Jermyn Street, May 1, 1865.
My dear Darwin,
I send you by this post a booklet none of which is much worth your reading, while of nine-tenths of it you may say as the man did who had been trying to read Johnson's "Dictionary," "that the words were fine, but he couldn't make much of the story." [Probably "A Catalogue of the Collection of Fossils in the Museum of Practical Geology," etc.]
But perhaps the young lady who has been kind enough to act as taster of my books heretofore will read the explanatory notice, and give me her ideas thereupon (always recollecting that almost the whole of it was written in the pre-Darwinian epoch.)
I do not hear very good accounts of you—to my sorrow—though rumours have reached me that the opus magnum is completely developed though not yet born. [On "Pangenesis.">[
I am grinding at the mill and getting a little tired. My belongings flourishing as I hope you are.
Ever yours faithfully,
T.H. Huxley.
Jermyn Street, May 29, 1865.
My dear Darwin,