Ah well! “fuimus”—­I am amused at the difficulty you find in taking up the position of a “grave and reverend senior”; because I can by no means accustom myself to the like dignity.  In spite of my grey hairs “age hath not cooled the Douglas blood” altogether, and I have a gratifying sense that (liver permitting) I am still capable of much folly.  All this, however, has not much to do with poor Dr. —­ to whom, I am sorry to say, your letter could do no good, as it arrived after my colleagues and I had settled the business.

But there were a number of strong candidates who had not much chance.  If it is open to me to serve him hereafter, however, your letter will be of use to him, for I know you do not recommend men lightly.

After some eighteen months of misery—­the first thing that did me any good was coming here.  But I was completely set up by six or seven weeks at Arolla in the Valais.  The hotel was 6400 feet up, and the wife and daughters and I spent most of our time in scrambling about the 2000 feet between that and the snow.  Six months ago I had made up my mind to be an invalid, but at Arolla I walked as well as I did when you and I made pilgrimages—­and earned the only honest sixpence (I, at any rate) ever got for hard labour.  Three months in London brought me down again, so I came here to be “mended.”

You know English literature so well that perhaps you have read Wordsworth’s “White Doe of Rylstone.”  I am in that country, within walk of Bolton Abbey.

Please remember me very kindly to the Signora—­and thank her for copying the letter in such a charmingly legible hand.  I wish mine were like it.

If I am alive we shall go to Arolla next summer.  Could we not meet there?  It is a fair half-way.

Ever yours,

T.H.  Huxley.