But I am mindful of your maxim—­keep a tight hold over your doctor.

Ever yours very faithfully,

T.H.  Huxley.

P.S. 1.—­Can’t say I have sacrificed anything to penmanship, and am not at all sure about lucidity!

P.S. 2.—­It is “Friday”—­there is a dot over the i—­reopened my letter to crow!

[The following letter to Mr. Spencer is in answer to a note of condolence on his illness, in which the following passage occurs:—­]

I was grieved to hear of so serious an evil as that which [Hirst] named.  It is very depressing to find one’s friends as well as one’s self passing more and more into invalid life.

Well, we always have one consolation, such as it is, that we have made our lives of some service in the world, and that, in fact, we are suffering from doing too much for our fellows.  Such thoughts do not go far in the way of mitigation, but they are better than nothing.

4 Marlborough Place, May 8, 1888.

My dear Spencer,

I have been on the point of writing to you, but put it off for lack of anything cheerful to say.

After I had recovered from my pleurisy, I could not think why my strength did not come back.  It turns out that there is some weakness and dilatation of the heart, but lucky no valvular mischief.  I am condemned to the life of a prize pig—­physical and mental idleness, and corporeal stuffing with meat and drink, and I am certainly improving under the regimen.

I am told I have a fair chance of getting all right again.  But I take it as a pretty broad hint to be quiet for the rest of my days.  At present I have to be very quiet, and I spend most of my time on my back.

You and I, my dear friend, have had our innings, and carry our bats out while our side is winning.  One could not reasonably ask for more.  And considering the infinite possibilities of physical and moral suffering which beset us, I, for my part, am well pleased that things are no worse.

Ever yours very faithfully,

T.H.  Huxley.

4 Marlborough Place, N.W., June 1, 1888.

My dear Knowles,

I have been living the life of a prize pig for the last six weeks—­no exercise, much meat and drink, and as few manifestations of intelligence as possible, for the purpose of persuading my heart to return to its duty.

I am astonished to find that there is a kick left in me—­even when your friend Kropotkin pitches into me without the smallest justification.  Vide 19, June, page 820.

Just look at 19, February, page 168.  I say, “At the present time, the produce of the soil does not suffice,” etc.

I did not say a word about the capabilities of the soil if, as part and parcel of a political and social revolution on the grandest scale, we all took to spade husbandry.

As a matter of fact, I did try to find out a year or two ago, whether the soil of these islands could, under any circumstances, feed its present population with wheat.  I could not get any definite information, but I understood Caird to think that it could.