5 Beyond Radical Empiricism

Romantic Theory: Forms of Reflexivity in the Revolutionary Era

CHAPTER FIVE

Beyond Radical Empiricism

From 1801 to 1812, the lecture theater of the Royal Institution figured as one of the most fashionable meeting places for London society. In our effort to reconstruct the scene, it’s only natural to begin with the room itself. Here, then, you would have steeply banked rows of seats arranged in a semicircle so as to converge on an open space. Above, a gallery supported by posts over the ground floor. At night, lamps attached to these posts would help to light the scene. In the middle of the open space where all eyes converged, a large table with a portion of its rear hollowed out held all the lecturer’s equipment. Behind the lecturer, a decorative pediment. And, on either side of that pediment, doors that opened into another room, one whose shelves and apparatus clearly marked it as a laboratory.

Next, we have a description of what the lecturer’s equipment would typically consist of: “a sand bath [“a vessel of heated sand used as an equable heater for retorts, etc. in various chemical processes,” OED], for chemical purposes, and for heating the room; a powerful blast furnace; a moveable iron forge, with a double bellows; a blow-pipe apparatus, attached to a table, with double bellows underneath; a large mercurial trough, and two or three water pneumatic troughs, and various galvanic troughs; not to mention gasometers, filtering stands, and the common necessaries of a laboratory” (Davy, CW I, p. 94).

Then we have the lecturer.¹ A contemporary journal offered this impression: “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 distinguished excellence” (Davy, CW I, p. 88; variant in Paris I, p. 141). His brother John Davy, in the Memoirs, gives his appearance in detail: his eyes a light hazel color, “wonderfully bright, and seemed almost to emit a soft light when animated,” his voice equally memorable, with a richness of tone that he modulated expressively (CW I, pp. 441–44). Another early biographer, John Paris, observes: “So rapid were all his movements, that, while a spectator imagined he was merely making preparations for an experiment, he was actually obtaining the results, which were just as accurate as if a much longer time had been expended” (Paris I, pp. 144–45).

We also know the amount of care bestowed on these lectures—as if they were theatrical performances, with each lecture fully written out, especially the sections designed for rhetorical effect. And how carefully they were rehearsed: “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” (CW I, p. 92).

Finally, the audience. On April 25, 1801, Humphry Davy gave his inaugural address on chemistry to a packed house. Over time, his audience would gradually increase, until it numbered, in his last years, nearly a thousand people. A survey of the crowd would have shown the beau monde of London: the duchess of Gordon and all the other prominent ladies of fashion, plus numerous other members of the aristocracy. But the crowd would also have included many of the best and the brightest: Coleridge, Sir Joseph Banks (longtime president of the Royal Society), the notorious Count Rumford, and other founders of the Royal Institution. And a number of people simply curious or eager to learn, like Samuel Purkis (a practical tanner). We also know from various sources about the sort of adulation lavished on Davy: of the literary lady who addressed him anonymously in a verse panegyric, accompanied by a splendid watch ornament that she asked him to wear at his next lecture, of the “general and repeated applause” after each performance, and the constant invitations to the soirees of the high and mighty, who considered his presence indispensable.

To some extent, the interest Davy aroused was due partly to unusual circumstances. Once Napoleon’s blockade had closed off continental Europe, the upper class found itself nearly desperate for new sources of entertainment. The intense excitement produced by the French Revolution had been followed by a period of despondency. While reaction to the Revolution itself was mixed, opinion about the Directory and, subsequently, Napoleon, was almost unequivocal. Virtually a decade and a half of war was interrupted only by the brief, uneasy Peace of Amiens (1802). Grain shortages and the loss of foreign markets brought the national economy dangerously close to collapse. Uncertain finances led in turn to social unrest. Besides the prolonged anxiety fostered by political and economic instability, Napoleon’s so-called Continental System or blockade spelled the cultural isolation of England. From now on, it would have to turn inward, to its own resources.²

Behind any interest felt by the audience, moreover, lay the pressure exerted by the ideology of the Royal Institution itself.³ Only recently founded, it represented a joint effort by the aristocracy and some distinguished names from the sciences. Its joint sponsorship reflected a specific programme, based on a belief that science should apply itself to the problems of everyday life. In particular, the Royal Institution wanted to employ the fruits of research to improve conditions for the lower classes. Backed by money from wealthy landowners, it hoped in this way to stave off social unrest. Specifically, it looked to the possibility of a breakthrough in agricultural chemistry or some of the other practical sciences for massive social improvement. In that respect, its emphasis was distinctly empirical.

From the kind of research programme sponsored by the Royal Institution, we can get some sense of how radically the status of chemistry had changed since the eighteenth century.⁴ Although work by Cavendish, Priestley, and Lavoisier had elevated Enlightenment chemistry to a new level, the amount of knowledge required to understand current research hadn’t yet passed beyond the scope of those outside the field. In part this was because the laboratory equipment used remained relatively simple. Likewise, the experiments performed were the kind of stuff any person of leisure could easily do at home. Henry Cavendish, in particular, had made his fame on experimentation for which the necessary equipment was both small and minimal: in some instances, just a heat source and a bit of glassware.

By contrast, the kind of research work sponsored by the Royal Institution was different. From the list supplied by Davy’s brother, we can already form some idea of how it differed: pieces like the “powerful blast furnace” or the “moveable iron forge” or gasometers or filtration devices were hardly available to just anybody. Perhaps the most remarkable, though, was the 2,000-plate battery employed by Davy for his work on electrochemistry. Here was a massive, new kind of apparatus, constructed at a cost that could only be borne by an institution. From equipment of this kind, the Royal Institution expected research results of a different order from what you might obtain from merely private sources. In other words, the new, institutionally funded science ought to yield knowledge that would revolutionize the sciences and lead to a significant payoff on the practical level.

Given this sort of pressure, it seems fairly clear that the only way for Davy to pursue a pure research programme would have to entail experimental results powerful enough to redefine the entire field. As he saw it, the way to do this would have to involve the discovery of new elements, or an isolation of the most basic chemical substances. Nonetheless, the simple discovery of new elements wouldn’t suffice by itself to redefine chemistry as a field. Instead, as Davy realized, the importance of any such discovery would become apparent only if it were able to produce a transformative effect on theory. In other words, the discovery of new elements would have to lead to a new and radically different theory of matter. But for that to happen, something more than experimentation would be required. Specifically, he would need a rationale to revise chemical theory, one derived from theory itself.

One of the easiest ways to get there would be to revisit the question of phlogiston. The most intensely debated issue in eighteenth-century chemistry, it had become a focal point in the conflict between different approaches. Hence its usefulness as an index of the dominant trend. Supported by some of the most celebrated chemists at the time (Priestley and Cavendish, among others), the phlogiston doctrine fixes a pivotal moment in the history of chemistry. And the early nineteenth-century revival of phlogiston theory shows that the debate couldn’t be resolved simply by an appeal to experimental data. Obviously, the issue carried broader theoretical consequences.⁵

Essentially, phlogiston represents an attempt to describe what happens in combustion. When mercury is gently heated in the presence of air, a red powder gradually spreads over its surface. A similar treatment of copper produces a black film on the metal. In both instances, what we have is a calx (pl. calxes or calces), the product of a metal heated in the presence of air (i.e., what we now term an oxide). G. E. Stahl (1660–1734) explained its formation in the following way:

images

Heating the metal caused the phlogiston to escape, while the calx remained. The problem here was that the calx turned out to be heavier than the original metal, despite a supposed loss of phlogiston (for Stahl, the principle of inflammability). But if phlogiston lent some weight to the metal, the result of its loss from heat seemed contradictory.

The discrepancy led to a slightly modified explanation:

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Here the metal gets defined as X + phlogiston (instead of calx + phlogiston), where X and the calx aren’t identical. As heat forces phlogiston to escape, the X unites with “something” to form the calx. Unlike Stahl’s version, the modified one avoids any discrepancy because the “something” united with X in the calx is heavier than the phlogiston it replaces. Meanwhile, attention shifts from phlogiston to the “something” whose combination with a metal forms the calx. Since the calx is distinctly heavier than the original metal, the “something” that makes it heavier must weigh more than phlogiston.

Another way to get around the problem was to assume phlogiston didn’t escape in combustion. Instead, you might argue it remained in the metal, where it would attract gaseous matter from the air. In that way, you could explain why the calx was heavier than the original metal. What you couldn’t explain was what the gaseous matter involved in the formation of a calx consisted of. Still, you could at least offer a more complex picture of that formation. In both of these explanations, phlogiston plays a very diminished role. Yes, it still represents inflammation, but otherwise has largely ceased to figure in the chemistry of the reaction. Whether it remains within the metal or escapes no longer matters. At this point, its presence has become purely perfunctory. The suggestion that it might still be in the metal shows its original function has now been lost sight of entirely.

To this general description, the great French chemist Lavoisier contributed two important points. First, he established (ca. 1774) that the “something” in the modified explanation was oxygen. Second, he showed that the weight of the calx was exactly equal to the weight of the original metal plus the oxygen with which it combined. Collectively, his two points demonstrate the untenability of the modified explanation, where, if we substitute oxygen for the unidentified “something,” we get

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Such a scheme violated his second point: if the combined weight of the original metal plus the oxygen was exactly equal to the weight of the resultant calx, any phlogiston would obviously be extra. Lavoisier then proposed to simplify the modified explanation:

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In effect, his proposal represented a move to eliminate phlogiston.

Nevertheless, you could still save phlogiston by an ad hoc adjustment:

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Here phlogiston escapes from the metal to unite with oxygen. Then, phlogiston plus oxygen combine with the X of the original metal to form a calx. Essentially, this was equivalent to what Lavoisier had proposed, if we define the original metal as composed of X + phlogiston. It preserved the weight ratio he had established: the combined weights of metal + oxygen are exactly equal to that of the calx. The complication, of course, was that you had to posit a two-phase process. Still, phlogiston + oxygen on the right-hand side of the equation could have explanatory value under other circumstances. Cavendish’s discovery of water = hydrogen + oxygen in 1781 meant that if you identified phlogiston with hydrogen, the presence of water or moisture in various chemical reactions could be readily explained.

From here we can go to Davy, and, specifically, his Elements of Chemical Philosophy:

It has been mentioned that almost all cases of vivid chemical action are connected with the increase of temperature of the acting bodies, and a greater radiation of heat from them; and in a number of instances, light is also produced.… The strength of the attraction of the acting bodies determines the rapidity of combination, and in proportion as this is greater, so likewise is there more intensity of heat and light. In the phlogistic doctrine of chemistry, all changes in which heat and light are manifested, were explained by supposing that the acting bodies contained the principle of inflammability; in the anti-phlogistic doctrine, most of them have been accounted for by imagining the position or transfer of oxygen: but all the later researches seem to shew that no peculiar substance, or form of matter is necessary for the effect; that it is a general result of the actions of any substances possessed of strong chemical attractions, or different electrical relations, and that it takes place in all cases in which an intense and violent motion can be conceived to be communicated to the corpuscles of bodies. (CW IV, pp. 165–66)

If what Davy says in this passage about phlogiston is of interest in itself, it becomes yet more so if we look at it for what it tells us about his entire theoretical perspective. To be sure, his discussion is ostensibly about phlogiston. But his arguments against it have finally less to do with phlogiston than with chemistry in general. In other words, he saw that the phlogiston issue wasn’t really just about how you might want to explain a particular kind of chemical reaction. Instead, he realized that what was at stake, ultimately, was the whole way you did chemistry: what counted from your standpoint as explanation, and how you arrived at it. In that respect, I would argue, his remarks point to a metatheory rather than simply a chemical theory. Looked at closely, they reveal an awareness of what lies behind the theoretical choices we make. At the same time, they also convey a sense of what Davy considered the essential theoretical requirements. For him, the paramount criteria for any theory appear to be:

(a) theoretical economy

(b) universal explanation

To see how Davy arrives at these criteria, we need to look at what he says about the history of phlogiston theory elsewhere in Elements of Chemical Philosophy (CW IV, pp. 28–29). In 1774, Bayen had shown that mercury converted into a calx or oxide by the absorption of air could be restored to its initial state “without the addition of any inflammable substance.” His discovery flatly contradicted what phlogiston theory believed ought to happen: if mercury gave off phlogiston (i.e., an inflammable substance) when it became a calx or oxide, it presumably would need to get it back in order to return to its initial state. The fact that this didn’t happen allowed Bayen to conclude “that there was no necessity for supposing the existence of any peculiar principle of inflammability.” Davy then goes on to discuss Lavoisier, who studied the air given off by the calx of mercury (mercuric oxide), which he found to consist of a gas he named oxygen. But if oxygen were actually given off by the calx of mercury when it reverted to pure mercury, it must have been acquired by mercury when it became a calx. So calcination amounts to gain (i.e., of oxygen) rather than loss (of phlogiston). Davy then sums up all these results with a general remark by Lavoisier himself: “There is no necessity … to suppose any phlogiston, any peculiar principle of inflammability: for all the phenomena may be accounted for without this imaginary existence.” Subsequently, Davy comments on the methodological principle behind Lavoisier’s scheme: “The most important part of the theory of Lavoisier was merely an arrangement of the facts relating to the combinations of oxygen: the principle of reasoning which the French school professed to adopt was, that every body which was not yet decompounded, should be considered as simple; and though mistakes were made with respect to the results of experiments on the nature of bodies, yet this logical and truly philosophical principle was not violated; and the systematic manner in which it was enforced, was of the greatest use in promoting the progress of the science” (CW IV, p. 31).

One reason why Davy liked the way Lavoisier treated the phlogiston issue is that it preserves theoretical economy. Obviously, some substances “not yet decompounded” will later prove to consist of more than one element. Yet Davy clearly prefers to define these substances provisionally as simple. Specifically, he speaks of the decision to treat them that way as a “logical and truly philosophical principle.” The “philosophical” quality of such a move doesn’t necessarily mean it’s more accurate in its assessment of individual substances than a theory that sees these as complex. On the contrary: he even admits the French school made “mistakes … with respect to the results of experiments on the nature of bodies.” What marks the French treatment of undecompounded substances as philosophical, however, is the “systematic manner in which it was enforced.” In other words, the payoff for a theory that sees undecompounded substances as simple comes at the level of theory. As long as you stick to the notion that all such substances are simple, you don’t have to posit any peculiar substance or principle of inflammability. And that means: no superfluous constructs. It might turn out that you’re ultimately forced to admit the existence of some additional substance. But at least you can be sure you’ll never posit an element or substance that doesn’t exist. Significantly, Davy doesn’t even want to rely too heavily on oxygen as a principle of inflammability. So while the antiphlogistic theory wants to account for heat and light by the position or transfer of oxygen, he himself clearly prefers to assert that “no peculiar substance, or form of matter is necessary for the effect.” What we have here, then, is theoretical economy at its most extreme.

Another reason why Davy liked Lavoisier’s treatment of the phlogiston issue is because of its tendency toward universal explanation. Lavoisier had focused primarily on chemical reactions that involved oxygen. As Davy points out, “The most important part of the theory of Lavoisier was merely an arrangement of the facts relating to the combinations of oxygen.” But while his experimental data were largely about oxygen, Lavoisier didn’t restrict his theory to chemical reactions of a particular class or group. Instead, he generalized his conclusion, so as to embrace all chemical substances: “the principle of reasoning which the French school professed to adopt was, that every body which was not yet decompounded, should be considered as simple.” In this fashion, what we find out about a particular class or group of substances could potentially be made to apply universally. Like Davy, Lavoisier could then say about his discovery of what happened in a particular set of chemical reactions involving heat and light: “it is a general result of the actions of any substances possessed of strong chemical attractions.” From a specific body of chemical data, in other words, he moved toward universal explanation.

Finally, the particular way Davy chose to describe what Lavoisier professed allows us a glimpse of how theory could lead to the creation of objectivity. As Davy puts it, the French school maintained that “every body which was not yet decompounded, should be considered as simple.” Not that it necessarily was simple: experimental data, in fact, would often prove otherwise. But what Davy ascribes to Lavoisier here is the insight that because of how the sciences are, it can be useful and even necessary to assert a theory for which we don’t have decisive evidence, so that we can eventually arrive at some sort of objectivity. Hence the adherence of the French school to its theory of undecompounded substances as simple “was of the greatest use in promoting the progress of the science.” Because of its adherence to that theory, it forced experimental inquiry to move in a particular direction. And out of the interplay between experiment and theory emerged what we term objectivity. But it all begins with theory. As Davy observes, chemical reactions that involve heat and light take place “in all cases in which an intense and violent motion can be conceived to be communicated to the corpuscles of bodies.” If the objectivity at which we finally arrive has its source in what we can conceive, however, it clearly amounts to an objectivity defined by theory.

If we turn now to the research topics Davy himself pursued, we find an excellent example of his drive toward theoretical economy in his effort to isolate new elements by means of a Voltaic apparatus or pile. An arrangement of metal discs (one zinc or tin, the other silver or copper) stacked on top of each other in pairs, with brine-soaked cardboard in between (e.g., zinc-copper/cardboard/zinc-copper/cardboard, and so on), the Voltaic pile could easily be made more powerful by the addition of more discs and cardboard pieces. With metal strips attached at either end and placed in separate bowls of water, the pile induced a shock in anyone who placed his or her hands in both bowls simultaneously. Shortly after Alessandro Volta communicated this discovery to two correspondents in England, two British scientists accidentally decomposed water into oxygen and hydrogen by means of a Voltaic pile. When they attached two platina wires inserted at opposite ends of a stoppered, water-filled glass tube to the two ends of a pile, they found that oxygen and hydrogen streamed away from the wires. This experiment set the stage for what followed. By means of more powerful devices (the ultimate: a battery of 2,000 double plates, constructed for the Royal Institution), Davy managed to break down a variety of substances. His work led to the discovery of new elements: sodium, potassium, calcium, magnesium, barium, and strontium, among others. At the same time, the proliferation of new elements posed a problem Davy hadn’t anticipated. Would the list continue to expand indefinitely? And if so, how could one possibly organize anything that extensive?

Hence the need for a simplification of some kind. In his discussion of how an element ought to be defined, Davy observes:

The term element is used as synonymous with undecompounded body; but in modern chemistry its application is limited to the results of experiments. The improvements taking place in the methods of examining bodies, are constantly changing the opinions of chemists with respect to their nature, and there is no reason to suppose that any real indestructible principle has been yet discovered. Matter may ultimately be found to be the same in essence, differing only in the arrangements of its particles; or two or three simple substances may produce all the varieties of compound bodies. The results of our operations must be considered as offering at best approximations only to the true knowledge of things, and should never be exalted as a standard to estimate the resources of nature. (CW IV, p. 132)

Here the emphasis on experiment as a means of definition can be read as an attempt to reduce the list of substances that qualify as elements. Earlier, in his treatment of undecompounded substances as simple, Davy had been quite generous in his admission policy: any substance not yet decompounded was allowed in. But even though an element is, in principle, equivalent to an undecompounded substance, the standard for admission is now much tighter: only those substances shown to be undecompoundable by experiment can qualify. In fact, however, the emphasis on experiment as a criterion for admission is even tighter than it might appear to be. After all, the result of any given experiment can always be superseded by a subsequent experiment. So even if the result of a given experiment would seem to suggest that some substance can’t be broken down, the result of a subsequent experiment could easily prove otherwise. Potentially, then, the emphasis on experiment as a criterion destabilizes the entire list of elements. Obviously, any so-called element that we manage to break down is categorically eliminated from the list. But because any substance not yet decompounded might be broken down by a subsequent experiment, the present list of elements could conceivably always be further reduced.

In his desire for theoretical economy, moreover, Davy even appears inclined to go beyond what might be ascertained within the field of chemistry. As he himself points out, “The improvements taking place in the methods of examining bodies, are constantly changing the opinions of chemists with respect to their nature.” Yet the inference he draws from that may come as somewhat of a surprise: “and there is no reason to suppose that any real indestructible principle has been yet discovered.” Chemistry is all about relationships between different substances. But if we have no reason to speak of any indestructible principle, any notions we might have about relationships between substances would likewise be radically destabilized. Since any substance could presumably be broken down into multiple constituents, we could no longer talk about the elements out of which these substances were composed. And without some sense of what the elements or primary substances were, any attempt to explain combinations or reactions between substances would also cease to be meaningful: simply put, we’d no longer know what was responsible for a given relationship or combination. In this fashion, what Davy says by way of an argument for theoretical economy appears to look beyond the limits of chemistry itself.

The fact that Davy doesn’t seem especially concerned about whether matter turns out to be essentially the same or composed of two or three simple substances also points to how theoretical economy is the real issue. Davy merely observes that “matter may ultimately be found to be the same in essence, differing only in the arrangements of its particles; or two or three simple substances may produce all the varieties of compound bodies.” In fact, the two scenarios would yield very different consequences. If all of matter turns out to be essentially the same, we need to look to physics for an explanation of why a given combination or reaction ultimately occurs. But if all of matter reduces to two or three simple substances rather than just one, emphasis would then fall on precisely how and why they combine. And that would give the primacy, in effect, to chemistry. Yet Davy doesn’t seem to care particularly about which scenario turns out to be true. We can explain his indifference, I would argue, if we see theoretical economy as his central concern. From that perspective, it doesn’t matter whether matter is uniform or composed of several elemental substances. In either case, theoretical economy is preserved.

For Davy, the corollary to theoretical economy is universal explanation. You restrict the number of theoretical constructs you use precisely because they yield a universal explanation for all phenomena. But a universal explanation necessitates some sort of explanatory model. Toward the end of Elements, Davy attempts to offer one:

There is, however, no impossibility in the supposition that the same ponderable matter in different electrical states, or in different arrangements, may constitute substances chemically different: there are parallel cases in the different states in which bodies are found, connected with their different relations to temperature. Thus steam, ice, and water, are the same ponderable matter; and certain quantities of ice and steam mixed together produce ice-cold water. Even if it should be ultimately found that oxygen and hydrogen are the same matter in different states of electricity, or that two or three elements in different proportions constitute all bodies, the great doctrines of chemistry, the theory of definite proportions, and the specific attractions of bodies must remain immutable; the causes of the differences of form of the bodies supposed to be elementary, if such a step were made, must be ascertained, and the only change in the science would be, that those substances now considered as primary elements must be considered as secondary; but the numbers representing them would be the same, and they would probably be all found to be produced by the additions of multiples of some simple numbers or fractional parts. (CW IV, p. 364)

Clearly, the challenge to any attempt at universal explanation is to be able to explain away differences. Specifically, what Davy wants to show is how we might have essential sameness despite apparent differences. In order to demonstrate that, he has to prove that differences aren’t absolute, that they don’t carry ontological significance, that they don’t define what substances are. His example of ice-cold water produced by a mixture of steam and ice allows him to make his point. Normally, we think of steam and ice as representative of different states of matter. The fact that they can mix to form ice-cold water attests to the lack of any rigid or absolute link between what they are and the states of matter they supposedly represent. In addition, the existence of ice-cold water also blurs the definiteness of any given state of matter. The effect of all this is to erode the significance of physical differences. If physical differences don’t invariably indicate different states of matter, they needn’t militate against sameness on some more essential level. And if physical differences have no effect on chemical identity (water as chemically the same, whether it’s liquid, steam, or ice), the same might presumably be equally true of chemical differences vis-à-vis some more essential definition of substances.

The way to arrive at a universal explanation, as Davy sees it, is by means of a shift from qualitative to quantitative. Steam, water, and ice describe a substance from a qualitative standpoint. But it would be equally appropriate to consider the same substance from a quantitative standpoint, in terms of temperature. And if we did that, what we would discover is the relation between conditions that appear to be completely different on a qualitative level. Instead of differences, then, we get continuity from a quantitative (temperature) standpoint. And the fact that we can describe all substances from a temperature standpoint offers a clue as to how we might arrive at some sort of universal explanation. For Davy, quantitative description isn’t just another perspective. Rather, its role is to explain the qualitative. When we ascribe numbers to different substances, our motive isn’t merely descriptive. By means of numerical assignments, what we hope to understand is how and why we get the chemical reactions produced by particular substances. We understand these reactions and the substances they involve numerically: “by the additions of multiples of some simple numbers or fractional parts.” In this fashion, as a mode of description that can be applied to all substances, the quantitative presents a way to explain how we arrive at the qualitative.⁶

At the same time, the framework of a universal explanation forces Davy to think about the relation of the different sciences to each other. On that point, he observes: “Even if it should be ultimately found that oxygen and hydrogen are the same matter in different states of electricity, or that two or three elements in different proportions constitute all bodies, the great doctrines of chemistry, the theory of definite proportions, and the specific attractions of bodies must remain immutable.” So it isn’t as if chemistry would disappear if we were able to arrive at some sort of universal explanation. All the same, its position would be altered: “and the only change in the science would be, that those substances now considered as primary elements must be considered as secondary.” In other words, chemistry would lose its primacy. The substances now considered primary would become secondary because we could explain their composition in terms of the different electrical states of a few simple substances. And that would be to give the primacy to physics. Yet Davy doesn’t seem to care. For him, what’s more important is that universal explanation allows us to see a relation between the different sciences.

To a large extent, any attempt at a universal explanation has to be based on a claim that the different forces we observe are either rigorously connected or identical. If that were true, then all the diverse explanations of their activity produced by the different sciences become variants of a single story. In order to substantiate his own version of a universal explanation, Davy specifically needs to show that electrical = chemical forces.⁷ His first Bakerian lecture (November 20, 1806) tries to do just that:

Amongst the substances that combine chemically, all those, the electrical energies of which are well known, exhibit opposite states … and supposing perfect freedom of motion in their particles or elementary matter, they ought, according to the principles laid down, to attract each other in consequence of their electrical powers. In the present state of our knowledge, it would be useless to attempt to speculate on the remote cause of the electrical energy, or the reason why different bodies, after being brought into contact, should be found differently electrified; its relation to chemical affinity is, however, sufficiently evident. May it not be identical with it, and an essential property of matter? (CW V, pp. 39–40)

At this point, Davy can only advance his claim that electrical = chemical forces as a hypothesis. By way of support, he mentions a simple experimental fact: “Amongst the substances that combine chemically, all those, the electrical energies of which are well known, exhibit opposite states.” Since the electrical condition of many other substances is still unknown, however, his evidence remains inconclusive. After all, it might turn out that substances strongly attracted but identically rather than oppositely charged evade notice precisely because an absence of opposite charges is hard to detect. The fact that we don’t know the electrical status of many substances that combine might even work against the notion that electrical and chemical forces are identical. Furthermore, Davy is fully aware that our ignorance about electricity makes it hard to demonstrate any claim about electrical and chemical forces persuasively. Hence his admission that “in the present state of our knowledge, it would be useless to attempt to speculate on the remote cause of the electrical energy, or the reason why different bodies, after being brought into contact, should be found differently electrified.” Conceivably, the fact that we don’t know how bodies become differently electrified might even make it difficult to prove the identity of electrical and chemical forces. Given all this, Davy can only say of electricity in substances that “its relation to chemical affinity is … sufficiently evident.” As a result, his hypothesis that electrical = chemical forces remains initially tentative.

Nonetheless, any evidence of a closely proportional relationship between the degree to which a substance is electrified and the extent of its chemical affinity to other substances would certainly make the hypothesis more plausible. Subsequently, Davy tries to specify a proportionality of this kind:

But different substances have different degrees of the same electrical energy in relation to the same body: thus the different acids and alkalies are possessed of different energies with regard to the same metal; sulphuric acid, for instance, is more powerful with lead than muriatic acid, and solution of potash is more active with tin than solution of soda. (CW V, p. 40)

Here the phrase “different degrees of the same electrical energy” implies that the attractive force in different substances is essentially the same. This sameness of the attractive force allows Davy to explain how one substance can attract a body more strongly than another substance does. In other words, electrical energy is easily quantifiable, whereas affinity (which has to do with qualities) isn’t.

Still, the mere fact that one substance exerts a stronger attraction than another needn’t imply the attractive force is electrical. Clearly, other physical forces such as heat can easily do the same. To demonstrate that the attractive force is electrical, Davy should be able to point to qualities that apply to it uniquely:

When two bodies repellent of each other act upon the same body with different degrees of the same electrical attracting energy, the combination would be determined by the degree; and the substance possessing the weakest energy would be repelled; and this principle would afford an expression of the causes of elective affinity, and the decompositions produced in consequence. (CW V, p. 41)

Now if the attraction of two bodies to a third were purely chemical, it isn’t clear why the first two bodies would mutually repel. Instead, we ought to have either a partial combination of the first and third bodies with a lesser amount of the second and third, or perhaps some combination of all three bodies. What marks the attractive force as electrical, then, is the mutual repulsion between the first two bodies. We can account for it by an exclusively electrical principle: that similarly charged bodies repel.

Davy also puts forward other evidence to support his claim that electrical = chemical forces. For example, he points out that similar consequences accompany intense electrical and chemical activity:

Whenever bodies brought by artificial means into a high state of opposite electricities are made to restore the equilibrium, heat and light are the common consequences. It is perhaps an additional circumstance, in favour of the theory to state, that heat and light are likewise the result of all intense chemical action. (CW V, p. 43)

Such an observation encourages us to think about electricity and chemical affinity within a larger framework. If heat and light are the common consequences of intense electrical and chemical activity, the fact that they consistently accompany both forms of activity hints at a possible identity of electrical and chemical forces. But it also implies some sort of deeper relation between all these forces, as a way to explain why heat and light invariably occur whenever we have intense electrical or chemical activity.

Meanwhile, the notion of an electrical equilibrium serves to link electrical and chemical forces in yet another way. By means of a Voltaic apparatus, Davy found he could elevate bodies to the “high state of opposite electricities” he describes. The process by which that tension is restored to equilibrium gives further evidence of an intimate relation between electrical and chemical forces:

The great tendency of the attraction of the different chemical agents, by the positive and negative surfaces in the Voltaic apparatus, seems to be to restore the electrical equilibrium.… The electrical energies of the metals with regard to each other, or the substances dissolved in the water, in the Voltaic and other analogous instruments, seem to be the causes that disturb the equilibrium, and the chemical changes the causes that tend to restore the equilibrium; and the phenomena most probably depend on their joint agency. (CW V, pp. 44–45)

If the chemical changes mentioned by Davy can restore the equilibrium disturbed by electrical forces, it seems natural to suppose these changes result from chemical forces sufficient to counteract the electrical forces he speaks of. But in order for chemical forces to counteract electrical forces, they must be similar in kind.

Despite all the evidence Davy has amassed to demonstrate his claim about electrical and chemical forces, it’s still possible to argue they aren’t necessarily identical. For instance, they might be involved in a causal relationship of some sort. Superficially, such a relationship could look quite similar to one in which they’re identical. After all, forces causally related always occur together. In fact, however, identity and causal relationships are ultimately quite different. If causally related, one element or force should invariably produce the second. But if the two are identical, we might see one without the other (under some circumstances, electrical forces might not manifest themselves chemically, and vice versa). To demonstrate that electrical and chemical forces are identical, then, what Davy needs to specify are instances of electrical energy without chemical alteration and, conversely, of chemical change without electricity (CW V, pp. 49–51). By means of these examples, he can then eliminate the possibility of a causal relationship between electrical and chemical forces.

If theoretical economy led for Davy to universal explanation, the ultimate consequence of universal explanation was the creation of objectivity. Chemistry, in other words, didn’t just discover the realm of fact. Instead, as Davy saw it, the role of chemistry (or, for that matter, any of the sciences) was to create the objectivity we associate with the world out there. What Davy had come to perceive was that objectivity didn’t consist merely of inert, unconceptualized fact. By itself, fact was chaotic, unorganized. To put it another way, fact alone didn’t lead you anywhere. To make sense of it, you had to have some means to shape it, organize it. And that meant you had to come to it with some sort of theory. Objectivity, then, would grow out of a dynamic tension between theory and fact. Rather than a static realm of fact, it would amount to a process. In his preface to Elements, Davy attempts to describe what that process would involve:

The foundations of chemical philosophy are, observation, experiment, and analogy. By observation, facts are distinctly and minutely impressed on the mind. By analogy, similar facts are connected. By experiment, new facts are discovered; and, in the progression of knowledge, observation, guided by analogy, leads to experiment, and analogy confirmed by experiment, becomes scientific truth. (CW IV, p. 2)

Here the moral of the story might be: what begins as theory returns at the end to theory. The process starts, Davy says, by observation. By observation, facts are “distinctly and minutely impressed on the mind.” But observation isn’t neutral. To a large extent, as Davy himself no doubt realized, we see what we want to see. So it starts, in effect, with the mind. Which is to say: with a disposition or tendency to theory. The formative role of theory becomes even more evident in the next phrase: “By analogy, similar facts are connected.” It’s only natural to connect similar facts. The real question, though, is how we determine similarity. Clearly, whether two or more facts are similar or not has to depend on the perspective you take. So it comes back to the mind and, specifically, its theoretical perspective. In the last phase, Davy asserts, new facts are discovered by means of experiment. Given the need for experiment, however, the process can’t just be about our perception of what’s already there. After all, the “new facts” Davy speaks of can only be arrived at by experiment. In a sense, then, we might say that experiment creates or produces objectivity. But experiment itself has its source in the particular theory we want to prove. Hence theory might be described as the ultimate source of objectivity.⁸

Subsequently, Davy goes on to talk about the process by which we arrive at objectivity even more explicitly. In this version of the story, the process starts when “observation, guided by analogy, leads to experiment.” Here Davy makes it more evident than before that observation doesn’t operate from a neutral posture. The fact that it’s guided by analogy distinctly points to a theoretical perspective. But if experiment comes about as a result of observation guided by analogy, the real source of all experimental activity must then be some form of theory. We don’t engage in experimental activity, then, just to answer a question. We get into it because of a theory we already have. So the role of experiment for Davy is really to confirm or support a theory. Or, as he puts it: “analogy confirmed by experiment, becomes scientific truth.” Here it’s important to note that analogy confirmed by experiment doesn’t just become confirmed analogy. Instead, it takes on a different kind of value. Yet the whole process is, to a large extent, a circular one: theory gets involved with factual material, but only so that at the end it can return to itself, on a higher level. And that higher level is what we mean by objectivity.

For Davy, the initial effect of all his experimental work was to foster a radical empiricism. The discovery of new elements by means of a breakdown of substances meant you couldn’t rely simply on what you perceived or observed. After all, elements that couldn’t normally be found in isolation had emerged as a result of experiment. Thus what you perceived no longer seemed to correspond to the way things actually were. But if what you perceived no longer gave you a reliable knowledge of how things are, the less reason to subscribe to any sort of traditional empiricism. In the quest for knowledge, experiment had clearly come to play a major role. As practiced by Davy, moreover, it was in many ways antithetical to the empiricist perspective because it was creative rather than just observational. From his standpoint, experiment led, you might say, to the creation of new elements. At the same time, experiment also frequently involved the destruction of constructs we normally use to describe substances. If substances could be broken down or made to yield previously unsuspected elements, they obviously weren’t primary. In that sense, experiment gave rise to a kind of negativity. As a result, empiricism in Davy turned radical.

Yet Davy didn’t remain in that posture, and the reason he didn’t has to do with the emergence of theory. Here theory emerges as a consequence of negativity: the destruction of all our normal constructs for substances meant we would have to formulate a new theory to express the results of experiments. In that respect, chemistry at the outset of the nineteenth century looked like the French Revolutionary scene: once you eliminate traditional beliefs, you somehow have to fill the void you’ve created. For Davy, however, it all felt quite natural. From his standpoint, theory emerged ineluctably out of the very experimental data he obtained. The fact that new elements could be found by means of an electrochemical breakdown of substances pointed to a simplicity in matter itself, if not an essential sameness. And likewise for combinations of substances, where the consistency of simple proportions taught a similar simplicity in how we ought to describe chemical affinity. Without theory, moreover, you couldn’t arrive at objectivity. To form a picture of the world, you had to have a mix of theory and fact. Fact alone wouldn’t get you there because it couldn’t explain all the lacunae created by the new experimental mode of chemistry. And so, for better or worse, chemistry found itself committed to theory.

The circumstances under which Davy turned to theory produced a need, in turn, for metatheory. As he himself promptly recognized, facts are shaped by theory. Experiments give rise to new facts, but experiments are devised by theory. Inevitably, any facts we generate by means of experiment come to exist within a matrix of theory. But if experimental fact always appears within a matrix of theory, we need to be aware of what the choices for theory are. What Davy gradually came to perceive, in other words, was the autonomy of theory. When the sciences had been more purely observational, theory was largely determined by fact. But experiment, carried out by the new instruments he now had at his disposal, gave chemistry a power it didn’t have before. From now on, it could generate, by experiment, the facts necessary to support itself. If not determined by fact, however, theory now faced a need to choose what it wanted to be. And with that need to choose came the need for a basis to justify its choices. Hence the motive for metatheory. Meanwhile, metatheory would also make it possible to define the relation between the sciences. As a result of his work in electrochemistry, Davy had caught a glimpse of what that relation might be. But if each science has its own theory, he could see the need for some sort of metatheory that would embrace all the sciences. From universal explanation, then, he began to feel his way toward universal theory.

What we get from Davy, finally, is a hint of the larger picture. By means of reflexivity, he could discern the process by which theory or analogy became objectivity through experiment. But if reflexivity had shown him how theory became objectivity, what it nonetheless failed to yield was some insight into how we might arrive at theory itself. Because reflexivity could see how theory became objectivity, it could point to the need for a viewpoint above and beyond that of theory. What it couldn’t give, however, was a sense of what that viewpoint ought to involve.

In that respect, theory in the sciences differed from other forms of Romantic theory.⁹ For those other forms of Romantic theory, negativity and reflexivity would be sufficient to generate theory. From their standpoint, theory essentially came about through some movement of return whereby what was initially posited or asserted would come back to itself. And in the process by which it did that, it would arrive at the sort of higher awareness we call theory. The sciences, however, were different. And the reason for it lay in the role of objectivity. Because of objectivity, theory in the sciences couldn’t simply return to itself. If other forms of theory were ultimately subjective in the sense that they involved a return to what they were, theory in the sciences was defined by its objectivity. Nonetheless, objectivity didn’t mean that they were defined by their relation to fact. Instead, as we’ve seen, objectivity in the sciences was governed from the outset by theory. What objectivity meant was, rather, a tendency toward the formal. So if theory in the sciences came about from reflexivity of some kind, it would have to be a formal reflexivity.

For that, it would become necessary to incorporate the process by which we arrive at theory in general into the very form of this higher viewpoint, or metatheory. Only by means of such a move could we hope to see how the process by which we arrive at theory might determine the actual shape of theory itself. But to incorporate process into theory formally, we would need a field where theory was essentially formal. And so it would fall to a young French radical to formulate the crucial insight that would lift theory to the level of metatheory, and thereby help to create modern algebra.