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William Conybeare, it seems, was as zealous in his search for fossils as Buckland, and their activities never failed to attract attention. Once on a tour together they entered an inn after a particularly long, wet day on the cliffs, covered in mud and dirt. The two deans had fossil bags filled to bursting and proceeded to empty out the contents. The old woman serving their meal was said to be ‘much puzzled to make out the Deans’ real character’. After eyeing her ravenous customers suspiciously, she exclaimed, ‘Well I never. Fancy two real gentlemen picking up stones! What won’t men do for money!’
In trying to create a map showing the order of succession of the rock strata of England, Buckland and his friends were greatly influenced by the pioneering work of a surveyor called William Smith. A man of humble birth, Smith lived at the height of the ‘Canal Age’ in the late eighteenth century, when the fields of England were criss-crossed by a network of over two thousand miles of inland waterways. As he surveyed the land for canal building, he had become very familiar with the sequential order of British rock from the chalk down to the coal. He noticed that different strata contained different fossils and that this could be used to help identify some of the layers. Such was his enthusiasm to understand the order of strata that Smith devoted his modest income to travelling all over England. Versions of his geological tables had been on display since the 1790s, and he published his great map A Delineation of the Strata of England and Wales in 1815.
Unfortunately for Smith, George Bellas Greenough, the first President of the Geological Society, had little time for him and his map. When he saw Smith’s tables he was condescending and patronising and yet, it has been argued, with ‘barefaced piracy’ he was able to draw heavily on this work for the benefit of the Society. Undoubtedly Smith’s studies laid the groundwork for Buckland, who between 1814 and 1821 produced no less than eight different charts of the ‘Order of super-imposition of strata in the British Islands’.
All of this made little impression on the canons and bishops at Oxford. Scholars and religious leaders were alarmed that the sacred evidence of the word of God should be muddied with bits of rock and dirt. ‘Was ever the Word of God, laid so deplorably prostrate at the feet of an infant and precocious science!’ exclaimed George Bugg, author of Scriptural Geology. ‘We want no better guide than Moses,’ wrote George Cumberland to the editor of the popular Monthly Magazine in 1815. ‘If the object of geology be to attain the age of the earth as a planet, it seems an idle proceeding; first because if attained, it would apparently be useless … it can never be attained by the present mode of enquiry; and like the riddle of the Sphinx, would destroy the life of those who failed in solving it, by wearing out the only valuable property they have, viz, their intellects!’
For years, dons wielding authority through their sermons and sacred texts had successfully kept alternative schools of thought at bay. Among the more traditional scholars there was a real fear that geology would prove to be a ‘dangerous innovation’, and Buckland’s odd activities were watched ‘with an interest not wholly devoid of fear’. At the end of the Napoleonic Wars in 1816, when Buckland took the opportunity to travel with Conybeare and Greenough across Europe, his departure was welcomed by some of the elderly classicists at Oxford. ‘Well Buckland has gone,’ announced one dean with satisfaction. ‘Thank God we will hear no more of this Geology!’ Nothing could have been further from the truth.
In 1816, Buckland published the first comparative table of the strata of England compared with those of the Continent. Similarities between the rocks of England and Europe were beginning to emerge. Greywacke slates, resembling the continental Transition formations, were found on the borders of England and Wales. Highly stratified layers of sandstone, limestone and conglomerates rich with fossils, like the Secondary formations of Europe, were widespread across England. Tertiary rocks, such as those around Paris, were identified in the London and Hampshire basins. Just as in Europe, these were always in the same order of succession, the oldest being Primary, then Transition, Secondary and Tertiary. As correlations were found between different regions, ‘marker’ rocks were identified. Chalk, for instance, was recognised as the upper limit of Secondary rock throughout Europe.
Buckland was keen to discover whether this order of succession extended worldwide. He wrote to several noblemen in command of Britain’s growing Empire, such as Lord Bathurst, the Secretary of the British Colonies, enclosing instructions for collecting geological specimens abroad. His appetite for information became insatiable: it was as if the layers of rock that enveloped the globe formed the pages of a history of the earth. But if this was so, what would be written on them? And how did all this fit with the extraordinary ‘crocodile’ found by Mary Anning?
The first clue to this puzzle lay in a remarkable new approach to interpreting fossils that was being pioneered in Paris by a French naturalist called Georges Cuvier. From a poor but bourgeois family, Cuvier had survived the French Revolution in Normandy, far from the troubles of Paris, where in his letters he had feigned support for the regime for fear of the French police. Once the Reign of Terror had released its grip on Paris and the city became safe again, Cuvier went to the capital and soon secured a post at the Muséum National d’Histoire Naturelle. With his striking crop of red hair, bright-blue eyes and somewhat unkempt appearance, it wasn’t long before the ambitious young naturalist had made an impression.
As Napoleon’s army swept across Europe, spoils from museums and private collections were frequently sent back to Paris. Fossils were also retrieved from the plaster quarries around Paris, and during the course of building canals around the city. The new Muséum National d’Histoire Naturelle, established by the Republicans in place of the Jardin du Roi, rapidly became the envy of the world. Cuvier began to apply his extensive knowledge of the anatomy of living creatures to try to interpret fossil skeletons with a view to understanding the ancient forms of life.
Georges Cuvier believed that fundamental laws must govern the anatomy of creatures as surely as the laws established by Newton now governed physics. If a creature was a carnivore, Cuvier observed, all of its organs would be designed for this purpose. The forelimbs would be strong enough to grasp prey; the hind-limbs muscular and mobile, for hunting; the teeth would be sharp, capable of ripping meat; the jaw would have sufficient muscular support for the animal to tear prey; and the digestive organs would be adapted for carnivorous food. In effect, Cuvier’s principle of ‘correlation of parts’ showed that all the organs and limbs of a creature are interdependent and must function together for that creature to survive. He rapidly acquired a brilliant reputation. From a single fossil bone, he declared, he could deduce the class of the beast – whether it was a mammal, reptile or bird – and ascertain subordinate divisions: the order, family, genus (plural: genera), and perhaps even the very species to which the fossil animal belonged.
‘Let us not search further for the mythological animals,’ said Cuvier. ‘The mantichore or destroyer of men which carries a human head on a lion’s body terminating in a scorpion’s tail, or the guardian of treasures, the Griffin, half eagle–half lion … Nature could not combine such impossible features.’ The teeth and jaws of a lion, for example, could only belong to a creature that possessed the other attributes of a powerful carnivore, a muscular frame and skeleton that would confer enormous strength. The Sphinx of Thebes, the Pegasus of Thessaly, the Minotaur of Crete, mermaids – those half-women half-fish that lured sailors to their death with the sweetness of their song – were all myths that crumbled under Cuvier’s scientific scrutiny. ‘These fantastic compositions may be recovered among ruins,’ he said, ‘but they certainly do not represent real beings.’ Instead, Georges Cuvier offered a real past, conjuring up a vivid picture of creatures that had once roamed the surface of the earth.
Less than two years after his arrival in Paris, in January 1796, the twenty-seven-year-old naturalist made his debut at the National Institute of Sciences and Arts. His talk ‘On the species of living and fossil elephants’ pointed to an astonishing conclusion.
Following French victories in Holland, a private collection of fossil ‘elephants’ at the Hague had been seized and sent to Paris. Cuvier had compared these fossils from Holland to the bones of present-day elephants from India and Africa. As he studied the characteristics of the teeth and jaw he realised that the fossil ‘elephant’ differed in the shape and proportions of the jaw from either of the two living species. On the basis of these differences, he argued, the fossil ‘elephant’ should be classified as a separate species. The distribution of the fossil bones also differed; unlike the Indian or African elephant, the fossil species was never found in the tropics. He gave the fossil elephant a special name in recognition of its differences: the ‘mammoth’.
Since mammoths differed from any living elephants, reasoned Cuvier, this species was now extinct. The discovery, soon after this, of the first preserved mammoth in the permafrost of Siberia lent weight to his ideas. Cuvier believed the snowy wastes of Northern Europe and Siberia had once been inhabited by these enormous woolly beasts, which had somehow mysteriously perished. And he went on to show that other large fossil mammals, apart from the mammoth, had thrived on the ancient globe. He identified ‘Megatherium’, or ‘huge beast’, a creature resembling a giant sloth and covered in fur like a bear, which could stand on two legs to graze on leaves. An elephantine creature whose fossils combined the teeth of a hippopotamus with the huge tusks of a mammoth was named by Cuvier a ‘mastodon’.
Cuvier’s large extinct mammals, the mammoth, the mastodon and Megatherium, were found in the most recent, Tertiary deposits. In older strata Cuvier identified an ancient sea lizard, ‘Mosasaurus’ or ‘lizard of the Meuse’, and several extinct species of crocodile. His studies suggested that entire animal races had been wiped from the face of the earth. He was haunted by the desire to know what had happened to the vanished creatures. Why would God create these beings if He planned only to destroy them? Cuvier wanted to ascertain whether ‘species which existed then have been entirely destroyed, or if they have merely been modified in their form, or if they have simply been transported from one climate into another’. Quite why and how extinction occurred was a puzzle that remained to be solved.
William Buckland was impressed by Cuvier’s discoveries and eager to learn from his approach, comparing fossil animals to living creatures so as to work out their zoological affinities. He discussed Mary Anning’s unknown creature with his friend the Reverend Conybeare, who wanted to make a definitive scientific study of the giant beast. Mary’s ‘crocodile’ possessed such a puzzling blend of characteristics that it was hard to classify. The long, pointed snout was similar to a dolphin’s or porpoise’s. The teeth were more like those of a crocodile, with sharp, conical fangs, each one ridged all around the enamel. The vertebrae were slender, like the backbone of a fish. It was baffling.
To compound their problems, England did not have a centre of anatomical excellence comparable to the magnificent collections under Cuvier’s supervision in Paris. Consequently, Buckland tried to establish a correspondence with Cuvier, ‘founded on an exchange of fossil specimens’, and hoped to benefit from the French expertise.
It was to Lyme that the Reverends Buckland and Conybeare went in search of fossil ‘crocodiles’ as gifts for Cuvier, and in particular to the collection of Mary Anning.
Mary and her mother had established a ‘tiny, old curiosity shop close to the beach’. According to one visitor, ‘the most remarkable petrifactions and fossil remains … were exhibited in the window’. Inside, the little shop and adjoining chamber were ‘crammed with ammonites, heads of “crocodiles”, and boxes of shells’. To Mary’s skills as a collector, Buckland acknowledged, he felt greatly indebted, for she continued to supply more specimens of her unknown creature. Cuvier was interested to see the latest discoveries from England, and soon Buckland established a correspondence with a young assistant in Cuvier’s department, Joseph Pentland. Pentland acted as liaison between Cuvier and the English team, organising shipments of casts and providing information on fossils.
But while Buckland and his colleagues were approaching Georges Cuvier, another London gentleman, Sir Everard Home, raced into print with the first published account of Mary’s creature. Although Sir Everard relished his reputation as Britain’s leading anatomist and held the distinguished position of Surgeon to the King, he was in fact not only incompetent, but also a fraud. Much of his fame was due to reflected glory from John Hunter, his famous brother-in-law.
John Hunter was revered in England as the ‘father of modern surgery’ and had pioneered early studies of anatomy before his sudden death from a heart attack. Sir Everard was secretly plagiarising Hunter’s unpublished manuscripts. He had removed ‘a cartload’ of Hunter’s anatomical papers from the Royal College of Surgeons in London. Once he had copied them out in his own name, he allegedly burned Hunter’s originals. Such was his enthusiasm to demolish the evidence, on one occasion Sir Everard set fire to his own hearth and had to call out the fire brigade.
In his first paper to the Royal Society in 1814, Sir Everard initially favoured the idea that Mary Anning’s creature was some kind of crocodile. This was because he had noticed small germs of conical teeth contained within the larger teeth. Whereas mammals have just two sets of teeth, the milk teeth and the adult teeth, reptiles have replacement teeth growing through the jaw all their lives. But when Sir Everard split one of the teeth open, he mistook the young germ tooth inside for an accumulation of calcareous minerals. ‘The characteristic mark therefore, of a crocodile’s teeth,’ he wrote, ‘was thus removed.’ He wrongly concluded that it was not a reptile.
Then he reasoned that it must be an enormous aquatic bird, since the pattern of openings in the skull of the creature was similar to that of birds. The bones of the eye, he wrote, ‘subdivided into thirteen plates, which is only met in birds’. But if it was a bird, where were the wings, and why so many fish-like characteristics? Sir Everard considered that the lower jaw of the skull ‘admits the mouth to be opened to a great extent … resembling the voracious fishes’. New specimens revealed the ‘bird’ had paddles for swimming, and he decided the creature belonged to the class of fishes; although, somewhat baffled, he wrote, ‘I by no means consider it wholly a fish.’
After his initial uncertainty over whether the beast should be classed as reptile, bird or fish, by 1819 Sir Everard thought he had solved the puzzle. A new creature called a ‘Proteus’ had just been described in English by a Viennese physician. This was a blind, amphibious, serpentine creature with very unusual anatomical features that inhabited caves. Mistakenly guessing that the Lyme ‘crocodile’ was a link between the Proteus and lizards, he named it ‘Proteosaurus’, or ‘Proteus-lizard’. However, the year before, Mary Anning’s creature had been sold to the British Museum, where the Keeper of Natural History, Charles Konig, had named her animal ‘Ichthyosaurus’, meaning ‘fish-lizard’. This was in recognition of its curious mixture of fish and reptile characteristics. Since this name had been put forward first, it had priority over any other. Sir Everard Home was furious, and he continued to promote his own rival name, ‘Proteosaurus’.
In all this confusion, one thing was clear: the French were laughing at the English grasp of anatomy. Joseph Pentland, in Cuvier’s laboratory, scoffed at the papers of the ‘London Baronet’, as he called Sir Everard. He wrote to William Buckland in Oxford saying that Sir Everard’s ‘ridiculous’ papers were ‘abstruse, incomprehensible and for the most part, uninteresting’. What is more, the London Baronet was ‘crowding’ the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society, the prestigious journal of the oldest scientific society of Europe, blocking the publications of others whose work was more ‘worthy and honourable’.
Possibly because Sir Everard dominated the Royal Society, Buckland’s friends, the Reverend Conybeare and another enthusiastic young geologist, Henry de la Beche, prepared their detailed scientific paper on Mary’s creature for the Geological Society. They gathered many more specimens from Lyme and the Bristol area and were also able to capitalise on the anatomical expertise of the French. ‘I am sure that the fossil approaches much nearer to the family of Saurians [lizards],’ wrote Pentland to Buckland in 1820. ‘The dentition of the Ichthyosaurus is the same as in lizards.’
Conybeare and de la Beche published their findings in 1821. In agreement with the French, they showed that the teeth of the animal bore more resemblance to those of a crocodile than to any other creature. The replacement cycle of teeth so characteristic of a reptile, with ‘the young tooth growing up in the interior cavity of the old one,’ wrote Conybeare, ‘is exactly similar’. The bones of the skull were also lizard-like, with two openings at the back behind the eye, lightening the skull and allowing the muscles of the jaw to bulge so that it could work more efficiently. In the lower jaw alone, all the bones that Cuvier had identified in a crocodile could also be seen in this animal.
There were, however, some differences between Mary’s fossil and a crocodile skull. The teeth, Conybeare observed, ‘are more numerous than in the crocodile, there cannot be less than 30 a side’. The huge round eyes were larger in proportion to the skull than the eyes of any other known animal. Having no eyelids, to prevent injury in a rough sea, it had instead many thin, flexible bones encasing the pupil to protect it. The general shape of the jaw, he thought, ‘differs from the crocodile in being much more lengthened’, and ending in a point ‘almost as sharp as the beak of a bird’. Nonetheless, in both the dentition and the bone structure the animal ‘approaches more closely to the Saurian or Lizard family, and especially to the genus Crocodile,’ said Conybeare, ‘than to any other recent type’. The fossil beast, therefore, belonged to the reptile class and the saurian family.
Despite this, it had many characteristics of fishes. The vertebrae were just like those of a fish, with small, flat discs allowing enormous flexibility of the spine. The bones were also very light, combining the ‘greatest strength with least weight’, which would ‘increase the buoyancy of the animal and enable it to face the waves of an agitated ocean’. With eighty or ninety such vertebrae, the creature could reach twenty-four feet in length. In view of its fish and lizard affinities Conybeare accepted the name Ichthyosaurus, or ‘fish-lizard’, to denote the genus. While tactfully acknowledging the ‘praise worthy readiness’ with which Sir Everard had communicated his ideas ‘instantly to the public’, his ‘Proteosaurus’ was quietly forgotten. Ichthyosaurus, said Conybeare, roamed the primitive seas ‘upon which no human eye ever rested’. He tried to trace the boundaries of this long-buried sea by seeing how far the fossil remains extended across England. They found ichthyosaurs in many counties in South-west England deposited within the Secondary strata.
As Conybeare and de la Beche searched the Secondary rocks, they came upon other bones, principally vertebrae, which did not quite match those of Ichthyosaurus or of a crocodile. ‘I was persuaded that they had all belonged to different places in the vertebral column of a single species,’ wrote Conybeare. He began to suspect that another unknown sea lizard had shared the ancient ocean with the ichthyosaurs. He proposed the name ‘Enalo-sauri’, or ‘sea lizards’, to denote the whole order, and hinted strongly that more types of these giant sea creatures had yet to be uncovered. The paper was seen as a triumph, and their description of the ichthyosaurs stands to this day.
As for Mary Anning, she hadn’t the education or the position in the world to name her finds or to use them as an entrée to the male-dominated world of science. She was not even named in the scholarly papers on her creature published in London. In her cottage by the sea or sitting on the shore at Lyme, she painstakingly copied out the learned articles in her own hand, making drawings and trying to grasp the language of the new science. There is even a suggestion that she may have tried to learn French in order to read Cuvier for herself. With many French visitors to the port of Lyme, this was not such an impossible feat.
Mary was sufficiently encouraged by her first discovery to persevere in her daily searches on the shore, braving all weathers. The deplorable conditions of five years’ parish relief focused her efforts tremendously as, according to one collector, Thomas Hawkins, she ‘explored the frowning and precipitous cliffs, when the furious spring-tide conspired with the howling tempest to overthrow them, and rescued [fossils] from the gaping ocean, sometimes at the peril of her life’. The dangers Mary faced were also noted by a gentleman’s daughter, Anna Maria Pinney, who sometimes explored the cliffs with her: ‘we climbed down places, which I would have thought impossible to have descended had I been alone. The wind was high, the ground slippery, and the waves beating against Church Cliff. When we had clambered to the bottom our dangers were by no means over … In one place she had to make haste to pass between the dashing of two waves … she caught me with one arm round the waist and carried me some distance.’
As news of Mary Anning’s finds spread among the members of the Geological Society several gentlemen, as well as William Buckland, sought her out at Lyme. She was cultivated by Henry de la Beche, who was studying the Ichthyosaurus with Reverend Conybeare. De la Beche was a young man of independent means who had inherited from his father an estate in Jamaica, which had prospered with the slavery trade. A Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Birch also took a keen interest in gathering fossil evidence of the Ichthyosaurus, and acquired many of her specimens. Anna Pinney noted that Mary was ‘courted by those above her’, and she rapidly acquired ‘many ideas and a power of communicating them’. In spending time with such gentlemen from a very different class, she had already stepped aside from her peasant background. ‘She frankly owns,’ admitted Anna, ‘that the society of her own rank is become distasteful to her.’ Despite this, she continued to ‘attend the sick poor night and day, even when they are ill with infectious diseases’. Whether Mary dared to hope that one day she might escape hardships of her upbringing through marriage is not recorded.
She became a familiar figure on the shoreline, variously portrayed in her long skirts and shawl, clogs, poke-bonnet or hat, a lone figure endlessly toiling at her mysterious task against vast skies and shifting tides. Such was her dedication, Anna Pinney wrote, that she continued ‘to support her mother and brother in bitter poverty even when she was so ill that she was brought … fainting from the beach’.
The layers of rock that so fascinated Mary Anning held the secrets of prehistory. Locked behind the impenetrable dark face of Black Ven and the cliffs beyond were the clues to an ancient ocean, whose boundaries were yet unknown. From her discussions with the gentlemen geologists, Mary knew that another kind of sea lizard was almost certainly buried there, waiting to be uncovered.
2 The World in a Pebble (#ulink_33562582-790f-540b-b3f2-8aec2fd1c91b)
There is no picking up a pebble by the brook side without finding all nature in connexion with it.
Cited in Thoughts on a Pebble by Gideon Mantell, 1849
While Mary Anning was searching the shore for fossils, a young shoemaker’s son, Gideon Algernon Mantell, was trying to make his own way in the world of science. A story told by one of his childhood companions reveals that, like Buckland, Gideon Mantell was drawn to geology early in life:
As a mere youth, he was walking with a friend on the banks of the River Ouse when his observant eye rested on an object which had rolled down the marly bank … He dragged it from the water and examined it with great attention. ‘What is it?’ inquired his friend. ‘I think that it is what they call “a fossil”,’ he replied. ‘I have seen something like it in an old volume of the Gentleman’s Magazine.’ The curiosity, which proved to be a fine specimen of Ammonite, was borne home in triumph … and from that moment young Mantell became a geologist.
It was a revelation to Mantell that buried in the earth beneath their feet lay the ‘wreckage of former lives that had turned to stone’. His home town of Lewes in Sussex is enveloped by the dramatic contours of the chalk South Downs. Past the grammar school, the castle and the Market House, the High Street plunged towards the valley of the River Ouse and the chalk spur beyond loomed above the smoke from the chimneys of the shops. To the south, past the ruined priory, the green fields, decked with white wherever the chalk broke through the thin covering of grass, beckoned Mantell through every cobbled alley-way.
As a child exploring the local pits and quarries he uncovered ammonites with their coils ‘like the fabled horn of Jupiter, Ammon’, and shells with spines, such as the sea urchin, and the remains of corals and fishes; the chalk hills teemed with the worn relics of creatures that had lived long ago. For the young Mantell, science was ‘like the fabled wand of the magician’ which could ‘call forth from the stone and from the rock their hidden lore and reveal the secrets they have so long enshrined’. Every fossil reclaimed from the past was, for him, a ‘medal of creation’, a fantastic page of Nature’s volume to interpret.
Far removed from his vision of ancient worlds was the daily reality of supplying the town’s footwear. He and his six brothers and sisters were brought up in a cottage in St Mary’s Lane, a steep, narrow road that ran off the High Street. At a time when social status was principally determined by money and land, Gideon Mantell was aware of his family’s modest station in life. Although his father, Thomas, ran a successful business, sometimes employing several people, he was a ‘tradesman’, not a ‘gentleman’, and so excluded from the higher ranks of society.
It was a far cry from what Mantell understood of the great wealth of the family’s forebears. In his youth, he dreamed of restoring the family honours. He told a friend, ‘although my parents and their immediate predecessors were in comparatively humble stations, being only trades people in a country town, yet they were descendants of one of the most ancient families in England. The name “Mantell” occurs in the list of Knights that accompanied William the Conqueror from Normandy. The family settled in Northamptonshire and possessed large manors at Heyford and Rode where many of the family bore the honor of a Knighthood.’
But the family fortunes had been lost almost overnight. The grandson of Sir Walter Mantell, a Protestant, took part in Sir Thomas Wyatt’s attempt in 1554 to prevent the Catholic marriage of Queen Mary with Philip of Spain. The planned royal marriage was so unpopular that Wyatt and an array of four thousand men almost reached London Bridge before they were outnumbered and eventually forced to surrender. Wyatt and the ringleaders, including Mantell and his grandson, were executed. As if this was not enough, all the Mantell family estates, in Kent, Sussex and Northamptonshire, were forfeited to the Crown. ‘Irretrievable ruin fell upon the house,’ wrote Gideon Mantell; ‘in my boyish days I fancied I should restore its honors and that my children would have obtained the distinctions our knightly race once bore.’
Mantell’s soaring ambitions were not without foundation, for he was regarded as something of a child prodigy in his home town. He was distinguished by ‘uncommon perseverance and quickness in his studies’. Owing to his pious parents, ‘his retentive memory enabled him when young to repeat a large part of the Bible by heart’. When older, he was described in local records as ‘tall and graceful’, and with a ‘style of brilliancy and eloquence’. A painting of him in his youth shows a handsome face, with even, expressive features and dark hair and eyes. Whether this is a truthful portrait is unknown, but according to the Sussex Gazette he was not lacking in charisma: ‘He had the attractive personality of an actor, a voice of great power, and with clear enunciation and pleasing musical cadences he could hold his listeners spellbound.’
But as the son of a bootmaker, the young Gideon Mantell was educated with great frugality. Because of his father’s nonconformist beliefs as a Methodist, the six children were excluded from the local grammar school; the twelve free places each year were reserved for those brought up in the Anglican faith. Instead, Gideon was sent to the dame-school among the labourers’ cottages in St Mary’s Lane. Here, under the simple guidance of an old woman, he was taught the rudiments of reading and writing in her front parlour, and he became so great a favourite that on her death the teacher left Gideon everything she had. After this, he went to the school of a Mr John Button, an exuberant philosophical radical, ‘where a sound and practical commercial education was given by a gentleman whose political sentiments were so accordant with those of Gideon Mantell’s father, that he was known to be on the Government black list’.
Mr Mantell’s political views are not stated; however, as a radical Whig, it seems likely that he associated with the campaigning Thomas Paine, well known reformer and also an inhabitant of Lewes. Paine was a keen debater at the Headstrong Club which met at the White Hart in the High Street. He openly challenged the value of the British monarchy at a time when the Revolution raged in France, he denounced cruelty to the poor, demanded the abolition of the slave trade, and later wrote The Rights of Man.
After two years with Mr Button, Gideon was sent away for a period of private study with his uncle, a Baptist minister, who had founded a ‘Dissenting Academy for Boys’ near Swindon. When he returned to Lewes at the age of fifteen, with the assistance of the leader of the local Whig party who was impressed by his diligence Gideon was apprenticed to a local surgeon, James Moore. On his father’s death in 1807 money was found for him, in the last year of his ‘bondage’ as apprentice, to study in London and ‘walk the hospitals’.
At seventeen, Mantell went to London to study medicine, carrying a bag full of fossils collected from the chalk hills of Sussex. These curios, somewhat unnecessary for a student doctor, were nonetheless of such importance to Mantell that he had found room for his ‘extensive collection’ on the stagecoach to London. But if he was hoping for an opportunity that would allow him to immediately develop a career in geology he was soon to be disappointed. There were, as yet, no academic posts in the subject, and his father’s Methodism and his educational background precluded him from university.
The main forum for geologists was in the scientific societies springing up in the metropolis such as the Geological Society and the longer-established Royal Society. But they were largely for gentlemen of rank and wealth, and gaining membership cost time and money. Of these, the Royal Society was the most famous; its Council had provided instructions for Captain Cook’s voyage of discovery and advised the government on scientific matters such as the best form of lightning conductors for buildings. The membership list read like the entries of the fashionable new guide to Society, Debrett. Lords, knights and men who ‘from their fortunes it might be desirable to retain as patrons of science’ dominated the list of Fellows. A shoemaker’s son, however brilliant, was largely invisible to this scientific community. But while in London, a chance meeting was to set Gideon Mantell on his future course.
In 1811, the year Mary Anning’s brother found the skull of the Ichthyosaurus, a distinguished doctor, James Parkinson, published the final volume of his studies on geology, Organic Remains of a Former World. Mantell may have been drawn to Parkinson because, like his father, he was a man of conscience, interested in reform. Parkinson had published such inflammatory pamphlets as While the Honest Poor are wanting Bread and Revolution without Bloodshed, advocating universal suffrage. He had even come dangerously close to transportation to Australia in 1794, when he was arrested for an alleged connection with the ‘Pop Gun Plot’ to assassinate King George III with a poisoned dart while he was at the opera. He was exonerated from treason, but after this incident he restricted his political interests to social reforms, to improving conditions for pauper children, and to treatments for the insane in asylums. James Parkinson is now better remembered as the doctor who first defined ‘Parkinson’s disease’, the degenerative illness marked by shaking and tremors.
At the beginning of the nineteenth century, though, Parkinson was equally well known as a geologist. Along with William Buckland and George Greenough, he was one of the founder members of the Geological Society and had embarked on a detailed survey of everything known about the ‘Ante-Diluvian World’. To Mantell in the Lewes library eagerly taking in the descriptions of the entire vegetable and animal fossil kingdom, Parkinson’s work was an inspiration. Putting aside any scruples about imposing on such an eminent gentleman, he made an appointment to visit Parkinson in Hoxton Square, Shoreditch, in East London.
His nervousness at seeking ‘the pleasure and the privilege’ of such an acquaintance was soon dispelled by James Parkinson’s ‘mild, courteous manner’, Mantell wrote, and the enthusiasm with which he ‘explained to me the principal objects in his cabinets and pointed out every source of information on fossil remains’. Parkinson had assiduously gathered details of Georges Cuvier’s studies in Paris and could tell Mantell of his famous discoveries: the giant extinct mammals, the mastodon, Megatherium and mammoth, and ancient species of crocodiles found around Honfleur and Le Havre. Cuvier believed that the fossil bones of crocodiles came from limestone beds of ‘very high antiquity … considerably older than those which contain the bones of quadrupeds’.
Parkinson had been greatly influenced by the pioneering work of the surveyor William Smith. Whereas Werner, in Saxony, identified rocks principally on the basis of their mineral composition, Smith had recognised that fossils could be used to help identify the beds. In his publication of 1811 Parkinson was careful to classify fossils according to the strata in which they were found; each layer of rock with its entombed fossils was for him a ‘former world’ which held the secrets of the history of the globe.
Parkinson, like Buckland, was intrigued by the conflict between geology and religion and was resolved ‘to shrink from no question … however repugnant to popular opinion’. He concluded that the account of Moses in the Bible ‘is confirmed in every respect, except as to the age of the world, and the distance of time between the completion of different parts of Creation’. Although there was no way of proving the earth’s antiquity, he acknowledged that the formation of the globe and the creation of life ‘must have been the work of a vast length of time’. Following an idea first raised by scholars in the eighteenth century, he reasoned that if the word ‘day’ in Genesis was used ‘to designate indefinite periods in which particular parts of the great work of Creation was accomplished, no difficulty will then remain’.
Parkinson fired the young Mantell with his romantic description of ‘former worlds’ buried in the rock. Each stratum enveloped evidence of a vanished existence, and the geologist could ‘begin to fathom the different revolutions which had swept over the earth in ages antecedent to all human record or tradition’. Parkinson wrote: ‘even the enormous chains of mountains which seem to load the surface of the earth are vast monuments in which these remains of former ages are entombed … they are hourly suffering those changes by which after thousands of years they become the chief constituent parts of gems; the limestone which forms the humble cottage of the peasant, or the marble which adorns the splendid palace of the Prince.’ The mountains, the hills and the land beneath their feet: all these were vast tombs more astounding than the pyramids.
It was through meetings with men like Parkinson that Mantell’s ambitions began to take shape. It was, he thought, the role of the scientist ‘to unveil God’s secrets … and unravel the mysteries of the beautiful world through which he was destined to pass’. James Parkinson had found time for geology while practising as a doctor. Mantell, too, would carry on his childhood dream. He would devote every spare minute to exploring these ancient memorials to a buried past that had existed, it seemed, before Adam. When he returned home to Sussex, he planned to make a systematic study of the strata and fossils of the county, a subject which he viewed as ‘replete with interest and instruction’. This married together his fascination with the subject and his desire to make a name for himself that might bring back honour to his family name.
At the age of twenty-one he gained his diploma of membership of the Royal College of Surgeons and returned to Lewes, where he was immediately offered a partnership with his former master, James Moore. It was soon apparent that he faced a gruelling workload as a country doctor. Epidemics of cholera, typhoid and smallpox still raged. ‘An immense number of Persons in this Town and neighbourhood are ill with Typhus Fever,’ he recorded in his diary on one occasion. ‘I have visited upwards of 40 or 50 patients every day for some time: yesterday I visited 64. The small pox is also very prevalent, 14 have died with it, Taylor in Malling Street who had it in 1794 is now covered with various pustules and has been very ill.’ Armed with little more than boxes of leeches, which were sent from London in boxes of two hundred, he struggled on against these deadly diseases.
His practice included attendance on the sick poor of three parishes, for which he was paid £20 a year, and treating the inmates of the Poor House at St John’s, near Lewes. Long before the development of emergency services, the local doctor provided the only care, even for the severely injured: ‘This morning I was summoned to Ringmer, a poor woman on the Green, Mrs Tasker, had set fire to her clothes and was most dreadfully burnt, it is scarcely possible she should survive.’ For five weeks he visited for an hour every day to change her dressings. When she died, he noted, ‘I am almost fatigued to death.’
There were numerous mills in the district for grinding corn, for producing rapeseed oil and flour, and for brewing or malting, and even for producing paper. With child labour, accidents were common and, without anaesthetic, invariably traumatic: ‘I was called to a most distressing accident at Chailey Mill. A poor boy got his clothes entangled by an upright post that was rapidly revolving; the lad in consequence was whirled round with great velocity and his legs were dashed against a beam. It was considered absolutely necessary to amputate the left leg above the knee, but the constitutional shock was so great that the poor boy died the next day.’
The hours of Gideon Mantell’s medical practice were long and unpredictable, especially since he excelled at midwifery, delivering between two and three hundred babies a year. At a time when the average mortality for women in some hospitals was as high as one in thirty, Mantell had only two deaths in over two thousand births during fifteen years. His great success came at a price: ‘frequently I have been up for six or seven nights in succession: an occasional hour’s sleep in my clothes being the only repose I could obtain’. Nonetheless, with his conscientiousness and tireless energy he gradually increased the profits on the practice from £250 a year to £750.
Despite the immense pressures of his medical workload, Mantell was prepared to sacrifice his few leisure hours to make headway in geology as well. With the carelessness of youth he spared himself nothing, often studying until the small hours and rising after just four hours’ sleep, to see his patients before embarking on some geological expedition.
There were numerous local pits and quarries such as Jenner’s quarry, Malling Hill Pit, Malling Street Pit, Southerham Pit, each laying bare the strata of Sussex. Following the approach of William Smith, he aimed to construct a geological chart of the correct sequence of the local rocks. He paid the pit labourers for any interesting fossils that he could add to his cabinet, and soon became familiar with the beautiful creatures of this former sea. To help identify the invertebrates, Mantell wrote to James Sowerby, a naturalist who was compiling a catalogue of fossil shells. There were many different species of ammonite, the extinct mollusc with a spiral shell that had so enchanted him as a child. In gratitude for the perfect specimens Mantell sent, Sowerby named one species after him: Ammonites mantelli. Embedded with the ammonites in the chalk were bivalves, sponges and another extinct mollusc, the belemnites, with their characteristic conical shell divided into chambers.
As Mantell gained in confidence, he established a network of correspondence with those of similar interest, such as the indefatigable Etheldred Benett – a woman of formidable intellect and serious endeavour, not one to swoon with delight at fashion’s latest dictates or, indeed, to follow them. Although from a prosperous family in Wiltshire, Miss Benett did not succumb to the usual conventions of a woman in county society. Rather than settling into marriage in some comfortable country rectory she stayed firmly unattached, and her pony carriage would often be seen on the hills of Wiltshire while she pursued her main interest, geology. She devoted her life to her collection, and became so well known that eventually her name alone in the literature would suffice to denote work of outstanding quality.
For Mantell such correspondence was both prestigious – she was, after all, a member of the gentry – and highly beneficial, since he could extend his knowledge beyond Sussex. He wrote to her in 1814, requesting ‘the honour of a correspondence’. Miss Benett graciously replied by sending a hamper of fossils to the wagon office in Lewes. Soon they were immersed in comparing the strata of Wiltshire and Sussex, trying to decide which rocks lay above and below others in the sequence. Although not yet known as such they were trying to unravel the sequence of ‘Cretaceous’ rocks across Southern England, which had been formed between 144 and 66 million years ago. Mantell was aided in this by another member of the gentry, George Greenough, who was busily engaged in developing his geological map of England with William Buckland. Greenough was only too keen to capitalise on Mantell’s enthusiasm, frequently requesting more detailed information on the Sussex rocks. By 1815, Mantell had already identified several different strata within the chalk formation around Lewes, the lowest being blue marl, then chalk marl, lower chalk and upper chalk. Greenough steered his research and provided advice on naming the rocks.
In the course of his medical duties, Gideon Mantell was summoned to the assistance of a Mr George Woodhouse, a prosperous gentleman who owned a linen-draper’s business in London. While giving ‘unremitting professional attention’ to Mr Woodhouse, Mantell could hardly fail to notice his patient’s eldest daughter Mary. Her portrait shows a young woman with a mass of dark curls piled high, and large, regarding eyes, her face set off by a fashionably off-the-shoulder dress. She shared his interest in fossils and gave him gifts – corals from Worcestershire and other curiosities she had found. They soon ‘formed an attachment’ and, it would appear, could not wait to get married.
The bride was only twenty, a minor in the eyes of the law, when she married in May 1816, by special licence and with the consent of her mother as guardian. Unfortunately, her father did not live to see the wedding. Thanking Mantell for his ‘professional exertions and kind attention’ shortly before he died, Mr Woodhouse presented him with a treasured gift of James Parkinson’s survey of the fossil kingdom.
Once settled in Lewes, Mary Mantell dutifully helped her husband with the painstaking task of searching for fossils, which was rapidly becoming his consuming interest. It was not uncommon for her to ride out with him on geological expeditions and sometimes even on his medical rounds, when she would check the ground for fossils while he visited patients. She soon found she could assist him with drawings of his finds, and patiently tried to master the art of scientific illustration. ‘I am much pleased with her [Mary’s] first attempt at etching,’ wrote Etheldred Benett to Mantell in 1817. ‘A little practice to enable her to work stronger and bolder appears to me all that is wanting to make them a great ornament to your work.’
With growing self-confidence in his geological observations, Gideon Mantell now decided to write a book setting out his findings on the rocks of Sussex, which he hoped would establish his scientific credentials and perhaps secure his membership of one of the prestigious scientific societies. Mary undertook the illustrations: a fragment of the claw of a crustacean, part of the dorsal fin of a fish, the extraordinary sharp spines of the Plagiostoma spinosa – all the dismembered bits of Nature in their incredible variety. With his wife’s total support and interest, Mantell described his happiness after his marriage as ‘greater than ever’.
As Gideon Mantell began to explore further afield, he realised that there was very different rock to be found in an area known as the Weald, a forest-covered ridge lying between the chalk hills of the North and South Downs. ‘Advancing from the Downs, an outcrop of sandstone is first seen near Taylor’s bridge,’ he observed, ‘and it subsequently appears by the stream that winds along Cuckfield park. At this spot in Whiteman’s Green an excavation has been made.’ As he approached the quarry, he could see tucked below the gorse, wild thyme and trees clinging to the rocks at the surface, the Weald strata exposed to a depth of some forty feet. There were horizontal layers of sandstone, limestone and slate, lying on a bed of blue clays.
With growing excitement, as he examined fragments of rock he began to realise that the fossils entombed in the layers of sandstone and limestone at Whiteman’s Green were quite unlike the invertebrates of the chalk hills around Lewes. Embedded among the debris appeared to be petrified fragments of larger bones. He mentioned this in his letters to George Greenough and Etheldred Benett in the autumn of 1817, explaining that he had uncovered the teeth and bones of vertebrates: amphibia, perhaps crocodiles or alligators. However, the fossils were so mutilated and worn that they were almost impossible to interpret or classify. The logical, tidy plans of the past months, the neat orderly drawings of invertebrates, everything that had fired his imagination about the former sea of chalk, began to be overshadowed by these curious fossil beds.
Whiteman’s Green was too far from Lewes for Mantell to ride out each day, and with the arrival of his first child, Ellen Maria, in 1818 he had even less time than before. So he began negotiations with a Mr Leney who ran the quarry, and during the next year parcels from Cuckfield began to arrive at the Lewes wagon office. The first delivery was not particularly exciting: ‘the bones, teeth and the tongue of a fish’. After another abortive trip when ‘it rained in torrents nearly the whole of our journey’, Mantell ‘made further arrangements with Leney respecting the Cuckfield fossils’. He is likely to have taught the quarryman to search for the remains of larger bones. It wasn’t long before several packages arrived from him, including some fossils that Mantell described as ‘superb specimens’.
Among the fragments of larger bones there were also invertebrates, such as tiny fossil shells and snails. Mantell tried to describe these to Etheldred Benett, although he admitted they were so damaged ‘it is scarcely possible to ascertain the genera or species’. Nonetheless, Miss Benett thought the shells from the Weald were similar to those uncovered in a rock she knew called ‘Purbeck limestone’. This is a formation that stretches across Wiltshire and Dorset that was well established in the geological sequence as Secondary rock. The Weald and the Purbeck, Mantell wrote, following Miss Benett’s advice, ‘correspond in so many particulars … that there is every reason to suppose that they belong to the same formation’. If this was true, the rocks at Whiteman’s Green in the Weald lay well below the chalk at the top of the Secondary series. He was revealing tantalising glimpses of a former world that had thrived an unknown number of years before the fishes and ammonites embedded in the chalk.
All this time Mantell’s medical practice prospered, and he was able to buy a house in Castle Place from his former partner, James Moore, for £700. By 1819 he could afford the house next door and the two houses were knocked together, becoming known, grandly, as ‘Castle Place’. Positioned prominently in the High Street and backing on to Lewes Castle, the imposing home was a world apart from the modest cottage in St Mary’s Lane where Mantell had been brought up. A team of craftsmen was hired to create a gracious interior with Georgian windows to the floor, ornamental arches over the stairwell and even carvings of ammonites to decorate the Ionic columns at the front of the house. As if to complete the metamorphosis from bootmaker’s son to doctor of standing, Mantell adopted the coat-of-arms of his forebears and painted them, entwined with those of Woodhouse, on the porch outside and on the marble table in the dining-room. But if Mary Mantell was under any illusion that she might acquire an elegant new drawing-room to entertain guests, she was to be disappointed. Her husband’s burgeoning ‘little cabinet’ became a grand ‘Collection’ and quickly came to fill the new first-floor drawing-room.
As news of Gideon Mantell’s collection spread, visitors came to view the fossils. One caller was that same Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Birch who had sought out Mary Anning; Mantell described him as a ‘very agreeable and intelligent man’. Birch had been touring the West Country and had spent much time in Dorset buying fossils of the Ichthyosaurus – or ‘Proteosaurus’ as it was still called – from Mary. Naturally, Mantell was intrigued to know how Birch’s giant Ichthyosaurus bones compared to the fragments he had found. In March 1820, shortly after the birth of his second son, Walter Baldock, Mantell received an intriguing letter from Lieutenant-Colonel Birch.
‘I am going to sell my collection for the benefit of the poor woman and her son and daughter at Lyme who have in truth found almost all the fine things,’ Birch wrote. ‘I found these people, the Annings, in considerable difficulty – on the act of selling their furniture to pay their rent – in consequence of their not having found one good fossil for near a twelvemonth. I may never again possess what I am about to part with; yet in doing it I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that the money will be well applied.’
Birch was genuinely concerned that the Annings had not been able to maintain their early success. Apart from an Ichthyosaurus uncovered in 1818, they had had no more significant finds. Birch’s sale was planned for 15 May, in the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly. Gideon Mantell attended the auction and had a chance to see Mary Anning’s ‘marine lizards’: an Ichthyosaur femur and head that was bought for Georges Cuvier in Paris, a partial skeleton, vertebrae and other fossils. Lieutenant-Colonel Birch’s sale raised £400 for the Annings.
Less than a month later, in June 1820, Gideon Mantell entered in his diary: ‘received a packet of fossils from Cuckfield. Among them was a fine fragment of an enormous bone; several vertebrae and some teeth.’ Having met Birch and seen Mary Anning’s giant sea lizards, he immediately wrote that these giant bones must belong to a ‘Proteosaurus or Ichthyosaurus.’ After all, this was the only large creature that had been described in England. Inspired by this discovery of the largest bone he had received so far, he began a series of excursions to Whiteman’s Green in the Weald, the mundane little quarry where workmen laboured for basic stone material, unaware that they were laying bare the secrets of the past. To Mantell the quarry was a magical place; it was like entering the ancient tombs, where extraordinary records of a former world were waiting to be explored. With great enthusiasm, on 16 August 1820 he took the entire family on an outing to the quarry: ‘We made an excursion to Cuckfield; my brother drove the ladies in his chaise and I rode on horseback.’
But the more specimens he found, the more baffling the site became. Strangely, although he believed the animal bones belonged to an Ichthyosaurus, or sea lizard, he began to find the petrified remains of land plants. These fossils were difficult to interpret, some blackened like charcoal, with cracks and fissures filled with white crystalline minerals or the brilliant bronze of fool’s gold. As he scrutinised the stone, he thought he could discern fragmentary remains of leaves, stems and other ‘ligneous structures’, which appeared to be of vegetable origin.
Before 1820, very little was known of fossil botany. In the eighteenth century, Carl Linnaeus had developed a detailed classification system for plants, establishing in his catalogues of several thousand plant species from all over the world the ground rules that a botanist should follow to describe and name plants correctly. Since then, other scholars had occasionally attempted to identify fossil plants, but there were few systematic studies of fossil species before 1820, and names had no legal status. Faced with tantalising impressions of the relics of plants that he could not recognise, Mantell had no knowledgeable source to which he could turn. ‘I am unacquainted with any vegetables either recent or fossil with which these remains can be identified,’ he wrote.
During one trip to the quarry at Cuckfield in 1820 he had a breakthrough. He unearthed, buried with more giant bones, part of a tree trunk more than three feet long, very weathered, with the rudiments of branches. He could see at once that the trunk was covered in distinctive diamond-shaped scars, resembling woody bases where leaf stalks were once attached. This was nothing like the English trees around him, the familiar indentations on the bark of oaks, chestnuts and birches. The roughened surface of the trunk, the pattern of scars from woody leaf stalks, were striking – like those of a tropical palm.
Mantell soon found other fossils, too, which bore more resemblance to a tropical flora. Some of the leaves and stems he thought were like Euphorbia from the East Indies, a lush, flowering shrub. With some confidence he entered in his journal on 17 August 1820: ‘Had a very fine specimen of Euphorbia from Cuckfield.’ Two weeks later, he sent ‘a large and beautiful specimen of fossil Euphorbia from Cuckfield to Mr Greenough … it was embedded in mastic, the same composition as used for the Minerets and Domes of the oriental palace at Brighton’. In fact, flowering plants, like Euphorbia and palms, had not yet appeared on the map of the primitive landscape. The history of fossil plants and the habitat for Mantell’s unknown giant creature were stranger than anything he could anticipate with the limited evidence then available to him.
In 1821, as Mantell was trying to find out more about tropical plants and animals, the Reverend William Conybeare completed his detailed study of Ichthyosaurus for the Geological Society. This was to provide another clue to the giant bones. Conybeare had included beautiful anatomical drawings of the bones of Ichthyosaurus. When Mantell compared the fossil bones that he had uncovered at Whiteman’s Green in the Weald, he found that they were very different from those of the sea lizard of Lyme. The vertebrae of an ichthyosaur were slender and deeply hollowed, allowing for the flexible movements of an animal living in water – nothing like the chunky, solid vertebrae that he had uncovered in Sussex. The leg bone of the Ichthyosaurus was more like the fin of a fish; the slender central bone, the humerus, ‘immediately supporting a very numerous series of small bones, form[ed] a very flexible paddle’. But the portion of giant femur, or thigh bone, that he had found in the Weald bore no resemblance to any bone in the sea lizard. It was truly enormous: the fragment, of the top part of the bone, was over two feet long and twenty inches in circumference. If this fragment of a giant leg was not derived from an Ichthyosaurus, then to what kind of monstrous creature could it belong?
Apart from the shape of the bones, there was another clue that the unknown creature from the Weald was not a sea lizard. When a creature dies at sea, its body sinks down to the ocean floor and is gradually covered by a fine rain of particles that form the new sediments. As it is gradually densely packed with layers of sediment accumulating above, the bony skeleton can be well preserved, just like the ichthyosaurs of Lyme. But when a creature dies on land it is much more likely to be destroyed, falling prey to some other animal or scattered by wind and rain, leaving only a confused jumble of bones. Mantell could recover only fragments of bone from the Weald, never a full skeleton. As yet, he had not even found two bones joined together. It occurred to him that these worn relics of giant bones might have belonged to a creature that spent at least part of its life on land, beneath the shade of palms.
In the quiet of night, when all the town was long since asleep and his medical duties were completed, Gideon Mantell studied the fossils he had found, so utterly absorbed in his work that he was often unaware that the small hours were approaching. With careful use of chisel and hammer, the shape of the bones slowly emerged from the surrounding stone like some strange primordial sculpture, perhaps more impressive than something that is finished, containing all the promise of a great work of art gradually taking shape before his eyes. He would glimpse eerie fragments of the ancient animal: the exquisitely smooth curve of the giant femur, the sharp points of the damaged vertebrae, the strange ridges on the enamel of the teeth; the foramina, or holes, for blood vessels, far larger than any human capillary. It was unearthly.
To try to make more sense of this confusing picture, he would use as a reference Georges Cuvier’s acclaimed four-volume summary, Recherches sur les Ossemens Fossiles des Quadrupèdes, which had been translated into English in 1813. Here Cuvier outlined the details of several species of ancient extinct crocodiles found at Honfleur and Le Havre. Mantell compared his fossils against Cuvier’s drawings, and some of the bones, especially the vertebrae, seemed to correspond. To obtain a second opinion, he now made arrangements to view the Hunterian Museum at the Royal College of Surgeons in London. John Hunter’s collection of ten thousand anatomical specimens had been bought by the government after his death in 1793 and placed in the Royal College at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Here, they were being catalogued by Hunter’s former apprentice, William Clift.
The child of a poor family in Devon, Clift possessed an exceptional talent for drawing which had been noticed by the local gentry, and he had been sent to assist Hunter. Greatly honoured by this appointment, the young Clift had laboured long hours for little pay, helping with dissections before breakfast at six in the morning and often not finishing until after midnight, the evenings being spent in dictation. Within a year of his apprenticeship, Hunter died, but he revered his former master and was determined to continue his work.
Although hampered by the fact that Sir Everard Home had removed many manuscripts that would have helped to identify the specimens, Clift struggled on, trying to prepare Hunter’s collection for public view. By the 1820s, his experience was considerable. When Gideon Mantell presented him with one of the pointed, curved teeth he had found, Clift did not hesitate: ‘there can be no doubt of its having belonged either to the crocodile or the monitor [lizard]. I know of no animal whose teeth have the lateral ridges so strongly defined.’
From such discussions with Clift and comparisons with Cuvier, Mantell began to think that at least some of the giant bones could be assigned, not to a sea lizard, but to an ancient species of crocodile. He wrote in summer 1821 to a friend, the MP and Fellow of the Royal Society Davies Gilbert, telling him of the giant bones of crocodiles that he had found that spring in the Weald. ‘There can be no hesitation,’ said Mantell confidently, in assigning them to ‘the same unknown species of Crocodile, as discovered at Honfleur and Havre’.
But soon after this, Mary Mantell made a remarkable discovery that did not fit this conclusion. There are several versions of the event; the most plausible recounts that the incident occurred one morning in 1820 or 1821, when Mary was accompanying her husband on his medical rounds. While waiting for him to see his patient, she searched for fossils. As she walked, her eyes were irresistibly drawn to a strange shape in a pile of stones that had been heaped by the side of the road. Picking up the stone, she brushed away the white dust, gently removing any loose rock with her fingers. Gradually a shape emerged never previously seen by human eye. It was very smooth, worn and dark brown, rather like a flattened fragment of a giant tooth.
When she showed her husband, he saw at once that this was something important. ‘Soon after my first discovery of colossal bones,’ he wrote, ‘some teeth of a very remarkable character particularly excited my curiosity for they were wholly unlike any that had previously come under my observation.’ The fragment of tooth was more than an inch long, and shaped into a blunt, grinding surface at the crown. The couple were able to trace the source of the pile of stones to the same quarry in Whiteman’s Green in which Mantell had found the other giant bones. ‘Even the quarrymen, accustomed to collect the remains of fishes, shells and other objects embedded in the rocks,’ he wrote, ‘had not observed fossils of this kind and were not aware of the presence of such teeth in the stone they were constantly breaking for the roads.’
The ‘tooth’ cast all his observations into doubt. He could see that this was not the tooth of a crocodile, for it did not have the sharp, pointed crown essential for a carnivore. It had a broad, flattened grinding surface, supported by thick enamel on one side and with a marked ridge up the middle. This was much more like the tooth of a herbivorous mammal, that had been worn down by constant chewing. ‘The first specimen so entirely resembled the part of the incisor of a large mammal,’ he wrote, ‘that I was much embarrassed to account for its presence in such ancient strata, in which according to all geological experience, no fossil remains of mammal would ever be discovered.’
Although the tooth resembled a herbivorous mammal like a hippopotamus or rhinoceros, such creatures were not supposed to exist in ancient rock. Cuvier’s extinct large mammals such as the mammoth and mastodon had been retrieved from Tertiary deposits. Mantell thought from his correspondence with Etheldred Benett that Weald rocks were much older, from the Secondary period. To suggest that mammals had lived in ancient times was one step beyond anything that naturalists could envisage. As James Parkinson had written, although the time-scale of Creation as outlined in Moses had been questioned, the order of Creation was not in doubt. Parkinson thought it striking that the order of creation as stated in the Scriptures was ‘in close agreement’ with geological evidence: ‘The Creative Power has been exercised with increasing excellence in its objects … the last and highest work appearing to be Man.’ No one had yet challenged the assumption that mammals were created last, when God had prepared the Earth for the higher animals.
This belief informed Mantell’s quest; he did not yet have enough evidence to disregard the huge burden of accepted wisdom. He asked himself, if the owner of the tooth was not a large mammal, then what was it? The tooth did not resemble that of any fish at the Hunterian Museum. It could not come from a turtle; they have no teeth, only horny beaks. No amphibian was known to reach giant proportions. And it certainly was not from a bird – no toothed birds had been reported at this time. By a process of elimination the evidence pointed to a bizarre conclusion: the teeth belonged to a giant herbivorous lizard.
Yet this conclusion made no sense. ‘As no known, existing reptiles are capable of masticating their food I could not venture to assign the tooth in question to a lizard,’ wrote Mantell. A herbivorous reptile that could chew its food like a cow was unheard of. It was a preposterous idea. The experts in London, such as William Clift, were following Georges Cuvier, interpreting the fossil record by analogy to living forms. But there was no modern analogue to such a strange reptile.
Gideon Mantell lacked the one piece of evidence that would have proved the tooth belonged to a reptile: a fossilised jaw. A mammal’s jaw is very distinctive. Even if the teeth are missing, there are differently shaped spaces for the various types of teeth: molars, premolars, incisors and canines. A reptile does not have several types of teeth; although its teeth may vary in size, the sockets are all the same shape. But Mantell could not find a jaw, just a single disembodied tooth.
When he studied the tooth at home, in his drawing-room, surrounded by his collection, in moments of doubt – the large fragment of tooth was so worn – he sometimes wondered if he had found anything at all. Viewed from some directions it was almost unrecognisable as a tooth. Fine, feathery black lines were woven across the surface like a spider’s web. There it lay in his hand, a scrap of a fossil scarcely larger than a pebble, withholding the secret to an unknown past.
During the summer of 1821 Mantell redoubled his efforts to gather any evidence that could shed more light on the mystery. Scarcely interrupted by the major events of the day – the death of Emperor Napoleon on St Helena, the spectacular coronation of the ageing King George IV, the summer races and Brighton fair – he struggled with his geological research whenever time could be spared from his practice. Sometimes he took the single-horse chaise to Cuckfield with his young apprentice, George Rollo; occasionally he rode out alone to hunt for further evidence of his monster.
By the autumn, Mantell’s first-floor rooms were filled with a strange assortment of fragments of giant bones uncovered in the Weald. From his knowledge of anatomy while training as a doctor he was able to identify several of them. He wrote to the Reverend Conybeare at the Geological Society, telling him that he had ‘ribs; clavicle [part of the shoulder]; radius [forearm]; pubis [front part of the pelvis]; ilium [from the side of the pelvis]; femur or thigh bone; tibia or shin bone of the leg; metatarsal bones of the foot; vertebrae forming the back-bone and teeth’. Although the teeth appeared broken off close to the jaw, the jaw itself could not be traced. Some of the bones had features in common and seemed to belong together. Others were so broken and fragile they were impossible to identify. All the bones were hopelessly intermingled with debris from other animals, turtles, fishes, shells and vegetables.
