This paper examines the relationship between the Admiralty and the Royal Observatory, Greenwich, by studying the roles of the Hydrographer and the Astronomer Royal as they worked together on the problem of communicating accurate time to ships. The collaboration between the Astronomer Royal and the Hydrographer directed the development of time balls and other visual signals throughout their period of use in Britain and its colonies. This paper focuses on the time ball and clock developed by the Astronomer Royal William Christie and the Hydrographer William Wharton as a key example of significant and productive collaboration between the two institutions. The paper also highlights the importance of the telegraph system to visual time signals. The ability to drop a time ball at a distance from an observatory created significant opportunities to improve the time signal service to mariners and stimulated further innovation in this field.

This essay explores how Viennese physicists who specialized in radioactivity research embodied visions of their new discipline in material terms, through the architectural design and the urban location of their institute. These visions concerned not only the experimental culture of radioactivity, or the interdisciplinarity of the field, but also the gendered experiences of those working in the institute's laboratories, many of who were women. In designing the Institute for Radium Research at the end of the 1910s – the first such specialized institute in Europe – physicists and architects were also designing the new discipline in a strong sense. In the architectural form of the building one can trace the aesthetics of the new discipline, the scientific exchanges of its personnel and the image of a newly formed community in which women were more than welcomed.

Even at the level of the most elementary arithmetical operations, procedures and practices change. During the twelfth and thirteenth centuries an unusually well documented development took place: at the beginning of the period the authors of elementary manuals of computation taught the use of the abacus, whereas at the end they described the method of calculation which came to be known as the algorism. Their ideas about number, however, were still largely drawn from Boethius's rendering of Nicomachus of Gerasa's Introduction to arithmetic in the Arithmetica and there had been little progress in attempting to reconcile Boethius's teaching on the theory of number with the rather different assumptions that underlie the methods of practical calculation. Boethius and Nicomachus, for example, emphasize that one is not a number but the source of number, and they are aware of the special problems posed by ‘two’. Nicomachus questions whether ‘two’ is anything more than an embodiment of the principle of ‘otherness’; for him, it is open to dispute whether it can be rated a number in its own right. For the teacher of the skills of calculation, ‘one’ and ‘two’ are merely digits like any other. By the fourteenth century, collections of textbook material on elementary arithmetic provided the student with instruction in both theory and practice. The abacus manuals are missing from many such collections because by then the abacus has apparently been relegated to the status of a simple practical aid, but the other elements in medieval arithmetical studies are variously covered.

In his presidential address to the chemistry section of the British Association in 1907, Arthur Smithells pointed to work in radioactivity with wonder, calling it the ‘chemistry of phantoms’. Indeed, the transitory nature of the radioelements, coupled with the exceedingly small quantities commonly handled, made many a traditional chemist hesitant to accept these unusual substances as real elements worthy of insertion into the periodic table. Besides, there were too many of them: by 1913 over thirty radioelements were known, but there were no more than twelve boxes in the periodic table in which to house them. Moreover, there was much confusion about radioelements that had different physical properties such as half-life and range of emitted alpha particle, but which could not be separated chemically. Small wonder then that Alexander Russell, the only person who worked with both Ernest Rutherford and Frederick Soddy, recalled the prevalent attitude of chemists as discouraging of interpretative attempts: theirs was, so they claimed, ‘an experimental science. No good ever came from pontificating on the ways of Nature from the comfort of an armchair. The laboratory bench, not the sofa, … was where the truth would be found’.

In the 1930s, two concepts excited the European biological community: the organizer phenomenon and organicism. This essay examines the history of and connection between these two phenomena in order to address the conventional ‘rise-and-fall’ narrative that historians have assigned to each. Scholars promoted the ‘rise-and-fall’ narrative in connection with a broader account of the devitalizing of biology through the twentieth century. I argue that while limited evidence exists for the ‘fall of the organizer concept’ by the 1950s, the organicism that often motivated the organizer work had no concomitant fall – even during the mid-century heyday of molecular biology. My argument is based on an examination of shifting social networks of life scientists from the 1920s to the 1970s, many of whom attended or corresponded with members of the Cambridge Theoretical Biology Club (1932–1938). I conclude that the status and cohesion of these social networks at the micro scale was at least as important as macro-scale conceptual factors in determining the relative persuasiveness of organicist philosophy.

In the late eighteenth century, which was for Scotland in many ways an ‘Age of Improvement’, the University of Edinburgh enjoyed a golden age. Under the enlightened principalship of the Reverend William Robertson, the University offered wide, flexible, and mainly secular courses of study which were taught by conspicuously able professors. If we restrict ourselves to scientific chairs, a roll-call of their occupants is distinctly impressive: John Robison (natural philosophy, 1774–1805); John Playfair (mathematics, 1785–1805); John Walker (natural history, 1779–1804); Daniel Rutherford (botany, 1786–1819); James Gregory (theory of medicine, 1776–89); William Cullen (practice of medicine, 1773–90); Alexander Monro secundus (anatomy, 1758–98); and their doyen Joseph Black (chemistry and medicine, 1766–99), ‘so pale, so gentle, so elegant, and so illustrious’. The scientific eminence of the University at that time is, of course, widely acknowledged.

Commemoration is a theme to which historians are paying increasing attention, especially to its manifestations in the twentieth century and in relation to war. The formal remembrance of science is an important historical phenomenon, which demands approaches that take account of its distinctive and highly complex relationships with public life. Over the last four hundred years, peer groups and specialized institutions have sought to celebrate selected achievements and to bring those achievements to wider audiences. This address discusses some of the devices and ideas by means of which innovations were turned into cultural items that could be disseminated. Such items included portraits and monuments. As its main examples, the address uses Edward Jenner and vaccination, and the marking of anniversaries.

This article uses the case of pregnancy testing in Britain to investigate the process whereby new and often controversial reproductive technologies are made visible and normalized in mainstream entertainment media. It shows how in the 1980s and 1990s the then nascent product placement industry was instrumental in embedding pregnancy testing in British cinema and television's dramatic productions. In this period, the pregnancy-test close-up became a conventional trope and the thin blue lines associated with Unilever's Clearblue rose to prominence in mainstream consumer culture. This article investigates the aestheticization of pregnancy testing and shows how increasingly visible public concerns about ‘schoolgirl mums’, abortion and the biological clock, dramatized on the big and small screen, propelled the commercial rise of Clearblue. It argues that the Clearblue close-up ambiguously concealed as much as it revealed; abstraction, ambiguity and flexibility were its keys to success.

Drawing on the rich but mostly overlooked history of Guatemala's anti-smallpox campaigns in the 1780s and 1790s, this paper interweaves an analysis of the contribution of colonial medical knowledges and practical experiences with the construction and implementation of imperial science. The history of the anti-smallpox campaigns is traced from the introduction of inoculation in Guatemala in 1780 to the eve of the Spanish Crown-sponsored Royal Maritime Vaccination Expedition in 1803. The paper first analyses the development of what Guatemalan medical physician José Flores called his ‘local method’ of inoculation, tailored to material and cultural conditions of highland Maya communities, and based on his more than twenty years of experience in anti-smallpox campaigns among multiethnic populations in Guatemala. Then the paper probes the accompanying transformations in discourses about health through the anti-smallpox campaigns as they became explicitly linked to new discourses of moral responsibility towards indigenous peoples. With the launch of the Spanish Vaccination Expedition in 1803, anti-smallpox efforts bridged the New World, Europe and Asia, and circulated on a global scale via the enactment of imperial Spanish health policy informed, in no small part, by New World and specifically colonial Guatemalan experiences with inoculation in multiethnic cities and highland Maya towns.

Johann Wolfgang Goethe* (1749–1832) believed that in 1784 he demonstrated the presence of the intermaxillary (premaxillary) bone in man, and that after a certain amount of opposition professional anatomists accepted his findings. This paper tries to show what the anatomical facts are, what it was that Goethe discovered, how his beliefs about his contribution and influence arose, and how his discovery is related to his general scientific aims and methods.

Darwinian ideas were developed and radically transformed when they were transmitted to the alien intellectual background of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century China. The earliest references to Darwin in China appeared in the 1870s through the writings of Western missionaries who provided the Chinese with the earliest information on evolutionary doctrines. Meanwhile, Chinese ambassadors, literati and overseas students contributed to the dissemination of evolutionary ideas, with modest effect. The ‘evolutionary sensation’ in China was generated by the Chinese Spencerian Yan Fu's paraphrased translation and reformulation of Thomas Huxley's 1893 Romanes Lecture ‘Evolution and ethics’ and his ‘Prolegomena’. It was from this source that ‘Darwin’ became well known in China – although it was Darwin's name, rather than his theories, that reached Chinese literati's households. The Origin of Species itself began to receive attention only at the turn of the twentieth century. The translator, Ma Junwu (1881–1940), incorporated non-Darwinian doctrines, particularly Lamarckian and Spencerian principles, into his edition of the Chinese Origin. This partially reflected the importance of the pre-existing Chinese intellectual background as well as Yan Fu's progressive ‘evolutionary paradigm’. In this paper, I will elucidate Ma Junwu's culturally conditioned reinterpretation of the Origin before 1906 by investigating his transformation of Darwin's principal concepts.

This paper investigates Margaret Cavendish's characterization of experimental philosophers as hybrids of bears and men in her 1666 story The Description of a New World, Called the Blazing World. By associating experimental philosophers, in particular Robert Hooke and his microscope, with animals familiar to her readers from the sport of bear-baiting, Cavendish constructed an identity for the fellows of the Royal Society of London quite unlike that which they imagined for themselves. Recent scholarship has illustrated well how Cavendish's opposition to experimental philosophy is linked to her different natural-philosophical, political and anthropological ideas. My contribution to this literature is to examine the meanings both of bears in early modern England and of microscopes in experimental rhetoric, in order to illustrate the connection that Cavendish implies between the two. She parodied Hooke's idea that his microscope extended his limited human senses, and mocked his aim that by so doing he could produce useful knowledge. The bear-men reflect inhuman ambition and provide a caution against ignoring both the order of English society and the place of humans in nature.

The remarkable developments in Galileo's theory of motion revealed by his letter to Guidobaldo del Monte in 1602 have never been easy to account for in view of the almost complete lack of direct evidence. By examining the nature of the empirical evidence for the new ideas he advanced in 1602 and his earliest writings on motion in De motu, it is argued that the source of this transformation was his Copernican beliefs. There exists evidence that those beliefs led him to start work on his theory of the tides by 1595, and by 1597 to state to Kepler that Copernicanism had allowed him to account for many otherwise inexplicable phenomena. These comments very probably related to his new study of rotary and linear motion, linked to his theory of circular fall, which it is argued was devised at this point, and to an investigation of the pendulum. Such an investigation would account for his new interest in isochronism and his discovery of the link between linear and circular motion and to the two laws of isochronism announced to Guidobaldo in 1602: that of the pendulum and the law of chords.

The FitzGerald–Lorentz contraction hypothesis has become well known in connection with Einstein's theory of relativity, and its role in the origin of that theory has been the subject of considerable study. But the origins of the contraction idea itself, and particularly of G. F. FitzGerald's first statement of it in 1889, have attracted much less attention and are surrounded by several misconceptions. The hypothesis has usually been depicted as a rather wild idea put forward without any real theoretical justification simply to explain away the troublesome null result of Michelson and Morley's 1887 ether drift experiment. In the words of Gerald Holton, ‘it has traditionally been called the very paradigm of an ad hoc hypothesis’. H. A. Lorentz, who hit upon the contraction idea independently in 1892, has been credited with giving it some justification in terms of his electron theory, but little or none of this credit has been extended to FitzGerald. His statement of the contraction hypothesis has usually been viewed, in the words of his friend R. T. Glazebrook, as nothing more than ‘the brilliant baseless guess of an Irish genius’.

In The life of Richard Owen by his grandson there is an inference to the effect that Owen had objected to his name being used to authorize various statements that Whewell was drafting in opposition to the Vestiges. The inference is drawn from letters that Whewell wrote to Owen on 13 and 15 February 1845. Corroboration of this would corne from a letter of Owen to Whewell, dated 14 February 1845, if extant. Among the Whewell papers at Trinity College, Cambridge, there are several letters from Owen to Whewell, none of which bears that date. There is one, however, dated 14 February 1844 which, on doser inspection, turns out to be the missing link in their correspondance. The evidence for the misdating is not merely that the letter falls naturally into a later sequence. The conclusion is inescapable because Owen refers to an ‘opinion which I have always entertained, and still do strongly, on the subject of a refutation of “Vestiges”’. Since the first edition of Chambers's book did not appear until October 1844, the letter must belong to the following year. My object in this paper is to examine the implications of this letter for a reconstruction of Owen's attitude to that book which Adam Sedgwick could so detest for, among many things, its ‘gross (and I dare to say, filthy) views of physiology’.

In 1953 Marshall Clagett presented a preliminary scheme of the medieval Latin versions of Euclid's Elements. Since then a considerable body of these texts has become available in critical editions, thanks to Clagett's labours on the Archimedean tradition and H. L. L. Busard's work on the Euclidean versions. Further, Busard, M. Folkerts, R. Lorch and C. Burnett have scrutinized the pivotal ‘second’ version of Adelard of Bath, and have thereby exposed a diversity of text forms that spells real complications for the effort to establish its provenance and use. In his recent overview of the medieval Euclidean tradition, Folkerts displays not only how these studies have filled out and expanded upon Clagett's initial framework, but also how they have compelled rethinking of some basic issues, such as on the source relations and authorship of the various versions.

Since the eighteenth century chemistry has been deemed to be useful, yet how it might find widespread application, particularly in the case of its most advanced developments, was generally unclear. The discovery of synthetic dyestuffs has often been considered as the turning point towards much closer linkage between chemistry and the manufacture of useful products. How this occurred can best be seen in the case of August Wilhelm Hofmann, who for two decades after 1845 was director of the Royal College of Chemistry in London. As the teacher of many pioneers of the dye industry, Hofmann can be considered its first scientific leader. Indeed, the compounds he studied from 1860 were products made in the factories of his former students and assistants. They in turn were the first to recognize Hofmann's role in stimulating the practical application of science. Henry Armstrong, the chemist and educator, went so far as to imply that this was germane to Hofmann's pedagogic and research strategies: ‘it is clear that the influence he exercised in introducing scientific method into industry was in no sense accidental, but the considered expression of innate convictions’. These convictions were also encouraged by the need to attract funds from industrial sponsors for the Royal College of Chemistry, and they charged the rhetoric that served to enhance Hofmann's ambition and the discipline of chemistry before international audiences.

The appearance of Priestley's electrical work as a brief and irrelevant prelude to his more substantial chemical enquiries may explain why it has been strangely overlooked by historians of science. It was only fairly recently that Sir Philip Hartog sought to rectify this situation with the affirmation that ‘Priestley's electrical work offers the key to Priestley's scientific mind’. Attacking traditional chemical historiography for tracing Priestley's opposition to Lavoisier's theory to a deficiency in his scientific sensibilities, Hartog insisted that Priestley's natural philosophy can properly be understood only in relation to his ‘profound convictions on scientific method’ as fully expressed in the History of electricity. Only thus would Priestley's scientific thought be related correctly to his ‘work as a whole’.

During its centennial celebrations in 2008, the Museum of Vertebrate Zoology (MVZ) at the University of California, Berkeley paid homage to its founding director, Joseph Grinnell. Recognized as a leading scientific institution, the MVZ managed to grow throughout the twentieth century, a period often characterized by the decline of natural history. To understand how and why research flourished at the MVZ, this paper looks closely at Grinnell's undergraduate course, the Natural History of the Vertebrates (NHV). Taught by MVZ affiliates since 1914, the NHV offers an important window on Grinnell's approach and legacy. This paper argues that the NHV contributed to the MVZ's long-term success by acting as, first, a gateway to natural history; second, a vector for the MVZ's research programme; and third, a shared faculty responsibility. Grinnell's significance in the history of science is understated, in part because his writing style de-emphasized the importance of his theoretical contributions, including his development of the niche concept, his emphasis on population thinking and geographic isolation in studies of evolution, and his effort to integrate speciation questions and genetics. Studying the NHV highlights these contributions because Grinnell freely communicated his ideas to his students. An analysis of Grinnell's course material shows that his theoretical and methodological approach pre-dated the evolutionary synthesis and inspired natural-history research throughout the past century.

In the wake of Stalin's death, many Soviet scientists saw the opportunity to promote their methods as tools for the engineering of economic prosperity in the socialist state. The mathematician Leonid Kantorovich (1912–1986) was a key activist in academic politics that led to the increasing acceptance of what emerged as a new scientific persona in the Soviet Union. Rather than thinking of his work in terms of success or failure, we propose to see his career as exemplifying a distinct form of scholarship, as a partisan technocrat, characteristic of the Soviet system of knowledge production. Confronting the class of orthodox economists, many factors were at work, including Kantorovich's cautious character and his allies in the Academy of Sciences. Drawing on archival and oral sources, we demonstrate how Kantorovich, throughout his career, negotiated the relations between mathematics and economics, reinterpreted political and ideological frames, and reshaped the balance of power in the Soviet academic landscape.