[He begins by confessing “a considerable liberty” he had been taking with Dyster’s name, in calling a joint discovery of this, which he described in the “Edinburgh New Philosophical Journal,” Protula Dysteri.]

Are you very savage?  If so, you must go and take a walk along the sands and see the slant rays of the sunset tipping the rollers as they break on the beach; that always made even me at peace with all the world, and a fortiori it will you.

Truly, I wish I had any such source of consolation.  Chimney pots are highly injurious to my morals, and my temper is usually in proportion to the extent of my horizon.

I have been swallowing oceans of disgust lately.  All sorts of squabbles, some made by my own folly and others by the malice of other people, and no great sea and sky to go out under, and be alone and forget it all.

You may have seen my name advertised by Reeve as about to write a memoir of poor Forbes, to be prefixed to a collection of his essays.  I found that to be a mere bookseller’s dodge on Reeve’s part, and when I made the discovery, of course we had a battle-royal, and I have now wholly withdrawn from it.

I find, however, that one’s kind and generous friends imagine it was an electioneering manoeuvre on my part for Edinburgh.  Imagine how satisfactory.  I forget whether I told you that I had been asked to stand for Edinburgh and have done so.  Whether I shall be appointed or not I do not know.  So far as my own wishes go, I am in a curiously balanced state of mind about it.  Many things make it a desirable post, but I dread leaving London and its freedom—­its Bedouin sort of life—­for Edinburgh and no whistling on Sundays.  Besides, if I go there, I shall have to give up all my coast-survey plans, and all their pleasant concomitants.

Apropos of Edinburgh I feel much like the Irish hod-man who betted his fellow he could not carry him up to the top of a house in his hod.  The man did it, but Pat turning round as he was set down on the roof, said, “Ye’ve done it, sure enough, but, bedad, I’d great hopes ye’d let me fall about three rounds from the top.”  Bedad, I’m nearly at the top of the Scotch ladder, but I’ve hopes.

It is finally settled that the chair will not be divided.  I told them frankly I would not go if it were.

Has Highly sent your books yet?

Ever yours faithfully,

T.H.  Huxley.

Jermyn Street, February 13, 1855.

My dear Dyster,

...I will do my best to help—­to some alumni if the chance comes in my way, though, as you say, I don’t like him.  I can’t help it.  I respect piety, and hope I have some after my own fashion, but I have a profound prejudice against the efflorescent form of it.  I never yet found in people thoroughly imbued with that pietism, the same notions of honour and straightforwardness that obtain among men of the world.  It may be otherwise with —­, but I can’t help my pagan prejudice.  So don’t judge harshly of me there-anent.