Читать книгу Walks and Talks in the Geological Field - Alexander Winchell - Страница 7

Come, John and Jennie—come, George and Julia—let us have a talk about Geology. Come, John’s mother and aunt—come every body that wishes—we shall find some of the most delightful things to talk about which any body ever heard of. Now “Geology” may sound like a hard word; and perhaps you have no curiosity to know any thing about it. But do not decide too soon, for if you know nothing about Geology, you can’t know what interest there is in it. Take my word for to-day—you will find the subject easy and delightful.

We shall travel all over the world. We shall climb over mountain-cliffs and descend into deep mines. We shall go down under the sea, and make the acquaintance of creatures that dwell in the dark and slimy abysses. We shall split the solid rocks and find where the gold, the silver, and the iron are hidden. We shall open the stony tombs of the world’s mute populations. We shall plunge through thousands of ages into the past, and shall sit on a pinnacle and see this planet bathed in the primitive ocean; boiled in the seething water; roasted in ancient fires; distorted, upheaved, moulded, and reshaped again and again, in a long process of preparation to become fit for us to dwell upon it. We shall see a long procession of strange creatures coming into view and disappearing—such a menagerie of curious beasts and crawling and creeping and flying things as never yet marched through the streets of any town. And what is most wonderful of all, we shall plunge through thousands of ages of coming events, and sit on our pinnacle and see the world grow old—all its human populations vanished—its oceans dried up—its sun darkened, and silence and midnight and Winter reigning through the entire province in which a sisterhood of planets at present basks in the warmth and light of a central and paternal sun.

Do you feel no curiosity over these wonderful themes? These all belong to Geology. Come, let us begin.

But we must begin at the beginning. Those who go on long and pleasant journeys have to start from their own door-steps. Geology tells all about this world. The world is here—under our feet. It is in the garden and along the road-side, and in the field, and on the shore where the summer ripples sing lullabies to the sleepy crags, and winter storms tear them from their resting-places. No summer ripples or wintry storms are here; but the solid land is here. Let us walk up this hill-slope and sit where we may get an outlook over a little piece of the world’s surface.

What is there, now, within reach of our vision that we can distinguish and describe and say that it belongs to the world—is a part of the world? Whatever it may be, it is a geological fact. It is a part of the science of geology. Now, here is this hill-slope, and the soil and stones which make it. Back of us the hill rises to a higher level. Perhaps brown cliffs frown near its summit; and there are huge, heavy trees upborne five hundred feet above the town. But, in the opposite direction, there is the landscape. That is a geological fact. With all its scenic beauty, that is geology, at foundation. The houses and the herds, the wheat-fields and the gardens—these are accessories. But the dark, beetle-browed ridge which skirts the horizon—that is nature’s. The green forest which glides down to the field borders; the stream which winds across the landscape, and rises and falls with the rains; the low swells and the valleys between; the outcropping ledge in the field, and the loose stone by the road-side—these belong to nature. There, in the distance, flies the train of steam-cars, its iron-bound way has been cut through hill and rock-mass, and opens to our view something of the hidden material which goes to form the world. There is the meadow, with its green turf and deep, dark soil. The gully scored in the hill-side by the summer storm, and the train of stones and sand at its foot—which the water tore from their hiding-places beneath the soil. Up the stream we see the tamarack swamp or the open marsh, through which the head-waters flow—the head-waters of the main stream or of some small tributary. There, just beyond, is the little lake or pond, sleeping in its green-fringed nest, and looking out on the grass-covered slopes and the blue sky.

How charming is all this scenery! How many times, imbued with the love of nature, we have strolled on the borders of this quiet lakelet, or lounged on the green slope, which seemed set, like an amphitheater, to accommodate the visitor, who loves to look upon the scene. Perhaps, as urchins straying from school, or getting the most out of a Saturday holiday, we have angled along this brook, or paddled our skiff over this pond. Perhaps in wonderment we have seen the artist from the city, with easel and brush reproducing on canvas the beauty of this simple landscape, thinking to win a prize in the Academy of Art, or at least to afford the pent-up dwellers in the dusty town the luxury of knowing how lavishly the beauties of nature are strewn before the gaze of those who dwell here in this agricultural vale—in this quiet hamlet which Providence has made our home.

This is all geology. We are in the midst of it. We have been enchanted by it before we knew its name. We have admired the forms fashioned in beauty by the hands of the geological forces before we knew that it had a geological origin, or possessed any geological significance, or had passed through long ages of preparation. We have been like children born in the parental dwelling, reared in the midst of its comforts and adornments, without once thinking that, before we were born, some mind planned the dwelling, some hands reared its walls, laid its floors, and fashioned every doorway and casing. Now, this terrestrial dwelling, with all its beauties and conveniences, its wonders and sublimities, is something to set us thinking; just as we reflected, when the thought first came into our minds, that father’s house has had a history, and was the product of study and labor, which we had never before considered. The green slope was made; the pretty lake was scooped out; the swelling hill was shaped; the dark mountain was upbuilt, its foundations were laid, its vast weight has been sustained and is to-day sustained by some support, with strength proportioned to the requirement. It is time for us to come to a realization of these facts.

We may begin in this very spot to inquire how this terrestrial home was fashioned. It was made without hands, but not without the use of the same forces of nature and properties of matter as were employed in the building of our paternal dwelling. Its plan was not drafted on paper and carried out under the direction of a builder, who issued his orders in audible tones; but our terrestrial abode is built under a plan just as real and just as intelligible, and is just as truly a fit subject for study. There is this difference, that we may arrive at a complete understanding of the plan, and purposes, and modes of construction of the paternal home; but of the terrestrial home we can only arrive at an incomplete understanding. As far as we proceed, the methods of understanding and interpreting are the same; but the whole plan, in its depth, and breadth, and complications surpasses our powers, and we must, like young children, content ourselves with a comprehension of some of the most obvious things—sure that if our powers were loftier, we might proceed in the same way to understand more difficult things in the plans and methods of world-making.

If we decide to interest ourselves in the inquiry, How the world was made and what it has become, we must first give attention to the materials of which it is composed. It is a stone dwelling; it is imperishable—at least as imperishable as granite foundations and massive courses of masonry can render a structure. Here are, indeed, beds of gravel and sand, overspreading the greater part of the country. These are not firmly consolidated, and are easily moved out of place. But they are like the gravel used on the roofs of some buildings—a very insignificant part of the whole. Underneath these loose materials we shall find the solid and enduring foundations. But the study of the loose surface materials is full of interest, because their presence renders the earth habitable. What sort of a home for man or beast would this planet be, if all the loose surface beds were cleared off down to the rocky floor on which they rest? Did you ever hear that question asked before? We must, by all means, begin with the stones, and sands, and clays, which lie upon the surface, or near the surface, and try to ascertain what they are and how they are arranged, and of what use they are to man. Do you think we had better proceed?