In 1877 the first issue of the Revue des questions scientifiques, published by the Scientific Society of Brussels, appeared in France and Belgium. The new journal was greeted with disdain and hostility by Emile Littrè and George Wyrouboff, the disciples of Auguste Comte and editors of La philosophie positive. The Scientific Society of Brussels was a Catholic organization, and the positivists' opinion was that ‘If science is spoken of in this assembly, it is in order to organize a veritable crusade against it’. But the highly prejudiced assessment by Littré and Wyrouboff completely misread the goals of the society. At the time, the Catholic Church was en pleine crise both in France and Belgium. Church attendance had declined dramatically in recent years, as had the number of young people entering religious orders. Many Catholic laymen and church officials were becoming convinced that some rapprochment with the modern world and modern science was essential. It was to this difficult task that the Catholics of the Brussels Scientific Society addressed themselves with determination.

The growth of modern science has been accompanied by the growth of professionalization. We can unquestionably speak of professional science since the nineteenth century, although historians dispute about where, when and how much. It is much more problematic and anachronistic to do so of the late seventeenth century, despite the familiar view that the period saw the origin of modern experimental science. This paper explores the broad implications of that problem.

Published texts, unpublished documents and, to a lesser extent, artefacts are the stuff from which historians of science fashion their interpretations of the past. From these residues we attempt to reconstruct the lost fabric of personalities, activities and institutions that constituted the practice of science, and to comprehend the flow of thought that was its substance. Like the sensory data of the empirical sciences, these raw materials are not pure chunks of reality. They must be interpreted in the light of contemporary discourse and practice of which they were part. Over time, and in the hands of different commentators they acquire new significance, sometimes of mythic proportions; moreover, they are inevitably viewed in the light of present suppositions and fashions, both scientific and historiographical.

From the very day in 1686 when Edmond Halley placed Book I of the Principia before the Royal Society, Robert Hooke's claim to prior discovery has been associated with the law of universal gravitation. If the seventeenth century rejected Hooke's claim summarily, historians of science have not forgotten it, and a steady stream of articles continues the discussion. In our own day particularly, when some of the glitter has worn off, not from the scientific achievement, but from the character of Newton, there has been a tendency vicariously to atone for the treatment Hooke received. The judgement Lohne cites with approval from Vavilov appears to summarize the current estimate of the issue—in the seventeenth century only Newton could have written the Principia; nevertheless Hooke first sketched out its programme. What with all the knocks he has received both alive and dead, one feels guilty (and perhaps superfluous) in assuming the role of “debunker” at this late date. Apologetically draped in sackcloth then, head covered with ashes (and with whatever it is one dons for superfluity) I venture softly to suggest that Hooke has received more than his due. There is no question here of justifying Newton's behaviour toward Hooke. Wholly lacking in generosity as it appears to me, Newton's behaviour neither deserves nor can receive justification. The question turns rather on Hooke's scientific theories. Granting always his lack of demonstrations, historians have been prone to interpret his words in the light of Newton's demonstrations. A close examination of Hooke's writings does not sustain the interpretation. Contrary to what is generally asserted, he did not hold a conception of universal gravitation. And if he announced the inverse square relation, he derived it from such a medley of confusion as will not allow his claim to priority.

This article examines the science of electrophysiology developed by Emil du Bois-Reymond in Berlin in the 1840s. In it I recount his major findings, the most significant being his proof of the electrical nature of nerve signals. Du Bois-Reymond also went on to detect this same ‘negative variation’, or action current, in live human subjects. In 1850 he travelled to Paris to defend this startling claim. The essay concludes with a discussion of why his demonstration failed to convince his hosts at the French Academy of Sciences.

La science ne consiste pas en faits, mais dans les conséquences que l'on en tire.Claude Bernard, Introduction à l'étude de la médicine expérimentale

Good talkers are only found in Paris.François Villon, Des Femmes de Paris

The story of the end of the Philosophical Society of Edinburgh (P.S, E.) in 1783, is linked with that of the founding of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland (S.A.S.) (1780) and the Royal Society of Edinburgh (R.S.E.), both of which were given Royal Charters sealed on 6 May 1783. It is a story which has been admirably told by Steven Shapin. He persuasively argued that the P.S.E. was a casualty of bitter quarrels rooted in local Edinburgh politics, in personal animosities and in disputes about the control of cultural property and intellectual leadership. In all this he was surely correct just as he was in finding the principal actors in this controversy to be: David Erskine, 11th Earl of Buchan; the Reverend Dr John Walker, Professor of Natural History in Edinburgh University; Dr William Cullen, Professor of the Theory and Practice of Medicine and Vice-President of the P.S.E.; Mr William Smellie, Printer to the Society of Antiquaries; Henry Home, Lord Kames, S.C.J. and President of the P.S.E.; Sir George Clerk-Maxwell, Vice-President of the P.S.E.; John Robison, Professor of Natural Philosophy and Secretary to the P.S.E.; Edinburgh University's Principal, William Robertson; the Curators of the Advocates Library: Ilay Campbell, Robert Blair, Alexander Abercromby, Alexander Fraser Tytler, Professor of Public Law; Henry Dundas, Lord Advocate (1775–August 1783) and M.P. for Midlothian. In a peripheral way, the Royal Colleges of Physicians and Surgeons were probably also involved; so too were Lord Buchan's brothers, Henry and Thomas Erskine, Foxite Whigs who opposed Dundas politically. Henry Erskine displaced Dundas as Lord Advocate in August 1783. After the change of ministry on 18 December 1783 he was ousted, but became Dean of the Faculty of Advocates in 1785. National as well as burgh politics touched these disputes and gave the parties of the Erskines and Dundas and his friends some leverage in London.

Intellectual and professional reforms in evolutionary studies between 1935 and 1950 included substantial expansion, diversification, and realignment of community infrastructure. Theodosius Dobzhansky, Julian Huxley and Alfred Emerson organized the Society for the Study of Speciation at the 1939 AAAS Columbus meeting as one response (among many coming into place) to concerns about ‘isolation’ and ‘lack of contact’ among speciation workers worried about ‘dispersed’ and ‘scattered’ resources in this newly robust ‘borderline’ domain. Simply constructed, the SSS sought neither the radical reorganization of specialities nor the creation of some new discipline. Instead, it was designed to facilitate: to simplify exchange of information and to provide a minimally invasive avenue for connecting disparate researchers. Emerson served as SSS secretary and was its principal agent. After publishing one block of publications, however, the SSS became ‘quiescent’. Anxious to promote his own agenda, Ernst Mayr tried to manoeuvre around Emerson in an effort to revitalize the project. After meeting impediments, he moved his efforts elsewhere. The SSS was too short-lived to merit a claim for major impact within the community; however, it reveals important features of community activity during the synthesis period and stands in contrast to later efforts by George Simpson, Dobzhansky, and Mayr.

John W. Draper's History of the Conflict between Religion and Science (1874) is commonly regarded as the manifesto of the ‘conflict thesis’. The superficiality of this thesis has been demonstrated in recent studies, but to read Draper's work only as a text on ‘science versus religion’ is to miss half of its significance, as it also involved evaluations of individual religions with respect to their attitudes towards science. Due to Draper's favourable remarks on Islam, the Ottoman author Ahmed Midhat translated his work into Turkish, and published it along with his own comments on Draper's arguments. Midhat interpreted Islam using the cues provided by Draper, and portrayed it as the only religion compatible with science. While his Christian readers condemned Draper for his approach to Islam, Midhat transformed the ‘conflict thesis’ into a proclamation that Islam and science were allies in opposition to Christian encroachment on the Ottoman Empire. This paper analyses Midhat's appropriation of Draper's work and compares it to the reaction of Draper's Christian readers. It discusses the context that made an alliance between Islam and science so desirable for Midhat, and emphasizes the impact of the historico-geographical context on the encounters between and representations of science and religion.

In June 1930 the Department of Scientific and Industrial Research (DSIR) of the British Government awarded a modest research grant to J. E. (later Sir John) Lennard-Jones, Professor of Theoretical Physics at the University of Bristol, in response to a proposal submitted under the title of ‘A theoretical investigation of the physical properties of the solid state of matter’. This initiative marked the first notable recognition by public funding bodies in Great Britain of the potential contribution to be made by the new theoretical ideas in physics to a deeper understanding of the properties of industrially important materials, particularly metals and their alloys. The possible technological relevance of such a study was, indeed, a central factor in the decision to support it. The research arising out of this initial award provided the impetus for the first stage of Bristol theoretical research on the solid state of matter, an enterprise initially associated with the name of Lennard-Jones, and later with Nevili Mott who succeeded him as Professor of Theoretical Physics in 1933.

No one will deny the extraordinary interest and importance of this method which showed for the first time and in such minute detail the effects of the passage of ionizing radiations through a gas ... I am personally of the opinion that the researches of Mr Wilson in this field represent one of the most striking and important of the advances in atomic physics made in the last twenty years ... It may be argued that this new method of Mr Wilson's has in the main only confirmed the deductions of the properties of the radiations made by other more indirect methods. While this is of course in some respects true, I would emphasize the importance to science of the gain in confidence of the accuracy of these deductions that followed from the publication of his beautiful photographs. Ernest Rutherford, 1927

Rutherford refers here to the photography of particle tracks made visible as lines of condensation in the supersaturated water vapour of a cloud chamber. C. T. R. Wilson first saw and photographed tracks in March 1911. The cloud chamber had existed since 1895 when Wilson, pursuing his meteorological interests, developed the instrument to determine the process of droplet formation in clouds. Galison and Assmus have examined this early phase of the cloud chamber's existence, rightly concluding that, with the production of tracks and their photographic record, the instrument was radically transformed into a crucial tool of the particle physicist. This transformation was not immediate, however, and a genealogy of the apparatus cannot fully explain how this novel means to apprehend the existence and behaviour of hitherto invisible particles subsequently functioned within and contributed to the project of particle physics. My own focus is on the period immediately following Wilson's first publication of ray-track photographs. The central questions to be addressed are provided by Rutherford's comments above. In precisely what way did Wilson's work increase the confidence of scientists? How was his method more direct than others?

This paper considers inventors' rights as revealing shifts in the elaboration of public trust in inventions. The two main issues, the method of invention and the credit invested, are analysed both in terms of Diderot's writings and in the economic, social and political context of invention during the eighteenth century. In a pamphlet written in 1755, Histoire et secret de la peinture en cire, Diderot criticized the Count of Caylus's attempt to keep the invention of wax painting secret and to enhance his fame thanks to this technical achievement. Diderot developed a conception of invention as an activity based upon methodical rediscoveries, imitations and translations. Although this could also concern artistic practice, imitation in art had a quite different meaning for Diderot. The main issue was the status of artists and inventors in society. Personal glory and private appropriation were denied to inventors, in contrast to artists. Secrecy, pride and exclusivity in invention were mean and ridiculous strategies. This was precisely what had been happening since the beginning of the eighteenth century, with the development of a market for inventions and exclusive titles, which also affected art. Diderot's narrative of invention as a daily, collective and historical process echoed the necessity of reassessing the value of invention by the criteria of public utility and shared evaluation.

In what follows I use the term ‘academic engineering’ to describe the teaching of engineering within a university or college of higher education: specifically, this differentiates an institutional teaching framework from the broader assimilation of engineering working practices in nineteenth-century Britain by the then standard method of apprenticeship or pupillage, and from the practice of engineering as a profession. The growth of academic engineering, both in terms of student numbers and the variety of courses, profoundly influenced the structure of what we might call ‘practical engineering’, the status of engineering as a profession searching for recognition within society, and the corporate relationship between engineers and places of higher education. These are issues which I will only touch on here.

In recent years a number of scholars have argued that Faraday's theories of matter and force were founded on concepts which were derived from Boscovich's Theoria Philosophiae Naturalis (1758). The notion that Faraday's ideas display Boscovichean tendencies is not a new one: it was proposed by several of Faraday's immediate successors and has been noted by more recent commentators. Statements of this kind are not implausible as assertions of a general correspondence between Faraday's views on matter, as expressed in the “Speculation touching Electric Conduction and the Nature of Matter” of 1844, and Boscovich's theory of point atomism, but Professor L. Pearce Williams has made much stronger claims for the dependence of Faraday's ideas on Boscovich's theory of matter. Williams' interpretation has been questioned by recent scholarship, and in this paper I wish to advance an alternative interpretation of Faraday's ideas on electricity and the nature of matter.

This paper is about how the motto of the Royal Society has sometimes been misread, but it is also about how such a misreading could arise at all, and why it persists. I argue that the error is intimately associated with a traditional view of scientific language as a medium for descriptive reporting, a view which has been very influential in schools, and is consequently perpetuated in the public understanding of science. Much new scholarship confirms that this ‘straightforward’ view of what scientists do can no longer be accepted at face value, and that the role of language in science is more intimate and subtle in its interpretive and persuasive qualities. A renewed study of the motto is interesting in itself, but it will also serve to introduce these wider matters. Perhaps it may help some more teachers to escape from those received ideas about language which have restricted the range of learning activities in school science, and discouraged a full attention to the words in which scientists choose to express their ideas.

Over the last forty years several historians have drawn attention to aspects of the activities of lecturers on natural philosophy in Britain in the eighteenth century. Hans and others looked at the part these lecturers played in the development of education, particularly adult education. Musson and Robinson considered the possible connection between the work of the lecturers and the growth of industry, and Inkster and others have explored the relationship between lecturers and the institutions set up to support science, especially around 1800.4 More recently, Schaffer has pointed to the parallels between the performances of the lecturers on natural philosophy and other contemporary cultural activities. As a consequence of these studies we know much more about the work of the lecturers, its significance, and, to a lesser extent, their relationship to their audience.

Until fairly recently a common way of doing history of science was to pick up an important strand of contemporary scientific thought and to trace its origin back to the philosophical tangle of the scientific revolution. This approach conveniently by-passed the breakdowns of once useful and pervasive theories, and neglected the long intellectual journeys along devious routes. History of science read like a success story; the pioneers who failed were neither dismissed nor excused; they were simply ignored. The historian knew what he was hunting for and he was careful to limit his search to areas where his quarry was sure to be found. This method, which has been dubbed the precursor-view, stands in contrast—albeit, not in opposition—to the contextual method, which aims at a better understanding of the actual thought-processes of the early scientists. On this second view, history of science must not only account for present theories in the light of past developments, it must also assess old theories in terms of the scientist's conceptual framework, and judge them against the background of the world picture of his age. This may lead the historian down the blind alleys of the past, chasing spurious attempts at explaining the nature of physical reality, but it can clear the ground for a less anachronistic interpretation of the emergence of modern science and the actual process of discovery. History of science acts as a winnowing fork, but we cannot suppose that the discoverer himself always separated the wheat from the chaff, and we must be ever wary of equating the dream with the task.

The attitudes of physicians and drug manufacturers in the US toward patenting pharmaceuticals changed dramatically from the mid-nineteenth century to the mid-twentieth. Formerly, physicians and reputable manufacturers argued that pharmaceutical patents prioritized profit over the advancement of medical science. Reputable manufactures refused to patent their goods and most physicians shunned patented products. However, moving into the early twentieth century, physicians and drug manufacturers grew increasingly comfortable with the idea of pharmaceutical patents. In 1912, for example, the American Medical Association dropped the prohibition on physicians holding medical patents. Shifts in wider patenting cultures therefore transformed the ethical sensibilities of physicians.

In 1948, in response to the perceived threat of atomic war, the British government embarked on a new civil defence programme. By the mid-1950s, secret government reports were already warning that this programme would be completely inadequate to deal with a nuclear attack. The government responded to these warnings by cutting civil defence spending, while issuing apparently absurd pamphlets advising the public on how they could protect themselves from nuclear attack. Historians have thus far sought to explain this response with reference to high-level decisions taken by policymakers, and have tended to dismiss civil defence advice as mere propaganda. This paper challenges this interpretation by considering the little-known role of the Home Office Scientific Advisers' Branch, a group of experts whose scientific and technical knowledge informed both civil defence policy and advice to the public. It explores both their advisory and research work, demonstrating their role in shaping civil defence policy and showing that detailed research programmes lay behind the much-mocked government civil defence pamphlets of the 1950s and 1960s.