Apropos of naval portrait gallery, can you tell me if there is a portrait of old John Richardson anywhere extant?  I always look upon him as the founder of my fortunes, and I want to hang him up (just over your head) on my chimney breast.  Voici! [sketch showing the position of the pictures above the fireplace]:—­

By your fruits ye shall judge them!  My cold was influenza, I have been in the most preposterously weak state ever since; and at last my wife lost patience and called in the doctor, who is screwing me up with nux vomica.

Sound wind and limb otherwise.

Ever yours affectionately,

T.H.  Huxley.

[And again on July 3:—­]

I have just been offered 2800 pounds for Anthony Rich’s place and have accepted it.  It is probably worth 3000 pounds, but if I were to have it on my hands and sell by auction I should get no more out of the transaction.

I am greatly inclined to put some of the money into a piece of land—­a Naboth’s vineyard—­in front of my house and turn horticulturist.  I find nailing up creepers a delightful occupation.

[In the same letter he describes two meetings with old friends:—­]

Last Friday I ran down to Hindhead to see Tyndall.  He was very much better than I hoped to find him, after such a long and serious illness, quite bright and “Tyndalloid” and not aged as I feared he would be...The local doctor happened to be there during my visit and spoke very confidently of his speedy recovery.  The leg is all right again, and he even talks of Switzerland, but I begged Mrs. Tyndall to persuade him to keep quiet and within reach of home and skilled medical attendance.

Saturday to Monday we were at Down, after six or seven years’ interruption of our wonted visits.  It was very pleasant if rather sad.  Mrs. Darwin is wonderfully well—­naturally aged—­but quite bright and cheerful as usual.  Old Parslow turned up on Sunday, just eighty, but still fairly hale.  Fuimus fuimus!

[(Parslow was the old butler who had been in Mr. Darwin’s service for many years.)

To his daughter, Mrs. Roller.]

Hodeslea, Eastbourne, May 5, 1891.

You dear people must have entered into a conspiracy, as I had letters from all yesterday.  I have never been so set up before, and begin to think that fathers (like port) must improve in quality with age. (No irreverent jokes about their getting crusty, Miss.)

Julian and Joyce taken together may perhaps give a faint idea of my perfections as a child.  I have not only a distinct recollection of being noticed on the score of my good looks, but my mother used to remind me painfully of them in my later years, looking at me mournfully and saying, “And you were such a pretty boy!”

[Much as he would have liked to visit the Maloja again this year, the state of his wife’s health forbade such a long journey.  He writes just after his attack of influenza to Sir M. Foster, who had been suffering in the same way:—­]