It has become generally accepted that the earliest geoheliocentric representation of the planets' motions in which the majority of the planets orbited about the Sun appeared in 1588. For in this year the Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe announced his discovery of a new system of the world, in which Sun and Moon moved about the Earth, and the five planets Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn performed their motions about the Sun. Yet the accompanying figure, which depicts a planetary arrangement in general identical with that of Tycho, occurs in a manuscript prepared at least a year before Tycho's publication of his system. Moreover, the author of the manuscript derived this representation of the planets' motions not from Tycho, but rather from Copernicus. The aim of this paper is to show that as a result of the work of Copernicus, a number of sixteenth-century mathematicians produced treatments of the planetary motions similar to the system proposed by Tycho in 1588.

During his long life Alexander von Humboldt (1769–1859) was mainly connected with three European countries: Germany, France and Russia; nevertheless, he had many scientific and personal relations with England, with British scientists, and with other distinguished citizens of Great Britain. Thus Humboldt's life provides an interesting example of international scientific relations in the nineteenth century. The present paper offers a brief account of this universal and versatile scientist's relations with England in particular.

One of the difficulties with which scientific endeavour is fraught is that of maintaining detachment. The scientist's interest in his work will lead him to formulate hypotheses and the hypotheses will lead him to expectations about future observations. Is disinterested investigation then possible? Surely the very formulation of a hypothesis engenders a paternal affection and a desire to preserve it. Knowing this, however, the scientist is able to guard against his expectations influencing his observations, defending thus both his objectivity and his honour. But in cases where discriminations are exceptionally difficult to make, then here perhaps, in spite of fore-knowledge of the danger, and in spite of all precautions, an expectation may influence a judgement.

The science historian Charles Singer might seem to have shared with positivists a widely held commitment to observation as the foundation of knowledge. Yet in fact Singer's historiography was peculiarly unconcerned with instruments, models and other artefacts. Such tools might have been expected to present crucial empirical evidence for the historical arguments and ideal material for the didactics which pioneers such as Singer associated with their mission of a ‘scientific humanism’. In their hands, physical things did not translate into epistemic things. This was deliberate. Yet while the configuration of science history which would distance it from material objects seems to speak of a shift from the visual to texts, the ocular technologies deployed in Singer's histories rather point to a co-existence of different kinds of visuality in that period's scholarship. As the academic and the museological aspects of science history pulled apart, the visuality of the museum came to be complemented by texts that vitally relied on images. The function of such images was to create proximity with the cognitive desires around whose traffic these histories became paper theatres of knowing. In bypassing material theatres and crafting realities that he understood to be empirically undemonstrable, Singer purposefully developed a non-authoritarian approach to the legacy of the scientific enterprise. He presented the story of understanding nature not as entailing obedience to its established results, but instead as embodying an attitude of continuing enquiry.

For the artist, mathematics does not consist of the various branches of mathematics. It is not necessarily a matter of calculation but rather of the presence of a sovereign power; a law of infinite resonance, consonance, organisation. Rigour is nothing other than that which truly results in a work of art, whether it be a Leonardo drawing, or the fearsome exactness of the Parthenon (comparable in the cutting of its marble even with that of machine-tools), or the implacable and impeccable play of construction in the cathedral, or the unity in a Cézanne, or the law which determines a tree, the unitary splendour of roots, trunk, branches, leaves, flowers, and fruit. Chance has no place in nature. Once one has understood what mathematics is – in the philosophical sense – thereafter one can discern it in all its works. Rigour, and exactness, are the means behind achieving solutions, the cause behind character, the rationale behind harmony.

Le Corbusier, 1948

Probably everyone reading this article has heard of Le Corbusier, no doubt the most famous architect this century, but the images he will arouse in their minds may vary greatly. Some will blame him for those theories promoting standardized high rise construction, which have dominated town planning policy in post-war Europe. Others will admire his highly individual, sculptural buildings such as the church at Ronchamp (1950–55) (see Figure 1), the revolutionary public housing scheme of the Unité d'Habitation at Marseilles (1946–52) (Figure 2), its ground-level pillars (pilotis) and roof-level service stacks alike transformed into enigmatic statues, or his pre-war Purist villas in the Paris suburbs (1920s). His work displayed a wide variety of forms and spaces at any one time, and his career spanned almost sixty years, during which he was constantly questioning, and reformulating theories, and in consequence changing his formal language.

That a coherent account of the origins and early history of the British Association for the Advancement of Science has yet to be written is not altogether surprising. Even when the facts of the matter have been retrieved from the scattered papers of Babbage, Brewster, J. D. Forbes, Murchison, John Phillips, Vernon Harcourt, Whewell, and the rest, their organization into a connected whole remains a formidable business. The present paper seeks to identify the roles played in this important chapter in the chronicles of British science by David Brewster (1781–1868), the Scottish natural philosopher, and William Vernon Harcourt (1789–1871), the York clergyman. Inquiries of this kind—into the proper apportioning of the credit for a discovery, a technique, or the rise of an institution—are only saved from sterility if they make possible a better understanding of the critical events. The present review of the origins of the British Association leads to the modest but important conclusion that the organization brought into existence by Vernon Harcourt at York in September 1831 was subtly but significantly different from that which had originally been proposed by Brewster. If this is so, some of the existing accounts of the matter stand in need of revision.

Stargazing Knight Errant, beware of the day When the Hottentots catch thee observing away! Be sure they will pluck thy eyes out of their sockets To prevent thee from stuffing the stars in thy pockets

If Herschel should find a new star at the Cape, His perils no longer would pain us He will salt the star's tail to prevent its escape And call it ‘The Hottentot Venus’.

Astronomy has long been recognized as a tool of empire. Its service to navigation and geography have made it indispensable to European expansion. Britain in particular excelled at this brand of control; each day when the sun set on the British empire, its telescopes continued to enhance imperial power.

While the above claims are no longer controversial, we have hardly begun to understand the extent to which imperialism subsequently changed the nature of the physical sciences.

Recently, while reading papers left by the chemist Raphael Meldola (1849–1915), I came across seventy-two letters that relate to a 1904 campaign, led by Meldola, to have a memorial tablet for Herbert Spencer placed in Westminster Abbey. A list of those who eventually signed Meldola's petition to the Dean of Westminster can be found in David Duncan's Life and Letters of Herbert Spencer. The Meldola Papers include letters from some, but not all, of the signatories, from people who refused to sign, and from one or two who agreed to sign, but whose names do not appear on the published list. The surviving correspondence is probably incomplete, as can be inferred from references in the existing letters and from the fact that the Meldola Papers appear to have been somewhat haphazardly collected. Together, the letters show how Spencer's work was viewed by some of Britain's leading intellectuals, shortly after his death in 1903. They reveal that the details of Spencer's work were largely forgotten and that Meldola's correspondents were divided on whether Spencer had been simply a controversialist or had done something worthwhile. Even those (the majority) who believed the latter were unable to articulate exactly what was worthwhile in Spencer's work.

This paper records some of the content of the letters as well as some details of the memorial campaign and of the people involved. My main purpose is to bring these interesting letters to light. James Moore has written of the successful effort to have Charles Darwin buried in Westminster Abbey and of the subsequent campaign for an Abbey memorial plaque, and for a statue to be placed in the Natural History Museum in South Kensington. The unsuccessful campaign on behalf of Spencer, twenty-two years later, provides an interesting comparison. It is not my purpose fully to explore the cultural implications. However, the letters suggest that this and one or two other avenues of inquiry might be worth pursuing.

A purportedly hermaphrodite monkey which was offered to Grand Duke Ferdinando III of Tuscany in 1791 was sent to the Royal Museum of Physics and Natural History for an evaluation. In their investigation, the museum's naturalists encountered a fundamental classificatory problem which made it impossible to decide whether the animal was monstrous or normal – a ‘taxonomist's regress’ which constitutes a special case of finitism as analysed in the Edinburgh school's readings of Wittgenstein. The communication between museum and court shows that in resolving this ambiguity, museum naturalist Giovanni Fabbroni demarcated experts from laypeople and defined state interest by distinguishing between the grand duke's private interests and those of the state. This case thus highlights the role of late Enlightenment absolutism for the creation of modern practices and concepts of expertise in the service of the state.

Historical accounts of the practice of smallpox inoculation in the late eighteenth century invariably make a distinction between the widespread general inoculations carried out within small rural parishes and the partial inoculations in urban centres such as London, Manchester, Newcastle and Leeds. This distinction, moreover, is generally reinforced by concluding that the rural inoculation programmes were ‘highly effective’ or ‘successful’ in contrast with the urban inoculation schemes, which are often seen as ‘marginally effective’ or indeed ‘failing’. Success or failure tends to be judged by the impact which inoculation had upon reducing mortality from smallpox, but as a result of this demographic focus the motives behind the implementation of urban inoculation have been overlooked. My paper readjusts this balance by looking more closely at motives and by judging success in relation to aims. To achieve this I have taken a new approach towards the history of smallpox inoculation as a whole, and portray the basic idea of giving a person smallpox in order to confer subsequent immunity as being modified in the hands of different people throughout the course of the century. Hence it is possible to trace the development of inoculation from a folk practice carried out within the home with the aim of protecting individuals, to large-scale general inoculations of an entire community, which aimed to eradicate the disease altogether.

In the last three decades many historians of science have sought to account for the emergence of modern science and technology in sites that did not participate in the shaping of apparently original ideas. They have extensively used a model of the transfer of scientific ideas and practices from centres of scientific activity to a passively receptive periphery. This paper contributes to the discussion of an alternative historiographic approach, one that employs the notion of appropriation to direct attention towards the receptive modes and devices of a local culture. A historiography built around the notion of appropriation deals less with the question of the faithful transfer of scientific ideas than with the particular features of the discourse produced by local scholars as the best way to overcome or conform to the constraints of the receptive culture. The case examined to describe this culturally and intellectually intricate process is the profound transformation undergone by the Newtonian concept of vis inertiae in the work of Eugenios Voulgaris (1716–1806), one of the most important Greek scholars of the eighteenth century.

It is a cliché of self-help advice that there are no problems, only opportunities. The rationale and actions of the BSHS in creating its Global Digital History of Science Festival may be a rare genuine confirmation of this mantra. The global COVID-19 pandemic of 2020 meant that the society's usual annual conference – like everyone else's – had to be cancelled. Once the society decided to go digital, we had a hundred days to organize and deliver our first online festival. In the hope that this will help, inspire and warn colleagues around the world who are also trying to move online, we here detail the considerations, conversations and thinking behind the organizing team's decisions.

This paper explores the assimilation of the flightless dodo into early modern natural history. The dodo was first described by Dutch sailors landing on Mauritius in 1598, and became extinct in the 1680s or 1690s. Despite this brief period of encounter, the bird was a popular subject in natural-history works and a range of other genres. The dodo will be used here as a counterexample to the historical narratives of taxonomic crisis and abrupt shifts in natural history caused by exotic creatures coming to Europe. Though this bird had a bizarre form, early modern naturalists integrated the dodo and other flightless birds through several levels of conceptual categorization, including the geographical, morphological and symbolic. Naturalists such as Charles L'Ecluse produced a set of typical descriptive tropes that helped make up the European dodo. These long-lived images were used for a variety of symbolic purposes, demonstrated by the depiction of the Dutch East India enterprise in Willem Piso's 1658 publication. The case of the dodo shows that, far from there being a dramatic shift away from emblematics in the seventeenth century, the implicit symbolic roles attributed to exotic beasts by naturalists constructing them from scant information and specimens remained integral to natural history.

This paper aims to show that the seventeenth-century conception of mechanics as the science of particles in motion founded on universal laws of motion owes much to the employment of a new conceptual resource – the physics of motion developed within optics. The optical analysis of reflection was dynamically interpreted through the mechanical analogy of rebound. The kinematical and dynamical principles so employed became directly applicable to natural phenomena after the eventual transformation of light's ontological status from that of an Aristotelian ‘quality’ to a corpuscular phenomenon, engendered by the rise of atomism during the first half of the seventeenth century. The mechanization of light led to a conceptual shift from the analogical employment of dynamical principles in the physical interpretation of reflection to the mechanical generalization of optical principles – the direct application of kinematical and dynamical principles of reflection to mechanical collisions. This first part of the paper traces out the first conceptual shift from Aristotle's original analogy of reflection as rebound to its full concretization. A second part will trace out the second conceptual shift, from the full concretization of this analogy to the axiomatization of already generalized kinematical and dynamical principles of reflection into laws of nature and of motion.

In his discussion of Robert Hooke's geological ideas, David R. Oldroyd has suggested that ‘Hooke's daring cyclic earth theory may have seemed absurd to his contemporaries’. Following Oldroyd's suggestion, A. J. Turner has claimed that it is entirely understandable that Hooke's geological theories had no followers, ‘for, however plausible in themselves, they were quite implausible in the context of seventeenth century knowledge’. Gordon L. Davies has asserted that Hooke was too advanced for his time and that his geological ‘ideas made no impact on his contemporaries’, and Rhoda Rappaport has said that ‘Hooke's geological work made virtually no impression on the writings of his British contemporaries’.

Over its long history, the buildings of the Royal Observatory in Greenwich were enlarged and altered many times, reflecting changing needs and expectations of astronomers and funders, but also the constraints of a limited site and small budgets. The most significant expansion took place in the late nineteenth century, overseen by the eighth Astronomer Royal, William Christie, a programme that is put in the context of changing attitudes toward scientific funding, Christie's ambitious plans for the work and staffing of the Observatory and his desire to develop a national institution that could stand with more recently founded European and American rivals. Examination of the archives reveals the range of strategies Christie was required to use to acquire consent and financial backing from the Admiralty, as well as his opportunistic approach. While hindsight might lead to criticism of his decisions, Christie eventually succeeded in completing a large building – the New Physical Observatory – that, in its decoration, celebrated Greenwich's past while, in its name, style, structure and contents, it was intended to signal the institution's modernization and future promise.

In France, as in other European countries, especially Britain and Germany, the nineteenth century was a period of great progress and achievement in science. This would still have been true if Claude Bernard and Louis Pasteur had been the only outstanding French scientists of the nineteenth century, whereas there were, of course, many others apart from an impressive number of brilliant French mathematicians. Nevertheless, although it was a great century for French science there was perhaps something rather disappointing about it, and something rather ingrowing about the attitude of French scientists towards scientific developments in other countries. For example, the French took it hard that the creator of the theory of evolution should have been an Englishman, remembering too late Darwin's predecessor Lamarck, and they certainly were very slow in accepting Darwin's theory of evolution.1 Again, the French may have felt that after the important contributions of French scientists such as Coulomb, Poisson, Biot and, above all, Ampère, the theory of electricity and magnetism which is today principally associated with the names of Faraday and Maxwell should have been created by a Frenchman. Once again this new theory was only accepted very slowly and hesitantly, and even unwillingly, in France—one thinks, for example, of the criticisms levelled at the theory by Pierre Duhem in his “The Aim and Structure of Physical Theory”.2 Of course it might be that if one knew how to weigh properly the various achievements of French scientists in different branches of science one would find that, allowing for her rather static population during the nineteenth century, the total contribution of France compared well with those of Britain and Germany. Nevertheless, in one case at least, that of theoretical physics, there seems to have been an unmistakable failure to live up to the promise of the beginning of the century. The purpose of this paper is to advance possible reasons to explain this failure.

1831 was a momentous year for Charles Darwin. He passed his BA examination on 22 January, stayed up in Cambridge for two further terms and returned to The Mount, his home in Shrewsbury, in mid-June. On 6 August he left Shrewsbury with Adam Sedgwick for a geological field trip to North Wales, and after his lone traverse over the Harlech Dome returned to The Mount on Monday 29 August to find letters from John Stevens Henslow and George Peacock inviting him to joint HMS Beagle. This geological field trip was crucial for his work on the Beagle. For example, when he began his first geological work of the voyage on Quail Island, he was by that time a competent geologist. Though others have studied the North Wales tour in some detail, there is also another earlier and much briefer episode to consider. Darwin appears to have geologized on his own at Llanymynech in July. The contrast between his first recorded attempts at Llanymynech in July 1831 and then elsewhere in North Wales in August 1831 is most instructive, as his development as a geologist can be followed in his field notes. Retracing his steps today, and comparing his measurements and observations with new ones, throws light on what he might have learnt at different points during that summer.