[My mother had a singular power of abstraction. When occupied with some difficult problem, or even a train of thought which deeply interested her, she lost all consciousness of what went on around her, and became so entirely absorbed that any amount of talking, or even practising scales and _solfeggi_, went on without in the least disturbing her. Sometimes a song or a strain of melody would recall her to a sense of the present, for she was passionately fond of music. A curious instance of this peculiarity of hers occurred at Rome, when a large party were assembled to listen to a celebrated improvisatrice. My mother was placed in the front row, close to the poetess, who, for several stanzas, adhered strictly to the subject which had been given to her. What it was I do not recollect, except that it had no connection with what followed. All at once, as if by a sudden inspiration, the lady turned her eyes full upon my mother, and with true Italian vehemence and in the full musical accents of Rome, poured forth stanza after stanza of the most eloquent panegyric upon her talents and virtues, extolling them and her to the skies. Throughout the whole of this scene, which lasted a considerable time, my mother remained calm and unmoved, never changing countenance, which surprised not only the persons present but ourselves, as we well knew how much she disliked any display or being brought forward in public. The truth was, that after listening for a while to the improvising, a thought struck her connected with some subject she was engaged in writing upon at the time and so entirely absorbed her that she heard not a word of all that had been declaimed in her praise, and was not a little surprised and confused when she was complimented on it. I call this, advisedly, a power of hers, for although it occasionally led her into strange positions, such as the one above mentioned, it rendered her entirely independent of outward circumstances, nor did she require to isolate herself from the family circle in order to pursue her studies. I have already mentioned that when we were very young she taught us herself for a few hours daily; when our lessons were over we always remained in the room with her, learning grammar, arithmetic, or some such plague of childhood. Any one who has plunged into the mazes of the higher branches of mathematics or other abstruse science, would probably feel no slight degree of irritation on being interrupted at a critical moment when the solution was almost within his grasp, by some childish question about tense or gender, or how much seven times seven made. My mother was never impatient, but explained our little difficulties quickly and kindly, and returned calmly to her own profound thoughts. Yet on occasion she could show both