Lyell's Pillars of Wisdom

Natural History, April, 1999 by Stephen Jay Gould

A successful campaign for substantial intellectual reform also requires a new and positive symbol or icon, not just a set of arguments (as presented so far) to refute previous interpretations. Vesuvius in flames, the icon of Pliny and Kircher, must be given a counterweight--some Neapolitan image, also a consequence of Vesuvian volcanism, to illustrate the efficacy of modern causes and the extensive results produced by accumulating a series of small and gradual changes through substantial time. Lyell therefore chose the Roman pillars of Pozzuoli--an image that he used as the frontispiece for all editions of the Principles of Geology (and also as an embossed golden figure on the front cover of later editions). As the introductory image in the most famous geological book ever written, the pillars of Pozzuoli became icon numero uno for the earth sciences. I cannot remember ever encountering a modern textbook that does not discuss Lyell's interpretation of these three columns, invariably accompanied by a reproduction of Lyell's original figure or by an author's snapshot from his own pilgrimage. Next month, in the closing installment of this essay, I shall analyze Lyell's account of the Pozzuoli pillars as an example of both the virtues and the dangers of trying to encompass all nature within the architecture of one brilliant conceptual scheme.

NOTE: In one of those odd coincidences that make essay writing, and intellectual life in general, such a joy, I happened to be reading, just two days after completing this essay, a volume of Francis Bacon's complete works. I knew the old story about his death in 1626. Bacon, who loved to perform and report simple experiments of almost random import (his last and posthumous work, Sylva Sylvarum [The Forest of Forests], lists exactly one thousand such observations and anecdotes), wanted to learn if snow could retard putrefaction. He therefore stopped his carriage on a cold winter day, bought a hen from a poultryman, and stuffed it with snow. He was then overtaken with a sudden chill that led to bronchitis. Bacon was too ill to reach London, so he sought refuge instead at the home of a friend, the Earl of Arundel, where he died a few days later.

But I had never read Bacon's last and poignant letter (written to his host), with its touching reference to Pliny the Elder's similar demise in his boots. I was struck, in the context of this essay, by another resemblance between the two deaths--their common occurrence at one end of the spectrum of fire and ice:

   My very good Lord,

      I was likely to have had the fortune of Caius Plinius the elder, who
   lost his life by trying an experiment about the burning of the mountain
   Vesuvius: for I was also desirous to try an experiment or two, touching on
   the conversion and induration of bodies. As for the experiment itself, it
   succeeded excellently well; but in the journey (between London and
   Highgate) I was taken up with such a fit of casting [an old term for
   vomiting, from casting in the sense of throwing out or up, as in dice or a
   fishing line] as I know not whether it were the stone, or some surfeit
   [that is, kidney or gallstones, or overeating], or cold, or indeed a touch
   of them all three. But when I came to your lordship's house, I was not able
   to go back, and therefore was forced to take up my lodging here.... I kiss
   your noble hands for the welcome .... I know how unfit it is for me to
   write to your lordship with My other hand than my own, but by my troth my
   fingers are so disjointed with this fit of sickness, that I cannot steadily
   hold a pen.