’ ... 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.
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:—
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:—
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:—
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—
‘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?
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:—