that was published a few days later.

After several merely rhetorical speakers had been cut short by the
chairman, Henslow, who ruled that scientific discussion alone was in
order, the Bishop rose in response to calls from the audience, and
"spoke for full half-an-hour with inimitable spirit, emptiness, and
unfairness," wrote Hooker.

He ridiculed Darwin badly and Huxley savagely; but all in such
dulcet tones, so persuasive a manner, and in such well-turned
periods, that I, who had been inclined to blame the President
for allowing a discussion that could serve no scientific
purpose, now forgave him from the bottom of my heart.... In a
light, scoffing tone, florid and fluent, he assured us there
was nothing in the idea of evolution; rock-pigeons were what
rock-pigeons had always been. Then, turning to his antagonist
with a smiling insolence, he begged to know was it through
his grandfather or his grandmother that he claimed his descent
from a monkey.

Here the Bishop left the vantage ground of any pretence to scientific
discussion, and descended to tasteless personalities. Here was the
opportunity for an equally personal retort, which would show an
audience, for the most part neither of a mind nor of a mood to follow
closely argued reasonings, that personalities were not argument, and
that ridicule is a two-edged weapon. As he spoke these words
Huxley turned to Sir Benjamin Brodie, who was sitting next him, and
whispered: "The Lord hath delivered him into mine hands."

The Bishop sat down; but Huxley, though directly attacked, did