I fully understand your feeling about the R.S. Dinner. I have not forgotten the occasion when you were my guest: still less my brief sight of you when I called the next day.
These things are the "lachrymae rerum"—the abysmal griefs hidden under the current of daily life, and seemingly forgotten, till now and then they come up to the surface—a flash of agony—like the fish that jumps in a calm pool.
One has one's groan and goes to work again.
If I knew of anything else for it, I would tell you; but all my experience ends in the questionable thanksgiving, "It's lucky it's no worse."
With which bit of practical philosophy, and our love, believe me, ever yours affectionately,
T.H. Huxley.
[Before speaking of his last piece of work, in the vain endeavour to complete which he exposed himself to his old enemy, influenza, I shall give several letters of miscellaneous interest.
The first is in reply to Lord Farrer's inquiry as to where he could obtain a fuller account of the subject tersely discussed in the chapter he had contributed to the "Life of Owen". ("Which," wrote Lord Farrer, "is just what I wanted as an outline of the Biological and Morphological discussion of the last 100 years. But it is 'Pemmican' to an aged and enfeebled digestion. Is there such a thing as a diluted solution of it in the shape of any readable book?")]
Hodeslea, January 26, 1895.
My dear Farrer,