Dear Hilgard:--
_Boy._
Yours, etc., J. Winlock.
When some time afterward I spoke to Winlock on the subject, and
told him what Hilgard's motive was, he replied, "It was not fair
in Hilgard to try and take me unawares in that way. Had I known
what he was driving at, I might have made my letter still shorter."
I did not ask him how he would have done it. It is of interest that
the "boy" afterward became one of the assistant secretaries of the
Smithsonian Institution.
One of the most remarkable features of the history of the "Nautical
Almanac" is the number of its early assistants who have gained
prominence or distinction in the various walks of life. It would
be difficult to find so modest a public work to exceed it in this
respect.
John D. Runkle, who lived till 1902, was, as I have said, the
senior and leading assistant in the office. He afterward became a
professor in the Institute of Technology, and succeeded Rogers as
its president. In 1876 he started the school of manual training,
which has since been one of the great features of the Institute.
He afterward resigned the presidency, but remained its principal
professor of mathematics. He was the editor and founder of the
"Mathematical Monthly," of which I shall presently have more to say.
The most wonderful genius in the office, and the one who would have
been the most interesting subject of study to a psychologist, was
Truman Henry Safford. In early childhood he had excited attention
by his precocity as what is now sometimes called a "lightning
calculator." A committee of the American Academy of Arts and Science
was appointed to examine him. It very justly and wisely reported that
his arithmetical powers were not in themselves equal to those of some
others on record, especially Zerah Colburn, but that they seemed to
be the outcome of a remarkable development of the reasoning power.
When nine years old, he computed almanacs, and some of his work
at this age is still preserved in the Harvard University Library.
He graduated at Harvard in 1854, and was soon afterward taken into
the Nautical Almanac Office, while he also worked from time to time
at the Cambridge observatory. It was found, however, that the power
of continuous work was no greater in him than in others, nor did he
succeed in doing more than others in the course of a year.
The mental process by which certain gifted arithmetical computers
reach almost in an instant the results of the most complicated
calculations is a psychological problem of great interest,
which has never been investigated. No more promising subject for
the investigation could ever have been found than Safford, and I
greatly regret having lost all opportunities to solve the problem.
What was of interest in Safford's case was the connection of this
faculty with other remarkable mental powers of an analogous but
yet different kind. He had a remarkable faculty for acquiring,
using, and reading languages, and would have been an accomplished
linguist had he turned his attention in that direction. He was a
walking bibliography of astronomy, which one had only to consult in
order to learn in a moment what great astronomers of recent times had
written on almost any subject, where their work was published, and on
what shelf of the Harvard Library the book could be found. But the
faculty most closely connected with calculation was a quickness and
apprehension of vision, of which the following is an example:--
About 1876 he visited the Naval Observatory in Washington for the
first time in his life. We wanted a certain catalogue of stars and
went together into the library. The required catalogue was on one
of a tier of shelves containing altogether a hundred, or perhaps
several hundred volumes. "I do not know whether we have the book,"
said I, "but if we have, it is on one of these shelves." I began
to go through the slow process of glancing at the books one by one
until my eyes should strike the right title. He stood back six
or eight feet and took in all the shelves seemingly at one glance,
then stepped forward and said, "Here it is." I might have supposed
this an accident, but that he subsequently did practically the same
thing in my office, selecting in a moment a book we wanted to see,
after throwing a rapid glance over shelves containing perhaps a
hundred volumes.
An example of his apprehension and memory for numbers was narrated
by Mr. Alvan Clark. When the latter had completed one of his great
telescopes for the University of Chicago, Safford had been named
as director, and accompanied the three members of the firm to the
city when they carried the object glass thither. On leaving the
train all four took their seats in a hotel omnibus, Safford near
the door. Then they found that they had forgotten to give their
baggage checks to the expressman; so the other three men passed
their checks to Safford, who added his own and handed all four to
the conductor of the omnibus. When it was time for the baggage to
come to the hotel, there was such a crowd of new arrivals that the
attendants could not find it. The hotel clerk remarked on inquiry,
"If I only knew the numbers of your checks, I would have no difficulty
in tracing your trunks." Safford at once told off the four numbers,
which he had read as he was passing the checks to the conductor.
The great fire practically put an end to the activity of the Chicago
Observatory and forced its director to pursue his work in other
fields. That he failed to attain that commanding position due to his
genius is to be ascribed to a cause prevalent among us during all the
middle part of the century; perhaps that from which most brilliant
intellects fail to reach eminence: lack of the power of continuous
work necessary to bring important researches to a completion.
Another great intellect of the office was Chauncey Wright.
If Wright had systematically applied his powers, he might have
preceded or supplanted Herbert Spencer as the great exponent of the
theory of evolution. He had graduated at Harvard in 1853, and was
a profound student of philosophy from that time forward, though I am
not aware that he was a writer. When in 1858 Sir William Hamilton's
"Lectures on Metaphysics" appeared, he took to them with avidity.
In 1859 appeared Darwin's "Origin of Species," and a series of
meetings was held by the American Academy, the special order of
which was the discussion of this book. Wright and myself, not yet
members, were invited to be present. To judge of the interest it is
only necessary to remark that Agassiz and Gray were the two leading
disputants, the first taking ground against Darwin, the other in his
favor. Wright was a Darwinist from the very beginning, explaining
the theory in private conversation from a master's point of view,
and soon writing upon it in the "North American Review" and in other
publications. Of one of his articles Darwin has been quoted as saying
that it was the best exposition of his theory that had then appeared.
After his untimely death in 1875, Wright's papers were collected and
published under the title of "Philosophical Discussions." [1] Their
style is clear-cut and faultless in logical form, yet requiring such
close attention to every word as to be less attractive to the general
reader of to-day than that of Spencer. In a more leisurely age,
when men wanted to think profoundly as they went along in a book,
and had little to disturb the current of their thoughts, it would
have commanded wide attention among thinking men.
A singular peculiarity which I have sometimes noticed among men of
intelligence is that those who are best informed on the subject
may be most reckless as regards the laws of health. Wright did
all of his office work in two or three months of the year. During
those months he worked at his computations far into the hours of
the morning, stimulating his strength with cigars, and dropping
his work only to take it up when he had had the necessary sleep.
A strong constitution might stand this for a few years, as his did.
But the ultimate result hardly needs to be told.
Besides the volume I have mentioned, Wright's letters were collected
and printed after his death by the subscription of his friends.
In these his philosophic views are from time to time brought out
in a light, easy way, much more charming than the style of his
elaborate discussions. It was in one of his letters that I first
found the apothegm, "Men are born either Platonists or Aristotelians,"
a happy drawing of the line which separates the hard-headed scientific
thinker of to-day from the thinkers of all other classes.
William Ferrell, a much older man than myself, entered the office
about the same time as I did. He published papers on the motions
of fluids on the earth's surface in the "Mathematical Monthly,"
and became one of the great authorities on dynamic meteorology,
including the mathematical theory of winds and tides. He was, I
believe, the first to publish a correct theory of the retardation
produced in the rotation of the earth by the action of the tides,
and the consequent slow lengthening of the day.
James Edward Oliver might have been one of the great mathematicians of
his time had he not been absolutely wanting in the power of continuous
work. It was scarcely possible to get even his year's office
work out of him. Yet when I once wrote him a question on certain
mathematical forms which arise in the theory of "least squares,"
he replied in a letter which, with some developments and change of
form, would have made a worthy memoir in any mathematical journal.
As a matter of fact, the same thoughts did appear some years after,
in an elaborate paper by Professor J. W. L. Glaisher, of England,
published by the Royal Astronomical Society.
Oliver, who afterward became professor of higher mathematics at
Cornell University, was noted for what I think should be considered
the valuable quality of absent-mindedness. It was said of him that
he was once walking on the seashore with a small but valuable gold
watch loose in his pocket. While deep in thought he started a kind
of distraction by picking up flat stones and skipping them on the
water. Taking his watch from his pocket he skipped it as a stone.
When I became well acquainted with him I took the liberty of asking
him as to the correctness of this story. He could not positively
say whether it was true or not. The facts were simply that he had
the watch, that he had walked on the seashore, had skipped stones,
missed the watch at some subsequent time, and never saw it again.
More definite was an observation made on his movements one afternoon
by a looker-out from a window of the Nautical Almanac Office.
Across the way the road was bounded by no fence, simply passing
along the side of an open field. As Oliver got near the office,
his chin on his breast, deep in thought, he was seen gradually to
deviate from the sidewalk, and direct his steps along the field.
He continued on this erratic course until he ran almost against the
fence at the other end. This awoke him from his reverie, and he
started up, looked around, and made his way back to the road.
I have spoken only of the men who were employed at the office at
the time I entered. Previous to my time were several who left to
accept professorships in various parts of the country. Among them
were Professors Van Vleck, of Middletown, and Hedrick and Kerr, of
North Carolina. Not desiring to leave upon the mind of the reader the
impression that all of whom I have not spoken remained in obscurity,
I will remark that Mr. Isaac Bradford rose to the position of mayor
of the city of Cambridge, and that fugitive pieces in prose and
poetry by Mr. E. J. Loomis were collected in a volume. [2]
The discipline of the public service was less rigid in the office
at that time than at any government institution I ever heard of.
In theory there was an understanding that each assistant was
"expected" to be in the office five hours a day. The hours might be
selected by himself, and they generally extended from nine until two,
the latter being at that time the college and family dinner hour.
As a matter of fact, however, the work was done pretty much where
and when the assistant chose, all that was really necessary being
to have it done on time.
It will be seen that the excellent opportunities offered by this
system were well improved by those who enjoyed them--improved in a way
that I fear would not be possible in any other surroundings. I took
advantage of them by enrolling myself as a student of mathematics in
the Lawrence Scientific School. On this occasion I well remember
my pleasant reception by Charles W. Eliot, tutor in mathematics,
and E. N. Horsford, professor of chemistry, and, I believe, dean of
the school. As a newcomer into the world of light, it was pleasant
to feel the spirit with which they welcomed me. The departments of
chemistry and engineering were about the only ones which, at that
time, had any distinct organization. As a student of mathematics
it could hardly be said that anything was required of me either in
the way of attendance on lectures or examinations until I came up
for the degree of Bachelor of Science. I was supposed, however,
to pursue my studies under the direction of Professor Peirce.
So slight a connection with the university does not warrant me in
assuming an authoritative position as an observer of its men or
its workings. Yet there are many features associated with it which
I have not seen in print, which have probably disappeared with the
progress of the age, and to which, therefore, allusion may be made.
One, as it presents itself to my memory, is the great variety and
picturesqueness of character which the university then presented.
I would like to know whether the changes in men which one fancies he
sees during his passage from youth to age are real, or only relative
to his point of view. If my impressions are correct, our educational
planing mill cuts down all the knots of genius, and reduces the best
of the men who go through it to much the same standard. Does not the
Harvard professor of to-day always dine in a dress coat? Is he not
free from every eccentricity? Do the students ever call him "Benny"
or "Tobie"? Is any "Old Soph" [3] now ambulant on the college green?
Is not the administration of the library a combination of liberality
and correctness? Is such a librarian as John Langdon Sibley possible?
Mr. Sibley, under a rough exterior, was one of the best-hearted and
most admirable of men, with whom I ultimately formed an intimate
friendship. But our first acquaintance was of a very unfavorable
kind. It came about in this way: not many days after being taken
into the Nautical Almanac Office I wanted a book from the university
library, and asked a not over-bright old gentleman in the office
what formalities were necessary in order to borrow it.
"Just go over and tell them you want it for the Nautical Almanac."
"But they don't know me at the library, and surely will not give
a book to any stray caller because he says he wants it for the
Nautical Almanac."
"You have only to say 'Nautical Almanac' and you will get the book."
I argued the matter as stoutly as courtesy admitted, but at length,
concluding that I was new to the rules and regulations of the place,
accepted the supposedly superior knowledge of my informer and went
over to the library with a due measure of assurance. The first
attendant whom I addressed referred me to the assistant librarian,
and he again to the librarian. After these formalities, conducted
with impressive gravity, my assurance wilted when I was ushered into
the august presence of the chief librarian.
As the mental picture of the ensuing scene has shaped itself through
more than forty years it shows a personage of imposing presence,
gigantic features, and forbidding countenance, standing on a dais
behind a desk, expounding the law governing the borrowing of books
from the library of Harvard College to an abashed youth standing
before him. I left without the book, but with a valuable addition
to my knowledge of library management. We both remembered this
interview, and exchanged impressions about it long years after.
"I thought you the most crusty and disobliging old man I had ever
seen."
"And I thought _you_ the most presumptuous youth that had ever
appeared in the library."
One of Mr. Sibley's professional doctrines was that at least one copy
of everything printed was worth preserving. I strove to refute him,
but long failed. Half in derision, I offered the library the stub
of my wash-book. Instead of throwing it into the wastebasket he
kept it, with the remark that the wash-book of a nineteenth century
student would at some future time be of interest to the antiquarian.
In due time I received a finely engraved acknowledgment of the gift.
But I forced him from his position at last. He had to admit that
copies of the theatre posters need not all be preserved. It would
suffice to keep a few specimens.
Professor Peirce was much more than a mathematician. Like many men
of the time, he was a warm lover and a cordial hater. It could not
always be guessed which side of a disputed question he would take;
but one might be fairly sure that he would be at one extreme or
the other. As a speaker and lecturer he was very pleasing, neither
impressive nor eloquent, and yet interesting from his earnestness
and vivacity. For this reason it is said that he was once chosen
to enforce the views of the university professors at a town meeting,
where some subject of interest to them was coming up for discussion.
Several of the professors attended the meeting, and Peirce made
his speech. Then a townsman rose and took the opposite side,
expressing the hope that the meeting would not allow itself to be
dictated to by these nabobs of Harvard College. When he sat down,
Peirce remained in placid silence, making no reply. When the meeting
broke up, some one asked Peirce why he had not replied to the man.
"Why! did you not hear what he called us? He said we were nabobs!
I so enjoyed sitting up there and seeing all that crowd look up to
me as a nabob that I could not say one word against the fellow."
The first of the leading astronomers whose acquaintance I made
was Dr. Benjamin Apthorp Gould. Knowing his eminence, I was
quite surprised by his youthful vivacity. His history, had I time
to recount it, might be made to serve well the purpose of a grave
lesson upon the conditions required, even by the educated public, of
a scientific investigator, capable of doing the highest and best work
in his branch. The soul of generosity and the pink of honor, ever
ready to lend a hand to a struggling youth whom he found deserving
of help, enthusiastically devoted to his favorite science, pursuing
it in the most exalted spirit, animated by not a single mean motive,
it might have been supposed that all the facilities the world could
offer would have been open to him in his career. If such was not the
case to the extent one might have wished, I do not mean to intimate
that his life can be regarded as a failure. In whatever respect
the results may have fallen off from his high ideal, it is more to
be regretted on the score of science than on his own.
Scorning pretense and charlatanry of all kinds, believing that
only the best were to be encouraged, he was far from being a man
of the people. Only a select few enjoyed his favor, but these few
well deserved it. That no others would have deserved it I should
be far from intimating. The undisguised way in which he expressed
his sentiments for any one, no matter how influential, who did not
come up to the high standard he set, was not adapted to secure the
favor even of the most educated community. Of worldly wisdom in
this matter he seemed, at least in his early days, to know nothing.
He graduated at Harvard in 1845, in one of the very distinguished
classes. Being fond of astronomy, he was struck with the backward
condition of that science in our country. He resolved to devote his
life to building up the science in America. He went to Germany,
then the only country in which astronomy was pursued in its most
advanced form, studied under Gauss and Argelander, and took his
degree at Goettingen in 1848. Soon after his return he founded the
"Astronomical Journal," and also took a position as Chief of the
Longitude Department in the Coast Survey.
The great misfortune of his life, and temporarily at least, a severe
blow to American astronomy, were associated with his directorship of
the Dudley Observatory at Albany. This institution was founded by
the munificence of a wealthy widow of Albany. The men to whom she
intrusted the administration of her gift were among the most prominent
and highly respected citizens of the place. The trustees went wisely
to work. They began by forming an advisory scientific council,
consisting of Bache, Henry, and Peirce. Under the direction of this
council the observatory was built and equipped with instruments.
When ready for active work in 1857, Gould moved thither and took
personal charge. Very soon rumors of dissension were heard.
The affair gradually grew into a contest between the director and
the trustees, exceeding in bitterness any I have ever known in the
world of learning or even of politics. It doubtless had its origin
in very small beginnings. The policy of the director recognized no
end but scientific efficiency. The trustees, as the responsible
administrators of the trust, felt that they had certain rights in
the matter, especially that of introducing visitors to inspect the
institution and look through the telescope. How fatal the granting
of such courtesies is to continuous work with an instrument only
astronomers know; and one of the most embarrassing difficulties the
director of such an institution meets with is to effect a prudent
compromise between the scientific efficiency of his institution and
the wishes of the public. But Gould knew no such word as compromise.
It was humiliating to one in the position of a trustee to send some
visitor with a permit to see the observatory, and have the visitor
return with the report that he had not been received with the most
distinguished courtesy, and, perhaps, had not seen the director at
all, but had only been informed by an assistant of the rules of the
place and the impossibility of securing admission.
This spark was enough to kindle a fire. When the fire gathered
strength, the director, instead of yielding, called on the scientific
council for aid. It is quite likely that, had these wise and prudent
men been consulted at each step, and their advice been followed, he
would have emphasized his protest by resigning. But before they were
called in, the affair had gone so far that, believing the director
to be technically right in the ground he had taken and the work he
had done, the council felt bound to defend him. The result was a
war in which the shots were pamphlets containing charges, defenses,
and rejoinders. The animosity excited may be shown by the fact
that the attacks were not confined to Gould and his administration,
but extended to every institution with which he and the president of
the council were supposed to be connected. Bache's administration of
the Coast Survey was held up to scorn and ridicule. It was supposed
that Gould, as a Cambridge astronomer, was, as a matter of course,
connected with the Nautical Almanac Office, and paid a high salary.
This being assumed, the office was included in the scope of attack,
and with such success that the item for its support for the year 1859,
on motion of Mr. Dawes, was stricken out of the naval bill. How far
the fire spread may be judged by the fact that a whole edition of the
"Astronomical Journal," supposed to have some mention of the affair
in the same cover, was duly sent off from the observatory, but never
reached its destination through the mails. Gould knew nothing of
this fact until, some weeks later, I expressed my surprise to him
at not receiving No. 121. How or by whom it was intercepted, I do
not know that he ever seriously attempted to inquire. The outcome
of the matter was that the trustees asserted their right by taking
forcible possession of the observatory.
During my first year at Cambridge I made the acquaintance of a
senior in the college whose untimely death seven years later I have
never ceased to deplore. This was William P. G. Bartlett, son of a
highly esteemed Boston physician, Dr. George Bartlett. The latter
was a brother of Sidney Bartlett, long the leader of the Boston bar.
Bartlett was my junior in years, but his nature and the surrounding
circumstances were such that he exercised a powerful influence
upon me. His virile and aggressive honesty could not be exceeded.
His mathematical abilities were of a high order, and he had no
ambition except to become a mathematician. Had he entered public
life at Washington, and any one had told me that he was guilty of a
dishonest act, I should have replied, "You might as well tell me that
he picked up the Capitol last night and carried it off on his back."
The fact that one could say so much of any man, I have always looked
upon as illustrating one of the greatest advantages of having a youth
go through college. The really important results I should look for
are not culture or training alone, but include the acquaintance of
a body of men, many of whom are to take leading positions in the
world, of a completeness and intimacy that can never be acquired
under other circumstances. The student sees his fellow students
through and through as he can never see through a man in future years.
It was, and I suppose still is, the custom for the members of a
graduating class at Harvard to add to their class biographies a
motto expressing their aspirations or views of life. Bartlett's was,
"I love mathematics and hate humbug." What the latter clause would
have led to in his case, had he gone out into the world, one can
hardly guess.
"I have had a long talk with my Uncle Sidney," he said to me one day.
"He wants me to study law, maintaining that the wealth one can thereby
acquire, and the prominence he may assume, will give him a higher
position in society and public esteem than mere learning ever can.
But I told him that if I could stand high in the esteem of twenty such
men as Cayley, Sylvester, and Peirce, I cared nothing to be prominent
in the eyes of the rest of the world." Such an expression from an
eminent member of the Boston bar, himself a Harvard graduate, was the
first striking evidence I met with that my views of the exalted nature
of astronomical investigation were not shared by society at large.
One of the greatest advantages I enjoyed through Bartlett was an
intimate acquaintance with a cultured and refined Boston family.
In 1858 Mr. Runkle founded the "Mathematical Monthly," having
secured, in advance, the cooperation of the leading professors
of the subject in the country. The journal was continued, under
many difficulties, for three years. As a vehicle for publishing
researches in advanced mathematics, it could not be of a high order,
owing to the necessity of a subscription list. Its design was
therefore to interest students and professors in the subject, and
thus prepare the way for the future growth of mathematical study
among us. Its principal feature was the offer of prize problems
to students as well as prizes for essays on mathematical subjects.
The first to win a prize for an essay was George W. Hill, a graduate
of Rutgers just out of college, who presented a memoir in which the
hand of the future master was evident throughout.
In the general conduct of the journal Bartlett and myself, though not
ostensibly associate editors, were at least assistants. Simple though
the affair was, some of our experiences were of an interesting and,
perhaps, instructive nature.
Soon after the first number appeared, a contribution was offered by
a professor in a distant State. An important part of the article
was found to be copied bodily from Walton's "Problems in Mechanics,"
an English book which, it might be supposed, was not much known in
this country. Runkle did not want to run the risk of injuring his
subscription list by offending one occupying an influential position
if he could help it with honor to the journal. Of course it was not
a question of publishing the paper, but only of letting the author
know why he did not do so,--"letting him down easy."
Bartlett's advice was characteristic. "Just write to the fellow
that we don't publish stolen articles. That's all you need say."
I suggested that we might inflict on him all necessary humiliation
by letting him know in the gentlest manner possible that we saw
the fraud. Of course Runkle preferred this course, and wrote him,
calling his attention to a similarity between his treatment of
the subject and that of Walton, which materially detracted from the
novelty of the former. I think it was suggested that he get the book,
if possible, and assure himself on the subject.
A vigorous answer came by return of mail. He was a possessor of
Walton's book, knew all about the similar treatment of the subject by
Walton, and did not see that that should be any bar to the publication
of the article. I think it was he who wound up his letter with the
statement that, while he admitted the right of the editor to publish
what he pleased, he, the writer, was too busy to spend his time in
writing rejected articles.
An eminent would-be contributor was a prominent Pennsylvania
politician, who had read a long and elaborate article, before some
teachers' association, on an arithmetical problem about oxen eating
grass, the power to solve which was taken as the highest mark of
mathematical ability, among school teachers during the first half
of the century. The association referred the paper to the editor
of the "Mathematical Monthly," by whom it was, I believe, consigned
to the wastebasket. The result was a good deal of correspondence,
such a proceeding being rather humiliating to a man of eminence
who had addressed so distinguished an assembly. The outcome of the
matter was that the paper, which was much more in the nature of a
legal document than of a mathematical investigation, was greatly
reduced in length by its author, and then still further shorn by the
editor, until it would fill only two or three pages of the journal;
thus reduced, it was published.
The time was not yet ripe for the growth of mathematical science
among us, and any development that might have taken place in that
direction was rudely stopped by the civil war. Perhaps this may
account for the curious fact that, so far as I have ever remarked,
none of the student contributors to the journal, Hill excepted,
has made himself known as a mathematical investigator. Not only
the state of mathematical learning, but the conditions of success
at that time in a mathematical text-book, are strikingly illustrated
by one of our experiences.
One of the leading publishing houses of educational text-books in
the country issued a very complete and advanced series, from the
pen of a former teacher of the subject. They were being extensively
introduced, and were sent to the "Mathematical Monthly" for review.
They were distinguished by quite apt illustrations, well fitted,
perhaps, to start the poorly equipped student in the lower branches of
the work, but the advanced works, at least, were simply ridiculous.
A notice appeared in which the character of the books was pointed
out. The evidence of the worthlessness of the entire series was
so strong that the publishers had it entirely rewritten by more
competent authors. Now came the oddest part of the whole affair.
The new series was issued under the name of the same author as the
old one, just as if the acknowledgment of his total failure did not
detract from the value of his name as an author.
In 1860 a total eclipse of the sun was visible in British America.
The shadow of the moon, starting from near Vancouver's Island,
crossed the continent in a northeast direction, passed through the
central part of the Hudson Bay region, crossed Hudson Bay itself and
Greenland, then inclining southward, swept over the Atlantic to Spain.
As this was the first eclipse of the kind which had recently been
visible, much interest was taken in its observation. On the part of
the Nautical Almanac Office I computed the path of the shadow and
the times of crossing certain points in it. The results were laid
down on a map which was published by the office. One party, fitted
out in connection with the American Association for the Advancement
of Science, was sent to Greenland. Admiral Davis desired to send
another, on behalf of his own office, into the central regions of
the continent. As members of this party Mr. Ferrel and myself were
chosen. At the request of Professor Agassiz one of the assistants in
the Museum of Comparative Zoology, Mr. Samuel H. Scudder, accompanied
us. More than twenty years later Mr. Scudder published a little book
describing some of our adventures, which was illustrated with sketches
showing the experiences of a party in the wild West at that time.
Our course lay from St. Paul across Minnesota to the Red River of
the North, thence north to Fort Garry near the southern end of Lake
Winnipeg, then over the lake and some distance up the Saskatchewan
River. At St. Paul we paid our respects to Governor Ramsey, afterward
Senator from Minnesota and Secretary of War. We were much surprised
at the extraordinary deference paid by the community to a Mr. Burbank,
a leading citizen of the town, and owner of the stages which we had
to engage for our journey across the country. He seemed to be a man
whom every one was afraid to offend. Even the local newspapers were
careful what they printed about matters in which he was interested.
The two or three days which we passed in getting things ready
to start were rather dull. The morning after our arrival I saw,
during a morning walk, on a hill just outside the town, a large new
building, on which the word "Athenaeum" was conspicuously shown.
The Boston Athenaeum had a very fine library; is it not possible
that this may have a beginning of something of the same sort?
Animated by this hope, I went up the hill and entered the building,
which seemed to be entirely vacant. The first words that met my
eyes were "Bar Room" painted over a door. It was simply a theatre,
and I left it much disappointed.
Here we were joined by a young Methodist clergyman,--Edward
Eggleston,--and the four of us, with our instruments and appliances,
set out on our journey of five days over the plains. On the
first day we followed partly the line of a projected railway, of
which the embankments had been completed, but on which work had,
for some reason, been stopped to await a more prosperous season.
Here was our first experience of towns on paper. From the tone in
which the drivers talked of the places where we were to stop over
night one might have supposed that villages, if not cities, were
plentiful along our track. One example of a town at that time will
be enough. The principal place on our route, judging from the talk,
was Breckenridge. We would reach it at the end of the fourth day,
where we anticipated a pleasant change after camping out in our tent
for three nights. It was after dark before we arrived, and we looked
eagerly for signs of the town we were approaching.
The team at length stopped in front of an object which, on careful
examination in the darkness, appeared to be the most primitive
structure imaginable. It had no foundations, and if it had a
wall at all, it was not more than two or three feet in height.
Imagine the roof taken off a house forty feet long and twenty feet
wide and laid down on the ground, and you have the hotel and only
building, unless perhaps a stable, in Breckenridge at that time.
The entrance was at one end. Going in, a chimney was seen in the
middle of the building. The floor was little more than the bare
ground. On each side of the door, by the flickering light of a fire,
we saw what looked like two immense boxes. A second glance showed
that these boxes seemed to be filled with human heads and legs.
They were, in fact, the beds of the inhabitants of Breckenridge.
Beds for the arriving travelers, if they existed at all, which I do
not distinctly remember, were in the back of the house. I think the
other members of the party occupied that portion. I simply spread
my blanket out on the hearth in front of the fire, wrapped up,
and slept as soundly as if the bed was the softest of a regal palace.
At Fort Garry we were received by Governor McTavish, with whom Captain
Davis had had some correspondence on the subject of our expedition,
and who gave us letters to the "factors" of the Hudson Bay Company
scattered along our route. We found that the rest of our journey
would have to be made in a birch bark canoe. One of the finest craft
of this class was loaned us by the governor. It had been, at some
former time, the special yacht of himself or some visiting notable.
It was manned by eight half-breeds, men whose physical endurance I
have never seen equaled.
It took three or four days to get everything ready, and this interval
was, of course, utilized by Scudder in making his collections.
He let the fishermen of the region know that he wanted specimens of
every kind of fish that could be found in the lake. A very small
reward stirred them into activity, and, in due time, the fish were
brought to the naturalist,--but lo! all nicely dressed and fit for
cooking. They were much surprised when told that all their pains in
dressing their catch had spoiled it for the purposes of the visiting
naturalist, who wanted everything just as it was taken from the water.
Slow indeed was progress through the lake. A canoe can be paddled
only in almost smooth water, and we were frequently stormbound on some
desolate island or point of land for two or three days at a time.
When, after many adventures, some of which looked like hairbreadth
escapes, we reached the Saskatchewan River, the eclipse was only three
or four days ahead, and it became doubtful whether we should reach
our station in time for the observation. It was to come off on the
morning of July 18, and, by dint of paddling for twenty-four hours
at a stretch, our men brought us to the place on the evening before.
Now a new difficulty occurred. In the wet season the Saskatchewan
inundates the low flat region through which it flows, much like
the Nile. The country was practically under water. We found the
most elevated spot we could, took out our instruments, mounted
them on boxes or anything else in the shallow puddles of water, and
slept in the canoe. Next morning the weather was hopelessly cloudy.
We saw the darkness of the eclipse and nothing more.
Astronomers are greatly disappointed when, having traveled halfway
around the world to see an eclipse, clouds prevent a sight of it;
and yet a sense of relief accompanies the disappointment. You are
not responsible for the mishap; perhaps something would have broken
down when you were making your observations, so that they would
have failed in the best of weather; but now you are relieved from
all responsibility. It was much easier to go back and tell of
the clouds than it would have been to say that the telescope got
disarranged at the critical moment so that the observations failed.
On our return across Minnesota we had an experience which I have
always remembered as illustrative of the fallacy of all human
testimony about ghosts, rappings, and other phenomena of that
character. We spent two nights and a day at Fort Snelling. Some of
the officers were greatly surprised by a celestial phenomenon of a
very extraordinary character which had been observed for several
nights past. A star had been seen, night after night, rising in
the east as usual, and starting on its course toward the south.
But instead of continuing that course across the meridian, as stars
invariably had done from the remotest antiquity, it took a turn
toward the north, sunk toward the horizon, and finally set near the
north point of the horizon. Of course an explanation was wanted.
My assurance that there must be some mistake in the observation could
not be accepted, because this erratic course of the heavenly body
had been seen by all of them so plainly that no doubt could exist on
the subject. The men who saw it were not of the ordinary untrained
kind, but graduates of West Point, who, if any one, ought to be free
from optical deceptions. I was confidently invited to look out that
night and see for myself. We all watched with the greatest interest.
In due time the planet Mars was seen in the east making its way
toward the south. "There it is!" was the exclamation.
"Yes, there it is," said I. "Now that planet is going to keep right
on its course toward the south."
"No, it is not," said they; "you will see it turn around and go down
towards the north."
Hour after hour passed, and as the planet went on its regular course,
the other watchers began to get a little nervous. It showed no
signs of deviating from its course. We went out from time to time
to look at the sky.
"There it is," said one of the observers at length, pointing to
Capella, which was now just rising a little to the east of north;
"there is the star setting."
"No, it is n't," said I; "there is the star we have been looking at,
now quite inconspicuous near the meridian, and that star which you
think is setting is really rising and will soon be higher up."
A very little additional watching showed that no deviation of the
general laws of Nature had occurred, but that the observers of
previous nights had jumped at the conclusion that two objects,
widely apart in the heavens, were the same.
I passed more than four years in such life, surroundings, and
activities as I have described. In 1858 I received the degree of
D. S. from the Lawrence Scientific School, and thereafter remained
on the rolls of the university as a resident graduate. Life in the
new atmosphere was in such pleasant and striking contrast to that
of my former world that I intensely enjoyed it. I had no very well
marked object in view beyond continuing studies and researches in
mathematical astronomy. Not long after my arrival in Cambridge some
one, in speaking of Professor Peirce, remarked to me that he had a
European reputation as a mathematician. It seemed to me that this
was one of the most exalted positions that a man could attain, and I
intensely longed for it. Yet there was no hurry. Reputation would
come to him who deserved it by his works; works of the first class
were the result of careful thought and study, and not of hurry.
A suggestion had been made to me looking toward a professorship in
some Western college, but after due consideration, I declined to
consider the matter. Yet the necessity of being on the alert for
some opening must have seemed quite strong, because in 1860 I became
a serious candidate for the professorship of physics in the newly
founded Washington University at St. Louis. I was invited to visit
the university, and did so on my way to observe the eclipse of 1860.
My competitor was Lieutenant J. M. Schofield of the United States
Army, then an instructor at West Point. It will not surprise the
reader to know that the man who was afterward to command the army
of the United States received the preference, so I patiently waited
more than another year.
[1] Henry Holt & Co.: New York, 1877.
[2] _Wayside Sketches_, by E. J. Loomis. Roberts: Boston
[3] Evangelinus Apostolides Sophocles, a native Greek and a learned
professor of the literature of his country.