48 ^ A Century of Family Letters [CHAJ*. n 



always my impulse to pour out every trouble to her, sure 

 that I should have sympathy, comfort, and helpful counsel. 

 She was a perfect nurse in illness. Her self-command never 

 gave way and she was like a rock to lean on, always devoted 

 and unwearied in devising expedients to give relief, and neat- 

 handed and clever in carrying them out. 



She did not laugh much, but when she did her laugh had 

 a frank enjoyment delightful to hear. Her voice too was 

 sympathetic and pleasant and she read aloud clearly and 

 well. The keenness of her sympathy never deadened. She 

 lived with her children and grandchildren in every detail 

 of their lives. But she was never a doting mother. She 

 knew what we were and never imagined we were perfect or 

 interesting to the outer world. I remember one little 

 speech not true but still characteristic " I do not feel my 

 sons are my sons, only young men with whom I happen to 

 be intimate." It expresses one fact which lay at the root 

 of her happy relations with her children, grandchildren, and 

 nephews and nieces, her profound respect for their indi- 

 viduality. 



But I think her most remarkable characteristic was her 

 absolute sincerity. In little things and great things it was 

 the same. She was incapable of playing a part or feigning 

 a feeling. The little things of life best illustrate this, for in 

 great things we are many of us sincere. For instance, in 

 answer to some visitor who remarked how interesting it 

 must be to watch my father's experiments, she told the 

 simple truth that to her it was not interesting. She once 

 said to my sister that when she married she had resolved 

 to enter into my father's tastes and thought she would be 

 able, but found it impossible. He used to tell how during 

 some lecture at the British Association he said to her, "I 

 am afraid this is very wearisome to you," to which she 

 quietly answered, " Not more than all the rest." He often 

 quoted this with delight. She was also quite incapable of 

 the weakness of pretending to care for things because it was 

 correct to do so. Few people would venture to say as she 

 did when speaking of Tennyson's Queen Mary, "It is not 

 nearly so tiresome as Shakespere." It is fair to add that 

 some plays of Shakespere had given her great pleasure. 

 Her favourite was Much Ado about Nothing, but she often 

 spoke of the charm of Imogen and Viola. 



She had no strong taste for poetry, and though she read 

 much and widely, poetry filled but a small place. Still 

 there is a little book in which she copied out poems that 



