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Buckland was a bit of a charming oddity. He had some real achievements, but he is remembered at least as much for his eccentricities. He was particularly noted for a menagerie of wild animals, some large and dangerous, that were allowed to roam through his house and garden, and for his desire to eat his way through every animal in creation. Depending on whim and availability, guests to Buckland’s house might be served baked guinea pig, mice in batter, roasted hedgehog, or boiled Southeast Asian sea slug. Buckland was able to find merit in them all, except the common garden mole, which he declared disgusting. Almost inevitably, he became the leading authority on coprolites-fossilized feces-and had a table made entirely out of his collection of specimens.
Even when conducting serious science his ma
Lyell was extremely shortsighted and went through most of his life with a pained squint, which gave him a troubled air. (Eventually he would lose his sight altogether.) His other slight peculiarity was the habit, when distracted by thought, of taking up improbable positions on furniture-lying across two chairs at once or “resting his head on the seat of a chair, while standing up” (to quote his friend Darwin). Often when lost in thought he would slink so low in a chair that his buttocks would all but touch the floor. Lyell’s only real job in life was as professor of geology at King’s College in London from 1831 to 1833. It was around this time that he produced The Principles of Geology, published in three volumes between 1830 and 1833, which in many ways consolidated and elaborated upon the thoughts first voiced by Hutton a generation earlier. (Although Lyell never read Hutton in the original, he was a keen student of Playfair’s reworked version.)
Between Hutton’s day and Lyell’s there arose a new geological controversy, which largely superseded, but is often confused with, the old Neptunian-Plutonian dispute. The new battle became an argument between catastrophism and uniformitarianism-unattractive terms for an important and very long-ru
Lyell believed that the Earth’s shifts were uniform and steady-that everything that had ever happened in the past could be explained by events still going on today. Lyell and his adherents didn’t just disdain catastrophism, they detested it. Catastrophists believed that extinctions were part of a series in which animals were repeatedly wiped out and replaced with new sets-a belief that the naturalist T. H. Huxley mockingly likened to “a succession of rubbers of whist, at the end of which the players upset the table and called for a new pack.” It was too convenient a way to explain the unknown. “Never was there a dogma more calculated to foster indolence, and to blunt the keen edge of curiosity,” sniffed Lyell.
Lyell’s oversights were not inconsiderable. He failed to explain convincingly how mountain ranges were formed and overlooked glaciers as an agent of change. He refused to accept Louis Agassiz’s idea of ice ages-“the refrigeration of the globe,” as he dismissively termed it-and was confident that mammals “would be found in the oldest fossiliferous beds.” He rejected the notion that animals and plants suffered sudden a
Yet it would be nearly impossible to overstate Lyell’s influence. The Principles of Geology went through twelve editions in Lyell’s lifetime and contained notions that shaped geological thinking far into the twentieth century. Darwin took a first edition with him on the Beagle voyage and wrote afterward that “the great merit of the Principles was that it altered the whole tone of one’s mind, and therefore that, when seeing a thing never seen by Lyell, one yet saw it partially through his eyes.” In short, he thought him nearly a god, as did many of his generation. It is a testament to the strength of Lyell’s sway that in the 1980s when geologists had to abandon just a part of it to accommodate the impact theory of extinctions, it nearly killed them. But that is another chapter.
Meanwhile, geology had a great deal of sorting out to do, and not all of it went smoothly. From the outset geologists tried to categorize rocks by the periods in which they were laid down, but there were often bitter disagreements about where to put the dividing lines-none more so than a long-ru
Some sense of the strength of feeling can be gained by glancing through the chapter titles of Martin J. S. Rudwick’s excellent and somber account of the issue, The Great Devonian Controversy. These begin i
Because the British were the most active in the early years, British names are predominant in the geological lexicon. Devonian is of course from the English county of Devon. Cambrian comes from the Roman name for Wales, while Ordovician and Silurian recall ancient Welsh tribes, the Ordovices and Silures. But with the rise of geological prospecting elsewhere, names began to creep in from all over. Jurassic refers to the Jura Mountains on the border of France and Switzerland. Permian recalls the former Russian province of Perm in the Ural Mountains. For Cretaceous (from the Latin for “chalk”) we are indebted to a Belgian geologist with the perky name of J. J. d’Omalius d’Halloy.