1885-1888] Patience, Needlework and Novels 275 



Emma Darwin to her daughter Henrietta Litchfleld. 



THE GROVE, 1886. 



The east wind and bright sun are just what I like, and 

 our old nightingale sang 8 or 9 hours at a stretch yesterday. 

 I wonder whether it is the same he is louder and more 

 tipsy than ever. 



I am tempted by an Essay of Lady Verney's to read 

 Milman's History of the Jeivs. Ask R. whether I should 

 like to read it. ... Frank and Ellen came to dinner and 

 a little whist, after which I succeeded in your patience with 

 only one cheat. I am now impatient to be at Down. 



During the last ten or twelve years of her life playing 

 patience was a great comfort to her. She used to say she 

 could not conceive how, without it, she could live through 

 even a single day. We all knew her absorbed ' patience 

 face," and the way in which whilst playing she answered any 

 remark at random. My mother was fond of games, and when 

 she was strong enough there was often whist in the evening. 

 Her game, however, was an extraordinarily erratic one. 



Needlework was a great resource to her in the way of rest. 

 I remember her saying to me that she thought it was a much 

 better distraction in times of anxiety and trouble than 

 reading. She remained a beautiful needlewoman, and I have 

 various bits of her embroidery, delicately worked in quite 

 old age. She also knitted charming little baby's caps and 

 jackets, and made countless coverlets with her ' ' peggy ' -a 

 row of wooden pegs making a frame for a kind of knitting 

 stitch, the looped wool being worked off with a pin. 



Reading novels was another favourite relaxation. She 

 was especially devoted to Jane Austen's novels and almost 

 knew them by heart. In an examination paper set on th, 

 she answered the question: "What is Mr Woodhouse's 

 Christian name ?" without an instant's thought. Hi ic, 

 it must be explained, is only known by inference as it is never 

 actually given. Scott was also a perennial favourite, 

 especially The Antiquary. Mrs Gaskell's novels she read 

 over and over again; Dickens and Thackeray she cared 

 less. But novels were an immense refreshment to her 

 when tired or uncomfortable. In her old age she wrote 

 (1894): " I am rather ashamed to find I use up rather more 

 than a volume a day of novels." In her later years, at any 

 rate, she read very little poetry. 



