The microscope was one of the most profound signifiers of new modes of scientific vision that came to maturity in the nineteenth century. As Graeme Gooday noted in 2008, the microscope became ‘the iconic instrument of laboratory epistemology’, representing access to new knowledge, objectivity and trust in the procedures of scientific experimentation.1 Yet before the microscope attained its position as one of the pre-eminent scientific instruments, which it did only in the last two decades of the nineteenth century, the new ocular horizons it presented to those who put their eye to its lens were unstable and ambiguous. Indeed in one of the key areas of biological research, the study of infectious diseases, the microscope both offered increased hope for the advancement of knowledge and made knowledge unpredictably haphazard. William Henry, the writer of one of the first extended reports on disease for the new British Association for the Advancement of Science in 1834, said in his discussion of infection that while ‘our senses give us no insight into the properties of this subtile [sic] agent’ it is more unfortunate that we do not ‘derive any assistance from the most refined instruments’. It was not that Henry's microscope did not add to his visual capacity, but that it failed to provide either the necessary ‘magnifying power’ or the steady ‘clearness of definition’ needed for thorough investigation.

Those who have studied the history of Irish science have generally agreed that scientific activity declined after the turn of the century and was conspicuously absent from the institutions of the Irish Free State. Various explanations have been offered, but they may be summarized as cultural aversion (especially on the part of Catholics and nationalists), lack of economic development and educational disadvantage. Instead of offering credence to any of these theories I want to reject the assumption which I believe underlies the search for such causes. The focus on Irish scientific decline seems to me to imply that Ireland deviated from the expected path. Such narratives can easily become ‘what if ’ stories. Continuing to ask why Ireland failed to develop a scientific culture which was identical to that of her nearest neighbour assumes that it would have been better if she had done so. It is, of course, interesting that Ireland's scientific research tradition during the nineteenth century was dominated by a Protestant Ascendancy and this fact may be explained by some combination of the theories listed above. This book has sought to describe how science actually developed in a variety of sites within Ireland, how science intersected with social, cultural, religious and political communities and to ask what these developments can tell us about the history of science during the nineteenth century. Ireland's relationship with science was and is unique, affected by its specific socio-political context, its relationship with its neighbours (near and far) and international scientific developments.

In reflecting upon what Ireland can tell us about nineteenth-century science, comparisons with Britain are essential. Britain was Ireland's rival and its ruler.

Almost all of the nineteenth-century authors I have discussed so far were keen to be seen either as brewers informed by chemistry, or as chemists attuned to the brewery. If these standard self-definitions made it possible to collaborate across the divide, they also reinforced it. The separation was probably at its strongest around the mid-century, as the last of the philosophical amateurs gave way to devotees and professionals. A brewer-author such as William Black (chapter 7) might go as far as to co-produce published material with a university chemist such as Thomas Graham, but could not become a chemist in his own right: doing so would have meant the total reorientation of his life and work. The second half of the century, however, saw the growth of a brewhouse laboratory culture including researchers able to move in both spheres.

Buried in the chapter ‘Containing Various Observations about Diamonds’, within his diverse collection of scientific experiments entitled Experimenta et Observationes Physicae (1691), is Robert Boyle's most succinct statement about his interest in English maritime trade. His motivation was knowledge. Given Boyle's desire for information collected by employees of the English East India Company, this chapter attempts to answer the following question. Was there a connection between Boyle's interest in English commerce and colonies, and the rest of his work?

The idea that the New World and its colonies might yield useful knowledge for natural philosophers was common among members of the Hartlib Circle. I suggest, however, that Boyle gave this idea a detailed theological underpinning found neither in the work of Francis Bacon nor Boyle's Hartlibian colleagues. In his defence of experimental philosophy, Boyle drew a theological connection between natural philosophers’ pursuit of man's original empire over the world, and English trade and colonization, which he argued were the means of fulfilling God's command to man to enjoy the fruitfulness of the earth. In short, Boyle gave a theological framework to the idea that the recovery of Adamic empire and the pursuit of an English Protestant colonial empire were part of the same enterprise.

This chapter attempts to bring together an understanding of various aspects of Boyle's work: his theology, his natural philosophy and his colonial interests and activities in the Council for Foreign Plantations, the New England Company, the East India Company, as well as his extensive correspondence with the New World. I will suggest that identifying Boyle's Adamic ideal of restoring the ‘Empire of Man over inferior Creatures’ enables us to perceive a continuity between these various dimensions of Boyle's work, among which there is sometimes a disjunction in the historiography.

The world of professional scientists from which Francis departed when his career finally descended into the confusion of senility was drastically different from the amateur world of natural philosophers in which Erasmus involved himself 150 years earlier. Francis, Erasmus and Charles, with other members of the Darwin family in minor parts, had helped to change the old world and in doing so had helped define the origins of scientific botany. One family had made a quite unparalleled contribution to the development of a fledgling science. By 1925, the year Francis died, the young science was well established. To appreciate their legacy fully it is, however, necessary to follow the evolution of botany some way beyond 1925, given the caveat that the influence of the Darwins was inevitably diluted with each succeeding decade, and each generation of botanists. The most important threads, however, extend right up to the present day. The botanical legacy of the Darwins is the subject of this last chapter.

Their legacy was transmitted in several ways. The first of these is most difficult to pin down for it involves the spirit of the age; the way in which men thought about their world. Thus, Erasmus helped change the spirit of his age through his writings and by bringing together men who were thinkers and doers. Their interests were diverse but from each other they drew the strength to go forward, overcoming practical and personal set-backs. Practical enquiry, they increasingly recognized, could benefit man's wealth, as well as his health. Charles repositioned man in the world, placing him firmly in the natural world rather than above and apart from it. He challenged religions, the structure of society and, what is of particular relevance here, he gave altered direction to much of the science of the day. His evolutionary studies challenged biologists and geologists with countless new questions, which most were eager to tackle.

The Frankfurt physician Heinrich Hoffmann (1809–94), who authored the famous picture book Struwwelpeter (Slovenly Peter) in 1845, was also a keen satirist. In 1849, amid the chaotic demise of the Revolution, he wrote a caricature of the reactionaries horror-stricken at the prospect of a Red Terror, as well as a satire of the boisterous and tippling democrats. Having declined both extremities, Hoffmann positioned himself in the sensible centre:

This chapter investigates the approximately two decades leading to the Revolution as a period of crucial transformation in Frankfurt's public life. Significantly, the National Assembly at the Paulskirche plays only a marginal role in the historiography of the city.

Introduction

In France the asbestos affair created a wide audience for occupational health issues, which usually receive little public attention. After 1995, with the spotlight on this affair, it appeared that one of the instruments framing the use of asbestos was the setting of Occupational Exposure Limits (OELs). These limits, representing the exposure thresholds not to be exceeded in professional use of a toxin, were set for asbestos at the end of the 1970s. However, although they protected workers from certain pathologies, they failed to protect them from the risk of cancer, as asbestos is a carcinogen without a threshold. OELs have, at worst, been perceived and denounced as licenses (for employers) to expose (workers to risks), and therefore as the cause of delays in the implementation of preventive actions in industry.

OELs, used in many countries to manage certain occupational risks, highlight the contradictions running through all occupational health policies, for while they are supposed to protect workers from risks of exposure to certain toxins, they also have to avoid subjecting industry to excessive constraints. This fundamentally contradictory dimension of occupational health policies is problematical, especially for contemporary democratic states that have the objective of protecting all their citizens from health hazards. Problems of this nature, concerning all occupational health policies, are particularly evident in the case of OELs, for the very fact of setting these values brings to the fore otherwise largely invisible contradictions.

This book examines how Isaac Newton's reputation was utilized, and altered, by British men of science in biographies and historical studies published between 1820 and 1870. A detailed analysis of these works and the contexts in which they were produced demonstrates the contemporary significance of these portraits for the scientific community. It is, therefore, among a number of recent ‘Reputational studies’ which argue that representations of historical figures reflect the circumstances in which they are created and that the reputations of such figures can be used to legitimate current interests. Because of the fundamental importance of Newton as a scientific icon, uses of his posthumous reputation, whether in science, religion, biography, poetry, art or more popular genres, have long been subjected to analysis. However, this book focuses on the increase of knowledge about Newton's life and character within a fifty-year period and thus offers a far more detailed examination of the motivations and influences of writers on Newton than any of these previous works. The period under consideration is significant for three reasons. First, it saw a sudden expansion in the amount of material relating to Newton that was available to researchers and readers; second, it saw a series of debates in which Newton's personal and scientific character was either central or used as a resource; and third, it was a period that saw important changes for science and its practitioners. These texts appeared against the background of the increasing professionalization, specialization and secularization of science and it is not coincidental that a period that saw the creation of modern science also featured an identifiable debate about the life and character of the most famous of British natural philosophers.