i8g2 THE PRIVY COUNCILLORSHIP 347 



To Sir Joseph Prestwich 



Con-y-Gedal Hotel, Barmouth, Aug. 31, 1892. 

 My dear Prestwich — Best thanks for your congratulations. 

 As I have certainly got more than my temporal deserts, the other 

 " half " you speak of can be nothing less than a bishopric ! May 

 you live to see that dignity conferred; and go on writing such 

 capital papers as the last you sent me, until I write myself your 

 Right Revd. as well as Right Honble. old friend, 



T. H. Huxley. 



To Sir W. H. Flower 



Con-y-Gedal Hotel, Barmouth, Aug. 31, 1892. 



My dear Flower — Many thanks for your congratulations, 

 with Lady Flower's postscript not forgotten. I should have an- 

 swered you letter sooner, but I had to go to Osborne last week 

 in a hurry, kiss hands and do my swearing. It was very funny 

 that the Gladstone P.C.'s had the pleasure of welcoming the 

 Salisbury P.C.'s among their first official acts ! 



I will gladly come to as many meetings of the Trustees as I 

 can. Only you must not expect me in very severe weather like 

 that so common last year. My first attack of pleurisy was dan- 

 gerous and not painful ; the second was painful and not danger- 

 ous; the third will probably be both painful and dangerous, and 

 my commander-in-chief (who has a right to be heard in such 

 matters) will not let me run the risk of it. 



But I have marked down Oct. 22 and Nov. 24, and nothing 

 short of snow shall stop me. 



As to what you want to do, getting butter out of a dog's 

 mouth is an easier job than getting patronage out of that of a 

 lawyer or an ecclesiastic. But I am always good for a forlorn 

 hope, and we will have a try. 



We shall not be back at Eastbourne till the latter half of 

 September, and I doubt if we shall get into our house even then. 

 We leave this for Gloucester, where we are going to spend the 

 festival week with my daughter to-morrow. — With our love to 

 you both, ever yours very faithfully, T. H. Huxley. 



I see a report that Owen is sinking. Poor old man ; it seems 

 queer that just as I am hoist to the top of my tree he should 

 be going underground. But at 88 life cannot be worth much. 



