Famous Men of Science

He said later of his discovery of the safety-lamp: "I value it more than anything I ever did: it was the result of a great deal of investigation and labor; but if my directions be attended to, it will save the lives of thousands of poor men. I was never more affected than by a written address which I received from the working colliers when I was in the North, thanking me on behalf of themselves and their families for the preservation of their lives."

Sir Humphrey used to say: "Whoever wishes to enjoy peace, and is gifted with great talents, must labor for posterity. In doing this he enjoys all the pleasures of intellectual labor, and all the desire arising from protracted hope. He feels no envy nor jealousy; his mark is too far distant to be seen by short-sighted malevolence, and therefore it is never aimed at… To raise a chestnut on the mountain, or a palm in the plain, which may afford shade, shelter, and fruit for generations yet unborn, and which, if they have once fixed their roots, require no culture, is better than to raise annual flowers in a garden, which must be watered daily, and in which a cold wind may chill or too ardent a sunshine may dry… The best faculties of man are employed for futurity: speaking is better than acting, writing is better than speaking."

In the spring of 1818 he took his second continental journey with his wife, going through Austria, Germany, and Italy. Commissioned by his king, he made some researches on Herculaneum manuscripts.

On his return to England he was made President of the Royal Society, the position so ably filled by Sir Isaac Newton. Every Saturday evening, poets, artists, and men of science gathered at his receptions. This office he held for seven years, till his declining health compelled his resignation.

In December, 1821, Davy paid a visit to his old home in Penzance, and saw his mother for the last time before her death. A public dinner was given him by his townsmen, which honor he greatly appreciated. He was no longer the poor lad among them. "Every heart, tongue, and eye were as one to do honor to him who had not only rendered the name of their town famous and imperishable as science itself, but who had added lustre to the intellectual character of their country."

From year to year he continued his experiments. Urged by the commissioners of the navy to remedy the corrosion of copper sheathing on vessels by sea water, he succeeded in rendering the copper negatively electrical by small pieces of tin, zinc, or iron nails. Shells and seaweeds adhered to the non-corroded surface, but the principle of galvanic protection has been applied to various important uses.

In 1824, Sir Humphrey took a journey to Norway, Sweden, and Denmark, visiting Berzelius of Sweden, "one of the great ornaments of the age," he said, and Oersted of Denmark, distinguished for his discovery of electro-magnetism.

Towards the close of 1826, when he was only forty-eight, Davy was attacked by paralysis in the right side, having suffered for a year with numbness and pain in his right arm. During his confinement in his room, he corrected the proof sheets of his "Discourses to the Royal Society," published in January, 1827.

In this year, having improved, he went through France, Italy, and Switzerland, hunting and fishing as in his boyhood, and writing "Salmonia, or Days of Fly Fishing," giving descriptions of his journey and his observations on natural history.

In the spring of 1828, he made another journey, to Southern Austria, spending the winter in Italy, and writing his "Consolation in Travel," which Cuvier called the work of a dying Plato. "I was desirous," he says, "of again passing some time in these scenes, in the hope of reëstablishing a broken constitution; and though this hope was a feeble one, yet, at least, I expected to spend a few of the last days of life more tranquilly and more agreeably than in the metropolis of my own country. Nature never deceives us. The rocks, the mountains, the streams, always speak the same language. A shower of snow may hide the verdant woods in spring; a thunder storm may render the blue limpid streams foul and turbulent: but these effects are rare and transient; in a few hours, or at least days, all the sources of beauty are renovated; and Nature affords no continued trains of misfortunes and miseries, such as depend upon the constitution of humanity, – no hopes forever blighted in the bud, – no beings full of life, beauty, and promise, taken from us in the prime of youth. Her fruits are all balmy, bright, and sweet; she affords none of those blighted ones so common in the life of man, and so like the fabled apples of the Dead Sea, – fresh and beautiful to the sight, but, when tasted, full of bitterness and ashes."

From Rome he writes to a friend, a year later, in the spring of 1829: "I am here wearing away the winter, – a ruin amongst ruins!.. I fight against sickness and fate, believing I have still duties to perform, and that even my illness is connected in some way with my being made useful to my fellow-creatures. I have this conviction full on my mind, that intellectual beings spring from the same breath of infinite intelligence, and return to it again, but by different courses. Like rivers born amidst the clouds of heaven, and lost in the deep and eternal ocean, – some in youth, rapid and short-lived torrents; some in manhood, powerful and copious rivers; and some in age, by a winding and slow course, half lost in their career, and making their exit by many sandy and shallow mouths."

Davy was destined to go back to the Infinite Intelligence in manhood, "a powerful and copious river," however much he "fought against sickness and fate."

On February 23, 1829, he dictated a letter to his brother John: "I am dying from a severe attack of palsy, which has seized the whole body, with the exception of the intellectual organ." He added in his own hand, just legible, "Come as quickly as possible."

When the brother arrived, and was overcome with grief, Sir Humphrey received him with a cheerful smile, and bade him not to grieve, but consider the event like a philosopher. He talked more earnestly than ever, and his mind seemed all aglow as with the brilliancy of a setting sun.

At one time he was so near death, that he said "he had gone through the whole process of dying, and that when he awoke he had difficulty in convincing himself that he was in his earthly existence." Reviving somewhat, they journeyed from Italy to Geneva, by slow and easy travel, arriving May 28, 1829. In the night, at half-past two, Sir Humphrey was taken very ill, and died almost immediately.

He was buried June 1, in the cemetery outside the walls of the city, having requested to be interred where he died, without any display. The grave is marked by a simple monument erected by his wife. She also founded a prize in his honor, to be given every two years, for the most original and important discovery in chemical science. Only fifty, and his work finished, – no not finished, – for his books and his discoveries, his character, with its earnest perseverance, its tenderness, its sympathy, its noble aspirations, and its helpfulness to mankind, will live forever!

JOHN JAMES AUDUBON

The problem why certain men and women come to eminence, and why others, with apparently as much ability, remain forever in obscurity, is an interesting one to solve. Most persons desire fame; most persons desire wealth; but, for one reason or another, thousands fail to achieve what they desire. They lack either singleness of aim, or adequate perseverance, or determined will, or sound judgment, or, instead of mastering circumstances, they permit circumstances to master them.

It is so easy to be turned aside in life by trivial matters; to be interested in our neighbor's wedding, or our neighbor's profits and losses. Those who oversee the affairs of others rarely oversee their own. Men become very busy over clubs and pastimes; women, over social gatherings and appearance, and die with little accomplished.

Audubon's life furnishes a unique illustration of the result of having a definite purpose, and bending all one's energies to it, till success is attained.

John James Audubon was born at New Orleans, May 4, 1780, in the land of orange groves and magnolias, of birds and sunshine. His grandfather was a poor fisherman of La Vendée, France, with twenty-one children. Unable to support them, they made their way in life as best they could.

When John's father was twelve years old, the fisherman gave him "a shirt, a dress of warm clothing, his blessing, and a cane, and sent him out to seek his fortune." He went to Nantes, shipped before the mast; at twenty-one commanded a vessel, and at twenty-five was owner and captain of a small craft.

Going to St. Domingo, West Indies, he purchased a small estate. Ambitious, as are all persons who succeed, he soon secured an appointment from the Governor of St. Domingo, returned to France, made the acquaintance of influential men, and obtained an appointment in the Imperial navy, with the command of a small vessel of war.

He had what all persons need, true self-appreciation; quite another quality from self-conceit. To believe that we can do things, having kept our characters such that we respect ourselves, is a strong indication that we shall prosper if we make the attempt.

Frequently visiting America in his ship, Audubon purchased land in Louisiana, Virginia, and Pennsylvania. In the former State he married a lady of Spanish extraction, Anne Moynette, both beautiful and wealthy. Of their three sons and one daughter, John James was the youngest son.

The mother was not spared to rear the distinguished naturalist, but perished a few years after his birth, in the insurrection of the colored people of St. Domingo. The father, having purchased a beautiful estate on the Loire, nine miles from Nantes, married a second time, a woman who proved a most indulgent mother to her husband's children. Having none of her own, she humored John in every way, and allowed him to gather moss, curious stones, birds' nests, – indeed, everything which belongs to natural history, – to his heart's content.

On the return of Commodore Audubon to France, finding that the boy was following the bent of his own mind, to the neglect of a solid education, in spite of the tears and entreaties of his wife, he sent him away to school. For a year John was obliged to apply himself closely to mathematics, taking a ramble to collect specimens whenever it was possible. He studied drawing under the celebrated painter David, and learned to play well on the violin, flute, flageolet, and guitar.

His father had hoped that he would become a soldier under Napoleon, but a lad who could lie on his back under a tree for three weeks, and watch with a telescope the habits of some little gray birds of the color of the bark of the tree, would not care much for the smoke and din of battle. He was therefore sent to America, to look after his father's property.

With a heavy heart the youth said good-by to France, where he had already sketched two hundred varieties of birds from life. Arriving in New York, he became ill of yellow fever, and was carried to the home of two Quaker ladies in Morristown, whose kindness doubtless saved his life.

When he had recovered, he went to his father's farm at Mill Grove, near the Schuylkill Falls, Pennsylvania, and found, as he said, "a blessed spot." He was free, now, to study natural history; no more mathematics; no more urging to become a soldier. He was delighted with the mill attached to the property, and with the pewees who built their nests near by. "Hunting, fishing, and drawing occupied my every moment," he says; "cares I knew not, and cared nothing for them."

An English gentleman, William Bakewell, descended from the Peverils of Derbyshire, rendered historical by Scott's novel "Peveril of the Peak," owned the adjoining property. Audubon, being French, did not court the acquaintance of the Englishman, indeed avoided him, till one day, as he was following some grouse down the creek in winter, he met Mr. Bakewell.

"I was struck with the kind politeness of his manners," says Audubon, "and found him a most expert marksman, and entered into conversation. I admired the beauty of his well trained dogs, and finally promised to call upon him and his family. Well do I recollect the morning, and may it please God may I never forget it, when for the first time I entered the Bakewell household. It happened that Mr. Bakewell was from home. I was shown into a parlor, where only one young lady was snugly seated at work, with her back turned towards the fire. She rose on my entrance, offered me a seat, and assured me of the gratification her father would feel on his return; which, she added with a smile, would be in a few minutes, as she would send a servant after him. Other ruddy cheeks made their appearance, but, like spirits gay, vanished from my sight. Talking and working, the young lady who remained made the time pass pleasantly enough, and to me especially so. It was she, my dear Lucy Bakewell, who afterwards became my wife, and the mother of my children."

Mr. Bakewell soon returned, and lunch was provided before leaving on a shooting expedition. "Lucy rose from her seat a second time, and her form, to which I had before paid little attention, seemed radiant with beauty, and my heart and eyes followed her every step. The repast being over, guns and dogs were provided, and as we left I was pleased to believe that Lucy looked upon me as a not very strange animal. Bowing to her, I felt, I knew not why, that I was at least not indifferent to her."

Thus was begun a beautiful affection that ran like a thread of gold through the darkness and light of two struggling lives. The friendship increased as the months went by, for the youth, alone in a strange country, devoted to his foster-mother, needed a woman's love and tenderness to cheer him. Lucy Bakewell taught Audubon English, and he in return gave her drawing lessons.

At Mill Grove the weeks passed pleasantly, – is not the world always beautiful when we love somebody? Audubon says in his journal: "I had no vices; but was thoughtless, pensive, loving, fond of shooting, fishing, and riding, and had a passion for raising all sorts of fowls, which sources of interest and amusement fully occupied my time… I ate no butcher's meat, lived chiefly on fruits, vegetables, and fish, and never drank a glass of spirits or wine until my wedding day. To this I attribute my continual good health, endurance, and an iron constitution."

Here at Mill Grove, while yet a boy, he planned his great work, the "Birds of America," their habits, and a description of them. This one idea dominated Audubon's life. Through poverty and suffering, this one desire was ever before him. It is well to plan early in life what we wish to do, and then do it.

One writer has well said of Audubon: "For sixty years or more he followed, with more than religious devotion, a beautiful and devoted pursuit, enlarging its boundaries by his discoveries, and illustrating its objects by his art. In all climates and in all weathers; scorched by burning suns, drenched by piercing rains, frozen by the fiercest colds: now diving fearlessly into the densest forest, now wandering alone over the most savage regions; in perils, in difficulties, and in doubts; with no companion to cheer his way, far from the smiles and applause of society; listening only to the sweet music of birds, or to the sweeter music of his own thoughts, he faithfully kept his path.

"The records of man's life contain few nobler examples of strength of purpose and indefatigable energy. Led on solely by his pure, lofty, kindling enthusiasm, no thirst for wealth, no desire of distinction, no restless ambition of eccentric character, could have induced him to undergo as many sacrifices, or sustained him under so many trials. Higher principles and worthier motives alone enabled him to meet such discouragements and accomplish such miracles of achievement. He has enlarged and enriched the domains of a pleasing and useful science; he has revealed to us the existence of many species of birds before unknown; he has given us more accurate information of the forms and habits of those that were known; he has corrected the blunders of his predecessors; and he has imparted to the study of natural history the grace and fascination of romance."

At Mill Grove he came near losing his life, on a duck-shooting expedition, by falling through an air hole in the ice. It was three months before he recovered.

At this time "a partner, tutor, and monitor," Da Costa, whom Audubon's father had sent over to superintend a lead-mine enterprise at Mill Grove, refused to give money to the son and objected to his marrying Lucy Bakewell. Resenting the dictation of Da Costa, young Audubon determined to go to France and lay the matter before his father. Da Costa would give him no money, but a letter of credit upon an agent in New York. The youth, nothing daunted, walked all the way to New York, was refused the money by the agent, who hinted that the lad should be seized and shipped to China, borrowed his passage money, went to France, caused the removal of Da Costa, and obtained his father's consent to his marriage. For a year he resided at Nantes, shooting, stuffing birds, and drawing for his beloved book. Then all Frenchmen being liable to conscription under Napoleon, the Commodore obtained leave for his son to return to America.

Once again he was at his dear Mill Grove. In his room "the walls were festooned with all sorts of birds' eggs, carefully blown out and strung on a thread. The chimney piece was covered with stuffed squirrels, raccoons, and opossums, and the shelves around were likewise crowded with specimens, among which were fishes, frogs, snakes, lizards and other reptiles."

Lucy's father, concluding that the study of natural history might not bring pecuniary support for his daughter, suggested to Audubon that he obtain some knowledge of commercial pursuits. Love seldom asks about ways and means; too seldom, in fact, for subsequent happiness. Audubon entered the counting-house of Mr. Benjamin Bakewell of New York, and soon lost some hundreds of pounds by a bad speculation in indigo. The drying of bird's skins in his rooms was so disagreeable to his neighbors that a message was sent him, through a constable, insisting on his abating the nuisance!

Finance did not seem the specialty of the young man, and he returned to Mill Grove.

Dear as the place was to him, he sold it, invested the capital in goods, married Lucy Bakewell, April 8, 1808, when he was twenty-eight years old, and started for the West. They were twelve days in sailing down the Ohio River in a flat-bottomed float, called an ark. He engaged in trade at Louisville, and the young couple were extremely happy. Fortunate it was that they had these few months of comfort, for hardship was soon to test their affection.

The war of 1812 so crippled business that he and his partner decided to go to Hendersonville, while Lucy and her infant son went home to her father for a year. If Mr. Bakewell ever regretted the choice which his daughter had made, she did not, and never failed, when days were darkest, to encourage him to write and win renown. When all others bemoaned his lack of business success, and his devotion to a non-paying pursuit, she alone was his comforter, and was willing to suffer poverty if thus his great work might be done.

There was no success at Hendersonville, and the goods were taken to St. Geneviève. Here the partner married, and Audubon sold his interest to him, purchased a horse, and started across the country to see his wife, who had meantime come back from Pennsylvania to Hendersonville, Ky. In this trip he came near losing his life. He says: "I found myself obliged to cross one of the wild prairies which, in that portion of the United States, vary the appearance of the country. The weather was fine, all around me was as fresh and blooming as if it had just issued from the bosom of nature. My knapsack, my gun, and my dog were all I had for baggage and company. But although well moccasined, I moved slowly along, attracted by the brilliancy of the flowers, and the gambols of the fawns around their dams, to all appearance as thoughtless of danger as I felt myself."

After travelling all day, he reached a log cabin. "Presenting myself at the door, I asked the tall figure, which proved to be a woman, if I might take shelter under her roof for the night. Her voice was gruff, and her dress negligently thrown about her. She answered in the affirmative. I walked in, took a wooden stool, and quietly seated myself by the fire. The next object that attracted my notice was a finely formed young Indian, resting his head between his hands, with his elbows on his knees. A long bow rested against the log wall near him, while a quantity of arrows and two or three raccoon skins lay at his feet. He moved not; he apparently breathed not. Accustomed to the habits of the Indians, and knowing that they pay little attention to the approach of civilized strangers, I addressed him in French, – a language not unfrequently partially known to the people of that neighborhood. He raised his head, pointed to one of his eyes with his finger, and gave me a significant glance with the other; his face was covered with blood.

"The fact was, that an hour before this, as he was in the act of discharging an arrow at a raccoon in the top of a tree, the arrow had split upon the cord, and sprung back with such violence into his right eye as to destroy it forever.

"Feeling hungry, I inquired what sort of fare I might expect. Such a thing as a bed was not to be seen; but many large, untanned buffalo hides lay piled in a corner. I drew a time-piece from my pocket, and told the woman that it was late, and that I was fatigued. She espied my watch, the richness of which seemed to operate on her feelings with electric quickness. She told me there was plenty of venison and jerked buffalo meat, and that on removing the ashes I should find a cake. But my watch had struck her fancy, and her curiosity had to be gratified by an immediate sight of it. I took off the gold chain which secured it around my neck, and presented it to her. She was all ecstasy, spoke of its beauty, asked me its value, and put the chain round her brawny neck, saying how happy the possession of such a watch would make her. Thoughtless, and, as I fancied myself, in so retired a spot, secure, I paid little attention to her talk or her movements. I helped my dog to a good supper of venison, and was not long in satisfying the demands of my own appetite.

"The Indian rose from his seat as if in extreme suffering. He passed and repassed me several times, and once pinched me on the side so violently, that the pain nearly brought forth an exclamation of anger. I looked at him; his eye met mine, but his look was so forbidding that it struck a chill into the more nervous part of my system. He again seated himself, drew his butcher-knife from its greasy scabbard, examined its edge, as I would do that of a razor suspected dull, replaced it, and, again taking his tomahawk from his back filled the pipe of it with tobacco, and sent me expressive glances whenever our hostess chanced to have her back towards us."

Audubon now perceived his danger. "I asked the woman for my watch, wound it up, and, under the pretence of wishing to see how the weather might probably be on the morrow, took up my gun, and walked out of the cabin. I slipped a ball into each barrel, scraped the edges of my flints, renewed the primings, and, returning to the hut, gave a favorable account of my observations. I took a few bear-skins, made a pallet of them, and, calling my faithful dog to my side, lay down, with my gun close to my body, and in a few minutes was, to all appearance, fast asleep."

Soon two young, stalwart Indians arrived at the cabin, bearing a dead stag on a pole. These were the Indian woman's sons. She and they drank whiskey, and then took a large carving-knife to a grindstone, and sharpened it. "I saw her pour the water on the turning machine," says Audubon, "and watched her working away with the dangerous instrument, until the cold sweat covered every part of my body, in despite of my determination to defend myself to the last. Her task finished, she walked to her reeling sons, and said, 'There, that'll soon settle him! Boys, kill you – and then for the watch!'"