The late Dr. Edward Jenner, of Gloucestershire, gives the following account of a ride through a snowstorm which he had to undertake in the above-named year.[2]
“January 3rd, 1786. I was under the necessity of going hence (Berkeley), to Kingscote. The air felt more intensely cold than I ever remember to have experienced it. The ground was deeply covered with snow, and it blew quite a hurricane, accompanied with continual snow. Being well clothed, I did not find the cold make much impression upon me till I ascended the hills, and then I began to feel myself benumbed. There was no possibility of keeping the snow from driving under my hat, so that half my face and my neck were for a long time wrapped in ice. There was no retreating, and I had still two miles to go—the greatest part of the way over the highest downs in the country. As the sense of external cold increased, the heat about the stomach seemed to increase. I had the same sensation as if I had drunk a considerable quantity of wine or brandy, and my spirits rose in proportion to this sensation. I felt as if it were like one intoxicated, and could not forbear singing, etc. My hands at last grew extremely painful, and this distressed my spirits in some degree. When I came to the house I was unable to dismount without assistance. I was almost senseless; but I had just recollection and power enough left to prevent the servants bringing me to a fire. I was carried to the stable first, and from thence was gradually introduced to a warmer atmosphere. I could bear no greater heat than that of the stable for some time. Rubbing my hands in snow took off the pain very quickly. The parts which had been most benumbed felt for some time afterwards as if they had been slightly burnt. My horse lost part of the cuticle and hair at the upper part of the neck, and also from his ears. I had not the least inclination to take wine or any kind of refreshment. One man perished a few miles from Kingscote at the same time and from the same cause.
“The correspondent who sent us the above extract from a letter of Edward Jenner, being a medical man, must feel, as we do, grateful that January, 1896, has not opened with the rigour of January, 1786. We print it because it paints a remarkably true and vivid picture of the alteration of sensation under the influence of extreme cold.”
The pain poor Jenner suffered, when occurring so immediately after exposure, should rather have cheered him, as a sure sign of recovery of frozen limbs; and he was indeed fortunate in retaining sufficient power to prevent the servants bringing him to a fire. The rubbing with snow and gradual introduction to warmth saved his hands, and Dr. Jenner lived to give the world his experiments on vaccination some years later.
In the height of summer, often in extremely hot weather, weather of the finest, there comes another risk, that of thunderstorms. A climber soaking wet, with his iron-shod boots, his steel-pointed axe, and metal framed goggles, makes as good a lightning conductor as could well be found without manufacturing a lighting-rod.
The ice-axe fizzling in the hand, and the spectacles upon the head, with hairs of the scalp set all bristling,—these are signs which at any moment may appal the stoutest heart that ever faced a storm.
In July last again, another country doctor, Mr. Reese, who lived at the village of Ystradgynlais, in the Swansea Valley, made his way to an urgent case of a poor child accidentally burnt, over a mountain called Drym.
When at the summit he apparently entered the focus of a severe storm, and a discharge of lightning took place through his body and that of his horse, killing them both instantaneously. A mountain-top is a most dangerous place in a thunderstorm; a cloud is attracted by the most elevated point, and any one crossing is extremely likely to be struck by lightning. The doctor was probably wet, and, being on a horse, had a good earth connection by means of the horse’s iron shoes, so that any discharge between the earth and the cloud would be very likely to traverse his body. If he could only have waited on the lower slopes he would have been safer, but his anxiety to reach the patient led him to his most honourable death.
Mr. Reese no doubt knew his risk perfectly well, and took his chances at the call of human need. In pointing out the warning to keep off prominent peaks and buttresses of a mountain in such a storm, I should be sorry to withdraw attention from this noble devotion to duty. To bear their silent testimony, three thousand friends attended the funeral of this brave man.