‘I am sure your heart has been aching, and your eyes have been weeping. Such a sudden—such an unexpected stroke! But God is Wisdom and Love....
‘Darling—my own darling Letitia! Oh, when she looked so happy, did she not see the angels—or her beloved Father—or the Bedwells and old Rodman whom she had so tended,—perhaps all coming to welcome her,—or the loving Saviour Himself? I do not grudge her to Him; but oh, what a wealth of love I have (apparently) lost in that one young heart! Her last parcel of letters to me contained sweet commissions for her poor.... I dare say that I shall hear from you to-morrow; but it is a relief to me to write now to you, who were so kind and dear to her. I went out before breakfast this morning. A thrush was singing so sweetly. I saw the first crocus of the year. My flower,—my lovely one,—she may now be singing in joy, while we sit in sorrow.’
This letter was dated January 21; and three days later another went to Mrs. Hamilton, not from Charlotte, but from Fanny:—
‘My own dearest Laura,—Your dear letters have been very soothing to our Charlotte, and have helped to remind her of the mercies mingled with the bereavement. The sure sweet hope that her darling is safe, and for ever happy, has been her strong consolation; and God is mercifully supporting her, I am thankful to say. Last Sunday she went both to Church and to the Workhouse.
‘I am thankful to be near her, to minister to her,—but wish I were a better comforter, such as you would have been, dear.
‘The sad tidings were most gently broken to our dear Mother by Clara. She was therefore mercifully spared the shock of the sudden intelligence.
‘With kindest remembrances to dear Mr. Hamilton, and love to your dear self and your dear ones, believe me, dearest Laura, your very affectionate
‘F. Tucker.’
C. M. T. TO A COUSIN.
‘Jan. 24, 1866.
‘Many thanks for your kind sympathy. My sweet consolation indeed is that my own darling girl sleeps in Jesus. When such a bright look of “extreme pleasure” lighted up the dear face of one called away in the bloom of her youth and beauty, was she not realising her own sweet lines,—
TO MRS. HAMILTON.
‘Feb. 6, 1866.
‘Did I ever tell you that my darling wrote to me when she was at the Hills, saying that she did not wish me to be altogether disappointed in regard to her, and asking me whom I would wish her to try to resemble. I mentioned you,—for I thought that as her disposition was lively, it would be more easy for her to try to be like you than dear Fanny; besides she had seen you as a wife and mother, and I did not know whether the Almighty might not destine her to be such. He had something “far better” for my loved one.
‘It will interest you to know that G—— (P——‘s protégée), after winning honours at Cambridge, wishes to be baptized as a Christian. Amy H—— and her husband are to be two of his witnesses, and he is anxious that dear Henry[11] should be the third; for it was Henry’s consistent character which first showed him what Christianity really is.’
TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.
‘Feb. 13, 1866.
‘I thank you lovingly, dearest Leila, for your letter. I prize your affection,—you write to me almost as my own darling used to write. If my health had broken down, so that I could not have been a comfort to dear Grandmamma and Aunt Fanny here, I should thankfully have accepted the invitation which you so affectionately press; but as I keep pretty well, I do not think that it would be well for me to leave my post at home. Dear Grandmamma seems to cling to me so,—she is so loving! I am thankful that she keeps so well. Dear Aunt Fanny was not so well for two days, but is better again....
‘My darling once wrote and asked me whose character I would like her to try to copy as a pattern. I gave her your sweet Mother’s. She replied that it would be difficult, but that it was well to aim high. I think that you will like to know this. You have the same sweet model always before you; you, dear one, have advantages that my darling had not.
‘Though I have cried over this note, it has soothed me to write it; I have felt as if I were taking another dear young niece to my heart,—a sad heart, but I trust not an ungrateful one for the earthly affection which is God’s gift, and of which I have been granted much.—Your affectionate Aunt and Godmother
‘C. M. T.’
TO MRS. HAMILTON.
‘1866.
‘I send you on the other page a few lines which came into my mind yesterday in regard to my sweet Letitia:—
‘A Thought.
TO MISS B. F. TUCKER.
‘May 22, 1866.
‘I have been learning a new art, and am thankful to find that I have sufficient energy left in me to do so. I sent for some reading in embossed letters for a blind man here, and amused myself by puzzling it out myself. I have succeeded in reading right through the fourteenth of St. John in two sittings of about an hour and twenty minutes each. It was an effort of memory as well as attention, as some of the letters are utterly unlike those to which we have been accustomed. The poor blind man promises well to acquire the art, I think.’
TO THE SAME.
‘July 16, 1866.
‘Have you seen the mysterious sky-visitor? On Friday evening our maids saw something like three stars, one red,—but they disappeared. On the following night Cousins[12] called me to look on what I would not have missed seeing for a good deal. About thirty degrees above the horizon, I should think, shone what was like a star, but more splendid than any that I had ever beheld, of a brilliant magenta colour. It was no falling star passing rapidly through the sky, but appeared quite fixed in the heavens for—perhaps ten minutes. As I gazed with something like awe on its wondrous beauty, suddenly its colour utterly changed; the magenta became white, with a greenish tinge; and then—as suddenly—the star disappeared; not as if hidden by a cloud, but as if put out.
‘I watched for the mysterious light last night, but could not see it; the evening had been so strangely dark that we had lighted candles an hour before sunset, though our window looks to the west. No star was visible to me; but our maids had a short glimpse of a strange light. I am sitting by the window now to watch for the visitor in the north-west.... I searched The Times to-day to see if there were any mention of it, but could find none.’
Evidently Charlotte Tucker had been fortunate enough to see a very fine meteor; though probably the supposed duration of ten minutes was in reality a good deal shorter. The idea of watching for the same meteor next night is somewhat amusing. The maids doubtless saw what they expected to see; but Charlotte Tucker, though non-scientific, was far too practical so to indulge her powers of imagination.
In another letter written during this same July to Mrs. Hamilton occurs one little sentence well worth quoting, for it is a sentence which might serve as a motto for many a seemingly empty and even purposeless life—
‘It is sweet to be somebody’s sunshine.’
In June Mrs. Tucker had written to a friend,—‘Charlotte walked twice to church, and thinks she is stronger.’ And in a letter to Mrs. Hamilton, on the 23rd of July, Charlotte said of herself,—‘I am quite well now, and up to work’;—yet the following to a niece, on September 1st, does not speak of fully restored energies:—
‘I have so much to be grateful for, I wish that I were of a more thankful spirit. It seems as if this year had aged me. When I saw a bright creature like ——, I mentally contrasted her with myself, and thought,—“She has not the gee out of her. Cheerfully and hopefully she enters on her untried sphere of work. In her place I should be taking cares!”—very wrong of me. I often take myself to task.
‘I feel putting off my dark dress for one day on Wednesday.... My darling was to me what she was not to her other Aunts.’
To some people, or in certain states of body and mind, the afternoon is apt to be a more tired time than the evening. At this stage in Charlotte Tucker’s Afternoon of life she passed through a somewhat weary spell, though never really ill; but her energies were to revive for the work of her Eventide.
On October 6th she could say,—
‘I am not poorly, though I look thin; I think that I am stronger in health and firmer in spirit now than I have been almost all this trying year; and for this I am thankful.’
TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.
‘Nov. 2, 1866.
‘Your sweet Mother will wonder at not receiving the little book which I promised to send her; but our bookseller, from whom I ordered the copy, has been unable to get it yet. I will tell you something that may cause delay. Of course I looked with some interest at the illustrations which my Publisher sent me; but I was not a little surprised in the last one to find one whom I considered to be a man represented as a bear! He was bearish in character certainly, but still—certainly not a bear in shape.
‘Of course I wrote to Mr. Inglis about it; who replied that he had been annoyed himself at the resemblance to a bear, and had sent the picture more than once to be altered, and had been at last so much provoked that he had paid off the artist altogether. Now, though I may be a little sorry for the poor man,—I never proposed his dismissal,—I confess I am rather glad that he is not to illustrate my books any more. There is no saying what creature he might turn my characters into next. Mr. Inglis is going to have the picture altered; so this may occasion delay.’
Three more years only remained to Charlotte of life in the dear old home of her infancy. Those three years passed quietly, marked by no stirring events. On the 11th of December 1867, Otho St. George Hamilton, son of her sister Laura, died at the age of thirteen, after a long illness; and during these years Fanny continued steadily to fail. The delicacy developed into a case of decided consumption, but of a slow and lingering description. A few sentences are culled from the many letters which remain, belonging to this period.
TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.
‘Feb. 1867.
‘I wish my sweet Leila to receive a few lines on her birthday.... Tempus fugit, indeed. When you open this you will be thirteen years old. It seems to me as if each year now were growing more and more important; the stream is widening; the mind is opening; and ... may the heart be opening too to that Love which is beyond all earthly love.
‘I had a pleasant childhood. My mind was very active, as well as my bodily frame; and at your age I dare say that life lay before me, a bright, hope-inspiring thing. It is well that it should be so; it is a kind arrangement of Providence that the young should be usually full of energy and hope. I like to recall how I felt, that I may enter into the feelings of others.
‘Now of course I have not exactly the same kind of landscape before me as I had at thirteen. I am in my forty-sixth year, have known care and sorrow, and have at present but feeble health. And yet, dear, I don’t want to exchange my landscape; I have no wish to go back. I have found that middle age has its deep joys, as well as early youth its sparkling ones. Sometimes I ask myself,—“Now, in my present position, if I had no pleasure in religion, if everything connected with that were cut off, what would be left me?—what would life be to me?” O Leila, what a tasteless, what a bitter thing! We want delights that will not grow old, that will never pall, that will be just as fresh and lovely at eighty as at eighteen. Religion is not merely, as some seem to fancy, to prepare us for death, but to be the happiness of life. It calls indeed for the sacrifice of self-will in a hundred little ways; but it repays those little sacrifices a hundred times over. Just think what it is to realise such thoughts as these,—“The Lord Jesus loves me! I am His own! I shall see Him one day, and be with Him!” How can such thoughts ever lose their sweetness?’
TO THE SAME.
‘April 28, 1867.
‘How different your still, noiseless dwelling must be to ours at present! Not that we have much noise, but sometimes so much seems going on. Yesterday M—— A—— D—— and a young cousin came in the morning; then before they had left Cousin M—— E—— and four fine children, then Uncle St. George and his wife. All this before luncheon; others came after it; and I went to the Poorhouse, and then lodging-hunting with Uncle St. George. He is so sweet and loving and good.... He delights Grandmamma.’
TO THE SAME.
‘July 1, 1867.
‘It is mournfully interesting to read my darling’s papers, of which L—— has brought home many. Her prose is usually lively; her poetry full of tenderness, often very sad.... The two latest dated poems were, I think, written August 14. They were called “An Early Grave” and “All is Vanity.” Every stanza of the first expresses desire for an early departure. The second thus beautifully closes—
‘If this really be the darling’s last written stanza, what a touching interest it gives it!’
TO MISS B. F. TUCKER.
‘Sept. 9, 1867.
‘Poor little Otho has rallied again, though the doctor holds out no hope of ultimate recovery. This is a sad time for my poor Laura, though there are sorer trials than that of bereavement.’
The Hamiltons were at this time in great trouble, as they watched the long-drawn-out sufferings of their dying boy; and many letters were written by Charlotte to her favourite sister, full of intense feeling. Day by day she lived with them in their sorrow, anxiously looking out for fresh tidings, and thinking what she could say to comfort or soothe.
TO MRS. HAMILTON.
‘Oct. 30, 1867.
‘Precious Sister,—Your touching letter has quickened the spirit of Prayer; but oh, I feel as if my prayers were often so weak and worthless. I want more faith, more earnestness. I have not time to write more, but could not let that letter be unanswered by your loving
‘C. M. T.’
TO THE SAME.
‘Nov. 9, 1867.
‘Fanny and I have been conversing to-night on the subject of your dear suffering boy. You long fervently to see him rejoicing in the prospect of departing and being with Christ. Perhaps the one obstacle to his being able to do so is the thought of parting from you. If his Mother were going with him, he may think, he would be happy to go.
‘Now to me, were I in your darling’s position, there would be comfort and pleasure in the idea—“Perhaps, as regards me, leaving the body will not be real separation from dear ones. Perhaps I may be allowed to come to them, and minister to them, and cheer them; though they cannot see me I may see them!” This idea does not appear opposed to Scripture. The rich man in the parable believed that Lazarus could go to Earth; and Abraham never said that he could not. If dear Otho thought that he might possibly be permitted to watch over his Mother, and help to make her happy, and be one of the first to welcome her to bliss,—perhaps the real bitterness of death would for him seem taken away. It seems quite possible that dear Robin was by his child’s sick-bed, and that she saw him, when her face so lighted up with joy. “I believe in the Communion of Saints.”
‘Your dear boy is very young. A child’s religion seems almost to begin with the Fifth Commandment. We can hardly yet expect dear Otho to love the Lord whom he has not seen more than the parents whom he has seen and fondly loved. Do you not think, darling, that you are almost too anxious on the subject of Otho’s state of mind? He is only a lamb; and the Good Shepherd knows that he needs to be carried.
‘I should like to know when your dear boy takes the Holy Communion, that I may be with you in thought and in prayer. Otho is an invited guest to the Great Feast above; his robe is prepared by his Lord,—don’t fear, love, that it will not be very white and very fair....
‘P.S.—Nov. 10.—I have been thinking much of your dear one in church; and I open my note to add another reason suggested to my mind, as a cause why he may be unable ... to feel joy in the thought of departure. You and I, my Laura, have known many of God’s saints now in bliss; we have almost as many dear friends in the world of spirits as in this. Perhaps we are hardly aware of the influence which this has on our minds,—how it helps to make Heaven a home. Your dear boy may feel that he is going to enter amongst a great company of saints, almost every one of whom is a stranger to him. To one so reserved as Otho, this may be rather an awful thought. I wonder if it is a comfort to him to think of sweet Letitia and Christian[13] being there. Perhaps if you reminded him of that, it might remove a feeling which—if he entertains it—he might not like to mention even to you.’
TO THE SAME.
‘Nov. 13, 1867.
‘I thank God that He has made your darling willing to depart, even to leave you. Your note is deeply interesting; and I think you may feel that your prayers have been answered.... You must now only think of the “far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.” Probably every hour of suffering in some mysterious way enhances and increases future rapture,—rapture more intense than we can conceive. The longer I live, the more convinced I feel that there is this mysterious connection—in the case of God’s children—between personal pain and future delight. So that, if we could, as we fain would, shield our treasures from suffering, we might be depriving them of some rich blessing.
‘You are in the furnace, my precious sister,—a hotter furnace, perhaps, than that which tries your child. I need not repeat that whenever you want me, you have only to send for me. You and I understand each other! How sweet is the tie between us! Dear Mother is apt to indulge hopes of your boy’s recovery. I think that she hardly realises his state, and probably she scarcely knows how to write under the circumstances. She has had a cold these last few days, but is, I hope, throwing it off....
‘I send you a little book,[14] which I am sure will interest you. It has been a mournful pleasure to me to prepare it. Your lamb as well as mine will probably soon “be folded above.”’
TO MRS. HAMILTON.
‘Nov. 14, 1867.
‘My heart feels more with you, my Laura, in that still sick-room than here. Perhaps many angels are about you and your boy, though you see them not.
‘Like your dear invalid, I am especially fond of St. Luke’s account of the dying thief. There is something so touching in his looking at such a moment to the Saviour, whose Blood, shed for his salvation, was at that moment trickling down in his view; and there is something so sublime in our Lord’s conferring Eternal Life,—such a gift,—at the time when He was Himself undergoing the terrible sentence of death! We may envy your dear suffering child, my Laura, when we think how soon, in human expectation, his eyes will behold the King in His beauty.
‘O darling, you could hardly wish to keep him back, when the Master calls him,—calls him to His Home—His Arms!
‘I feel for your dear husband; this is a time of sore trial for him; but you suffer together. May God give you both “songs in the night.” Those songs are perhaps sweeter to Him than the Hallelujahs of the Angels.’
TO THE SAME.
‘Nov. 21, 1867.
‘How well I know that feeling which you describe,—the feeling of being unable to pray fervently,—of being scarcely able to pray at all! This is probably caused ... by fatigue of body, and overstraining of mind and nerves. Perhaps God permits it, that we should just sink in complete helplessness at our Saviour’s Feet, and ask Him to pray for us, since we cannot pray for ourselves.... You may be like a very little child, that can’t even ask for what it needs, but yet trusts and fears not.’
TO MISS LEILA HAMILTON.
‘Dec. 11, 1867.
‘Your very very sad account of dear Otho received this morning makes one think that, even before this reaches you, the sufferer may have been called home! Oh what a blessing it is that it is indeed Home.... Dear Otho has had a sorely trying journey, wintry and wearisome indeed; but there is no shadow, never can be a shadow, on the Home to which he is bound. He will never have to leave it again, to learn the lesson of patience in pain. He will, through his Lord’s merits, be ready there to welcome the dear ones whom he is now leaving behind,—when they too may quit their school, and go to their Father in Heaven....
‘This is a solemn time for you, my Leila. I had reached the age of thirty before I ever looked upon that which is called death, in my own home. These events make the invisible world seem nearer. They should draw us upwards; they should bring us closer to our God.’
TO MRS. HAMILTON.
‘Dec. 12, 1867.
‘Most precious Laura,—When Lady Catherine L——‘s only son was called, she sank on her knees, and said,—“My child, I wish you joy!” so wonderfully was she enabled to realise the happiness, the ecstasy, of the freed spirit, rising up to the presence of her Saviour and God. Happy, happy Otho! No more to be pitied, but to be envied!
‘I will not write much to you now, darling. I am going to see your Freddie, but intend to tell him nothing.
‘Express my tender sympathy to your dear husband. God support you all.—Your loving
‘C. M. T.’
TO MRS. HAMILTON.
‘Jan. 14, 1868.
‘It was not with dry eyes, my beloved Laura, that I could read what was written in those volumes, to which a tenfold value is given by their being last Remembrances from your lately suffering, now blessed boy. Oh, with what a heavy heavy heart must you have put up those parcels, and written those inscriptions! It will perhaps be a long time before you can realise with calm thankfulness that it is indeed so “well with the child” that you can rejoice in his safety, his happiness.... I am now much more disposed to praise for my angel-girl than to weep for her.... I can see so clearly the Love and Wisdom that took her Home. Presently, my precious sorrowing sister, you may feel the same about your boy. Your intense love will remain, for love is immortal; your sorrow will die, for sorrow with Christ’s people is not immortal, thank God.—Your tenderly loving
‘C. M. Tucker.’
TO THE SAME.
‘I have enjoyed your dear letter, and it makes me feel thankful. I have often thought that freed spirits probably lead a life of delightful activity; none of the “burdens of the flesh” to fetter them down. The idea of spirits preaching to spirits is, however, rather new to me. But there seems nothing against it, and probability rather in its favour. That verse in St. Peter, to which you refer, certainly strengthens the idea; for the disciples are permitted in so many ways to follow their Master.
‘It is thus possible that, while you are weeping for your darling, if your eyes were opened, you might see him the bright, joyful centre of a little group of spirits of Indian children,[15] repeating to them the lessons which he first learned from you, but which he would now know better—oh, how much better!—than you could ever teach him. I am sure that you would not wish to take him back again to pain and weakness from such an occupation.’
TO THE SAME.
‘April 14, 1868.
‘My own sweet Laura,—I feel that this month must be full of heavy recollections to you; and oh, it is hard to have a bright face to hide a bleeding heart. I hope that you will not put any restraint upon yourself with me.... Easter has its peculiar message of hope and joy to the mourner. Nature, bursting into new life and beauty, repeats the message, gives it to us as it were in an illumination of green leaves and bright blossoms. The Church says, “Christ is risen indeed!”—and all around us joyfully adds, “And we shall rise again!” Your parting with your boy is over; now only the meeting is before you. The shadows fall behind; the glowing sunshine is in front.’
One letter at about this time gives particulars of how Charlotte tried to influence, not without results, a poor Roman Catholic woman, whom she came across in the Infirmary. Another makes allusion to the Ragged Schools and their work, in which she was always greatly interested. Yet another contains the answer to an inquiry from a niece about a book which should be bought, probably for a gift. The suggested choice ranges between Sir Walter Scott, Felicia Hemans, Jean Ingelow, the Author of The Schonberg-Cotta Family, and Miss Sewell,—a rather curious mixture.
TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.
‘July 7, 1868.
‘I met a mole the other day in a field. It did not attempt to get away, but let me stroke it; and had I chosen I could easily have taken it up in my hand. This seems quite a country for moles. I have seen them repeatedly. I take a greater interest in them, from that book, Homes Without Hands, which your father kindly gave me.’
TO THE SAME.
‘Aug. 11, 1868.
‘We have strange pets here. There are numbers of wasps; I never saw so many at any one time, I think. They sting our poor maids in the kitchen, but behave in such a gentlemanly way in the drawing-room, that, instead of a plague, they seem a pleasure to dear Grandmamma. She watches them, feeds them, admires their beauty, and calls them her babies. One got within Aunt C——‘s jacket, which naturally rather alarmed her. She drew the jacket off, and I found the wasp in the sleeve. It had been between it and C——‘s bare skin, and yet had never stung her.
‘I dare say that you are rather impatient to be settled in Firlands.’
TO THE SAME.
‘Sept. 21, 1868.
‘On Saturday —— and I read my Castle of Carlsmont aloud to dear Grandmamma. I have been amused at ——‘s little criticisms, and shall like to know how far yours agree with hers, if you read my Tragedy. —— says that “Clara is rather stupid”; that she likes Agnes best. “I have rather a sneaking likeness for Agnes,” says she. She says that the ending disappoints her; she would cut off the last page and the four preceding lines, which would completely alter the whole ending. The ending stood originally just as she would have it; but years afterwards I added the page and four lines, which I think an improvement.
‘Tell me frankly what you think, and whether you approve of the style of binding. You remember when I talked to you about the Tragedy, as we sat together in the garden. The two things that occurred to you were,—how could I get the work, when printed, sold; and that people would not like it in pamphlet shape. Messrs. Nelson have obviated the first difficulty; and by having covers put on by the Jewish Society, I have obviated the second. I am sure my wee book will have your good wishes, dear, that it may bring in a little sum to dear Auntie Fanny’s Mission purse.
‘You will wonder what has become of that work of mine, of which I read part to you last year. I can only warn you, my dear Leila, when you write a story, don’t call it On the Way,—for it seems to be always on the way, and never to arrive.
‘What a long note I have written! Pay me back by a review of my Tragedy, and be as blunt as ever you like; for if you tell me that my poor lady is “very stupid,” instead of “rather stupid,” you will only make me smile.’
TO THE SAME.
‘Feb. 4, 1869.
‘It is only fair that I should send you a long account of the wedding.[16] I thought that I should be the first of the party in church, for I went early; but I was mistaken. Gradually a large family party gathered.... There was a good deal of how-d’ye-doing and kissing and that kind of thing, before the word was heard, “The bride is coming.”
‘Dear Bella looked nice and sweet, leaning on the arm of her father. A large Honiton lace veil fell over her pure white silk dress; her lovely hair plaited, instead of made into an ugly chignon, appeared graceful under the white wreath, from which a spray drooped down her neck. I did not think the bridesmaids looking picturesque; there was too square a look about the purple trimming of their white alpacas. The bridegroom and bride stood side by side. I could see Bella’s profile distinctly, and could hear every sentence, both when James and when she repeated their vows.... There was no crying that I could see.... You know that there were eight little children present, four little boys and four little girls. Some of them were given flowers from an ornamental basket, to strew in the path of the bride, as her husband led her down the aisle.’
TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.
‘June 12, 1869.
‘Sweet Grandmamma continues much the same,—serene,—without pain, not exactly ill, but so delicate that she is still carried up and down stairs, and sees none of the family but Aunt Clara and myself, and only a little of me.... Dear Grandmamma sent for me while I was writing the above; and to my surprise I found her, pen in hand, busy with a note to welcome Uncle Willy. I am much pleased that she should send him one, though I should not have thought of asking her to make so great an effort. Of course the note is very short.’
TO THE SAME.
‘July 10, 1869.
‘My heart should be full of thankfulness, for to-day dear Aunt Fanny was able to pay her first visit here to see Grandmamma. Uncle and Aunt St. George[17] drove her here in their pony-chaise; and she had quite enjoyed the drive. I thought Aunt Fanny decidedly better; but dear Grandmamma—who has scarcely realised the severity of her late illness,—said to me, with evident disappointment, “I was surprised to see my own Fanny look so pallid. I think she looks worse than I do.” This is true; but then the fact is that Grandmamma’s lovely pink and white complexion often makes her look stronger than she is....
‘Uncle St. George has given me such a lovely piano-piece. Grandmamma likes me to play it through every day, or I should be inclined to lend it to your dearest Mother. It would remind her so of the dear Ancient Concerts, the delight of our youth, and of good old Mrs. Burrough. It is Glück’s music, arranged by Calcott, from Half-Hours with the Best Composers, published by Lonsdale. The piece commences with the delightful chorus of Furies, Cerberus barking, etc., which your dear Mother may remember.
‘I am ashamed of such an untidy scrawl as this. I do not know how that blot on the first page made its appearance. Of course the writer was not to blame!... I could chat much longer with you, dear one, but I have other notes to write; and my pen, or ink, or paper, or something or other, will go wrong to-night, so as to make the act of writing irksome, as well as the note untidy.’
Another heavy blow, not less heavy because sooner or later inevitable, was now drawing very near. Mrs. Tucker, who had reached the age of eighty, had of late failed steadily; and Charlotte must have seen that this dear Mother was soon to pass away from their midst. Before the close of July the call came; and already every word that she spoke was treasured up by her daughter, as may be seen in the following letter:—
TO MRS. HAMILTON.
‘July 12, 1869.
‘So many thanks to my beloved Laura for her valuable and gratifying gift, which reaches me to-day. Dear Mother has heard your sweet music twice over already, and both she and Clara admire it. So do I. I wish that your song were published, that more might benefit from it. I am pleased that you occupy yourself in composing, love. I dare say Mother will often ask for her Laura’s song. “Is not she a darling?” exclaimed Mother to-day.
‘I not unfrequently sing, “Hark, my soul,” to sweet Mamma. It is better to go over and over the same than to give much variety, though I sometimes sing “Rock of Ages” also. I heard Mother saying to herself one day, “Jesus speaks, and speaks to me”; and she once observed of that hymn, “That takes one to heaven.”
‘Dear Mother is much the same; not ill; with no fever, no pain; just very delicate and weak. She was so particularly sweet yesterday, Sunday. She looked lovely sitting by the large open window, with a light gauze veil to keep off the flies. Mother said that it had been “a holy day”—“a solemn day,”—and twice asked me to read the Bible to her.... Once after waking she observed that she felt “between Heaven and earth.” Mother has repeatedly alluded to her dream of being in Heaven with Mrs. Thornhill; and often talks of her father,—“such a holy man!”
‘She said yesterday, “I have been dreaming.” I observed, “I hope they were pleasant dreams.” “Mostly prayerful,” was her reply.... She is very serene and peaceful, which is such a mercy.’
TO MRS. HAMILTON.
‘July 24, 1869.
‘Beloved Laura,—So tenderly and so gently the Lord has dealt with our sweetest Mother! She woke this morning, and told Cousins that she herself had slept too long. There was a slight feeling of sickness about eight, which made Cousins call poor Clara. In about an hour she gently fell asleep.... No pain nor even consciousness at the last. I had gone to London on business, as you know. I was telegraphed to; but ere I arrived she—the sweet, the beloved—was where she had wished to be. O Laura, Laura, she has long been drinking the dregs of life, however sweetened by affection. I felt for her. But I seem as if I could hardly write connectedly. All the three dear brothers have been here. St. George still is here. Poor dear Fanny also,—she is to have my room, for she is so thankful to be here. We have, however, only been allowed one very brief glimpse and kiss of the revered remains. Only remains, my Laura. Think of her bliss! She is not here.... Your fond
‘C. M. T.’
In Charlotte’s desk, kept as one of her greatest treasures, and found there, years later, after her own death, was the last note ever written to her by Mrs. Tucker. It contained these words—‘My precious Charlotte, you have been such a comfort to me!’ No wonder the loving utterance was treasured up by the daughter through the rest of her life.
During forty-eight years Charlotte Tucker had known but one home—No. 3 Upper Portland Place. Now at length in her forty-ninth year the inevitable family break-up had come; and the dear home of her infancy, of her girlhood, of her middle age, could be hers no longer. No. 3 had to be given up; and the sisters had to go forth into fresh scenes. The trial must to all of them have been great; perhaps least so to the gentle Fanny, already on the border-land of the Life beyond.
As a first move, Charlotte and Fanny went together for about two months to Sutton. An idea had, however, arisen of a home, at least for a time, with their brother, Mr. St. George Tucker, and his wife; and the next step was to join them at Wickhill, Bracknell, in the month of September 1869. This was Fanny’s last move. She was taken thither, from Sutton, most carefully by Charlotte, in a post-chaise; and the long drive does not appear to have materially affected her. Although by this time wasted to skin and bone, Fanny still kept about in the house; spending much time in her own sitting-room, yet often coming down among the rest for a short time; and during this autumn Charlotte seems to have chiefly devoted herself to Fanny. Before the close of November, however, the end of the long illness was reached.
One day, when speaking to her brother, in allusion to her earlier good health and plumpness, Fanny observed: ‘My dear St. George, I have been imprudent.’ She did not specify what manner of imprudence hers had been. Probably, like many another in a thoroughly healthy family, she had not soon enough read the true meaning of suspicious symptoms. During some four years past she had been steadily failing; and the end could but have been a joyous release to one so ready to go.
Thus blow upon blow had fallen between the years of thirty and fifty upon the golden staff of Charlotte Tucker’s Will. Her Father’s death; the death of Robert; the death of Letitia; the death of her Mother; the death of Fanny; all these one after another make a list of sorrows. Doubtless, the most keen and bitter losses which she had to endure were, above all, the death of her almost idolised Father, and the death of Letitia. No other pain would equal these, dearly as she loved her brother Robert, her Mother, and Fanny, until her own peculiar sister-friend, Laura Hamilton, should be summoned away. Mercifully, that blow was not allowed to fall until a very short time before her own call Home.
Charlotte was not crushed by these sorrows. This is plainly to be seen. Although the wild spirits and abounding glee of her childhood were toned down, she was still active, still buoyant, still able to enjoy life. She sorrowed, but by no means as one without hope; and if her life was shadowed, it had not lost its spring. As time went by, the spirit of fun and mirthfulness revived; and the little ones in her new home could not fail to be a fresh delight to one who so greatly loved children. Even the earlier letters after her Mother’s death are not only calm but cheerful.
TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.
‘Aug. 23, 1869.
‘I cannot help hoping very sincerely that Uncle St. G. may find a house near Bracknell, large enough to hold Aunt Fanny and myself, as well as his own party. Would it not be nice? But I am rather guarded about setting my heart on anything of the sort. Aunt Fanny would like it very much.... It would be like a haven to me. I think I know one young maiden who would not be sorry to have her old godmother within reach of a walk. But I am quietly waiting to see how things are arranged for me.... I have to manage things for Aunt Fanny, as well as for myself, just as if I were her husband. It is very new work to me. I am not, like your dear Mother, accustomed to think and arrange about a mass of property.’
TO THE SAME.
‘Dec. 2, 1869.
‘I hope that my sweet Leila has not thought me unmindful of her loving sympathy because I have not thanked her before for her note. I am sure that you have heard of us from your beloved Mother, who so tenderly shared my watch by the bedside of my heart’s sister. O Leila dear, does not such a peaceful, holy departure show us that our Lord has indeed taken the sting from death? Without Him, how terrible would be the dark Unknown!—with Him, how bright is the valley!
‘Sweet Aunt Fanny quoted to me not long ago, I suppose in reference to departure,—“When Thou wilt; where Thou wilt; how Thou wilt!” I think that the last chapter which I read to her was Romans viii. It is such a long chapter, that I stopped at about the 25th verse, fearing to tire the dear invalid; but she made me finish the chapter.
‘I went out of the drawing-room window before sunrise to-day, to gather flowers to make into wreaths. The gardener had not opened the greenhouse; but I found much more than I should have expected in the beginning of December,—even rosebuds. The ferns look lovely still. A few days ago I made a wreath of myrtle. I thought it like an emblem of my own sweet sister; sweetest when bruised; with an unfading leaf; and a white, simple-looking, yet lovely blossom.
‘Good-night, my Leila. May the Almighty make you, my dear Godchild, as unselfish, conscientious, and lowly as was the loved one by whose grave I am to stand to-morrow.’
Although the plan of living with Mr. and Mrs. St. George Tucker was at no time regarded as a permanent arrangement for the remainder of Charlotte Tucker’s life, yet it actually lasted six years. For about eight months from September 1869 they all remained at Wickhill. In 1870 they removed to Windlesham, in Surrey; and in the following year, 1871, they again moved to ‘Woodlands,’ at Binfield in Berkshire, nine miles or so from Reading, and only about two and a half miles from Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton’s home, Firlands, near Bracknell. Charlotte had, therefore, from that time not only the interest of her little nephew and two little nieces in the house, but also of her sister Laura’s children within three miles. The companionship of a very favourite brother and of his affectionate wife, together with these little ones, work among the poor, writing, and many other occupations, made her life still a busy and a bright one.
In one letter written to a niece from Firlands, in 1870, she describes ‘the rural seclusion of this lovely place. I am charmed with Firlands, and the groves of fragrant pine in which I wander every morning.’ In another letter, dated February 1871, she says: ‘I hasten to give you the good news that Uncle St. George has taken “Woodlands” for seven years. I am so glad, and I am sure that you will be so also.’ This was to her Godchild. Thus she entered upon the final stage of her English life. Before the close of those seven years Charlotte Tucker was in India.
The following extracts from letters belong all to the two or three years after her Mother’s death:—