By the early years of the twentieth century, astronomers regarded photography as one of the most valuable tools at their disposal, a technique which not only provided an accurate and reliable representation of astronomical phenomena, but also radically changed the role of the astronomical observer. Herbert Hall Turner, professor of astronomy at Oxford, wrote in 1905: ‘The wonderful exactness of the photographic record may perhaps best be characterised by saying that it has revealed the deficiencies of all our other astronomical apparatus – object-glasses and prisms, clocks, even the observer himself.’ H. C. Russell, government astronomer in Sydney, suggested that photography might in the future make the observer redundant: ‘In many cases the observer must stand aside while the sensitive photographic plate takes his place and works with the power of which he is not capable… I feel sure that in a very few years the observer will be displaced altogether.’ Such visions were not uncommon at the time, emanating from the trust invested in the photographic process after the spectacular achievements of the late nineteenth century.

The proximate cause of the 1984–85 miners' strike, the longest mass strike in British history, was a round of colliery closures announced by the National Coal Board (NCB, now British Coal) in March 1984 as part of the restructuring of the British coal mining industry. The impact of pit closures upon communities is so immediate and devastating that the effect obscured the fundamental causes. The restructuring process had accelerated since 1979 because of the economic and energy policies adopted by Conservative governments, but had its origins in the Labour government's response to the 1973 oil shock and the tripartite settlement of the 1974 strike by the National Union of Mineworkers (NUM). The 1974 Plan for Coal established an investment programme to expand coal production by three means: developing new mines; extending the life of existing collieries; and implementing new technologies. These supply-side measures were already underway when the first Thatcher government, elected in 1979, established new limits on publicsector spending and sought to liberalize markets.

In the Origin of Species, Charles Darwin (1809–82) briefly drew an analogy between languages and species, suggesting that the genealogical relationships between languages provide a model for discussing the descent and modification of species. Further, he suggested that just as languages often contain some vestige of earlier speech, for example silent, unpronounced letters, so the rudimentary organs of animals can provide clues about genealogy and descent.

This essay offers some preliminary and general considerations of big picture historiography of science, attempting an introductory specification of the topic by means of narratological analysis. It takes no strong, substantive position either pro or contra big pictures themselves, preferring an approach which is more diagnostic and heuristic in nature. After considering what may be meant by a term such as ‘big picture’ and its cognates, it interrogates the kind of desire which could lie behind the wish expressed by the conference title ‘Getting the Big Picture’: namely, that a big picture may be worth getting. It proceeds by way of a limited enquiry into what seems to be felt as a relative absence of big picture works in contemporary historiography, criticizing one very general historicocultural thesis which accounts for such an absence, advancing instead evolving features of the professional history of science community over the last thirty years as reasons for this relative absence. Concludingly, it turns the issues raised thus far on their head, in some measure at least. In trying for a more precise specification of the contemporary historiographical formation, we will discover eventually a situation not so much of relative absence of big pictures, rather one where there exists both frame and title for the picture, together with some distinguished painters' names; but where the canvas is only minimally marked, a partial and shadowy sketch, stylistically disjoined. Although this sounds paradoxical, a concrete paradox is not intended. The existence of frame and title enclosing mainly empty canvas indicates only the limitations of the pictorial metaphor for describing complex and developing sets of historiographical practice. What is instanced concludingly is less a theoretical paradox than an intelligible sequence and form of development which issues in a potential problem of practice.

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.

The Benzolfest of 1890 in honour of August Kekulé fell into that economically prosperous, politically peaceful period of European imperialism which is characterized by the splendour of the courts of Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Empress of India; Emperor Franz Josef of Austria, King of Hungary; and the German Emperor Wilhelm II, King of Prussia. Whoever could afford it (and even some of those who could not) tried to imitate these models and to participate at least to a modest extent in the glamour of the imperial courts. Merits were honoured by the bestowal of titles, orders and medals, and many an effort to the benefit of the common weal in deeds and money was induced by the prospect of becoming a Privy Councillor (Geheimrat) or a Councillor of Commerce (Kommerzienrat), of being awarded the Order of the Red Eagle [of Prussia] (the fourth class being almost automatically given to a major of the Prussian army who in this peaceful time had never had a chance to distinguish himself, and not so automatically to a distinguished professor on the occasion of his sixtieth birthday), or even of being raised to hereditary nobility, the epithet von added to the name being the permanently visible sign of particular excellence.

Like it or not, a big picture of the history of science is something which we cannot avoid. Big pictures are, of course, thoroughly out of fashion at the moment; those committed to specialist research find them simplistic and insufficiently complex and nuanced, while postmodernists regard them as simply impossible. But however specialist we may be in our research, however scornful of the immaturity of grand narratives, it is not so easy to escape from dependence – acknowledged or not – on a big picture. When we define our research as part of the history of science, we implicitly invoke a big picture of that history to give identity and meaning to our specialism. When we teach the history of science, even if we do not present a big picture explicitly, our students already have a big picture of that history which they bring to our classes and into which they fit whatever we say, no matter how many complications and refinements and contradictions we put before them – unless we offer them an alternative big picture.

The labelling of public opposition to nuclear developments in Britain as a ‘not in my back yard’ (NIMBY) response gained widespread credibility in the 1980s. In particular the term gained wide usage to describe the public's response to the search for suitable nuclear waste disposal sites. This paper will briefly consider the events leading up to the emergence of the term NIMBY assessing key avenues through which it found its way into the realm of public discourse. The significance of various models of the public understanding of science, subsumed within official thinking on NIMBY, will be explored. Within the context of the nuclear debate it will be argued that these existing models do not adequately deal with a number of issues. These include the significance of dominant symbolic representations of nuclear science and also the relationship between opposition and locality.

Will Ladislaw's words, which so disillusion the young Dorothea, might also depress the modern interpreter of Newton's theology. Encountering the bulk of Newton's manuscript theology, it is tempting to sympathize with Dorothea's eventual response to The Key to all Mythologies, and to want nothing of it. The assessment of John Conduitt, Newton's son-in-law and executor, that his ‘relief and amusement was going to some other study, as history, chronology, divinity, and chemistry’ has in the past provided an ample excuse for those who have wished to take such a course, and to ignore Newton's biblical criticism. In the last three decades, however, Newton scholarship has come to terms with its hero's twilight activities, and reclassified them as being at least as important to him as the natural philosophy of the Principia, and intimately bound up with the thinking behind that philosophy. But although many modern scholars are now reluctant to see Newton as Stephen Hawking in breeches, historians of science have tended to concentrate on the implications for Newton's philosophy of his religious and alchemical writings, and in the process often have distorted their religious context. Historians of ideas have been beguiled by Newton's disciples, and by the esoteric texts from Newton's library, to ride hobbyhorses of their own which do not always illuminate Newton's reasons for writing theology. There is a danger of ‘knowing what is being done by the rest of the world’ before troubling with what Newton was up to when he worried about religion and theology, channelling his energies into treatise after treatise on the interpretation of prophecy. I want to suggest what some of Newton's concerns may have been, by looking at his ideas of religious duty and of the Church, and to liberate Newton from his disciples for long enough to consider some of his ideas about the relationships of prophetic and natural philosophical explorations of divinity.

Science in the twentieth century has relied on enormous financial investment for its survival. Once departed from an amateur pursuit, industry, charity and government have ploughed huge resources into it, supplying the professional occupation of science with a complex of institutional facilities – full-time posts, research laboratories, students and journals. Financial support, however, has always been a limited resource and has gone most generously to those areas of research which appear particularly novel, innovative or promising, that is to the ‘leading edges’. To secure the funds necessary to maintain their life-style, then, scientists have had to make their activities scientifically and economically attractive to the funding bodies. Historians and sociologists of twentieth-century science have tended to follow these priorities and have concentrated on the leading edges. We have studied at length the acquisition of new knowledge through research, the creation of the institutional complex and the furtherance of science through innovation, specialty and discipline formation, part and parcel of which is the gathering of the necessary funds. The competition for funds has been investigated in analyses of controversy between competing groups within a research area, which has provided important models for the social and conceptual development of science. This emphasis, however, may have missed a great deal of what happens in science.

It is inherent in the process of producing mechanical and hence electrical energy from a heat engine that much of the energy input is released as relatively low temperature heat. By various techniques it is possible to produce reject heat at a temperature useful for space heating or industrial process heating, giving a much higher overall efficiency of conversion and saving fuel over separate production of electricity and heat. Heat from combined heat and power (CHP) plant, or from another central source, can be piped in the form of hot water or steam to users' premises, in district heating (DH) networks.

Among the many groups of scholars whose work now illuminates science, technology and medicine (STM), historians, it seems to me, have a key responsibility not just to elucidate change but to establish and explain variety. One of the big pictures we need is a model of the varieties of STM over time; one which does not presume the timeless existence of disciplines, or the distinctions between science, technology and medicine; a model which is both synchronic and diachronic, and both cognitive and social. To that end, this brief paper presents a historical typology of STM from about 1700 to the present by focusing on four ‘ideal’ socio-cognitive types – four knowledge structures which correspond to four sets of social relations. To some extent these are period specific, but they do not have to be – hence, one may hope, the flexibility and usefulness of the model.

Van Helmont's chemistry and medicine played a prominent part in the seventeenth-century opposition to Aristotelian natural philosophy and to Galenic medicine. Helmontian works, which rapidly achieved great notoriety all over Europe, gave rise to the most influential version of the chemical philosophy. Helmontian terms such as Archeus, Gas and Alkahest all became part of the accepted vocabulary of seventeenth-century science and medicine.

For the social theorists of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, measurement, quantification and calculation were of particular social and political significance. Karl Marx, in Capital, based his critique of classical political economy on an analysis of the quantification of labour as a commodity. Max Weber, in Economy and Society, emphasized the importance of rational calculation in the conduct of modern bureaucratic organizations. And in his major work, The Philosophy of Money, Georg Simmel highlighted what he called ‘the calculating character of modern times'.

The Museum of Science and Industry in Manchester has recently acquired the Electricity Council archives, a body of material of national scope and a major resource for researchers into the electricity industry. The Electricity Council had previously transferred its collection of electrical artefacts to the Museum to be used in the development of the National Electricity Gallery, opened in March 1986, which it co-funded with Greater Manchester Council. In order to illustrate the content and value of these archives, this paper focuses on the promotion of the domestic use of electricity during the inter-war period, a choice of subject which relates to a strong area of the Museum's object collections. The first section outlines the acquisition and scope of the archives and describes the records therein of the Electrical Association for Women (EAW) and the British Electrical Development Association (EDA); the second section uses the relevant records of the EAW and the EDA to investigate the chosen theme, with particular reference to women's involvement and perceptions of women.