What role is attributed to geological knowledge within the broader whole of the Encyclopaedia? Which perspective is adequate to make philosophical sense of geological knowledge? This chapter’s response to these questions consists in a three-step argument. First, for Hegel, geohistory is irrelevant to philosophy but not the particular ways in which geological regularities are determined. Second, it argues that geology is important for Hegel as it develops the emergence of formations and structures that do not have a strict precedent in the domains of mechanical physics and chemistry, even if they arise from them. These formations and structures have a unique unity of composition and appearance, they form a dynamical but stable entity. Hereby geological notions serve to develop a particular notion of instantiation and self-determination that mediates inanimate matter with organic life. Third, it argues that by means of said emergence of formations and structures and their global arrangement, geology provides us with the basic notion of environment that serves as a precondition for the emergence of organic life. Hereby geology for Hegel mediates inorganic matter with the purposiveness of organisms.

Riffing on the narcissism of male grooming, Devin Garofalo discusses the Romantic impulse to “manscape” – that is, to “read… a culturally specific conception of the human into the landscape such that it is invisibilized as the world’s structuring principle.” This culturally specific conception of the human, she clarifies, building on the pathbreaking work of Sylvia Wynter, is that of man as a bourgeois colonialist, a tamer, and a conqueror. He is Hannibal and Napoleon and the Wordsworthian poet all in one. The Romantic nature poem that is the hallmark of early nineteenth–century poetry, then, recruits the ecological imagination as it consolidates and eradicates all threats to whiteness.

Contrary to some accounts, particularly older ones, which portray Clare as a lonely, isolated, and somewhat misanthropic figure, he was a man with a rich social life who had many friends, including literary figures, antiquarians, ornithologists, entomologists, botanists, and artists. Through these friendships, he was abreast of contemporary thought and techniques, and, if only at second hand, he was in touch with the activities of some of the leading naturalists in this country and abroad. This obviously led to an increased knowledge and sophistication in Clare’s understanding of nature, as well as leading to subtle changes in his attitude to the natural world. In particular, it meant that he no longer regarded a love of nature as something to be rather ashamed of, but instead as something which he was able to celebrate.

Chapter 1 begins with the problem of conflicting timescales in antiquarianism. At Pompeii, the question of human significance at the scale of geological deep time inspired writers to reconsider the material past and explore alternatives to traditional timelines. This chapter shows how Charles Dickens in particular experiments with nonlinear temporal forms in his travel narrative Pictures from Italy, which I argue uses a fractal temporal form to nest infinite pasts in present sites. A fractal is a nonlinear shape that repeats its structure even when viewed at fine scales. When Dickens deploys it as a temporal form, he necessarily changes the shape of history, offering alternative possibilities for Italian politics. Chapter 1 ends by considering the ethical ramifications of linear and nonlinear temporal forms in Arthur Hugh Clough’s Amours de Voyage. This poem, depicting the Roman Republic of 1849, dramatizes English tourists’ attempts to reassert the historicism that casts Italy as past despite the Risorgimento. Ultimately, Chapter 1 shows how both Dickens and Clough respond to political potential in Italy by reconfiguring time.

Cannon shot and military engineering broke the earth’s crust, churning up amber, sand, shells, and petrified animal remains. These fossils allowed early modern people to rewrite the history of the earth. Against many contemporary views, Major argued that plant, animal, and other bodies hardened into rock slowly over time through the contingent motions of salt in conditions of changing humidity. He conjectured about how stones that were widely collected as wonders of nature could be explained through geological processes in their sites of excavation. He collected locally on the beaches of Kiel and aimed to travel to a famous cave in the Harz mountains where so-called dragon’s bones, unicorn horns, and human-like rocky formations could be found. However, Major never completed his cave study nor a planned major work on lithology. Relatedly, he sought to establish a science of shells but never finished it to his satisfaction. As Major gained new knowledge, he continually rearranged his own collections into new formations that gave rise to new perspectives. His increasing recognition that some underground stones were ancient artifacts shifted his interest from petrifaction to archaeology.

The 1830s was a golden age for geology in Britain, in which at least three decades of commitment to patient observation, inductive reasoning, and fieldwork had led to a newfound public confidence for the science. Historians have long argued that a cult of masculinity emerged in response to this climate: physically and intellectually robust, the ‘gentleman geologist’ alone could be trusted to make reliable observations of the Earth without lapsing into theological or evolutionary speculation. Focussing on the work of three women geologists – Maria Graham, Charlotte Murchison, and Maria Hack – this chapter argues against this male history of geology. Paying attention to the deeply intertwined labours of male and female geologists in this period reveals that gender was a tool in a serious debate about the role of the body – of the emotions and the senses – in scientific observation. Was it possible, geologists asked, to apprehend the natural world entirely unencumbered by emotion, attachment, or the vagaries of the senses? What kinds of bodies could encounter the Earth in its most extreme guises and still achieve the right philosophical perspective and detachment?

Chapter 30 examines Goethe’s relationship with America. The country was for him an imagined space full of possibility, a historical frontier which opened onto modernity. The chapter considers the transatlantic network which, in the post-Napoleonic period, linked Harvard, Göttingen and Weimar, and would prove particularly important for Goethe’s geological studies. It also describes the – at times ambivalent – perspectives on American democracy that reached Goethe from Prince Bernhard, the son of Carl August, during his American travels, before moving to an analysis of American influences on and representations of America in Goethe’s literary work.

Chapter 24 offers an overview of Goethe’s geological output, a vast but somewhat understudied area of his work. It focuses in particular on Ilmenau, where between 1776 and 1796 Goethe supervised a mining project, and it argues that, despite the ultimate failure of the enterprise, the Ilmenau period was crucial in developing Goethe’s understanding of geological issues. The chapter also charts the course of Goethe’s geological work after the Ilmenau period, and it brings to light the geological references which pervade his literary work – including Faust and some of his best-loved poems.

This chapter presents new, annotated translations of the testimonia and fragments (mostly from Pliny the Elder) of various works by Augustus’ client king Juba II of Mauretania (active c.27 BC–AD 23/4), selected with a focus on geographical material. This is the first such collection of his geographical writings. The chapter introduction emphasizes his links with the former Ptolemaic dynasty through his queen, Kleopatra Selene (daughter of Mark Antony and Kleopatra VII), links which the royal couple kept up through iconography and patronage within their kingdom. Juba’s outstanding literary output can be seen as another reflection of this connexion, aimed at integrating Mauretania into the Greco-Roman cultural sphere and conferring distinction upon the kingdom. His geographical writing embodied travels and researches extending as far as Egypt and western Asia, and was based on a close appreciation of earlier writers including Agatharchides (Chapter 15 of this volume). His wide-ranging cultural and scientific interests are well represented in the extracts, particular highlights being the course of the Nile (believed to have its source within Mauretania), the fauna of the Canary Islands, and the discovery and naming of the plant family Euphorbiaceae, the spurges. A new map illustrates the range of Juba’s geographical interests, spanning the whole longitudinal range of the Roman empire south of the Mediterranean.

Heralded as the decade that launched the “Golden Age” of children’s literature, the 1860s saw the growth of fairy tales, fantasy, and imperial romance, and concerns about education and empire. The 1860s major children’s fantasy works, Christina Rossetti’s Goblin Market[GK2] [GK3](1862), Charles Kingsley’s Water-Babies [GK4](1863), and Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland [GK5](1865), share striking similarities. The trope of unstable ground in these texts offers insight into the anxieties of the era with implications for education and imperial stewardship. The unearthing of fossils along with debates over Charles Darwin’s Origin of the Species[GK6] (1859) created unease about the unknown and disrupted established knowledge about the timeline for creation. Carroll’s, Kingsley’s, and Rossetti’s texts reveal uncertainties of science (especially the newly articulated domains of geology, paleontology, archeology, and geography), the inadequacies of education, and the legacy of empire. In their hands, unstable ground is not only a plot device and a metaphor, but a warning.

This chapter begins with varying definitions of the Anthropocene and articulates the ways in which essayists have responded to the environmental destruction, contamination, reshaping of the earth’s surface, and exhaustion of shared resources represented by this new geological epoch. In these types of essays, science writing meets nature writing, activism meets lyricism. The essay has always been a space for ethical reflection, and those essays featured in this chapter – by writers such as Robin Wall Kimmerer, Barry Lopez, Camille Dungy, Donna Harraway, Fred Moten, and Christina Nichol – ponder the ethics of the violence that is part of our new environmental status quo. The chapter also investigates the relationship between the Anthropocene and various bleak contemporary and historical realities: the trans-Atlantic slave trade, colonization, appropriation of land, extraction of resources, genocide, and dispossession.

In 1772 Joseph Banks recorded observations on the Hebridean island of Staffa. His most striking ‘discovery’ was a sea cave resembling a cathedral. Banks claimed the cave was known by the name of the mythical Irish warrior Fionn mac Cumhaill, or Fingal, to use the variant made famous by Macpherson’s Ossian poems. The publication of Banks’s findings prompted a small industry of travel writing that combined lithic observations with minstrelsy and national history. In 1797 the French geologist Barthélemy Faujas de Saint-Fond published his research on the topic, which suggested that the association with Ossian was the result of a misunderstanding: whereas the Gaelic for Fingal’s Cave would be ‘an-ua-fine’, the actual name was ‘an-ua-vine’, which translated as ‘melodious cave’. Far from settling the matter, Saint-Fond’s intervention only added to the mystique. In this chapter I argue that the cave’s fashionable status can be partly attributed to a series of re-soundings, by which printed texts and theatrical performances relayed aspects of on-site accounts to new readers and audiences. Where existing models of Romantic resonance have emphasized a correspondence between sound and thought, the fame of Fingal’s Cave emerges here as the result of almost mindless repetition.

This chapter analyzes the redistribution of the Romantic sublime in Victorian culture. Contrary to the assumption that the Victorians seem to have neglected the sublime, it shows how the concept was unpacked into a busy metonymy, first by Thomas Carlyle when he speaks of inverse sublimity. A fit for the world disassembled by the Industrial Revolution and for Charles Lyell’s geology of ongoing planetary transformation, Carlyle’s metonymy heralds the Victorian chthonic sublime, a structure of feeling where affect, once bound in awe, terror and rupture, is reclaimed for melancholia and tasked with the work of mourning. It is a work that finds an emphatic articulation in John Ruskin’s aesthetics and art history, notably in his theory of pathetic fallacy, and in Matthew Arnold’s poetry and criticism, especially in the concept of touchstone, with important critical footholds in the Victorian industrial novel, evolutionary theory and Pre-Raphaelite painting and poetry.

Antarctica (Figure 3.1) is at the forefront of the climate change crisis. We know that it is an important player in global circulations of the atmosphere and the ocean, and that the gain/loss of ice on the continent exerts a major control on sea level. We are also aware that Antarctica has been pivotal in modulating past climate change and sea levels. This appreciation has only been achieved through scientific research over the past fifty years – a remarkable evolution in understanding, considering it was a remote and unknown continent in the early 1900s. Indeed, the first expeditions in which targeted scientific discovery was the sole focus date only to the late 1950s. Considering the rapid evolution in our understanding of Antarctica’s ice sheet, and the continent on which it flows, it is worth taking time to review briefly how we arrived at this point.

The discovery of the McMurdo Dry Valleys was an accidental result of the desire in polar exploration to find the South Magnetic Pole and the South Geographic Pole. James Clark Ross was astonished in 1841, after pushing his way through a thick collar of pack ice, to suddenly sail into an open body of water, McMurdo Sound, finding a large island (Ross Island) like Hawaii formed by a series of several large volcanoes, one of which was smoking and ready to erupt. He came here to find the South Magnetic Pole, which was too far inland to the west to reach easily on foot, as he had done years earlier in reaching the North Magnetic Pole. This opened the way for Robert Falcon Scott to come here in 1902–1904 with his Discovery expedition to make and attempt on the Pole. He set up camp on Ross Island and stayed for two years exploring various ways to reach the Pole. Albert Armitage, one his men, pushed a route directly west to see what was there and was astonished to find large valleys fully free of ice and snow, the McMurdo Dry Valleys.

Historical toponomastics is the discipline that deals with the reconstruction of the roots of toponyms in the context of well-known languages/language families (e.g., Indo-European) and in the presence of available historical records. The analysis of the etymology and morphology of a place name occurs not just at the linguistic level, but also incorporates the assessment of the territory’s geology and hydro-geo-morphology. This chapter presents a step-by-step guide in historical toponomastics that involves both linguistic and extra-linguistic analyses. The authors apply this to two toponyms from the Indo-European language family, Sessame and Squaneto, both located in Piedmont, northwest Italy. This chapter also discusses the notion of ‘folk etymology’ and ‘toponymic paretymology’, often observed in the stories told by local speakers trying to explain the origins and meanings of their toponyms. These ‘explanations’ may not always be accurate. These, indeed, originate from the linguistic misinterpretations of place names, when the original morphology and/or meaning of toponyms are lost over time. This chapter explores two types of toponymic paretymologies – ‘bona fide paretymology’ and ‘scholarly paretymology’, with examples from both Indo-European and non-Indo-European contexts. The chapter also presents an in-depth discussion of contact etymology.