Either let me see after the dinner, or sleep in town, and don’t worry.

Yours affectionately,

T.H.  Huxley.

Hodeslea, Eastbourne, February 19, 1892.

My dear Hooker,

I have just received a notice that Hirst’s funeral is to-morrow.  But we are in the midst of the bitterest easterly gale and snowfall we have had all the winter, and there is no sign of the weather mending.

Neither you nor I have any business to commit suicide for that which after all is a mere sign of the affection we have no need to prove for our dear old friend, and the chances are that half an hour cold chapel and grave-side on a day like this would finish us.

I write this not that I imagine you would think of going, but because my last note spoke so decidedly of my own intention.

But who could have anticipated this sudden reversion to Arctic conditions!

Ever yours affectionately,

T.H.  Huxley.

Hodeslea, Eastbourne, March 18, 1892.

My dear Donnelly,

My wife got better and was out for a while yesterday, but she is knocked up again to-day.

It would have been very pleasant to see you both, but you must not come down till we get fixed with a new cook and maid, as I believe we are to be in a week or so.  None of your hotel-going!

I mourn over the departure of the present cookie—­I believe she is going for no other reason than that she is afraid the house will fall on such ungodly people as we are, and involve her in the ruins.  That is the modern martyrdom—­you don’t roast infidels, but people who can roast go to the pious.

Lovely day to-day, nothing but east wind to remind one it is not summer.—­Crocuses coming out at last.

Ever yours very faithfully,

T.H.  Huxley.

Hodeslea, Eastbourne, March 27, 1892.

My dear Hooker,

I had to run up to town on Friday and forgot your letter.  The x is a puzzle—­I will stick by the ship as long as you do, depend upon that.  I fear we can hardly expect to see dear old Tyndall there again.  As for myself, I dare not venture when snow is on the ground, as on the last two occasions.  And now, I am sorry to say, there is another possible impediment in my wife’s state of health.

I have had a very anxious time of it altogether lately.  But sich is life!

My sagacious grand-daughter Joyce (gone home now) observed to her grandmother some time ago—­“I don’t want to grow up.”  “Why don’t you want to grow up?” “Because I notice that grown-up people have a great deal of trouble.”  Sagacious philosopheress of 7!

Ever yours affectionately,

T.H.  Huxley.

Hodeslea, Eastbourne, April 3, 1892.

My dear Hooker,

As I so often tell my wife, “your confounded sense of duty will be the ruin of you.”  You really, club or no club, had no business to be travelling in such a bitter east wind.  However, I hope the recent sunshine has set you up again.