And withal I am as tired as if I were hard at work, and shirk walking.
So far as I can make out there is not the slightest sign of organic disease anywhere, but I will get Clark to overhaul me when I go back to town. Sometimes I am inclined to suspect that it is all sham and laziness—but then why the deuce should I want to sham and be lazy.
Somebody started a charming theory years ago—that as you get older and lose volition, primitive evil tendencies, heretofore mastered, come out and show themselves. A nice prospect for venerable old gentlemen!
Perhaps my crust of industry is denuded, and the primitive rock of sloth is cropping out.
But enough of this egotistical invalidism.
How wonderfully Gordon is holding his own. I should like to see him lick the Mahdi into fits before Wolseley gets up. You despise the Jews, but Gordon is more like one of the Maccabees of Bar-Kochba than any sort of modern man.
My wife sends love to both of you, and says you are (in feminine language) "a dear thing in friends."
Ever yours very faithfully,
T.H. Huxley.
Home Office, September 18, 1884.