Jermyn Street, January 16, 1864.

My dear Darwin,

I have had no news of you for a long time, but I earnestly hope you are better.

Have you any objection to putting your name to Flower’s certificate for the Royal Society herewith inclosed?  It will please him much if you will; and I go bail for his being a thoroughly good man in all senses of the word—­which, as you know, is more than I would say for everybody.

Don’t write any reply; but Mrs. Darwin perhaps will do me the kindness to send the thing on to Lyell as per enclosed envelope.  I will write him a note about it.

We are all well, barring customary colds and various forms of infantile pip.  As for myself, I am flourishing like a green bay tree (appropriate comparison, Soapy Sam would observe), in consequence of having utterly renounced societies and society since October.

I have been working like a horse, however, and shall work “horser” as my college lectures begin in February.

Tout a vous,

T.H.  Huxley.

Royal School of Mines, Jermyn Street, April 18, 1864.

My dear Darwin,

I was rejoiced to see your handwriting again, so much so that I shall not scold you for undertaking the needless exertion (as it’s my duty to do) of writing to thank me for my book. [Hunterian Lectures on Anatomy.]

I thought the last lecture would be nuts for you, but it is really shocking.  There is not the smallest question that Owen wrote both the article “Oken” and the “Archetype Book,” which appeared in its second edition in French—­why, I know not.  I think that if you will look at what I say again, there will not be much doubt left in your mind as to the identity of the writer of the two.

The news you give of yourself is most encouraging; but pray don’t think of doing any work again yet.  Careful as I have been during this last winter not to burn the candle at both ends, I have found myself, since the pressure of my lectures ceased, in considerable need of quiet, and I have been lazy accordingly.

I don’t know that I fear, with you, caring too much for science—­for there are lots of other things I should like to go into as well, but I do lament more and more as time goes on, the necessity of becoming more and more absorbed in one kind of work, a necessity which is created for any one in my position, partly by one’s reputation, and partly by one’s children.  For directly a man gets the smallest repute in any branch of science, the world immediately credits him with knowing about ten times as much as he really does, and he becomes bound in common honesty to do his best to climb up to his reputed place.  And then the babies are a devouring fire, eating up the present and discounting the future; they are sure to want all the money one can earn, and to be the better for all the credit one can win.

However, I should fare badly without the young monkeys.  Your pet Marian is almost as shy as ever, though she has left off saying “can’t,” by the way.