A.D. 1857-1865
LIFE’S EARLY AFTERNOON
One-half of the life of Charlotte Tucker was now over; a quiet and uneventful life thus far. If we like, we may mentally divide her story into four quarters, each about eighteen years in length, corresponding to Early Morning, Noontide, Afternoon, and Evening. The first eighteen years of her Early Morning had been, perhaps, as bright and cloudless as the existence of any girl could well be. In the succeeding Noontide hours she had known still much of brightness, though they included her first great sorrow, and ended with her second. Also, in the course of that Noontide she had entered upon her career of authorship, with all its hopes and aims, its hard work and its delights. Probably none who have not experienced it for themselves can quite understand the fascinations of authorship.
Now she had passed her Noontide, and was entering on the hours of early Afternoon. Eighteen years of that Afternoon still lay between the dark days of the Indian Mutiny and her own going out to India, for the Evening of her Life,—the fourth and last eighteen years, which were to be the fullest and the busiest of all her busy days.
We have first to do with the earlier portion of the Third Period; a period including much work, many interests, and some deep griefs. Between 1857 and 1866, however, lay a[113] quiet stretch of everyday life, distinguished by no rocks or rapids. The river flowed on peacefully for a while.
Life at No. 3 continued much as it had been in years past. Many friends were in and out, and were always cordially welcomed. Mrs. Tucker, since her husband’s death, had made one difference, in that she no longer gave dinner-parties; but luncheons were in full swing, to any extent; and Charlotte’s powers of entertaining were still in abundant requisition.
No better place can well be found than this for part of a letter to A. L. O. E.’s nephew,—the Rev. W. F. T. Hamilton, son of her favourite sister,—from Sir Francis Outram, son of General Sir James Outram, of celebrated memory.
‘June 25, 1894.
‘My recollections of No. 3 Portland Place and of its typically kind inmates carry me back just half a century. But they are very clear, though, I regret to add, only of a general and intangible character.
‘Mr. Tucker I recall with grave respect, unmingled with awe, as evidently one of the wisest and most influential of my Parents’ proved friends. Mrs. Tucker retains an honoured place in memories of these and later days as the kindest and most liberal of “old aunts,”—so she desired me to designate her, and at once adopted me into her very large circle of favoured nephews and nieces,—the inexhaustible source of varied goodnesses, especially such as were of the most approved edible nature.
‘Their sons I cannot recall, except as the genial and trusty friends of later life. But the five daughters of the house none of us who enjoyed their unselfish kindness at all stages of our youth can ever forget.
‘Of the two who ere long became successively “Miss Tucker,” however, you would alone wish me to speak. They cannot be dissociated in the memory of the generations of young people, whose privilege it was to be entertained and gratified by their unwearied attention throughout many a long holiday afternoon and evening, while stuffed by Mrs. Tucker ad libitum with all the best things of the season.
‘As we grew older, we not only more fully understood the exceptional boundlessness of old-fashioned hospitality and kindness which[114] that house and household exemplified thoroughly, but we came to understand somewhat of the heart-source whence issued that truest manifestation, of “everyday religion,” which evidences itself in an absolutely unselfish consecration,—consistent, unreserved, and essentially practical,—for everyday wear, and not only under “stimulating environments.” Such was the life’s lesson which our association with these two now ageing sisters suggested to us.
‘Miss Charlotte had, as you know, much of the Romantic in her composition.... In person she was always slight, and somewhat fragile-looking. Indeed, both she and Miss Fanny gave one the impression of being too incessantly though quietly busy about everything that promoted the happiness of other people, to ever become stout, or to cultivate dress and appearances, beyond what was consistent with the aims and duties and requirements of a fully occupied home-life.
‘Mrs. Tucker could not quite keep pace with the new-fashioned unconventionalities of “young-lady work” in London; and one of the object-sermons, which most impressed me in my College days, was the beautiful self-restraint which these two sisters—no longer young—imposed upon themselves, in deference to their aged Mother’s wishes, in regard to that outside work which inclination, or one might say conviction, as well as opportunity and qualifications, impelled them to participate in.
‘Still the unbounded hospitality of the “open house” in Portland Place went on; and still they were content to devote their time, talents, and energies to successive generations of juveniles and elder guests, without a murmur.’
One can well believe that the self-restraint had to be severe in Charlotte’s case, with her abounding energies, and her eager desires for usefulness. But she patiently abided her time; and she did not wait in vain. These were years of quiet preparation.
In appearance at this time Charlotte was, as ever, tall and thin,—decidedly tall, her height being five feet six inches, or two inches over her Mother’s height, and only one inch short of her Father’s. She had still as of old a peculiarly elastic and springy mode of walking; and while possessing no pretensions to actual good looks,[115] there was much charm of manner, together with great animation. Still, as ever, she threw herself energetically into the task of entertaining others, no matter whether those ‘others’ were young or old, attractive or uninteresting. This at present was a main duty of her life, and she never neglected or slurred it. Still, as ever, she was guided and restrained by her Mother’s wishes, yielding her own desires when the two wills, or the two judgments, happened to lie in opposite directions.
Although not really fond of work, Charlotte was a beautiful knitter. She would make most elaborate antimacassars, of delicate lace-like patterns, invented by her own busy brain; and while working thus she was able to read Shakespeare aloud. Her Father had loved Shakespeare, and Charlotte had early caught the infection of this love, never afterwards to lose it.
Visiting in the Marylebone Workhouse went on steadily; she and Fanny usually going together, until Fanny’s health began to fail, which was probably not until after 1864.
Fanny was par excellence the gentle sister; very sweet, very unselfish; always the one who would silently take the most uncomfortable chair in the room; always the one to put others forward, yet in so quiet and unobtrusive a fashion that the fact was often not remarked until afterwards. Of Charlotte it has been said by one who knew her intimately,—‘I wonder whether before the year 1850 any one has described her as “gentle.”’ The gentleness, which was with Fanny a natural characteristic, had to be a slow after-growth with the more vehement and resolute younger sister. Many a sharp blow upon the golden staff of her Will was needful for this result.
As an instance of Fanny’s peculiar gentleness, it is told that one Sunday, when she saw a man trying to sell things, she went up and remonstrated with him, speaking[116] very seriously, but in so mild and courteous a manner, so entirely as she would have spoken to one who was socially on her own level, that he was utterly unable to take offence. She was also very generous, giving liberally to the poor out of her limited dress-allowance, in earlier girlish days. This same generosity was a marked feature in the character of Charlotte; perhaps especially in later years.
Fanny was of middle height, and thin, with dark eyes; very neat and orderly in her ways, wherein she was the opposite of Charlotte, who was famed for untidiness in her arrangements. Charlotte was, however, methodical in plans of action, and in literary work; and later in life she seems to have struggled hard after habits of greater tidiness, as a matter of principle. But in middle life she could still speak of her drawers as—at least sometimes—supplying a succession of ‘surprises.’
Her ‘little Robins’ were now growing up, an ever-increasing care and interest to her loving heart; and the devotion which she felt for Letitia was of a most intense nature. The two boys were of course much away at school; but Letitia was always with her,—until the year 1865, when it was decided that she should go out to her uncle, Mr. St. George Tucker, in India. Moreover, many other little nieces and nephews had a warm place in the life of ‘Aunt Char,’ none more so than the children of her especial sister-friend, one of whom was her own god-child.
Side by side with innumerable home-duties and home-pleasures went on the continual writing of little books for children; one or two at least appearing every year. The amount of work in one such volume is not heavy; but A. L. O. E.’s other calls were many. And she was not writing for a livelihood, or even for the increased comforts, whether of herself or of others dependent upon her;[117] therefore it could not be placed in the front rank of home-duties. The Tuckers were sufficiently well off; and Charlotte is believed to have devoted most or all of the proceeds of her pen to charitable purposes.
To secure a certain amount of leisure for work, she accustomed herself to habits of early rising. Her Mother had always strongly objected to late hours, making the rule for her girls,—‘If you can, always hear eleven o’clock strike in bed.’ Charlotte is said to have made her a definite promise never to write books late at night; and through life this promise was most scrupulously adhered to.
Since she was debarred from late hours, and since in those days she could never be sure of her time through the day, early morning was all that remained to her. Punctually, therefore, at six o’clock she got up,—like her hero, Fides, conquering Giant Sloth,—and thus made sure of at least an hour’s writing before breakfast. In winter months, when others had fires at night in their bedrooms, Charlotte denied herself the luxury, that she might have it in the morning instead for her work. The fire was laid over-night, and she lighted it herself when she arose; long before the maid came to call her.
Later in the day she wrote if she could and when she could. No doubt also she found many an opportunity for thinking over her stories, and planning what should come next. She usually had the tale clear in her mind before putting pen to paper; so that no time was lost when an hour for actual work could be secured.
A sitting-room behind the dining-room of No. 3, called ‘the parlour,’ was by common consent known as her room. Here she would sit and compose her books; but she made of it no hermitage. Here she would be invaded by nieces, nephews, children, anybody who wanted a word with ‘Aunt Char.’ And she was ready always for[118] such interruptions. Writing was with her, as we have seen, not the main business of life, but merely an adjunct,—an additional means of usefulness. Since she had secured the one early uninterrupted hour, other hours might take their chance, and anybody’s business might come before her own business. With all these breaks, and in spite of them, she yet managed in the course of years to accomplish a long list of children’s books.
One of the said nieces, Miss Annie Tucker, writes respecting certain visits that she paid to her grandmother, Mrs. Tucker, at Portland Place:—
‘In each of these visits it was always my beloved Aunt Charlotte who entertained me,—if I may use the word,—though I was a mere child; and she did it just as if I were a grown-up person. I could never see that she took less pains to interest me than she did to please the many grown-up people who called. She usually entertained us in her room behind the dining-room, so that my grandmother should not be wearied too much.
‘How often have I gone in and out of her room, with a freedom which now almost surprises me! but she never seemed interrupted by my entrance. I have seen her put down her pen, though she was evidently preparing MS. for the press, and attend to any little thing I wanted to say, without one exclamation of vexation or annoyance, or a resigned-resignation look, that some people put on on such occasions, at her literary work being put a stop to. And yet I am sure that was not because she did not mind being interrupted.’
It is not for a moment to be implied that all hard toilers in life are bound to follow precisely here the example of A. L. O. E. Circumstances differ in different cases. Often the work itself is of supreme importance; the interruptions are unnecessary and undeserving of attention. If everybody worked as Charlotte Tucker worked at that particular period, the amount accomplished would in some cases be very small, and in other cases, where undivided attention is essential, the result would be absolute failure. In her case the literary work was of a simple description,[119] and the home-calls appeared to be distinctly first in importance. But the spirit which she showed was well worthy of imitation. Many, whose favourite occupations are, to say the least, no whit more pressing than were her books, are exceedingly tenacious of their time, and exceedingly impatient of interruptions; and with too many the home-calls come second to all personal interests. It was far otherwise with Charlotte Tucker. Whatever had to be done, she was ready to do it,—not one iota more ready to write her books, or to visit in the Workhouse, than to teach the ‘Robins,’ to amuse visitors, old or young, to entertain guests at dinner or luncheon, to take her part in a family ‘glee,’ to join in merry games, to conduct friends on sight-seeing expeditions. No matter what it might be, she did it willingly, throwing her whole energy into the matter in hand, always at everybody’s service, never allowing herself to appear worried or bored.
Despite her somewhat fragile appearance, and an appetite commonly small, there must have been a marvellous amount of underlying strength,—of the ‘wiriness’ which often belongs to delicate-looking people. If tired, she seldom confessed the fact, and never made a fuss about it. Her extraordinary vitality and mental vigour carried her through what would have entirely laid by many another in her place.
The following extracts are from letters ranging between 1861 and the beginning of 1866:—
TO MRS. HAMILTON.
‘Nov. 6, 1861.
‘Will you kindly tell my Letitia that I have put up her paint-box, to be sent to Somerset House, as I dare say that your dear husband will kindly take charge of the little parcel....
‘The weather here has not been very choice. We had candles at luncheon yesterday. We make ourselves very happy, however, by vigorous reading. In the evening we discourse with Queen Elizabeth,[120] Leicester, Paul Buys, and Olden Barneveldt, etc.; in the morning we go out hunting with M. Chaillu, plunging amongst hippopotami and crocodiles, demolishing big black serpents, or perhaps capturing a baby-gorilla, more troublesome than dear Edgy himself.
‘We are all just now in a state of indignation about your pork! Don’t suppose that it is any fault in the pork; on the contrary, it is acknowledged to be the most “refined” pork ever known; and Mother says that if she shut her eyes, she would not know that she was not eating chicken!! We had a beautiful roast of it one day at luncheon; and Mother cut off a choice bit, to be reserved for our table, cold, while the servants were indulged with the rest of that joint. To-day Mother asked for our reserved bit. Would you believe it?—those dreadfully greedy servants had eaten our bit as well as their own, though they had legs of mutton on Friday and Saturday, and a 22 lb. joint of roastbeef on Sunday! Do you marvel at our indignation? Mother means to call some one to account. She puts all the pathos of the question upon me. Miss Charlotte to be disappointed of her reserved bit of pork! I can hardly keep my countenance, but of course must not disclaim my interest in the question. These greedy servants must be kept in order. It is not for nothing that we read of valiant encounters with alligators and hippopotami.’
TO MRS. HAMILTON.
‘Dec. 3, 1862.
‘Dearest Laura,—We at last opened our piano, and your song has been thoroughly examined. The result is that some parts are much liked. Clara was so much pleased with the verse about the Rose, that after singing it over for Mother’s benefit she sang it three times over for her own. The words are not worthy of the music; it ought to be sacred; and I intend to copy it out in my own little music-book as a hymn, so that its interest will not die away with that of the bridal.[8] The part next best liked is the Shamrock verse; and if I might venture a suggestion, I think that the whole of the “We hail thee” might be set to it; only the “glittering” accompaniment must be confined to the Shamrock verse. I think people often like the repetition of one air over and over, far better than a great variety.
The air is flowing and attractive, and there is no harm in its brevity. The first part, “We hail thee,” has a transition, which we fear that the rules of thorough-bass might not permit; and the[121] Thistle is hardly equal to either the Shamrock or the Rose,—of which, you see, I would make a separate song and hymn. If you would write out the song to the music of the former, I do not see why we should not try to get it accepted by a publisher. I hope that you will excuse my thus venturing to criticise your song and so unmercifully to cut it short.
‘I will give on the next page the words which I propose putting—for my own use—to the hymn part. Very little alteration will make them go very well to the air, for I have tried them; and the repetition of the last words, which your sweet music requires, suits lines the whole emphasis of which falls on the closing words; at least I fancy so.’
The lines following are given here, not exactly as they appeared in the letter, but in the corrected and improved form which afterwards appeared in print with the music:—
‘The Lord He is my strength and stay,
When sorrow’s cup o’erflows the brim;
It sweetens all if we can say,
“This is from Him!”
All comfort, comfort, flows from Him.
‘When humbly labouring for my Lord,
Faint grows the heart and weak the limb,
What strength and joy are in the words,
“This is for Him!”
’Tis sweet to spend our strength for Him.
‘I hope for ever to abide
Where dwell the radiant Seraphim;
Delivered, pardoned, glorified;
But ’tis through Him!
All light and glory flow from Him.
‘Then welcome be the hour of death,
When Nature’s lamp burns low and dim,
If I can cry with dying breath,
“I go to Him!”
For Life Eternal flows from Him.’
[122]
TO MISS BELLA F. TUCKER.
‘Feb. 11, 1862.
‘I have read your touching account of your most sorely afflicted friend with great interest. I visit the Imbecile Ward,[9] and I fear that she must be in the Insane Ward; but I will be sure to make inquiries, and perhaps I may find that I can follow her thither. I am not timid. Very very glad should I be to impart any comfort in such a case of awful distress; but I fear that she may not understand even sympathy.’
TO THE SAME.
‘Feb. 26, 1862.
‘I went to our afflicted friend.... I talked to her as comfortingly as I could, and told her that I thought this sad trial might be sent that she might be like Christiana, walking on a Heavenward path, with all her children with her. I was glad to draw forth one or two tears, for tearless anguish is the most terrible. She said that she prayed the Lord to take her. I did not think that a good prayer, but suggested that she should ask the Lord to come to her, as to the disciples in the storm. She has promised to repeat the two very little prayers, “Lord, come to me”; and “Lord, make my children Thine, for Jesus’ sake.” It was touching to hear her repeating softly, again and again,—“Make me Thine! make me Thine!”’
TO THE SAME.
‘March 25, 1862.
‘Though still very low to-day, Mrs. —— did not seem to me to be inaccessible to religious comfort. I fancied that there was a little lightening of the darkness.... I do not know of anything that she wants. I have supplied her with working materials. Perhaps a little book with pictures in it is as good as anything, as amusing without fatiguing the mind.... I know the beautiful large texts that you allude to; but I do not know where they could well be fixed in the Insane Ward. They are more, I think, for the bedridden.’
TO MRS. HAMILTON.
‘Gresford, Sept. 13, 1863.
‘I thought of you as I stood on the soft green slope down to the water, and looked on the bright little stream, with its white foam[123] sparkling in the sunlight. How much of its beauty it owes to the pebbles that fret it; and how much of its rapidity to the fall in its course. But in our lives, how we—at least I—shrink from the pebbles! How we would fain have all glassy smooth,—though Nature itself teaches us that then it would become stagnant. The “sea of glass” is for another world....
‘I sometimes think that consoling is one of the most delightful employments given to God’s servants. It is pleasanter than teaching; far far more so than reproving others, or struggling against evil, or examining our own hearts. You were a comfort to poor dear ——, and I dare say that the sense of being so lightened your own trial of parting. I would give a great deal to have your influence with ——; but the Almighty has not been pleased to grant me this. Perhaps He will some day.’
TO THE SAME.
‘July 29, 1864.
‘I want particularly to know whether, in case I see my way to gaining money by it for some religious or charitable purpose, you will make me a present of that little bit of your welcome to the Princess which I have turned into a hymn. Also whether you would mind Mrs. Hamilton’s name being published on it. The hymn has been ringing so in my ears, and with such a soothing effect when I did not feel particularly cheerful, that I should like others to have the same comfort. I have made inquiries as to the cost of printing and publishing it.... Being very short, I do not think that much could be asked; and this is perhaps the gem of your music. I do not want it to be done at your expense, but at my own, and to manage everything after my own fashion,—but I cannot plunder you either of your music or your name without your leave....
‘Dear Fanny is better, though still prisoner to her room. She has had a sharp attack of fever; and I am afraid it will be difficult to throw off the cough. The rest of our party are well, as I trust that I may find you and your dear circle.’
TO THE SAME.
‘Aug. 1, 1864.
‘Your and your dear husband’s sweet notes quite added to the cheerfulness of our breakfast-table. Even Fanny did not appear knocked down by your tender scolding. She, for the first time since Tuesday, came to breakfast. She still needs great care, for the cold[124] was on her chest, and even speaking is liable to make her cough. Mother highly approves of your plan of coming to town. She desires me to say that she knows that her face is before you, as yours is before her. Dear Fanny will probably not start for Brighton till Wednesday week, so she will have the pleasure of welcoming you, and I am sure that you will try not to let her be loquacious....
‘Many thanks for your kind present of the music. I am going to have it printed by converted Jews, and the entire profits devoted to the Society for the Conversion of Jews; so that it will be a little offering from us both to one of the holiest of causes.... I take the expense of the edition of 500 copies. They are to be sold for 1s. apiece; so if all are sold there is a contribution of ￡25 clear to the Society.... I am rather hopeful that the whole edition will go off before Christmas; for one shilling is not a formidable sum, especially when people can get a new song and help a good cause at the same time.... I take great pleasure in this little piece of business. I have been quite haunted by the music. I am ordering the plate to be preserved, in case of a Second Edition being required. So Mrs. Hamilton is going to come out as a Composer!’
TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.[10]
‘March 31, 1865.
‘My dear God-daughter,—I shall like to think of you particularly to-morrow, because it is the Anniversary of the day when your dear parents in church solemnly presented their precious little first-born babe to God; and I stood there to answer for her. Dear Leila, may each return of that day find you drawing nearer and nearer to Him who said, “Suffer the little children to come unto Me.” If we could only feel in our hearts that He really does love us, and that He deigns to care whether we love Him, what a motive it would be for doing everything as in His sight! We are too apt to think of our Saviour as very far off, and with so many to care for that we are almost beneath His notice. But this is wrong. The Sun shines and sparkles on every dewdrop in a field, as much as if it were the only dewdrop in the world. He does not pass it over, because it is little; he makes it beautiful in his light, and then draws it up towards himself.... I wish that I could come and pay you a visit; but I do not see how I am to leave Grandmamma as long as dear Aunt Fanny is an invalid. I seem wanted at home.’
It may have been somewhere about this year, or not[125] very long before it, that Charlotte wrote the following pretty and graceful lines:—
‘Each silver thread that glitters in the hair,
Is like a wayside landmark,—planted there
To show Earth’s pilgrims, as they onward wend,
How nearly they approach their journey’s end!’