Bright Lamps, Bold Adventure: 1846-1878

A Hole in the Floor

The Regents' choice seems, in retrospect, extraordinarily wise. Joseph Henry, a 48-year-old professor of "natural philosophy" (physics) at the College of New Jersey, which became Princeton University in 1896 was a broad-featured, self-made and self-assured man, who was known for his experiments with electromagnetism, a subject no American scientist since Benjamin Franklin had so avidly pursued. In demonstrating his electromagnetic relays in 1831, Henry had transmitted over distance enough power to ring a bell. This was the basis of the electromagnetic telegraph that later brought fame and money to Samuel F.B. Morse, but Henry had refused to patent his discovery-on principle.

For him, science represented the apex of civilization. Henry later wrote to a friend, in reference to the electromagnetic relay, "I did not then find it compatible with the dignity of science to confine benefits which might be derived from it to the exclusive use of any one individual." He added, tellingly, "The only reward I ever expected was the consciousness of advancing science, the pleasure of discovering new truths, and the scientific reputation to which these labors would entitle me.'

In later life, Henry would admit, "I might have been a little less fastidious." He would never be as famous as Morse, or British physicist and chemist Michael Faraday, whose discoveries had also been paralleled by Henry working in America.

Born poor in 1797 in Albany, New York, he was an unlikely candidate for scientific renown. The son of a Presbyterian laborer, Henry was placed with relatives at the age of seven, badly schooled, and assigned to work in a country store at age 10. After his father's death, Henry just 14, returned to his mother's house, and was apprenticed to a watchmaker and silversmith. This man found him "dull," which is not surprising, given Henry's intelligence and interests and the hardships he had already known and eventually overcame.

He read novels after gaining access to the church library through a hole in the floor. The book that most impressed him in life, however, was not fiction but George Gregory's Popular Lectures on Experimental Philosophy, Astronomy, and Chemistry. Years later, giving a copy of the book to his only son, Henry wrote on the fly-leaf, "This...opened to me a new world of thought and enjoyment; fixed my attention upon the study of nature, and caused me to resolve at the time of reading it that I would immediately devote myself to the acquisition of knowledge."

For Henry, this meant mathematics, chemistry, and natural philosophy. But his interest in science did not prevent him from participating in amateur theatricals, which he apparently took quite seriously.

Henry enrolled in the Albany Academy in 1819, at the age of 22, older than the other students. He supported himself for a time as a kind of circuit-riding grammarian and schoolteacher, earning $8 a week by tutoring the children of well-to-do families. He taught the elder Henry James, religious writer and the father of William James, the philosopher, and Henry James, the novelist.

Henry's early career also included surveying. One summer, he headed a party assigned to establish the route of the proposed Great Road in New York State. Ironically, he was denied an appointment with the Corps of Topographical Engineers of the United States Army, a unit that would someday well serve the purposes of his Smithsonian.

Henry became professor of mathematics and natural philosophy at the Albany Academy in 1826, and librarian of the Albany Institute, a learned society, in 1829. He married his cousin, Harriet L. Alexander, the following year. His experiments with hot-air balloons gained him some recognition, and he began his experiments with electromagnetism and meteorology, interests he would pursue with enthusiasm at the Smithsonian.

Henry published articles in the American Journal of Science and the Arts, which was edited by Benjamin Silliman, a leading light in natural science. Along theway, Henry became acquainted with other prominentmen of science, among them Alexander Dallas Bache and Robert Hare, the noted chemist at the University of Pennsylvania. In 1832, Henry joined the faculty of the College of New Jersey, where he continued his research.

In 1837, he traveled to Europe, where he met some of the most highly regarded scientists of France and England. In London, he dined with American envoy Richard Rush, and it seems reasonable to assume they discussed Rush's pursuit of the Smithson bequest on behalf of the United States.

By 1846, the pivotal year for Henry and for the Smithsonian, he was an admired professor who could be proud of his accomplishments. The de facto orphan, child laborer, novel reader, amateur actor, impoverished schoolmaster, and inventor had climbed to a level of eminence no one could have predicted. Asked by his friend, Bache, how he would interpret the intent of James Smithson's will, a matter of great importance to American science, Henry wrote: "The object of the institution is the increase and diffusion of knowledge. The increase of knowledge is much more difficult and in reference to the bearing of this institution on the character of our country and the welfare of mankind much more important than the diffusion of knowledge." Henry's priorities were clear.

The role of scientist was as much a matter of character to him as of learning. Because of the stature and reputation afforded men of science, pretenders abounded, and they and their schemes had to be guarded against. When the position of the first Secretary of the Smithsonian was formally offered to him, Henry agreed to take on this administrative, politically charged post with characteristic solemnity and premonitions of a struggle: "The office is one which I have by no means coveted and which I accepted at the earnest solicitation of some friends of science in our country, to prevent its falling into worse hands, and with the hope of saving the noble bequest of Smithson from being squandered on chimerical or unworthy projects."

In view of Henry's subsequent acts, these "worse hands" can be identified as those of advocates of an art gallery, a national library, a national museum, an agricultural institute, or anything else that diluted the increase of knowledge. It didn't matter that some of these Chimeras had been mandated by law as aspects of an evolving Smithsonian.

This was the outset of a golden age of scientific advancement in America. Intellectual currents were sweeping across the Atlantic, with exciting advances being made in physics, astronomy, geology, and other disciplines; in science lay the future, its practical aspects increasingly apparent. The reorganization of the U.S. Coast Survey by Bache two years before, in 1844, had preceded ambitious and productive oceanic studies. That same year, Samuel Morse had demonstrated the practical use of the telegraph, and Elias Howe and Richard March Howe did the same for the sewing machine and the rotary printing press, respectively.

Also in 1846, a Boston dentist used anesthesia successfully. The decade also saw the founding of the Lawrence Scientific School (at Harvard), the Cincinnati Observatory, Yale Analytical Laboratory, the centennial celebration of the American Philosophical Society, and the expansion of Silliman's scientific journal. John James Audubon, already noted for his Birds of America, began publishing The Viviparous Quadrupeds of North America. Names of those contributing to scientific development in America included Maury, Agassiz, Gray, Dana, Morton, and Owen. In 1845, John C. Fremont concluded his third expedition in the trans-Mississippi West, the great new theater of exploration and scientific inquiry that would have a profound impact on the Smithsonian.

The city of Washington that received the the Secretary was no Athens on the Potomac, as James Smithson may have once envisioned it. According to Henry Adams, grandson of the Smithsonian's legislative champion, writing in his autobiography, the United States's capital at the time was notable for its "want of barriers, of pavements, of forms; the looseness, the laziness; the indolent Southern drawl; the pigs in the streets...the freedom, openness, swagger, of nature and man...."

Hardly the place for a man interested in natural philosophy and "galvanism" (the study of electricity produced by chemical action). It is difficult to imagine the uncompromising Henry standing happily on the threshold of the Capitol, facing a new career as he figuratively faced the weedy expanse of mall, soon to be home to him and his wife and their son and three daughters. There his Institution would rise, and the rest of his life play out, but he had no certain knowledge of the Smithsonian's makeup or even of what shape its physical structure would take.

Paramount among the Chimeras to Henry was any edifice that might be built to house collections. This would deplete Smithsonian funds in the purchase of what he referred to contemptuously as "bricks and mortar." Such a museum might have limited use in furthering inquiry, but to use it for casual study or entertainment seemed to him the antithesis of the Smithsonian's responsibility. And constructing such a building with funds from the bequest was not consistent with what he saw as the intent of James Smithson.

Henry opposed the museum from the outset. He met officially with the Board, and a majority of the Regents seemed to agree with him. "I have succeeded beyond my most sanguine expectation in molding the opinions of the Board of Regents," Henry wrote happily to his wife, Harriet, in December of 1846.

But Congress was another matter. Henry feared that the legislators' desire for a suitable building "will absorb so much of the annual interest...that there will be but little left for the proper purposes of the Institution," which to him were intensely intellectual. No egalitarian when it came to science, Henry believed that "like the poet, the discoverer is born, not made." Only the chosen few should bother pursuing the "high and holy office of penetrating the mysteries of nature."

Such a man was himself a mystery to mostpoliticians, who considered Henry one of the "zealots for discovery" but were impressed by his seriousness. They would discover that this stern, principled New Yorker had some political talents as well. Henry devised a "Programme of Organization." Printed in the first Annual Report given to the Regents, it reflected his belief in the primacy of original research and the dissemination of findings to as broad a scientific audience as possible. Henry later wrote, "The most prominent idea in my mind is that of stimulating the talent of our country to original research...to pour fresh material on the apex of the pyramid of science, and thus to enlarge its base...."

Three broadly based initiatives contributed to this end. First, Henry decided that meteorological observations would be made throughout the country, and correlated at the Smithsonian. The idea was to establish a base for a burgeoning science of meteorology with extensive, long-range data related to climate. By providing practical information as well as discreet scientific variables and by using ordinary Americans as well as professionals as observers, the Smithsonian could both broaden its base of support and offer services that would lead eventually to the National Weather Service.

Second, Henry launched an ambitious, logistically challenging international exchange of new scientific information. The findings of American research were to be published and distributed to other institutions of learning abroad in exchange for publications featuring foreign research, which would then be disseminated in this country.

Third, in 1848, Henry initiated publication of the series Smithsonian Contributions of knowledge with the appearance of a quarto-size volume, Ancient Monuments ofthe Mississippi Valley, about mound-building Indians, by Ephraim George Squier and Edwin H. Davis. This thick, illustrated work served as a milestone not only in the development of American anthropology but also in the Smithsonian's association with that branch of science.

The production of this book early in his administration proved that Henry would be a determined leader. Insisting upon high standards, he personally edited the work before it was published, at times heavily, excising all ethnological and racial speculation. He wanted Ancient Monuments to represent the best of descriptive science in the tradition of Francis Bacon, the English philosopher. Bacon was a proponent of the inductive method, whereby scientific truths were arrived at through close observation and the elimination of non-essential elements.

The Secretary lacked the assistance he needed, and, in 1850, chose as his right hand a young naturalist whose passion was collecting. His name was Spencer Fullerton Baird, and he was "to take charge of the cabinet and to act as naturalist of the Institution," Henry declared.

The word "cabinet" referred to the general, polyglot assortment of natural specimens arriving on the federal government's figurative doorstep, many of them without merit in Henry's eyes. (In Europe, such collections were referred to as "cabinets of curiosities.")

Although Henry opposed the operation of a museum by the Smithsonian, he understood the importance of collecting and classifying natural phenomena from the continent's far reaches, which were just opening to exploration, and thought it appropriate to use Smithsonian funds to obtain type specimens for such study. Any duplicates should be passed on, however, to other institutions.

This practice prefigured the Smithsonian's later contributions to taxonomy, the study of classification. The paradox of Henry's career was that the Smithsonian was already set on the path toward becoming the greatest museum complex in the world, one in which bricks, mortar, and "curiosities" would play a significant role. Inherent in that contradiction was the choice of Baird as the Institution's second most influential person.

One wonders what Henry thought when Baird arrived in Washington with two boxcar loads of natural specimens he had already collected. The energetic Baird had been the first individual to receive a Smithsonian grant, made earlier by Henry. Baird had put together a collection of freshwater fishes, but he was interested in and highly knowledgeable about all of North America's flora and fauna.

The Library of Congress, established in 1800 and originally housed in the Capitol, contained the manuscripts of George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, Thomas Jefferson, and others. A law would eventually be passed that required a copy of every book copyrighted in the United States to be deposited there, but at this time the library was not yet an exceptional one. Advocates of a separate Smithsonian library constituted a powerful faction on the Board of Regents, led by the voluble former Senator Rufus Choate, who had stated, "we cannot do a safer, surer, more unexceptionable thing with the income...than to expend it in accumulating a grand and noble public library."

All the Smithsonian required, Choate had said, was "a plain, spacious, fireproof building; a librarian and assistants; an agent to buy your books; and a fire to sit by"--words bound to inflame Joseph Henry. The Senator had inserted into the Smithsonian's original mandate a clause allocating "not exceeding $25,000 annually" of the interest on the Smithson fund "for the gradual formation of a library." Since the total annual interest on the fund amounted to only $30,000, this clearly threatened the Smithsonian's viability.

The Regents instructed Henry to hire a distinguished librarian, Charles Coffin Jewett, who loved literature but was no bookish recluse. A few years older than Baird but much younger than Henry, he had graduated from Brown University, where he later compiled and published the library catalog, which brought him recognition. He and his brother had toured the European libraries.

Henry managed to have the amount of money for the library reduced to 50 percent of the interest on the bequest, but this figure, too, was unacceptable to him. It meant that Jewett was in at least theoretical control of half the Smithsonian's budget, and Jewett considered himself responsible to the Regents, not the Secretary.

Jewett and Henry agreed on the need for a bibliographical file to assist scholars in America. Jewett, ahead of his time in library science, was the first to propose a central national catalog of library stock by book title, a system eventually adopted in principle by the Library of Congress. But he and Henry did not agree on the desirability of a national library at the Smithsonian, or on who ultimately was boss.

Meanwhile, Spencer Baird had assumed a job that would have destroyed someone less robust. Among his publishing duties were the Institution's annual reports, book-length enterprises that included scholarly papers. The International Exchange Service required extensive physical labor, much of it performed by Baird.

On June 21, 1852, for instance, he sent out, with some assistance, no fewer than 271 packages of books, reports, and journals. In the course of a year, he wrote thousands of letters, dealt with specimens arriving from expeditions in the American West and elsewhere (whiskey was bought by the barrel as a preservative because it was cheap), and sent off duplicate specimens. The naturalist's prior existence as a largely self-taught ornithologist and instructor must have seemed idyllic compared to what he had taken on.

Baird thought Henry overly strict and unyielding, sometimes authoritarian. The Secretary lectured Baird, checked even the most trivial of his expenditures, and had no compunctions about breaking into Baird's desk if he needed to obtain documents while the Assistant Secretary was elsewhere. Henry was the master and Baird still the pupil, and it rankled.

According to Jewett, Henry once told him, in what must have been a moment of frustration and perhaps of despair, "I have traitors in my camp."

Henry had concerns at the time extending beyond the library and Baird's possible disloyalty. Another proposal for the use of Smithsonian funds had been put forward by Stephen A. Douglas, the Senator from Illinois with Presidential aspirations. Douglas, one of the inhabitants of "Buncombe"-a word used to connote empty talk and Henry's contemptuous characterization of Congress-was wooing the rural vote, and proposed creating an agricultural bureau at the Smithsonian. In 1852, he staged a debate on the subject, and packed the audience with farmers, but Henry was not intimidated. He flatly told them that such a proposal was contrary to the wishes of James Smithson.

The bricks-and-mortar question remained. This entailed problems with the Smithsonian's architect, James Renwick, Jr.; with the contractor; and with the builders. At the outset of 1853, the "Castle," as it came to be known unofficially, consisted of two wings and ranges, each containing a large, empty space. Henry controlled the east wing and what would be the main building, but not the west wing, which was to house the library.

By now books were a source of open conflict. Jewett's manner became "pugnacious," according to his biographer, leading the Smithsonian toward its first crisis.

Jewett sought to undermine Henry, who accused him of insubordination. The stresses of office were showing on the Secretary. He still considered Baird not altogether trustworthy, and had a blunt talk with him, described in a letter to Bache. "[Baird]...was as pliant and affectionate as a young dog, but I fear he will sin again, and nothing but a strong arm and a few hard knocks will keep him in the right course...."

This particular disagreement derived from information leaked to the press regarding the struggle at the Smithsonian over books. Henry believed Baird to be the source of the leak, and his words demonstrate his sometimes imperious attitude and the narrow line to which Baird had to hew. No doubt concerned about his own career, sensing in the possible defeat of the library at least a chance of creating a museum, Baird distanced himself from the librarian.

Henry's preoccupations did not prevent him from dealing adroitly with some people, among them a majority on the Board of Regents. He discussed the Jewett problem with them, and then, in December of 1854, after gaining the Regents' approval, fired the librarian. But literature did not bow readily to science. Choate resigned from the Board in indignation; Congress got involved. A standing committee was established to look into the management of the Smithsonian, and for a brief period the Smithsonian's linen was aired, with Henry and Jewett exchanging recriminations.

This time Buncombe served the interests of the Secretary. He--and Baird--were exonerated of any misconduct, and the Smithsonian's library designated to go to the Library of Congress. It would be known as the Smithsonian Collection, but forever after would be the responsibility of someone else, pleasing Henry and, in the process, enhancing the Library of Congress.

Henry announced Jewett's dismissal in the Annual Report with typical reserve and without elaboration, writing that "a difficulty which occurred between the librarian and myself has led to his separation from the Institution." So much for Charles Coffin Jewett.

Henry was now in clear control of the Castle. Symbolically, what he referred to as the "dirt and rubbish" of building materials had been removed from the new Smithsonian building. In 1855, the great lecture room on the second floor was completed, and the east wing fitted out as the Secretary's residence. The Henrys--the Castle's first family--moved in.

The Secretary's relationship with Baird had lost its warmth. But, as if in response to Baird's supporters--among them the museum faction in Congress and among scientists--Henry had written in the same Annual Report in which he announced Jewett's dismissal, "Though the statement may excite surprise, yet I may assert, on the authority of Professor Baird...that no collection of animals in the United States, or indeed in the world, can even now pretend to rival the richness of the museum of the Smithsonian Institution in specimens which tend to illustrate the natural history of the continent of North America."

Henry still opposed the concept of a national museum on grounds that it was an inappropriate use of Smithson's money. The "increase & diffusion of knowledge" was to extend to all people and all nations, he thought, and the Smithsonian could not support such a venture while funding its own unprescribed research. However, Henry let it be known that he did not object to taking on the responsibilities of a museum, provided they came with outside support-in other words, with money from Buncombe.

The Secretary had so far successfully resisted Congressional pressure to transfer the natural history and anthropological collections from the Wilkes and other expeditions from the U.S. Patent Office to the Smithsonian. But two years after the Jewett affair, Congress voted to do just that, and provided federal money for the purpose. Later, Henry wrote to a friend, "Now comes the danger. The appropriations of Congress for the Museum are fitful...."

Those words would resonate for a century and a half. They indicate that Henry saw the museum as both inevitable and as a lasting source of concern.

Henry and Baird acted in accord from that point on. Neither took a formal position on Darwinism, for instance, the revolutionary theory put forward in 1858 by Charles Darwin in On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, which split the scientific community. Louis Agassiz, the famous geologist, was a determined creationist, but Henry maintained his distance, writing to Asa Gray on the subject of Darwinism, "I...have come to the conclusion that it is the best working hypothesis which you naturalists have ever had"-a thoroughly objective conclusion.

Baird apparently understood the political problems that a public avowal of evolution would entail, and followed his superior's lead. He had another arena in which he intended to assert his independence. That same year, 1858, the United States National Museum was created with some fanfare, to be funded separately by Congress through the Department of the Interior, the only arrangement acceptable to Henry. It was to be curator and managed by none other than Assistant Secretary Baird.

This had always been his dream. Five years before Baird had written to his supporter, the noted geographer George Perkins Marsh, "I expect the accumulation of a mass of matter thus collected...to have the effect of forcing our government into establishing a National Museum, of which (let me whisper it) I hope to be director."

The time for whispering had passed. Spencer Baird, devoted naturalist, conscientious omnium-gatherer, possessed his "cabinet." Joseph Henry, man of principle, avatar of American science, had maintained his vision of a Smithsonian that was devoted to the increase of knowledge and, for the moment, autonomous.

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