The Lost World of James Smithson

by Heather Ewing

  Anxious to complete his mission to the utmost, Rush personally escorted the gold coins to the U.S. Mint in Philadelphia. There the sovereigns were recoined into American currency, Queen Victoria's profile replaced by an American eagle. The conversion yielded $508,318.46—a sum that represented about 1/66th of the entire federal budget for 1838.23 The successful prosecutor of the Smithson suit then returned to his lawyerly life in Philadelphia and his comfortable family idyll, Sydenham, in the countryside outside town. His battles on behalf of the Smithson bequest, however, were, as it turned out, not yet over.

  Even before the deposit of the Smithson fund to the U.S. Treasury, Congress had begun contemplating the proposed Smithsonian Institution. Most members were in agreement on the benefits that such a foundation might bring to the country, but there was still widespread confusion over what was to be the principal purpose of the new institution. The Secretary of State appealed to men of science across the country for their ideas, eliciting a proposal for an agricultural school that could serve as a "nursery of scientific agriculturists for the whole Union," another for a university to teach "Latin, Greek, Hebrew and the Oriental languages," and one for an institute for research in the physical sciences, among other suggestions.24

  Rush weighed in with an idea for a wide-ranging cultural institution that included a natural history collection, a collection of antiquities, and "courses of lectures which should be free to a certain number of young men from each State."25 Thomas Cooper, a chemist and mineralogist who had recently retired as president of South Carolina College (today the University of South Carolina), wrote that he objected to any plan to teach "belles-lettres and philosophical literature, as calculated only to make men pleasant talkers." Cooper had long ago been a member, like Smithson, in the Coffee House Philosophical Society, though he never claimed to have known Smithson. Like Smithson, too, he believed in the power of science to advance society, and he argued that a university devoted to practical science—promoting research that would "multiply the comforts of existence to the great mass of mankind"—was the best use of the fund.26 Cooper's views were popular in the Senate, but in the House, John Quincy Adams, the most ardent champion of the bequest, made a case for an astronomical observatory—that project for which he had so passionately advocated during his presidency.27

  The House and Senate established a joint committee to discuss the Smithsonian. These two bodies had such divergent aspirations for the trust, however, that the committee was soon dissolved. A few members in the Senate, in fact, continued to question the constitutionality of accepting Smithson's money at all. John C. Calhoun remained virulently opposed to the idea of Congress establishing a national institution in the District of Columbia. "We must look carefully at the extent of our own power," he warned. "This Government is a trust, established by the States, with a specific capacity, education not included, and all the powers which are not granted are expressly reserved to the States. … [W]hat are we to do with the money? There is no difficulty in that; it must be returned to the heirs."28

  Outside of Congress, the Smithson bequest tapped into an ongoing discussion about America's status in the international scientific community. The United States lacked a public face like the new British Association for the Advancement of Science, an umbrella organization that could spur professional development and promote public interest in science. And the state of scientific knowledge generally was considered poor. "Our newspapers are filled with the puffs of quackery," decried one of America's most important scientists—Joseph Henry, the man who later became the first head of the Smithsonian—"and every man who can burn phosphorus in oxygen and exhibit a few experiments to a class of Young Ladies is called a man of science."29 Clearly, the Smithsonian, if it could be established with an effective program, had the potential to make a significant contribution to American life.

  In 1840 the National Institution (later Institute) for the Promotion of Science was founded in Washington, in large part with an eye towards becoming the logical repository of the Smithson monies.30 The brainchild of South Carolinian Joel Poinsett, a former secretary of war and the man for whom the poinsettia plant is named, the National Institute put forth an ambitious agenda—one that was ultimately unsuccessful but did have a considerable impact on the formation of the Smithsonian. The National Institute planned to establish a national museum of natural history, ideally to showcase the collections amassed by the U.S. Exploring Expedition, which Poinsett had helped to organize. They also proposed an observatory, botanical and zoological gardens, and "apparatus for illustrating every branch of Physical Science." They did gain control of the government collections from the Exploring Expedition, displaying them at the Patent Office—over the disgruntled objections of the Commissioner of Patents. They also managed to secure Smithson's possessions, which were transferred from Philadelphia.31 But despite all these maneuvers, Poinsett and his faction were unable to unite their fortunes to the Smithson bequest. Lacking funds and strong congressional support, accused of operating out of "self-aggrandizement" rather than for "the promotion of science," the National Institute after a rapid ascent failed to gain momentum.32 It faltered along, having been granted a twenty-year charter at its inception, ironically watching the Smithsonian, when it was finally founded, embrace nearly everything to which it had aspired.

  As the years passed, and resolution after resolution was tabled without any successful legislation, Adams privately fretted in his diary that the money might be "squandered upon cormorants or wasted in electioneering bribery." The only successful action that had been taken regarding the bequest was driven by just such special interests. The money after its deposit in the Treasury had been invested in the state bonds of Arkansas, Michigan, and Illinois. Within a few years the states had defaulted on their payments, and the Smithson fund seemed in danger of being lost. On top of everything, the Smithson money now had to be rescued from what Adams called "the fangs of the State of Arkansas."33

  Ten years after Congress had first green-lighted the United States' acceptance of the Smithson bequest, there finally began to be some movement on a bill for a Smithsonian. Many had stepped forward to champion their own pet projects, and proposals for botanical gardens, cabinets of natural history, and educational foundations had all been mooted, but none had succeeded in becoming law. In late 1844 Senator Benjamin Tappan of Ohio proposed a bill for an institution combining a natural history museum, mineralogical cabinet, lecture hall, chemical laboratory, and a ten-acre agricultural station. Rufus Choate of Massachusetts led a contingent who believed a "grand and noble public library … durable as liberty, durable as the Union," was the best use of the fund, and he succeeded in having a library provision added to Tappan's bill. On January 21, 1845, with the Senate's ratification, it became the first Smithsonian bill to pass either branch of Congress.34

  Brought to the House for approval, the bill foundered for a year before Robert Dale Owen, the son of the Utopian New Harmony, Indiana, founder Robert Owen (friend to Smithson's eccentric protégé Baume), was able to get his own substitute bill considered. Owen took out the provision for a library, disdaining the idea of trying to compete with Europe. "Shall we grudge to Europe her antiquarian lore, her cumbrous folios, her illuminated manuscripts, the chaff of learned dullness that cumbers her old library shelves?" he asked. He championed instead a teacher training college, an opportunity to spread knowledge across the nation through the improvement of the common school system.35 His plan, which also encompassed a natural history collection, an experimental garden, and a laboratory, gained a large measure of support, but John Quincy Adams railed fervidly against the idea of a common school as contrary to Smithson's wishes. At the last moment William J. Hough, a first-term congressman from New York, proposed a substitute bill that omitted the educational component; the backers of the library, meanwhile, managed to slip in an amendment increasing the appropriation for a national library. Finally, a Smithsonian bill had been drawn up that met with the satisfaction o
f a majority of members—though not without "almost a death struggle," according to Owen's father.36 On April 30, 1846, the House sent word to the Senate that they had passed a bill enacting the Smithsonian.

  The Senate promptly established a commission to assess the bill and add their own amendments. As they lingered in their debates, letters poured in urging Congress to act. In Albany, New York, a convention of county superintendents "could not suppress their deep mortification and painful regret" that the United States had not yet carried out any plans for such a "noble and exalted" gift as Smithson's.37 But it was not until August 10, 1846, the very last day of the session, that the Smithsonian bill was finally brought up for review. "The day," wrote Adams in his diary, "like all the last days of a Session of Congress was a Chaos of confusion." At noon the final meeting of the session would adjourn, regardless of the work in progress. As the trains idled at the station, waiting to take members away from the swelter of Washington and home to their districts, the question was asked: "Shall this bill pass?" Thirteen said nay, but twenty-six senators replied yea. It was done.38

  The Smithsonian, miraculously, had been legislated into existence. Twenty years after Smithson wrote his will, the unique secondary clause he had included had been brought to life. It had very nearly not happened. At dozens of points the story of the Smithsonian could have taken a markedly different turn. Smithson's nephew Henry James Hungerford, the primary beneficiary of Smithson's will, might have married and had children, relegating the bequest to an amusing family anecdote about quirky old Uncle James. The United States Congress could have refused the gift outright in 1835, rendering it a casualty of the nascent states' rights battle that eventually gave birth to the Civil War. Richard Rush could have failed in his suit at Chancery, or brought home a pittance of the original sum, had the case dragged on for years as most at that time did. The Mediator, which carried Rush home to America, could have sunk with its gold coin cargo in any one of the terrible storms it encountered crossing the Atlantic. And of course, without the vigilance of John Quincy Adams and others, Congress' eight years of debates on the nature of a Smithsonian Institution might well have ended in stalemate or oblivion. Time and again Smithson's gift foundered or fell by the wayside, only to be resurrected.

  The fights over the purpose of the Smithsonian, unsurprisingly perhaps, hardly ended with the passage of the act enabling the institution. The legislation was a classic example of the art of congressional compromise. It was bursting with programmatic directives; squabbles over the allocation of resources were inevitable. The 6 percent annual interest that comprised the budget amounted to about $30,000—a pretty modest amount to fund a natural history museum, library, gallery of art, and a chemical laboratory, not to mention salaries, publications, and lectures. Compared with other private endowments in the United States, the Smithson fund was an impressively large sum of money, exceeded only slightly by that of Harvard University. Smithson's gift, furthermore, as the donation of a single individual, existed in a league of its own; Harvard's endowment had already been accumulating two hundred years by the mid-nineteenth century. But compared with the resources of the federal government—the Smithsonian's annual budget was one-quarter that of the government's Coast Survey, as an example—the Smithson bequest was relatively insignificant. It was hardly enough money to undertake properly all the myriad activities specified in the legislation, much less construct a large, ornate building on top of it all.39

  In December 1846 the newly appointed regents of the Smithsonian—a governing board that included the Vice President, the Chief Justice, the Mayor of Washington, three senators and three congressmen, two members of the National Institute, and a handful of private citizens—picked Joseph Henry to be the first secretary of the Smithsonian. A much sought-after professor at the College of New Jersey (Princeton), Henry was the most prominent experimental physicist in the United States. He was also an extremely pragmatic and hard-nosed leader. He saw quite clearly the challenges and risks that such a liberal mandate posed to the future effectiveness of any Smithsonian Institution. He also saw the potential the Smithson gift held to transform American science. Drawing up a careful program of organization, he offered his interpretation of how best to carry out James Smithson's mandate. Henry believed that the Smithsonian could play a vital role in America by funding basic original scientific research and disseminating it through publication. "The increase of knowledge," he explained, "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. There are at this time thousands of institutions actively engaged in the diffusion of knowledge in our country, but not a single one which gives direct support to its increase."40 He advocated economy in the creation of a building and argued that the permanent staff supported by the bequest should be kept small. Stern and high-minded, Henry came to see himself as the only one who could properly carry out Smithson's wishes. He dedicated himself to the future of science in America, passing up other lucrative offers to do it—thinking perhaps, like Smithson, of posterity.41

  The regents, however, who included Richard Rush and Congressman Robert Dale Owen, were keen to uphold the broad mandate of the legislation. In the first decade of the institution Henry battled with the building committee, who were intent on creating an architectural showpiece for the nation; he fought the librarian, who angled to position the Smithsonian as the platform for a national library; and he derided the placement of a lecture hall in the Smithsonian building for similar reasons, believing it was "a perversion of the trust," because the hall could reach only a local audience and not all of mankind as Smithson intended.42

  The biggest conflict of all was over the museum. Henry struggled to keep the Smithson fund independent of the government, even as the Smithsonian was drawn ever more deeply into the role of custodian of federal collections. The Smithsonian's founding coincided with the birth of Manifest Destiny, the belief that God had blessed America with abundant land to spread the experiment in democracy. Government expeditions fanned across the continent, sending back trunkloads of specimens to Washington; the Smithsonian's new building emerged as an ideal public exposition space, and it was one not yet filled. It was only a matter of time before it would be claimed as an essential repository for a national museum.

  In 1858 Henry agreed to the transfer of the government scientific collections from the Patent Office, in exchange for financial support of his meteorological program—a decision that would have an extraordinary impact on the future direction of the Smithsonian. For the first time, Henry negotiated a large appropriation from Congress to underwrite the upkeep of the museum. Federal support was something he had long opposed, for fear of congressional interference in matters of scientific research. He remained determined to maintain the Smithsonian's independence, and he worked hard to keep the museum under a separate administrative umbrella. The overwhelming amount of work involved in maintaining the collections, however, soon dominated the activities of the institution, and the multi-faceted Smithsonian evolved primarily into a museum, the role for which it is known today. This trajectory was halted only briefly, with the fire of 1865.43

  The fire of 1865, for all that Henry personally lost with the destruction of his papers and correspondence, gave him another opportunity to reshape the agenda of the Smithsonian; and he took full advantage of it. In an effort to concentrate the institution's resources once more on scientific research, he sent the library up to the Library of Congress, the herbarium to the Department of Agriculture, and the art to the new Corcoran Gallery. He made no request to have the lecture hall rebuilt, and he had the building properly fireproofed. Henry's agenda lasted until his death in 1878; his successor, Spencer Baird, who had been in charge of the museum under Henry, made the museum the centerpiece of the institution.

  Joseph Henry also used his position as an expert scientist and leader of the Smithsonian to advocate for federal support
for the sciences outside of the institution; while he labored to protect the Smithson fund, he encouraged the government to underwrite expeditions and inventions and original research. He was instrumental in the founding of the American Association for the Advancement of Science and eventually served as its president, and he did likewise with the National Academy of Sciences.

  In Henry's efforts to develop a profile for American science, Smithson's money, poignantly, did for the United States what Smithson had attempted to do for himself all his life: bring legitimacy. It did more as well. In Henry's able hands, it became a powerful example of what private funding could accomplish for scientific research in the United States. A great surge of philanthropy supporting scientific research and education followed on Smithson's gift. Observatories, universities, libraries, museums, and other learned institutions were erected by generous patrons seeking to spread scientific enlightenment among the people. John Lowell bequeathed to Boston the Lowell Institute, with an endowment of $250,000 to bring distinguished lecturers to the city. The eccentric James Lick, looking for a way to memorialize himself, entertained visions of a pyramid larger than the Great Pyramid at Giza to be built in his name in downtown San Francisco before being convinced in the 1870s to endow the Lick Observatory in the Diablo Range, east of San Jose, California, which became the first permanent mountaintop observatory in the world. George Peabody set up the Peabody Institutes and the Peabody Education Fund, bringing a richer cultural life to Baltimore and other cities; and Peter Cooper established the Cooper Union in New York City, with the very Royal Institution-like mission of advancing science and art in their application to daily life.44 Levi Woodbury, Treasury Secretary under President Jackson and later Supreme Court justice, invoked Smithson's name as he urged his fellow Americans to develop the country. "Every act well done," he said, "may become the parent of a numerous progeny, by attracting imitation, through the esteem and admiration of all who witness it." A gesture as modest as planting a single tree mattered; that person still, Woodbury argued, "to a certain extent, becomes a public benefactor." One person, he suggested, might create a hospital for the destitute, or "another, like Smithson, create a fund for the noble end of diffusing knowledge among mankind."45 Smithson's gift took on a new life in America, and so too did Smithson. The benefactor became a model for future philanthropists.