Dr. James Armsby

Dr. James H. Armsby

Dr. James H. Armsby

In a previous post, I mentioned that Dudley had benefited from two institution builders, the first being Ormsby Macknight Mitchel.  Mitchel was an energetic founder of observatories and lecturer on the topic of astronomy, and his enthusiasm is likely what started the idea of building the Dudley Observatory.

But the person who first gave voice to the idea, and who worked hard to see that the idea took root, was Doctor James H. Armby (1800-1875).  Armsby was vital to Dudley Observatory, but he was also important for many other educational and medical institutions in Albany.  It’s safe to say that Armsby, now largely forgotten, is partially responsible for the shape of intellectual life in Albany today.

For all that, he was not an Albany native.  Born in Sutton, Massachusetts and trained at the Vermont Academy of Medicine, Armsby didn’t arrive in Albany until 1932. He followed his brother-in-law, Dr. Alden March, to the Capital Region to help combat the Cholera epidemic that swept New York during the summer.

Armsby became a resident the next year.  Albany got a glimpse of what it could expect from the new citizen when he began campaigning to establish a new medical school, hospital and YMCA chapter in the city.  Like Mitchel, Armsby turned to the lecture circuit to raise money and support.  Those lectures, along with come public dissections, eventually founded the Albany Medical College.

Until his death by heart disease in 1875, Armby worked to build educational institutions.  Through another series of lectures, he raised enough money to save Albany Law School during a financial crisis.  He helped organize the Albany Army Relief Bazaar which supported the US Sanitary Commission (and our collection of his correspondence include many of the tedious but necessary letters where he sells raffle tickets.)

Armsby appears to have been the first person to suggest that an observatory be added to the plans for a university in Albany.  Even after the idea of the university faded, he remained a booster of the Observatory.   He served as the secretary of the board during the early years, but realistically was far more important to the budding institution.  He seemed to be everywhere and doing everything.  If you liked him, he was indefatigable and endlessly helpful.  If you didn’t like him, he was a meddling busybody.

One of the few people who seemed to have disliked him was Benjamin Gould.  It was Gould’s inability to get along with Armsby, and a few ham-fisted comments that were perceived as sleights at Armby, that turned the disagreement between Gould and the board into verbal warfare.

From the Collection: Riefler Clock

1903 Riefler Clock

1903 Riefler Clock Face

While a telescope may be the most valuable piece of equipment found in an observatory, a close second is the clock.  Through most of Dudley’s history, the type of astronomical work it was doing required precise, consistent timekeeping.  Not surprisingly, Dudley has owned some of the best clocks available.  Sometimes they were adventurous attempts at timekeeping, like the Polsey Clock by Moses Farmer.  Other times the director played it safe by simply purchasing the most reliable clock on the market.

This is one of the latter: a clock by the Clemens Riefler Company of Munich, Germany, built in 1903.  Started by Sigmund Rielfer, the company made the most accurate clocks in the world during the later 19th century until the invention of quartz timekeeping in the late 1920s.  At their best, Riefler clocks could operate with a variance of only 10 milliseconds per day. The US Bureau of Standards used a Riefler clocks to set the standard time from 1904 to 1929.

Full Riefler Clock

Full Riefler Clock

This accuracy required a bit of work.  Dudley’s clocks were mounted inside glass cylinders.  These cylinders then had the air pumped out using a foot pump (you can see the handle of the pump in the bottom right of the photograph here.)  This protected the clock from changes in atmospheric pressure, which could alter the motion of the gears enough that a few milliseconds could be gained or lost.  These cylinders were fitted with an iron collar and bolted to a stone pier that was anchored in the ground.  This protected the clock from vibrations.

Dudley owns two Rielfer clocks, both purchased during the years when Dudley was working with the Carnegie Institution. Dudley was the Institution’s Department of Meridian Astronomy, working to produce the most accurate star catalog to the early 20th century.  This task, probably more than any other task in astronomy, require precise time.  Even more, it required consistent time, as the job went on, night after night, for years.

If this clock looks familiar, it’s because it was recently part of the “Capital Region in 50 Object” exhibit at the Albany Institute of History and Art, where it sat between a giant metal butterfly from the Albany Pinebush Preserve and a gorgeous Dutch Kas from the Schenectady County Historical Society.  I thank the good folks at the AIHA for inviting us into the exhibit, and also for letting us use one of their old vertical mummy display cases, which makes me feel strangely honored.

Ormsby MacKnight Mitchel

Ormsby MacKnight Mitchel (1810-1862)

Ormsby MacKnight Mitchel (1810-1862)

American astronomy has benefited from a number of people who had a knack, and an obsession, with institution building.  The most famous is George Ellery Hale (1868-1938), who secured funding to build the Yerkes Observatory in Wisconsin and the Mt. Wilson and Palomar Observatories in California.  There’s an old joke that the success of American astronomy hinged on two major discoveries: Edward Pickering’s discovery of women, and George Hale’s discovery of money.

Dudley Observatory began with two dedicated institution builders.  One was Dr. James Armsby, who we’ll meet later.  The other is Ormsby MacKnight Mitchel, the (almost) first director and (briefly) second director of the Dudley Observatory.

Hale would buy telescopes and build observatories, Armsby would build hospitals and colleges, and Mitchel would build anything.  He was a restless, tireless individual who wore a multitude of hats and had a dizzying career.    During his early career he was a soldier and a lawyer, but worked as a professor of mathematics at West Point and then Cincinnati College.  While in Cincinnati he began teaching astronomy as well, in addition to becoming an engineer building railroads, and an administrator founding the college’s law school.  And he was just getting started.

Mitchel is probably most famous for raising the funds to build the Cincinnati Observatory, starting in 1842 and ending with a functioning observatory in 1845.  There are stories of him going door-to-door to collect funds,  but one of the most important things he did was go on the traveling lecture circuit.

In the 1840s, lectures were big business.  With few other entertainment options, people were willing to pay money to spend an afternoon being educated.  The emerging railroad system could take popular lecturers from city to city, allowing them to reach fresh audiences.  Mitchel was focused on astronomy, and there had been a surge of interest in the subject in America following an impressive meteor shower in 1833 and an particularly bright comet in 1843.

Charles Piazzi Smyth's "The Great Comet of 1843"

Charles Piazzi Smyth’s “The Great Comet of 1843”

Competition for lecturers was high, but Mitchel turned out to be a spell-binding speaker.  He continued to tour even after the observatory was complete.  During the winter season, when the clouds made observation difficult, he would travel the country giving astronomy lectures, raising money to keep the observatory running.  He is partially responsible for the popularity of astronomy in mid-19th century America, and his tours would spark the building of many small observatories.

In January, 1951, he took a tour through Albany, New York.  Plans were in the works to build a new university, and suddenly an observatory became a part of the design.  Mitchel was brought into the planning, and while his schedule kept him from being a major contributor, his name helped popularize the idea.  So much so that the observatory became an independent part of the plan, and while the overall plan for the university faded the observatory continued.  And supposedly it was Mitchel who selected the site for the new Dudley Observatory on a rise just to the north of Albany now known as Dudley Heights.

When the Dudley Observatory was still on the drawing board, it was actually assumed that Mitchel would be the first director.  But money was getting increasingly tight for Mitchel, and the touring schedule must have been taxing.  Mitchel ended up taking another job as an engineer to make ends meet and had to turn down the offer of a directorship.  The organizers of the Dudley would go on to use Mitchel’s name to support their fundraising, but found a new director in Benjamin A. Gould.

When this didn’t work out ( see the Battle of the Board) and Gould was ousted, and so in 1859 the organizers of Dudley turned once again to Ormsby Mitchel.  This time Mitchel was on a better footing, and accepted.

This is a great “what if” moment.  Mitchel and Gould were polar opposites.  Gould represented the new “professional” science, while the mostly self-taught Mitchel was very much of the old way.  Gould was probably the better astronomer and very much wanted to drive the science of astronomy forward, while Mitchel had a more balanced focus on diffusing the existing understanding of astronomy to popular audiences.  Both men were driven, but Mitchel was clearly the more gregarious and better at working with the public.  A Dudley Observatory under Ormsby Mitchel would be a very different place than under Gould or Lewis Boss.

But it wasn’t to be.  Mitchel’s wife began having health problems, and so they remained in Cincinnati for a time.  By the time Mitchel was ready to move, the Civil War began.  Mitchel returned to his original trade as a solider, and died of yellow fever is South Carolina in 1862.  While Mitchel was the second director of Dudley Observatory, he never actually set foot in the finished building.

Today, Mitchel is remembered as an important part of the history of American science, and his Cincinnati Observatory is known as the birthplace of American astronomy.  Here in Albany, Mitchel is also remembered as the man who lit the spark and fanned the flames that created Dudley Observatory.

Odds and Ends: Elizabeth Cady Stanton

Throughout its history, Dudley Observatory has had a weird sort of half-fame. Yes, it’s a modest observatory in smAlbany, but there have been a lot of eyes upon it. Particularly during the early phase, with the initial promise of an observatory that could compete with the best in Europe.

As a result, I run into references to Dudley in unexpected places. Here’s a little chart created by Elizabeth Cady Stanton, the great feminist activist and co-organizer of the Seneca Falls women’s rights convention.

Speech from Elizabeth Cady Stanton

[The Selected Papers of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony: National protection for national citizens, 1873 to 1880, pp. 8-9]

The above was part of a speech delivered to the Women’s Taxpayers Association of Rochester, NY. Stanton was encouraging women to invest in their own education, since despite the taxes paid by women the government didn’t seem willing.

I’m not sure exactly what qualified the Dudley Observatory as a “scientific institution for men,” other than the fact that it was run by men , and solely staffed by men until the early 20th century.  That’s probably enough.  It’s possible that Blandina Dudley and the observatory were on Stanton’s radar because her friend and ally Elizabeth “Libby” Smith Miller had married Blandina’s nephew Charles Dudley Miller.  She mentions them both is passing in her autobiography, Eighty Years and More.


From the Collection: Polsey Clock

Polsey ClockThis piece is a bit of a mystery. It comes down to us simply as the “Polsey Clock.” Our other clocks come from famous makers, but Polsey is virtually unknown. It’s also very plain, somewhat battered, and missing a few pieces. Still, in its way, it’s the most interesting clock we have. It may be the lone surviving remnant from an ambitious project created by Moses Farmer.

Here’s where I get to put on my miSci cap. Moses Gerrish Farmer was one of the countless electrical inventors that appeared during the nineteenth century, before the giant corporations like GE and Westinghouse formed and sucked up all the oxygen. Farmer, from New Hampshire, is one of the most important of these inventors, and some of his contributions were long lasting.

For example, in 1856 Farmer demonstrated a duplex telegraph between New York and Philadelphia, sending two signals down the same wire. In 1872, Thomas Edison took his technique, combined it with some other ideas, and created the duplex and quadruplex telegraphy system, sending two signals down the wire and two signals back. He sold the idea to Western Union, one of his first major sales.

(Being Thomas Edison, he then also sold it to Jay Gould’s Atlantic and Pacific company. This is probably the incident that caused the editors of the New York Tribune to dub him the “great professor of duplicity and quadruplicity,” one of the more colorful insults that Edison ever received.)

But before all that, Farmer was working on a fire alarm system in Boston that would work much like systems we use today; there would be a central alarm with signal boxes scattered throughout the city, all connected by telegraph cable. In 1855, he ran into the director of Dudley, Benjamin Gould, who must have liked the idea of a central system that could communicate through telegraph. But rather than fire, Gould was thinking clocks.

New York State Capitol Building with Time Ball, ca. 1860

New York State Capitol Building with Time Ball, ca. 1860

So in 1855, Moses Farmer, along with an assistant named John Polsey, came to the Dudley Observatory to create a clock system. The clock was set into a niche near the entrance to the observatory, and it was wired to other clocks throughout the building through telegraph cable. This allowed the main clock to send signals to the other clocks that would keep them all synchronized. And the telegraph cable also ran out of the building, allowing the clock to send accurate time to distant places.

That last part was part of Gould’s plan to sell accurate time to buildings throughout the capital and down to New York City. It was an ambitious plan, which would have meant telegraph cables running to the government buildings and railroad depots along the Hudson, all reaching back to Dudley Observatory to keep every clock running accurately.

The system was finished in 1856, just in time for the inauguration. It became a centerpiece of Gould’s inauguration speech:

The clock for mean time has been made by our accomplished fellow-citizen, Mr. Farmer, of Boston. Its pendulum has no weights, and needs no winding. […]On the right is the great marble dial, three feet square, which shows the Observatory time, beat by the beautiful electro-magnetic pendulum which is swinging on the left, and which is not only to supply this city with its time correct to the fraction of a second, but is to flash it along the electric wire till its little tick be heard upon the lakes and at the ocean, and in all the rail-road stations lying between — the stay of the navigator, the guardian of the traveler, the safeguard of human life, and the promoter of human welfare on land and sea.

It never worked out the way Gould wanted it to. His successor, George Washington Hough, did send accurate time to the state capitol, but it never became the large scale (and lucrative) operation that Gould wanted.

Farmer’s clock system disappears from the record soon after the inauguration. When the original observatory building was vacated, the system was dismantled. This portion of the system, most likely one of the secondary clocks in the system, was set up in the central dome with the Pruyn telescope. It appears to be the only portion that now survives.

Harry Raymond (1876-1961)

Harry Raymond (1876-1961)A great “thank you” to Dorothy Matsui of Redmond, WA, for finding us and sending us material from her grandfather, Harry Raymond.  Raymond was an astronomer for Dudley from 1905 until 1939, meaning his career spans the creation of the General Catalog.  Raymond’s memoirs will hopefully fill in some of the gaps in our understanding of this period.

Harry was a Harvard graduate who was brought in to help with the Carnegie funded cataloging of stars, something that ended up becoming his career.  In 1926 he and fellow Dudley astronomer Ralph E. Wilson won the Gold Medal of the  Royal Danish Academy of Sciences for determining the proper motion of the sun. The Royal Academy had issued a challenge in 1923, pointing out an unresolved conflict between the apparent motions of stars directly in the sun’s path and the stars at right angles to the sun.  This conflict made it impossible to determine the exact speed on our sun’s motion through the galaxy, which was a vital number for much of the astronomical work being done at the time.  Using Dudley’s highly accurate measurements of stellar motions, Raymond and Wilson were able to make the conflict go away.

During his time at Dudley, Raymond courted and married Adelaide “Addie” Pearl Sweet.  Included with his memoir was some of their correspondence, which mysteriously don’t talk about astronomy much.

Unprofessional Science

Society for the Promotion of Agriculture, Arts, and ManufacturesIn a previous post, I mention the “professionalization of science,” a cultural shift in which Dudley had a part to play. It immediately raises the question, what exactly does “un-professional science” look like? What came before?

We actually have a good example here in the Capitol Region. Most readers will know of the Albany Institute of History and Art, the museum and cultural center a few blocks from the capitol. What many don’t know is that the museum has over 200 years of history. It began, not as a museum at all, but as a society for gentleman farmers.

It began in 1791 as the Society for the Promotion of Agriculture, Arts, and Manufactures, with the unfortunate acronym of SPAAM. It was organized by Chancellor Robert Livingston, owner of Clermont and large amounts of the Catskills, and included a number of big names from New York: Simeon Dewitt, the Surveyor General of New York State, and Ezra L’Hommedieu, a large landowner on Long Island. Later on, names like “DeWitt Clinton” and “Stephen van Rensselaer III” were added.

Along with meeting and events, SPAAM collected papers of interest and published them in their “Transactions …” Reading through gives us a good feel for what “unprofessional” science was like.

Transactions of the the Society for the Promotion of Agriculture, Arts, and ManufacturesMany did good work, like Livingston’s discovery that seeding a field with gypsum improves the yield. Some of the results were comical, like lexicographer Noah Webster deciding that pine trees cause cold weather. But professional scientists made bad theoretical leaps in the early days as well. (Although probably none so bad as Livingston’s conviction that he could domesticate a moose.)

Probably the main thing worth noting is who was doing the science. Most of the names were wealthy people who had the time to experiment. Most of their work was tied to agriculture, so it also required a fair amount of land to experiment. Science was not their job; science was an acceptable hobby for gentlemen of leisure with enough land to commit to something unprofitable.

More than acceptable, it was actually a way for the American elite to signal that they didn’t have to work for a living. Like the Dowager Countess’ line in Downton Abbey, “What is a week-end?”, it was a way to show off you wealth and status without ostentation.

Many people wanted to get science out of the hands of these amateur gentleman farmers and into the hands of trained professionals. Of course, “trained professional” was a little sketchy. Since America had no universities that offered higher degrees in science until the late 19th century, the diploma couldn’t be used as a standard.

And of course, someone had to pay these professionals. That frequently meant convincing wealthy people that donating money to build an institution was the real path to status. This was particularly true in astronomy, where building large observatories and stocking them with expensive telescopes frequently required an extremely wealthy patron.

It was a slow process of building up institutions to train the professionals, building up the networks to employ the professionals and convincing everyone that professionals were the ones you wanted doing science. Here in Albany, the AIHA and Dudley represent two interesting examples of the early stages of this process.

From the Library: “Radial Velocity of the Andromeda Nebula”

If you were to list the great astronomers of the last century, just based on your own memory, it’s a safe bet that Vesto Slipher would not be a name you come up with.

Vesto Melvin Slipher, “V.M.” to most folks, was the head astronomer at Lowell Observatory for over fifty years. If he is forgotten, it’s because he worked at it. Slipher was a quiet, unassuming and humble man. He’s also forgotten because his boss, Percival Lowell, was none of those things.

Vesto Slipher (1875-1969)

Vesto Slipher (1875-1969)

While Lowell gallivanted, Slipher worked diligently with his 24” Clark refractor and spectrograph and generally let his boss take the spotlight. Even the Lowell Observatory website gives him little attention. He’s mentioned briefly in connection with his telescope, with which he “revolutionized our understanding of space.”

One of the revolutions that Slipher contributed to was the understanding that many of the little blobs of light in the night sky called nebula were actually other galaxies like our own Milky Way. The debate over the nature of these nebula ran from the mid-18th century until the 1920s, and suggestions included stars in the process of forming, clouds of gas and finally other galaxies. This last suggestion, called the “island universe” theory, was finally settled by Edwin Hubble, but a great deal of work went into the theory before that point.

In 1910, prompted by Lowell, Slipher began to take spectrographic readings of the Andromeda nebula. Even though this is the brightest nebula in the northern sky, it was still an arduous process, requiring that a photographic plate be left in place for many hours to capture sufficient light.  Slipher spent the next two years rebuilding his spectrograph to capture more light until he finally got a workable spectrum in September of 1912.

When he looked at the spectrum – so small that it required a microscope to examine – he got a shock. By looking at how much the spectral lines had shifted, an astronomer could tell how fast an object was moving either towards or away from the earth. This variable is called the “radial velocity.” The radial velocity of Andromeda showed it to be headed towards us at an incredible rate of speed.

Andromeda Nebula, 1899, by Isaac Robert

Andromeda Nebula, 1899, by Isaac Roberts

After taking several more photographs, Slipher calculated that Andromeda was moving at 300 kilometers per second, about ten times faster than the average star in our galaxy. This find changed the debate over the nature of nebula; something moving that fast was unlikely to be part of our galaxy and didn’t fit the understanding of forming stars.

Slipher, true to his nature, did not publish his discovery in a major scientific journal, or even in a journal at all. Instead it appeared in the Lowell’s own newsletter, the Lowell Observatory Bulletin.  In nine sparse paragraphs, covering both of the two pages of the newsletter, Slipher laid out his process and findings. He suggested that “it might not be fruitless” to look at other spiral nebula.

It wasn’t. In 1914, with fourteen spiral nebula spectra in hand, Slipher had found that Andromeda was a relative slowpoke; one nebula was moving away from us at 1,100 kps, the fastest celestial object recorded at the time. That year, Slipher presented before the Astronomical and Astrophysical Society of America (which changed its name to the American Astronomical Society at that meeting). He received the first standing ovation in the institution’s history. In the audience was a recently elected member, a Wisconsin graduate student named Edwin Hubble.

Because he shunned the spotlight, Slipher rarely published or presented papers. Most of his output went out in the tiny Lowell Observatory Bulletin, which was not collected by many institutions. It’s a very fortunate thing that the Dudley Observatory was one that did. There are few revolutions that can compete in scope with the realization that our galaxy is only one of billions. And this short little paper was a vital part of the process.

Radial Velocity of the Andromeda Nebula

From the Collection: Groundbreaking Soil

Groundbreaking Dirt from Planetarium

Groundbreaking Dirt from Planetarium

As a museum worker, it’s always nice to have things in your collection that are a little unconventional.  Books and artworks are great, but there’s something fun about having a few taxidermied animals and Victorian hair catchers.  Still, even I’m stymied when I see a glass box full of dirt.

This mix of greyish soil and dried grass is the result of a shovel-full lifted by Beatrix Wilhelmina Armgard, Princess of the Netherlands, during the ground breaking ceremony for the Hudson-Champlain Planetarium on September 19th, 1959.  At the time, Princess Beatrice was the heir presumptive on a formal visit to the former colony of the New Netherlands, Albany, New York.

Princess Beatrix breaking ground for the Hudson Planetarium, Sept. 19, 1959

Princess Beatrix breaking ground for the Hudson Planetarium, Sept. 19, 1959

The planetarium was to be located near the Dudley Observatory’s South Lake observatory, which means this dirt came from what is now the grounds of Albany Med.  The event was the primary photo opportunity for the Princess’ visit, and it was attended by Mayor Corning, Governor Rockefeller, various state commissioners, various local religious dignitaries,  Dr. Benjamin Boss and Dr. Curtis Hemenway of Dudley, and young Miss Laura Terlaak-Poot, a Dutch immigrant who presented the Princess with flowers.

From here on, it gets a little embarrassing.  The capital campaign to build the planetarium stalled, and the planetarium was never built.  By the next year, the observatory and the grounds had been sold to Albany Med.  Plans to merge the observatory and the planetarium with SUNY Albany fell through.  The observatory building burned in 1970.

According to legend, the visit by Princess Beatrix, and the shabby look of Albany at the time, embarrassed Governor Rockefeller enough that he made plans  to rebuild the capitol area.  This led to the construction of the Empire State Plaza.

Eventually the planetarium was installed in the Albany Heritage Area Visitor’s Center as the Henry Hudson Planetarium, no longer tied to Dudley.  Ironically, after sixty years, the Observatory now shares a building and a close relationship with the Suits-Bueche Planetarium here at miSci.

The Battle of the Board

Benjamin A. Gould

Benjamin A. Gould (1824-1896), the first director of Dudley Observatory

It’s an unfortunate fact that the Dudley Observatory, no matter what it has accomplished and no matter what it may accomplish, will always best be known to historians for its near collapse just as it got started.

The simple version of the story is that a split occurred on the board not long after Dudley was founded. On one side was the Scientific Council, made up of the scientific advisers along with the first director, Benjamin Gould, and his patron Alexander Dallas Bache. On the other side were the Trustees, the financial backers like Thomas Olcott and Dr. James Armsby. The two sides argued, in person, in the press, in the backrooms and in the courtroom, until Gould was forced to leave. People all over the nation followed the arguments, and still today the fight is studied by historians of American science.

Figuring out what the argument was about takes some work. Anyone familiar with board fights, or internet arguments, can probably guess the arc: everyone started out as friends with a polite disagreement, and by the end everyone else was the antichrist. Both sides had long and well-practiced lists of complaints about the other.

Reading between the lines of those lists, it looks like the Scientific Council and the Trustees had different visions of what Dudley would be. The Council wanted a top notch scientific institution that would do serious science and nothing else. The Trustees, representing the people who put forth the money, wanted an observatory that would serve the Capitol Region, both by doing useful science and by adding luster to the city’s reputation.

Alexander Dallas Bache (1806–1867), director of the Coast Survey

Alexander Dallas Bache (1806–1867), director of the Coast Survey

These goals were not incompatible at first. But in 1857, while the observatory was still incomplete, a financial crisis made money tight. That meant one side or another would not get their vision of the observatory. The Scientific Council thought that the observatory should be shut down until sufficient money was raised to run it properly; better to let it sit unused than do poor quality work. The Trustees wanted the observatory to start work with whatever equipment it had, to serve the public that had footed the bill to construct it.

The details of the arguments that followed would fill a book (specifically, that book is Elites in Conflict: the antebellum clash over the Dudley Observatory by Mary Ann James). All of that is something to cover at another time. For this post, it’s probably best to ask: why should anyone care? With the exception of us poor souls who are paid to care, why should this interest anyone?

American science was in a transition that would take it out of the hands of gentleman hobbyists in the early part of the 19th century and leave it with professional scientists by the end. This process, called the “professionalization of science,” turned science into a job, created familiar scientific institutions and granted scientists the social authority they have today.

At the center of this process was Alexander Dallas Bache. Great-grandson of the ultimate gentleman scientist, Benjamin Franklin, Bache nevertheless worked towards a vision of science that would make his ancestor’s career impossible. Some historians say that Bache did for American science what FDR did for American government: reorganize it on a much grander scale. Bache was well connected, shrewd and (usually) diplomatic, and he was firmly in support of his ally Benjamin Gould and a Dudley Observatory run along professional lines.

And he failed. It’s one of the few times he did so, which is part of why it’s so interesting. The Battle of the Board sits right in the middle of several of the major disputes of professionalization: how to pay for the new science?  How to organize a scientific institution?  Who should be in charge?  By following the arguments we can get a sense of what forces were at work in this large and important transition.