THE KIDNAPPING OF HUGH BRONTE.
Hugh Bronte first makes his appearance as if he had just stepped out
of a Bronte novel. His father, a man in prosperous circumstances, had
a large family, and resided somewhere in the south of Ireland, in a
comfortable home, the exact locality being unknown.
Some time about the middle of the last century, this entire family was
thrown into excitement by the arrival of an uncle and aunt of whom
they had never heard. The children did not like them at first, but, as
they remained guests for a considerable time, these impressions wore
off.
These newly discovered relatives were the foundling Welsh and his
wife, Mary. Their visit occurred many years subsequent to the events
recorded in the last chapter. In the meantime, the house, from which
the Brontes had been driven by fraud, had been burnt to the ground,
thus destroying all of Welsh's ill-gotten riches, and leaving him a
poor and ruined man. But Welsh was always able to subordinate his
pride to his interests, and, through his wife, he opened up a
correspondence with one of her brothers, prosperously settled in
Ireland. Welsh expressed deep penitence for all of his wrong-doing,
and declared his earnest desire, if forgiven, to make amends.
He and Mary were then childless, and getting on in years. They
professed to be troubled at the prospect of the farm passing into the
hands of strangers for lack of an heir. They offered, therefore, to
adopt one of their numerous nephews and to bring him up as their own
son. Conditions of adoption were agreed upon, including education, but
a solemn oath was taken by the father never to communicate with his
son in any way. Welsh and Mary also bound themselves never to let the
child know where his father lived.
The family oath in Ireland is regarded with superstitious awe, and
binds like destiny. The man who breaks it is perjured and abandoned
beyond all hope of salvation, here or hereafter.
Hugh Bronte was about five or six years old when Welsh and Mary made
the visit to his parents, and he soon became a great favorite with the
newcomers.
Many years later, the old man, when "beeking" a cornkiln in County
Down, used to tell the simple incidents of that night. He had waited
with impatience the local dressmaker, who had brought him home late at
night a special suit of clothes to travel in. When they were fitted
on, he was raised into a chair to give the dressmaker "beverage," as
the first kiss in new clothes is called in Ireland. It is a mark of
especial favor, and supposed to confer good luck. Hugh's sisters
thronged around him for "second beverage," but the kiss and squeeze of
the dressmaker remained a life-long memory. He always believed that
she had a presentiment of his fate, for her voice choked and her eyes
filled with tears, as she turned away from him.
His mother never seemed happy about his going away, but her opposition
was always borne down. For the few days previous, she had been
accustomed to take him on her lap, and, with eyes full of tears, heap
endearing epithets upon him, such as, "My sweet flower;" but he did
not appreciate her sympathy, and always broke away from her. His
father lifted him in his arms, carried him out into the darkness, and
placed him gently between his uncle and aunt, on a seat with a raised
back, which was laid across a cart from side to side. Sitting aloft,
on this prototype of the Irish gig, little Hugh Bronte, with a heart
full of childish anticipations, began his rough journey out into the
big world.
That Bronte covenant was indeed faithfully kept, for even when Mary,
his aunt, visited Hugh in County Down about the beginning of this
century, she could neither be coaxed nor compelled to give him, either
directly or indirectly, the slightest clue by which he might discover
the home of his childhood. It thus happened that Hugh Bronte was never
able to retrace his steps to his father's house, after the darkness
had closed around him, perched aloft on the cross-seat of a country
cart, between his uncle and aunt. It was a cold night, and the child
crept close under his aunt's wing for warmth. Soon he began to prattle
in his childish way as he had done with his new friends for days, when
suddenly a harsh torrent of corrosive words burst from Welsh,
commanding him not to let another sound pass his lips. For a moment
the child was stunned and bewildered, for the angry order fell like a
blow. The young Bronte blood could not, however, rest passively in
such a crisis. Disentangling himself from his aunt's shawl, Hugh drew
towards his uncle and said, "Did you speak those unkind words to me?"
"I'll teach you to disobey me, you magnificent whelp!" rasped out
Welsh, bringing his great hand down with a sharp smack on the little
fellow's face.
Hurt and angry, little Bronte sprang from the seat into the bottom of
the cart and, facing the cruel uncle, shouted:
"I won't go with you one step further! I will go back and tell my
father what a bad old monster you are!" and then clutching at the
reins, screamed: "Turn the horse around and take me home!"
A heavy hand grasped him, and choked the voice out of him. He was
shaken and knocked against the bottom and sides of the cart, until he
was able neither to escape nor to speak. Several hours later, he awoke
and found himself lying in damp straw, sick, and sore, and hungry.
Every jolt of the springless cart pained him.
It was a moonlight night with occasional showers. He turned upon his
side, and watched the two figures perched upon the seat above him,
riding along in silence and caring nothing for him. A few hours before
he had loved them passionately, and now he hated them to loathing. He
felt the utter desolation of loneliness and home-sickness.
That was the first night in his remembrance when he had ever neglected
to say his prayers. He rose to his knees, put up his little folded
hands, and said the only prayer he knew. A sobbing sound escaped him
and startled his uncle. He turned suddenly, and with his whip struck
the kneeling child and prostrated him. The blow was followed by a
hurricane of oaths and threats.
The child was badly hurt, but he did not cry nor let his uncle know
that he was suffering.
Seventy years afterwards Hugh Bronte used to say, "I grew fast that
night. I was Christian child, ardent lover, vindictive hater,
enthusiast, misanthrope, atheist, and philosopher, in one cruel
hour!"
The sun was shining hot in his face when he awoke. The cart had been
drawn up close to a little thatched cottage, in which there was a
grocer's shop and a public house. He tried to get out of the cart, but
was unable to do so. A blacksmith, whose smithy stood on the other
side of the road, seeing his fruitless efforts, came and lifted him
down. Just as he was beginning to recite the story of his wrongs his
aunt, who had approached him from behind, caught his arms and led him
gently into the cottage, where he had some potatoes and buttermilk. He
slept by the kitchen fire until late in the afternoon without having
been permitted to speak to a soul. He was still dreaming of home, when
he was roughly awakened to mount the cart again. Heavy imprecations
fell upon his aunt for detaining him to wash the blood-stains from
his face. A penny "bap" was given him, and he was allowed to buy
apples with the money which had been put by his brothers and sisters
into the pockets of his new clothes as "hansel." "It was ten years,"
said old Bronte, "before I fingered another penny that I could call my
own!"
As the shades of evening gathered, the journey was continued in a
drizzling rain. A "bottle" of fresh straw had been added to the hard
bed on which little Hugh was to spend the night. He arranged the straw
under the cross-seat on which his uncle and aunt sat, so as to be
sheltered from the rain, and, placing his heap of apples and the "bap"
beside him, he settled down in comparative comfort for the night.
The night was long, the rain incessant. The horse stumbled and
splashed along, and the harsh uncle varied the monotony by whipping
the horse into a trot, and swearing at it when it did trot. By ten
o'clock the next morning a large village was reached, where was an inn
of considerable importance. The child was carried, stiff and cold, and
put to bed in a little room in this inn, no one but his aunt being
allowed to come near him. She placed some bread and milk beside him,
took away his clothes, and locked the door of his room.
In the afternoon she returned bringing a suit of bottle-green corduroy
with shining brass buttons, much too large for him. The trousers were
so stiff that he could hardly sit down in them, and he hated the smell
of corduroy. His own warm woolen garments had been exchanged for these
others, and for a horse cover, which became his coverlet by night.
Beneath it he slept more comfortably than before.
At an early hour the following morning, while Hugh was still asleep,
they reached another large town, and, as usual, the cart was drawn up
at an inn, where the travellers passed the day. While Welsh was out in
the town, and the aunt dozing by the fire, Hugh tried to tell the
innkeeper the story of his wrongs, but neither could understand the
other, owing to the man's brogue. The child's earnestness drew a
little crowd around him, however, and he was just beginning to make
himself understood, when his uncle returned suddenly and whisked him
off to the cart to spend the long afternoon, until they resumed their
journey at nightfall. Angry words passed between the innkeeper and his
uncle, but no deliverance came. After another miserable night they
arrived at Drogheda on the forenoon of the following day. Here they
made a short pause, but he was not permitted to descend from the cart,
nor communicate with any stranger. The party arrived at Welsh's home,
on the banks of the Boyne, late in the afternoon.
Such is the story of Hugh Bronte's journey to Welsh's house, as first
told me by the Reverend William McAllister, and subsequently confirmed
by four independent narrators. I have given a mere outline of the
boy's experience on that dreadful journey, without attempting to
reproduce Hugh Bronte's style. As told by the man in after years, it
never failed to hold his listeners spell-bound. The stunted trees on
the wind-swept mountains, the ghostly shadows on the moon-bleached
plains, the desolate bogs on every side, the interminable stretches of
road leading over narrow bridges and through shallow fords, the
heavens on fire with stars, and the autumn stricken into gold by the
setting sun, all lent color and reality to Hugh Bronte's eloquence.
Mr. McAllister had heard most of the orators of his time, O'Connell
and Chalmers and Cook, but no man ever roused and thrilled him by his
dramatic power as did Hugh Bronte.
Welsh Bronte traveled at night partly for economy, but more especially
that little Hugh should see no landmark, by which his footsteps might
ever be guided home. Do the incidents of the journey give us any clue
to discover the region where Hugh Bronte lived? They spent four whole
nights on the road, and traversed a distance from one hundred to one
hundred and twenty miles.
My own efforts to find the early home of Hugh Bronte resulted in
discovering no trace or tradition of a Bronte family south of the
Boyne. I have written hundreds of letters to various parts of Ireland
with an equal lack of success, and it is probable that the exact
locality will never be discovered. What is of more importance, is the
fact that the ancient home of the Brontes, where Hugh's grandfather,
the great-great-grandfather of the novelists, lived, was on the north
side of the river Boyne between Oldbridge and Navan, not far from the
spot where William of Orange won his famous battle. Some thirty-five
years ago, the place where the Bronte house once stood, was pointed
out to me. The potato-blight and other calamities have been steadily
removing landmarks in Ireland, and it is not surprising that local
tradition has now faded from the district. Few families there, of the
rank of the Brontes, could trace their pedigrees to the seventh
generation; but that the ancestors of the Brontes lived on the banks
of the Boyne seven generations back is beyond all doubt.