11 August: Boreham on Charlotte Yonge

Tender Grace of Yesteryear
It is just a hundred years since there swam into the literary firmament a star of quite unusual brightness which nevertheless filled the hearts of all observers with apprehension and bewilderment. Was it possible to tolerate another woman novelist? The sensation created by the Brontes was fresh in the public mind, and now another girl, Charlotte M. Yonge by name, whose birthday this happens to be, was threatening to follow the doubtful trail that the Yorkshire maidens had blazed! Born and buried in the quaint little village of Otterbourne, near Winchester, Charlotte spent practically all her days in that secluded countryside. The villagers worshipped her. To them she was known as The Nice Little Lady from the Great Big House. With her pretty poke bonnet and her red and black Dolly Varden dress, she was to be seen, every day of her life, basket on arm, visiting among the cottages and bearing little gifts of eggs and flowers and cakes to the sick folk, the old folk, and to those who most needed her bounty.

The simple souls who blessed her for her goodness never guessed that, as she crossed the green and made her way down the winding and fragrant lanes, her mind was over the hills and far away. It dwelt in an enchanted dreamland of its own. For, before leaving the big house on her daily mission to the hamlet, she invariably darted a final glance at the manuscripts spread out upon her desk. There were often three or four of them—a novel, an excursion into history, a biography and, perhaps, an article for her Monthly Packet. As a painter likes to have several canvases in preparation simultaneously, so that he may proceed with one whilst the pigments dry upon the others, Charlotte found it restful to have several works on hand at one and the same time. Working on these lines, she wrote 160 books of different kinds, publishing five of them in a single year, whilst, for 38 years she edited her monthly magazine.

Prim And Pretty Period Of Prisms And Prunes
Miss Yonge's entire personality was saturated in the Victorian tradition. She was a girl when the Queen was a girl, and, a week or two after Her Majesty went down to her grave, Charlotte sought the seclusion of hers. She was educated by her father, an old soldier, who insisted on her taking her first lesson at six o'clock in the morning. Her parents shared the rigid notions of the period. It was an age of prisms and prunes. No girl was allowed anywhere without an escort; and Charlotte was warned to avoid croquet, as a game that lent itself too readily to illicit flirtations. When her relatives discovered to their horror that Charlotte had set her heart on writing a book, they forbade it as a most unladylike aspiration. Eventually, on the suggestion of her grandmother, a reluctant consent was given on condition that any money that she earned with her pen should be applied to charitable or evangelistic work. This proviso was entirely to Charlotte's liking, and later on, she built for Bishop Selwyn the schooner with which he evangelised the islands of the Pacific, and subsidised with princely munificence other South Sea ventures of a similar kind.

It was John Keble who brushed away the family scruples. Keble, who was acclaimed at Oxford the most scholarly, the most saintly, and the most lovable man in England, came to be Vicar of Hursley, a parish adjoining Otterbourne. Charlotte was fascinated. Keble's exquisite personality magnetised her. He became easily the most dominating force in her life. She consulted him on every point. The hedgerows that flanked the lanes between Otterbourne and Hursley often saw Charlotte tripping gracefully along with a roll of manuscripts in her hand. The Yonges encouraged the friendship because Mr. Keble assured them that, so far from there being anything heinous in Charlotte's desire to write a novel, the pages of fiction might, in skilful hands, be made an attractive and effective vehicle for the propagation of the faith.

A Clouded Evening Follows A Sunny Day
Every sentence that she wrote was submitted to Mr. Keble, and every suggestion that he made was regarded by her as the voice of an oracle. And when, in 1853, "The Heir of Redclyffe" brought the world to Charlotte's feet, no eyes glistened more brightly with joy and pride than those of John Keble. It was said of the book that it reduced a nation to tears. Soldiers, statesmen, and university professors confessed to their emotion. It may be said that the pathos is of a type that is now outmoded. A modern author would not devote a whole chapter to the death of Guy. But, be that as it may, the book captivated the imagination of the world a century ago, and established Charlotte's fame as a novelist of renown.

The later years of Miss Yonge's life were overcast by deep shadows. To begin with, she took into her home Gertrude Walter, an invalid lady. Ever compassionate and kind, she pitied Miss Walter's affliction, and, ever impulsive in her generosity, she invited the sick lady to the shelter of her roof. It was a tragedy. The constant presence of ill-health and infirmity had a depressing effect on Charlotte's mind. Moreover, she found herself involved in the necessity of attending the bedside of her unhappy guest, and her own activities were thus painfully restricted. To make matters worse, some of her investments turned out badly and she had to deny herself, during the last years of her life, her carriage and other comforts to which she had been accustomed. To the end, however, she maintained her beautiful little ministries in the village; she devoted the profits on her best books, as well as many of the presentations made to her, to missionary purposes; she made everybody very fond of her; and, if she is not one of the most brilliant women in our literary annals, she is at any rate one of the best.

F W Boreham

Image: Charlotte Yonge