more worth living, involved a heavy strain.  At the same time, a man who was ever ready to take up responsibilities for the furtherance of every branch of science with which he was concerned had endless responsibilities committed to him.  Besides his researches in pure science, whether anatomy, paleontology, or anthropology, his regular teaching work and other courses of lectures, his long work as examiner at the London University, the production of scientific memoirs and text-books and more general essays, he took a leading share in editing the Natural History Review for two and a-half years; he was an active supporter of the chief scientific societies to which he belonged, and took a prominent part in their administration as member of council, secretary, or president, the most laborious period of which was during the nine years of his secretaryship of the Royal Society, soon to be followed by the presidency.  Add to these his service on the School Board and no less than eight Royal Commissions, and it is easy to see that the longest working days he could contrive were always filled and over-filled.

When very tired he would occasionally dash off for a week or two’s walking with a friend in Wales, or some corner of France; two summer holidays in Switzerland with John Tyndall resulted in a joint paper on the “Structure of Glacier Ice”; later, the family holidays by the sea regularly saw a good deal of time devoted to writing, while his exercise consisted of long walks.

Unlike Darwin, who at last found nothing save science engrossing enough to make him oblivious of his constant ill-health, Huxley never lost his keen delight in literature and art.  He was a rapid and omnivorous reader, devouring everything from a fairy tale to a blue book, and tearing the heart out of a book at express speed.  With this went a love of great and beautiful poetry and of prose expression that is at once exact and artistically balanced.  “I have a great love and respect for my native tongue,” he wrote, “and take great pains to use it properly.  Sometimes I write essays half-a-dozen times before I can get them into the proper shape; and I believe I become more fastidious as I grow older.”  Indeed, even after much re-writing, his corrections in proof must have appalled his publishers.  “Science and literature,” he declared, “are not two things, but two sides of one thing.”  “Have something to say, and say it,” was the great Duke’s theory of style.  “Say it in such language,” added Huxley, “that you can stand cross-examination on every word.  Be clear, though you may be convicted of error.  If you are clearly wrong, you will run up against a fact some time and get set right.  If you shuffle with your subject, and study chiefly to use language which will give a loophole of escape either way, there is no hope for you.”