For several decades historians of science have interrogated the relationship between empire and science, largely focusing on European imperial powers. At the same time, scholars have sought alternatives to an early diffusionist model of the spread of modern science, seeking to capture the multi-directional and dialogic development of science and its institutions in most parts of the globe. The papers in this special issue illuminate these questions with added attention to particular claims about the exceptionalism – or not – of Islamic societies’ approach to science, modernity and politics. Each contribution centres individuals and groups who engaged with science theoretically or practically, taking seriously their analytical categories and how they understood and grappled with the social, economic and intellectual transformations happening around them. Collectively, these studies make the case for Middle Eastern and Ottoman history as useful sites for furthering our field's understanding of processes of the globalization of science and how authority, politics and science have been and continue to be interconnected.

Sprat situated his analysis of the Royal Society within an emerging Anglican Royalist narrative of the longue durée of post-Reformation England. A closer examination of Sprat's own religious views reveals that his principal interest in the History of the Royal Society, as in the closely related reply to Samuel de Sorbière, the Observations, was to appropriate the advantages and benefits of the Royal Society as support for a re-established, anti-Calvinist Church of England. Sprat connected the two through a reformulation of the powerful conventions of ‘Reformation’ and ‘Israel’, both of which still resonated strongly in the religious politics of the 1660s. Applying his voluntarist theology, Sprat changed especially the representation of the chosen nation from a tale of divine castigation and punishment to a rational and probabilistic covenant based on material success as the indicator of God's pleasure. Sprat proposed that the knowledge and application of nature, through the experimental labours of the Royal Society, could build an increasingly wealthy nation and so a permanent home for the reconfigured Israel. Attaching this to a renewed monarchical and Anglican state also meant security for the traditional forms of rule.

By looking at the fierce debates in the city of Carlsbad in Bohemia around the fabrication of medical salt by a local doctor, David Becher, from 1763 to 1784, the paper examines the interactions between different spheres or levels of circulation of knowledge in the Habsburg Empire. The dispute crystallized around the definition of the product, about its medical qualities and its relation with the water of the local mineral spring. The city's inhabitants contested the vision of the medical experts, fearing that the extraction of the medical salt from the spring water and its sale outside the town would have a negative effect on the number of visitors to the spa. Their vision implied a more or less ‘popularized’ form of alchemical thinking as it identified the mineral water with the extracted ‘salt’, conceived as the ‘essence’ of the water, produced by evaporation. The Carlsbad salt dispute highlights the complex interactions among the different networks in which knowledge circulated through the Habsburg Empire in the eighteenth century. The different actors relied on specific networks with different logics of discourse and different modes of circulation. In each case the relation between the local, the regional and the imperial had to be negotiated. The paper thus sketches out the different geographies of knowledge in the Habsburg Empire but also its localization in and around Carlsbad.

This paper investigates the history of a discursive figure that one could call the intelligent whaler. I argue that this figure's success was made possible by the construal and public distribution of whaling intelligence in an important currency of science – facts – in the preparatory phase for the United States Exploring Expedition (1838–1842). The strongest case for the necessity of the enterprise was New England whalers who were said to cruise uncharted parts of the oceans and whose discoveries of uncharted islands were reported in the local press. The document that stood at the core of the lobbying for an expedition was a table that newspaperman and public lecturer Jeremiah Reynolds had compiled after interviewing whaling captains in the country's principal whaling ports. Presenting whalers’ experience in tabular and synoptic form, Reynolds's table helped forge the figure of the ‘intelligent whaler’, a mariner who had better geographical knowledge than other seafarers. By investigating the paper technologies that produced the ‘intelligent whaler’, this paper shows how Reynolds's translation of ‘whaling intelligence’ from news into facts marks the beginning of the intelligent whaler's long career in US-American debates about expansionism, exploration and science.

In his biography of Isaac Newton, which forms the most recent production in this flourishing genre, Niccolò Guicciardini states as his first point of departure that Newton's work arose not from ‘attempts to answer questions that came to him spontaneously, but [from addressing] those posed by his contemporaries’ (p. 20). Right he is to communicate to the larger audience for which he is writing this principal fruit of by now almost a century of professional history-of-science writing – a deep-seated awareness that every scientific view or finding, even if looking timeless in retrospect, has emerged from some given historical context that shows us where the scientist in question started, and that helps explain how, and in what direction, they managed to venture beyond the original context. Indeed, the same truth (or rather truism) applies to every genuine – that is, in some way innovative and also worthwhile – contribution to scholarship. And so it is, therefore, with the three books here under review, which I intend to examine with the following leading question in mind: what in each of them is new and what, in what turns out to be new indeed, has been worth learning?

This round table discussion takes the diversity of discourse and practice shaping modern knowledge about childhood as an opportunity to engage with recent historiographical approaches in the history of science. It draws attention to symmetries and references among scientific, material, literary and artistic cultures and their respective forms of knowledge. The five participating scholars come from various fields in the humanities and social sciences and allude to historiographical and methodological questions through a range of examples. Topics include the emergence of children's rooms in US consumer magazines, research on the unborn in nineteenth-century sciences of development, the framing of autism in nascent child psychiatry, German literary discourses about the child's initiation into writing, and the sociopolitics of racial identity in the photographic depiction of African American infant corpses in the early twentieth century. Throughout the course of the paper, childhood emerges as a topic particularly amenable to interdisciplinary perspectives that take the history of science as part of a broader history of knowledge.

Joseph Glanvill is well known for his enthusiastic support of the early Royal Society. Even before Thomas Sprat's History of the Royal Society of London (1667) appeared in full, Glanvill had set a philosophic background for the new science in his Vanity of dogmatizing (1661), had attacked the outdatedness of contemporary Aristotelians in a revised edition of Vanity called Scepsis scientifica (1665), had praised the Society at length in a flowery address in Scepsis, and had defended the programme of the Society in his private correspondence. If propaganda and enthusiastic support were needed for the growth of science in Restoration England, no one seems to have done more to supply these ingredients during the early years of the Royal Society's existence than the colourful rector of Bath and Frome.

The outstanding scientific work of Christopher Kelk Ingold (1893–1970) was the focus of considerable discussion, celebration and evaluation during the year of the centenary of his birth. In addition to understanding his prolific and highly original scientific output as a pioneer in the application of physical methods to organic chemistry and, indeed, as a founder of physical organic chemistry, it is also important to examine other aspects of Ingold's career, in particular his role in shaping the institutional context in which he developed his work. From 1930 until his death, Ingold was attached to a major international centre, the Chemistry Department of University College London. From 1937 to 1961, as its Head and Director of Laboratories, continuing the policies of his predecessor on chemical education and the organization of research, he developed a very distinctive chemistry department.

Although largely remembered as an astronomer, the Reverend George Fisher (1794–1873) played a significant part in studying the performance and possible improvement of marine chronometers in the mid-nineteenth century. Appointed astronomer to the Royal Navy's Arctic expedition of 1818, while on the voyage Fisher carried out research into the effects of magnetism on the accurate running of chronometers on board ship. By this time, chronometers were standard equipment on many ships and their reliability was a matter of importance to all mariners. Fisher's published findings from this research led to considerable contemporary debate, and also influenced the work of others in the field. Moreover, as papers held at the National Maritime Museum show, he carried on his chronometer research in later life, making further contributions to the subject that have remained somewhat neglected.

The store of scientific knowledge is a general treasure-house from which all men may draw. And yet – perhaps because of the wide spread of scientific ideas – we seldom remind ourselves that the development of the stock of scientific ideas, the heritage of all men, has always been the work of a very small band. Men capable of great scientific effort are rare and, for their effectual working, an intellectual environment is needed that is well nigh as rare as themselves. Surely the contemplation of the conditions under which such men have laboured and lived, the examination of their training and mental history, of their ways of life, and of the human setting must be of some value to those who would follow in their footsteps or prepare others to do so. Nor is the reverse side of the picture without its lesson. The study of those social, economic and philosophical conditions that fail to produce effective scientific fruits, or that yield only bizarre or deformed products, can at least explain for us certain phases in the mental history of mankind. Thus the study of the scientific mood in its historical development needs little justification.

By an ancient and honourable tradition, which began last year when I spared you this exercise, the President gives a Presidential Address only once during his term of office, on retirement. A presidential address in the summer season is a privileged occasion. Coming at the end of an active day, it is not the moment for a massive account of research. Rather it is an occasion when one may indulge with privilege in some directed impressionism, and that is what I propose to do.

The development of systematic mathematics requires writing, and hence a non-literate culture cannot be expected to advance mathematics beyond the stage of numeral words and counting. The hundreds of languages of the Australian aborigines do not seem to have included any extensive numeral systems. However, the common assertions to the effect that ‘Aborigines have only one, two, many’ derive mostly from reports by nineteenth century Christian missionaries, who commonly understood less mathematics than did the people on whom they were reporting. Of course, in recent decades almost all Aborigines have been involved with the dominant European-style culture of Australia, and even those who are not literate have mostly learned to use English-style numerals and to handle money. Similar qualifications should be understood when speaking of any recent primitive culture.

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.

A quotation from J. T. Desaguliers, one of the foremost scientific lecturers in England until his death in 1744, contrasts the use of demonstrations to show physical principles and those designed to imitate real situations:

I have indeed a Machine with brass wheels whose steel axes have very small pivots nicely made that any of the wheels set in motion will turn for the space of more than half an hour… but the use of my machine being chiefly to show how near these kinds of experiments may be brought to agree with a mathematical theory; we cannot expect that any carriage to bear weight can have so little friction. Therefore I choose to relate Monsieur De Camus's Experiments made on Models of Carriages of an inch to a Foot every way representing Carts and Waggons… because it shows us directly what is the real Friction in the carriages at present in use.