My first trip to Europe, mentioned in the last chapter, was made with
my wife, when the oldest transatlantic line was still the fashionable
one. The passenger on a Cunarder felt himself amply compensated for
poor attendance, coarse food, and bad coffee by learning from the
officers on the promenade deck how far the ships of their line were
superior to all others in strength of hull, ability of captain, and
discipline of crew. Things have changed on both sides since then.
Although the Cunard line has completed its half century without
having lost a passenger, other lines are also carefully navigated,
and the Cunard passenger, so far as I know, fares as well as any
other. Captain McMickan was as perfect a type of the old-fashioned
captain of the best class as I ever saw. His face looked as if the
gentlest zephyr that had ever fanned it was an Atlantic hurricane,
and yet beamed with Hibernian good humor and friendliness. He read
prayers so well on Sunday that a passenger assured him he was born
to be a bishop. One day a ship of the North German Lloyd line was
seen in the offing slowly gaining on us. A passenger called the
captain's attention to the fact that we were being left behind.
"Oh, they're very lightly built, them German ships; built to carry
German dolls and such like cargo."
In London one of the first men we met was Thomas Hughes, of Rugby
fame, who made us feel how worthy he was of the love and esteem
bestowed upon him by Americans. He was able to make our visit
pleasant in more ways than one. Among the men I wanted to see was
Mr. John Stuart Mill, to whom I was attracted not only by his fame
as a philosopher and the interest with which I had read his books,
but also because he was the author of an excellent pamphlet on the
Union side during our civil war.
On my expressing a desire to make Mr. Mill's acquaintance, Mr. Hughes
immediately offered to give me a note of introduction. Mill lived at
Blackheath, which, though in an easterly direction down the Thames,
is one of the prettiest suburbs of the great metropolis. His dwelling
was a very modest one, entered through a passage of trellis-work in a
little garden. He was by no means the grave and distinguished-looking
man I had expected to see. He was small in stature and rather
spare, and did not seem to have markedly intellectual features.
The cordiality of his greeting was more than I could have expected;
and he was much pleased to know that his work in moulding English
sentiment in our favor at the commencement of the civil war was so
well remembered and so highly appreciated across the Atlantic.
As a philosopher, it must be conceded that Mr. Mill lived at an
unfortunate time. While his vigor and independence of thought led
him to break loose from the trammels of the traditional philosophy,
modern scientific generalization had not yet reached a stage favorable
to his becoming a leader in developing the new philosophy. Still,
whatever may be the merits of his philosophic theories, I believe
that up to a quite recent time no work on scientific method appeared
worthy to displace his "System of Logic."
A feature of London life that must strongly impress the scientific
student from our country is the closeness of touch, socially as
well as officially, between the literary and scientific classes on
the one side and the governing classes on the other. Mr. Hughes
invited us to make an evening call with him at the house of a cabinet
minister,--I think it was Mr. Goschen,--where we should find a number
of persons worth seeing. Among those gathered in this casual way
were Mr. Gladstone, Dean Stanley, and our General Burnside, then
grown quite gray. I had never before met General Burnside, but his
published portraits were so characteristic that the man could scarcely
have been mistaken. The only change was in the color of his beard.
Then and later I found that a pleasant feature of these informal
"at homes," so universal in London, is that one meets so many people
he wants to see, and so few he does not want to see.
Congress had made a very liberal appropriation for observations of the
solar eclipse,--the making of which was one object of my visit,--to
be expended under the direction of Professor Peirce, superintendent
of the Coast Survey. Peirce went over in person to take charge
of the arrangements. He arrived in London with several members of
his party a few days before we did, and about the same time came an
independent party of my fellow astronomers from the Naval Observatory,
consisting of Professors Hall, Harkness, and Eastman. The invasion of
their country by such an army of American astronomers quite stirred up
our English colleagues, who sorrowfully contrasted the liberality of
our government with the parsimony of their own, which had, they said,
declined to make any provision for the observations of the eclipse.
Considering that it was visible on their own side of the Atlantic,
they thought their government might take a lesson from ours.
Of course we could not help them directly; and yet I suspect that
our coming, or at least the coming of Peirce, really did help them a
great deal. At any rate, it was a curious coincidence that no sooner
did the American invasion occur than it was semi-officially discovered
that no application of which her Majesty's government could take
cognizance had been made by the scientific authorities for a grant
of money with which to make preparations for observing the eclipse.
That the scientific authorities were not long in catching so broad
a hint as this goes without saying. A little more of the story came
out a few days later in a very unexpected way.
In scientific England, the great social event of the year is the
annual banquet of the Royal Society, held on St. Andrew's day,
the date of the annual meeting of the society, and of the award of
its medals for distinguished work in science. At the banquet the
scientific outlook is discussed not only by members of the society,
but by men high in political and social life. The medalists are
toasted, if they are present; and their praises are sung, if, as is
apt to be the case with foreigners, they are absent. First in rank
is the Copley medal, founded by Sir Godfrey Copley, a contemporary of
Newton. This medal has been awarded annually since 1731, and is now
considered the highest honor that scientific England has to bestow.
The recipient is selected with entire impartiality as to country,
not for any special work published during the year, but in view of
the general merit of all that he has done. Five times in its history
the medal has crossed the Atlantic. It was awarded to Franklin in
1753, Agassiz in 1861, Dana in 1877, and J. Willard Gibbs in 1902.
The long time that elapsed between the first and the second of these
awards affords an illustration of the backwardness of scientific
research in America during the greater part of the first century of
our independence. The year of my visit the medal was awarded to
Mr. Joule, the English physicist, for his work on the relation of
heat and energy.
I was a guest at the banquet, which was the most brilliant function
I had witnessed up to that time. The leaders in English science
and learning sat around the table. Her Majesty's government was
represented by Mr. Gladstone, the Premier, and Mr. Lowe, afterward
Viscount Sherbrooke, Chancellor of the Exchequer. Both replied
to toasts. Mr. Lowe as a speaker was perhaps a little dull, but
not so Mr. Gladstone. There was a charm about the way in which his
talk seemed to display the inner man. It could not be said that he
had either the dry humor of Mr. Evarts or the wit of Mr. Depew; but
these qualities were well replaced by the vivacity of his manner and
the intellectuality of his face. He looked as if he had something
interesting he wanted to tell you; and he proceeded to tell it in
a very felicitous way as regarded both manner and language, but
without anything that savored of eloquence. He was like Carl Schurz
in talking as if he wanted to inform you, and not because he wanted
you to see what a fine speaker he was. With this he impressed one
as having a perfect command of his subject in all its bearings.
I did not for a moment suppose that the Premier of England could have
taken any personal interest in the matter of the eclipse. Great,
therefore, was my surprise when, in speaking of the relations of
the government to science, he began to talk about the coming event.
I quote a passage from memory, after twenty-seven years: "I had the
pleasure of a visit, a few days since, from a very distinguished
American professor, Professor Peirce of Harvard. In the course of
the interview, the learned gentleman expressed his regret that her
Majesty's government had declined to take any measures to promote
observations of the coming eclipse of the sun by British astronomers.
I replied that I was not aware that the government had declined to
take such measures. Indeed, I went further, and assured him that any
application from our astronomers for aid in making these observations
would receive respectful consideration." I felt that there might
be room for some suspicion that this visit of Professor Peirce was a
not unimportant factor in the changed position of affairs as regarded
British observations of the eclipse.
Not only the scene I have described, but subsequent experience, has
impressed me with the high appreciation in which the best scientific
work is held by the leading countries of Europe, especially England
and France, as if the prosecution were something of national
importance which men of the highest rank thought it an honor to
take part in. The Marquis of Salisbury, in an interval between two
terms of service as Premier of England, presided over the British
Association for the Advancement of Science, and delivered an address
showing a wide and careful study of the generalizations of modern
science.
In France, also, one great glory of the nation is felt to be the
works of its scientific and learned men of the past and present.
Membership of one of the five academies of the Institute of France
is counted among the highest honors to which a Frenchman can aspire.
Most remarkable, too, is the extent to which other considerations than
that of merit are set aside in selecting candidates for this honor.
Quite recently a man was elected a member of the Academy of Sciences
who was without either university or official position, and earned a
modest subsistence as a collaborator of the "Revue des Deux Mondes."
But he had found time to make investigations in mathematical astronomy
of such merit that he was considered to have fairly earned this
distinction, and the modesty of his social position did not lie in
his way.
At the time of this visit Lister was an eminent member of the medical
profession, but had not, so far as I am aware, been recognized as
one who was to render incalculable service to suffering humanity.
From a professional point of view there are no two walks in life
having fewer points of contact than those of the surgeon and the
astronomer. It is therefore a remarkable example of the closeness
of touch among eminent Englishmen in every walk of life, that, in
subsequent visits, I was repeatedly thrown into contact with one
who may fairly be recommended as among the greatest benefactors of
the human race that the nineteenth century has given us. This was
partly, but not wholly, due to his being, for several years, the
president of the Royal Society. I would willingly say much more,
but I am unable to write authoritatively upon the life and work of
such a man, and must leave gossip to the daily press.
For the visiting astronomer at London scarcely a place in London has
more attractions than the modest little observatory and dwelling house
on Upper Tulse Hill, in which Sir William Huggins has done so much
to develop the spectroscopy of the fixed stars. The owner of this
charming place was a pioneer in the application of the spectroscope
to the analysis of the light of the heavenly bodies, and after nearly
forty years of work in this field, is still pursuing his researches.
The charm of sentiment is added to the cold atmosphere of science by
the collaboration of Lady Huggins. Almost at the beginning of his
work Mr. Huggins, analyzing the light of the great nebula of Orion,
showed that it must proceed from a mass of gas, and not from solid
matter, thus making the greatest step possible in our knowledge of
these objects. He was also the first to make actual measures of the
motions of bright stars to or from our system by observing the wave
length of the rays of light which they absorbed. Quite recently an
illustrated account of his observatory and its work has appeared in
a splendid folio volume, in which the rigor of science is tempered
with a gentle infusion of art which tempts even the non-scientific
reader to linger over its pages.
In England, the career of Professor Cayley affords an example of the
spirit that impels a scientific worker of the highest class, and of
the extent to which an enlightened community may honor him for what
he is doing. One of the creators of modern mathematics, he never
had any ambition beyond the prosecution of his favorite science.
I first met him at a dinner of the Astronomical Society Club.
As the guests were taking off their wraps and assembling in the
anteroom, I noticed, with some surprise, that one whom I supposed
to be an attendant was talking with them on easy terms. A moment
later the supposed attendant was introduced as Professor Cayley.
His garb set off the seeming haggardness of his keen features so
effectively that I thought him either broken down in health or just
recovering from some protracted illness. The unspoken words on
my lips were, "Why, Professor Cayley, what has happened to you?"
Being now in the confessional, I must own that I did not, at the
moment, recognize the marked intellectuality of a very striking face.
As a representation of a mathematician in the throes of thought,
I know nothing to equal his portrait by Dickenson, which now hangs
in the hall of Trinity College, Cambridge, and is reproduced in the
sixth volume of Cayley's collected works. His life was that of a
man moved to investigation by an uncontrollable impulse; the only
sort of man whose work is destined to be imperishable. Until forty
years of age he was by profession a conveyancer. His ability was
such that he might have gained a fortune by practicing the highest
branch of English law, if his energies had not been diverted in
another direction. The spirit in which he pursued his work may
be judged from an anecdote related by his friend and co-worker,
Sylvester, who, in speaking of Cayley's even and placid temper,
told me that he had never seen him ruffled but once. Entering his
office one morning, intent on some new mathematical thought which
he was discussing with Sylvester, he opened the letter-box in his
door and found a bundle of papers relating to a law case which he
was asked to take up. The interruption was too much. He flung the
papers on the table with remarks more forcible than complimentary
concerning the person who had distracted his attention at such an
inopportune moment. In 1863 he was made a professor at Cambridge,
where, no longer troubled with the intricacies of land tenure, he
published one investigation after another with ceaseless activity,
to the end of his life.
Among my most interesting callers was Professor John C. Adams, of
whom I have spoken as sharing with Leverrier the honor of having
computed the position of the planet Neptune before its existence
was otherwise known. The work of the two men was prosecuted at
almost the same time, but adopting the principle that priority of
publication should be the sole basis of credit, Arago had declared
that no other name than that of Leverrier should even be mentioned
in connection with the work. If repute was correct, Leverrier was
not distinguished for those amiable qualities that commonly mark the
man of science and learning. His attitude toward Adams had always
been hostile. Under these conditions chance afforded the latter
a splendid opportunity of showing his superiority to all personal
feeling. He was president of the Royal Astronomical Society when
its annual medal was awarded to his French rival for his work in
constructing new tables of the sun and planets. It thus became his
duty to deliver the address setting forth the reasons for the award.
He did this with a warmth of praise for Leverrier's works which
could not have been exceeded had the two men been bosom friends.
Adams's intellect was one of the keenest I ever knew. The most
difficult problems of mathematical astronomy and the most recondite
principles that underlie the theory of the celestial motions were
to him but child's play. His works place him among the first
mathematical astronomers of the age, and yet they do not seem to do
his ability entire justice. Indeed, for fifteen years previous to
the time of my visit his published writings had been rather meagre.
But I believe he was justly credited with an elaborate witticism
to the following effect: "In view of the fact that the only human
being ever known to have been killed by a meteorite was a monk, we
may concede that after four hundred years the Pope's bull against
the comet has been justified by the discovery that comets are made
up of meteorites."
Those readers who know on what imperfect data men's impressions are
sometimes founded will not be surprised to learn of my impression
that an Englishman's politics could be inferred from his mental
and social make-up. If all men are born either Aristotelians or
Platonists, then it may be supposed that all Englishmen are born
Conservatives or Liberals.
The utterances of English journalists of the Conservative party about
American affairs during and after our civil war had not impressed
me with the idea that one so unfortunate as to be born in that
party would either take much interest in meeting an American or
be capable of taking an appreciative view of scientific progress.
So confident was I of my theory that I remarked to a friend with
whom I had become somewhat intimate, that no one who knew Mr. Adams
could have much doubt that he was a Liberal in politics.
An embarrassed smile spread over the friend's features. "You would
not make that conclusion known to Mr. Adams, I hope," said he.
"But is he not a Liberal?"
"He is not only a Conservative, but declares himself 'a Tory of
the Tories.'"
I afterward found that he fully justified his own description.
At the university, he was one of the leading opponents of those
measures which freed the academic degrees from religious tests.
He was said to have been among those who objected to Sylvester,
a Jew, receiving a degree.
I had decided to observe the eclipse at Gibraltar. In order that
my results, if I obtained any, might be utilized in the best way, it
was necessary that the longitude of the station should be determined
by telegraph. This had never been done for Gibraltar. How great
the error of the supposed longitude might have been may be inferred
from the fact that a few years later, Captain F. Green of the United
States Navy found the longitude of Lisbon on the Admiralty charts
to be two miles in error. The first arrangements I had to make
in England were directed to this end. Considering the relation
of the world's great fortress to British maritime supremacy, it
does seem as if there were something presumptuous in the coolness
with which I went among the authorities to make arrangements for
the enterprise. Nevertheless, the authorities permitted the work,
with a cordiality which was of itself quite sufficient to remove
any such impression, had it been entertained. The astronomers did,
indeed, profess to feel it humiliating that the longitude of such
a place as Gibraltar should have to be determined from Greenwich by
an American. They did not say "by a foreigner," because they always
protested against Americans looking upon themselves as such. Still,
it would not be an English enterprise if an American carried it out.
I suspect, however, that my proceedings were not looked upon with
entire dissatisfaction even by the astronomers. They might prove
as good a stimulant to their government in showing a little more
enterprise in that direction as the arrival of our eclipse party did.
The longitude work naturally took me to the Royal Observatory which
has made the little town of Greenwich so famous. It is situated some
eight miles east from Charing Cross, on a hill in Greenwich Park,
with a pleasant outlook toward the Thames. From my youth up I had
been working with its observations, and there was no institution
in the world which I had approached, or could approach, with the
interest I felt in ascending the little hill on which it is situated.
When the Calabria was once free from her wharf in New York harbor,
and on her way down the Narrows, the foremost thought was, "Off for
Europe; we shall see Greenwich!" The day of my arrival in London
I had written to Professor Airy, and received an answer the same
evening, inviting us to visit the observatory and spend an afternoon
with him a day or two later.
I was shown around the observatory by an assistant, while my wife
was entertained by Mrs. Airy and the daughters inside the dwelling.
The family dined as soon as the day's work was over, about the middle
of the afternoon. After the meal, we sat over a blazing fire and
discussed our impressions of London.
"What place in London interested you most?" said Airy to my wife.
"The first place I went to see was Cavendish Square."
"What was there in Cavendish Square to interest you?"
"When I was a little girl, my mother once gave me, as a birthday
present, a small volume of poems. The first verse in the book was:--
"'Little Ann and her mother were walking one day
Through London's wide city so fair;
And business obliged them to go by the way
That led them through Cavendish Square.'"