[To his youngest daughter.]

Hotel Brittanique, Naples, December 22, 1884.

But we have had no letters from home for a week...Moreover, if we don’t hear to-day or to-morrow we shall begin to speculate on the probability of an earthquake having swallowed up 4 Marlborough Place “with all the young barbarians at play—­And I their sire trying to get a Roman holiday” (Byron).  For we are going to Rome to-morrow, having had enough of Naples, the general effect of which city is such as would be produced by the sight of a beautiful woman who had not washed or dressed her hair for a month.  Climate, on the whole, more variable than that of London.

We had a lovely drive three days ago to Cumae, a perfect summer’s day; since then sunshine, heat, cold wind, calms all durcheinander, with thunder and lightning last night to complete the variety.

The thermometer and barometer are not fixed to the walls here, as they would be jerked off by the sudden changes.  At first, it is odd to see them dancing about the hall.  But you soon get used to it, and the porter sees that they don’t break themselves.

With love to Nettie and Harry, and hopes that the pudding will be good.

Ever your loving father,

T.H.  Huxley.

[In January 1885 he went to Rome, whence he writes:—­]

Hotel Victoria, Via dei due Macelli, Rome, January 8, 1885.

My dear Foster,

We have been here a fortnight very well lodged—­south aspect, fireplace, and all the rest of the essentials except sunshine.  Of this last there is not much more than in England, and the grey skies day after day are worthy of our native land.  Sometimes it rains cats and dogs all day by way of a change—­as on Christmas Day—­but it is not cold.  “Quite exceptional weather,” they tell us, but that seems to be the rule everywhere.  We have done a respectable amount of gallery-slaving, and I have been amusing myself by picking up the topography of ancient Rome.  I was going to say Pagan Rome, but the inappropriateness of the distinction strikes me, papal Rome being much more stupidly and childishly pagan than imperial.  I never saw a sadder sight than the kissing a wretched bedizened doll of a Bambino that went on in the Ara Coeli on Twelfth Day.  Your puritan soul would have longed to arise and slay...

As to myself, though it is a very unsatisfactory subject and one I am very tired of bothering my friends about, I am like the farmer at the rent-dinner, and don’t find myself much “forrarder.”  That is to say, I am well for a few days and then all adrift, and have to put myself right by dosing with Clark’s pills, which are really invaluable.  They will make me believe in those pills I saw advertised in my youth, and which among other things were warranted to cure “the indecision of juries.”  I really can’t make out my own condition.  I walked seven or eight miles this morning over Monte Mario and out on the Campagna without any particular