[One more piece of writing dates from this time. He writes to his wife on March 2:—]
A man who is bringing out a series of portraits of celebrities, with a sketch of their career attached, has bothered me out of my life for something to go with my portrait, and to escape the abominable bad taste of some of the notices, I have done that. I shall show it you before it goes back to Engel in proof.
This sketch of his life is the brief autobiography which is printed at the beginning of volume 1 of the "Collected Essays". He was often pressed, both by friends and by strangers, to give them some more autobiography; but moved either by dislike of any approach to egotism, or by the knowledge that if biography is liable to give a false impression, autobiography may leave one still more false, he constantly refused to do so, especially so long as he had capacity for useful work. I found, however, among his papers, an entirely different sketch of his early life, half-a-dozen sheets describing the time he spent in the East end, with an almost Carlylean sense of the horrible disproportions of life. I cannot tell whether this was a first draft for the present autobiography, or the beginnings of a larger undertaking.
Several letters of miscellaneous interest were written before the move to the Engadine took place. They touch on such points as the excessive growth of scientific clubs, the use of alcohol for brain workers, advice to one who was not likely to "suffer fools gladly" about applying for the assistant secretaryship of the British Association, and the question of the effects of the destruction of immature fish, besides personal matters.]
3 Jevington Gardens, Eastbourne, March 22, 1889.
My dear Hooker,
I suppose the question of amalgamation with the Royal is to be discussed at the Phil. Club. The sooner something of the kind takes place the better. There is really no raison d'etre left for the Phil. Club, and considering the hard work of scientific men in these days, clubs are like hypotheses, not to be multiplied beyond necessity.
Ever yours,
T.H. Huxley.
4 Marlborough Place, March 26, 1889.