Plastic surgery has become normalised in our day-to-day lives. So, having followed the recent reports on the over-availability and casual abuse of cosmetic procedures, I thought it apt to ponder on the roots of such vanities.

Most prominent in our collections is the replacement and reconstruction of that exposed facial appendage, the nose. Contrary to the majority of ‘nose jobs’ in contemporary society, which are often a result of whim (‘it’s too large/a bit beaky’), and the public intrigue these procedures conjure (makeover programmes offering a new nose alongside a new wardrobe treat it as just another accessory), nose jobs back in the day were actions of necessity. They often replaced the missing feature, involving an arduous procedure (given, there was an element of vanity involved).

Our earliest patient is the infamous Tycho Brahe (1546-1601). Known for his extensive contributions to astronomy, he is also known for his volatile nature, which got him into a spot of trouble in Wittenberg in 1566, resulting in a duel that saw him part with most of his nose. Tycho’s solution was to wear a brass facsimile (it is thought he wore a gold or silver one for special occasions …).

The ‘Italian method’ of nasal reconstruction, from Carpue, J C ‘An account of two successful operations for restoring a lost nose’ (London, 1816), plate 2

New surgical approaches inevitably developed. In J C Carpue’s 1816 publication An Account of Two Successful Operations for Restoring a Lost Nose …, he first discusses the ‘Italian method’, illustrated above. This process grafted a section of skin from the upper arm to the damaged nose, requiring the patient to wear a rather cumbersome suit to hold everything in place for around three weeks, until the skin took. Unfortunately this technique often failed to endure; these new noses were said to be rather vulnerable to particularly cold winters, often turning purple or dropping off.

The method Carpue recommends instead is the ‘Indian Method’, which was considered more reliable. The origins of the treatment are rather macabre: the removal of the nose was a known punishment and torture in India, so replacement noses were in demand. The ‘Indian Method’ involved taking a nose-sized section of skin from the forehead of the patient, keeping the skin attached at the bridge of the nose for blood supply. The flap was then twisted into place, covering the damaged area, and sewn on. The wound on the forehead was stitched up and was said to cause little scarring.

Lieutenant Matthew Latham, from Carpue, J C ‘An account of two successful operations for restoring a lost nose’ (London, 1816), plate 4

The patient we see above is the heroic (and rather dashing) Lieutenant Matthew Latham, who lost his nose at the Battle of Albuera (1811) while protecting the King’s flag from the attacking French hussars. Crying “I will surrender it only with my life”, Latham ultimately kept his life but lost his nose. In recognition of his heroics, the Prince Regent offered to pay for treatment by Carpue, who was said to be performing “miraculous” surgery upon the “most frightful mutilations of the face”.

The portrait of Latham, and that of Carpue’s second (syphilitic) patient, shown below, tell us the value placed on one’s facial appearance. Despite the medical and academic nature of the image, the patients are depicted in Gainsborough-esque style, with dreamy eyes and neatly curling locks.

An unnamed sufferer from syphilis, from Carpue, J C ‘An account of two successful operations for restoring a lost nose’ (London, 1816), plate 1

How many people who have opted for contemporary nose jobs would have made the same decision knowing they had to go through, say, the  lengthy ‘Italian Method’? This illustrates how far-flung our concept of ‘necessity’ is from that of 300 or so years ago, highlighting how far we have advanced, but also how far we have trivialised such procedures.

Rebecca Easey is a Masters student at the University of Sussex. She is currently on a placement at the Royal Society assisting with the digitisation of images for the Picture
Library.

There are two Christopher Wren libraries. The most well known is in Trinity College, Cambridge, completed in 1695 under the Mastership of Isaac Barrow who persuaded Wren to design it. The renowned woodcarver Grinling Gibbons decorated the library with lime wood carvings, and the library sports marble busts of several Fellows of the Royal Society and Trinity fellows: John Ray, Francis Willughby, Richard Bentley, and Sir Isaac Newton. Not surprisingly, Trinity’s library also has an exceptional collection in the early modern history of science.

The other Wren library, which deserves to be better known and used, is in Lincoln Cathedral, and it has many similarities to its cousin. Like Trinity’s library, it also has exquisite classical proportions and is light and spacious. The Cathedral Library at Lincoln also has a noteworthy collection in early modern science, but it differs from Trinity in that it was not gathered or built by a college, but rather by an individual.

The Wren Library in Lincoln Cathedral (courtesy of Canon Dr Nicholas Bennett, Vice-Chancellor and Librarian, Lincoln Cathedral)

On my visit, after making a pilgrimage up the medieval ‘Steep Hill’ to reach the Cathedral (once the tallest building in the world), I rang the bell by the library office’s red door in the Exchequergate. There I met Canon Dr Nicholas Bennett, the Vice-Chancellor and Cathedral Librarian, who kindly gave me a tour. We walked through the Cathedral, the home of the famous Lincoln Imp, a little cross-legged gargoyle perched in the Angel Choir that is the symbol of Lincolnshire, and into the library.

Appropriately enough, rather than statues of Fellows of the Royal Society, the Wren Library at Lincoln features a portrait by Cornelius Janssen of the library’s founder, Michael Honywood (1597-1681). Canon Dr Bennett pointed out to me that on the same wall hangs another portrait of Honywood’s grandmother, of whom Honywood was exceptionally proud; she had 114 grandchildren. The coat of arms of this prodigious family is also prominent, as well as several gilded wall grotesques; as typical to many early modern libraries, the books are organised by size, from pocketbooks to lavish folios.

Portrait of Michael Honywood by Cornelius Janssen (courtesy of Canon Dr Nicholas Bennett, Vice-Chancellor and Librarian, Lincoln Cathedral)

Honywood was installed as Dean of Lincoln Cathedral on 12 October 1660, and he was a life-long bibliophile. Educated at Christ’s College, Cambridge, he served as its President. However, when Cambridge was threatened by Civil War in 1642, the royalist Honywood migrated to the Low Countries, leaving behind a ‘vast storehouse of books’ which were seized by Parliamentary forces but redeemed by Honywood’s brother Henry for £20. Honywood’s other brother Thomas was a colonel in Cromwell’s army and probably had a discreet word with the Parliamentary Commissioners.

Whilst in Amsterdam, and then Utrecht, Honywood continued to collect books, leaving behind a manuscript in the Cathedral Library enumerating what he bought, as well as the books he lent to friends and colleagues. Henry Oldenburg, who would become Secretary of the Royal Society from 1663 to 1677, borrowed a variety of texts from Honywood. These included a Hebrew Bible, works by Cardinal Bellarmine, and John Selden’s De diis Syris (1617) (On the Syrian Gods), demonstrating both men’s polymathic interests. Oldenburg was known for his facility for language, and it was clear that he was actively engaged in learning new tongues. It was one of reasons that Oldenburg was such an effective Secretary of the early Royal Society, as he could correspond with virtuosi from the international Republic of Letters who were communicating their scientific discoveries.

After the Restoration, Honywood returned to England and the Deanery of Lincoln, bringing his books with him and reuniting them with his earlier collection. The depredations of the Civil War meant that the fabric of the Church was in urgent need of repair, and Honywood spent much of his career in restoring buildings and recreating the boy’s Cathedral Choir. Indeed, Honywood had a special love for music. Canon Dr Bennett indicated that Honywood treasured and heavily annotated his books of ‘sacrarum cantionum’ by William Byrd.

In 1674, Honywood paid the sum of £780 out of his private purse to erect a handsome new library built to the design of Wren ‘which replaced the north walk of the cloister . . .  taking the form of a long gallery’. The Wren library would house his collection, as well as that of the Chapter; 5000 books are from Honywood’s private library.

Mr Clive Hurst, Head of Rare Books and Printed Ephemera at the Bodleian Library, edited the Catalogue of Lincoln’s Wren Library, the collections of which he characterised as “extraordinary”. He told me that the collection has several highlights, remarking that “The Civil War pamphlets constitute a major collection gathered mainly while Honywood was in exile.”

The early English literature is also notable, “with association copies such as the volume of Edward King obsequies, including Lycidas – King and Milton being fellow students at Christ’s”. Mr Hurst also indicated that “Honywood was typical of the 17th century in being interested in all fields of knowledge, especially the latest thinking in natural philosophy and practical science.”

Indeed, Honywood bought several works in geometry, mathematics, and astronomy. In his collection are books by William Oughtred, inventor of the slide rule, and John Napier, who invented logarithms, as well as several early atlases and tracts about “dialling” or making sundials. A special highlight of Honywood’s collection is a first edition of Galileo’s Two Chief World Systems (1632), in which three characters debate the merits of the Ptolemaic and Copernican systems. Honywood also collected works by Thomas Digges that introduced the Copernican system to England, and two editions of FRS John Wilkins’s tract (1638) that postulated the Moon could be an inhabited world. On 3 June 1663 Samuel Pepys noted in his Diary, “Up betimes and studying of my Horizontall diall againste Deane Honiwood comes to me, who dotes mightily upon it and I think I must give it him”. We could say that Honywood was not only a bibliophile and good administrator, but very persuasive.

These works are but a fraction of the early modern printed books in the history of science available in the Wren Library at Lincoln Cathedral. Clive Hurst’s catalogue of the Wren Library has recently been put online. In July 2013, there will be a lecture about science in the Wren Library, and an accompanying exhibit. So climb up the Steep Hill, take a look at the mischievous Lincoln imp, and visit the other Wren Library for a glimpse into the mind of an early modern bibliophile enamoured with early science.

Lincoln Cathedral (courtesy of Anna Marie Roos)

It is worth mentioning that the term ‘Prime Minister’ evolved from the post of First Lord of the Treasury, and modern historians generally apply the title of first Prime Minister to Robert Walpole (not a Fellow) who led the government from 1721-42. To my surprise, 31 Prime Ministers have been Fellows of the Royal Society. Alphabetically the list goes from Herbert Asquith to Harold Wilson, and chronologically from Thomas Pelham-Holles, 1^st Duke of Newcastle, who first took office in 1754, to Mrs Thatcher herself.

Fellows are elected because of their scientific contribution, though in addition there has always been provision for Privy Councillors and members of the nobility to be elected for other reasons. This came under the heading of the privileged class, but was revised in 1902 to become Statute XII where Council may, “once every two years, recommend for election not more than two persons who either have rendered conspicuous service to the cause of science, or are such that their election would be of signal benefit to the Society”. Margaret Thatcher was elected under this Statute in 1983, the same year as David Attenborough.

These days it is unlikely that the names of the early Prime Ministerial Fellows would be familiar in either scientific or political context: the aforementioned Thomas Pelham-Holles, elected FRS in 1749 and Prime Minister 1754-56 and 1757-62; or Frederick Robinson, 1^st Viscount Goderich, elected FRS in 1828 and Prime Minister 1827-28; or even Archibald Primrose, 5^th Earl of Rosebery, elected 1886 and Prime Minister 1894-95, even though he was also the Chairman of the first County Council of London.

Others would be more familiar: William Lamb, 2^nd Viscount Melbourne, elected FRS towards the end of his second term of office as Prime Minister in 1841; Benjamin Disraeli, elected FRS in 1876 in the middle of his term of office 1874-80; William Pitt the Elder, 1^st Earl of Chatham, elected 1744 before his Prime Ministerial term 1766-68; and Henry John Temple, 3^rd Viscount Palmerston, elected FRS in 1853 before becoming Prime Minister 1855-58 and 1859-65. Also among the Fellowship were the Duke of Wellington, elected FRS in 1847 after his terms of office in 1828-30 and 1834, and William Ewart Gladstone, elected FRS in 1881 and Prime Minister four times (1868-74, 1880-85, 1886, and 1892-94). And of course there are the well-known names of the twentieth century: James Ramsay MacDonald, Herbert Asquith, Arthur Balfour, Stanley Baldwin, Clement Attlee, Harold Macmillan and Harold Wilson.

William Gladstone FRS, by Elliott and Fry, London

Of them all, only Margaret Thatcher had a degree in a scientific subject, and the best-known Prime Ministerial Fellow, Sir Winston Churchill, had no degree at all. He was elected to the Fellowship in May 1941, just over a year after he first became Prime Minister, and was described by his friend Frederick Lindemann, head of the Clarendon Laboratory at Oxford, as “a scientist who had missed his vocation”. In 1924 Churchill wrote to Lindemann about a report of a deadly ray being invented, in 1927 both were corresponding with Hugh Trenchard, Marshal of the RAF, about the design of bomb sights, and in the 1930s both were extremely worried about air defence against Germany, and later the nuclear bomb. Churchill was appreciative of science and its importance throughout both World Wars and after.

Baroness Thatcher is the last of the Prime Ministers who were also elected as Fellows. It is now the practice of the Royal Society not to elect serving ministers of the Crown to Honorary Fellowship.

Barthélemy Faujas de Saint-Fond, from the frontispiece of ‘A journey through England and Scotland’

This travelogue, designed to assess the state of science in England and Scotland, begins in London with our old friend Sir Joseph Banks who, as President of the Royal Society, presided over the Club’s meal. Faujas describes the food and drink and the atmosphere of the evening. It must be said that the company seems to receive more compliments than the food. Faujas described the food as being “of the solid kind” and noted, “In France, we commonly drink only one cup of good coffee after dinner: in England they drink five or six of the most detestable kind”. He mentions several different varieties of alcohol that were served – in fact the whole thing was a very boozy affair: “one must drink as many times as there are guests, for it would be thought a want of politeness in England to drink the health of more persons than one at a time.”

I used our Dining Club records to trace the meal Faujas attended. Although no exact date was given, Faujas helpfully noted that the health of the Prince of Wales (later George IV) was toasted as it was his birthday. This meant it was easy to identify the date of the dinner as 12 August 1784. The minutes of the meeting showed that Faujas had attended as a guest of Alexander Aubert FRS. There seem to have been 25 people present at the meal, and the menu is also available in the minutes for us to peruse. The dinner included a variety of meats and side dishes including a ‘lamb’s head’,’ soals’, ‘veal cutlets’ and ‘sallad’.

Suitably sated, Faujas went on to observe a meeting of the Society, remarking that “I should not wish to partake of similar dinners, if they were to be followed by settling the interest of a great nation, or discussing the best form of government; that would neither be wise nor prudent”, but luckily for Faujas the meeting was only in order to officially elect and celebrate the Fellowship of Charles Theodore, Elector Palatine of Bavaria (pictured below).

Portrait of Charles Theodore, by a Bavarian court painter, ca. 1775-1785 © The Royal Society

While my food envy remains strictly modern (lamb’s head, anyone??), I’d love to have been a fly on the wall at one of the eighteenth century dinners. If nothing else, my interest in food has led me to read Faujas’s account of his travels, which go beyond casual observations on food and drink to give a fascinating glimpse into Georgian Britain through its science, its developing industries and the people Faujas meets during his journey.

The illustrations are one of the main attractions of the book – fantastically detailed and beautifully executed, they still have the same power to impress today as they must have done almost three hundred and fifty years ago. Imagine folding out the super-sized plate with the image of the flea, and seeing for the first time those powerful legs, armour-plated body and hooked claws. Samuel Pepys famously sat up until 2am reading Micrographia, and described it in his diary as “the most ingenious book that ever I read in my life”. It was probably the pictures that prompted Pepys to buy the book in the first place: he saw a copy at his bookseller’s and found it “so pretty that I presently bespoke it”.

I suspect we have Charles II to thank in some measure for the high-quality engravings. It was he who requested an illustrated book of microscopy, initially from Christopher Wren, who had begun making such drawings at Oxford. He had presented some to Charles, who liked them so much he asked the Royal Society for more. Wren was busy with other projects and the job fell to Hooke to complete. I particularly like the point he makes with his first plate of observations.

Needle tip, printed full-stop and razor’s edge, from Robert Hooke’s Micrographia (London, 1665).

Here Hooke starts at the very beginning, with the two basic geometric units, the point and the line. But because he’s doing microscopy rather than geometry, the point is illustrated by the tip of a needle (top image above) and a printed full-stop (central image), and the line is the edge of a razor (bottom image). Hooke’s purpose in this plate is to demonstrate to his readers the microscopic irregularities in things the human eye perceives as regular, sharp, and smooth. So the tip of the needle is rounded and blunt, the razor’s edge pitted and scarred, and the full-stop is a chaotic blot “like a great splatch of London dirt”. According to Hooke, it’s tedious to look at man-made things through the microscope, because they all turn out to be the same – gross, clumsy and irregular. In his own words: “the Productions of art are such rude mis-shapen things, that when view’d with a Microscope, there is little else observable, but their deformity”.

So he turns to the natural world, and everywhere he looks he sees things that are perfectly formed and perfectly suited to their purpose. “In natural forms, there are some so small, and so curious, and their design’d business so far remov’d beyond the reach of our sight, that the more we magnify the object, the more excellencies and mysteries do appear”. One of the reasons Micrographia was so influential was that Hooke wasn’t content just to look at the forms of natural objects and draw them; he wanted to understand their “design’d business” – that is, why they were formed in that way, and what effect it had. One of Micrographia‘s claims to fame is that Hooke used the word ‘cell’ here for the first time to describe the tiny pores he observed in a slice of cork and in the pith of other plants. He compared them with the cells in honeycomb. As soon as he saw them, said Hooke, he realised they explained “all the phenomena of Cork”: that is, its exceeding lightness, its “springiness and swelling nature”, and its imperviousness to air and water.

He went on to describe and explain the microscopic forms of dozens of other everyday plant and insect specimens, including mould, stinging nettles, spiders, ants, mites, flies, poppy-seeds, fish scales, feathers, hair, petrified wood, and “the Eels in Vinegar” (nematode worms). His observations and descriptions are really interesting (but much too long to reproduce here) so I encourage you to read some of them yourselves, in one of the online editions of the book. Hooke’s text is extremely lively and readable, and you get a good impression of the man behind the microscope.

Partly, this is because Hooke takes the time to explain some of the difficulties he encountered while doing his observations. The ant, he says, was “a creature, more troublesom to be drawn, then any of the rest’ because it would not lie still: ‘whilst it was alive, if its feet were fetter’d in Wax or Glew, it would so twist and wind its body, that I could not any wayes get a good view of it; and if I killed it, its body was so little, that I did often spoile the shape of it”. Hooke’s solution was to drop it in alcohol, which stunned it for about an hour; until “upon a sudden, as if it had been awaken out of a drunken sleep, it suddenly reviv’d and ran away”.

Hooke also commented on the difficulty in correctly interpreting what he could see – the same object looked very different in different lights. “For it is exceeding difficult in some Objects, to distinguish between a prominency and a depression, between a shadow and a black stain, or a reflection and a whiteness in the colour. … The Eyes of a Fly in one kind of light appear almost like a Lattice, drilld through with abundance of small holes … In the sunshine they look like a Surface cover’d with golden Nails; in another posture, like a Surface cover’d with Pyramids; in another with Cones”.

I love the way Hooke uses a rich vocabulary of descriptive language to complement his illustrations. I think he really wanted his readers to experience for themselves the beauty and complexity in the microscopic details of ordinary things. As he says in his preface, the microscope (and the telescope) allow us to discover completely new worlds, previously unimagined – and Micrographia does a great job of conveying Hooke’s excitement and wonder as he voyaged into the unknown.

[This post was originally posted, in a slightly different format, on Felicity’s blog Robert Hooke’s London http://hookeslondon.com/]

I suspect this won’t be the style of nest we’ll be seeing on our Easter cards this weekend, and perhaps you shouldn’t have it in mind as you’re breaking into a chocolate egg. Pristine beauty of the Fabergé kind is more likely. My own favorite nature studies of nests and their contents are to be found in the 1772 book Sammlung von Nestern und Eyern verschiedener Vogel by the German engraver and publisher Adam Ludwig Wirsing (1734-1797) with supporting descriptions by Friedrich Christian Gunther. Wirsing’s prints make the book: they are detailed and accurate in the scientific sense, but artistically quite sumptuous. The plates were printed on thick, hand-laid paper and were then vibrantly coloured to achieve a quite sculptural quality that would not have shamed the house of Fabergé. One can imagine reaching out and touching the blue duck-eggs of his ‘Canard Sauvage’.

Wirsing, A L and Gunther, F C ‘Sammlung von Nestern und Eyern verschiedener Vogel’ (1772), plate 37 – eggs of the ‘Canard Sauvage’

Wirsing moved to Nüremberg to practice his art in 1760 at a time when the city was home to many fine natural history artists, including Barbara Regina Dietzsch (1706-1783). Like Dietzsch, Wirsing produced works on flowers in addition to his ornithological studies. He worked with the most prestigious of botanical painters, including someone very well known to the Royal Society: Georg Dionysius Ehret FRS (1708-1770), one of several fine artists ‘poached’ from the continent by Sir Joseph Banks.

The level of veracity found in the best of Wirsing’s egg paintings reminded me of another, far more famous work that might well feature on cards this Easter: Primroses and Bird’s Nest by the Pre-Raphaelite William Holman Hunt (1827-1910), which can be seen at the Tate. In common with many English artists of the early-to-mid-nineteenth century, Holman Hunt greatly admired a scientific approach to observation and illustration familiar to the likes of Wirsing. Hunt’s teacher, John Varley (1778-1842) is said to have instilled in his charges the idea that they should “go to Nature for everything”. Sound advice for both scientists and artists, even if the source is a little curious: Varley was an associate of William Blake and a believer in ghosts, visions and astrology, an odd figure to bridge the worlds of fine painting and natural history.

Wirsing, A L and Gunther, F C ‘Sammlung von Nestern und Eyern verschiedener Vogel’ (1772), plate 3 – nests of the goldfinch and robin

Richard Owen ‘On the Archeopteryx of Von Meyer’, Phil. Trans. R. Soc. 1863, 153, pp.33-47, plate 1

The plate above is taken from the Philosophical Transactions paper ‘On the Archaeopteryx of Von Meyer, with a description of the Fossil Remains of a Long-tailed species, from the Lithographic Stone of Solenhofen’ – I think you’ll agree, a rather catchy title – written by none other than Richard Owen FRS.

Archaeopteryx was a transitional fossil linking dinosaurs and birds, alluded to briefly by Owen in this paper, though he studiously refrains from making the connection explicit here – unsurprising, given his opinion of Darwinian evolution. There are references which enable the reader to infer the link, for example in plate II (below) he compares the wing-bones of the Archaeopteryx (fig. 1) with those of bird (fig. 2) and a Pterodactyl (fig. 3) side by side.

Richard Owen ‘On the Archeopteryx of Von Meyer’, Phil. Trans. R. Soc. 1863, 153, pp.33-47, plate 2

However, Owen continuously refers to the Archaeopteryx as a bird, emphasising the closer ties that the specimen shares with birds, ending with one final reinforcement:

“The best-determinable parts of its preserved structure declare it unequivocally to be a Bird, with rare peculiarities indicative of a distinct order in that class. By the law of correlation we infer that the mouth was devoid of lips, and was a beak-like instrument fitted for preening the plumage of Archaeopteryx. A broad and keeled breast-bone was doubtless associated in the living bird with the great pectoral ridge of the humerus [sic], with the furculum, and with the other evidences of feathered instruments of flight.” (p.46)

Of course, other scientists were able to draw their own conclusions from this work, and many – including Gideon Mantell, as you may recall from a previous blog post – were already wary of Owen, not least the referees of this particular paper. In the original submitted draft, Owen attempts to take credit for this particular species, originally titling his paper ‘On the Archaeopteryx macrurus, Owen’. Hugh Falconer comments definitely on this in his report, stating ‘This ought not to be allowed in the Royal Transactions [as] Von Meyer first named the fossil in a communication dated the 30^th Sept. 1861 [...] in the ‘Jahrbuch’ for the year’ (RR/5/162 p.2). The true name, according to Falconer, is the Archaeopteryx lithographica of Von Meyer. Quite rightly, therefore, credit is given in the printed paper to Von Meyer, who had precedence over Owen, though Owen in his introduction comments that the single feather upon which Von Meyer’s identification rests is not sufficient proof of species identity but he will retain (begrudgingly, we can assume!) the original classification for now.

The lithographica in the genus refers to the type of stone in which the specimen was found, being a type of limestone used in lithography. Coincidentally, the images within the Phil Trans were printed through lithography, and many fossils were found while quarrying for stone for this very purpose. The image below, taken from Sam. Christian Hollman’s 1775 ‘Commentationum in Reg. Scient. Societ. Goetting’, indicates the stratified nature of the rock which was later quarried for lithography, and Hollman comments on the range of specimens which are found in this particular type of stone.

Image of a quarry, from Sam. Christian Hollman ‘Commentationum in Reg. Scient. Societ. Goetting’ (1775)

In his Archaeopteryx paper, Owen comments on ‘the peculiar stone which the progress of lithographic art has rendered so valuable’ (p.44). The usefulness here is twofold: in the finding of the specimen and again in the communication of the images which accompany the paper. These gave readers their first real glimpse of Archaeopteryx, an important discovery which would come to be considered as conclusive evidence of an evolutionary stepping-stone between dinosaurs and birds.

Podarcis muralis, from Theodor Eimer ‘Zoologische Studien auf Capri: II’ (1874), plate 2 figure 3 (detail) – Royal Society Tracts X334/3

If you’ve spent any time at all in southern Europe and the Mediterranean, you’ll recognise immediately the wall lizard Podarcis muralis, varieties of which are pretty well distributed all over the region. It’s hard to avoid the little green-and-brown creature, basking on rocks, vanishing into wall crevices or running around in gardens. Hence the unexpectedness of seeing it in a rather beautiful natural history lithograph: who would write about something so ordinary?

Of course I shouldn’t have been too surprised at all. Ever since Charles Darwin set foot on the Galapagos and later started thinking about finches and the like, zoologists have loved island populations of common things. That includes some uncommon things closer to us too: one shouldn’t forget that Homo floresiensis was found on an island. But in the case of my wall lizards it was a nineteenth century researcher, Theodor Eimer, who began to study them and have them drawn.

Eimer’s main interest was their relationship to something very unusual and only found in one particular place. On the Faraglioni Rocks off the island of Capri in Italy, these lizards aren’t green at all, but have evolved into a rather snazzy bright blue (Podarcis sicula coerulea). Eimar’s 1874 monograph (subtitled ‘A contribution to the Darwinian doctrine‘) describes this blue variant and attempts to explain it in terms of its environment: the Faraglioni have no vegetation and therefore more bluish-tinted reptiles would better survive airborne predation since these individuals are closer to the natural rock colour.

Podarcis sicula coerulea, from Theodor Eimer ‘Zoologische Studien auf Capri: II’ (1874), plate 1 figure 3 (detail) – Royal Society Tracts X334/3

Gustav Heinrich Theodor Eimer (1843-1898) was Professor of Zoology at the University of Tübingen and a proponent of orthogenesis, the idea that evolution might proceed in particular directions as opposed to the purely random variations of natural selection. Rather appropriately, for a splendidly bewhiskered Victorian, Eimer’s name was given to the nasal sensory organs of the mole, which he studied. He married Anna Lutteroth (b.1851) of Hamburg and one little detail on the plates that almost escaped me is that the reptiles were drawn by her, as Anna Eimer. It was an immediate collaboration: as soon as they married in 1870 Theodor saw service as a Franco-Prussian war surgeon, with Anna working as an army nurse. Invalided, Theodor recuperated on Capri in 1871, the first of several visits the pair made to the island, for its azure seas and remarkable blue lizards.

The Royal Society has a long tradition of featuring scientific findings at its Soirées, also known as Conversazioni. Originally, these were funded personally by the President of the Royal Society and held at the President’s home. However, in 1871 the Soirée Committee was formed and given a small stipend to plan these popular events, which included wine, ices, and musical entertainment. Between 1871 and 1876, the annual Soirée was a male-only event, although early programmes show that two women exhibited their work during this time period.

On 27 April 1872, the photographs of Miss Stokes, a series of 54 images of early Christian architecture found in Ireland, were presented by J H Lamprey, secretary of the London Ethnographical Society.  Margaret Stokes (1832-1900) was a renowned archaeologist and antiquarian, well known for her exquisite illustrations of early Irish artifacts. In 1876 she became an honorary member of the Royal Irish Academy. The fact that her large collection of photographs was deemed worthy of exhibition in the Royal Society’s principal library at Burlington House confirms her respected position in the Society.

Another early contributor was Marianne North (1830-1890), a naturalist who painted flora from all over the world. She was unique in that she often travelled unaccompanied to remote locations. After the death of her mother in 1855, North began travelling with her father, and in 1869 resolved to become a painter of flora. In 1871 she began an extensive journey to the Americas, and at one point lived in an isolated hut in the jungles of Brazil. Marianne North’s paintings from her travels were a fixture at the Royal Society’s Conversazioni from 1874 to 1886.  These included rare images of plant life from Asia, India, the Americas and the Caribbean.  At a time when preservation was difficult and photography limited, her robust and colorful paintings depicted both beauty and scientific accuracy. The Standard wrote, after her first exhibit at the Royal Society, that North’s paintings “were regarded with deserved attention and appreciation”. Over 800 of her works are still on display at the Marianne North Gallery at Kew Gardens, and you can read her autobiography online.

In 1876, the Soirée Committee introduced a second programme, which women were invited to attend. This opened the door for women to present their own scientific findings as well as participate in scientific discourse. The famous Welsh soprano, Mrs Margaret Watts-Hughes, displayed a series of glass figures showing impressions caused by voice figures on elastic discs. During an attempt to measure the power of her voice, Watts-Hughes discovered that by placing seeds, sand or other formulations on a membrane stretched over a container, one could measure the intensity of sound through physical patterns caused by the vibrations on the membrane.  She had invented the eidophone, and thus became the first woman to present a scientific invention at the Royal Society.

As the years progressed, more women attended and exhibited at Royal Society Conversazioni, proving that women were actively participating in scientific advancement despite various hurdles. One such woman was Hertha Ayrton, the famous physicist, who presented her electric arc in 1895. As we celebrate International Women’s Day, it should not be forgotten that many more women have contributed their ideas and enthusiasm for the sake of their own learning and inquisitive nature.  While their names might be forgotten, these women helped to build a foundation of empowerment that has allowed future generations to strive towards equality.

The Royal Society holds and cares for the records here at Carlton House Terrace, on behalf of the Foundation. The collection of grant files dates from 1958 to 1980, although on occasion later material relating to those original grants has been added to the files. Before beginning, I’d like to thank the Foundation warmly for their help with both the catalogue and this blog post.

The Wolfson Foundation is a charitable trust established in 1955 by Sir Isaac Wolfson FRS, Lady Edith Wolfson, their son Leonard Wolfson FRS (Lord Wolfson of Marylebone) and Lord Nathan. We are fortunate in having some of Lord Nathan’s surviving correspondence to accompany the main grants files, including the letter pictured below, in which he eloquently describes the moment the Trust Deed was signed and the Wolfson Foundation began in earnest. Between 1955 and 1958, the Foundation was largely concerned with preliminary administration including the creation of a Board of Trustees, although some projects such as the British Empire Cancer Research Campaign did secure funding before 1958.

Many of the grants are awarded to areas of scientific, technical and medical research and it is for this reason that those of us working at the Royal Society associate the name Wolfson with our Grants section. Currently the Foundation is funding the Wolfson Research Merit Awards, and the Royal Society Wolfson Laboratory Refurbishment Grant. In fact the Royal Society and the Wolfson Foundation have worked together to fund scientific posts since 1961, when the Foundation allocated an endowment for a research professor, a scheme which continues today. The first post-holder, from 1961 to 1977, was the renowned expert in crystallography and Nobel Prize winner, Dorothy Hodgkin (pictured below), and the collection includes files relating to this professorship (WF/39). The Foundation has also funded many other scientific and medical research projects and positions, and has helped institutions make improvements to their infrastructure. Do take a look at the catalogue to see who else has benefitted from the grants.

However the Wolfson Foundation’s funding extends well beyond science, and since 1955 over £1bn in real terms has been donated, currently based around four main themes: Science and Medicine, Arts and Humanities, Health and Disability, and Secondary Education. In the early decades of the Foundation’s existence, large grants were given for the endowments of Wolfson College, Oxford (WF/355) and Wolfson College, Cambridge (WF/563). The Foundation has helped to fund numerous student accommodation building projects at universities across the UK, while museums, libraries and cultural institutions have also received substantial funding. Grants of this nature include assistance in purchasing Goya’s Wellington for the National Gallery in 1961 (WF/72). A wide range of other charitable organisations have also benefitted significantly from the Foundation’s grants, from Sue Ryder (WF/552) to St. John’s Ambulance (WF/49 and WF/711). Our own Library reading rooms are actually the Wolfson Rooms, and have been consistently supported by the Wolfson Foundation.

Although this blog post offers a (very) brief overview of the work of the Foundation and the grant files housed here at the Royal Society, I hope to write more in-depth entries on some of the individual files. In the meantime, if you’re interested in viewing the collection, please contact the Wolfson Foundation in the first instance to gain permission. Once that is given, we look forward to welcoming you in our Wolfson Rooms.