CHAPTER I

[Illustration: C. M. Tucker

from a Photograph taken at Toronto in 1875.

W. Notman Photo. Walker & Boutall, Ph.Sc.]

A LADY OF ENGLAND

_THE LIFE AND LETTERS_

OF

CHARLOTTE MARIA TUCKER

BY

AGNES GIBERNE

AUTHOR OF ‘SUN, MOON, AND STARS,’ ‘RADIANT SUNS,’ ETC.

‘_Nil desperandum_’

Motto of the Tucker Family

NEW YORK

A. C. ARMSTRONG & SON

51 EAST TENTH STREET

1895

Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

The principal mass of materials for this Biography was placed in my

hands last summer by the Rev. W. F. Tucker Hamilton, nephew of Charlotte

Maria Tucker (A. L. O. E.), and since then many other relatives or

friends, both in England and in India, have contributed their share of

help, either in the way of written recollections or of correspondence.

A paucity of materials exists as to the early part of the life; but

in later years the difficulty is of a precisely opposite description,

arising from a superabundance of details. Hundreds of letters, more or

less interesting in themselves, have had to be put ruthlessly aside, to

make room for others of greater interest. From first to last the long

series between Charlotte Tucker and her own especial sister-friend, Mrs.

Hamilton, takes precedence of all other letters in point of freedom,

naturalness, and simplicity. The perfect trust and unshadowed devotion

which subsisted between these two form a rare and beautiful picture.

It has seemed to me, and it may seem to others, that the main question in

the Life of Miss Tucker is, not so much what she _did_ here or there,

in England or in India, as what she _was_. Many a discussion has taken

place, and doubtless will again take place, as to the wisdom of her

modes of Missionary work, and as to the degree of success or non-success

which attended her labours. I have endeavoured to give fairly certain

opposite views upon this question, even while strongly impressed with the

conviction that no human being is capable of judging with respect to the

worth of work done in his own age and generation. Subtle consequences,

working below the surface, are often far more weighty, far more lasting,

than the most approved ‘results’ following immediately upon certain

efforts,--results which are, not seldom, found after a while to be of the

nature of mere froth. Nothing can be more unprofitable, usually, than

the task of endeavouring to ‘count conversions.’ It is of infinitely

greater importance to note with what absolute self-devotion Miss Tucker

entered into the toil, with what resolution she persevered in the face of

obstacles, with what eagerness she did the very utmost within her power.

In writing the story of Miss Tucker’s life at Batala, it has been

impossible not to write also, in some degree, the story of the Infant

Church at Batala. My main object has of course been simply to show what

Charlotte Maria Tucker herself was; and Mission work, Mission incidents,

Missionaries themselves, come in merely incidentally, as part of the

background to her figure. Mention of them is accidental and fragmentary;

not systematic. At the same time there is no doubt that nothing would

have gratified Miss Tucker more than that any use should have been made

of her letters likely to help forward the great work of Missions among

the Heathen. Some years before the end, when in severe illness she

thought herself to be passing away, she spoke of the possibility that

her long correspondence about Batala might be so employed, and earnestly

hoped that, if it were so, no one-sided account should be given, but that

shadow as well as sunshine, the dark as well as the bright aspect, should

be frankly presented. I have endeavoured to carry out her wishes in this

particular.

It is to be regretted that at least a few letters from Mrs. Hamilton to

Miss Tucker cannot be interspersed among the many from Miss Tucker to

Mrs. Hamilton. None, however, have come to hand. Before Miss Tucker went

to India she destroyed the bulk of her papers, after a ruthless fashion;

and it does not appear that while in India she kept any of the letters

that she received.

After some hesitation I have decided to give generally the names in full

of those Missionaries, with whom she was most closely associated. I have

also decided _not_ to give the names of Indian Christians, with very

few exceptions,--as of the Head Master of the Native Boys’ School at

Batala, whom she counted a personal friend; also of one or two Ordained

Native Clergymen, and one or two contributors of slight material towards

this _Life_. In many instances it would be very difficult to decide

wisely at so great a distance, and without a knowledge of the individuals

themselves. It is therefore best to be on the safe side. Many of the

initials are the true initials; but many are not even that,--especially

in the case of those who are still Heathen or Muhammadan.

In the spelling of Indian words and names I have endeavoured to follow

mainly the more modern plan, adopted of late years, except in the case

of a very few words which are practically Anglicised. Miss Tucker’s own

spelling of Indian words and names varies extremely; the word being often

given differently when occurring twice in a single page. The spelling has

therefore been altered throughout her correspondence. To avoid confusion

in the minds of English readers, I have also taken the same liberty with

letters from some others who have not adopted the modern mode.

In conclusion, I have only to express my sincere thanks for the most kind

trouble taken by many friends of A. L. O. E. in contributing materials

for my guidance.

AGNES GIBERNE.

WORTON HOUSE, EASTBOURNE.

PREFACE

It would scarcely be fitting that this Volume should go forth to the

Public without a few words of Preface from one of A. L. O. E.’s own

family.

Only my beloved Mother--the ‘Laura’ of these pages--could have penned the

words which should adequately tell all that my dear Aunt was to those who

knew her best and loved her most fondly. And _she_, little as she had

expected it, was the first of the two to be called Home.

It has, however, been a great satisfaction to me to intrust the

preparation of the _Life_ to Miss Giberne; and I am glad to have this

opportunity of expressing my hearty appreciation of the literary skill,

the sympathy, and the fidelity to truth with which she has accomplished

her task.

Averse as my Aunt ever was to any fuss being made about her, nothing

would have reconciled her to the publication of a Biography, save

the hope that its story might be used of God to stimulate others to

consecrate their lives to the Service of Christ, whether in the Foreign

or Home Mission Field. It is in such hope that it is now sent forth, with

the earnest prayer that HIS blessing may rest upon it.

W. F. TUCKER HAMILTON.

CHRIST CHURCH, WOKING.

NOTE.--Any profits derived by A. L. O. E.’s relatives from the

publication of this volume will be apportioned among those Missionary

Societies in which she was especially interested.

CONTENTS

PAGE

PART I

LIFE IN ENGLAND

CHAPTER I

THE STORY OF HER FATHER 3

CHAPTER II

CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD 13

CHAPTER III

EARLY WRITINGS 27

CHAPTER IV

A ‘FARCE’ OF GIRLISH DAYS 39

CHAPTER V

HOME LIFE 62

CHAPTER VI

GRAVITY AND FUN 71

CHAPTER VII

THE FIRST GREAT SORROW, AND THE FIRST BOOK 83

CHAPTER VIII

CRIMEA, AND THE INDIAN MUTINY 100

CHAPTER IX

LIFE’S EARLY AFTERNOON 112

CHAPTER X

A HEAVY SHADOW 126

CHAPTER XI

GIVING COMFORT TO OTHERS 137

CHAPTER XII

THE OLD HOME BROKEN UP 146

CHAPTER XIII

VARIOUS CHARACTERISTICS 159

CHAPTER XIV

AN UNEXPECTED RESOLVE 173

CHAPTER XV

BESIDE NIAGARA 184

PART II

LIFE IN INDIA

CHAPTER I

FIRST ARRIVAL IN INDIA 197

CHAPTER II

A HOME IN AMRITSAR 209

CHAPTER III

CURIOUS WAYS 224

CHAPTER IV

A PALACE FOR A HOME 239

CHAPTER V

DISAPPOINTMENTS AND DELAYS 253

CHAPTER VI

A BROWN AND WHITE ‘HAPPY FAMILY’ 267

CHAPTER VII

PERSECUTIONS 282

CHAPTER VIII

EARLY CHRISTIAN DAYS IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 299

CHAPTER IX

THE CHURCH AT BATALA 318

CHAPTER X

LOYAL AND TRUE 331

CHAPTER XI

CLOUDS AFTER SUNSHINE 344

CHAPTER XII

THE FIRST STONE OF BATALA CHURCH 359

CHAPTER XIII

SOME OF A. L. O. E.’s POSSESSIONS 374

CHAPTER XIV

ON THE RIVER’S BRINK 395

CHAPTER XV

IN HARNESS ONCE MORE 410

CHAPTER XVI

A VISIT FROM BISHOP FRENCH 427

CHAPTER XVII

THE DAILY ROUND 445

CHAPTER XVIII

IN OLD AGE 461

CHAPTER XIX

LIGHT AT EVENTIDE 475

CHAPTER XX

THE LAST GREAT SORROW 491

CHAPTER XXI

THE HOME-GOING 503

LIST OF PRINCIPAL BOOKS BY A. L. O. E. 515

LIST OF SOME SMALL BOOKLETS BY A. L. O. E. 519

PART I

LIFE IN ENGLAND

‘Constant discipline in unnoticed ways, and the hidden spirit’s silent

unselfishness, becoming the hidden habit of the life, give to it its

true saintly beauty, and this is the result of care and lowly love in

little things. Perfection is attained most readily by this constancy of

religious faithfulness in all minor details of life, in the lines of

duty which fill up what remains to complete the likeness to our LORD,

consecrating the daily efforts of self-forgetting love.’--T. T. CARTER.

CHAPTER I

A.D. 1771-1835

THE STORY OF HER FATHER

Charlotte Maria Tucker, known widely by her _nom de plume_ of A. L.

O. E.,--signifying A Lady Of England,--as the successful author of

numberless children’s books, deserves to be yet more extensively known

as the heroic Pioneer of elderly and Honorary volunteers in the broad

Mission-fields of our Church.

Her books, which were much read and appreciated in the youth of the

present middle-aged generation, may to some extent have sunk into the

background, as the works of successive story-tellers do in the majority

of cases retire, each in turn, before newer names and newer styles; but

the splendid example set by Charlotte Tucker, at a time of life when

most people are intent upon retiring from work, and taking if they may

their ease,--an example of _then_ buckling on her armour afresh, and of

entering upon the toughest toil of all her busy life, will surely never

be forgotten.

She was the sixth child and third daughter of Henry St. George Tucker,

a prominent Bengal Civilian, and, later on, Chairman of the East India

Company. All her five brothers went to India, and all five were there in

the dark days of the Mutiny. Thus by birth she had a close connection

with that great eastern branch of the British Empire, to which her last

eighteen years were entirely devoted. People in general go out early,

and retire to England for rest in old age. Miss Tucker spent fifty-four

active years in England, and then yielded her remaining powers to the

cause of our fellow-subjects in Hindustan.

It seems desirable that a slight sketch of her father’s earlier life

should precede the story of hers.

Henry St. George Tucker came into this world on the 15th of February

1771. He was born in the Bermudas, on the Isle St. George, whence his

name, and was the eldest of ten children. An interesting reference to

this event is found in a letter of Charlotte Tucker’s, written February

15, 1890: ‘As I went in my duli to villages this morning, I thought, “One

hundred and nineteen years ago a precious Baby was born in a distant

island”; and I thanked God for our beloved and honoured Father.’

Henry St. George’s father was a man of good descent, of high reputation,

and of a leading position in the islands. His mother, a Miss Bruere

before marriage,--probably the name was a corruption of _Bruyere_,--was

daughter of the then governor of the Bermudas, a gallant old soldier,

possessing fourteen children and also a particularly irascible temper.

The elder Mr. Tucker appears to have been a man of gentle temperament

and liberal views; I do not mean ‘Liberal’ in the mere party sense,

but liberal as opposed to ‘illiberal.’ Whatever his own opinions may

have been, he did not endeavour to force them upon his children; he did

not, in fact, petrify the children’s little fancies by opposition into

a lasting existence. It is amusing to read of the opposite tendencies

among his boys, one taking the loyal side and another the republican

side in the dawning struggle between England and her American Colonies.

Long after, Henry St. George spoke of himself as having then been ‘a bit

of a rebel’; adding, ‘But my republican zeal was very much cooled by

the French Revolution; and if a spark of it had remained, our own most

contemptible revolution of 1830 would have extinguished it, and have

fixed me for life a determined Conservative.’

He had on the whole a strong constitution, though counted delicate as a

child; and his early life in the Bermudas was one of abundant fresh air

and exercise. Much more time was given to riding and boating than to

books; indeed, his education seems hardly to have been begun before the

age of ten years, when he was sent to school in England. Whether such

a plan would answer with the ordinary run of boys may well be doubted.

Henry St. George Tucker was not an ordinary boy; and he showed no signs

of loss in after-life through ten years of play at the beginning of it.

One piece of advice given to him by his mother, when he was about to

start for England, cannot but cause a smile. She was at pains to assure

him that it would be unnecessary to take off his hat to every person

whom he might meet in the streets of London. Henry St. George, speaking

of this in later years, continues: ‘But habit is strong; and even now,

when I repair to the stables for my horse, I interchange bows with the

coachman and the ostlers and all the little idle urchins whom I encounter

in the mews.’ One would have been sorry indeed to see so graceful a habit

altered. It might far better be imitated. Exceeding courtesy was through

life characteristic of the man, and it descended in a marked degree upon

many of his descendants, notably so upon Charlotte Maria, the A. L. O. E.

of literature.

School education, begun at ten, ended at fourteen. The boy worked hard,

and rose in his classes quickly; though at an after period he spoke of

his own learning in those days as ‘superficial.’ He had been intended by

his father for the legal profession, and many years of hard work were

supposed to lie before him. These plans were unexpectedly broken through.

One of his aunts, who lived in England, acting impulsively and without

authority, altered the whole course of his career. She asked him, ‘Would

he like to visit India?’ A more unnecessary question could hardly have

been put. What schoolboy of fourteen would _not_ ‘like to visit India’?

Young Henry seized upon the idea; and the said aunt, under the impression

that she was kindly relieving his father of needless school expenses,

actually shipped the lad off as middy in a merchant vessel bound for

India, not waiting to write and ask his father’s permission. She merely

wrote to say that the deed was done.

Officious aunts do exist in the world; but surely few so officious as

this. The deepest displeasure was felt and shown when Henry’s father

learned what had happened. But by the time that his grieved remonstrances

reached the boy, Henry was fifteen thousand miles away, ‘hunting wild

animals on the plains of Behar.’ In the present day a boy so despatched

might be sent back again; but in those days India was separated from

England by a vast gulf of distance and of time. Any one writing from

India to England could not look for a reply in less than a year; and

his father was at Bermuda, not even at home, which made a further

complication.

The boy’s condition must at first have been forlorn enough. After a

petted and luxurious boyhood, he had to live for months together upon

salt junk; and his bed was only a hencoop. But there was ‘stuff’ in

him, and hardships of all kinds were most pluckily endured. On landing

at Calcutta he found himself in a strange country, among strange faces,

without money and without work, though happily not quite without friends.

His mother’s brother, Mr. Bruere, was one of the Government Secretaries

in Calcutta; and in the house of Mr. Bruere and of Mr. Bruere’s pretty

little sylph-like wife the young adventurer found shelter for some

months, until an opening could be secured for him.

Fifteen years followed of a hard and continuous struggle. As long after

he said of himself, he ‘looked the world in the face’ in those days;

and while a mere boy of fifteen or sixteen he set himself resolutely to

get on. From the first he grappled with the Native languages, showing a

vigour and persistency in the study which, many many years later, were

visible again in his daughter Charlotte, when grappling with the very

same task. Only he was young; and she, when she followed his example, was

well on in middle life.

Towards the end of those fifteen years resolution and untiring energy

triumphed; and from the age of about thirty Mr. Tucker’s rise to a good

position was steady.

In 1792 he became a member of the Bengal Civil Service. In 1809 he was

made Secretary in the Public Department. But he had had heavy work and

many troubles, and his health began to fail; so the following year,

after a quarter of a century of unbroken exile, he set off for England,

carrying with him Government testimonials, couched in the warmest terms.

These testimonials spoke of his ‘long and meritorious services,’ of his

‘peculiar abilities,’ of his ‘talents and acquirements of the highest

order,’ of his ‘unwearied diligence,’ of his ‘unimpeached integrity.’ All

this, of one who, twenty-five years before, had landed on Indian shores

an almost penniless adventurer, without so much as a definite plan of

what to do with himself and his energies!

That very year he was engaged, and the year after he was married, to Jane

Boswell, daughter of a Mr. Robert Boswell of Edinburgh, who was related

to the well-known biographer of Dr. Johnson. The Boswell family was known

to have first settled in Berwickshire as far back as in the days of

William Rufus, and afterwards in Fifeshire and Ayrshire at Balmute and

Auchinleck. Mr. Robert Boswell’s grandmother, Lady Elisabeth Bruce, was

a daughter of the first Earl of Kincardine. Mr. Boswell was a devotedly

good and also an able man; a minister, not in the Scottish Presbyterian

Church, but in some smaller religious body; and his death took place in a

somewhat tragic manner, before the date of his daughter’s marriage to Mr.

Tucker. While preaching, he quoted the text which begins, ‘All flesh is

as grass----,’ and as he uttered the words he fell back, dead!

A characteristic anecdote is told of his wife,--A. L. O. E.’s

grandmother. She had a large family, and was badly off. One day a poor

woman applied to her for help; and Mrs. Boswell called out to her

daughter Jane, to know what money they happened to have in hand. ‘Only

one seven-shilling piece,’ was the answer. Mrs. Boswell’s voice sounded

distinctly,--‘Give it, then; give it to the woman.’ ‘But, dear mamma,

there is no more money in the house,’ remonstrated Jane. More decisively

still came the response, ‘Give it, then; give it to the woman.’ And given

it was. The story almost inevitably recalls that of the Widow’s Mite;

even though from certain points of view one is dubious as to the wisdom

of the act.

Despite the poverty of the family Mrs. Boswell’s daughters settled well

in life. One married Mr. Egerton of the High Court in Calcutta; one

married Dr. Roxburgh; one married General Carnegie; one married Mr.

Anderson; one only, Veronica by name, remained unmarried; and Jane became

the wife of Henry St. George Tucker. She was at that time a gentle and

beautiful girl of about twenty-one, while Mr. Tucker was already over

forty.

Early in the following year, 1812, they went out to India together; and

his delight was great in returning to the country where he had toiled so

long, and had made many friends. This time, however, his stay in the east

was to be brief.

His first child, Henry Carre, was born that same year; and two years

later came his eldest daughter, Sibella Jane. Also in 1814 fell the

blow of his Mother’s death, over which, strong man that he was, he wept

passionately. Then his wife’s health seemed to be seriously failing;

and this decided him to leave the land of his adoption, throwing up all

prospects in that direction. In 1815, the first year of European peace,

at the age of forty-five, he ‘retired from the active service of the

Company,’ travelling by long sea with his invalid wife and his two little

ones, and spending some time at the Cape by the way. Before they arrived

in England another little one, Frances Anne, had been added to their

number.

A home was found in Charlotte Square, Edinburgh; and for some years,

till 1819 or 1820, he was well content to remain there, living a quiet

home-life, with a little family growing around him. Two more boys came,

George William and Robert Tudor,--the former dying in babyhood, the

latter growing up to be slain in the Indian Mutiny. Losing the infant

George was a dire trouble to his parents; and Mrs. Tucker, believing that

he had succumbed to the keen cold of Edinburgh, was never at rest in her

mind until the northern home had been exchanged for one in the south.

Such a change was not to be accomplished in a day, but in the course of

time it came about; and meanwhile the remaining children were a constant

source of interest and delight. The ‘baby’ at this date was Robert;

afterwards a very favourite elder brother of A. L. O. E. His children,

known in the family by the name of ‘The Robins,’ became in later years as

her own.

Mr. Tucker could not long remain contented without definite work. He

was still in the prime of life, still under fifty; and an eager desire

took hold of him to enter public life once more, to serve again his own

country, as well as the eastern land of his adoption. These purposes

he thought might best be carried out by his becoming, if possible, one

of the Directors of the East India Company. For the fulfilment of his

desire--a desire, not for gain or wealth or position, but for the means

of doing good--he had to wait a considerable time. He had indeed to wait

until his next little daughter, CHARLOTTE MARIA, was five years old.

Then, at length, he was appointed Director; one of the Twenty-four who,

in those days, practically ruled India. Thereafter his influence was

steadfastly exerted in the direction of a wise and righteous government

of the dark millions of Hindustan; the land in which he had spent a

quarter of a century of his life, and to which afterward not only all his

five sons went, but one of his five daughters also, in the advanced years

of her life.

While he waited for this long-desired appointment, other changes took

place. They left their home in Edinburgh and moved south, first spending

some months at Friern Hatch, in Barnet, near Finchley; and there it was

that little Charlotte first saw the light of day. In 1822 they went to

live in London, settling into No. 3 Upper Portland Place, whence no

further move was made until after the death of Mrs. Tucker, more than

forty-five years later.

In Portland Place the family was completed. Two years after the birth of

Charlotte came her next brother, St. George; two years later still her

next sister, Dorothea Laura, her peculiar companion and friend. The three

youngest, William, Charlton, and Clara, finished the tale of ten living

children.

Mr. Tucker was, as may have been already gathered, a man of unusual force

of character and of indomitable will; robust in body and mind; unwearying

in work; self-reliant, yet never presumptuous; an absolute gentleman,

remarkable for the polished courtesy of his bearing, alike to superiors,

equals, and inferiors in social position; open and straightforward as

daylight; firm in his own convictions, but well able to look on both

sides of a question, and liberal towards those who differed from him;

entirely fearless in doing what he held to be right, and entirely

free from all thought of self-seeking. He was, as his Biographer Mr.

Kaye observes,--‘pre-eminently a man amongst men,’--‘a statesman at

eighteen, and a statesman at eighty.’ He was also a man of deep and true

religion; a religion not much expressed in words, but apparent in every

inch of his career. In a letter written long after his death by his

daughter Charlotte, she remarked, when speaking of the biography of some

well-known man: ‘There is nothing to indicate that he ever said, as our

beloved Father said, “The publican’s prayer is the prayer of us all!”’

Probably religious speech never came easily to him. His life, however,

spoke more eloquently than mere words could have done.

One of his main characteristics was an abounding generosity. He was

always ready to help those who needed help, up to his power, and beyond

his power. In his own home he was charming; full of wit, full of fun,

full of gay spirits and laughter; full also of the tenderest affection

for his wife and children, an affection which was abundantly returned.

He was an intensely loving and lovable man; his wonderful sweetness and

evenness of temper, never disturbed by heavy work or pressing cares,

endearing him to all with whom he came in contact. While he talked little

of his own feelings, he did much for the good of others; and his life

was one long stretch of usefulness. The union in him of strength with

gentleness, of a masterful intellect with a spirit of yielding courtesy,

of nobility with playfulness, of generosity with self-restraint, of real

religious conviction and experience with frolicsome gaiety, made a

combination not more rare than beautiful.

Many of his characteristics were distinctly inherited from him by his

daughter Charlotte; among others, his literary bent. He was fond of

writing, and in his well-occupied life he found some time to indulge the

play of his fancy. In the year 1835 he published a volume of plays and

enigmas, called _The Tragedies of Harold and Camoens_, dedicated to the

Duke of Wellington, for whom he and his family had the deepest esteem and

admiration.

CHAPTER II

A.D. 1821-1835

CHILDHOOD AND GIRLHOOD

Charlotte Maria Tucker was born on the 8th of May 1821, not within the

sound of Bow bells, but, as already stated, at Friern Hatch, in Barnet,

no long time before the family settled down in Portland Place.

Details of her very early life are greatly wanting. We should like to

know how the childish intellect began to develop; what first turned

her thoughts into the ‘writing line’; whether authorship came to her

spontaneously or no. But few records have been kept.

It is not indeed difficult to imagine the general character of her

childhood. She was clever, quick-witted, full of fun, overflowing with

energy, abounding in life and vigour. One of a large and high-spirited

family, living in a home of comparative comfort and ease, and surrounded

by a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, Charlotte must have had a

happy childhood.

Long years after, when old and wellnigh worn out with her Indian

campaign, she wrote--

‘It seems curious to look back to the birthday sixty-one years

ago, when sweet Mother called me “her ten-years old.” Do you

remember my funny little cards of invitation to a feast of

liquorice-wine,--with possibly something else,--

‘“This is the eighth of May,

Charlotte’s Happy Birthday.”

‘I would not change this time for that. What a proud ambitious

little creature I was! I have a pretty vivid recollection of my

own character in youth. I should have liked to climb high and

be famous.’

In another letter she alludes to the fact that as a child she had been

accused of ‘liking to ride her high horse.’

No doubt in those early days her ambition pointed to higher game than

children’s tales written ‘with a purpose.’

In the gay young family party, two daughters and two sons were older

than herself. Of the latter the nearest in age was Robert, four years

her senior, the future dying hero of the Indian Mutiny. ‘Our noble

Robert’ she calls him long after; and there appears to have been an early

and close tie between Robert and his ambitious, eager little sister.

Of Fanny, too, the next sister above her in age, two years older than

Robert, she was particularly fond. But _the_ tie in her life which was

most of all to her, perhaps taking precedence of even her passionate love

for her Father, was the bond between herself and Laura, the next youngest

sister, about four years her junior. From infancy to old age these two

were one, loving each other with an absolutely unbroken and unclouded

devotion.

The two were counted to some extent alike, though with differences. Laura

was the gentler, the more self-distrustful, the more disposed to lean.

Charlotte was the more impulsive, the more eager, the more energetic, the

more independent, the more self-reliant. In fact, Charlotte never did

‘lean’ upon anybody. Both were equally full of spirits and of frolicsome

fun.

In another letter from India to this sister, dated January 18, 1886, when

referring to a recent illness, she wrote--

‘My memory is very acute. I thought lately that it was a great

shame that I never should go back to dear old No. 3, which

really was the happy home of our childhood before our griefs.

So what do you think, Laura dear, I did lately? I acted over

in my mind Christmas Day, as in the old times, when you and

I were girls. I do not think that I left out anything; our

jumping on dearest Mother’s bed; the new Silver;[1] the Holly

and the Mistletoe; the Christmas Box; the choosing the gowns;

the Cake, etc. Then I went to Trinity Church; I heard the

glorious old hymn, “High let us swell triumphant notes.” It

was such a nice meditation. Then Aunt Anderson and her dear

daughters came for dinner. Of course Aunt had her little yellow

sugar-plum box!’

It is a pretty and vivid description of the olden days in that dear

old home, always spoken of among themselves as ‘Number Three,’ which

she loved ardently to the last. Charlotte’s affections for everything

connected with her youth were of a very enduring nature.

Another short extract from her later letters may be given here,

describing something of what the loved sister Laura was to her in those

early days. It is dated December 10, 1892.

‘My Laura loved me so fondly; we were so close to each other.

How we used to share each other’s thoughts from youth, as we

shared the same room! Our honoured Father loved to hear his

Laura’s merry ringing laugh; when we chatted together he would

say to her favourite sister,’--meaning herself--‘“_She combines

so much._” I doubt that he saw any imperfection in a being so

bright, so sweet.’

And in yet one more letter to this same Laura, dated November 1, 1884--

‘You underrate your own qualifications as a companion, darling.

Don’t I know you of old, how playful and genial you are, as

well as loving?... You are choice company for a _tête-à-tête_.’

The earliest writing of Charlotte’s which comes to hand is indorsed,

‘Charlotte, 1832,’ and is addressed to ‘Miss D. L. Tucker, 3 Upper

Portland Place.’ It is a valentine written to her sister; and it

shows that at the early age of eleven she had at least begun a little

versifying; usually the line first adopted by incipient authors.

‘The snow-drops sweet that grace the plain

Are emblems, love, of you,

With innocence and beauty blest

Pure as the morning dew.

‘Sweet rosebud, free from every storm

Of life, may peace incline

To hover ever round thy bed,

My dearest Valentine.’

Another early effort, undated, but possibly a year or two later, is

addressed, ‘To Dolly, the sweet little bud of the morn,’--no doubt to the

same favourite sister, Dorothea Laura.

‘Sweet bud of the morning, what poet can speak

The glories that beam in thy eye?

The rosebuds that bloom on thy fat little cheek,--

And thy round head so stuffed full of Latin and Greek,

Arithmetic and Geology.

‘I send you a character-teller, my love,

’Tis little and poor, but it may

My kindness, affection, _etcetera_, prove,

And show you, my dear little Dolly, I strove

To make mine a happy birthday.’

What the ‘character-teller’ may have been it is difficult even to

conjecture. Since Laura was four years her junior, the Latin, Greek

and Geology were of course meant in the symbolical sense, standing for

learning in general.

One more apparently early effort remains; not this time versification,

but a birthday letter to Laura, inscribed, ‘To my dear Lady Emma, from

her affectionate Tosti.’ Why Lady Emma?--and why Tosti? In these three

effusions the handwritings are curiously unlike one another, though all

are childish. One is large and unformed; another is small and cramped;

the third is neat and of a copperplate description. It may be that her

writing was long before it crystallized into any definite shape; often

the case with many-sided people. But for the juvenile handwriting, it

would be almost impossible to believe that the following middle-aged

production was not written in later years. Children were, however, in

those days taught to express themselves like grown people; and no doubt

she counted that she had accomplished her task well.

‘Many joyful returns of this day to you, dearest Laura, and

may each find you better and happier than the last. I send you

a little piece of velvet, which you may find useful, for I do

not think you will value a present only for the money it costs;

and I dare say you will agree with me that a _trifle_ from an

affectionate friend is often more valuable than great gifts

from those who love you not.

‘I hope, dearest Lautie, you may enjoy _a very particularly_

happy birthday, and that you may have as few sorrows in

the year you are just entering as in that you have just

passed.--Accept my kindest love, and believe me to be

‘Your affectionate friend and sister,

‘C. M. T.’

This letter may have been some years later than the two copies of verses;

but that hardly does away with the difficulty. The style is almost as

pedantic for the age of sixteen or seventeen as for the age of ten or

twelve.

Side by side with the intense devotion for her sister Laura, there was

a considerable degree of reticence in Charlotte’s nature. It may have

developed more fully as time went on; yet it must surely have been a

part of herself even in childhood. It was not with her a superficial

reserve, an acted reticence, such as may sometimes be seen in essentially

shallow women. On the surface she was free, frank, chatty, quick in

response, ready to converse, full of liveliness, fun, and repartee. But

underlying the freedom and brightness there was a habit of silence about

her own affairs--that is to say, about affairs which concerned only and

exclusively herself--which to some extent was a life-long characteristic.

Neither Charlotte nor any of her sisters ever went to school. Their

father had a very pronounced objection to schools for girls; indeed, he

had himself made an early resolution never to marry any girl who had

been educated at school, and he kept that resolution. The same idea

was followed out with his own daughters. A daily governess came in to

superintend their studies; and occasional masters were provided. In

reference to the latter Charlotte wrote, many years afterward, to a

niece: ‘No one can do as much for us in the way of education as we can do

for ourselves. A willing mind is like a steam-engine, and carries one on

famously. When I was young my beloved parents did not feel able to give

us many masters. We knew that, and it made us more anxious to profit by

what we had.’

Twenty-five years of hard toil in India had not made a rich man of Mr.

Tucker; nor did his position as a Director bring him wealth. It was his

daughter’s pride in after-life to know that he had died comparatively

poor, because of his inviolable sense of honour. Not that more money

would not have been acceptable! Ten children, including five sons, to be

launched in life, are a serious pull upon any purse of ordinary capacity;

and Mr. Tucker was of an essentially generous nature. He had many

relatives, many friends, and the demands upon his purse were numerous. On

a certain occasion he gave away about _one-quarter of his whole capital_,

a sum amounting to several thousands of pounds, to help a relative in a

great emergency. One who met him immediately afterwards spoke of his

appearing to have suddenly grown into an old man.

In Charlotte’s earlier years anxiety as to money matters was often

experienced; and recurring Christmastides saw a repeated difficulty in

making both ends meet. This state of things continued up till about the

year 1837, when an unlooked-for legacy was left to Mr. Tucker, as a

token of great esteem, by a friend, Mr. Brough. Besides the main legacy

to Mr. and Mrs. Tucker, the sum of two hundred pounds came to each of

the children, and was treated as a ‘nest-egg’ for each. From this date

serious pressure ceased, and Mr. Tucker became able to meet the various

calls upon him; not indeed without care and economy, but without a

perpetual weight of uneasiness. Some few years later another friend, Mr.

Maclew, left another legacy in the same kind and unexpected manner.

These facts serve to explain the paucity of masters when Charlotte was

young. But the sisters bravely accepted the condition of things, and

worked hard to make up for any disadvantages. One distinct gain in such

a home education was that at least they were free to develop each in her

own natural lines, instead of being all trimmed as far as possible into

one shape.

Charlotte’s ‘lines’ were many in number.

She had a marked talent for drawing, and could take likenesses of her

friends; good as regarded the salient features, though apt to grow into

more of caricatures than the young artist intended. Musical gifts also

were hers, including an almost painfully sensitive ear. Though her voice

was never really very good, she sang much; and while well able to take a

second at sight, she was in after years equally ready to undertake any

other part in a glee, inclusive of the bass, which often fell to her

share when a man’s voice happened to be lacking.

A gift for teaching showed itself early; and as a child she would try

to impress geographical facts upon her younger brothers and sisters

by an original system of her own. In the Park Crescent Gardens, near

Portland Place,--their playground; described by one friend in those days

as a “jungle,” because of its unkempt condition,--she would name one bed

England, another France, another Germany, and so on, and would thus fix

in the children’s minds their various positions, though the shapes and

sizes of the beds were by no means always what they ought to have been.

That the mode of instruction was effective is evident from the fact that

her brother, Mr. St. George Tucker, can recall the lessons still, after

the lapse of fifty years, and can say, ‘By that means I learnt that

England was in the north-west corner of Europe.’

Another direction in which she excelled was that of dancing. Even in

walking she possessed a peculiarly springy step, remarked by all who knew

her; and this in dancing was a great advantage. She was at home alike in

the dignified minuet and in the active _gavotte_, and she would perform

the _pas de basque_ with much spirit. Indeed dancing was an exercise in

which she found immense enjoyment through half a century of life.

At home Charlotte was a leader in the games, herself flowing over with

fun and frolic. Her fertile imagination left her never at a loss for

schemes of amusement. Naturally eager, impulsive, vehement, she had from

beginning to end an extraordinary amount of energy, and in childhood her

vigour must have been almost untirable.

One can imagine how the house echoed with the gay voices and laughter

of the young people, as they pursued their various games, led by the

indefatigable Charlotte. Mr. Tucker loved the sound of those merry

voices; and when he could join them he was probably the merriest of the

whole party. At one period, heavy and long-continued work in ‘clearing

up the finances’ of the East India Company kept him much apart from the

family circle; and the delight was great when he could leave his big dry

books, and be as a boy among the children again.

Bella, the elder girl, was pretty and of gracious manners, with dark

eyes, and with a capacity for dressing herself well upon the very

moderate allowance which her father was able to bestow. Fanny, the next

sister, though not at all handsome, had also soft dark eyes, and a

peculiarly sweet disposition; and she too dressed nicely. It was commonly

said amongst themselves that Fanny was ‘the gentle sister,’ and that

Charlotte was ‘the clever heroic sister.’ But Charlotte was not gifted

with the art of dressing well.

In those early days, and for many a year afterwards, it would not appear

that gentleness or sweetness were characteristics belonging to Charlotte.

They were of far later growth, developing only under long pressure of

loss and trial. In her childhood and girlhood, though doubtless she

_could_ be both winning and tender to the few whom she intensely loved,

yet it was impossible to describe her generally by any such adjectives.

She was chiefly remarkable for her spring and energy, her originality and

cleverness, her wild spirits, and her lofty determination. With all her

liveliness, however, she was in no sense a madcap, being thoroughly a

lady.

In appearance Charlotte was never good-looking; and in girlhood she could

not have been pretty; though there was always an indescribable charm in

the vivid life and the ever-varying expression of her face.

One friend remembers hearing her tell a story of her young days, bearing

upon this question of personal appearance. With a mirror and a hand-glass

she examined her own face, the profile as well as the full face, and

evidently she was not satisfied with the result. A wise resolution

followed. Since she ‘could never be pretty,’ she determined that she

‘would try to be good, and to do all the good in the world that she

could.’ It was a resolve well carried out.

This sounds like a curious echo of an early experience of her father.

When a boy of about ten, he caught smallpox, and ‘came forth,’ as he

related of himself long after, ‘most wofully disfigured.... “Well,”

observed one of my aunts, “you have now, Henry, lost all your good looks,

and you have nothing for it but to make yourself agreeable by your

manners and accomplishments.” Here was cold comfort; but the words made

an impression upon my mind, and may possibly have had some influence on

my future life.’

And much the same thought is reproduced in Charlotte Tucker’s own clever

and amusing little book, _My Neighbour’s Shoes_,--when, as Archie gazes

into the mirror, he says of himself, ‘One thing is evident; as I can’t be

admired for my beauty, I must make myself liked in some other way. I’ll

be a jolly good-natured little soul.’

In girlish days it may have been a prominent idea with Charlotte. By

nature she not only was impulsive, but she no doubt inherited some

measure of her great-grandfather Bruere’s irascible temper; and the

amount of self-control speedily developed by one of so impetuous a

temperament is remarkable. High principle had sway at a very early age;

but this thought, that her lack of good looks might be compensated for

by good humour and kindness to others, may also have been a motive of

considerable power in the formation of her character.

It must be added that not all thought so ill of her looks as Charlotte

herself did. An artist of repute, who saw her in the later days of her

Indian career, has said unhesitatingly, in reply to a query on this

subject,--‘Plain! No! A face with such a look of intellect as Miss

Tucker’s could never be plain.’ If matters were thus in old age, the same

might surely have been said when she was young. But beauty of feature she

did not possess.

In addition to her other gifts, Charlotte had something at least of

dramatic power, and in her own home-circle she was a spirited actress.

Mr. Tucker’s published volume of plays and enigmas has been already

named. Both _Harold_ and _Camoens_ were acted by the young folk of the

family, with the rest of their number for audience. It is uncertain

whether any outside friends were admitted on these occasions.

In the second play Charlotte took the part of the heroine, Theodora;

and her brother, St. George, took the part of Ferdinand. Camoens, the

hero, is betrayed to the Inquisition by Theodora; the betrayal being

caused by a fit of fierce jealousy on the part of Theodora, who loves,

and is apparently loved by, Camoens. The jealousy has some foundation,

since Camoens decides to marry, not Theodora but Clara. Theodora in her

wrath is helped by another lover, Ferdinand, to carry out her plot, and

together they bring a false charge against Ferdinand, who is speedily

landed in the dungeons of the Inquisition. Theodora then, finding that

Clara does not love Camoens, and repenting too late her deed, goes mad

with remorse. Camoens is after all set at liberty, none the worse for

his imprisonment; but the distracted Theodora, meeting her other lover

and her companion in evil-doing, Ferdinand, attacks him vehemently, with

these words--

‘THEOD. Ha! Ferdinand!

Thou hast recalled a name!

It brings some dreadful recollections.

’Twas he who basely did betray my husband.

Go, wretched man! bring back the murdered Camoens!

Go, make thy peace. (_She stabs him._)

BIAN. Oh! help!

FERD. I bless the hand that gave the wound.

Thou hast redeemed me from a deadly sin,

Or mortal suffering.

Farewell, beloved unhappy Theodora.

Guard her, ye pitying angels!

THEOD. Where am I?

What have I done?

I have some strange impression of a dream--

A fearful dream of death.

Young Ferdinand, who loved me!

Dead--dead--and by this desperate hand!’

After which Clara enters, and Theodora dies, completing the tragedy. One

can picture the force and energy with which Charlotte would have poured

forth her reproaches upon the head of Ferdinand, before giving him the

fatal stab.

It may have been somewhere about this time--it was at all events before

the year 1842--that Charlotte had once a scientific fit, and for several

weeks threw herself with ardour into the study of Chemistry. At intervals

in her life a marked interest is shown in certain scientific facts or

subjects; sufficient, perhaps, to indicate that, had the bent been

cultivated, she might possibly have shown some measure of power in that

direction also. Books on Natural History always proved an attraction to

her; and many little Natural History facts come incidentally into her

correspondence, sometimes given from her own observation. In later years

she even wrote two or three little books for children on semi-scientific

subjects,--not without making mistakes, from the common error of trusting

to old instead of to new authorities. But the early influences with which

she was surrounded were not of a kind to call forth this tendency, if

indeed it existed in any but a very slight degree. Her Father’s bent was

strongly poetical and classical; and probably his influence over her mind

in girlhood was stronger than any other. The poetic and the scientific

may, and sometimes do, exist side by side; but the combination is not

very usual.

A great event of Charlotte’s young days was the fancy-dress ball given

by her parents in the spring of 1835. The Duke of Wellington himself was

present; prominent still in the minds of men as the Deliverer of Europe,

only twenty years earlier, from a tyrant’s thraldom. All the young

Tuckers, not to speak of their parents, were ardent admirers of the Duke.

Laura, still a mere child, in her enthusiasm slipped close up behind,

when the Duke was ascending the stairs, and gently abstracted a fallen

hair from the shoulder of the hero, which hair she preserved ever after

among her choicest treasures; and Charlotte was no whit behind Laura in

this devotion.

At the ball Frances made her appearance dressed as Queen

Elizabeth,--‘very neat and very stately,’--while Charlotte represented

‘the star of the morning,’ in a dress of pure muslin, full and well

starched, so nicely made and so beautifully white that the impression of

it lasts still in the mind of a brother, after the lapse of more than

half a century. The prettiness of her dress on that particular occasion

was no doubt accentuated by the fact that in general Charlotte did _not_

attire herself becomingly; and also by the fact of another young lady

being present as a second ‘star of the morning.’ For the other ‘star’

had hired a dress for the evening; a muslin dress, which was by no means

white, but dingy and tumbled. In contrast, Charlotte’s pure whiteness,

relieved by a star upon her forehead, drew much attention. Since she was

then only a girl of about fourteen, it appears that a close distinction

was not drawn in those days, as in these, between girls ‘out’ and girls

‘not out.’ Her brother, St. George, a boy of twelve or thirteen, was

also present, wearing a Highland costume.

The hero of the day appeared in evening dress, according to the then

fashion, with a star on his breast. Frances, in her queenly apparel,

presented him with a bag which contained a Commission to defend

England,--a business which, one is disposed to think, he had already

pretty well accomplished! The Duke received this offering graciously; and

a day or two later the following playful letter arrived from him to Mr.

Tucker:--

‘STRATHFIELDSAYE.

_Ap. 26, 1835._

‘MY DEAR SIR,--When Queen Elizabeth gave me that beautiful

bag on Friday night, I was not aware that it contained a

Letter Patent which I prize highly; and for which I ought to

have returned my grateful acknowledgment at the time it was

delivered.

‘I beg you to present my thanks; and to express my hopes that

her Majesty continued to enjoy the pleasures of the evening;

and that she has not been fatigued by them.

‘Ever, my dear Sir,

‘Your most faithful humble servant,

(Signed) ‘WELLINGTON.

‘H. St. George Tucker, Esq., etc.’

The delight and enthusiasm amongst the young people, aroused by this

letter, may be imagined. It seems to have come later into the possession

of Charlotte; and when she went to India it was presented by her to her

sister Laura,--the envelope which contained it having in Charlotte’s

handwriting the following inscription:--

‘_What I consider one of my most valuable possessions, and therefore send

to my beloved Laura, to whom it will recall past days._’

CHAPTER III

A.D. 1835-1848

EARLY WRITINGS

One after another the brothers of Charlotte went out to India. Henry

Carre, the eldest, well known in Indian story, had left in 1831, when she

was only ten years old; and in 1835 her particular companion, Robert,

went also. He was a tall, handsome young fellow; and though only eighteen

years old, he had already done well in his studies. At Haileybury his

remarkable abilities won him the admiration of the Professors; and at his

last examination for the Civil Service he signalised himself by actually

carrying off _four_ gold medals.

Among other gifts he had a keen touch of satire, and a power of easy

versification. Some of the early verses preserved show considerable

power, and are very spirited as well as amusing. A main feature of his

character was, however, his intense earnestness. He was of the same stern

and heroic cast of mind as Charlotte herself; with perhaps less fun and

sparkle to lighten the sternness. Like her, he was markedly self-reliant,

and was never known to lean upon the opinion of others.

With all Charlotte’s gaiety and merriment, her delight in dancing and

acting, and her love of games, there was a stern side, even in those

early days, to her girlish nature; and in this respect she and Robert

were well suited the one to the other. She was, as one says who knew her

well, ‘a born heroine’; indeed, both she and Robert were of the stuff of

which in former centuries martyrs have been made.

At what date Charlotte first began to think seriously upon religious

questions it is not possible to say. Probably at a very early age.

Underlying her high spirits was a stratum of deep thought; and strong

principle seems almost from the beginning to have held control over her

life. One of her brothers speaks of her as ‘always religious.’ She may

have thought and may have felt to any extent, without expression in words

of what she thought or felt. The innate reticence, which veiled so much

of herself from others, would naturally in early years extend itself to

matters of religion. Later in life reserve broke down in that direction;

but silence in girlhood was no proof whatever of indifference.

An undated letter to her niece, Miss Laura Veronica Tucker, written in

middle life, gives us something of a clue here.

‘I am much interested in hearing from your dear Mother that you

are so soon to take upon you the vows made for you in Baptism,

and I wish specially to remember you, my love, in prayer on the

18th.

‘To-morrow, too, you attain the age of fifteen.... I was about

your age, dear Laura, when the feeling of being His--of indeed

having the Saviour as _my own_ Saviour, came upon me like a

flood of daylight. I was so happy! This was a little time

before my Confirmation. Though I have often often done wrong

since, and shed many many tears, I have never _quite_ lost the

light shed on me then, and now it brightens all the future,

so that I can scarcely say that I have any care as regards

myself--the Lord will take care of me in advancing age--in

the last sickness--in what is called death, (it is only its

shadow).’

To the majority of people religious conviction and experience come as

daylight comes; not in one sudden burst, but gradually, heralded by grey

dawn, slowly unfolding into brightness. Brought up as Charlotte was

in an atmosphere of kindness, of gentleness, of unselfish thought for

others, of generosity, of high principle, and of most real religion,

albeit not much talked about, she would naturally imbibe the latter

almost unconsciously, and as naturally would say little. The spiritual

life, begun early in her, would expand and develop year by year, as fresh

influences came, each in turn helping to shape the young ardent nature.

She was essentially independent; one who would of necessity think

questions out for herself, and form her own opinions; and when an

opinion was once formed, she would act in accordance with that opinion,

fearlessly and conscientiously. All this came as a logical result of what

she was in herself. But the very independence was of gradual growth; and

side by side with it existed always a spirit of beautiful and reverent

submission to her Father and Mother.

Although she never published anything during her Father’s

lifetime--whether because she was slow to recognise her own capabilities,

or because he failed to encourage the idea, does not distinctly

appear,--her pen was often busy. A small magazine or serial in

manuscript, for family use, was early started among the brothers and

sisters, and to this, as might be expected, Charlotte was a frequent

contributor.

She also wrote several plays, following in her Father’s footsteps; and

some of these are extant, not _written_ but exquisitely printed by her

own hand. She was indeed an adept at such printing, as at many other

things; and one amusing story is told anent this particular gift. About

1840, when her brother St. George was at Haileybury College, the latter

wrote an essay, which was copied for him by Charlotte in small printed

characters. Whereupon a rumour went through the College that one of

the competitors had actually had his essay printed for the occasion.

Inquiries were made; and the ‘printed copy’ was discovered to be the

essay of Mr. St. George Tucker.

The earliest in date of these unpublished plays, composed for the

entertainment of the home-circle, appears to have been _The Iron Mask_;

achieved in 1839, when Charlotte was about eighteen years old. It was

‘Dedicated, with the fondest esteem and affection, to her beloved Father,

Henry St. George Tucker, to whom she is indebted for the outline of the

characters and plot, by the Author, Charlotte Maria Tucker.’ By which

Dedication may be plainly seen that Mr. Tucker encouraged his daughter’s

literary bent, so far as actual writing went, though he does not seem

to have helped her into print. The Preface to this early work is quaint

enough to be worth quoting. The young Author had evidently studied Miss

Edgeworth’s style.

‘I cannot pretend to offer that most common excuse of

Authors that their works have been written in great haste

and consequently under great disadvantages. I have been a

considerable time about my little performance, and its defects

are not owing to want of care or attention on my part.

‘I once had thoughts of myself writing a Critique on _The Iron

Mask_, to show that I am sensible of its faults, though I do

not think I have _the power_ to remove at least all of them.

But I have dropped the idea, and am determined to leave them to

be found out, or perhaps overlooked, by the eye of partiality

and affection.’

The play is, of course, historical, and is of considerable length. One

short quotation may be given as a specimen of her girlish powers, taken

from Scene II.

‘_Apartment in the Castle of Chateaurouge: a grated window seen in

the background._

The Iron Mask.

‘The glorious Sun hath reached the farthest west,

And clouds transparent tipt with living fire

Hang o’er his glory, bright’ning to the close.

Now gently-falling dews refresh the earth,

And pensive Silence, hand in hand with Night,

Already claims her reign.

Another day

Has past! another weary weary day,

And I am so much nearer to my grave!

Oh that I could, like yon broad setting Sun,

For one day tread the path of Liberty,

For one day shine a blessing to my Country,

Then, like him, set in glory!

Still come they not?--then Chateaurouge deceived me!

He said e’er sunset that they must be here,

And I have watched from the first blush of morn,

Before the lark his cheerful matins sung,

Before the glorious traveller of the skies

Had with one ray of gold illumed the east,

And still they come not!--’Tis in vain to watch,

They will not come to-night!--my sinking heart

For one day more must sicken in suspense.’

The writing of the play as a whole is unequal,--what girl of eighteen is

not unequal?--but in these lines,as well as elsewhere, there are tokens

of genuine power, alike poetical and dramatic.

Next came, in the year 1840, _The Fatal Vow; a Tragedy in Three Acts_;

on the title-page of which is found a dedication--‘To Jane Tucker; the

Mother who in the bloom of youth and beauty devoted herself to her

children, and whose tender care can never by them be repaid.’ The play

was written in less than two months; its scene being laid in Arabia,

while the characters are of Arabian nationality. It is an ambitious and

spirited effort for a girl under twenty.

Two years later she wrote another, _The Pretender; a Farce in Two Acts_;

respectfully dedicated to ‘Fair Isabella, the Flower of the East.’ This

witty and amusing little farce shall be given entire in the next chapter,

as a fair example of what she was able to accomplish at the age of

twenty-one. It also shows conclusively her love of fun, and the manner in

which she delighted in any play upon words.

In 1842, the same year which saw her produce _The Pretender_, her brother

St. George went out to India; and two years later a paper of extracts

from different letters, in her handwriting, records the sister’s loving

pride in the warm opinions sent home about that brother. Also the same

paper contains an account of an affair in which he was engaged; but the

said account not being correct in all details, I give it in different

words.

In 1844, one year and a quarter after the arrival of Mr. St. George

Tucker in India, he volunteered to assist his joint magistrate, Mr.

Robert Thornhill, to capture the celebrated dacoit,[2] Khansah. Upon

the receipt of further orders from his chief magistrate, Mr. Thornhill

decided not to make the attempt. Mr. Tucker, however, having volunteered,

thought it was his duty to go; and go he did, accompanied by a

Thannadar,[3] four horsemen, and some Burkandahs. On a January morning,

in early dawn, they reached the village in which the dacoit leader,

Khansah, was supposed to be concealed; and after many inquiries they

induced an alarmed little native boy to point out silently which hut

sheltered Khansah.

Leaving the horsemen and the Burkandahs outside, Mr. Tucker and the

Thannadar went into the courtyard of the house. In the darkness of the

entry to one of the huts stood Khansah, holding a loaded blunderbuss. At

first he was unperceived; but suddenly the Thannadar exclaimed, ‘There

he is!’ and as Mr. Tucker turned to the right, Khansah fired off the

blunderbuss. The Thannadar dropped dead; and Mr. Tucker’s right arm

fell helpless, from a wound in the shoulder. He climbed quickly over

the low walls of a roofless hut, then turned about, and with his left

hand steadying the right hand on the top of the outer wall, he fired his

pistol at the dacoit,--and missed him. Mr. Tucker then went round the

back of the hut to a tree which stood near the entrance; and shortly

afterward Khansah came out, calling--‘Kill the Sahib!’ A struggle

followed between Khansah and one of the native police, which lasted some

three or four minutes. Then Khansah, having apparently had enough, made

away on the Thannadar’s pony; and Mr. Tucker, regaining his own horse,

rode back to the station, accompanied by the Burkandahs and horsemen, who

had carefully kept in the background when most needed, but whose courage

returned so soon as the peril was over.

Eighteen months later an offer was made by Government of ten thousand

rupees to any one who should give up Khansah,--the dacoit being a very

notorious robber and murderer. His own relatives responded promptly

to this appeal, and Khansah speedily found himself in durance vile.

Mr. Tucker failed to identify the man in Court; but other evidence was

forthcoming, and Khansah, being convicted, was hung. Charlotte, when

noting down particulars of the above stirring episode, observes: ‘We

cannot feel too thankful to a merciful God for my precious George’s

preservation.’ The brief account which she copied out from the letter

of a friend in India ends with these words: ‘My husband tells me he

(Mr. Tucker) acted with great spirit, and showed much cool, determined

courage, and deserved great credit; but from being almost a stranger

to the habits of this country, he failed in his attempt to capture the

dacoit.’

Another paper of copied extracts has a particular interest, because it

seems to show, even then, a dawning sense in the mind of Charlotte Tucker

of the needs of heathen and semi-heathen lands. The sheet is dated 1844;

and the passages are selected from a book of the day, called _Savage

Life and Scenes_. But probably at that period nothing was further from

her dreams than that she herself would ever go out as a missionary to the

East.

The following undated letters belong to the years 1846-7. A little

sentence in the first, as to the solution of Mr. Tucker’s enigma, is very

characteristic of one who through life was always peculiarly ready to

give praise to others.

TO MISS D. LAURA TUCKER.

‘How sweet, good, and kind you are! I hardly know how to thank

you and dearest Mother for _such_ notes as I have received from

both, but I truly feel your kindness at my heart....

‘My eye is exceedingly improved. Such a fuss has been made

about it here by my affectionate Fannies, that one might

suppose that, like your friend Polyphemus, I had but one eye,

and that as rudely treated as was his by Ulysses.

‘We think that the solution of my noble Father’s enigma is

“Glass” or “Mirror.” Fanny was the first to imagine this. As

for going to Gresford the 3rd of next month, I do not wish to

be one of the party at all, at all! I calculate that Robin

will then have been on the waves 76 days; and though I do not

expect him till October, the S---- _may_ be a fast sailer, and

fast sailers _have_ accomplished the whole voyage in about that

time, I believe. I drink the port wine which Papa brought down,

which I hope may serve instead of bark.’

TO MISS SIBELLA J. TUCKER.

‘Having concluded my reading of old Russell, how can I do

better than employ the interval before the arrival of the

Indian letters in sitting down and writing to my fair absent

sister? Colonel Sykes let me know last night that Robin would

not come by _this_ mail, which was, he says, only from Bombay,

so that letters being all we must expect before Saturday

fortnight, you need not hurry home on account of Robin’s return.

‘Now doubtless you would like to hear a little how the world in

Portland Place has been going on since your fair countenance

disappeared from our horizon. In the first place _all_ the

three Misses ---- are coming. A comical party we shall have!

There has been no letter from Lord Metcalfe yet, that I know

of. We had a very nice evening yesterday. I wish that yours

may have been equally agreeable. The beginning was by no means

the worst part of it. I dressed early, and while Mamma and

Fanny were upstairs, Charlie and I enjoyed quite a stream of

melody from my dear Father, who sang us more than twenty songs,

most of which I had never heard before. I wonder that he did

not sing his throat quite dry, particularly after a Wednesday’s

work. I must now write Lautie an account of the Ball.’

TO MISS D. L. TUCKER.

‘Well, dearest Lautie, we had a nice Ball last night. There

were the Vukeels of S----, with their dark intelligent

countenances, Colonel Sykes, your friend, who is really

becoming quite a friend of mine, and honest, handsome Sir Henry

Pottinger, the very look of whom does one good. I chatted with

both the latter amusing gentlemen, and heard from Sir Henry a

circumstantial account of his attack of gout, when, he said:

“I felt as though I could have roared like a bull.” Sir Henry

thinks that ladies should have a glass of champagne after

_every_ dance, quadrille, waltz, or polka! “You would see,”

said he, “if my plan were followed, how many ladies would

come.” ... Papa has had applications for cadetships from Lord

Jocelyn and H---- T----. I suppose that in both cases it will

be, “I wish you may get it!”’

TO THE SAME.

‘We have had such an amusing breakfast. Lord Glenelg was here.

And he and Mamma have been making us laugh so,--he with his

quiet jokes, and dear Mamma with her _naïveté_. Mamma very

freely criticised Sir R. Peel’s and Lord John Russell’s manner

of speaking, to the great amusement of our guest, who threw out

a hint that he might inform, and that Mamma had compromised

herself. “It would be rather awkward,” he observed, “if I

were to sit beside Sir Robert this evening,[4] after what

has passed”; and when he heard that Sir Robert was not to be

present, he hinted that Mamma was in the same danger in regard

to Lord John Russell. “But if I tell him that he opens his

mouth too wide,” said Lord Glenelg, “he may think I mean that

he eats too much!”

‘I am sure that our guest enjoyed his morning’s gossip, and it

gave us all a merry commencement to what I hope may be a very

enjoyable though rather anxious day. Tudor is to take luncheon

with us, so we have amusement provided for that meal also;

and what a business it will be in the evening! Such a phalanx

of ladies as dear Mother is to head. The Misses Cotton, two

Misses Galloway, two Misses Shepherd, Miss Kensington, and our

three selves, all to set off from No. 3! It will look like a

nocturnal wedding.

‘I have just come in from paying a round of visits, with a card

of admission in my hand.... My hand trembles with the heat, for

it is warm walking at this hour, and I always walk fast when I

walk in the streets alone. I look forward with much pleasure

to the evening’s entertainment. I only wish that you and dear

Bella could enjoy it too; but I hope that _your_ dinner in

September may afford you as much gratification as this would

have done....

‘We ... went to Mrs. Bellasis’ Ball last night. Mamma and I

thought it a nice one, but ---- considered it very dull. The

Eastwicks were not there, but your friend, Colonel Sykes,

appeared, with his stern bandit-like countenance. He so reminds

me of you! His fair lady and sons were also there.... Sir de Lacy

and Lady Evans, the Hinxmans and Galloways were also at the

Ball.

‘How are the dear little Robins? I hope that we may soon have

them with us again. Pray give them plenty of kisses from Auntie

Charlotte.... I hope dear Robin got home comfortably.’

Some of the above-mentioned names were of men well and widely known. Lord

Metcalfe, at one time Acting Governor-General of India, was a wise and

most courteous Indian statesman, whose life has been written by Sir John

Kaye. Colonel Sykes was one year Chairman of the Court of Directors. Sir

Henry Pottinger was a famous diplomatist. Lord Glenelg, living near, was

often in and out, and loved to have a cup of tea at hospitable No. 3.

The habit of the family at this time, while spending the main part of the

year at Portland Place, was to go to some country place in the summer,

for several weeks, sometimes renting a house where they could stay all

together, sometimes breaking into smaller parties. In 1846 they were at

Herne Bay; in 1847 at Gresford; in 1848 at Dover and Walmer. While at

Walmer they were a good deal thrown with the Duke of Wellington, and the

former acquaintanceship ripened into more of intimacy. Before deciding on

Walmer, two or three of the party went to Dover, and they had a somewhat

perilous voyage thither, to which the following letter makes allusion:--

TO MISS D. LAURA TUCKER.

‘I hope that you will all write us very affectionate letters

of congratulation on our escape from the waves. How talented

it was in Mamma to manage to send us letters so soon! We had

no idea of hearing from home by 6 o’clock on Monday morning.

We are all quite well. I was not well yesterday morning,--I

imagine from the effects of our adventure; but I am, like the

rest of our dear party, quite well to-day.

‘We are to set out in a pony-chaise for Walmer, to see about a

house. Papa is to drive, and I have no doubt but that we shall

have a delightful little excursion.

‘The immense cliff is a great objection to Dover. Unless we

undergo the great fatigue of getting up it, we should be quite

prisoners. Walmer is _much_ flatter. We are anxious to hear

what has become of the poor _Emerald_. She landed us here on

Saturday morning, and proceeded on her perilous journey at

about five in the afternoon. Papa saw the carpenter’s wife,

who told him that the leak could not be got at because of the

coals, that they would not get to Boulogne, but must return

in two hours. The poor woman’s husband was in the vessel. She

said that her eyes were tired with looking at the steamer, but

philosophically observed that those who are doomed to sup salt

water must sup it. The _Emerald_ has _not_ returned, however.

It is probable that she has put in to some other port. I should

like to hear about her fate. I should feel for our kind sailor.

‘My darling Papa has rather taken fright at Mamma’s letter. He

fears that she is not well, that she has been hysterical at the

thought of our danger, and seems anxious to go up to London

himself, in order to assist her and see about her. Fanny and I

expostulate. He is the best of husbands and fathers. I hope,

however, that dearest Mamma is _not_ unwell, and that the

sea-air may do her good and strengthen her. Another objection

to Dover is that the voyage is likely to be rougher to it than

to Walmer. Walmer is not situated so near that terrible South

Foreland.... This is Papa’s opinion, but we cannot decide till we

see Walmer.’

Further particulars of the adventure alluded to are unfortunately not

forthcoming.

CHAPTER IV

A FARCE OF GIRLISH DAYS

THE PRETENDER;

A FARCE IN TWO ACTS; by CHARLOTTE MARIA TUCKER.

_Characters_:--

COLONEL STUMPLEY.

CHARLES.

DARESBY.

CORPORAL CATCHUP.

WEASEL--A Butler.

O’SHANNON--A Soldier.

MRS. JUDITH RATTLETON.

MISS SOPHIA RATTLETON.

MISS BARBARA RATTLETON.

MISS HORATIA RATTLETON.

_Scene laid in Northumberland, in and near the house of Mrs. Judith._

ACT I.

SCENE I.

THE HIGHROAD BEFORE MRS. JUDITH’S HOUSE.

_Enter CHARLES._

CHARLES. A cold, wet, and misty evening, and above all to one

whose pockets are not lined! My foolish fancy for the Stage has

brought me to a declining stage, if not a stage of decline.

Heigh ho! how dark it is getting! Just the sort of place to meet

with a ghost of Hamlet, not the sort of hamlet that I’m looking

after, for I have done with theatrical effects,--I wish that

I had done with the effects of cold. How dark and gloomy that

church steeple looks over the trees! I’m close to a churchyard,

I suppose. And--ey! ey! what on earth are those white things

upon the grass? Clothes put out to dry; what an ass I was not to

see that before! but fasting makes one nervous. There’s a house.

How cheerful the lights look in it! I hear the sound of a piano

going. There must be ladies there, and ladies are ever good and

kind. What if I were to try my fortune at the door? My poor

namesake Prince Charlie must have put wanderers into fashion.

Northumberland is near enough to Scotland to have imbibed a

little of its spirit of romance. Poor Prince! we are fellows in

misfortune as we were partners in ambition. We both sought to

play the King, I on the boards, he in Britain; but his frea-king

and my moc-king are both changed to aching on the moors, and a

skul-king too, which makes us as thin as skeletons. I’ll try and

muster up courage for a knock. [_Knocks._]

I should not look the worse for a new coat, I think. My

knee-ribbons are bleached quite pale with the wind and the rain.

_Mais n’importe!_ the man, the man remains the same! These locks

have proved the keys to a Lady’s heart e’er now; and then wit

and eloquence! When I was flogged at school for affirming that

a furbelow must be an article, as I knew it to be an article of

dress, my Master observed that all my brains lay at the root of

my tongue; and the best position for them too, say I! Who would

keep a prompter to bellow to one from the top of the Monument,

and where’s the use of carrying one’s brains so high, that one

must send a carrier pigeon express for one’s thoughts before one

can express them at all? Better have wit to cover ignorance,

than silence to conceal sense. One can’t squint into a man’s

head to see what it contains. Here comes a light to the door:

now for the encounter.

_WEASEL opens the door._

Is Mrs. [_coughs_] at home? Pray present my compliments to her,

and say that a gentleman who has lost his way entreats the

favour of shelter for a night under her hospitable roof.

WEASEL. Shall I take up your name, Sir?

CHARLES. No, Sir, you may take up my words. [_Exit WEASEL._]

Had the fellow been a Constable he might have taken me up

also, for in this apparel I look more like a highwayman than a

gentleman in a highway. How very cold it is! I wish that the

triangular-nosed fellow would make haste; and yet my heart

misgives me. I must ‘screw my courage to the sticking point!’

Impudence, impudence is my passport! I hear him shuffling

downstairs. Be hardy, bold, and resolute, my heart.

_WEASEL opens the door._

WEASEL. Sir, my Mistress begs you to walk up.

CHARLES. Go on, go on, I’ll follow thee! [_Exeunt._]

SCENE II.

THE PARLOUR OF MRS. JUDITH’S HOUSE.

_CHARLES. MRS. JUDITH. THE MISSES SOPHIA, BARBARA, and HORATIA

RATTLETON._

CHARLES. For all this unmerited kindness, most kind and fair

ladies, a lonely wanderer can only return you thanks.

[_The young Ladies whisper together._]

SOPHIA. Handsome, isn’t he?

HORATIA. Such a flow of eloquence, such a command of language.

BARBARA. I wonder, Ratty, who he is.

MRS. JUD. Do you come from the North, Sir?

CHARLES. I have spent the last few months there, Madam, though I

was not born in Scotland. They were unfortunate months to me. I

came to England on my Company’s being broken up.

HORATIA. Your Company! did you serve King George?

CHARLES. No, Miss, I tried to serve myself.

HORATIA. [_Aside to Barbara._] Strange, is it not?

SOPHIA. Why was your company broken up?

CHARLES. Because we were not able to raise a Sovereign amongst

us. We were sadly cut up.

HORATIA. [_Eagerly._] By the Dragoons?

CHARLES. [_Laughing._] Do not inquire too closely, fair Lady.

MRS. JUD. May I ask your name, Sir?

CHARLES. Charles Stu-- [_Aside._] Ass that I am!

MRS. JUD. I beg your pardon, Sir, I did not hear you.

CHARLES. [_Aside._] The first word that comes! [_Aloud._]

Dapple, Madam, Dapple. [_Aside._] I might have hit on a more

romantic name, but my brain seems in a whirl.

HORATIA. It is a very curious study to trace the derivations....

MRS. JUD. Any way related to the Dapples of....

SOPHIA. Down, Adonis, down! your dirty little paws....

HORATIA. One would suppose them sometimes prophetical of future

events. Who can deny that Hanover....

BARBARA. Our family name of....

HORATIA. [_Raising her voice._] Who can deny that Hanover has a

great resemblance to Hand-over, or that Cumberland is as just a

denomination for the bloody Duke as if....

SOPHIA. Pretty little pet he is, is he not?

BARBARA. Our family name of Rattleton is said to be derived from

a famous Ancestor of ours, a chief of the ancient Britons....

MRS. JUD. My Cousin by the Mother’s side....

BARBARA. Whose head being cleft from his shoulders as he was

driving his chariot into the thickest of....

MRS. JUD. The family of the Goslings....

HORATIA. Also passionately fond of Heraldry....

BARBARA. His spirit seemed unconquered even by the blow which

decapitated him, and he drove on....

HORATIA. A Lion rampant over 6 grasshoppers....

BARBARA. Whence our name of Rattle-ton or Rattle-on is said to

be derived.

CHARLES. [_Aside._] This is beyond endurance. They stun me. What

a nest of parrots I am in! I cannot get in a word.

HORATIA. Thus, Sir, your name of ... I beg your pardon, Sir, it

has slipped my memory.

CHARLES. [_Aside._] Hang me, if it has not fairly bolted from

mine!

MRS. JUD. Mr. Charles Dapple.

CHARLES. [_Aside._] I’ll change the conversation. [_To

Horatia._] You seem much devoted, Miss, to scientific pursuits.

HORATIA. O, they are my delight, my recreation! Ornithology,

Mythology, Geology, Conchology, fascinate me. I was first given

my taste for the higher branches of these intellectual sciences

by....

SOPHIA. Mr. Dapple, have you remarked my pretty little....

HORATIA. My Uncle in the Scilly Isles, whose mind....

SOPHIA. Have you remarked....

HORATIA. A profound genius....

SOPHIA. My little poodle, Adonis?

HORATIA. By-the-by, Mr. Dapple, may I ask your opinion on a much

disputed point, where I venture to differ even from my Uncle?

What do you think of the Aerolites?

CHARLES. [_Turning to Sophia._] A sweet little dog, indeed: what

fine eyes!

HORATIA. Do you think them....

CHARLES. The little pink ribbon round its neck is so becoming.

HORATIA. [_Raising her voice._] Mr. Dapple, Mr. Dapple, do you

think the Aerolites....

CHARLES. [_Aside._] Help me, my mother-wits!

HORATIA. Do you agree in the generally received opinion....

CHARLES. [_Aside._] Some political party perhaps!

HORATIA. Or do you think them....

CHARLES. Why, ma’am, I think--I--I am decidedly of

opinion--that--that--the....

HORATIA. The Aerolites....

CHARLES. Are nothing more or less than Jacobites.

ALL THE LADIES. Jacobites!

HORATIA. Why, Sir, I always thought them a sort of stone....

CHARLES. Stone-fruit, true, true; I spoke without thinking.

Stone-fruit, a species of--of--apricots.

BARBARA. Hark, there is a knock at the door. Peep through the

shutters, Ratty, and see who it is.

CHARLES. [_Aside._] A little diversion for me. I am growing so

hot. Silence to cover sense would in this case....

HORATIA. ’Tis old Colonel Stumply.

CHARLES. [_Starting up._] Colonel Stumply! I’m dished.

THE LADIES. Why--what--who----

CHARLES. Perhaps you will permit me, ladies, to retire. I feel

indisposed--faint! [_Exit._]

MRS. JUD. I must go and welcome my old friend. [_Exit._]

HORATIA. Bab!

BARBARA. Ratty!

HORATIA. What a flash of electricity has burst on my intellect!

SOPHIA. His noble air; his wan features....

HORATIA. A fugitive....

SOPHIA. A wanderer....

HORATIA. His sudden alarm....

SOPHIA. [_Rushing into her arms._] O Ratty, Ratty, what a day!

what an honour! what a surprise!

BARBARA. How now, what’s the matter?

HORATIA. Brain of adamant! could not instinct direct you to the

feet of your adored Prince?

BARBARA. The Prince! Is it possible?

SOPHIA. Charlie! Charlie! O! what a moment!

HORATIA. Did you not hear him describe the ruin of his army....

SOPHIA. Did you not hear ‘Charles Stew--’ upon his noble

tongue....

HORATIA. How he started when he recollected himself....

SOPHIA. And O, how exquisitely pathetic, how touchingly

appropriate, the name he gave instead! Dapple; to signify how

his fortunes are chequered--Dapple....

BARBARA. How the Jacobites were running in his head when he

even....

SOPHIA. Little reason had he to fear us. If Daresby had been

here....

BARBARA. And this vile Colonel: no wonder he started off!

SOPHIA. What shall we do to get rid of him?

HORATIA. All that woman ever attempted I am ready to perform.

SOPHIA. I would die for him.

BARBARA. And I too.

SOPHIA. The handsome, brave, dear, darling young Prince! And to

think that Daresby’s a Whig!

_Enter MRS. JUDITH and COL. STUMPLY._

COL. Good evening, young Ladies, good evening. I have just

returned from the North, where we are everywhere triumphant, and

our laurels should ensure us a welcome from beauty. ‘None but

the brave, none but the brave deserve the fair,’ you know. Hey,

Miss Sophy?

SOPHIA. [_Aside._] Monster!

HORATIA. [_Aside._] Traitor!

BARBARA. [_Aside._] Butcher!

COL. What, all silent and aghast? I shall begin to fear myself

unwelcome. Hey, Mrs. Judith? But my Regiment is quartered for

the night in the village, and I was sure that I might throw

myself on the hospitality of an old friend.

MRS. JUD. We are delighted to see you.

COL. Is your little room unoccupied to-night?

MRS. JUD. To tell the truth there is a young....

HORATIA. [_Aside._] I could beat her! [_Aloud._] It is quite

unoccupied, Sir, except--except in this cold weather we keep the

pigs there.

COL. The pigs!

MRS. JUD. Why, Ratty....

HORATIA. Oh, it is not fit to receive you, Sir. The chimney

tumbled in during the last gale....

MRS. JUD. Why, Ratty....

HORATIA. And every pane of glass is broken.

SOPHIA. [_Aside to Barbara._] O Bab, such lying can never

thrive.

MRS. JUD. What strange non....

HORATIA. [_Aside._] How on earth can I stop her tongue?

[_Aloud._] Aunt, Aunt, is there any supper prepared for the

Colonel?

COL. Anything; anything; the cold ride has sharpened my

appetite; but a good blaze like this cheers the heart, and gives

me courage to face even the pigs, Miss Ratty!

MRS. JUD. The pigs! why....

HORATIA. Would you like to see that everything is comfortable

yourself, Aunt? [_Aside._] I am in a fever!

COL. Turn out the pigs, hey, Mrs. Judith?

MRS. JUD. If I ever....

HORATIA. Go, dear Aunt, precious Aunt, do go.

SOPHIA. A nice little dish of your own making would be so

acceptable.

BARBARA. We’ll take care of the Colonel.

MRS. JUD. I cannot com--pre--hend--I---- [_The girls half lead,

half push her out._]

COL. You will excuse me, young ladies; I always make a point of

looking after my horse myself. [_Exit._]

HORATIA. [_Sinking on a chair._] I am exhausted. Stupid sticks,

why did you not assist me?

SOPHIA. I tried, but....

BARBARA. What shall we do now?

SOPHIA. My heart beats so, I shall expire.

BARBARA. The Colonel will stay in spite of the pigs.

SOPHIA. Where can we hide the Prince?

HORATIA. [_Starting up._] A thought has struck me.

SOPHIA. What, what?

HORATIA. You shall hear--it has been done before. You will aid

me in the execution of it.

SOPHIA. [_Throwing herself into her arms._] O my Ratty!

HORATIA. We will save him.

BARBARA. We will, we will!

HORATIA. Or perish with him.

SOPHIA. We will.

HORATIA. Come, come, no time is to be lost; let us fly to his

succour.

‘Come weal, come woe,

We’ll gather and go,

And live or die wi’ Charlie!’

SCENE III.

A CHURCHYARD BY MOONLIGHT.

_Enter CHARLES, SOPHIA, BARBARA, and HORATIA._

CHARLES. Where on earth are you taking me?

SOPHIA. To safety, to safety.

BARBARA. We know all.

CHARLES. You know all?

HORATIA. Your name, your situation....

CHARLES. Then you must know that the coming of the Colonel is

hangably inconvenient to me.

SOPHIA. We tremble at your danger.

HORATIA. We will defend you with our lives.

CHARLES. Excessively kind, but it is not quite come to that yet.

A kick or a caning....

SOPHIA. You make us shudder.

CHARLES. But I do not like promenading at this hour in winter!

Is it a country fashion? I am very cold, and tired, and sleepy,

and I would rather retire to rest.

HORATIA. Here then we have arrived at the spot. Descend, and you

will find a bed prepared for you.

CHARLES. Descend! why, hang me if it isn’t a vault!

SOPHIA. If it would please you to descend....

CHARLES. Please me, you barbarous witches! would it please any

one to be buried alive? What on earth do you mean?

BARBARA. The only way to preserve your rights....

CHARLES. Rites, do you call these rites? They are very inhuman

rites. Anything but the rites of hospitality. To offer a

stranger the shelter of your roof, and then make his bed in a

vault! This is your spare-room, is it? If I had guessed what you

meant to do with your guest, I would not have troubled you with

my company.

HORATIA. O, for your Country’s sake....

CHARLES. My Country’s sake! what good can it do my Country? I

know your motives, you scientific Monster! you want to make a

petrifaction of me.

HORATIA. Is it possible that a treatment so....

CHARLES. A treat meant is it? If you mean it for a treat, I

assure you that I do not consider it as one. You may go in

yourself and enjoy it.

BARBARA. So short a space ...

CHARLES. A very short space I can see, and a very narrow space

too. I’ll be hanged if I get into it!

HORATIA. Who could have expected opposition from such a quarter?

SOPHIA. Can the Hero shrink from so small a trial of his

constancy? Oh, descend, descend, and we will admire....

CHARLES. Add mire, you cruel wretches! is there not enough at

the bottom already?

HORATIA. We would preserve you.

CHARLES. Didn’t I say so? Some inhuman experiment! But I’ll not

be preserved to please you, not I.

SOPHIA. [_Throwing herself at his feet._] O noblest of men!

doubt not our fidelity! yield to our agonized entreaties!

[_The others kneel._]

CHARLES. Yield, indeed! I beg you will rise, fair Ladies. I

know not if you are jesting; ’tis but a cold jest to me. As for

entering that vault, you may kill me before you bury me, for

while I’m alive I’ll not go, Ladies; I say I will not go.

HORATIA. Then we must leave him to his fate.

CHARLES. Leave me, leave me, all alone in a churchyard. Ladies,

ladies, for pity’s sake....

HORATIA. I am beside myself.

CHARLES. Remain then beside me. Or rather, why cannot we return

to the house? I am half frozen with cold and ... and excitement!

BARBARA. You forget the Colonel.

CHARLES. The Colonel. O, is that all? Can’t you hide me in some

quiet corner?

HORATIA. I have it! the storeroom.

BARBARA. But if a search should be made?

CHARLES. Search! who’ll search? The storeroom is the very place.

Come, come, the air is piercing; come.

BARBARA. This way; by the kitchen door.

CHARLES. Once more into the house, dear friends, once more.

[_Exit._]

HORATIA. Is this the Prince? the Hero?

SOPHIA. O Ratty! our duty remains the same! [_Exeunt._]

ACT II.

SCENE I.

THE PARLOUR.

COLONEL STUMPLY. WEASEL.

COL. Good-morrow, Weasel. An old campaigner, you see, learns to

be an early riser.

WEASEL. I wish your honour a good morning. I hope you found your

room comfortable.

COL. Most comfortable. No traces of the pigs, ha, ha! none the

worse for the chimney-top; ha, ha, ha! That Comet has a tail, I

guess. Well, Weasel, how has all gone on these two years, since

I last found myself at Rattleton Hermitage? Hey?

WEASEL. Much the same as usual, your honour. Our only varieties

are Dr. Daresby and the rheumatics; till last night when....

COL. The girls--the young Ladies seem much grown, much improved.

WEASEL. O, for the matter of that, yes, though Miss Ratty’s

sadly taken up with the books, d’ye see. She’s poring all

day long over a lot of different sorts of learnings; I don’t

remember their names, but they all ends in _oddity_. Then she’s

an out and out Jacobite, and thumps the piano when she sings

‘Charlie is my darling,’ as though she took it for a Whig.

Indeed, your honour, last night....

COL. And Miss Barbara?

WEASEL. She’s quiet like, Sir. She’s never off her chair

stitching away. They says, your honour, that she makes holes on

purpose to sew them up again, d’ye see?

COL. Sophy--Miss Rattleton is a charming girl.

WEASEL. Ah, so thinks some one else. Did your honour ever see

young Dr. Daresby?

COL. No, what of him?

WEASEL. O, nothing, Sir. But they walks alone together, and

sings duets together, and he gave her the little poodle, and

they says, your honour, d’ye see....

COL. Yes, yes, I understand.

WEASEL. She always feeds that fat little dog herself, your

honour. She gives it slices of bread and strawberry jam. But

she’s a good young Lady, Sir. Often I sees her going to the

cottages with her little pink bag filled with the good things

which Mrs. Judith makes. (I knows that from Mrs. Marjory who

has to wash out the grease-spots every day for Miss Sophy.) And

there she goes mincing along with her long veil hanging behind,

and her little poodle running on before her. But may I make bold

to ask how Master Stumply is? He was a very little boy when....

COL. Not a word of him, Weasel, not a word of him! He’s a

wayward ... don’t speak of him! folly and indiscretion have been

his bane.

WEASEL. [_Shaking his head._] There’s some others I know seem

running the same road.

COL. How? Who?

WEASEL. O, it is not for me to say, your honour.

COL. Speak; explain yourself.

WEASEL. I dare say ’twas all a frolic, your honour, but there

were odd doings here yesterday.

COL. Tell me, tell me.

WEASEL. [_Mysteriously._] Perhaps as an old friend of the Family

your honour ought to know all, and such a rum affair....

COL. Go on, go on.

WEASEL. Well then, your honour, yesterday was a cold evening,

d’ye see, and as I was stirring the kitchen fire there comes a

knock, and I goes to the door, your honour.

COL. Well.

WEASEL. There stands a tall, genteel-like lad with a ragged

coat. And he would give me no name, but he said he was a

Wanderer, and asked for a night’s lodging. So Mrs. Judith, who

never can refuse any one, ordered the spare bed to be got ready

for him.

COL. So I turned him out, hey, Weasel? There’s the secret of the

pigs; but why this mystery?

WEASEL. Mystery, Sir, ay, that’s the word; but if your honour

was to hear what followed!

COL. What? where did they put him?

WEASEL. [_Lowering his voice._] When it was night, your honour,

what sees I through the chink of the kitchen door in the passage

but the three young Ladies lugging along a great bundle, and

stopping and panting and puffing? So says I, I’ll see to the

bottom of this, so I pops out suddenly and says, ‘Can I help

you, Misses?’ quite civil like. But O Sir, how Miss Sophy

trembled and turned as white as a lily, and Miss Ratty stamped

and sent me to the village--at that hour, your honour, company

in the house--the ground covered with frost--I subject to the

rheumatics--and what for, d’ye think? to get her twopenceworth

of shoe-ribbon, your honour; and when I brought it, would you

believe it?--she roared out that it was too narrow and sent me

back again.

COL. Most strange! most unaccountable! Have you any guess what

was in the bundle?

WEASEL. I winked at it, your honour. There was a mattress and

blankets, I’m sure.

COL. For the Stranger, I suppose. But this mystery! I cannot

understand it. Where could they be going?

WEASEL. To the churchyard, I thinks.

COL. The churchyard!

WEASEL. Why, your honour, they certainly did not go into the

kitchen, and the back-door leads straight across the yard to the

Church, and the vault would be no bad hiding-place, your honour.

Miss Ratty has hid there herself, I knows, when the dentist was

here.

COL. Have you no other clue? What an extraordinary affair!

WEASEL. Why, Sir--your honour, last night Mrs. Marjory overheard

Miss Ratty whispering Miss Sophy, and she said, Sir....

COL. What? speak out!

WEASEL. ‘As long as the Colonel remains here the Prince must

keep concealed.’

COL. [_Springing up._] The Prince! ha, ha! I smell a rat! the

Pretender! the Pretender! if there was ever such luck, such

fortune! Hang me if I could not--but there’s not an instant to

be lost. Fly, Weasel, to the village. Bid Corporal Catchup and

a dozen stout fellows be with me directly. Fly, I say, and if

it be all as I hope, I’ll cram you with gold till you choke.

Begone! Fly! [_Exit WEASEL._] Thirty thousand pounds and a

baronetship! Sir Stephen Stumply! Ah, if that wayward boy--the

Pretender! the Pretender! he’s in a net, in a net, and I’ll be

hanged if I let him out of it. [_Exit._]

SCENE II.

THE DRAWING-ROOM.

_Enter HORATIA._

HORATIA. What a sleepless night I have passed, what anxiety,

what excitement! and yet how unlike is he to what I had

imagined! so timid, so petulant! and that perpetual punning! It

matters not, however,--his title to our services remains the

same! A strange misgiving is on my soul; is it the shadow of

approaching danger, or only the fear of it? The Colonel gave me

a strange meaning look as he passed me this morning, and said,

‘You are early up, Miss Ratty; I fear that your rest was broken

last night.’ Can he suspect anything? That sneaking wretch,

Weasel! Hark, I hear the Colonel’s step and a strange voice.

I’ll conceal myself behind this screen. Perhaps....

_Enter COLONEL STUMPLY and CORPORAL CATCHUP._

COL. Plant two stout fellows at the front door, and half a dozen

in the garden. Place them so that there shall be no possibility

of escape either from the house or the churchyard adjoining.

COR. I will, Sir.

HORATIA. [_Aside._] Horror and despair!

COL. Yourself and four of your best men go and search the open

vault at the right-hand corner of the churchyard, and on your

lives let not your prisoner escape. Go, plant your Sentinels,

and then to your business. [_Exit CORPORAL CATCHUP._] I will go

and superintend myself. [_Exit._]

HORATIA. Day of horror and misery! All is lost. All is

discovered. If I but knew of one who could divert the attention

of these wretches till the Prince escaped! If I ...

_Enter DARESBY._

Daresby! He’s a Whig! but I’ll make him my tool.

DARESBY. Good morning, I came thus early....

HORATIA. [_Speaking very fast._] You are so welcome--you came

just a moment ...

DARESBY. My Sophy! nothing is the matter with her?

HORATIA. O no. It’s a poor soldier--got the cholera--lying in

the vault ...

DARESBY. In a vault!

HORATIA. Run, run, dearest Daresby, or you will be too late.

DARESBY. What do you mean? Explain yourself.

HORATIA. The cholera, I say--in the vault--O! you put me in a

fever. For my sake, for Sophy’s--O run, fly!

DARESBY. Whatever can you ...

HORATIA. Go, or I shall run wild! You know the way, go!

DARESBY. If I can be of any use to the poor sufferer. [_Exit._]

HORATIA. O, what a relief! he’s gone! I should never survive

another day of such excitement. If they once suppose that their

object is gained and the Prince caught, the sentinels will be

removed from the garden, and he can escape through the window.

If the deception can be carried on for one half-hour he may

be saved. I must go and put my sisters on their guard, and

prepare the Prince for flight. If Aunt Judith or Weasel see

and recognise Daresby all is lost. I wish I could lock them

both up. What a labyrinth I am in! The greatest comfort is that

the Colonel is a blockhead, and would not know a prince from a

pancake! [_Exit._]

SCENE III.

THE STORE-ROOM.

CHARLES. Something better than a vault this, methinks. I could

not have found a hiding-place more to my mind. Excellent

cherry-brandy she makes, this Mrs. Judith. I have entered half a

dozen professions since I entered this room; it will be hard if

I do not make my fortune out of one of them. I am an Historian,

for I have been discussing old dates; a Merchant, for I add plum

to plum; a Lawyer, for I have opened many a case; a Lord Mayor,

for the mace is before me; and a Navigator, for I am led to

seize and gulf! What if I were to stay here altogether, or set

up a new company with my fair hostesses? Miss Ratty is cut out

for a tragedy Queen. Such passion! such emphasis! [_Mimicking._]

‘That my keen knife see not the wound it makes’--but the puzzle

is that they are all ladies; not one to take a gentleman’s part.

It is a shame in me to say so, for I am sure that they have

taken mine. My only hope would be in Weasel. That fellow has

such a desperate squint, that I am sure he would make a capital

Lear!

_Enter HORATIA._

HORATIA. Fly! fly! while yet there is a moment’s respite.

CHARLES. Fly! and wherefore?

HORATIA. Rouse all the ancient courage of your race ...

CHARLES. There can be no courage in a race, for a race is

running away.

HORATIA. Let the spirit of your Ancestors glow in your bosom,

for the hour of danger is come.

CHARLES. ‘I dare do all that may become a man’ ...

HORATIA. Does this trifling become a man and a hero?

CHARLES. I know of but one thing, fair Ratty, that can become a

man and a hero.

HORATIA. What is that?

CHARLES. A boy, to be sure!

HORATIA. Enough, enough of this perpetual play of words. We

must think, we must act. Another is now taking your place at the

vault ...

CHARLES. My place! how excessively obliging!

HORATIA. Every moment is invaluable. Put on this dress of my

Aunt’s which I have brought for you, and fly, fly, while the

deception lasts!

CHARLES. The brandy must have got into my head.

HORATIA. Put it on, I entreat you, if not for your own or your

Country’s sake, yet for your noble Father’s.

CHARLES. My Father’s! Either you or I ... Why, what’s the matter

with him? Is he in the farce too?

HORATIA. [_Aside._] He is the worse for liquor! O horrible!

and at such a moment! [_Aloud._] The soldiers are here--sent

to seize you--to drag you to a dungeon, perhaps an ignominious

death.

CHARLES. [_Alarmed._] And why? what have I done?

HORATIA. I heard the orders given. One hour’s delay will lead

you to the scaffold.

CHARLES. The scaffold!

HORATIA. The block.

CHARLES. The block! why, what is my crime? Why does not my

Father come to my assistance?

HORATIA. Your Father cannot--he is exiled from his native land.

Were he to appear, he must perish too.

CHARLES. Have you hid him? have you hid him?

HORATIA. [_Aside._] Horridly drunk! [_Aloud._] Put on this dress

and fly. It is your only chance of life.

CHARLES. You have put me into a shiver. I cannot half believe,

nor a quarter comprehend you.

HORATIA. Believe then these tears, this agony of apprehension in

which you see me. This moment the soldiers may be mounting the

staircase--cutting off all hope ...

CHARLES. Give me the slip then, and I will give them the slip!

quick, quick, and the cloak and hood.

HORATIA. Here, here! O despatch! while you remain here I tread

on hot iron.

CHARLES. I am to personate your Aunt.

HORATIA. Yes, yes, any one, but make haste.

CHARLES. So, I’m equipped. Farewell, Lady!

HORATIA. Pull the hood over your face. O farewell! [_Exit

CHARLES._]

HORATIA. One hour more of excitement, and then ... [_Exit._]

SCENE IV.

THE CHURCHYARD.

_Enter CORPORAL CATCHUP and Soldiers._

CORP. Silence! Silence! halt! advance bending down and with your

bayonets presented. Comrades, this is a glorious day, and if we

catch the Pretender we shall have little cause to grieve that we

arrived a day too late for the Battle of Culloden. What were the

deeds of the Duke of Cumberland to ours? He but wounded the fox,

we catch him by the nose. We shall be made Aldermen, every man

of us. Take ground behind those bushes; keep silence. I hear a

voice in the vault. On your lives be silent--be steady!

DARESBY. [_In the vault._] I can find no one, yet here is a

bed prepared. What a strange place to make an hospital of!

[_Emerging from the vault._] Perhaps the poor fellow has got

frightened and delirious ...

CORP. Stand!

DARESBY. Ah, here is my Patient. So you have got the cholera, my

Friend!

CORP. No, unless that’s one of your titles. Surrender or die!

DARESBY. He must be in a high fever! Be calm, my good man, I

will render you all the assistance in my power.

CORP. You will, will you?

DARESBY. Come with me to the house, come. This is no place for a

person in your state.

CORP. Well, if this arn’t droll! he’s trying to humbug me.

DARESBY. You may catch your death of cold.

CORP. I’ll catch nothing but you. Come along, Sir, offer no

resistance, for it’s of no use. I’m sorry for you, but I’ve a

duty to perform, and a reward to get.

DARESBY. What do you mean, fellow? Stand off!

CORP. Ho! guards there! [_DARESBY is surrounded._]

DARESBY. This is some error. By whose warrant do you dare to

apprehend one of his Majesty’s subjects?

CORP. No use in all that deception, Sir: all’s discovered now.

DARESBY. What’s discovered, fellow, what deception? Who dares

use such terms to me! You shall answer for your conduct, Sir;

this shall not be passed over, I’ll warrant you.

CORP. I hope not, Sir.

DARESBY. This is not to be endured. By whose orders do you

presume to place me under arrest?

CORP. We are under the orders of Colonel Stumply.

DARESBY. I must see the Colonel instantly. He shall give me

an explanation of this extraordinary affair. Take me to him

directly.

CORP. All in good time, Sir. Stickum, have you handcuffs with

you?

DARESBY. Handcuffs, villain!

STICKUM. No.

CORP. Keep your hand on his collar, then. Soldiers, present

bayonets. Let him attempt to escape, and he dies.

DARESBY. With what effrontery ...

CORP. Move on, Sir, if you please. [_To the Soldiers._]

Keep your eye on him. If he but raise his hand or turn his

head--fire! [_Exeunt._]

SCENE V.

THE GARDEN GATE.

O’SHANNON.

O’SHAN. A could, misty, morning, and I am left here to keep

watch without a drop of the cratur to cheer my heart or keep my

spirits from sinking. There’s all the rest of them gone to catch

the Pretender and get the prize-money, and it’s nothing that I’m

likely to catch here but a cold. I wish that I had never left

the tallow business, that I do, for all this murthering work. It

was a lucky chance that we were a day too late for the fair at

Culloden; it’s no fancy I have for the Highlanders’ dirks. Awful

slashing work they made, ’tis said. Well-a-day! I must shoulder

my gun; if the Corporal found me standing at ease, he would

order me a round dozen: there’s no fear of it’s going off for

its own accord, the cratur, for I forgot to load it this morning.

_Enter CHARLES in disguise._

CHARLES. [_Aside._] And there is a Sentry! Horatia was right!

But what they should want to arrest either me or my Father for

is more than I can comprehend! This is really nervous work. I

fear that I shall find it as difficult to pass this fellow as

I found it at school to parse a sentence from my grammar-book.

Notwithstanding the dress with which Ratty provided me, I shall

need all the address of which I am master to get through this

scrape should he address me. I must put on an air of confidence.

Perhaps he may let me pass without question.

O’SHAN. A black morning, Ma’am.

CHARLES. [_Attempting to slip past._] Did you ever see mourning

any other colour?

O’SHAN. Can’t pass here, Ma’am.

CHARLES. No! and why?

O’SHAN. ‘Cause I am posted here to keep a good watch.

CHARLES. [_Attempting to pass again._] Easier to keep a good

watch than to get one!

O’SHAN. I have orders to let no one pass.

CHARLES. O but, my good fellow, I have very important business.

You must let me go.

O’SHAN. Keep back, Ma’am. Now I thinks on’t, your hood looks

rather suspicious.

CHARLES. [_Retreating a step._] Does it? A sort of robbin’ hood,

I suppose. [_Aside._] I wish the fellow were at Jericho.

O’SHAN. And that dress was never made for you? Let me see a

little closer. [_Advancing._]

CHARLES. [_Retreating. Aside._] Shall I run for my life?

O’SHAN. Stop, stop, my good Lady! Methinks your dress is

uncommon short, too, it hardly reaches to the clocks of your

stockings.

CHARLES. Mind your watch, and leave my clocks alone. [_Aside._]

O dear! O dear! If I were but once fairly off! [_Attempts to

run._]

O’SHAN. Stop, or I’ll shoot ye! I’ll send a bullet through your

head if ye stir an inch farther.

CHARLES. [_Aside._] I’m done for!

O’SHAN. [_Aside._] I’ll make sure. [_Suddenly darts towards

Charles and pulls back his hood._] Hillo! hillo! I’ve caught

him! I’ve caught him, ’tis the man himself.

CHARLES. [_Aside._] One struggle for life. [_Aloud._] Beware,

fellow, I have arms. [_Aside._] None but what nature gave me.

O’SHAN. [_Retreating a step. Aside._] Murther! and the gun is

not loaded!

CHARLES. [_Aside._] I’ve staggered him! [_Aloud._] Lay but a

finger on me and I’ll lay you with the dust.

O’SHAN. Keep off, or I’ll shoot ye.

CHARLES. [_Retreating._] A fig for your gun!

O’SHAN. [_Aside. Retreating._] I wish some one would come. I’ve

heard he’s a raal hero. I’ll call for help. Holloa! there.

CHARLES. Hold your peace, or I’ll cut you piece-meal.

O’SHAN. I’ll blow your brains out, I will! [_Aside._] He can’t

guess that it’s not loaded.

CHARLES. [_Aside._] If he should fire!

O’SHAN. [_Aside._] If he should fight! My poor Mother; och, if

she could see me now, ’twould pit her into high-strikes. Is no

one coming to help me?

CHARLES. [_Aside._] If I could but touch his kinder feelings! I

have been accustomed to steal hearts, but I fear that I should

find his steeled already. I must make one more effort to steal

past him. But the sight of his matchlock makes my blood run cold.

O’SHAN. Och! he’s coming nearer. O for pity’s sake ...

CHARLES. If mercy ever touched your bosom ...

_Enter CORPORAL CATCHUP._

O’SHAN. Catch him! catch him! ’tis he, the Pretender! catch him,

Corporal! collar him! never fear!

CORP. Who? the old woman?

O’SHAN. Catch him, I say, and never be frightened for him, man.

I found him out.

CHARLES. So--all is lost.

CORP. A man in disguise! it must be he. Bind him, O’Shannon.

This is a prize indeed.

O’SHAN. Ah, poor gintleman, your troubles will soon be pit an

end to. Ah! ye may well sigh, for no man laughs on his way to

the gallows.

CHARLES. The gallows! is it possible that so inhuman a murder

can be contemplated?

O’SHAN. O ye may be satisfied of it! There’s only one thing

that’s doubtful, I’m thinking.

CHARLES. What’s that?

O’SHAN. Whether they’ll stick your head on the Lord Mayor’s mace

before or after they’ve hung you!

CHARLES. O horrible, horrible, most horrible! It cannot, O

it cannot be! What a dreadful, what a fearful fate! O that

the first step I took from my Father’s home had been into a

horse-pond! that I had died e’er I left it!

O’SHAN. Ay, there’s the pity! Had ye stayed peaceably at home,

this would never have happened to ye.

CHARLES. The gallows! can it be?

O’SHAN. Ah, how all the Ladies will pity ye! such a likely lad,

and so young, and ...

CHARLES. Silence! you distract me.

O’SHAN. Poor gintleman! when it comes to the pinch, when the

rope ...

CORP. No more, O’Shannon! You have secured his arms. Bring him

speedily along with you. No delay!

CHARLES. My limbs can scarcely support me! O day of agony, of

misery, and despair! [_Exeunt._]

SCENE VI.

THE PARLOUR.

COLONEL STUMPLY.

COL. [_Rubbing his hands._] Caught! caught! This is indeed a

good day’s work.

_Enter SOPHIA, BARBARA, and HORATIA._

COL. Ah! ha! my pretty Jacobites, this comes of your plotting.

The Pretender is in safe hands now. Who would have thought you

up to such a conspiracy?

HORATIA. Alas, our unhappy Prince!

SOPHIA. [_Aside to HORATIA._] Poor Daresby! It makes my heart

faint to think of him. I cannot stay to look on.

HORATIA. You must stay to keep him silent. ’Tis but for an hour.

I am ashamed of you. Remember that you have a part to perform.

SOPHY. I cannot say what is not true.

HORATIA. Say nothing, then.

_Enter DARESBY guarded._

DARESBY. [_To the COL._] Sir, I demand an explanation of this

most extraordinary and unjustifiable treatment. Sir, I am a

gentleman and ... [_HORATIA makes earnest signs to him to be

silent._]

COL. You shall be treated, Sir, with all the respect due to your

station, consistent with your safe custody.

DARESBY. Of what am I charged? Who is my accuser? what wretch

dares? [_HORATIA repeats the signs._] What is the meaning of all

this nonsense? Do you wish to make a fool of me? I’ll not endure

this ...

COL. Be calm, Sir, and submit to destiny.

DARESBY. I’ll not submit to such treatment. My name is ...

[_HORATIA in an agony throws herself at his feet, exclaiming_] O

noble man! for the sake of all you love....

DARESBY. Horatia, I am in a dream. Sophy, of you I ask, I

entreat, an explanation. Why am I thus confined? Why do you

stand calmly looking on my disgrace?

SOPHY. Calmly! O Da ... [_Aside._] I cannot restrain my tears.

DARESBY. Are you too my enemy?

SOPHY. Your enemy! O!

DARESBY. [_To the COLONEL._] Are my political opinions

suspected? Am I supposed to be a Ja....

HORATIA. You are known--you are known--to be--to be--to be ...

[_Enter WEASEL._]

HORATIA. [_Springing to SOPHIA’S side._] O Sophy, for pity’s

sake take that creature off, or....

SOPHY. Weasel, Weasel! [_Aside._] What can I say?

WEASEL. What! Dr. Da....

SOPHIA. Weasel, Weasel, will you go directly to the garden and

fetch....

WEASEL. What, Miss?

SOPHIA. Fetch, fetch--some spinach.

WEASEL. Spinach don’t grow in November, Miss, as Dr....

HORATIA. Go to the village directly for....

WEASEL. Can’t go to the village no more, Miss, till I’ve laid

the cloth for breakfast. The Doc....

HORATIA. We must have wine. Go to the cellar.

WEASEL. Haven’t got the keys, Miss. If I might make bold to ask

why....

HORATIA. Begone this instant ... we shall want poultry. Wring

every chicken’s neck in the yard, or I’ll wring yours as sure as

I stand here! [_Exit WEASEL._]

COL. What an extraordinary temper!

DARESBY. Sophy, Sophy, if you are still the ingenuous being

I ever believed you to be, tell me in what farce I am thus

forced to act a part against my will. Tell me the secret of the

conspiracy which seems formed against me. Are you an accessory?

COL. Why, the Ladies have been turning every stone in your

defence! They never let out the secret! As far as they were

concerned you might have remained in your vault until you were

old enough to stay there altogether!

DARESBY. Every sentence that I hear bewilders me yet more. Ratty

Rattleton, Ratty Rattleton, you are at the bottom of the plot.

_Enter MRS. JUDITH._

HORATIA. [_Aside._] Aunt Judy! this is distraction!

MRS. JUD. Young Daresby, my....

HORATIA. Aunt, Aunt....

MRS. JUD. What’s the matter?

HORATIA. The ... [_aside_] at last I seem come to my wits end!

[_Aloud._] The....

DARESBY. Mrs. Judith Rattleton, you are my friend, you will bear

witness....

HORATIA. The most important....

SOPHIA. O dear Aunt....

BARBARA. If you would only hold your tongue!

MRS. JUD. What a racket! what ... why....

DARESBY. Mrs. Judith, I am here charged with....

MRS. JUD. You, Daresby! Why, Colonel, this is....

COL. Not the Prince! Then he is concealed in the house! I see

all; follow me, Guards ... [_SOPHY throws herself at his feet;

HORATIA and BARBARA rush to the door._]

HORATIA. You shall pass over my corpse! I am desperate! [_The

door suddenly opens. Enter CHARLES guarded by O’SHANNON and the

CORPORAL._]

ALL THE YOUNG LADIES. The Prince! horrors! the Prince!

DARESBY. My chum, Charles Stumply!

CHARLES. My Father!

COL. Ah, Scapegrace! dare you present yourself before me? Under

what false and shameful pretences have you entered this house?

O’SHAN. Charles Stumply! hang the fellow, he’s only a man after

all.

DARESBY. I cannot contain my surprise.

MRS. JUD. The ungrateful vagabond! he has stolen my best gown

and hood.

HORATIA. I shall sink to the cellar.

SOPHIA. O Daresby, how comical!

COL. Speak, you scamp! What has induced you to dress yourself

like--a--speak! nor add a falsehood to your other faults and

follies.

CHARLES. My dear Father, I have used no deception except that of

changing my name. I am the deceived, not the deceiver. No one

present is as much surprised at seeing me, as I myself am at

finding myself thus. These fair Ladies kindly and willingly took

me in, and I see that, quite unwittingly, I have taken them in

also! I own that I merit your displeasure, but I will do so no

longer. I have received a lesson which I will not soon forget.

I will no longer run counter to your wishes, but return to the

counter for which you destined me. I have long devoted myself to

a-muse, but now I will learn to obey. I own that I too fondly

sought the giddy cheer of an applauding audience. Romance and

her knights had taken possession of my fancy, but I have found

the nights too cold, and the cheer too indifferent. I return

with humble regret to my loving Sire, and if he will receive me

a-gain, he may perhaps be able to make a-gain of me yet!

COL. Ah, you Rogue, you little merit that I should look at

you again. The Pretender, indeed! so farewell to my dreams of

fortune! I always thought it too good to be true. Ladies, I have

to beg a thousand pardons for my rudeness in breaking in....

CHARLES. I must bear that blame, my Father. Had I not broken

out, you would not have broken in.

HORATIA. Deceiving Wretch! could I for a moment....

CHARLES. No anger, fair Miss Ratty, we had enough of this

indignation at the brink of the vault, when you were near

falling out with me because I would not fall in with your ideas,

and fall into the vault.

DARESBY. Ah, Sophy, how you treated me!

SOPHIA. I thought it my duty, dearest.

DARESBY. I can pardon you anything; but that deceiving Ratty,

whose word I can never again believe....

CHARLES. No more of that, Daresby. The farce is ended, the mists

of mistake are clearing up, the reign of Folly must fall, let

not Anger survive its cause!

Now that we have ended all this War of Words,

And fall to drawing corks instead of swords,

Now the Pretender may his Captors mock,

And view with glee a match without the lock,

Let each resentful thought and feeling cease,

And General Harmony conclude the Piece!

CHAPTER V

A.D. 1847-1849

HOME LIFE

In 1847 a new interest entered the life of Charlotte Tucker. The three

little ones of her brother Robert and his wife,--Louis, Charley, and

Letitia,--came to live at No. 3, and were made her especial charge. All

of them, but particularly the pretty little dark-eyed Letitia, then only

two years old, were thenceforward as her own; first in her thoughts,

and among the first in her love. She taught them, trained them, devoted

herself to them; and their names will often be found in her letters. The

death of Letitia, nearly twenty years later, was one of the heaviest

sorrows she ever had to endure. One is disposed to think that the care

and responsibility of three little ones, undertaken in the midst of a

full and busy family life, and in addition to all the duties of that

life, could have been no sinecure, and must have been fraught with many a

difficulty.

The Tuckers were much in society, as may indeed have been already

gathered. Mr. Tucker was a man greatly sought after, alike on account of

his position and influence, and because of his personal attractiveness.

Open house was kept; and the large circle of friends and acquaintances

never failed to find a welcome. So many indeed would drop in and out,

that three lunches in succession were occasionally known to take place

at No. 3; and so frequent were the ‘parties’ to which the family was

invited, that sometimes they would appear at three different houses

in the course of one evening. ‘Party’ in those days was a wide term,

embracing divers kinds of entertainment, from a simple musical gathering

to a large ball.

Dinner-parties also were numerous. In reference to these, Charlotte

Tucker wrote rather drolly to her sister late in life, speaking

of--‘those formal affairs, which you and I remember in our earlier

days. We _must_ ask So-and-so; and how shall we find gentlemen to

counterbalance Mrs. and Miss out of one house? Slow concerns those great

dinner-parties were; a kind of social duty, which cost much trouble and

expense, and gave not much pleasure. A kind of very stiff jelly, with not

many strawberries in it.’

An amusing story is told about these large dinners. In those days

the custom of ‘drinking healths’ had gained sway to an absurd and

objectionable extent; gentlemen being expected to respond to every toast,

and not only to sip their wine, but very often to empty their glasses,

under pain of giving serious offence. Mr. Tucker always had by his side

a decanter of toast and water, from which his glass was filled for the

various toasts; and probably those not in the secret counted him a

marvellously hard-headed man. One day a guest requested leave to taste

this especial wine, which was kept for the host alone, supposing it to

be of some very rare and choice vintage. His request was immediately

complied with; and the face of the _bon-vivant_ may be imagined when he

discovered himself to be drinking toast-and-water.

No doubt these dinners _were_ a ‘social duty’; and no doubt some of them

may have been extremely dull. Yet it must not be supposed that Charlotte

did not thoroughly enjoy London society, and did not fully appreciate

intercourse with polished and intellectual minds. That which in her

old age would have been a mere weariness to her, was no weariness in

youth and early middle age. One of her brothers remarks: ‘She was very

sociable, lively, and threw her whole heart into the kindly entertaining

of guests of all ages.’ Such powers of entertaining as she possessed

could not but have gone with enjoyment in the use of those powers.

Moreover, the study of different characters, the drawing out of other

people’s thoughts, the gaining of new ideas for herself, must have had

some fascination. And, despite all her kindness, all her readiness to see

the best in everybody, she could not, with her keen sense of humour, have

failed to be a good deal amused with the various foibles and absurdities

which certain people are wont to display, even in the best society, and

when upon their most circumspect behaviour.

Ever merry, and ever making others merry, she could, as one friend

says, ‘keep a whole tableful laughing and talking,’ without difficulty.

In fact, whatever the dinner-parties may have seemed to herself, her

own presence, her bright smile and sparkling conversation, effectually

prevented sensations of dulness on the part of others who were there.

Whether Charlotte ever had what, in the language of fifty or sixty years

ago, was delicately termed a ‘preference’ for anybody, cannot be known.

Her hand was at least once sought in marriage, while she was still a

girl; and some signs seem to have been visible that she was disposed to

‘like’ the gentleman in question. Her parents, however, disapproved of

the match, and it came to nothing. If at any time she really were in

love, it is pretty certain that she never would have revealed the fact

to any mortal being until sure that her ‘preference’ was returned. The

reticence which was so marked a feature in her otherwise frank and open

nature would undoubtedly have had sway in this direction.

Speaking to a friend, long after in old age, she said that in her young

days ‘at home,’ when a certain nameless gentleman was supposed to be

paying his addresses to Fanny, the other sisters were ‘very indignant’

at the idea of any man wishing to break into their sisterly circle. This

probably preceded her own little affair, since Fanny was four years her

senior. The pretty notion of home-life and of the unbroken sisterly

circle had in time to yield before stern facts, as first one sister and

then a second proved faithless to nursery traditions.

Wide as was the circle of family acquaintances, the girls possessed few

intimate outside friends. Mr. Tucker rather discouraged such intimacies,

considering that his five daughters ought to be content with the close

companionship of one another. Charlotte had above all her Laura, whom she

devotedly loved; and so satisfying was this friendship that she probably

cared little for others by comparison.

Mrs. Tucker, in her quiet way, was no less a power in the house than was

her husband. Though less brilliantly gifted, she was very observant,

very quaint, very wise, a most affectionate Mother, intensely loved and

revered by all her children. She had her own peculiar mode of looking

upon things. For instance,--having noticed that girls in an evening

party, glancing at a mirror, were apt to be disquieted to find their

dresses disorganised, she resolved to have no mirrors at all in her

rooms, hoping thereby to secure greater peace of mind among her guests.

It does not seem to have occurred to her, that a vague uneasiness about

the state of their attire might possibly trouble them quite as much as

even an uncomfortable certainty.

Another short story of Mrs. Tucker, showing her quiet, incisive force

of character, may well come in here. She had a very strong objection

to unkind discussion of people behind their backs. On one occasion,

when in the drawing-room of a certain lady, other callers beside

herself were present, and one of the latter rose to leave. No sooner

was the unfortunate lady gone, than the hostess began to speak of her

in disparaging terms. Mrs. Tucker made no immediate observation; but

presently, turning to the hostess, she said mildly, ‘I ought to be

going,--but I really am afraid to do so.’ Much surprised, the other asked

why. ‘Because,’ Mrs. Tucker replied, ‘I am afraid that when I have left

the room you will begin to speak of me as you did just now of Mrs. ----.’

The courteously uttered reproof--a pretty sharp one, however gently

bestowed--was accepted in an equally courteous spirit; and the hostess

earnestly assured her that nothing of the kind should take place.

There is no need to imagine, because Charlotte was gay and bright in

society, that she never knew the meaning of depression. Shadows of loss

and sorrow had not yet begun to fall across her pathway; yet even in

those happy days she must have grasped the meaning of ‘down’ as well as

‘up.’ Rather curiously, she spoke of herself in old age as having been

when young ‘subject to very low spirits’; or more strictly, she said that

she would have been so subject, but for the counteracting influences of

‘religion’ and ‘work,’ the latter arising from the former. High spirits

seldom exist without some tendency to occasional re-action. But certainly

the sense of depression, whenever it may have assailed her, was not

allowed to be a weight upon others in her everyday life.

It was most likely somewhere between 1847 and 1849 that she began to feel

uneasy about going to certain kinds of amusement. Fanny was the first to

dwell upon this subject, and to be unhappy as to exactly what she ought

or ought not to do. Long years after Charlotte Tucker wrote: Sweet Fanny

suffered _much_ from her sensitiveness of conscience’; and the words may

perhaps in part have borne reference to such debatings as these.

Fanny’s gentle, yielding nature went no farther than being troubled. She

did not speak out. But when the same questionings spread to the younger

sister, matters were different. Charlotte was not one who would hesitate

as to action, in the face of her own conscience. To some extent here lies

the gist of the matter. While she could go with a clear and perfectly

easy conscience, able to enjoy herself, and untroubled by doubts, she

probably did so without harm to herself, so long as her life was not

‘given to pleasures,’ that is to say, so long as she did not unduly

_love_ these things, or allow them to occupy a wrong place in her life.

The moment conscience became uneasy, however, there was nothing for her

but to stand still and carefully to consider her next step. For ‘he that

doubteth is condemned if he eat,’ even though the eating may not be

actually and intrinsically evil. Whether or no the things were in their

essence wrong,--and to decide this, each thing would have to be regarded

apart, entirely on its own merits,--they became wrong for Charlotte, so

soon as she could no longer accept them with a free and happy mind. They

became wrong, at least, _unless_ she felt her doubts to be overridden by

the duty of obedience.

Fanny had doubted and hesitated; Charlotte doubted, and did not hesitate.

She went straight to her parents, told them frankly what she felt, and

asked whether she might give up going to such places of entertainment as

caused her uneasiness.

Wisely and generously Mr. and Mrs. Tucker yielded. If it had become a

matter of conscience with her, she might remain at home. Although they

did not view the question in precisely the same light, they would not

make their conscience the rule for her actions, but would leave her free

to be guided by the dictates of her own.

Had they not so responded, had they insisted on having her with them

still wherever they went, Charlotte would have given way. Hers was a high

ideal of filial submission; and though she had reached an age when she

had a right to an independent opinion, yet obedience to them ranked in

her mind before the necessity to decide for herself, in a question where

opinions might so greatly differ. If they desired her to go, she would

go. If the matter were left to herself, she would be on the safe side in

all cases which seemed to her dubious, and would remain at home.

There is little or nothing in her letters of that date bearing on this

subject; but the above seems to have been her manner of regarding it.

While feeling the need to draw for herself some line of demarcation

between things expedient and things inexpedient, she does not appear

to have fallen into the error, so common amongst really earnest and

excellent people, of counting that the line which she rightly drew for

herself must of necessity be the only right line for everybody else. Such

a view leads to many a harsh and un-Christian judgment. What is dangerous

for one may not be perilous for another, who is differently constituted.

What is needless for one may be an absolute duty for another, who is in

quite a different position. Probably Charlotte saw this. It is worth

remarking that, while she kept aloof from many entertainments out of

the house, she never, either then or in later years, refused to join in

home-parties, or failed to do her utmost to entertain the guests. There

was nothing morbid or repellent about the development of her sense of

duty.

TO MISS D. LAURA TUCKER.

‘_July 12, 1848._

‘You are my lovely, loving, and lovable Laura; a Diamond among

gems, and a Rosebud among flowers. Why do you mention so often

the mere handwriting of your letters? Do you think that I see

anything in them but the kindness of her who has, in the midst

of all her engagements, found so much time to devote to me? My

own Mother too--how very good to me she has been! I am grateful

to her for all her most kind endeavours to set my mind quite at

ease on the subject of the poor little Robins....

‘We have taken it into our heads that, what between music and

teaching and writing and visiting, _you_ may have more work on

your hands than may suit your taste. Under this idea, Fanny,

like a dear Quixote as she is, formed a grand plan of rushing

up to town on Thursday by coach with uncle Charlton, who

happened to be coming, and turning you off the music-stool, or

snatching the spelling frame from your delicate hand instanter.

‘But I opposed this double-quick march for several reasons,

which I hope you may think cogent. In the first place, I hope

that you are not _so_ hard-worked that it would be too much

for you for a few days more to go on with only the assistance

of the fair Sibella and Clara. 2ndly, The country seems really

doing sweet Fan good. She told me yesterday that she did not

know when she had felt so well. I too am perfectly well. 3rdly,

I think at your full table on Friday our room would be better

than our company. 4thly, We are engaged to take tea with Mrs.

Edgecombe on that day. 5thly, For Fanny to start off by coach

and me to follow by fly, would appear to me both an extravagant

and extraordinary procedure. So, after all these reasons, I

thought that we had better fix on Saturday for the day of our

departure, until I heard that Aunt _must_ come up to Town on

Monday. She offered to take us up with her, but as it would of

course be more agreeable to her to come with _us_, I think that

we shall find ourselves in dear old Portland Place on Monday

morning.

‘I am so much obliged to dearest Mamma for her kind intention

of taking me to Thalberg’s splendid Concert on Monday. It would

really give me more pleasure if I might present my ticket to

dear Fanny Lanzun, who has been all kindness and attention to

us. You know how we wished that _one_ of our family might hear

Jenny Lind. Now I can hear through your ears; and none of the

Lanzuns have had that treat, you know.’

TO MISS D. L. TUCKER.

‘_Oct. 13, 1848._

‘Many thanks for your last sweet note to me, and kind consent

to fill my place.... I do hope that you may not find teaching

the wearisome task which I sometimes do. Perhaps Aunt Laura

may succeed better in fixing the attention of her little

pupils. At all events, _I_ am grateful to you for undertaking

the trouble. You are dear to a sister’s heart, sweet Laura, and

I hope that you are one of the blessings for which I am _not_

unthankful....

‘I had two delightful games of chess yesterday with my dear

Father.... What an awful state Vienna is in! Is not the murder of

Count Latour dreadful?’

TO THE SAME.

‘_Oct. 10, 1849._

‘Another sweet note from my darling Laura. I am rich in letters

to-day, for I have received three such nice ones.

‘Yesterday evening I spent about an hour at the piano. I did

not, however, sing any of your especial songs. I began one

day--‘The world is so bright’--but my heart and voice failed,

because you were away. However, I daresay that I shall try

again this evening. How it would cut up my music, were you to

go to any great distance, for most of my favourite songs are

yours. How I have enjoyed hearing you sing them.... Farewell,

sweet Laura. I must go and hear my children their lessons. I

hear their little feet and voices above me.’

CHAPTER VI

A.D. 1847-1850

GRAVITY AND FUN

Though verging now on her thirtieth year, Charlotte Tucker was still

unknown to the public as an Author. If the initials A. L. O. E. existed

in her mind as a future possibility, they had at least not yet appeared

upon any printed page.

From time to time, however, her pen was busy; still in the old line

of comic or tragic plays, for home amusement. In 1847 she wrote _The

Castle of Sternalt; a Tragedy in Two Acts_; belonging to the Cavalier

and Roundhead period of England’s history. In that same year she also

accomplished _Grimhaggard Hall; a Farce in Two Acts_--not historical,

but highly comic. After which came apparently a gap of two or three

years; and in 1850 she wrote, _Who Was The Witch? a Drama in Three

Acts_--historical again, belonging to the days of the Saxons and of King

Harold, half comic, half tragic.

It does not appear from these three plays that her gift in the dramatic

line had made any marked advance during the ten years or more which had

elapsed since first she launched out in this direction. Probably an

entirely different mode of life from hers, a less sheltered existence,

a more extensive knowledge of human nature in its countless phases, is

an absolute necessity to such development. There is in them much latent

power, however unequal and undeveloped, whether it be of the grave or

of the sparkling and humorous description. The following quotation from

the _Castle of Sternalt_ will give an idea of her tragic style at that

period. Ravensby, the hero, is a Cavalier, imprisoned and condemned to

death on a false charge of murder.

ACT IV.--SCENE I.

A DUNGEON.

RAVENSBY.

‘Th’ intensity of grief destroys itself.

The torturer beholds his Victim stretched

Unconscious, pain itself o’ercome by pain.

Fate dooms me now to death; last punishment

Which mortal can inflict,--and yet I feel

There’s mercy in the doom. Thus to live on

Were lingering martyrdom; it were to die

By inches, drain my heart’s blood drop by drop.

One flash ends all! O Clara, when my soul

Hath ceased to suffer, can it cease to love?

Methinks, when quitting Earth, ’twill still retain

Her image, who was more than Earth to me!

It is a portion of my being, twined

With every thought and feeling; thou wilt weep,

My Clara; thou canst not believe him false

To faith and friends, who is so true to thee.

Gazing into the uncorrupted depths

Of thy pure feelings, thou wilt judge of mine.

When all denounced me, thou wert still my friend

When all forget, thou wilt remember still!

_Enter AGNES._

AGNES, _aside_.

I ne’er have feared the eye of mortal man,

Why should I shrink from his?

RAV. Who comes to break

The prisoner’s solitude?

AGN. One who would be

The prisoner’s friend.

RAV. I have no friend--save one.

AGN. Can he speak thus who hath so long espoused

The Royal cause, and served that cause so well?

Who, girt with honours, well deserved, hath stood

One in a noble Brotherhood of Fame!

Where are the Cavaliers who fought with thee

In battle, side by side, who with thee shared

The feast, and drained the wine-cup to your King?

Where are they now? what, gone? not one remains,

T’assert thy innocence, or shield thee from

An ignominious death. Friends! out upon them!

They mock the name; it were not thus, if thou

Hadst drawn thy gallant sword with those who wear

No chains but those of Virtue, those who own

No earthly Monarch, and uphold no power

But that of Liberty; whose friendship lasts

Not only when the red wine sparkles high,

And revelry and song profane the night;

If such had been thy comrades and thy friends,

Thou hadst not been forsaken thus.

RAV. No more!

AGN. The gate thou hast defended with thy blood,

To-morrow casts thee forth, led out to die;

And the proud towers coldly will look down

Upon the closing scene; for hearts more hard

And more impregnable decree thy doom.

Thou diest a traitor’s death;--but wert thou _ours_,

Then ev’ry bush around the fatal spot

Should hold an armed defender, ev’ry knoll

Conceal an ambushed friend, and at a word

A wall of steel should bristle round thy breast;

Then swords should clash with swords, and they who came

To shed thy blood lie weltering in their own.

If thou wert ours--and yet thou mayst be ours,----

RAV. Cease, for I know thee, Temptress; words like these

Betray the fair false lips from which they flow.

Thou’rt Agnes, own it,--Gasper Tarlton’s love.

AGN. Agnes I am, not Gasper Tarlton’s love.

The thistledown that floats upon the breeze,

The thorny weed which from my path I spurn,

The insect which I crush beneath my tread,

Are not to me more insignificant,

More worthless--than the Slave whom thou hast named.

RAV. Thank Heaven! then my last doubt melts away;

He yet is true, yet faithful to his King;

My sacrifice will not be made for nought.

Maid, he is honoured in thy hate!

AGN. And thou----

RAV. Leave me.

AGN. To perish!

RAV. Thou canst not defend.

AGN. I could,--yes, I could arm in thy behalf

A thousand gallant hands, might I but say,

‘The injured will on the oppressor turn,

Unite the love of freedom with revenge,

A thousand-fold repay the debt he owes

To your brave confidence; in Ravensby

Ye will destroy a foe and win a friend!’

Could I speak thus----

RAV. Thy sex protects thee, Maid,

Or thou shouldst learn the meed of treason. Hence!

AGN. From other lips such words I had not borne.

Why should I thus urge life upon thee,--why

Seek to preserve thee in thine own despite?

O thou art worthy of a nobler cause;

I see in thee one who can nobly dare,

Firmly resolve, and boldly execute;--

And what a bright career before thee lies----

RAV. A brief one,--from the dungeon to the tomb.

AGN. To die a Traitor in the eyes of men.

RAV. Better than live a villain in my own.

Depart, and leave me to my fate. Away!

AGN. O brave and glorious! I will tempt no more.

My pride is humbled. I have found a soul

That soars beyond mine own. I would not rob

Thy pinion of one plume. I watch thy flight

With kindling emulation. O for power

To follow it, that I above this sphere

Might rise; companion, not unworthy thee!

RAV. A step approaches.

AGN. None must see me here. [_Retires into shade._]

Agnes in the end confesses herself guilty of the crime for which he is

condemned to death;--in time to save his name from lasting disgrace,

though not in time to save his life.

_Who Was The Witch?_ though in parts amusing enough, is hardly so good

as the others. Modern English puns sit oddly upon a background of

pre-mediæval Saxon history. _Grimhaggard Hall_ is perhaps one of A. L.

O. E.’s most comic and laughable _jeux-d’esprit_, over which one can

picture the family as enjoying many a hearty laugh. The perpetual play

upon words, and the almost rollicking fun and nonsense of the whole,

remind one of her earlier effort, _The Pretender_, already given at

length; though the later-written farce is in some respects scarcely equal

to the girlish achievement. Both these plays illustrate well the frisky

and frolicsome side of a character which was in some respects not only

intensely serious, but absolutely stern. Charlotte Tucker’s was truly a

many-sided nature.

Whether at this time she had already begun to write anything in the shape

of children’s story-books does not appear. It is by no means unlikely,

since the date of her first appearance in print was now fast drawing near.

The chief characters in _Grimhaggard Hall_ are--Mr. Cramp; Mr. Scull, an

artist; Mr. Wriggle, a tutor; Miss Cob; and Nellie, daughter of Mr. Cramp.

ACT I.

_Library in Grimhaggard Hall. Nellie and Mr. Wriggle._

NELLIE. O my dear old Tutor, I shall be so sorry to lose you! I

wish that my good Father had kept to his old plan, and instead

of sending Bob to College had kept both you and him here. This

house is so intolerably dull. When you are gone I shall sit

looking at the old stones in the old wall, till I petrify into

one myself. Why, the very spiders’ webs look as though there

were no business doing in them, and not a _fly_ nor even a

_broom_ would call at the door! Heigh-ho!

WRIG. You forget, honoured Madam, the governess, Miss Cob, who

is expected here to-morrow.

NELL. A governess; the horror! then I hear that she is

an oddity; so absent; very learned though, and extremely

well-informed. I am rather old for a governess; I was seventeen

last March. It would have been quite a different thing to have

gone on with my studies here with you and Bob. Do you know

that, without vanity, I consider that I have made amazing

progress during the month that you have been here?

WRIG. In Geography, Madam, for instance. Let me have the honour

of recalling to your oblivious memory that only yesterday you

forgot the situation of Guinea.

NELL. Nonsense! I said that it was on the _Gold_ Coast, and

wished I had it in my own pocket.

WRIG. I have remarked with regret, if you will permit me to say

it, an aversion to consulting the Atlas, which----

NELL. Keep me from you and your atlas! Atlas carried the world,

and you would burden me with the Atlas. I hardly consider

myself competent yet to carry the whole globe on my poor little

shoulders. I should like to know what is the use of knowing the

situation of this place and that place, to one who never has

the satisfaction of seeing any place at all beyond the walls

of our stupid garden. I wish that the cross old gentleman who

bequeathed my father Grimhaggard Hall, had lived to repent it,

that I do! I would rather live in the narrowest lane in the

City than be cooped up here like a toad in a block. I’ve no

fancy to be a Penelope,--stitch, stitch, stitch!

WRIG. Penelope was a distinguished ornament to her sex.

NELL. O dear Tutor, I know that she was a duck of a queen, but

distinguished for nothing but her _web-feat_.

WRIG. The resource of literature remains to you, Madam, which

was never open to her. I would again venture to draw your

attention to the subject of Geography.

NELL. O no more of that, I beg, my dear Mr. Wriggle. I know

that _Ham_ and _Sandwich_ are in the kitchen, _China_ in the

cupboard, and _Madeira_ in the cellar. That is enough for me.

I regard Geography simply in reference to utility. I’m quite a

utilitarian by principle. You know that the greatest navigator

was a _Cook_; I dare say that he discovered _Chili_, _Cayenne_,

and _Curaçoa_. Now do you know, my wise old Tutor, in spite of

your white hair and all your learning, I think that I could

puzzle you.

WRIG. It would be difficult, Madam, to place a limit to your

powers.

NELL. Tell me, why is Botany Bay called Botany Bay?

WRIG. I am not, I must own, aware from what the name is

derived. Probably the Botanist has there discovered some new

and curious specimens of plants.

NELL. O you must have come from _Dunse_ or the _Scilly_ Isles.

Botany Bay is called Botany Bay, because blossoms of the

_birch_ and sprigs of the _gallows-tree_ are transplanted there

_without their leaves_.

WRIG. I see! I see! Ha, ha!

NELL. I wonder if Miss Cob will understand a joke,--if she will

ever perpetrate a pun. Do you know I fancy her such a prim old

quiz? I should like to know whether she will play at chess with

Papa, or teach me the guitar, as you do. Do you think that she

will endure this house?

WRIG. The total want of all society, except that which the

walls of Grimhaggard Hall have the honour constantly to

enclose, may perhaps have an effect upon the lady’s spirits

not altogether exhilarating; but when your brother returns

from College, perhaps he may be accompanied by some of his

fellow-students.

NELL. Students; what an idea! When my Father would sooner see a

Goblin than a young man under any circumstances!

WRIG. Is not this rather a peculiar--rather a singular--I would

say prejudice? Could such a word be applicable to the excellent

Mr. Cramp?

NELL. I should say very singular indeed, did I not know its

cause.

WRIG. Is it presumptuous to inquire what that cause may be?

NELL. O I’ll tell you in a moment. It all arises out of the

freaks and folly of Mr. Grim of Grimhaggard Hall, who had, I

am sorry to say, the kindness to leave us this property, and

thereby consigned me to the dolefuls for the rest of my life.

WRIG. Was the estate bequeathed under any unpleasant

conditions? I never heard your respected father complain of

such.

NELL. O it is all _right_ to my father because it was all

_left_ to him. But you shall hear. This Mr. Grim had a

promising nephew, ... and this nephew, Mr. Atherton by name, was

very naturally considered as Mr. Grim’s heir, the old gentleman

never having persuaded any lady to marry him, and reign like

another Proserpine over the gloomy shades of Grimhaggard Hall.

WRIG. How then came the estate to your Father?

NELL. Have a little patience, my dear Mr. Wriggle, and you

shall be as learned as myself upon the subject. Well, this old

uncle quarrelled with this young nephew. I think that it was

about politics or some such absurdity; the elder was a Tory

and the junior a Radical; no, the young one was the Tory, and

the old one the Radical; and this _radical_ question was the

_root_ of the quarrel. Now what do you think the spiteful old

gentleman did?

WRIG. Disinherited his nephew, and left the property to Mr.

Cramp.

NELL. That would have been a pretty severe lesson to the young

man; but what do you say to the affectionate uncle leaving such

a clause as this in his will? That my father must only have

and hold this said Grimhaggard Hall, on condition of poor Mr.

Atherton’s never even crossing the threshold of what he once

considered his home! The place must be perfectly _heir_-tight.

If he ever passes twelve hours under this roof, the whole

estate is to revert to him.

WRIG. Such a clause argues little charity; but perhaps it may

ultimately prove for the benefit of him whom it was designed to

injure.

NELL. Ah, you think that Mr. Atherton may still manage to

get his property out of his old uncle’s _clause_! I am sure

I wish that Mr. Grim had left the dull place to him, or any

one but us; but then my Father is not of my mind. Yet even he

has not an atom of enjoyment of his prize, from the perpetual

fear of losing it. He has heard that young Atherton is very

sharp and clever; of course he will try to regain his rights

by any means that may present themselves; so I really believe

that Papa expects him to appear some day or other through the

key-hole. The gate is kept constantly locked,--luckily, one

can see the high-road from the house,--nothing in the shape

of a Man is permitted to pass it; we have even parted with

all men-servants, lest Mr. Atherton should manage to get in

disguised as a lackey. Grimhaggard Hall is a regular Convent. A

travelling pedlar is regarded with suspicion; the butcher-boy

must hand the leg of mutton over the gate; the young apothecary

is an object of terror,--I could not have a tooth pulled out,

were I to die for it. Dear me, how it is raining! The weather

seems endeavouring to find out whether it be possible to make

Grimhaggard Hall look a little duller than usual.

WRIG. I hope Miss Cob may be fortunate in having finer weather

for her journey to-morrow.

NELL. She is on the road to-day, like John Gilpin’s hat and

wig. She was to leave Puddingham this morning, and rest

to-night at the Jolly Bridecake at Mouseton. I hope the coach

is provided with oar and rudders, for she will certainly have

to swim for it!...

In the midst of this talk an artist’s gig is smashed outside the front

gate; and the artist, Mr. Scull, being much shaken, is actually admitted

within the walls of the old Hall, to the great disquiet of Mr. Cramp, who

is determined that, come what may, the young man shall not remain through

the night. It is a pelting day, and no other conveyance seems likely

to pass; while the artist is plainly unable to walk the distance which

separates Grimhaggard Hall from the next town. While this matter is still

under discussion, a ring at the front-door bell is heard, and ‘a woman

of very singular appearance’ is seen ‘standing in the rain, without an

umbrella, as if water were her native element.’

NELL. Who can it be? [_Runs to the window._] Why, how tall she

is! she looks as though she had grown a foot since that dress

was made for her. What an extraordinary figure! Why, Sarah is

actually letting her in. Papa, we have not had so many visitors

since we came here. Grimhaggard Hall is growing quite gay.

CRAMP. I will go and meet this strange guest. [_Exit._]

NELL. It cannot be--it cannot be Miss Cob! Such a governess

would kill me either with terror or with laughter.

WRIG. You were in expectation, Madam, of some one remarkable

for eccentricity. We must not always judge of the qualities of

the mind by the singularity of the exterior.

_Enter MR. CRAMP and MISS COB._

CRAMP. Miss Cob,--my daughter. [_NELLY makes a curtsey, MISS

COB a bow._]

NELL. [_Aside to WRIGGLE._] I shall never keep my countenance.

WRIG. [_Aside._] That is to be regretted, for it is a very fair

one.

CRAMP. We did not expect you to-night, Ma’am. Did you not

purpose sleeping at Mouseton?

MISS C. The inn was chock-full.

CRAMP. But how came you to be on foot? You never have walked

all the way! Where is your conveyance? It would be of the

utmost service to me.

MISS C. Smashed on the road.

CRAMP. Well, if all the gigs and cabs in England are not in

coalition against me this day! And where is your luggage?

MISS C. Coming. You did not expect me to carry it on my back,

like a snail, did ye?

WRIG. Miss Cob, like an experienced general, leaves her baggage

in the rear.

NELL. I should rather have expected to find it in the _van_.

You are very wet, Ma’am; shall I help you off with your cloak?

MISS C. O never mind. I’m neither sugar nor salt; only it’s a

plaguy thing to have one’s dress so long, walking through such

a bog.

NELL. [_Aside._] How _long_ she may have had her dress, I know

not; but in one sense I am sure it is short enough.

MISS C. This seems a good big house, but rather too much like a

prison. Have you those bars on all the windows?

CRAMP. On all.

MISS C. And how many men-servants do you keep?

CRAMP. None at all. [_Aside._] What impertinent curiosity!

NELL. [_Aside._] Shall I venture to address her again? I can

scarcely command myself. [_Aloud._] Pray, Ma’am, are you fond

of music?

MISS C. I’m a regular dab at it.

NELL. What instrument do you play?

MISS C. All sorts of instruments, from the drum to the Jew’s

harp.

NELL. You don’t play the cornopion?

MISS C. Like bricks,--and sing all the time. You shall hear me

to-morrow. [_All stare in mute amazement._]

CRAMP. May I trouble you, Ma’am, to let me see your letter of

introduction from Lady Myres again?

MISS C. Heartily welcome. You will read all about me there.

Full details of manners and accomplishments. She says I’m a

little absent sometimes; so if ever I make a few trifling

blunders, I hope you’ll set them down to that score.

NELL. [_Aside to WRIGGLES._] I wish she were absent now, for I

think I shall die in convulsions.

MISS C. I’ll teach you all sorts of things suitable for a lady.

Knitting, netting,--crow--crowfoot ...

WRIG. I see that nothing is beyond your apprehension.

MISS C. What do you say about _apprehension_? Are you a police

officer?

WRIG. No, Madam, I am a humble Professor of Geography, Geology,

Algebra, and ...

MISS C. O I’m a match for you in all that, and I know Latin,

Greek, and American besides.

WRIG. And what tongue, Madam, do you prefer?

MISS C. O I’m not particular about those sort of things; but if

you want my opinion, why I think pickled tongues are excellent.

WRIG. [_Turning away laughing._] This is either too bad or too

good! [_Aloud._] And your other studies, Ma’am?

MISS C. As for Arithmetics, they’re at my fingers’-ends.

NELL. I have not yet got beyond the Rule of Three.

MISS C. You shall know the Rule of Four-and-twenty, before I

have done with you. We’ll skip the 4, 5, and 6.

NELL. And the Rule of Three inverse?

MISS C. In verse? Yes, you shall have it in all sorts of verse,

merry, tragical, and comical.

NELL. [_Aside._] I shall expire with laughter. [_Retires to the

window._]

WRIG. [_Aside._] I really cannot stand this any longer.

[_Follows her._]

SCULL (the artist). Pray, Madam, may I venture to ask if you

paint?

MISS C. You are a very impudent fellow, to ask a gentle--woman

if she paints. Do I look as if I painted?

SCULL. I beg a million pardons, Ma’am, but as I paint myself ...

MISS C. You paint precious badly then, for you’re as yellow as

a cowslip!

CRAMP. [_Aside._] Is the woman intoxicated or insane?

SCULL. I think--I imagine that there is a little

misapprehension, Ma’am, on your part. My vocation is that of an

artist.

NELL. O Miss Cob, you must see his sketches.

SCULL. You see, Ma’am, there is a new work to come out at

Christmas, which is to be entitled,--_The Mouse on the

Mantelpiece_. The letterpress is in very able hands,--a very

pretty little fairy-tale for grown-up children,--that’s

all the rage now, you know, in this enlightened age. But

the illustrations will be the great thing. A steel-plate

frontispiece, of course, in which will be introduced a number

of winged mice in a variety of positions,--a very clever thing,

I can assure you; and then wood-cuts,--I have the honour of

being intrusted with the designs for them. We are to have a

different illustration for the top of every column.

NELL. That will no doubt be _capital_.

SCULL. It will form a very elegant little volume

altogether,--the most remarkable publication of the day.

MISS C. Well, after my wet walk, I think I’d be the better for

something to warm me.

NELL. You shall have some tea directly, Ma’am.

MISS C. Tea! Wishy-washy stuff!

NELL. Would you prefer gruel?

MISS C. Gruel! I wish you joy of your fare!

NELL. [_Aside._] The fair Arithmetician looks as though she

would not have 3 _Scruples to a Dram_!

CRAMP. I dare say Miss Cob is fatigued after her long walk.

Nelly, show her the apartment. I hope everything is comfortable

there.

NELL. Certainly, Papa. [_Aside to WRIGGLE._] At any rate, I

will venture to say that her room is better than her company.

[_Exeunt NELLY and MISS COB._]

And so on,--the wind-up of the story being that Miss Cob is found to be a

burglar in woman’s disguise; while the artist is a harmless nobody. But

elderly Wriggles, the tutor, who has lived quietly in the house for a

month past, and of whom even Mr. Cramp has had no suspicions, turns out

to be the much dreaded nephew, and to him by right Grimhaggard Hall now

appertains. As, however, he has managed to fall deeply in love with the

punning heroine, all difficulties are solved by their marriage,--Nellie

being equally in love with him. Thus the nephew gains the old home, and

the uncle does not lose it.

CHAPTER VII

A.D. 1849-1853

THE FIRST GREAT SORROW, AND THE FIRST BOOK

It must have been at about this time that Charlotte became increasingly

anxious for more of definite outdoor work among the poor. Her wish was

to be allowed to visit in the Marylebone Workhouse; but difficulties for

a while barred her way. Mr. Tucker objected strongly, fearing the risk

of infectious diseases for his daughters; and no doubt the risk in those

days was far greater than in these, considering the then condition of

Workhouses generally.

So long as permission was refused, Charlotte seems to have contented

herself with the simple duties of home-life. She was not one who would

restlessly fight for and insist upon her own way at all costs, under

the plea of doing what was right. Rather, one may be sure, she counted

the prohibition as in itself sufficient indication of the Divine Will.

However, while submitting, she probably used from time to time some

little pressure to bring about another state of things; and somewhere

about the beginning of 1851 her parents’ ‘reluctant consent’ was, we are

told, at length given. From that time she and Fanny visited regularly in

the Workhouse.

In 1849 Charlotte’s eldest sister, Sibella, was married to the Rev.

Frederick Hamilton, for some time Curate to Mr. Garnier, the Vicar of

Holy Trinity Church, which they all regularly attended. Mr. Garnier and

his wife, Lady Caroline, were especial friends of Charlotte, through

many a long year. Thus the first break in the charmed circle of sisters

was made; and Fanny was now ‘Miss Tucker,’ Charlotte being the second

home-daughter.

Until the spring of 1850 Mr. Tucker kept his health and vigour to a

marvellous extent for a man eighty years old,--for one too who had worked

more or less hard through life from the age of fourteen or fifteen. He

still attended to his India House business, not seeming to find it too

much for his strength; and in the April of that year, after making a

speech in Court, he was congratulated by a brother-Director upon the

force and energy with which he had spoken. ‘Ah,’ he replied, ‘it is only

the last flicker of the taper before it goes out.’

No one had noticed aught to be wrong with him, but perhaps he had himself

been conscious of failing power. Soon afterwards a sharp attack of fever

and inflammation laid him low, and most serious fears for his life were

felt. It was a time of terrible suspense to his own family; not least so

to Charlotte, who had always loved him with an intense devotion. Probably

few fathers are quite so devotedly beloved as was old Mr. Tucker; but not

many men, and especially not many men of his years, can throw themselves

into the interests and amusements of their children, as he was able to do.

They had till then hardly realised how suddenly the call might come. As

his biographer says, he had been always ‘so full of life, there had been

so much activity of body, so much energy of mind, so much elasticity of

spirit, that they had never associated with all this vitality a thought

of the stillness of death.’ Now, without warning, the foe was at their

very door; and the shadow of his great danger weighed heavily upon them

all.

In answer to many prayers he was given back to them again, just for a

little while. But they could never quite forget how nearly he had been

taken from them, how unexpectedly the great separation might come.

Another event of 1850 was the marriage of Charlotte’s brother, William

Tucker, at Brussels. It came almost immediately upon Mr. Tucker’s rally

from his severe illness; and Charlotte had the pleasure of being taken

to Brussels for the wedding by her brother, St. George Tucker, then

home for a short time from India. It would be interesting to know her

first impressions of the Continent, but not many letters of this date

are available. The two which follow are among the last belonging to her

unshadowed younger life, before the true meaning of loss and sorrow had

dawned upon her. One black cloud had gathered and dispersed; but it was

soon to roll up again; and then the storm would break.

‘_Oct. 3, 1850._

‘DEAREST LAURA,--We have finished the volume of stories which

we were reading--which by the way resembled the pottles of

strawberries sold in the streets, capital at the beginning, but

as one gets further on, miserably inferior--and now Fanny has

gone to her dear Will-making, so I keep her pen in company by

writing to you. I soon knocked off my Will, and we have just

the same sum to dispose of, but her large sheets of paper are

not covered yet.

‘Now what shall I write to you about, dear--for we write so

often that it is impossible that we should often have much

to write about? The sun shines one day, and does not shine

another; the sea is rough one morning and calm the next. I may

have to follow the style of Letitia in her well-known note,

“sometimes we pass Fummity, and sometimes we do not.” Things go

on quietly, nothing changed but my half-sovereign. I had to buy

new ribbons for Letitia to-day, and fear that I shall have to

supply the children with fresh gloves.

‘I have been reading about our poor friend, the first of the

Blacks, to-day; and it appears that his character was very

fairly drawn by Miss Martineau. I was glad to know a little

about the after doings in Hayti, and find that Dessalines--that

fierce fellow, husband of Theresa--was made first Emperor,

and killed in about two years. He was a great savage, but

his wife an amiable lady. Then came King Henri I.--our

friend Christopher the Cook--who was king at the time that

my informant wrote, that is to say, in 1819. A famous king

he seems to be, or have been, with a good palace, standing

army of 25,000 men kept in strict discipline, a hereditary

aristocracy--all of the colour of coal--and ecclesiastical

establishment. He was considered in person very much like King

George III.--barring complexion, I suppose--and, in short,

that part of Hayti which owned him for king seemed in a very

flourishing condition in 1819.

‘Do you remember the name of Thaurepas (?), the blacky General

who weakly surrendered his post to the French? What do you

think the grateful Monsieurs did to him? Nailed epaulettes on

his shoulders and a cocked hat on his head, and then threw him

with his wife and children into the sea! Would one believe

such things of men in the 19th century? I should like to know

something of the present state of Hayti, and whether the throne

is filled by a son of Henri I., for I suppose that Christopher

is hardly living still. If he were, would you not like to have

his autograph?

‘I have told you all this about Hayti, because I thought

that, like myself, you would be pleased to know what really

became of the characters in Miss Martineau’s Romance, and one

seldom meets with a book which throws any light upon such an

out-of-the-way subject.’

‘_Oct. 18, 1850._

‘DEAREST LAURA,--We have been luxuriating in the letters from

Paris.... All things look so bright and joyous! I have twice sung

“The World is so Bright” to-day _con amore_, and my heart is

so lightsome that I could dance. I do not think that I have

_once_ seen precious Father dull since my return. He desires me

to say that he cannot quite countenance a visit to Lebanon. It

is rather too far, and Lord Ellesmere was very ill on his way

thither; so dear ---- must give up her Blackbeard, and content

herself with Sir Peter. Now Mamma is reading St. George’s note.

Papa is smiling away,--his dear lips apart. He looks so nice in

Clara’s beautiful cap!

‘Henry thinks so much of you, dear. He says that you are a

sweet girl, and that he loves you extremely. I cannot tell you

all the kind things he says of you....

‘We are such a comfortable party, and our loved absent ones

help to make us more so.... This is a very disconnected sort of

note, a sort of patchwork, for my ears are as much employed

as my hand, and I have every now and then a message to darn

in,--then, O my chilblains! But I am determined to complain

of nothing, for I am so overloaded with blessings. Dearest

Parents are just going out. The weather is delicious. The world

is so bright, the world is so fair! Yes, even now, when she has

only a wreath of dahlias, and decks herself in yellow like the

sweet little Blossom!...

‘I should like to think that our dear trio are enjoying

themselves as much at Paris as I am at home. I hope and trust

that we may all have such a happy winter together, when “Love’s

shining circlet” has all its gems complete except the dear

Indian absentees.’

This was written in the autumn following Mr. Tucker’s dangerous illness.

After a long and tedious convalescence, his health had steadily improved

through the summer months, and during the autumn he seemed to be almost

himself again,--able to walk out regularly, able to read much and

thoroughly to enjoy being read to by his wife and daughters. In the

evenings he would delight in their music, varied by merry talk and by an

occasional rubber of whist.

With the coming of winter acute neuralgic pains took possession of him;

and though some little improvement was seen with the advent of spring, it

was not permanent. In the end of May 1851 he was taken to Brighton for a

few days’ change; after which he became worse and then again better. Amid

these fluctuations, which included at times very severe suffering, his

manly courage and patience were never known to fail.

On the tenth of June he seemed so far improved as to talk of going next

day to the India House, for the Wednesday’s Council. The Doctor strongly

opposed this; and Mr. Tucker went instead to a Flower-Show, with his

daughters. For two days afterward he seemed particularly well. On Friday

night there was no apparent change for the worse; and his usual tender

good-night to them all had in it no shadow of approaching calamity.

But the end was at hand. Before morning sharp illness had seized upon

him; and before twelve o’clock he had passed away.

It was a heavy blow to all who knew him; above all to his wife and

children. He had been the very life of the house, the very spring of

home-brightness. Charlotte’s little niece, Bella Frances, daughter of

the elder brother, Henry Carre Tucker, came to spend her first English

holidays in the house, not long after Mr. Tucker’s death, and she found

the whole family ‘plunged in gloom,’--Charlotte Tucker being exceedingly

sad and grave. The only one, indeed, of the whole party who was able to

speak cheerfully was Laura. It is probable that Laura had at that date a

dawning outside interest in her life, not possessed by any of the others,

which may have enabled her to bear up somewhat better than they could.

Many months earlier, after the sharp illness of the preceding year, Mr.

Tucker had written a letter to all his children, thanking them for their

‘late unwearied and devoted attentions’ to him. After desiring them

‘not to give way to strong emotions,’ he had gone on to say,--‘I have

reached a very advanced age, and must be prepared for a change. Old age

has its infirmities and suffering, and a prolonged existence is not to

be desired. Your care should now be to comfort and console your beloved

mother, who has been everything to me and everything to you all. I trust

that she will not leave this house, in which we have all enjoyed so much

happiness; and I feel assured that you will all tenderly watch over her,

and contribute by every means in your power to her future comfort.’

This wish was fulfilled. Mrs. Tucker never did leave No. 3 Upper Portland

Place, except of course for necessary change. It remained her home, and

the home of her daughters, from the year 1851, when her husband died,

until her own death in the year 1869.

How much of life’s sunshine had been swept out of Charlotte’s life by

the loss of her Father, it is perhaps impossible for any one to estimate

who did not personally know Mr. Tucker. Not that _all_ her sunshine

had departed! Apart from her own inherent elasticity of spirit, she

was devotedly attached to her Mother; and she had still the tender and

satisfying companionship of Laura.

That while deeply saddened, she was not crushed, is shown by the

following letter to her little niece, Bella F. Tucker, dated August 9,

1851:--

‘The sun has been shining so beautifully lately, and the

reapers have been busy in the fields. It is a sight to warm

the heart, to see the yellow sheaves covering the land, and

we should bless God for an abundant harvest. There is a

clover-field near us, and it looks like a beautiful carpet of

lilac and green. I was calculating that there must be more than

two million blossoms in that one field; and each blossom may

be perhaps the home of many insects.... Then what is that field

compared to all England, or England to Europe, or Europe to the

whole world? Neither your little head, nor the wisest man’s,

can imagine how many blossoms and how many insects there are

on this great globe,--it makes one almost giddy to think of

it,--and then to consider that all the world itself is only

like a speck in God’s Creation, that there are said to be

_eighty millions_ of fixed stars, each of which has very likely

worlds moving round it. And God made all. How very great and

wonderful He must be! It seems surprising that He should care

for every one on this little ball,--how much more astonishing

that He should have condescended to come and live upon it, to

have appeared as a feeble Child in one of the worlds that He

had made, and then actually to _die_, like one of the creatures

that He had formed! Is not God’s power wonderful, and His love

more wonderful still?

‘When you look at the bright blue sky, do you never long to fly

up like the birds,--no, much higher than the birds can fly,

to your Home, to your Father which is in Heaven? I hope that

time may come, sweet Bella, but now is the time to prepare.

I sometimes think that this life is our school-time. We are

now to learn lessons of faith and patience and love. When our

education is finished we shall be allowed to go Home; and Death

will be the gentle Messenger to say,--“Your Heavenly Father

sends for you; come and join your loved ones who have gone

before. O that will be joyful, when we meet to part no more!”’

There is a tone of quiet sadness running through the letter, in marked

contrast with those joyous epistles to her sister Laura quoted earlier in

this chapter. The world could never again be to her ‘so bright, so fair!’

as in the days when her Father was still upon earth. No doubt as time

went on the buoyancy of her temperament reasserted itself; but life was

no longer unshadowed; and other troubles soon followed.

One of these must certainly have been the marriage of her sister Laura,

though no letters are at hand to show what she felt. Mr. Otho Hamilton,

elder brother to the Rev. Frederick Hamilton, who had married Charlotte’s

eldest sister, sought Laura’s hand; and he was accepted.

Not entirely without hesitation. Perhaps few girls can say, or ought to

say, ‘Yes’ at once, without time for consideration. When the offer came,

Laura’s first impulse was, naturally, to go to her Mother for advice;

her second impulse was to go to her friend-sister. It is not hard to

realise what the thought must have been to Charlotte of losing this

dearly-loved companion,--her room-mate and the constant sharer of her

thoughts and interests from very infancy; nor is it difficult to believe

how bravely she would put aside the recollection of herself, viewing the

question from Laura’s standpoint alone. It must, however, be remembered

that Charlotte was romantically enthusiastic on the subject of others’

engagements, and was through life ardently interested in the marriages of

her friends. In the present case her knowledge of how highly her Father

had thought of Mr. Hamilton would be an additional incentive to put no

obstacle in the way. It seems that Laura’s hesitation had arisen, not

from any doubt as to her own feelings, but simply from a desire to be

sure of her duty. The engagement took place; and on the 19th of October

1852, Laura Tucker became Mrs. Hamilton. So another leaf was turned in

the story of Charlotte’s life.

And now, in the very midst of these changes and losses arose a new

interest. Hitherto, Charlotte had written a good deal, but she had never

published, perhaps had never even thought of publishing. What first led

her to adopt the style of fiction, by which she was soon to become known,

it is possible at least to conjecture. In 1850, as we have seen, she

wrote another of her merry plays, full of fun and humour. Now, suddenly,

she seems to have plunged into the line of children’s stories, having

each a very prominent ‘purpose,’--her earliest being _The Claremont

Tales_. It may be that the shock of her first great sorrow, the death

of Mr. Tucker, making her to realise intensely the shortness of life on

earth, and the supreme weight of things unseen, had the effect of turning

her mind with a new energy to the thought of doing good by means of her

pen. It may be also that, now _he_ was gone for whom and with whom she

had written her plays, all zest in that direction was gone with him, and

the gift of writing, like a river dammed up in one direction and forced

to turn elsewhere, sought naturally a fresh outlet,--an outlet with

which there should be no overpoweringly sad associations. Moreover, the

home-circle was no longer what it had been. Two of the sisters, to whom

she had read her plays, were gone; and with the changed order of life

came a new order of writing.

Exactly when she began or finished _The Claremont Tales_ is not known.

With her usual reserve she at first said nothing about the completed

MS.--beyond, at all events, reading the stories to the children. Probably

she felt doubtful about her own venture; and some little time seems to

have passed before she showed it to her Mother. Mrs. Tucker was much

delighted with the attempt, said at once that it ought to be published,

and insisted on action being taken.

So, on November 19, 1851, the MS. was sent to Messrs. W. and R. Chambers,

with the accompanying letter:--

‘SIR,--It has for some time been my anxious desire to add my

mite to the Treasury of useful literature, which you have

opened to the young as well as the old.

‘The Tales which I now venture to offer to you for publication

were originally composed for young children under my own

charge, and were listened to with an appearance of interest,

which gives me hopes that they may meet with no unfavourable

reception from others of the same tender years.

‘I ask for no earthly remuneration; my position in life renders

me independent of any exertions of my own; I pray but for God’s

blessing upon my attempts to instruct His lambs in the things

which concern their everlasting welfare; and deeply gratified

should I feel, were my little work to be classed among the

numerous valuable publications which you have already given to

the world.

‘The Tales might be printed separately, as each forms a

complete story, though all are united by connecting links.’

The date is given, but no name and no address; and a letter more quaintly

stiff and unbusiness-like can surely never have won a Publisher’s smile.

To return the MS. to herself, if disapproved of, was not possible; and,

as it happened, _The Claremont Tales_ did not belong to the class of

publications undertaken by Messrs. Chambers. Very kindly, however, they

passed it on to the house of Messrs. Gall and Inglis; and by them the

little book was brought out. One can imagine how eagerly Charlotte, while

preserving her strict incognita, must have watched for the possible

appearance of her Tales, and how delighted she would be to see the name

advertised. When this occurred, she wrote again--

‘_May 24, 1853._

‘A. L. O. E. presents her compliments to Messrs. Gall and

Inglis, and, admiring the elegant form in which they have

presented _The Claremont Tales_ to the public, is happy to

offer to them for publication the accompanying volume of

poems,--asking no further remuneration than 20 copies of the

work, when printed, for _gratuitous_ distribution. A. L. O. E.

proposes sending a few copies of her poems to the principal

Reviews, as a means of extending their circulation.

‘A. L. O. E. would be glad to know whether Messrs. Gall and

Inglis propose adopting her suggestion of printing some or

all of _The Claremont Tales_ in a _very cheap_ form, for

distribution amongst poor children, Ragged Schools, etc.

‘Any communication will be received by the Authoress, if

addressed to--“Miss Aloe; care of Miss Lanzun; S----;

Middlesex.”

‘_P.S._--Miss ---- would much like to know whether _The

Claremont Tales_ were first placed in the hands of Messrs. Gall

and Inglis by Messrs. Chambers, to whom she originally sent

them; and whether Messrs. Gall and Inglis have any professional

connection with those Publishers, so distinguished in the

field of literature. Should Messrs. Gall and Inglis not wish

themselves to undertake the publication of a volume of poetry,

they are at perfect liberty to submit the work to Messrs.

Chambers. An early answer will oblige.’

Three months later comes another letter, still further relaxing her

secrecy, and still on the subject of the ‘volume of poems’:--

‘_August 6, 1853._

‘Miss C. M. Tucker presents her compliments to Mr. Inglis, and

begs to acknowledge the receipt this morning of his obliging

communication to Miss A. L. O. E., which _nom de guerre_, in

compliance with his wish, and in reliance on his promise to

preserve her incognita, she now exchanges for her own.

‘Miss C. M. Tucker is now at the seaside, and is therefore

unable personally to communicate with Mr. Inglis. She requests,

however, that he will continue to direct any letters to S----,

to the care of Miss Lanzun.

‘Miss C. M. Tucker is much pleased to learn that her little

work has been favourably received in America. She will be very

happy to write such an addition to _The Fortress_, as may make

it equal in length to its companion tales.

‘As Mr. Inglis’ objection to publishing _The White Shroud_,

etc., seems only to rest upon the shortness of the poems,

Miss C. M. Tucker would have no objection to sending a larger

book of her poetry, from which Mr. Inglis might select what

he thought likely to please the public. Miss C. M. Tucker

has written an Epic on the eventful Life of St. Paul, and a

variety of other pieces. Would Mr. Inglis wish them forwarded

to Scotland, or to his present address in London? Miss C. M.

Tucker herself selected _The White Shroud_, as she thought

it one of those most likely to be popular, and perhaps most

calculated to be useful. The _name_ might attract readers,

who would not glance at what appeared from its title to be

exclusively religious. It would also be well adapted for

illustration; but that Miss C. M. Tucker leaves entirely to the

taste and judgment of Messrs. Gall and Inglis, only suggesting

that perhaps the commencement of winter might be a favourable

time for such a work of Fancy to make its appearance, when it

might take its place among the elegant little volumes designed

for Christmas remembrances.’

Others were disposed to take a different view as to the peculiar

attractiveness of such a name as _The White Shroud_, and when the volume

was published it came out as _Glimpses of the Unseen_.

A first interview between Charlotte and one of her Publishers, recalled

by some of the family, probably took place at about this date, or not

very long afterwards. She is said to have been shy on seeing him, though

not commonly supposed to suffer from shyness. In any case it is to be

hoped that few Authors are, at first starting, so absolutely convinced of

their own powers as not to go through certain twinges of bashfulness.

One copy of _The Claremont Tales_ was sent out to her brother, Mr. St.

George Tucker, who was again in India, and had recently gone to Azimgurh.

When the book arrived, he sat up reading it until past one o’clock in

the morning; no small compliment to a young Author. He then despatched

a messenger on horseback to Benares, with the volume,--a ride of sixty

miles,--that his brother, Mr. Henry Carre Tucker, might with all speed

enjoy the same pleasure. Charlotte, hearing this through her Mother, was

not a little gratified.

Thenceforth Charlotte went steadily in for Authorship. Volume after

volume flowed from her fertile pen; most of them for children; many

of them exceedingly amusing; all of them definitely designed to teach

something. One is rather disposed to fancy that in the writing of

these books there may have been, in the beginning, something of a

struggle. Charlotte was by nature ambitious; and her literary gift

was considerable; and some of its potentialities appear to have been

sacrificed to her ardent desire for usefulness. Whether she ever could

or would have made her mark in any of the higher walks of literature is

a question which could only have been decided by actual experiment; but

at least she must have felt it to lie within the bounds of possibility.

Some people may think that her desire for usefulness was a little too

ardent in its manifestation, since it led to so extremely didactic a mode

of writing as that of many among her books. No one can deny that some of

the said volumes do contain a large amount of direct ‘preaching’; not

merely of life-lessons, interwoven with the story in such wise that the

one could not be read and the other missed, but rather of little sermons

so alternating with the story that a child might read the latter and

skip the former. Probably, most children, when reading to themselves,

did follow this plan. Directness to a fault was, however, a leading

characteristic of Charlotte all through life. The same tendency,--many

would say in plain terms, the same mistake--is apparent in the later

years of her Indian work, in the mode of her Zenana teaching.

With respect to her writings, nothing is more impossible than to gauge

correctly the amount of comparative good worked in any age, by different

books or different styles of composition. That which makes the most stir,

that which has the greatest apparent success, is by no means always the

most wide in its influence. Some of us may be inclined to think that A.

L. O. E. might have reached a larger circle, might have gained a more

extensive influence, if she had less anxiously pressed so very much

didactic talk into her tales,--if too she had more studiously cultivated

her own dramatic instincts, and had more closely studied human nature.

All this we are quite at liberty to believe. For the question as to

‘doing good’ through a book does not rest upon the amount of religious

teaching which may be packed into a given number of printed pages, but

rather upon the force with which a certain lesson is presented, with or

without many words. There is no especial power in an abundance of words;

rather the reverse!

But the main gist of the matter as regarded Charlotte herself lies

outside all these questions. It is found in the simple fact that she

determinately stamped down her own personal ambitions, and bent her

powers with a most single heart to this task of ‘doing good’; that she

resolutely yielded herself and her gifts to the Service of her Heavenly

Father, desiring only that His Name might be honoured in what she

undertook. Whether she always carried out this aim in the wisest manner

is a secondary consideration. From the literary and artistic point of

view, one may say that she undoubtedly did make some mistakes. From

the standpoint of a simple desire to do good, one may question whether

she could not have done yet more good by a different style of writing.

But with regard to the purity and earnestness of her desire, with

regard to the putting aside of personal ambitions, with regard to the

single-heartedness of her aims, there can be no two opinions. And HE who

looks on the heart, HE who gauges our actions not by results but by the

motives which prompt them,--HE, we may well believe, honoured His servant

for her faithful work in His Service.

Nor must we ignore the measure of marked success which she certainly had,

if one may judge from the speed with which her books came out, and the

demand which apparently existed for them. Even in her most didactic tales

there are keen and witty touches, and droll descriptions. For ‘teaching’

purposes her boys may sometimes converse together as boys never do

converse; but none the less those boys are real, and they recur in after

years to the memory as only living people or vivid creations ever do

recur. In some of her rather higher flights, such as _Pride and his

Prisoners_, are to be found stirring scenes, drawn with dramatic power.

One thing should be noted: the curiously allegorical or symbolical style

of thought which was natural to her.

It did not appear in the girlish dramatic efforts,--unless in the

direction of a perpetual play upon words,--but in her published books

it developed speedily. This was remarkable in her; _not_ because of any

peculiar result from it in England, but because of its very peculiar

adaptation to Indian needs. One may almost think of her authorship in

England as mainly a long preparation for her Indian toil; the continuous

practice in habits of imagery and allegory, by no means especially suited

to our Western minds, gradually fitting her to deal with the Oriental

mind, little as she yet dreamt of any such destination for herself. All

these years, without knowing it, she was waiting for and was working

upward to ‘the Crown of her Life,’ as it may be termed; those eighteen

years in the Panjab. All these years she was being prepared and made

ready, till she should be as a ‘sharpened instrument’ in the Hand of her

Master, fitted for the work which He would give her to do.

Among the many volumes published during the first fifteen or twenty

years of authorship were the following:--_The Giant-Killer_, _The Roby

Family_, _The Young Pilgrim_, _History of a Needle_, and _Rambles

of a Rat_, before 1858; _Flora_, _The Mine_, _Precepts in Practice_,

_Idols in the Heart_, and _Whispering Unseen_, before 1860; _Pride and

his Prisoners_, _The Shepherd of Bethlehem_, _My Neighbour’s Shoes_,

_War and Peace_, _Light in the Robber’s Cave_, and _The Silver Casket_,

before 1864. A trio of volumes appeared in succession, the first of which

she wrote at her Mother’s suggestion,--_Exiles in Babylon_, _Rescued

from Egypt_, and _Triumph of Midian_. Another trio, coming in due

course,--_Fairy Know-a-Bit_, _Parliament in the Playroom_, and _The Crown

of Success_,--were bright little books, containing a good deal of useful

information. Besides these were published at intervals _House Beautiful_,

_Living Jewels_, _Castle of Carlmont_, _Hebrew Heroes_, _Claudia_, _Cyril

Ashley_, _The Lady of Provence_, _The Wreath of Smoke_, and very many

others.

One of the most strongly allegorical of her earlier works was _The

Giant-Killer_; and in that little book she no doubt made free use of her

own experiences.

It is easy to believe that she must have had many a hard battle with

Giant Sloth, before she gained the habit of always rising at six o’clock

in the morning, a habit persevered in through life. Again, one of her

eager and impulsive temperament could not have been naturally free from

a clinging to her own way, and from a certain vigorous self-seeking;

and many a bitter conflict must have been gone through, before friends

could, with an all but unanimous voice, speak of hers as a peculiarly

unselfish character. In the struggles of Fides to get out of the Pit

of Selfishness, we may read between the lines of Charlotte’s girlish

battlings.

Even more, in the fight with Giant Pride we seem to see her hardest

tussle of all, and the mode in which victory came to her. Giant Pride’s

assumed name of ‘High Spirit,’ his hatred of Meanness, Gluttony,

Cowardice, and Untruth, are all an echo of parts of herself. The

polishing of the darkened gold of her Will she had long known in the

small unavoidable frictions of everyday life; and the plunging of that

Will into furnace-heat, and the straightening of its crookedness by means

of heavy successive blows, she had begun to know in the death of her

dear Father, and would soon know more fully through other sorrows coming

after. But many more than three blows were needed for the shapening of

Charlotte Tucker’s Will. She may have dreamt when she wrote the book

that three would be enough, and that the King’s call to Fides might in

her case be soon repeated. She little knew the long years of toil and

patience which stretched far ahead.

A tiny glimpse of the daily fighting, which she like all others had to

go through, may be seen in the succeeding letter, written to her sister,

Laura, a year or two before the death of old Mr. Tucker:--

‘I obeyed you in putting your note into the fire, after twice

perusing it; but it seemed a shame so to destroy what was so

sweet. How little you and I have been with each other lately,

yet I do not think that we love one another one particle the

less,--I think that I can answer for myself at least. May God

prosper your humble efforts, my sweet Laura. I enter into all

your feelings....

‘I do not like to overload dear Bella with advice. It appears

almost presumptuous from a younger sister; but I threw in my

word now and then. But what am I?... I fear that I have been

peevish with ---- to-day. I feel discontented with myself, and

need your prayers.’

CHAPTER VIII

A.D. 1854-1857

CRIMEA, AND THE INDIAN MUTINY

In the year 1854 Mr. St. George Tucker again came home from India; and in

the autumn he took his Mother and sisters for three months to The Mote,

an old country house about six miles north of Tonbridge, hoping that the

change would do good to Mrs. Tucker’s health and spirits. Those were

the terrible days of the Crimean War; and in that autumn the battles of

Balaclava and Inkerman were fought. Several letters of interest belong to

about this period.

TO MISS BELLA F. TUCKER. 1853.

‘I have found out a much better hero for you than your friend

Lord Marmion,--who, by-the-bye, had he lived in these days,

would have run a great chance of being transported for fourteen

years, or imprisoned for one with hard labour, for forgery.

Mere courage does not make a hero.... When I was about as old as

you are now, I had--besides Montrose, for whom I have a great

regard still--a great hero, a pirate! About as respectable a

man perhaps as Lord Marmion, and I was so fond of him, that I

remember jumping out of bed one night, when one of my sisters

laughed at him.

‘But I have grown older, dear, and have seen so many bubbles

break in my time that I am more on my guard. I look for

something more solid now. If you are allowed to read _Uncle

Tom’s Cabin_, or any part of it, pause when you have done,

and compare the old negro with Lord Marmion. You laugh at the

idea. What!--“the falcon crest and morion,”--“the scar on

his dark brow”--will not all this throw the poor ignorant

thick-lipped hero quite into the shade? Yes,--if a sparkling

bubble is more glorious than a diamond shut up in a black

case. Time touches the bubble, and it breaks,--I have given up

my pirate-hero,--but the diamond--never mind the black case!

“Uncle Tom” is a hero, and one worthy of the name.’

TO MRS HAMILTON--(LAURA).

‘THE MOTE, _Sept. 1, 1854_.

‘Your and your dear husband’s nice sunshiny notes reached me

this morning.... I believe that you are wise not to come here,

for the roads are very bad, and the climate not very bracing.

Sweet Mother says that it suits her very well, and I thrive

on it like anything, but not every one might be the better

for “water, water everywhere.” We have four pieces of water

close by us, besides the moat just under our windows. The Mote

nestles so curiously in a hollow of the hill, that when you

have walked a few hundred yards from it, and naturally turn

round to look at the noble mansion which you have left,--it is

actually _non inventus_. You would not know that you were near

the Mote at all. “What has become of our great house?” say you.

It has vanished like Aladdin’s fairy palace.

‘I feel sure that this is the identical old place that Mrs.

D’Oyly took us to see, where they said that some of the rooms

had not been opened for one hundred years. This suits me

exactly. As the boys say, “I am in clover.” Damp hurts me no

more than if I were a water-wagtail; but the same might not be

the case with you....

‘What a good thing it has been for your little darling being at

so healthy a place during the trying time of teething. I shall

expect to see her still more improved, when I have the pleasure

of kissing her sweet lips again. How diverting it will be to

watch her when she first runs alone!...

‘Such nice letters from India! Dear Henry is having my Tales

translated into Hindustani, for the poor natives. Oh, pray, my

Laura, that a blessing may go with them. Dear Robin preaches

to upwards of a hundred blind, and bears the hot weather

wonderfully well.’

TO THE SAME.

‘THE MOTE, _Sept. 12, 1854_.

‘Many thanks for your welcome letter, your good news, and your

kind invitation. I should not wonder if the last were very

thankfully accepted some time next month; for it is quite

uncertain whether the L----s will let us remain here beyond

the six weeks, and almost quite certain that No. 3 will not be

ready for us then, in which case we had better scatter. The

boys indeed talk of standing a siege here, rather than give the

place up; but you see we are afraid of treachery in the camp,

having so many of the L----‘s servants. Then we might have

difficulty about provisions, for we should all grow desperately

thin upon the fish which Charlie catches. Besides which, the

moat might be waded, although it is a doubtful point whether

the wader could get on through the weeds and mud. I think, all

things considered, that we had better _not_ stand a siege.

‘My heart can quite re-echo the cheerful tone of your note,

love. I do indeed feel that we are loaded with blessings. I

enjoy this place exceedingly, it is so pretty; just the place

to “moon” about in. Don’t you remember Mrs. D’Oyly taking us to

see it, when we drove here in two carriages, and you were with

the sprightly, and I with the sedate party? I feel sure that

this was the identical old house. My room ought to be haunted,

only it is not. It is such a pity that you have not the fairy

carpet to come here without fatigue. But, as it is, you serve

as a magnet, to help to draw me back to Middlesex without

regret.

‘Kind love to dear Mr. Hamilton, and twenty kisses to the

Princess of babies. I can well imagine the pleasure that she is

to you--a large lump of sugar in your cup!’

TO MISS BELLA F. TUCKER.

‘_Dec. 12, 1854._

‘We went to St. James’ Park to-day, to see Her Majesty on her

way to open Parliament. I had an excellent view of our poor

dear Queen; and the sight of her mournful subdued countenance,

as she bowed graciously to her people, but without the shadow

of a smile, quite touched my heart. This war weighs very

heavily upon her; and I am anxious to know whether she was able

to get through her speech without breaking down altogether. She

looked to-day as though it would have taken less to make her

weep than laugh.

‘How England is exerting herself to send comforts to her brave

sons in the Crimea! A lady was here to-day who, having seen

that books were thought desirable presents to the Army, made up

a box of them, which was to go to a Mr. S. who had offered to

receive them. But when her intended gift was known,--“O pray do

not send any more books!” was the poor receiver’s cry. “We have

seventy thousand volumes!” and they did not know how such a

tremendous library was to be forwarded. In the lint department,

parcels came in at the rate of two hundred a day! Good-bye.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_Jan. 13, 1855._

‘It is singular in how many ways last year I seemed to be

taught a lesson of patience. I was disappointed over and

over and over again. In one matter in which I was greatly

interested, I was so at least five times; but before the close

of the year I had cause to say with much pleasure,--“I am glad

that I was disappointed.” Another time I had a very heavy heart

from a different source of disappointment; and some months

later I was grieved, even, I am half ashamed to say, to tears;

and yet before December was out I was actually glad of both

these disappointments, as well as the five others; and a good

appeared to spring from the evil. Now, if I am inclined to be

impatient,--and _very_ impatient I am by nature,--I try to

remember my experience, and really to get the valuable lesson

by heart. I think it a good plan at the end of a year to review

the whole, to try and find out what especial lesson has been

set one to learn in it. I found it to be _praise_ one year;

last year _patience_. I know not what it will be this year. I

hope that--but no, I will not write what I intended. Whatever

is, is best. We have not to choose our tasks, but to learn

them.’

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘_June 15, 1855._

‘What news have I to give you? We have had a nice note from

dear Henry to-day, saying nothing about health, except that

Robin is well. St. G. and I have just come from a loiter at

the Botanical Gardens, which showed us that we need be under

no great concern, were hemp and flax exterminated from the

vegetable world, and silkworms to leave off being spinsters, as

we could dress cheaply and well on plantain fibre, have capital

paper and excellent ropes, etc.’

In the August of 1855 she had the pleasure of going with her brother, Mr.

St. George Tucker, to the great French Exhibition at Paris. This was the

celebrated occasion of the Queen’s visit to Napoleon, after the close

of the Crimean War; and Paris was thronged. So full was the place that

rooms in Paris itself were not to be had, and they went to an hotel in

Versailles, occupying apartments which had once been occupied by Louis

Napoleon. Charlotte’s warlike enthusiasm showed itself in the fact that

she was willing to pay twenty-five francs apiece for seats at the Champs

de Mars, where they might witness the review of 45,000 French troops.

When Her Majesty had quitted Paris, it became possible to obtain rooms at

the Hôtel Bristol.

From Versailles she wrote to Mrs. Hamilton, on the 21st of August:--

‘DEAREST WIFEY,[5]--You wished for a letter from France, so

here is one; but if you expect a description of what I have

seen, I really cannot undertake to give you even a _précis_.

Paris surpasses my expectations. All in its gala dress as it

is now, swarming with people, crowded with soldiers, gay with

fluttering flags and triumphal arches,--it is really a sight

in itself. The grand Exposition of pictures is splendid; it is

only too large. I was amused at it by a lady coming up to me,

and politely requesting me to inform her who Ophelia was. An

old French lady, looking at a picture of the burial of Harold,

and, I suppose, feeling that the subject might be painful to me

as a Saxon, politely assured me of her regret at that monarch’s

death! “Let bygones be bygones,” say I.

‘Most of the French foot-soldiers are very little fellows,

compared to some of our troops; but amongst the Cavalry are

very fine tall men. The Zouaves are very heathenish-looking

warriors. They dress something like Turks, with all about their

throats so perfectly bare that they quite invite you to cut

their heads off.

‘St. G. and I so enjoyed this exquisite evening in the stately

gardens! A fine military band was performing, the people were

happily listening, little children skipping about, the glorious

sunset tints illuminating a palace fit for the “grand Monarch.”

‘We have seen our Sovereign Lady three times, which was being

in great luck. I am rather tired of writing, so will only add

kindest love, and beg you to believe me your ever attached,

C. M. TUCKER.

_‘P.S._--I told a fat funny little French baba to-day that I

had a niece younger than herself, and asked her if she would

not like to see her. The answer was unsatisfactory.’

The Crimean War was ended; and two years later came the outbreak of the

Indian Mutiny, with its awful carnage, its heaps of slain, its tortured

women and children, its heroic determination, its dauntless courage. Then

was seen a Continent, lost apparently in one day, won back to the British

Crown by mere handfuls of indomitable men facing armed myriads. Such a

tale had never been told before.

If Charlotte’s patriotism had been stirred by the Crimean struggle, this

came nearer to her yet! She had five brothers, all in India, all more or

less in daily peril. Mr. Henry Carre Tucker was Commissioner at Benares;

Mr. St. George Tucker was at Mirzapore; Mr. William Tucker was in a less

acutely unsafe position; Mr. Charlton Tucker, after seeing his Colonel

shot down, was for weeks in hiding. All these escaped. But her early

companion, Robert,--the father of her ‘Robins,’--was among the slain;

and the three children, already long half-orphaned, became now wholly

orphaned.

Robert Tucker’s remarkable powers, and his successes at Haileybury, have

been earlier spoken about. Naturally of a serious and stern disposition,

though not without lighter traits, he had been a good deal saddened by

troubles, which no doubt resulted in the more complete dedication of

himself and all that he possessed to the Service of his Divine Master. A

short sketch of his life, written by his sister Charlotte, and published

by the S.P.C.K., tells of his work at Futteypore, where for many years he

was Judge.

About four years before the Mutiny he had written home about the

‘extraordinary success’ which was attending his Christian school,

established and kept going by himself. On Sundays he was in the habit of

regularly addressing a collected crowd of Natives; literally ‘the poor,

the maimed, the halt, the blind’; and he did not teach them only, but

also ministered liberally to their bodily needs.

In her little sketch Charlotte says of him,--‘Careless of his own

comfort, restricting his personal expenses to a very narrow compass, he

gave to the Missionary cause at the rate of forty pounds monthly, and one

year even more’; adding that with ‘shrinking from ostentation’ he had

never given his name on these occasions. And again--‘It was his deep and

abiding sense of the debt which he owed to his Saviour, which made the

Judge devote not only his substance but his heart and his soul to the

Lord. How deep was the gratitude which he expressed in these words--“If

every hair upon my head were a life, it would be too little to sacrifice

to the Lord Jesus Christ!”’

A clue to many things in Charlotte’s own later life may be perhaps found

here. There can be no doubt that the story of her brother’s self-denying

life and tragical death made a profound impression upon her mind. His

example, long after, was closely copied by this sister, when she too

‘restricted her personal expenses to a very narrow compass,’ precisely as

he had done, and with the same object, that she might have the more to

give away. Also his energy in teaching was reflected by her own burning

desire, in old age, to speak on all occasions to the Natives of their

deepest needs, and never to miss an opportunity of trying to lead some

poor Hindu or Muhammadan to Christ, always with the vivid sense upon her,

when she met man or woman, that the call to herself might come before

they could meet again, and so a second opportunity might never recur.

Another eighteen years had, however, yet to elapse before she would go

out to India, to follow in his steps, and to render to Hindustan a loving

return for this ‘year of horrors.’

In June 1857, like a thunder-clap, not indeed utterly unforeseen but

practically unexpected by the majority of Englishmen, came the fearful

outbreak; and for a while it did really almost seem that the British

Raj in India was at an end. But those who thought so were soon to be

undeceived.

When first the storm broke, Robert Tucker did not expect to be himself

one of its earlier victims. His brother, Mr. St. George Tucker,

says,--‘Robert was in high spirits when the Mutiny broke out. He wrote to

me that he had seen a magnificent horse, and that if he could buy him,

he could ride from Futteypore to Delhi, and soon finish the war. Robert

was the Judge, and Sherer was the Magistrate. Sherer decided that all the

Europeans must leave Futteypore and fly to Banda. Robert refused to leave

Futteypore, and said that his duty required him to protect the Natives.

The rest of the Europeans went off to Banda.’

Many Native Christians fled also,--among others a Native Catechist, Gopi

Nath. He was taken by Muhammadans, imprisoned and cruelly treated; and he

it was whose sinking courage was revived by the almost dying words of the

English boy-officer, Arthur Cheek, the ‘Martyr of Allahabad.’

But with the spirit of a soldier, Robert Tucker, the intrepid Judge of

Futteypore, remained at his post, the only European among countless

Natives, bent still on doing his duty.

The night preceding the tenth of June he passed at his Cutcherry or

Office; and in the early morning news was brought that his own house

had been set on fire. He then tried to collect some of the landholders,

to protect the Natives in the town, and their houses; but not all his

efforts could prevent the burning of the latter. His next step was to

ride off to the Jail, in the hope of securing the prisoners; but he was

too late, the prisoners having been already set at liberty. Mr. Tucker

fearlessly reprimanded the Jail-Guard; whereupon the Guard, belonging

to a bad Cawnpore regiment, opened fire. Though every shot missed, Mr.

Tucker must then have seen that all was up. Everything was in confusion;

the Native officers would not support him; and he stood absolutely alone.

He rode to the Cutcherry, no man daring to intercept him, and took up

his position on the top; and for hours he remained, fearless and calm,

awaiting his death. The day was intensely hot, causing him to suffer

terribly from thirst; and one of his horsekeepers at length brought him

some milk,--a deed of mercy, which shows that one man at least was not

devoid of gratitude.

‘There he remained during that fearful day,’ wrote Charlotte Tucker.

‘There, as evening was closing in, he made his last lion-like stand, when

the fanatic Musselmans, bearing a green flag, the emblem of their faith,

came in a fierce crowd to attack him.’ How many he shot as they advanced

is not certain; some say twenty, or even thirty; but at length one of

his assailants shot him in the head, and the moment he fell, they took

courage to rush up the stairs and to finish their work.

For Robert Tucker himself, cut off though he was in the very prime of

life, there could be no regrets, except on the score of all that he

might have done, had he lived. No man could be more ready than he was

to go. But the blow fell heavily on those who loved him; and though for

nine years he had not seen his children, whereby the sorrow to them was

softened, yet the loss to their future could not but be great.

‘So he fell,’ wrote one who had escaped; ‘and in his fall the constant

and fervent prayer of his latter days was answered, for he fell at the

post of duty. All who knew him well mourn in him the loss of a true and

noble friend, generous even to prodigality, highly talented, a thorough

gentleman, and an upright judge.’

Mention of this event was made at the time in the Journal Letter of

Viscountess Canning,[6] worth quoting in addition to the above.

’ ... The story of Futteypore is a strange one. The whole country

round was gone, and there was a large Sepoy guard in the

treasury, and every reason to believe they would rise, so all

the Europeans took to boats, and went away to safe stations

down the river, and I think to Banda. Only Mr. Tucker, the

magistrate, would not stir, and remained with fifty Sepoys

and the treasury. He was son to the late Director, Sir George

Tucker,[7] and was one of the four brothers whose names we

hear constantly, and he was as brave as a lion. He had a

deputy-magistrate--a Mohammedan--in a high position, treated as

a gentleman, and in as high a place as a native could occupy,

next to himself. To this man had been given a body of mounted

police, and he undertook to keep the country clear between

the great trunk road and the river for some distance. He did

it admirably, and took delight in it, and sent in detailed

reports up to the last. But when he heard of some more places

being gone, he suddenly returned to the treasury, to which

his position gave him access, dismissed the fifty Sepoys with

a thousand rupees apiece, and then attacked Mr. Tucker with

all his police force. Mr. Tucker was killed, after defending

himself till he had killed with his own hand, some say sixteen,

some twenty men. I suppose he had a whole battery of revolvers,

and so kept his assailants at bay.’

Though Robert was gone, other brothers of Charlotte Tucker were still in

hourly danger; and the pressure of anxiety went on for months, as shown

by letters of the time.

TO MISS B. F. TUCKER.

‘_Sept. 9, 1857._

‘I need not say how I long for tidings from India. Most

especially do I desire news of Havelock’s precious little army.

Upon its success, humanly speaking, may hang the safety of all

our beloved ones in India.’

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘_Sept. 19, 1857._

‘We are longing for our letters, but I do not think we shall

get them till Tuesday. Dearest Mother tries not to think more

of India than she can help, and has, I am glad to say, given

up reading the papers, so we only give her the good part of

the news verbally. I could not endure to be kept in the dark

myself. I go every day to fetch the papers. I half live on

them, and would far rather go without a meal than not see

them.... We heard from poor dear Mrs. Thornhill to-day. She hopes

that Henry and his wife are in Lucknow. Such a hope is not

worth much, one would think.’

TO MISS B. F. TUCKER.

‘_Sept. 21, 1857._

‘God be with our brave and beloved ones! My heart feels very

low--worse than before the letters arrived. We hide from dear

Grandmamma that Mirzapore is threatened. She only knows that

the troops are there; not why they have been sent. N---- W----

has sent his dear wife and children to Calcutta. He feels so

desolate without them, but takes the separation as a lesson

from his Merciful Father to set his affections more on things

above.... Does not your heart sicken for Lucknow?’

All through England hearts were ‘sickening for Lucknow,’ at this time.

But the Cawnpore-like catastrophe, dreaded for Lucknow, did not come. The

rescuing party mercifully arrived in time. As months went by, the Mutiny

was stamped out from end to end of India; and no second Tucker was added

to the roll of England’s martyrs there.

Just before the outbreak Mr. Henry Carre Tucker seems to have requested

that some copies of his sister’s books might be sent out to him for

distribution: and an interesting letter was written by her on the subject

to Messrs. Gall and Inglis.

‘_July 17, 1857._

‘SIR,--I am glad to hear that the box is likely soon to be

on its way to my dear brother. We have been in great anxiety

on account of him and his family, as Benares, the station of

which he is the head, with a population of 180,000, is one of

the most wicked places in India, a “holy city,” a stronghold

of fanaticism. My brother has taken a bolder part in upholding

Missions, and spreading religious literature, than almost any

one else in the country; therefore, if Benares had followed

the example of Delhi, the terrible event might have been

attributed to his excess of zeal.

‘The Almighty, to whom my brother attributes the glory, has

hitherto watched over Benares in so marked a manner, that it

remained quiet in the midst of disturbances; and my young niece

has bravely ridden through it by her father’s side, giving

confidence to the timid by her fearlessness.... But a few lines

in the telegraph, read aloud in Parliament, informs us that the

troops in Benares had risen at last, and been driven out of

the city with great loss. I await the next mail with intense

anxiety. I have five brothers in India.’

It is interesting to know that Mr. Henry Carre Tucker devoted himself

a year later to the task of helping forward in every possible way

Missionary work in India, as a species of ‘Christian revenge’ for the

death of Robert and the sufferings of his countrymen. He took a leading

part in starting the ‘Christian Literature Society for India,’ and was

for a while himself its Honorary Secretary.

CHAPTER IX

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 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 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, 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 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; 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 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, 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, 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 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.’

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 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 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 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!’

CHAPTER X

A.D. 1864-1866

A HEAVY SHADOW

The afternoon shadows were again to darken around Charlotte Tucker; and

one blow after another had to fall. Her mother was growing old, and in no

long time would be called away. The health of her gentle sister, Fanny,

had begun to fail, never to be entirely restored. But a yet sharper

sorrow, because utterly unlooked for, was to come before the loss of

either her mother or her sister, like a flash of lightning into the midst

of clear sunshine.

Of all the many whom she dearly loved, none perhaps lay closer to her

heart than Letitia, the only daughter of her brother Robert,--the

youngest of ‘the Robins.’ The two boys were now out in the world,

one in India, one at sea; but Letitia hitherto had never left her,

except for visits here or there among relatives and friends. One who

knew them both well describes the contrast between aunt and niece at

this period,--Charlotte Tucker, ‘so upright and animated, very thin,

fair, with auburn hair, not very abundant, but which curled slightly,

naturally,’--and Letitia, ‘grave, with beautiful dark eyes and hair, and

rather dark complexion.’ Another speaks of Letitia as tall and handsome,

with dark eyes, dark chestnut hair, regular features, and sweet smile.

The gravity seems to have been a marked characteristic of this gifted

young girl. From very babyhood she was earnestly religious, and of a

peculiarly serious temperament; though at the same time energetic and

sometimes even lively. She had not her aunt’s spirit of fun; but the two

were alike in generosity and in determination. Perhaps Charlotte Tucker’s

training had especially developed these traits in her niece. A favourite

proverb of Letitia’s was--‘Perseverance conquers difficulties’;--and it

would have served equally well for A. L. O. E.

Letitia was also very fond of little children, and she worked much among

the poor. She was an exceedingly good and fearless rider; and at twenty

years old there was already promise of a literary gift. Her passion for

reading was so great that Hallam’s _History_ was a recreation in her

eyes. She had written at least one short story, which had found its

way into print, and many pretty, simple verses, chiefly of a religious

character. One of her hymns, composed at the age of eighteen, may be

given here:--

‘My soul was dark, for o’er its sight

The shades of sorrow fell;--

In Thee alone there still was light,

Jesus, Immanuel!

‘And all around me and above

There hung a gloomy spell;--

I should have died without Thy love,

Jesus, Immanuel!

‘For in my sinking heart there beat

An ever-sounding knell;--

But still I knew the “promise sweet,”

Jesus, Immanuel!

‘I looked to Thee through all my fears,

The pain and grief to quell;--

Thy Hand hath wiped away my tears,

Jesus, Immanuel!

‘I heard a low, “a still small voice,”

Soft whisper, “It is well”;--

And knew the Saviour of my choice,

Jesus, Immanuel!

‘And still, o’er all life’s changing sea,

In calm or stormy swell,

I’ll look in faith straight up to Thee,

Jesus, Immanuel!’

On November 28, 1864, Letitia left English shores, to join her uncle, Mr.

St. George Tucker and his family, in India. Letters of Charlotte Tucker,

referring to the event, have not come to hand; but she must have felt

the separation very keenly, whatever might have been the precise reasons

which led to the move. Letitia had now been practically her child for

eighteen years; and a close tie existed between the two. But no doubt

Charlotte looked upon the parting as of a very temporary nature; as

merely sending her child away for a longer visit than any preceding. The

real anguish of separation came a year later, when suddenly the young

girl was summoned to her true Home.

The few following extracts lie between these two dates,--the going of

Letitia to India, and the tidings of her death.

TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.

‘_Jan. 3, 1865._

‘Many thanks, my dear Leila, for your affectionate note.... There

was another nice cheerful note from my Letitia to-day. She

wrote it when on the Red Sea, which she evidently found very

warm, for she described the ship as a “hothouse,” and said that

she and her fellow-passengers would be “fine exotics” before

they arrived. There had been two Services on board on Sunday,

and Letitia had heard two excellent sermons. Mary Egerton had

her harmonium on board, which had been brought up from the

hold, so there was nice hymn-singing too. How sweet the music

must have sounded on the water! I think that, steaming over

the Red Sea, one would have liked to have raised the song of

the Israelites--

“Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark sea,

Jehovah hath triumphed, His people are free!”

‘My dear sailor is to leave us on the 17th or 18th for China.

I believe that he is to travel part of the journey in the

same vessel as the Cuthbert Thornhills, who were to have

taken charge of Letitia had our first arrangements held good.

They will have one Robin instead of the other. Poor dear Mrs.

Thornhill, what a sad parting is before her! I had a loving

note very lately from my Louis. He fears that he will not get

leave to see his dear sister for a twelve-month.

‘The weather here has been chilly. None of the ladies have

ventured out of the house since Saturday; but Charley has in

vain longed for skating. Ice forms, then melts again. Dear

Grandmamma keeps wonderfully free from cold; but then she

remains in the house.’

TO MRS. HAMILTON. (Undated.)

‘My loved boy left us yesterday, quiet and firm, shedding no

tear. We (Mamma) had a little note from him this morning,--such

a simple one,--you might have fancied that he had only left us

for a week. Dear boy! I trust that he is going into sunshine;

above all I hope and pray that his Father’s God will ever be

with him. It would not have been well for him to have remained

much longer in London with nothing particular to do. Active

life is most wholesome to a fine strong man like my Charley....

‘Dear Mother keeps well. Sweet Fan I cannot give so good an

account of. I have urged Mother to have further advice; and I

believe that there will be a little consultation on Friday; but

perhaps you had better not write about this, except to me.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_Nov. 15, 1865._

‘What a bright account you give of your dear busy young

party! Tell dear Otho that I shall be charmed if he makes the

discovery of a magenta-coloured caterpillar, or a mauve earwig;

and that as it will be ten times as curious as the Spongmenta

Padella, it ought to have a Latin name ten times as long. I

don’t despair of the great sea-serpent Did I tell you that

dear Mrs. Thornhill had, when a girl, conversed with a Mrs.

Hodgeson, wife of one of the Governors of our West Indian

possessions, who had watched the movements of _two_ that were

fighting in the waves for about _ten minutes_?

“’Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,

One glance at such a fray!--”

I took down the particulars, as I thought them very curious....

‘This is my sweet Letitia’s birthday; she is just twenty.... My

Letitia is going to pay Louis a visit at Moultan.’

No foreboding whisper in her heart spoke of what that visit to Moultan,

so lightly mentioned, would mean to them all. When the two next letters

were penned, little as Charlotte dreamt of what was coming, the blow had

already fallen, and Letitia had passed away.

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘_Jan. 2, 1866._

‘May the best blessings of the opening year rest upon my

beloved Laura, and her dear circle.

‘I hope that dear Leila received my _Rescued from Egypt_ in

the Christmas box. I put it up for her, and to the best of my

knowledge it went to Bournemouth; but as neither she nor you

have mentioned seeing it, I feel half afraid that in some way

I cannot imagine it has missed its destination, and the dear

girl has fancied that when sending little remembrances to her

brothers I had forgotten her.

‘Such a delightful budget of letters I had from Letitia by last

Southampton mail! She writes that she is “very very happy.”’

TO THE SAME.

‘_Jan. 3, 1866._

‘I feel that I have not said half enough to your dear husband

for his splendid book. I was in such a hurry to write and thank

him, that I only gave myself time for a cursory glance.... Dear

Fanny enjoyed looking at the pictures with me; and to-day I

carried up my book to dear Mother, that she might have the

pleasure also. She admires your dear husband’s gift greatly,

and we agree that it is just the book to take to the Cottage.

It seems to be quite a treasure of curious and interesting

knowledge; a volume to keep for reference as well as for

perusal. Do thank dear Mr. Hamilton again for me, and tell him

that I consider _Homes Without Hands_ as a family acquisition.

‘We are all much _in statu quo_. Our time is now passing

swiftly and pleasantly. Mother looks so bright and bonny and

young! We were talking together to-day of your and your dear

husband’s kindness to sweet Fanny. I am sure that it has not

been lost.’

Then came the mournful news; and a hasty short scrawl conveyed the first

intimation of it from Charlotte Tucker to her niece, ‘Leila’ Hamilton; a

note without any formal beginning:--

‘Break to your sweet Mother and Aunt Mina that God has taken my

darling Letitia. His Will be done,--Your sorrowing Aunt,

‘C. M. T.

‘All was peace,--_smiling_!’

The illness had been short,--a severe attack of erysipelas, while Letitia

was in her brother’s house at Moultan. Somewhat early in the illness she

had said,--‘I am sure I shall die; but one ought not to mind, you know.’

While delirious she was heard to say distinctly,--‘Ta,’--her pet name

in the past for her aunt Charlotte; but the message, if there were one,

could not be distinguished.

After much wandering, she regained sufficient consciousness to assure

those around that she was suffering no pain; and five or six times

she repeated to her brother,--‘I am very fond of you!’ This was on a

Wednesday. The next day, Thursday, she was too weak for speech; though

in the morning, recognising her brother, she gave him a sweet smile.

Thenceforward the dying girl was entirely peaceful; as said by one of

those present,--‘constantly smiling. Her whole face was lighted up as

with extreme pleasure.’ All day this continued, as she slowly sank; the

face remaining perfectly calm and untroubled; till at length, when she

passed away, soon after eleven o’clock at night, ‘she ceased to breathe

so gently that she seemed to have fallen into a deep sleep.’ But the

placid smile was still there, unchanged, till the sweet young face was

hidden away.

Charlotte Tucker, writing to her sister, Mrs. Hamilton, about these sad

particulars, which yet were not all sad, observed:--

‘I am sure your heart has been aching, and your eyes have been

weeping. Such a sudden--such an unexpected stroke! But God is

Wisdom and Love....

‘Darling--my own darling Letitia! Oh, when she looked so happy,

did she not see the angels--or her beloved Father--or the

Bedwells and old Rodman whom she had so tended,--perhaps all

coming to welcome her,--or the loving Saviour Himself? I do

not grudge her to Him; but oh, what a wealth of love I have

(apparently) lost in that one young heart! Her _last_ parcel of

letters to me contained sweet commissions for her poor.... I dare

say that I shall hear from you to-morrow; but it is a relief

to me to write now to you, who were so kind and dear to her. I

went out before breakfast this morning. A thrush was singing

so sweetly. I saw the first crocus of the year. My flower,--my

lovely one,--she may now be singing in joy, while we sit in

sorrow.’

This letter was dated January 21; and three days later another went to

Mrs. Hamilton, not from Charlotte, but from Fanny:--

‘MY OWN DEAREST LAURA,--Your dear letters have been very

soothing to our Charlotte, and have helped to remind her of

the mercies mingled with the bereavement. The sure sweet hope

that her darling is safe, and for ever happy, has been her

strong consolation; and God is mercifully supporting her, I am

thankful to say. Last Sunday she went both to Church and to the

Workhouse.

‘I am thankful to be near her, to minister to her,--but wish I

were a better comforter, such as _you_ would have been, dear.

‘The sad tidings were most gently broken to our dear Mother by

Clara. She was therefore mercifully spared the shock of the

sudden intelligence.

‘With kindest remembrances to dear Mr. Hamilton, and love to

your dear self and your dear ones, believe me, dearest Laura,

your very affectionate

‘F. TUCKER.’

C. M. T. TO A COUSIN.

‘_Jan. 24, 1866._

‘Many thanks for your kind sympathy. My sweet consolation

indeed is that my own darling girl sleeps in Jesus. When such a

bright look of “extreme pleasure” lighted up the dear face of

one called away in the bloom of her youth and beauty, was she

not realising her own sweet lines,--

“I heard a Voice, ‘a still small Voice,’

Soft whisper, ‘It is well,’

And knew the Saviour of my choice,

Jesus, Immanuel”?’

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘_Feb. 6, 1866._

‘Did I ever tell you that my darling wrote to me when she was

at the Hills, saying that she did not wish me to be altogether

disappointed in regard to her, and asking me whom I would wish

her to try to resemble. I mentioned you,--for I thought that as

her disposition was lively, it would be more easy for her to

try to be like you than dear Fanny; besides she had seen you

as a wife and mother, and I did not know whether the Almighty

might not destine her to be such. He had something “far better”

for my loved one.

‘It will interest you to know that G---- (P----‘s _protégée_),

after winning honours at Cambridge, wishes to be baptized as

a Christian. Amy H---- and her husband are to be two of his

witnesses, and he is anxious that dear Henry[11] should be the

third; for it was Henry’s consistent character which first

showed him what Christianity really is.’

TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.

‘_Feb. 13, 1866._

‘I thank you lovingly, dearest Leila, for your letter. I prize

your affection,--you write to me almost as my own darling used

to write. If my health had broken down, so that I could not

have been a comfort to dear Grandmamma and Aunt Fanny here,

I should thankfully have accepted the invitation which you

so affectionately press; but as I keep pretty well, I do not

think that it would be well for me to leave my post at home.

Dear Grandmamma seems to cling to me so,--she is so loving! I

am thankful that she keeps so well. Dear Aunt Fanny was not so

well for two days, but is better again....

‘My darling once wrote and asked me whose character I would

like her to try to copy as a pattern. I gave her your sweet

Mother’s. She replied that it would be difficult, but that it

was well to aim high. I think that _you_ will like to know

this. You have the same sweet model always before you; you,

dear one, have advantages that my darling had not.

‘Though I have cried over this note, it has soothed me to write

it; I have felt as if I were taking another dear young niece to

my heart,--a sad heart, but I trust not an ungrateful one for

the earthly affection which is God’s gift, and of which I have

been granted much.--Your affectionate Aunt and Godmother

‘C. M. T.’

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘1866.

‘I send you on the other page a few lines which came into my

mind yesterday in regard to my sweet Letitia:--

‘A THOUGHT.

‘She travelled to the glorious East; she met the rising sun,--

And even so her day of heavenly bliss was soon begun;

I knew ’twas sunrise with my child, while night was o’er me weeping,

E’er closed my weary day, my darling was serenely sleeping.

And so Thou didst ordain, O Lord, as Thou didst deem it best,--

That hers should be the earlier dawn, and hers the earlier rest.’

TO MISS B. F. TUCKER.

‘_May 22, 1866._

‘I have been learning a new art, and am thankful to find that

I have sufficient energy left in me to do so. I sent for some

reading in embossed letters for a blind man here, and amused

myself by puzzling it out myself. I have succeeded in reading

right through the fourteenth of St. John in two sittings of

about an hour and twenty minutes each. It was an effort of

memory as well as attention, as some of the letters are utterly

unlike those to which we have been accustomed. The poor blind

man promises well to acquire the art, I think.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_July 16, 1866._

‘Have you seen the mysterious sky-visitor? On Friday evening

our maids saw something like three stars, one red,--but they

disappeared. On the following night Cousins[12] called me to

look on what I would not have missed seeing for a good deal.

About thirty degrees above the horizon, I should think, shone

what was like a star, but more splendid than any that I had

ever beheld, of a brilliant magenta colour. It was no falling

star passing rapidly through the sky, but appeared quite fixed

in the heavens for--perhaps ten minutes. As I gazed with

something like awe on its wondrous beauty, suddenly its colour

utterly changed; the magenta became white, with a greenish

tinge; and then--as suddenly--the star disappeared; not as if

hidden by a cloud, but as if _put out_.

‘I watched for the mysterious light last night, but could not

see it; the evening had been so strangely dark that we had

lighted candles an hour before sunset, though our window looks

to the west. No star was visible to me; but our maids had a

short glimpse of a strange light. I am sitting by the window

now to watch for the visitor in the north-west.... I searched

_The Times_ to-day to see if there were any mention of it, but

could find none.’

Evidently Charlotte Tucker had been fortunate enough to see a very fine

meteor; though probably the supposed duration of ten minutes was in

reality a good deal shorter. The idea of watching for the same meteor

next night is somewhat amusing. The maids doubtless saw what they

expected to see; but Charlotte Tucker, though non-scientific, was far too

practical so to indulge her powers of imagination.

In another letter written during this same July to Mrs. Hamilton occurs

one little sentence well worth quoting, for it is a sentence which might

serve as a motto for many a seemingly empty and even purposeless life--

‘IT IS SWEET TO BE SOMEBODY’S SUNSHINE.’

In June Mrs. Tucker had written to a friend,--‘Charlotte walked twice to

church, and thinks she is stronger.’ And in a letter to Mrs. Hamilton, on

the 23rd of July, Charlotte said of herself,--‘I am quite well now, and

up to work’;--yet the following to a niece, on September 1st, does not

speak of fully restored energies:--

‘I have so much to be grateful for, I wish that I were of a

more thankful spirit. It seems as if this year had aged me.

When I saw a bright creature like ----, I mentally contrasted

her with myself, and thought,--“She has not the gee out of her.

Cheerfully and hopefully she enters on her untried sphere of

work. In her place I should be taking cares!”--very wrong of

me. I often take myself to task.

‘I feel putting off my dark dress for _one day_ on Wednesday....

My darling was to me what she was not to her other Aunts.’

To some people, or in certain states of body and mind, the afternoon is

apt to be a more tired time than the evening. At this stage in Charlotte

Tucker’s Afternoon of life she passed through a somewhat weary spell,

though never really ill; but her energies were to revive for the work of

her Eventide.

On October 6th she could say,--

‘I am not poorly, though I look thin; I think that I am

stronger in health and firmer in spirit now than I have been

almost all this trying year; and for this I am thankful.’

TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.

‘_Nov. 2, 1866._

‘Your sweet Mother will wonder at not receiving the little book

which I promised to send her; but our bookseller, from whom I

ordered the copy, has been unable to get it yet. I will tell

you something that may cause delay. Of course I looked with

some interest at the illustrations which my Publisher sent me;

but I was not a little surprised in the last one to find one

whom I considered to be a man represented as a _bear_! He was

bearish in character certainly, but still--certainly not a bear

in shape.

‘Of course I wrote to Mr. Inglis about it; who replied that

he had been annoyed himself at the resemblance to a bear, and

had sent the picture more than once to be altered, and had

been at last so much provoked that he had paid off the artist

altogether. Now, though I may be a little sorry for the poor

man,--I never proposed his dismissal,--I confess I am rather

glad that he is not to illustrate my books any more. There is

no saying what creature he might turn my characters into next.

Mr. Inglis is going to have the picture altered; so this may

occasion delay.’

CHAPTER XI

A.D. 1867-1868

GIVING COMFORT TO OTHERS

Three more years only remained to Charlotte of life in the dear old home

of her infancy. Those three years passed quietly, marked by no stirring

events. On the 11th of December 1867, Otho St. George Hamilton, son of

her sister Laura, died at the age of thirteen, after a long illness;

and during these years Fanny continued steadily to fail. The delicacy

developed into a case of decided consumption, but of a slow and lingering

description. A few sentences are culled from the many letters which

remain, belonging to this period.

TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.

‘_Feb. 1867._

‘I wish my sweet Leila to receive a few lines on her birthday....

_Tempus fugit_, indeed. When you open this you will be thirteen

years old. It seems to me as if each year now were growing

more and more important; the stream is widening; the mind is

opening; and ... may the heart be opening too to that Love which

is beyond all earthly love.

‘I had a pleasant childhood. My mind was very active, as well

as my bodily frame; and at your age I dare say that life lay

before me, a bright, hope-inspiring thing. It is well that it

should be so; it is a kind arrangement of Providence that the

young should be usually full of energy and hope. I like to

recall how I felt, that I may enter into the feelings of others.

‘Now of course I have not exactly the same kind of landscape

before me as I had at thirteen. I am in my forty-sixth year,

have known care and sorrow, and have at present but feeble

health. And yet, dear, I don’t want to exchange my landscape;

I have no wish to go back. I have found that middle age has

its deep joys, as well as early youth its sparkling ones.

Sometimes I ask myself,--“Now, in my present position, if I had

no pleasure in religion, if everything connected with that were

cut off, what would be left me?--what would life be to me?” O

Leila, what a tasteless, what a bitter thing! We want delights

that will not grow old, that will never pall, that will be just

as fresh and lovely at eighty as at eighteen. Religion is not

merely, as some seem to fancy, to prepare us for death, but to

be the happiness of life. It calls indeed for the sacrifice

of self-will in a hundred little ways; but it repays those

little sacrifices a hundred times over. Just think what it is

to realise such thoughts as these,--“The Lord Jesus loves me! I

am His own! I shall see Him one day, and be with Him!” How can

such thoughts ever lose their sweetness?’

TO THE SAME.

‘_April 28, 1867._

‘How different your still, noiseless dwelling must be to ours

at present! Not that we have much noise, but sometimes so

much seems going on. Yesterday M---- A---- D---- and a young

cousin came in the morning; then before they had left Cousin

M---- E---- and four fine children, then Uncle St. George and

his wife. All this before luncheon; others came after it; and

I went to the Poorhouse, and then lodging-hunting with Uncle

St. George. He _is_ so sweet and loving and good.... He delights

Grandmamma.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_July 1, 1867._

‘It is mournfully interesting to read my darling’s papers, of

which L---- has brought home many. Her prose is usually lively;

her poetry full of tenderness, often very sad.... The two latest

dated poems were, I think, written August 14. They were called

“An Early Grave” and “All is Vanity.” Every stanza of the

first expresses desire for an early departure. The second thus

beautifully closes--

“There’s rest beneath the yew; I know

There’s deeper Rest in realms above;

The Saviour’s Arm the valley through

Will me uphold with strengthening love;

My hope His Righteousness; my buckler, faith;

Why should I fear to tread the shades of death?”

‘If this really be the darling’s last written stanza, what a

touching interest it gives it!’

TO MISS B. F. TUCKER.

‘_Sept. 9, 1867._

‘Poor little Otho has rallied again, though the doctor holds

out no hope of ultimate recovery. This is a sad time for

my poor Laura, though there are sorer trials than that of

bereavement.’

The Hamiltons were at this time in great trouble, as they watched the

long-drawn-out sufferings of their dying boy; and many letters were

written by Charlotte to her favourite sister, full of intense feeling.

Day by day she lived with them in their sorrow, anxiously looking out for

fresh tidings, and thinking what she could say to comfort or soothe.

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘_Oct. 30, 1867._

‘PRECIOUS SISTER,--Your touching letter has quickened the

spirit of Prayer; but oh, I feel as if my prayers were often

so weak and worthless. I want more faith, more earnestness. I

have not time to write more, but could not let _that_ letter be

unanswered by your loving

‘C. M. T.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_Nov. 9, 1867._

‘Fanny and I have been conversing to-night on the subject

of your dear suffering boy. You long fervently to see him

rejoicing in the prospect of departing and being with Christ.

Perhaps the one obstacle to his being able to do so is the

thought of parting from you. If his Mother were going with him,

he may think, he would be happy to go.

‘Now to me, were I in your darling’s position, there would be

comfort and pleasure in the idea--“Perhaps, as regards me,

leaving the body will _not_ be real separation from dear ones.

Perhaps I may be allowed to come to them, and minister to them,

and cheer them; though they cannot see me I may see them!” This

idea does not appear opposed to Scripture. The rich man in the

parable believed that Lazarus _could_ go to Earth; and Abraham

never said that he could _not_. If dear Otho thought that he

might possibly be permitted to watch over his Mother, and help

to make her happy, and be one of the first to welcome her to

bliss,--perhaps the real bitterness of death would for him seem

taken away. It seems quite possible that dear Robin was by his

child’s sick-bed, and that she _saw_ him, when her face so

lighted up with joy. “I believe in the Communion of Saints.”

‘Your dear boy is very young. A child’s religion seems almost

to begin with the Fifth Commandment. We can hardly yet expect

dear Otho to love the Lord whom he has not seen _more_ than the

parents whom he has seen and fondly loved. Do you not think,

darling, that you are almost _too_ anxious on the subject of

Otho’s state of mind? He is only a lamb; and the Good Shepherd

knows that he needs to be carried.

‘I should like to know when your dear boy takes the Holy

Communion, that I may be with you in thought and in prayer.

Otho is an invited guest to the Great Feast above; his robe is

prepared by his Lord,--don’t fear, love, that it will not be

very white and very fair....

‘_P.S._--_Nov. 10._--I have been thinking much of your dear one

in church; and I open my note to add another reason suggested

to my mind, as a cause why he may be unable ... to feel joy in

the thought of departure. You and I, my Laura, have known many

of God’s saints now in bliss; we have almost as many dear

friends in the world of spirits as in this. Perhaps we are

hardly aware of the influence which this has on our minds,--how

it helps to make Heaven a home. Your dear boy may feel that he

is going to enter amongst a great company of saints, almost

every one of whom is a stranger to him. To one so reserved as

Otho, this may be rather an awful thought. I wonder if it is

a comfort to him to think of sweet Letitia and Christian[13]

being there. Perhaps if you reminded him of that, it might

remove a feeling which--if he entertains it--he might not like

to mention even to you.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_Nov. 13, 1867._

‘I thank God that He has made your darling willing to depart,

even to leave you. Your note is deeply interesting; and I think

you may feel that your prayers have been answered.... You must

now only think of the “far more exceeding and eternal weight of

glory.” Probably every hour of suffering in some mysterious way

enhances and increases future rapture,--rapture more intense

than we can conceive. The longer I live, the more convinced I

feel that there _is_ this mysterious connection--in the case of

God’s children--between personal pain and future delight. So

that, if we could, as we fain would, shield our treasures from

suffering, we might be depriving them of some rich blessing.

‘_You_ are in the furnace, my precious sister,--a hotter

furnace, perhaps, than that which tries your child. I need not

repeat that whenever you want me, you have only to send for me.

You and I understand each other! How sweet is the tie between

us! Dear Mother is apt to indulge hopes of your boy’s recovery.

I think that she hardly realises his state, and probably she

scarcely knows how to write under the circumstances. She has

had a cold these last few days, but is, I hope, throwing it

off....

‘I send you a little book,[14] which I am sure will interest

you. It has been a mournful pleasure to me to prepare it. Your

lamb as well as mine will probably soon “be folded above.”’

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘_Nov. 14, 1867._

‘My heart feels more with you, my Laura, in that still

sick-room than here. Perhaps many angels are about you and your

boy, though you see them not.

‘Like your dear invalid, I am especially fond of St. Luke’s

account of the dying thief. There is something so touching

in his looking at such a moment to the Saviour, whose Blood,

shed for his salvation, was at that moment trickling down in

his view; and there is something so sublime in our Lord’s

conferring Eternal Life,--such a gift,--at the time when He was

Himself undergoing the terrible sentence of death! We may envy

your dear suffering child, my Laura, when we think how soon, in

human expectation, his eyes will behold the King in His beauty.

‘O darling, you could hardly wish to keep him back, when the

Master calls him,--calls him to His Home--His Arms!

‘I feel for your dear husband; this is a time of sore trial

for him; but you suffer together. May God give you both “songs

in the night.” Those songs are perhaps sweeter to Him than the

Hallelujahs of the Angels.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_Nov. 21, 1867._

‘How well I know that feeling which you describe,--the feeling

of being unable to pray fervently,--of being scarcely able to

pray at all! This is probably caused ... by fatigue of body, and

overstraining of mind and nerves. Perhaps God permits it, that

we should just sink in complete helplessness at our Saviour’s

Feet, and ask Him to pray for us, since we cannot pray for

ourselves.... You may be like a very little child, that can’t

even _ask_ for what it needs, but yet trusts and fears not.’

TO MISS LEILA HAMILTON.

‘_Dec. 11, 1867._

‘Your very very sad account of dear Otho received this morning

makes one think that, even before this reaches you, the

sufferer may have been called _home_! Oh what a blessing it

is that it is indeed Home.... Dear Otho has had a sorely trying

journey, wintry and wearisome indeed; but there is no shadow,

never can be a shadow, on the Home to which he is bound. He

will never have to leave it again, to learn the lesson of

patience in pain. He will, through his Lord’s merits, be

ready there to welcome the dear ones whom he is now leaving

behind,--when they too may quit their school, and go to their

Father in Heaven....

‘This is a solemn time for you, my Leila. I had reached the

age of thirty before I ever looked upon that which is called

death, in my own home. These events make the invisible world

seem nearer. They should draw us upwards; they should bring us

closer to our God.’

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘_Dec. 12, 1867._

‘MOST PRECIOUS LAURA,--When Lady Catherine L----‘s only son was

called, she sank on her knees, and said,--“My child, I wish you

joy!” so wonderfully was she enabled to realise the happiness,

the ecstasy, of the freed spirit, rising up to the presence of

her Saviour and God. Happy, happy Otho! No more to be pitied,

but to be envied!

‘“O change, O wondrous change!

Burst are the prison bars,--

One moment past--how low

In mortal pangs,--and now

Beyond the stars!”

‘I will not write much to you now, darling. I am going to see

your Freddie, but intend to tell him nothing.

‘Express my tender sympathy to your dear husband. God support

you all.--Your loving

‘C. M. T.’

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘_Jan. 14, 1868._

‘It was not with dry eyes, my beloved Laura, that I could

read what was written in those volumes, to which a tenfold

value is given by their being last Remembrances from your

lately suffering, now blessed boy. Oh, with what a heavy heavy

heart must you have put up those parcels, and written those

inscriptions! It will perhaps be a long time before you can

realise with calm thankfulness that it is indeed so “well with

the child” that you can rejoice in his safety, his happiness....

I am now much more disposed to praise for my angel-girl than to

weep for her.... I can see so clearly the Love and Wisdom that

took her Home. Presently, my precious sorrowing sister, you may

feel the same about your boy. Your intense love will remain,

for love is immortal; your sorrow will die, for sorrow with

Christ’s people is _not_ immortal, thank God.--Your tenderly

loving

‘C. M. TUCKER.’

TO THE SAME.

‘I have enjoyed your dear letter, and it makes me feel

thankful. I have often thought that freed spirits probably lead

a life of delightful activity; none of the “burdens of the

flesh” to fetter them down. The idea of spirits preaching to

spirits is, however, rather new to me. But there seems nothing

against it, and probability rather in its favour. That verse in

St. Peter, to which you refer, certainly strengthens the idea;

for the disciples are permitted in so many ways to follow their

Master.

‘It is thus possible that, while you are weeping for your

darling, if your eyes were opened, you might see him the

bright, joyful centre of a little group of spirits of Indian

children,[15] repeating to them the lessons which he first

learned from you, but which he would now know better--oh, how

much better!--than you could ever teach him. I am sure that you

would not wish to take him back again to pain and weakness from

such an occupation.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_April 14, 1868._

‘MY OWN SWEET LAURA,--I feel that this month must be full of

heavy recollections to you; and oh, it is hard to have a bright

face to hide a bleeding heart. I hope that you will not put

any restraint upon yourself with me.... Easter has its peculiar

message of hope and joy to the mourner. Nature, bursting into

new life and beauty, repeats the message, gives it to us as it

were in an illumination of green leaves and bright blossoms.

The Church says, “Christ is risen indeed!”--and all around

us joyfully adds, “And _we_ shall rise again!” Your parting

with your boy is over; now only the meeting is before you. The

shadows fall behind; the glowing sunshine is in front.’

CHAPTER XII

A.D. 1868-1872

THE OLD HOME BROKEN UP

One letter at about this time gives particulars of how Charlotte tried

to influence, not without results, a poor Roman Catholic woman, whom

she came across in the Infirmary. Another makes allusion to the Ragged

Schools and their work, in which she was always greatly interested. Yet

another contains the answer to an inquiry from a niece about a book

which should be bought, probably for a gift. The suggested choice ranges

between Sir Walter Scott, Felicia Hemans, Jean Ingelow, the Author of

_The Schonberg-Cotta Family_, and Miss Sewell,--a rather curious mixture.

TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.

‘_July 7, 1868._

‘I met a mole the other day in a field. It did not attempt to

get away, but let me stroke it; and had I chosen I could easily

have taken it up in my hand. This seems quite a country for

moles. I have seen them repeatedly. I take a greater interest

in them, from that book, _Homes Without Hands_, which your

father kindly gave me.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_Aug. 11, 1868._

‘We have strange pets here. There are numbers of wasps; I never

saw so many at any one time, I think. They sting our poor maids

in the kitchen, but behave in such a gentlemanly way in the

drawing-room, that, instead of a plague, they seem a pleasure

to dear Grandmamma. She watches them, feeds them, admires

their beauty, and calls them her babies. One got within Aunt

C----‘s jacket, which naturally rather alarmed her. She drew

the jacket off, and I found the wasp in the sleeve. It had been

between it and C----‘s bare skin, and yet had never stung her.

‘I dare say that you are rather impatient to be settled in

Firlands.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_Sept. 21, 1868._

‘On Saturday ---- and I read my _Castle of Carlsmont_ aloud

to dear Grandmamma. I have been amused at ----‘s little

criticisms, and shall like to know how far yours agree with

hers, if you read my Tragedy. ---- says that “Clara is rather

stupid”; that she likes Agnes best. “I have rather a sneaking

likeness for Agnes,” says she. She says that the ending

disappoints her; she would cut off the last page and the four

preceding lines, which would completely alter the whole ending.

The ending stood originally just as she would have it; but

years afterwards I added the page and four lines, which _I_

think an improvement.

‘Tell me frankly what you think, and whether you approve of

the style of binding. You remember when I talked to you about

the Tragedy, as we sat together in the garden. The two things

that occurred to you were,--how could I get the work, when

printed, _sold_; and that people would not like it in pamphlet

shape. Messrs. Nelson have obviated the first difficulty; and

by having covers put on by the Jewish Society, I have obviated

the second. I am sure my wee book will have your good wishes,

dear, that it may bring in a little sum to dear Auntie Fanny’s

Mission purse.

‘You will wonder what has become of that work of mine, of which

I read part to you last year. I can only warn you, my dear

Leila, when you write a story, don’t call it _On the Way_,--for

it seems to be always on the way, and never to arrive.

‘What a long note I have written! Pay me back by a review of my

Tragedy, and be as blunt as ever you like; for if you tell me

that my poor lady is “very stupid,” instead of “rather stupid,”

you will only make me smile.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_Feb. 4, 1869._

‘It is only fair that I should send you a long account of the

wedding.[16] I thought that I should be the first of the party

in church, for I went early; but I was mistaken. Gradually

a large family party gathered.... There was a good deal of

how-d’ye-doing and kissing and that kind of thing, before the

word was heard, “The bride is coming.”

‘Dear Bella looked nice and sweet, leaning on the arm of her

father. A large Honiton lace veil fell over her pure white silk

dress; her lovely hair plaited, instead of made into an ugly

chignon, appeared graceful under the white wreath, from which

a spray drooped down her neck. I did not think the bridesmaids

looking picturesque; there was too square a look about the

purple trimming of their white alpacas. The bridegroom

and bride stood side by side. I could see Bella’s profile

distinctly, and could hear every sentence, both when James and

when she repeated their vows.... There was no crying that I could

see.... You know that there were eight little children present,

four little boys and four little girls. Some of them were given

flowers from an ornamental basket, to strew in the path of the

bride, as her husband led her down the aisle.’

TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.

‘_June 12, 1869._

‘Sweet Grandmamma continues much the same,--serene,--without

pain, not exactly ill, but so delicate that she is still

carried up and down stairs, and sees none of the family

but Aunt Clara and myself, and only a little of me.... Dear

Grandmamma sent for me while I was writing the above; and to my

surprise I found her, pen in hand, busy with a note to welcome

Uncle Willy. I am much pleased that she should send him one,

though I should not have thought of asking her to make so great

an effort. Of course the note is very short.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_July 10, 1869._

‘My heart should be full of thankfulness, for to-day dear Aunt

Fanny was able to pay her first visit here to see Grandmamma.

Uncle and Aunt St. George[17] drove her here in their

pony-chaise; and she had quite enjoyed the drive. I thought

Aunt Fanny decidedly better; but dear Grandmamma--who has

scarcely realised the severity of her late illness,--said to

me, with evident disappointment, “I was surprised to see my

own Fanny look so pallid. I think she looks worse than I do.”

This is true; but then the fact is that Grandmamma’s lovely

pink and white complexion often makes her look stronger than

she is....

‘Uncle St. George has given me such a lovely piano-piece.

Grandmamma likes me to play it through every day, or I should

be inclined to lend it to your dearest Mother. It would remind

her so of the dear Ancient Concerts, the delight of our youth,

and of good old Mrs. Burrough. It is Glück’s music, arranged by

Calcott, from _Half-Hours with the Best Composers_, published

by Lonsdale. The piece commences with the delightful chorus

of Furies, Cerberus barking, etc., which your dear Mother may

remember.

‘I am ashamed of such an untidy scrawl as this. I do not know

how that blot on the first page made its appearance. Of course

the _writer_ was not to blame!... I could chat much longer with

you, dear one, but I have other notes to write; and my pen, or

ink, or paper, or something or other, will go wrong to-night,

so as to make the act of writing irksome, as well as the note

untidy.’

Another heavy blow, not less heavy because sooner or later inevitable,

was now drawing very near. Mrs. Tucker, who had reached the age of

eighty, had of late failed steadily; and Charlotte must have seen that

this dear Mother was soon to pass away from their midst. Before the

close of July the call came; and already every word that she spoke was

treasured up by her daughter, as may be seen in the following letter:--

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘_July 12, 1869._

‘So many thanks to my beloved Laura for her valuable and

gratifying gift, which reaches me to-day. Dear Mother has heard

your sweet music twice over already, and both she and Clara

admire it. So do I. I wish that your song were published,

that more might benefit from it. I am pleased that you occupy

yourself in composing, love. I dare say Mother will often ask

for her Laura’s song. “Is not she a darling?” exclaimed Mother

to-day.

‘I not unfrequently sing, “Hark, my soul,” to sweet Mamma.

It is better to go over and over the same than to give much

variety, though I sometimes sing “Rock of Ages” also. I heard

Mother saying to herself one day, “Jesus speaks, and speaks

to me”; and she once observed of that hymn, “That takes one to

heaven.”

‘Dear Mother is much the same; not ill; with no fever, no pain;

just very delicate and weak. She was so particularly sweet

yesterday, Sunday. She looked lovely sitting by the large open

window, with a light gauze veil to keep off the flies. Mother

said that it had been “a holy day”--“a solemn day,”--and twice

asked me to read the Bible to her.... Once after waking she

observed that she felt “between Heaven and earth.” Mother has

repeatedly alluded to her dream of being in Heaven with Mrs.

Thornhill; and often talks of her father,--“such a holy man!”

‘She said yesterday, “I have been dreaming.” I observed, “I

hope they were pleasant dreams.” “Mostly prayerful,” was her

reply.... She is very serene and peaceful, which is such a mercy.’

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘_July 24, 1869._

‘BELOVED LAURA,--So tenderly and so gently the Lord has dealt

with our sweetest Mother! She woke this morning, and told

Cousins that she herself had slept too long. There was a slight

feeling of sickness about eight, which made Cousins call poor

Clara. In about an hour she gently fell asleep.... No pain

nor even consciousness at the last. I had gone to London on

business, as you know. I was telegraphed to; but ere I arrived

she--the sweet, the beloved--was where she had wished to be. O

Laura, Laura, she has long been drinking the _dregs_ of life,

however sweetened by affection. I felt for her. But I seem

as if I could hardly write connectedly. All the three dear

brothers have been here. St. George still is here. Poor dear

Fanny also,--she is to have my room, for she is so thankful to

be here. We have, however, only been allowed one very brief

glimpse and kiss of the revered remains. _Only_ remains, my

Laura. Think of her bliss! _She_ is not here.... Your fond

‘C. M. T.’

In Charlotte’s desk, kept as one of her greatest treasures, and found

there, years later, after her own death, was the last note ever written

to her by Mrs. Tucker. It contained these words--‘_My precious Charlotte,

you have been such a comfort to me!_’ No wonder the loving utterance was

treasured up by the daughter through the rest of her life.

During forty-eight years Charlotte Tucker had known but one home--No.

3 Upper Portland Place. Now at length in her forty-ninth year the

inevitable family break-up had come; and the dear home of her infancy,

of her girlhood, of her middle age, could be hers no longer. No. 3 had

to be given up; and the sisters had to go forth into fresh scenes. The

trial must to all of them have been great; perhaps least so to the gentle

Fanny, already on the border-land of the Life beyond.

As a first move, Charlotte and Fanny went together for about two months

to Sutton. An idea had, however, arisen of a home, at least for a time,

with their brother, Mr. St. George Tucker, and his wife; and the next

step was to join them at Wickhill, Bracknell, in the month of September

1869. This was Fanny’s last move. She was taken thither, from Sutton,

most carefully by Charlotte, in a post-chaise; and the long drive does

not appear to have materially affected her. Although by this time wasted

to skin and bone, Fanny still kept about in the house; spending much time

in her own sitting-room, yet often coming down among the rest for a short

time; and during this autumn Charlotte seems to have chiefly devoted

herself to Fanny. Before the close of November, however, the end of the

long illness was reached.

One day, when speaking to her brother, in allusion to her earlier good

health and plumpness, Fanny observed: ‘My dear St. George, I have been

imprudent.’ She did not specify what manner of imprudence hers had been.

Probably, like many another in a thoroughly healthy family, she had not

soon enough read the true meaning of suspicious symptoms. During some

four years past she had been steadily failing; and the end could but have

been a joyous release to one so ready to go.

Thus blow upon blow had fallen between the years of thirty and fifty upon

the golden staff of Charlotte Tucker’s Will. Her Father’s death; the

death of Robert; the death of Letitia; the death of her Mother; the death

of Fanny; all these one after another make a list of sorrows. Doubtless,

_the_ most keen and bitter losses which she had to endure were, above

all, the death of her almost idolised Father, and the death of Letitia.

No other pain would equal these, dearly as she loved her brother Robert,

her Mother, and Fanny, until her own peculiar sister-friend, Laura

Hamilton, should be summoned away. Mercifully, that blow was not allowed

to fall until a very short time before her own call Home.

Charlotte was not crushed by these sorrows. This is plainly to be seen.

Although the wild spirits and abounding glee of her childhood were toned

down, she was still active, still buoyant, still able to enjoy life.

She sorrowed, but by no means as one without hope; and if her life was

shadowed, it had not lost its spring. As time went by, the spirit of fun

and mirthfulness revived; and the little ones in her new home could not

fail to be a fresh delight to one who so greatly loved children. Even the

earlier letters after her Mother’s death are not only calm but cheerful.

TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.

‘_Aug. 23, 1869._

‘I cannot help hoping very sincerely that Uncle St. G. may find

a house near Bracknell, large enough to hold Aunt Fanny and

myself, as well as his own party. Would it not be nice? But I

am rather guarded about setting my heart on anything of the

sort. Aunt Fanny would like it very much.... It would be like a

haven to me. I think I know one young maiden who would not be

sorry to have her old godmother within reach of a walk. But I

am quietly waiting to see how things are arranged for me.... I

have to manage things for Aunt Fanny, as well as for myself,

just as if I were her husband. It is very new work to me. I am

not, like your dear Mother, accustomed to think and arrange

about a mass of property.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_Dec. 2, 1869._

‘I hope that my sweet Leila has not thought me unmindful of

her loving sympathy because I have not thanked her before

for her note. I am sure that you have heard of us from your

beloved Mother, who so tenderly shared my watch by the bedside

of my heart’s sister. O Leila dear, does not such a peaceful,

holy departure show us that our Lord has indeed taken the

sting from death? Without Him, how terrible would be the dark

Unknown!--with Him, how bright is the valley!

‘Sweet Aunt Fanny quoted to me not long ago, I suppose in

reference to departure,--“When Thou wilt; where Thou wilt; how

Thou wilt!” I think that the last chapter which I read to her

was Romans viii. It is such a long chapter, that I stopped at

about the 25th verse, fearing to tire the dear invalid; but she

made me finish the chapter.

‘I went out of the drawing-room window before sunrise to-day,

to gather flowers to make into wreaths. The gardener had not

opened the greenhouse; but I found much more than I should

have expected in the beginning of December,--even rosebuds.

The ferns look lovely still. A few days ago I made a wreath of

myrtle. I thought it like an emblem of my own sweet sister;

sweetest when bruised; with an unfading leaf; and a white,

simple-looking, yet lovely blossom.

‘Good-night, my Leila. May the Almighty make you, my dear

Godchild, as unselfish, conscientious, and lowly as was the

loved one by whose grave I am to stand to-morrow.’

Although the plan of living with Mr. and Mrs. St. George Tucker was at no

time regarded as a permanent arrangement for the remainder of Charlotte

Tucker’s life, yet it actually lasted six years. For about eight months

from September 1869 they all remained at Wickhill. In 1870 they removed

to Windlesham, in Surrey; and in the following year, 1871, they again

moved to ‘Woodlands,’ at Binfield in Berkshire, nine miles or so from

Reading, and only about two and a half miles from Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton’s

home, Firlands, near Bracknell. Charlotte had, therefore, from that time

not only the interest of her little nephew and two little nieces in the

house, but also of her sister Laura’s children within three miles. The

companionship of a very favourite brother and of his affectionate wife,

together with these little ones, work among the poor, writing, and many

other occupations, made her life still a busy and a bright one.

In one letter written to a niece from Firlands, in 1870, she describes

‘the rural seclusion of this lovely place. I am charmed with Firlands,

and the groves of fragrant pine in which I wander every morning.’ In

another letter, dated February 1871, she says: ‘I hasten to give you the

good news that Uncle St. George has taken “Woodlands” for seven years.

I am so glad, and I am sure that you will be so also.’ This was to her

Godchild. Thus she entered upon the final stage of her English life.

Before the close of those seven years Charlotte Tucker was in India.

The following extracts from letters belong all to the two or three years

after her Mother’s death:--

TO MISS LAURA V. TUCKER.[18]

‘_Feb. 10, 1870._

‘I took Sir Frederick and Lady Abbott[19] to-day to the Infant

School at Bracknell. They seemed to be much pleased, and so I

am sure were the Infants, as their visitors treated them with

sugar-plums and lemon-cakes, in return for a number of songs....

A translation of my _War and Peace_ has been made by Madame de

Lambert, and is coming out in the _Musée des Enfants_,--under

the name, I believe, of _Le Soldat Aveugle_.’

TO THE SAME.

‘_Dec. 12, 1870._

‘A lady was here the other day, who has a curious taste for

different creatures. She has had a slow-worm round her arm as

a bracelet--has kept an oyster which seemed to know her--and

taught frogs to come out of the water at the sound of their

names. One day, when she was quite young, she showed an old

gentleman one of her dear snakes, coiled up. He thought it an

imitation-one, and said something about good imitations,--when

the reptile began to hiss at him.

‘“O you horrid girl, it’s alive!” exclaimed the poor old

gentleman, forgetting his politeness in his sudden alarm and

disgust.

‘Baby is now thriving nicely, and getting quite fat. It is

funny to see her looking at the picture of the white kittens

and cherries. She gets quite excited, trying to clutch hold of

the cherries with her tiny hands.’

TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.

‘_May 12, 1871._

‘Many thanks, my sweet Leila, for your affectionate letter, and

also for your kindness in going to see Sarah Jones.

‘My darling Letitia! Notwithstanding all that has passed since

she was last pressed to my heart, the sudden blow of her loss

has left, I think, a deeper scar than any trial before or after

it. I seldom mention her name; and now my heart seems rising

into my throat as I write of her....

‘I feel tired, dear one, so will not write a long letter. I had

a long business walk before luncheon, and then the overland

letter to Uncle Willy to write, and a great deal of proof-sheet

of the _Lady of Provence_ to correct.’

TO MRS. J. BOSWELL.

‘_Nov. 13, 1872._

‘I am very busy, for there seems an almost endless field for

work in making foreign wall-texts; quite a new occupation

for me. In Italy and Spain they will now be warmly

welcomed,--India, Syria, China, Labrador, all offer openings.

I feel it so gracious in my dear Master to give me this little

work for Him, now that the power of composing seems to be taken

away. I find delight in going over and over the precious texts,

which I have to copy in various tongues. I do not think that I

ever before so realised their sweetness. I tried to gild my own

little works with Scripture truths; but now I have pure gold

to give to others,--without admixing with it any alloy of my

own.’

For awhile at about this time she seems to have lost almost entirely her

power of writing; the failure being no doubt due to the state of her

health, or to re-action from the strain of all that she had gone through

in past years. She therefore spent many an hour in painting texts in

different foreign languages, on a large scale, to be sent abroad.

The sacred poem which closes this chapter was written in the summer of

1871. It appeared in a little volume, called ‘_Hymns and Poems_‘, by A.

L. O. E.

A DREAM OF THE SECOND ADVENT.

‘I dreamed that in the stilly hush of night--

Deep midnight--I was startled from my sleep

By a clear sound as of a trumpet! Loud

It swelled, and louder, thrilling every nerve,

Making the heart beat wildly, strangely, till

All other senses seemed in hearing lost.

Up from my couch I sprang in trembling haste,

Cast on my garments, wondering to behold

Through half-closed shutters sudden radiance gleam,

More clear, more vivid than the glare of day.

What marvel, then, that with a breathless hope

That gave me wings, forth from my home I rushed,

Though heaved the earth as if instinct with life,

Its very dust awakening. Can it be--

Is this the call, “Behold the Bridegroom comes!”

Comes He, the long-expected, long-desired?

Crowds thronged the street, with every face upturned,

Gazing into the sky,--the flaming sky--

Where every cloud was like a throne of light.

None could look back, not even to behold

If those beloved were nigh; one thrilling thought

Rapt all the multitude,--“Can HE be near?”

Then cries of terror rose--I scarcely heard;

And buildings shook and rocked, and crashing fell,--

I scarcely marked their fall; the trembling ground

Rose like the billowy sea,--I scarcely felt

The motion; such intensity of hope--

Joy--expectation--flooded all my soul;

A tide of living light, o’erwhelming all

The hopes and fears, the cares and woes of earth.

Could any doubt remain? Lo! from afar

A sound of “Hallelujah!” Ne’er before

Had mortal ear drunk in such heavenly strain,

Save when on Bethlehem’s plain the shepherds heard

The music of the skies.

Behold! Behold!

Like white-winged angels rise the radiant throng

That from yon cemetery’s gloomy verge

Have burst, immortal--glorious--undefiled!

Bright as the sun their crowns celestial shine,

Yet I behold them with undazzled eye.

Oh that yon glittering canopy of light

Would burst asunder, that I might behold

Him, whom so long, not seeing, I have loved!

It parted--lo! it opened--as I stood

With clasped hands stretched towards Heaven; my eager gaze

Fixed on the widening glory!

Suddenly,

As if the burden of the flesh no more

Could fetter down the aspiring soul to earth,

As if the fleshly nature were consumed--

Lost in the glowing ecstasy of love--

I soared aloft, I mounted through the air,

Free as a spirit, rose to meet my Lord,

With such a cry of rapture--that I woke!

‘O misery! to wake in darkness, wake

From vision of unutterable joy;

Instead of trumpet-sound and song of Heaven,

To hear the dull clock measuring out time,

When I had seemed to touch Eternity!

In the first pang of disappointed hope,

I wept that I could wake from such a dream;

Until Faith gently whispered, “Wherefore weep

To lose the faint dim shadow of a joy

Of which the substance shall one day be thine?

Live in the hope,--that hope shall brighten life,

And sanctify it to its highest end.”

‘Fast roll the chariot wheels of Time. HE comes!

The Spirit and the Bride expectant wait,--

Even so come, Lord Jesus! Saviour--come!’

CHAPTER XIII

VARIOUS CHARACTERISTICS

In the last few chapters we have had glimpses of Charlotte Tucker’s

life rather from within than from without; chiefly in reference to her

successive losses, and her own feelings connected with those losses or

with passing events. Now we will try to obtain a few glimpses of her,

rather from without than from within; to see her as others saw her, not

so much as she saw herself. I do not for a moment mean to imply that the

two views must be antagonistic. The view of a castle from within and the

view of that same castle from without are totally different; yet they are

not in the least antagonistic. The one is as true as the other.

In doing this it has to be remembered that A. L. O. E. was a many-sided

and to some extent a complex nature. Hers was not a character to be

lightly sketched in a dozen lines. Probably no character of any human

being can be satisfactorily so disposed of; and there are complexities

in the very simplest nature. But the main outlines of some people are

more easily perceived, more ‘consistent’ according to popular notions

of character-consistency, than the main outlines of some other people;

merely because they happen to embrace fewer opposites. There were a good

many opposites in the character of Charlotte Tucker.

All people did not see her exactly alike,--partly because of necessity

they looked upon her with different eyes, and partly because of necessity

she was not the same in her manifestations to all of them. Being a

many-sided individual, one side of her became prominent to one person,

another side became prominent to another person. While one friend

remembers vividly her spirit of ardent devotion, and another recalls

especially her work among the poor, a third pictures her sparkling

conversation, a fourth her spirited games of play with children. While

one has the strongest impression of her resolute sternness, her horror

of evil and self-indulgence, another cannot speak warmly enough of her

intense unselfishness and her unlimited kindness, and yet another smiles

over the remembrance of her irrepressible fun. All these things were

included in her; but naturally not all these things were equally apparent

at all times, or to everybody who knew her.

Nor need it be supposed that Charlotte Tucker was a being all light, with

no shadows. She was thoroughly human. There were shadows of course,--what

else could one expect?--and she had many and many a hard fight, not in

girlhood only, but all through life, to overcome her faults.

Again, it is not claimed for Charlotte that everybody who crossed her

path loved her. We do read in certain little books, of a particular

calibre, about angelic heroines who were invariably worshipped by

everybody in their small world, without a single exception. This,

however, is, to say the least, uncommon; and with one of Charlotte

Tucker’s strong personality it would be all but impossible. A very wide

circle did most heartily esteem and admire her, did most dearly love

her. But of course there were exceptions. In the course of her life some

few with whom she was thrown failed ever to come within the grasp of her

affectionate influence. But this was only natural. Everybody is not made

to exactly suit everybody else.

Among some of her most marked features were an intense vigour and energy,

an extraordinary force and vitality, together with great eagerness in

whatever she undertook, and a burning desire to be useful in her age and

generation. She was very resolute; very persevering; very affectionate;

reserved, yet demonstrative; untidy, yet methodical; exceedingly anxious

for the happiness of all around; apt often to think people better than

they really were; generous to a fault; unselfishly ready at all times to

put her own wishes aside; vehement and impulsive, yet never in a hurry or

flurry; unyielding, yet tender; severe, yet frisky.

Of course there were other natural characteristics of a different kind;

weaknesses not wholly mastered; faults not entirely conquered. She was

not perfect,--who is? The strength of determination would occasionally

run into obstinacy; the resolute manner could be a trifle dictatorial;

the very wish to help and please others might be carried out in a way

which did not gratify. With all her exceeding kindness, hers could

hardly be described as the true sympathetic temperament. Opinions here

vary a good deal among the friends that knew her best; but those who at

different periods of her life lived for any length of time under the same

roof, will be able to recall certain instances of an absence of tact, a

lack of quick understanding of the feelings of others, which certainly

never arose from want of a desire to understand. She had any amount of

heart, of pity, of thought, to bestow; but while feeling fully _for_

others, she could not readily so place herself in the position of others

as to feel entirely _with_ them, to see matters from their standpoint and

not from her own. The highest form of sympathy is a rare and subtle gift;

and it can scarcely be said that Charlotte possessed this gift. Still, if

any one did bring a burden or a trouble to her, she would spare no pains

to help and to comfort to the utmost of her power.

One direction in which she showed through life a marked deficiency was

in the housekeeping line. Both early and late she had always an intense

dislike and dread of housekeeping. Whatever else she undertook, that

was if possible a thing to be avoided; and it seems to have been an

understood matter between her friends and herself that anybody rather

than Charlotte Tucker might be housekeeper. Probably she had an innate

sense of want of power, an innate consciousness that she could not do the

task efficiently. If compelled to attempt it as a duty, she would not

refuse; but she never took to the occupation, or overcame her dislike.

Moreover, the gift of nursing was not hers. Although in a threatening

case of scarlet fever she could be the first to offer herself as nurse,

with entire unconcern about the infection; although she shared with

others the watch beside Fanny’s dying bed, and later on the watch beside

Mr. Hamilton’s; yet she repeatedly speaks of herself as no nurse, and

alludes to her own want of experience. Experience no doubt she might

have had, before the age of fifty, had her natural bent lain at all in

the direction of nursing; but the necessary gifts were not hers. She had

not the reposeful air, the placid voice and manner, above all, the ready

tact, which for good nursing are essential. Self-indulgence, laziness,

cowardliness were unknown factors in her existence, and could never have

held her back; but here too there was probably an innate sense of lack

of power; and here too she never through life took to the occupation,

‘as to the manner born.’ It is noticeable also that, frequently as she

would offer her services in times of illness, these offers were seldom

accepted. Others doubtless knew as well as she knew it herself that

nursing was not in her line.

Somewhat late in life, when a friend, after hours of hard study, was

endeavouring to rest, with a severe headache, Charlotte would bring

her guitar, sit near, and sing and play to the sufferer. A gentle

protestation was of no avail; for so sure was she of her remedy, that

she only supposed her friend to shrink from giving her trouble, and the

music went on unchecked. This--which happened repeatedly--was done with

the kindest and most loving intentions. Charlotte was devotedly fond

of music, and she did not herself suffer from headaches. But it is an

instance of the want of tact occasionally shown in small matters. The

_will_ to do good and to help others was abundantly present; only she did

not always find the right mode.

It must not be forgotten, however, that, whatever her natural

disqualifications for the part of a nurse might have been, she did in

her old age so far overcome them as often to take a share in tending the

‘brown boys’ of the Batala High School when ill, in a manner which won

their loving gratitude, although she did not prove successful as a nurse

to English invalids.

One who knew her intimately has written the following short sketch, which

is well worth quoting _verbatim_:--

‘I think one marked point, physical and mental, in her, was

her tireless energy. Her very walk was indicative of this; the

elastic springiness of every step. Also of another point in her

character, stern determination,--the resolute folding in of

her arms and hands, as she paced along a road or up and down

a garden,--drawing herself up to her full height the while,

with sparkling eye and compressed lips. She was teeming with

life and energy;--whether it were over her favourite chess,

when she would wait patiently but eagerly, thinking out each

move; or enjoying the small-talk of society, watching faces and

reading characters, to treasure them up for painting in one of

her forthcoming volumes; or teaching a niece the beauties of

sound and thought in the Italian of Dante; or playing at some

game of thought with young people; or reading aloud one of her

two favourite dearly-loved and untiringly-studied authors,

Shakespeare and Boswell’s _Life of Johnson_. She was very

sociable, lively, and threw her whole heart into the kindly

entertaining of guests of all ages. Her eldest brother used to

be very much struck with the unselfish way in which she bore

any interruptions and calls upon her time. Even in the midst of

her literary work, she would at once rise, leave it, and give

her whole attention to any subject an incomer might wish to

speak to her about.

‘Clever and stern, she was not one to be trifled with. Purpose

seemed woven into all her liveliness; and she tried to keep

others up to her level.’

Another writes, in reference to the time when A. L. O. E. was living at

Birch Hall, Windlesham, with her brother and his family, in 1870:--

‘I had just arrived on a visit, and she came into the

drawing-room, kissed me, and said, “I am Aunt Charlotte.” She

was not good-looking, but was always full of life. Her ready

wit and charming conversational powers made her a welcome guest

everywhere, and made many a dinner-party at her brother’s house

go off well.... She was always thinking of others, and seemed to

count time spent on herself wasted.

‘I well remember a time when I longed to see Windsor and the

Queen; and Aunt Charlotte immediately said she was longing for

the same thing, and gladly undertook to pioneer an expedition.

I was far from strong, but could not wait for lunch in my

anxiety to have a good place at the railway station, to see

Her Majesty arrive. Having seen me and my young cousin safely

placed, Aunt C. disappeared, and after a while made her way

through the crowd, laden with cakes for us all, finally

producing a glass of claret for me from under her cloak, which

I was obliged to take then and there. Her enthusiastic loyalty

made her enjoy the sight, no novel one to her, of our dear

Queen, as much as any of us.

‘Our evenings owed much of their brightness to her presence.

She could sing,--sometimes lively little songs, accompanying

herself with the guitar. Her ear for music was so correct, that

on one occasion she came downstairs from her room, to tell me I

had played a wrong note in a chord of Beethoven, and the exact

note I should have played.

‘Sometimes she thought of games for us. One was called

“Statues.” We each had to pose as a statue, suggestive of

some subject, such as Melancholy, Joy, Fear, etc. Whilst she,

personating a visitor to the sculpture studio, would try to

upset our gravity by her amusing remarks on the statues....

She also invented a geography game for us, providing us

with skeleton maps, and small round counters, on which the

names of towns were printed. As these were drawn and the name

called out, we had to claim them and give them their places on

the map. Whoever had a map filled in first was the winner....

Sometimes we read Shakespeare together, each of us taking a

part....

‘I think things were only a trouble to her when she had to do

them for herself. Nothing was a trouble if it helped another....

Work for the Master whom she loved was her animating motive....

She was, I think, the most unselfish character I ever knew. She

lived for others; whether in the great work of her life, the

use of her pen, the proceeds of which went to fill her charity

purse, or in the simple act of leaving her quiet room, on a

dull, rainy afternoon, to play a bright country dance or Scotch

reel, and set the little ones dancing to vent their superfluous

spirits.’

These slight recollections are from the pen of one among her numerous

adopted nieces.

Another niece, not adopted but real, says:--

‘I think the first thought that would have occurred to any

stranger, as regards her appearance, was the peculiar fashion

of her dress. I remember her in the days of crinolines,

standing straight and dignified in her plain dress, without the

least attempt at fulness in the skirt. I should think it must

have been always so; her individuality and disregard of the

world’s opinion were so strongly marked.’

This question of dress does not appear to have become a matter of

principle with her. She was simply independent, and utterly careless of

what might be said. She had not by nature the art of dressing well, and

she ‘thought it a bother.’ As observed by one of her brothers, ‘Charlotte

never cared what she put on. She never had the art of amalgamating the

different parts of her dress!’ In plain terms, her taste in dress was not

good, and she did not take trouble to improve it. Nor had she the knack

of putting on to advantage what she wore. Things that would have looked

well upon another did not look well upon her.

Caps were a trouble, and she was most grateful to any one who made her

a present of a cap. She could not make nice ones for herself, and she

disliked the style of bought caps.

One little story of middle life days at No. 3 illustrates her

indifference to what she wore. A friend was staying in the house, to go

to a wedding; and when the time came her bonnet had not arrived. Old

Mrs. Tucker, knowing that Charlotte possessed a new bonnet, and knowing

also that there was no fear of vexing Charlotte by the act, lent this

new bonnet to the friend, to be worn at the wedding. Charlotte was then

absent. But meeting the friend, either at the wedding or afterwards,

she noticed the bonnet, failed to recognise her own property, and most

innocently begged to apologise for remarking what a particularly pretty

bonnet it was!

She had unconsciously a good deal of manner, and used certain gestures,

which either were natural, or through long habit had become a part of

herself. One trick of manner was that of clasping her hands, as an

expression of certain feelings; also her head was apt very often to be

slightly on one side. Seeing a young girl, upon Sunday, busily engaged in

copying music, Charlotte Tucker sat down and looked earnestly, with her

head a little on one side. ‘People have different ideas about occupations

for Sunday,’ she remarked at length. ‘I, for instance, would _not_ copy

music on a Sunday.’ The hint, pleasantly given, was at once gracefully

taken, and the music was put aside.

Another time this same young girl had been confessing herself very much

of a coward, and regretting the fact. ‘Oh, never mind,’ was Charlotte

Tucker’s consoling reply. ‘Some day, when there is real danger, you’ll

flash out!’ Perhaps she was thinking of the scene in one of her own

little books, when a timid young governess confronts an escaped panther.

Once a young girl, at table, being vexed by words said in depreciation

of a near relative, showed her feelings very decisively. A. L. O. E.

afterwards put her arms round the girl, and said, ‘_Quite_ right, my

dear!’

Again, she had a mode of crossing her hands upon her chest, with a

meditative air. Many recall this attitude as peculiarly characteristic of

her. If she were thinking deeply, her hands would instinctively take that

position.

She was very warm-hearted, and, as one has said, liked ‘to make you happy

and pleased with yourself.’ Ever eager to see the best in everybody, she

wore rose-coloured spectacles which now and then would lead her into

thinking of people much better than they deserved, and ‘disillusionment’

had to be gone through. Always endeavouring to see the best, she often

saw more than the best; and small harm if she did. At least she ensured

thus the making of mistakes on the right side, instead of on the wrong.

The common tendency is so very much the other way. The romantic side of

Charlotte’s nature would interfere with her judgment, and the impulsive

first view would be erroneous. When she had had time for calm thought

she generally worked her way to a sensible view of a question. But the

tendency to over-estimation of others continued through life, and was

perhaps especially to be marked in her Indian Missionary work.

In her religious opinions she was a warm Churchwoman, belonging to the

‘Evangelical’ school of thought. As she grew older, however, she became

more and more large-hearted towards those from whom she differed on minor

points, more and more ready to hold out a kind hand of friendship on all

sides. This side of her appeared more distinctly, and developed more

markedly, in India, than in her secluded English home.

Both at No. 3, and in her brother’s house, she was wont to read aloud

her own stories to her young nephews and nieces, for the sake of their

‘criticisms,’ and perhaps quite as much for the sake of amusing them.

Some of the then children, now grown up, recall those readings with

pleasure.

Life at Binfield was quiet and regular. Charlotte kept up her habit of

early rising; and from eight o’clock till half-past eight each morning

she would take her ‘devotional’ walk in the garden,--hands folded on

chest, head up, step firm and dignified. The impression left by her

‘dignity’ is strong, singularly so, when considered side by side with a

step so springy that some describe it as even ‘jerky.’

Mornings were mainly given up to writing in her own room; and little was

seen of her, as a general rule, between breakfast and luncheon. In the

afternoon she was always ready for callers; and if not needed for them or

aught else, she would go and visit the poor. On these rounds she commonly

carried with her the conventional ‘bag,’ full of painted texts and tracts.

Evenings were devoted to sociable enjoyments; frequently to music and

dancing. Charlotte was an adept at playing dance-music for her nephews

and nieces; and at Binfield she also danced a great deal with her brother

and the children. It does not seem that she had lost any of her old

light-footedness, whether or not she had had practice during some years

past. Sir Roger de Coverley, the Lancers, and the Minuet were great

favourites. When the Gavotte began, the children stopped, for they could

not spring high enough; but Charlotte was able to make the most wonderful

springs. This does not look as though her spirit were yet broken by all

that she had gone through.

Besides playing for the children, she would plan games for them, and

would superintend charades; and when they grew older she would read

Shakespeare with them, often knitting busily all the while as she read.

Singing too had a share in these sociable evenings. She still steadily

refrained from going out to parties at other people’s houses; but she

never failed to be present at any party in their own house, not only

making her appearance, but contributing her utmost to the entertainment

of guests.

Her village work included visiting of the poor, and also, for a while,

a class of big boys in the night-school. With the boys she was not

successful. They were very troublesome and naughty, and she could not

get hold of them at all. This failure is curious, in contrast with her

after-success among the Native boys in India, those ‘dear brown boys,’

as she often called them. Western and Eastern boys differ considerably,

however; and no doubt the explanation resides in this fact. Also, an

English ploughboy requires different treatment from a high-caste Indian;

but she was ‘friends’ with boys of all castes there.

In a letter to Mrs. Hamilton, written from Binfield, she says: ‘The

Curate is already a comfort to me personally, for he has taken my

night-class off my hands. I have no scruple in letting him do so, for

I believe it is far better for the boys. They were too much for poor

old Char. I had seventeen last night, and felt my inefficiency.’ And in

another letter, soon after: ‘We had a talk about the proposed Sunday

School. I asked not to have boys. My feeling is that I am too old for

them.’

She was not too old, many years later, for Batala boys; but plainly she

had not the requisite gifts for managing or winning rough English village

lads.

A few recollections, jotted down by three of her nieces, may close this

chapter:--

I.

‘In 1869 she came to her house near Sutton; but that sorrowful

year to her did not leave much impression upon me, probably

because she was so little with us, and so much with her sister

who died in our house. I remember her next in the summer of

1870, when my sister was born, coming into the nursery to

announce the fact, and afterwards showing us the baby, assuring

us that she was “as fragile as egg-shells.” She played the organ

in our little country church, and visited the poor,--on one

occasion going out at night to administer a mustard plaster to

one poor woman, who thought herself dying, and sent for Miss

Tucker....

‘As we grew older she would help us with our charades and games,

planning wonderful card games herself, and ornamenting them with

brush and stencil. It was she who introduced us to Shakespeare,

making me love him as no one else ever could, and making us read

him in parts.... On Sunday afternoons she would take us up to

her room, in order that my Mother might rest in peace from the

children; and there we always spent a delightful time, looking

over her dressing-case with its treasures, and listening to

the histories of each trinket and curiosity, or messing with

her paints. I do not remember that we ever felt ourselves to

be in the way in that happy room. It was during this time that

she wrote _The Haunted House_, which thrilled me with so much

horror, that it was not until years after that I learnt there

was a spiritual meaning underlying the tale.

‘She was never ill, but always felt the cold extremely in

winter, though she did not complain much. One day I came down

to breakfast, exclaiming, “How beautiful the snow is!”--when

she told me how pleased she was that I could say so, instead of

saying, “How _cold_ it is!” When I was ill in the year 1872, she

often came to see me, quite disregarding the infection of my

throat; she would play her guitar to me, or, as I grew better,

would patiently guide my little fingers to the right places on

the strings. She made up a pretty letter in rhyme, and sent it

in a stamped envelope to amuse me. I do not remember her ever

talking to me on religious subjects; but her untiring energy and

gentle patience made much impression on me....

‘My aunt would never give way to us little ones when she was

convinced that we were wrong; and I well remember a prolonged

struggle between her and my baby-sister, who was left in her

charge one day.... My aunt regarded the sin of drunkenness with

the greatest horror; she rarely mentions it in her books, and

generally, where it is touched upon, she writes with the deepest

pathos, as in _The Great Impostor_. She would only talk of

brandy by its French name, and considered it dangerous to take

Tincture of Rhubarb, on account of the spirit it contains....

‘My aunt would never have expressed disapproval of others, as

many of the younger generation do, who are of her own way of

thinking. Where she did not approve, she was usually silent....

‘But stern as she was by nature, her intense love--the love of a

strong nature--made her gentle to the weaknesses of others. She

could not sympathise often with the weak, but she could pity and

love. Long years of home-discipline gave humility, self-control,

and gentleness.’

II.

‘There are some lives that carry about with them an atmosphere,

as it were, of influence and example.... It was thus with “Auntie

Char.” We used to think and say, “How she would have admired

such a deed!”--“How she would have grieved at such a want of

courage!” if anything mean or underhand were done. One knew

beforehand what her opinion of the transaction would be; at the

same time her marvellous sympathy, so readily given, was the

first sought in cases of bravery or of moral courage....

‘She rarely “preached” to one. I should say she rather suggested

little things that somehow were never forgotten. The letter I,

for example--when written with a capital letter--called for

playful comment. Up to the last I would often count in a fearful

manner the all too plentiful I’s in my letters to her....

‘My father remembers “Sister Char” as the life and soul of their

nursery circle in Portland Place,--how in the gardens close by

she used to lead their glees and songs.... _We_ knew what a great

hand Auntie Char was at games of all kinds. No one could play

like her. She seemed far younger than any child present, and was

quite an enthusiast in them, as in everything she undertook. No

one could play half-heartedly with her....

‘Auntie Char had a wonderful way of strengthening and

encouraging one to open out one’s heart to her, and a great

and rare capacity for putting herself in “her neighbour’s

shoes.”[20] It was during a visit to us, in the May of 1875,

that she acquired the pet name of “Fairy Frisket,”--the name of

one of her own works,--owing to her marvellous activity. She

would come home after a long day’s walking, and run lightly

upstairs, faster than we young ones cared to do. In many of

her letters to me from India she playfully alludes to this pet

name.’

III.

‘She never seemed to care a bit to receive any praise for her

books, and she never let writing interfere with any family

duties. She was wonderfully sweet-tempered, but there was no

weakness in her sweetness. If others were inconsiderate to her,

I never saw her resent it.... Her unconscious influence was, I

believe, much larger than she has ever dreamed. She was more

utterly regardless of personal ease and comfort than any one I

ever knew, but was ever ready to praise others....

‘My aunt had a guitar on which she enjoyed playing as far back

as I can remember, and on which she used to play to us with much

animation and impressiveness, singing to her own accompaniment;

but I never remember her playing to herself for her own personal

amusement. One of her songs I do not remember hearing from any

one else. The refrain in each verse was--“Till green leaves come

again.” ... Another song that she sang took my fancy,--I believe

it was an old-fashioned one in MS.,--and she at once copied it

for me, making time to do so amid the many things occupying her

at the time. Most people would have let me copy it for myself,

as I was quite a girl and had plenty of leisure; but she never

seemed to do things like other people....

‘Nothing that I can say would explain how beautifully unselfish

she was, how utterly regardless of herself, and thoughtful for

others. She was one of the few whom one could most truly call

_noble_, and yet so sweetly humble. I mourn her irreparable loss

all the more for the long parting since she left us for the

Mission-field abroad.’

CHAPTER XIV

1875

AN UNEXPECTED RESOLVE

It is not quite easy to say at what precise date the idea first seriously

presented itself to the mind of Charlotte Tucker, that she might go out

to India as a Missionary. Some years earlier, after the death of her

sister Fanny, she had evidently regretted that she could not do so,

looking upon herself as too old. But the question again arose--Was she

really too old? That question Charlotte now faced steadily.

The plan of living in her brother’s house, never looked upon as entirely

permanent, had lasted several years; but various causes pointed to a

change before long as probably necessary. In January 1875, Mr. Hamilton,

who had long been in failing health, passed away; and Charlotte seems,

either in anticipation of the event, or directly after, to have had some

floating ideas of making a home with her widowed favourite sister. Here

also, however, there were certain difficulties in the way of an entirely

permanent arrangement; and meanwhile the thought of India was becoming

prominent.

Charlotte was now close upon fifty-four years old,--an age at which

few women dream of making an absolutely fresh start in life. Some

are and some are not elderly at that age; but as a general rule no

doubt a woman’s best and most vigorous days are then over, and she is

more or less disposed for an easy existence. Many at that period can

thoroughly enjoy travelling for pleasure. But to make a new home amid

new surroundings, to learn a new language, to enter upon a new line of

work,--these things after the fiftieth birthday have a somewhat alarming

sound.

Not so with A.L.O.E.! For her these fifty years and more of quiet English

existence had been years of preparation, of training, of patience. For

her parents’ sake she had dutifully held back, during the noontide and

early afternoon of her history, from much that she would fain have done;

and though the latter part of her ‘afternoon’ had been full and busy,

with freedom to do what she willed, yet even this was not enough. At

fifty-four she stood practically alone, with no near relative entirely

dependent on her kind offices. She was absolutely necessary to none. Had

she been, she would not have gone to India. But finding herself thus

unfettered, the thought came up,--Why not devote the Evening of her life

to Missionary work? Why not set an example to others who, like herself,

might with advancing years be left free of ties? Or at least, why not

put the matter to the test of actual trial, and prove whether or not

elderly women, and not younger ones only, might go forth to work among

the Heathen?

There was the question of health. Could she stand the trying climate of

India? Would she not be a mere burden on others?--an additional care

instead of a help?

Well, at least she could try. If her health failed to stand the climate,

she could but return home. If she succeeded, she might be the Pioneer of

many more, who would perhaps venture to tread in her footsteps.

Had it been a question of going out at the expense of the Society’s

funds, the Society might rightly have hesitated; but Charlotte Tucker

had enough of her own. While placing herself under the authority of the

Zenana Society, and obeying orders, she would pay her own way; therefore,

no risking of Missionary funds was involved.

No doubt she was peculiarly well adapted for the attempt. Although thin

and delicate-looking, she was distinctly wiry, with much underlying

strength, and an immense amount of vigour and vitality. A woman of fifty,

who can lightly dance the gavotte, with springs which a child cannot

emulate, is not quite an ordinary specimen of advancing years. The

failure of power which had followed upon the death of Letitia, lasting

more or less during some years, had now pretty well passed off; and there

seemed to be good promise of a healthy old age.

She was generally sound, with no especial delicacy; she did not suffer

from any tendency to headache; she was not fussy, or self-indulgent,

or dainty as to her eating, or particular as to personal comforts, or

squeamish as to her surroundings, or shy in making new friends, or

afraid of toil and trouble. All these things were in her favour. She

was in fact no timid shrinking Miss Toosey,--dear little old lady that

Miss Toosey was!--but a fine spirited specimen of A middle-aged Lady of

England,--well fitted, it might be, to become even then A Lady of India.

Those who think of following the example of A. L. O. E. ought to possess

at least some of her qualifications. Had a Miss Toosey, instead of a Miss

Tucker, been the Pioneer of elderly ladies in the Mission-field, the

attempt would have been a disastrous failure.

Although the matter was not definitely settled until the spring of 1875,

it had plainly been for some time in Charlotte’s mind as something more

than a bare possibility; for during many weeks she had been studying

Hindustani. She had, however, said not a word about it to any of her

relatives, beyond privately consulting her elder brother, Mr. Henry Carre

Tucker. She thought much, prayed much, and waited to be shown her right

path: meanwhile beginning to prepare for what might be her duty.

When at length she gave out her intention, as a matter already decided,

the announcement fell among friends and relatives like the bursting of a

bomb. Nobody had dreamt of such a career for ‘Auntie Char.’

[Illustration: LAURA

About the Year 1871]

The following letter contains her first intimation of what was coming to

her sister, Mrs. Hamilton:--

‘_March 24, 1875._

‘MY BELOVED LAURA,--I do not know when I shall send this, for

I hardly hope that when you know my plans for the future you

will say, as Henry did, a month ago, “Selfishly I should be

delighted,”--but I hope that when you have quietly thought and

prayed over the subject, you will not let your tender affection

make you wish to keep me back from the work for our dear Lord

for which I have for some time been preparing myself by hard

study.

‘Years ago I said that if I were not too old to learn a

new language I should probably--after sweet Fanny had

departed--have gone out as a Missionary. This year the

question came to my mind, _Am_ I really unable to learn a new

language? I find that I can learn, and the only real objection

to my going is taken away. Yes, sweet Laura, the _only real_

objection; for I can leave you rich in the devoted love of your

children. Thank God, _you_ are not lonely; and circumstances

might easily arise to make it undesirable that I should make a

third or fourth lady in--perhaps--a Curate’s dear little home.

‘I have not come to my present decision in a hurried moment.

In the second week of February I made my Missionary project

a subject of special prayer; on the 24th I had an important

interview with Henry, with whom I had corresponded on the

subject. He had no fears as to my health standing the climate,

or as to my being able to learn the language. I began to learn

it on the 14th February, and by many hours of diligent study

have nearly gone through St. Matthew in Hindustani, besides

making a vocabulary of more than three hundred words, learning

by heart, etc. I have thrown my soul into the work, thankful

and happy in the hope that the Lord would open my lips, that

my mouth should show forth His praise to the poor Zenana

prisoners in India. The enclosed, being the two last letters

which I have received from the Secretary of the Zenana Mission,

will show you how graciously God has smoothed the way for me,

providing an escort all the way to the place which I now think

of as my home--Amritsar.

‘But you will say--“Why choose India? Why at your age be not

content to work in England?”

‘I will give you a few reasons for my thinking it desirable for

me to go to the East:--

‘1. In that corner of the Vineyard the labourers are indeed

fearfully few; scarcely _one_ to many, many thousands of

perishing heathen.

‘2. Not one Englishwoman in ten is so well suited to bear heat

as myself.

‘3. Not one woman in a hundred at least is so free from

home-ties as myself.

‘4. There is a terrible want of suitable literature for

Indian women. If God enabled me still to use my pen, intimate

knowledge of even _one_ Zenana might be an immense help to me

in writing for my Indian sisters.

‘Do not grudge me, dear one, to the work for which my soul

yearns. You see by the enclosed that my arrangements are made,

and that expostulation would but pain me. I would have told you

of my plan some time ago, only I feared to distress you when

you have had so much of trial. But why should you expostulate,

or why should you be distressed? Is not Missionary work of all

work the highest? I only fear that I am presumptuous in coming

forward; but it seems as if my dear Lord were calling me to it;

and my heart says,--“Here am I; send me.” I own with shame that

much that is unworthy mingles with my desire to serve the Lord

in India; but the desire itself has, I trust, been put into my

mind by Him.

‘Cheer and encourage and pray for me, my Laura, that my Autumn

may be better than my Spring and Summer--that the richest

harvest come in the latter days. Ask the Lord to give me Indian

gems in the crown which He has bought for His servants.

‘On the 28th February, at Holy Communion, I devoted myself to

the Zenana Mission. But I am bound by no vows. I go out _free_,

an honorary Agent of the Society.--Your loving

‘C. M. TUCKER.’

Writing again on the 7th of May, she said: ‘I have been formally

presented to the Committee of my own Society, who were very courteous.’

The Society was then known under the cumbrous name of ‘The Indian Female

Normal School and Instruction Society.’ A few years later it separated

into two distinct Societies; one of which, ‘The Church of England Zenana

Society,’ Charlotte Tucker joined.

As was to be expected, her new plan met with some opposition. Many who

dearly loved her were most sincerely grieved at the thought of such a

parting; and others were disposed to look upon the scheme at her age as

somewhat crazy. Small marvel if they did. Such an attempt had not been

made before; and the untried always contains unmeasured elements of

danger and difficulty. Probably her unusual fitness for the undertaking

was hardly realised as yet even by many of those who knew her best. She

had not, however, the pain of opposition from her best-loved sister, Mrs.

Hamilton. ‘It will be a sore pang to her to part with me,’ she wrote to

her niece, Mrs. Boswell; ‘but her feeling will be that she gives me to

God. And to my great comfort she does not attempt to stay me.’

Before going to India, she resolved to take another voyage--a trip to

Canada, for a farewell sight of her nephew, ‘Charley’; the youngest of

‘The Robins.’ She would have his brother, her other nephew, Louis Tucker,

for a companion on this preliminary journey. Of its perils and pleasures

Charlotte Tucker’s own pen can best tell the tale.

TO MRS. J. BOSWELL.

‘_May 24._

‘I had more than an hour to wait at Paddington, but ----, who

was with me, gave me a little lesson in Hindustani. P. E.

did the same yesterday; he let me repeat and read from the

Testament to him, and then he read a little to me. I generally

understood what he was reading when he went slowly. I am so

thankful to snatch lessons in pronunciation.... Louis and I are,

if all be well, to start in the _Nova Scotia_ on Thursday, at

one o’clock.... What a beautiful hymn there is in _Hymns Ancient

and Modern_, “for those at sea”! Not that I consider drowning

a worse way of going Home than any other. As a lady said, “We

cannot sink lower than into our Father’s Hand”; for it is

written, “He holdeth the deep in the hollow of His Hand.”’

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘GRESFORD, _May 26, 1875_.

‘I am almost packed, ready for my start to-morrow morning; but

I have a nice quiet time for a little chat with precious Laura.

Loving thanks for your sweet letter....

‘You wished me to see Dr. Griffith. I have seen him to-day,

though not in the character of a patient, I am thankful to

say.... The dear old man appeared to feel real gratification at

hearing of my going to India as a Zenana visitor, inquired

with interest about the language,--health did not appear to

enter his medical mind,--and really affectionately gave me

his blessing. I am glad to have it. I told him that I am

fifty-four, and Dr. Griffith made nothing of it. Dear Aunt is

so loving and motherlike; but she sympathises in the cause,

which is a comfort to me. It would have been very painful had

she disapproved,--almost as painful as if my favourite sister

had disapproved. Dr. G.’s visit really refreshed me.’

TO THE SAME.

‘ON BOARD THE NOVA SCOTIA,

_May 27, 1875_.

‘I did not think that I should have had an opportunity of

having a letter posted from Derry, but it appears that I shall.

I am now quietly scudding over the Atlantic. There is not much

motion in the vessel, which seems to me to be a very large one.

There are a great many emigrants, but I doubt whether it will

be easy for me to communicate with them.

‘You who are so kindly anxious about my comfort will be pleased

to know that I have a very fair amount of wraps, and am more

likely to suffer from heat than cold, seeing that my cabin

port-hole is never opened, and that the only way of ventilating

it is by leaving the door open,--a thing not to be thought of

at night, as ladies’ and gentlemen’s cabins are not at all in

separate parts of the vessel. By-the-by, the latter part of

that long sentence will not please you. I should have broken

the paragraph into two. I have at present the luxury of having

the cabin all to myself, and only hope that when we touch at

the Irish port, we will take in no fair passenger to share it.

‘Now I think I will go on deck.... I am perfectly well at

present. The only thing I fear is using up my oxygen at night.

I have had such a nice letter of welcome from Mrs. Elmslie.’[21]

CIRCULAR LETTER TO SEVERAL OF THE FAMILY.

‘_June 5, 1875._

‘“Yes, you will see icebergs, plenty, more than enough,” said

the Captain to me on the 3rd. “This is an exceptional year for

ice.” He spoke so quietly that I did not at the time give full

significance to his words.

‘But on the next day, the 4th, we beheld icebergs indeed,--I

believe more than a hundred, and some, O how glorious! Our eyes

were satiated with beauty. Now a bold iceberg rose before us,

reminding me of pictures of Gibraltar; but this berg was all

of snow,[22] and, as well as we could guess, about 150 feet

high. Then another, most graceful in shape, appeared, like a

sculptured piece of alabaster, wearing a huge jewel of pale

greenish blue; this, from its pure beauty, Louis called “The

Maiden.” We turned from its softer loveliness, to gaze on that

which I thought the finest iceberg of all, the ruins of some

huge amphitheatre.

‘As we gazed, some of the bergs changed greatly in shape. The

“Maiden” split quite in two. Fancy these glorious wanderers

from Greenland or Labrador, with the sea-spray dashing against

their sides, showing that they were aground; for, as you are

aware, the mass of ice below water is far greater than that

which is visible above it. One could not but think, “What a

mercy it is that we did not pass those large icebergs in the

night!” Had our great emigrant-ship, freighted with 2000 tons

of iron, dashed up against one of them, we should have gone to

the bottom like lead. Nothing more would have been heard of the

_Nova Scotia_, and the more than 600 mortals on board.

‘But the day was clear, and it was easy to give the bergs a

wide berth. Every one’s spirits rose. There was nothing but

enjoyment of the beautiful scene, admiration at the strange

sights before us. The sun at length sank; but a few icebergs

loomed in the distance, and I had an idea that we had almost

come to the end of the ice-tract. We had delightful music in

the saloon, and all appeared cheerfulness and peace. Even when

my attention was directed to strange dark objects on the ocean,

which I could see through the round saloon window, no thought

of danger came into my mind.

‘At the invitation of another lady I went on deck, where I

was able better to watch the strange scene before me. Out

of the ice-tract, indeed! Why, we were in the very midst of

_thousands_ upon _thousands_ of masses of floating ice, through

which the vessel very, very cautiously as it were felt her way,

sometimes stopping altogether. Strange to say, even when I

heard the keel _grate_ over ice, it was very, very slowly that

I received the impression of danger. The night was exquisitely

lovely, the stars shining gloriously. I could hardly have

supposed that any star would have cast such a reflection on the

smoothest water as Mars threw on the still ocean.

‘The brightness of the starlight, the quietness of the water,

greatly added to our chance of safety. One felt that a watchful

and skilful captain was cautiously piloting us, avoiding the

larger masses of ice, though our vessel passed right over some

of the little ones. I watched the tiny globes of phosphoric

light which sometimes gleamed on the water, and the dark

objects which I knew to be pieces of floating ice. There was

pleasure in watching them; for though reason at last convinced

one that danger there must be under the circumstances, a touch

of fear, or rather sense of danger, rather enhances enjoyment.

‘I was tired, but lingered on deck, till a lady came up to me,

and suggested that we had better go below, as she believed that

lights were put out at eleven, and if we did not go we might

have to retire to bed in the dark. Down I descended to my cabin

in the lower part of the vessel. Some of the passengers on

deck had been considering the possibility, on so fair a night,

and with Newfoundland near,--for we had sighted the light

on shore,--of our being saved by the boats, even should the

vessel be lost. But we remembered that there were more than 600

persons on board. The Captain would do well, if he could manage

to place half the number in the boats. It was clear that all

could not expect to be saved.

‘When I went to my cabin, I was not disposed at once to go to

rest. I knelt on my sofa, so as to be able to look out from my

port-hole on the ocean and its numerous floating fragments of

ice, seen in the starlight. Not only was the sense of sight

exercised, but that of hearing. Nine times I thought that

I heard the keel grate against the ice. I may possibly be

mistaken in the number of times; but the noise was distinct,

and its nature not to be mistaken. At a short distance--it did

not look a hundred yards--the clear, smooth sea appeared to be

skirted by a tall hedge. It was not _land_, for occasionally I

saw a light gleam through it. I asked a seaman afterwards what

it was,--it was, as I suspected, a bank of fog between us and

the coast of Newfoundland.

‘I watched till my cabin-light went out, and I was left in

darkness, save that my port-hole looked like a pale moon in the

dark cabin. I turned into my berth, but not at once to sleep.

I lay thinking, reflecting on the possibility of feeling the

vessel going down, down,--and reflecting on what an easy death

drowning would be. Still, I did _not_ really expect to be

drowned.

‘The vessel stopped dead still,--I listened for the sound of

pumping, or of preparing boats. I heard one--to me--strange

noise, I can hardly describe it, between a blast and a bellow.

I thought that it must be a signal, and I was not wrong; for I

hear this morning that it was the fog-whistle from the shore.

It seemed to me that it was useless for me to rise; if there

were any use in my returning to the deck, dear Louis would call

me. He would be sure to think of my life before his own.

‘After a while I went fast asleep, and did not awake till

the bright, clear morning, when there could no longer be the

shadow of danger. I rose, dressed, and went on deck. The sea

was beautifully smooth, blue, and clear from ice, except a few

bergs in the distance. I had a happy, thankful heart.

‘One lady had remained on deck till past three. She told me of

a field of ice, and great masses of ice, through and beside

which we had passed; and she had seen the Northern Lights,

which I am sorry to have missed. The Captain never slept till

the drift-ice was passed. He was at breakfast, however, this

morning, and I doubt not felt very thankful. I believe that he

has had three anxious, wakeful nights; but the change in the

weather must have been a very great help to him. We had had

such miserable dull weather, and such heavy rolling seas. Last

night all was so clear; and I saw the stars, I think, for the

first time since our starting. Please pass this letter on; for

I cannot write over the same thing to all dear ones.’

TO MRS. J. BOSWELL.

‘ON BOARD A HUGE RIVER STEAMER,

_June 9, 1875_.

‘Here we are steaming up the St. Lawrence to Montreal.... Quebec

is a wondrously fair city.... We went this morning to see the

Montmorency Fall, a cascade where a great volume of water

churned into foam dashes down a precipice 300 feet high....

‘_June 10._

‘I finish this off in Montreal, a very handsome,

thriving-looking city, with far grander buildings than Quebec:

but it wants the dreamlike, exquisite beauty of its sister.

More kindness meets us here.... Have you seen the account of the

loss of the _Vicksburg_ in the ice, just three days before

we encountered the ice off the same coast? Only five sailors

saved; not one passenger! We should have gone down faster than

the poor _Vicksburg_, because of our heavier cargo. I should

not have had a chance; and my gallant Louis would probably have

lost his (life), because he would never have deserted me.’

Although Charlotte Tucker’s Indian life lay still in the future, this

seems to be the right place for quoting a few words from her pen, written

after years of toil in the East. Her mind was plainly reverting to the

voyage above described:--

‘It seems strange that the idea of an ice-bound vessel should

suggest itself to a Missionary, working in the “glowing East”;

yet it is so. We, in Batala, seem for years to have been

labouring to cut a passage through hard, cold ice, with the

chilly bergs of Muhammadanism and Hinduism towering on either

hand. But though channels which had been laboriously opened may

be closed, _the crew are by no means disheartened_. The worst

of the winter is now, we hope, over. We see on various sides

cracks in the ice. A Brahmin convert, brave and true, has been

like a bright fragment broken from the berg, helping somewhat

to throw it off its balance. The way is becoming more open, and

there are tokens of melting below the surface of the ice. We

know that one day of God’s bright sunshine can do more to make

a clear way than our little picks can accomplish.’

CHAPTER XV

1875

BESIDE NIAGARA

There can be no mistake about Charlotte Tucker’s enjoyment of fresh

sights and scenes across the Atlantic, or about the fact that increasing

years had at least not dimmed her appreciation of beauty. Most kind

and warm hospitality was shown to her at Quebec, at Montreal, and at

Toronto. She was met at Oakville Station by her younger nephew, Charles

Tucker,--the latter in ‘a state of joyous expectation’ which had kept him

awake through three previous nights. Then followed a welcome from his

wife, in their ‘pretty little home,’ elsewhere described by her as ‘a

Canadian settler’s little farmhouse.’

While there, finding the life quiet, and plenty of time on her hands, she

‘took to Persian characters,’ as ‘an interesting riddle to solve,’ and

also worked hard at her Hindustani, spending many hours over both.

Also she insisted on doing in Canada as Canadians do,--making her own

bed, and even essaying to accomplish some ironing. Perhaps the last

attempt did not meet with brilliant success. She wrote home about it:--

‘“‘Though seldom sure if e’er before

That hand had ironed linen o’er ...”

the great matter is that the things are _clean_; but I own I am glad that

I shall have a _dhobi_ in India.’

Another day she wrote to Mrs. Hamilton: ‘The little maid here amuses

me. She is very fond of music, and likes me to sing for her. She asked

me--kindly--if I would like my boots cleaned, and as I thought that I

should, the little dear cleaned them, and brought them to me to show off

her work,--as a six-year-old child of the house might have done. She

looks such an innocent duck!’

An expedition to Niagara was achieved with much success; after which she

wrote to one of her aunts in England: ‘My nephews think me amazingly

strong, and yet I have become almost a teetotaller. Except your little

bottle of sherry, I have only tasted wine twice since I left you. How I

did enjoy your lemon-juice!’

Her glowing description of the Falls themselves, sent to Mrs. Hamilton,

must be at least in part quoted. Though an oft-related tale, it may

perhaps gain some freshness from her mode of telling it:--

‘CLIFTON HOUSE, NIAGARA FALLS,

‘_June 22, 1875_.

‘I must write to some dear one while the sound of Niagara is in

my ears, whilst the impression of Niagara is fresh in my mind;

and I direct my letter to you, sweet Laura, knowing that you

will let others see it....

‘I have looked on the most glorious scene, I believe, that

is to be seen on this planet. How can I attempt to describe

Niagara? When I gaze on what is called “The American Fall,” I

ask myself a dozen times, “Is it possible that there can be

anything more beautiful?” ... though I have only to turn my head

a little to behold the “Horse-Shoe Fall,” which is even _more_

gloriously beautiful. The American Fall would make in itself

twenty or thirty cascades that would delight us in England.

O the sparkling rush of diamonds,--the white misty foam

breaking on the picturesque rocks beneath,--the accessories so

beautiful,--the cloud-like veil so transparently lovely!

‘Earth here is so fair, with bold crags draperied with the

richest foliage, that one could imagine her contending for the

palm with water; but water carries the victory at Niagara;

Earth but serves to frame and set off her magnificence. If

Earth be green, so is water. Where Niagara plunges over her

Horse-Shoe-shaped rocks, the colour of the water is often

brilliant, crystal-like green. Then as the river emerges from

its veil of spray,--spray sometimes rising pyramid-like for

hundreds of feet,--it assumes a deeper green, more blue than

that of the surrounding foliage, but pure in tint.

‘A lovely, most verdant island, Goat Island, divides the two

grand Falls,--or, I may rather say, three, for one glorious

cascade is called Central Fall. In this exquisite island, and

other smaller ones, you wander amongst silent shady woods, or

stand so close to the rushing waters, that one or two steps

would send you over the brink into the cloudy chasm below.

Perhaps, Laura, nothing can better convey to you the impression

left on me, than to tell you what was my repeatedly recurring

thought. “If I had to suffer martyrdom, in no form could it

appear more attractive than by being thrown over Niagara!”

To be launched into eternity, shrouded in that cascade of

diamonds, would rouse such a thrilling sense of the beautiful

and the sublime, that half one’s fears would be swallowed up

in something almost like joy. It would seem ten times more

horrible to be flung from a high tower on to the hard, cold

earth. This is not a mere fancy of my own. I find that I am not

alone in thinking that death would appear less repulsive at

Niagara than elsewhere.[23]

‘I have seen the many beauties of this place well.... I have

looked on the rapids above the Falls. They seemed to me an

emblem of human life. Such a rushing,--such a hurry,--chafing

against obstacles,--impatience, passion, excitement. Then comes

the grand leap--boldly, almost joyously, taken,--the leap into

cloud and mystery,--and below, the river emerges from froth and

foam, comparatively calm. One wonders that it is as quiet as it

appears to be after such a plunge!

‘Yes, I shall never see such a sight again, till I behold the

Great White Throne, and the Sea of Glass, like unto crystal.

‘We all wandered about yesterday, till we were too much tired

to wander more. We had intended to sit up to see moonlight on

Niagara; but instead of so doing we separated at 9. I soon fell

asleep, but I woke in the dim twilight, I suppose at about 3

A.M. The opportunity was not to be lost. I washed and dressed,

as much by feeling as by sight, opened my venetian shutters,

and walked out into the verandah which commands a fine view of

both Falls.

‘I was in utter solitude, under the light of the moon. Not in

silence, for the sound of many waters is unceasing. I suppose

that for thousands of years Niagara has been praising her

Creator, as she does now. The sound is not at all _noisy_; on

the contrary, it does not disturb conversation, which surprises

me.

‘I sang snatches of the Hallelujah Chorus, as I looked on the

waterfall by moonlight. There was no distinct play of moonbeams

on the water; there was an immense amount of mist,--one felt

as if looking down on clouds. Presently the clouds in the sky

flushed rosy in the dawn; the moon grew pale; Niagara with

her emerald green more distinct. I waited till I had seen the

sunrise--it was not a very bright one--and then I retired to

my room, and went to sleep again.... Solitude is congenial at

Niagara.... I do not care to write on trifling themes now....

‘A thought came to my mind as I was resting just now. As

photographs, however faithful, convey but a very inadequate

idea of the real Niagara, so must our highest conceptions of

Heaven fall short of Heaven itself. Who that has merely seen

a photograph, or many photographs, of the Falls, can drink in

the beauty of the living, bounding, changing, glorious miracle

of Nature, which is beheld here? Yet Niagara itself is but a

bubble, compared with “the glory which shall be revealed.”’

Towards the end of July she returned home, to spend a few last weeks with

her dear ones before bidding them a long farewell and going forth to

her Indian campaign. Through all these weeks she does not seem to have

relaxed in her persevering study of Hindustani, or in her struggle with

the difficult gutturals which had to be mastered. Apart from this she

must have had enough to occupy her time. Among lesser employments, she

is said to have spent hours at a time in looking through her papers and

letters--the collection of a literary lifetime--and consigning masses of

the same to destruction. One cannot but wish that the destruction had

been less wholesale.

The Dismissal Meeting of Missionaries was on the 11th of October; and two

or three days later the _Strathclyde_ sailed.

To most of her relatives the parting was a good deal softened by the

conviction that Charlotte Tucker would surely soon find herself compelled

to give in, and to return to England. One of her nieces can say: ‘We all

thought, when she left us for India, that she would fail in health, and

be obliged to come home again. And so I could stand at the doorway, and

watch her as she turned round in our carriage to wave her last good-bye,

without any misgiving that it was indeed the last time that I should see

that bright smile.’

But her sister, Mrs. Hamilton, the loved Laura of early days, had a

truer prescience of how things would be. Speaking afterwards to a friend

about that day of parting, and about the intense, loving devotion which

had always existed between them, she said: ‘When my sister and I parted

from one another, it was a parting for ever on Earth. My sister will not

return to England on furlough, as other Missionaries do, for the reason

that she could not again go through the pain of separation.’

At the time little was said in letters about that heart-rending pain. It

had to be endured, and it was endured courageously.

So ended the fifty-four years of Charlotte Maria Tucker’s English Life.

She turned herself now, with a smile of good cheer, to the eighteen years

of her Indian Life--the Evening of her days. Three-quarters of her tale

is told, counting by years. Only one-quarter remains to be told.

Fifty-four years of preparation; and then the Evening of hard toil.

Fifty-four years given to slow perfecting of the instrument; and then

eighteen years of use for that instrument. This was what it came to. Not

that her English life had been without its uses and its fruits; but the

long, quiet home-existence had doubtless been mainly a making ready--or

rather, a being made ready--for that which was to come after. The first

was subordinate to the second.

Was it very long preparation for comparatively short work? But the worth

of work done does not depend upon the length of time occupied in the

doing. We may better understand this if we think of our Blessed Lord’s

Life,--the Thirty Years of silent preparation and waiting; and then the

Three Years’ Ministry. Each moment of His Life upon Earth bore fruit; but

none the less, those Thirty Years were mainly of preparation for what

should follow.

There are some who would not agree with Charlotte Tucker in considering

‘Missionary work of all work the highest’; yet in one sense, if not in

all senses, it certainly is so. The soldier who goes on a forlorn-hope

expedition ranks higher in the minds of men than the soldier who remains

in camp; and the pioneer is counted worthy of more honour than the

settler.

We hear in these days many a careless sneer levelled at attempts to

convert the Heathen, at the uselessness and fruitlessness of such

efforts. Nothing is easier than for a man, sitting at home in his

luxurious arm-chair, to flout those who go forth into heathen lands.

And there is a certain trick of seeming common-sense in the arguments

used, which sounds convincing. So much money spent, and so many lives

sacrificed,--and for what? Half-a-dozen converts, perhaps, in a dozen

years, some of whom prove in the end to be faithless, while others are

very far from being faultless saints. Is the result worth the outlay?

As for the characters of some of the converts, we only have to look at

home, and to see for ourselves what the average civilised and well-taught

and highly-trained Englishman is--how very far in a large majority of

cases from being either blameless, or saintly, or entirely faithful to

his Baptismal vows. After that glance, one may feel less surprised to

hear of failures among young and untrained converts, the whole _pull_ of

whose previous lives has been utterly adverse to Christianity; not to

speak of the baneful effects of a surrounding heathen atmosphere, always

present after conversion.

But as to the main argument,--whether the result is worth the outlay,--I

should be disposed to say at once frankly that, from a purely mercantile

point of view, it certainly is _not_. Very often indeed the immediate

results, seen to follow upon Missionary work, are not at all commensurate

with the amount of money spent. Many a Missionary has given his time, his

income, his life, his all, for the sake of no apparent results in his own

lifetime. There have been grand men, who have toiled steadily on through

ten years, twenty years, thirty years; and at the close, if they have had

any converts at all to show for their labours, those converts could be

counted on their fingers.

It may well be that one man brought out of the darkness of heathendom is

a prize worth fifty times--or five thousand times--the money expended in

bringing him. But this would not be seen from the mercantile point of

view. Neither does it touch the true gist of the question.

A little story told of the great Duke of Wellington, so ardently admired

by Charlotte Tucker, shall supply us with a clue here. Whether or no

the tale itself be genuine hardly affects its value as bearing on the

subject. A young clergyman is stated to have one day, in the presence of

the Duke, spoken about foreign Missions in the disparaging terms often

affected by a particular class of young men. One can exactly picture how

he did it,--the supercilious contempt of one who knew little about the

matter; and the careless looking down upon all who did not agree with

himself. But the Iron Duke is said to have responded sternly:--

‘SIR, YOU FORGET YOUR MARCHING ORDERS,--“GO YE INTO ALL THE WORLD, AND

PREACH THE GOSPEL TO EVERY CREATURE!”’

If the Duke did not speak the words, they sound very like what he would

have spoken. It is a soldier’s view of the matter, and it is the view

which all true ‘soldiers and servants of Christ’ ought to take. For this

is no question of mercantile views, of business arrangements, of what

will or will not repay, of so many converts more or less, of success and

failure. This is not in any wise a question of results. It is purely and

simply a question of Obedience. The Church generally is commanded to

preach the Gospel throughout the world; whether men will hear, or whether

they will not. Individuals are bound to go, _if called_,--and if not

themselves called, they are bound to send others.

All of us who are Baptized in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and

of the Holy Spirit, are bound to His Service who is our Royal Master;

and His orders we have unquestioningly to obey. Whether or no we can

see the wisdom, the necessity, of what He commands to be done, makes

no difference. We are but privates in His Army; and a private has no

business with an opinion of his own as to where he shall go or what he

shall do in the time of war.

When the ‘noble six hundred’ of Balaclava were ordered to charge the

Russian guns, they knew the uselessness of the act, the certainty of a

blunder; but with that they had no concern.

‘Their’s not to make reply,

Their’s not to reason why,

Their’s but to do and die!’

And though with our Royal Master we have no fear of mistakes, the same

spirit of absolute obedience must be ours, whether or no we fully see

the reasons for each command. What would be thought of an English

soldier who, on being ordered to some lonely and difficult post, were,

instead of going at once, to begin to calculate whether it were worth

while,--whether the cost and trouble of his going would be sufficiently

repaid by results? Yet such is the spirit in which certain soldiers of

the Cross--somewhat faithless soldiers, surely!--are disposed to regard

this great Marching Order of our Captain and King.

Another way of looking upon the question is embodied in certain popular

ideas that, on the whole, the Heathen may be hardly worse off as

Heathen than they would be as Christians. The less knowledge, the less

responsibility, we are told; and a good deal of cant is talked on this

subject. Those who have seen how things verily are in heathen lands,

those who have witnessed the awful and desperate cruelties which there

prevail, know what the argument is worth as to the present life. While as

to the future,--let it be fully granted that ignorance means few stripes,

that every excuse will be made for those who did not and could not know

better, that increase of knowledge must of necessity mean increase of

responsibility. But there again we come back to our ‘marching orders.’

If Christ died for the heathen, if God wills that they shall know the

Truth and shall at least have it in their power to rise thereby to higher

levels, what are we to dare to decide that they shall be left in darkness?

The whole question of our duty as Christians, on this point as on all

others, hinges here,--Are we doing, or are we not doing, that which God

wills us to do? All theories respecting outlays, values, results, sink

into utter insignificance beside this question. If we are called to

go, it is not for the sake of honour, it is not for the sake even of

success, but it is simply for the doing of the Will of God. If we are

bidden to remain at home, it is still for the doing of His Will,--and

that Will includes the spreading of the Church of Christ throughout the

world. Those who stay at home can at least help those who go on this

mission.

In the matter of results very unreasonable expectations are often formed.

The best results do not commonly appear at once, and may not appear for a

lifetime. A farmer ploughs his land, then sows his seed, and then waits

months for the harvest. The Church too frequently scratches the hard

ground with an impatient hand, drops in a few seeds, and immediately

breaks into lamentations, because no instantaneous harvest springs forth.

It may take twenty years merely to plough the hard ground in some heathen

spot, and to sow the seed; and years more may pass before the first

tokens of a harvest are seen. Sometimes the fuller results are the longer

delayed. Mustard-seeds spring up a good deal faster than acorns.

The main work of Charlotte Tucker’s eighteen years was to be that of

ploughing. And whether few or many converts rewarded her toil is an

entirely secondary consideration. They would have been very gratifying

to her own feelings, no doubt; and that said, all is said. Results there

were; but not all kinds of results can be reckoned upon one’s fingers.

Charlotte Tucker went out in obedience to what she felt to be the Divine

call, the Divine command. So long as she was steadily endeavouring to do

the Will of God, results might very well be left in His Hand. The Word of

God does not return to Him void; but naturally its working is not always

apparent to us.

PART II

LIFE IN INDIA

‘O Spirit of the Lord, prepare

All the round Earth her God to meet;

Breathe Thou abroad like morning air,

Till hearts of stone begin to beat.

‘Baptize the Nations; far and nigh

The triumphs of the Cross record;

The Name of JESUS glorify

Till every kindred call Him Lord.’

CHAPTER I

A.D. 1875

FIRST ARRIVAL IN INDIA

In the second week of October 1875, Miss Tucker left English shores,

never to return. The voyage was uneventful, differing therein from her

trip to Canada. On its very next voyage the good ship _Strathclyde_,

which carried her to the East, went down within sight of Dover. But no

threatenings of such a catastrophe disturbed A. L. O. E. on her way out.

A fellow-passenger on board the _Strathclyde_ wrote long afterwards:--

‘My first introduction to A. L. O. E. was when I was lying in

all the helplessness of the first days of my first voyage,

quite unable to stir from the deck. I became conscious of

a grey-haired lady stooping over me, offering some _eau de

cologne_, and with a winning smile asking if she could do

anything for me. She was a good sailor, and in those miserable

days moved about amongst the sea-sick passengers like an

angel of mercy. Even then dear Miss Tucker looked very frail

and delicate; and one could scarcely have expected that she

would be spared for eighteen years to work in all the heat and

discomfort of India. One thing remarkable about her on that

voyage was the influence she had over the men on board,--some

of them quite indifferent, if not hostile, to religion. No one

could withstand her genial, loving ways; and it was a sight to

be remembered, to see her gathering the young fellows round the

piano, while she led off in some old English ditty.’

Her own letters to Mrs. Hamilton, while on board, are cheery as usual,

and speak no word of pain or longing for all that she had left behind;

indeed the very first ends merrily: ‘Please give my kindest love to your

dearest girl, and tell her that I have already hung up her famous bag. I

hope that no ayah will _bag_ it! I could not resist the pun, bad as it

is.’

There were five ayahs on board, and she soon struck up an acquaintance

with one of them,--a Christian ayah,--reading aloud her Hindustani Bible,

and delighted to find that the ayah could understand what was read. ‘I am

bribing one to teach me,’ she wrote. ‘The ayahs ought to be glad to help;

for they, at least two or three of them, seem to regard me as a kind of

supplementary nurse, and if they want to go to work make over the baby to

me.’ In the same letter she states: ‘We have a strong Missionary force

on board; two Scotchmen, the wife of one of them, and six Missionary

ladies. We have not quarrelled at all; but then, most of us have been

sea-sick!’--again a little glimmer of fun. ‘We lady Missionaries get on

very well together,’ she says in another letter. ‘Very gentle and modest

are the Misses A., “your pretty girls,” as Lady I. called them to-day.’

As to amusements on board, she wrote:--

‘Lady I. has started a game which dear Leila and Fred may add

to their store at Christmas. She wrote something, missing out

all adjectives. A gentleman went round and collected adjectives

haphazard from the passengers, inserting them in the places

left blank. The piece was then read out. It was a description

of the voyage and many of the passengers. Of course nobody

could be offended, because the adjectives came haphazard. But

how your young folk would have laughed when, amongst other

personages described, came--“Miss Tucker, of a _grandiloquent_

disposition, with other _bouncing_ Missionary ladies.”’

About a fortnight later she wrote:--

‘A contrast to ---- is Mr. S., the competition-wallah,

probably the most highly educated man in the ship. I look

upon him as the Squire of the Mission ladies. In his most

quiet, proper fashion, he is ever ready to do our behests;

and he never seems to tire of hymn-singing.... He has evidently

plenty of moral courage. The very funniest thing was that Mr.

S. was actually present at the solemn conclave held by us six

M. L.[24] to decide whether we could conscientiously attend

a second theatrical amateur performance, _Mr. S. having been

the principal actor_ in the first one, which we did attend. It

was as if Garrick had been present at a Clapham conference on

the subject of whether it were right to go to see him act!!!

Mr. S. was very amiable and good: he had taken a great deal of

trouble to amuse the passengers, and _his_ part was perfectly

unexceptionable; but if we all absent ourselves next time I do

not think that he will take any offence. I proposed that we

should all sleep over the matter, one of my reasons being that

I could not but feel Mr. S.’s presence a _little_ embarrassing.

On the following day we met without him, and decided that the

question is to be an open one; each M. L. is to judge according

to her own conscience. I believe that we shall divide; but this

is not, we have agreed, to disturb the harmony between the M.

L.’

After a few days spent in ‘bright, beautiful Bombay’--these are her own

words--she proceeded by rail with one companion to Allahabad. A pause at

Jabalpur had been planned, but this fell through; and they accomplished

the whole long journey of 845 miles without a break. Wisely, her friends

had insisted on first-class, and she was none the worse for the fatigue.

On the very morning of her arrival at Allahabad she could say: ‘I had a

nice warm bath, and then a good breakfast, and I feel almost as fresh as

if I had not travelled 845 miles at a stretch, but merely taken a little

drive. Think how strong I must be!’

Later in the same letter, a long and cheery one, bearing no signs of

fatigue, she speaks of Mr. George Bowen, an American Missionary, who had

‘laboured without intermission for twenty-eight years’ in the East, and

who was known among Natives as ‘the English Faqir,’ on account of his

wandering and self-denying life.

‘He will take no salary,’ she wrote, ‘but has earned his own

living, I hear, by teaching, supporting himself on the merest

trifle. I esteem it a great honour that I sat beside him at

breakfast at the Zenana Mission House last Thursday. Mr. Bowen

looks quite skin and bone, wondrously thin, but not in the

least unhealthy, but as if there were plenty of work in him

still. He told me that he does not “believe in age.” He seems

to feel as fresh as he did twenty-eight years ago; and yet at

the beginning of his career he was so fearfully ill that his

life was given up, and he wrote his farewell to his mother.

As India has agreed so splendidly with Mr. Bowen, I asked

him--as I generally do those who thrive in the climate--whether

he drank only water. “Tea,” he replied, smiling. He gave his

opinion that to take stimulant here is “the way to have to

leave the country.” Almost all the Missionaries whom I have

met appear to be water-drinkers. I am particularly delighted

with the American Missionaries whom I have seen.... I am ashamed

of ever having had a prejudice against Yankees. I am attracted

also by Native Christian ladies.’

On her way up-country she came in for the wedding of a Missionary lady,

and after her usual fashion she was most active in helping; working hard

at the making of wreaths and at the decoration of the Ludhiana Church

porch. As the married pair were about to drive off, rice was brought to

be thrown; but somebody present objected to the custom for India, as

originally heathen, and liable to be misunderstood.’ Then the horses

shall have it!’ declared Miss Tucker; and with two hands well filled she

went to the horse’s heads, and fed them, amid much laughter, in which she

heartily joined. Her own description of the event is overflowing with

spirit and enjoyment. It is dated November 30.

‘I have just come in to rest a bit, and wash my soiled

hands,--for what do you think that I have been about?--at

the express request of the bride, helping to decorate the

church for her wedding, which is to come off to-day. This

house is jammed full--that is to say, a good deal more full

than is comfortable; but the kind folk would not hear of my

leaving till after the wedding, so I do not go to my home till

to-morrow morning. Indian railways are regardless of convenient

hours. I, who was up this morning soon after five, must be up

to-morrow morning soon after three. Of course I had to arrive

here by starlight; and on the same night there had been another

arrival at one A.M. ... There is a grand tamasha[25] about the

wedding. Every one seems pleased. It is Missionary wedding

Missionary, and--perhaps I had better go and make myself

useful....

‘_Later._ Oh, such a pretty wedding! The little church fresh

white-washed within, clean as a wedding-cake. The porch almost

like a bower. A border of flowers on either side up the centre

made a kind of path. Then the presence of the school-girls

in their white chaddahs; the number of Natives in their

picturesque costumes,--both Christians and heathen, inside the

church and looking in from the outside,--all made a charming

scene.

‘But before we went to church, a Begum, a royal lady,

granddaughter of Shah-Soojah, came to see the fun. And only

fancy, Laura, I was left for perhaps a quarter of an hour to

entertain the fine old lady. Would not your Fred and Leila have

laughed to have seen me, making gallant efforts to keep up

conversation with my dreadfully bad Hindustani. I dashed at it,

tried to explain why I wore a black dress when I had lilac and

blue ones at Amritsar, told her that I had never been married,

answered questions regarding my family, etc. The Begum laughed,

and I laughed, for I knew that my Hindustani was very bad; but

I did remember always to use the respectful “Ap”[26] to the

princess.

‘Presently the dear old Missionary, Mr. Rudolph, appeared. The

“pardah”[27] lady, on seeing a man, hid behind an arm-chair.

But when I told her that it was “Rudolph Sahib,” the old lady

said that he was her father, and that she would make her salaam

to him. I hear that the Begum is almost a Christian, and she

can read. Wrapped in her chaddah, she walked with me to church,

and stayed through the service. I was close behind her. When it

was over, I managed to say a little sentence to her in rather

better Hindustani, “The Lord Jesus Christ is here; He gives

blessing.” The Begum gave a sound of assent.’

Next day, the first of December, Charlotte Tucker reached Amritsar,--the

spot which she fully expected to be her home for many a year to come.

But Amritsar was only a stage on the road to Batala, where her Indian

work really lay.

All who know aught of India know the name of ‘The Panjab’;[28] that

province to the far north, a land of five great rivers, where in Mutiny

days so much was done for the preservation of our Indian Empire.

Amritsar[29] is one of the larger cities of the Panjab, containing a

population of about 135,000 inhabitants,--Hindus, Muhammadans, and Sikhs.

It is the Holy City of the Sikhs, and has their ‘golden temple,’ wherein

they worship, and wherein also is kept their sacred book, the ‘Granth.’

Missionary work has been mainly carried on in the Panjab by the Church

Missionary Society; just as, in many parts of Bengal, Missionary work

has been mainly carried on by the Society for the Propagation of the

Gospel. Where the one great Church Society has obtained a footing, the

other great Church Society does not interfere in either case, but goes

elsewhere in the Mission field. It is greatly to be wished that this

spirit of courtesy were more widely seen in the working of Missions

generally among the heathen. During late years the ladies of the Church

Zenana Society have come in as an additional help to the Societies

above-named,--as true ‘handmaids,’ alike in the Panjab and in other parts

of India.

The Mission premises are about half-a-mile distant from the City of

Amritsar. A. L. O. E.’s first Indian home was here; in a bungalow,

surrounded by a large compound or garden which was part of the Mission

premises. When she arrived, in the beginning of December, roses were in

full bloom, as well as abundantly-flowering shrubs and creepers. The

great banyan-tree, which grew and still grows in front of the bungalow,

was soon named by Miss Tucker ‘The Mission Tree.’

A warm welcome was given to her by the Missionary ladies living

there:--Miss Emily Wauton, who still labours on in the same spot, though

nearly twenty years have passed since that day; Mrs. Elmslie, widow of

Dr. Elmslie, the Pioneer of Missionary work in Cashmere; Miss Florence

Swainson; and Miss Ada Smith;--not to speak of the C.M.S. Missionary

gentleman living close by.

After her wont, Miss Tucker was very eager, very bright, very anxious to

become immediately one of the little circle. That first evening, as they

sat round the table, she said: ‘I don’t want to be “Miss Tucker” here.

Can’t you all call me “Charlotte Maria”?’ The ladies naturally demurred.

‘We could not possibly,’ they said. Miss Tucker’s face fell a little;

then came a happy thought, and she brightened up. ‘Call me “Auntie,”’ she

said. ‘So many call me “Auntie.” All of you must do so.’

‘But we cannot directly. We don’t know you yet,’ objected the others

again.

She was very much delighted when Mr. Rowland Bateman, one of the

Missionaries, began the same evening, without hesitation, to speak to her

as ‘Auntie.’

Soon after, news came of the death of her brother, Mr. Henry Carre

Tucker. It was needful to arrange for her mourning; and pending the

arrival of other things, one of the younger ladies offered to alter

for her an old black silk dress which she had. Going to her room, the

young lady knocked and said, ‘Miss Tucker, may I have the dress now?’

No answer. Another attempt;--and ‘No Miss Tucker here!’ was the result.

‘Unless you call me “Auntie,” you will not have it.’ ‘But how can I so

soon? I don’t know you yet,’ was once more the unavailing plea. Miss

Tucker had her way, however; and thenceforward she became ‘Auntie’ to an

ever-increasing circle of nephews and nieces in India.

Some extracts from her own letters, written to Mrs. Hamilton in the

December of 1875, will give, far better than words of mine can do, the

impressions received in her new position.

‘_December 2, 1875._

‘It is early morning, before 6 A.M., my first morning in my

new home. A cock has been crowing, otherwise everything is

profoundly still. I hear a cart in the distance. You will like

to hear something of my surroundings.

‘Mrs. Elmslie came to meet me at the station; also Mr. Clark

and Mr. Baring. It was slightly bewildering, for, says Mr.

Clark, “the Bishop wants to see you; he and Miss Milman are to

go off by this train.” Now the thought most in my mind was, “I

won’t let poor dear Miss F.[30] think that I desert her for

new acquaintances.” She also was going on by the train; but

there was a pause at Amritsar station for perhaps a quarter of

an hour. So I had to be agreeable to the Bishop, Miss F., and

all,--and keep Mrs. Elmslie waiting besides.

‘This is a splendid room of mine ... about twenty-four feet

each way, and so lofty. I am surprised at the elegance of

these Indian bungalows. Please put from your mind all idea of

_hardship_.[31] I have now lived in four bungalows, and all

have elegant rooms, and there is such an air of refinement that

I have great doubts whether it would be the correct thing to

put out my hand and take a slice of bread off a plate. Mrs.

Elmslie is a lovely lady, tall, slight, fair; but however tall,

a lady every inch of her; she might be a Countess with her meek

dignity....’

‘_December 9._

‘I directed _via Brindisi_ my sad letters to the almost

broken-hearted mourners, and I thought, “I will write no more

by this mail. I should only write on one theme, my precious,

noble Henry.” But I have since thought that I was wrong in

this determination. My own sweet Laura will be closing a heavy

year.... If I can turn the channel of sad thoughts, it is better

that I should write, and not only on one theme. She will like

to hear of my home and my work, and I ought to write to the

darling!...

‘What shall I say of Mrs. Elmslie? She is one of a million. I

never met with any woman in my life so like an angel without

wings. Tall, fair, elegant, graceful, with a face that Ary

Scheffer might have chosen to paint for a seraph,--her soul

seems to correspond to her external appearance. Saintly as she

is, she is not in the _least_ gloomy; she tries to make all

happy, and is business-like and practical. Fitted to grace a

drawing-room, she throws her heart into school-work, and seems

to manage the house beautifully. It will give you an idea how

winning she is, when I tell you that Miss Wauton and Miss

Hasell call Mrs. Elmslie “Mother,” “Mother dear,” though the

name seems strange from one who looks quite as old as herself.

You should see Mrs. Elmslie with a black baby in her arms,

looking at it with such loving tenderness and pleasure too,

just as its guardian angel might....

‘I must not fill up all my letter with my sweet friend, and it

is nearly time that I should take my morning walk. I always

take a rapid one in the compound, which is large, with a good

many trees and nice flowering shrubs in it. I hope always to

keep up the habit, which is so very conducive to health; but of

course I shall not walk so _fast_ when the hot weather comes.

‘It may give you a little idea of life here, if I describe

yesterday’s occupations.

‘I rose about six, dressed, and wrote a little. My Ayah brought

me early breakfast. I went out and took my walk, then returned

and prepared for my Munshi.[32] He is a convert, and was

baptized last month, with his two little children. The Maulvi,

as we call him, is a dear good man, but too indulgent for a

teacher. He is not particular enough in correcting my faults.

I have an hour with him before breakfast; and after the meal

comes family worship--the morning hymn, prayer, and chapter,

always in Urdu.

‘After prayers yesterday I returned for a short time to my room

and occupations. I was engaged to go to “the city”--within the

walls of Amritsar--with Mrs. Elmslie; for it is desirable that

I should see work going on. The conveyance is a kind of large

box of a carriage, contrived to let in air and keep out sun.

Yesterday we went to four native houses; Mrs. Elmslie went to

a fifth, but went alone. Such strange narrow lanes one has to

go through; sometimes on foot where the gari could not go,

mounting up to the first floor of the houses by very steep

steps....

‘We returned home after our city visits, and had dinner.

Yesterday being Wednesday, after dinner we went to church;

we always attend the _Native_ church. As the prayers are a

translation of our own Liturgy, I can join in them well enough,

but I can yet make very little of the sermon....

‘I find it a good plan to go to Mrs. Elmslie’s Orphanage, and

sit and listen to the lessons, and thus learn myself. The girls

in their white chaddars[33] look, generally speaking, well

and happy. I was to have amused some of the younger ones last

Sunday with Bible pictures; but when I had had the sad letters

I gave up my intention of helping sweet Mrs. Elmslie in this

way. I hope to do so another time.’

‘_December 13._

‘I have so much to interest me here, and every one is so

kind.... I call this bungalow “House Beautiful,” on account of

the dwellers within it. It is also a nice refined place, with

an extensive compound, and plenty of trees and flowers. If I

were not so busy I should like to send you a sketch of it; but

daylight seems too short for what I want to do; and when once

my mouth is really opened, I shall feel as if I never could get

through all the interesting work that is to be done. The ladies

here have a kind of general superintendence of twenty-two

schools--_not_ Christian--but where they are allowed to teach

the Bible. Fancy what an opening!’

TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.

‘_Dec. 13._

‘There are some things in Indian life which would strike you as

curious. For instance, I have _five_ glass doors to my bedroom.

One alone is never opened ... but through all the others people,

especially my Ayah, come in; and she never knocks.... Folk can

walk in from the outside of the house through two of my glass

doors. It is a very public sort of living, but it is Indian

fashion. The great thing is to let in abundance of air; and

where air comes in other things come in too. I have, however,

“chick” blinds to my outer doors; these are made of thin split

bamboos; and if I let them down, no one can see in. Of course

they would not keep out my dear little Ayah; she can always pop

in by lifting the chicks. She is the only one who really laughs

at my bad Urdu.... My Munshi laughs a little, but not in the same

way. He is gentle and pleasing.’

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘_Dec. 21._

‘I have been waiting to write to you till the tardy mail

should come in. But why wait any longer, when I have always so

much to say to my Laura now?--only I lack time--and light--for

this is the shortest day, and the houses are built to keep out

light, which comes in underneath a heavy verandah, so that I am

sometimes obliged to feel rather than to see....

‘I did not open my picture-box for some time after my arrival,

but when it was opened it would have pleased you to have seen

the pleasure given by its contents, including your lovely

tidies. Mrs. Elmslie was eager as a girl, settling where the

different pictures were to be hung, jumping up on chairs, and

keeping us up beyond our usual hour for retiring, for she

could not bear to leave the picture-question unsettled. We had

consultation, trying this place and that place on the walls,

trying to balance sides and keep all things straight. For the

angel-lady likes to have everything pretty.... It seems to me as

if both England and America had sent their cream to India. But

then Amritsar is a specially favoured place.... As is natural

where the Missionaries are first-rate, there is a great deal of

leaven working amongst the heathen.’

TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.

‘_Dec. 23._

‘Though I posted a letter to your sweet Mother only yesterday,

perhaps I had better tell you of my visit to the Zenana of ----

whilst it is fresh in my mind. Dear C., Miss H., and myself

went to-day to visit this Muhammadan house. It is a handsome

one, in the midst of fine park-like grounds; and from the lofty

verandah we had a better view of part of our city than I have

seen before.

‘The Muhammadan Sahib has three wives. I suppose that they were

the three middle-aged or elderly native women who sat on a

bed; the other five women present, old or young, may have been

servants; but one of them, a handsome girl, with very dashing

nose-ring, and eyelids blackened on the edges, native-fashion,

shook hands with us as well as served us. There were a fair

number of free-and-easy little dark children playing about. The

eldest is C.’s pupil; and one of the first things done was to

hear her repeat her part in a kind of catechism--Christian, of

course.

‘One of the ladies smoked a hookah; had it been even invisible,

we should have been made sensible of its presence by an

occasional bubble-bubble sound, and then a perfume--to our

minds by no means odoriferous. Another lady had her teeth

horridly blackened by what she had been chewing; but, generally

speaking, the natives’ teeth are very nice and white.... I

showed off my beautiful chatelaine, your dear Father’s gift,

which I think pleased; and Miss H. showed hers, which is quite

different in style. You must not suppose that this was a mere

visit of amusement.... No, we had Bible-reading and hymn-singing;

and afterwards C. was evidently holding a religious discussion

with the elder lady.

‘_Dec. 24._--I find that only two of the ladies were wives of

the Sahib; the third was somebody’s relation.

‘Mr. Clark[34] approves of my Oriental tale, only he wishes

some names altered. He is going to give me a list of names,

Muhammadan and Hindu.’

TO MRS. HAMILTON.

‘_Christmas Day 1875._

‘I was awakened in the night by the Indian Waits, children

singing in the language of the Sikhs ... one of their native

airs. My little Ayah came up to me and shook hands when she

entered my room early in the morning,--is not this the great

Day, and is not she a Christian?--so she may indeed rejoice

and be glad in it. I have prepared little presents for the

dear ladies here, except C., to whom I gave a wedding-present

yesterday. I will pause now, and go on later in the day, when

I may better describe our Indian Christmas. 6½ A.M. Orphans

singing hymns at the top of their voices. They are evidently

very happy. They are to have a Christmas tree.

‘_Later._--I have come home from church, from receiving the

Holy Communion. Thank God, the sheaves _are_ being gathered

in! What would dear Henry Martyn not have given to have seen

what I saw to-day? So many Natives remained to share the holy

Feast, men and women, young and old,--in our little church

there must have been nearly if not quite fifty communicants. I

received the Cup from the hand of a Native. I felt the scene

quite affecting. It is a great privilege to be in India, and

specially now, when the blades are ripening,--though, oh, how

few in number, compared with the Muhammadans and heathen!

‘After church and luncheon I went to the Orphanage Garden, to

help sweet Margaret[35] to deck the Christmas Tree. In less

than half an hour the little guests are to be summoned to

receive their dolls, tops, books, etc. I expect a charming

scene.’