Another Christmas Tradition: Royal Institution Christmas Lectures

When you think of a nineteenth century Christmas, you might think about muffled carolers going door to door, couples meeting under the kissing bough, and Yule logs burning in massive stone fireplaces in country houses built ages ago. But chances are, you don’t think about sitting in a lecture hall listening to a natural philosopher extol the virtues of chemistry.

That happened.

The Royal Institution was founded in 1799 by members of the Royal Society who wanted to see their scientific advances be turned beyond the acquisition of knowledge to improve industry and medicine and to interest people outside their exalted sphere. From the beginning, they planned on giving lectures and demonstrations. Sir Humphry Davy, a noted chemist who is, sadly, most often associated with the discovery of laughing gas, insisted on the Royal Institution conducting scientific research as well. Good thing too—research there led to discoveries of new elements and the development of the electric motor.

But lecturing and demonstrating remained a key component of the Royal Institution. The founders built a large lecture theater in 1800, holding lectures for adults. By 1816, they were also holding lectures for medical students in the laboratories themselves. Davy was succeeded by William Thomas Brande in 1813, and he was succeeded by Michael Faraday in 1821. It was Faraday who conceived of the Christmas lectures, a special series of talks given during Christmas holidays, with “spectacular demonstrations,” for youngsters.

The first few years, the lectures were given during all school breaks, but eventually only the Christmas lectures remained. They have been given every year from 1825 until this year, with a break during World War II. Early lecturers shared general information on natural philosophy (all of science), astronomy, chemistry, architecture, electricity, geology, and zoology. Around 1839, however, topics began to narrow, with such intriguing titles as “First principles of Franklinic electricity,” “The chemistry of non-metallic elements,” “The properties of matter and the laws of motion,” and “The chemistry of coal.”

Many of these lectures were given by Faraday, but others were given by his contemporaries. Faraday gave his last lecture in 1860, “On the Chemical History of a Candle,” which later was published in book form. The book is still in print. Prince Albert and two of his sons attended. Queen Victoria did not attend, but if you look closely in the pictures, you will see women at the lectures.

Beginning in the 1870s, the topics once again narrowed. Titles now promised to explain “Burning and unburning,” “The motion and sensation of sound,” “Heat, visible and invisible,” and “A soap bubble.” The 1880 lecture focused on atoms.

Since the 1960s, the lectures have been televised. You can catch up on them at the Royal Institution website.

A new Christmas tradition, perhaps?

Young Scientists: Michael Faraday, a Shocking Sort of Fellow

The nineteenth century is filled with people who started out in one direction and took another turn to fame.  Michael Faraday is just such a person.  A largely self-taught lad and the son of a blacksmith, he was apprenticed to a bookbinder in London when he was 14.  Reading the books he was binding gave him a great appreciation of science.  A customer of his master provided him with tickets to lectures by famed chemist Humphry Davy at the Royal Institution, England’s premiere laboratory.  Faraday was so fascinated by the demonstration that he took copious notes (some say up to 300 pages!), sending them to the scientist himself.  Davy was sufficiently impressed that he hired Faraday as his assistant.

Some, including Davy’s wife, refused to see Faraday as a gentleman.  He was even asked to step in as Davy’s valet when the previous valet quit.  However, valeting had its privileges.  Faraday traveled with Davy on a Grand Tour through France, Italy, and Switzerland, meeting the elite scientists of the day.  On Davy’s recommendation, he was made Chemical Assistant to the Royal Institution.  Following in Davy’s footsteps, he explored the properties of chlorine and other gasses. 

But what really fascinated him was electricity, which at that time was little more than a game to shock people at parties.  He squeezed in his own experiments while helping other scientists, using what materials were available.  For example, he constructed a voltaic pile using half pennies, sheet zinc, and paper wet with saltwater.  He discovered the principles behind the electric transformer and generator and made many other foundational discoveries, earning him credit for inventing the electric motor. He also took over the limelight at the Royal Institution, becoming an even more popular lecturer than Humphry Davy.

 

And people began to take notice.  Oxford University made him an honorary Ph.D. in Civil Law. He was offered a knighthood and refused.  He was twice suggested for president of the Royal Society, England’s professional scientific organization, and refused.  Supposedly he was asked to advise on the production of chemical weapons, and he refused.  He was, however, elected as a foreign member of the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences and the French Academy of Sciences.

One of his last areas of research was ways to improve lighthouses to help keep ships from floundering.  His recommendations were so well received that Prince Albert arranged for him to be given a house at Hampton Court, quite an elevation for a boy born to a blacksmith.

Some might even call it shocking.

Scientists of Sundry Varieties

Not too far from where I live is a major national laboratory where amazing things are discovered on a regular basis, and I count myself fortunate to have worked with some of the fine scientists and engineers over the years. In fact, some families are on the second and third generation of scientists working there. But if you were a young gentleman of a scientific bent in the nineteenth century, your journey to greatness might have taken an entirely different path.

To begin with, the very term scientist was relatively new. Those interested in observing natural phenomenon and developing and testing theories about it were more likely called natural philosophers in the early part of the century. That’s why the journal of the Royal Society, Britain’s oldest chartered scientific association, is called Philosophical Transactions. Then too, you didn’t need an advanced degree or any degree at all to call yourself a natural philosopher. William Herschel, who is credited with the discovery of the planet Uranus, began life as a talented musician and composer. Humphry Davy, who discovered the properties of laughing gas and the elements calcium, magnesium, boron, and barium, had a grammar school education and once hoped to be a poet.

There was one requirement of a natural philosopher, though. You had to have someone willing to foot the bill for your efforts. Sometimes that might be your family. Sir Joseph Banks, president of the Royal Society for many years, came from wealth and was able to pay someone to tutor him in his chosen field of study, botany. Other times, you apprenticed to someone already working in your field of interest. Michael Faraday, the noted chemist and physicist, worked as secretary and valet for Humphry Davy for a time. And if you were wealthy enough, you could pay all the costs yourself and putter away to your heart’s content. The term used for this last category of natural philosopher is Grand Amateur, and Phileas Fogg of Jules Verne’s Around the World in 80 Days is a memorable example.

If you wanted to make a living at science, however, you had two choices. One was to lecture or run a laboratory at an established institution. The premier of these was the Royal Institution in London. It had been founded near the turn of the century to bring attention to advances in science and technology among the public. Your other choice was to discover something noteworthy like a new element or unknown planet or build up such a body of knowledge that the Royal Society would take note and elect you as a Fellow. The Royal Society was nearly 200 years old by the mid-nineteenth century. At the beginning of the century, it comprised both scientists and wealthy peers those scientists hoped would pay to sponsor their work. By 1847, however, Fellows were elected based on their scientific prowess alone.

And if someone in power, like one of those Grand Amateurs who happened to be a baron or duke, took note of your work, you might be referred to the ruler for a knighthood and even offered an annual salary. Often the salary came with appointment as an officer of the Sovereign, such as in the case of the Astronomer Royal. Even if you weren’t officially appointed to a position, there was the expectation that you would use that salary to allow you to continue working for the betterment of the nation.

Much like the scientists I know today.