The Bronte novels were first read and admired in the Ballynaskeagh
manse. This statement I am able to make with fulness of knowledge.
"Jane Eyre" was read, cried over, laughed over, argued over,
condemned, exalted, by the Reverend David McKee, his brilliant
children and numerous pupils, before the author was known publicly in
England, or a single review of the work had appeared.
The Reverend W. J. McCracken, an old pupil of the Ballynaskeagh manse,
writes me on this point:
"You have no doubt heard Mr. McKee's[2] opinion as to the source of
Charlotte's genius. When Charlotte Bronte published one of her books,
there was always an early copy sent to the uncles and aunts in
Ballynaskeagh. As they had little taste for such literature, the book
was sent straight over to our dear old friend Mr. McKee. If it pleased
him, the Brontes would be in raptures with their niece, and
triumphantly say to their neighbors, 'Mr. McKee thinks her very
_cliver_.'
"I well remember Mr. McKee reading one of Charlotte's novels, and, in
his own inimitable way, making the remark: 'She is just her Uncle
Jamie over the world. Just Jamie's strong, powerful, direct way of
putting a thing.'"
Mrs. McKee, now living in New Zealand, writes me: "My husband had
early copies of the novels from the Brontes, and he pronounced them to
be Bronte in warp and woof, before 'Currer Bell' was publicly known to
be Charlotte Bronte. He held that the stories not only showed the
Bronte genius and style, but that the facts were largely reminiscences
of the Bronte family. He recognized many of the characters as founded
largely on old Hugh's yarns, polished into literature. When 'Jane
Eyre' came into the hands of the uncles they were troubled as to its
character, but they were very grateful to my husband for his good
opinion of its ability. He pronounced it a remarkable and brilliant
work, before any of the reviews appeared."
In addition to the five hundred pounds that Smith, Elder & Co. paid
Charlotte Bronte for the copyright of each of her novels, they sent
half a dozen copies direct to herself. The book was published on
October 16th, and ten days later Charlotte thus acknowledged receipt
of the copies:
_October 26, 1847._
"MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER & CO.:
"_Gentlemen_: The six copies of 'Jane Eyre' reached me this
morning. You have given the work every advantage which good paper,
clear type and a seemly outside can supply; if it fails, the fault
will lie with the author--you are exempt. I now await the judgment
of the press and the public. I am, gentlemen,
"Yours respectfully,
"C. BELL."
Charlotte Bronte's friends were not numerous, and she was most anxious
that none of the few should find out that she was the author. In the
distribution of even her six copies, she would most likely send one to
her friends in Ireland. When the volumes arrived in Ireland, there
was no room for doubt as to the authorship of "Jane Eyre." The Brontes
had no other friend in England to send them books. They themselves
neither wrote nor read romances. They lived them.
It was well known to the family that the clever brother in England
had very clever daughters. Patrick was a constant correspondent
with the home circle, and a not infrequent visitor. Their habits
of study, their wonderful compositions, their education in Brussels,
were steps in the ascending gradation of the girls, minutely
communicated by the vicar to his only relatives, and fairly well
understood in Ballynaskeagh. Something was expected.
That something caused blank disappointment. C(urrer) B(ell) was a thin
disguise for C(harlotte) B(ronte), but it did not deceive the
relatives. Why concealment if there was nothing discreditable to
conceal? A very little reading convinced the uncles and aunts that
concealment was necessary.
The book was not good like Willison's "Balm of Gilead," or like
Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress." It was neither history like Goldsmith,
nor biography like Johnson, nor philosophy like Locke, nor theology
like Edwards; but "a parcel of lies, the fruit of living among
foreigners."
The Irish Brontes had never before seen a book like "Jane Eyre"--three
volumes of babble that would take a whole winter to read. They laid
the work down in despair; but after a little, Hugh resolved to show it
to Mr. McKee, the one man in the district whom he could trust.
The reputation of his nieces in England was dearer to Hugh Bronte than
his own.
He tied up the three volumes in a red handkerchief, and called with
them at the manse. Contrary to his usual custom, he asked if he could
see Mr. McKee alone. The interview, of which my information comes from
an eye-witness, took place in a large parlor, which contained a bed,
and a central table on which Mr. McKee's tea was spread.
Hugh Bronte began in a mysterious whisper to unfold his sad tale
to Mr. McKee, as if his niece had been guilty of some serious
indiscretion. Mr. McKee comforted him by suggesting that the book
might not have been written by his niece at all. At this point
Hugh Bronte was prevailed upon to draw up to the table to partake of
the abundant tea that had been prepared for Mr. McKee, while the
latter proceeded to examine the book. Bronte settled down in the
most self-denying manner to dispose of the heap of bread and butter,
and the pot of tea, while McKee went galloping over the pages of the
first volume of "Jane Eyre," oblivious to all but the fascinating
story.
The afternoon wore on; Bronte sat at the table, watching the features
of the reader as they changed from somber to gay, and from flinty
fierceness to melting pathos.
When the servant went in to remove the tea things and light the
candles, both men were sitting silent in the gloaming. McKee, roused
from his state of abstraction, observed Bronte sitting at the _debris_
and empty plates.
"Hughey," he said, breaking the silence, "the book bears the Bronte
stamp on every sentence and idea, and it is the grandest novel that
has been produced in my time;" and then he added: "The child 'Jane
Eyre' is your father in petticoats, and Mrs. Reed is the wicked uncle
by the Boyne."
The cloud passed from Hugh Bronte's brow, and the apologetic tone from
his voice. He started up as if he had received new life, wrung Mr.
McKee's hand, and hurried away comforted, to comfort others. Mr. McKee
had said the novel was "_gran_" and that was enough for the Irish
Brontes.
There was joy in the Bronte house when Hugh returned and reported to
his brothers and sisters what Mr. McKee had said. They needed no
further commendation, for they knew no higher court on such a matter.
They had all been alarmed lest Charlotte had done something to be
ashamed of; but on Mr. McKee's approval, pride and elation of spirit
succeeded depression and sinking of heart.
Mr. McKee's opinion did not long remain unconfirmed. Reviews from the
English magazines were quoted in the Newry paper, probably by Mr.
McKee, and found their way quickly into the uncles' and aunts' hands.
The publication of the book created a profound impression generally.
It was felt in literary circles that a strong nature had broken
through conventional restraints, that a fresh voice had delivered a
new message. Men and women paused in the perusal of the pretty, the
artificial, the inane, to listen to the wild story that had come to
them with the breeze of the moorland and the bloom of the heather. And
so exquisite was the gift of thought blended with the art of artless
expression, that only the facts appeared in the transparent
narrative.
"The Times" declared: "Freshness and originality, truth and passion,
singular felicity in the description of natural scenery, and in the
analyzation of human thought, enable this tale to stand boldly out
from the mass."
"The Edinburgh Review" said: "For many years there has been no work of
such power, piquancy, and originality."
"Blackwood's Magazine" spoke thus: "'Jane Eyre' is an episode in this
work-a-day world; most interesting, and touched at once by a daring
and delicate hand."
In "Frazer's Magazine" Mr. G. H. Lewes said: "Reality--deep,
significant reality--is the characteristic of the book. It is
autobiography, not perhaps in the naked facts and circumstances, but
in the actual suffering and experience."
"Tait's Magazine," "The Examiner," the "Athenaeum," and the "Literary
Gazette," followed in the same strain; while the "Daily News" spoke
with qualified praise, and only the "Spectator," according to
Charlotte, was "flat."
The club coteries paused, the literary log-rollers were nonplussed,
and Thackeray sat reading instead of writing.
The interest in the story was intensified, inasmuch as no one knew
whence had come the voice that had stirred all hearts. Nor did the
interest diminish when the mystery was dispelled. On the contrary, it
was much increased when it became known that the author was a little,
shy, bright-eyed Yorkshire maiden, of Irish origin, who could scarcely
reach up to great Thackeray's arm, or reply unmoved to his simplest
remark.
The Irish Brontes read the reviews of their niece's book with intense
delight. To them the paeans of praise were successive whiffs of pure
incense. They had never doubted that they themselves were superior to
their neighbors, and they felt quite sure that their niece Charlotte
was superior to every other writer.
But the Brontes were not content to enjoy silently their niece's
triumph and fame. Their hearts were full, and overflowed from the
lips. They had reached the period of decadence, and were often heard
boasting of the illustrious Charlotte. Sometimes even they would read
to uninterested and unappreciative listeners scraps of praise cut from
the Newry papers, or supplied to them from English sources by Mr.
McKee. The whole heaven of Bronte fame was bright and cloudless;
suddenly the proverbial bolt fell from the blue.
"The Quarterly"[3] onslaught on "Jane Eyre" appeared, and all the good
things that had been said were forgotten. The news travelled fast, and
reached Ballynaskeagh. The neighbors, who cared little for what "The
Times," "Frazer," "Blackwood," and such periodicals said, had got hold
of the "Quarterly" verdict in a very direct and simple form. The
report went round the district like wild-fire that the "Quarterly
Review" had said Charlotte Bronte, the vicar's daughter, was a bad
woman, and an outcast from her kind. The neighbors of the Brontes had
very vague ideas as to what "The Quarterly" might be, but I am afraid
the one bad review gave them more piquant pleasure than all the good
ones put together. In the changed atmosphere the uncles and aunts
assumed their old unsocial and taciturn ways. When their acquaintances
came, with simpering smiles, to sympathize with them, their gossip was
cut short by the Brontes, who judged rightly that the sense of
humiliation pressed lightly on their comforters.
In their sore distress they went to Mr. McKee. He was able to show
them the "Review" itself. The reviewer had been speculating on the sex
of Currer Bell, and, for effect, assumed that the author was a man,
but he added:
"Whoever it be, it is a person who, with great mental power,
combines a total ignorance of the habits of society, a great
coarseness of taste, a heathenish doctrine of religion. For if we
ascribe the work to a woman at all, we have no alternative but to
ascribe it to one who has, from some sufficient reason, long
forfeited the society of her sex."
Mr. McKee's reading of the review and words of comment gave no comfort
to the Brontes. I am afraid his indignation at the cowardly attack
only served to fan the flames of their wrath. The sun of his sympathy,
however, touched their hearts, and their pent-up passion flowed down
like a torrent of lava.
The uncles of Charlotte Bronte always expressed themselves, when
roused, in language which combined simplicity of diction with depth of
significance. Hugh was the spokesman. White with passion, the words
hissing from his lips, he vowed to take vengeance on the traducer of
his niece. The language of malediction rushed from him, hot and
pestiferous, as if it had come from the bottomless pit, reeking with
sulphur and brimstone.
Mr. McKee did not attempt to stem the wrathful torrent. He hoped that
the storm would exhaust itself by its own fury. But in the case of
Hugh Bronte the anger was not a mere thing of the passing storm. The
scoundrel who had spoken of his niece as if she were a strumpet must
die. Hugh's oath was pledged, and he meant to perform it. The
brothers recognized the work of vengeance as a family duty. Hugh had
simply taken in hand its execution.
He set about his preparation with the calm deliberation befitting such
a tremendous enterprise. Like Thothmes the Great, his first concern
was with regard to his arms. Irishmen at that time had one national
weapon. What the blood mare is to the Bedawi, or his sling was to King
David, that was the _shillelagh_ to Hugh Bronte as avenger. Irishmen
have proved their superiority as marksmen, with long-range rifles;
they have always had a reputation for expertness at "the long bow;"
but the blackthorn cudgel has always been the beloved hereditary
weapon.
The shillelagh was not a mere stick picked up for a few pence, or cut
casually out of the common hedge. Like the Arab mare, it grew to
maturity under the fostering care of its owner.
The shillelagh, like the poet, is born, not made. Like the poet, too,
it is a choice plant, and its growth is slow. Among ten thousand
blackthorn shoots, perhaps not more than one is destined to become
famous, but one of the ten thousand appears of singular fitness. As
soon as discovered, it is marked, and dedicated for future service.
Everything that might hinder its development is removed, and any
off-shoot of the main stem is skilfully cut off. With constant care it
grows thick and strong, upon a bulbous root that can be shaped into a
handle.
Hugh had for many years been watching over the growth of a young
blackthorn sapling. It had arrived at maturity about the time the
diabolical article appeared in "The Quarterly." The supreme moment of
his life came just when the weapon on which he depended was ready.
Returning from the manse, his whole heart and soul set on avenging his
niece, his first act was to dig up the blackthorn so carefully that he
might have enough of the thick root to form a lethal club. Having
pruned it roughly, he placed the butt end in warm ashes, night after
night, to season. Then when it had become sapless and hard, he cut it
to shape, then "put it to pickle," as the saying goes. After a
sufficient time in the salt water, he took it out and rubbed it with
chamois and train-oil for hours. Then he shot a magpie, drained its
blood into a cup, and with it polished the blackthorn till it became a
glossy black with a mahogany tint.
The shillelagh was then a beautiful, tough, formidable weapon, and
when tipped with an iron ferrule was quite ready for action. It became
Hugh's trusty companion. No Sir Galahad ever cherished his shield or
trusted his spear as Hugh Bronte cherished and loved his shillelagh.
When the shillelagh was ready, other preparations were quickly
completed. Hugh made his will by the aid of a local school-master,
leaving all he possessed to his maligned niece, and then, decked out
in a new suit of broadcloth, in which he felt stiff and awkward, he
departed on his mission of vengeance.
He set sail from Warrenpoint for Liverpool by a vessel called the "Sea
Nymph," and walked from Liverpool to Haworth. His brother James had
been over the route a short time previously, and from him he had
received all necessary directions as to the way. He reached the
vicarage on a Sunday, when all, except Martha the old servant, were at
church. At first she looked upon him as a tramp, and refused to admit
him into the house; but when he turned to go to the church,
road-stained as he was, she saw that the honor of the house was
involved, and agreed to let him remain till the family returned. Under
the conditions of the truce he was able to satisfy Martha as to his
identity, and then she rated him soundly for journeying on the Sabbath
day.
Hugh's reception at the vicarage was at first chilling, but soon the
girls gathered round him and inquired about the Glen, the Knock Hill,
Emdale Fort, and the Mourne Mountains, but especially with reference
to the local ghosts and haunted houses.
Hugh was greatly disappointed to find his niece so small and frail.
His pride in the Bronte superiority had rested mainly on the thews and
comeliness of the family, and he found it difficult to associate
mental greatness with physical littleness. On his return home he
spoke of the vicar's family to Mr. McKee as "a poor _frachther_" a
term applied to a brood of young chickens. From his brother Jamie,
Hugh had heard that Branwell had something of the _spunk_ he had
expected from the family on English soil; but he was too small,
fantastic, and a chatterer, and could not drink more than two glasses
of whiskey at the Black Bull without making a fool of himself. In
fact, Jamie, during a visit, had to carry Branwell home, more than
once, from that refuge of the thirsty, and as he had to lie in the
same bed with his nephew he found him a most exasperating bed-fellow.
He would toss about and rave and spout poetry in such a way as to make
sleep impossible.
The declaration of Hugh's mission of revenge was received by Charlotte
with incredulous astonishment, but gentle Anne sympathized with him,
and wished him success; but for her, Hugh would have returned straight
home from Haworth in disgust.
Patrick, as befitted a clergyman, condemned the undertaking, and did
what he could to amuse Hughy. Careful that Hugh's entertainments
should be to his taste, he took him to see a prize fight. His object
was to show him "a battle that would take the conceit out of him." It
had the contrary effect. Hugh thought that the combatants were too fat
and lazy to fight, and he always asserted that he could have "licked
them both."
The vicar also took him to Sir John Armitage's, where he saw a
collection of arms, some of which were exceedingly unwieldy. Hugh was
greatly impressed with the heaviness of the armor, and especially with
Robin Hood's helmet, which he was allowed to place on his head. Hugh
admitted that he could not have worn the helmet or wielded the sword,
but he maintained at the same time that he "could have eaten half a
dozen of the men he saw in England"--in fact, taken them like a dish
of whitebait.
When Hugh Bronte had exhausted the wonders of Yorkshire, to which the
vicar looked for moral effect, he started on his mission to London. A
full and complete account of his search for the reviewer would be most
interesting, though somewhat ludicrous, but the reader must be content
with the scrappy information at my disposal.
Through an introduction from a friend of Branwell's he found cheap
lodgings with a working family from Haworth. As soon as Hugh had got
fairly settled, he went direct to John Murray's publishing house and
asked to see the reviewer. He declared himself an uncle of Currer
Bell, and said he wished to give the reviewer some specific
information.
He had a short interview at Murray's with a man who said he was the
editor of "The Quarterly," and who may have been Lockhart, but Hugh
told him that he could only communicate to the reviewer his secret
message.
He continued to visit Murray's under a promise of seeing the reviewer,
but he always saw the same man who at first had said that he was
editor, but afterwards assured him he was the reviewer, and pressed
him greatly to say who Currer Bell was.
Hugh declined to make any statement except into the ear of the
reviewer; but as the truculent character of the avenger was probably
very apparent, his direct and bold move did not succeed, and at last
they ceased to admit him at Murray's.
Having failed there, he went to the publishers of "Jane Eyre," and
told them plainly he was the author's uncle, and that he had come to
London to chastise the "Quarterly Review" critic. They treated him
civilly without furthering his quest, but he got from them, I believe,
an introduction to the reading-room of the British Museum, and to some
other reading-rooms.
In the reading-room he was greatly disgusted to find how little
interest was taken in the matter that absorbed his whole attention. He
met, however, one kind old gentleman in the British Museum who
thoroughly sympathized with him, and took him home with him several
times. On one occasion he invited a number of people to meet him at
dinner. The house had signs of wealth such as he had never before
seen or dreamt of. Everybody was kind to him. After dinner he was
called on for a speech, and when he sat down they cheered him and
drank his health.
They all examined his shillelagh, and, before parting, promised to do
their best to aid him in discovering the reviewer; but his friend
afterwards told him, at the Museum, that all had failed, and
considered Hugh's undertaking hopeless.
He tried other plans of getting on the reviewer's track. He would step
into a book-shop, and buy a sheet of paper on which to write home, or
some other trifling object. While paying for his small purchase he
would lift "The Quarterly Review," and casually ask the book-seller
who wrote the attack on "Jane Eyre."
He always found the book-sellers communicative, if not well informed.
Many told him that "Jane Eyre" was a well-known mistress of
Thackeray's. None of them seemed able to bear the thought of appearing
ignorant of anything. It was quite well known, others assured him,
that Thackeray had written the review--"in fact, he admitted that he
was the author of the review." Some declared that Mr. George Henry
Lewes was the author, others said it was Harriet Martineau, and some
ventured to say that Bulwer Lytton or Dickens was the critic. These
names were given with confidence, and with details of circumstances
which seemed to create a probability; but his friend, whom he met
daily at the Museum, assured him that they were only wild and absurd
guesses. Thus ended one of the strangest adventures within the whole
range of literary adventure.
Hugh Bronte failed to find the reviewer of his niece's novel, but
explored London thoroughly. He saw the queen, but was better pleased
to see her horses and talk with her grooms.
He saw reviews of troops, and public demonstrations, and cattle shows,
and the Houses of Parliament, and ships of many nations that lay near
his lodging; and he visited the Crystal Palace and the Tower, and
other objects of interest; and when his patience was exhausted and
his money spent, he returned to Haworth on his homeward journey.
[Illustration: CHARLOTTE BRONTE.]
His stay at the vicarage was brief. During his absence, consumption
had been rapidly sapping the life of the youngest girl, yet the gentle
Anne received him with the warmest welcome, and talked of accompanying
him to Ireland, which she spoke of as "home." At parting she threw her
long, slender arms round his neck, and called him her noble uncle.
Charlotte took him for a walk on the moor, asked a thousand questions,
told him about Emily and Branwell, and, slipping a few sovereigns into
his hand, advised him to hasten home. On the following day he parted
forever from the family that he would have given his life to
befriend.
No welcome awaited him at home, because he had failed in his mission.
He gave to Mr. McKee a detailed account of his adventures in England,
but I do not think anyone else ever heard from him a single word
regarding the sad home at Haworth. But as long as he lived he
regretted his helplessness to avenge the slight put upon his niece,
and seemed to look on the miscarriage of his plans as the great
failure of his life.
Since the foregoing article was put in type Doctor Wright has written
to the editor of this magazine announcing that he has discovered the
author of the "Quarterly" review. He says:
"Assuming the editor's responsibility for the incriminated
interpolations, who wrote the article itself? Secrets have a bad
time of it in our day, and the authorship of the article is no
longer a secret. As has been generally suspected, the writer was a
woman, and that woman was Miss Rigby, the daughter of a Norwich
doctor, and was better known as Lady Eastlake.
"The well-kept secret has been brought to light by Doctor
Robertson Nicoll in the 'Bookman' of September, 1892. Doctor
Nicoll found the key to the mystery in a letter written on March
31, 1849, by Sara Coleridge to Edward Quillman, and published in
the 'Memoirs and Letters of Sara Coleridge.' The following is the
passage referred to:
"'Miss Rigby's article on "Vanity Fair" was brilliant, as all her
productions are. But I could not agree to the concluding remark
about governesses. How could it benefit that uneasy class to
reduce the number of their employers, which, if high salaries were
considered in all cases indispensable, must necessarily be the
result of such a state of opinion?'
"The 'Quarterly' article on 'Vanity Fair' dealt also with 'Jane
Eyre,' and with the 'Report of the Governesses' Benevolent
Institution for 1847,' and it is without doubt the article
referred to by Sara Coleridge.
"On this matter Sara Coleridge was not likely to be under any
mistake. Miss Rigby was her intimate friend, and not likely to
conceal from her so important a literary event as the production
of a 'Quarterly' review.
"I am also informed that Mr. George Smith, the publisher of 'Jane
Eyre,' declares without hesitation or doubt that he had always
known that Lady Eastlake was the author of the 'Quarterly'
article, and that he had declined to meet her at dinner on account
of it.
"The fact that the brilliant Miss Rigby was the writer of the
review greatly strengthens my interpolation theory. To me it seems
beyond the range of things probable, that the pharisaic part of
the article could have come from the same source as 'Livonian
Tales' and the 'Letters from the Shores of the Baltic.'
"The article is therefore of a composite character. It was written
by Miss Rigby the year before her marriage with Sir Charles Lock
Eastlake, and heavily edited during the reign of Lockhart. I know
it will be said that the genial Lockhart would not have added the
objectionable fustian to the superior material supplied by Miss
Rigby; but I must repeat that it was his duty, as a mere matter of
business, and a purely editorial affair, to maintain the
traditional tone of the 'Review.'"
[2] The Reverend David McKee of Ballynaskeagh, a very successful
school teacher, who prepared hundreds of boys for college. Among
them was Captain Mayne Reid, who afterwards dedicated his book,
"The White Chief," to Mr. McKee. Ballynaskeagh, was the centre
of mental activity for the country round about. Its master was
the friend and neighbor of the Irish Brontes. He himself wrote
several books, one of which led to the beginning of a temperance
movement in Ireland. The writer of this article was his pupil at
the time of the publication of "Jane Eyre," and tells whereof he
knows personally, as well as some things of which he was
informed by Mr. McKee.
[3] The December number of the "Quarterly Review" of 1848 is perhaps
the most famous of the entire series. Its fame rests on a
mystery which has baffled literary curiosity for close on half a
century. "Who wrote the review of 'Jane Eyre'?" is a question
that has been asked by every contributor to English literature
since the critique appeared. But thus far the question has been
asked in vain.
The descendant and namesake of the eminent projector and
proprietor of "The Quarterly" does not feel at liberty to solve
the mystery by revealing the writer. I admire the loyalty of
John Murray to a servant whose work has attained an evil
pre-eminence. It is interesting to know, in these prying and
babbling times, that in the house of Murray the secret of even a
supposed ruffian is safe to the third generation.