Chapter XXI: Calumny (3)

If our readers are not weary of pen-portraits, here is one—that of the daughter of the lady we have just spoken of, which our dear old friend, the “often-quoted,” thus incisively draws: “She is a pretty little thing, with a very white skin, delicate wild-rose color, and very bright and large eyes, and as much as possible keeping close to her mother’s side, but evidently fond of dancing, and enjoying everything with perfect freshness.” We are pleased to notice here that this type of the English girl is not so defunct as some pessimists would have us believe, and that, despite paint and fastness, and the clumsy imitation of Parisian vice, there is yet in store for the future a generation of homeloving wives and mothers. Of another of the near relations of the host, our friend says: “It suffices to mention Lady L——’s name to express all that is bright, and kind, and good; her presence was a charm, but she was obliged to go away after two days, and it was a blank not to see her.”

This woman, whose social charm is so irresistible, is none the less a generous and devoted attendant on a husband whose mind had given way, and whose health was more than precarious; it was his comfort, indeed, which was the cause of her short stay in the house of rejoicing.

The great charm of this thoroughly pleasant gathering was that there were no “grand people,” no “fashionable people,” no “fast people”; that all were natural and real, and everybody seemed pleased and happy. But our “prosaic” friend actually was not satisfied, and complained gently of the disappointment, among so many young people, of not being able to idealize any incipient romance; for, she queried, “would it not have thrown a charm of poetry over the whole thing?”

No, truly, although the thought is touching and pretty; for, after all, the fairest ideal of love could not live in a crowd, and the love we read of in Elizabethan records was more courtly than deep, more gallant than true. Love is an angel, not a Cupid.

One evening, there was a ball for the county families, many of whose houses were filled with their own circle of friends, all of whom were included in the invitations. The rooms looked gay and brilliant; toilets were resplendent, and the family pictures, with which the walls were literally covered, gazed down on an assemblage almost as bright as their own. In the hall was a white stuffed stag, with hoofs and antlers gilt, representing in life-size the family crest. The next morning, breakfast _began_ at the usual hour (ten), but few appeared; but, by two o’clock, they gradually stole down, when tea and coffee had given place to luncheon. Wednesday evening, there was the servants’ ball. Every one went into the large tent, which made a splendid ball-room. The dancing was rather amusing to watch, for it was not the _forte_ of the assemblage; but they all looked very happy, and the dignity of their manners to each other was quite edifying! Still, we thought it a great shame to criticise. Thursday, there was the feast for other and nearer villages, Exton, Barrow, and Cottesmore, with games before the people sat down. And it was a goodly sight when all the tables were peopled; all the men at dinner, and all the women and children at tea. Lord G——’s health was drunk first. It was the first occasion on which he had to speak, and it utterly overcame him; for he alluded to the former time when they had all been thus assembled to welcome him to E—— on his accession to the title. But the warmth and heartiness with which his few words were received must surely have pleased him. Then they drank his son’s health, to which toast the young man responded modestly and well. Later on in the evening, there were beautiful fireworks, which lit up the whole place most gorgeously.

Fireworks are not a specialty with Englishmen, but on this occasion they really went off to the credit of all concerned. The host has had long experience in such things in Italy, where the merest village can shame London itself on this head. The clusters of Chinese lanterns among the trees bordering the drives, the Bengal lights shooting up in fitful illuminations across the broken front of the church tower and the old Hall, the steadier lamps along the lines of the house itself, and the reflection of all in the many little lakes within the grounds, made the display peculiarly attractive. Every one enjoyed it to the uttermost.

Friday, the 20th of October, the heir’s birthday, was _the_ day, _par excellence_. And here we are reminded that we are among those who have returned to the faith of old England, and have brought back to the original giver of the great free institutions of the country—the Catholic Church—all the gifts of intellect, education, culture, and learning drawn from her alienated universities and the polished influence of her errant sons. A solemn High Mass, with appropriate ecclesiastical music, was the first interest that gathered the guests together. Many not of our faith were there, joining reverently, and as far as they could, in the beautiful service; the domestic chapel, almost in size a church, looked very fair in the pale morning light that streamed through its pointed windows; the shadows of the beech-leaves, turning to brown and gold, were thrown fitfully across the Lady Chapel, against whose outside walls the great tree almost leans; bars of dusky golden light lay on the stone floor of the memorial chapel, where the foundress sleeps; and, as the white-robed choristers and acolytes moved softly to and fro in the deep choir, the beautiful contrast seemed to force itself upon one’s imagination between them and the worshippers in the nave, clad in dark, quiet draperies, and massed together in shadowy corners—typifying so delicately the restful life of the future, and the toiling watch still to be kept in the present. From this, the most congenial and appropriate scene we had yet witnessed, we turned regretfully to the new pleasures of the day. The first event was very momentous, and was marked by great state, being no less than the presentation of a silver inkstand to the young hero of the _fête_, Lord C——, from the servants. All the household was drawn up at one end of the entrance-tent. Poor good Mrs. H——, the housekeeper, whom nearly twenty years’ service had made a mother to the host’s children, was quite unable to restrain her tears, while behind the large round table, with the inkstand on it, stood J——, the butler, _pale_ with the responsibility of his coming speech. Lord C—— stood opposite, with the family and guests behind him. This was the most touching scene of all, but none the less the most formidable ceremony. The presentation was very creditably made, and as gracefully acknowledged, to the equal satisfaction of all parties; and, among the birthday gifts, none was so valued by the recipient. He had grown up among these old friends; the few who had not known him as a boy had heard the tales of his childhood, and experienced the kindness of his manner. All felt as if he belonged to them, and as though his interests were theirs. This feeling, too, is one of the relics of the past fast disappearing from the heartless fabric of modern society; and it is pleasant to see traces of it yet left here and there in the ancient baronial households of England.

The concluding festivity was on a gigantic scale, and proved the most characteristic of any. This was the grand ball and supper to the tenants, which furnished the local newspapers with materials for rapturous descriptions and complimentary “leaders” for at least a week afterwards. The entrance tent was lined with the officers of the yeomanry in full uniform (scarlet), to the number of eighteen or twenty; the band of their regiment was also in attendance, and the land-steward, to whose management much had been entrusted, introduced each party of the tenants as they arrived. Nearly five hundred of these characteristic guests were soon assembled, Lord G——, his daughters, and two sons dancing in turn with all the most prominent of them. The ball opened with a country-dance; not the formal quadrille, but the hearty, old-fashioned performance, in which the elderly and heavy are as comfortably at home as the young and the supple. The ball, however, brilliant as it was, was but secondary to the supper, which was the crowning-point of the week’s doings—the occasion, long looked forward to, of pleasant and witty speeches, of hearty good-will, and of manifestations of real and substantial friendship. To borrow the words of a weekly of the neighborhood, the Lincolnshire _Chronicle_: “At one o’clock, supper was served in the marquee, which, tastefully decorated, brilliantly lighted, and filled with the gaily attired company, presented a scene which will not soon be forgotten by those who had the pleasure of witnessing it. The yeomanry band played ‘The Roast Beef of Old England’ as the party glided into the tent, and, when all had taken their places, grace was said. With the exception of a buck roasted whole and sent to table with gilt antlers, the whole of the viands were cold, the _pièce de résistance_ being a splendid baron of beef. The birthday cake occupied a prominent position at a centre table, and among other novelties was a fine peacock in full plumage. Just before the toast of the evening was given, the beautiful present of plate purchased by the tenantry was carried in and placed in front of the young Lord C——, on the principal table.” “When all were seated,” says another local paper, “the _coup d’œil_, from the entrance of the tent, was very striking; the gay uniforms of the yeomanry, and the dresses of the ladies, combined with the colored lining of the tent, the numerous flags and banners, and the innumerable chandeliers filled with wax candles, presenting a very brilliant effect. The Earl of G—— and his distinguished visitors were seated at a long raised table facing the guests of the evening, and immediately in front of him were two other raised tables, upon one of which was a baron of beef weighing between 30 and 40 stone, and a whole roasted buck. There were also 21 joints of roast beef, 15 of pressed beef, 17 galantines of veal, 24 game pies, 14 large hams, 28 tongues, 15 turkeys, 8 boars’ heads, 15 rounds of beef, 10 legs and 14 shoulders of mutton, 72 roast fowls, 54 pheasants, 62 partridges, 20 plum-puddings, etc. etc., making a total of 1,000 dishes.”

The speeches being the great characteristic incident of the feast, we will quote some parts of them, showing in their simple energy how close the ties of friendship still are between the owner and the tiller of the soil. Some of the speakers were farmers, most of them prosperous and pushing men. We take our quotations from the Lincolnshire _Chronicle_: “Mr. Berridge proposed the health of the Earl of G—— as a nobleman, a neighbor, and a friend.... The noble earl had inherited from his ancestors that military blood which always ran through the veins of the N——ls [the family name of Lord G——]. If they looked round these halls, they would see the portrait of many an old warrior.... He understood Lord C—— now belonged to the army, and he would express a wish that that young nobleman might one day be commander-in-chief of England (cheers). Speaking of the family, he was reminded of an anecdote. A friend of his was taking a drive through the lanes in the neighborhood of this house, when he came in view of the mansion, and said to an old laborer he met on the road: ‘Who lives here, my man?’ ‘Lord G——,’ was the reply. ‘Is it an old family?’ was the next inquiry. ‘They came here, sir, before the Flood,’ was the response (laughter and cheers).”

This _naïveté_ of the old man reminds one of the proud boast of some old French family, that they had an ark of their own at the time of the Flood, and were quite independent of Noe and his ship of refuge!

Lord G——, in his earnest reply, gracefully alluded in the following words to the long tenure of land by the farmers’ ancestors: “There can be nothing more gratifying than the existence of cordial good feeling between the occupiers of land and their landlords; and there can be no better evidence of this happy state of things than to find, upon reference to records of the past, numbers of families living upon the same estate for generations—for a longer time, perhaps, than the owners of the estate themselves (hear, hear). I believe there are many people here whose ancestors have been for centuries upon this property; and one can only hope that the same families, from father to son, may continue here for centuries hereafter, and that what has happened in years past will be repeated in years to come, so that, by your descendants and the descendants of my son a long time hence, the same mutual good feeling may be evinced and similar occurrences be witnessed as these we celebrate this evening.”

Lord D——, an early friend of the host, proposed the health of the young recipient of the day’s honors. His speech, quite the best of all, is worthy of notice. After a very apt and graceful beginning, he said: “I am speaking to tenant-farmers and breeders of stock, and you know that, when you look upon a young animal, you always inquire after his sire—what he came from (laughter and cheers); and you judge, from what has been, what will be (renewed cheering). But you know what the N——s are—what their stock is (great cheering). They have lived in this country among you and before your eyes for generations. You know they are a family who love to live among their own. They prefer spending their money among their own people, and sharing their interests, to going abroad, as so many others do, and spending their money away. Unfortunately, it is not uncommon, in speaking of a man, to say how few vices he has, and not how many virtues; and many a time I have heard it said, when there were no virtues to speak of, ‘Well, he is a good-natured fellow.’” He then warmly eulogized his young friend, whom he had known “ever since he could crawl,” and ended by wishing that he might be a worthy “chip off the old block.” Then, with well-deserved praise, he spoke thus of the father:

“For I will say this of the father, whom I have known most intimately for the last twenty years: that he is one of whom it may be truly said, in the full meaning of the word, he is a ‘just man’ (hear, hear), and I hope his son will walk in his footsteps. May all health and happiness accompany him through life, and, when his time is up, and he is called away from this world, may he leave a memory behind him as of one who lived blessing and blessed, and may he be handed down to posterity as one who did his duty to God and man!”

Mr. Wortley—another principal tenant, and the orator of his neighborhood, a man whose kind heart is father to his innocent pride of speech—then stood forward on behalf of the committee who had managed the subscriptions for the birthday gift, and spoke as follows:

“My Lord C——: I have now the great pleasure and the distinguished honor to ask your acceptance of this plate, which is contributed by tenants and friends of the Earl of G—— on the occasion of your coming of age, as a substantial evidence from us of the cordial manner in which we share the general joy of this day, and of the great respect we entertain towards your noble father and the family of the N——s.... It is given to you, my lord, just stepping, as it were, on the threshold of active and responsible life, with the earnest wish that you may be largely blest with those talents for which so many of your family have been celebrated, and may, like them, enjoy the high blessing of a disposition to use them, as they have used theirs, for the greater benefit and advantage of their fellow-creatures.” Then making his favorite quotation, one largely used on these occasions as strikingly appropriate, he repeated sonorously the well-known lines:

“Kind words are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.”

“And still,” he went on, “we, the living, have what past generations could point to—the bright coronet of old N——l blood to boast of, and their natural crest of real and crowning charity to be thankful for (cheers).”

The presentation plate was a beautiful silver épergne, also convertible into candelabra, thirty-nine inches high, and a pair of flower-stands with finely modelled figures of a stag and a doe standing beneath an oak. According to the universal custom in country neighborhoods, these costly articles were not procured from London, but from some local silversmith of good standing; for in England everything like centralization is instinctively avoided. How much the prosperity of every part of the kingdom is thereby increased may be seen at a glance. Mr. Wortley concluded with these words: “It is not presented with the power of words, but it comes with the far stronger power of hearts within and without this gorgeous assemblage—warm, devoted, and glowing hearts—hearts joining with yours, my Lord C——, in wishing that you may long remain the heir to the title and estate; while we join most sincerely with each other in the fervent hope and humble prayer that through life, in whatever clime or condition, God’s blessing may be your unfailing portion (cheers).”

Lord C—— made a modest and graceful acknowledgment in a few well-chosen words, telling his guests “what a value he should always set on the testimonial as a remembrance of the happy hours he and they had been permitted to enjoy together” and begging them “to take what he had said for what it was worth.” “I do not say this by way of any excuse for what I am certain must be my shortcomings, but I say it lest you should think I am expressing myself in any way too feebly, or with too little warmth of feeling.”

Mr. Thompson (another tenant) proposed the brother and sisters of Lord C——, and the younger branches of the family. He said facetiously enough: “Experience has probably taught all of us that it is rather a misfortune that there should be an only child in a family, and that there is very apt to be in this case a spoiled urchin on one side, and not at all unlikely two silly parents on the other.” Of course, this produced laughter, and the speaker went on in the same strain, till he remarked finally that he sincerely hoped “not only that there would always be an heir to the N——l family, but younger branches also.”

Lord C——’s younger brother answered quite as well as he had been addressed: “I was not prepared to speak to you on the present occasion. I was flattering myself I should get through the whole of these proceedings without having to pass through this ordeal.... As younger branches, we grow out further and further from the parent stem, until we are at length lost among the other trees of the forest, while the other and older branch continues to tower upwards.”

A speaker, whom we cannot resist designating by a synonyme which is no longer a disguise, “Lothair,” and who shared these festivities, proposed “the ladies” in a humorous speech, beyond which we must make no further quotations. “Somebody,” he remarked, “in speaking of these festivities, has said that this entertainment had some peculiar features distinguishing it from other entertainments of its kind; as, for instance, it is now half-past three in the morning, instead of about five or six in the afternoon (laughter). It has also this peculiar feature, ... that it is not confined to a lugubrious class of men in black, talking nonsense about the army, navy, militia, and volunteers (renewed laughter). Here we have a few toasts brought in as an interlude in the middle of an entertainment of which it may be said, ‘It is not good for man to be alone,’ whatever Mr. Spurgeon may have observed to the contrary.”

The speaker has since been the subject of an ovation fully as demonstrative as that in which he took a secondary part last October, and we may hope that, in years to come, Cardiff may rival Rutland in the mediæval character of its princely entertainments.

The birthday cake was home-made, and a _chef-d’œuvre_ of the family housekeeper. Its weight was 120 lbs., and its structure four tiers of confectionery, displaying medallions of the arms and crest of the family; the silk banner (besides many smaller flags) surmounting it bearing the name and date of birth of Lord C——. Never, indeed, could there have been more gratifying feelings manifested, and never could a series of the kindest hospitalities have passed off with more perfect satisfaction. Throughout the whole week there was nothing but good feeling, every one vying with each other to do the utmost to make all succeed. Not a _contretemps_ occurred—all as Lord G—— could have wished, and so well deserves it should be. There were most regretful faces the next day, when, after breakfast, the time of parting came; all, we believe, heartily wishing it could begin again.

This sketch, which to us has all the personal attraction of a family record, may perhaps not be uninteresting to some descendants of those old English families, who are as worthily represented on this side of the Atlantic as they are in the mother country.

The poetry of the olden times has not yet quite departed from the feudal soil of England; and, in these meetings of true friendship between two of the most powerful classes of the country, we may read a promise of a common cause being made by their united influence against the sickening aggression of insensate communism, and the spread of licentious ideas. In this all good men and true, whether of Old or New England, are heartily agreed. But what strikes us even more is the beautiful picture here displayed of the revived spirit of the olden faith, quickening the pulses, guiding the lives, and hallowing the pleasures of a new generation of Englishmen. Here are the senators, the lawgivers, the soldiers of the future, assembled under the auspices of the old church, putting into generous practice her ideas of ample hospitality and unquestioning charity; here are England’s best men bowing like happy children to the customs and the influence of the faith brought to them by Augustine and Wilfrid; here is the church represented by the best blood and the most chivalrous class of England’s sons, who take their place and raise their voice to-day in society, in the courts, and in the senate, with a fearlessness and a freedom which a hundred years ago would have cost them their heads! The Catholic Church stands now in a proud and high position, a social conqueror on the same soil which she conquered once already by the splendor of her learning, and the resources of her material energy. The lands her monks reclaimed from barrenness, the universities her friars adorned with their matchless genius, after having been torn from her by violence, are virtually holding out their arms to her again, and the Gothic chapels that crown the abbey demesnes of new and wealthy converts are but the practical translation of that better wealth poured back into her bosom by the converts of the schools and universities. In England, more than in any other land, the Christian may exclaim in triumph: _Christus regnat, Christus imperat_, and, for the encouragement of the future, may confidently point to the records of the past, and say with Constantine: _In hoc signo vinces._

MORE ABOUT DARWINISM.[170]

_The Expressions of the Emotions in Man and Animals_ is the title of the latest work written by Charles Darwin. This author has already gained a pretty widespread name by his two volumes on the _Descent of Man_, and on _The Origin of Species_. In all these, he advocates the theory of only one parent and progenitor, common both to man and to the animal.

Man is the offspring of the brute. The only distinction between them is that of a more perfect development. Man is a monkey perfectly developed. This developing process is no other than habit transmitted, imitation, and practice.

This theory is supposed in the volume before us—_The Expressions_, etc. It is, indeed, taken for granted, and Mr. Darwin merely seeks confirmatory proofs in this work. How he does so we shall see.

The reasoning of the entire volume may be summed up in the following syllogism: The expressions of the emotions in man and animals are, for the most part, similar, nay, alike. Now, this could not be so, did man not descend from the animal; therefore, man is the offspring of the brute.

Of course, he will have to admit some accidental differences in the expressions of each. But these he easily gets over by saying that in man those external expressions of the emotions are already perfected, matured, and developed, while in animals they are as yet budding, developing, and perfecting.

The principle of evolution would seem to account for all differences. The animal, by evolving its faculties in a long series of years, rises gradually to a higher species, and finally, having walked on all fours, comes to the conclusion it would be better and more sensible to use only two feet. Having looked downward for a long time, it begins to think it would be more honorable and decent to assume an upright posture. And then, grunting and howling are by no means as becoming as speaking French, or Italian, or Chinese; hence, Mr. Orang comes to the conclusion that he has been silent long enough, and that it is time that he, too, should have his say about matters.

We do not say that this is all expressed in so many words in the volume before us. Oh! no; Mr. Darwin is too adroit to do that. Like the devil, he sometimes assumes the garment of light, and puts on an appearance of virtue. His words are characterized by a tone of modesty and humility and even diffidence which is not common to that class of writers. He does not directly affirm anything; but he asks questions that contain a negative answer. He insinuates. He does not tell us man is a monkey, but he affirms that man expresses his feelings in the same manner as do these animals. Hence how explain this similarity, if they be not brothers?

We call attention to this fact. It alone can render his work dangerous to youthful or unguarded minds. We think there is little to fear that its frivolous arguments will excite anything but laughter and ridicule among men of solid erudition.

Unfortunately, the ideas embodied in this book are the creed of many enlightened persons, even, of this “progressive” age. This alone accounts for the favor and widespread circulation Darwin’s writings have acquired. Protestantism has done its work only too well. Casting off all authority in matters of faith, it has paved the way to all errors, and its theory has merely been developed by our modern materialists.

We are not disposed to deny the great labor and varied research employed in the work before us; but, we must say, seldom has it been our lot to witness such shallowness of argument, such loose connection between premises and conclusions. It will astonish the intelligent reader that so earnest a student as Mr. Darwin evidently is, could make use of logic in a manner discreditable to any tyro.

But we must not wonder at this. The drunkard sees things turning topsy-turvy, when in reality they stand still. One who wears green spectacles will behold objects in a green or pale color. We are apt to judge things according to preconceived ideas or a certain state of mind. So Mr. Darwin: his great hobby is to make man a monkey, and _vice versa_. Hence, he takes slight resemblances between the two as certain proof of his theory. Thus, he says: “With mankind, some expressions, such as the bristling of the hair under the influence of extreme terror, can hardly be understood except on the belief that man once existed in a much lower and animal-like condition. The community of certain expressions in distinct though allied species, as in the movements of the same facial muscles during laughter by man and by various monkeys, is rendered somewhat more intelligible if we believe in their common progenitor. He who admits on general principles that the structure and habits of all animals have been gradually evolved, will look at the whole subject of expressions in a new and interesting light.”[171]

This language is clear and unmistakable, though its meaning be artfully disguised. The logic of his conclusions, however, is not equally satisfactory. Why trace man’s origin to the monkey, because, forsooth, his hair bristles when angry? Or is it really so necessary to make man a brute because the same facial muscles move during laughter? We had always thought that these accidental resemblances were more than sufficiently explained by the simple fact that man, besides his immortal soul, is possessed of a body also, which, being material, is subject in many respects to the laws of other animals. We say, in fact, man is a rational animal. He is composed of matter and spirit. As regards his body, he is subject to the same laws as those which regulate animals.

Mr. Darwin has in his conclusions what is not contained in his premises, and hence he falls into a grave error in regard to the first principles of logic and sound reasoning. It is quite logical and perfectly true to say man has some exterior or bodily motions and expressions similar to those of other animals, and therefore that his bodily organs have some relation and similarity with those of the lower animals; nay, we may even infer the same essence to be common to the bodily organs of both. Thus much strict logic will allow. Thus much sound philosophy has always admitted. But then, we may ask, How far does this resemblance extend? Does it merely exist in the bodily organs, or does it perhaps show itself in all external actions, even those of the intellect and the will? Does it extend to all the essential elements in both, or is it merely accidental, relating simply to minor actions? The answer cannot be doubtful even to the most superficial observer. We ask, therefore, Is this resemblance of an essential, or rather an accidental, character? We can only admit that the latter is the case. There is, it is true, a manifold similarity; but after all, even where this is most striking, is there not a vast discrepancy? With the lower animal, all is routine—machine-like, habitual, ever the same under similar circumstances, nor can it combine means with the end. In man, these same external actions are regulated by the will, and can be omitted or done at pleasure.

Now, will Mr. Darwin say this is merely a trifle—that this, too, can be acquired by the brute after a long experience and a lapse of years? Reason and sound philosophy teach that the sensations of brutes are essentially distinct from, and in nowise contain, reason or intelligence. How, then, could reason be the product of evolution? How, then, can that be evolved which does not at all exist?

We repeat it: Darwin’s conclusion is similar to this: “A dog is a cat, because, forsooth, both sleep.” He finds in man and brutes some partial similarities in mere external actions, and straightway he concludes that they are both of the same essence and parentage. As well might he say burning lamps are emanations from the sun, because they, too, give light.

Instinct is almost entirely left out of account, and all expressions and external actions are attributed solely to habit and exercise repeated.[172] We by no means doubt that habit and exercise have a great deal to do with external actions. But can they all be accounted for in such a manner? When we ask, How do children, from the very first day of their birth, make use of their hands and feet, and employ their mouths in the proper way for imbibing nourishment? Mr. Darwin may answer: “This habit, too, was transmitted from parent to offspring, and indicates a long series of generations” (p. 39).

But we cannot very well see how this answer will satisfy even the most credulous reader. Habits may be to a certain extent transmitted by parents to their children; but generally it is, in an imperfect state, the “tendency” or inclination, rather than the act, that is transmitted. An intemperate parent may transmit to his offspring a “tendency” to that vice; but we have not yet heard of a born drunkard.

Moreover, is this principle applicable in a general manner even in regard to merely accidental habits? Experience tells us quite the contrary.

Weak-minded parents often give birth to most gifted children. On the contrary, many most cultivated and intelligent parents have children who are dull and slow of understanding.

But even granting that habits may be transmitted from parent to offspring, we ask, What is the nature of such habits? Are they essential elements of nature, or merely minor and trifling motions? Mr. Darwin’s own example on the point will confirm our assertion that they are of the latter sort: “A gentleman of considerable position was found by his wife to have the curious trick, when he lay fast asleep on his back in bed, of raising his right arm slowly in front of his face up to his forehead, and then dropping it with a jerk, so that the wrist fell heavily on the bridge of his nose. The trick did not occur every night, but occasionally, and was independent of any ascertained cause. Sometimes it was repeated incessantly for an hour or more. The gentleman’s nose was prominent, and its bridge often became sore from the blows which it received” (p. 34). His son, too, inherited this trick. The only difference, however, consisted in the son’s nose not being quite so prominent, and therefore less exposed to the tricky and mysterious blows.

Now, what does a fact of this sort prove? Simply that slight, bodily actions, such as the one alleged, can be transmitted.

“Language,” he tells us, “has been invented by man in a slow and tedious process, completed by innumerable steps half consciously made” (p. 60). It is somewhat amusing to listen to his description of this process of inventing language. “The sexes,” he says, “of many animals call for each other during the breeding season, etc. This, indeed, seems to have been the primordial use and means of development of voice” (p. 84).

As an example, he alleges the cow calling for her calf, the ewes bleating for their lambs (p. 85). This theory is at least amusing, if not clear and convincing. It only adds another specimen of Mr. Darwin’s loose logic. His argument can be thus presented: There is a resemblance between the sound of a cow calling for her calf and the voice of man; therefore, the latter is derived from the former, being merely its development—they are both identical in germ. The one is perfected by the principle of evolution, which has the wonderful capacity of transforming all sorts of things.

This is truly making light of that noble gift bestowed upon man by his Creator—language. But, ingenious as Mr. Darwin strives to be in assigning the origin of language, he overlooks two little points. Language he confounds, first, with mere inarticulate sounds. Secondly, he forgets that there may be a distinction between the sound or voice as a sign of an idea or of a mere sensation. To confound the two would be like comparing the tones of a piano, as produced by the hands of an artist, to the same sounds brought forth by some monkey trying his paws on the instrument.

We do not know whether Mr. Darwin has much of a musical ear. If he has, even in a very slight degree, we think he would soon find a very great and specific distinction between the production of the musician and the jargon of the monkey. He would tell us, in the one case, the sounds are expressive of the musical combination and ideas of the artist, while, in the other, they are mere unmeaning sounds. So it is with language. Words express ideas. We can use them as we choose, nay, even wilfully change or disguise their true meaning. What similarity exists, then, between language and the sounds of animals? If any, it is in the sound. Does this justify the conclusion that they are both identical in germ; that the one is a development of the other? As well might we say the whistling of the wind among the leaves of trees, and the howling of the storm, are identical with the voice of man. All these sounds of nature are no less sounds than those of man and the brute; but will any man of sound mind identify them?

Still, Mr. Darwin goes on with an air of perfect self-complacency: “From this fact, and from the analogy of other animals, I have been led to infer that the progenitors of man probably uttered musical tones before they had acquired the power of articulate speech” (p. 87).

Of course, our progenitors here are none other than monkeys. It is quite apparent that Darwin’s notion of language is extremely inadequate and confused. He must allow us to refresh his memory a little on the subject. A word is an external sign whereby an internal thought or idea is made known to others, just as smoke is a sign of fire. Still, words are not expressive of ideas by any natural aptitude. In fact words are naturally so little adapted to express any particular concept of the mind that they may be distorted from their meaning. They are conventional signs: and except so far as they were given to our first parents by God, they have been adopted and used by positive authority, custom, or agreement to serve as a medium of thought.

Herein lies one of the specific differences of human speech from the sound of animals. These give forth sounds _naturally_ adapted to express some feeling. Moreover, their utterances are not chosen by themselves, but dictated by nature. They cannot change them; while man selects, varies, and changes his words at will. Hence, language is defined: “The articulate voice of man, having signification by the agreement of men.” Words are parts of a sentence, which is defined: “An assemblage of words intended to mean something.”

We here waive the question whether language was invented by man at all. Our doctrine is that it was not invented, but was communicated directly by God to our first parents, Adam and Eve. But this is of no importance at present; for, whether invented by man, or directly communicated by God, Mr. Darwin’s theory is equally untenable.

We sum up the differences of sound or language in man and in animals as follows:

1. In man, language is the expression of thought and judgment, while the sounds of animals are merely spontaneous and natural utterances.

2. Language in man is the product of reasoning; it presupposes a perception of the relation of the subject and the predicate. For instance, when I say, Man is immortal, I must perceive the relation of the attribute immortality to man. Now, the sound of the animal is merely expressive of some solitary feeling.

3. Man directs his words, while the brute’s sound is ever the same.

Another instance of Darwin’s logic is found in tracing the origin of the expression of sulkiness in man, especially in children. This feeling, he says, is expressed by a protrusion of the lips, or, as it is called, “making a snout.” Now, he continues, “young orangs and chimpanzees protrude their lips to an extraordinary degree, when they are discontented, somewhat angry, or sulky” (p. 234).

But, lo! what is his conclusion? Therefore, he infers, this habit of man was a primordial habit in his “semi-human progenitors,” who are, of course, no less than the aforesaid honorable monkeys. Let us hear his words: “If, then, our semi-human progenitors [_i.e._ Messrs. Orang and Chimpanzee] protruded their lips when sulky or a little angered in the same manner as do the existing anthropoid apes, it is not an anomalous though a curious fact that our children should exhibit, when similarly affected, a trace of the same expression” (p. 234). Mr. Darwin is cunning. He wishes tacitly to infer that man comes from the animal, because both can make “snouts.” Of course, even he must concede that the monkey can make a better or at least a longer “snout” than man. And hence the principles of evolution in this case at least would imply retrogression, not progress. His mode of reasoning is strange indeed. When he finds an expression in man, he searches whether there is anything like it among the monkeys or other animals; and, when he has discovered even a slight trace, he triumphantly exclaims, Behold the progenitors of man! He does not yet call them genitors; they are not the immediate parents, but simply grandfathers and grandmothers. Nor are these progenitors quite human; they are as yet semi-human, being about half-way between the monkey phase and that of man. Speaking of man, he says: “The lips are sometimes protruded during rage in a manner the meaning of which I do not understand, unless it depends on our descent from some ape-like animal” (p. 243). Mr. Darwin manifests a strange partiality for the ape-like animals.

But it is no wonder he cannot understand the plainest facts, which every Catholic child can tell him. He sets aside all revealed truths. He knows nothing about the simple but sublime narrative in the first chapter of Genesis. He ignores the creative act bringing forth, not one kind, but “the living creature in its kind, cattle, and creeping things, and beasts of the earth according to their kinds.”[173] To him, this is of no meaning. True, the Scripture records the solemn creation of man as entirely distinct from that of animals. “Let us make man,” God said, “to our image, and likeness; and let him have dominion over the fishes of the sea, and the fowls of the air,” etc. “And God created man to his own image: to the image of God he created him, male and female he created them.”[174] True, Darwin will say, according to the Scripture, “God breathed into his [man’s] face the breath of life, and man became a living soul.”[175]

But what care I for the Scriptures, when my own private and infallible reason leads me to think that God did not directly breathe into man an intelligent soul—made after God’s own image and likeness—but rather that man received it from the animal? Such is, indeed, the result of the revolt of reason against God. Like Satan, who was cast from heaven in a moment, when desirous of elevating his throne to a level with that of God, so man falls and degrades himself when he becomes too proud to listen to God’s Word, making reason the supreme and sole criterion of truth and certitude.

Mr. Darwin seems to admit a Creator of the universe, but holds that only one, or at most four, species were created. Now, we must not forget, as he certainly does, that the Creator was an infinitely intelligent being, and therefore had some object in view in creation. Every intelligent being must act for some end. We call him a fool who knows not what he is doing, and therefore is foolish. Hence, in creation, God destined each creature for some end, to accomplish a certain task. The Creator must, however, give to each creature the necessary means to attain its end. It would be unintelligible that God should destine me to walk, without giving me feet; or create me to earn my livelihood by the labor of my hands, without giving me hands to work with.

Now, this principle, so universally exhibited in nature, will easily and satisfactorily explain all expressions in animals as well as in man, without obliging us to have recourse to the monkey theory so fondly adhered to by Darwin.

We come now to another proof adduced by Darwin to establish his beloved ape-descending theory. It is taken from the state of an insane person (p. 245). We will allow him to speak for himself: “Its symptoms are the reappearance of primitive instincts, a faint echo from a far distant past, testifying to a kinship which man has almost outgrown” (p. 245). These are the words of Dr. Maudsley, cited and approved by him. The state of insanity in man is compared to the normal state of the animal. Again, he asks, “Why should a human being, deprived of his reason, ever become so brutal in character as some do, unless he has the brutal nature within him?” (p. 246).

A more silly or childish mode of reasoning could scarcely be thought of. As well might he say the sun returns to its primitive state when in an eclipse, or an engine is working properly when the boilers explode and spread death and consternation all around.

We say of the idiot, He has lost his mind. Not that it really is entirely extinct: it is merely out of working order. Its clearness is darkened by some disorder. The idiot is in a state repugnant to his natural condition. How, then, infer from such a condition a former kinship? A machine or clock out of order will, when left to itself, work indeed; not, however, returning to its normal state, but destroying itself. So it is with the idiot. It was, therefore, perhaps rather superfluous for Mr. Darwin to spend so much time and labor, and give his readers so much trouble, for the sake of finding out in how many ways idiots resemble his dear monkeys, chimpanzees, and orangs.

We wonder why the case of Nabuchodonosor did not occur to him. It would have so well illustrated his theory. For he, without becoming permanently an idiot, was seized with an irresistible propensity to return, as Mr. Darwin would say, to his own brethren, and renew his old friendships and acquaintances. And so well was that gentleman pleased with his company that he remained in it not less than seven years, until it pleased God to restore him to his more intelligent and polite brothers.

We would suggest to Mr. Darwin a similar experiment. He ought to be sociable, and from time to time imitate Nabuchodonosor: let his hair and beard grow until they become long feathers; his ears, too, could be extended somewhat, and the nails of his hands and feet might very well become claws; he ought also to eat grass for a while. Thus he would be fulfilling a duty to his rustic brethren, and he could at the same time enlighten them a little on bipedal civilization, especially as they will one day get to be men themselves, and therefore should try to do honor to their future relatives.

Darwin may tenderly call monkeys “our nearest allies” (p. 253), or say: “The playful sneer or ferocious snarl in man reveals his animal descent” (p. 253); or again: “We may readily believe, from our affinity to the anthropomorphous apes, that our male semi-human progenitors possessed great canine teeth” (p. 253)—he may say all this, and still, we fear, he would not like to have himself introduced at the court of London as the brother of the long-tailed and widely known orang-outang. And why? Because his whole moral nature would revolt at such an indignity, and thus furnish the strongest proof, perhaps, that all his talk about ape-affinity and descent is nonsense. Human nature rebels at such a degradation. It protests instinctively against such an alliance. It is unconscious of such a relationship.

Now, how is it, otherwise, that our nature is so tender with regard to all kindred? How is it that brothers and sisters and relatives love each other so much and without effort; that in all men there is a feeling of affinity toward their fellows? How, we ask, does our nature, otherwise so tenderly inclined to all relatives, even the most distant, forget in this one instance alone a relationship at once the most sacred and tender—that of a child to its parent? For we, says Mr. Darwin, are the grandchildren at least of the animal.

All the materialistic cavils and speculations of so-called philosophers will suffer shipwreck on this rock—the moral feeling of the dignity and specific difference of man. But we will explain the symptoms of lunacy to Darwin in a direct manner.

We grant that man has the brutish “nature within him.” We do not concede, however, that he has only the brutish nature and no other. Man has a soul as well as a body. As regards the nature of the body, we cheerfully grant all that Mr. Darwin could desire. It is of the same substance as that of his dear orang. It has, moreover, the same violent passions and downward tendencies; nay, it can—as experience teaches in fact it has—outdo the brute in violent bursts of passion. It is, moreover, regulated by the same laws of climate, food, life, etc.

But this is all we concede. It has not the same origin, being directly created by God in its natural state. Much less do we admit that man is endowed with no higher nature, entirely and specifically distinct from his body. He has a soul that thinks—a soul that is entirely spiritual and intelligent, not merely sensible.

We therefore answer that the state of idiots shows, indeed, that man has the brutish nature within him, but by no means that he has no other nature. Only a little logic would have shown Darwin that his conclusions embody far more than his premises will allow. It seems plain enough that this simple truth is the key to the fullest explanations of human nature itself, and its similarities with the nature of mere animals. Man was defined by the ancients as “a rational animal.” S. Thomas and the scholastics took up and perpetuated this definition. Man is an animal, because he has a body like all animals, and a soul which is created to be the form of that body. Man is, moreover, a rational being, because, unlike all the other animals, he has a soul which has a separate existence of its own, is created immediately by God, and is essentially spiritual.

This distinction, if only borne in mind by our monkey theorists, would have aided them not a little, we opine, in their brain-cracking researches; nor would they have found so many mysteries where everything is plain and intelligible.

We now proceed to another principle advanced in the book before us. Darwin says: “That the chief expressive actions exhibited by man and by the lower animals are innate or inherited—that is, have not been learnt by the individual—is now admitted by every one” (p. 351).

He must allow us to say that such a proposition is, in our estimation, not admitted by every one. With the exception of the author and a few monkeyists, we know of no one who ever advocated any such principle. It is indeed conceded that a “tendency” to most of our expressive actions may be innate or inherited; but, as to the actions and expressions themselves, it is commonly taught by all the schools that they are performed by instinct and reason, and perfected by imitation and experience. What Mr. Darwin means when he calls expressions innate and inherited is not the former—the tendency—but the action itself as transmitted from the father to the son. He illustrates his meaning by an example, not quite suitable for our pages, which may be found by the curious on p. 44 of his work. If anything, this example shows that dogs, and wolves, and jackals are guided by no reason, and do not apply the proper means to attain an end. But does it follow that man, too, has inherited his external movements from such progenitors as monkeys? Does not man direct even all his external actions by reason? It is true, he may be led away by passion; but that is an exception, and only proves the rule.