Exposition was not Darwin’s forte—­and his English is sometimes wonderful.  But there is a marvellous dumb sagacity about him—­like that of a sort of miraculous dog—­and he gets to the truth by ways as dark as those of the Heathen Chinee.

I am getting quite sick of all the “paper philosophers,” as old Galileo called them, who are trying to stand upon Darwin’s shoulders and look bigger than he, when in point of real knowledge they are not fit to black his shoes.  It is just as well I am collapsed or I believe I should break out with a final “Fur Darwin.”

I will think of you when I get as far as the fossils.  At present I am poking over P. sylvestris and P. pinnata in the intervals of weariness.

My wife joins with me in love to you both.

Ever yours very faithfully,

T.H.  Huxley.

Snow and cold winds here.  Hope you are as badly off at Cambridge.

Bournemouth, February 21, 1888.

My dear Foster,

We have had nothing but frost and snow here lately, and at present half a gale of the bitterest north-easter I have felt since we were at Florence is raging. [Similarly to Sir J. Evans on the 28th]—­“I get my strength back but slowly, and think of migrating to Greenland or Spitzbergen for a milder climate.”]

I believe I am getting better, as I have noticed that at a particular stage of my convalescence from any sort of illness I pass through a condition in which things in general appear damnable and I myself an entire failure.  If that is a sign of returning health you may look upon my restoration as certain.

If it is only Murray’s speculations he wants to publish separately, I should say by all means let him.  But the facts, whether advanced by him or other people, ought all to be in the official record.  I agree we can’t stir.

I scented the “goak.”  How confoundedly proud you are of it.  In former days I have been known to joke myself.

I will look after the questions if you like.  In my present state of mind I shall be a capital critic—­on Dizzy’s views of critics...

Ever yours,

T.H.  Huxley.

[This year Huxley was appointed a Trustee of the British Museum, an office which he had held ex officio from 1883 to 1885, as President of the Royal Society.

This is referred to in the following letter of March 9:—­]

My dear Hooker,

Having nothing to do plays the devil with doing anything, and I suppose that is why I have been so long about answering your letter.

There is nothing the matter with me now except want of strength.  I am tired out with a three-mile walk, and my voice goes if I talk for any time.  I do not suppose I shall do much good till I get into high and dry air, and it is too early for Switzerland yet....