[At Bournemouth he also applied himself to writing the Darwin obituary notice for the Royal Society, a labour of love which he had long felt unequal to undertaking. The manuscript was finally sent off to the printer's on April 6, unlike the still longer unfinished memoir on Spirula, to which allusion is made here, among other business of the "Challenger" Committee, of which he was a member. On February 12 he writes to Sir J. Evans:--] Spirula is a horrid burden on my conscience--but nobody could make head or tail of the business but myself. That and Darwin's obituary are the chief subjects of my meditations when I wake in the night. But I do not get much "forrarder," and I am afraid I shall not until I get back to London. Bournemouth, February 14, 1888. My dear Foster, No doubt the Treasury will jump at any proposition which relieves them from further expense--but I cannot say I like the notion of leaving some of the most important results of the "Challenger" voyage to be published elsewhere than in the official record.... Evans made a deft allusion to Spirula, like a powder between two dabs of jam. At present I have no moral sense, but it may awake as the days get longer. I have been reading the "Origin" slowly again for the nth time, with the view of picking out the essentials of the argument, for the obituary notice. Nothing entertains me more than to hear people call it easy reading. Exposition was not Darwin's forte--and his English is sometimes wonderful. But there is a marvellous dumb sagacity about him--like that of a sort of miraculous dog--and he gets to the truth by ways as dark as those of the Heathen Chinee. I am getting quite sick of all the "paper philosophers," as old Galileo called them, who are trying to stand upon Darwin's shoulders and look bigger than he, when in point of real knowledge they are not fit to black his shoes. It is just as well I am collapsed or I believe I should break out with a final "Fur Darwin." I will think of you when I get as far as the fossils. At present I am poking over P. sylvestris and P. pinnata in the intervals of weariness. My wife joins with me in love to you both. Ever yours very faithfully, T.H. Huxley. Snow and cold winds here. Hope you are as badly off at Cambridge. Bournemouth, February 21, 1888. My dear Foster, We have had nothing but frost and snow here lately, and at present half a gale of the bitterest north-easter I have felt since we were at Florence is raging. [Similarly to Sir J. Evans on the 28th]--"I get my strength back but slowly, and think of migrating to Greenland or Spitzbergen for a milder climate."] I believe I am getting better, as I have noticed that at a particular stage of my convalescence from any sort of illness I pass through a condition in which things in general appear damnable and I myself an entire failure. If that is a sign of returning health you may look upon my restoration as certain.