[The keen air of six thousand feet above sea level worked wonders with the invalids.  The lassitude of the last two years was swept away, and Huxley came home eager for active life.  Here too it was that, for occupation, he took up the study of gentians; the beginning of that love of his garden which was so great a delight to him in his last years.  On his return home he writes:—­]

4 Marlborough Place, September 10, 1886.

My dear Foster,

We got back last evening after a very successful trip.  Arolla suited us all to a T, and we are all in great force.  As for me, I have not known of the existence of my liver, and except for the fact that I found fifteen or sixteen miles with a couple of thousand feet up and down quite enough, I could have deluded myself into the fond imagination that I was twenty years younger.

By way of amusement I bought a Swiss Flora in Lausanne and took to botanising—­and my devotion to the gentians led the Bishop of Chichester—­a dear old man, who paid us (that is the hotel) a visit—­to declare that I sought the “Ur-gentian” as a kind of Holy Grail.  The only interruption to our felicity was the death of a poor fellow, who was brought down on a guide’s back from an expedition he ought not to have undertaken, and whom I did my best to keep alive one night.  But rapid pleuritic effusion finished him the next morning, in spite of (I hope not in consequence of) such medical treatment as I could give him.

I see you had a great meeting at Birmingham, but I know not details.  The delegation to Sydney is not a bad idea, but why on earth have they arranged that it shall arrive in the middle of the hot weather?  Speechifying with the thermometer at 90 degrees in the shade will try the nerves of the delegates, I can tell them.

I shall remain quietly here and see whether I can stand London.  I hope I may, for the oestrus of work is upon me—­for the first time this couple of years.  Let me have some news of you.  With our love to your wife and you.

Ever yours,

T.H.  Huxley.

4 Marlborough Place, N.W., September 14, 1886.

My dear Donnelly,

I hear that some of your alguazils were looking after me yesterday, so I had better give myself up at once—­hoping it will be considered in the sentence.

The fact is I have been going to write to you ever since we came back last Thursday evening, but I had about fifty other letters to write and got sick of the operation.

We are all in great force, and as for me, I never expected a year ago to be he well I am.  I require to look in the glass and study the crows’ feet and the increasing snow cap on the summit of my Tete noire (as it once was), to convince myself I am not twenty years younger.

How long it will last I don’t feel sure, but I am going to give London as little chance as possible.

I trust you have all been thriving to a like extent.  Scott [Assistant Professor of Botany at the Royal College of Science.] wrote to me the other day wanting to take his advanced flock (two—­one, I believe, a ewe-lamb) to Kew.  I told him I had no objection, but he had better consult you.