"A. L. O. E." (MISS TUCKER)
MRS. EWING
Forty years ago, the mystic letters "A. L. O. E." ("A Lady of England")on the title-page of a book ensured its welcome from the children ofthose days. There was not then the host of gaily bound volumes pouringfrom the press to be piled up in tempting array in every bookseller'sshop at Christmas. The children for whom "A. L. O. E." wrote werecontented to read a "gift-book" more than once; and, it must be said,her stories were deservedly popular, and bore the crucial test of beingread aloud to an attentive audience several times.
Many of these stories still live, and the allegorical style in which "A.L. O. E." delighted has a charm for certain youthful minds to this day.There is a pride and pleasure in thinking out the lessons hidden underthe names of the stalwart giants in the "Giant Killer," which is one of"A. L. O. E.'s" earlier and best tales. A fight with Giant Pride, a hardbattle with Giant Sloth, has an inspiriting effect on boys and girls,who are led to "look at home" and see what giants hold them in bondage.
"A. L. O. E.'s" style was almost peculiar to herself. She generally usedallegory and symbol, and she was fired with the desire to arrest theattention of her young readers and "do them good." We may fear that sheoften missed her aim by forcing the moral, and by indulging in long anddiscursive "preachments," which interrupted the main current of thestory, and were impatiently skipped that it might flow on again withoutvexatious hindrances.
In her early girlhood and womanhood "A. L. O. E." had written plays,which, we are told by her biographer, Miss Agnes Giberne, were full ofwit and fun. Although her literary efforts took a widely differentdirection when she began to write for children, still there are flashesof humour sparkling here and there on the pages of her most didacticstories, showing that her keen sense of the ludicrous was present thoughit was kept very much in abeyance.
From the first publication of "The Claremont Tales" her success as awriter for children was assured. The list of her books covering thespace of fifteen or twenty years is a very long one, and she had nodifficulty in finding publishers ready to bring them out in anattractive form.
* * * * *
"The Rambles of a Rat" is before me, as I write, in a new edition, andis a very fair specimen of "A. L. O. E.'s" work. Weighty sayings are putinto the mouth of the rats, and provoke a smile. The discussion aboutthe ancestry of Whiskerando and Ratto ends with the trite remark--which,however, was not spoken aloud--that the great weakness of one opponentwas pride of birth, and his anxiety to be thought of an ancient family;but the chief matter, in Ratto's opinion, was not whether our ancestorsdo honour to us, but whether by our conduct we do not disgrace them.Probably this page of the story was hastily turned here, that thehistory of the two little waifs and strays who took shelter in thewarehouse, where the rats lived, might be followed.
Later on there is a discussion between a father and his little boy aboutthe advantage of ragged schools, then a somewhat new departure inphilanthropy. Imagine a boy of nine, in our time, exclaiming, "What aglorious thing it is to have ragged schools and reformatories, to givethe poor and the ignorant, and the wicked, a chance of becoming honestand happy." Boys of Neddy's age, nowadays, would denounce him as alittle prig, who ought to be well snubbed for his philanthropicalambition, when he went on to say, "How I should like to build a raggedschool myself!" "The Voyage of the Rats to Russia" is full of interestand adventure, and the glimpse of Russian life is vivid, and in "A. L.O. E.'s" best manner.
Indeed, she had a graphic pen, and her descriptions of places and thingswere always true to life. In "Pride and his Prisoners," for instance,there are stirring scenes, drawn with that dramatic power which hadcharacterised the plays she wrote in her earlier days. "The Pretender, afarce in two Acts, by Charlotte Maria Tucker," is published in MissGiberne's biography. In this farce there is a curious and constantlyrecurring play on words, but the allegory and the symbol with which sheafterwards clothed her stories are absent.
* * * * *
"A. L. O. E." did not write merely to _amuse_ children; and thecountless fairy tales and books of startling adventure, in their gildedcovers and with their profuse illustrations, which are published everyyear, have thrown her stories into the shade. But they are written withverve and spirit, and in good English, which is high praise, and cannotalways be given to the work of her successors in juvenile literature. Inher books, as in every work she undertook throughout her life, she hadthe high and noble aim of doing good. Whether she might have widened thesphere of her influence by less of didactic teaching, and by allowingher natural gifts to have more play, it is not for us to inquire.
It is remarkable that this long practice in allegory and symbol fittedher for her labours in her latter years, amongst the boys and girls ofthe Far East. Her style was well adapted to the Oriental mind, andkindled interest and awoke enthusiasm in the hearts of the children inthe Batala Schools. Here she did a great work, which she undertook atthe age of fifty-four, when she offered her services to the ChurchMissionary Society as an unpaid missionary.
"All for love, and no reward" may surely be said to be "A. L. O. E.'s"watchword, as, with untiring energy, she laboured amongst the childrenin a distant part of the empire. Even there she was busy as an author.By her fertile pen she could reach thousands in that part of India whowould never see her face or hear her voice. She wrote for India as shehad written for England, ever keeping before her the good of herreaders. The Hindu boys and girls, as well as the children of thiscountry, have every reason to hold her name in grateful remembrance asone of the authors who have left a mark on the reign of Queen Victoria.
MRS. EWING
There lingers over some people whom we know a nameless charm. It isdifficult to define it, and yet we feel it in their presence as we feelthe subtle fragrance of flowers, borne to us on the wings of the freshbreeze, which has wandered over gorse and heather, beds of wildhyacinth, and cowslip fields, in the early hours of a sunny spring day.A charm like this breathes over the stories which Mrs. Ewing has left asan inheritance for English children, and for their elders also, for alltime. The world must be better for her work; and looking back over thesometimes toilsome paths of authorship, this surely, above all others,is the guerdon all craftswomen of the pen should strive to win.
There is nothing morbid or melodramatic in Mrs. Ewing's beautifulstories. They bubble over with the joys of child-life; they bristle withits humour; they touch its sorrows with a tender, sympathetic hand; theylend a gentle sadness of farewell to Death itself, with the sure hope ofbetter things to come.
* * * * *
It was in 1861 and 1862 that those who were looking for healthy storiesfor children found, in "Melchior's Dream and other Tales," preciselywhat they wanted. Soon after, _Aunt Judy's Magazine_, edited by Mrs.Ewing's mother, Mrs. Gatty, made a new departure in the periodicalliterature for children. The numbers were eagerly looked for month bymonth, and the title of the magazine was given to commemorate the "Judy"of the nursery, who had often kept a bevy of little brothers and sistershappy and quiet by pouring forth into their willing ears stories full ofthe prowess of giants, the freaks of fairies, with occasional but alwaysgood-natured shafts aimed at the little faults and frailties of thelistening children.
_Aunt Judy's Magazine_ had no contributions from Mrs. Ewing's pen tillMay 1866 and May 1867. Then the delightful "Remembrances of Mrs.Overtheway" enchanted her youthful readers. Little Ida's own story andher lonely childhood had an especial charm for them; and Mrs.Overtheway's remembrances of the far-off days when she, too, was achild, were told as things that had really happened. And so they had!For, in the disappointment of the imaginative child who had created afair vision from her grandmother's description of Mrs. Anastasia Moss asa golden-haired beauty in rose-bud brocade, and instead, saw an old ladywith sunken black eyes, dressed in _feuilles mortes_ satin, many a childmay have found the salient parts of her own experience rehearsed!
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"Alas!" says Mrs. Overtheway, when little Ida, soothed by her gentlevoice, has fallen asleep. "Alas! my grown-up friends, does the moralbelong to children only? Have manhood and womanhood no passionate,foolish longings, for which we blind ourselves to obvious truth, and ofwhich the vanity does not lessen the disappointment? Do we not all toilafter rose-buds to find _feuilles mortes_?" It is in touches like this,in her stories, that Mrs. Ewing appeals to many older hearts as well asto those of the young dreamers, taking their first steps in the journeyof life.
In 1857, Juliana Horatia Gatty married Alexander Ewing, A.P.D., and forsome time "Mrs. Overtheway's Remembrances" were not continued. The lastof them, "Kerguelin's Land," is considered by some critics the mostbeautiful of the series, ending with the delightful surprise of littleIda's joy in the return of her lost father.
* * * * *
Mrs. Ewing's stories are so rich in both humour and pathos, that it isdifficult to choose from them distinctive specimens of her style, and ofthat charm which pervades them, a charm which we think is peculiarly herown.
Mrs. Ewing gave an unconsciously faithful portrait of herself in "MadamLiberality." The reader has in this story glimpses of the author's ownheroic and self-forgetful childhood. Perhaps this tale is not as wellknown as some which followed it: so a few notes from its pages may notbe unwelcome here.
Madam Liberality, when a little girl, was accustomed to pick out all theplums from her own slice of cake and afterwards make a feast with themfor her brothers and sisters and the dolls. Oyster shells served forplates, and if by any chance the plums did not go round the party, theshell before Madam Liberality's place was always the empty one. Hereldest brother had given her the title of Madam Liberality; and yet hecould, with refreshing frankness, shake his head at her and say, "Youare the most _meanest_ and the _generousest_ person I ever knew."
Madam Liberality wept over this accusation, and it was the grain oftruth in it that made her cry, for it was too true that she screwed, andsaved, and pinched to have the pleasure of "giving away." "Tom, on thecontrary, gave away without pinching and saving. This sounds muchhandsomer, and it was poor Tom's misfortune that he always believed itto be so, though he gave away what did not belong to him, and fell backfor the supply of his own pretty numerous wants upon other people, notforgetting Madam Liberality."
What a clever analysis of character is this! We have all known the"Toms," for they are numerous, and some of us have known and butscantily appreciated the far rarer "Madam Liberalitys."
It is difficult to read unmoved of the brave child's journey alone tothe doctor to have a tooth taken out which had caused her muchsuffering. Then when about to claim the shilling from her mother, whichwas the accustomed reward for the unpleasant operation, she rememberedthe agreement was a shilling for a tooth with fangs, sixpence for atooth without them. She did so want the larger sum to spend on Christmaspresents; so, finding a fang left in her jaw, she went back to thedoctor, had it extracted, and staggered home once more, very giddy butvery happy, with the tooth and the fang safe in a pill box!
"Moralists say a great deal about pain treading so very closely on theheels of pleasure in this life, but they are not always wise or gratefulenough to speak of the pleasure which springs out of pain. And yet thereis a bliss which comes just when pain has ceased, whose rapture rivalseven the high happiness of unbroken health.
"Relief is certainly one of the most delicious sensations which poorhumanity can enjoy."
Madam Liberality often suffered terrible pain from quinsy. Thus we readsympathetically of her heroic efforts one Christmastide, when nearlysuffocated with this relentless disease, to go on with her preparationsto get her little gifts ready for the family. And how we rejoice when acart rumbles up to the door and brings a load of beautiful presents,sent by a benevolent lady who has known Madam Liberality's desire tomake purchases for her brothers and sisters, and has determined to giveher this delightful surprise.
* * * * *
The story of Madam Liberality, from childhood to maturity, is, we think,written in Mrs. Ewing's best manner, though, perhaps, it has nevergained the widespread popularity of "Jackanapes," and "The Story of aShort Life," or "A Flat Iron for a Farthing."
Of the last-named story Mrs. Bundle is almost the central figure. In thechildhood of Reginald Dacre, who writes his own reminiscences, sheplayed a prominent part. Loyal and true, she held the old traditions offaithful service; her master's people were her people, and she had butfew interests apart from them.
The portrait of Reginald's mother hung in his father's dressing-room,and was his resort in the early days of his childish sorrows. Once whenhis dog Rubens had been kicked by a guest in his father's house,Reginald went to that picture of his golden-haired mother and wept outhis plaintive entreaties that "Mamma would come back to Rubens and tohim--they were so miser-ra-ble." "Then," he says, "in the darkness camea sob that was purely human, and I was clasped in a woman's arms andcovered with tender kisses and soothing caresses. For one wild moment,in my excitement and the boundless faith of childhood, I thought mymother had heard me and come back. But it was only Nurse Bundle!"
Then, passing over many years, when Reginald Dacre brought his bride tohis old home, this faithful friend, after giving her loving welcome tothe new Mrs. Dacre, went, in the confusion and bewilderment of old age,with its strange mingling of past and present, to the room where theportrait of her lost lady with the golden hair still hung; and there,the story goes on to say, "There, where years before she had held me inher arms with tears, I, weeping also, held her now in mine--quite dead!"
This is one of the most pathetic incidents in all Mrs. Ewing's works,told without the least exaggeration and with the simplicity which is oneof the characteristics of her style.
"Lob Lie by the Fire" contains some of the author's brightest flashes ofhumour, and yet it closes with a description of Macalister's death,drawn with the tender hand with which that solemn mystery is evertouched by Mrs. Ewing, beautiful in its pathetic simplicity. Nothing inits way can be more profoundly touching than the few words which endthis story:--
"After a while Macalister repeated the last word, '_Home_.' And as hespoke there spread over his face a smile so tender and so full ofhappiness that John Broom held his breath as he watched him. As thelight of sunrise creeps over the face of some rugged rock, it crept fromchin to brow, and the pale blue eyes shone, tranquil, like water thatreflects heaven. And when it had passed, it left them still open--butgems that had lost their ray."
* * * * *
"Jackanapes" is so well known, almost the best known of the author'scharming stories, that we will not dwell on the pathos of that lastscene, when Jackanapes, like one in the old allegory, heard the trumpetscalling for him on the other side--the gallant boy who had laid down hislife for his friend. But the character of the Gray Goose, who sleptsecurely with one leg tucked up under her on the green, is sodelightfully suggestive that we must give some of her wisdom as aspecimen of the author's humorous but never unkindly hits at theweaknesses to which we are all prone.
"The Gray Goose and the big Miss Jessamine were the only elderlypersons who kept their ages secret. Indeed, Miss Jessamine nevermentioned any one's age, or recalled the exact year in which anythinghad happened. The Gray Goose also avoided dates. She never got fartherthan 'last Michaelmas,' 'the Michaelmas before that,' and 'theMichaelmas before the Michaelmas before that.' After this her head,which was small, became confused, and she said 'Ga-ga!' and changed thesubject."
Then again:
"The Gray Goose always ran away at the first approach of the caravans,and never came back to the green till nothing was left of the fair butfootmarks and oyster-shells. Running away was her pet principle; theonly system, she maintained, by which you can live long and easily, andlose nothing.
"Why in the world should any one spoil the pleasures of life, or riskhis skin, if he can help it?
&
nbsp; 'What's the use? Said the goose.'
Before answering which one might have to consider what world, whichlife, and whether his skin were a goose skin. But the Gray Goose's headwould never have held all that."
* * * * *
Major Ewing was stationed at Aldershot in 1869, and during the eightyears Mrs. Ewing lived there her pen was never idle. _Aunt Judy'sMagazine_ for 1870 was well supplied with tales, of which "Amelia" isperhaps one of the best.
To her life at Aldershot we owe the story which had for its motto"Loetus sorte mea," and which is full of the most graphic descriptionsof the huts and the soldiers' life in camp. As in the story of MadamLiberality we have glimpses of the author's childhood with all itslittle cares and joys, so in the "Story of a Short Life" we have theactual experience of a soldier's life in camp.
O'Reilly, the useful man of all trades, with his warm Irish heart, andhis devotion to the Colonel's wife, his erratic and haphazard way ofperforming his duties, his admiration for the little gentleman in hisvelvet coat and lace collar, who stood erect by his side when thefuneral passed to the music of the Dead March, imitating his soldierlikebearing and salute, is a vivid picture touched by the skilled hand of aword painter.
So also is the figure of the V.C., who in his first talk with thecrippled child, stands before us as the ideal of a brave soldier, whosets but little store on his achievements, modest as the truly greatalways are, and encouraging the boy to fight a brave battle againstirritable temper and impatience at the heavy cross of suffering laidupon him.
"'You are a V.C.,' Leonard is saying, 'and you ought to know. I supposenothing--not even if I could be good always from this minute right awaytill I die--nothing could ever count up to the courage of a V.C.?'
"'God knows it could, a thousand times over,' was the V.C.'s reply.
"'Where are you going? Please don't go. Look at me. They're not going tochop the Queen's head off, are they?'
"'Heaven forbid! What are you thinking about?'
"'Why because--look at me again--ah! you've winked it away; but youreyes were full of tears, and the only other brave man I ever heard ofcrying was Uncle Rupert, and that was because he knew they were going tochop the poor king's head off.' That was enough to make anybody cry."
They were in the room where the picture of the young cavalier ancestorof Leonard hung. He always called him "Uncle Rupert," and he wouldmeditate on the young face with the eyes dim with tears--eyes whichalways seemed to follow him, and, as he fancied, watched himsorrowfully, now no longer able to jump about and play with the Sweep,but lying helpless on his couch, or limping about on his crutches, oftenwith pain and difficulty.
This conversation between the V.C. and Leonard was the beginning of astrong friendship which was put to the test one Sunday when Leonard laydying in the hut of his uncle, the barrack-master.
The V.C. hated anything like display or bringing himself into notice.Thus it cost him something to take up his position outside the ironchurch in the camp, that Leonard might hear the last verses of thetug-of-war hymn. The V.C.'s attachment to his little friend triumphedover his dislike to stand alone singing,
"The Son of God goes forth to war, A kingly crown to gain."
The melodious voice of the gallant young soldier rang through the airand reached the dying ears of little Leonard. The soldiers loved thishymn, and the organist could never keep them back. The soldiers, thestory says, had begun to tug. In a moment more the organ stopped, andthe V.C. found himself with over three hundred men at his back, singingwithout accompaniment and in unison:
"A noble army, men and boys, The matron and the maid, Around the Saviour's throne rejoice In robes of white arrayed."
Even now, as the men paused to take breath after their "tug," the organspoke again softly but seraphically. Clearer and sweeter above thevoices behind him rose the voice of the V.C. singing to his littlefriend:
"They climbed the steep ascent to Heaven Through peril, toil and pain."
The men sang on, but the V.C. stopped as if he had been shot. For aman's hand had come to the Barrack Master's window _and pulled down theblind_!
Here, again, we have an instance of this author's power to touch herreaders, even to tears, by the true pathos which needs but few words tobring it home to many hearts.
Taken as a whole, "The Story of a Short Life" has, it may be, somefaults of construction, which arose from its being written in detachedportions. The history of St. Martin, though it is not without itsbearing on the story of the beautiful and once active child's bruisedand broken life, and his desire to be a soldier, rather spoils thecontinuity of the narrative.
"The Story of a Short Life" was not published in book form until fourdays before the author's death; but it was not her last work, thoughfrom its appearance at that moment the title was spoken of by somereviewers as singularly appropriate.
Mrs. Ewing's love for animals may be seen in all her stories--Leonard'sbeloved "Sweep," Lollo the red-haired pony on which Jackanapes took hisfirst ride, and the dog in the blind man's story dying of grief on hisgrave, are all signs of the author's affection for those who have beenwell called "our silent friends." Her own pets were indeed herfriends--from a pink-nosed bulldog called Hector, to a refugee pup savedfrom the common hang-man, and a collie buried with honours, his mastermaking a sketch of him as he lay on his bier.
Mrs. Ewing was passionately fond of flowers, and "Mary's Meadow" waswritten in the last years of her life as a serial for _Aunt Judy'sMagazine_. Her very last literary work was a series of letters from aLittle Garden, and the love of and care for flowers is the theme.
* * * * *Much of Mrs. Ewing's work cannot be noticed in a paper which isnecessarily short. But enough has been said to show what was herpeculiar gift as a writer for children.
It is sometimes said that to write books for children cannot beconsidered a high branch of literature. We venture to think this is amistake. There is nothing more difficult than to arrest the attention ofchildren. They do not as a rule care to be _written down_ to--they canappreciate what is good and are pleased when their elders can enter intoand admire the story which has interested and delighted them.
To write as Mrs. Ewing wrote is undoubtedly a great gift which not manypossess, but a careful study of her works by young and old authors andreaders alike cannot be without benefit. She was a perfect mistress ofthe English language; she was never dull and never frivolous. There isnot a slip-shod sentence, or an exaggerated piling up of adjectives tobe found in her pages. She knew what she had to say, and she said it inlanguage at once pure, forcible, and graceful.
We must be grateful to her for leaving for us, and for our children'schildren, so much that is a model of all that tends to make theliterature of the young--yes, and of the old also--attractive, healthy,and delightful.
[Signature: Emma Marshall]
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
London & Edinburgh
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TRANSCRIBER NOTES:
Punctuation has been normalized without note.
The following have been corrected:
page 45: "beween" changed to "between" (discriminate between them)
page 48: "esipodes" changed to "episodes" (of the episodes in her own life)
page 70: "of of" changed to "of" (part of a woman's virtue)
page 97: "Shakespeare" changed to "Shakspere" for consistency (did not Shakspere make Hector)
page 100: "Sorel" chanaged to "Sorrel" (and who Hetty Sorrel) page 185: "mon s" changed to "monks" (to make the old monks)
page 298: "Melchoir's" changed to "Melchior's" ("Melchior's Dream and Other Tales")
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Women Novelists of Queen Victoria's Reign: A Book of Appreciations Page 10
