[The funeral took place on Saturday, December 9. There was no storm nor fog to make the graveside perilous for the survivors. In the Haslemere churchyard the winter sun shone its brightest, and the moorland air was crisp with an almost Alpine freshness as this lover of the mountains was carried to his last resting-place. But though he took no outward harm from that bright still morning, Huxley was greatly shaken by the event]: "I was very much used up," [he writes to Sir M. Foster on his return home two days later], "to my shame be it said, far more than my wife"; [and on December 30 to Sir John Donnelly:—]
Your kind letter deserved better than to have been left all this time without response, but the fact is, I came to grief the day after Christmas Day (no, we did NOT indulge in too much champagne). Lost my voice, and collapsed generally, without any particular reason, so I went to bed and stayed there as long as I could stand it, and now I am picking up again. The fact is, I suppose I had been running up a little account over poor old Tyndall. One does not stand that sort of wear and tear so well as one gets ancient.
[On the same day he writes to Sir J.D. Hooker:—]
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, December 30, 1893.
My dear Hooker,
You gave the geographers some uncommonly sane advice. I observe that the words about the "stupendous ice-clad mountains" you saw were hardly out of your mouth when — coolly asserts that the Antarctic continent is a table-land! "comparatively level country." It really is wrong that men should be allowed to go about loose who fill you with such a strong desire to kick them as that little man does.
I send herewith a spare copy of "Nineteenth" with my paper about Tyndall. It is not exactly what I could wish, as I was hurried over it, and knocked up into the bargain, but I have tried to give a fair view of him. Tell me what you think of it.
I have been having a day or two on the sick list. Nothing discernible the matter, only flopped, as I did in the spring. However, I am picking up again. The fact is, I have never any blood pressure to spare, and a small thing humbugs the pump.
However, I have some kicks left in me, vide the preface to the fourth volume of Essays; ditto Number 5 when that appears in February.
Now, my dear old friend, take care of yourself in the coming year '94. I'll stand by you as long as the fates will let me, and you must be equally "Johnnie." With our love to Lady Hooker and yourself.