[To his youngest daughter.]

Hotel Beau Sejour, San Remo, March 30, 1885.

Dearest Babs,

We could not stand "beautiful Venice the pride of the sea" any longer.

It blew and rained and colded for eight-and-forty hours consecutively.

Everybody said it was a most exceptional season, but that did not make us any warmer or prevent your mother from catching an awful cold. So as soon as she got better we packed up and betook ourselves here by way of Milan and Genoa. At Milan it was so like London on a wet day, that except for the want of smoke we might have been in our dear native land. At Genoa we arrived late one afternoon and were off early in the morning--but by dint of taking a tram after dinner (not a dram) and going there and back again we are able to say we have seen that city of palaces. The bas.e.m.e.nts we saw through the tram windows by mixed light of gas and moon may in fact all have belonged to palaces.

We are not in a position to say they did not.

The quick train from Genoa here is believed to go fully twenty-five miles an hour, but starts at 7 A.M., but the early morning air being bad for the health, we took the slow train at 9.30, and got here some time in the afternoon. But mind you it is a full eighty miles, and when we were at full speed between the stations--very few donkeys could have gone faster. But the coast scenery is very pretty, and we didn't mind.

Here we are very well off and as nearly warm as I expect to be before reaching England. You can sit out in the sun with satisfaction, though there is a little knife-edge of wind just to remind us of Florence.

Everybody, however, tells us it is quite an exceptional season, and that it ought to be the most balmy air imaginable. Besides there are no end of date-palms and cactuses and aloes and odorous flowers in the garden--and the loveliest purple sea you can imagine.

Well, we shall stop some days and give San Remo a chance--at least a week, unless the weather turns bad.

As to your postcards which have been sent on from Venice and are really shabby, I am not going to any dinners whatsoever, either Middle Temple or Academy. Just write to both that "Mr. H. regrets he is unable to accept the invitation with which -- have honoured him."

(It's like putting the shutters up," [he said sadly to his wife, when he felt unable to attend the Royal Academy dinner as he had done for many years.])

I have really nothing the matter with me now--but my stock of strength is not great, and I can't afford to spend any on dinners.

The blessedest thing now will be to have done with the nomadic life of the last five months--and see your ugly faces (so like their dear father) again. I believe it will be the best possible tonic for me.

M-- has not got rid of her cold yet, but a few warm days here will, I hope, set her up.

I met Lady Whitworth on the esplanade to-day--she is here with Sir Joseph, and this afternoon we went to call on her. The poor old man is very feeble and greatly altered since I saw him last.

Write here on receiving this. We shall take easy stages home, but I don't know that I shall be able to give you any address.

M-- sends heaps of love to all (including Charles [The cat.]).

Ever your loving father,

T.H. Huxley.

Tell the "Micropholis" man that it is a fossil lizard with an armour of small scales.

CHAPTER 2.17.

1885.

[On April 8, he landed at Folkestone, and stayed there a day or two before going to London. Writing to Sir J. Donnelly, he remarks with great satisfaction at getting home:--]

We got here this afternoon after a rather shady pa.s.sage from Boulogne, with a strong north wind in our teeth all the way, and rain galore.

For all that, it is the pleasantest journey I have made for a long time--so pleasant to see one's own dear native mud again. There is no foreign mud to come near it.

[And on the same day he sums up to Sir M. Foster the amount of good he has gained from his expedition, and the amount of good any patient is likely to get from travel:--]

As for myself I have nothing very satisfactory to say. By the oddest chance we met Andrew Clark in the boat, and he says I am a very bad colour--which I take it is the outward and visible sign of the inward and carnal state. I may sum that up by saying that there is nothing the matter but weakness and indisposition to do anything, together with a perfect genius for making mountains out of molehills.

After two or three fine days at Venice, we have had nothing but wet or cold--or hot and cold at the same time, as in that prodigious imposture the Riviera. Of course it was the same story everywhere, "perfectly unexampled season."

Moral.--If you are perfectly well and strong, brave Italy--but in search of health stop at home.

It has been raining cats and dogs, and Folkestone is what some people would call dreary. I could go and roll in the mud with satisfaction that it is English mud.

It will be jolly to see you again. Wife unites in love.

Ever yours,

T.H. Huxley.

[To return home was not only a great pleasure; it gave him a fillip for the time, and he writes to Sir M. Foster, April 12:--]

It is very jolly to be home, and I feel better already. Clark has just been here overhauling me, and feels very confident that he shall screw me up.

I have renounced dining out and smoking (!!!) by way of preliminaries.

G.o.d only knows whether I shall be permitted more than the smell of a mutton chop for dinner. But I have great faith in Andrew, who set me straight before when other "physicians' aid was vain."

[But his energy was fitful; la.s.situde and depression again invaded him. He was warned by Sir Andrew Clark to lay aside all the burden of his work. Accordingly, early in May, just after his sixtieth birthday, he sent in his formal resignation of the Professorship of Biology, and the Inspectorship of Salmon Fisheries; while a few days later he laid his resignation of the Presidency before the Council of the Royal Society. By the latter he was begged to defer his final decision, but his health gave no promise of sufficient amendment before the decisive Council meeting in October.

He writes on May 27:--]

I am convinced that what with my perennial weariness and my deafness I ought to go, whatever my kind friends may say.

[A curious effect of his illness was that for the first time in his life he began to shrink involuntarily from a.s.suming responsibilities and from appearing on public occasions; thus he writes on June 16:--]

I am sorry to say that the perkiness of last week was only a spurt [I.e. at the unveiling of the Darwin statue at South Kensington.], and I have been in a disgusting state of blue devils lately. Can't mark out what it is, for I really have nothing the matter, except a strong tendency to put the most evil construction upon everything.

I am fairly dreading to-morrow [i.e. receiving the D.C.L. degree at Oxford] but why I don't know--probably an attack of modesty come on late in life and consequently severe.

Very likely it will do me good and make me "fit" for Thursday [(i.e.

Council and ordinary meetings of Royal Society).

And a month later:--]

I have been idling in the country for two or three days--but like the woman with the issue, "I am not better but rather worse"--blue devils and funk--funk and blue devils. Liver, I expect. [(An ailment of which he says to Professor Marsh,] "I rather wish I had some respectable disease--it would be livelier.")

And again:--]

Everybody tells me I look so much better, that I am really ashamed to go growling about, and confess that I am continually in a blue funk and hate the thought of any work--especially of scientific or anything requiring prolonged attention.

[At the end of July he writes to Sir W. Flower:--]

4 Marlborough Place, July 27, 1885.