More than one mention has been made in this biography of what Maria Edgeworth termed Davy’s “little madness.” Indeed, the love of angling amounted to a passion with him; and he told Ticknor that he thought if he were obliged to renounce either fishing or philosophy he should find the struggle of his choice pretty severe. Whenever he could escape from town he would hie him to some favourite stream and spend the day in the practice of his beloved art. He was known to have posted a couple of hundred miles for the sake of a day’s fishing, and to have returned contented, although he had never a rise. When confined to Albemarle Street, and chafing at his inability to get away, he would sometimes turn over the leaves of his fly-book and derive much consolation from the sight of his hackles and harles, his green-tails, dun cuts, red spinners, and all the rest of the deadly paraphernalia associated in his mind with the memories of pleasant days and exciting combats. He greatly prided himself on his skill, and his friends were often secretly amused to notice his ill-concealed chagrin when a brother-angler outvied him in the day’s catch or in the narration of some piscatorial triumph. They were amused, too, at the costume which he was wont to don on such occasions—his broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, lined with green and garnished with flies; his grey-green jacket, with a multitude of pockets for the various articles of his angling gear; his wading-boots and knee-caps—all made up an attire as original as it was picturesque. In these fishing expeditions he enjoyed some of the happiest hours of his life; at such times he threw off his cares and annoyances; he was cheerful even to hilarity, and never was his conversation more sprightly or more entertaining.
In spite of the thoughtful care of his friend Poole, Davy’s health showed no material improvement, and at times his feeling of despondency was very great. His confidence in his mental powers, however, never forsook him. He said on one occasion:—
“I do not wish to live, as far as I am personally concerned; but I have views which I could develope, if it please God to save my life, which would be useful to science and to mankind.”
* * * * *
“His inherent love of the laboratory (if I may so speak),” says Mr. Poole, “was manifested in a manner which much interested me at the moment. On his visiting with me a gentleman in this neighbourhood who had offered to let him his house, and who has an extensive philosophical apparatus, particularly complete in electricity and chemistry, he was fatigued by the journey; and as we were walking round the house very languidly, a door opened, and we were in the laboratory. He threw his eyes round the room, which brightened in the action—a glow came over his countenance, and he appeared himself twenty years ago. He was surprised and delighted and seemed to say, ‘This is the beloved theatre of my glory.’ I said ‘You are pleased.’ He shook his head and smiled.”
In the spring he determined to quit England for his beloved Illyria, and towards the end of May arrived by easy stages at Wurzen. In his journal he wrote:—
“May 22. To my old haunt, Wurzen, which is sublime in the majesty of Alpine grandeur; the snowy peaks of the Noric Alps rising above thunder clouds, whilst spring in all its bloom and beauty blooms below; its buds and blossoms adorning the face of Nature under a frowning canopy of dark clouds, like some Judith beauty of Italy—a Transteverene brow and eye, and a mouth of Venus and the Graces.”
From Aussee he wrote to his brother:—
“It suits me better to wile away my days in this solitary state of existence, in the contemplation of Nature, than to attempt to enter into London society, where recollections call up the idea of what I was, and the want of bodily power teaches me what a shadow I am.... I am now going to Ischl, where there are warm salt baths to try if they will renovate the muscular powers of my arm and leg.... I wish to go to Trieste in October, to make the experiments I have long projected on the torpedo.”