Part 17

What the more extreme members of the uniformitarian school failed to perceive was the absence of all evidence that terrestrial catastrophes even on a colossal scale might not be a part of the present economy of this globe. Such occurrences might never seriously affect the whole earth at one time, and might return at such wide intervals that no example of them has yet been chronicled by man. But that they have occurred again and again, and even within comparatively recent geological times, hardly admits of serious doubt. How far at different epochs and in various degrees they may have included the operation of cosmical influences lying wholly outside the planet, and how far they have resulted from movements within the body of the planet itself, must remain for further inquiry. Yet the admission that they have played a part in geological history may be freely made without impairing the real value of the Huttonian doctrine, that in the interpretation of this history our main guide must be a knowledge of the existing processes of terrestrial change.

As the most recent and best known of these great transformations, the Ice-Age stands out conspicuously before us. If any one sixty years ago had ventured to affirm that, at no very distant era in the past, the snows and glaciers of the Arctic regions stretched southwards to the Bristol Channel and the basin of the Thames, he would have been treated as a mere visionary theorist. Many of the facts to which he would have appealed in support of his statement were already well known, but they had received various other interpretations. By some observers, notably by Hutton's friend, Sir James Hall, they were believed to indicate violent debacles of water that swept over the face of the land. By others they were attributed to the strong tides and currents of the sea when the land stood at a lower level. The uniformitarian school of Lyell had no difficulty in elevating or depressing land to any required extent. Indeed, when we consider how averse these philosophers were to admit any kind or degree of natural operation other than those of which there was some human experience, we may well wonder at the boldness with which, on sometimes the slenderest evidence, they made land and sea change places, on the one hand submerging mountain-ranges, and on the other placing great barriers of land where a deep ocean rolls. They took such liberties with geography because only well-established processes of change were invoked in the operations. Knowing that during the passage of an earthquake a territory bordering the sea may be upraised or sunk a few feet, they drew the sweeping inference that any amount of upheaval or depression of any part of the earth's surface might be claimed in explanation of geological problems. The progress of inquiry, started here by Agassiz, while it has somewhat curtailed this geographical license, has now made known in great detail the strange story of the Ice-Age.

There cannot be any doubt that after man had become a denizen of the earth, a great physical change came over the northern hemisphere. The climate, which had previously been so mild that evergreen trees flourished within ten or twelve degrees of the north pole, now became so severe that vast sheets of snow and ice covered the north of Europe and crept southward beyond the south coast of Ireland, almost as far as the southern shores of England, and across the Baltic into France and Germany. This Arctic transformation was not an episode that lasted merely a few seasons, and left the land to resume thereafter its ancient aspect. With various successive fluctuations it must have endured for many thousands of years. When it began to disappear it probably faded away as slowly and imperceptibly as it had advanced, and when it finally vanished it left Europe and North America profoundly changed in the character alike of their scenery and of their inhabitants. The rugged, rocky contours of earlier times were ground smooth and polished by the march of the ice across them, while the lower grounds were buried under wide and thick sheets of clay, gravel, and sand, left behind by the melting ice. The varied and abundant flora which had spread so far within the Arctic circle was driven away into more southern and less ungenial climes. But most memorable of all was the extirpation of the prominent large animals which, before the advent of the ice, had roamed over Europe. The lions, hyaenas, wild horses, hippopotami and other creatures either became entirely extinct or were driven into the Mediterranean basin and into Africa. In their place came northern forms--the reindeer, glutton, musk ox, woolly rhinoceros, and mammoth.

Such a marvellous transformation in climate, in scenery, in vegetation, and in inhabitants, within what was after all but a brief portion of geological time, though it may have involved no sudden or violent convulsion, is surely entitled to rank as a catastrophe in the history of the globe. It was possibly brought about mainly if not entirely by the operation of forces external to the earth. No similar calamity having befallen the continents within the time during which man has been recording his experience, the Ice-Age might be cited as a contradiction to the doctrine of uniformity. And yet it manifestly arrived as part of the established order of Nature. Whether or not we grant that other ice-ages preceded the last great one, we must admit that the conditions under which it arose, so far as we know them, might conceivably have occurred before and may occur again. The various agencies called into play by the extensive refrigeration of the northern hemisphere were not different from those with which we are familiar. Snow fell and glaciers crept as they do to-day. Ice scored and polished rocks exactly as it still does among the Alps and in Norway. There was nothing abnormal in the phenomena save the scale on which they were manifested. And thus, taking a broad view of the whole subject, although we cannot yet explain the origin of the catastrophe, we see in its progress the operation of natural processes which we know to be integral parts of the machinery whereby the surface of the earth is still continually transformed.

Among the debts which science owes to the Huttonian school, not the least memorable is the promulgation of the first well-founded conceptions of the high antiquity of the globe. Some six thousand years had previously been usually believed to comprise the whole life of the planet, and indeed of the entire universe. When the curtain was then first raised that had veiled the history of the earth, and men, looking beyond the brief span within which they had supposed that history to have been transacted, beheld the records of a long vista of ages stretching far away into a dim illimitable past, the prospect vividly impressed their imagination. Astronomy had made known the immeasurable fields of space; the new science of geology seemed now to reveal boundless distances of time. The more the terrestrial chronicles were studied the farther could the eye range into an antiquity so vast as to defy all attempts to measure or define it. The progress of research continually furnished additional evidence of the enormous duration of the ages that preceded the coming of man, while, as knowledge increased, periods that were thought to have followed each other consecutively were found to have been separated by prolonged intervals of time. Thus the idea arose and gained universal acceptance that, just as no boundary could be set to the astronomer in his free range through space, so the whole of bygone eternity lay open to the requirements of the geologist. Playfair, re-echoing and expanding Hutton's language, had declared that neither among the records of the earth nor in the planetary motions can any trace be discovered of the beginning or of the end of the present order of things; that no symptom of infancy or of old age has been allowed to appear on the face of Nature, nor any sign by which either the past or the future duration of the universe can be estimated; and that although the Creator may put an end, as He no doubt gave a beginning, to the present system, such a catastrophe will not be brought about by any of the laws now existing, and is not indicated by anything which we perceive. This doctrine was naturally espoused with warmth by the extreme uniformitarian school, which required an unlimited duration of time for the accomplishment of such slow and quiet cycles of change as they conceived to be alone recognisable in the records of the earth's past history.

It was Lord Kelvin who, in the writings to which I have already referred, first called attention to the fundamentally erroneous nature of these conceptions. He pointed out that from the high internal temperature of our globe, increasing inwards as it does, and from the rate of loss of its heat, a limit may be fixed to the planet's antiquity. He showed that so far from there being no sign of a beginning, and no prospect of an end to the present economy, every lineament of the solar system bears witness to a gradual dissipation of energy from some definite starting-point. No very precise data were then, or indeed are now, available for computing the interval which has elapsed since that remote commencement, but he estimated that the surface of the globe could not have consolidated less than twenty millions of years ago, for the rate of increase of temperature inwards would in that case have been higher than it actually is; nor more than 400 millions of years ago, for then there would have been no sensible increase at all. He was inclined, when first dealing with the subject, to believe that from a review of all the evidence then available, some such period as 100 millions of years would embrace the whole geological history of the globe.

It is not a pleasant experience to discover that a fortune which one has unconcernedly believed to be ample has somehow taken to itself wings and disappeared. When the geologist was suddenly awakened by the energetic warning of the physicist, who assured him that he had enormously overdrawn his account with past time, it was but natural under the circumstances that he should think the accountant to be mistaken, who thus returned to him dishonoured the large drafts he had made on eternity. He saw how wide were the limits of time deducible from physical considerations, how vague the data from which they had been calculated. And though he could not help admitting that a limit must be fixed beyond which his chronology could not be extended, he consoled himself with the reflection that after all a hundred millions of years was a tolerably ample period of time, and might possibly have been quite sufficient for the transaction of all the prolonged sequence of events recorded in the crust of the earth. He was therefore disposed to acquiesce in the limitation thus imposed upon geological history.

But physical inquiry continued to be pushed forward with regard to the early history and the antiquity of the earth. Further consideration of the influence of tidal friction in retarding the earth's rotation, and of the sun's rate of cooling, led to sweeping reductions of the time allowable for the evolution of the planet. The geologist found himself in the plight of Lear when his bodyguard of one hundred knights was cut down. 'What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five?' demands the inexorable physicist, as he remorselessly strikes slice after slice from his allowance of geological time. Lord Kelvin is willing, I believe, to grant us some twenty millions of years, but Professor Tait would have us content with less than ten millions.

In scientific as in other mundane questions there may often be two sides, and the truth may ultimately be found not to lie wholly with either. I frankly confess that the demands of the early geologists for an unlimited series of ages were extravagant, and even, for their own purposes, unnecessary, and that the physicist did good service in reducing them. It may also be freely admitted that the latest conclusions, from physical considerations of the extent of geological time, require that the interpretation given to the record of the rocks should be rigorously revised, with the view of ascertaining how far that interpretation may be capable of modification or amendment. But we must also remember that the geological record constitutes a voluminous body of evidence regarding the earth's history which cannot be ignored, and must be explained in accordance with ascertained natural laws. If the conclusions derived from the most careful study of this record cannot be reconciled with those drawn from physical considerations, it is surely not too much to ask that the latter should be also revised. It was well said by Huxley that the mathematical mill is an admirable piece of machinery, but that the value of what it yields depends upon the quality of what is put into it. That there must be some flaw in the physical argument I can, for my own part, hardly doubt, though I do not pretend to be able to say where it is to be found. Some assumption, it seems to me, has been made, or some consideration has been left out of sight, which will eventually be seen to vitiate the conclusions, and which when duly taken into account will allow time enough for any reasonable interpretation of the geological record.

In problems of this nature, where geological data capable of numerical statement are so needful, it is hardly possible to obtain trustworthy computations of time. We can only measure the rate of changes in progress now, and infer from these changes the length of time required for the completion of results achieved by the same processes in the past. There is fortunately one great cycle of movement which admits of careful investigation, and which has been made to furnish valuable materials for estimates of this kind. The universal degradation of the land, so notable a characteristic of the earth's surface, has been regarded as an extremely slow process. Though it goes on without ceasing, yet from century to century it seems to leave hardly any perceptible trace on the landscapes of a country. Mountains and plains, hills and valleys, appear to wear the same familiar aspect which is indicated in the oldest pages of history. This obvious slowness in one of the most important departments of geological activity, doubtless contributed in large measure to form and foster a vague belief in the vastness of the antiquity required for the evolution of the earth.

But, as geologists eventually came to perceive, the rate of degradation of the land is capable of actual measurement. The amount of material worn away from the surface of any drainage-basin and carried in the form of mud, sand, or gravel, by the main river into the sea, represents the extent to which that surface has been lowered by waste in any given period of time. But denudation and deposition must be equivalent to each other. As much material must be laid down in sedimentary accumulations as has been mechanically removed, so that in measuring the annual bulk of sediment borne into the sea by a river, we obtain a clue not only to the rate of denudation of the land, but also to the rate at which the deposition of new sedimentary formations takes place.

As might be expected, the activities involved in the lowering of the surface of the land are not everywhere equally energetic. They are naturally more vigorous where the rainfall is heavy, where the daily range of temperature is large, and where frosts are severe. Hence they are obviously much more effective in mountainous regions than on plains; and their results must constantly vary, not only in different basins of drainage, but even, and sometimes widely, within the same basin. Actual measurement of the proportion of sediment in river water shows that while in some cases the lowering of the surface of the land may be as much as 1/730 of a foot in a year, in others it falls as low as 1/6800. In other words, the rate of deposition of new sedimentary formations, over an area of seafloor equivalent to that which has yielded the sediment, may vary from one foot in 730 years to one foot in 6800 years.

If now we take these results and apply them as measures of the length of time required for the deposition of the various sedimentary masses that form the outer part of the earth's crust, we obtain some indication of the duration of geological history. On a reasonable computation these stratified masses, where most fully developed, attain a united thickness of not less than 100,000 feet. If they were all laid down at the most rapid recorded rate of denudation, they would require a period of seventy-three millions of years for their completion. If they were laid down at the slowest rate they would demand a period of not less than 680 millions.

But it may be argued that all kinds of terrestrial energy are growing feeble, that the most active denudation now in progress is much less vigorous than that of bygone ages, and hence that the stratified part of the earth's crust may have been put together in a much briefer space of time than modern events might lead us to suppose. Such arguments are easily adduced and look sufficiently specious, but no confirmation of them can be gathered from the rocks. On the contrary, no one can thoughtfully study the various systems of stratified formations without being impressed by the fulness of their evidence that, on the whole, the accumulation of sediment has been extremely slow. Again and again we encounter groups of strata composed of thin paper-like laminæ of the finest silt, which evidently settled down quietly and at intervals on the sea bottom. We find successive layers covered with ripple-marks and sun-cracks, and we recognise in them memorials of ancient shores where sand and mud tranquilly gathered as they do in sheltered estuaries at the present day. We can see no proof whatever, nor even any evidence which suggests, that on the whole the rate of waste and sedimentation was more rapid during Mesozoic and Palæozoic time than it is to-day. Had there been any marked difference in this rate from ancient to modern times, it would be incredible that no clear proof of it should have been recorded in the crust of the earth.

But in actual fact the testimony in favour of the slow accumulation and high antiquity of the geological record is much stronger than might be inferred from the mere thickness of the stratified formations. These sedimentary deposits have not been laid down in one unbroken sequence, but have had their continuity interrupted again and again by upheaval and depression. So fragmentary are they in some regions, that we can easily demonstrate the length of time represented there by still existing sedimentary strata to be vastly less than the time indicated by some of the gaps in the series.

There is yet a further and impressive body of evidence furnished by the successive races of plants and animals which have lived upon the earth and have left their remains sealed up within its rocky crust. No one now believes in the exploded doctrine that successive creations and universal destructions of organic life are chronicled in the stratified rocks. It is everywhere admitted that, from the remotest times up to the present day, there has been an onward march of development, type succeeding type in one long continuous progression. As to the rate of this evolution precise data are wanting. There is, however, the important negative argument furnished by the absence of evidence of recognisable specific variations of organic forms since man began to observe and record. We know that within human experience a few species have become extinct, but there is no conclusive proof that a single new species has come into existence, nor are appreciable variations readily apparent in forms that live in a wild state. The seeds and plants found with Egyptian mummies, and the flowers and fruits depicted on Egyptian tombs, are easily identified with the vegetation of modern Egypt. The embalmed bodies of animals found in that country show no sensible divergence from the structure or proportions of the same animals at the present day. The human races of Northern Africa and Western Asia were already as distinct when portrayed by the ancient Egyptian artists as they are now, and they do not seem to have undergone any perceptible change since then. Thus a lapse of four or five thousand years has not been accompanied by any recognisable variation in such forms of plant and animal life as can be tendered in evidence. Absence of sensible change in these instances is, of course, no proof that considerable alteration may not have been accomplished in other forms more exposed to vicissitudes of climate and other external influences. But it furnishes at least a presumption in favour of the extremely tardy progress of organic variation.

If, however, we extend our vision beyond the narrow range of human history, and look at the remains of the plants and animals preserved in those younger formations which, though recent when regarded as parts of the whole geological record, must be many thousands of years older than the very oldest of human monuments, we encounter the most impressive proofs of the persistence of specific forms. Shells which lived in our seas before the coming of the Ice-Age present the very same peculiarities of form, structure, and ornament which their descendants still possess. The lapse of so enormous an interval of time has not sufficed seriously to modify them. So too with the plants and the higher animals which still survive. Some forms have become extinct, but few or none which remain display any transitional gradations into new species. We must admit that such transitions have occurred, that indeed they have been in progress ever since organised existence began upon our planet, and are doubtless taking place now. But we cannot detect them on the way, and we feel constrained to believe that their march must be excessively slow.

There is no reason to think that the rate of organic evolution has ever seriously varied; at least no proof has been adduced of such variation. Taken in connection with the testimony of the sedimentary rocks, the inferences deducible from fossils entirely bear out the opinion that the building up of the stratified crust of the earth has been extremely gradual. If the many thousands of years which have elapsed since the Ice-Age have produced no appreciable modification of surviving plants and animals, how vast a period must have been required for that marvellous scheme of organic development which is chronicled in the rocks!

After careful reflection on the subject, I affirm that the geological record furnishes a mass of evidence which no arguments drawn from other departments of Nature can explain away, and which, it seems to me, cannot be satisfactorily interpreted save with an allowance of time much beyond the narrow limits which recent physical speculation would concede.

I have reserved for final consideration a branch of the history of the earth which, while it has become, within the lifetime of the present generation, one of the most interesting and fascinating departments of geological inquiry, owed its first impulse to the far-seeing intellects of Hutton and Playfair. With the penetration of genius these illustrious teachers perceived that if the broad masses of land and the great chains of mountains owe their origin to stupendous movements which from time to time have convulsed the earth, their details of contour must be mainly due to the eroding power of running water. They recognised that as the surface of the land is continually worn down, it is essentially by a process of sculpture that the physiognomy of every country has been developed, valleys being hollowed out and hills left standing, and that these inequalities in topographical detail are only varying and local accidents in the progress of the one great process of the degradation of the land.

From the broad and guiding outlines of theory thus sketched we have now advanced amid ever-widening multiplicity of detail into a fuller and nobler conception of the origin of scenery. The law of evolution is written as legibly on the landscapes of the earth as on any other page of the Book of Nature. Not only do we recognise that the existing topography of the continents, instead of being primeval in origin, has gradually been developed after many precedent mutations, but we are enabled to trace these earlier revolutions in the structure of every hill and glen. Each mountain-chain is thus found to be a memorial of successive stages in geographical evolution. Within certain limits, land and sea have changed places again and again. Volcanoes have broken out and have become extinct in many countries long before the advent of man. Whole tribes of plants and animals have meanwhile come and gone, and in leaving their remains behind them as monuments at once of the slow development of organic types, and of the prolonged vicissitudes of the terrestrial surface, have furnished materials for a chronological arrangement of the earth's topographical features. Nor is it only from the organisms of former epochs that broad generalisations may be drawn regarding revolutions in geography. The living plants and animals of to-day have been discovered to be eloquent of ancient geographical features that have long since vanished. In their distribution they tell us that climates have changed, that islands have been disjoined from continents, that oceans once united have been divided from each other, or once separate have now been joined; that some tracts of land have disappeared, while others for prolonged periods of time have remained in isolation. The present and the past are thus linked together not merely by dead matter, but by the world of living things, into one vast system of continuous progression.

In this marvellous increase of knowledge regarding the transformations of the earth's surface, one of the most impressive features, to my mind, is the power now given to us of perceiving the many striking contrasts between the present and former aspects of topography and scenery. We seem to be endowed with a new sense. What is seen by the bodily eye--mountain, valley, or plain--serves but as a veil, beyond which, as we raise it, visions of long-lost lands and seas rise before us in a far-retreating vista. Pictures of the most diverse and opposite character are beheld, as it were, through each other, their lineaments subtly interwoven and even their most vivid contrasts subdued into one blended harmony. Like the poet, 'we see, but not by sight alone'; and the 'ray of fancy' which, as a sunbeam, lightened up his landscape, is for us broadened and brightened by that play of the imagination which science can so vividly excite and prolong.

Admirable illustrations of this modern interpretation of scenery are supplied by the district wherein we are now assembled. On every side of us rise the most convincing proofs of the reality and potency of that ceaseless sculpture by which the elements of landscape have been carved into their present shapes. Turn where we may, our eyes rest on hills, that project above the lowland, not because they have been upheaved into these positions, but because their stubborn materials have enabled them better to withstand the degradation which has worn down the softer strata into the plains around them. Inch by inch the surface of the land has been lowered, and each hard rock successively laid bare has communicated its own characteristics of form and colour to the scenery.

If, standing on the Castle Rock, the central and oldest site in Edinburgh, we allow the bodily eye to wander over the fair landscape, and the mental vision to range through the long vista of earlier landscapes which science here reveals to us, what a strange series of pictures passes before our gaze! The busy streets of to-day seem to fade away into the mingled copsewood and forest of prehistoric time. Lakes that have long since vanished gleam through the woodlands, and a rude canoe pushing from the shore startles the red deer that had come to drink. While we look, the picture changes to a polar scene, with bushes of stunted Arctic willow and birch, among which herds of reindeer browse and the huge mammoth makes his home. Thick sheets of snow are draped all over the hills around, and far to the north-west the distant gleam of glaciers and snow-fields marks the line of the Highland mountains. As we muse on this strange contrast to the living world of to-day, the scene appears to grow more Arctic in aspect, until every hill is buried under one vast sheet of ice, 2,000 feet or more in thickness, which fills up the whole midland valley of Scotland and creeps slowly eastward into the basin of the North Sea. Here the curtain drops upon our moving pageant, for in the geological record of this part of the country an enormous gap occurs before the coming of the Ice-Age.

When once more the spectacle resumes its movement the scene is found to have utterly changed. The familiar hills and valleys of the Lothians have disappeared. Dense jungles of a strange vegetation--tall reeds, club-mosses, and tree-ferns--spread over the steaming swamps that stretch for leagues in all directions. Broad lagoons and open seas are dotted with little volcanic cones which throw out their streams of lava and showers of ashes. Beyond these, dimmer in outline and older in date, we descry a wide lake or inland sea, covering the whole midland valley and marked with long lines of active volcanoes, some of them several thousand feet in height. And still further and fainter over the same region, we may catch a glimpse of that still earlier expanse of sea which in Silurian times overspread most of Britain. But beyond this scene our vision fails. We have reached the limit across which no geological evidence exists to lead the imagination into the primeval darkness beyond.

Such in briefest outline is the succession of mental pictures which modern science enables us to frame out of the landscapes around Edinburgh. They may be taken as illustrations of what may be drawn, and sometimes with even greater fulness and vividness, from any district in these islands. But I cite them especially because of their local interest in connection with the present meeting of the Association, and because the rocks that yield them gave inspiration to those great masters whose claims on our recollection, not least for their explanation of the origin of scenery, I have tried to recount this evening. But I am further impelled to dwell on these scenes from an overmastering personal feeling to which I trust I may be permitted to give expression. It was these green hills and grey crags that gave me in boyhood the impulse that has furnished the work and joy of my life. To them, amid changes of scene and surroundings, my heart ever fondly turns, and here I desire gratefully to acknowledge that it is to their influence that I am indebted for any claim I may possess to stand in the proud position in which your choice has placed me.

FOOTNOTES:

The Address of the President of the British Association for the Advancement of Science at the Meeting held in Edinburgh, 1892.