Gladstone, Samuel of Oxford, and Owen belong to a very curious type of humanity, with many excellent and even great qualities and one fatal defect—utter untrustworthiness. Peace be with two of them, and may the political death of the third be speedy and painless!
With our united best wishes, ever yours very faithfully,
T.H. Huxley.
[And on January 22, 1893, he writes of the meeting:—]
My dear Hooker,
…What queer corners one gets into if one only lives long enough! The grim humour of the situation when I was seconding the proposal for a statue to Owen yesterday tickled me a good deal. I do not know how they will report me in the "Times", but if they do it properly I think you will see that I said no word upon which I could not stand cross-examination.
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 motives.
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 Davie 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.