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Cultures and Institutions of Natural History

Essays in the History and Philosophy of Science

Edited by

Michael T. Ghiselin
and
Alan E. Leviton

CALIFORNIA
ACADEMY
SCIENCES

GOLDEN GATE PARK
California Academy of Sciences

San Francisco, California
2000

Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences

Published by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA
Memoirs of the California Academy of Sciences No. 25

ISBN 0-940228-48-3
Library of Congress Card Catalog Number 00-131784

This book has been composed in Adobe Systems Times Roman

Typeset in the United States of American by the California Academy of Sciences
in Ventura Professional Publisher®; camera-ready copy produced on a
Lexmark Optra R*™ laser printer.

Printed in the United States of America by
Norcal Printers, San Francisco, California

This is the first of a series of volumes that will be issued
to commemorate the Sesquicentennial of the
California Academy of Sciences
1853-2003

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction, by Michael T. Ghiselin and Alan E. Leviton (San Francisco, California)... . 2... 5. | l

18th and 19th Centuries

The Museum and the Academy: Geology and Paleontology in the Academia dei Fisiocritici

of Siena During the 18th Century, by Ezio Vaccari (Genova, Italy)... 2... 2. eee eee 5
Considerations of Certain Pecularities in Scientific Institutions in Central Europe in the

Eighteenth Century, by 4gnese Visconti (Pavia, Italy)... 2... ee ee ee oH |
The Founders of Morphology as Alchemists, by Michael T. Ghiselin (San Francisco, California)... . . 39
India: A Case Study of Natural History in a Colonial Setting, by A/an E. Leviton and

Michele L. Aldrich (San Francisco, California and Ithaca, New York)... 2... .-02000-5. 5]
The Museums and the Construction of Natural Sciences in Brazil in the 19th Century, by

Maria Margaret Lopes (Campinas, Sao Paulo, Brazil)... .- 2. 1. ee es 8]
Spencer Baird’s Dream: A U.S. National Museum, by Pamela M. Henson (Washington,DC) ..... . 101
Paleontology in Washington DC: A Brief History of Institutional Change or the Waxing

and Waning of Two Disparate Organizations, by Ellis L. Yochelson (Washington, DC)... ... . 127
Samurai at the Smithsonian: First Japanese Visitors to a Western-Style Museum in the U.S.,

by Kae Takarabe (Nagoya, Japan). . 6.6 1 ee ee ee ees 161
West & East: The California Academy of Sciences and the Smithsonian Institution,

by Michele L. Aldrich and Alan E. Leviton (Ithaca, New York and San Francisco, California) ... 183
People, Plants, and Politics: The Development of Institution-Based Botany in California,

1853-1906, by Barbara Ertter (Berkeley, California) .. 2... 22-2. e eee ee ee ee ee 203
Agassiz’s Notions of a Museum: The Vision and the Myth, by Mary Pickard Winsor

(ALOLOTtOn Canada) mneemenee a esiememerey ean meyre So ee ctents aches Mot eas erts cys vad tonfen ec ea ce 249
A Bioeconomic Perspective on the Organization of the Naples Marine Station, by

Michael T. Ghiselin and Christiane Groeben (San Francisco, California, and Naples, Italy)... . 273
The Institutions of Natural History versus Herbert Spencer, 1890-1895,

by Daniel Becquemont (Lille, France)... 1. 1 6 ee ee ee 287

20th Century

The Awkward Embrace, by Léo F. LaPorte (Redwood City, California). . 2... 6... ee ee ee 301
An Essay on the History of the Biosystematists of the San Francisco Bay Area,

by William Z. Lidicker, Jr. (Berkeley, California)... . 2.2... ee eee ee ee 315
Scientific Research versus Public Exhibits: A Schizophrenic Aspect of Natural History

Museums, by Giovanni Pinna (Milan, Italy) 2... 0. 2 eee ee ee 329
A Philosophy for Natural History Museums, by Giovanni Pinna (Milan, Italy)... ........... 333

The Ranks and the Names of Species and Higher Taxa, or a Dangerous Inertia of the
Language of Natural History, by Alessandro Minelli (Padova, Italy)... 2... 2.2... 2. . 339

Cultures and Institutions of Natural History
Essays in the History and Philosophy of Science

INTRODUCTION

This volume consists mainly of papers delivered at two meetings cosponsored by the Museo
Civico di Storia Naturale in Milan and the California Academy of Sciences in San Francisco. The
first, on the Culture of Natural History, was held in Milan, November 14—16, 1996. The second, on
Institutions of Natural History, was held in San Francisco, October S—7, 1998. They followed two
earlier conferences on Biology as History (Pinna and Ghiselin 1996; Ghiselin and Pinna 1996)
likewise held in Milan and San Francisco. We intend to continue the series of meetings and have
publications based on them in commemoration of the Academy’s sesquicentennial in 2003.

The emphasis here is mainly upon natural history museums and the kind of science that goes on
in them. Although the essays were originally written to stand by themselves, when arranged in
chronological order they suggest a common theme. To paraphrase Darwin, the culture and institutions
of natural history have been, and are being, evolved. They have adapted to local circumstances,
diversified, and sometimes even progressed. We may hope that the future holds more than just
retrogression and extinction in store.

Read as case studies the essays provide valuable insights into not just how, but why, the
institutions have come into being and subsequently been transformed. Previous generations had quite
different ideas than we do about how a collection of naturalia is supposed to function and how it
should be organized. And there were conflicting goals and serious disputes about policy, much as
there are today. Often, though not always, the institutions turn out to be very different from what had
been envisioned by their founders.

Although it was not deliberate, we have given our Italian colleagues both the first word and the
last. Obviously Italy has a long history. We should not be surprised at Italians being concerned about
the future as well. Essays about what happened on tne East Coast of the United States tend to precede
those about what happened in California. The traditional historiography of biology has proceeded as
if everything important happened within a few miles of Boston, or for those with more of a laboratory
orientation, Baltimore. Materials that help to correct the imbalance are included, and in this case it
was deliberate. A few other parts of the world that have been neglected are considered here as well.

Ezio Vaccari begins with a discussion on a very old geological and paleontological institution
in Italy. Agnese Visconti shows how scientific academies in central Europe have been organized on
the basis of quite different philosophies, and with important effects upon the scientific quality of the
research. Michael Ghiselin argues that alchemy has had important, but virtually neglected, influences
upon some branches of biology. Next there are two essays on natural history museums in parts of the
world far distant from Europe. Alan Leviton and Michele Aldrich consider India as an example of
colonial science and argue that contrary to the views of some historiographers, colonial science was
neither done by lesser minds nor was it subservient to the special interest of the stay-at-home European
savants. Maria Lopes treats museums of nineteenth century Brazil. Then come four essays having to
do with museums in Washington D.C. The early history of the Smithsonian is treated in some detail
by Pamela Henson. The disciplines of geology and paleontology engaged the attention of two separate
organizations in that city, the Smithsonian Institution and the U.S. Geological Survey, and Ellis
Yochelson considers among other things some of the consequences of that. Kae Takarabe recounts
the mid-19th century visit of some Japanese dignitaries, who obviously had very different values than
those of their hosts. Michele Aldrich and Alan Leviton next discuss the relationships between the
Smithsonian Institution and the California Academy of Sciences, and the focus shifts to the West
Coast. Barbara Ertter examines botany in California, considering several institutions, some highly

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

io)

significant personalities and their personal likes and dislikes, often for one another, and the shift from
free-standing museum to university-based research. Returning to the East, Mary P. Winsor’s study
of the organization of the Museum of Comparative Zoology reveals how the rationale was linked to
the conduct of research in a manner that had not been previously understood. Rounding out the
treatment of the nineteenth century, we have essays on Anton Dohrn and Herbert Spencer. Michael
Ghiselin and Christiane Groeben explain the success of Dohrn’s marine laboratory in Naples, Italy,
in terms of bioeconomic theory. By contrast, Daniel Becquemont shows how Herbert Spencer became
marginalized as the professional evolutionary biologists developed their own laboratories and
journals. Léo Laporte examines the life of one of the giants of twentieth century paleontology, George
Gaylord Simpson, explaining the difficulties he had with his employers and his colleagues in museum
settings. William Lidicker considers an old and venerable club of scientists, the Bay Area Biosys-
tematists, which attracted both experimentalists and museum specialists, thus helping to flesh out our
account of natural history in California. To bring this volume to a close, two essays by Giovanni Pinna
deal with the philosophy of natural history museums and his perspective on the relationship between
research and public exhibits. And, lastly, Alessandro Minelli addresses some possible changes in the
manner in which scientific names are bestowed upon groups of organisms, a matter, that, in one guise
or another, has been of concern to museum-based scientists for more than two centuries.

If there is one thread that clearly connects all of the essays in this volume, it is that the science
which engages the attention of museum scientists, from its earliest days, changes along with its
sponsoring institutions. The essays in the volume show that change is not only not a stranger to those
associated with museums, but that museum scientists often play leading roles in initiating the very
changes to which they and their institutions must then adapt.

At this point, we want to express our appreciation to the many people who in one way or another
participated in the development of this volume. We already noted that many of those who contributed
papers to the volume also took part in one or more of the workshops at which they gave oral
presentations. We must add that several of the papers the editors chose to include came by invitation;
these include the paper by Pamela Henson and two additional contributions she recommended, one
by Maria Margaret Lopes and a second by Kae Takarabe. Also, William Lidicker’s essay on the Bay
Area Biosystematists, originally submitted for publication in another Academy series, was transferred
to this volume because the editors felt it contained material germane to their central theme. And then,
there is the long list of reviewers who pored through each of the papers with fine-toothed combs. We
want to take this opportunity to acknowledge the work they did and to thank them for taking on what
is ofttimes a not-too-pleasant job. In addition to the contributors, several of whom were asked to
review one or more of the papers, other than their own, we are appreciative of the work done by Steve
Anderson (University of the Pacific), Kennard Bork (Denison University), William Brice (University
of Pittsburgh at Johnstown), Thomas Daniel (California Academy of Sciences), Robert Drewes
(California Academy of Sciences), J. Thomas Dutro, Jr. (U.S. Geological Survey, Washington, DC),
Terrence Gosliner (California Academy of Sciences), Mikael Harlin (University of Vaxj6), James
Griesemer (University of California, Davis), Nina Jablonski (California Academy of Sciences),
Patrick Kociolek (California Academy of Sciences), Ernst Mayr (Harvard University), Nancy Slack
(Russell Sage College), Alberto Simonetta (University of Florence), Joseph Slowinski (California
Academy of Sciences), and Betty Smocovitis (University of Florida). Lastly, we are pleased to
acknowledge Michele Aldrich who not only helped in the ordinary review process but then read the
entire work with an eagle eye, saving both the editors and authors from countless embarrassments.

eS)

INTRODUCTION

DEDICATION

About the time of 1996 meeting of our informal group of essayists, our friend and colleague
Giovanni Pinna retired as director of the Museo Civico di Storia Naturale. Subsequently, he has played
a leading role in the formulation of museum policy as well as being a prolific author. Given the role
he played in establishing our collaboration and given his ongoing commitment to the continuation of
the biannual meetings of the group, we take great pleasure in dedicating this volume to Professor
Pinna. We and our friends and associates who have participated in these programs look forward to
many more years of productive collaboration with Giovanni Pinna.

Michael T. Ghiselin and Alan E. Leviton
San Francisco, California
31 July 2000

Giovanni Pinna
At the California Academy of Sciences, San Francisco,
for the fourth international meeting of the consortium
on Cultures and Institutions of Natural History in the
Biological and Earth Sciences, November 6, 1998

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

The Museum and the Academy
Geology and Paleontology in the Accademia dei
Fisiocritici of Siena during the 18th Century

EZIO VACCARI
Centro di Studio sulla Storia della Tecnica, C.N.R.
via Balbi 6, 16126 Genova, Italy
tel. +39 0102465459 fax +39 0102099826
E-mail: ezio.vaccari@lettere.unige.it

This paper analyzes the role of an early geological and paleontological museum within
an 18th century scientific academy, the Accademia dei Fisiocritici of Siena in Italy. Starting
as a small cabinet, it developed gradually as a more articulated natural history museum
during the 19th century. The case of Siena was not isolated in Italy because, for example,
the importance of the paleontological collection of Giuseppe Monti (Museum Diluvianum)
in the Institute of Science of Bologna at the beginning of the century can also be cited. The
establishment of a ‘specialized’ museum at the Fisiocritici confirms the fundamental 18th
century links among geological fieldwork, production of scientific writings, collection,
classification and display of naturalistic specimens. Thanks to the scientific activity of the
Fisiocritici, today Siena has a museum of natural history linked to the University and
created within an Academy as a significant expression of the 18th century Italian science.

Riassunto

Questo studio ricostruisce la formazione ed il ruolo di un museo geologico e paleon-
tologico all’interno di un’accademia scientifica settecentesca, |’ Accademia dei Fisiocritici
di Siena. Le prime collezioni di fossili, rocce e minerali furono infatti il punto di partenza
per la costituzione ed il graduale ampliamento di un articolato museo di storia naturale
nel corso dell’ Ottocento. Il caso senese non fu unico nell’ Italia del Settecento, poiche basta
ricordare, ad esempio, l’importanza della collezione paleontologica (Museum Diluvianum)
costituita da Giuseppe Monti nell’ Istituto delle Scienze di Bologna all’inizio del secolo. La
creazione di un primo museo ‘specializzato’ all’interno dell’ Accademia dei Fisiocritici
conferma quindi il fondamentale rapporto settecentesco tra ricerca geologica sul campo,
produzione di scritti scientifici, raccolta, classificazione ed esposizione di campioni fossili,
rocciosi e minerali. Grazie all’attivita scientifica dei Fisiocritici oggi Siena dispone di un
museo di storia naturale collegato all’ Universita e formatosi all’interno di un’accademia
che rappresenta un’espressione significativa dello sviluppo della scienza italiana nel
Settecento.

The role of the scientific academies and the meaning of their naturalistic museums are significant
topics, though still too little studied, within the rich context of the Italian natural sciences in the 18th
century. During the last decades, historians have undertaken fascinating studies of naturalistic
collecting in the 16th and in the 17th centuries, as recently shown by the detailed works of Giuseppe
Olmi (1992) and Paula Findlen (1994), as well as by several interdisciplinary studies on the “Cabinet
of Curiosities” and ““Wunderkammern” (Lugli, 1983; Impey and MacGregor, 1985). However, if in
the 16th and 17th centuries the collections and museums of natural history — together with the
botanical gardens — can be considered alternative and complementary to the culture of universities
and academies (Maccagni, 1981), in the 18th century this relationship started to change. Naturalistic

6 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

collections were still mainly assembled and owned by individuals who were not always linked to
institutions, but gradually some of these collections became part of the scientific academies, which
also established new museums in their premises.

This turning-point took place in particular, but not exclusively, within State-supported institu-
tions, such as major national academies, which “were more likely to possess well-equipped astro-
nomical observatories, botanical gardens, laboratories, and cabinets of natural history or experimental
physics” (McClellan, 1985:16). The Italian academicians began to contribute to the building of these
museums of “natural curiosities” while collecting specimens for their own private cabinets: in some
significant cases, distinguished naturalists were directly involved in the curation of the academic
museums and vouched for their quality and authenticity. Consequently, from the late 18th century,
academic museums were regularly visited by foreign travellers and were enriched by donations of
private collections from the members of a local scientific community.

General Considerations

This paper intends to stress a relevant aspect for the study of the scientific academies and for the
historical development of a culture of natural history in Italy. The subject is the making and the
function of an early specialized naturalistic museum. The example studied is based on the geological
and paleontological collections within the Accademia delle Scienze detta de’ Fisiocritici of Siena in
Tuscany, one of the major Italian scientific academies of the second half of the 18th century.

This case-study involves some significant issues:

(1) First of all, it confirms the general 18th century redefinition of natural history, which led to
a redefinition of the naturalistic museum itself. The main goal was no longer to assemble “Cabinets
of Curiosities” and “Wunderkammern,” as in the two previous centuries, but a “more systematic and
normative approach to collecting” (Findlen, 1994:399), which determined the creation of the first
specialized museums. These collections started to be ‘disciplinary oriented’ — especially toward
zoology, botany, and paleontology — for example the paleontological Museum Diluvianum in the
Istituto delle Scienze of Bologna (Institute of Science, later Academy of Science). This impressive
collection was assembled by Giuseppe Monti (1682-1760), probably during the 1710s, and was
initially located in his own house (Sarti, 1988, 1992). In 1720, Monti became assistant to the director
of the Museum of Natural History of the Institute of Science of Bologna. During the following years
he travelled extensively in the Bolognese hills and in the northern Apennines to collect specimens to
enrich his Museum Diluvianum.

(2) Moreover, the case of the Fisiocritici shows the process of gradual opening to the public of
an institution originally conceived as a closed elitarian group. This was determined in part by its
transformation to a State-supported official academy in 1759. A contributing factor was also the early
links with the University of Siena, which became particularly strong during the 19th century and
determined the present state of symbiosis betweeen the two institutions. Consequently the ‘use’ of
the naturalistic museum within the Academy gradually moved from the original function of a
systematic and illustrative support of researches of academicians toward display and didactic
purposes.

(3) Finally, the early naturalistic museum at the Fisiocritici was strongly linked to fieldwork in
surrounding localities. In fact the geological and paleontological collections assembled during the
18th and 19th centuries largely represented the results of several detailed researches in the Tuscan
territory; but to historians they also show the conscious attempt of a community of scientists to
reconstruct a geological history based on a regional scale. Within this context, the making of an

VACCARI: ACCADEMIA DEI FISIOCRITICI OF SIENA 7

academic museum was not the aim which determined the fieldwork, rather it was the consequence
of that typical exploring attitude of the 18th-century Tuscan naturalists, so well described in the
writings of Francesco Rodolico (1945; 1963).

Italian scientific academies in the 18th century were essentially centers for presentation and
discussion of individual researches, which were later officially diffused through printed transactions
—such as Atti, Commentarii, Memorie or Mémoires — though often without a regular periodicity.
McClellan (1985:99-104; 127-133) has provided a short overview of the activity of the Italian
scientific academies, mainly based on secondary literature. A modern comparative historical study,
which analyzes in depth the socio-political context and the scientific production of these societies, is
still needed. Such a study could start from the excellent work undertaken in recent years by several
historians on the history of the Academy of Sciences of Bologna (Universita degli Studi di Bologna,
1979; Tega, 1986; Tega, 1987; Cavazza, 1990; Angelini, 1993).

In spite of the lively context of activities of the 18th-century Tuscan academies, which attracted
the interest of the skillful historian Eric W. Cochrane (1953; 1961), the Academy of Fisiocritici is
probably one of the most neglected of the Italian scientific societies. The only works available on its
early history are the old writings by Carlo Sanquirico (1891), Michele Maylender (1929) and
Francesco Spirito (1934), the booklet by Carlo Ricci (1972) and some papers on the history of science
in Siena (Baccetti et al., 1985), which also treat particular aspects of the scientific activities of the
Fisiocritici. Most of these works are based on the same manuscript source, compiled by Massimiliano
Ricca in 1818 (Ricci, 1985a), which deals with the early history of the Fisiocritici. This unsatisfactory
historiographical situation is not due to lack of primary sources: in fact, the richness of the archives
of the Senese academy recently has been described in detail in the printed catalogue of its oldest
materials, such as manuscripts, letters and documents of the 17th and 18th centuries (Bacci, Parrini
and Vannozzi, 1994). Furthermore, the existence of manuscripts and correspondence related to the
early years of the Academy, kept in the Public Library (Biblioteca Comunale) of Siena, was also well
known to historians (Maylender, 1929:25—26; Ricci, 1972:37-49).

Early History of the Fisiocritici

The Fisiocritici Academy of Siena, one of the oldest Italian scientific academies, was founded
in 1691 by Pirro Maria Gabbrielli (1643—1705), a 5
Senese professor of theoretical medicine and bot-
any, together with twenty other scholars (Fig. 1).
Its establishment as “‘accademia fisico medica”
was probably inspired by the Florentine Acca-
demia del Cimento (Academy of Experiment,
1657-1667). In fact, the first article of its aca-
demic constitution stated that the work of the
Senese academy had to be based on “nuove espe-
rienze” (new experiments). The early years of
Fisiocritici’s activity, until the death of Gabbrielli,
were devoted mainly to physical experiments and
medical lectures, as shown by the content of two SON AEE TAT SOL WT ann ee eee
manuscript volumes of unpublished academic dis- Fisiocritici, with the le “Veris Bee he V oe Falsa”
sertations dating from 1691 to 1731 (Fisiocritici. (from Lucretius De rerum natura) and the Lapis Lidius, the
Dissertazioni, 1691—1731). During this period, stone for testing the authenticity of gold and silver.

8 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

the Fisiocritici organized several private and public meetings in the library of the Senese main
Hospital (“Spedale grande”), where Gabbrielli usually gave his lectures in medicine. Later, thanks to
the influential protection of the Medici family — in particular Cardinal Francesco Maria Medici,
brother of the Granduke Cosimo IJ] — the Academy enlarged its activities, and in 1694 it obtained
a new residence within the University of Siena.

The academicians gathered periodically in a room called “Sala della Sapienza” (Fig. 2) for all
the meetings, which were carefully recorded in the minute-books (Fisiocritici. Verbali, 1691—1768).
In the private meetings, the new members and officers were nominated and various decisions about
internal rules were taken. In each public meeting, four lectures were given and also physical
experiments were displayed to different kinds of audience. For this reason, some instruments were
kept in the academic room: the “heliometro fisiocritico,” the sundial or meridian line made by
Gabbrielli in 1703-04 (Gabbrielli, 1705), and the so called “antlia pneumatica” or “pneumatic
horizontal machine of Boyle,” which was often used in public demonstrations between April 1701
and December 1704 (Fisiocritici. Verbali, 1691—1768). The latter was an early | 8th-century modifi-
cation of the air-pump, originally conceived as a vertical instrument by the Anglo-Irish scholar Robert
Boyle (1627-1691), that was constructed by his assistant Robert Hooke (1635—1702) and first
described in 1660 (Shapin, 1985). The air-pump kept at the Fisiocritici had been constructed by
Gabbrielli (De Gregorio, 1992:170). It was used to perform several experiments, including impressive
demonstrations of the power of the vacuum pressure of the air, different observations on the behaviour
of air, both compressed and expanded, and also the fact that both life and combustion were impossible
in the vacuum. According to Cochrane (1961:127), the Fisiocritici also constructed “a *Torricellian
tube,’ or mercury barometer, upon which they based their discussion of weight, gravity, and the
density of the atmosphere.”

ea reas o
SERS 3

aoa ae oe
FiGure 2. “Sala della Sapienza,” the meeting room of the Academy of Fisiocritici (plate published in Gabbrielli, 1705).

Be EE Ki)
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VACCARI: ACCADEMIA DEI FISIOCRITICI OF SIENA 9

Therefore, it is evident that at the beginning of its history the Academy of Fisiocritici housed
some physical instruments, but still no naturalistic specimens. There is no mention of a possible
establishment of a museum in the first constitution of the Academy (Fisiocritici. Dissertazioni,
1691-173 l:cc. 3-4). In particular, the unpublished dissertations and the minute-books from 1691 to
1750 show only occasional interest for subjects relating to the Earth sciences, apart from some lectures
on earthquakes, which were a frequent phenomenon in the Senese area, and an isolated but
significantly timely presentation of the book by Carl Nicolaus Lang (1670-1741), Historia Lapidum
Figuratorum Helvetiae (1708), where the Swiss fossils were considered as formed by dust borne
germs of living species (Fisiocritici. Verbali, 1691—1768:17 giugno 1708).

Giuseppe Baldassarri and the Natural History Collection

A few years after the death of Gabrielli, from about 1710, the Fisiocritici went through a long
period of crisis, which ended in 1759 when the Tuscan regency government of Francis of Lorraine
assumed both financial and management control of the Academy (Pasta, 1992; De Gregorio, 1992).
The central figure of this process of reopening, which took place after about 15 years during which
time no meetings or academic activities were held, was the powerful minister Pompeo Neri (1706—
1776). In November 1759, Neri promoted the establishment of an annual state fund for the Fisiocritici
to cover expenses arising from the experiments and for the purchase of new physical instruments (De
Gregorio, 1992:169-171). Meanwhile, again under the direction of Neri, the Academy reinforced its
links with the University, initially admitting all the professors as members (Fisiocritici. Verbali,
1691—1768:11 dicembre 1759), and shortly thereafter acquired new thermometers, hygrometers,
barometers and siphons for public experiments (Fisiocritici. Verbali, 1691—1768:15 aprile 1760).

In these first years of renewed academic activity, Pompeo Neri also promoted the formation of
a naturalistic collection at the Fisiocritici: he encouraged the interest in natural history shown by some
academicians and used his political power to convince several Senese nobles to donate specimens
from their private collections to the new “piccolo museo di cose naturali” (De Gregorio, 1992:183;
Cochrane, 1961:57, footnote 51). According to the botanist Giovanni Campani (1860:21), who was
director of the Fisiocritici Museum of Natural History in the late 19th century, the museum itself was
founded in 1759 by Giuseppe Baldassarri (1705-1785), one of the most active members of the
Fisiocritic1. This statement was confirmed by the secretary Emidio Selvani (1865), who also pointed
out the lack of an academic room suitable for the specimens during these early years. In reality,
although Baldassarri had started to assemble in his own private collection some rocks and fossils,
which he collected on frequent fieldtrips in the Senese region during the 1750s, his official
appointment as curator of the newly established small naturalistic museum at the Fisiocritici was
ordered by Pompeo Neri only in the summer of 1766 (Fisiocritici. Epistole, 1692-1799, n. 276, 277;
De Gregorio, 1992:183, 205).

Giuseppe Baldassarri had already been secretary of the Fisiocritici from 1729 to 1732. In 1759
he had been nominated professor of natural history at the University of Siena, with the duty of
conducting some experiments at the academic meetings (De Gregorio, 1992:170). His position as
“Soprintendente” (curator) of the natural history collection, of the sundial and of the physical
instruments kept at the “Sala della Sapienza,” is officially stated by the archival sources on the 29th
of March 1768, when the Fisiocritici applied to the Granduke Peter Leopold for renewal of
Baldassarri’s appointment as permanent (Fisiocritici. Verbali, 1768—1812:30 aprile 1768).

Baldassarri was already well known among the 18th century Italian naturalists, especially after
the publication of his first works on the clay strata (1750) and on the most remarkable spring of mineral

10 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

waters in the Senese region (1756). In these writings, the Tuscan naturalist paid particular attention
to the geological investigation of the territory. He also clearly stated the importance of a regional
collection of “produzioni naturali” (natural products), compiling and publishing together with his
work the catalogue of the naturalistic museum of the Senese noble Giovanni Venturi Gallerani
(Baldassarri, 1750). This catalogue was divided in two sections, the first listing minerals, rocks and
earths, the second, invertebrate fossils (““Testacei Fossili”). The 167 specimens of rocks, minerals and
fossils were analyzed in relation to their nature and provenance, and were also described in detail
with the help of the available specialized literature. The absence of the records and our inability to
recognize in the present museum most of the original naturalistic collection assembled by Baldassarri
— due to the lack of an 18th century catalogue and of original labels — does not allow us to know
if the Venturi Gallerani collection was later included in the museum of the Fisiocritici (Guasparri,
1992:69). In 1772, these two cabinets were still separate, as reported by the Swedish mineralogist
and traveller Johann Jakob Ferber (1743-1790), who visited the academic museum of the Fisiocritici,
but regretted not having seen the Venturi Gallerani collection (Ferber, 1776:247—248).

The formation of the early naturalistic collection of the Academy of Fisiocritici during the last
forty years of the 18th century was not exclusively the result of the work of Baldassarri, although his
contribution was certainly fundamental for enlargement of the museum in the late 1760s. In fact,
Baldassarri was not alone in studying the rocks, minerals and fossils of the Senese territory. The
contents of the first seven volumes of the academic transactions Atti dell 'Accademia delle Scienze di
Siena detta de’ Fisiocritici (Bacci, 1981) and the handwritten dissertations read in the public meetings
(Fisiocritici. Memorie, 1759-1798), which were not always published in the 4/¢ti, show an articulated
interest by a small but active group of academicians in various geological and paleontological
subjects.

The first volume of the A¢ti, published in 1761, was a special medical issue on the question of
the inoculation of smallpox (Fadda, 1983); it was followed during the rest of the century by six more
volumes printed in 1763, 1767, 1771, 1774, 1781 and 1794. The significant variety of the scientific
subjects treated in this first series of transactions, rich in papers also from non-Senese scholars, has
been well emphasized (Pasta, 1992; De Gregorio and Landi, 1992:172—174); the writings on medical
topics, the most consistent group of articles published in the 4¢¢i during the 18th century, has been
analyzed in detail by Francesca Vannozzi (Bacci, Parrini and Vannozzi, 1994:203—245); the precise
extent of the significant contributions devoted to the earth sciences in the Academy of Fisiocritici
will be the subject of a later study. At this time, however, it is possible to provide the following
quantitative data: from 1763 to 1794 the A¢ti published 43 articles on medicine, 25 on mathematics,
20 on physics, 15 on earth sciences, 11 on astronomy, 11 on chemistry (of which 8 papers were on
the analysis of mineral waters), 7 on botany, 5 on hydraulics, 4 on zoology, 3 on civil engineering, 3
on meteorology, 2 on veterinary medicine, and 2 on agronomy.

In spite of evident interest for the earth sciences, which, in the A/ti, was second only to the
predominant medical and physical-mathematical sciences, the existence of an organized working-
group, which systematically contributed to the building of a specialized museum at the Fisiocritici,
is not proved. Nevertheless, the common attitude of many scholars at the time was to explore in detail
the Senese territory, describe its “produzioni naturali” (rocks, fossils, minerals, and also plants), and
collect specimens, which went to increase both their private collection and the academic museum.

Consequently, these local academicians, sometimes stimulated by different scientific targets,
soon produced a mosaic of data which gave shape to a sort of ‘naturalistic map’ of the Senese area.
In this work, the influence of the great Florentine scientist Giovanni Targioni Tozzetti (1712—1783)
was more than evident (Targioni Tozzetti, 1751-1754). The importance of the naturalistic travel, the

VACCARI: ACCADEMIA DEI FISIOCRITICI OF SIENA 1]

accuracy of the observations in the field, the process of collecting specimens, the cataloguing of them
in a published paper, and finally classifying and displaying them in a museum, were all elements of
a growing new sense of the natural history within this small but lively scientific community.

Giuseppe Baldassarri, as curator of the museum and later president of the Academy from 1772
to 1785 (year of his death), played a central role in stimulating the geological studies of the Fisiocritici
in the 1760s and in the early 1770s. In his works of those years (Baldassarri, 1763a; 1763b; 1767;
1771a; 1771b), the collecting of rock and fossil specimens was strictly linked to his interpretations
of the origin and the formation of strata which he observed in the Senese territory. According to
Baldassarri (1750:6—7; 1756:23—24), the sea had covered all the Tuscan region for a very long time
and had determined in successive times the deposition of several kinds of rock strata, which included
different groups of fossils of the same species, well separated and distinct from each other, as the
distinguished naturalist AntonioVallisneri had already noticed in his book De’ Corpi Marini (1721).

The regular distribution of these fossils and the evidences of a series of gradual different
lithological sedimentations, suggested to Baldassarri (1756:25—26) an interpretation which today can
be defined as “uniformitarian.” It was expressed by the statement that the natural phenomena —
mainly of sedimentation and erosion — visible in the present sea also quietly and regularly occurred
“nella maniera stessa” (in the same way) in the ancient sea which had entirely covered Tuscany. This
interpretation clearly rejected the idea of a major catastrophic event, such as the Deluge, for explaining
the geological changes which had occurred in the Senese territory.

On the other hand, some years later Baldassarri realized that the theorized uniformity, based on
the constant action of the sea waters, could not explain why some groups of fossils were found
completely mixed, broken, squashed and confused. Moreover, these fossil remains seemed to be
related to exotic species not living in the Mediterranean sea. This interpretation was also supported
by the finding of fossil bones of so called “elephants” in different European regions, including Italy.

When Baldassarri published his paper on the description of an extraordinary fossil jaw found in
the Senese territory (1767), he was conscious that the Earth’s surface had undergone many “strani
cangiamenti” (strange changes) during a long and complex geological history. The problem now was
to find and demonstrate the causes of these changes, which could be also of a catastrophic nature
(“gravi rovesci”). However, the firm rejection of the geological role of the Deluge, not considered
adequate in explaining all the geological and paleontological features observed in the Senese area,
also determined Baldassarri’s scepticism toward the theory of a big flood, which could have moved
to Europe the remains of the exotic animals and plants, later to be fossilized. On the other hand, he
seemed to accept the hypothesis that a much warmer ancient European climate had provided the right
environment for the life of those species. Nevertheless, he concluded, the real proof of this hypothesis
was not yet available and too many doubts (“tante incertezze”’) did not allow him to understand the
real cause of the Earth’s changes. According to Baldassarri, the research-work of the scientists had
not yet accumulated a sufficient quantity of “materiali” (material data) for solving this geological
question. His words expressed properly the meaning given to the museum at the Fisiocritici, which
had just been entrusted to the Senese professor of natural history and was to become the collecting
place of these “‘materiali” (Baldassarn, 1767:243—248).

In fact, in the second part of his paper, Baldassarri described and figured new and important
specimens which had contributed to the enlargement of his reflections on the complexity of the history
of the Earth (Fig. 3). The specimens included two parts of a fossil jaw, now identified as being from
a Pliocene mastodon, Anancus arvernensis (Fig. 4), which are still kept in the present paleontological
collection of the Academy of Fisiocritici in Siena (Guasparri, 1992:84, 87-88). Despite of his
knowledge of the findings of various fossil bones of “Elefanti” (elephants), Baldassarri did not relate

[2 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

his specimens to a possible large
mammal: according to him, the ani-
mal to whom those bones had be-
longed was still unknown, but
probably was neither a big fish nora
“mostro marino,” such as a whale
(Baldassarri, 1767:249-253).
Baldassarri’s paleontological
paper was not an isolated contribu-
tion within the scientific researches
carried out by the Fisiocritici in the
1760s. Again, in the third volume of
7 the Atti, Francesco Caluri, later pro-
QD On: fessor of logic and practical medi-
cane 3 cine at the University of Siena and
"4 SQW, VE president of the Fisiocritici from
eS 1785 to 1789, published a detailed
description of some fossil shells
found in the Senese hills (Caluri,
1767). One of these shells was of a
Pliocene gastropod (“porporite”),
very similar to a specimen of
Hexaplex conglobatus that is to this
day kept in the Museum of
Fisiocritic! (Guasparn, 1992:74).
The gastropod described by Caluri
contained an unknown little shell
(eventually named “crepidula
parasitica”) and he tried to identify

FiGure 4. Fossil jaw
of the Pliocene mas-
todon Anancus ar-
vernensis, collected
and described by Gi-
- useppe Baldassarri in
' 1767, as presently
+ displayed in the mu-
~ seum of the Academy
of Fisiocritici, Pa-
leontological Collec-
tions (photo by E.
» Vaccari).

VACCARI: ACCADEMIA DEI FISIOCRITICI OF SIENA 13

both of them using the available contempo-
rary literature. It is interesting to note that in
the plate at the end of the paper (Fig. 5), the
fossil specimens found in the Senese terri-
tory (numbered 1-4) were compared with a
similar living species of the Tyrrhenian Sea
(numbered 5—7). Caluri undertook his pa-
leontological fieldwork under the influence
of Baldassarri’s research, and the two scien-
tists were constantly in contact. In Septem-
ber 1765 Baldassarri explored the area
where Caluri had found the fossil shells and
then communicated his observations to his
colleague, who was preparing the lecture to
read at the Fisiocritici in November of the
same year (Caluri, 1767:265—266, note 5).
Likewise, Caluri entirely adopted Baldas-
sarri’s geological “uniformitarianism,”
based on the idea that an ancient sea had
covered the Tuscan territory for a very long
time and later had gradually retreated from
it (“appoco appoco ritirato”). Also, the cata-
strophic results of the Deluge could not be
accepted by Caluri for explaining the perfect

state of preservation of fossil molluscs with eS |
extremely fragile shells like the ones de- WC —
scribed in his paper (Caluri, 1767:262-264), Ficure 5. “Porporite” and “Crepidula parasitica”

It is not clear if all the specimens (fos- described by Francesco Caluri (1767: plate 9).

sils, but also rocks, minerals and plants)

described in the papers published in the 4¢ti during the second half of the 18th century were given to
the academic museum of natural history. Caluri, like Baldassarri, had his own private collection of
“natural products,” which included many varieties of fossil molluscs from the Senese area (Caluri,
1767:274, note a). In any case, different kinds of primary sources can still provide new pieces of
information about the early collections of the museum of the Fisiocritici, in particular the numerous
18th century writings on the Tuscan territory not directly published by the Senese academy or
apparently related to it. Of course, this research requires a long and detailed survey which at the
present must be considered still in progress, though it has already produced some significant results.
For example, Annibale Bastiani, doctor of medicine, naturalist and member of the Academy since
1739, in his book on the analysis of the mineral waters of San Casciano (between Florence and Siena)
reported collecting of more than 20 species of fossil molluscs, mainly cephalopods (Bastiani, 1770:8).
The specimens were immediately sent to the Academy of Fisiocritici in separate boxes which included
a full series of different sizes for every species. This episode demonstrates that the museum of the
Fisiocritici was gradually becoming a reference point for an increasing number of Tuscan naturalists.
It did not substitute for the private collections, still assembled by most of these scientists, but it could
be a possible and highly considered alternative.

14 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Expansion, Reputation, and Continuance

In 1772, the newly elected president, Giuseppe Baldassarmi, and all the academicians obtained
permission from the Granduke to admit the university students and other non-members to the private
meetings of the Academy (Fisiocritici. Verbali, 1768-1812:26 marzo 1772). In this way the
Fisiocritici acquired an institutional dimension which reinforced their links with the University of
Siena. At the same time, the Academy enlarged its European reputation by nominating new,
distinguished members from other Italian and European states. Some prominent non-Senese scientists
— such as Giovanni Arduino, Pietro Arduino, Leonardo Ximenes, Felice Fontana, Giovanni Bianchi
and Paolo Frisi — had become academicians during the 1760s, but in the following decade Alessan-
dro Volta, the Swiss naturalist Charles Bonnet, and the English scholar John Symonds were also
elected Fisiocritici. The geologist Giovanni Arduino (1714-1795), one of the first new members
nominated after the academic reopening of 1759, in 1773 promoted the affiliation of the famed
botanist Linnaeus and of three distinguished mineralogists from Austria, Saxony and Sweden,
respectively Ignaz von Born, Johann Friedrich Wilhelm Charpentier, and Johann Jakob Ferber
(Fisiocritici. Verbali, 1768—1812:16 giugno 1773, 15 dicembre 1773).

Ferber had visited Siena and the Academy of Fisiocritici between April and May 1772, during
his long mineralogical travel through Italy. He noted that “the University has several learned and
celebrated Professors, which are members of the Academy of Sciences, established in former times;
but of late revived under the name of Accademia de’ Fisiocritici. The library, and the cabinet of
Natural curiosities, is common to the University and the Academy. The latter has got a great celebrity
by the four volumes of its transactions. The cabinet was, some years ago, bequeathed to the Academy
by its president, the Professor of Natural History Dr. Giuseppe Baldassarri, who collected it, and has
still under his inspection” (Ferber, 1776:247). This last statement seems to confirm that the most
relevant part of the original museum of the Fisiocritici, promoted in the middle 1760s by Pompeo
Neri, was formed by a large donation from Baldassarri’s private collection. Still, Ferber recalled in
1772 the existence in Siena of other two naturalistic cabinets separated from the academic museum
and owned by Baldassarri and Francesco Caluri. Ferber’s brief description of the most remarkable
specimens kept in these three collections (see Appendix at the end of this paper) today represents the
best primary source about the content of the museum of the Fisiocritici in the 18th century, which
later was probably enriched by the private collections of Baldassarri and Caluri (Ferber, 1776:248—
254).

After his nomination as a member of the Fisiocritici, Ferber immediately wrote from his residence
in Bohemia to the secretary, Domenico Bartaloni, promising future contributions to the 4/f and the
possible shipment of Swedish minerals for the academic cabinet of “natural curiosities” (Fisiocritici.
Epistole, 1692—-1799:n. 440). Indeed, Ferber published a geo-mineralogical dissertation in the fifth
volume of the Senese transactions (Ferber, 1774), but it is not known if any specimens from Sweden
were ever sent to the Fisiocritici.

During the last two decades of the 18th century and at the beginning of the 19th century, the
scientific heritage of Baldassarri was continued by his assistant Biagio Bartalini (1 750-1822) and by
the naturalist Ambrogio Soldani (1736-1808), one of the most remarkable Italian scientists of the
late 18th century. These two scholars contributed greatly to the improvement of a detailed knowledge
of the physical characteristics of the Tuscan region, following the footsteps of Giovanni Targioni
Tozzetti.

Bartalini was professor at the University of Siena, where he took over the chair of Baldassarri in
1780. Two years later he became curator of the naturalistic museum of the Fisiocritici and director

VACCARI: ACCADEMIA DEI FISIOCRITICI OF SIENA 15

of the attached botanical garden in 1783 (Fern and Miraldi, 1993). From 1805 to 1812, he was also
secretary and, from 1815 to 1822, president of the Academy. Bartalini’s writings, published in the
Atti, show the results of intense research activity undertaken for illustrating and analyzing the “natural
products” of the Senese territory, with particular attention to botany (Bacci, 1981:108). The impres-
sive amount of fieldwork resulted in a considerable naturalistic collection of about 6000 specimens
(including many minerals); this was further enriched by the acquisition of the private cabinet of
Baldassarri in the middle 1780s (Pasta, 1992:230, footnote 34), which was finally purchased by the
Academy of Fisiocritici in 1826, two years after the death of its former president (Guasparri,
1992:103).

The frequent naturalistic travels carried out by Bartalini in the Senese area allowed him to study
in particular the geological and mineralogical features of the territory (1781) and some paleontologi-
cal specimens (1800), as well as the “prodotti naturali” (geological and botanical), which could be
observed within the city and surroundings of Siena = E
(1808). In his paper, published in volume eight of the
Atti, Bartalini described and figured in five plates
several fossil specimens, which he attempted to iden-
tify as marine flora (Fig. 6). These and other fossils
of “straniere produzioni marine” (foreign marine
products), which may be found in the Tuscan region,
together with many bones of exotic animals, in par-
ticular “Elefanti”’, could not be explained by geologi-
cal agents such as the volcanic activity and the
meteoric waters (Bartalini, 1800:224—-227). Never-
theless, Bartalini carefully avoided indicating the
possible real cause of these paleontological findings;
the ‘cause’ was considered different (“cagione di-
versa’) from those mentioned, but the reader was left
free to formulate his own hypothesis.

The naturalistic tradition in the field established
within the Fisiocritici by the works of Baldassarri,
Caluri, and later Bartalini also stimulated the early
research of the young Paolo Mascagni (1755—1815),
a future prominent member of the Senese academy,
who became renowned for his advanced anatomical
studies, published posthumously between 1823 and
1831 (Ricci, 1985b; Vannozzi, 1996). At the begin- - =
ning of 1779, Mascagni explored the territory be- FiGure 6. Fossil specimens of marine flora,
tween Siena and Volterra, examining the geological according to Biagio Bartalini (1800: plate 8).
and chemical features of the natural pools called “lagoni” that were edged by boric saline incrustations
that had formed in conjunction with rock fractures from which gas and saturated steam was escaping
into shallow waters. (Burgassi and Donati, 1995). He presented the journal of his observations in a
dissertation read at the Fisiocritici in March (Ricci, 1985c); later he analyzed in detail the phenomenon
of the “lagoni” in a book published in September of the same year (Mascagni, 1779). It is interesting
to note that during his lecture, Mascagni illustrated several lithological and mineralogical specimens
collected in the field that later may have been given to the museum of the Fisiocritici.

Ambrogio Soldani, who was secretary of the Fisiocritici from 1802 to 1805, worked extensively

Pag 330 Tar Vi |

16 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

on the descriptions of microfossils, in particular Foraminifera (Ricca, 1810; Manasse, 1908; Lip-
parini, 1987). He was also an excellent field geologist who carefully observed the strata. He
distinguished them according to their lithological and fossiliferous contents (clay hills with micro-
fossils / limestone strata with ammonoids) and considered the difference of causes (sea-waters or
volcanic fire) and the times of their formation. In his first work, the Saggio Orittografico (1780),
Soldani analyzed in detail a great number of fossils collected in the field, which were mostly
cephalopods related to the clay strata, the so called “terre ammonitiche e nautiliche della Toscana.”
At the same time he began to assemble an impressive collection of microfossils, which he described
in his seminal contribution to micropaleontology, the Testaceographiae ac Zoophytographiae parvae
et microscopicae (Soldani, 1789-98), well illustrated by a wonderful atlas with 179 plates (Fig. 7).
The micropaleontological collection of Soldani was definitively housed in the natural history
museum of the Fisiocritici between 1808
and 1810, in accordance with his last will
and testament (Campani, 1860:11). For

this reason, it was not damaged by the TESTACEOCGRAPHIAE

great earthquake of 1798, which ruined the

historical residence of the Fisiocritici at 7 OOPHUVTOGRAPHIAE

the “Sala della Sapienza,” partially de- PARVAE ET MICROSCOPICAE
stroying the collection of scientific instru- TOMUS SECUNDUS
ments and the original museum (Soldani, ie euo
1798). Thus, today, it is possible to admire MINUTAS TESTAS MARIS FOSSILES, ITEM LACUSTRES,
HL er * Ps ; EARUMQUE VARIETATES
Soldant s micropaleontological collection Si gate cei Cisbisdls (ac GEDLEGAGT ID ROE
in its original structure and display, as it ANIMADVLNSIONIBUS ILLUSTRAT
represents the most important section of AMBROSIUS SOLDANI
the modern museum of the Academy of IN REGIA SENENSI! UNIVERSITATE MATIRESEOS PROFESSOR.
y
Fisiocritici in Siena (Guasparri 1992:5 = ALCEDIT AD MAJONEM TOTIUS OFERLS ILLUSTRATIONEM
. C . , ee APPENDIX,
55). The 311 specimens of microfossils are Que cn ke foe Opcanls Sizzle Orneegrefie nicl, cn token

Teveds evecke ANU

contained in small jars with labelled cov- Se
ers, called “vasa.” Some specimens are :
incapsulated between two slides for mi-
croscopes (Fig. 8): the numbers of these
“vasa” correspond to the groups of speci-
mens listed, described and figured by
Soldani in the Testaceographiae (Fig. 9—
10), which actually can be used as a cata-
logue of the collection itself.

Rebuilding
: — SENUS smcexevin. (Super. perm
After the Napoleonic period, in 1814 IN TYPOCRAPHIA FAANCISC! ROSST ET RILIL
the museum of the Academy of Fisiocritici Resse barat cea

was re-established in the former monas-
tery called “Convento della Rosa” and this
oe sull the present academic residence FiGure 7. Title page of the second volume of the
(Ricci, 1985a:259). Here the naturalistic Testaceographiae ac Zoophytographiae parvae et
collections were reorganized under the di- microscopicae of Ambrogio Soldani (1789-1798).

VACCARI: ACCADEMIA DEI FISIOCRITICI OF SIENA 17

FiGuRE 8. Specimens of microfossils from the collection of Ambrogio Soldani, in their original glass jars (“vasa”) and slides
for microscopes, as presently displayed in the museum of the Academy of Fisiocritici, “Sala Soldani” (photo E. Vaccari).

rection of the president, Biagio Bartalini, and Massimiliano Ricca
(1761-1835), the latter an eclectic naturalist interested in geology and
paleontology, who was also professor of mathematics and physics at the
University of Siena (Selvani, 1865). Around 1829, Ricca provided the
first specimens of stuffed animals, especially birds, for the future
zoological cabinet. This cabinet was gradually increased by new ani-
mals prepared by Francesco Baldacconi, employed as “preparatore del
Gabinetto,” with an annual budget established by the Academy for the
care of the zoological collection (Ricca, 1985b:230—231). In the years

following, Gaspero Mazzi, professor of zoology and anatomy, was FIGURE 9. Example of cover of a

: ; glass jar (“vas”) from the micropa-
nominated curator of the museum and contributed personally to the jeontological collection of Am-
paleontological and mineralogical collections, in particular several Plio- brogio Soldani. The “vas” is
cene molluscs and brachiopods, which are still preserved to this day in numbered 226 and its content is
their original display (Guasparri, 1992:24). described as “Orthocer:™.

The first official report on the state of the Imperial and Royal Museum of Natural History of the
Fisiocritici Academy was published in 1841. It presented only the catalogue of the ornithological
collection, because the other zoological collections and the cabinet of mineralogy and paleontology
were still being reorganized by Mazzi. However, the report stated that the academic collection of
fossil and non-fossil shells, which included, of course, all the microfossils of Soldani, had already
reached 20,000 specimens (Museo Fisiocritici, 1841).

In the same year, Granduke Leopold II ordered that the Academy was to be regarded as an
university-based institution (“‘stabilimento universitario”). Consequently, its administration and its
staff, including the newly appointed curator, Baldacconi, were put under control of the Provost of the

18 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

University of Siena (Ricci, 1985a:264). This
administrative fusion did not modify the
autonomous constitutions of the Fisiocritici,
but changed decidedly its relationship with
the University. During the years of the Ital-
ian wars of independence, from 1848 to |
1860, scientific activities were reduced. As
a further result of this disruption the publi-
cation of the Arti was suspended after the |
tenth volume of the first series (1841) and
the second series was started twenty years
later. When Tuscany became part of the
newly established Kingdom of Italy, the
Fisiocritici renewed their constitution
(1862) and later gave about half of their
rooms to the University’s scientific insti-
tutes of zoology, botany, anatomy and min-
eralogy. Meanwhile, the academic museum
began to be used by the University for public
teaching (Selvani, 1865; Ricci, 1972:27).
After the inventory compiled by
Giovanni Campani in 1853, which deter-
mined a partial reorganization a few years
later (Fisiocritici. Documenti, 1853; Cam-
rel 1860), the description of the Natural Ficure 10. Different shapes of microfossils, called “Orthoceratia”,
History Museum of the Academy was regu- contained in the “vas” 226 (Fig. 9) and described by Ambrogio
larly updated in other reports published in Soldani (1789-1798, plate 96).
the 1860s and 1870s. These documents
showed the constant increase in size of the museum’s collections due to frequent donations, in
particular of geological, mineralogical and paleontological specimens (Tassi, 1862; Bernardi and
Casuccini, 1868; Pantanelli A., 1869, 1873; Pantanelli D., 1876, 1877). In 1862, Pellegrino Bertini
and G. Tarduzzi enriched the mineralogical cabinet with 117 specimens of Senese marbles and
ornamental stones, while the mining engineer Theodor Haupt left to the Academy 41 minerals from
the copper mines near Massa Marittima (Cataloghi, 1905). Among other 19th century donors must
be mentioned Francesco Bernardi, who sent a valuable collection of shells, Francesco Valenti Serini,
who donated his rich herbarium and his mycological collections (both of which are still partially
housed in the Academy), and Baron Bettino Ricasoli, a distinguished figure of Italian politics, who
also contributed specimens to enrich the museum of Fisiocritici (Guasparri, 1992:13—14, 31-32,
69-71).

Modern Collections and Historical Specimens

In general, within the present museum, identifying the specimens collected and displayed during
the 18th century will likely never be possible, apart from the micropaleontological collection
assembled by Soldani and the fossil jaw collected by Giuseppe Baldassarri (Guasparri, 1992; Farsi
and Guasparri, 1997). The lack of documentation is aggravated by the results of the several

VACCARI: ACCADEMIA DEI FISIOCRITICI OF SIENA 19

reorganizations of the museum that occurred during the 19th century, when the adoption of new
schemes of classification led to new arrangements of displays and the elimination of the old labels.
Moreover, the curators discardeded even old specimens, when a more recently collected and nicer
mineral, rock or fossil of the same kind was available. Many duplicates were also probably used for
exchanges with other museums or institutions and this contributed to the dispersion of the historical
material.

Within this context, it is not easy to reconstruct through primary sources related to the naturalistic
museum the debates on the classification of the specimens, because in most cases new labels simply
replaced and cancelled the old ones. To date, it seems likely that Giovanni Campani, director of the
Natural History Museum of the Fisiocritici, adopted the mineralogical classification established by
the French geologist Frangois-Sulpice Beudant (1787-1850) in 1824, later republished in several
editions and also translated into Italian (Beudant, 1846). This system was used for arranging the
specimens of the mineralogical cabinet of the Fisiocritici around 1867 (Fisiocritici. Documenti, 1867).

Further research works on the 19th century sources will certainly allow us to obtain a better
knowledge of these possible scientific discussions among the academicians, as well as to acquire
more elements on the history of the Academy of Fisiocritici.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The research for this paper was made possible by a fellowship awarded in 1994~95 by the
“Seminario di Storia della Scienza” at the University of Siena. I would like to thank Prof. Paolo
Freguglia, Prof. Giulio Barsanti and Dr. Mario De Gregorio for their support and suggestions; Dr.
Chiara Bratto, Dr. Anita Bacci and Dr. Ferruccio Farsi for their precious help and assistance during
my researches in the library, archive and museum of the Academy of Fisiocritici. Finally, the
comments and suggestions provided by Dr. Alan Leviton and Dr. Ellis Yochelson greatly improved
the final version of the manuscript.

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20 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

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APPENDIX

The Museum of the Academy of Fisiocritici and the private collections of
Giuseppe Baldassarri and Francesco Caluri in 1772
(Ferber, 1776:248—254)

“The following articles seemed to me the most remarkable in the Academical-cabinet.

1. Coals, either bituminous wood or true coals, and argillaceous slate, impregnated with
petroleum, lie in flats or beds under the clay and marl-hills in several parts of Toscana.

2. A jaw, with the teeth on an unknown animal, found in a marl-hill in Toscana, and described
by Mr. Baldassarri in the Academical Transactions — agrees with an American jaw described by Mr.
Guettard in his Memoirs.

3. A blunted limestone, worm-eaten by pholades, found in a marl-hill in the Sanese.

4. Yellow sand-stone, with a petrified sea-star or asteria; from a hill near Giusuri, a mile distant
from Siena.

5. Black quartz-crystallizations; either pitch-black throughout, or only tinged in the surface;
having eight triangular faces, or rather the form and bigness of rough diamonds; from monte Pulciano.

6. Native yellow sulphur in cubic crystallizations, inclosed with pyramidical calcareous spar in
grey limestone; from S. Agatha di monte Feltro in Ducato d’Urbino, in Romagna. This native sulphur
resembles a yellow knotty blende; but yelds a yellow sulphur powder as soon as scraped with the
nail.

The private cabinet of Dr. Ba/dassarri, which is to be delivered after his death to the Academy,
contains several remarkable curiosities. I notice,

1. Native sulphur, in a large yellow, transparent crystal, half an inch diameter, nearly of sherl or
columnar form; from S. Agatha di Monte Feltro. A scarce and precious piece indeed !

2. White and black quartz-crystallizations, pyramidical on both ends; (/ris nigra Aldrovandi,
lapis Dichonus Mercati in Metallotheca, Ingemmamenti crystallini appuntati in ambe le parti di
Ferrante Imperato); found loose and detached in the surface of the earth in many places of the Sanese;
such as Leceto, ai bagni di S. Filippo, di Cianciano, a Belriguardo, &c.

3. Dark-green quartz crystallizations in and on dark-green soslag, or asbestus fibris abruptis et
conglutinatis (Cronst. Mineral. § 105), which seems to have dyed or tinged them. Mr. Baldassarri
did not remember positively, whether this rare curiosity came from monte Christo, or from Giglio,
two small islands in the Tuscan sea.

4. Blue quartz-crystallization, from a copper mine in the Sanese.

24 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

[5.] Shells petrified into agate, in a yellow fine tophaceous sand-stone, found in a sand-hill at the
Florentine gate at Siena.

6. White and transparent petrified turbinites in a similar sand-stone; the turbinites hollow.

7. Native copper in quartz, with crysocolla, from a new-discovered mine at Paris, in the Sanese,
twenty-three miles distant from Siena, close to the Via consularis to Grossetto.

8. Grey antimony in large and long crystals, covered with crystallized native sulphur and
farinaceous auripigment, from an antimony-mine, near Pereta nella Maremma Sanese.

9. Granite; the substance of some hills in the Sanese.

10. Argillaceous slate, from Montagnuola and Prata, in the beginning of the Maremma Sanese,
where it is in large hills covered with calcareous; described by Mr. Baldassarri in the eleventh volume
of the Sanese Transactions, or in his Sketch of a Natural History of Prata.

11. Argillaceous slate, with white marble veins, without any quartz; different from the proceeding
species on account of its antiquity and position as being not inferior to the calcareous strata; but
stratified in the calcareous hills near Gerfalco, between that place and Prata. The micaceous stripes
in the Greek Cipo/lino-marble are, perhaps, owing to a similar position.

12. Micaceous slate with dendrites, from Montagnuola presso la villa Cettenati, eight Italian
miles distant from Siena.

13. Sand-stone from Be/riguardo, three miles distant from Siena.

14. Travertino, from Rapolano in the Sanese; produced there by the sediments of hot waters.
Rapolano is situated at the entrance of the valley, called La Valle di Chiana, twelve Italian miles from
Siena; celebrated on account of its baths which incrustated like the Bagni di S. Filippo, whatever is
valid into them.

15. Serpentino or Gabbro, green and black spotted, from Vallerano in the Sanese; called by the
stone-cutters Marmo di Vallerano.

16. Serpentino or Gabbro from Prata, is green and black, or red spotted; commonly called Verde
di Prato.

17. White scaly marble, as beautiful and saline as that from Carrara, from Montagnuola in the
Sanese; the whole mountain being commonly grey, it is found but in small blocks or lumps.

18. Brocatello di Siena, a yellow marble with black veins; the ground sometimes purple; but
burning makes the whole red coloured; dug at Montarenti in Montagnuola, in the Sanese; eight Italian
miles distant from Siena; generally known, and much employed in Italy.

19. Marmo tigrato di Vall’ di Rati, a fine spotted marble.

20. White handsome alabaster, and alabastro fiorito, dug at Castel nuovo dell 'Abbate, in the
Sanese.

Dr. Calluri, professor of physic at Siena, has a small but choice collection of Natural History. I
noticed the following pieces.

1. A petrified shell in a flint (sy/ex pyromachus), from S. Chianciano de Bagni. S. Casciano de
Bagni, in the Sanese, is different from the precedent place; and described in the Analisi delle acque
minerali di S. Casciano de’ Bagni, &c. di Annibale Bastiani. Firenze, 1770, 8vo.

2. Microscopical shells, as described and drawn by Janus Plancus; common in several sand-
mixed clay-hills, two miles distant from Siena, on the road to Florence.

3. A petrified wendel-trapp (turbo-scalaris), a scarce and precious shell, found in an argillaceous
sand hill near monte Algino in Toscana.

4. Several univalves, compressed and crushed by the pressure of superior beds; petrified from
the hills near monte Algino.

VACCARI: ACCADEMIA DEI FISIOCRITICI OF SIENA 25

5. White fullers earth, dug at Personatina near Cettinale, seven miles distant from Siena.

6. Nummi diabolici Mercati, round and flat pyrite-lamellae, from Cuna, six miles distant from
Siena, on the road to Rome.

7. Magnesia, form S. Casciano de’ Bagni.

8. Quartz-crystallizations, with an air bladder and inclosed water, from the Sanese.

9. Lamellated quartz-crystal, from the Sanese. The same frequently found in Christina-shaft, at
Shemnitz, in Lower Hungary.

10. Oblique rhomboidal transparent gyps-crystals, four inches long, two inches large, called
Specchio d’Asino, found near Villa di Cettenali nella Montagnuola. Some are said to double the
objects.

11. Large black and columnar sherl, from Monte Christo, a small island near /sola di Gighi, on
the coast of Toscana.

12. Some copper ores and malachites, from the mines near Massa di Maremma, in the Sanese.

13. Agates, amethysts, and quartz-crystallizations, from Maremma, some miles distant from the
copper mines of Massa.

14. Slate, with pyrite-cubes of marcasites, from Rocca Strada, near Massa di Maremma.

15. Great white argillaceous and sulphureous bullets, some of the bigness of a man’s head, from
Monte Antico, three Italian miles distant from the baths of Petriu/o in the Sanese; described by Pinelli
in his Lettera de’ Bagni di Petriulo. Roma, 1716. 4to.”

Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA.
All rights reserved.

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Considerations of Certain Peculiarities in Scientific
Institutions in Central Europe in the Eighteenth Century

AGNESE VISCONTI
Facolta di Scienze Politiche
Universita degli Studi di Pavia
Strada Nuova 65
27100 Pavia, Italy

The purpose of the work is to bring out, starting from the analysis of the statutes of two
Lombard scientific Societies founded during the Austrian domination (1706-1796), a few
differences, which I found significant and which to my knowledge have not been dealt with
before, between the constituent principles of the Royal Society of London and the Académie
des Sciences of Paris on the one hand, and the principles of scientific associations in Central
Europe and Lombardy on the other. Among these differences, particularly relevant is the
adherence of the Central European scientific associations to concepts relating to God,
national pride and well-being. So we have in France and England, on the basis of the
principles set out by Francis Bacon, a concept of science as an institution which is free to
establish relationships with the outside non-scientific world (i.e., economic, political,
manufacturing) and in Central Europe, following the German philosopher Gottfried
Wilhel Leibniz, a concept of science as an institution which is subject to the economic and
political choices imposed by a central power.

CONSIDERAZIONI SU ALCUNE SPECIFICITA DELLE ISTITUZIONI SCIENTI-
FICHE DELL’EUROPA CENTRALE NEL DICOTTESIOMO SECOLO. II lavoro si
propone di mettere in evidenza, sulla base dell’analisi degli statuti di due Societa scienti-
fiche lombarde fondate durante la dominazione austriaca (1706-1796), alcune differenze,
che mi sono parse di qualche rilievo e che non sono state considerate in precedenza, tra i
principi costitutivi della Royal Society di Londra e dell’ Académie des Sciences di Parigi
da un lato, e quelli delle associazioni scientifiche dell’Europa Centrale e della Lombardia
dall’altro. Tra queste differenze emerge in modo particolare la presenza nelle associazioni
dell’Europa centrale di riferimenti a Dio, al benessere della patria e al prestigio dello stato.
Ne conseguono due diversi concetti di scienza. In Francia e Inghilterra, sulla base dei
principi dettati da Bacone, la scienza é una forma di attivita libera di stabilire relazioni
con il mondo extra-scientifico (economico, politico produttivo), mentre in Europa Centrale,
seguendo le idee di Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, essa rimane rigidamente sottoposta alle
scelte politiche ed economiche imposte dal potere centrale.

It is well known that the first two modern (Rossi, 1977:19) scientific associations were the Royal
Society of London and |’Academie Royale des Sciences of Paris, founded in 1662 and 1666
respectively. The former was created as an independent association, lacking any relationship with the
government; the latter was the outcome of an agreement between scientists and statesmen. The result
of such an agreement was that sciences obtained great prestige and were to some extent identified
with the political power. These two associations, founded, as is well known, on the concept of science
as expounded by the English philosopher Francis Bacon, represent the model upon which the principal
18" century scientific institutions were based in northern Europe and in the United States: the Societas
Literaria et Scientiarum of Uppsala, created in 1710 and officially inaugurated in 1728 (not to be

P|

28 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

confused with the Svenska Vetenskaps-Akademie of Stockholm, founded in 1739); the Kongelige
Danske Videnskabernes Selskab (Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters) of Copenhagen,
established in 1742; the Academia Scientiarum Imperialis Petropolitana (Imperial Academy of
Sciences of Petersburg), founded in 1726 by Catherine I; the Kénigliche Preussiche Akademie der
Wissenschaften, created by Frederick II in 1744; the American Philosophical Society of Philadelphia
1769 by Benjamin Franklin; and the American Academy of Arts and Sciences of Boston, founded in
1780 on the initiative of John Adams.

It is in my opinion interesting to note the differences between these types of scientific associations
and those which were established in the 18th century in Central Europe. The first clue in this analysis
of the elements which distinguish the two categories of scientific research comes from a close analysis
of the statutes of two specific scientific institutions, including their purposes and the members’
socio-economic origins. These institutions were established in Lombardy during the Austrian
domination (1706-1796) and were namely, the Accademia di Scienze, Lettere e Arti (Academy of
Science, Literature and Arts) of Mantua (Baldi, 1979), founded in 1767 by empress Mary Theresa
with the aim of “qualifying itself to serve the prince and the state” and to seek “those truths that can
more easily lead to public welfare” (Carnevali, 1885—1887:34); and the Societa Patriotica per
V’incremento dell’ Agricoltura, delle Arti e delle Manifatture (Patriotic Society for the Development
of Agriculture, Arts and Manufacture) of Milan, founded in 1776 (Molla Losito, 1982) (Fig. 1), with
the aim of “more easily paving the way to those minds that are willing to make themselves useful to

FiGuRE |. The Brera Building (Palazzo di Brera), Milan, where the Societa Patriotica had its seat
Courtesy Civica Raccolta Stampe Achille Bertarelli, Milan.

VISCONTI: 18th CENTURY SCIENTIFIC INSTITUTIONS 29

the state” (Circolare, 1777) and “to concur in the prosperity of these provinces of ours” (Dispaccio,
1776).

The goals of these Lombard societies were not identical to the aims of the Royal Society of
London or to those of the Paris Académie des Sciences. A review of their respective statutes reveals
that the Royal Society was aimed at gathering groups of scholars — on the basis of the principles set
out by Bacon — to lead them to work together in order to “improve the knowledge of natural things
and all useful arts, manufactures, mechanic practices, engines and inventions by experiments”
(Mathias, 1972:61); and the Académie des Sciences — also firmly based on Bacon’s beliefs — was
aimed at “banning all prejudices, by basing everything on experiments, in order to find something
certain, to dispel all chimeras and to pave the way to truth for those who are willing to follow this
practice” (Hahn, 1971:15—16).

Therefore, on the one hand, in Lombardy we find a vision of science as an instrument in the
service of the State’s economic and political objectives, while, on the other hand, in England and
France, science is viewed as a means to increase man’s knowledge, both in theory and in practice,
and to reveal the truth. In the light of these differences, which are by no means insignificant, two
questions arise, namely, (1) where did the aims of the two Lombard institutions come from, and (2)
what is the reason for the difference between their goals and those of the two most important European
academies? In seeking to answer these questions, a useful starting point is to consider the political
and economic situation in Lombardy at the time. In 1760 the central Hapsburg power, because of a
conceived lack of solid local scientific traditions (Visconti, 1997), created a large number of scientific
institutions, aimed at including the sciences among the cognitive instruments it was gradually bringing
together in order to strengthen and extend its hold on new spheres of interest and activity. These new
scientific institutions included the above-mentioned Accademia of Mantua and the Societa Patriotica
of Milan; the Museo di Storia Naturale (Museum of Natural History) founded at the University of
Pavia in 1770 (Spallanzani, 1985) (Fig. 2); the Orto Bontanico (Botanical Garden) of the same
University, which was completely renovated between 1771 and 1773; the chair of Natural History of
the Palatine Schools of Milan and the annexed St. Alexander’s Mineralogical Museum inaugurated
in 1772 (Boffito, 1933:179); and, finally the Orto Botanico (Botanical Garden) of Brera, started in
1774 (Liva, 1989).

The Hapsburg’s policy was not limited to the foundation of the necessary structures in order to
support the development of research into the natural sciences, it also extended its ambit to include
the nomination of the academics who would be responsible for the direction and working management
of these structures. This decision, which was justified by the need to overcome the intellectual poverty
of the local educated classes who were not capable of setting up new institutions, was the root cause
of the arrival in Lombardy of various notable academics, hailing from other parts of the Empire or
the peninsula: among them Giovanni Antonio Scopoli from Trento and Lazzaro Spallanzani from
Reggio, who respectively obtained the chair of Natural History and that of Botany at the University
of Pavia (Jucci, 1961); the Bavarian abbot Fulgenzio Vitman, from Vallombrosa (Cifern, 1961; Jucci,
1961; Pichi Sermolli, 1999:131—140), who directed the Botanical Garden of the University of Pavia
and then the Botanical Garden of Brera in Milan (Liva, 1989); Francesco Griselini from Venice, who
directed the Societa Patriotica since 1776 (Torcellan, 1965); Carlo Amoretti from Liguria, who in
1781 succeeded Griselini (Visconti, 1997).

Having thus established the foundations for the study of nature and natural products, the
Hapsburg government decided to expand the scope of its sphere of influence to include the contro]
over the criteria used, terms adopted and subject-matter of the research being carried out by the
academics that were supposed to be overseeing the creation of the new institutions. An example of

30 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Ficure 2. The University of Pavia, reorganized in the 18th century by the Austrian Empire.
Courtesy Civica Raccolta Stampe Achille Bertarelli, Milan.

this interference can be seen in the following governmental order received by Spallanzani: “the best
way to organise series is to set out only those parts of the plant that have medicinal properties, i.e.
wood, roots, bark, flowers” (Spallanzani, La collezione naturalistica, 1985:117). Similar directives
were received by Scopoli, Vitman and others (Visconti, 1997).

These directives and pretensions, which found no counterpart either in France or England (where
men of science used their social status to maintain their autonomy in their relations with the central
power), were the result of the political power’s policy to use the scientific research, in order to provide
itself with solid support for its ultimate political and economic goals, which included the general
welfare of the people living within its domain, the increased prosperity of the state, and the benefit
of motherland (Rassem, 1992). The object was therefore not to examine, study and analyse nature
for the sake of knowledge. In other words, the aim was not “the knowledge of causes, and secret
motions of things; and the enlarging of the bounds of human empire, to the effecting of all things
possible” (Bacon, 1952:210), according to which philosophy, scientific knowledge was perceived as
a form of universal wisdom aimed at understanding nature and resulting in the expansion of all
mankind’s power to new spheres of interest and action (Boas Hall, 1975). The intent, instead, was to
subordinate the sciences to the political power and its purposes, that is to deny their autonomy
according to a concept which, by placing the state’s welfare ahead of the formulation of nature’s laws,
was aimed at integrating scientists within the state bureaucracy and at turning them into submissive

VISCONTI: 18th CENTURY SCIENTIFIC INSTITUTIONS Bi

officials in charge of contributing, through technological improvement, to the achievement of the
economic and manufacturing objectives set by the central power authority (De Maddalena, 1975:687;
Schiera, 1975:414).

After having thus reviewed the Lombard political and economic situation, it was thought useful
to expand the field of study to include the provinces of the Austrian Empire in order to verify whether
similar institutions existed there. We then realised there were several associations whose scientific
research was likewise aimed at carrying out the economic and financial directives of the governing
power. A series of scientific-manufacturing institutions were founded around the 1760s, when the
implementation of the fundamental reforms of the Austrian State created a set of conditions that
allowed the central power to start trying to bridge the economic gap with more advanced European
countries (Schindler and Bonss, 1980). The Austrian government, in fact, decided to consider the
possibility of integrating technical and scientific knowledge into the stream of its mercantilist
economic strategy and, more specifically, to use this knowledge to favour the agricultural and
manufacturing development of the Empire’s most advanced regions. Chancellor Wenzel Anton
Kaunitz, in charge of Hapsburg foreign policy, was the main promoter of this financial and economic
plan. In a letter to the Austrian Ambassador in Bavaria dated 30 October 1764, Kaunitz supported
the foundation in Austria of societies which, “like the Munich society, contribute also in our provinces
to the acquisition and growth of the taste for useful sciences” (Hammermayer, 1983:15). Counsellor
Fremaut’s suggestions added to these convictions. During his trips, made in the same year, through
the territories of the Empire, he decided that the provinces of Carintia, Tyrol, Styria and Carniola
were the most suited to the creation of a first series of technical-scientific institutes aimed at carrying
out the economic objectives established by the State (Hammermayer, 1983:4) in the agricultural sector
(relating to the choice of cultivation, fertilizer, livestock, wood type) and in the manufacturing sector
(Dinklage, 1965:149, 152, 157). On this basis, between 1765 and 1767 the following societies were
founded: Klagenfurt, Innsbruck, Graz, Laibach, Linz and Gorz, followed by the foundation of other
societies starting in 1768: Vienna, Hermannstadt, Brunn, Freiburg, and Prague (Dinklage, 1965,
1966:149—170; Kraus, 1977:139; Schindler and Bonss, 1980; Hammermayer, 1983:5—12).

The Munich society Kaunitz mentioned in his letter is the Churbayerische Akademie der
Wissenschaften (Bavarian Academy of Sciences), created in 1759 by will of Georg Lori, with a view
to “dedicating sciences and arts to the increase in the benefits and honour of the motherland [. . .] and
in the state welfare” (Hermann and Sang, 1992:32), and to “most efficiently affecting economy and
general prosperity” (Hermann and Sang, 1992:33). Thanks to these objectives, which were purely
economic in nature, the Academy managed to obtain from the elector Maximilian II of Bavaria the
necessary funds for the creation of an Astronomical Observatory and the Chemical and Physical
Laboratories, and for the publication of its Abhandlungen and Neue Abhandlungen published in
German in order to create a link with the country’s technical knowledge and applications (Hermann
and Sang, 1992:33).

It is clear that the founding principles of the two Lombard institutions, upon which our interest
is based, are the same as those of the Austrian technical-scientific-economic societies, which were
modelled on the Munich Academy. Both the Lombard and the Austrian organisations viewed the
academic as an official subject to the economic objectives of the state and not as an independent entity
free to enter into an agreement with the governing power. The question then arose as to what was the
model for the Academy in Berlin? The statutes of the German associations refer back to two scientific
institutions which briefly preceded the foundation of the Academy of Munich and which inspired the
foundation of the same, the Kéniglch Societét der Wissenschaften (Royal Society of Sciences) in
Goettingen, founded in 1752 by the Minister of the Principality of Hannover, Adolf von Miinch-

(oS)
th

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

hausen, which gave as its fundamental principle the conviction that “the creation of an academy of
good and useful sciences would be honourable, and sciences themselves would contribute to increase
the country’s wealth and happiness” (Hermann and Sang, 1992:35), and the Erfurt Akademie
gemeiniitziger Wissenschaften (Erfurt Academy of Useful Sciences) founded on 19 July 1754, which
had similar goals. As a matter of fact, the latter’s economic and productive objectives were so sharp
and clearly stated that the Mainz elector said that he was willing to invest a substantial amount of
money to support the implementation of its programs, especially in view of the “savings of costs, that
is the advantages for citizens that this society of scholars would have brought in the field of metallurgy,
chemistry, mechanics, economy or other fields” (Hermann and Sang, 1992:37).

But does a single model exist on which all of these
scientific-technical-economic associations are based?
We believe that a convincing answer can be gleaned
from the founding principles of the Societas Regia
Scientiarum, created in Berlin in 1700 by Frederick III
of Brandenburg (Frederick | of Prussia) on the sugges-
tion of Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (Fig. 3). These socie-
ties did not express concern for questions of truth, or the
investigation into physical phenomena, they were in-
stead based on the belief that, “in order to spread wide
God’s glory, to maintain and develop true fear of God,
sound morals and the general welfare of all classes, it
was necessary for men’s inclinations to be illuminated
by a good science and useful studies, and to be urged in
order to acknowledge and admire God’s works, thus
leading to love and fear of God, the only source of every
good thing” (Brather, 1993:94-97). Their coming into
being was therefore in order to develop the “useful”

sciences, to praise God and to improve the wellbeing of 9 oe EAE
the German country. 5 Full iat ay iC ae reby

Nevle

The vision of science’s role stated by the German
philosopher was dominated by principles relating to God Figure 3. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, on whose con-
and the wealth and patrimony of the German state. These ception of science the Lombard scientific and techni-
principles had been expounded by Leibniz in various cal institutions of the 18th century were based. Portrait
proposals prepared for the creation of a German scien- re SCAR Ae Satine Beh Eee
tific society. These principles were set out in particular
in his Grundriss eines Bedenckens von Aufrichtung einer Societat in Teutschland zu aufnehmen der
Kiinste und Wissenshaften von 1671, where he argued that, in his view, the role of the scientific
association was to “amare bonum publicum, vel, quod idem est, gloriam Dei intelligere et quantum
in se est facere maiorem” (Foucher de Careil, 1859:xviii—xix), and its task had to be the search for
the necessary means for the implementation of “common usefulness, of the motherland’s prestige, of
the sustenance and preservation of many men, of God’s glory and the discovery of His wonders”
(Hammerstein, 1981) through actions aimed at “increasing and improving arts and sciences, at urging
the Germans’ intelligence so that they are not despoiled by the other nations in the commercial field,
nor fall behind them as far as science is concerned” (Krafft, 1981). He also claimed that scholars
should not be “led by mere curiosity or thirst for knowledge, nor pay attention to useless experiments,
or be content with the simple invention of useful things that cannot be applied and installed, as it

VISCONTI: 18th CENTURY SCIENTIFIC INSTITUTIONS 33

already happened in Paris, London and Florence, where the aim of sciences of reality — that is to
gain benefits for the nation — had not been reached in any way.” (Krafft, 1981) He stated that “since
the beginning they had to seek usefulness and think only about those specimens from which the glory
of the king and the whole community have reason to expect certain common advantages” (Krafft,
1981). Leibniz expressed similar remarks a few years later, in a fragmentary manuscript written after
the death of the great elector Frederick William, in 1688 (Mathieu, 1951:315), where he stated he
was “even convinced that under his (Frederick II] of Brandenburg and I of Prussia) auspices it would
be easy to overcome what in France and England was started and planned:because there, even though
they worked well, they were far away from the best path. In fact surveys carried out by French and
English academies paid much more attention to appearance and prestige than to practical usefulness,
which is better cultivated by Germans” (Mathieu, 1951:322). On the basis of these remarks it appeared
that the ultimate goal of scientific associations had to be “combining theory to practice, thus
developing not only arts and sciences, but also the country and the population, agriculture, manufac-
turing and trade; in a word, all means of sustenance” (Krafft, 1981).

What is crystal clear from these words is Leibniz’s conviction that the realisation of the great
scientific discoveries of the era could not be left directly in the hands of the common people who
lacked the organisational skills for such a task, instead, it was a task for a wise and well-intentioned
sovereign, in his capacity as God’s vessel on earth and sole protector of his subjects’ well-being
(Mathieu, 1951:28-30).

The Berlin society never reached its full potential. Weighed down by financial problems and the
interference of Court officials and administrators, it led a marginal existence and did not achieve any
scientific results. Iteven became universally known as “the anonymous society” (Harnack, 1900:176—
241; McClellan III, 1985:71—72). It was completely revamped by Frederick II of Prussia, who came
to the throne in 1740, and who had taken the decision to substitute Leibniz’s concepts relating God,
country, and the nation’s well-being, with more cosmopolitan principles, closer to the model of the
Académie des Sciences in Paris. Thus was born the new Kénigliche Preussiche Akademie der
Wissenschaften in Berlin in 1744, firmly based on the separation of scientific objectives from political
objectives; the Academy was, in fact, solely preoccupied with the search for truth, leaving to the State
the task of gradually putting such truth into practice and transposing it to public life (Miller, 1975:33).
The Academy chose to publish its memoirs in French thus blocking any possibility of there being a
direct relationship between science and the artisan and economic world of the country (Miiller,
1975:33). Pierre-Louis Moreau de Maupertuis, one-time Academy president (Hammermayer,
1983:27), played an important role in the drawing up of the organisation’s constitution and in the
choice of objectives. Similarly, Joseph-Louis Lagrange and Leonhard Euler contributed significantly,
as did Samuel Formey, who was named secretary (Visconti, 1997).

The brainchild of Leibniz, the Berlin society was not too successful, and this was also true of the
other scientific associations created in its image.

The Goettigen Royal Society distinguished itself by its objectives which were purely scientific,
whilst it remained under the control of the physician and naturalist Albrecht von Haller, but after his
death in 1753, the Society rapidly lost its scientific character and turned into an unassuming
economic-technical-agricultural association, based on cameralistic principles (Kraus, 1977:141;
McClellan HI, 1985:116).

The Erfurt Academy of Useful Sciences, which mainly dealt with economic issues and awarded
many prizes in such fields, lost all executive power from the moment its activities came under the
control of private promoters (Kraus, 1977). The Seven Years’ War (1756-1763) saw its near
dissolution. But it was refounded on a sound basis in 1776, and from that moment onwards it found

34 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

itself in a position to carry out various research projects in the field of natural history (Miller, 1975:37;
McClellan III, 1985:117), which were published in its Acta until 1807.

The same can be said for the Academy of Sciences of Munich. Although it, too, disappeared with
the Seven Years’ War, it was restored in 1777 by the palatine elector Charles Theodore, who linked
it to the Mannheim Academy, which had been modelled after the Académie de Sciences of Paris, and
which developed on a cosmopolitan rather than national basis (McClellan III, 1985:118).

As far as the Austrian societies are concerned, they did not produce any scientific results and all
were short lived: the Prague society closed in 1773, the Brunn society in 1775, the Innsbruck society
in 1777, the Vienna society in 1783, the Graz and the Laibach societies in 1787, and the Gorz society
in 1790 (Dinklage, 1965; Im Hof, 1982:268; Schindler and Bonns, 1980).

Such failures have been ascribed by most recent historiographers to the structural conflict that
opposed the unification process started by the central power to the resolute resistance of the
representatives of local classes. The absolutist policy tried to overcome this conflict by integrating
the feudal needs of noble and religious land owners into the rationalising current of administrative
reformations. More specifically, the monarchical power ran against a dual limit:on the one hand the
need to resort to the contribution and support of old aristocracy in order to carry out any economic
development programme; on the other hand the contempt old aristocracy felt for any kind of
technical-productive innovation. It was indeed because of the lack of knowledgeable, competent and
expert interlocutors that the Hapsburg state was forced to assign the direction of technical-economic
societies to local land owners, representing the old social order and therefore lacking an economic
vision based on modern and rational bases (Schindler and Bonss, 1980).

We might add the following observation to these motives: the suffocation of growth and
development of Austrian technical-scientific societies was due, paradoxically, to the continuous and
insistent requests of the State that, by aiming exclusively at reaching economic and productive goals,
in the end inhibited the birth of presuppositions necessary to carry out any research activity, discovery
or interpretation of nature and its laws. We believe, therefore, that there was a sort of incompatibility
between mercantilist demands and scientific requests.

The life and activity of the Societa Patriotica of Milan did not differ very much from those of
the Austrian patriotic societies. As already mentioned, it was founded in 1776, when the Austrian
societies had already shown their scientific inertia. At the central power’s request, it carried out a
series of researches and efforts aimed at solving Lombardy’s economic and financial problems, as
shown by the balance-sheets of the region’s payments to foreign countries (Caizzi, 1968:48—55,
217-221, 234-237). A strong tie therefore linked the studies carried out by the Societa Patriotica to
the financial needs of the Hapsburg State, which dictated the working subjects, times and methods
of the Milanese association’s scholars, on the basis of those balance-sheet’s liabilities that were more
strictly connected to the sciences of nature. Within the framework of such policies, researches carried
out in the botanical field in order to improve textile production played a particularly important role
(Visconti, 1998). They were aimed at solving the manufacturing process’ weaknesses, that is dyeing
and spinning, by carrying out experiments on acclimatisation in Lombardy of imported dyeing and
oil-producing substances in view of the possibility of increasing their cultivation. Important experi-
ments and research were carried out in the Botanical Garden by the Societa Patriotica under the
auspices of the Austrian Government, relating to Indigofera tinctoria, Isatis tinctoria, Rubia tinc-
torum, Oldenlandia umbellata (=Hedvotis umbellata), Morus tinctoria (=Maclura tinctoria), Genista
tinctoria, Alnus glutinosa, Cornus sanguinea, Raphanus sativus, Brassica napus, and Carthamus
tinctorius (Visconti, 1998).These botanical studies were supplemented by mineralogical studies,
aimed at decreasing iron’s passivity, which was not due to the lack of raw material, but rather to

VISCONTI: 18th CENTURY SCIENTIFIC INSTITUTIONS 35

defective processing of the metal and lack of fuel. The overcoming of these obstacles was the aim of
investigations on energy sources (wood, peat and coal); such investigations proved to be of paramount
importance also for silk manufacturing (Visconti, 1997). The central power also ascribed importance
to research on suitable leather and fur processing techniques, which represented a liability of about
one million liras in the foreign balance-sheet (Caizzi, 1968:55).

The research and efforts carried out by the Societa Patriotica’s scholars reached a quite high
standard, especially during the association’s last years of activity, from the point of view of work
efficiency and organisation. In certain cases they even produced a few small, short-lived economic
benefits. Particularly as far as iron is concerned, the balance-sheet liability decreased by about eight
hundred thousand liras between 1782 and 1791, thanks to the tireless activity of the partner
Ermenegildo Pini, in charge of starting a rationalisation of Lombard iron production (Pini, 1791).

But the scientific success was rather meagre, not only for the Societa Patriotica, but also for all
institutions founded by the central power. Except for a few remarkable names, such as Alessandro
Volta and Lazzaro Spallanzani — whose merits were not directly linked to the Austrian policy but,
for the former, to his links with the Accademia delle Scienze of Bologna and, for the latter, to his
close relationships with the scientific communities of Turin and Paris — the framework so zealously
built in Vienna actually turned out to be full of eager and insignificant officials, more willing to grant
the Court’s wishes than to try and follow the path of autonomy and independence.

In the light of this situation, we might say that also for the Societa Patriotica of Milan, as well
as for the Austrian societies, the full and absolute subordination of scientific research to goals relating
only to the general happiness and welfare of the populus — stubbornly pursued by unceasingly trying
to compensate the foreign balance-sheet’s deficit — represented a hindrance to the development of
autonomous and independent forms of cognitive investigation.

It seems also quite clear that the Leibnizian principle, based on the belief that technical progress
could become part of a known and pre-arranged social order — that is the belief that a group of experts
led by a well-intentioned king would be able to define the public’s needs and therefore direct, by
means of technical and scientific improvement, the agricultural, manufacturing and trading develop-
ment — not only wasn’t able to encourage any research, discovery or transformation, but on the
contrary turned any form of investigation and study into a jumble of simple suggestions, descriptions,
opinions and proposals. For example, the descriptions of Lombardy by Carlo Amoretti and the
observations on flax, wheat and bees by Gaetano Harasti; the experiments with olive trees and
vineyards of Eraclio Landi; the works of Antonio Lecchi on Lombard rivers and canals; the
observations about silk by Luigi Petazzi; the studies on Lombard grass fields of Giosué Scannagatta;
the descriptions of the natural riches of Lombardy by Domenico Vandelli; the observations on
woodlands of Ermenegildo Pini (Visconti, 1997).

The result of such political choice was that Austria and Lombardy long remained totally alien
and unconcerned about those new scientific concepts which, at that same moment, led to gas-studying
techniques and cleared up the concept of element in France and England (Abbri, 1978:26—28). This
situation represented the prelude of the fundamental role that the chemical revolution was about to
play for the solution of the same economic problems that the Hapsburg power’s mercantilist
guidelines tried to solve by uselessly lavishing all their zeal and thoughtfulness.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am very grateful to Michael Ghiselin and Giovanni Pinna for giving me the opportunity to
participate in their symposium. Elvira Cantarella and Marco Meriggi offered valuable comments on

36 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

the manuscript; Stefano Bellucci helped me with the translation; and Oliver Vigo discussed with me
the reading of the German texts; and Alan E. Leviton edited with careful attention the whole work.

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Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA.
All rights reserved.

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

The Founders of Morphology as Alchemists

MICHAEL T. GHISELIN
Center for the History and Philosophy of Science
California Academy of Sciences, Golden Gate Park
San Francisco, California 94118 U.S.A.
E-mail: 110640.3011@compuserve.com

Historians of systematic biology have acknowledged the influence of numerology upon
that science, notably in the case of Quinarianism. However, they have paid remarkably
little attention to other pseudosciences. Alchemy is a particularly interesting example,
because physicists and historians of physics had a hard time admitting that alchemical
research was a major activity on the part of Newton.

Germany’s greatest poet, Goethe, is said to have introduced the term “morphology”
and is generally given much of the credit and blame for establishing the “idealistic”
approach to the subject. Literary historians have provided convincing evidence not only
that Goethe was a practicing alchemist, but also that his so-called biological writings were
actually alchemical treatises. If biologists and historians of biology have not altogether
ignored this connection, they certainly have glossed it over.

Lorenz Oken is widely known for his priority dispute with Goethe with respect to the
vertebral theory of the skull. He is also known as one of the most notorious advocates of
Naturphilosophie. The realization that Oken was an alchemist allows one to make a great
deal more sense out of his writings, which generally have been condemned without an effort
to understand them.

Such connections make one wonder whether more alchemical thinking was incorpo-
rated into the morphological tradition than meets the eye. The works of Richard Owen
and Ernst Haeckel are more than just suggestive that some such linkage exists, but what
the influence was is difficult to establish. At any rate, those authors who deny that Owen
was a Platonist have been asking the wrong questions.

The “superorganism” theory of the ecosystem and “self-organization” in various areas
of biology have historical roots in the alchemical tradition. To what extent the advocates
of such notions have been aware of the connections, and what inferences might legitimately
be drawn from them, are problems that deserve further attention but may prove largely
insoluble.

For the past thirty years the primary focus of my research has been the problem of what happened
to comparative anatomy as a consequence of the Darwinian Revolution. Very few of my results have
thus far appeared in print, and not just because of other interests having provided distractions. Rather,
comparative anatomy is a vast and difficult topic, one that is not mastered over night.

The present essay was in large measure evoked by some reflections upon the philosophy of
systematics (Ghiselin, 1997). We now appreciate the point that the species and clades of modern
systematics are not kinds of organisms. Rather, they are supraorganismal wholes, or “individuals” in
an ontological sense. We also recognize that modern evolutionary theory, including that of Darwin,
makes no sense unless we presuppose the individuality of such taxa. There could be no historical
biogeography were it not for the fact that species and lineages have a definite location in space and
time. If species were (abstract) classes rather than (concrete) particulars, they could not speciate or
undergo any other evolutionary process. What to us is explicit, was implicit in the work of Darwin.
Thanks to him, biology became a truly historical science, with “how actually” scenarios, rather than

39

40 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

merely “how possibly” speculations about what might have happened in the past. There is a profound
difference, for example, between what Darwin says about the barnacles having evolved sessility on
the one hand and what Lamarck says about webbed toes in birds on the other.

Darwin’s predecessors were still trying to treat taxa as if they were natural kinds, the products
of laws of nature, perhaps divinely ordained, but nonetheless sharing common attributes for some
fundamentally non-historical reason. It seems to me that the difference between Darwin and his
predecessors is so fundamental that few 1f any of them deserve to be called “evolutionists.” (But for
qualifications see Sloan, 1986.) The fact that so many of them are called evolutionists rather than,
say, protoevolutionists only serves to underscore the problem with the traditional historiography.

On the one hand we have what one might wish to call “Whig” historians of evolutionary biology,
to use a standard term in perhaps a slightly idiosyncratic sense. According to this view, there were a
lot of precursors of Darwin who were trying to become modern evolutionists but hadn’t yet hit upon
the mechanism that would make it plausible. Along came the Darwinian revolution and such persons
were vindicated. On the other hand we might actually coin a new term for an alternative position,
that of “Tory” historians. According to this view, the Darwinian revolution never happened, and
furthermore it was a bad thing, so the precursors play the role of showing that no fundamental changes
really took place. The picture of course is vastly more complicated than such a travesty suggests.
Among other things the notion that nothing really happened in 1859 is very convenient for those who
want to argue that it should have happened but did not happen until Mendel, or Mayr, or Watson and
Crick, or perhaps even Ghiselin. Everybody agrees that natural selection was not accepted as readily
as evolution, but taking the position that the Darwinian revolution was a myth (Bowler, 1988) is
hyperbolic to say the least.

In the standard literature, at least, we find frequent mention of something called Naturphilosophie
that flourished in the early nineteenth century. Supposedly it had something to do with Herder,
Schelling and other Romantics (see Jardine, 1996). Naturphilosophie is widely condemned for its
absurdities and speculative excess. It is also widely praised for somehow being concerned with
development and change: supposedly it was a precursor of evolutionary thinking (Lenoir, 1982). But
we are not really told what these persons believed about biology, or why. Herein I propose to address
precisely that question.

The popularity of certain pseudosciences in pre-Darwinian biology is generally recognized.
Quinarianism Is a case in point (Winsor, 1976; Rehbock, 1983). Various biologists tried to arrange
their materials in circular patterns, usually with groups of five, though other mystic numbers such as
three and seven were deemed perfectly reasonable; it was a matter of empirical research to decide
which number was correct. Circles are of course the perfect geometrical figure. For quinarians it was
profoundly significant that there were correspondences between the groups thus arranged. Among
these correspondences was “iconism”: tigers would have their equivalent in tiger beetles. There would
be five races of man, five biogeographical provinces, five temperaments, and they all would
correspond to, and symbolize, one another (Swainson, 1835). This all makes sense. Mathematics is
the language of the perfect Being, and the task of a systematist is to attain knowledge of His mind
through a kind of mystical insight.

Such mystical correspondences are by no means peculiar to quinarianism. They are a common
theme among belief systems that are now dismissed as pseudoscientific. Likewise it is more or less
common knowledge that the pseudosciences and what we, from our perspective, consider the real
thing have only gradually become differentiated. I shall not dwell upon the difference between a belief
system and a corpus of scientific knowledge. Suffice it to mention the provisional character of
scientific theories and their meta-theoretical premises and the crucial role of efforts to refute, or at

GHISELIN: FOUNDERS OF MORPHOLOGY AS ALCHEMISTS 4]

least to modify, hypotheses. As to mysticism, it has generally been discredited as a source of scientific,
though not of religious, knowledge. Its ultimately private character is but one reason for this.

Professional intellectuals do tend to forget that the pseudosciences are still widely practiced. If
you have any doubt just look at the astrology columns in the daily paper. And although we
acknowledge the importance of astrology in the behavior of politicians such as Adolf Hitler and Mrs.
Reagan, we hesitate to face up to the enthusiasm of practicing scientists for what is often called “occult
metaphysics.” (Not to be confused with the sort of metaphysics that is still a respectable branch of
philosophy.) For example, the historian of physics Betty Jo Dobbs had enormous difficulties
convincing her colleagues that Sir Isaac Newton was an alchemist and that his alchemical work was
very important to him. Fortunately for her, there were plenty of documents to support her thesis
(Dobbs, 1991). But once that thesis got accepted, it was much easier to discover and understand the
alchemical work of one of the founders of modern chemistry, Robert Boyle (Principe, 1998).

The historical connection between alchemy and chemistry is common knowledge, and is
considered routinely in works on the history of that science (e.g., Brock, 1993). The two gradually
separated and from the point of view of the present essay it helps to understand how that separation
took place. From the outset there were two aspects to it, a practical one that involved manipulation
of substances, and a spiritual one that involved the enlightenment of the alchemist himself. In either
case the goal was the attainment of a higher state of existence. The transformation of other minerals
into gold by means of the “philosopher’s stone” had its parallels in the spiritual transformation of the
alchemist himself. The two aspects gradually became dissociated. The practical work, which had
traditionally involved much experimentation, gave rise to chemistry. The spiritual endeavor however,
persisted in the form of Rosicrucianism and various other enterprises.

It is generally believed that alchemy had been discredited and replaced by chemistry by the
middle of the eighteenth century. However, it survived as occult metaphysics, and that occult
metaphysics would seem to have influenced the thinking of biologists for some time after the chemists
had pretty much abandoned it. The obvious link between chemistry and alchemy on the one hand,
and the various branches of biology on the other, is through medicine including materia medica and
pharmacology. Given that the teaching of natural history was so closely connected with medicine
some kind of influence upon systematic biology would hardly be surprising. And in fact Isidore
Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire (1859) discusses the influence of alchemy on early taxonomists. But the
connection is not widely recognized or considered important.

Here I shall consider the connection between alchemy and what is called “morphology.” The
term “morphology” is very loosely used these days: generally it means anatomy and embryology,
maybe with histology and all sorts of other things thrown in. Strictly speaking, however, morphology
is the study of form. Physiology is the study of function. There is a long tradition of separating the
two, so that “functional morphology” Is a sort of oxymoron. There is also a long tradition of discussing
the “form-function problem” in terms of Platonic Idealism on the one hand and Aristotelian teleology
on the other. Anything but face up to the metaphysical revolution that was initiated by Darwin. I am
by no means alone in criticizing this particular historiographical tradition (Asma, 1996). It is a serious
obstacle to our understanding of the documents whether ones interests are those of an historian, a
working biologist, or both.

Goethe

Although there is some question as to who first used it in print, there is at least a tradition that
the term “morphology” was coined by Germany’s greatest poet, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

42 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

(1749-1832). Anybody who has read Faust knows that Goethe was interested in alchemy, but it is
very easy to treat the alchemy as little more than a literary ornament, rather like the Greek Gods in
Baroque paintings. As to Goethe’s novel Die Wahlverwandtschaften (The Elective Affinities), it is a
very boring effort to use a later version of chemistry as a literary theme. However, literary historians
have in fact attended to the older, alchemical background to this work (see Adler, 1987, 1990).

Be this as it may, it is clear from his autobiography that Goethe was a serious student of alchemy,
and, indeed, a practicing alchemist. But to find out that his so-called scientific publications, including
the “biological” works were alchemical treatises, one has to go to the literary historians, notably Gray
(1952). Or one may turn to the work of Jung (1968, 1970) on the psychology of alchemy in which it
is made clear that Goethe’s Weltanschauung was permeated by it. And, indeed, if one reads his
publications from that perspective, Goethe’s stance on how science ought to be pursued becomes
much less of a puzzle.

One does not get such an impression of Goethe out of the standard histories of biology, from his
biographies (e.g., Magnus, 1949) or from the writings of his devoted followers among scientists, such
as Agnes Arber (1946). The alchemical connection is briefly mentioned in passing by historians of
science, but they do not pay much attention to it (Fink, 1991). To be sure, I may have missed
something: there is a vast literature. But the impression is what really matters here. The vast tradition
of idealistic morphology that has long flourished, especially in Germany, and is immensely influential
even today, has precisely those roots. We must of course watch out for the genetic fallacy here. It
would be wrong to try to discredit contemporary science on the grounds that it can be traced back to
precursors that now seem disreputable. It is, however, legitimate to ask whether we are perhaps
making the same old mistakes. Furthermore scientific traditions tend to get deracinated. It is all too
easy to overlook the basic assumptions and premises when knowledge is passed on from generation
to generation and nobody bothers to go back and read the old texts.

Oken

Lorenz Oken (1779-1851) (Figure 1) is largely remembered because of his priority dispute with
Goethe over the vertebral theory of the skull (Ecker, 1880; Pfannensteil 1951a, 1959b). Oken was
for some time a Professor at Jena — i.e., what might colloquially be called “Weimar U.” — and much
of the historical literature on him relates to his having been fired because of his political activities,
with Goethe somehow involved in that episode as an advisor to the government. Also remembered
is his invention of the modern scientific meeting as an institution (Degen, 1972). Finally, Oken is
widely recognized as either the best example, or, depending upon one’s sympathies, the worst
example, of Naturphilosophie (Mullen, 1977; Wenig, 1985, 1988). Again, I may have missed
something, but the most I find with respect to alchemy is passing mention of some similarities (e.g.,
Giittler, 1884, Raikov, 1969). In general, Oken is treated as having derived his views from his friend
Schelling, and that does it. But Oken was the son of a pharmacist, and later became very widely read
in the older medical literature, in which alchemical ideas were widely discussed (Strohl, 1935). And
in his publications he occasionally discusses the views of alchemists explicitly (e.g., Oken 1808:26).

Oken’s numerology is so patently obvious that nobody who even flips the pages of his Lehrbuch
can miss it. But this numerology is superimposed upon, or at least coexists with, a system of mystical
correspondences among the various components of the Universe. And many of the details are easily
recognized as traditional components of alchemical cosmic schemes. The existence of correspon-
dences among bodily parts is a phenomenon that biologists have long and rightly treated as a fact in
search of an explanation. We need look no farther than the correspondences between the bones of the

GHISELIN: FOUNDERS OF MORPHOLOGY AS ALCHEMISTS 43

left and right fore-limb or between, say humerus and
femur. And similar correspondences between the
parts of different organisms in different branches of
the phylogenetic nexus are crucial to evolutionary
comparative anatomy. The correspondences take on
the character of occult metaphysics when the parts are
thought to symbolize one another as components of
a vast cosmic scheme.

According to the vertebral theory of the skull,
which even today can still be treated as a perfectly
legitimate (albeit long-rejected) scientific hypothe-
sis, the skull is made up of vertebrae that can be
treated as a kind of “module” or metamere. If one
grants that the head is made up of a certain number
of serially-repeated units, one might try to answer the 3
question of how many such units it contains, and try
to identify and count them. Oken had a more elegant $s Pg Ms
technique: he derived the number four from basic > we Vise
principles (Oken, 1840). There are five senses: touch, — os rg EL LCD!
taste, smell, hearing and vision. Of these, four are ~~~ -_
localized in the head, and it stands to reason that there Ficure 1. Lorenz Oken (1779-1851).
must be one vertebra for each!

Likewise he was able to derive a scheme for the classification of animals. Each taxonomic group
symbolizes one of the five senses. So just to take human races as an example (there must be five of
them) I don’t even have to tell you which symbolizes touch and which vision. And it all makes sense
because each and every object in the world is symbolic of the others and of the whole, which is
coextensive with God. Indeed, the whole world following Plato’s 7imaeus is an organism: the
Weltorganismus. Such taxonomic schemes are hardly evolutionary, or even protoevolutionary: they
are part of a tradition that the alchemists derived from early Neoplatonism. There are some other
notions in the writings of Oken that are thought of as evolutionary, and wrongly. The primordial ooze
or Urschleim that is generally interpreted as some kind of ancestor really ought to be treated as the
expression of a kind of hylozoism: the notion that matter is alive. A typically alchemical theme is
that matter has the capacity to assemble itself spontaneously into organized beings by a process like
crystallization. The achievement of a higher state of being may be accomplished by a kind of
purification: physical or spiritual.

However, there are other ways of achieving a higher state of being, among which the conjunction
of polar opposites. Figure 2 reproduces an illustration from a book on generation by Oken (1805)
entitled Die Zeugung. It shows a scheme of polarities with the male and female, salt and sulfur and
the like arranged in a rather idiosyncratic scheme, but with a triangular structure that is nonetheless
typical of the alchemical literature. Like other alchemists, Oken was very interested in hermaphrodi-
tism, because it symbolizes the union of male and female, completeness, and perfection.

Oken (1805:55, 91) actually cites alchemical sources such as the writings of Athanasius Kircher.
Furthermore he frequently uses alchemical symbolism. To give perhaps the most striking example,
Figure 3 reproduces on the title page of Die Zeugung. Here Oken depicts a pair of snakes, each with
the other’s tail in its mouth: it is a somewhat idiosyncratic Uroboros. One commentator remarks that
the Uroboros is an ancient symbol of eternity (Raikov, 1969). This need hardly be contested but it

44 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Thier 4 & ee ate | sue oe ee,
ix ~2 :

= Salz _
as/ ~-
& Chy mismus
|
Metall Schwefel
Magnetismus Electrismus
Wasser
ss
Erde Oxydation Luft “EG
Krystallisation Feuer :
Mannlich ist Weiblich ist ‘
Erde __ Metall | Luft = Schwefel * ; Ex
Korall Pilanze é c
Zwittter ist ‘ re
Wasser Salz ;
ene ~- = R -
ioe ‘ . her ss
i . be. CS A Selon ia fae
x? Mann Weib ‘ BS
: L008.
FiGure 2. Alchemical scheme from Oken’s FIGURE 3. Frontispiece from Oken’s

Die Zeugung (1805). Die Zeugung (1805) with a double Uroboros.

completely misses the intended message. Symbols are powerful because they can convey all sorts of
things at the same time. For alchemists, the Uroboros is a symbol of alchemical truth, the aqua divina,
and the philosopher’s stone (Jung, 1970). We should emphasize that the primary goal of alchemy was
not the transmutation of base metals into gold, but the attainment of a kind of knowledge that such a
procedure symbolizes.

Owen

Richard Owen (1804-1892) is largely remembered as a bitter opponent of Darwin, and especially
of Huxley. After the Origin of Species was published, he claimed to have been an evolutionist all
along, rather to Darwin’s surprise. Lately, what I like to call Tory historians have attempted to
refurbish Owen’s reputation and to treat him as a kind of evolutionist. If all one means by an
“evolutionist” is someone who thinks that there are successions of ancestors and descendants that
become cumulatively different in one sense or another, then one can make a case for such an
interpretation. But somebody who has begrudged the world such a minimal concession can easily go
on to defend a position that is at once creationist, and profoundly anti-evolutionary (Ghiselin, 1997).

GHISELIN: FOUNDERS OF MORPHOLOGY AS ALCHEMISTS 45

Owen was one of the outstanding idealistic morphologists, and in his book on the meaning of limbs,
he explicitly refers to the “Archetypal World in the Platonic cosmogony. . . .” (Owen, 1849:1).

Although Owen was sometimes called the “British Cuvier,” he makes a much better British Oken.
The connections between Owen and Oken are quite clear. They were personally acquainted. Owen
was a strong supporter of the vertebral theory of the skull, and at the Natural History Museum in
London, Owen’s personal copy of Oken’s basic publication on that theory is still preserved (Oken,
1807). Owen (1858) wrote an encyclopedia article on Oken, defending his priority for the vertebral
theory of the skull against Goethe. Furthermore, Owen was instrumental in arranging for the
publication of an English translation of Oken’s Lehrbuch der Naturgeschichte (Oken, 1847). Around
that time Charles Darwin paid a lot of attention to Owen’s publications on the principles of
comparative anatomy, and his personal copies of these are heavily annotated. Although Darwin’s
reading list says that he read the translation of Oken’s Lehrbuch in September of 1847, he would
seem not to have annotated his personal copy; nor does he discuss it in his published correspondence.
He does mention Oken as one of his predecessors in the “Historical Sketch” that was inserted in later
editions of The Origin of Species.

Among the works of Owen that Darwin paid most attention to was the Archetype and Homologies
of the Vertebrate Skeleton (Owen, 1848). Darwin was much intrigued by Owen’s notion of an
archetype, but did not like the idealistic connotations and used the term as roughly equivalent to a
common ancestor (as is clear from his annotations and correspondence). Owen’s archetype looks very
much like a fish, which is perfectly reasonable even if one reinterprets it as representing a stage in
our own ancestry. Nonetheless if we look at Owen’s (1849:86) quasi-evolutionary comments upon
the Archetype in his Nature of Limbs, the following suggests the kind of metaphysics that was
involved:

To what natural laws or secondary causes the orderly succession and progression of such organic
phenomena may have been committed we as yet are ignorant. But if, without derogation of the
Divine power, we may conceive the existence of such ministers, and personify them by the term
‘Nature,’ we learn from the past history of our globe that she has advanced with slow and stately
steps, guided by the archetypal light, amidst the wreck of worlds, from the first embodiment of
the Vertebrate idea under its old Ichthyic vestment, until it became arrayed in the glorious garb
of the Human form.

“Archetypal light” is jargon for God, and this all sounds very Platonic. One historian has flatly
denied that Owen was a Platonist (Rupke, 1993) on the grounds that Owen’s views were quite different
from those of Plato himself. To be sure, for somebody like Plato a human being would make much
more sense as an ideal vertebrate than would a fish. But to treat Owen as if he were a philosopher
who derived his ideas from philosophical texts places his writings in the wrong literary context.
Granted that Owen was a follower of Oken, and at least influenced by alchemy, it follows that he was
a kind of Neoplatonist operating in the “hermetic tradition” and perhaps under the influence of the
Cabala (Yates, 1964; Simonetta, 1995). Furthermore, as a mystic, he would have been perfectly free
to pick and choose from any of a variety of notions, and mystics often revel in contradictions.

If one brings in Christianity, the fish makes a fine symbol of both Man and the Son of Man, and
vertebrate anatomy thereby becomes transformed into a sort of allegory. But whether he had that in
mind is just an intriguing possibility. At the very least, we ought to be sensitive to the profound
difference between such an interpretation of anatomy and what somebody like Darwin was up to.
Design on the installment plan is by no means what we mean by evolution: the change in question is
superficial, insofar as everything was ordained from the Beginning and nothing really new has come
into being.

46 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Haeckel

Ernst Haeckel (1834-1919) is generally considered to have been Darwin’s outstanding advocate
among the Germans. Yet Haeckel’s views were most peculiar, quite different from those of Darwin
or of real advocates of Darwin’s views such as Fritz Miller. Haeckel was strongly influenced by
Naturphilosophie and his opponents sometimes made a big point of that. Elias Metschnikoff for
example railed against him in both his German and his Russian publications (see Ghiselin and
Groeben, 1997). Traces of Goethean mysticism in Haeckel have been noted by its advocates and
opponents alike (Himleben, 1965). If we treat him as a follower of Goethe and Oken, much of
Haeckel’s behavior makes a lot more sense. For one thing, Haeckel (1882) claimed that both Goethe
and Oken were evolutionists. For another, Haeckel advocated Hylozoism: the notion that all matter
is alive. His last book in fact was entitled The Souls of Crystals (Haeckel, 1917). His peculiar science
of “promorphology” that provided an arrangement of types of symmetry was obviously derived from
Oken, perhaps through some intermediate source. His notion of protoplasm has sometimes been
compared to the Okenian “Urschleim.”

Some Later Vestiges of Alchemy

Outside of biology, we have the interesting case of the German philosopher and psychologist
Gustav Theodor Fechner (1801-1887), whose debt to Oken has lately been well documented by
Michael Heidelberger (1993). Indeed Heidelberger maintains that the popularity of so-called Dar-
winism in Germany is unintelligible without an understanding of Oken. Like Oken, Fechner was a
hylozoist and he believed that soul is in everything and that the world is God’s body. The notion of
self-organization, of course an important theme in alchemy, was derived by Prigogine and Glansdorf
from Fechner, who in turn derived it from Oken.

The notion of a Weltorganismus which Oken evidently derived either directly or indirectly from
Plato has been a pervasive theme in various disciplines. I discussed this theme in sociology and
ecology at some length in my book on the economy of nature (Ghiselin, 1974). The present form of
this superstition is of course what is called the Gaia hypothesis.

That however, may have been a sort of rediscovery. It is interesting to find that the “transformed
cladists” in rejecting evolution as a basis for systematics realized that they were rediscovering the
views of the so-called rational morphologists. Simonetta (1995) is quite blunt in comparing the
advocates of hologenesis and like notions to cabalistic thinking. Persons of such persuasion have
treated Owen as a kind of anti-hero. But when we talk about “rediscovery” it becomes problematic
as to how the older tradition may have influenced much later work, perhaps unconsciously.

DISCUSSION

One might want to put in a good word for Naturphilosophie and even for its alchemical aspects.
Finding analogies, or far-fetched resemblances, can be a most useful source of new ideas in the
sciences. The problem, however, is what one makes of such analogies. The alchemist, rather than
finding causal relationships among appearances, seeks a pattern of symbolic correspondences that
give him a sense of communing with a world that lies beyond appearances. As it turns out, the effort
to read God’s mind leads to a projection of one’s inner self. So what gets revealed is a subjective
construct, rather than an objective discovery.

When we realize what has gone on at perhaps an unconscious level it is easy to see why
morphology, at least as practiced in the tradition of Oken and Goethe, has been so formalistic and

GHISELIN: FOUNDERS OF MORPHOLOGY AS ALCHEMISTS 47

sterile. And also why it has so often been a bastion of anti-evolutionism and a focus of opposition to
the theory of natural selection. When somebody is seeking that kind of order, it is obviously not the
kind of order that is of interest to an evolutionist in the modern sense of that term. In comparing Oken
to Darwin, some historians have suggested that what made the difference was Darwin’s empirical
approach. This altogether misses the point. The alchemists had their laboratories and their experi-
ments. They interacted with nature.

It is one thing to study organisms with the goal of finding an order that lies “beyond” the organized
beings themselves and their place in the material universe. It is another to treat the organisms as
populations of organized beings that become reorganized through successive generations by virtue
of how they interact with one another and with the rest of the material universe. If some of the answers
look superficially similar, the questions were fundamentally different. We seek in vain among the
advocates of Naturphilosophie for evidence of a research program in which the history of life is
documented and that history is important in allowing us to understand the organisms themselves.

In science, the mysticism did not drop out instantaneously, and indeed it is still with us. It has
gone from explicit to implicit, and then perhaps even become unconscious. Likewise it has become
marginalized, moved out of the intellectual mainstream to become part of superstition, folklore,
literary ornament, and religious apologetics. But in such cases it becomes very hard for the historian
to deal with it. When alchemy separated from chemistry, its mystical tradition continued as the
Rosicrucian movement. Cain (1992) suspected that Linnaeus was a Rosicrucian; but all that he was
able to show for sure was an interest 1n the occult.

There are serious problems when we encounter what look like “survivals” of older ways of
thinking. On the one hand, the historical connection might have little if anything to do with real
content: self-organization is a real phenomenon and it needn’t be approached from a mystical point
of view. And things change, so that the mysticism might simply get dropped out. On the other hand
just about everybody seems to posses the capacity to invent mystical notions, and these may arise
without any historical connection to apparent historical predecessors. This is, broadly speaking, what
Jung proposed: the human brain has a certain structure, the product of evolution, and we inherit a
proclivity to behave like alchemists. So for Jung alchemy was interesting as a clue to the unconscious.

But how do we get at those aspects of scientific thinking of which scientists themselves are
largely unaware? To understand the culture of natural history we may therefore need some insights
from psychology. There is nothing particularly anti- scientific about that. Scientists realize that there
are frequencies of sound that bats can hear but we cannot; and likewise that there are frequencies of
light that bees can see but we cannot. The limitations of our senses have not kept such matters beyond
our grasp.

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Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA.
All rights reserved.

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

LEVITON AND ALDRICH: INDIA

India: A Case Study of Natural History
in a Colonial Setting

ALAN E. LEVITON! and MICHELE L. ALDRICH?
1 California Academy of Sciences, Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118
E-mail: aleviton@calacademy.org
” Science and Technology Studies, Cornell University, Ithaca, New York 14853
and Research Associate, California Academy of Sciences, San Francisco, California 94118
E-mail: 73061.2420@compuserve.com

In southern and southwestern Asia, 1 8th- and | 9th-century natural history exploration, collection
building, and the founding of museums, were closely tied to the geopolitics of the time. As observed
by Anderson (1999:15), the early period of natural history studies by Europeans in India and
neighboring countries coincided with expansionist activities most notably of Britain and France, the
Ottoman Turks, and Russia. Anderson (/oc. cit.) argued that the first two, particularly, saw the
independent states and khanates of Southwest Asia as buffers between their domains of territorial
hegemony, as each moved to increase trade and economic influence within its realms. He noted that
each sought more, especially raw materials for expanding manufacturing industries back home,
spices, teas and other exotic food stuffs, and outlets abroad for the products of their factories. Britain
also found that it offered opportunity to relocate undesirables as well as provide opportunity for some
of the burgeoning population at home.

Given the initial demands of colonialization, the naturalists who accompanied military expedi-
tions, boundary commissions, railway, trigonometric, and telegraph surveys, and diplomatic missions
during the 18th and 19th centuries were mostly military officers and physicians attached to army
units. Early in the second half of the 19th century, however, a new breed of naturalists, drawn from
the ranks of professionally-trained geologists, surveyors, foresters, meteorologists, and the like began
to replace the “gentlemen” explorers and soldier- and physician-naturalists of the earlier day. And
some of these were seconded to military units for the purpose of conducting reconnaissance
explorations along routes of march. Even so, at best natural history exploration during this period
was nearly always practiced avocationally, political and military exigencies permitting. Nonetheless,
large collections were amassed and journals filled with observations, maps, and sketches of animals,
plants, and terrain, and these engaged the attention of many, both in the colonies and back home.

In this paper, we focus on a narrow range of activities of the colonial enterprise, those closely
tied to the establishment of a scientific natural history undertaking. We examine their implications
for the development of museums, botanic gardens, and government-sponsored surveys as research
centers, with their associated collections, and along the way cite some of the more notable research
done by the “colonials.”

Several of India’s extant natural history institutions have venerable histories. For some, that
history dates back to the late 18th and early 19th centuries. In the limited space available, we cannot
possibly chronicle the emergence of the many such institutions that today dot the subcontinent, such
as the Asiatic Society of Bengal, founded in 1784, and its museum in 1814, or that of the Madras
Literary Society, whose small collections formed the nucleus of the Central or Madras Government
Museum in 1851, the Victoria Museum in Karachi, also in 1851, the Victoria and Albert Museum in
Bombay (1857), Government [Napier] Museum in Trivandrum (1857), Central Museum in Nagpur
(1863), and museums in Lucknow (1863), Bangalore (1865), Calcutta (1866), Fyzabad (1871), and

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

nN
N

elsewhere. Rather, we shall follow those events that led to the establishment of museums in general,
and, most importantly, the Indian Museum in Calcutta, which to this day houses the largest, most
diverse zoological, botanical and ethnological collections in India. In its one guise or another, the
Indian Museum has participated in the most far-reaching programs of research and public displays
of the many museums founded throughout Asia during the 19th century. In doing this, we would like
to test whether these events fit the schemes of colonial science advanced by Basalla (1967), that
emphasize the explorative and applied rather than theoretical, his “corporate” view downplaying the
individual, and Fleming’s (1964) description of colonial scientists as preferring a subservient role
because “it saved them from the more perilous enterprise of theoretical constructions.” While there
may be a grain of truth to these assertions, we find their generalizations too sweeping, obfuscating
as they do much of the exceptional science that took place in colonial settings, most notably in India,
from which setting emerged such important theoretical constructs as isostasy, Permo-Carboniferous
glaciation, and Gondwanaland, to name but three. We are drawn to Deepak Kumar’s recent writing,
Science and the Raj, in which he argues that science in the colonial/imperial settings of the “Raj”
takes on a uniqueness of its own and is much influenced by the geography and social and political
climate in which it takes place. We are also mindful that too many historians who deal with science
in the 19th century, even those focusing on colonial science, look to the models of Western European
science, and concentrate all too narrowly on laboratory-based physics, chemistry, microscopical
biology, and physiology, with little appreciation of the impact of the field-based sciences, such as
natural history and geology, with an allowance, of course, for Darwin. We contend that, on balance,
historians deal poorly with the historical sciences, geology, biogeography, and faunistics and
floristics, and with the influence colonial scientists had on European thought. Even MacLeod’s vision
of “Imperial Science,” we believe is too constraining with respect to mid-| 9th century India, although
he allows for the emergence of new “metropoles,” new centers of intellectual ferment, beyond those
already well established in Europe and North America. We recognize, but do not agree with, the
almost universal appeal of the notion, as pointed out by MacLeod (1987:221) that “Colonial science
... to those at home, recognizing their dominion over palm and pine, . . . meant derivative science,
done by lesser minds working on problems set by savants in Europe. It was, looked at from the
metropolis, ‘low science,’ identified with fact gathering.” Thus, we, like Kumar, take exception to
these too narrow perspectives, and we intend to show why.

If our comments that follow seem to focus too narrowly on geology, plants, fishes, and reptiles,
allow that these engaged the attention of many 19th century scientists, professional and amateur alike.
Moreover, they serve well as exempli gratia of the points we wish to make. Lastly, we are well aware
of the close relationship between the founding of many of the provincial museums in India, with their
emphasis on zoology, and the rise of teaching universities. We certainly believe that this is a subject
that should court notice, but we do not pursue it here because even though started in the mid-19th
century with several small specialized museums, such as the medical museum at Grant Medical
College, Bombay in 1845, and museums at Calcutta University and in Bombay and Madras in the
1850s (see Markham, 1936:13—18 for additional listings), most of the activity took place early in the
20th century, and thus falls outside our purview.

The Early Years

Let us now set the clock back to December 31, 1600, to that moment in history that set “England”
(and here we use the eponym in both its Elizabethan and 19th century Victorian context, which was
decidedly non-European) on the path of imperial domain. On that day, Elizabeth put the Great Seal

LEVITON AND ALDRICH: INDIA 53

on the charter of the East India Company (Fig. 1), thereby
giving royal consent to a select group of London merchants to
conduct business in the “East Indies” in direct competition
with Portuguese and Dutch traders. The Court of Directors of
the newly founded company responded immediately and
placed Sir James Lancaster (d. 161 8) in command of its first
venture. He was ordered to sail to the East Indies, establish a
“factory,” a mercantile trading post, on Sumatra and purchase
spices, teas, indigo, camphor, and other products for direct
import to England. Until 1579, Dutch merchants had handled
most of northern Europe’s spice trade. They had gotten their
supplies from the Portuguese in Lisbon, but that was before
1580 when Spain annexed Portugal. With the earlier defeat of
their Spanish overlords and the establishment of an inde-
pendent Dutch republic in 1579, Spain closed all of its ports to Dutch shipping. Cut off from their
source of supplies, the Dutch saw their lucrative spice trade severely curtailed and a meteoric increase
in the cost of what spices they could obtain. Northern Europe, including Britain, were of course,
affected. This prompted the Dutch, in 1595, to open their own sea routes to the East Indies “in open
defiance of the Portuguese monopoly, and open trade with the ports of Java and Bali” (Whitfield,
1998:105); shortly thereafter, England followed suit. Thus, with £30,000 in gold, silver coin, and
other metals as barter, Lancaster set sail in 1601 with five small vessels under his command. Two
years later he returned with more than a million pounds-sterling worth of spices, assuredly a successful
voyage by any standard. Lancaster also left several merchants behind to set up a mercantile station,
but rather than doing so on Sumatra, they moved to Bantam on the island of Java. Dealings proved
difficult, however, because English goods, especially heavy English broadcloth, were not of interest
to local traders. Mostly, the local merchants sought cloth made of fine Indian cotton, so when the
Company decided to send out a third expedition, its destination was India.

In 1608, the Company elected to set up a station on the west coast of India; Captain William
Hawkins (possibly the son of Capt. Williams Hawkins [Hawkyns; d. 1589] by his first wife) was
placed in command of the new undertaking. Surat, about 170 miles north of Bombay, was selected
as the site for a trading post. Surat was already well known as an important merchandising center,
and, perhaps even more compelling, it was not under Portuguese control. On his arrival, although
politely received by the local authorities, Hawkins was told that permission to establish a mercantile
“factory” had to come from the Nawab (governor), in Cambay, and the Mughal Emperor, in Agra.
Hawkins negotiated and succeeded on both accounts, first because he spoke Turkish, the language
of the Mughal court, and second, because he impressed both Nawab and Emperor by defeating the
Portuguese in a minor skirmish off the Surat coast in 1612, much to the dismay of local Jesuit
missionaries and Portuguese. Permission was granted in 1613.

The Company, once firmly established in Surat, began its relentless expansion (Fig. 2). This
brought it into further conflict, first with the Portuguese, and then the French, who earlier had set up

FiGure 1. Seal of the East India Company.

3 In providing birth and death dates for the cast of characters, we have made every effort to provide accurate dates. However,
we relied exclusively on secondary sources for these data and discovered occasional conflicts among the sources consulted.
For instance, Robert Kyd (q.v.), founder of the Royal Botanical Gardens in Calcutta, is said to have died on 26 May 1793
according to a biographical sketch that appeared in the Dictionary of National Biography (vol. 11, p. 348) but in 1825 in the
Catalogue of the Books . . . of the British Museum (Natural History) (vol. 2, E-K, p. 1038). In the latter, Kyd’s date of birth is
given as 1746, but no mention is made of this in the DNB article, written by Henry Manners Chichester. Based on other sources,
we believe his correct dates are 1746-1793.

54 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

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From a map in the possession of the authors.

LEVITON AND ALDRICH: INDIA 55

a trading center at Pondicherry, south of Madras on India’s southeast coast. In time, and with the
expanding commerce, the Company established additional trading centers at Fort St. George in
Madras, at Bombay, at Fort St. David at Cuddalore on the Coromandel Coast, and most importantly,
at Calcutta in Bengal. The Company also began to invest time, money, and people to conduct surveys
of the territories under its widening influence because it needed to know more about commercially
available resources, particularly the plants and coal.

Although our main concern is the elaboration of developments in natural history studies and the
evolution of collection-oriented research museums in India during the 19th century, we must explore
those earlier events that set the stage for these later developments. Thus, only a few European
scientists touched on India during the latter part of the 17th and first half of the 18th centuries, and
those that did were in the employ of the Dutch East India Company, mostly as medical officers. Paul
Hermann (1646-1695), for example, went to Ceylon (Sri Lanka) about 1670 as a medical officer and
while there made extensive collections of plants. These he brought back to Halle when he returned
in 1677, and they formed the bases of at least two published catalogs. In 1744, Hermann’s herbarium
came into the possession of Copenhagen apothecary August Giinther, who sent the collections to
Linnaeus for naming. Georg Eberhard Rumphius (1628-1702) and Johannes Burmannus (1706—
1779) are best known for their joint editorship of Herbarii Amboinensis Auctuarium, which appeared
in 1705, three years after Rumphius’ death, and Burmann’s lone editorship of Herbarium Amboinense
(1741) and Thesaurus Zeylanicus (1737). By the end of the third quarter of the 18th century, Jacob
Klein and Christopher Samuel John, two members of the Danish mission at Tranquebar, a small
trading post south of Madras, founded the “United Brothers,” as a botanical society for the purpose
of collecting plants and preparing herbarium specimens (Jain 1982:116). The “Brothers” was not a
scientific society as understood in the 20th century. Rather it was a collegial group, and between 1768
and 1792 it attracted several of the East India Company’s Medical Services employees, notably
Johann Gerhard Koenig (in 1768) and William Roxburgh (in 1776), who joined the fellowship and
became instrumental in making the Indian flora more widely known to European botanists. Others,
not associated with the “United Brothers,” such as Linnaeus’ student, Carl Pehr Thunberg (1743—
1828), made botanical collections in Ceylon (Sri Lanka), whereas French collectors, including the
zoologist Pierre Sonnerat (1748-1814), made botanical and zoological collections in the vicinity of
the French trading center at Pondicherry, as well as to the north of Madras, and in Ceylon (Sri Lanka).
These collections made their way to Europe, mainly Uppsala, Paris, and London.

Of those mentioned above, Johann Gerhard Koenig [Konig] and William Roxburgh deserve more
attention. Johann Gerhard Koenig (1728-1785) (Fig. 3) had studied with Linnaeus before taking a
post with the East India Company in India. He arrived in India in 1768, joined the “United Brothers,”
and immediately launched an ambitious program for building a herbarium of local plants, many
specimens of which he sent to his mentor in Uppsala. In 1778, the Madras Government appointed
him “The Hon’ble Company’s Natural Historian” for the purpose of introducing plants of economic
importance from Malacca and Siam (Thailand) into India. As an aside, he also introduced Linnaeus’
binomial nomenclature system into India (Jain, 1982:116). Koenig held the Madras post until his
premature death in 1785, at which time the Company donated his collections and manuscripts to
Britain’s most distinguished botanist of the day, Joseph Banks.

William Roxburgh (1751—1815) (Fig. 4) served as an army surgeon for the East India Company.
On his arrival in Madras in 1776, he, too, joined the Tranquebar group. In 1793, he replaced Robert
Kyd (Fig. 5), founder of the Calcutta Botanic Gardens, as its superintendent. The appointment was
made in recognition of his earlier work in establishing an experimental plantation to grow cardamom,
pepper, indigo and other trees of potential commercial significance to the Company. But, Roxburgh

56 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Ficure 3. Johann Gerhard Koenig [Konig]. FIGURE 4. William Roxburgh.
Courtesy Hunt Institute for Botanical Documentation, Courtesy Hunt Institute for Botanical Documentation,

Carnegie-Mellon University. Carnegie-Mellon University.

FiGure 5. Robert Kyd.
Courtesy Hunt Institute for Botanical Documentation,
Camegie-Mellon University.

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—

LEVITON AND ALDRICH: INDIA

had broader botanical interests, and these interests brought him into conflict with Company Directors,
who were concerned only with those aspects of botany likely to yield a profit. Over the years,
Roxburgh put together a portfolio of drawings of more than 2,500 plant species; he published several
volumes on plants, including the Flora Indica, in 1832; and he encouraged other newly arriving
Company employees to come to the Garden, giving them an “institutional” setting to pursue their
avocational and professional interests. Roxburgh’s botanical notes, drawings and collections ended
up in the hands of Sir Joseph Dalton Hooker (1817-1911), who used them extensively in preparing
his own monumental Flora of British India (1875-1896) (Jain, 1982:117).

The Botanic Garden

The establishment of the Royal Botanic Garden in Calcutta was the first of several landmark
events that profoundly affected the development of natural history studies in India, the growth of
scientific collections and, ultimately, the establishment of museums organized for the purpose of
housing, displaying, and fostering research on them.

The garden was proposed to the East India Company Directors in a letter dated 1 June 1786 by
Lieut.-Col. Robert Kyd (1746-1793, but see footnote 3), the Company’s military secretary in
Calcutta, for the purpose of “establishing a stock for disseminating such articles as may prove
beneficial to the inhabitants as well as to the natives of Great Britain, and which ultimately may tend
to the extension of the national commerce and riches” (Chatterjee, 1948:362). Kyd’s proposal was
accepted 31 July 1787 with the proviso that an effort should be made to cultivate the cinnamon tree
in Bengal, which already grew abundantly in Ceylon (Sri Lanka), because “we foresee a great source
of wealth to the Company of population and opulence to the provinces under your administration”
(Chatterjee, 1948:362). Kyd, who died in March 1793, was not successful in his ambitious plans for
the garden. He was succeeded by William Roxburgh, who became the garden’s first salaried
superintendent. As an indication of the importance the Company still placed on the project, Roxburgh
was given funds with which to build suitable living quarters for himself (the house still stands and
serves as home to the garden’s superintendent).

The Court of Directors of the East India Company supported the employment of persons as
natural historians, geographers and surveyors, and geologists, but it was not done out of altruism or
as patrons of the sciences, but because they thought 1t could make money (see excellent discussion
by Kumar, 1995, concerning attitudes of Europeans as they related to the emerging scientific
enterprise in India). Not all, however, adhered to the Company’s pragmatic guidelines. Roxburgh,
for instance, instituted a scientific study of plants that strained the patience of Company Directors.
But changes were already in the wind, and these worked to Roxburgh’s benefit, and in the long run,
to the growth of natural history studies and collections during the 19th century. Because of hard
economic times the Company sought help from the Government in London. Relief was forthcoming,
but at a cost; the Company had to give up much of the nearly absolute authority it exercised in its
Indian domains, practiced through having secured control of the military and criminal justice systems
from the Nawab of Bengal and the power to collect revenue and administer civil justice from the
Mughal Emperor. Following the abolishment of the Maratha Confederacy (1817-1818), the Com-
pany seemed to exercise nearly indisputable control from the Bay of Bengal to the Arabian Sea (Sen,
1966:115), but it did so largely through the authority of the Crown’s on-site representative, the
Governor-General, Earl of Moira (later known as Marquess of [Lord] Hastings [1754—1836; Gover-
nor-General, 1813—1823]). Thus, the Governor-General was but one of several constraints on the
free-wheeling exercise of power formerly enjoyed by the Company in India. Nearly 40 years earlier,

58 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

during Pitt’s administration as Prime Minister, Parliament passed the India Act in 1784, which
authorized a Board of Control to serve “as an instrument for better overseeing the actions of the East
India Company in the interests of the British State.” (Gascoigne, 1998:61.) Even though the Act
allowed for Company control of local administration and patronage, it did so at the expense of political
power. The Act also held the Company responsible for the welfare of the people, held it accountable
to Parliament for its behavior, and held that its Indian representatives could not engage in any
aggressive military activities without prior consent of Company Directors in London. According to
Percival Spear (1961:253), by the middle of the 19th century, the Company “was in fact a subordinate
agency of the British Government in London.” Although the relationship between British Govern-
ment and Company was complex, especially as the British Crown expanded its control over the civil,
financial, and military affairs of the country, both Company and Government held in common a
concern for the commercial success of their Indian venture. Thus, the Company did not hesitate to
enlarge its efforts to apply science to “ensure the military, administrative and economic control of
the sub-continent.” (Sen, 1966:115).

During the first half of the 19th Century, botanically-oriented, Calcutta-based, Company natu-
ralists gravitated to the Botanic Gardens. Several of those botanists are of special interest in the context
of this paper because they also made significant collections and published useful papers in zoology,
geology and anthropology.

Although Francis Buchanan (1762-1829) and John McClelland (1805—1875) are best known of
the Calcutta group, there were other naturalists who worked in isolation, at least away from centers
such as Calcutta and Madras. Victor Jacquemont (1801—1832), for instance, though best remembered
for his botanical investigations, collected many animals which he sent to Paris. In 1844, the Atlas, or
volume 2, of his Voyage dans |'Inde, was published. It contained 179 plates, of which 10 were of
reptiles and fishes, the rest of birds, mammals, and other organisms; the promised volume of text
never appeared. And, there was Brian Hodgson, about whom more will be said shortly, who was
stationed in Katmandu, Nepal, and in time became one of the most respected British scholars and
naturalists resident in India.

Returning to the Calcutta corps, among the earliest and most prolific was Francis Buchanan (later
Buchanan-Hamilton, and finally Hamilton). Born in 1762, Buchanan took his M.D. at Edinburgh in
1783 and joined the East India’s Company service in 1794. While in India, he was seconded to various
botanical, zoological, and statistical inquiries in Chittagong, Tippera, Mysore, Canara, Malabar,
Nepal, and, following a trip to England in 1805 as Lord Wellesley’s physician, Bengal and Assam.
He served a brief stint as Superintendent of the Calcutta Botanical Gardens (1814 to 1815), but
returned to Scotland in 1815, succeeding to his brother’s and mother’s estates and properties. It was
at this time that he added his mother’s family name, Hamilton, to his own (1.e., Buchanan-Hamilton)
and became Chief of the Clan Buchanan (to 1826) even though he had by 1820 dropped Buchanan
from his family name (Moore, 1982:402).

During his years in India, Buchanan prepared numerous illustrations of plants, fishes, some
reptiles, and other animals. Buchanan’s ichthyological contributions, apart from his notes and
illustrations, include his Fishes of the River Ganges (1822), and The Fishes and Fisheries of Bengal,
edited by Francis Day (1877). Buchanan kept voluminous notes on his observations, and prepared
numerous, fine colored illustrations. Some of his journals and drawings were deposited at the
Company’s India House in London, but some remained in India. For nearly ten years after his death
in 1829, most of his unpublished portfolio of illustrations and notes lay forgotten in cabinets in London
and Calcutta. When, in 1838, John McClelland visited the Botanical Gardens in London, he
discovered two folio volumes of drawings, while John Edward Gray (1800-1875), then Keeper of

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LEVITON AND ALDRICH: INDIA

the Natural History Museum in London, recovered some from the India House collection for
reproduction in his and Hardwicke’s //lustrations of Indian Zoology. The odd distribution of
Buchanan’s journals and colored drawings attracted the attention of E. W. Gudger (1924:121—136)
who, in the course of his delvings into Buchanan’s life, uncovered a contentious squabble between
Buchanan and the Marquis of Hastings, then Governor General of India, regarding the disposition of
his notes and illustrations. This is recommended reading for those who want to get the inside story
on the politics of working for the Company during the early part of the 19th century (see also Edney,
1997).

John McClelland, a member of the East India Company’s Bengal Medical Service, with a keen
interest in botany, worked closely with Danish botanist Nathaniel Wallich (1786-1854) (Fig. 7),
Roxburgh’s replacement as Superintendent of the Calcutta Gardens. Unlike Roxburgh, who wanted
to build an important herbarium in Calcutta, Wallich, on his retirement, removed the herbarium to
England where he presented it to the Court of Directors of the East India Company for distribution
among the principal herbaria and botanists of Europe, but none to Calcutta. McClelland had broad
interests, and early on we find him in the field collecting amphibians, reptiles, fishes, and other
animals. His first assignment was in Assam, where he and Wallich studied the conditions under which
tea plants grew, with the intent of establishing tea plantations there, also in the Northwest Himalayas,
and in the Nilgris, thus marking the beginning of India’s tea industry. McClelland, who also wrote
about Assam fishes, reptiles, and birds, including a lengthy 250-page paper on Indian Cyprinidae
(1838), later served as Secretary of the Company’s Coal Committee from 1836 to 1846, as Curator
of the Asiatic Society’s Museum from 1839-1841, as founder and editor of Calcutta’s Journal of
Natural History (1841-1847), as Superintendent of the Royal Botanic Garden at Sibpur from 1845
to 1848, and as director of the as yet informally constituted Geological Survey of India following the
death of D. H. Williams, Geological Surveyor of the East India Company, in 1848.

East India Company Naturalists

Another late-18th-century milestone in the evo-
lution of the natural sciences in India was the founding
of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, Calcutta, in 1784 by
Sir William Jones (1746-1794). Jones, an Oriental
scholar with broad interests in the arts and sciences,
also served as a Company judge of the Calcutta High
Court. Asiatic Researches, the Society’s first peri-
odical, appeared in 1788, and provided the earliest
Asian-based outlet for publications on natural history,
ethnology, art, and literature. Twenty-six years later,
in 1814, with the help of Nathaniel Wallich (1786—_ FiGure 6. Museum of the Asiatic Society of Bengal in
1854), the Society established a museum (Fig. 6) to Calcutta. The museum building was built in 1814.
house articles to illustrate “Oriental manners or his- mromnewnetig 171%
tory, art and nature.” Its two sections encompassed a broad cross-section of disciplines, one devoted
to zoology and geology, another to ethnology, archaeology, and technology. Although financial
difficulties plagued the museum from the outset, its success as a center for the accumulation of objects
of nature encouraged the founding of local societies and display cabinets elsewhere in India: Madras
(1851), Bombay (1857), Trivandrum (1857) and others, as previously mentioned (Lamba, 1963:185).

Because the society found itself perpetually short of funds, in 1836 it asked the Government of

60 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

India for financial assistance. The request was forwarded to the East India Company’s Court of
Directors in London because the Indian government was itself already saddled with the cost of
maintaining the India House museum and library in London, that had been established in 1801 under
the direction of Sir Charles Wilkins (1750-1836) (Moore, 1982:399). In 1839, London acceded to
the request, and the society received a grant of about 20 pounds-sterling per month for the museum.
Two years later Edward Blyth (1810-1873) was appointed its first salaried curator. In 1838, the
Bengal Government, because of the success of the Raniganj coal mines, authorized a Museum of
Economic Geology, which was to share rooms with the Asiatic Society’s museum (which it did until
1856, when it was moved to new quarters under the administration of the Geological Survey of India).
At the time it authorized the geological museum, the Bengal government offered to assume respon-
sibility for the geological collections then owned by the Asiatic Society, but the offer was declined.
By 1856, the Society, having neither the physical space nor the financial resources to maintain its
museum, petitioned the government to establish an Imperial Museum in Calcutta with the under-
standing that it would hand over all its all of collections, but not its library. The Sepoy uprising of
1857 led to the postponement of most non-military decisions, but the Society persisted, and in 1862
the government of India agreed to act. In 1866, the Indian Museum Act passed, and John Anderson
was hired to superintend the collections and plan the construction of new quarters, which were not
to be built for another 9 years (Leviton and Aldrich, 1984:vi—viil). However, once finished, in 1875,
the Museum of the Asiatic Society, at that time popularly known as the ‘Jadu Ghar,’ the “House of
Mysteries,” transferred its collections to the new museum building. Other collections, including those
of the Geological Survey of India and the Botanic Gardens, were transferred about the same time.
Returning to the waning years of the 18th century, two other company employees deserve
mention. Though neither was responsible for amassing large collections, both are emblematic of the
dedicated amateur naturalists employed by the Company in its military units or to superintend its
economic botanical interests: Patrick Russell (sometimes spelt Russel) (6 Feb. 17[26—27]-1805) (Fig.
8) and Thomas Hardwicke. Russell was born in Edinburgh, attended the University of Edinburgh,
where he obtained his M.D. He succeeded his elder half-brother Alexander as physician at an English
“factory” at Aleppo (= Halab, in northwestern Syria) from 1750 to 1771, after which he returned to
London (1772). In 1781, at the age of 55, he left England for India, arriving in Vizagapatam later that
year. From 1785 to 1789, he served as the East India Company’s botanist in the Carnatic (Karnataka)
region of southeastern India. One of a few late 18th-century Indian naturalists interested in animals
as well as plants, he took special note of Indian snakes and fishes of the Coromandel Coast. Russell
conducted the first systematic study of Indian snakes, clearly distinguishing between venomous and
non-venomous species. He also conducted many experiments with snake venoms. Russell published
several treatises, notably a Treatise on the Plague (1791), an Account of Indian Serpents Collected
on the Coast of Coromandel, with 46 plates, in 1796, followed in 1801[—1809] by a continuation
volume with 45 plates (see Zhao and Adler, 1993:396—397, for comments on the dates of printing of
the sections contained in the continuation volume), and descriptions and figures of about 200 species
of fishes collected at Vizagapatam (1803, 2 vols.). Russell used local vernacular names for his
illustrations and, thus, his works, though well known, are infrequently referenced save as one or more
of the illustrations stand as types for Linnaean binomina given by Shaw (1801), Gray (1827), or others.
Thomas Hardwicke (1756-1835) (Fig. 9), Major-General of the East India Company’s Bengal
Artillery, also made collections of plants and animals. Like Russell, he, too, is best remembered for
his portfolio of animal illustrations. These were published in London by John Edward Gray, then
Keeper of Zoology at the British Museum (Natural History), under the title, ///ustrations of Indian
Zoology (1830-1835), which, as noted earlier, included some of Francis Buchanan’s plates as well.

LEVITON AND ALDRICH: INDIA 61

FiGure 7. Nathaniel Wallich.
Courtesy Hunt Institute for Botanical Documentation,
Carnegie-Mellon University.

Ficure 8. Patrick Russell. FiGuRE 9. Thomas Hardwicke.
Frontispiece portrait in Russell’s 1802 volume Courtesy Smithsonian Institution Archives
Indian Serpents of the Coromandal Coast. (RU 95, Neg. #SA—645).

62 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

During the second quarter of the 19th century, the East India Company or the British Government
employed a number of people whose avocational interests resulted in large collections and many
publications laying out the fauna and flora of India. Already mentioned in connection with the Asiatic
Society of Bengal’s museum, Edward Blyth (1810-1873) (Fig. 10), acclaimed by John Gould as “‘one
of the first zoologists of his time, and the founder of the study of that science in India,” (Gould,
1853:41) was born in London on 23 December 1810, the eldest of four children. He showed an early
interest in natural history, so much so that he was as a frequent truant at Dr. Fennell’s school in
Wimbleton, usually disappearing on excursions to the nearby woods. His early efforts at studying
chemistry and a brief flirtation with a druggist’s business ended in failure. He spent much of his time
reading at the British Museum and collecting in the field, mainly butterflies and birds. He wrote many
natural history articles between 1833 and 1841, edited an edition of the Rev. Gilbert White’s The
Natural History and Antiquities of Selbourne, and in 1849 and again in 1851 translated and annotated
a one-volume edition of the mammal, bird, and reptile sections of Cuvier’s Le Réegne Animal. Blyth’s
reputation won him an offer from the East India Company as ill-paid Curator of the Asiatic Society
of Bengal’s museum, one of the first of a growing number to go to India as professional scientists
(Larwood, 1961:85). He arrived in Calcutta in September 1841 and began collecting animals and
writing articles on Indian natural history, which he continued to do for the next 21 years. Because of
failing health, he returned to England in 1862 where he continued writing short papers on a variety
of topics, including a work in preparation at the time of his death in 1873, The Origination of Species.
Blyth was an early supporter of Darwin, having anticipated Darwin’s work by more than 20 years
when “he published in 1835 [Blyth, 1835:40-53] the first of two articles that discuss variation, the
struggle for existence, sexual selection, and natural selection in terms that have a Darwinian sound.
... [However, while] Blyth no doubt provided Darwin with many insights . . . it was Darwin’s On
the Origin of Species which seems to have revolutionized Blyth’s ideas about species, and not vice
versa.” (McKinney, 1970:206.)

Brian Houghton Hodgson (1800-1894) (Fig. 11) stands out as the most impressive scholar of
the Company’s employees. Hodgson went to India at the age of 18 and attended the College of Fort
William in Calcutta. After a brief stay in Kumaon as Assistant Commissioner (1818—1820), he took
up residence in Katmandu, Nepal, where he served as Assistant Resident and then Resident from
1820 to 1844. Precipitously removed from office by Lord Ellenborough, even though he had
performed crucial service by keeping Nepal quiet during the first Afghan war (1839-1841), Hodgson
went to Darjeeling, in Sikkim, where he remained for some years. In 1858, he left India and returned
to England; he died in London in May 1894. During his years in Nepal, Hodgson studied the language,
literature, and religion of both Nepal and Tibet, translated Sanskrit and Tibetan manuscripts, and
otherwise gathered a massive quantity of ethnographic, natural history, and geographic information
about the country. He published several papers on Nepalese vertebrates, especially birds and reptiles,
but his principal contributions in natural history, apart from geography, lay in the collections he sent
to London. His literary attainments led to many honors including election as a Fellow of the Royal
Society, corresponding member of the French Institute, and a chevalier of the Legion of Honor.

Paleontology was not neglected during this period, and there is much that could be said about it.
For the moment, we will mention only the works of three. First, and perhaps foremost, there was Dr.
Hugh Falconer (1808-1865) who, during the years 1831—1859, revealed the rich fossil fauna of
India’s now-famed upper Tertiary Siwalik Hills beds. Falconer was an assistant surgeon in the Bengal
Establishment in 1830, and then superintendent of the Botanical Gardens at Sharanpur from 1832 to
1841 (Moore, 1982:404). Much of his paleontological work was done in collaboration with Sir Proby
Thomas Cautley (1802—1871), then Capt. Cautley of the Bengal Artillery. The bulk of their collections

LEVITON AND ALDRICH: INDIA 63

Figure 10, Edward Blyth. Ficure 11. Brian Hodgson.
Courtesy Kraig Adler, Cornell University. Courtesy Hunt Institute for Botanical Documentation,
Carnegie-Mellon University.

FIGURE 12. Thomas Claverhill Jerdon.
Courtesy Kraig Adler,
Cornell University.

64 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

was sent to London, where it was distributed among the India and British Museums, and to museums
in Bombay and Calcutta as well as to the Science and Art Museum in Dublin (Moore, 1982:404).
Both Falconer and Cautley did publish short papers on their discoveries, but no monographic
treatments.

Paralleling the work of Falconer and Cautley was Andrew Fleming (1822-1901), who entered
the employ of the East India Company in 1844 and then, in 1849, was assigned to the post of surgeon
in the 4th Punjab Cavalry. While stationed in Punjab, he became interested in the Salt Range and
soon was on detached duty to the Geological Survey of the Punjab. Fleming’s collections were
dispatched to Edinburgh, although some did end up in the British Museum in London. (Moore,
1982:405-407.) Like Fleming and Caultey, he, too did not produce any monographic works, though
a few papers dealing with the fossil vertebrates did flow from his pen.

Lastly, of the naturalists of whom we wish to take note and who plied their avocational interests
on the subcontinent largely during the years before the founding of the Geological Survey of India
in 1851, was Thomas Claverhill Jerdon (1811-1872) (Fig. 12), who joined the Company’s medical
service in 1835 in Madras as surgeon and retired in 1864. Jerdon is best known for his contributions
in ornithology and mammalogy, which include /I/ustrations of Indian Ornithology (1847), The Birds
of India . . . (1862-64) in 3 octavo volumes, and The Mammals of India, published in 1868, and for
the collections relating to these works. He also published a Catalogue of Reptiles Inhabiting Southern
India and Manual of Vertebrata of India. He made small collections of fishes, amphibians and reptiles,
deposited some in the Government Museum in Madras and the Indian Museum, but sent most to the
British Museum (Natural History) in London.

Around the turn of the century, the need to evaluate the commercial potential of the natural
resources had led the East India Company to take the first steps toward professionalizing science in
India. Although it did this by hiring people to do specific jobs that required specialized training to
conduct geological reconnaissances, trigonometric surveys, and botany, it was the founding of the
Geological Survey of India in 1851 that solidified the trend toward the professionalization of science
in India, not unlike, and at about the same time, the role played by the founding of the Geological
Survey of Canada in 1852 and several state geological surveys in the United States. It also inaugurated
the hiring of non-colonials and provided training to prepare them to enter the professional ranks.

Geological Survey of India

Thus, we come to the third milestone in the history of studies of natural history, collection
building and museums in India, the founding of the Geological Survey of India in 1851. This followed
more than two decades of Company-sponsored studies of the coal fields, especially those of Raniganj,
in western Bengal, to determine the extent of undeveloped resources there and in other parts of the
country. This was not, however, the first effort at geological investigations by the East India Company.
As early as 1817, Lord Hastings, Governor-General of India, had geologists appointed to the newly
established Great Trigonometrical Survey as well as to other survey parties, mostly military, such as
those commanded by Bengal Infantry Captains William Webb (1784-1865; survey activities,
1815-1821), Frederick Dangerfield (1789-1828; survey activities, 1818-1821), and James Dowling
Herbert (1791-1835; survey activities, 1816-1821, 1824-1828). Of the three, James Herbert re-
mained active in the field the longest and in 1821 was appointed Assistant Surveyor General, in 1829,
Deputy Surveyor General (Edney, 1997:296, 344). He was also accorded the rather “pleasant [even
if unofficial] title of ‘Geological Surveyor of the Hymalya [sic] Mountain” (Anon., 1951:2). Initially,
Webb and Herbert conducted surveys in the western Himalayas, Dangerfield in southern Uttar

LEVITON AND ALDRICH: INDIA 65

Pradesh in the vicinity of Malwa. As for geologists, Alexander Laidlaw (d. 1836), was employed as
assistant geologist on the Webb survey (Edney, 1997:296), while Henry Westley Voysey (d. 1824),
a surgeon with the HM 59th, 46th and Ist Foot (Edney, 1997:347), was assigned as surgeon and
naturalist to the Great Trigonometric Survey. It was Voysey who prepared India’s geological map
(1820), of the Hyderabad region, and for this he is sometimes referred to as the “Father of Indian
Geology” (Anon., 1951:2). But, one must not lose sight of the fact that, as Edney (op. cit.) rightly
emphasized, the “company’s official geological investigations were explicitly for economic pur-
poses,” as it recognized the need for good regional maps to secure military and civilian control over
the populous, to establish a tax revenue base, and to locate economically valuable resources, minerals,
copper, iron, and coal.

After two decades of relatively uncoordinated geological survey activities, in 1843, the Company
secured the services of David Hiram Williams (d. 1848) to do a careful survey of the coal resources
of Bengal. Williams had worked on the coal beds in Wales and elsewhere in western England for the
Geological Survey of Great Britain under the direc-
tion of Henry Thomas de la Beche (1796-1855).
Unfortunately, Williams died in early November of
1848, and one of his two assistants, J. R. Jones, died
of fever very shortly thereafter. The Company, unable
to find a permanent replacement, asked John McClel-
land to take temporary charge. McClelland served
until March 1851 when the Company hired Thomas
Oldham (1816-1878) (Fig. 13), at the time in charge
of the Ireland branch of the Geological Survey of
Great Britain, as its Geological Surveyor and imme-
diately placed him at the disposal of the Bengal Gov-
ernment. Oldham was also authorized to hire
additional geologists and, before the end of the dec-
ade, he had an impressive array of talent in the field:
John G. and Henry B. Medlicott (1829-1905), Wil-
liam T. (1832-1905) and Henry F. (1834-1893) Blan-
ford, William Theobald 1829-1908), Ferdinand
Stoliczka (1838-1874), Frederic Richard Mallet Ficure 13. Thomas Oldham. (From Geikie, 1895.)
(1841-1921), Valentine Ball (1843-1895), and shortly thereafter, Ottokar Feistmantel (1848-1891)
(Leviton and Aldrich, in prep.) (Figs. 14-15). Thus was inaugurated the Geological Survey of India.

When the Blanfords came on the scene in 1856, they were assigned to the Talchir coal fields in
Orissa, about 400 km southwest of Calcutta, and later the Raniganj coal fields in western Bengal.
Under Oldham’s directions, the Blan “ords and John G. Medlicott mapped the Talchir rocks, which
Oldham and the two Blanfords named the lower Talchir and upper Mahadeva (later renamed Lower
and Upper Damuda beds). These included silt and boulder and coal beds. The division proved the
key to establishing the Gondwana System in India. William Blanford was intrigued by the interbedded
fine silts and large boulder deposits and argued that the area had been extensively glaciated during
early Gondwana time. This was the first suggestion of Permian glaciation, a radical idea for its time,
all the more so because he posited that it had occurred in what is now a tropical, humid climate. Thus
was born the germ of an idea, the vast supercontinent, Gondwanaland. Somewhat later, and based on
fossil plants of the genus G/ossopteris found both in the Talchir and Raniganj coal beds, Blanford
also argued that the Gondwana rocks of India correlated with the Newcastle sequence of Australia

66

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Ficure 14. Geological Survey of India (several staff not in photo), ca. 1866. (Left to right): (standing) M. H.
Ormsby, William T. Blanford, Valentine Ball, Francis Fedden; (sitting) Thomas Oldham, Henry B. Medlicott,
C. A. Hacket, Ambrose Tween. From Geological Survey of India, 1988.

Figure 15. Geological Survey of India (several staff not in photo), ca. 1875. (Left to right): (standing) Ferdinand
Stoliczka, Robert Bruce Foote, William Theobald, Frederic R. Mallet, Valentine Ball, Wilhelm Waagen, Walter
Lindsay Willson; (sitting): Ambrose Tween, William King, Thomas Oldham, Henry B. Medlicott, C. A. Hacket.
From Somasekar, 1964.

LEVITON AND ALDRICH: INDIA 67

and similar rocks in South Africa and that the Gondwana rocks of India were Permo-Carboniferous
in age. Ottokar Feistmantel, the survey’s paleobotanist, disagreed, believing that the plants more
closely matched the mid-Mesozoic flora of Europe. Following several nasty exchanges in print,
Feistmantel was won over to Blanford’s views. In a daring extension of his long-range correlations,
and following an earlier presentation (1869) by his brother Henry, who posited a southern landmass
connecting India and Australia, William Blanford allowed for the existence of a great southern
continent during Gondwana time that encompassed southern Africa, India, and Australia, thus
predating Eduard Suess’ Gondwana-Land by several years. It is clear from remarks made by both
Henry and William in their several papers, the two talked about these matters at length and they must
be given equal credit. As an aside, in the 1860s and 70s, William Blanford also correctly dated the
Deccan volcanics (Blanford, 1869) and made additional and valuable contributions to the interpreta-
tion of arid-land geomorphology based on his geological field work in Cutch (1869), Bombay (1872),
the “Great Desert” of India between Sind and Rajputana (1876), Sind (1876, 1878), as well as
elsewhere in India, and his travels in Abyssinia [Ethiopia] ([travel, 1867] 1870) and Persia [Iran]
({travel, 1872] 1876).

Both William (Fig. 16) and Henry Blanford (Fig. 17) had attended Henry de la Beche’s Royal
School of Mines before leaving for India in the summer of 1855. Thus, they, like others hired by
Oldham, had professional training for the work they were to undertake. In 1865, Henry Blanford left
the Survey to become government meteorologist and member of the faculty of Presidency College
in Calcutta, but his interest in geology continued unabated, as evidenced by his post-survey publica-
tions (e.g., H. Blanford, 1875). William remained with the Survey as Deputy Superintendent until
his retirement in 1882. He undertook important new geological investigations, in Sind, in Orissa, in
Sikkim, in Burma (at the time, a province of India; today the independent country Myanmar), and
elsewhere, and he provided additional new data to support the idea of a large southern continental
mass during the Permian and early Mesozoic. William Blanford had a penchant for zoology,
especially mollusks, birds, and reptiles, and collected whenever possible. He worked up the collec-
tions he made and published many reports on them and on specimens brought in by his survey
colleagues, especially Ferdinand Stoliczka, whose important collections from the Second Yarkand
Mission were reported on by Blanford in 1878 after Stoliczka’s death. Blanford’s collections were
deposited in the British Museum, and following the arrival of John Anderson in 1865, the Indian
Museum. In 1867, Blanford took part in General Napier’s Abyssinia Expedition to relieve the British
Residency in Magdala, and he wrote a book-length report covering the geology and natural history
of the country along the route of march from Annesy Bay along the backbone of the Ethiopian
highlands (Blanford, 1870). In 1872, he, Major Oliver St. John, and a native collector from John
Anderson’s Indian Museum staff traveled from Gwadar, in Baluchistan, to Shiraz, Isfahan, and
Tehran, in Iran, collecting birds, mammals, reptiles and amphibians, all the while making geological
observations enroute. Two years earlier, St. John had traveled a similar route, also in company with
a native collector from the Indian Museum, and it was these two collections that formed the basis of
Blanford’s 1876 seminal report on the zoology and geology of Eastern Persia.

Ferdinand Stoliczka (1838-1874) (Fig. 18) died at the age of 36 while returning from field work
in northern Pakistan and Yarkand (extreme western China just south of the Takla-Makan). A
paleontologist whose early work focused on Tertiary invertebrates in central Czechoslovakia (1861-
62), Stoliczka joined the Indian Geological Survey and worked in India, Pakistan, Burma (Myanmar),
Malaysia, Andaman and Nicobar Islands, and Tibet. His principal contributions during his brief years
with the survey were the three large volumes on the Cretaceous fauna of southern India. However,
he also made small but valuable collections of reptiles and amphibians wherever he went, and these

68 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Ficure 16. William Thomas Blanford. Ficure 17. Henry Francis Blanford.
Courtesy Kraig Adler, Cornell University. GS Myers/AE Leviton Portrait File in Natural
History, California Academy of Sciences.

FiGureE 19, William Theobald.
(Enlargement from group photograph [fig. 15])

FiGure 18. Ferdinand Stoliczka.
From Somasekar (1964).

LEVITON AND ALDRICH: INDIA 69

were reported on by him (e.g., Stoliczka, 1870, 1872a, 1872b) as well as by William Blanford and
William Theobald, among others. Perhaps the most critical were the collections he made during the
Second Yarkand Mission to Kashgar and the Pamir Steppe; these were deposited in the Indian
Museum. He also collected in Kashmir, Ladak, and eastern Turkestan, and these collections went to
the Indian and “Kurrachee” (= Karachi) Municipal Museums and were later reported on by James
Murray in 1878 in The Vertebrate Zoology of Sind. Earlier, Stoliczka had sent specimens to Franz
Steindachner in Vienna that Steindachner included in his Novara reports (1867).

William Theobald (1829-1908) (Fig. 19), previously employed by the Punjab Geological Survey
for two years (1851-1853), joined the Geological Survey of India in 1853. He worked with the
Blanfords in the survey of the Talchir coal fields in Orissa that resulted in the “first systematic study
of Indian Geology to be published by the Indian Geological Survey” (Ghosh, 1951:308). While
employed by the Survey, Theobald prepared the first complete Descriptive Catalogue of the Reptiles
of British India (1876) to “meet a want which at present blocks the way to the general study of
Herpetology in India . . . .” Two hundred and thirty-eight pages are devoted to taxonomy and
descriptions, followed by 38 pages of synoptic keys and a 132-page appendix “On the means of
discriminating between poisonous and harmless snakes and the treatment of snake bite.” Like other
survey personnel who collected natural history specimens, most of Theobald’s collections went to
the Indian Museum.

Before leaving the Geological Survey of India, it must be said that the Survey is also noteworthy
for initiating the process of incorporating native talent into its structure. It may strike modern readers
as an example of ‘better late than never,’ that in 1874, shortly before his retirement, Thomas Oldham
appointed native-born Ram Singh as an apprentice on the Survey’s geological staff. The Survey thus
became a training ground in geology for Indians, whose local university-level schools lacked such
preparation. Also in 1874, Oldham brought on board Kishan Singh and Hira Lal. Both were assigned
to take courses in the physical sciences at Presidency College in Calcutta. Lastly, there was Pramatha
Nath Bose, who had gone to London in 1874 ona scholarship to study geology at the University of
London and Royal School of Mines. Bose would have preferred to stay in London, but because he
was an outspoken critic of the government, he was eased out by the India Office and sent back to
Calcutta, where he was appointed to a “graded post” (Kumar, 1995:215) on the Survey’s staffin 1880.
With these hirings began the “Indianization” of the Survey which, by the time of independence in
1947, was one of the few government agencies, along with the Zoological Survey of India, nearly
fully staffed by native rather than colonial officers.

The Indian Museum

With the authorization of a national museum in Calcutta (Fig. 20) a near fait accompli (the Indian
Museum Act passed in 1866), the government hired its first superintendent, John Anderson (1833—
1900) (Fig. 21), in 1865. When Anderson arrived in Calcutta, he found that the promised collections
were scattered about the city, some housed at the Botanic Gardens, some in the Asiatic Society
Museum, some in the Geological Survey’s Museum of Economic Geology. It fell to Anderson, then,
to plan the new Museum both to house these collections and for the development of appropriate public
displays. Thus, Anderson’s arrival in Calcutta and the construction of the Indian Museum signals the
fourth milestone in the history of Indian natural history surveys, collection building, and museums.
It must be remembered that to that time collections went mostly to European museums, especially
the British Museum of Natural History in London, where John Edward Gray (1800-1875) (Fig. 22),
Albert Giinther (1830—1914) (Fig. 23), and George Albert Boulenger (1858—1937) (Fig. 24) produced

70 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

ch

.

oY
bd
=
He

I}

Sie

Ficure 20. The Indian Museum, Calcutta (1906). From Anon. (1914)

a steady stream of publications describing the exotic animals they received. Some early collections
always remained in India, mostly in Calcutta (Asiatic Society Museum, founded 1814), and to a lesser
extent in Madras (Government Museum, originally named the Central Museum, founded 1851),
Karachi (Municipal Museum, renamed the Victoria Museum, founded 1851), and Colombo
(Colombo Museum, founded 1873, which received collections from Ceylon Branch of Asiatic
Society). For Anderson, the Indian Museum was the country’s national museum. At its inception, he
organized it in three sections: Zoological, Archaeological, and Geological. He then went to great
lengths to develop in each of these areas appropriate public exhibits, adequate support staff, and
permanent research collections. In line with the latter, Anderson ceased sending major collections to
London. Rather, he began horse-trading for specimens, especially with Albert Giinther at the British
Museum (see Leviton and Aldrich, 1984 for details) and Boulenger. Anderson himself took part in
two major expeditions to Yunnan as surgeon-naturalist. On both expeditions, he made important
collections of mammals, reptiles, and birds. These he kept in Calcutta, with the exception of
hedgehogs, which he sent to Albert Giinther in London because of the latter’s special interest in the
animals. Anderson also encouraged a network of amateur collectors, particularly army medical
officers, to send specimens to the museum; thus, over the years, the museum received a steady stream
of small collections from throughout the country. Notable among the contributors were Col. R. H.
Beddome and W. M. Daly (South India), W. Theobald (Burma), Capt. J. Butler, S. E. Peal and J. H.
Bourne (Assam), and F. Stoliczka, W. T. Blanford, and T. Jerdon. In 1887, an Economic and Art
Section, formerly sponsored as a separate institution by the Government of Bengal, was incorporated
into the museum (Prashad, 1931:35).

Apart from Bombay, which did not play a major role in the growth of natural history collections
until after the founding of the Bombay Natural History Society in 1883, Madras and Karachi had
government-sponsored museums, both founded in 1851, that supported small zoological collections.
Of the two, Karachi is the more important largely because of James Murray’s | 3-year tenure as curator
of the museum. Murray (1865—1914) explored the province of Sind (now part of Pakistan), receiving

LEVITON AND ALDRICH: INDIA

FiGureE 21 John Anderson.
Courtesy Natural History Museum, London.

FiGuRES 22-24. (Left to right) John Edward Gray, Albert Carl Ludwig Gotthilf Giinther, George Albert Boulenger
(Left to right) Gray — Courtesy Kraig Adler, Cornell University; Giinther and Boulenger — Courtesy
G.S. Myers/A.E. Leviton Portrait File in Natural History, California Academy of Sciences.

71

72 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

much help and many specimens from F. Gleadow, Deputy Conservator of Forests, and from officers
assigned to army units stationed in the province and neighboring Afghanistan, especially Lieut. E. Y.
Watson and Capt. F. B. Piele. Based on these collections, Murray published two important works on
the fauna of Sind, The Vertebrate Zoology of Sind (1884), which dealt with the mammals, birds and
reptiles, and The Reptiles of Sind (1886), the latter being largely a reprint of the reptile section that
appeared in the earlier publication but with some new material. As a general naturalist, Murray also
published on plants, authoring A Hand-Book to the Geology, Botany, and Zoology of Sind, and an
account of the indigenous flora of Sind, with comments on the use of local plant products in
commerce, medicine, and the arts, Zhe Plants and Drugs of Sind (1881).

In South India, Richard Henry Beddome (1830-1911), entered the Indian Army in 1848 and in
1857 became chief assistant to the conservator of the Madras Forestry Service, whom he succeeded
ten years later. He retired from the service in 1882 and returned to England where he continued his
interest in horticulture. During his years in India, Beddome published several seminal works on the
ferns of both southern India and India as a whole, as well as several other major botanical works on
the flora of southern India. He also published more than a dozen short articles on the snakes of southern
India, mostly in the Madras Quarterly and Monthly Journal of Medical Science, and one longer paper,
An Account of the Earth-snakes of the Peninsula India and Ceylon. Beddome’s specimens went to
London and to Anderson in Calcutta.

Francis Day (1829-1889) was perhaps the most prolific and next to Buchanan-Hamilton
probably the best-known 19th-century student of Indian fishes (see Whitehead and Talwar, 1976).
Like many of his predecessors interested in Indian natural history, Day was employed by the East
India Company Medical Service. Initially stationed in Cochin, he served in the Burmese war of
1852-54 (the aftermath of which was the annexation of Burma to India), but then was transferred to
Madras where he served as Surgeon-Major in the Company’s Madras Army from 1872 until his
retirement in 1876, when he was promoted to Deputy Surgeon-General. In the early 60s, knowing of
his interest in fishes, the government put Day to good use by assigning him to survey the condition
of Indian fisheries. This enabled Day to travel widely and make large collections in nearly every
important river system on the subcontinent. His Fishes of Malabar (1863), Report on the Fresh-Water
Fish and Fisheries of India and Burma (1873), and the monumental work, the Fishes of India (1878),
which contains descriptions of more than 1300 species (and drew heavily on Buchanan’s notes and
portfolio of illustrations), and “Fishes” in the Fauna of British India series (1889), are too well known
to students of Asian fishes to need further introduction. Day’s Indian collections ended up in Calcutta,
in Madras, and in London. On his return to England, Day undertook new studies of fishes, which
resulted in two important works, The Fishes of Great Britain and Ireland (1885) and British and Irish
Salmonidae (1887). Day died in July 1889 at the age of 60.

A contemporary of Day’s, but with a penchant for snakes rather than fish, Joseph Fayrer, M.D.
(1824-1907) (Fig. 25), entered the East India Company’s Medical Service in Bengal and rose to the
rank of Surgeon-General. Like Day, he served in the first Burmese war. He was Residency Surgeon
in Lucknow during the Sepoy uprising and siege of the city. Fayrer accompanied both the Duke of
Edinburgh and the Prince of Wales on their respective tours of India, in 1869-70 and 1875-76. He
published many works on tropical diseases, for which he received honors including a baronetcy, in
1896, and in 1901, appointment as honorary physician to the Queen and Prince of Wales. In natural
history, Fayrer is best remembered for the admirably illustrated folio volume, The Thanatophidia of
India: Being a Description of the Venomous Snakes of India with An Account of the Influence of their
Poison on Life... (1878).

In 1875, John Anderson allowed the transfer of collections to the Indian Museum building which

LEVITON AND ALDRICH: INDIA 73

was still under construction (it was not completed until
1877). Fifteen years later, W. L. Sclater, Anderson’s Deputy
Superintendent, took stock of some of the collections. For
instance, he reported that the collections included 3001
snakes and 30 holotypes representing 350 species (Sclater,
1891 :iii). Of amphibians, Sclater reported 2045 specimens
and 21 holotypes representing 180 species, of which 103
were Indian and 77 exotic (Sclater, 1892:111). We have no
comparable numbers for lizards or other groups of animals,
but based on proportions of snakes to lizard specimens in
other collections, it is probably safe to assume at least an
equal number of specimens, if not more. Therefore, the
Indian museum, by 1891, had probably more than 8,000
specimens of amphibians and reptiles, and probably around
75 holotypes. For that time, this was certainly one of the
world’s major collections. It was not as large as the major FiGure 25. Joseph Fayrer
European collections, those at London, Paris, Vienna, Brann] be Lancet \il307).
Senckenberg, Basel, and Berlin, or the Smithsonian’s in Washington, D.C., but was larger than most
collections elsewhere.

We do not have an estimate of the size of the fish collections at the close of the 19th century.
Most of the fishes collected by the 1 9th-century naturalists went to the British Museum, though some,
especially important segments of Day’s collections, ended up in Calcutta. We also know that all the
collections from the Royal Indian Marine Survey went to Calcutta. But, we suspect that the main
growth of ichthyological collections occurred after 1900, and was particularly influenced by founding
of the Zoological Survey of India and the appointment of its first director, Nelson Annandale, in 1916.
Both it and the Botanical Survey of India, organized in 1890, were based in Calcutta, and the directors
of the principal existing research centers, the Botanic Garden and the Indian Museum, became
directors of the surveys. Their responsibility was that of coordinating natural history surveys
throughout the country and the development of centralized research facilities in Calcutta and several
regional centers. This then brings us into the 20th century and a new chapter in the history of natural
history investigations in India.

In closing, we have several comments we think germane to the topic at hand. First, certainly in
the United States, many think of Spencer Fullerton Baird as the architect of collector networks, that
is of collectors he contacted and encouraged to send their specimens, birds, mammals, amphibians,
reptiles, fishes, plants, and other natural history objects, often won with great hardship, to a central
repository, in this case, to the Smithsonian Institution. Once there, Baird immediately acknowledged
receipt of the collection by letter, followed not long after by a short paper prepared for rapid
publication. Baird, however, was not alone in encouraging this behavior. In England, Gray, Giinther,
and Boulenger were certainly as effective, as was Linnaeus in Sweden more than a century earlier.
And in India, one need only note William Theobald’s acknowledgments in his 1876 paper, 4
Descriptive Catalogue of the Reptiles of British India, to realize the extent to which such networks
existed elsewhere and how much they paralleled Baird’s network of travelers, military personnel, and
local amateur naturalists in the United States.

Second, one is struck by the close association of natural science and military expeditions in India
and in the United States. To date, no book has been written on India equivalent to William
Goetzmann’s Army Exploration of the American West, but such a tome is badly needed. The military

74 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

seemed to perform many of the same functions in both countries, but a detailed investigation may
show significant differences. Certainly in both India and the United States, geographical discovery
and scientific endeavor were linked through the institution of military expeditions.

Whereas comparison to the United States is instructive, much about the history of collecting in
India was unique. The Royal Botanical Garden had no counterpart in America that served the same
function, although individual botanists sometimes collected animals as well as plants. The United
States also had no equivalent to the East India Company, which put a special spin on the development
of Indian natural science. These and other special features of the Indian scene make us wary of the
sweeping generalizations about colonial science contained in the works of such widely referenced
historians such as George Basalla (1967) and Susan Sheets-Pyenson (1989) who assume uniformity,
homogeneity, and linearity where none exists. We are struck by how quickly new “metropoles,” as
shown by MacLeod, of scientific activity develop as soon as a threshold of permanent resident
colonists are in place. The founding of the Royal Asiatic Society of Bengal is a prime example, as is
Calcutta as a metropole. Thus, we believe one should consult Deepak Kumar’s Science and the Raj
(1995), which we take to be more insightful in that it deals directly with India and the curious set of
circumstances that affected scientific endeavors in that unusual colonial setting.

Museums as centers of research and public education emerged in response largely to provide (1)
a safe haven for the scientific collections being amassed by survey personnel, individual travelers,
and those with a special interest in rocks and minerals, and animals and plants; (2) a place where these
people and others could study the collections, that is centers for scientific investigation; and lastly,
(3) places where the public could see on display the wonders of nature. The latter was not always
done altruistically, however, but to meet the obligations of caring for the public and justifying
appropriations, at least some of which support the scientific enterprise. Although this point has been
clearly articulated with respect to American museums by Joel Orosz, nonetheless we take issue with
Orosz who, in his 1990 book, Curators and Culture: The Museum Movement in America, 1740-1870,
contends that the melding of public education and professionalism in museums in the second half of
the 19th century was a distinctly “American Compromise.” True, in the United States, it happened
because the of egalitarian movement, which was spawned by the rejection of aristocracy and privilege,
and, most notably, in the revival of the Jacksonian democratization movement in the 1850s (but see
also Stroud [1997:229] who points out that shortly after its founding in 1812, the Academy of Natural
Sciences of Philadelphia opened its doors to public membership and initiated biweekly members
lectures to which each member could bring one woman, who did not have to be a member and who
could attend free; regular members had to pay an initial fee of $10). And equally true, the raising
funds for museums through popular subscription was a distinctively American solution to a problem.
But, when Orosz argues that the modern museum, in effect, evolved in the United States, and was
later transported elsewhere to replace elitist cabinets and museums, one need only point out that the
melding of public education with professional scientific endeavours, that is, the development of the
modern “research museum” occurred elsewhere, in Europe (see, for instance, Vaccari, this volume),
in Asia, in Australia (e.g., Queensland Museum [Mather et al., 1986]) at about the same time and for
much the same reason, financial considerations. In India, for instance, economic necessity drove the
Asiatic Society of Bengal to seek government aid, and the government, in due course, responded, but
there were conditions, notably that the museum had to be open to the public. In 1780, the British
Parliament passed the India Act which, among other things, required that the East India Company
show concern for the “welfare of the people.” So, when in 1866 the act establishing the Indian
Museum was passed, it should have come as no surprise that public education through the develop-
ment of display halls, was given equal footing with the need to provide space for the storage and study

LEVITON AND ALDRICH: INDIA 75

of collections of natural history objects. Although, as Orosz correctly notes, European cabinets started
off and remained for a long time the prerogative of the nobility and wealthy, the rapid escalation of
collections resulting from geographic exploration, made it nearly impossible for any one individual,
however wealthy, to maintain collections for their personal pleasure. The death blow to this came in
the latter 1800s when even the Rothschilds, namely Walter Rothschild, had to transfer his interests
in his personal museum at Tring, with its vast holdings of natural history objects, to the British
Museum (Natural History) (Rothschild, 1983).

In closing, we take issue with H. J. C. Larwood (1961:83) who argued that much of the scientific
work done in India during the 19th century was “humble work.” Larwood then rather gratuitously
says, “but it had to be done, and it was in keeping with the times. As the biological sciences advanced
during the nineteenth century, it was only within the firmly fixed areas of comparative morphology
and classification that the modest worker in India could be expected to move . . .” We find this
assessment by Larwood neglectful of the fact that much European and North American science was
similarly directed. Like many historians of mid- and late-19th-century science, he looked on the
emerging laboratory sciences of physics, chemistry, and laboratory biology as truly representative of
scientific progress. Unfortunately, they are unmindful of the fact that it is the observational field-ori-
ented sciences, geology and natural history/ecology, that have given us many fundamental proposi-
tions in evolution, isostasy, continental drift, and plate tectonics, to name a few. We cannot leave
without taking note that William Blanford, for instance, during his career in India as a geologist with
the Geological Survey of India, was twice elected Vice-President of International Congresses of
Geology: that he and his coworkers, Henry B. Medlicott and Thomas Oldham, received many honors,
including election as Fellows of the leading scientific societies of the day, and that their theoretical
contributions not only rivaled, but in several critical instances preceded or superseded those advanced
by their European counterparts. At least in India, the colonial scientists do not fit the mold cast by
Fleming (1964), MacLeod (1987), or Larwood, and it is surely not right to say that colonial science
was “derivative science, done by lesser minds... .”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The authors wish to express their appreciation to those who either listened to or read the
manuscript version of this paper and commented on the contents and interpretations therein. We
especially acknowledge the constructive advice received from the reviewers, Drs. Kennard Bork
(Denison University), Patrick Kociolek (California Academy of Sciences), Leo Laporte (University
of California, Santa Cruz), and Steven C. Anderson (University of the Pacific). Dr. Carl Ferrari,
(Department of Ichthyology, California Academy of Sciences) called our attention to the interesting
work by John McClelland on Indian cyprinid fishes and shared information he had garnered about
Victor Jacquemont and the publication of Jacquemont’s Adas of illustrations of Indian natural history.
We are indebted to Ms. Anita Karg, Hunt Institute for Botanical Documentation, Carnegie-Mellon
University, for providing us with portraits of several early 19th-century naturalists who were active
in India at the time. In a like manner, we also appreciate the assistance of the Smithsonian Institution
Archives and the Library of the Natural History Museum, London for access to several additional
portraits of interest to us. It seems that we are perpetually in debt to Dr. Kraig Adler (Cornell
University) who not only allowed us to examine a number of 18th- and 19th-century publications in
his personal library that were germane to this paper and were not otherwise available to us, but he
also provided additional portraits of several key figures in our story. To the librarians in the Science
Reference Section of the Library of Congress, especially Miss Constance Carter and Stephanie
Marcus, we want to express our sincerest appreciation for the help they have given us over quite a

76 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

period of time and across several projects, not only in locating obscure references for us but for
guidance on search techniques that have made the library infinitely easier to use. In a like manner,
we are also indebted to Larry Currie, California Academy of Sciences Library. Lastly, we wish to
acknowledge the splendid contribution of Drs. Michael Ghiselin (California Academy of Sciences)
and Giovanni Pinna (Museo Civico di Storia Naturale, Milan). Several years ago, they inaugurated
a biennial colloquium for the purpose of exploring the philosophy and history behind the estab-
lishment of natural history museums, marine research stations and academies of natural science, and
how their unique brand of scientific inquiry influenced biological thought.

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Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA.
All rights reserved.

The Museums and the Construction of Natural
Sciences in Brazil in the 19th Century

MARIA MARGARET LOPES
Instituto de Geociencias, UNICAMP.CP.6152
CEP 13083—970 Campinas, Sao Paulo, Brazil

E-mail: mmlopes@ige.unicamp.br

Since the mid—1860s, the number and the scientific and social importance of museums related
to the natural sciences increased significantly in Brazil, an explicit indication of the increasing interest
in natural sciences and the consolidation of this field of knowledge. In 1876, the Museu Nacional do
Rio de Janeiro (National Museum) — which had existed since 1818 — was renovated while several
museums were created in the provinces. In the Amazon, the present-day Museu Paraense Emilio
Goeldi (Paraense Museum) was organized in Belem in 1866, and the Museu Botanico do Amazonas
(Botanic Museum) in Manaus in 1883. In the South, the Museu Paranaense (Paranaense Museum)
was founded in Curitiba by the Society of Acclimatization in 1874, and the Museu Paulista was
founded in Sao Paulo in 1894. Moreover, a series of smaller museums was founded in several others
capitals of the North-East provinces, such as in Fortaleza, Recife and Salvador, the majority linked
to local Institutos Historicos e Geograficos (Historical and Geographical Institutes), which also
undertook to collect natural and ethnographical products. This proliferation of local museums and
the renewal of the National Museum were the results, in the case of Brazil, of the consolidation of
different local elites and regional scientific initiatives that integrated the set of scientific measures
implemented by the process of conservative modernization,' which characterized Brazil at that time.

To modernize the country and promote agrarian interests, the government would have to
ameliorate the training of technical staff by reforming the system of higher education. To address the
need for more tillable land, new roads and railways, and new means of transportation, investments
had to be directed towards frontier reconnaissance commissions, cartographic teams, geographical
surveys and geological services. All this had a strong repercussion, both in the knowledge of the
natural framework of the country, and in the extermination of the native populations who occupied
the land required for agrarian expansion. Moreover, the government advanced a series of measures
relating to public health, urbanization, and immigration. They involved issues “of whitening the race,”
based on scientific research in anthropology and using the racialist craniometric theories widely
accepted at that time. The directors of our museums embraced and disseminated these ideas 1n order
to reach the dream of bringing this country of mulattos to the “heights” of Western civilization.

In fact, this paper touches upon some of issues that are essential to understand the process of
institutionalization of the natural sciences in this country. Those issues are related to the profession-
alization of the naturalists, the dispute for institutional space, and where the local scientific commu-
nity, having increased in number, sought unification. Discussions focused on which of several
institutional models should be adopted that would best foster research on natural history, which by
the end of the 19th century had already become highly specialized.

This paper presents, first of all, a short characterization of some aspects of the history of Rio de
Janeiro National Museum. It then provides a description of several other museums that were organized
in the provinces in order to draw a quick sketch of the contribution of those museums to the
development of a natural sciences establishment in Brazil. Lastly, we proceed then to explore the
general traits that marked this process.”

81

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

oO
i

Il. The Museu Nacional do Rio de Janeiro: A Metropolitan Museum, with a
Universal and Encyclopedic Character

The reform undertook in 1876 was the beginning of the most fertile, of the greatest activity and
most intense splendor in the history of National Museum. It grew a lot in the value of the
collection it possessed and in the scientific reputation that it had already acquired until on a par
with the best institutions of the same kind in other countries of Europe and America. Its present
shine is, if we may say, a reflection of the intense light projected by that renewal, after which
came, what we can rightly call, the Golden Age of National Museum. (Lacerda, 1905:37)

The oldest Brazilian Museum, today the Museu Nacional do Rio de Janeiro (Rio de Janeiro
National Museum), originated from the “Casa de Historia Natural” (House of Natural History) best
known as “Casa dos Passaros” (House of Birds). Founded in 1784, this colonial entrepot, which
housed both stuffed collections and live animals, was the first official station for the shipment of
natural history products from all Portuguese overseas possessions in the Western Hemisphere to the
museums in Lisbon and Coimbra.

The Rio de Janeiro National Museum (Fig. 1), officially created in 1818, inherited the collections
and housed civil servants of the former “Casa dos Passaros,” as well as the mineralogical collection,
purchased in Freiberg, Saxony and classified by Abraham Gottlob Werner, that had been in the Ajuda
Museum in Lisbon. The establishment of the museum may be viewed as a logical outgrowth of the
introduction of enlightened policies stemming from the arrival of the Portuguese Royal Family in
Brazil and the cultural initiatives it introduced to transform the old colony into the new seat of the
Empire.*

In contrast to the former colonial entreposto, what was created in Rio de Janeiro, then the center
of the Portuguese Empire, was a metropolitan museum of encyclopedic and universal character. The

Se —

Ficure 1. First building of Museu Nacional from 1818 to 1892. Photo: Archives Museu Nacional do Rio de Janeiro.

LOPES: MUSEUMS IN BRAZIL IN THE 19TH CENTURY 83

Rio de Janeiro Museum was created in the model of the greatest European museums, particularly the
Muséum d’Histoire Naturelle de Paris, where several of the Rio directors had studied and would
continue to study. This concept of globalization, with proper contextual modifications resulting from
the development of natural sciences, has continued to the present day. It was reflected throughout the
19th century either in the criteria for the acquisition and exhibition of collections, or in the priority
given to international exchanges maintained by the museum.

Because, even in its formative years, the National Museum had metropolitan characteristics, it
assembled not only national but also European, Egyptian, and Greek-Roman collections as well as
those from former Portuguese colonies in Africa and Asia.

The museum functioned from its founding and throughout most of the 19th century as a kind of
government advisory agency for the matters of geology, mining, natural resources and agriculture.
These are the roots for the importance of both its chemical analysis laboratory and geological section.
The significance of this area of knowledge in the museum was such that throughout the first
half-century, museum directors were chosen based on their proficiency in chemistry, geology and
mineralogy. And, after an institutional reform in 1842,* the museum director was always in charge
of the 3™ section, namely Geology, Mineralogy and Physical Sciences. The dedication to analysis of
mineral samples — especially coal — which came in from almost all provinces, did not preclude the
museum directors from taking an interest in other researches, especially paleontologic investigations.
In this regard, the Rio de Janeiro National Museum, under the direction of Frederico Leopoldo Cesar
Burlamaque from 1847 to 1866, constituted an institutional landmark in the paleontological research
in our country (Lopes, 1999). In 1866, the distinguished Brazilian botanist, Francisco Freire Alemao
(Fig. 2), served as director of the museum until he was succeeded by Ladislau Netto in 1874 (Fig. 3).

The institutionalization of anthropological studies began also at the museum and was marked by
the particular inter-
est of the French-
educated _ botanist/
anthropologist Lad-
islau Netto (1838—
1894), who directed
the National Mu-
seum between 1870
and 1893. Netto un-
derstood the role the
museum could play
in an international
context, thanks to a
local _ particularity,
not yet thoroughly
studied —a_Brazil-
ian “race.” Since the
end of the 1860s,
cranio-metric meas-

ures of the Brazilian FiGure 2. Francisco Freire Alemao, (1797-1874) FiGure 3. Ladislau Netto, director of the
“race” were under- the well-known Brazilian botanist, directed the Museu Nacional do Rio de Janeiro from 1875
fake within he usde74 acs Atchives Mises Nucieal'do Rio- chatwes ie the mccen Phos Achine
seum’s 1“ Section of de Janeiro. Museu Nacional do Rio de Janeiro.

84 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Zoology. An institutional reform of the museum in 1876 changed this section into I‘ Section of
Anthropology, Zoology, Comparative Anatomy and Animal Paleontology. The changes in the names
and the order of priority, besides initiating the process of redrawing discipline boundaries, not only
reflects the interests of the director himself, but it also illustrates the level of relevance that the
collections and research carried on this area had already attained. The field of anthropology was
further consolidated in our country by the studies of skull measurements of native races during the
1870s and 1880s by Joao Batista de Lacerda (1846-1915), a physiologist devoted to Brazilian
anthropology, who directed the National Museum between 1895 and 1905.

Scientific education also integrated the contribution of the museum to the process of institution-
alization of the natural sciences in Brazil. From its beginning, the National Museum constituted a
center of reference and it supported the teaching of the natural sciences. Its founding collections,
were, in fact, study collections for the students of the Military School of Engineering of Rio de Janeiro.
During the 19" century, members of the museum’s staff gave lectures on natural history and
mineralogy to the students at the school. The museum also shared classes, teachers, rooms, collections
and instruments with the faculties of Engineering and Medicine, as well as with other schools in Rio
de Janeiro. The museum was permanently linked to public educational institutions. All the proposals
debated in Congress during 1830-1840 aimed at establishing a university in Brazil, and which also
gave priority to the teaching of natural and physical sciences, argued that the National Museum was
the most logical choice to house such courses. The outstanding fact that highlights the museum’s role
was its attempt to gain full recognition for the natural sciences. The museum’s scientists demanded
that the natural sciences be accepted as specific disciplines and not just accessories to the education
of physicians and engineers.

But, if the museum and the schools shared a mutual interest in the teaching of the natural sciences,
there was also competition between them. Custodio Alves Serrao, the museum director during the
1840s as well as a mineralogist and teacher at Military School, engaged himself in a true scientific
and political battle against the elite of physicians of the Court and the military engineers to create a
Faculty of Natural History in the Museum.° He lost the battle. The Laboratory of Chemistry of the
National Museum was transferred for a short period to the Faculty of Medicine. Thus, from 1842
until the end of the century, although the Military School was in charge of the courses of natural
sciences, it nonetheless continue to use resources available at the Museum.

What was sought was the equalization of the museum with the other schools of high learning, to
improve its scientific, social and political prestige. In fact, the museum’s lack of prestige provides
evidence that the natural sciences were, in large measure, linked to the possibilities of revealing the
ever-dreamt of wealth of natural resources in the country rather than a source of creative ideas through
basic research that would put it on a par with its European counterparts. This argument was always
remembered by the directors of the museum in their demand for larger budget and more support.
Nevertheless, the natural sciences never ceased to be thought of as secondary by the political elite
and even by some members of the scientific community because at the time the country was faced
with more urgent needs, especially for medical and engineering measures that focused on such
concerns as hygiene and public health, urbanization, and the construction of roads to open new
agricultural areas for valuable crops, especially coffee, the dominant export of the country.

Ladislau Netto, following Custodio Alves Serrao’s ideas, managed, thanks to the big museum
renewal of 1876, to establish free courses in the museum. These open courses, conceived as a kind
of Faculty of Natural Sciences, were inspired by those courses that Netto had attended at the Museum
d’ Histoire Naturelle in Paris. These free lectures drew their audiences from “all the classes of society,
ladies, statesmen, physicians, lawyers, journalists, everyone interested in Natural Sciences” (Netto,

lee)
nN

LOPES: MUSEUMS IN BRAZIL IN THE 19TH CENTURY

1878:185). Even the Emperor D. Pedro II himself often attended the lectures in company of his
daughters.

At this time, museums were still one of the very few places engaged in science that were available
to the lay public, whom the museums needed for their validation and affirmation. It is clear that in a
country still characterized by the mark of slavery, laymen constitued only a small intellectual or
economic elite of the main cities. Thus, it was something of a novelty to also include “ladies” in
scientific courses given at the museum. Nonetheless, in these courses, the presence of women was,
indeed, encouraged, a break with tradition because in Brazil, it was only after the 1880s that women
were allowed to attend higher education courses in medicine.

In the decades that followed, these regular museum courses were transformed into public lectures
and by 1890, even the courses of the physical and natural sciences given at the School of Engineering
were terminated. This fact makes still more relevant, in the process of institutionalization of the natural
sciences, the role played by the National Museum as an institutional place for the education and
training of naturalists. At the National Museum, laymen, physicians, engineers, and even lawyers
became during the 19" century the collectors, taxidermists, botanists, zoologists, paleontologists,
geologists, archaeologists and anthropologists of Brazil.

Renewed in 1876, the National Museum blossomed. It lived its “Golden Age” during Ladislau
Netto’s leadership. Netto in many ways inaugurated a new institutional model. The previous
naturalist, engineer, physician directors were lecturers in the Court’s schools and therefore worked
part time in the museum. However, Ladislau Netto and later Joao Batista de Lacerda, as well as the
directors of sections and the directors of recently created museums, had to work full time, and were
required to go through a selective process when initially applying for their positions, which constituted
a major step towards professionalization.

Ladislau Netto’s projects, which included aquaria and botanical gardens — natural study envi-
ronments — even if they were not fully implemented, were rather updated in terms of understanding
of zoological and botanical studies and aimed at developing areas of expertise still little investigated
in the country. Exploration was supported in order to collect products to complete the collections; all
collections were greatly incremented, and they reached the figure of 200,000 objects by the turn of
the century. The great Brazilian Anthropological Exhibition, organized in 1882, displayed skeletons
of large mammals, which are absent, even today in many Brazilian museums. The sections of Botany
and Zoology were enlarged and the first laboratory of Experimental Physiology in the country,
directed by Louis Couty and Lacerda, was opened in 1880. That laboratory introduced experimental
studies in Brazil, notably through studies on curare and snake venom.

The aim was to transform the Museu Nacional into a first order institution that would deserve
the title as the most important museum in Brazil, even in Latin America. This transformation implied
also the inclusion of the museum into the international scientific movement that was happening within
the realm of natural sciences museums. In search of a broader international acknowledgment, Netto
hired foreign naturalists to direct various sections of the museum. He participated at international
congresses, exchanged collections, and devoted considerable energy to the publication of the Archivos
do Museu Nacional. Since its beginning in 1876, the “Archivos” together with the collections, played
a fundamental role in expanding the international exchanges of the Museum. For instance, every issue
of the Archivos carried not only the names of corresponding members but also a list of institutions,
on all continents, with which the Museum exchanged publications.’

Towards the end of the 19"" century, the Museu Nacional, already well into another phase of its
history, was not the sole museum concerned with the institutionalization of the natural sciences in
Brazil. Still struggling with the same difficulties of carrying on research, publications, maintenance

86 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

and increase of the collection, international exchanges, as well as courses and lectures, the National
Museum had to deal with the question of how to adapt its institutional model to the growing demands
of specialization and new fields of science.

Lobbying in favor of his own museum model, Ladislau Netto’s inspiration and proposals came
from the Muséum National d’ Histoire Naturelle de Paris. Lacerda, who was in charge of the museum,
even though he permitted a certain degree of specialization in the National Museum, he refused to
abandon its metropolitan character. Lacerda acknowledged that “even in a general museums like the
National Museum of Rio de Janeiro there was a trend towards specialization in certain types of
specimens.” Specimens were either easily obtained in the area where the museum was located, or
even from distant regions of another continent, especially when those regions were subject to the
political domination of the nation to which the museum belonged. In Lacerda’s opinion, this was the
case for the British Museum having a specialized section dealing with Egyptian, Assyrian, and Hindu
antiquities inasmuch as the imperialist activities of England in those countries helped the exploration
of the territories yielding those antiquities. In the case of the Museo de La Plata, it specialized in
South American paleontological collections because the vast territory of the Argentinean Republic
became a field of excavation for extinct animal bones, unknown in other continents. In South
American Ethnography, the National Museum of Rio de Janeiro was the reference (Lacerda, 1912).

In justifying what he considered his ideal for a museum, Lacerda stated that although the British
Museum (Natural History), which is located in London’s South Kensington district, was one of the
most important museums in the world, nonetheless, it was not the model for Brazil’s National
Museum:

It [the Museu Nacional] is shaped more by the models of the Museum d’Histoire Naturelle in
Paris than the type of British museums. The division by natural sections, the existence of regular
courses and laboratories are features common to both museums. (Lacerda, 1912:42)

But even in comparison to the Museum de Paris, the Rio de Janeiro museum had its own
characteristics. To Lacerda the difference between them was that the laboratories created by the last
reform to the Brazilian Museum (1911) had “a more utilitarian goal” than those of the Museum de
Paris. These have become more restricted to “the classical norms being designed only to practical
demonstration of a science already built and constituted.” The laboratories of the Rio de Janeiro
museum applied the practical knowledge to “the elucidation of new questions of the interest of
agriculture and industry, which are interconnected to them.” But Lacerda met with opposition even
among his collaborators. Alipio Miranda Ribeiro, director of the museum’s section of Zoology, held
the opinion that “at the present time, in which specialties dominate, complex museums are anachroni-
cal and without a raison d’étre. It is necessary to specialize to excel — we can not delude ourselves
much longer — polyvalent researchers are good only for the fossilized period of Athanazius Kirch.”
(Ribeiro, 1945:61)

Miranda Ribeiro proposed the split of the Rio de Janeiro National Museum into four museums.
The Geology, Mineralogy and Paleontology would be united with the Geological Survey and become
a Museum of Geology. The section of Botany, grouped with the Botanical Garden, would become
the Museum and Botanical Garden. The section of Anthropology would become the Museum of
Anthropology and History while the section of Zoology should remain in the National Museum
building. The main advantage of these divisions would enable each to hire staff according to the
requirements of the specialization. Contrary to these views, the museum remained a complex one,
following Lacerda’s vision. This institutional trajectory would differ from the other models of
Brazilian museums. This fact helps us understand the constant quarrels and opposing positions held

LOPES: MUSEUMS IN BRAZIL IN THE 19TH CENTURY 87

by Brazilian museums at the end of the 19"" century. Let us digress for a moment and look at the
history of some of those other Brazilian museums, after which we can return to some specific aspects
of those institutions that might help us understand why museum directors viewed their own institu-
tions as they did.

Ill. The Museums in the Amazon
The Museum Paraense Emilio Goeldi: From Museum to Research Institution

The Province of Para is a paradise to zoologists and specially to ornithologists, and this is enough
to understand how glad the naturalists from the British Museum and Mr. Layard (British
representative in Para) [were] when they learned about the inauguration of amuseum here where
in a few years the most complete and diverse specimens of the animal kingdom can be displayed,
therefore alleviating the naturalist, the trouble, perils and big expenses in the expeditions trying
to find them in the forests and deserts in our hinterland. (Diario do Gram-Para de 12/7/1872)

The official reports of the government of the Para Province (Amazon) acknowledge the influence
of Louis Agassiz and the Thayer Expedition in the creation of the present-day Museu Paraense Emilio
Goeldi by the Sociedade Philomatica do Para in 1866 (Vellozo, 1867). In fact the influence of Agassiz
and his expedition on the learned society of Belém was so important that for many decades this fact
was considered a landmark in the scientific history of the region. But it is necessary to emphasize
that Domingos Soares Ferreira Penna® was indeed the organizer of the Museum Paraense, having
conceived of and worked for its existence. Given his political position as a liberal and republican in
a conservative Monarchy, the merits of Ferreira Penna were obscured by the official historiography
of this period.

It is possible to identify the influence of American ideas in the creation of the Museum Paraense
if we take into account that in the United States museums were normally founded by private
entrepreneurs as opposed to European museums and the existing Brazilian ones that were government
sponsored (Lopes, 1994). This was precisely Ferreira Penna’s point of view inasmuch as he
considered that the Museum should not be government sponsored but rather a private institution
supported by private funds. His plans envisioned the Museum as the core of a school of higher
education and a center that should foster the studies of natural sciences in the Amazon (Graga, 1871).
However, Ferreira Penna was ousted from the museum by political rivals, which hindered the plan
for the development of the museum, a plan which had the strong support of the British representative
Edgard L. Layard, whom Penna wanted to nominate as the museum’s scientific director.”

Nonetheless, gathering modest botanical, zoological and archaeological collections from the
Amazon, the Paraense Museum, despite all odds, survived and remained open to public visitation.
After 1890, the museum entered a new phase of development, enhanced by the arrival in 1894 ofa
new director, Emil (Emilio) August Goeldi (1859-1917), a Swiss zoologist and former director of
the section of Zoology of the National Museum in Rio de Janeiro, who would remain in the position
until 1907.

When Goeldi arrived in Para, he had to start from scratch. However, it was another epoch and
museums were changing too. Comfortable appropriations were available, thanks to the rubber being
exported from Para. Thus, Goeldi could count on the necessary resources to build his ideal Museum.
At the same time, he also passed a harsh judgment on his predecessors, considering himself as “a kind
of landmark separating the past and the future of the Museum.” (Goeldi, 1894a:375)

Goeldi managed the transformation of the institution into a scientific museum typical of the end
of the 19" century. He proposed that the Paraense Museum should devote itself “to the study, the

88 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

development and popularization of Natural History and Ethnology of the State of Para, of the Amazon
in particular, and of Brazil, South American and the American continent in general” (Goeldi,
1894b:22). This was accomplished by means of public lectures, of scientific publication — the
“Boletim do Museum Paraense” — and through scientific collections classified and subdivided into
the sections of Zoology, Botany, Geology and Ethnology, Archaeology and Anthropology, the
Botanical Gardens, and the Zoo, as well a wide network of international exchanges. Both the
collections and scientific publications show that the museum concentrated on Amazonian zoology
and botany while the other disciplines were considered less important. Nonetheless, the Goeldi
Museum published more during this period than any other Brazilian museum.

Among the problems common to all Brazilian museums was the fact that buildings were the
primary focus, and not just for architectural reasons alone, but more importantly for the scientific
concepts underlying them. For instance, Goeldi stated that sometimes he was tempted to construct a
huge building for his museum, but resisting the temptation, he chose the “pavilion system,” composed
of a cluster of smaller, simpler buildings. He considered that small one-story constructions “with free
access by all sides to air and sun” were more suitable to “a local hygienic architecture, healthy and
rational” than “heavier fortresses.” In these statements, Goeldi focuses on issues other than those
relating to the conditions of conservation of exhibits. Although in our view his arguments seem
far-fetched, they are clearly aimed more at solving problems of conservation and management of
research collections and facilities than they are about the public side of a museum. Thus, they also
clearly reflect Goeldi’s worldview, which favored the future specialization of the Museum. It was
not a question of splitting the museum into several specific museums, but rather of creating new
‘Research Institutes.”

bf

‘ await - al . — =
<0 2S
Ficure 4. Staff from the Museu Paraense in 1907. The director, Emilio Goeldi, is sitting at the center, with two
administrative women clerks, next to him. Omithologist Emilia Snethlage, the first woman to direct a museum
in Brazil, 1s standing in the first row (second from right). Photo: Archives Museu Paraense Emilio Goeldi.

LOPES: MUSEUMS IN BRAZIL IN THE 19TH CENTURY 89

Managing over time that each section of the museum
would have its own pavilion, thus erecting here a Bo-
tanical Institute, there an “Mineralogical and Geologi-
cal Institute”, further down an “Ethnographical
Institute”, I would willingly sacrifice the idea of a new
monumental building. (Goeldi, 1902:108)

But Goeldi did not have time to build those institutes.
Between 1898 and 1900, Goeldi went to Europe, not only
to deal with scientific matters, but mainly to work on the
issue of frontier limits between Brazil and the French
Guyana. In recognition of his diplomatic skills in behalf
of the Brazilian government, the museum changed its
name from Museu Paraense de Historia Natural e Eth-
nografia to Museu Goeldi (until 1931).'° In 1907, Goeldi
returned to his native Switzerland, where he taught zoo-
geography and animal biology at Bern University.

Despite Goeldi’s departure and despite serious eco-
nomic setbacks in Para due to the decline in revenues
coming from rubber exports, which had already begun an
irreversible decline, the Museum survived. Goeldi’s suc-
cessors were, in order: Jakob Hiiber, a botanist, from FIGURE 5. “Orchard’s Building,” the first building of

; as the Museu Paraense, after renovation in the 1980s.
1907 to 1914; and Maria Emilia Snethlage (b.1868— Photo: Archives Museu Paraense Emilio Goeldi.
d.1929), an ornithologist of German origin , from 1914
to 1922. Snethlage held a Ph.D. in Natural Philosophy; she had been a zoology assistant at the Berlin
Museum, and she became the first woman to direct a scientific museum in Latin America.

Like Emilio Goeldi, who had been held in high esteem by the government, even representing it
in diplomatic issues, Jakob Hiiber also established close links to the local elite. He was charged, when
he was already director of the museum, for instance, with a mission to the Far East to analyze the
prospects for Brazilian rubber.

Experiencing the general crisis in the Amazon, after Htiber’s death in 1914 and the beginning of
the First World War, the museum was practically abandoned, despite the efforts of Emilia Snethlage.
Snethlage was eventually dismissed from public office due to her German nationality. Following the
war, in 1919, she has reinstated in her position, but she then transferred to the Museu Nacional in Rio
de Janeiro, where she continued her studies on the Amazon.

Despite its successive crises, the Museu Paraense Emilio Goeldi survived and today it stands as
one of the Amazon’s and the nation’s leading scientific institutions.

The Search of Specialization in the Amazon:
The Museu Botanico do Amazonas

Mr. Derby informs me that a Brazilian who formerly lived in Rio criticized in the Rio press Dr.
Netto’s administration of the National Museum. After this, this gentleman has been called to
head a provincial Museum in Brazil and is now Dr.Netto’s rival. He lives in Manaos, Amazonas
Province, on the Amazon at the junction with the Rio Negro. He makes frequent journeys into
the heart of Brazil on diplomatic and missionary visits as he has great influence with the Indians.
(.. .) Any recognition the Smithsonian might make of the existence of the Museum would be
highly appreciated by its director Dr. Juan Barbosa Rodrigues (. . .). I think almost anything

90 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

would be acceptable to a Museum just starting and desirous of enlarging itself and rivaling the
Museum at Rio. There is no harm at any rate in pointing out the opportunities for exchange. |

This Botanical Museum of the Amazonas was constituted by means of botanical and ethnological
collections gathered by Barbosa Rodrigues (1842—1909), an engineer who become one of the most
renowned Brazilian botanists and who later directed the Botanical Gardens in Rio de Janeiro after he
left the Manaus museum.

The Museu Botanico in Manaus, located deeper inside the forest than the Museu Paraense itself,
was a specialized, local museum. It was particularly attuned to the study of the Manaus region and
its most striking characteristics — its biological diversity, either natural, as seen in the luxurious
vegetation of the forest, or human, as shown in the diversity of ethnicities of the first inhabitants of
the region. In the Section of Ethnography, the artifacts representing the ‘types’ of tribes were kept
together with photographs or drawings in an arrangement that might be useful for anthropological
studies. Also, no object was allowed to leave the premises except by exchange and then only after a
third copy was deposited at the museum. In 1885, despite the lack of funds, the museum was
completed. It had a large herbarium consisting of 1,283 Brazilian plant species representing 78
families and 322 genera, with more than 5,000 specimens classified and catalogued, as well as more
than 800 vegetable species from the United States, particularly from California, that had been obtained
through exchange. The accession list of the Ethnographical Section shows that the Sections’
collections had 1,103 classified objects on hand, and that they were representative of the 60 nations
of the Amazon valley. According to its by-laws,'* the Museu Botanico do Amazonas was sanctioned
to “mainly study the botany and the chemistry of the flora of the province and divulge its products,
cataloguing and keeping under its guard its natural and industrial products.” The museum relied on
a laboratory for the chemical analysis and a botanical garden for the acclimation of plants. Together
with these functions, a science course was to be created with theoretical and practical classes in land
survey and agriculture. Despite the constraints in the museum’s by-laws, Barbosa Rodrigues did
publish several scientific papers on ethnography, archeology and philology of indigenous nations of
the Amazon; among them was one that caused trouble for him and his museum until the end of his
days in Manaus: “4 Pacificagdo dos Krichanas” — The Pacification of the Krichanas (Porto, 1892).

It has been Rodrigues’ intention to publish a weekly magazine in French —a language more
widely read by the people he wanted to reach than Portuguese; he intended to include reports not only
on the discovery of new plants and their descriptions but also historical, geographical and ethnog-
raphical information on the region to share these with scientists abroad. It was his intention that this
journal would be exchanged with scientific societies and similar institutions in Europe. More down
to earth, the Museum by-laws also allowed for a quarterly magazine, which was to publish the results
of research carried out in the different sections of the museum (1*' Botany, 2"4 Chemistry, 3"
Ethnography, 4"" History, Geography and Statistics of the Amazon). Here, too, French was to be the
preferred language. The journal, Ve//osia, named in honor of Friar Velloso — a Brazilian botanist of
the colonial period — was published only once, its two volumes containing descriptions of new
Amazonian plants and paleontological and archeological studies (Rodrigues, 1891). Besides the
journal, other articles were published at the time, largely based on Barbosa Rodrigues’ own activities
at the museum.

The Museu Botanico, set in the heart of the Amazon, brings to mind the structure of museums
at the end of the 18" century or the first years of the Museu Nacional in Rio de Janeiro, when a
naturalist alone would direct his museum. Barbosa Rodrigues looked after everything, although he
was helped in general by his own family, e.g., his wife, with drawings, his sons, as well as private
employees, in the cleaning and conservation of the Museum. On the other hand, the museum displayed

LOPES: MUSEUMS IN BRAZIL IN THE 19TH CENTURY 91

the characteristics that would distinguish the museums which were to be created in Sao Paulo in the
next decade.

Although the museum functioned rather well, despite the lack of funds, Barbosa Rodrigues, on
his arrival in Manaus, encountered strong opposition from political groups who considered them-
selves harmed by his actions regarding the Krichands nation.'* The advent of the Republic did not
save the museum, which ceased activities in 1890, but it did save Barbosa Rodrigues who, as a
renowned botanist, was promoted that same year to the directorship of the Jardim Botanico do Rio
de Janeiro.

IV. Towards a Museum of Mollusks or the History of
“a sort of white elephant”

As you see the place offered was created ad hoc for you and if you do not accept it no appointment
will be made. I did not enter into all these matters before because I had no desire that you should
come here under a sense of personal obligation to me and I should not do so now. However, I
see from your letters that you have completely misapprehended the situation. . . In the first place
the government of Sao Paulo is not specially interested in zoological studies nor in the museum,
considering the latter on the contrary as a sort of white elephant, an opinion in which I heartily
agree. It consists of a private collection made by an “amateur.” .. The government did not know
what to do with it. I unwillingly accepted the charge in order to preserve what there was of value
in the collections and to keep alive the idea of a museum. . . When I was asked to arrange
something for you in Sao Paulo, I considered the idea of the museum and of zoological work in
the Commission as the only practical means of doing what was requested of me and as a way of
helping a colleague supposedly in need of such a service. i

The origins of the Museu Paulista lie in an old private collection that was rather well known in
the city of Sao Paulo at the end of the 19" century by the nickname “Museu Sertorio.” The museum
was organized in 1894 (Fig. 6), following the initiatives of the North American geologist Orville
Adelbert Derby (1851-1915), who had been the director of the Geology, Mineralogy and Physical
Sciences Section at the Museu Nacional in Rio de Janeiro from 1879 to 1890. In 1894, Derby was in
charge of his own institution, the Commissao Geographica e Geologica de Sao Paulo (Sao Paulo
Geographical and Geological Commission) (Figueir6a, 1997). Derby planned “to coordinate and
modestly develop under the aegis of the Geographical and Geological Commission . . . the several
sections of a Natural History Museum’; in fact, he meant to create a position for his former colleague
at the Museu Nacional, Hermann von lthering, so he could continued his zoological and palaeontologi-
cal studies.!°

Hermann von Ihering (1850—1930) (Fig. 7) arrived in Brazil in 1880 and occupied the post of
traveler-naturalist at the National Museum until 1891. His work covered the most diverse fields in
zoology, botany, anthropology and ethnology, but his lifetime work was dedicated to modern
mollusks and their palaeozoology. In 1892, Ihering, jobless, accepted in principle, Derby’s proposal,
which was also accepted by the government of the province of Sao Paulo. But since his first contact
with Derby, von Ihering’s aim of occupying the position of zoologist and director of the Geographical
and Geological Commission Museum had already changed; his ambition was to hold a position
somewhat higher than just the post of Director ofa Section.'® So he accepted the position, but it lasted
only one year because, by the following year, he had managed to transform the Museu Paulista into
an independent institution, which he then directed for the next 22 years, from 1894 to 1915.

Ihering had read the well-known “Principles of Museum Administration” by George Brown
Goode (1895) — the famous assistant secretary of the Smithsonian Institution and director of its

92 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

=

FiGure 6. Museu Paulista as it appeared in 1895.
From a lithograph published in volume | of the Revista do Museu Paulista, pl. 1.

National Museum — with whom he entertained
a systematic correspondence” about his propos-
als for the organization of the Museum Paulista.
Thus, his dream and his plan for the Museu
Paulista —in accordance with his own work
that had acquired a continental dimension —
was the construction of a South American Mu-
seum.!*

Completely at ease with the discussions of
his time about different schemes for classifying
and arranging natural history collections, [her-
ing was adept at separating study collections
from exhibition collections, an arrangement he
instituted at the Museu Paulista from its incep-
tion (Ihering, 1895:20). The study collections
were, in fact, his main interest, especially those
of South American mollusks, and although the
Museum was not divided into Sections, the zoo-
logical collections were the outstanding collec- Ficure 7. Herman Friedrich Albrecht von Ihering,
tion, followed by ethnographical collections and director of the Museu Paulista from 1894 to 1916.
botanical inventories. Photo: Archives Museu Paulista.

Besides the study collections, another of Ihering’s main concern was to keep the scientific
character of the Revista do Museu Paulista. Like other museums, the Revista do Museu Paulista was
clearly an organ for disseminating the wide-ranging scientific writings of the Museum director.

Thering listed in his reports the names of researchers, both national and foreign, who classified

LOPES: MUSEUMS IN BRAZIL IN THE 19TH CENTURY 93

his collections, as well as the names of “illustrious visitors” who came to Sao Paulo to study the
museum’s collections and who published their results in the museum’s journal. He also stressed the
importance of international exchange, which he maintained with museums and scientific societies all
over the world: the two he considered most “intimate and extremely advantageous” were the
exchanges with the British Museum and National Museum in Washington.'? He established a wide
network with researchers and institutions in South America, especially with the directors of museums
in Argentina and Chile, in the Pacific region, which in the long run allowed him to construct his theory
on “Continental Bridges.””°

Just as F. A. Bather (1895) — British Museum curator — who, in his survey of museums linked
to the British Empire, divided the museums into metropolitan and colonial ones, or L.V. Coleman
(1939) — director of the American Association of Museums — who divided his survey of some 100
Latin-American museums (22 of which were dedicated to natural history) into national, provincial,
university, school and private, Ihering also proposed his typology of museums, following a trip to
Europe in 1907, with the specific goal of studying the organization of museums. Based on their
scientific collections, he distinguished three groups of museums: central, provincial and specialized
museums. Central Museums included only those located in the great capitals of the main countries
of Europe and then only if they had managed to overcome critical problems, sometimes by means of
a complete reorganization, to give them proper buildings and a great increase in finance and scientific
staff. Provincial Museums were characterized, in general, by lack of definitive plans of research,
while Specialized Museums, for Ihering “constituted, no doubt, what best corresponds to the needs
of science, but even then they exist in a very limited number” (Ihering, 1907:441).

Mentioning some small museums of the latter kind in Germany and even some private collectors,
Ihering’s comments generated a bitter quarrel with the Museu Nacional do Rio de Janeiro. Ihering
held that in South America there existed only two “specialized museums,” the one he directed in Sao
Paulo, the other under Goeldi’s direction in the Amazon. While the Museu Paraense investigated
Amazonian themes, the Museu Paulista dedicated itself to the zoological studies of South America,
giving special attention to modern and fossil mollusks.

Doubting that the great museums would be able to follow the changes needed by the development
of science, Ihering declared that specialized museums are the museums of the future. And, from that
base, he argued for what might sound bizarre today — the foundation of a Mollusks’ Museum. In
fact, he was defending and praising his own speciality, advocating the need for an extreme speciali-
zation of museums, to the increasing specialization of science in his day. The Museu Paulista never
became exactly the “Mollusk Museum” that Ihering had hoped would solve the crisis of complex
museums at the end of the last century. The specialization of science did not engender such museums
but, on the contrary, deepened the crisis.

Due to a series of political issues, including the First World War, Ihering stepped down as director
of the museum at the end of 1915. In the 1920s, the Museu Paulista was split and the botany section
was closed when the Biological Institute was created in 1927. In the 1930s, the zoological collections,
largely gathered during Ihering’s tenure as director of the museum, were reorganized. Those
collections — maybe the largest in South America in regard to neotropic fauna — some 16,000 birds,
4,000 mammals, 3,000 fishes, 2,000 snakes and other reptiles, 120,000 insects and 17,000 mollusks
—became the Museum of Zoology, today incorporated into the Universidade de Sao Paulo. The
Museu Paulista has become a museum dedicated to public displays dealing with national history and
especially the history of Sao Paulo and Brazilian ethnography.

94 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Final Considerations

To end these considerations on the contribution of museums to the process of institutionalization
of sciences in Brazil, it is important to underline some aspects of the museums movement in the
country. Throughout the 19" century it is possible to identify two distinct trajectories in Brazilian
museums. The first is represented by the Museu Nacional do Rio de Janeiro, integrating the
enlightened Portuguese-Brazilian project; it was the only institution of its kind in Brazil at the time.
The second trajectory, dating from the late 1860s, came about when new museums were created in
the provinces.

In the first phase, which is not covered in detail in this paper, I could identify another subdivision,
the first moment of attempt of rupture with the models of the “cabinet of curiosity-museum,”
characteristic of the end of the 18" century and based on contemporary scientific ideas that already
foresaw the path to specialization to the different field of natural sciences. In this context I refer
specifically to the program of research and teaching advanced by Custodio Alves Serrao, — the
director of the museum from 1828 to 1846. This was expressed in the new “Regulations” that renewed
the National Museum in | 842, through the establishment of four sections: (1) Zoology and Compara-
tive Anatomy; (2) Botany, Agriculture and Mechanical Arts; (3) Mineralogy, Geology and Physical
Sciences; and (4) Numismatics, Liberal arts, Archaeology, Usage and Costumes of Modern Nations.

Compared to the earlier period, in the second phase of the history of museums, initiated in the
middle of the century during the period of consolidation of Brazilian Empire, natural sciences were
not directly involved in the project that consolidated the agrarian, dependent, and slavery driven
Brazilian policy. In this context, the emerging community of naturalists was divided by conflicting
interests and differing scientific approaches and practices, and thus the conditions were not ripe for
it to implement its own agenda. What happened in terms of institutionalization of natural sciences
was that timely and important initiatives were undertaken by groups of naturalists who associated
themselves with the National Museum. At that institution, activities were organized within the new
fields of knowledge that were being introduced in the country, such as paleontology, anthropology
and ethnology. The first society of naturalists with a priority dedication to natural sciences — the
Sociedade Vellosiana — was organized within the museum, while the first Exploratory Commission
—the so-called Comissao Cientifica de Exploragaéo — best known as “Ceara’s Commission,” also
nicknamed the “Butterflies” Commission,” was formed by Brazilian naturalists associated with the
National Museum.

Those initiatives, together with the creation of museums in the provinces, the renewal of Museu
Nacional in 1876, and the attempts to create the courses of natural sciences in the museum, were part
of the efforts that practitioners of science were undertaking to consolidate scientific activities as an
autonomous field of knowledge. There was the hope that such activities would confer on them both
political prestige and professional recognition in a manner not dissociated from their intention of
contributing to universal science, which they thought was not bound by regional or national frontiers.

This was the period (1860-1870) in which scientific naturalism, as an explicitly articulated
ideology or a diffuse state of mind, although only surfacing in the beginning of the 19" century, would
acquire its fully developed form. Naturalism established the universal goal of scientific method and
procedures, and it constituted the ideology that supported the rapid ascent of new professional groups
(Barnes and Shapin, 1979). This is also the moment when the position of foreign naturalists in the
country began to change. With the expansion of modern sciences, the number of professionals
increased, and, consequently, so did the competition for professional positions. Several naturalists
came to establish themselves in the “New World” in order to interact from their new home with the

LOPES: MUSEUMS IN BRAZIL IN THE 19TH CENTURY 95

international scientific community. Those are the authentic “seekers,” so well characterized by
Pyenson (1985). In the case of Brazilian museums, we can, perhaps, identify the most important
among them, Orville Adelbert Derby, Emil August Goeldi, and Hermann von Ihering, and even
Barboza Rodrigues, a “Brazilian Southern foreigner in the Amazon” all served at one time or another
as directors of Sections in the Museu Nacional and latter as directors of their own institutions.

To the above can be added those differing visions about future directions of scientific investiga-
tions, that led to disputes and rivalries among national and foreign researchers that took place within
the framework of scientific professionalization at the end of the 19'" century. For example, these
differing visions of the future constitute some of the main reasons for the quarrel between the director
of the National Museum in Rio de Janeiro and the director of Museu Paulista in Sao Paulo that was
discussed earlier in this paper. Controversies among national and foreign naturalists that had marked
the work of naturalists from the National Museum in previous periods, would surface again during
the First World War and profoundly injure directors of German origin, such as Ihering and Emilia
Snethlage. Expressing professional interest disguised by nationalist ideas, such controversies were
part and parcel of the process that I have pointed to as a search for professional space and consolidation
of scientific reputation within the scientific community already established in the country.

In this second phase of the history of Brazilian museums, it is necessary to consider another
sub-division that took place in the year 1890. Marked by the development of local museums more
than the continuity of the naturalist tradition of National Museum, this phase is clearly delineated by
the rupture between the model of a general “Metropolitan,” encyclopedic museum, represented by
the Rio de Janeiro Museum, and the model of specialized museums created in the more dynamic,
economically-developed provinces of the Republic, which assumed a position contrary to the old
museum tradition of the Brazilian Empire. Among those distinctive traits of the agencies of these
museums in the country, we could consider the scientific investigation and divulgation they undertook
based upon the accumulated research in different field of natural sciences. This disclosure was
accomplished by means of exhibitions and scientific publications — in fact, these were the only
regular Brazilian scientific publications with an international readership and the only ones specialized
in natural sciences. In addition, for instance, was the persistence of the directors, albeit not always
successful, in creating their own institutional spaces or the inclusion of anthropological, archeological
and ethnographic research in their investigation agendas. These studies had not yet freed themselves
from the realm of natural sciences, just as some compartmentalized views of modern science do not
allow studies to reach their full dimensions. In these human-linked fields, the museum could gather
original pieces, sometimes objects that were unique in the world, as the directors liked to point out.
They did gather original pieces, especially due to their scientific interest in participating at the hotly
debated issue of the times, the “origins of American mankind.” The directors were favored by their
locations, since the museums were built in regions not yet completely surveyed and investigated,
including many Indian nations yet to be exterminated and relegated to a museum.

The creation of the Museu Paulista and Museu Botanico do Amazonas added to the fundamental
meaning of the need for more global understanding of the process of institutionalization of sciences
in Brazil. In this period they add to the initiatives of the Brazilian State to create institutional spaces.
Many of the initiatives were personal and individual ones begun by those seeking a safe harbor that
would provide them both salary and support (financial and infrastructure) and allow them to get on
with their research and advance their careers.

The Paraense — in the first, pre-Goeldi phase — could, perhaps, be characterized by its role in
providing cultural space in a provincial capital, which allowed for local initiatives devoted to natural
sciences. Museum directors did not overlook the promotion of courses and lectures, or taking part in

96 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

national and international exhibitions, and they maintained exchanges with the Museu Nacional in
Rio de Janeiro. There were even cases of original investigations, particularly in Brazilian archeology
and ethnology, an area where Ferreira Penna excelled.

The Museu do Amazonas characterized itself as an authentic institution of research of the time;
it promoted local exhibitions, which were open to the public, and attempts were made to teach courses,
but basically it concentrated on botanical research and it exploited the international connections of
its director. Its highly specialized character was clearly delimited by Barbosa Rodrigues, even before
Ihering advocated the case of specialized museums as a solution to the crisis of these institutions.

Seeking recognition in the civilized world, in the international museum movement, and in the
scientific community in both Europe and the United States, each of the directors of Brazilian museums
had their own suite of friends and scientific colleagues who were, for the most part, rooted in their
individual countries of origin, where they had studied and/or were either related to specific fields of
scientific knowledge or shared common museological concepts. Indeed, some of the museum
directors could reasonably claim affiliation with one or more of the most famous and well-known
museums and research centers. Thus, the Brazilian museum directors drew upon their scientific
colleagues elsewhere to help them build their own careers in Brazil, as well as with their projects
which had both regional and international dimensions.

In the case of different visions of museums at the dawn of the 20" century in Brazil, Ihering took
to the extreme the process of specialization of natural sciences; he had hoped his South American
Museum, which specialized ina very precise field of zoology — Mollusks — would become a model.
Lacerda, on the other hand, continued to emphasize “national specificity” because he identified the
Rio de Janeiro National Museum as a “metropolitan museum,” modeling it after the Muséum
d’Histoire Naturelle de Paris, this despite the loss of hegemony it had experienced during the century
(Limoges, 1980).

Here it is necessary to correct an aspect frequently repeated in the historiography of sciences in
Brazil, which deals with how 19th-century foreign naturalist viewed scientific activities in the country
and especially at the Rio de Janeiro National Museum. In studies on the institutionalization of natural
sciences in Brazil in the 19th century, one constantly comes across foreign reports about the National
Museum that portray it as a hoax, a deception in so far as its science was concerned. The National
Museum, in those reports, definitely did not measure up to what was expected from it. These reports,
which bequeathed us a negative image of ourselves, do not always coincide with records that have
been increasingly recovered from the forgotten shelves of our libraries and archives. What strikes me
most forceably is that the position taken by foreign naturalists with respect to the Museum, in my
opinion, may be best explained by Flora Sussekind (1990) perceptive view of the phrase “Brazil is
not far from here,” which is taken from a German song about immigration. To her, the phrase can be
understood as “an observation made by someone, already living in the country and who does not
recognize the expected landscape.” Our foreign naturalists had first-hand experience with European
museums, and they had developed their own notions about the role of museum in the “new worlds.”
Naturalist had “ways of seeing, known by heart.” They expected to find here a complete museum that
would reunite all local products in a way that would help their work. One could, thus, understand the
joy of British naturalists when they learned about the creation of a museum at the Amazon forest
doorway, which would save them all the “hardness of a tropical forest excursion.”

In contrast to what the foreigners expected, what was intended for the capital of the Empire was
a Museum that followed European patterns, perhaps incomplete, but with samples representing the
whole world, a symbol of urban civilization. Our historiography, even today, has never understood
what Egyptian mummies meant in the context of the National Museum.

LOPES: MUSEUMS IN BRAZIL IN THE 19TH CENTURY 97

Agassiz (1975:33) stated that “Rio was during the whole 19" century, the main target of French,
English, German, Russian and American scientific expeditions,” which could have diminished the
scientific interest over this province, but, in his opinion, led to the contrary. “Precisely because all
the specimens described or present in the majority of travel reports which originated from Rio and
its neighborhood, it was mandatory that all museums wishing to be complete and comprehensive
should have original samples of these localities and could check the description of species men-
tioned.” Brazilian naturalists knew the Rio de Janeiro species, they traveled in the outskirts, and even
Ladislau Netto began to look for new species in the street market, following Agassiz’s advice.”!
However, the scientific interests of Brazilian naturalists, just like those of their foreign counterparts,
focused on the search in virgin territory for new species of plants and animals and for archaeological
and ethnographical artifacts.

The French naturalist Ferdinand Denis (1980:409), who visited Brazil in the first decade of the
19" century, appears to be an exception, as he put in simple terms the question of how different
“invisible things” lay in the eye of the beholder. Dennis states that ‘a certain traveler observed that
among the curiosities of the Rio de Janeiro National Museum there was a swan and a finch. This is
very simple and Brazilians would have much to say if they notice the common birds of their fields
that we keep in our museums.” If we reuse the sense Pomian (1984) attributed to collections of any
kind of museum, of “uniting the visible and invisible world,” it is possible to understand that the
invisible here could be in the street market, as observed by Agassiz. Not everywhere could be called
Brazil, the country of exuberant nature and populated by Indian nations with very different life styles
than the transplanted Europeans. For the inhabitants of the Court living in Rio de Janeiro, the seat of
the Empire, this Brazil was not far away, but surely it was not there.

Ihering, Netto, and Lacerda, and even Goeldi’s museums do not fit into the category of “colonial
museum,” with which Bather (1895) characterized the museums of the British Empire and that
Sheets-Pyenson (1988) used in her analysis of Canadian, Argentine and Australian museums. From
the analysis of the ideals expressed by different directors of Brazilian museums in their practical
agencies, it is possible to understand how their ideals were transformed into realities. The directors
continuously gathered and classified collections, set up excursions and expeditions, responded to the
demands for public institutions, struggled for appropriations, renovated inadequate buildings, gave
classes and lectures, started national and international exchanges, published journals, established
priority research programs, fought for institutional spaces and got involved with political debates
within the realm of consolidation of scientific community in the country. From the point of view of
the role played by museological institutions at an international level in the transition to the 20"
century, like the major museums of Europe, Asia and elsewhere in the Americas, Brazilian museums,
despite their difficulties, served as important research centers for the natural sciences. Our museums
assuredly were not mere warehouse of objects, for they tried to assert themselves through the
relevance of their scientific production and experimental research, while not neglecting the catalogu-
ing and classifying of their collections. They attempted to respond to current trends in museum
development and they did play a pioneer role in the specialization of areas of knowledge in Brazil.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Susan-Sheets Pyenson, in memoriam, whose work led me to understand the importance of
the study of Latin American museums and to Pamela Henson whose support and help were essential
to the publication of this article. To FAPESP, for the financial supports on museum researches in
1997 and 1999. I also want to express my appreciation to the three reviewers, all of whom chose not

98 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

to remain anonymous, Drs. William Brice, Pamela Henson, and Alan Leviton, for their many
constructive comments that helped measurably to improve the manuscript.

NOTES

This process — one of its pillars was science —was initiated at the end of the war against Paraguay, in
1870. Only then did the Brazilian elite condemn slavery and dethrone the Monarchy, still reigning in the country,
in 1888 and 1889, respectively, to better promote and maintain their own agarian interests. During this period,
although the economic conditions of the country were reasonably stable, thanks to the position of Brazilian coffee
in the international market, the social contradictions became more acute and agarian interests diversified. The
coffee planter elite from Rio de Janeiro, who since the mid—1 9th century had been able to influence the Emperor,
began to lose ground to the emerging coffee planters from Sao Paulo. And, while the sugar cane planters from
the northeast harvested their latest important crops, rubber soared in commercial importance, introducing the
Amazon to the international scene.

> For a more comprehensive overview of Brazilian museums, see Lopes, 1997.

Due to the Napoleonic war, the Portuguese Royal Family came to Rio de Janeiro in 1808. Thanks to this
peculiar fact in history, completely different from what happened in other colonial empires, it became necessary
to create several institutions, including scientific ones, to provide the infrastructure to the new center of the
Portuguese kingdom.

This ‘institutional reform organized the National Museum 1 in four sections: 1*' Comparative Anatomy and
Zoology; 2" 4 Botanics, Agriculture and Mechanical Arts; an Mineralogy, Geology and Physical Sciences; 4th
Numismatics and Liberal Arts, Archaeology, Uses and Costumes of Modern Nations.

See for instance Doc. Arg. Nac. IE7—64, 20/11/1873. Relatorio do dr. Pizarro sobre a 1" Segao de
Zoolologia e Anatomia Comparada.

See Arquivos do Museu Nacional Correspondencia Oficial — 1833-1842.

For instance, in volume IV issued in 1879, among the publications received from 52 cities around the
world, there were some from the United States National Museum — Smithsonian — in Washington; the
Muséum National d’Histoire Naturelle de Paris; the Museum of Comparative Zoology in Cambridge [Harvard
College], Massachusetts; several botanical, zoological and anthropological associations from several North
American and European cities, besides museums from Melbourne, Cairo, Buenos Aires, Mexico and Santiago
among others. In 1905, the exchange of “Archivos” encompassed 48 institutions in Brazil and 497 institutions
like museums, scientific institutes, geological surveys, government organizations, botanical gardens, and
libraries on all continents. (Lopes, 1992)

Domingos Soares Ferreira Penna (1818-1888), a self-taught, itinerant naturalist of the Museu Nacional
do Rio de Janeiro, interested in geology and archaeology of the Amazon, held on several occasions political
office in the government of the state of Para and twice directed the Museu Paraense, from 1871 to 1872 and from
1882 to 1884 (Cunha, 1989).

The British representative, Edgard Leopold Layard, a well-known ornithologist who had helped found
the South African Museum in Cape Town in 1885, was a close collaborator of the Paraense Museum from the
time of his arrival in Brazil in 1872. He promoted an exchange between the two museums, with the donation of
an orithological collection composed of 340 African bird skins.

Decreto n° 933 de 31/12/1900. Actas e Decisdes de 1900. Estado do Para, Belém. Typ. do Diario Official,
1902:366—367.

' Private letter A. P. Nilback (Ensign, U.S.N.) to Spencer Baird. Rio de Janeiro, Oct. 13, 1884. Smithsonian
Archives, Record Unit 189. Assistant Secretary in charge of the U.S. National Museum, 1860-1908. Incoming
Correspondence. Box 90. I am grateful to Pamela Henson and to the staff of the Smithsonian Institution Archives
for access to and orientation regarding the vast and important documentation about the interchange between that
institution and Brazilian museums of natural history.

ie By-law number 49 from 22 January 1884, to the Museu Botanico do Amazonas, in:Vellosia, 2nd ed.,
1891:XII1.

'S Those Indians who were in constant fights with the settlers in the region, if they cause problems they also

LOPES: MUSEUMS IN BRAZIL IN THE 19TH CENTURY 99

constitute somehow a “source of income.” Following each Indian attack, the settlers received a “huge sum to
buy gifts and to finance expeditions.” If the Indians were, in fact, “pacified,” the appropriations would cease and
with them “some eight sure votes of unscrupulous State representatives.” According to Porto, this was one of
the main reasons that kept Barbosa Rodrigues away from the Amazon (Porto, op. cit.:71).

¢ Derby correspondence to Herman von Ihering, SP, 23/Jan/1893. I am thankful to Silvia Figueiroa for
lending me this valuable correspondence addressed by Derby to Ihering from 29/Jan/1886 until 17/Jan/1915, in
total 109 letters, partially unpublished, archived at the Hand-schriftabteilung (Darmm Smlg) da Staatsbibliotek
Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Berlin.

3 Derby correspondence to von Ihering, SP, 12/Oct/1892.

iad Derby correspondence to von Ihering, SP, 16/Jan/1893.

'7 See Smithsonian Institution Archives (SIA), RU 189, Assistant Secretary in charge of the Museum.
Incoming Correspondence. 1860-1908. George Brown Goode Papers, Box 62, Folder |. Especially the letter
dated 25 July 1896, in which Ihering comments about Goode’s paper.

'8 “The character of the Museum in general is a South-American museum aimed at the study, of the animal
kingdom, its zoological history and the Natural History of human kind”. (Museum Paulista By-Laws, article 2°,
1894:4).

'9 Relatérios do Museu Paulista, 1894 a 1911. Ihering kept a systematic correspondence with directors and
specialists from the Smithsonian Institution. See especially his letters in SIA, RU 7073 — William Dall Papers
(1865-1927) — Box 122, Folder 12; RU 189 — George Brown Goode Papers — Box 62, Folder 1; RU 54 —
George Brown Goode, Incoming Correspondence (1883—1896)— Box 4; RU 105 — Division of Birds Records
— Box 7, Letters.

0 His theory on “Continental Bridges,” published in the book “Archhelenis and Archinotis” in 1907 in
Leipzig had its importance acknowledged by Wegener in his conceptions of “Continental Drift.” On Ihering’s
interchanges network see Lopes and Figueiroa (1994).

“" Agassiz (op. cit.) stated that in the Rio de Janeiro fish market there were more rare specimens than in the
collections of the National Museum, which he considered anachronic during his visit in 1865.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

AGassiz, L. e AGASSIZ, E. C. 1975. Viagem ao Brasil 1865-1866. Trad. J. E. Filho. Apres. M. G. Ferri. Belo
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DENIS, F. 1980. Brasil. EDUSP, Sao Paulo (Colegao Reconquista do Brasil. vol. 46).

FIGUEIROA, S. F. de M. 1997. As Ciéncias Geologicas no Brasil:uma Historia Social e Institucional, 1875-1934.
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GoELDI, E. A. 1902. Parte Administrativa. Boletim do Museu Paraense de Historia Natural e Ethnographia
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Goopbe, G. B. 1895. The principles of museum administration. Pages 69-148 in Reports of Proceedings with the
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Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA.
All rights reserved.

Spencer Baird’s Dream: A U.S. National Museum

PAMELA M. HENSON
Historian, Institutional History Division
Smithsonian Institution Archives, Washington, DC 20560
E-mail: hensonp@osia.si.edu

Many people in the United States and abroad
identify the name “Smithsonian Institution” with mu-
seums and assume, not unreasonably, that the Smith-
sonian was founded as a museum. However,
museums were not an important part of early planning
for the Institution and were even resisted by the first
Smithsonian Secretary. A complex mixture of cul-
tural forces and individual initiatives led to the found-
ing of the United States National Museum at the
Smithsonian Institution.

To begin at the beginning, in 1826 an English
scientist named James Smithson (c.1765—1829) (Fig.
1) wrote his will, leaving his estate to his nephew,
Henry James Hungerford. However, he added a pe-
culiar last paragraph in which he stated that should
his nephew die without heirs, his estate should go “to
the United States of America, to found in Washington
under the name of the Smithsonian Institution, an
Establishment for the increase & diffusion of knowl-
edge among men.”! Smithson died three years later in
1829 and his estate went, as stipulated, to his nephew.
But in an odd twist of fate, that nephew died without d .
eve less.lardue course ahe linted Siniceen FIGURE 1, James Smithson (c. 1765-1829), founding

2 donor of the Smithsonian Institution. Portrait by
bassy in London was notified of Smithson’s unusual _H. Johns, 1816. Smithsonian Institution Archives
gift. President Andrew Jackson sent the matter to the
Congress, and a long period of debate began over what to do with these funds.

Smithson was the illegitimate son of Hugh Smithson, the Duke of Northumberland, and Elizabeth
Macie, a wealthy gentlewoman and the source of his fortune. He had attended Pembroke College,
Oxford, where he studied chemistry and mineralogy. He wrote over twenty scientific papers, many
on chemical analyses and descriptions of minerals. He was also active in such organizations as the
Royal Society of London and the Royal Institution of Great Britain. These organizations were founded
with mandates for the increase and useful diffusion of knowledge and so may have served as models.
But even among his extensive writings, no real clues can be found as to what Smithson actually
intended by an institution “for the increase and diffusion of knowledge.”

Early reports in American newspapers assumed that the money would be used to found a national
university; they consistently referred to the bequest as being for the “Smithsonian University.”
Perhaps surprisingly, reactions to news of the bequest were quite mixed. Southern Congressman, such
as John C. Calhoun, opposed accepting the bequest, arguing that to create such a national entity would

101

102 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

violate the principle of states’ rights. Former Presi-
dent John Quincy Adams, now in the House of Rep-
resentatives, led the supporters of the bequest, and
they soon prevailed. On 1 July 1836, Congress
authorized President Jackson to pursue the bequest.
Richard Rush (Fig. 2), former Ambassador to the
Court of St. James’s, was dispatched to London to file
a suit in the British Chancery Court for the bequest.
Smithson’s estate was awarded to the United States
on 8 May 1838. After Rush disposed of Smithson’s
holdings and investments, the gift totaled some
£104,960.

After the estate was transferred to the United
States, it took another eight years of wrangling before
the Smithsonian was actually established. Martin Van
Buren was now in the White House, and he asked
Secretary of State John Forsyth to write to “persons
versed in science and familiar with the subject of

va

3) a

: : ” eit 1 - < Z =) y
public education” to solicit “their views as to the fo ; a Fe, th
l Sf? AC CCLFA

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mode of disposing of the fund best calculated to meet
the intentions of the testator.” Former President

Adams opposed the creation of a national university, Fiure 2. Richard Rush (1780-1859), attorney
: a forei r should not charged with securing Smithson’s bequest for the
sale that mado fraps ie aoe d not be United States. Engraving by J. I. Pease.

used to educate American children. The War of 1812 Siitheonian Institution Archives:

and the burning of Washington by the English in 1814

still loomed large in people’s minds. Accepting a gift from a foreigner, especially an Englishman, for
such a purpose was viewed as demeaning to citizens of a democracy. Many educators saw exciting
opportunities in Smithson’s bequest.4 They responded to Van Buren’s request for ideas with a
dizzying range of proposals. An agricultural school, experimental farm, academy for instruction of
women, mechanics institute, school of the classics, graduate school, natural history school, and
teacher training school were just a few of the ideas put forth. Thomas Cooper, president of South
Carolina College, a political radical, wanted a scientific school that would ameliorate social condi-
tions through practical advances. He wrote, “I object to all .. . philosophical literature as calculated
only to make men pleasant talkers.”

Francis Wayland argued just the opposite! This professor from Brown University wanted a school
devoted to the classics. Science, he believed, did not ameliorate social problems but rather provided
mankind with more means of destruction, “gratifying to the full the widest love of slaughter.” Steven
Chapin of Columbian College, which is now The George Washington University, worried that a
Smithsonian University would compete with and perhaps destroy his fledgling school in the nation’s
Capital. Thus he argued for a graduate school that would complement, not compete with, Columbian
College.

Former President Adams argued for a national observatory. He considered studying the heavens
to be the most exalted of the sciences, thus the most appropriate for this public trust. Senator Rufus
Choate and Representative George Perkins Marsh lobbied for a great national library. The Library
of Congress was just a small collection in the Capitol and had been destroyed in the 1814 fire. Choate
demanded to know, “Why should a German or an Englishman sit down to a repast of five hundred

HENSON: U.S. NATIONAL MUSEUM 103

thousand books, and an American scholar, who loves the truth as well as he, be put on something less
than half allowance?” In a democracy, he argued, a library would diffuse knowledge much more
effectively than a national university. Alexander Dallas Bache, Superintendent of the U.S. Coast
Survey, and the great-grandson of Benjamin Franklin, was a supporter of scientific research. He
maintained that the bequest should continue Smithson’s life work as a scientific research institute.°

Others argued for the creation of a great national museum to house the treasures from scientific
expeditions and icons of American heroes. A group called the National Institute for the Promotion
of the Arts and Sciences had begun a small museum, located in the Patent Office Building. They
acquired the scientific specimens from the great United States Exploring Expedition as it traveled
around the world during the years 1838 to 1842. Birds, bugs, and baskets from all corners of the globe
were displayed for a curious public. The promoters of the National Institute attempted to gain control
of the Smithson bequest for their museum.’

Legislation was introduced for virtually every one of these ideas and, as the years passed, no
agreement was ever reached. The Treasury purchased state bonds with the legacy and the bonds failed
to pay as promised. John Quincy Adams and Richard Rush despaired of any solution. Every Tom,
Dick, and Harry had a proposal for how he could use the half million dollars. Adams wanted to protect
the bequest, “to secure, as from a rattlesnake’s fang, the fund and its income, forever from being
wasted and dilapidated in bounties to feed the hunger or fatten the leaden idleness of mountebank
projectors and shallow worthless pretenders to science.”*

Part of this problem was American politics, but another part of it was the vagueness of Smithson’s
will. Many, indeed most, philanthropists are quite specific about how they want their money to be
used. Examples include John Harvard’s 1638 bequest of money and books to the small Cambridge
college that later bore his name and Sir George Cayley’s founding of London’s Regent Street
Polytechnic Institute in 1838 with specific educational goals and administrative structure. These
philanthropists design buildings, create organizational charts, specify staff, operating procedures, and
programs in excruciating detail. Smithson left no hints, in the will, in his many writings, or in his
correspondence with friends and colleagues. He does not seem to have ever even discussed the idea
with his circle of friends, such as Dominique Frangois Arago and Davies Gilbert, who were quite
surprised by it. The vagueness of Smithson’s will made his bequest vulnerable to such debates, to
charlatans as well as idealists. It has also contributed to the notion that he tossed the phrase in as an
afterthought; that this was not a grand scheme of his.’

Despite the difficulties in deciding how to proceed, finally in 1846, a Congressman from New
York, William Jervis Hough, managed to craft a compromise bill that included something for virtually
everyone. The only provision that had been dropped, oddly enough, was the first, a national university.
On 10 August 1846, Congress passed the legislation establishing the Smithsonian, and it was signed
into law by President James K. Polk that same day. It contained provisions for basic research, and a
building to house a library, a museum, and a lecture hall.!°

With a mandate as broad as “the increase and diffusion of knowledge,” where does one begin?
The legislation placed the governance of the Institution in the hands of a Board of Regents, and they
prepared a report outlining what they believed were appropriate activities for Smithson’s new
Institution. Led by Robert Dale Owen, radical reformer from the New Harmony commune in Indiana,
they immediately began to plana building to house the Institution. Owen wanted a building that would
exemplify academic ideals and inspire Americans to improve their lot. The Smithsonian “Castle,”
(Fig. 3) designed by architect James Renwick, evoked the contemplative life of a medieval college.''

The Regents’ second decision was to select a Secretary to manage the day to day affairs of the
Smithsonian. They appointed Joseph Henry (Fig. 4), a professor of physics at the College of New

104 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

rT =
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2 Pita
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FiGureE 3. Smithsonian Building or “Castle,” c. 1860.
Smithsonian Institution Archives.

Jersey, which is now Princeton. Henry had pioneered research on electromagnetic induction and was
the most distinguished scientist in the United States of that day. Henry wanted to focus the Institution
on basic scientific research and outlined a “Programme of Organization” to carry out that plan. Henry
argued that the Smithsonian was a private research organization, responsible to the international
community of science, not a national entity. He was reluctant to take on the financial burden of
managing large collections and making them available to the public. He believed that museums,
libraries, and lecture halls reached only a small local population. Henry had an equally important
vision for how the Smithson funds could be used to advance scientific knowledge in the United States
and the world, while establishing the nation’s reputation as a scientific power. Henry would fund
basic research, especially in chemistry and physics, publish the writings of American scholars,
coordinate major research projects, and exchange scientific publications between the United States
and abroad. He supported acquiring natural history collections for scientific research but did not want
a large museum with public exhibits. He strongly opposed the elaborate building being planned by
the Regents on the Mall. He would have preferred to rent space in a nearby office building. He did
not want to hire a large permanent staff. Instead he wanted to give grants to qualified scientists, much
like the National Science Foundation does today.!*

Since Henry had to have a new building, as ordered by the Regents, he filled it with laboratories

HENSON: U.S. NATIONAL MUSEUM 105

for natural history and chemical research, as well as an
apparatus room where he could demonstrate state of the
art scientific equipment. Despite his opposition, the
Regents insisted on a lecture hall, a library and a
museum. Henry was quite reluctant to take on the
enormous financial and administrative burden of man-
aging a national library and museum. He believed that
the costs of managing such collections would force him
to turn to the Congress for federal funding and, thereby,
subject the young Institution to political influence.
Henry wrote, “The answer made to some of these
objections has usually been, that the government would
grant an annual appropriation for the support of the
museum of the exploring expedition. But this would be
equally objectionable, since it would annually bring the
institution before Congress as a supplicant for govern-
ment patronage, and ultimately subject it to political
influence and control.” The best course, Henry be-
lieved, was “‘to ask nothing from Congress . . . to min-
gle its operations as little as possible with those of the Ficure 4. Joseph Henry (1799-1878), First
general government. .. .” In time, Henry’s words would Smithsonian Secretary. Photograph by Brady.
acquire a ring of truth. Smithsonian Institution Archives.

How then did the Smithsonian become the museum complex it is today? To answer that question,
let us step back in time to August of 1838, shortly after the United States won its lawsuit for the
Smithson estate in the British Court of Chancery. August of 1838 was a busy month for the ports of
the young country. On the 19th of August, a fleet of six ships under the command of Lieutenant
Charles Wilkes left the port of Hampton Roads, Virginia, on a four year voyage around the globe.
This United States Exploring Expedition was designed to establish American presence in international
naval power and science. On board was a group of naturalists who would collect a treasure trove of
anthropological artifacts, and biological and geological specimens which some twenty years later
would form the basis of the United States National Museum.'*

Later that same month, the 29th of August to be exact, a packet ship, the Mediaror, arrived in
New York from London. On board was Richard Rush, the diplomat and attorney who had successfully
sued for the Smithson estate in the British Chancery Court. Rush kept a watchful eye over his cargo
— eleven boxes filled with gold sovereigns worth some £104,960, plus 8 shillings and 6 pence, which
would be converted into $508,318.46. Rush also transported Smithson’s personal effects, his library,
and his mineralogical cabinet. Those funds later formed the Institution which would create the United
States National Museum. The collections of minerals and books also formed part of its earliest
collections. To some this story might seem a classic case of two ships crossing in the night, fates
inextricably interwoven, brought together by some strange coincidence of fate.'°

But in many human affairs, seeming convergences are as much the result of long and careful
planning and dreaming, as they are of chance. Such was the case here. The movements of these two
ships were carefully watched by one Joel Poinsett (Fig. 5), a planter and amateur naturalist from South
Carolina who believed his young country needed a National Museum. As Secretary of War, he insisted
that the United States Exploring Expedition include a staff of naturalists to study and collect from the
natural resources and peoples of distant lands. And from the time the expedition departed, he worried

106 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

about where to house the collections when they re-
turned. He saw the answer in the peculiar bequest
recently received from Smithson. Poinsett believed
such an unusual resource should be used to form a
truly great institution which would establish the cul-
tural equality of our new country with Europe and
display its wealth of resources.!°

Although it would take twenty more years and
many other individuals for Poinsett’s dream to be-
come reality, he did successfully inject the concept of
a National Museum into the Congressional debates
about how to use Smithson’s bequest. And there were
strong pressures to create a national museum for the
young nation. When the Exploring Expedition collec-
tions arrived, they were housed in the Patent Office
Building. They were displayed alongside a collection
of patent models, James Smithson’s mineralogical
cabinet, and relics of the pantheon of the new country.
These included George Washington’s uniform and i ; awe
Benjamin Franklin’s printing press. This cabinet of RIGORE 2 dae) Roper e Pate s eolte cue

as ‘ ; of the National Institute. Engraved by J. B. Longacre.
curiosities was managed by the National Institute for Sinithsenian Institurion Archives ane
the Promotion of the Arts and Sciences which was
formed in 1840 by Joel Poinsett and others to secure control of the Smithson bequest and create a
National Museum. |”

Although ultimately, Poinsett’s National Institute failed in its bid to gain control of the Smithson
bequest, the exact reverse occurred. Eventually all of the National Institute’s collections were
transferred to the new Smithsonian. Despite the vision and dedication of Poinsett and his close circle,
its staff of amateurs did not understand how to study these artifacts and specimens to increase
knowledge or use collections to diffuse knowledge through carefully crafted exhibitions. Exploring
Expedition scientists complained about provenance information lost through sloppy handling and
specimens destroyed by unprofessional preparation. Titian Ramsey Peale, expedition naturalist and
artist, lamented, “my two birds (male and female) made into one, — the legs of one put on another
body, hundreds of fine insects put in families without localities, although they came from all parts of
the world, — bows in one end of the room — arrows in another with their ends sawed off to make
them fit into fancy stands, et cetera, —all for the great end, —the promotion of science.” These
collections soon overwhelmed the space capacity, staff time and financial resources of the National
Institute. Exhibited without context or theme, as a set of curiosities and relics, they were truly the first
“Nation’s Attic.” The public soon lost interest in the Patent Office Building exhibits, and public
financial support never materialized for the National Institute. This image of a dilapidated and
disorganized collection of curiosities, growing unkempt and unstudied, 1s probably what worried
Secretary Henry, with good cause.'*

But others saw these collections not as mere relics and natural curiosities. The botanical and
zoological collections could serve as the basis for research on the range of distribution of organisms
on the North American continent. The relics of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson could be
used to tell the story of the founding of the young country. Ethnological artifacts and modern industrial
equipment could be used to trace the development of technology from “primitive” civilizations to

HENSON: U.S. NATIONAL MUSEUM 107

that pinnacle of technological innovation, the United States. All these could be used in exhibits
designed to educate the citizens of a democracy about their history, the fine arts and the natural world.
These specimens and artifacts became valuable only when studied and analyzed comparatively, and
when the results of that work were shared through research-based publications and exhibits. This
vision, soon to be a reality, garnered the public enthusiasm that Poinsett had never been able to secure.
Most importantly, this vision of a research museum secured public support in the form of collection
donations, additional bequests, and Congressional appropriations which grew annually and ultimately
built fine new buildings to create a complex of museums and research institutes unparalleled
anywhere in the world.

In the fall of 1850, this new research-based mu-
seum approach arrived at the Smithsonian in the form
of one Spencer Fullerton Baird (1823-1887) (Fig. 6),
naturalist, ornithologist, ichthyologist, and dedicated
collector from Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Baird had be-
gun a natural history collection as a young man, aided
by his older brother, William M. Baird. He attended
Dickinson College in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, receiv-
ing the A. B. in 1840, and then studied medicine
briefly in New York. On family visits to Philadelphia,
Baird visited the Academy of Natural Sciences and
became acquainted with many of the prominent natu-
ralists of his day, including John Cassin, Isaac Lea,
Samuel G. Morton, and Thomas Nuttall. At the Acad-
emy, Baird first saw John James Audubon’s folio on
American birds. On 4 June 1840, Baird began a
correspondence on natural history with the famed
bird artist, which lasted for the rest of Audubon’s
career. By the time Baird graduated from college, he
was a well-known member of the small but vibrant
natural history community in the United States.!? FIGURE 6. Spencer Fullerton Baird (1823-1887),

In 1841, Baird heard from his brother, Will, who c. 1850, Assistant Secretary of the Smithsonian.
Henworedin Washington fare Treasury Depart- Daguerreotype. Smithsonian Institution Archives.
ment, about the collection of natural history materials amassed by the United States Exploring
Expedition and exhibited by the National Institute. That same year, while studying medicine in New
York, he met one of the expedition artists, Titian Ramsey Peale, son of Charles Willson Peale, who
ran a museum in New York City. Titian Peale was preparing the ill-fated reports on the birds and
mammals collected by the expedition. Baird peppered his brother with questions about the specimens
and the naturalists who worked at the National Institute. In 1842, Baird walked from Carlisle,
Pennsylvania, to Baltimore, Maryland, and then took a train to Washington to visit Will and see the
National Institute collections at the Patent Office Building. Indeed, he hoped he might be appointed
curator of the new museum, but as the National Institute foundered, so did Baird’s dreams. He settled
for a professorship at Dickinson College, teaching chemistry and natural history to its academy and
college students. Baird took his students on natural history “rambles” and taught them proper
techniques for collecting and preparing specimens. He also devoted considerable energy to improving
the college’s small museum. On 8 August 1842, he married Mary Churchill, the daughter of family
friends, a union that brought as much to Baird’s career as his personal life.°°

108 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Baird devoted his energies to teaching and developing the museum at Dickinson College, but he
soon tired of the classroom. When he heard of the founding of the Smithsonian Institution in 1846,
with provisions for a museum, his hopes were rekindled. In January of 1847, James Dwight Dana,
one of the “‘scientifics” on the United States Exploring Expedition, wrote to urge Baird to apply for
the position of curator of natural history at the new Institution, since Dana did not want the position
for himself. In early February 1847, Baird wrote to the new Secretary, Henry, offering his services
as the natural history curator and his collections to the new museum. He visited the fledgling
Institution several times to plead his case. He solicited recommendations from influential friends,
such as John James Audubon, James Buchanan, Asa Gray, and Samuel G. Morton. The natural history
community was eager to see a curator appointed to care for the natural history collections. Most
influential was George Perkins Marsh, a Congressman and member of the Smithsonian’s Board of
Regents. Marsh was a family friend of Baird’s wife, Mary Churchill Baird, and undertook to advance
the young man’s career. Secretary Henry was not enthusiastic about establishing a museum and wrote
to Baird that he would not hire a curator before construction of the Smithsonian Building was
completed, a period of at least five years. He did, however, provide Baird with funds to assist with
his natural history collecting and publications since this would fit Henry’s plan of supporting
scientists’ research without hiring a staff. Henry’s reluctance to move forward with the museum was
a disappointment to many naturalists. Dana wrote to Baird that the new Secretary was “not of the
wide comprehensive character I had expected from Henry.” On 9 October 1849, the distinguished
Harvard naturalist, Louis Agassiz, wrote to Henry to urge him to appoint a natural history curator,
recommending Spencer Baird. Marsh solicited support for Baird’s candidacy from other Regents and
pushed Henry to appoint him Assistant Secretary and natural history curator. Finally, in 1850, Baird
was named the first natural history curator, with the title of Assistant Secretary.”!

Spencer and Will Baird had amassed a large natural history collection which included birds,
mammals, reptiles, plants, minerals, and fossils. Baird’s two box cars full of personal collections
arrived at the young Smithsonian Institution via railroad — the new form of transportation which
facilitated the settling of the western half of the continent. As settlements pushed westward, tilling
prairie and felling great forests, they forever altered the American environment and landscape. During
Baird’s first decades at the Smithsonian, the many exploring expeditions sent out west provided a
fine opportunity to collect examples of western natural resources. Scientists such as Baird believed
it was imperative to study the natural distribution of flora and fauna before it disappeared. The
economic development of the country would be spurred by scientific collection and analysis of the
natural resources of each region. The distribution of such life forms would be studied to uncover the
great laws governing life, especially, in the 1860s, to evaluate Charles Darwin’s recently published
theory on The Origin of Species. For a collector such as Baird, each specimen was a piece of a puzzle,
which when compared, contrasted, juxtaposed, and arranged systematically, contributed to a larger
picture of the order underlying nature. Natural specimens were beautiful, they often were curious,
but most of all they were precious sources of information. In Baird’s view, collections and research
were complementary, not competitive. Some research required collections; that gave meaning to the
specimens in the collection. A well-documented and researched collection was an asset to American
science.7”

When young Spencer Fullerton Baird joined the staff of the new Smithsonian Institution he had
a dream, which he confided in July of 1853 to Regent George Perkins Marsh, his mentor. Baird wrote,
“T expect the accumulation of a mass of matter thus collected (which the Institution cannot or will
not ‘curate’ efficiently) to have the effect of forcing our government into establishing a National
Museum, of which (let me whisper it) I hope to be director. Still even if this argument don’t weigh

HENSON: U.S. NATIONAL MUSEUM 109

now; it will one of these days and I am content to wait.” At the helm of a National Museum, he could
amass a comprehensive collection of the plants, animals, minerals, and ores of North America. The
National Museum would house the “type” or definitive example of each species of American flora
and fauna, and thus would serve as a national voucher collection for all researchers to consult and
compare specimens with. The national collection would serve as the basis for economic exploitation
of those natural resources, as well as scientific research to unlock the secrets of nature. When Baird
arrived at the Smithsonian, there was a small collection of 6000 natural history specimens. The
Exploring Expedition collections and Smithson mineralogical cabinet were still housed at the Patent
Office Building, deteriorating through neglect and loss of associated provenance information. He
immediately set about working up the Exploring Expedition collections, starting with the reptiles in
1851.7

Baird’s first years at the Smithsonian were devoted to carrying out Secretary Henry’s program
of publication of new research and the international exchange of publications. Baird dutifully
shepherded other scientists’ research through to publication and shipped a huge quantity of exchange
publications within and outside the country. At the same time, Baird quietly but relentlessly continued
to amass natural history collections. Growing by over ten thousand accessions a year, by 1863, some
86,847 collections had been entered in the catalog, each containing many specimens. Baird at first
utilized the network Henry created to collect meteorological information and for the International
Exchange Service. From his office, Baird wrote an average of 3500 letters a year, some ten a day. In
this way, he established correspondence with interested individuals across the continent and around
the world. Baird was a diligent correspondent. An amateur naturalist writing to Baird for the first time
wouid receive a detailed, courteous, and enthusiastic reply. These collectors then sent him Native
American artifacts and specimens of plants, rocks, insects, meteorites, birds, and dinosaurs. He
rewarded them by listing their names in the annual reports of the Institution, placing them on the
mailing list for Smithsonian publications, and, perhaps most enduring, naming a new species after
the collector who had sent in the specimen. In his light-hearted manner, Baird wrote in 1853 to his
mentor, Marsh, “I fear me I have much to answer for in the way of deluding unsuspecting young (and
even old) men to possible destruction from bite of snake, scorpion or centipede, engulfing in caverns
while in search of fossil bones, embrace of Krakens when catching starfish on the seas; or some other
undescribed species of calamity, the genus, even, of which is not yet known.” In these years Baird
collected collectors. In this way he was able to bring in vastly more than he could ever collect on his
own.*4

Soldiers on the western frontier, farmers in the newly settled plains, physicians in the growing
cities, and trappers and hunters in the Canadian northwest, all sent him plants, animals, rocks, and
artifacts. These were carefully collected, documented, and shipped according to instructions printed
and distributed by Baird (Fig. 7). If these specimens were to have any scientific value, they had to be
properly prepared and documented. As one of the new class of professional researchers, Baird set the
standards for American natural history collecting during the second half of the nineteenth century.
He prepared circulars and manuals to teach the members of his collecting network what to collect,
how to collect, how to prepare, pack and transport specimens, and, very importantly, how to document
the specimens they sent. Baird thus ensured that the specimens in his national museum met the
emerging scientific standards.”°

Baird devoted much time to a group of young men whom he taught how to explore, collect, and
conduct scientific research. Elliott Coues became an Army surgeon in the West, but devoted his life
to ornithology. William Stimpson, Robert Kennicott, Henry Ulke, and Henry Bryant were among
Baird’s favorite young explorers. A lively group, they dubbed themselves the Megatherium Club

110 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

GENERAL DIRECTIONS FOR COLLECTING AND PRESERVING OBJECTS OF NATURAL HISTORY.

The Ssurasonian Insverorion being desiraus of procuring objsota of Natural History for ita Museum, would respectfully anak
assistance of the friends of science generally, and sapecially of afteese of the Army and Navy. — Any specimens of animals, plants, mune-
rals, ard fossil remaina will be acceptatle, perticu‘arly Teh az may be enumerated in the following brief directions for their preservation.
All contributions will of course be duly credited to their respective donors, in the Museum and the reports of une Institution. By reference
to the annexed Jetter, it will be seen that the Quartermaster's Department 1s authorized to receive and forward specimens.

J Te best way to preserve animals of moderate size is in alcohol, Next to this, rum or whiskey (the stronger the better) mey be em-
ployed Whan apirits eannot be sbtained, the following subetitutes may be ured +
1, Goanpy’s Sororion,—A. The Jhuninous fluid, composed of rock salt. 4 oz.; alum, 2 oz.; corrosive sublimate, 4 grains; boilin
water, 2 quarta. B. The Saline solution, composed of rock salt, 8 0z.; corrosive sublimate, 2 grains ; boiling water, 1 quar:. ‘T’o be well
atrred, strained, and ccoled.
Il. A strong brine, to be used os hereafter indicated for Goadby’s Solution.
II]. In extrome cases dry sat may be used, us in salting herring, d&e.

The collector should have a small seg, jar, tin bor, or other snitarie veesel, partiolly filled with liquor, into which epocimena may bo
thrown as collected. They should be alive, or as near tas possible when this is done, As besides the speedy and Jitde painful death, the
arimal will be more apt to keep sound, The entrance of the spiri: into the cavities of the body should de facilitated by opening the month,
making & supall incision in the abdomen a half or one inch long, and especially by injesting the liquor into the intastines through ‘he anus,
by means ofa smal! syringe. After the aninial has sonked for some weeks in this liquor, it should be transferred to fresh. Care should ba
taken not to crowd the specimens too much, and tho olighteet taint of putridity ehould be the vignal fer the employment of fresh spirits.
When it is impossible to transfer specinens to fresh spirits from time tc time, the strongest alcohol should be originally used.

‘To use Goadby’s Solution, the animal saould firstbe macerated for a few hours in fresh water, to which about helf its volume of the
concentrated solution may then be added, After soaking thus for some days, the specimens may be transferred to fresh concentreted
solution. When the aluminous fluid is used to preserve vertebrate animals, these should not remain in it for more than a few days, after tis,
they are to be soaxed in fresb water, und transferred tothe swine solution. An immersion of some weeka in the sluminous fluid will cause
a desuruction of the bones. Specimens muat be kept submerged 1 these fluids,

To pack the specimens for transportation, procure n amall keg, which has been progerly swelled, by allowing water to etand in it for a
day or two, and from this extract the heed by <nocking off the upper hoops, Great care must be taken to make such marks on the hoops and
head, as will ossist in Ureir being replaced in precisely the some relative position to each other ard the Keg, that they originally held. At
the bottom of the Keg place a layer of tow moistened in liquor, Leen one of specymens, then another of tow and: another of specimens,
and so on alternately unul the Keg is filled. Replace the head, drive down the hoops, cod fil ¢ompletely with spirits by pouring through
tho bung hole, Allow it to etand at Jeast hal? an hour, and then supplying the deficiency of the liquor, insert the bung and fasten iC securely.
Ap oysicr-can or other tin vessel may be used to great advantage, in which case the aperture shoald be soldered up and the vessel enclosed
ina box, A glass jar or boule may also be employed, but there is always a risk of breaking and leaking. In the absence of tow, chopoed
straw, fine shavings, or dry yrisx muy be substituted.

Fishes under six inches -0 lenzth need not bave the abdominal incis on. Specimens with the scales and fins perfect, should be selected,
and if convenient, stitched or pinned in sits of muslin, &e., Lo preserve Lie scales. To geners|, Ashes uncer twelve or fifteen inches in Jength
should be chosen. The skins of larger ones may ke putin liquor. [tis important to collect even tie smallest. : i

Slealls af quadrapeda may be propared by boiling in water for a few hours. A little potash ov ley added will facilitate the operation,
The flesh cor then be removed. Skulls of the American Indians and other human roces ave desirable when they can be obtained, us also
the skulls and skelstons of the larger mammalia, as deer, bears, wolvea, panthers, foxes, bearer, badger, antelope, rocky mountaim sheep,
mountain gout, seals, builalo, wild cat, praivic doge, manmots, &e., de, f

Binls and mommalia larger thea a rat should be skinned. The proper materin) for the preservation of such sling is arsenic, applied to
the ingide, either in powder, or mixed with alcohol or water. Such specimens should be perfectly dry before packing away. Ln the absence
of arseme, aking of large mammalie may be salted down in casks

Skeletons may be roughly prepared by skinning the animal and removing all tha viscam, together wth as much of the flesh os possible
The bones should then be exposed to the sun or air unti.-completely dried. “Previously, however, the brain of large anmals shoald be re-
moved, by separating the skull from the spine, and extracting the contents through the lerge hole in the sack of the head. In cnee it-be-
comes necessiry Lo disjoint a skeleton, care should be teken :o attach a common mark to «| the pieces, especially when moro than: one
individval is packed in tae same box.

Specimens of the following kindo, preserved in opirita, are particularly deaired:—Smaut Qoapnvrena, aa field mice, shrews, moles, bats,
aquirrels, weesels,—Rerri.es, assnakes, lizards, scorp.ons, (so-called) frogs, toaca, tree frags, and, above all, the sdlamandara, or lizards
without scales, found in water or under logs and stones, known by the various names of bellbender, young alligator, ground puppy, water~
puppy, &e. Fisx of allisinds, especially the gars, serch, pike, sunfish, chubs, sucxers, minnows, and other fresh water species. Also the
skulls, teeth and bones of animals ia genzral, and especially the fossil remains of teeth and boves, found in marl-pits, recks, caves, and the
superficial soil.

; Insects, Bues, &c.—The harder kinds may be put in liquor as above, but the vessel or bottles shculd not be very large. Butterflies,
wesps, lies, &c., may be pinned in boxes, or packed in layers with sofi paper or cotton. Minute kincs should be carefully sought under
stcnes, bark, dung, or flowers, or svept with a small ne. from grass or leaves. They may be putin quills, or small cones of paper, one in
each.—They may be killed by immersing the bottles, &e., in which they are collected, in hot water, or exposing them to the vapor of ether,

Marne shel!s, crabs, worms, sea cucumbers, slar fisies, se@ urchins, and polypes stould be put in apirit and in small vessels, 30 a8 to
preveritioo great pressure. Sea urchins and star fishes may also be dritd afer having been previously immersed for a minute or two in
boiling water, and packed up in cotton, or any soft material which may be ot hand.

_ Shells without the anima, skulls, tones, fosails, migerals, &c., should be packed so aa to prevent a.trition, in separate pieces of paper,
or in coiton, grass, sawdust, &c., leaving no vacancy in the box. All specimens skould he ascompanied by marks indicating the locality

whence obtained
SPENCER F. BAIRD,
Assstst. Secretary of the Smuhsonian Instuution, in charge of the Nat, Hist. Dept.

[copy.
: QuaARTERMASTER GRNERAL’S OFFICE,
Washington City, March 31st, 1848.

Co1.:—I am ir receipt of Professor Baird's letter with your endorsement, dated the 25th instant. In reply, I save to inform you, taat
where public wagons are returning empty, from the interior to the Gepote on the cocst, and public veasels returning from Mexien or Texas,
to New Orleans, or other ports in the United States. spec.mens can ve transported and kept in public stores, as requested by Profeseor Baird,
free of expense, but that no money can ke paid for experses, it being contrary to law.

- I me ’ esa
el respect
i Year are Oe acrvant,
THOS. 8. JESUP, Q M. Gen
Cor. $. Cuurcumt,
Ans. Gen, U. 8.

FiGuRE 7a. General Directions for Collecting and Preserving Objects of Natural History, and Special Desiderata, c. 1850.
Smithsonian Institution Archives.

HENSON: U.S. NATIONAL MUSEUM

SPECIAL DESIDERATA.

As comparatively little is known of the animals and plants of the country west of the Mississippi and Gulf of

Mexico, the attention of officers of the army, and others, is. especially invited to this region.
trout, grayling, minnows, é&c., little or nothing is on record, and the same may be said of the marine species.

Of the fresh water fishes,
‘The

reptiles, birds, smaller mammalia, (squirrels, marmots, gophers, poucheé rats, hares, &c.,) and other animals should also

be carefully collected.

‘Dhis region likewise abounds in fossil bones, teeth, &c., of thi
as “Mauvaises Terres,” or ‘‘ Bad Lunds,

River, Platte, Eau qui Court, &c.
fossil bones.

Similar remains are to be looked for in all caves, peat bogs, a

other localities throughout North America.

A list of the principal species of large Norh American anima
skulls and skeletons. For the purpose of having complete series in th
plying other Museums, it is desirable to havo a considerable number of the skulls of cach specics.
It must, however, be remembered, that a single tooth or bone, of an animal,
Each specimen should, as far as practicable, have the age,

at least oneskeleton should be procured.
in the absence iof anything more, will be of importance.

sew, and locality distinctly marked on the bone in pen or pencil.

HUMAN RACES, civilized ond uncivilized.
BUFFALO.

MUSK OX.

MOUNTAIN SHEEP, or BIGHORN.
CALIFORNIA WILD SHEEP.
MOUNTAIN GOAT.

ANTELOPE,

ELK,

LITTLE ELK.

MOOSE.

REINDEER, or CARABOU.

BLACK TAIL DEER, of Rocky Mountains.

"8 as “of the Pacific.
MULE DEER. et

WHITE TAIL DEER.
DEER—cther species.
BEAVER.

PRAIRIE DOG.
MARMOTS.

FiGuRE 7b. General Directions for Collecting

HARES.

LARGE WOLF, black, while, or grey.
LOBOS WOLF.

PRAIRIE WOLF.

COYOTE.

INDIAN DOG.

FOXES, all species.

SEA OTTER.

COMMON OTTER.

GRIZZLY BEAR.

WHITE BEAR.

BEARS, other species.

RACCOON, especially from California,
BADGER.

WOLVERENE, or CARCAJOU.
FISHER.

MARTEN.

PANTHER

JAGUAR.

Smithsonian Institution Archives.

e greatest interest, especially in those portions known
” and occuring along the Missouri aud ils (ribularies, White River, Milk
The banks and beds of these and other streams, likewise contain rich treasures of
lluvial soil, marl pits, fissures ia rocks and

Is is subjoined, with reference to the collection of
e different stages of age and sex, and for sup-

When possible,

OCELOT.

OUNCE.

TIGER CAT.

WILD OAT.

LYNX,

CIVET CAT, or BASSARIS.
ARMADILLO.

PECCARY, or MEXICAN HOG.
WALRUS, or MORSE.
SEALS.

PORPOISES,

DOLPHINS.

WHALES.

MANATEE, or SEA COW.

ALLIGATOR.
SHARKS, STINGREES, RAYS, DEVIL
FISH; teeth, jaws, and vertebra.

111

and Preserving Objects of Natural History, and Special Desiderata, c. 1850.

112 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

(Fig. 8) after a spectacular fossil sloth recently uncov-
ered. Baird juggled funds to support them financially,
allowed them to live in the towers and basement of
the Castle, and used them to both acquire collections
and disseminate more research than he could produce
on his own. Baird knew, as we do today, that he could
increase his research productivity geometrically if he
also brought in and trained young and eager students.
The Smithsonian may not have become the National
University, but it soon became a center for honing the
research skills of young scholars interested in natural
history and collections based research. Baird’s con-
siderable skills as a mentor ensured that these young
naturalists remained in the Smithsonian fold, unlike
his colleague at the Museum of Comparative Zool-
ogy, Louis Agassiz. These young natural history en-
thusiasts did, however, experience the dangers Baird
had so lightly alluded to; the young Kennicott, for
instance, lost his life on an expedition to Russian-
America in 1865. But others, such as William Healey
Dall, went on to spend long careers as curators at the
new National Museum.”°

Baird ensured that well-trained naturalists ac-
companied the government exploring expeditions to

: : FiGuRE 8. Members of the “Megatherium Club,”
the western part of the continent and that their collec- clockwise from upper right: Henry Ulke, Henry

tions came to the Smithsonian. In 1857 alone he took Bryant, William Stimpson, and Robert Kennicott,

in specimens from ten government expeditions and c. 1860s. Smithsonian Institution Archives.

sIx private exploring parties. He sent instructions on how to collect, preserve, document, and ship the
specimens and arranged free shipment on railways, boats, and through the mails. Additional
collections were sent from Russian-America, Mexico and South America. The fact that Baird’s
father-in-law, Brigadier General Sylvester Churchill, was Inspector General for the United States
Army greatly facilitated his requests for collecting assistance from soldiers. Indeed, Baird’s list of
collectors included such military luminaries as General George B. McClellan, Captain David
Farragut, and Commodore Matthew C. Perry.?’

Within the first two decades of his arrival at the Smithsonian, Baird equipped the six surveys for
railroad routes across the continent, including the Fremont, Gunnison, Stevens, Whipple, and
Williamson surveys. He also equipped the naturalists on the United States and Mexican Boundary
Survey, the Navy Survey of the La Plata River and its tributaries, the United States Naval Astronomi-
cal Expedition to Chile, the Ringgold and Rodgers exploration of the China Seas and Behring’s Straits,
and Elisha Kent Kane’s exploration of the west coast of Greenland and Smith’s Sound. The 1870s
saw the surveys of the Territories, under Hayden, Powell, and Wheeler. From 1850 to 1877, the
Smithsonian received specimens from more than 245 expeditions to all reaches of the globe.**

Congressional support was forthcoming for these western exploring expeditions in part because
of their practical focus. Expeditions leaders such as Ferdinand Vandiveer Hayden and John Wesley
Powell were interested in both advancing science and economic development of the West. Hayden
viewed locating coal deposits, mineral veins, timber stands, agricultural resources, grazing lands,

HENSON: U.S. NATIONAL MUSEUM 113

water, irrigation sites, and tourist spas as the duty of the territorial geologist. Powell’s interest in the
West was as an environment for settlement, as much as it was in its geology and archeology. By
working closely with figures such as Hayden and Powell who emphasized the economic value of
their work, Baird ensured that his naturalists accompanied military and commercial exploring
expeditions, and the surveys received strong Congressional and popular support.””

Baird also developed the nucleus of a national paleontological collection during his four decades
at the Smithsonian. In 1858, Fielding B. Meek was appointed Resident Collaborator in Paleontology
at the National Museum and resided in the Smithsonian Castle from 1861 until his death in 1876. A
veteran of state geological surveys in Iowa, Minnesota, New York, and Wisconsin, as well as the
Hayden surveys, Meek brought expertise in systematics and stratigraphy. He worked diligently on
publications from the collections amassed by the surveys. By the time the United States Geological
Survey was established in 1879, the U.S. National Museum had sufficiently established itself as the
national repository that the legislation directed that all specimens and artifacts collected by the
U.S.G.S., when no longer needed for research, were to be deposited in the National Museum.*”

Baird also encouraged the transfer of parts of the National Institute collections to the Smithsonian
in 1857 and again in 1862. As room after room filled with specimens, Baird continued to play a major
role in publishing the results of research on the collections made by the United States Exploring
Expedition and other surveys. In this way, he ensured that they were worked on and described by
competent, experienced scientists. The last of the National Institute collections, however, were not
transferred to the Smithsonian’s National Museum until 1883 when was Baird was Secretary. These
transfers included historical artifacts, such as George Washington’s military tent and field kit, as well
as scientific specimens. A collection of art on display in the Castle attracted visitors as well. Portraits
and busts of classical subjects, as well as important Americans and scientists, were displayed for
public viewing. A collection of American Indian paintings by John Mix Stanley also received a great
deal of interest. Thus, within a few years of its opening, the Castle had become a popular place to
visit in the nation’s Capital, with collections in art, history, and science.*!

During his first two decades as Assistant Secretary at the Smithsonian, Baird dutifully continued
to harry printers and ship an endless stream of publications for Secretary Henry. He had watched
closely in 1855 as Henry fired the other Assistant Secretary, Charles Coffin Jewett, in a dispute over
creation of a National Library. The Institution had been receiving a copy of all works submitted for
copyright and had amassed a fine collection of other books, especially in art history. These included
portfolios with copies of such masters as Rembrandt and da Vinci. But Secretary Henry did not believe
the Smithson bequest was sufficient to pay for scientific research, a museum, and a national library.
When Jewett pushed too hard for the National Library, Henry dismissed him and suggested that the
Smithsonian should dispose of some of the collections which were filling up every available inch of
the Castle. In his 1856 report, Henry proposed that the government take back all the collections the
Smithsonian had accumulated thus far and even purchase the Smithsonian Building to house the
collections. Henry could then operate his program from much reduced space. The Congress did not
take Henry up on his offer, but rather sent more and more treasures to the Castle.*

The Institution had received art works, historical “relics,” and scientific specimens from its
earliest days. The Smithsonian was pushed into becoming the National Museum because the young
nation was just beginning to establish a national collection and had no way to care for it. As the
generation of founding fathers died off and entered a national pantheon, their personal possessions
were collected as relics. These artifacts of everyday life soon gained iconic status as they came to
stand for the ideals, values, and accomplishments of the men who had once used them. Painters offered
images of great American figures as inspiration for the citizens of a democracy. Scholars brought

114 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

copies of the great art works of Greece, Rome, and the Renaissance to educate the masses. As these
new collections filled the nooks and crannies of the Castle, Henry had finally agreed in 1858 to accept
a Congressional appropriation to care for them, with the fiction that the appropriation for the United
States National Museum was to the Department of the Interior, not the Smithsonian. Henry accepted
the government funding reluctantly, concerned that such funding would make the Institution an annual
supplicant to the Congress and expose the Smithsonian to political influence.*?

Baird simply did not share Henry’s concern about loss of freedom when accepting public funding;
thus, as Assistant Secretary and later Secretary, he sought Congressional appropriations for museums,
expeditions, buildings, fisheries research, and international expositions. Baird knew his vision for a
great national museum was too big for the Smithson bequest alone and would require federal
appropriations for its care. Baird watched over the collections carefully as the Civil War raged around
the Smithsonian Building, and the National Museum passed safely through that national crisis. But
shortly before the war ended, the Institution faced its second major crisis, one that gave Secretary
Henry additional justification for disposing of the collections.*4

Disaster struck these early national collections as they went up in flames when fire erupted in
the Castle in 1865. Among the objects destroyed in the fire were the John Mix Stanley Indian portraits,
James Smithson’s papers and mineralogical cabinet, and a collection of scientific instruments. The
fireproofed flooring of the second story spared the natural history collections and the library.
However, Secretary Henry used the fire to argue that the Smithsonian could not serve as a responsible
custodian for the national collections. The library was deposited at the Library of Congress and the
art collection was split between the Library of Congress and the private Corcoran Gallery of Art.
Baird worked quietly to ensure that his scientific collections would not suffer a similar fate. Despite
his efforts, the botanical collections had been sent to the new United States Department of Agriculture
in 1862, and the insect collections followed in 1866; that same year the human anatomical collections
were sent to the Army Medical Museum. But the remainder of the natural history collections stayed
in the Smithsonian Castle. Henry and Baird danced a complex pas de deux during these years, Henry
grudgingly allowing Baird to bring in ever more materials. I cannot but think that the younger Baird
sustained himself through these hard times with the thought, “I am content to wait — I'll be here long
after you’re gone, Professor Henry.”

Baird sought to prove the research value of the zoological collections by preparing — and
commissioning others to prepare — monographs on them. A stream of publications emanated from
the Institution during these years. But Baird’s focus on a national voucher collection can be seen
clearly in his publication record. Unlike his colleague, and at times competitor, Louis Agassiz of
Harvard, Baird did not pursue theoretical analysis of his biological specimens, develop grand
classification schemes, or propose ideal mechanisms to explain life forms. His only analytical work
was “The Distribution and Migration of North American Birds.” Baird had quickly accepted Darwin’s
new theory, but did not seek to expand on it in his work. Baird published reports describing the
specimens from each expedition and massive catalogs of the national collections, such as his catalogs
of the mammal and bird collections of the National Museum. These publications made the National
Museum’s collections a resource for other scientists and for analyses of economic potential. Baird
did not amass collections to further his personal research program, as many of his colleagues did; he
collected to establish a grand natural resource in the form of a museum.*°

The great collections amassed in nineteenth century Europe and North America created an
empirical base for new studies of phylogeny, morphology, and geographical distribution. The sheer
number of specimens in each taxonomic group demanded specialization, as well. No longer could
one naturalist hope to be an expert on all of zoology, or even all insects or birds. This enormous

HENSON: U.S. NATIONAL MUSEUM 115

empirical base demanded years of study by specialists and encouraged the professionalization of
science. These new curatorial demands also allowed Baird to increase the staff of the National
Museum.>’

Baird was also able to garner Congressional and popular support by demonstrating the practical
value of his collections to a larger audience. In 1866 he had testified before Congress about the value
of natural resources in Russian-America. Although Alaska was called “Seward’s folly,” Baird has
been credited with arguing that Alaska possessed a wide range of natural resources, far beyond the
value of the asking price. He could point to the collections from Russian-America sent in by such
expeditions as the 1865 Western Union Telegraph Expedition. The intrepid young explorers he
mentored, such as Robert Kennicott, William Stimpson, and William Healey Dall, went out on these
expeditions and amassed vast collections which served both scientific and economic purposes.**

In 1872 Baird made a major step forward towards his goal when Secretary Henry gave him full
responsibility for management of the United States National Museum. Baird now devoted much of
his time to supervising staff, preparing budgets and acquiring new collections. Perhaps Henry had
now become resigned to the existence of the National Museum and saw his best course as placing it
in Baird’s hands, freeing him to focus on promoting research and publications. After 1870, the
National Museum was on firmer ground and grew rapidly as the nation expanded west. Baird
encouraged other natural history museums throughout the country, distributing duplicate specimens
to the steadily increasing number of museums on college campuses and in the rapidly growing cities.*?

Baird’s biggest acquisition arrived in the 1870s after Secretary Henry recommended that he be
appointed to an interagency committee to prepare the government exhibits for the Centennial
Exposition in Philadelphia in 1876. The Congressional legislation introduced for the government
exhibit in Philadelphia had an interesting proviso. It stated that the appropriation was to be considered
a loan and if income from the exhibition was sufficient for the exposition directors to repay the loan,
Congress would then allow part of those funds to be used to construct a new building for the National
Museum. Although that language was left out of the final version of the appropriation, it opened the
door to a National Museum building. Perhaps motivated in part by this possibility, and with help from
a talented young assistant, George Brown Goode, Baird produced award winning exhibits that
received great public acclaim and gave the Smithsonian national visibility. The exhibit consisted of
two sections, one on the Smithsonian Institution itself, emphasizing its research programs, and a
second section which focused on the natural history of North America, including botany, zoology,
ethnology, and mineralogy. This section emphasized the economic importance of these natural
resources. The government exhibition was considered by many to be the most successful section of
this immensely popular exposition. Baird now had a national, even international, audience and
acclaim for his museum program.””

Baird’s most important triumph, however, came as he was able to convince most of the
Centennial exhibitors to avoid the hassle and expense of shipping their displays home by donating
them to the Smithsonian. When the train pulled in to Union Station this time, it had sixty box cars
filled with materials for the National Museum. Finally Baird had exceeded the capacity of the Castle,
and so he stored his collections in the Armory Building until he secured Congressional appropriations
for a National Museum building.*!

After Secretary Henry’s death in 1878, Baird was immediately named the second Smithsonian
Secretary. His first priority was securing a new museum building, so he turned his attention to Capitol
Hill. In 1879, Congress did, indeed, allocate funds for the new National Museum Building. Like
Henry, Baird did not wish to waste money on a monumental building. He proposed instead a simple
structure similar to the government exhibition building at the Centennial Exposition that had been

116 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

designed by General Montgomery C. Meigs. No wood was to be used in the construction, ensuring
that the building would be fireproof, and avoiding another disaster like the 1865 Castle fire. Baird
fought successfully to have the building placed next to the Castle, despite concerns that it would
obstruct the view of that building. He argued that operating a distant facility was far too costly in
terms of staff and operating costs—it would even require new sewer lines. Ground was broken on 17
April 1879 on the Smithsonian Building “Annex.” Baird carefully watched over the construction of
his new museum, brick by brick. A high-powered building committee, including General Meigs,
General William Tecumseh Sherman, a Smithsonian Regent and chair of the Building Committee,
and Peter Parker, also a Regent, assisted Baird with construction of the building designed by architect
Adolf Cluss. The building was completed on time and within budget (Fig. 9). Per square foot, it was
the cheapest permanent government building ever built. It had 80,000 square feet of exhibit space.
When the National Museum opened in 1881, it was the fulfillment of the dream Baird had penned to
George Perkins Marsh so many years before.”

In Baird’s first annual report as Secretary, he paid lip service to Henry’s vision, but Henry’s
“Programme of Organization” for the Smithsonian and the fiction that the museum was really part of
the Interior Department soon disappeared from the annual reports. Baird devoted his tenure as
Secretary to placing the museum on a firm foundation. He did not share his predecessor’s concerns
about accepting government funds and quickly sought increased funding for all aspects of the National
Museum’s activities.**

The first event in the new building, before its exhibits were installed, was the Inaugural Ball for

Dam.

FiGure 9. United States National Museum, c. 1881. Smithsonian Institution Archives.

HENSON: U.S. NATIONAL MUSEUM 117

President James Garfield and Vice-President Chester A. Arthur, attended by 7,000 people on March
4, 1881. A wooden floor was laid, 10,000 bins for hats and coats were erected, 3000 gas lights were
installed, banners and buntings were hung from the balconies, and two electric lights were installed
in the rotunda. While Henry might have deplored such a political activity at the Institution, Baird
accepted the price of government funding.

As soonas the permanent floor was laid, the work of installing exhibits began. Massive specimens
of marine mammals were hoisted into place. A team of watchmen and laborers was hired for the
building. The National Museum Building opened to the public in October of 1881, and in its first full
year, 1882, the guards counted some 167,455 visitors. Initially the ground floor was completely open
and devoted to exhibits. The halls were furnished with mahogany exhibit cases that were eight feet,
eight inches long, to fit the architectural design of the building (Fig. 10). The cases were easy to move,
so exhibits could be reconfigured without great difficulty. The cases themselves served as the
partitions between exhibits. The cases were dust-proof and insect-proof, with special Yale locks, and
each case was wired with an electric alarm that ran to the superintendent’s office.*

The National Museum was new in philosophy, as well as building and cases. Credit for this
belongs to Baird’s assistant, George Brown Goode (Fig. 11), who became the leading figure in

aR SUH” th
VA A, VT Ms

va

HWS.
is

Ficure 10. Hall of Comparative Anatomy in the new United States National Museum, c. 1881
Smithsonian Institution Archives.

118 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

developed his own “democratic” approach. In
Goode’s view, the early Smithsonian collections had
been a museum of research. When the Smithsonian
accepted the government collections, it became a
museum of record, the official repository for objects
of art, culture, and science. Goode’s new museum
was also a museum of education. Goode believed that
the role of the National Museum was to teach and
uplift the citizens of a democracy, not merely amuse
or entertain.*°

Goode established a comprehensive classifica-
tion system of the world, from the inorganic, to plants,
to animals, to man. Each of these groups showed a
progression from the simple to the complex. The
exhibits were designed to convey the place of each
object in a great world order. Although an ichthyolo-
gist by training, Goode was also interested in history
and the meaning of human artifacts. To Goode and
his colleagues, objects were a window to the past. His ey ee eee
colleague, Otis T. Mason RON ce the people of the ‘aii Secretary fete of the United States Reel
world have left their history most fully recorded in Museum, c. 1887. Smithsonian Institution Archives
the works of their hands.” The late nineteenth century
was the Progressive Era, and the Smithsonian’s museum philosophy reflected the prevailing point of
view. Mason’s ethnological exhibits traced an evolutionary progression of human civilizations, from
the “primitive” to contemporary America, based on technological advancement. Goode’s museum
of research, record, and education sought a comprehensive display of the inorganic, organic, and
human worlds, to engage visitors with the specimens and artifacts on display.*”

With a new building, Baird was able to expand the staff of the National Museum as well. By
1886, his staff included Goode and Romyn Hitchcock, Arts and Industries; Dr. H. G. Beyer, Materia
Medica; Otis T. Mason and William Henry Holmes, Ethnology; Charles Rau, Antiquities; Frederick
William True, Mammals; Robert Ridgway and Leonhard Stejneger, Birds; Captain Charles E.
Bendire, Oology; Henry C. Yarrow, Reptiles; Tarleton H. Bean, Fishes; William Healey Dall and
Robert E. C. Stearns, Mollusks; Charles V. Riley, Entomology; Richard Rathbun, Marine Inverte-
brates; Charles D. Walcott, Invertebrate Fossils; Charles A. White, Mesozoic Paleontology; Lester
F. Ward and Frank H. Knowlton, Fossils and Recent Plants; F. W. Clarke and W. S. Yeates, Minerals;
and George P. Merrill, Lithology and Physical Geology. Many of Baird’s curators held honorary
appointments; they either received no salary for their work or were paid by another government
agency. Nevertheless the pace and range of work at the National Museum had increased rapidly under
Baird’s guidance.**

Baird (Fig. 12) accepted new responsibilities for the Smithsonian, such as the Bureau of
Ethnology, led by John Wesley Powell. With strong support from Congress, Baird encouraged the
B. of E. ethnologists to collect artifacts and pursue archaeological investigations, as well as study
Native American life and languages. All collections acquired by these ethnologists would, of course,
come to the National Museum. In this case, again, there were strong pressures from the general public
and the Congress to document vanishing Native American culture, especially through artifacts. Baird
worried that the most valuable ethnological and geological materials were being purchased for

HENSON: U.S. NATIONAL MUSEUM 119

European collections. As a matter of national pride,
Baird joined many citizens and Congressmen in be-
lieving that the United States needed to have the
premier collection of these materials.*°

Smithsonian exhibits appeared at almost every
late nineteenth century exposition, often winning
awards as they showcased the National Museum and
taught visitors about their history and natural world.
The Smithsonian presented displays at the Interna-
tional Fisheries Exhibition in London in 1880, the
International Fisheries Exhibition in Berlin in 1883,
Boston’s Foreign Exhibition in 1883, Chicago Rail-
way Exhibition in 1883, International Electrical Ex-
hibition in Philadelphia in 1884, Southern Exposition
in Louisville in 1884, the Industrial Exposition in
Cincinnati in 1884, the World’s Industrial and Cotton
Exposition in New Orleans in 1885, Minneapolis
Industrial Exposition in 1887, Centennial Exposition
of uy ole eu ere: aie be Sits 29 FiGure 12. Spencer Fullerton Baird, c. 1878,
position in 1889, the Paris International Exposition in second Smithsonian Secretary.
1889, the Patent Centennial in 1891, the Columbian Smithsonian Institution Archives.
Historical Exposition in Madrid in 1893, the World’s
Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893, and the Cotton States and International Exposition of 1895
in Atlanta. A steady stream of exhibits made the National Museum a household world within the
United States and abroad.~’

Baird also served, without salary, at his own insistence, as U. S. Commissioner of Fish and
Fisheries, a joint appointment with his Smithsonian duties. As Fish Commissioner, he conducted
research on the decline of the fishing industry in the North Atlantic. He established the marine biology
station at Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and oversaw a network of smaller stations. Fish Commission
boats, such as the steamer A/batross, made extensive collections of marine fauna, which were studied
and then accessioned into the national collections. Baird also produced award winning exhibits on
the fisheries industry at the London and Berlin Fisheries Expositions. At the Centennial Exposition
in Philadelphia and other international expositions, Baird’s natural history displays emphasized both
scientific value and economic importance. National collections were, then, a resource for both
scientific research and economic development. In this and many other smaller ways, Baird cultivated
the growth of both research and the national collections. And when all else failed, Baird purchased
the collections with his personal funds or wrote a personal check to an explorer to be sure he could
collect specimens properly and ship them back to the Institution.*!

To Baird then, stewardship of the National Museum did not require a choice between research
and collections. As pointed out earlier, he held that some research required collections, other research
did not. Thus, research was the activity that gave meaning to the individual objects that formed a
collection. An artifact or specimen provided information to the scholar, stored information for future
studies, and served as a teaching tool in public exhibits. Without research, the National Museum
would remain the cabinet of curiosities displayed by the earlier National Institute. With research, the
National Collections became a new type of vehicle for economic development, public education, and
the advancement of American science and culture, transporting casual visitors and serious scholars

120 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

alike to exotic lands, vanishing landscapes, and the backrooms where democracy was plotted and
secured. Not ephemeral in nature, the National Collections would also travel through time as a vehicle
for the increase and diffusion of knowledge not only for the present but for generations to come.

In 1884-1885 Joseph Henry’s fears about accepting federal funds for the National Museum
proved well-grounded, as Spencer Baird faced the most difficult days of his career. The Congress
held hearings about the fate of both the United States National Museum and the United States Fish
Commission, as part of a general attack on government science programs. Some critics questioned
Baird’s management of the two organizations and his handling of federal funds. Discontented staff
members and disappointed office seekers added fuel to the fires. Ironically, the Congress then
proposed the solution that Henry had so ardently desired twenty years before — that the National
Museum and Fish Commission be separated from the Smithsonian Institution. Baird worried that the
positions of director of the National Museum and director of the Fish Commission would become
political plums and lose their scholarly status. Eventually the U.S. Fish Commission was separated
from the Smithsonian, but the United States National Museum remained within the Institution’s aegis.
The vitriolic personal attacks that were part of this episode took their toll on the aging and infirmed
Baird.>?

By the time he died in 1887, Baird had achieved his dream of a comprehensive National Museum.
When he arrived in 1850, the Smithsonian housed some 6000 specimens, but at his death, the National
Museum had grown to over 2.5 million lots of artifacts and specimens in art, history, anthropology,
and science. The National Museum consisted of thirty-one departments under the care of twenty-six
curators, although only seven were on the museum’s payroll. Honorary curators from the U.S. Fish
Commission, United States Geological Survey, Bureau of Ethnology, United States Army, and United
States Navy carried out the work of the National
Museum alongside its small but growing paid staff.
The museum’s annual visitorship was counted as
315,114 for that year. Baird left his dream in the hands
of a committed younger colleague who would ensure
that his vision for the Smithsonian would prevail. As
Assistant Secretary in charge of the United States
National Museum, Goode lived less than a decade
longer than his much older mentor, but in his short
life he established museum arrangement and display
as a professional field and secured for the United
States National Museum a reputation as the premier
museum in the country.”

As is the usual case, by the time Baird died in
1887, the National Collections had already outgrown
the new National Museum Building. Indeed, by 1882,
Baird was requesting a new building from the Con-
gress. The third Secretary, Samuel Pierpont Langley
(Fig. 13), continued to make this request annually for
more than a decade after Baird’ death. Balconies were
constructed to create more exhibit space; exhibit halls
were closed to provide additional storage space; and ,

8 ‘ : ‘ FIGURE 13. Samuel Pierpont Langley (1834-1906),
cases of specimens crowded higher and higher along shind Smithsonian Secretary, 6. 1887:
hallways (Fig. 14). Some two decades passed until the Smithsonian Institution Archives.

HENSON: U.S. NATIONAL MUSEUM 121

“new” National Museum was built across the Mall. Designed by architect J. D. Hornblower, this
monumental building reflected the iconic status the Smithsonian’s collections had achieved. It opened
in 1910 to house the anthropology, natural history, and art collections (Fig. 15). Today it is known
as the Natural History Building.™

In the decades since, the Smithsonian has evolved into a complex of sixteen museums in
Washington, D.C., and New York City, devoted to the arts, history, and the sciences. These are the
Anacostia Museum, Arts and Industries Building, Cooper-Hewitt Museum, the Freer and Sackler
Galleries, Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, National Air and Space Museum, National
Museum of African Art, National Museum of American Art, National Museum of American History,
National Museum of the American Indian, National Museum of Natural History, National Portrait
Gallery, National Postal Museum, National Zoological Park, and Renwick Gallery. By the 150"
anniversary of its founding in 1996, the Institution housed over 140 million objects in its national
collections.

With vision and plenty of hard work, Baird was able to achieve his dream of building a great
national museum and, in doing so, substantially alter the direction of the Smithsonian Institution.
Poinsett’s efforts set the stage by having a provision for a museum in the Smithsonian’s enabling

=r Wi

FiGure 14. Ethnology workroom in the United States National Museum, 1890s (since renamed the

Arts & Industries Building following completion of the “new” National Museum, now the
Natural History Building, in 1910). Smithsonian Institution Archives

122 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

FIGURE 15. The “new” United States National Museum, 1911, now known as the Natural History Building.
Smithsonian Institution Archives.

legislation. Many prominent citizens and politicians called for amassing national collections and
creating a national museum. Exploring expeditions sent to the nation’s capital the nucleus ofa national
voucher collection. Baird’s personal goals met the needs of the country to establish a great museum
where a national identity could be forged. He was able to direct those impulses to the Smithsonian
and translate them into actual support for his vision. In the many decades since his death, his one
United States National Museum has grown and diversified into the largest complex of art, history,
and science museums in the world, perhaps surpassing even his dreams for how to use Smithson’s
bequest.

NOTES

Paul H. Oehser, The Smithsonian Institution (New York: Praeger Publishers, 1970), pp. 13-15; draft of
James Smithson’s will, October 1826. James Smithson Collection, box 1, Smithsonian Institution Archives
[SIA], Record Unit [RU] 7000.

> Oehser, Smithsonian, pp. 4-8, 12-15.

The National Intelligencer, 16 October 1835, 17 February 1836, and 2 May 1836; William Jones Rhees,
ed., The Smithsonian Institution: Documents Relative to Its Origin and History (Washington: Smithsonian
Institution, 1879), pp. 141-154.

Rhees, Smithsonian Documents, pp. 148-154.

Rhees, Smithsonian Documents, pp. 158-169, 172-198, 837-842, 856-859.

HENSON: U.S. NATIONAL MUSEUM 123

© Rhees, Smithsonian Documents, pp. 126, 208-229, 247, 262, 306-331, 337, 349-350, 354, 409-410, 467,
499, 763-802, 930-943; Wilcomb E. Washburn, ed., The Great Design: two lectures on the Smithson bequest
by John Quincy Adams (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution, 1965).

Rhees, Smithsonian Documents, pp. 200-201, 239-241, 899-909; Sally G. Kohlstedt, “A Step Toward
Scientific Self-Identity in the United States: The Failure of the National Institute, 1844,” in Science in America
since 1820, Nathan Reingold, ed. (New York: Science History Publications, 1976), pp. 79-89, 101-103.

Rhees, Smithsonian Documents, pp. 167-171, 226-228, 236-242, 246, 249-260, 262-265, 295-305,
356-364, 803-836; Washburn, Great Design.

Oehser, Smithsonian, pp. 11, 18; Charles H. Gibbs-Smith, Sir George Cayley (1773-1857) (London: Her
Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1968), pp. 12, 15; “Harvard, John,” Dictionary of American Biography (New York:
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1959), pp. 371-372. For history of research on Smithson’s colleagues, see folders 10-14
in box 4, and folder 3 in box 5, James Smithson Collection, RU 7000, SIA; William Jones Rhees, James Smithson
and His Bequest, Smithsonian Miscellaneous Collections, volume 21, number 330 (Washington, D.C.: Smith-
sonian Institution, 1880), pp. 11—13.

° Rhees, Smithsonian Documents, pp. 430-431, 469-473; Oehser, Smithsonian, pp. 20-25.

'l Rhees, Smithsonian Documents, pp. 930-960; Oehser, Smithsonian, pp. 26-27; Cynthia R. Field, Richard
E. Stamm, and Heather P. Ewing, The Castle: An Illustrated History of the Smithsonian Building (Washington,
D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1993), pp. 4-21; and Kenneth Hafertepe, America's Castle: The Evolution
of the Smithsonian Building and Its Institution, 1840-1878 (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press,
1984), pp. 12-21, 37-39, 47, 50-55, 59-61.

> Rhees, Smithsonian Documents, pp. 930-960; Oehser, Smithsonian, pp. 27-32; Marc Rothenberg, et al.,
eds, The Papers of Joseph Henry, Vol. 7, The Smithsonian Years, January 1847—December 1849 (Washington,
D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1996), pp. xiii-xxii; Wilcomb E. Washburn, “Joseph Henry’s Conception
of the Purpose of the Smithsonian Institution,” in 4 Cabinet of Curiosities: Five Episodes in the Evolution of
American Museums, Whitfield J. Bell, Jr., ed. (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1967), pp. 108-143.

3 Washburn, “Henry’s Conception,” 129-143; Marc Rothenberg, et al., eds., Zhe Papers of Joseph Henry,
Vol. 8, The Smithsonian Years, January 1850—December 1853 (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press,
1998), pp. xviii-xxvii; Fourth Annual Report of the Board of Regents of the Smithsonian Institution for 1849
(Washington: by the Printers to the Senate, 1850), pp. 20-21.

Herman J. Viola and Carolyn Margolis, eds., Magnificent Voyagers, The United States Exploring
Expedition, 1838-1842, (Washington,D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1985), pp. 9-23, 227-253.

'S Rhees, Smithsonian Documents, pp. 107-122; Oehser, Smithsonian, pp. 17-18.

Kohlstedt, “National Institute,” pp. 83-87; Viola, Magnificent Voyagers, pp. ene 233.

'7 Kohlstedt, “National Institute,” pp. 87-89; Viola, Magnificent Voyagers, pp. 227-241; George Brown
Goode, “The Genesis of the United States National Museum,” in Annual Report of the Board of Regents of the
Smithsonian Institution for 1897, Part 2: A Memorial of George Brown Goode (Washington: Government
Printing Office, 1898), pp. 83-145.

8 Kohlstedt, “National Institute .” pp. 89, 95-99, 103; Viola, Magnificent Voyagers, pp. 47, 243-253; Goode,
“Genesis of National Museum,” pp. 113-142.

° William Healey Dall, Spencer Fullerton Baird; A Biography (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company,
1915), pp. 34-56, 61, 67, 73-75; J. Ruthven Deane, “Unpublished Letters of John James Audubon and Spencer
Ie Baird,” Auk 21(1904):255-259, 23(1906):194-201, 318-334, 24(1907):53—70.

“ Dall, Baird, pp. 52-53, 56-57, 59, 62, 70-73, 132, 140-144, 164, 203; Spencer F. Baird, Hints for
preserving objects of natural history prepared by Professor S. F. Baird for Dickinson College, Carlisle,
Pennsylvania (Carlisle: Gitt & Hinckley, 1846); Sally Gregory Kohlstedt, “Curiosities and Cabinets: Natural
History Museums and Education on the Antebellum Campus,” /sis 79(1988):405—406, 411.

“" Dall, Baird, pp. 155-167, 180-182, 185-201; Kohlstedt, “Natural History Museums,” p. 425.

2 Dall, Baird, pp. 158-159, 179; Edward F. Rivinus and Elizabeth Youssef, Spencer Baird of the
Smithsonian (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992), p. 44; Charles Darwin, The Origin of
Species (London: John Murray, 1859).

3 Dall, Baird, pp. 304-305; Rivinus, Baird of Smithsonian, pp. 153-155; Charles F. Girard, Herpetology,

124 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

prepared under the superintendence of S. F. Baird (Philadelphia: C. Sherman & Son, 1858); Pamela M. Henson,
“Spencer Baird Had a Different Vision for Research at the Smithsonian,” Smithsonian Research Reports
ea Gy inter 1996):5—6.

4 Dall, Baird, pp. 287-301, 308-310, 336, 339; Rivinus, Baird of Smithsonian, pp. 57-60; Annual Report
of the Board of Regents of the Smithsonian Institution, 1863 (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1864),
pp. 58; William A. Deiss, “Spencer F. Baird and his Collectors,” Journal of the Society for the Bibliography of
Natural History 9(4[1980]):635—645; Frederick William True, “Exploration Work of the Smithsonian Institu-
tion,” in The Smithsonian Institution, 1846-1896, The History of Its First Half Century, George Brown Goode,
ed. { Washington: Smithsonian Institution, 1897), pp. 477-478.

Spencer F. Baird, “General Directions for Collecting and Preserving Objects of Natural History,” SIA,
RU 65, Chief Clerk, 1846-1933, Forms, Circulars, and Announcements, volume 1, “Directions for collecting,
preserving, and transporting specimens of natural history, prepared for the use of the Smithsonian Institution,”
Smithsonian Miscellaneous Collections, vol. 2, article 7 (Washington: Smithsonian Institution, 1859), and
Circular in reference to shipping fresh fish and other animals (Washington: Smithsonian Institution, 1881);
Nathan Reingold, “Definitions and Speculations: The Professionalization of Science in America in the Nine-
teenth Century,” in Science, American Stvle (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1991), pp. 24-53.

® Dall, Baird, pp. 307-308, 333-335, 342-352, 357-366, 381; Deiss, “Baird and Collectors,” pp. 641-642;
Rivinus, Baird of Smithsonian, pp. 85-89, 94-105, 117, 163-169; True, “Exploration Work,” 475-477. For a
discussion of Agassiz’s difficult relationships with his students, see Ralph Dexter, “The “Salem Secession’ of
Agassiz Zoologists,” Essex Institute Historical Collections, 101(1[1965]):27-39.

” Dall, Baird, pp. 305, 313-314, 318, 321-322, 330-334; Rivinus, Baird of Smithsonian, pp. 61—62; Annual
Report of the Board of Regents of the Smithsonian Institution for 1857 (Washington: William A. Harris, Printer,
1858), pp. 34, 4649.

* True, “Exploration Work,” 459-467; “List of the More Important Explorations and Expeditions, the
collections of which have constituted the principal sources of supply to the National Museum, with indication
of the department of the government under which prosecuted,” Annual Report of the Board of Regents of the
Smithsonian Institution for 1877 (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1878), pp. 1OS—117.

” William H. Goetzmann, Exploration and Empire: The Explorer and Scientist in the Winning of the
American West (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1966), pp. 496-498, 501-502, 515-516, 527-529, 562-563,
572-576; Philip J. Pauly, Biologists and the Promise of American Life: From Meriweather Lewis to Alfred Kinsey
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000).

° Clifford M. Nelson and Ellis L. Yochelson, “Organizing Federal Paleontology in the United States,

858-1907,” Journal of the Society for the Bibliography of Natural History 9(4[1980]):607—-609.

a Hartley H. Bartlett, “The Reports of the Wilkes Expedition, and the Work of the Specialists in Science,”
Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 82(1940):601—705; Girard, Herpetology, Annual Report of
the Board of Regents of the Smithsonian Institution for 1858 (Washington: William A. Harris, Printer, 1859),
pp. 52-56; Annual Report of the Board of Regents of the Smithsonian Institution for 1862 (Washington:
Government Printing Office, 1863), p. 56; Annual Report of the Board of Regents of the Smithsonian Institution
for 1883 (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1885), p. 177; William Jones Rhees, 4n Account of the
Smithsonian Institution, Its Founder, Building, Operations, etc. (Washington: Thomas McGill, Printer, 1857),
and Visitor's Guide to the Smithsonian Institution and United States National Museum in Washington (Wash-
ington: Judd & Detweiler, Printers, 1886)

*2 Dall, Baird, pp. 313-317; Oehser, Smithsonian, pp. 38-39; Rhees, Smithsonian Documents, p. 589; Joseph
Henry, “Report of the Secretary for 1856,” Annual Report of the Board of Regents of the Smithsonian dastitution
for 1856 (Washington: Cornelius Wendell, Printer, 1857), pp. 17-22; U.S. House, 33" 4 Congress, 2 24 Session,
Journal of the House Select Committee, House Documents, No. 141 (1855); Jean V. Matthews, Rufus Choate:
The. pa and Civic Virtue (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1980), pp. 129-130, 138-146.

5 Oehser, Smithsonian, pp. 88-89; Pamela M. Henson, “‘Objects of Curious Research’: The History of
Science and Technology at the Smithsonian,” /sis 90(1999):S249-S242.

* Rivinus, Baird of Smithsonian, pp. 64-65.

> Dall, Baird, pp. 378, 385-386; Field, Castle, pp. 78-80, 123-124; Annual Report of the Board of Regents

HENSON: U.S. NATIONAL MUSEUM 125

of the Smithsonian Institution, 1866 (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1867), pp. 13-17; Oehser,
Smithsonian, p. 187. The art, botanical, entomological, and physical anthropology collections were later returned
to the U.S. National Museum.

® Rivinus, Baird of Smithsonian, pp. 63-66; George Brown Goode, “The Published Writings of Spencer
Fullerton Baird, 1843—1882,” Bulletin of the United States National Museum, vol. 20 (Washington: Government
Printing Office, 1883); Spencer F. Baird and C. Girard, Catalogue of North American reptiles in the Museum of
the Smithsonian Institution (Washington: Smithsonian Institution, 1853); Spencer F. Baird, Catalogue of North
American mammals: chiefly in the museum of the Smithsonian Institution (Washington: Smithsonian Institution,
1857), “The Distribution and Migration of North American Birds,” American Journal of Arts and Sciences, 2nd
series, 41(January—May 1866):78—90, 184-192, 337-347, Review of American birds, in the Museum of the
Smithsonian Institution (Washington: Smithsonian Institution, 1864—1 866), and Mammals of the Boundary: with
notes by the naturalists of the survey (Washington: C. Wendell, Printer, 1859?); Louis Agassiz, Essay on
Classification (London: n.p., 1859), and Contributions to the Natural History of the United States of America
(Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1857-1862).

37 Paul L. Farber, “The Transformation of Natural History in the Nineteenth Century,” Journal of the History
of Biology 15(1[Spring 1982]):145—152; Reingold, “Professionalization of Science,” pp. 44-48.

8 Dall, Baird, pp. 367-378; Debra Lindsay, Science in the Subarctic: Trappers, Traders, and the Smith-
sonian Institution (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1993), passim. Lindsay and others question
the role of the National Museum’s collections in influencing the purchase of Alaska.

° Dall, Baird, pp. 389; Rivinus, Baird of Smithsonian, p. 122; Kohlstedt, “Natural History Museums,”
425-426.

4° Dall, Baird, pp. 391-392; Rivinus, Baird of Smithsonian, pp. 123-125; Robert Post, 1876: A Centennial
Exposition (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1976), pp. 77-79; Robert W. Rydell, All the
World's A Fair: Visions of Empire at American International Expositions, 1876—1916 (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1984),pp. 19-27, 44.

Rivinus, Baird of Smithsonian, pp. 124-125, 190.

® Dall, Baird, pp. 393-395; Oehser, Smithsonian, pp. 189-190; A Handbook to the National Museum at the
Smithsonian Institution, Washington (New York: Brentano, 1886).

8 Dall, Baird, pp. 393-395; Henson, “Baird’s Vision,” pp. 56; Oehser, Smithsonian, pp. 40-44; Rivinus,
Baird of Smithsonian, pp. 127-130; Theodore D. A. Cockerell, Spencer Fullerton Baird and the U.S. National
Museum (Mount Vernon, Iowa: n.p., 1942), pp. 1-7, reprinted from Bios 8, 1.

** Oehser, Smithsonian, pp. 189-190.

> Annual Report of the Board of Regents of the Smithsonian Institution for 1882 (Washington: Government
Printing Office, 1884), pp. 119-120, 124-126.

® Edward P. Alexander, “George Brown Goode and the Smithsonian Museums: A National Museum of
Cultural History,” in Museum Masters: Their Museums and Their Influence (Nashville, Tenn.: American
Association for State and Local History, 1983), pp. 277-310; Sally G. Kohlstedt, “History in a Natural History
Museum: George Brown Goode and the Smithsonian Institution,” The Public Historian 10(2[Spring 1988}):
7-26, and “Preface,” in The Origins of Natural Science in America: The Essays of George Brown Goode,
Kohlstedt, ed., (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1991), pp. 11-15; George Brown Goode,
‘“Museum-History and Museums of History,” (1888), and “The Museums of the Future,” (1889), reprinted in
Kohlstedt, Origins, pp. 297-319, 321-348.

Curtis M. Hinsley, The Smithsonian and American Indian: Making a Moral Anthropology in Victorian
America (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1994), pp. 84-94, 97-99; Kohlstedt, “Goode and
Smithsonian,” 13-14, 25-26; Rydell, World's A Fair, pp. 57-60, 98-99; Annual Report for 1882, pp. 128-130.

5 Annual Report of the Board of Regents of the Smithsonian Institution for 1886 (Washington: Government
Printing Office, 1889), pp. 36-51.

° Dall, Baird, pp. 387-388; Hinsley, Smithsonian and American Indian, pp. 139-140, 147-164; True,
“Exploration Work,” pp. 467, 470-474; Neil Merton Judd, The Bureau of American Ethnology: A Partial History
(Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1967), pp. 3-4, 6-18.

° Rydell, World's A Fair, p. 43.

126 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

5! Dall, Baird, pp. 388, 416432; True, “Exploration Work,” pp. 467, 469-470; Dean C. Allard, Spencer
Fullerton Baird and the U.S. Fish Commission (New York: Arno Press, 1978), passim.

°? Dall, Baird, pp. 402-405.

3 Dall, Baird, pp. 408; Kohlstedt, Origins of Natural Science, pp. 46, 11-15; Oehser, Smithsonian, pp.
44-47; Annual Report of the Board of Regents af the Smithsonian Institution for 1887 (Washington: Government
Printing Office, 1889), pp. 17-18.

4 Annual Report for 1882, pp. 5-10; Annual Report for 1887, p. 17; Richard Rathbun, “The United States
National Museum: An Account of the Buildings Occupied by the National Collections,” in The Report of the
United States National Museum for 1903 (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1905), pp. 263-296;
Ellis L. Yochelson, The National Museum of Natural History, 75 Years in the Natural History Building
(Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1985), pp. 19, 23-27.

°5_E Pluribus Unum: This Divine Paradox, Report of the Commission on the Future of the Smithsonian
Institution (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution, 1983), pp. 34-35; Smithsonian Year, 1996 (Washington,
D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1996), passim.

Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA.
All rights reserved.

Paleontology in Washington DC

A Brief History of Institutional Change
Or the Waxing and Waning
of Two Disparate Organizations

ELLIS L. YOCHELSON
Research Associate, National Museum of Natural History
Washington, DC 20560-0121 and U. S. Geological Survey (retired)
E-mail: yochelson.ellis@nmnh.si.edu

Study of fossils in Washington began about 150 years ago when F. B. Meek came to the
Smithsonian Institution; he identified fossils for the purpose of dating the age of rocks
collected by government expeditions and territorial surveys. In 1879, the U.S. Geological
Survey (USGS) was founded; paleontologists who were housed in the United States
National Museum (USNM) building were an integral part of this organization. Collections
were transferred to the Museum for curation, which generally was also done by the
personnel of the Geological Survey.

In 1894, the Museum finally employed a paleontologist, Charles Schuchert, and in 1897,
when the Museum was reorganized, he became a member of the new Department of
Geology. Until after the second World War, the Museum had less than half a dozen
professionals, in total, despite the move to a new larger building in 1910. Most Geological
Survey paleontologists moved to the new site and they significantly increased in number
during that interval.

After the second World War, both organizations grew; again the USGS was far larger.
The Geological Survey professionals were still mainly concerned with age determination
by fossils, but a larger variety of kinds were studied in increasing detail. With the addition
of wings to the Museum, there came dramatic increase in staff, especially for the Survey.
Formation of the Department of Paleobiology in 1963, by splitting the Department of
Geology, resulted in a gradual shift of the Museum staff to problem-oriented issues. USGS
efforts on age determination of rocks by their enclosed fossils were officially ended in 1995.

Paleontology first appeared in Washington nearly two centuries ago. During Thomas Jefferson’s
first term as President, one room in the President’s House! was used to display fossil bones from Big
Bone Lick, Kentucky, and from a cave in what is now West Virginia. Jefferson’s interests in matters
scientific were used against him by political opponents, and, legend has it, some of the bones were
later ground up for fertilizer. That may be an appropriate metaphor, for further developments
depended on permanent organizational structures.

Not too many decades later, two disparate organizations came into being in Washington, DC,
the Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of Natural History and the U. S. Geological Survey.
Although each had a distinct mission, they both were interested in paleontology, and, for an
impressive length of time, the staffs of the two worked together more or less in harmony. Since their
foundings, each organization has had about three scientific generations of paleontologists; even so,
remarkably few persons were involved. Also, over time, a significant number of aides and some
clerical staff and even scientists who began with, for instance, the USGS switched allegiances and

moved to the Museum, and more rarely vice versa.
|

“White House” did not come into use until after the painting to conceal the fires set in 1814 by the British.

127

128 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

In what follows, it may seem dull to use names and mention specialties, rather than convey the
grand sweep of events. Nevertheless, I believe this approach provides a better notion of just how
small was the Federal involvement in the science of paleontology, yet how successful it was. It also
provides anyone interested in the history of study of a particular group of organisms or segment of
geologic time, a name or two to investigate further. Besides, it is people who make most events, and
history of events without mentioning individuals can be remarkably colorless. The names of generals
are often recorded, but the forgotten “spear bearers” at least deserve a mention. The technicians who
carried the water bottles for the spear bearers, that is, broke rocks, inked numbers on fossils, made
thin-sections, typed manuscripts, and produced photographs have not been recorded, but their
immense contribution in keeping scientists productive should not be ignored.

The Smithsonian Institution

In 1829, the Englishman James Smithson died, and in 1836, his estate became a gift to the people
of America. In 1840, the National Institute, a private organization, was set up in Washington with the
hope of obtaining the Smithson bequest; Institute members collected all manner of items and may
have had a few fossils. The National Institute had a display in the new Patent Office Building (Evelyn
1985). Two years later, Congress established the official National Cabinet of Curiosities mainly to
house the collections of the United States Exploring Expedition (1838-1842), made under the
command of Charles Wilkes (Stanton 1975). Because there was no other place in Washington, DC,
to store them, the Federal expedition collections were nominally given to the care of the Institute. By
1846, when it became apparent that the National Institute was not to receive the Smithson bequest,
that organization rapidly declined and, before long, the fledgling Smithsonian Institution fell heir to
its collections.

On August 10, 1846, the Smithsonian Institution (SI) was founded as a public trust for the
American public. In present-day terminology, it might be classified as quasi-governmental. Though
it was not clear what the Institution was to accomplish, one of the functions laid out in the founding
legislation was that of a museum. On December 3, the American physicist Joseph Henry was elected
as the first Smithsonian Secretary (Oehser 1949). Long before Henry had gained fame as a physicist,
he had helped survey a near-wilderness road across New York and thus had acquired a feeling for
topography and geology. Even before the Institution had its own building, Henry scheduled public
lectures, including one in 1849 on geology. He also instituted a publication program, and by the early
1850s, the Institution had published three papers on paleontology, at a time when there were few
outlets in America for scientific papers. Although the exterior of the Smithsonian “Castle,” the first
of the many buildings that make up the present-day Smithsonian complex on Washington, DC’s
“Mall,” was completed by 1851 (Fig. 1), interior construction went slowly, and Henry did not move
into the building, literally (it became his home!), until 1856 (Hafetepe 1984).

In 1850, Henry hired Spencer Fullerton Baird as an Assistant Secretary (Rivinus and Youseff
1992). Though he was no paleontologist, Baird established publication standards for many of the
Federal western exploring expeditions, in which reports on the fossils that were collected played a
prominent role. Baird’s advice resulted in better illustrations and descriptions of the specimens. The
Smithsonian gave advice, helped in the selection of scientific personnel, provided some scientific
equipment, and — rarely — funds, to various exploring parties. Despite initial resistance and occa-
sional objections from Henry, Baird energetically pursued the acquisition of both biological and fossil
specimens for the Institution’s collections.

Early on, in part because of the language in the founding legislation, it was determined that natural

YOCHELSON: PALEONTOLOGY IN WASHINGTON, DC 129

my
ee

FicurE |. The Smithsonian Institution Castle, possibly taken between 1856 and 1860, looking southwest.
Courtesy Smithsonian Institution Archives (SIA #45934-A).

history collections from the General Land Office and various government expeditions were to come
to the Institution for safe keeping. For example, specimens described by David Dale Owen in his
survey of the Iowa, Wisconsin and Minnesota territories are still to be found in the type collections.

By the time Henry moved into the Castle in 1856, mismanagement of the Wilkes collections had
become a “Washington” scandal. In response, in 1857, Congress appropriated $17,000 for cases,
transfer, and maintenance of these collections. During 1857 and 1858, the Wilkes materials came to
the Castle. Thus, without any Federal organization being formally established by Congressional
mandate, the United States National Museum (USNM) came into existence as a government bureau
administered by a non-governmental organization. The General Land Office material came earlier
than transfer of the Wilkes material, but whether it in any way laid the groundwork for the National
Museum is uncertain.

Despite what has been written, Henry was not opposed to collections as such. He was concerned,
understandably, about the continual cost of maintaining a museum collection. He agreed to take the
Wilkes material only after an annual sum for curation was promised. Until his death in 1878, Henry
tried unsuccessfully to have the National Museum transferred away from Smithsonian administration.
He was even eager to sell the Castle as an inducement to the government to take the USNM off his
hands. Yet, by 1880, under the stewardship of Spencer Fullerton Baird, Henry’s successor as
Smithsonian Secretary, construction was begun on a new museum building (Fig. 2) to house the
growing collections that had been accumulating in the Castle and the exhibits from the Centennial
Exposition in Philadelphia.

130 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

FiGure 2. The United States National Museum building under construction, probably in 1880.
The photograph is taken from the Castle looking east. Courtesy Smithsonian Institution Archives (SIA #742).

The Meek Era and Ephemeral Government Surveys

More or less coordinate with the transfer of national collections, Henry rescued — the word is
deliberately chosen — Fielding Bradford Meek (1817—1876) (Fig. 3) from the clutches of James Hall
in Albany and brought him to the Institution in 1858 (Nelson 1987). Hall was the State Paleontologist
of New York, and, at that time in the United States, Albany was the center for study of fossils. At the
Smithsonian, Meek was literally a scholar in residence, as he received no salary from the Institution
but had the privilege of living in his office in the south tower of the Castle, his abode from 1861 until
his death in 1876; earlier, he lived under a staircase. During his lifetime, Meek published descriptions
of fossils from every group of invertebrate fossils and discussed specimens gathered from rocks of
every age from Cambrian to Recent.

In determining the age of rocks by fossils, one compares the fossils from an unknown area with
those whose relative age within an established general sedimentary sequence is known. One cannot
understand structural complications nor interpret the geologic history of an area unless the sequence
and relative ages of the sedimentary rocks are known. Meek was the premier biostratigraphic
paleontologist in 19th Century America, not just because he was one of the first, but because he was
so remarkably accurate in age determinations, especially in the western regions where virtually
nothing was known of the details of geology.

Meek worked on contract for several state geological surveys, most notably Illinois. After the
Civil War, major Federally-financed territorial surveys replaced more transitory expeditions (Rabbitt

YOCHELSON: PALEONTOLOGY IN WASHINGTON, DC 131

1979). The four principal surveys were those headed by Hayden, King, Powell, and Wheeler (Bartlett
1962); only King completed his assigned survey area. Among Meek’s many other accomplishments,
he described fossils for all four of the Federal territorial surveys (Nelson and Yochelson 1980).

One function of a museum is to maintain collections. The National Museum ably performed its
responsibility as a museum of record and these early Federally-collected fossils are, as of this writing,
still safe in Washington. Meek made the critical curatorial decision that collections were to be
arranged in stratigraphic order, that is by age of the rocks, rather than in biologic order. Since the
primary objective of paleontology at that time was to provide the relative age of strata from unknown
areas, this arrangement best supported that effort. Meek also determined that where relatively large
number of specimens were available, “duplicates” were to be distributed to colleagues and schools,
so that the collections did not grow too large. Years later this policy was changed, but for most of the
last half of the 19th Century, collections were donated by the Institution.

During Meek’s last years, his career overlapped with that of Charles Abiathar White (1826-1910)
(Fig. 4), who left the lowa Geological Survey to become paleontologist/geologist for the Hayden
Territorial Survey. White is best known for his studies of Mesozoic fossils. William Healey Dall
(1845-1927) (Fig. 5) also appeared on the Washington scene as an explorer-naturalist in Alaska and
was in residence in the Castle for a time in 1868. He was concerned with study of Recent mollusks
and, to a lesser extent at that time, their Cenozoic ancestors. Dall had no permanent position until
1881 when he obtained employment with the United States Coast Survey.

There was no organized study of vertebrate paleontology or paleobotany in Washington during
the 1860s and 1870s.

Transition to Permanent Structure and Staff

On March 3, 1879, the U. S. Geological Survey (USGS) was founded, as a bureau of the
Department of Interior. Its establishment provided a permanent Federal organization for geology;
Clarence King was appointed director. Charles Doolittle Walcott (1850-1927) (Fig. 6) became USGS
employee number 20 (Yochelson 1967). He was hired as a temporary geological assistant at $50 per
month, not as a paleontologist. After a year, he became a permanent assistant geologist at $1,200 per
year. White had gone to Europe, and did not return to Washington until after the USGS was formed;
on his return, apparently he was on the staff of the USNM briefly, though in all likelihood, this was
an honorary appointment. Almost immediately, Walcott and White had a disagreement concerning
who would study some of Walcott’s 1879 collections from the Colorado Plateau. White did not win
the argument.

When the new USNM building was completed, space was made available for USGS paleontolo-
gists. After less than two years, King had left the Geological survey, and John Wesley Powell was
appointed director; Powell also continued to run the Bureau of Ethnology, which was founded in
1879 and was more or less under the Smithsonian. Whereas King was concerned with support for the
mining industry, Powell was more concerned with basic investigations. He was far more liberal in
allowing paleontologists to pursue publication and not simply confine their activities to rote identi-
fication for age determination.

At the start of the fiscal year on July 1, 1881, employee number 64, White, was hired as a geologist
at $2,000 per year and moved into the new building. He remained with the USGS until the 1892
appropriations catastrophe. Another important figure in the building was Lester Frank Ward (1841—
1913) (Fig. 7) who joined the USGS at the same time as White at an annual salary of $1,800. Ward
was a sociologist but, as this field was outside the purview of the USGS, Powell hired Ward to work

132 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

FiGures 3—6. (3) Fielding B. Meek, an illustrious paleontologist (SIA #77-9498); (4) Charles A. White, in charge of Meso-
zoic paleontology (SIA #78—15937); (5) William Healey Dall, in charge of Cenozoic paleontology (SIA #A—1 145);
(6) Charles Doolittle Walcott, about 1887. Figures 3-5 courtesy Smithsonian Institution Archives.

YOCHELSON: PALEONTOLOGY IN WASHINGTON, DC 133

FiGuRE 7. Lester F. Ward, in charge of paleobotany, and Miss Morehead (later Mrs. F. Knowlton)
in his office, the inner room at the east end of the south balcony in the USNM, probably taken in 1886.
Courtesy Smithsonian Institution Archives (SIA #85—10257).

on “vegetable paleontology.” Ward learned on the job and became an excellent paleontologist.
Meanwhile, he laid the foundation for sociology in America in his spare time; Ward remained in
Washington until 1907 when he left to become a professor at Brown University.

During May 1882, Walcott was given an honorary appointment as assistant curator of fossil
invertebrates in the National Museum, and he also settled into the new red brick building completed
earlier the previous year. Vertebrate paleontology gained a position on the USGS in 1882 when
Othniel Charles Marsh (1831—1899) of Yale University was appointed employee number 87 by
Powell, at $4,000 per year. In 1883, two of the 25 statutory positions in the Geological Survey were
for paleontologists. Marsh had one, and Walcott the other, at $2,000 per year.

In 1884, Dall transferred to the Geological Survey as employee number 253, though he remained
in the Smithsonian Castle and was not in the Museum building. Dall had an office in one of the towers,
but spilled over onto a balcony in the Great Hall. By July 1, 1884, the Geologic Branch of the USGS
had five formal divisions, one of which was paleontology (Rabbitt, 1980). This in turn had five parts,
each with its own leader: Walcott for Paleozoic; White for Mesozoic; and Dall for Cenozoic. The
fourth was vertebrate paleontology under Marsh, who never had an office in Washington, and, the
fifth, paleobotany under Ward. The Museum had comparable divisions, staffed by the same people.
The multiplicity of titles may have been to avoid any personality clashes.

All of the paleontologic divisions had assistants, some of whom went on to greater things. Two
of Walcott’s assistants for a short time were Robert Thomas Hill (1858-1941) who left the survey
after a few years for a varied career, associated mainly with geology in Texas, and Timothy William
Stanton (1860-1953) (Fig. 8) who joined in 1889 and remained with the USGS throughout his
professional career, as a Mesozoic specialist and, later, Chief Paleontologist.

After a few years, a tradition developed of having an understudy for each mature specialist. Often
these persons began as aides or technicians. Thus, Charles David White (1862—1935) (Fig. 9) was

134 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

hired in 1886 as a draftsman for Lester Ward, but he soon developed his own speciality in Paleozoic
paleobotany.

The United States National Museum

From several aspects, 1879 was a key year because, along with the founding of the USGS, a
separate building for the United States National Museum was finally authorized. Construction was
completed in 1881 on the red brick rectangle east of the Castle (and west of the much later circular
Hirshhorn Gallery). Originally designed to be a temporary building to house exhibits which had been
at the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial Exposition, it stands to this day, still occupying space on the Mall
just east of the Castle; a century of repair costs — even corrected for inflation — have many times
exceeded its construction cost. Within the barn-like building, the Museum geologist George Perkins
Merrill had an office, but the USNM staff did not include any paid paleontologist.

In truth, the USNM had practically no staff. To find specialists, the Smithsonian gave “honorary”
appointments, a practice started long before the separate Museum building became a reality. Those
who received this honor were expected to do the work of the Museum, while being paid by another
agency or serving as volunteers. For example, the Museum division of mollusks and Dall were
synonymous throughout his long career, and during his “retirement” years, until his death in 1928.

When George Brown Goode was director of the USNM, the “honorary” concept was pushed to
an extreme. In effect, anyone who could be convinced to do work for the Museum, would be given
a title and often would be made head of his own department. By the 1890s, the Museum had more
than twenty departments: the activities of each were noted in the USNM Annual Report. The annual
reports of the USGS also list the activities of its paleontologists, thereby allowing one to note the
difference between the research-oriented and the curatorial-oriented efforts of the same individual.

Honorary appointments, under different names, are still given with the same understanding of
contributions to the Museum. With only one or two exceptions, the USGS paleontologists who had
offices at the USNM have also been honorary research associates. For generations, many scientists
outside the city assumed that every paleontologist in Washington was on the Smithsonian staff,
whereas actually they were paid by two different Federal agencies with two quite different missions.

The 1879 Organic Act founding the USGS specified that collections were to be transferred to
the USNM, when no longer needed for research. The act clearly established that the Museum was to
be the national repository for Federal natural history material. So far as paleontology was concerned,
at this time it was the role of the USGS paleontologists to study the fossils obtained during field work
for the purpose of dating the rocks, and the role of the USNM was to serve as a museum of record,
safeguarding those collections. The term “museum of record” is that of Goode, who emphasized a
tripartite function of museums, the other two being education and research.

Along with the legalities was an informal arrangement, like that with the Bureau of Ethnology
and, later, the Biological Survey, wherein one organization did field work and the other curated the
material which was obtained. To provide a brief summary of the next century, the rate of transfer of
collections from the Geological Survey has waxed and waned, being governed by time, space, and
individual temperament. Likewise, there has been exchange of individuals from Survey to Museum
and, more rarely, in the opposite direction.

Problems for the U. S. Geological Survey

Through a complex political situation involving irrigation in the West and personal dislike of
Powell, in 1892 the USGS came under attack by Congress. Slashing the budget affected the entire

YOCHELSON: PALEONTOLOGY IN WASHINGTON, DC 135

Ficures 8-9. (8) A mature T. W. Stanton, first chief of P&S section, helping to collect a Triceratops
Courtesy U. S. Geological Survey Photographic Library (A. L. Beekley Collection #278);
(9) David White, paleobotanist, probably taken after 1913 during his tenure as Chief Geologist
Courtesy Smithsonian Institution Archives (SIA #99—10019; a second copy in “Portraits” files,
Photographic Library, U. S. Geological Survey, Denver).

organization but was particularly hard on paleontology. Funds for its study were cut by 70% and the
paid staff went from twenty-eight to seven. This science has the dubious distinction of being one of
the few disciplines to be singled out for ndicule by Congress. For example, “What use has the
Government for paleontology? What functions of the Government are carried on by means of
paleontology? Not only has the Government no use for it as government, but paleontological work
is not even necessary to the proper construction of a geologic map.” The monograph by Marsh on
Cretaceous toothed-birds, published years earlier by the King territorial survey of the 40th Parallel,
became for Congress the symbol of government waste, as powerful as any discussed in the latter part
of the 20th Century.

One positive result in this dismal situation was that Walcott was promoted to the new position
of Chief Paleontologist, bringing all the diminished five parts of paleontology under one head. He
saved some people by having them transferred to the USNM staff. There the young paleobotanist
Frank Hall Knowlton (1860-1926) remained on a payroll and, in better times a few years later, he
returned to the Geological Survey. David White was among the few USGS paleontologists who
survived the slaughter.

In the midst of all this upheaval, Walcott was responsible for preparing a large display of rocks
and minerals for the Chicago Columbian Exposition of 1893. Several persons received temporary
jobs from Exposition funds.

Although Walcott was appointed Geologist-in-Charge of Geology and Paleontology in 1893,
even with his immediate efforts, life as a government employee got worse before it became better.

136 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Matters began to improve the next year after he became Director. Walcott was able to increase the
number of paleontologists by assigning them as members of field parties, effectively shielding them
and the study of fossils from Congressional wrath. He recovered several of those lost and added
George Herbert Girty (1869-1939) (Fig. 10) to study Late Paleozoic faunas. Headquarters for the
USGS were in the Hoee Iron Building on F Street NW, now the site of the National Press Club
Building. Paleontologists at the Museum had to walk over to Hoee Building each payday. The USNM
building was crowded and a few paleontologists were housed in the Hoee Building, which provided
even less satisfactory space than the cluttered Museum. Just before the turn of the century Edward
Oscar Ulrich (1857-1944 ) (Fig. 11) was added to the staff to work on Lower Paleozoic faunas and
was housed in the crowded Hoee Building.

In 1900, the paleontologists in the Geologic Branch of the USGS were finally gathered into a
division with T. W. Stanton in charge. Although the USGS budget had increased dramatically since
1894, it was only about this time that Walcott was finally able to restore some of the funds for
paleontology which had been cut in 1892. Four years later, this division became the Paleontology
and Stratigraphy Section, and remained the longest-lived administrative subdivision within the
Geological Survey. Even under one head, the five-part internal subdivision by ages and specialties
remained in place, though this had little impact, except for convenience in maintaining a separate
locality catalogue for each group.

Another important function, tangentially associated with the section, was the Committee on
Geologic Names. The Chief of the Section for years was also head of the Committee, which

Ficures 10-11. (10) George Herbert Girty, specialist on upper Paleozoic fossils; (11) Edward O. Ulrich, specialist
on lower Paleozoic fossils, at his desk in Hoee Iron Building (date unknown, but probably between 1900 and 1910).
Courtesy Smithsonian Institution Archives (SIA # 85-4022).

YOCHELSON: PALEONTOLOGY IN WASHINGTON, DC 137

determined the name and age of formations and standardized usage in USGS publications. Years
later, Stanton followed in Walcott’s footsteps when he too became Chief Geologist of the Geological
Survey; and, as the number of paleontologists grew, the Names Committee was made a separate
position with its own head and staff.

As it had been when the paleontologists were directly attached to mapping parties, the prime
emphasis was providing dates for rocks. The geologists sent in fossils for “Examination and Report”
(E&R), and the E&R became the principal internal product. Eventual publication of studies by the
paleontologists on submitted fossils and those that they collected when visiting field parties docu-
mented for the world the richness of the fossil record in the United States.

Once USGS funding began to increase in the latter part of the 1890s, Walcott followed the lead
of Powell by using academic paleontologists, such as Samuel Hubbard Scudder (1837-1911) of
Harvard University, as part-time contract employees. Though these men were not on the Washington
scene, their collections eventually came to the USNM; Scudder’s fossil insects remain a prime
possession. Perhaps the most noteworthy name in this category is Henry Shaler Williams (1847-1918)
of Cornell University who worked extensively on the Devonian fossils of New York and contributed
many fossils to the collections.

USNM Expansion

After Walcott became Chief Geologist, he no longer had time to curate fossils. Charles Schuchert
(1858-1942) (Fig. 12) had been hired by Walcott to help prepare an exhibit of crinoid slabs for the
1893 Columbian Exposition in Chicago and, after
that job, he came to Washington with the USGS.
When Walcott became director, he could no longer
spend much time at the Museum building, so in 1894,
Schuchert was transferred to the USNM staff and
became the first paid staff member responsible for
paleontology in that organization. Indeed, a Depart-
ment of Paleontology was established in the USNM
with Walcott as Honorary Curator and Schuchert as
Assistant Curator (Gilmore, 1941). In addition to his
curatorial duties, Schuchert began detailed studies of
fossil brachiopods.

During parts of 1897 and 1898, in addition to his
position as director of the Geological Survey, Walcott
was also served as Acting Assistant Secretary [of the
Smithsonian Institution] in Charge of the National
Museum (Yochelson, 1998). During this interval, he
reorganized the Museum into three departments;
Schuchert became a staff member in the Department
of Geology. For those interested in chains of com-
mand, presumably honorary curator Walcott was
subservient to paid employee Schuchert, who re-
ported to Head Curator G. P. Merrill, who reported to
Acting Assistant Secretary Walcott. According to a emy of Sciences. Published by permission of the
manuscript by Merrill, the division was originally ~ Peabody Museum of Natural History.

FiGURE 12. Charles Schuchert in 1910 when the Yale
University Professor was elected to the National Acad-

138 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

named “Stratigraphic Paleontology” quite in keeping with the USGS direction of effort. One key
decision made at that time was that Cenozoic fossils would be assigned to the Department of Geology,
rather than to the Division of Mollusks, which was within the Department of Biology. Merrill wrote
a history of geology at the Museum, in part to publicize the efforts of his new department. He was
quite clear as to what his staff was supposed to do. “The National Museum is not organized primarily
as a bureau of research, but rather as a museum of record, a place for the preservation of the types of
past investigations. The first duty of its officials relates, then, to the care of the collections” (Merrill
1901:122).

When Marsh died in 1899, the Federal vertebrate collections that he had assembled at Yale
University came to Washington (Gilmore 1941). Frederic Augustus Lucas (1852-1929) of the USNM
was sent to pack the specimens and he became an acting curator of fossil vertebrates until he left the
Museum in 1904. Because in gathering vertebrates Marsh had intertwined Federal funds, university
grants, and private money, Walcott (1900) thought it appropriate to explain what fossils had come to
Washington and the history of the material. With this large collection, overnight the USNM became
a center for the study of fossil vertebrates.

Charles Whitney Gilmore (1874-1945) (Fig. 13)
was hired by the Museum as a vertebrate preparator
in 1903 and James William Gidley (1866-1931)
joined him two years later; probably they were
housed in the old Armory building, where the
Hirshhorn Museum is now located, as the brick mu-
seum was filled to overflowing. Both men gradually
worked their way up to professional status as the
fossil vertebrates and fossil invertebrates were vari-
ously shuffled around through several internal reor-
ganizations within the Department of Geology.
Gilmore made his name with study of fossil reptiles
and Gidley with that of fossil mammals (Gilmore
1941).

After Marsh’s death in 1899, the Geological
Survey did not employ another vertebrate paleontolo-
gist for more than half-a-century, presumably be-
cause the field was so well covered by the USNM. As
more or less a mirror image, paleobotany remained a
prime USGS specialty. In 1889, Albert Charles Peale
(1849-1914) of the USGS came to the museum build-

: 7 : d Ficure 13. Charles Whitney Gilmore, first vertebrate
Ing, and after being fired in 1892, had a temporary paleontologist at the U. S. National Museum.

position before joining the Museum staff in 1898, but Courtesy Department of Paleobiology,

his work on the paleobotanical collections was en- National Museum of Natural History.

tirely curatorial. There was a tacit agreement that, on the rare occasions where a staff member could
be hired, neither organization would duplicate the specialty of the other; and this arrangement
persisted for more than half a century.

After a decade at the National Museum, Schuchert moved to Yale University, and, though he
had not even completed grade school, Schuchert’s brachiopod studies impressed his academic
colleagues. After all, his origins were in Cincinnati, Ohio, a key paleontological training ground of
the 19th Century. In 1902, before Schuchert moved from Washington, Ray Smith Bassler (1871—

YOCHELSON: PALEONTOLOGY IN WASHINGTON, DC 139

1961) (Fig. 14), another Cincinnati product, joined
the Department of Geology as a preparator. After two
years he transferred to the USGS, only to return to
the Museum staff when Schuchert left government
employment.

From the time of the reorganization of 1897, a
few private individuals were also associated with the
Department in an honorary capacity. Noteworthy
among these was Frank Springer (1848-1927), who
had made money in New Mexico, but had a passion
for crinoids. He left his collections and a small en-
dowment to the Museum with a stipulation that the
collection be housed in a separate room in which his
portrait hung.

F aenee
7

|

Personality Problems in the USGS

@ \2 B88
_ \e 2 eo 9

According to legend, Girty shared an office in
the Museum with Schuchert and the latter’s off-key
whistling drove Girty, a concert pianist, wild. For
reasons unknown, Girty also later developed a low
opinion of Walcott Ulrich was originally housed in Ficure 14. Ray Smith Bassler, technician to second
the Hoee Building, but, in 1910, he transferred tothe ead of Department of Geology, standing in southwest
new museum building. At some date, now unknown, corner of USNM by wooden cases containing drawers
but before 1910, Girty and his collections were trans- of fossils. Courtesy Department of Paleobiology,
ferred to the Hoee Building. National Museum of Natural History.

Whether Ulrich and Girty were physically adjacent for a short time is irrelevant to their profound
differences. Ulrich’s goal was to revise the Paleozoic stratigraphic column, but when he reached into
the Upper Paleozoic, Girty objected and beat him off. Their styles were fundamentally different, Girty
produced tome after tome for the Geological Survey, whereas Ulrich published increasing less on
fossils. Notwithstanding that, Ulrich was closely connected to the Museum; for much of Bassler’s
earlier career, he was second author with Ulrich on a variety of fossil groups.

When most of the Geological Survey moved in 1917 to a new building that also housed the
administration of the Interior Department, Girty moved with them, while the other paleontologists
remained on the Mall. The isolation of Girty and his staff from other paleontologists probably played
a part in the long delay of the USGS in recognizing the Mississippian and Pennsylvanian periods.
This was somewhat balanced by the refusal of the Geological Survey to recognize the new segments
of geologic time propounded by Ulrich (Weiss and Yochelson, 1995).

Another notable disagreement of this generation was between Stanton and Knowlton on the
placement of the Mesozoic-Cenozoic boundary in the western United States; whether the interpreta-
tions provided by one group of organisms should be given more weight than those of another group
of organism remains an unresolved scientific problem.

One should not presume that because there is no further mention of problems that either the
USGS or the USNM were one big happy family. There were divisions within both organizations and
among the members of each staff. These differences were internal and personal; except indirectly,
such disagreements and personality clashes had no effect on the course of the science. Seemingly,

~~ iid eben

140 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

until the late 1940s, most Geological Survey collections were transferred to the Museum more or less
automatically, apart from those of Girty, which remained physically separate.

New Quarters

One of Walcott’s last acts in 1898, in his capacity as Acting Assistant Secretary, was to obtain
planning money for a new museum building. Smithsonian Institution Secretary Samuel Pierpoint
Langley died in February, 1906, and in January, 1907 Walcott became the fourth Secretary, with an
office and laboratory in the Castle. He continued to run the Geological Survey as well as the
Smithsonian until April of that year, yet he still had time to plan his first field season in western
Canada. Throughout his tenure as Secretary, Walcott was in the field for 18 seasons (Fig. 15); he
actively collected in western Canada and described many Cambrian fossils. His most famous
accomplishment was the discovery, collection, and description of the Middle Cambrian Burgess Shale
biota (Yochelson, 1996).

Ficurr 15. Charles Doolittle Walcott, in charge of Paleozoic paleontology, and Helena B. Walcott
on their honeymoon in Newfoundland collecting trilobites. Taken in 1888
Courtesy U. S. Geological Survey Photographic Library (C. D, Walcott Collection, #62)

YOCHELSON: PALEONTOLOGY IN WASHINGTON, DC 141

Figure 16. The “new” National Museum under construction, taken looking north from the Castle. The vertebrate
paleontologists were on the ground floor of the east wing, partially obscured by trees in the foreground
Courtesy Smithsonian Institution Archives (SIA #18546)

eabaaaavavabaaaes
perbedeverds

FIGURE 17. Main office of the Department of Geology in the new National Museum. Probably taken in 1911 or 1912
There is a blemish in the negative, not a leaking roof. Courtesy Smithsonian Institution Archives (SIA #1273)

142 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Lancaster Demorest Burling (1882-1975), who had been Walcott’s personal assistant on the
USGS, transferred to the USNM in 1907 where he remained for five years, until leaving for a position
with the Geological Survey of Canada. His place was partially filled in 1914 when Charles Elmer
Resser (1889-1943) was employed by the Museum to study Cambrian fossils in the Division of
Invertebrate Paleontology and Paleobotany of the Department of Geology. Resser assisted Walcott
at times in the laboratory and went to field areas in the west as directed by him, but he was never a
true assistant as was Burling. Resser published almost nothing until after Walcott’s death in 1927.

The next significant historical event after Walcott became Secretary, was completion of the
“new” National Museum, the natural history building on the north side of the Mall (Fig. 16). In 1910,
the paleontologists and their collections moved from the red brick building into far more luxurious
quarters (Yochelson, 1985) (Fig. 17). The old place was renamed the Arts & Industries Building and
housed cultural and technological exhibits, with a minimal staff of curators. By comparison, the new
quarters for paleontology were luxurious. The third floor corridor on the east side housed Geological
Survey Mesozoic and Paleozoic paleontologists and paleobotanists, including those formerly in the
Hoee Building — except for Girty. Old customs die hard and Dall, the USGS Cenozoic paleontolo-
gist, was on the west side of the building, his collections intermixed with the modern shells of the
Division of Mollusks.

Invertebrate paleontologists of the USNM Department of Geology were on the south side of the
building; but Bassler and, later, Resser constituted the staff for invertebrates for nearly two decades.
It is superfluous to note that the Geological Survey staff was far larger. Gilmore and his vertebrate
colleagues held forth on the east side of the ground floor. Because of the need to fill exhibit halls, a
relatively large number of vertebrate preparators was employed for years reconstructing skeletons.

There is no indication of the size of the USGS/USNM fossil collections when they were
transferred to the new building. It is known that much material had been in storage for years and,
finally, could be put in cases making examination of the material far easier. There was a gradual shift
from wooden cases to those of steel, lessening the danger of fire. The space for more cases also must
have been an incentive for increased effort in collecting, mainly by the USGS paleontologists and by
Walcott. By the 1940s, little unused space remained and most fossil collections were in cases which
were stacked 9 feet high. Meanwhile, the limited staff of the Museum began to develop “biologic”
collections of selected organisms, in contrast to stratigraphic collections of the entire fauna of a
locality.

One important consequence of the move was new public display space. Four halls were devoted
to paleontology and preparing exhibits was officially a job for the Museum staff. Peale made major
contributions to the hall of paleobotany, and the vertebrate paleontologists eventually filled two halls
with skeletons. How much assistance Bassler received in organizing the invertebrate hall is no longer
known. For the next forty years, the exhibits remained essentially unchanged.

USGS 1910-1941

With new office space, the USGS hired Edwin Kirk (1884-1955 ), an echinoderm specialist, and
a mid-Paleozoic biostratigrapher. He was considered by the geologists to be a phenomenal man in
determining the age of rocks in the field and did yeoman work in the Great Basin and Alaska before
losing a leg in a quarry accident; he continued to come to the museum after retirement and died at his
desk. Paleobotanist White became U. S. Geological Survey Chief Geologist in 1913. He returned
full-time to paleontology at the new museum building in 1922, but was in frail health after a stroke.

Within the Geologic Division of the USGS, a separate section on coastal plain investigations

YOCHELSON: PALEONTOLOGY IN WASHINGTON, DC 143

was organized in 1913 and headed by Thomas Wayland Vaughan (1870-1952) (Rabbitt 1986).
Vaughan later left Washington to become head of Scripps Oceanographic Institute, but, late in life,
a retired Vaughan returned to the USNM and to his study of scleractinian corals. Others in the Coastal
Plain Section who were housed in the new building included Lloyd William Stephenson (1876-1962),
a specialist on Cretaceous mollusks, Charles Wythe Cooke (1887-1971), who studied echinoids, and
Julia Anna Gardner (1882-1960) (Fig. 18), specialist on Cenozoic mollusks and a pioneer in
paleoecological interpretation of fossils. These names are familiar worldwide to all students of
younger fossils.

In 1913 Wendell Phillips Woodring (1891-1983) was hired, though he may not have been in the
Coastal Plain Section; he left in 1927 for a three year teaching stint, but returned to the Washington
fold. In 1922, Stephenson became head of the Coastal Plain Section, which he led for the next 15
years, until the paleontologists of that group were transferred to the Paleontology and Stratigraphy
Section. That name was commonly shortened to P&S and occasionally referred to by some field
geologists as “Pull and Strut.” Near the end of World War I, John Bernard Reeside Jr. (1889-1958)
(Fig. 19) was hired to work on the Cretaceous. There then came a pause in growth.

Surprisingly, despite the great depression, 1930 saw new faces in the P&S Section. Josiah Bridge
(1896-1953) came, presumably as an understudy of Ulrich on lower Paleozoic fossils and stratigra-
phy. He soon joined the group of geologists who could not agree with Ulrich’s notions of unique
faunas in rocks he had named the Ozarkian and Canadian. James Steele Williams (1896-1957) also
came to Washington in 1930 to understudy the aging Girty and was housed in the main Interior
Building, though later he moved to another Interior department building. A few years later, Lloyd

18 19

Figures 18-19. (18) Julia Anna Gardner, first woman paleontologist in the U.S. Geological Survey;
(19) A young John B. Reeside, Jr., second chief of P&S Section, U.S. Geological Survey
Courtesy U. S. Geological Survey, Photographic Library (Portraits #341 and 1034 respectively)

144 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

George Henbest (1900-1987) was hired to work on Paleozoic fusulinids and, in a sense, he became
the first Geological Survey micropaleontologist in Washington.

As still another 1930 hire, the Paleozoic paleobotanist Charles Brian Read (1907-1979) arrived
in Washington, more or less to understudy White but, after a decade, he transferred to other Geological
Survey activities. When he was appointed in 1931, Kenneth Elmo Lohman (1897-1996) also was
housed in the USGS headquarters, for there was no more space in the new museum building; Lohman
continued his study of fossil diatoms begun at the California Institute of Technology.

The outstanding “character” among the new group of post-1919 paleontologists was the Ceno-
zoic paleobotanist Roland Wilbur Brown (1893-1961), hired in 1929. Along with plants, he became
involved in problematica and acquired all sorts of esoteric paleontologic information. Brown was
also a scholar of Latin and Greek and, though “Brownie” was renowned for his penny-pinching, it
was the pennies he saved that allowed him in 1954 to publish privately his famous book Composition
of Scientific Words, which has become the bible for anyone coining a new specific or generic name
in systematic biology or paleontology. Brown also left a large endowment to the National Museum
for the study of paleobotany.

In 1940, Ralph Willard Imlay (1908-1989), a Jurassic ammonite specialist, joined the P&S
Section. He, Stephenson, and Reeside occupied adjacent offices. All worked and wrote extensively
and had no time for chit-chat; their offices were referred to as the “hall of silent men.” As an indication
of productivity, during one month in the 1970s, Imlay was the author of five percent of all the
Professional Papers published by the USGS.

Woodring, Gardner and other USGS paleontologists studying Cenozoic fossils had their offices
near Dall on the west side of the building. So little is known of Ralph Bentley Stewart (1901-1957)
and his Geological Survey career that it is uncertain when he arrived to consider the California fossil
mollusks; it may not have been until the 1940s.

During 1931, Stanton was appointed USGS Acting Chief Geologist and was given the job ona
permanent basis the following year; despite his advanced age, Stanton served until 1935. With
Stanton’s move upward, Reeside, another Cretaceous specialist, headed the Section in 1932 and held
that position for the next nineteen years.

USNM 1910-1941

Following the death of Merrill, in 1929, Bassler became Head of the Department of Geology in
the Museum and occupied the position until retirement in 1948 (Yochelson 1985a); he remained
around his office until a few years before his death in 1961. In 1930, the Department employed Gustav
Arthur Cooper (1902—__ ) (Fig. 20); this was the best decision of Bassler’s career. Cooper left the
museum building in 1987, fifty-seven years later, 15 years after his official retirement in 1972. As
Cooper occasionally recounted, “Mr. Resser studied the Cambrian trilobites and Cooper had to care
for all other fossils.” He specialized on the study of fossil and Recent brachiopods, dramatically
improved curatorial practices, and accumulated extensive collections. Cooper produced many mono-
graphs which contributed significantly to Paleozoic stratigraphy and in some ways his work was
comparable to that of the USGS paleontologists. Nevertheless, he was equally interested in the life
habits, phylogeny, and classification of the brachiopods. He was, without a doubt, the outstanding
Museum paleontologist of the 20th Century.

A year after Gidley died in 1931, the Museum hired Charles Lewis Gazin (1904-1996) to
continue research on Cenozoic mammals; he retired in 1970, but maintained his research effort for a

YOCHELSON: PALEONTOLOGY IN WASHINGTON, DC 145

FiGureE 20. G. Arthur Cooper, last Head of Geology and first Chairman of Paleobiology, and Mrs. Cooper
in his office on the south side of the “new” National Museum Building. Taken June 1954.
Courtesy Smithsonian Institution Archives (SIA #85-4051).

few more years. Gazin had previously worked a year or so for the USGS, but for some reason did not
like the organization.

From the early 1920s onward, funds were short for both the Geological Survey and Museum,
but especially the latter. The great depression made a bad situation worse. The Museum had no money
for cases, drawers or trays, but the Geological Survey would scrape together funds and lend these
items. On several occasions, Cooper joined USGS paleontologists on field trips as, apart from salaries,
there was essentially no funding for the Museum.

World War II

The Second World War affected everyone. The P&S Section was essentially reduced to Reeside
and Brown; both had served as Lieutenants in the First World War. Williams and Helen Margaret
Duncan (1910-1971), interested in Paleozoic bryozoans, went off to look for fluorite. Jean Milton
Berdan (1916— __ ), another woman interested in Lower Paleozoic ostracodes, was involved in water
resources work.

Mackenzie Gordon, Jr. (1913-1992), later to make his name studying goniatites, looked for
bauxite in Arkansas, and Preston Ercelle Cloud (1912-1991) (Fig. 21) was sent to find bauxite in

146 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Alabama. Cloud left the USGS after the War but then
returned in 1949. Josiah Bridge headed the entire
bauxite program and did not return to P&S until a few
years before his death in 1954. Israel Gregory Sohn
(1911-2000), who had started as a technician in 1941,
went to Military Geology and then searched for ben-
tonite clays in Montana. In Military Geology, Julia
Gardner studied tiny mollusks and foraminifers in
sand ballast from a captured Japanese fire balloons
and, combined with Lohman’s analysis of the dia-
toms, located the launching site in Japan.

As far as the Museum staff was involved, verte-
brate paleontology contributed members to the armed
forces, and Gazin was an officer. Cooper accompa-
nied Imlay in studies of stratigraphy in Mexico in the
hopes of increasing oil production. After Resser died
in 1943, Cooper constituted the entire staff of the
Division of Invertebrate Paleontology and Paleobo-
tany.

Also, as a consequence of the war, there was
serious concern that Washington would be bombed.
Shortly before 1941, illustrated material had been
separated from the general collections as had the type ;

: ; : P&S Branch, taken about 1970, in his later years
specimens much earlier. So, with the onset of war, the afer Ieaving the USGS. Published by pamueron
illustrated material and the types were moved from of the National Academy of Sciences.
the museum to off-site storage in limestone caves in
Virginia. As a result of this, the Department came to maintain three kinds of collections: “type
material,” which included illustrated specimens; biological sets; and stratigraphic collections. Al-
though many museums maintain their illustrated material in order by the publication in which they
are described, the fossil holdings at the USNM are so huge that the “type” collections, including
illustrated material, are maintained in cases in alphabetical order adjacent to, but separate from, the
“biological” collections.

FiGurE 21. Preston E. Cloud, first chief of the USGS

Post-War Boom in USGS

In 1946, William Aubry Cobban moved into the Mesozoic Hall of Silent Men, and continued
the tradition of silently writing extensive monographs. Beginning in 1948, the USGS expanded
dramatically and the sections became branches. Williams and other Upper Paleozoic paleontologists
were transferred to the not quite so new museum building to provide more space in another USGS
building. They brought with them about 200 6-foot cases of fossils which had to be stored in the east
attic. Jack Elwood Smedley began work on the Permian in 1947 and remained for about a decade
before transferring to another part of the USGS.

Along with the old hands who came back from war-time assignments, a few former assistants
had worked their way up. I. G. Sohn, for instance, went from the search for clay deposits during the
war to the post-war study of ostracodes, and Wilbert Henry Hass (?—1959), who had joined P&S
during the 1930s as a technician, now worked on conodonts.

YOCHELSON: PALEONTOLOGY IN WASHINGTON, DC 147

When Joseph Augustine Cushman (1881-1949), a USGS contract employee for many years,
died, his foraminifer collection, along with Ruth Todd (1913-1984), who had started work for the
Geological Survey in Cushman’s laboratory in 1941, and Todd’s assistant, Doris Low, came to the
P&S Branch (1949). As a result, the branch expanded its space on the third floor of the museum into
the southeast corridor.

Following the administrative change wherein USGS sections became branches, in the fall of
1949 Reeside stepped down and Cloud became Chief of the Paleontology and Stratigraphy Branch
(Fig. 21). A dramatic new era of expansion began. About this time, Harry Stephen Ladd (1899-1982),
experienced in the National Park Service before his stint in war-time USGS administration, trans-
ferred to the branch and started his post-war investigations of Cenozoic rocks on the Pacific Islands.
He also completed the massive treatise on paleoecology begun by Vaughan and was, at least, the
grandfather of the deep-sea drilling program.

Cloud hired a whole series of people, comparable to the increase of two decades earlier. In 1949,
Arthur James Boucot was brought in, a graduate student working on Paleozoic brachiopods under
Cloud; and the following year, Cloud hired Allison Ralph Palmer, who had just completed his degree
and was deep into investigations of Cambrian trilobites. In 1951, he hired the Paleozoic paleobotanist
Sergius Harry Mamay, who had completed a post-doctorate year in England studying Carboniferous
plants. In the space of one year, 1952, Cloud employed Richard Stanton Boardman, who was
completing a thesis on Devonian bryozoans; Raymond Charles Douglass, who was to do research on
larger foraminifers and fusulinids; and Ellis Leon Yochelson, beginning a thesis on Permian
gastropods.

Not only did Cloud want more people to serve the needs of the large increase of USGS geologists
who were mapping, but he also wanted groups of fossils which had been little exploited to be made
more useful for stratigraphic purposes. These people, and those who followed, tended to concentrate
on a particular group of fossils and were more specialized than those who had preceded them. Though
the conventional groups of fossils for age determination were studied in ever more detail, new groups
were being investigated and utilized in increasing numbers. A second minor theme of these new hires
was more emphasis on consideration of environments of deposition and on paleoecological interpre-
tation of fossils.

Notwithstanding more time for longer-term research, the main emphasis was still on support for
the field geologists, and all material sent in was to be reported on within a few months. A delay in an
answer to an inquiry based on fossils led to a chastising by the Chief. Commonly, the younger
paleontologists were out each summer visiting field parties to provide on-the-spot assistance.

After a second floor geological exhibit hall was closed, P&S expanded into “Stone Hall” for a
decade, an office area nearly as uncomfortable as the attic storage area. Paleobotanist James Morton
Schopf (1911-1978) was in the Branch for a year, but he saw better opportunities with the Fuels
Branch and set up his own laboratory in Columbus, Ohio.

William Jasper Sando (1927-1996) joined the branch in 1954, was detailed to another position
for two years and in 1956 began study of Mississippian corals of the West, dying shortly after his
retirement in 1993. Norman Fredrick Sohl (1924-1991) arrived in 1954 to work on the Cretaceous
of the Gulf Coast and later the Caribbean, and brought a little noise into the “Hall of Silent Men.” In
1954, Robert Ballin Neuman moved from elsewhere in the USGS to the museum building, but he did
not officially join the Branch to study of Lower Paleozoic brachiopods until a decade later; he retired
in 1980, but is still busy as a volunteer and museum research associate.

The great expansion of the USGS led to creation of P&S branch offices in Denver, Colorado,
and Menlo Park, California. Cobban moved to Denver and others were hired directly for that facility.

148 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Richard Rezak came to Washington to study algae, both Precambrian and Recent; he then moved to
Denver, to the oil industry, and to academia. Later, Ellen James Moore, who had been Julia Gardner's
assistant, moved to the Menlo Park facility to study Cenozoic mollusks of the West Coast. In 1955,
Dwight Willard Taylor, a specialist on nonmarine gastropods, came to P&S in Washington for several
years before moving West; he left the USGS in 1967. Jack Albert Wolfe, a Mesozoic paleobotanist,
began in Washington and then transferred to Denver for a long and noteworthy career. However, a
number of Geological Survey paleontologists who had distinguished careers in the Denver and Menlo
Park offices were never in Washington, except as occasional visitors and are not included in this
account.

William Albert Oliver, Jr. came from Brown University in 1957 to work on Devonian corals. At
the time, there was so little obvious distinction between paleontologists of the USGS and USNM that
he was offered a position with both the Department staff and P&S Branch, and given his choice.
Ultimately, he accepted the position with the Geological Survey. The Survey had more money for
field work and assistants, as well as a ready outlet for publication, but his decision may have been
influenced by the fact that, under Cloud, detailed concentration on a particular group of fossils was
strongly encouraged. The day of faunal studies of a formation had passed.

Although Cloud took a year in Europe during his tenure, he was the branch chief until 1961.
Charles Warren Merriam (1905-1974) had come East from Menlo Park, California, to be Acting
Chief during that year, and took over again with the understanding that his earlier year as Acting
Chief would be included in his term of office. It had become the custom throughout the USGS that
a branch chief served five years. In 1961, a few months after stepping down as branch chief, Cloud
left the Geological Survey. Merriam hired John Warfield Huddle (1907-1975) from the University
of Kentucky to revive the studied of conodonts, but sadly, like Hass, he also died of cancer. Whether
the heavy liquids used in concentration of conodonts were responsible is uncertain, but greater safety
precautions with these liquids were installed.

Being a young paleontologist for the USGS did not suit everyone; Boucot left for a teaching
career in 1956, but continued his study of brachiopods. Margaret Jean Hough, the first USGS
vertebrate paleontologist since Marsh, came to the museum in the 1950s and left in 1960 for an
academic position. A few years later, Palmer also left for the joys of academia.

USGS studies in vertebrate paleontology finally found a focus when Frank Clifford Whitmore,
Jr. transferred to P& S Branch in 1959, after more than a decade as Chief of Military Geology Branch.
Since the early 1950s, John Thomas Dutro, Jr. maintained an office at the Museum as a paleontologist
with the Alaska Branch; he strengthened the Paleozoic contingent when, in 1956, he transferred to
P&S Branch.

Post-War Change for USNM

After the war, the USNM began rebuilding its staff, though on a modest scale. Alfred Richard
Loeblich, Jr. (1914-1994) joined the staff in 1946, originally to study bryozoans, but because of
conflict with Bassler’s interest in that group, he soon began to study foraminifers, starting his new
investigations by helping to move Cushman’s collection to Washington. The transfer of the Cushman
collection of foraminfers to the USNM, made it the premier organization for study of this group of
microfossils. Loeblich remained in the Department for just over a decade, leaving in 1957 for an oil
research laboratory, and, ultimately, a university.

David Hosbrook Dunkle (1911-1984) came in 1947 to start a program in the study of fossil fish;
as one of the rare examples of Museum to Geological Survey transfer, he spent 1961—1963 overseas

YOCHELSON: PALEONTOLOGY IN WASHINGTON, DC 149

with a USGS mission. It was a surprise when he resigned in 1968 to move to the Cleveland Museum.
Arthur Leroy Bowsher joined the Department in 1948 for a year, transferred to the USGS for a year
to work in Alaska, returned to the Department staff for a year to study crinoids, and then left again
in 1951 for a career with the USGS before moving to the oil business in the late-1950s. David Nicol
arrived in 1949, the first Museum Cenozoic specialist; after eight years, he also left to teach at
Southern Illinois University.

Turnover of staff within the Department was significant during the 1940s and 1950s and, relative
to the size of the two groups, it was far higher than among Geological Survey paleontologists. No
single cause is obvious but, as slow as the rate of promotion was in the Survey, it was even slower
within the Museum.

To move to a more positive point, just before the start of World War II, Cooper had brought back
a few small pieces of Permian limestone from west Texas and extracted fossil brachiopods using
hydrochloric acid. In the post-war years, an annual trip to gather more and more blocks became a
ritual. The blocks were acidified in a temporary building in the east courtyard, leaving a residue of
magnificent fossils. “By spending the same time on the outcrop, collecting limestone blocks rather
than loose specimens, the number of specimens increases by many orders of magnitude .. .. Silicified
fossils are not sturdy. We have leaped from storing rocks to storing objects as delicate as butterflies”
(Yochelson, 1969, 599). Millions of brachiopods accumulated along with a variety of other inverte-
brates. Research Associate James Brookes Knight (1880-1960) retired from Princeton and spent a
few months each year in Washington examining the Permian snails.

Following Bassler’s retirement, mineralogist William Foshag was appointed Head Curator of
the Department of Geology (Yochelson, 1985a). In 1956, Cooper became Head Curator, and he had
plans for division and reorganization into a Department of Mineral Sciences and a Department of
Paleobiology.

Cooper hired Porter Martin Kier in 1957 to examine echinoids. After completing his thesis under
Geological Survey auspices, in 1957, Boardman transferred to the Museum’s Department of Geology:
his view was that paleontologists should be concerned with biology of the organism and less interested
in its age. To strengthen study of fossil vertebrates, Peter Paul Vaughn came in 1958, but left in 1960
for academia. Nicholas Hotton II] (1921-1999) arrived in 1959 to wrestle with the fossil reptiles and
had a distinguished career before retirement. Erle Galen Kauffmann was hired in 1960 and established
himself as one who brought in enormous collections of Cretaceous invertebrates. Sohl of the USGS
and he collaborated closely but, in 1980, Kauffmann left for the University of Colorado. Richard
Cifelli (1923-1984) joined the staff in 1960 to look after the foraminifers; his career was cut short
by cancer.

The USNM staff continued to be “poor relations” relative to its counterpart in the P&S Branch.
Funds for field work were in short supply and, more commonly than not, it was the USGS that bought
new cases, drawers, and specimen trays. Neither organization had sufficient technical support, but
P&S had relatively more than those in USNM. Perhaps the single greatest daily annoyance to the
Museum’s “have nots” was that USGS offices had window air conditioners. These actually had little
effect, for the building was brick faced with thick granite and soaked up heat from March onward to
the late fall, but they were symbolic.

Girty had set a tone in not transferring the Late Paleozoic collections to the USNM. Eventually
his type specimens were added to the collections, but the bulk of the material remained the property
of the Department of Interior. Likewise, most of the Paleozoic collections made during the time that
Cloud was branch chief and for years thereafter were not transferred. The Museum continued to
receive material but, increasingly, its staff was more concerned with research of their own choosing

150 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

than with curation of the growing collections. The Geological Survey collections were well curated,
but neither they nor the National Museum were particularly zealous in the joint duties of transfer of
material.

During the 1950s and 1960s, the younger members of P&S and the Department of Geology/Pa-
leobiology socialized. As families grew and commuting became more difficult, there was less
interaction between the groups. The intimate association between Museum and Geological Survey
eroded slightly as organizational memory was lost. For both groups of paleontologists who were
beginning their careers, promotion depended on productivity. Among a few of the people, an
unspoken feeling was that the bright lights in the Geological Survey were wasting their careers in
aiding field men and, conversely, obtuse problems of no practical importance were being pursued by
some members of the Department.

One of the problems faced by the Department staff was that of the outdated public displays.
Eventually, four new halls were completed (Yochelson, 1985). It was a painful process and required
a great deal of time and effort. Except for occasional and minor contributions, the staff of P&S was
not involved. Still later, several of these exhibit halls were completely redone.

More New Quarters and Staff

New space was one major event of the next decade for the two groups. An air conditioned east
wing with six research floors was added to the building in 1962. Formerly, the USGS placed between
two and four people in each room in the main building, but now finally P&S had the entire third floor
of the wing and part of the fifth and first floors in this new facility. Those in the Department of
Paleobiology occupied most of the first floor, all of second and some of the fifth. Along with the new
space for people came new space for empty cases and new space for collections.

Shortly after the move to new space in the east wing, the organization of the Department of
Paleobiology ensued. In 1963, Cooper became the first in charge of the new Department of
Paleobiology; he also held the title of Chairman rather than Head Curator (Yochelson, 1985a), another
change from the past. Although it may have seemed trivial at the time, “paleontology” was not in the
title and use of “paleobiology” in retrospect signified a break with past tradition. A certain amount
of research had always been done by members of both the Department and P&S Branch staffs,
depending in part on individual temperament and time available; but this title was a clear signal that
the Museum was shifting more toward research.

Dutro became chief of P&S Branch in 1962 in the new quarters and he was followed by Sohl in
1968. Under both, the staff continued to expand slightly and identifying fossils and writing descrip-
tions continued on more or less an even keel. Almost immediately after the move in 1963, John Pojeta,
Jr. was hired to help support USGS mapping in the state of Kentucky. The Geological Survey started
its own program of dissolving limestone blocks to obtain silicified fossils from the older rocks of that
state. P&S used the Museum acid room in the east wing basement. The same year Olgarts Karklins
came to study Kentucky bryozoans.

Blake Winfield Blackwelder arrived in 1972 to study Tertiary fossils for the USGS and stayed
until 1981 before switching to the oil business. Harlan Richard Bergquist (1908-1982), who began
by studied microfossils for the Alaskan Branch, transferred to P&S at the Museum about 1967. Anita
Gertrude Harris, who began as a preparator and went on to become USGS map editor, came back to
P&S Branch and, among other accomplishments, developed the conodont alteration index (CAI), a
major tool for investigations of oil prospects of a region; she retired in 1997. As a result of a project
to study Miocene at the Calvert Cliffs nuclear power plant, Lauke Ward came as a technician; he was

YOCHELSON: PALEONTOLOGY IN WASHINGTON, DC 15]

the last in the Branch to work his way up to professional status before he resigned to help organize a
new natural history museum in Virginia.

In 1962, Thomas George Gibson began working on Cenozoic foraminifers. Joseph Ernest Hazel
came in 1964 to work on younger ostracodes. Richard Monroe Forester was hired in 1975 to add to
the ostracode effort; he was at the museum and then Reston before moving to Denver. Elisabeth M.
Brower started as a technician in Washington, but came into her own with ostracodes, after
transferring to Denver. Laurel Mary Bybell was another person added in 1975; she has the distinction
of being the first of the group to be moved to Reston, Virginia, in 1978, occupying a huge empty
space to reserve it for future use. Norman John Silberling was hired in 1975 for the Menlo Park office;
some time later he came to P&S in Washington for a year and, when he returned to California, some
cases of Triassic fossils left the Museum with him. Now retired, Silberling continues Triassic work
in Denver. John Edward Repetski came in 1975 to work on Lower Paleozoic conodonts for the P&S
Branch. In 1969, Michael E. Taylor filled the long vacant spot in the study of Cambrian trilobites,
before he transferred to Denver; when he moved a significant part of the Cambrian collection moved
with him, and it remained in Denver when he retired in 1995.

Again developments of the Museum paralleled the USGS on a more modest scale. The first
paleobotanist came to the department when Francis Maurice Hueber joined in 1962 to study Devonian
plants. Martin Alexander Buzas came in 1963 to strengthen research in foraminifers. The year 1964
was a banner year for the Department; it added four new members. Richard Hall Benson came from
teaching at Kansas to a career with ostracodes and study of the Cenozoic of the Mediterranean region.
Clayton Edward Ray began studying fossil mammals with emphasis on marine forms and has
continued on since retirement in 1996. Walter Adey began studying fossil algae, switched to Recent
forms and marine ecosystems, and formed a unit separate from the department in 1984. Kenneth M.
Towe began to worry about oxygen in the Precambrian atmosphere and other more esoteric matters
until his retirement, also in 1996. It is symbolic of a future division of approach that, whereas the
Smithsonian telephone directory listed a biological specialty for both the Geological Survey paleon-
tologists and those in the Department, Towe’s specialty was listed as “electron microscope.”

The Department staff expanded a little more. Thomas Richard Waller started looking at scallops
as a staff member in 1966 and has continued apace. Alan Herbert Cheetham left the academic life at
Louisiana State University in 1967 to concentrate on Cenozoic bryozoans in Washington. However,
like some members of the P&S Branch, the Department was not for everyone; Richard Ashby Robison
came in 1966 to study trilobites, intensely disliked commuting, and left in 1967.

By mid—1964, a west wing of the building was completed and was available for occupancy. The
paleobotanical contingent of P&S and the Department moved again to new quarters. Now that there
was space, Lohman moved to the west wing from another USGS building. Paleobotanist Leo Joseph
Hickey was added to the departmental staff in 1969, but in 1980 the Yale Peabody Museum called,
and he answered the call.

The 1960s were the golden time for paleontology in Washington. It was the heyday of the P&S
Branch with 31 professionals and 35 support staff on its rolls at the USNM. The Museum’s
departmental staff was approximately half that size, but together, and in one capacity or another, some
90 persons were examining fossils. Apart from institutes in Nanjing and Moscow, the USNM housed
the largest concentration of paleontologists in one establishment in the world. Indeed, it has been
stated informally, that the large contingent of USGS personnel was a strong reason for building the
east wing.

After the USNM departmental reorganization was in place and functioning well, Cooper stepped
down in 1967 and Kier became Chairman of Paleobiology. By then, the USNM had also established

152 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

five years as a term fora chairman. In 1969, the United States National Museum metamorphosed into
the National Museum of Natural History (NMNH); at the insistence of the curators, the abbreviation
used to designate specimens remains USNM.

Robert John Emry was hired in 1971 and took up the task of investigating early Cenozoic
mammals, replacing Gazin, who retired in 1970. In 1973, immediately after his term as Department
Chairman, Kier became director of the National Museum of Natural History, serving until 1980. He
returned briefly to the Department to look at a few more fossil echinoids, then having seen them all,
or at least most of them, he retired. James Francis Mello, who had been hired by the Geological
Survey's P&S Branch to study Cretaceous foraminifers in 1962, developed a taste for administration
by 1970 and transferred to the office of the Chief Geologist. Three years later, Kier appointed Mello
as Assistant Director and Mello remained in administration for about a decade, before returning to
foraminifers for a year or so and then taking an early retirement.

Cooper had received a grant from the National Science Foundation to continue his work on
silicified Permian brachiopods and, in 1957, Richard Evans Grant (1927—1994) came to Washington.
When this grant money was expended, he joined the P&S Branch and continued to assist Cooper in
preparing and describing Permian brachiopods.

Whereas the Chief of P&S Branch was appointed by the Chief Geologist, the Chairman of the
Department was elected by the staff, subject to final approval by the Museum director. At least twice
in the history of Paleobiology, a staff member who wanted the position worried other staff members
to the extent that he was not elected. In 1973, Grant transferred to the Department staff, moving from
the third floor to the second, and followed Porter Kier as the next departmental chairman; because of
a major departmental split, bringing in an “outside” person resolved the dilemma. Grant’s fatal heart
attack in December, 1994, shocked everyone. Earlier, however, Martin Buzas had followed Grant as
Chairman and had served for nearly six years, from 1977-1982.

Tarnish on the Golden Age

The new wings provided air conditioning, far better lighting and much needed space for offices
and collections. Still, there was a disadvantage in being spread among four floors. One practical point
is that in the main part of the building there was only one toilet on the third floor. Sooner or later,
P&S Branch and Department members met and exchanged a few words. The new wings provided
many rest rooms, but increased the isolation of the two groups and to some extent within each group.
Slight though this contact may have been and humorous though it may seem, this was another factor
in divergence of the two groups. One must keep in mind that museums tend to attract people who are
to some extent the antithesis of gregarious sales people. Further, the longer one pursues a speciality,
the less time one has to socialize, even among peers. This is one of differences between academic
institutions and museums.

When Norman Sohl stepped down as USGS Branch Chief, Joseph Hazel took over the position
from 1973-1978. Thomas Woodrow Henry was hired to study marine invertebrates from the
Pennsylvanian stratotype section, and remained at the museum building for nearly a decade, before
moving to Denver. When he moved, the bulk of the Late Paleozoic Geological Survey fossil collection
went to Denver with him.

More significantly in the history of that organization, the completion in the 1970s of a new
building for the U. S. Geological Survey at Reston, Virginia, provided for more expansion. Almost
all of the new staff were in the field of micropaleontology and primarily oriented toward younger

YOCHELSON: PALEONTOLOGY IN WASHINGTON, DC 153

Cenozoic rocks, rather than older Paleozoic strata, and again toward groups of fossils which had not
been studied by USGS specialists.

Of profound significance, for the first time since Geological Survey paleontologists were in
Washington, their headquarters left the Museum. Hazel transferred the office of the Branch Chief of
P&S Branch to Reston, and left the Geological Survey for the oil business in 1983. Hazel was followed
as Branch Chief by William V. Sliter (1935-1997), a foraminifer specialist who, like Merriam, came
east from Menlo Park, and had scant knowledge of the Museum contingent or the history of
USGS-USNM relations. Thomas Mark Cronin was hired in 1978, had at office at NMNH, and
continued the tradition in ostracode studies.

Next, several paleontologists who had been at the museum transferred to Reston. These included
Cronin, Gibson, Harris, Karklins and Repetski in the early 1980s. From the standpoint of collections,
moving the microfossils was relatively easy. When Sohl transferred to Reston, a number of large,
heavy cases went with him. On the other hand, Pojeta went to Reston but kept most of his collections
at the Museum. Whitmore was not transferred to Reston; he retired in 1984, but like most retirees he
kept right on pursuing his research.

Bruce Wardlaw holds the all-time record for moving. He had a post-doctorate with the Museum
Department, followed by a post-doctorate with the USGS P&S Branch, followed by USGS employ-
ment in Washington and then Reston, followed by a move to Denver and a return to Reston. Along
the way he switched from brachiopods to conodonts, because they are a more useful biostratigraphic
group. Large scale programs of dissolving limestone to extract fossils ceased, in part because of
environmental regulations and, in part, because of poor original design and construction of the
facilities in the aging east wing.

Decline and Fall at USGS

During 1979, the USGS began a major change in organization. One step was to shift to
programmatic research. Whereas the tradition had been that P&S was a “service” organization, with
every Chief from Cloud onward urging more time for independent research, now identification of
fossils for field parties was downgraded. More or less simultaneously, budget problems developed.
Several middle management administrators seized this as a reason to detail for several months some
paleontologists at the Museum to proof-read regulations for the Office of Surface Mining. Protests
to the branch chief were to no avail.

Funds for field work began to decline, but especially so for the paleontologists. As paleontologists
no longer visited field parties, the number of collections sent in for examination and report began to
decline, for it was assumed that there was no reason to collect fossils which would not be studied. It
was a self-fulfilling prophesy.

In 1984, Sliter was followed as Branch Chief, for a very few months, by Taylor, the only time
Branch headquarters was in Denver. Later in 1984, Richard Z. Poore, yet another foraminifer person
moving east from California, was appointed branch chief and returned P&S Branch headquarters to
Reston. Poore chose to emphasize investigations of paleoclimatology of the late Cenozoic.

Poore had no prior experience or understanding of the relationship that had existed among
Museum and Geological Survey staff and administrations, and the acting director of the museum, at
that time, likewise, had no knowledge of this past history. As a consequence, P&S paleontologists
were strongly encouraged to move to Reston, even though this meant smaller quarters for them. In
1988, Repetski, Harris, and Pojeta were moved out of the building. Eventually only a few persons
interested in Paleozoic megafossils remained in Washington.

154 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

FiGure 22. John Pojeta, Jr. (1999). Ficure 23. John Thomas Dutro, Jr. (1999).
Photo courtesy Alan Leviton. Photo courtesy Alan Leviton.

Retirements of the USGS post-war generation of paleontologists had started with Neuman in
1980, Mamay in 1982, Whitmore in 1984 and Yochelson in 1985; Oliver and Sando both retired in
1993. The Museum generously provided offices for those who remained in Washington, and they
continued as Research Associates in the Department. Pojeta took over as Branch Chief from Poore
in 1989; after Pojeta’s retirement in 1994 (Fig. 22), he too returned to the Museum as another full-time
working retiree. Wardlaw became Chief of P&S Branch in 1994, following Pojeta. Gibson came back
to the Museum as a retiree in 1995.

Dutro (Fig. 23), the last P&S Branch paleontologist at the Museum, officially retired in 1994 —
though, like others, he is still active — and the last technician, Keith Moore, retired in July, 1995.
The long tenure of Geological Survey paleontologists in the Museum, which had begun in 1881,
ended. Later that year, other USGS paleontologists were lost by a government reduction in force, not
only at Reston, but also at Denver and Menlo Park.

During the mid-1990s, an administrative decision was made that there were no longer to be any
branches with national responsibilities. On October 1, 1995, the Paleontology and Stratigraphy
Branch was dissolved and the few remaining Geological Survey paleontologists were scattered to
other projects. A new director in 1999 commented “We have been accused of never wanting to stop
anything, but we have ended programs. A lot of stratigraphy and paleontology programs, for example,
aren’t around anymore . . .” (Molina, 1999:11). Apparently whatever paleontologists might have
contributed in the past, they will not, in the foreseeable future, have the opportunity again to aid the
Geological Survey.

The Last Quarter Century in the Museum’s Department of Paleobiology

Cooper’s reorganization included adding a division for sedimentologists. The hope in part was
that this might lead to an active role for the Museum in the Deep Sea Drilling Program and, in part,
might lead to paleoecological investigations. Jack W. Pierce was the first sedimentologist, arriving

YOCHELSON: PALEONTOLOGY IN WASHINGTON, DC 155

in 1965. M. Grant Gross came in 1966 but left in less than two years; it was such a short stay that it
is not listed in American Men and Women of Science. Daniel Jean Stanley arrived later in 1966.

Although interesting research resulted from the group, neither hope was realized. In one sense,
the sedimentologists are not germane to the story, but in another sense they were part of the group
making decisions on policy and on hiring; two sedimentologists served as departmental chairman.

Ian George MacIntyre, who came to Museum in 1970 and joined the Department in 1972 to work
on coral reefs, primarily recent ones, took over the duties as departmental chairman from Buzas. The
first woman on the Paleobiology staff was Anna Kay Behrensmeyer, hired in 1981 and specializing
in vertebrate taphonomy, that is what processes affect the bones after an animal dies; she moved up
to Acting Associate Director for Research in 1993, and returned full-time to the Department in 1996.

When MacIntyre stepped down, Pierce, a sedimentologist not closely allied to any group of
fossils, became chairman. Money problems that beset the USGS affected the Museum at about the
same time. It is generally agreed that Pierce’s administration was not a happy time, but it is equally
agreed that this was because of external developments over which he had no control. He retired in
1995.

Notwithstanding these problems, Pierce was still able to increase the staff. Scott Lewis Wing
was added to the staff in 1984 to work on Cretaceous-Tertiary floras; after a museum post-doctorate,
he was employed by the P&S Branch for a short time before joining the Department staff. In 1985,
William Anthony DiMichele came from the University of Washington to study Late Paleozoic plants;
he was briefly in the west wing of the building. In only a few years, he became Department Chairman,
following Pierce.

Perhaps the most symbolic event of this period was in 1987 when Cooper left the Museum after
57 years of faithful service to paleontology. A Museum Support Center, a few miles from Washington,
was opened in 1983 and, in another symbolic event, the first collections of fossils were moved there
a week following Cooper’s departure. Other internal space moves resulted in the paleobotanists
joining their fellow paleontologists in the east wing.

A 1990 addition to the departmental staff was Douglas Hamilton Erwin, concerned with Permian
history and its snails, among many other interests, Also in 1990, Brian Thomas Huber, joined the
staff and added more strength to the world’s largest collection of foraminifers, along with his interest
in correlation by foraminfers of some of the deep seas cores. Conrad Columbus Labandiera, came in
1992 and opened a new field for the department in his investigations of fossil insects. A reasonable
generalization is that, during the time P&S was in dramatic decline, the Department more or less
remained steady and has since been slightly strengthened. Ray retired in 1996 but still comes to the
museum occasionally.

Although a specialty is given above for the paleontologists on the Museum staff, this is not a
truly accurate description. The philosophy of hiring had shifted, and an extreme expression of this is
that, to fill a vacancy, the best paleontologist should be hired, the fossil group of which the person
had most knowledge being secondary. One consequence of this is that few on the current staff are
investigating Paleozoic rocks or fossils. Overall, the rate of collecting fossils has also declined
dramatically relative to the 1960s.

Another new development is more emphasis on international studies. Paleontology has always
been broad in intellectual outlook, but employment for the Department of Interior required a great
deal of ingenuity for a paleontologist to spend much time overseas. In contrast, the stricture on the
Museum’s Department in this regard was concerned with funding rather than philosophy. During the
1980s the Department became strongly international in the research efforts of its staff.

In 1996, Richard H. Benson became Department Chairman. The Walcott Fund, which had been

156 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

taken away by the Director’s office during Pierce’s tenure, was returned to the Department. The
Department staff is still strong, but the number of professional positions has declined slightly from
its high point in the 1960s. John Michael Pandolfi was added to the staff in 1996, his prime interest
being in coral reefs. There is hope for a dinosaur specialist, but the Museum has never had one and
in light of the public interest in these fossils, this lack of a staff person is bizarre. Still, with its smaller
staff, the Department of Paleobiology cannot provide the coverage of fossil groups that was available
in the 1960s and 1970s when Geological Survey and Museum paleontology were both strong.

Transfer of collections to the Museum Support Center has continued. There are probably more
fossils out of the Museum building than in it, and examining these collections is more complex and
time consuming than when the cases were at hand. The material which Sohl moved to Reston has
been returned to Washington. Collections located at the former P&S offices in Denver and Menlo
Park? remain at those locations, and they cannot be completely transferred to the Museum because
of space limitations. These include collections which had been in Washington at one time and were
removed when USGS paleontologists left for these centers. Apart from the preservation of type
specimens, the concept of a museum of record is no longer a significant concern. Major reconstruction
within the east wing presents new and varied problems for the working scientists, though there is
assurance from the administration that all will be well by 2002, 2003, or a year or so after, at the
latest.

Unfortunately, this history must end on that down note. Yet, the story of paleontology in
Washington has been one of ups and downs, so that one can only hope that, in a few years, the
pendulum will swing again and that more paleontologists will join those still at the National Museum
of Natural History.

Research Trends

One extreme approach to fossils is to be concerned only with the age of the rocks that yield them.
Another extreme is to be concerned only with the biology of the organism, and ignore its age. It has
been argued that paleontologists combine these approaches but they are neither geologists or
biologists (Knight, 1947). Ancillary to this division, somewhere between “pure” biostratigraphy and
“pure” paleobiology lies the discipline of paleoecology. The environments of the past are significant,
but relatively few persons classify themselves as paleoecologists; in a sense that discipline has been
subsumed within paleobiology.

Another aspect of research should be considered. Most paleontologists of the first and second
generation were concerned with megafossils, easily studied, at least at a first stage. Following the
First World War, emphasis began to shift to microfossils, requiring a microscope at all stages. During
the last half of the 20th Century. ultramicrofossils, requiring the scanning electron microscope, have
become increasingly significant. The Washington paleontologists covered all parts of the stratigraphic
column, but their greatest area of specialist knowledge was in the Paleozoic. This is now a portion of
time essentially neglected, and indeed few of those remaining in Washington are interested in fossils
much older than the Cretaceous.

Summing this up and allowing for many exceptions, 1850-1925 may be characterized as an era
overwhelmingly concerned with biostratigraphy, at least as far as invertebrate fossils were concerned.
After the time of Meek, research was conducted by the paleontologists of the Geological Survey.
Those few on the staff of the Museum worked hard, but because they were so few their efforts do not

* In 1999, the Menlo Park Mesozoic and Cenozoic collections, primarily Alaskan in origin, were transferred to the Museum
of Paleontology at the University of California, Berkeley.

YOCHELSON: PALEONTOLOGY IN WASHINGTON, DC 157

loom large. Like their counterparts, at least some of the studies were directed toward biostratigraphy.
One need only look at the correlations charts published by the Geological Society of America to see
the importance of the P&S staff and of Cooper from the Museum.

In marked contract, the last quarter of the 20th Century has seen an overwhelming emphasis on
paleobiology. From 1925 through 1975, both approaches were employed. As the practical problems
of age determination and correlation were resolved and as geophysical investigations of the subsur-
face became more important, the need to have paleontologists study both large and small fossils in
relation to geologic problems declined in both the Federal and private sectors.

The end of paleontology in the Geological Survey is a classic example of success being the cause
of failure. In the final analysis, it was forces within the Geological Survey that first minimized and
then destroyed the field of paleontology. Ostensibly, these were all budget driven during the 1980s,
yet the Museum had equally severe funding difficulties but was able to support its scientists. From
the 1960s onward, the Geological Survey and the Museum had different objectives. The wonder is
not that they had diverged, but that they existed in harmony under one roof for a century. Despite this
difference in approach, retirees from the Geological Survey continue to conduct research at the
Museum. This is an independent proof that changing views between administrators of the two
organizations as to the kind of research which should be conducted had no direct effect on the course
of events among individuals.

If one defines a “golden age” by number of persons employed, paleontology in Washington has
passed its time in the sun and, indeed, the study of fossils is in decline worldwide. This should not be
taken to mean that investigations of evolution, speciation or extinction are any less important. If Meek
returned to the Museum a century after his death, though he would have been impressed with far
better microscopes and lighting, and astounded by some of the groups of microfossils, nevertheless
he would have understood what was being studied and why. Today, on the other hand, he would be
bewildered by the kinds of problems addressed. It is an inaccurate metaphor that the modem-con-
nected computer has replaced the geologic hammer, yet there is a kernel of truth in the observation.
To a large extent, interest has shifted away from detailed study of particular groups of fossils.

Possibly, paleobiology will bring new intellectual advances. However, determining the signifi-
cance of ideas on, say, life habit of a extinct organism, against the significance of determining the
age of a rock from an unknown area, makes the classic problem of comparing apples and oranges
appear to be child’s play. Equally important, the great days of collecting fossils are over, for they are
a non-renewable resource. Increasingly older collections will have to be mined for data and will of
necessity produce somewhat skewed results. Nevertheless, that is better than considering fossils as
icons, to be observed only from afar and not studied at all.

Private Biases Based on Examination of the Two Organizations

1. Working scientists in an organization are best supervised by a working scientist. The
supervisor, in turn, must have the confidence and support of the higher levels of administration. The
fewer the levels-the better!

2. For any museum or museum-like organization, collections and their proper care are funda-
mental. Collections are not the “end all,” but they are the “be all” and “do all” of such places.
Preserving the past and documenting past accomplishments are functions of a civilization.

3. Collection-based scientists should be near the collections they might want to study. Dead
storage is an accurate descriptive term, as items relocated from areas of human activity lead to
“out-of-sight, out-of-mind,” and loss of their utility as intellectual stimulants. So far as the confusion

158 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

engendered by transfer of offices of scientists purely for the benefit of administrators, three moves 1s
approximately equivalent to one fire.

4. The best and most enduring work is not necessarily done in the best physical environment.
Lots of nice new space Is fine, but it does not guarantee a good product. Required reading for everyone,
but particularly for administrators, should be C. Northcote Parkinson’s book Parkinson's Law.

5. Many scientists are prima donnas and do not necessarily interact well with colleagues.
However, more often than not, isolation from other colleagues results in much routine publication,
but a limited number of good ideas. The dual concepts of a “critical mass” of scientists and “optimum
size” need to be more carefully explored in organizational structure.

6. Routine tasks done by highly trained people is a waste of money and time. Proper assistance
is a key feature of a well-run organization. The best labor saving device is not a machine, but someone
else doing the routine work.

7. Expansion in good times is fine. Hiring too many people of the same age, no matter how much
promise they have, is not good. Organizations may age, but generally it is the aging staff without the
infusion of new ideas from young people that causes problems, not the organizational framework.

8. Scientists should expect to be supported for long periods and encouraged to produce definitive
works, rather than short term products. Anathema is too mild a word for the concept of annual
programmatic research. Cutting paper work in an organization by trusting the staff would have the
great benefit of forcing most “bean counters” to move elsewhere.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This work is modified from an unpublished document prepared in 1996 by Yochelson and J.
Thomas Dutro, Jr.; it also draws on Nelson and Yochelson (1980). Clifford Nelson also provided
hard-to-find information on the careers of several early government paleontologists. Alan E. Leviton
and Michael Ghiselin generously invited me to participate in a 1998 symposium at the California
Academy of Sciences; subsequently, J. Thomas Dutro, Jr., William A. Oliver, Jr., Michele L. Aldrich,
and Alan Leviton labored to make substantial improvements in its organization, not always at first to
my liking! The staffs of the Smithsonian Institution Archives and USGS Photographic Library
contributed significantly to the visual aspects of this summary.

REFERENCES

BARTLETT, R. A. 1962. Great Surveys of the American West. University of Oklahoma Press, Norman, Oklahoma.
408 pp.

EVELYN, D. E. 1985. The National Gallery at the Patent Office: 226-241. In H. J. Voila and C. Margolis, eds.,
Magnificent Voyagers. Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington, DC. 302 pp.

GILMORE, C. W. 1941. A history of the Division of Vertebrate Paleontology in the United States National Museum.
Proceedings of the United States National Museum 90:305—377.

HAFERTEPE, K. 1984. America's Castle. Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington, DC. 180 pp.

KNIGHT, J. B. 1947. Paleontologist or Geologist. Geological Society of America, Bulletin 58:281—286.

MERRILL, G. P. 1901. The Department of Geology in the National Museum. American Geologist 28:107—123.

MOLNIA, B. F. 1999. Meet Charles Groat, Director of the U. S. Geological Survey (Part 2). GSA Today (September
1999): 10-13.

NevSON, C. M. 1987. Meek in Albany 1852-1858. Earth Sciences History 6:40-46.

NELSON, C. M., and E. L. YOCHELSON. 1980. Organizing Federal paleontology in the United States, 1858-1907.
Journal of the Society for the Bibliography of Natural History 9 (4):607-618.

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OEHSER, P. H. 1949. Sons of Science: The Story of the Smithsonian Institution and Its Leaders. Henry Schuman,
New York. 220 pp.

RABBITT, M. C. 1979. Minerals, Lands, and Geology, for the Common Defense and the General Welfare: Volume
1, Before 1879. United States Government Printing Office, Washington, DC. 331 pp.

RABBITT, M. C. 1980. Minerals, Lands, and Geology, for the Common Defense and the General Welfare: Volume
2, 1879-1904. United States Government Printing Office, Washington, DC. 407 pp.

RABBITT, M. C. 1986. Minerals, Lands, and Geology, for the Common Defense and the General Welfare: Volume
3, 1904-1939. United States Government Printing Office, Washington, DC. 479 pp.

Rivinus, E. F. and E. M. YousseF. 1992. Spencer Baird of the Smithsonian. Smithsonian Institution Press,
Washington, DC. 228 pp.

STANTON, W. 1975. The Great United States Exploring Expedition of 1838-1842. University of Calitornia Press,
Berkeley, California. 433 pp.

Watcotrt, C. D. 1900. Correspondence relating to collections of vertebrate fossils made by the late Professor
O. C. Marsh. Science 11:21—24.

WEIss, M. and E. L. YOCHELSON. 1995. Ozarkian and Canadian systems: Gone and nearly forgotten: Pages 41-44
in J. D. Cooper, M. L. Droser, and S. C. Finney, eds., Ordovician Odyssey: Short Papers for the Seventh
International Symposium on the Ordovician System. Pacific Section, Society for Sedimentary Geology,
Fullerton, California. 498 pp.

YOCHELSON, E. L. 1967. Charles Doolittle Walcott 1859-1927. National Academy of Sciences, Biographical
Memoirs 39:47\—540.

YOCHELSON, E. L. 1969. Fossils — the how and why of collecting and storing. Proceedings of the Biological
Society of Washington 82:585—601.

YOCHELSON, E. L. 1985. The National Museum of Natural History. 75 years in the Natural History Building.
Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington, DC. 210 pp.

YOCHELSON, E. L. 1985a. The role and development of the Smithsonian Institution in the American geological
community. Pages 337-354 in E. T. Drake and W. M. Jordan, eds., Geologists and Ideas: A history of North
American Geology. Geological Society of America, Centennial Special Volume |. Geological Society of
America, Boulder, Colorado.

YOCHELSON, E. L. 1996. Discovery, collection, and description of the Middle Cambrian Burgess Shale Biota by
Charles Doolittle Walcott. Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 146 (4): 469-545.

YOCHELSON, E. L. 1998. Charles Doolittle Walcott, Paleontologist. Kent State University Press, Kent, Ohio.
510 pp.

Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA.
All rights reserved.

160

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Samurai at the Smithsonian
First Japanese Visitors to Western Museum in the U.S.

KAE TAKARABE
1-29-105 Kamimura-cho
Showa-ku, Nagoya, Japan 466-0802
E-mail: takarabe@info.human.nagoya-u.ac.jp

In 1860, at the very end of the Edo era, the Tokugawa Shogunate sent a mission, so-called Man’en
Gannen Mission, to the United States of America in order to ratify the Japan-U.S. Treaty of Amity
and Commerce. The mission members were the first official Japanese visitors to the U.S. with the
exception of a few castaways.

In Edo [Tokyo] in 1603, a leading samurai was appointed by the emperor as his Shogun and with
this designation he set up a feudal government, the Tokugawa Shogunate. In the three hundred year-
long and peaceful Edo era, the status system of samurai-farmer-artisan-merchant became established
and at the top of this were the samurai (samurai was a male-only status). The samurai were at first
professional soldiers who fought with swords; however, under the peaceful circumstances that
prevailed, gradually they became the learned officials of bureaucracy.

At the time Commodore Matthew C. Perry’s squadron of ships arrived in 1853, Japan had been
more or less shut off from the rest of the world for more than two hundred years in a self-imposed
isolation. Nevertheless, there was a steady shift toward the opinion that Japan should open its doors
and actively encourage the introduction of advanced foreign ideas. Being eager to obtain first-hand
knowledge of the advanced country, some progressive officials conceived of the signing of the treaty
as presenting an opportunity to tour in the United States. Strong opposition to the establishment of
international relations, however, still existed within the country, and a political shakeup in the
Shogunate brought about the downfall of these progressive officials, so that they were not able to
travel as ambassadors.

Finally, in October, 1859, the post of the Ambassador was assigned to Masaoki Shimmi, a new
Foreign Affairs Commissioner. Having served as Shogun’s chamberlain for years, Shimmi was a
refined gentleman, which was his major credential for appointment to an ambassadorship. The post
of the Vice-Ambassador went to Norimasa Muragaki, another Foreign Affairs Commissioner. His
experience in various posts in the Shogunate bureaucracy was recognized. Apparently, however, both
Shimmi and Muragaki were less imaginative than the original innovative officials with respect to
both experience in foreign affairs and eagerness to obtain foreign knowledge. The third ambassador
was Censor [Counselor] Tadamasa Oguri, of the Censor’s Office, who had a reputation for intelli-
gence (Fig. 1). The three ambassadors were accompanied by seventeen officials, fifty-one servants,
and six cooks. Most of the servants and cooks were samurai; so interested were they to participate in
the mission, they were willing to accept less prestigious positions in order to travel. Thus, the mission
was composed largely of intellectuals. !

Leaving Edo on February 9, 1860, the seventy-seven mission members arrived in Washington,
D.C., on May 14, having traveled by way of Honolulu, San Francisco, and Panama. During their
25-day stay in Washington, they exchanged the treaty ratification documents, attended official
functions, and visited places of interest, among them being the Smithsonian Institution.” It was the
first Japanese visit on record to a Western museum. At that time, the Smithsonian building contained

161

162 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

a natural history “museum” along with other fa-
cilities, which would be identified as the prece-
dents of both a science and technology museum
and an art museum.

The purpose of this paper is to examine one
of the least understood aspects of scientific con-
tacts between Japan and the West at the end of the
Edo era — in short, the Japanese reception of a
Western-style natural history museum. I will first
describe Japanese traditional exhibitions in the
Edo era, and then trace how the Japanese mission
came to visit the Smithsonian Institution. Finally
I will interpret mission members’ understandings
and perceptions of the Institution and its museum.

1. Two Kinds of Exhibitions in the
Edo Era

Toward the end of the Edo era, several offi-
cial missions and many students who were sent to
the West had the opportunity to see Western-style
museums and exhibitions. Such experiences led
to the opening of the first national exhibitions of
products in Tokyo in 1871 because the new Meiji

FIGURE. | Ambassadors of Man’en Gannen Mission. government was eager to encourage industries to

Left to right standing: Morita and Naruse; . :

seated: ShimmniOciei-andieraaelé! catch up with the advanced countries of Europe

(The New York Illustrated News, May 19, 1860) and America. Furthermore, this form of exhibi-

tion was familiar to the people because two kinds

of private exhibitions — Yakuhin’e and De-kaicho — had already been held during the Edo era. It

should be noted that Japanese-style museums and exhibitions, in their earliest stages, developed

together in Japan.’ Because I believe that the objects displayed at the national exhibitions as well as

the experiences with them in time must have had some impact on the creation of a national museum,

let us first examine the configurations of the two Japanese traditional exhibitions that existed before
the reception of Western-style museums.

(1) Yakuhin’e

Yakuhin’e was a kind of temporary exhibition of natural objects from various regions. Its purpose
was to promote Honzogaku. Honzogaku, that is research on medicinal plants, animals, and minerals,
had been introduced into Japan from China around the fifth or sixth century. In the earliest days of
the Edo era —at the beginning of the seventeenth century —a systematic book, Honzo Komoku
(1596), was introduced from China and stimulated Honzogaku. As Honzo Komoku gradually came
to be understood and digested, Japanese “products,” that is native Japanese plants, animals, and
minerals, became objects to be dealt with. This trend culminated in Yamato Honzo (1708), in which
1362 species, including 358 Japanese indigenous products, were classified.*

Meanwhile, in its self-imposed isolation, Japan traded only with the Netherlands and China. In
the mid-seventeenth century, two books, Rembert Dodoens’s Cruydt boeck (Dutch version, 1644) on

TAKARABE: SAMURAI AT THE SMITHSONIAN 163

plants and John Johnstone’s Naeukeurige beschryving van de natuur der vier-voetige dieren, vissen
en bloedloze waterdieren, vogelen, kronkeldieren, slangen en draken (Dutch version, 1660) on
animals, were introduced to Japan. These books were used by physicians and naturalists throughout
the Edo era. Thus, in spite of its isolation, European natural history was introduced to Japan by way
of Dutch books.°

With the development of Honzogaku, the first Yakuhin’e was held in Edo in 1757. This exhibition
was arranged so that naturalists might exchange their knowledge about natural objects. One hundred
and eighty objects were exhibited. Six years later, the advocate of Yakuhin’e, Gennai Hiraga,
published Butsurui Hinshitsu (1763), an illustrated book in which he described 360 specimens chosen
from about 2000 objects that had been exhibited at five previous Yakuhin’es. He had bought several
Dutch natural history books, such as the ones mentioned above, and introduced knowledge on Dutch
natural history in his Butsurui Hinshitsu. Because Gennai wanted to keep his exhibition academic,
he forbade people from exhibiting freakish objects, such as entertaining deformities.°

As Yakuhin’e gradually spread among the large cities, such as Kyoto, Osaka, and Nagoya, and
smaller towns, they became more popularized. A medical school in Nagoya, for example, has held a
Yakuhin’e in Igakukan [medical building] on June 10 every year since 1831. From the beginning,
this exhibition was open to the public. It included such unusual and rare objects as a mounted tiger,
a mounted striped-mouse, a dried thorned-crab, various minerals, the skin of a large sea otter, a living
snake with two heads, a living white bird [an albino raven], fossils, dried fish, sea shells, a living wild
boar in a cage, a black raccoon dog, a crane, a stork, a living salamander in a tub, a mounted
paradisean-bird, a mounted Senzanko, the dried skin of a large snake, as well as wooden and coppered
human skeletons, which also served as teaching aids in the medical school. “Deposited carrot [maybe]
from the lord” and dried bear’s gall bladder were exhibited on the stand because they were very
precious medicine (Fig. 2).’ Thus, as time passed, entertainment became one of the aims of these
exhibitions. However, considering that specimens such as animals, plants, and minerals were
exhibited at these events, Yakuhin’e can be taken as a foundation of a natural history museum.

(2) De-kaicho

Shrines and temples sometimes open their secret statues of Buddha and God to the people in
order to spread their dogmas. Such temporary exhibitions of treasures were known as Kaicho. The
Edo era had two kinds of Kaicho; one was I-kaicho, the other De-kaicho. I-kaicho means that the
secret statues, along with other treasures, were open to the public in the shrines and temples where
their statues usually were set. De-kaicho means that local shrines and temples transported their
treasures, including statues of Buddha and God, to big cities and opened them there to the public.
Such exhibitions enabled the shrines and temples to collect donations as well as spread their dogmas.
De-kaicho exhibitions were quite popular.

The first De-kaicho is said to have been held in the 1670s. Ekoin, a temple in Edo, often offered
use of its land and buildings so that local shrines and temples could exhibit their treasures there. A
catalog of collections exhibited at a De-kaicho was sometimes published.* When the De-kaicho of
Horyuji in Nara was held in Edo in 1842, the objects used daily by the first Empress Suiko, such as
shoes, appeared in the catalog. At the same time, shows, such as menageries and magic, were often
held on the grounds outside. Many people came to Kaicho festivals (Fig. 3). Indeed, such festivals
became entertainment for the people. On the other hand, considering the genuine antiquities that were
exhibited inside the building, De-kaicho can be taken as another form of foundation of a natural
history museum.

One would think that the tradition of exhibitions, such as Yakuhin’e and De-kaicho, would have

164 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

tee } 4
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a b

Pat
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FiGURE 2. Yakuhin’e in Igakukan. (Owari Meisho Zue, 1844)

TAKARABE: SAMURAI AT THE SMITHSONIAN 165

eer Soares ‘SP

Ra ete
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Pir toes
Kaa pr
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Honey
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FIGURE 3. De-kaicho in Ekoin. (Edo Meisho Zue, 1834-1836)

166 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

enabled Japan easily to accept Western-style exhibitions and museums. However, it should not be
overlooked that the knowledge about Western museums was introduced to Japan mainly through
translating foreign books. The Tokugawa Shogunate managed Bansho-shirabesho, a Research Center
to investigate foreign books. Introductory articles on European museums, including such things as
the description of the Egypt rooms in the British Museum, the Berlin Museum, and the Natural History
Museum in Paris, appeared in the Dutch magazine, Nederlandsch Magazijn (1839, 1849), copies of
which were imported by Bansho-shirabesho. Considering that the Japanese translation of selected
passages of those magazines was published as Gyokuseki Shirin, at least some researchers must have
read the articles on European museums, though it is not clear whether or not such knowledge had any
impact on the later creation of a national museum.’

2. Henry’s Invitation to the Smithsonian

Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution, Joseph Henry (Fig.
4), was eager to invite the Japanese mission to the Institution. He
wrote a letter directly to President James Buchanan, in which he
referred to Captain John Rodgers who had participated in the
North Pacific Exploring and Surveying Expedition. At the Liu-
Kiu Islands [Okinawa], Rogers landed a detachment of marines
and forced the Okinawans to guarantee the performance of their
obligations under their treaty with the United States. He was also
responsible for surveying the coast of Japan and the sea of Ok-
hotsk.'° Thus, he became well acquainted with Japanese history
and manners and customs. When Henry met Rodgers later, Rodg-
ers made a series of suggestions in regard to the treatment of the ss :
ee ais F = ; a FiGurE 4. Joseph Henry, Secretary of the
mission from Japan. At Henry’s urging, he put them in writing. giithsonian Institution. Courtesy Smith-
Among Rodgers’ suggestions are the following: sonian Institution Archives (10668).

The only means by which this embassy can be favorably impressed with the superiority of our
civilization and institutions is to give them a clear idea of our science, our arts, our arms, and
our government. For this purpose the Embassy should be introduced to different institutions of
learning ... For example, a series of experimental illustrations in science might be given to them
at the Smithsonian Institution, in which some of the most interesting results of modern
discoveries should be exhibited. ||

Henry tried to impress President Buchanan with the importance of the Smithsonian Institution,
and referring to Rodgers’ suggestions said,

One of the suggestions [by Captain Rodgers] alludes to the cooperation of the Smithsonian
Institution, and I need scarcely say in behalf of this establishment that any services which may
be required in the line indicated, will be cheerfully rendered. '

Meanwhile, a Naval Commission was organized in Washington, D. C., to take charge of the
Japanese mission to the United States. It consisted of Captain Samuel F. Du Pont, Commander Sidney
Lee, Lieutenant David Porter, C. J. MacDonald (secretary), and A. C. Portman (interpreter). Because
Du Pont, Lee, and Porter participated in Commodore Perry’s Japan expedition, it was no surprise that
they were selected to take charge of the Japanese mission. The commission was supposed to arrange
the places for the mission to visit.'? After this commission had been organized, Henry wrote several
letters to Captain Du Pont in order to invite the Japanese to the Smithsonian Institution. The final

TAKARABE: SAMURAI AT THE SMITHSONIAN 167

letter from Henry to Du Pont, dated May 30, shows that Henry had a chance, in private, to extend the
Japanese an invitation to visit the Institution. In this letter, Henry also wrote that they had made
extensive preparations for doing honor to the Japanese and that he intended to demonstrate the
galvanic battery.'* Three days later, on June 2, the Japanese ambassadors did visit the Smithsonian
Institution.

From this series of letters, both Rodgers and Henry’s strong sense of superiority about American
civilization, including its institutions, is very clear. Henry was eager to demonstrate his latest
experiments at the Smithsonian Institution in order to impress the Japanese visitors. Because of his
academic interest in electricity, in these letters Henry emphasized his desire to demonstrate the
galvanic battery experiment. However, the experiment was not the only thing shown to the Japanese
mission; the Smithsonian collection was also shown to them.

TABLE 1. Schedule of mission members’ visit to the Smithsonian Institution. Henry’s experiments were carried
out on June 2.

Date Member Age Executive Position
5.21 Kanae Sano 30 Servant of Masuzu
5.26 Masakiyo Yanagawa 23 Servant of Shimmi
Sadayu Tamamushi 37 Servant of Shimmi
Tadazane Nonomura 43 Servant of Muragaki
Yoshikoto Fukushima 19 Servant of Oguri
Tetsuta Kimura 31 Servant of Oguri
Hidenaga Sato Si Cook
5.31 Shunjiro Masuzu 32 Under Officer of the Treasurer
Tameyoshi Hitaka 24 Official of the Censor
Ryugen Miyazaki 34 Physician
Hakugen Murayama it 32 Surgeon
6.2 Masaoki Shimmi 40 Ambassador
Norimasa Muragaki 48 Vice-Ambassador
Motonon Namura 34 Chief Interpreter
6.5 Okataro Morita 49 Treasurer
Jugoro Tsukahara 36 Official of the Ambassadors
Onojiro Tateishi 17 Junior Interpreter

3. Mission Members’ Perceptions of the Smithsonian

The above-mentioned Henry letters could lead to a misunderstanding that none of the mission
members visited the Institution until June 2. Indeed, it seems to be true that Henry was interested in
showing his experiments only to the Japanese official ambassadors and not other members of the
mission, such as their servants. However, not only did other mission members visit the Institution
when they had time (Table 1),'> but all of the mission members who did visit the Institution were
samurai.

In order to assess mission members’ understandings and perceptions of the Smithsonian Institu-
tion, especially its natural history museum, and to the actual conditions and organizations as they
were in 1860, reference can be made to impressions as recorded in a number of personal diaries.!°

(1) Smithsonian Institution
The Smithsonian Institution is an extensive museum and research complex, today including 16
museums, the National Zoological Park, and research centers.'’ The Institution was established in

168 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Washington, D. C., in 1846, based on the property which James Smithson bequeathed “to the United
States of America, to found at Washington, under the name of the Smithsonian Institution, an
Establishment for the increase and diffusion of knowledge among men.”!* When Japanese mission
members visited the Institution, it had pursued various fields of research such as astronomy,
geography, meteorology, geology, botany, physiology, comparative anatomy, zoology, natural
history, terrestrial magnetism, antiquities, and (comparative) philology.'?

As to the Institution as a whole, the mission members who had just toured the building (and had
not observed Henry’s experiments) understood the Institution as “the place to collect rare objects
from various regions” or “the place for deposit of treasury.” On the other hand, the members who
had both observed Henry’s experiments and toured the building got different impressions. The
Vice-Ambassador Muragaki, for example, wrote in his diary that it was “a mansion which contained
rare objects or in which the truth of things got revealed.”'°©) Furthermore, Interpreter Motonori
Namura wrote of it as “an office where machines such as electricity are deposited.””!) Such machines
seem to have greatly impressed Namura.

The Smithsonian building, which we have come to know as “the Castle,” was completed on the
Mall in 1855. Most early government buildings being light in tone, the Castle was the Romanesque
style of dark red sandstone with towers and battlements. It had a stunning impact.7° The Japanese
mission visited the Institution a scant five years after the building had been completed. As to the
external appearance of the building, most mission members described it as “huge” and “temple-like.”
Some of members referred to a fence around the building site; others noticed two cross-shaped
gateposts. Tetsuta Kimura, for example, in his diary illustrated the gateposts as well as the building
(Figs. 5a—b). According to him, the gateposts were made so that only one visitor could enter through
them. On the other hand, Sadayu Tamamushi understood that they were used to avoid being crowded
or acarriage’s entrance. The interior of the building contained a museum, an apparatus room, a picture
gallery, a lecture room, a library, a publication room, and other rooms such as laboratories.

How did mission members perceive such facilities?

(2) Museum Hall

Henry thought the increase of knowledge more important than its diffusion. “The increase of
knowledge is much more difficult,” Henry insisted, “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.””! In his
opinion, original researches requiring difficult experiments should be carried out in the Institution.

He had little sympathy for the congressional mandate to create a library and a museum because
he viewed institutions of that kind as repositories of knowledge already acquired, not as contributors
to its increase. Therefore, Henry did not want to use his limited resources to improve and maintain a
museum. Reflecting Henry’s policy, the collections already stored in the Smithsonian Institution were
not fully displayed to the public owing to the lack of suitable cases, although they were accessible to
naturalists and in constant use by them.

However, the time came when Henry was forced to change his own stance. Congress in March,
1857, made an appropriation for the construction of suitable cases to be installed in the Smithsonian
hall to contain the natural history collection of the Wilkes Exploring Expedition and others belonging
to the government.*? Congress also agreed to pay for moving expenses and four thousand dollars
yearly for maintenance. Since 1840 these collections, up to then, had been stored in the Patent Office

TAKARABE: SAMURAI AT THE SMITHSONIAN 169

FiGure. Sa. Kimura’s illustration of the Smithsonian Institution.
(Tetsuta Kimura, Kobeiki, Seichosha: 1974)

+ Building (Fig. 6) under Joel Pointsett’s National Insti-
zr tute for the Advancement of Science.** In 1858, they

were finally moved to the Castle and appropriately
ry arranged.

Eventually, Henry himself came to terms with the
museum mandate, noting in the Institution’s Annual
Report for 1858, that “The principal event of impor-
tance in the history of the Institution during the past
year is the transfer of the government collections from
the Patent Office to the large room of the Smithsonian
Building.”*4 This action by Congress was significant
because it vastly increased the museum role of the
Smithsonian. Assistant Secretary Spencer Baird
promptly became curator of the museum collections
and operations.”> Baird, whose interests lay in the
natural rather than physical sciences, believed that the
way to find basic truths in scientific research was to
assemble large collections of physical specimens and to develop conclusions from careful compari-
sons of tangible objects.”° Under his guidance, the museum developed rapidly. Thus, it should be
noted that Japanese mission visited the Institution only two years after the various collections had
been transferred from the Patent Office, in short, after the museum role increased. According to the
Annual Report of the Smithsonian Institution for 1860, the museum devoted itself to the completion
of its series of specimens illustrating the natural history of North America. Nearly all the mammals,
the North American birds, and the exotic water birds exhibited in the museum, were labeled with both
scientific and vernacular names. A large number of skins of North American mammals and birds not
previously exhibited were mounted and placed in cases. All the old stands of mounted specimens
were replaced by new ones. Duplicate specimens were prepared for distribution to the principal
museums in the world. Some scientific catalogs had already been published by the Institution.*’ Thus,

FiGure. 5b. Kimura’s illustration of the Smithsonian’s
two cross-shaped gateposts.
(Tetsuta Kimura, Kobeiki, Seichosha: 1974)

170 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

MIE EXTERIOR AND INTERIOR OF THE PATENT OFFICE. —Diaws ny EJ. Mev, arren Puoroorarns uy Bein, Wasiixcros, D. ¢

FIGURE 6. Patent Office Building interior.
Courtesy Smithsonian Institution Archives.

TABLE 2. Entries in the Record Books of the Smithsonian Collection. (Annual Report of the Smithsonian
Institution, 1860)
Objects 1851 | 1852 | 1853 | 1854 | 1855 | 1856 | 1857 | 1858 | 1859 | 1860
Skeletons and skulls | 911 1074 | 190| 1275 2050) 3060/ 3340 3413 3650 4350
Mammals | ] 14} 198 351 1200 2046 3200 | 3226 3750 4575
Birds | 4353 4425 5855 8766| 11390] 1591 3| 20875
| Reptiles | 106/ 239 4370 4616 4683
Fishes | L 155 613 1136 1740 2975
| Eggs of birds | | 1032] 2525] 4425
Crustacea [ | | 939 939 979
| Mollusks [ 2000) 8832
Radiates 1100 1308
Fossils I | L 171 705
Minerals [ | 793| 1132
| Ethnological specimens | | 550
| TOTALS 911 1188 1388 5979 7675 11222 16158| 25506} 37197| 55389

TAKARABE: SAMURAI AT THE SMITHSONIAN 171

by the time the mission visited the Smithsonian, its museum had already undergone a transformation
with respect to both volume of collections and their arrangement or classification (Table 2).

The collections of the museum were exhibited both on the first floor and on the mezzanine of
the main building (Fig. 7). A ground plan of the museum and collections of the museum hall at that
time suggests that the Smithsonian building housed a natural history museum that included botany,
zoology, mineralogy, and anthropology and archeology (Fig. 8, Table 3).28 The museum of the
Smithsonian Institution had responded to the idea of Charles Willson Peale, who had founded the
first popular museum in America, that all people should come face-to-face with nature in a museum.”?

The museum hall was so huge that it greatly impressed many of the mission members, who made
reference to its size in their diaries. Masakiyo Yanagawa, who had visited the Patent Office Building
five days earlier, tried to compare these two halls of collections. First, he thought that both halls were
identical and described them as “‘a kind of Igakukan.” His reference to Igakukan [medical building]
suggests that he had been to a Yakuhin’e at which the natural history exhibition was held in the
Igakukan, or that at least he had heard about it. But, he then concluded that the hall of the Smithsonian
was “bigger and had more various objects.”!

The museum hall contained various collections, such as rare mammals, birds, insects, fish, and
objects from all over the world. Such collections may have overwhelmed the visiting mission
members. Tamamushi, for example, expressed that “every collection” was “amazing.”!°®) Tadazane
Nonomura correctly pointed out that collections were classified, noting in his diary that “birds,

THE MUSEUM.

FIGURE 7. Museum Hall of the Smithsonian Institution. Courtesy Smithsonian Institution Archives (91—17967).

172 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

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FiGuRrE 8. Museum of the Smithsonian Institution. Black lines: upright cases; light lines: table and window cases. After Wil-
liam J. Rhees, An Account of the Smithsonian Institution, its Founder, Building, Operations, etc., Collins Printer, 1863.

TAKARABE: SAMURAI AT THE SMITHSONIAN 173

TABLE 3. Collections of Museum Hall. (From William J. Rhees, An Account of the Smithsonian Institution, its
Founder, Building, Operations, etc., Collins Printer, 1863)

[Northeast Range Mammals, foreign birds, North American fishes
Southeast Range North American birds, reptiles, some marine animals
First Floor Northwest Range _| Genera of fishes, foreign birds, reptiles

Southwest Range Mammals, radiates, crustaceans, reptiles, fishes of North Pacific
|Exploring Expedition
South Hall Sarcophagus from Beirut, plank from redwood tree (California), copper
from Lake Superior mines, living alligator from Georgia, idols from
Nicaragua
| Northeast Gallery Collections of mineralogy, geology, paleontology
Mezzanine Southeast Gallery | Human skulls, skulls and skeletons, skins of reptiles and fishes, botany

Northwest Gallery |Ethnological collections from East Indies, China, Japan, South
America, Africa, mummies from Egypt and Peru

Southwest Gallery | Ethnological collections from the Feejee, Sandwich, Marquesas, New |
[ Zealand, and other islands
Table Cases Center of hall—East end: Nests, eggs, meteorite, ores
fa Center of hall West end: Shells, turtles

mammals, fish, turtles, snakes, and shells are grouped into such parts.”!°") Kimura described not only
the groupings of the objects but also the labels that related to them.'*© Both scientific and vernacular
names appeared on the labels. Hidenaga Sato referred to the process of collecting specimens, writing
that “Whenever American people go to other states and obtain rare objects, the objects are supposed
to be kept here [the Smithsonian Institution].”!®) In addition, many members were interested in the
upright glass cases in which specimens were displayed. In Japan, glass sheets were not produced at
that time. Kanae Sano, for example, noted them as “cabinets with sliding-glasses like Shoji [Japanese
sliding paper screen].”!6)

The arrangement of displays in the museum interested the visitors. Mammals, birds, fish,
amphibians, and reptiles were on the first floor. Mission members were particularly engaged by the
mounted mammals and birds and admired the elaborateness of them. Nonomura, for example,
described that “skins of mammals and birds were removed from the bodies and something were
stuffed into the skin. The colors of their skins and eyes are quite the same as living ones.”!°") Among
the mounted animals, the great apes such as orangutans and gorillas especially fascinated members
— which brings to mind the fact that Europeans were themselves puzzled when they first came face
to face with great apes in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. During the Edo era, Japanese had
almost no chance directly to observe living great apes. Living orangutans had been brought to
Nagasaki in 1792 and again in 1800, but owing to the cold climate, they did not survive long. Thus,
few people had a chance to see them. A Japanese doctor who had observed two different orangutans
described them in his book on Western natural history. The doctor illustrated two orangutans; one
copied from Dutch books, the other a copy ofa sketch of the above-mentioned orangutan in Nagasaki.
He concluded that the sketch of the Nagasaki orangutan was right. The skins of the orangutans, which
had died in Nagasaki, were stored in a certain house; one of them is said to have been exhibited in
Yakuhin’e in Edo in 1838.°°

The only person to refer to the sea mammals on display was Muragaki. He described them as
“sea cows and seals which I saw in Ezo.”!) Muragaki was once an official in Ezo [Hokkaido, a

174 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

northern island], where he explored to cultivate the land. Considering his background, it is not
surprising that they interested him. In a like manner, only Sato described lions, noting that “There
are quite differences between a lion exhibited here and a lion appeared on Japanese paintings; the
face of the former is longer than the latter and the former has long hair from its neck to shoulder.”!°)
Living lions were not brought to Japan until 1865. Accordingly, Sato was forced to rely on lions that
appeared in Japanese paintings as his reference point. In the eighteenth century, some people who
had seen a lion in Western natural history books, also said that it was quite different from the Japanese
painting of a lion.*! Indeed, a Japanese traditional lion on paintings had a round face with curly hair!
Sato also described “a deer whose antlers look like open-hands.” It could be a moose or an elk;
however, it is not clear which one he had in mind. He continued to write that “The deer is as big as
a horse and was once used, instead of a horse, to draw a cart.”!®0) It may have been an Arctic reindeer.

These descriptions remind us again of the fact that the mission members were samurai, who had
little knowledge about Western natural history. Owing to the lack of such knowledge, mission
members tried to understand such unfamiliar objects, relying on individual limited experience. At
that time, Japanese physicians and naturalists had already learned something of Western natural
history, especially through Dutch publications, and so they were familiar with such illustrations.
Therefore, the physician Ryugen Miyazaki and surgeon Hakugen Murayama, both of whom had
visited the Institution, would have been much more familiar with the collections than other mission
members. It is, therefore, regrettable that they did not write a little about the Institution in their
respective diaries. !(

As mentioned above, mammals and birds were exhibited as mounted forms. On the other hand,
amphibians and reptiles were soaked in alcohol and placed in glass bottles. Some members were
surprised to see so many specimens of snakes. Muragaki directly expressed his “unpleasant” feelings
when he saw too many snakes and serpents.

In addition to these collections, a dress, worn by a famous American Arctic explorer, Dr. Elisha
Kent Kane, was brought to the museum by him and also exhibited on the first floor. The dress was
made of animal skins, including fox, bear, and bird.*? Only Tamamushi noted that “there is a doll
made out of hide. It is about 180 to 210 centimeters high. They say that an American doctor wore the
dress when he went to a cold country.”!©") Tamamushi had once been an official assigned to explore
in Ezo. All explorers in Ezo wore such fur dresses at that time. Accordingly, Dr. Kane’s fur dress
may have been familiar to Tamamushi.

Other anthropological collections were exhibited on the mezzanine. Most of them had been
transferred from the Patent Office in 1858. Thus, the objects brought by Perry’s Japan Expedition
were exhibited there.*> The Japanese objects attracted mission members’ attention and in their diaries
they referred to many objects such as lacquer ware, silk such as Noshime[plain] and Chirimen[lit],
cotton fabric, Mino-gami[mulberry fiber], pottery vase, fans, umbrellas, smoking pipes, Kamidana
[family Shinto altar], wooden clogs, straw raincoat, samurai sword, polearm, lance, tools such as
chisels, nail, plane, hoe sickle, ploughshare, and dolls. They described these items in detail. In
addition, Okataro Morita paid attention to the sender of an exhibited letter. The sender, Mantaro
Matsuzaki, who had studied Confucianism, was one of Morita’s acquaintances. Because Morita had
worked at Gakumonjo [Shogunate Learning Center], he had become acquainted with Matsuzaki.
Tamamushi, who had earlier visited the Patent Office, wrote that “there are more Japanese objects
[here] than the Patent Office.”!°)

On the other hand, the various objects brought from Japan, which was in its self-imposed
isolation, so overwhelmed Sano that he could not help thinking about the purpose of the collection.

TAKARABE: SAMURAI AT THE SMITHSONIAN 175

Some years before, Commodore Perry collected Japanese clothes such as female jackets and
white underwears. In the other cabinets, there are Japanese swords and farm implements. Even
Japanese objects have been collected in this way, and so we cannot tell how many objects there
are from other countries with which this country has been in friendly relations for a long time.
In this place, there are various rare objects from all over the world. I cannot have any ability to
think of the purpose of the place. I guess that it is the place to collect various objects, to show
them to i and to broaden people’s knowledge. I have no time to take my eyes off such
objects.

When he was in Japan, Sano had learned Dutch and how to use guns, and he took part in this
mission in order to learn Western tactics and the art of navigation. Although he may have been
unfamiliar with exhibitions such as Yakuhin’e, he correctly understood the nature of the museum as
the place to “collect various objects, to show them to the public, and to broaden people’s knowledge.”

Other anthropological objects which drew the special attention of mission members were
mummies from Egypt and Peru. Although mummies had been brought to Japan since the end of the
sixteenth century, mummy imports were rare. After reaching Japan, whole bodies were ordinarily
powdered into medicine. Accordingly, few people ever had a chance to see a mummy as a whole.
The medicine itself was so expensive that people could not obtain it easily.*4

About the mummies on display, Tamamushi wrote that they made him “feel dread.” Vice-Am-
bassador Muragaki recorded this impression in his diary:

... dried human bodies[mummies] . . . are standing. I cannot tell their sexual differences. It is
said that such objects should be exhibited here in order to find the truth of everything from all
over the world. However, to display human bodies as well as other birds, mammals, insects, and
fish astonishes me so much. They [American people] are worth being called barbarians. es)

Interestingly, he thought that displaying human mummies along with other animals was an
indication of American barbarity, contrary to Secretary Henry’s intention to show off the latest science
at the Smithsonian Institution. Muragaki was not an ultranationalist; however, he was not able to free
himself from his Japanese sense of values.

Apart from the anthropological collections, Yanagawa noted that there were “‘a lot of stones
such as gold, silver, copper, and iron produced from various countries” on the mezzanine.

In the South Hall, there were so-called eye-catchers such as a sarcophagus from Beirut (Syria),
a plank from a California redwood tree, copper from Lake Superior mines, a living alligator from
Georgia, and idols from Nicaragua.*> An alligator kept alive in a water tank especially interested
many mission members. Someone let the alligator out of the tank and then struck it with a stick so
that in anger it opened its large mouth. Muragaki was surprised to see so large a mouth opening.
Though he correctly identified the species as a Wani [alligator or crocodile], he wrote that it had
“scales on the back” and its appearance looked like “a gecko.”” During the Edo era, Japanese had little
chance to observe directly living alligators, although a specimen of alligator was exhibited in
Yakuhin’e in Edo in 1838.°°

Despite some misunderstandings about each collection, mission members generally seem to have
correctly perceived that the museum hall kept animals, plants, minerals, and anthropological objects
so that visitors could see them.

(3) Apparatus Room and Henry’s Experiments
There was an apparatus room on the second floor in the main building (Fig. 9). The room was
not only equipped with collections of scientific instruments but also arranged to allow for some
scientific experiments. Most of those machines had been donated by Dr. Robert Hare of Philadelphia,

176 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

TH: APPARATUS ROOM

Ficure 9. Apparatus Room of the Smithsonian Institution.
Courtesy Smithsonian Institution Archives (43804-G).

who had accumulated much of the apparatus during his twenty-nine years as professor of chemistry
at the University of Pennsylvania Medical School. His large electrical machine was on an elevated
platform of the room. The hair of a person sitting in the throne-like chair on the platform under the
machine was supposed to be made to stand on end as a result of an electric charge.*’

In addition to the Hare collections, the room contained a full set of pneumatic instruments
constructed for the Smithsonian Institution, a set of ingenious instruments for illustrating wave
motion, Page’s electro-magnetic instrument, and a large Fresnel lens used in light-houses. Further-
more, the room had a hydroelectric machine imported from Germany by the Institution itself. The
machine gave a constant succession of sparks, and charged a battery of sixteen large jars in thirty
seconds.**

On June 2, as mentioned above, Henry demonstrated various experiments in this room. Only
ambassadors with two interpreters and some officials had a chance to see the experiments:

Mission members were trying to separate Magdeburg hemispheres in vain; they were not able
to easily separate his hand from the mouth of a vacuum glass bottle, either. They observed
charcoal burned by discharged electricity and iron acted by electromagnet. They also tried to
grip the handle of storage battery.”

Otto von Guericke’s 17th century “Magdeburg hemispheres” experiment, in which air is
evacuated from within a hollow sphere, making it almost impossible to separate the two halves of the
sphere without letting air back in, shows that air can exert enormous pressure. Japanese mission

TAKARABE: SAMURAI AT THE SMITHSONIAN 177

members tried to separate the hemispheres in vain.
An American company later advertised its glue by
making use of the event (Fig. 10). Concerning his
experience there, Muragaki noted that “There are
various electric machines. Lightning in the dark. I
saw various magic.”!) Secretary Henry intended
to show off the latest science. Indeed, it is not
surprising that Muragaki would be amazed at
Henry’s experiments; he was not a scientist and he
had no scientific knowledge to evaluate it correctly.

Other members of the mission, who visited the
apparatus room at times other than when Henry
gave his demonstrations on June 2, were able only
to observe the machines that were in the room. What
interested those mission members most was the
Fresnel lens, though they referred to it as a big
mirror. Yoshikoto Fukushima, for example, re-
corded the following details:

FiGure 10. Advertisement of glue by Spalding.
There is a big mirror. It is about 150 centimeters Man 'en Gannen Kenbei Shisetsu Zuroku.
wide. It is round with a big stand. It is nine-cen-
timeter thick glass and both faces can reflect something. When we look at our own images in it,
the images become more than twice. How unique it is! *@)

Fukushima’s description highlights both what interested him and his understanding of the device.
Morita, on the other hand, described the functioning of the lens more correctly in observing that
“When we go behind a square mirror, our own images on the front become ten times as large as
ourselves.”'%® In that room, according to Kimura’s report, there were also other apparatus such as a
telescope, a terrestrial globe, and a celestial globe. Because these members were not able to observe
Henry’s experiments, they seem to have perceived the apparatus room as the place where various
machines were exhibited rather than a place in which experiments were performed. Indeed, the room
could be identified as setting a precedent of a science and technological museum.

(4) Gallery of Art
One important feature of the art gallery (Fig. 11) was the interesting series of portraits, mostly
full size, of over one hundred and fifty North American Indians, with sketches of scenery. These
portraits were all taken from life and were accurate representations of the peculiar features of
prominent individuals of forty-three different tribes. The room also contained a marble statue, a copy
of the celebrated work of art in Rome, the “Dying Gladiator.’*° Many of the mission members referred
to the gallery in their diaries. Kimura, for example, described what he saw as follows:

White stone was carved into the shape of a person. The person was naked and the privates parts
were covered with an oak leaf. There was a bleeding wound under the arm; the wound was
pressed by the left hand. Lots of pains . . .. On every side of the room there were portraits. The
people looked different from those of today because they had lived in the old times. 1X)

At that time, Japanese were not familiar with such a marble statue, and so many members became
interested in it. They also paid attention to the portraits of Native Americans. However they did not
have the capability to see through the suggestion of the gallery — the sculpture indicated a conscious

178 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

THE PICTURE GALLERY.

FiGure 11. Gallery of Art of the Smithsonian Institution. Courtesy Smithsonian Institution Archives (43804—D).

visual comparison between the plight of the Native American peoples and the dying heroes of a
classical world.*!

Muragaki was distracted by entirely unrelated objects in the room. For instance, he wrote “On
the wall were also hung specimens of the hair of the successive Presidents. This reveals that they
[American people] are not courteous at all.”!®) The hair to which Muragaki referred was on display
in an exhibit called “Hair of the Presidents of the United States with other Persons of Distinction,
Prepared and Arranged by John Varden, February, 1853.” Included in this exhibit was a collection
of tiny locks of hair, identified by name-tags as coming from the first fourteen Presidents, from George
Washington through Franklin Pierce. The hair of the Presidents was supposed to call to mind the
memory of national leaders and the continuity of power. However, Muragaki misread it as a sign of
disrespect for leaders.*” Henry’s intention to show off American superiority did not work well again.

Other facilities in the building also attracted the attention of mission members. Yanagawa, for
example, described a lecture room on the second floor in detail:

In the building was a lecture platform built up high above the floor. In front of it were many
seats. On the walls of the hall there were pictures portraying the sorrows and joys of life from
birth to death. By the side of the platform there was a recumbent statue carved in marble of a
nude woman larger than life size. 6()

As we have seen above, there was a natural history museum in the Smithsonian Building. There
were also precedents both of a science and technology museum and of an art museum. At the
Smithsonian, Henry intended to show off American superiority in science. Generally speaking, the
American side, including Henry himself, seemed to have been content with the results of Japanese
visit to the Institution. The Journal of the Commission, in Charge of the Japanese Embassy to the
U.S., for example, observed that the Smithsonian Institution offered the delegation an opportunity to

TAKARABE: SAMURAI AT THE SMITHSONIAN 179

see “a number of interesting experiments in physics and chemistry, which had prepared with great
care,” and also “the library and the valuable collection of specimens of natural history, as well as the
innumerable objects of interest and curiosity from all parts of the world.’”*

Although mission members did not have enough scientific knowledge to appreciate fully all they
had seen, they tried to understand the Smithsonian Institution, its several facilities, and its collections.
Each member picked up on those objects that teased his curiosity and described them in his diary.

Conclusions

The experiences of the Japanese mission members at the Smithsonian Institution did not have
any immediate effect on the founding of the first natural history museum in Japan.4 The mission’s
influence, or lack of it, was inextricably linked to other historical events, and to understand the
situation, we must take into consideration Japanese political conditions as they existed at the time.
Under the slogan “Respect the Emperor and Expel the Aliens,” the anti-Shogunate movement had
become more serious during the mission members’ absence. The Shogunate government had been
forced to change its foreign policies; it was trying to keep foreign influence to minimum. Accordingly,
the Shogunate gave the returning mission a cool reception, not even firing a salute when their ship
entered the harbor. Meanwhile, America’s East Asian policy had become inactive because of the
Civil War (1861-1865).

Following the Meiji Restoration in 1868, three of the previous ambassadors in the mission were
not asked to serve the new government. Therefore, the mission is often said to have had little impact
on the new government. Their experiences at the Smithsonian, however, should not be underesti-
mated, considering the indirect influence they had that led to the creation of the first Japanese museum.

First, it is obvious that advanced technology reported by the ambassadors was not overlooked
by the Meiji government, because the government’s first overseas mission visited the United States,
in 1872, before going to Europe.4 Along with advanced technology, their knowledge about the
Smithsonian would also have been handed down to the Meiji government through mission members’
diaries and reports. When the Japanese mission was about to give Lewis Cass, U.S. Secretary of State,
splendid specimens of Japanese skill, he declined the offer. That is because American officials could
not accept presents from any foreign authority without the assent of Congress. Such presents were
supposed to become the property of the nation and had to be deposited in a place where they would
be open for public inspection.*> Muragaki had correctly noted the event and its reason in his diary.
The event was significant in that Muragaki had learned that objects could be deposited in a place that
was open to the public. Thus, the nature of a museum as well as the description of the Smithsonian
museum would certainly have been handed down to the Meiji government through his diary.
Furthermore, copies of their diaries and reports continued to be read quietly but earnestly among the
public, in spite of the serious anti-Shogunate movement, and they survived until the Meiji era.

Second, five members — Tameyoshi Hitaka, Shunjiro Masuzu, Kawasaki, Sano, and Sato —
participated in the Mission to Europe in 1862. Namura also took part in the Mission to Russia in 1866.
On both occasions, they had opportunity to observe other Western museums. Masuzu, for example,
wrote about a museum in London, presumably the British Museum. The knowledge they had obtained
at the Smithsonian probably served as a reference point for their later visits to other Western museums.

Third, because several mission members became teachers, they had opportunity to inform their
students about the United States. The mission members’ knowledge would, thus, have been passed
on to the next generation. For example, two of Tamamushi’s students accompanied a certain person

180 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

to study at the U. S. Naval Academy in Annapolis. Assuredly, Tamamushi’s knowledge about
America must have been passed on to these students.

Fourth, according to Muragaki’s diary, Henry gave him a book on the Smithsonian Institution.
It cannot now be located. However, it may have been the Guide to the Smithsonian Institution or the
Annual Report. Generally, books acquired as gifts by mission members while visiting the U.S. were
deposited in the Shogunate Foreign Research Center and were available to the staff of the Center and
other researchers.

It is true that the mission members’ experiences at the Smithsonian did not have any immediate
or direct effect upon the creation of Japan’s first natural history museum, but the importance of these
experiences should not be underestimated as a scientific contact in the process of Japanese reception
of Western natural history museums.

NOTES

' Jiro Numata, “Bakumatsu no Kengai Shisetsu ni tsuite,” Seiyokenbunshu, lwanami Shoten, 1974:600—
607.
> The mission members also visited the exhibited hall of the Patent Office Building in Washington, D. C.
and P. T. Barnum’s museum in New York.

Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan ed., Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan Hyakunenshi, 1973:60.
Ichiro Yabe, Edo no Honzo, Saiensu sha, 1984: 62-66.
Ibid.:125—135.

® Tbid.:135-142.

Saburo Nishimura, Bunmei no Naka no Hakubutsugaku, Kinokuniya Shoten, 1999:472-474.

Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan ed., op. cit.:7.

Ibid.:8—9.

'0 Dumas Malone ed., Dictionary of American Biography 16, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1935:77—78.

u Rodgers’ suggestions, W9-9757, Hagley Library Archives.

'2 Henry to the President, 26 April 1860, W9- 9756, Hagley Library Archives.

'3 Journal of the Commission, in Charge of the Japanese Embassy to the United States 1860, W9—18480,
Hagley Library Archives.

Henry to Du Pont, 30 May 1860, W9-9992, Hagley Library Archives.

According to the New York Herald on June 4, five senior members of the mission with two interpreters
visited the Institution on June 2. Registration Books of the Smithsonian Institution in 1860 are missing; therefore
the schedule is based on mission members’ diaries. However, the members who described the visit on June 2
were only two: the vice ambassador Muragaki and an interpreter Namura.

'© Mission members’ perceptions were based on their diaries as follows:

(a) Yoshikoto Fukushima, “Kokai Nisshi,” Man’en Gannen kenbeishisetsu Shirvoshusei 3,
Kazama Shobo, 1960:279-400.

(b) Tameyoshi Hitaka, “Beiko Nisshi,” Man ‘en Gannen kenbeishisetsu Shiryoshusei 2, Kazama
Shobo, 1961:1-43.

(c) Tetsuta Kimura, Kobeiki, Seichosha:1974.

(d) Okataro Morita, “Ako Nikki,” Man’en Gannen kenbeishisetsu Shiryvoshusei 1, Kazama
Shobo, 1961:1—270.

(e) Norimasa Muragaki, “Kenbeishi Nikki,” Kengaishisetsu Nikkisanshu 1, Nihon Shiseki
Kyokai, 1928:1—207.

(f) Hakugen Murayama, “Hoshi Nichiroku,” Man'en Gannen kenbeishisetsu Shirvoshusei 2,
op. cit.:279-343.

(g) Motonori Namura, “Ako Nikki,” Man’en Gannen kenbeishisetsu Shiryoshusei 2, op.
cit.:191-277.

TAKARABE: SAMURAI AT THE SMITHSONIAN 181

(h) Tadazane Nonomura, “Kokai Nichiroku,” Man’en Gannen kenbeishisetsu Shiryoshusei 3,
op. cit.:131-277.
(i) Kanae Sano, Man ‘en Gannen Hobei Nikki, Kanazawa Bunka Kyokai, 1946.
(j) Hidenaga Sato, “Beiko Nikki”, Kengaishisetsu Nikkisanshu 1, op. cit.:405—510.
(k) Sadayu Tamamushi, “Kobei Nichiroku,” Seivokenbunshu, op. cit.:7-259.
(1) Masakiyo Yanagawa, “Kokai Nikki,” Kengaishisetsu Nikkisanshu 1, op. cit.:209-404.
The diaries of Muragaki and Yanagawa are translated in English.
'7 Ellen Cochran Hirzy ed., Official Guide to the Smithsonian, 1996:4.
Is Cynthia R. Field, et al., The Castle: An Illustrated History of the Smithsonian Building, Smithsonian
Institution Press, 1993:1.
® William J. Rhees, An Account of the Smithsonian Institution, its Founder, Building, Operations, etc., T.
McGill Printer, Washington, D.C., 1857:8-9.

° Cynthia R. Field, et al., op. cit.:1.

2l Albert E. Moyer, Joseph Henry. The Rise of an American Scientist, Smithsonian Institution Press,
1997:249-250.
22 , William J. Rhees, op. cit.:23.

, Edward P. Alexander, Museum Masters, American Association for State and Local History, 1983:285.

+ Joseph Henry, “Report of the Secretary for 1858,” Annual Report of Smithsonian Institution, 1858,
Smithsonian Institution, 1859:13.

°5 b. F. Rivinus and E. M. Youssef, Spencer Baird of the Smithsonian, Smithsonian Institution Press,
1992:64.

°° Tbid.:133.

2] Spencer Baird, “Appendix to the Report of the Secretary,” Annual Report of Smithsonian Institution, 1860,
Smithsonian Institution, 1861:72—77.

28 Edward P. Alexander, Museums in Motion: An Introduction to the History and Functions of Museums,
American Association for State and Local History, 1976:51—S3.

> Charles Coleman Sellers, Mr. Peale’s Museum, W. W. Norton & Co. Inc., 1980:332.

° Takao Kajishima, Shirvo Nihon Dobutsushi, Yasaka Shobo, 1997:529-531. Ichiro Yabe, op. cit.:152—155.
Gootaku Otsuki, Ran ‘entekiho, 1817. Saburo Nishimura, op. cit.:474-475.

' Takao Kajishima, op. cit.:559-S61.

>? William J. Rhees, An Account of the Smithsonian Institution, its Founder, Building, Operations, etc.,
Collins Printer, Philadelphia, 1863:68.

3 Tbid.:72-73. Chang-su Houchins, “Artifacts of Diplomacy: Smithsonian Collections from Commodore
Matthew Perry’s Japan Expedition (1853—1854),” Smithsonian Contributions to Anthropology no. 37, Smith-
sonian Institution Press,1995.

® Ichiro Yabe, op. cit.:159-161.

> William J. Rhees, An Account of the Smithsonian Institution, its Founder, Building, Operations, etc., T.
McGill Printer, Washington, D.C., 1857:18-19,

> Takao Kajishima, op. cit.:364—-365. Saburo Nishimura, op. cit.:142—143.

" Cynthia R. Field, et al., op. cit.:75.

* William J. Rhees, An Account of the Smithsonian Institution, its Founder, Building, Operations, etc., T.
McGill Printer, Washington, D.C., 1857:24-26.

> Takeki Osatake, Bakumatsu Kengai Shisetsu Monogatari, Jitsugyono Nihonsha, 1948:65—66.

° William J. Rhees, An Account of the Smithsonian Institution, its Founder, Building, Operations, etc., T.
McGill Printer, Washington, D.C., 1857:27.

is ' Cynthia R. Field, et al., op. cit.:77.
*® Etsuko Taketani, “Brief Communication: Samurai Ambassadors and the Smithsonian Institute in 1860,”
Jour mal of the American Oriental Society 115:479-481(1995).

3 Journal of the Commission, in Charge of the Japanese Embassy to the United States 1860, W9—18480,

Hagley Library Archives.

182 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

4 Tadashi Aruga, “The First Japanese Mission to the United States 1860,” Abroad in America: Visitors to
the New Nation 1776-1914, Addison-Wesley Publishing Company: 143 (1976).

4 Journal of the Commission, in Charge of the Japanese Embassy to the United States 1860, W9—18480,
Hagley Library Archives.

Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA.
All rights reserved.

West and East: The California Academy of
Sciences and The Smithsonian Institution
1852-1906

MICHELE L. ALDRICH® and ALAN E. LEVITON?

* Science and Technology Studies Program, Cornell University, Ithaca, New York
(address for correspondence: 24 Elm Street, Hatfield, Massachusetts 01038)
E-mail: 73061.2420@compuserve.com
° California Academy of Sciences, Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118
E-mail: aleviton@calacademy.org

On July 9, 1846, Rear Admiral
John D. Sloat’s American squadron
entered San Francisco Bay and raised
the U.S. flag over Yerba Buena; two
days earlier, it had been raised over the
custom house in Monterey, about 100
miles south of San Francisco. Before
the 1849 Gold Rush, Yerba Buena had
been a sleepy little village; with the
Gold Rush and California’s admission
to the Union in 1850, the population of
the town, renamed San Francisco,
grew enormously (Figs. 1, 2).

On April 4, 1853, seven men met
in the law offices of Lewis W. Sloat to
discuss the formation of a scientific
society, which they proposed to be FiGure 1. San Francisco, winter 1849-1850. From Soulé, 1855.'
known as The California Academy of Natural Sciences. Lewis Sloat was, at the time, the City
Commissioner of Deeds. He was also a nephew of Admiral Sloat whose squadron, in 1846, raised
the American flag at Yerba Buena. Another was Charles Farris, a physician who lived in San Jose.

SSSR Ie
Sa ee

Ficure 2. San Francisco in 1854. From Soule, 1855.!

183

184 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Nothing is known of Farris except that he attended a few early
meetings but then left the state sometime in the summer or fall
of 1853. The third was Henry Gibbons, who had come from
Philadelphia a few years earlier, and who had a successful
medical practice in San Francisco. Gibbons had wide-ranging
interests, which included meteorology, botany, and fishes. Al-
bert Kellogg was among the seven; also a physician, he had a
pharmacy in San Francisco, but his interests in botany were too
distracting, and he often neglected his responsibilities to the
pharmacy. Thomas Nevins was San Francisco’s first superinten-
dent of public schools as well as an attorney. John Boardman
Trask (Fig. 3) practiced medicine and, though Yale-educated, he
did not at the time have an M.D. (the M.D. was not yet a | 3
requirement to establish a practice as a physician). His interests FIGure 3. John Boardman Trask (1863),
were in geology and, in 1853, he published two maps and the Palio sacl Oh eee
first of several reports on the geology of California, all based on : aaa

surveys he had begun three years earlier. Finally, the seventh ge
founder was Andrew Randall (Fig. 4), about whom there is some
confusion. Contrary to much of what has been said in print,
Randall came to California overland with the Col. James Collier
party that had departed from Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, on 17
May 1849 (Foreman, 1937:12). He was not with the Sloat party
when it entered Monterey Bay, as oral tradition has it (see, for
example, Miller, 1944). At the time of the flag-raising in 1846,
Randall was an assistant to David Dale Owen on Owen’s Federal
Survey of the Northwest Territory, which included Minnesota
and Wisconsin. Randall arrived in California in 1850 and took
up residence for a short time in Monterey before moving to San
Francisco where he entered in business dealings as a financier.
By 1856, Randall was in debt in excess of $67,000 to one Joseph
Hetherington, a gambler in the city. On July 24, 1856, in public,
Hetherington shot Randall dead. Five days later, on July 29,
while the Academy heard about the trees of California, the city’s
notorious vigilante committee took Hetherington from the jail
and hanged him. The militia was called out but the commander
said that without an issue of small arms from the army’s armory,
the militia could not intervene. The militia’s commander was
William Tecumseh Sherman, at th time a San Francisco
banker.’

AT See el
IGURE 4. Andrew Randall

California Academy of Sciences Archives

Henry’s Meteorological Network

One of the first scientific efforts of the Academy was to get
involved in the meteorological network established by Joseph
Henry (Fig. 5), Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution in
Washington, D.C. In September 1853, Henry was elected an Ficure 5. Joseph Henry. Smithsonian Insti-
honorary member of the Academy. Less than three months later, "on Archives (RU 95, Neg. #26452)

ALDRICH & LEVITON: THE SMITHSONIAN/ACADEMY CONNECTION 185

Crescent City

JOSEPH HENRY’S
METEOROLOGICAL NETWORK
IN CALIFORNIA AND NEVADA

® Chato * Spanish Fanch/Meadow Valley 1854-1873
Chicos ® Paradise
Dowrieviles N eva e| re)
Mendocino Honcut re
= Marysville: Data from

= Auburn

Santa Rosa 5 bd See
acramentor

Sacaviten 98° = Mokelumne Hill

] = Murphys
Biles Columbia
yton Stockton

Smithsonian institution Annual Report

tor 1873 (1874)

US. Gov't Printing Office. Wasnington DC

San Francisco
® La Grange

Santa Clara-@

Santa Cruz
Watsonville
@ Salmas

Legend |
Sites with one or more named abservers,
though observers were not necessarily
active at same time

@ One named observer
@ Two or three named observers
| & Five named observers (San Francisco only)

Monterey

® Visallas

California

Santa Barbare

FiGuRE 6. Joseph Henry’s meteorological network in California and Nevada, 1854-1873.

on December 19, he offered to assist the Academy in getting meteorological and magnetic instruments
and, by January 16, 1854, he had ordered the instruments. Henry offered that the Smithsonian would
pay the freight charges to ship the instruments to San Francisco, but the Academy had to pay the cost
of the instruments themselves.’ The significance of the meteorological network, insofar as California
is concerned, is noteworthy. The network was especially strong along the Sierra foothills (Fig. 6),
where most of the population was concentrated because of the gold mining. When weather comes in
from the Pacific, especially during the winter months, air moving up the Sierra slope, cools and storms
develop. This meteorological phenomenon was an important
test case for some of the theories of storms that were being
discussed in the United States, including ones that especially
interested Joseph Henry.’ It was vital to have a sizable
California network to gather data. The only problem was that
there was only one observer in Nevada, on the rain shadow |g... crancisco
side, and because that observer was only active fora couple | 279 SF Presidio
of years, it was hard to draw any firm conclusions.
Another peculiarity of Henry’s California network was | osepy HENRY'S
that there were lots of observers in the Bay area (Fig. 7). The |METEOROLOGICAL
earliest person of whom we have record was a post-surgeon teresa Monterey
stationed at the Presidio, on the north side of the San Fran- |SAN FRANCISCO AREA
cisco peninsula; his records dated back to 1852. Heavy FIGURE, Joseph Henry's iiieisordlegical
coverage in the Bay area was required because it has a network in the San Francisco Bay Area
complicated micro-climate.> As anybody who has been there in the 1850s.

MAuburn
mFolsom
Sacramento

Santa Rosa
Vacaville @
are Island

Martinez Stockton
Clayton

@ Santa Clara

Santa Cruz
Watsonville

BSalinas

186 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

knows, you can have sun
on one side of the penin-
sula and fog and cold on
the other. To quote Mark
Twain, “the coldest win-
ter lever spent was a sum-
mer in San Francisco.”
Interest in the mete-
orological network at the
Academy continued for a
number of years even
though the Academy ob-
servations were some-
times erratic. In the fall of

1868, Henry Gibbons

FiGuRE 8. Henry Gibbons. FIGURE 9. William Gibbons. . aa
California Academy of Sciences Archives. Bancroft Library, University of (Fig. 8) visited Joseph
California, Berkeley. Henry in Washington,

where Henry briefed him on the importance of the telegraph for rapid reporting of weather.° Speed
was crucial in later years in order to make meteorological observations more useful for forecasting.
In 1871, Joseph Henry visited San Francisco and the Academy where he presented a preview of his
forthcoming rainfall article’ and also spoke about the importance of science in general.

Publications

The next Smithsonian involvement with the Academy centered on its publications program.
William Gibbons (Fig. 9), who we believe was Henry Gibbons’ brother, had read papers on viviparous
fishes in June, 1853. His remarks were published in 7he Pacific (Fig. 10), a Congregationalist
newspaper in San Francisco self-described as “of high literary character.”® Spencer Fullerton Baird
(Fig. 11), Joseph Henry’s second in command at the Smithsonian Institution, wrote a starchy letter
in early 1854 saying that science would not recognize the priority of papers published in newspapers.
Gibbons disagreed and the Academy passed a resolution on March 27, 1854 stating: “In view of the
isolated condition of this Academy from other societies, we will regard every publication of new
species which has been or may be made through the daily papers of this city as substantial evidence
of priority of discovery.’ Also, and unbeknownst to Baird, Gibbons’ viviparous fishes papers had
anticipated the work that was published about the same time by Louis Agassiz. Agassiz, on learning
of Gibbons’ remarks as published in the newspapers a few days before his own publication appeared,
sent a letter to the Academy, which was received April 3, accepting the priority of Gibbons’s paper.'°
At the same meeting the Academy also set up a committee to look into ways of establishing a more
formal scientific program of publications. In September, 1854, the Academy arranged for the more
elegant presentation of its transactions with The Pacific. What they did was, essentially, reset the type
from the newspaper into a journal format.

In October 1854, Baird received a copy of the new publication and said that he now saw no
problems with scientists acknowledging priority from that. He also advised them on how to properly
date the sheets.'' On January 22, 1855, Baird was elected an honorary member. He continued to
advise the Academy on matters relating to its publications program, on one occasion remarking that

ALDRICH & LEVITON: THE SMITHSONIAN/ACADEMY CONNECTION 187

Ghe Pacitic.

(acmer of Mestremery wad Serrameace Sts

\ » ISDd NUMBER 4,

er
mene Ne lk i ly a

salad) Se cage ab a Nae ene ew

FiGure 10. The Pacific, San Francisco’s Congregationalist’s newspaper that sent reporters to Academy meetings and then
published the proceedings. Papers given by Academy members in which new species were described were published verbatim
This continued until September, 1854, at which time the Academy began issuing its own publication, the Proceedings of the
California Academy of Natural Sciences.

FiGuRE 11. Spencer Fullerton Baird. FiGure 12. William Healey Dall FIGURE 13. James Graham Cooper
Smithsonian Institution Archives Smithsonian Institution Archives California Academy of Sciences
(RU 95, Neg. #64750). (RU 95, Neg. #SA—1 156). Archives

188 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

250 copies was too few and advising at least 500 of each part be printed. As it turned out, Baird was
correct. The 1854 Proceedings had to be reprinted in 1873 because of demand.

Newspaper publication of scientific work reported at Academy meetings served another function
— in its early days, it was the Academy’s principal form of popular outreach inasmuch as it did not
yet have a museum that it could open to the public. The daily and weekly papers in San Francisco,
among them, the San Francisco Daily Bulletin, the Alta California, and the Scientific and Mining
Press, sent representatives to the Academy’s weekly meetings. Even one of the city’s German
language newspapers covered the Academy. Despite his initial criticism of newspaper publication,
Baird himself eventually came to terms with the idea of popularizing science in this way, especially
in the 1870s when he began his own dissemination of science through Harper's and the New York
Tribune.'* Popularization through the public media, however, proved to be a mixed blessing to
scientists. William Dall (Fig. 12) and James Cooper (Fig. 13), for example, both complained about
the inaccuracy of the reports and their inability to check proof before something came out in the
newspaper.!*

Building the Collections and Library at the Academy

A major problem that quickly emerged during the early years of the Academy was that of finding
a home for the rapidly growing collections of artifacts and biological specimens. In the 1850s,
Academy members met in a series of rented rooms. The Academy was perpetually short of funds so
that the landlords, Lewis Sloat and Col. Nevins (Fig. 14), both Academy members, often “forgave”
the rent.'? But, the needs of the fledgling organization could not be easily dismissed. The 1860s began
with serious agitation for a new building. The Geological Survey of California was started under
Josiah Dwight Whitney (Fig. 15) who, on his arrival in San Francisco, became a member of the
Academy, as did other Survey staff. Whitney’s was a large field-party effort, much different from
Trask’s reconnaissance efforts during the early 1850s. Initially, Whitney sent his type specimens of
rocks, plants and animals to the Smithsonian Institution. But in 1861, he drew up a plan under which
the collections from the Survey would be split, with the agricultural ones — mostly botany — going
to the Agricultural Society in Sacramento for a museum there. The general natural history specimens
— geological and zoological specimens that were unrelated to agriculture — would be given to the
California Academy of Natural Sciences to form the nucleus of a state museum, which itself would
be managed by the Academy on behalf of the Survey. The collections deposited with the Academy
would remain under state geological survey control until the Survey was finished, and then they would
pass on to the Academy. Whitney even went so far as to submit a floor plan for Spencer Baird to look
over.!> However, the scheme was derailed by a combination of politics and lack of money. Even if
Whitney had gone through with his plans, the arrangement would have had trouble because the
managing board included two politicians and only one scientist.

In the 1870s, Dall desperately wrote to Baird that he could not work in the cold, damp rooms of
the Academy. In 1872, Harvard zoologist Louis Agassiz visited San Francisco on his return from his
South American expedition and, in place of a scientific report, gave a rabble-rousing lecture on the
past successes of the Academy, on the need to support science, and the need for a new home for the
Academy. Academy member Robert Stearns (Fig. 16) told Baird about Agassiz’s paper and specu-
lated that it should finally result in material aid to the Academy once monetary conditions improved. '°

In 1873, George Davidson, then president of the Academy, wrote to Joseph Henry about a lot
that had been deeded to the Academy by San Francisco entrepreneur James Lick (Fig. 17) and asked
Henry whether he could write a letter of thanks to the benefactor that the Academy could also use to

ALDRICH & LEVITON: THE SMITHSONIAN/ACADEMY CONNECTION 189

FiGure 14. Col. Thomas Nevins. FiGure 15. Josiah Dwight Whitney.
California Academy of Sciences Smithsonian Institution Archives
Archives. (RU 7177, Neg. #78-106).

FiGure 16, Robert Edwards Carter FiureE 17. James Lick

California Academy of Sciences Archives

Stearns. Bancroft Library, University
of California, Berkeley.

190 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

approach other philanthropists to raise money for the building itself. Lick’s original offer had a
number of drawbacks and the Smithsonian was kept well-apprised of them. Dall wrote to warn Baird
about Lick’s earlier offers to other San Francisco groups who were then unable to raise the money to
erect suitable structures. For instance, initially, Lick did not permit the Academy to take out a
mortgage, and he placed other restrictions on the gift, notably that the Academy had only two years
to raise the funds and erect a building.

On March 10, 1873, Henry’s letter to Lick in response to Davidson’s request began by drawing
an analogy between Lick and James Smithson and waxed eloquent for five pages in Victorian prose
about what a fine benefactor Lick was for science, how he would have immortality, and so forth. On
page six, Henry got down to brass tacks; he warned Lick that to be successful, the building would
require curators, maintenance, and a research program.!’ This letter was taken seriously because, by
October 1873, Lick had modified the plan and included a bequest to pay for a building and to endow
its maintenance. Although James Lick died on October 1, 1876, it was some years before the
interminable wrangling over Lick’s estate ended and monies were released to the Academy for the
purposes intended.

Meanwhile, in 1874 the Academy and its collections moved into the old First Congregationalist
Church on the southwest corner of California and Dupont Streets.'* They were to stay there until the
new building was completed in 1891. This church building was described by Robert Stearns as
“smelling of hell and brimstone,” and it was not r
adequate for the display of the Academy’s rapidly |
growing accessions. In 1882, for instance, through
the largess of railroad magnets Charles Crocker and
Leland Stanford, for the sum of $8,000 each, the |
Academy acquired a large natural history collection |
from Ward’s Natural History establishment that, at §
the time, was being displayed in San Francisco at the
Mercantile Library. This collection, thereafter
known as the Crocker-Stanford Collection in Geol-
ogy, Mineralogy, and Natural History,'? remained
on display in the Mercantile Library. This proved
unacceptable and, in 1884, the collection had to be
moved and stored in the old church where dampness |
and mold took their toll.2° In 1888, the Academy |
finally started to build its own home, a project that
took three years to complete. It consisted of two
buildings, one fronting on Market Street (Fig. 18),
the second immediately behind and connected to the
Market Street building by a bridge at the level of the
second floor. You can see the sign “California Acad-
emy of Sciences.” One entered through the front
hall, went up the Grand Staircase and walked
through the bridge corridor to the rear building,
which was the actual museum area. The front build-
ing was dedicated to offices, which the Academy FIGURE 18. Facade of the Academy's Market Street build-
rented out for income! The museum building fea- ine This building was used for commercial purposes. A

a. ; : . second building behind this one supported the Museum.
tured exhibits that had been previously displayed in California Academy of Sciences Archives.

ALDRICH & LEVITON: THE SMITHSONIAN/ACADEMY CONNECTION 19]

FiGuRE 19. Main exhibit floor of the Academy’s museum building, circa 1902.
The mammoth restoration was among the items purchased from Wards Scientific Establishment
in 1882 and first on display at the Mercantile Library. California Academy of Sciences Archives.

the Mercantile Library, then, in part, in the Congregationalist Church, and finally in all their glory in
the new building (Fig. 19).

The founders of the Academy overwhelmingly were collectors of natural history specimens, but
the Academy’s resources in the 1850s were miniscule and all too often one reads in the minute books,
“no cash” (Hittell in Leviton & Aldrich, 1997:22).73 In 1857, William Orville Ayres (Fig. 20) wrote
to Spencer Baird at the Smithsonian saying that the entire oe ENE
small-bird collection fit in a large cigar box.** Initially, there me)
were manifold advantages to sending collections to the Smith-
sonian rather than keeping them in the Academy. In exchange
for the specimens, the scientists received publications or Eastern
material for comparison, and sometimes they were paid for their
collections. Nevertheless, there was a problem of competition
between the Smithsonian and the Academy, and also there were
plenty of other individuals who competed with Baird to get
collections from California. Louis Agassiz, in particular, paid
well and often walked off with the choicest material.?> How-
ever, George Davidson favored the of the Academy of Natural
Sciences of Philadelphia, and sent them his “personal” collec-
tions, as he called them. This practice irritated Baird, because
to ship them Davidson had used the Smithsonian exchange FiGuRE 20. William Orville Ayres.
system. Davidson would box the material, take it to the wharf, California Academy of Sciences Archives.

192 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

and ask that it be loaded onto the steamer ahead of other packages going to the Smithsonian. Davidson
used the system to get the collections to the Smithsonian, and then Baird had to trans-ship it to
Philadelphia.*° There were also a number of Europeans who came to San Francisco and collected in
cooperation with the Academy. Among them were Franz Steindachner and Baron Ferdinand Rich-
thofen. Richthofen, especially, made the California scientists nervous because he shipped all of his
fossils back to Prussia and the Californians rushed to get their descriptions out in their own journal
before Richthofen’s friends scooped them.”’

There were several conflicts with Smithsonian personnel

about priority in describing new species. Early on, Charles
Girard and William Ayers clashed over birds, but the most
long-standing dispute was between Theodore Gill (Fig. 21),
who had arguments with both Ayers and William Lockington
regarding fish taxonomy. Gill had the U.S. Exploring Expe-
dition material, giving him what he considered proprietary
rights on all North Pacific fishes. Gill was severe in his
criticism of Ayers and, in fact, of anyone who tread upon what
he considered his turf. At one point Ayers described the shark
genus Notorhynchus, which Gill first rejected, but later rede-
scribed using the Ayres’ genus and species names but attrib-
uting them to himself (the dispute was finally resolved in
Ayres’ favor by strict application of the International Code
of Zoological Nomenclature). The westerners regarded Gill
as an arm-chair naturalist who had the print resources of the FIGURE 21. Theodore Nicolas Gill.
Library of Congress available to him, which stirred up a great Smithson-ian Institution Archives
deal of resentment. In 1881, Gill was still fighting with (RU 95, Neg. #SA~602).
William Lockington over fishes.?° Baird sometimes mediated these conflicts but sometimes he was
a source of irritation himself. At one point he received a box of specimens from James Cooper that
had material for the Smithsonian and for two other collections. Baird went through the box, took what
he wanted, adjusted the invoices for the others, and sent them on. The result was that Cooper ended
up about $80 short, because he was selling his other specimens.”?

A major problem for the Smithsonian in terms of collecting in the West was making its exchange
system work. Several Academy members, such as Benjamin Redding, were professionals in the
transportation companies in the West and were vital to the economical running and the success of the
Smithsonian exchange system. The earliest notable example is Samuel Hubbard of the Pacific Mail
Steamship Company. The Pacific Mail designated a certain number of cubic feet on every steamer
that left San Francisco for shipping material under the Smithsonian exchange system and did not
charge for it. Before the advent of the railroad, that was the only way to ship bulky packages.*”

California’s attitude toward the railroad changed over time and affected the shipping of scientific
specimens. There was initial euphoria over the idea of the railroad; it was begun in 1863 from Oakland
and the feeling was that it would bind the nation and end the economic isolation of California.
Californians took great pride in its construction up to 1869, but the railroad did not bring the prosperity
and the population that the state expected, and it was the first experience many of them had with a
large eastern-style corporation. Furthermore, the four men who headed the Central Railroad, Leland
Stanford, Collis Huntington, Charles Crocker, and Mark Hopkins, were not especially gentle, lovable
people.*'! There were endless rate disputes, especially over the issue of short- and long-haul, and
science was caught in the middle. When Baird asked for free, or at least favorable, rates on the railroad,

ALDRICH & LEVITON: THE SMITHSONIAN/ACADEMY CONNECTION 193

he was lumped in with the big farmers and friends of the “big four” who were getting favors. The
legislature passed laws against this practice and for a while the Smithsonian exchange system got
bogged down by the resulting requirements.*? At least two of the rail magnates were active in the
Academy, Crocker and Stanford, and they regarded scientific work in the West as part of the civilizing
of the area that would contribute directly to the success of the rails.

In terms of the mid-level personnel on the Central Pacific Railroad, the most useful to Baird was
Benjamin Redding, the land agent who previously had served as California’s Secretary of State as
well as the state’s fish commissioner. The Central Pacific had been financed by bonds, loans,
construction grants, and by large grants of land, which were then sold off. It was Redding’s
responsibility to sell the land and, during his tenure, this was handled reasonably fairly.*> The situation
described in Frank Norris’s novel, The Octopus, in which the land agent lures people to develop the
land and then jacks up the prices, portrayed a later agent.

In contrast to the Pacific Mail Steamship and Central Pacific Railroad, Baird had a notable lack
of success in getting any rate reduction from Wells Fargo, which operated as a Federal Express of
the West. Wells Fargo served the same function as Adams Express in the East in terms of getting
small packages transported rapidly. Wells Fargo contracted with the railroads to do that but also
tracked the freight as it crossed the country. Scientists involved in Wells Fargo during this early period
never could help Baird get free shipments or even preferential rates.*4

Ostensibly, the Smithsonian exchange was for European materials, primarily publications. But
the Academy scientists and Baird used the exchange system for moving domestic packages and
scientific specimens as well. The Academy would package its books, and while still in San Francisco
add whatever postage was necessary to cover mail from Washington, D.C. to the final destinations
along the East Coast or Europe. It then would ship a box of packaged books to the Smithsonian. On
arrival in Washington, Baird had only to drop the separately packaged books in the mail in
Washington. This kept the material intact instead of spread out all over the place and was much more
successful and significantly less costly than mailing multiple packages directly from San Francisco.
The Academy also became an important trans-shipping agent for the Smithsonian on the West
Coast.*9

Another feature of the exchange system was that the California Academy and the Smithsonian
Institution used it to introduce species from the West to the East, and vice versa. In 1874, Stearns sent
Baird eleven species of conifer seeds and fourteen species of flowers to try to establish in the East.
Similarly, in his capacity as fish commissioner, Redding introduced shad to the West and attempted
to introduce the Pacific salmon to the East.*° The scientists were aware of the downside risks of this
kind of transaction; the English sparrow was universally condemned, and they had seen introduced
plant species crowd out desirable natives.

An aside, an incident related to the exchange system for shipment of specimens by the Academy
to the Smithsonian, occurred in 1887. The Academy accidentally used a large container of alcohol
that the Smithsonian had set aside for David Starr Jordan, who was still in Indiana at the time. This
was seen as a serious violation of IRS interstate regulations, because if the alcohol were not used by
the person who initially paid the bond — in this case, the Smithsonian — then large taxes were due;
furthermore, both parties’ bonds could be suspended. Baird and Reese took up the matter and wrote
the Commissioner of Internal Revenue a letter explaining what had happened. In a letter that amazes
one when read today, the Commissioner replied, in essence, “it was used for the purpose for which
it was designed, so I don’t see that this is an issue; and neither of the bonds are threatened.’

Another cooperative arrangement between the Smithsonian and the California Academy in-
volved what was called “the great want of books here, which has been the bane of workers.” In the

194 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

1860s, foreign scientific publications flowed in 50 to 100 at a time under the exchange system. In
1873, Baird told Robert Stearns that [Secretary Joseph] Henry had finally decided what to do with
the duplicate books left over from transfer of the Smithsonian library to the Library of Congress. The
Secretary had decreed that the world of science needed a first-class reference library at the greatest
possible distance from the Smithsonian. Several institutions qualified, and Baird urged Dall to have
the Academy write first to preempt them.** George Davidson took the hint and in November asked
Henry for the books and, on the 12th of December, Henry wrote to Davidson informing him that
fifteen cartons were shipped, “consisting of all the duplicates of publications . . . in the possession of
the Smithsonian Institution. . . ”” over 2,000 volumes, weighing 3,000 to 4,000 pounds. Some of them
were broken sets but those were easy to fill and accessions to the library from the Smithsonian
continued. Other institutions also sent books, including major donations from the Academy of
Sciences of Philadelphia; these were especially welcome following the devastating 1906 San
Francisco earthquake and fire that left the Academy’s physical plant in ruins.*?

Staffing the Academy

With the Lick bequest, the Academy was no longer preoc-
cupied with money or survival, although the handling of the new
wealth certainly raised a whole set of new problems, but it was
not the end to change and innovation, especially in staffing. The
personnel within the Academy differed somewhat from that in
eastern scientific establishments. Eusebius Molera (Fig. 22) was
one of the prominent Hispanic professionals in San Francisco at
the time. Born in 1846, he was a civil engineer and architect. In
May of 1873, he became a member of the Academy, frequently
presented papers on a variety of subjects and, in 1886, was
elected to the Academy’s Board of Trustees, on which he served
for some years. Because of his architectural and engineering
background, he was very active while the building was going
up. His main scientific interest, apart from mathematics and
engineering, was Aztec calendars, on which he published a FicuRE 22. Eusebius Molera. —

. 40 California Academy of Sciences Archives.
major paper.

Theoretically, women could join the Academy since its founding in 1853, but they did not
actually start attending meetings until the early 1870s, and several joined en bloc in 1878. Women
began giving papers at the Academy in 1881 and continued to do so with increasing frequency
thereafter. They also donated large collections, Mrs. E. D. Crocker being especially noteworthy in
that regard.*! In June 1883, Mary Katharine Layne [Curran] (Fig. 23), who had received an M.D.
degree from the University of California several years earlier, became the first woman curator hired
by the Academy. She was a botanist, and within six months had moved from an unpaid to a paid
position. Rosa Smith (later Rosa Smith Eigenmann) (Fig. 24) was appointed Curator of Fishes in
February 1884. In 1892, on the recommendation of [Mary] Katharine Layne [Curran] Brandegee
(Katharine had by this time had married Townshend Brandegee), Alice Eastwood (Fig. 25) was
appointed to the botany department.”

After Baird died in 1887, the Academy’s relations with the Smithsonian Institution changed, but
it was also a sign of the times. Now, instead of Secretary of the Smithsonian to President of the
California Academy, relations became scientist to scientist. For instance, John Van Denburgh (Fig.

ALDRICH & LEVITON: THE SMITHSONIAN/ACADEMY CONNECTION 195

FiGURE 23. Mary Katharine Layne FiGuRE 24. Carl and Rosa Smith Eigenmann,
(Curran) (Brandegee). Hunt Institute November 1889. Courtesy Scripps Institution of
for Botanical Documentation, Carnegie- Oceanography Archives

Mellon University.

FIGURE 26. John Van Denburgh.
California Academy of Sciences Archives

FiGure 25. Alice Eastwood.
California Academy of Sciences Archives

196 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

26), the Academy’s Curator of Herpetology, carried on correspondence and exchanged specimens
with Leonhard Stejneger, his counterpart at the Smithsonian’s National Museum.*? The botanists,
notably Alice Eastwood and Katharine Brandegee and her husband Townshend, are also good
examples of this shift in activity. Katharine Brandegee and Alice Eastwood corresponded with and
exchanged specimens with Joseph Nelson Rose and C. L. Pollard in the Smithsonian’s National
Museum’s Division of Plants, and with George Vasey and Frederick Vernon Coville in the Depart-
ment of Agriculture’s Botany Division, whose connection with the Smithsonian was indirect, through
the Department of Agriculture and the National Herbarium. Plant culture was among the things that
interested the botanists most, especially Alice Eastwood. As earlier with the publication exchange
system, Eastwood asked for Eastern aquatic plants to be shipped to her because the sportsmen’s club
wanted to plant them to attract ducks; she in turn sent seeds back to the Eastern scientists to watch
their development.* This was a different use, not connected with introduction of the materials there;
propagation was being studied as a scientific issue. Eastern scientists advised Alice Eastwood and
her colleagues on preservation techniques, and there was, of course, the ongoing loan and exchange
of plants that persists to this day among curators of nearly all major natural history museums. During
these years, Eastwood was adding 5,000 to 10,000 plants a year to the Academy’s herbarium, so she
was extremely active in the field. In 1902, on one trip, carrying her luggage on her back, she walked
22 miles into the Coast Ranges when the temperature was 104 in the shade, stayed overnight, and
walked back the next day.*> And because samples of western plants were eagerly sought by eastern
curators for their herbaria, which is one reason why the exchange system among herbaria and other
museum collections works, Eastwood was able to build a major herbarium in near-record time. The
process and etiquette of exchanging and priority had been understood and regularized for some time.
Scientists collected to fill in gaps in their collections and to write papers, some jointly, and they helped
one another with identifications. If a new species was found in material shipped East, the eastern
scientist was welcome to identify it, but the western scientist expected that the description would be
published in the California Academy’s Proceedings series and that the types would be sent back. The
eastern scientist could retain a sample from the duplicates.

This peaceful and productive chapter in the Academy’s history ended abruptly on April 18, 1906
when a heavy earthquake hit the area. The earthquake’s epicenter was in Marin County, 20 miles
north of San Francisco. It cracked the city’s water mains and that made it nearly impossible to put
out the fires, which actually did most of the damage (Fig. 27—28). The morning of the earthquake
several of the curators went to the Museum to examine the damage. The stairs and the bridge between
the two buildings had collapsed. The galleries’ floors — cement-reinforced, among the first in San
Francisco — remained intact. The curators started to rescue the types and records. The people mainly
involved in this were Alice Eastwood, John Van Denburgh, Curator of Herpetology, Leverett Loomis,
Director of the Museum, and Mary Hyde, the Librarian. Before the fire reached the Academy’s
building, they managed to get out a few type specimens, mostly from the herbarium, and the
entomology and herpetology collections, the Museum catalogues, a few books from the Library, most
of the minute books of Academy meetings dating back to 1853, and a 324-page manuscript of a history
of the Academy that had just been completed by Theodore Hittell (see Leviton and Aldrich, 1997).*°

Within six months of this devastating event, the schooner Academy returned from its voyage. It
had left in 1905 to collect in the Galapagos Archipelago, where it spent over a year. When the schooner
returned in November 1906, the collections were stored in a walled-off portion of the building (Fig.
29).4” The damage to the Academy was widely publicized in letters to Washington scientists,
especially Edward Nelson, who saw to it that those letters were published in Science magazine.**
Many offers came to help rebuild the Academy’s scientific collections. The Smithsonian, for instance,

ALDRICH & LEVITON: THE SMITHSONIAN/ACADEMY CONNECTION 197

FiGuRES 27-28. (27) The remains of the California Academy of Sciences following the devastating earthquake and fire of
18-19 April, 1906. The elevator shaft alone remains standing of the Market Street building; the building immediately
behind and to the left was the Academy’s museum building. (28) The interior of the Academy’s museum building
following the devastating earthquake and fire of 18-19 April, 1906. California Academy of Sciences Archives.

198 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

FiGuRE 29. Walled-off space made available in the earthquake-damaged museum building for storage of the Galapagos
collections on return of the Schooner Academy in November, 1906, seven months after the earthquake and fire had substantially
destroyed the Academy's buildings on Market Street. California Academy of Sciences Archives

GIVEN TO THE

California Academy of Serenees

The Academy of Natural Sciences
OF
PHILADELPHIA

After tic Earthquake and Fire of April, 1906

beees$ Aa GIS

FiGure 30. Book plate acknowledging the donation of books to
the Academy's Library replacing those lost in the April 18, 1906
earthquake and fire that destroyed the Academy's buildings
California Academy of Sciences Library

ALDRICH & LEVITON: THE SMITHSONIAN/ACADEMY CONNECTION 199

offered to send plants to Alice Eastwood to refurbish the herbarium but she asked them to delay until
a new building was put up. Julius Hurter sent Van Denburgh collections of eastern amphibians.*”
And, almost immediately, to replenish the Library, the Smithsonian responded by donating thousands
of books to the Academy, as did other organizations, like the Academy of Natural Sciences of
Philadelphia (Fig. 30), and 170 other organizations, including several European book dealers.

The Smithsonian Institution began in 1846, less than ten years before the Academy was founded
a continent apart. The Institution had an endowment left by James Smithson that supported the
research program envisioned by Joseph Henry, while its museum was funded largely from Congres-
sional appropriations. The Academy struggled financially for years, until the Lick funds enabled it
to operate on a steady basis; by then, Henry was able to guide the Academy’s donor to make his gift
more helpful to western science. Meanwhile, Henry himself benefited from the Academy’s commit-
ment to research in the form of participation in his meteorological data gathering. His assistant and
successor, Spencer Baird, also had a symbiotic relation with the Academy, in part through an ongoing
correspondence with Academy-based scientists, such as William Healey Dall and Robert Stears, but
also, for instance, in receiving collections from the West Coast for the Smithsonian’s museum in
exchange for advising the Academy on and assisting in the distribution of the latter’s scientific
publications. The Academy became the western outlet for the Smithsonian’s extra library accessions,
a crucial resource before the growth of major university libraries in the West. As both institutions
matured, an equilibrium came about, with curators exchanging specimens and information, and
publishing in each other’s reports and journals. By the end of the century, their mutual relationship
became a major factor in defining science in the United States.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A large amount of the material for what has been presented here came from the Smithsonian
Archives and could not have been collected without the diligence of Bill Cox, Bruce Kirby, Tammy
Peters, Terrica Gibson, Susan ‘Woody’ Glenn, Pamela Henson and all the other people who assisted.
Josephine Jamison, the Archives’ patient and understanding receptionist, allowed herself to be drafted
by the two impetuous researchers on more than one occasion. Everybody was very cooperative. We
also acknowledge the assistance of the Henry Papers in dealing with the issue of meteorology; both
Kathleen Dorman and Marc Rothenberg were of great assistance. An early version of this paper was
presented in 1996 in Washington, D.C. on the occasion of the 150th anniversary of the Smithsonian
Institution. A taped version of that talk was transcribed by Ms Caroline Farquhar to whom we are
indebted for her faithful rendering of the presentation in hard copy. Anita Karg, archivist at the Hunt
Institute for Botanical Documentation, Carnegie-Mellon University, Pittsburgh, as always, was
extremely helpful in locating portraits of hard-to-find individuals. The Bancroft Library, University
of California, Berkeley, kindly permitted us to use several portraits from their collection, as did the
Scripps Institution of Oceanography Archives. We are indebted to two reviewers, J. Thomas Dutro,
Jr. and Pamela Henson, for their helpful comments and criticisms. And last, but assuredly not least,
at the California Academy of Sciences, archivist Michele Wellck and Special Collections librarian
Karren Elsbrend gave unstintingly of their time in response to our many needs to access their unique
collections.

NOTES

Note bene: The “Hittell” references cited below refer to a now published 324-page handwritten
manuscript that had been saved from the earthquake and fire that devastated the California
Academy of Sciences on 18 April 1906. The manuscript was among the few items saved by

200 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Academy staff on the scene. It was resurrected and edited by Leviton and Aldrich (see Leviton,
Alan E., and Michele L. Aldrich, 1997, Theodore Henry Hittell’s The California Academy of
Sciences, 1853-1906. San Francisco: California Academy of Sciences, xv + 623 pp., 144 illus.),
with significant additions to the original Hittell text by the editors; the editors were also
responsible for all footnotes and for the appendices with the exceptions of Appendix A and
Appendix H (Appendix A was written by Hittell and presented orally in 1903, Appendix H was
prepared by G. W. Dickie, L. M. Loomis, and R. Pratt as a memorial for Hittell; it was published
in 1918). The editors also are responsible for choosing the illustrations that accompany the text.
As noted earlier in this volume (see Ertter, pp. 203), for convenience and consistency, quotes
and references from this source are cited simply as Hittell, unless derived from the footnotes or
appendices that were added by the editors.
' Soulé, Frank, John H. Gihon, and Joseph Nisbet. 1855. The Annals of San Francisco; Containing a
Summary of the History of the First Discovery, Settlement, Progress, and Present Condition of California, and
a Complete History of All the Important Events Connected with Its Great City: to which are added, Biographical
Memoirs of Some Prominent Citizens. D. Appleton & Co., New York, San Francisco, London. 824 pp., illus.
> Hittell, pp. | 1-19 and 46-48. On Henry Gibbons, see National Cyclopedia of American Biography (1889),
vol. 7, p. 287. On Kellogg, see Anonymous (but probably penned by Katharine Brandegee), “Dr. Albert Kellogg,”
Zoe, vol. IV (April 1893), p. 1-2. On Randall, see Clay Preston Butler, Andrew Randall: Editor and Geologist;
Founder of the California Academy of Natural Sciences, in two manuscript volumes (undated but assembled
sometime before 1982) in the Archives of the California Academy of Sciences; see also Grant Foreman, The
Adventures of James Collier: First Collector of the Port of San Francisco (Chicago: Black Cat Press, 1937, 61
pp.). On Trask, see Alan Leviton and Michele Aldrich, John Boardman Trask: Physician-Geologist in California,
1850-1879 in Leviton et al., Frontiers of Geological Exploration of Western North America, Pacific Division
Amer. Assoc. Advance. Science, San Francisco (1982), pp. 37-69. On Sloat, see Robert C. Miller, Calif’ Hist.
Soc. Quart. (1942, vol. 21, no. 4, p. 363-364), also Pacific Discovery (1953, vol. 6, no. 2, pp. 18-25); Ewan,
San Francisco as a Mecca for Nineteenth Century Naturalists, in E. Babcock et al., eds., A Century of Progress
in the Natural Sciences, California Academy of Sciences, San Francisco (1953), p. 9. On Nevins, see references
for Sloat (op. cit.), p. 9.

Hittell, pp. 21-24.

James Rodger Fleming, Meteorology in America, 1800-1870 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press,
1990, xii + 264 pp.), pp. Xx—xxii, 81-82, 101, 127-128, 132, 135, and 170-172.

Smithsonian Institution, Annual Reports for 1852—1860 (Washington DC: Smithsonian Institution,
1853-1861) inclusive provide the names of observers in Henry’s weather network. Marc Rothenberg and
Kathleen Dorman graciously shared their insights into the relevance of observations on California for Henry’s
ideas. Their work on the weather network is embodied in vols. 7 et seq. of The Papers of Joseph Henry
(Washington DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1996).

Hittell, p. 107.

Hittell, p. 135.

8 William Gibbons, fish articles, Zhe Pacific.
° Hittell, p. 29. Gibbons to Baird, 14 September 1854, vol. 7, p. 272, Assistant Secretary Incoming
Correspondence, RU 52, Smithsonian Institution Archives (hereafter SIA). Baird to CAS early 1854.

Loc. cit.

'l Baird to W. Gibbons, 10 October 1854, vol. 9, p. 353, Outgoing Assistant Secretary Correspondence, RU
53; SIA, transcribed in Hittell, pp. 33-34.

“ Baird to Dall, 1 December 1873, Box 7, William Dall Personal Papers, RU 7073, SIA. E. F. Rivinus and
E. M. Youssef, Spencer Baird of the Smithsonian (Washington DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992), pp.
118-119.

a Cooper to Baird, 18 February and 18 April 1871, vol. II, pp. 294-296 and 299, RU 52, SIA. Dall to Meek,
30 May 1869, Box 2, folder 1, Fielding B. Meek Papers, RU 7062, SIA. (Note: The Dall to Meek letter does not
bear a year. However, based on other evidence, namely a letter from Meek to Dall dated 24 May 1869 to which

ALDRICH & LEVITON: THE SMITHSONIAN/ACADEMY CONNECTION 201

this letter appeares to be a response (N.B. the Dall to Meek letter begins, “Yours was duly recd and I hasten to
reply .. .,” the year seems probable [according to W. Cox, SIA Archives [pers. commun., Cox to Leviton, 14
July 2000], “The Dall to Meek letter . . . is simply dated May 30, . . . no year. But, I’m almost positive it was
written in 1869. The Dall collection contains a letter from Meek dated May 24, 1869, which discusses the same
tertiary rocks of Alaska.”)

= Hittell, pp. 22-23.

® Vol. 24, pp. 292 et seq., Record Unit 52, SIA, transcribed and sketch reproduced in Hittell, pp. 512-513.

® Dall to Baird, 29 December 1872, Box 18, RU 7002, SIA. Hittell, pp. 146-147. Stearns to Baird, 23
October 1872 and 27 January 1874, Box 36, folder 13, RU 52.

Hittell, pp. 151-153. The letters are cited and transcribed or summarized there: Davidson to Henry, 19
February 1873, vol. 162, p. 147 and 3 April 1873, vol. 132, p. 486487 in Secretary Incoming Correspondence,
vol. 162, p. 147, RU 26, SIA, and Henry to James Lick, 10 March 1873, Secretary Outgoing Correspondence,
vol. 33, p. 40, Record Unit 33, SIA. See also Dall to Baird, 23 February 1873, Box 18, RU 7002 and Stearns to
Baird, 17 October 1873, Box 36, folder 13, RU 52.

'8 Hittell, pp. 164-165.

° Hittell, pp. 243-244, 248, 269-271.

20 Hittell, pp. 280.

2! Hittell, pp. 318-326.
- Hittell, pp. 243-245 and 323-325.

BS Hittell, p. 22.

5 Ayres to Baird, 18 May 1859, vol. 16, p. 30, RU 52.

“ Baird to Dall, 8 November 1872 and 18 March 1873, Box 7, RU 7073. Stearns to Baird, 17 November
1873, Box 36, folder 13, RU 52.

26 Baird to Dall, 17 November 1873, Box 7, RU 7073.

27 Stearns to Baird 23 October 1872, Box 36, folder 13, RU 32.

°8 Hittell, pp. 35, 43, 64, 69, 196, and 239. Based in part on letters as follows: Ayres to Baird, 19 July 1859,
Box 14, item 110 in Baird Personal Papers, Record Unit 7002, SIA and Lockington to Dall, 21 December 1878,
Box 13, folder 25, Dall Personal Papers, Record Unit 7073, SIA.

2 9 Cooper to Baird 20 January 1874, vol. I, p. 326, RU 52.

° Hittell, p. 85 and Stearns to Baird, 9 December 1873 and 27 January 1874, Box 36, folder 13, RU 52.
Letters from Academy members in RU 26 (Secretary Incoming Correspondence) routinely mention shipping
via the Pacific Mail boats.

' William Francis Deverell, Railroad Crossing: Californians and the Railroad, 1850-1910 (1994, Univer-
sity of California Press, Berkeley, xiii + 278 pp.), pp. 3-18. Stearns to Baird, 19 May 1873, Box 36, folder 13,
RU 52, where Stearns says “Everything is badly mixed and jumbled since the railroad was completed — and
the Gutlook i is not promising.’

>»? Hittell, p. 170, based largely on letters of Redding to Baird in Assistant Secretary Incoming Correspon-
dence, Record Unit 52, SIA.

a ;, Hittell, pp. 169-170.

® Baird to Dall, 13 October 1872, Box 7, RU 7073.

> Baird’s official correspondence at the SIA is replete with letters documenting this. See for example letters
from, Trask, Ayres, Stearns, Dall, and Cooper.

® The salmon story has been told by other authorities. Among the older literature, the most useful to us is
Dean Allard, Spencer Fullerton Baird and the U.S. Fish Commission (New Y ork: Arno Press, 1978), pp. 137-157
and 266-268. For a comprehensive recent survey of writings on the topic, see Joseph E. Taylor, Making Salmon:
An Environmental History of the Northwest Fisheries Crisis (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1999), p.
380-385. Allard also deals with the shad question, pp. 136-137 and 143. On seeds, see Stearns to Baird, 31
January 1874, Box 36, folder 13, RU 32.

31 3 Joseph Miller to William Rhees, 4 June 1887, RU 33.

® Dall to Baird, 28 December 1873, Box 18, RU 52. Baird to Dall, 17 December 1873, Box 7, R 7073.

Hittell, pp. 42, 80, 164-165, and 196. George Davidson to Joseph Henry, 29 November 1873 and 24 December

202 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

1873, vol. 136, p. 232 and vol. 142, p. 1, Secretary Incoming Correspondence, Record Unit 26, SIA. Stearns to
Baird, 27 January 1874, Box 36, RU 52, confirms arrival of 15 cases of books, as yet unopened, because of move
of the Academy into the old First Congregationalist Chuch building as its temporary quarters.

3° Hittell, pp. 478-479 and 561-567.

4° Molera’s biography appeared in the 7ransactions of the Technical Society of the Pacific Coast, an
engineering society in which he was active.

4 Hittell, pp. 21, 206, 211, 232-233, and 246-247.

° Biographical sketches for Katharine and Townshend Brandegee see William A. Setchell, “Townshend
Stith Brandegee and Mary Katharine (Layne) (Curran) Brandegee,” Univ. California Publ. Botany (1926, vol.
13, no. 9, pp. 155-178, pls. 13-14); also Frank S. and Carol D. Crosswhite, “Zhe Plant Collecting Brandegees,
with emphasis on Katharine Brandegee as a liberated woman scientist of early California,’ Desert Plants (1985,
vol. 7, no. 3, pp. 128-162), Elizabeth Rush, “On her terms: Katharine Brandegee: First woman of Western
botany,” Pacific Discovery (1997, vol. 50, no. 1, pp. 22-27, 6 illus.), and Nancy G. Slack, “Mary Katharine
Brandegee,” American National Biography (1999), vol. 7, pp. 414-417 and “Townshend Stith Brandegee” (op.
cit.), pp. 417-418. Several biographical sketches of Alice Eastwood exist but see in particular Frank Mace
MacFarland in the Proceedings of the California Academy of Sciences (1949, ser. 4, vol. 25, pp. ix-xxiv), Carol
Green Wilson’s Alice Eastwood's Wonderland, (San Francisco: California Academy of Sciences, 1955, 222
pp.), “Eastwood, Alice,” in Notable American Women: The Modern Period. A Biographical Dictionary (edited
by B. Sicherman, et al., 1980, Cambridge: Belknap Press, Harvard University), pp. 79-80, and more recently,
Elizabeth Keeney, “Alice Eastwood,” American National Biography (1999), vol. 7, pp. 255-256. A brief
biographical sketch and portrait of Rosa Smith Eigenmann appear on p. 15 of Women in Science: A Selection of
16 Significant Contributors, published by the San Diego Supercomputer Center (1997) (a copy of this publication
can be found in the GS Myers/AE Leviton Biographical and Portrait Files of Natural History, Department of
Herpetology, California Academy of Sciences).

~ John Van Denburgh correspondence with Leonhard Stejneger, January 15, 1906 to June 17, 1927,
Department of Herpetology Archives, California Academy of Sciences.

4 Eastwood to Joseph Rose, 15 November 1894, Box 9, US National Museum, Division of Plants, Record
Unit 221, SIA.

S Hittell, p. 364, quoting Alice Eastwood to Joseph Rose, 27 August 1896, and Eastwood to Rose, | 1 August
1902, Box 9, RU 221.

4© Hittell, pp. 467-474 and 499-506.

‘7 Hittell, pp. 446-449, 461-466, 477 and 481.

8 Hittell, pp. 475-476, 499, and 505-506. The Science magazine versions appeared in New Series, vol. 23
(25 May 1906), pp. 824-826. Four of the original letters are in Box 4, folder 2 (Eastwood) and Box 7, folder |
(Loomis) of E. N. Nelson and E. A. Goldman Collection, Record Unit 7364, SIA, and the fifth is in Box 9,
Eastwood folder, of US National Museum, Division of Plants, record Unit 221, SIA. They are transcribed in
Hittell, pp. 500-506. We thank William Cox of the Smithsonian Institution Archives for drawing our attention
to them.

Julius Hurter to John Van Denburgh correspondence, December 17, 1906 to August 11, 1916, Department
of Herpetology Archives, California Academy of Sciences.

Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA.
All rights reserved.

People, Plants, and Politics: The Development of
Institution-Based Botany in California
1853-1906

BARBARA ERTTER
University and Jepson Herbaria
University of California, Berkeley, CA 94720-2465
E-mail: ertter@uclink4.berkeley.edu

The second half of the nineteenth century witnessed the almost overnight transforma-
tion of a remote outpost into the bustling metropolis of San Francisco, situated in the midst
of an undescribed wealth of biological diversity. This period accordingly also saw the
founding and development of most of the major scientific institutions of California: the
California Academy of Sciences, the California Geological Survey, the University of
California, and Stanford University. As demonstrated by a focus on the botanical compo-
nent, the early histories of these institutions are tightly intertwined, with overlapping casts
of colorful personalities. Those who exerted the greatest influence on botany during this
period were Albert Kellogg, Hans Hermann Behr, Josiah Dwight Whitney, William Henry
Brewer, Henry Nicholas Bolander, Mary Katharine Layne Curran Brandegee, Edward
Lee Greene, Harvey Willson Harkness, William Russel Dudley, and Townshend Stith
Brandegee.

Botanists in California have long been a popular topic for biographical sketches, due in large
part to the dramatic exploits and colorful personalities of such well-known figures as David Douglas
(e.g., Marwood, 1973), William Henry Brewer (Farquhar, 1930), Edward Lee Greene (McIntosh,
1983; McVaugh, 1983), and Alice Eastwood (Wilson, 1955). More recently significant attention has
been given to Katharine Brandegee (Crosswhite & Crosswhite, 1985; Bonta, 1991; Rush, 1997),
making up for nearly a century of undeserved obscurity. These biographical sketches, however,
generally focus on a single person, and as a result have failed to capture the rich interplay of
personalities, the feuds and alliances, that left their indelible marks on the fledgling scientific
institutions of California. The origins of these institutions are themselves intertwined, due to the
overlapping and shifting involvement of many of these same individuals. Critical “missing pieces”
have been provided by the recent publication of Theodore Henry Hittell’s manuscript history of the
California Academy of Sciences, which had languished in the Academy archives since 1906.

Only Gleanings Left to Us of the Present Day

From a beginning-of-the-2 1st century perspective, it is difficult to appreciate that California was,
at the beginning of the 19th century, one of the farthest corners of the earth, accessible from the
Atlantic only by along and arduous voyage around Cape Horn, or by an even more hazardous overland
voyage through uncharted wilderness. Long after thriving colonial cities had been established in

' Resurrected and edited by Leviton and Aldrich (1997), with significant additions to the original Hittell text by the editors;
the editors are also responsible for all footnotes and for the appendices with the exceptions of Appendix A and Appendix H
(Appendix A was written by Hittell and presented orally in 1903; Appendix H was prepared by G. W. Dickie, L. M. Loomis,
and R. Pratt as a memorial for Hittell). For convenience, quotes and references from this invaluable source are cited herein
simply as Hittell, unless derived from the footnotes or appendices that were added by the editors.

203

204 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Mexico and along the South American coastline, only tenuous footholds existed in western North
America. Even as Spanish, English, and Russian settlements became established along the Pacific
coast of the continent, visiting ships routinely depended on the Hawaiian Islands as the closest outpost
of Western civilization where provisions could be reliably obtained.

The gradual colonization changed abruptly and dramatically with the discovery of gold in
California in 1849, leading to the nearly overnight appearance of a full-fledged city in the heart of
prime botanical hunting ground. The gold rush soon peaked, with the bulk of miners moving on to
newly discovered fields outside of California, but the rise of new industries (e.g., whaling) ensured
that the young city of San Francisco could support the rise of culture and learning. It was still very
much an outpost of civilization, however, and would remain isolated from the centers of culture in
the eastern United States for nearly two decades, until the completion of the first transcontinental
railroad in 1869.

It was in this setting, in 1853, that seven gentlemen scholars met to establish the California
Academy of Natural Sciences. The situation is perhaps unparalleled, wherein the intellectual
resources of an isolated 19th century city were situated intimately with so much uncatalogued
biological diversity. The very first issue of the Academy’s Proceedings, for example, included the
description of a new fish that was being sold in local markets, Labrus pulcher Ayres. Plants provided
an equally rich source of novelties, with well more than half of the currently known flora of California
remaining to be discovered and catalogued (Ertter, 2000). This fact, however, was not fully appreci-
ated at the time. In 1858, for example, Thomas Bridges wrote to his mentor in England, Sir William
J. Hooker:

I can scarcely describe to you how pleasing and gratifying it has been to me to learn that in my
collections you have found some new and rare plants — I was partially under the impression
that from the labours of Douglas, Hartweg, Jeffrey, Lobb and other travelers from Europe with
the many United States Exploring Expeditions that little or nothing remained to be discovered
and only gleanings were left to those of us of the present day. (quoted in Jepson, 1933, pp. 85—86)

That Good-hearted and Impractible Fellow

At the time the Academy was founded, “science” was mostly not a profession but rather a joint
pursuit of amateurs, often as members of “philosophical” or “natural science” organizations. Very
few of the botanists during the 19th century, men or women, held professional positions. Two of the
primary exceptions were John Torrey, professor at Columbia College, and his protege Asa Gray, who
founded the herbarium at Harvard University. Working together, Torrey and Gray represented
botanical authority in North America and were attempting a massive synthesis, 4 Flora of North
America.

The seven founders of the Academy exemplified the gentleman scholar approach to natural
science, with the members meeting weekly in a rented room to present their scholarly findings. The
proceedings of these meetings were initially published in local newspapers (Daily Alta California
and The Pacific), only retroactively collated into volumes that could be used for exchange (Hittell,
p. 33; Curran, 1887). Prospective new members had to be nominated and elected, with not all
applicants successful. Curatorships were also elected offices, rotating and unsalaried at least during
the early years. The only financial resources were membership dues ($1 per month), with the growth
of both library and collections accordingly dependent on contributions and exchange programs. By
the end of the third year, in 1855, the library consisted of 65 books, and a single cabinet was shared

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 205

by all curators (Hittell, p. 38). This represented the height of
scientific resources on the West Coast at that time.

Several of the founders and other early members had at
least some interest in botany, if only as a then-essential part an
of medical practice. Dr. William P. Gibbons, for example,
although primarily interested in ichthyology, also became an
expert on the logged-over redwood forest in the Oakland Hills
(Hittell, p. 91; Gibbons, 1893). The founder whose name
became synonymous with this phase of California botany,
however, was Dr. Albert Kellogg (Fig. 1), whose passion for
plants was at the expense of his profession as a physician: “Dr.
Kellogg, who kept a drug-store, was almost too much en-
grossed with hunting and working over new plants to patiently
wait upon customers” (Hittell, p. 35). One of his subsequent
supporters noted that:

[Kellogg] practiced his profession . .. with success in all but
what pertained to his own needs. He was careful to enter in

his books, the account of every fee due him, and as careful Ficure 1. Albert Kellogg.
(or careless) never to present a bill. It was the opinion of one Courtesy Jepson Herbarium Archives,
who knew him in those days, that he did not once, in all his University of California, Berkeley.

career as a physician, request a payment. Naturally, he failed
to obtain in medicine the means of subsistence, and abandoned his profession. (Greene,
1887:146)

Instead, Kellogg devoted his time to the botanical riches surrounding him, with enthusiasm taking
the place of formal training:

Dr. Kellogg would not have claimed for himself the place ofa scientific botanist, nor have wished
others to claim it for him. He had a great love for all forms of plant life, more particularly of
trees; and he had a keen eye for detecting varietal and specific differences. He was fond of
sketching them and writing about them; and when writing upon a species which he thought was
new to science (and, in his earlier years of California life he met with many which scientific
botanists knew nothing of), he liked to give it a Latin name and a formal description; but his
terminology was somewhat original and his way of making Latin adjectives even more so.
(Greene, 1887, pp. 148-149)

Among Kellogg’s originalities was his fondness for Biblical references, such as his choice of
Marah for a genus of wild cucumbers. Although a Latin derivation for the generic name is commonly
stated (e.g., Schlising, 1993), Kellogg’s protologue indicates instead a Hebrew origin, with the
tantalizing note that “The significance of the name we have chosen would be better understood by
perusing Exodus xv:22—26” (Kellogg, 1855:38). This leads one to the following passage, as Moses
led the Hebrews through the wilderness: “When they came to Marah, they could not drink the water
because it was bitter. That is why it was called Marah [Bitterness].” The use of Marah as a genus
name was challenged by Torrey and Gray on the grounds that “it was neither a native nor a personal
name, nor one derived from either Greek or Latin,” a charge countered by Kellogg’s defenders; e.g.,
“It is a name taken from a literature with which we are all familiar, and its application appears a
sufficiently happy one to any person who has accidentally tasted the copious watery juice of the fruit”
(Curran, 1885:129—130).

206 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Independent of any eccentricities, Kellogg’s devotion to the Academy endeared him to his fellow
members. Asa result, and in recognition of his financial straits, Kellogg’s unpaid dues were canceled
in 1864 (Hittell, p. 68), he was declared the first life member two years later (Hittell, p. 80), and in
1868 he became the first member to receive a salary “raised by subscription,” as special assistant to
the Secretary (Hittell, p. 103). Asa Gray, on the other hand, while referring to Kellogg as “that
good-hearted and impractible fellow” (quoted in Dupree, 1959:396), provided the following advice
to another California botanist, John Gill Lemmon: “If you knew what a nuisance in the science Dr.
Kellogg’s name is — good meaning soul that he be, you would not envy his botanical reputation”
(quoted in Dupree, 1959:398).

He Gave It the Name of His Backbiter

Although the original members were all self-taught natu-
ralists, this changed after the first year, with the arrival of Dr.
Hans Hermann Behr (Fig. 2). A scion of German aristocracy,
Behr had studied medicine and natural science at the universi-
ties of Halle, Wurzburg, and Berlin. He then traveled in Aus-
tralia, the East Indies, South America, and the Philippines,
becoming acquainted with the botany, entomology, and native
languages of the various countries (Gutzkow et al., 1905). His
professional contacts, especially in Australia, played a sub-
sequent role in the development of California science, includ-
ing horticulture.

Behr joined the Academy in 1854:

Into this group of worthy but little-schooled gentlemen came
Behr with his thorough scientific training, his solid learning,
his rich experience gathered during long and successful trav-

els, and his ability to distinguish the truly new and interesting FiGure 2. Hans Hermann Behr.
from observations and discoveries that had been made before. Courtesy California Academy of
(Gutzkow et al., 1905:3) Sciences Archives.

In addition to his training and experience, Behr’s copy of Endlicher’s Genera Plantarum also proved
an invaluable addition to the Academy’s scientific resources.
Parallel to Kellogg, Behr had trouble making a living as physician, but for different reasons:

He was outspoken in his opinions and a sworn enemy to scientific humbugs and professional
quacks. This characteristic . .. made him many enemies and [was] not favorable to his financial
success as a practitioner. One of the most obnoxious of his adversaries was a doctor, or so-called
doctor, who had charge of a local German newspaper and for a time filled its columns with abuse
of Dr. Behr, particularly on account of his being a member of the Catholic Church and asserting
that he was a ‘Jesuit’ of the most sinister designs —a calumny which had more or less effect
upon its object’s professional clientage. (Hittell, pp. 427-428)

Behr had his revenge, however: “on discovering a particularly despicable and obnoxious new species
of louse, he gave it scientifically the name of his backbiter” (Hittell, p. 428).

Behr is primarily remembered as an entomologist, but his botanical contributions were also
significant. In addition to describing several new species (e.g., Cordvlanthus palustre, Oxybaphus
froebelii), he also left us with the most complete description of the original vegetation of San Francisco

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 207

(Behr, 1884, 1888, 1891, 1896). However, what might be Behr’s most significant impact is a matter
of speculation; specifically, the decision of members of Academy, with a library of less than 100
books and no access to authenticated comparative material, to publish new species independent of
established authority. Given Behr’s aristocratic background and solid scientific credentials, it is
reasonable to speculate that his self-assuredness inspired, or at least bolstered, inclinations towards
autonomous publication of new species. One area where Behr and his frontier colleagues parted ways,
however, was in the use of Latin: “It met with no encouragement from the Academy, partly because
the members generally were not as good Latinists as Dr. Behr and partly because is was felt that plain
English was better, or certainly good enough” (Hittell, p. 37).

In whatever language, the right to autonomous publication was resisted by Eastern and European
scientists, who considered Academy members to be “amateurs and upstarts” (Hittell, p. 29). After the
priority of publication of several new species in the Proceedings was ignored, the Academy
accordingly passed the following resolutions in 1854:

Resolved, That in view of the isolated condition of this Academy from other societies, we will
regard every publication of new species, which has been or which may be made through the
daily papers of this city, as substantial evidence of priority of discovery.

Resolved, That the corresponding secretary be directed to furnish to other scientific bodies a
copy of the above resolution, accompanying it with explanations which have led to this
conclusion. (Hittell, p. 29)

The battle for scientific recognition continued for years, with the Academy never backing down,
and full acceptance was eventually attained. This is indicated in an 1881 presentation of a new
Ranunculus by John Gill Lemmon, one of the many self-taught botanists in California who became
Academy members, which also reiterates the rationale for autonomous publication of new species
even in the face of limited library resources:

[Lemmon] proceeded to say that he had been encouraged by Dr. Asa Gray to make descriptions
of new species, even if all the literature upon the subject were not on hand or available. There
were only ten libraries in the world where all the botanical works were to be found, and only
one of these on this continent. We had only a nucleus of one here in California. He said he was
therefore, on account of want of all the most recent publications, apt to make a mistake and name
as new something that had already been described. It had been the custom of some Eastern men
to describe all sorts of California plants from any kind of specimens, without ever having seen
them grow, and take the chances as to their being new and the descriptions accurate; and they
had not infrequently received credit which should have remained in California. ... Dr. Behr said
that California botanists had been roughly handled by Eastern scientists for describing old things;
that is, plants already described; but they did not take into consideration the fact of the want of
scientific literature on the Pacific Coast. (Hittell, p. 239)

A Hallmark of Enlightened State Administration

By 1860, the flush of Gold Rush wealth was well past and new directions of economic
development were sorely needed. The young state of California was accordingly receptive to the
concept of a state geological survey, already established in many eastern and midwestern states as “‘a
hallmark of enlightened state administration, a source of local cultural pride, and the means whereby
exploitable resources might be cheaply located and advertised to would-be investors” (Goetzmann,
1966:355). Farquhar (1930:xv) credits Stephen J. Field, a Supreme Court justice, with convincing
“the more sober minds of the state that definite scientific knowledge was needed to give better

208 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

direction to the development of resources.” According
to Brewster (1909:183), however, “The credit . . . be-
longs in some small measure to her who was born
Elizabeth Whitney. It had been her dream, from the time
she married and went to California to live, to have her
beloved brother at once her neighbor and the head of a
state survey.”

Elizabeth’s “beloved brother,” Josiah Dwight
Whitney (Fig. 3), a veteran of several state surveys in
the Midwest, was among those lobbying vigorously for
a California geological survey. As a result of these
collective activities, on 21 April 1860, Governor John
G. Downey signed into law the following legislation
that would have a lasting impact on the natural history

of California:

J. D. Whitney is hereby appointed State Geologist,

whose duty it shall be, with the aid of such assistants Ficure 3. Josiah Dwight Whitney. Courtesy
as he may appoint, to make an accurate and complete Courtesy Smithsonian Institution Archive

Geological Survey of the State, and to furnish, in his

(Neg. # 78-106).

Report of the same, proper maps and diagrams

thereof, with a full and scientific description of its rocks, fossils, soils, and minerals, and of its
botanical and zoological productions, together with specimens of the same, which specimens
shall be properly labeled and arranged, and deposited in such place as shall be hereafter provided
for that purpose by the legislature. (quoted in Brewster, 1909, pp. 184-185)

Although Whitney was married and had recently become a father, the men he hired as assistants
would all have to be single, in that the funds available for salaries were insufficient to support

Ficure 4. William Henry Brewer.
Courtesy University Herbarium Archives,
University of California, Berkeley.

dependents (Brewster, 1909). One of these men was William
Henry Brewer (Fig. 4), a graduate of Sheffield Scientific
School and chemistry professor in Pennsylvania whose exper-

| tise centered around agriculture. Tragically, Brewer’s wife
| had recently died following childbirth, and the son shortly

afterwards, so Whitney’s offer represented a way to escape

_ unhappy associations (Farquhar, 1930). Brewer proved to be

ideal, not only filling the role of botanist but becoming Whit-

| ney’s right-hand man.
| hey srg

Whitney and family, Brewer, and other members of the

| initial core arrived in San Francisco on 14 November 1860, to

a gratifying reception: “the survey was popular; the Governor

| friendly. The newspapers were complimentary, and chron-

icled every movement of the surveyors. Prominent citizens
called, to make the acquaintance of the staff’ (Brewster,
1909:191). The Survey team outfitted itself and immediately
began field work, starting in southern California.

While Brewer stayed with the field crew, Whitney peri-
odically spent his time lobbying in Sacramento to obtain
continued funding. His efforts paid off the first year, with

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 209

sufficient appropriations to hire three more men: Dr. James Graham Cooper as surgeon-naturalist,
Charles F. Hoffmann as topographer, and William More Gabb as paleontologist. Troubles in the state
Treasury began at the same time, however, with the result that salaries were not available for months,
not only for the Survey, but for all State officers, up to and including the governor. Funds were
borrowed to allow the Survey to proceed, with much of the money obtained from Whitney’s
well-to-do father (Brewster, 1909).

Alas, disastrous winter floods of 1861-1862 devastated the California economy and further
depleted the Treasury. Throughout the state most bridges were gone, roads were washed out, and
communication was accordingly cut off. Kept indoors by the incessant rains, the Survey members
became active in the California Academy of Natural Sciences. Although a setback to the Survey, this
might very well have ensured the survival of the struggling young
Academy, which only two years previously had been described
by John Xantus as “in a deplorable condition,” with only eleven
members and a collection “entirely eaten by the miriads of mice
and rates [sic]” (quoted in Leviton & Aldrich, 1997:51). Accord-
ing to Hittell (p. 54), participation by Survey members “put a sort
of new life into the institution, and gave it an impetus which
materially assisted in enabling it to continue its struggle for
existence and in the end to triumph over all obstacles.” At the
annual election of 6 January 1862, Brewer was elected corre-
sponding secretary; Whitney, librarian; Cooper, curator of zool-
ogy; and Gabb, curator of paleontology. Another addition to the
Academy the same year was Henry Nicholas Bolander (Fig. 5),
who had moved to California for reasons of health (Jepson, 1898).
A school teacher by profession, with botanical training from Leo pygure 5. Henry Nicholas Bolander.
Lesquereux, Bolander immediately become interested in the local Courtesy California Academy of
flora, with special attention paid to grasses and cryptograms. Sciences Archives.

Petroleum Is What Has Killed Us

Once the rains let up, and by dint of additional borrowing and frugal use of funds, the Survey
resumed, though downscaled. In spite of continued accomplishments in the field, however, long-term
prospects for the Survey dwindled. By mid-year, the State owed Whitney $15,000, and the initial
enthusiasm for a state survey had decidedly cooled. In an 1862 letter, Whitney noted that “State
officers would be my best friends if | would be their confidential adviser in their interest in claims
and stocks, but as it is, | do not know one of them who cares a rye-straw for the work [of the Survey ]”
(Letter from Whitney to S. F. Baird, 15 December 1862, quoted in Leviton & Aldrich, 1997:66). This
included Downey, who, as Governor in 1860, had signed the act bringing the Survey into existence,
but who was now “down on [the Survey] because Professor Whitney would not use his official
influence as State Geologist to aid him in mining speculations” (Brewer in Farquhar, 1930, letter of
20 September 1863, p. 452). Whitney’s discouragement is evident in another letter:

I do not think there is any fear that the survey will be formally killed, but am rather disposed to
think that the appropriation may be so small that I shall not feel disposed to carry on the work
any longer. . . . I cannot afford the wear and tear of mind and body merely to make a piddling

210 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

survey with one or two assistants, and the necessity of making economy the predominating
thought. (Letter from Whitney to G. J. Brush, 5 June 1862, quoted in Brewster, 1909:219—220)

The Survey nevertheless continued into 1863, with the Civil War at its height. Brewer noted that
“the Union element is vastly in the majority [in California], unconditionally loyal. This state has had
so many southern scoundrels in office that the people are afraid of them” (Brewer in Farquhar, 1930,
letter of 26 July 1863, p. 427). When surveying around Lake Tahoe, Brewer later commented:

Its Indian name, Tahoe, was dropped and it was called after Governor Bigler, a Democratic
politician. He was once of some notoriety here, since he has turned “Secesh” [secessionist] all
the Union papers have raised the cry to have his name dropped, and the old Indian name has
been revived and will probably prevail. (Brewer in Farquhar, 1930, letter of 23 August 1863, p.
442)

In the midst of the 1863 field season, in the face of uncertain funding, Brewer was offered a
part-time professorship in chemistry at the private College of California in Oakland, and subsequently
taught at least one course (Constance, 1978). Whitney continued to alternate his time among the field
crew, Sacramento, and San Francisco, presenting a paper to the Academy in May in which he
summarized the accomplishments of the Survey to date (Hittell, p. 65). Among the most significant
events of 1863, however, was a chance encounter by Brewer, on a steamer from Sacramento, with
two recent graduates of his alma mater: James Terry Gardner and Clarence King. Both young men
joined the Survey, initially as volunteers, with King eventually going on to become, in 1879, the first
director of the United States Geological Survey.

In 1864, Whitney returned to the East to initiate the printing of the Survey reports, “for printing
in California cost three times its proper price, and engraving was not to be had on any terms”
(Brewster, 1909:235—236). Even thus separated from California, he was not out of reach of a new
challenge that threatened the very credibility of the Survey. Although the petroleum reserves of the
Santa Barbara area had been noted by the Survey, they had not been deemed to be of immediate
economic value, in that existing technologies and uses (primarily as a substitute for dwindling
whale-oil) had been developed only for kerosene-grade petroleum, such as that coming out of the
Pennsylvania oil fields, not for the thick crude that characterized the Santa Barbara deposits.
Nevertheless, in 1864 speculation fever for Santa Barbara petroleum was triggered, and the effec-
tiveness and credibility of the Survey was called into serious question for overlooking such a
seemingly valuable resource. Whitney, as State Geologist, took it upon himself to challenge claims
of the petroleum’s value, sending one assistant back to Santa Barbara to verify the Survey’s initial
evaluation of the asphaltum’s negligible economic potential under existing technology. “Petroleum
fever” nevertheless continued to build, and the credibility of the Survey to fall, until an independent
study in 1865 exhaustively tested samples from all the major sites in southern California, found none
matching the sample used for promotional purposes, and accordingly suggested that refined Penn-
sylvania oil had been substituted in a deliberate swindle (Goetzmann, 1966:381). Unfortunately,
vindication came too late for the California Geological Survey ever fully to regain its initial prestige
and state support, especially against a background of continued financial difficulties and a prolonged
Civil War.

The botanical component of the Survey had been eliminated from the 1864 budget, though
Brewer nevertheless collected a hundred or so specimens while pursuing the mandated portions of
the Survey. This phase of botanical activity ended abruptly, however, when Brewer, at the end of the
1864 field season, received an offer of a professorship in Yale. In spite of “the cheering news that we
would probably be paid up in January next” (Brewer in Farquhar, 1930, letter of 22 December 1864,

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 211

p. 564), the lukewarm prospects for the Survey could not compete against such a prestigious post.
Even when support for the Survey temporarily improved the following year, the botanical component
was never fully reinstated. Instead, Bolander was periodically hired, apparently on a contract basis,
to collect in those areas where Brewer had not been (e.g., the North Coast Ranges, which had been
the stronghold of hostile Indians). Cooper also made some significant botanical collections, primarily
in conjunction with a winter spent at Fort Mohave (Brewer et al., 1876:vii).

Bolander was even more active in the Academy than Brewer had been, becoming curator of
botany in 1865 and publishing the first catalogue of plants of San Francisco (Bolander, 1870). He
was also a member of the committee that amended the constitution and dropped “Natural” from the
name of the Academy in 1868 (Hittell, pp. 93, 95). Whitney, returning from the East, also became
actively involved in the California scene, being elected to the Academy presidency in 1867, planning
for the proposed state University, and heading a board of three commissioners to manage the newly
established Yosemite Park (Brewster, 1909). The importance of Survey participation in the life of the
Academy is evidenced in a letter from Whitney at this time:

[O]f late I have been much engaged with the affairs of the California Academy, as we have had
to move into and fit up new rooms, and have tried to resuscitate in general. We seem now to be
in a fair way to live; but when I came back last year, it seemed as if it was as dead as a doornail.
(quoted in Ewan, 1955:19)

The Survey itself, however, continued its downhill slide, as summarized by Whitney:

The prospects of the survey remain as uncertain as ever. Two committees have been at the
office and exhibited even more than their usual amount of stupidity and ignorance. Since the
Yosemite Valley bill [to give settlers 160 acres apiece] passed over the Governor’s veto, I feel
so disgusted with California that I can hardly stand it much longer. Still | am running the survey
along in a small way at my own expense, waiting to see what the jackasses at Sacramento will
do. ... 1 am told, on good authority, that this legislature is by far more corrupt and reckless than
any of its predecessors. It is a fact — at least everybody believes it to be — that votes can only
be had this year by purchase. (J. D. Whitney to W. D. Whitney, 26 February 1868, quoted in
Brewster, 1909:264)

“Petroleum” is what has killed us. By the word ‘petroleum,’ understand the desire to sell worthless
property for large sums and the impolicy of having anybody around to interfere with the little
game. (J. D. Whitney to W. D. Whitney, 13 April 1868, quoted in Brewster, 1909:266—267)

Thus, in spite of a supportive governor and a testimonial from the Academy to the Legislature
in favor of the Survey (Hittell, p. 100), funding temporarily ceased. Even before the axe fell, Bolander,
Kellogg, and Behr had withdrawn from any further Survey-related activities in a show of solidarity
for Whitney (Leviton & Aldrich, 1997:101), a move that would prove more permanent for them than
for Whitney. At the 20 April 1868 meeting of the Academy, a report strongly condemning the “abrupt
and shabby” discontinuance of the State Geological Survey was accepted, approved, and adopted
(Hittell, p. 100). At a subsequent meeting, Bolander, as corresponding secretary, “stated that he had
received two letters from scientific men in the East, commenting in such violent terms of condemna-
tion on the recent action of the Legislature in superseding the State Geological Survey that he declined
to read them publicly” (Hittell, p. 102). Nevertheless, “As the discontinuance of the Survey deprived
Professor Whitney of his occupation in California and necessitated his return to the East, he resigned
his office as president of the Academy and accompanied his withdrawal with a few farewell remarks”
(Hittell, p. 100).

212 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

An Asylum for Rebel Professors

The same year (1868) that a hostile Legislature pulled the plug on the State Geological Survey
saw the establishment of the University of California, by the merger of the private College of
California in Oakland with a proposed State Agricultural, Mining, and Mechanical Arts College
(Constance, 1978; Stadtman, 1970). It is reasonable to assume that this was not strictly a coincidence;
at the very least, the University represented an equally prestigious alternative to the Survey for the
State to parade before the general public and the nation at large, and one more palatable to those
legislators who had a personal vendetta against Whitney. If so, there is some irony in the fact that
Whitney had played a significant role in the founding of the University, and even served as chairman
for the commission that drafted the plans for the State University (Brewster, 1909; Stadtman, 1970).

In 1861, Whitney had prepared “Outline of a plan for the disposal and care of the specimens
collected by the State Geological Survey of California,” in which he proposed that the specimens be
divided among the State Agricultural Society at Sacramento and the California Academy of Natural
Sciences (Appendix E in Leviton & Aldrich, 1997:512—513):

The State Agricultural Society shall receive a full set of the plants, soils, and other specimens
illustrating the agricultural resources of the State; also a set of the rocks, minerals and ores,
exhibiting its geological structure and mineral wealth. These shall be arranged in the hall of the
Society, in a room or rooms provided for that purpose and fitted with cases by the Society. The
arranging and labeling of the specimens shall be done by the geological corps.

The remainder of the specimens collected on the Survey shall be deposited in a building to be
erected at San Francisco and called the ‘State Museum.’ This building shall be erected by private
funds subscribed by the citizens of San Francisco and the State in general, aided by an equal
amount furnished by the Legislature. The Governor, the President of the Academy, and the State
Geologist shall constitute the committee to take charge of the erection of the building, purchase
a suitable lot of land, and make the other necessary arrangements.

Whitney proceeded to draft a proposed floorplan for a State Museum, to serve as the headquarters
for the Survey during its existence and subsequently to revert fully to the Academy, “to be used by
them as a place of meeting, and for all the purposes required by the Academy, and it shall be the duty
of the Academy to keep the collections in order, to make such additions to them as they may be able
to do, and to make the whole museum available as far as possible, and is consistent with its safety,
for the purposes of scientific and popular education.”

However, the passage of the Morrill Act in 1862, providing grants of land for state agricultural
colleges,” led the California state legislature to turn its sights instead on “establishing a State
University, embracing an Agricultural College, a School of Mining and a Museum, including the
geological collections of the State” (Hittell, p. 65). Whitney accordingly chose to put his influence
where it would do the most good, serving as chairman for the commission that drafted the plans for
the future State University (Brewster, 1909:241). His proposal, known as the “Museum Plan,” was
based on the rationale that:

? The Morrill Act, or Agricultural College Land Grant Act, was signed into law on 2 July 1862 by Abraham Lincoln. It gave
each state 30,000 acres of public land per senator and congressman, for the purpose of “the endowment, support, and
maintenance of at least one college where the leading object shall be, without excluding other scientific and classical studies,
and including military tactics, to teach such branches of learning as are related to agriculture and the mechanical arts, in such
a manner as the legislatures of the States may respectively prescribe, in order to promote the liberal and practical education of
the industrial classes in the several pursuits and professions in life” (quoted in Stadtman, 1970:25). The Morrill Act also provided
the funds for the new professorship at Yale that was used to entice Brewer away from the California Geological Survey (Slack,
1993).

tO
Ww

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906

[T]he establishment of the Geological Survey was in fact the first step towards the production
of a State University. Without the information to be obtained by that Survey, no thorough
instruction was possible on this coast, either in geography, geology, or natural history; for the
student of these branches requires to be taught in that which is about him, and with which he is
brought into daily contact, as well as that which is distant and only theoretically important.
(quoted in Stadtman, 1970:27)

Although Whitney’s full proposal proved overly ambitious, Section 24 of the Organic Act
bringing the University of California into existence (Assembly Bill 583) specified that:

The collections made by the State Geological Survey shall belong to the University, and the
Regents shall, in their plans, have in view the early and secure arrangement of the same for the
use of the students of the University, so soon as the geological survey shall be completed, and
of giving access to the same to the public at large and to visitors from abroad; and shall in every
respect, by acts of courtesy and accommodation, encourage the visits of persons of scientific
tastes and acquirements from other portions of the United States and of Europe, to California.
The said collections shall be arranged by the resident Professors of the University in a building
by themselves, which shall be denominated the ‘Museum of the University.’ . . . the Board of
Regents may allow duplicates to be taken from said collections of the State Geological Survey
and made a part of some other museum under the care of an incorporated Academy of science,
which shall become responsible for the custody and return of same.

There is at least some evidence of mutual support and sharing of resources, at least in the scientific
realm, between the fledgling University (Fig. 6), the Survey, and the Academy. Following the
precedent of Brewer, who had a brief association with the College of California before returning East,

FiGurE 6. University of California, Berkeley, from the east looking toward San Francisco Bay (Harmon Gymnasium, South
Hall, North Hall, and Mechanical Arts, 1879). Courtesy Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley (Image 3:228)

214 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

members of the Survey and the Academy taught several courses at the University during its early
years: Forestry by Bolander, Field Botany by Kellogg and Gibbons, and Lower Forms of Vegetable
Life (e.g., fungi) by Harvey W. Harkness (Constance, 1978). A special meeting of the Academy in
1875 was held at Berkeley, at the invitation of University President Gilman, at which it was remarked
that “the Academy would have to depend mainly upon the University to fill its ranks as time thinned
it of pioneers” (Hittell, p. 181). Bolander even served as an ex officio Regent in 1871-1875, by virtue
of his position as State Superintendent of Public Instruction at that time (Stadtman et al., 1967).

Bolander’s brief presence notwithstanding, relations between the Regents of the University and
the Survey were another matter. At the final demise of the Survey, Whitney noted that “I have not
the support but the opposition of the Regents of the University” (Letter from Whitney to F. von
Richthofen, | June 1877, quoted in Brewster, 1909:333). Antagonism between the Regents and the
Academy is also evident, such that a verbal proposition by the Regents in 1870 to incorporate the
Academy as part of the University was “very decidedly objected to” (Hittell, p. 123). James Cooper,
zoologist for the Survey and director of the Academy museum at the time, was particularly vehement
in his rebuttal:

... the Academy is flourishing considering the hard times and laughs at the wise professors and
regents of the University who kindly informed us that we must be swallowed up in that Asylum
for rebel Professors or be extinguished. On the contrary they have managed so recklessly that
their President admits they are on the verge of bankruptcy, and nothing buta liberal appropriation
by the Legislature will save them! This will be had . . . as the University is a popular hobby &
will probably swallow up all that the state has to give. (Letter from Cooper to S.F. Baird, 24
March 1871, quoted in Leviton & Aldrich, 1993:123)

Succumbed to Stupidity and Malignity

Following the legislative setbacks of 1868, Whitney returned to his professorship at Harvard,
rented Asa Gray’s garden home, and prepared two more volumes of Survey reports and a popular
scientific guide to the Yosemite Valley region, all at his own expense (Brewster, 1909). In the winter
of 1869-1870, he returned to California to take up the battle anew:

As soon... as the new legislature convened, Whitney repaired to California and laid siege to
the new body. Of his scientific friends in the East, Dana, Henry, Guyot, and Agassiz gave special
aid; while of the Californians, Leland Stanford lent the weight of his very considerable influence
and Edward Tompkins, who was state senator, took charge of the details of the campaign.
Governor Haight was, as always, favorable. Among them the bill went through. (Brewster,
1909:269-270)

The 1870 appropriation allowed the field crew to be reassembled, though without a botanical
component. Furthermore, the Survey no longer held its original appeal even to Whitney: “I can do
other scientific work which will bring me in just as much scientific reputation as this, without half
the wear and tear which this survey demands, and for which I am getting less fitted as I get older.”
(Letter from Whitney to wife, 13 August 1870, quoted in Brewster, 1909:275). Whitney’s malaise
apparently extended to his involvement in Academy affairs, where his report on the Survey at the 4
December 1871 meeting (Hittell, p. 138) may have also marked his final appearance. The following
year, he disparagingly indicated that the Academy was now in the hands of “business men” (quoted
in Leviton and Aldrich, 1997:138), presumably referring to the newly established Board of Trustees
(Hittell, p. 130).

Support for the Survey made it through the 1872 legislature, but there subsequently turned out

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 215

to be no funds available for it in the Treasury (Brewster, 1909). At a special meeting of the Trustees
of the Academy, a petition was drawn up to be sent to the State Legislature:

The Trustees of the California Academy of Sciences, as requested by an unanimous vote of that
body, respectfully pray that a liberal appropriation may be made at this session of the Legislature
for the continuance of the State Geological Survey and the publications thereof as at present

organized and conducted under the direction of Professor J. D. Whitney. (Hittell, p. 142)

At a subsequent meeting, the esteemed visiting sci-
entist Louis Agassiz, after praising the Academy, “also
spoke of the excellent and valuable work of the State
Geological Survey, and of the bright promise of the
University of California for the cultivation, promotion,
and diffusion of knowledge” (Hittell, p. 146). At the
same meeting were John Torrey, botanist extraordinaire
from New York, and, as an introductory appearance,
Daniel Coit Gilman (Fig. 7), president-elect of the Uni-
versity.

Contrary to Cooper’s previously quoted glib state-
ment that “the University is a popular hobby & will
probably swallow up all that the state has to give,”
Whitney and Gilman soon found themselves united in
battle against a common foe in the form of the 1874
legislature. Gilman’s efforts at academic innovation ran
afoul of “the social unrest of the 1870s, when Califor-
nia’s farmers and workingmen were challenging estab-
lished wealth, established authority, and established
intellectual values, [and] found the University, even as it
then existed, too rich for the needs of the common man”
(Stadtman, 1970:69). As a result, just one year after the
Berkeley campus opened, Whitney wrote:

FiGURE 7. Daniel Coit Gilman (1872).
Courtesy Bancroft Library,
University of California, Berkeley.

Gilman is engaged in a hard fight to save the University from the claws of the grangers who
want to make a manual-labor school of it. Gilman feels very much discouraged, especially as he
now realizes fully that a state institution must always be in hot water. For each legislature can
undo the work of its predecessors, and they have full power to pull down and alter as they please.
Already, by the New Code, all the Regents are appointed by the Governor, and by the constitution
of the state, can hold office only for four years, so that politics and change must ever be the
predominating elements in the concern. (Letter from J.D. Whitney to W.D. Whitney, 3 March
1874, quoted in Brewster, 1909:288)

Gilman resigned the following year, accepting a post at Johns Hopkins University in Maryland. As

for the Survey, Whitney at last threw in the towel for good:

The survey has succumbed to the stupidity and malignity of the legislature, backed by the
same characteristics on the part of the Governor. The Committee reported in favor of continuing
the work, putting it under the supervision of a ‘Board of Survey’ . . . | would not have acted
under this had it passed, and had the place been offered to me; but the discussion turned entirely
on me and my work, without any hint of the possibility of the employment of any one else. |
was accused of having given all the collections to Harvard; and it was stated over and over again,

216 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

that the survey had been run by me for the benefit of Harvard University! (Letter from J.D.
Whitney to W.D. Whitney, 19 March 1874, quoted in Brewster, 1909:289-290)

The Generosity of a Few Citizens

The insinuation that Whitney was acting on behalf of Harvard at the expense of California was
grounded in the reality that Harvard University was in fact where at least the botanical specimens
were sent for processing. This violation of the Academy’s efforts at autonomous publication of the
California flora triggered this summary by Gibbons:

... three sets [of California plants] have been made up; one for the California Academy of
Sciences; one for the University of California; while one has been sent out of the State, and
eastern botanists have the credit of devoting their time to working it up, in occasional paroxysms,
without remuneration. It would have been far better for the interests of the State and of science
had this [California Geological] commission never existed . . .

California scientists would have accomplished more work, without aid from the State, than
has thus far, to all practical purposes, been achieved by the commission. (quoted in Ewan,
1955:20)

Nevertheless, in spite of Gibbons’ confidence in his colleagues’ abilities, an undertaking of the
magnitude of a brand new state flora, especially up to Brewer’s and Whitney’s standards, required
the resources and expertise that could only be found at an established major herbarium. Most vascular
plant specimens from the Survey were accordingly shipped to Harvard University, where Asa Gray
was feverishly working on his and John Torrey’s magnum opus, 4 Flora of North America. Part and
parcel with his work on the Flora, Gray was not only willing but needed to have the flood of new
collections from the western regions pass through his hands (Dupree, 1959).

After leaving the Survey and taking up a professorship at Yale, Brewer joined in the time-con-
suming task of analyzing collections, writing treatments, and assembling the whole into what would
become the first complete flora of California. However, although the orginal legislation mandated
that the reports of the Survey be copyrighted and sold for the benefit of the common school fund, no
funds were allocated, so that Brewer’s efforts took the form of a labor of love:

I received no pay whatever after the closing of my connection with the Survey of California —
neither for the time nor the expense in working up results. I spent an aggregate of two years time
— a little more rather than less —and over two thousand dollars in cash, besides deducting
another one thousand dollars from my salary from college because of time taken out from my
work — that is, absence during term time at work on my plants at the Cambridge Herbarium.
(quoted in Farquhar, 1930:xxit1)

Whitney was eventually able to secure additional State funding for the publication of several
Survey reports, but not for botany. Instead, a select group of California’s wealthier citizens, at the
urging of University President Gilman, came forth and provided the necessary funds from their own
pockets: Leland Stanford, D. O. Mills, Lloyd Tevis, James C. Flood, Charles McLaughlin, Robert B.
Woodward, William Norris, John O. Earl, Henry Pierce, Oliver Eldridge, and S. Clinton Hastings.
As aresult, Sereno Watson, who had become familiar with the western flora while serving as botanist
for Clarence King’s spin-off survey of the Fortieth Parallel (Watson, 1871; Davis, 1994), was
employed to finish what Gray and Brewer had started. Whitney summarized the situation in the
introduction to the first of the resultant two volumes (Brewer et al., 1876; Watson, 1880):

The Survey not being able to pay any one for devoting his whole time to this investigation, the

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 217

(UNIFORM WITH TIE PUBLICATIONS OF TITK)

GEOLOGICAL SURVEY OF CALIFORNIA.

J.D. WHITNEY, Sratz Gro.ocisr,

BOTAN Y.

VOLUME I.

POLYPETALA,

By W. I. BREWER axnp SERENO WATSON,

GAMOPETAL A,

g. by, Ht 7Gen~

By ASA GRAY.

CAMBRIDGE, MASS. :
WELCH, BIGELOW, & CO., UNIVERSITY PRESS.
1876,

Pio

Ficure 8. Title page of the botany volume for the California Geological Survey.

218 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

year 1874 had been reached and the printing had not yet begun. The Legislature of 1873-74 put
an end to the work by refusing any further appropriations for the Survey, and the present volume
would have remained unpublished, had it not been for the generosity of a few citizens of San
Francisco, who came forward and placed in the hands of the [former] State Geologist a sum
sufficient to insure the publication of one volume of the Flora of California. (Brewer et al.,
1876:vill-x)

In recognition of the collective contributions and efforts of all involved, the Academy passed a
motion “that the names of the contributors should be enrolled upon the records of the Academy as
Benefactors of Science. And it was further ordered that honorable mention should be made and
recorded of Professor Asa Gray, Professor J. D. Whitney, Professor Watson and Professor William
H. Brewer for their personal devotion, without pecuniary considerations, to the work” (Hittell, p.
182).

The Extent of Botanical Activity at that Time

Although the first set of the botanical collections amassed by the California Geological Survey
still resides in the Gray Herbarium at Harvard University, a duplicate set was eventually deposited
at the University of California, forming the core of the current University Herbarium. Although
tradition has it that this herbarium was established in 1872 with the receipt of the Survey specimens,
the earliest extant records in the herbarium archives concerning Survey material date only from 1901,
by which time the herbarium already contained nearly 27,000 specimens. The earliest “Herbarium
Records” book in the University Herbarium archives begins in 1898, at which time 24,179 specimens
were censused. On pp. 152-153 is the following entry:

Prof. Brewer’s donation of State Survey Specimens, 1901. Under date of Oct. 24, 1901 Mr.
Coville [botanist for the U.S. Department of Agriculture, where the U.S. National Herbarium
was then housed] wrote to Prof. Setchell as follows: *At the request of Professor W.H. Brewer,
I send to you by mail today a set [of] 1,714 specimens of his collections of 1860 to 1867 on
which the Botany of California was largely based. The specimens are to be the property of the
University of California. Professor Brewer will probably write you farther regarding them’.

Although the exact number is not tabulated, there are probably significantly more than 1,714
California Geological Survey specimens among the current holdings of the University Herbarium,
including numerous duplicates.

It is evident nevertheless that there was strong support for botany nearly from the University’s
inception, as befit the provisions of a land grant university. The establishment of a College of
Agriculture was given first priority by the Organic Act, with the Secretary of the Board of Regents
instructed to “receive and distribute such rare and valuable seeds, plants, shrubbery and trees . . . as
may be adapted to our climates and soils, or to purposes of experiment therein” (Sec. 16). In his
1872-1873 report, President Gilman called for “ta professor whose province it is to teach the Laws
of Vegetation — all that pertains to the growth and structure of plants, of Botany; in its scientific and
economic aspects; and there should also be a competent gardener, and perhaps a forester employed
at once to take charge of the grounds” (quoted in Constance, 1978:2).

The first full-time faculty member to teach botany courses was Joseph LeConte (Fig. 9), Professor
of Geology, Natural History, and Botany, whose appointment in 1869 placed him among the original
faculty of the newly established university. LeConte and his brother John, heirs of a cotton plantation
in Georgia, had actively pursued positions at the new university, seeking a refuge from the social
upheaval and privations of the Reconstructionist South (Stephens, 1982). The botanical component

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 219

expanded significantly in 1875, when Bavarian-born
Eugene W. Hilgard (Fig. 10) was recruited. Hilgard
promptly took on the challenge of developing the full-
fledged College of Agriculture required by the Organic Act
and campaigned for by Bolander in his capacity as an ex
officio Regent (Stadtman, 1979; Stadtman et al., 1967;
Weislander, 1965), and also established the Agricultural
Experiment Station (taking advantage of the 1887 Hatch Act
[Stadtman, 1970]). The LeConte brothers and Hilgard (who
had spent a significant portion of his professional life in
Mississippi) are presumably high on the list of “rebel Pro-
fessors” scorned by Cooper (quoted earlier). All three were
nevertheless elected resident members of the Academy, the
LeConte brothers in 1870 (Hittell, p. 120) and Hilgard in
1896 (Hittell, p. 367), though none played a particularly
active role in Academy affairs.

As previously noted, some botany courses were also FIGURE 9. Joseph LeConte.
offered by Bolander, Kellogg, and Gibbons, all of whom had Courtesy Bancroft Library, University
strong Academy involvement. In addition, visiting lecturers Neu eet a at a a ed
were occasionally employed, providing us with the follow-
ing account by Charles E. Bessey:

Arriving in Oakland we were advised that it would be best
for us to find quarters in town rather than to attempt to do
so in Berkeley, then only a much scattered village of but
a few people. A horse car ran towards Berkeley at long
intervals, and a couple of miles out in the country it
stopped in a discouraged sort of way, and the passengers
were obligated to wait on an open platform for a smaller
car drawn by a single mule at a very slow place. In time,
however, the car brought one to the edge of the University
grounds, at that time marked by a brook and a fine Cali-
fornia Laurel tree. We crossed the brook on a plank, and
walked a little distance to the two buildings which housed
the University of that day. I think it took a full hour to
make the trip from Oakland to Berkeley. (quoted in Con-
stance, 1978:3)

FiGure 10. Eugene W. Hilgard.
In spite of the steady growth of the University, the Courtesy Bancroft Library, University

Academy remained the botanical center for the San Fran- Op Gal Horne Bemeley (iniaze 2-261):

cisco Bay Area. This is evidenced by the following 1914 account by Samuel Bonsall Parish, the first
resident botanist in southern California, reminiscing ona visit to the Bay Area some “thirty odd years”
earlier:

Berkeley at that time was not a botanical center by any means. I remember coming over from
San Francisco . . . to call upon the only working botanist in Berkeley. I suppose there was
somebody up at the University, tho I do not know. But the only working botanist was the Rev.
E. L. Greene, afterwards Professor of Botany in the University, but who was at that time
{188 1—1884] rector of a little wooden church [St. Mark’s Episcopal Church]. . . . | came over

220 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

and attended the morning service and afterwards went with the rector to his home and we talked
about plants the rest of the evening. That seemed to be the extent of botanical activity in Berkeley
at that time. What activity there was on the coast of California at that time centered in San
Francisco at the old Academy of Sciences, which then occupied a church at the top of the hill,
and the botanical department was located in the gallery of the old church. There were perhaps
three or four persons in the Academy who were more or less interested in botany. (Madrono

17 T1922

Parish goes on to describe Behr as “the best educated botanist,” whose interest had turned to
spiders; Kellogg, “in his shirt sleeves and his old red flannel waistcoat, making drawings of twigs”;
Kellogg’s co-worker, William Harford; and Harvey Harkness, who was working on fungi. More will
be said on Greene, Harford, and Harkness later, but noteworthy at this point, in the absence of any
mention by Parish, is the person who was possibly already curator of botany at this time: Mary

Katharine Curran.

I Began to Make Myself Useful

The connection of Mary Katharine (Kate) Layne
Curran Brandegee (Fig. 11) to California botany origi-
nates with the founding of the Toland Medical College
in 1864, which was accepted as the University’s medical
school in 1873 (Stadtman, 1970). When the recently
widowed Curran decided to pursue a medical career in
1875, at the age of 31 (Dupree & Gade, 1971), she was
only two years behind Lucy Wanzer, the first woman to
force her way into the University’s medical school; Cur-
ran presumably faced many of the same obstacles. Wan-
zer’s admission had required a reluctant ruling by the
Regents that the Organic Act of the University gave an
equal opportunity to both sexes, but significant resis-
tance remained. The dean of the medical school encour-
aged Wanzer’s fellow students to make her so
uncomfortable that she would choose to leave (Doyle,
1934). One anecdote is particularly priceless both for
showing the degree of hazing, and the spirit that allowed
Wanzer to persist:

When [Wanzer] was present at an eye clinic, the pro-
fessor in charge stated: ‘A woman has no business to
study medicine. If she does, she ought to have her

Ficure 11. Mary Katharine (Kate) Layne Curran
Brandegee. Courtesy Hunt Institute for Botanical
Documentation, Carnegie-Mellon University.

ovaries removed.’ She quietly replied: ‘If that is true, the men students ought also to have their

testicles removed!’ (Doyle, 1934:239)

As a separate but closely affiliated college, the California College of Pharmacy was established
in 1872, becoming part of the University only two months later. Beginning in 1874, College of
Pharmacy courses were taught in the Toland Medical College building, on Stockton Street between
Chestnut and Francisco streets. This location was only about a mile away from the Academy, which
was at that time at the corner of California and Dupont (now Grant) streets. This made it convenient
for Behr to be a professor at the College of Pharmacy, teaching botany as the basis for a large

bo

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 2

percentage of the available pharmacopoeia. While pursuing her medical degree, Curran accordingly
came under the tutelage of Behr. As described by Wanzer:

We were all much interested in Materia Medica. Our professor was a very busy man and could
not always give the time he wished to give to the subject: Therefore Mrs. Curran with a number
of us who were members of the Academy of Sciences decided to go out with the Pharmaceutical
Class — Dr. Herman Behr our instructor — and study the flora and plant life of the bay region
usually Marin, Contra Costa and San Mateo Counties. Whatever was collected of value or of
special interest was taken or given to the Academy of Sciences. Mrs. Curran was a very close
student and observer — so also was Dr. Behr and his deep interest in the Academy — and the
flora and plant life of California had a charm for the entire class. (Letter from Lucy Wanzer to
Eleanor Stockton [Curran’s niece], 25 July 1925, in UC Herbarium archives)

Curran received her M.D. in 1878 (with honors, according to Wanzer [see above, Wanzer to
Stockton]), but was subsequently unsuccessful in establishing a medical practice (Setchell, 1926). As
noted by Rush (1997), this cannot be ascribed simply to her gender, in that several other women were
practicing medicine in San Francisco, including Wanzer. Although retaining a lifelong interest in
medicine (Herre, ca. 1960), Curran accordingly began spending more and more time at the Academy,
where, with Behr’s backing, she was elected a member in 1879, only one year after the first women
were accepted as members.* Curran did not begin as a botanist (her first presentation to the Academy
was “On Caenums of the Hare” [Hittell, p. 242]), and she confessed decades later that “With me
botany was accidental. I would have preferred the study of birds or more strongly still, the study of
insects” (quoted in Setchell, 1926:168). Independent of her initial orientation, Curran eventually
found her niche in the herbarium: “As a member of the California Academy of Sciences in San
Francisco, with considerable spare time on my hands, I began to make myself useful especially about
the herbarium, which was in a shocking condition” (quoted in Setchell, 1926:167).

As a result, in 1883 Curran was appointed joint curator of botany with mycologist Justin P.
Moore, who was also serving as first vice-president (Hittell, p. 252).4 The following four years the
curatorship was held jointly with Edward Lee Greene (Greene listed first in 1884 and 1886 [Hittell,
pp. 266, 278], Curran first in 1887 [Hittell, p. 283]), after which she was sole curator until 1892. As
an exception rather than the rule for curators at that time, Curran was awarded a salary of $40 per
month (Hittell, p. 260), and in 1885, was furthermore elected an honorary life member (Hittell, p.
272). In choosing to provide her with a salary, it was noted that Curran had “for many months given
her whole time to the proper arrangement and classification of the botanical collections of [the]
Academy, and travels at her own expense to different parts of the country to fill wants in the collection,
etc. From knowledge of her successful labors on this special unit, the Council unanimously recom-
mends this action” (Hittell, pp. 260-261). As examples of her contributions to Academy curation,
Curran standardized herbarium sheet size, instituted a new method of gluing specimens, provided
packets “containing fragments for lending,” and advocated the mounting of multiple collections on
a single sheet? (Brandegee, 1901b). She also donated three volumes of Bentham and Hooker’s Genera
Plantarum to the Academy (Hittell, p. 264).

In addition, Curran revived an outlet for Academy publications, which had languished for some

* The election of women as members finally implemented a policy adopted by the Academy the year of its founding: “on
motion by Dr. A. Kellogg, Resolved, as the sense of this society that we highly approve of the aid of females in every department
of natural science, and that we earnestly invite their cooperation” (Hittell, p. 21).

+ Justin P. Moore was sole curator of botany in 1882. Previous curators had been Albert Kellogg, Dr. T. L. Andrews (1855),
Hiram G. Bloomer, and Henry N. Bolander.

° This last policy has been the bane of subsequent curators, who are routinely faced with the need to divide sheets on which
more than one species (as currently circumscribed) were mounted.

io)
tN
bo

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

years (as discussed later). In 1884, she instituted the Bulletin of the California Academy of Sciences,
serving as “acting editor” (Hittell, p. 267; Crosswhite & Crosswhite, 1985). The first volume of the
Bulletin contains one of her most significant scientific contributions (Curran, 1885), a careful and
critical evaluation of all the plant species described over the preceding three decades by Kellogg,
Behr, and Bolander, taking advantage of the newly available Botany of California (Brewer et al.,
1876: Watson, 1880). As noted in her introduction:

When the arrangement of the Herbarium of the Academy was undertaken two years ago, the
necessity of bringing these scattered descriptions of species together in some form, soon became
apparent . . . The preparation of this list has been a matter of more difficulty than would be
supposed, on account of the scattered and fragmentary condition of the material. The types of
many of the species have disappeared from the herbarium, and many have been identified from
drawings by Dr. Kellogg, which have only recently become accessible to us. In the labor of
identification, the writer has received the constant advice and assistance of the Rev. E. L. Greene.
(Curran, 1885:128)

A Gentleman, Well and Carefully Dressed

Curran’s generous words refer to Edward Lee Greene
(Fig. 12), who had informally received his botanical training
from the expatriate Swedish naturalist, Thure Kumlein
(Greene, 1888), and had been ordained an Episcopal priest in
1873. Greene was subsequently assigned to a series of par-
ishes in Colorado, New Mexico, and California (McIntosh,
1983). When assigned to Vallejo in 1874, he became a mem-
ber of the Academy (Hittell, p. 170), but then was relocated
out of the state after one year. He returned to the Bay Area
seven years later, to become rector of St. Mark’s in Berkeley
in 1881. Greene quickly resumed his association with the
Academy, was elected a resident member in April 1883
(Hittell, p. 260), and, as previously noted, served as joint
curator of botany with Curran in 1884-1887.

Although Jones (1932, 1933) credits Greene with giving
Curran her botanical training, it is evident that she was already
active in the Academy before Greene’s arrival, under the
tutelage of Behr. It is nevertheless quite possible that Greene’s
long-standing passion for botany encouraged her own new- __ Ficure 12. Edward Lee Greene. Courtesy
found interest in the subject, as suggested by Ewan (1942). In _Setchell Collection, University Herbarium

es : hee Archives, University of California, Berkeley.
any event, at the beginning of their association there are only : .
indications of mutual support and respect, including joint field work (e.g., to Donner Lake [Greene,
1885:78]). Greene named a Mimulus, Astragalus, and Senecio after Curran, using her maiden name
of “layneae,” and referred to her as “my zealous, clear-seeing and most efficient co-laborer in the
field of California botany” (Greene, 1885:84).

Alas, the relationship soon deteriorated, eventually leading to full-fledged warfare. By the 1890s,
the following kinds of comments characterized Curran’s [by then Brandegee] increasingly sharp
criticisms in her published reviews of Greene’s work: “The specific descriptions of Mr. Greene are
a disgrace to botany” (Brandegee, 1893b:65), and: “A year or two before his death Dr. Gray dubbed

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 223

[Greene] ‘The New Rafinesque.’ In this he was unjust
to Rafinesque who was at once a great egotist, a little
mad, and somewhat of a genius. Prof. Greene lacks the
genius” (Brandegee, 1894:420). Greene in his turn re-
ferred to Curran/Brandegee as a “she devil” (Jones,
1932, 1933), an opinion shared by at least some other
male contemporaries (e.g., Britton, 1891).

Greene’s animosity was passed on to his protege,
Willis Linn Jepson (Fig. 13), as discussed in greater
detail later in this paper. The passage presented as evi-
dence here, recalling Jepson’s romanticized first meet-
ing with Greene, serves also to provide a rich description
of Academy facilities at the time. Jepson casts Curran
as an “unkempt woman” with “an unpleasant voice,”
only grudgingly helpful and clearly (and properly) sub-
ordinate to the eulogized Greene:

In a June of the early eighties of the last century a
lad came out of the edge of the bordering foothills of
the Sacramento Valley and set his face towards San
Francisco on a great quest. Beneath the facetiousness FicuRE 13. Willis Linn Jepson (1899).
ofa Smaart EepOleE> HeWwspapel article he had derived Courtesy Setchell Collection, University Herbarium
the existence of the California Academy of Sciences Archives, University of California, Berkeley.
which harbored a staff of ‘worthy fossils’ laboring in
behalf of the advancement of science and which contained, above all things else, to the boy’s
mind, an herbarium — an ordered collection of plants. The lad climbed the broad stone steps
rising to Dr. Stone’s old church on the corner of California and Dupont streets and knocked on
the great door, timidly at first and, growing bolder, yet again and again and again.

After a while there came down the narrow choir stairs one who inquired in an unpleasant voice
what he was doing there. And without waiting for a reply the woman — for it was a woman —
demanded to know why he should be knocking and calling all away from their work. The lad
looked at the unkempt woman, found tongue and in a few words told his story. The woman
regarded him for a space as if in astonishment, and then said shortly, ‘Come up.” The lad followed
her up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs the gallery of the old brick church opened out before his shining eyes,
filled with rows and rows of the most wonderful herbarium cases, such an array, the boy was
sure, as the world had never seen before. The woman showed him the plants he wished to see,
explained the herbarium, and answered his questions. Meantime he noticed a gentleman, well
and carefully dressed, sitting at a table, intently studying the plants before him and occasionally
writing. His face was youngish and clean-shaven, his skin clear and slightly ruddy, his features
regular and full, but most remarkable was his thick head of hair which was not gray, but white
as cotton. ‘That,’ said the woman, ‘is Mr. Greene. He is studying in the Herbarium and is now
engaged on a revision of Mimulus. Very able revisions of Eschscholtzia, Brodiaea, and other
California genera, he has already completed. He is a very wonderful man.’ Upon that she took
the boy along the gallery to the table where the botanist sat, who then looked up from his work,
greeted the lad and laid down his pen. The lad saw that his eye was bright and kindly, and his
voice carried a certain richness akin to mellowness. (Jepson, 1918:24)

Anentry in one of Jepson’s voluminous notebooks is also revealing, not only of Jepson’s opinion
of Curran/Brandegee but perhaps of his own vulnerabilities:

224 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

[Mrs. Brandegee’s] life has been a peppery one. Undoubtedly with a genuine interest in botany
and with real ability, she has yet used her botany to gratify personal hatreds. It has been used as
a means of attacking someone whom she chose to dislike. And it was necessary for her to have
some one to attack. It was her life to ‘follow up’ the work some one was publishing and find in
it as many mistakes as possible. It is needless to say that any one can find plenty of occupation
at such a task. (Jepson fieldbook 25:23, 31 May 1912, Jepson Herbarium archives)

In contrast, Setchell claimed that “her outbreaks of sarcasm were professional rather than
personal and she was amazed at those who could not distinguish between the two, to her, very different
attitudes” (Setchell, 1926:168). Support for this statement is provided by Curran/Brandegee’s
comment on Per Axel Rydberg, a splitter on par with Greene: “We disagree constantly but get along
very well, and | tell him I like him much better than his botany” (Letter from K. Brandegee to T.S.
Brandegee, from New York, 28 September 1913, in UC Herbarium archives). She was furthermore
capable of poking fun at herself in this regard, e.g.: “Fernald just read me a criticism of the new edition
of Britton & Brown, that is nearly as sarcastic as some of mine” (letter from K. Brandegee to T.S.
Brandegee, from Harvard, | 1 October 1913, in UC Herbarium archives). This latter quote also makes
the point that Curran/Brandegee’s acid pen, rather than setting her apart from her male colleagues,
was instead a common characteristic of the era.

This point was among those noted by Albert W.C.T. Herre (ca. 1960) in his diatribe in defense
of Curran/Brandegee, which was more personal than factual in nature (e.g., taking aim at Greene’s
alleged homosexuality). She had other defenders as well, most notably Marcus E. Jones (1932, 1933),
who, like Herre, knew her only during the later periods of her life. Jones’ highly opinionated
biographies are riddled with factual flaws; e.g., stating Carson City, Nevada, as Curran/Brandegee’s
birthplace (Jones, 1933), rather than Tennessee, as she herself reports (Setchell, 1926). Nevertheless,
in addition to being exceptionally entertaining, Jones’s biographies are a rich source of character
sketches such as the following:

It is said of [Katharine Brandegee] that she was a very beautiful young woman. As I knew her
she was a person rather angular and unconventional, with a very strong face, compelling
consideration and respect without an effort on her part... Her mind was masculine in its grasp,
philosophical, discriminative to the last degree, and her keenness of observation and memory of
things, and capacity to correlate was marvelous. | was always impressed by the mental grasp she
had on any subject she tackled. (Jones, 1932, p. 267 of reprint)

Jones’ comments on Greene, on the other hand, were significantly less complimentary: e.g.,““Greene’s
hatred of people was limited only by his capacity to define them” (Jones, 1932, p. 267 of reprint).

There are nevertheless hints of an eventual reconciliation with Greene, in which a homesick
Katharine socialized with an increasingly isolated Greene (who was by this time residing in
Washington, D.C.) during her 1913 tour of eastern herbaria:

Mr. Greene is full of gossip and is rather frank in his opinion of the pinhead selfishness of most
of the botanists about the department [= the U.S. National Herbarium]. . .. He took me out to
lunch and we luxuriated riotously at ten cents per. He is as scary of the street cars and autos as
a country girl and grabbed me hysterically at every crossing. If it had not rained I would have
gone out botanizing with him yesterday — violets. (Letter from K. Brandegee to T.S. Brandegee,
from Washington, D.C., 17 November 1913, in UC Herbarium archives)

NR
No
nN

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906

To Sneer at Misguided Mortals Who Differ

Given the prominent roles that Curran/Brandegee and Greene subsequently played in California
botany, the question of what triggered their mutual animosity has relevance beyond the purely
biographical. Several possibilities can be inferred, all of which might have been involved to a greater
or lesser extent. For example, Ewan’s suggestion that “her particular vitriolic criticisms of Greene
were surely in part the aftermath of unrequited love” (Ewan, 1942:773), although vociferously
challenged by Herre (ca. 1960) and dismissed by Crosswhite and Crosswhite (1985), cannot be
completely ruled out. After all, Curran was a recent widow, Greene was described as markedly
handsome, and the fact that the falling-out coincided with her marriage to Townshend Brandegee
certainly indicates that at least an element of spurned interest could have been involved.

Even if true, however, the emotional undercurrent probably only added intensity to a diversity
of equally compelling reasons for mutual animosity. High on the list is the dramatic divergence
between their taxonomic philosophies, which recapitulated as personal drama the battles that
permeated the biological community following the publication of Charles Darwin’s theories of natural
selection and the origin of species. Following her mentor Behr (e.g., Behr, 1884), Curran became an
early convert of the Darwinian interpretation of natural history. In contrast, as befit his religious
orientation, Greene remained steadfast to creationist doctrine, to the disdain of Curran/Brandegee:

He openly contemns [s/c], as inconsistent with the Mosaic record, the theory of evolution held
in greater or lesser degree by almost all biologists, and proclaims his belief in the special creation
and the fixity of species, taking occasional opportunity to sneer at the misguided mortals who
differ from him. (Brandegee, 1893b, p. 64)

Greene’s philosophy predisposed him to treat all recognizable variants as distinct species, even
at the expense of consigning inconvenient intermediates to the waste bin as “the works of the devil”
(fide Herre, ca. 1960:3). In Curran/Brandegee’s disparaging view:

Mr. Greene . . . makes it perfectly evident that a species is not with him as with most of us a
form of life with characters sufficiently and constantly different from others to admit of a clear
description and with a name conveniently expressing relationship, but a distinct entity not
necessarily in any close relation to other forms now or previously on the earth and to be hunted
to its remotest lair properly labeled and put away on shelf for all time. This kind of botany was
taught, probably, in the middle ages to which Mr. Greene properly belongs. (Brandegee, 1893b,
p. 65)

Putting her disdain for Greene’s approach into action, with perhaps a personal vendetta adding
incentive, Curran/Brandegee dedicated much of her subsequent career to critically evaluating
Greene’s species, even to the extent of revisiting type localities to study what variation existed in the
living population (Ewan, 1942). Many of her herbarium specimens clearly demonstrate this focus,
such that the entire sheet is filled with a stunning diversity of flowers representing infraspecific
variation within a population (e.g., Calochortus luteus, Clarkia biloba). In addition, she was an early
proponent of experimental systematics:

The life history of a single species, its limit of variation, and its hybrids, if any, would be far
more useful than a dozen ‘decades’ of new violets or Senecios. A few years ago I happened upon
a very instructive object lesson of this kind. . . . [Luther] Burbank informed me that he had
transferred a single plant [of Zauschneria] from a locality not far away, and saving all the seeds
produced by this self-fertilized individual, had planted them to see what variations he could get.
In this row were all the forms, both of flower and foliage, which have been observed in the genus,

226 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

except the extreme narrow or revolute leaf which is climatal variation of drier regions. A few
experiments of this kind would rid us of a host of species. (Brandegee, 1901a:96)

In this also she was following Behr, who in the preface to his flora of San Francisco noted that:

Many of our Californian species split into numerous variations, which mingle frequently with
variations of related, equally variable species. Some of these variations owe their existence to
hybridization; and this circumstance is probably the reason why several species described and
characterized by different authors have not been found again. In annuals such spurious species
will only reappear occasionally. Questionable types can be investigated only by cultivation. Up
to this time California does not possess a botanical garden or experimental grounds where such
questions could be definitely settled. (Behr, 1888:3-4)

Ironically, while Behr and Curran/Brandegee shared philosophies that represented the cutting
edge of botanical inquiry at that time, and which draw our sense of kinship in the current day, it was
Greene who had the better appreciation of how much undescribed diversity still existed in California,
even by late 20th century standards (Ertter, 2000). Contrary to Curran/Brandegee’s assessment that
“It is safe to say that not more than one in ten of [Greene’s] species is tenable, and probably one in
fifteen or twenty would be nearer the mark” (Brandegee, 1893b:64), a respectable 70% of those
species described by Greene while he was residing in California have stood the test of time (Mc Vaugh,
1983). On the other hand, Curran/Brandegee’s propensity towards explaining variation as repre-
senting intraspecific diversity or resulting from hybridization meant that, in spite of a career spent in
the midst of unrecognized novelties, she described only a handful of California’s wealth of species
(tellingly, mostly before her rift with Greene; e.g., Curran, 1884). So extreme was this propensity that
her husband in later years “sometimes humorously remarked that he thought her flora [of California,
never completed] would finally contain only a single species” (Setchell, 1926:166).

For the Want of Confidence in Its Management

Another prominent explanation for the ft between Curran and Greene, which is most relevant
to the institutional focus of the current narrative, is their respective alignment in opposing camps in
the Academy politics that peaked in the late 1880s. Although the acrimonious elections of 1887,
which resulted in the election of an opposition slate of officers, are clearly recorded, the issues at
stake are to some extent a matter of conjecture. The most illuminating document in this regard is the
1887 Reform Ticket (copy in UC Herbarium archives), which presents as stated goals:

To reform the Administration of the affairs of this Society.

To save and protect its property from rot and waste.

To advance the cause of Science instead of the aggrandizement or profit of individuals.

To furnish suitable buildings or rooms, indispensable for its Museum, Laboratory, and

Officers.

e To provide for the publication of the Proceedings — neglected for years.

e To put the Society in a position of respectability before the world, such as to deserve the large
Bequests and Donations which are being withheld for the want of confidence in its
management.

e And generally; to make the California Academy of Sciences a success in furtherance of the

hopes and desires of its friends.

These are serious charges, ranging from inadequately housed collections to alienated donors, and
are presumably aimed at George Davidson (Fig. 14), a well-respected member of the United States

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 227

Coast Survey who
had been president
of the Academy for
the previous 16
years. According
to Ewan (1987:6),
“For sixty years he
was the best known
scientist on the Pa-
cific Coast.” In the
bitterly contested
election of 1887,
which resulted in a
complete turnover
of the slate of offi-
cers, Davidson was

ousted by Harvey Ficure 14. George Davidson. FiGURE 15. Harvey Willson Harkness

Tsile r C Mee : aie 5
Willson Harkness Courtesy California Academy of Courtesy California Academy of
(Fig. 15). Hark- Sciences Archives Sciences Archives.

ness, a retired phy-
sician with a strong mycological interest, had significant political connections; for example, at the
ceremony of completing the Transcontinental Railway in 1869, he was “chosen to present, on behalf
of the State of California, the golden spike used upon that occasion” (Hittell, p. 441). According to
Hittell, “an antagonism had been growing between Professor Davidson and Dr. Harkness, which to
a considerable extent involved their friends” (Hittell, p. 277), with Greene apparently in the Davidson
camp and Curran in Harkness’s.

Tantalizing evidence of how visible this episode in Academy politics was beyond the walls of
the institution can be seen in a subsequent address by David Starr Jordan, who replaced Harkness as
President of the Academy in 1896:

For some time previous to my election the Academy membership had been divided into two
warring factions — one led by Dr. Davidson, the other by Dr. Harkness . . . Both men were
vigorous and rather intolerant, a combination of qualities which was not rare in pioneer days,
and disrupted more than one California organization even as it affected the famous ‘society on
the Stanislow.’ Indeed, it is reputed that the discords in the institution furnished the motive for
Bret Harte’s satirical verse. (quoted in Ewan, 1955:37)

Before the reasons for Greene’s and Curran’s alignments in the opposing camps can be
understood, the issues underlying the antagonism against Davidson must first be discerned. The most
obvious explanation, ironically enough, involves the bequest that singlehandedly changed the
Academy froma scholarly club into a full-fledged scientific institution: that of prominent philanthro-
pist James Lick, “the eccentric cabinetmaker whose investments had made him a millionaire”
(Stadtman, 1970:108). Lick’s attentions had been turned to the Academy by Hiram G. Bloomer, one
of the early members with an interest in botany, best known for his membership in San Francisco’s
notorious Vigilance Committee. According to Jepson (1899:165—166), “Bloomer was the first to
interest Mr. Lick in the nature and extent of scientific work, to explain the needs of its devotees, and
to introduce him to the Academy.”

228 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

This Fine Building, in Which We Meet

High on the list of Academy’s needs was a suitable permanent home for the increasingly valuable
library and natural history collections, which had long outgrown the solitary shared cabinet of the
1850s. For the first two decades of its existence, the Academy occupied quarters at 622 Clay Street,
“at the generous sufferance of Pioche, Bayerque & Co.” However, the building was damaged in an
1865 earthquake, “to such an extent as to induce those in charge of the library and collections to pack
them up and store them where they would not be exposed to the weather” (Hittell, p. 79). Rooms were
subsequently rented at the corner of Montgomery and Sacramento streets, but these also proved
inadequate, so two years later the Academy returned to its previous site once repairs had been effected
(Hittell, p. 84).

In 1869, the San Francisco authorities reserved an “Outside-Land lot,” near the corner of Point
Lobos and First Avenues, “for the purposes of an ‘Academy of Sciences’” (Hittell, pp. 108-109). No
building funds were allocated, however, and Academy income ($1,760 in 1868) was woefully
inadequate for undertaking a construction project. Instead, in 1874 the Academy relocated to the
former First Congregational Church on California and Dupont (now Grant) streets (Hittell, p. 164).
The short-comings of this facility for natural history collections quickly became evident:

[T]he old First Congregational Church . . . had been built in 1853 of brick made with salt water,
which had been so poorly burned and were so soft that they absorbed moisture like a sponge and
did not dry out from one rainy season to another. ... A deep foundation had been necessary for
the foundation of this structure, and into this excavation the water from the hill continually
seeped, keeping the foundation walls constantly soaked. (Hittell, p. 280)

Lick’s initial gift therefore appeared as a godsend: the deed to a piece of land on Market Street,
near the southwestern corner with Fourth Street, worth $150,000 (Hittell, pp. 151-152). When first
offered in 1873 (the same year that Lick was elected a life member of the Academy), the deed carried
several stipulations: “that the premises should be used and devoted solely and exclusively for
scientific purposes, and none other,” and that:

The Academy was required to erect and maintain on the premises, and covering the whole lot
except a small space in the rear for light and ventilation, a substantial and elegant brick edifice,
three stories in height, with a substantial granite front faced with appropriate scientific emblems;
and its structure and design should be classic and such as would readily distinguish it from
buildings used for business or commercial purposes. (Hittell, p. 151)

Two years were designated in which the Academy was supposed to come up with the funds
necessary to build such a magnificent structure, with $200,000 estimated to be the amount necessary
for construction and maintenance (Hittell, p. 153), or else the deed would be forfeit. Although the
Academy had previously been the recipient of other relatively large bequests,” this was a seriously
daunting prospect. Over the next several years the deed was accordingly modified, and in 1875 (the
same year Curran entered medical school) the property was donated to the Academy outright, with
no stipulations attached (Hittell, p. 186).

This still left the Academy unsure what to do with the prime downtown real estate, since even a
more modest facility was well beyond the members’ means. Lick’s death in 1876, while suitably
mourned, looked to provide an answer, in that his Trust Deed specified that, after certain bequests
® Foremost among these was $20,000 from Charles Crocker in 1881, “in aid of scientific research under the auspices of the
Academy” (Hittell, p. 237). This established the Crocker Scientific Investigation Fund, which played a significant role in

subsequent years, including as the source of curatorial salaries. Crocker himself was elected an honorary life member in 1882
(Hittell, p. 241).

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 229

were filled (including $700,000 to establish the Lick Observatory [Hittell, p. 186]), the remainder of
his estate was to be divided between the Academy and the Society of California Pioneers (Hittell, p.
187). The will, however, was contested by a son who had been left out of the inheritance (Hittell, p.
199), and the Academy was accordingly unable to draw from the Trust Deed until 1879. Funds were
then available as a mortgage with the Lick Trustees, but exactly how much the Academy’s share of
the estate would turn out to be was not immediately apparent. In fact, it was not until 1895 that it
could be determined that the Academy’s portion of the Trust Deed was the princely sum of
$604,654.08 (Hittell, p. 357), more than the most optimistic expectations.

The ironic result was that, rather than catapulting the Academy into more wealth than it had ever
dreamed of, the immediate impact of Lick’s munificence was a period of extreme indebtedness, due
to the need to pay property taxes on the Market Street property (e.g., $1,444.50 in 1876 [Hittell, p.
192]). The Board of Supervisors of the City and County of San Francisco even attempted a suit against
the Academy for taxes on the “Outside-Land lot” in 1885 (Hittell, p. 183), and then proceeded to
“confiscate” the land for “school purposes” in 1887 (Hittell, p. 289).’ The financial situation was so
dire that in 1879 there was concern that there would be “no other course open to them except that of
closing the Academy” (Hittell, p. 221).

Even after mortgages could be obtained against the Lick Trust, there was evidently disagreement
within the Academy as to when and how the new wealth was best allocated, especially given that its
exact magnitude was not yet known. This dissension is accordingly what lies behind the 1887 Reform
Ticket. For example, as one controversial belt-tightening move, publication of the Proceedings had
been suspended in 1877 (Hittell, p. 205), depriving the members both of an outlet for publication and
of their main exchange item for library materials from other institutions. The Proceedings did not
reappear until 1889 (Hittell, p. 302), several years after Curran had instituted the Bu//etin as an interim
publication outlet.

Even more pressing, however, was the continued deterioration of the First Congregational
Church as suitable facilities for housing the collections. By 1886, “the metal roof had rusted and rotted
away; and a new roof was necessary, or other quarters, before it rained again” (Hittell, p 280).
Although some repairs were subsequently effected, Behr chose to remove his personal collection to
preserve it from damage, and even “asked to be excused from serving as curator of entomology as
long as the Academy occupied the building it was then in” (Hittell, p. 278).

Although new quarters were obviously a high priority, and the Academy had now both the land
and means to construct its long-desired permanent home, the decision to proceed was delayed by
critical disagreement on the best use of the Market Street property. When Lick’s original stipulations
were withdrawn in 1875, as previously discussed, the prospect of using such a prime piece of
downtown real estate as income-generating property became an attractive option (e.g., Hittell, p. 263).
Such a use would not only provide a permanent source of funds for Academy activities, but would
also support the maintenance of a facility that could either be purchased or constructed at a less
expensive site.

Although Harkness is recorded as being “favorable to selling the Market Street lot” (Hittell, p.
263), planning and construction on the property began almost immediately following the election of
the Harkness slate, implying that some crucial deadlock had been broken. The solution to the income
vs. museum question was elegant: a commercial building was built facing Market Street (Fig. 16),
with a central portal leading to a back building, which housed the Academy’s offices, collections,
and display areas (Hittell, pp. 319-324). The new building was completed in time for the 5 January

’ This move was challenged by the Academy, eventually resulting in a suit brought against the City and County of San
Francisco, and the Board of Education (which had begun building on the lot), in 1890 (Hittell, pp. 290, 299, 307).

230 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

1891 annual meeting of the Academy.
Confirmation of Harkness’s hand in its
construction is provided by the following
tribute, given at a 1905 meeting:

It was during [Harkness’s] incumbency
as president that this fine building, in
which we meet, was designed, erected
and dedicated as the home of science in
this great metropolis of the Pacific
Coast. He placed its corner-stone, and
gratuitously labored with a sort of fa-
therly superintendent interest over
every part of its construction, watching
with jealous inspection every brick that
was laid and every trowel that was han-
dled in its building. And when it was
completed, it was he, more perhaps that
any other, that directed and guarded the
careful removal and transportation of
its treasures from the dark, dingy, dusty
and dilapidated old quarters on Dupont
Street to the bright, airy and well-kept
galleries above us. (Hittell, 1905:6)

As counterpoint views, David Starr
Jordan, in the 1896 presidential address
quoted previously, described the result as FiGure 16. California Academy of Sciences, Market Street Building.
“a large office building . . . [with] the Courtesy California Academy of Sciences Archives.
museum occupying cramped quarters at
the rear” (quoted in Ewan, 1955, p. 37). In later years Curran’s successor, Alice Eastwood, likewise
expressed her dissatisfaction with the Market Street facility, accusing Harkness of a lack of concern
for the well-being of the collections after shading caused by a newly built adjacent structure created
a humidity problem in the herbarium (Wilson, 1955).

Friend and Protector of the Gentle Kellogg

This account does not yet answer the question of why the 1887 election would have contributed
to the rift between Curran and Greene, given that they both presumably appreciated the pressing need
for suitable collections space and a publication outlet. Curran is well-established as a backer of the
opposition slate; given that she was editing the Bulletin, it is reasonable to speculate that she may
have even printed the Reform Ticket. Behr was her mentor, and Harkness had also given her early
encouragement and support.* A contemporary newspaper account implies that the female voting bloc
determined the election (Leviton & Aldrich, 1997:288), and Jepson (1933:84) outright states that “the
first political upheaval of the Academy [was] largely engineered by Mrs. Mary K. Curran.” At least
one other contemporary shared a similar view, as shown in a letter from Charles Christopher Parry,
a venerable western botanist, to S. B. Parish:

8 7 = . :
However, a mushroom that Harkness initially indicated would be named after Curran (Hittell, p. 243) was instead described
as Polyplocium californicum Harkness, now treated as Gyrophragmium californicum (Harkness) Morse (Zeller, 1943).

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 231

Acad[emly affairs as you will infer are run a /a Curran and nobody else has anything to say in
the matter — Greene draws off to Berkeley — how long this state of things may last quien sabe.
I enclose Harkness’s inaugural written as I understand by Curran. (quoted in Ewan, 1955:32)

Parry’s comments refer to the termination of joint curatorship by Greene and Curran, with
indications of implications beyond botany. The reasons for Greene’s opposition to the new admini-
stration are not clearly stated, but are probably based at least in part on loyalty to Kellogg. Kellogg’s
antipathy to the new regime was so severe that, upon his death several months after the elections, he
chose not to leave his botanical drawings to the Academy. So acrimonious was this issue that when
Gibbons read a paper “regarding the drawings of the late Dr. Albert Kellogg and his reasons for not
leaving them to the Academy while the present administration was in power,” it was resolved “After
a great many desultory remarks . . . that the paper was not in proper tone and should not be received
by the Academy” (Hittell, p. 299). Greene’s loyalties to Kellogg and defiance of the new administra-
tion can be inferred from Greene’s involvement in publishing Kellogg’s drawings, as noted in an
1889 meeting:

There was some discussion as to the publication of a new volume, entitled ‘West American Oaks’
by Dr. Albert Kellogg. It was edited by Edward L. Greene and contained matter and particularly
drawings, which seemed to have been prepared by Dr. Kellogg while in the employ of the
Academy and was claimed to belong to the Academy. After Dr. Kellogg’s death, Dr. William
P. Gibbons, E. L. Greene and a few others seem to have published the book as a work independent
of the Academy. (Hittell, p. 303)

The reasons for Kellogg’s antagonism to the Harkness administration are not explicitly stated,
and would seem to be at odds with his best interests. Not only were his precious specimens, like
Behr’s, threatened by deteriorating facilities, but the cessation of the Proceedings undermined his
hard-won battle for autonomous publication. This is clearly noted in his biographical sketch attributed
to Curran/Brandegee:

During the years 1877-1883 publication by the California Academy of Sciences ceased, and
with the exception of a few which appeared in a San Francisco bles ae ai the Rural Press, the
species described by [Kellogg] thereafter remained in the herbarium
of the California Academy of Sciences with the MS. diagnoses.
Several of these, as Eunanus angustus [Gray], Sphaeralcea fulva
(Greene], Calyptridium nudum [Greene], etc., have been described,
either wholly or in part, from the types of Dr. Kellogg’s unpublished
species, and no mention made of his work. (Brandegee, 1893a:1)

What apparently mattered most to Kellogg was his personal ties
to Davidson, perhaps developed when Kellogg and Davidson par-
ticipated in an 1867 expedition to the newly acquired territory of
Alaska. The strength of this friendship is seen in Davidson’s remi-
niscence: “We lived in the same contracted temporary deck cabin
for four or five months under many trials and inconveniences, and
the sweetness of [Kellogg’s] character was as pervading and refresh-
ing as the beauty and fragrance of the flowers he gathered” (quoted
in Ewan, 1955:11). Kellogg would have also felt personally affected
by the ouster of William G. W. Harford (Fig. 17), who was also on
the Alaska expedition and who, as Director of Museum, was among

FiGurE 17. William Harford.
r Rare 2 f : 3 Courtesy California Academy of
those who lost his position in the insurrection. Primarily a concholo- Sciences Archives.

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

bho
Le
to

gist, Harford had particular significance to the botanical community as “the friend and protector of
the gentle Kellogg, especially in Kellogg’s later years” (Jepson, 1933:84). The two men made
extensive plant collections together in California and Oregon in 1868 and 1869, and at least during
Kellogg’s last years shared a house in Alameda (Jepson, 1933).

With the loss of his paid position at the Academy in 1887, Harford spent the next four years at
the University, as an assistant to James John Rivers, “Curator of the Museum at the University of
California” (Jepson, 1933:84).? The University may have acted as a stronghold for resistance to the
new Academy administration in general, as evidenced by the appearance of Joseph LeConte as
candidate for Academy president on an unsuccessful opposition ticket in the 1890 election (Hittell,
p. 306). LeConte’s disdain for Academy politics is clearly stated: “Under the presidency of J. D.
Whitney the Academy was prosperous and held a high position among the scientific institutions of
our country; but from that time, because of internal dissensions, it dropped lower and lower” (quoted
in Ewan, 1955:32).

The Faithful of His Flock Behind Him

As mentioned by Parry in his letter to Parish (previously quoted), Greene had also taken refuge
at Berkeley, in a successful bid for the first strictly botanical appointment at the University of
California, in 1885. Eugene Hilgard had vigorously lobbied for such a position, which was included
in the President’s report for 1884-86:

It is important that a separate department of general and economic Botany should be formed,
and that a Professor of Botany should be appointed at a salary of $3,000 a year. He will require
an assistant for the purpose of taking charge of the herbarium and aiding in instruction of the
classes at $600 a year. The formation of a large herbarium should be seriously begun. (quoted
in Constance, 1978:4)

Greene’s career move was dictated not only by Academy affairs, but also by the fact that Greene
had converted to Catholicism in 1884 and accordingly lost his post as rector of St. Mark’s Episcopal
Church in Berkeley. He did not go quietly, however, and his subsequent attempts to teach Catholic
doctrine to a congregation that was ultra-Protestant aroused strenuous objections (McIntosh, 1983).
As a result:

It was a case, not without precedent, in which the vestry locked the doors of the church against
the priest; and we have preserved for us the picture of the Reverend Mr. Greene, in surplice,
passing down Bancroft Way, an axe over his shoulder and the faithful of his flock behind him,
beating down the doors of St. Mark’s and leading his people in to service, sermon and
benediction. That service, the legend runs, was his last office in the Episcopal Church. (Jepson,
1918:26-27)

Although Greene had previously taught an occasional course for the University, for a stipend of
$900 per year (Constance, 1978), he was now a full-time professional botanist for the first time in his
career. In 1890 he became chair of the new Department of Botany (Fig. 18), established within the
College of Natural Sciences “to meet the wants of students not caring for the courses in the colleges
of applied science” (quoted in Constance, 1978:4). Greene was assisted by Marshall Avery Howe,

” The only reference to James J. Rivers in the Centennial Record of the University of California (Stadtman et al., 1967) is the
enigmatic note by Smith (1967:85) that Rivers was “curator of the University Museum from 1881 to 1895, [and] was also active
in entomology,” along with Hilgard. This appears to be the only mention of a “University Museum” in the Centennial Record.
Ewan (1995:30), who provides slightly more information, refers to Rivers as Curator of Organic Natural History. The fate of
either the “University Museum” or “Organic Natural History” has not been determined.

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 233

i

RAMAN WH

kieebh bi

a

FiGuRE 18. UC botany lab and herbarium in South Hall, 1893 (with Willis Linn Jepson, Marshall Howe, Ivar Tidestrom,
and Joseph Burtt-Davy). Courtesy University Herbarium Archives, University of California, Berkeley.

as instructor of vegetal structure, morphology, and cryptogamic
botany. Joseph Burtt-Davy (Fig. 19) joined the faculty in 1892,
teaching economic and commercial botany, with special atten-
tion paid to grasses and early range studies. Willis Linn Jepson
became Greene’s assistant even before receiving his Ph.D. in
botany in 1899 (the first at the University), after which he was
promoted to assistant professor. Another noteworthy student was
Ivar Tidestrom, who made an early start on establishing a botani-
cal garden.

With the burst of activity in Berkeley, the Academy was no
longer the only center for botanical activity in the San Francisco
Bay Area. Erythea, founded in 1893 and primarily edited by
Jepson, served as an alternate (and strictly botanical) profes-
sional outlet to Academy publications and Zoe (discussed
later).'° It became the outlet of choice for members of the
Chamisso Botanical Club, which was organized at the University
in 1891, “by officers and students interested in botanical work.
The promoters of the club had especially in view the collection _F!GuRE 19. Joseph Burtt-Davy (1899)
of material upon which to found local plant-lists” (Jepson, CU7¢sY University Herbarium Archives,

University of California, Berkeley

publication outlet, saving him from having to submit his work to be reviewed and approved by his critics

1894:171). Members staked out individual territories, in
which trespassing by rivals was discouraged, with one
exception: “Professor Greene as the Great Chief was of
course free from all restrictions. We had too much to gain
from his friendship to object to his hunting on our
grounds” (Frederick Theodore Bioletti, quoted in Ewan,
1955:35). One of Greene’s disciples, Elmer Reginald
Drew, went on to become a professor of physics at Stan-
ford, and most of the other Chamisso club members also
found prestigious posts (Ewan, 1955).

The hive of activity continued after Greene resigned
in 1895, to accept a post at Catholic University in Wash-
ington, D.C. He was accompanied by Tidestrom, and also
took his herbarium with him (which was eventually de-
posited at the University of Notre Dame). After some
concern that Hilgard would succeed in claiming botany
for the College of Agriculture, departmental autonomy in
the College of Natural Sciences was assured with the
recruitment of William Albert Setchell (Fig. 20) as pro-
fessor and chair (Constance, 1978). Setchell brought for-
mal training from Yale and Harvard, along with broad
interests in phycology, plant evolution, and phytogeogra-
phy. He was elected a member of the Academy in 1895

234 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Ficure 20. William Setchell (circa 1892-1894).
Courtesy Setchell Collection,
University Herbarium Archives,
University of Califorrnia, Berkeley.

(Hittell, p. 359), but does not appear to have been overly active beyond presenting a few papers and
serving on the publication committee (Hittell, p. 404). Howe also departed, to be replaced by W. J.

FiGure 21, Botany Building, University of California, Berkeley (circa 1898).
Courtesy University Herbarium Archives, University of California, Berkeley.

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 235

V. Osterhout as co-instructor with Jepson while both
worked to complete doctoral degrees (Constance, 1978). It
was during this period, in 1897, that the Department of
Botany and herbarium moved from their original quarters
in South Hall, which had been taken over by the College of
Agriculture (Stadtman, 1970:146), to a new two-story Bot-
any Building (Fig. 21) on the north bank of Strawberry
Creek (Constance, 1978).

It Surely Was a Droll Affair

Coinciding with Greene’s crisis of faith, Curran’s life
was also undergoing a major change, due to the arrival of
Townshend Stith Brandegee (Fig. 22) in San Francisco.
Brandegee, a graduate of the Sheffield Scientific School
and veteran of several territorial surveys (e.g., the Hayden
survey in 1875), arrived in California in 1885, to collect
trunk samples of various trees for the American Museum
of Natural History in New York (Setchell, 1926; Ewan,
1942). As recorded by Marcus E. Jones, one of Greene’s
most opinionated detractors, with a liberal amount of hy- FIGURE 22. Townshend Stith Brandegee.

perbole and post-facto speculation: Courtesy University Herbarium Archives,
University of California, Berkeley.

It was opportune that Brandegee came to California at this

time with a lot of Columbia Basin and north Pacific plants to name, for he was the oldest and
most accomplished botanist in the country, and his presence would command respect and dispel
the aura that Greene had cast about himself like a human god. Brandegee never squabbled. He
was a very insignificant looking and little man who did not have to blow about himself (like
Greene) to be heard. The atmosphere cleared at once, and everyone saw the beginning of a new
era. Mrs. Curran fell ‘insanely in love’ with Brandegee, as she put it in a letter to her sister. It
surely was a droll affair, a most intensely masculine woman desperately in love with the most
retiring and effeminate man, and both of them dead in earnest about it, the man too with other
women buzzing around like flies in fly-time. (Jones, 1933:15)

Curran and Brandegee married in 1889; their honeymoon was a collecting trip on foot from San
Diego to San Francisco. It was at this time that Mary K. Curran became Katharine (Kate) Brandegee:
“My first name being the same as my mother’s, I was never called by it, and on marriage to Mr.
Brandegee it was dropped as making an unwieldy combination” (quoted in Setchell, 1926:168).
Townshend had a sufficient inheritance ($49,000 in Jones, 1932; only $40,000 in Jones, 1933) for
financial independence, and to initiate a new journal, Zoe, in 1890, initially with assistance from
Harkness (later repaid). Overtly founded “as a medium for recording in accessible form the numerous,
often unconnected observations, pertaining more particularly to the western part of North America,
made by amateurs as well as working naturalists” (anonymous introduction to Vol. 1, 1890), Zoe also
specifically served to provide Katharine a freer rein for her published critiques of others’ works
(Setchell, 1926; Crosswhite & Crosswhite, 1985).

In 1891, Katharine started the California Botanical Club, a counterpart of the California
Zoological Club, to serve the growing community of regional botanists. At its inception, the club
encompassed professionals and amateurs alike, including among its early members such well-known

236 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

western botanists as W. C. Cusick, L. F. Henderson, Thomas Howell, M. E. Jones, S. B. Parish, and
W. N. Suksdorf (Brandegee, 1892). As perhaps the first botanical club on the West Coast, it was
highly popular for group excursions (Setchell, 1926), and resulted in the publication of initial floristic
surveys of Yosemite Park (Brandegee, 1891) and San Francisco (Brandegee, 1892). In spite of the
early professional involvement, however, the club’s focus apparently soon shifted to local enthusiasts,
especially women, with the club serving as both a social outlet and a source of volunteer assistance
and funding for the Academy’s herbarium.'!

The same year that the California Botanical Club was founded saw the first appearance at the
Academy of Alice Eastwood, a young schoolteacher and self-taught botanist from Colorado (Wilson,
1955: Moore, 1996). The Brandegees were impressed enough with Eastwood during her 1891 visit
that they encouraged her to move to San Francisco the following year, at which time Katharine gave
up her salary so that Eastwood could be hired as joint curator of botany, at $80 per month (Hittell, p.
337). Additional funding was approved for an assistant in the botany department at $40 per month,
a position filled in 1893 by Effie A. MclIllriach (Hittell, p. 339).'* Katharine herself received a formal
accolade from the Academy, in the form
of a resolution “that the zeal and effi-
ciency evinced by Mrs. Brandegee dur-
ing the years of her labors in the
herbarium had been such as to merit our
highest commendation” (Hittell, p.
338).

Shortly thereafter, in 1894, the
Brandegees left San Francisco and
moved to San Diego, leaving Eastwood
in charge of the herbarium and the Cali-
fornia Botanical Club. The announced
reasons for the Brandegees’ move were
“partly for the more agreeable climate
and partly to be nearer the chosen field
of Mr. Brandegee’s botanical labors
[Mexico]” (Zoe 4:421, 1894), but the
proximity to Katharine’s sister in Ra-
mona, as well as the distance from
Academy politics, might have likewise
factored in. The ample space for a year-
round botanical garden (Fig. 23), on the
mesa above San Diego, could have also
tempted Katharine with the opportunity
to begin putting into practice her incipi-

: ; FiGurE 23. The Brandegee garden and brick herbarium in San Diego.
ent leanings towards experimental sys- Courtesy University Herbarium Archives,

tematics. University of California, Berkeley.

The professional function was subsequently claimed by the California Botanical Society, founded by Jepson in 1913 (Ewan,
1987).

'2 Melllriach’s duties were later changed to assistant secretary and librarian for the Academy, a position she “was relieved of”
after becoming Mrs. Cloudsley Rutter in 1902. However, she continued to receive a monthly salary for supervising and

proof-reading Academy publications (Hittell, p. 406).

1

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906

Botany Taught According to Modern Methods

i)
ies)
—

The flowering of botanical activity at the University of California, and the beginning of what
would become the decades-long Eastwood era in botany at the Academy (Wilson, 1955; Moore, 1996;
Chickering, 1989), coincided with the inception of the third major institutional center for botany in

the San Francisco Bay Area, when Stanford University opened
its doors in 1892. Leland Stanford, founder of the university,
had been a staunch supporter of the California Geological
Survey and was one of the benefactors whose private funds
allowed the completion and publication of Botany of Califor-
nia (Brewer et al., 1876; Watson, 1880). In 1881, Stanford had
also been a nominee for the University of California Regency,
at which time there was the possibility of Stanford bestowing
his philanthropic intent to “do something for education” on the
existing University, but politics intervened, such that “Stan-
ford was lost to the University’s cause forever after” (Stadt-
man, 1970:95).

A published announcement of the opening of Stanford
University, technically anonymous, was undoubtedly written
by Curran/Brandegee, hurling as it does yet one more stone at
Greene (also technically anonymous), at the time when Greene
was on the faculty at Berkeley:

Prof. W[illiam] R[ussel] Dudley [Fig. 24], late of Cornell, has
taken the chair of systematic botany at Stanford University.
With such men as he and Prof. Douglas H. Campbell [Fig.
25] in charge of the botanical work at Stanford University,
where botany is taught according to modern methods, we may
expect to have in time, a body of resident botanists whose
entire stock of botanical knowledge is not confined to the
possession of a limited terminology and a large capacity for
discovering new species that do not exist. (Zoe 3:378, 1893)

Dudley’s focus was the systematics of vascular plants,
especially conifers, combining traditional with experimental
methodologies acquired during studies in Europe in 1887. The
other two faculty in the botany department, Douglas Houghton
Campbell and George James Pierce, were even more repre-
sentative of the increasingly laboratory-oriented ‘“‘new bot-
any,” with expertise in cryptogamic botany and plant
physiology respectively. The resultant emphasis on “modern
methods,” as lauded in the preceding quote, presages the
eventual decision by Stanford University to divest itself from
traditional systematics entirely in the 1970s, when the herbar-
ium and other natural history collections were transferred to
and merged with those of the California Academy of Sciences
(Timby, 1998; Chickering, 1989).

Traditional systematics nevertheless had a strong presence

FIGURE 24. William Russel Dudley.
Courtesy Department of Botany,
California Academy of Sciences

FIGURE 25. Douglas Houghton Campbell.
Courtesy Department of Botany,
California Academy of Sciences

238 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

at Stanford University during its early years, with perhaps the first significant gift to the University
consisting of the William H. Harvey collection of 70,000 herbarium specimens. This largesse, several
times larger than the contemporaneous herbarium at the University of California, was used by
Stanford University’s first president, David Starr Jordan, to recruit Dudley from Cornell University,
where Dudley had become Jordan’s successor as instructor of botany (Timby, 1998). Unfortunately,
conditions at the fledgling university were far from ideal following Dudley’s arrival in 1892, in that
Leland Stanford died the next year. As a result, “the university entered upon a period of anxiety and
privation, which was only tided over by the noble and self-sacrificing devotion of Mrs. Stanford”
(Campbell, 1913:12—13). Dudley’s office, laboratory, and herbarium during this period were accord-
ingly all housed in the attic of a shop building. In spite of these poor facilities and various health
problems, Dudley built up the herbarium (which was subsequently named in his honor) to some
120,000 specimens by the time of his retirement in 1910 (Timby, 1998).

Conservation provided a further arena where Dudley played a significant pioneering role in
California, especially concerning the preservation of coast redwoods and Sierran big trees. In this
capacity Dudley served as an early officer for another venerable institution established in California
during this period: the Sierra Club. Now ranked among the world’s foremost conservation organiza-
tions, the Sierra Club was founded in 1892 by John Muir and three professors from the University of
California (including Willis L. Jepson), with Jordan, Kellogg, and LeConte among its early officers
(Slack, 1993). Asa different expression of the same goal, Dudley also attempted to establish a forestry
program at Stanford University, but lost out to the University of California (Wieslander, 1965).

In the end, Dudley’s contributions to the botanical legacy consisted largely of his collections, his
conservation efforts, and his students (listed on pp. 29-32 of his memorial volume, and including his
eventual successor, LeRoy Abrams), rather than substantial publications or institutional involvement.
This is presumably due in large part to his sensitive personality, in kinship with Kellogg’s poetic soul
of a generation earlier, which left him ill-equipped to elbow his way onto the battleground that
characterized the field of his day. As summed up in his eulogy by the Vice President of Stanford,
John Branner, who had been a student, classmate, and fraternity brother of Dudley at Cornell
University, in words that are just as relevant today:

To be rather than to appear was the steadfast principle of [Dudley’s] life. Modesty, gentleness,
unobtrusiveness, decorum, and purity of life were his most prominent characteristics. He never
did anything for the sake of display; he never courted popularity. His whole life, within and
without, was one long, living protest against vulgarity in all its forms... . 1 am sure my friend
would not thank me to apologize for the modest part he played in this or any other community,
but in closing I am constrained to say a word on behalf of him and all such men: It behooves us
not to lose sight of this blessed truth, that there are fine men and women in this world of ours
— and plenty of them, too — who keep out of the limelights, whose names we never see in the
headlines of the newspapers, but who lead quiet, sane, and wholesome lives. Such people always
suggest to me the foundations of a great structure. These foundations lie deep within the surface
of the ground; we never see them; we seldom think of them; they are not decorated with flying
flags or written across with gaudy colors or blazing electric lights. But they stand fast and firm,
and the stability and the real worth of the entire superstructure depends upon them. (Branner,
1913:8, 10)

Both Dudley and Campbell (though not Pierce) quickly became active members of the Academy,
with Dudley serving with Setchell on the editorial committee for botany, but it was Jordan who played
the most prominent role in Academy affairs. In 1896, Jordan was elected president of the Academy

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 239

on the slate that finally ousted the Harkness administration, which had been in power for nearly a
decade, ushering in a new era of close ties between the Academy and the universities:

[I]t was deemed proper to give the presidency to Professor David Starr Jordan, president of
Leland Stanford, Jr. University; and apparently as a counterpoise, the first vice-presidency to
Professor William E. Ritter of the University of California. It was the start of what was commonly
known as the ‘University Regime of the Academy,’ which lasted seven years. (Hittell, p. 360)

Harkness apparently retired voluntarily in favor of Jordan, who claims to have “then endeavored,
with fair success, to put an end to the old feud” (quoted in Ewan, 1955:37).

They Gave Unstintedly of Their Resources

During this period the Brandegees pursued a diversity of activities from their idyllic retreat on
the outskirts of San Diego: collecting extensively in California and Mexico, publishing in Zoe, and
perhaps putting some of Katharine’s ideas on experimental taxonomy to the test in their magnificent
garden. Unfortunately, the “agreeable climate” of San Diego ultimately proved to be incompatible
with Katharine Brandegee’s health, and the isolation from research centers also took its toll. As a
result, twelve years after leaving the Academy, Katharine wrote to Setchell, then chair of the
Department of Botany at the University of California:

You remember that I have found the summer climate not to agree with me in San Diego —
In consideration of this fact I will try to induce Mr. Brandegee to part with his herbarium. It has
absorbed too much of our means to be given away, and as I would much prefer it went to the
University, I desire your opinion as to the feasibility of disposing of it to the Regents.

There are about 50,000 sheets averaging I suppose nearly two specimens to the sheet (two
collections) in small plants sometimes as many as ten or a dozen from different localities are
mounted on the same sheet, as they do at Harvard, and there are about 200 types. We would
transfer the whole herbarium, library, cases, etc. to the University — for $100 a month for the
remainder of our lives. — We would prefer selling outright, but this plan would probably be
much to the advantage of the University.

This would at once give the University the best herbarium and the best working library on the
coast, and we would deposit therein all our future types. (undated letter from K. Brandegee to
Setchell, UC Herbarium archives)

Arrangements were subsequently made whereby, in exchange for the donation of their extensive
library and herbarium, the Brandegees would have full use of the University’s facilities (but
apparently not the requested remuneration). Townshend was appointed Honorary Curator and
thereafter devoted most of his time to describing the flood of new species sent to the Brandegees by
Carl Albert Purpus from Mexico.'? As for Katharine: “Without compensation and refusing all
personal or official recognition or commendation, she labored in the Herbarium of the University of
California for fourteen years, as regularly and as faithfully as if she had held a salaried position. She
gave to it of her best and was content to feel that she had contributed her quota toward a better
knowledge of the flora of California” (Setchell, 1926:168).

The Brandegee Herbarium and Brandegee Library were collectively the single most significant
contribution ever received by the University Herbarium. A total of 76,166 specimens was presented
in August 1906, effectively doubling the size of the existing herbarium (censused at 74,800 on | July

'S Carl Albert Purpus, a freelance botanical collector from Germany, was appointed botanical collector without pay for the
herbarium in 1907 (Herbarium Records, p. 109, University Herbarium archives). His initial contact with the Brandegees, at
first Katharine, occurred in 1894, about the time that they moved to San Diego (Sousa, 1969; Ertter, 1988).

240 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

1906) and allowing the University of California herbarium to draw ahead of Stanford University’s.
The library was equally valuable, making readily available an outstanding selection of rare botanical
literature. Back issues of Zoe were also turned over to the University, with the provision that funds
from the sale of same were to be used for subscriptions to botanical journals. The Brandegee donation
coincided with the availability of new fire-proof quarters for the University Herbarium on the third
floor of the new Hearst Mining Building, where one room was designated the Brandegee Room (p.
106-108 of Herbarium Records, University Herbarium archives).
The Brandegees’ generosity was posthumously acknowledged by Setchell:

In 1906, shortly after central California had received its baptism by earthquake and fire, there
came to the University of California two botanists, husband and wife, who devoted all their
accumulations of knowledge to the service of the University and entrusted all their books and
specimens to its guardianship. They gave untiringly and unstintedly of their services and of their
resources to the herbarium from the time of their coming to the time of their passing away. Their
generosity and their devotion have placed in their debt all those botanists who in future years
will come to the University to study the systematic botany of the western United States and of
Mexico —a study made possible because of the rich and abundant material given to the
University by these unselfish workers. (Setchell, 1926:155)

At the time the Brandegees chose to move to Berkeley, Greene had been gone for nearly a decade,
but at least some of the enmity had been passed on to his protégé Jepson; it was, after all, while the
Brandegees were at Berkeley that Jepson wrote his tribute to Greene, in which Katharine was cast as

FIGURE 26. Katharine and Townshend Brandegee (date unknown).
Courtesy University Herbarium Archives, University of California, Berkeley.

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 241

an “unkempt woman” with “an unpleasant voice” (Jep-
son, 1918). In contrast, Jepson is one of the few authors
whose floristic work Katharine had previously approved,
as indicated by her review of the results of his doctoral
work, Flora of Western Middle California: “Throughout
the book there is evident the most careful and painstaking
proof reading and considering the difficulties encoun-
tered in a Flora of even a restricted region of California,
the author is to be congratulated on having done so well”
(Brandegee, 1901c:146). In addition to loyalty to Greene,
Jepson’s antagonism to Katharine might have resulted
from his personal animosity toward Setchell, who he had
initially admired but with whom he then become disen-
chanted (mss. in Jepson archives). The Brandegees were
obviously at the University under Setchell’s aegis, and as
such may have represented a perceived assault on Jep-
son’s aspirations to being the ultimate authority on the
California vascular flora.

As a result of interactions with another member of
the Setchell camp, Harvey Monroe Hall (Fig. 27), FiGuRE aT: Harvey Nénoe Hall
Katharine might have even exerted a subtle influence on Courtesy University Herbarium Archives,
the future direction of botany at Stanford, which she had University of California, Berkeley.
already (albeit anonymously) commended as the place
“where botany is taught according to modern methods” (Zoe 3:378, 1893). Hall received his Ph.D.
at Berkeley the same year the Brandegees arrived, after already having earned undergraduate and
Master’s degrees there and becoming Burtt-Davy’s replacement on the botany department faculty
(Babcock, 1934; Constance, 1978). He also became the first paid assistant in the herbarium in 1902
(at $400 per annum) and was placed in charge of the herbarium a few months later when Jepson
stepped down (p. 104 of Herbarium Records, University Herbarium archives).!4

Setchell credits Harvey and his wife Carlotta Case Hall (a fellow student at Berkeley, with an
interest in ferns) with providing much of the biographical information on the Brandegees, implying
well-developed social ties (Setchell, 1926:178). One can easily imagine the conversations that must
have occurred between Katharine and Harvey on their shared philosophies of systematics, which Hall
would eventually have a chance to develop when he subsequently accepted a position with the newly
established Carnegie Institute of Washington at Stanford University. Echoing Katharine, and even
Behr, with such statements as “experimental and quantitative methods promise to turn taxonomy from
a field overgrown with personal opinions to one in which scientific proof is supreme” (quoted in
Babcock, 1934:359), Hall is recognized as one of the founders of experimental taxonomy, or
biosystematics, pioneered at the Carnegie Institute in the first half of the 20th century.

My Own Destroyed Work I Do Not Lament

As noted in Setchell’s tribute, the year of the Brandegees’ return to the Bay Area was the same

'4 The position of herbarium assistant was then filled by Harriet A. Walker, a graduate of Mt. Holyoke College with twelve
years experience in the botany department of Wellesley College and three months in the Gray Herbarium. Walker spent the
remaining 22 years of her career at the University Herbarium, making extensive collections and eventually leaving a substantial
endowment for the ongoing support of the herbarium (Jepson, 1929).

242 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

year of the great San Francisco
Earthquake and Fire. Regular earth-
quakes had been well known in the
San Francisco area, to the extent that
at one point it had jokingly been
suggested that the Academy appoint
a curator of earthquakes “whose
duty it should be to collect speci-
mens of earthquakes and place them |
in the museum, taking care, how- |
ever, to purge such specimens of
their gases to avoid dangerous con-
sequences” (Hittell, pp. 117-118),
but the magnitude of the one that
occurred in the morning of April 18, |
1906, was far beyond any that had
previously been experienced. The
Academy building, Harkness’s
proud legacy, had been designed to
be fireproof (Hittell, p. 321), but a
full-fledged firestorm proved more
than it could withstand (Fig. 28). The
building had in fact survived the
earthquake with only moderate dam-
age, but after the fire what remained
was a gutted shell (Hittell, pp. 471—
474). Essentially the entire library of
some 15,000 volumes was destroyed FiGure 28. Remains of the California Academy of Sciences following the
Ciel, p, 472) a5 well anti vast a ee anaes
bulk of the collections. Due to the largely cleared. Courtesy California Academy of Sciences Archives.

heroic efforts of Eastwood and oth-

ers, who braved a broken stairwell to the upper floors in order to rescue what was deemed most
valuable, the type specimens and other particularly significant subsets of the natural history collec-
tions were saved from the approaching flames, as were various records and documents, including
Hittell’s unfinished manuscript (Hittell, p. 472; Wilson, 1955; Moore, 1996). Ina single catastrophic
event, what was undoubtedly the largest and most significant botanical collection on the West Coast
at that time was reduced to a mere 1,497 specimens (Chickering, 1989), whose intrinsic value
admittedly far exceeded the numbers alone.

One room of the gutted building actually survived well enough to be repaired for temporary
storage (Hittell, p. 477), but new quarters were essential for general Academy functions. A temporary
office was first rented at 1806 Post Street (Hittell, p. 474), followed by “more ample and convenient
quarters” at 1812 Gough Street (Hittell, p. 477). Here began the rebuilding of the Academy’s natural
history collections and library, helped greatly by the flood of generous donations sent by other
institutions around the world (listed in Appendix M of Leviton & Aldrich, 1997:561—563). Rather
than rebuilding a new museum on the Market Street property, the Academy chose to lease that
property for commercial purposes, eventually selling it in the mid-1980s. For its own purposes, the

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 243

Academy negotiated to have new facilities housed in Golden Gate Park, opening the doors of the first
of a seven-building complex to the public in 1915 (Leviton & Aldrich, 1997:505).

Within this setting, it would obviously have been both fitting and a magnificent boon if the
Brandegees had donated their library and herbarium to the Academy that had once served as their
professional home, and why they chose not to is a question that begs to be addressed. One possible
explanation is that the Brandegees were in need of immediate, not future, working facilities, and
convenient housing would also have been hard to come by in post-Fire San Francisco. However, a
letter from Leverett Mills Loomis, director of the Academy’s museum, claims that adequate facilities
were available by June 1906: “The Academy has secured fine temporary quarters [at Gough Street],
and we have ample room for books and specimens. In short, we are ready to receive everything now
— while the tear is still in the eye” (letter from Loomis to E.W. Nelson, 4 June 1906, quoted in Leviton
& Aldrich, 1997:505). It is also unclear if the Brandegees had approached Setchell before or after the
earthquake destroyed the Academy.

One might further speculate that, with Harkness no longer president, Katharine might have felt
less than welcome at the scene of her earlier political battles. Perhaps she also felt it would be awkward
finding a niche in the herbarium where her successor now reigned supreme. As analyzed by Moore
(1996), the on-going relationship between Brandegee and Eastwood combined elements of both fond
support and professional rivalry, setting the stage for a complex tension that would have made
coexistence under the same roof decidedly uncomfortable. Consider, for example, the following
evaluation of Eastwood’s taxonomic abilities by Brandegee:

I was informed that Miss Eastwood had arranged [Harvard’s] Lupines, whereupon I presented
them with my opinion of Miss E. from a botanical standpoint. | show on the enclosed card her
arrangement. Of course about half the species won’t go into any of these groups, and they are
stuck in higgledepiggledy. As an exhibition of pure idiocy, it must be hard to match. (Letter from
K. Brandegee to T. S. Brandegee, from Harvard, | 1
October 1913, in UC Herbarium archives)

However, Alice Eastwood (Fig. 29), who had
gained fame because of her efforts to save the botani-
cal type specimens, had also taken shelter at
Berkeley, at least temporarily:

Things can be sent to me at 2705 Hearst Avenue,
Berkeley. I am in Geo. Hansen’s house. . . . I do not
want botanical stuff sent [to the Academy address
at Post Street] as I cannot attend to it while I can at
my own place and with the use of the library and
herbarium at the Univ. of Calif. I think that I wrote
you that Prof. Setchell had most hospitably put
everything at my service and had given me the use
of a room. (Letter from Eastwood to E.W. Nelson,
22 May 1906, quoted in Leviton & Aldrich,
1997:504)

As previously noted, Berkeley already housed
another rival claimant to the throne of expertise in the
California flora, in the form of Greene’s successor
Jepson. However, it is evident that Setchell and Hall,

FiGure 29. Alice Eastwood, possibly taken about 1910,
: ‘ wearing a floral hat with which she became identified.
who befriended the Brandegees, were fully in charge Courtesy California Academy of Sciences Archives.

244 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

by this time, with Jepson already becoming marginalized within the departmental power structure.
We are nevertheless left with the bizarre image of the Brandegees, Eastwood, and Jepson all working
under the same roof, apparently doing their best to ignore each other’s presence, with the exception
of occasional sniping. A marvelous example of the last-named activity 1s provided by Jepson’s notes,
under an entry for Eastwood:

Has been working in our herbarium more or less since August, 1906. More cocksure and
unscientific than ever. She brought in the Manzanitas. Before Mrs. Brandegee she said: ‘Any
one who says these two species of mine are not distinct is a fool.’ Said Mrs. B. quietly: ‘No one
would say that they are not distinct but they have both been described before’! (Jepson field
book 16: 198, 1906, in Jepson Herbarium archives)

Other letters by Eastwood during this time carry clues that political factors may have been a
determining factor for the Brandegees’ decision, specifically involving the director of the Academy’s
museum at that time, Leverett Mills Loomis. It is evident that Eastwood at least had a serious distrust
of Loomis, with an initial “stiff upper lip” giving way to an increasingly pessimistic attitude
concerning the fate of botany at the Academy:

I do not feel the loss to be mine but it is a great loss to the scientific world and an irreparable
loss to California. My own destroyed work I do not lament, for it was a joy to me while I did it
and I can still have the same joy in starting it again. .. . 1am beginning already to recollect and
intend to go to type localities as much as possible and shall not hesitate to beg hospitality of my
friends. | expect to have very little aid from the Acad. but have a tiny income of my own and
can get along I feel sure. The Bot. Dept. has a fund of $5000. of its very own besides. I feel sure
that the Board of Trustees will not permit Loomis to divert all the funds to his own particular
ends. (Letter from Eastwood to E.W. Nelson, 7 May 1906, quoted in Leviton & Aldrich,
1997:500-S03)

Iam not at all sanguine about the future of the botanical department of the Academy; for those
who are in charge act as if they were hostile to it and me and give me no help whatever. I even
had a bill sent me for dues not long ago, for the first time since I have been connected. It is all
so uncertain that for the present, it is best for you as for me to do nothing and plan nothing.
(Letter from Eastwood to J.N. Rose, 2 May 1907, quoted in Leviton & Aldrich, 1997:505—S06)

If Loomis’s policies and personality were in fact instrumental in diverting the Brandegees’
herbarium and library from the Academy to Berkeley, it was not the only time that blame can be laid
on his doorstep for the University profiting at the Academy’s expense. According to Barbara Stein
(pers. comm., 1998), Annie Alexander’s displeasure with Loomis’s curatorial policies probably
influenced her decision to establish and generously endow both the Museum of Vertebrate Zoology
and the Museum of Paleontology at Berkeley, rather than at the Academy.

EPILOGUE

Independent of Loomis’s impact, and in spite of Eastwood’s reservations, botany at the Academy
did recover, and went on to thrive and interact with the other scientific institutions in the San Francisco
Bay Area to the present day. Eastwood, Jepson, Setchell, and Hall all continued to make significant
contributions to California botany, as did Dudley’s student and successor, LeRoy Abrams. Other
major centers sprang up elsewhere; at the San Diego Natural History Museum, Rancho Santa Ana
Botanic Garden, and the new campuses of the University of California in Los Angeles and Davis.
However, the period from the founding of the Academy to its destruction in 1906 represents a
well-circumscribed era, with a suitable stopping place. It has also been one of the least known eras

ERTTER: INSTITUTION-BASED BOTANY IN CALIFORNIA, 1853-1906 245

in California’s botanical history, undoubtedly in large part because of the massive disruption caused
by the 1906 Earthquake. It has been the goal of the current paper to rectify this situation, by bringing
back to light the extensive foundation that was laid by Kellogg, Behr, Brewer, Bolander, Curran/Bran-
degee, Greene, Dudley, and their contemporaries.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The thoughtful and helpful criticisms of Nancy Slack and Thomas Daniel, who served as
reviewers, are gratefully acknowledged, as are the many stimulating discussions with Slack, Robert
Ornduff, Patricia Moore, Richard Beidleman, Lincoln Constance, Peter Raven, James L. Reveal,
Betty Smocovitis, Elizabeth Rush, Anne Zwinger, Marcia Bonta, Arnold Tiehm, Annetta Carter,
David Charlet, Patricia L. Packard, Elihu Gerson, Michael Ghiselin, Alan Leviton, Michele Aldrich,
Sara Timby, Elizabeth McClintock, Barbara Stein, and numerous others (whose names regrettably
escape me at present). The generosity of Sharon Kingsland in making available her insightful
manuscript (provisionally entitled “An American Science: A Study in Ecology, Evolution, and
Society”) is deeply appreciated. Special mention goes to Richard Beidleman for unearthing the
treasures in Jepson’s fieldbooks, and to Isabelle Tavares for successfully tracking down the fate of
“Polyplocium Curranii.”

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Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA.
All rights reserved.

Agassiz’s Notions of a Museum

The Vision and the Myth

MARY PICKARD WINSOR

Institute for the History and Philosophy of Science and Technology

University of Toronto and Victoria College

73 Queen’s Park Crescent, Toronto, Ontario MSS 1K7 Canada

E-mail: mwinsor@chass.utoronto.ca

When I had Dr. Hagen here to show him how I wanted the Crustacea put up, he was appalled,
so different are my notions of a Museum from those prevailing even among the most advanced
students. — Louis Agassiz, July 21, 1868!

Visitors to the Mu-
seum of Comparative
Zoology at Harvard
may feel that its arrays
of stuffed animals are
rather old-fashioned,
but I can testify that in
the late 1950s the ex-
hibits looked even more
antique than they do to-
day. As a high school
student working there
summers, peering into
cases crowded with
crabshells or pickled
fishes, I could slip back
in my imagination to
the nineteenth century,
for in fact many of the
specimens and their ar-
rangement, and even
some of the labels,
dated from the 1880s. I
was aware that the mu-
seum had been founded

> =

PARE in ——
XK) HE Wy
=eytetetaial ] ni i USER |
tatatatateneces : AHAKR RAND stil
nyt \)

ave,
Iie
ire

Ait

FiGuRE |. 1892 photograph of the MCZ’s first floor “Synoptic Room — Zoological” viewed
from the gallery level. Beneath the life-size model of an octopus are cases containing
examples of mammals, birds, reptiles, fish, and the major invertebrate groups.

By permission of the Ernst Mayr Library of the Museum of Comparatve Zoology,
Harvard University. Copyright President and Fellows of Harvard College.

by Louis Agassiz a hundred years earlier, in 1859. I also knew that the building had grown in stages,
for I was told that the room in which I worked, in Bill Clench’s Mollusk Department, was older than
the rooms where the public stared at stuffed sharks.” I am sure I assumed the museum had simply
grown in size over the years, without changing its nature. Many years later, while writing a book on
the MCZ, I arrived at a very different picture of its development (Winsor, 1991). Close reading of
the yearly Annual Reports (which include statements from the curatorial staff as well as the director)
led me to conclude that the museum’s early decades were fundamentally different from the mature

249

250 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

museum. The metaphor of growth so commonly applied to institutions, as if they were living things,
will not do for Agassiz’s museum, unless perhaps we recall the life story of a butterfly. The schemes
that Louis Agassiz nursed in the 1860s for arranging his museum had scant resemblance to the chaotic
reality that sorely tried the patience of his supporters, and scant resemblance too to the arrangement
ordering the museum in the 1880s and later.

In his heyday, Agassiz was distinctly proud of his novel ideas about museum arrangement; my
epigraph refers to his new employee, the distinguished German entomologist Hermann Hagen. What
probably appalled Hagen was not so much the novelty of Agassiz’s “notions of a Museum,” but that
his scheme would greatly multiply curatorial labor. Hagen and the other assistants were to make
considerable progress by 1870 in dissuading the MCZ’s founder from his pet plans. After Louis
Agassiz’s death in 1873, the impractical notions of museum arrangement he had cherished were
consigned to oblivion, and this happened not just through the ordinary forgetfulness of later
generations, but because of the steadfast loyalty of his only son. In the late 1870s and 1880s, Alexander
Agassiz transformed the MCZ into an impressively modern museum, and he made sure the museum’s
successes reflected back upon his father’s reputation. Inspecting the hapless schemes of Louis
Agassiz, who, in spite of all his faults, was a man of passionate vision, we find at their core a robust
faith that collections of specimens are a powerful tool for uncovering new biological knowledge.

Alexander Agassiz’s Thoroughly Modern Museum

Come back with me, please, and let us visit together the MCZ when its exhibit halls were new.
A number of large photographs taken in 1892 display the museum’s interior (Figs. 1—5).°? The rooms
in Figures 1, 2, and 3 were two stories high, though of modest width; the upper row of windows,
avoided by the photog- i
rapher, supplied sun-
light to the gallery
level, where a walkway
was supported by slen-
der iron columns. The
stairway leading to the
galleries is visible in
Figure 2 on the mght.
Although these photo-
graphs contain consid-
erable information,
what they cannot con-
vey is the impression
that those rooms could
make on 19th century
visitors. In the 1880s,
techniques of taxi-
dermy were improving
rapidly, so that a
mounted deer, bison, or

FiGureE 2. 1892 photograph of the MCZ’s third floor
‘ ‘ “Systematic Collection — Mammals” viewed from the gallery level.
even hummingbird By permission of the Est Mayr Library of the Museum of Comparatve Zoology,
looked much more life- Harvard University. Copyright President and Fellows of Harvard College.

WINSOR: LOUIS AGASSIZ’S NOTIONS OF A MUSEUM 251

like than had been pos-
sible even ten years be-
fore. The lack of back-
ground or vegetation
around the specimens
would disappoint no
one, for museum dio-
ramas were a thing Of) «\tematic Gone es
the future (Wonders, CLASS or Povven |
1993). TEE

One visitor has left
us a record of his im-
pressions, although he
was by no means a dis-
interested reporter. The
great English naturalist
Alfred Russel Wallace,
while on a lecture tour
of the United States,

went twice to the MCZ,
during November and FiGure 3. 1892 photograph of the MCZ’s third floor “Systematic Collection of Radiates.”
December of 1886 By permission of the Ernst Mayr Library of the Museum of Comparatve Zoology,
(Wallace, 1905). He Harvard University. Copyright President and Fellows of Harvard College.

was welcomed by Alexander Agassiz, who had every reason to be proud as he conducted Wallace
through the exhibit halls and behind the scenes. A self-made millionaire, the younger Agassiz had
supervised and paid for the MCZ’s recent expansion. Wallace inspected the research collections,
where row after row of specimens were stored in cabinets of drawers, he saw the library, and he
walked through the public exhibition rooms with their glass cases and neat labels. He described his
visit in the popular English magazine The Fortnightly Review. In its day, his article added a bit to
Wallace’s small income as well as giving encouragement those who were striving to upgrade old
museums; now it serves as a precious source of evidence about the historic MCZ.

Although never himself employed in a museum, Wallace was an exceptionally well-informed
observer; before his American trip he had written endorsements of the importance of public museums
of natural history (Wallace, 1869; 1870; 1873; 1882). He seized this opportunity to preach to his
countrymen about museum policy. In spite of the vast quantity of material that has accumulated in
the British Museum, Wallace declared,

the Harvard Museum is far in advance of ours as an educational institution, whether as regards
the general public, the private student, or the specialist; and as it is probably equally in advance
of every European museum, some general account of it may be both interesting and instructive,
especially to those who have felt themselves bewildered by the countless masses of unorganized
specimens exhibited in the gloomy halls and galleries of our national institution. (Wallace,
1887:347)

The natural history department of the British Museum in London had only recently moved from
Bloomsbury to South Kensington, where a building had been specially designed for it. The elaborate
new museum had been designed under the direction of Richard Owen after more than twenty years

252 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

of debate (Stearn, 1981; Girouard, 1981; Rupke, 1988; Forgan, 1994). It was opened to the public
between 1881 and 1883, so how could its halls, only six years old or less, be “unorganized” and
“gloomy”? Wallace’s criticisms were presumably not aimed at Owen, now retired, but at those
curators who were resisting the reforms of his successor, William H. Flower. There was one display
in South Kensington reportedly quite pleasing to visitors: a series of British birds, each pair mounted
on appropriate vegetation in natural poses with their nest and eggs (Gunther, 1975; Wonders, 1993).
Wallace acknowledges the effort as “interesting,” but otherwise, he complains,

the great bulk of the collection still consists of the old specimens exhibited in the old way, in an
interminable series of over-crowded wall-cases, while all attempt at any effective presentation
of the various aspects and problems of natural history, as now understood, is as far off as ever.
What may be done in this direction, and how a museum should be constructed and arranged, so
as to combine the maximum of utility with economy of space and of money, will be best shown
by an account of the Museum of Comparative Zoology at Harvard. (Wallace, 1887:348-349)

By “natural history, as now understood,” Wallace meant evolution.

His phrase “how a museum should be constructed and arranged” encompasses two related but
distinct issues: how specimens are arranged within each room, and how much access to those rooms
is allowed to the general public as opposed to serious students and expert researchers. Wallace begins
with the question of public access. “The first thing to be noticed is the small proportion of the whole
building open to the general public, as compared with that devoted to the preservation and study of
the bulk of the collections” (Wallace, 1887:350). In the rooms housing most of the museum’s
specimens, there is space well designed for study, the tables situated at the windows so that chosen
specimens can be examined in sunlight, Wallace notes approvingly. We can see one such workroom
in Figure 4. Alexander Agassiz explains in his Annual Reports how he transformed the original
building to achieve the | , /
large number of non-
public rooms.* Origi-
nally the building,
constructed to Louis
Agassiz’s __ specifica-
tions, consisted of a
basement plus only two
complete floors; each
room was tall, with two
rows of windows and a
gallery, and the layout
of all the rooms was the
same. The _ structure
(but not the contents) of
those original rooms is
clear in Figure 3. Addi-
tions to the building
during the founder’s
lifetime, which dou-
bled its length, fol- FiGure 4. 1892 photograph of the MCZ’s first floor paleontological workroom.

lowed the same design By permission of the Ernst Mayr Library of the Museum of Comparatve Zoology,
(except that the roof of Harvard University. Copyright President and Fellows of Harvard College.

— c

WINSOR: LOUIS AGASSIZ’S NOTIONS OF A MUSEUM 253

the whole was raised to add a top floor). Alexander Agassiz increased the floorspace by adding
sections to the building and by flooring across the galleries in many of the rooms. Figure 4 shows a
side effect of that process; in one of the paleontological storage and work rooms on the main floor,
the floor of the old gallery is visible as the plastered portion of the ceiling, contrasting with the
underside of the new second floor level.° Alexander Agassiz announced in 1876 his intention of
flooring over most of the galleries (Annual Report, 1875).

Gray’s 1864 Proposal to Separate the Exhibits

The policy Wallace was praising in 1887, that most of a museum’s collection should be stored
away from public view, had originated in the mind of John Edward Gray of the British Museum about
30 years before. Gray spelled it out ina public address of September 1864; printed in October, Gray’s
speech was widely distributed and discussed by museum workers everywhere (Késtering, 1999, and
Nyhart, personal communication).° His exposition was forceful and unambiguous. Public museums
have two distinct objects, Gray said:

Ist, the diffusion of instruction and rational amusement among the mass of the people; and 2nd,
to afford the scientific student every possible means of examining and studying the specimens
of which the museum consists . . . .

What the largest class of visitors, the general public, want, is a collection of the more interesting
objects so arranged as to afford the greatest possible amount of information in a moderate space,
and to be obtained, as it were, at a glance. On the the other hand, the scientific student requires
to have under his eyes and in his hands the most complete collection of specimens that can be
brought together, and in such a condition as to admit of the most minute examination... .

In the futile attempt to combine these two purposes in one consecutive arrangement, the
modern museum entirely fails in both particulars . . . .

... for the purposes of scientific study, the most complete collection . .. would be best kept
in cabinets or boxes from which light and dust would be excluded, in rooms especially devoted
to the purpose, and not in galleries open to the general public... . (Gray, 1864:284286)

Since today this is how most major museums are designed, it may be hard for us to understand
what a disturbing departure from existing policy Gray’s plan was. Yet, during the preceding centuries
of museum evolution, from the Renaissance through the Enlightenment, there was no reason to
differentiate between specimens according to audience, and whenever the public helped pay the bills,
it seemed important to make as large a show as possible. Gray’s boss, Richard Owen, rejected the
idea that much of the natural history collection at the British Museum should be hidden away, although
Owen did propose that visitors would be helped to understand the whole collection if selected
specimens were used as a kind of introduction to the rest. What Owen called an “index museum”
would be examples illustrating the main taxonomic groups (Rupke, 1994).

When Alexander Agassiz took charge of the MCZ, after his father’s death, he explicitly set out
his commitment to Gray’s plan (without mentioning Gray).

The number of [planned] exhibition-rooms will undoubtedly seem small, compared with the
total amount of space, to those who are accustomed to wander through room after room of such
museums as the British Museum, the Jardin des Plantes; and still smaller, when compared with
the new museums contemplated in London, Vienna, and Berlin. This brings us to the fundamental
difference existing between the two systems possible in museums: one of which is to place before
the public everything in a single series; the other to make such a selection from the general
collection, and also such other combinations and special expositions, that, while the Museum
retains in its stores the archives of the science, the exhibition may place before the public an

254 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

exposition of the problems of natural science in a condensed and easily intelligible form. (Annual
Report, 1875:12)

Alexander Agassiz had announced this policy as early as 1876, not, as I have wrongly stated,
1878 (Winsor, 1991). The United States National Museum of the Smithsonian in Washington adopted
this plan in 1881, as Berlin did around 1888, while Paris and London dragged their heels (Winsor, in
press).

Wallace, in his 1887 article, moved on from the collections behind the scenes to the rooms open
to the public, and detailed the themes which governed their content. Some of his remarks echo Gray’s
views, that with only a limited number of specimens on show, visitors have a chance of making sense
of what they see; other remarks of Wallace’s have to do with the particular choices of what specimens
are grouped together.

On entering the building the visitor finds opposite to him an open room, over which is painted
in large letters, “Synoptic Room — Zoology,”

(His description fits exactly the room in Figure 1, where the words “Synoptic Room” can be seen on
the door at lower right. He calls the room “open” because it is two stories high. Wallace mentions a
“suspended . . . model of a gigantic cuttle-fish twenty feet in diameter.” The octopus was generally
termed a “cuttlefish” and was labelled, the photograph shows, with both names.)

... this room contains a Synopsis, by means of typical examples, of the whole animal kingdom
.... its contents and purpose are clearly indicated to every visitor, each group and each specimen
being also well and descriptively labelled . . . the specimens are comparatively few in number,
not crowded together, and so arranged and grouped as to show at the same time the wonderfully
varied forms of animal life, as well as the unity of type that prevails in each of the great primary
groups... . (Wallace, 1887:352)

Gray’s policy called for the labelling of every specimen and each glass case. Alexander Agassiz went
a step further and made a point of labelling each room (Annual Report, 1875:13). The idea of the
MCZ’s Synoptic Room was the same as Owen’s Index Museum, planned but never installed in
London.

Next Wallace describes five rooms, all with gallery levels, in which specimens are arranged
taxonomically: a large room for the mammals, with whale skeletons (Fig. 2), and four others
containing representative birds, fishes, crustacea, insects, mollusks, echinoderms, coelenterates,
worms, and sponges.’ In Figure 3, the labelling of some corals is visible, including fossils in the table
cases, but we cannot see the “beautiful glass models” of sea anemones that caught Wallace’s attention.
Each of these “systematic collections” is a synopsis of one taxonomic group, just as the first room
gave a synopsis of the whole animal kingdom, but in his report Wallace adopts the museum’s term
rather than repeating the word “synopsis.” Wallace stresses that while individual specimens may later
be replaced by better ones, the number of specimens will not increase, “because they are already quite
as numerous as the average intelligence even of well-educated persons can properly understand”
(Wallace, 1887:353).

Wallace then moves on to a set of rooms arranged according to a different principle, and one
especially close to his own heart. Wallace had written three books arguing that biogeography provided
powerful evidence for evolution, so no wonder he admired

the special feature of the museum, and that which is most to be commended, the presentation to
the public of the main facts of the geographical distribution of animals. This is done by means

WINSOR: LOUIS AGASSIZ’S NOTIONS OF A MUSEUM

i)
nN
nN

of seven rooms, each one devoted to the characteristic animals of one great division of the earth

orocean....

He explains that one room of the museum is devoted to the fauna of North America, another to animals
of South America. Comparing this to the room containing African fauna, Wallace declares,

The most cursory inspection of these two rooms will teach the visitors a lesson in natural history
that he will not learn by a dozen visits to our great national storehouse at South Kensington --
the lesson that each continent has its peculiar forms of life, and that the greatest similarity in
geographical position and climate may be accompanied by a complete diversity in the animal

inhabitants.

Wallace reports the contents of the Indo-Malayan room, the one for the fauna of Europe including
Siberia, and finally Australia. He concludes his tour of the faunal rooms by declaring,

It is a remarkable thing that so interesting and instructive a mode of arranging a museum, and
one so eminently calculated to impress and educate the general public, has never been adopted

in any of the great collections of Europe .

... It is a striking proof of the want of any clear

perception of the true uses and functions of museums that pervade the governing bodies of such
institutions, and also perhaps, of the deadening influence of routine and red-tapeism in rendering

any such radical change as this almost impossible. (Wallace, 1887:357)8

Wallace also saw two more faunal rooms in preparation, for the Atlantic Ocean (Fig. 5) and the Pacific,
plus four rooms on the first floor not yet open to the public, intended to display fossils of the Cambrian,
Devonian, Jurassic, and Tertiary periods. Envisioning the future, the Englishman was beside himself.

FIGURE 5. 1892 photograph of the MCZ’s third floor “Faunal Collection.”
By permission of the Ernst Mayr Library of the Museum of Comparatve Zoology,
Harvard University. Copyright President and Fellows of Harvard College.

The last room of the
series will be devoted
to the Tertiary depos-
its, and will show the
many curious lines of
modification by which
our most highly-spe-
cialised animals have
been developed. If
some of the preceding
rooms contain the
most marvellous prod-
ucts of remote ages,
here assuredly will be
the culminating point
of interest in seeing the
curious changes by
which our existing cat-
tle and horses, sheep,
deer, and pigs, our
wolves, bears, and li-
ons, have been gradu-
ally modified from
fewer and more gener-
alised ancestral types.
Of all the great im-

tN

56 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

provements in public museum arrangement which we owe to the late Professor Agassiz and his
son, there is none so valuable as this. Let any one walk along the vast palaeontological gallery
at South Kensington, and note the crowded heaps of detached bones and jaws and teeth of fossil
elephants and other animals, all set up in costly, mahogany and glass cases for the public to stare
at... all crowded together in one vast confusing series from which no clear ideas can possibly
be obtained, except that numbers of strange animals, which are now extinct, did once live upon
the globe, and he will certainly admit the imperfections of this mode of exhibition, as profitless
and puzzling to the general public as it is wasteful of valuable space and inconvenient to the
student or the specialist. (Wallace, 1887:358)

But plans and their realization are two different things. Nine years would pass before two of the
paleontological exhibit rooms were opened, the third after another nine years (Annual Report,
1895-1896, 1904-1905). It is not clear if “the culminating point of interest,” the Tertiary room, was
ever finished.

Based on Wallace’s understanding of the planned fossil exhibits as well as the geographic and
taxonomic rooms already open, and because Alexander Agassiz assured him that the “general plan
of the building and the arrangement of the contents were carried out in accordance with Professor
[Louis] Agassiz’s views” (Wallace, 1887, p. 349), Wallace saw an irony that he could use to further
shame his countrymen into remedial action. Towards the close of his article he wrote,

It is surely an anomaly that the naturalist who was most opposed to the theory of evolution should
be the first to arrange his museum in such a way as best to illustrate that theory, while in the land
of Darwin no step has been taken to escape from the monotonous routine of one great systematic
series of crowded specimens arranged in lofty halls and palatial galleries, which may excite
wonder but which are calculated to teach no definite lesson. (Wallace, 1887:358-359)

Everyone knew that Louis Agassiz was a leading opponent of evolution (a theory his son quietly
accepted), and that Wallace was Darwin’s co-discoverer and a staunch ally, so this was powerful
rhetoric. Was it really true, however, that Louis Agassiz had designed the museum arrangement
Wallace saw in 1886?

The Myth of Louis Agassiz’s Founding Plan

If Wallace’s information about the MCZ’s history came from the mouth of Alexander Agassiz
and from copies of the Annual Reports, as is most likely, he could certainly have concluded that all
its virtues should be credited to the father. Alexander Agassiz asserted that when Louis Agassiz died,
“and indeed far earlier, from the very beginning of the institution, the general plan was sketched out
in the mind of the founder” (Annual Report, 1882—1883:3). Indeed, he had even pointed out how
ironic it was that his father’s plans now seemed so evolutionary. A year before Wallace’s visit
Alexander Agassiz had reported:

By a strange coincidence the foundation of the Museum dates from the publication of the “Origin
of Species.” Of course so powerful a movement in the scientific thought of the time could not
fail to modify the problems which the institution was intended to illustrate and to solve. Yet the
usefulness of the plans laid down for the Museum remains unimpaired by the new methods of
treating questions of affinity, of origin, of geographical and geological distribution. Should the
synoptic, the systematic, the faunal, and the paleontological collections cease to bear the
interpretation given to them by the founder, their interest and importance, even for the advocates
of the new biology, would not be one whit lessened... .

The plans of the founder have been realized, perhaps, far beyond his most sanguine expecta-
tions... . (Annual Report, 1884-1885:4—5)

WINSOR: LOUIS AGASSIZ’S NOTIONS OF A MUSEUM 257

Wallace most likely had a copy of this report before him when he composed his article.

Wallace would have had no reason to cross-examine Alexander Agassiz about possible differ-
ences between the museum of the 1880s, Louis Agassiz’s ideas in the last years of his life, and Louis
Agassiz’s ideas in 1859. The evidence that tells us that a policy like Gray’s was not part of Agassiz’s
thinking in 1859 forces us to interpret Alexander Agassiz’s statements about the “founder’s plans”
as referring only to the principle of synoptic, systematic, and faunal arrangements, not to the
separation of exhibit halls from scientific storage. On close examination, one finds Alexander Agassiz
making no explicit claim that his father originated the concept of separating research from exhibit
rooms.

That claim was first made a few years later, by a museum director from Dresden, Adolf Bernhard
Meyer (1840-1911).

As far back as 1860, L. Agassiz, perhaps the first to carefully consider such a plan, had developed
the principles on which he meant to separate an exhibition collection for visitors from a scientific
collection for investigators .. .. He actually carried out these plans a few years later. (Meyer,
1905: 93-94)”

Meyer had paid an official visit to the MCZ between October 5 and 19, 1899. At that time, both
Alexander Agassiz and the museum’s Keeper, William McMichael Woodworth, were away, leaving
Samuel Henshaw in charge (Annual Report, 1899-1900:7—-8). Alexander Agassiz supplied Meyer
with material, however, sending several Annual Reports, the printed version of his 1902 remarks on
MCZ history, and the reference to a lecture Louis Agassiz delivered on July 11, 1860.'° It was that
reference, which Meyer gives as a footnote, that lends authority to his statement. Speaking to the
Mercantile Library Association in Boston, Louis Agassiz had proclaimed his intention to arrange his
museum by subdividing the specimens into synoptic, faunal, paleontological and other collections
(L. Agassiz, 1862).'' Yet nowhere in that speech had Louis Agassiz suggested the kind of differences
in public access to any of these collections which lay at the heart of Gray’s policy.

Meyer’s easy assertion that Louis Agassiz “actually carried out these plans a few years later”
warns us not to trust him as an historical source. Louis Agassiz’s own Annual Reports boast no such
success; instead they explain why his mushrooming collection cannot yet be arranged as it ought to
be. The state of the museum at the time of Louis Agassiz’s death in 1873 was described, ten years
later, by Alexander Agassiz, as one of “confusion.”

... the difficulties involved in the initiation of so large an undertaking prevented Professor
Agassiz from developing his schemes. From want of rooms and of means for proper distribution,
the immense accessions constantly accumulating upon his hands invaded, little by little, the space
devoted to special objects. It became evident, at the time of his death, that nothing short of a
radical rearrangement of the collections could bring out his plans and give them distinct
expression. This rearrangement has been completed only within the past year, and no sign of the
former confusion, due to a too rapid accumulation of material, is left. (Annual Report, 1882—
1883:3).

Clearly Meyer had been encouraged to imagine that the “general plan” in Louis Agassiz’s mind from
the very beginning had included the separation of exhibits from research material as well as the
concept of faunal versus synoptic collections, but his own reading of the documents was uncritical.

Samuel Henshaw repeated the gist of Meyer’s claim in 1907 (Annual Report, 1906—1907:3), but
this does not constitute fresh evidence. Henshaw’s association with the Agassiz Museum dated from
1891 when Hagen fell ill. Curator from 1904, Henshaw did his best to please the retired Agassiz.
Henshaw’s 1907 story of the museum’s history carried the authority of his office, but he was surely

258 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

reading the same documents Meyer was, as well as talking to Alexander Agassiz. Meyer’s statement
is evidently the source for subsequent claims to the same effect, such as L. V. Coleman’s (1939,
2:249).

If the plans Alexander Agassiz put into effect in the 1870s and 1880s had really been present in
Louis Agassiz’s mind in 1859, he would deserve credit for the innovations advocated by Gray in
1864. What record is there enabling us to reconstruct Louis Agassiz’s early ideas of museum
arrangement? In 1854 he had declared that he wanted to create a museum “which . . . would be as
important for science as those founded by John Hunter in London or by Cuvier in the Jardin des
Plantes” (Lurie, 1960:215). Both of these, the Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons and the
Muséum d’Histoire naturelle, were research institutions whose collections were used by professors
to teach medical and other advanced students. The public was admitted at certain times to make
whatever sense they could of those same specimens. This did not mean, however, that every specimen
in such museums was equally open to view. Special furniture, like cabinets for household china, held
some specimens on open shelves, others behind glass, and others in drawers or behind doors, so the
contents of each room would be experienced differently by the casual visitor glancing at what was
open to view and by the expert who would be pulling out the drawers.

The first time Agassiz announced that his museum would be unusual in its arrangement was on
December 21, 1859, speaking at the Boston Society of Natural History.

In the great collections, he said, even that at the British Museum, the sole object seems hitherto
to have been to exhibit animals according to the supposed natural affinities...he intended to
arrange the Cambridge Zodlogical Museum in a totally different manner, viz: according to
natural zodlogical provinces; in this way, he hoped to be able to define such provinces, which
as yet were but imperfectly known, and to arrive at important conclusions on the correlations of
animals of the different classes. (L. Agassiz, 1861)

The belief that geographic distribution of species is as much a part of God’s order as are the patterns
studied by morphologists, embryologists, and paleontologists was an idea Agassiz promoted in the
“Essay on Classification” he had published in 1857 (L. Agassiz, 1962).

This report of remarks made shortly after his collections were transferred to the new MCZ
provides a striking clue to Agassiz’s thinking. Here we find a novel and intriguing idea: the notion
that attempting to arrange animals by “natural zodlogical provinces” will help him discover those
provinces. Thus the process of arrangement becomes a form of research, which is a very different
thing than constructing didactic exhibits, whose function is to display relationships already known.

The report of his 1859 Boston Society comments continues,

He intended to do the same with fossils, showing independent creations and distinct zodlogical
provinces in geological as well as modern times. For purposes of study and comparison, to this
he purposed to add a very small collection of typical genera and species, exhibiting the natural
affinities of animals, — also a third collection, exhibiting the embryonic series of every animal
type, —a fourth, embracing the domesticated animals, to show what are species, varieties,
breeds, &c., with such products from them as have a commercial value, — and finally, a museum
of men, skulls, skeletons, &c., for the study of the human races. (L. Agassiz, 1861)

To maintain that a policy like Gray’s was in Agassiz’s mind at the founding of his museum, one
must deal with the fact that on these public occasions he omitted to mention it. Neither the layout of
the rooms, which were all the same, nor the language of his letters and speeches, makes any mention
of spaces dedicated to different purposes. Rather, he seemed to assume that, like Hunter and Cuvier,
he could invite outsiders to see what his students saw; in a speech of January 1859, he explicitly

WINSOR: LOUIS AGASSIZ’S NOTIONS OF A MUSEUM 259

promised that were he given enough space he could “allow free access to the rooms for the public as
well as the students . . .” (L. Agassiz, 1859).

One could conjecture, in support of Meyer’s claim, that Agassiz intended to exclude the public
from the working core of his collection but did not say so for fear of weakening the public’s
willingness to support his museum financially. Such a conjecture would violate the historians’ sacred
principle that people are presumed to mean what they say unless there is compelling evidence to the
contrary. In this case, such evidence may seem to exist, consisting of Louis Agassiz’s jealous reaction
when Gray’s paper appeared. He confessed himself afraid of losing credit to Gray. In the MCZ’s
Annual Report, after complaining that lack of space prevents him from arranging his specimens as
he intends, Agassiz says,

I regret the more any delay in that respect, since I see that the directors of other Museums begin
to feel the imperfections of the present arrangement of their collections, and are proposing as
new, schemes identical with those which for many years have been in active operation with us.
I would particularly refer to the recent suggestions of Dr. J. E. Gray . . . the burden of which
coincides, though on a limited scale, with what we have been doing upon a much more extended
plan for several years past. (Annual Report, 1864:13)

But what was it that Agassiz had been doing which Gray now proposed? The separation between
research rooms and public rooms in Gray’s proposal was fundamental and absolute, not “on a limited
scale.” Gray also mentioned another innovation that did closely coincide with what Agassiz had
advocated publically. Agassiz wanted to allocate his specimens into several distinct series or
collections, and one of these, the synoptic, was suitable for novices. His 1860 lecture had eloquently
set out the problem the synoptic collection was designed to solve, the massing of hundreds of
thousands of specimens in one great taxonomic series.

No human intelligence can take in such an assemblage. Not long ago I visited, until I was tired
of it, the magnificent and immense collection of birds of the British Museum. Rather than
teaching me, it made me dizzy. There one finds, one may say, all the known birds, one beside
the next, so similar in species and family and so uniform in appearance, that the most active and
searching eye can neither detect nor remember the differences. The spirit is confused... . (L.
Agassiz, 1862:537)

(His London visit, in 1859, had included meetings with Gray, so there may be some doubt as to the
complete independence of their ideas.)

It was there that I was struck with this idea, that a museum arranged only in order to exhibit all
zoological facts fails in its purpose; because the naturalist cannot, without constantly retracing
his steps, see how the various ducks, for example, differ from one another. A collection which
will put everything that is different under the observer’s eyes in a small space, leaving to the
side what is similar, will answer much better the needs of those seeking to educate themselves.
(L. Agassiz, 1862:537)

Gray’s paper addressed the same problem, stating that the

general visitor perceives little else than a chaos of specimens, of which the bulk of those placed
in close proximity are so nearly alike that he can scarcely perceive any difference between them
... the eye both of the general visitor and of the student becomes confused by the number of the
specimens . . . . (Gray, 1865:76)

Gray suggested that a few selected specimens could be arranged in special cases, one to show
the classes of the animal kingdom, another the orders of each class, and so on. This synoptic or index

260 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

idea could have been the point that generated Agassiz’s fear of being upstaged, and Agassiz’s idea
of faunal collections certainly constituted “a much more extended plan” than Gray’s. We are not
forced to conclude that Gray’s policy of splitting a museum into public and restricted collections was
a secret scheme of Agassiz’s.

Louis Agassiz’s 1867 Instructions to Hagen

Although Agassiz was proud of the ideas he had explained to audiences in Boston in 1859 and
1860, Alexander Agassiz would later remember them as “ideas which had floated vaguely through
Professor Agassiz’s mind” (A. Agassiz, 1902). Alexander Agassiz was twenty-four years of age when
the museum was founded and deeply involved in assisting in its management. His term “floated
vaguely” points to the distance between his father’s inspirational Boston lectures and the challenges
faced within the museum’s walls, where “everything had to be sacrificed to the exigencies of the
collections, which accumulated at first far too rapidly for their proper arrangement” (Annual Report,
1877-1878:4). (So loyally did he guard his father’s reputation, however, that the term “floated
vaguely” present in the typescript of his 1902 talk was deleted from the printed version that was sent
to Meyer.)'* By the mid-1860s, however, vague ideas would no longer do. The student assistants of
the museum’s first years were replaced by full-time employees. Hiring the entomologist Philip R.
Uhler in 1864, Agassiz wrote a letter setting out the conditions of work, including the requirement
that insect specimens should form four distinct series, namely: Special Systematic Collections for
each order, Faunal Collections for each zoological province, Embryological Collections, and Ana-
tomical Collections.'? The Faunal and Embryonic had been mentioned in his 1859 Boston lecture,
the Anatomical was the arrangement of Hunter and Cuvier, and the Special Systematic was described
as “single representatives of each species with the view of illustrating their affinities.” It would, thus,
be much richer than a synopsis or index, where a whole family or order is represented by an individual,
but leaner than the full collection, where for some species scores or hundreds of specimens were
preserved.

In 1867, Louis Agassiz, safely home after an expedition to Brazil, refreshed and excited, resumed
control of the MCZ (thus releasing his son to run the copper mine which later made him rich). The
MCZ’s Annual Reports for that year and the next contain numerous mentions by the museum
assistants of various instructions Agassiz had issued, tailored for each department. Uhler left for a
better paying post, and in the middle of October, 1867, Hermann Hagen arrived to replace him
(Winsor, 1991). A 13-page manuscript labelled, in Hagen’s distinctive script, “(Instructions given by
Prof. L. Agassiz October 1867)” survives. The document itself is not in Hagen’s handwriting, nor in
Agassiz’s; presumably it was dictated by Agassiz to an amanuensis. My transcription of it is
published, by permission of the Museum of Comparative Zoology Archives, Harvard University, as
an appendix to this paper. It deserves a closer study than I gave it in 1991.

Agassiz’s 1867 instructions spell out the “notions of a Museum” that appalled Hagen, and we
have to agree that they were utterly “different... from those prevailing even among the most advanced
students.” Gray’s lucid exposition of the advantages of dedicating some rooms to research and other
rooms to exhibits had been circulating for three years, yet Agassiz says nothing about specimens or
collections being open or closed to the public, except for a comment that the synoptical collection
will be useful to beginning students and to visitors. The prevailing notion was that a museum had a
single collection, subdivided taxonomically, yet Agassiz demanded the four separate collections he
had specified to Uhler.

Within the 1867 document, three of the four headings — “General Systematic Collection,”

WINSOR: LOUIS AGASSIZ’S NOTIONS OF A MUSEUM 261

“Faunal Collections,” and “Synoptical Collection” — resemble the titles Wallace later saw painted
on the walls of the exhibition rooms. On closer examination, however, interesting differences emerge.
The 1867 Synoptical Collection illustrated the taxonomic groups of insects, while Alexander Agassiz
used the term only for his synopsis of the whole animal kingdom. Thus, the Synoptical concept of
1867 was realized in Alexander Agassiz’ public Systematic Collection of insects. Nothing in the later
exhibits seen by Wallace corresponded to what was meant by the term “Systematic” in 1867. Louis
Agassiz explained to Hagen that a General Systematic Collection should contain only specimens
identified to species by a trustworthy authority, making it, “as it were, a register, systematically
arranged, of authentic specimens, the identification of which may be trusted” (L. Agassiz, 1867:1).'4
We can only conjecture what the rationale was for separating such specimens from others. Many of
the specimens arriving in the MCZ were newly collected by all manner of people, and so the scientific
name appropriate to each specimen would either not exist or be open to doubt; at other times
recognized naturalists or their heirs sold or donated a collection to the museum, and in those cases
the identification already attached to each specimen was part of the value of the collection. (Agassiz
told Hagen that labels in an expert’s handwriting should be carefully retained.) Probably by
establishing this series Agassiz hoped to protect material of archival value from careless treatment.
We may think these correspond to the “type” specimens which, in modern museums, are usually
distinctly marked and segregated, but types must have been named by the one person who first
christened that particular species, whereas in 1867 Agassiz was proposing that the identification can
have been made by any skilled taxonomist. Hagen must have seen in this instruction a source of
unending labor, for because he was an expert himself, every time he made a firm identification of a
specimen he would have to transfer it into this series. A specimen of which the collecting locality
was not known would be welcome in this series, for an expert determination of its name would make
the specimen a useful reference object.

Agassiz’s 1867 instructions to Hagen included what he called a “structural” collection, by which
he meant a series of specimens dissected to reveal internal anatomy. He emphasized that its purpose
was not to study the physiology of organs (which was the purpose of the comparative anatomy of
Hunter and Cuvier) but to display the characteristic features of taxa; this was a continuation of the
theory he had announced in his “Essay on Classification” that each taxonomic category, from genus
and species up to order and class, had distinct kinds of characters. '°

The “Faunal Collections” of the 1867 instructions must have been what Alexander Agassiz was
remembering when he created a set of rooms ordered geographically, but Louis Agassiz’s concept
was utterly at odds with the small displays of typical examples ofa few major regions his son mounted.
Louis Agassiz told Hagen that all specimens of which the place of origin is precisely known must be
arranged geographically rather than taxonomically. Ifhe continued to go on collecting trips, and invite
contributions from naturalists and admirers whom he educated about the importance of precise
collecting data, most of the specimens entering the building would go to the faunal collections. Any
specimen with only a general provenance, such as “Switzerland,” is not allowed in this series. Such
a specimen could not even be retained in the MCZ, unless its specific name has been authoritively
determined; it will be cast into the pile of “duplicates” waiting to be sent to a less fussy museum in
trade for something more scientifically useful, or else it would be dissected and join the “Structural”
series. The faunal collections will be works in progress, Agassiz explains, demanding “great
discretion, & an unknown amount of patience to start rightly . . .” (p. 4), because the appropriate
geographic boundaries are not yet known. Here we recognize an elaboration of Agassiz’s sketch of
1859, when he told the Boston Society of Natural History that the boundaries of unknown zoological
provinces would be discovered in the process of arranging his specimens. Certainly Agassiz in 1867

262 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

did not have in mind areas as large as the ones his son would later use to define exhibits — North
America, Africa, Indo-Asia — for he tells Hagen that there may be “three faunz within ten miles of
Cambridge . . .” (1867:5). Great discretion would surely be needed, to arrange things by province
when the provincial boundaries are unknown.

In practical terms, the scheme may have been less fantastic than it sounds, and perhaps even
reflected a common occurence in his growing museum. When he or one of his collectors packed
material in the field, the contents of boxes or kegs would be taxonomically heterogeneous (various
families of animals, unsorted), but geographically homogeneous (all collected in one locality). Such
a container could be immediately placed in the faunal collection without even being unpacked. To
satisfy Agassiz’s conviction that natural faunal provinces exist, however, all the museum staff would
have to have been contributing to the same enterprise. The birds, mammals, fish, mollusks, and insects
of eastern Massachusetts should be arranged together, all helping to reveal the boundaries of the
several faunal provinces that might exist there. Yet, there is no hint in Agassiz’s several instructions
that the assistants in charge of those different taxa were to meld their faunal collections.

Agassiz tells Hagen that faunal collections “may be of great importance for the progress of
Science,” (p. 4), which reminds us of the high hopes he cherished for biogeography. After the
correlation of fossil forms to embryos had convinced him, early in his career, that zoology was the
study of God’s unfolding plan, he then decided that animal distribution was another grand topic for
a similar breakthrough. Lamarck’s theory, in Agassiz’s view, gave physical agents the responsibility
for life, which was absurd. In 1848 he explained what he expected from biogeography:

The geographic distribution of organized beings displays more fully the direct intervention of a
Supreme Intelligence in the plan of the Creation, than any other adaptation in the physical world

. evidence must rest upon direct observation and induction, just as fully as mathematics
claims the right to settle all questions about measurable things. There will be no scientific
evidence of God’s working in nature until naturalists have shown that the whole Creation 1s the
expression of a thought, and not the product of physical agents. Now what stronger evidence of
thoughtful adaptation can there be, than the various combinations of similar, though specifically
different[,] assemblages of animals and plants repeated all over the world, under the most
uniform and the most diversified circumstances? (L. Agassiz, 1850:144—145)

Later, when confronted by Darwinism, Agassiz again hoped that this latest version of the old
error could be disproved by showing that distributional patterns made no sense physically but
displayed the workings of divine intelligence. He made this point explicit in his Boston address of
1860, and explained it to his companions on their way to Brazil in 1865 (L. Agassiz and E. C. Agassiz,
1868:8—9; Winsor, 1991:144—145).

In content and in method, Agassiz’s biogeography is a confusing mix of the familiar and the
strange. His repeated insistence that collectors must record localities with precision, that specimens
were scientifically useless if identified only by the port where they were purchased, seems modern.
Scientists today, however, explain fauna and flora as complex products of historical events, many of
them essentially accidental, but Agassiz’s views excluded accident, evolution, and even historical
contingency; he believed that species were divinely created extending over their full natural range
(L. Agassiz, 1962:44-45).

How far his world view differed from ours is vividly shown by one example from his 1857 “Essay
on Classification.” In one family of lizards, the skinks, he knew more than thirty genera, ranging from
ones with four legs having five toes on each foot, to others with four, three, two or only one toe, down
to two-legged species, ending with the snake-like legless skinks. Agassiz made a list arranged by the
number of legs and toes and concluded triumphantly (L. Agassiz, 1962:51), “Who can look at this

WINSOR: LOUIS AGASSIZ’S NOTIONS OF A MUSEUM 263

diagram, and not recognize in its arrangement the combinations of thought?” Noting where each
genus lives, he was satisfied to find that

the home of these animals stands in no relation whatsoever to their zoological arrangement. On
the contrary, the most remote genera may occur in the same country, while the most closely
related may live far apart . . . . they are scattered all over the globe, but not so that there could
be any connection between the combinations of their structural characters and their homes. (L.
Agassiz, 1962:50, 52)

The pattern of limb number showed thought, and the lack of pattern of distribution showed freedom;
“such freedom indicates selection, and not the working of the law of necessity” (p. 51). (His meaning
is that the Creator exercised freedom in selecting where to place His creatures. Agassiz did not know
that “selection” would be a key word in Darwin’s theory, which was still secret when Agassiz wrote
this.) Agassiz passed over in silence the lack of freedom in the distribution of species within each
genus, whose contiguous homes accord well with the hypothesis of common ancestry.

In one of Agassiz’s remarks about the numerical arrangement of skink legs and toes there lies
an intriguing clue to his thinking about museum arrangement. Although the taxonomic hierarchy he
presents is based on one “drawn up [by Leopoldo Fitzinger {Vienna}, copied by August-Marie-Con-
stant Dumeéril and Gabriel Bibron {Paris}] to classify animals preserved in the Museum of the Jardin
des Plantes in Paris,” its orderly pattern or “‘arrangement . . . is in reality inscribed in Nature by these
animals themselves and is only read off when they are bought together and compared side by side”
(p. 51). Thus, for Agassiz, arranging specimens in a museum is not a matter of imposing our order
on nature’s chaos, but an opportunity to “read off” an order really present in nature but only discerned
through the medium of the museum.

As I was struggling to picture how this idea of a geographically-arranged collection would work,
my memory lit upon those long-ago summers, when one of my jobs was to make entries in a
geographical card file, a tool the Mollusk Department was experimenting with to aid biogeographic
research. Politically-bounded areas, such as nations or the states of the U.S.A., each had a card, onto
which I entered the department’s holdings. This meant methodically combing the taxonomically-ar-
ranged collection, drawer after drawer, and copying onto the cards the accession number, scientific
name and particular locality from each specimen’s label. The hope was that queries could be
answered, about the fauna of Florida for example. Perhaps because of this experience, my first
reaction to Agassiz’s instructions to Hagen was, why didn’t he just make a card file? It is simpler to
arrange and rearrange bits of stiff paper than to move specimens, or to copy data from the
Massachusetts card onto new Eastern Massachusetts and Western Massachusetts cards. (Later, in
California, Joseph Grinnell, clear-eyed in his commitment to using museums as tools for the study
of ecological regions, would nevertheless arrange the specimens themselves in taxonomic order
[Griesemer, 1990].) Yet, when Agassiz first formulated his novel concept of faunal collections, card
files were not the standard tool of data management they later became. Libraries, including the one
in the MCZ, kept catalogues in the form of bound books. I imagine that even if some state-of-the-art
champion of card files had explained their virtues to Louis Agassiz in 1867, he would have stuck to
his own scheme; he would have explained that effective comparison requires objects, not just the
names of objects, to be brought together.

In the museums Agassiz admired — the great Muséum d Histoire naturelle in Paris, where Louis
Agassiz spent several crucial months in 1832, and the Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons
based on John Hunter’s collections — specimens were arranged in two different ways. Comparative
anatomists ordered material by physiological system, while zoologists followed taxonomic groups.

264 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Thus both Hunter and Cuvier, as anatomists, organized material by function, such as the skeletal
system, digestive system, reproductive system and so on; they would place a horse’s skeleton beside
the skeleton of a pig, while the horse’s stomach was located elsewhere, laid out for comparison next
to the stomach of a pig. Except for Cuvier, the zoologists in the Paris museum were assigned
responsibility along taxonomic lines: Latreille the insects, Lamarck the other invertebrates, Lacepede
the fish and reptiles, Geoffroy St.-Hilaire the mammals and birds. Agassiz invented a new term,
“comparative zoology,” to signal that his museum would build upon both traditions, zoology and
comparative anatomy.

Alwaysa loyal soldier, Hagen responded to the 1867 instructions by proposing a modified version
of Agassiz’s plan, suggesting practical reasons for excluding the public from the workspace.

Since most of these collections require to be kept as much excluded from light and air as possible,
there will be a collection for public exhibition, containing species remarkable for their beauty,
or as being either useful or obnoxious; besides, a collection representing types of families, and
genera for entomological students. The other collections will always be accessible on special
application, or for purposes of study. (Annual Report, 1868:30)

The very formulation — the insects are especially delicate, they will still be accessible — implies
that Hagen knew he was proposing an exception to the policy Agassiz intended for the rest of his
collections.

Louis Agassiz clearly intended, in his 1867 instructions as in 1859, that the faunal collections
would allow scientists to uncover new truths about nature. And his hopes soon bore fruit, for the
assistant in charge of birds reported, “In connection with the faunal arrangment of the collection, a
special investigation of the Geographical Distribution of the Birds of North America has been
commenced” (Annual Report, 1868:24). Thus did Joel Asaph Allen begin the biogeographic studies
for which he is still remembered. For the most part, though, the complexity of Agassiz’s plans weighed
against their ever being accomplished, and his friends worried that he would die without having left
a clear impression of his ideas in the arrangement of his museum.

The plan that Alexander Agassiz executed did honor to his father’s memory by including both
the idea of synopsis and of geographic arrangement in the public rooms, but in each research
department, where the vast majority of specimens were stored in a single taxonomic arrangement,
Louis Agassiz’s novel notions were forgotten. There are hints in the Annual Reports that this shift in
plan was underway even before Louis Agassiz’s death, having begun soon after Hagen and other
curatorial staff were faced with the practical difficulties of following Agassiz’s instructions. During
the planning of the building expansion that took place in 1871-1872, father and son very likely
discussed museum arrangement. If so, Alexander Agassiz’s attribution of the “general plan” to his
father may not have been disingenuous.

From this distance, Alexander Agassiz’s reasons for celebrating his father are as transparent as
Wallace’s frustrations at the slow reform of British and Continental museums. What of our own
motives and interests? Is the job of historians only to set the record straight? Here the evidence, while
not strong enough to assign credits, is enough to justify withholding priority for Gray’s policy from
Louis Agassiz. Yet, our interest in the past surely includes the appreciation of unfamiliar ways of
thought, and we can be inspired by schemes that failed as well as by those that succeeded. The
strengths of Gray’s proposals were proven when, after considerable delay, museum directors began
to adopt them (Nyhart, 1998). In contrast, Louis Agassiz’s “notions of a Museum. . ., so different. . .
from those prevailing even among the most advanced students,” were stillborn. It may be that they
were so fraught with false assumptions and impracticalities that any attempt to implement them was

WINSOR: LOUIS AGASSIZ’S NOTIONS OF A MUSEUM 265

doomed. Yet, his utopian vision of a museum where researchers’ tentative arrangements would be
exposed to public gaze, that is, where there is no separation between exploration and teaching, has a
certain charm missing from Gray’s sensible plan.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Iam grateful to Michael Ghiselin, who invited me to the California Academy of Sciences in May,
1994, and to him and Giovanni Pinna, who together invited me to the Museo Civico di Storia Naturale
di Milano in November, 1996, for two congenial workshops which caused me to explore this story
more thoroughly than I had done in 1991. On those occasions, I profitted from stimulating discussions
with Paula Findlen, James Griesemer, Kevin Padian, David Lindberg, Nick Arnold, Claudine Cohen,
and especially with the remarkable Elihu Gerson. I also received helpful advice from Peter Stevens,
Sharon Kingsland, and Lynn Nyhart. Staff of the Museum of Comparative Zoology’s Ernst Mayr
Library, notably Robert Young and Dana Fisher, provided generous assistance at critical moments.
The suggestions offered by two anonymous referees improved my presentation, but | thank Alan
Leviton for allowing some of my fancies to stand. My research was supported by the Social Sciences
and Humanities Research Council of Canada, through the University of Toronto and Victoria
University.

NOTES

Louis Agassiz to Theodore Lyman, July 21, 1868. Lyman Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical
Society, Boston.

“The space I occupied on the fourth floor was similar to that on the second floor pictured in Winsor (1991,
p. 220).

3 In the Annual Report for 1892-93, Alexander Agassiz wrote, “. . . considerable time was spent by the
Professors and Instructors in preparing an exhibit for the [World’s] Columbian Exposition [in Chicago], specially
intended to illustrate the methods of instruction, and forming a part of the Harvard University exhibit. The
Museum sent plans of the Building, prepared under the supervision of Dr. Wolff, who also charged himself with
advising the Harvard Camera Club in regard to the views of the most characteristic Exhibition Rooms of the
Museum which accompanied them. The plans, and the photographs taken by the Camera Club and by Mr. J. L.
Gardner, will be hereafter most useful . . .” (p. 4). In my 1991 book, others from this set are reproduced (figs.
34, 35, and 39).

He includes complete floorplans, first in 1878 and again in 1889; the later ones are reproduced in Winsor
(1991:184—189).

° The location of this room can be seen in Winsor (1991:185, fig. 29); the Annual Report for 1875 gives
plans that show its gallery. Another of the oldest rooms, at gallery level, can be seen in fig. 43 (p. 220).

Lynn K. Nyhart mentions evidence for the early impact of Gray’s ideas in a book on German museums
now in progress.

Of the five systematic rooms, the only one open to the public today is that for mammals, the others having
been made into workrooms by being floored across at the gallery level. Wallace saw two whale skeletons in the
mammal room, for the sperm whale in Figure 2 was added a few years later (Annual Report, 1890-1891:4).
Thankfully the museum authorities have been sensitive enough to this room’s history that the words “Systematic
Collection of Mammals” remain painted on the wall.

Wallace relates his frustration with petty museum red tape in his 1905 autobiography, vol. 2, pp. 376-377.

Meyer (1905) is a translation of Meyer (1904), where the original reads “Schon 1860 hatte L. Agassiz,
vielleicht als erster, die Grundsatze entwickelt,*) nach denen er in dem vergleichend zoologischen Museum, das
er in Cambridge in den Vereinigten Staaten einzurichte hatte, eine Schausammlung ftir den Besucher von einer
wissenschaftlichen Sammlung ftir den Forscher zu trennen beabsichtigte, was er denn auch wenige Jahre spater
ausfuhrte” (pp. 93-94).

266 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

'0 7 am indebted to Dana Fisher, Special Collections Assistant at the Ernst Mayr Library, for locating the
Meyer correspondence and summarizing its contents for me.

' The lecture was delivered in English but published in French, because his Boston audience included
George-Auguste Matile (1807-1881), who sent a report of what Agassiz had said back to Switzerland, where it
was published.

'- 1 am indebted to Dana Fisher, Special Collections Assistant at the Ernst Mayr Library, for comparing the
two versions of Alexander Agassiz’s 1902 speech.

aa Agassiz to P. R. Uhler, 6 April 1864, Special Collections, Ernst Mayr Library, Museum of Comparative
Zoology, Cambridge, Massachusetts.

'4 References to the 1867 “Instructions” are to the page numbers of the manuscript, indicated in brackets in
my transcript.

'S | discuss this taxonomic idea in Winsor (1991:19—27), but my claim there that he fell silent about this idea
soon after publishing his 1857 “Essay on Classification” is mistaken, for clearly he still hoped to find support
for it within his museum in the late 1860s.

LITERATURE CITED

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Aaassiz, L. 1859. [speech to Visiting Committee of Lawrence Scientific School, January 1859] American
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Aaassiz, L. 1861. [the best arrangement of a Zodlogical Museum] Proceedings of the Boston Society of Natural
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AGassiz, L. 1867. Instructions given by Prof. L. Agassiz, October 1867. Manuscript UAV.298.367 in Special
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Aaassiz, L. 1962. Essav on Classification [1857], edited by E. Lurie. Belknap Press, Cambridge.

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WINSOR: LOUIS AGASSIZ’S NOTIONS OF A MUSEUM 267

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APPENDIX

Transcription of handwritten document UAV.298.367 in the Special Collections of the
Ernst Mayr Library, Museum of Comparative Zoology, Harvard University

(Instructions given by Prof. L. Agassiz October 1867)

(This written by Hermann Hagen. Text dictated by Louis Agassiz to an unknown amanuensis. |

General systematic Collection

This Collection is to record all the work done in the Museum, to identify the specimens: — it is
not intended to exhibit the characteristic features of the species — This will be done in the faunal
collections. The systematic collection is to be, as it were, a register, systematically arranged, of
authentic specimens, the identification of which may be trusted: select specimens of all the species,
which have been named by recognized authorities ought therefore to be put up in this Collection, &
as far as possible provided with labels in the hand writing of those who named them. It is equally
desirable that the origin of these species should be well authenticated, & the precise origin of the
specimen ought to be recorded, on the label, with the name; but specimens, the origin of which is

268 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

unknown are not to be excluded from the systematic collection whenever their name has been
identified by trust worthy authorities.

With reference to the arrangment of the Collections still in bulk in the Museum, only such
specimens should at first be transferred to the systematic Collection which are already

[p. 2] labelled by some acknowledged authority. & if the specimens are numerous, only one or two
should be transferred to the systematic collections, and the rest reserved for the faunal Collections.
In disposing of the specimens, the following considerations should serve as a guide. Whenever the
specimens are exactly alike & no essential differences exist between the males & females, one
specimen alone should be transferred to the systematic collection, — but whenever there exist marked
sexual differences, a pair should be selected, & the original label should be transferred to the
systematic collection with the specimens: —a new label is to be written out to remain with the
specimens that are not transferred to the Systematic Collection, — this new label is to contain every
information which the original label furnished. The specimens so provided with new labels may now
be transferred to the faunal Collections to which they belong, if they are provided with an authentic
indication of their origin; but if the origin is doubtful or only general, the specimen had better be
transferred to the duplicates, rather than to the faunal collections.

[p. 3] Faunal Collections

All the specimens gathered in the Museum, the origin of which is perfectly authentic ought to
serve as basis for the arrangment of faunal collections. It is of no consequence whether the specimens
are named or not; all that is required to give them a place in the faunal collections is that there should
be no doubt as to their origin; & by this | mean not in a general way the country in which they were
collected, or even the state; but the special locality must be known:— specimens labelled as collected
in Brazil, or Australia, or in the United States, or in Europe have no claim to a place in a faunal
Collection: if from Switzerland it must be known whether they were collected in the Jura, or in the
plain, or in the Alps, in Subalpine, or higher Alpine regions etc. If in France, whether in the Pyrrenees,
or Mountains of Auvergne, or the Cevennes, or in the lowlands of the West, or in the departments
along the Mediterranean, or in those bordering the British Channel etc. Specimens from Europe
without such precise locality must be transferred to the systematic Collection, when carefully named,
or treated as duplicates. The same applies to specimens from all other parts of the world; and North
American

[p. 4] insects, in the Museum, not carefully labelled in this way may be put up in the systematic
collection, if they are provided with authentic labels, or with the duplicates for our foreign exchange.

In collecting specimens for the faunal Collections it ought to be remembered that these collections
are to afford information, which is not recorded with sufficient accuracy or to a sufficient extent
elsewhere, and that when fairly arranged they may be of great importance for the progress of Science.
As it is impossible beforehand to determine within what geographical areas these faune are
circumscribed, nor indeed where their centre & their periphery may be, the first attempts at an
arrangement must atall events be considered as provisional. It is indeed possible that the most valuable
collections we possess have been gathered in localities where two faune meet, & in a manner overlap
one another. It is therefore possible that even those collections we possess from the best authenticated
localities are a mixture of two distinct faunee, & may therefore furnish no accurate indication of the
zoological character of either the one, or the other of these faunz. It will require great discretion, &
an unknown amount of patience to start rightly in laying a foundation for these faunal collections —
I conceive for instance that the neighborhood of Boston & Cambridge

WINSOR: LOUIS AGASSIZ’S NOTIONS OF A MUSEUM 269

[p. 5] afford special difficulties in studying the faunal arrangement of the insects. Guided by the little
experience | have thus far had, I believe that to the east of the hills of Somerville, excluding the
immediate sea-shore, the fauna will partake of the character of Maine, south of the White Mountains,
— while the flats of Charles river & East and South Boston, Dorchester etc — will share the character
of the maritime shore throughout New England. If this be true, it is evident that a collection made
promiscuously within ten miles of Cambridge, with this place as a centre, would contain repre-
sentatives of two distinct faune, and I have satisfied myself that the summit of the prominent hills
about Waltham nourish species which belong to the White Mountain fauna. There are therefore three
faune within ten miles of Cambridge, & it is evident therefore that the collection, embracing all the
insects that may be found within ten miles of Cambridge would be a mixture of three different faunz.
As the faunal Collections are intended to exhibit the species in their natural relation to their homes,
the specimens for these collections should be so selected as to represent each species in all its stages
of growth with everything that may illustrate its history —
In the first place it should contain

[p. 6] a good many adult specimens with all their varieties, and in the case of insects, undergoing
metamorphosis, it should contain several chrysalids, in all their stages, & also a number of eggs. In
the case of insects with imperfect metamorphosis, such as the grasshoppers, it should contain a series
of immature specimens of all sizes, from their first escape from the egg to maturity, & eggs also —
In the second place and with reference to insects remarkable for their skill in building shelter or
otherwise providing for their progeny, all these structures should be carefully collected. { {The
question as to the best arrangement of all these materials will require farther thought & consideration.

As long as the natural boundaries of the different faunz are not confidently ascertained, it would
seem preferable to include the perfect insects only in the systematic arrangement of the faunal
collections; and to arrange the larvae, with the various structures of these insects separately, & it is
my opinion that in the end it will be desirable to devise an arrangement that will admit of a combination
of all these things in one series, & thus disclose which are the industrious insects, & which are not,
which are useful & which injurious to man, animals & vegetation, & which undergo a more perfect
metamorphosis, or none at all. It will be particularly desirable to keep up a regular intercourse with
farmers & agriculturalists in order to give them desirable information, & to obtain from them large
supplies of insects invading cultivated lands and the regular crops of our gardens & fields.

[p. 7] Synoptical Collection

The Class of insects is so numerous that a systematic collection embracing all the species we
now possess in the Museum would be of little use to students, who have not yet made much progress
in the knowledge of these animals. To satisfy the wants of this class of visitors & students, it is
desirable to put up a synoptical collection, containing only a limited number of representatives of the
different orders, families & genera of insects. It will at first be difficult to find the true limits of a
synoptical collection, & in the beginning we must in a great measure be guided by our supplies,
admitting perhaps such species to represent their genus, which are not the most characteristic, but
may be the only one we possess.

In course of time we may replace those species by others that will answer the purpose better.
Groups that are largely represented in nature should also have several representatives in this synoptical
collection, while groups which are not numerous should be indicated by few species, so that the
student, at the very outset, learns, even from so small a collection as this must of necessity remain,
what are in reality the numeric proportions of different types of insects.

270 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

I hold for instance that among the carnivorous beetles, Manticora should be represented by a
single specimen, Cicindela by half a dozen of the different types of one genus, such as

[p. 8] Germanica, Hybrida, Maritima, Chinensis &c — Cychrus by one single specimen — Calisona
by one single specimen. Carabus by ten or twelve of the different types, Procrustes by a single
specimen — and so on; so that the whole collection of Cleoptera [sic] may be included in two or three
cases, — the different families being separated by an interval & labelled in larger letters, — and the
genera separated by a smaller interval & labelled in smaller letters.

I think the whole collection of Orthoptera might be at first contained in a single case, that of
Lepidoptera may occupy three cases,— that of Hymenoptera two cases etc — But the proper
measure of all this must be ascertained by experiment. As this synoptic collection is to give to the
students the first idea of the systematic relation of the class or insects & their general character, — it
ought to contain all the indications that may be furnished concerning the metamorphoses of the insects
selected to represent their natural groups, & in putting up the larvee by the side of the perfect insect,
the student may be taught in the very beginning that the scientific study of Entomology does not
consist mainly in an investigation of the characteristics of the perfect insects but should embrace all
their stages of growth. Preparations, exhibiting the most obvious characters of the principal groups,

[p. 9] such as the structure of the wings and the parts of the mouth, should be placed at the head of
each larger group. Students, who enter the laboratory with the view of studying insects may be directed
to make such preparations, and when successful their work may be put up in this synoptic collection.
In former years I caused Mr. Scudder, Packard & Shurtleff, while they were students in the laboratory,
to make a good many such preparations; but they were never properly put up, & have been allowed
to decay.

{p. 10] Structural Collection

There is one side of the study of insects which is rarely represented by special collections even
in the largest & best organized Zodlogical Museums, and only finds its place in Museums of
Comparative Anatomy. | think that the isolation of anatomical investigation of insects from their
zodlogical study is greatly detrimental to the scientific progress of entomology. At all events in a
Museum, which has the name of a Museum of Comparative Zodlogy, and which is therefore not
intended to contain merely zodlogical specimens, but to illustrate at the same time the anatomical
structure of all the objects it embraces, such a separation of the collections into an anatomical & a
zoological collection is not admissable. | hold therefore that our entomological collection must
embrace anatomical preparations, illustrating in the fullest manner the anatomical stucture of all the
articulates. But here the preparations necessary for this purpose ought to be arranged in a different
manner from that usually adopted in anatomical Museums. The aim of the Museum of Comparative
Zoology is not to illustrate the functions of the organs of insects, as contrasted with those of the other
great types of the Animal Kingdom; it cannot be our object

[p. //] to illustrate the various modifications of the nervous system through the whole series of
articulates, or the various forms of the digestive, respitory [sic] or reproductive organs. Our object
must be to show what are the combinations of these different systems of organs in each of the more
comprehensive, & in all the subordinate groups of the type of articulates.

Thus I would have preparations made to show what are the characteristic, structural features of
the type of articulates as a whole, & these preparations should not enter into any exhibition of any
anatomical detail by which insects for instance may be distinguished from Crustacea, or Crustacea

WINSOR: LOUIS AGASSIZ’S NOTIONS OF A MUSEUM 271

from worms; but only such anatomical preparations which show the characters common to them all,
whether in their perfect condition, or in their larval state. The second series of preparations should
exhibit all the anatomical characters, which distinguish the classes of articulates one from the other
—that is to say, the anatomical peculiarities, which distinguish the insects as a class from the
Crustacea as a class, and the worms from both.

The result of this study must decide the limitations of the classes, & teach us for instance whether
the insects proper constitute a different class from the Arachnids & the Myriapods, or whether all
three belong to one class. The same investigation must settle the question

[p. 12] whether Annelids & Helminths belong to one & the same class, or form two distinct classes,
and whether the Rotifera are to be associated with the worms, or with the Crustacea. { {The third
series of preparations ought to illustrate the anatomical characters of the orders in each class, & these
preparations wil! decide for instance such questions as whether Myriapods, Arachnids and true insects
are orders of one and the same class, or not, or whether Coleoptera, Orthoptera, Neuroptera,
Hymenoptera, Lepidoptera, Hemiptera, Diptera &c are natural divisions of the character of orders,
or not; for I hold that such questions can no longer be left to the arbitrary decision of entomologists;
but are subjects to be decided by special scientific investigations. { {The fourth series of preparations
ought to illustrate the anatomical characters of all the natural families in each of the larger groups of
the Articulates, & these preparations are to decide whether the many groups, which have been called
families by entomologists are really natural families, deserving to be considered as such, or may be
groups of a higher, or lower standing: { {Finally the fifth series of preparations ought to illustrate the
anatomical characters of each genus deserving a place in the natural system as a genus.

[p. 13] The various structures built by insects, such as the nests of bees, and all the various means
which insects employ to provide for their existence, or that of their progeny, are natural manifestations
of their faculties, which we commonly call instinct. But inasmuch as insects of allied groups, and
which have therefore a similar anatomical structure build in a similar way, it seems natural to assume
that all these industries of the different insects are as many manifestations of their diversified
structures.

I hold therefore that all the various productions of the different groups of insects are to be
considered as much as characteristics of their respective groups, as the various implements of different
races among men are characteristic of their intellectual capacity, and therefore I hold that repre-
sentations of the various characteristic industries of the different types of insects ought to be included
in this structural collection. I do not mean to say that we should put by complete collections of these
industrial products in the structural collection; for the endless diversity of these products belongs to
the faunal collections, but I would include in the stuctural collections specimens of each kind of insect
industry, which characterises a special mode of life, & is therefore indicative of a special faculty in
the insects from which they originate.

Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA.
All rights reserved.

to

in)

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

A Bioeconomic Perspective on the
Organization of the Naples Zoological Station

MICHAEL T. GHISELIN® and CHRISTIANE GROEBEN”
* Center for the History and Philosophy of Science, California Academy of Sciences,
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118 USA (E-mail: 110640.3011@compuserve.com);
> Stazione Zoologica «Anton Dohrn», Villa Comunale, 80121 Napoli, Italy (E-mail: groeben@alpha.szn. it)

Marine stations are widely recognized as an important kind of scientific institution, and historians
have devoted a considerable amount of attention to them (Benson, 1995). One reason is that they can
be pleasant places to work, not just for scientists, but for historians too. Another is that some very
important research has been done at them. Such research forms major chapters in the biographies and
autobiographies of many biologists. The institutional setting is crucial to the understanding of what
went on.

A particularly important example of such an institu-
tion is the Zoological Station at Naples, Italy. It was a
remarkably successful institution, and its success can be
largely attributed to the organizational and administra-
tive genius of its founder, Anton Dohrn (1840-1909)
(Fig. 1). Indeed, Dohrn’s performance in creating the
institution has led to a de-emphasis by historians of his
accomplishments as a scientist. Here we shall argue to
the contrary. Dohrn was in fact a good scientist, and the
kind of science that he did helps to explain his success as
an administrator. He was a comparative anatomist with a
functional outlook, and that may help to explain his
capacity to understand how things are, and should be,
organized.

It is important to emphasize the difference between
such a functional anatomical approach, and the kind of
morphology that traditionally has treated function as of
no particular interest (see Reif, 1983; Ghiselin, 1994,
1996). Dohrn treated the organism as a coadapted system
of interdependent parts, and the station as he created it FiGurE 1. Anton Dohrn.
had just such organismal qualities. One point that
emerges from the present study is the manner in which labor was both divided and combined within
the organization. The traditional theory of the division of labor that goes back to Adam Smith tended
to presuppose that the further tasks are subdivided, the better. Bioeconomists have emphasized the
advantages of combining labor as well as dividing it (Ghiselin, 1974, 1978). Combining functions
within an organization is particularly important where there is a need for communication among its
subdivisions.

In the present essay we look at Dohrn’s accomplishment from a broadly economic point of view.
For those unfamiliar with recent developments in the science of economics, it should be stressed at
the outset that we are only incidentally concerned with the financial aspect of the enterprise.
Economics is the science of resources; it is not by definition a social science and has no necessary

273

274 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

connection with business (Ghiselin, 1986). We are rather concerned with how organisms obtain and
allocate resources, including their time and their skills. It does not matter whether we apply optimal
foraging theory to a shore-bird or a marine biologist: the laws and principles are one and the same.
For those interested in the more traditional aspects of economics, there is already an outstanding book
by Partsch (1980) that provides detailed information about the funding of the Station and its political
circumstances. The literature on Dohrn and the Station contains a lot of material that can be pressed
into service in such an analysis as this (Kithn, 1950; Fischer, 1980; Groeben, 1985; Heuss, 1991;
Ghiselin and Groeben, 1997). We should also give credit to an excellent, but brief, article written
from the managerial point of view (De Masi, 1987).

Scope

Investigative behavior often includes moving from one place to another. That takes time and
energy that might be expended in some other way. If equipment is involved, or if there are specimens
to be brought back, there is a cost of carriage additional to that of transporting the scientist. It therefore
stands to reason that a scientist undertaking an excursion into the field will engage in the sort of
economic behavior that characterizes animal life in general. Various steps will be taken to maximize
the amount of return on time and other resources that are invested. If the field work involves hiking
and camping out, the economic rationale may be much the same as that of a recreational hiker and
camper. One uses light-weight equipment and keeps it to a minimum. Gear may be shared with
traveling companions.

Scientists, however, have somewhat different goals and interests from those of tourists. A look
at how scientific excursions to the shore gave rise to permanent bases of operation there should help
to explain why such laboratories came to exist. We can then press the analysis a bit further, and see
how the manner in which the Naples laboratory was organized also illustrates some important
principles of institutional economic organization.

This study focuses on marine biology, a science for which permanent laboratories at the shore
have had a particularly important role. Similar considerations might be made for other disciplines,
such as limnology. Marine biology, of course, has also been done on board ships, which solve some
of the traveling scientist’s problems but create others. Let us say just a few words about this mode of
operation as part of the introductory background material. Transport by water is cheap, and a
passenger on board a ship can have a fairly large amount of equipment with him: perhaps a substantial
library. Space, however, is at a premium on ships, and for this and other reasons it is harder to work
on board than on shore. A lot of scientists who worked on board ships did so attached to teams that
were sent out for exploration or other purposes. Darwin is a familiar example. A common practice
was to combine the labor of medical and scientific personnel on board: good examples are Darwin’s
friends and supporters Thomas Henry Huxley (1825-1895) and Joseph Dalton Hooker (1817-1911).
A ship’s doctor’s essential duties could be discharged on a part-time basis under routine conditions.
However, the arrangement could be rather unsatisfactory from the scientist’s point of view. Dohrn
actually took advantage of such situations; he set up a training program in marine biology so that
Italian naval officers could do something useful in their spare time (Groeben 1988). Where the ship’s
captain wanted to go was not necessarily where the scientist did. Dedicated research vessels designed
and operated to serve the scientists’ needs were a later development. They were also expensive. Even
the Challenger expedition of the late nineteenth century, however well equipped and staffed it was
scientifically, had its tasks largely determined by the government’s priorities and of course things
have never changed altogether (Ghiselin, 1989).

GHISELIN & GROEBEN:NAPLES ZOOLOGICAL STATION 275

Traditional Excursions

Scientists might travel by themselves or with one or a few companions. There were distinct
limitations in the amount of equipment that they could take with them as baggage. From the accounts
of travelers who were on their own much of the time, there were some basic pieces of equipment that
may be treated as fixed costs: a microscope, rudimentary collecting gear, materials for dissecting,
drawing, and preserving. Traveling in pairs or small groups has the advantage that certain items might
be shared. There could be more division of labor within the kit of equipment that was carried. They
could also provide one another with other things that they valued, such as intellectual companionship
(and perhaps drinking companionship).

It makes sense, therefore, that groups of scien-
tists, including teachers with their students, would
make a joint venture of a visit to the shore. Professor
Johannes Miller (1801-1858) of Berlin was largely
responsible for the tradition of annual trips to Helgo-
land (Fig. 2) (Florey, 1995; Zissler, 1995). Both his
student Ernst Haeckel (1834-1919) (in 1854) and
Haeckel’s student Dohrn (in 1865) participated in
such trips. So did a lot of other important nineteenth
century biologists.

Among German scientists there was also a most
venerable tradition of traveling to Italy. There was a
superb role model in Goethe’s travels as described in
his /talienische Reise. There was not just a mystique,
but outright mysticism, in Goethe’s quest for the
Urpflanze. It is hard to say how much mystical bag-
gage Haeckel took with him, but he made a literary-
artistic bash of his trip to Italy in 1859 and 1860, just
as the Darwinian Revolution was beginning
(Haeckel, 1921). Haeckel’s (1862) monograph on
Radiolaria, which initiated his campaign for Darwinism, was based on work done in Italy.

The scientific travelers found quite a number of good places to visit, most notably Messina with
its rich semi-tropical biota (Groeben, 1996). Somewhat to the north lay Naples, and there were also
various sites, such as Villefranche-sur-Mer, along the Riviera, Trieste and finally Naples. But they
did not have fixed bases of operation. When in Naples, Haeckel set himself up in rented rooms on
the water front. Others, such as the Russians Kowalevsky and Metschnikoff, obviously did much the
same. From favorite sites to more permanent establishments at such sites is not a big step, but there
were both incentives and disincentives. Among the incentives were, of course, the solution of such
problems as the cost of carriage already mentioned. Another important incentive was the reduction
of various transaction costs. The travelers had to negotiate for such amenities as housing. They might
also need to arrange for the rental of boats or the assistance of local fishermen. This might take a
considerable amount of time. The disincentives may be a bit less obvious. Mobility allowed the
scientists to get away from circumstances that prove unsatisfactory. It also meant that they could visit
a larger range and variety of sites. This was particularly important for those whose work depended
upon such variety, especially systematists. We should also note that in the beginning the relative
advantages of the various sites was still being explored, and that the needs of the scientists were

FiGuRE 2. Haeckel (standing right), Dohrn (standing
left) and students at Helgoland, August 1865.

276 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

changing. It was hard to predict what site would be optimal for a permanent base. And unless a
substantial number of scientists could agree that a site would be optimal, they could not enjoy the
economies of scale that result from all of them working together in the same place. Therefore, any
number of reasons would inhibit them from sinking capital into such an establishment, over and above
whether such capital was available.

Karl Ernst von Baer (1792-1876) was generally recognized as the greatest of living embryolo-
gists when Dohrn sought his assistance in founding the Station (see Groeben, 1993). Von Baer was
strongly supportive, and also helpful because of his ability to influence the Russian government and
scientific establishment. His enthusiasm no doubt had something to do with his frustrations in
attempting to work in temporary quarters. In 1845 he had great difficulty obtaining sea-urchin
embryos at Trieste. Towards the end of his stay he succeeded, but the chambermaid, not knowing
what they were, threw them out.

Early Efforts to Establish a Permanent Laboratory

Carl Vogt (1817-1895) was a zoologist and geologist who was notorious for his materialistic
philosophy. He also was an enthusiast for evolutionary thinking at a time when it was considered
reprehensible but still had some following, especially among political dissidents. Vogt translated the
Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation, a popular work on evolution published anonymously by
Robert Chambers (1844, 1847), from English into German (Vogt, 1858). Vogt’s efforts to establish
a permanent marine laboratory, and also the advice and assistance that he gave to Dohrn, have been
described in considerable detail by Groeben (1998). He worked at Nice during the winters of
1846-1847 and 1850-1852. In the early 1860s he attempted to establish a permanent laboratory, first
at Nice, then Villefranche, and finally at Naples, but without success. His radical politics and lack of
the proper connections may have had something to do with it, but probably the need was not yet
strongly felt by enough of the scientific community. The more conservative Frenchman Henri de
Lacaze-Duthiers (1821-1901) was more successful. He established a laboratory at Roscoff in the
north of France at around the same time that Dohrn established the Naples laboratory (Pruvot, 1902).

Anton Dohrn (1840-1909) had certain advantages over Vogt. Not the least was the circumstances
of his family. Because his father was a rich industrialist and a serious amateur entomologist, he was
well connected both politically and scientifically. Anton Dohrn worked on insects early in his career,
but switched to crustaceans when he came under the influence of Darwinian thinking. He studied at
K6nigsberg, Bonn, Jena and Berlin. Dohm was associated with Haeckel at Jena early in his career,
but broke with him partly on philosophical grounds. They were together at Helgoland in the summer
of 1865, which was the year before Haeckel’s Generelle Morphologie was published. Dohrn’s shift
away from insects, the topic of his doctoral dissertation (Dohrn, 1865), to other arthropods and
especially crustaceans, occurred that year as well. The rationale for this shift is clear enough. The
science of phylogenetics had become recognized, and ambitious scientists were now looking for more
remote connections among organisms. The principle of embryonic recapitulation was propounded
by Fritz Miiller (1864) and then given a central place in Haeckel’s approach (Haeckel, 1866). The
early branching events in the metazoan tree had taken place in the sea, and that is were Dohrn and
others began to look in order to fill in the big picture. They were not disappointed. A. O. Kowalevsky
(1866) was able to relate the vertebrates to a particular group of invertebrates on the basis of the larvae
of tunicates. Dohrn’s choice of crustaceans as material was perhaps serendipitous, but it put him in
a particularly good position to understand Darwin’s barnacle phylogenetics. Correspondence between

GHISELIN & GROEBEN:NAPLES ZOOLOGICAL STATION 277

Darwin and Dohrn began on 26 November 1867 and Dohrn
visited Darwin on 26 September 1870. Darwin was a strong
supporter of Dohrn’s efforts to found the Station (Groeben,
1982).

Dohrn habilitated at Jena on 11 November 1867, thus
becoming a junior faculty member in Haeckel’s department.
In 1868 Dohrn spent several months with David Robertson
(1806-1896) near Glasgow, Scotland. He had a home near
the water and the advantages must have been quite evident.
While there he invented a portable aquarium (Fig. 3) for the
use of scientists. This he took with him to Messina in October
where he worked together with the young Russian zoologist
Nikolai Miklucho Maclay (1846-1888). At that time Dohrn began to take steps to found a permanent
station at Messina. It would be one of many small stations in various localities. He discussed his plans
with Vogt and others.

FiGure 3. Portable aquaria.

The Naples Station

In 1870 Dohrn decided to build the station at Naples (Fig. 4) rather than Messina. There were
several reasons for choosing Naples. It had a good biota, and it was reasonably accessible. But the
reason most often given was Dohrn’s idea of associating it with a public aquarium. Naples was a
major tourist center, and the price of admission would provide an economic base for the scientific
enterprise. Once the station was built it did indeed contain a superb public aquarium, and it did bring
in a substantial amount of income. However, the net receipts were somewhat disappointing, and the
aquarium never sufficed to cover the expenses of the Station. There are both advantages and
disadvantages to such an integration of a profit-making enterprise into what is basically a non-profit
institution. The sometimes unreliable nature of the income is one example of a disadvantage. The
tastes of tourists are apt to change. And there were cholera outbreaks in Naples that kept both tourists
and scientists away. On the positive side, the combination lowered fixed costs. A seawater system,
with all its pumps and pipes, is costly both to build and to maintain, but serving both the aquarium
and the laboratories lowered the fixed costs. Likewise there were advantages with respect to obtaining
animals for both research and display. The supply department branched out and sold collections of
preserved specimens. The techniques for anesthetizing and preserving the specimens were worked
out in house, largely through the efforts of Salvatore Lo Bianco (1860-1910) (Fig. 5), who joined the
staff at the age of fourteen and became a scientist in his own right. The practical need for scientists
to know when the animals were available and reproducing led to publications that were of no small
interest from the point of view of pure science (Lo Bianco, 1888, 1899, 1909). For some time the
preservation techniques were kept a trade secret, which is, of course, a standard means of creating
and maintaining a monopoly. It turned out, however, that publishing the techniques used in preser-
vation had no significant effect on sales because Dohrn had a sufficiently effective organization that
others could not compete with his. One problem with the arrangement was that fishermen who brought
in specimens wanted to maintain their own monopoly and not reveal where the specimens came from.
This tended to militate against the scientists collecting and observing the organisms that they studied
in the field (Fig. 6). Dohrn considered the possibility of supplying living organisms, but decided that
doing so would over-extend the station’s resources. Transport of living animals over long distances
was still quite difficult in those days and a laboratory at Rovigo had already specialized in this service.

278 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Ficure 4. Stazione Zoologica «Anton Dohm», 1875, engraving.

FiGure 5. Salvatore Lo Bianco (3rd from left) in the Sorting Room, ca. 1890.

GHISELIN & GROEBEN:NAPLES ZOOLOGICAL STATION 279

Ficure 6. Diver (Harry Luman Russell) stepping down into the water, 1891.

The real monetary base lay elsewhere. Dohrn used a lot of his personal fortune plus contributions
from his father to build and equip the Station; it remained his property and was passed on to his heirs.
There were also substantial contributions from other wealthy persons and a subvention from the
German government. He might have charged the visiting scientists “bench fees” for using the
facilities. However, he did something much more creative and subtle, which was to create the “table”
system. He had governments, universities, and other institutions, such as the British Association for
the Advancement of Science, pay a sort of retainer. Dohrn would then make the facilities available
to the scientists, who applied to the sponsoring institution for permission to use the table. This gave
Dohrn a means of pressuring governments to fund the Station and its activities, and to do so on a
regular basis. There was a drawback, however, insofar as not all governments were equally inclined
to fund tables. This was most conspicuously the case with France, which had recently suffered a
humiliating defeat at the hands of Prussia. The American Women’s Table (Fig. 7) is a particularly
good example of Dohrn’s attempt to create a truly cosmopolitan institution (Sloan, 1978).

How the Station was Run and Organized

The advantages of working at the Station are abundantly clear from the lavish praise bestowed
by those who took advantage of them (Boveri, 1910; Driesch, 1951; Metschnikoff quoted in Ghiselin

280 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

and Groeben, 1997). All the Gastforscher had
to do was let the administration know what
would be needed and Dohrn’s staff would do
their best to see that it was available. The rest
was a matter of packing one’s baggage and
taking the train or a ship. Although unusual
equipment might have to be included in the
baggage or sent ahead, the usual reagents and
the like were already in place. Housing was
pre-arranged, and the animals that had been
requested would be there and ready for use
when the scientists arrived for work the first
day. There was a very competent staff, includ-
ing Dohrn’s Assistants, who were themselves
working scientists and who were able to provide FiGurE 7. Nettie Stevens at a microscope.

all sorts of advice.

The Assistants were responsible for much of the high-level infrastructure. Because they were
expected to be productive scientists, they had a vested interest in the quality of that infrastructure. A
good example is the library. It had all the latest journals and much else besides. Dohrn’s personal
library served as the nucleus, and he requested and obtained all sorts of donations, especially in kind.

There were also the publications of the Station, mainly sent out to publicize work done there, but
reciprocated to some extent by other institutions. The Mittheilungen aus der Zoologischen Station zu
Neapel, zugleich ein Repertorium ftir Mittelmeerkunde, which appeared at more or less regular
intervals beginning in 1879, provided a convenient outlet for work that was done at the Station,
including that of Dohrn and his staff. There was also a series of taxonomic monographs, Fauna und
Flora des Golfes von Neapel und der angrenzenden Meeres-Abschnitte, the first of which was
published in 1880. It was sold by subscription thereby increasing sales and lowering costs. Well-to-do
book collectors who were not professional scientists often subscribed, partly because the plates turned
out to be so attractive, further increasing the press runs. Such monographs are useful scientific
infrastructure. However, publishing the series also helped to support the Assistants, and constituted
a major part of their scientific output. Dohrn wrote the one on pycnogonids himself (see below). And
finally there was an abstracting journal, Zoologischer Jahresbericht. It was supposed to compete with
the Zoological Record and similar journals, and the first report, for 1879, was published in 1880.
Again, it helped to support the Assistants, but there were other benefits. Authors sent reprints of their
publications, and these made their way into the Station’s library. Also, producing the reports helped
to keep the staff and the other scientists working there up to date on the latest developments in
research.

Another enterprise was research and development in microtechnique (Ankel, 1963). Dohrn
established close linkages with the German dye industry and manufacturers of equipment such as
microtomes and microscopes (Zeiss in particular sent sets of instruments). His staff tested the
equipment and developed the procedures for its use, making them available for the visiting scientists.
The scientists on the one hand had access to the latest technology, and on the other hand tested it out
in practice. The program was very successful. Scientists went to the Station for the purpose of learning
the techniques as well as availing themselves of the services. One result was a manual of microtech-
nique, upon which later ones were modelled (Lee and Mayer, 1898 and later editions).

GHISELIN & GROEBEN:NAPLES ZOOLOGICAL STATION 281

The Intellectual Economy

One of the major advantages enjoyed by scientists
while working at the Station was the opportunity it
afforded for communication with colleagues (Fig. 8).
Dohrn referred to it as a permanent zoological congress.
The scientists who worked there often praised this aspect
of life at the Station. Unfortunately for historians, we
have virtually no record of the scientists’ conversations.
We do know that they got together for parties, that they
often met at a wine shop, and that they took excursions
together (Eisig, 1916; Driesch, 1951). A little material
on what they said to one another has turned up in the
correspondence, but how much can be recovered is an
open question.

Continued Growth and Expansion

The Station was a non-profit organization, even
though it raised money by selling goods and services.
There is at least one good reason why non-profit organi- "
zations exist: they supply high-quality information RS ST TE
(Weisbrod, 1988). What has been said here about the
Station, including the personal contacts between scientists from all over the civilized world, supports
this interpretation. It provided a kind of infrastructure that was highly valued by the scientific
community for that very reason. However, it did not meet all of everybody’s needs, and it met the
needs of some scientists more than others. For that reason Dohrn’s goal of establishing an institution
devoted to the study of evolution was not fully realized.

Centralization allowed for a larger institution, with concomitant economies of scale. The library,
for example, could have a larger number of books and journals per user. However, there are
disadvantages to having just one such institution, some of them more obvious than others. The farther
the scientists had to travel to reach the Station the less the incentive to go there, especially for shorter
periods of time. Distance seems to have been one factor in getting governmental support for tables.
And finally, rich though the Naples fauna was, it did not include all the animals of interest to
zoologists. There was still an incentive for traveling from place to place, and this helped to encourage
the founding of laboratories that to some extent competed with the one at Naples. Dohrn had, in fact,
originally intended to establish a series of stations in various places, but it was not to his advantage
to dilute the effort.

There are some remarkable similarities between the Naples laboratory and others such as those
at Plymouth and Woods Hole (Groeben, 1985; Maienschein, 1985; Monroy and Groeben, 1985). This
is hardly surprising because the Naples laboratory was the inspiration for the rest, and there was plenty
of opportunity for imitation. However, there were important differences. Teaching was an important
activity at Woods Hole, and it helped to strengthen the activities of the laboratory (Russell-Hunter,
1985). A teaching program often gives faculty an opportunity that would otherwise not be possible
to work at the shore. Dohrn, however, felt that courses were quite unnecessary and that they would
interfere with his ideals with respect to freedom of research.

282 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

One way that Dohrn managed to increase the demand for the facilities of the station was to enlarge
the scope of its activities. Although called a zoological station, its activities included botany and other
sciences. The original building, opened in September 1873, was supplemented by a physiological
laboratory, with a new building for it opened in October 1888. To accommodate an even more
expanded program in physiology, microbiology and other disciplines, a third building was erected;
it opened in 1906. Dohrn’s original intent had been to create a center for evolutionary research, but
he insisted on giving the scientists working at the Station complete intellectual freedom. He believed
that physiology and other branches of biology would help realize his own Darwinian goals. Things
did not turn out quite as he had hoped.

The kind of evolutionary biology that the Station was originally intended to support was mainly
systematics based on comparative anatomy and embryology. The systematic monographs that were
produced at the station generally included revisions of entire groups and were not limited to the Naples
fauna and flora, although that was their focus. For higher-level classification and phylogeny, the
opportunities lay in studying the anatomy, and more especially the embryology, of a representative
sample of animals, especially ones with primitive traits. Organisms of great interest were, in fact,
available at Naples. However, good material, and different material, was also available elsewhere.
This encouraged the practice of working at other locations. For systematic work it was advantageous
to have living organisms available to study. However, much research was carried out on preserved
materials, and ones that had been made up into slides for microscopy. In many ways it was more
convenient and efficient to study such preserved material in museums, including those run by
universities, even 1f they were prepared at Naples.

Towards the end of the nineteenth century comparative anatomy and embryology became
somewhat less fashionable, and there was increasing hostility toward Darwinism and evolution. There
was an increasing emphasis on experimental, in contradistinction to comparative, embryology. Such
experimental embryology required a reliable supply of the appropriate (living) organisms and a
reliable supply of sea-water. These conditions were admirably met at the Station. Likewise, the
experimental work could be carried out on a more narrow range of organisms. Therefore, the Station
was even more attractive to the experimental biologists than it was to the comparative ones. There
was considerable rivalry between the two factions, partly because of anti-evolutionism, partly because
of a scarcity of academic chairs in Germany.

The standard account of what happened has been somewhat distorted by efforts of the experi-
mentalists and their apologists to discredit the comparative, or as they usually put it, “descriptive”
approach (I. Miiller, 1975). The traditional historiography suggests that the experimental approach
replaced the comparative. It seems more accurate to say that something was added. The Station
expanded, and the systematists kept their research programs going. It is true, however, that a
succession of disciplines has flourished, with the result that the kind of biology that Anton Dohrn
practiced and fostered ceased to attract the proportion of young scientists that it did in the early years
of the Station. In a letter to Reinhard Dohrn dated December 1, 1913, Edwin S. Goodrich of Oxford
wrote: “So many young zoologists have been diverted to Mendelism & other special studies that it is
quite difficult to find a sufficient number to fill the various tables at seaside laboratories.”

Success and Failure

Dohrn’s success as an administrator has been so impressive that the traditional historiography
has used it as an excuse for denigrating him as a scientist. Irmgard Miiller (in Groeben 1975:17) says
that Dohrn had little urge for discovery and that “It did not appear to him as so important to make

GHISELIN & GROEBEN:NAPLES ZOOLOGICAL STATION 283

discoveries for himself, it was only important to him that they were so made.” Yes, he facilitated the
work of others, but not without furthering his own research career. We should remember that
university professors then as now were expected to allocate a substantial amount of their time to
teaching, administration, and research. Dohrn stopped teaching, and that allowed him to allocate a
larger proportion of his effort to administration, but he never gave up research. The station was, in
fact, designed and organized so as to facilitate his own research program. He was interested in the
phylogeny of marine arthropods. His monograph on pycnogonids (Dohrn, 1881) addressed the sort
of phylogenetic questions that he was asking when he first conceived of the Station. While he was
creating it, he had some ideas about the origin of vertebrates, which he published in an influential
little book (Dohrn, 1875; Ghiselin, 1994). As time permitted, he carried out extensive researches on
the anatomy and embryology of lower vertebrates, to which are devoted 1,577 pages of the
Mittheilungen. Much of the research carried out by his staff addressed questions that were germane
to his own research. And he took full advantage of the Station’s ability to provide him with specimens,
microscope slides, and other resources. One reason why the Station was so well designed and
administered was that Dohrn, like all good scientists, acted out of self-interest, not altruism.

Dohrn died in 1909, but leadership was taken over by his son Reinhard who was also an able
administrator, and had a degree in science as well (R. Dohrn, 1908; Groeben 1983). The institution
had been so successful that it was kept going much as it had until World War I. That event was
catastrophic for the scientific community, and the weakening of international cooperation both during
and after the war is a good example. Although the Station was put back in operation after both world
wars, and still exists, it is no longer considered the Mecca of marine biology. For a while it was
basically an Italian laboratory, albeit an outstanding one, rather than an international one. After a
period of uncertainty, strong leadership was provided by Gaetano Salvatore, who served as President
from 1987 until his death in 1997. It took about ten years to restore the international character of the
Station, because it was necessary to change from the table system to one based on staff research.
There has also been a concerted effort to have the Station function as a venue for scientific meetings,
often of an international character.

What has been said here of course applies, so far as general principles go, to a wide variety of
scientific organizations. Museums, for example. A comparative approach might lead to a better
understanding of those principles themselves. Their application to particulars does not fundamentally
alter the kind of narrative that emerges in more traditional approaches to intellectual and institutional
history. Rather it places such narrative on a more solid foundation in causality.

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Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA.
All rights reserved.

286

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

The Institutions of Natural History
versus Herbert Spencer 1890—1895

DANIEL BECQUEMONT
Université de Lille III
Lille, France

Herbert Spencer’s biological philosophy, in its entirety, implied the harmony between
progress in complexity and functional diversification, supported by the inherited effects
of use and disuse, an idea which was tolerated by professional scientists in the 1860s, when
Spencer began to write the thousands of pages of his synthetic philosophy.

In the 1880s and 1890s, when Natural Sciences and their institutions (the Plymouth
Laboratory of the Marine Biological Association for instance) had acquired a new power
and a new prestige, and had formed a new generation of evolutionary biologists, trained
in cytology, embryology, and other fields of research, such as August Weismann, Edwin
Ray Lankester and George Romanes, his theories could be more openly criticized, and his
theory of functional modifications was rejected, bringing about the collapse of his whole
philosophical system.

La philosophie biologique d’ Herbert Spencer, dans sa totalité, impliquait une harmonie
entre progres en complexité et diversification fonctionnelle, appuyeés sur les effets héri-
tables de l’usage et du non-usage, idée tolerée par les scientifiques professionnels des années
60, ou Spencer commengait a rédiger les milliers de pages qui composent sa philosophie
synthétique.

Dans les années 1880 et 1890, alors que les sciences naturelles et leurs institutions, par
exemple le Laboratoire de Plymouth de I’Association de Biologie Marine, avaient acquis
pouvoir et prestige, et avaient forme une nouvelle génération de biologistes évolutionnistes,
experts en cytologie, embryologie et autres domaines de recherche, tels qu’August Weis-
mann, Edwin Ray Lankester, et George Romanes, ses théories furent ouvertement cri-
tiquees, et son concept de modification fonctionnelle fut rejeté, ce qui entraina
l’effondrement de l’ensemble de son systéme philosophique.

Herbert Spencer’s synthetic philosophy, in the late 1870s, was immensely popular all over the
world, and he was probably the most widely read philosopher in those years. In his synthetic
philosophy, from the First Principles to his Principles of Sociology, he had founded his cosmic and
social system on laws of evolution, which implied integration of matter and dissipation of movement,
matter evolving from indefinite incoherent homogeneity to definite and coherent heterogeneity. This
law in its smallest details rested on a belief in the harmony between progress in complexity and
functional diversification.

Direct Equilibration

Spencer’s main argument was that evolution at large (in the physical world, in nature and in
society) accounted for the greatest happiness of the greatest number. It implied the existence of a
cosmic benevolence favouring the increase of happiness as species evolved towards more progress
and more perfection.

288 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

FIGURE |. Herbert Spencer.
Courtesy G.S.Myers/A.E.Leviton Portrait File in
Natural History, California Academy of Sciences.

By its essential nature, the process must everywhere produce greater fitness to the conditions of
existence, be they what may .. . there is in all cases a progressive adaptation . . . thus the evils
accompanying adaptation are ever being self-eliminated. |

Biological evolution could be explained at a last resort by the universal laws stated in the First
Principles, laws of redistribution of matter and movement:

From an external point of view, astronomic rhythms wrought upon the organisms continuous
changes, stimulated by the law of the multiplication of the effects and thus brought to an extreme
degree of complexity.

From an internal point of view, “functional modifications” caused by changes in circumstances
affected the “organic aggregates,” hence a structure growing in complexity, defined by Spencer as a
“gravitation of the structure from a state of homogeneity to a state of heterogeneity . . . we see that a
liability to be unfolded arises from the actions and reactions between organisms and their fluctuating
environments.”” Spencer thus reduced — or enlarged according to the stand one takes — the laws of
biological evolution to the physical laws of the First Principles.

One could consider all the functionally-wrought modifications as a search for a direct equilibra-
tion, described in purely physical terms. The smallest change in the environment disturbed the fragile

: H. Spencer, 1864, Principles of Biology, vol. |. Chapman, London, p. 355.

~ Spencer, Principles, p. 421.

BECQUEMONT: HERBERT SPENCER 289

and temporary balance between live beings and their environment, giving birth to an excess or force
exerted by the environment upon the organism, or, on the contrary, by the organism on the
environment. Then a new process of equilibration took place, bringing about a new change in the
structure of the organism, readjusting the balance between live beings and their environment. Such
was the real definition of adaptation, and — he stated very briefly — there were many arguments in
favour of the idea that the changes in structure occasioned by functional changes were transmitted
by heredity.

This general theory of inherited direct modification was for Spencer the core of the theory of
evolution.

Indirect Equilibration or the Survival of the Fittest

Spencer’s theory of direct equilibration had satisfied him till the Origin of Species; but now he
was compelled, either to criticize Darwin’s theory as incompatible with his own or to enlarge and
adapt it in order to take natural selection into account. He chose the second solution, with his
secondary law of indirect equilibration.

Direct equilibration could take place, he went on to explain, only if all the individuals of a same
species could adapt themselves to a change in the environment. But some changes in the environment
did not affect directly the function, and could affect individuals in different ways. He went on to
explain, always in purely physical terms, that the individuals of a same species were also submitted
to secondary deviations in the response of organisms to their environments. They gave birth to a
number of secondary modifications (similar, one may suppose, to Darwin’s small variations), so that
the individuals of a same species were slightly different from each other. Some were better adapted
than others.

The individuals whose functions are most out of equilibrium with the modified aggregate of
external forces, will be those to die... And by the continual destruction of the individuals that
are the least capable of maintaining their equilibria in presence of this new incident force, there
must eventually be arrived at an altered type completely in equilibrium with the altered
conditions.*

This was the survival of the fittest, “which I have sought to express in mechanical terms.”* Such
was, Spencer went on to say, Darwin’s great discovery: “This more special mode of action, Mr.
Darwin has been the first to perceive. To him we owe the discovery that natural selection is capable
of producing fitness between organisms and their circumstances.” Thus Spencer reduced Darwin’s
theory to a mere device of elimination. Spencer considered this as an “obvious truth,” if not a truism.

We see that plants may become better adapted, or re-adapted, to the aggregate of surrounding
agencies, not through any direct action of such agencies upon them, but through their indirect
action. . . through the destruction by them of the individuals which are less congruous with
them, and the survival of those which are most congruous with them.®

The theory of natural selection, thus reinterpreted by Spencer, could be integrated, as a secondary
process, or perhaps even as a mere accelerator of Spencer’s primary laws of direct equilibration, in
Spencer’s biological principles, expressed in “purely mechanical terms.”

Spencer’s homage to Darwin is thus part of his strategy to absorb Darwin’s theses into his general

Spencer, Principles, p. 444.
Spencer, Principles, p. 445.
Spencer, Principles, p. 445.
Spencer, Principles, p. 447.

Annu

290 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

principles of the synthetic philosophy. Every part of Darwin’s argumentation in the first theoretical
part of the Origin of Species is reduced to a mechanical type of argument. To summarize:

(1) Darwin tried to advance various hypotheses on heredity which supported his theory of natural
selection. Spencer considered that his theory of functional modifications transmitted to the offspring
was enough to account for every fact concerning heredity.

(2) The Darwinian metaphor of the struggle for existence connected together relationships
between individuals of a same species, relationships between species, and relationships between live
beings occupying a given station and their environment. All these were brought together into a
complex unity. Spencer cut the Darwinian concept into two halves. On the first level, he considered
the relationship between species and their changing environment and their progressive modifications
through the inheritance of characters acquired by use (or declining by non-use). As a general rule,
individuals were directly adapted to their conditions of life by direct equilibration. On a second and
secondary level, the differences of ability between individuals induced a survival of the fittest
individuals and an extinction of the less fit, giving birth to an indirect form of equilibration. The
extinction of the less fit seemed to be considered by Spencer as concerning only some individuals.

(3) In mechanical terms, the idea of natural selection could be more advantageously expressed
by the “survival of the fittest.” It was a secondary process, accounting with great subtlety for some
facts which could not be expressed by direct equilibration, but it was hierarchically submitted to the
idea of direct adaptation by functionally-acquired modifications. It was brought into activity only
when one or some factors in the environment did not act continuously or frequently upon individuals.
It could be considered in many cases as an accelerator of the changes of habit required by the changing
environment.

Spencer concluded that the Darwinian theory took its real meaning in terms of modifications of
equilibrium, submitted to the synthetic philosophy. Natural selection conformed to the same mechani-
cal principles as every other form of equilibration.

Spencer’s biological hypothesis, though, rested on the hypothesis of the inheritance of modifi-
cations functionally acquired by use (or non-use). Darwin, he said, had failed to see that many
morphological facts could easily be explained as results of functionally-wrought modifications
transmitted to the offspring and increasing from generation to generation.

This integration of the theory of natural selection into Spencer’s principles went together with a
systematic effort to reduce biological phenomena to mechanical explanations. For Spencer “survival
of the fittest” was a better expression than “natural selection” because it was a more mechanical
explanation.

As an example, there runs throughout the Principles of Biology a constant theme, that of
“functionally-wrought modifications” transmitted to the offspring (in modern terms inheritance of
acquired characters or “Lamarckism”’). These functional modifications always imply progress in
complexity and diversification, a more complex structure, a better form of adaptation. This theme is
overtly considered by Spencer as a mechanistic version, applied to live beings, of his theory of the
improvement of the human mind by a continuous increase of energy, ingeniosity, complexity,
inducing a constant moral advance towards perfection. Human labour (considered under his two
aspects of human force and ethical value) and functionally-wrought modifications formed the two
aspects of a “labour-value,” representing human energy and the source of economic value. Spencer’s
deep and obstinate commitment to the concept of functional modifications, as a last resort, refers to
his cult of human effort — display of mechanical force and ethical value — as the supreme value,
extended from society to all organic beings. If the thesis was questioned or criticized, Spencer’s whole
system was in danger.

BECQUEMONT: HERBERT SPENCER 291

Spencer was not a biologist. He did not make a clear distinction between the examples he
mentioned and scientific proofs. He was certainly well read in biology; he had written his Principles
of Biology, submitting them before publication to his friends T. H. Huxley and J. Hooker (botanist
and director of Kew Gardens) to avoid any gross biological mistake. But the Principles of Biology
were to a certain extent old fashioned, a book belonging to an XVIIIth century tradition which did
not draw a distinction between biological studies and philosophical principles. Nevertheless, there
was no immediate contradiction to his theories — notwithstanding the strictures that may have come
from Huxley and Hooker — from professional scientists or their institutions.

Huxley had been the founder of the Imperial School of Science and Technology; he had founded
the famous X-club (1864), whose aim was to influence scientific institutions from the inside, and
develop evolutionary studies. From 1859, and in response to the debates which had followed, the
importance of a body of professional scientists was recognized. The members of the X-club advocated
the defense of “pure science,” implying a method, and an ethical position, a model of rationality which
could have its say even in politics. The X-club, though it was an unofficial society (with a very limited
number of members), had a strong influence on such institutions as the Royal Society (of which
Huxley was to become president in 1887 ), the British Association for the Advancement of Science,
and the Linnean Society. Huxley was the promoter in his country of the development of laboratory
biology. But Huxley — who was a personal friend of Spencer’s — never criticized him on points of
detail. Spencer, actually, was a member of the X-club himself, the only member of it who was not
linked to any institution.

Another institution — and one that was to become one of the most famous editorial institutions
in natural history, was the review Nature. It was the successor of another journal, The Reader, founded
in 1865. This review was directed by Huxley, Tyndall, and Galton (Darwin and Spencer were
shareholders), and Spencer wrote four articles in it. The “review” failed, but, after an editorial
reorganization, was issued again under the name of Nature.

In the 1860s, in spite of the growing importance of scientific institutions and the development
of laboratory biology, there existed some kind of complicity between scientific institutions and
Spencer, an amateur biologist and a philosopher whose popularity was on its way to conquer the
whole world. The reasons for this were probably that laboratory biology had not yet taken a full
consciousness of its importance, and, more generally, that the distinction between “pure science” and
biological philosophy was not yet clearly drawn.

More particularly, Spencer enjoyed immense prestige as having been one of the first thinkers to
state evolutionary principles in the 1850s. This allowed him to influence the first generation of
professional biologists in the 1860s who were at the head of the most important institutions and who
were impressed by his philosophical biology (even Darwin was impressed). Some of them, such as
Huxley or Hooker, were his friends and had played a part in the working out of the Principles of
Biology.

The most important theoretical argument remains nevertheless the fact that the status of Darwin’s
theory of natural selection was at that time uncertain. Huxley himself considered it as an interesting
hypothesis, which had yet to be demonstrated, while Hooker interpreted it in a very narrow sense.
Many biologists agreed with the idea that natural selection did not explain everything, nor even a
very large number of facts, and admitted that evolutionary biology had to be supported by the direct
action of use and disuse and the inheritance of acquired characters. Young biologists who were
starting their careers in the early seventies, such as Weismann in Germany, Edwin Ray Lankester, or
George Romanes, did not yet question Spencer’s theory, which rested entirely on this assumption.

292 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

A New Generation of Evolutionary Biologists, New and
More Prestigious Institutions

In the 1880s and the 1890s the situation had changed, and a new generation of scientists came
to the fore, supported by new institutions which enabled them to develop their studies in cytology,
morphology, embryological studies. One of the most important of these institutions was certainly the
Zoological Station in Naples, directed by Anton Dohrn, which played a major part in the formation
of Weismann, Lankester and to a lesser extent Romanes. The three men acquired there a deep
knowledge of marine animals. If Weismann remained most of his life a professor at the university of
Freiburg, Lankester and Romanes played a very important part in the development of new institutions,
the opening up of new laboratories. August Weismann, in Germany, was a physician who had
specialized in insects and crustaceans, taught at the University of Freiburg, and studied hydrozoa in
Naples, though weak eyesight partly removed him from laboratory studies. Ray Lankester had been
a pupil of Ludwig, Haeckel and Huxley, then taught at the universities of London and later Oxford,
and became the editor of the Quarterly Journal of Microscopical Science. He had specialized in
embryology and was influenced by the morphophysiological approach of Anton Dohrn.

As an example of such new institutions we may take the Marine Biological Association, founded
in 1884, inspired by Dohrn’s Zoological Station, under the leadership of Huxley, whose aim was “the
establishment and maintenance of a marine laboratory . . . similar to, if not quite so extensive as, Dr
Dohrn’s Zoological Station at Naples.” At the opening meeting, Ray Lankester, who was to be the
first secretary of the Society, pleaded in favour of the collaboration of “pure science” and practical
ends:

Even if no end was to be served by such a station except those of pure science, these in our
estimation are so important as to justify the movement which has secured such influential
support. The utility in its highest sense and even in its lowest sense of encouraging scientific
research may now be recognized in all civilized countries. All the most practical discoveries
have been made by men who were not seeking for them, but whose sole aim was to satisfy a
noble inquisitiveness. Our government encourages science in the magnificent establishments at
Bloomsbury and South Kensington, and subsidizes . . . 1000 £ for the proposed station.’

Huxley, at the same meeting, mentioned Dohrn’s support for the project, and summarized in a
few words the impact and necessity of new institutions for the development of evolutionary biology:

The establishment of laboratories for the observation of the fauna and flora of the seas has now
taken place in most civilized countries, and is, in fact, a necessary consequence of the great
changes which have taken place in the whole of the aims of biological science . . . In order to
understand the living beings now, it is no longer sufficient to be acquainted with its outside, as
in the days of our forefathers, or even with its inside, so far as obvious anatomy is concerned...We
now, in order to understand the being, relations and affinities of an animal, have to go through
the whole course of existence beyond, in order to trace out the successive stages of development
from the egg; and this can be done with a precision and accuracy which in my young days we
had no conception of... A more directly practical reason exists. We possess good fisheries,
which are more or less regulated by legislation . . . Hitherto, such regulations have been made
in an almost entirely haphazard manner, because of the want of knowledge of the habits, the
mode of life of the food fish.”

The Duke of Argyll, apparently more concerned by “pure science,” mentioned as an example

7 Journal of the Marine Biological Association, vol. 1, March 1884.
8
op. cit

BECQUEMONT: HERBERT SPENCER 293

the new theory which considered flat fish as a form of degeneration from the round fish, stressing
what was becoming at the time an important issue of evolutionary biology, the idea of degeneration,
and concluding “the sea is the area in which and out of which we can best get at some of the secrets
of organic life.” The prestige of a scientific institution, the part played by “pure science” in economic
issues, the importance of sea life for evolutionary biology, allusions to the theory of degeneration,
expressed in these speeches, testify to the new power and the scientific interests of the institutions of
natural history in the 1880s.

Ray Lankester, later, was to found a Laboratory of Comparative Anatomy at Oxford, and later
in 1898 became director of the Natural History Department of the British Museum. There was hardly
any naturalist in those days who occupied more prestigious institutional positions.

Spencer’s conception of what was a scientific experiment was very remote from that of the second
generation of Darwinian scientists who were professionals, inserted in a scientific community,
working in laboratories, members of scientific institutions, who did not consider Spencer’s theories
with such awe, or at least respect, as did the Darwinians of the first generation.

There was now a new generation of laboratory men who did not know Spencer personally and
were not impressed by his synthetic philosophy, and who had a high view of their scientific
achievements and did not think very highly of “principles” or “philosophy of biology.” The important
thing to note is that most of this new generation tried to enlarge the scope of natural selection.

Extension of the Theory of Natural Selection to Degeneration

Weismann and Lankester questioned and rejected the idea of an inheritance of acquired
characters. They had met at a meeting in Manchester in 1887 on “Are acquired characters hereditary?”
with Geddes, Poulton, Hartog. Both of them had studied at the Zoological Station at Naples, directed
by Dohrn (Lankester in 1874, Weismann in 1881, at the ttme when Weismann questioned for the first
time the idea of acquired inherited characters). Both of them were interested, not only in evolutionary
progress (what Lankester called increase in the complexity of structure), but in extending the concept
of natural selection to alleged facts of degeneration (what Lankester called diminution of the
complexity in structure). Dohrn, as early as 1875, had maintained that some of the structural changes
of animals in the course of evolution were not progressive, but that in many cases a process of
simplification, or degeneration, had taken place. The idea of an inheritance of acquired characters,
though it had been expressed by Lamarck under the form of laws, was rather a millenary conception
of common sense, which began to be seriously questioned in connection with problems of degenera-
tion, and the observation of marine animals. The relationship between this rejection of the inheritance
of acquired characters and the extension of the theory of natural selection to many cases of
degeneration may not seem obvious today, but the two fields of research fused together under the
form of a rejection of the concept of inheritable action of use and disuse transmitted to the offspring.

August Weismann’s theory — which dissociated the germinative cells from the somatic ones,
thus denying any possibility of functionally-wrought modifications being transmitted to the offspring
— rejected the action of use and disuse as a factor of heredity.

A new form of Darwinism developed, supported by Wallace, Ray Lankester, and to a certain
extent by George Romanes. Spencer, committed to the inheritance of acquired characters, could but
reject it. He was then compelled to criticize more openly Darwin’s theory, and took a different stand.
He gave up his strategy of absorbing Darwin’s theory, and lay more stress on the insufficiency of
natural selection.

In 1886, in two articles in The Nineteenth Century, Spencer took a rather defensive position, and

294 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

admitted that he had neglected the theory of natural selection in his first articles and even in the
Principles of Biology. But the efficiency of natural selection, he went on to say, did not imply that
the inheritance of functionally-wrought modifications (now called inheritance of acquired characters)
did not play any part in the evolutionary process. Darwin himself, he argued, maintained that
functional modifications due to use and non use played an important part, a statement which Darwin’s
disciples were prone to forget.

Panmixia

But this defensive stand could not be maintained against the impact of the neo-Darwinism
developed by Weismann, Wallace, and Lankester in the early eighties.

Weismann had developed his theory of the continuity of the germ-plasm, and the immortality of
the reproductive cells. Death, he maintained, was a trait which had been selected among somatic cells
as as advantage which favoured a “division of labour” among cells. He was then led to criticize the
Lamarckian — and Spencerian — ideas of inheritable variations as the effect of use and disuse. As
natural selection was to explain not only the numerous cases of advance in complexity of structure,
but also cases of simplification (degeneration), he mostly criticized the idea of degeneration caused
by the disuse of an organ transmitted to the offspring, and he put forward his theory of Panmixia.

When there was no longer, owing to changes in the conditions of life, any use for an organ, this
organ ceased to be the object of natural selection. Consequently, all possible variations of this organ
had an equal chance of surviving. The equal survival value of all these possible variations led to a
gradual dwindling of the organ by intermixing. Besides, variation in the direction of greatly
diminished size or structure in the organ became then advantageous as causing a diminished tax on
the organism: the variations in the direction of diminution of a useless organ became useful and were
selected, whereas the variations in the direction of excessive size tended to die without reproducing.
Thus disuse was not the cause of the dwindling of useless organs, which took place by the selection
of diminutive variations.

Ray Lankester, in his essay on “Degeneration. A chapter in Darwinism,’ had more generally
maintained that natural selection opened three possibilities: balance of an organ (status quo),
elaboration (increase), or degeneration (diminution). He mentioned many instances of the latter case
among parasites, but also lizards (dwindling of limbs), cirripedia and ascidians. At that time,
Lankester did not openly criticize the Spencerian theory of a direct action of the environment through
the action of disuse, but his claim that natural selection could account for many facts of degeneration
implicitly undermined Spencer’s theory. His theory of heredity was not Weismann’s; he believed
rather in “physiological units” (Spencer’s own words) and in pangenesis.

The issue was not only for Spencer a matter of biology. In his synthetic philosophy, from the
First Principles to his Principles of Sociology, he had founded his cosmic and social system on laws
of evolution (integration of matter and dissipation of movement, matter evolving from indefinite
incoherent homogeneity to definite and coherent heterogeneity), which were laws of progress. This
progress rested on a resolute faith in the cooperation between structure (increase in complexity) and
function (action of circumstances on live beings, society), in the same way that physical and
intellectual exertion (1.e., labour) led man forward through the division of labour (diversification and
integration) towards higher degrees of civilization, and this was transmitted to subsequent genera-
tions. In other, more modern words, Spencer did not draw any distinction between inheritance and
heredity. His whole synthetic theory, physical, social, and biological, rested on the inheritance of

” Published in The Advancement of Science, 1890.

BECQUEMONT: HERBERT SPENCER 295

acquired characters. Biological facts which tended to question the issue, and stressed the importance
of degeneration, endangered his whole philosophy, at a time when Spencer was the most popular —
and most read — philosopher in the world. Francis Balfour had asserted that the whole Spencerian
system would collapse if Spencer’s theory of heredity turned out to:be wrong.

This can account for the fact that the polemics which took place in the 1890s about the inheritance
of acquired characters were published first in Nature, a scientific periodical, but found their full scope
in The Contemporary Review, a political, social and cultural review.

Polemics in Nature (1890)

Hostilities started when in February 1890 Weismann published an article in Nature in which he
repeated his views on the non-inheritance of acquired characters, panmixia, and the continuity of the
germ-plasm . He gave as an example Brown Boveri’s experiment proving that among live beings the
body of the ovum contributes nothing to its inheritance. “I believe I have proved that organs no longer
in use become rudimentary, and must disappear solely by panmixia; not through the direct action of
disuse, but because natural selection no longer maintains their standard structure.”!° He linked closely
his theory of panmixia with his theories on the lapse into mortality of somatic cells as a trait acquired
by natural selection. A differentiation in the somatic cells occurring, “the death of these cells would
not be detrimental to the species, since its continuance is ensured by the immortal germ cells.”

In the same issue of Nature, Ray Lankester also questioned the inheritance of acquired characters,
taking as an example the migration of the eyes of the flat fish. He explaining it by the selection of a
possible “sport,” rejecting the idea of an action of muscles pulling out the eye, followed by the
inheritance of this acquired character to the next generation. Lankester’s argument about Darwin was
rather a devious one: he tried to maintain that “Darwin was not really interested with the question as
to whether acquired characters were transmitted or not,” and always preferred, when it occurred to
him, another explanation. He had often attributed to natural selection modifications which common
sense ascribed too easily to use and disuse, such as wingless island birds, or the defective eye of the
mole. Actually, when there was no longer any use for an organ, the equal survival of all possible
variations led to the dwindling and possible loss of the organ. Besides, variations in the direction of
greatly diminished size were advantageous in causing a diminished tax on the organism. If there were
variations in the direction of an excessive diminution of a useless organ (as, for instance, tailless cats
or hornless sheep), they would tend to survive as being less taxed, whilst the complementary variations
in the direction of excessive size tend in the struggle to die without reproducing, owing to their
awkwardness and their relatively greater burden in life. It was clear that panmixia could lead rapidly
to the dwindling and eventual extinction of a disused organ without any transmission of acquired
parental characters. He went so far as to say that Darwin himself had formulated the idea of panmixia
in the sixth edition of the Origin of Species.'' When he used such phrases as “due to disuse,” he did
not mean necessarily such effects as Lamarck assumed, but may have meant the effects of disuse due
to panmixia which, Lankester added, had not yet been proved.

AA theory of heredity,” Nature, February 1890, p. 318.

'l “Thus, as I believe, natural selection will tend in the long run to reduce any part in the organization as soon as it becomes,
through changes of habits, superfluous” (Origin of Species, John Murray, London, 1872, 6th ed., p. 118) or “If it could be
proved that every part of the organization tends to vary in a greater degree towards diminution than augmentation of size, then
we should be able to understand how an organ which had become useless would be rendered, independently of the effects of
disuse, rudimentary, and would be at last suppressed” (p. 401).

296 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Spencer’s Reply

Spencer replied in Nature!” stating that Darwin himself had frequently referred to the action of
use and disuse, for instance in the example of the shortening of the wings of oceanic birds, and in
Darwin’s observations on tame ducks. Spencer concluded that Weismann did not bring any new proof
of his theory. In a new letter to the editor on panmixia, he gave the example of the drooping ears of
some domestic animals, which could be explained by non use and not by panmixia.

Spencer, in a way, agreed with Balfour and understood that this idea of functionally-wrought
modifications was the basis of his whole system: he wrote as a conclusion:

I have, indeed, been led to suspend for a short time my proper work, only by consciousness of
transcendent importance of the question. As I have before contended, a right answer to the
question whether acquired characters are on the whole inherited, underlies right beliefs, not only
in biology and psychology, but also in education, ethics and politics.

The board of directors of Nature — among whom Hooker, who had carefully re-read Principles
of Biology before it was published twenty years earlier — was more and more reluctant to publish
Spencer’s articles, and welcomed on the contrary articles from Weismann and his supporters. Spencer,
scientifically more and more isolated, had to publish his views in the Contemporary Review (three
articles in 1893, one in 1895). This shift from a scientific review to a social and political paper is in
itself a symbol of Spencer’s rejection by the institutions of natural science.

1893 The Contemporary Review

In “The Inadequacy of Natural Selection,”'? Spencer argued in favour of the inheritance of
acquired characters, criticized panmixia, advocated use and non-use as factors of evolution. He stood
more and more openly in favour of a kind of group selection, where almost all the individuals of a
same species were approximately affected in the same way by modifications in the conditions of life
entailing functional modifications. He lay more stress on the coadaptation of cooperative parts, gave
instances of evolution by use and non-use, and even mentioned telegony (a word used by Weismann)
as an important proof of his own theory of heredity.

Spencer’s view of evolution now centered on the concept of numerous variations, almost
uniform, oriented in the same direction by incident forces. The tenet of the survival of the fittest had
been reduced to a sort of elimination of a few unadapted forms or an accelerator of functional
modifications. Such was Spencer’s view of evolution in the 1890s, and it was very remote from
Darwin’s theory. Spencer added that to pretend, as Weismann did, that natural selection was the sole
mechanism of evolution, and to deny the inheritance of acquired characters, was “absurd and
disproved,” and constituted a perversion of Darwinism, a form of biological fetishism.

Spencer’s Experiment

In the same article, Spencer based his “experiment” on the different gradations of the sense of
touch in the tips of the fingers. He explained that if “natural selection or the survival of the fittest is
the cause, then it is required to show that each degree of endowment has advantaged the possessor to
such an extent that life has been — even infrequently — preserved by it.” He noted that all the

' “The inheritance of acquired characters,” Nature, March 6, 1890, was not an article but a letter to the editor.
Boy Spencer, Principles of Biology, vol. Il. Chapman, London, p. 650.
ane Spencer, “The inadequacy of natural selection,” The Contemporary Review, February 1893.

BECQUEMONT: HERBERT SPENCER 297

different parts of the surface of the fingertips had become widely unlike in perceptiveness owing to
some cause.

And, if the cause alleged is natural selection, then it is necessary to show that the greater degree
of power possessed by this part than by that, has not only conduced to the maintenance of life,
but has conduced so much that an individual in whom a variation had produced better adjustment
to needs, thereby maintained life when some others lost it; and that among the descendants
inheriting this variation, there was a derived advantage, such as enabled them to multiply more
than the descendants of individuals not possessing it. ~

But if this distribution of tactual perceptiveness could not be explained by the survival of the
fittest, how could it be explained ? “This cause is the inheritance of acquired characters” he affirmed.

To check this, he said, “I have made some experiments.”

Taking a pair of compasses, if the points were closed nearly, less on an average than one twelfth
of an inch apart, the end of the forefingers could not perceive that there were two points; they could
if the distance between the two points was more than one twelfth.

So Spencer tested two (!) youths from a nearby School for the Blind (their sensitiveness must
have been exercised by reading from raised letters), and found out that they could distinguish two
points when only 1/14th of an inch apart, though they had very thick and coarse skins on their
fingertips.

Then he tested two skilled music composers, who had a degree of discrimination reaching 1/17.

The result of this experiment was “that we have clear proof that constant exercise of the tactual
nervous structures leads to further development.”!”

The same reasoning could be applied to taste and tongue sensitiveness. In the latter case, the
sensitivity was seen to be connected with eating and speech, but it had no selection value. However,
it could easily be explained by the inheritance of acquired characters. The decrease in size of the
human jaw could not either be due to any advantage in the struggle for life, “so natural selection
cannot be to cause of the diminution of the jaw and its appendage.””'®

“The Inadequacy of Natural Selection,” I, March 1883

The idea of cooperative parts was for Spencer a strong obstacle to the sufficiency of natural
selection. They could not have been solely adjusted by the survival of the fittest, as proved by the
example of the extinct Irish elk whose immense antlers implied great modifications of adjacent bones
and muscles, and strengthening of the fore legs. Many facts (he did not clarify which ones) proved
that they could not vary together. Spencer developed the same form of reasoning for the neck of the
giraffe.

If there occurred some changes in an organ which adapted it better to the creature’s needs, the
use of the organ demanded the cooperation of other organs, so that the changes in one organ were of
no service unless the cooperative organs were also changed. When cooperative parts changed
simultaneously, they either increased or decreased together simultaneously, or they all simultaneously
increased or decreased independently, or they varied in such degrees as to be serviceable for the new
end.

But “if such modifications of structure produced by modifications of function as we see take

I Spencer, Inadequacy, p. 154.
ig Spencer, Inadequacy, p. 155.
Spencer, Inadequacy, p. 156.

18 Spencer, Inadequacy, p. 162.

298 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

place in each individual, are in any measure transmissible to descendants, then all these coadaptations
are easily accounted for . . . In some cases this inheritance of acquired characters suffices by itself to
exploit the facts; and in other cases it explains it suffices when taken in combination with the selection
of favourable variations.””!?

Spencer then took a critical look at Weismann’s theories: he mentioned a few (dubious)
examples, such as hereditary diseases (relying on Pasteur) and telegony, referring to Lord Moreton’s
famous quagga mentioned in the archive of the Royal College of Surgeons, relying on the theory of
impregnation. “These facts are fatal to Weismann’s theory,” he claimed. There was no independence
of the reproductive cells, but there existed protoplasmic connections between the reproductive cells
and the somatic ones. Darwin himself had fully recognized the inheritance of acquired characters.

What are the facts proving the inheritance of acquired characters ? ask those who deny it? ...
They might be asked a counter-question: “What are the facts that disprove it? . . . Not a single
case can be named in which panmixia is a proved cause of diminution.””

Romanes’ Reply”

In this article, Romanes flattered himself on having been “the first evolutionist to have questioned
the belief in use inheritance.” When Darwin had experimented on the inherited effects of use and
disuse, Romanes went on, he had worked on the bones of domesticated ducks, comparing tame and
wild animals of different ages, but had not attempted to measure use. Romanes referred to a previous
article in which he had advanced his own theory of a withdrawal of natural selection: “minus
variations have as good a chance as plus variations: the average size of the part concerned will
therefore decrease. | called this cessation of selection.”””

Galton, Dohrn and Lankester, he went on to say, had expressed similar views, but they had not
mentioned “cessation of selection.” Weismann utilized the principle but, Romanes added, “he had
not read my articles and called it panmixia.””> He went so far as to assert that in a private conversation
Darwin had admitted the idea of a “cessation of selection.” According to Romanes, panmixia was a
passive cessation of selection, to be distinguished from “economy of nutrition,” which implied “an
active hostility of selection to the part undergoing degeneration,”*4 a reversal of selection. The
cessation of selection had no relationship to natural selection, it was a negative condition, a stoppage.
Economy of nutrition was a positive cause of degeneration, a turning round of the selective process
from activity maintaining to actively destroying an organ. Spencer, Romanes went on, did not seem
to understand the difference between cessation of selection and economy of nutrition. He thought
only in terms of degeneration by economy of nutrition (a very old theory, dating back at least to
Aristotle) and not cessation of selection (developed by Romanes, Dohrn, Lankester, and Weismann).

Weismann in the Contemporary Review

Weismann decided in 1893 to summarize his views as a reply to Spencer, not in Nature, but also
in The Contemporary Review.*> He demonstrated not only the progressive development of variations
through natural selection, but also degenerative changes and disappearance of whole organs. He was

H. Spencer, “The inadequacy of natural selection,” II, The Contemporary Review, March 1893, pp. 445-446.
~ Spencer, Inadequacy II, p. 448.

°! G. Romanes, “Mr. Herbert Spencer on natural selection,” The Contemporary Review, Apnl 1893, p. 499.

- Romanes, Spencer, p. 501.

~ Romanes, Spencer, p. 502.

o Romanes, Spencer, p. 504.

°°. Weismann, “The all-sufficiency of natural selection,” The Contemporary Review, 64, Oct. 1893.

BECQUEMONT: HERBERT SPENCER 299

led, once more, to support his idea of the all-sufficiency of natural selection with his theory of
panmixia. External influences could act only in a selective way on changes that had already occurred
in the germ-plasm, and regressive changes were caused by variations that occurred in the primary
constituents. Natural selection not only brought about the development of a part but must actively
caused it to be retained. Unless selection continued, the organ that lost its specialized importance
tended to diminish. Panmixia was perhaps not totally satisfactory, but was a step on the way to
germinal selection acting on hereditary units. When Spencer said that among blind animals in caves
the suppression of the eye caused no economy, he neglected the non-expenditure of special materials
and special activities for the production of an eye. “It can be, I say, achieved by natural selection of
the most deficient in eyesight in caves.”

I hold it demonstrated that all hereditary adaptation rests on natural selection...it is not merely
an accessory principle, which only comes into operation when the assumed transmission of
functional variations fails, but it is the chief principle in the variations of the organisms; and
compared to it, the primary variation which is due to the direct action of external influences on
the germ plasm, is of very secondary importance . . . When my opponents set me down as an
ultra Darwinist, who takes a one-sided and exaggerated view of the principle discovered by the
great naturalist, perhaps they may make an impression on some of the timid souls who always
act on the supposition that the juste milieu is proper . . . Only very gradually have I learned the
full scope of the principle of selection, and certainly I have been led beyond Darwin’s conclusion.
Progress in sciences usually involves a struggle against deep-rooted prejudices; such was the
belief in the transmission of acquired characters ... my work has not been to exaggerate, but to
complete.”°

This did not imply that Weismann’s theory of the continuity of the germ-plasm received full
acceptance from biologists in the last years of the 1 9th century. On the contrary, many neo-Lamark-ian
theories developed in those years. But the slightest criticism of Spencer’s views on progress towards
more complexity due to functional modifications could be fatal to his synthetic philosophy.

Actually Spencer was not the only thinker of the time to consider with such disgust the
non-inheritance of acquired characters. Moralists, attached to the idea of work as improving man’s
character, his intellectual and ethical powers, supporters of classical economics or more generally of
the labour theory of value also rejected this assumption. How could man be improved if the characters
he had acquired or bettered in the course of his life could not be transmitted to his offspring ? Bernard
Shaw, and Sidney and Beatrice Webb, rejected it with a similar indignation. But Spencer did feel that
a new period was opening, and that his system of synthetic philosophy was falling to pieces.

His system had been already impaired by the discoveries of thermodynamics (which went against
his notion of force and equilibrium) and the political evolution of his own country (a reinforcement
of the role played by the State), but this did not endanger the validity of the whole system.
Neo-Darwinism, on the contrary, meant the collapse of the whole fabric. In order to defend his system,
Spencer had to give up his strategy of absorbing the theory of natural selection, and, in the 1890s,
came very near to rejecting it in its entirety.

In The Contemporary Review, Spencer replied and added “Considerations on Professor’s
Weismann’s theories” (May 1893), “A rejoinder to Professor Weismann” (December 93), “Weis-
mannism once more” (October 94), “Heredity once more” (October 95). But, on the whole, he felt
he had lost. Rejected by Nature, Spencer was also rejected by the survivors of the first generations
of Darwinians, Hooker and Wallace, who sided against his views. He found himself supported only
by social thinkers who were not biologists (Allen, Shaw, Sidney Webb). He could see that his whole

6 The Contemporary Review, 64, Oct. 1893, p. 443.

300 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

system of synthetic philosophy was falling to pieces. A new generation of biologists, supported by
the power and prestige of scientific institutions, such as Weismann, Lankester, Romanes, had
shattered his belief in a universal law of progress, resting on the inherited effects of use and disuse.

At the same time he was deeply shocked by the new functions assumed by the State. The second
law of thermodynamics also ran counter to his system. He began to think in terms of social and
political regression, if not degeneration. He even thought of a possible period of dissolution of the
universe in a remote period “leading us towards death.” He died in 1902.

Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA.
All nghts reserved.

The Awkward Embrace’

LEO F. LAPORTE*
Department of Earth Sciences
University of California, Santa Cruz
Santa Cruz, California 95064
E-mail: laporte@cats.ucsc.edu

I have a debt, a loyalty to the [American] museum; the best
place for me to do what I wanted to do. — G. G. Simpson

George Gaylord Simpson spent virtually his whole professional life as an employee of natural
history museums. In 1927, at age 25, Simpson joined the American Museum of Natural History as
assistant curator of vertebrate paleontology. He resigned that position in 1959 to accept appointment
as Alexander Agassiz Professor at the Museum of Comparative Zoology (MCZ) at Harvard Univer-
sity where he remained until 1970. Professionally very accomplished from the outset, Simpson
expected — and usually received — from both institutions all the prerogatives and privileges he
thought due him as the leading American, if not world, student of fossil mammals in particular and
more generally of ancient-life history and evolution. But his appointments were clouded by Simpson’s
resentments to presumed personal affronts from colleagues, first when being considered for an
appointment at Yale, and then during his tenure at the American Museum. His reasons for not
accepting an appointment at Yale and his departure from both the American Museum and Harvard
were marked by misunderstanding and professional grievance.

Yet despite these mostly self-inflicted difficulties and an ongoing inflated sense of what was due
him, Simpson thrived scientifically to a degree not otherwise possible anywhere else. This was
certainly true, at least, at the American Museum, as Simpson was quick to acknowledge in old age:
“I have a debt, a loyalty to the [American] museum; the best place for me to do what I wanted to do.””
This was somewhat less true at the MCZ where his second five-year, extended appointment as Agassiz
Professor was complicated by his declining health and that of his wife, Anne Roe, as well as by the
absence of the magnificent fossil mammal collection of the American Museum.

Prelude to the American Museum Appointment

After receiving his doctorate from Yale University, Simpson continued his study of Mesozoic
mammals at the British Museum (Natural History). There was an informal understanding that upon
his return to the U.S. he would take up an appointment in vertebrate paleontology at Yale’s Peabody
Museum. However, Simpson’s ongoing marital problems came to the attention of his Yale colleagues
and formal application for the appointment was suddenly in doubt, because his estranged wife had
complained to the spouse of a senior administrator about Simpson’s shortcomings as husband and
father. During a visit to London, Richard Swann Lull (1867—1957), professor and curator of vertebrate
paleontology at the Peabody Museum and Simpson’s dissertation adviser, raised the issue with
Simpson. Simpson satisfied Lull with his version of his marital problems and, soon after, Yale made
a formal offer to Simpson to join the Peabody Museum. But Simpson remained resentful because he
felt that any personal domestic troubles he was having were none of Yale’s business.*

* Current mailing address: 430 Nimitz Avenue, Redwood City, CA 94061-4226.

301

302 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

William Diller Matthew (1871-1930), vertebrate paleontologist at the American Museum, also
visited Simpson in London and discussed the possibility of Simpson’s coming to the American
Museum. Matthew was well acquainted with Simpson, who had been his field assistant in Texas
several years before and, as a paleomammalogist himself, was familiar with Simpson’s important
Mesozoic mammal work. Soon after, Simpson had a second job offer, this time from the American
Museum. He weighed both equally attractive offers and decided on the American Museum, because
he “declined to go [to Yale] where my prospective associates had been so willing to believe me a
scoundrel.’? As he wrote years later, his going to the American Museum “was a crucial point, indeed
the most crucial point in my professional development.”>

Simpson Joins the American Museum

During the early part of 1927, Matthew was discussing with the University of California the offer
of an appointment as head of the newly re-created department of paleontology.° His discussions with
Simpson, therefore, about the latter’s joining the American Museum were undoubtedly intended to
prepare the way for Simpson to succeed him, although this was not made known to Simpson at the
time. Years later, Simpson claimed that it was Matthew’s recommendation that brought him “in at
the bottom of the department” when Matthew “went out at the top.”’ Matthew departed for Berkeley
in the summer of 1927, and Simpson began his appointment as assistant curator of vertebrate
paleontology on November Ist, shortly after his return from his post-doctoral year in London, at a
salary of $2500 (or about $27,500 in current dollars) with “further increase in salary & position to be
the reward of effort.”*

Simpson’s initial museum colleagues included Henry Fairfield Osborn (1857—1935), president
of the museum and department chairman; Barnum Brown (1873-1963), curator of reptiles and acting
department chairman; Walter Granger (1872-1941), curator of fossil mammals; and William King
Gregory (1876-1970), research associate in paleontology. Edwin (“Ned”) Harris Colbert (b. 1905),
a graduate student at Columbia University, joined the department as Osborn’s research assistant
several years later in 1930, became assistant curator in 1933, and was awarded his Ph.D. under
Gregory’s tutelage in 1935. Later, following the Second World War, other close associates of
Simpson’s included Bobb Schaeffer (b. 1913), curator of fossil fishes, and Norman Dennis Newell
(b. 1909), curator of fossil invertebrates. Barnum Brown immediately put Simpson to work: “He
thought all young squirts should start at the bottom, so he started me at preparation in the laboratory.
I was twenty-five, father of a family [of three daughters], and had been working at a professional
level for several years, but he was fifty-four and incomparably more experienced. I quite enjoyed my
initiation in the laboratory. I liked and admired the men there, and it was interesting to prepare some
relatively primitive mammals, which I was later allowed to study and publish.”

Young squirt or not and despite the affable tone of the above recollection, Simpson must have
felt a little put down by this initial assignment. For at the time of his appointment, Simpson had
published four abstracts, 11 articles (one of which was with his soon-to-be museum colleague W. K.
Gregory as co-author), five reviews, and two popular pieces; he had in press at least seven more
articles and two major monographs, and a number of other works in progress. Despite his relative
youth, Simpson had already established himself as the world’s authority on Mesozoic mammals and
through his writings and travel was known to virtually all the leading vertebrate paleontologists of
the day. Within a year, however, his past achievements and obvious potential were recognized by his
promotion to associate curator of vertebrate paleontology.

LAPORTE: AWKWARD EMBRACE 303

American Museum Research and Expeditions

Employment by one of the world’s leading museums of natural history that imposed no formal
teaching or administrative responsibilities provided Simpson with unusual opportunities for research,
some to his liking, some not. Among the specimens that Barnum Brown had Simpson prepare were
some Paleocene mammals that he, Brown, had collected in Montana, and which Simpson then studied
and published on. Having finished his study of Mesozoic mammals, this new work propelled Simpson
into a major research effort on the Paleocene and Eocene mammals of North America that was to
last, on and off, throughout his tenure at the museum. His attention was also turning to the nich early
Tertiary geology and paleontology of Patagonia whose mammal faunas bore uncertain relationships
to those of the rest of the world. Of less importance to these long-term research interests were other
museum collections of various Tertiary ages and locales within the United States that he worked up
as part of his curatorial responsibilities. '°

The stock market crash of 1929 had major financial impact on the museum. The private financial
contributions of New York wealthy patrons that H. F. Osborn had so assiduously cultivated for more
than two decades now declined sharply.'' Ned Colbert, Simpson’s colleague, has referred to the
Depression Era as “the restricted years” at the museum, because until then “any activities beyond the
usual ones depended upon help from interested citizens who had money to contribute.” !? Because
Simpson’s research program required collecting expeditions of some sustained duration, he took
personal initiative to seek out support from one of the museum’s wealthy benefactors, Horace Scarritt,
a New York City investment banker and broker.'* As Simpson later recalled, “This took some
persuasion and more than a few drinking bouts.””'4 Scarritt’s money flowed as freely as his liquor for
he ended up supporting three of Simpson’s major fossil-collecting expeditions: two to Patagonia in
1930-31 and 1933—34 and one to Montana in 1935. Simpson recognized Scarritt’s crucial support
by naming an extinct South American hoofed-herbivore of early Tertiary age Scarrittia canquelen-
sis.

The Patagonian expedition had the full encouragement if not financial support of Osborn, and
grew out of an earlier cooperative plan between the museum and the University of Tiibingen, which
subsequently had to back out owing to a lack of funds. Much of the American Museum’s reputation
and renown had been built upon such foreign scientific research expeditions, and Simpson’s plans
were thus in keeping with a museum tradition so carefully nurtured by Osborn.

Simpson left for Patagonia in the summer of 1930, returning the following fall to New York.
Seven months were spent in the field working out the stratigraphy and age of the mammal-bearing
deposits as well as collecting specimens, some 300 in all. After his assistant returned to the museum
with the fossils where they began to be prepared for detailed study, Simpson passed the next five
months visiting the fossil collections in the museums of Buenos Aires and La Plata.!°

This sojourn to South America resulted in Simpson’s first book, Attending Marvels, which not
only continued the long tradition of the American Museum, strongly encouraged by Osborn, to bring
attention of its research to the public, but it also made Simpson himself known to the non-paleon-
tological world.!’ A radio interview in New York City and front-page coverage in the New York Times
Book Review immediately followed publication of the book. Simpson clearly had the intention of
bringing his research to a broader, educated public. As he remarked in the foreword of the book, “This
is an account of a scientific expedition, but it is more concerned with people and events than with
science .. . voyages to the far corners of the earth [have] interest and excitement not dependent on
technical accomplishments.”!* Simpson was undoubtedly motivated by a genuine interest in popular
scientific education, but possibly he also wanted to keep the museum’s benefactors in the fold, given

304 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

the toll that the Depression was having on continued museum support. Increasingly hereafter,
Simpson and the American Museum were to become closely associated, if not synonymous, in the
educated public’s mind as was already the case with his colleague, the anthropologist Margaret Mead.

After the first year-long Patagonian trip, Simpson returned to Patagonia for another eight months
in 1933—1934, returning to New York via Paris and Moscow where he tried, unsuccessfully, to arrange
a trip to Mongolia. In between his South American expeditions, Simpson spent two long summers in
1932 and 1935 collecting Paleocene mammals in Montana. And, of course, when not in the field,
Simpson continued to publish the results of this and other research. During this hectic professional
pace Simpson’s personal life began to improve. He finally obtained a divorce from his wife in 1938
and immediately married Anne Roe, whom he knew from his childhood in Denver and with whom
he had been living surreptitiously for the previous several years. From September 1938 to May 1939,
they went off together to collect fossils in Venezuela where Simpson had been invited by the
government to expand the search for Pleistocene mammals. Despite unusual heavy rains, Simpson
made a large but not particularly well-preserved collection that was arduously prepared by American
Museum technicians and partially described by Simpson and one of his graduate students. Before the
study of the fossils had been completed, a subsequent change of government in Venezuela claimed
that the fossils had been stolen by Simpson and it demanded that all the fossils be returned, which
they were.!?

By his travels, fossil-collecting expeditions, and resultant prolific publication during the 1930s
Simpson increasingly strengthened his reputation as a vertebrate paleontologist and the leading
student of fossil mammals. His place within the American Museum certainly seemed secure as one
of its best known scientists. However, the appointment of a new museum director a few years later
was to change all this.

New Directions with a New Director

In the late 1930s, decreasing private and public support of the museum with resultant increasing
deficits, turnover of directors, and lack of agreement between the administration and the scientific
staff about policies and programs, led to a crisis of leadership at the top. Eventually, in early 1941,
the president of the University of Michigan, Dr. Alexander Ruthven, was asked to make a study of
the museum. His single most important recommendation to the trustees the following fall was that
the director, Roy Chapman Andrews, be replaced. Within several months Dr. Albert Parr, director of
Yale’s Peabody Museum, was named the new director, taking office in June, 1942.7°

Parr then began a series of important changes including setting up a formal schedule for salaries
and promotions, making the museum more effective in public education, and developing exhibits that
instructed more actively than merely displaying objects, however exotic and unfamiliar. Simpson
personally soon benefited, receiving a significant raise in salary that was later followed by promotion
to curator after having been stalled as associate curator for 18 years despite his obvious achievements
and increasing reputation. However, Parr’s most provocative initiative was to “de-emphasize evolu-
tionary studies and taxonomic zoology as much as possible.” Parr thought that evolution had become
an established scientific fact and that further study would add little new knowledge so that the
museum’s limited resources should be placed elsewhere. Not only was this viewpoint anathema to
Simpson, but Parr added insult to injury by further recommending that the department of paleontology
be abolished, which was done in summer 1942. The three paleontologists — Simpson, Colbert, and
Otto Haas — were assigned to other departments (mammals, reptiles, and invertebrates, respec-
tively).7!

LAPORTE: AWKWARD EMBRACE 305

Perhaps because of the turmoil going on at the American Museum, Simpson received an offer
about this time of a Stirling Professorship at Yale University that he provisionally accepted.”
Provisionally, because he was also considering enlistment in the U.S. Army now that the United States
was seriously engaged in the Second World War. At age 40 and a married man with five dependents
(his wife and four daughters), Simpson could have avoided military service, but nevertheless he
enlisted, obtaining a Captaincy in December, 1942, thereby distancing himself from the problems he
was facing at the museum. In June, 1943, while serving in North Africa in military intelligence under
General Eisenhower’s command, Simpson reiterated his opposition to Parr’s reorganization plan to
a museum official: “A whole new chapter in the history of evolutionary theory is just beginning. It
is almost incredible that the Museum, with its great tradition of interest in evolutionary studies, is not
taking a more leading part in this work.” Part of that tradition, of course, was Simpson’s own work
about to be crowned by publication of his book Tempo and Mode in Evolution.**

By the time Simpson was released from active military service in December 1944, Parr had
relented on his scheme of reorganization, so Simpson declined the Yale offer and took up the
chairmanship of the new department of geology and paleontology.?> The rift between Parr and
Simpson was apparently healed, and the next decade and a half would become what Simpson years
later called his “halcyon period.”*° He gathered up honors, degrees, medals, and prizes from
universities and scientific societies from around the world. His list of publications grew and included
a number of texts (one of which was translated into more than a dozen languages) and popular books,
many scientific monographs, and innumerable articles, reviews, and letters to the editor. He became
formally associated with the departments of geology and of zoology at Columbia University, offering
graduate seminars on fossil mammals and on evolution. He served on several governing councils of
professional societies, and was elected president of the Society of Vertebrate Paleontology and of the
Society for the Study of Evolution, both of which he helped found. Besides bringing glory and
distinction upon himself, these honors of course also brought honor to the American Museum.

Simpson as Administrator

Simpson’s administrative style during his tenure as chairman of the department of geology and
paleontology, from 1944 to 1958 at the American Museum, was well described by his long-time
museum colleague Norman D. Newell.?’ Newell has said that Simpson was very cordial when he
showed up at the American Museum after the war to take up his appointment as curator of fossil
invertebrates, but Simpson had failed to anticipated what Newell would need in the way of facilities.
They walked all over the museum and could not find any available space, so Newell was temporarily
housed for six months with a comparative anatomist. Newell was “irate—I was a member of
Simpson’s team and he ignored me.” Newell kept prodding and finally went to see Parr, the museum
director, and space was found immediately on the fifth floor in a dead-storage area. The fifth floor
was then completely renovated for the whole department, but first starting with Simpson’s area, then
that of Colbert, curator of fossil reptiles, and finally down the line to Newell’s. All this work took
another six months.

With Simpson, there was no socializing among the departmental scientists and staff, so “things
got tense and unhappy. Technicians in vertebrate paleontology were often at odds with the technicians
in invertebrate paleontology, so that problems got exaggerated and distorted.” Newell found it
difficult to become acquainted with Simpson who was “just a name, a ghost... . | found him
extraordinarily shy.”

According to Newell, Simpson never saw himself as a solver of administrative or staff problems

306 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

nor even as an arbitrator. Only under duress did Simp-
son take responsibility for the departments of fossil
invertebrates and of mineralogy, which were both for-
mally under him. For example Newell, who also had an
appointment at Columbia University as a professor of
geology, was once accused by another colleague in his
department of spending too much museum time with
students. They were at an impasse over this, so Newell
insisted they go discuss it with Simpson to settle the
issue. After ten minutes of total silence following initial
explanation of what the problem was, Newell had to
pry out of Simpson just what his responsibilities were,
and in the end Simpson backed Newell.

Newell observed that with all Simpson’s travels,
Colbert who was next in seniority got stuck with the
departmental administrative chores but his decisions
had to be approved by Simpson — several were re-
versed months later when Simpson returned to the
museum — despite Simpson’s prior assurance to Col-
bert that he would backup whatever Colbert decided.
But one important decision by Colbert did not get Ficure |. George Gaylord Simpson at his desk at the
overturned by Simpson. Renovation of the exhibition — American Museum of Natural History in the 1950s.
halls was discussed at one rare departmental meeting
and Simpson wanted straight-forward Halls of the Paleozoic, Mesozoic, and Cenozoic eras. Colbert,
on the other hand, as curator of fossil reptiles, of course wanted the dinosaurs segregated and treated
separately. Newell agreed with Colbert because, obviously, his invertebrate ammonites would be
overshadowed if the dinosaurs were displayed with them in the proposed Mesozoic hall. Bobb
Schaeffer, curator of fossil fishes, remembered this incident too. He and Colbert privately discussed
from all sides Simpson’s plan to design the displays chronologically, or so they thought. But when
they went to talk to Simpson, he immediately turned their logic upside down, and before they knew
it they were back outside in the corridor. They had gotten nowhere. Nevertheless, this was one time
that Colbert’s opinion carried the day, because while Simpson was away in South America, Colbert
went ahead and had the dinosaur halls done as he wished.**

Newell became restive over the lack of endowment for his department of fossil invertebrates,
and like Simpson he did not hesitate to try to raise private funds. However, Simpson was not keen on
Newell getting oil company support for his research, and when Newell did receive oil money for work
in South America, Simpson told him to be very careful that he was not consulting for the oil industry
by using the museum’s prestige. Because Simpson was not at all enthusiastic about this arrangement,
Newell had a contract written up between the oil company and the museum that would permit the
company to see any written manuscript being sent out for publication, which would, de facto, give
the company about one year’s lead time before the information became fully public. Simpson also
did not look with favor on Newell’s oil company support for his Permian Reef study in West Texas.
Newell had to go to Parr for his approval, which he quickly gave because of the financial pinch the
museum was in, despite the fact that the trustees wanted all new, private money to go into a general
fund to maintain the museum and not to individual research projects.

Colbert was more succinct in his judgment of Simpson’s administrative skills. “He was just so-so,

LAPORTE: AWKWARD EMBRACE 307

average, as an administrator. I’ve got a theory that every administrator thinks he’s a better adminis-
trator than he really is. Simpson often didn’t tell us what he was going to do. He was a lone wolf in
everything.””?

Accident in Brazil

In the summer of 1956, Simpson participated in a joint Brazilian-American Museum expedition
to a remote region in the headwaters of the Amazon River to collect mammalian fossils. Two months
into the trip, while a camp site was being cleared, a felled tree struck Simpson, and as he later wrote
“it hit my head, giving me a concussion; my left shoulder, dislocating it; my back, bruising it; and
my legs, dislocating my left ankle and shattering my right leg with a compound fracture of tibia and
fibula... . That event changed my life quite radically.”°” The remoteness of the accident resulted in
a week’s delay before Simpson received adequate medical treatment. Its seriousness meant that for
two years he was unable to pay full attention to his responsibilities as chairman of the department.
Or at least that is how it was perceived by the museum director, his former nemesis Parr, and by
several colleagues in his own department.

According to Newell, he had urged Simpson not to go to Brazil, arguing that from his experience
one could not do much real paleontology in heavy jungle: few outcrops, thick vegetative cover, deep
soils. Instead, Newell suggested that Simpson work the flanks of the Andes where there were many
oil concessions whose companies would be willing to assist his research. Besides, the outcrops were
much better and the geology better known. Newell urged Simpson to contact the appropriate oil
companies, but Simpson paid no attention to his advice.

Simpson’s morale after the Brazil accident was very low; eventually he was up and about, but
quite lame. He was mostly part-time for two years, and when he did return to work full-time in 1958,
he received an invitation from the Brazilian Academy of Sciences to visit. Simpson told Colbert that
he would have to again cover administratively for him. As Mayr recalled, “Colbert rebelled, was
beside himself with rage. He refused to run the vertebrate paleontology department without real
authority, despite Simpson’s assurance that he’d back him up on all decisions.” When Parr heard
about this, “he said no more overseas trips! Simpson resigned on the spot.”*!

Already in the year before, Newell and some of his colleagues had asked Parr to relieve Simpson
of his administrative responsibilities, but Parr said no. Newell had a serious and cordial discussion
about this with Simpson, asking why he did not simply resign the chairmanship thereby resolving all
these difficulties. Simpson said that since Colbert was the next senior man it was up to him to take
on the departmental responsibilities while he was away. Simpson added that his not resigning the
chairmanship was not a question of prestige, but rather “that it wouldn’t be fair to Colbert to burden
him with that assignment.”*?

Colbert himself recollected that after the Brazil accident Simpson was effectively away from the
museum for about two years. Colbert would go to the hospital or Simpson’s nearby apartment to talk
about departmental business. “We had to get decisions made, but he didn’t want to talk about them.
It was a chore, no great honor, to be chairman. For two to three years I was virtually doing all of it,
but I lacked a certain amount of authority. Finally, Parr discussed it with the trustees and they
suggested that I take over as chairman. I was very dubious. I didn’t think Simpson would go along
with that. Parr went to tell him and apparently they had one helluva a row.”**

Schaeffer corroborates the circumstances surrounding this event, although more tartly than
Colbert. He suspects “Colbert groused to Parr that he was doing all the work, and Parr said he’d talk
to Simpson about it. Parr went up to Simpson’s apartment and Simpson got all hot under the collar.”

308 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

He believes that Simpson was convinced that Colbert and Parr “connived and contrived” to get him
out of the chairmanship.*4

Although Mayr had by then already left the American Museum for Harvard and the Museum of
Comparative Zoology, his explanation of the blowup at the museum was that it had been long
festering. “Colbert worked for Simpson for years, doing all the routine departmental work while
Simpson insisted on reserving all the policy decisions for himself. Colbert finally went to Parr to
complain that his research was suffering by being acting chairman. Colbert either wanted to be
chairman or relieved of the hack work. Parr called Simpson in and said ‘Look here . . .”. Simpson felt
that Colbert stabbed him in the back and never forgave him.”*°

“Plus Ca Change...”

When Parr asked Simpson to resign the chairmanship, Simpson was infuriated — as he later said,
“I resigned rather than accept such a humiliating situation.”*° Not long afterward, it must have stuck
in Simpson’s craw that he had to request permission from Colbert — now chairman — to accept an
invitation to attend the 300th anniversary of the Royal Society of London: “I presume that there will
be no serious objection from you or from the director [Parr] . . . but in view of the recent discussion
of the inadvisability of absenting myself from the museum, I would like reassurance on that point.”’

Simpson’s dissatisfaction with his situation soon led to an offer of appointment as an Alexander
Agassiz professorship at Harvard’s Museum of Comparative Zoology, offered through the good
graces of the Director and his colleague, A. S. Romer. Accompanying his formal letter of resignation,
Simpson attached a memo to Parr with a copy to Colbert where he announced his MCZ appointment,
effective 1 September 1959. In that memo, Simpson expresses “loyalty and affection” for the museum,
but he cannot resist a parting shot. “My essential reason for leaving now is that | am offered a position
elsewhere that will make my final professional years more useful and productive than they would be
likely to be at the Museum. A scientific staff member in a department here active in exhibition and
other direct public services, even if not nominally involved in administration, finds that a large
proportion of his time is taken up by routine, sometimes necessary and sometimes, frankly, unneces-
sary or futile and in either case not satisfyingly productive. Thirty-odd years of that is enough, and
the Museum, even with recent improvement, in this respect does not really and adequately provide
for relief of its senior staff members from sheer routine. It, therefore, becomes only sensible to move
on to an institution that can and does provide fuller freedom for scientific activity at this advanced
stage in a career.

“There are, of course, other and more personal considerations involved, but these are of secondary
importance and I will not dwell on them. I will mention only one: the fact that I have become partially
but permanently crippled. It has not been suggested that this injury, which occurred in the service of
the Museum, makes me incapable of holding a curatorial position, but it has resulted in certain
restrictions and suggestions as to future activities that are uncongenial to me.”**

In a letter to his sister Martha, Simpson described in glowing terms what he thought the new
appointment would require — and not require — of him. “I do have an offer of a better job: Agassiz
Professor at Harvard. More money & literally no duties —just to sit & think if so disposed, &
occasionally to say a kind word to students (but no teaching! ) & other faculty. Free, too, to come &
go as I please. The professorship explicitly does not require even residence in Cambridge . . . There
are drawbacks of course: leaving the [fossil] collections I’m working on — but Ned [Colbert] & Bert
Parr would probably be so glad to see me go that they’d lend collections to Harvard for my work.”??

In a letter to his mother a few weeks later, Simpson repeated this rosy picture: “I have been

LAPORTE: AWKWARD EMBRACE 309

offered a good job at Harvard University . . . [that] pays well & has no duties except to write & do
such research as I please. (No teaching, which I do not like —I mean, I do not like to teach & do not
have to though I will be a professor.)*°

Simpson’s colleagues at the museum and Columbia University were quite surprised at his
resignation. Schaeffer and John Moore, professor of zoology at Columbia, went to see Simpson to
try to talk him out of going to Harvard. Simpson listened without comment to their urgings. His only
reply was to say that he really did want to watch the ball game that was soon coming up on television.*!
Newell thought that “The MCZ appointment was a pretty sore arrangement. Simpson was the only
person in an enormous dead storage area.”

Although strictly speaking, Agassiz Professors did not need to be in residence or to teach, in fact
there was some de facto pressure to expand their responsibilities. The reason for this was that Agassiz
professorships were renewable five-year appointments that did not carry tenure. Agassiz professors
were, therefore, given tenured joint appointments in Harvard departments to ensure continued
association with the university if and when the term Agassiz appointments lapsed, and thus Simpson
also held appointments in both biology and geology. While departmental appointments were pro
forma, some additional duties were implied, such as teaching an occasional course, working with
graduate students, sitting on campus committees — the very activities that Simpson had found “not
satisfyingly productive” at the American Museum.

Ernest Williams, who held just such a joint appointment as an Agassiz professor and biology
professor, thinks “these distinctions were probably not made clear to Simpson at his time of
appointment by the director, Alfred Romer, who liked to get along with people.”4 Mayr, who
succeeded Romer as MCZ director, recalled that the MCZ had “fantastic possibilities for Simpson,
with all of the benefits and none of the usual obligations; not a single Ph.D. student and away much
of the time. He could have taught more than he did, but instead he just gave a few lectures in my
course on evolution, and the rest of the time just sat there.”*4 Nevertheless, Simpson did continue to
thrive at the MCZ, much as he did at the American Museum, at least for the first four years, traveling
even more extensively, giving invited lectures, and garnering still more awards and honors, including
the National Medal of Science from President Lyndon Johnson in 1966. The MCZ, too, must have
been pleased to have Simpson, because a year after his initial appointment Simpson turned down the
offer of directorship of the MCZ and instead recommended his colleague Ernst Mayr.*°

His relations with the American Museum, however, remained strained. In his autobiography,
Simpson mentions, among other grudges, that “I had planned a monograph on the fossil marsupials
of North America and many specimens were made available to me, but I was refused access to the
crucial collection [of didelphids] at my old institution, the American Museum of Natural History, and
I therefore had to abandon that plan.’“° The particular specimens he wanted were already being
studied by a Columbia University graduate student working under the direction of Simpson’s
successor at the museum, Malcolm C. McKenna. As with some other disagreements, this was another
one where Simpson overreacted. McKenna recalls that “He wanted the material ‘right now’ [but] it
was in use by someone with a legitimate claim to keep [it] on loan . . . for a while. There was a hot
exchange of correspondence. Simpson thereafter declared he’d never set foot in the museum again.””4”

In 1964, the beginning of his next five-year appointment as Agassiz professor, both Simpson and
his wife suffered “his and her heart attacks.” The health of each declined, compounding Simpson’s
own medical problems resulting from the Brazilian accident. Later, in 1967, Simpson and his wife
decided to move to Tucson, Arizona, because the Cambridge winters were getting ever more difficult
for them, especially for Anne Roe who was prone to recurrent pneumonia attacks. Simpson wrote
MCZ director Ernst Mayr, saying he was ready to resign his Agassiz professorship. Mayr went to the

310 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

dean and they instead agreed that Simpson was a special case so he was given the remaining years
of his second five-year appointment without residence requirements, at half-pay, and with his fringe
benefits continued. When time came for re-appointment in 1969, Simpson wrote Mayr and said how
he greatly appreciated the arrangement and that he would like the next five-year appointment the
same way. This time, however, Mayr and the dean “both had a good laugh and said no — which
Simpson resented bitterly.”** It would seem that Simpson was being unrealistic with this request,
given that he was in his late sixties, in poor health, and some twenty-three hundred miles from his
home institution. Moreover, the Museum of Comparative Zoology with its limited Agassiz Profes-
sorship funds was in no position to offer Simpson such a sinecure, which is what he apparently
expected as his due.

Simpson thus ended his ten-year association with the MCZ and accepted a half-time appointment
in the department of geosciences at the University of Arizona, which lasted until he finally retired in
June 1982 at the age of 80. Because he was overage when first appointed, Simpson had to be
reappointed, each year, by “special action of the [Arizona] State Board of Regents.”

Conclusion

Given the magnitude of Simpson’s achievements based upon his voluminous publications and
their quality as judged from the many honors and awards he received, it is clear that Simpson was
one of the leading scientists of the middle-half of the 20th century. Simpson therefore was not
exercising illusions of personal grandeur in expecting more than usual consideration and freedom of
operation from his museum employers. However, it is also clear that these expectations were at times
inflated, going beyond the bounds of what was reasonable in terms of other people’s needs and
interests and responsibilities. He may have thought himself a completely free agent and able to do as
he pleased, but in the real world of institutional employment, he was not and could not.

\

wat f
| ERRREH il

he
i:

FiGURE 2. Simpson at his desk in his office annex, Tucson, Arizona, in early 1980s.

LAPORTE: AWKWARD EMBRACE 311

No doubt many of Simpson’s problems with his museum employers were the result of his
personal traits of being shy, socially awkward, and disinclined to engage in one-on-one debate,
however mild. In short, he not only was a difficult person to deal with but he had no interest in dealing
with people. His genuine scientific achievements and the very visible rewards that came with them
also encouraged an attitude of feeling that he was in the right, justifiably so or not.

Museum research had great appeal for Simpson whose only interest was in his lifeless fossils
and their evolutionary history. He was clearly unsuited for academic employment, his only other
professional option. However, even in a museum, Simpson could not avoid people: his institutional
superiors, professional associates, and graduate students —all of whom he kept arm’s length.
Simpson thus often made life for himself and others difficult and unpleasant.

Finally, is there a broader lesson to be learned here about ornery individuals and institutional
personality? I think not, because Simpson was sui generis in so many ways, scientifically and
temperamentally, that his resultant behavior must also be recognized as simply one-of-a-kind.

NOTES

The expression “awkward embrace” was coined by Joan Simpson Burns, Simpson’s third daughter, and
used by her for the title of her book that examines what former editor-in-chief of Time magazine, Hedley
Donovan, called “the balance between the rights — or possibilities — of the individual, and the necessities —
or claims — of organized society.” It seems thoroughly appropriate to extend the metaphor to the particular case
of the tension between her father’s needs as a highly creative scientist and those of his museum employers as
institutions of academic and popular education. (Burns, 1975, Awkward Embrace — The Creative Artist and the
Institution in America, Alfred Knopf, New York, p. xv.)

: Simpson interview with the author, 18 August 1981, Tucson, Arizona.

The description of Simpson’s negotiations with Yale and the American Museumis based upon several
sources, including Simpson’s autobiography, Concession to the Improbable (Yale University Press, 1978, p. 38
ff.); letters to his parents and sister at the time that provide more specific details about the Yale and AMNH
offers, informal and formal, and Simpson’s protracted consideration thereof (Simple Curiosin: Letters from
George Gaylord Simpson to His Family, 1921-1970, University of California Press, 1987, p. 60, 67, 70, 73, 80,
87,89, 91); and unpaginated autobiographical notes (MS Collection 31, Simpson Papers, American Philosophical
Society Archives, Philadelphia).

Simpson, 1978, Concession, p. 38.

Work cited, p. 38.

Edwin H. Colbert, 1992, William Diller Matthew: Paleontologist (Columbia University Press, p. 215 ff.).
Simpson, 1978, Concession, p. 38.

Simpson, 1985, Simple Curtosity, p. 87.

Simpson, 1978, Concession, p. 39.

10 Work cited, p. 41.

'l See John M. Kennedy, 1968, “Philanthropy and Science in New York City: The American Museum of
Natural History, 1 868—1968,” esp. 219 ff. (Yale University dissertation, University Microfilms, Inc., Ann Arbor,
Michigan, 277 p.); and Ronald Rainger, 1991, Agenda for Antiquity: Henry Fairfield Osborn & Vertebrate
Paleontology at the American Museum of Natural History, 1890-1935, University of Alabama Press, Tuscaloosa,
360 p.).

Colbert, 1980, Fossil Hunter's Notebook, p. 85 (E. P. Dutton, New York).

Obituary, New York Times, 17 May 1949, p. 26.

‘ Simpson, 1934, Attending Marvels, p. 302 (The Macmillan Co., New York).

~ “These were the very animals of which we had seen one small fragment almost three years earlier. Dozens
of them! Hundreds perhaps! Complete skeletons weathering out of the ancient rocks where they had lain for
millions of years undisturbed! One of these, crushed flat but perfect down to the last joint, is now on display as
a treasure of the American Museum in New York and another is in the National Museum in Washington. As the

co mnn nn

BOW

312 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

animals did prove to have been totally unknown to science, I named them Scarrittia after the patron of our
expeditions.” (Simpson, 1941, “How We Knew Where to Dig,” p. 209 in Through Hell and High Water, S. S.
Cramer, editor, R. McBridge and Co., New York.) At the end of Simpson’s article, the editor adds: “Scarrittia
canquelensis ... was about the size of a horse, but stockier and heavier built. It was cumbersome . . . herbivorous,
browsing on leaves and twigs rather than grazing on grasses. It probably had no tail. It is unrelated to anything
... today.”

is Although the Patagonian expedition had a sound scientific basis, the year-long overseas trip had the added
benefit for Simpson of relief from his marital woes. His marriage was in trouble practically from the first and
went downhill quickly thereafter. By summer 1930, when he departed for South America, Simpson had been
estranged from his wife, more or less continuously from the time he left Yale to go to the British Museum; he
was finally legally separated from her the year after he returned.

Simpson, 1934, Attending Marvels. As Kennedy points out “This kind of outdoor science pleased
Professor Osborn’s wealthy Wall Street trustees and their friends. They particularly liked the museum’s
combination of exploration and science with the ‘traditional American’ entrepreneurial virtues of ‘boldness’ and
‘hard work’” (Kennedy, 1968, “Philanthropy and Science,” p. 157). Rainger, too, notes that “Osborn operated
as a salesman who promoted new projects to museum administrators, authored popular articles in leading
newspapers and magazines, and employed rhetoric, exaggeration, and supreme confidence to acquire economic
and political support for major projects in what was otherwise an expensive, non-practical, and peripheral field
of inquiry [vertebrate paleontology].” (Rainger, 1991, Agenda for Antiquity, p. 3.)

° Simpson, 1934, Attending Marvels, p. XXiv-XXVv.
Simpson, 1978, Concession, p. 95.
Kennedy, 1968, ‘Philanthropy and Science,” p. 224 ff.
Work cited, p. 241.
Simpson, 1978, Concession, p. 38.

~ Quoted in Kennedy, 1968, “Philanthropy and Science,” p. 246.

= Simpson, 1944, Tempo and Mode (Columbia University Press, New York, 237 p.). Ironically, three other
works that are considered important in the “consolidation of the evolutionary synthesis” in the late 1930s/early
1940s were based on the Jesup Lectures at Columbia University, a program of public instruction funded by the
late Morris K. Jesup, a wealthy Museum founder and former president who hired the young Henry Fairfield
Osborn to start the Department of Paleontology (Douglas J. Preston, 1986, Dinosaurs in the Attic, St. Martin’s
Press, New York, p. 64).

~ Simpson, 1978, Concession, p. 38-39.

: Work cited, p. 129.

~" Norman D. Newell interview with the author, 29-30 May 1979, Las Vegas, Nev.

°8 Bobb Schaeffer interview with the author, 6 Nov. 1980, New York City.

Colbert interview with the author, 7 July 1982, Flagstaff, Ariz.

Simpson, 1978, Concession, p. 170.

Ernst Mayr interview with the author, 22 October 1980, Cambridge, Mass. (See also note 48.)
Newell interview,

%3. Colbert interview. Anne Roe, Simpson’s wife, had another perspective. She noted that the relationship
between her husband and Parr prior to Simpson’s resignation “had suddenly turned antagonistic.” Simpson did
not know why Parr would no longer talk to him or why he would leave the staff room when Simpson entered.
For a long time, Anne thought her husband imagined these slights, until she saw Parr turn away from her husband
at a museum Christmas party. Sometime later, Simpson discovered that Parr had found out that Parr’s grant
proposal to the National Science Foundation had been turned down upon Simpson’s recommendation. As for
Simpson's wanting to remain chairman of the department, Anne had asked her husband why he did not resign,
letting Colbert takeover. “After all it was just extra worry and work for him anyway.” Simpson replied that he
would except he was afraid he would not continue to get the support he needed to carry on his research. (Anne
Roe Simpson interview with the author, 17-18 December 1985, Tucson, Ariz.)

~ Schaeffer interview.

39 Mayr interview. (See also note 48.)

YN YN

Ww
oO

31
32

LAPORTE: AWKWARD EMBRACE 313

36
an

Simpson, 1978, Concession, p. 170.
Simpson to Colbert letter, 23 September 1958 (MS Collection 31, Simpson Papers, American Philosophical

Society Archives, Philadelphia).

39
40

Simpson to Parr letter, 17 April 1959.

Simpson, 1987, Simple Curiosity, p. 294, emphasis in the original.

Work cited, p. 295.

J. Moore interview with the author, 14 June 1979, Riverside, Calif.

Newell interview.

Ernest E. Williams interview with the author, 3 October 1980, Cambridge, Mass.
Mayr interview.

Simpson, 1978, Concession, p. 195. (See also note 48.)

Work cited, p. 219.

Malcolm McKenna E-mail to the author, 9 September 1998.

Mayr interview. In his review of this chapter, Mayr wanted to correct the record because, since my

interview with him, he had learned about Simpson’s resignation directly from Parr. According to Parr, when
Simpson was fully recovered from his accident, Parr offered him two options. Either Simpson could return
full-time to the departmental chairmanship or resign and take upon an appointment as senior scientist. Simpson
angrily refused both offers and immediately contacted Romer at the MCZ, asking him for an appointment there
as Alexander Agassiz professor, to which Romer agreed. Furthermore, Parr vigorously denied that Colbert had
any direct role in Simpson’s resignation. Mayr also did not believe that Romer offered Simpson the directorship
of the MCZ, given Simpson’s personality and previous administrative record at the AMNH. On the contrary,
Mayr himself was being groomed by Romer for the directorship. (Mayr review, 27 April 1999).
° Simpson, 1978, Concession, p. 218.

Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA.
All nghts reserved.

314

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

An Essay on the History of the Biosystematists
of the San Francisco Bay Area

WILLIAM Z. LIDICKER, JR.
Museum of Vertebrate Zoology
University of California, Berkeley, CA 94720
E-mail: lidicker@socrates.berkeley.edu

For more than 60 years the Biosystematists of the Bay Area has served as an intellectual
focus and integrating influence among the evolutionary biologists of the region. Its
membership included many influential contributors to the evolutionary synthesis, as well
as a host of leading figures in evolutionary biology over the decades of its existence. The
group’s history is significant also in that it represents an experiment in the effectiveness
of promoting scientific progress through interdisciplinary discourse among peers spiced
with a dose of collegiality. This essay summarizes the organization’s format, membership,
and structure, reports on its founding and early history, documents its transition away
from an all-male society, and records the officers that provided its leadership. Future
research will assemble what can be learned about its programs, and hence reveal the extent
and depth of its intellectual concerns.

Sometimes, quite unpredictably, seemingly minor events result in unanticipated historical paths.
This is an account of how a privately published book with a heretical message, The Atlantic Rift and
its Meaning (Baker, 1932), helped trigger a 63-year experiment in interdisciplinary discourse among
evolutionary biologists. For over 60 years the Biosystematists has been a San Francisco Bay Area
institution unique in its format and an intellectual tour de force in its influence both locally and
nationally. It was founded in 1936 with the unusual attitude that interdisciplinary discourse combined
with a dose of social collegiality could spawn scientific breakthroughs as well as personal intellectual
growth. Although such an idea was not novel, it was definitely not the standard behavior of scientists
at the time, at least in North America, and even now, while increasingly often expressed, it is more
an idealized goal in science than a reality. This forward-looking cohort of scientists was comprised
of systematists and geneticists associated with various academic institutions in the San Francisco Bay
Area.

The format for this new organization was to meet generally once a month with a dinner followed
by discussion. Meeting venues alternated among the institutions involved, but the University of
California at Berkeley soon became the most utilized site because of its central location. Attendance
at meetings varied, but the modal number was about 30. Early membership in the Biosystematists
included important contributors to the evolutionary “new synthesis” (Smocovitis, 1997). Among them
were Jens Clausen, William Hiesey, David Keck, Alden Miller, and Ledyard Stebbins. Richard
Goldschmidt was also an early member although his contribution to the evolutionary synthesis is still
debated (Dietrich, 1995; Mayr, 1997). Much later (early 1970s) Theodosius Dobzhansky participated
while he was retired and living in Davis, California. According to V. B. Smocovitis (pers. commun.),
when Dobzhansky was at the California Institute of Technology in Pasadena, he often visited Berkeley
to confer with geneticist I. Michael Lerner, and at such times attended meetings of the Biosystematists.
In 1970, the group flexed its political muscle by writing an open letter (27 January) to Max Rafferty,
then California State Superintendent of Public Education, opposing the inclusion of creationist ideas
in the teaching of evolution.

315

316 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

The group prided itself on its informal and minimal administrative structure (no dues were
collected for at least the first 40 years), one consequence of which was that records of its activities
were not systematically preserved. Over the decades, the Biosystematists naturally changed in many
ways, adjusting its format, enlarging its membership base (Table 1), experimenting with different
administrative structures, and broadening its concept of what constituted evolutionary biology. Such
changes were not always accomplished without controversy, but change after all was a comfortable
intellectual concept for evolutionary biologists. Nevertheless, throughout this long period, the group
remained faithful to its basic tenets of interdisciplinary discussion among peers, informality, and
collegiality. Consistent with this philosophy, Biosystematists was a “membership by invitation” only
organization. While the criteria for membership evolved, there was a semi-formal procedure for
joining during most of these 60 years. At first, members were required to have a PhD degree or
equivalent experience and to have an established program of independent research in some aspect of
evolutionary biology. Effectively, this restricted membership to those at Bay Area institutions of
higher learning, including the California Academy of Sciences. Gradually, the second requirement
became relaxed, but not the first. Another early requirement was that prospective members be resident
in the Bay Area for one year before becoming eligible. This seems to have been largely ignored after

TABLE 1. Membership numbers for the Biosystematists
based on counts from surviving membership lists. The
sometimes violent fluctuations in numbers can be attributed
to the occasional purging of inactive or non-paying (after
1977) members. After 1993, the numbers refer to a mailing
list as formal membership was abolished.

Year Number of members
1936/37 15 (est.)
1938 ~20
1939/40 27
1940 30
1948 38
1949/50 43
1950/51 47
1953/54 58
1954/55 60
1955/56 63
1968 84
197] 13]
1972/73 139
1974/75 59
1977/78 164
1984/85 151
1986 58
1987/88 153
1994/95 175
1995/96 110
1996/97 122
1997/98 130

1998/99 142

LIDICKER: BIOSYSTEMATISTS OF THE SAN FRANCISCO BAY AREA 317

just a few years, but the notion that members should be long-term residents of the area persisted
through the 1980s. The rule was that nominees for membership should be able to attend meetings for
at least one year after election. Shorter term residents, such as post-doctoral fellows, would be
welcome as guests. The last formal statement of membership requirements was in a letter from D. R.
Kaplan, Chair of the Council, dated 9 October 1991. Criteria included: a professional position in the
area, record of research accomplishment, regular attendance on a long-term basis, and ability to
present a seminar to the group.

At each meeting, there was a formality of welcoming any new members and introducing guests.
Nominations for membership were made in writing and submitted to a membership committee that
would review whether or not the nominee fit the above criteria. During some intervals, the Executive
Committee, if there were one, or the Secretary acted as the membership committee (see below). In
1993/ 1994, the membership committee concept was abolished. In about 1977, institutional budgets
having become extremely constrained, a $1 annual dues was initiated in order to pay for postage.
Dues remained at this rate up to the present time, except that in about 1994 they were raised to $2 for
a couple of years to alleviate a deficit. In recent years, electronic mail has reduced mailing costs, and
dues collection has become sporadic.

Although there was not an identifiable single defining moment, by 1998 the organization had
changed in ways that were more fundamental than it had previously experienced. For some, this
signaled the end of an era identified by the above philosophy, and for others it meant re-positioning
the organization more appropriately for the next 60 years. Perhaps both are true. For many members,
these recent modernizations of the organization triggered an interest in the history of the group and
a concomitant reassessment of its accomplishments. For instance, Michael T. Ghiselin of the
California Academy of Sciences arranged for an archive to be established at that institution. And, in
September 1998, I undertook the task of assembling as much historical data as I could on the
organization, a task made complicated and frustrating by the informal and minimal administrative
structure that had characterized it. The late John H. Thomas of Stanford University had served for a
few years as an informal archivist but for health reasons gradually withdrew from playing an active
role. The material that he was able to accumulate was, however, extremely helpful to me in my efforts.
I have been a member of the Biosystematists since the autumn of 1957, and maintained an active
involvement to the present time, except for a few sabbatical leave absences. I began my present
investigation by sending a memorandum to all long-term members of the group soliciting their help.
Useful input was received over the subsequent months from the following individuals. I am most
grateful to them for their assistance.

John A. Chemsak Lincoln Constance
Howell V. Daly Barbara Ertter
Michael T. Ghiselin Joseph T. Gregory
Nancy Vivrette Haller Tomio Iwamoto
Ned K. Johnson Harold W. Kerster
Elizabeth B. McClintock Brent D. Mishler
Robert Ornduff Jerry A. Powell
Charles M. Rick G. Ledyard Stebbins
Barbara R. Stein Marvalee H. Wake

What follows are (1) an account of the first decade of the organization’s existence, (2) a
discussion of the controversy surrounding women members, and (3) a compilation of the group’s
officers. Information on programs is currently being assembled and will be presented later.

318 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

The most common type of programs were status reports by members on their on-going research,
followed by extensive discussion. Sometimes the speaker was a visitor or post-doctoral fellow, and
sometimes there were panel discussions. Generally the group scheduled a weekend field trip meeting
once a year, and these excursions usually involved multiple speakers. Figure | shows a group of four
members looking for salamanders following a successful weekend symposium at Bodega Marine
Laboratory (13—14 February 1970). In this case the topic was the raging controversy over molecular
clocks, and we called the symposium “Phyletics without fossils.” There is also in existence an
excellent photograph of the group attending a weekend field trip in May 1946 (see Figure 2; also
Smocovitis, 1997, fig. 5).

The First Decade

Because of the informal nature of the Biosystematists, few documents concerning the early years
of the organization seem to have survived. Even the date of the first meeting has been controversial.
In 1978, the regular May meeting of the group (9 May) was devoted to a symposium on its history,
a belated 40th anniversary celebration. There were seven speakers at this well attended event, all of
whom were founding, or nearly founding, members. David Keck and Ira Wiggins expressed the
opinion that the first meeting was in 1935, and there was no dissenting view expressed at that time.
Earlier, William Hiesey, another founding member, wrote to Lincoln Constance (19 January 1974)
that he thought the group began in “about 1935.” A second meeting on the history of the organization,
this time led by Betty Smocovitis, an historian, was held on 8 September 1998. At that time Ledyard

Peay PL iy PPM ARE PARR S ae

Ficure |. A group of happy Biosystematists looking for salamanders on their way home from a
successful symposium at the Bodega Marine Laboratory, 14 February 1970.
Left to right: Vincent M. Sarich, Allan C. Wilson, William Z. Lidicker, Jr., and David B. Wake.
Photo by Oliver P. Pearson.

LIDICKER: BIOSYSTEMATISTS OF THE SAN FRANCISCO BAY AREA 319

Stebbins said that he was sure the first meeting was in 1937 or possibly 1936 (see also Smocovitis,
1994, 1997). And so the matter stood, except to note that it seemed to me that a 1935 starting date
was a little early in view of the other events (see below) known to have preceded the group’s
establishment.

Recently, I discovered a letter that seems to solve the mystery. On 28 September 1938, Herbert
L. Mason wrote to Robert C. Miller, then Director of the California Academy of Sciences, inviting
him to attend the October meeting of the group. He commented further that this meeting would mark
the beginning of the organization’s third year. This means that the first meeting was in fact held in
October 1936, a date quite compatible with other information. There was no disagreement among
early members that this first meeting occurred in October in the library of the Carnegie Institution of
Washington at Stanford University. David Keck was the first speaker and his topic was a privately
published book by Howard Bigelow Baker (1932) on continental drift. The second meeting was held
in Berkeley (2093 Life Sciences Bldg.), and the third was at Stanford’s Dudley Herbarium in the
former Natural History Museum.

No one person clearly emerges as deserving credit for starting the group. Jens Clausen is
frequently mentioned as the initial coordinator, but David Keck and William Hiesey each felt that
they were initially and critically involved in the first steps toward its organization. These three formed
such an integrated intellectual team that it is probably impossible to know which individual was
responsible for which ideas, and over time each could legitimately claim ownership of any group
thoughts. Clausen was the senior member of the team, and so it is understandable that he was viewed
by others as the initial leader. David Keck, however, gave the most plausible story when he addressed
the group at its 9 May 1978 panel discussion. He recalled that in December 1934 the AAAS meetings
were in Pittsburgh. Keck arrived just after the meetings ended, his arrival delayed because of the birth
of his daughter on 26 December. He had discussions with a group from the Carnegie Museum and
others, and conceived the idea for a biosystematics group. Contributing to this germ was his fortuitous
discovery of the book by H. B. Baker (1932) on continental drift and his consequent realization of
the potential for inter-disciplinary exchange. On his return to Stanford, he claims to have discussed
the idea with colleagues and subsequently took the lead in organizing the group. This claim is
supported by Herbert Mason who remembered meeting with Keck “and others” in Berkeley to discuss
possible interest by Berkeley faculty in participating. Hiesey also gives Keck credit for being the
originator of the idea for monthly meetings in the Bay Area (letter to Lincoln Constance dated 19
January 1974). Moreover, Robert Usinger who was a member from about 1938, states that “the
Biosystematists’ organization was started by David Keck of the Carnegie Institution at Stanford”
(Usinger, 1972:68).

Another development that may have helped Keck and others formulate their idea for the new
organization was that a group with similar objectives had formed in the East. It was centered in New
York with Columbia University and the American Museum of Natural History being the primary
institutions involved (Smocovitis, 1994:249-250). The leader of this group was L. C. Dunn with other
notables such G. G. Simpson, E. Mayr, and Theodosius Dobzhansky being involved. Ira Wiggins
mentioned a group in the East similar to the Biosystematists in a letter to Lincoln Constance on 13
June 1971, which probably referred to this one in New York. Wiggins claimed, however, that the
eastern group folded within five years. While this may be true, it is this eastern assemblage of
prominent evolutionists that led eventually (1946) to the formation of the Society for the Study of
Evolution (Smocovitis, 1994). Members of the Biosystematists clearly were also involved in this
event as its agenda for the 5 February 1946 meeting included a discussion of the new organization,

320 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

to be established at the AAAS meetings in March of that year, with a consideration of possible
nominations for officers.

In passing it may be noted that the Biosystematists model was followed by others. In the 1950s
and early 1960s there was a Southern California Biosystematists (D. R. Savage, pers. commun.), and
the long-lasting (but now defunct) Kennicott Club of Chicago may have had similar objectives. This
latter club actually preceded the Biosystematists by a few years, and was an association of working
naturalists, rather than evolutionary biologists (O. Pergams and F. A. Pitelka, pers. commun.).

The origin of the name “Biosystematists” is also of considerable interest. A name for the fledgling
organization was apparently discussed “ around the table” at the group’s third meeting. Both Ledyard
Stebbins and George S. Myers recall (1978) that Gordon Ferris might have suggested the name, but
Hiesey gives this credit to Emest B. Babcock (1974 letter). Botanists generally credit the term
“biosystematics” to Camp and Gilly (1943), but clearly this is wrong (also Smocovitis, pers.
commun.). Ina letter to Robert C. Miller dated 15 July 1940, the organization was referred to as “The
Biosystematists.” It was consistently called “ Biosystematists” until 1998 when “Bay Area Biosys-
tematists (BABS)” unceremoniously appeared.

There is no record of charter members of the group. Aside from the three leaders based at
Stanford, E. B. Babcock took the lead in recruiting faculty from Berkeley. According to Keck, Joseph
Grinnell, Director of the Museum of Vertebrate Zoology, was invited to join but declined, recom-
mending his young colleague Seth B. Benson. The California Academy of Sciences was also soon
involved through R. C. Miller, and some early meetings were held there as well. One initial member,
H. E. McMinn, was from Mills College. Thus the evidence suggests that the following 14 were among
the initial participants:

LeRoy Abrams (Stanford Univ.) Ernest B. Babcock (Univ. Calif., Berkeley)
Seth B. Benson (Univ. Calif., Berkeley) Ralph Chaney (Univ. Calif., Berkeley)
Jens Clausen (Carnegie Institution) Gordon F. Ferris (Stanford Univ.)

William M. Hiesey (Carnegie Inst.) David D. Keck (Carnegie Institution)
Herbert L. Mason (Univ. Calif., Berkeley) Howard E. McMinn (Mills College)
Alden H. Miller (Univ. Calif., Berkeley) George S. Myers (Stanford Univ.)

G. Ledyard Stebbins (Univ. Calif., Berkeley) Ira L. Wiggins (Stanford Univ.)

By 1939/40 there were 27 members (Table 1), including such notables as Lincoln Constance,
Richard B. Goldschmidt, Robert C. Miller, and Robert L. Usinger.

Not much is known about the officers and programs during this first decade of the group’s
existence. Jens Clausen was likely the coordinator for the first two years, and Herbert Mason may
have done this job for 1938/39 (cf., his invitation letter to R. C. Miller of 28 September 1938). Aside
from the initial program in October 1936, the next record of a program was for November 1938 when
D. I. Axelrod spoke on the origin of the Californian element in the flora of California. For 1939/40,
we have a list of seven speakers and dates, but no topics. To this list is appended the interesting
comment that “speakers will arrange for a place to eat and will send out notices of meetings.” In
February and March 1941 the program was, respectively: E. G. Linsley on the evolution of floral
relationships in bees, and R. C. Miller on geography and evolution —a motion picture on the
Galapagos Islands by David Lack. Stebbins and Goldschmidt were probably program officers for this
academic year. We do have a partial program for 1941/42 which was assembled by these two leaders
in May of 1941. For the four meetings of October 1941 through January 1942, 16 of the 22 chapters
in Julian Huxley’s “The New Synthesis” were reviewed. Reviewers and alternates were assigned and
four chapters were covered each meeting. In 1942/43 the program chairman was Goldschmidt, and

bo

LIDICKER: BIOSYSTEMATISTS OF THE SAN FRANCISCO BAY AREA 3

Stebbins wrote a letter to members implying that he was in charge (25 September 1942). The letter
expressed concerns about the group being able to continue to meet with gasoline rationing and dim-out
restrictions imposed by World War II. Stebbins suggested Saturday afternoon meetings (as last
year’) in San Francisco (either at the California Academy of Sciences or at the University of
California’s Extension Division on Powell Street) both of which could be reached easily with public
transportation. Apparently, the organization was relatively inactive from this time until the end of the
war, but did meet at least occasionally. Stebbins seems to have been coordinator (Secretary?) in
1945/46, and we know there were meetings in at least February (R. A. Stirton on evolutionary progress
in the horses) and May. The May meeting was at the Placerville Forest Genetics Station, and a
remarkable photograph exists from this event (Figure 2). There are 21 people in the photo, four of
whom were hosts from the Station and two may have been guests, leaving 15 Biosystematists
members (including seven of the “charter” members).

Although major gaps remain in the historical record for this decade, it seems appropriate to pull
together what we do have at this time. Hopefully, additional information will be found, perhaps with
this essay serving as an encouragement for others to search through old files.

FIGURE 2. Biosystematists at Placerville Forest Genetics Station, 11-12 May 1946.
Standing (Left to right): H. E. McMinn*, G. F. Ferris*, E. G. Linsley, H. Graham, L. Adams, C. Y. Chang (guest),
E. B. Babcock*, W. E. Castle (guest), R. H. Weidman (Sta. pers.), R. B. Goldschmidt, G. S. Myers*
Front row (Left to right): R. C. Miller, G. L. Stebbins*, C. O. Sauer, H. L. Mason*, I. L. Wiggins*, L. Constance,
N. Mirov (Sta. pers.), P. Stockwell (Sta. pers.), W. Cummings (Sta. pers.), and H. Kirby.
Photo courtesy A. Leviton (G.S.Myers/A.E.Leviton Biographical Photo File, California Academy of Sciences).

* = charter members.

322 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Breaking the Gender Barrier in the Biosystematists

In the last few years, the view has been expressed in meetings of the Biosystematists and
elsewhere that the organization was blatantly sexist until quite recently. Smocovitis (1994:249) makes
the unreferenced assertion that “women and graduate students were strictly excluded from the society
until the early 1970s, when they were admitted after much discussion.” Since this interpretation of
history does not match the recollections of at least some long-term members, it seemed useful to
assemble whatever data that I could relevant to the subject. Graduate students, incidentally, were not
admitted as members until the last few years because they did not fit the membership requirement of
having a PhD or equivalent level of experience. They were, however, always welcomed at meetings
as invited guests (while still graduate students, R. L. Usinger attended meetings as early as 1938 as
did F. A. Pitelka starting in 1941).

There were in fact no women on the membership rolls of the Biosystematists until 1971, a period
of almost 35 years. At least for the earlier part of this interval, most of the long- term members believed
that this fact merely reflected the scarcity of women in evolutionary biology in the Bay Area during
that period. As recently as September 1998, Ledyard Stebbins, one of the founding members, claimed
simply that in the early years no woman met the criteria for membership, which as explained earlier
were fairly restrictive. When the subject came up at the 1978 “40th anniversary” meeting of the
society, Seth Benson jokingly noted the argument that he had heard to the effect that “ women would
not understand an organization that did not have any women in it.” Another speaker at that
symposium, Herbert Mason, commented that “the group had no objection to women; we Just did not
invite them.” In spite of this superficially benign situation, at least a few female biologists felt that
they should have been invited to join and were not (including Annetta Carter and Elizabeth B.
McClintock).

Certainly toward the end of this 35 year period there were women scientists in the area who likely
would have qualified for membership, even by the fairly severe early standards. Some women did
attend as guests, just as graduate students did. Although there were no records kept of such instances,
some members recall two women guests: Aloha (Hanna) Alava, research associate of Curt Stern, and
Olga Pavlovsky, research associate of Theodosius Dobzhansky. Of course it might be argued that
although these two held PhD degrees they did not have independent research programs, and hence
did not qualify as members. There is evidence, however, that a few members did object on principle
to opening membership to females. Based on correspondence or in some cases on recollections of
others, the following were known or alleged to have objected at one time or another to including
women as members of the society: Jens Clausen, Paul Hurd, Herbert Mason, and Ira Wiggins. In a
letter to Lincoln Constance, then chairman of the Executive Committee, Wiggins wrote on 13 June
1971, as amember of this committee, that he was withdrawing his objections to admitting women to
the group. He added the interesting explanation that he had heretofore been opposed to opening the
group to women because “founders of Biosystematists in the east, before we set our group up in
business included females and within five years infighting had wrecked the group and it ceased to
function.”

From the perspective of most members of the Biosystematists who were participating before
1971, the gender issue rarely surfaced, and no one can recall it reaching the level of a “discussion”
or debate. I think I remember a single instance in which a woman was suggested for membership
before 1971. A senior member of the group simply explained that she did not qualify according to
the group’s criteria, and the matter was dropped. Jerry Powell, who became a member in 1961, says
(in litt., February 1999) “I do not remember there being any controversy about Biosystematists being

LIDICKER: BIOSYSTEMATISTS OF THE SAN FRANCISCO BAY AREA 323

a “men only club”; although some older members may have objected when the first women were
suggested...”

The revolution occurred in 1971 (this incidentally was also a high year for membership numbers;
see Table 1). In letters, John H. Thomas nominated Elizabeth B. McClintock on 15 April, George W.
Barlow nominated Margaret Bradbury on 29 April, Marvalee Wake was nominated by Ned K.
Johnson on 4 June, and about that time Ledyard Stebbins nominated Earleen Atchison Rupert and
Dorothy Lowery. The discussions within the Executive Committee (Lincoln Constance, chairman,
Ira Wiggins, George Lindsay, and Harman T. Spieth) on these historically important nominations
were recorded in (1) a letter of 8 June from Constance to the rest of the committee supporting four
of these women nominees (not including Lowery), (2) a note from Lindsay to Constance dated 10
June saying “I think it is time to admit female members . . .”, and pointing to the excellent
qualifications of M. Wake, and (3) the aforementioned letter by Wiggins dated 13 June endorsing
three women candidates and accepting the evaluations of Stebbins for the other two. After discussion
by the Executive Committee, these five women were approved for membership along with three men.
On 17 July, Constance wrote to outgoing Secretary Ned Johnson instructing him to add these eight
names to the membership list.

Following this 1971 breakthrough, women were regularly admitted to membership, and no
further opposition to this development has been found in the written records or recalled by members.
In 1975, Nancy Vivrette (now Haller) was appointed the first woman Secretary, and she served two
terms (1975/76 and 1976/77). Not surprisingly, the organization has survived.

Officers of the Biosystematists

This compilation is based on my own records, the results of a solicitation for information
extended to 30 long-term members of the organization (including one charter member), and from a
search through five boxes of documents on the Biosystematists in the archives at Stanford University
courtesy of John H. Thomas. Information is scarce, especially for the years before 1950 largely
because the group was informal, had a minimal administrative structure with few records being
preserved, and had until 1986 no written charter of any kind.

The ensuing list of officers not only documents who have been the leaders of the organization
bui also tracks the group’s efforts to experiment with different administrative arrangements. Respon-
sibility for leadership varied from a single officer, the Secretary (e.g., 1949/50 to 1962/63), up to 12
or 13 officers (e.g., 1986/87 to 1992/93). The most common arrangement was for a single Program
Officer or Secretary backed up by an Executive Committee whose main responsibility was to appoint
the Secretary each year. Very little information has been located for the first decade (1936-1946),
and that which was found is mentioned in the section above on that decade. Likewise, no information
on officers was discovered for fall 1946 through the summer of 1949, except that in February 1948
Ledyard Stebbins sent out a meeting announcement and membership list suggesting that he served
in this capacity in 1947/48. Perhaps he was Secretary for the period 1946/47 through 1948/49 (as well
as earlier). The following compilation starts with the academic year 1949/50. Figure 3 was taken on
the occasion of a belated 40th anniversary meeting in May, 1978. Of the ten Secretaries serving
between then and 1957/58, nine are shown plus Stebbins.

In preparing this account of officers, | have become impressed with how poor unaided personal
memories can be. Moreover, suppositions with sufficient repetition can become viewed as “facts.”
For the benefit of future researchers, note that one source of confusion comes from the organization
adhering roughly to an academic calendar. Decisions were usually made in May regarding the

324 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

FiGure 3. Ten Secretaries of the Biosystematists assembled for a belated 40th anniversary celebration, Botanical Gardens,
University of California, Berkeley, 9 May 1978. Left to mght: Robert Ornduff, G. Ledyard Stebbins, Ned K. Johnson,
William Z. Lidicker, Jr., George F. Papenfuss, Howell V. Daly, Jr., Seth B. Benson, Nancy Vivrette, Jerry A. Powell,

William A. Clemens. Photo by Perry Mulleany; courtesy of N. Vivrette (Haller).

leadership for the next academic year, and sometimes documents listing officers do not make it
explicit that they are for the next year. Also summer intervals are sometimes covered by the out-going
officers and sometimes by the new ones. In at least one year, the new officers did not take over until
early December.

In the following tabulation, names are given in full only the first time the person is mentioned;
thereafter only family names are used. Note how the titles of the various positions change over time.
Since there were no written rules, changes came easily. Even after a formal set of organizational rules
was adopted in 1986, it was followed only until the autumn of 1993; a new format was adopted in
1995. As noted, major changes in the organization’s structure and philosophy occurred in 1998.

Officers: 1949 to 2000 (by academic years)

1949/50 to 1956/57 (8 years) — Secretary: Robert L. Usinger
1957/58 to 1959/60 (3 years) — Secretary: Seth B. Benson
1960/61 — Secretary: Paul D. Hurd, Jr.
1961/62 to 1962/63 (2 years) — No information, but, by interpolation, Hurd was likely Secretary.
1963/64 — Secretary: Hurd
Membership Committee (this committee was also charged with appointing the Secretary so
served as an executive committee): Alden H. Miller (Chairman), William. M. Hiesey, George
E. Lindsay, Charles M. Rick, Usinger
Committee on Organization (this ad hoc committee gave its report in April; it consisted of an
eight-point resolution): Ruben A. Stirton (Chairman), Benson, Hurd, John M. Tucker, Ira L.
Wiggins

ies)
No
n

LIDICKER: BIOSYSTEMATISTS OF THE SAN FRANCISCO BAY AREA

1964/65 to 1965/66 (2 years) — Secretary: Hurd. I assume that the Membership Committee continued. There
is some evidence that in the second of these years, the Secretarial duties were shared among Hurd, Usinger,
and John A. Chemsak.

1966/67 — Secretary: Ned K. Johnson

Executive Committee — Usinger (Chairman), Lindsay, Rick, Wiggins

1967/68 — Secretary: Robert Ornduff

Executive Committee — Lindsay (Chairman), probably Rick and Wiggins cont. (Usinger died
in 1968)

1968/69 — Secretary: Howell V. Daly

Executive Committee: Lindsay resigned 30 Oct. 1968 and was replaced as Chairman by Hurd;
Wiggins, Rick (Ornduff and Johnson may have been added later in the year).

1969/70 — Secretary: William Z. Lidicker, Jr.

Executive Committee: Hurd (Chairman), Lindsay, Herman T. Spieth, Wiggins (Rick seems to
have been acting as Chairman on 19 May 1970, possibly as Hurd resigned to go to the
Smithsonian Institution about this time.)

1970/71 — Secretary: Johnson

Executive Committee: Lincoln Constance (Chairman), Lindsay, Spieth, Wiggins (A note was
found that this committee also served as the membership committee which it probably did since
its inception in 1966.)

1971/72 — Secretary: Johnson continued until early December when William A. Clemens took over.

Executive Committee: Constance (Chairman), Lindsay, Wiggins

Membership Committee: Lindsay, Spieth, Wiggins (Note: This is the only year until 1985
when separate Membership and Executive committees were formed.)

1972/73 — Secretary: Clemens

Executive Committee: Constance (Chair), Lindsay, Spieth, Wiggins

Membership Committee: no information; probably combined with Executive Committee

1973/74 — Secretary: Clemens continued into the Fall (with assistance from Constance), but was then replaced
by Jerry A. Powell (assisted in the Spring by Chemsak)

Executive Committee: Evert I. Schlinger (Chair), Lidicker, Tucker, William N. Eschmeyer,
and a fifth position for someone from Stanford was unfilled

Membership Committee: no further mention of this committee was found until 1985, so
presumably its duties were reassumed by the Executive Committee

1974/75 — Secretary: Powell

Executive Committee: Schlinger (Chair), Lidicker, Tucker, Eschmeyer, John H. Thomas

1975/76 — Secretary: Nancy Vivrette

Executive Committee: Schlinger (Chair), Lidicker, no record of others (probably also Thomas)

1976/77 — Secretary: Vivrette

Executive Committee: Schlinger (Chair), Lidicker, Thomas

1977/78 — Secretary: George F. Papenfuss

Executive Committee: cont.

1978/79 to 1979/80 (2 years) — Secretary: Joseph T. Gregory

Executive Committee: cont.

1980/81 to 1984/85 (5 years) — Secretary: G. Ledyard Stebbins (except that during Dec. through March of 81/82
Schlinger and Lidicker substituted for Stebbins)

Executive Committee: cont.

1985/86 — Secretary: Stebbins cont.

Executive Committee: cont.

Council: A “Plan for the Future” of the organization was drafted by the Executive Committee
and adopted in the Spring. It called for an 8-person Council and a Membership Committee which
were established as follows: Council — Schlinger (prob. Chair), Lidicker, Thomas, Stebbins,

326 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

O. Ray Collins, David H. Kavanaugh, Kevin Padian, John Hafernik, Membership Committee:
Thomas (Chair), Lidicker (Chair as of May 1986), Padian
By 10 April 1986, Barbara Ertter was functioning as the Treasurer/Recording Secretary.
1986/87 — Program Chair: Collins
Council: Thomas (Chair), Ertter (Recording Secretary), Lidicker, Collins, Padian, Kavanaugh,
Hafernik, Rick
Membership Committee: Lidicker (Chair), Padian, Thomas
1987/88 — All officers continuing except that Padian became Chair of the Membership Committee
1988/89 — Program Chair: Thomas
Council: Thomas (Chair), Ertter (Recording Secretary), Daphne Fautin, Hafernik, Lidicker,
Padian, Collins, Rick
Membership Committee: Padian (Chair), Hafernik, Rick
1989/90 — Program Chair: Thomas cont.
Council: Padian (Chair), Thomas, Ertter (Membership Secretary), Fautin, Hafernik, Rick,
Powell, Donald R. Kaplan
Membership Committee: Hafernik (Chair), Padian, Rick, Powell
1990/91 — Program Chair: Thomas cont.
Council: Padian (Chair), Ertter (Membership Secretary), Thomas, Hafernik, Tomio Iwamoto,
Kaplan, Powell, Rick
Membership Committee: Hafernik (Chair), Powell, Rick
1991/92 — Program Chairperson: Padian
Council: Kaplan (Chair), Ertter (Membership Secretary), Hafernik, Iwamoto, Powell,
Thomas, Padian, Grady L. Webster
Membership Committee: Powell (Chair), Hafernik, Iwamoto, Thomas, Webster
1992/93 — Program Chair: Charles Quibell
Council: Kaplan (Chair), Ertter (Membership Secretary), Hafernik, Iwamoto, Powell, Quibell,
Thomas, Webster
Membership Committee: cont.
1993/94 — Program Chair: Quibell cont.
Council: cont.
Membership Committee: Powell (Chair), no other members recorded; abolished mid-year
1994/95 — Program Committee: Michael T. Ghiselin, Lidicker, Brent D. Mishler
Social Chairman: Quibell, assisted by Lidicker
Executive Committee: Kaplan (Chair), Harold W. Kerster ( Recording Secretary), Quibell,
Lidicker, Ghiselin, Mishler. In February 1995, Mishler’s suggestion for changing to only three
officers was adopted.
1995/96 to 1996/97 (two years) — Program Chair: Ghiselin (with assistance from Mishler and Lidicker)
Social Chair: Lidicker
Corresponding Secretary/Treasurer: Kerster
1997/98 — Program Chair: Mishler
Social Chair: Ghiselin
Secretary/Treasurer: Kerster
1998/99 — Program Committee: Marty Wojciechowski (Chair), Peter Fritsch, Kelly Steele, Dennis Wall
Social Chair; Ghiselin
Secretarv/ Treasurer: Kerster
1999/2000 — Program Chair: Mishler
Social Chair: Wojciechowski
Secretary/Treasurer: Kerster

LIDICKER: BIOSYSTEMATISTS OF THE SAN FRANCISCO BAY AREA 327

EPILOGUE

I hope this document will inspire an appreciation for what the Biosystematists has contributed
to progress in evolutionary biology as well as to the personal enhancement of the lives and careers
of its members. It has also been an interesting experiment in the sociology of science. That the
Biosystematists has operated at the forefront of evolutionary biology in the broadest sense is perhaps
obvious from its membership. Its key role in the development and elaboration of the evolutionary
synthesis has been emphasized (see also Smocovitis, 1997). However, an examination of the table of
contents in any modern textbook of evolution (see Futuyma, 1998 as a good example) reveals the
complete correspondence between these subjects and the interests and contributions of Biosystematist
members. A perusal of the literature cited in the Futuyma text finds the publications of at least 39
members, not counting those of their former students.

Perhaps this essay will also trigger the discovery of new information that can help to fill the many
gaps remaining in this history. The material on which it is based will be deposited in the archives at
the California Academy of Sciences and also posted on the Biosystematists’ web page
(http://ucjeps.herb.berkeley.edu/bryolab/babs).

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In addition to the 17 long-term members who provided valuable information and insights listed
above, I am grateful to the following persons who contributed data, important leads to information,
and/or encouragement: Richard Beidleman, Oliver Pergams, Frank Pitelka, Betty Smocovitis, David
Wake, and Marty Wojciechowski.

Librarians at the archives of Stanford University and the California Academy of Sciences, and
at the BioSciences Library in Berkeley were most cordial and helpful.

Alan Leviton, O. P. Pearson, and Nancy Vivrette each kindly contributed a photograph.

Helpful reviews of earlier versions of this manuscript were provided by A. Leviton, L. N.
Lidicker, F. A. Pitelka, V. B. Smocovitis, and B. R. Stein, and I am grateful to them for their important
contributions.

LITERATURE CITED

BAKER, H. B. 1932. The Atlantic Rift and its Meaning. Privately published (106 copies), 305 pp.

Camp, W. H. and C. L. Gilly. 1943. The structure and origin of species. Brittonia 4: 323-385.

DieTRICH, M. R. 1995. Richard Goldschmidt’s heresies and the evolutionary synthesis. Journal of the History
of Biology 28:43 1— 461.

FutTuyMa, D. J. 1998. Evolutionary Biology, 3rd ed. Sinauer Assoc., Sutherland, Mass. 810 pp.

Mayr, E. 1997. Goldschmidt and the evolutionary synthesis: a response. Journal of the History of Biology
30:3 1-33.

Smocovitis, V. B. 1994. Organizing evolution: founding the society for the study of evolution (1939-1950).
Journal of the History of Biology 27:241-309.

SMOCOVITIS, V. B. 1997. G. Ledyard Stebbins, Jr. and the evolutionary synthesis (1924-1950). American Journal
of Botany 84:1625—1637.

USINGER, R. L. 1972. Robert Leslie Usinger: An Autobiography of an Entomologist. Pacific Coast Entomological
Society, California Academy of Sciences, San Francisco. 330 pp.

Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA.
All rights reserved.

2

oo

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Scientific Research versus Public Exhibits
A Schizophrenic Aspect of Natural History Museums

GIOVANNI PINNA
Museo Civico di Storia Naturale
Corso Venezia 55, 20121 Milan, Italy
E-mail:jjpin@iol.it

That which I am going to discuss is based above all on my knowledge of European museums,
knowledge acquired in the years I served as Director of the Museum of Natural History in Milan, and
following that, as President of the Italian Committee of the International Council of Museums.

At least in Europe, the natural history museums have for some time been concerned with an
economic and productive crisis that has its roots in a crisis of identity and that as far as concerns the
major institutions increasingly gives rise to a type of “schizophrenia.” The first signs of this crisis
appeared in the 1970s, when the policies of the Conservative English government compelled the
Natural History Museum of London to review their economic strategies, and beyond that, their
relationship with the public. This was done with the aim of augmenting their drastically reduced
income. The strategy pursued by the London museum became one of transforming exhibits so as to
attract the greatest possible number of paying visitors. A further strategy was to expand the space
devoted to commercial activity, such as the bookshop, gift shop, cafeteria, and so on. This inevitably
led to a reduction in the incisiveness of the museum’s activities in education and cultural outreach
and at the same time to an increase in the entertainment aspect of natural sciences. The more
spectacular results of this strategy have been (1) the destruction of certain exhibits of great scientific
and educational interest, such as exhibits dedicated to mammalian fossils, and replacing them with a
“bazaar” for children’s toys, and (2) the creation of exhibits such as one based on a “robot dinosaur,”
in which the aspect of an entertaining spectacle prevails over cultural and scientific content.

All this did not take place without polemics. In 1989 and 1990, the English press attacked the
management of the museum, which, on the one hand, had decided to diminish funding for research,
while on the other had decided to send a delegation of exhibit staff to Disneyland to study the means
of communication in use in that amusement park.

What happened to the London museum shows that when faced with economic difficulties, natural
history museums immediately debate their scientific role, and do not succeed in facing such
difficulties without renouncing their identity as cultural institutions. This is due both (1) to the fact
that, in the majority of the more advanced nations, the cultural content of the natural sciences has
been minimized, and (2) to the schizophrenia from which most natural museums suffer, a schizophre-
nia evident in the separation of (a) their role as a scientific research center, and (b) their role in cultural
transmission.

During the last twenty years, the major natural history museums all over the world have pursued
a policy of separation between scientific activity and activity in cultural transmission. These
museums, then, have entrusted each of these aspects to different staff within the bounds of the
museums, staff who, in many cases, rarely speak amongst themselves. In extreme cases, it has come
to a point where the creation of the museum’s permanent exhibits — which are the most powerful
instrument of cultural transmission for the museum — has been entrusted to organizations outside
the museum itself. By creation I mean not only the architectonic or graphic design, but also the

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330 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

selection and the disposition of its contents. This happened, for example, at the American Museum
of Natural History, which chose to entrust the creation of part of its own paleontology exhibits to the
organization of Ralph Appelbaum (1997), which specializes in creations for every type of museum,
and operates in many museums outside of Europe. The consequence of such a choice ts that the real
scientific culture of each museum rarely enters into the exhibitions and so rarely gets transmitted to
the public. The exhibits lose, then, their originality, and every museum becomes just like every other
museum. I believe that the most striking example of this separation between the scientific product of
the museum, and that which the museum dispenses to the public, is the Grande Galerie de |’Evolution
of the Museum National d°Histoire Naturelle in Paris. There, the scientific culture accumulated by
the museum in the field of evolution during the past hundred years that separate Buffon from Gaudry
is relegated to small glass cases on the top floor of the gallery (Laissus, 1995).

If the exhibits of a museum do not convey the culture of that museum, it is quite probable that
they do not convey any culture at all. The Grande Galerie just cited provides some general information
that concerns the theme of biodiversity. This is a theme that the museums of natural history adopted
following the Rio de Janeiro conference in 1992; they believed that this might be able to provide a
strategy fit to escape from the “cul de sac” into which the separation between scientific production
and cultural diffusion had inevitably taken them. They did so, however, in the belief that they could
do so without being compelled to correct the underlying problem. The reuniting of the functions of
scientific research and cultural diffusion (and, that is to say, of the intellectual organization and
construction of the exhibits and the production in general of the explanatory material that accompanies
these exhibits) is, in fact, strongly opposed. It is opposed both by the curators of the museum, who
retain the function of cultural transmission belittling of their role as researchers, and by museum
personnel involved in the exhibits, who fear losing their jobs and their power. Finally, firms
specializing in the creation of exhibits also oppose it, since they fear losing interesting contracts.

The theme of biodiversity had the function of reintroducing both the role of the collections and
the scientific aspects of the museums of natural history, areas that were both benefiting from the
always-minimal consideration of the public and the donors and funding agencies. There was always
more consideration given the didactic aspect of the museums of natural history, and there was a
question, therefore, as to what the reasons were for maintaining their costly organizations of
conservation and scientific research. As the museum came to be identified with its exhibits and solely
with its didactic functions, it was able to construct an excellent institution without a scientific research
structure and collections; this was realized, for example, some years back in Munich.

For various reasons, the theme of biodiversity has not provided appreciable results (Pinna, 1997),
in the return of the scientific role of natural history museums. Above all, that is because this theme
was treated as no more than a new name for an old function of the natural history museums, museums
that were created and grew for almost three centuries on the basis of the necessity for documentating
the biodiversity that was increasing side by side with a growth in geographic and scientific research.
This failure has made it clear that the dichotomy between scientific research and cultural diffusion
has become today more acute. It has also made it clear that there is an increasingly marked separation
between what the museum produces culturally and scientifically, and what it displays to the public
in its exhibits. Ahead of high-level scientific research, that which comes provided to the public in the
exhibits is an image of nature and natural sciences that is quite general, and, if one makes an exception
for material concerning the protection of the environment, an image that is not at all problematic. The
scientific culture presented in the halls of the natural history museums is not an adult culture, and
does not correspond to scientific thought. Therefore, it should not surprise us if such institutions are

PINNA: MUSEUMS—SCIENTIFIC RESEARCH VERSUS PUBLIC EXHIBITS 331

considered more and more to be museums for children, the mission of which ends up being no more
than to supplement the school.

The most recent example comes from the new Technology Museum in San Jose, opened to the
public on 31 October 1998, the puerile content of which has been criticized in the San Francisco
Chronicle of October 30, 1998.

Today the museums of natural history rarely ask themselves if their role ought to exceed the
confines of pedagogical didacticism. They also rarely ask themselves if they should assume a higher
role, that of disseminating scientific thought at the level of the “big questions” and not at the level of
“notions,” thus becoming a tool for the meeting of the two aforementioned cultures. Not pondering
these questions, the natural history museums do not even pay attention to the problem of how to
disseminate the culture of science itself.

As regards the diffusion of scientific culture, one cannot deny that the majority of museums of
natural history are the last refuge of “Positivism.” Many museums are positivist in the very placement
of the natural objects in the exhibits, effected through successive systematic steps. The majority of
the museums are positivist because they deny the importance of historical process in the learning of
science, and have thus suppressed the history of the exhibits themselves. Once more, there is the
example of the Grande Galérie de |’Evolution in the Paris museum, about which Michael Ruse in his
volume Monad to Man (1996 Harvard University Press) says “you are guided on a trail from life’s
earliest forms to our own species.” But there are also examples in all those museums which have
adopted the cladistic as method for exhibiting of the phylogenesis of diverse organic groups.

I still agree to this day with the anonymous editorial in the journal Nature (“Cladistics and
evolution on display,” Nature, 1981, 292:395-396), published in response to the polemics stirred up
by the cladistic exhibits created by the British Museum (Natural History) on the dinosaurs (1979) and
on evolution of man (1980). This editorial put in doubt the validity of the cladistic as a method for
presenting evolution to the public. I maintain that in fact cladistics in its extreme form is able to
reconstruct the phylogenesis of a group, but is not able to explain it. In other words, I maintain that
it can not be used in museum exhibits to recount the history of life, insofar as it constitutes only the
first step of an historical reconstruction; it does not respond to the question of where, how, and why,
a given fact has appended.

For the museums to become instruments for the diffusion of scientific thought, it is not enough
to find the modalities of expression; it is indispensable that they also acquire the capacity to elaborate
in a critical manner all that concerns science, and to display its results to the public. They should also
abandon, for example, all the sensationalism typical of other types of media. To give one example,
museums should no longer present any more the “cosmic catastrophe that destroyed the dinosaurs”
to the public, nourishing the recourse to the catastrophic, the supernatural, and the miraculous in the
explanation of natural phenomene. The museums should not present such concepts unless they
themselves are scientifically convinced that such hypotheses might be worthy of being proposed.

A critical analysis that precedes the exhibits is possible only if the museums possess a scientific
research structure, and if such a structure organizes directly, or collaborates fully, in the construction
of the exhibits. If this is done, the schizophrenia of the natural history museums will be overcome,
through the melding of their scientific role with their educational role. In addition, two important
results will be achieved concerning the goals of the future development of these institutions: the
justification of the existence of costly research organizations within the museums, and a higher role
in the diffusion of scientific thought.

If, on the contrary, the museums try to overcome their economic difficulties by reducing the
scientific content in what they present to the public, and by making the attractions more spectacular,

332 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

they will act exactly like commercial television, giving the public what the public wants, and not
contributing to the cultural growth of society.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

ANONYMOUS. 1981. Cladistics and evolution on display. Nature 292:395—-396.

APPLEBAUM, R. 1997. Progettare il museo del XXI secolo. American Museum of Natural History. Pages 236-242
in Basso Peressut L., ed., Stanze della Meraviglia. Clueb, Bologna (Italy).

HALSTEAD, L. B. 1980. Museums of errors. Nature 288:208.

Laissus, Y. 1955. Le Muséum national d ‘Histoire naturelle. Gallimard, Paris (France).

PINNA, G. 1997. Fondamenti Teorici per un Museo di Storia Naturale. Jaca Book, Milan (Italy).

Ruse, M. 1996. Monad to Man. Harvard University Press, Camrbidge, Massachusetts.

Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA,
All nights reserved.

A Philosophy for Natural History Museums

GIOVANNI PINNA
Museo Civico di Storia Naturale
Corso Venezia 55, 20121 Milan, Italy
E-mail:jjpin@iol.it

During history there was a precise sequence of events that brought about the progressive
evolution of the institution that today, thanks to the spirit of the French Revolution, is called the
“natural history museum.”

Born in the Renaissance as an eclectic place for the preservation of natural curiosities, it was
open to a few particularly curious friends of the prince or of wise collectors. It developed in the xvii
century as a place aimed at accumulating indispensable material for the study of natural history, open
only to science lovers. In the XVIII" century, through the deep European Revolution, the museum
of natural history became a place for research, study and public education at the same time. It could
be visited not only by scholars, but also by the general populous. Once the fires of the French
revolution had been appeased, it took on the shape and functions that it would keep for more than
one and a half centuries.

These are the shape and the functions of the modern museum which, by means of the accumu-
lation of collections, are dedicated on the one hand to research on nature and its laws, and on the other
hand to the spreading of scientific culture and of science’s achievements. For one and a half centuries,
the natural history museum developed a scientific and a social vocation in parallel and fostered the
spreading of an awareness of science’s achievements in the societies where these museums operated.
These were the museums until the development of contemporary society, that is until the development
ofa modus vivendi shared by the whole industrialized western world, dominated by an economy based
on rapid changes that actually denies immediate productivity and that tends to consider long-term
productive structures, such as public institutions dedicated to society’s cultural growth, as economi-
cally unsustainable.

The undoubted success the museum had until the second half of this century is due to the sublime
mix that this kind of institution created between sacred and profane, between scientific vocation and
social vocation, a mix that took the shape of a very simple formula: to join the social and scientific
roles within the same people.

The joining of the two roles within the same people allowed the museum to promulgate the same
scientific ideas it produced, without limiting itself, as school education does, to the illustration of
scientific achievements carried out by others, in other places. Those who were in charge of scientific
research in the museum had, at the same time, the task to promulgate the results of such research.
The actions of scientific research and of scientific communication, therefore, became two subsequent
stages of the same process, not separated by any discontinuity. This made every museum an individual
cultural subject: each museum was different from every other, and each museum was the interpreter
of the society that set it up and that allowed its survival and activity.

Until a few years ago, the public exhibits of museums of natural history, expressing their different
scientific cultures, were inspired by the awareness of their own cultural specificity and by the need
of museum scientists themselves to maintain relationships with the public and, in particular, to operate
in the exhibition halls. Hence, for example, the comparative anatomy and paleontology exhibit of the
Muséum National d’Histoire Naturelle of Paris, produced in the second half of last century, mirrored

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334 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Albert Gaudry’s idea of concatenation of the animal world; the equine evolution exhibit carried out
at the beginning of this century by the American Museum of New York mirrored Henry Fairfield
Osborn’s orthogenetic ideas; and, more recently, the dinosaurs exhibit carried out between the 70s
and the 80s at the Natural History Museum of London mirrored the cladistic vision that at that time
was a dominant idea among many paleontologists of the London museum.

Today things are changing. In the last few years, we have witnessed the separation of the scientific
role from the educational and social roles of many museums. In the exhibition halls of these institutes,
it is not the museum’s specialists who speak with the public but anonymous teams specialized in the
setting up exhibits and in so-called museum didactics. Museums delegated the relationship with the
public, that is their social role, to people who were alien to the museum’s culture, while the culturally
productive portion of the museum enclosed itself within an “ivory tower” that was dedicated to pure
research and not aimed at the social spreading of ideas and discoveries. Since those teams that are
specialized in exhibition didactics have to adjust to a general pattern that, as such, does not have its
own cultural identity, the museum loses its culture for the benefit of this general pattern. As a final
result, concerning the relationships of a museum with its public, museums have lost their individu-
ality.

The outcome is disappointing. The exhibits and cultural spreading modalities of the natural
history museums are becoming stereotypes, nearly always identical, often repetitive, and lacking
individuality and representivity. Therefore, what now distinguishes the exhibits of a Japanese
museum from an American, German or French museum is not content, which should mirror different
cultural backgrounds, but only the language of the texts that accompany the exhibited materials.

I believe that the reason for the present political and social weaknesses of science museums lies
in this separation of roles that has led to the loss of each museum’s individual culture. This is
dangerous because it leads to financial and, therefore, cultural weakness as well.

By delegating cultural communication actions to teams alien to a museum’s culture, museums
inevitably took on a trivial educational function, the one that could be carried out by external teams,
which lack a defining original culture of their own. Natural history museums, having abdicated their
primary role of disseminating scientific ideas, culturally isolated themselves; they did not participate,
as did other museum typologies, in the cultural growth of the societies in which they operated, thus
deepening the gap between scientific and humanistic cultures.

All this is proven by the transformation of most of the museums of natural history. Over time
they neglected an adult public and became almost exclusively places for schoolchildren. For this
reason, their cultural incidence within society grew weaker. Thus, many came to face economic
difficulties that led to a further weakened their scientific research potential and forced them to turn
into small Disneylands to make up for lost revenue. And this, in turn, led to a further weakening of
their cultural potential.

Today natural history museums are realizing that the weakening of their cultural presence within
society inevitably leads to economic impoverishment and, as a result, to a decrease in their scientific
production. But instead of carrying out a policy based on the reinsertion of their scientific culture into
society, they devise policies that, in my opinion, will most probably not be successful. In other words,
they play all their cards on the renewal of what has always been the fundamental role of scientific
museums, that is to gather and preserve nature record for descendants and for science. This ancient
role has been called “global inventory of biodiversity,” and it has been stated that it represents an
entirely new function for scientific museums, worthy as such to be financed by governments.

Beyond the undoubted value of a global inventory of biodiversity, the idea of basing the
importance and, therefore, the future existence of scientific museums on a topical function, born

PINNA: PHILOSOPHY FOR NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUMS 335

together with the museums themselves at least three hundred years ago, is, in my opinion, not only
trivial, but also dangerous. The idea that museums seem only recently to have discovered, by
emphasizing biodiversity, their role as nature’s archives is equivalent to denying the scientific and
cultural bases of the museum itself and to denying that in the past the scientific museum played any
role in the investigation of the world and nature. It is, in fact, equivalent to denying the history of the
museum itself.

It is not by emphasizing the study of biodiversity, that is by emphasizing a purely scientific aspect,
that natural history museums can reassume their cultural role; this will take place only by reinserting
the museum into society, by elevating the museum’s social role. But what is the museum’s social role
about? As Kristozof Pomian (1987) states, it is certain that the collections or single objects preserved
by museums are symbols, or metaphors, able to link the real world with its own space and time to the
world they come from or that they represent that which has different space and time, and is therefore
invisible in the real world. Therefore, the museum, containing and showing these objects and
collections, becomes the place where communication between real and invisible takes place, a link
between those who observe the objects and what the objects represent. Now, since society gives
objects a collective symbolic meaning, museums become places where society can establish a
relationship with the objects and their collective meanings. They are, thus, places where society can
connect with its own history, its own artistic or scientific production capability, its own economic or
political power, that is with all that represents the nature, the roots and the culture of that society.

The idea that the museum’s role is, above all, that of being an identification object, therefore
providing society with cohesion (role), is neither new nor original. In France, where the cultural bases
of this idea lie on the Revolution, this idea has since long been widely dealt with (the chapter “The
state as a mediator of national memory” in Jean-Michel Leniaud’s book [1992] is revealing ).
Therefore, the museum’s social role is represented by its capacity to represent society by means of
the meaning of its own collections; the more important the meaning given to the objects preserved in
the museum, the greater the museum’s ability to be the mediator of social and cultural cohesion, this
independently of the typology, the size, and the importance of the museum, and of the size, the wealth
and the degree of social development of the community. Whether societies are aware of it or not, this
social role is the museum’s main function. It justifies its existence, its status as a public institution;
it justified its birth in the past; it prevents its destruction; and, today, it justifies the creation of new
museums in all communities of the world.

The role of identification object played both by the cultural heritage and by the institutions
preserving and exploiting such heritage is fundamental to every society. No society survives the loss
of its own heritage of history, art or science, since such loss corresponds to collective memory’s
oblivion, which in its turn changes society from a set of individuals sharing the same heritage into a
set of isolated individuals. This is a breaking-down or fragmentation process that is well known to
conquerors, for whom a conquest was total and final only through sack aimed at destruction, removal
or at least scattering of the cultural heritage of the people to be subjugated.

By gathering and preserving objects proving the history, tradition, art, scientific knowledge,
glory, and power of the peoples in other words all that defines a society’s or a nation’s essence
museums are, therefore, institutions where the society or the nation finds an aggregation and
identification point. But the identification relationship between a museum and society is not automat-
ically created; it is not certain that each museum is or continues to be an identification object for all
its life only because it exists.

I believe that each museum has its own threshold, that could be called “identification threshold,”
below which the museum is not representative anymore, its contents and activity do not correspond

336 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

to society’s aspirations anymore, so that it loses every value as an identification object and is erased
from the collective memory. Well, I believe that the museum performs its social role only if its activity
and contents are within the identification threshold, that is if it represents society not only in its
historical structure, but also and foremost in its cultural aspirations. Now, since each society’s culture
evolves exponentially, that is the faster it evolves the higher its historical evolution degree, the
maintenance of the threshold, that is of the museum’s social role, is possible only if culture advances
faster than the society to which it belongs. This can happen only if the museum is a primary culture
producer, that is if it has the capability to ascribe a meaning to those objects that are part of its
collections.

It is in fact through cultural production, that is through research on those objects constituting the
museum’s essence, that the museum itself gives objects their symbolic and evocative value, that
metaphorical value that Stephen Greenblatt (1995) called the object’s resonance, meaning ‘“‘the power
of the exhibited object to overcome its own formal boundaries in order to take on a wider importance,
thus evoking in the observer the complex and dynamic cultural forces it arose from and of which the
observer can consider it a representative sample.”

Even though there are people who state that objects have a metaphorical value only because they
belong to a museum’s collections or because they are exhibited in a museum’s hall, by means of what
has been called the “museum effect,” I believe that objects do not originally bear any symbolic value.
In order for objects or collections to take on a metaphorical value, that is to become objects of
identification for the society, by turning into a set of goods able to act as intermediaries between a
community and its history and its culture usually called cultural heritage they must be absorbed by
society, society must make them its own. To this aim it is necessary that objects and collections are
subject to a re-elaboration attributing them, together with a material value, an immaterial or
ideological value. This means that such objects must be placed in a precise location within an
interpretation of history, of political, of cultural or of scientific development of the society producing
them (or having taken possession of them), which can be carried out by the museum only if it operates
culturally and scientifically on these objects.

Yet, the process of attribution of meanings that bestow a collective value upon the objects and
to the collection is not easy. A society is not, in fact, a static reality, but it is an evolving reality; such
evolution, which can take place through the most different factors such as technological progress,
growth of economic welfare, or size of immigration flows, leads to a continuous modification of the
relationship between society itself and its cultural heritage and to the creation of ever new cultural
patterns. In order for a museum to keep its social role of society’s identification place, its cultural
heritage that is objects or collections needs to evolve over time, not just by increasing in number,
because in this case its metaphorical value would be static, but by changing and enriching its meaning.
This can be carried out only if the museum’s scientific activity is a true cultural production creating
new meanings and new cultural patterns able to be part of the society’s cultural heritage.

As far as the relationship between a society and its own heritage is concerned, the role of creation
of meanings is delicate, because, if cultural patterns are useful for the society’s progress, the museum
must precede society in the creation of meanings. This can take place if the museum is able to interpret
not simply society’s momentary shape, but its aspirations.

The relationship between the museum as an operating structure and its own collections 1s,
therefore, different from the relationship between society and its own cultural heritage and precedes
it in time. Whereas, in fact, the relationship between museum and objects is a symbolic- and
cultural-pattern construction process, that is a scientific relationship for the creation of meanings, the
relationship between society and heritage is a non-creative process of meaning absorption. All this

37

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PINNA: PHILOSOPHY FOR NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUMS

must be borne in mind in the recovery and preservation process of the heritage and in the cultural
spreading carried out by the museum.

As far as heritage recovery is concerned, basically two actions are carried out by the museum. It
recovers from public propriety collections bearing an historical value and recovers new materials for,
or thanks to, scientific research. The two kinds of collections deriving from these actions are not
fundamentally different in their social, scientific, and cultural aims. In the natural sciences, old and
new collections can have an almost identical scientific value, whereas from the social and cultural
point of view, both historical collections and new collections resulting from scientific research bear
a meaning of identification objects; the former because their history makes them symbols de facto,
the latter because scientific research itself fills them with meanings, and, therefore, they are,
potentially, future symbols. This means that each collection entering a museum sooner or later
becomes part of society’s historical and cultural heritage.

But the scientific ascription of meanings to collections is not sufficient to turn a museum into an
object aimed at representing and identifying society, thus fulfilling its social function. In order to do
this, the museum must spread the meanings it attributes to the objects belonging to its own heritage
by the means at its disposal, that is especially through its own exhibits. From this standpoint,
museums’ exhibits take on a meaning that is significantly different from the mere display of materials;
they become exhibits of physical objects and meanings at the same time. Thus, because it is the
museum itself that attributes meanings to the objects, by means of a specific scientific processing of
the objects themselves, it is clear that museums each will have to exhibit the meanings and ideas it
drew up, that is, each museum will have to exhibit its own culture.

From what has been said up to now, we can draw an important general conclusion, one that |
partly anticipated at the beginning of my presentation. If we want museums to play their social role
of society-identification-object, each museum must take a step back and own and widespread its
culture, its individuality, its “sense.” Hence each museum once again will have to be different from
every other museum in its contents, actions, and exhibits and will, therefore, have to set aside many
if not all of the museum-universal-pattern homogeneities that have emerged over the past few decades.

REFERENCES

GREENBLATT, S. 1995, Risonanza e meraviglia. Pages 27-45 in I. Karp and S. D. Lavine, eds., Culture in mostra.
Poetiche e politiche dell allestimento museale. Clueb, Bologna (Italy).

LENIAUD, J.-M. 1992. L ‘utopie Francaise. Essai sur le patrimoine. Editions Mengés, Paris (France).

PoMIAN, K. 1987. Collectioneurs, amateurs et curieux. Paris, Venise: XVI-XVIII siécle. Gallimard, Paris
(France).

Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA.
All nights reserved.

338

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

The Ranks and the Names of Species and Higher Taxa,
or A Dangerous Inertia of the Language of Natural
History

ALESSANDRO MINELLI
Dipartimento di Biologia
Universita di Padova, Via Trieste 75
135121 Padova, Italy
E-mail: almin@civ.bio.unipd.it

Despite widespread contrary belief, biological nomenclature is not independent from
taxonomy. An uncritical use of the Linnaean hierarchy and of the binomial nomenclature
has made strong disservice to biological systematics. Uniformity of nomenclatural treat-
ment has often concealed fundamental problems both in grouping less inclusive taxa
together and in assigning ranks to taxa. For example, not all living beings belong to
biological species and within the provisions of the International Code of Zoological
Nomenclature there is no place for them. The ranks credited to supraspecific taxa are
unjustified, despite recent efforts to overcome subjectivity in ranking. Indeed, the existence
of categorial ranks stimulates spurious comparisons between entities assigned to the same
rank but not otherwise comparable. Comparisons are made, e.g., in stratigraphy, ecology
and biogeography, among simple lists of taxa whose comparability is taken for granted.
Much of statistics involving numbers of species (or, still worse, higher taxa) must be looked
at very cautiously. The advent of phylogenetic systematics is increasingly asking for a
phylogenetic system of biological nomenclature. I believe that time is ripe for the develop-
ment of a new phylogenetic nomenclature, but I do not think that it should and could fully
replace the current Linnaean nomenclature, that will always appeal to many users. The
main problem to solve will be, how to arrange the future relationships between the names
to be used for the phylogenetic system and those surviving for the Linnaean classification.

Key words: biological nomenclature, arbitrariness of taxa, phylogeny, species, taxonomic ranks

Adanson and Linnaeus

En admetant des Espéces, il faudra nécessairement admetre, que ce qui constitue I’Espéce dans
un regne, ne la constitue pas dans un autre; & que ce qui sufit pour la décider dans le Regne
minéral, ne sufit pas pour cela dans les 2 autres Regnes; car |’Espéce est un terme abstrait, dont
la chose n’existe qu’en considérant dans certains étres, la durée ou la succession des tems; dans
d’autres, la constance dans la géneration; dans d’autres, le nombre ou la collection, la ressem-
blance &tc. des individus: c’est ainsi que la succession dans la multiplication constituera |’ Espéce
dans les animaux constants qui ont les deux sexes tandis qu’ele deviendra inutile dans ceux dont
l’Espece chanje, ou dans les Afrodites qui n’ont pas de sexe, & dans lesquels elle est décodée

"Tf one Tecognizes species, one is forced to admit that what is a species in one kingdom is not necessarily the same thing in
another; and what is enough to distinguish species in the mineral kingdom is not enough in the remaining two; because species
is an abstract term: the corresponding object, in some instances, is recognizable with regard to duration or succession of times,
in other cases with regard to the constancy in generation; in still others, to the number of relationships or similarity etc. among
individuals. In this way, continuity through multiplication will determine species in those animals which breed true through
the two sexes, but it will become useless in those where species is changing, or among the sex-less Aphrodites, where species
is only determined by number or similarity of habitus; these same qualities, together with constancy, determine species among
stones, where there is no succession of generation.

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340 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

par le nombre ou la ressemblance de figure, come ces 2 qualites les decident, avec la durée, dans
les pieres ol la succession n’a pas lieu. (Adanson, 1763, I: clxvil).

Michel Adanson, one of the most sensible theorists of systematic biology in pre-evolutionary
times, was perfectly aware of the heterogeneous nature of the objects called species by naturalists
although these were all uniformly christened by Linnaean binomens. No wonder, especially if we
remark that in the times of Linnaeus and Adanson the binomial nomenclature, and the species concept
under its umbrella, were commonly applied not just to living beings but also to the representatives of
the third kingdom, the minerals. What is more astonishing, and positively worrying, instead, is the
fact that what was quite clear two centuries ago is currently disregarded today.

Adanson was also well aware of the arbitrary nature of higher taxa. Deliberate target of his sharp
attacks was of course Linnaeus, who, in his Philosophia Botanica, had stated that “Omnia genera &
species naturales esse, confirmant revelata, inventa, observata. Genus omne est naturale, in primordio
tale creatum, hine pro lubito & secundum cujusdem theoriam non proterve discindendum aut
conglutinandum.”” (Linnaeus, 1751:100)

Adanson sadly remarked that Linnaeus’s stance had been supported by several botanists, but on
what foundations? “Je ne sai coments ni ceux ni aucun Botaniste poura soutenir une Teése aussi
generale; ce qu’il i a de certain, c’est que jusqu’a présent persone n’a pu le prouver, ni doner une
definition juste du Genre naturel, mais suelement de lartificiel.”? (Adanson, 1763, I:cv)

To be sure, Adanson was all but alone in his views. Buffon, for example, had very clearly stated
that “il n’existe reelemant dans la nature, que des Individus & les Genres, les Ordres & les Classes
n’existent que dans notre imagination.” (Buffon, 1753:38)

More than two centuries later, we can only observe that the current uncritical use of the Linnaean
hierarchy and of the binomial nomenclature have made, in the long run, a strong disservice to
biological systematics. Uniformity of nomenclatural treatment has all too often concealed our
fundamental problems both in grouping less inclusive taxa together and in assigning ranks to taxa.
These problems were emerging in the scientific literature of the late XVIII and early XIX century but
still too often remain outside the understanding and, especially, the practice of researchers.

Is Nomenclature Truly Independent from Taxonomy?

Stevens (1994:488) has recently remarked that “Biological nomenclature is supposed to deal
with names alone, not with concepts, but historical examples show how wrong this idea can be.”
Purely nomenclatural arguments, indeed, are much less common than we think, “but the concepts
brought to bear in such arguments are diverse. Species concepts are only one set of them, and possibly
not even the most important. The whole systematic discipline, what systematists should do, and how
the discipline should be organised, may also be at issue.” (Stevens, 1991:166).

In the Preamble of the International Code of Zoological Nomenclature, the statement that “The
objects of the Code are to promote stability and universality in the scientific names of animals and
to ensure that the name of each taxon is unique and distinct” is immediately followed by the bold
assertion that “All its provisions and recommendations are subservient to those ends and none restrict

* Revelation, observation and thought confirm that all genera and species are natural. All genera are natural, and have been
created as such since the beginning of time, therefore one shall neither split or lump them arbitrarily or follow personal theory.
31 cannot imagine how those botanists, or any other, will be able to subscribe to such a general proposition. What is certain is,
that nobody until now has been able to demonstrate it, or to provide a satisfactory definition of the natural genus, but only of
the artificial one.

* In nature there is nothing but individuals: genera, orders and classes exist in our imagination only.

MINELLI: RANKS AND NAMES 341

the freedom of taxonomic thought or action.” (International Commission on Zoological Nomencla-
ture, 1999:2). In this respect, the International Code of Botanical Nomenclature is less explicit. In its
Preamble we read, indeed, that “the purpose of giving a name to a taxonomic group Is not to indicate
its characters or history, but to supply a means of referring to it.” However, the final words of the
same sentence acknowledge a link of taxonomy and nomenclature, in so far as names are also given
to indicate the taxonomic rank of the groups (Greuter et al., 1994:1).

The mutual independence of taxonomy and nomenclature is a certainly desirable goal, but it is
probably unattainable (Minelli, 1995).

Let us start with the species.

Species

Within the provisions of the International Code of Zoological Nomenclature, there is no place
for animals not obviously belonging to species. On this topic I published the following remarks in
the Bulletin of Zoological Nomenclature, the official journal of the International Commission on
Zoological Nomenclature:

Take, for instance, hybrids. Until recently, natural hybrids were regarded as a peculiarity of the
plant world, their very rare occurrence among animals being so exceptional, as to be better
ignored from the viewpoint of nomenclature. As for artificial hybrids, these could always be
described as such, by listing together the names of the parental species, thus obtaining a more
definitive nomenclatural treatment than the still uncertain names we use for some domestic
animals (Groves, 1995). However, our traditional view of natural animal hybrids has changed
as a consequence of the progress of cytogenetics, more recently complemented by biochemical
and molecular studies. There are, naturally occurring, many hybrid forms which are at least as
stable and well-circumscribed as many conventional species. In terms of nomenclature, these
forms are often denoted by formulae, rather than by Linnean names, but there is no universality
of attitude towards them. Echelle (1990a, b), for instance, argues that the *non-Mendelian
species’ of hybridogenetic fishes and reptiles should be treated, from the point of view of
nomenclature, as the usual ‘Mendelian’ species.

Beside hybridogens, there are several other classes of uniparentally reproducing animals (and
plants) which are usually given conventional species names. They are quietly listed in catalogues,
or keyed out in monographs, in a way not different from that for the other named ‘species’. The
potential dangers of this uniform taxonomic treatment (Minelli, 1993) is hardly lessened by the
fact that these uniparental ‘species’ are sometimes called—in some groups at least —
agamospecies or microspecies, rather than species. According to several authorities (e.g.
Dobzhansky, 1937; Mayr, 1969; Hull, 1980; Ghiselin, 1987), however, these organisms do not
form species. If we agree with this view, how can we accept that they are named as if they are
species? (Minelli, 1995:304).

Examples of unease with these ‘microspecies’ are not rare in the literature, botanical in particular.
For example, Harper & Hawksworth (1995) remarked that the 242 species of Hieracium and 234
species of Taraxacum listed in Lid’s (1952) flora of Norway are indicators of taxonomic traditions
rather than descriptors of biological diversity.

There is also the other face of the coin, namely, big differences in the subjective taxonomic
treatment, hence in nomenclature, of one and the same object. These differences are clearly perceived
by the so-called users of nomenclature. According to Heywood (1991:54),

What does provoke strong reaction from conservation workers is when there is great diversity
of treatment in the literature, both taxonomic and nomenclatural, for the same plant or animal

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Ww
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group. This has been particularly acute in Europe where for historical reasons different countries
may often treat the same plant at different ranks — form, variety, race, subspecies, species,
species aggregate, or even hybrid between two species— and with an array of different
nomenclature at each rank. The usage of the categories [. . .] varies so greatly from author to
author as to render them meaningless for the purposes of comparison or generalization. In
Europe, the varieties of Fiori may even equate with the species of Coste. And even politics come
into the matter: the reason for the absence of infraspecific categories in the Flora USSR is as
much due to the adoption of dialectical materialism as a philosophy as to any scientific
judgement.

When Vernon Heywood presented these views before a lively group of botanists and zoologists
in Kew, he elicited the immediate reaction of Peter Stevens, who remarked that “we must either
develop a coherent theory of systematics at the species level and obtain agreement that way, or if that
is impossible there needs to be a consensus agreement that species-level taxa in many cases do not
mean much” (Stevens 1991:57).

A perusal of the scientific literature gives ample evidence that the taxonomic identity and status
of the organisms we deal with are not always adequately conveyed by Linnaean binomens: “Formulae
where a generic name is followed by an accession number or a locality name are not at all rare in
papers dealing with molecular systematics or cytogenetics of some critical species groups. In many
cases, the use of formulae rather than formal species names is not an expression of contempt towards
traditional systematics and nomenclature, but the confessed perception that not everything in the
living world does fit into our traditional taxonomic schemes.” (Minelli, 1995:305)

Problems are particularly acute with fossils. Smith’s (1994:17ff) “firm conviction is that fossil
species are established on incomplete information and represent groups whose boundaries arise
because of the practical limitation faced by systematists, not because of any inherent phylogenetic
indivisibility of such units. [. . .] Minimal morphologically diagnosable groups in the fossil record
therefore comprise a mixture of basal monophyletic taxa (species) and plesiomorphic grades awaiting
additional information or higher resolution studies (metaspecies). [. . .] [C]ladistic analysis is required
to establish which phena are monophyletic taxa (species) and which are grades (metaspecies).
Although all phena should be named, there should be some convention by which species taxa are
differentiated from metaspecies grades in the Linnaean hierarchy. [. . .] The widely held conflation
of taxonomists’ phena with biological species and thus ‘individuals’ has led to species duration being
perceived as having particular importance. However, since phena in the fossil record belong to one
of three distinct kind of groups (single populations, monophyletic taxa, and metataxa) they cannot be
considered commensurate entities. Furthermore, the term ‘species’ is simply a tag of taxonomic
convention for a level of inclusiveness that is determined by the systematist’s ability (or preferences)
and the resolution allowed by available morphological data.” In spite of that, speculations and even
calculations based on estimating the “duration of life” of fossil species continue to fill the literature.”

Another problem with the uniform nomenclature applied to “species” of Recent and fossil
organisms has been raised by Sheldon (1993:20): “The main descriptive biases [in] the perception of
evolutionary patterns [derives from] the requirement to apply binomial taxonomy (sic) to fossils as
well as living organisms. Linnaean names, particularly when plotted as vertical bars in stratigraphic
range charts, cannot but give an impression of abrupt transition between discrete, static species.”

With the time passing, the simple and convenient practice of naming species and genera seems
to have gained such an importance, that concepts have to be looked for, in order to justify the
nomenclatural practice. Literally, we witness sometimes, rather than an effort to establish a conven-

MINELLI: RANKS AND NAMES 343

ient nomenclature to convey theoretically sound concepts, a deliberate effort to establish concepts to
justify continuing use of a traditional nomenclature (see below).

Higher Taxa and Their Rank

It is matter of taste to decide whether the opinions of contemporary systematists are more diverse
as far as the nature and concept(s) of species, or the nature and concept(s) of supraspecific taxa; and
the two problems might be not so different as tradition would suggest, if even they are not simply
one and the same problem (e.g., Nelson, 1989, 1994; Cracraft, 1992).

Quite often, these basic problems of biological systematics have been a cause of schizophrenia
in the minds of good researchers, their theoretical sensitivity inviting them to challenge tradition,
their day-after-day practice, on the contrary, running towards an uncritical levelling of taxa tradition-
aliy treated in a nomenclaturally uniform way.

Alphonse de Candolle, for instance, commenting on species limits in Quercus adopted the
position that all taxa were conceptually equivalent (de Candolle, 1862:231—233; cf. La Vergata,
1987). However, ina later letter to Bentham recently referred to by Stevens (1991) de Candolle seems
to have agreed that species, genus and family rank are real, being somehow recognisable through
“physiological” tests: good species do not interbreed and members of different families cannot be
effectively grafted.

Let’s briefly look at some modern efforts to find ontological justification to supraspecific taxa.

Some authors equated higher taxa with clusters of species sharing a more or less extensive set
of adaptations to a specific environment. Inger (1958), for instance, defined the genus as a collection
of strictly related species occupying the same adaptive zone. This view has been most vigorously
championed by Simpson (1961:222):

Most higher taxa involve some basic adaptation that evolves coevally with the taxon itself, that
is, at the base of what later becomes a higher taxon, or with more or less parallelism among its
early lineages. [. . .] Such origins of higher taxa by basic adaptation usually occur when there is
a shift from one fairly distinct adaptive zone to another. The eventual rank of the taxon thus
initiated is usually proportional to the degree of distinction of the [adaptive] zone entered, hence
the amount of basic divergence involved, and to its scope or number of subzones and niches,
hence the opportunities for diversification within it. Among the vertebrates the shift from the
aquatic to the terrestrial zones involved great basic divergence and also entrance into a very
broad, extremely varied zone. Several classes, dozens of orders, and many thousands of species
eventuated. In the rodents, bats, and whales [. . .] an order eventuated in each case. The rank
eventually achieved is not, however, a necessary function of the kind of adaptation involved.
For example, gnawing adaptation similar to that of the rodents has occurred within several other
orders (for example, marsupials, primates, various ungulates) but with less initial divergence
and subsequent diversification so that in those groups it gave rise only to taxa around the rank
of family or even genus.

Even within this Simpsonian concept of taxa, however, things were not so easy. Schaefer
(1976:2), for instance, acknowledged that “it seems not likely that higher categories can be made
equivalent even in related groups. I do not think the reasons are obscure. For there to be bases for
establishing equivalence, there need to be some common criteria: either common adaptations to the
same or different environments, or perhaps different adaptations to the same environment. Family-
groups with the same adaptations to the same environment are ipso facto not different family-groups,
if by ‘same adaptations’ we mean genetically the same.”

344 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

There are several reasons, however, why a high rank has been given to a taxon. Smith (1988,
1994) identified the following five:

high categorial rank as a topological consequence of a group achieving considerable diversity;

high categorial rank as a topological consequence of perceived morphological distinctiveness;

high categorial rank as a result of sister-group relationships;

high taxonomic rank given to a paraphyletic ancestral group after abstraction of a number of well defined
monophyletic groups;

5. high categorial rank given because of ignorance.

Pn.

This last point is particularly interesting, especially as regards the highest taxa, namely, phyla,
or kingdoms. The natural sciences inherited from folk taxonomy a basic split between the plant and
the animal kingdom. Accordingly, there was no reason to look for homologous parts among
representatives of these two worlds. Cuvier narrowed further the possible scope of comparative
morphology, when he established his four embranchements (Vertebrates, Articulates, Molluscs and
Radiates), each of them corresponding to a basically unique body plan, hardly comparable to those
of the other embranchements. The higher taxa, called phyla in our current classifications, are simply
the heirs of this Cuvierian tradition. Their number 1s increased to two or three dozen phyla, but these
higher (or highest) taxa are implicitly perceived as so basically distinct from all other taxa of the same
rank (whatever this expression may mean), as not to require any further effort to homologize their
features with those of organisms classified in other phyla (Minelli, 1993). This feeling is still with
us, despite the recent explosion of papers dealing with phylogenetic relationships between phyla and
kingdoms.

The fact is, that most modern approaches avoid, or rather ignore, the traditional but everlasting
problems of homology of organs and apparatuses, because of the reliance on molecular sequence
data, rather than to morphology, and on algorithmical clustering techniques that circumvent the
painstaking comparison of cell types, patterns of innervation, and the like. But, alas, there is always
the chance of creating a new phylum, when it comes to fitting into the system of living beings
something unconventional like Nanalorycus mysticus, the first-named of the Loricifera (Kristensen,
1983), or Symbion pandora, the first-named and to-date only representative of the Cycliophora,
discovered five years ago (Funch & Kristensen, 1995). This point, that introducing a new phylum ts,
in a sense, a way of acknowledging our problems with identifying the affinities of a species, or a
group of species, was stressed by Simon Conway Morris (1995) in the Nature Commentary that
accompanied the description of the first cycliophoran. In the same vein we can explain why so many
weird Cambrian creatures were accommodated in high taxa of their own, for example in distinct
arthropod classes, before the morphological disparity of these taxa was reinterpreted in more sober
terms (Briggs et al., 1992; Wills et al., 1994).

If supraspecific taxa are just the product of our arbitrary grouping and ranking procedures, most
extraordinary appear the recent efforts of Dubois (1988). Looking for some a posteriori justification
of the century long tradition of recognizing genera, he is faced with conflicting evidence from
different groups of animals. Having established that two species must be placed in the same genus if
they can be crossed to produce adult F; hybrids, irrespective of whether these hybrids are fertile or
not, the French herpetologist goes on remarking that the vast majority of viable adult hybrids obtained
in amphibians derive from pairs of species traditionally placed in the same genus, the only two known
exceptions being one between a species in Hy/a and one in Pseudacris, the other between species in
Pleurodeles and Tylototriton respectively. In these two instances, he would therefore be inclined to
regard Hyla and Pseudacris as subgenera (of Hyla) and similarly for Pleurodeles and Tylototriton
(as subgenera of Plewrodeles). In his view, this taxonomic decision would help clarifying the

nn

MINELLI: RANKS AND NAMES 34

phylogenetic relationships of these groups. He remarks, however, that things would be quite different
in bony fishes, birds and mammals, where “intergeneric” hybrids are much more numerous. In these
groups, uniting the “genera” involved in the production of hybrids would probably require uniting
also families and other high-level taxa, to avoid suprageneric taxa remaining monogeneric, or nearly
so!

The subjectivity of rank assignment, however, has been stressed over and over during these last
two centuries. Interesting, in this context, is the reaction of Louis Agassiz to Strickland’s recommen-
dation to adopt an uniform ending -idae for all family names and, similarly, the ending -inae for all
subfamilies. Agassiz (in Jardine, 1858:clxxxv; cf. La Vergata, 1987:197) pointed to the fact that “il
n’y a pas deux naturalistes qui delimitent les familles de la meme maniere [. . .] vous voyez a chaque
instant une division changer de rang aux yeux des naturalistes.”>

Recent efforts to overcome the subjectivity in ranking higher taxa are those of Van Valen (1973),
Hennig (1966) and Sibley and Ahlquist (1990). These efforts have failed, but are worthy of a little
comment here. Van Valen (1973) discussed several possible standards of comparisons between, say,
families of mammals and families of birds, including number of species or genera included, number
of individuals, or biomass, or energy flow, represented at any one time by the members of each family,
phenotypic diversity, genotypic diversity, ease of hybridisation among taxa, phylogenies (i.e. time of
divergence, or average number of branching, or other measure of phylogenetic relationship), and
‘adaptive diversity’. No wonder, Van Valen discarded in turn all these approaches, as unsuitable to
offer a reasonable standard for absolute ranking. He developed instead what he called a ‘metatax-
onomic’ criterion, based on the structure of the classification itself. He argued that taxa ranked at
intermediate levels between the species and the class should be proportionately spaced, so that their
size (in terms of included species) would form a geometric series. By consequence, the average size
of an order, a family, or a genus would depend on the size of the class to which the order, family, or
genus belongs. The artificiality of this approach has been obviously criticised (Levinton, 1988;
Minelli, 1993).

Hennig (1966) toyed for a while with the idea to correlate the rank of a monophyletic group with
the age of its branching from the sister group, but this idea had little following until it was revived
by Sibley (e.g., Sibley & Ahlquist, 1990). The new feature, in Sibley’s work, is the vast amount of
age estimates he has derived, for bird suprageneric taxa, from an extensive programme of DNA-DNA
hybridization.

In a phylogenetic perspective, however, a taxon’s formal rank is indicative of its relative level
of inclusiveness only (Hennig, 1966; Smith, 1994). Absolute ranks are a myth. A dangerous myth,
indeed.

The Taxic Approach

De Queiroz and Donoghue (1988:334) have aptly remarked that the existence of categorial ranks
“encourages spurious comparisons between entities assigned to the same rank but that are not
otherwise comparable.” More drastic is Willmann (1988:901):

Neontologists as well as palaeontologists have been trapped by one aspect of the current
classification of organisms, namely the ranking of taxa. Following Linné, the neontologists used
to deal with ranks such as orders, suborders, classes etc. Essential in ranking is the extent of the
differences between the (recent members of) the groups. Fossils have often narrowed these gaps,

~ No two naturalists circumscribe the families in the same way [ . . ] you steadily see groups changing their rank in the
naturalists’ eyes.

346 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

and according to the theory of evolution originally no such gap ever existed. The categorial
ranks, however, remained. From this resulted the problem of the origin of ‘classes’ and ‘orders’.
There are however no ‘orders’ or ‘classes’, ‘genera’, ’families’ or ’suborders’ as real units of
Nature, these are artificial mental constructs dating from pre-evolutionary times. They are of no
use in modern biology, mere anachronisms, not even necessary for the systematization of life.
[. . .] It thus seems medieval when Stanley wrote as late as 1978 (p. 36): “if genera typically arise
by quantum speciation” [. . .] “then families, orders, and classes must arise in the same manner,
normally by several discrete steps.”

Indeed, the literature is replete with comparative studies relying on the so-called taxic approach.
That means, that comparisons are made, either in stratigraphy, or in ecology, biogeography and other
sciences, among simple lists of taxa whose comparability is taken for granted.

Much of statistics involving species numbers must be looked at very cautiously and even,
sometimes, rejected outright as nonsense:

We are seldom ready to vigorously react, as we indeed should do, when somebody tells us that
the named fossil species are, say, one in 10 000 of the cumulative number of species the Earth
has generated since primeval past. This 1:10 000 ratio is just a ratio between the size of an actual
list of names and the size of another, potential list. However, these two lists would deal with two
different kinds of objects, not to say of the objections we could easily raise as to the nature, or
the homogeneity, of the objects within each one of them.

In the face of such current examples of scientific nonsense, | do not need to develop much
theoretical argument. There is, however, the need to stress, that such big slippings are made
enormously easier by a less than critical attitude towards biological nomenclature. We cannot
exceedingly blame the users of nomenclature for adding apples and cherries so far as we, the
producers of taxonomy and taxonomic nomenclature, ruthlessly conceal this amazing and still
problematic diversity of objects and concepts under the quiet veil of one and the same kind of
names (Linnean binomina). (Minelli, 1995:305)

Higher taxa, too, are too often taken seriously, for statistical purposes:

an ideal index of biodiversity ought perhaps to be obtained [. . .] asking first the biggest question
about diversity, “How many kingdoms are represented on a site?”’, then “How many phyla are
represented per kingdom?”, “How many orders per phylum?”, and so on. There is sufficient
logic in this suggestion to elicit a wringing of hands and even apoplexy from those who might
have to apply it. (Harper and Hawksworth, 1995:9)

The basic problems with the taxic approach have been aptly summarised by Smith: “[The taxic
approach] has to make two important assumptions about the taxa it uses. Firstly it assumes that the
taxa used are real, not some arbitrary convention of taxonomists, and that their appearances and
disappearances represent real biological events; secondly, it assumes that taxa of equal rank are
approximately equivalent entities across diverse clades. Ultimately, therefore, the reliability of the
taxic approach stands or falls on the validity of the taxa used as its primary data. [. . .] Traditional
databases are riddled with nonmonophyletic groupings that arise solely because of ad hoc taxonomic
practice and have no claim to biological reality, and taxonomic rank has always been assigned
arbitrarily.” (Smith, 1994:3) Again: ‘‘a number of taxic approaches rely on rank equivalence among
taxa. Families, for example, are assumed to represent equivalent entities, and variation in the number
of phena included is seen as having biological significance. But rank has meaning only within a single
hierarchical scheme and can be only vaguely comparable among clades, due to the inconsistencies
of taxonomic usage. The fact that families become richer in phena through time (Valentine, 1969;

MINELLI: RANKS AND NAMES 347

Sepkoski, 1984; Flessa and Jablonski, 1985) is more a comment on how taxonomists, as a community,
have gone about their business than about evolutionary process.” (Smith, 1994:155)

In front of this basic problem of rank equivalence, the additional problems caused by the
widespread nonmonophyletic nature of many taxa comprised in comparative papers following the
taxic approach seems to be relatively minor. Nevertheless, this is also a severe bias damaging a lot
of papers, including many recent ones. Convincing examples are those provided by Patterson and
Smith. In Smith’s (1994:79-80) summary, “The vast taxonomic database that we have inherited from
the systematic endeavours of the past 200 years comprises a chaotic mixture of monophyletic,
paraphyletic, polyphyletic, and monotypic taxa, and the work of transforming this into a consistent
set of monophyletic taxa has hardly begun. [.. .] Ina review of the taxonomic status of post-Palaeozoic
echinoderm and fish families, Smith & Patterson (1988) found that only a third of families (33%)
listed in the most up-to-date [at that time] summary of our taxonomic database (Sepkoski, 1982, plus
updates) represented demonstrably monophyletic groups. Of the remainder, 14% were paraphyletic
and 21% polyphyletic. A further 21% were monotypic and the rest (11%) were non-monophyletic
taxa of uncertain status.[. . .] The frequency of monophyly in generic data was about the same (32%),
but paraphyletic genera were more common (23%) and polyphyletic genera less common (7%).
Monotypic genera accounted for 12.5% of records and non-monophyletic genera for 7%. The
remainder (18%) could not be categorized because of a lack of recent revisionary work.”

Are There Solutions to These Problems?

According to James (1991:64), “The way forward is to formally uncouple nomenclature from
taxonomic theory” so that a name really becomes “merely a conventional symbol or cipher, which
serves as a means of reference.” I have already expressed my distrust of the practicality of this
approach. I think, instead (see also Harlin, 1998; Harlin and Sundberg, 1998) that we should improve
our awareness of the conceptual and linguistic requirements of modern biological systematics,
irrespective of their compatibility with traditional nomenclature.

The most severe problems are perhaps those with the plurality of kinds of ‘species’ —I am not
aware of any solution proposed and have none to offer today. Other problems, however, seem to be
much more tractable.

The first knot of problems is the taxic approach to biological diversity. The obvious solution is
to replace this approach, whenever possible, with a phylogenetic one: in Smith’s (1994:190) words,
“Since taxonomic rank is arbitrary, the only meaningful approach to taxic diversity is through
comparisons of phenon diversity between sister groups (Cracraft, 1984; Novacek and Norell, 1982).”
Moreover, we must seriously try to understand the reasons behind the now widespread dissatisfaction
with the Linnaean hierarchy (see de Queiroz, 1997). This dissatisfaction is often coupled with the
argument that classification, in the traditional sense, is a legitimate, but not necessarily the only, or
even the primary, outcome of systematic research. To my knowledge, Griffiths (1974) was the first
to argue that a consequential application of the Hennigian phylogenetic principles necessarily leads
to the production of a system of hierarchically branching monophyletic units. The ontological status
of the system is not the same as that of the traditional classification (cf. Griffiths, 1974, 1976; Hennig,
1975; Ax, 1984; de Queiroz, 1988; Minelli, 1991). A classification is a set of hierarchically nested
subsets, or classes, whereas the system 1s a whole, of which the branches (from the major ones down
to the finest terminal tips) are parts, or parts of parts.

De Queiroz and Gauthier (1990, 1992, 1994) have suggested how to start developing a ‘phylo-
genetic system of biological nomenclature.’ Their proposal implies a completely new approach to

348 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

naming supraspecific taxa. These authors claim that the definition of supraspecific taxon names
should follow new rules, without reference to Linnean categories and nomenclatural types (see also
Bryant, 1994, 1996, 1997; Cantino et al. 1997; de Queiroz 1992, 1996,1997a, b; Harlin, 1998; Harlin
and Sundberg, 1998; Kron, 1997; Lee 1996a, b; Rowe and Gauthier, 1992; Schander, 1998; Schander
and Thollesson, 1995; Sundberg & Pleijel, 1994; but also, for contrary views, Brummitt, 1997; Liden
and Oxelman, 1996; Sosef, 1997).

Several people, including Haskell and Morgan (1988), Minelli (1991, 1993, 1995) and Bogan
and Spamer (1995), see, either with approval or with anxiety, that current trends in nomenclature
could (or should) lead to the development of a ‘double nomenclature,’ one side being for the
phylogenetic system, the other side for the traditional, user-friendly classification.

There are several arguments, indeed, allowing us to hope that the system and the classification
may actually enjoy a mutually compatible, if not completely identical, nomenclatural treatment
(Minelli, 1991:186):

(1) asystem of nested monophyletic units is topologically arranged as a hierarchy, in the same
way as a classification;

(2) many monophyletic units within the system are likely to be coextensive with conventional
taxa identified as classes, within a classification;

(3) a well-worked system leads to the recognition of a variety of branching levels, but these do
not necessarily all need a formal name or even acknowledgement in terms of rank.

Therefore, I believe that system and classification should be developed side by side, in a strictly
linked way and with the following provisos:

(1) that we carefully develop a nomenclature suitable to convey the wealth of concepts
burgeoning in modern systematics;

(2) that we care, as far as possible, for a mutual compatibility between the names used for the
system and those for the classification.

Let’s hope that a more widespread awareness of these problems of language and representation
will blow some fresh air into a dusty corner of the culture of natural history.

REFERENCES

ADANSON, M. 1763. Familles des Plantes. Vincent, Paris.

AX, P. 1984. Das phylogenetische System. Gustav Fischer Verlag, Stuttgart & New York.

BoGan, A. E. and E. E. SPAMER. 1995. Comment on “Towards a harmonized bionomenclature for life on Earth”
(Hawksworth et al., 1994). Bulletin of Zoological Nomenclature 52:126—136.

Bricas, D, E. G., R. A. Fortey and M. A. WILLS. 1992. Morphological disparity in the Cambrian. Science
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Copyright ©2000 by the California Academy of Sciences
Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, California 94118, USA.
All rights reserved.

CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Index

A

Abrams, LeRoy 238, 244, 320

Academia Scientiarum Imperialis Petropolitana (Petersburg
{St. Petersburg}, Russia) 28

Academie Royal des Sciences, Paris 27

Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia 74, 80, 107,
183, 187-188, 191, 199-200, 204, 209, 212, 247

Academy of Science, Literature and Arts (Mantua {Man-
tova}, Italy); See Accademia di Scienze, Lettere e Arti
(Mantua {Mantova}, Italy)

Academy of Useful Sciences; See Erfurt Akademie geme-
iniitziger Wissenschaften

Accademia del Cimento (Florence) 7

Accademia dell Scienze of Bologna 35

Accademia delle Scienze detta de’ Fisiocritici 5—23

Accademia di Scienze, Lettere e Arti (Mantua {Mantova},
Italy) 28-29

Adams, John Quincy (U.S. President) 102-103, 123

Adanson, Michel 339-340

Adey, Walter 151

Agassiz, Alexander 250-254, 256-258, 260-261, 264-266,
301, 308, 313 .

Agassiz, Louis 87,97, 99, 108, 112, 114, 124-125, 186, 188,
191, 214-215, 249-250, 252, 256-261, 263-265, 267,
345; Thayer Expedition 87; See also Museu Paraense
Emilio Goeldi

Ajuda Museum (Lisbon, Portugal) 82

Alaska 115, 125, 131, 142, 148-150, 156, 201, 231; See
also Western Union Telegraph Expedition (1865)

alchemy 39, 41-44, 4647

Alemao, Francisco Freire 83

Alexander, Annie 244

algae 148, 151

Allen, Joel Asaph 78, 264, 299

American Academy of Arts and Sciences (Boston) 28

American Indian paintings; See Stanley, John Mix

American Museum of Natural History (New York) 92, 96,
123, 235, 301-309, 311, 313, 319, 330, 332, 334; Bra-
zilian expedition 1956 307

American Philosophical Society (Philadelphia) 28, 124,
159, 284, 311, 313

ammonites 144, 306

AMNH; See American Museum of Natural History (New
York)

Anancus arvernensis 11

Anderson, John 51, 60, 67, 69-73, 75, 78

Andrews, Roy Chapman 221, 304

anthropology 58, 81, 84-86, 88, 91, 94, 120-121, 125,171,
181

Arago, Dominique Frangois 103

Archivos do Museu Nacional (publication) 85, 98, 100

Arduino, Giovanni 14, 20

Arduino, Pietro 14

Argentina; See also Patagonia

Aristotelian teleology 41

Arthur, Chester A. (President) 117

Asiatic Society of Bengal (Calcutta, India); See Calcutta
(India)

Astronomical Expedition to Chile; See United States Naval
Surveys

Audubon, John James 107-108, 123

Axelrod, Daniel Isaac 320

B

Babcock, Ernest B. 200, 241, 246, 320-321

Bache, Alexander Dallas 103

Bacon, Francis 27, 29-30

Baer, Karl Ernst von 276, 284

Baird, Spencer Fullerton 73, 98, 101, 107-109, 112-126,
128-129, 159, 169, 181, 186-188, 190-194, 199-202,
209, 214

Baird, William M. 107-108

Baldacconi, Francesco 17

Baldassarri, Giuseppe 9-15, 18, 23-24

Ball, Valentine 65-66

Bansho-shirabesho; Tokugawa Shogunate center to trans-
late foreign books 166

Bartalini, Biagio 14-15, 17, 21

Bartaloni, Domenico 14

Bassler, Ray Smith 138-139, 142, 144, 148-149

Bastiani, Annibale 13, 24

Bavarian Academy of Sciences;
Akademie der Wissenschaften

Bay Area Biosystematists 2, 320; See also Biosystematists
of the San Francisco Bay Area

Bean, Tarleton H. 118

Beddome, Richard Henry 70, 72

Behr, Hans Hermann 112, 155, 203, 206-207, 211, 220—
222, 225-226, 229-231, 241, 245-246

Behrensmeyer, Anna Kay 155

Belem (Brazil) 81, 87, 98-100

bench fees 279; See also Tables

Benson, Richard Hall 151, 155

Benson, Seth Bertram 320, 322, 324

Berdan, Jean Milton 145

Bergquist, Harlan Richard 150

Berkeley, California; See University of California,
Berkeley

Bernardi, Francesco 18

Bertini, Pellegrino 18

Bessey, Charles E. 219

Beyer, H. G. 118

Bianchi, Giovanni 14

binomial nomenclature 340, 342; See also biological no-
menclature

biological nomenclature 339-340, 346-347, 349-350; See
also binomial nomenclature

biosystematics 241, 319-320

Biosystematists of the San Francisco Bay Area 2, 315—324.
327; gender barrier 322-323; its founding 318-319;
officers 324-326; origin of the name 320

Blackwelder, Blake Winfield 150

Blanford, Henry Francis 65, 67-68

Blanford, William Thomas 65-70, 75; member Napier’s
Abyssian Expedition 1867 67, 76; travel in Persia (Iran)
1872 67

Bloomer, Hiram G. 221, 227, 247

See Churbayeruische

354 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Blyth, Edward 60, 62-63, 76-77, 79-80

Boardman, Richard Stanton 147, 149

Bodega Marine Laboratory 318

Bolander, Henry Nicholas 203, 209, 211, 214, 219, 221—
222, 245-247

Boletim do Museum Paraense (publication) 88

Bombay (India); Grant Medical College 52; Victoria and
Albert Museum 51

Bonnet, Charles 14

Born, Ignaz von 14

Bose, Pramatha Nath 69

Boston Society of Natural History 258, 261, 266

Botanic Gardens at Sharanpur (India); See Falconer, Hugh

Botanical Gardens 29, 34, 53, 58, 62, 74, 86, 88, 90, 246,
324; See also: Orto Botanico of Brera (Milan, Italy);
Calcuttas (India), Royal Botanic Garden; Royal Botanic
Garden at Sibpur (India)

Boucot, Arthur James 147-148

Boulenger, George Albert 69-71, 73

Bowsher, Arthur Leroy 149

Boyle, Robert 8, 22, 41, 49

Bradbury, Margaret 323

Brandegee Herbarium 239

Brandegee, Mary Katharine Layne Curran 194-196, 200,
202-203, 220, 224, 235-236, 239-241, 243, 246-247;
See also Curran, Mary Katharine Layne

Brandegee, Townshend Stith 194, 196, 202-203, 225, 235,
239-240, 247

Branner, John 238

Brazilian Anthropological Exhibition of 1882 85

Brewer, William Henry 203, 208-213, 216, 218, 222, 237,
245-246

Bridge, Josiah 143, 146

British Association for the Advancement of Science 266,
279, 291

British Court of Chancery 102, 105

British Museum (Natural History) (London, UK) 53, 60, 62,
64, 67, 69-70, 73, 75, 86-87, 93, 166, 179, 251, 253,
258-259, 266-267, 293, 301, 312, 331

Brower, Elisabeth M. 151

Brown, Bamum 302-303

Brown, Roland Wilbur 144

Bryozoa 145, 147-148, 150-151

Buchanan, Francis; See Buchanan-Hamilton, Francis

Buchanan, James (U.S. President) 108, 166

Buchanan-Hamilton, Francis 58-60, 72, 76-78, 108, 166

Bureau of Ethnology 118, 120, 131, 134

Burgess Shale 140, 159

Burlamaque, Frederico Leopoldo Cesar 83

Burling, Lancaster Demorest 142

Burmannus, Johannes 55

Burtt-Davy, Joseph 233, 241

Butterflies’ Commission; See Comissao Cientificas de Ex-
ploragao

Buzas, Martin Alexander 151-152, 155

Bybell, Laurel Mary 151

Cc

cabinets; See also naturalistic cabinets

Calcutta (India); Asiatic Society of Bengal 51,59, 62, 74;
Indian Museum 52, 60, 64, 67, 69-70, 72-74, 79; Presi-
dency College 67, 69; Royal Botanic Gardens 55

Calhoun, John C. 101

California 1-2, 21, 25, 36-37, 39, 48-49, 51, 68, 71, 75—76,
80, 90, 100, 126, 144, 147-148, 151, 153, 156, 158-159,
173, 175, 182-202, 203-223, 225-248, 263, 265, 271,
273, 284-285, 288, 300-302, 311, 313, 315-317, 319-
321, 324, 327, 332, 337, 35)

California Academy of Natural Sciences 183, 187-188,
200, 204, 209, 212, 247; See also California Academy
of Sciences

California Academy of Sciences 1, 25, 37, 39, 49, 51, 68,
71, 75-76, 80, 100, 126, 158-159, 182-184, 186-187,
189-191, 194-195, 197-200, 202-203, 215-216, 221—
223, 226, 230-231, 237, 242-243, 246-248, 265, 271,
273, 285, 288, 300, 313, 316-317, 319-321, 327, 332,
337, 351; See also California Academy of Natural Sci-
ences

California Botanical Club 235—236

California College of Pharmacy 220

California Institute of Technology (Pasadena, California)
144, 315

California State Agricultural Society 188, 212

California State Geological Survey 59-60, 64-67, 69, 73,
75-79, 86, 103, 112-113, 120, 127, 130-131, 133-140,
142-145, 147-154, 156-158, 166, 184, 188, 203, 208—
218, 227, 237

Calun, Francesco 12-15, 23

Cambrian Period 130, 140, 142, 144, 147, 151, 159, 255,
344, 348, 351

Camp, Charles 320

Campani, Giovanni 9, 16, 18-19, 21

Campbell, Douglas Houghton 237-238

Canada 64, 78, 80, 140, 142, 249, 265

Carboniferous Period 52, 67, 147

Cassin, John 107

Castle, William Emest 321

Catholic University of Washington, D.C. 234

Cautley, Sir Proby Thomas 62, 64

Cayley, Sir George 103, 123

Cenozoic Era 131-133, 138-139, 142-144, 147-149, 151—
153, 156, 306

Cesar, Frederico Leopoldo 83

Ceylon (Sri Lanka) 55, 57, 70, 72, 77

Chambers, Robert 276, 285

Chamisso Botanical Club 233, 246

Chaney, Ralph Works 320

Chang, Chih Ye 321

Chapin, Steven 102

Charpentier, Wilhelm 14

Cheetham, Alan Herbert 151

Chicago Columbian Exposition 135

China 67, 80, 112, 162, 173

Choate, Rufus (U.S. Senator) 102, 124

Churbayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften (Munich,
Bavaria) 31

Churchill, Mary (Mrs. Spencer Fullerton Baird) 107-108

Churchill, Sylvester (U.S. Brigadier General) 112

Cifelli, Richard 149

Civil War (United States) 114, 130, 179, 210

Clarke, F. W. 118

Clausen, Jens 315, 319-320, 322

Clemens, William A. 324-325

Cloud, Preston Ercelle 145-149, 153

Cluss, Adolf (architect) 116

coal 35, 55, 60, 64-65, 69, 83, 112, 176

Cobban, William Aubry 146-147

Colbert, Edwin (“Ned”) Harris 302-308, 311-313

INDEX

College of Agriculture (California) 218-219, 234-235

College of California 210, 212-213; See also University of
California

Collins, O. Ray 326

colonial museums; See museums, colonial

Columbia University (New York) 22, 37, 302, 305-306,
309, 311-312, 319, 349, 351

Columbian College 102

Comissao Cientifica de Exploragao (at Museu Nacional do
Rio de Janeiro) 94

conodonts 146, 148, 150-151, 153

Constance, Lincoln 75, 210, 212, 214, 218-219, 232, 234—
235, 241, 245, 317-323, 325

Cooke, Charles Wythe 143

Cooper, Gustav Arthur 144-145, 149-150, 155

Cooper, James Graham 187—188, 192, 209, 214

corals 147

Corcoran Gallery of Art (Washington, DC) 114

Cornell University (Ithaca, New York) 51, 63, 68, 71, 75,
137, 183, 238

Coromandel Coast (India) 55, 60, 79

Cosimo III, Granduke 8

Coues, Elliott 109

Court of Chancery; See British Court of Chancery

Couty, Louis 85

Creationism 262, 276, 283, 285

Cretaceous Period 67, 135, 143-144, 147, 149, 152, 155—
156

Crocker, Charles 190, 192, 228

Cronin, Thomas Mark 153

Cuddalore (India); Fort St. David 55

Cummings, W. 321

Curran, Mary Katharine Layne 194-195, 202-205, 220—
231, 235, 237, 245-247; See also Brandegee, Mary
Katharine Layne Curran

Cushman, Joseph Augustine 147-148; Cushman collection
of microfossils 148

Cusick, W. C. 236

Cuvier, Baron Georges 45, 62, 76-77, 258, 260-261, 264,
344

Cuvierian tradition 344

Cycliophora 344, 349

D

Daly, W. M. 70, 317, 324-325

Dana, James Dwight 108, 214, 265-266

Dangerfield, Frederick (East India Company, Captain) 64

Darwin, Charles 1, 39-41, 44-49, 52, 62, 108, 114, 123,
225, 256, 263, 274, 276-277, 284-285, 289-291, 293—
296, 298-299; See also evolution

Darwinism 46, 262-263, 275, 282, 284, 289, 291, 293-294,
296, 299

Davidson, George 188, 190-192, 194, 201, 226-227, 231

Day, Francis 58, 72, 77, 80

de Candolle, Alphonse 343

De la Beche, Henry Thomas 65, 67

De-kaicho exhibitions 162-163, 165

Deccan volcanics (India) 67, 80

Deluge (Biblical) 11, 13

Denver, Colorado 135, 147-148, 151-154, 156, 304; See
also: Simpson, George Gaylord; U.S. Geological Survey

Derby, Orville Adelbert 89, 91, 95, 99; Sao Paulo Geo-
graphical and Geological Commission 91

Devonian Period 137, 147-148, 151, 255

355

diatoms 144, 146

Dickinson College (Carlisle, Pennsylvania) 107-108, 123
DiMichele, William Anthony 155

Dobzhansky, Theodosius 315, 319, 322, 341

Dohm, Anton 2, 48, 273-285, 292-293, 298

Dohrm, Reinhard 282, 284

Downey, John G. (Governor, California) 208-209
Dublin (Ireland); Science and Art Museum 64
Dudley, William Russel 203, 237-238, 244-247, 319
Duncan, Helen Margaret 145

Dunkle, David Hosbrook 148

Dunn, L. C. 319

Dutch East India Company 55

Duthiers, Henri de Lacaze 276, 285

Dutro, Jr., John Thomas 2, 148, 150, 154, 158, 199

E

Earl of Moira; See Lord Hastings

earthquakes 9, 16, 194, 196-199, 228, 240, 242-243; in
Tuscany (1798) 16

East India Company 53, 55, 57-60, 62, 64, 72, 74,79; Court
of Directors 53, 57, 59-60, 79

Eastwood, Alice 194-196, 199, 202-203, 230, 236-237,
242-244, 247-248

echinoderms 142, 254, 347, 351

echinoids 143, 149, 152

Edo (= Tokyo, Japan) 161-163, 165, 173, 175, 180

Eigenmann, Rosa Smith; See Smith, Rosa

Elizabeth | 52

Ellenborough, Lord 62; See also Hodgson, Brian Houghton

embryonic recapitulation 276

Emry, Robert John 152

Eocene mammals 303

Erfurt Academy of Useful Sciences; See Erfurt Akademie
gemeinitziger Wissenschaften

Erfurt Akademie gemeiniitziger Wissenschaften 32-33

Ertter, Barbara 1, 317, 326

Erwin, Douglas Hamilton 155

Erythea 233, 245-247

Eschmeyer, William N. 325

ethnology (also ethnography) 59, 77, 86, 89-91, 93-94, 96,
99, 115

Ethnology, Bureau of; See Bureau of Ethnology

Euler, Leonhard 33

evolution 2, 35, 39-41, 43-48, 55, 59, 62, 75, 78, 118, 123,
157, 225, 234, 245, 247, 252-254, 256, 262, 275-276,
281-282, 284-285, 287-289, 291-294, 296, 298-299,
301, 304-305, 309, 311-312, 315-316, 319-323, 327,
330-332, 333-336, 340, 342, 346-347, 349-351; See
also Darwinism

Ezo (= Hokkaido Id., Japan) 173-174

F

Falconer, Hugh 62, 64; Botanic Gardens at Sharanpur
(India), superintendent of 62

Farragut, David (U.S. Naval Captain) 112

Fautin, Daphne 326

Fayrer, Joseph 72-73, 76-78

Fechner, Gustav Theodor 46

Fedden, Francis 66

Federal territorial surveys; See United States Territorial
Surveys of the West

356 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Feistmantel, Ottokar 65, 67

Ferber, Johann Jakob 10, 14, 23

Ferris, Gordon Floyd 320-321

Field, Stephen J. (Justice, California Supreme Court) 207

First Principles 287-288, 294

fishes 12, 45, 49, 52, 58-60, 64, 72-73, 75, 80, 93, 99, 109,
114, 119, 124, 148, 163, 171, 173, 175, 184, 186, 192—
193, 200, 204, 224, 240, 249, 254, 262, 264, 275, 277,
292-293, 295, 302, 306, 341, 345, 347

Fleming, Andrew 52, 64, 75, 200

Fontana, Felice 14

Foote, Robert Bruce 66

foraminifers 146-149, 151-153, 155

Forester, Richard Monroe 151

Formey, Samuel 33

Forsyth, John (U.S. Secretary of State) 102

Foshag, William Frederick 149

fossils 5, 9-13, 15-20, 22, 62, 64-65, 86, 93, 108-109, 112,
127-128, 130-131, 133-134, 136-140, 142-144, 146—
153, 155-157, 159, 163, 192, 208, 223, 254-256, 258,
262, 301-309, 311, 318, 329, 342, 346, 350; algae 148,
151; ammonites 144, 306; brachiopods 17, 137-138,
144, 147-149, 152-153; bryozoa 145, 147-148, 150—
151; Cenozoic 138, 144; conodonts 146, 148, 150—
151, 153; corals 147; diatoms 144, 146; echinoids
143, 149, 152; fusulinids 144, 147; gastropods 12,
147-148; insects 137, 155; invertebrates 133, 138,
302, 305-306; mammals 144, 152, 301-304; Meso-
zoic 131, 301-303; molluscs 13, 17, 93, 143-144;
Paleozoic 136, 143; plants 147; reptiles 138, 149,
305-306; Tertiary 150; Triassic 151; trilobites 140,
144, 147, 151

France 7-8, 10, 12-14, 17-18, 23, 27, 29-30, 33, 35, 37, 51,
76, 78, 100, 268, 276, 279, 287, 332, 335, 337

Francis of Lorraine 9

Franklin, Benjamin 28, 103, 106

Frederick | of Prussia 32-33; See also Frederick III of
Brandenburg

Frederick III of Brandenburg 32-33

Friedich, Johann 14

Frisi, Paolo 14

Fritsch, Peter 326

Fukushima, Yoshikoto 167, 177, 180; See also Japanese
Mission to U.S. (1860)

fusulinids 144, 147

G

Gabb, William More 7-8, 24, 209

Gabbrielli, Pirro Maria 7-8

Gaia hypothesis 46

Gallerani, Venturi 10, 19

Gardner, James Terry 143-144, 146, 148, 210, 265

Gardner, Julia Anna 143-144, 146, 148, 210, 265

Garfield, James (U.S. President) 117

Gaudry, Albert 330, 334

Gazin, Charles Lewis 144-146, 152

Geological Survey of Canada 64, 142

Geological Survey of Great Britain 65

Geological Survey of India 59-60, 64-66, 69, 75-78; See
also: Ball, Valentine: Blanford, William Thomas; Bose,
Pramatha Nath; Fedden, Francis; Feistmantel, Ottokar;
Foote, Robert Bruce; Hacket, C. A.; Lal, Hira; Mallet,
Frederic Richard; Medlicott, Henry Benedict; Medlicott,

John G.; Museum of Economic Geology; Oldham,
Thomas; Singh, Kishan; Singh, Ram; Stoliczka, Ferdi-
nand; Theobald, William; Tween, Ambrose; Waagen,
Wilhelm

geology (also geological) 1, 5—6, 10-11, 13, 15, 17-18, 20,
52, 5860, 64-65, 67, 69, 75-76, 80-81, 83, 98, 100, 105,
113, 118, 128, 130-131, 133, 135, 138-139, 147, 157,
159, 168, 173, 184, 188, 207-208, 212-213, 256, 258,
303, 305-307, 309, 351

George Washington University (Washington, DC) 102

Germany 39, 41-42, 46, 93, 176, 239, 267, 282, 291-292

Ghiselin, Michael T. 1-2, 35, 39-40, 44, 46, 76, 80, 158,
245, 265, 273-274, 279, 283-284, 317, 326, 341

Gibbons, Henry 184, 186, 200

Gibbons, William Peters 186, 200, 205, 213, 216, 219, 231

Gibson, Thomas George 151

Gidley, James William 138, 144

Gilbert, Davies 103

Gilman, Daniel Coit 214-216, 218

Gilmore, Charles Whitney 137-138, 142

Girty, George Herbert 136, 139-140, 142-143, 149

Goeldi, Emilio August 81, 87-89, 93, 95,97, 99: creating
a scientific museum, the Museu Paraense 88; See also
Museu Paraense Emilio Goeldi, director of

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 39, 41-42, 45-48, 275, 284

Goettingen (Germany): See Gottingen (Germany)

Goldschmidt, Richard Bennedict 315, 320-321, 327

Gondwana System in India 65

Gondwanaland 52, 65

Goode, George Brown 91,99, 115, 117-118, 120, 123-125,
134

Goodrich, Edwin S. 282

Gordon, Jr., Mackenzie 145

Gottingen Royal Society Society 31; See also K6niglich
Societat der Wissenschaften (Gottingen, Germany)

Graham, Herbert William 187, 209, 321

Granger, Walter 302

Grant, Richard Evans 152

Gray Herbarium; See Harvard University, Gray Herbarium

Gray, Asa 108, 204, 206-207, 214, 216, 218, 246

Gray, John Edward 42, 58, 60, 69, 71, 73, 108, 204-207,
214, 216, 218, 222, 241, 246, 253-254, 257-260, 264—
265

Great Trigonometrical Survey (India) 64-65

Greene, Edward Lee 203, 205, 219-227, 230-235, 237,
240-241, 243, 245, 247

Greenland and Smith’s Sound; See Kane, Elisha Kent

Gregory, Joseph Tracy 317, 325

Gregory, William King 123, 146, 302, 317, 325

Grinnell, Joseph 263, 266, 320

Gross, M. Grant 155

Giinther, Albert Carl Ludwig Gotthilf 48, 55, 69—70, 73

H

Hacket, C. A. 66

Haeckel, Ernst 39, 46, 48, 275-277, 284, 292

Hafernik, John 326

Hagen, Hermann 249-250, 257, 260-264, 267

Hall of Silent Men (in the U.S. National Museum) 144,
146-147

Hall, Harvey Monroe 241, 245

Hall, James 130

INDEX

Hamilton, Francis 58, 72,77; See also Buchanan-Hamilton,
Francis

Hapsburg (Austrian) government 29, 31, 34-35; attitudes
toward science 30

Hardwicke, Thomas (East India Company, Major General)
59-61, 78

Harford, William 220, 231-232, 247

Harris, Anita Gertrude 150

Harvard University (Cambridge, Massachusetts) 98, 103,
108, 114, 123, 137, 188, 202, 204, 214-216, 218, 224,
234, 239, 243, 246, 249-252, 255, 260, 265, 267, 285,
301, 308-309, 331-332; Gray Herbarium 218, 241

Hass, Otto 304

Hass, Wilbert Henry 146

Hastings, Lord {Francis Rowdon} (Governor-General of
India) 57, 59, 64, 216

Haupt, Theodor 18

Hawkins, Williams (British Naval Captain) 53

Hayden, Ferdinand Vandiveer 112—113, 131, 235

Hazel, Joseph Ernest 151

Hazel, Joseph Gregory 152

Henbest, Lloyd George 144

Henderson, L. H. 236

Henry, Joseph 48, 53, 65-68, 72, 75, 101, 103-106, 108—
109, 112-118, 120, 123-124, 128-130, 137, 146, 152,
159, 166-169, 175-178, 180-181, 184-186, 188, 190,
194, 199-201, 203, 208-209, 214, 216, 221, 247, 274,
302, 311-312, 334; Captain Rodgers’ suggestions on
treatment of Japanese visitors 166, 180; demonstrations
done for visiting Japanese Mission 175-176; invites
Japanese Mission to visit Smithsonian Institution 166;
wants to impress Japanese with American superiority in
science and technology 178

Henshaw, Samuel 257

Herbert, James Dowling (East India Company, Captain) 2,
64, 136, 151, 287-288, 298, 319-320, 322

Hermann, Paul 55

Herre, Albert William Christian Theodore 221, 224-225

Hexaplex conglobatus 12

Hieracium 341

Hiesey, William McKinley 315, 318-320, 324

Hilgard, Eugene Woldemar 219, 232, 234

Hil!, Robert Thomas 115, 133, 247, 350

Hitchcock, Romyn 118

Hittell, Theodore Henry 191, 196, 199-207, 209-212, 214—
215, 218-219, 221-222, 227-232, 234, 236, 239, 242,
247

Hodgson, Brian Houghton 58, 62-63, 77-78; removed
from office in Nepal by Lord Ellenborough 62; See also
Nepal

Hoee Building (Washington, DC) 136, 139, 142

Hoffman, Charles F. 209

Holmes, William Henry 118

hologenesis 46

Hooke, Robert 8

Hooker, Sir Joseph Dalton 57, 204, 221, 274, 291, 296, 299

Hornblower, J. D. (architect) 121

Hotton III, Nicholas 149

Hough, Margaret Jean 103, 148

Hough, William Jervis (U.S. Congressman) 103, 148

Howe, Marshall Avery 232-234

Howell, Thomas 236, 317, 324-325

Huber, Brian Thomas 155

Hiiber, Jakob 89

Huddle, John Warfield 148

357

Hueber, Francis Maurice 151

Hunter, John 258, 263

Hurd, Jr., Paul David 322, 324-325

Huxley, Thomas Henry 44, 274, 291-292, 320; See also
Imperial School of Science and Technology

hybridogens 341

hybrids 225-226, 341-342, 344-345, 349

Hyla 344

Hylozoism 46

I

Ihering, Hermann von 91—93, 95-97, 99; Museu Paulista,
director of 91; Sao Paulo Geographical and Geological
Commission 91; theory on continental bridges 93, 99;
views on museum organization and typology 93

Imlay, Ralph Willard 144, 146

Imperial School of Science and Technology 291

India Act 1784 58, 74

Indian Museum Act 1866 60, 69

Indian Museum, Calcutta (India); See Calcutta (India)

inheritance of acquired characters 290-291, 293-299

insects 93, 106, 109, 114, 117, 137, 155, 171, 175,221, 254,
260-262, 264, 268-271, 276, 292

Institutos Historicos e Geograficos (Brazil) 81

International Code of Zoological Nomenclature 192, 339—
341, 350

lowa Geological Survey 131

Italian wars of independence 18

Italy 1-2, 56, 11, 14, 18, 20-21, 24, 27, 273, 275, 329,
332-333, 337, 339

Iwamoto, Tomio 317, 326

J

Jackson, Andrew (U.S. President) 101-102

Jacquemont, Victor 58, 75, 78

Japan 146, 161-163, 166, 173-175, 179-181; Meiji gov-
ernment 162,179; See also Edo (Tokyo), Kyoto, Na-
gasaki, Nagoya, Osaka

Japan-U.S. Treaty of Amity and Commerce 161

Japanese Mission to Russia (1866) 179

Japanese Mission to U.S. (1860) 166-167, 173-175, 179,
181; American barbarity evidenced by displays 175;
Henry demonstrates electrical devices 175-176; impact
of visit to Smithsonian Institution 179-180; invited to
visit Smithsonian Institution 166; reactions to Smith-
sonian’s Art Gallery 177; reactions to visit to Smith-
sonian Institution 167-169, 171, 173-175, 177-178,
180-181, 213, 233, 235

Jefferson, Thomas (U.S. President) 106, 127

Jepson, Willis Linn 203-205, 209, 223-224, 227, 230,
232-233, 235-236, 238, 240-241, 243-245, 247

Jerdon, Thomas Claverhill 63-64, 70, 77-78

Jewett, Charles Coffin 113

John, Christopher Samuel 55

Johns Hopkins University 47, 200, 215

Johnson, Ned K. 323

Jones, J. R. 65

Jones, Marcus E. 59, 65, 122-124, 222-224, 235-236, 246,
266

Jones, Sir William 59, 122-124

Jordan, David Starr 159, 193, 227, 230, 238-239

Jurassic Period 144, 255

358 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

K

Karklins, Olgarts 150, 153

Kauffmann, Erle Galen 149

Kaunitz, Wenzel Anton (Austrian Chancellor) 31; See also
Hapsburg (Austrian) government

Kavanaugh, David H. 326

Keck, David D. 315, 318-320

Kellogg, Albert 184, 200, 203, 205-206, 211, 214,219-222,
230-232, 238, 245-246

Kennicott Club of Chicago 320

Kennicott, Robert 109, 112, 115, 320

Kerster, Harold W. 317, 326

Kier, Porter Martin 149

Kimura, Tetsuta 167-169, 173, 177, 180; See also Japanese
Mission to U.S. (1860)

King, Clarence 131, 210, 216, 247

King, William 66, 302

Kingdom of Italy 18

Kirby, H. 199, 321

Kirk, Edwin 142

Klein, Jacob 55

Knight, James Brookes 149

Knowlton, Frank Hall 118, 133, 135, 139

Koenig (K6nig), Johann Gerhard 55-56

Kongelige Danske Videnskabernes Selskab (Copenhagen,
Denmark) 28

Konigliche Preussiche Akademie der Wissenschaften (Ber-
lin, Prussia) 28, 33

Koniglich Societat der Wissenschaften (Gottingen, Ger-
many) 31

Kowalevsky, A. O. 275-276

Kumlein, Thure 222

Kyd, Robert (East India Company, Lieutenant Colonel) 53,
55-57

Kyoto (Japan) 163

L

La Plata River, U.S. Naval Survey of; See United States
Naval Surveys

Labandiera, Conrad Columbus 155

Lacerda, Joao Batista de 82, 84-86, 96-97; Museu Na-
cional and his view of an ideal museum 86; Alipio
Miranda Ribeiro challenges Lacerda on museum’s fu-
ture 86

Ladd, Harry Stephen 147

Lagrange, Joseph-Louis 33

Lal, Hira 69

Lancaster, Sir James 53, 142

Langley, Samuel Pierpont 120, 140

Lankester, Edwin Ray 287, 291-295, 298, 300

Layard, Edgard Leopold 87, 98

Lea, Isaac 107

LeConte, Joseph 218-219, 232, 238, 247

Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm 27, 32-33, 35-37; views on
purposes of scientific investigation 32

Lemmon, John Gill 206-207

Leopold II, Granduke 17

Leopold, Granduke Peter 9

Lerner, I. Michael 315

Library of Congress (Washington, DC) 75, 102, 114, 192,
194

Lick, James 188-190, 201, 227

Lidicker, Jr., William Z. 2, 318, 324-327

Lindsay, George Edmund 66, 125, 323-325

Linnaean hierarchy 339-340, 342, 347

Linnaean nomenclature 339, 349; See also binomial no-
menclature

Linnaeus, Carolus (Carl von Linne)
339-340

Linnean Society 291, 348

Lo Bianco, Salvatore 277-278

Loeblich, Jr., Alfred Richard 148

Lohman, Kenneth Elmo 144, 146, 151

London (UK) 21, 27, 29, 33, 36-37, 45, 48-49, 53, 55,
57-60, 62, 64, 69-73, 75-80, 86, 99, 101-103, 105, 119,
123, 125, 179, 200, 251, 253-254, 258-259, 266-267,
283, 288, 292, 295-296, 301-302, 308, 329, 334, 349—
351; See also Royal Society of

Loomis, Leverett Mills 196, 200, 202-203, 243-244

Loni, Georg 31

Loricifera 344, 350

Low, Doris 147

Lowery, Dorothy 323

Lucas, Frederic Augustus 138

Lull, Richard Swann 301

14, 47-48, 55, 73,

M

Macaly, Nikolai Mikucho 277

Madras (India); Fort St. George 55; Madras Government
Museum 51; Madras Literary Society 51

Mallet, Frederic Richard 65-66

Mamay, Sergius Harry 147, 154

mammals 12, 58, 62, 64, 67, 70, 72-73, 77, 85, 93, 107-108,
114, 117, 125, 138, 144, 151-152, 169, 171, 173-175,
249, 254, 262, 264-265, 301-305, 307, 329, 345; Ceno-
zoic 144, 152

Man’en Gannen Mission (1860); See Japanese Mission to
U.S. (1860)

Manaus (Brazil) 8&1, 90-91

Maratha Confederacy (India) 57

Marsh, George Perkins (U.S. Congressman) 102, 108, 116

Marsh, Othniel Charles 133

Mascagni, Paolo 15, 22—23

Mason, Herbert L. 319-321

Mason, Otis T. 118

Matthew, William Diller 112, 161, 181, 302, 311; leaves
AMNH for University of California, Berkeley 302

Maupertuis, Pierre-Louis Moreau de 33

Maximilian II of Bavaria 31

Mayr, Emst 40, 249-252, 255, 265-267, 307-310, 312—
313, 315, 319, 341, 350

Mazzi, Gaspero 17

McClellan, George B. (U.S. General) 6-7, 33-34, 112

McClelland, John S8—S9, 65, 75

McClintock, Elizabeth B. 245, 322-323

Mclllriach, Effie A. 236

McKenna, Malcolm C. 309, 313

McMinn, Howard E. 320-321

MCZ; See Museum of Comparative Zoology, Harvard Uni-
versity

Medici, Cardinal Francesco Maria 8

Medlicott, Henry Benedict 65—66, 75

Medlicott, John G. 65

Meek, Fielding Bradtord 113, 127, 130-132, 156-158, 200—
201

INDEX

Megatherium Club 109, 112

Meigs, Montgomery C. (U.S. General) 116

Meiji government (Japan); Meiji Restoration 179; See
Japan, Meiji government

Mello, James Francis 152

Menlo Park, California 147-148, 151, 153-154, 156

Merriam, Charles Warren 148

Merrill, George Perkins 118, 134, 137-138, 144

Mesozoic Era 67, 118, 131-133, 139, 142, 146, 148, 156,
301-303, 306; mammals 301-303; See also Creta-
ceous; See also Jurassic; See also Triassic

Mesozoic-Cenozoic boundary 139

Messina (Sicily) 275, 277

metaphysics 41, 43,45; See also occult metaphysics

metaspecies 342; See also metataxa

metataxa 342, 345

metropolitan museums; See museums, metropolitan

Metschnikoff, Elias 46, 48, 275, 279, 284

Mexican Boundary Survey 112

Mexico 112, 139, 146, 204, 222, 236, 239-240, 246-247

Meyer, Adolf Bernhard 257-260, 265-266

microfossils 16-18, 21, 144, 148, 150, 152-153, 156-157

Milan (Italy) 1, 20-21, 28-30, 32, 34-37, 76, 265, 284, 329,
332-333; See also: Palatine Schools; St. Alexander’s
Mineralogical Museum; Societa Patriotica per |’incre-
mento dell’ Agricoltura, delle Arti e dell Manifatture

military geology 146, 148

Military School of Engineering, Rio de Janeiro (Brazil) 84

Miller, Alden 315

Miller, Robert Cunningham 200, 319-321

Mills College (Oakland, California) 320

minerals 5, 9-10, 13-15, 17-21, 24, 34, 41, 65, 74, 80,
82-84, 101, 105—106, 108-109, 112, 114-115, 135, 149,
162-163, 171, 173, 175, 208, 212, 306, 339-340

Miocene 150

Mirov, N. 321

Mishler, Brent D. 317, 326

Mississippian Period 139, 147

Miyazaki, Ryugen 167, 174; See also Japanese Mission to
U.S. (1860)

molluscs 13, 17, 67, 91-93, 131, 134, 143-144, 146, 148,
254, 262

Mongolia 304

monophyly 342, 344-348

Monti, Giuseppe S—6, 22

Moore, Ellen James 148

Moore, John 309

Moore, Justin P. 221

Moore, Keith 154

Morita, Okataro 162, 167,174, 177, 180; See also Japanese
Mission to U.S. (1860)

Mormill Act (1862) 212

Morton, Samuel G. 107-108, 147

Miller, Fritz 46, 276, 284

Miller, Johannes 275

Miinchhausen, Adolf von 31

Munich, Academy of Sciences;
Akademie der Wissenschaften

Muragaki, Norimasa (Japanese Vice Ambassador) 161—
162, 167-168, 173-175, 177-181; See also Japanese
Mission to U.S. (1860)

Murayama, Hakugen 167, 174, 180; See also Japanese
Mission to U.S. (1860)

Murray, James 69-70, 72, 80, 123, 295

Museo di Storia Naturale, University of Pavia (Italy) 29

See Churbayerische

359

Museu Botanico do Amazonas (Manaus, Brazil) 81, 89-90,
95—96, 98, 100; founded by Barbosa Rodrigues 90

Museu de La Plata (Buenos Aires, Argentina) 86

Museu Nacional do Rio de Janeiro (Brazil) 81—86, 89-91,
93-98, 100; Comissao Cientifica de Exploragao 94;
institutionalization of natural science 94; Laboratory of
Chemistry 84; metropolitan character 82—83, 86, 93,
96; public education 84; quarrel with director of Museu
Paulista 95; Sociedade Vellosiana 94

Museu Paraense Emilio Goeldi (Belem, Brazil) 81, 87-90,
93, 95, 98-99; Emilio Goeldi director 87

Museu Paranaense (Curitiba, Brazil) 81

Museu Paulista (Sao Paulo, Brazil) 81, 91—93, 95, 99-100;
collections go to Universidade de Sao Paulo 93, 99;
Ihering becomes director 91; quarrel with director of
Museu Nacional do Rio de Janeiro 95

Museum Diluvianum (Bologna, Italy) 5—6

Muséum National d’Histoire Naturelle de Paris 83-84, 86,
96, 98, 100, 258, 263, 266, 330, 333

Museum of Comparative Zoology, Harvard University
(Cambridge, Massachusetts) 1, 98, 112, 249-261, 263,
265-267, 301, 308-310, 313

Museum of Economic Geology (Calcutta, India) 60, 69

Museum of Vertebrate Zoology (University of California,
Berkeley) 244, 315, 320

museums (differing views about); colonial 97,99; exhibits
2, 70, 83, 88, 92, 95-96, 104, 106-107, 115-120, 129,
134, 137, 142, 147, 150, 162-163, 166, 169, 171, 173—
175, 177-178, 180, 190-191, 211-212, 243, 249-253,
256-262, 264-265, 267, 269-271, 304, 306, 308, 329—
331, 333-334, 336-337; metropolitan 52, 74, 82-83,
86, 93, 96, 203, 230; See also: Goeldi, Emilio August;
Ihering, Hermann von; Lacerda, Jodo Batista de; muse-
ums and society (Pinna, this volume), and philosophy for
(Pinna, this volume)

Myers, George Sprague 68, 71, 202, 246, 288, 320-321

N

Nagasaki (Japan) 173

Nagoya (Japan) 161, 163

Nagpur (India); Central Museum 51

Nanalorycus mysticus 344

Naples (Italy); Zoological Station 273, 284, 292-293

Napoleonic period (and wars) 16, 98

National Institute for the Promotion of the Arts and Sciences
103, 106-107, 113, 119, 123, 128, 169

National Museum in Rio de Janeiro (Brazil); See Museu
Nacional do Rio de Janeiro

National Museum of Natural History (Washington,
D.C.)(NMNH/USNM) 106, 108-109, 112-127, 133,
138-139, 141-142, 144-145, 149, 151, 153, 156, 158—
159, 196, 311; See also United States National Museum

natural history I—2, 5—6, 9, 11, 13, 16, 34, 41,47, 51-S2, 55,
57, 59, 62, 64, 67, 69-70, 72-73, 75-76, 81-82, 84,
92-93, 98, 100, 102, 104-105, 107-109, 112, 114-115,
119, 121, 123-124, 128, 134, 142, 151, 162-163, 167—
169, 171, 173-174, 178-180, 188, 190-191, 196, 208,
213, 225, 228, 237, 242, 251-253, 255, 267, 291, 293,
301, 303, 329-331, 333-335, 348

natural products (natural history collections) 10, 13, 15, 29

Natural selection 40, 47, 62, 225, 289-291, 293-299; See
also: Darwinism; evolution

naturalistic cabinets 14

360 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

naturalistic museum 5-6, 9-10, 14, 19
Naturphilosophie 3940, 42, 4649
neo-Darwinism 294, 299
Neoplatonism 43

Nepal 58, 62

Neri, Pompeo 9, 14, 20, 22

nested units (in classification) 347-348
Netherlands 162

Netto, Ladislau 83-86, 89, 97
Neuman, Robert Ballin 147, 154

New York Times (newspaper) 303, 311
Newell, Norman D. 302, 305-307, 309, 312-313
Newton, Sir Isaac 39, 41, 48

Nicol, David 149

numerology 39, 42

Nuttall, Thomas 107

O

occult metaphysics 41, 43

Oguri, Tadamasa (Japanese Counselor) 161-162, 167; See
also Japanese Mission to U.S. (1860)

Oken, Lorenz 39, 42-49

Okinawa (Ryukyu Islands, Japan) 166

Oldham, Thomas 65-67, 69, 75

Oliver, Jr., William Albert 36, 67, 148, 154, 158, 216, 318,
327

Origin of Species 44-45, 48, 62, 108, 123, 256, 289-290,
295

Ormsby, M. H. 66

Ornduff, Robert 245, 317, 324-325

Orto Botanico (Botanical Gardens) of Brera (Milan, Italy)
29

Osaka (Japan) 163

Osborn, Henry Fairfield 302-303, 311-312, 334

Osterhout, W. J. V. 235

ostracods 145-146, 151, 153

Owen, David Dale 103, 129, 184

Owen, Richard 39, 44-46, 49, 103, 129, 184, 251-254, 267;
Index Museum 254

Owen, Robert Dale 103, 129, 184

P

P&S; See United States Geological Survey, Paleontology
& Stratigraphy Branch

Padian, Kevin 265, 326

Palatine Schools (Milan, Italy) 29

paleobotany 67, 131, 133-135, 138, 142, 144, 147-148,
151, 155

Paleocene mammals 303-304

paleontology (also paleontological) 1-2, 5-6, 10-13, 15S—
18, 62, 83, 86, 90, 94, 113, 127-128, 131-138, 140, 142,
144, 146, 148, 150-152, 154-158, 173, 209, 252-253,
256-257, 301-305, 307, 312, 330, 333, 350

Paleozoic Era 133-134, 136, 139-140, 142-149, 151-153,
155-156, 306, 351; See also: Bryozoa; Cambrian; De-
vonian; Mississippian; Pennsylvanian; Permian

Palmer, Allison Ralph 147-148

Pandolfi, John Michael 156

Panmixia 294-296, 298-299

Papenfuss, George A. 324—-325

paraphyletic taxa 344, 347, 351

Parish, Samuel Bonsall 219-220, 230, 232, 236

Parker, Peter 116

Parr, Albert 304-308, 312-313

Parry, Charles Christopher 230-232

Patagonia, Argentina 303-304, 312

Patent Office Building (Washington, DC) 103, 106-107,
109, 128, 158, 168-171, 174, 180

Patriotic Society for the Development of Agriculture, Arts
and Manufacture; See Societa Patriotica per |’incre-
mento dell’Agricoltura, delle Arti e dell Manifatture
(Milan, Italy)

Peabody Museum, Yale University (New Haven, Connecti-
cut) 137, 151, 301, 304

Peale, Albert Charles 138

Peale, Charles Willson 107, 171

Peale, Titian Ramsey 106-107

Pedro Il, Emperor Don 85

Penna, Domingos Soares Ferreira 87, 96, 98-99; given
credit for organizing Museu Paraense 87

Pennsylvanian Period 139, 152

Permian glaciation (India) 65

Perry, Matthew C. (U.S. Naval Commodore) 112, 161, 166,
174-175, 181, 324

Philadelphia Academy of Natural Sciences; See Academy
of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 28, 74, 76, 78-80, 107, 115,
119, 123-124, 129, 134, 175, 181, 184, 191-192, 194,
199, 311, 313

philosopher's stone 41, 44

phylogenetic relationships 344-345

phylogenetic systematics 339, 349

Pierce, George James 154-156, 178, 216, 237-238

Pierce, Jack W. 154

Pini, Ermenegildo 35

plesiomorphic (characters) 342

Pleurodeles 344

Pliocene Epoch 11-12, 17

Poinsett, Joel (U.S. Secretary of War) 105-107, 121

Pojeta, Jr., John 150, 153-154

Polk, James K. (U.S. President) 103

polyphyletic taxa 347

Pondicherry (India) 55

Poore, Richard Z. 153

Powell, Jerry A. 317, 321-322, 324-325

Powell, John Wesley 112-113, 118, 131, 133-134, 137

Precambrian 148, 151

Principles of Sociology 287, 294

Pseudacris 344

pseudoscience 39-4]

Punjab (India {now part of Pakistan}) 64, 69, 80

Purpus, Carl Albert 239, 246-247

Q

Quibell, Charles 326
Quinarianism 39-40

R

Rancho Santa Ana Botanical Garden (California) 244

Raniganj (Bengal, India) 60, 64-65; coal fields 60, 65

rank (in biological nomenclature) 72, 118, 131, 135, 139,
148, 193, 200, 202, 224, 327, 339, 341-348; rank
equivalence 346-347; taxonomic rank 339, 341, 344,
346-347

INDEX

Rathbun, Richard 118, 126

Rau, Charles 118

Ray, Clayton Edward 151, 155

Read, Charles Brian 144

recapitulation, embryonic; See embryonic recapitulation

Reeside, Jr., John Bernard 143-145, 147

Regent Street Polytechnic Institute (London, UK) 103

Renwick, James 103, 121

reptiles 52, 58-59, 62, 64, 67, 70, 72-73, 77, 80, 93, 108—
109, 125, 138, 149, 173-174, 249, 264, 302, 304-306,
341

Resser, Charles Elmer 142, 144, 146

Reston, Virginia (U.S. Geological Survey) 151-154, 156

Rezak, Richard 148

Ribeiro, Alipio Miranda 86; challenges Lacerda’s view of
an “ideal museum” 86

Ricasoli, Bettino (Baron) 18

Ricca, Massimiliano 7, 16-17, 22

Rick, Jr., Charles Madeira 324-326

Riley, Charles V. 118

Ringgold and Rodgers exploration of China Seas and Be-
hring’s Straits 112

Rio de Janeiro (Brazil) 81-84, 86-87, 89-91, 93-100, 330;
See also Museu Nacional do Rio de Janeiro

Robertson, David 277

Robison, Richard Ashby 151

Rodgers, John (U.S. Naval Captain) 166; lands U.S. ma-
rines to enforce treaty 166

Rodolico, Francesco 7

Rodrigues, Barbosa 89-91, 95-96, 99; establishes Museu
Botanico do Amazonas in Manaus 90; ethnographic
publication on Krichanas causes problems 90-91

Roe, Anne (Mrs. George Gaylord Simpson) 301, 304, 309,
312

Romanes, George 168, 287, 291-293, 298, 300

Romer, Alfred Sherwood 308-309, 313

Roscoff (France) 276

Rovigo (Italy) 277

Roxburgh, William 55—57, 59

Royal Botanic Garden at Sibpur (India) 59

Royal Botanic Gardens in Calcutta (India); See Calcutta
(India)

Royal College of Surgeons (London), Museum of 258, 263,
298

Royal Society of London 27, 29, 101, 308, 350

Rumphius, Georg Eberhard 55

Rupert, Earleen Atchison 323

Rush, Richard 102-103, 105, 183, 202-203, 207, 221, 245

Russell, Harry Luman 279

Russell, Patrick 60-61, 77-78, 279

Russia 46, 49, 51, 97, 112, 115, 179, 204, 275-277

Ruthven, Alexander 123, 304

S

Sao Paulo (Brazil) 81, 91, 93, 95, 98-100

Sacramento, California 188, 208, 210-212, 223, 228

Salt Ranges (Punjab, India {now Pakistan}) 64

Salvatore, Gaetano 283

samurai 161, 167, 174

San Casciano (Italy) 13, 20

San Diego Natural History Museum (San Diego, California)
244

San Francisco, California 1, 25, 37, 39,49, 51, 80, 100, 126,

361

159, 161, 182-188, 190, 192-194, 196, 200, 202-204,
206, 208, 210-213, 218-221, 223, 226-229, 231, 233,
235-237, 242-248, 271, 273, 285, 300, 313. 315, 321,
327, 331-332, 337, 351

Sando, William Jasper 147, 154

Sano, Kanae 167, 173-175, 179, 181

Sao Paulo Geographical and Geological Commission; See
Derby, Orville Adelbert; See also: Ihering, Hermann
von; Museu Paulista

Sarich, Vincent M. 318

Sato, Hidenaga 167, 173-174, 179, 181

Sauer, C. O. 321

Scarritt, Horace 303, 312

Schaeffer, Bobb 302, 306-307, 309, 312

Schlinger, Evert I. 325

Schopf, James Morton 147

Schuchert, Charles 127, 137-139

scientific naturalism 94

Scientific societies in; Berlin (Germany) 33; Bologna (It-
aly) 5—7, 19-23, 35-37, 332, 337; Brunn (formerly part
of Austria, now Czech Republic) 31, 34, 37; Copenha-
gen (Denmark) 28; Erfurt (Germany) 32-33; Géttin-
gen (Germany) 31; Gorz (also Gorizia) (Italy) 31, 34:
Graz (Austria) 31, 34,283; Innsbruck (Austria) 31, 34:
Klagenfurt (Austria) 31, 36; Laibach (Ljubljana)
(Slovenia) 31, 34; Linz (Austria) 31; London (Eng-
land, UK) 27, 29, 101, 308, 350; Mantua (Italy) 28-29;
Milan (Italy) 28-29, 34-37; Munich ({Miinchen} Ger-
many) 31, 34; Paris (France) 27, 33-34; Pavia (Italy)
27, 29-30, 36; Petersburg ({now St. Petersburg} Rus-
sia) 28; Uppsala (Sweden) 27, 55, 267; Vienna
({Wien} Austria) 34

Sclater, William Lutley 73, 267

Scopoli, Giovanni Antonio 29-30

Scripps Institution of Oceanography (La Jolla, California)
143, 195, 199

Scudder, Samuel Hubbard 137, 270

Selvani, Emidio 9, 17-18

Senese (adj., referring to Siena) 7—15, 18, 20-21

Serini, Francesco Valenti 18

Serrao, Custodio Alves 84, 94

Setchell, William Albert 202, 218, 221-224, 226, 234-236,
238-241, 243-244

Seven Years’ War, impact on scientific societies 33-34

Sherman, William Tecumseh (U.S. General) 116, 124, 184

Shimmi, Masaoki (Japanese Ambassador) 161—162, 167;
See also Japanese Mission to U.S. (1860)

Siena (Tuscany, Italy) 5—25, 80

Silberling, Norman John 151

Simpson, George Gaylord 2, 301-313, 319, 343; Agassiz
Professorship at Harvard University 308-309; begins
Patagonian field work 303; Brazilian expedition 1956,
suffers injury 307; Department of Geosciences, Univer-
sity of Arizona 310; employed by American Museum
of Natural History 302; military service 305; moves
to Tucson, Arizona 309

Simpson, Martha (sister of George Gaylord Simpson) 308

Singh, Kishan 69

Singh, Ram 69

Siwalik Hills 62

Sliter, William V. 153

Smedley, Jack Elwood 146

Smith, Rosa 194-195, 202

Smithson, Hugh 101

362 CULTURES AND INSTITUTIONS OF NATURAL HISTORY

Smithson, James 101-106, 109, 113-114, 122-123, 128,
168, 190, 199

Smithsonian Institution 1, 61, 73, 75, 78, 89, 91, 98-99,
101-137, 140-141, 145, 151, 158-159, 161-162, 166—
173, 175-176, 178-181, 183-194, 196, 199-200, 202,
208, 254, 267, 325; Castle building 112-116, 129-131,
134, 140-141, 168-169; Congressional appropriations
107, 114-115, 199; Exhibitions and Expositions 119;
fire in 1865 114; Hirshhorn Gallery 121, 134, 138; See
also United States National Museum

Snethlage, Mania Emilia 88-89, 95

Sociedade Philomatica do Para (Brazil) 87

Sociedade Vellosiana (at the Museu Nacional do Rio de
Janeiro) 94

Societa Patriotica per l’incremento dell’ Agricoltura, delle
Arti e dell Manifatture (Milan, Italy) 28-29, 34-37

Societas Regia Scientiarum (Berlin, Prussia) 32

Society for the Study of Evolution 305, 319

Society of Vertebrate Paleontology 305

Sohl, Norman F. 147, 149-150, 152-153, 156

Sohn, Israel Gregory 146, 285

Soldani, Ambrogio 14-18, 2]—22

Sonnerat, Pierre 55

Southern California Biosystematists 320

Spallanzani, Lazzaro 29-30, 35-37

species; See geometric series; See also metaspecies

Spencer, Herbert 2, 73, 98, 101, 107-108, 119-120, 123—
126, 128-129, 159, 169, 181, 186-188, 191, 199-201,
287-291, 293-299; See also First Principles

Spieth, Harman Theodore 323, 325

Springer, Frank 139, 284-285, 349

St. Alexander’s Mineralogical Museum (Milan, Italy) 29

St. John, Oliver (British Army, Major) 67

Stanford University (Stanford, California) 203, 237-238,
240-241, 247, 317, 319, 323, 327

Stanford, Leland 190, 192, 214, 216, 237-239, 245-246

Stanley, Daniel Jean 155

Stanley, John Mix 113-114

Stanton, Timothy Wilham 133, 135-136

state-supported institutions 6

Stearns, Robert Edwards Carter 118, 188-190, 193-194,
201-202

Stebbins, Jr., George Ledyard 315, 319-325, 327

Steele, Kelly 143, 326

Stejneger, Leonhard 118, 196, 202

Stephenson, Lloyd William 143-144

Stevens, Nettie 280

Stimpson, William 109, 112, 115

Stockwell, P. 321

Stoliczka, Ferdinand 65—70, 77, 80; Second Yarkand Mis-
sion to Kashgar 67, 69, 77

Suksdorf, W. N. 236

superspecific taxa 339, 343-344, 348, 351

Surat (India) 53

Symbion pandora 344

Symonds, John 14

T

Tables (Naples Zoological Station) 279;
Women’s 279

Talchir coal fields (Orissa, India) 65, 69

Tamamushi, Sadayu 167-168, 171, 174-175, 179-181;
See also Japanese Mission to U.S. (1860)

American

Taraxacum 34]

Tarduzzi, G. 18

Taylor, Dwight Willard 148

Taylor, Michael E. 151, 201

Tertiary Period 62, 67, 150, 155, 255-256, 303

Thayer Expedition; See Agassiz, Louis; See also Museu
Paraense Emilio Goeldi

Theobald, William 65-66, 68-70, 73

Theodore, Charles 34

Thomas, John Hunter 317, 323, 325

Thunberg, Carl Pehr 55

Tibet 62, 67

Todd, Ruth 147

Tokugawa Shogunate 161, 166

Toland Medical College (San Francisco, California) 220

Torrey, John 204-205, 215-216

Towe, Kenneth M. 151

Tozzetti, Giovanni Targioni 10, 14

Triassic Period 151

trilobites 140, 144, 147, 151

Trivandrum (India); Government (Napier) Musem 51

True, Frederick William 118, 124

Tuscan (Italy) naturalists 7, 10, 13

Tween, Ambrose 66

Tyrrhenian Sea 13

U

Ulrich, Edward Oscar 136, 139, 143

United Brothers (society) at Tranquebar (India) 55

United States Army Medical Museum 114

United States Coast Survey 103, 131, 227

United States Department of Agriculture 114, 196, 218

United States Exploring Expedition; scandal relating to its
collections 129

United States Fish Commission 119-120, 126, 201

United States Geological Survey 59-60, 64-67, 69, 75-79,
86, 113, 120, 127, 131, 133-140, 142-158, 188, 203,
208, 210-213, 215, 217-218, 237; Alaskan Branch
150; Organic Act (founding of the Survey) 134, 213,
218-220; Paleontology & Stratigraphy Branch (P&S)
135, 143-157; See also Hall of Silent Men in the USNM

United States National Museum 98, 101, 105, 114-118,

120-127, 129-131, 133-139, 142-144, 146, 148-149,

151-153, 158, 254; See also National Museum of Natu-

ral History

United States Naval Surveys; Astronomical Expedition to

Chile 112; survey of the La Plata River 112

United States Territorial Surveys of the West 127, 130-131,

135, 235

Universidade de Sao Paulo 93, 99

University Herbarium; See University of California, Uni-

versity Herbarium; See also Brandegee Herbarium

University of Arizona (Tucson) 310

University of Califorma (Berkeley) 21, 36, 48, 75, 156, 159,
189, 194, 199, 201, 203, 205, 208, 212-213, 215-216,
218, 222-223, 232-241, 244-247, 284, 301-302, 311,
315, 321, 324; University Herbarium 208, 218, 222—
223, 233-236, 239-241; See also Brandegee Herbarium

University of Michigan (Ann Arbor) 304

University of Notre Dame (South Bend, Indiana) 234

University of Pavia (Italy) 29-30

University of Siena (Italy) 6, 8-9, 12, 14, 17-19

University of Tubingen (Germany) 267, 303

INDEX

Uppsala (Sweden) 27, 55, 267

Uroboros (symbol) 43-44

Urschleim 43, 46

Usinger, Robert L. 319-320, 322, 324-325, 327
USNM: See United States National Museum

V

Van Buren, Martin (U.S. President) 102
Vaughan, Thomas Wayland 143

Vellosia (publication) 90, 94, 98, 100
Vitman, Fulgenzio 29-30

Vivrette (Haller), Nancy 317, 323-325, 327
Vogt, Carl 276-277, 284

Volta, Alessandro 14, 35

Ww

Waagen, Wilhelm 66, 80

Wake, David B. 318

Wake, Marvalee 323

Walcott, Charles Doolittle 118, 131-133, 135-140, 142,
155, 159

Wall, Dennis 326

Wallace, Alfred Russell 251-257, 261, 264-265, 293-294,
299

Waller, Thomas Richard 151

Wallich, Nathaniel 59, 61, 79

War of 1812 102

Ward, Lauke 150

Ward, Lester Frank 118, 131, 133-134, 150, 190

Washington, George (U.S. President) 102, 106, 113, 178

Watson, Sereno 40, 72, 216, 218, 222, 237, 246

Webb, William (East India Company, Captain) 64-65, 299

Weismann, August 287, 291-296, 298-300

Weltorganismus 43, 46

Werner, Abraham Gottlob 82

Western Union Telegraph Expedition (1865) 115

Wheeler, George Montague (U.S. Army Lieutenant) 112,
131

White, Charles Abiathar 118, 131-132

White, Charles David 133, 135, 142

Whitmore, Frank Clifford 148, 153-154

Whitney, Elizabeth 208

Whitney, Josiah Dwight 138, 188-189, 203, 208-216, 218,
232, 245

Wiggins, Ira Loren 318-325

Wilkes, Charles (U.S. Naval Lieutenant) 105, 124, 128—
129, 168; See also U.S. Exploring Expedition

Wilkins, Sir Charles 60

Williams, David Hiram 65

363

Williams, Ernest 309

Williams, Henry Shaler 137

Williams, James Steele 143

Willson, Walter Lindsay 66, 107, 171, 203, 227

Wilson, Allan C. 318

Wing, Scott Lewis 155

Wojciechowski, Marty 326-327

Wolfe, Jack Albert 148

women in science; allowed access to higher education in
Brazil in 1880s 85; American Women’s Table, Naples
Zoological Station 16, 59,91, 109, 131, 171, 185, 215,
279; gender barrier, San Francisco area Biosystematists
322-323; See also: Behrensmeyer, Anna Kay; Berdan,
Jean Milton; Bradbury, Margaret; Brandegee, Mary
Katharine (Curran); Bybell, Laurel Mary; Curran (Bran-
degee), Mary Katharine Layne; Duncan, Helen Mar-
garet; Eastwood, Alice; Eigenmann, Rosa Smith; Ertter,
Barbara; Gardner, Julia Anna; Harris, Anita Gertrude;
Hough, Margaret Jean; Low, Doris; McClintock, Eliza-
beth B.; Moore, Ellen James; Roe, Anne (Mrs. George
G. Simpson); Smith (Eigenmann), Rosa; Snethlage, Ma-
ria Emilia; Stevens, Nettie; Todd, Ruth; Vivrette (Hal-
ler), Nancy

Woodring, Wendell Phillips 143-144

Woods Hole (Massachusetts) 119, 281, 285

X

X-club 291
Ximenes, Leonardo 14

Y

Yakuhin’e exhibitions 162-164, 171, 173, 175

Yale University (New Haven, Connecticut) 49, 78, 133,
137-138, 246, 267, 301, 305, 311, 351; See also Pe-
abody Museum

Yanagawa, Masakiyo 167,171, 175, 178, 181

Yarrow, Henry C. 118

Yeates, W.S. 118

Yochelson, Ellis Leon 147

Yosemite National Park (California) 211, 214, 236

Z,

Zoe 200, 233, 235-237, 239-241, 245-246

Zoological Station at Naples (Italy); See Naples, Zoological
Station

Zoological Survey of India 69, 73, 76

wii