For which last pretty speech I hope the lady will make a prettier curtsey.  So go boldly across the Aletsch, and if they have a knocker (which I doubt), knock and it shall be opened unto you.

I wish I were going to be there too; but Royal Commissions are a kind of endemic in my constitution, and I have a very bad one just now. [The Medical Acts Commission 1881-2.]

With kind remembrances to Mrs. Skelton,

Ever yours very faithfully,

T.H.  Huxley.

[The ecclesiastical sound of his new title of Dean of the College of Science afforded him a good deal of amusement.  He writes from Grasmere, where he had joined his family for the summer vacation:—­]

August 18, 1881.

My dear Donnelly,

I am astonished that you don’t known that a letter to a Dean ought to be addressed “The Very Reverend.”  I don’t generally stand much upon etiquette, but when my sacred character is touched I draw the line.

We had athletics here yesterday, and as it was a lovely day, all
Cumberland and Westmoreland sent contingents to see the fun...

This would be a grand place if it were drier, but the rain it raineth every day—­yesterday being the only really fine day since our arrival.

However, we all thrive, so I suppose we are adapting ourselves to the medium, and shall be scaly and finny before long.

Haven’t you done with Babylon yet?  It is high time you were out of it.

Ever yours very faithfully,

T.H.  Huxley.

CHAPTER 2.13.

1882.

[The year 1882 was a dark year for English science.  It was marked by the death of both Charles Darwin and of Francis Balfour, the young investigator, of whom Huxley once said,] “He is the only man who can carry out my work.” [The one was the inevitable end of a great career, in the fulness of time; the other was one of those losses which are the more deplorable as they seem unnecessary, the result of a chance slip, in all the vigour of youth.  I remember his coming to our house just before setting out on his fatal visit to Switzerland, and my mother begging him to be careful about risking so valuable a life as his in dangerous ascents.  He laughingly replied that he only wanted to conquer one little peak on Montblanc.  A few days later came the news of his fatal fall upon the precipices of the Aiguille Blanche.  Since the death of Edward Forbes, no loss outside the circle of his family had affected my father so deeply.  For three days he was utterly prostrated, and was scarcely able either to eat or sleep.

There was indeed a subtle affinity between the two men.  My mother, who was greatly attached to Francis Balfour, said once to Sir M. Foster, “He has not got the dash and verve, but otherwise he reminds me curiously of what my husband was in his ‘Rattlesnake’ days.”  “How strange,” replied Sir Michael, “when he first came to the front, Lankester wrote asking me, ’Who is this man Balfour you are always talking about?’ and I answered, ’Well, I can only describe him by saying he is a younger Huxley.’”