A Lady of England: The Life and Letters of Charlotte Maria Tucker. Agnes Giberne
destination for herself. All these years, without knowing it, she was waiting for and was working upward to ‘the Crown of her Life,’ as it may be termed; those eighteen years in the Panjab. All these years she was being prepared and made ready, till she should be as a ‘sharpened instrument’ in the Hand of her Master, fitted for the work which He would give her to do.
Among the many volumes published during the first fifteen or twenty years of authorship were the following:—The Giant-Killer, The Roby Family, The Young Pilgrim, History of a Needle, and Rambles of a Rat, before 1858; Flora, The Mine, Precepts in Practice, Idols in the Heart, and Whispering Unseen, before 1860; Pride and his Prisoners, The Shepherd of Bethlehem, My Neighbour’s Shoes, War and Peace, Light in the Robber’s Cave, and The Silver Casket, before 1864. A trio of volumes appeared in succession, the first of which she wrote at her Mother’s suggestion—Exiles in Babylon, Rescued from Egypt, and Triumph of Midian. Another trio, coming in due course—Fairy Know-a-Bit, Parliament in the Playroom, and The Crown of Success—were bright little books, containing a good deal of useful information. Besides these were published at intervals House Beautiful, Living Jewels, Castle of Carlmont, Hebrew Heroes, Claudia, Cyril Ashley, The Lady of Provence, The Wreath of Smoke, and very many others.
One of the most strongly allegorical of her earlier works was The Giant-Killer; and in that little book she no doubt made free use of her own experiences.
It is easy to believe that she must have had many a hard battle with Giant Sloth, before she gained the habit of always rising at six o’clock in the morning, a habit persevered in through life. Again, one of her eager and impulsive temperament could not have been naturally free from a clinging to her own way, and from a certain vigorous self-seeking; and many a bitter conflict must have been gone through, before friends could, with an all but unanimous voice, speak of hers as a peculiarly unselfish character. In the struggles of Fides to get out of the Pit of Selfishness, we may read between the lines of Charlotte’s girlish battlings.
Even more, in the fight with Giant Pride we seem to see her hardest tussle of all, and the mode in which victory came to her. Giant Pride’s assumed name of ‘High Spirit,’ his hatred of Meanness, Gluttony, Cowardice, and Untruth, are all an echo of parts of herself. The polishing of the darkened gold of her Will she had long known in the small unavoidable frictions of everyday life; and the plunging of that Will into furnace-heat, and the straightening of its crookedness by means of heavy successive blows, she had begun to know in the death of her dear Father, and would soon know more fully through other sorrows coming after. But many more than three blows were needed for the shapening of Charlotte Tucker’s Will. She may have dreamt when she wrote the book that three would be enough, and that the King’s call to Fides might in her case be soon repeated. She little knew the long years of toil and patience which stretched far ahead.
A tiny glimpse of the daily fighting, which she like all others had to go through, may be seen in the succeeding letter, written to her sister, Laura, a year or two before the death of old Mr. Tucker:—
‘I obeyed you in putting your note into the fire, after twice perusing it; but it seemed a shame so to destroy what was so sweet. How little you and I have been with each other lately, yet I do not think that we love one another one particle the less—I think that I can answer for myself at least. May God prosper your humble efforts, my sweet Laura. I enter into all your feelings. …
‘I do not like to overload dear Bella with advice. It appears almost presumptuous from a younger sister; but I threw in my word now and then. But what am I? … I fear that I have been peevish with—— to-day. I feel discontented with myself, and need your prayers.’
CHAPTER VIII
A.D. 1854–1857
CRIMEA, AND THE INDIAN MUTINY
In the year 1854 Mr. St. George Tucker again came home from India; and in the autumn he took his Mother and sisters for three months to The Mote, an old country house about six miles north of Tonbridge, hoping that the change would do good to Mrs. Tucker’s health and spirits. Those were the terrible days of the Crimean War; and in that autumn the battles of Balaclava and Inkerman were fought. Several letters of interest belong to about this period.
TO MISS BELLA F. TUCKER. 1853.
‘I have found out a much better hero for you than your friend Lord Marmion—who, by-the-bye, had he lived in these days, would have run a great chance of being transported for fourteen years, or imprisoned for one with hard labour, for forgery. Mere courage does not make a hero. … When I was about as old as you are now, I had—besides Montrose, for whom I have a great regard still—a great hero, a pirate! About as respectable a man perhaps as Lord Marmion, and I was so fond of him, that I remember jumping out of bed one night, when one of my sisters laughed at him.
‘But I have grown older, dear, and have seen so many bubbles break in my time that I am more on my guard. I look for something more solid now. If you are allowed to read Uncle Tom’s Cabin, or any part of it, pause when you have done, and compare the old negro with Lord Marmion. You laugh at the idea. What!—“the falcon crest and morion,”—“the scar on his dark brow”—will not all this throw the poor ignorant thick-lipped hero quite into the shade? Yes—if a sparkling bubble is more glorious than a diamond shut up in a black case. Time touches the bubble, and it breaks—I have given up my pirate-hero—but the diamond—never mind the black case! “Uncle Tom” is a hero, and one worthy of the name.’
TO MRS HAMILTON—(LAURA).
‘The Mote, Sept. 1, 1854.
‘Your and your dear husband’s nice sunshiny notes reached me this morning. … I believe that you are wise not to come here, for the roads are very bad, and the climate not very bracing. Sweet Mother says that it suits her very well, and I thrive on it like anything, but not every one might be the better for “water, water everywhere.” We have four pieces of water close by us, besides the moat just under our windows. The Mote nestles so curiously in a hollow of the hill, that when you have walked a few hundred yards from it, and naturally turn round to look at the noble mansion which you have left—it is actually non inventus. You would not know that you were near the Mote at all. “What has become of our great house?” say you. It has vanished like Aladdin’s fairy palace.
‘I feel sure that this is the identical old place that Mrs. D’Oyly took us to see, where they said that some of the rooms had not been opened for one hundred years. This suits me exactly. As the boys say, “I am in clover.” Damp hurts me no more than if I were a water-wagtail; but the same might not be the case with you. …
‘What a good thing it has been for your little darling being at so healthy a place during the trying time of teething. I shall expect to see her still more improved, when I have the pleasure of kissing her sweet lips again. How diverting it will be to watch her when she first runs alone! …
‘Such nice letters from India! Dear Henry is having my Tales translated into Hindustani, for the poor natives. Oh, pray, my Laura, that a blessing may go with them. Dear Robin preaches to upwards of a hundred blind, and bears the hot weather wonderfully well.’
TO THE SAME.
‘The Mote, Sept. 12, 1854.
‘Many thanks for your welcome letter, your good news, and your kind invitation. I should not wonder if the last were very thankfully accepted some time next month; for it is quite uncertain whether the L——s will let us remain here beyond the six weeks, and almost quite certain that No. 3 will not be ready for us then, in which case we had better scatter. The boys indeed talk of standing a siege here, rather than give the place up; but you see we are afraid of treachery in the camp, having so many of the L——‘s servants. Then we might have difficulty about provisions, for we should all grow desperately thin upon the fish which Charlie catches. Besides which, the moat might be waded, although it is a doubtful point whether the wader could get on through the weeds and mud. I think, all