We have lately had fearful evidence of the energy of the earth’s internal forces. A vibration which, when considered with reference to the dimensions of the earth’s globe, may be spoken of as an indefinitely minute quivering limited to an insignificant area, has sufficed to destroy the cities and villages of whole provinces, to cause the death of thousands of human beings, and to effect a destruction of property which must be estimated by millions of pounds sterling. Such a catastrophe as this serves indeed to show how poor and weak a creature man is in presence of the grand workings of Nature. The mere throes which accompany her unseen subterranean efforts suffice to crumble man’s strongest buildings in a moment into dust, while the unfortunate inhabitants are either crushed to death among the ruins, or forced to remain shuddering spectators of the destruction of their homes.

At first sight it may seem paradoxical to assert that earthquakes, fearfully destructive as they have so often proved, are yet essentially preservative and restorative phenomena; yet this is strictly the case. Had no earthquakes taken place in old times, man would not now be living on the face of the earth; if no earthquakes were to take place in future, the term of man’s existence would be limited within a range of time far less than that to which it seems likely, in all probability, to be extended.

If the solid substance of the earth formed a perfect sphere in ante-geologic times—that is, in ages preceding those to which our present geologic studies extend—there can be no doubt that there was then no visible land above the surface of the water; the ocean must have formed a uniformly deep covering to the submerged surface of the solid globe. In this state of things, nothing but the earth’s subterranean forces could tend to the production of continents and islands. Let me be understood. I am not referring to the possibility or impossibility that lands and seas should suddenly have assumed their present figure without convulsion of any sort; this might have happened, since the Creator of all things can doubtless modify all things according to His will; I merely say that, assuming that in the beginning, as now, He permitted all things to work according to the laws He has appointed, then, undoubtedly, the submerged earth must have risen above the sea by the action of those very forms of force which produce the earthquake in our own times.

However this may be, it is quite certain that when once continents and lands had been formed, there immediately began a struggle between destructive and restorative (rather, perhaps, than preservative) forces.

The great enemy of the land is water, and water works the destruction of the land in two principal ways.

In the first place the sea tends to destroy the land by beating on its shores, and thus continually washing it away. It may seem at first sight that this process must necessarily be a slow one; in fact, many may be disposed to say that it is certainly a slow process, since we see that it does not alter the forms of continents and islands perceptibly in long intervals of time. But, as a matter of fact, we have never had an opportunity of estimating the full effects of this cause, since its action is continually being checked by the restorative forces we shall presently have to consider. Were it not thus checked, there can be little doubt that its effects would be cumulative; for the longer the process continued—that is, the more the land was beaten away—the higher would the sea rise, and the greater power would it have to effect the destruction of the remaining land.

I proceed to give a few instances of the sea’s power of effecting the rapid destruction of the land when nothing happens to interfere with the local action—premising, that this effect is altogether insignificant in comparison with that which would take place, even in that particular spot, if the sea’s action were everywhere left unchecked.

The Shetland Isles are composed of substances which seem, of all others, best fitted to resist the disintegrating forces of the sea—namely, granite, gneiss, mica-slate, serpentine, greenstone, and many other forms of rock: yet, exposed as these islands are to the uncontrolled violence of the Atlantic Ocean, they are undergoing a process of destruction which, even within historical times, has produced very noteworthy changes. ‘Steep cliffs are hollowed out,’ says Sir Charles Lyell, ‘into deep caves and lofty arches; and almost every promontory ends in a cluster of rocks imitating the forms of columns, pinnacles, and obelisks.’ Speaking of one of the islands of this group, Dr. Hibbert says: ‘The isle of Stennes presents a scene of unequalled desolation. In stormy winters, large blocks of stone are overturned, or are removed from their native beds, and hurried to a distance almost incredible. In the winter of 1802, a tabular mass, eight feet two inches by seven feet, and five feet one inch thick, was dislodged from its bed, and carried to a distance of from eighty to ninety feet. In other parts of the Shetland Isles, where the sea has encountered less solid materials, the work of destruction has proceeded yet more effectively. In Roeness, for example, the sea has wrought its way so fiercely that a large cavernous aperture 250 feet long has been hollowed out. But the most sublime scene,’ says Dr. Hibbert, ‘is where a mural pile of porphyry, escaping the process of disintegration that is devastating the coast, appears to have been left as a sort of rampart against the inroads of the ocean. The Atlantic, when provoked by wintry gales, batters against it with all the force of real artillery; and the waves, in their repeated assaults, have at length forced for themselves an entrance. This breach, named the Grind of the Navir, is widened every winter by the overwhelming surge that, finding a passage through it, separates large stones from its sides, and forces them to a distance of no less than 180 feet. In two or three spots, the fragments which have been detached are brought together in immense heaps, that appear as an accumulation of cubical masses, the product of some quarry.’

Let us next turn to a portion of the coast-line of Great Britain which is neither defended, on the one hand, by barriers of rock, nor attacked, on the other, by the full fury of the Atlantic currents. Along the whole coast of Yorkshire we find evidences of a continual process of dilapidation. Between the projecting headland of Flamborough and Spurn Point (the coast of Holderness) the waste is particularly rapid. Many spots, which are now mere sandbanks, are marked in the old maps of Yorkshire as the sites of ancient towns and villages. Speaking of Hyde (one of these), Pennant says: ‘Only the tradition is left of this town.’ Owthorne and its church have been for the most part destroyed, as also Auburn, Hartburn, and Kilnsea. Mr. Phillips, in his ‘Geology of Yorkshire,’ states that not unreasonable fears are entertained that, at some future time, Spurn Point itself will become an island, or be wholly washed away, and then the ocean, entering into the estuary of the Humber, will cause great devastation. Pennant states that ‘several places, once towns of note upon the Humber, are now only recorded in history; and Ravensperg was at one time a rival of Hull, and a port so very considerable in 1332, that Edward Baliol and the confederate English barons sailed from hence to invade Scotland; and Henry IV., in 1399, made choice of this port to land at, to effect the deposal of Richard II.; yet the whole of this has since been devoured by the merciless ocean; extensive sands, dry at low water, are to be seen in their stead.’ The same writer also describes Spurn Point as shaped like a sickle, and the land to the north, he says, was ‘perpetually preyed on by the fury of the German Sea, which devours whole acres at a time.’

The decay of the shores of Norfolk and Suffolk is also remarkably rapid. Sir Charles Lyell relates some facts which throw an interesting light on the ravages which the sea commits upon the land here. It was computed that when a certain inn was built at Sherringham, seventy years would pass before the sea could reach the spot: ‘the mean loss of land being calculated from previous observations to be somewhat less than one yard annually.’ But no allowance had been made for the fact that the ground sloped from the sea. In consequence of this peculiarity, the waste became greater and greater every year as the cliff grew lower. ‘Between the years 1824 and 1829, no less than seventeen yards were swept away;’ and when Sir Charles Lyell saw the place, only a small garden was left between the building and the sea. I need hardly add that all vestiges of the inn have long since disappeared. Lyell also relates that, in 1829, there was a depth of water sufficient to float a frigate at a point where, less than half a century before, there stood a cliff fifty feet high with houses upon it.

I have selected these portions of the coast of Great Britain, not because the destruction of our shores is greater here than elsewhere, but as serving to illustrate processes of waste and demolition which are going on around all the shores, not merely of Great Britain, but of every country on the face of the earth. Here and there, as I have said, there are instances in which a contrary process seems to be in action. Low-lying banks and shoals are formed—sometimes along stretches of coast extending for a considerable distance. But when we consider these formations closely, we find that they rather afford evidence of the energy of the destructive forces to which the land is subject than promise to make up for the land which has been swept away. In the first place, every part of these banks consists of the debris of other coasts. Now we cannot doubt that of earth which is washed away from our shores, by far the larger part finds its way to the bottom of the deep seas; a small proportion only can be brought (by some peculiarity in the distribution of ocean-currents, or in the progress of the tidal wave) to aid in the formation of shoals and banks. The larger, therefore, such shoals and banks may be, the larger must be the amount of land which has been washed away never to reappear. And although banks and shoals of this sort grow year by year larger and larger, yet (unless added to artificially) they continue always either beneath the surface of the water in the case of shoals, or but very slightly raised above the surface. Now, if we suppose the destruction of land to proceed unchecked, it is manifest that at some period, however remote, the formation of shoals and banks must come to an end, owing to the continual diminution of the land from the demolition of which they derive their substance. In the meantime, the bed of the sea would be continually filling up, the level of the sea would be continually rising, and thus the banks would be either wholly submerged through the effect of this cause alone, or they would have so slight an elevation above the sea-level that they would offer little resistance to the destructive effects of the sea, which would then have no other land to act upon.

But we have yet to consider the second principal cause of the wasting away of the land. The cause we have just been dealing with acts upon the shores or outlines of islands and continents; the one we have now to consider acts upon their interior. Many, perhaps, would hardly suppose that the fall of rain upon the land could have any appreciable influence in the demolition of continents; but, as a matter of fact, there are few causes to which geologists attribute more importance. The very fact that enormous deltas have been formed at the mouths of many rivers—in other words, the actual growth of continents through the effects of rainfall—is a proof how largely this cause must tend to destroy and disintegrate the interiors of our continents. Dwelling on this point, Sir Charles Lyell presents the following remarkable illustration: ‘During a tour in Spain,’ he writes, ‘I was surprised to see a district of gently undulating ground in Catalonia, consisting of red and grey sandstone, and in some parts of red marl, almost entirely denuded of herbage; while the roots of the pines, holm oaks, and some other trees, were half exposed, as if the soil had been washed away by a flood. Such is the state of the forests, for example, between Oristo and Vich, and near San Lorenzo. But being overtaken by a violent thunderstorm in the month of August, I saw the whole surface, even the highest levels of some flat-topped hills, streaming with mud, while on every declivity the devastation of torrents was terrific. The peculiarities in the physiognomy of the district were at once explained; and I was taught that, in speculating on the greater effects which the direct action of rain may once have produced on the surface of certain parts of England, we need not revert to periods when the heat of the climate was tropical.’

Combining the effects of the sea’s action upon the shores of continents, and of the action of rain upon their interior, and remembering that unless the process of demolition were checked in some way, each cause would act from year to year with new force—one through the effects of the gradual rise of the sea-bed, and the other through the effects of the gradual increase of the surface of ocean exposed to the vaporising action of the sun, which increase would necessarily increase the quantity of rain yearly precipitated on the land—we see the justice of the opinion expressed by Sir John Herschel, that, ‘had the primeval world been constructed as it now exists, time enough has elapsed, and force enough directed to that end has been in activity, to have long ago destroyed every vestige of land.’

We see, then, the necessity that exists for the action of some restorative or preservative force sufficient to counteract the effects of the continuous processes of destruction indicated above. If we consider, we shall see that the destructive forces owe their efficiency to their levelling action, that is, to their influence in reducing the solid part of the earth to the figure of a perfect sphere; therefore the form of force which is required to counteract them is one that shall tend to produce irregularities in the surface-contour of the earth. And it will be remarked, that although upheaval is the process which appears at first sight to be the only effectual remedy to the levelling action of rains and ocean-currents, yet the forcible depression of the earth’s surface may prove in many instances yet more effective, since it may serve to reduce the sea-level in other places.

Now, the earth’s subterranean forces serve to produce the very effects which are required in order to counteract the continual disintegration of the shores and interior parts of continents. In the first place, their action is not distributed with any approach to uniformity over different parts of the earth’s crust, and therefore the figure they tend to give to the surface of that crust is not that of a perfect sphere. This, of itself, secures the uprising of some parts of the solid earth above the sea-level. But this is not all. On a comparison of the various effects due to the action of subterranean forces, it has been found that the forces of upheaval act (on the whole) more powerfully under continents, and especially under the shore-lines of continents, while the forces of depression act most powerfully (on the whole) under the bed of the ocean. It need hardly be said that whenever the earth is upheaved in one part, it must be depressed somewhere else. Not necessarily at the same instant, it should be remarked. The process of upheaval may be either momentarily accompanied by a corresponding process of depression, or the latter process may take place by a gradual action of the elastic powers of the earth’s crust; but, in one way or the other, the balance between upheaval and depression must be restored. Hence, if it can be shown that for the most part the forces of upheaval act underneath the land, it follows—though we may not be able to recognise the fact by obvious visible signs—that processes of depression are taking place underneath the ocean. Now, active volcanoes mark the centre of a district of upheaval, and most volcanoes are near the sea, as if (though, of course, this is not the true explanation) Nature had provided against the inroads of the ocean by seating the earth’s upheaving forces just where they are most wanted.

Even in earthquake districts which have no active vent, the same law is found to prevail. It is supposed by the most eminent seismologists that earthquake regions around a volcano, and earthquake regions apparently disconnected from any outlet, differ only in this respect, that in the one case the subterranean forces have had sufficient power to produce the phenomena of eruption, while in the other they have not. ‘In earthquakes,’ says Humboldt, ‘we have evidence of a volcano-producing force; but such a force, as universally diffused as the internal heat of the globe, and proclaiming itself everywhere, rarely acts with sufficient energy to produce actual eruptive phenomena; and when it does so, it is only in isolated and particular places.’

Of the influence of the earth’s subterranean forces in altering the level of land, I might quote many remarkable instances, but considerations of space compel me to confine myself to two or three. The slow processes of upheaval or depression may, perhaps, seem less immediately referable to subterranean action than those which are produced during the progress of an actual earthquake. I pass over, therefore, such phenomena as the gradual uprising of Sweden, the slow sinking of Greenland, and (still proceeding westward) the gradual uprising of Nova Scotia and the shores of Hudson’s Bay. Remarkable and suggestive as these phenomena really are, and indisputable as the evidence is on which they rest, they will probably seem much less striking to the reader than those which I am now about to quote.

On the 19th of November, 1822, a widely felt and destructive earthquake was experienced in Chili. On the next day, it was noticed for the first time that a broad line of sea-coast had been deserted by the sea for more than one hundred miles. A large part of this tract was covered by shell-fish, which soon died, and exhaled the most offensive effluvia. Between the old low-water mark and the new one, the fishermen found burrowing shells, which they had formerly had to search for amidst the surf. Rocks some way out to sea which had formerly been covered, were now dry at half ebb-tide.

Careful measurements showed that the rise of the land was greater at some distance inshore than along the beach. The watercourse of a mill about a mile inland from the sea had gained a fall of fourteen inches in little more than a hundred yards. At Valparaiso, the rise was three feet; at Quintero, four feet.

In February 1835, and in November 1837, a large tract of Chili was similarly shaken, a permanent rise of two feet following the former earthquake, and a rise of eight feet the latter.

The earthquake which took place at Cutch in 1819 is perhaps in some respects yet more remarkable. In this instance, phenomena of subsidence, as well as phenomena of upheaval, were witnessed. The estuary of the Indus, which had long been closed to navigation—being, in fact, only a foot deep at ebb-tide, and never more than six feet at flood—was deepened in parts to more than eighteen feet at low water. The fort and village of Sindree were submerged, only the tops of houses and walls being visible above the water. But although this earthquake seemed thus to have a land-destroying, instead of a land-creating effect, yet the instances of upheaval were, even in this case, far more remarkable than those of depression. ‘Immediately after the shock,’ says Sir Charles Lyell, ‘the inhabitants of Sindree saw at a distance of five miles and a half from their village a long elevated mound, where previously there had been a low and perfectly level plain. To this uplifted tract they gave the name of Ulla-Bund, or the “Mound of God,” to distinguish it from several artificial dams previously thrown across the eastern arm of the Indus. It has been ascertained,’ he adds, ‘that this new-raised country is upwards of fifty miles in length from east to west, running parallel to the line of subsidence which caused the grounds around Sindree to be flooded. The breadth of the elevation is conjectured to be in some parts sixteen miles, and its greatest ascertained height above the original level of the delta is ten feet—an elevation which appears to the eye to be very uniform throughout.‘

(From Chambers’s Journal, November 7, 1868.)