r. 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