He writes on May 27:—­]

I am convinced that what with my perennial weariness and my deafness I ought to go, whatever my kind friends may say.

[A curious effect of his illness was that for the first time in his life he began to shrink involuntarily from assuming responsibilities and from appearing on public occasions; thus he writes on June 16:—­]

I am sorry to say that the perkiness of last week was only a spurt [I.e. at the unveiling of the Darwin statue at South Kensington.], and I have been in a disgusting state of blue devils lately.  Can’t mark out what it is, for I really have nothing the matter, except a strong tendency to put the most evil construction upon everything.

I am fairly dreading to-morrow [i.e. receiving the D.C.L. degree at Oxford] but why I don’t know—­probably an attack of modesty come on late in life and consequently severe.

Very likely it will do me good and make me “fit” for Thursday [(i.e.  Council and ordinary meetings of Royal Society).

And a month later:—­]

I have been idling in the country for two or three days—­but like the woman with the issue, “I am not better but rather worse”—­blue devils and funk—­funk and blue devils.  Liver, I expect. [(An ailment of which he says to Professor Marsh,] “I rather wish I had some respectable disease—­it would be livelier.”)

And again:—­]

Everybody tells me I look so much better, that I am really ashamed to go growling about, and confess that I am continually in a blue funk and hate the thought of any work—­especially of scientific or anything requiring prolonged attention.

[At the end of July he writes to Sir W. Flower:—­]

4 Marlborough Place, July 27, 1885.

My dear Flower,

I am particularly glad to hear that things went right on Saturday, as my conscience rather pricked me for my desertion of the meeting. [British Museum Trustees, July 25.] But it was the only chance we had of seeing our young married couple before the vacation—­and you will rapidly arrive at a comprehension of the cogency of that argument now.

I will think well of your kind words about the Presidency.  If I could only get rid of my eternal hypochondria the work of the Royal Society would seem little enough.  At present, I am afraid of everything that involves responsibility to a degree that is simply ridiculous.  I only wish I could shirk the inquiries I am going off to hold in Devonshire!

P.R.S. in a continual blue funk is not likely to be either dignified or useful; and unless I am in a better frame of mind in October I am afraid I shall have to go.

Ever yours very faithfully,

T.H.  Huxley.

[A few weeks at Filey in August did him some good at first; and he writes cheerfully of his lodgings in] “a place with the worst-fitting doors and windows, and the hardest chairs, sofas, and beds known to my experience.”