The Day We Found the Universe - Marcia Bartusiak [15]
In 1856 the famous Scottish theorist James Clerk Maxwell had theoretically proven on paper that Saturn's rings were not solid, akin to a phonograph record, but rather composed of innumerable particles, little “moonlets” circling around in independent orbits. Saturn's immense gravitational pull, avowed Maxwell, would have torn apart any sort of solid disk. If true, then Newton's law of gravity would predict that the myriads of tiny chunks located in the outer part of the ring would be traveling slower than those closer in, nearer to Saturn's gravitational grip—just as Pluto, far from the Sun, orbits at a slower velocity than the solar system's inner planets.
A spectrum, taken on the night of April 9, 1895, gave Keeler the direct proof. The spectral lines indicated that the ring's particles were circulating around Saturn according to the rules of Sir Isaac. The ring was not a rigid plate after all. Within days, Keeler dispatched a report to the newly established Astrophysical Journal, and a torrent of newspaper and magazine articles about his triumph followed. His scientific reputation rose sharply, especially since he had devised such an elegant and simple test of Maxwell's conjecture, one that other astronomers knew they could have done years earlier, if only they had been so clever.
While Keeler was busy with Saturn, Lick director Edward Holden was scheming to expand his astronomical empire, by bringing the historic Crossley reflector to the observatory—a telescope first constructed by a Londoner, Andrew Common, in 1879. He had built it to test out some design ideas, even earning a gold medal from the Royal Astronomical Society in 1884 for the fine photographs taken with it, including the first image of a nebula, Orion. Its mirror was a glass disk, three feet wide, coated with a thin layer of silver, a relatively new development in reflector technology. Early telescopic mirrors had been made out of metal, which readily tarnished and easily got out of shape. Widespread use of reflecting telescopes did not occur until instrumentalists in the mid-nineteenth century learned how to cast large and sturdy glass mirrors, with the glass first ground and polished into an ideal shape for focusing the light and then its surface coated with a thin surface of metal for high reflectivity.
Satisfied with his design, Common was soon eager to make an even bigger scope and sold his award-winning instrument in 1885 to Edward Crossley, a wealthy textile manufacturer who moved it to his estate in Yorkshire. But after a few years, Crossley sadly deemed the English countryside unsuitable for decent astronomical observations and put the reflector (as well as the special dome he had built for it) up for sale in 1893.
Original Crossley telescope at the Lick Observatory
(Mary Lea Shane Archives of the Lick Observatory, University Library,
University of California-Santa Cruz)
Holden may have been a poor astronomer but he was a powerful persuader. He convinced the English tycoon to donate his entire assembly for free to the University of California, which now owned and operated the Lick Observatory. Once the parts for the scope and its dome arrived in 1895, Holden pushed mightily to get the system reassembled as soon as possible. As the dome was reconstructed on the edge of Ptolemy Ridge, a time capsule was inserted into its wall. The small zinc box, still hidden away, contains a letter from Crossley, the calling cards of the Lick astronomers then on staff, a Lick visitors pamphlet, and a set of U.S. postage stamps.
Lick astronomers, however, were not at all interested in this new addition to their astronomical arsenal. One disgruntled staffer declared the equipment “a pile of junk,” after some halfhearted attempts were made to put the telescope back into working order. For many, the Crossley was the last straw in a battle that had been raging for a very long time: a face-off between the director and his workforce.