From Grub Street to the Colony: George William Francis and an early Victorian scientific career

Introduction

In a letter to Francis Dutton, a Member of the Parliament of South Australia in 1859, the director of the Adelaide Botanic Garden, George William Francis (1800–1865), expressed his dissatisfaction with the government's latest decision. The colony had dispatched a collection of plant specimens to the neighbouring colony of Victoria rather than leaving it at Francis's disposal. Francis interpreted this decision as distrust of his scientific credibility. He summarized his résumé to protest:

One can feel Francis's dismay from this strong and sarcastic statement. He asserted that his remarkable experience of lectureship, authorship and learned societies' fellowships could reject any supposition about his competence. His correspondence with some illustrious names in the field was also a proof of his scientific identity.

Francis's distress was not without reason. He had long maintained contact with the leading English botanist William Jackson Hooker (1785–1865) and urged the necessity of authoring a survey of Australian flora. Francis longed to make a name for himself as a prominent botanist by contributing to such a definitive volume. Bad as it would be to lose control of the collection that was essential to his project, even worse could be to lose the credit for first studying and naming the plants within the collection to his competitor in Victoria, Dr Ferdinand von Mueller (1825–1896). With a doctorate and having secured full support from the government, Mueller seemed to be more ‘capable’ of working on such an enterprise and gaining the scientific glory. Francis's self-awareness of his qualifications as a botanist and his identity reflects not only his anxiety about the rivalry for recognition, but also what counted as a scientific career in the pre-professionalized period.

How did one become a scientist and build a scientific career? The situation was not so concrete in the early nineteenth century, when the term ‘scientist’ had just appeared and had not been widely received among practitioners of science.² Early Victorian practitioners preferred to be denoted as a ‘man of science’, a phrase implying a gentleman with independent means, who was devoted to full-time pursuits of science but not dependent on them for a living. This image was definitively different from a paid professional working for government, industrial or academic institutions in later times. The transformations of science from gentlemanly pursuits by learned virtuosi to occupational practices by specialized professionals in the nineteenth century is often precariously interpreted as a process of professionalization, placing ‘amateurs’ in anachronistic contradistinction to ‘professionals’. However, as scholars like Roy Porter, Jack Morrell and Ruth Barton have shown, professionalization was not a uniform or universal process, and the actual shifts in science had variations across countries and disciplines.³ Historians now consider professionalization as a phenomenon where scientific practices, boundary marking and social relations changed in an industrializing society.⁴ They have proposed various approaches to analyse the effects of professionalization. Morrell, for example, emphasizes demands for ‘greater recognition through more and better paid positions, more money for research, and more respect for expert knowledge’.⁵ Barton, on the other hand, analyses the language used by ‘members, would-be members, and observers’ of the scientific community to understand how they described themselves and others. Barton's analysis shows subtle distinction between the categories in Victorian science; the labels ‘professionals’ and ‘amateurs’ were insignificant to identify one's place in the hierarchy.⁶

The culture of gentlemanly science remained prevalent in early Victorian Britain. Status as a gentleman meant not only having the freedom to engage in a chosen career, but also complying with a set of respectable ethics and conduct. Therefore, the culture was based on the ideals of gentility in a hierarchical society to ensure virtue and credibility of scientific practices.⁷ Being a member of the educated elite, or having enough wealth to participate in the clubland of science, would give advantage over others who were in a position of social or financial dependence. However, there were also other routes for practitioners from lower social ranks to access genteel society and gentlemanly scientific circles. They could earn incomes, reputation and promotion from a variety of activities related to exploitation of knowledge. These opportunities, which James Secord calls ‘commercial science’, were especially created by the vibrant marketplace of metropolitan science.⁸

The trajectory of Francis's career provides a distinctive case of social climbing in the world of gentlemanly science. A son of a London master tradesman, Francis rose through the ranks by engaging in commercial science—lecturing, authorship, editorship—to build his own scientific career. He struggled to establish himself in the scientific communities from his relatively humble origin. He emigrated to Australia in his later life and is now best remembered as the founder of the Adelaide Botanic Garden.⁹ However, his early career in England is obscure. The Dictionary of national biography simply relates: ‘While in England [Francis] had established a minor reputation as writer of a number of elementary scientific textbooks.’¹⁰ In fact, in addition to a common perception of his botanical pursuits, Francis was a versatile and prolific author of various scientific subjects. One of his legacies was The Magazine of Science and School of Arts (hereafter abbreviated as the Magazine of Science), a popular journal published between 1839 and 1852. He created the Magazine of Science and served as the editor for its first five years.

By tracing Francis's early career through different stages of his striving for recognition, this article explores the social network and daily practices of a non-elite botanist in early Victorian scientific communities. My analysis especially focuses on how Francis attempted to achieve his ambition through practices of commercial science and networking. A biography of Francis will be drawn in the process, but the emphasis is laid on his status and interactions with colleagues in the scientific community. There are other scholarly works on Victorian naturalists in this vein. For instance, Richard Bellon and Jim Endersby use the career of Joseph Dalton Hooker, the son of William Hooker, as a paradigm case for demonstrating the change of the scientific milieu. They both emphasize the practices of Victorian botany: mundane and material matters in the younger Hooker's career, such as travel and collecting, corresponding with others, associating in genteel society and, most importantly, securing a place and patronage.¹¹

Although my method is to focus on the case of an individual's scientific career, it also suggests two alternative means for tackling the problem of professionalization. First, instead of analysing the scientific elites' concepts of professionalism, the prosopographical approach of studying the collective trajectory of a group of practitioners in the community, especially of those ‘lower decks’ practitioners like Francis, would be helpful for better understanding the transformation of science in this period.¹² Second, the notion of ‘career’ should not be narrowly considered in ‘professional’ terms. While the two terms ‘career’ and ‘profession’ overlap, they are not the same. My analysis of Francis's career, as shown later in this article, stresses his search for institutional employment. Nevertheless, the notion of career in the nineteenth century was more vocational (devoting a lifetime) than occupational (making a living), as the Oxford English dictionary indicates: ‘a person's course of progress through life (or a distinct portion of life)’.¹³ Porter also reminds us that the development of the concept ‘career interests’ during the Victorian era contributed to contemporaries' distinction between a leisured amateur and a career practitioner.¹⁴ Therefore, Francis's search for a paid position should be considered as means of supporting his career interest in botany rather than an ultimate goal of entering a ‘profession’.

This article is divided into four parts. The first and second sections elaborate Francis's efforts to earn a livelihood from commercial science and beyond. He sought visibility for his literary works and opportunities for institutional employment. Apart from making a living to sustain daily life and scientific pursuits, writing and editing served as important means of acquiring a positive reputation among fellow practitioners. The pioneer study by Susan Sheets-Pyenson on the publishing trade of nineteenth-century natural history periodicals, along with Aileen Fyfe's work on the practices and identity of early Victorian science writers, are relevant to this perspective.¹⁵ Fyfe's analysis of William Martin and Thomas Milner, two writers broadly associated with popular science publications of various organizations such as the Religious Tract Society, is particularly helpful in making a comparison of mid-century scientific authors' circumstances. No man of science is an island; scientific practices also involve sociability. To build a network beneficial to research as well as promotion, Francis joined learned societies and solicited support from senior figures such as William Hooker. His communication also reflects common practices between naturalists, collectors and other kinds of correspondents in gentlemanly science.¹⁶ Francis's correspondence and editorials reflect a complex social network involving different classes of actors in science, ranging from the university professor of botany to working-class readers of mechanics' journals.

Francis's editorship of the Magazine of Science also played a significant part in the trajectory of his career, which will be discussed in the third section. The roles and functions of scientific periodicals in the changing scientific milieu have long been the focus of historians' attention. Scholars have searched high and low: from academic journals such as the Philosophical Transactions meant for communication between learned members, to popular magazines aiming at general readers that represented the emergence of a ‘low scientific culture’.¹⁷ The latest publication on nineteenth-century British science periodicals, edited by Gowan Dawson, Bernard Lightman, Sally Shuttleworth and Jonathan Topham, extends attention to the readership and regards periodicals as a key tool for developing ‘more and less coherent collectives’ within the scientific community.¹⁸ Editors and proprietors often actively enforced the direction of a journal according to their visions of science; readers also responded and formed their identity of the community in the process. One example was several nineteenth-century entomology periodicals' intention of shaping disciplinary boundaries and regulations.¹⁹ As the editor of the Magazine of Science, Francis had an egalitarian view about science and he expected his journal to be a platform calling for participation in science by all classes of readers.

Francis's talent and success in popular writing did not guarantee an institutional post. His misfortune in England, as described in the final section, caused his eventual migration to find overseas opportunities. He revived the unsuccessful botanic garden project in Adelaide, and ultimately fulfilled his dream of securing a botanical curatorship. Nevertheless, he continued to struggle to obtain funding and recognition as a botanist. Francis's career track does not show a Dickensian rags-to-riches story, but rather the ceaseless effort that a scientific practitioner would face when following a career path through commercial science.

Building a reputation from a humble origin

Like most of the science writers and lecturers in the early Victorian marketplace, little is known of Francis's early life. A biography by Barbara Best, Francis's great granddaughter, is the most detailed account.²⁰ Because of Best's family tie, this biography unsurprisingly emphasizes Francis's Australian life. Nevertheless, she compiles many of Francis's letters and a list of his publications, so the biography still provides invaluable sources for reconstructing Francis's early life in England. Some of the literature on British naturalists and horticulturalists also mentions Francis, such as David Allen's and Ray Desmond's works.²¹ Yet all of these references except Best's are very brief.

Aileen Fyfe has pointed out the difficulties of tracing ordinary science authors' biographical information through their printed works alone.²² Unless the author makes a candid revelation, printed works rarely disclose personal motivation or struggle behind the writing. In Fyfe's study of Martin and Milner, she relies on the two writers' affiliation with several specific publishers and on grant applications to the Royal Literary Fund to recreate their personal circumstances. An investigation of Francis's early life faces similar problems. Apart from his own publications, however, his correspondence with William Hooker, particularly those letters before his emigration to Australia, offers a valuable primary source for his early career.²³ Some of his correspondence with the colonial government and colleagues when he held office at the Adelaide Botanic Garden, like the letter mentioned at the beginning of the article, also survives.²⁴ These letters form the basis for deducing how Francis achieved his scientific career.

George William Francis was born in the East End of London in 1800 as the eldest of five children of Isaac George and Frances Francis. He was baptized at St Mary's, Whitechapel. His father was a cooper and general agent in the City, who later became a liveryman in 1807. This status suggests that Francis had a relatively comfortable upbringing. Francis spent his early years and part of his married life at 55 Great Prescott Street in Aldgate, where he lived until at least August 1840.²⁵ Although he did not attend university, his education must have been decent, for he could ‘read Latin and French’.²⁶ He cultivated his enthusiasm for botany from childhood, as he claimed in his letter to Dutton that he had already known ‘more than 300 wild plants’ at ten years old.²⁷ He also ‘travelled and collected’ by the time he was 21 years old. Nevertheless, it is unclear whether he attended a school during his childhood. He served an apprenticeship at the Loddiges' nursery in Hackney, which was managed by the prominent horticulturalist Loddiges family and was famed for cultivation and trade of exotic plants.²⁸ Little is known about his apprenticeship, but it is reasonable to conjecture that most of Francis's knowledge of science was self-taught or came from his experience at the Loddiges.

Although Francis might have been brought up in a comfortable environment, he and his family were not totally free from financial pressure. As a liveryman of the Coopers' Company, his father, Isaac George, belonged to a member of the merchant bourgeoisie. This middle-class status was certainly above the rank of a journeyman cooper, but was hardly that of a gentleman who did not need to work for a living. When Isaac George died in November 1837, according to his will, he left to his four surviving children a modest £40 and other miscellaneous property not thought worth specifying in the will after discharging all his debts. Francis received merely £5 from his deceased father.²⁹ He had two marriages: the first was to Mary Ann Allnutt, who died in 1834; the second was to his cousin Ann Hatt, who accompanied Francis to Australia and survived after his death. He may have acquired a dowry or inheritance from his marriages, but I have not found evidence for such bequests. In any case, Francis could not depend on an inheritance to support him. He had to maintain an income for a growing household after his second marriage in 1838, which brought him more children within the next decade.

Lecturing was a reasonable way to earn a wage and to build a reputation in science simultaneously. Francis claimed that he started lecturing on botany and other scientific subjects at age 25. Most of his lectures were to medical students, at a time when knowledge of plants and herbs was still an important part in medical training.³⁰ The formal curriculum at universities or hospitals across Britain in the early nineteenth century lacked hands-on courses in practical chemistry and botany, a deficiency that left space for private extramural classes, often operated by laboratory assistants or younger lecturers.³¹ Although Francis proclaimed he had been a ‘professor’ of botany at the London Hospital for 12 years, he was probably a private teacher or extramural lecturer.³² Public lecturing was not an unusual route for a learned young man to establish a scientific reputation in early nineteenth-century Britain. The metropolis in particular offered many opportunities for ambitious scientific entrepreneurs.³³ There was a wide spectrum of institutions, ranging from the high-end Royal Institution to the mechanics' institutes aimed at the working classes. Permanent posts were scarce, but temporary hire of lecturers for delivering courses were in demand. Charles Babbage, for example, lectured to the Royal Institution on astronomy in 1815, which was his first employment, immediately after graduating from Cambridge. For people who lacked college education or were outside polite society, lecturing was a stepping stone to prove their mettle. Some successful lecturers could take up freelance and itinerant lecturing as a vocation, such as John Wallis (1788–1852), who had been employed by several institutions across England on a regular basis.³⁴ Although little is known of Francis's lecturing activities, he probably considered lecturing to be the first step to building a scientific reputation as well as earning a basic living.

Writing was another potential way to develop a scientific reputation. Particularly for those outside genteel circles, writing a suitable publication could demonstrate ability and confer recognition. An appropriate work that could draw the attention of polite society was not necessarily a specialist report of original research; a generalist treatise with an attractive narrative showing the author's comprehension of the subject might be an easier way to achieve this goal.³⁵ Studies of early nineteenth-century scientific publications and authors have identified several writers who were of relatively humble origins and established a recognized scientific reputation. Among natural history authors, John Claudius Loudon (1783–1843), John Gould (1804–1881) and Philip Henry Gosse (1810–1888) are famous examples. Gould and Gosse both came from an artisan background; they were later famed for their writings in ornithology and marine biology, respectively, and were both elected Fellows of the Royal Society.³⁶ Loudon, the son of a Scottish farmer, became a renowned landscape gardener, horticulture author and Fellow of the Linnaean Society. He was a visionary who extended his scientific enterprises by creating journals dedicated to horticulture and natural history, including the influential Magazine of Natural History.³⁷

Francis's first monograph was the Catalogue of British flowering plants and ferns (1835), which was based on the third edition of William Hooker's British flora and aimed to facilitate botanical correspondence and reference. Since its form was ‘in one sheet’ of price 6 d., this catalogue was probably a printed index rather than an original book.³⁸ Despite its popularity (a second edition was published within a year), it was a handy guide at best and was not the type of publication alone that could enhance Francis's scientific reputation. He also contributed articles to the Magazine of Natural History. In one essay, he shared his technique for producing specimens of plant leaves and seed vessels; in another, he enthusiastically introduced places available for natural history pursuits in the vicinity of London.³⁹ These were small but significant moves to enhance his presence in the community. Loudon's Magazine of Natural History had become a focal forum for calling forth numerous classes of naturalists, whether philosophical researchers or hobbyist collectors, with a keen sense of common purpose.

The book that made Francis's name was his successful second monograph, An analysis of the British ferns and their allies (hereafter abbreviated as British ferns), which was first published in 1837. Public interest in ferns surged in early Victorian Britain and Francis's book, as David Allen remarks, ‘officially launched the great fern craze’.⁴⁰ The volume is an illustrated guide to the species and varieties of British ferns, including information on these flowerless plants' practical uses and where to find them. It contains copper-plate engravings of each species made by Francis himself. He rationalized this ‘untutored attempt’ by claiming that the plates would be less accurate had they been executed by an engraver; it also saved him considerable expense in case he was not ‘refunded by the sale of the work’.⁴¹ His prudent decision suggests a limited budget and awareness of the financial risk of the publishing venture. Fortunately, Francis's plain and lively style of writing caught readers' attention and fostered the fern craze phenomenon. The first edition of 1000 copies sold out in two years, and the book reached its fifth edition in 1855.⁴² The critical acclaim for British ferns must have been a great encouragement to Francis's confidence. Following its success, he published several introductory botanical books in quick succession, including The little English flora (1839), The grammar of botany (1840) and The favourites of the flower garden (1844).

Writing could be a supplement to a profession, but very few could live entirely on the payments from literary works. Analyses of the early Victorian science writers' earning patterns shows the possible financial risk a writer confronted. Publishers had three common kinds of contract to issue to an author: they could publish on commission, share profits equally with the author, or pay the author a one-off fee for purchasing copyright. The arrangement by the medical publisher John Churchill for publishing Vestiges of the natural history of creation was on a 10% commission of the copies sold at the trade price. The employment of Martin and Milner by the Religious Tract Society was on outright payments.⁴³ There were pros and cons to all these arrangements. Publishing on commission put authors at their own risk for the costs and they received nothing in advance. In contrast, purchase of copyright guaranteed authors an outright income, but they would not benefit from the sale. Authors' earnings, therefore, were highly variable under either system and it was hard to maintain a stable income stream. Martin and Milner, for example, were both full-time writers in the 1840s, receiving fees ranging from £30 to £160 for a title, depending on the length of the volume.⁴⁴ They also regularly contributed articles to periodicals, which could add to their incomes. Fyfe estimates that they would have earned between £150 and £250 a year on average, a passable sum but hardly enough to accumulate substantial savings.⁴⁵ Both men had sought a bailout from the Royal Literary Fund on particularly difficult occasions. A salaried position offering a stable income, even a low wage, could ease financial pressures. Before turning to full-time writing, Martin earned a salary of £100 as a curator at the museum of the Zoological Society of London. Edward Charlesworth, the editor of the Magazine of Natural History between 1837 and 1840, received an editorial fee around £25 per month, making a moderate income of £300 a year.⁴⁶

These contemporary counterparts of Francis are useful comparisons to help evaluate his circumstances. It is difficult to measure the actual circulation and commercial success of Francis's books, since we lack publishers' ledgers.⁴⁷ The publisher of the British ferns was Simpkin, Marshal & Co., a leading wholesaler in the mid century, which often published works on general literature and science.⁴⁸ Since Francis was cautious about the expense and worried that he could not ‘be refunded by the sale’, the British ferns was likely published on commission. Given that the sale of British ferns reached 1000 copies for its first edition and each was priced at 4 s., the book should have produced an income of £200, but the profit received by Francis was certainly much lower than this. As with Martin and Milner, he had many opportunities to write articles to meet the demands of the market. His lecturing sideline must also have brought him additional income. Based on the 1841 census, Best asserts that Francis was affluent enough to employ an assistant teacher and two female servants in the household.⁴⁹ His financial condition was likely better than Martin and Milner, for he never applied for a grant from the Royal Literary Fund.

By the early 1840s, Francis had established himself with a reputation as a bestselling writer (figure 1). The title pages of his publications always emphasized that he was the author of the British ferns and numerous other books. Despite his lack of formal education or gentleman's rank, he apparently possessed sufficient means to pursue a higher scientific career. However, to obtain scientific credit from original research, he had to secure more institutional resources and support. His popular treatises impressed general readers in polite society, but may have had limited effect on his scientific reputation among experts. He still needed to impress the learned and, coincidentally, as his bestseller title implies, to gain more ‘allies’.

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Seeking a network with the learned

Learned societies were the hubs of British science in the nineteenth century. Unlike the Royal Institution or mechanics' institutes, which had education missions to provide lectures and libraries to the public, a learned society was more of a gentlemen's club for its members to meet, read and debate. It was the materialization of communal ideas of gentlemanly science and also served as a clearing house for distributing first-hand scientific news and information.⁵⁰ In order to participate in the club world of science, a would-be member was required to show not only his love of and contribution to scientific learning but also a quality of sociability—nomination and recommendation by pre-existing members.

Francis started to make friends with like-minded neighbours. His botanical lecturing to medical students at the London Hospital provided proximity to the medical community. Many of his friends were physicians or surgeons in the East End with the same enthusiasm for botany. These medical friends included Nathaniel Bagshaw Ward (1791–1868), who invented the sealed protective ‘Wardian case’; Edwin John Quekett (1808–1847), a key founder of the Microscopical Society of London (later the Royal Microscopical Society); and Jonathan Pereira (1804–1853), a pharmacologist, professor and physician at the London Hospital. They were all residents of Whitechapel or Shoreditch. These medical friends later became a great support to Francis in his career. For example, it is noteworthy that almost half of the references were supplied by medical professionals when Francis applied to the professorship at King's College London.

Francis also had early friends outside medical circles. Some of them had close connections to natural history pursuits, such as the artist James De Carle Sowerby (1787–1871), who ran the family business of natural history publishing and illustrations, and was the secretary of the Royal Botanic Garden at Regent's Park from its establishment in 1838.⁵¹ Some had no relation to natural history, but were connected to Francis's other pursuits of chemistry and mechanics. A curious example was the inventor Henry Bessemer (1813–1896), who, according to Best, was apparently a close family friend: he secured a place in the family photograph album and two of Francis's grandsons had Bessemer as their second names.⁵²

Francis was elected a Fellow of the Linnean Society on 4 June 1839. Ward and Quekett were among his nominators.⁵³ His medical friends, many of whom were already Fellows, proved to be great assets to his admission. Undoubtedly, the success of British ferns, which was published two years prior to his election, also gave him an advantage. The election marked a milestone in Francis's career: he would use the post-nominal letters FLS as his only affiliation in publications afterwards. Two decades later, when he quarrelled with the South Australian parliamentarian Francis Dutton, he still boasted about his fellowship of the Linnean Society, ‘one of the highest natural societies in the world’.⁵⁴ This sense of identity was above that provided by membership of all other learned societies he joined later, such as the Botanical Society of London and the Microscopical Society.

Francis did not confine his networking to the London community; he also reached out to provincial botanists for exchange of specimens, information and professional advice. William Hooker was the most prominent among his correspondents. He began writing letters to Hooker, who was then the Regius Professor of Botany at the University of Glasgow, in January 1835 (figure 2). Francis respectfully initiated a proposal to exchange specimens:

Hooker apparently agreed to this proposal and thus their correspondence started. It continued over the next five years, but suddenly ceased in 1840 for unknown reasons, a year before Hooker was appointed as the director of the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew. The correspondence resumed in 1855, when Francis had already emigrated to Australia.

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In addition to his request to exchange specimens, Francis sent manuscripts and copies of his published reviews of Hooker's books. He also often consulted or corrected Hooker's professional opinions in the letters. The young botanist approached Hooker for benefits not only for research purposes but certainly also for networking. Despite the correspondence being temporarily suspended, Francis retained a lifelong admiration for Hooker, shown by his consistent courtesy in later letters. Nevertheless, their correspondence seems to have been confined to the professional realm and it is unlikely that the two men were personally acquainted.

None of Hooker's replies to Francis have survived, so the Glasgow professor's attitude towards his London admirer is unclear. Francis's letters show that he did (though not always) receive feedback from Hooker. Sometimes Hooker's criticisms about his manuscripts were severe.⁵⁶ Their correspondence is an invaluable source for understanding the day-to-day practice of botanical networking in the early nineteenth century. Their interactions were filtered through a complex tacit set of social assumptions and expectations. The letters give an impression of a junior botanist trying hard to approach a prestigious senior. Hooker, in return, disappointed his younger admirer on some occasions. He probably regarded Francis as merely one of many correspondents whom he dealt with in the exchange of specimens. Because of his position at Glasgow and later at Kew, Hooker attracted voluminous correspondence and had to manage hundreds of similar requests every year.⁵⁷

When Francis initiated his correspondence with Hooker, he was on track to publish his Catalogue of British flowering plants and ferns and was aware that Hooker could be a potential asset to his forthcoming publication. He enclosed some copies of his Catalogue, which he called a ‘British Botanical list’ and begged respectfully that Hooker would accept them. Since his catalogue was based on Hooker's British flora, Francis tried to avoid infringing any copyright and sought Hooker's support, as he worried whether his new publication would interfere with Hooker's previously published works.⁵⁸ He argued, in his defence, that the catalogue was originally ‘printed for my own convenience’ and ‘not actuated by any hope of gain’.⁵⁹ Francis's anxiety was not without reason. He had to be careful, for Hooker was not always an amiable correspondent. Although Hooker was well known as a ‘most admirable correspondent’ in the botanical community, he could be strict and harsh in his communications. He openly grumbled about the specimens he received from other people as ‘trash’, and delayed replying on purpose.⁶⁰ In January 1836, such a misfortune that could jeopardize his relationship with Hooker happened to Francis: his review of The British flora in the Magazine of Natural History was curtailed by the editor, conveying a wrongly negative impression. Shocked and nervous, he protested to the editor, and immediately sent a letter with a copy of his original review to Hooker to clarify any possible misunderstanding.⁶¹

Despite this misfortune, Francis kept writing to Hooker and would continue to solicit endorsement later. He dedicated British ferns to Hooker and in March 1837, upon its publication, he sent a manuscript to the Glasgow professor. Francis explained that, although he was a ‘stranger’ to Hooker, many of his friends studied at Glasgow and Hooker's works were his guide in botany, thus he presumed to dedicate the book. In doing so, he was ‘influenced both by ambition and gratitude—but not by gain, directly or indirectly’.⁶² Francis's repeated stress that his actions were ‘not by gain’, and out of ‘enthusiasm’ for the science, demonstrated a tacit code of gentlemanly science. Both parties to the communication needed to show each other a trustworthy ‘man of character’ to build a correspondence network. Monetary exchange or overtly pecuniary reward was avoided, to keep the relationship from being degraded into commercial dealings or employment.⁶³

The same courtesy was also shown when The little English flora was published, as Francis sent copies to ask Hooker's approbation:

The ‘Annals’ to which Francis referred were the Annals of Natural History, a journal which Hooker was involved in as proprietor and regular contributor.⁶⁵ To Francis's disappointment, he received neither a reply from Hooker nor a mention in the Annals. He was concerned that his approach might be misinterpreted, for two months later he wrote to Hooker again to explain that his motivation for sending manuscripts was due to his admiration of Hooker's professional talents, not ‘because of your union with that valuable periodical’.⁶⁶ His reminder might have worked. Despite the delay, Hooker eventually replied with some ‘private remarks’ on the plates and introductory chapters of The little English flora, and also wrote a favourable notice in the Annals sometime before June 1839.⁶⁷

In his letter, Francis also alluded to the creation of the botanic garden at Regent's Park. His casual criticism of the management of the plan seems to be a hint that he was in need of another ‘favour’ from Hooker. The plan to construct a botanic garden in the inner circle of Regent's Park was proposed by the Royal Botanic Society, when the original lease to a nursery in business on the site expired in July 1838. The society was formed to carry out the plan and the naturalist artist James Sowerby was one of its founders and secretaries.⁶⁸ As a friend of Sowerby, Francis was aware of the opportunity provided by the post of curator or demonstrator of the newly created botanic garden, and he revealed his interest to another friend when the plans were released in October 1838.⁶⁹ Hooker's name was among the ‘vice-patrons and proposed fellows’ on the plans; this could have been an important reason for Francis to solicit Hooker's favour. However, Francis did not know that in the meantime Hooker was applying for the post at Kew, and that his name was added to the Regent's Park plans without his knowledge, which left Hooker chagrined because it had the potential to undermine his application.⁷⁰ For both private and professional reasons, there was little chance that Francis got any support from Hooker in the matter of this application. The curatorial post at Regent's Park was eventually taken by the landscape gardener Robert Marnock (1800–1889) in January 1841. Marnock was responsible for the layout of Sheffield Botanic Garden and became its first curator before moving to London. He had also been involved in the Royal Botanic Society's plan since the plans were released.⁷¹ His practical experience with garden design, along with his involvement with the society's affairs, made him a more advantageous choice than the inexperienced Francis.

The unsuccessful attempt to secure the curatorship at Regent's Park was not the only failure that Francis encountered in his career. His application for the position of Professor of Botany at King's College London also failed, in January 1842. According to Best, Francis lost by just one vote, yet little is known about the details of this narrow defeat. His medical friends Pereira and Ward, along with Sowerby, provided positive testimonials to support his application.⁷² The chair eventually went to Edward Forbes (1815–1854), a young Manx naturalist who had recently been part of a Royal Navy expedition to the eastern Mediterranean. Forbes abandoned his medical studies at Edinburgh and turned to natural history pursuits. Despite his young age, with his banker father's stipend, Forbes had abundant experience in travelling to continental Europe and had amassed a large collection of botanical and zoological specimens. He had also published monographs and research articles extensively in numerous scientific journals, and had presented to the Newcastle meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science in 1838.⁷³ His accomplishments were in no way inferior to Francis's.

After Francis was elected a Fellow of the Linnean Society, he sought further achievements through institutional affiliation. He longed for a professorship in botany or a curatorship in a botanical garden, and these aspirations were probably for two reasons: to access scientific resources and to provide the stable income that institutional employment could offer. These were common advantages appealing to ambitious practitioners, as his competitor Forbes admitted to a friend when accepting another post as the curator of the Geological Society. Forbes's father was rendered insolvent during the naval expedition and was unable to support his son, so Forbes had to seek employment. Forbes summarized the benefits of the curatorship, which included a £150 annual salary, as ‘an object to me’, given his circumstances, plus ‘a good library at my disposal’ and ‘a personal communication daily with the leaders of science in London’.⁷⁴ Ironically, it was the low salary from the King's College professorship—less than £100 a year—that caused Forbes to find an extra job at the Geological Society.

It is reasonable to imagine that a freelance botanist like Francis, who had moderate means and earned his living largely by writing, was hardly able to sustain a private collection sufficient for satisfactory taxonomic studies. Besides, even without immediate difficulties, financial uncertainty always overshadowed Francis and his growing family. He had to maintain his wife and four children during the early 1840s. The above factors drove him in constant search of a salaried botanical job. Best speculates that Francis's failure to secure institutional employment fulfilling his ambition in botanical research might have motivated his eventual emigration to Australia.⁷⁵

Editing the Magazine of Science for the public

While Francis continued to struggle to secure an institutional post between 1839 and 1844, the weekly Magazine of Science (1839–1852, priced 1½ d.) occupied most of the time left over from his botanical practice and freelance writing. It was published by the bookseller William Brittain, at No. 11 Paternoster Row, London, and was printed by Francis's younger brother David. As the founder, editor and main contributor during the Magazine of Science's first half-decade, Francis directed its style and topics despite keeping anonymous for most of his tenure. Its broad scope shows his generalist talent and versatility as a popular author. This endeavour of venturing into a general science magazine for the broadest audience also proved his inclination as an educator. However, it is questionable whether such a venture advanced Francis's career as the ‘philosophical’ botanist he always wanted to be.

The motivations behind the launch of a popular scientific journal were perhaps both educational and commercial. Francis and other proprietors apparently had enthusiastic visions of popularizing science through an accessible journal. As the editorial address in the first issue states, the ‘increasing desire among all classes for rational and scientific amusement’ induced the proprietors to present a cheap and useful periodical. They promised to offer a fresh one, with more comprehensive designs, that was distinct from other mechanics' magazines in the market.⁷⁶ The swarm of cheap mass publications championing ‘useful knowledge’ was a phenomenon in the industrial era.⁷⁷ There was a rapid expansion of the publishing trade during the 1830s, resulting from advances in steam-powered printing technology and the government's policy of reducing stamp duty, with the number of books, periodicals and newspapers significantly increasing in the marketplace.⁷⁸ An extensive range of authors, from learned educators to hack-writers, was in great demand. Although popular scientific writing was seldom a very lucrative business, it could be profitable nonetheless. Even a university professor like William Hooker understood the need to write and publish for the broadest possible audience, since the salary for a professor of botany was usually meagre.⁷⁹ Hooker and his friend John Lindley at University College London had to supplement their incomes by writing for horticultural magazines, the readers of which included middle-class gardeners and plant enthusiasts. As we have already seen, Forbes at King's College London was troubled by the same financial problems, which led to his extra service in ‘mill-horse drudgery’ and any ‘hack-work’ that he could obtain.⁸⁰

Francis was familiar with the marketplace of popular science. He showed an early tendency for writing literature that combined knowledge and leisure rather than specialized research reports. His monographs, including the bestseller British ferns, usually aimed at a general audience, as he confessed to Hooker, saying that his works ‘tend in some degree to diffuse a taste for Botany’ when sending copies of The little English flora for Hooker's approbation. He considered that the book ‘is written only for the young’, so pleaded that Hooker would not ‘chide me for not making it more scientific’.⁸¹ Hooker, in return, praised the book in the Annals by noticing that it has ‘fully attained’ its popularization object and ‘will be read with pleasure by the young student’.⁸²

Francis's connection with the publishing trade also provided some help to the Magazine's venture. His younger brother David operated a printing workshop at Stepney, located at a White Horse Lane house inherited from their deceased father.⁸³ Like Francis's obscure early career, little is known of David's printing business. Many of Francis's publications, including British ferns and the Magazine of Science, were printed by David's press. Since the publishers of Francis's titles were often large wholesalers or booksellers, he may have been his own publisher and responsible for production of the books. David's printing house would have been a great asset to Francis's literary ventures. The close cooperation between the brothers suggests an exclusive and symbiotic relationship in business, which is proved by the fact that, after Francis stepped down as the Magazine's editor, the new proprietor soon changed the printer.

In Sheets-Pyenson's pioneering analysis of nineteenth-century popular science periodicals, she categorizes popular science periodicals in England into three sub-genres: general science, mechanics' magazines and natural history. She identifies the Magazine of Science as belonging to the category of general science, the contents of which were undifferentiated by discipline, unlike the other two categories, which were devoted to a specific kind of knowledge.⁸⁴ This observation about the Magazine, however, is not entirely true. Although it did contain a broad and diverse range of subjects, its ultimate concern was the practical use of scientific knowledge and crafts. This characteristic is best represented by the illustration in the title page of the bound volume: a myriad of scientific apparatus, instruments and curiosities that were covered in the Magazine (figure 3).

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Francis set three clear objectives from the beginning. First, he intended to record, explain and illustrate all useful discoveries in the mechanical and physical sciences, and to give full and accurate descriptions of innovative ‘philosophical apparatus and experiments’. Subjects which would receive special attention included chemistry, electricity, galvanism, magnetism, electro- and thermo-magnetism, mechanics, hydrostatics, hydraulics, pneumatics and their applications to manufactures and energy. Astronomy, optics and optical instruments, particularly microscopic science, which was now ‘of such paramount value in understanding the works of nature’, would also have adequate illustration. The above list covered almost every branch of natural and experimental philosophy that commonly appeared in contemporary curriculums of public lectures. Secondly, he drew attention to the importance of practical arts and promised to make the Magazine ‘a manual of the processes of manufacture and of manipulation’, which covered fine and ornamental arts such as the craftsmanship of metal or wood engraving, modelling and casting. Finally, for the benefit of industrious readers, he would report critical reviews of new publications as a guide to students and ‘the stranger at a distance’.⁸⁵

Throughout Francis's tenure, each issue of the Magazine comprised eight pages, with the publisher producing a bound octavo volume with the editor's editorial preface every year. Cover stories usually came with a neatly engraved, sometimes full-page, illustration. The cheap price, 1½ d., as well as the format, made its target audience similar to that of The Penny Magazine (priced 1 d.), a contemporary popular periodical (1832–1845) aimed at diffusing useful knowledge.⁸⁶ The generous use of illustrations in the Magazine of Science, particularly during Francis's term, was another characteristic that emulated The Penny Magazine. Other contemporary mechanics' journals would also be competitors, such as the long-running Mechanics' Magazine (1823–1858, priced 3 d.) and the cheaper weekly Penny Mechanic and Chemist (1842–1843, priced 1 d.).⁸⁷ Francis hoped that the audience would be as broad as possible. In the inaugural address, he claimed that the Magazine of Science would enlist ‘every class of person’ as the readers, whether they were the ‘gentleman who employs his leisure hours’, the ‘artizan [sic.] who lives by his manual dexterity’, the ‘lecturer who explains the intricacies of science’ or the ‘student who is but entering its intricate path’.⁸⁸ However, the actual circulation is unclear. According to Allen and Best, the Magazine was selling 3,000 copies a month by 1842, but this amount is doubtful, since it was a weekly journal.⁸⁹ Francis was optimistic about the Magazine's prospects when it celebrated its first anniversary in April 1840. He claimed in the preface of the bound first volume that the ‘constantly and steadily increasing sale’ was the best reward. He also claimed that the Magazine had ‘reached a degree of extension’ that had not only exceeded the original expectation but was also ‘impossible for any such a periodical to have done’.⁹⁰ The Magazine was among regular supplies of journals at the reading rooms of some mechanics' institutes, which also indicates its popularity.⁹¹

It is intriguing that botany, or more broadly natural history, was not included in the Magazine of Science's major repertoires despite the editor's familiarity with the subject. Such avoidance was probably due to a surplus of specialized journals. The market for natural history periodicals had been subject to attrition over the course of the 1830s, with competition between giants such as the Magazine of Natural History and Annals of Natural History, plus many other short-lived ones which survived less than two years.⁹² A general science journal not depending exclusively on natural history was better for making its readership as broad as possible. Nevertheless, Francis did not totally expel natural history from the Magazine. He simply adopted a pragmatic approach to the science. The Magazine's original emphasis was to provide introductory accounts of mechanical inventions and scientific novelties, which made its theme similar to those of mechanics' magazines. As it inclined to useful knowledge of scientific apparatus and craftsmanship, Francis also rendered natural history with a practical perspective, particularly in association with the use of the microscope. The techniques of collecting and preserving animals, plants and minerals could also be legitimately discussed within the class of ornamental arts.⁹³ Some fundamental knowledge, despite being theoretical, still had its necessary value to assist learners of science in their exploration of the natural world. Therefore, topics such as the Linnean taxonomy of plants, the geological formation of rocks and strata, and the organic remains of prehistoric animals featured as cover stories.⁹⁴

Despite not focusing on natural history in the Magazine, Francis's editorial vision was very close to Loudon's expectation for the Magazine of Natural History. Loudon hoped to enlist and cultivate a broad readership that could become valuable scientific observers, in his own words, to ‘call forth a new and numerous class of naturalists’.⁹⁵ Francis shared the same inclusive attitude towards science and all its relevant enterprises, and believed that science should not be the monopolistic practice of learned gentlemen. He hoped that the Magazine would recruit artisans and their practical work and unite all ranks of readers into a whole and vibrant scientific community. When he resigned the editorship in 1844, he reviewed the Magazine's coverage over the previous five years and asserted that many discoveries ‘have been made not by the professedly learned world, but by the practical; not by the theorist, but by the experimentalist’. He elaborated on this point:

Recent studies of scientific periodicals in the nineteenth century view periodicals as an indicator of the construction of scientific communities, that is, a vehicle for shaping the identity of scientific practitioners. The changing conceptions of natural history periodicals especially reflect a trend towards a more exclusive and specialized community.⁹⁷ For example, the Annals of Natural History, under the management of William Hooker and his fellow editors, enforced the language and practice of Linnean binomial taxonomy throughout the journal. By regulating the standardized use of the Linnean system, the Annals carefully shaped its readers to be those expert practitioners who ‘cultivated learning’ and thus retained its position as a ‘philosophical work’, rather than a generalist magazine for mere collecting hobbyists.⁹⁸ Unlike the Annals or the entomology journals later in the second half of the nineteenth century, Francis's purpose was more inclusive. The Magazine taught the Linnean system for promoting better understanding of scientific classification, hence cultivating a wider group of participants in science. Francis did not share the same exclusive objective as Hooker's to consolidate disciplinary regulations and boundaries.

One particular feature that Francis tried to install from the beginning was the sections for readers' communications, including ‘Queries’ and ‘Correspondents’. This reflected Francis's egalitarian view of science, that a successful scientific periodical depended on mutual cooperation between the ‘first-rate practical and scientific men’ and the general readers; otherwise, valuable knowledge from any class would be lost.⁹⁹ Readers were encouraged to send scientific questions or opinions to the editor. Questions would be collected in the Queries section. In most cases, Francis would reply to the queries by post rather than answering in print. Sometimes he would give a concise answer directly in the Magazine, such as ‘Is it possible to freeze alcohol? (No.—Ed.)’.¹⁰⁰ His associates or other correspondents, such as a ‘W. Bastick’, would occasionally answer.¹⁰¹ The Queries and Correspondents sections were evidently popular, for the number of selected questions had accumulated to nearly 200 in the first year. The nature of the Magazine as a weekly journal was also beneficial, in that it allowed prompt responses to these communication sections, and was ideal for making it an efficient distributor of information as well as a forum for science. Such promises, however, were not without problems. Soliciting answers and information was always an exhausting task, especially when many letters did not follow suitable rules. Francis had to present a notice requesting correspondents to write in a proper format, in case communications were omitted or delayed. He also warned that many of the queries ‘have no relation to science’, and it was impossible for his editorial staff to ‘enter into the details of trade’.¹⁰² After persisting for four years, he eventually decided to discontinue replying to queries by post despite his initial enthusiasm, owing to the soaring expense of time, paper and postage.¹⁰³

Although Francis designed a clear plan to concentrate on subjects of practical arts as well as physical and mechanical sciences, the Magazine's coverage nonetheless became a dazzling miscellany of curiosities. Choice of topics seems to have depended on the readers' interest or the current fascination of the public. For example, some Victorian spectacles became headlines, such as phrenology and the famous ‘automaton chess player’.¹⁰⁴ The latter, which was sensationally first exhibited in Britain in 1819, was still fresh in Londoners' memory. The Magazine had ‘often been requested’ to elucidate the ‘wonderful machine’; in response, Francis arranged ‘the best illustrations which have been published relative to it’, using extracts from David Brewster's recent book Natural magic (1832) to debunk the myth.¹⁰⁵ Francis also did not want to meddle with controversial subjects in science. This attitude can be seen from the way in which he treated phrenology. In a report of the phrenologist George Combe's work, Francis stated that the Magazine had ‘some hesitation’ in admitting papers on this subject, for believing ‘it scarcely to come within our province’. He defended the decision that the principles of phrenology may ‘not be wholly without their use’ to the readers, who could form a basic acquaintance with the opinions of its advocates. Nevertheless, in doing so, he made it clear that ‘we give no opinion of our own’.¹⁰⁶

The Magazine of Science's bewildering miscellaneous coverage seems designed to ingratiate itself with popular taste, but it also reflected Francis's particular interests in scientific amusements and related crafts. He paid enormous attention to a myriad of popular exhibitions, entertainments and inventions. A recurring theme of the Magazine was to lay bare the secrets behind those wonders. For example, the gears of the patented automaton ships made by T. C. Cailly and Eude were revealed (figure 4).¹⁰⁷ These automaton models had been lately exhibited in various clockmakers' shops in London; their rolling and pitching motions imitated the movements of a real vessel in the sea. The mechanism of the ships was explained in the article with a diagram. Craftsmen in the trade, shop-goers and readers, whether they had seen this invention or not, would certainly take an interest in the art. Another example is the astronomical display of the ‘vertical tellurian’, a gigantic machine consisting of a mixture of wheels, cords and cogged wheels, for demonstrating the motions of the Sun and the Earth on the theatre's stage. Francis was pleased to present an exclusive account of this apparatus and he believed ‘there is … no work whatever contains a plain description of any of these machines’.¹⁰⁸ These reports exemplify the approach that Francis exerted on the Magazine.¹⁰⁹ It was straightforward: he simply focused on how things worked, whether natural or artificial. Diagrams often accompanied articles, and Francis explained each part of the object in step-by-step fashion. The language he used was plain, without any rendition of religious or philosophical thoughts, which were common in popular scientific publications such as the Religious Tract Society's Monthly Series (1845–1855) and periodicals.¹¹⁰

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The Magazine of Science received a generally positive reception from newspapers. For example, a Preston Chronicle review described it as an ‘instructive and interesting miscellany’. It also approved of the contents of the Magazine as ‘practical and sound’ with excellent illustrations, hence its journalists ‘have marked several articles for quotation’.¹¹¹ Another review in the Manchester Times and Gazette praised the Magazine as having ‘strong claims to public support’, and recommended it to private studies or the libraries of mechanics' institutes and lyceums.¹¹² Nevertheless, despite all these positive reviews, it is doubtful that Francis's editorship would have enhanced his reputation as an expert man of science or a philosophical botanist, especially as he remained anonymous throughout most of his term. He disclosed the editor's true identity only in the farewell editorial.¹¹³ His choice of anonymity for the most part implies his concern: he was aware that such a generalist commercial venture would not do any good for his scientific reputation. Besides, the Magazine's intensive production, particularly the correspondence relating to the queries, seems to have distracted him from botanical studies. Nevertheless, his writing career did benefit from the expansion of interests, as he produced more monographs in related subjects such as Chemical experiments (1842), Electrical experiments (1844) and a Dictionary of arts, sciences and manufactures (1846). Such general textbooks and introductory treatises, as Fyfe indicates, were more helpful in earning money than in making an effective impact on advancing a scientific career.¹¹⁴

Founding a botanic garden down under

Francis stepped down as the editor and proprietor of the Magazine of Science in 1844, as he took up a post of headmaster at a boys' boarding school in Boulogne, France. He resided in France for two years. The reason for his departure is unclear. We can speculate that his financial circumstances might have prompted him to make the decision to accept a foreign job unrelated to science, much as Forbes reacted to his family's financial reversal. Best suggests that Francis might have already decided to emigrate to Australia at this point, and his temporary sojourn in France was to prepare for his later migration.¹¹⁵ When Francis resumed correspondence with Hooker in 1855, he admitted that the intervening years had been full of ‘vicissitudes’, and his botanical pursuits had been curbed by ‘absorbing occupations—often ill health, family misfortunes, [and] the care of a large family’.¹¹⁶

Before Francis's departure for France, he affectionately bid a farewell to the Magazine readers, and promised that the form, size, price, title and method of the Magazine would stay the same.¹¹⁷ The Magazine of Science was handed over to a new proprietor and editor, who (Francis assured his readers) had much experience in periodical literature as well as the scientific world.¹¹⁸ Despite this promise, the Magazine did gradually change. Following Francis's departure, it had many fewer reports on scientific amusements and curiosities, becoming more focused on patent inventions, with the patent coverage and tables of ‘registration of designs’ appearing regularly.¹¹⁹ The Queries section was completely removed. The number of illustrations also decreased. The Magazine still championed practical science and crafts, yet one can easily sense that the journal changed as the new editor stepped in. The Magazine of Science continued, with the publisher and the journal title changing a few times after 1849. It eventually ceased production in June 1852.

Since potential botanical positions in England had been filled, Francis turned his eyes to overseas opportunities. As the British Empire expanded to all parts of the world, with the support of state power or commercial corporations like the East India Company, botanists had been able to access the empire's frontiers or uncharted lands. They collected rare specimens that were unfamiliar to Europeans at home and thus expanded the edge of knowledge. The Westminster and colonial governments also sponsored scientific infrastructures such as herbariums or botanic gardens for the preservation and study of local plant resources. These facilities provided services to the empire's scientific network and they required residential botanists to govern and maintain.¹²⁰ Therefore, there could be job opportunities in scientific outposts in India, Ceylon, Australia or New Zealand. However, moving to a peripheral outpost away from the metropolitan centre of science was not an easy choice; there were obstacles such as lack of library resources and connections with leading scientific colleagues. Joseph Hooker, William Hooker's son, struggling to find a place in his early working life, declined an offer of the curatorship of the botanical garden at Peradeniya, Ceylon, thinking that such a subsidiary colonial post was not suitable for the development of a philosophical botanist and was more properly a ‘reward’ for a laborious investigator. This Ceylon post later went to George Thwaites (1812–1882), whom the younger Hooker regarded as less learned and more appropriate for the job.¹²¹ Thwaites, intriguingly, bears resemblance to Francis in his non-elite origins and self-taught background. Originally an accountant by occupation, he was devoted to natural history pursuits and became a skilful microscopist. Before his appointment at Ceylon, he had been a lecturer in botany at the Bristol School of Pharmacy and had made an unsuccessful attempt to apply for professorship at the Queen's Colleges in Ireland.

On 9 May 1849, Francis and his family (now six children) set sail for Adelaide, South Australia. They arrived in the colony on 2 September. The British settlement in the area had not been established until 1836, so the young city remained mostly undeveloped when Francis arrived. A botanic garden was originally laid out in the city, but the plan was abandoned due to droughts, depressions and lack of funding. Francis revived the plan and lobbied the colonial government continually after his arrival.¹²² At the time he resumed writing to Hooker in 1855, the proposal was finally approved and a governmental committee was appointed.

The maintenance of a good relationship with a powerful savant from home like Hooker was advantageous to Francis and his infant garden. He reported the progress of the garden's construction, to show its promising prospect and to request Hooker's support. Most importantly, however, he wanted to keep his position secure from potential competitors. Although Francis was appointed as the superintendent of the newly created garden, he was aware that the home government had the rights to send another botanist from England to replace him. Hooker, as the director of Kew Gardens, certainly had authority to recommend such a decision. Francis begged Hooker not to depose him, for the sake of his enduring efforts in the establishment of the garden; besides, he also hinted that the post's £150 salary was crucial for supporting his family.¹²³ Although Hooker's response is unknown, it seems that Francis's plea worked, as he stayed in the position and eventually became the first director by 1858.¹²⁴

Francis was certainly sensitive to the hierarchy of scientific practice, and tried hard to access the circles of gentlemanly science. Nevertheless, his want of both genteel and learned backgrounds would continue to haunt him, even when he had achieved an institutional position. At the beginning of this article, I described Francis's defence of his qualification. His vexation is understandable, as he had struggled constantly all his life in the gentlemanly science community, and from time to time had to confront competitors with better social connections or university education, like Ferdinand von Mueller. Mueller, a German immigrant to Adelaide who later moved to Melbourne, had a PhD in botany from Kiel—a research degree which did not even exist at British universities. He was young, exuberant and had explored extensive inland areas of Australia. Most importantly, he had secured an appointment as the government botanist for Victoria, which provided him with incomparable assets. Francis complained about the stark contrast in his letter to Dutton:

To be credited as a botanist, Francis knew he had to do philosophical research rather than ‘manual labor’, like a ‘foreman’. He was actually on friendly terms with Mueller; they kept in correspondence and Francis asked Mueller's professional assistance when laying out the botanic garden. However, Mueller, with more support from the colonial government, had already taken advantage of social resources in a race for scientific credit. It was simply the careless disposal of valuable collections that disclosed Francis's subtle mentality of rivalry and discontent.

Conclusion

Francis climbed from a cooper's son without university education to his desired position—lecturer, writer, editor and eventually director of a botanic garden. His career path shows a seemingly successful story of a non-elite practitioner of science gaining access to the elite circle through the venture of commercial science and networking. However, it also demonstrates the potential and limits of this career route. The commercial success of a natural history bestseller might be helpful to pay bills or build a sufficiently basic scientific reputation for a Linnean Society election, yet it was no guarantee of an advanced position in scientific institutions.

The story of Francis can be compared with that of other early Victorian science writers, particularly the professional author William Martin whom Aileen Fyfe analyses. Martin, originally a museum curator, was forced to become a full-time writer after the Zoological Society's financial shortfall led to layoffs. Martin similarly hoped to return to institutional employment and to achieve recognition from the learned though his natural history writing. His expectation, however, was not realized as fully as Francis's. Both Martin and Francis struggled to gain a sense of identity, not through their literary endeavours but rather through their scientific expertise. They also encountered the same disadvantages, such as the lack of a university education and of time for original research. Francis's scientific career also resembles that of George Thwaites: both were self-made career botanists, both served as lecturers during their careers, and both eventually became directors of colonial botanic gardens. Their less learned backgrounds and duties at colonial outposts were likewise regarded by the scientific elite more as those of a manual worker or a foreman in the hierarchy of gentlemanly science.

Francis, Martin, Thwaites and many others exemplify a wider issue of how a practitioner of science fitted himself into the changing environment of gentlemanly science during the early Victorian period, when ‘the role of man of science was most in flux’ as Endersby indicates.¹²⁶ Historians of science have examined and eschewed the teleological narratives that consensual scientific elites orchestrated a homogeneously inevitable process of professionalization, as well as the oversimplified comparison between ‘professionals’ and ‘amateurs’. The ideals of gentlemanly science remained dominant in early Victorian science practices, but the idealistic freedom to undertake scientific pursuits as a career to which every practitioner aspired was hard to achieve. Thus commercial science and institutional employment became pragmatic solutions to this problem. For a non-elite practitioner, venturing into commercial science provided an opportunity of enhancing visibility and joining the genteel circle, yet a scientific recognition could not depend on it alone. For those with a more genteel pedigree, like William Hooker and Edward Forbes, engaging in such activities was a means to maintain their scientific research when financial pressure loomed, but they were pleased to avoid the drudgery of employment—even a scientific job—if they could.¹²⁷ All practitioners of science, no matter their social rank, encountered similar conundrums in constructing a scientific network and soliciting financial support.

The Magazine of Science itself is a proof of metropolitan scientific life from another perspective: more that of spectators, artisans and entrepreneurs rather than ‘philosophical’ men of science. Francis's sympathy for artisans and his egalitarian idea for open participation in science motivated him to become a ‘commercial middleman of science’, as James Secord puts it.¹²⁸ The instructive and interesting miscellany of the Magazine's scientific amusement coverage reflects not only the editor's wide range of interest, but also the popularity of these curiosities for the Magazine's audience. To elucidate the secrets behind these displays of theatre or exhibition, even including tricks without genuinely scientific grounds like the automaton chess player, was an excellent way of demonstrating the combination of enlightened science and rational recreation. As Brewster indicated in Natural magic, which Francis used to explain the automaton chess player: ‘those automatic toys, which once amused the vulgar, are now employed in extending the power and promoting the civilization of our species’.¹²⁹ The Magazine readers also actively participated through letters and the Queries section. Altogether, their presence indicates that metropolitan scientific life was so diverse that it was never a monopolistic playground of men of science. They all belonged to a broader network of science in the marketplace.