Owens, Forbes, Bell, and Sharpey (the doctor will tell you of what weight these names are) are all members of the committee which disposes of the money, and are all strongly in favour of my “valuable researches” (cock-a-doodle-doo!!) being published by the Society.  From various circumstances I have taken a better position than I could have expected among these grandees, and I find them all immensely civil and ready to help me on, tooth and nail, particularly Professor Forbes, who is a right good fellow, and has taken a great deal of trouble on my behalf.  Owen volunteered to write to the “First Lord” on my behalf, and did so.  Sharpey, when I saw him, reminded me, as he always does, of my great contest with Stocks (do you remember throwing the shoe?), and promised me all the assistance in his power.  Professor Bell, who is secretary to the Royal, and has great influence, promised to help me in every way, and asked me to dine with him and meet a lot of nobs.  I take all these things quite as a matter of course, but am all the while considerably astonished.  The other day I dined at the Geological Club and met Lyell, Murchison, de la B[eche] Horner, and a lot more, and last evening I dined with a whole lot of literary and scientific people.

Owen was, in my estimation, great, from the fact of his smoking his cigar and singing his song like a brick.

I tell you all these things to show you clearly how I stand.  I am under no one’s patronage, nor do I ever mean to be.  I have never asked, and I never will ask, any man for his help from mere motives of friendship.  If any man thinks that I am capable of forwarding the great cause in ever so small a way, let him just give me a helping hand and I will thank him, but if not, he is doing both himself and me harm in offering it, and if it should be necessary for me to find public expression to my thoughts on any matter, I have clearly made up my mind to do so, without allowing myself to be influenced by hope of gain or weight of authority.

There are many nice people in this world for whose praise or blame I care not a whistle.  I don’t know and I don’t care whether I shall ever be what is called a great man.  I will leave my mark somewhere, and it shall be clear and distinct: 

T.H.H., His mark,

and free from the abominable blur of cant, humbug, and self-seeking which surrounds everything in this present world—­that is to say, supposing that I am not already unconsciously tainted myself, a result of which I have a morbid dread.  I am perhaps overrating myself.  You must put me in mind of my better self, as you did in your last letter, when you write.

But I must come to the close of my epistle, as I have one to enclose from my mother.  My next shall be longer, and I hope I shall then be able to tell you what I am doing.  At any rate I hope to be in England for twelve months.