To save content items to your account,
please confirm that you agree to abide by our usage policies.
If this is the first time you use this feature, you will be asked to authorise Cambridge Core to connect with your account.
Find out more about saving content to .
To save content items to your Kindle, first ensure no-reply@cambridge.org
is added to your Approved Personal Document E-mail List under your Personal Document Settings
on the Manage Your Content and Devices page of your Amazon account. Then enter the ‘name’ part
of your Kindle email address below.
Find out more about saving to your Kindle.
Note you can select to save to either the @free.kindle.com or @kindle.com variations.
‘@free.kindle.com’ emails are free but can only be saved to your device when it is connected to wi-fi.
‘@kindle.com’ emails can be delivered even when you are not connected to wi-fi, but note that service fees apply.
Cosmography, in the context of this portrayal of a historically neglected area of eighteenth-century science, is another name for the ‘Idée Générate de la Géographie’ drawn up in 1752 by Philippe Buache, son-in-law of the famous French cartographer Guillaume De L'Isle and his successor as first geographer to Louis XV. This scheme was then presented to the Paris Academy of Sciences in the form of three charts containing detailed classifications of historical, physical, and mathematical geography respectively; these were duly approved nine years later, and published in 1762. Significantly, the third chart ‘Géographie Mathématique ou Astronomique’ is identical, down to the last detail, with another entitled ‘Mathematische Astronomie’ in Johann Gabriel Doppelmaier's Atlas coelestis (Nuremberg, 1752). The two titles reflect what may at first appear to be ambiguity in the conceptions of geography and astronomy, but arise from the fact that ‘astronomy’ was then regarded as possessing a terrestrial as well as a celestial component. The eighteenth-century meaning may, however, be captured by substituting the word ‘cosmography’ to encompass both components of that broader definition. The major sub-divisions of this classificatory system may therefore be represented as shown in Fig. 1.
According to Doppelmaier, Buache, and the Paris academicians, the category ‘earth’ includes: the knowledge of the shape of our planet; its climate in the torrid, temperate, and polar regions; the specification of great circles such as the equator, horizon, and meridian, and small circles such as the tropics, arctic circles, and latitude circles generally.
It is somewhat difficult to describe and understand an intellectual revolution correctly when one has lived it day after day. Only by recalling how things were in the early 1950s may we take the measure of the change that has occurred in the last twenty-five years and has affected almost every field of research, including history in general and the history of science in particular.
We do not have to undertake such a general description here, and fortunately so: we must limit ourselves to the precise problems of the history of eighteenth-century life science. But because we are historians, we know how difficult it is to isolate a problem from its context and, as historians of science, we know that changes in our discipline are closely linked to the opinions prevailing in the philosophy of science and history. It will therefore be necessary to refer, even if briefly, to a more general situation if we want to understand what has happened in our field of inquiry. Eighteenth-century scientists, particularly naturalists, may be looked at in two different ways. If we read Charles Bonnet's observations of aphis parthenogenesis, Haller's experiments on muscular excitability, or Spallanzani's notes on artificial fertilization, we may be tempted to consider those scientists as the first ‘modern’ experimentalists. But if we think that they accepted the fantastic theory of the ‘pre-existing germs’, we cannot help considering them as ‘archaic’ thinkers.
In his comprehensive survey of the work of William Herschel, published in the Annuaire du Bureau des Longitudes for 1842, Dominique Arago argued that the life of the great astronomer ‘had the rare privilege of forming an epoch in an extended branch of astronomy’. Arago also noted, however, that Herschel's ideas were often taken as ‘the conceptions of a madman’, even if they were subsequently accepted. This fact, commented Arago, ‘seems to me one that deserves to appear in the history of science’. From the time Herschel published his first paper in the Philosophical transactions in 1781, he was subjected to the suggestion of lunacy. His patron and friend William Watson, told him that after his claims for the extraordinary power of his telescopes, ‘your prognosis that some would think you fit for Bedlam has been verified’. On learning of Herschel's supremely accurate new micrometer, the astronomer Alexander Aubert exclaimed to Herschel that ‘we would go to Bedlam together’: Aubert wrote to Herschel in January 1782 that he should ‘mind not a few jealous barking puppies: a little time will clear up the matter, and if it lays in my power you would not be sent to Bedlam alone, for I incline much to be of the party’.