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 BRONTE
'WELLINGTON, _August_ 13_th_, 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.
Pages:
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384