and charges of one description and another, I found myself 100 pounds sterling in debt when I returned—­besides something to my brother, about which, however, I do not suppose I need trouble myself just at present.  As you may imagine, living in London, my pay now hardly keeps me, to say nothing of paying off my old scores.  I could get no account of how things were going on with my agent while I was away,and therefore I never could tell exactly how I stood.”)

In the meanwhile, strangely enough—­and very painfully for me—­new possibilities have sprung up.  My poor friend Forbes died only a week ago, just as he was beginning his course and entering upon as brilliant a career as ever was opened to any scientific man in this country.

I cannot tell you how deeply this has shocked me.  I owe him so much, I loved him so well, and I have so very very few friends in the true sense of the word, that it has been perhaps a greater loss to me than to any one—­although there never was a man so widely lamented.  One could trust him so thoroughly!  However, he has gone, poor fellow, and there is nothing for it but to shut one’s self up again—­and I was only going to say that his death leaves his post vacant, and I have been strongly urged to become a candidate for it by several of the most influential Edinburgh Professors.  I am greatly puzzled what to do.  I do not want to leave London, nor do I think much of my own chances of success if I become a candidate—­though others do.  On the other hand, a stipend which varies between 800 and 1200 pounds sterling a year is not to be pooh-poohed.

We shall see.  If I can carry out some arrangements which are pending with the Government to increase my pay to 400 pounds sterling a year, I shall be strongly tempted to stop in London.  It is the place, the centre of the world.

In the meanwhile, as things always do come in heaps, I obtained my long-fought-for Grant—­though indirectly—­from the Government, which is, I think, a great triumph and vindication of the family motto—­tenax propositi.  Like many long-sought-for blessings, however, it is rather a bore now that I have it, as I don’t see how I am to find time to write the book.  But things “do themselves” in a wonderful way.  I’ll tell you how many irons I have in the fire at this present moment:—­(1) a manual of Comparative Anatomy for Churchill; (2) my “Grant” book; (3) a book for the British Museum people (half done); (4) an article for Todd’s “Cyclopaedia” (half done); (5) sundry memoirs on Science; (6) a regular Quarterly article in the “Westminster”; (7) lectures at Jermyn Street in the School of Mines; (8) lectures at the School of Art, Marlborough House; (9) lectures at the London Institution, and odds and ends.  Now, my dearest Lizzie, whenever you feel inclined to think it unkind I don’t write, just look at that list, and remember that all these things require strenuous attention and concentration of the faculties, and leave one