by the behavior of his candle. After falling asleep with the conundrum in his head, and waking to find it still troubling him, he decided that his new air didn't contain a single scrap of phlogiston. If a room starts out empty, you can add people in a steady stream for some time before it finally fills up. In the same way, Priestley reasoned, if the new air was devoid of phlogiston, a burning candle could continue pouring out the stuff without choking its own flame. And so Priestley, who though prolific with words was not exactly stylish in his choices, gave his invention the unwieldy name "dephlogisticated air."
Priestley immediately began experimenting with his new air. He tried mixing it with another of the recent discoveries of the time: inflammable air, which we now call hydrogen. Inflammable air was so called because it burned readily when mixed with common air. You could even hear a slight pop as it ignited. However, Priestley discovered that if he mixed his new air with hydrogen and inserted a flame, the resulting explosion was much more impressive. Instead of a gentle pop, it sounded more like the deafening blast from a pistol. Priestley didn't know that he had discovered a most potent mixture, the same stuff that we now use for rocket fuel, but he did realize that it made a great party trick. He carried carefully sealed vials of the raw mixture around with him in his pocket to impress friends, acquaintances, and in fact almost anyone who would stop and listen. He'd take out a vial, uncork it, expose it to a flame, and watch their faces. The results, he said, were most satisfying: "It has never failed to surprise every person before whom I have made the experiment."
He also tested the effect his new air would have on a living creature, in this case a mouse. Partly to conserve mice—because it wasn't always easy to catch them—and partly out of consideration for a fellow being, Priestley did his best to keep the mice involved in his experiments alive. If he felt there was a good chance they wouldn't survive in the air he happened to be testing, when he pushed them through the water or mercury into the vessel, he kept a tight hold of their tails to pull them out as soon as they began to look distressed. And for cases where he thought the air was likely to be good for the mice, he built them a small shelf so they could rest in comfort above the water.
From previous experiments, Priestley knew that a mouse could survive if the flask was full of common air for roughly a quarter of an hour before it needed to be rescued. But when he placed his mouse in the new air, the creature continued breathing for a full half hour before he had to whisk it back out. Though the mouse then seemed to be dead, Priestley realized that it was merely chilled, and a few moments beside the fire revived it fully.
Encouraged by this, Priestley decided, with characteristic impetuousness, to try breathing the new air for himself. He wasn't particularly afraid of the consequences—instead he relished the idea of experiencing something that, until then, had only been breathed by mice. It was even better than he'd hoped: "I fancied my breast felt peculiarly light and easy for some time afterwards," he said. "Who can tell but that, in time, this pure air may become a fashionable article in luxury..."
Once again, this was highly prescient, though perhaps even Priestley couldn't have imagined that more than two hundred years later, trendy bars across the world from Tokyo to Los Angeles to London would be offering whiffs of pure oxygen as a treatment for everything from hangovers to headaches.
Breathing pure oxygen certainly feels good, but it is not necessarily good for the health. Priestley himself noticed the "greater strength and vivacity of the flame of a candle, in this pure air," and therein lies a warning. "As a candle burns out much faster in [oxygen] than in common air," he suggested, "so we might, as may be said,
live out too
Priestley immediately began experimenting with his new air. He tried mixing it with another of the recent discoveries of the time: inflammable air, which we now call hydrogen. Inflammable air was so called because it burned readily when mixed with common air. You could even hear a slight pop as it ignited. However, Priestley discovered that if he mixed his new air with hydrogen and inserted a flame, the resulting explosion was much more impressive. Instead of a gentle pop, it sounded more like the deafening blast from a pistol. Priestley didn't know that he had discovered a most potent mixture, the same stuff that we now use for rocket fuel, but he did realize that it made a great party trick. He carried carefully sealed vials of the raw mixture around with him in his pocket to impress friends, acquaintances, and in fact almost anyone who would stop and listen. He'd take out a vial, uncork it, expose it to a flame, and watch their faces. The results, he said, were most satisfying: "It has never failed to surprise every person before whom I have made the experiment."
He also tested the effect his new air would have on a living creature, in this case a mouse. Partly to conserve mice—because it wasn't always easy to catch them—and partly out of consideration for a fellow being, Priestley did his best to keep the mice involved in his experiments alive. If he felt there was a good chance they wouldn't survive in the air he happened to be testing, when he pushed them through the water or mercury into the vessel, he kept a tight hold of their tails to pull them out as soon as they began to look distressed. And for cases where he thought the air was likely to be good for the mice, he built them a small shelf so they could rest in comfort above the water.
From previous experiments, Priestley knew that a mouse could survive if the flask was full of common air for roughly a quarter of an hour before it needed to be rescued. But when he placed his mouse in the new air, the creature continued breathing for a full half hour before he had to whisk it back out. Though the mouse then seemed to be dead, Priestley realized that it was merely chilled, and a few moments beside the fire revived it fully.
Encouraged by this, Priestley decided, with characteristic impetuousness, to try breathing the new air for himself. He wasn't particularly afraid of the consequences—instead he relished the idea of experiencing something that, until then, had only been breathed by mice. It was even better than he'd hoped: "I fancied my breast felt peculiarly light and easy for some time afterwards," he said. "Who can tell but that, in time, this pure air may become a fashionable article in luxury..."
Once again, this was highly prescient, though perhaps even Priestley couldn't have imagined that more than two hundred years later, trendy bars across the world from Tokyo to Los Angeles to London would be offering whiffs of pure oxygen as a treatment for everything from hangovers to headaches.
Breathing pure oxygen certainly feels good, but it is not necessarily good for the health. Priestley himself noticed the "greater strength and vivacity of the flame of a candle, in this pure air," and therein lies a warning. "As a candle burns out much faster in [oxygen] than in common air," he suggested, "so we might, as may be said,
live out too
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