I am sorry to say that the perkiness of last week was only a spurt [I.e. at the unveiling of the Darwin statue at South Kensington.], and I have been in a disgusting state of blue devils lately. Can't mark out what it is, for I really have nothing the matter, except a strong tendency to put the most evil construction upon everything.
I am fairly dreading to-morrow [i.e. receiving the D.C.L. degree at Oxford] but why I don't know—probably an attack of modesty come on late in life and consequently severe.
Very likely it will do me good and make me "fit" for Thursday [(i.e.
Council and ordinary meetings of Royal Society).
And a month later:—]
I have been idling in the country for two or three days—but like the woman with the issue, "I am not better but rather worse"—blue devils and funk—funk and blue devils. Liver, I expect. [(An ailment of which he says to Professor Marsh,] "I rather wish I had some respectable disease—it would be livelier.")
And again:—]
Everybody tells me I look so much better, that I am really ashamed to go growling about, and confess that I am continually in a blue funk and hate the thought of any work—especially of scientific or anything requiring prolonged attention.
[At the end of July he writes to Sir W. Flower:—]
4 Marlborough Place, July 27, 1885.
My dear Flower,