It All Makes Sense Now, I Think

aliceroom3Since the last post, I have been wandering around in the historical maze, seeing lots of strange sights and making a few surprising discoveries among the twists and turns. The signposts themselves are confusing and sometimes it seems rather this maze has led me Through the Looking Glass, or, perhaps, into a Jane Austen novel. To show you what I mean, come with me on one journey of discovery relating to my own engineering education, with a little help from Michael Faraday’s library, when he was a printer’s apprentice. Don’t worry, this trip does not get overly technical; you will not see a single equation or even have to know what some of the machinery mentioned looks like. Nothing here would be on the test, if there were a test. Just enjoy the ride.

Step back through the mists of time with me to those distant days when I was being introduced to the wondrous secrets of chemical engineering. I was immersed in an elementary class called something like “Intro to Material and Energy Balances”. This was the class which introduced us neophytes to strange, out-of-context processes, like sulfuric acid production, using impenetrable prose describing mysterious equipment like pyrite burners, dust removers, Glover towers, lead chambers, and Gay-Lussac towers, accompanied, if we were lucky, by a minimalist, sparsely-labeled, undecipherable sketch. After wading through all the information, we would be asked to calculate, in that primitive era before the dawn of apps and laptops, “the complete material and energy balances of each unit and the entire process on the basis of 100 kg of pyrites, as charged” — at least a weeks worth of number-crunching and midnight oil. In this way, we were supposed to learn the ins and outs of the First Law of Thermodynamics, how to double- and triple- check our own calculations, and how to keep track of more details than an IRS agent on a high-profile audit. In addition, we were supposed to acquire, mostly by osmosis, a great deal of mysterious jargon, seemingly unconnected to reality, as we had known it in our pre-engineering school days.

Specifically, in this class, we had an awful lot of terms describing heat and its behavior: heat capacities (mean and specific and total), specific heats, sensible heats, latent heats, and many others I am sure I have forgotten.

“But heat is heat,” I hear my teenaged self shrieking in despair. “It is energy in motion, so why complicate it unnecessarily?” All this extra terminology, even with the help of my trusty Merriam-Webster, was baffling and annoying when all I wanted to learn was engineering, not arcane technobabble.

Think about it. Sensible heat? Does heat have reasoning powers, so that it can be deemed reasonable and sensible? Will the next chapter or the next class introduce us to illogical heat? Or wild, irrational heat? Or silly, foolhardy heat? And even if these less-stable heats existed, couldn’t they all be balanced the same way, at least in the engineering sense?

And what about latent heat? Is that heat which is dormant, a sleeping giant of the thermo world? Or heat with potential, perhaps lurking, ready to spring into a full-blown conflagration if left under a pile of oily rags in the corner? Or, by stretching the definition, could it be “occult” heat? After all, certain other parts of the curriculum seemed like black magic.

However, I was way too busy to dwell on the unnecessary obfuscation of these silly terms, so I shelved my linguistic frustrations and plodded on, memorizing less-than-sensible definitions, solving the assigned problems, and, in time, simply becoming inured to the terminology. I abandoned any rebellious thoughts of a crusade to rationalize this muddle. After all, words can have special meanings in special applications. Take “unionized”: does that mean atoms with all their electrons or does it mean workers organized

Jane Haldimand Marcet (1769 - 18580

Jane Haldimand Marcet
(1769 – 1858)

Fast forward a few decades, to the present, where I have just returned from a sojourn even further back in time. As part of this project (evaluating the effectiveness of historical educational experiences and how they influenced innovation), I immersed myself in the book that Michael Faraday said inspired him to study chemistry: Conversations in Chemistry by Mrs. Jane Marcet. In print on both sides of the Atlantic for nearly 50 years, in both authorized and plagiarized editions, it features twenty-six conversations between Mrs. B, a private instructor, and her two teenaged pupils, Emily and Caroline. This well-written text comprehensively covers the theory and applications of chemistry at the time, and is clearly illustrated with experiments, which might well have been carried out by the ambitious and curious students of Mrs. Marcet’s era.

My electronic copy (thank you, Project Gutenberg) is the fifth edition (1817), revised and updated from the original 1806 edition, with an additional 21st century caution against trying the experiments at home. Reading it gave me new respect for the then-prevailing caloric fluid theory of heat. Although that theory has rightfully been laid aside now, Mrs. Marcet’s explanations using the caloric theory do describe and explain the experimental evidence at hand and make useful predictions about chemical behavior. In addition, they ignited a flash of insight into my long-dormant (or latent?) freshman frustrations.

What I did not put together while concentrating on energy balances in sulfuric acid plants was that words, too, are fluid, in the sense that they change over time and place. Reading historical documents, I am finding, is like Americans and Brits talking – we all think we speak the same language, just because we use a lot of the same words, but, in fact, those words often have different meanings. Consulting contemporary dictionaries, I found that many common words have changed their meanings significantly from a mere century or two ago. With a little help from my friends (Thomas Sheridan’s 1789 dictionary and the 1828 edition of Samuel Johnson’s 1755 dictionary – courtesy of books.google.com), I have learned “industry” once meant “diligence or assiduity” not the modern “manufacturing”; “art” once meant “the power of doing something not taught by nature and instinct; a science, as the liberal arts; a trade; artfulness, skill, dexterity; cunning”, not the modern “liberal and fine arts”; and “science” once meant “knowledge; certainty grounded on demonstration; art attained by precepts or built on principles; any art or species of knowledge”.

The flash of insight from re-reading Mrs. Marcet’s descriptions of different behaviors of the caloric fluid (heat) was realizing she used the word “sensible” throughout her whole book as I would probably now use the word “tangible” or “palpable.” Sheridan and Johnson give ten meanings for “sensible”, nine of which are related to “perceptible by the senses” and the tenth of which reads almost like an afterthought: “in low conversation it has sometimes the sense of reasonable, judicious, wise.” My modern interpretation, then cited as the “low conversation” option, was the problem. Sensible heat changes the temperature of the material, and a change in temperature can be seen on a thermometer or felt, thus it is perceived by the senses of touch and vision. The latent (which meant “hidden, concealed, or secret” in the early 1800s) heat was caloric which changed the phase of the material at a constant temperature, without any “sensible” effects.

So it all makes sense now – those words “sensible” and “latent” were just archaic usages, reminders of former theories and former times, when relying on first-hand observations, including the data from all the senses, was a primary tool of scientific investigation. The terminology, therefore, makes perfect sense, in the modern sense of sense, of course. But now I am wondering what insights might await me if I re-read Sense and Sensibility with my older dictionaries by my side.

 

 

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An Education in the Colonies

Benjamin Franklin 1778 by Joseph-Siffred Duplessis (1725-1802) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Last week, we discussed the educational paths of some important British players in the Industrial Revolution. This week, continuing to look at educational practices, we are taking a trip to our side of the Pond (recall we were still British subjects until 1776) to look at Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790), an influential colonial who had “no formal education after the age of 10”, similar to our weaver-turned-mathematician, Thomas Simpson (1710-1761), whom we met last week. (As noted, Franklin and Simpson taught themselves arithmetic from the same text.) This colonial journey will reveal some details about what was actually being taught, formally and informally, on both sides of the Pond, and how education was evolving.

There are many versions of Franklin’s life and schooling, including his own, with details and interpretations varying, sometimes widely. Here is a brief version of the accepted canon of his family background: Franklin was born in Boston in 1706 (by modern calendars), the 15th of 17 children, probably the 10th child of his father’s second marriage; both parents were younger children of large families; his English-born father ran a candle- and soap-making business in Boston; his mother was born in Massachusetts; his maternal grandfather was a miller and school master; his paternal grandfather was a blacksmith and farmer. After at least two generations of large families, inheritances would not support all the children as adults, so especially the younger childern would earn their own livings, as Ben did.

Ben’s formal schooling lasted only two years, from ages 8 to 10, ostensibly because of cost, although an apparent lack of aptitude for the clergy was probably a contributing factor. In 1714-1715, he attended the Boston Latin School and, in 1715-1716, a school run by a Mr. George Brownell, where instruction was in English. It is likely that Ben had informal schooling before the age of eight. For one thing, schools often had entrance requirements. Jenks’ history of the Boston Latin School (1880) reports that in the days of Headmaster Lovell (c.1738- c.1776), “all that was required for admission was to read a few verses in the Bible”, which implies that entrance requirements might have been more rigorous previously, when Franklin enrolled. There is ample circumstantial evidence for Ben having learned to read at home. Others in the Franklin family were literate: his mother, as a schoolmaster’s daughter, could probably read, write, and do at least simple arithmetic; his father and both grandfathers ran businesses in which numeracy, if not literacy, would be essential; children in large families often learn from brothers and sisters; his older brother, James, to whom he was apprenticed at age 12, operated a printing business; and Ben wrote letters to his brothers and sisters throughout his lifetime.

What would Ben have studied in his schools? Using sources other than his autobiography (which was written years later), we know that, in the time of Headmaster Lovell, a variety of mostly classical texts in Latin were read at the Boston Latin School. Since it was modelled on the English school of the same name, the curriculum was probably heavily flavored by the classical educational program, which relied upon mastering the basic trivium (grammar, rhetoric, and logic), followed by advanced or “applied” studies in the quadrivium (arithmetic, astronomy, geometry, and music). Reading classics was a vehicle for the trivium. As to Mr. George Brownell’s school, a 1715 Boston almanac The Young American ephemeris [sic] is attributed to “Increase Gatchell, etat. 16, apprentice to George Brownell, school-master, who teacheth writing, cyphering, navigation, etc. Also musick, dancing, etc.”

After his formal schooling ended, Franklin was a motivated informal learner and an avid reader. His apprenticeship to his brother at age 12 gave him access to ample reading material. (Michael Faraday seized a similar opportunity during his printing apprenticeship in England a few decades later.) He was a founder of the Junto, a social and intellectual organization along the lines of the Lunar Society of Derby, England, mentioned last week. Members met regularly for wide-ranging and moderated discussions and enjoyed the use of the library. (Institutions descended from the Junto include Franklin’s subscription library in Philadelphia, the American Philosophical Society, and the University of Pennsylvania.)

Poor Richard's Almanack 1739Franklin was an active advocate for public education, with strong opinions about the objectives and curriculum. In 1749, he published Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pensilvania [sic] urging the establishment of the Academy of Philadelphia. This pamphlet was a well-written, well-constructed argument for providing colonial boys with rigorous and useful educations comparable in quality to those obtainable in Europe. Franklin, citing John Milton (1608-1674), John Locke (1632-1704), George Turnbull (1698-1748), and other educational pioneers, included a detailed implementation plan, encompassing both physical exercise (“running, leaping, wrestling and swimming”), and “ those Things that are likely to be most useful and most ornamental. Regard being had to the several Professions for which they are intended.” His argument was that both gentlemen and “mechanics” would benefit from learning many of the same subjects, including writing a fine hand, English grammar, composition, oratory, drawing, arithmetic, geometry, geography, history (including natural history), and morality, ethics, and religion. He proposed that “all who are interested” could learn Latin, Greek, and modern foreign languages, since reading in translation was not as rich an experience as reading originals, but he advocated teaching in the vernacular, and that language requirements be individualized for intended careers.

Franklin presented a democratic mechanism of formally educating the general populace for success in various walks of life. This was still not universal, free, or compulsory schooling, but it was a community-based effort, and did not rely on the informal educational opportunities into which he so successfully tapped to round out his own education. The proposed curriculum was not “one-size-fits-all”, but the basic foundations are, in modern terminology, broad-based liberal arts and sciences, including critical thinking and debate, firmly grounded in Western civilization, with specialization as needed, but at the advanced, not basic, levels.

In summary, children entered the school, usually at age 9, already reading and writing, and then completed a six-year program in which they studied, in English, a curriculum based on reading classics, writing about them, and discussing them. Later on, mathematical and scientific subjects received more emphasis: topics in the practical aspects of navigation, geography, accounts, arithmetic, geometry, “natural science” and “mechanicks” were increasingly incorporated into the reading, writing, and discussing. Upon completing the program, at about the age of 16, the boys would be prepared for university study or for work.

In reality, Franklin’s broader-scale educational experiment was short-lived. The Academy of Philadelphia was founded in 1751, but soon diversified to the point of dissolution. The Trustees and first president rapidly instituted a more traditional Latin curriculum, neglecting Franklin’s English-language curriculum, which languished, withered, and disappeared. Private donations and some tuition income were diverted to a parallel free school to teach “the children of the poor” basic reading, writing, and everyday arithmetic (Cloyd 1902). The focus shifted to becoming the University of Pennsylvania, to the detriment of the original academy mission, analogous to current trends in some disciplines and institutions, where the focus on doctoral degrees has been detrimental to the quality of bachelors and masters degrees, which are viewed as mere milestones along the way to the doctorate. While founding the first institution to be designated a university in the United States (1779) was a worthy outcome, the original objective was not achieved.

Was this curricular path the key to the intellectualism, imagination, innovation, and implementation which propelled the Industrial Revolution? Should education focus on mastering the updated trivium of “language arts” and “critical thinking” and then proceeding to advanced, more analytical, mathematical, and abstract topics, similar to the quadrivium, illustrated by examples from practical applications? It seemed to work for Franklin and some others, in environments where informal avenues to education and recreational intellectualism abounded.

In mathematical terms, we have shown that a solution exists for educating for success in the times of the Industrial Revolution, but this solution may not be unique or optimal. However, mapping solutions from centuries past to the present day can be tricky. We can take up this thread again in a future blog.

References

Text and facsimile of Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pensilvania:
http://www.archives.upenn.edu/primdocs/1749proposals.html

Pasles, Paul C. 2008. Benjamin Franklin’s numbers : an unsung mathematical odyssey. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press. An interesting study of Franklin’s mathematical recreations and innovations, rigorous but readable, well referenced to original sources.

Morrison, Hugh A. (Library of Congress) 1907. Preliminary check list of American almanacs, 1639-1800. Washington: Govt. Print. Off. (Full text available on line from googlebooks.)

Jenks, Henry Fitch, The Boston Public Latin School. 1635-1880 copyright by Moses Banks 1880
copied from the Harvard Register. Franklin Press. (Full text available on line from googlebooks.)

Cloyd, David Excelmons, in the Benjamin Franklin Collection (Library of Congress). 1902. Benjamin Franklin and education : his ideal of life and his system of education for the realization of that ideal. Boston: D.C. Heath & Co. (Full text available on line from googlebooks.) An interesting compilation, with commentary, of Franklin’s writings on education.

Education was different then

An_Experiment_on_a_Bird_in_an_Air_Pump_by_Joseph_Wright_of_Derby,_1768Last week, we asked the questions “When did the Industrial Revolution (IR) start for our purposes?”, “Who were some key players?”, and “What were some key accomplishments?” Simple sounding questions, but not so easy to answer, especially as we reflect on how to draw good lessons for today by understanding the educational and cultural environment of the past. This week, we do not have answers, but we are closer to understanding IR educational issues.

No matter what we choose as the opening date for the Dawn of the Age of Industry, we can’t just ignore everything that happened before that. Unlike Athena, the Greek goddess of technology, who sprang full-grown, armed, and ready for battle, from the head of Zeus, most great revolutionary ideas, acts, and actors do not suddenly appear fully formed and functioning. In real life, there is always preparation, sometimes long and arduous, often serendipitous. The main actors in our IR drama must have used at least some of the intellectual tools they picked up in their educations, which began 10 to 50 years before our selected date. So we adjusted our perspective a bit, focusing not on the calendar, but on the key players and their intellectually formative years.

Before investigating educational influences on successful IR innovators, we delved into a little educational background. In England, education has historically been important. The universities at Oxford and Cambridge were established in the Middle Ages. Basic education was recognized as necessary for a successful adult life, whether that meant university studies, trades, or simply everyday living. Theoretically, there were many ways to obtain education, especially at the basic level. Before universal, free, state-sponsored, compulsory education was instituted in the late 1800s, alternatives for basic schooling, including reading, writing, grammar, and arithmetic, did exist. Options, depending upon finances and availability, included private tutoring at home, by a professional tutor, a governess, or a mother, and a variety of non-governmental educational institutions such as public schools (where select students paid fees to learn together “in public” at exclusive private institutions like Eton), church and Sunday schools, dame schools, grammar schools, and, when religious tolerance became more widespread, schools run by and for “Nonconformists” or “Dissenters” – Protestants who were not members of the Church of England. Edward VI of England (reigned 1547 – 1553) established “free grammar schools” to teach all children the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic, whether they could afford tuition fees or not, but attendance was not compulsory. However, the gap between theory and practice was real. Schools varied in quality as well as focus. In poor families, where the economic contributions of children’s labor were essential for survival, families could not afford to let children miss work, even to attend the free schools.

Today, “education” usually means “formal education”, acquired from established and accredited schools, awarding degrees or certificates upon completion of prescribed courses of study. In the 18th and 19th centuries, extensive formal education was the privilege of the few. Intellectual and practical knowledge was routinely transmitted through more informal channels. Once the basic skills of education were mastered, motivated individuals could learn from a smorgasbord of informative and entertaining offerings, many of which promoted high-quality learning. The Penny Universities, mentioned last week, were a place to meet, learn, and discuss, with different coffee houses catering to different interests. More directed, non-classroom learning came from apprenticeships to learn trades, including the business skills of setting up one’s own shop.

There were respected social and intellectual organizations, such as Edinburgh’s Mechanics’ Institute (1821), Derby’s Lunar Society (1766) , or the Invisible College (1645), which became the Royal Society in 1660. Spitalfields Mathematical Society (1717) limited the number of its members to a perfect square (49 or 64); in 1744, about half its members were weavers (unsurprising to anyone who weaves), with other tradesmen such as bakers, braziers, and bricklayers making up the rest. Membership included affordable access to the society’s library and scientific equipment. These were valuable privileges in those times before easy access to public libraries, many of which were not lending libraries. Nor had museums of the time evolved into the welcoming institutions we know today. The British Museum was founded in 1753, but did not open its doors to the public until six years later. Entry was free, and officially to be given to ‘all studious and curious Persons’, but, in reality, visitors applied for permission to visit, and, if approved, would be escorted on guided tours through selections from the collections.

Edutainment is a modern term, but the practice extends at least as far back as the Enlightenment. Joseph Wright’s painting, An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump (1768), above, shows a scientist with a flair for showmanship, who may be an amateur friend of the family, a professional educator serving as a household tutor, or a peripatetic lecturer. Periodicals of the IR give instructions for hands-on parlor experimentation, albeit not always so equipment-intensive or elaborate.

With that background under our belts, we begin our investigations by expanding last week’s list of innovators to the following even dozen. Using this small, non-random sample, we hunt for trends and patterns of educational influences on successful IR innovators.

  1. The Iron Masters
    1. Abraham Darby I (1678-1717)
    2. Abraham Darby III (1750-1789)
  2. The Steam Engine Specialists
    1. Thomas Newcomen (1664 – 1729)
    2. Thomas Savery ( c. 1650 – 1715)
    3. Richard Trevithick (1771 – 1833)
    4. George Stephenson (1781-1848)
  3. The Pressure Pump People
    1. Robert Boyle (1627 – 1691)
    2. Christiaan Huygens (1629 – 1695)
    3. Denis Papin (1667 – 1712)
  4. Some Mathematical Men
    1. Gottfred Leibniz (1646 – 1716)
    2. Isaac Newton (1643 – 1747))
    3. Thomas Simpson (1710 – 1761)

The educational and socio-economic backgrounds of our pilot group are quite diverse. All the non-British men (the Saxon, Leibniz; the Dutchman, Huygens; and the Huguenot refugee, Papin) were university educated, as were two of the Brits (the son of the Earl of Cork (Boyle) and the son of an illiterate but prosperous farmer (Newton)). Basic academic skills came from a variety of sources. Boyle had private tutors and attended exclusive Eton to prepare for Oxford; Huygens had private tutors, Leibniz attended the well-respected Nicolai School in Leipzig. Newton prepared for Cambridge at Free Grammar School in Grantham; Stephenson, who came from an impoverished mining district, was illiterate until he enrolled himself in night school at the age of 18; Simpson, a weaver by trade who became a mathematician still known for his work in numerical methods and probability, briefly attended a school at Market Bosworth, but was largely self-taught. Others had ordinary formal educations, attending village schools (Trevithick), or getting on-the-job training. Darby I was an apprentice in the mill and brass trades, Darby III was probably taught at home or in a Quaker school. Educational details are not known for Savery and Newcomen, but the former was “a military engineer”, and the latter an “ironmonger and Baptist lay preacher”, occupations which do require literacy and numeracy.

Perhaps the most interesting artifact unearthed this week is an anecdote about Simpson, the former weaver. According to Ball (1960), Simpson mastered Cocker’s Arithmetic and the elements of algebra with the assistance of a fortune-telling pedlar. (Cocker’s Arithmetic was a popular text also used by Benjamin Franklin to teach himself mathematics.) Even if the anecdote is apocryphal, evidently the concept of a fortune-telling pedlar with such mathematical skills was credible, and could be a indicator of the level of numeracy among the mercantile population.

Not surprisingly, considering the small sample size, no dramatic, sweeping conclusions are possible, and no clear lessons for our times have emerged. There are trends: the university men were earlier than the non-university men. Home, village, grammar, and night school educations provided solid foundations for further learning for the motivated and intelligent student.

Join us next week for further musings.

References:
http://www.technicaleducationmatters.org/biographies/spitalfields
http://www.historytoday.com/richard-cavendish/british-museum-opened
http://www-history.mcs.st-and.ac.uk/Biographies/Simpson.html
http://www-history.mcs.st-and.ac.uk/Biographies/Newton.html
http://robinsonlibrary.com/

Ball, W. W. Rouse. 1960. A short account of the history of mathematics. New York,: Dover Publications.
Weightman, Gavin. 2007. The industrial revolutionaries : the making of the modern world, 1776-1914. 1st American ed. New York: Grove Press.

Where did it all begin? Iron Pots? Pressure Cookers? Penny Coffee ? Or ????

Ironbridge, Shropshire

Every schoolchild has to learn some sort of history. So, really, history just can’t be that hard to figure out. “Everybody knows” that The Industrial Revolution ran from 1750 to 1840, give or take a decade or so, on each end. (There are a few folks who also lump all things vaguely Victorian in with the Industrial Revolution, as well, but surely historians are a tolerant lot and will not quibble over more inclusive time boundaries.) Likewise, it is common knowledge that this revolution was the era of iron-smelting, steam power, trains, bridges, canals, the textile industries, and, above all, factories, with associated Dickensian visions of slums, tenements, child labor, poverty and horrific working conditions.

But engineers have pretty strong tendencies toward realism, pragmatism, and solving problems with verified data whenever possible. Good problem-solving means getting a firm handle on the real questions, winnowing the wheat from the chaff of good and bad information, assumptions, facts, and fantasies. So what if there are a few significant language differences, some of them supposedly in English, and a few centuries, give or take, between us and our definition? It just means that defining the problem, specifying parameters, constraints, hypotheses, and strategies, and then coming up with answers is going to be more along the lines of a final senior project instead of a quick homework assignment due the next class period.

In reality, this history stuff gets pretty complex. Deciding how many angels can dance on the head of a pin is a piece of cake compared to defining just what the Industrial Revolution was, which would, in turn, help us decide what time period to consider so that we actually have a relevant and manageable data set to examine. Then maybe we will have a chance to squeeze some useful information out of all that data.

Darby Pot

A Darby Pot

Likely candidates for the birth of the Industrial Revolution abound. Did it start with good-quality iron? Abraham Darby III, a member of the Quaker iron dynasty, completed casting the famous Ironbridge in 1779, but his grandfather, Abraham Darby I, coke-smelted iron pots in 1709. These “Darby Pots” were a technological breakthrough: affordable, durable, unbreakable cast-iron, thinner, cheaper, and lighter than the competing Dutch cast-iron cookware. Was steam the beginning? The discovery of steam itself is, of course, lost in the vapours of time. Better documented, however, is “The Miner’s Friend” , Thomas Savery’s functional steam pump designed to remove water from mines (1698). “Trains”, in the broadest sense, debuted with Richard Trevithick’s steam locomotive demonstration in 1804. As is not unusual, it was over 20 years from Trevithick’s proof-of-principle to practicality. George Stephenson led the effort which resulted in the first commercial steam railway engine, inaugurated in 1825. However, all these steam machines owed a debt to a previous practical “steam machine”: the “digester” or pressure cooker of Denis Papin, reportedly a Huguenot refugee, who patented this machine in 1679. Shortly thereafter, King Charles and the Royal Society enjoyed the culinary product of the digester, to critical acclaim. Besides producing culinary delights, Papin’s digester boasted the first safety valve, which could be adjusted by sliding a weight along a lever external to the pressure vessel.

Papin’s Digester, complete with safety valve

Just looking at two criteria, steam and iron, we could possibly justify dates from 1679 to 1825 for the official beginning of the time period of study. We have not yet touched the textile question.

There is, of course, the possibility that the Industrial Revolution began percolating even earlier. In the seventeenth century, coffee houses became popular throughout Europe. Ever enterprising, some eighteenth century English coffee houses hosted “Penny Universities”. For a penny, patrons could drink coffee, discuss matters of all sorts with their fellow men, and attend high-quality lectures from well-respected academics. The interested citizen could be well-informed on the latest developments in mathematics, literature, and economics by choosing his coffee house well. This tradition of affordable continuing education contributed to an intellectual climate which crossed class boundaries, a natural incubator for innovation, ideas, and inventions.

We have not yet sounded the depth of the iceberg. Stay tuned and do not hesitate to offer suggestions.