As described elsewhere in this issue of BJHS, preliminary steps towards founding a society for the history of science in Britain were taken in 1946. A meeting was held at the Science Museum, London, on 22 November 1946, chaired by Herbert Dingle, at which Gavin de Beer formally proposed the foundation of a history of science society, seconded by Michael Roberts. A provisional committee was appointed to draw up rules and a constitution.

William Hampson, classics graduate and barrister, burst into science with his patent for air-liquefaction in 1895. Its success provided the means of isolating the rarer permanent atmospheric gases, and it formed the basis for multi-tonnage gas liquefaction. The British Oxygen Company acquired Hampson's patent interests.

An interesting question arises in the context of the typically medieval description of the universe presented at the beginning of Maimonides' (1138–1204) great law code, the Mishneh Torah. What was Maimonides' own attitude towards that account? Was it meant only as a statement of the best description of nature available at the time (and thus radically distinct from the halakhic (i.e. Jewish legal) matters which make up the bulk of the Mishneh Torah) or was it meant to be a description of the true nature of the universe as it really is, not subject to revision in the light of new paradigms or new models (and thus essentially similar to the halakhic matters in the text)? Answering this question will lead us to a better understanding of Maimonides' understanding of the nature of science and of what I shall call, for lack of a better term, scientific progress. Maimonides will be shown to hold that while sublunar science can reach perfection and completion such is not possible for superlunar science and that to the extent that the scientific matters in the Mishneh Torah deal with the latter they could not have been presented as the final description of the universe as it truly is.

Shortly after he made a working model of his electromagnetic telegraph in 1837, Samuel F. B. Morse and his associates began an intense initiative to publicize and market it to the world. At first, using the social skills he had learned during his years as a portrait painter, Morse strove to gain the support of the upper classes in Europe. He and his agents saw the physical seats of institutions such as palaces and academy lecture halls as the most desirable settings for public demonstrations of the apparatus. To win public support back at home, they made a point of politicizing the invention by presenting it as an example of American mechanical ingenuity. Their efforts to market the invention were not confined to the United States, Britain and France, but included the rest of Europe and the Near and Far East as well. The telegraph promoters, presuming an oriental fascination with magic, endeavoured to exploit potential markets in the East, particularly the Ottoman Empire and Japan, by making the most of its wondrous effects. The Sultan's palace provided a most exotic setting for display of the electromagnetic telegraph.

The ‘Rothschild reforms’ of the early 1970s established a new framework for the management of government-funded science. The subsequent dismantling of the Rothschild system for biomedical research and the return of funds to the Medical Research Council (MRC) in 1981 were a notable departure from this framework and ran contrary to the direction of national science policy. The exceptionalism of these measures was justified at the time with reference to the ‘particular circumstances’ of biomedical research. Conventional explanations for the reversal in biomedical research include the alleged greater competence and higher authority of the MRC, together with its claimed practical difficulties. Although they contain some elements of truth, such explanations are not wholly convincing. Alternative explanations hinge on the behaviour of senior medical administrators, who closed ranks to ensure that de facto control was yielded to the MRC. This created an accountability deficit, which the two organizations jointly resolved by dismantling the system for commissioning biomedical research. The nature and working of medical elites were central to this outcome.

Today, the most powerful research technique available for assigning chronometric age to human cultural objects is radiocarbon dating. Developed in the United States in the late 1940s by an alumnus of the Manhattan Project, radiocarbon dating measures the decay of the radioactive isotope carbon-14 (C14) in organic material, and calculates the time elapsed since the materials were removed from the life cycle. This paper traces the interdisciplinary collaboration between archaeology and radiochemistry that led to the successful development of radiocarbon dating in the early 1950s, following the movement of people and ideas from Willard Libby's Chicago radiocarbon laboratory to museums, universities and government labs in the United States, Australia, Denmark and New Zealand. I show how radiocarbon research built on existing technologies and networks in atomic chemistry and physics but was deeply shaped by its original private philanthropic funders and archaeologist users, and ultimately remained to the side of many contemporaneous Cold War scientific and military projects.

In 2020, the BSHS hosted two major online events, the first of their kind in our collective experience. The first, a Twitter conference, was planned and accomplished before COVID-19 had quite been established as a serious global issue. The conference was planned, rather, as an innovation in travel-free conferencing, something that has been on the BSHS agenda since the IPCC report of 2018, calling for net-zero-carbon activity in all areas by 2050. As we discussed the Twitter conference, and watched the amazing energy, intellect and resourcefulness of its planners and hosts, we quickly saw that online delivery offered other advantages too – chiefly, wider participation. The pandemic offered the society a chance to take these lessons very boldly into the most important event of our scholarly calendar, which usually takes the form of an in-person annual conference, but this time was executed as an online festival.

The origins of contemporary exclusion of surgical methods from patenting lie in the complexities of managing credit claims in operative surgery, recognized in the nineteenth century. While surgical methods were not deemed patentable, surgeons were nevertheless embedded within patent culture. In an atmosphere of heightened awareness about the importance of ‘inventors’, how surgeons should be recognized and rewarded for their inventions was an important question. I examine an episode during the 1840s which seemed to concretize the inapplicability of patents to surgical practice, before looking at alternatives to patenting, used by surgeons to gain social and financial credit for inventions.

In recent decades, historians have become increasingly interested in the logistical challenges and difficulties encountered by those responsible for the collection, preservation and safe transport of specimens from the field to the museum or laboratory. This article builds on this trend by looking beyond apparent successes to consider the practices and practicalities of shipboard travel and maritime and coastal collecting activities. The discussion focuses on the example of William Henry Harvey, who travelled to Australia in pursuit of cryptogams – non-flowering plants like mosses, lichens and algae – in 1853. In his private correspondence to family and friends, Harvey offered insights into the challenges and obstacles faced by all collectors in the period. His experiences were fundamentally shaped by the material culture, embodied knowledge and physical constraints he encountered on the way. On one level, shipboard and onshore collecting activities were facilitated by the connections forged by new technologies and Britain's global empire. But they also depended on specific contexts and relied on local agents and actors, as well as on the physical and technical facilities (and limitations) of those doing the collecting. The examples of Harvey and others shed light on the real, ‘lived’ experiences of individual collectors, the difficulties and challenges they encountered in amassing their collections, and the networks of people on which they relied.

Britain's nineteenth-century railway companies traditionally play a central role in histories of the spread of standard Greenwich time. This relationship at once seems to embody a productive relationship between science and capitalism, with regulated time essential to the formation of a disciplined industrial economy. In this narrative, it is not the state, but capitalistic private commerce which fashioned a national time system. However, as this article demonstrates, the collaboration between railway companies and the Royal Greenwich Observatory was far from harmonious. While railways did employ the accurate time the observatory provided, they were also more than happy to compromise the astronomical institution's ability to take the accurate celestial observations that such time depended on. Observing astronomical transits required the use of troughs of mercury to reflect images of stars, but the construction of a railway too near to the observatory threatened to cause vibrations which would make such readings impossible. Through debates over proposed railway lines near the observatory, it becomes clear how important government protection from private interests was to preserving astronomical standards. This article revises our understanding of the role of railway companies in the dissemination of standard time and argues that state intervention was essential to preserving Victorian British astronomical science.

This paper examines the early years of decision making in the award of the Nobel Prize in physics and chemistry, and shows how the prize became a tool in the boundary work which upheld the social demarcations between scientists and inventors, as well as promoting a particular normative view of individual scientific achievement. The Nobel committees were charged with rewarding scientific achievements that benefited humankind: their interpretation of that criterion, however, turned in the first instance on their assessment of the groundbreaking nature of the ‘science’, with the applied or practical ‘benefits’ of that discovery being treated as very much secondary factors in the award. Through an interrogation of the reports sent by the committees to the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences, this paper shows how committee members depended on a notion of ‘post-dated utilitarianism’ in reconciling potential tension between rewarding basic and applied science, and explores the ways in which the annual prize both shaped, and was shaped by, media perceptions of scientific virtue.

The emergence of conferences in the late nineteenth century significantly changed the ways in which the international scientific community functioned and experienced itself. In the early modern Republic of Letters, savants mainly related through print and correspondence, and apart from at local and later national levels, scholars rarely met. International conferences, by contrast, brought scientists together regularly, in the flesh and in great numbers. Their previously imagined community now became tangible. This paper examines how conferencing reshaped the collective of international scientists by zooming in on the massive meetings of the International Congress of Applied Chemistry, 1893–1914. Drawing on Emile Durkheim's studies of religious gatherings it analyses the ritualization of routine conference practices, such as plenary ceremonies, toasts, ladies’ programmes and committee meetings. It looks at how roles were distributed as participants performed as hosts and guests, and in masculine and feminine and national and international identities. Importantly, it shows both how the sacralization of chemistry as a higher aim served to instil senses of dedication in order to organize labour and mitigate conflict, and how the self-perception of the international chemical community was based on contemporary understandings of parliament, democracy and representation.

This essay explores the research practice of French geometer Michel Chasles (1793–1880), from his 1837 Aperçu historique up to the preparation of his courses on ‘higher geometry’ between 1846 and 1852. It argues that this scientific pursuit was jointly carried out on a historiographical and a mathematical terrain. Epistemic techniques such as the archival search for and comparison of manuscripts, the deconstructive historiography of past geometrical methods, and the epistemologically motivated periodization of the history of mathematics are shown to have played a crucial role in the shaping of Chasles's own theories. In particular, we present Chasles's approach to the ‘material history’ of algebraic symbolism and argue that it motivated and informed his subsequent invention of a novel notational technology for the writing of geometrical proofs and propositions. In return, this technology allowed Chasles to carry out a programme for the modernization of geometry in keeping with epistemic requirements he had also delineated via a form of historical writing.

Two hundred years ago the founder members of the Linnean Society of London decided that by forming a Library for use of the Fellows, and thus by owning books jointly, they could have access to a far wider range of publications than they could hope to as individuals. The Library was thus conceived as an integral part of the Society and its functions and on 15 April 1788 the first records in the Donation Book (‘one folio for entering Presents and Benefactions’ 26 January 1788) show that Thomas Marsham, the Treasurer, J. Dickson and Jonas Dryander all presented the Society with books ranging from Gerard's Herbal of 1597 to various works by Linnaeus. These fifteen books were soon joined by others, notably from Sir Joseph Banks whose donation of ‘duplicates’ from his own library occupies some four pages in the record of donations for 3 March 1789. The need to house these acquisitions is reflected in the decision of the Fourth Meeting to provide ‘a room or library appropriated to the reception of their books…’ and the purchase of a deal bookcase in February 1790.

The change in the physiological conception of body fluid during the Seventeenth Century exemplifies the beginning of changes in chemical ideas away from humours as irreducible components of fluid systems towards water as the common solvent of an indefinitely large range of solutions. Against the Galenic humoral view of body fluids J.-B. van Helmont (1579–1644) postulated ‘latex’, a humour distributed through the body and common to several body fluids. The theory of latex explained experimental findings and provided a basis for Helmont's introduction of diuretics into the treatment of dropsy. Francis Glisson (1597–1677) adopted the theory of latex. In this paper it is shown that Helmont contradicted, in part at least, the distinctness of humours by a doctrine of a common reservoir from which various body fluids are drawn. It is further argued that, on the available evidence, Helmont is the originator of this idea of a common reservoir. Through hitherto unremarked and unpublished manuscript evidence, it is shown that Glisson, in adopting the theory of latex, and its therapeutic application, modifies and extends it. In the manuscripts Glisson expresses himself in the language of Helmontian philosophy. Given Glisson's known influence (in, for example, spreading Harvey's doctrine of the circulation), the question arises what part, if any, is attributable to him in the transmission of the doctrine of the common reservoir. From the point of view of experimental science, that doctrine makes a break with the past no less radical than does, say, that of the circulation. It appears that we have here yet another major contribution of Helmont to the scientific revolution with, through Glisson, a possible channel of transmission of this contribution.

When Michael Hunter first publicized the idea of ‘Psychoanalysing Robert Boyle’ I understood that his main aim was to test three competing psychoanalytical theories against the historical evidence provided by the life and work of Robert Boyle. Although this would have been a valuable exercise, and one that the British Society for the History of Science meeting partly engaged, the papers by Brett Kahr, John Clay and Karl Figlio published here raise some far more compelling issues which I shall explore in the ensuing discussion. Before turning to this discussion I offer a few introductory remarks.