Category Archives: History of science

What exactly is a “pollination system”?

Pollination systems

This is a post I’ve been meaning to write for some time, but have never got round to.  What’s catalysed me is an email this morning from Casper van der Kooi asking me about how I define the term “pollination system”, as he’d had some discussions about its use with his colleagues in The Netherlands.

“Pollination system” is one of those terms that seems to mean different things to different people. The way I use it, and I think the way we meant it in the 1996 paper Generalization in pollination systems and why it matters, is that the pollination system = floral phenotype + pollinators.  That is to say, the colour, shape, size, odour, rewards, etc. produced by a flower (or an inflorescence functioning as a single reproductive unit) plus the animals that effectively transfer pollen.

To me this is distinct from a “pollination syndrome” which refers only to the floral phenotype, or “pollinator guild/functional group” which refers only to the flower visitors.  However I have seen “pollination syndrome” used to include floral phenotype + pollinators.  But to my mind they are distinct things.

I have also seen other authors use “pollination system” to mean the community of plants and pollinators in an area, or as analogous to the breeding system, but neither of those are the way that I use it.  I decided to look at the history of the term on Web of Science and the earliest use on there is a paper by Levin & Berube (1972): Phlox and Colias – efficiency of a pollination system.  There were a few other papers from the same decade and all were using pollination system in the way I described above, i.e. floral phenotype + pollinators.

To look for earlier usage of pollination system I searched the Google Ngram Viewer; as you can see in the image above, I found examples of the term back as far as the 1940s in which the pollination system of grasses is referred to as being “cross pollination” (i.e. what we would now refer to as the breeding system).  There’s also texts from the 1950s referring to artificial wind pollination of date palms as a “helicopter pollination system”.

Does it matter how “pollination system” is used, or that it varies in meaning according to the author?  Probably not as long as the meaning is defined in the text.  Ecology is replete with terminology that has slightly different usage according to the researcher (“biodiversity” being an obvious example) and I don’t get a sense that this has held back the field.  Or is that too optimistic a conclusion?  Do you use the term in a different way to me?  As always, your comments are welcomed.

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Filed under Biodiversity, History of science, Pollination

A short history of ecology doctorates in the UK

UK ecology doctorates

Doctorate-level research qualifications (DSc, PhD, DPhil, etc.) do not have an especially long history, although as academics we take them for granted as the usual gateway drug qualification to professional research.  In the UK the first research doctorates were awarded only towards the end of the 19th century and took some time to become fully established in the university landscape.  The British Library’s EThOS site provides a searchable database of doctorates awarded by UK institutions.  Although it’s not complete, the 500,000 records it holds provides a fascinating resource for anyone curious about the history of doctoral education and in research trends in their own discipline.

I thought it would be interesting to look at the history of UK ecology doctorates and, using “ecology” as a search term discovered the following:

  • The earliest record for an ecology doctorate (actually a DSc) was for “An ecological survey of Natal: the Pietermaritzburg district” by J.W. Bews, awarded by the University of Edinburgh in 1912.
  • As far as I can tell from the names (which often give only the initials) the first woman to be awarded an ecology PhD was Mary Seaton for “A floristical and ecological survey of West Lothian” in 1927, again at the University of Edinburgh.
  • As you can see from the graph above, for the first half of the 20th century the number of ecology doctorates averaged only one or two a year, and in many years none were awarded.
  • From about 1950 onward there begins a steep rise in the number of awards.  I was expecting that this rise would be broadly exponential, in line with the widening of access to higher education and the increasing rate of scientific discovery.  However there are some interesting peaks and troughs in the observed pattern.
  •  The first bulge occurs in the early- to mid-1980s, with a second bulge from the mid-1990s until the early 2000s.  It would be interesting to speculate on what had caused those.
  • However it’s from 2010 onward that the really steep rise in ecology doctorates occurs: in the decade from 2010 to 2019 (which I have not graphed as the year has not yet ended) 3833 doctorates were awarded.  That compares to 4820 for the previous c. 100 years.
  • However, one must be careful about assigning any given thesis to the field of ecology as the word is increasingly used outside of the subject, e.g. in a thesis entitled “Understanding extra-judicial responses to young people’s offending : out of court disposals and ‘diversion’ in social context” (University of Bedfordshire 2019).
  • Possibly balancing that latter bias is the trend of using the word “biodiversity” rather than ecology; there are at least 700 such theses.  Some of these will be taxonomic rather than ecological, but by no means all.
  • I wonder whether we reached a peak in ecology doctorates in 2016 (when 506 were awarded).  As of June 2019 only 92 have been awarded so the downward trend seen in the last couple of years may be continuing.

There is no doubt much more that could be discovered by someone with an interest in the history of science and the time to dig further into the topic.  If anyone wants a copy of the raw data, drop me an email and I will happily send it.

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When did the flowering plants evolve? Two new studies come to different conclusions

2019-04-23 17.42.40.jpg

The angiosperms (flowering plants) are far and away the most diverse group of plants ever to have evolved.  There are an estimated 350,000 to 370,000 species, more than all other groups of plants (ferns, conifers, cycads, mosses, etc.) combined, living and extinct.  The origin of the flowering plants was termed an “abominable mystery” by Charles Darwin – or perhaps it wasn’t: see this essay by Prof. Richard Buggs for an alternative view of what Darwin was describing, and this paper by Prof. William Friedman giving a different interpretation.

These disagreements about what Darwin meant are as nothing compared to disagreements about when the flowering plants actually evolved and how we interpret fossils and evidence from molecular phylogenies.  Two new studies illustrate this point: they use some of the same information to come to completely different conclusions.  I’ve copied the details and abstracts below, with links to the originals, and emphasised the areas of disagreement in bold text.  And I’m going to leave it at that; I don’t have a horse in this race and I have no idea which (if either) is correct.

There are, however, profound implications for understanding when and how relationships between flowering plants and their pollinators evolved, as I noted in my recent review of pollinator diversity.  If the much earlier, Triassic origin of the angiosperms is correct then perhaps the earliest flowering plants did not co-opt pollinators that were already servicing gymnosperms.  Perhaps the relationships between plants and pollinators originated with the (Triassic) angiosperms and the gymnosperms subsequently evolved to exploit this.  My feeling is that only more, better fossils will provide definitive answers.

Here’s the details of the studies:

Coiro et al. (2019) How deep is the conflict between molecular and fossil evidence on the age of angiosperms? New Phytologist

Abstract: The timing of the origin of angiosperms is a hotly debated topic in plant evolution. Molecular dating analyses that consistently retrieve pre‐Cretaceous ages for crown‐group angiosperms have eroded confidence in the fossil record, which indicates a radiation and possibly also origin in the Early Cretaceous. Here, we evaluate paleobotanical evidence on the age of the angiosperms, showing how fossils provide crucial data for clarifying the situation. Pollen floras document a Northern Gondwanan appearance of monosulcate angiosperms in the Valanginian and subsequent poleward spread of monosulcates and tricolpate eudicots, accelerating in the Albian. The sequence of pollen types agrees with molecular phylogenetic inferences on the course of pollen evolution, but it conflicts strongly with Triassic and early Jurassic molecular ages, and the discrepancy is difficult to explain by geographic or taphonomic biases. Critical scrutiny shows that supposed pre‐Cretaceous angiosperms either represent other plant groups or lack features that might confidently assign them to the angiosperms. However, the record may allow the Late Jurassic existence of ecologically restricted angiosperms, like those seen in the basal ANITA grade. Finally, we examine recently recognized biases in molecular dating and argue that a thoughtful integration of fossil and molecular evidence could help resolve these conflicts.

 

Li et al. (2019) Origin of angiosperms and the puzzle of the Jurassic gap. Nature Plants

Abstract: Angiosperms are by far the most species-rich clade of land plants, but their origin and early evolutionary history remain poorly understood. We reconstructed angiosperm phylogeny based on 80 genes from 2,881 plastid genomes representing 85% of extant families and all orders. With a well-resolved plastid tree and 62 fossil calibrations, we dated the origin of the crown angiosperms to the Upper Triassic, with major angiosperm radiations occurring in the Jurassic and Lower Cretaceous. This estimated crown age is substantially earlier than that of unequivocal angiosperm fossils, and the difference is here termed the ‘Jurassic angiosperm gap’. Our time-calibrated plastid phylogenomic tree provides a highly relevant framework for future comparative studies of flowering plant evolution.

 

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Filed under Biodiversity, Charles Darwin, Evolution, Geology, History of science

Celebrating Conrad Gesner Day 2017 (and Spiral Sunday #27)!

Gessner house Zurich March 2008 018

Happy Conrad Gesner Day!  Who is he, you may ask?  And why does he have a day?  Conrad Gesner (sometimes spelled Konrad Gessner) was a Swiss naturalist and polymath, born on this day (26th March) in 1516; he lived much of his life in Zurich, where he died on 13 December 1565.  Gesner was an extremely important figure in Renaissance science and scholarship, and when I visited Zurich in 2008 to give a seminar at the university, a tour of the old town revealed a number of references to the great man, including the memorial stone above.

Gesner’s Historia animalium (“History of Animals”)  is considered one of the founding texts of modern zoology, and for that reason he is memorialised in the name Gesneria Hübner, 1825; this is a genus of moths in the family Crambidae.

However Gesner was also a botanist and wrote a couple of books on the subject, though his Historia plantarum was not published until two centuries after his death.  To celebrate Gesner’s botanical achievements Linnaeus erected the genus Gesneria L. for a group of flowering plants.  Sounds odd to have the same name for two very different types of organism, but this cross-kingdom duplication of genera is allowable under the various codes of taxonomic nomenclature.

Gesneria in turn is the type genus for the family Gesneriaceae.  It’s quite a big family (about 3,450 species in 152 genera) and is ecologically important in the tropics and subtropics, where species may be pollinated by insects and birds, and are often epiphytic on trees.  It’s not a particularly economically important family, though a number of genera are widely grown as ornamentals, and there are specialist gesneriad growers and collectors.  The more familiar plants include those mainstays of Mothering Sunday (which by coincidence is also today) African Violets (Saintpaulia), Cape Primroses (Streptocarpus) and gloxinias (Gloxinia):

Gloxinias 20170325_105735

As I was looking through my photographs from the trip to Zurich in 2008 I spotted the following image of some wrought ironwork from the old city which may well be contemporary with Gesner.  This seems a fitting way to celebrate both the great man and this week’s Spiral Sunday:

Spirals in Zurich March 2008 119.png Happy Birthday Dr Gesner!

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Filed under Biodiversity, Biodiversity and culture, Gardens, History of science, Spirals

Dispelling the myth that orchid species usually only have a single pollinator

Orchids at Kew 2014-02-24 15.30.32

The idea that members of the plant family Orchidaceae (the orchids) “typically have exclusive relationships with their pollinators“, such that each orchid has only one pollinator, is a persistent one.  Recently I’ve encountered it on horticultural websites (follow that last link), in grant proposals, and on Wikipedia.

The problem is that it’s not true: it’s a myth that is perpetuated by people (often botanists or horticulturalists) who may know a lot about orchids but don’t know as much as they think they know about pollination ecology.

Orchids certainly have some fascinating and often quite intricate floral mechanisms to ensure pollination, but these have not necessarily evolved to attract and exploit just one species of pollinator.  Even in the case of sexually deceptive orchids that fool their (male) pollinating insects into believing that they are mating with a female of the same species, it is sometimes the case that more than one insect species is involved.  For example, in the well studied genus Ophrysflowers are pollinated by a narrow taxonomic range of pollinators, from a single species to up to five closely related species“.  As the authors of that last paper state, this is not the same as the mythological “extreme case of one orchid/one pollinator”.

Likewise different species of orchid bees may pollinate the same orchid flowers as they visit to collect scent compounds; for example in the Brazilian species Dichaea pendula, species from at least two different bee genera act as pollinators (Nunes et al. 2016).

The fact that “one orchid/one pollinator” is a myth is not new knowledge, it’s been widely discussed in the pollination ecology literature for decades.  For example, in our 1996 paper “Generalization in Pollination Systems, and Why it Matters” we showed data from the late 19th/early 20th centuries that clearly indicated a range of specialization in European orchids (follow that link and look at  Figure 3B).  Even earlier than this, in his 1992 paper “Trends in the pollination ecology of the Orchidaceae: evolution and systematics” Raymond Tremblay showed that only about 62% of species for which he could find data had a single pollinator, and that this varied considerably between different subfamilies of Orchidaceae, with some subfamilies being more specialized than others.

More recently, in a chapter in the 2006 book I co-edited with Nick Waser entitled “Geographical Variation in Diversity and Specificity of Pollination Systems” Steve Johnson, Andrew Hingston and myself looked at data from southern African compared to North American and European orchids; here’s the figure from that assessment:

 

Ollerton et al Figure 7 - JPEG

Orchids  are more specialized in southern Africa compared to Europe and North America (as are a number of other plant groups including the asclepiads, which we’re comparing them with here).  But even in southern Africa, only about 65% of the orchids studied have a single pollinator species.  It’s worth pointing out, though, that many of the species included in this analysis, and in Raymond Tremblay’s paper, have been studied only at single sites and often in single years, meaning that we have no idea if there is any spatio-temporal variation in the pollinators a particular orchid species exploits.

Why does this myth persist?  I think it’s for the same reason that myths are retold from generation to generation: they are great stories that fascinate the teller and the audience.  Indeed, orchids are very special plants with some amazing floral and vegetative adaptations, fascinating relationships with fungi, and incredible diversity.  But we don’t have to mythologise their relationships with their pollinators to try to make orchids more special than they already are.

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Filed under Bees, Biodiversity, History of science, Pollination

Honey bee or honeybee; bumblebee or bumble bee?

screen-shot-2017-02-28-at-10-18-20

Language is fascinating, particularly the way in which it changes over time to incorporate new words, or old words used differently.  In science this has important implications for understanding: semantics matter.  With this in mind I’ve been curious about the alternative ways in which authors write the informal names of species.  Scientific names (Genus species)  should be fairly stable in their spelling and presentation (though not always, especially in the older literature); but “common” names of species vary widely geographically and temporally.

Here’s an example using Google’s Ngram Viewer which is a useful tool for tracking changes in word use over time.  Different authors currently use the terms “honey bee” and “honeybee”, sometimes in the same publication.  But as the image above shows. historical analysis suggests that “honey bee” is the more traditional term, and that “honeybee” only came into common usage from the start of the 20th century, and by the late 1920s had taken over “honey bee”.

Likewise “bumblebee” and “bumble bee”; despite “bumble bee” having a much earlier usage, “bumblebee” has dominated since the late 19th century:

screen-shot-2017-02-28-at-10-16-51It’s interesting to speculate about what might have caused these shifts in use, and it’s possible that in these examples it was the publication of especially influential books that used one term over another and influenced subsequent writers.  Could make a good project for a student studying how use of language varies in different time periods.

For my own part I tend to prefer “honey bee” and “bumblebee”, but I can’t precisely articulate why; perhaps it’s because in Europe we talk about “the honey bee” as a single species (Apis mellifera) but not “the bumblebee” because there is usually more than one co-occurring Bombus species in a particular area.  Do others have a particular preference?

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Filed under Bees, History of science, Honey bees

What’s the point of the h-index? UPDATED

UPDATE: I’ve increased the sample size of EEB scientists I used in the analysis.

——————————————————-

Over at the Dynamic Ecology blog yesterday, Jeremy Fox posted an interesting analysis of which metrics correlate with the chances of early career researchers in ecology and evolutionary biology (EEB) gaining an interview for an academic post in North America.   Spoiler alert: none of them correlate, except the number of job applications you submit.

These metrics include number of papers published, number of first author papers, number of large (>$100,000) grants held, number of years post-doc, and h-index.  Nada, zilch, nothing, nowt is significantly correlated.  Which is good: as Jeremy (and the stream of commenters) discuss, it means that interview panels are looking roundly at individuals and what they can offer a university department, and not relying on (sometimes dubious) metrics.

Which brings us to the h-index….  Jeremy linked to an old post of mine called “How does a scientist’s h-index change over time?“, a piece that was far and away my most viewed post last year (and second-most viewed post in 2015).  This suggests that there’s still a huge “appetite” for the h-index, in terms of understanding what it is and how it can/should (or cannot/should not) be used.  Even before the Dynamic Ecology post came out I was planning to update it and give examples where I think it might be useful, so this seems like a good time to do that.

Opinions on the h-index vary hugely.  Some of the links in my original post were to writings by scientists who really like the idea of being able to use it to track the academic impact of an individual (or at least some measure of it).  Others despise it, and indeed all academic metrics, as pernicious and potentially dangerous to science – see David Colquhoun’s video on this topic, for instance.

I’m somewhere in the middle – I recognise the weaknesses of the h-index, but I also think that it’s measuring something, even if the something that it’s measuring may not be directly translatable into a measure of “quality” or “impact”, and especially not “employability” or “worthy of promotion” (and I would certainly never countenance using the h-index as a the sole measure of the latter two).

So when is the h-index useful?  Well one use is as a personal tracker of one’s own standing or contribution within a field, assessing the trajectory of a career, and perhaps gauging when it’s time to apply for promotion (at least in the UK system which is a less transparent process than in North America, or at least that’s my impression).  To illustrate this I’ve collated the h-indexes and years since first publication for 72 EEB scientists using Google Scholar (GS).  I used GS rather than Web of Science (WoS) as, although GS is less conservative, WoS seems to be becoming noticeably less accurate; for example it’s recently assigned to me chapters on which I was not an author but which are included in a book that I co-edited.  Another advantage of GS, of course, is that it’s publicly available and not pay walled.

It’s long been known that a scientist’s h-index should increase over their professional lives, and indeed that’s what we find if we plot number of years since first publication against an individual’s h-index:

h-index-graph

It’s a fairly strong correlation, though with a lot of scatter (something Jeremy noted in his blog) and it suggests that EEB scholars accrue their h-index  at a rate of about 1.6 papers per year, on average, though with a big range (0.3 to 4.2 papers per year).  One (albeit fanciful*) way to think about this graph is that it’s analogous to a Hertzsprung–Russell (HR) diagram in astronomy, where, as they age, stars shift position predictably on a plot of colour versus magnitude.  In a similar way, as EEB scientists age professionally, their position on this plot moves in ways that may be predictable from their scientific output.

There’s a lot of structure in HR diagrams, including the famous Main Sequence, where most stars lie, as well as stellar evolutionary tracks for Giants, Super Giants, White Dwarfs, etc.  In this modest sample I think we’re starting to see similar structure, with individuals lying far above or below the “h-index Main Sequence”, indicating that they are accruing greater or fewer citations than might be expected.  UPDATE:  In particular, three individuals who are “Super Giants” (to use the astronomical terminology) and lie far above the Main Sequence.  Carlos Herrera makes an interesting point in the comments (below) about self-selection in GS which could mean that there are far fewer people with low h-indexes represented than we might expect.

One of the things that could be explored using these type of data is exactly why it is that this is happening: is it a question of where they are based, or their nationality, or where they publish, their sub-field, or what?  One easy analysis to do is to assess whether there is a difference between female and male scientists, as follows:

h-index-graph-mf

Previous research has suggested that women on average receive fewer citations for their papers than men (see this 2013 study in Nature for instance) and this graph gives some support to that idea, though I’ve not formally tested the difference between the two lines. What is also interesting is that the R-squared values are identical, indicating as much variation in female as male career trajectories, at least as measured in this way.

UPDATE:  These additional data suggest that the h-indexes of male and female researchers diverge over time, and that most of the difference is for mid to late career scientists.  It’s unclear to me why this might be the case, but we could speculate about factors such as career breaks to have children.  Note that I struggled to find female EEB scientists with an h-index larger than about 80 – if I’ve missed any please let me know.

The data set I used for this analysis is certainly not random and contains a lot of people I know personally or by reputation, so a larger, more systematic analysis could come to some rather different conclusions.  However I thought this was an interesting starting point and if anyone else wants to play with the data, you can download the anonymised spreadsheet here.

 

*I’m not at all convinced about this analogy myself and am happy for anyone to explain to me why it’s a very poor one 🙂  UPDATE:  Though Stephen Heard seems to like it.

 

 

 

 

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Elsevier successfully patents a common peer review process

As reported yesterday on Mike Taylor’s Sauropod Vertebra blog, who in turn picked up the story from the sec.uno site, at the end of August the giant publisher Elsevier successfully patented what they see as a unique form of peer review: waterfall (or cascading as it’s long been known) peer review. This is described as “the transfer of submitted articles from one journal to another journal” owned by the same publisher.  And there’s nothing new about it, it’s been accepted practice for a number of publishers for years now.

If you want to look at the original U.S. patent, here’s a link to it.

I don’t often re-work the content of others’ blogs, but his is exceptional: the motivation for Elsevier’s actions seem dubious at best and it’s worth clicking through and reading those pieces in detail.  What is Elsevier thinking?

The timing of this one story is also interesting.  It’s as if the Gods of Publishing had actually read my last post about peer-reviewed versus non-peer-reviewed publishing, and decided to have some fun with us mere mortals…..

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How many non-peer-reviewed publications should a scientist produce?

Peer-reviewed writing moves science forwards; non-peer-reviewed writing moves science sideways.  

That’s my publication philosophy in one sentence.  In other words, when scientists write research papers and book chapters that are peer-reviewed, the underlying rationale is that we are adding to the sum total of human knowledge, providing insights into a topic, and moving a field forwards. When we write non-peer-reviewed articles we are generally writing about science for a broader audience, with little original content (though perhaps with some original ideas).  This moves concepts out of a narrow subject area and into the purview of wider society, which can be other scientists in different fields, or government agencies or policy makers, or the general public.

There can be exceptions to the rule, such as the IPBES pollinators and pollination report that I’ve been discussing this year. The report was widely peer-reviewed but is intended for a much broader audience than just scientists.  Conversely, non-peer-reviewed critiques and responses to published papers can clarify specific issues or challenge findings, which will certainly move science forward (or backwards into muddier waters, depending on how you view it).  However, in general, the principle stated above holds true.

This raises the (admittedly clunky) question I’ve posed in the title of this post: just how much non-peer-reviewed publication should a scientist who is an active researcher actually do?  How much time should they spend writing for that wider audience?

It’s a question that I’ve given some thought to over the 30 years1 that I’ve been writing and publishing articles and papers.  But a couple of posts on other blogs during the past week have crystalised these thoughts and inspired this post.  The first was Meghan Duffy’s piece on Formatting a CV for a faculty job application over at the Dynamic Ecology blog. There was some discussion about how to present different types of publications in the publication list, and notions of “sorting the wheat from the chaff” in that list, which seemed to refer to peer-reviewed versus non-peer-reviewed publications.

One of the problems that I and others see is that the distinction is not so clear cut and it’s possible to publish non-peer-reviewed articles in peer-reviewed journals.  For example the “commentary” and “news and views” type pieces in NatureScience, Current Biology, and other journals are generally not peer reviewed.  But I’d certainly not consider these to be “chaff”.  To reiterate my comment on Meghan’s post, all scientific communication is important.  As I’ve discussed in a few places on my blog (see here for example) and plenty of others have also talked about, scientists must write across a range of published formats if they are going to communicate their ideas effectively to a wider audience than just the scientists who are specifically interested in their topic.

Peer-reviewed publication is seen as the gold standard of science communication and it is clearly important (though historically it’s a relatively recent invention and scientific publications were not peer reviewed for most of the history of science).  So why, you may be asking, would scientists want to write for that wider audience?  One reason is the “Impact Agenda” on which, in Britain at least, there’s been a huge focus from the Research Excellence Framework (REF) and the Research Councils. Grant awarding bodies and university recruitment panels will want to see that scientists are actively promoting their work beyond academia. That can be done in different ways (including blogging!) but articles in “popular” magazines certainly count.  I should stress though that this wider, societal impact (as opposed to academic impact, e.g. measures such as the h-index) is not about publishing popular articles, or blogging, or tweeting. Those activities can be part of the strategy towards impact but are not in themselves impactful – the REF would describe this as “Reach”2.

The second recent blog post that relates to the question of peer-reviewed versus non-peer-reviewed publications is Steve Heard’s piece at Scientistseessquirrel on why he thinks it’s still important to consider journal titles when deciding what to read.  He makes some important points about how the place of publication says a lot about the type of paper that one can expect to read based just on the title.  But the focus of Steve’s post is purely on peer-reviewed journals and (as I said above) it’s possible to publish non-peer-reviewed articles in those.  I think that it’s also worth noting that there are many opportunities for scientists to publish articles in non-peer-reviewed journals that have real value.  Deciding whether or not to do so, however, is a very personal decision.

Of the 96 publications on my publication list, 65 are peer-reviewed and 31 are not, which is a 68% rate of publishing peer-reviewed papers and book chapters.  Some of the peer-reviewed papers are fairly light weight and made no real (academic) impact following publication, and (conversely) some of the non-peer-reviewed articles have had much more influence. The non-peer-reviewed element includes those commentary-type pieces for Nature and Science that I mentioned, as well as book reviews, articles in specialist popular magazines such as New Scientist, Asklepios and The Plantsman, pieces for local and industry newsletters, and a couple of contributions to literary journal Dark Mountain that combine essay with poetry.  This is probably a more diverse mix than most scientists produce, but I’m proud of all of them and stand by them.

So back to my original question: is 68% a low rate of peer-reviewed publication?  Or reasonable?  I’m sure there are scientists out there with a 100% rate, who only ever publish peer-reviewed outputs.  Why is that?  Do they really attach no importance to non-peer-reviewed publications? I have no specific answer to the question in the title, but I’d be really interested in the comments of other scientists (and non-scientists) on this question.


I had to double check that, because it seems inconceivable, but yes, it’s 30 years this year. Gulp.

Impact is how society changes as a result of the research undertaken.  So, for ecologists, it could be how their research has been translated into active, on-the-ground changes (e.g. to management of nature reserves, or rare or exploited species), or how it’s been picked up by national and international policy documents and then influenced policies on specific issues (invasive species, pollinator conservation, etc.)

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Filed under History of science, Poetry

When Charles collide: Darwin, Bradlaugh, and birth control for Darwin Day 2016

Darwin-Bradlaugh

The town of Northampton celebrates a number of local heroes from sports, the arts, and even science.  These includ the footballer Walter Tull, the co-discover of the structure of DNA, Francis Crick, author Alan Moore, and former resident thespian Errol Flynn. I could go on, but in honour of Darwin Day 2016 I thought I’d focus on the great naturalist.

Darwin had several personal associations with Northampton and Northamptonshire. He was a corresponding member of the Northamptonshire Natural History Society, which is now one of the oldest surviving societies of its kind. Darwin also corresponded with Walter Drawbridge Crick a Northampton shoe manufacturer and amateur naturalist who was grandfather of Francis.

Further afield in Northamptonshire, Darwin had a number of friends and correspondents, including the Reverend John Downes, vicar of Horton & Piddington. By coincidence, the captain of the Beagle, Robert FitzRoy, lived in Northamptonshire for much of his early life.

A Darwin link to Northampton that’s not widely known about is the brief correspondence he engaged in with Charles Bradlaugh the radical reformer and MP for the town during the 1880s.  Bradlaugh is a real local hero, with a very prominent statue in the town, and a pub, a local country park, and one of the university’s student residences named after the great man.

On 5th June 1877 Bradlaugh wrote to Darwin asking for his support in a court case by appearing as a witness for the defence: Bradlaugh and his colleague Annie Besant were charged with obscenity for writing that promoted contraception.  Darwin replied the very next day and politely declined.

As far as I’m aware the texts of both letters have never been published in full, only snippets are available.  An extract of Darwin’s letter is given in Charles Bradlaugh: a record of his Life and Work, written by his daughter:

“I have been for many years much out of health, and have been forced to give up all society or public meetings; and it would be great suffering to me to be a witness in Court. It is, indeed, not improbable that I may be unable to attend. Therefore, I hope that, if in your power, you will excuse my attendance…. If it is not asking too great a favour, I should be greatly obliged if you would inform me what you decide, as apprehension of the coming exertion would prevent the rest which I require doing me much good”.

At the Darwin Correspondence Project, Darwin’s response is summarised as follows and gives a very different flavour to his reaction:

“[Darwin] would prefer not to be a witness in court. In any case CD’s opinion is strongly opposed to that [of Bradlaugh and Besant].  [Darwin] believes artificial checks to the natural rate of human increase are very undesirable and that the use of artificial means to prevent conception would soon destroy chastity and, ultimately, the family.”

Bradlaugh’s letter has only a very brief summary and I’ve not seen any direct quotes (though perhaps I’ve missed them?)

The correspondence, its historical context, and the subsequent trial have been written about several times (see for example Peart and Levy 2005 and Peart and Levy 2008) and there’s some more recent commentary on Dan All0sso’s blog.

All of this gives a fascinating insight into Darwin as a socially conservative member of the English upper middle class, despite the radical implications of his ideas about evolution.  Bradlaugh and Besant (both true radicals in all senses of the word) were found guilty, fined and sentenced to six months in prison, though following an appeal the conviction was later overturned due to a legal technicality.

Happy Darwin Day to my readers!

 

 

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Filed under Charles Darwin, History of science, University of Northampton