The Complex Relationship Between Science and Technology During the Scientific Revolution

The prevailing ideology of the seventeenth century emphasized that science should yield practical and useful applications. This raises a critical historical question: what were the genuine connections between scientific inquiry and technological development during the era known as the Scientific Revolution? Contrary to what might be expected, no widespread industrial or technological revolution paralleled the intellectual advancements of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Europe. Foundational inventions like the printing press, cannons, and gunned ships undoubtedly had epoch-making impacts, yet their development proceeded largely independently from contemporaneous natural philosophy. With the singular potential exception of cartography, no significant application derived from science produced a major economic, medical, or military effect in the early modern period. Consequently, the realms of European science and technology remained intellectually and sociologically distinct enterprises, a separation deeply rooted since antiquity.

The evolution of guns and ballistics serves as a revealing case study. As previously indicated, the technology of artillery was perfected through empirical trial and error, without reliance on scientific theory. While governments established artillery schools, their instruction remained overwhelmingly practical, with contemporary science deemed irrelevant to effective gunnery. The same principle applied to seventeenth-century techniques in fortification and construction, where theoretical knowledge held minimal sway. Notably, Galileo Galilei’s theoretical work on ballistics and his published range tables followed, rather than guided, the maturation of early artillery practices. This sequence effectively reverses the conventional logic of applied science, demonstrating how technology and engineering posed challenging problems that subsequently shaped the trajectory of scientific research.

Cartography, defined as the art and applied science of mapmaking, may represent the first truly modern scientific technology. Spurred by the Age of Discovery, the dissemination capabilities of the printing press, and the recovery of Ptolemy’sGeographia, European mapmakers rapidly surpassed ancient and medieval predecessors. This field was inherently scientific, requiring practitioners to master trigonometry, spherical geometry, the use of the gnomon, cosmography, and the practical mathematics of geodesy, surveying, and drafting. The work of Gerardus Mercator, a Flemish professor of cosmography, epitomizes this blend; his revolutionary Mercator projection could only be constructed mathematically. State support was crucial, exemplified by the ambitious French project begun in 1669 under the Cassini family from the Paris Observatory and Paris Academy of Sciences, which produced highly accurate maps of France and its colonies for over a century. These precise maps were vital adjuncts to governance, trade, navigation, and resource identification, demonstrating the tangible impact an applied science could have on state power and economic expansion.

Other concerted efforts to harness science for practical ends proved far less fruitful than cartography. The persistent navigational challenge of determining longitude at sea starkly illustrates the characteristic gap between the promise of early modern science and its practical technological payoff. For nearly three centuries, European maritime expansion was hampered by this unsolved problem. While determining latitude in the Northern Hemisphere was relatively straightforward via the North Star, calculating longitude remained intractable. This spurred numerous state-sponsored prizes, beginning with King Philip III of Spain in 1598 and including substantial offers from the Dutch Republic (1626) and the specially created British Board of Longitude (1714), which offered £20,000—a monumental sum. The establishment of the Royal Observatory at Greenwich was explicitly charged with "perfecting navigation," highlighting the acute economic and strategic demand for a solution.

In principle, contemporary astronomy offered potential solutions, primarily by determining the time difference between a known reference point, like Greenwich, and a ship's unknown location. In 1612, Galileo proposed using the satellites of Jupiter as a celestial clock and worked on practical methods for Spain. Later, astronomers like Giovanni Domenico Cassini published tables of Jupiter's moons for longitude determination, while others attempted lunar observations. Although somewhat useful on land, these astronomical methods proved impractical for reliable use on the rolling deck of a ship. The ultimate solution did not emerge from the scientific elite but from the craft tradition of clockmaking. In the early 1760s, the English craftsman John Harrison perfected a marine chronometer. His ingenious device used counteracting balances to negate a ship's motion and thermocouples to compensate for temperature changes, finally allowing sailors to accurately carry Greenwich time and thus determine their longitude. After much controversy, Harrison rightfully claimed the Board of Longitude's prize.

The practical endeavors of the early Royal Society of London further typify the general lack of immediate technological payoff from seventeenth-century science. Embracing its Baconian commitment to useful knowledge, the Society formed committees to investigate navigation, shipbuilding, and the history of trades. Yet, these collective efforts yielded minimal practical outcomes. A telling example involved experiments on the strength of beams, conducted at the Royal Navy's request. Fellows tested various woods and shapes, reaching a conclusion that contradicted Galileo's theoretical determination. A decade later, fellow William Petty recognized the error and explained how Galileo's theory could guide builders, but practicing engineers, already equipped with reliable empirical rules, had no need for this scientific reassurance.

The development of scientific instruments, particularly the telescope, presents a nuanced example of the more complex, reciprocal interactions that began to emerge in the seventeenth century. While instruments like the telescope and microscope became essential to research, their history again underscores technology's influence on science. The first telescopes were crafted without any optical theory, despite Galileo's later claims. Their existence then led to new discoveries in optics, such as chromatic aberration and spherical aberration. These discoveries, in turn, created practical challenges for improving instrument design and theoretical problems for optical science. Efforts to grind nonspherical lenses ensued. Sir Isaac Newton, in his 1672 paper on light, theorized the cause of chromatic aberration and consequently designed the Newtonian reflecting telescope to circumvent it. However, the definitive solution—crafting compound lenses with compensating indices of refraction—only emerged from glassmaking artisans after the 1730s. Throughout this period, improved telescopes enabled monumental astronomical discoveries, reaffirming that scientific progress often follows technological innovation.

Therefore, while cases like the telescope were notable for optics and astronomy, science and technology did not share a strong, synergistic interaction during the Scientific Revolution. In areas where scientific insight held potential practical import, engineers, architects, and craftsmen with hands-on experience were typically favored over natural philosophers. The evidence suggests that contemporary technology exerted a greater influence on science than vice versa. One must be cautious not to project the modern, intimate alliance between science and technology back onto this period. That powerful synergy, promised by the new scientific ideology, would not bear substantial fruit until the transformative nineteenth century.