The learned men of the Institute of France were not alone in their incredulity.  In 1803 the Philosophical Society of Rotterdam wrote to the American Philosophical Society of Philadelphia, for information concerning the development of the steam-engine in the United States.  The question was referred to Benjamin H. Latrobe, the most eminent engineer in America, and his report was published approvingly in the Transactions.  “A sort of mania,” wrote Mr. Latrobe, “had indeed prevailed and not yet entirely subsided, for impelling boats by steam-engines.”  But his scientific hearers would at once see that there were general objections to it which could not be overcome.  “These are, first, the weight of the engine and of the fuel; second, the large space it occupies; third, the tendency of its action to rack the vessel and render it leaky; fourth, the expense of maintenance; fifth, the irregularity of its motion and the motion of the water in the boiler and cistern, and of the fuel vessel in rough weather; sixth, the difficulty arising from the liability of the paddles, or oars, to break, if light, and from the weight if made strong.”

But the steamboat survived this scientific indictment in six counts.  Visions proved more real than scientific reasoning.

While in the shadow of the Institute’s disfavor, Fulton fell in with the new minister to France, Robert R. Livingston, and the result of this acquaintance was that America gained primacy in steam navigation, and Napoleon lost the chance to get control of an invention which, by revolutionizing navigation, might have broken that British control of the sea, that in the end destroyed the Napoleonic empire.  Livingston had long taken an intelligent interest in the possibilities of steam power, and had built and tested, on the Hudson, an experimental steamboat of his own.  Perhaps it was this, as much as anything, which aroused the interest of Thomas Jefferson—­to whom he owed his appointment as minister to France—­for Jefferson was actively interested in every sort of mechanical device, and his mind was not so scientific as to be inhospitable to new, and even, revolutionary, ideas.  But Livingston was not possessed by that idea which, in later years, politicians have desired us to believe especially Jeffersonian.  He was no foe to monopoly.  Indeed, before he had perfected his steamboat, he used his political influence to get from New York the concession of the exclusive right to navigate her lakes and rivers by steam.  The grant was only to be effective if within one year he should produce a boat of twenty tons, moved by steam.  But he failed, and in 1801 went to France, where he found Fulton.  A partnership was formed, and it was largely through Livingston’s money and influence that Fulton succeeded where others, earlier in the field than he, had failed.  Yet even so, it was not all easy sailing for him.  “When I was building my first steamboat,” he said, “the project was viewed by the public either with indifference, or with contempt as a visionary scheme.  My friends, indeed, were civil, but were shy.  They listened with patience to my explanations, but with a settled cast of incredulity upon their countenances.  I felt the full force of the lamentation of the poet—­