Robert Bud

ABSTRACT Such categories as applied science and pure science can be thought of as “ideological.” They have been contested in the public sphere, exposing long-term intellectual commitments, assumptions, balances of power, and material interests. This group of essays explores the contest over applied science in Britain and the United States during the nineteenth century. The essays look at the concept in the context of a variety of neighbors, including pure science, technology, and art. They are closely related and connected to contemporary historiographic debate. Jennifer Alexander links the issues raised to a recent paper by Paul Forman. Paul Lucier and Graeme Gooday deal with the debates in the last quarter of the century in the United States and Britain, respectively. Robert Bud deals with the earlier part of the nineteenth century, with an eye specifically on the variety of concepts hybridized under the heading of “applied science.” Eric Schatzberg looks at the erosion of the earlier concept of art. As a whole, the essays illuminate both long-term changes and nuanced debate and are themselves intended to provoke further reflection on science in the public sphere.

Antibiotic development and usage, and antibiotic resistance in particular, are today considered global concerns, simultaneously mandating local and global perspectives and actions. Yet such global considerations have not always been part of antibiotic policy formation, and those who attempt to formulate a globally coordinated response to antibiotic resistance will need to confront a history of heterogeneous, often uncoordinated, and at times conflicting reform efforts, whose legacies remain apparent today. Historical analysis permits us to highlight such entrenched trends and processes, helping to frame contemporary efforts to improve access, conservation and innovation.

This paper argues that the 1953 double-helix solution to the problem of DNA structure was understood, at the time, as a blow within a fiercely fought dispute over the material nature of life. The paper examines the debates, between those for whom life was a purely material phenomenon and religious people for whom it had a spiritual significance, that were waged from the aftermath of the First World War to the 1960s. It looks at the developing arguments of early promoters of molecular biology, including J.D. Bernal, his pupil Max Perutz and his pupil Francis Crick, on the one side, and of the so-called ‘Inkling’ cluster of writers including C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien, on the other. This debate was conducted through polemical works, journalism, and science fiction and through the Festival of Britain and can be followed through the commentary of Jacob Bronowski. The paper concludes with the model of the double helix now at the Science Museum, which can be considered an archaeological relic of a battle in a war which is still being fought.

This paper argues that the heritage represented by a museum should be seen not just in its individual objects but also in the relationships between them. The Conservatoire Nationale des Arts et Métiers and the Science Museum in London, the earliest great European science museums, were deeply concerned with the relationship between science and practice. The foundation speeches of the Deutsches Museum emphasised the concern with both past and future. Such ancestry provided hard-to-escape templates within which collections were built up over the subsequent century and more. Thus the Science Museum’s biotechnology collection developed at the very end of the twentieth century and albeit based on detailed historical research reflects the same concerns with science–technology relations as could be seen in the 1876 Loan Exhibition which started off the Science Museum. The physical presence of such carefully-structured accumulations of objects could embody and reinforce the reality of such categories as pure and applied science.

Generally, the mass media in Britain, as elsewhere, treat the history of science as arcane knowledge. A few iconic tales do none the less come to permeate public consciousness. How do these come to be selected from the myriad of possible narratives?One of the most enduring and well known of stories is the discovery of penicillin, which stretched from Alexander Fleming's observation in 1928 to the award of the Nobel prize to Fleming, Howard Florey and Ernst Chain in 1945 and the subsequent dominance of American companies in its manufacture. During the 1980s, when it appeared scandalous that monoclonal antibodies discovered in Cambridge, England, had not been patented by the British government, the parallel was often made with penicillin. An alternative use was made of the story when, in July 1995, a columnist in London's Evening Standard criticized massive expenditure on medical research and claimed that most drugs were discovered by accident. He sustained his thesis by merely putting in pointed parentheses the one word, ‘penicillin’. The same year, partisans found space in the correspondence columns of the New Scientist to return enthusiastically to the debate over the proper disposition of credit between Fleming and Florey. The BBC's Money Programme broadcast a piece on how best to support inventors today in October 1996; it included film of the Science Museum's coverage of Fleming.The story of penicillin seems therefore bound, time and time again, to great issues in British culture: pride over technological prowess, resentment over the loss of opportunity, jealousy of American success, the National Health Service and the emergence of the modern pharmaceutical industry. The appeal of the story and meaning of its associations are matched by reverence for its material relics. In high profile auctions, the sale of samples prepared by Fleming raises thousands of pounds and is previewed in the newspages and on the radio. The original plate on which Fleming observed penicillin with its sterile ring surrounding the healing penicillin is one of the most familiar of historic relics.