Sketch of the life of La Grange, the equal of La Place; love
Dr. Bowditch had for this person’s character; comparison
between him and La Place; also between him and Dr.
Bowditch.—Conclusion of the Memoir
[Sidenote: BOWDITCH AND LA GRANGE.]
During this history I frequently have spoken of different individuals;
but there is one about whom little mention has been made, but of whose
life I wish to give you a short account, as his character resembles very
much that of Dr. Bowditch. His mind and heart were always regarded by the
American mathematician with feelings of respect and love, such as he felt
towards no other mathematician whose works he had studied. An equal of La
Place, it seems not improper to mention him; and I know you will excuse
the slight interruption in my story when you perceive how the noble
nature of La Grange seems to harmonize with, and to illustrate, as it
were, the life of Dr. Bowditch.
[Sidenote: LIFE OF LA GRANGE.]
[Sidenote: HIS INTELLECT AND MODESTY.]
[Sidenote: LA GRANGE AND LA PLACE.]
[Sidenote: LA GRANGE AND BOWDITCH.]
[Sidenote: DEATH OF LA GRANGE.]
Joseph Louis La Grange, one of the most famous geometricians of modern
times, was born at Turin, January 25, 1736. He was one of eleven
children of parents who became very poor, so that Joseph had in early
life to gain his own subsistence. When young, he devoted himself to
the classics, and read Latin constantly. At seventeen his taste for
abstruse mathematics and geometry first showed itself; and from this
period he continued studying by himself, without aid. In two years he
had acquired a knowledge of all that was known upon the science, and
began to correspond with the scientific men of other lands. In 1755
he sent to Euler, then the greatest mathematician in the world, and
residing in Berlin, an answer to a problem proposed by Euler, ten years
before, to the learned men of Europe, and which they had been unable
to solve. He was appointed professor of mathematics at Turin, at the
age of nineteen years, and soon afterwards originated the Academy of
Sciences at that place. In their Memoirs he published papers in which
he not merely criticised Euler and D’Alembert and others, but brought
forward some very curious new views of science, discovered by himself.
Europe soon resounded with his praises, and he was chosen member of all
the learned societies. In 1766, he was called to the court of Frederick
the Great, King of Prussia, to take the place of Euler, who was summoned
by the Emperor of Russia to St. Petersburg. Frederick wrote to him thus:
“Come to my court, for it is right that the greatest mathematician in
Europe should be near the greatest king.” He accepted the situation thus
offered, and remained there until Frederick died; and soon afterwards
he was invited by the French government to go to Paris. From this time,
with slight interruptions, his fame continued to increase, and every
one delighted to honor him; for his labors did honor to his adopted
country. One of the most beautiful compliments, perhaps, ever paid to
man, was the message sent by the French government to the old father of
La Grange at Piedmont, when that country fell, by a revolution, under
French influence. “Go,” said the Minister of Foreign Affairs to his
ambassador, “go to the venerable father of the illustrious La Grange,
and say to him, that, after the events that have just taken place, the
French government look to him as the first object of their interest.”
The answer of the old man was touching: “This day is the happiest of my
life, and my son is the cause of it!” And thrice blessed must be such a
son, for he fills the last hours of his father’s life with peace. When
Bonaparte came into power, new honors were showered upon him. But what
was it that charmed Dr. Bowditch in the character of La Grange? It was
the combination of a giant intellect with extreme modesty and simplicity,
a sincere love of truth, and almost feminine affections. He was a pure
being, whose intellect equalled La Place’s, but who at the same time was
full of the utmost gentleness and strict justice. He was at Berlin during
the earlier part of La Place’s career in Paris. In after-life, the two
were friends. Both were great geniuses; both were capable of the highest
flights of thought, and of bringing down to the comprehension of mankind
the vast and wise laws impressed by God on the system of the universe.
La Place became interested in political life. La Grange stood aside,
quiet and pleased with his own high thoughts. If his fellows wished him
to take upon himself any public duties, he took them cheerfully, and
as cheerfully resigned them. La Place courted honors; La Grange meekly
received them. La Place sometimes assumed the fruits of other men’s
labors to cover himself with their glory. In the heart of La Grange sat
humility, justice, and philanthropic love. In fact, La Grange was full
of the loftiest qualities and genius combined. La Place had the latter.
His genius alone recommended him to the scientific men around him. Such
were two men whose works Dr. Bowditch read with the greatest pleasure. He
often spoke with great feeling of the noble traits in the character of
La Grange. The features and form of the head of Dr. Bowditch resembled
those of the great Italian. I have often thought that, as they were like
each other in countenance, so their dispositions and fortunes in life
were more nearly similar than is usual in this world. Both were born
poor, and early had to seek subsistence for themselves. Each devoted
himself early to the science of mathematics, and both became eminent in
it. Love of truth and a longing for it were strong traits in both; order
and regularity of life, and simplicity of food and regimen, belonged
to them equally. Above all, a sincere reverence for goodness, for true
modesty and delicate refinement, and a fine respect for the female sex,
were strikingly manifest in both. Both were moderate in their desires,
and both had the highest good of humanity at heart. Each sought for quiet
and retirement from the turmoil of life in his “peaceful mathematics.”
As the lives of both were beautiful, so was the serenity of their death
scenes. La Grange was attacked near the end of March, 1813, by a severe
fever, and the symptoms soon became alarming. He saw the danger he was
in, but still preserved his serenity. “I am studying,” says he, “what
is passing within me, as if I were now engaged in some great and rare
experiment.” On the 8th of April, his friends Messrs. Lacépède, Monge,
and Chaptal visited him, and in a long conversation which he entered
into with them, he showed that his memory was still unclouded, and his
intellect as bright as ever. He spoke to them of his actual condition,
of his labors, of his success, of the tenor of his life, and expressed
no regret at dying, except at the idea of being separated from his wife,
whose kind attentions had been unremittingly bestowed upon him. He soon
sank and died. Three days afterwards his body was deposited in the
Pantheon, as it is called, the burial-place for the great men of France;
and La Place and his friend Lacépède delivered their tributes of praise
and admiration over his grave. So peaceful and calm was the death of Dr.
Bowditch, whose life I have been trying to place before you.
[Sidenote: MRS. BOWDITCH.]
Dr. Bowditch’s health had been generally good, though he never was
robust. In 1808 he was dangerously ill with a cough, and by the advice
of a physician, he took a journey in an open chaise. He was driven
towards Pawtucket and Providence, thence in a westerly direction through
Hartford and New Haven to Albany, and back again across the interior of
Massachusetts, as far as the fertile valley of the Connecticut River.
Thence passing upwards, he crossed on the southern borders of Vermont and
New Hampshire to Newburyport, and back to Salem. This journey restored
him, and he never afterwards suffered much from cough, and generally
enjoyed good health until his last illness.
In 1834 his wife died. His heart was borne down by the loss. She had
been to him always a loving and a tender companion, faithful and true
even to the minutest points. She had watched all his labors. She had
urged him onward in the pursuit of science, by telling him that she
would find the means of meeting any expense by her own economy in her
care of the family. She had watched the progress of his greatest work,
which, with his dying hands, he afterwards dedicated to her memory. She
had listened with delight to all the praises that had come to him from
his own countrymen and from foreign lands; and now, when he was full
of honor and yet active in business, she was called to leave him. With
her the real charm of life departed, and many sad hours would have been
the consequence, if his sense of duty and devotion to science had not
prevented them. He attended now more closely to active engagements. He
always spoke of his wife with extreme fondness, and sometimes his tears
would flow in spite, apparently, of his efforts to restrain them. There
was a degree of sadness, however, which was perceptible only to his
family, that settled upon Dr. Bowditch during the last four years of
life, in consequence of this deprivation.
[Sidenote: LAST ILLNESS.]
[Sidenote: FAREWELL TO FRIENDS.]
[Sidenote: LOVE FOR HIS CHILDREN.]
In the latter part of the summer and early days of autumn of 1837,
he began to feel that he was losing strength, and had occasionally
pains of great severity. He continued to attend to the duties of his
office, however, without yielding to his suffering. In January, 1838,
he submitted to medical advice; but it was of no avail. He sank rapidly
under a severe and torturing disease, which, for the last fortnight of
life, deprived him of the power of eating or even of drinking anything,
except a small quantity of wine and water. Until the last moment of his
life, he was engaged in attending to the duties of the Life Office, and
to the publication of his Commentary on the “Mécanique Céleste.” During
this time, after he lost the power of visiting State Street, he used to
walk into his library, and there sit down among his beloved books, and
pass the hours in gentle conversation with his friends, of each one of
whom he seemed anxious to take a last farewell. He received them daily,
in succession, during the forenoon; and towards those whom he loved
particularly he showed his tenderness by kissing them when they met and
when they parted. His conversation with them was of the most pleasant
kind. He told them of his prospects of death, of his past life, and of
his perfect calmness and reliance on God. He spoke to them of his love
of moral worth. “Talents without goodness I care little for,” said he to
one of them. With his children he was always inexpressibly affectionate.
“Come, my dears,” said he, “I fear you will think me very foolish, but I
cannot help telling you all how much I love you; for whenever any of you
approach me, I feel as if I had a fountain of love, which gushes out upon
you.” He spoke to them at the dead of the night, when he awoke, pleasant
as a little child, yet with the bright, clear mind of a philosopher. He
told them of his life, of his desire always to be innocent, to be active
in every duty, and in the acquirement of knowledge, and then alluded to a
motto that he had impressed upon his mind in early life, that a good man
must have a happy death. On one of these occasions he said, “I feel now
quiet and happy, and I think my life has been somewhat blameless.”
[Sidenote: WORDS OF COMFORT.]
It was noon, and all was quiet in his library. A bright ray of light
streamed through the half-closed shutter. He was calm and free from
pain. One of his children bade him good by for a time. Stretching out
his hand and pointing to the sunlight, he said, “Good by, my son; the
work is done; and if I knew I were to be gone when the sun sets in the
west, I would say, ‘Thy will, O God, be done.’” Observing some around him
weeping, while he was quiet, he quoted his favorite passage from Hafiz,
one of the sweetest of the poets of Persia:—
“So live, that, sinking in thy last long sleep,
Calm thou mayst smile while all around thee weep.”
On another occasion, when one who was near him had a sad countenance, he
told her to be cheerful; and then, taking Bryant’s Poems he read the four
last verses of that exquisite little poem called “The Old Man’s Funeral.”
It is so beautiful in itself, that I want you to read it; and perhaps you
may like to see how he thought it applied to his own condition. I have
placed in parentheses his remarks.
[Sidenote: THE OLD MAN’S FUNERAL.]
THE OLD MAN’S FUNERAL.
I saw an aged man upon his bier;
His hair was thin and white, and on his brow
A record of the cares of many a year—
Cares that were ended and forgotten now.
And there was sadness round, and faces bowed,
And women’s tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud.
Then rose another hoary man, and said,
In faltering accents, to that weeping train,
“Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead?
Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain,
Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast,
Nor when the yellow woods shake down the ripened mast.
“Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled,
His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky,
In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled,
Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie,
And leaves the smile of his departure spread
O’er the warm-colored heaven and ruddy mountain head.
“Why weep ye then for him, who, having won
The bound of man’s appointed years, at last,
Life’s blessings all enjoyed, life’s labors done,
Serenely to his final rest has passed? [I cannot agree to the next
two lines.]
While the soft memory of his virtues yet
Lingers like twilight hues when the bright sun is set.
“His youth was innocent, [yes, I believe mine was innocent;
not guilty, certainly,] his riper age
Marked with some act of goodness every day, [no, not every
day—sometimes,]
And watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage, [O, yes, watched
by eyes that loved him; and O, how calm, but I cannot add
sage,]
Faded his late declining years away.
Cheerful he gave his being up, and went
To share [he hopes] the holy rest that waits a life [he hopes] well
spent.
“That life was happy; every day he gave
Thanks for the fair existence that was his; [yes, every morning,
when I awoke and saw the beautiful sun rise, I thanked God
that he had placed me in this beautiful world,]
For a sick fancy made him not her slave,
To mock him with her phantom miseries.
No chronic tortures racked his aged limb,
For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him. [Yes, that is all
true.]
“And I am glad that he has lived thus long,
And glad that he has gone to his reward;
Nor deem that kindly nature did him wrong,
Softly to disengage the vital cord, [O, how softly, how sweetly, is
the cord disengaging!]
When his weak hand grew palsied, and his eye
Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die.” [Yes, it was his
time to die; remember this; do not look sad or mournful; it
is his time to die.]
[Sidenote: LOVE OF FLOWERS AND MUSIC.]
One of the pleasant effects of his illness was his new love for flowers.
He had never shown any great pleasure in them during life, although
a rose, or lily of the valley, was frequently in his vest during the
summer. One day during his illness, Miss —— sent him a nosegay, in the
centre of which was a white camellia japonica. “Ah! how beautiful!” he
exclaimed; “tell her how much I am pleased; place them where I can see
them. Tell her that the japonica is to me the emblem of her spotless
heart.” Music, too, as it had been his delight in early life, now served
to soothe his last hours. One evening, when surrounded by his family, and
he was free from all pain, the door of the library was suddenly opened,
and his favorite tune of Robin Adair was heard coming from some musical
glasses in the entry. Its plaintiveness was always delightful to him: and
after listening to it till it died away, he exclaimed, “O, how beautiful!
I feel as if I should like to have the tune that I have loved in life
prove my funeral dirge.”
[Sidenote: HIS DEATH.]
It was on the 15th of March, 1838, that, being too feeble to walk, he was
drawn for the last time into the library. On the next day he was confined
to the bed. On that day an incident took place which I cannot forbear to
mention. He had called his daughter his Jessamine, and about twenty-four
hours before his death she obtained for him that delicate white flower.
He took it and kissed it many times. He then returned it with these
words: “Take it, my love; it is beautiful; it is the queen of flowers.
Let it be for you, forever, the emblem of truth and of purity. Let it be
the Bowditch arms. Place it in your mother’s Bible, and by the side of La
Place’s bust, and to-morrow, if I am alive, I will see it.”
In the evening he drew a little water into his parched mouth. “How
delicious!” he murmured. “I have swallowed a drop from
‘Siloa’s brook, that flowed
Fast by the oracle of God.’”
On the morrow, 17th of March, 1838, he died. Had he lived nine days
more, he would have exactly completed his sixty-fifth year. On the next
Sabbath he was laid quietly by the side of his wife Mary. Snow-flakes
fell gently upon the coffin as it was carried into Trinity Church vaults.
There both the bodies remained until a few years since, when they were
removed to Mount Auburn.
FOOTNOTES
[1] You will know better, by and by, about the Revolutionary War. I will
merely state now, that this war was between America and Great Britain,
in order to free ourselves from the power of England. The reason why the
British King had anything to do with America was this: Many years ago, a
number of people came over from England, and settled in this country; and
of course the small colony needed the aid of the government from which it
originated. After a time the people here wanted to govern themselves, and
they therefore went to battle about it, because England would not grant
them all their wishes. This contest, which lasted for several years, was
terminated by the United States becoming free from the power of Great
Britain.
[2] It is now in existence, and was kept in his library during his
lifetime, and for many years afterwards. His library, at the time of
his death, consisted of several thousand books, which, during his long
life, he had collected. Yet, to my mind, the little Almanac is the most
valuable book of the whole, because it was the first evidence he gave of
his perseverance, and of the tendencies of his mind. It is now, with his
other manuscripts, preserved in the Public Library of the City of Boston.
The manuscripts and his whole library were given to the city when the
opening of Devonshire Street, in continuation of Winthrop and Otis Place,
required the removal of the house where they had been preserved from the
time of Mr. Bowditch’s death.
[3] This was the famous battle of the Nile. It won for Nelson the title
of “Baron of the Nile.”
[4] From Rev. Dr. Bentley’s manuscript Journal.
[5] Dr. Bentley’s Journal, above cited.
[6] This and similar acts committed by Great Britain were the prominent
causes of the war between the United States and England in 1812.
[7] An expression of which sailors make use when speaking of the captain
of the vessel, and on this occasion overheard by Mr. Bowditch, as two
sailors whispered one to another, as they passed him on the deck.
[8] It is still (1869) used in the American, and often in the English
marine service. The twenty-eighth edition was only recently published;
about seventy-five thousand copies have been issued since the first
edition was printed under the special direction of Mr. Bowditch.
[9] Chief Justice Parsons, it is said, used to say that moment was one
of the most exciting of his life; and he could not forbear throwing up
his hat and joining in the shout with which the boys saluted the first
returning light of the sun.
[10] Since the first edition of this memoir, the whole subject of
meteoric stones has been more thoroughly investigated by astronomers.
Professor Loomis, of New Haven, says (Elements of Astronomy, 1869,
page 209), “In the year 1833, shooting stars appeared in extraordinary
numbers, on the morning of November 14. It was estimated that they fell
at the rate of five hundred and seventy-five per minute. Most of these
meteors moved in paths, which, if traced backward, would meet in a point
near Gamma, in the constellation Leo. A similar exhibition took place
on the 12th of November, 1799, and there are recorded ten other similar
appearances at about the same period of the year.
“There was a repetition of this remarkable display of meteors on the
morning of November 14, 1866, when the number amounted to one hundred
and twenty-six per minute; also November 14, 1867, when the number of
meteors for a short time amounted to two hundred and twenty per minute;
and November 14, 1868, the display was about equally remarkable.”
Professor Loomis concludes that “these meteors belong to a system
of bodies describing an elliptic orbit about the sun, and making a
revolution in thirty-three years.”
The Weston meteor, or aerolite, observed by Dr. Bowditch, is mentioned
by Professor Loomis, as one of “great brilliancy.” “The entire weight of
the fragments discovered was at least three hundred pounds.... The length
of the visible path of this meteor exceeded one hundred miles. It moved
about fifteen miles per second.”
[11] A fifth was printed several years afterwards, on which Mr. Bowditch
made some notes, and which he meant to have published, but death
prevented him from so doing.
[12] Since the first edition of this memoir, one of the most
extraordinary results ever obtained in astronomy by the use of these same
methods of investigation has been made known. Messrs. Leverrier, a French
astronomer, and Adams of England, calculated very exactly the general
characteristics and course of a planet, which, from the disturbances of
the courses of other well-known planets, was _supposed_ to exist. In
1846, Leverrier requested a German astronomer to point his telescope, at
a certain time, towards a certain part of the heavens, and there was the
long-suspected planet, previously never seen! It was named Neptune. It is
sixty times larger than our earth, and its orbit is nearly thirty times
farther distant from the sun.
[13] Within the last few years numerous other smaller bodies (asteroids)
have been discovered—not less than eighty being now known.
End of Project Gutenberg's Nat the Navigator, by Henry Ingersoll Bowditch