The Royal Institution, as originally conceived, was an establishment for the benefit of the poor. It was founded at the close of the last century by Benjamin Thomson, a Royalist American in the service of the Elector Palatine of Bavaria, by whom he was created a Count of the Holy Roman Empire. Count Rumford, as he is commonly called, was a practical philanthropist and a man of science, best known to this age by his association with the present-day doctrine of the nature of heat; and to his contemporaries, by his constant efforts to apply science to domestic economy. In 1796 Rumford put forth a “proposal for forming in London by private subscription an establishment for feeding the poor, and giving them useful employment, and also for furnishing food at a cheap rate to others who may stand in need of such assistance, connected with an institution for introducing and bringing forward into general use new inventions and improvements, particularly such as relate to the management of heat and the saving of fuel, and to various other mechanical contrivances by which domestic comfort and economy may be promoted.” Rumford, as he says in one of his letters to Thomas Bernard—another practical philanthropist, and one of his earliest associates in the undertaking here referred to—was “deeply impressed with the necessity of rendering it fashionable to care for the poor and indigent.” The immediate result was the foundation of the Society for Bettering the Condition of the Poor; but as regards the associated Institution, it was eventually considered that it would be “too conspicuous, and too interesting and important, to be made an appendix to any other existing establishment, and consequently it must stand alone, and on its own proper basis.”

In 1799, Rumford conferred with the Committee of the Society for Bettering the Condition of the Poor as to the steps to be taken to found, “by private subscription, a public institution for diffusing the knowledge and facilitating the general and speedy introduction of new and useful mechanical inventions and improvements; and also for teaching, by regular courses of philosophical lectures and experiments, the applications of the new discoveries in science to the improvement of arts and manufactures, and in facilitating the means of procuring the comforts and conveniences of life.” The Institution was duly launched in March, 1799, with Sir Joseph Banks as Chairman of Managers, Count Rumford as Secretary, and Mr. Thomas Bernard, the promoter of the Institution for the Protection and Instruction of Climbing Boys, and of the Society for the Relief of Poor Neighbours in Distress, as Treasurer. The second volume of the “Reports of the Society for Bettering the Condition of the Poor” contains a long account of the Institution, “so far as it may be expected to affect the poor,” from the pen of Mr. Bernard, concerning which Dr. Bence Jones, a former Secretary of the Institution, drily remarks, “It is difficult to believe that the Royal Institution of the present day was ever intended to resemble the picture given of it in this Report.”

Rumford, from the outset, threw himself with great zeal and ardour into the work of organising and starting the Institution, and it was mainly by his energy and administrative ability that so speedy a beginning was made. Mr. Mellish’s house in Albemarle Street was bought, and its apartments were quickly transformed into lecture rooms, model rooms, library, offices, etc. In May “a good cook was engaged for the improvement of culinary advancement—one object, and not the least important—for the Royal Institution.” Rumford was requested by the Managers to live in the house, to superintend the servants, to preserve order and decorum, and to control the expenses of housekeeping.

Towards the end of 1799 Dr. Garnett was secured as Lecturer and Scientific Secretary. Thomas Garnett, a physician, who at one time practised at Harrogate, and who is known to chemists for his researches into the composition of the Harrogate mineral waters, was at the time Professor of Chemistry and Experimental Philosophy at Anderson’s Institution in Glasgow. He had a considerable reputation as a lecturer, on the strength of which he was invited by Rumford to come to London. Garnett’s lectures began in March, 1800, in what is now the upper Library of the Institution, and which had been fitted up to accommodate the greatest possible number of auditors “with a greater deference to their curiosity than to their convenience.”

Although not altogether unsuccessful at the Institution, Garnett—in spite of “the Northern accent which he still retained in a slight degree, and which rendered his voice somewhat inharmonious to a London audience”—was hardly the type of man required for such a place, and differences soon arose between him and Rumford. To add to his difficulties he had, just prior to his removal from Glasgow, lost his wife, and the event seems to have wholly unnerved him. He grew listless and melancholy; and eventually, in 1801, he was called upon to resign. After leaving the Institution, he struggled on for a time, giving courses of scientific lectures in his own house, and at Tom’s Coffee-House in the City, and seeking for practice as a physician. Sick in mind and weak in body, he soon broke down, and died in 1802, at the age of thirty-six, leaving his children penniless. The Managers so far bettered the condition of the poor as to subscribe, on behalf of the Institution, £50 towards the publication of his posthumous work on the “Laws of Animal Life,” and to allow the book to be dedicated to them.

The accompanying illustration (p. 70), from a drawing by Gillray, entitled “Pneumatic Experiments at the Royal Institution,” shows the theatre during a lecture by Garnett, with Davy acting as assistant. Sir John Hippesley is represented as breathing the “pleasure-giving air.” The standing figure near the door is Rumford, and among the audience are Isaac Disraeli, Lord Stanhope, Earl Pomfret, and Sir H. Englefield.

Accounts differ as to the precise means by which Davy was brought to the notice of Count Rumford, nor is it very important to know whether it was through the intervention of Davies Gilbert, or Dr. Hope, or Mr. Underwood, or, as was most probably the case, of all three.

In a letter to Hope now before me Davy writes:—

“I believe it is in a great measure owing to your kind mention of me to Count Rumford, that I occupy my present situation in the Royal Institution. I ought to be very thankful to you; for most of my wishes through life are accomplished, as I am enabled to pursue my favourite study, and at the same time to be of some little utility to Society.”

This much, at least, is certain: there was an absolute agreement among those who had the best means of judging that no better appointment was possible. And yet, if we are to credit Dr. Paris, the first impression produced on Rumford by Davy’s personal appearance was highly unfavourable, and the Count would not allow him to lecture in the theatre until he had given a specimen of his abilities in the smaller lecture-room, which old habituÉs of the Royal Institution well remember. Dr. Paris adds that his first lecture entirely removed every prejudice, and at its conclusion Rumford exclaimed, “Let him command any arrangements which the Institution can afford.” And he was accordingly on the next day promoted to the theatre.

Six weeks after his arrival, he gave his first public lecture. How he acquitted himself, may be gleaned from the following account, given under the heading of the “Royal Institution of Great Britain” in the Philosophical Magazine, vol. x., p. 281 (1801):—

“It must give pleasure to our readers to learn that this new and useful institution, the object of which is the application of science to the common purposes of life, may be now considered as settled on a firm basis....

“We have also to notice a course of lectures, just commenced at the institution, on a new branch of philosophy—we mean the Galvanic Phenomena. On this interesting branch Mr. Davy (late of Bristol) gave the first lecture on the 25th of April. He began with the history of Galvanism, detailed the successive discoveries, and described the different methods of accumulating galvanic influence.... He showed the effects of galvanism on the legs of frogs, and exhibited some interesting experiments on the galvanic effects on the solutions of metals in acids....

“Sir Joseph Banks, Count Rumford, and other distinguished philosophers were present. The audience were highly gratified, and testified their satisfaction by general applause. Mr. Davy, who appears to be very young, acquitted himself admirably well; from the sparkling intelligence of his eye, his animated manner, and the tout ensemble, we have no doubt of his attaining a distinguished eminence.”

The Managers were so far satisfied, that at a meeting held on June 1st they passed the following resolutions:—

“Resolved—That Mr. Humphry Davy, Director of the Chemical Laboratory, and Assistant Lecturer in Chemistry, has, since he has been employed at the Institution, given satisfactory proofs of his talents as a Lecturer.”

“Resolved—That he be appointed, and in future denominated, Lecturer in Chemistry at the Royal Institution, instead of continuing to occupy the place of Assistant Lecturer, which he has hitherto filled.”

In the following July, Dr. Young (“Phenomenon Young,” as he was called at Cambridge), the great exponent of the Undulatory Theory of Light, was engaged as Professor of Natural Philosophy, Editor of the Journals, and General Superintendent of the House.D

At a meeting held in the same month, the Managers

“Resolved—That a Course of Lectures on the Chemical Principles of the Art of Tanning be given by Mr. Davy. To commence the second of November next; and that respectable persons of the trade, who shall be recommended by Proprietors of the Institution, be admitted to these lectures gratis.”

To order a young man of twenty-two, who had probably never seen the inside of tannery, to give an account of the art and mystery of leather-making, would seem to savour somewhat of what Coleridge would style “ultra-crepidation,” and accordingly the Managers further

“Resolved—That Mr. Davy have permission to absent himself—during the months of July, August, and September for the purpose of making himself more particularly acquainted with the practical part of the business of tanning, in order to prepare himself for giving the above-mentioned course of lectures.”

Lectures on “The Chemical Principles of the Process of Tanning Leather, and of the objects that must particularly be had in view in attempts to improve that most useful art” are mentioned in Rumford’s first prospectus, and the foregoing resolutions were probably passed in consequence. Davy did a considerable amount of experimental work in connection with these lectures, and the Journal of the Royal Institution contains several short communications from him on the chemistry of the subject, but the main facts he discovered are contained in a memoir read to the Royal Society on February 24th, 1803, and published in the Philosophical Transactions of that year, under the title of an “Account of Some Experiments and Observations on the constituent Parts of certain astringent Vegetables; and on their Operation in Tanning.”

Although Davy, by his earnestness, his knowledge, his felicity of expression, and by a certain dignity of treatment which seemed to invest even the homeliest subjects with unlooked-for importance, could interest an audience on almost any subject he brought before them, we may be sure that his soul soon sighed for a loftier theme than leather. He found it on the occasion of his lecture of January 21st, 1802, when he delivered the introductory discourse of that session. The date, indeed, is a red-letter day not only in Davy’s history but also in that of the Royal Institution. From that time the position of the Institution in the scientific and social world of London would seem to be assured.

Its affairs up to this time had been gradually going from bad to worse. The enthusiasm with which it was started a couple of years back had apparently spent itself, and Rumford, by his hauteur and high-handed management, had alienated many powerful friends. The subscriptions, which in 1800 had reached £11,047, had fallen in 1802 to £2,999, whilst the expenses were annually increasing. The outlook was gloomy in the extreme, and everything seemed to portend that the latest scheme for the amelioration of humanity was about to share the too common fate of such projects. The young man of twenty-three, however, changed all this as if by the stroke of a magician’s wand. No Prince Fortunatus could have done more.

His theme was not too ambitious; it would be considered even trite and commonplace to-day, and the man would be very bold or very simple who would now attempt to deal with it in the theatre of the Royal Institution; for this introductory lecture was nothing more than an exordium on the worth of science as an agent in the improvement of society. It was, and was felt to be, however, an apologia for the very existence of the Institution. Rumford and his fellow managers would seem to have staked everything on a single throw. Davy’s power as a lecturer had been noised abroad, and we may be sure that Coleridge and his other friends did not keep their tongues still. Coleridge, indeed, told the literary world that he assiduously attended Davy’s lectures, to increase his stock of metaphors. The youth who had discovered “the pleasure-producing air” was talked about in fashionable circles; and Mr. Bernard and the Count used their persuasiveness, and Sir Joseph Banks his social power, to secure for him the most cultured audience in London. If we may credit Dr. Paris, other influences, too, were at work. Davy’s association with Beddoes had probably gained for him the goodwill of the Tepidarians, even if it did not actually give him the entrÉe to the Society; and these Red Republicans, whose “pious orgies” at Old Slaughter’s Coffee-House in St. Martin’s Lane consisted mainly in libations of tea, vied with the Royalists in their efforts to pave his triumphal way. His success was instant and complete. In a series of lofty and impassioned periods he traced the services of science to humanity; he dwelt upon its dignity and nobility as a pursuit, upon its value as a moral and educational force. The small, spare youth, with his earnestness, his eloquence, his unaffected manner, the play of his mobile features, his speaking eyes—“eyes which,” as one of his fair auditors was heard to remark, “were made for something besides poring over crucibles”—held his hearers spellbound as he declaimed such sentences as these:—

“Individuals influenced by interested motives or false views may check for a time the progress of knowledge;—moral causes may produce a momentary slumber of the public spirit;—the adoption of wild and dangerous theories, by ambitious or deluded men, may throw a temporary opprobrium on literature; but the influence of true philosophy will never be despised; the germs of improvement are sown in minds, even where they are not perceived; and sooner or later the springtime of their growth must arrive. In reasoning concerning the future hopes of the human species, we may look forward with confidence to a state of society, in which the different orders and classes of men will contribute more effectually to the support of each other than they have hitherto done. This state, indeed, seems to be approaching fast; for, in consequence of the multiplication of the means of instruction the man of science and the manufacturer are daily becoming more assimilated to each other. The artist, who formerly affected to despise scientific principles, because he was incapable of perceiving the advantages of them, is now so far enlightened as to favour the adoption of new processes in his art, whenever they are evidently connected with the diminution of labour; and the increase of projectors, even to too great an extent, demonstrates the enthusiasm of the public mind in its search after improvement....

“The unequal division of property and of labour, the differences of rank and condition amongst mankind, are the sources of power in civilised life—its moving causes, and even its very soul. In considering and hoping that the human species is capable of becoming more enlightened and more happy, we can only expect that the different parts of the great whole of society should be intimately united together, by means of knowledge and the useful arts; that they should act as the children of one great parent, with one determinate end, so that no power may be rendered useless—no exertions thrown away.

“In this view, we do not look to distant ages, or amuse ourselves with brilliant though delusive dreams, concerning the infinite improveability of man, the annihilation of labour, disease, and even death, but we reason by analogy from simple facts, we consider only a state of human progression arising out of its present condition,—we look for a time that we may reasonably expect—FOR A BRIGHT DAY, OF WHICH WE ALREADY BEHOLD THE DAWN.”

Those who may read these sentences will either smile at their seeming archaism, or wonder at the antiquity of their argument; for the lesson which Davy inculcated at the beginning of the century is still at its close dinned into our ears, and practically all the stock reasons urged by latter-day writers and platform speakers on technical education and the abstract value of science are to be found in his lectures. But the circumstances of 1802 were widely different from those of 1896. The birth of the century was a singularly auspicious time for science; and many cultured men who knew nothing of science, yet felt in a dim sort of way that it was destined to be a mighty factor in civilisation. Davy’s words struck a sympathetic chord; they served to formulate and define ideas of which all who lived in the spirit of the times and shared in its movement must have been conscious. Speaking to willing and receptive ears, and with every attribute of manner, speech, and interest in his favour, he saw his chance: and with a practical sagacity beyond his years, he seized it.

Davy’s triumph is recorded in many contemporary notices, and it lives as one of the traditions of the Royal Institution.

Francis Horner thus records his impressions in his journal, under date March 31st, 1802:—

“I have been once to the Royal Institution and heard Davy lecture to a mixed and large assembly of both sexes, to the number perhaps of three hundred or more. It is a curious scene; the reflections it excites are of an ambiguous nature, for the prospect of possible good is mingled with the observation of much actual folly. The audience is assembled by the influence of fashion merely; and fashion and chemistry form a very incongruous union....

“Davy’s style of lecturing is much in favour of himself, though not, perhaps, entirely suited to the place; it has rather a little awkwardness, but it is that air which bespeaks real modesty and good sense; he is only awkward because he cannot condescend to assume that theatrical quackery of manner which might have a more imposing effect. This was my impression from his lecture. I have since (April 2nd) met Davy in company, and was much pleased with him; a great softness and propriety of manner, which might be cultivated into elegance; his physiognomy struck me as being superior to what the science of chemistry, on its present plan, can afford exercise for; I fancied to discover in it the lineaments of poetical feeling.” (“Memoirs of Horner,” vol. i., p. 182.)

Davy’s friend Purkis has left us the following still more glowing account:—

“The sensation created by his first [second] course of Lectures at the Institution, and the enthusiastic admiration which they obtained, is at this period scarcely to be imagined. Men of the first rank and talent,—the literary and the scientific, the practical and the theoretical, blue stockings, and women of fashion, the old and the young, all crowded—eagerly crowded the lecture-room. His youth, his simplicity, his natural eloquence, his chemical knowledge, his happy illustrations, and well-conducted experiments, excited universal attention and unbounded applause. Compliments, invitations, and presents were showered upon him in abundance from all quarters; his society was courted by all, and all appeared proud of his acquaintance.... A talented lady, since well-known in the literary world, addressed him anonymously in a poem of considerable length, replete with delicate panegyric and genuine feeling.... It was accompanied with a handsome ornamental appendage for the watch, which he was requested to wear when he delivered his next lecture, as a token of having received the poem and pardoned the freedom of the writer.”

The anonymous poem “replete with delicate panegyric and genuine feeling” is before me as I write. It is signed “Fidelissima,” and is one of several which the same talented lady addressed to him at different times, and which were found among his papers at his death. Some of them, as sonnets, are of considerable merit, and, had space permitted, are well worthy of reproduction.

The Tepidarians—again on the authority of Dr. Paris—were delighted. Sanguine in the success of their child—for so they considered Davy—they purposely appointed their anniversary festival on the day of his anticipated triumph. Their dinner was marked by every demonstration of hilarity, and the day was ended by a masquerade at Ranelagh.

Dr. John Davy, it should be said, rather sniffs at the Tepidarians and their “ultra-principles,” and doubts if his brother ever belonged to their society. Be this as it may, it is certain that the “Royalists” and the fashionable world into which he was drawn soon influenced Davy’s social and political views. Dr. Davy, whilst willing enough to appreciate at their proper value his brother’s natural and intellectual advantages as contributing to his success, points out that other circumstances connected with the Institution and the period conspired to help him:—

“The Royal Institution was a new experiment. Novelty in itself is delightful, especially to people of rank and fortune, who at that time in consequence of the Continent being closed, and owing to the war, must have been delighted to have had opened to them a new and unexpected source of interest, fitted to amuse those who were suffering from ennui, and to instruct those who were anxious for instruction. The Royal Institution, moreover, was the creation of a large number of influential persons, both in the higher ranks of society and of science. This alone might have sufficed to render it fashionable, and, if fashionable, popular. The period, morally and politically considered, aided the effect; a time of great political excitement had just terminated; a time of gloom and despondency was then commencing. Whatever diverted the public mind and afforded new objects of contemplation, pure and independent sources of amusement and gratification, must have been very welcome to all reflecting persons, even without taking into account the possible and probable good which might be conferred by the Institution on society, in accordance with the intentions with which it was first established.”

Davy thus expressed his own feeling of satisfaction to his mother:—

“London.

“My dear Mother,—I have been very busy in the preparation for my lectures; and for this reason I have not written to you. I delivered my second lecture to-day, and was very much flattered to find the theatre overflowing at this, as well as at the first. I am almost surprised at the interest taken by so many people of rank, in the progress of chemical philosophy; and I hope I am doing a great deal of good, in being the means of producing and directing the taste for it.

“I have been perfectly well since I visited Cornwall; and I enter upon my campaign in high health and spirits. After four months of hard but pleasant labour, I shall again be free!

“I hope you are all well. I very often reflect upon the times that are past; and my mind is always filled with gratitude to the Supreme Being, who has made us all happy; and that, in placing us in distant parts, and in different circles, neither our feelings or affections have been disturbed.... “I shall be very glad to see you again. I intend in June to pass through Scotland and to visit the Western Isles; but I hope I shall spend a part of the autumn with you.

“Pray write to me and give me a little news. Beg Kitty and Grace and Betsy and John to recollect me.

“I am, my dear mother, your very affectionate son

“H. Davy.”

The interest and spirit of enthusiasm thus roused was sedulously cultivated by Davy, and turned to the purposes of the Institution which he served. Rumford was no longer its moving and controlling spirit: his duty to the Elector of Bavaria, and his ill-starred devotion to Madame Lavoisier, had gradually drawn him away from London, and in 1803 he ceased to take any active part in the fortunes of his offspring. Shortly afterwards Sir Joseph Banks also withdrew. In a letter written April, 1804, he tells Rumford that his continued absence from England is a great detriment to the Institution:—

“It is now entirely in the hands of the profane. I have declared my dissatisfaction at the mode in which it is carried on, and my resolution not to attend in future. Had my health and spirits not failed me, I could have kept matters in their proper level, but sick, alone, and unsupported, I have given up what cannot now easily be recovered.”

Sir John Hippesley, who became treasurer, strove to make the Institution above all things fashionable. He had a project for placing private boxes in the theatre, and was concerned about its want of a proper coat-of-arms. Mr. Bernard still continued to hope that Sydney Smith’s lectures on Moral Philosophy might somehow better the condition of the poor. They would, at least, said Horner, “make the real blue-stockings a little more disagreeable than ever, and sensible women a little more sensible.” But the real directing power was Davy, and he gradually stamped upon the place the character it now possesses. How he felt his power and used it, may be gleaned from the following extract from a lecture in 1809, in reference to a fund which had been raised to supply him with a great voltaic battery:—

“In a great country like this, it was to be expected that a fund could not long be wanting for pursuing or perfecting any great scientific object. But the promptitude with which the subscription filled was so great, as to leave no opportunity to many zealous patrons of science for showing their liberality. The munificence of a few individuals has afforded means more ample and magnificent than those furnished by the Government of a rival nation; and I believe we have preceded them in the application of the means. In this kind of emulation, our superiority, I trust, will never be lost; and I trust that the activity belonging to our sciences will always flow from the voluntary efforts of individuals, from whom the support will be an honour—to whom it will be honourable....

“Without facilities for pursuing his object, the greatest genius in experimental research may live and die useless and unknown. Talents of this kind cannot, like talents for literature and the fine arts, call forth attention and respect. They can neither give popularity to the names of patrons, nor ornament their houses. They are limited in their effects, which are directed towards the immutable interests of society. They cannot be made subservient to fashion or caprice; they must forever be attached to truth, and belong to nature. If we merely consider instruction in physical science, this even requires an expensive apparatus to be efficient; for without proper ocular demonstrations, all lectures must be unavailing,—things rather than words should be made the objects of study. A certain knowledge of the beings and substances surrounding us must be felt as a want by every cultivated mind. It is a want which no activity of thought, no books, no course of reading or conversation, can supply. That a spirit for promoting experimental science is not wanting in the country, is proved by the statement which I have just made, by the foundation in which I have the honour of addressing you, and by the number of institutions rising in different parts of the metropolis and in the provinces. But it is clear that this laudable spirit may produce little effect from want of just direction. To divide and to separate the sources of scientific interest, is to destroy all their just effect. To attempt, with insufficient means, to support philosophy, is merely to humiliate her and render her an object of dirision. Those who establish foundations for teaching the sciences ought, at least, to understand their dignity. To connect pecuniary speculation, or commercial advantages, with schemes for promoting the progress of knowledge, is to take crops without employing manure; is to create sterility, and to destroy improvement. A scientific institution ought no more to be made an object of profit than an hospitable, or a charitable establishment. Intellectual wants are at least as worthy of support as corporeal wants, and they ought to be provided for with the same feeling of nobleness and liberality. The language expected by the members of a scientific body from the directors ought not to be, ‘We have increased your property, we have raised the value of your shares.’ It ought rather to be, ‘We have endeavoured to apply your funds to useful purposes, to promote the diffusion of science, to encourage discovery, and to exalt the scientific glory of your country.’

“What this institution has done, it would ill become a person in my place to detail; but that it has tended to the progress of knowledge and invention, will not, I believe, be questioned. Compare the expenditure with the advantages. It would not support the least of your public amusements; and the income of an establishment, which, in its effects, may be said to be national, is derived from annual subscriptions scarcely greater than those which a learned professor of Edinburgh obtains from a single class....

“The progression of physical science is much more connected with your prosperity than is usually imagined. You owe to experimental philosophy some of the most important and peculiar of your advantages. It is not by foreign conquests chiefly that you are become great, but by a conquest of nature in your own country. It is not so much by colonization that you have attained your preeminence or wealth, but by the cultivation of the riches of your own soil. Why, at this moment, are you able to supply the world with a thousand articles of iron and steel necessary for the purposes of life? It is by arts derived from chemistry and mechanics, and founded purely upon experiments. Why is the steam engine now carrying on operations which formerly employed, in painful and humiliating labour, thousands of our robust peasantry, who are now more nobly or more usefully serving their country either with the sword or with the plough? It was in consequence of experiments upon the nature of heat and pure physical investigations.

“In every part of the world manufactures made from the mere clay and pebbles of your soil may be found; and to what is this owing? To chemical arts and experiments. You have excelled all other people in the products of industry. But why? Because you have assisted industry by science. Do not regard as indifferent what is your true and greatest glory. Except in these respects, and in the light of a pure system of faith, in what are you superior to Athens or to Rome? Do you carry away from them the palm in literature and the fine arts? Do you not rather glory, and justly too, in being, in these respects, their imitators? Is it not demonstrated by the nature of your system of public education, and by your popular amusements? In what, then, are you their superiors? In every thing connected with physical science; with the experimental arts. These are your characteristics. Do not neglect them. You have a Newton, who is the glory, not only of your own country, but of the human race. You have a Bacon, whose precepts may still be attended to with advantage. Shall Englishmen slumber in that path which these great men have opened, and be overtaken by their neighbours? Say, rather, that all assistance shall be given to their efforts; that they shall be attended to, encouraged, and supported.”

On a subsequent occasion, when the subjugation of Europe was threatened by the restless military spirit of France, he thus dilated upon the influence of experimental philosophy in strengthening the desire for rational freedom:—

“The scientific glory of a country may be considered, in some measure, as an indication of its innate strength. The exaltation of reason must necessarily be connected with the exaltation of the other noble faculties of the mind; and there is one spirit of enterprise, vigour, and conquest, in science, arts, and arms.

“Science for its progression requires patronage,—but it must be a patronage bestowed, a patronage received, with dignity. It must be preserved independent. It can bear no fetters, not even fetters of gold, and least of all those fetters in which ignorance or selfishness may attempt to shackle it.

“And there is no country which ought so much to glory in its progress, which is so much interested in its success, as this happy island. Science has been a prime cause of creating for us the inexhaustible wealth of manufactures, and it is by science that it must be preserved and extended. We are interested as a commercial people,—we are interested as a free people. The age of glory of a nation is likewise the age of its security. The same dignified feeling, which urges men to endeavour to gain a dominion over nature, will preserve them from the humiliation of slavery. Natural, and moral, and religious knowledge, are of one family; and happy is that country, and great its strength, where they dwell together in union.”

It was, of course, to be expected that amidst the general chorus of approval some discordant notes should be heard. People who preferred the severe and formal manner of his colleague, Dr. Young, who, in spite of his profound knowledge, could never keep an audience together, said that Davy’s style was too florid and imaginative; that his imagery was inappropriate, and his conceits violent; that he was affected and swayed by a mawkish sensibility. Dr. Paris would have us believe there was some show of justice in this accusation, but he thinks that “the style which cannot be tolerated in a philosophical essay may under peculiar circumstances be not only admissible but even expedient in a popular lecture.” The “peculiar circumstance” in Davy’s case was, in Dr. Paris’s opinion, the Royal Institution audience.

“Let us consider for a moment,” he says, “the class of persons to whom Davy addressed himself. Were they students prepared to toil with systematic precision, in order to obtain knowledge as a matter of necessity?—No—they were composed of the gay and the idle, who could only be tempted to admit instruction by the prospect of receiving pleasure,—they were children, who could only be induced to swallow the salutary draught by the honey around the rim of the cup.”

That Davy himself was not wholly unconscious of this fact may be gathered from a letter which he wrote to Mr. Davies Gilbert at about this time. He says:—

“My labours in the Theatre of the Royal Institution have been more successful than I could have hoped from the nature of them. In lectures, the effect produced upon the mind is generally transitory; for the most part, they amuse rather than instruct, and stimulate to enquiry rather than give information. My audience has often amounted to four and five hundred, and upwards; and amongst them some promise to become permanently attached to chemistry. This science is much the fashion of the day.”

Whatever may be urged against Davy’s style of lecturing, his purely scientific memoirs are unquestionably models of their kind. His language is so simple, and his mode of expression so uniformly clear, and so free from technicality, that even an ordinary reader can follow them with delight. In this respect he was consistently faithful to the direction he gives in his “Last Days”:—

“In detailing the results of experiments, and in giving them to the world, the chemical philosopher should adopt the simplest style and manner; he will avoid all ornaments, as something injurious to his subject, and should bear in mind the saying of the first King of Great Britain, respecting a sermon which was excellent in doctrine, but overcharged with poetical allusions and figurative language,—‘that the tropes and metaphors of the speaker were like the brilliant wild flowers in a field of corn, very pretty, but which did very much hurt the corn.’”

Dr. Paris’s remarks concerning Davy’s personal manner and his style of lecturing were warmly controverted at the time of their publication by several of Davy’s friends. Dr. John Davy’s account is so clear and explicit, and so obviously based upon personal observation, for which he had ample opportunities, that, even after making every allowance for brotherly bias, we prefer to regard it as giving a more just impression of Davy’s bearing in the lecture-theatre, and of the care and pains he took to ensure success.

“He was,” says Dr. Davy, “always in earnest; and when he amused most, amusement appeared most foreign to his object. His great and first object was to instruct, and, in conjunction with this, maintain the importance and dignity of science; indeed the latter, and the kindling a taste for scientific pursuits, might rather be considered his main object, and the conveying instruction a secondary one.”

His lecture was almost invariably written expressly for the occasion, and usually on the day before he delivered it.

“On this day he generally dined in his own room, and made a light meal on fish. He was always master of his subject; and composed with great rapidity, and with a security of his powers never failing him.... It was almost an invariable rule with him, the evening before, to rehearse his lecture in the presence of his assistants, the preparations having been made and everything in readiness for the experiments; and this he did, not only with a view to the success of the experiments, and the dexterity of his assistants, but also in regard to his own discourse, the effect of which, he knew, depended upon the manner in which it was delivered. He used, I remember, at this recital, to mark the words which required emphasis and study the effect of intonation; often repeating a passage two or three different times, to witness the difference of effect of variations in the voice. His manner was perfectly natural, animated and energetic, but not in the least theatrical. In speaking, he never seemed to consider himself as an object of attention; he spoke as if devoted to his subject, and as if his audience were equally devoted to it and their interest concentrated in it. The impressiveness of his oratory was one of its great charms ... and his eloquence,—the declamation, as it might be called by some, in which he indulged on the beauty and order of Nature ... was so well received because it was not affected; merely his own strong impressions and feelings embodied in words, and delivered with an earnestness which marked their sincerity.”

It must, however, be admitted that this extraordinary success was not without its evil influence on Davy’s moral qualities. Considering his age, and his temperament, his ambition and love of applause, he would have been something more than human if he could have remained wholly unaffected by the conditions in which he was placed. “The bloom of his simplicity was dulled by the breath of adulation.” He assumed the garb and the airs of a man of fashion, and courted the society of the rich and the aristocratic. Time which would have been more profitably spent in the study, or in the society of his intellectual fellows, was frittered away in the frivolities of London society, or in the salons, or at the soirÉes of leaders of the “smart” people of the period. The peculiar circumstances of the Royal Institution, and the necessity for the continued adhesion to it of persons of rank and wealth, may to some extent have led him away from the quieter and serener joys of the philosophic life.

“In the morning,” says Paris, “he was the sage interpreter of Nature’s laws; in the evening, he sparkled in the galaxy of fashion; and not the least extraordinary point in the character of this great man, was the facility with which he could cast aside the cares of study, and enter into the trifling amusements of society.—‘Ne otium quidem otiosum,’ was the exclamation of Cicero; and it will generally apply to the leisure of men actively engaged in the pursuits of science; but Davy, in closing the door of his laboratory, opened the temple of pleasure.... In ordinary cases, the genius of evening dissipation is an arrant Penelope; but Davy, on returning to his morning labours, never found that the thread had been unspun during the interruption.”

The following letter from Coleridge will serve to show how this change was foreseen and deplored by his truest friends:—

“Nether Stowey, Feby. 17, 1803.

“My dear Purkis, ... I have been here nearly a fortnight; and in better health than usual. Tranquillity, warm rooms and a dear old friend, are specifics for my complaints. Poole is indeed a very, very good man. I like even his incorrigibility in small faults and deficiencies; it looks like a wise determination of Nature to let well alone; and is a consequence, a necessary one perhaps, of his immutability in his important good qualities....

“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’s 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 my self to my own self in my most genial moments,)—so of course my disappointment would be proportionally severe. It were falsehood, if I said that I think his present situation most calculated, of all others, to foster either his genius, or the clearness and incorruptness 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; but on this subject Davy and I always differed.... Yours sincerely

“S.T. Coleridge.”

It would seem that Coleridge’s doubts and fears were shared also by his host, and were communicated by him to the object of them. This, at least, may be inferred from the following extract from a letter from Davy to Poole:—

“London, May 1, 1803.

“My dear 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 motion 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 to the efforts of a creating being; but as yet, he has not even laid the foundation for the new world of intellectual form....

“Your affectionate friend
“Humphry Davy.”

Space will not permit of any more detailed account of Davy’s career as a lecturer at the Royal Institution. During the twelve years he occupied its Chair of Chemistry he held undisputed sway as the greatest living expositor of chemical doctrine, and session after session saw the theatre crowded with eager and expectant audiences.

This continued and increasing success was due not merely to his art and skill as a speaker, but to the remarkable and astonishing character of what he had to tell—of work which made the laboratory of the Royal Institution even more famous than its lecture-rooms.