nd the process both daunted and wearied him.

I have lately been looking through a number of letters from my father to
Hugh in his schooldays. Reading between the lines, and knowing the
passionate affection in the background, these are beautiful and pathetic
documents. But they are over-full of advice, suggestion, criticism,
anxious inquiries about work and religion, thought and character. This
was all a part of the strain and tension at which my father lived. He
was so absorbed in his work, found life such a tremendous business, was
so deeply in earnest, that he could not relax, could not often enjoy a
perfectly idle, leisurely, amused mood. Hugh himself was the exact
opposite. He could work, in later days, with fierce concentration and
immense energy; but he also could enjoy, almost more than anyone I have
ever seen, rambling, inconsequent, easy talk, consisting of stories,
arguments, and ideas just as they came into his head; this had no
counterpart in my father, who was always purposeful.

But it was a happy time at Truro for Hugh. Speaking generally, I should
call him in those days a quick, inventive, active-minded child, entirely
unsentimental; he was fond of trying his hand at various things, but he
was impatient and volatile, would never take trouble, and as a
consequence never did anything well. One would never have supposed, in
those early days, that he was going to be so hard a worker, and still
less such a worker as he afterwards became, who perfected his gifts by
such continuous, prolonged, and constantly renewed labour. I recollect
his giving a little conjuring entertainment as a boy, but he had
practised none of his tricks, and the result was a fiasco, which had to
be covered up by lavish and undeserved applause; a little later, too, at
Addington, he gave an exhibition of marionettes, which illustrated
historical scenes. The puppets were dressed by Beth, our old nurse, and
my sisters, and Hugh was the showman behind the scenes. The little
curtains were drawn up for a tableau which was supposed to represent an
episode in the life of Thomas a Becket. Hugh's voice enunciated, "Scene,
an a-arid waste!" Then came a silence, and then Hugh was heard to say to
his assistant in a loud, agitated whisper, "Where is the Archbishop?"
But the puppet had been mislaid, and he had to go on to the next
tableau. The most remarkable thing about him was a real independence of
character, with an entire disregard of other peopl