The Devil of Yards and Pounds
June 1782. France was basking in prosperity on the brink of madness.
"Damn it all! Burned another diamond!"
"Headmaster, didn't His Majesty say no more experiments with diamonds? What else is there to test here..."
Europe's premier research institution, the French Royal Academy, was advancing daily under the royal family's boundless patronage.
"This time it's not sunlight—it's a battery! I don't know much about diamonds. That's exactly why I want to learn more! His Majesty will forgive me. Why else would he entrust me with this battery?"
"Sigh. Beats me."
The academy, restructured by Louis XVI, resembled a research institute more than a university. Professors and students alike spent their days on free research, stepping up only when Louis XVI assigned specific projects, which teams of scientists then tackled.
"It's done. Finally done..."
Of course, the king's assignments were no small feats, so nothing wrapped up quickly.
"Ah, d'Alembert, you've arrived. How's the surveying?"
"All finished, sir. Just run the calculations."
For instance, the first project he'd assigned—an absolute standard for measurement, the meter—had taken four full years. Add in batteries, toxic minerals, fuels, and other flights of fancy, and free research was practically impossible.
Yet the senior professors somehow carved out time for their own pursuits.
"Hold on—what's this attached to the negative terminal?"
"Headmaster, sixth Dunkirk-Amiens angle calculation complete."
"Oh? Ah, yes. Leave it there."
They had reliable graduate students for that.
"Anyway, you have to include my name on this paper. Four years of stargazing at night to check positions, backtracking entire regions if they were off... Ugh. Anyway, the seventh Dunkirk-Barcelona measurements and angles are all in that book. Final calculations are up to you."
"Mm-hmm. Set it down and fetch some platinum from the metallurgy department."
"Platinum?"
D'Alembert stared at Lavoisier like he'd lost his mind. And who could blame him? Platinum was a rare mineral sourced only from Spanish colonies.
"You think I'd present His Majesty with a prototype molded from dirt?"
"Ah, so you're not burning the platinum too."
"Not that. Not yet."
D'Alembert reeled at Lavoisier's non-explanation, then steadied himself. If it became a problem, the Bastille awaited someday. That was all.
At last, the prototype was complete. The meter prototype!
"Lavoisier, you've done splendid work. I'll live on in the history books, but you'll grace the pages of science too."
"You're too kind, sire."
True enough. Even a liberal arts guy like me could grasp the accessible science texts he'd appear in. But that was beside the point now. The real priority was disseminating this meter.
"We'll fill a cube with sides one meter in length—one cubic meter—with pure water. That shall be the megagram. One thousandth of the megagram is the kilogram; one thousandth of the kilogram, the gram."
"Sire, 'mega' isn't common. Why not 'tun'?"
"Ton? Excellent."
Fair point. We'd set one ton as a megagram for optics, but I preferred tons too.
"We'll discuss dissemination at the cabinet meeting. Professors, prepare molds from the master prototype at the academy."
"Yes, sire."
Such standards bred resistance from habit. A few pounds, a few gallons—customs like that doomed absolute systems, letting devils like yard-pound persist.
This called for political muscle.
"What say you, gentlemen?"
"A fine system, sire. But discussing rollout now is premature. Machines and tools calibrated to old units... We'd need Treasury to tally replacement costs and phase them in gradually..."
"Let me ask you something. Have I ever forced anything on you before?"
"No, sire."
"Then this is a first. Just do it."
Most political capital bore fruit posthumously, as legacies. Augustus proved that. But when contemporary clout forged lasting achievements, only a sliver survived as "legacy." Yet that expenditure—or more—yielded history-shaping events and judgments. A noisy rebellion became revolution in hindsight; a futile act, the foundation for policy.
The metric system was just that.
"Once the academy produces kilogram, gram, and meter molds, Nevers steelworks mass-produces them."
As a Paris arsenal, it'd churn them out fast.
"A million to start."
"Pardon?"
The bureaucrats gaped, brains frozen.
"You heard right. A million."
"Sire, that's unrealistic. A million varying products? It defeats your goal of absolute standards."
"Nevers output varies? That's why we need standardized meters. Replicate the master, metricize Nevers, then produce. Problem solved?"
From their faces, issues abounded.
"I figured decades for a million. But your expressions say otherwise."
"We appreciate your caution."
Fine. Custom orders from artisans, replicas to courts nationwide as references... But platinum as material? I knew little science, but platinum was rare earth.
This single prototype cost 100,000 francs in platinum. Modern spacecraft and robots used it—real value? Even at 18th-century prices, better save precious metal for heirs, substitute the rest.
...Whoa, close call!
"Gentlemen, did I ever say a world without a hair's breadth of error? Metric rollout isn't handing everyone platinum meters—it's shifting from unscientific livre, pound, foot to scientific meter and gram!"
Damn near devoured by the yard-pound devil while zoning out.
"Don't equip everyone with master meters. Recast France on metric standards. Academy molds for bronze rulers and weights to city courts as legal baselines. That's rollout. Not platinum replicas!"
Momentary lapse. Yard-pound's soft power ran deep.
"Commercial variance has always existed. Wooden rulers, cast-iron weights—anything measuring grams and meters gets approval. Legally, city bronzes first; ultimate arbiter, academy master. No objections."
Time to crush yard-pound for good.
"Academy, make two more masters. Gifts for Prussia and Britain."
Strike at the heartland. If yard-pound survived this, fate decreed it.
In July 1782, prototypes arrived in Britain and Prussia: one-meter bar (90% platinum, 10% iridium impurity), plus 1-kilogram and 1-gram weights. Total three pieces.
Parliaments and officials treated them as mere gifts, shelving standardization.
But Britain's bourgeoisie hailed France's move.
"An enlightened monarch acts accordingly."
Unlike scheming MPs, they innovated ceaselessly, knowing measurements' hindrance firsthand.
"Finally, units an adult can grasp in one hand! No more fingertip-to-armpit nonsense! Summon every London agent! The moment replicas are ready, we'll metricize our factories!"
Some grumbled at political undertones or French subservience. Still, they'd convert. Calculations showed factory expansions and standardization benefits—despite two years' budget per firm.
Half a year post-Eden Treaty, unprecedented booms filled coffers. With contracts expiring in four and a half years, innovation beckoned bigger profits.
"So when's the prototype rollout?"
"Tories won't even discuss."
But Tories, sensing Whig eagerness, pettily championed yard-pound.
"Costs favor yard-pound."
"We'll cover them."
"Tradition favors yard-pound."
"We're an empire born of innovation!"
"Custom favors yard-pound."
"Argh, seriously."
That was why Britain's yard-pound endured.