Dr. Beddoes now expressed a wish to record my testimony also, and presented me his green bag; but being satisfied with the effects produced on others, I begged to decline the honour. The Pneumatic Institution, at this time, from the laughable and diversified effects produced by this new gas on different individuals, quite exorcised philosophical gravity, and converted the laboratory into the region of hilarity and relaxation. The young lady’s feats, in particular, produced great merriment, and so intimidated the ladies, that not one, after this time, could be prevailed upon to look at the green bag, or hear of nitrous oxide, without horror!
But more perilous experiments must now be noticed. Mr. Davy having succeeded so well with the Nitrous Oxide, determined even to hazard a trial with the deadly Nitrous Gas. For this purpose he placed in a bag, “one hundred and fourteen cubic inches of nitrous gas,” and knowing that unless he exhausted his lungs of the atmospheric air, its oxygen would unite with the nitrous gas, and produce in his lungs aqua-fortis, he wisely resolved to expel if possible, the whole of the atmospheric air from his lungs, by some contrivance of his own. For this purpose, in a second bag, he placed seven quarts of nitrous oxide, and made from it three inspirations, and three expirations, and then instantly transferred his mouth to the nitrous gas bag, and turning the stop-cock, took one inspiration. This gas, in passing through his mouth and fauces, burnt his throat, and produced such a spasm in the epiglottis, as to cause him instantly to desist, when, in breathing the common air, aqua-fortis was really formed in his mouth, which burnt his tongue, palate, and injured his teeth. Mr. D. says, “I never design again to repeat so rash an experiment.”
But though this experiment might not be repeated, there was one other nearly as dangerous, to which Mr. Davy’s love of science prompted him to resort; not by trying it on another but, generously, on himself.
Mr. Davy wished to determine whether the carburetted hydrogen gas, was so destructive to animal life as had been represented. In its pure state, one inspiration of this gas was understood to destroy life, but Mr. D. mixed three quarts of the gas, with two quarts of the atmospheric air, and then breathed the whole for nearly a minute. This produced only slight effects, (nothing to an experimental chemist;) merely “giddiness, pain in the head, loss of voluntary power,” &c.
The spirit of inquiry not being to be repressed by these trifling inconveniences, Mr. Davy was now emboldened to introduce into his green bag, four quarts of carburetted hydrogen gas, nearly pure. After exhausting his lungs in the usual way, he made two inspirations of this gas. The first inspiration produced numbness and loss of feeling in the chest. After the second, he lost all power of perceiving external things, except a terrible oppression on his chest, and he seemed sinking fast to death! He had just consciousness enough to remove the mouth-piece from his unclosed lips, when he became wholly insensible. After breathing the common air for some time, consciousness was restored, and Mr. Davy faintly uttered, as a consolation to his then attendant, Mr. John Tobin, “I do not think I shall die.”
Such are some of the appalling hazards encountered by M. Davy, in his intrepid investigation of the gases. These destructive experiments, during his residence at Bristol, probably, produced those affections of the chest, to which he was subject through life, and which, beyond all question, shortened his days. Nothing at this moment so excites my surprise, as that Mr. D.’s life should have been protracted, with all his unparalleled indifference concerning it, to the vast age, for him, of fifty years.
I cannot here withhold an ungracious piece of information. In the prospect of this establishment, great expectations had been raised, and the afflicted of all descriptions, were taught to expect a speedy cure; so that when the doors were opened, no less than seventy or eighty patients, progressively applied for the gratuitous alleviation of their maladies. But it is too great a tax on human patience, when cures are always promised, but never come. No one recovery, in an obstinate case, had occurred: in consequence of which, many patients became dissatisfied, and remitted their attendance. Independently of which, an idea had become prevalent amongst the crowd of afflicted, that they were merely made the subjects of experiment, which thinned the ranks of the old applicants, and intimidated new. It might be said, that patients after a certain period had so ominously declined, that the very fire was likely to become extinguished for want of fuel. In order that the trials might be deliberately proceeded in, a fortunate thought occurred to Dr. Beddoes; namely, not to bribe, but to reward all persevering patients; for Mr. Davy informed me, that, before the Pneumatic Institution was broken up, they allowed every patient sixpence per diem; so that when all hopes of cure had subsided, it became a mere pecuniary calculation with the sufferers, whether, for a parish allowance of three shillings a week, they should submit or not, to be drenched with these nauseous gases.
This Pneumatic Institution, though long in a declining state, protracted its existence for more than two years, till the departure from Bristol of Mr. D., and then by its failure, it established the useful negative fact, however mortifying, that medical science was not to be improved through the medium of factitious airs.
I happened to be present when Mr. W. Coates casually named to Mr. Davy, then just turned of twenty, that his boy the preceding evening, had accidentally struck one piece of cane against another, in the dark, and which produced light. It was quite impressive to notice the intense earnestness with which Mr. D. heard this fact which, by others, might have been immediately forgotten. Mr. D. on the contrary, without speaking, appeared lost in meditation. He subsequently commenced his experiments on these canes, and thus communicated the results to his friend Mr. Giddy, (now Gilbert).
“My dear friend,
… I have now just room to give you an account of the experiments I have lately been engaged in.
First. One of Mr. Coates’s children accidentally discovered that two bonnet-canes rubbed together produced a faint light. The novelty of this experiment induced me to examine it, and I found that the canes, on collision, produced sparks of light, as brilliant as those from flint and steel.
Secondly. On examining the epidermis, I found, when it was taken off, that the canes no longer gave light on collision.
Thirdly. The epidermis, subjected to chemical analysis, had all the properties of silex.
Fourthly, The similar appearance of the epidermis of reeds, corn, and grasses, induced me to suppose that they also contained silex. By burning them carefully and analyzing their ashes, I found that they contained it in rather larger proportions than the canes.
Fifthly. The corn and grasses contain sufficient potash to form glass with their flint. A very pretty experiment may be made on these plants with the blowpipe. If you take a straw of wheat, barley, or hay, and burn it, beginning at the top, and heating the ashes with a blue flame, you will obtain a perfect globule of hard glass, fit for microscopic discovery.”
The circumstance, that all canes, as well as straws and hollow grasses, have an epidermis of silex, is one of the most singular facts in nature. Mr. Davy, in another place, has stated the advantages arising to this class of vegetables, from their stony external concretion: namely, “the defence it offers from humidity; the shield which it presents to the assaults of insects; and the strength and stability that it administers to plants, which, from being hollow, without this support, would be less perfectly enabled to resist the effect of storms.
Those canes which are not hollow, are long and slender, and from wanting the power to sustain themselves, come usually in contact with the ground, when they would speedily decay, from moisture, but from the impenetrable coat of mail with which nature has furnished them. But questions still arise for future investigators. How came the matter of flint to invest those plants which most need it, and not others? Whence does this silex come? Is it derived from the air, or from water, or from the earth? That it emanates from the atmosphere is wholly inadmissible. If the silex proceed from water, where is the proof? and how is the superficial deposit e
ffected? Also, as silex is not a constituent part of water, if incorporated at all, it can be held only in solution. By what law is this solution produced, so that the law of gravity should be suspended? If the silex be derived from the earth, by what vessels is it conveyed to the surface of the plants? and, in addition, if earth be its source, how is it that earth-seeking, and hollow plants, with their epidermis of silex, should arise in soils that are not silicious? being equally predominant, whether the soil be calcareous, argillaceous, or loamy. The decomposition of decayed animal and vegetable substances, doubtless composes the richegt superficial mould; but this soil, so favorable for vegetation, gives the reed as much silex, but no more, in proportion to the size of the stalk, than the same plants growing in mountainous districts, and primitive soils. It is to be regretted, that the solution of these questions, with others that might be enumerated, had not occupied the profoundly investigating spirit of Mr. Davy; but which subjects now offer an ample scope for other philosophical speculators.
It is a demonstrative confirmation of the accuracy of Mr. Davy’s reasoning, that a few years ago, after the burning of a large mow, in the neighbourhood of Bristol, a stratum of pure, compact, vitrified silex appeared at the bottom, forming one continuous sheet, nearly an inch in thickness. I secured a portion, which, with a steel, produced an abundance of bright sparks.
Upon Mr. Coleridge’s return from the north, to Bristol, where he meant to make some little stay, I felt peculiar pleasure in introducing him to young Mr. Davy. The interview was mutually agreeable, and that which does not often occur, notwithstanding their raised expectations, each, afterward, in referring to the other, expressed to me the opinion, that his anticipations had been surpassed. They frequently met each other under my roof, and their conversations were often brilliant; intermixed, occasionally, with references to the scenes of their past lives.
Mr. Davy told of a Cornish young man, of philosophical habits, who had adopted the opinion that a firm mind might endure in silence, any degree of pain: showing the supremacy of “mind over matter.” His theory once met with an unexpected confutation. He had gone one morning to bathe in Mount’s Bay, and as he bathed, a crab griped his toe, when the young philosopher roared loud enough to be heard at Penzance.
Mr. Coleridge related the following occurrence, which he received from his American friend, Mr. Alston, illustrating the effect produced on a young man, at Cambridge University, near Boston, from a fancied apparition. “A certain youth,” he said, “took it into his head to convert a Tom-Painish companion of his, by appearing as a ghost before him. He accordingly dressed himself in the usual way, having previously extracted the ball from the pistol which always lay near the head of his friend’s bed. Upon first awaking and seeing the apparition, A. the youth who was to be frightened, suspecting a trick, very coolly looked his companion, the ghost, in the face, and said, ‘I know you. This is a good joke, but you see I am not frightened. Now you may vanish.’ The ghost stood still. ‘Come,’ said A. ‘that is enough. I shall get angry. Away!’ Still the ghost moved not. Exclaimed A. ‘If you do not in one minute go away, I will shoot you.’ He waited the time, deliberately levelled his pistol, fired, and with a scream at the motionless immobility of the figure, was convinced it was a real ghost — became convulsed, and from the fright, afterwards died.”
Mr. Coleridge told also of his reception at an Hessian village, after his visit to the Hartz mountains, and the Brocken. Their party consisted of himself, Mr. Carlyon, and the two Mr. Parrys. (sons of Dr. Parry, of Bath — one of them the Arctic explorer). The four pedestrians entered the village late of an evening, and repaired to the chief ale-house, wearied with a hard day’s journey, in order to be refreshed and to rest for the night. The large room contained many of the neighbouring peasants. “What can we have to eat?” said Mr. Coleridge. “Nothing,” was the reply. “Can we have beds?” “No,” answered the master of the house. “Can we have some straw on which to lie?” “None, none,” was the reply. On which Mr. Coleridge cried out, “Are the Hessians Christians?” To have their Christianity doubted, was an insufferable insult, and to prove their religion, one man in a rage, hurled a log of wood at Mr. C., which, if it had struck him, would have laid him prostrate! But more effectually to prove that they were Christians, “good and true,” the men, in fierce array, now marched up, and roughly drove the saucy Englanders out of the house, to get lodgings where they could. From the extreme wrath of the insulted peasants, the travellers were apprehensive of some worse assault; and hurrying out of the village, weary, and hunger-smitten, bivouacked under a tree, determined never again to question a Hessian’s Christianity, even under the gallows.
On one occasion, Mr. Coleridge entered into some of his college scenes, to one of which I may here refer. He said that, perhaps, it was culpable in him not to have paid more attention to his dress than he did when at the University, but the great excluded the little. He said that he was once walking through a street in Cambridge, leaning on the arms of two silk gowns, when his own habiliments formed rather a ludicrous contrast. His cap had the merit of having once been new; and some untoward rents in his gown, which he had a month before intended to get mended, left a strong tendency, in some of its posterior parts, to trail along the ground in the form, commonly called “tatters.” The three friends were settling the exact site of Troy, or some other equally momentous subject, when they were passed by two spruce gownsmen, one of whom said to the other, which just caught the ear of Mr. C., “That sloven thinks he can hide his ribbons by the gowns of his companions.” Mr. C. darted an appalling glance at him, and passed on. He now learned the name, and acquired some particulars respecting the young man who had offended him, and hastened home to exercise his Juvenallian talent.
The next day he gave his satire to a friend, to show it to the young man, who became quite alarmed at the mistake he had made, and also at the ominous words, “He who wrote this can write more.” The cauldron might boil over with fresh “bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.” There was no time to lose. He therefore immediately proceeded to Mr. C.’s chambers; apologized for his inconsiderate expressions; thought him to have been some “rough colt,” from the country, again begged his pardon, and received the hand of reconciliation. This young, miscalculating Cantabrigian, now became one of Mr. C.’s warmest friends, and rose to eminence.
The satire was singularly cutting. I can recall but two unconnected lines:
”With eye that looks around with asking gaze,
And tongue that traffics in the trade of praise.”
Mr. Coleridge now told us of the most remarkable of his Cambridge eccentricities, that of his having enlisted as a soldier. He had previously stated to me many of the following particulars, yet not the whole; but (having taken a deep interest in this singular adventure,) in addition to that which I heard from Mr. C., who never told all the incidents of his military life to any one person, but on the contrary, detailed some few to one, and some few to another, I made a point of collecting from different friends, every scattered fact I could obtain, and shall now throw the whole into one narrative.
But before I proceed, I must take some notice of a statement on this subject, communicated to the public, by Mr. Bowles, wherein his account appears to clash with mine. Of this gentleman (with whose name and writings I have connected so many pleasant remembrances, from early life,) I wish to speak with the utmost respect; but the truth Mr. B. himself will be glad to learn.
Mr. Bowles states a circumstance relating to what he calls, “The most correct, sublime, chaste, and beautiful of Mr. Coleridge’s poems; the ‘Religious Musings;’” namely, that “it was written, non inter sylvas academi, but in the tap-room at Reading.” This information could not have been received from Mr. C. but perhaps was derived from the imperfect recollection of Captain O.; but whoever the informant may have been, the assertion has not the merit of being founded on a shadow of accuracy. The poem of the “Religious Musings” was not written “in the tap-room at Readin
g,” nor till long after Mr. C. had quitted his military life. It was written partly at Stowey; partly on Redcliff Hill; and partly in my parlour, where both Mr. Coleridge and Mr. Southey occasionally wrote their verses. This will have sufficiently appeared by Mr. C.’s own letters; to which I could add other decisive evidence, if the subject were of more consequence.
I now proceed with the narrative of Mr. Coleridge’s military adventures, chiefly collected from himself, but not inconsiderably from the information of other of his more intimate friends; particularly R. Lovell; although I must apprise the reader that after a lapse of forty years, I cannot pledge myself for every individual word: a severity of construction which neither my memoranda nor memory would authorize. In order not to interrupt the reader, by stating that this was derived from one source, and that from another, (at this time hardly to be separated in my own mind) I shall narrate it as though Mr. Coleridge had related the whole at once, to Mr. Davy and myself.
* * * * *
Mr. Coleridge now told us of one of his Cambridge eccentricities which highly amused us. He said that he had paid his addresses to a Mary Evans, who, rejecting his offer, he took it so much in dudgeon, that he withdrew from the University to London, when, in a reckless state of mind, he enlisted in the 15th, Elliot’s Light Dragoons. No objection having been taken to his height or age, he was asked his name. He had previously determined to give one that was thoroughly Kamschatkian, but having noticed that morning over a door in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, (or the Temple) the name of “Cumberbatch,” (not Comberback) he thought this word sufficiently outlandish, and replied “Silas Tomken Cumberbatch,” and such was the entry in the regimental book.
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 335