right. As he wrote later (in 1876):--

It seemed to me that a man of science has no _raison d'être_
at all unless he is willing to face much greater risks than
these for the sake of that which he believes to be true; and
further, that to a man of science such risks do not count for
much--they are by no means so serious as they are to a man of
letters, for example.

The book was published, and the friend's forecast was amply justified.

The Boreas of criticism blew his hardest blasts of
misrepresentation and ridicule for some years, and I was even
as one of the wicked. Indeed, it surprises me at times to
think how any one who had sunk so low could since have emerged
into, at any rate, relative respectability. Personally, like
the non-corvine personages in the Ingoldsby legend, I did not
feel "one penny the worse." Translated into several languages,
the book reached a wider public than I had ever hoped
for; being largely helped, I imagine, by the Ernulphine
advertisements to which I referred. It has had the honour of
being freely utilized without acknowledgment by writers of
repute; and, finally, it achieved the fate, which is the
euthanasia of a scientific work, of being enclosed among the
rubble of the foundations of later knowledge, and forgotten.

To my observation, human nature has not sensibly changed
during the last thirty years. I doubt not that there are
truths as plainly obvious, and as generally denied, as
those contained in _Man's Place in Nature_, now awaiting