... and signs and the signs of signs are used only when we are lacking things.

Brother William of Baskerville in The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco

Recreating, as part of doing history, can be a way of reflecting what creating is as part of science. Discussions revolving around historical understanding of the scientific enterprise have recently included strong commitments to turn scientific practice into one of the main objectives of historical study. One specific methodological approach to face up to this assignment is integrating the reconstruction and reperformance of past experiments into the historical analysis of the doing-part in science. This paper deals with the doing-part in history, that is, with the historiographical consequences that might stem from this reconstruction and reperformance of past experimentation. In the course of a four-month period of research I worked with a replica of the so-called ‘actinometer’, an instrument to measure the intensity of solar radiation, which was invented by John Herschel in 1824. On the basis of this example, I try to trace how recent performances of experimental activities can contribute to historical understanding of human agency in scientific practice.

Shortly before his death in 1934, the British historian of chemistry, A. N. Meldrum, published two lengthy articles on Lavoisier's early career in science. After a careful investigation of the collection of manuscripts at the Académie des Sciences in Paris and in light of a detailed and penetrating analysis of Lavoisier's published work, Meldrum concluded that as a youth, Lavoisier was concerned with chemistry only to the extent that he found it useful for his mineralogical and geological researches. Lavoisier began his career as a mineralogist; he became a chemist only in 1772, the “crucial year” when he turned his attention to chemical theory for its own sake and started his famous course of experiments on the nature of combustion and fixed air. Although some details—notably concerning Lavoisier's early education and geological work—have been added to this account since Meldrum's time, the broad conclusions of Meldrum's study are still generally accepted by historians of the chemical revolution.

In the first half of the nineteenth century the largest and wealthiest ‘popular’ scientific establishment in London was the London Institution, founded by a group of prominent City men in 1805. During most of its early years this Institution had over 900 members; within a year of its foundation it had accumulated funds of £76,000, which dwarfed those possessed by any similar body in this period; by 1819 it had erected an imposing building in Finsbury Circus, a structure with a splendid library, a lecture theatre, and provision for laboratories, as well as meeting rooms. In that theatre eminent men of science and literature delivered lectures; by the 1840s William Robert Grove, then in the midst of his scientific career, was installed as ‘Professor of Experimental Philosophy in the London Institution’.

It was in the closing year of the nineteenth century that Paul Tannery organized at an international historical congress the first international meeting devoted to the history of science. If antiquity would make a scholarly subject respectable, scholarship in the history of science must be beyond reproach; still earlier than Tannery and his colleagues in many European countries were the German historian of chemistry Kopp, and William Whewell, Master of Trinity; the eighteenth century had produced substantial works like those on mathematics and astronomy of Montucla and Delambre; Isaac Vossius and others virtually take these studies back to the Renaissance and Polydore Vergil. Just as in our day such classical scholars as Heiberg, Bailey, Housman, Drachman or Peck have chosen scientific texts as their subjects, so in the past, too, learning and science have met on this common ground. Few creative mathematicians of the seventeenth century thought that attention to the writings of Euclid or Archimedes was a waste of time.

This essay analyses the development of the Carrel-Dakin treatment for infected wounds during the First World War to explore the relationship between industrialized warfare and experimental medicine, the politics of standardization, and the relationship between the theories and practices of physiology and scientific management. It first describes the intellectual and institutional context from which Alexis Carrel's wound research emerged: experimental medicine and the Rockefeller Institute for Medical Research. Next the story moves to the experimental laboratory hospital on the Western Front and the quantification of wounds. Then it considers the propaganda and training campaign in support of the method at the War Demonstration Hospital located on the institute's New York City campus. The de-skilling inherent in the standardization of surgical practice was a response to the incompetence of inexperienced military surgeons, but also an attempt to restructure the medical profession into a hierarchical organization capable of being administered by elite scientist–physicians. Underlying the narrative is the paradox of simultaneous segregation of the biological and the social through laboratory practices and their conflation through the organic analogy.

The nuclear age had a profound impact on politics and international affairs. More fundamentally, it altered the way people saw the planet and their relationship with it. These attitudes changed gradually in the post-war period, with the 1960s a key transitional moment. This article explores these changing attitudes towards the environment within the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND). At the beginning of the 1960s CND's concerns about nuclear testing and fallout fit easily into the dominant anthropocentric view of the environment. However, by the end of the decade they espoused a much more holistic, even ecocentric, attitude. This article examines how attitudes towards the environment were changing in the 1960s through a close examination of attitudes within CND, and argues that the modern environmental movement was a product of the nuclear age.

This history of a statement attributed to the developmental biologist Lewis Wolpert exemplifies the making and uses of quotations in recent science. Wolpert's dictum, ‘It is not birth, marriage or death, but gastrulation which is truly the most important time in your life’, was produced in a series of international shifts of medium and scale. It originated in his vivid declaration in conversation with a non-specialist at a workshop dinner, gained its canonical form in a colleague's monograph, and was amplified as a quotation on a poster derived from an undergraduate project. Although it drew on Wolpert's authority and he accepted his authorship, it thus represents a collective sifting of earlier claims for the significance of prenatal existence through the values of 1980s developmental biology. Juxtaposing a technical term with major life events has let teachers engage students, and researchers entice journalists, while sharing an in-joke that came to mark community identity. Serious applications include arguing for an extension of the fourteen-day limit on human-embryo research. On this evidence, quotations have been kept busy addressing every audience of specialized knowledge.

This article assesses the reputation of Mary Somerville in the 1830s and suggests that critical confusion over her status in the changing world of early nineteenth-century science is not new. Drawing on Somerville’s own writings, contemporary newspaper and periodical reviews, political debates and unpublished manuscripts, Somerville's ‘uniqueness’ as a public figure is examined through the eyes of both the nascent scientific community of the time as well as the wider audience for her work. Somerville's status as a popularizer and an educator is more complicated than may have previously been assumed and can be both confirmed and undermined by an analysis of contemporary public opinion. Although her works were directed at the public who indirectly paid her pension for services to science, Somerville's private and published comments about and within her writings offer an alternative interpretation. Despite an apparent turn to more popular works in order to bolster her finances, Mary Somerville relished the specialist aspect of her writings and valued the difficulties which prevented the ordinary reader from obtaining ultimate insight into celestial mechanics.

It has been traditionally held that the idea of a prime matter of metals was abandoned in the eighteenth century, especially after the failure of Hermann Boerhaave to find it in mercury. However, documents tell a different story: the search for the metalliferous principle, in the form of an odd substance known as Gur, Guhr, Ghur or Bur, was very much alive in the 1700s. This was a project that involved Boerhaave himself, as is shown by his correspondence with J.B. Bassand. The first mention of this strange material appears in Sarepta, a collection of sermons by the sixteenth-century Bohemian preacher Johannes Mathesius, sometimes mentioned in the specialized literature but rarely studied. This paper discusses the various conceptions of this material held as the prime matter of metals, from Mathesius to the eighteenth century, involving reputed authors such as John Webster, Jan B. van Helmont, Georg E. Stahl and Boerhaave.

The history of the dyestuffs industry during the period 1775–1860 is interesting for three reasons. In the first place it was in connection with the manufacture of synthetic dyestuffs, begun in 1856, that the industrial research laboratory and the organization scientist first unmistakably appeared in the last decades of the nineteenth century. Secondly, there are the enigmas of W. H. Perkin, the man who discovered and manufactured the first coal-tar colours, but who retired somewhat abruptly from the industry in 1874: just after the synthesis of alizarine. Thirdly, the dyestuffs industry was in intimate association with the textile industries which had for a long time been subject to frequent radical scientific and technological innovation. Among the most important of these we may mention John Smeaton's classic paper of 1759 on the maximum work obtainable from a given fall of water: a problem important not only for the abstract science of mechanics, but also for the design of waterwheels—the main source of power for the early textile mills. (The waterwheel was not, during the eighteenth century, the epitome of the quaint and picturesque: it was in the van of scientific and technical progress.) Again, the textile industries were quick to employ the Watt rotative engine; previously a two cylinder Newcomen engine had been tried out. Bleaching powders, based on Scheele's discovery of chlorine and its properties, were rapidly adopted: in this context one cannot help contrasting the indifference of medical science to Davy's early suggestion of using nitrous oxide as an anaesthetic; or Faraday's comment in 1818 on the anaesthetic power of sulphuric ether. The textile industries saw, over this period, a rapid succession of new machines, the pace of invention being so hot that in 1832 Charles Babbage reported that machines became obsolete long before they wore out. A Salford cotton mill was the first industrial establishment to use gas lighting: James Thomson, calico printer, introduced gas lighting to the town of Clitheroe when he installed it in his works. And there were many other important technical and scientific innovations. It was to supply these industries, so well accustomed to change, that the synthetic coal-tar dyestuffs were introduced from 1856 onwards. It is interesting that, so far as we can see, the appearance of these synthetic dyestuffs was the last in the series of major innovations in the textiles and related industries: at least until recent times.

The modern concept of extinction emerged in the Victorian period, though its chief proponent is seldom remembered today. Alfred Newton, for four decades the professor of zoology and comparative anatomy at Cambridge, was an expert on rare and extinct birds as well as on what he called ‘the exterminating process'. Combining traditional comparative morphology with Darwinian natural selection, Newton developed a particular sense of extinction that helped to shape contemporary, and subsequent, animal protection. Because he understood extinction as a process to be studied scientifically, and because he made that, rather than animal cruelty, the focus of animal protection, Newton provides an important window onto the relationship between science and sentiment in this period. Newton's efforts to bring the two into line around the issue of human-caused extinction reveal an important moment in which the boundaries between science and sentiment, and between those who did and those who did not have the authority to speak for nature, were up for grabs.

Francis Bacon's concept of the ‘vexations of art’ (vexationes artium) entailed experimentation as an intervention into nature for the purpose of extracting its secrets. Although the standard edition of Bacon's works by Spedding, Ellis and Heath and the new Oxford edition by Graham Rees translate the phrase vexationes artium as the ‘vexations of art’, a significant number of scholars, translators and editors from the seventeenth century to the present have read Bacon's Latin as the ‘torment’ or ‘tortures of art’. Here I discuss these latter interpretations and speculate on the reasons for their association of the term with experimentation. While it may not be possible to say with certainty what Bacon meant by ‘vexation’, the context of his thought, the rich set of metaphors on which he drew and the interpretations of dozens of scholars over four centuries would seem to favour assigning a robust, interventionist meaning to vexare.

In his influential Laws of Thought (1854), the mathematician George Boole presented a formulation of logic using algebraic expressions and manipulations. His widow, Mary Everest Boole, undertook an ambitious project of disseminating his ideas by introducing lay audiences to the law of pulsation, a prescription for correct reasoning that incorporates two of his fundamental insights. Contemporary scholarship presents a fragmented picture of Mary Boole, regarding her largely as a source of information on the religio-psychological impetus for her husband's contributions to logic, among other matters. Some studies rightly acknowledge that her better-known commentary on educational reform relates to a promotion of the Laws of Thought, yet these typically fail to expand on how she articulated such relationships for readers. This paper provides a more complete understanding of her efforts by examining texts on various subjects motivated by a dedication to propagating as much as fulfilling the intellectual legacy she associated with her husband. In doing so it considers her interventions – like those undertaken by other Victorian women who sought to cultivate scientific enterprises – within a contextual framework broad enough to include strategic responses to cultural realities and possibilities.

Science is an occupation as well as an intellectual endeavour. This fact is extremely well known, but its consequences have been little explored by historians of science. Sociologists such as Merton, Hagstrom, and Storer have argued that occupational rewards motivate a scientist to publish and thereby further the intellectual ends of the scientific community. Yet, as I have shown in a recent paper, such rewards can also lead to work which is hasty, superficial, and blindly uncritical of the dominant paradigm. Thus the relationship between career motivation and genuine intellectual achievement must be regarded as problematic at best.

Benjamin Franklin's enunciation of his so-called ‘one-fluid’ theory of electricity in the period 1747–55 nas often been hailed as an important milestone in the history of physics. So indeed it was, for, with the rapid and widespread acceptance of the new theory, the science of electricity became based for the first time on the view that the electrification of a body involved the accumulation of a ‘charge’ from elsewhere, rather than the excitation of matter already present in the body. Only a little more remotely, the triumph of Franklin's theory over the rival ‘excitation’ theory espoused by the Abbé Nollet paved the way for the more sophisticated fluid theories propounded by Aepinus, Cavendish, and Coulomb in the years that followed.

Historians of science have often presented the inter-war period as a time when British scientific communities radically questioned existing scholarship on ‘race’. The ascendancy of genetics, and the perceived need to challenge Nazi ‘racial’ theory have been highlighted as pivotal issues in shaping this British revision of ‘racial’ ideas. This article offers a detailed analysis of British scientific thinking in the inter-war period. It questions whether historians have exaggerated or oversimplified the prevalence of anti-‘racial’ reform. It uses a wide range of scientific writings to consider issues of continuity and change in ‘racial’ thinking in mainstream British scientific communities. The article probes the relationship between science and politics, focusing on the extent to which ideological factors affected both the scientific agenda and conclusions as regards ‘racial’ issues. Far from dismissing the idea that events in the inter-war period triggered changes in the way in which British scientists dealt with ‘race’, the article argues that the seeds of the post-Second World War international scientific rejection of ‘race’ were sown in inter-war Britain amid considerable ambivalence and discord.

We must remember that the investigator, whether a biologist, an economist, or a sociologist, is himself a part of history, and that if he ever forgets he is a part of history he will deceive his audience and deceive himself.J. B. S. Haldane, Heredity and Politics, 1938

Even before the success of William Perkin's mauve at the end of the 1850s, there were attempts to synthesize artificial dyes that were identical with those found in nature. Alizarin, the dye derived from the madder root, was the first to be investigated, and it was Perkin who was to file for a patent in June 1869 just one day before the German chemists Heinrich Caro, Carl Graebe and Carl Liebermann. Rivalry between the parties soon turned to negotiations and collaboration. Perkin's company retained the British trade, while the Germans, in the form of the Badische Anilin- und Soda-Fabrik (BASF) controlled the continental European and United States markets. This and similar agreements extinguished the madder trade, and subsequently artificial alizarin passed almost completely to the Germans. They achieved a monopoly by dictating the level and prices of supplies, which did much to diminish the strength of the dye-making industry in Britain. The formation in 1882–83 of the British Alizarine Company did little to redress the overall balance. This taught British dye firms a tough lesson. The same, they hoped, would not be allowed to happen again, even when the attention of the German research chemists turned to indigo.

The group which worked with Lavoisier in his laboratory also collaborated with him in publication and jointly edited the journal Annales de chimie. It has a good claim to be considered as a research school. Most historians of chemistry, who have studied the ‘chemical revolution’ in France, have focused uniquely on Lavoisier, giving scant attention to his co-workers and ignoring his assistants, thus overlooking their collective research, which created something of a precedent for nineteenth-century science. It has also been too easily assumed that the Lavoisier story ends with his death in 1794. After his demise, continuity with his ideas and method of working was provided by his former associates, particularly Berthollet in the Society of Arcueil. Further continuity was provided by the successive careers of Gay-Lussac, Dumas and Wurtz. In an increasing spirit of nationalism in the nineteenth century there developed a strong French tradition which looked back to Lavoisier as the founder of modern chemistry and a source of inspiration for collaboration in chemical research.