In his presidential address to the chemistry section of the British Association in 1907, Arthur Smithells pointed to work in radioactivity with wonder, calling it the ‘chemistry of phantoms’. Indeed, the transitory nature of the radioelements, coupled with the exceedingly small quantities commonly handled, made many a traditional chemist hesitant to accept these unusual substances as real elements worthy of insertion into the periodic table. Besides, there were too many of them: by 1913 over thirty radioelements were known, but there were no more than twelve boxes in the periodic table in which to house them. Moreover, there was much confusion about radioelements that had different physical properties such as half-life and range of emitted alpha particle, but which could not be separated chemically. Small wonder then that Alexander Russell, the only person who worked with both Ernest Rutherford and Frederick Soddy, recalled the prevalent attitude of chemists as discouraging of interpretative attempts: theirs was, so they claimed, ‘an experimental science. No good ever came from pontificating on the ways of Nature from the comfort of an armchair. The laboratory bench, not the sofa, … was where the truth would be found’.

The appearance of Priestley's electrical work as a brief and irrelevant prelude to his more substantial chemical enquiries may explain why it has been strangely overlooked by historians of science. It was only fairly recently that Sir Philip Hartog sought to rectify this situation with the affirmation that ‘Priestley's electrical work offers the key to Priestley's scientific mind’. Attacking traditional chemical historiography for tracing Priestley's opposition to Lavoisier's theory to a deficiency in his scientific sensibilities, Hartog insisted that Priestley's natural philosophy can properly be understood only in relation to his ‘profound convictions on scientific method’ as fully expressed in the History of electricity. Only thus would Priestley's scientific thought be related correctly to his ‘work as a whole’.

The entry of time and history into biological systems of classification is perhaps the single most significant development in the history of biological systematics in the modern era. Darwin's claiming that descent is ‘… the hidden bond of connexion which naturalists have been seeking under the term of the natural system’, rather than seeing the answer in the multitude of previous attempts to resolve the problem in terms of morphological affinities, analogies, and complex relations of resemblance, marked the turning point in a long search into the meaning of biological taxonomy, and allowed the development of Darwin's insights by Haeckel, Plate and others into modern phylogenetic systematics.

Several essays, articles, and papers have appeared during the last fifteen years which have shed light on the place and function of science in the intellectual life of eighteenth-century Scotland. Some have concentrated on ideological factors such as the increasing concerns with polite culture, improvement, and the reaction of the Scottish élite to the Act of Union. Others have noted the roles of Jacobites and Whigs in the production of a culture which was unique to Scotland. The generalist educational ideals held by Scots have been explored, as have their philosophical, methodological, and mathematical traditions. Another set of papers has fruitfully examined ‘the social role of knowledge’ and has attempted through studies of the politics of Scottish science and a consideration of its audience to show how the characteristics of local provincial society could influence if not ‘determine scientific activity, its social organization or intellectual structure’. Concerns with the institutionalization of scientific activities and the acceptance of new values have also led to studies of the universities, medical corporations, and societies (both adult and student) which provided focuses for scientific enquiry. All of these studies have emphasized the aspects of science north of the Tweed between about 1690 and 1830 which seem uniquely Scottish. No one would deny the value of these works but perhaps it is now time to redress the balance and to notice how typical much of the scientific work of the Scots was, and how easily it and the institutions through which it was pursued can be fitted into the wider context of the European Enlightenment.

It is for his scientific achievements that we best remember Frederick Soddy—first as the young chemist working with Ernest Rutherford and with William Ramsay in elaborating the disintegration theory of radioactive change, and then as the mature chemist, heading a research programme of his own at the University of Glasgow, a programme which culminated in his formulation of the concept of isotopes in the years before the First World War. Yet there was another side to Soddy's early scientific career: beyond his profound concern with the purely theoretical and experimental aspects of radioactivity research, there was a serious interest in what might be called the practical significance of his science. By practical, I mean those aspects capable of being put to use for the immediate or potential future benefit of man. In this paper I wish to elucidate the nature of this concern during Soddy's career, focusing particularly upon his years at the University of Glasgow, 1904–1914.

There are few more likeable figures in the history of science than Alfred Russel Wallace. A warm-hearted and generous man, he won the admiration of virtually all who knew him for what one contemporary called ‘the charm of his personality’. Typical of this charm was his behaviour over the potentially sensitive question of his co-authorship with Darwin of the theory of natural selection. Ignoring all the disputes which might so easily have followed the events of 1858, Wallace never ceased to give Darwin all the credit for their theory. In 1864, the author of the Origin chided the younger man for his deference, writing, ‘you ought not … to speak of the theory as mine; it is just as much yours as mine. One correspondent has already noticed to me your “high-minded” conduct on this head’. But Wallace's reply was equally firm, ‘As to the theory of Natural Selection itself, I shall always maintain it to be actually yours and yours only’. If anyone is responsible for the comparative neglect from which the ‘other man’ of Darwinism has suffered, it is the other man himself.

Frederick Soddy (1877–1956), one of the foremost radiochemists of his day, was awarded the 1921 Nobel Prize in chemistry. Soddy was also among the first of the scientific leaders of his age, along with Blackett (1897–1974), Bernal (1901–71), and others, to become interested in the social implications of their work. In 1950 his colleague Paneth wrote that currently ‘there is widespread discussion on the responsibility towards the community of men of science and particularly experts in radioactivity; but a perusal of Prof. Soddy's non-chemical writings of no less than thirty years ago [viz., during and after the first world war] shows how strongly he felt the duty to fight for a better order of things'. Soddy was a complex iconoclast often derided for dealing with what seemed to be disparate interests. What, it could be asked, could monetary reform possibly have to do with radiochemistry? But to make sense of Soddy, the question must rather be formulated in the other direction: What fundamental concern did Soddy have that enabled him to embrace holistically a variety of seemingly diverse activities? The answer can be given in a word: energy. And the way in which Soddy dealt with this issue involved him directly with social economics as well as with the social responsibility of scientists.

The claim that the nineteenth century was a period of major transition for the relation between theology and natural science has become a historical truism. With its implications for the design argument and the doctrines of divine providence, Darwin's theory of evolution has rightly attracted the attention of scholars of Victorian science. Yet so much emphasis not only on Darwin himself, but on the life sciences generally, has tended to obscure some important issues concerning the relation of theology to natural science in the first half of the nineteenth century. As John Brooke has argued recently, natural theology in this pre-Darwinian period was far from being an essentially static, autonomous, and monolithic set of presuppositions about the existence of design in nature, but was, for various reasons, in a fragmented and disordered state. The general aim of the present note is to suggest some further dimensions to historical debates about the nature of natural theology, and in particular to emphasize the need for an examination of the physical sciences as well as the life sciences in this period.

Frederick Soddy's productive pure research ended with the outbreak of World War I. Before that time Soddy was internationally acknowledged as a great scientist. He had, with Rutherford, produced the atomic disintegration theory and, in association with Ramsay, had proved it experimentally. He had been one of the first men to elucidate the nature of isotopes, and it was he who gave them their name. After the war he was dismissed as a man who had forsaken his science to propound wild theories of monetary reform.