VTheVera Causa

The mist cleared. As an airman flying, I saw,Between the quiet wings of Shadow-of-a-Leaf,Far down, a coiling glitter of willowy streams,Then grey remembered battlements that enclosedGardens, like nests of nightingales; a bridge;An airy tower; a shadowy dome; the High;St Mary’s delicate spire.A sound of bellsRose like a spray of melody from the farDiminished fountains of the City of Youth.I heard and almost wept.The walls grew largeAnd soared to meet me. As the patterned streetsBreak into new dimensions, passing from sightWhile the airman glides and circles down, they rose,And the outer City, vanishing, revealedThe secret life within. At once I passedThrough walls of stone on those ethereal wings;And, as an unseen spirit might surveyA crowded theatre from above, I sawA packed assembly, gazing, hushed and still,At certain famous leaders of that hourOn their raised daïs. Henslow in the midst,Their president, gentle, tolerant, reverent, kind,Darwin’s old tutor, scientist and half-saint;Owen beside him, crabbèd as John Knox,And dry as his dead bones; bland Wilberforce,The great smooth Bishop of Oxford, pledged and primedTo make an end of Darwin, once for all.Not far away, a little in shadow, satA strange young man, tall, slight, with keen dark eyes,Who might, in the irresponsible way of youth,Defend an absent thinker. Let him beware.There was a balance of power in science, too,Which would resent disturbance. He’d be crushedBy sheer weight of authority, then set,Duly submissive, in his proper place.His name was Huxley.A square close-crowded room,It held, in little, a concentrated world,Imaging, on a microcosmic stage,The doubts, the fears, the jealousies, and dull hatesThat now beset one lonely soul at Down;But imaging, also, dauntless love of truthIn two or three, the bearers of the fire.Henslow, subdued, with twenty reticent wordsThat, in their mere formality, seemed awareOf silent dark momentous currents flowingUnder the trivial ripple of use and wont,Called on Daubeny, first, for his discourseOn Sex in Flowers, and their descent through time.Daubeny, glancing over his glasses, bowedAnd twinkled a wise physician’s rosy smile,As one of his many parts; an all-round man,Sound Latinist and an excellent judge of wine,Humanist and geologist, who had trackedGuettard through all his craters in Auvergne,And, afterwards, with a map in his right hand,And Ovid’s ‘Ars Amoris’ in his left,Traced the volcanic chains through Hungary,Italy, Transylvania, and returnedTo Oxford, as her botanist at the last,With silvery hair, but otherwise unchanged,Oxford in bloom and Oxford to the core.Swimming serene in academic air,With open mind and non-committal phraseHe proved he knew how little all men know;And whoso kept that little to himselfCould never be caught tripping.Then he smiled,And so remained the wisest of them all.For half an hour the sexes of the flowersDanced from his learned discourse, through the mindsOf half his feminine hearers, like a troopOf Bacchanals, blowing kisses.In the crowdI saw, at the whimsical chuckle of Shadow-of-a-Leaf,The large-eyed spinster with the small pursed mouth,Eliza Pym of Woodstock, who desiredTo know about the wild flowers that she drewIn delicate water-colours for her friends.She sat bolt upright, innocently amazedAnd vaguely trepidant in her hooped green gown.What? Even the flowers? How startling was the soundOf pistil! Awed, intent, she caught at clues;Meticulously quivering at the thoughtOf bees; and blushing deeply when he spokeIn baritone of male virtue in the rose.Through all, the evasive academic phrase,Putting out vaguely sensitive tentaclesThat instantly withdrew from what they touched,Implied that he could view, quite unperturbed,All theories, and remain detached, aloftAmong the gods, in philosophic calm;Nay, by his critical logic was endowedWith something loftier.What were gods to him,Who, being ephemeral, mortal, born to die,Could, over the port of Corpus and All SoulsMellowed in classic cellars, quiz the powersThat doomed him, as the aristocrat of thoughtLooks through ironical lorgnettes at the mightOf Demos round his tumbril. They lived on,Wasting their nectar, wrecking worlds on worlds.He had risen, at least, superior to all that.He held it somewhat barbarous, vulgar, crudeTo wallow in such profusion as the gods.All this implied, not spoken; for he foundHis final causes in his dry pressed flowers;Proved that he knew—none better—all the tribeWho had dragged a net of Latin through the fields;Proved that some flowers, at least, had never changedThrough many centuries. The black-seeded poppyWas known to Homer. He rolled out the lines.Almonds, the bitter-kernelled and the sweet,Were tasted by the prophets; and he foundWhite-seeded sesamum, in the night of time,Among the old Egyptians....He showed that, while his library was vast,Fragrant with leather, crested, tooled, and gilt,He had closed the Book of Nature, and, on the whole,Despite his open mind, dismissed the viewsOf this—er—new philosopher, with a smileThat, don-wise, almost seemed to ask aloud,“Who is he, after all?” Not one ofus.Why weigh his facts, then, further, since we holdThe official seals of truth in this our time.Such men are always wrong. They come and go.The breeze would soon blow over.All this implied,Not spoken, in that small dry steady smile,Doctor Daubeny gathered up his tailsAnd made one definite and emphatic pointBy sitting down, while some eight hundred handsAcclaimed his perfect don-hood.Henslow rose,A little nervously. Had much pleasure, though....And turned to Mr. Huxley. Would he speak?A whisper passed, a queer new stillness grippedThe expectant crowd. The clock ticked audiblyNot yet, not yet!A sense of change at handStole through the silence, like the first cool breathThat, over a great ship’s company at night,Steals through the port-holes from the open sea.Then, with sure foresight, seeing the clash to come,The strange young man with the determined mouthAnd quick dark eyes rose grimly, and flung downA single sentence, like a gyve of steelWrenched from the wrists to set the strong hands freeFor whatsoever need might rise, if clockAndZeitgeistchanged their quietNot YettoNow.“A general audience, sir, where sentimentMay interfere, unduly interfere,With intellect”—as a thin steel wire drawn tightBy an iron winch, the hush grew tense and rangLow, hard, clear, cold—“is not a fitting placeFor this discussion.”Silence, and the clock,Two great allies, the surest of them all,Dead silence, and the voiceNot Yet, Not Yet,A cough, the creak of the chair as he sat down,A shuffle of feet, the chairman’s baffled face,Then little indignant mutterings round the hall,Turning to gasps of mockery. Insolence?—no,—Sheer weakness, full retreat!The Bishop raisedHis eye-brows, looked at the dense disflattered crowds,And had no further fear. The battle was won.Victory, of the only kind he knew,Was in his hands. Retreat must now be turnedInto full rout. He glanced at Owen,—metHis little sardonic smile with a wise nod,As if to say, “Ah, just as we foresaw.”Excited clerics caught the flying hintAnd whispered, eyes agog—“You noticed that?He’s a great man, the Bishop? What a brow!And Owen, too. Of course, they know; they know;And understand each other, thick as thieves.”Then Owen rose; waved Huxley’s empty excuseRemorselessly aside; and plunged right on,Declaring there were facts, whereby the crowdCould very fitly judge.The crowd’s own feetTapped a benign applause.Then came the facts,Facts from a realm that Huxley had made his own.The brain of the gorilla—some one turnedA faint hysterical laugh into a sneeze—Linked it more closely to the lowest groupsOfQuadrumana.“Quadru—what-did-he-say?”Whispered Miss Pym unconsciously to herself,“Mana, four-handed,” clerical whiskers breathed,With Evangelical titillance in her ear,“Apes, monkeys, all the things that climb up trees.Says the gorilla’s more like them than us.”“Thank you.” Eliza Pym inclined her headA little stiffly.Had the world gone mad?Was some one in the background trying to findA pedigree for mankind among the brutes?Absurd, of course, and yet—one must confessHow like they were in some things. Unto eachA mouth, a nose, two eyes, flesh, blood, and bonesOf the same pattern.Comic enough, and weird;But what became of Genesis, then, and God?If all these whiskered men but one or twoSo utterly disbelieved it, why discussDegrees of kinship? Surely the gulf was fixedWide as the severance between heaven and hell.Then, in one dreadful gleam, she seemed to seeThe rows of whiskered listeners, darkly perched,Herself among them, on long swaying boughs,Mesmerised, and all dumbly staring downWith horrible fascination at great eyes,Green moons of cruelty, steadily smouldering,In depths that—smelt of tigers; or the saltsUnstoppered by the vicar’s wife in front.Smile at Eliza Pym with Shadow-of-a-Leaf;But only if your inward sight can seeHer memories, too—a child’s uplifted face,The clean white cot, the fluttering nursery fire;Old days, old faces, teaching her those linesFrom Blake, about a Lamb. Yet that—why thatMight be the clue they lacked in all this talkOf our dumb kinsfolk. If she could but speakAnd—hint it! Why don’t Bishops think of thingsLike that, she wondered.Owen resumed his chairWith loud applause.That grim young man again,Huxley, was on his feet, his dark eyes litWith thrice the vital power of all the rest.In one cool sentence, like a shining lance,He touched the centre of his opponent’s shield,And ended all the shuffling, all the doubtsOf where he stood, how far he dared to go,If truth required it. He could not acceptThose facts from any authority; gave directUnqualified contradiction to those facts;And pledged himself to justify this course,Unusual as it seemed perhaps—elsewhere.“Elsewhere,” and as he said it, came a gleamInto his face, reflected from the heightsWhere a tribunal sits whose judgment holdsNot for the fleeting moment, but all time.“Elsewhere”—the Bishop smiled. He had not caughtThat gleam. “Elsewhere” was only another signOf weakness, even timidity perhaps,And certainly retreat, not from the truth(He felt so sure of that) but from the mightAnd deep resources of the established powersWhose influence ruled the world.“Elsewhere” for himMeant Saturday, and here. The lists were set,The battle joined, and the great issue plain,—Whether the human race came straight from God,Or traced its dark descent back to the brute,And left his creed a wreck of hollow towers,The haunt of bats and owls. His time to strikeWould come on Saturday. Pleadings of “elsewhere”Would not avail. He set his jaw. Please God,He meant to drive this victory crashing home,And make an end of Darwin once for all.So closed the first strange scene.The rumour spreadEverywhere, of the Bishop’s grim intent.Saturday’s crowd, an hour before its timeChoked all the doors, and crammed the long west hall.Black-coated members of all shades of thought,Knowledge and doubt and bigotry, crushed their sidesIn chair-packed rows together (Eliza PymAmong them, with her startled innocent eyes).A bevy of undergraduates at the back,Quietly thoughtful, held their watching briefFor youth and for the future. Fame to comeAlready touched the brows of a rare fewWith faint leaf-shadows of her invisible wreath:Green, the philosopher, gazing at the worldWith youth’s aloofness, and that inward lightWhich shines from Oxford still; not far awayThe young historian of the coloured streamOf outward life, the ancestral pageantryOf England, and its tributary rillsFlowing in dawn-gleams out of the mists of time.There, too, in front, with atavistic faceAnd Vandyke beard, so oddly like the kingWho loved Nell Gwynne, sat Admiral FitzRoy,Late captain of theBeagle, quite prick-earedWith personal curiosity. Twice he toldHis neighbour that, by George, he wouldn’t ha’ missedThis Donnybrook Fair for anything. He had sailedWith Darwin round the world. They used to call himThe old philosopher. Heard the bosun once,Pointing the officers out—damned funny it was!—“That’s Captain FitzRoy. That’s the second mate;Andthat”—pointing a thumb at Darwin’s back—“That’sour Fly-Catcher!”Best of fellows, too,But queer. He’d tell you, in the simplest way—As if it meant no more than pass the salt,—Something that knocked you endways; calmly shiftA mountain-range, in half a dozen words,And sink it in the sea.In fact, FitzRoyFelt it his duty more than once, by George,To expostulate; told him plainly he’d upsetGenesisand the Church; and then there’d beThe devil and all to pay. And now, by George,He’d done it; and her Majesty’s AdmiralHad come on purpose, all the way from town,To hear and see the end of it.So he said,Not wholly understanding why he came,—The memory of a figure rapt and bowedOver a shell, or finding in the rocks,As though by wizardry, relics of lost worlds;Moments that, by a hardly noticed phrase,Had touched with orderly meaning and new lightThe giant flaws and foldings in the hills;Moments when, in the cabin, he had staredInto the “old philosopher’s” microscope,And seen the invisible speck in a water-dropGrow to a great rose-window of radiant lifeIn an immense cathedral.Vaguely enough,Perhaps in the dimmest hinterland of his mind,There lurked a quiet suspicion that, after all,His queer old friendhadhit on something queer.Three places off, his face a twinkling maskOf keen Scots humour, Robert Chambers glancedQuietly at his watch, to hide a smileWhen some one who had “written the Vestiges,”And only half denied it, met his eye.The vacant platform glared expectancy,And held the gaze now of the impatient crowd.Then Henslow led the conquering Bishop in.Two rows of clerics, halfway down the hall,Drummed for their doughty champion with their heels.Above, in each recessed high window-seat,Bishop-adoring ladies clapped their hands.The rest filed in, mere adjuncts, modest foils.Hooker and Lubbock and Huxley took their chairsOn Henslow’s left. The beautiful gaitered legs,By their divine prerogative, on his right,So carelessly crossed, more eloquently than wordsAssured the world that everything was well,And their translation into forms of speechA mere formality. Next to the Bishop satA Transatlantic visitor with a twang,One Doctor Draper, his hard wrinkled skinTinged by the infinite coffee he absorbed,A gaunt bone-coloured desert, unassuaged.He was a grim diplomatist, as befitsA pilgrim of the cosmos; ready at RomeTo tickle the Romans; and, if bishops ruled,And found themselves at odds with freeborn soulsOutside the Land of Freedom, he’d befriendBishops, bring in the New World, stars and all,To rectify that balance, and take homeFor souvenir, with a chip of the pyramids,The last odd homages of the obsequious Old.The president called him for his opening speech.He stood and beamed, enjoying to the fullThe sense that, with his mighty manuscript,He could delay the antagonists for an hour.He cleared his throat. He took from a little boxA small black lozenge, popped it into his mouth,Leisurely rolled it under a ruminant tongue,Then placidly drawled his most momentous words:“Proh-fessur Henslow, Bishop Wilbur-force,Members,andfriends, in this historic hall,I assk first,airwe a fortooitousCon-course of atoms?”Half unconsciously,He struck at once to the single central heartOf all the questions asked by every age;As though he saw what only Shadow-of-a-LeafHad watched last night, as in a crystal globe,That scene preparing, the interweaving cluesWhose inconceivable intricacy at length,By “chance,” as blind men call it, through the mazeOf life and time, at the one right juncture broughtTwo shadows, face to face, in an Oxford Street,Chambers and Huxley. “You’ll be there to-morrow.”—“No, I leave Oxford now.”—“The enemy meansTo annihilate Darwin. You will not desert us?”—“If you say that, I stay.”Each to his placeHad moved in his own orbit, like a star,Or like an atom, free-will at one with law,In the unplanned plan of the Master-Dramatist,Where Doctor Draper blindly played his partAnd asked his pregnant question. He droned on,For one enormous hour, starkly maintainedThat Europe, in its intellectual life,By mere “fortooity,” never could have floweredTo such results as blushed before him thereIn that historic hall of halls to-night.If Darwin thought so, he took leave to standBeside them, and to smile the vast calm smileOf Arizona’s desert distances,Till all such dragon thoughts had coiled away.He took his chair. The great debate began.For prelude came a menacing growl of storm.A furious figure rose, like a sperm-whale,Out of the seething audience. A huge man,With small, hot, wicked eyes and cavernous mouth,Bellowed his own ferocious claim to speakOn economic grounds. He had subscribedHis guineas, ringing guineas of red gold,Ungrudgingly for years; but prophesiedWithdrawal of all such guineas, on all sides,From this Association, if it failedTo brand these most abominable viewsAs blasphemous, bearing on their devilish brows,Between their horns, the birth-mark of the Beast.This last word hissed, he sank again. At once,Ere Henslow found his feet or spoke a word,Up leapt a raw-boned parson from the North,To seize his moment’s fame. With sawing armThe Reverend Dingle, like a windmill, vowedHe’d prove upon the blackboard, in white chalk,By diagram—and the chalk was in his hand—“That mawnkey and mahn had separate pedigrees.Let A here be the mawnkey, and B the mahn.”Loud laughter; shouts of “mawnkey!” and “sit down”Extinguished him. He sat; and Henslow quelledThe hubbub with one clarion-clear demand,Dictated, surely, by the ironic powersWho had primed the Bishop and prepared his fall:“Gentlemen, this discussion now must restOn scientific grounds.”At once there cameCalls for the Bishop, who, rising from his chair,Urged by the same invisible ironies,Remarked that his old friend, Professor Beale,Had something to sayfirst. That weighty firstConveyed the weight of his own words to come.Urged still by those invisible ones, his friendDug the pit deeper; modestly declared,Despite his keen worn face and shoulders bowedIn histologic vigils, that he feltHis knowledge quite inadequate; and the wayWas made straight—for the Bishop.The Bishop rose, mellifluous, bland, adroit.A gesture, lacking only the lawn sleevesTo make it perfect, delicately conveyedHis comfortable thought—that what amazedThe sheepfold must be folly.Half the throng,His own experience told him, had not graspedThe world-inweaving argument, could not thinkIn æons. Æons, then, would be dismissedAs vague and airy fantasies. He might chooseHis facts at will, unchallenged. He stood thereSecure that his traditions could not fail,Basing his faith on schemes of thought designedBy authorised “thinkers” in pure artistry,As free from Nature’s law as coloured blocksThat children play with on the nursery hearth,And puzzle about and shift and twist and turnUntil the beautiful picture, as ordained,Comes out, exact to the pattern, and revealsThe artificer’s plan, the pattern, as arranged,By bishops, politic statesmen, teachers, guides,Who hold it in reserve, their final testOf truth, for times like this. He had been so sureOf something deeper than all schemes of thoughtThat he had all too lightly primed himselfWith “facts” to match their fables; hastily crammedInto his mind’s convenient travelling bag(Sound leather, British) all that he required,—Not truth, but “a good argument.” He had askedOwen, who hated Huxley, to provide it;And he had brought it with him,—not the truth,Not even facts, those unrelated crumbsOf truth, the abiding consecrated whole.He had brought his borrowed “facts,” misunderstood,To meet, for the first time in all his life,Stark earnest thought, wrestling for truth alone,As men on earth discerned it. He had prayed,With something deeper than blind make-believe,Thy will be done on earth; and yet, and yet,The law wherein that will might be discerned,The law wherein that unity of heavenAnd earth might yet be found (could he but trustThe truth, could he believe that his own GodLived in the living truth), he waved aside.These others had not found it, but they keptOne faith that he had lost. Though it should slay them,They trusted in the truth. They could not seeWhere it might lead them. Only at times they feltAs they deciphered the dark Book of EarthThat, following its majestic rhythm of law,They followed the true path, the eternal wayOf That which reigns. Prophetic flashes came.Words that the priest mechanically intonedBurned upon Huxley’s keen ironical pageLike sudden sapphires, drawing their deeper lightFrom that celestial City which enduresBecause it hath foundations:Shall I comeBefore the Eternal with burnt offerings?Hath not the Eternal showed thee what is good,That thou do justly and mercifully, and walkHumbly with the Eternal?O, irony of the Master-dramatist,Who set once more those lists; and sent His truthUnrecognised, as of old, to fight for lifeAnd prove itself in struggle and raise once moreA nobler world above the world out-worn,Crushing all easy sophistry, though it stoodGarbed as the priest of God.The Bishop seizedHis diplomatic vantage. The blunt truthOf Huxley’s warning offered itself to himAs a rash gambit in their game of—tact.He seized it; gracefully smoothed the ruffled prideOf that great audience, trained in a sound schoolTo judge by common-sense.His mobile faceRevealed much that his politic words concealed.His strength was in that sound old British way—Derision of all things that transcend its codesIn life, thought, art; the moon-calf’s happy creedThat, if a moon-calf only sees the moonIn thoughts that range the cosmos, his broad grinSums the whole question; there’s no more to see.In all these aids, an innocent infidel,The Bishop put his trust; and, more than all,In vanity, the vacant self-conceitThat, when it meets the masters of the mindAnd finds them bowed before the Inscrutable Power,Accepts their reverence and humilityAs tribute, due acknowledgment of fool’s rightTo give the final judgment, and annulThe labour of a life-time in an hour.Dulcetly, first, he scoffed at Darwin’s facts.“Rock-pigeons now were what they had always been.Species had never changed. What were the proofsEven of the variation they requiredTo make this theory possible? We had heardMysterious rumours of a long-legged sheepSomewhere in Yorkshire (laughter). Let me askProfessor Huxley, here upon the left(All eyes on Huxley), who believes himselfDescended from an ape (chuckles of glee),How recently this happened.”The Bishop turned,All smiling insolence, “May I beg to knowIf this descent is on your father’s side,Or on your mother’s?”He paused, to let the crowdBellow its laughter. The unseen ironiesHad trapped him and his flock; and neither knew.But Huxley knew. He turned, with a grim smile,And while the opposing triumph rocked and pealed,Struck one decisive palm upon his knee,And muttered low—“The Lord hath delivered himInto my hands.”His neighbour stared and thoughtHis wits were wandering. Yet that undertoneSounded more deadly, had more victory in it,Than all the loud-mouthed minute’s dying roar.It died to a tense hush. The Bishop closedIn solemn diapason. Darwin’s viewsDegraded woman. They debased mankind,And contradicted God’s most Holy Word.Applause! Applause! The hall a quivering mistOf clapping hands. From every windowseatA flutter of ladies’ handkerchiefs and shrill criesAs of white swarming sea-gulls. The black rowsOf clerics all exchanging red-faced nods,And drumming with their feet, as though to fillA hundred-pedalled organ with fresh wind.The Bishop, like aGloire de DijonroseWith many-petalled smiles, his plump right handClasped in a firm congratulatory gripOf hickory-bones by Draper of New York;Who had small faith in what the Bishop saidBut heard the cheers, and gripped him as a manWho never means to let this good thing go.Motionless, on the left, the observant few,The silent delegates of a sterner power,With grave set faces, quietly looking on.At last the tumult, as all tumult must,Sank back to that deep silence. Henslow turnedTo Huxley without speaking. Once againThe clock ticked audibly, but its old “Not Yet”Had somehow, in that uproar, in the faceOf that tumultuous mockery, changed toNow!The lean tall figure of Huxley quietly rose.He looked for a moment thoughtfully at the crowd;Saw rows of hostile faces; caught the grinOf ignorant curiosity; here and there,A hopeful gleam of friendship; and, far back,The young, swift-footed, waiting for the fire.He fixed his eyes on these—then, in low tones,Clear, cool, incisive, “I have come here,” he said,“In the cause of Science only.”He paused again.Then, striking the mockery out of the mocker’s face,His voice rang out like steel—“I have heard nothingTo prejudice the case of my augustClient, who, as I told you, is not here.”At once a threefold picture flashed upon me,A glimpse, far off, through eyes of Shadow-of-a-Leaf,First, of a human seeker, there at Down,Gathering his endless cloud of witnessesFrom rocks, from stones, from trees; and from the signsIn man’s own body of life’s æonian way;But, far above him, clothed with purer light,The stern, majestic Spirit of living Truth;And, more august than even his prophets knew,Through that eternal Spirit, the primal PowerReturning into a world of faiths out-worn.Once more, as he spoke on, a thousand yearsWere but as yesterday. If these truths were true,This theory flooded the whole world with light.Could we believe that the Creator setIn mockery all these birth-signs in the world,Or once in a million years had wrecked His workAnd shaped, in a flash, a myriad lives anew,Bearing in their own bodies all the signsOf their descent from those that He destroyed?Who left that ancient leaf within the flower?Who hid within the reptile those lost fins,And under the skin of the sea-floundering whaleThe bones of the lost thigh? Who dusked the foalWith shadowy stripes, and under its hoof concealedThose ancient birdlike feet of its lost kin?Who matched that hoof with a rosy fingernail,Or furled that point within the human ear?Who had imprinted in the body of man,And in his embryo, all those intricate signsOf his forgotten lineage, even those gillsThrough which he drew his breath once in the sea?The speaker glanced at his antagonist.“You think all this too marvellous to be true;Yet you believe in miracles. You thinkThe unfolding of this complicated lifeAround us, out of a simple primal form,Impossible; yet you know that every manBefore his birth, a few brief years ago,Was once no more than a single living cell.You think it ends your theory of creation.You say that God madeyou; and yet you know—And reconcile your creed with what you know—That you yourself originally”—he held upA gleaming pencil-case—“were a little pieceOf matter, not so large as the end of this.But if you ask, in fine,Whether I’d be ashamed to claim descentFrom that poor animal with the stooping gaitAnd low intelligence, who can only grinAnd chatter as we pass by, or from amanWho could use high position and great giftsTo crush one humble seeker after truth—I hesitate, but”—an outburst of applauseFrom all who understood him drowned the words.He paused. The clock ticked audibly again.Then, quietly measuring every word, he droveThe sentence home. “I asserted and repeatA man would have no cause to feel ashamedOf being descended through vast tracts of timeFrom that poor ape.Were there an ancestorWhom I could not recall without a senseOf shame, it were aman, so placed, so gifted,Who sought to sway his hearers from the truthBy aimless eloquence and by skilled appealsTo their religious prejudice.”Was it the truthThat conquered, or the blind sense of the blowJustly considered, delivered, and driven home,That brought a crash of applause from half the house?And more (for even the outright enemyJoined in that hubbub), though indignant cries,Protested vainly, “Abominable to treatThe Bishop so!”The Bishop sat there dumb.Eliza Pym, adding her own quaint touchOf comedy, saw that pencil shine againIn Huxley’s hand; compared it, at a glanceOf fawn-like eyes, with the portentous formIn gaiters; felt the whole world growing strange;Drew one hysterical breath, and swooned away.

The mist cleared. As an airman flying, I saw,

Between the quiet wings of Shadow-of-a-Leaf,

Far down, a coiling glitter of willowy streams,

Then grey remembered battlements that enclosed

Gardens, like nests of nightingales; a bridge;

An airy tower; a shadowy dome; the High;

St Mary’s delicate spire.

A sound of bells

Rose like a spray of melody from the far

Diminished fountains of the City of Youth.

I heard and almost wept.

The walls grew large

And soared to meet me. As the patterned streets

Break into new dimensions, passing from sight

While the airman glides and circles down, they rose,

And the outer City, vanishing, revealed

The secret life within. At once I passed

Through walls of stone on those ethereal wings;

And, as an unseen spirit might survey

A crowded theatre from above, I saw

A packed assembly, gazing, hushed and still,

At certain famous leaders of that hour

On their raised daïs. Henslow in the midst,

Their president, gentle, tolerant, reverent, kind,

Darwin’s old tutor, scientist and half-saint;

Owen beside him, crabbèd as John Knox,

And dry as his dead bones; bland Wilberforce,

The great smooth Bishop of Oxford, pledged and primed

To make an end of Darwin, once for all.

Not far away, a little in shadow, sat

A strange young man, tall, slight, with keen dark eyes,

Who might, in the irresponsible way of youth,

Defend an absent thinker. Let him beware.

There was a balance of power in science, too,

Which would resent disturbance. He’d be crushed

By sheer weight of authority, then set,

Duly submissive, in his proper place.

His name was Huxley.

A square close-crowded room,

It held, in little, a concentrated world,

Imaging, on a microcosmic stage,

The doubts, the fears, the jealousies, and dull hates

That now beset one lonely soul at Down;

But imaging, also, dauntless love of truth

In two or three, the bearers of the fire.

Henslow, subdued, with twenty reticent wordsThat, in their mere formality, seemed awareOf silent dark momentous currents flowingUnder the trivial ripple of use and wont,Called on Daubeny, first, for his discourseOn Sex in Flowers, and their descent through time.Daubeny, glancing over his glasses, bowedAnd twinkled a wise physician’s rosy smile,As one of his many parts; an all-round man,Sound Latinist and an excellent judge of wine,Humanist and geologist, who had trackedGuettard through all his craters in Auvergne,And, afterwards, with a map in his right hand,And Ovid’s ‘Ars Amoris’ in his left,Traced the volcanic chains through Hungary,Italy, Transylvania, and returnedTo Oxford, as her botanist at the last,With silvery hair, but otherwise unchanged,Oxford in bloom and Oxford to the core.Swimming serene in academic air,With open mind and non-committal phraseHe proved he knew how little all men know;And whoso kept that little to himselfCould never be caught tripping.Then he smiled,And so remained the wisest of them all.

Henslow, subdued, with twenty reticent words

That, in their mere formality, seemed aware

Of silent dark momentous currents flowing

Under the trivial ripple of use and wont,

Called on Daubeny, first, for his discourse

On Sex in Flowers, and their descent through time.

Daubeny, glancing over his glasses, bowed

And twinkled a wise physician’s rosy smile,

As one of his many parts; an all-round man,

Sound Latinist and an excellent judge of wine,

Humanist and geologist, who had tracked

Guettard through all his craters in Auvergne,

And, afterwards, with a map in his right hand,

And Ovid’s ‘Ars Amoris’ in his left,

Traced the volcanic chains through Hungary,

Italy, Transylvania, and returned

To Oxford, as her botanist at the last,

With silvery hair, but otherwise unchanged,

Oxford in bloom and Oxford to the core.

Swimming serene in academic air,

With open mind and non-committal phrase

He proved he knew how little all men know;

And whoso kept that little to himself

Could never be caught tripping.

Then he smiled,

And so remained the wisest of them all.

For half an hour the sexes of the flowersDanced from his learned discourse, through the mindsOf half his feminine hearers, like a troopOf Bacchanals, blowing kisses.In the crowdI saw, at the whimsical chuckle of Shadow-of-a-Leaf,The large-eyed spinster with the small pursed mouth,Eliza Pym of Woodstock, who desiredTo know about the wild flowers that she drewIn delicate water-colours for her friends.She sat bolt upright, innocently amazedAnd vaguely trepidant in her hooped green gown.What? Even the flowers? How startling was the soundOf pistil! Awed, intent, she caught at clues;Meticulously quivering at the thoughtOf bees; and blushing deeply when he spokeIn baritone of male virtue in the rose.Through all, the evasive academic phrase,Putting out vaguely sensitive tentaclesThat instantly withdrew from what they touched,Implied that he could view, quite unperturbed,All theories, and remain detached, aloftAmong the gods, in philosophic calm;Nay, by his critical logic was endowedWith something loftier.What were gods to him,Who, being ephemeral, mortal, born to die,Could, over the port of Corpus and All SoulsMellowed in classic cellars, quiz the powersThat doomed him, as the aristocrat of thoughtLooks through ironical lorgnettes at the mightOf Demos round his tumbril. They lived on,Wasting their nectar, wrecking worlds on worlds.He had risen, at least, superior to all that.He held it somewhat barbarous, vulgar, crudeTo wallow in such profusion as the gods.All this implied, not spoken; for he foundHis final causes in his dry pressed flowers;Proved that he knew—none better—all the tribeWho had dragged a net of Latin through the fields;Proved that some flowers, at least, had never changedThrough many centuries. The black-seeded poppyWas known to Homer. He rolled out the lines.Almonds, the bitter-kernelled and the sweet,Were tasted by the prophets; and he foundWhite-seeded sesamum, in the night of time,Among the old Egyptians....He showed that, while his library was vast,Fragrant with leather, crested, tooled, and gilt,He had closed the Book of Nature, and, on the whole,Despite his open mind, dismissed the viewsOf this—er—new philosopher, with a smileThat, don-wise, almost seemed to ask aloud,“Who is he, after all?” Not one ofus.Why weigh his facts, then, further, since we holdThe official seals of truth in this our time.Such men are always wrong. They come and go.The breeze would soon blow over.All this implied,Not spoken, in that small dry steady smile,Doctor Daubeny gathered up his tailsAnd made one definite and emphatic pointBy sitting down, while some eight hundred handsAcclaimed his perfect don-hood.Henslow rose,A little nervously. Had much pleasure, though....And turned to Mr. Huxley. Would he speak?A whisper passed, a queer new stillness grippedThe expectant crowd. The clock ticked audiblyNot yet, not yet!A sense of change at handStole through the silence, like the first cool breathThat, over a great ship’s company at night,Steals through the port-holes from the open sea.Then, with sure foresight, seeing the clash to come,The strange young man with the determined mouthAnd quick dark eyes rose grimly, and flung downA single sentence, like a gyve of steelWrenched from the wrists to set the strong hands freeFor whatsoever need might rise, if clockAndZeitgeistchanged their quietNot YettoNow.“A general audience, sir, where sentimentMay interfere, unduly interfere,With intellect”—as a thin steel wire drawn tightBy an iron winch, the hush grew tense and rangLow, hard, clear, cold—“is not a fitting placeFor this discussion.”Silence, and the clock,Two great allies, the surest of them all,Dead silence, and the voiceNot Yet, Not Yet,A cough, the creak of the chair as he sat down,A shuffle of feet, the chairman’s baffled face,Then little indignant mutterings round the hall,Turning to gasps of mockery. Insolence?—no,—Sheer weakness, full retreat!The Bishop raisedHis eye-brows, looked at the dense disflattered crowds,And had no further fear. The battle was won.Victory, of the only kind he knew,Was in his hands. Retreat must now be turnedInto full rout. He glanced at Owen,—metHis little sardonic smile with a wise nod,As if to say, “Ah, just as we foresaw.”Excited clerics caught the flying hintAnd whispered, eyes agog—“You noticed that?He’s a great man, the Bishop? What a brow!And Owen, too. Of course, they know; they know;And understand each other, thick as thieves.”Then Owen rose; waved Huxley’s empty excuseRemorselessly aside; and plunged right on,Declaring there were facts, whereby the crowdCould very fitly judge.The crowd’s own feetTapped a benign applause.Then came the facts,Facts from a realm that Huxley had made his own.The brain of the gorilla—some one turnedA faint hysterical laugh into a sneeze—Linked it more closely to the lowest groupsOfQuadrumana.“Quadru—what-did-he-say?”Whispered Miss Pym unconsciously to herself,“Mana, four-handed,” clerical whiskers breathed,With Evangelical titillance in her ear,“Apes, monkeys, all the things that climb up trees.Says the gorilla’s more like them than us.”“Thank you.” Eliza Pym inclined her headA little stiffly.Had the world gone mad?Was some one in the background trying to findA pedigree for mankind among the brutes?Absurd, of course, and yet—one must confessHow like they were in some things. Unto eachA mouth, a nose, two eyes, flesh, blood, and bonesOf the same pattern.Comic enough, and weird;But what became of Genesis, then, and God?If all these whiskered men but one or twoSo utterly disbelieved it, why discussDegrees of kinship? Surely the gulf was fixedWide as the severance between heaven and hell.Then, in one dreadful gleam, she seemed to seeThe rows of whiskered listeners, darkly perched,Herself among them, on long swaying boughs,Mesmerised, and all dumbly staring downWith horrible fascination at great eyes,Green moons of cruelty, steadily smouldering,In depths that—smelt of tigers; or the saltsUnstoppered by the vicar’s wife in front.

For half an hour the sexes of the flowers

Danced from his learned discourse, through the minds

Of half his feminine hearers, like a troop

Of Bacchanals, blowing kisses.

In the crowd

I saw, at the whimsical chuckle of Shadow-of-a-Leaf,

The large-eyed spinster with the small pursed mouth,

Eliza Pym of Woodstock, who desired

To know about the wild flowers that she drew

In delicate water-colours for her friends.

She sat bolt upright, innocently amazed

And vaguely trepidant in her hooped green gown.

What? Even the flowers? How startling was the sound

Of pistil! Awed, intent, she caught at clues;

Meticulously quivering at the thought

Of bees; and blushing deeply when he spoke

In baritone of male virtue in the rose.

Through all, the evasive academic phrase,

Putting out vaguely sensitive tentacles

That instantly withdrew from what they touched,

Implied that he could view, quite unperturbed,

All theories, and remain detached, aloft

Among the gods, in philosophic calm;

Nay, by his critical logic was endowed

With something loftier.

What were gods to him,

Who, being ephemeral, mortal, born to die,

Could, over the port of Corpus and All Souls

Mellowed in classic cellars, quiz the powers

That doomed him, as the aristocrat of thought

Looks through ironical lorgnettes at the might

Of Demos round his tumbril. They lived on,

Wasting their nectar, wrecking worlds on worlds.

He had risen, at least, superior to all that.

He held it somewhat barbarous, vulgar, crude

To wallow in such profusion as the gods.

All this implied, not spoken; for he found

His final causes in his dry pressed flowers;

Proved that he knew—none better—all the tribe

Who had dragged a net of Latin through the fields;

Proved that some flowers, at least, had never changed

Through many centuries. The black-seeded poppy

Was known to Homer. He rolled out the lines.

Almonds, the bitter-kernelled and the sweet,

Were tasted by the prophets; and he found

White-seeded sesamum, in the night of time,

Among the old Egyptians....

He showed that, while his library was vast,

Fragrant with leather, crested, tooled, and gilt,

He had closed the Book of Nature, and, on the whole,

Despite his open mind, dismissed the views

Of this—er—new philosopher, with a smile

That, don-wise, almost seemed to ask aloud,

“Who is he, after all?” Not one ofus.

Why weigh his facts, then, further, since we hold

The official seals of truth in this our time.

Such men are always wrong. They come and go.

The breeze would soon blow over.

All this implied,

Not spoken, in that small dry steady smile,

Doctor Daubeny gathered up his tails

And made one definite and emphatic point

By sitting down, while some eight hundred hands

Acclaimed his perfect don-hood.

Henslow rose,

A little nervously. Had much pleasure, though....

And turned to Mr. Huxley. Would he speak?

A whisper passed, a queer new stillness gripped

The expectant crowd. The clock ticked audibly

Not yet, not yet!A sense of change at hand

Stole through the silence, like the first cool breath

That, over a great ship’s company at night,

Steals through the port-holes from the open sea.

Then, with sure foresight, seeing the clash to come,

The strange young man with the determined mouth

And quick dark eyes rose grimly, and flung down

A single sentence, like a gyve of steel

Wrenched from the wrists to set the strong hands free

For whatsoever need might rise, if clock

AndZeitgeistchanged their quietNot YettoNow.

“A general audience, sir, where sentiment

May interfere, unduly interfere,

With intellect”—as a thin steel wire drawn tight

By an iron winch, the hush grew tense and rang

Low, hard, clear, cold—“is not a fitting place

For this discussion.”

Silence, and the clock,

Two great allies, the surest of them all,

Dead silence, and the voiceNot Yet, Not Yet,

A cough, the creak of the chair as he sat down,

A shuffle of feet, the chairman’s baffled face,

Then little indignant mutterings round the hall,

Turning to gasps of mockery. Insolence?—no,—

Sheer weakness, full retreat!

The Bishop raised

His eye-brows, looked at the dense disflattered crowds,

And had no further fear. The battle was won.

Victory, of the only kind he knew,

Was in his hands. Retreat must now be turned

Into full rout. He glanced at Owen,—met

His little sardonic smile with a wise nod,

As if to say, “Ah, just as we foresaw.”

Excited clerics caught the flying hint

And whispered, eyes agog—“You noticed that?

He’s a great man, the Bishop? What a brow!

And Owen, too. Of course, they know; they know;

And understand each other, thick as thieves.”

Then Owen rose; waved Huxley’s empty excuse

Remorselessly aside; and plunged right on,

Declaring there were facts, whereby the crowd

Could very fitly judge.

The crowd’s own feet

Tapped a benign applause.

Then came the facts,

Facts from a realm that Huxley had made his own.

The brain of the gorilla—some one turned

A faint hysterical laugh into a sneeze—

Linked it more closely to the lowest groups

OfQuadrumana.

“Quadru—what-did-he-say?”

Whispered Miss Pym unconsciously to herself,

“Mana, four-handed,” clerical whiskers breathed,

With Evangelical titillance in her ear,

“Apes, monkeys, all the things that climb up trees.

Says the gorilla’s more like them than us.”

“Thank you.” Eliza Pym inclined her head

A little stiffly.

Had the world gone mad?

Was some one in the background trying to find

A pedigree for mankind among the brutes?

Absurd, of course, and yet—one must confess

How like they were in some things. Unto each

A mouth, a nose, two eyes, flesh, blood, and bones

Of the same pattern.

Comic enough, and weird;

But what became of Genesis, then, and God?

If all these whiskered men but one or two

So utterly disbelieved it, why discuss

Degrees of kinship? Surely the gulf was fixed

Wide as the severance between heaven and hell.

Then, in one dreadful gleam, she seemed to see

The rows of whiskered listeners, darkly perched,

Herself among them, on long swaying boughs,

Mesmerised, and all dumbly staring down

With horrible fascination at great eyes,

Green moons of cruelty, steadily smouldering,

In depths that—smelt of tigers; or the salts

Unstoppered by the vicar’s wife in front.

Smile at Eliza Pym with Shadow-of-a-Leaf;But only if your inward sight can seeHer memories, too—a child’s uplifted face,The clean white cot, the fluttering nursery fire;Old days, old faces, teaching her those linesFrom Blake, about a Lamb. Yet that—why thatMight be the clue they lacked in all this talkOf our dumb kinsfolk. If she could but speakAnd—hint it! Why don’t Bishops think of thingsLike that, she wondered.Owen resumed his chairWith loud applause.That grim young man again,Huxley, was on his feet, his dark eyes litWith thrice the vital power of all the rest.In one cool sentence, like a shining lance,He touched the centre of his opponent’s shield,And ended all the shuffling, all the doubtsOf where he stood, how far he dared to go,If truth required it. He could not acceptThose facts from any authority; gave directUnqualified contradiction to those facts;And pledged himself to justify this course,Unusual as it seemed perhaps—elsewhere.“Elsewhere,” and as he said it, came a gleamInto his face, reflected from the heightsWhere a tribunal sits whose judgment holdsNot for the fleeting moment, but all time.

Smile at Eliza Pym with Shadow-of-a-Leaf;

But only if your inward sight can see

Her memories, too—a child’s uplifted face,

The clean white cot, the fluttering nursery fire;

Old days, old faces, teaching her those lines

From Blake, about a Lamb. Yet that—why that

Might be the clue they lacked in all this talk

Of our dumb kinsfolk. If she could but speak

And—hint it! Why don’t Bishops think of things

Like that, she wondered.

Owen resumed his chair

With loud applause.

That grim young man again,

Huxley, was on his feet, his dark eyes lit

With thrice the vital power of all the rest.

In one cool sentence, like a shining lance,

He touched the centre of his opponent’s shield,

And ended all the shuffling, all the doubts

Of where he stood, how far he dared to go,

If truth required it. He could not accept

Those facts from any authority; gave direct

Unqualified contradiction to those facts;

And pledged himself to justify this course,

Unusual as it seemed perhaps—elsewhere.

“Elsewhere,” and as he said it, came a gleam

Into his face, reflected from the heights

Where a tribunal sits whose judgment holds

Not for the fleeting moment, but all time.

“Elsewhere”—the Bishop smiled. He had not caughtThat gleam. “Elsewhere” was only another signOf weakness, even timidity perhaps,And certainly retreat, not from the truth(He felt so sure of that) but from the mightAnd deep resources of the established powersWhose influence ruled the world.“Elsewhere” for himMeant Saturday, and here. The lists were set,The battle joined, and the great issue plain,—Whether the human race came straight from God,Or traced its dark descent back to the brute,And left his creed a wreck of hollow towers,The haunt of bats and owls. His time to strikeWould come on Saturday. Pleadings of “elsewhere”Would not avail. He set his jaw. Please God,He meant to drive this victory crashing home,And make an end of Darwin once for all.So closed the first strange scene.The rumour spreadEverywhere, of the Bishop’s grim intent.Saturday’s crowd, an hour before its timeChoked all the doors, and crammed the long west hall.Black-coated members of all shades of thought,Knowledge and doubt and bigotry, crushed their sidesIn chair-packed rows together (Eliza PymAmong them, with her startled innocent eyes).A bevy of undergraduates at the back,Quietly thoughtful, held their watching briefFor youth and for the future. Fame to comeAlready touched the brows of a rare fewWith faint leaf-shadows of her invisible wreath:Green, the philosopher, gazing at the worldWith youth’s aloofness, and that inward lightWhich shines from Oxford still; not far awayThe young historian of the coloured streamOf outward life, the ancestral pageantryOf England, and its tributary rillsFlowing in dawn-gleams out of the mists of time.There, too, in front, with atavistic faceAnd Vandyke beard, so oddly like the kingWho loved Nell Gwynne, sat Admiral FitzRoy,Late captain of theBeagle, quite prick-earedWith personal curiosity. Twice he toldHis neighbour that, by George, he wouldn’t ha’ missedThis Donnybrook Fair for anything. He had sailedWith Darwin round the world. They used to call himThe old philosopher. Heard the bosun once,Pointing the officers out—damned funny it was!—“That’s Captain FitzRoy. That’s the second mate;Andthat”—pointing a thumb at Darwin’s back—“That’sour Fly-Catcher!”Best of fellows, too,But queer. He’d tell you, in the simplest way—As if it meant no more than pass the salt,—Something that knocked you endways; calmly shiftA mountain-range, in half a dozen words,And sink it in the sea.In fact, FitzRoyFelt it his duty more than once, by George,To expostulate; told him plainly he’d upsetGenesisand the Church; and then there’d beThe devil and all to pay. And now, by George,He’d done it; and her Majesty’s AdmiralHad come on purpose, all the way from town,To hear and see the end of it.So he said,Not wholly understanding why he came,—The memory of a figure rapt and bowedOver a shell, or finding in the rocks,As though by wizardry, relics of lost worlds;Moments that, by a hardly noticed phrase,Had touched with orderly meaning and new lightThe giant flaws and foldings in the hills;Moments when, in the cabin, he had staredInto the “old philosopher’s” microscope,And seen the invisible speck in a water-dropGrow to a great rose-window of radiant lifeIn an immense cathedral.Vaguely enough,Perhaps in the dimmest hinterland of his mind,There lurked a quiet suspicion that, after all,His queer old friendhadhit on something queer.Three places off, his face a twinkling maskOf keen Scots humour, Robert Chambers glancedQuietly at his watch, to hide a smileWhen some one who had “written the Vestiges,”And only half denied it, met his eye.

“Elsewhere”—the Bishop smiled. He had not caught

That gleam. “Elsewhere” was only another sign

Of weakness, even timidity perhaps,

And certainly retreat, not from the truth

(He felt so sure of that) but from the might

And deep resources of the established powers

Whose influence ruled the world.

“Elsewhere” for him

Meant Saturday, and here. The lists were set,

The battle joined, and the great issue plain,—

Whether the human race came straight from God,

Or traced its dark descent back to the brute,

And left his creed a wreck of hollow towers,

The haunt of bats and owls. His time to strike

Would come on Saturday. Pleadings of “elsewhere”

Would not avail. He set his jaw. Please God,

He meant to drive this victory crashing home,

And make an end of Darwin once for all.

So closed the first strange scene.

The rumour spread

Everywhere, of the Bishop’s grim intent.

Saturday’s crowd, an hour before its time

Choked all the doors, and crammed the long west hall.

Black-coated members of all shades of thought,

Knowledge and doubt and bigotry, crushed their sides

In chair-packed rows together (Eliza Pym

Among them, with her startled innocent eyes).

A bevy of undergraduates at the back,

Quietly thoughtful, held their watching brief

For youth and for the future. Fame to come

Already touched the brows of a rare few

With faint leaf-shadows of her invisible wreath:

Green, the philosopher, gazing at the world

With youth’s aloofness, and that inward light

Which shines from Oxford still; not far away

The young historian of the coloured stream

Of outward life, the ancestral pageantry

Of England, and its tributary rills

Flowing in dawn-gleams out of the mists of time.

There, too, in front, with atavistic face

And Vandyke beard, so oddly like the king

Who loved Nell Gwynne, sat Admiral FitzRoy,

Late captain of theBeagle, quite prick-eared

With personal curiosity. Twice he told

His neighbour that, by George, he wouldn’t ha’ missed

This Donnybrook Fair for anything. He had sailed

With Darwin round the world. They used to call him

The old philosopher. Heard the bosun once,

Pointing the officers out—damned funny it was!—

“That’s Captain FitzRoy. That’s the second mate;

Andthat”—pointing a thumb at Darwin’s back—

“That’sour Fly-Catcher!”

Best of fellows, too,

But queer. He’d tell you, in the simplest way

—As if it meant no more than pass the salt,—

Something that knocked you endways; calmly shift

A mountain-range, in half a dozen words,

And sink it in the sea.

In fact, FitzRoy

Felt it his duty more than once, by George,

To expostulate; told him plainly he’d upset

Genesisand the Church; and then there’d be

The devil and all to pay. And now, by George,

He’d done it; and her Majesty’s Admiral

Had come on purpose, all the way from town,

To hear and see the end of it.

So he said,

Not wholly understanding why he came,—

The memory of a figure rapt and bowed

Over a shell, or finding in the rocks,

As though by wizardry, relics of lost worlds;

Moments that, by a hardly noticed phrase,

Had touched with orderly meaning and new light

The giant flaws and foldings in the hills;

Moments when, in the cabin, he had stared

Into the “old philosopher’s” microscope,

And seen the invisible speck in a water-drop

Grow to a great rose-window of radiant life

In an immense cathedral.

Vaguely enough,

Perhaps in the dimmest hinterland of his mind,

There lurked a quiet suspicion that, after all,

His queer old friendhadhit on something queer.

Three places off, his face a twinkling mask

Of keen Scots humour, Robert Chambers glanced

Quietly at his watch, to hide a smile

When some one who had “written the Vestiges,”

And only half denied it, met his eye.

The vacant platform glared expectancy,And held the gaze now of the impatient crowd.

The vacant platform glared expectancy,

And held the gaze now of the impatient crowd.

Then Henslow led the conquering Bishop in.Two rows of clerics, halfway down the hall,Drummed for their doughty champion with their heels.Above, in each recessed high window-seat,Bishop-adoring ladies clapped their hands.

Then Henslow led the conquering Bishop in.

Two rows of clerics, halfway down the hall,

Drummed for their doughty champion with their heels.

Above, in each recessed high window-seat,

Bishop-adoring ladies clapped their hands.

The rest filed in, mere adjuncts, modest foils.Hooker and Lubbock and Huxley took their chairsOn Henslow’s left. The beautiful gaitered legs,By their divine prerogative, on his right,So carelessly crossed, more eloquently than wordsAssured the world that everything was well,And their translation into forms of speechA mere formality. Next to the Bishop satA Transatlantic visitor with a twang,One Doctor Draper, his hard wrinkled skinTinged by the infinite coffee he absorbed,A gaunt bone-coloured desert, unassuaged.He was a grim diplomatist, as befitsA pilgrim of the cosmos; ready at RomeTo tickle the Romans; and, if bishops ruled,And found themselves at odds with freeborn soulsOutside the Land of Freedom, he’d befriendBishops, bring in the New World, stars and all,To rectify that balance, and take homeFor souvenir, with a chip of the pyramids,The last odd homages of the obsequious Old.The president called him for his opening speech.He stood and beamed, enjoying to the fullThe sense that, with his mighty manuscript,He could delay the antagonists for an hour.He cleared his throat. He took from a little boxA small black lozenge, popped it into his mouth,Leisurely rolled it under a ruminant tongue,Then placidly drawled his most momentous words:“Proh-fessur Henslow, Bishop Wilbur-force,Members,andfriends, in this historic hall,I assk first,airwe a fortooitousCon-course of atoms?”Half unconsciously,He struck at once to the single central heartOf all the questions asked by every age;As though he saw what only Shadow-of-a-LeafHad watched last night, as in a crystal globe,That scene preparing, the interweaving cluesWhose inconceivable intricacy at length,By “chance,” as blind men call it, through the mazeOf life and time, at the one right juncture broughtTwo shadows, face to face, in an Oxford Street,Chambers and Huxley. “You’ll be there to-morrow.”—“No, I leave Oxford now.”—“The enemy meansTo annihilate Darwin. You will not desert us?”—“If you say that, I stay.”Each to his placeHad moved in his own orbit, like a star,Or like an atom, free-will at one with law,In the unplanned plan of the Master-Dramatist,Where Doctor Draper blindly played his partAnd asked his pregnant question. He droned on,For one enormous hour, starkly maintainedThat Europe, in its intellectual life,By mere “fortooity,” never could have floweredTo such results as blushed before him thereIn that historic hall of halls to-night.If Darwin thought so, he took leave to standBeside them, and to smile the vast calm smileOf Arizona’s desert distances,Till all such dragon thoughts had coiled away.He took his chair. The great debate began.For prelude came a menacing growl of storm.A furious figure rose, like a sperm-whale,Out of the seething audience. A huge man,With small, hot, wicked eyes and cavernous mouth,Bellowed his own ferocious claim to speakOn economic grounds. He had subscribedHis guineas, ringing guineas of red gold,Ungrudgingly for years; but prophesiedWithdrawal of all such guineas, on all sides,From this Association, if it failedTo brand these most abominable viewsAs blasphemous, bearing on their devilish brows,Between their horns, the birth-mark of the Beast.This last word hissed, he sank again. At once,Ere Henslow found his feet or spoke a word,Up leapt a raw-boned parson from the North,To seize his moment’s fame. With sawing armThe Reverend Dingle, like a windmill, vowedHe’d prove upon the blackboard, in white chalk,By diagram—and the chalk was in his hand—“That mawnkey and mahn had separate pedigrees.Let A here be the mawnkey, and B the mahn.”Loud laughter; shouts of “mawnkey!” and “sit down”Extinguished him. He sat; and Henslow quelledThe hubbub with one clarion-clear demand,Dictated, surely, by the ironic powersWho had primed the Bishop and prepared his fall:“Gentlemen, this discussion now must restOn scientific grounds.”At once there cameCalls for the Bishop, who, rising from his chair,Urged by the same invisible ironies,Remarked that his old friend, Professor Beale,Had something to sayfirst. That weighty firstConveyed the weight of his own words to come.Urged still by those invisible ones, his friendDug the pit deeper; modestly declared,Despite his keen worn face and shoulders bowedIn histologic vigils, that he feltHis knowledge quite inadequate; and the wayWas made straight—for the Bishop.The Bishop rose, mellifluous, bland, adroit.

The rest filed in, mere adjuncts, modest foils.

Hooker and Lubbock and Huxley took their chairs

On Henslow’s left. The beautiful gaitered legs,

By their divine prerogative, on his right,

So carelessly crossed, more eloquently than words

Assured the world that everything was well,

And their translation into forms of speech

A mere formality. Next to the Bishop sat

A Transatlantic visitor with a twang,

One Doctor Draper, his hard wrinkled skin

Tinged by the infinite coffee he absorbed,

A gaunt bone-coloured desert, unassuaged.

He was a grim diplomatist, as befits

A pilgrim of the cosmos; ready at Rome

To tickle the Romans; and, if bishops ruled,

And found themselves at odds with freeborn souls

Outside the Land of Freedom, he’d befriend

Bishops, bring in the New World, stars and all,

To rectify that balance, and take home

For souvenir, with a chip of the pyramids,

The last odd homages of the obsequious Old.

The president called him for his opening speech.

He stood and beamed, enjoying to the full

The sense that, with his mighty manuscript,

He could delay the antagonists for an hour.

He cleared his throat. He took from a little box

A small black lozenge, popped it into his mouth,

Leisurely rolled it under a ruminant tongue,

Then placidly drawled his most momentous words:

“Proh-fessur Henslow, Bishop Wilbur-force,

Members,andfriends, in this historic hall,

I assk first,airwe a fortooitous

Con-course of atoms?”Half unconsciously,

He struck at once to the single central heart

Of all the questions asked by every age;

As though he saw what only Shadow-of-a-Leaf

Had watched last night, as in a crystal globe,

That scene preparing, the interweaving clues

Whose inconceivable intricacy at length,

By “chance,” as blind men call it, through the maze

Of life and time, at the one right juncture brought

Two shadows, face to face, in an Oxford Street,

Chambers and Huxley. “You’ll be there to-morrow.”—

“No, I leave Oxford now.”—

“The enemy means

To annihilate Darwin. You will not desert us?”—

“If you say that, I stay.”

Each to his place

Had moved in his own orbit, like a star,

Or like an atom, free-will at one with law,

In the unplanned plan of the Master-Dramatist,

Where Doctor Draper blindly played his part

And asked his pregnant question. He droned on,

For one enormous hour, starkly maintained

That Europe, in its intellectual life,

By mere “fortooity,” never could have flowered

To such results as blushed before him there

In that historic hall of halls to-night.

If Darwin thought so, he took leave to stand

Beside them, and to smile the vast calm smile

Of Arizona’s desert distances,

Till all such dragon thoughts had coiled away.

He took his chair. The great debate began.

For prelude came a menacing growl of storm.

A furious figure rose, like a sperm-whale,

Out of the seething audience. A huge man,

With small, hot, wicked eyes and cavernous mouth,

Bellowed his own ferocious claim to speak

On economic grounds. He had subscribed

His guineas, ringing guineas of red gold,

Ungrudgingly for years; but prophesied

Withdrawal of all such guineas, on all sides,

From this Association, if it failed

To brand these most abominable views

As blasphemous, bearing on their devilish brows,

Between their horns, the birth-mark of the Beast.

This last word hissed, he sank again. At once,

Ere Henslow found his feet or spoke a word,

Up leapt a raw-boned parson from the North,

To seize his moment’s fame. With sawing arm

The Reverend Dingle, like a windmill, vowed

He’d prove upon the blackboard, in white chalk,

By diagram—and the chalk was in his hand—

“That mawnkey and mahn had separate pedigrees.

Let A here be the mawnkey, and B the mahn.”

Loud laughter; shouts of “mawnkey!” and “sit down”

Extinguished him. He sat; and Henslow quelled

The hubbub with one clarion-clear demand,

Dictated, surely, by the ironic powers

Who had primed the Bishop and prepared his fall:

“Gentlemen, this discussion now must rest

On scientific grounds.”

At once there came

Calls for the Bishop, who, rising from his chair,

Urged by the same invisible ironies,

Remarked that his old friend, Professor Beale,

Had something to sayfirst. That weighty first

Conveyed the weight of his own words to come.

Urged still by those invisible ones, his friend

Dug the pit deeper; modestly declared,

Despite his keen worn face and shoulders bowed

In histologic vigils, that he felt

His knowledge quite inadequate; and the way

Was made straight—for the Bishop.

The Bishop rose, mellifluous, bland, adroit.

A gesture, lacking only the lawn sleevesTo make it perfect, delicately conveyedHis comfortable thought—that what amazedThe sheepfold must be folly.Half the throng,His own experience told him, had not graspedThe world-inweaving argument, could not thinkIn æons. Æons, then, would be dismissedAs vague and airy fantasies. He might chooseHis facts at will, unchallenged. He stood thereSecure that his traditions could not fail,Basing his faith on schemes of thought designedBy authorised “thinkers” in pure artistry,As free from Nature’s law as coloured blocksThat children play with on the nursery hearth,And puzzle about and shift and twist and turnUntil the beautiful picture, as ordained,Comes out, exact to the pattern, and revealsThe artificer’s plan, the pattern, as arranged,By bishops, politic statesmen, teachers, guides,Who hold it in reserve, their final testOf truth, for times like this. He had been so sureOf something deeper than all schemes of thoughtThat he had all too lightly primed himselfWith “facts” to match their fables; hastily crammedInto his mind’s convenient travelling bag(Sound leather, British) all that he required,—Not truth, but “a good argument.” He had askedOwen, who hated Huxley, to provide it;And he had brought it with him,—not the truth,Not even facts, those unrelated crumbsOf truth, the abiding consecrated whole.He had brought his borrowed “facts,” misunderstood,To meet, for the first time in all his life,Stark earnest thought, wrestling for truth alone,As men on earth discerned it. He had prayed,With something deeper than blind make-believe,Thy will be done on earth; and yet, and yet,The law wherein that will might be discerned,The law wherein that unity of heavenAnd earth might yet be found (could he but trustThe truth, could he believe that his own GodLived in the living truth), he waved aside.These others had not found it, but they keptOne faith that he had lost. Though it should slay them,They trusted in the truth. They could not seeWhere it might lead them. Only at times they feltAs they deciphered the dark Book of EarthThat, following its majestic rhythm of law,They followed the true path, the eternal wayOf That which reigns. Prophetic flashes came.Words that the priest mechanically intonedBurned upon Huxley’s keen ironical pageLike sudden sapphires, drawing their deeper lightFrom that celestial City which enduresBecause it hath foundations:Shall I comeBefore the Eternal with burnt offerings?Hath not the Eternal showed thee what is good,That thou do justly and mercifully, and walkHumbly with the Eternal?

A gesture, lacking only the lawn sleeves

To make it perfect, delicately conveyed

His comfortable thought—that what amazed

The sheepfold must be folly.

Half the throng,

His own experience told him, had not grasped

The world-inweaving argument, could not think

In æons. Æons, then, would be dismissed

As vague and airy fantasies. He might choose

His facts at will, unchallenged. He stood there

Secure that his traditions could not fail,

Basing his faith on schemes of thought designed

By authorised “thinkers” in pure artistry,

As free from Nature’s law as coloured blocks

That children play with on the nursery hearth,

And puzzle about and shift and twist and turn

Until the beautiful picture, as ordained,

Comes out, exact to the pattern, and reveals

The artificer’s plan, the pattern, as arranged,

By bishops, politic statesmen, teachers, guides,

Who hold it in reserve, their final test

Of truth, for times like this. He had been so sure

Of something deeper than all schemes of thought

That he had all too lightly primed himself

With “facts” to match their fables; hastily crammed

Into his mind’s convenient travelling bag

(Sound leather, British) all that he required,—

Not truth, but “a good argument.” He had asked

Owen, who hated Huxley, to provide it;

And he had brought it with him,—not the truth,

Not even facts, those unrelated crumbs

Of truth, the abiding consecrated whole.

He had brought his borrowed “facts,” misunderstood,

To meet, for the first time in all his life,

Stark earnest thought, wrestling for truth alone,

As men on earth discerned it. He had prayed,

With something deeper than blind make-believe,

Thy will be done on earth; and yet, and yet,

The law wherein that will might be discerned,

The law wherein that unity of heaven

And earth might yet be found (could he but trust

The truth, could he believe that his own God

Lived in the living truth), he waved aside.

These others had not found it, but they kept

One faith that he had lost. Though it should slay them,

They trusted in the truth. They could not see

Where it might lead them. Only at times they felt

As they deciphered the dark Book of Earth

That, following its majestic rhythm of law,

They followed the true path, the eternal way

Of That which reigns. Prophetic flashes came.

Words that the priest mechanically intoned

Burned upon Huxley’s keen ironical page

Like sudden sapphires, drawing their deeper light

From that celestial City which endures

Because it hath foundations:Shall I come

Before the Eternal with burnt offerings?

Hath not the Eternal showed thee what is good,

That thou do justly and mercifully, and walk

Humbly with the Eternal?

O, irony of the Master-dramatist,Who set once more those lists; and sent His truthUnrecognised, as of old, to fight for lifeAnd prove itself in struggle and raise once moreA nobler world above the world out-worn,Crushing all easy sophistry, though it stoodGarbed as the priest of God.The Bishop seizedHis diplomatic vantage. The blunt truthOf Huxley’s warning offered itself to himAs a rash gambit in their game of—tact.He seized it; gracefully smoothed the ruffled prideOf that great audience, trained in a sound schoolTo judge by common-sense.His mobile faceRevealed much that his politic words concealed.His strength was in that sound old British way—Derision of all things that transcend its codesIn life, thought, art; the moon-calf’s happy creedThat, if a moon-calf only sees the moonIn thoughts that range the cosmos, his broad grinSums the whole question; there’s no more to see.In all these aids, an innocent infidel,The Bishop put his trust; and, more than all,In vanity, the vacant self-conceitThat, when it meets the masters of the mindAnd finds them bowed before the Inscrutable Power,Accepts their reverence and humilityAs tribute, due acknowledgment of fool’s rightTo give the final judgment, and annulThe labour of a life-time in an hour.Dulcetly, first, he scoffed at Darwin’s facts.“Rock-pigeons now were what they had always been.Species had never changed. What were the proofsEven of the variation they requiredTo make this theory possible? We had heardMysterious rumours of a long-legged sheepSomewhere in Yorkshire (laughter). Let me askProfessor Huxley, here upon the left(All eyes on Huxley), who believes himselfDescended from an ape (chuckles of glee),How recently this happened.”The Bishop turned,All smiling insolence, “May I beg to knowIf this descent is on your father’s side,Or on your mother’s?”He paused, to let the crowdBellow its laughter. The unseen ironiesHad trapped him and his flock; and neither knew.But Huxley knew. He turned, with a grim smile,And while the opposing triumph rocked and pealed,Struck one decisive palm upon his knee,And muttered low—“The Lord hath delivered himInto my hands.”His neighbour stared and thoughtHis wits were wandering. Yet that undertoneSounded more deadly, had more victory in it,Than all the loud-mouthed minute’s dying roar.

O, irony of the Master-dramatist,

Who set once more those lists; and sent His truth

Unrecognised, as of old, to fight for life

And prove itself in struggle and raise once more

A nobler world above the world out-worn,

Crushing all easy sophistry, though it stood

Garbed as the priest of God.

The Bishop seized

His diplomatic vantage. The blunt truth

Of Huxley’s warning offered itself to him

As a rash gambit in their game of—tact.

He seized it; gracefully smoothed the ruffled pride

Of that great audience, trained in a sound school

To judge by common-sense.

His mobile face

Revealed much that his politic words concealed.

His strength was in that sound old British way—

Derision of all things that transcend its codes

In life, thought, art; the moon-calf’s happy creed

That, if a moon-calf only sees the moon

In thoughts that range the cosmos, his broad grin

Sums the whole question; there’s no more to see.

In all these aids, an innocent infidel,

The Bishop put his trust; and, more than all,

In vanity, the vacant self-conceit

That, when it meets the masters of the mind

And finds them bowed before the Inscrutable Power,

Accepts their reverence and humility

As tribute, due acknowledgment of fool’s right

To give the final judgment, and annul

The labour of a life-time in an hour.

Dulcetly, first, he scoffed at Darwin’s facts.

“Rock-pigeons now were what they had always been.

Species had never changed. What were the proofs

Even of the variation they required

To make this theory possible? We had heard

Mysterious rumours of a long-legged sheep

Somewhere in Yorkshire (laughter). Let me ask

Professor Huxley, here upon the left

(All eyes on Huxley), who believes himself

Descended from an ape (chuckles of glee),

How recently this happened.”

The Bishop turned,

All smiling insolence, “May I beg to know

If this descent is on your father’s side,

Or on your mother’s?”

He paused, to let the crowd

Bellow its laughter. The unseen ironies

Had trapped him and his flock; and neither knew.

But Huxley knew. He turned, with a grim smile,

And while the opposing triumph rocked and pealed,

Struck one decisive palm upon his knee,

And muttered low—“The Lord hath delivered him

Into my hands.”

His neighbour stared and thought

His wits were wandering. Yet that undertone

Sounded more deadly, had more victory in it,

Than all the loud-mouthed minute’s dying roar.

It died to a tense hush. The Bishop closedIn solemn diapason. Darwin’s viewsDegraded woman. They debased mankind,And contradicted God’s most Holy Word.Applause! Applause! The hall a quivering mistOf clapping hands. From every windowseatA flutter of ladies’ handkerchiefs and shrill criesAs of white swarming sea-gulls. The black rowsOf clerics all exchanging red-faced nods,And drumming with their feet, as though to fillA hundred-pedalled organ with fresh wind.The Bishop, like aGloire de DijonroseWith many-petalled smiles, his plump right handClasped in a firm congratulatory gripOf hickory-bones by Draper of New York;Who had small faith in what the Bishop saidBut heard the cheers, and gripped him as a manWho never means to let this good thing go.Motionless, on the left, the observant few,The silent delegates of a sterner power,With grave set faces, quietly looking on.At last the tumult, as all tumult must,Sank back to that deep silence. Henslow turnedTo Huxley without speaking. Once againThe clock ticked audibly, but its old “Not Yet”Had somehow, in that uproar, in the faceOf that tumultuous mockery, changed toNow!

It died to a tense hush. The Bishop closed

In solemn diapason. Darwin’s views

Degraded woman. They debased mankind,

And contradicted God’s most Holy Word.

Applause! Applause! The hall a quivering mist

Of clapping hands. From every windowseat

A flutter of ladies’ handkerchiefs and shrill cries

As of white swarming sea-gulls. The black rows

Of clerics all exchanging red-faced nods,

And drumming with their feet, as though to fill

A hundred-pedalled organ with fresh wind.

The Bishop, like aGloire de Dijonrose

With many-petalled smiles, his plump right hand

Clasped in a firm congratulatory grip

Of hickory-bones by Draper of New York;

Who had small faith in what the Bishop said

But heard the cheers, and gripped him as a man

Who never means to let this good thing go.

Motionless, on the left, the observant few,

The silent delegates of a sterner power,

With grave set faces, quietly looking on.

At last the tumult, as all tumult must,

Sank back to that deep silence. Henslow turned

To Huxley without speaking. Once again

The clock ticked audibly, but its old “Not Yet”

Had somehow, in that uproar, in the face

Of that tumultuous mockery, changed toNow!

The lean tall figure of Huxley quietly rose.He looked for a moment thoughtfully at the crowd;Saw rows of hostile faces; caught the grinOf ignorant curiosity; here and there,A hopeful gleam of friendship; and, far back,The young, swift-footed, waiting for the fire.He fixed his eyes on these—then, in low tones,Clear, cool, incisive, “I have come here,” he said,“In the cause of Science only.”He paused again.Then, striking the mockery out of the mocker’s face,His voice rang out like steel—“I have heard nothingTo prejudice the case of my augustClient, who, as I told you, is not here.”At once a threefold picture flashed upon me,A glimpse, far off, through eyes of Shadow-of-a-Leaf,First, of a human seeker, there at Down,Gathering his endless cloud of witnessesFrom rocks, from stones, from trees; and from the signsIn man’s own body of life’s æonian way;But, far above him, clothed with purer light,The stern, majestic Spirit of living Truth;And, more august than even his prophets knew,Through that eternal Spirit, the primal PowerReturning into a world of faiths out-worn.

The lean tall figure of Huxley quietly rose.

He looked for a moment thoughtfully at the crowd;

Saw rows of hostile faces; caught the grin

Of ignorant curiosity; here and there,

A hopeful gleam of friendship; and, far back,

The young, swift-footed, waiting for the fire.

He fixed his eyes on these—then, in low tones,

Clear, cool, incisive, “I have come here,” he said,

“In the cause of Science only.”

He paused again.

Then, striking the mockery out of the mocker’s face,

His voice rang out like steel—

“I have heard nothing

To prejudice the case of my august

Client, who, as I told you, is not here.”

At once a threefold picture flashed upon me,

A glimpse, far off, through eyes of Shadow-of-a-Leaf,

First, of a human seeker, there at Down,

Gathering his endless cloud of witnesses

From rocks, from stones, from trees; and from the signs

In man’s own body of life’s æonian way;

But, far above him, clothed with purer light,

The stern, majestic Spirit of living Truth;

And, more august than even his prophets knew,

Through that eternal Spirit, the primal Power

Returning into a world of faiths out-worn.

Once more, as he spoke on, a thousand yearsWere but as yesterday. If these truths were true,This theory flooded the whole world with light.Could we believe that the Creator setIn mockery all these birth-signs in the world,Or once in a million years had wrecked His workAnd shaped, in a flash, a myriad lives anew,Bearing in their own bodies all the signsOf their descent from those that He destroyed?Who left that ancient leaf within the flower?Who hid within the reptile those lost fins,And under the skin of the sea-floundering whaleThe bones of the lost thigh? Who dusked the foalWith shadowy stripes, and under its hoof concealedThose ancient birdlike feet of its lost kin?Who matched that hoof with a rosy fingernail,Or furled that point within the human ear?Who had imprinted in the body of man,And in his embryo, all those intricate signsOf his forgotten lineage, even those gillsThrough which he drew his breath once in the sea?

Once more, as he spoke on, a thousand years

Were but as yesterday. If these truths were true,

This theory flooded the whole world with light.

Could we believe that the Creator set

In mockery all these birth-signs in the world,

Or once in a million years had wrecked His work

And shaped, in a flash, a myriad lives anew,

Bearing in their own bodies all the signs

Of their descent from those that He destroyed?

Who left that ancient leaf within the flower?

Who hid within the reptile those lost fins,

And under the skin of the sea-floundering whale

The bones of the lost thigh? Who dusked the foal

With shadowy stripes, and under its hoof concealed

Those ancient birdlike feet of its lost kin?

Who matched that hoof with a rosy fingernail,

Or furled that point within the human ear?

Who had imprinted in the body of man,

And in his embryo, all those intricate signs

Of his forgotten lineage, even those gills

Through which he drew his breath once in the sea?

The speaker glanced at his antagonist.“You think all this too marvellous to be true;Yet you believe in miracles. You thinkThe unfolding of this complicated lifeAround us, out of a simple primal form,Impossible; yet you know that every manBefore his birth, a few brief years ago,Was once no more than a single living cell.You think it ends your theory of creation.You say that God madeyou; and yet you know—And reconcile your creed with what you know—That you yourself originally”—he held upA gleaming pencil-case—“were a little pieceOf matter, not so large as the end of this.But if you ask, in fine,Whether I’d be ashamed to claim descentFrom that poor animal with the stooping gaitAnd low intelligence, who can only grinAnd chatter as we pass by, or from amanWho could use high position and great giftsTo crush one humble seeker after truth—I hesitate, but”—an outburst of applauseFrom all who understood him drowned the words.He paused. The clock ticked audibly again.Then, quietly measuring every word, he droveThe sentence home. “I asserted and repeatA man would have no cause to feel ashamedOf being descended through vast tracts of timeFrom that poor ape.Were there an ancestorWhom I could not recall without a senseOf shame, it were aman, so placed, so gifted,Who sought to sway his hearers from the truthBy aimless eloquence and by skilled appealsTo their religious prejudice.”Was it the truthThat conquered, or the blind sense of the blowJustly considered, delivered, and driven home,That brought a crash of applause from half the house?And more (for even the outright enemyJoined in that hubbub), though indignant cries,Protested vainly, “Abominable to treatThe Bishop so!”The Bishop sat there dumb.Eliza Pym, adding her own quaint touchOf comedy, saw that pencil shine againIn Huxley’s hand; compared it, at a glanceOf fawn-like eyes, with the portentous formIn gaiters; felt the whole world growing strange;Drew one hysterical breath, and swooned away.

The speaker glanced at his antagonist.

“You think all this too marvellous to be true;

Yet you believe in miracles. You think

The unfolding of this complicated life

Around us, out of a simple primal form,

Impossible; yet you know that every man

Before his birth, a few brief years ago,

Was once no more than a single living cell.

You think it ends your theory of creation.

You say that God madeyou; and yet you know

—And reconcile your creed with what you know—

That you yourself originally”—he held up

A gleaming pencil-case—“were a little piece

Of matter, not so large as the end of this.

But if you ask, in fine,

Whether I’d be ashamed to claim descent

From that poor animal with the stooping gait

And low intelligence, who can only grin

And chatter as we pass by, or from aman

Who could use high position and great gifts

To crush one humble seeker after truth—

I hesitate, but”—an outburst of applause

From all who understood him drowned the words.

He paused. The clock ticked audibly again.

Then, quietly measuring every word, he drove

The sentence home. “I asserted and repeat

A man would have no cause to feel ashamed

Of being descended through vast tracts of time

From that poor ape.

Were there an ancestor

Whom I could not recall without a sense

Of shame, it were aman, so placed, so gifted,

Who sought to sway his hearers from the truth

By aimless eloquence and by skilled appeals

To their religious prejudice.”

Was it the truth

That conquered, or the blind sense of the blow

Justly considered, delivered, and driven home,

That brought a crash of applause from half the house?

And more (for even the outright enemy

Joined in that hubbub), though indignant cries,

Protested vainly, “Abominable to treat

The Bishop so!”

The Bishop sat there dumb.

Eliza Pym, adding her own quaint touch

Of comedy, saw that pencil shine again

In Huxley’s hand; compared it, at a glance

Of fawn-like eyes, with the portentous form

In gaiters; felt the whole world growing strange;

Drew one hysterical breath, and swooned away.

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