THE CELESTIAL EVENT
OF A LIFETIME

By Miles Bergquist On a hillside above the University of New Brunswick gates, a small octagonal tower points to the stars. The William Brydone Jack Observatory is a building in the periphery. It is one of those places situated at such an angle and on such a corner that it is rendered a blur on the sloping University of New Brunswick campus. Not quite hidden, but far from announcing itself. However, when the eyes rest on this inconspicuous little building with its chipped white paint and lime roof, it can’t help but pique your curiosity. What is it for? It must be out of use. For a while, it seems, time is the only hand that has touched it. Is it just some tool shed sitting in disuse? But what is this plaque by the old door? A name in bronze: William Jack, 1819-1886. It reads: “Born in Scotland and educated at St. Andrew’s, Jack came to Fredericton in 1840 as Professor of Mathematics, Natural Philosophy, and Astronomy at King’s College. In 1851 he built the first astronomical observatory in what is now Canada and equipped it with the best available instruments…” All of a sudden, this little building has sprung to life. What was once a portal to space is now a portal to time, to New Brunswick’s past as a hub of cosmological revelation in Canada. As a complete solar eclipse approaches the province, this old observatory lies in the path of totality. It only seems fitting to honor the name of Jack, who would’ve loved to see the day. Jack was a Scottish-Canadian professor at the University of New Brunswick, and the school’s second president. As is the case with many academics of his era, his personal life is enigmatic, and his writings, scholarly in nature, reveal much more about the skies above than any life he led below. He was born in Aberdeen, Scotland, a town of castles and archetypal Scottish green, in 1795. He was educated at the University of St. Andrew’s, one of the four “ancient universities” in Scotland, and was appointed Professor of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy at King’s College shortly thereafter. Much of the available biographical information paints a mental image of a lost breed of intellectual, one with a bushy white beard, hunched over stacks of research and sketches done on parchment, lit by pale, flickering candlelight. He lived and worked in a time when knowledge that is now taken for granted was just being groped at, the foundational sort of facts that lied in wait for people like Jack to build whole systems upon. One such fact was the longitude of Fredericton, New Brunswick, something that he, along with a professor from Harvard, discovered. Many such figures have been relegated to the obscure annals of history. What they uncovered may seem too pedestrian for interest to the common observer; their findings lack the luster of mind-bending quantum physics or deep-space exploration (though they dabbled in these arenas, make no mistake). But it is their relatively unremarkable quality that makes them so integral. They are unremarkable only because this work, done with instruments crude enough to be made in the average garage today, serve as the presupposed ground for any meaningful scientific inquiry. They provide the lens with which our world can be deciphered with any kind of coherence. It may be a more fruitful look into the significance of Jack if one shifts their focus to his greatest achievement: his observatory. Following his appointment as professor, Jack went to work trying to convince college leaders to build what would be the first observatory in Canadian history. He had a clear vision for his building, demanding state of the art refracting technology for the observatory’s telescope. The observatory and its telescope were meant to last into the future, to be used by aspiring astronomers long after Jack had passed. It is this transcendence beyond one’s moment that typifies a unique mind. Many of his colleagues at the time, and experts now, seem to concur. His hopes for the observatory’s future lends an air of quiet sadness to the building today as it sits without much presence. However, his observatory, and by extension his enlightened optimism, is by no means a wasted effort. The building brought about many years of study and discovery, and guided an entire nation into a future where our cosmos hung closer than ever. No melancholy should follow an encounter with the William Brydone Jack observatory. Perhaps a sense of reverence would be more appropriate. The telescope’s technology was inspired by a tour of Harvard University’s observatory, which utilized a rotating copper-roofed dome that could be operated by a single person. Jack’s telescope, made of mahogany and brass, used refraction, a process in which a bigger “objective” lens in the front of the instrument collects and bends light so that it can be magnified and seen through the eyepiece. It allowed the practice of star-gazing with precision to be much more accessible to the average student, bringing Canadian astronomy out of theory and into practice. The observatory was built to serve a dual purpose, not only to be Jack’s eye to the sky. Scientists are often forced to cater to meddling, bureaucratic interests; historically, if one’s discoveries aren’t seen as beneficial to some end other than science, usually some lower end, then petty power will work to undermine or block a pursuit entirely. It is not surprising that, after a squabble about the project’s usefulness and feasibility, the higher-ups of King’s College only relented after learning the data could be used to solve New Brunswick land disputes. Land disputes of this nature characterize much of the colonial era, mostly due to the lack of empirical data available to survey-makers. Before people like Jack made astronomical findings widely available, the process was more art than science. While much of the writing from and on Jack suggests that his passions lied more in the stars than in any borderline, he must be credited with a novel solution to the province’s problem: the introduction of a meridian line, based on astronomical readings, that could not be argued with. It is with this same line, which serves as the basis for longitude and latitude, that Jack recorded the coordinates of Fredericton. With this line as their basis, the provincial government could draw boundaries and borders in a way that effectively settled the issue, using research rooted in drawings and measurements of the Earth’s surface. He gifted those above him a priceless contribution that gave Jack permission to chase his dream with all the necessary resources at hand. Thomas Baillie, New Brunswick’s land surveyor general at the time, cemented the importance of Jack’s contribution. Without it, Baillie claimed the old surveys would’ve lead to a storm of confusion and acrimony: lawsuits, crumbling land grants, and a murky conception of the territory in general. New Brunswick’s first modern map was drawn in 1859, it is clear whom we have to thank. Land disputes during this period often had darker ramifications than someone like Baillie may have readily admitted. Namely, their role in the forceful removal of indigenous people from land that had been their home. In the writing that exists on Jack’s work resolving land disputes, there is nothing to specifically indicate that he took part in this displacement. However, one must face the workings of history, and in this time those workings were marked with blood. Jack, like many other big names in science, may have a complicated legacy (though this is unclear), but his work was undeniable. Instead of venerating the man, at risk of venerating injustice, one should turn their attention to the achievements, of which there are many, and their value. And it is a value that carries its weight into the present day. Though it should be said, if Jack’s legacy is to be under scrutiny, that during his role as the University of New Brunswick’s second president, assumed in 1861, he pushed vigorously for the admittance of women into the university. Women’s access to higher education in the 19th century was far from a guarantee; to some extent, Jack’s forward-thinking sense did not end in the realm of astronomy. The observatory was part of a wider effort on Jack’s part to broaden astronomy’s reach, to give the discipline to the public. He hoped that his love for the stars would prove infectious, that once others saw what he saw, it would be impossible to resist the pull. He made routine visits to local schools and temperance halls with the goal of educating whomever would listen. He used painted slides of constellations, comets, and, of course, eclipses. These aids, meant to bring cosmic phenomena out of the imagination and into classrooms, demonstrate a keen understanding and appreciation for the power of education. There is no doubt that Jack would tell you: a good teacher, able to translate their passion into an understood language, can ignite a generation of innovators. This premise was baked inseparably in his efforts. He educated with the explicit intent to convert. One can imagine these projected slides, spatterings of stars swept across classroom walls, made only of lantern light, Jack’s vision manifest and endowed with a hopeful promise: you can too. From where I sit, It would be hard not to be convinced. This vision held substance, and that promise, like his meridian line, proved inarguable. The observatory that is his namesake sits among trees, in the shadow of much larger and more architecturally ambitious buildings, with chipped paint and dusty plaque. What this observatory signifies in all its humility is much larger than its appearance suggests. It is better seen in the UNB astronomy department, seen in the UNB astronomy and physics club (a group of astral fanatics that Jack would’ve certainly loved to get a beer with, if he hadn’t frequented so many temperance meetings) seen in the upcoming Fredericton EclipseFest, which exhibits a level of cosmic enthusiasm from the public that is owed at least in part to the singular dedication of his kind. In an effort to emphasize the man’s accomplishments, the observatory chief among them, rather than the man himself, I have stumbled upon a conclusion: the man is inseparable, his work is left deflated without his tireless wind that filled it. It may be the case that any scientific work is flattened without knowledge of the person who authored it. And yet, at the same time, Jack does not matter at all. He was a mere vessel for a force that could not be contained by him, his observatory, or any campus or festival. It is a force that strives to forward itself. It is our collective curiosity. If nothing else, this little building in the periphery, and the man who designed it, are testaments not only to their field, but to the nature of field itself, to fountains of striving, and our need to know. With this significance endowed, time cannot touch the William Brydone Jack Observatory, time cannot touch William Brydone Jack, and they are as enduring as the stars. When you look up at the solar eclipse in April, a painted slide of our galaxy’s making, draw upon his curiosity. Ask questions, observe truly, further the project, join the timeless.