I expect you are in much the same case. But you seem to be able to stoop over specimens in a way impossible to me. It is that incapacity has made me give up dissection and microscopic work. I do a lot on my back, and I can tell you that the latter posture is an immense economy of strength. Indeed, when my heart was troublesome, I used to spend my time either in active outdoor exercise or horizontally.
The Stracheys were here the other day, and it was a great pleasure to us to see them. I think he has had a very close shave with that accident. There is nobody whom I should more delight to honour—a right good man all round—but I am not competent to judge of his work. You are, and I do not see why you should not suggest it. I would give him a medal for being R. Strachey, but probably the Council would make difficulties.
By the way, do you see the "Times" has practically climbed down about the Royal Society—came down backwards like a bear, growling all the time? I don't think we shall have any more first of December criticisms.
Lord help you through all this screed. With our love to you both.
Ever yours affectionately,
T.H. Huxley.
Abram, Abraham became
By will divine;
Let pickled Brian's name
Be changed to Brine!
"Poetae Minores".
Poor Brian.—Brutal jest!
[(Sir Joseph's son, Brian, had fallen into a pan of brine.)
The following was written to a friend who had alluded to his painful recollection of a former occasion when he was Huxley's guest at the anniversary dinner of the Royal Society, and was hastily summoned from it to find his wife dying.]