But the gratitude is solid and the criticism mere two-dimension stuff.
It is a charming book.
With kind remembrances to Mrs. Skelton.
Ever yours very faithfully,
T.H. Huxley.
10 Southcliff Terrace, Eastbourne, November 9, 1888.
My dear Foster,
We came here on Tuesday, on which day, by ill luck, the east wind also started, and has been blowing half a gale ever since. We are in the last house but one to the west, and as high up as we dare go—looking out on the sea. The first day we had to hold on to our chairs to prevent being blown away in the sitting-room, but we have hired a screen and can now croon over the fire without danger.
A priori, the conditions cannot be said to have been promising for two people, one of whom is liable to bronchitis and rheumatism and the other to pleurisy, but, as I am so fond of rubbing into Herbert Spencer, a priori reasonings are mostly bosh, and we are thriving.
With three coats on I find the air on Beachy Head eminently refreshing, and there is so much light in the southern quarter just now, that we confidently hope to see the sun once more in the course of a few days.
As I told you in my official letter, I am going up for the 30th. But I am in a quandary about the dinner, partly by reason of the inevitable speech, and partly the long sitting. I should very much like to attend, and I think I could go through with it. On the other hand, my wife declares it would be very imprudent, and I am not quite sure she is wrong. I wish you would tell me exactly what you think about the matter.