Here is a pleasant testimony to Miss Nussey’s attractions from Emily and Anne.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘Haworth, September 11th, 1833.
‘Dear Ellen,—I have hitherto delayed answering your last letter because from what you said I imagined you might be from home. Since you were here Emily has been very ill. Her ailment was erysipelas in the arm, accompanied by severe bilious attacks, and great general debility. Her arm was obliged to be cut in order to relieve it. It is now, I am happy to say, nearly healed—her health is, in fact, almost perfectly re-established. The sickness still continues to recur at intervals. Were I to tell you of the impression you have made on every one here you would accuse me of flattery. Papa and aunt are continually adducing you as an example for me to shape my actions and behaviour by. Emily and Anne say “they never saw any one they liked so well as Miss Nussey,” and Tabby talks a great deal more nonsense about you than I choose to report. You must read this letter, dear Ellen, without thinking of the writing, for I have indited it almost all in the twilight. It is now so dark that, notwithstanding the singular property of “seeing in the night-time” which the young ladies at Roe Head used to attribute to me, I can scribble no longer. All the family unite with me in wishes for your welfare. Remember me respectfully to your mother and sisters, and supply all those expressions of warm and genuine regard which the increasing darkness will not permit me to insert.
‘Charlotte Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘Haworth, February 11th, 1834.
‘Dear Ellen,—My letters are scarcely worth the postage, and therefore I have, till now, delayed answering your last communication; but upwards of two months having elapsed since I received it, I have at length determined to take up my pen in reply lest your anger should be roused by my apparent negligence. It grieved me extremely to hear of your precarious state of health. I trust sincerely that your medical adviser is mistaken in supposing you have any tendency to a pulmonary affection. Dear Ellen, that would indeed be a calamity. I have seen enough of consumption to dread it as one of the most insidious and fatal diseases incident to humanity. But I repeat it, I hope, nay pray, that your alarm is groundless. If you remember, I used frequently to tell you at school that you were constitutionally nervous—guard against the gloomy impressions which such a state of mind naturally produces. Take constant and regular exercise, and all, I doubt not, will yet be well. What a remarkable winter we have had! Rain and wind continually, but an almost total absence of frost and snow. Has general ill health been the consequence of wet weather at Birstall or not? With us an unusual number of deaths have lately taken place. According to custom I have no news to communicate, indeed I do not write either to retail gossip or to impart solid information; my motives for maintaining our mutual correspondence are, in the first place, to get intelligence from you, and in the second that we may remind each other of our separate existences; without some such medium of reciprocal converse, according to the nature of things, you, who are surrounded by society and friends, would soon forget that such an insignificant being as myself ever lived. I, however, in the solitude of our wild little hill village, think of my only unrelated friend, my dear ci-devant school companion daily—nay, almost hourly. Now Ellen, don’t you think I have very cleverly contrived to make up a letter out of nothing? Goodbye, dearest. That God may bless you is the earnest prayer of your ever faithful friend,
‘Charlotte Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘Haworth, November 10th, 1834.
‘Dear Ellen,—I have been a long while, a very long while without writing to you. A letter I received from Mary Taylor this morning reminded me of my neglect, and made me instantly sit down to atone for it, if possible. She tells me your aunt, of Brookroyd, is dead, and that Sarah is very ill; for this I am truly sorry, but I hope her case is not yet without hope. You should however remember that death, should it happen, will undoubtedly be great gain to her. In your last, dear Ellen, you ask my opinion respecting the amusement of dancing, and whether I thought it objectionable when indulged in for an hour or two in parties of boys and girls. I should hesitate to express a difference of opinion from Mr. Atkinson, but really the matter seems to me to stand thus: It is allowed on all hands that the sin of dancing consists not in the mere action of shaking the shanks (as the Scotch say), but in the consequences that usually attend it—namely, frivolity and waste of time; when it is used only, as in the case you state, for the exercise and amusement of an hour among young people (who surely may without any breach of God’s commandments be allowed a little light-heartedness), these consequences cannot follow. Ergo (according to my manner of arguing), the amusement is at such times perfectly innocent. Having nothing more to say, I will conclude with the expression of my sincere and earnest attachment for, Ellen, your own dear self.
‘Charlotte Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘Haworth, January 12th, 1835.
‘Dearest Ellen,—I thought it better not to answer your kind letter too soon, lest I should (in the present fully occupied state of your time) appear intrusive. I am happy to inform you papa has given me permission to accept the invitation it conveyed, and ere long I hope once more to have the pleasure of seeing almost the only and certainly the dearest friend I possess (out of our own family). I leave it to you to fix the time, only requesting you not to appoint too early a day; let it be a fortnight or three weeks at least from the date of the present letter. I am greatly obliged to you for your kind offer of meeting me at Bradford, but papa thinks that such a plan would involve uncertainty, and be productive of trouble to you. He recommends that I should go direct in a gig from Haworth at the time you shall determine, or, if that day should prove unfavourable, the first subsequent fine one. Such an arrangement would leave us both free, and if it meets with your approbation would perhaps be the best we could finally resolve upon. Excuse the brevity of this epistle, dear Ellen, for I am in a great hurry, and we shall, I trust, soon see each other face to face, which will be better than a hundred letters. Give my respectful love to your mother and sisters, accept the kind remembrances of all our family, and—Believe me in particular to be, your firm and faithful friend,
‘Charlotte Brontë.
‘P.S.—You ask me to stay a month when I come, but as I do not wish to tire you with my company, and as, besides, papa and aunt both think a fortnight amply sufficient, I shall not exceed that period. Farewell, dearest, dearest.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘Roe Head, September 10th, 1835.
‘My dear Ellen,—You are far too kind and frequent in your invitations. You puzzle me: I hardly know how to refuse, and it is still more embarrassing to accept. At any rate, I cannot come this week, for we are in the very thickest mêlée of the repetitions; I was hearing the terrible fifth section when your note arrived. But Miss Wooler says I must go to Gomersall next Friday as she promised for me on Whitsunday; and on Sunday morning I will join you at church, if it be convenient, and stay at Rydings till Monday morning. There’s a free and easy proposal! Miss Wooler has driven me to it—she says her character is implicated! I am very sorry to hear that your mother has been ill. I do hope she is better now, and that all the rest of the family are well. Will you be so kind as to deliver the accompanying note to Miss Taylor when you see her at church on Sunday? Dear Ellen, excuse the most horrid scrawl ever penned by mortal hands. Remember me to your mother and sisters, and—Believe me, E. Nussey’s friend,
‘Charlotte.’
‘February 20th, 1837.
‘I read your letter with dismay, Ellen—what shall I do without you? Why are we so to be denied each other’s society? It is an inscrutable fatality. I long to be with you because it seems as if two or three days or weeks spent in your company would beyond measure strengthen me in the enjoyment of those feelings which I have so lately begun to cherish. You first pointed out to me that way in which I am so feebly endeavouring to travel, and now I cannot keep you by my side, I must proceed sorrowfully alone.
‘Why are we to be divided? Surely, Ellen, it must be because we are in danger of loving each other too well—of losing sight of the Creator in idolatry of the creature. At first I could not say, “Thy will be done.” I felt rebellious; but I know it was wrong to feel so. Being left a moment alone this morning I prayed fervently to be enabled to resign myself to every decree of God’s will—though it should be dealt forth with a far severer hand than the present disappointment. Since then, I have felt calmer and humbler—and consequently happier. Last Sunday I took up my Bible in a gloomy frame of mind; I began to read; a feeling stole over me such as I have not known for many long years—a sweet placid sensation like those that I remember used to visit me when I was a little child, and on Sunday evenings in summer stood by the open window reading the life of a certain French nobleman who attained a purer and higher degree of sanctity than has been known since the days of the early Martyrs. I thought of my own Ellen—I wished she had been near me that I might have told her how happy I was, how bright and glorious the pages of God’s holy word seemed to me. But the “foretaste” passed away, and earth and sin returned. I must see you before you go, Ellen; if you cannot come to Roe Head I will contrive to walk over to Brookroyd, provided you will let me know the time of your departure. Should you not be at home at Easter I dare not promise to accept your mother’s and sisters’ invitation. I should be miserable at Brookroyd without you, yet I would contrive to visit them for a few hours if I could not for a few days. I love them for your sake. I have written this note at a venture. When it will reach you I know not, but I was determined not to let slip an opportunity for want of being prepared to embrace it. Farewell, may God bestow on you all His blessings. My darling—Farewell. Perhaps you may return before midsummer—do you think you possibly can? I wish your brother John knew how unhappy I am; he would almost pity me.
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘June 8th, 1837.
‘My dearest Ellen,—The inclosed, as you will perceive, was written before I received your last. I had intended to send it by this, but what you said altered my intention. I scarce dare build a hope on the foundation your letter lays—we have been disappointed so often, and I fear I shall not be able to prevail on them to part with you; but I will try my utmost, and at any rate there is a chance of our meeting soon; with that thought I will comfort myself. You do not know how selfishly glad I am that you still continue to dislike London and the Londoners—it seems to afford a sort of proof that your affections are not changed. Shall we really stand once again together on the moors of Haworth? I dare not flatter myself with too sanguine an expectation. I see many doubts and difficulties. But with Miss Wooler’s leave, which I have asked and in part obtained, I will go to-morrow and try to remove them.—Believe me, my own Ellen, yours always truly,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘January 12th, 1839.
‘My dear kind Ellen,—I can hardly help laughing when I reckon up the number of urgent invitations I have received from you during the last three months. Had I accepted all or even half of them, the Birstallians would certainly have concluded that I had come to make Brookroyd my permanent residence. When you set your mind upon it, you have a peculiar way of edging one in with a circle of dilemmas, so that they hardly know how to refuse you; however, I shall take a running leap and clear them all. Frankly, my dear Ellen, I cannot come. Reflect for yourself a moment. Do you see nothing absurd in the idea of a person coming again into a neighbourhood within a month after they have taken a solemn and formal leave of all their acquaintance? However, I thank both you and your mother for the invitation, which was most kindly expressed. You give no answer to my proposal that you should come to Haworth with the Taylors. I still think it would be your best plan. I wish you and the Taylors were safely here; there is no pleasure to be had without toiling for it. You must invite me no more, my dear Ellen, until next Midsummer at the nearest. All here desire to be remembered to you, aunt particularly. Angry though you are, I will venture to sign myself as usual (no, not as usual, but as suits circumstances).—Yours, under a cloud,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘May 5th, 1838.
‘My dearest Ellen,—Yesterday I heard that you were ill. Mr. and Miss Heald were at Dewsbury Moor, and it was from them I obtained the information. This morning I set off to Brookroyd to learn further particulars, from whence I am but just returned. Your mother is in great distress about you, she can hardly mention your name without tears; and both she and Mercy wish very much to see you at home again. Poor girl, you have been a fortnight confined to your bed; and while I was blaming you in my own mind for not writing, you were suffering in sickness without one kind female friend to watch over you. I should have heard all this before and have hastened to express my sympathy with you in this crisis had I been able to visit Brookroyd in the Easter holidays, but an unexpected summons back to Dewsbury Moor, in consequence of the illness and death of Mr. Wooler, prevented it. Since that time I have been a fortnight and two days quite alone, Miss Wooler being detained in the interim at Rouse Mill. You will now see, Ellen, that it was not neglect or failure of affection which has occasioned my silence, though I fear you will long ago have attributed it to those causes. If you are well enough, do write to me just two lines—just to assure me of your convalescence; not a word, however, if it would harm you—not a syllable. They value you at home. Sickness and absence call forth expressions of attachment which might have remained long enough unspoken if their object had been present and well. I wish your friends (I include myself in that word) may soon cease to have cause for so painful an excitement of their regard. As yet I have but an imperfect idea of the nature of your illness—of its extent—or of the degree in which it may now have subsided. When you can let me know all, no particular, however minute, will be uninteresting to me. How have your spirits been? I trust not much overclouded, for that is the most melancholy result of illness. You are not, I understand, going to Bath at present; they seem to have arranged matters strangely. When I parted from you near White-lee Bar, I had a more sorrowful feeling than ever I experienced before in our temporary separations. It is foolish to dwell too much on the idea of presentiments, but I certainly had a feeling that the time of our reunion had never been so indefinite or so distant as then. I doubt not, my dear Ellen, that amidst your many trials, amidst the sufferings that you have of late felt in yourself, and seen in several of your relations, you have still been able to look up and find support in trial, consolation in affliction, and repose in tumult, where human interference can make no change. I think you know in the right spirit how to withdraw yourself from the vexation, the care, the meanness of life, and to derive comfort from purer sources than this world can afford. You know how to do it silently, unknown to others, and can avail yourself of that hallowed communion the Bible gives us with God. I am charged to transmit your mother’s and sister’s love. Receive mine in the same parcel, I think it will scarcely be the smallest share. Farewell, my dear Ellen.
‘C. Brontë.’
‘May 15th, 1840.
‘My dear Ellen,—I read your last letter with a great deal of interest. Perhaps it is not always well to tell people when we approve of their actions, and yet it is very pleasant to do so; and as, if you had done wrongly, I hope I should have had honesty enough to tell you so, so now, as you have done rightly, I shall gratify myself by telling you what I think.
‘If I made you my father confessor I could reveal weaknesses which you do not dream of. I do not mean to intimate that I attach a high value to empty compliments, but a word of panegyric has often made me feel a sense of confused pleasure which it required my strongest effort to conceal—and on the other hand, a hasty expression which I could construe into neglect or disapprobation has tortured me till I have lost half a night’s rest from its rankling pangs.
‘C. Brontë.
‘P.S.—Don’t talk any more of sending for me—when I come I will send myself. All send their love to you. I have no prospect of a situation any more than of going to the moon. Write to me again as soon as you can.’
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.