HOW PERCY BINGHAM CAUGHT HIS TROUT.
One lovely evening towards the end of the month of June, 187-, an outside car jingled into the picturesque little village of Ballynacushla. The sun had set in a flood of golden glory; purple shadows wooed midsummer-night dreams on crested hill and in hooded hollow; a perfumed stillness slept upon the tranquil waters of the Killeries, that wild but beauteous child of the Atlantic, broken only by the shrill note of the curlew seeking its billow-rocked nest, or the tinkle of the sheep-bell on the heather-clad heights of Carrignagolliogue. Lights like truant stars commenced to twinkle in lonely dwellings perched like eyries in the mountain clefts, and night prepared to don her lightest mourning in memory of the departed day.
The rickety vehicle which broke upon the stillness was occupied by two persons—a handsome, aristocratic-looking young man attired in fashionable tourist costume, and the driver, whose general “get-up” would have won the heart of Mr. Boucicault at a single glance.
“That’s a nate finish, yer honner,” he exclaimed, as, bringing a wheel into collision with a huge boulder which lay in the roadway, he decanted the traveller upon the steps of the “Bodkin Arms” at the imminent risk of breaking his neck.
The “Bodkin Arms,” conscious of its whitewash and glowing amber thatch, stood proudly isolated. Its proprietor had been “own man” to Lord Clanricarde, and scandal whispered that a portion of the contents of “the lord’s” cellar was to be found in Tom Burke’s snuggery behind the bottle-bristling bar.
The occupant of the car was flung into the arms of an expectant waiter, who, true to the instincts of that remarkable race, had scented his prey from afar, and calmly awaited its approach. This Ganymede was attired in a cast-off evening dress-coat frescoed in grease; a shirt bearing traces of the despairing grasp of a frantic washerwoman; a necktie of the dimensions of a window-curtain, of faded brocade; and waistcoat with continuations of new corduroy, which wheezed and chirruped with every motion of his lanky frame. His nose and hair vied in richness of ruby, and his eyes mutely implored every object upon which they rested for a sleep—or a drink.
“You got my note?” said the traveller interrogatively.
“Yes, sir, of course, sir.” Of course they had it. The post in the west of Ireland is an eccentric institution, which disgorges letters just as it suits itself, and without any particular scruple as to dates.
“Have you a table d’hôte here?”
This was a strange sound, but the waiter was a bold man.
“Yes, sir, of course, sir! Would you like it hot, sir?”
“Hot! Certainly.”
“Yes, sir, of course, sir! With a taste of lemon in it?”
“I said—Pshaw! Is dinner ready?” said the traveller impatiently.
“Yes, sir, of course, sir; it’s on the fire, sir,” joyously responded the relieved servitor, although the fowls which were to furnish it were engaged in picking up a precarious subsistence at his very feet, and the cabbage to “poultice” the bacon flabbily flourishing in the adjoining garden.
“Get in my traps and rods”—the car was laden with fishing-tackle of the most elaborate description. “Have you good fishing here?”
“Yes, sir, of course, sir—the finest in Ireland. Trouts lepping into the fryin’-pan out of the lake foreninst ye. The marquis took twoscore between where yer standing and Fin Ma Coole’s Rock last Thursday; and Mr. Blake, of Town Hill—more power to him!—hooked six elegant salmon in the pool over, under Kilgobbin Head.”
“I want change of a sovereign.”
“Yes, sir, of course, sir—change for a hundred pound, sir. This way, sir. Mind yer head in regard of that flitch of bacon. It gave Captain Burke a black eye on Friday, and the county inspector got a wallop in the jaw that made his teeth ring like the bell in the middle o’ Mass.” And he led the way into the hotel.
The charioteer, after a prolonged and exciting chase through several interstices in his outer garment, succeeded in fishing up a weather-beaten black pipe, which he proceeded to “ready” with a care and gravity befitting the operation.
“Have ye got a taste o’ fire, Lanty Kerrigan?” addressing a diminutive personage, the remains of whose swallow-tailed frieze coat were connected with his frame through the medium of a hay-rope, and whose general appearance bore a stronger resemblance to that of a scarecrow than a man and a brother. “I’m lost intirely for a shough. The forriner [the stranger] wudn’t stand smokin’, as he sed the tobaccy was infayrior, but never an offer he med me av betther.”
“Howld a minnit, an’ I’ll get ye a hot sod.” And in less than the time specified Lanty returned with a glowing sod of turf snatched from a neighboring fire.
“More power, Lanty!” exclaimed the car-driver, proceeding to utilize the burning brand. “Don’t stan’ too nigh the baste, avic, or she’ll be afther aiting yer waistband and lavin’ ye in yer buff.”
“What soart av a fare have ye, Misther Malone?” asked Lanty, now at a respectful distance from the mare.
“Wan av th’ army—curse o’ Crummle an thim!—from the barrack beyant at Westpoort.”
“Is it a good tack?”
“I’ve me doubts,” shaking his head gravely and taking several wicked whiffs of his dhudheen. “He’s afther axin’ for change, an’ that luks like a naygur.”
“Thrue for ye, Misther Malone! Did ye rouse him at all?” asked the other in an anxious tone. He expected the return of the “forriner” and was taking soundings.
“Rouse him! Begorra, ye might as well be endayvorin’ to rouse a griddle. I’m heart scalded wud him. I soothered him wud stories av the good people, leprechauns, an’ banshees until I was as dhry as a cuckoo.”
“Musha, thin, he must be only fit for wakin’ whin you cudn’t rouse him, Mickey Malone.”
“I’d as lieve have a sack o’ pitaties on me car as—” He stopped short and plunged the pipe into his pocket, as the object of the discussion suddenly appeared upon the steps.
“Here is a sovereign for the car and half a sovereign for yourself,” exclaimed the young officer, tossing the coins to the expectant Malone.
“Shure you won’t forget the little mare, Captain?”
“Forget her? Not likely, or you either, Patsey.”
“Ye’ll throw her a half a crown for to dhrink yer helth, Major?”
“Drink my health? What do you mean?”
“Begorra, she’d take a glass o’ sperrits wud a gauger, Curnil; an’ if she wudn’t I wud. Me an’ her is wan, an’ I’ve dacent manners on my side, so I’ll drink yer honner’s helth an’ that ye may never die till yer fit.”
“That sentiment is worth the money,” laughed the traveller, tossing the half-crown in the air and disappearing into the hotel.
“Well, be the mortial frost, Misther Malone,” cried Lanty Kerrigan in an enthusiastic burst of admiration, “but yer the shupayriorest man in Connemara.”
Percy Bingham, of the —th Regiment of the Line, found Westport even more dreary than the Curragh of Kildare. From the latter he could run up to Dublin in the evening, and return next morning for parade, even if he had to turn into bed afterwards; from Westport there was nothing to be done but the summit of Croagh Patrick or a risky cruise amongst the three hundred little islands dotting Clew Bay. “Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch’entrate” was written upon the entrance to the town. All was dreariness, dulness, and desolation, empty quays, ruined warehouses, and squalid misery. The gentry, with few exceptions, were absentees, and those whom interest or necessity detained in the country spent “the season” in London or Dublin, returning, with weary hearts and empty pockets, to the exile of their homes, there to vegetate until spring and the March rents, wrung from an oppressed tenantry, would enable them to flit citywards once more. To Bingham, to whom London was the capital of the world, and the United Service Club the capital of London, this phase in his military career was a horrid nightmare. Born and bred an Englishman, he had been educated to regard Ireland as little better than a Fiji island, and considerably worse than a West African station; and, filled to the brim with Saxon prejudice, he took up his Irish quarters with mingled feelings of disgust and despair. An ardent disciple of Izaak Walton, he clung to the safety-valve of rod and reel, avenging his exclusion from May Fair and Belgravia by a wicked raid upon every trout-stream within a ten-mile radius of the barracks, and, having obtained a few days’ leave of absence, arrived at Ballynacushla for the purpose of “wetting his line” in the saucy little rivers that joyously leap into the placid bosom of the land-locked Killeries.
“So my dinner is ready at last,” exclaimed Bingham pettishly. A good digestion had waited two mortal hours on appetite.
“Yes, sir, of course, sir!” replied the waiter. “A little derangement of the cabbage, sir, lost a few minutes, but” cheerily “we’re safe and snug now anyway. There’s darling chickens, sir! Look at the lovely bacon, sir! Survey the proportions of the cabbage, sir!” And rubbing his napkin across his perspiring brow, he gazed at the viands, and from the viands to the guest, in alternate glances of admiration and respect.
“Have you a carte?”
“Yes, sir, of course, sir—two of them; likewise a shay and a covered car.”
“A wine carte, I mean.”
“No, sir; we get the wine from Dublin in hampers.”
Percy Bingham forgot that he was not in an English inn where the waiters discuss vintages and prescribe peculiar brands of dry champagne.
“What wines have you?”
“We’ve port wine, sir, and sherry wine, sir, and claret wine, sir, and Mayderial wine, sir,” was the reply, run off with the utmost rapidity.
“Get me a bottle of sherry!”
“Yes, sir, of course, sir.”
In a few minutes the gory-headed factotum returned with the wine, and, uncorking it with a tremendous flourish of arm, napkin, head, and hair, deliberately poured out an overflowing glassful of the amber-colored fluid, and drained it off.
“What the mischief do you mean?” demanded the young officer angrily. “I wanted for to make certain that your honner was getting the right wine.” And placing the bottle at Percy Bingham’s elbow, he somewhat hastily withdrew.
The gallant warrior enjoyed his chicken and bacon and “wisp of cabbage.” The waiter had made his peace by concocting with cunning hand a tumbler of whiskey-punch, hot, strong, and sweet, which Bingham proceeded to sip between the whiffs of a Sabean-odored Lopez. Who fails to build castles upon the creamy smoke, as it fades imperceptibly into space, wafting upwards aspirations, wishes, hopes, dreams—rare and roseate shadows, begotten of bright-eyed fancy? Not Percy Bingham, surely, seated by the open casement, lulled by the murmuring plash of the toying tide, gazing forth into the silent sadness of the gray-hooded summer night. He had lived a butterfly life, and his thoughts were of gay parterres and brilliant flowers. “Of hair-breadth 'scapes i’ the imminent deadly breach” he knew nothing. His game of war was played in the boudoir and drawing-room; his castle was built in May Fair, his châtelaine an ideal. The chain of his meditation was somewhat rudely snapped asunder by an animated dialogue which had commenced in some remote region of the hotel, and which was now being continued beneath the window whereat he reclined. The waiter had evidently been engaged in expostulating with Lanty Kerrigan.
“Don’t run yer head against a stone wall, Lanty avic. Be off to Knockshin, and don’t let the grass grow under yer feet!”
“Faix, it’s little ould Joyce wud think av me feet; it’s me back he’d be lukkin for, an’ a slip av a stick. Sorra a step I’ll go.”
“Miss Mary must get her parcel anyhow.”
“Let her sind for it, thin, av she’s in sich a hurry.”
“An’ so she did. Get a lind av a horse, Lanty.”
“Sorra a horse there’s in the place, barrin’ an ass.”
“Wirra! wirra! She’ll take the tatch off the roof; the blood of the Joyces is cruel hot.”
“Hot or cowld, I’m not goin’ three mile acrass the bogs—-”
“You could coax it into two be manes av a sup, Lanty.”
“Sorra a coax, thin. Coax it yerself, sence yer so onaisy.”
“What’s the row?” asked Percy Bingham from the window.
“It’s in regard to a parcel for Miss Joyce, yer honner,” replied Lanty, stepping forward.
“And who is Miss Joyce?” said Percy, intensely amused.
“O mother o’ Moses! he doesn’t know the beautifullest craythur in the intire cunthry,” exclaimed Lanty, hastily adding: “She’s the faymale daughther av ould Miles Joyce, of Knockshin beyant, wan av the rale owld anshient families that kep’ up Connemara sence the times av Julius Saysar.”
“And you have a parcel for her?”
“Troth, thin, I have, bad cess to it! It kem up Lough Corrib, an’ round be Cong, insted of takin’ the car to Clifden, all the ways from Dublin, in a box as big as a turf creel. It’s a gownd—no less—for a grate party to-night; an’, begorra, while it’s lyin’ here they’re goin’ to stay at Frinchpark.”
“It’s too bad,” thought Bingham, “to have the poor girl sold on account of the laziness of this idle rascal. Her heart may be set upon this dress. A new ball-dress is an epoch in a young girl’s existence, and a ball dress in this out-of-the way place is a fairy gift. Hinc illæ lachrymæ! How many hopes cruelly blasted, how many anticipated victories turned into humiliating defeat. If it were not so late—By Jove! it shall not be.” And yielding to a sudden impulse, Percy Bingham ordered Kerrigan to start for Knockshin.
“It’s five mile, yer honner, an’—”
“There is sixpence a mile for you. Go!” And in another instant the parcel-laden Lanty had taken to the bog like a snipe.
Percy Bingham attacked his breakfast upon the following morning with a gusto hitherto unknown to him. “I wonder did that girl”—he had forgotten her name—“get the dress in time? I hope so. How fresh these eggs are! I wonder if she’s as pretty as that ragamuffin described her? These salmon cutlets are perfection. I must have a look at her, at all events. 'Pon my life! those kidneys are devilled to a grain of pepper. This ought to be a good trout day. One more rasher. By George! if the colonel saw me perform this breakfast, he’d make me exchange into the heavies.”
Lighting a cigar and seating himself upon a granite boulder by the edge of the inlet, the purple mountains shutting him in from the world, he proceeded to assort his flies and to “put up” his casts.
“Musha, but yer honor has the hoighth av decoys!” observed Lanty Kerrigan, touching the dilapidated brim of his caubeen, and seating himself beside him. There is a masonry amongst the gentle craft which levels rank, and “a big fish” will bring peer and peasant cheek by jowl on terms of the most familiar intercourse.
“Yes, that’s a good book,” said Percy, with a justifiable pride in his tone. The colors of the rainbow, the ornithology of the habitable globe, were represented within its parchment folds. “This ought to be a good day, Lanty.”
“Shure enough,” looking up at the sky. “More betoken, I seen Finnegan’s throut as I come acrass the steppin’-stones there below.”
“Finnegan’s trout! What sort of a trout is that?” asked the officer.
“Pether Finnegan was a great fisher in these parts, yer honor. Nothin’ cud bate him. He’d ketch a fish as shure as he wetted a line, an’ no matther how cute or cunnin’, he’d hav thim out av the wather before they cud cry murther. But there was wan ould throut of shupayrior knowledge that was well fed on the hoighth av wurrums an’ flies, an’ he knew Pether Finnegan, an’, begorra, Pether knew him. They used for to stand foreninst wan another for days an’ days, Pether flappin’ the wather, an’ th’ ould throut flappin’ his tail. 'I’ll hav ye, me man,’ sez Pether. 'I’ll have ye, av I was to ketch ye in me arms like a new born babe', sez he. 'I never was bet be a man yet,’ sez he, 'an’ be the mortial I’m not goin’ for to be bet be a fish.’ So he ups, yer honor, an’, puttin’ a cupple o’ quarts o’ whiskey in his pockets for to keep up his heart, he ups an’ begins for to fish in airnest an’ for the bare life. First he thried flies, an’ thin he thried wurrums, an’ thin he thried all soarts av combusticles; but th’ ould throut turned up his nose at the entirety, an’ Pether seen him colloguerin’ wud the other throuts, an’ puttin’ his comether on thim for to take it aisy an’ lave Pether’s decoys alone. Well, sir, Pether Finnegan was a hot man an’ aisy riz—the heavens be his bed!—an’ whin he seen the conspiracy for to defraud him, an’ the young throuts laffin’ at him, he boiled over like a kittle, an’ shoutin’, 'I’ll spile yer divarshin,’ med a dart into the river. His body was got, the bottles was safe in his pockets, but, be the mortial frost, th’ ould throut got at the whiskey an’ dhrank it every dhrop.”
“I must endeavor to catch him,” laughed Percy Bingham.
“Ketch him!” exclaimed Lanty indignantly. “Wisha, you wudn’t ketch him, nor all the fusileers an’ bombardiers in th’ army wudn’t ketch him, nor th’ ould boy himself—the Lord be betune us an’ harm!—wudn’t ketch him. He’s as cute as the say-sarpint or the whale that swallied Juno.”
“What do the trout take best here?” asked Bingham, whose preparations were nearly completed, his rod being set up and festoons of casting-lines encircling his white felt hat.
“Wurrums is choice afther a flood; dough is shupayrior whin they’re leppin’ lively; but av all the baits that ever consaled a hook there’s non aiquail to corbait—it’s the choicest decoy goin’. A throut wud make a grab at a corbait av the rattles was in his troath an’ a pike grippin’ him be the tail.”
Lanty Kerrigan was told off as cicerone, guide, philosopher, and friend.
“I suppose I am safe in fishing these rivers. No bailiff or hinderance?” asked Percy Bingham of the landlord of the “Bodkin Arms.”
“There’s no wan to hinder you, sir; so a good take to you,” was the reply. “I hope ye won’t come across old Miles Joyce, for if ye do there’ll be wigs on the green,” he added under his breath as he turned into the bar.
A cook it was her station,
The first in the Irish nation.
Wud carvin’ blade she’d slash away to the company’s admiration,
sang Lanty Kerrigan, prolonging the last syllable—a custom with his class—into a kind of wail, as he merrily led the way through a narrow mountain pass, inaccessible save to pedestrians, in the direction of the fishing-ground. It was a sombre morning. Nature was in a meditative mood, and forbade the prying glances of the sun. The white mists hung like bridal veils over hill and dale, mellowing the dark green of the pine-trees and the blue of the distant Atlantic, occasionally visible as they pursued their zigzag, upward course. A light breeze—“the angler’s luck”—gently fanned the cheek, and the sprouting gorse and tender ferns were telling their rosaries on glittering beads of diamond dew.
“This is Lough Cruagh, yer honor, an’ there’s the boat; av ye don’t ketch the full av her, it’s a quare thing.” The lake, a pool of dark-brown water, lay in the lap of an amphitheatre of verdureless, grim, gaunt-looking mountains. It was a desolate place. No living thing broke upon the solitude, and the silence was as complete as if the barren crags had whispered the single word “hush” and awaited the awful approach of thunder. A road ran by the edge of the lake, but it was grass-grown and showed no sign of traffic, not even the imprint of a horse’s foot.
“Now she’s aff,” cried Lanty, seizing the oars. “Out wud yer flies, an’ more power to yer elbow.”
The sport was splendid. No sooner had his tail-fly touched the water than an enormous trout plunged at it with a splash like that of a small boy taking a header, and away went the line off the reel as though it were being uncoiled by machinery—up the lake, down the lake, across the lake; now winding in, now giving the rod until it bent like a whip; now catching a glimpse of the fish, now fearing for the line on the bottom rocks.
“If the gut howlds ye’ll bate him, brave as he is,” exclaimed Lanty Kerrigan in an ecstasy of apprehension.
The fish was taking it quietly—il faut reculer pour mieux sauter—preparing for another effort. Percy Bingham wiped the perspiration from his brow; his work was cut out for him.
“Now’s the time for a dart o’ sperrits,” said Kerrigan, dexterously shipping his oars and unfastening the lid of the hamper. “Ye won’t, yer honner?”—Bingham had expressed dissent. “Well, begorra, here’s luck, an’ that it may be good,” pouring out a dropsied glassful and tossing it off. “That’s shupayrior,” with a smack; “its warmin’ me stomick like a bonfire! Whisht!” he added in an alarmed whisper, “who the dickens is this is comin’ along the road?”
A mail phaeton, attached to a pair of spanking grays, came swiftly and silently along the grass-grown causeway. An elderly, aristocratic-looking man was driving, and beside him sat a young and beautiful girl. “Be the hokey! we’re bet; it’s ould Miles Joyce himself,” cried Lanty Kerrigan.
“Is that Miss Joyce, the young lady to whom you took the box last night?” asked Percy somewhat eagerly.
“Och wirra! wirra! to be shure it is, an’ that same box is our only chance now.”
“Pull nearer shore, Lanty,” said the young officer, who was very anxious for a stare. “Good style,” he muttered. “Tight head, delicious plaits, Regent Street hat—ma foi! who would think of meeting anything like this in a devil’s punchbowl? Pull into shore, man,” he testily cried.
“Shure I’m pullin’ me level best.”
“Not that shore, you idiot. Pull for the carriage.” Lanty was straining in the opposite direction.
“Are ye mad, sir?” whispered Kerrigan. “I wudn’t face ould Joyce this blessed minit for a crock o’ goold.”
The carriage drew up, and the driver in an authoritative voice shouted: “Bring that boat here.”
“We’re bet; I tould you so,” gasped Lanty, reluctantly heading the boat in the direction of the carriage. A few strokes brought them to the beach.
Percy Bingham raked up his eye-glass and gazed ardently at Mary Joyce, who returned the stare with compound interest. Irish gray eyes with black, sweeping lashes, hawthorn-blossoms on her brow, apple-blossoms on her cheeks, rose-buds on her lips, purple blood in her veins, youth and grace and modesty hovering about her like a delicious perfume.
“May I ask by whose authority you are fishing here?” Mr. Joyce was pale, and suppressed anger scintillated in his eyes. There are a great many things to be done with impunity in Connemara, but poaching is the seven deadly sins rolled into one. “Thou shalt not fish” is the eleventh commandment. Bingham felt the awkwardness of his position at a glance, and met it like a gentleman.
“I cannot say that I am here by any person’s authority. I am stopping at the 'Bodkin Arms’—”
“Och murther! murther! howld your whisht,” interposed Lanty in a hoarse whisper.
“Silence, fellow!” cried Bingham. “I am stopping at the 'Bodkin Arms,’ and, upon asking the proprietor if there was any hinderance to my fishing, he replied that there was none. I ought, perhaps, to have been more explicit with him.”
“Av coorse ye shud,” interrupted Lanty.
“And I can only say”—here he stared very hard at Mary Joyce—“that it mortifies me more than I can possibly express to you to be placed in this extremely painful position.”
“Do not say one word about it,” said Mr. Joyce in a courteous tone. “With the proprietor of the 'Bodkin Arms’ I know how to deal, and with you too, Lanty Kerrigan.” Lanty wriggled in the boat till it rocked again. “But as for you, sir, all I can say is that I regret to have disturbed your fishing, and I wish you very good sport.” And he bowed with haughty politeness.
“I thank you very much for your courtesy,” bowed Bingham, who had by this time landed from the boat, “but I shall no longer continue an intruder.” And seizing his rod, he snapped it thrice across his knee and flung it into the lake.
It was Mary Joyce’s bright eyes that led him to this folly—he wanted to be set right with her.
“Oh! how stupid,” she exclaimed, starting to her feet.
“Thrue for ye, miss,” added Lanty—“two-pound tin gone like a dhrink, an’ an illigant throut into the bargain.”
“A wilful man must have his way,” said Mr. Joyce; “but I hope, sir, that you will afford me an opportunity of enabling you to enjoy a day’s sport in better waters than these.” And lifting his hat, he waved an adieu as the fiery grays plunged onwards and out of sight.
And Mary Joyce! Yes, that charming little head bent to him, those sweeping lashes lifted themselves that the glory of her gray eyes might be revealed to him, the rose-bud lips had dropped three perfumed petals, three insignificant little words, “Oh! how stupid”; and these were the first words in the first chapter of Percy Bingham’s first love.
He found the following note awaiting him at the hotel:
“Knockshin, June 28.
“Mr. Joyce will be happy if Mr. Bingham will take a day on Shauraunthurga—Monday, if possible—as Mr. J. intends fishing upon that day. A salmon rod and flies are at Mr. Bingham’s disposal.
“—— Bingham, Esq.”
Percy Bingham sent a polite acknowledgment and acceptance, and wished for the Monday. It was very late that night when the warrior returned to his quarters. He had been mooning around Mary Joyce’s bower at Knockshin.
“What Masses have you here, Foxey?” asked Bingham of the waiter, whose real name was Redmond, but to whom this appellation was given on account of the color of his hair.
“The last Mass is first Mass now, sir. Father James is sick, and Father Luke, a missioner, is doing duty for the whole barony.”
“Is Mr. Joyce, of Knockshin, a Catholic?” This in some trepidation.
“Yes, sir, of course, sir—wan of the ould stock, sir; and Miss Mary, his daughter, sir, plays the harmonicum, sir, elegant.”
“What hour does Mass commence?”
“That’s the first bell, sir, but they ring two first bells always.”
Percy Bingham belonged to a family that had held to the faith when the tide of the Reformation was sweeping lands, titles, and honors before it. He fought for the Catholic cause when it became necessary to strike a blow; and as he was the only “popish” officer in the regiment, his good example developed into a duty.
Just as he arrived at the church door the Joyce carriage drew up. Mr. Joyce handed out his daughter. The gray eyes encountered those of the young officer, who lifted his hat. Such a smile!—a sunbeam on the first primrose of spring.
“I was glad to get your note, Mr. Bingham. Could you manage to come over to breakfast? Military men don’t mind a short march.” And Mr. Joyce shook hands with him.
“Am I to have the pleasure of hearing Miss Joyce’s harmonium to-day?” asked Percy.
“No; Miss Joyce’s harmonium has a sore throat.”
Poor Bingham struggled hard to say his prayers, to collect his wandering thoughts. He was badly hit; the ruddy archer had sent his arrow home to the very feathers. He humbly waited for a glance as Miss Joyce drove away after Mass, and he got it. He was supremely happy and supremely miserable.
The “missioner,” a young Dominican, very tall and very distinguished-looking, crossed the chapel yard, followed by exclamations of praise and admiration from voteens who still knelt about in picturesque attitudes: “God be good to him!” “The heavens open to him!” “May the saints warm him to glory!” while one old woman, who succeeded in catching the hem of his robe, exclaimed enthusiastically:
“Och, thin, but it’s yerself that knows how to spake the word o’ God; it’s yerself that’s the darlint fine man. Shure we never knew what sin was till ye come amongst us.”
Percy Bingham found Knockshin a square-built, stone mansion, with a “disinheriting countenance” of many windows, surrounded by huge elms containing an unusually uproarious rookery. A huge “free classic” porch surmounted a set of massive steps, supported by granite griffins grasping shields with the Joyce arms quartered thereon. A lily-laden pond, encircled by closely-shaven grass sacred to croquet, stood opposite the house, and a pretentious conservatory of modern construction ran along the greater portion of one wing.
The gallant warrior, regretting certain London-built garments reposing at Westport, arrayed himself in his “Sunday best,” and, being somewhat vain of his calves, appeared in all the woollen bravery of Knickerbockers and Highland stockings.
Miss Joyce did the honors of the breakfast-table in white muslin and sunny smiles. Possessing the air of a high-born dame, there was an Irish softness, like the mist on the mountains, that imparted an indescribable charm to all her movements, whilst a slight touch of the brogue only added to the music of a voice ever soft, gentle, and low.
Percy, who could have talked like a sewing-machine to Lady Clara Vere de Vere, found his ideas dry up, and, when violently spurred, merely develop themselves in monosyllables. He had rehearsed several bright little nothings which were to have been laid like bonbons at her feet. Where were they now?
She knew some men in the service—Mr. Poynter in the Rifles. Did he know Mr. Poynter, who danced so well, talked so charmingly, and was so handsome? Yes, he knew Poynter, and hated him from that moment. Did he know Captain Wyberts of the Bays, the Victoria Cross man whom she had met at the Galway Hunt Ball? He knew Wyberts, and cursed the luck that placed no decoration upon his tunic but a silken sash.
“By the way, you must be the gentleman who interested himself in my toilet on Friday night. Lanty Kerrigan spoke burning words in your favor, if you are the preux chevalier. Are you?”
“I assure you, Miss Joyce, I didn’t know who you were at the time, when the blackguards seemed lazy about your parcel.”
“If you had known me, would that have made any difference, Mr. Bingham?” she asked laughingly.
“It would.”
“In what way?”
“I would have thrashed Lanty Kerrigan and have brought the parcel myself.” He threw so much earnestness into this that the red blood flushed up to the roots of Mary Joyce’s rich brown hair. “I must see to my tackle,” she said in a confused way.
“Are you an angler, Miss Joyce?”
“Look at my boots”—a pair of dainty, dumpy little things such as Cinderella must have worn on sloppy days when walking with the prince, with roguish little nails all over the soles crying, “Stamp on us; we like it,” and creamy laces fit for tying up bride-cake.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Percy Bingham, and that was all he was able to reach at that particular moment. He thought afterwards of all he could have said and—didn’t.
A walk of half a mile brought them to the Shauraunthurga, or “Boiling Caldron,” whose seething waters dashed from rock to rock, and boiled in many whirlpools as it rushed madly onwards to the wild Atlantic.
What did Bingham care about the fishing? Not a dump. He stood by her side, set up her cast, sorted her flies, spliced the top joint of her rod, and watched with feverish anxiety the eccentric movement of her gorgeous decoy, as it whirled hither and thither, now on the peat-brown waters, now in the soap-suds-like foam.
“Bravissima! Splendidly struck!” he cried with enthusiastic delight—he felt inclined to pat her on the back—as the young Galway girl, with “sweet and cunning” hand, hooked her fish with the aplomb and dexterity of a Highland gillie. “Give him line, plenty of rope, and mind your footing!”
“A long hour by Shrewsbury clock” did Mary Joyce play that salmon. Her gloves were torn to shreds, her hat became a victim to the Shauraunthurga, her sheeny hair fell down her shoulders long below her waist, her boasted boots indicated eruptive tendencies, but the plucky girl still held on. “Let me alone, please,” she would cry as her father or Bingham tendered their services; “I’m not half-tired yet.” The color in her cheeks, the fire in her eye, the delicate nostril expanded, the undulating form—the British subaltern saw all this, and almost envied the fish, inasmuch as it was her centre point of interest.
“The landing-net! Quickly! I have him now!”
Percy Bingham darted forward, caught his foot in the gnarled root of a tree, and plunged headforemost into the boiling waters. An expert swimmer, he soon reappeared and swam towards the bank, still grasping the net. Finding his right arm powerless, and having succeeded in gaining footing, he placed the net beneath the fish, which with a bound sprang clear, and, breaking the line that Miss Joyce had slackened in her anxiety for the safety of her guest, was, in an exhausted condition, floundering down the stream, when Percy, by a supreme effort, clasped it fiercely in his left arm and flung himself on to the bank.
“Your fish after all. But you look ill, Mr. Bingham—dreadfully ill,” cried the agitated girl. “Your arm—”
“Is broken,” he said.
Assisted by Mr. Joyce and his daughter, and with the fractured limb in a sling constructed of handkerchiefs and fishing-line, poor Bingham returned to the house. He fought bravely against the pain, and attempted one or two mournful jokes upon the subject of his mishap; but every step was mortal anguish, and he expected to feel the serrated edges of the bones sawing out through his coat-sleeve.
“I must insist upon being permitted to return to my hotel, Mr. Joyce,” said Percy Bingham when they had arrived.
“If you want every bone in your body broken, you’ll repeat that again, Bingham. Here is a room ready for you, and here, in the nick of time, is Doctor Fogarty.”
“I cotch him at the crass-roads,” panted the breathless messenger whom Mr. Joyce had despatched in quest of the bone-setter.
“A broken arm, pooh hoo! And so it is—an elegant fracture, pooh hoo! You did it well when you went about it. Lend me your scissors, Miss Mary, and tear up a sheet into bandages. I’ll soon set it for him, pooh hoo! Ay, wince away, ma bouchal; roar murdher, and it will do you good, pooh hoo! Some splints now. Fell into the river, pooh hoo! After a salmon. You landed him like a child in arms. I forgive you, pooh hoo! I’ve room for the fish in me gig, and broiled salmon is—pooh hoo! That’s it; the arm this way, as if ye were goin’ to hit me. Well done, pooh hoo! Ars longa est; so is your arm—an elegant biceps, pooh hoo! Now, sir, tell me if there’s a surgeon-major in the whole British army, horse, foot, and dragoon, that could set your arm in less time, pooh hoo?” and the doctor regarded the swathed and bandaged limb with looks of the profoundest admiration.
“I shall want to get to barracks—”
“Ne’er a barracks will ye see this side of Lady Day; so make your mind easy on that score, pooh hoo! Keep in bed till I see you again, pooh hoo! I’ll order you something to take about bed-time, but it won’t be whiskey-punch, pooh hoo!” And the genial practitioner pooh-hoo’d out of the apartment.
How delightful is convalescence—that dreamy condition in which the thoughts float upwards and the earthly tenement is all but etherealized! Percy Bingham, as he reclined upon a sofa at an open window, through which the perfume of flowers, the hum of summer, with the murmur of the rolling Shauraunthurga, stole like strains of melody, lay like one entranced, languidly sipping the intoxicating sweets of the hour, forgetful of the past, unmindful of the future. The events of the last few days seemed like a vision. Could it be possible that he would suddenly awake and find himself in the dismal walls of his quarters at Westport, far, far away from chintz and lace and from her? No; this was her book which lay upon his lap; that bouquet was culled by her fair hands; the spirited sketch of a man taking a header spread-eagle fashion was from her pencil and must be sent to Punch. She was in everything, everywhere, and, most of all, in the inner sanctuary of his heart.
He had not seen much of her—a visit in the morning like a gleam of sunlight; a chat in the gloaming, sweet as vesper-bell; occasional badinage from the garden to his window, and that was all. How could he hope to win her, this peerless girl, this heiress of the “Joyce country,” whose gray eyes rested upon mead and mountain, lake and valley, her rightful dower? He sickened at the thought. Had she been poor, he would woo, and perhaps—It was not to be. He had tarried till it was too late; he had cut down the bridge behind him, burned his boats, and he must now ford the river of his lost peace of mind as best he might.
Days flew by, and still the young officer lingered at Knockshin. Like the fairy prince in the enchanted wood, he could discover no exit. Croquet had developed into short strolls, short strolls into long walks, long walks into excursions. His arm was getting strong again. Mr. Joyce talked “soldier” with him. He had been in the Connaught Rangers, and went through pipe-clay and the orderly book with the freshness of a “sub” of six weeks’ standing. Mary—what did she speak about? Anything, everything, nothing. Latterly she had been eloquently silent, while Percy Bingham, if he did not actually, might have fairly, counted the beatings of his heart as it bumped against his ribs. They spoke more at than to each other, and when their eyes met the glance was withdrawn by both with electrical rapidity. It was the old, old story. Why repeat it here?
“Mary, Jack Bodkin, your old sweetheart, is coming over for a few days’ fishing,” exclaimed Mr. Joyce one morning upon the arrival of the letter-bag.
Miss Joyce blushed scarlet—a blush that will not be put off; a blush that plunges into the hair, comes out on the eyelids, and sets the ears upon fire—and Percy Bingham, as she grew red, became deadly white. The knell had rung, the hour had come.
“This is from the colonel,” extending a letter as he spoke, the words choking him, “and—and I must say good-by.”
“Sorry for it, Bingham, but duty is duty. No chance of an extension?” asked Joyce.
“None, sir.”
And she said not a word. There was crushing bitterness in this. Mr. Bodkin’s arrival blotted out his departure. Would that he had never seen Knockshin or Mary! No, he could not think that, and, now that he was about to leave her, he felt what that severance would cost him.
The car was waiting with his impedimenta, and he sought her to say farewell. She was not in the conservatory or drawing-room, and as a last chance he tried the library. Entering noiselessly, he found Mary Joyce leaning her head upon her hands, her hands upon the mantel-piece and sobbing as if her heart would break.
“I beg your pardon!” he stammered. “Is—is—anything the—”
“A bad toothache,” she burst in passionately, without looking up.
What could he do? What could he say?
“I—I—do not know how to apologize for—for—intruding upon your anguish”—the words came very slowly, swelling, too, in his throat—“but I cannot, cannot leave without wishing you good-by and thanking you for the sunniest hours of my life.”
“You—you are g-going, then?” without looking round.
“I go to—to make room for Mr. Bodkin.”
She faced him. Her eyes were red and swollen, but down, down in their liquid depths he beheld—something that young men find once in a lifetime. He never remembered what he did, he never recollected what he said, but the truth came out as such truths will come out.
“And to think that you first learned of my existence through the medium of a pitiful ball-dress!” she said, glowing with beautiful happiness.
“I shall not require the car,” said Percy Bingham an hour later, throwing Lanty Kerrigan a sovereign.
“Bedad, ye needn’t have tould me,” exclaimed Lanty with a broad grin. “I seen yez coortin’ through the windy.”
PROF. YOUMANS v. DR. W. M. TAYLOR ON EVOLUTION AND THE COPERNICAN THEORY.
The Popular Science Monthly, conducted by Mr. E. L. Youmans, labors hard (December, 1876) to support the assertion made by Professor Huxley that evolution is already as well demonstrated as the Copernican theory. This assertion had been refuted by the Rev. Dr. William M. Taylor in a letter to the New York Tribune, and it is against a portion of this letter that Mr. Youmans strives to defend Mr. Huxley’s evolutionary views. We ourselves have given a short refutation of Professor Huxley’s lectures on evolution,[[16]] and we had no intention to revert to the same subject; but since opposite writers are unwilling to acknowledge defeat, but pretend, on the contrary, that their opponents do not make a right use of logic, it may be both instructive and interesting to inquire what kind of logic is actually used in this controversy by the evolutionists themselves.
“It is significant,” says Mr. Youmans, “that nearly all the divines who have spoken in reply to Prof. Huxley commit themselves to some form of the doctrine of evolution.” This statement is not correct. Divines admit, as they have ever admitted, the development of varieties within the same species; but the pretended evolution of one species from another they have never admitted, and they do not look upon it as admissible, even now. There may be some exception, for divines are still human and may be imposed upon by false science; but the truth is that those among them who have replied to Prof. Huxley never meant to “commit themselves” to any form of the doctrine of evolution as presented by him. They admit, as Mr. Youmans remarks, “that there is some truth in it”—which is by no means strange, as false theories have often been evolved from undeniable facts; but they raise “a common protest against the idea that it contains much truth,” which shows that these divines were quite unwilling to commit themselves to the doctrine. Hence it is plain that, if the conduct of these divines is “significant,” it does not signify a yielding disposition, but the contrary.
Prof. Huxley had said that the evidence for the theory of evolution is demonstrative, and that it is as well based in its proofs as the Copernican theory of astronomy. “This,” says Mr. Youmans, “is thought to be quite absurd. It is said that Huxley may know a great deal about animals and fossils, but that obviously he knows very little about logic. His facts being admitted, a great deal of effort has been expended to show that he does not understand how to reason from them.” We agree with the critics here alluded to, that Prof. Huxley’s assertion concerning the demonstrative character of his proofs is “quite absurd.” As to his knowledge of logic, there might perhaps be two opinions; for a man may know logic, and make a wilful abuse of it; but it is more charitable to assume that his illogical conclusions proceed from ignorance rather than malice. After all, we are not concerned with the person of the professor, but with his lectures; and, whatever logic he may know, his lectures are certainly not a model of logical reasoning. The passage which Mr. Youmans extracts from Dr. Taylor’s letter, and which he vainly endeavors to refute, is as follows:
“Indeed, to affirm, as he [Prof. Huxley] did, that evolution stands exactly on the same basis as the Copernican theory of the motions of the heavenly bodies, is an assertion so astounding that we can only 'stand by and admire’ the marvellous effrontery with which it was made. That theory rests on facts presently occurring before our eyes, and treated in the manner of mathematical precision. It is not an inference made by somebody from a record of facts existing in far-off and pre-historic, possibly also pre-human, ages. It is verified every day by occurrences which happen according to its laws. But where do we see evolution going on to-day? If evolution rests upon a basis as sure as astronomy, why do we not see one species passing into another now, even as we see the motions of the planets through the heavens?... We know that astronomy is true, because we are verifying its conclusions every day of our lives on land and on sea. We set our clocks according to its conclusions, and navigate our ships in accordance with its predictions; but where have we anything approaching even infinitesimally to this, with evolution?”
Mr. Youmans remarks that the author of this passage is said to be a man of eminence and ability. “That may be,” he adds, “but he certainly has not won his distinction either in the fields of logic, astronomy, or biology.” To prove this, he makes the following argument:
“When a man undertakes to state the evidence of a theory, and gives us proofs that equally sustain an opposite theory, we naturally conclude that he does not know what he is talking about. This is very much Dr. Taylor’s predicament. In trying to contrast the evidence for evolution with the demonstrative proofs of the Copernican theory, he cites facts that are not only as good, but far better, to prove the truth of its antagonist, the Ptolemaic theory.”
Our readers will probably ask how it is possible to prove that a thing is black by the very facts which prove, even better, that the thing is white? That certain facts may be insufficient to prove either the one or the other of two opposite theories every one will admit; but that facts which are good to prove the movement of the earth are even better to prove its immobility, is what Mr. Youmans alone has the privilege of understanding.
Dr. Taylor, in his argument against Prof. Huxley, assumed the truth of the modern astronomical theory, and said that this theory was proved by facts presently occurring before our eyes; which is not the case with the hypothesis of evolution. But, as he did not mention in particular those facts which are considered to constitute the most irrefragable proof of the theory, his silence about them is interpreted by Mr. Youmans as an effect of ignorance. It is not our affair to defend Dr. Taylor; but we think that this interpretation is unfair. The reverend doctor was not writing a treatise of astronomy; he was simply stating a known doctrine, of which it was not his duty to make the demonstration. On the other hand, even if we admitted that the reverend doctor knows but little of astronomy, we do not see that this would weaken his argument; for, whether he knows much or nothing in this branch of science, it remains true that the Copernican theory is proved “by facts presently occurring before our eyes”—which is not the case with the hypothesis of evolution. It is to this truth that Mr. Youmans should have given his attention, if he desired “to win any distinction in the field of logic”; but his peculiar logic shrank from this duty, and prompted him to prefer a gratuitous denunciation of his opponent.
Mr. Youmans pretends that Dr. Taylor “talks as if the Copernican theory is something that anybody can see by looking up in the sky.” Dr. Taylor’s words do not admit of such a nonsensical construction. The Copernican theory, he says, “rests on facts presently occurring before our eyes, and treated in the manner of mathematical precision.” This obviously means that the Copernican theory is based on both observation and calculation. Now, surely Mr. Youmans will not maintain that we can find mathematical formulas and make astronomical calculations by simply “looking up in the sky.”
He goes on to say that the Ptolemaic theory was the fundamental conception of astronomy; that it guided its scientific development for two thousand years; that it was based on extensive, prolonged, and accurate observations; that it was elucidated and confirmed by mathematics; that it was verified by confirming the power of astronomical prevision; and that the planetary motions were traced and resolved on this theory with great skill and correctness, elaborate tables being constructed, which represented their irregularities and inequalities, so that their future positions could be foretold, and conjunctions, oppositions, and eclipses predicted.
These and similar remarks of the scientific editor would tend to prove that the Congregation of the Holy Office had very good and substantial grounds for condemning the heliocentric theory, and that Galileo was a visionary; for the theory which he impugned was “confirmed by mathematics,” and “verified by confirming the power of astronomical prevision.” We are quite sure, however, that this is not what Mr. Youmans intended to prove; and yet it does not appear why he should fill a column of his magazine with such a panegyric of a defunct theory. We concede—and the fact has never been disputed—that astronomy owes an immense debt to the ante-Copernican investigators for their careful observations and laborious calculations; but we do not see how this has anything to do with Dr. Taylor’s criticism. Had the reverend doctor denied that there was any real knowledge of astronomy before Copernicus, his critic might have been justified in trying to enlighten him about the merits of the Ptolemaic astronomers; but Dr. Taylor had not committed himself on this point, and therefore had no apparent need of being enlightened on the subject. The information, consequently, which Mr. Youmans volunteers to offer him is superfluous, not to say impertinent, and, inasmuch as it professes to be an argument, is a complete failure; for it aims at proving what no one has ever denied.
But the scientific editor in giving his needless information commits another blunder, which we could hardly expect from a man of science, by affirming that the Ptolemaic theory “was elucidated and confirmed by mathematics.” Mathematics confirmed nothing but the order and quality of the phenomena, and the law of their succession. Before Kepler and Newton no mathematics could decide whether the sun revolved around the earth or the earth around the sun. Astronomical phenomena were known, but this knowledge was a knowledge of facts, not of their explanation. The Ptolemaic hypothesis was not inconsistent with the facts then observed, but it was assumed, not verified. If such a theory had been verified, its truth would be still recognized, and the Copernican theory would have had no chance of admission. But evidently it is not the theory that has been verified, but only the apparent movements of celestial bodies. Thus “the elaborate tables” by which the future positions of the planets could be foretold prove indeed the accuracy of ancient astronomical observations and calculations, but they are no evidence that the geocentric theory was correct.
Mr. Youmans informs us, also, that “Copernicus did not abolish, but rather revised, the old astronomy.” If the words “old astronomy” are taken to express merely the knowledge of celestial phenomena, we have nothing to reply; but if those words be understood to mean the Ptolemaic theory, the assertion is ridiculous. Indeed, Copernicus, as Mr. Youmans says, “simply recentred the solar system”; that is, he simply put the sun, instead of the earth, in the centre of the planetary orbits. Nothing but that. But who does not see that to give a new centre to the solar system was to suppress the old centre, and therefore to abolish the geocentric theory? Why Mr. Youmans should labor to insinuate the contrary we cannot really understand. Dr. Taylor, against whom he writes, had said nothing concerning either the personal views of Copernicus or the old system of astronomy, but had simply maintained that the so-called Copernican theory, as mentioned by Prof. Huxley, and as understood by all—that is, as perfected by Kepler, Newton, and others—stands to-day on such a basis of undeniable facts that we can no longer hesitate about its truth. This statement might have been contradicted two centuries ago; but we fancy that it ought not to give rise to the least controversy on the part of a modern cultivator of science, however much determined to find fault with his opponent.
Dr. Taylor had said, as we have noticed, that the Copernican theory “rests on facts presently occurring before our eyes.” Mr. Youmans answers: “So does the Ptolemaic theory; and not only that, but, if the test is what occurs before our eyes, then the Ptolemaic theory is a thousand times stronger than the Copernican.” If this answer expresses the real opinion of Mr. Youmans, we must conclude that he alone, among physicists, is ignorant of the fact that terrestrial gravitation is modified by the centrifugal force due to the rotation of the earth, and that this fact is established by experiments which “occur before our eyes” when we make use of the pendulum in different latitudes. What shall we say of the aberration of light? Is not this phenomenon a proof of the movement of the earth? Or does it not “occur before our eyes”? Mr. Youmans may say that these facts do not occur before all eyes, but only before the eyes of scientific men. But Dr. Taylor had not maintained that all the facts connected with the Copernican theory occur before all eyes; and, on the other hand, Foucault’s pendulum, even though oscillating before unscientific eyes, makes visible to the dullest observer the shifting of the horizontal plane from its position at a rate proportional to the sine of the latitude of the place, thus showing to the eye the actual movement of our planet. It is true, therefore, that the Copernican theory “rests on facts presently occurring before our eyes.”
But, if the Copernican theory is so obvious, “why,” asks Mr. Youmans, “did the astronomers of twenty centuries fail to discern it? Why could not the divines of Copernicus’ time see it when it was pointed out to them? And why could not Lord Bacon admit it a hundred years after Copernicus?” The why is well known. The Copernican theory was at first nothing more than a hypothesis; and its truth, even after Kepler and Newton, was still in need of experimental confirmation. Had Lord Bacon or the divines of Copernicus’ time seen what we see with our eyes in Foucault’s experiment, there is little doubt that they would have recognized at last the truth of the new theory. But let this suffice about the certitude of the Copernican theory.
The second part of Mr. Youmans’ article regards the theory of evolution. This theory assumes that the immense diversity of living forms now scattered over the earth has arisen from gelatinous matter through a long process of gradual unfolding and derivation within the order of nature (that is, without supernatural interference) and by the operation of natural laws. Mr. Youmans says that this theory “is built upon a series of demonstrated truths.” This assertion would have some weight, if such a building had not been raised in defiance of logic; but we have already shown that Prof. Huxley’s Three Lectures on Evolution teem with fallacies most fatal to the cause he desired to uphold. Hence, while we admit that “demonstrated truth” is a very solid ground to build upon, we maintain that not a single demonstrated truth can be logically alleged in support of the theory of evolution. But let Mr. Youmans speak for himself:
“It is a fact accordant with all observation, and to which there never has been known a solitary exception, that the succession of generations of living things upon earth is by reproduction and genetic connection in the regular order of nature. The stream of generations flows on by this process, which is as much a part of the settled, continuous economy of the world as the steady action of gravity or heat. It is demonstrated that living forms are liable to variations which accumulate through inheritance; that the ratio of multiplication in the living world is out of all proportion to the means of subsistence, so that only comparatively few germs mature, while myriads are destroyed; that, in the struggles of life, the fittest to the conditions survive, and those least adapted perish. It is a demonstrated fact that life has existed on the globe during periods of time so vast as to be incalculable; that there has been an order in its succession by which the lowest appeared first, and the highest have come last, while the intermediate forms disclose a rising gradation. It is a demonstrated truth of nature that matter is indestructible, and that, therefore, all the material changes and transformations of the world consist in using over and over the same stock of materials, new forms being perpetually derived from old ones; and it is a fact now also held to be established that force obeys the same laws. All these great truths harmonize with each other; they agree with all we know of the constitution of nature; and they demonstrate evolution as a fact, and go far toward opening to us the secondary question of its method.”
These are, according to Mr. Youmans, the “demonstrated truths” on which the theory of evolution has been built, and which, according to the same writer, “demonstrate evolution as a fact.” We think, on the contrary, that the only fact demonstrated by this passage is the blindness (voluntary or not) of a certain class of scientists. A cursory examination of it will suffice to convince all unprejudiced men that such is the case.
That the stream of generations flows on “by reproduction and genetic connection in the regular order of nature” is indeed a fact accordant with all observation, and to which there never has been known a solitary exception; but all observation proves that the regular order of nature in generation is confined within the limits of the species to which parents belong. This precludes the possibility of drawing from this fact any conclusion in favor of evolution.
That living forms “are liable to variations, which accumulate through inheritance,” is not a demonstrated fact. We see, on the contrary, that all such accidental variations, instead of accumulating, tend to disappear within a few generations, whenever they cease to be under the influence of the agencies to which they owe their origin. But let us admit, for the sake of argument, that all living forms are liable to variations which accumulate through inheritance; then we ask whether all such variations are confined within the limit of each species, or some of them overstep that limit. If they are confined within that limit, the fact proves nothing in favor of the evolution of species. If, on the contrary, any one says that they overstep that limit, then the fact itself needs demonstration; for it has never been observed. Therefore to argue from this fact in favor of evolution is to beg the question. We have no need of dwelling on Mr. Youmans’ statement that the ratio of multiplication in the living world is out of all proportion to the means of subsistence, so that only comparatively few germs mature, while myriads are destroyed. The statement is true; but it has nothing to do with the theory of evolution. That, in the struggles of life, the fittest to the conditions survive, is another fact which does not in the least bear out the theory. For the fittest among animals are those which enjoy the plenitude of their specific properties, and which, therefore, are best apt to transfuse them into their offspring whole, unmixed, and unimpaired.
We are told, also, that life has existed during periods of time so vast as to be incalculable. This we admit. But then, in the succession of life, there has been an order, “by which the lowest appeared first, and the highest have come last, while intermediate forms disclose a rising gradation.” This, too, we may admit, though not without reservations; for Prof. Huxley himself confesses that numerous intermediate forms do not occur in the order in which they ought to occur if they really had formed steps in the progression from one species to another; for we find these intermediate forms mixed up with the higher and the lower ones “in contemporaneous deposits.” But, even supposing that the lowest forms precede the highest, what evidence would this be in favor of evolution? The order of succession may indeed prove that the lower forms existed before the higher forms were created; but it does not show that the lower forms are the parents of the higher. This is merely assumed by the evolutionists as a convenient substitute for proof; that is, they first assume that evolution is a fact, and then conclude that the fact of evolution is established.
Lastly, that matter is indestructible, and that therefore all the material changes and transformations of the world consist in using over and over the same stock of materials, is a doctrine which has no special bearing on the question. When a new individual of any living species is generated, its organism is indeed formed out of old matter; but this had no need of demonstration. What our evolutionists ought to show is that new individuals of a certain species have been generated by individuals of some other species; and this surely cannot be shown by a recourse to the indestructibility of matter. That matter is indestructible is, however, a groundless assertion. For though natural forces cannot destroy it, God, who has created it, and who keeps it in existence, can always withdraw his action, and let it fall into its primitive nothingness. And as to the so-called “fact” now also held to be established, that “force obeys the same laws”—that is, that force is indestructible, and that new forms of force are perpetually derived from old ones—we need only remark that the theory of transformation of forces, as held and explained by our advanced scientists, is but a travesty of truth, and an impotent effort to upset the principle of causality. Neither statical nor dynamical forces are ever transformed. Indeed, they have no form attached to them. What our modern physicists call “transformation of force” is nothing but the change of one kinetic phenomenon into another—that is, a succession of modes of movement of various kinds. Now, modes of movement are modes of being, not of force, though they are the measure of the dynamical forces by which they have been produced. The force with which any element of matter is endowed is constantly the same, both as to quality and as to quantity. Its exertion alone, owing to a difference of conditions, admits of a higher and a lower degree of intensity. As we do not intend at present to write a treatise on forces, we will only add that the forces of matter are exercised on other matter by transient action, but cannot perform immanent acts calculated to modify their own matter. If they could do this, matter would not be inert. Hence animal life, which requires immanent acts, cannot be accounted for by the forces of matter. And therefore, whatever our scientists may say about the conservation of energy and the transformation of forces, they have no right to infer that animal life can be evolved out of matter alone; and they have still less right to pretend that such is “the fact.”
What shall we say, then, of Mr. Youmans’ assertion that the alleged reasons “demonstrate evolution as a fact”? We must say, applying Dr. Taylor’s words to the case, that the assertion is “so astounding that we can only 'stand by and admire’ the marvellous effrontery with which it has been made.” A man of Mr. Youmans’ ability can scarcely be so ignorant of logic as not to see that his reasons demonstrate evolution neither as a fact nor as a probability, and not even as a possibility; but when a man succeeds in blinding himself to the existence of a personal God, and substitutes nature in the place of her Creator, we need not be surprised if his logic turns out to be a clumsy attempt at imposition.
Dr. Taylor had asked why we do not see one species passing into another, even as we see the motions of the planets through the heavens. The question was pertinent; for Prof. Huxley had maintained that “evolution rests on a basis as sure as astronomy.” Mr. Youmans answers: “To this foolish question, which has nevertheless been asked a dozen times by clerical critics of Huxley, the obvious answer is that what requires a very long time to produce cannot be seen in a very short time.” We think that the question was not foolish, and that the answer of Mr. Youmans is a mere evasion. For, if evolution is a fact, we must find numerous traces of it not only in the fossil remains, but also in the actual economy of nature. If the bird is evolved from the lizard, there must be actually among living creatures a numerous class of intermediate forms, some more, others less developed, exhibiting all the stages of transformation through which the lizard is gradually developed into a bird. Thus, because the acorn develops into the stately oak, we find in nature oaks of all the intermediate sizes; and because babyhood develops into manhood, we find in nature individuals of all intermediate ages. In like manner, if the evolution of one species from another is not a fable, we must find in nature specimens of all the intermediate forms. Dr. Taylor’s question was, therefore, most judicious. That Mr. Youmans’ reply to it is a mere evasion a little reflection will show; for the length of time required for the process of transformation would only prove that the intermediate forms must remain longer in existence; whilst the fact is that such forms do not exist at all.
“There has been much complaint,” says Mr. Youmans, “that Prof. Huxley undertook to put the demonstrative evidence of evolution on so narrow a basis as the establishment of the genealogy of the horse; but this rather enhances than detracts from his merit as a scientific thinker.” Here the case is misstated. Had Prof. Huxley really demonstrated evolution by the genealogy of the horse, no one would have complained that the basis was too narrow; but as it became manifest that the basis was not only narrow but questionable, and that it afforded no evidence whatever of evolution, it was thought that it required a “marvellous effrontery” on the part of Prof. Huxley to maintain before the American public that the genealogy of the horse gave “demonstrative evidence” of evolution. This is the reason why there has been so much complaint. Prof. Huxley simply insulted his audience when he asked them to believe that evolution was a demonstrated fact.
Mr. Youmans tells us that the vital point between Prof. Huxley and his antagonists is the question of the validity of the conception of order and uniformity in nature. “Prof. Huxley holds to it as a first principle, a truth demonstrated by all science, and just as fixed in biology as in astronomy. His antagonists hold that the inflexible order of nature may be asserted perhaps in astronomy, but they deny it in biology. They here invoke supernatural intervention.” This statement is utterly false. There is no question about the order and uniformity of nature; and it is not to Prof. Huxley or to modern science that we are indebted for the knowledge of this uniformity either in astronomy or in biology; the world has ever been in possession of this indisputable truth. The real question between Prof. Huxley and his antagonists is that nature, according to the professor, is independent in its being and in its working, and has an inherent power of fostering into existence a series of beings of higher and higher specific perfection, from the speck of gelatinous matter even to man; whereas nature, according to the professor’s antagonists, and according to science, revelation, and common sense, is not independent either in its being or in its working, and has no inherent power of forming either a plant without a seed or an animal without an ovum of the same species. If Prof. Huxley had had any knowledge of that part of philosophy which we call metaphysics, and which our advanced scientists affect so much to despise because they cannot cope with it, he would have seen the absurdity of his assumption; and if Mr. Youmans had consulted the rules of logic, he would not have said that the “uniformity of nature” was with Prof. Huxley a “first principle”; it being evident that uniformity clashes with evolution, which is a change of forms.
The last argument of the editor of the Popular Science Monthly in behalf of evolution is as follows:
“Obviously there are but two hypotheses upon the subject—that of genetic derivation of existing species through the operation of natural law, and that of creation by miraculous interference with the course of nature. If we assume the orderly course of nature, development is inevitable: it is evolution or nothing. If the order of nature is put aside and special creation appealed to, we have a right to ask, On what evidence?... There is no evidence. There is not a scintilla of proof that can have a feather’s weight with any scientific mind.... Has anybody ever seen a special creation?”
We answer, first, that even if it were true that “there is no evidence” in support of the creation, it would not follow that there is any evidence, either scientific or of any other kind, in support of the evolution of one species from another. Indeed, in spite of all the efforts of “advanced” thinkers, we have not yet been furnished with “a scintilla of proof that can have a feather’s weight” with a philosophical mind; on the contrary, we have been informed by no less an authority than Mr. Huxley that “no connecting link between the crocodile and the lizard, or between the lizard and the snake, or between the snake and the crocodile, or between any two of these groups,” has yet been found—a fact which, if not destroyed by further discoveries, is “a strong and weighty argument against evolution,” as the professor confesses. Hence it is evident that the existing palæontological specimens, far from proving the theory, form a strong and weighty objection against it. The consequence is that, even if we had no evidence of the creation of species, it would yet be more reasonable to accept creation, against which no objection can be found, than to accept evolution.
But we are far from conceding that the creation of species is unsupported by evidence of a proper kind. Mr. Youmans may laugh at the Bible; but we maintain that the Biblical record constitutes historical evidence. He may also laugh at philosophical reasoning, for his mind is too “scientific” to care for philosophy; but we believe that philosophical evidence is as good, at least, as any which can be met with in the Popular Science Monthly. Animals have a soul, which elicits immanent acts; they know, they feel, they have passions; and, if we listen to some modern thinkers, they have even intelligence and reason. Now, matter is essentially inert, and therefore cannot elicit immanent acts. Hence animals are not mere organized matter; and accordingly they cannot be evolved from matter alone. Their soul must come from a higher source; it must be created. Science has nothing to say against this; it can only state its ignorance by asking: “Has anybody ever seen a special creation?” Of course nobody has; but there are things which are seen by reason with as great a clearness as anything visible to the eye; and this is just the case with creation. On the other hand, why should Mr. Youmans pretend that creation must be seen to be admitted, when he admits evolution, though he has never seen it? If seeing is a condition for believing, why did he treat as foolish Dr. Taylor’s question concerning the passing of one species into another? Why did he ask: “Has the writer ever seen the production of a geological formation?” Surely, if evolution were proved to be a fact, we would admit it, without having seen it; but, since it is creation, not evolution, that has been shown to be a fact, we are compelled to admit it, even though nobody has had the privilege of seeing the event.
When Mr. Youmans declares that “there is not a scintilla of proof” (in favor of special creations) “that can have a feather’s weight with any scientific mind,” he evidently assumes that no scientific mind has existed before our time; which is more than even Huxley or Darwin would maintain. But infidel science is equally blind to the scientific merit of its antagonists, and to the blunders which it is itself daily committing. Thus Mr. Youmans, no doubt to show that he has a “scientific mind,” speaks of the derivation of species “through the operation of natural law”—a phrase which has no meaning; for law is an abstraction, and abstractions do not operate. Nor is it more “scientific” to assume that the creation of species was “a miraculous interference with the course of nature”; for the course of nature required the creation of species, just as it now requires the creation of human souls for the continuance of humanity; and God cannot be said to have interfered with the course of nature by doing what nature required but could not do. Is it any more “scientific” to write Nature with a capital letter? Of course, if there is no God, nature is all, and atheists may write it Nature. Mr. Youmans does not tell us clearly that there is no God; but he shows clearly enough that to his mind Nature is everything; which is, in fact, a virtual denial of a personal God. If we were to inform him that nature is only a servant of God, he would perhaps ask, “On what evidence?” And because we would be unable to point out a chemical residuum or a geologic formation wherein God could be made visible to him, he would conclude that “there is no scintilla of proof that can have a feather’s weight with a scientific mind.” He then assumes that in the orderly course of nature the evolution of species is “inevitable.” It did not occur to his scientific mind that before making such an assertion, it was necessary to examine how far the powers of nature extend; for he might have discovered that matter is inert, and that it was a great blunder to assume that inert matter produced animal life.
He further supposes that when special creations are appealed to, “the order of nature is put aside.” He therefore pretends that the order of nature would not allow of the creation of plants and animals, evidently because it was nature’s duty to perform without extrinsic intervention all those wonderful works which we attribute to the wisdom and omnipotence of the Creator. We maybe unscientific; but we defy Mr. Youmans to show, either scientifically or otherwise, the truth of his assumption. To tell us that the evolution of life from dead matter was within the order of nature, without even attempting to prove that nature had a power adequate to the task, is just as plausible as to tell us that Prof. Huxley has created the Niagara Falls or that Mr. Darwin has painted the moon. And yet the author of such loose statements airs his scientific pretensions and speaks of “scientific minds”!
We have no need to follow Mr. Youmans any further; for what he adds consists of assumptions cognate to those we have already refuted. “Genetic derivation,” he says, “is in the field as a real and undeniable cause”—which is an open untruth. “Has anybody seen a special creation?” This is irrelevant. “Do those who believe in a special creation represent to themselves any possibility of how it could have occurred?” Probably they do, if they have read the first chapter of Genesis. “Milton attempted to form an image of the way the thing was done, and says that the animals burst up full-formed and perfect like plants out of the ground—'the grassy clods now calved.’ But clods can only calve miraculously.” Quite so; but we must not be afraid of miracles, when we cannot deny them without falling into absurdities. “Nature does not bring animals into the world now by this method, and science certainly can know nothing of it.” Yes; but there are many other things of which infidel science is ignorant. And yet we fancy that, when animals have been once created, even infidel science might have discerned that their procreation no longer required “the grassy clods to calve.”
But enough. We conclude that, so far from being possible, so far from being probable, so far from being proved, the hypothesis of the origin of animal forms by evolution is simply unthinkable; it is a violation not only of the order of nature, but of the very condition of thought and of the first principle of science, which is the principle of causality. When will our scientific men understand that there is no science without philosophy?