Two days afterwards he dictated another letter, in which he gives minute directions concerning some experiments on the torpedo which he wished his brother to make. He describes the apparatus which may be employed and indicates where the torpedoes may be procured, and he concludes: “Pray do not neglect this subject, which I leave to you as another legacy.” It was the 16th of March before Dr. Davy could reach Rome. The stricken man’s pale and emaciated countenance lighted up as he saw his brother at his bedside. He spoke as if he had only a few hours to live, and rejected all expectation and hope of recovery, saying he was sure his career was run.
Under the care and medical skill of Dr. Davy, however, he rallied.
“As he mended,” says his brother, “the sentiment of gratitude to Divine Providence was overflowing, and he was most amiable and affectionate in manner. He often inculcated the propriety, in regard to happiness, of the subjugation of self, in all selfishness, as the very bane of comfort, and the most active cause of the dereliction of social duties, and the destruction of good and friendly feelings; and he expressed frequently the intention, if his life were spared, of devoting it to purposes of utility (seeming to think lightly of what he had already done), and to the service of his friends, rather than to the pursuits of ambition, pleasure, or happiness, with himself for their main object.”
“Now that he was intent on recovery, he no longer took the same interest in _my_ examination of the torpedo, as if he looked forward to the time when _he_ should be able to enter into the investigation actively again.”
At the beginning of April Lady Davy arrived from England, and he had so far improved that it was decided to remove him to Geneva. By easy stages, and occasional halts of two or three days at the more interesting places, he arrived at Geneva on May 28th. He bore the journey well: the delightful freshness of the spring, the bursting vegetation, the many streams, the pure mountain air, and the indescribable influence of Alpine scenery, seemed to invigorate him. On his arrival at the inn (“La Couronne”) he walked to the window, looked out upon the lake, and expressed a longing wish to throw a fly upon its blue waters. Lady Davy here broke to him the news of the death of his old friend and colleague, Thomas Young. This, coming so soon after the loss of Wollaston, profoundly affected him. During the evening he struck his elbow against the projecting arm of the sofa on which he sat; the blow gave him great pain, and seemed to have the most extraordinary effect. He was got to bed as soon as possible. He took an anodyne, and desired to be left alone. Soon after midnight he was found to be insensible, and shortly before three on the morning of the 29th of May he died. In his will he had enjoined that he should be buried where he died: _Natura curat suas reliquias_, he had written.