Lyell's Pillars of Wisdom

Natural History, April, 1999 by Stephen Jay Gould

Three ancient Roman columns near Naples became the benchmarks of a new geology.

Part One:

Damping The Fires Of Vesuvius

The two classical scenarios for a catastrophic end to all things--destruction by heat and flames or by cold and darkness--offer little fodder for extended discussion about preferences, a point embedded, with all the beauty of brevity, in Robert Frost's poem "Fire and Ice," written in 1923:

   Some say the world will end in fire,
   Some say in ice.
   From what I've tasted of desire
   I hold with those who favor fire.
   But if it had to perish twice,
   I think I know enough of hate
   To say that for destruction ice
   Is also great
   And would suffice.

Among the natural phenomena that poets and scholars have regarded as heralds or harbingers of the final consummation, volcanic eruptions hold pride of place. Mount Vesuvius may represent a mere pimple of activity compared with the Indonesian explosions of Tambora in 1815 or Krakatau in 1883, but a prime location on the Bay of Naples, combined with numerous eruptions at interesting times, has promoted this relatively small volcano into a primary symbol of natural terror. Given our traditional dichotomy for unpleasant finalities, I note with some amusement that the two most famous encounters of celebrated scientists with this archetypal volcano--one in each millennium of modern history--have elicited contrasting comparisons of Vesuvian eruptions with the end of time: "lights out" for the first, "up in flames" for the second.

Pliny the Elder (23-79 A.D.) wrote a massive compendium entitled Natural History, divided into thirty-seven libri (books) treating all aspects, both factual and folkloric, of subjects now gathered under the rubric of science. Pliny's encyclopedia exerted enormous influence upon the history of Western thought, particularly during the Renaissance (literally "rebirth"), when rediscovery of classical knowledge became the primary goal of scholarship. Several editions of Pliny's great work appeared during the first few decades of printing, following the publication of Gutenberg's Bible in 1455.

In August of 79 A.D., while serving as commander of the Roman fleet in the Bay of Naples, Pliny noted a great cloud arising from Mount Vesuvius. Following the unbeatable combination of a scientist's curiosity and a commander's duty, Pliny sailed toward the volcano, both to observe more closely and to render aid. He went ashore at a friend's villa, made a fateful decision to abandon the shaking houses for the open fields, and died by asphyxiation in the same eruption that buried the cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum.

Pliny the Younger (61-113 A.D.), his nephew and adopted son, remained at their villa a few miles west of the volcano to continue (as he stated) his studies of Livy's historical texts. After the dust had settled (sorry, but I couldn't resist this opportunity to use a cliche literally), he wrote two famous letters to the historian Tacitus, describing what he had heard of his uncle's fate and what he had experienced as his own. Pliny the Younger recounted all the horrors of shaking houses, falling rocks, and noxious fumes, but he emphasized the intense darkness produced by the spreading volcanic cloud, a pall that he could compare with only one scenario for the end of time (see endnote, page 88):

   A darkness overspread us, not like that of a cloudy night, or when there is
   no moon, but of a room when it is shut up and all the lights are
   extinguished. Nothing then was to be heard but the shrieks of women, the
   screams of children, and the cries of men ... some wishing to die from the
   very  fear of dying, some lifting up their hands to the gods; but the
   greater part imagining that the last and eternal night had come, which was
   to destroy both the gods and the world together.

Athanasius Kircher (1601-1680), a German Jesuit who lived in Rome, where he served as an unofficial "chief scientist" for the Vatican, cannot be regarded as a household name today (although he served as a primary character and inspiration for Umberto Eco's latest novel, The Island of the Day Before). Nonetheless, Kircher ranked among the most formidable intellects of the seventeenth century. He wrote, for example, the most famous works of his time on magnetism, music, Chinese culture (the Jesuit order had already established a major presence in China), and the interpretation of Egyptian hieroglyphics (his system ultimately failed, but did offer important clues and inspiration for later scholars). Kircher tumbled into intellectual limbo largely because his Neoplatonic worldview fell victim to the alternative concept of causality that we call modern science--a reform that Galileo (whom Kircher had more or less replaced as a leading scientist, in the eyes of the Vatican) had espoused in the generation just before and that Newton would carry to triumph in the generation to follow.

In 1664 Kircher published his masterpiece, an immense and amazing work entitled Mundus subterraneus (The Underground World) and covering all aspects of anything that dwelled or occurred within the earth's interior--from lizards in caves, to fossils in rocks, to mountain springs, earthquakes, and volcanoes. Kircher had been inspired to write this work in 1637-38 when he witnessed the major eruptions of Etna and Stromboli. In 1631, after centuries of quiescence, Mount Vesuvius had also erupted, and Kircher eagerly awaited the opportunity to visit this most famous volcano on his return voyage to Rome.