Reading the Rocks

by Brenda Maddox

  READING THE ROCKS

  For Laura

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Beyond Babel: New Directions in Communications

  The Half-Parent: Living with Other People’s Children

  Who’s Afraid of Elizabeth Taylor?

  Married and Gay: An Intimate Look at a Different Relationship

  Maggie: The First Lady

  The Pope and Contraception: The Diabolic Doctrine

  D.H. Lawrence: The Story of a Marriage

  Yeats’s Ghosts: The Secret Life of W.B. Yeats

  Nora: The Real Life of Molly Bloom

  Rosalind Franklin: The Dark Lady of DNA

  Freud’s Wizard: The Enigma of Ernest Jones

  George Eliot in Love

  READING THE ROCKS

  How Victorian Geologists Discovered the Secret of Life

  Brenda Maddox

  CONTENTS

  Foreword

  1THE ABYSS OF TIME

  2HEALTHFUL EXERTION

  3DOWN THE MINES

  4VESTIGES OF PATERNITY

  5FIGHTING FELLOWS

  6DATING THE DELUGE

  7ON THE BEACH

  8DINOSAUR WARS

  9CELIBACY GALORE

  10FROM SILURIA TO THE MOON

  11ALPS ON ALPS ARISE

  12DARWIN THE GEOLOGIST

  13THE ICEMAN COMETH

  14FOOTPRINTS IN PENNSYLVANIA

  15AT LAST, THE BIG QUESTION

  16ORIGIN OF ORIGIN

  17THE WHOLE ORANG

  18MUSEUM PIECES

  19THEN AND NOW

  Notes

  Select Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  Index

  A Note on the Author

  Images

  FOREWORD

  Why write about Victorian geologists? For me, the simple answer was ‘George Eliot’. Having accepted an invitation to write a biography of the Victorian novelist,1 I was intrigued to learn that Mary Ann Evans (her real name) had been an ardent geologist. She was introduced to the young science by her life partner, George Henry Lewes. Their enthusiasm for hammering the rocks on holidays at Tenby and the Isle of Wight brought alive to me the excitement of the mid-nineteenth century, when geology was new, as in many ways was investigative science itself. The scientific journal Nature began in 1869. Only slightly older was the Economist, the weekly public-affairs magazine founded in 1843, whose early contributors included the geologist and philosopher Herbert Spencer, who escorted Mary Ann Evans to theatres and concerts but would not marry her because he thought her ugly.

  Drawn by Eliot and Lewes, I was fascinated by the period when many people – clergymen not least – pursued the new science of geology not only because they loved it but because it opened a window on the earth’s ancient past. They showed great courage in facing the conflict between geology and Genesis that immediately presented itself. The rocks and fossils being dug up showed that the earth was immeasurably old, not the creation of six days as the Bible claimed. Moreover, the fossil evidence revealed upward progress in the changing forms of life. It was Charles Darwin’s early career as a geologist that led him to recognise the direction of evolution. Observing the enormous variety of living things and their constant struggle for existence, Darwin drew the magisterial conclusion: ‘whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved’.2 Darwin traced a clear path from fossils to man. His book published in 1859, On the Origin of Species, would prove to be the most influential document of the nineteenth century.

  Researching the history of geology, I could see a line extending straight from 1807, when the Geological Society of London was formed, to 1830 and the publication of the popular classic Principles of Geology by Charles Lyell, to 1859 when Darwin’s Origin appeared. (Darwin was a member of the Geological Society from 1836.) Luckily for a biographer, I found these early geologists to be superb letter-writers. Professor Martin Rudwick, the Cambridge geological historian, has observed that the speed and reliability of the early-nineteenth-century post gave ‘scientific correspondence an immediacy and vitality that it had never had in earlier generations and, arguably, that it has never had since’.3 He has pointed out that these scientists hoarded their letters as a medium of scientific exchange. This book is the richer for their hoarding.

  I was also moved to write this book because geology changed my life. At least ‘Geology 1’ at Harvard did. Decades ago when I was an undergraduate there (in the women’s college, then called Radcliffe) I found that Harvard in its wisdom would not allow anyone to work in just one of the major disciplines – humanities, social sciences, physical science – without taking at least one course in the other two. My field of concentration was English literature and, like many others, football players not least, I took what seemed the easy way out of the science requirement: geology. Not for nothing was ‘Geology 1’ known as ‘Rocks for Jocks’. To my surprise, I enjoyed it, particularly the field trips to see the Spouting Rock at Marblehead and the tracks of 200-million-year-old three-toed dinosaurs in the Connecticut River Valley (this valley, believed to have been a subtropical swamp, is recognised as one of the world’s richest grounds for discovering tracks of Late Triassic dinosaurs).

  When after graduation I became a journalist on the well-regarded daily newspaper the Quincy Patriot Ledger, I found that Geology 1 had made me a science writer. No one else would touch the subject, while I found it easy. The estimable Ledger, science-conscious in the age of Sputnik, enlisted scientists from Harvard and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology to come to Quincy and give the staff lectures on the origin of life and the future of space research. I wrote these up for the paper which, out of its conviction that its readers deserved to be informed that science was news, made space on the front page.

  Geology also found me a husband. In 1958 I took the summer off from the Ledger and went to Europe. In Paris I stayed with a young woman whose brother worked at the Commissariat à l’Energie Atomique and who was going to a conference in Geneva. When I mentioned the atomic energy conference in a letter to the Ledger, the managing editor John Herbert wrote back and said: ‘Why not cover it for us? Quincy makes ships [the Bethlehem Steel Shipyard at Fore River was then the headquarters of the Bethlehem Shipbuilding Corporation]. We should know about atom-powered ships.’

  Off I went to Geneva armed with a press card – entry credentials that sat me alongside distinguished journalists such as John Finney of the New York Times and Mary Goldring of the Economist, and allowed me to sit in at sessions at the Palais des Nations. I wrote daily articles for the Ledger – transmitted by telex – which I typed myself, explaining science’s hopes for nuclear fusion: that some day, energy might be produced by fusing atoms (fusion) instead of splitting them apart (fission). The Ledger ran these stories under my byline ‘Brenda Murphy, Patriot Ledger Staff Reporter’, with headlines such as ‘Fusion Goal Still Far Off’, ‘Russia Claims World’s Largest A-Power Plant Put into Action’, ‘Nuclear Ships Worth Cost Today Only in Rare Cases’, and (one of my lighter pieces) ‘Scientists Are Avid Doodlers’.

  At one morning’s press conference, I felt someone looking at me across the crowded room. He was, I knew from the sharp questions he threw, John Maddox, science correspondent of the Manchester Guardian.

  Two years and two months later we were married and living in London. He went on to become editor of the science journal Nature, while I worked briefly at Reuters, then for many years at the Economist, which, true to its non-specialist tradition, assigned me to write about such disparate subjects as telecommunications, local government, family law and Ireland. My trips to Ireland, north and south, re
ignited my college interest in James Joyce. In time I decided to perform a journalistic investigation of the facts I knew must be available and to write the biography of Joyce’s unexamined wife, Nora Barnacle.

  From then on I followed the biographer’s trail, mainly in pursuit of literary figures. In time, after a scientific detour for Rosalind Franklin: The Dark Lady of DNA, it led me to George Eliot and her fascination with rocks. What follows is the story of those whose discoveries led them to a bigger truth than they had been looking for.

  1

  THE ABYSS OF TIME

  An era marked by the youth of Britain’s queen was the first to grasp the vast age of the earth. By 1837, when the eighteen-year-old Victoria ascended the throne, the new science of geology had shown the planet’s hidden past extending back beyond human imagination, certainly beyond human existence.

  In 1830 in his bestseller, Principles of Geology, Charles Lyell, a young Scottish barrister turned geologist, brought to a popular audience the information – indeed, the news – that the earth was ancient. The history of nature, Lyell said, showed evidence of ‘elevation of the land above the sea’ and ‘seas and lakes filled up’. There were signs too that some of ‘the lands whereon the forests grew have disappeared or changed their form’. He remarked on traces of plants belonging ‘to species which for ages have passed away from the surface of our planet’.1 In older rocks the causes of destruction had been obscured ‘by the immense lapse of ages during which they have acted’. He was also one of the first to proclaim that rock strata were like an ancient manuscript that could be read as history.

  Lyell’s great book achieved its enormous influence because of the new reading public that had been created by the arrival of steam-powered printing, the electric telegraph and railways, as well as by the rise in popular literacy. The expanding rail network, with trains travelling at the magical speed of a mile a minute, carried newspapers, journals and magazines the length of the land to an eager audience waiting to snap them up.2 Reader demand led to a wide network of circulating libraries, such as Mudie’s, offering new books on loan for a yearly subscription fee, and also to railway booksellers such as W. H. Smith whose first bookstall opened at Euston Station in 1848.

  While serialised novels by famous authors such as Charles Dickens and George Eliot were most sought after, books on science were also much in demand.3 Lyell’s three-volume Principles started the trend for science books aimed at the ordinary public. The book was so successful that its publisher, John Murray, repeatedly reissued it until the twelfth edition in 1875, the year of the author’s death.

  When Principles of Geology first appeared, the weekly Spectator, at that time known for its liberal stance, welcomed Lyell’s judgement of the morally improving effect of geology. ‘There are other investigations which more nearly affect our social happiness than the philosophy of geology,’ it stated, ‘but perhaps there is none which in an indirect manner produce a more wholesome and beneficial effect upon the mind . . . After the perusal of Mr. Lyell’s volume, we confess to emotions of humility, to aspirations of the mind, to an elevation of thought, altogether foreign from the ordinary temper of worldly and busy men . . .’ There are ‘sermons in stones and tongues in brooks,’ concluded the Spectator, ‘but they want an interpreter: that interpreter is the enlightened geologist. Such a man is Mr. Lyell.’4

  The British public were already in love with science. The first balloon crossing of the English Channel had been made in 1785, portable ‘chemical chests’ were on sale in Piccadilly, and for an expenditure of between six and twenty guineas affluent amateurs could buy the glassware and chemical ingredients for experiments at home, such as an air pump, electrical apparatus and a small heating unit. Open lectures on science regularly drew large crowds to London’s Royal Institution on Albemarle Street. Founded in 1799, the RI, as it was (and is still) known, was dedicated to ‘the application of science to the common purposes of life’. The institution’s Friday night discourses drew such an audience that Albemarle Street was made London’s first one-way street due to the crowds arriving in carriages.

  The RI’s most popular speaker was the boyishly handsome Cornish chemist Humphry Davy. In 1797 Davy had suddenly became fascinated by chemistry because, according to the cultural historian Richard Holmes, the subject was becoming ‘the Romantic science par excellence. The last of the old alchemy was being replaced by true experiments, accurate measuring and weighing, and a new understanding of the fundamental processes of combustion, respiration and chemical bonding.’5 Davy had recently arrived in London from the Pneumatic Institution in Bristol, where he had discovered the anaesthetic possibilities of nitrous oxide. He went on to study what he called ‘galvanism’ – electricity produced by chemical action.

  In his inaugural lecture at the RI on 25 April 1801, Davy thrilled his audience with spectacular bursts of sparks and explosions (starting the institution’s tradition of vivid displays that continues today). He offered a vision of what new scientific discoveries would mean to mankind, telling his enthralled audience: ‘The composition of the atmosphere, and the properties of gases, have been ascertained; the phenomena of electricity have been developed; the lightnings have been taken from the clouds; and lastly, a new influence [nitrous oxide] has been discovered, which has enabled man to produce from combinations of dead matter effects which were formerly occasioned only by animal organs.’6

  Moving on to the subject of geology, he gave ten lectures at the RI in 1805–06 on the subject, treating his audience (which included a large number of women even though, as was the custom of the time, they were not allowed to be members of the institution) to an explanation of the difference between the theories of ‘Plutonism’, as advocated by the Scot, James Hutton – who believed the extreme heat at the centre of the earth had pushed up and created the continents – and the ‘Neptunism’ of the German Abraham Werner – who argued that a primordial ocean had once blanketed the earth, and that ‘the mountains, deserts, and farm lands had precipitated out of the receding water of the ocean . . . and the land on which humans lived was revealed.’7

  In November 1806, with the naturalist Joseph Banks in the chair, Davy gave a lecture on the nature of electricity that created an international sensation. He did not strive for understatement. ‘Till this discovery, our means were limited; the field of pneumatic research had been exhausted, and little remained for the experimentalist except minute and laborious processes,’ he declared. ‘There is now before us a boundless prospect of novelty in science; a country unexplored, but noble and fertile in aspect; a land of promise in philosophy.’8

  Many drew inspiration from Davy’s lectures, including Michael Faraday, a future star of the institution, who was employed as Davy’s assistant. Faraday’s research into the magnetism created by an electric current led to the invention of a dynamo that generated electricity, and was the foundation for electric motor technology. A new world opened. Faraday’s Christmas lectures would become widely popular and start another RI tradition still alive today.

  By 1815 Davy was best known for his invention of a lamp for miners that removed much of the great danger from the essential and dirty business of mining. Working in darkness at depths as great as 600 feet, men had to carry oil lamps or candles, risking the constant possibility of setting off an explosion in the surrounding flammable gases. The Davy Lamp, as it was known, was a formidable contribution to a vital, growing (yet still dangerous) industry. Davy became ‘Sir Humphry’, receiving his honour in 1812 as the first scientist to be knighted since Isaac Newton in 1705.

  In Consolations in Travel, published posthumously in 1830, Davy ventured to examine some of the wider questions of science, faith and geology. Charles Lyell read the book and quoted from it in Principles. Though he was unsure of Davy’s argument on the progressive development of organic life, the work helped convince him that man was of comparatively recent origin.

  Lyell’s own interest in geology had first been aroused by reading in h
is father’s library Robert Bakewell’s seminal work, published in 1813: An Introduction to Geology (Illustrative of the General Structure of the Earth, Comprising the Elements of the Science, and an Outline of the Geology and Mineral Geography of England ). However, it was during his time at Oxford, between 1816 and 1819, that Lyell learned the ‘enlightened geology’ that he would pour into his Principles.

  Although reading classics at Exeter College, Lyell attended the lectures of the most famous clerical geologist of his time: the flamboyant Reverend William Buckland. Considering the challenge that geology threw down at religion, it may seem surprising in retrospect that so many early geologists were clergymen. Yet geology had been introduced at Oxford expressly in order to prepare the many students about to enter the Church to defend religion against science.

  In his entertaining lectures, which were extracurricular (that is, not required for a degree), Buckland passed on to his student Lyell his passion for geology and fossils. (Fossils, from the Latin fossilus, had been defined since 1569 as the remains of animals or plants dug up from the earth.) It was Buckland who introduced Lyell to the debate on Plutonism and Neptunism, the two alternative theories for how the earth’s rocks were formed.9

  After Oxford, Lyell went to London to train as a barrister, becoming a member, as every barrister had to do, of one of the Inns of Court. He entered Lincoln’s Inn in 1819 and was called to the bar, required to attend the courts as they moved from town to town in England.10 But problems with his sight prevented him from continuing. His father wrote to a friend that Charles was nursing ‘eyes which threaten to be permanently so weak & painful that the possibility of intense application & consequently of pursuing the law with effect becomes very doubtful . . . a temporary cessation from hard reading is indispensable . . .’11 Love of geology would have pulled Lyell away in any case. In 1831 he complained to Gideon Mantell, a young geologist whom he had met ten years before on a field trip in Sussex, that he was ‘buried in the study of law [and] I am too fond of geology to do both’.12