Here is the only glimpse that we find of her Penzance relatives in these later years. They would seem to have visited Haworth when Charlotte was twenty-four years of age. The impression they left was not a kindly one.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘August 14th, 1840.
‘My dear Ellen,—As you only sent me a note, I shall only send you one, and that not out of revenge, but because like you I have but little to say. The freshest news in our house is that we had, a fortnight ago, a visit from some of our South of England relations, John Branwell and his wife and daughter. They have been staying above a month with Uncle Fennell at Crosstone. They reckon to be very grand folks indeed, and talk largely—I thought assumingly. I cannot say I much admired them. To my eyes there seemed to be an attempt to play the great Mogul down in Yorkshire. Mr. Branwell was much less assuming than the womenites; he seemed a frank, sagacious kind of man, very tall and vigorous, with a keen active look. The moment he saw me he exclaimed that I was the very image of my aunt Charlotte. Mrs. Branwell sets up for being a woman of great talent, tact, and accomplishment. I thought there was much more noise than work. My cousin Eliza is a young lady intended by nature to be a bouncing, good-looking girl—art has trained her to be a languishing, affected piece of goods. I would have been friendly with her, but I could get no talk except about the Low Church, Evangelical clergy, the Millennium, Baptist Noel, botany, and her own conversion. A mistaken education has utterly spoiled the lass. Her face tells that she is naturally good-natured, though perhaps indolent. Her affectations were so utterly out of keeping with her round rosy face and tall bouncing figure, I could hardly refrain from laughing as I watched her. Write a long letter next time and I’ll write you ditto. Good-bye.’
We have already read the letters which were written to Miss Nussey during the governess period, and from Brussels. On her final return from Brussels, Charlotte implores a letter.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘Haworth, February 10th, 1844.
‘Dear Ellen,—I cannot tell what occupies your thoughts and time. Are you ill? Is some one of your family ill? Are you married? Are you dead? If it be so, you may as well write a word and let me know—for my part, I am again in old England. I shall tell you nothing further till you write to me.
‘C. Brontë.
‘Write to me directly, that is a good girl; I feel really anxious, and have felt so for a long time to hear from you.’
She visits Miss Nussey soon afterwards at Brookroyd, and a little later writes as follows:
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘April 7th, 1844.
‘Dear Nell,—I have received your note. It communicated a piece of good news which I certainly did not expect to hear. I want, however, further enlightenment on the subject. Can you tell me what has caused the change in Mary’s plans, and brought her so suddenly back to England? Is it on account of Mary Dixon? Is it the wish of her brother, or is it her own determination? I hope, whatever the reason be, it is nothing which can give her uneasiness or do her harm. Do you know how long she is likely to stay in England? or when she arrives at Hunsworth?
‘You ask how I am. I really have felt much better the last week—I think my visit to Brookroyd did me good. What delightful weather we have had lately. I wish we had had such while I was with you. Emily and I walk out a good deal on the moors, to the great damage of our shoes, but I hope to the benefit of our health.
‘Good-bye, dear Ellen. Send me another of your little notes soon. Kindest regards to all,
‘C. B.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘June 9th, 1844.
‘My dear Ellen,—Anne and Branwell are now at home, and they and Emily add their request to mine, that you will join us at the beginning of next week. Write and let us know what day you will come, and how—if by coach, we will meet you at Keighley. Do not let your visit be later than the beginning of next week, or you will see little of Anne and Branwell as their holidays are very short. They will soon have to join the family at Scarborough. Remember me kindly to your mother and sisters. I hope they are all well.
‘C. B.’
‘November 14th, 1844.
‘Dear Ellen,—Your letter came very apropos, as, indeed, your letters always do; but this morning I had something of a headache, and was consequently rather out of spirits, and the epistle (scarcely legible though it be—excuse a rub) cheered me. In order to evince my gratitude, as well as to please my own inclination, I sit down to answer it immediately. I am glad, in the first place, to hear that your brother is going to be married, and still more so to learn that his wife-elect has a handsome fortune—not that I advocate marrying for money in general, but I think in many cases (and this is one) money is a very desirable contingent of matrimony.
‘I wonder when Mary Taylor is expected in England. I trust you will be at home while she is at Hunsworth, and that you, she, and I, may meet again somewhere under the canopy of heaven. I cannot, dear Ellen, make any promise about myself and Anne going to Brookroyd at Christmas; her vacations are so short she would grudge spending any part of them from home.
‘The catastrophe, which you related so calmly, about your book-muslin dress, lace bertha, etc., convulsed me with cold shudderings of horror. You have reason to curse the day when so fatal a present was offered you as that infamous little “varmint.” The perfect serenity with which you endured the disaster proves most fully to me that you would make the best wife, mother, and mistress in the world. You and Anne are a pair for marvellous philosophical powers of endurance; no spoilt dinners, scorched linen, dirtied carpets, torn sofa-covers, squealing brats, cross husbands, would ever discompose either of you. You ought never to marry a good-tempered man, it would be mingling honey with sugar, like sticking white roses upon a black-thorn cudgel. With this very picturesque metaphor I close my letter. Good-bye, and write very soon.
‘C. Brontë.’
Much has been said concerning Charlotte Brontë’s visit to Hathersage in Derbyshire, and it is interesting because of the fact that Miss Brontë obtained the name of ‘Eyre’ from a family in that neighbourhood, and Morton in Jane Eyre may obviously be identified with Hathersage. [221] Miss Ellen Nussey’s brother Henry became Vicar of Hathersage, and he married shortly afterwards. While he was on his honeymoon his sister went to Hathersage to keep house for him, and she invited her friend Charlotte Brontë to stay with her. The visit lasted three weeks. This was the only occasion that Charlotte visited Hathersage. Here are two or three short notes referring to that visit.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘June 10th, 1845.
‘Dear Ellen,—It is very vexatious for you to have had to go to Sheffield in vain. I am glad to hear that there is an omnibus on Thursday, and I have told Emily and Anne I will try to come on that day. The opening of the railroad is now postponed till July 7th. I should not like to put you off again, and for that and some other reasons they have decided to give up the idea of going to Scarbro’, and instead, to make a little excursion next Monday and Tuesday, to Ilkley or elsewhere. I hope no other obstacle will arise to prevent my going to Hathersage. I do long to be with you, and I feel nervously afraid of being prevented, or put off in some way. Branwell only stayed a week with us, but he is to come home again when the family go to Scarboro’. I will write to Brookroyd directly. Yesterday I had a little note from Henry inviting me to go to see you. This is one of your contrivances, for which you deserve smothering. You have written to Henry to tell him to write to me. Do you think I stood on ceremony about the matter?
‘The French papers have ceased to come. Good-bye for the present.
‘C. B.’
TO MRS. NUSSEY
‘July 23rd, 1845.
‘My dear Mrs. Nussey,—I lose no time after my return home in writing to you and offering you my sincere thanks for the kindness with which you have repeatedly invited me to go and stay a few days at Brookroyd. It would have given me great pleasure to have gone, had it been only for a day, just to have seen you and Miss Mercy (Miss Nussey I suppose is not at home) and to have been introduced to Mrs. Henry, but I have stayed so long with Ellen at Hathersage that I could not possibly now go to Brookroyd. I was expected at home; and after all home should always have the first claim on our attention. When I reached home (at ten o’clock on Saturday night) I found papa, I am thankful to say, pretty well, but he thought I had been a long time away.
‘I left Ellen well, and she had generally good health while I stayed with her, but she is very anxious about matters of business, and apprehensive lest things should not be comfortable against the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Henry—she is so desirous that the day of their arrival at Hathersage should be a happy one to both.
‘I hope, my dear Mrs. Nussey, you are well; and I should be very happy to receive a little note either from you or from Miss Mercy to assure me of this.—Believe me, yours affectionately and sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘July 24th, 1845.
‘Dear Ellen,—A series of toothaches, prolonged and severe, bothering me both day and night, have kept me very stupid of late, and prevented me from writing to you. More than once I have sat down and opened my desk, but have not been able to get up to par. To-day, after a night of fierce pain, I am better—much better, and I take advantage of the interval of ease to discharge my debt. I wish I had £50 to spare at present, and that you, Emily, Anne, and I were all at liberty to leave home without our absence being detrimental to any body. How pleasant to set off en masse to the seaside, and stay there a few weeks, taking in a stock of health and strength.—We could all do with recreation. Adversity agrees with you, Ellen. Your good qualities are never so obvious as when under the pressure of affliction. Continued prosperity might develope too much a certain germ of ambition latent in your character. I saw this little germ putting out green shoots when I was staying with you at Hathersage. It was not then obtrusive, and perhaps might never become so. Your good sense, firm principle, and kind feeling might keep it down. Holding down my head does not suit my toothache. Give my love to your mother and sisters. Write again as soon as may be.—Yours faithfully,
‘C. B.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘August 18th, 1845.
‘Dear Ellen,—I am writing to you, not because I have anything to tell you, but because I want you to write to me. I am glad to see that you were pleased with your new sister. When I was at Hathersage you were talking of writing to Mary Taylor. I have lately written to her a brief, shabby epistle of which I am ashamed, but I found when I began to write I had really very little to say. I sent the letter to Hunsworth, and I suppose it will go sometime. You must write to me soon, a long letter. Remember me respectfully to Mr. and Mrs. Henry Nussey. Give my love to Miss R.—Yours,
‘C. B.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘December 14th, 1845.
‘Dear Ellen,—I was glad to get your last note, though it was so short and crusty. Three weeks had elapsed without my having heard a word from you, and I began to fear some new misfortune had occurred. I was relieved to find such was not the case. Anne is obliged by the kind regret you express at not being able to ask her to Brookroyd. She wishes you could come to Haworth. Do you scold me out of habit, or are you really angry? In either case it is all nonsense. You know as well as I do that to go to Brookroyd is always a pleasure to me, and that to one who has so little change, and so few friends as I have, it must be a great pleasure, but I am not at all times in the mood or circumstances to take my pleasure. I wish so much to see you, that I shall certainly sometime after New Year’s Day, if all be well, be going over to Birstall. Now I could not go if I would. If you think I stand upon ceremony in this matter, you miscalculate sadly. I have known you, and your mother and sisters, too long to be ceremonious with any of you. Invite me no more now, till I invite myself—be too proud to trouble yourself; and if, when at last I mention coming (for I shall give you warning), it does not happen to suit you, tell me so, with quiet hauteur. I should like a long letter next time. No more lovers’ quarrels.
‘Good-bye. Best love to your mother and sisters.
‘C. B.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘January 28th, 1847.
‘Dear Ellen,—Long may you look young and handsome enough to dress in white, dear, and long may you have a right to feel the consciousness that you look agreeable. I know you have too much judgment to let an overdose of vanity spoil the blessing and turn it into a misfortune. After all though, age will come on, and it is well you have something better than a nice face for friends to turn to when that is changed. I hope this excessively cold weather has not harmed you or yours much. It has nipped me severely, taken away my appetite for a while and given me toothache; in short, put me in the ailing condition, in which I have more than once had the honour of making myself such a nuisance both at Brookroyd and Hunsworth. The consequence is that at this present speaking I look almost old enough to be your mother—grey, sunk, and withered. To-day, however, it is milder, and I hope soon to feel better; indeed I am not ill now, and my toothache is now subsided, but I experience a loss of strength and a deficiency of spirit which would make me a sorry companion to you or any one else. I would not be on a visit now for a large sum of money.
‘Write soon. Give my best love to your mother and sisters.—Good-bye, dear Nell,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘April 21st, 1847.
‘Dear Nell,—I am very much obliged to you for your gift, which you must not undervalue, for I like the articles; they look extremely pretty and light. They are for wrist frills, are they not? Will you condescend to accept a yard of lace made up into nothing? I thought I would not offer to spoil it by stitching it into any shape. Your creative fingers will turn it to better account than my destructive ones. I hope, such as it is, they will not peck it out of the envelope at the Bradford Post-office, where they generally take the liberty of opening letters when they feel soft as if they contained articles. I had forgotten all about your birthday and mine, till your letter arrived to remind me of it. I wish you many happy returns of yours. Of course your visit to Haworth must be regulated by Miss Ringrose’s movements. I was rather amused at your fearing I should be jealous. I never thought of it. She and I could not be rivals in your affections. You allot her, I know, a different set of feelings to what you allot me. She is amiable and estimable, I am not amiable, but still we shall stick to the last I don’t doubt. In short, I should as soon think of being jealous of Emily and Anne in these days as of you. If Miss Ringrose does not come to Brookroyd about Whitsuntide, I should like you to come. I shall feel a good deal disappointed if the visit is put off—I would rather Miss Ringrose fixed her time in summer, and then I would come to see you (D.V.) in the autumn. I don’t think it will be at all a good plan to go back with you. We see each other so seldom, that I would far rather divide the visits. Remember me to all.—Yours faithfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
‘May 25th, 1847.
‘Dear Nell,—I have a small present for Mercy. You must fetch it, for I repeat you shall come to Haworth before I go to Brookroyd.
‘I do not say this from pique or anger—I am not angry now—but because my leaving home at present would from solid reasons be difficult to manage. If all be well I will visit you in the autumn, at present I cannot come. Be assured that if I could come I should, after your last letter, put scruples and pride away and “go over into Macedonia” at once. I never could manage to help you yet. You have always found me something like a new servant, who requires to be told where everything is, and shown how everything is to be done.
‘My sincere love to your mother and Mercy.—Yours,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘May 29th, 1847.
‘Dear Ellen,—Your letter and its contents were most welcome. You must direct your luggage to Mr. Brontë’s, and we will tell the carrier to inquire for it. The railroad has been opened some time, but it only comes as far as Keighley. If you arrive about 4 o’clock in the afternoon, Emily, Anne, and I will all meet you at the station. We can take tea jovially together at the Devonshire Arms, and walk home in the cool of the evening. This arrangement will be much better than fagging through four miles in the heat of noon. Write by return of post if you can, and say if this plan suits you.—Yours,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘November 10th, 1847.
‘Dear Ellen,—The old pang of fearing you should fancy I forget you drives me to write to you, though heaven knows I have precious little to say, and if it were not that I wish to hear from you, and hate to appear disregardful when I am not so, I might let another week or perhaps two slip away without writing. There is much in Ruth’s letter that I thought very melancholy. Poor girls! theirs, I fear, must be a very unhappy home. Yours and mine, with all disadvantages, all absences of luxury and wealth and style, are, I doubt not, happier. I wish to goodness you were rich, that you might give her a temporary asylum, and a relief from uneasiness, suffering, and gloom. What you say about the effects of ether on your sister rather startled me. I had always consoled myself with the idea of having some teeth extracted some day under its soothing influence, but now I should think twice before I consented to inhale it; one would not like to make a fool of one’s self.—I am, yours faithfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘March 11th, 1848.
‘Dear Ellen,—There is a great deal of good-sense in your last letter. Be thankful that God gave you sense, for what are beauty, wealth, or even health without it? I had a note from Miss Ringrose the other day. I do not think I shall write again, for the reasons I before mentioned to you; but the note moved me much, it was almost all about her dear Ellen, a kind of gentle enthusiasm of affection, enough to make one smile and weep—her feelings are half truth, half illusion. No human being could be altogether what she supposes you to be, yet your kindness must have been very great. If one were only rich, how delightful it would be to travel and spend the winter in climates where there are no winters. Give my love to your mother and sisters.—Believe me, faithfully yours,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘April 22nd, 1848.
‘Dear Ellen,—I have just received your little parcel, and beg to thank you in all our names for its contents, and also for your letter, of the arrival of which I was, to speak truth, getting rather impatient.
‘The housewife’s travelling companion is a most commodious thing—just the sort of article which suits one to a T, and which yet I should never have the courage or industry to sit down and make for myself. I shall keep it for occasions of going from home, it will save me a world of trouble. It must have required some thought to arrange the various compartments and their contents so aptly. I had quite forgotten till your letter reminded me that it was the anniversary of your birthday and mine. I am now thirty-two. Youth is gone—gone—and will never come back; can’t help it. I wish you many returns of your birthday and increase of happiness with increase of years. It seems to me that sorrow must come sometime to every body, and those who scarcely taste it in their youth often have a more brimming and bitter cup to drain in after-life; whereas, those who exhaust the dregs early, who drink the lees before the wine, may reasonably expect a purer and more palatable draught to succeed. So, at least, one fain would hope. It touched me at first a little painfully to hear of your purposed governessing, but on second thoughts I discovered this to be quite a foolish feeling. You are doing right even though you should not gain much. The effort will do you good; no one ever does regret a step towards self-help; it is so much gained in independence.
‘Give my love to your mother and sisters.—Yours faithfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘May 24th, 1848.
‘Dear Ellen,—I shall begin by telling you that you have no right to be angry at the length of time I have suffered to slip by since receiving your last, without answering it, because you have often kept me waiting much longer; and having made this gracious speech, thereby obviating reproaches, I will add that I think it a great shame when you receive a long and thoroughly interesting letter, full of the sort of details you fully relish, to read the same with selfish pleasure and not even have the manners to thank your correspondent, and express how much you enjoyed the narrative. I did enjoy the narrative in your last very keenly; the exquisitely characteristic traits concerning the Bakers were worth gold; just like not only them but all their class—respectable, well-meaning people enough, but with all that petty assumption of dignity, that small jealousy of senseless formalities, which to such people seems to form a second religion. Your position amongst them was detestable. I admire the philosophy with which you bore it. Their taking offence because you stayed all night at their aunt’s is rich. It is right not to think much of casual attentions; it is quite justifiable also to derive from them temporary gratification, insomuch as they prove that their object has the power of pleasing. Let them be as ephemera—to last an hour, and not be regretted when gone.
‘Write to me again soon and—Believe me, yours faithfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘August 3, 1849.
‘Dear Ellen,—I have received the furs safely. I like the sables very much, and shall keep them; and ‘to save them’ shall keep the squirrel, as you prudently suggested. I hope it is not too much like the steel poker to save the brass one. I return Mary’s letter. It is another page from the volume of life, and at the bottom is written “Finis”—mournful word. Macaulay’s History was only lent to myself—all the books I have from London I accept only as a loan, except in peculiar cases, where it is the author’s wish I should possess his work.
‘Do you think in a few weeks it will be possible for you to come to see me? I am only waiting to get my labour off my hands to permit myself the pleasure of asking you. At our house you can read as much as you please.
‘I have been much better, very free from oppression or irritation of the chest, during the last fortnight or ten days. Love to all.—Good-bye, dear Nell.
‘C. B.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘August 23rd, 1849.
‘Dear Ellen,—Papa has not been well at all lately—he has had another attack of bronchitis. I felt very uneasy about him for some days, more wretched indeed than I care to tell you. After what has happened, one trembles at any appearance of sickness, and when anything ails papa I feel too keenly that he is the last, the only near and dear relation I have in the world. Yesterday and to-day he has seemed much better, for which I am truly thankful.
‘For myself, I should be pretty well but for a continually recurring feeling of slight cold, slight soreness in the throat and chest, of which, do what I will, I cannot quite get rid. Has your cough entirely left you? I wish the atmosphere would return to a salubrious condition, for I really think it is not healthy. English cholera has been very prevalent here.
‘I do wish to see you.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘August 16, 1850.
‘Dear Nell,—I am going on Monday (D.V.) a journey, whereof the prospect cheers me not at all, to Windermere, in Westmoreland, to spend a few days with Sir J. K. S., who has taken a house there for the autumn and winter. I consented to go with reluctance, chiefly to please papa, whom a refusal on my part would have much annoyed; but I dislike to leave him. I trust he is not worse, but his complaint is still weakness. It is not right to anticipate evil, and to be always looking forward in an apprehensive spirit; but I think grief is a two-edged sword—it cuts both ways: the memory of one loss is the anticipation of another. Take moderate exercise and be careful, dear Nell, and—Believe me, yours sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘May 10th, 1851.
‘DEAR NELL,—Poor little Flossy! I have not yet screwed up nerve to tell papa about her fate, it seems to me so piteous. However, she had a happy life with a kind mistress, whatever her death has been. Little hapless plague! She had more goodness and patience shown her than she deserved, I fear.
‘C. Brontë.’
‘Haworth, July 26th, 1852.
‘Dear Ellen,—I should not have written to you to-day by choice. Lately I have again been harassed with headache—the heavy electric atmosphere oppresses me much, yet I am less miserable just now than I was a little while ago. A severe shock came upon me about papa. He was suddenly attacked with acute inflammation of the eye. Mr. Ruddock was sent for; and after he had examined him, he called me into another room, and said papa’s pulse was bounding at 150 per minute, that there was a strong pressure of blood upon the brain, that, in short, the symptoms were decidedly apoplectic.
‘Active measures were immediately taken. By the next day the pulse was reduced to ninety. Thank God he is now better, though not well. The eye is a good deal inflamed. He does not know his state. To tell him he had been in danger of apoplexy would almost be to kill him at once—it would increase the rush to the brain and perhaps bring about rupture. He is kept very quiet.
‘Dear Nell, you will excuse a short note. Write again soon. Tell me all concerning yourself that can relieve you.—Yours faithfully,
‘C. B.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘August 3rd, 1852.
‘Dear Ellen,—I write a line to say that papa is now considered out of danger. His progress to health is not without relapse, but I think he gains ground, if slowly, surely. Mr. Ruddock says the seizure was quite of an apoplectic character; there was a partial paralysis for two days, but the mind remained clear, in spite of a high degree of nervous irritation. One eye still remains inflamed, and papa is weak, but all muscular affection is gone, and the pulse is accurate. One cannot be too thankful that papa’s sight is yet spared—it was the fear of losing that which chiefly distressed him.
‘With best wishes for yourself, dear Ellen,—I am, yours faithfully,
‘C. Brontë.
‘My headaches are better. I have needed no help, but I thank you sincerely for your kind offers.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘Haworth, August 12th, 1852.
‘Dear Ellen,—Papa has varied occasionally since I wrote to you last. Monday was a very bad day, his spirits sunk painfully. Tuesday and yesterday, however, were much better, and to-day he seems wonderfully well. The prostration of spirits which accompanies anything like a relapse is almost the most difficult point to manage. Dear Nell, you are tenderly kind in offering your society; but rest very tranquil where you are; be fully assured that it is not now, nor under present circumstances, that I feel the lack either of society or occupation; my time is pretty well filled up, and my thoughts appropriated.
‘Mr. Ruddock now seems quite satisfied there is no present danger whatever; he says papa has an excellent constitution and may live many years yet. The true balance is not yet restored to the circulation, but I believe that impetuous and dangerous termination to the head is quite obviated. I cannot permit myself to comment much on the chief contents of your last; advice is not necessary. As far as I can judge, you seem hitherto enabled to take these trials in a good and wise spirit. I can only pray that such combined strength and resignation may be continued to you. Submission, courage, exertion, when practicable—these seem to be the weapons with which we must fight life’s long battle.—Yours faithfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
To Miss Nussey we owe many other letters than those here printed—indeed, they must needs play an important part in Charlotte Brontë’s biography. They do not deal with the intellectual interests which are so marked in the letters to W. S. Williams, and which, doubtless, characterised the letters to Miss Mary Taylor. ‘I ought to have written this letter to Mary,’ Charlotte says, when on one occasion she dropped into literature to her friend; but the friendship was as precious as most intellectual friendships, because it was based upon a common esteem and an unselfish devotion. Ellen Nussey, as we have seen, accompanied Anne Brontë to Scarborough, and was at her death-bed. She attended Charlotte’s wedding, and lived to mourn over her tomb. For forty years she has been the untiring advocate and staunch champion, hating to hear a word in her great friend’s dispraise, loving to note the glorious recognition, of which there has been so rich and so full a harvest. That she still lives to receive our reverent gratitude for preserving so many interesting traits of the Brontës, is matter for full and cordial congratulation, wherever the names of the authors of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights are held in just and wise esteem.
CHAPTER IX: MARY TAYLOR
Mary Taylor, the ‘M---’ of Mrs. Gaskell’s biography, and the ‘Rose Yorke’ of Shirley, will always have a peculiar interest to those who care for the Brontës. She shrank from publicity, and her name has been less mentioned than that of any other member of the circle. And yet hers was a personality singularly strenuous and strong. She wrote two books ‘with a purpose,’ and, as we shall see, vigorously embodied her teaching in her life. It will be remembered that Charlotte Brontë, Ellen Nussey, and Mary Taylor first met at Roe Head School, when Charlotte and Mary were fifteen and her friend about fourteen years of age. Here are Miss Nussey’s impressions—
‘She was pretty, and very childish-looking, dressed in a red-coloured frock with short sleeves and low neck, as then worn by young girls. Miss Wooler in later years used to say that when Mary went to her as a pupil she thought her too pretty to live. She was not talkative at school, but industrious, and always ready with lessons. She was always at the top in class lessons, with Charlotte Brontë and the writer; seldom a change was made, and then only with the three—one move. Charlotte and she were great friends for a time, but there was no withdrawing from me on either side, and Charlotte never quite knew how an estrangement arose with Mary, but it lasted a long time. Then a time came that both Charlotte and Mary were so proficient in schoolroom attainments there was no more for them to learn, and Miss Wooler set them Blair’s Belles Lettres to commit to memory. We all laughed at their studies. Charlotte persevered, but Mary took her own line, flatly refused, and accepted the penalty of disobedience, going supper-less to bed for about a month before she left school. When it was moonlight, we always found her engaged in drawing on the chest of drawers, which stood in the bay window, quite happy and cheerful. Her rebellion was never outspoken. She was always quiet in demeanour. Her sister Martha, on the contrary, spoke out vigorously, daring Miss Wooler so much, face to face, that she sometimes received a box on the ear, which hardly any saint could have withheld. Then Martha would expatiate on the danger of boxing ears, quoting a reverend brother of Miss Wooler’s. Among her school companions, Martha was called “Miss Boisterous,” but was always a favourite, so piquant and fascinating were her ways. She was not in the least pretty, but something much better, full of change and variety, rudely outspoken, lively, and original, producing laughter with her own good-humour and affection. She was her father’s pet child. He delighted in hearing her sing, telling her to go to the piano, with his affectionate “Patty lass.”
‘Mary never had the impromptu vivacity of her sister, but was lively in games that engaged her mind. Her music was very correct, but entirely cultivated by practice and perseverance. Anything underhand was detestable to both Mary and Martha; they had no mean pride towards others, but accepted the incidents of life with imperturbable good-sense and insight. They were not dressed as well as other pupils, for economy at that time was the rule of their household. The girls had to stitch all over their new gloves before wearing them, by order of their mother, to make them wear longer. Their dark blue cloth coats were worn when too short, and black beaver bonnets quite plainly trimmed, with the ease and contentment of a fashionable costume. Mr. Taylor was a banker as well as a monopolist of army cloth manufacture in the district. He lost money, and gave up banking. He set his mind on paying all creditors, and effected this during his lifetime as far as possible, willing that his sons were to do the remainder, which two of his sons carried out, as was understood, during their lifetime—Mark and Martin of Shirley.’
Let us now read Charlotte’s description in Shirley, and I think we have a tolerably fair estimate of the sisters.
‘The two next are girls, Rose and Jessie; they are both now at their father’s knee; they seldom go near their mother, except when obliged to do so. Rose, the elder, is twelve years old; she is like her father—the most like him of the whole group—but it is a granite head copied in ivory; all is softened in colour and line. Yorke himself has a harsh face; his daughter’s is not harsh, neither is it quite pretty; it is simple—childlike in feature; the round cheeks bloom; as to the grey eyes, they are otherwise than childlike—a serious soul lights them—a young soul yet, but it will mature, if the body lives; and neither father nor mother has a spirit to compare with it. Partaking of the essence of each, it will one day be better than either—stronger, much purer, more aspiring. Rose is a still, and sometimes a stubborn girl now; her mother wants to make of her such a woman as she is herself—a woman of dark and dreary duties; and Rose has a mind full-set, thick-sown with the germs of ideas her mother never knew. It is agony to her often to have these ideas trampled on and repressed. She has never rebelled yet; but if hard driven, she will rebel one day, and then it will be once for all. Rose loves her father; her father does not rule her with a rod of iron; he is good to her. He sometimes fears she will not live, so bright are the sparks of intelligence which, at moments, flash from her glance and gleam in her language. This idea makes him often sadly tender to her.
‘He has no idea that little Jessie will die young, she is so gay and chattering, arch—original even now; passionate when provoked, but most affectionate if caressed; by turns gentle and rattling; exacting yet generous; fearless—of her mother, for instance, whose irrationally hard and strict rule she has often defied—yet reliant on any who will help her. Jessie, with her little piquant face, engaging prattle, and winning ways, is made to be a pet; and her father’s pet she accordingly is.’
Mary Taylor was called ‘Pag’ by her friends, and the first important reference to her that I find is contained in a letter written by Charlotte to Ellen Nussey, when she was seventeen years of age.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘Haworth, June 20th, 1833.
‘Dear Ellen,—I know you will be very angry because I have not written sooner; my reason, or rather my motive for this apparent neglect was, that I had determined not to write until I could ask you to pay us your long-promised visit. Aunt thought it would be better to defer it until about the middle of summer, as the winter and even the spring seasons are remarkably cold and bleak among our mountains. Papa now desires me to present his respects to your mother, and say that he should feel greatly obliged if she would allow us the pleasure of your company for a few weeks at Haworth. I will leave it to you to fix whatever day may be most convenient, but let it be an early one. I received a letter from Pag Taylor yesterday; she was in high dudgeon at my inattention in not promptly answering her last epistle. I however sat down immediately and wrote a very humble reply, candidly confessing my faults and soliciting forgiveness; I hope it has proved successful. Have you suffered much from that troublesome though not (I am happy to hear) generally fatal disease, the influenza? We have so far steered clear of it, but I know not how long we may continue to escape. Your last letter revealed a state of mind which seemed to promise much. As I read it I could not help wishing that my own feelings more resembled yours; but unhappily all the good thoughts that enter my mind evaporate almost before I have had time to ascertain their existence; every right resolution which I form is so transient, so fragile, and so easily broken, that I sometimes fear I shall never be what I ought. Earnestly hoping that this may not be your case, that you may continue steadfast till the end,—I remain, dearest Ellen, your ever faithful friend,
‘Charlotte Brontë.’
The next letter refers to Mr. Taylor’s death. Mr. Taylor, it is scarcely necessary to add, is the Mr. Yorke of Briarmains, who figures so largely in Shirley. I have visited the substantial red-brick house near the high-road at Gomersall, but descriptions of the Brontë country do not come within the scope of this volume.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘January 3rd, 1841.
‘My dear Ellen,—I received the news in your last with no surprise, and with the feeling that this removal must be a relief to Mr. Taylor himself and even to his family. The bitterness of death was past a year ago, when it was first discovered that his illness must terminate fatally; all between has been lingering suspense. This is at an end now, and the present certainty, however sad, is better than the former doubt. What will be the consequence of his death is another question; for my own part, I look forward to a dissolution and dispersion of the family, perhaps not immediately, but in the course of a year or two. It is true, causes may arise to keep them together awhile longer, but they are restless, active spirits, and will not be restrained always. Mary alone has more energy and power in her nature than any ten men you can pick out in the united parishes of Birstall and Haworth. It is vain to limit a character like hers within ordinary boundaries—she will overstep them. I am morally certain Mary will establish her own landmarks, so will the rest of them.
‘C. Brontë.’
Soon after her father’s death Mary Taylor turned her eyes towards New Zealand, where she had friends, but two years were to go by before anything came of the idea.
TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTË
‘Upperwood House, April 2nd, 1841.
‘Dear E. J.,—I received your last letter with delight as usual. I must write a line to thank you for it and the inclosure, which however is too bad—you ought not to have sent me those packets. I had a letter from Anne yesterday; she says she is well. I hope she speaks absolute truth. I had written to her and Branwell a few days before. I have not heard from Branwell yet. It is to be hoped that his removal to another station will turn out for the best. As you say, it looks like getting on at any rate.
‘I have got up my courage so far as to ask Mrs. White to grant me a day’s holiday to go to Birstall to see Ellen Nussey, who has offered to send a gig for me. My request was granted, but so coldly and slowly. However, I stuck to my point in a very exemplary and remarkable manner. I hope to go next Saturday. Matters are progressing very strangely at Gomersall. Mary Taylor and Waring have come to a singular determination, but I almost think under the peculiar circumstances a defensible one, though it sounds outrageously odd at first. They are going to emigrate—to quit the country altogether. Their destination unless they change is Port Nicholson, in the northern island of New Zealand!!! Mary has made up her mind she can not and will not be a governess, a teacher, a milliner, a bonnet-maker nor housemaid. She sees no means of obtaining employment she would like in England, so she is leaving it. I counselled her to go to France likewise and stay there a year before she decided on this strange unlikely-sounding plan of going to New Zealand, but she is quite resolved. I cannot sufficiently comprehend what her views and those of her brothers may be on the subject, or what is the extent of their information regarding Port Nicholson, to say whether this is rational enterprise or absolute madness. With love to papa, aunt, Tabby, etc.—Good-bye.
‘C. B.
‘P.S.—I am very well; I hope you are. Write again soon.’
Soon after this Mary went on a long visit to Brussels, which, as we have seen, was the direct cause of Charlotte and Emily establishing themselves at the Pensionnat Héger. In Brussels Martha Taylor found a grave. Here is one of her letters.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY.
‘Brussels, Sept. 9th, 1841.
‘My dear Ellen,—I received your letter from Mary, and you say I am to write though I have nothing to say. My sister will tell you all about me, for she has more time to write than I have.
‘Whilst Mary and John have been with me, we have been to Liege and Spa, where we stayed eight days. I found my little knowledge of French very useful in our travels. I am going to begin working again very hard, now that John and Mary are going away. I intend beginning German directly. I would write some more but this pen of Mary’s won’t write; you must scold her for it, and tell her to write you a long account of my proceedings. You must write to me sometimes. George Dixon is coming here the last week in September, and you must send a letter for me to Mary to be forwarded by him. Good-bye. May you be happy.
‘Martha Taylor.’
It was while Charlotte was making her second stay in Brussels that she heard of Mary’s determination to go with her brother Waring to New Zealand, with a view to earning her own living in any reasonable manner that might offer.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘Brussels, April 1st, 1843.
‘Dear Ellen,—That last letter of yours merits a good dose of panegyric—it was both long and interesting; send me quickly such another, longer still if possible. You will have heard of Mary Taylor’s resolute and intrepid proceedings. Her public letters will have put you in possession of all details—nothing is left for me to say except perhaps to express my opinion upon it. I have turned the matter over on all sides and really I cannot consider it otherwise than as very rational. Mind, I did not jump to this opinion at once, but was several days before I formed it conclusively.
‘C. B.’
‘Sunday Evening, June 1st, 1845.
‘Dear Ellen,—You probably know that another letter has been received from Mary Taylor. It is, however, possible that your absence from home will have prevented your seeing it, so I will give you a sketch of its contents. It was written at about 4° N. of the Equator. The first part of the letter contained an account of their landing at Santiago. Her health at that time was very good, and her spirits seemed excellent. They had had contrary winds at first setting out, but their voyage was then prosperous. In the latter portion of the letter she complains of the excessive heat, and says she lives chiefly on oranges; but still she was well, and freer from headache and other ailments than any other person on board. The receipt of this letter will have relieved all her friends from a weight of anxiety. I am uneasy about what you say respecting the French newspapers—do you mean to intimate that you have received none? I have despatched them regularly. Emily and I keep them usually three days, sometimes only two, and then send them forward to you. I see by the cards you sent, and also by the newspaper, that Henry is at last married. How did you like your office of bridesmaid? and how do you like your new sister and her family? You must write to me as soon as you can, and give me an observant account of everything.
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘Manchester, September 13th, 1846.
‘Dear Ellen,—Papa thinks his own progress rather slow, but the doctor affirms he is getting on very well. He complains of extreme weakness and soreness in the eye, but I suppose that is to be expected for some time to come. He is still kept in the dark, but now sits up the greater part of the day, and is allowed a little fire in the room, from the light of which he is carefully screened.
‘By this time you will have got Mary’s letters; most interesting they are, and she is in her element because she is where she has a toilsome task to perform, an important improvement to effect, a weak vessel to strengthen. You ask if I had any enjoyment here; in truth, I can’t say I have, and I long to get home, though, unhappily, home is not now a place of complete rest. It is sad to think how it is disquieted by a constant phantom, or rather two—sin and suffering; they seem to obscure the cheerfulness of day, and to disturb the comfort of evening.
‘Give my love to all at Brookroyd, and believe me, yours faithfully,
‘C. B.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘June 5th, 1847.
‘Dear Ellen,—I return you Mary Taylor’s letter; it made me somewhat sad to read it, for I fear she is not quite content with her existence in New Zealand. She finds it too barren. I believe she is more home-sick than she will confess. Her gloomy ideas respecting you and me prove a state of mind far from gay. I have also received a letter; its tone is similar to your own, and its contents too.
‘What brilliant weather we have had. Oh! I do indeed regret you could not come to Haworth at the time fixed, these warm sunny days would have suited us exactly; but it is not to be helped. Give my best love to your mother and Mercy.—Yours faithfully,
‘C. BRONTË.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘Haworth, June 26th, 1848.
‘Dear Ellen,—I should have answered your last long ago if I had known your address, but you omitted to give it me, and I have been waiting in the hope that you would perhaps write again and repair the omission. Finding myself deceived in this expectation however, I have at last hit on the plan of sending the letter to Brookroyd to be directed; be sure to give me your address when you reply to this.
‘I was glad to hear that you were well received at London, and that you got safe to the end of your journey. Your naïveté in gravely inquiring my opinion of the “last new novel” amuses me. We do not subscribe to a circulating library at Haworth, and consequently “new novels” rarely indeed come in our way, and consequently, again, we are not qualified to give opinions thereon.
‘About three weeks ago, I received a brief note from Hunsworth, to the effect that Mr. Joe Taylor and his cousin Henry would make some inquiries respecting Mme. Héger’s school on account of Ellen Taylor, and that if I had no objection, they would ride over to Haworth in a day or two. I said they might come if they would. They came, accompanied by Miss Mossman, of Bradford, whom I had never seen, only heard of occasionally. It was a pouring wet and windy day; we had quite ceased to expect them. Miss Mossman was quite wet, and we had to make her change her things, and dress her out in ours as well as we could. I do not know if you are acquainted with her; I thought her unaffected and rather agreeable-looking, though she has very red hair. Henry Taylor does indeed resemble John most strongly. Joe looked thin; he was in good spirits, and I think in tolerable good-humour. I would have given much for you to have been there. I had not been very well for some days before, and had some difficulty in keeping up the talk, but I managed on the whole better than I expected. I was glad Miss Mossman came, for she helped. Nothing new was communicated respecting Mary. Nothing of importance in any way was said the whole time; it was all rattle, rattle, of which I should have great difficulty now in recalling the substance. They left almost immediately after tea. I have not heard a word respecting them since, but I suppose they got home all right. The visit strikes me as an odd whim. I consider it quite a caprice, prompted probably by curiosity.
‘Joe Taylor mentioned that he had called at Brookroyd, and that Anne had told him you were ill, and going into the South for change of air.
‘I hope you will soon write to me again and tell me particularly how your health is, and how you get on. Give my regards to Mary Gorham, for really I have a sort of regard for her by hearsay, and—Believe me, dear Nell, yours faithfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
The Ellen Taylor mentioned in the above letter did not go to Brussels. She joined her cousin Mary in New Zealand instead.
TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË
‘Wellington, April 10th, 1849.
‘Dear Charlotte,—I’ve been delighted to receive a very interesting letter from you with an account of your visit to London, etc. I believe I have tacked this acknowledgment to the tail of my last letter to you, but since then it has dawned on my comprehension that you are becoming a very important personage in this little world, and therefore, d’ye see? I must write again to you. I wish you would give me some account of Newby, and what the man said when confronted with the real Ellis Bell. By the way, having got your secret, will he keep it? And how do you contrive to get your letters under the address of Mr. Bell? The whole scheme must be particularly interesting to hear about, if I could only talk to you for half a day. When do you intend to tell the good people about you?
‘I am now hard at work expecting Ellen Taylor. She may possibly be here in two months. I once thought of writing you some of the dozens of schemes I have for Ellen Taylor, but as the choice depends on her I may as well wait and tell you the one she chooses. The two most reasonable are keeping a school and keeping a shop. The last is evidently the most healthy, but the most difficult of accomplishment. I have written an account of the earthquakes for Chambers, and intend (now don’t remind me of this a year hence, because la femme propose) to write some more. What else I shall do I don’t know. I find the writing faculty does not in the least depend on the leisure I have, but much more on the active work I have to do. I write at my novel a little and think of my other book. What this will turn out, God only knows. It is not, and never can be forgotten. It is my child, my baby, and I assure you such a wonder as never was. I intend him when full grown to revolutionise society and faire époque in history.
‘In the meantime I’m doing a collar in crochet work.
‘Pag.’
TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË
‘Wellington, New Zealand,
‘July 24th, 1849.‘Dear Charlotte,—About a month since I received and read Jane Eyre. It seemed to me incredible that you had actually written a book. Such events did not happen while I was in England. I begin to believe in your existence much as I do in Mr. Rochester’s. In a believing mood I don’t doubt either of them. After I had read it I went on to the top of Mount Victoria and looked for a ship to carry a letter to you. There was a little thing with one mast, and also H.M.S. Fly, and nothing else. If a cattle vessel came from Sydney she would probably return in a few days, and would take a mail, but we have had east wind for a month and nothing can come in.
‘Aug. 1.—The Harlequin has just come from Otago, and is to sail for Singapore when the wind changes, and by that route (which I hope to take myself sometime) I send you this. Much good may it do you. Your novel surprised me by being so perfect as a work of art. I expected something more changeable and unfinished. You have polished to some purpose. If I were to do so I should get tired, and weary every one else in about two pages. No sign of this weariness in your book—you must have had abundance, having kept it all to yourself!
‘You are very different from me in having no doctrine to preach. It is impossible to squeeze a moral out of your production. Has the world gone so well with you that you have no protest to make against its absurdities? Did you never sneer or declaim in your first sketches? I will scold you well when I see you. I do not believe in Mr. Rivers. There are no good men of the Brocklehurst species. A missionary either goes into his office for a piece of bread, or he goes from enthusiasm, and that is both too good and too bad a quality for St. John. It’s a bit of your absurd charity to believe in such a man. You have done wisely in choosing to imagine a high class of readers. You never stop to explain or defend anything, and never seem bothered with the idea. If Mrs. Fairfax or any other well-intentioned fool gets hold of this what will she think? And yet, you know, the world is made up of such, and worse. Once more, how have you written through three volumes without declaring war to the knife against a few dozen absurd doctrines, each of which is supported by “a large and respectable class of readers”? Emily seems to have had such a class in her eye when she wrote that strange thing Wuthering Heights. Anne, too, stops repeatedly to preach commonplace truths. She has had a still lower class in her mind’s eye. Emily seems to have followed the bookseller’s advice. As to the price you got, it was certainly Jewish. But what could the people do? If they had asked you to fix it, do you know yourself how many ciphers your sum would have had? And how should they know better? And if they did, that’s the knowledge they get their living by. If I were in your place, the idea of being bound in the sale of two more would prevent me from ever writing again. Yet you are probably now busy with another. It is curious for me to see among the old letters one from Anne sending a copy of a whole article on the currency question written by Fonblanque! I exceedingly regret having burnt your letters in a fit of caution, and I’ve forgotten all the names. Was the reader Albert Smith? What do they all think of you?
‘I mention the book to no one and hear no opinions. I lend it a good deal because it’s a novel, and it’s as good as another! They say “it makes them cry.” They are not literary enough to give an opinion. If ever I hear one I’ll embalm it for you. As to my own affair, I have written 100 pages, and lately 50 more. It’s no use writing faster. I get so disgusted, I can do nothing.
‘If I could command sufficient money for a twelve-month, I would go home by way of India and write my travels, which would prepare the way for my novel. With the benefit of your experience I should perhaps make a better bargain than you. I am most afraid of my health. Not that I should die, but perhaps sink into a state of betweenity, neither well nor ill, in which I should observe nothing, and be very miserable besides. My life here is not disagreeable. I have a great resource in the piano, and a little employment in teaching.
‘It’s a pity you don’t live in this world, that I might entertain you about the price of meat. Do you know, I bought six heifers the other day for £23, and now it is turned so cold I expect to hear one-half of them are dead. One man bought twenty sheep for £8, and they are all dead but one. Another bought 150 and has 40 left.
‘I have now told you everything I can think of except that the cat’s on the table and that I’m going to borrow a new book to read—no less than an account of all the systems of philosophy of modern Europe. I have lately met with a wonder, a man who thinks Jane Eyre would have done better to marry Mr. Rivers! He gives no reason—such people never do.
‘Mary Taylor.’
TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË
‘Wellington, New Zealand.
‘Dear Charlotte,—I have set up shop! I am delighted with it as a whole—that is, it is as pleasant or as little disagreeable as you can expect an employment to be that you earn your living by. The best of it is that your labour has some return, and you are not forced to work on hopelessly without result. Du reste, it is very odd. I keep looking at myself with one eye while I’m using the other, and I sometimes find myself in very queer positions. Yesterday I went along the shore past the wharfes and several warehouses on a street where I had never been before during all the five years I have been in Wellington. I opened the door of a long place filled with packages, with passages up the middle, and a row of high windows on one side. At the far end of the room a man was writing at a desk beneath a window. I walked all the length of the room very slowly, for what I had come for had completely gone out of my head. Fortunately the man never heard me until I had recollected it. Then he got up, and I asked him for some stone-blue, saltpetre, tea, pickles, salt, etc. He was very civil. I bought some things and asked for a note of them. He went to his desk again; I looked at some newspapers lying near. On the top was a circular from Smith & Elder containing notices of the most important new works. The first and longest was given to Shirley, a book I had seen mentioned in the Manchester Examiner as written by Currer Bell. I blushed all over. The man got up, folding the note. I pulled it out of his hand and set off to the door, looking odder than ever, for a partner had come in and was watching. The clerk said something about sending them, and I said something too—I hope it was not very silly—and took my departure.
‘I have seen some extracts from Shirley in which you talk of women working. And this first duty, this great necessity, you seem to think that some women may indulge in, if they give up marriage, and don’t make themselves too disagreeable to the other sex. You are a coward and a traitor. A woman who works is by that alone better than one who does not; and a woman who does not happen to be rich and who still earns no money and does not wish to do so, is guilty of a great fault, almost a crime—a dereliction of duty which leads rapidly and almost certainly to all manner of degradation. It is very wrong of you to plead for toleration for workers on the ground of their being in peculiar circumstances, and few in number or singular in disposition. Work or degradation is the lot of all except the very small number born to wealth.
‘Ellen is with me, or I with her. I cannot tell how our shop will turn out, but I am as sanguine as ever. Meantime we certainly amuse ourselves better than if we had nothing to do. We like it, and that’s the truth. By the Cornelia we are going to send our sketches and fern leaves. You must look at them, and it will need all your eyes to understand them, for they are a mass of confusion. They are all within two miles of Wellington, and some of them rather like—Ellen’s sketch of me especially. During the last six months I have seen more “society” than in all the last four years. Ellen is half the reason of my being invited, and my improved circumstances besides. There is no one worth mentioning particularly. The women are all ignorant and narrow, and the men selfish. They are of a decent, honest kind, and some intelligent and able. A Mr. Woodward is the only literary man we know, and he seems to have fair sense. This was the clerk I bought the stone-blue of. We have just got a mechanic’s institute, and weekly lectures delivered there. It is amusing to see people trying to find out whether or not it is fashionable and proper to patronise it. Somehow it seems it is. I think I have told you all this before, which shows I have got to the end of my news. Your next letter to me ought to bring me good news, more cheerful than the last. You will somehow get drawn out of your hole and find interests among your fellow-creatures. Do you know that living among people with whom you have not the slightest interest in common is just like living alone, or worse? Ellen Nussey is the only one you can talk to, that I know of at least. Give my love to her and to Miss Wooler, if you have the opportunity. I am writing this on just such a night as you will likely read it—rain and storm, coming winter, and a glowing fire. Ours is on the ground, wood, no fender or irons; no matter, we are very comfortable.
‘Pag.’
TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË
‘Wellington, N. Z., April 3rd, 1850.
‘Dear Charlotte,—About a week since I received your last melancholy letter with the account of Anne’s death and your utter indifference to everything, even to the success of your last book. Though you do not say this, it is pretty plain to be seen from the style of your letter. It seems to me hard indeed that you who would succeed, better than any one, in making friends and keeping them, should be condemned to solitude from your poverty. To no one would money bring more happiness, for no one would use it better than you would. For me, with my headlong self-indulgent habits, I am perhaps better without it, but I am convinced it would give you great and noble pleasures. Look out then for success in writing; you ought to care as much for that as you do for going to Heaven. Though the advantages of being employed appear to you now the best part of the business, you will soon, please God, have other enjoyments from your success. Railway shares will rise, your books will sell, and you will acquire influence and power; and then most certainly you will find something to use it in which will interest you and make you exert yourself.
‘I have got into a heap of social trickery since Ellen came, never having troubled my head before about the comparative numbers of young ladies and young gentlemen. To Ellen it is quite new to be of such importance by the mere fact of her femininity. She thought she was coming wofully down in the world when she came out, and finds herself better received than ever she was in her life before. And the class are not in education inferior, though they are in money. They are decent well-to-do people: six grocers, one draper, two parsons, two clerks, two lawyers, and three or four nondescripts. All these but one have families to “take tea with,” and there are a lot more single men to flirt with. For the last three months we have been out every Sunday sketching. We seldom succeed in making the slightest resemblance to the thing we sit down to, but it is wonderfully interesting. Next year we hope to send a lot home. With all this my novel stands still; it might have done so if I had had nothing to do, for it is not want of time but want of freedom of mind that makes me unable to direct my attention to it. Meantime it grows in my head, for I never give up the idea. I have written about a volume I suppose. Read this letter to Ellen Nussey.
‘Mary Taylor.’
TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË
‘Wellington, August 13th, 1850.
‘Dear Charlotte,—After waiting about six months we have just got Shirley. It was landed from the Constantinople on Monday afternoon, just in the thick of our preparations for a “small party” for the next day. We stopped spreading red blankets over everything (New Zealand way of arranging the room) and opened the box and read all the letters. Soyer’s Housewife and Shirley were there all right, but Miss Martineau’s book was not. In its place was a silly child’s tale called Edward Orland. On Tuesday we stayed up dancing till three or four o’clock, what for I can’t imagine. However, it was a piece of business done. On Wednesday I began Shirley and continued in a curious confusion of mind till now, principally at the handsome foreigner who was nursed in our house when I was a little girl. By the way, you’ve put him in the servant’s bedroom. You make us all talk much as I think we should have done if we’d ventured to speak at all. What a little lump of perfection you’ve made me! There is a strange feeling in reading it of hearing us all talking. I have not seen the matted hall and painted parlour windows so plain these five years. But my father is not like. He hates well enough and perhaps loves too, but he is not honest enough. It was from my father I learnt not to marry for money nor to tolerate any one who did, and he never would advise any one to do so, or fail to speak with contempt of those who did. Shirley is much more interesting than Jane Eyre, who never interests you at all until she has something to suffer. All through this last novel there is so much more life and stir that it leaves you far more to remember than the other. Did you go to London about this too? What for? I see by a letter of yours to Mr. Dixon that you have been. I wanted to contradict some of your opinions, now I can’t. As to when I’m coming home, you may well ask. I have wished for fifteen years to begin to earn my own living; last April I began to try—it is too soon to say yet with what success. I am woefully ignorant, terribly wanting in tact, and obstinately lazy, and almost too old to mend. Luckily there is no other dance for me, so I must work. Ellen takes to it kindly, it gratifies a deep ardent wish of hers as of mine, and she is habitually industrious. For her, ten years younger, our shop will be a blessing. She may possibly secure an independence, and skill to keep it and use it, before the prime of life is past. As to my writings, you may as well ask the Fates about that too. I can give you no information. I write a page now and then. I never forget or get strange to what I have written. When I read it over it looks very interesting.
‘Mary Taylor.’
The Ellen Taylor referred to so frequently was, as I have said, a cousin of Mary’s. Her early death in New Zealand gives the single letter I have of hers a more pathetic interest.
TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË
‘Wellington, N. Z.
‘My dear Miss Brontë,—I shall tell you everything I can think of, since you said in one of your letters to Pag that you wished me to write to you. I have been here a year. It seems a much shorter time, and yet I have thought more and done more than I ever did in my life before. When we arrived, Henry and I were in such a hurry to leave the ship that we didn’t wait to be fetched, but got into the first boat that came alongside. When we landed we inquired where Waring lived, but hadn’t walked far before we met him. I had never seen him before, but he guessed we were the cousins he expected, so caught us and took us along with him. Mary soon joined us, and we went home together. At first I thought Mary was not the least altered, but when I had seen her for about a week I thought she looked rather older. The first night Mary and I sat up till 2 a.m. talking. Mary and I settled we would do something together, and we talked for a fortnight before we decided whether we would have a school or shop; it ended in favour of the shop. Waring thought we had better be quiet, and I believe he still thinks we are doing it for amusement; but he never refuses to help us. He is teaching us book-keeping, and he buys things for us now and then. Mary gets as fierce as a dragon and goes to all the wholesale stores and looks at things, gets patterns, samples, etc., and asks prices, and then comes home, and we talk it over; and then she goes again and buys what we want. She says the people are always civil to her. Our keeping shop astonishes every body here; I believe they think we do it for fun. Some think we shall make nothing of it, or that we shall get tired; and all laugh at us. Before I left home I used to be afraid of being laughed at, but now it has very little effect upon me.
‘Mary and I are settled together now: I can’t do without Mary and she couldn’t get on by herself. I built the house we live in, and we made the plan ourselves, so it suits us. We take it in turns to serve in the shop, and keep the accounts, and do the housework—I mean, Mary takes the shop for a week and I the kitchen, and then we change. I think we shall do very well if no more severe earthquakes come, and if we can prevent fire. When a wooden house takes fire it doesn’t stop; and we have got an oil cask about as high as I am, that would help it. If some sparks go out at the chimney-top the shingles are in danger. The last earthquake but one about a fortnight ago threw down two medicine bottles that were standing on the table and made other things jingle, but did no damage. If we have nothing worse than that I don’t care, but I don’t want the chimney to come down—it would cost £10 to build it up again. Mary is making me stop because it is nearly 9 p.m. and we are going to Waring’s to supper. Good-bye.—Yours truly,
‘Ellen Taylor.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘Haworth, July 4th, 1849.
‘I get on as well as I can. Home is not the home it used to be—that you may well conceive; but so far, I get on.
‘I cannot boast of vast benefits derived from change of air yet; but unfortunately I brought back the seeds of a cold with me from that dismal Easton, and I have not got rid of it yet. Still I think I look better than I did before I went. How are you? You have never told me.
‘Mr. Williams has written to me twice since my return, chiefly on the subject of his third daughter, who wishes to be a governess, and has some chances of a presentation to Queen’s College, an establishment connected with the Governess Institution; this will secure her four years of instruction. He says Mr. George Smith is kindly using his influence to obtain votes, but there are so many candidates he is not sanguine of success.
‘I had a long letter from Mary Taylor—interesting but sad, because it contained many allusions to those who are in this world no more. She mentioned you, and seemed impressed with an idea of the lamentable nature of your unoccupied life. She spoke of her own health as being excellent.
‘Give my love to your mother and sisters, and,—Believe me, yours,
‘C. B.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘Haworth, May 18th.
‘Dear Ellen,—I inclose Mary Taylor’s letter announcing Ellen’s death, and two last letters—sorrowful documents, all of them. I received them this morning from Hunsworth without any note or directions where to send them, but I think, if I mistake not, Amelia in a previous note told me to transmit them to you.—Yours faithfully,
‘C. B.’
TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË
‘Wellington, N. Z.
‘Dear Charlotte,—I began a letter to you one bitter cold evening last week, but it turned out such a sad one that I have left it and begun again. I am sitting all alone in my own house, or rather what is to be mine when I’ve paid for it. I bought it of Henry when Ellen died—shop and all, and carry on by myself. I have made up my mind not to get any assistance. I have not too much work, and the annoyance of having an unsuitable companion was too great to put up with without necessity. I find now that it was Ellen that made me so busy, and without her to nurse I have plenty of time. I have begun to keep the house very tidy; it makes it less desolate. I take great interest in my trade—as much as I could do in anything that was not all pleasure. But the best part of my life is the excitement of arrivals from England. Reading all the news, written and printed, is like living another life quite separate from this one. The old letters are strange—very, when I begin to read them, but quite familiar notwithstanding. So are all the books and newspapers, though I never see a human being to whom it would ever occur to me to mention anything I read in them. I see your nom de guerre in them sometimes. I saw a criticism on the preface to the second edition of Wuthering Heights. I saw it among the notables who attended Thackeray’s lectures. I have seen it somehow connected with Sir J. K. Shuttleworth. Did he want to marry you, or only to lionise you? or was it somebody else?
‘Your life in London is a “new country” to me, which I cannot even picture to myself. You seem to like it—at least some things in it, and yet your late letters to Mrs. J. Taylor talk of low spirits and illness. “What’s the matter with you now?” as my mother used to say, as if it were the twentieth time in a fortnight. It is really melancholy that now, in the prime of life, in the flush of your hard-earned prosperity, you can’t be well. Did not Miss Martineau improve you? If she did, why not try her and her plan again? But I suppose if you had hope and energy to try, you would be well. Well, it’s nearly dark and you will surely be well when you read this, so what’s the use of writing? I should like well to have some details of your life, but how can I hope for it? I have often tried to give you a picture of mine, but I have not the skill. I get a heap of details, mostly paltry in themselves, and not enough to give you an idea of the whole. Oh, for one hour’s talk! You are getting too far off and beginning to look strange to me. Do you look as you used to do, I wonder? What do you and Ellen Nussey talk about when you meet? There! it’s dark.
‘Sunday night.—I have let the vessel go that was to take this. As there were others going soon I did not much care. I am in the height of cogitation whether to send for some worsted stockings, etc. They will come next year at this time, and who can tell what I shall want then, or shall be doing? Yet hitherto we have sent such orders, and have guessed or known pretty well what we should want. I have just been looking over a list of four pages long in Ellen’s handwriting. These things ought to come by the next vessel, or part of them at least. When tired of that I began to read some pages of “my book” intending to write some more, but went on reading for pleasure. I often do this, and find it very interesting indeed. It does not get on fast, though I have written about one volume and a half. It’s full of music, poverty, disputing, politics, and original views of life. I can’t for the life of me bring the lover into it, nor tell what he’s to do when he comes. Of the men generally I can never tell what they’ll do next. The women I understand pretty well, and rare tracasserie there is among them—they are perfectly feminine in that respect at least.
‘I am just now in a state of famine. No books and no news from England for this two months. I am thinking of visiting a circulating library from sheer dulness. If I had more time I should get melancholy. No one can prize activity more than I do. I never am long without it than a gloom comes over me. The cloud seems to be always there behind me, and never quite out of sight but when I keep on at a good rate. Fortunately, the more I work the better I like it. I shall take to scrubbing the floor before it’s dirty and polishing pans on the outside in my old age. It is the only thing that gives me an appetite for dinner.
‘Pag.
‘Give my love to Ellen Nussey.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘Wellington, N. Z., 8th Jan. 1857.
‘Dear Ellen,—A few days ago I got a letter from you, dated 2nd May 1856, along with some patterns and fashion-book. They seem to have been lost somehow, as the box ought to have come by the Hastings, and only now makes its appearance by the Philip Lang. It has come very apropos for a new year’s gift, and the patterns were not opened twenty-four hours before a silk cape was cut out by one of them. I think I made a very impertinent request when I asked you to give yourself so much trouble. The poor woman for whom I wanted them is now a first-rate dressmaker—her drunken husband, who was her main misfortune, having taken himself off and not been heard of lately.
‘I am glad to hear that Mrs. Gaskell is progressing with the Life.
‘I wish I had kept Charlotte’s letters now, though I never felt it safe to do so until latterly that I have had a home of my own. They would have been much better evidence than my imperfect recollection, and infinitely more interesting. A settled opinion is very likely to look absurd unless you give the grounds for it, and even if I could remember them it might look as if there might be other facts which I have neglected which ought to have altered it. Your news of the “neighbours” is very interesting, especially of Miss Wooler and my old schoolfellows. I wish I knew how to give you some account of my ways here and the effect of my position on me. First of all, it agrees with me. I am in better health than at any time since I left school. My life now is not overburdened with work, and what I do has interest and attraction in it. I think it is that part that I shall think most agreeable when I look back on my death-bed—a number of small pleasures scattered over my way, that, when seen from a distance, will seem to cover it thick. They don’t cover it by any means, but I never had so many.
‘I look after my shopwoman, make out bills, decide who shall have “trust” and who not. Then I go a-buying, not near such an anxious piece of business now that I understand my trade, and have, moreover, a good “credit.” I read a good deal, sometimes on the sofa, a vice I am much given to in hot weather. Then I have some friends—not many, and no geniuses, which fact pray keep strictly to yourself, for how the doings and sayings of Wellington people in England always come out again to New Zealand! They are not very interesting any way. This is my fault in part, for I can’t take interest in their concerns. A book is worth any of them, and a good book worth them all put together.
‘Our east winds are much the pleasantest and healthiest we have. The soft moist north-west brings headache and depression—it even blights the trees.—Yours affectionately,
‘Mary Taylor.’
‘Wellington, 4th June 1858.
‘Dear Ellen,—I have lately heard that you are leaving Brookroyd. I shall not even see Brookroyd again, and one of the people who lived there; and one whom I used to see there I shall never see more. Keep yourself well, dear Ellen, and gather round you as much happiness and interest as you can, and let me find you cheery and thriving when I come. When that will be I don’t yet know; but one thing is sure, I have given over ordering goods from England, so that I must sometime give over for want of anything to sell. The last things ordered I expect to arrive about the beginning of the year 1859. In the course of that year, therefore, I shall be left without anything to do or motive for staying. Possibly this time twelve months I may be leaving Wellington.
‘We are here in the height of a political crisis. The election for the highest office in the province (Superintendent) comes off in about a fortnight. There is altogether a small storm going on in our teacup, quite brisk enough to stir everything in it. My principal interest therein is the sale of election ribbons, though I am afraid, owing to the bad weather, there will be little display. Besides the elections, there is nothing interesting. We all go on pretty well. I have got a pony about four feet high, that carries me about ten miles from Wellington, which is much more than walking distance, to which I have been confined for the last ten years. I have given over most of the work to Miss Smith, who will finally take the business, and if we had fine weather I think I should enjoy myself. My main want here is for books enough to fill up my idle time. It seems to me that when I get home I will spend half my income on books, and sell them when I have read them to make it go further. I know this is absurd, but people with an unsatisfied appetite think they can eat enormously.
‘Remember me kindly to Miss Wooler, and tell me all about her in your next.—Yours affectionately,
‘Mary Taylor.’