There is such a thing as justice in this world—­not much of it, but still some—­and it is partly on that ground and partly because I want you, in view of future eventualities, to have a copyright in the book, that I proposed we should join our names.

Of course, if you would really rather not, for any good reason you may have, I have nothing further to say.  But I don’t think that the sentimental reason is a good one, and unless you have a better, I wish you would let the original proposal stand.

However, having stated the case afresh I leave it for you to say yes or no, and shall abide by your decision without further discussion.

As to the Preface.  If I am to write it, please send me the old Preface.  I think the book was published in 1864, or was it 1866? [In 1866.] and it ought to be come of age or nearly so.

You might send me the histological chapter, not that I am going to alter anything, but I should like to see how it looks.  I will knock the Preface off at once, as soon as I hear from you.

The fact is, I have been much better in the course of the last few days.  The weather has been very sunshiny but cool and bracing, and I have taken to quinine.  Tried Clark’s strychnine, but it did not answer so well.

I am in hopes that I have taken a turn for the better, and that there may yet be the making of something better than a growling hypochondriacal old invalid about me.  But I am most sincerely glad that I am not obliged to be back 10 days hence—­there is not much capital accumulated yet.

I find that the Italians have been doing an immense deal in prehistoric archaeology of late years, and far more valuable work than I imagined.  But it is very difficult to get at, and as Loescher’s head man told me the other day when I asked for an Italian book published in Rome, “Well, you see it is so difficult to get Roman books in Rome.”

I am ashamed to be here two months without paying my respects to the Lincei, and I am going to-day.  The unaccountable creatures meet at 1 o’clock—­lunch time!

Best love from my wife and self to Mrs. Foster and yourself.

Ever yours,

T.H.  Huxley.

Rome, February 14, 1885.

My dear Foster,

Voila the preface—­a work of great labour! and which you may polish and alter as you like, all but the last paragraph.  You see I have caved in.  I like your asking to have your own way “for once.”  My wife takes the same line, does whatever she pleases, and then declares I leave her no initiative.

If I talk of public affairs, I shall simply fall a-blaspheming.  I see the “Times” holds out about Gordon, and does not believe he is killed.  Poor fellow!  I wish I could believe that his own conviction (as he told me) is true, and that death only means a larger government for him to administer.  Anyhow, it is better to wind up that way than to go growling out one’s existence as a ventose hypochondriac, dependent upon the condition of a few square inches of mucous membrane for one’s heaven or hell.