The Smartest Person Ever Enrolled At Harvard Was Actually An 11-Year-Old Boy

There’s something strange going on at Harvard. An 11-year-old-boy is addressing the crowd — and he’s being taken very seriously. He speaks about complex math, and what he says wows folks many decades his senior. No, this is definitely no normal kid. But who is he? And given that he was smarter than Einstein, why don’t you know his name?

A child prodigy like no other

That boy was William Sidis — the son of a psychologist and a doctor. And for a while, he got off to a promising start that made it look as if he would achieve true greatness. By the time he was a mere eight years old, reports claim, he could speak multiple languages, including one he had made up himself. It was in mathematics that he really excelled, though. Sidis even made history through his remarkable talent.

The very youngest Ivy-League student

At just 11 years of age, Sidis became the youngest person ever to enroll at Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. This was not just any college, but arguably the most prestigious of them all — it marked quite an achievement for the young scholar. All the pieces were in place for the child prodigy to grow into an incredible adult, one with the capability to change the world. But somewhere along the line, something went very wrong.

Supposedly smarter than Einstein

Although solid facts are hard to come by, many academics who interacted with the boy believed that Sidis had an IQ far above that of Albert Einstein. Surely, then, he was destined for big things? But a quick glance through any history book will confirm the strange truth: this genius never reached his full potential. In fact, he did not seem to leave much of an impression at all. And that has to make you ask: what happened?

Fleeing persecution

Sidis had plenty of support, after all — at least when he was a child. Born in 1898 in New York, he was the son of parents who had both fled persecution. His mother Sarah had escaped a series of religious purges in Russia during the 1880s, while his father Boris had run from politically motivated oppression to settle in the U.S. But despite — or perhaps because of — their turbulent backgrounds, the couple had big dreams for their young son.

Good news for parents

“They believed that you could make a genius,” author Amy Wallace, who wrote a biography of Sidis titled The Prodigy, said to NPR in 2011. So, Boris and Sarah set out to make their son into a wunderkind. And their grand plan seemed to be bearing some fruit. Apparently, even before Sidis was out of his crib, he was already on his way to mastering the English language. That had to be good news for his parents.

A little knowledge goes a long way

Boris believed that the first few years of a child’s development were key. If the boy did not have the proper intellectual spark at this early age, his prospects of becoming a genius would be that much better. In his 1911 book Philistine and Genius, he wrote, “We can at that early period awaken a love of knowledge which will persist through life.” Now with a son of his own, he set out to test that theory. But did the little boy prove it?

The kid who wrote a textbook

Well, the early signs looked good, to say the very least. At the tender age of five, Sidis is said to have invented his own formula for calculating days of the week throughout history based on any provided date. According to The New York Times, he also wrote a textbook covering human anatomy. The American education system? That posed little challenge to the boy genius. Barely anyone could keep up with his rapid development.

Multiple languages mastered in just a few years

Sidis took roughly six months to complete a program of study that was supposed to last for seven years. And like his father, who was a polyglot, the young boy proved particularly skilled in linguistics. By the time he was eight years old, he could allegedly speak a language for every year he had been alive. Truly incredible! Given his academic prowess, it makes you wonder how we’ve never heard of him before...

A rare jack of all trades

Speaking to NPR, Wallace explained, “One thing that was very unusual about [Sidis] compared to other child prodigies [is that] very few prodigies have multiple abilities.” But the young boy appeared to buck this trend. He combined his varied academic skills with a talent for poetry and political theory. He could excel in any discipline his parents put before him. And there was only one place, Boris thought, that would appreciate his son’s genius.

A lack of emotional intelligence

When Sidis was just nine years old, his father attempted to enroll him at Harvard University. He had every confidence that his brilliant son could go toe to toe with much older students. Sensibly, though, the institution refused to admit him at the time, suggesting that he did not have the emotional maturity to cope with the challenge. Had Boris taken that advice to heart, this sad story might have ended in a very different way.

He still holds the record

But the father refused to give up. Instead, Boris waited just two years before sending his son back to Harvard. And this time, his efforts proved to be successful. In 1909 Sidis became the youngest freshman that the college had ever seen — a record he still holds to this day. So why is his name not mentioned alongside other famous alumni? Why is he not in the same conversation as so many other politicians, business moguls, and scientists?

Twice as smart?

Sidis probably had the raw potential to reach these great heights. After all, if reports are to be believed, Sidis had an astonishingly high IQ. According to some, it was as high as 300 — which was almost twice that of Albert Einstein, if you can believe it. In his 1946 book Psychology for the Millions, Abraham Sperling wrote of Sidis, “His [IQ] score was the highest that had ever been obtained.” Surely, then, Sidis should be as famous as Einstein?

11-year-old lecturer

If Sidis’ IQ score is to be believed, he would have been smarter than both Stephen Hawking and Isaac Newton, as well. Reports from his early years at college certainly suggest he was on his way to becoming a great thinker. And in 1910 — at the age of just 11 — he delivered a lecture to the Harvard Mathematical Club. The boy left a big impression there, and one prominent mind made a huge prediction about his near future.

Meet Mr. Comstock

That day, Sidis stood up in front of a large group of advanced students and professors. He then proceeded to speak about the highly technical mathematical concept of four-dimensional bodies. If you aren't familiar, don't worry — we’re as puzzled as you are! But not everyone was baffled by the complex topic. In the audience, you see, was a man who knew his stuff. He was Daniel Comstock — a physicist on the faculty at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

Predicting a bright future

According to Wallace’s 1986 biography, Comstock was so impressed by the boy’s lecture that he made a bold prophecy about his future. He said, “I predict that young Sidis will be a great astronomical mathematician. He will evolve new theories and invent new ways of calculating astronomical phenomena. I believe he will be a great mathematician, the leader in that science in the future.” And Comstock knew what he was talking about. It’s weird, then, that he got it so wrong.

Harvard’s boy genius

That a child of 11 could receive such praise was big news, of course, and soon the press had caught wind of the story of Harvard’s boy genius. These initial reports marked the start of a media obsession with Sidis that would continue on and off for the rest of his life. So many people were waiting for him to make a big discovery. But although Sidis quickly became the darling of the newspapers, he was not so beloved by his fellow students.

Dressed in short pants

According to the history website American Heritage, the renowned architect Buckminster Fuller attended Harvard at the same time as Sidis. He said of the boy, “Most students considered him a freak. He was 16 when I knew him, but his parents still sent him to school dressed like a boy of 12. In those days a boy automatically put on long trousers when he was 14, but Willy Sidis still wore Little Lord Fauntleroy short pants and high-buttoned shoes.”

So what happened?

Clearly, Sidis struggled to fit in. But despite these social hardships at school, Sidis’ fellow classmates still expected him to go on to do great things. So you’ve got to ask: why did these achievements never materialize? Well, there’s an early clue pointing to the genius’ sad fate. And it can be found in the bizarre speech he gave to reporters after graduating in 1914, right when he appeared to be on the precipice of something great.

Committing to seclusion

“I want to live the perfect life,” Sidis is reported to have said. It was a rather bold statement, though also fitting for a guy of his dazzling intellect. But then things got strange during the rest of his address. He continued, “The only way to live the perfect life is to live it in seclusion. I have always hated crowds.” Was this promising young man ready to drop out of society before his career had even begun?

Closing himself off

And the speech was not the only indicator that Sidis would be destined for an unusual life. By this point, reports claim, he had already sworn off women and marriage, claiming to dislike the entire idea of being in a committed relationship. Was this perhaps a hangup left over from the suspicion of his fellow students at Harvard? And would it help explain why he later disappeared? It is hard to say exactly, as he continued making academic strides shortly thereafter.

Taking up a teaching position

After his graduation, Sidis’ academic career took a number of unexpected turns. To pursue his doctorate in mathematics, he relocated to Rice University in Texas after allegedly receiving physical threats at Harvard. But he was not able to simply study in peace at Rice, left to his own devices. There, still aged just 17, he took up a position teaching trigonometry and geometry to much older students. And, perhaps unsurprisingly, this did not go well.

Dropping out

Because of his difficulties in the classroom, within a year Sidis had resigned from the job and returned to Harvard. He then made a complete U-turn in terms of his studies. Back in Massachusetts, he abandoned his doctorate and enrolled at law school instead. But even though the young man excelled there — just as he had everywhere else — he ultimately dropped out in 1919. Why, when things had looked so promising for the young genius, was he failing?

Run-ins with the law

By that point, Sidis was taking a route in life that was markedly different from the one that his father had mapped out. The same year he dropped out of law school, he was arrested for taking part in a socialist demonstration. Allegedly, he had been caught shouting, “To hell with the American flag.” Yikes. A public statement like that could get you in hot water now, so imagine how controversial it would have been one hundred years ago.

Not well-received

Because of Sidis’ childhood fame, his brush with the law was covered extensively by the press. The wider public ate up the boy genius' fall from grace. And while Sidis was on trial, his personal beliefs and ideas were laid bare. Apparently, he claimed to be a pacifist and a socialist who supported the movement behind the Russian Revolution. In post-World War I America, this wasn’t exactly well-received. Although many of Sidis' former supporters turned on him, some pushed him to redeem himself.

Parole, under conditions

Once again, Boris stepped in to change the course of his son’s life. Initially sentenced to 18 months behind bars, Sidis was later granted parole on the condition that he seek out psychological help. But he was not sent to an objective medical institution. Instead, the boy’s father took him to his own facility in New Hampshire. If Boris had hoped to set his son back on a more traditional path, though, his attempt went horribly awry.

Released from custody

Apparently, Sidis later described his experience in his father’s sanatorium as “mental torture.” And when he was finally released in 1921, he seemed set on leading a life free from the influence of his overbearing mom and dad. They had simply gone too far. The next phase of his life flew in the face of nearly every goal they had targeted while raising their brilliant son. For a while, it seemed like Sidis may have been on to something.

Laying low

Sidis began actively pursuing a life of obscurity, free from the media attention that had dogged his early life. He had enough of being treated like the next Isaac Newton. Dropping out of academia entirely, he took a succession of unskilled jobs in an attempt to stay under the radar. They were hardly fitting for a man of his education level, who had rubbed elbows with some of the greatest minds ever known. However, for a while at least, his scheme worked.

Blue-collar work

But Sidis’ precocious talent had been so promising — and his story so interesting — that the world just would not leave him alone for too long. A few people began asking about whatever happened to that 11-year-old who roamed the halls of Harvard. One of them got his answer. In 1924 a reporter tracked the young man to Wall Street in New York City, where he was working as an adding machine operator. Sidis was making just $23 a week.

Separating from his parents

By this time, it seems, Sidis had distanced himself from the parents who had raised him in such a strange fashion. But although he craved anonymity, he could not forego academic life completely. In 1925 he published The Animate and the Inanimate — a theory about the cosmos and how biological life came to exist. It laid out some groundbreaking ideas, including the theory that the origin of life "is that there is no origin, but only a constant development and change of form."

Publishing under different names

Despite its bold concepts, this work was largely ignored at the time. In fact, it was only rediscovered and given some serious analysis decades after Sidis’ death. Was this rejection the final straw that drove the genius even deeper into obscurity? Following the failure of The Animate and the Inanimate to gain any attention, you see, he began publishing his work under pseudonyms to hide his true identity. That has caused some problems for experts ever since.

A way to hide his work

Because of this streak of anonymous writings, experts are unsure of exactly how many texts Sidis wrote during his lifetime. But we do know of at least two works that have been attributed to his great mind. One, titled The Tribes and the States, claims to offer an alternative history of Native Americans. It proposed that American democracy was largely influenced by the tribes encountered by European settlers as they spread throughout the new world. Sidis' other work was even stranger.

Lost Sidis texts

Published in the 1920s under the pseudonym Frank Folupa, Notes on the Collection of Transfers focuses on one of Sidis’ more unusual obsessions: streetcars. Essentially, the text is a compilation of trivia and facts accompanied by poems and childish jokes. Hardly the sort of work you’d expect from a man once predicted to take the academic world by storm! But according to some, there are still a number of lost Sidis texts out there. Who knows what revelations they might contain?

A life of obscurity

While Sidis was alive, though, he continued to live in obscurity. Sometimes he would slip up and accidentally reveal his intelligence, much to the surprise of the ordinary people around him, but when that happened, he would simply move on before the spotlight could shine on him once more. Sidis tried to stay one step ahead of those who knew about his past life, but he found out that he could never truly outrun his past.

A possible explanation?

His life nearly fell to pieces in 1937 when an article about him appeared in The New Yorker. Apparently, celebrated writer and reporter James Thurber had managed to get close to Sidis, who had allegedly confessed in an interview, “The very sight of a mathematical formula makes me physically ill.” And when asked about his failure to live up to various predictions, he wryly replied, “It’s strange, but, you know, I was born on April Fool’s Day.”

Sad Sidis

When the article came out, Sidis was unhappy with how he had been depicted — a sad, lonely man eking out a dull existence in Boston. Thurber said, "He seems to get a great and ironic enjoyment out of leading a life of wandering irresponsibility" and said the brilliant man had a "certain childlike charm." That led Sidis to sue the magazine for invasion of privacy. According to Wallace, the wayward genius complained that the piece had caused him “grievous mental anguish [and] humiliation.”

Back at the center of attention

At the time, the court threw out the case, as they explained that the law was unable to protect an individual from the glare of the media spotlight. And yet again, Sidis found himself the center of attention — a place he never wanted to be. But despite his attempts to prove that he was no longer the obedient genius his father had created, he remained in the public eye. And he was willing to fight for his new life.

Unexpected but expected

Eventually, in 1944 Sidis reached a rather nice settlement in his lawsuit against The New Yorker. By that time, he had returned to working a series of more menial jobs, including a position as a clerk at the State Department of Unemployment Compensation. But while Sidis had more personal projects planned for the future, these writings would remain unrealized. In July of that year, he suffered a brain hemorrhage — the same tragic fate that had befallen his father two decades before.

Untimely and early

Sadly, Sidis did not recover and died in Boston at the age of just 46. For someone who had shown such promise, it was a rather ordinary end. And even though the former boy-genius may have had the highest IQ of all time, his name is rarely uttered today. Ironically, in death, he has found the anonymity for which he had spent most of his short life searching. Still, there are some scholars out there who pore over his writings to this very day, hoping to find some breakthrough in the scribblings of a man forgotten by time.

A dark past

The search of breakthrough in Sidis's notes has so far proven fruitless but what has come to light in recent years is a history that Harvard worked hard to cover up. Half a century before Sidis attended the Ivy league school, white-gloved hands cupped the mouths of Boston's elite as they nervously whispered about professor John Webster. It was a scandal like no other. Given the rarefied air of Harvard University, nobody foresaw the school turning into a crime scene. But following a high-profile disappearance, police suspected that the culprit came from high society. To prove their theory, they'd have to use a strategy that had never been tried before.

Instantly recognizable

On November 24th, 1849, the Parkman family made a desperate plea to Boston authorities. They hadn't seen their beloved George for two days. It wasn't like him to just up and vanish; in fact, he was a man who loved his routine. Granted, it wasn't a routine that made Parkman especially popular around Boston. The already wealthy man built up his estate as a professional moneylender, and he made quite the impression as he collected his debts around town. George walked everywhere, making him rail thin, plus he wore a towering top hat. No matter where he went, someone was bound to recognize him.

Pay up

Because of his business, Parkman's associates weren't happy to see him turn up on their doorstep. He made a point of collecting his payments on time. George was worth a whopping half a million dollars, so it's not like he needed the money; but as a rather cold man and a spendthrift, he always settled his accounts. Police couldn't help but wonder: could that diligence have earned him a dangerous enemy?

Retracing his footsteps

The authorities tracked Parkman's movements in the days leading up to his disappearance. One of the final clients he visited was John Webster, a professor at Harvard Medical School. A well-known figure around campus, he gained a reputation for some unusual scientific pursuits.

Sky-rocket Jack

Some who weren't well-versed in chemistry found Webster tedious, but the school's dean, Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr., called him, "pleasant in the lecture room, rather nervous and excitable." He made his lectures a bit of an event by incorporating pyrotechnics into his demonstrations. His students affectionately nicknamed him "Sky-rocket Jack," though Webster wasn't all fun and fireworks.

Keeping up with the Brahmins

Webster enjoyed mingling with Boston's upper crust — families nicknamed the "Boston Brahmins" — but doing so was an expensive endeavor. In fact, his salary was far less impressive than that of many of his colleagues, and the Webster family had to sell off their ancestral mansion to make ends meet. That financial stress brought Webster to George Parkman.

A personal history

By the time of Parkman's disappearance, John Webster had been a longtime associate. He first borrowed $700, equivalent to nearly $11,000 today, seven years earlier in 1842, but this was no one-time deal. Webster's uncontrolled spending got him in deeper and deeper.

Crossing loyalties

Fearing that Parkman wouldn't lend him any additional funds, Webster acquired $1,200 from another man named Shaw. That wouldn't have been a problem, except that the professor had put up a collection of valuable minerals as collateral, and those minerals had already been mortgaged under Webster's deal with Parkman.

The confrontation

Needless to say, Parkman wasn't too happy when he learned about Webster's financial habits. He paid a visit to the professor at the college on November 22nd — that afternoon was the last time anyone had seen him. Anyone could have guessed that their conversation wasn't too pleasant either.

Wouldn't hurt a fly

Given that Webster was quite possibly the last person to see Parkman, that made the chemist a natural subject. But was he capable of harming the moneylender in any way? His friends and family doubted it. Webster was respectable and well-liked; besides, he also attended a party just hours after his meeting with Parkman and came off like his normal self.

Deflecting suspicions

When questioned by police, Webster brushed off his issues with Parkman and said that he went on his way. They didn't seem to have any evidence against him. However, one man wasn't so sure about Webster's innocence. He wasn't a social rival or an ace detective, but rather a janitor.

Littlefield speaks up

Ephraim Littlefield had been the janitor at Harvard Medical College for the better part of a decade, and he even lived in the basement of the building with his wife. Nothing went on in that school without Littlefield knowing about it, and following Parkman going missing, the handyman noticed something odd about the chemistry professor.

The incinerator

Harvard kept a powerful incinerator in the basement, which came in handy for disposing of medical waste and cadavers used in demonstrations. The same day that the Parkman family reported the disappearance, Webster approached Littlefield and demanded that he start a fire.

A mysterious bundle

It wasn't just the sudden request that piqued the his curiosity. Webster was also holding a large wrapped bundle that he seemed anxious to get rid of. Littlefield had no choice but to follow the professor's instructions, though as more days passed without Parkman returning alive and well, the janitor began to put his own theory together.

Media circus

He wasn't alone in that regard. The moneylender's fate became a media circus, especially because the Parkmans issued a cash reward for anyone who had information about his current whereabouts or — God forbid — the location of his body. Bostonians spun all kinds of fantastic tales about Parkman, and all this attention seemed to take its toll on Webster.

Cornered by Webster

Despite working closely together, Webster and Littlefield barely spoke. That was why the janitor feared for his life when the professor cornered him one day. Brandishing a cane, Webster demanded to know whether Littlefield saw Parkman coming and going from the Medical College that day. Littlefield claimed to know nothing about it, and Webster responded by frantically explaining why Parkman stopped by.

Too defensive

He came off as incredibly defensive. Webster insisted that Parkman had simply stopped by to collect a debt, then went on his way. Unable to get away from the professor, Littlefield nodded and agreed. At last, Webster left him alone.

Searching the furnace

That outburst convinced Littlefield that he had to act. Creaking open the grate of the incinerator, he searched for the remnant's of Webster's mysterious bundle. What he found among the ashes nearly made him sick. Looking for more clues, Littlefield dug into a nearby wall section that looked like someone had recently patched it up.

Into the wall

The janitor recounted the effort it took to get to the hiding place: "I took the crowbar and knocked the bigness of the hole right through. There are five courses of brick in the wall. I managed to get in ... and to get the light and my head into the hole, and then ... I held my light forward." Inside, Littlefield found parts of what Webster had carried in a few days earlier.

Body parts

The charred bundle contained body parts: a torso, bits of arms and legs, and a fairly intact jawbone. Some buttons and coins were scattered about as well. While it wasn't unusual for dead bodies to be tossed into the furnace, Littlefield didn't remember the chemistry professor ever studying any human remains — or disposing of any waste in such a hurry.

Under arrest

That was enough for police to arrest Webster for murder. The news sent Boston into an uproar. Some wanted blood, while others cried that a great injustice had been done. Though the evidence seemed pretty damning at first, what proof did authorities have that Webster himself did the deed? What proof did they have that the remains were from George Parkman?

Staging a defense

Webster firmly maintained his innocence and reached out to some of the top lawyers of the day to defend him, including Rufus Choate. He, and many others, declined. The professor had little choice but to write up his own version of the events, and his defense neared a whopping 200 pages. His case went to the Massachusetts Supreme Court.

Forensics

The prosecution clearly needed to prove that the incinerator held the remains of George Parkman, and so they developed a novel strategy to make their case. They pioneered the use of forensics — the scientific analysis of evidence to aid a criminal investigation.

CSI: 1800s

The forensic evidence painted a damning picture. The jawbone matched Parkman's dental records, right down to the false teeth. Medical experts testified that the other body parts were dissected by someone with surgical expertise. They also found traces of copper nitrate, an effective compound for removing blood stains. A chemically knowledgable murderer might've spilled some while cleaning up his gruesome work.

Star witness

Ephraim Littlefield was the star witness, and he provided additional details about Webster's strange behavior following his meeting with Parkman. Supposedly, the professor began locking doors that were always open before. He repeatedly questioned the janitor about whether the light in the dissecting room could be seen from outside. And Littlefield noticed that the basement walls were often red-hot, as if someone was using the furnace again and again.

Purely circumstantial

Despite these breakthroughs, Webster's guilt wasn't obvious. The defense pointed out that there were many other body fragments in the incinerator. Was it possible that authorities picked pieces that most resembled George Parkman? On top of that, there was no direct proof tying the professor to the crime. He fit the profile, but all the evidence was circumstantial.

Lingering doubts

Would a jury feasibly convict a popular teacher and social figure without any further proof? After all, many believed that Ephraim Littlefield embellished his story to get the Parkman family's reward. Some didn't even think Parkman was murdered — perhaps he just skipped town. By March 30th of 1850, a verdict finally arrived.

Guilty

The court found John Webster guilty of murder and sentenced him to death by hanging. No longer able to keep his composure, the professor collapsed, sobbing. He soon gave a full confession, detailing his actual confrontation with Parkman. But even that account cast doubt on the jury's verdict.

The confession

Webster's official confession explained it this way: "Parkman had shouted insults at him and threatened to have him fired if he didn’t pay up. In a fit of passion, Webster picked up a thick wooden stick and struck Parkman once on the head, fracturing his skull." There was no longer any debate about the blood on the professor's hands, but some insisted he was no murderer.

Appealing the verdict

For one thing, Parkman's killing didn't appear to be premeditated. That fact made Webster's actions seem closer to manslaughter. Then there was the matter of the prosecution. They built up a case on circumstantial evidence and occasionally tweaked details under oath to support their argument, so Webster hardly received a fair trial. He and his defenders filed a passionate appeal.

The governor's choice

Governor George N. Briggs weighed the matter carefully. On one hand, the prosecution ensured the deck was stacked against Webster from the start. On the other, most of the people asserting his innocence were the wealthy Brahmins. A Black man had recently been executed on similar grounds, so if the Governor pardoned Webster, he could have a riot on his hands.

To the hangman

So Briggs let him hang. Webster was put to death that August, and guards had to supervise his burial, as there were rumors that some unsavory types were plotting to steal the murderer's body. But the professor was laid to rest without incident, though his fate forever changed the way that U.S. courts handled murder cases.

Legal reforms

Wanting to hold the prosecution to a higher standard, lawmakers firmed up laws about circumstantial evidence and using deception on the witness stand. They also divided murder charges into the first, second, and third degrees, so as to not treat all killers with the same severity. And what about the survivors of this grisly affair?

Happily ever after?

Boston's elite long maintained Webster's innocence, though there was relief that the scandal didn't harm Harvard's reputation. For Littlefield, it was the break of his life. He collected the Parkmans' $3,000 and retired to the country. Nobody could deny the investigation worked out quite conveniently for him.

The Parkman line

Grief overtook the Parkmans, to the point where they rarely left their luxurious Beacon Street home. George's children inherited the family estate, but because they had no offspring of their own, the city of Boston eventually gained ownership of his vast fortune.