1887 LETTER TO MR. SPENCER ig$ 



geon and nothing else. But I was recommended to Stanley by 

 Sir John Richardson, my senior officer at Haslar, on account of 

 my scientific proclivities. But scientific work was no part of 

 my duty. How odd it is to look back through the vista of years ! 

 Reading your account of me, I had the sensation of studying a 

 fly in amber. I had utterly forgotten the particular circum- 

 stance that brought us together. Considering what wilful tykes 

 we both are (you particularly), I think it is a great credit to 

 both of us that we are firmer friends now than we were then. 

 Your kindly words have given me much pleasure. 



This is a deuce of a long letter to inflict upon you, but there 



is more coming. The other day a Miss , a very good, busy 



woman of whom I and my wife have known a little for some 

 years, sent me a proposal of the committee of a body calling 

 itself the London Liberty League (I think) that I should accept 

 the position of one of three honorary something or others, you 

 and Mrs. Fawcett being the other two. 



Now you may be sure that I should be glad enough to be 

 associated with you in anything; but considering the innumer- 

 able battles we have fought over education, vaccination, and so 

 on, it seemed to me that if the programme of the League were 

 wide enough to take us both for figure-heads, it must be so 

 elastic as to verge upon infinite extensibility; and that one or 

 other of us would be in a false position. 



So I wrote to Miss to that effect, and the matter then 



dropped. 



Misrepresentation is so rife in this world that it struck me 

 I had better tell you exactly what happened. 



On the whole, your account of your own condition is en- 

 couraging; not going back is next door to going forward. Any- 

 how, you have contrived to do a lot of writing. 



We are all pretty flourishing, and if my wife does not get 

 worn out with cooks falling ill and other domestic worries, I 

 shall be content. 



Now this really is the end. — Ever yours very truly, 



T. H. Huxley. 



4 Marlborough Place, London, N.W., 

 March 7, 1887. 



My dear Skelton — Wretch that I am, I see that I have 

 never had the grace to thank you for Maitland of Lethington 

 which reached me I do not choose to remember how long ago, 

 and which I read straight off with lively satisfaction. 



