Miserable me! Having addressed myself to clear off a heap of letters that have been accumulating, I find I have not answered an inquiry of yours of nearly a month's standing. I am sorry to say that I cannot tell you of any book (readable or otherwise) that will convert my "pemmican" into decent broth for you.
There are histories of zoology and of philosophical anatomy, but they all of them seem to me to miss the point (which you have picked out of the pemmican). Indeed, that is just why I took such a lot of pains over these 50 or 60 pages. And I am immensely tickled by the fact that among all the critical notices I have seen, not a soul sees what I have been driving at as you have done. I really wish you would write a notice of it, just to show these Gigadibses (vide Right Reverend Blougram) what blind buzzards they are! [See Browning's "Bishop Blougram's Apology":—"Gigadibs the literary man" with his Abstract intellectual plan of life Quite irrespective of life's plainest laws.]
Enter a maid. "Please sir, Mrs. Huxley says she would be glad if you would go out in the sun." "All right, Allen." Anecdote for your next essay on Government!
The fact is, I have been knocked up ever since Tuesday, when our University Deputation came off; and my good wife (who is laid up herself) suspects me (not without reason) of failing to take advantage of a gleam of sunshine.
By the way, can you help us over the University business? Lord Rosebery is favourable, and there is absolutely nobody on the other side except sundry Philistines, who, having got their degrees, are desirous of inflating their market value.
Yours very truly,
T.H. Huxley.
[The next is in answer to an appeal for a subscription, from the Church
Army.]
January 26, 1895.
I regret that I am unable to contribute to the funds of the Church Army.