, in the days of Herodotus, it would have been attributed to nothing less than the miraculous interposition of the Priestesses of Helen. A person, who happened to be walking with Mr. Gilbert upon the occasion alluded to, observed that the extraordinary-looking boy in question was young Davy, the Carver's son, who, he added, was said to be fond of making chemical experiments. "Chemical experiments!" exclaimed Mr. Gilbert, with much surprise: "if that be the case, I must have some conversation with him." Mr. Gilbert, as we all know, possesses a strong perception of character, and he therefore soon discovered ample evidence of the boy's singular genius. After several interviews, which confirmed him in the opinion he had formed, he offered young Humphry the use of his library, or any other assistance that he might require for the pursuit of his studies; and at the same time gave him an invitation to his house at Tredrea, of which he frequently availed himself.
During one of his visits, Mr. Gilbert accompanied him to Hayle Copper-House, and introduced him to Dr. Edwards, a gentleman afterwards known to the medical profession as the chemical lecturer in the school of St. Bartholomew's Hospital; at the time, however, alluded to, he resided at Copper-House with his father, and possessed a well-appointed laboratory. The tumultuous delight which Davy expressed on seeing, for the first time, a quantity of chemical apparatus, hitherto only known to him through the medium of engravings, is described by Mr. Gilbert as surpassing all description. The air-pump more especially fixed his attention, and he worked its piston, exhausted the receiver, and opened its valves, with the simplicity and joy of a child engaged in the examination of a new and favourite toy.
It is a curious circumstance, that the phenomena resulting from the contact of iron and copper, in the investigation of which Davy was destined to perform so prominent a part, were very early noticed by Mr. Edwards in this place; who found that the flood-gates in the Port of Hayle decayed with a rapidity wholly inexplicable, but upon the supposition of some chemical action between the metals which had not yet been clearly explained. How little did Mr. Edwards imagine that the fact, which had so powerfully excited his curiosity, would become to the youth before him, a future source of rich and honourable discovery!
During the following year, an event occurred which contributed, in no small degree, to the advancement of Davy's prospects. Mr. Gregory Watt, who had long been in a declining state of health, was recommended by his physicians to reside for some time in the West of England, and he accordingly proceeded at once to Penzance, and took up his abode, as a lodger and boarder, in the house of Mrs. Davy. It may be supposed that two kindred spirits would not be long in contracting an acquaintance with each other; in fact, an intimacy of the warmest nature did ultimately grow up between them, and continue to the very moment of Mr. Watt's premature dissolution: the origin and progress of their friendship, however, are too curious to be passed over without some notice.
Mr. Gregory Watt possessed a warm and affectionate heart; but there was a solemn, aristocratic coldness in his manner, which repulsed every approach to familiarity. Davy, it has been already stated, did not at that time possess any of those qualifications, in person or manner, which are calculated to produce favourable prepossessions. It may, therefore, be readily imagined how Mr. Watt must have felt, on finding the son of his landlady familiarly addressing him on subjects of metaphysics and poetry. By one of those strange perversions which have so frequently led great men to conceal the peculiarity of their talents, and to rest their claims to notice and respect upon qualifications which they possessed only in an inferior degree, Davy sought to ingratiate himself with Mr. Watt by metaphysical discussions; but, instead of the admiration, he excited the disgust of his hearer. It was by mere accident that an allusion was first made to chemistry, when Davy flippantly observed, that he would undertake to demolish the French theory in half an hour. He had touched the chord: the interest of Mr. Watt was excited,—he conversed with Davy upon his chemical pursuits,—he was at once astonished and delighted at his sagacity,—the barrier of ice was removed, and they became attached friends.
Mr. Wedgwood, and his brother Thomas, also spent a winter at Penzance; and I have reason to believe that their friendship was of substantial benefit to Davy.
Before I attend the progress of our philosopher to the next scene of life, or proceed to detail the circumstances connected with his departure from Penzance, I must relate the following anecdote.—Until the formation of the Geological Society of London occasioned the introduction of more extended and sounder views into the science, geologists were divided into two great rival sects,—into Neptunists and Plutonists: the one affirming that the globe was exclusively indebted for its present form and arrangement to the agency of water; the other, admitting to a certain extent the operation of water, but maintaining the utter impossibility of explaining the consolidation of the strata without the intervention of fire. Every geologist felt bound to side with the one or the other of these contending parties, for neutrality was held as disgraceful as though the law of Solon had been in active operation. I shall not easily forget the din and fury of this elemental war, as it raged in Edinburgh when I was a student in that University; even the mineral dealers, who, like the artisans of a neutral city, sold arms and ammunition to both sides, still defended their own opinions with party fury. It was amusing to observe the triumph and dismay which, by turns, animated and depressed each side, as the discovery of a new fact, or a fresh specimen, appeared to give a preponderance to the doctrine of fire or water. The fact of so large a portion of the strata being found in the state of a carbonate was advanced by the Neptunists as an unanswerable argument against igneous agency: the dismay therefore which this sect received upon the discovery of Sir James Hall, that under the combined forces of heat and compression, carbonate of lime might be fused, was only equalled by the excessive joy excited in the contending party. We may form some notion of the high importance attached to this discovery, when we learn that its author applied to the Government for a flag of truce to convey illustrative specimens to the Continental philosophers.
It so happened, that the Professors of Oxford and Cambridge ranged themselves under opposite banners: Dr. Beddoes was a violent and uncompromising Plutonist, while Professor Hailstone was as decided a Neptunist. The rocks of Cornwall, and their granitic veins, had been appealed to, as affording evidence upon the subject; and the two Professors, who, although adverse in opinion, were united in friendship, determined to proceed together to the field of dispute, each hoping that he might thus convince the other of his error, and cure him of his heresy. The belligerents arrived at Penzance, and in company with their mutual friend, Mr. Davies Gilbert, examined the coast, and procured specimens with pretty much the same spirit of selection as a schoolboy consults his Gradus, not for an epithet of any meaning, but for one which best suits his measure; and having made drawings, disputed obvious appearances, rendered that which was clear to the senses, confused to the understanding, and what was already confused, ten times more obscure, they returned, the opinion of each, as might easily have been anticipated, having been strengthened by the ordeal: the one protesting that the very aspect of the shivered slate was sufficient to prove that the globe must have been roasted to rags; the other, with equal plausibility, declaring that there was not a tittle of evidence to show that the watery solvent had ever even simmered. Such, in fact, must ever be the case, when philosophers examine the same subject under such different impressions, and in such opposite points of view; like the two knights who could not agree respecting the colour of the shield, only because each saw a different side of it.
Rocks, it is said, have flinty hearts, and certain it is that, upon this occasion, Cornwall did not afford that assistance against the Neptunists, which the Oxford Professor had sought with so much zeal and confidence; but if deferred revenge had, as we are told is generally the case, been put out at compound interest, and Beddoes had exacted its dues with more than judaical rigour, it must be allowed that Cornwall, by placing Davy at his disposal, would have fully cancelled all demands.
Plutonian Beddoes, erst, in spiteful ire,
To see a Hailstone mock his central fire,
A mighty spirit raised, by whose device
We now burn Hailstones, and set fire to Ice.
Before quitting this subject, it is but justice to advert to the progress which Geology has made since the turbulence of this contest has subsided; it has grown strong in facts, and is daily increasing its stores. It has been wisely said by one of the ancient Poets, that in vehement disputes, not only the persons engaged, but every one who is at all interested, must suffer; not only the combatants, but the spectators of the combat,—for it is difficult to apprehend truth while it is the subject of angry contest.
To return to the narrative.—Upon Beddoes establishing the "Pneumatic Institution" at Bristol, he required an assistant who might superintend the necessary experiments in the laboratory; and Mr. Gilbert proposed Davy as a person fully competent to fill the situation. The young candidate had already produced a very favourable impression upon Dr. Beddoes, by his experiments upon Heat and Light, which he had some time before transmitted to him through the hands of his friend Mr. Gregory Watt. This fact may be collected from a note appended by Dr. Beddoes to Davy's paper subsequently published in the first volume of the West Country Contributions, in which the Doctor says, "My first knowledge of Mr. Davy arose from a letter written in April 1798, containing an account of his researches on Heat and Light." The rest is told in the letters which passed on this occasion between Dr. Beddoes and Mr. Gilbert, and from which I shall make such extracts as may be necessary to complete the history of a transaction of much interest and importance.
In a letter dated July 4, 1798, Dr. Beddoes says, "I am glad that Mr. Davy has impressed you as he has me. I have long wished to write to you about him, for I think I can open a more fruitful field of investigation than any body else. Is it not also his most direct road to fortune? Should he not bring out a favourable result, he may still exhibit talents for investigation, and entitle himself to public confidence more effectually than by any other mode. He must be maintained, but the fund will not furnish a salary from which a man can lay up any thing. He must also devote his time for two or three years to the investigation. I wish you would converse with him upon the subject. No doubt he has received my two last letters. I am sorry I cannot at this moment specify a yearly sum, nor can I say with certainty whether all the subscribers will accede to my plan; most of them will, I doubt not. I have written to the principal ones, and will lose no time in sounding them all."
In a second letter of the 18th of July, we find the following observations. "I have received a letter from Mr. Davy since I wrote to you. He has oftener than once mentioned a genteel maintenance, as a preliminary to his being employed to superintend the Pneumatic Hospital. I fear the funds will not allow an ample salary; he must, however, be maintained. I can attach no idea to the epithet genteel, but perhaps all difficulties would vanish in conversation; at least, I think your conversing with Mr. Davy will be a more likely way of smoothing difficulties, than our correspondence. It appears to me, that this appointment will bear to be considered as a part of Mr. Davy's medical education, and that it will be a great saving of expense to him. It may also be the foundation of a lucrative reputation; and certainly nothing on my part shall be wanting to secure to him the credit he may deserve. He does not undertake to discover cures for this or that disease; he may acquire just applause by bringing out clear, though negative results. During my journeys into the country, I have picked up a variety of important and curious facts from different practitioners. This has suggested to me the idea of collecting and publishing such facts as this part of the country will, from time to time, afford. If I could procure chemical experiments, that bore any relation to organised nature, I would insert them. If Mr. Davy does not dislike this method of publishing his experiments, I would gladly place them at the head of my first volume, but I wish not that he should make any sacrifice of judgment or inclination."
It remains only to be stated, that Mr. Gilbert kindly undertook the negotiation, and completed it to the satisfaction of all the principal parties. Mrs. Davy yielded to her son's wishes, and Mr. Borlase very generously surrendered his indenture, with an endorsement to the following effect,—that he freely gave up the indenture, on account of the singularly promising talents which Mr. Davy had displayed.
His old and valued friend Mr. Tonkin, however, not only expressed his disapprobation of this scheme, but was so vexed and irritated at having his favourite plan of fixing Davy in his native town as a Surgeon, thus thwarted, that he actually altered his will, and revoked the legacy of his house which he had previously bequeathed him. Mr. Tonkin died on the 24th of December 1801; so that, although he lived long enough to witness Davy's appointment to the Royal Institution, he could never have anticipated the elevation to which his genius and talents ultimately raised him.
On the 2nd of October in the year 1798, Davy quitted Penzance, before he had attained his twentieth year. Mr. Gilbert well remembers meeting him upon his journey to Bristol, and breakfasting with him at Okehampton, on the 4th of October. He was in the highest spirits, and in that frame of mind in which a man of ardent imagination identifies every successful occurrence with his own fortunes; his exhilaration, therefore, was not a little heightened by the arrival of the mail-coach from London, covered with laurels and ribbons, and bringing the news, so cheering to every English heart, of Nelson's glorious victory of the Nile.