[1] The Little Republic of Science An immense continent of rock known as the North American plate slid inexorably over an oceanic slab of Earth''s crust moving eastward. At the tectonic juncture, where the two gargantuan plates smashed together, the ocean floor plunged downward, the tremendous compression forging massive blocks of shale and sandstone. In due course some of this material lifted upward from its depths, relentlessly rising toward the sky to form the Diablo Mountain Range--two hundred miles of peaks and vales stretching from the San Francisco Bay southward along California''s coastline. As if readying for a performance, nature sculpted the landscape that, millions of years later, offered astronomers a unique observing platform for their studies of the cosmos. Situated on the eastern edge of the Pacific, this lofty terrain became the perfect vantage point from which to make the first great discoveries in twentieth-century astronomy. One noticeable peak in the Diablo Range, some forty miles from the sea, was known to early settlers as La Sierra de Ysabel. The first to record an ascent to its uppermost reaches were William Brewer, a geologist who worked on California''s first complete geological survey, and Charles Hoffman, a topographer. Laurentine Hamilton, then a Presbyterian minister from San Jose, tagged along for the 1861 summertime adventure.

While journeying over the lower elevations the men used mules but struggled over the last three miles on foot. With the two scientists burdened down by their heavy equipment, the minister was able to sprint ahead, pushing through the chaparral, mesquite, and thick groves of scrub oak that filled the mountain''s furrowed sides like well-sprinkled seasoning. Upon reaching the summit, Hamilton waved his hat in the air and exclaimed, "First on top, for this is the highest point." In honor of the achievement, Brewer graciously named the peak after his "noble and true" friend. Within three decades Mount Hamilton was the site of a radical new endeavor in astronomy. Fueled by America''s escalating wealth, "the public mind in this country is now directed to the importance of original scientific research," wrote Joseph Henry, head of the Smithsonian Institution, in 1874 to the noted English biologist Thomas Huxley, "and I think there is good reason to believe that some of the millionaires who have risen from poverty to wealth will in due time seek to perpetuate their names by founding establishments for the purpose in question." In the vanguard to answer that call was San Francisco entrepreneur James Lick, who funded the world''s first astronomical observatory permanently established at high elevation. Before this, professional telescopes were routinely constructed in relatively low-lying areas, near major cities or on university campuses for easy access.

In 1888, from its commanding perch atop Mount Hamilton, the Lick Observatory began operating the largest telescope in its day, which featured a pair of imposing lenses a full yard wide to gather and magnify the celestial light. It was the same type of telescope through which Galileo first peered, one that directed the light through two aligned pieces of glass, but the diameter of the Lick instrument was a couple of dozen times larger. Its founder spared no expense to house this giant refractor. The massive building was designed in a classical style by Washington architect S. E. Todd. From afar, it appeared as if a European palace had been magically transported to the American West. Inside its dome, hand-carved moldings decorated the walls.

The floors were curved wooden planks, polished to a sheen and stylishly following the shape of the circular dome. Tourists traveled on stagecoach for hours for a glimpse of this new wonder of the scientific world. Unbeknownst to those visitors, though, the most innovative work at Lick was actually being done in more modest surroundings, about a quarter of a mile south of the showstopping telescope, at the end of a mountain spur known as Ptolemy Ridge. There, in a far smaller dome that resembles a quaint medieval chapel, James Keeler labored to put a reflecting telescope into operation, which used a silvered mirror instead of a lens to magnify its image. It was an instrument that everyone warned him would be nothing but trouble. Big-lensed refractors were the telescopes of choice in the late 1800s, but Keeler bravely broke from that tradition, establishing an approach in professional astronomy that eventually spread to every major observatory throughout the world. Though now reduced to a minor figure in many histories of astronomy, Keeler was actually a forerunner to the birth of modern cosmology, a crucial player in helping launch the new field. A man who could manipulate a spectroscope like no other, he pioneered uses for the new instrument at a time when astronomers were just beginning to apply the methods of physics in their work.

This specialty, newly tagged "astrophysics," enabled observers at last to discern the chemical and physical natures of stars, planets, and nebulae. In Keeler''s time the universe was a far simpler place, at least to our modern-day eyes. The cosmos consisted solely of a vast collection of stars, a disk-shaped distribution somewhat flattened, with the Sun situated in an honored place near the center. Beyond that, said most astronomers, was simply a void--possibly extending out to infinity. But there were oddities in the celestial sky, difficult to explain. There were these mysterious nebulae that through a telescope looked like watery whirlpools, mistlike clouds exhibiting spiraling shapes. Astronomers were long acquainted with other types of nebulae, such as the vast and chaotic cloud in Orion and the ringlike nebulae, but these vaporous objects resided within the bounds of the Milky Way. The spiral nebulae, on the other hand, were solely found away from the milky band of our galaxy.

Why did they prefer the more open cosmic spaces, as if they were avoiding the stars? Astronomers didn''t have a good, rational explanation for this unique distribution. Keeler, to his credit, made these nebulae his prime subject for investigation, at a time when the study of stars and planets was far more attractive to astronomers. Before the introduction of photography, the number of nebulous clouds in the heavens was estimated to be in the thousands. Mounting a camera onto his reflecting telescope, Keeler began to realize there were likely tens of thousands. His discovery was a revelation, and in making this masterful leap in observing, Keeler opened up a vast new arena for astronomy. Keeler''s celestial curiosity may have initially been sparked by a dramatic solar eclipse he witnessed in 1869 when he was eleven--its narrow path of totality creating a sensation as the Moon''s shadow stretched across the United States. A few months later, his family moved from Illinois to Mayport, Florida, where Keeler was homeschooled, surrounded by the stacks of Scientific Americans to which his father subscribed. Ordering some lenses from an optical dealer who advertised in the magazine, young Keeler built his first telescope--a 21⁄2-inch refractor with a cedar tube.

He was soon spending long nights at his scope drawing sketches of lunar craters and the planets. He was riding the wave of a new American fancy. Earlier in the nineteenth century astronomical research in the United States had been a rather haphazard affair, until two key events dramatically altered the situation. In the autumn of 1833 people throughout the country witnessed a meteor storm, torrents of shooting stars, like no other. It was described as a "constant succession of fire balls, resembling sky rockets, radiating in all directions from a point in the heavens," which led to this spectacular celestial fireworks show being called the "Falling of the Stars." A decade later the public went agog once again over the Great Comet of 1843, proclaimed by Yale astronomer Denison Olmsted in that preelectric era as "the most remarkable in its appearance of all that have been seen in modern times." The comet was visible even in daylight, with a nucleus as bright as the full Moon and a tail that stretched for nearly two million miles. Together, the meteor blizzard and the comet sparked a huge surge of public interest in the heavens.

It also made U.S. politicians woefully aware of their country''s lack of first-rate scientific institutions to study such captivating phenomena. The English novelist Frances Trollope, who spent some time in America in the 1820s, had found it "extraordinary that a people who loudly declare their respect for science, should be entirely without observatories. Neither at their seats of learning, nor in their cities, does anything of the kind exist." This deficiency was quickly remedied with the opening of observatories in both Cincinnati, Ohio, and Chapel Hill, North Carolina, and at colleges such as Yale, Harvard, and Williams. The U.S.

Naval Observatory, the country''s first national observatory, also obtained its first decent telescope. During this period before the Civil War, additional observatories quickly sprang up, becoming the scientific facility de rigueur for major American cities and colleges. These efforts at last fulfilled the vision of John Quincy Adams, America''s sixth president, who had long pushed for the country to erect a "lighthouse in the sky." "Some Americans, haunted by a nagging sense of cultural inferiority and smarting from invidious comparisons with Europe, fostered astronomical research as a matter of national pride," writes historian Howard Miller. And once in place, these pioneering astronomical outposts stimulated a continuing interest, especially among young boys like Keeler who dreamed of one day taking part.