Not only was he a member of the hated Ferme Generale, but he had enthusiastically built the wall that enclosed Paris-an edifice so loathed that it was the first thing attacked by the rebellious citizens. Capitalizing on this, in 1791 Marat, now a leading voice in the National Assembly, denounced Lavoisier and suggested that it was well past time for his hanging. Soon afterward the Ferme Generale was shut down. Not long after this Marat was murdered in his bath by an aggrieved young woman named Charlotte Corday, but by this time it was too late for Lavoisier.
In 1793, the Reign of Terror, already intense, ratcheted up to a higher gear. In October Marie Antoinette was sent to the guillotine. The following month, as Lavoisier and his wife were making tardy plans to slip away to Scotland, Lavoisier was arrested. In May he and thirty-one fellow farmers-general were brought before the Revolutionary Tribunal (in a courtroom presided over by a bust of Marat). Eight were granted acquittals, but Lavoisier and the others were taken directly to the Place de la Revolution (now the Place de la Concorde), site of the busiest of French guillotines. Lavoisier watched his father-in-law beheaded, then stepped up and accepted his fate. Less than three months later, on July 27, Robespierre himself was dispatched in the same way and in the same place, and the Reign of Terror swiftly ended.
A hundred years after his death, a statue of Lavoisier was erected in Paris and much admired until someone pointed out that it looked nothing like him. Under questioning the sculptor admitted that he had used the head of the mathematician and philosopher the Marquis de Condorcet-apparently he had a spare-in the hope that no one would notice or, having noticed, would care. In the second regard he was correct. The statue of Lavoisier- cum-Condorcet was allowed to remain in place for another half century until the Second World War when, one morning, it was taken away and melted down for scrap.
In the early 1800s there arose in England a fashion for inhaling nitrous oxide, or laughing gas, after it was discovered that its use “was attended by a highly pleasurable thrilling.” For the next half century it would be the drug of choice for young people. One learned body, the Askesian Society, was for a time devoted to little else. Theaters put on “laughing gas evenings” where volunteers could refresh themselves with a robust inhalation and then entertain the audience with their comical staggerings.
It wasn’t until 1846 that anyone got around to finding a practical use for nitrous oxide, as an anesthetic. Goodness knows how many tens of thousands of people suffered unnecessary agonies under the surgeon’s knife because no one thought of the gas’s most obvious practical application.
I mention this to make the point that chemistry, having come so far in the eighteenth century, rather lost its bearings in the first decades of the nineteenth, in much the way that geology would in the early years of the twentieth. Partly it was to do with the limitations of equipment-there were, for instance, no centrifuges until the second half of the century, severely restricting many kinds of experiments-and partly it was social. Chemistry was, generally speaking, a science for businesspeople, for those who worked with coal and potash and dyes, and not gentlemen, who tended to be drawn to geology, natural history, and physics. (This was slightly less true in continental Europe than in Britain, but only slightly.) It is perhaps telling that one of the most important observations of the century, Brownian motion, which established the active nature of molecules, was made not by a chemist but by a Scottish botanist, Robert Brown. (What Brown noticed, in 1827, was that tiny grains of pollen suspended in water remained indefinitely in motion no matter how long he gave them to settle. The cause of this perpetual motion-namely the actions of invisible molecules-was long a mystery.)
Things might have been worse had it not been for a splendidly improbable character named Count von Rumford, who, despite the grandeur of his title, began life in Woburn, Massachusetts, in 1753 as plain Benjamin Thompson. Thompson was dashing and ambitious, “handsome in feature and figure,” occasionally courageous and exceedingly bright, but untroubled by anything so inconveniencing as a scruple. At nineteen he married a rich widow fourteen years his senior, but at the outbreak of revolution in the colonies he unwisely sided with the loyalists, for a time spying on their behalf. In the fateful year of 1776, facing arrest “for lukewarmness in the cause of liberty,” he abandoned his wife and child and fled just ahead of a mob of anti-Royalists armed with buckets of hot tar, bags of feathers, and an earnest desire to adorn him with both.
He decamped first to England and then to Germany, where he served as a military advisor to the government of Bavaria, so impressing the authorities that in 1791 he was named Count von Rumford of the Holy Roman Empire. While in Munich, he also designed and laid out the famous park known as the English Garden.
In between these undertakings, he somehow found time to conduct a good deal of solid science. He became the world’s foremost authority on thermodynamics and the first to elucidate the principles of the convection of fluids and the circulation of ocean currents. He also invented several useful objects, including a drip coffeemaker, thermal underwear, and a type of range still known as the Rumford fireplace. In 1805, during a sojourn in France, he wooed and married Madame Lavoisier, widow of Antoine-Laurent. The marriage was not a success and they soon parted. Rumford stayed on in France, where he died, universally esteemed by all but his former wives, in 1814.
But our purpose in mentioning him here is that in 1799, during a comparatively brief interlude in London, he founded the Royal Institution, yet another of the many learned societies that popped into being all over Britain in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. For a time it was almost the only institution of standing to actively promote the young science of chemistry, and that was thanks almost entirely to a brilliant young man named Humphry Davy, who was appointed the institution’s professor of chemistry shortly after its inception and rapidly gained fame as an outstanding lecturer and productive experimentalist.
Soon after taking up his position, Davy began to bang out new elements one after another-potassium, sodium, magnesium, calcium, strontium, and aluminum or aluminium, depending on which branch of English you favor.[13] He discovered so many elements not so much because he was serially astute as because he developed an ingenious technique of applying electricity to a molten substance-electrolysis, as it is known. Altogether he discovered a dozen elements, a fifth of the known total of his day. Davy might have done far more, but unfortunately as a young man he developed an abiding attachment to the buoyant pleasures of nitrous oxide. He grew so attached to the gas that he drew on it (literally) three or four times a day. Eventually, in 1829, it is thought to have killed him.
Fortunately more sober types were at work elsewhere. In 1808, a dour Quaker named John Dalton became the first person to intimate the nature of an atom (progress that will be discussed more completely a little further on), and in 1811 an Italian with the splendidly operatic name of Lorenzo Romano Amadeo Carlo Avogadro, Count of Quarequa and Cerreto, made a discovery that would prove highly significant in the long term-namely, that two equal volumes of gases of any type, if kept at the same pressure and temperature, will contain identical numbers of molecules.
Two things were notable about Avogadro’s Principle, as it became known. First, it provided a basis for more accurately measuring the size and weight of atoms. Using Avogadro’s mathematics, chemists were eventually able to work out, for instance, that a typical atom had a diameter of 0.00000008 centimeters, which is very little indeed. And second, almost no one knew about Avogadro’s appealingly simple principle for almost fifty years.[14]
Partly this was because Avogadro himself was a retiring fellow-he worked alone, corresponded very little with fellow scientists, published few papers, and attended no meetings-but also it was because there were no meetings to attend and few chemical journals in which to publish. This is a fairly extraordinary fact. The Industrial Revolution was driven in large part by developments in chemistry, and yet as an organized science chemistry barely existed for decades.
The Chemical Society of London was not founded until 1841 and didn’t begin to produce a regular journal until 1848, by which time most learned societies in Britain-Geological, Geographical, Zoological, Horticultural, and Linnaean (for naturalists and botanists)-were at least twenty years old and often much more. The rival Institute of Chemistry didn’t come into being until 1877, a year after the founding of the American Chemical Society. Because chemistry was so slow to get organized, news of Avogadro’s important breakthrough of 1811 didn’t begin to become general until the first international chemistry congress, in Karlsruhe, in 1860.
Because chemists for so long worked in isolation, conventions were slow to emerge. Until well into the second half of the century, the formula H2O2 might mean water to one chemist but hydrogen peroxide to another. C2H4 could signify ethylene or marsh gas. There was hardly a molecule that was uniformly represented everywhere.
Chemists also used a bewildering variety of symbols and abbreviations, often self-invented. Sweden’s J. J.
