The Manhattan Project to develop an atomic bomb, the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the post-war nuclear arms race with fission and fusion bombs have been the subject of many discussions and historical studies. In fact, these subjects, and the way in which they were generally dealt with, have led to retrospective distortion with respect to the spectrum of ‘atomic’ weapons discussed and explored during the wartime Manhattan Project and immediately after the Second World War. Specifically, it has made observers of the cold war's early nuclear arms race overlook the fact that the military use of radioactive reactor fission products in so-called radiological warfare weapons, was a very real possibility at the time, both for the US Atomic Energy Commission (AEC) and the military, as well as for relative outsiders and the general public. Thus, for many observers it came as something of a surprise when the United States in 1976 introduced radiological weapons as an issue of UN arms control negotiations between the United States and the Soviet Union.

This article examines the significant relationship that existed between commercial British television and the study of animal behaviour. Ethological research provided important content for the new television channel, at the same time as that coverage played a substantial role in creating a new research specialism, the study of primate facial expressions, for this emergent scientific discipline. The key site in this was a television and film unit at London Zoo administered by the Zoological Society and Granada TV. The Granada unit produced ‘Animal expressions’, a twenty-five-minute television film based on research on monkeys and apes by the Dutch postgraduate student and soon-to-be-leading-authority Jan van Hooff. Recovering the production and multiple uses of ‘Animal expressions’, this paper offers the first sustained historical analysis of science on commercial television. I show how Granada patronage helped Van Hooff to support his argument that human expressions such as smiling and laughter shared common evolutionary origins with similar facial movements in nonhuman primates. Emphasizing the mutual shaping of science and ITV, I argue that ‘Animal expressions’ repurposed televisual conventions of framing talking heads, and blended serious science with the comedy of ‘funny faces’, thereby epitomizing Granada's public-service strategy at a time when commercial television was defending itself from criticism in the Pilkington report.

Although often presented as an essential, ahistorical or innate psychological entity, the notion of a ‘scientific mind’ is ripe for historical analysis. The growing historical interest in the self-fashioning of masculine identities, and more particularly the self-fashioning of the nineteenth-century scientist, has opened up a space in which to probe what was understood by someone being said to possess a ‘scientific mind’. This task is made all the more urgent by the recently revived interest of some psychologists in the concept and the highly gendered and culturally conditioned understanding of the scientific mind displayed in some contemporary debates. This article contributes to that task, and fills a rare gap in Darwin studies by making the first detailed exploration of Charles Darwin's understanding of the scientific mind, as revealed in the psychological self-analysis he undertook in his ‘Recollections of the development of my mind and character’ (1876), and supplemented in his Life of Erasmus Darwin (1879). Drawing upon a broad range of Darwin's published and unpublished works, this article argues that Darwin's understanding of the scientific mind was rooted in his earliest notebooks, and was far more central to his thought than is usually acknowledged. The article further delineates the differences between Darwin's understanding and that of his half-cousin Francis Galton, situates his understanding in relation to his reading of William Whewell and Auguste Comte, and considers what Darwin's view of the scientific mind tells us about his perspective on questions of religion and gender. Throughout, the article seeks to show that the ‘scientific mind’ is always an agglomeration of historically specific prejudices and presumptions, and concludes that this study of Darwin points to the need for a similarly historical approach to the question of the scientific mind today.

The move online of almost all meetings in 2020 in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic threw into sharp relief the taken-for-granted centrality of conferences within scientific culture. While its impact on science has yet to be fully grasped, for the authors of this special issue, this situation held heuristic power for understanding the meanings and functions, now and historically, of international scientific conferencing. Ongoing discussions in the academic world about the pros and cons of virtual meetings bring out the central place of presence in these events and its mediation across space and time by modern infrastructures and technologies. From their rise in the mid-nineteenth century to the experiences of the present day, as well as in imagined futures, international conferences have been about communication. Following James Carey, they can be considered both as places for sharing knowledge and as rituals aimed at fostering and performing communities.

The history of eugenics has become a classic arena for examining how the interplay of culture, social interests and social structures affects the advancement of science. At the same time eugenics demonstrates how in the first half of the twentieth century, the expectation arose that science could offer the solution of social problems; for biology intruded into many areas of social policy during the 1920s and 30s. Historians of science have been struck by the coincidence between the rise of genetics and eugenics after 1900. Genetics underpinned techniques of family reconstruction, which were deployed for the screening of population groups. Areas of social policy such as the prediction of potential criminals and other types of social deviancy relied on eugenic rationales. This poses intriguing problems concerning the extent to which genetic research was motivated by eugenic ideals, particularly in the field of human genetics. At the same time, it is important to recognize that eugenics was a heterogenous agglomeration of sciences: in addition to genetics, a prominent place was taken by anthropology, clinical medicine, statistics, and psychology. These diverse constituents were welded together by cultural and social movements peculiar to respective national contexts.

In trying to understand why a chemist thought as he did, and drew one set of conclusions rather than another, probably the most important thing we need to know is what picture he had in mind of the way in which chemical reactions take place. There are, of course, many other things we need to know. For example, we need to know his social, economic and cultural circumstances, how he was educated and his ideas of the social function of science and in particular of chemistry; we need to know what scientific societies and institutions he belonged to and how they influenced him; and we need to know what he hoped to get out of his work in chemistry—fame or a living or personal satisfaction or a combination of two or three of those results. Indeed, it has become fashionable in recent years to consider those aspects rather than the nature of his actual chemical thought. Yet in the end, his mental picture of chemical change is surely the most important factor in determining what the chemist's results will be, and is therefore the most important factor for historians to understand.

References to the stars permeate the writings of Paracelsus (1493–1541); yet modern authorities comment on the way he restricted astrological influence. The contradiction is only apparent, and disappears when the significance he attached to the relevant vocabulary is understood. He had in mind a kind of influence rather different from that usually thought of in connection with astrology, and the astrological jargon he bandied about had a metaphorical more often than a literal meaning. In his major works, signs of detailed interest in the movements of the actual stars are few; the ‘astrological’ terminology hides a system of natural explanation by virtues or forces largely immanent in earthly objects.

This paper concerns the movement of the old navigational instrument, the compass, into the new situation of the aeroplane in the early part of the twentieth century. In order for the technology that had so long resided on ships or in the hand to continue to function in new contexts, a huge amount of work was required. Relationships were forged and made fraught, inventions were made to contest and succeed one another, new scientific and technical knowledge was produced. Throughout, the perceived nature of compasses and magnetic fields underwent subtle but significant shifts. Until recently histories dealing with the emergence of the aerocompass have largely black-boxed the technological changes, with only superficial treatment of issues lying beyond the compass itself.1 John Bradley's exploration of the feud between the Admiralty and military compass designers, and the sections in both Bradley's and A. E. Fanning's work on lawsuits over originality,2 go some way towards rectifying this imbalance. This paper extends that work further. It focuses on events in Britain, particularly those centred on two institutions, the Admiralty Compass Observatory at Ditton Park, Slough, and the Royal Aircraft Factory (later the Royal Aircraft Establishment) at Farnborough.

Two aerodynamic concepts theorized in the early twentieth century – laminar-flow control and flying wings – offer the potential for more efficient aircraft. However, despite compelling advantages on paper and optimistic predictions, the fuel-saving benefits of these technologies have not yet been fully realized. This paper documents British work on these concepts, with a particular focus on laminar-flow control. Faced with an increasingly difficult funding context and a lack of a clear military rationale, these potentially significant advances in aircraft efficiency were stymied by a catch-22: the government was only prepared to provide financial support for the development of an operational prototype if operational performance had already been demonstrated. This case also highlights the challenges faced in the commercial uptake of radical aviation technologies, even when they appear to offer greater efficiency and environmental benefits.

Academic careers in French science during the mid-nineteenth century were made within the Université de France, an integrated state system of secondary and higher education controlled by a centralized Parisian educational administration. Among the most respected members of the corps universitaire were Charles d'Almeida and Pierre Bertin, two historically obscure physiciens whose significance derives from their substantial contributions to the social organization, teaching and communication of French experimental physics. This two-part comparative biography uses their entwined careers to make a case for the emergence of a discipline of French experimental physics from the corps during the tumultuous politico-cultural transition from the Second Empire to the Third Republic. Of fundamental importance are disciplinary regimes of teaching and inspection within the corps, the foundation of the Société française de physique and the Journal de physique, and the diversification of the traditional pedagogical role of the Ecole normale supérieure, which, from around 1860, began to offer a career pathway for aspiring scientific researchers. Having established in this paper the socio-institutional mechanisms for the stabilization of a distinct field, in part two I characterize the epistemological–methodological aspects of French experimental physics.

In 1924 Edmund Clifton Stoner (1899–1966), a 24-year-old research student at the Cavendish Laboratory, Cambridge, sought a university post in physics. Having previously studied at Cambridge as an undergraduate, Stoner was nearing the end of three years' postgraduate research under Professor Sir Ernest Rutherford's supervision. 1924 was not, however, an auspicious time to seek employment since vacancies in university physics departments were scarce. Rutherford showed a kindly interest in Stoner's career and summoned him to his residence – Newnham Cottage – one Friday afternoon in March. Acknowledging Stoner's diabetes as a major concern, he ‘pointed out that I [Stoner] really wanted a job where I could take things fairly easily… He, of course, is prepared to “back me up” & was really very charming, though not very useful in any definite way.’ Subsequent visits to the Appointments Board proved ‘quite fruitless’. Stoner declined to apply for a post at Armstrong College, Newcastle, and only in mid-July did he hear of two more attractive positions. The first, at Durham University, was advertised in the press. Rutherford, who was ‘Affable – pleased with my work(!)’, advised him to apply. Interviewed together with several other candidates, Stoner was unsuccessful but not greatly disappointed. The other post, at the University of Leeds, was brought to his attention by Rutherford.

Joseph Dawson is known mainly as one of the founders of Low Moor Ironworks, near Bradford (Yorkshire). But he also had wide interests in science. Local museum collections illustrate several aspects of his work in chemistry and mineralogy. His mineral collection is particularly important because it is accompanied by a rare early catalogue in Dawson's hand. This shows how he arranged his 2206 mineral specimens according to Thomas Thomson's essentially Wernerian classification. Dawson's comments about minerals as well as about iron furnaces demonstrate a view of science in which chemistry was fundamental. Moreover, his contacts with other iron-masters and leading industrialists, as well as with mineralogists and Nonconformist ministers, show him active within several networks through which scientific ideas, attitudes and practices were disseminated.

I suggest in this article that Benjamin Franklin's electrical experiments were naturalistic and reactive towards providential theories of natural harmony and electricity provided by the English experimentalists Stephen Hales, William Watson and Benjamin Wilson. Conceptualizing nature as a divine balance, Franklin rejected English arguments for God's conservation of nature's harmony, suggesting instead that nature had within itself the ability to re-equilibrate when rendered unbalanced. Whilst Franklin's work reveals an experimentally defined fissure between providential and naturalistic views of matter and motion in the mid-eighteenth century, his subsequent reflections on the use of natural philosophy sheds light on the divergent trajectory of utility implicit in these differing views. Hales and Watson in particular believed that insight into nature's providential manifestations gave the natural philosopher a medically restorative role, aligning the power of nature with God's benevolent purpose to heal the infirm. For Franklin, humanity behaved like nature, moving only when necessary. Natural philosophy existed to help these needs, making new worlds that had no dependence on God.

Early nineteenth-century zoology in Britain has been characterized as determined by the ideological concerns of its proponents. Taking the zoologist Robert E. Grant as an exemplary figure in this regard, this article offers a differently nuanced account of the conditions under which natural-philosophical knowledge concerning animal life was established in post-Napoleonic Britain. Whilst acknowledging the ideological import of concepts such as force and law, it points to an additional set of concerns amongst natural philosophers – that of appropriate tool use in investigation. Grant's studies in his native Edinburgh relied heavily on the use of microscopes. On his arrival in London, however, he entered a culture in which a different set of objects – museum specimens – held greater persuasive power. This article relates changes in Grant's ideas and practices to the uneven emphases on microscopic and museological evidence amongst European, Scottish and English natural philosophers at this time. In so doing, it identifies the reliance of London-based natural philosophers on museology as constituting a limiting effect on the kinds of claim that Grant sought to make regarding the nature of life.