Gaslight emerged as a new industry after 1800 in Britain, but not in other countries in Europe where the technology existed as well. Among the many groups trying, it was only the firm of Boulton & Watt that succeeded in commercializing the invention for two important reasons. The first was that they possessed skills and experience related to ironworking and to making scientific instruments, both of which they used as they developed gaslight apparatus. This development involved an extensive series of experiments that ultimately had its root in James Watt's own work with pneumatic chemistry. The second reason was that they possessed many resources such as access to capital, their existing network of industrial customers, and their abilities to publicize their work. As with the steam engine, the firm proved adept at advertising. Boulton & Watt did not give their full attention to gaslight except in two spurts between 1805 and 1809, and by around 1812 they had lost almost all interest in the technology. By this time, however, they had solved many problems associated with scaling up gaslight apparatus for industrial use, they had trained many people who would go on to do further important work in the early years of the industry, and they had drawn extensive public attention to the new invention. Finally, their advertising involved elevating the status of William Murdoch as an inventor while minimizing the role of the firm.

In the overwhelmingly public world of the twentieth century, science often seems simultaneously remote and ubiquitous. There are many complex reasons for this, of course, not the least being the capacity of technology for material transformation and the apparent inability of scientific discourse to communicate its practice to the unanointed. In some ways, our current predicament appears similar to that of the late eighteenth century when so many promises had already been made of what natural philosophy might accomplish, and when many clamoured for access to the power of natural philosophical practice. At that point, on the verge of the stunning dislocations of the industrial revolution, many of the literate and mechanical public took considerable steps to bridge the gap otherwise policed by social distinction.

When customers like Samuel Pepys visited the shop of Thomas Tuttell, instrument maker to the king, they could purchase a pack of mathematical playing-cards. The seven of spades, reproduced as Figure 1, depicted the diverse connotations of magnets, or loadstones. These cards cost a shilling, and were too expensive for many of the surveyors, navigators and other practitioners shown using Tuttell's instruments. They provide an early example of the products promising both diversion and improvement which were increasingly marketed to polite audiences. Tuttell's description of loadstone as ‘a treasure of hidden vertues’ encapsulated many contemporary perceptions of these naturally occurring magnets which were to endure throughout the century. This phrase, with its hints of concealed financial and epistemological benefits, resonates with major eighteenth-century analytical themes, such as commercialization, the opposition between vice and virtue, and the fascination with the occult in the face of Enlightenment rationality. This card is emblematic of the multiple interpretations and utilizations of magnetic phenomena during the eighteenth century. It thus provides a useful starting-point for exploring some of the disputes which arose as enterprising individuals concerned with natural philosophy promoted themselves, their activities and their products.

In a paper which examined the ‘simultaneous emergence of evolutionary theories in biology and sociology in the nineteenth century’, J. C. Greene said of Comte that ‘it was not from biology that his inspiration [the inspiration of his evolutionary view] was drawn; his writings and letters in the formative period sing the praises of Bichat and Gall but not of Lamarck. His intellectual debt in social theory lay in a different direction—to Condorcet's Sketch of an historical picture of the progress of the human mind, to the historical writings of Hume and Robertson, and to the ideas of Saint-Simon’. This statement from a paper published almost twenty years ago as an exploratory reconnaissance of virgin territory is representative of the kind of confused judgements which still surround a discussion of the inter-relations between social, biological and medical thought in the century 1750 to 1850. It makes some valid points which a critical examination should not be allowed to overwhelm, the most significant being that Comte is unequivocally identified with the Enlightenment tradition represented here by Condorcet, Robertson and Hume. But since it is a very condensed statement about a complex set of relationships, it invites interpretations which the author did not necessarily intend.

Until recently, historians of mathematics usually agreed in refusing to consider the numerous geometrical publications of Thomas Hobbes as a contribution to the development of mathematics in the seventeenth century. From time to time, one could find statements that although Hobbes did not find new theorems he undoubtedly had profound insights into the logical foundations of mathematics, but these occasional remarks did not encourage historians to go deeper into Hobbes's mathematical thought. In the end, the general conclusion was that Hobbes's preoccupation with squaring the circle, doubling the cube (starting when the philosopher was more than forty years of age), and challenging Euclid's definitions were better ignored, at least in the history of science. In particular, his controversy with the Savilian professors Seth Ward and John Wallis was seen as a ‘deplorable affair’, liable only to damage the reputation of the protagonists.

During the first half of the nineteenth century the Stirling brothers and John Ericsson made significant attempts to design hot air engines which could provide an economical alternative to high-pressure steam. They believed that it would be possible to gain fuel efficiencies superior to those obtained with steam by employing a heat exchanger within the air engine cycle, erroneously supposing that such a heat exchanger could eliminate the large loss of heat incurred in the condenser of the steam engine. The Stirling brothers called their heat exchanger an economizer because it prevented the waste of heat, but Ericsson coined the term regenerator because he imagined that the power of the heat (caloric) could actually be regenerated, i.e. re-used in the engine to generate mechanical work. Ericsson's term became commonly accepted, so that Stirling's economizer is now also referred to as a generator. These attempts to attain high horsepower outputs with hot air engines were abandoned after the dramatic failure of Ericsson's notorious paddle steamer in the early 1850s. Further ventures were aimed at the more limited goal of low horsepowers and generally ignored the regenerator principle.

In 1854 Admiral FitzRoy, acting as the first head of the Meteorological Department of the Board of Trade, initiated a project to distribute fishery barometers to poor fishing communities. Over the next eleven years until his untimely death in 1865, FitzRoy oversaw the distribution of dozens of barometers. The distribution continued after his death and many of the original barometers are still in place. FitzRoy's tenure at the Met Department is today remembered for his innovative and controversial development of weather forecasts, the first of their kind in Britain, which were telegraphed to coastal towns to warn of impending storms. Against the backdrop of this dramatic attempt to predict the weather using the tools of telegraphy and synoptic mapping, the barometer distribution project looks like an unexceptional piece of administration, a routine shuttling of correspondence and instruments. Closer inspection reveals a case study in Victorian governance that shows how individuals could contribute to elite forms of science by remaining independent of them in key respects. Rather than providing disciplined and trustworthy registrations of nature's language, the fishery barometers distributed by FitzRoy and the Met Department were explicitly excluded from the wider project to map British and global weather. By being thus excluded, they helped augment the autonomy of their intended users, the poor fishermen who were thereby made into better, more independent, interpreters of the Met Office forecasts. By revealing the potential for an instrument to be useful when not registering, this episode suggests that instruments could augment as well as replace the autonomous judgements of individuals.

The Peking Man fossils discovered at Zhoukoudian in north-east China in the 1920s and 1930s were some of the most extensive palaeoanthropological finds of the twentieth century. This article examines their publicization and discussion in Britain, where they were engaged with by some of the world's leading authorities in human evolution, and a media and public highly interested in human-origins research. This international link – simultaneously promoted by scientists in China and in Britain itself – reflected wider debates on international networks; the role of science in the modern world; and changing definitions of race, progress and human nature. This article illustrates how human-origins research was an important means of binding these areas together and presenting scientific work as simultaneously authoritative and credible, but also evoking mystery and adventurousness. Examining this illustrates important features of contemporary views of both science and human development, showing not only the complexities of contemporary regard for the international and public dynamics of scientific research, but wider concerns over human nature, which oscillated between optimistic notions of unity and progress and pessimistic ones of essential differences and misdirected development.

Freud's analogies were legion: hydraulic pipes, military recruitment, magic writing pads. These and some three hundred others took features of the mind and bound them to far-off scenes – the id only very partially resembles an uncontrollable horse, as Freud took pains to note. But there was one relation between psychic and public act that Freud did not delimit in this way: censorship, the process that checked memories and dreams on their way to the conscious. (Freud dubbed the relation between internal and external censorship a ‘parallel’ rather than a limited analogy.) At first, Freud likened this suppression to the blacking out of texts at the Russian frontier. During the First World War, he suffered, and spoke of suffering under, Viennese postal and newspaper censorship – Freud was forced to leave his envelopes unsealed, and to recode or delete content. Over and over, he registered the power of both internal and public censorship in shared form: distortion, anticipatory deletion, softenings, even revision to hide suppression. Political censorship left its mark as the conflict reshaped his view of the psyche into a society on a war footing, with homunculus-like border guards sifting messages as they made their way – or did not – across a topography of mind.

The University of Leyden was founded in 1575 as the reward of the city's endurance of the Spanish siege in 1574. Its influence on botany in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries is part of its far-reaching influence during this period on medicine, to which botany was then ancillary. In this it was the successor of Montpellier and Padua. The first university founded after the Reformation to practise and maintain religious tolerance towards its students, Leyden became the great international university of Europe, drawing students from Scandinavia, Germany, Switzerland and France, from all parts of the British Isles and the British American colonies (roughly 4,000 English-speaking students between 1600 and 1750) and even from Barbados, Jamaica and Constantinople. It offered facilities for higher education then denied, for example, to dissenters in England or else not available, as in Scandinavia. Owing to this religious tolerance in an age of intolerance and also to the personal eminence of a succession of professors, its influence spread widely. Directly and indirectly, Leyden made its greatest contribution to botany and medicine through the work and personality of Herman Boerhaave (1668–1738) and led to the founding or restoration of botanic gardens at Edinburgh, Göttingen, Uppsala and Vienna. Beginning with Clusius, its influence upon botany may be traced through Hermann and Boerhaave to Haller, Linnaeus, Lettsom and others. No other university has a more sustained and continuous record of service to botany and medicine during these two centuries than Leyden. This paper also touches upon the history of other universities.

In many areas the eighteenth century was a starting point for the quantification of science. It was a period in which the mania for collecting led to the first attempts in systematization and classification. This penchant for collecting was not limited to natural history specimens or curiosities. Due in part to the development of mathematical and physical instruments, which became more widely available, scholars were confronted with the informative value of numbers. On the one hand, sequences of measurements appeared to be the key to the advancement of scientific knowledge, yet on the other hand the mathematical apparatus to deal with these data was still largely lacking. As a result of this the first meteorological networks organized in the eighteenth century all became bogged down in the large amount of information that was collected but could not be processed properly. This development is illustrated in a case study of an early Dutch meteorological society, the Natuur- en Geneeskundige Correspondentie Sociëteit (1779–1802). What were the factors that triggered this interest in the weather in the Netherlands? What were the goals and expectations of the contributors? What were their methodological strategies? Which instruments were used to measure which meteorological parameters? How was the stream of numbers generated by these measurements organized, collected and interpreted? An analysis of this process reveals that limits on the advancement of meteorology were not only imposed by instrumentation and organization. The financing, the scientific infrastructure of the old eighteenth-century Dutch Republic and the lack of a proper theoretical insight were also crucial factors that eventually frustrated the breakthrough of meteorology as an academic science in the Netherlands. This breakthrough was only achieved in the second half of the nineteenth century.

The four-year wrangle over the ownership of what was then thought to have been the largest known meteorite, recognized near Melbourne in 1860, provides a fine-grained example of the interaction between scientific internationalism, metropolitan appetite for specimens, and colonial civic pride.

The Berthollet-Proust controversy and Dalton's atomic theory are two important historical landmarks which appeared almost simultaneously at the very beginning of the nineteenth century. Therefore it is likely that between the theory of definite proportions—one of the main subjects of the controversy–and Dalton's atomic theory there was an important interrelation, and that they reinforced each other. Kapoor has suggested that Proust could not have been the forerunner of Dalton's law of constant and multiple proportions, because Dalton discovered his law from completely different premises, and does not seem to have got his ideas from Proust. In my opinion, however, his conclusion does not seem to be decisive.

When Charles Darwin published his theory in 1859 the biological community gave very different receptions to the idea of evolution and to the theory of natural selection. Evolution was accepted as widely and rapidly as natural selection was rejected. Most biologists were ready to accept that evolution had occurred, but not that natural selection was its cause. They preferred other explanations of evolution, such as theories of big directed variation, or admitted that they did not know its cause. Darwin himself never maintained that natural selection was the sole cause of evolution. He thought of it as one among several causes, and did not specify how much evolution had occurred by the natural selection of fortuitous variations, and how much by other factors such as the inherited effects of use and disuse. However, Darwin did maintain that natural selection was in principle capable of explaining all the observed properties of organisms. He did not think that there were some characteristics that were particularly likely to have evolved by natural selection, and other kinds that were not. Against this, many of this critics thought that there were characteristics that natural selection was particularly powerless to explain. Thus it could not account for characteristics that were detrimental, or those that seemed useless (such as species differences), or those that were of too little importance for natural selection to have favoured them. There were also characteristics of such complexity that it was unimaginable that natural selection could have built them up in tiny stages from fortuitous, undirected variants. The present essay will be concerned with just one, the last mentioned, of these kinds of characteristics.

This paper examines the activities of the Alsatian physicist–engineer and philosopher Gustave-Adolphe Hirn, whose contribution to thermodynamics and the metaphysical interpretation of heat theory are rather neglected parts of the history of French thermodynamics. The industrial environment in which Hirn was reared, and in which he worked, turned his thoughts to an investigation of thermal phenomena in conjunction with their relevance to the industrial needs of his factory. Nurtured in the intellectual environment of Colmar, Hirn also developed a deep sense of morality that was bound to the Christian world view. His work on heat led him to a generalized metaphysics based on the notion of force. However, despite important work on friction and his ‘independent’ discovery of the mechanical equivalent of heat, Hirn never felt that his work received its due recognition from his contemporaries. Without attributing this negligence solely to Hirn's relative isolation in Alsace and to the absence of formal institutional affiliations, the paper suggests that it was Hirn's particular scientific practice that was at odds with well-established practices employed by other French scientists and engineers.

Growing interest in studying translation through a sociological lens and the relative lack of attention by translation scholars to the production of scientific translations provide impetus and rationale for this case study. Richard Taylor's editorial work for the Scientific Memoirs periodical is examined, with a particular focus on his conception of the utility of translation in the service of scientific advancement in Britain. The roles of gate-keeper and localizer of scientific material are attributed to Taylor, roles which he exercised through promotion of scientific translation, selection of texts to publish and editorial interventions in translations. The historical case study sheds light on activities of editing, translating and publishing science in mid-nineteenth-century Britain but is also illustrative of research areas where the interests of translation scholars and historians of science may converge. By centring attention on Taylor's editorial role, some of the material and social contingencies of this publishing activity are highlighted, enabling us to gain a deeper appreciation of scientific translation as sociohistorical practice.

This paper argues that the 1953 double-helix solution to the problem of DNA structure was understood, at the time, as a blow within a fiercely fought dispute over the material nature of life. The paper examines the debates, between those for whom life was a purely material phenomenon and religious people for whom it had a spiritual significance, that were waged from the aftermath of the First World War to the 1960s. It looks at the developing arguments of early promoters of molecular biology, including J.D. Bernal, his pupil Max Perutz and his pupil Francis Crick, on the one side, and of the so-called ‘Inkling’ cluster of writers including C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien, on the other. This debate was conducted through polemical works, journalism, and science fiction and through the Festival of Britain and can be followed through the commentary of Jacob Bronowski. The paper concludes with the model of the double helix now at the Science Museum, which can be considered an archaeological relic of a battle in a war which is still being fought.

Bernard Norton's friends in the history of science have had many reasons for commemorating, with admiration and affection, not only his research and teaching but no less his conversation and his company. One of his most estimable traits was his refusal to beat about the bush in raising the questions he thought worthwhile pursuing. I still remember discoursing at Pittsburgh on Darwin's route to his theory of natural selection, and being asked at the end by Bernard what were Darwin's views on heredity. I answered with the conventional waffle to the effect that the theory concerned the populational fate rather than the individual production and transmission of heritable variation, so that whatever views Darwin had on heredity had only a subsidiary place in his theorizing. Bernard was not fooled. ‘I would have thought’, he said, ‘that in order to understand anyone's theorising about evolution it would be necessary to look at his views on heredity’.