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 myWar and Peacehas been made by Madame de Lambert, and is coming out in theMusée des Enfants,—under the name, I believe, ofLe Soldat Aveugle.’
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 myWar and Peacehas been made by Madame de Lambert, and is coming out in theMusée des Enfants,—under the name, I believe, ofLe 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 abracelet—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 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 abracelet—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 theLady of Provenceto correct.’
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 theLady of Provenceto 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 havepure gold to give to others,—without admixing with it any alloy of my own.’
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 havepure 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 sleepBy a clear sound as of a trumpet! LoudIt swelled, and louder, thrilling every nerve,Making the heart beat wildly, strangely, tillAll other senses seemed in hearing lost.Up from my couch I sprang in trembling haste,Cast on my garments, wondering to beholdThrough half-closed shutters sudden radiance gleam,More clear, more vivid than the glare of day.What marvel, then, that with a breathless hopeThat 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 beholdIf those beloved were nigh; one thrilling thoughtRapt 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 groundRose like the billowy sea,—I scarcely feltThe motion; such intensity of hope—Joy—expectation—flooded all my soul;A tide of living light, o’erwhelming allThe hopes and fears, the cares and woes of earth.Could any doubt remain? Lo! from afarA sound of “Hallelujah!” Ne’er beforeHad mortal ear drunk in such heavenly strain,Save when on Bethlehem’s plain the shepherds heardThe music of the skies.Behold! Behold!Like white-winged angels rise the radiant throngThat from yon cemetery’s gloomy vergeHave 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 lightWould burst asunder, that I might beholdHim, whom so long, not seeing, I have loved!It parted—lo! it opened—as I stoodWith clasped hands stretched towards Heaven; my eager gazeFixed on the widening glory!Suddenly,As if the burden of the flesh no moreCould 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, wakeFrom 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 weepTo lose the faint dim shadow of a joyOf 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!’
A DREAM OF THE SECOND ADVENT.‘I dreamed that in the stilly hush of night—Deep midnight—I was startled from my sleepBy a clear sound as of a trumpet! LoudIt swelled, and louder, thrilling every nerve,Making the heart beat wildly, strangely, tillAll other senses seemed in hearing lost.Up from my couch I sprang in trembling haste,Cast on my garments, wondering to beholdThrough half-closed shutters sudden radiance gleam,More clear, more vivid than the glare of day.What marvel, then, that with a breathless hopeThat 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 beholdIf those beloved were nigh; one thrilling thoughtRapt 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 groundRose like the billowy sea,—I scarcely feltThe motion; such intensity of hope—Joy—expectation—flooded all my soul;A tide of living light, o’erwhelming allThe hopes and fears, the cares and woes of earth.Could any doubt remain? Lo! from afarA sound of “Hallelujah!” Ne’er beforeHad mortal ear drunk in such heavenly strain,Save when on Bethlehem’s plain the shepherds heardThe music of the skies.Behold! Behold!Like white-winged angels rise the radiant throngThat from yon cemetery’s gloomy vergeHave 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 lightWould burst asunder, that I might beholdHim, whom so long, not seeing, I have loved!It parted—lo! it opened—as I stoodWith clasped hands stretched towards Heaven; my eager gazeFixed on the widening glory!Suddenly,As if the burden of the flesh no moreCould 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, wakeFrom 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 weepTo lose the faint dim shadow of a joyOf 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!’
A DREAM OF THE SECOND ADVENT.
‘I dreamed that in the stilly hush of night—Deep midnight—I was startled from my sleepBy a clear sound as of a trumpet! LoudIt swelled, and louder, thrilling every nerve,Making the heart beat wildly, strangely, tillAll other senses seemed in hearing lost.Up from my couch I sprang in trembling haste,Cast on my garments, wondering to beholdThrough half-closed shutters sudden radiance gleam,More clear, more vivid than the glare of day.What marvel, then, that with a breathless hopeThat 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 beholdIf those beloved were nigh; one thrilling thoughtRapt 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 groundRose like the billowy sea,—I scarcely feltThe motion; such intensity of hope—Joy—expectation—flooded all my soul;A tide of living light, o’erwhelming allThe hopes and fears, the cares and woes of earth.Could any doubt remain? Lo! from afarA sound of “Hallelujah!” Ne’er beforeHad mortal ear drunk in such heavenly strain,Save when on Bethlehem’s plain the shepherds heardThe music of the skies.Behold! Behold!Like white-winged angels rise the radiant throngThat from yon cemetery’s gloomy vergeHave 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 lightWould burst asunder, that I might beholdHim, whom so long, not seeing, I have loved!It parted—lo! it opened—as I stoodWith clasped hands stretched towards Heaven; my eager gazeFixed on the widening glory!Suddenly,As if the burden of the flesh no moreCould 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!
‘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, wakeFrom 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 weepTo lose the faint dim shadow of a joyOf which the substance shall one day be thine?Live in the hope,—that hope shall brighten life,And sanctify it to its highest end.”
‘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!’
‘Fast roll the chariot wheels of Time. HE comes!
The Spirit and the Bride expectant wait,—
Even so come, Lord Jesus! Saviour—come!’
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,—partlybecause 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 fullyforothers, she could not readily so place herself in the position of others as to feel entirelywiththem, 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. Thewillto 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 quotingverbatim:—
‘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’sLife of Johnson. She was very sociable, lively, and threw her whole heart into the kindly entertaining ofguests 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.’
‘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’sLife of Johnson. She was very sociable, lively, and threw her whole heart into the kindly entertaining ofguests 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 geographygame 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.’
‘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 geographygame 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.’
‘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 toany 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, wouldnotcopy 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, ‘Quiteright, 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 andnieces, 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, probablybecause 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 wroteThe 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, “Howcoldit 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 inThe 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.’
‘In 1869 she came to her house near Sutton; but that sorrowful year to her did not leave much impression upon me, probablybecause 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 wroteThe 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, “Howcoldit 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 inThe 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....Weknew 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.’
‘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....Weknew 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 callnoble, 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.’
‘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 callnoble, 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.’
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 orless 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. Whileplacing 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 thoughtmuch, 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.’
LAURAAbout the Year 1871
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,AmI 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, theonly realobjection; for I can leave you rich in the devoted love of your children. Thank God,youare 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 letterswhich 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; scarcelyoneto 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 evenoneZenana 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 outfree, an honorary Agent of the Society.—Your loving‘C. M. Tucker.’
‘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,AmI 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, theonly realobjection; for I can leave you rich in the devoted love of your children. Thank God,youare 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 letterswhich 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; scarcelyoneto 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 evenoneZenana 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 outfree, 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 ownSociety, 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.