186 A Century of Family Letters [CHAP.XIIT 



Emma Darwin to her daughter Henrietta. 



DOWN, Sunday, May 27th [1866]. 



I have just got yours to George. What an enchanting 

 place St Jean is. I am so glad you had the luck to hit 

 upon it. That is the sort of thing I admire more than any 

 degree of Alps and passes. 



I despatched a hamper of kittens yesterday, and am not 

 sorry to be free of their meals, poor little ducks. They 

 would all sleep in the mowing machine, and did not look 

 clean, so I was obliged to apologize for them. 



St Jean, her ideal of beauty, was a little fishing village, 

 west of Nice. On the evening of which I wrote, the fishing 

 boats, with lateen sails of red and yellow, had come into 

 the rocky harbour, and sails, sea, and mountains were lit 

 by a sunset of unusual splendour. 



In the spring of 1867 my mother offered to take charge 

 of the seven children of Mr and Mrs Huxley for a fortnight. 

 Mrs Huxley wrote to me of my mother (January 24, 1904) : 



Towards your mother I always had a sort of nestling 

 feeling. More than any woman I ever knew, she comforted. 

 Few, if any, would have housed a friend's seven children 

 and two nurses for a fortnight, that the friend (myself) 

 should be able to accompany her husband to Liverpool 

 when he was President of the British Association; and in 

 early days of our acquaintance, just after we had lost our 

 boy, she begged me to come to her and bring the three 

 children and nurse, and I should have the old nurseries at 

 Down. I first wrote that I was too weak and ill to be out 

 of my home, that I could not get downstairs till 1 o'clock. 

 Her reply was, that that was the usual state of the family 

 at Down, and I should just be following suit. What wonder 

 that I had for her always the most grateful affection. 



I wish, if you think fit, that you would set down these 

 words of mine in your book about her. I should like to 

 acknowledge my debt of love to my dear friend. My heart 

 is very full, and tears dim my eyes as I write of her. 



