by Tim Sherratt
[seminar paper delivered before History Program, RSSS, ANU, June 1999]

Speaking at the congress opening, the much-beloved professor of geology, Edgeworth David, remarked that “the vast value of science as a means of national defence” had been “incontestably demonstrated” during the war. Britain’s scientific workers, bolstered by Australian chemists and engineers, had been mobilised to counter Germany’s industrial might. The need for permanent support of science was, David thought, “a matter of national insurance”.^[2] Certainly Australian Prime Minister Hughes had seemed eager to pay his premiums, calling in 1915 for the establishment of a “national research laboratory” – the cornerstone of a “great and high civilisation”.^[3] Somewhat more prosaic in execution, the Commonwealth Institute for Science and Industry was formally established in 1920.^[4]

Science had emerged from the war with enhanced respect, but, suggested the Argus, having “helped in the work of mutual destruction”, it was now time for it to aid “the great work of post-war reconstruction”.^[5] Gathered together in 1921, Australia’s scientists could at last turn their attention from war in Europe to an “organised group attack” on the problems facing Australia. The shortsighted “practical man”, suspicious of science, could only hold the country back, the Argus believed. Nature was stronger in this new land, and “must be fought every inch of the way”. The battle would be waged “through that united effort which is called the advancement of science”.^[6]

Was this the end for the practical man? Not before time, perhaps, as chronicles of Australian science have noted that the utilitarian spirit of politicians and public alike often thwarted scientific aspirations. Does this call to arms (or brains) reflect a cultural shift? Roy Macleod suggests that the Great War forced the practical man and the scientist to co-operate, offering the prospect of a permanent peacetime reconciliation.^[7] A 1919 editorial in the Australasian Manufacturer, he notes, argued that the two were, in fact, complementary. Peace was breaking out all over.

It is tempting to view such an intellectual armistice as a sign of growing “cultural maturity” - ignorance and materialism gradually giving way to support for the scientific endeavour. This soothing flow of enlightenment from science to public, mirrors the presumed transmission of science itself from the cultural centre of Europe to the intellectually-dependent periphery. But such linear, progressive models blind us to the bumps and eddies, to the local and contingent, offering instead a smooth, carefree ride to the present. Shifting centres of authority have, at least, been observed in the process of scientific transmission. There is little to alert us to similar changes in the cultural authority of science, to the shifting boundary between science and the Australian public. Where were the skirmishes, the sites of resistence?

The Australasian Manufacturer declared a truce between the practical man and the scientist in March 1919. Within six months they were slugging it out again, as Parliament considered legislation to create the Institute of Science and Industry. Both supporters and opponents of the Bill launched bitter attacks on “mere theorists” and that most dreaded of species, the“university professor”, seeking to ensure that the Institute’s work would be undeniably “practical”. Viewed not as the last hurrah of a doomed species, but as the first sustained public discussion of the best means to organise science for the good of the nation, such an event offers cause for reflection. The Australian nation was grappling with its destiny, imagining its futures. Science, too, was undergoing changes, becoming more specialised and professional. The boundaries between science and the nation, between theory and practice were in flux. Within such skirmishes, the cultural role of science can be glimpsed, and the changing nature of the boundary that separates science from the public can be explored.

Science was above politics, or so Senator Russell hoped. Introducing the 1918 Institute of Science and Industry Bill, he optimistically proclaimed: “This is not a party measure. It has nothing to do with party politics”.^[8] He was wrong.

After Billy Hughes had unveiled his grand vision for a national laboratory, a meeting of scientists, politicians, business men and bureaucrats had established an Advisory Council on Science and Industry in 1916, to set their plans in motion and prepare the way for a permanent Institute to be created under legislation. However, eighteenth months later no such legislation had been introduced, and Hughes warned the Council "there is abroad a spirit which is somewhat sceptical of good resulting from such an institution as this".^[9]

The Advisory Council was struggling to escape the circumstances of its birth. Hughes’ grandiloquent endorsement of the idea of a national laboratory, and his off-the-cuff suggestion that £500,000 might be well spent on such a project, surprised the nation and startled his Cabinet colleagues – a number of whom, following Hughes’ defection from the Labor Party, found themselves on the Opposition benches by the time the legislation finally made it to the Senate in September 1918. Anointed thus, the planned Institute became a target for those offended by Hughes' divisive and dictatorial style. The Age, in particular, waged a strident campaign, portraying the Institute as a clear example of the Hughes’ misuse of executive power, his disdain for Parliament, his financial irresponsibility, and his desire to create “fat billets” for his friends. It was a waste of money that duplicated services already provided by the States.

Legislation to establish the Institute was set upon a tortuous journey. Criticism, prevarication and delay, withheld consideration by the House of Representatives until August 1919, when, after an inconclusive debate, it was withdrawn. A modified form of the Bill was introduced the following year, finally gaining assent in September 1920.

In 1918, Senator Russell ended his second-reading speech with an appeal to his colleagues "not to regard it as a fanciful experiment intended to give a few professors a job", however, the Age set the tone for the debate to follow, reporting his address under the headline "JOBS FOR PROFESSORS".^[10] The Opposition duly followed the Age line of attack, seeing all the flaws of the Hughes government displayed in the bill and its handling.

But criticisms of the bill were not all political, nor were they confined to the Opposition. Indeed, members of the Advisory Council would not have been surprised by a number of the arguments raised, as they had heard them before - from Hughes himself.

Hughes' public pronouncements on science were full of progressivist vigour and classical illusion. Opening the conference to discuss his national laboratory scheme, he claimed that attempting to develop modern industry without the aid of science was like "attempting to navigate the trackless ocean without a compass". Science would make "rural life pleasant as well as profitable", "the desert bloom like a rose", even the manufacturer would be led into "green pastures".^[11] But Hughes' understanding of science was not as a research process, but as a "magic wand". Professor of physiology at the University of Melbourne, W.A. Osborne, met with Hughes shortly before his 1915 announcement and discovered that Hughes seemed to believe "that science had already in hand an immense store of knowledge ready for instant application".^[12] "Knowledge", Hughes himself declared, "was a broad stream which passed the door of all, but few people cared to dip their pannikins in it". His scheme for the application of science would "provide reticulating channels for this stream" which would "fertilize this nation".^[13]

Hughes envisaged a scheme of intellectual irrigation, with scientists as engineers (or perhaps ditch-diggers) channelling knowledge where it was required. Science itself was something separate from the actual work of scientists. It was possible then, that the wrong sort of scientists might actually hinder or misdirect the flow of scientific knowledge.

In July 1917, Hughes met with the Advisory Council for the first time since its establishment.^[14] He apologised for his lack of attentiveness, but then added "although some of you live in those quiet back-waters of science where everything goes very well, I have been otherwise engaged". While his enthusiasm for science remained intact, Hughes seemed determined to make the Council aware of the political realities of their situation. Herbert Gepp, an industrial chemist and General Manager of the Electrolytic Zinc Company of Australasia, opened the discussion by describing the combination of qualities he believed would be necessary in the three-man directorate of the permanent Institute. Organising ability, was required, along with technical skill and scientific knowledge. Hughes, growing cynical and impatient, snapped: “You have as far as I can see, described the attributes of a god and no doubt we shall be able to get them”.

Earlier the same day Hughes had met with the Executive Committee. "[I]t was quickly evident Hughes meant to do the talking and was inclined to dictate to us", recounted Orme Masson, the committee's chairman and Melbourne University's professor of chemistry. It would be impossible to find scientists with the necessary business and organising abilities for the positions of Directors, Hughes had argued forcefully. He carried this argument on into the full council meeting, quizzing the members on what was meant by their recommendation that two of the three directors should be appointed "on account of scientific attainments and wide experience". Most scientists, he suggested, had no knowledge of "affairs". Where could you find such a "happy blend"? Which was more important - "the scientist or the man of affairs?" The Institute would fail, Hughes believed, if its work were conducted in a "scientific atmosphere":

We have got to make this succeed and we shall not make it succeed by putting science on a pedestal - to be held inviolate, beyond criticism, as she is now. Now she has got to make good; she has got to come down from her pedestal and get on to the job.

The meeting continued the following day, with Hughes making more specific points relating to the relationship between the Institute and the existing government analytical laboratories, and the need for the council to focus on a limited set of problems that promised early results. "I want to impress this upon you gentlemen", he announced ominously, "you are dealing with a hard unbelieving generation. Do not embrace the idea that you are not, because you are. You have got to make good with some of these". He paid little attention to Masson's equivocal response that it would be "misleading" to give the impression that these problems would be solved within six months, "or even the next year". For Masson, science was concerned with research, for Hughes it was about results.

Hughes was the progressive knight seeking to rescue science from its over-possessive acolytes - the scientists - carrying it safely from its pedestal into the factories and the farms, where it could have a happy and productive life. Marching by his side, it seemed, would be many of his parliamentary colleagues. When the leader of the Labor Opposition, F.G. Tudor, rose to respond to the second reading of the Institute's bill in 1919, a number of his points might have come from the mouth of Hughes himself. It was important to know, he argued "whether this Institute is to be a practical or a theoretical one". He was concerned that the Institute might consist "merely of University professors and other theorists", with "no provision for the appointment of any practical men".^[15] Tudor's attack was continued by his Nationalist opponent, Sir Robert Best, who criticised the Advisory Council as a collection of "distinguished academicians" who had "not yet been able to accomplish anything of a thoroughly practical character". If this precedent was continued, he warned, if the Institute was dominated by "university professors", "be they ever so distinguished in pure science", it would "only continue the failure of the past".^[16]

Many contributors to the debate made similar arguments. If theorists controlled the Institute there would be "research in every direction", "research run mad", "childish" schemes. The Institute needed to be run on business lines, making practical use of scientific knowledge.

This was not merely a case of political opportunism. Certainly the Opposition used such arguments to add weight to a more narrowly focused attack on the Hughes' style of government. But on many points all sides were in agreement. In any case, whether or not the motives of participants were primarily political, they were able to draw on a powerful reservoir of negative stereotypes and elaborate an existing disquiet about the relationship between knowledge and experience. It may be rather that the political issues opened a crack in the scientific façade, enabling such concerns to be legitimately voiced. But where did they come from?

It is tempting to blame the anti-intellectual nature of Australian democracy, an over-emphasis on materialistic and utilitarian values. Certainly such causes have been cited for the public's lack of interest in science, both by historians and contemporary observers. But participants in the parliamentary debate were virtually united in their professed support for science. Senator Senior remarked: “When we recollect what has been achieved by science in other directions, I do not wonder that every one of the opponents of this bill has prefaced his remarks by a declaration that he is not opposed to science”.^[17] The Age also sought to distance its criticisms of the Institute from its opinion of science, commenting:

There is an obvious attempt... on the part of the political and official sponsors of this luxurious Institute to represent that those who subject its obvious weaknesses to criticism are enemies of science and education, who prefer barabaric darkness to enlightened progress. That kind of political fudge ought to be abandoned.^[18]

J.H. Maiden, Director of the Sydney Botanic Gardens, was a dedicated worker in the cause of science. His involvement with the AAAS dated back to its establishment in 1888, and he served as its Honorary Secretary from 1909. Presenting his final report to the AAAS Council in 1921, Maiden warned that the organisation must take heed of the times - “the war had startled scientists out of sleepy ways and narrow grooves”.^[19] The AAAS should follow its British counterpart, Maiden believed, in seeking to engage more directly with the public. “We want to make science popular”, he told the Argus, “and in a way to teach them what they owe to it. The average idea of a scientist is a bespectacled old gentleman with long hair, but I think we are pretty normal”.^[20]

The Association had always aware of the need to encourage public support. The aims of the Association, explained Edgeworth David in 1904, included obtaining “a greater degree of national attention” for science, as well as working “to secure a removal of any disadvantages of a public nature which impede its progress”.^[21] There was no doubt that the cultivation of a scientific spirit amongst the Australian people was a worthy task. But how was it to proceed?

Maiden suggested that more time should be given over to the discussion of topics of “general Australian interest”. Masson had indicated a similar preference a decade earlier, assuring the press that discussion of “matters which appeal to the few” would be curtailed to allow more time for topics of broader interest. He described the 1911 program as “a happy blend” combining “certain high and dry subjects” with presentations “of distinctly popular importance”.^[22] This “happy blend” was difficult to achieve. The Sydney Morning Herald expressed its concern about specialization and encouraged scientists to take on the “noble” and “pious” work of translating theories into “plain words”, “to bring home to the unscientific the deeper implications of research”.^[23]

Specialisation bottled-up the scientific spirit, keeping it from the reach of a thirsty public; and yet, specialisation was essential if the Association was to be of value to the scientific community. After all, its main aim was to provide a venue where the country's widely dispersed scientists could meet and share news of their researches. There was no escaping this dilemma. Although based on the BAAS, the Australian association was founded in different times - science had changed.^[24] By the late nineteenth century, the enthusiastic amateur, the gentleman of inquisitive bent, found himself increasingly excluded from the higher reaches of his passion. Nature was removed to the laboratory for the purposes of experimentation. Mere collection and description gave way to method and analysis, as knowledge itself was compartmentalised by a new breed of scientific specialists. Walls of brick and theory were constructed around the pursuit of scientific truth.

At the same time, scientists, like other middle-class intellectuals, were becoming increasingly aware of their own professional status.^[25] This growing sense of scientific identity engendered a desire for adequate recognition and remuneration, as well as a more altruistic confidence in their special ability, nay their duty, to contribute to the progress of the community. But the ability of scientists to perform this duty was, more and more, dependent upon public largesse. The dilemma embedded within the AAAS was thus a broader one - at a time when scientists where increasingly defining themselves as separate from the public, they needed, more than ever, to persuade the public of the value of their researches.

Artists and writers faced a similar problem. In creating their own professional identity, Richard White argues, they came to view the public as philistines, incapable of understanding their art. And yet it was from the same source that they sought their support, "a sort of intellectual protectionism".^[26] The scientists were perhaps more forgiving of their audience, their ignorance, after all, was in some ways unavoidable. Nonetheless, if science were to claim the status and authority it deserved, the weight of this ignorance would need to be leavened by admittance of the scientific spirit.

Science's claim for special attention rested on three main arguments. Firstly, that science was a pure quest for truth, which ennobled the searcher and enriched the culture. Second, that science was an engine for material progress - its practical outcomes carried society on a wave of wealth and innovation. And third, that scientists were possessed of professional skills and personal traits that made them useful and important members of society. None of these arguments, however, was without its problems or contradictions.

Delivering the Presidential Address to the 1902 AAAS congress, Captain F.W. Hutton drew from the font of Baconian tradition, affirming that the devotee of pure science was "helping to solve the riddle of the Universe". The scientist's search for truth was driven both by curiosity and by a feeling "that a knowledge of the truth is of the greatest importance to the human race".^[27] It was a noble cause, undertaken for the good of humankind. In 1904, Edgeworth David provided a more forceful rendering:

Does not science uplift humanity? Has she not taught men to be fearless in the pursuit of truth - taught them to sacrifice all for the truth? Year by year the devotees of science grow at a rate far faster than grows the population of the world. Science by her rigid and unswerving pursuit of the truth is drawing to herself, not only her own votaries, but men of every shade of thought who love the truth.^[28]

But the search for truth was not without its dangers or ambiguities as W.A. Osborne discovered in 1915. Addressing the Socialists' Society on the topic "The Guiding Light of Science", Osborne noted that the progress of science had been hindered by a variety of forces, including religion, government and business. Nonetheless, he continued, science was endowed with considerable moral force:

Science had developed truthfulness. People could compromise with politics, but not with science. Who else could say that? Could the business man?

A few days later the Argus published a long letter critical of Osborne from Laurence Rentoul of Ormond College. Describing himself as a "friend" of Osborne, Rentoul expressed regret at Osborne's continued hostility towards religion. Quoting the exchange above, he commented: "the whole spirit of the address seems captious, querulous, unfair, childish, unbefitting one who is the representative of a university's spirit and judgement and thought".^[33]

The Argus, normally a keen science sympathiser, responded with an editorial that broadened Rentoul's attack. "It is always hard for the specialist to avoid the error of over-emphasising the reach and importance of his own particular form of knowledge or activity", it began. Science was certainly essential to society's continued progress, but Osborne had been overwhelmed by hubris in claiming for it "a supreme right to the homage of mankind". Furthermore, although a certain "innate conservatism" did slow the acceptance of scientific ideas, there was no hostility towards science in the Australian community. However, the editorial warned, "hostility may be provoked... if scientists are mistaken enough to assert that science is the only channel of truth".^[34]

Science's quest for the truth was accompanied by the lingering public suspicion that innocence might turn to arrogance, expertise to blinkered narrowness, enthusiasm to obsession. Such fears drifted along deep cultural currents, warnings of the dangers of prideful curiosity and forbidden knowledge, expressed most clearly in a host of instructive fables from Pandora to Faust and Frankenstein. At their most benign, such currents threw up familiar stereotypes such as the absent-minded duffer. Reporting on the 1911 AAAS congress, one journalist attempted to build his own taxonomy of scientific types:

There was the David type - thin and keen with peering eyes and bird-like appearance; the Masson type of calm stolidity; ...and that type so dear alike to caricaturists and students - the Liversidge type - for the man, so absorbed in his work, that he cares nothing for and forgets all else, means so much to those lovers of the peculiar...^[35]

In the dim light he appeared a veritable demon, and as he rose, clasping one of the skulls in his arms, a hideous grin spread over his face.^[36]

For gain we soar in science high
With flight that naught can fetter
Just as the condor seeks the sky
To view the carrion better^[37]

In an age when life was being dramatically transformed by such wonders as electricity and radio, there seemed little need to assert the material value of science. "Science has achieved so much beyond the wildest dreams of earlier generations that we are ready to believe almost any marvel which its high-priests declare to be within its power", the Argus breathlessly proclaimed, "Invention follows invention so fast that we can hardly believe in any limit to man's future power to utilise the forces of nature".^[38] Nonetheless, scientists remained concerned that the fundamental contribution of science was not fully understood. At the 1921 AAAS congress, Norman Wilsmore, the University of Western Australia's chemistry professor, was eager to fan the flames of scientific enthusiasm, adding perhaps a dash of professional antagonism:

It has been said that the work of men of science like James Watt, or Dalton, or Faraday has done more to shape our modern social and economic life than that of any statesmen or so-called 'social-reformer' - dare one in this free country, even with bated breath, add 'or labour leader' - who ever lived.^[39]

However, there was a danger in emphasising the practical implications of science. A public awe-struck by material wonders could lose sight of science's infinitely more valuable capacity to enrich our understanding of the world. In 1911, Masson warned his AAAS colleagues that the public might come to believe "that all progress is necessarily material". It was perhaps the fault of scientists themselves, he continued, that the public could "confuse science with useful inventions or processes which result from the application of science to practical problems". To maintain the balance, Masson urged the cultivation of "interesting inutilities", of researches in pure science, irrespective of any potential material value.^[41]

More commonly, scientists sought to dispel the fallacy that pure science was somehow detached from the world of ordinary existence. "It is a popular idea that any applied science pays, while a pure science does not", Edgeworth David protested in 1904, "Pursuit of pure science means research, research means discovery, and discovery leads to important new applications of science which make for a nation's prosperity".^[42] In a similar vein, Burge reverently invoked the power of the "great trinity" - the discoverer, the scientist and the engineer - while W.H. Bragg simply explained that pure science "lies at the root of all applied science".^[43]

But how convincing was this argument? A public enamoured of electric light might be informed of their debt to Faraday or Maxwell, but it was Edison, the inventor, who inspired most immediate acclaim. Scientists, it seemed, expected to receive credit for every new invention, and yet, if pressed on the immediate practical outcomes of their own research they were evasive. William Bateson, president-elect of the BAAS, urged a luncheon gathering in Adelaide to consider the total dependence of industrial progress upon science. But, he added: "the connection of science with industry was a secondary consideration for men engaged in scientific work, and those people who inquired what would be the immediate profit to be derived from any individual scientific inquiry must be content with a somewhat indirect answer".^[44] David also sought to qualify his claims, noting that "though pure science pays sooner or later, it does not necessarily pay at the time".^[45] In the end, it was a matter of trust.

David Rivett, Australia's brightest young chemist, had spent much of the war in England, working on munitions production. His time as process manager in charge of a large explosives factory had impressed on him the importance of scientific training to efficient industrial management. At the 1921 AAAS congress he described his experiences in a discussion on the implications of the war for the physical and chemical sciences. The munitions work was only successful, he claimed, "because those in charge possessed sound training in the higher branches of chemical activity".^[46] Introducing the discussion Wilsmore had similarly claimed that university-trained chemists had "stood head and shoulders above all others".^[47] Inspired by their wartime service, and encouraged by the progressive emphasis on efficiency and the use of scientific methods, scientists began to realise that their skills were of use outside the laboratory - more than just a vocation, scientists now had a profession. "We must begin by taking ourselves and our profession seriously", proclaimed Wilsmore, "if we wish to be taken seriously by the members of other professions".^[48]

The chemists were leading the charge towards professionalisation. In 1917, the Australian Chemical Institute was established to improve the status and remuneration of its members, and to set standards for professional qualifications. The chemists faced a particular difficulty in defining their professional identity, as the generic term "chemist" had, by "deplorable, but legalized annexation", been reserved for use by pharmacists. The only parallel Wilsmore could recall was when "somewhere about 1880, the Parliament of New South Wales... sought to have the name of the colony changed to 'Australia'".^[49]

Several scientists stressed the important connection between public status and financial reward. "[T]he higher the fee a man can command, the more important he is considered to be", noted Greig-Smith.^[50] Wilsmore warned of the practice of undertaking scientific work gratuitously for public bodies - while it might be "clear evidence of moral superiority", it was "bad business".^[51] Scientists had to be more assertive and demanding, only then would the value of their work receive the recognition it deserved.

This was not an issue for business alone. In June 1914, the Argus published a long article that examined the conditions of scientists in public employ. Levels of payment were well below comparable professions, despite the immensely greater value of science. "[T]he highest type of intellect in the country", it argued, was treated as "sweated labour".^[52] In a comparison that still seems rather familiar, a writer in the Sydney Morning Herald, contrasted the funding of science with support for sport, describing how easily £1000 had been raised as a testimonial for a professional cricketer.^[53] A rather radical solution to this unjust disparity was proposed by Edgeworth David, who suggested that the AAAS should aim "to discover and destroy the microbe of sporting mania".

But how were the ideals of science to be reconciled with the demands of a professional lobby? David sought to emphasise that the scientist, driven by "the love of his work" and "the glamour of the unknown", did not desire payment "beyond the irreducible minimum for satisfying simple needs". Hardly the basis for an aggressive bargaining position. A businessman, seeking to maintain his competitive advantage, might also think twice before engaging a dedicated disciple of the truth to assist in refining his trade secrets.

Progressivism's vigorous advocacy of scientific methods helped boost the prestige of science, but also blurred the professional boundaries. A report on the 1913 AAAS congress noted that the "social and economic sections" were "among its most encouraging":

these sections bring within the pale a great many clever thinkers, who at one time would certainly not have classed themselves as scientific men - from bishops downwards. But we have learned that it is the method rather than the matter that constitutes what is rightly called science.^[54]

Just as the practice of science was becoming more specialised and professional, the means by which scientists sought to communicate these messages were also becoming more practised and deliberate. The grand presidential oration was still a prime opportunity to set the scientific spirit a-moving amongst the populace, but scientists were learning more subtle means of using the press.

In 1916, Greig-Smith devoted a section of his Royal Society of NSW address to the topic of "Scientific Journalism". The scientist, he noted aphoristically, "is the only man who has something to say, and is the only man who does not know how to say it". Papers read at scientific meetings should be rendered suitable for public consumption, he argued. Pithy articles on scientific topics should be submitted to the press, so well-written as to draw the public gaze from the latest sporting intelligence. The scientist was "too scientific and exact" to undertake this task of popularisation, while the traditional journalist was "too unscientific and inexact". A "happy medium was required - the "scientific journalist".^[55]

Perhaps the first deliberate attempt to use science journalism to influence public opinion came the following year, when the Executive Committee of the Advisory Council contracted a journalist to write a series of semi-popular articles on scientific topics. Writing to newspapers to solicit their interest in publishing the articles, the Committee explained:

The main objects of initiating this scheme are to familiarise the public with a general knowledge of the more important scientific industrial problems awaiting solution in this country, to permeate the community with a higher appreciation of the value of scientific direction in industry and thus to lead to the development of existing and new industries along scientific lines.^[56]

Throughout the slow and difficult passage of the Institute's bill, the Executive Committee sought ways to counter the "bitter attacks" which, it noted, "have practically all come from the one quarter of the press".^[57] In May 1919, it initiated its own journal, Science and Industry, "an authoritative medium for the expression of Australian scientific thought and aspiration". The editor's "Foreword" stressed the growing importance of science, and drew a comparison between the new Institute and the "young Commonwealth, youthful and virile".^[58] Throughout its short life, the editorial pages of Science and Industry provided the Executive Committee with a public platform to counter many of the criticisms raised against it.

In 1920, as the Executive Committee looked towards the reintroduction of the Institute's bill, they began to plan a more detailed strategy for mobilising public and political support. A "Propaganda Committee" was established to prepare statements on the work of the Institute and disseminate them through Parliament and the press.^[59] Members of the State Advisory committees were dragooned to lobby their local newspapers, through as Professor Rennie in Adelaide forlornly noted, "it is somewhat difficult to get newspapers to publish anything not connected with sport".^[60] The Propaganda Committee's statements would, it was suggested, "fully inform" people of the "true state of affairs", they would "enable the community to form some idea" of the enormous need for scientific research, and would cause "thoughtful men to reflect upon the enormous advantages which a permanent research organisation... could confer upon the community". Truth would clear the way of "ignorant and unscrupulous criticism".^[61]

Both messages and methods were evolving as scientists sought to overcome the dilemma of gaining the support of a public they were increasingly excluding from their practice. But the portrait of science that was being created was complex - a transcendent quest, delivering earthly spoils, undertaken by a professional corps of underpaid truth-seekers - and prone to contradictions and inconsistencies. However, such internal tensions did not necessarily undermine its prestige. On the contrary, as Michael Roe argues of progressivism "any movement or creed both shows and increases its strength by sustaining principles in logical opposition to each other".^[62] Science could be both truthful and practical, beautiful and dangerous, a calling and a profession, but when its spirit gained possession of a human soul, the result was disturbing - a scientist was born. Public concerns related not to the nature of science itself, but to the relationship between science and its practitioners. Could scientists be trusted with the knowledge they gained? Were they capable of placing community needs above personal ambition? Could they achieve a balance between curiosity and pragmatism? Perhaps science was too important to be left in the care of scientists?

The question was ultimately one of authority. Scientists had entered the public arena wielding the authority of science as their own. The public seemingly had no choice but to heed the words of the science warrior resplendent in the armour of truth. Or did they?

The growing institutionalization of science communication helped scientists fortify their annexed territory. Scientists proceeded on the basis of what is now termed the "deficit model", the characterisation of the public as empty vessels waiting to be filled by knowledge, specially formulated to suit their limited needs and capacities. Scientists were not communicating, they were dispensing. By positing the existence of an ignorant public, their own authority was strengthened. This is reflected in their apparent distaste for the practice of popularisation. In an editorial entitled "Science, the Press and the Public", Science and Industry argued that scientists needed to make greater use of the press "in order to imbue the layman with the scientific spirit". This task was "of immense importance to our Australian Democracy" and was "the duty of the Australian expert, even at the cost of some repugnant self-exploitation".^[63] It was an unpleasant job, but one that had to be undertaken for the good of the country.

But the battle was never completely won. Each mad-scientist story, each absent-minded scientist joke, can be seen as an act of resistance, as the public shifting uncomfortably beneath the weight of science's growing authority. This tension is evident in a report of the popular science lectures delivered as part of the BAAS meeting in Australia. The lectures were "mere sops to that Cerberus, the many-headed public", the correspondent reported, but "Cerberus is a generous, good-tempered dog, and admires the scientists immensely, puts up with the scientist's patronising comments upon the layman, and wags its head to do him honour".^[64]

When legislation to establish the Institute of Science and Industry was introduced into parliament Cerberus began to growl and bark. The Institute's brief was wide, encompassing primary and secondary industry, but its functions and organisation were sketchy. The government admitted that the bill was a "skeleton" rather than a blueprint. Consequently, members of parliament began to fill in the blanks, offering their own suggestions as to how scientific knowledge might be related to the knowledge of a factory worker, whether individual genius could flower within a bureaucracy, how specific problems might be selected and addressed. Faced with an extension of scientific authority over most of the country's productive activity, they sought to articulate positions that preserved elements of their "ignorance".

This is the starting point of an investigation, not the end. Once we begin to examine the way that the boundaries that separate science from the public shift and blur, ignorance, instead of simply being a lack, an absence, becomes, in the words of some recent writers in the public understanding of science, "negotiated". Ignorance has a content, and by examining it, we can enrich our understanding of science's place in our history and our culture.

NOTES

^[1] Argus, 1 January 1921, p.4.
^[2] Age, 11 January 1921, p.4.
^[3] SMH, 23 December 1915, p.7.
^[4] Currie and Graham
^[5] Argus, 1 January 1921, p.4.
^[6] Argus, 15 January 1921, p.18.
^[7] Macleod, "The Practical man..."
^[8] CPD vol 86, 27 September 1918, p. 6460
^[9] "Meeting of Commonwealth Advisory Council of Science and Industry, 9 July 1917", NAA, Series AA1964/52/1, Item 6. Also Currie & Graham.
^[10] CPD vol 86, 27 September 1918, p. 6460; Age, 28 September 1918, p.13.
^[11] Argus, 6 January 1916, p.8.
^[12] Quoted in Currie & Graham, p.29.
^[13] Argus, 6 January 1916, p.8.
^[14] All quotes that follow from "Meeting of Commonwealth Advisory Council of Science and Industry, 9 July 1917", NAA, Series AA1964/52/1, Item 6. See also Currie & Graham.
^[15] CPD vol 89, 13 August 1919, p.11536-42.
^[16] CPD vol 89, 13 August 1919, p.11542-6.
^[17] CPD vol 86, 17 October 1918, p.7009.
^[18] Age, 8 August 1919 p.6
^[19] Argus, 11 January 1921, p.6.
^[20] Argus, 12 January 1921, p.8.
^[21] Edgeworth David, "The Aims and Ideals of Australasian Science", AAAS 1904, p.2.
^[22] SMH, 9 January 1911, p.9.
^[23] SMH, 9 January 1911, p.8.
^[24] Home, "The culture of science"
^[25] Turner, White
^[26] White
^[27] Captain F.W. Hutton, Presidential Address, AAAS 1902, p.3.
^[28] Edgeworth David, "The Aims and Ideals of Australasian Science", AAAS 1904, p.43.
^[29] C.O. Burge, Presidential Address, Journal and Proceedings of the Royal Society of NSW, 1905, vol 39, p.19
^[30] Edgeworth David, "The Aims and Ideals of Australasian Science", AAAS 1904, p.43.
^[31] Orme Masson, Inaugural Address, AAAS 1911, p.6
^[32] Argus, 22 November 1915, p.10
^[33] Argus, 25 November 1915, p.8
^[34] Argus, 27 November 1915, p.18
^[35] SMH, 10 January 1911, p.7
^[36] Bulletin, 25 June 1898
^[37] Bulletin, 28 April 1894
^[38] Argus, 30 March 1912, p.18
^[39] N.T.M. Wilsmore, "The Present Position of Chemistry and Chemists", Presidential Address - Section B, AAAS 1921, p.19-20
^[40] R. Grieg-Smith, Presidential address, Journal and Proceedings of the Royal Society of NSW, vol 50, 1916, p.13
^[41] Orme Masson, Inaugural Address, AAAS 1911, p.5 & 18
^[42] Edgeworth David, "The Aims and Ideals of Australasian Science", AAAS 1904, p.8
^[43] C.O. Burge, Presidential Address, Journal and Proceedings of the Royal Society of NSW, 1905, vol 39, p.7; W.H. Bragg, "Inaugural address", AAAS 1909, p. 24.
^[44] Argus, 12 August 1914, p. 11
^[45] Edgeworth David, "The Aims and Ideals of Australasian Science", AAAS 1904, p.30
^[46] Argus, 12 January 1921, p.9
^[47] N.T.M. Wilsmore, "The Present Position of Chemistry and Chemists", Presidential Address - Section B, AAAS 1921, p. 38
^[48] N.T.M. Wilsmore, "The Present Position of Chemistry and Chemists", Presidential Address - Section B, AAAS 1921, p.39
^[49] N.T.M. Wilsmore, "The Present Position of Chemistry and Chemists", Presidential Address - Section B, AAAS 1921, p. 23
^[50] R. Grieg-Smith, Presidential address, Journal and Proceedings of the Royal Society of NSW, vol 50, 1916, p. 20
^[51] N.T.M. Wilsmore, "The Present Position of Chemistry and Chemists", Presidential Address - Section B, AAAS 1921, p.25
^[52] Argus, 20 June 1914, p. 8
^[53] SMH, 14 January 1911, p. 5
^[54] SMH, 14 January 1913, p.8.
^[55] R. Grieg-Smith, Presidential address, Journal and Proceedings of the Royal Society of NSW, vol 50, 1916, pp. 16-17
^[56] Letter from Executive Committee, Advisory Council of Science and Industry to publishers, 2 November 1917, NAA, Series A8510/1, Item 80/2
^[57] Letter from Acting- Secretary, Executive Committee, Advisory Council of Science and Industry, to Professor E.H. Rennie, 9 June 1920, NAA, Series A8510/1, Item 3/5/4
^[58] "Foreword", Science and Industry, vol 1, no 1, May 1919, p. 2
^[59] NAA, Series A8510/1, Item 3/5/4
^[60] E.H. Rennie to E.N. Robertson (?), no date (June 1920), NAA, Series A8510/1, Item 3/5/4
^[61] Letter from Acting- Secretary, Executive Committee, Advisory Council of Science and Industry, to Professor E.H. Rennie, 9 June 1920, NAA, Series A8510/1, Item 3/5/4
^[62] Roe, Progressives p.13.
^[63] Science and Industry, vol 1, no 7, November 1919, pp.385-8
^[64] Argus, 12 August 1914, p.11