82 LIFE OF PROFESSOR HUXLEY chap, v 



4th. I must give up my Inspectorship. The mere thought 

 of having to occupy myself with the squabbles of these idiots 

 of country squireens and poachers makes me sick — and is, I 

 believe, the chief cause of the morbid state of my mucous mem- 

 branes. 



All this week shall I be occupied in hearing one Jackass con- 

 tradict another Jackass about questions which are of no im- 

 portance. 



I would almost as soon be in the House of Commons. 



Now see how reasonable I am. I agree with you (a) that I 

 must get out of the hurly-burly of society; (b) that I must get 

 out of the Presidency; (c) that I must get out of the Inspector- 

 ship, or rather I agree with myself on that matter, you having 

 expressed no opinion. 



That being so, it seems to me that I must, willy-nilly, give up 

 S.K. For — and here is the point you had in your mind when you 

 lamented your possible impatience about something I might say 

 — I swear by all the gods that are not mine, nothing shall induce 

 me to apply to the Treasury for anything but the pound of flesh 

 to which I am entitled. 



Nothing ever disgusted me more than being the subject of a 

 battle with the Treasury over the H.O. appointment — which I 

 should have thrown up if I could have done so with decency to 

 Harcourt. 



It's just as well for me I couldn't, but it left a nasty taste. 



I don't want to leave the School, and should be very glad to 

 remain as Dean, for many reasons. But what I don't see is how 

 I am to do that and make my escape from the thousand and 

 one entanglements — which seem to me to come upon me quite 

 irrespectively of any office I hold — or how I am to go on living 

 in London as a (financially) decayed philosopher. 



I really see nothing for it but to take my pension and go and 

 spend the winter of 1885-86 in Italy. I hear one can be a regular 

 swell there on £ 1000 a year. 



Six months' absence is oblivion, and I shall take to a new 

 line of work, and one which will greatly meet your approval. 



As to X I am not a-going to — not being given to hope- 

 less enterprises. That rough customer at Dublin is the only 

 man who occurs to me. I can't think of his name, but that is 

 part of my general unfitness. 



.... I suppose I shall chaff somebody on my death-bed. 

 But I am out of heart to think of the end of the lunches in the 

 sacred corner. — Ever yours, T. H. Huxley. 



