missions that had been planted at various points to minister to the
natives. Imagine what his cheering presence meant to the lonely workers
in the wilderness. As he went along he was planning how best he might
meet the needs of the people with new missions, hospitals, and schools.
“Why is it that all you tough, rough-riding Alaskan fellows set such
store by this Bishop Rowe?” a man from Fairbanks was asked.
“Well, for one thing his works have not been in words but in deeds,” was
the reply. “Let me tell you how it was with us when he came over the ice
from Circle City in the winter of 1903. He looked us over and saw the
thing we most needed. He saw no dollars, either in sight or in the
future. He saw only that a poor lot of human creatures, up against a
dead-hard proposition, needed a hospital. ‘You have the ground,’ said
he; ‘you raise half the money and I will leave the other half for the
building. Then I will take care of the nurses, medicines, and everything
else you need.’ Of course he is for his church, but he and his church
are always for their people--and their people are any that fare over the
trail.”
It was soon said of this master missionary that he was “the best musher
in Alaska,” “Mush!” or “Mush on!” is the cry that the men on the winter
trails give to their dog teams. It is, perhaps, a corruption of the
French word _marchons_, which means “Go on!” There is seldom a winter
when Bishop Rowe does not travel from one to two thousand miles with his
team of six huskies to visit his people.
Do you picture him sitting comfortably wrapped in fur robes on the
sledge while the dogs pull him as well as the store of food for the six
weeks’ journey on which he is bound? Look again! There he is walking on
snow-shoes ahead of the team leader; he is “breaking trail” for the dogs
who have all they can do to drag the laden sled. In order to lighten
their load he selects a tree at each camping-place to serve as a
landmark, and hides there a store of food for the return trip.
“That is a plan that works well unless the sly wolverines manage to get
on the scent of the cache,” he said. “But you must go as light as
possible when you travel over a waste of snow, and are forced at times
to cover forty miles a day. It is a trip that takes all the unnecessary
fat off you; and you get as strong as a mule and as hungry as a bear.”
You would think that the mountain climbing, canoeing, and marching on
snow-shoes which are part of his yearly round would be all that he could
possibly need to take off the “unnecessary fat” and keep him in the
“pink of training.” The winter trip with the dog sledge, however, brings
many situations when life itself depends upon one’s physical fitness. In
preparation for those journeys, the bishop goes through a regular series
of exercises--long distance running, hill-climbing, and even jumping
rope. The following extract from one of his diaries kept during a six
weeks’ trip over the Arctic waste when mountains and valleys alike were
muffled in a white silence, and all the streams were voiceless,
spell-bound rivers of ice, will show what making the rounds in the
diocese of all Alaska means:
Our sled was loaded with robes, tent, stove, axes, clothing, and
food for sixteen days for dogs and selves. Wind blew the snow like
shot in our faces. I kept ahead of the dogs, leading them, finding
the way. We had to cross the wide river; the great hummocks made
this an ordeal; had to use the ax and break a way for the dogs and
sled. In the midst of it all the dogs would stop; they could not
see; their eyes were closed with the frost; so I rubbed off the
frost and went on. The time came when the dogs would--could--no
longer face the storm. I was forced to make a camp. It was not a
spot I would choose for the purpose. The bank of the river was
precipitous, high, rocky, yet there was wood. I climbed one hundred
feet and picked out a spot and made a campfire. Then returned to
the sled, unharnessed the dogs, got a “life line,” went up and tied
it to a tree by the fire. By means of this we got up our robes and
sufficient food. Here after something to eat we made a bed in the
snow.... It was a night of shivers. Froze our faces.
After a sleepless night we were up before daybreak. It was still
blowing a gale; had some breakfast; tried to hitch the dogs, but
they would not face the storm, so I resigned myself to the
situation and remained in camp. It was my birthday, too. I kept
busy chopping wood for the fire.... In carrying a heavy log down
the side of the mountain, I tripped, fell many feet, and injured
shoulder slightly.
After another cold and shivering night we found the wind somewhat
abated and without breakfast hitched up the dogs, packed sled, and
were traveling before it was light.... Early in the day while
piloting the way I encountered bad ice, open water, broke through
and got wet. After that I felt my way with ax in hand, snow-shoes
on feet, until it grew dark. In the darkness I broke through the
ice and escaped with some difficulty....
A worker in a lonely frontier post where there were plentiful
discouragements once said: “When I am tempted to think that I am having
a hard time I just think of Bishop Rowe. Then I realize that it is
possible to feel that creature comforts are not matters of first
importance. How splendidly he proves that a man can rise above
circumstances, and still march on and laugh on no matter what may be
happening about him or to him!”
We have seen how the Bishop of Alaska fares in winter when the world is
a vast whiteness save only for the heaving dark of the sea; when the
avalanches are booming on the mountains; when the winds are sweeping
through the cañons, and all the air is filled with ice-dust. What can he
accomplish through these journeys that he should forego all comfort and
risk life itself?
First, he brings light and cheer to the homesick miners--to the
dull-eyed, discouraged men who have struggled and toiled without
success, and to the excited, watchful ones who fear to lose what they
have won.
“Where are all the people going?” asked a stranger in Fairbanks one
Sunday.
“Bishop Rowe is here,” replied the hotel clerk smilingly. “Everybody
turns out when he comes to town. You see,” he added thoughtfully, “he
somehow knows what a man needs no matter where he is or what he is.
There is something that goes home to each one who listens.”
But the adventurers from civilization are not the bishop’s chief care.
His first thought is for the Indians and Eskimos, who, if they have
gained somewhat, have suffered much through the coming of the white men
to their shores.
“Our people have for the most part been consistently engaged in
plundering Alaska,” he said. “We have grown rich on its salmon and furs,
while the natives who formerly had plenty feel the pinch of famine and
cold. We take from the country everything we can get and even make the
Indians pay a tax on the trees they cut down; but we do nothing for the
land in the way of building roads and bridges, or for the people in the
way of protecting them from the evils that the coming of the white men
has brought upon them.”
In so far as it lies in his power, the bishop tries to atone for this
despoiling of Alaska by working whole-heartedly for the
natives--teaching them more wholesome ways of living, giving them food
and medicine in times of distress, providing sawmills to give them work,
introducing reindeer to supply clothing in the place of the seals that
are fast disappearing, and building churches, schools, and hospitals. He
has, besides, gone to Washington and described to the President and the
lawmakers the pitiable state of the Alaskan Indians, and pleaded for
reservations where they could first of all be taught how to maintain
health under the new conditions of life that have been forced upon them,
and then given suitable industrial training and the chance of earning a
livelihood. The laws that have been passed to secure fair play for the
original Alaskans have been won largely through the persistent and
effective championship of Bishop Rowe.
See him as he journeys down the Yukon in a scow loaded with lumber for a
mission building. He has with him just one helper and three little
Indian children whom he is taking to a school at Anvik. At night he is
at the bow, watching to guard against the dangers of the stream.
Sometimes the children wake up and cry when a great slide from the
bank--tons on tons of rock and earth--shoots into the river with a
terrific boom. Sometimes, when the hooting of an owl or the wail of a
wild beast pierces the stillness they huddle together, too frightened to
make a sound. Then the good bishop stoops over and pats them on the head
kindly, saying a comforting word or two which reminds them that nothing
can possibly harm them while he is near.
A storm of rain and wind that lasts all night and all the next day
drenches them through and through. The children, who are wet and cold,
creep close to their friend. “Etah, etah” (my father), they say, looking
up at him pitifully. In a flash he remembers that not far off is a
deserted log cabin which he chanced to find on a previous journey.
Making a landing, they follow him along the bank and at nightfall reach
the blessed shelter. Here they build a rousing fire and dry their
clothes. As they sit about the blazing logs they fancy that all the
sunbeams that had shone upon the growing tree are dancing merrily in the
flames. The next morning the sun comes out as if to make up for all the
stormy days and nights that have ever vexed weary travelers, and they go
on their way with renewed courage.
“The two qualities most needed in Alaska,” said Bishop Rowe, “are an
instinct for finding one’s way, and bulldog grit.” He certainly has
these two requisites, as well as “animate faith and love.” Wherever he
goes--to remote Indian villages or Eskimo igloos; to deserted mining
centers whose numbers have dwindled from thousands to a forlorn score;
to thriving cities like Sitka, Nome, and Fairbanks, which have electric
lights, telephones, and many of the luxuries as well as the comforts of
civilization--he brings a message of hope. To those who hunger without
knowing what they lack, he brings the Bread of Life--the glad tidings
of a God of love.
In 1907, it was decided to transfer Bishop Rowe from his frontier post
to Colorado. “You have served faithfully where the laborers are few and
the hardships are many,” it was said. “You must now guard your powers
for a long life of service.”
“I appreciate with deep gratitude the kindness,” replied the missionary
bishop, “but I feel that in view of present conditions I must decline
the honor of the transfer and continue in Alaska, God helping me.”
So the Shepherd of “the Great Country” is faithful to his charge and his
flock, asking not a lighter task but rather greater strength for the
work that is his. Like the giant-saint of the legend, he serves with his
might the unseen King who reigns through love in the hearts of men.
A HERO OF FLIGHT: SAMUEL PIERPONT LANGLEY
A tool is but the extension of a man’s hand, and a machine is but a
complex tool. And he that invents a machine augments the power of
man and the well-being of mankind.
HENRY WARD BEECHER.
A boy was lying on his back in a clover-sweet pasture, looking up
dreamily at the white clouds that were drifting about on the calm blue
sea of the sky. The field sloped down to the beach, and the salt breath
of the ocean came to him on the passing breeze. All at once his eye was
caught by something that made him start up suddenly, all alert
attention. It was a sea-gull rising into the air, its wings flashing
white in the bright sunshine.
“How does he do it?” he said aloud. “How is it that he can float about
like that without any effort? It is just when he begins to mount into
the air that he flaps his wings; now he is hardly moving them at all. He
seems to be held up by the air just as a kite is!”
This was not the first time that young Samuel Langley had watched the
flight of the sea-gulls. And the sight of a hawk circling above the
tree-tops could always set him a-staring.
“There must be something about the air that makes it easy,” he pondered.
“The birds know the secret, but I can’t even guess it!”
That night at dinner the boy was more than usually thoughtful.
“Father,” he said after a long silence, “don’t you think it might be
possible for people to make some sort of an airship thing to sail
through the air, without any gas bag to carry it up?”
“Have you heard that there is such a thing as the law of gravity, son?”
quizzed the father, banteringly. “What goes up must come down, you
know.”
“But, Father,” the boy persisted, “the hawks and gulls are much heavier
than the air. There is nothing of the balloon sort about them.”
“But they have wings, my boy, and they know how to fly,” returned Mr.
Langley, looking at the lad’s puckered brow with amused indulgence.
“Well, Father,” retorted Sam, flushing under the teasing smiles that
were directed at him, “I’m sure it’s not such a joke after all. Why
shouldn’t people learn how to make wings and to fly?”
“Come down to earth, Samuel, and don’t get too far from the ground in
your wonderings,” advised his father. “There are enough problems on the
good old earth to keep you busy. Your idea has not even the merit of
being new and original. The myths of Greece tell us that ‘way back in
the legendary past people envied the flight of birds. But all those who
have tried to do the trick have, like Icarus who went too near the sun
with his marvelous wax wings, come back to earth rather too abruptly for
comfort.”
As the days went by, Samuel Langley did indeed turn his attention to
other questions, but the problem suggested by the bird’s flight was not
forgotten. Years afterward when he had become one of the most
distinguished scientists of his time he used often to say: “Knowledge
begins in wonder. Set a child to wondering and you have put him on the
road to understanding.”
He often liked to recall the days of his boyhood when he had first set
his feet on the path that led to the great interests which made his
life.
“There are two incidents--little chance happenings, you might call them,
if you believe in chance--” he said, “which took root and grew with the
years. One was my discovery of the fascinations of my father’s
telescope. I remember watching the workmen lay the stones of Bunker Hill
Monument through that glass. It taught me the joy of bringing far-away
things into intimate nearness. I learned that the man who knows how to
use the magic glasses of science can say, ‘Far or forgot to me is
near!’”
The great scientist smiled musingly to himself; he seemed to have
slipped away from his friend and the talk of the moment. Was he back in
his boyhood when he first looked at the moon’s face through his magic
glass, or was he pondering over some new problem concerning sun spots
which was puzzling learned astronomers the world over?
“What was the other incident you spoke of, Professor?” reminded his
companion timidly, for it was not easy to get Dr. Langley to speak
about himself, and the spell of this rare hour might easily be broken.
“What is it?--oh, yes,” he went on, picking up the thread, “the other
epoch-making time of my young life was the lazy hour when I lay
stretched out in an open field watching the flight of the hawks and
gulls circling overhead. I noted that their wings were motionless except
when they turned them at a different angle to meet a new current of
wind. I began then dimly to suspect that the invisible ocean of the air
was an unknown realm of marvelous possibilities. It may be that that
idle holiday afternoon had more to do with the serious work of the after
years than the plodding hours devoted to Latin grammar.”
Samuel Langley had a mind of the wondering--not the wandering--sort.
Everything that he saw set him to questioning, comparing, and reasoning.
When he noticed the curious way in which nature has made many creatures
so like the place in which they live that they can easily hide from
their enemies, he said to himself: “It is strange that the insects
which live in trees are green, while those that live on the ground are
brown. It must be that the ones who were not so luckily colored were
quickly picked off, and that only those that can hide in this clever way
are able to hold their own.” When he noticed that brightly colored
flowers were not so fragrant as white ones, he said, “The sweet blossoms
don’t need gay colors to attract their insect friends.” When he saw
early spring vegetables growing in a hotbed, he said: “How does that
loose covering keep them warm? There must be something that makes heat
under there.” Years later he said, “I believe the questions that I kept
putting to myself every time I went by a certain garden not far from our
house marked the starting-point of my investigations into the work of
the sun’s rays in heating the earth. The day came when the idea flashed
upon me that the air surrounding our planet acts just like a hotbed,
conserving enough warmth to make possible the conditions of life we
require.”
Everything in Samuel Langley’s world--animals, plants, rocks, air, and
water--had its wonder story and its challenge. There was always some
question to be puzzled over. Science was not, however, the only passion
of his early years. His delight in beauty was just as keen as his thirst
for knowledge. He noted with loving appreciation the changing lights and
shades of Nature’s face. He had an eye for “the look of things,” which
means that he had something of a gift for drawing.
After completing the course of the Boston High School, he turned his
attention to civil engineering and architecture. “I did not go to
college because I had to think about paying my own way through life,” he
said, “and I argued that a chap who was fond of mathematics and drawing
should be able to do some good work in the way of building even if he
did not succeed in laying the foundation of either fame or fortune.
Besides, it seemed to me that while doing work that was not
uninteresting, I should be near the things that were already part of my
life; there would be chance and encouragement for further scientific
study.”
Going to Chicago when he was twenty-three years of age, Mr. Langley
worked for seven years in his chosen profession, gaining in addition to
a comfortable income, practical business experience and unusual skill in
drafting. All this time his interest in scientific problems was pulling
him away from the beaten path of practical achievement. His intellect
was of the hardy, pioneer sort that longs to press on where man has
never ventured--to make new paths, not to follow in the footsteps of
others.
In 1864 the young scientist of thirty years determined upon a bold move.
He definitely retired from his profession, returned to New England, and
for three years devoted his time to building telescopes. He knew
something of the magician’s joy as he planned and developed the special
features of his “magic glasses.” The boy who had thrilled over the
marvels of the starry heavens which his father’s telescope had revealed
was alive within him, exulting to find that he could construct
instruments many times more powerful.
“I have never outgrown my love of fairy books,” he said. “To one who
spends his time with the wonders that science reveals, the immortal
wonder tales of childhood seem truer than any other stories. I delight
in the adventures of the youth who had found the cap of invisibility;
then I turn to my telescope which brings the invisible into the world
that the eye knows. Children and men of science belong to the same
realm; no one else has the proper appreciation of true magic.”
After his close work with the telescopes, this lover of marvels spent a
happy year in Europe, visiting observatories, museums, and art
galleries. It was at this time that he decided that astronomy was to be
the serious business of his days, and art the chief delight of his hours
of recreation. He was offered the place of assistant in the Harvard
Observatory by Professor Winlock, in spite of the fact that he had had
no university training.
“This self-made astronomer has a seeing eye, a careful hand, and the
instinct for observation,” said Joseph Winlock approvingly. “Besides he
has, if I am not mistaken, the imagination to use in a large and
constructive way the facts that his experiments yield. He has the making
of an original scientist.”
His feet once planted on the first round of the ladder of expert
knowledge, advancement was rapid. It might well seem to many passing
strange that a man who had written nothing, discovered nothing, and who,
moreover, had no brilliant university record behind him, should at once
win recognition from the most learned specialists of the day.
“What was there about Langley that earned his rapid promotions?” it was
asked.
“There was nothing that remotely hinted at influence or favoritism,”
said one who knew him well. “He was impersonal and retiring to a degree.
But he had in rare combination an open, alert mind and a capacity for
hard work.”
After two years at the Harvard Observatory, he went to the Naval Academy
at Annapolis as professor of mathematics and director of the
observatory. A year later he accepted the professorship of astronomy and
physics in the Western University at Pittsburg. For twenty years he
filled this position and also that of director of the Allegheny
Observatory, which under his leadership became the center of very
important work.
When he took charge at the new observatory, he found no apparatus for
scientific observations beyond a telescope, and no funds available for
the purchase of the absolutely necessary instruments. How was he to
obtain the expensive tools which he required for his work?
“If I can show the practical importance of astronomical observations,
the means will be forthcoming,” he said.
At this moment a wonderful inspiration came to the professor. In
traveling about the country he had been strongly impressed with the need
of some standard system of keeping time. He believed that science ought
to be able to come to the rescue and bring order out of confusion.
“This is my chance,” he now said, as he looked about his empty
observatory. “If I can prove to the managers of the Pennsylvania
Railroad that I can furnish them with a time-keeping system that will do
away with the inconvenience of changing time with every forty or fifty
miles of travel and all the troublesome reckonings and adjustments which
that entails, I feel assured that they will provide the equipment which
I need.”
It often happens that the learned masters of science are entirely
removed in their interests and experience from the every-day world of
business. They work in a sphere apart, and the offices of some practical
middleman with an inventive turn of mind are required to make their
discoveries of any immediate value. Professor Langley, on the contrary,
had an appreciation of the demands of business, as well as the vital
interests of science. He had lived in both worlds. Now, through his
competent grasp of the needs of such a railroad center as Pittsburg,
where the East and the West meet, he succeeded in working out a plan
that was so sane and practical that it immediately recommended itself to
the busy men in control of transportation problems. His observatory was
provided with the apparatus for which he longed, and twice a day it
automatically flashed out through signals, the exact time to all the
stations on the Pennsylvania Railroad, a system controlling some eight
thousand miles of lines. To Professor Langley, more than to any other
person is due the effective regulation of standard time throughout the
country.