“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.

Footnote 16:

See THE CATHOLIC WORLD for February, 1877, page 616.

“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?

A WAIF FROM THE GREAT EXHIBITION, PHILADELPHIA, 1876

“Their store-houses full, flowing out of this into that.

“They have called the people happy that hath these things: but happy

is that people whose God is

the Lord.”—Ps. cxliii.

I.

With face storm-lined and bronzed, no longer young,

That seemed as if its soul’s dim life had grown

On lonely farm, in rugged inland town

Lying, a narrow world, bleak hills among,

A stranger gazed amid the wealth and glare

Of all the nations’ gathered industry

Where rose the light, symmetric tracery

Of Munich’s altars worked in colors fair;

Where good St. Joseph with the lilies stood;

And soft-eyed martyr with her branch of palm,

And full, sweet lips smiling with happy calm,

Seemed beaming witness 'mid the multitude

Of glittering toys and earth’s huge, unworked store,

Of nobler purpose man’s life resting o’er.

II.

Here stretched its naked arms the blessèd Rood,

Whose desolation eloquent below

God’s Mother sat in soundless deeps of woe,

Her sad knees holding all her earthly good.

Here stood the stranger with a look intent

Wherein no light of recognition woke,

As if he read in some strange-lettered book.

Then, asking what these unguessed figures meant,

An answer came: “Our Lord, dead 'neath the Cross.”

“Ah! yes, and that is Mary, I suppose—

The Mother.” Ah! what wondering thoughts uprose

To die in silence, winning so some loss,

Perchance, unto two lives. Sweet Mother, pray

That soul accuse not mine on judgment day!

III.

So strange and sad the simple question seemed;

As if on those far hills God’s voice had built,

Upon those souls for whom his blood was spilt

Some shadow rested, amid which scarce gleamed

The mournful splendor by his dark Cross thrown:

As if stern life grew but more hard and bare,

Missing the presence of the Maiden rare

Whose God made her unstained flesh his own;

Who held him on her arms a helpless child,

With love no mother ever knew before;

Holding, when Calvary’s dread hours were o’er,

The Man of Sorrows where her Babe had smiled—

Her arms the cradle of the Almighty One,

Her arms His spotless shroud, life’s labor done.

IV.

Alas! such faith to men denied who grope

Half in a fear begotten not of love,

Half in cold doubt, seeking all things to prove,

To none hold fast, with whom divinest hope

Holds naught more excellent than earth’s to-days;

For whom in vain doth Israel’s lily bloom,

With its white sunshine lighting hours of gloom,

Shining 'mid thorns that seek to crush its grace—

So dimming the broad rays of love divine

With earthly shadow cast on earthly things

That folded keep their gift of heavenly wings,

Lest, soaring, they lose sight of lesser shrine

Lest, heart so kindling with the Spirit’s fire,

Feet lowly tread that eyes be lifted higher.

V.

Slow turning through the glimmering aisles to range,

Amid the hum the loitering footsteps wrought

I lost the questioning face, but not the thought

Of that dim life, to which the night seemed strange

Of Calvary’s God, to whom all life is owed—

That clouded life wherein Faith’s pure sunshine

Casts faintest gleam of its strong light divine

That strengthens soul, makes fair the daily load.

Far down the hall full notes of organ poured,

And broke in song strong voices manifold;

Glad alleluias all exultant rolled,

As if proclaiming on each soaring chord:

“Happy the people of this wealth possessed!”

Nay, Happy they whom God the Lord hath blessed.

ENGLISH RULE IN IRELAND.

II.

The present condition of a people is the latest phase of a life that has

run through centuries, in all the events of which there may be traced

the relation of cause and effect, and whose continuity has never been

interrupted, though at times the current may seem to leave its channel,

or even to disappear. The past never dies, but with each succeeding

moment receives a fuller existence, survives as a curse or a blessing.

The passion which urges the human mind back to ages more and more

remote, until the gathering darkness shuts out even the faintest glimmer

of light, is not mere curiosity, nor even the inborn craving for

knowledge; rather is it the consciousness that those ancient times and

far-off deeds still live in us, mould us, and shape our ends. We were

with Adam when he plucked and ate the forbidden fruit, and that his act

should work in us yet, like a taint in the blood, seems to be a

postulate of reason not less than a truth of tradition or revelation.

The cherishing of great names, the clinging to noble memories, the use

of poetry, music, sculpture, painting, architecture, or any art, to give

form and vividness to glories, heroisms, martyrdoms, are but the

expression of this consciousness that the present is only the fuller and

more living past. No vanity, much less scorn or hate, should prompt any

one to lift into the light the glory or the shame of a people’s history.

As we tread reverently on the ground where human passions have contended

for the mastery, we should approach with religious awe the facts which

have made the world what it is.

There are many persons, who certainly have no prejudices against the

Irish people, many true and loyal Irishmen even, who strongly object to

the prominence given to the sorrows and sufferings of Ireland. They

would have us forget the past and turn, with a countenance fresh and

hopeful as that of youth, to the future. Sydney Smith, full of English

prepossessions but an honest lover of liberty, who labored as earnestly

and fearlessly as any man of his generation in behalf of the wronged and

defenceless, could not restrain his impatience when he thought of the

fondness with which Irishmen cling to old memories and sacred

associations. In his opinion the object of all government is roast

mutton, potatoes, claret, a stout constable, an honest justice, a clear

highway, and a free chapel. “What trash,” he exclaimed, “to be bawling

in the streets about the Green Isle, the Isle of the Ocean, the bold

anthem of _Erin go bragh_! A far better anthem would be, Erin go bread

and cheese, Erin go cabins that will keep out the rain, Erin go

pantaloons without holes in them.”

This may be very well, but we are persuaded that there is not an abuse

or an evil in Ireland to-day which has not its roots in the remote past,

or which can be understood or remedied without a knowledge of Irish

history.

The bold anthem of _Erin go bragh_, which so provoked Sidney Smith, is

the thread that leads us through the labyrinth. It is because the Irish

are not English that England is neither able nor willing to treat them

justly; and if she has rendered herself guilty of the greatest social

crime in all history, it is because she has clung for centuries with

terrible obstinacy to a policy which left the people of Ireland no

alternative between denationalization and extermination. When in England

the national spirit dominated and absorbed the religious spirit, the

Irish, who had so long maintained their separate nationality, adhered

with invincible firmness to the old faith. This was imputed to them as a

crime, and became the pretext for still more grievous persecutions. If

they were resolved to be Irish and Catholic, England was not less

resolved that they should be outlaws and beggars. They were to have no

bread or potatoes, or cabins that would keep out the rain, so long as

they persisted in singing the bold anthem and acknowledging the

supremacy of the pope. The history of Ireland is in great part the

history of her wrongs; for a long time to come, doubtless, it will be a

history of suffering; and if those who write of her find that they are

placing before their readers pictures of death, exile, persecution,

beggary, famine, desolation, violence, oppression, and of every form of

human misery, they are but describing the state to which her conquerors

have reduced her.

But there are special reasons for dwelling upon the wrongs of Ireland.

For three hundred years the Irish people themselves and their faith have

been held responsible, wherever the English language is spoken, for the

crimes of England. The backwardness of Irish industry, and the seeming

want of energy of the people in improving their condition, are

habitually imputed by statesmen and public instructors to a peculiar

indolence and recklessness in the Celtic race, fostered and encouraged

by what is supposed to be the necessary influence of the Catholic

religion.

The Irish are probably not more Celtic than the French, who assuredly

are not excelled in thrift and industry by any other people. There is no

country more Catholic than Belgium, nor is there anywhere a more

prosperous or laborious people. Irishmen themselves, it is universally

admitted, are hard workers in England, in the United States, in Canada,

in Australia—wherever, in a word, the motives which incite men to labor

are not taken from them; and yet the popular prejudice on this subject

is so flattering to Anglo-Saxon and Protestant pride that it remains in

the public mind like a superstition, which no amount of evidence can

affect. In a former article we have attempted to trace some of the

causes to which the poverty and misery of Ireland must be attributed,

and we shall now continue the investigation. During the three centuries

immediately following the Conquest the country was wasted by wars,

massacres, and feuds, carried on by the two armed nations, which

fiercely contended for the possession of the soil. The Anglo-Norman

colony, entrenched within the Pale, and receiving constant supplies of

men and money from the mother-country, formed a kind of standing army,

ever ready to invade and lay waste the territories still held by the

native population. The Irish people, in self-defence, and also with the

hope of driving the invader from their shores, turned their whole

attention to war. All the pursuits of peace were forgotten, and the

island became a camp of soldiers, who, when not battling with the common

enemy, turned their swords against one another. In such a state of

society no progress was possible. Then came three centuries of religious

wars to add more savage fierceness to the war of races. Under Elizabeth,

James I., Cromwell, and William of Orange the whole country was

confiscated. The Catholics were driven from their lands, hunted down,

their churches and monasteries were burned or turned over to

Protestants, their priests were martyred or exiled, their schools

closed, their teachers banished, their nobles impoverished; and to make

this state of things perpetual the Penal Code was enacted. To this point

there was complete harmony between the home government and the English

colony in Ireland. But England has rarely poured out her treasure or her

blood for other than selfish and mercenary motives. She therefore

demanded, as the price of her assistance in crushing the Irish

Catholics, that the commerce and industry of Ireland should be

sacrificed to her own interests. The House of Commons declared the

importation of Irish cattle a public nuisance. They were then

slaughtered and salted, but the government refused to permit the sale of

the meat. The hides were tanned. The importation of leather was

forbidden. The Irish Protestants began to export their wool; England

refused to buy it. They began to manufacture it; an export duty,

equivalent to prohibition, was put on all Irish woollen goods. They grew

flax and made linens; England put a bounty on Scotch and English linens,

and levied a duty on Irish linens. Ireland was not allowed to build or

own a ship—her forests were felled and the timber sent to England. The

English colonies were forbidden to trade with her; even the fisheries

were carried on with English boats manned by Englishmen. By these and

similar measures Irish commerce and industry were destroyed. Nothing

remained for the people to do but to till the soil. In this lay the only

hope of escaping starvation. But they no longer owned the land; it was

in the hands of an alien aristocracy, English in origin and sympathy,

Protestant in religion. The Catholic people, without civil existence,

were at the mercy of an oligarchy by whom they were both hated and

despised. These nobles owed their titles, wealth, and power to the

violence of conquest, and, instead of seeking to heal the wounds, they

were resolved to keep them open. In France and in England the Northmen

were gradually fused with the original population. They lost their

language, customs, almost the memory of their cradle-land. Even in

Ireland a considerable portion of the Norman conquerors became

Irish—_Hibernis hiberniores_. But this partial assimilation of the two

races was effected in spite of England, who made use of strong measures

both to prevent and punish this degeneracy, as it was termed. Had the

union between the Irish and the Normans not been prevented by this

violent and interested policy, a homogeneous people would have been

formed in Ireland as in England, and the frightful wrongs and crimes of

the last seven hundred years would not have been committed.

But the interests of England demanded that Ireland should be kept weak

and helpless by internal discord; and she therefore used every means to

prevent the fusion of the two races. The “Irish enemy,” ever ready to

break in upon the settlements of the Pale, was the surest warrant of the

loyalty of the English colony to the mother-country, whose assistance

might at any moment become essential to its very existence. The native

population, on the other hand, was held in check by the foreigner

encamped in the land. Had the Irish and the English in Ireland united,

they would have had little trouble in throwing off the yoke of England.

It was all-important, therefore, that they should remain, distinct and

inimical races. All intercourse between them was forbidden. Their

inter-marriage was made high treason. It was a crime for an Englishman

to speak Irish, or for an Irishman to speak English. The ancient laws

and customs of the Irish were destroyed, and they were denied the

benefits of English law. As yet the English and the Irish professed the

same religious faith; but now even this powerful bond of union was

broken. Enemies on earth, they looked to no common hope beyond this

life. Three centuries of persecution and outrage followed, during which

the Catholic Irish were reduced to such a state of misery and beggary

that the only thing which remained in common between them and their

tyrants was hate.

Here we have come upon the well-spring of all the bitter waters that

have deluged Ireland. The country is owned and governed by a few men who

have never loved the country and have always hated the people.

Throughout the rest of Europe, even in the worst times, the interests of

the lords and the peasants were to some extent identical. They were one

in race and religion, rendered mutual services, gloried in a common

country, and shared their miseries. The noble spent at least a part of

the year on his estates, surrounded by his dependants. Kind offices were

interchanged. The great lady visited the peasant woman in her sickness,

and the humanities of life were not ignored. Elsewhere in Europe the

great land-owners, whether lay or ecclesiastical, were, with rare

exceptions, kind to the poor, indulgent to their debtors, willing to

encourage industry, to advance capital for the improvement of the land,

and thus to promote their own interests by promoting those of their

tenants. The privileged classes were not wholly independent of the

people. If they were not restrained from wrong-doing by love, they were

often held in check by a salutary fear.

But nothing of all this was found in Ireland, where the landlords were

in the unfortunate position of having nothing to fear and nothing to

hope from the people. They lacked all the essential conditions of a

native aristocracy. Their titles were Irish, but all their interests and

sympathies were English. They were the hired servants of England, and

they were not paid to work for the good of Ireland. They drew their

revenues from a country to which they rendered no service; they were

supported by the labors of the people whom they oppressed and hated; and

they rarely saw the land from which they derived their wealth and

titles, but lived in England, where they found a more congenial society,

and were not afflicted by the sight of sufferings and miseries of which

they knew themselves to be the authors. If the people, maddened by

oppression or hunger, revolted, the Irish landlords were not disturbed;

for an English army was at hand to crush the rebellion, which was never

attributed to its true cause, but to the supposed insubordination and

lawlessness of the Irish character. In England there existed a middle

class, which bridged over the chasm that separated the nobles from the

peasants, and which rendered the aristocracy liberal and progressive by

opening its ranks to superior merit wherever found; but in Ireland there

were only two classes of society, divided the one from the other as by a

wall of brass. The authority of the Protestant oligarchy over the

Catholic population was absolute, and they contracted the vices by which

the exercise of uncontrolled power is always punished. To the narrowness

and ignorance of a rural gentry were added the brutality and coarseness

of tyrants. The social organization prevented the infusion of new blood

which had saved the English aristocracy from decay and impotence, and

the general stagnation of political and commercial life in Ireland had

the effect of helping on the degeneracy of the ruling caste. Everything,

in a word, tended to make the Irish landlords the worst aristocracy with

which a nation was ever cursed; and, by the most cruel of fates, this

worst of all aristocracies was made the sole arbiter of the destinies of

the Irish people, of whose pitiable condition under this rule we have

already given some account.

We turn now to consider the causes which have brought a certain measure

of relief to the people of Ireland; and we must seek for them, not in

the good-will or sense of justice of Irish or English Protestants, but

in circumstances which took from them the power of continuing without

some mitigation a policy which, if ruinous to the Irish people, was also

full of peril to England.

It is pleasant to us, as Americans, to know that the voice which

proclaimed our freedom and independence was heard in Ireland, as it has

since been heard throughout the earth, rousing the nations to high

thoughts of liberty, ringing as the loud battle-cry of wronged and

oppressed peoples. The great discussions which the struggle of the

American colonies awoke in the British Parliament, and in which the very

spirit of liberty spoke from the lips of the sublimest orators, sent a

thrill of hope through Irish hearts, while the Declaration of

Independence filled their oppressors with dismay. In 1776 we declared

our separate existence, and in 1778 already some of the most odious

features of the Penal Code were abolished. “A voice from America,” said

Flood, “shouted to Liberty.” Henceforward Catholics were permitted to

take long leases, though not to possess in fee simple; the son, by

turning Protestant, was no longer permitted to rob his father, and the

laws of inheritance which prevented the accumulation of property in the

hands of Catholics were abrogated. This was little enough, indeed, but

it was of inestimable value, for it marked the turning-point in the

history of Ireland. A beginning had been made, a breach had been opened

in the enemy’s citadel. But this was not all that the American

Revolution did for Ireland.

The sympathies of the Presbyterians of the North went out to their

brethren who were struggling on the other side of the Atlantic. They

also had grievances compared with which those of the colonies were

slight; their cause was identical, and the success of the Americans

would be a victory for Ireland; if England triumphed beyond the seas,

there would be no hope for those who, being nearer, were held with a

more certain grasp. Hence, in spite of the bitter hate which in Ireland

separated the Protestants from the Catholics, they were drawn together

by a common interest and sympathy in the cause of American independence.

England’s wars, both in Europe and in her transatlantic colonies, were a

constant drain upon her resources, and it became necessary to supply the

armies in America with the troops which were kept in Ireland to hold

that country in subjection. General Howe asked that Irish papists should

not be sent as recruits to him, for they would desert to the enemy. The

best men were therefore picked from the English regiments and sent to

America; Ireland was denuded of troops; the defences of her harbors were

in ruins; and she was exposed to the attacks of privateers. Something

had to be done, and Parliament agreed to allow the Irish militia to be

called out. As an inducement to Catholics to enlist, they were promised

indulgences in the exercise of their religion, but this promise aroused

Protestant bigotry, ever ready to break forth. The plan was abandoned,

and the defence of the country was committed to the Volunteers.

In the meanwhile Burgoyne had surrendered to the Americans at Saratoga,

France had entered into alliance with the colonies, and French and

American privateers began to swarm in the Irish Channel. The English

Parliament, now thoroughly alarmed, and eager to make peace with the

rebels, passed an act renouncing the right of taxing the colonies, and

even offered seats in the House of Commons to their representatives.

These concessions, which came too late to propitiate the Americans,

served only to embolden the Irish in their demands for the redress of

their grievances. The Americans were rebels, and were treated with the

greatest indulgence; the Irish were loyal, and were still held in the

vilest bondage. This was intolerable. To add to the distress, one of the

periodical visitations of famine which have marked English rule in

Ireland fell upon the country, and the highways were filled with crowds

of half-naked and starving people.

Thirty thousand merchants and mechanics in Dublin were living on alms;

the taxes could not be collected, and in the general collapse of trade

the customs yielded almost nothing. The country was unprotected, and

there was no money in the treasury with which to raise an army. Nothing

remained in this extremity but to allow the Volunteers to assemble; for

the summer was at hand, and every day the privateers might be expected

to appear in the Channel. Company after company was organized, and in a

very short time large bodies of men were in arms. The Catholics also

took advantage of the general excitement. If the Protestants were in

arms, why should they remain defenceless?

Never before had there been such an opportunity of extorting from

England the measures of relief which she would never willingly consent

to grant. The threatening danger, however, had no effect upon the

British Parliament.

The Irish Parliament met in 1779, and the patriots, strong in the

support of the Volunteers who lined the streets of Dublin, demanded free

trade. The city was in an uproar; a mob paraded before the Parliament

House, and with threats called upon the members to redress the wrongs of

Ireland. Cannon were trailed round the statue of King William, with the

inscription,“Free trade or this,” and on the flags were emblazoned

menacing mottoes—“The Volunteers of Ireland,” “Fifty thousand of us

ready to die for our country.”

“Talk not to me of peace,” exclaimed Hussey Burgh, one of the leading

patriots. “Ireland is not at peace; it is smothered war. England has

sown her laws as dragon’s teeth, and they have sprung up as armed men.”

All Ireland was aroused. The Irish, said Burke in the English House of

Commons, had learned that justice was to be had from England only when

demanded at the point of the sword. They were now in arms; their cause

was just; and they would have redress or end the connection between the

two countries. The obnoxious laws restricting trade were repealed and in

the greatest haste sent over to Ireland to calm the tempest that was

brewing there.

The effect went even beyond expectation. Dublin was illuminated,

congratulatory addresses were sent over to England, and people imagined

that Ireland’s millennium had arrived. But the consequences of centuries

of crime and oppression do not disappear as by the enchanter’s wand; and

one of the evils of tyranny is the curse it leaves after it has ceased

to exist. In the wildness of their joy the people exaggerated the boon

which they had wrenched from England; the sober second thought turned

their attention to what still remained to be done.

In 1780 Grattan brought forward the famous resolution which declared

that “the king, with the consent of the Parliament of Ireland, was alone

competent to enact laws to bind Ireland.” The time could not have been

more opportune. The American colonies were in full revolt; Spain and

France were assisting them; England had been forced into war with

Holland, and her Indian Empire was threatening to take advantage of her

distress to rebel. In the midst of so many wars and dangers it would

have been madness to have provoked Ireland to armed resistance, and

Grattan felt that the hour had come when the Irish people should stand

forth as one of the nations of the earth; when all differences of race

and creed might be merged into a common patriotism, and Celt and Saxon,

Catholic and Protestant, present an unbroken front to the English

tyrant. “The Penal Code,” he said, “is the shell in which the Protestant

power has been hatched. It has become a bird. It must burst the shell or

perish in it. Indulgence to Catholics cannot injure the Protestant

religion.”

The Volunteers were, with few exceptions, Protestants, and their

attitude of defiance made the English government willing to place the

Catholics against them as a counterpoise; and it therefore offered no

opposition to measures tending to relieve them of their disabilities.

But, under Grattan’s influence, the Volunteers themselves pronounced in

favor of the Catholics by passing the famous Dungannon resolution: “That

we, [the Volunteers] hold the right of private judgment in matters of

religion to be equally sacred in others as in ourselves; that we rejoice

in the relaxation of the penal laws against our Roman Catholic

fellow-subjects; and that we conceive these measures to be fraught with

the happiest consequences to the union and prosperity of the inhabitants

of Ireland.”

In February, 1782, Grattan again brought forward a motion to declare the

independence of the Irish Legislature, and again it was thrown out. The

Dungannon resolution was then introduced, and it was proposed to abolish

all distinctions between Protestants and Catholics. But to this the most

serious objections were raised, and it was found necessary to make

concessions to Protestant bigotry. The Catholics were permitted to

acquire freehold property, to buy and sell, bequeath and inherit; but

the penal laws which bore upon their religion, and their right to

educate their children at home or abroad, as well as those which

excluded them from political life, were left on the statute-book.

Fanaticism was stronger than patriotism, and the enthusiastic love of

liberty was again found to be compatible with the love of persecution

and oppression. But this injustice in no way dampened the ardor of the

Catholics for the national independence; and when, on the 16th of April,

1782, Grattan moved a Declaration of Rights, inspired probably by our

own Declaration of Independence, he was greeted with as wild a tumult of

applause by the Catholics as by his Protestant countrymen. “I found

Ireland,” he said, “on her knees. I watched over her with an eternal

solicitude. I have traced her progress from injuries to arms, and from

arms to liberty. Spirit of Swift, spirit of Molyneux, your genius has

prevailed. Ireland is now a nation. In that new character I hail her,

and, bowing to her august presence, I say, _Esto Perpetua_!”

The overwhelming popular enthusiasm bore everything with it, and

opposition was useless. “It is no longer,” wrote the Duke of Portland,

the viceroy, “the Parliament of Ireland that is to be managed or

attended to; it is the whole of this country.”

In England the Whigs, who were in power, felt how hopeless would be any

efforts to stem the torrent, and they therefore yielded with grace. Fox

admitted that Ireland had a right to distrust British legislation

“because it had hitherto been employed only to oppress and distress

her.” Ireland had been wronged, and it was but just that concessions

should now be made to her. The day of deliverance had come, and, amidst

an outburst of universal enthusiasm, Ireland’s independence was

proclaimed.

The Catholics were the first to feel the benefits of this victory. The

two Relief Bills, introduced into Parliament in their favor, were

carried. They were permitted to open schools and educate their own

children; their stables were no longer subject to inspection, or their

horses above the value of five pounds liable to be seized by the

government or taken from them by Protestant informers; and their right

to freedom of religious worship was fully recognized. They recovered, in

a word, their civil rights; but the law still excluded them from any

participation in the political life of the country, and they were still

forbidden to possess arms. Nevertheless, another step towards Catholic

emancipation had been taken. Two other laws, beneficial to all classes

of citizens, but especially favorable to the poor and oppressed

Catholics, date from this time: the Habeas Corpus Act was granted to

Ireland, and the tenure of judges was placed on the English level.