The only thing I don’t like is the notion of leaving you without such support as I can give in the School.  No one knows better than I do how completely it is your work and how gallantly you have borne the trouble and responsibility connected with it.  But what am I to do?  I must give up all or nothing—­and I shall certainly come to grief if I do not have a long rest.

Pray tell me what you think about it all.

My wife has written to Mrs. Donnelly and told her the news.

Ever yours very faithfully,

T.H.  Huxley.

Read Hobbes if you want to get hard sense in good English.

Highcroft House, Milford, Godalming, September 10, 1884.

My dear Donnelly,

Many thanks for your kind letter.  I feel rather like a deserter, and am glad of any crumbs of comfort.

Cartwright has done wonders for me, and I can already eat most things (I draw the line at tough crusts).  I have not even my old enemy, dyspepsia—­but eat, drink, and sleep like a top.

And withal I am as tired as if I were hard at work, and shirk walking.

So far as I can make out there is not the slightest sign of organic disease anywhere, but I will get Clark to overhaul me when I go back to town.  Sometimes I am inclined to suspect that it is all sham and laziness—­but then why the deuce should I want to sham and be lazy.

Somebody started a charming theory years ago—­that as you get older and lose volition, primitive evil tendencies, heretofore mastered, come out and show themselves.  A nice prospect for venerable old gentlemen!

Perhaps my crust of industry is denuded, and the primitive rock of sloth is cropping out.

But enough of this egotistical invalidism.

How wonderfully Gordon is holding his own.  I should like to see him lick the Mahdi into fits before Wolseley gets up.  You despise the Jews, but Gordon is more like one of the Maccabees of Bar-Kochba than any sort of modern man.

My wife sends love to both of you, and says you are (in feminine language) “a dear thing in friends.”

Ever yours very faithfully,

T.H.  Huxley.

Home Office, September 18, 1884.

My dear Donnelly,

We have struck our camp at Milford, and I am going down to Devonshire and Cornwall to-morrow—­partly on Fishery business, partly to see if I can shake myself straighter by change of air.  I am possessed by seven devils—­not only blue, but of the deepest indigo—­and I shall try to transplant them into a herd of Cornish swine.

The only thing that comforts me is Gordon’s telegrams.  Did ever a poor devil of a Government have such a subordinate before?  He is the most refreshing personality of this generation.

I shall be back by 30th September—­and I hope in better condition for harness than now.

Ever yours very faithfully,

T.H.  Huxley.