Entrance
hall, Dr. Nathaniel Tuckerman True residence
Bethel, Maine, circa 1885
Many appreciative words have kept my father’s memory green, coming from
many sources, and gratefully received by his own, from north, south,
east and west, and countries even beyond the sea.
There would seem little more to say, were it not that nothing has ever
been given to the public of his characteristics, as expressed in his
home life.
My father was wholly domestic in his taste. He required no
separate study, no family tip-toeing by a sacred door, or the turning
of night into day in order to accomplish any literary work upon which
he might be engaged. The very center of the family life was his
chosen workshop, and newspaper and magazine articles, and some of his
most carefully constructed lectures, were written with the whole large
family of children around him. Among my earliest recollections is
the long table ready for the evening of study. Mother (with the
inevitable work-basket) was there, too, for father’s first question
upon entering the house was always for her. I remember hearing
halting translations of Virgil helped through by fatherly bridging of
gaps, ending with the characteristic, "Yes, well,–" that his pupils yet
remember. At that time, being, then, the petted youngest, it was
my delight to comb and arrange his hair with a doll’s comb and brush, a
process always extremely soothing to his tired nerves. The
audacity of parting his hair in the middle, making beaucatchers at the
sides, and even decorating the dignified head with a bonnet, was kindly
tolerated by the father whose lightest word of authority I never
dreamed of questioning. There were marvels in those days!
Sometimes the tiny comb drew from the thick locks the little old-time
silver three cent piece, which great event was hailed with shrieks of
childish delight at the absolute blankness of comprehension on his
part, that he could be suspected of any complicity with such a miracle.
We feared our father–but were not afraid of him. There was enough
of the Puritan in our early training to make obedience not so much
exacted as expected, and the father’s rarely expressed commands were
most faithfully respected and executed by the mother. We felt his
power, for it meant the best things of which we knew; and there was
ever the touch of mercy upon justice. If, for instance, there was
a complete surrender to uncontrollable mirth among the childish ranks
drawn up in the solemnity of family prayers, at the comet-like
apparition streaming through the rooms of the long-suffering cat, hotly
pursued by the most mischievous of puppies, the offence received no
comment; he allowed the breach of decorum to act as its own
punishment. Or, if childish fun grew too uproarious, whilst he
was writing in our midst, his murmured repetition of the word his pen
was following, would often be the only sign that he was being
disturbed. But if an altercation arose, and especially if any
word of detraction was spoken, the absent-mindedness vanished, and the
never-failing rebuke, “Let me hear no more like that,” was sure to hush
us into silent abasement.
Perhaps nothing could give the keynote of his influence in the home so
much as this resolute determination never to allow petty criticisms,
detractions or envious remarks to pass unchecked. His was the
most magnanimous nature I have ever known. If, however, he became
convinced of the unworthiness of a character under discussion, he was
sternly capable of condemning wrong doing, although even then we
children were never allowed to roll the faults of others “like sweet
morsels under the tongue.” He had a deep though often silent
contempt for all littleness of the soul, and I never heard him say one
envious or pessimistic word through all his hard and harassed
years. The good fortune of others was always met by the warmest
spirit of congratulation, and he had the rare gift of intuitively
finding out the finest qualities in people and then gladly revealing
them to others. The word “noble” has become forever ennobled to
my thought by his generous applications of it to people.
His moral courage was magnificent. If circumstances failed him
the next thing was taken up with a fine strength of bearing, the
remembrance of which will forever remain as “part of my life’s
unalterable good.” I so well remember the sweet curves of those
strong lips and the steady light in the responsive eyes when he would
rise from some disappointing experience or anxiety and seek some kind
of action–not his preference–but the nearest seen duty.
We knew, though never directly from him, that there was always a great
hunger in his life which a nearness to great libraries and more
frequent contact with men of learning would have satisfied; for while
kindness itself to an inferior and cordially appreciative of his
equals, he passionately loved whoever was regarded by him as his
superior.
There was positive elation in his manner when receiving a visit from an
old college class-mate, or from a professor in some branch in which he
was interested (and let those who knew him best state if there was any
subject worth knowing about in which he was not interested), or when by
chance a foreign traveler was interviewed, to whom he often gave as
much by the suggestions contained in his questions, as was received.
A new study was always an epoch. I can see him pacing the long
walk under his trees, book in hand, sometimes catching me as I sped by,
and stopping to impart something of his keen enjoyment to even the
limited comprehension of a child. I learned much from him that
did not cost actual study, although he was quite capable of keeping me
for days upon the first few lines of Virgil, causing me to feel for the
rest of my life the most profound respect for the degree of absolute
accuracy expected from the student of the classics. A walk or
drive with him meant a lesson in botany, or geology, or
mineralogy. The stone in the wall, the lichen on the stone, the
boulder on the hill-side, the trend of the mountain chain, the
glacier’s path, the old river bed–all told him volumes, which he retold
to the child at his side; and many grateful souls will bear witness to
the beginning of a new life of thought and reverent interest in this
world of ours from the touch of inspiration given them through his
magnetic dealings with these subjects as they “talked by the wayside.”
He gave us children a haunting sense of the value of time and
opportunity, and the absolute obligation we were under as to
self-improvement and the acquisition of knowledge. Poverty of
means we were early taught to face with dignity and self-respect, but
that poverty of mind, through neglected opportunities, was a
disgrace. The question was never raised at our home, “What is a
man worth?” but invariably, “What are his principles, and his standard
of education?” During the later years we often heard him
repeating the poem, “My mind to me a kingdom is,” with reverent
earnestness. He was always learning, always enriching his
“kingdom.”
When the shadow of fatal illness fell, he rallied himself with the last
effort of that heroic will, to battle against the encroachments of
disease upon his mental strength, by testing himself with daily
readings from Homer in the original and in writing short articles for
publication. Ere long, however, the self-imposed task was quietly
abandoned, and who can tell the inner struggle with which he laid it
down! After this, there arises before me the pathetic picture of
his figure in the wheelchair, his little, worn pocket Bible in his
hand, as he comforted himself, in his helplessness, with words that had
been the sources of his manhood’s strength, and often in the twilight
softly sang, “Gently lead, o gently lead us.”
Then the shadows deepened into the darkness that obscured his powers of
expression, and months of heavy mourning lay upon us, not to be lifted
till the morning of his emancipation dawned when, through tears, we
could rejoice in the glorious freedom of a soul like his, “born to
soar,” mounting “from form to form,” up through the boundless,
limitless Universe.
