A FUTILE "WARNING' 



219 



could not make it up if I had any. The only vigour I have is 

 in my legs, and that only when the sun shines. — Ever yours, 



T. H. Huxley. 



A curious incident on this journey deserves recording, 

 as an instance of a futile '' warning." On the night of 

 October 6-7, Huxley woke in the night and seemed to 

 hear an inward voice say, " Don't go to Stuttgart and 

 Nuremberg ; go straight home." All he did was to make 

 a note of the occurrence and carry out his original plan, 

 whereupon nothing happened. 



The following to his youngest daughter, who had gone 

 back earlier from the Maloja, refers to her success in win- 

 ning the prize for modelling at the Slade School of Art. 



SCHWE1TZERHOF, NEUHAUSEN, Oct. 7, 1888. 



Dearest Babs — I will sit to you like " Pater on a monument 

 smiling at grief " for the medallion. As to the photographs, I 

 will try to get them done to order either at Stuttgart or Nurem- 

 berg, if we stay at either place long enough. But I am inclined 

 to think they had better be done at home, and then you could 

 adjust the length of the caoutchouc visage to suit your artistic 

 convenience. 



We have been crowing and flapping our wings over the 

 medal and trimmings. The only thing I lament is that " your 

 father's influence " was not brought to bear ; there is no telling 

 what you might have got if it had been. Thoughtless — very ! ! 



So sorry we did not come here instead of stopping at Ragatz. 

 The falls are really fine, and the surrounding countryawide table- 

 land, with the great snowy peaks of the Oberland on the horizon. 

 Last evening we had a brilliant sunset, and the mountains were 

 lighted up with the most delicate rosy blush you can imagine. 



To-day it rains cats and dogs again. You will have seen in 

 the papers that the Rhine and the Aar and the Rhone and the 

 Arve are all in flood. There is more water here in the falls than 

 there has been these ten years. However, we have got to go, 

 as the hotel shuts up to-morrow, and there seems a good chance 

 of reaching Stuttgart without water in the carriage. 



Long railway journeys do not seem to suit either of us, and 

 we have fixed the maximum at six hours. I expect we shall be 

 home sometime in the third week of this month. 



Love to Hal and anybody else who may be at home. — Ever 

 your Pater. 



