It’s a charming piece of irony altogether.  It is two years yesterday since I left Sydney harbour—­and of course as long since I saw Nettie.  I am getting thoroughly tired of our separation, and I think she is, though the dear little soul is ready to do anything for my sake, and yet I dare not face the stagnation—­the sense of having failed in the whole purpose of my existence—­which would, I know, sooner or later beset me, even with her, if I forsake my present object.  Can you wonder with all this, my dearest Lizzie, that often as I long for your brave heart and clear head to support and advise me, I yet rarely feel inclined to write?  Pray write to me more often than you have done; tell me all about yourself and the Doctor and your children.  They must be growing up fast, and Florry must be getting beyond the “Bird of Paradise” I promised her.  Love and kisses to all of them, and kindest remembrances to the Doctor.

Ever your affectionate brother,

T.H.  Huxley.

[To Miss Heathorn]

November 13, 1852.

Going last week to the Royal Society’s library for a book, and like the boy in church “thinkin’ o’ naughten,” when I went in, Weld, the Assistant Secretary, said, “Well, I congratulate you.”  I confess I did not see at that moment what any mortal man had to congratulate me about.  I had a deuced bad cold, with rheumatism in my head; it was a beastly November day and I was very grumpy, so I inquired in a state of mild surprise what might be the matter.  Whereupon I learnt that the Medal had been conferred at the meeting of the Council on the day before.  I was very pleased...and I thought you would be so too, and I thought moreover that it was a fine lever to help us on, and if I could have sent a letter to you immediately I should have sat down and have written one to you on the spot.  As it is I have waited for official confirmation and a convenient season.

And now...shall I be very naughty and make a confession?  The thing that a fortnight ago (before I got it) I thought so much of, I give you my word I do not care a pin for.  I am sick of it and ashamed of having thought so much of it, and the congratulations I get give me a sort of internal sardonic grin.  I think this has come about partly because I did not get the official confirmation of what I had heard for some days, and with my habit of facing the ill side of things I came to the conclusion that Weld had made a mistake, and I went in thought through the whole enormous mortification of having to explain to those to whom I had mentioned it that it was quite a mistake.  I found that all this, when I came to look at it, was by no means so dreadful as it seemed—­quite bearable in short—­and then I laughed at myself and have cared nothing about the whole concern ever since.  In truth...I do not think that I am in the proper sense of the word ambitious.  I have an enormous longing after the highest and best in all shapes—­a longing which haunts me and is the demon which ever impels me to work, and will let me have no rest unless I am doing his behests.  The honours of men I value so far as they are evidences of power, but with the cynical mistrust of their judgment and my own worthiness, which always haunts me, I put very little faith in them.  Their praise makes me sneer inwardly.  God forgive me if I do them any great wrong.