A Short History of Nearly Everything: Special Illustrated Edition

by Bill Bryson

  Were the world just and Swedish-speaking, Scheele would have enjoyed universal acclaim. As it is, the plaudits have tended to go to more celebrated chemists, mostly from the English-speaking world. Scheele discovered oxygen in 1772, but for various heartbreakingly complicated reasons could not get his paper published in a timely manner. Credit went instead to Joseph Priestley, who discovered the same element independently but latterly, in the summer of 1774. Even more remarkable was Scheele’s failure to receive credit for the discovery of chlorine. Nearly all textbooks still attribute chlorine’s discovery to Humphry Davy, who did indeed find it, but thirty-six years after Scheele.

  Although chemistry had come a long way in the century that separated Newton and Boyle from Scheele and Priestley and Henry Cavendish, it still had a long way to go. Right up to the closing years of the eighteenth century (and in Priestley’s case a little beyond) scientists everywhere searched for, and sometimes believed they had actually found, things that just weren’t there: vitiated airs, dephlogisticated marine acids, phloxes, calxes, terraqueous exhalations and, above all, phlogiston, the substance that was thought to be the active agent in combustion. Somewhere in all this, it was thought, there also resided a mysterious élan vital, the force that brought inanimate objects to life. No-one knew where this ethereal essence lay, but two things seemed probable: that you could enliven it with a jolt of electricity (a notion Mary Shelley exploited to full effect in her novel Frankenstein); and that it existed in some substances but not others, which is why we ended up with two branches of chemistry: organic (for those substances that were thought to have it) and inorganic (for those that did not).

  Someone of insight was needed to thrust chemistry into the modern age, and it was the French who provided him. His name was Antoine-Laurent Lavoisier. Born in 1743, Lavoisier was a member of the minor nobility (his father had purchased a title for the family). In 1768 he bought a practising share in a deeply despised institution called the Ferme Générale (or General Farm), which collected taxes and fees on behalf of the government. Although Lavoisier himself was by all accounts mild and fair-minded, the company he worked for was neither. For one thing, it did not tax the rich but only the poor, and then often arbitrarily. For Lavoisier, the appeal of the institution was that it provided him with the wealth to follow his principal devotion, science. At his peak, his personal earnings reached 150,000 livres a year—perhaps £12 million in today’s money.

  Three years after embarking on this lucrative career path, he married the fourteen-year-old daughter of one of his bosses. The marriage was a meeting of hearts and minds. Mme Lavoisier had an incisive intellect and soon was working productively alongside her husband. Despite the demands of his job and busy social life, they managed on most days to put in five hours of science—two in the early morning and three in the evening—as well as the whole of Sunday, which they called their jour de bonheur (day of happiness). Somehow Lavoisier also found the time to be commissioner of gunpowder, supervise the building of a wall around Paris to deter smugglers, help found the metric system and co-author the handbook Méthode de Nomenclature Chimique, which became the bible for agreeing the names of the elements.

  As a leading member of the Académie Royale des Sciences, he was also required to take an informed and active interest in whatever was topical—hypnotism, prison reform, the respiration of insects, the water supply of Paris. It was in such a capacity in 1780 that Lavoisier made some dismissive remarks about a new theory of combustion that had been submitted to the academy by a hopeful young scientist. The theory was indeed wrong, but the scientist never forgave him. His name was Jean-Paul Marat.

  The one thing Lavoisier never did was discover an element. At a time when it seemed as if almost anybody with a beaker, a flame and some interesting powders could discover something new—and when, not incidentally, some two-thirds of the elements were yet to be found—Lavoisier failed to uncover a single one. It certainly wasn’t for want of beakers. Lavoisier had thirteen thousand of them in what was, to an almost preposterous degree, the finest private laboratory in existence.

  Instead, he took the discoveries of others and made sense of them. He threw out phlogiston and mephitic airs. He identified oxygen and hydrogen for what they were and gave them both their modern names. In short, he helped to bring rigour, clarity and method to chemistry.

  Antoine-Laurent Lavoisier and his wife, who, despite a demanding career and social life, devoted five hours a day to science—in the course of which Lavoisier laid the foundations for modern chemistry. Lavoisier was executed during the French Reign of Terror in 1794. (credit 7.3)

  And his fancy equipment did in fact come in very handy. For years, he and Mme Lavoisier occupied themselves with extremely exacting studies requiring the finest measurements. They determined, for instance, that a rusting object doesn’t lose weight, as everyone had long assumed, but gains weight—an extraordinary discovery. Somehow, as it rusted the object was attracting elemental particles from the air. It was the first realization that matter can be transformed but not eliminated. If you burned this book now, its matter would be changed to ash and smoke, but the net amount of stuff in the universe would be the same. This became known as the conservation of mass, and it was a revolutionary concept. Unfortunately, it coincided with another type of revolution—the French one—and in this one Lavoisier was entirely on the wrong side.

  Not only was he a member of the hated Ferme Générale, 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 afterwards the Ferme Générale 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.

  Another Rowlandson drawing, showing the amusing effects of laughing gas on a party of willing participants. Half a century would pass before the gas found a practical use and was transformed into an effective anaesthetic. (credit 7.4)

  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 he 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 Révolution (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 27 July, 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. Theatres 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 nitr
ous oxide, as an anaesthetic. Goodness knows how many tens of thousands of people suffered unnecessary agonies under the surgeon’s knife because no-one had 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 business people, for those who worked with coal and potash and dyes, and not for 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 adviser 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 coffee-maker, thermal underwear, and a type of range still known as the Rumford fireplace. In 1805, during a sojourn in France, he wooed and married Mme 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.

  American-British physicist Count von Rumford, who narrowly escaped the wrath of anti-royalist mobs in Massachusetts in 1776, and went on to found London’s Royal Institution in 1799. (credit 7.5)

  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 favour).1 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 Ceretto, 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 the appealingly simple 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 centimetres, which is very little indeed. And second, almost no-one knew about it for almost fifty years.2

  Italian physicist Lorenzo Romano Amadeo Carlo Avogadro, Count of Quarequa and Ceretto, whose hugely important theory of molecules was thankfully more simply entitled Avogadro’s Principle. (credit 7.6)

  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 in several cases 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 worked for so long 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. Berzelius brought a much-needed measure of order to matters by decreeing that the elements be abbreviated on the basis of their Greek or Latin names, which is why the abbreviation for iron is Fe (from the Latin ferrum) and for silver is Ag (from the Latin argentum). That so many of the other abbreviations accord with their English names (N for nitrogen, O for oxygen, H for hydrogen and so on) reflects English’s latinate nature, not its exalted status. To indicate the number of atoms in a molecule, Berzelius employed a superscript notation, as in H2O. Later, for no special reason, the fashion became to render the number as subscript: H2O.

  Despite the occasional tidyings-up, chemistry by the second half of the nineteenth century was in something of a mess, which is why everybody was so pleased by the rise to prominence in 1869 of an odd and crazed-looking professor at the University of St. Petersburg named Dmitri Ivanovich Mendeleyev.

  Mendeleyev (also sometimes spelled Mendeleev or Mendeléef) was born in 1834 at Tobolsk, in the far
west of Siberia, into a well-educated, reasonably prosperous and very large family—so large, in fact, that history has lost track of exactly how many Mendeleyevs there were: some sources say there were fourteen children, some say seventeen. All agree, at any rate, that Dmitri was the youngest. Luck was not always with the Mendeleyevs. When Dmitri was small his father, the headmaster of a local school, went blind and his mother had to go out to work. Clearly an extraordinary woman, she eventually became the manager of a successful glass factory. All went well until 1848, when the factory burned down and the family was reduced to penury. Determined to get her youngest child an education, the indomitable Mrs. Mendeleyev hitchhiked with young Dmitri four thousand miles to St. Petersburg—that’s equivalent to travelling from London to Equatorial Guinea—and deposited him at the Institute of Pedagogy. Worn out by her efforts, she died soon after.

  Dmitri Mendeleyev, creator of the Periodic Table, caught in a moment of rare tranquillity during his stormy final years. (credit 7.7)

  Mendeleyev dutifully completed his studies and eventually landed a position at the local university. There he was a competent but not terribly outstanding chemist, known more for his wild hair and beard, which he had trimmed just once a year, than for his gifts in the laboratory.

  However, in 1869, at the age of thirty-five, he began to toy with a way to arrange the elements. At the time, elements were normally grouped in two ways—either by atomic weight (using Avogadro’s Principle) or by common properties (whether they were metals or gases, for instance). Mendeleyev’s breakthrough was to see that the two could be combined in a single table.