In two conferences, separated by the space of only a few months, in September 1966 and March 1967, Giovanni Polvani—at the time president of the Domus Galilaeana—and the council of the Domus, attempted a series of operations, all ambitious and difficult. The first, and to some extent the simplest, was to gather round the Domus all those who were working in a professional role or as amateurs on the history of science. Also invited were scholars who had become involved in the discipline through the territorial or thematic nature of their particular interests (as was the case with Luigi Firpo, Cesare Vasoli and others), or who had some special relation to the history of science of a more, so to speak, extrinsic kind, people such as archivists, librarians, and so on. Secondly, the organizers wished—and here was where the difficulties began—to start up a discussion (not limited to mere theory) on what people understood the history of science to be, what its relationship was with the history of technology, of philosophy, and with cultural history in general. As hinted above, the discussion was not meant to be on abstract theoretical terms, since it was designed to serve as a premise for an even more complex project, that is to set up a centre for the training of future historians of science. As often happens, in the heat of discussing the concrete problems which were the subject of the first meeting at Pisa (the sources of the history of science, limited to Italy, and only to the fourteenth to sixteenth centuries), there emerged difficulties, various orientations, evaluations and declarations, which were both meaningful and enlightening.

Between the Napoleonic Wars and the First World War, roughly two hundred expeditions set out for what is now the Canadian Arctic, from its boundary with Alaska in the West, along the northern shore of Canada and including the Arctic archipelago between that shore and the pole, to the marine boundary with Danish Greenland in the East. For more than half a century, these expeditions were little concerned with Canada as a political entity; after all, it had not yet been truly created as a nation. Besides, science was a major part of the mandate of many of the Arctic expeditions, almost half of which achieved significant scientific results; and science, while partly a national activity, was also a trans-national one. John Franklin's last expedition, made famous by disaster, had, typically, been largely motivated by scientific curiosity; the resolution of geomagnetic questions loomed large in Franklin's instructions.

In trying to understand why a chemist thought as he did, and drew one set of conclusions rather than another, probably the most important thing we need to know is what picture he had in mind of the way in which chemical reactions take place. There are, of course, many other things we need to know. For example, we need to know his social, economic and cultural circumstances, how he was educated and his ideas of the social function of science and in particular of chemistry; we need to know what scientific societies and institutions he belonged to and how they influenced him; and we need to know what he hoped to get out of his work in chemistry—fame or a living or personal satisfaction or a combination of two or three of those results. Indeed, it has become fashionable in recent years to consider those aspects rather than the nature of his actual chemical thought. Yet in the end, his mental picture of chemical change is surely the most important factor in determining what the chemist's results will be, and is therefore the most important factor for historians to understand.

The most striking advances in the knowledge of human anatomy and physiology that the world had ever known—or was to know until the seventeenth century A.D.—took place in Hellenistic Alexandria. The city was founded in 331 B.C. by Alexander the Great. After the tatter's death in 323 B.C. and the subsequent dissolution of his empire, it became the capital of one of his generals, Ptolemy, son of Lagus, who established the Ptolemaic dynasty there. The first Ptolemy, subsequently named Soter (the Saviour), and his son Ptolemy Philadelphus (who succeeded him in 285 B.C.), became immensely enriched by their exploitation of Egypt and raised the city to a position of great wealth and magnificence. Anxious to enhance both their own reputation and the prestige of the kingdom, they sought to rival the cultural and scientific achievements not only of other Hellenistic rulers but even of Athens herself. Their patronage of the arts and sciences, coupled with their establishment of the Museum (an institute for literary studies and scientific research as well as a temple of the Muses), together with the Library, made the city the centre of Hellenistic culture. Philosophers, mathematicians, astronomers, artists, poets and physicians were all encouraged to come and work there.

Two hundred years ago the founder members of the Linnean Society of London decided that by forming a Library for use of the Fellows, and thus by owning books jointly, they could have access to a far wider range of publications than they could hope to as individuals. The Library was thus conceived as an integral part of the Society and its functions and on 15 April 1788 the first records in the Donation Book (‘one folio for entering Presents and Benefactions’ 26 January 1788) show that Thomas Marsham, the Treasurer, J. Dickson and Jonas Dryander all presented the Society with books ranging from Gerard's Herbal of 1597 to various works by Linnaeus. These fifteen books were soon joined by others, notably from Sir Joseph Banks whose donation of ‘duplicates’ from his own library occupies some four pages in the record of donations for 3 March 1789. The need to house these acquisitions is reflected in the decision of the Fourth Meeting to provide ‘a room or library appropriated to the reception of their books…’ and the purchase of a deal bookcase in February 1790.