Being “nobbut a heathen,” I should have liked the rest to be in the same vein—the picture of a man hoping nothing, rejecting all speculative corks and bladders—strong only in the will “im Ganzen, Guten, Wahren resolut zu leben,” and accepting himself for more or less a failure—yet battling to the end. But you are on the side of the angels.
We are very proud of Julian’s apotheosis. He is a most delightful imp, and the way in which he used to defy me, on occasion, when he was here, was quite refreshing. The strength of his conviction that people who interfere with his freedom are certainly foolish, probably wicked, is quite Gladstonian.
My wife joins in love.
Ever yours affectionately,
T. H. Huxley.
The Grange,
49, North End Road,
West Kensington, W.
Saturday morning.
My dear Mrs. Ward,—
The book has just come—and to my pride and delight with such a pretty autograph: so that to-day I am mightily set up. I cannot tell you how comforting the words read to me—and how sunny they have made this grey day. By the messenger who takes this I send a little drawing, done in gold, which for a whole year past I have meant for you—it was to reach you by your last birthday, but I was ill then with this vile plague that is devastating us, and after that there seemed no reason for sending it one day more than another, and as I looked at it again it didn’t seem good enough, and I thought one day you would come and choose a little souvenir of friendship—one perhaps more to your liking—but this day has never come, and all the year through illnesses big or little have pursued me and nipped all plans. But will you take it with my love—real grateful love; it’s a kind of Urania sort of person, and will be proud to live in your bower in the country.
We are a poor lot—my wife kept to her room for about a month; Phil imprisoned in a room with carbolic curtains round him as if he were a leper, and I—too ignominious at present to be spoken about—longing to go out and see an omnibus—I should like to see an omnibus again!
My love to you all,
Yours, E. B. J.
P.S.—The first day I can get out I shall call and take my chance of seeing you. Don’t dream of writing about the poor little drawing; I should be ashamed, and you are full of work.
The “kind of Urania sort of person” shed a radiance all her own over our house from that day onwards, and was removed before long to a “country bower” after Mrs. Ward’s own heart.