Town Geology. Charles Kingsley
and their analogy with those of the spiritual world, the kingdom of God—a subject of contemplation, I say, which it was not safe to contemplate too much?
I appeal to your common sense. If He who spoke these words were (as I believe) none other than the Creator of the universe, by whom all things were made, and without whom nothing was made that is made, do you suppose that He would have bid you to consider His universe, had it been dangerous for you to do so?
Do you suppose, moreover, that the universe, which He, the Truth, the Light, the Love, has made, can be otherwise then infinitely worthy to be considered? or that the careful, accurate, and patient consideration of it, even to its minutest details, can be otherwise than useful to man, and can bear witness of aught, save the mind and character of Him who made it? And if so, can it be a work unfit for, unworthy of, a clergyman—whose duty is to preach Him to all, and in all ways,—to call on men to consider that physical world which, like the spiritual world, consists, holds together, by Him, and lives and moves and has its being in Him?
And here I must pause to answer an objection which I have heard in my youth from many pious and virtuous people—better people in God’s sight, than I, I fear, can pretend to be.
They used to say, “This would be all very true if there were not a curse upon the earth.” And then they seemed to deduce, from the fact of that curse, a vague notion (for it was little more) that this world was the devil’s world, and that therefore physical facts could not be trusted, because they were disordered, and deceptive, and what not.
Now, in justice to the Bible, and in justice to the Church of England, I am bound to say that such a statement, or anything like it, is contrary to the doctrines of both. It is contrary to Scripture. According to it, the earth is not cursed. For it is said in Gen. viii. 21, “And the Lord said, I will not again curse the ground any more for man’s sake. While the earth remaineth, seed-time and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night shall not cease.” According to Scripture, again, physical facts are not disordered. The Psalmist says, “They continue this day according to their ordinance; for all things serve Thee.” And again, “Thou hast made them fast for ever and ever. Thou hast given them a law which cannot be broken.”
So does the Bible (not to quote over again the passages which I have already given you from St. Paul, and One greater than St. Paul) declare the permanence of natural laws, and the trustworthiness of natural phenomena as obedient to God. And so does the Church of England. For she has incorporated into her services that magnificent hymn, which our forefathers called the Song of the Three Children; which is, as it were, the very flower and crown of the Old Testament; the summing up of all that is true and eternal in the old Jewish faith; as true for us as for them: as true millions of years hence as it is now—which cries to all heaven and earth, from the skies above our heads to the green herb beneath our feet, “O all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.” On that one hymn I take my stand. That is my charter as a student of Natural Science. As long as that is sung in an English church, I have a right to investigate Nature boldly without stint or stay, and to call on all who have the will, to investigate her boldly likewise, and with Socrates of old, to follow the Logos whithersoever it leads.
The Logos. I must pause on that word. It meant at first, no doubt, simply speech, argument, reason. In the mind of Socrates it had a deeper meaning, at which he only dimly guessed; which was seen more clearly by Philo and the Alexandrian Jews; which was revealed in all its fulness to the beloved Apostle St. John, till he gathered speech to tell men of a Logos, a Word, who was in the beginning with God, and was God; by whom all things were made, and without Him was not anything made that was made; and how in Him was Life, and the Life was the light of men; and that He was none other than Jesus Christ our Lord.
Yes, that is the truth. And to that truth no man can add, and from it no man can take away. And as long as we believe that as long as we believe that in His light alone can we see light—as long as we believe that the light around us, whether physical or spiritual, is given by Him without whom nothing is made—so long we shall not fear to meet Light, so long we shall not fear to investigate Life; for we shall know, however strange or novel, beautiful or awful, the discoveries we make may be, we are only following the Word whithersoever He may lead us; and that He can never lead us amiss
I. THE SOIL OF THE FIELD 2
My dear readers, let me, before touching on the special subject of this paper, say a few words on that of the whole series.
It is geology: that is, the science which explains to us the rind of the earth; of what it is made; how it has been made. It tells us nothing of the mass of the earth. That is, properly speaking, an astronomical question. If I may be allowed to liken this earth to a fruit, then astronomy will tell us—when it knows—how the fruit grew, and what is inside the fruit. Geology can only tell us at most how its rind, its outer covering, grew, and of what it is composed; a very small part, doubtless, of all that is to be known about this planet.
But as it happens, the mere rind of this earth-fruit which has, countless ages since, dropped, as it were, from the Bosom of God, the Eternal Fount of Life—the mere rind of this earth-fruit, I say, is so beautiful and so complex, that it is well worth our awful and reverent study. It has been well said, indeed, that the history of it, which we call geology, would be a magnificent epic poem, were there only any human interest in it; did it deal with creatures more like ourselves than stones, and bones, and the dead relics of plants and beasts. Whether there be no human interest in geology; whether man did not exist on the earth during ages which have seen enormous geological changes, is becoming more and more an open question.
But meanwhile all must agree that there is matter enough for interest—nay, room enough for the free use of the imagination, in a science which tells of the growth and decay of whole mountain-ranges, continents, oceans, whole tribes and worlds of plants and animals.
And yet it is not so much for the vastness and grandeur of those scenes of the distant past, to which the science of geology introduces us, that I value it as a study, and wish earnestly to awaken you to its beauty and importance. It is because it is the science from which you will learn most easily a sound scientific habit of thought. I say most easily; and for these reasons. The most important facts of geology do not require, to discover them, any knowledge of mathematics or of chemical analysis; they may be studied in every bank, every grot, every quarry, every railway-cutting, by anyone who has eyes and common sense, and who chooses to copy the late illustrious Hugh Miller, who made himself a great geologist out of a poor stonemason. Next, its most important theories are not, or need not be, wrapped up in obscure Latin and Greek terms. They may be expressed in the simplest English, because they are discovered by simple common sense. And thus geology is (or ought to be), in popular parlance, the people’s science—the science by studying which, the man ignorant of Latin, Greek, mathematics, scientific chemistry, can yet become—as far as his brain enables him—a truly scientific man.
But how shall we learn science by mere common sense?
First. Always try to explain the unknown by the known. If you meet something which you have not seen before, then think of the thing most like it which you have seen before; and try if that which you know explains the one will not explain the other also. Sometimes it will; sometimes it will not. But if it will, no one has a right to ask you to try any other explanation.
Suppose, for instance, that you found a dead bird on the top of a cathedral tower, and were asked how you thought it had got there. You would say, “Of course, it died up here.” But if a friend said, “Not so; it dropped from a balloon, or from the clouds;” and told you the prettiest tale of how the bird came to so strange an end, you would answer, “No, no; I must reason from what I know. I know that birds haunt the cathedral tower; I know that birds die; and therefore, let your story be as pretty as it may, my common sense bids me take the simplest explanation, and say—it died here.” In saying that, you would be talking scientifically. You would have made a fair and sufficient induction (as it is called) from the facts about birds’ habits and birds’ deaths which you know.
But
These Lectures were delivered to the members of the Natural Science Class at Chester in 1871.