My dear Hooker,
Best thanks for your note and queries.
I remember hearing what you say about Darwin"s father long ago, I am not sure from what source. But if you look at page 20 of the "Life and Letters" you will see that Darwin himself says his father"s mind "was not scientific." I have altered the pa.s.sage so as to use these exact words.
I used "malice" rather in the French sense, which is more innocent than ours, but "irony" would be better if "malice" in any way suggests malignity. "Chaff" is unfortunately beneath the dignity of a Royal Society obituary.
I am going to add a short note about Erasmus Darwin"s views.
It is a great comfort to me that you like the thing. I am getting nervous over possible senility--63 to-day, and nothing of your evergreen ways about me.
I am decidedly mending, chiefly to all appearance by allowing myself to be stuffed with meat and drink like a Strasburg goose. I am also very much afraid that abolishing tobacco has had something to do with my amendment.
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 pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sing 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 circ.u.mstances, feed its present population with wheat. I could not get any definite information, but I understood Caird to think that it could.
In my argument, however, the question is of no moment. There must be some limit to the production of food by a given area, and there is none to population.
What a stimulus vanity is!--nothing but the vain dislike of being thought in the wrong would have induced me to trouble myself or bore you with this letter. Bother Kropotkin!
I think his article very interesting and important nevertheless.
I am getting better but very slowly.
Ever yours very truly,
T.H. Huxley.
[In reply, Mr. Knowles begged him to come to lunch and a quiet talk, and further suggested, "as an ENTIRELY UNBIa.s.sED person," that he ought to answer Kropotkin"s errors in the "Nineteenth Century," and not only in a private letter behind his back.
The answer is as follows:--]
4 Marlborough Place, June 3, 1888.
My dear Knowles,
Your invitation is tantalising. I wish I could accept it. But it is now some six weeks that my excursions have been limited to a daily drive.
The rest of my time I spend on the flat of my back, eating, drinking, and doing absolutely nothing besides, except taking iron and digitalis.
I meant to have gone abroad a month ago, but it turned out that my heart was out of order, and though I am getting better, progress is slow, and I do not suppose I shall get away for some weeks yet.
I have neither brains nor nerves, and the very thought of controversy puts me in a blue funk!
My doctors prophesy good things, as there is no valvular disease, only dilatation. But for the present I must subscribe myself (from an editorial point of view).
Your worthless and useless and bad-hearted friend,
T.H. Huxley.
[The British a.s.sociation was to meet at Plymouth this year; and Mr.
W.F. Collier (an uncle of John Collier, his son-in-law) invited Huxley and any friend of his to be his guest at Horrabridge.]
4 Marlborough Place, June 13, 1888.