I trust he may succeed, and that the unfitness of these people to be trusted with anything may be demonstrated.  I regret I am not able to help in the good work.  Get the thing out of their hands as fast as possible.  The prospect of being revenged for all the beastly dinners I sat out and all the weary discussions I attended to no purpose, really puts a little life into me.  Apropos of that, I am better in various ways, but curiously weak and washed out; and I am afraid that not even the prospect of a fight would screw me up for long.  I don’t understand it, unless I have some organic disease of which nobody can find any trace (and in which I do not believe myself), or unless the terrible trouble we have had has accelerated the advent of old age.  I rather suspect that the last speculation is nearest the truth.  You will be glad to hear that my poor girl is wonderfully better, and, indeed, to all appearance quite well.  They are living quietly at Norwood.

I shall be back certainly by the 12th April, probably before.  We have found very good quarters here, and have waited for the weather to get warmer before moving; but at last we have made up our minds to begin nomadising again next Friday.  We go to Florence, taking Siena, and probably Pisa, on our way, and reaching Florence some time next week.  Address—­Hotel Milano, Via Cerretani.

For the last week the Carnival has been going on.  It strikes me as the most elaborate and dreariest tomfoolery I have ever seen, but I doubt if I am in the humour to judge it fairly.  It is only just to say that it entertains my vigorous wife immensely.  I have been expecting to see her in mask and domino, but happily this is the last day, and there is no sign of any yet.  I have never seen any one so much benefited by rest and change as she is, and that is a good thing for both of us.

After Florence we shall probably make our way to Venice, and come home by the Lago di Garda and Germany.  But I will let you know when our plans are settled.

With best love from we two to you two.

Ever yours,

T.H.  Huxley.

[To his youngest daughter.]

Siena, February 23, 1885.

Dearest Ethel,

The cutting you sent me contains one of the numerous “goaks” of a Yankee performing donkey who is allowed to disport himself in one of the New York papers.  I confess it is difficult to see the point of the joke, but there is one if you look close.  I don’t think you need trouble to enlighten the simple inquirer.  He probably only wanted the indignant autograph which he won’t get.

The Parker Museum must take care of itself.  The public ought to support it, not the men of science.

As a grandfather, I am ashamed of my friends who are of the same standing; but I think they would take it as a liberty if, in accordance with your wish, I were to write to expostulate.

After your mother had exhausted the joys of the Carnival, she permitted me to leave Rome for this place, where we arrived last Friday evening.  My impression is that if we had stayed in Rome much longer we should never have left.  There is something idle and afternoony about the air which whittles away one’s resolution.