g 2 LIFE OF PROFESSOR HUXLEY chap, vi 



knocked us both up, and we had to get out of another projected 

 excursion to Ischia to-day. The fact is, I get infinitely tired 

 with talking to people and can't stand any deviation from regular 

 and extremely lazy habits. Fancy my being always in bed by 

 ten o'clock and breakfasting at nine ! 



On the loth, writing to Sir John Evans, who as Vice- 

 President, was acting in his stead at the Royal Society, 

 he says : — 



In spite of snow on the ground we had three or four days at 

 Ravenna — which is the most interesting deadly lively sepulchre 

 of a place I was ever in in my life. The evolution of modern 

 from ancient art is all there in a nutshell. . . . 



I lead an altogether animal life, except that I have renewed 

 my old love for Italian. At present I am rejoicing in the Auto- 

 biography of that delightful sinner, Benvenuto Cellini. I have 

 some notion that there is such a thing as science somewhere. In 

 fact I am fitting myself for Neapolitan nobility. 



To his Youngest Daughter 



Hotel Britannique, Naples, Dec. 22, 1884. 



But we have had no letters from home for a week. . . . 

 Moreover, if we don't hear to-day or to-morrow we shall begin 

 to speculate on the probability of an earthquake having swal- 

 lowed up 4 M. P. " with all the young barbarians at play — And 

 I their sire trying to get a Roman holiday" (Byron). For we 

 are going to Rome to-morrow, having had enough of Naples, 

 the general effect of which city is such as would be produced by 

 the sight of a beautiful woman who had not washed or dressed 

 her hair for a month. Climate, on the whole, more variable 

 than that of London. 



We had a lovely drive three days ago to Cumae, a perfect 

 summer's day; since then sunshine, heat, cold wind, calms all 

 durcheinander, with thunder and lightning last night to complete 

 the variety. 



The thermometer and barometer are not fixed to the walls 

 here, as they would be jerked off by the sudden changes. At 

 first, it is odd to see them dancing about the hall. But you soon 

 get used to it, and the porter sees that they don't break them- 

 selves. 



With love to Nettie and Harry, and hopes that the pudding 

 will be good — Ever your loving father, T. H. Huxley. 



