Longhand
Phlogiston is a poor substitute for oxygen.
I still like to treat it as if it’s real, though. Elementally, it was a pretty good idea; phlogisticated substances became dephlogisticated when burned, releasing energy that was then absorbed back into the air and by plants. Dephlogistication was also exemplified by the rusting of metal, and also, the act of breathing removes phlogiston from the body, so you should keep doing that, for your health. Phlogiston might just be my favourite element; the element of relief.
I like to envision the excitement of the early scientists making discoveries by accident, and then trying desperately to disprove their theories so they wouldn’t have to tell the church. I think the scientific method was born less of scepticism and a desire for proof, and more from a visceral terror of giving notice to the religious orders of the day that they were wrong, and their dogma was fallacious. That often did not go well.
Imagine weighing oxygen in Europe before people learned that drinking out of duck ponds made them sick. These were very strange and unusual people, these scientists. They rarely got along, much less collaborated, and they always seemed to be writing books to disprove one another’s theories. I don’t know how they found the time. I’m sure it would often take weeks, at the very least, just for the news of a new development in the scientific community’s drama to reach the ears of the perpetually defensive, and offended, proponents of alternate views. They would then commence to write, in longhand, on rare paper, and without any typos, and with adequate pontification, their rebuttal, or possibly just their reasons why someone who was actually agreeing with them wasn’t agreeing with them enough.
I get it though, even the life of the most mean and meagre scientist was a lot better than shovelling human shit off of the streets(in places where they bothered) and drinking out of duck ponds, so it was in their best interests to keep the game going for as long as possible. I imagine it was probably a good thing to die of old age without having proven much. Look at it this way; if, at 40 years of age, you make a breakthrough, what are you going to do? It just took you 30 years of unimaginable focus to reach a conclusion, and now you’re done? What are you going to do with the last 5 to 10 years of your life? Get married, or even laid for the first time? You don’t get paid anymore, and chances are you will lose the room you spent your life in. The options are grim for a spent scientist, so it’s better to keep pushing the envelope as hard as you can without committing heresy. A hare-brained theory might get you shouted out the door and embarrassed after brandy and biscuits, but you’ll get invited back, because they need an opposition. If you surprise the zealots of the day with some reality, however, the chances are pretty good that you will get horribly cancelled.
A fanatics least favourite element is the element of surprise, especially when it contains the element of truth.
