Part 14

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.[70]

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:

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

[70] The problem of Geological Time was made the subject of a later address. See _postea_, p. 198.

VI

Geological Time[71]

Among the many questions of great theoretical importance which have engaged the attention of geologists, none has in late years awakened more interest or aroused livelier controversy than that which deals with Time as an element in geological history. The various schools which have successively arisen--Cataclysmal, Uniformitarian, and Evolutionist--have had each its own views as to the duration of their chronology, as well as to the operations of terrestrial energy. But though holding different opinions, they did not make these differences matter of special controversy among themselves. About thirty years ago, however, they were startled by a bold irruption into their camp from the side of physics. They were then called on to reform their ways, which were declared to be flatly opposed to the teachings of natural philosophy. Since that period the discussion then started regarding the age of the Earth and the value of geological time has continued with varying animation. Evidence of the most multifarious kind has been brought forward, and arguments of widely different degrees of validity have been pressed into service both by geologists and palæontologists on one side, and by physicists on the other. For the last year or two there has been a pause in the controversy, though no general agreement has been arrived at in regard to the matters in dispute. The present interval of comparative quietude seems favourable for a dispassionate review of the debate. I propose, therefore, to take, as perhaps a not inappropriate subject on which to address geologists upon a somewhat international occasion like this present meeting of the British Association at Dover, the question of Geological Time. In offering a brief history of the discussion, I gladly avail myself of the opportunity of enforcing one of the lessons which the controversy has impressed upon my own mind, and to point a moral which, as it seems to me, we geologists may take home to ourselves from a consideration of the whole question. There is, I think, a practical outcome which may be made to issue from the dispute in a combination of sympathy and co-operation among geologists all over the world. A lasting service will be rendered to our science if by well-concerted effort we can place geological dynamics and geological chronology on a broader and firmer basis of actual experiment and measurement than has yet been laid.

To understand aright the origin and progress of the dispute regarding the value of time in geological speculation, we must take note of the attitude maintained towards this subject by some of the early fathers of the science. Among these pioneers none has left his mark more deeply graven on the foundations of modern geology than James Hutton. To him, more than to any other writer of his day, do we owe the doctrine of the high antiquity of our globe. No one before him had ever seen so clearly the abundant and impressive proofs of this remote antiquity recorded in the rocks of the earth's crust. In these rocks he traced the operation of the same slow and quiet processes which he observed to be at work at present in gradually transforming the face of the existing continents. When he stood face to face with the proofs of decay among the mountains, there seems to have arisen uppermost in his mind the thought of the immense succession of ages which these proofs revealed to him. His observant eye enabled him to see 'the operations of the surface wasting the solid body of the globe, and to read the unmeasurable course of time that must have flowed during those amazing operations, which the vulgar do not see, and which the learned seem to see without wonder.'[72] In contemplating the stupendous results achieved by such apparently feeble forces, Hutton felt that one great objection he had to contend with in the reception of his theory, even by the scientific men of his day, lay in the inability or unwillingness of the human mind to admit such large demands as he made on the past. 'What more can we require?' he asks in summing up his conclusions; and he answers the question in these memorable words: 'What more can we require? Nothing but time. It is not any part of the process that will be disputed; but after allowing all the parts, the whole will be denied; and for what?--only because we are not disposed to allow that quantity of time which the ablution of so much wasted mountain might require.'[73]

Far as Hutton could follow the succession of events registered in the rocky crust of the globe, he found himself baffled by the closing in around him of that dark abysm of time into which neither eye nor imagination seemed able to penetrate. He well knew that, behind and beyond the ages recorded in the oldest of the primitive rocks, there must have stretched a vast earlier time, of which no record met his view. He did not attempt to speculate beyond the limits of his evidence. 'I do not pretend,' he said, 'to describe the beginning of things; I take things such as I find them at present, and from these I reason with regard to that which must have been.'[74] In vain did he look, even among the oldest formations, for any sign of the infancy of the planet. He could only detect a repeated series of similar revolutions, the oldest of which was assuredly not the first in the terrestrial history, and he concluded, as 'the result of this physical inquiry, that we find no vestige of a beginning, no prospect of an end.'[75]

This conclusion from strictly geological evidence has been impugned from the side of physics, and, as further developed by Playfair, has been declared to be contradicted by the principles of natural philosophy. But if it be considered on the basis of the evidence on which it was originally propounded, it was absolutely true in Hutton's time and remains true to-day. That able reasoner never claimed that the earth has existed from all eternity, or that it will go on existing for ever. He admitted that it must have had a beginning, but he had been unable to find any vestige of that beginning in the structure of the planet itself. And notwithstanding all the multiplied researches of the century that has passed since the immortal _Theory of the Earth_ was published, no relic of the first condition of our earth has been found. We have speculated much, indeed, on the subject, and our friends the physicists have speculated still more. Some of the speculations do not seem to me more philosophical than many of those of the older cosmogonists. As far as reliable evidence can be drawn from the rocks of the globe itself, we do not seem to be nearer the discovery of the beginning than Hutton was. The most ancient rocks that can be reached are demonstrably not the first-formed of all. They were preceded by others which we know must have existed, though no vestige of them may be accessible.

It may be further asserted that, while it was Hutton who first impressed upon modern geology the conviction that for the adequate comprehension of the past history of the earth vast periods of time must be admitted to have elapsed, our debt of obligation to him is increased by the genius with which he linked the passage of these vast periods with the present economy of nature. He first realised the influence of time as a factor in geological dynamics, and first taught the efficacy of the quiet and unobtrusive forces of nature. His predecessors and contemporaries were never tired of invoking the more vigorous manifestations of terrestrial energy. They saw in the composition of the land and in the structure of mountains and valleys memorials of numberless convulsions and cataclysms. In Hutton's philosophy, however, 'it is the little causes, long continued, which are considered as bringing about the greatest changes of the earth.'[76]

And yet, unlike many of those who derived their inspiration from his teaching, but pushed his tenets to extremes which he doubtless never anticipated, he did not look upon time as a kind of scientific fetich, the invocation of which would endow with efficacy even the most trifling phenomena. As if he had foreseen the use that might be made of his doctrine, he uttered this remarkable warning: 'With regard to the effect of time, though the continuance of time may do much in those operations which are extremely slow, where no change, to our observation, had appeared to take place, yet, where it is not in the nature of things to produce the change in question, the unlimited course of time would be no more effectual than the moment by which we measure events in our observations.'[77]