I rejoice in Davy’s progress. There are three suns recorded in Scripture—Joshua’s, that stood still; Hezekiah’s, that went backward; and David’s, that went forth and hastened on his course like a bridegroom from his chamber. May our friend prove the latter! It is a melancholy thing to see a man, like the sun in the close of the Lapland summer, meridional in his horizon, or like wheat in a rainy season, that shoots up well in the stalk, but does not kern. As I have hoped and do hope more proudly of Davy than of any other man, and as he has been endeared to me more than any other man by the being a thing of hope to me (more, far more, than myself to my own self in my most genial moments), so of course my disappointment would be proportionably severe. It were a falsehood if I said that I think his present situation most calculated of all others to foster either his genius or the clearness and uncorruptness of his opinions and moral feelings. I see two serpents at the cradle of his genius—dissipation with a perpetual increase of acquaintances and the constant presence of inferiors and devotees, with that too great facility of attaining admiration which degrades ambition into vanity; but the Hercules will strangle both the reptile monsters. I have thought it possible to exert talents with perseverance, and to attain true greatness wholly pure even from the impulses of ambition, but on this subject Davy and I always differed.... My book is not, strictly speaking, metaphysical, but historical. It, perhaps, will merit the title of a history of metaphysics in England, from Lord Bacon to Mr. Hume inclusive. I confine myself to facts in every part of the work, excepting that which treats of Mr. Hume; him I have assuredly besprinkled copiously from the fountains of bitterness and contempt. As to this and the other works which you have mentioned, ‘have patience, lord, and I will pay thee all.’
Mr. T. Wedgwood goes to Italy in the first days of May. Whether I accompany him is uncertain; he is apprehensive that my health may incapacitate me. If I do not go with him, I shall go off myself in the first week of April if possible.
Davy himself wrote, on May 5, to his friend Mr. Thomas Poole:
Be not alarmed, my dear friend, as to the effect of worldly society on my mind. The age of danger has passed away; there are in the intellectual being of all men permanent elements, certain habits and passions that cannot change. I am a lover of nature with an ungratified imagination; I shall continue to search for untasted charms, for hidden beauties.
My real, my waking existence is amongst the objects of scientific research; common amusements and enjoyments are necessary to me only as dreams to interrupt the flow of thoughts too nearly analogous to enlighten and to vivify. Coleridge has left London for Keswick. During his stay in town I saw him seldomer than usual; when I did see him it was generally in the midst of large companies, where he is the image of power and activity. His eloquence is unimpaired; perhaps it is softer and stronger. His will is probably less than ever commensurate with his ability. Brilliant images of greatness float upon his mind like the images of the morning clouds upon the waters: their forms are changed by the motions of the waves, they are agitated by every breeze, and modified by every sunbeam. He talked in the course of one hour of beginning three works, and he recited the poem of ‘Christabel’ unfinished and as I had before heard it. What talent does he not waste in forming visions sublime, but unconnected with the real world! I have looked to his efforts as the efforts of a creating being, but as yet he has not even laid the foundation for the new world of intellectual forms.
When my agricultural lectures are finished I propose to visit Paris, and perhaps Geneva.
On May 10 the first lecture was given before the Board of Agriculture, and five others on succeeding Fridays and Tuesdays. They were corrected and published in 1813.
Later he wrote again to Mr. Poole:
Often, very often, in the midst of the tumults of the multitude in this great city has my spirit turned in quietness and solitude towards you.
I hope soon to see you in Somersetshire, where we may worship nature and the Spirit that dwells in nature in your green fields and under your tranquil sky. My communications with you, and Coleridge, and Southey, and other ornaments of the great existing Being have excited feelings which cheer me in the apathy of London, and which make me love human nature.
In December 1803 Dr. Dalton gave a course of lectures at the Royal Institution. Early in January he wrote to a friend from the Royal Institution:
I was introduced to Mr. Davy, who has rooms adjoining mine; he is a very agreeable and intelligent young man, and we have interesting conversations in the evening; the principal failing in his character as a philosopher is that he does not smoke. Mr. Davy advised me to labour at my first lecture; he told me the people here would be inclined to form their opinion from it. Accordingly I resolved to write my first lecture wholly; to do nothing, but to tell them what I would do and enlarge upon the importance and utility of science. I studied and wrote for near two days, then calculated to a minute how long it would take me reading, endeavouring to make my discourse about fifty minutes. The evening before the lecture Davy and I went into the theatre; he made me read the whole of it, and he went into the farthest corner. Then he read it, and I was the audience. We criticised each other’s method. Next day I read it to an audience of about 150 or 200 people, which was more than were expected. They gave a very general plaudit at the conclusion, and several came up to compliment me upon the excellence of the introduction. Since that I have scarcely written anything; all has been experiment and verbal explanation. In general my experiments have uniformly succeeded, and I have never once faltered in the elucidation of them; in fact, I can now enter the lecture room with as little emotion nearly as I can smoke a pipe with you on Sunday or Wednesday evening.