The Deluge in the Light of Modern Science: A Discourse — Reading Notes

Quantifying the Impossible Rain

Denton begins his analysis by calculating the rainfall needed to cover the highest mountains. He notes that a heavy rain in Great Britain is an inch per day, and the heaviest recorded—thirty inches in twenty-four hours on the Khasia Hills in India—would yield only one hundred feet over forty days, far short of covering mountains. He cites Sir John Leslie's estimate that the entire atmosphere holds barely five inches of water. To cover mountains, Denton calculates, it must have rained seven hundred feet per day for forty days, or over fourteen hundred times the atmosphere's total water content each day. This quantitative approach, grounded in specific numbers and sources, is characteristic of his method throughout the discourse.

The Fountains of the Deep and Geological Impossibility

Turning to the phrase 'fountains of the great deep,' Denton argues that to ancient Jews it meant something plausible, but geology shows it is impossible. He quotes Adam Clarke's suggestion that water occupied the earth's centre and burst forth, causing strata to sink. Denton counters that sinking strata would only raise mountains relative to water, requiring even more water. Moreover, he points out that at a mile and a half deep, the earth's interior is hot enough to turn water to steam, precluding any central reservoir. This section demonstrates his reliance on contemporary geological knowledge to dismantle literal interpretations.

Where Did the Water Go? The Wind Problem

Denton then addresses the flood's recession. Stopping the rain and closing the fountains would not remove water. The biblical wind, he calculates, would have to evaporate and blow away an ocean 125 feet deep every day for eight months to uncover Mount Kunchinginga (28,000 feet). Such a wind, he argues, would be beyond any hurricane and would destroy the ark itself. This line of reasoning uses the same quantitative scrutiny applied to the rainfall, turning the narrative's own details against its plausibility.

Practical Absurdities: Light and Livestock in the Ark

Shifting from grand-scale physics to mundane logistics, Denton asks how animals were supplied with light in the ark's lower stories. The single window, only twenty-two inches across, was in the third story. He notes that kerosene was unknown and tallow dips would have been impractical. This observation, though brief, reveals his attention to everyday details that the narrative overlooks. It underscores his broader argument that the story fails under any practical scrutiny, not just scientific calculation.

Denton's discourse is best read as a period piece of 19th-century rationalism, applying the era's scientific tools to a foundational religious text. Readers should note that his arguments rely on specific geological and meteorological assumptions of his time, some of which have since been refined. The value lies not in the conclusions alone but in observing how Denton constructs his case—through direct quotation, arithmetic, and appeals to natural law—making it a clear example of the conflict between science and scripture as understood in 1882.

Holding Denton’s arithmetic against the flood, I felt that same quiet ache I remember from my grandfather’s bookshelf, where Genesis and granite sat side by side. He’d trace the strata like a prayer. Later, The Cradle of the Christ: A Study in Primitive Christianity — Reading Notes offered a similar tenderness—not destroying the story, just letting geology and history breathe beside it, unhurriedly.