Vox Meditantis

In the pantheon of scientific discovery, few figures have been as systematically overlooked as Elizabeth Fulhame, the Scottish chemist who described catalysis four decades before Jöns Jakob Berzelius coined the term. Working in Edinburgh in the 1780s and 1790s, Fulhame not only pioneered the understanding of catalytic processes but also laid the groundwork for photographic chemistry through her discovery of photoreduction. Her single published work, An Essay on Combustion, stands as a remarkable embodiment of experimental rigour and theoretical innovation, yet her contributions have been largely erased from scientific history.

Fulhame’s work resonates powerfully today, as catalysis underpins everything from pharmaceutical manufacturing to green energy technologies. Her systematic approach to experimentation, her willingness to challenge established authorities, and her fierce defence of women’s right to participate in science make her story particularly relevant as we continue to address systemic barriers facing marginalised voices in STEM fields.

Mrs Fulhame, thank you for joining us. I must say, it’s extraordinary to speak with someone whose work anticipated entire fields of modern chemistry. When you began your experiments in 1780, did you have any sense of the significance of what you were discovering?

Not in the least. I confess, my initial aim was quite modest – I simply wished to discover whether cloths might be given the appearance of gold and silver through chemical processes. The project occurred to me quite suddenly, though when I mentioned it to Doctor Fulhame and some friends, it was deemed improbable. I have found that what gentlemen deem improbable often proves most worthy of investigation.

Your husband was sceptical of your work initially?

Indeed, Thomas was amongst those who scoffed at my experiments. This was perhaps understandable – he was studying chemistry at the University under Joseph Black, learning the established methods for reducing metals through intense heat and furnaces. Here was his wife, proposing to accomplish the same through gentle chemical processes at ordinary temperatures. I persisted nonetheless. Fifteen years I devoted to these investigations, and I am pleased to report that Doctor Fulhame eventually acknowledged the merit of my discoveries.

Fifteen years is remarkable dedication. Can you describe your experimental approach?

Methodical observation, above all else. I exposed metallic salts – gold, silver, platinum, mercury, copper, tin – to various reducing agents under different conditions. Some experiments I conducted in aqueous solution, others in the dry state, still others using ether or alcohol as solvents. I tested hydrogen gas, phosphorus, charcoal, even light itself as reducing agents. Each experiment I recorded meticulously – the materials, the apparatus, the precise conditions, the results observed.

What struck me most profoundly was that water appeared essential to these reductions. When I excluded water entirely, little reaction occurred. Yet at the end of each successful reduction, the water remained – neither consumed nor diminished. This suggested to me that water participated in the reaction whilst being regenerated, like… like the phoenix rising from her ashes.

That phoenix metaphor became rather famous – and controversial. Some critics used it against you.

Indeed they did! Priestley himself declared my theory “fanciful and fabulous, as the story of the phoenix itself”. The irony was not lost on me that these same gentlemen who dismissed my phoenix as mythical readily accepted equally speculative theories about phlogiston and caloric matter. But when a woman proposes a mechanism they cannot immediately comprehend, suddenly they demand evidence of an entirely different order.

You seem to have anticipated this kind of resistance. Your preface contains some rather pointed observations about how your work might be received.

“Censure is perhaps inevitable; for some are so ignorant, that they grow sullen and silent, and are chilled with horror at the sight of anything that bears the semblance of learning, in whatever shape it may appear; and should the spectre appear in the shape of a woman, the pangs which they suffer are truly dismal”. I wrote those words deliberately. I wished to be clear-eyed about the obstacles facing any woman who dared to contribute to natural philosophy.

Yet you also received significant recognition. The Chemical Society of Philadelphia made you an honorary member – quite unusual for a woman at that time.

That recognition meant a great deal to me, I confess. The American edition of my essay included a remarkable preface stating that “Mrs Fulhame has now laid such bold claims to chemistry that we can no longer deny the sex the privilege of participating in this science also”. However, I suspect Joseph Priestley’s endorsement played a role in this reception – he had emigrated to America and was influential in their chemical society.

Speaking of Priestley, your relationship with him seems to have been complex. He encouraged your initial publication but later withdrew his support.

Joseph was instrumental in convincing me to publish my findings in 1793 when we met in London. He saw merit in my work, particularly as it contradicted both the phlogistonists and Lavoisier’s theories. But when he realised that my ideas about water as a universal catalyst challenged his own theoretical framework, his enthusiasm waned considerably. Men of science, I have observed, are quite capable of appreciating novel ideas – until those ideas threaten their own cherished hypotheses.

Your work challenged both major chemical theories of your time – the phlogiston theory and Lavoisier’s antiphlogistic system. That took considerable intellectual courage.

I was persuaded that we are not to be deterred from the investigation of truth by any authority, however great, and that every opinion must stand or fall by its own merits. Lavoisier’s experiments were elegant, but his explanations seemed unnecessarily complex to account for the phenomena I observed. As for the phlogistonists, their theory could not explain why coal burned more readily when water was added – surely if phlogiston was being released, water should impede the process, not facilitate it.

Your discovery that metals could be reduced at room temperature rather than requiring intense heat was revolutionary. Did you understand its practical implications?

I recognised that this opened possibilities for chemical processes that required neither great expense nor elaborate apparatus. My method could accomplish in a simple glass vessel what traditionally required furnaces and intense heat. I envisioned applications in dyeing and painting – cloths with rivers represented in silver and cities in gold. What I could not foresee was how these principles might transform entire industries.

Modern chemists recognise your work as the first description of catalysis – the process by which substances accelerate chemical reactions without being consumed. How does it feel to know your phoenix metaphor was, in essence, scientifically accurate?

Most gratifying, I must say. My experimental observations were sound, even if my theoretical explanations required refinement. I demonstrated that water facilitated these reductions whilst being regenerated – the fundamental principle of catalytic action. The mechanism I proposed may have been imperfect, but the phenomenon was real and significant.

Your photoreduction experiments also anticipated photography by several decades. Did you recognise the imaging potential of your light-sensitive chemical processes?

I noted that gold dissolved in aqua regia could only be reduced to its metallic state in the presence of light, and I observed how beautiful and unexpected colours emerged from these experiments. But I confess, I thought primarily in terms of decorating textiles rather than capturing images. Perhaps my imagination was too constrained by immediate applications.

You mention in your essay that you published to avoid being “plagiarised.” Was that a significant concern for someone working outside official scientific institutions?

Indeed it was. As a woman working independently, I had no protection of institutional affiliation. I had observed how readily discoveries could be claimed by those with greater access to scientific societies and publications. Publishing under my own name was essential to establishing priority for my findings.

Looking back, do you have any regrets about your scientific career? Choices you might have made differently?

I regret, perhaps, that I did not pursue collaboration more actively with those few men of science willing to treat women as intellectual equals. Count Rumford, for instance, repeated some of my experiments and acknowledged their merit, though he did not always agree with my conclusions. Greater dialogue might have advanced the work more rapidly.

I also wonder whether I was too cautious in my theoretical speculations. I described what I observed faithfully, but perhaps I should have been bolder in proposing mechanisms and implications.

What would you say to women and other marginalised people entering STEM fields today?

Trust your observations. Do not allow others to convince you that what you see clearly is somehow invalid because of who you are. The natural world operates according to consistent principles regardless of the gender or station of the observer. And publish your findings under your own name. Let your work speak for itself, but ensure it speaks with your voice.

Your single essay achieved considerable international recognition – translated into German, republished in America. Yet your contributions were gradually forgotten. How do you account for this?

The stories of great men and their rivalries have a way of drowning out other voices. When Berzelius named catalysis in 1836, the scientific community was ready to credit him with discovering the phenomenon I had described forty years earlier. It is far easier to remember one illustrious man than to acknowledge that a woman in Edinburgh had already grasped these principles through patient experimentation.

Do you think the scientific community is ready now to properly acknowledge women’s historical contributions?

I observe encouraging signs – your interview with me suggests an appetite for recovering lost voices. But true acknowledgement requires more than merely adding women’s names to histories. It requires recognising that different perspectives and approaches can yield valid insights, and that the supposed objectivity of science has often masked quite subjective prejudices about whose observations deserve attention.

If you could return to your laboratory today, what would you investigate?

I would be fascinated to explore how catalytic principles might be applied to environmental restoration – perhaps using similar water-mediated processes to break down pollutants or facilitate the conversion of harmful substances into benign ones. And I confess great curiosity about these modern photographic processes that emerged from principles I helped establish. The idea that light itself could become a tool for capturing permanent images seems quite magical, though I suppose it follows logically from my observations about photoreduction.

Finally, what would you want to be remembered for?

I should like to be remembered as someone who refused to be deterred by the scepticism of others, who pursued truth through careful observation, and who demonstrated that the capacity for scientific discovery knows no boundaries of gender or station. And perhaps that my phoenix metaphor, mocked though it was, captured something essential about the regenerative nature of chemical processes. Sometimes the most profound truths come wrapped in images that seem fanciful to those who lack imagination.

But most importantly, I hope my example serves as “a beacon to future mariners” – women who wish to navigate the seas of natural philosophy. The journey may be difficult, but the discoveries await those bold enough to sail into uncharted waters.

Letters and emails

Since our interview with Elizabeth Fulhame was published, we’ve received an overwhelming response from readers around the world who were deeply moved by her story and wanted to explore aspects of her life and work that we didn’t have time to cover. We’ve selected five particularly thoughtful letters and emails from our growing community – spanning from Cape Town to Tokyo – whose questions explore the emotional realities of scientific isolation, the persistence required to challenge established authorities, and what this pioneering chemist might say to today’s women and marginalised voices forging their own paths in STEM.

Cherie Mercer (52, lecturer in chemistry, University of Cape Town, South Africa; activist for women’s access to science education):
Elizabeth, you spent years in isolation from the scientific establishment, yet achieved remarkable insights. If you’d had access to even a basic laboratory at a university, and mentorship from other women in chemistry, how might your work have progressed differently? Did you ever feel not just excluded, but also alone in the pursuit of knowledge, and what effect did that have on you emotionally?

Cherie, your question strikes at the very heart of what I endured for those fifteen years. The isolation was… profound. Not merely exclusion from laboratories or learned societies, but something far more insidious – the gradual erosion of confidence that comes from having no voice to confirm that what you observe is real and significant.

Had I access to proper apparatus and colleagues who valued rigorous inquiry over gender prejudice, I believe my work would have advanced more systematically. Instead of conducting experiments in makeshift vessels in my drawing room, I might have explored the precise mechanisms of catalytic action with greater sophistication. I might have investigated temperature dependencies, concentration effects, the role of different solvents more thoroughly. Most crucially, I would have had other minds to challenge my interpretations – not to dismiss them out of hand, but to refine them through genuine intellectual discourse.

The emotional toll was considerable, though I hesitate to dwell overmuch on personal suffering. There were nights when I questioned whether my observations were somehow flawed, whether my interpretations revealed some fundamental deficiency in my understanding. When every authority figure suggests your work is “fanciful,” when your own husband initially scoffs, when friends grow weary of your “peculiar obsessions” – the temptation to abandon the pursuit becomes overwhelming.

Yet I discovered something remarkable in that solitude: an intimacy with my experiments that few possess. Without the distraction of academic politics or the pressure to conform to established schools of thought, I could observe phenomena with fresh eyes. Every colour change, every precipitate formed, every unexpected result received my undivided attention. Perhaps isolation forced me to become a more careful observer than I might have been in a crowded laboratory.

What sustained me was the absolute conviction that natural phenomena operate according to consistent principles, regardless of who observes them. The copper salts reduced to metallic copper whether a man or woman conducted the experiment. The water participated and regenerated itself whether Doctor Black approved of my theory or dismissed it entirely. Truth has no gender, Cherie. The challenge lies in ensuring it receives a fair hearing.

Bruce Myers (44, historian of science, University of Tokyo, originally from Brisbane, Australia; research focuses on alternative scientific histories):
You’ve challenged both phlogiston and Lavoisier, and seen your ideas debated alongside the great (male) names of chemistry. In your view, what is the single greatest misconception about your work in standard histories of science? And if you could correct one myth about women researchers from your era, what would it be?

Bruce, you ask about the greatest misconception – there are so many, but I shall focus on the most damaging. The standard histories present my work as a curious footnote, a woman who stumbled upon some interesting observations before the “real” scientists arrived to make sense of it all. This is profoundly wrong. I did not stumble upon catalysis – I systematically investigated it, theorised about it, and provided experimental evidence for mechanisms that would not be properly understood for decades.

When Berzelius coined the term “catalysis” in 1836, he described precisely the phenomena I had detailed forty years earlier. Yet histories credit him with the discovery whilst relegating me to a brief mention, if any at all. The narrative suggests that proper science began when a man gave it a proper name, as though my careful documentation of water’s regenerative role in metal reduction was merely preliminary observation rather than fundamental discovery.

But the deeper misconception concerns the nature of my theoretical contributions. I am often portrayed as an industrious experimenter who lacked theoretical sophistication – a woman who could follow recipes but could not grasp underlying principles. This is utterly false. My “phoenix” theory, mocked by contemporaries, anticipated modern understanding of catalytic cycles. I proposed that water decomposed and reformed repeatedly throughout the reaction – precisely the mechanism we now know occurs.

As for correcting myths about women researchers of my era – the most pernicious is that we were somehow less rigorous than our male contemporaries. I challenge anyone to examine my experimental protocols alongside those of, say, Priestley or even Lavoisier, and demonstrate where mine lack precision or systematic approach. If anything, working outside institutional support demanded greater rigour – I could not afford sloppy methodology when my very credibility hung by such a slender thread.

The myth persists that women of my generation dabbled in science as fashionable amusement, lacking the intellectual capacity for serious investigation. This conveniently obscures the fact that we were systematically excluded from the very institutions that might have provided formal training and recognition. We were not amateur hobbyists – we were serious natural philosophers denied professional status by deliberate design.

Your work as a historian gives you power to correct these distortions, Bruce. Use it wisely.

Belinda Nielsen (37, photochemist, AstraZeneca R&D, Gothenburg, Sweden; mother of two young scientists):
You observed light’s effect on chemical reactions long before photography was invented. Today, photochemistry is crucial for drug discovery and solar energy. What is your gut reaction when you see how widely your principle is applied in industry and research – do you feel pride, frustration at lost time, or something else entirely? And if you had the resources of a modern industrial lab, what would you choose to investigate first?

Belinda, what you describe fills me with the most extraordinary mixture of vindication and wonder. That my observations about light’s power to facilitate chemical reduction should underpin entire industries – pharmaceuticals, solar energy, drug discovery – it quite takes my breath away. When I first noticed that my gold solutions would only reduce to metallic form when exposed to sunlight, streaming through my window onto the glass vessels, I thought it merely a curious phenomenon worthy of investigation.

My reaction? Pride, certainly, but tempered by a profound sense of… what might I call it… temporal displacement. To learn that principles I glimpsed in my modest Edinburgh laboratory now power technologies I could never have imagined – capturing energy from sunlight itself, creating medicines that save countless lives – it suggests that natural philosophy operates on scales far grander than any individual investigator can comprehend.

The frustration you mention is real, though perhaps not as you might expect. I am less troubled by personal recognition than by the decades lost to prejudice and dismissal. How many other discoveries might have emerged if women’s observations had been taken seriously? How many innovations delayed because half of humanity was excluded from systematic inquiry?

As for what I would investigate first with modern industrial resources – I should be fascinated to explore whether photochemical processes might be combined with catalytic ones to achieve transformations impossible through either method alone. In my era, I could barely maintain consistent lighting conditions, let alone control the precise wavelengths of light or temperature with the precision your laboratories surely possess.

But I confess particular curiosity about your work in pharmaceuticals. That light-driven chemistry should contribute to healing – this seems to me the most noble application imaginable. In my time, chemical knowledge served primarily manufacturing and military purposes. To learn that these same principles now alleviate suffering and extend life… this gives profound meaning to those long years of patient experimentation.

Tell me, Belinda – do you find that your colleagues value the systematic observation of unexpected phenomena, or do they prefer to pursue only predictable outcomes? I have always believed that science advances most rapidly when we remain alert to the surprising.

Hector Fuentes (29, chemistry teacher, Colegio Humboldt, Mexico City; organiser of a nationwide girls-in-science mentoring programme):
Elizabeth, your example shows that scientific progress often happens outside formal institutions. What advice would you give to today’s girls who are passionate about science but lack resources, and to the educators and policymakers who should be supporting them? What is the most unjust barrier you faced that still exists for young women in STEM, and how would you dismantle it?

Hector, your dedication to nurturing girls in science moves me profoundly. That a gentleman should devote himself so fully to dismantling barriers I faced – this gives me hope that progress, however gradual, is indeed possible.

To the girls lacking resources, I would say this: the natural world cares nothing for the grandeur of your apparatus or the prestige of your institution. My most significant discoveries emerged from simple glass vessels, common chemicals, and careful observation. What matters is not the sophistication of your equipment but the rigour of your thinking and the persistence of your inquiry.

Begin with what you have. Document everything meticulously. Question established authorities – not from arrogance, but from genuine curiosity about whether their explanations truly account for what you observe. And never, ever allow anyone to convince you that your observations are somehow less valid because of your circumstances or identity.

To educators and policymakers, I would emphasise that talent recognises no boundaries of gender or station. The loss to human knowledge when brilliant minds are excluded or discouraged is incalculable. You speak of mentoring programmes – excellent. But beyond encouragement, these young women need access to apparatus, to publications, to the community of inquiry that I was largely denied.

The most unjust barrier that persists? The assumption that women’s intellectual contributions are inherently less serious, less rigorous, less worthy of preservation and study. In my era, they dismissed my work as “fanciful.” Today, I suspect the language is more subtle, but the underlying prejudice remains – that women’s insights lack the theoretical depth of men’s discoveries.

How would I dismantle this? Require that every scientific curriculum include substantial study of women’s historical contributions, not as curiosities or token acknowledgements, but as integral to the development of scientific knowledge. Insist that research institutions examine their practices for subtle biases that exclude or diminish women’s voices. Most crucially, teach young men – as you are doing – that supporting women in science strengthens the entire enterprise.

Hector, your students are fortunate to have someone who recognises that half of humanity’s intellectual capacity has been systematically wasted. That you see this as urgent rather than merely unfortunate suggests the next generation may fare better than mine did.

Change the culture, and individual barriers crumble. Persist in your noble work.

Abigail Durham (19, final-year physics student and aspiring science communicator, University of Edinburgh; runs a TikTok channel on forgotten women scientists):
Your story is one of resilience and quiet defiance. When things were darkest – rejection, prejudice, or the nagging self-doubt that surely must have crept in – what kept you going? If you could send a 10-second voice note to every woman starting out in science today, what would you say?

My dear Abigail, your question reaches the very core of what sustained me through those darkest moments – and there were many. When Doctor Black’s students would smirk at mentions of my theories, when publishers rejected my manuscript repeatedly, when even Thomas would gently suggest I might find needlework a more suitable occupation… there were nights when I wondered whether I was simply deluding myself.

What kept me going was something quite simple, yet profound: the absolute certainty that what I observed was real. When I watched that golden precipitate form in sunlight, when I saw the water remain unchanged despite facilitating the entire reaction – these phenomena existed whether the Royal Society acknowledged them or not. Truth, I discovered, has a stubborn persistence that outlasts human prejudice.

The copper salts reduced to gleaming metal whether Joseph Priestley approved or not. The chemical world operated by consistent principles regardless of society’s opinions about women’s intellectual capacity. This gave me an anchor when everything else seemed to shift beneath my feet.

But I must confess something else – anger proved remarkably sustaining. Not bitter resentment, but a clean, focused indignation at the waste of it all. Every time someone suggested my work was “beyond my understanding,” every dismissive comment about women’s supposed intellectual limitations, it only strengthened my resolve to prove them spectacularly wrong.

My ten-second message to every woman starting in science today? “Trust what you see. Document what you discover. Publish under your own name. The natural world will validate you even when human institutions fail you.”

You have advantages I could never have imagined – communities, platforms, recognition that women’s contributions matter. Use them, dear girl. Use them not just for your own advancement, but to ensure that future generations never again face the isolation I endured.

Your TikTok channel recovering forgotten women scientists – this is precisely the work that ensures our voices echo forward rather than fade into silence. Continue it with my blessing.

Reflection

Speaking with Elizabeth Fulhame – even in this imagined form – reveals the profound cost of scientific exclusion that extends far beyond individual careers. Her voice, reconstructed from the fragments of her published work and the scattered historical record, carries a defiant clarity that challenges our comfortable narratives about the march of scientific progress.

What emerges most powerfully is not just her technical innovations – though discovering catalysis forty years before Berzelius deserves far greater recognition – but her methodical persistence in the face of systematic dismissal. The woman who described herself as enduring the “pangs” inflicted when “the spectre appears in the shape of a woman” possessed both rigorous experimental discipline and fierce intellectual courage. Her phoenix metaphor, mocked by contemporaries, proves remarkably prescient when viewed through modern understanding of catalytic cycles.

Perhaps most striking is how her perspective diverges from standard historical accounts that cast her as a fortunate amateur. Through her own words in the 1794 essay, we glimpse someone acutely aware of the theoretical implications of her discoveries, someone who deliberately challenged both phlogiston theory and Lavoisier’s system based on systematic experimental evidence. This was no dabbling gentlewoman but a serious natural philosopher constrained by circumstance, not capability.

The historical record remains frustratingly incomplete – we know little of her personal life beyond her marriage to Dr Thomas Fulhame, and her voice disappears entirely after 1794. Did she continue experimenting? Were there other discoveries lost to history? The silence itself speaks to how thoroughly women’s scientific contributions could be erased.

Yet Fulhame’s story resonates powerfully with contemporary struggles in STEM. Her isolation echoes the experiences of countless women and marginalised researchers who continue to face subtle exclusion and systematic undervaluation. Her insistence on publishing under her own name anticipates ongoing battles for recognition and credit. Most fundamentally, her conviction that “truth has no gender” remains a necessary rallying cry.

The principles she discovered now underpin trillion-pound industries – from pharmaceuticals to green energy. Every catalytic converter, every solar cell utilising photochemistry, every industrial process that achieves at room temperature what once required intense heat bears the invisible stamp of her insights. She would be astonished by the scale, but perhaps not surprised by the underlying mechanisms.

Elizabeth Fulhame’s legacy extends beyond chemistry into the realm of possibility itself. She proved that transformative discoveries can emerge from the most constrained circumstances, that systematic observation and bold theorising can challenge established authorities, and that voices excluded from official recognition can still echo through centuries.

Her story asks uncomfortable questions: How many other Fulhames have we overlooked? What innovations have been delayed by prejudice? What discoveries await in the minds we continue to undervalue?

The answers matter not just for historical justice, but for the future of science itself. In an era when complex challenges demand diverse perspectives and innovative approaches, we cannot afford to waste half of humanity’s intellectual capacity. Elizabeth Fulhame’s phoenix rises not just from chemical reactions, but from the ashes of forgotten genius – a reminder that progress depends not on who discovers truth, but on our willingness to recognise it wherever it emerges.

Who have we missed?

This series is all about recovering the voices history left behind – and I’d love your help finding the next one. If there’s a woman in STEM you think deserves to be interviewed in this way – whether a forgotten inventor, unsung technician, or overlooked researcher – please share her story.

Email me at voxmeditantis@gmail.com or leave a comment below with your suggestion – even just a name is a great start. Let’s keep uncovering the women who shaped science and innovation, one conversation at a time.

Editorial Note: This interview is a dramatised reconstruction based on historical sources, including Elizabeth Fulhame’s 1794 Essay on Combustion, contemporary scientific correspondence, and scholarly research into her life and work. While her quoted words from the original essay are authentic, the dialogue and responses have been imaginatively constructed to reflect her documented perspectives and the historical context of late 18th-century chemistry. Some biographical details remain uncertain or contested within the historical record. This creative interpretation aims to bring attention to Fulhame’s significant but overlooked contributions to science whilst acknowledging the limitations of our knowledge about her personal experiences and viewpoints.

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