Surprisingly little attention has been given hitherto to the definition of the laboratory. A space has to be specially adapted to deserve that title. It would be easy to assume that the two leading experimental sciences, physics and chemistry, have historically depended in a similar way on access to a laboratory. But while chemistry, through its alchemical ancestry with batteries of stills, had many fully fledged laboratories by the seventeenth century, physics was discovering the value of mathematics. Even experimental physics (...) was content to make use of almost any indoor space, if not outdoors, ignoring the possible value of a laboratory. The development of the physics laboratory had to wait until the nineteenth century. (shrink)

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. (shrink)

The history of science can be approached in several different ways. It may be studied, as in the classification once favoured in the long-established Department of History and Philosophy of Science at University College London, by considering separately the history of individual sciences: physics, chemistry, biology, etc.—Partington's monumental History of chemistry is a good example of the cross-section of history of science obtained by considering a single discipline. This approach is understandable when history of science is the work of retired (...) specialists in a particular science. On the other hand, many of those who have approached the history of science from a training in general history have tended to favour a study of a particular period as an alternative to an orientation by subject. This is particularly valuable before the nineteenth century, when subject boundaries were not so tightly drawn as some of the old science historians tended to assume. A third possibility is area studies, usually the history of science within a particular country. Sometimes this is done unconsciously, as when historians claim that they are dealing with a general theme, such as science and religion or scientific institutions, but do so with special reference to their own country. French historians of ‘the Enlightenment’ often study French authors exclusively. Language as much as country is a limiting factor here. (shrink)

Two major problems in understanding Joseph Priestley are that he wrote so much and over such a wide area. The nineteenth-century edition of his collected works fills 25 volumes—and that leaves out the science! In discussing a man like Priestley, therefore, one cannot hope in a single lecture to do justice to the wide range of his interests or even to summarise adequately his many contributions to science. Fortunately much of the scientific work is fairly well known, for example his (...) discovery of many new gases or ‘airs’, as he preferred to call them. It might be appropriate, therefore, to try to put Priestley's pneumatic chemistry in a wider context and in particular to relate it to his career. Priestley was not only an important man of science. He was also an outspoken theologian, a literary figure and a family man, and all of these roles will have to be taken into consideration when the definitive biography is written. (shrink)

A curious appendage to the Oxford Museum of Natural History has an interesting history. Although, in its original form, its architecture may have suggested a chapel, it was built as a chemical laboratory in the 1850s. Was its Gothic style an idle fancy, or was it intended to contribute to some grand design? The choice of architectural style may suggest a purely aesthetic interpretation. Alternatively the high roof and ventilation of the laboratory points to a purely utilitarian purpose. Yet neither (...) of these views can be accepted as more than a partial explanation. Overriding these is the dominant religious context of a university imbued with the values of the mid‐Victorian Church of England. It would be a mistake to discount the university politics of the time. There is often a strong ideological basis to architecture. Oxford's classical curriculum was challenged by the claims of science and, among the sciences, chemistry suffered from particularly strong prejudices. Indeed its image represented a gross caricature. Yet, if chemistry was to be fully accepted, as an essentially experimental science, its pursuit demanded special facilities. The paper provides a study of the gradual acceptance of an experimental science in one particular social context. (shrink)

The ArgumentThe relation between alchemy and early chemistry is still open to debate. How did what is now often dismissed as a pseudo-science contribute to the emerging science of chemistry, a subject that by the late eighteenth century, was often held up as a model for other sciences? Alchemy may have bequeathed to chemistry some processes and apparatus; more fundamental, however, was a transformation in mentality. It was in the seventeenth century that much of this transformation took place.A study that (...) was deeply anthropomorphic, making constant use of allegories and symbolism, and with a language rejoicing in mystery and concealment, gradually became depersonalized, much more objective, and more open. Poetic descriptions, a moral dimension, and a hierarchical view of matter all disappeared. Practical considerations required a concern for greater purity of materials, necessary for the successful replication of experiments. A study of the series of seventeenth-century French textbooks of chemistry from Beguin to Lemery reveals a growing desire for practical results and plain speaking. Robert Boyle was particularly influential in urging the necessity of plain language. The creation of a suitable language to denote and differentiate among different chemical species was a crucial step in the development of early chemistry, thus preparing the way for the systematic names introduced in the following century and the full organization of the science on rational lines. (shrink)

In a letter found not long ago in the Institute of Electrical Engineers and recently republished in the new edition of Faraday's correspondence, certain allegations are made about difficulties experienced by Humphry Davy in getting his work published in Napoleonic France. These allegations have been repeated in the standard Davy bibliography and are believed by at least one other Davy scholar known to the author. A new biography of Faraday makes much of this supposed incident and suggests a comparison with (...) Stalinist Russia. No doubt the letter will continue to be quoted and the story believed until someone takes the trouble to examine the situation more closely. (shrink)

Summary The occasional (and belated) concern of the British Government with science in the nineteenth century is a matter of potential interest to historians of science, yet many previous studies have tended to range over a variety of different aspects of the question. There have been too many vague allusions to financial support as ‘money for science’ in general. It is time that particular parts of the problem were unpacked. For example, the award of money (from the 1820s) to pay (...) a few people of independent means for apparatus was quite distinct from the provision (from the 1830s) of an occasional pension. Even then, to speak of ‘pensions’ uncovers unfortunate ambiguities. For too long science in Britain was regarded as no more than a private hobby for the well-to-do. As late as 1856 an official government statement seemed to make this attitude official. The English attitude to pensions differed remarkably from the French, who established a precedent in the reward of savants, sometimes quoted enviously by British men of science. In 1837 Robert Peel virtually admitted that, in awarding pensions to ‘cultivators of science’, he was following the French practice. It may also be useful to emphasise the contrast between the English (often led by Cambridge professors) and the Scots, mostly from Edinburgh, mainly represented here by Whewell and Brewster, respectively. Babbage had a different role in this story from that usually told. A large part in supporting men of science of modest means could have been played by the British Association for the Advancement of Science but it consistently refused to do so, although it supported an elite among its own members. (shrink)

The National Institute of Science and the Arts, founded in 1795, consists of parallel academies, concerned with science, literature, the visual arts and so on. In the nineteenth century it represented a unique government-sponsored intellectual authority and a supreme court judgement, a power which came to be resented by innovators of all kinds. The Académie des sciences held a virtual monopoly in representing French science but soon this came to be challenged. In the period of the Second Empire we find (...) a group of men carving out a new career for themselves as professional popularizers of science, commissioned to write regular articles in newspapers and journals. Although they had begun by simply reporting the meetings of the Académie des sciences, they soon widened their scope and even began criticizing the august Académie. Thus they represented the alternative voice of science, distinct from ‘official science’. These independent writers had their counterpart in painting and literature, both of which were developing radical new approaches in mid-century. When the very traditional Fine Art Academy refused to consider their paintings, painters like Cézanne and Manet found an alternative outlet. Writers too asserted their independence from the Académie française. There were not only many parallels between the independent practitioners in science, painting and literature but also new schools of ‘naturalism’ in painting and literature which looked to science as a model. (shrink)

Summary In the wake of the French Revolution, the newly founded First Class of the Institute in Paris was able to make major contributions, not only to science but also to medicine. Unfortunately, the latter has hardly been appreciated. These medical contributions may be summarized as being: (1) through the interests of two of its sections, (2) through patronage and, in particular, its exceptional encouragement of one young man, François Magendie, (3) through the Montyon legacy, (4) through its implicit recognition (...) of pharmacy and pharmacology. Special attention is given to the relationship of the official body of science with Magendie, the founder of experimental physiology, through a detailed study of the minutes of the meetings of the First Class (renamed the Academy of Sciences after 1816). Whereas one might have expected medical institutions to have played a significant part in the development of the medical sciences, it was the Academy of Sciences which played a leading role. (shrink)

So much of the history of science has been written from the point of view of the scientist or the proto-scientist that it may be salutary for the modern reader occasionally to consider how science and its early practitioners were viewed from the outside. We must not be too surprised if a pioneering activity performed by controversial agents was misunderstood or misrepresented and if what emerges is, therefore, sometimes less of a portrait than a caricature. We are concerned here much (...) less with what natural philosophers actually did than what they were thought to have done, or what they were thought to stand for. The image is sometimes more influential than the reality. Considering that the period to be studied is one of major political and social unrest and that the principal spokesman, Edmund Burke (1729–1797), had made his reputation mainly in the arena of parliamentary politics, we can anticipate rather more polemic than dispassionate argument. In the formation of public opinion a colourful exaggeration or even an occasional sneer are often more effective than the objective exposition of a case. The spectacles through which Burke looked at his world sometimes magnified and often distorted, but they produced a view of knowledge and society shared by many of his contemporaries and of considerable subsequent influence. (shrink)