1892 VIEWS ON OWEN'S WORK 363 



I chose the office of seconder in order that I might clearly 

 define my position and stop the mouths of blasphemers — who 

 would have ascribed silence or absence to all sorts of bad mo- 

 tives. 



Whatever the man might be, he did a lot of first-rate work, 

 and now that he can do no more mischief he has a right to his 

 wages for it. 



If I only live another ten years I expect to be made a saint 

 of myself. " Many a better man has been made a saint of," as 

 old David Hume said to his housekeeper when they chalked up 

 " St. David's Street " on his wall. 



We have been jogging along pretty well, but wife has been 

 creaky, and I got done up in a brutal London fog struggling with 

 the worse fog of the New University. 



I am very glad you like my poetical adventure. — Ever yours 

 affectionately, T. H. Huxley. 



This speech had an unexpected sequel. Owen's grand- 

 son was so much struck by it that he wrote asking Huxley 

 to undertake a critical account of his anatomical work for 

 the book — another most unexpected turn of events. It is 

 not often that a conspicuous opponent of a man's specula- 

 tions is asked to pass judgment upon his entire work.* 



At the end of the year an anonymous attack upon the 

 administration of the Royal Society was the occasion for 

 some characteristic words on the endurance of abuse to his 

 old friend, M. Foster, then Secretary of the Royal Society. 



Dec. 5, 1892. 



My dear Foster — The braying of my donkey prevented me 

 from sending a word of sympathy about the noise made by 

 yours. . . . Let not thine heart be vexed because of these sons 

 of Belial. It is all sound and fury with nothing at the bottom 

 of it, and will leave no trace a year hence. I have been abused 

 a deal worse — without the least effect on my constitution or my 

 comfort. 



In fact, I am told that Harrison is abusing me just now like 

 a pickpocket in the Fortnightly, and I only make the philo- 

 sophical reflection, No wonder ! and doubt if the reading it is 

 worth half a crown. — Ever yours affectionately, 



T. H. Huxley. 



* See p. 387. 



