The nearest sign of life was at a tavern a block or two away. There I found that I was only a short distance from the station of departure, and reached my train barely in time.
Landing in New York at the first glimmer of dawn, near the end of the line of passengers I was momentarily alarmed to see a man pick up what seemed to be a leather purse from right between my feet. It was brown and, so far as I could see, just like my own. I immediately felt the breast pocket of my coat and found that my own was quite safe.
The man who picked up the purse inquired in the politest tone possible if it was mine, to which I replied in the negative. He retreated a short distance and then a bystander came up and chided me in a whisper for my folly in not claiming the purse. The only reply he got was, "Oh, I'm up to all your tricks." On a repetition of this assurance the pair sneaked away.
Arriving at Cambridge, I sought out Professor Winlock and was informed that no immediate employment was open at his office.
It would be necessary for him to get authority from Washington.
After this was obtained some hope might be held out, so I appeared in the office from time to time as a visitor, my first visit being that described in the opening chapter.
[1] I may remark, for the benefit of any medical reader, that it involved the use of two pails, one full of water, the other empty.
When he got through the ablution, one pail was empty, and the other full. My authority for the actuality of this remarkable proceeding was some inmate of the house at the time, and I give credence to the story because it was not one likely to be invented.
[2] Rev. Alexander H. Monroe, who, I have understood, afterward lived in Montreal. I have often wished to find a trace of him, but do not know whether he is still living.
[3] Our druggist was Mr. S. L. Tilley, afterward Sir Leonard Tilley, the well-known Canadian Minister of Finance.
[4] Peake, notwithstanding his official title, would seem to have been more than an ordinary janitor, as he was the author of a Guide to the Smithsonian Institution.
III
THE WORLD OF SWEETNESS AND LIGHT
The term "Nautical Almanac" is an unfortunate misnomer for what is, properly speaking, the "Astronomical Ephemeris." It is quite a large volume, from which the world draws all its knowledge of times and seasons, the motions of the heavenly bodies, the past and future positions of the stars and planets, eclipses, and celestial phenomena generally which admit of prediction. It is the basis on which the family almanac is to rest. It also contains the special data needed to enable the astronomer and navigator to determine their position on land or sea. The first British publication of the sort, prepared by Maskelyne, Astronomer Royal, a century ago, was intended especially for the use of navigators; hence the familiar appellation, which I call unfortunate because it leads to the impression that the work is simply an enlargement and improvement of the household almanac.
The leading nations publish ephemerides of this sort. The introductions and explanations are, of course, in the languages of the respective countries; but the contents of the volume are now so much alike that the duplication of work involved in preparing them seems quite unnecessary. Yet national pride and emulation will probably continue it for some time to come.
The first appropriation for an American ephemeris and nautical almanac was made by Congress in 1849. Lieutenant Charles Henry Davis, as a leader and moving spirit in securing the appropriation, was naturally made the first superintendent of the work. At that time astronomical science in our country was so far from being reduced to a system that it seemed necessary to have the work prepared at some seat of learning. So, instead of founding the office in Washington, it was established at Cambridge, the seat of Harvard University, where it could have the benefit of the technical knowledge of experts, and especially of Professor Benjamin Peirce, who was recognized as the leading mathematician of America. Here it remained until 1866, when conditions had so far changed that the office was removed to Washington, where it has since remained.
To this work I was especially attracted because its preparation seemed to me to embody the highest intellectual power to which man had ever attained. The matter used to present itself to my mind somewhat in this way: Supply any man with the fundamental data of astronomy, the times at which stars and planets cross the meridian of a place, and other matters of this kind. He is informed that each of these bodies whose observations he is to use is attracted by all the others with a force which varies as the inverse square of their distance apart.
From these data he is to weigh the bodies, predict their motion in all future time, compute their orbits, determine what changes of form and position these orbits will undergo through thousands of ages, and make maps showing exactly over what cities and towns on the surface of the earth an eclipse of the sun will pass fifty years hence, or over what regions it did pass thousands of years ago.
A more hopeless problem than this could not be presented to the ordinary human intellect. There are tens of thousands of men who could be successful in all the ordinary walks of life, hundreds who could wield empires, thousands who could gain wealth, for one who could take up this astronomical problem with any hope of success.
The men who have done it are therefore in intellect the select few of the human race,--an aristocracy ranking above all others in the scale of being. The astronomical ephemeris is the last practical outcome of their productive genius.
On the question whether the world generally reasoned in this way, I do not remember having any distinct idea. This was certainly not because I was indifferent to the question, but because it never strongly presented itself to my mind. From my point of view it would not have been an important one, because I had already formed the conviction that one should choose that sphere in life to which he was most strongly attracted, or for which his faculties best fitted him.
A few months previous to my advent Commander Davis had been detached from the superintendency and ordered to command the sloop St. Mary's. He was succeeded by Professor Joseph Winlock, who afterward succeeded George P. Bond as director of the Harvard Observatory. Most companionable in the society of his friends, Winlock was as silent as General Grant with the ordinary run of men.
Withal, he had a way of putting his words into exact official form.
The following anecdote of him used to be current. While he was attached to the Naval Academy, he was introduced one evening at a reception to a visiting lady. He looked at the lady for a decorous length of time, and she looked at him; then they parted without saying a word. His introducer watched the scene, and asked him, "Why did you not talk to that lady?"
"I had no statement to make to her," was the reply.
Dr. Gould told me this story was founded on fact, but when, after Winlock's death, it was put off on me with some alterations, I felt less sure.
The following I believe to be authentic. It occurred several years later. Hilgard, in charge of the Coast Survey office, was struck by the official terseness of the communications he occasionally received from Winlock, and resolved to be his rival.
They were expecting additions to their families about the same time, and had doubtless spoken of the subject. When Hilgard's arrived, he addressed a communication to Winlock in these terms:--
"Mine's a boy. What's yours?"
In due course of time the following letter was received in reply:--
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.