Part 9

It was a nurse or probationer, dressed in the now familiar garb--a young nurse.

"You are Lily Chesters?" she asked. "There is a patient just brought in to the London Hospital who wants to see you. He is named Charley, he says, and will give no other name. He wrote your address on paper. 'Tell her,' he said, 'that it is Charley.'"

Lily rose quietly. "I will go to him."

"He is your brother?"

"He is my lover. Is he ill?"

"He is very ill. He came in all in rags, dirty and penniless--he is very ill indeed. Prepare yourself. He is dying of pneumonia."

I told you before what they call it.

Lily sat at the bedside of the dying man.

"It is all over," he whispered. "I have reformed, Lily. I have quite turned over a new leaf. I have now resolved to taking the pledge. Kiss me, dear, and tell me that you forgive me."

"Yes, yes, Charley. God knows that I forgive you. Why, you will come back to yourself in a very little while. Thank God for it, dear! Your own true self. You will be my dear old boy again--the boy that I have always loved; not the drinking, bad boy--the clever, bright boy. Oh, my dear, my dear! you will see mother again very soon, and she will welcome her boy, returned to himself again."

"Yes," he said, "that's it. A serious reform this time. Lily, I dare say I shall be up and well again in a day or two. Then we will see what to do next. I am going out to Australia, where everybody has a chance--America is a fraud. I shall get rich there, and then you and mother will come to me, and we shall get married, and--oh! Lily, Lily, after all that we have suffered, we shall have--I see that we shall have"--he paused, and his voice grew faint--"we shall have--the most splendid time!"

"He is gone," said the nurse.

AN OLD SONG.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

As, t'other day, o'er the green meadow I pass'd, A swain overtook me, and held my hand fast; Then cried, "My dear Lucy, thou cause of my care, How long must thy faithful young Thyrsis despair? To grant my petition, no longer be shy;" But, frowning, I answer'd, "O, fie, shepherd, fie!"

He told me his fondness like time should endure; That beauty which kindled his flame 'twould secure; That all my sweet charms were for homage design'd, And youth was the season to love and be kind. Lord, what could I say? I could hardly deny, And faintly I uttered, "O, fie, shepherd, fie!"

He swore--with a kiss--that he could not refrain; I told him 'twas rude, but he kissed me again. My conduct, ye fair ones, in question ne'er call, Nor think I did wrong--I did nothing at all! Resolved to resist, yet inclined to comply, I leave it for you to say, "Fie, shepherd, fie!"

STRANGER THAN FICTION.

LOVE IN A COTTAGE. THE IRISH STORY-TELLER. HUGH BRONTE AS A TENANT-RIGHTER.

Stories of the Bronte Family in Ireland.

BY DR. WILLIAM WRIGHT.

I. LOVE IN A COTTAGE.

After a brief honeymoon, spent at Warrenpoint, Alice Bronte returned, on her brother's invitation, to her old home, and Hugh went back to complete his term of service in Loughorne. It soon became desirable that his wife should have a home of her own, and he took a cottage in Emdale, in the parish of Drumballyroney, with which Drumgooland was united at the time.

The house stands near crossroads leading to important towns. In a direct line it is about three and three-quarters statute miles from Rathfriland, seven and three-quarters from Newry, twelve from Warrenpoint, and five and a quarter from Banbridge. The exact position of the house, is on the north-west side of the old road, leading, in Hugh Bronte's day, to Newry and Warrenpoint. Almost opposite, on the other side of the road, there was a blacksmith's shop, which still continues to be a blacksmith's shop. The Bronte house remains, though partially in ruins.

The house is now used as a byre, but its dimensions are exactly the same as when it became the home of Hugh Bronte and his bride. The rent then would be about sixpence per week, and would, in accordance with the general custom, be paid by one day's work in the week, with board, the work being given in the busy season.

The house consisted of two rooms. That over which the roof still stands was without chimney, and was used as bedroom and parlor, and the outer room, from which the roof has fallen, was used as a corn-kiln, and also as kitchen and reception-room.

A farmer's wife, whose ancestors lived close to the Bronte house long before the Brontes were heard of in County Down, pointing to a spot in the corner of the byre opposite to the window, said: "There is the very spot where the Reverend Patrick Bronte was born." Then she added, "Numbers of great folk have asked me about his birthplace, but och! how could I tell them that any _dacent_ man was ever born in such a place!" This feeling on the part of the neighbors will probably account for the fact that everything written thus far regarding Patrick Bronte's birthplace is wrong, neither the townland, nor even the parish of his birth, being correctly given.

In the lowly cottage in Emdale, now known as "The Kiln," and used as a cowhouse, Patrick Bronte was born, on the 17th of March, 1777. Men have risen to fame from a lowly origin, but few men have ever emerged from humbler circumstances than Patrick Bronte.

Many a reader of Mrs. Gaskell's life of Charlotte Bronte has been saddened by the picture of the vicar's daughters amid their narrow and grim surroundings, but the gray vicarage of Haworth was a palace compared with the hovel in which the vicar himself was born and reared.

Besides, the Haworth vicarage was never really as sombre as Mrs. Gaskell painted it, for Miss Ellen Nussey was a constant visitor, and she assures me that the girls were bright and happy in their home, always engaged on some project of absorbing interest, and always enjoying life in their own sober and thoughtful way.

The Bronte cottage in Emdale was very poor, but it was brightened with the perennial sunshine of love. It was love in a cottage, in which the bare walls and narrow board were golden in the light of Alice Bronte's smile. It was said in the neighborhood that Mrs. Bronte's smile "would have tamed a mad bull," and on her deathbed she thanked God that her husband had never looked upon her with a frown.

In their wedded love they were very poor, but very happy. Hugh's constant, steady work provided for the daily wants of an ever-increasing family, but it made no provision for the strain of adverse circumstances. In fact, the Emdale Brontes lived like birds, and as happy as birds.

Hugh Bronte was one of the industrious poor. The salt of his life was honest, manly toil. He had forgotten the luxury of his childhood's home, and he did not feel any degradation in his lowly lot.

In our artificial civilization we have come to place too much store on the accident of wealth. Our Blessed Saviour, whom all the rich and luxurious call "Lord," was born in as lowly a condition of comfortless poverty as Patrick Bronte. Cows are now housed in Bronte's birthplace, but our Lord was born among the animals in the _caravanserai_. And yet, in our social code, we have reduced the Decalogue to this one commandment, "Thou shalt not be poor."

Hugh Bronte did not choose poverty as his lot, but, being a working man, like the carpenter of Nazareth, he did the daily work that came to his hand, and then, side by side with Alice, he found the fulness of each day sufficient for all its wants.

The happy home was soon crowded with children, and the family removed to a larger and better house, in the townland of Lisnacreevy. The parish register of Drumballyroney Church, to which the Brontes belonged, unfortunately goes no farther back than 1779, two years after the birth of Patrick. The register, which is now kept in the parish church of Drumgooland, belonged to the united parishes of Drumballyroney and Drumgooland, in which, when united, the Reverend Mr. Tighe was vicar for forty-two years. When Patrick Bronte was two years old, less one day, his brother William was baptized, and about every two succeeding years either a brother or a sister was added until the family numbered ten.

II. THE DAILY ROUND.

Hugh Bronte and his wife could not live wholly on love in a cottage, and Hugh had to bestir himself. He was an unskilled laborer, but he understood the art of burning lime. There was no limestone, however, in that part of County Down to burn, and as he could not have a lime-kiln, he resolved to have a corn-kiln.

At the beginning of this century a corn-kiln in such a district in Ireland was a very simple affair. A floor of earthenware tiles, pierced nearly through from the underside, was arranged on a kind of platform or loft. Beneath there was a furnace, which was heated by burning the rough, dry seeds, or outer _shelling_, ground off the oats. In front of the furnace there was a hollow, called "the logie-hole," in which the kiln man sat, with the shelling or seeds heaped up within arm's length around him, and with his right hand he _beeked_ the kiln, by throwing, every few seconds, a sprinkling of seeds on the flame. In this way he kept up a warm glow under the corn till it was sufficiently dried for the mill.

Such was the simple character of the ordinary corn-kiln in County Down at the beginning of the century. But I have been assured by the old men of the neighborhood that Hugh Bronte's kiln was of a still more primitive structure. The platform, or corn-floor, was constructed by laying iron bars across unhewn stones set up on end. On these bars straw matting was spread, and on the matting the corn was placed to dry. Such a structure was the immediate precursor of the pottery floored kiln. The design was the same in both, but the matting was always liable to catch fire, and required careful attention.

The kiln was erected in the part of the Bronte cottage now roofless, and, like the cottage itself, must have been a very humble affair. It has been suggested that the kiln may have stood elsewhere, but it is now established beyond all doubt, on the unanimous testimony of the inhabitants, that the Bronte kiln stood in the ruined room of the Bronte cottage, and, in fact, it is known by the name of "the Brontes' kiln."

Within those walls, now roofless, the grandfather of Charlotte Bronte began in 1776 to earn the daily bread of himself and his bride, by roasting his neighbors' oats. His wage was known by the name of "muther," and consisted of so many pounds of fresh oats taken from every hundredweight brought to him to be kiln-dried. The miller, too, was paid in kind, but his muther was taken by measure, after the shelling, or seeds, had been ground off the grain.

When Hugh Bronte had accumulated a sackful of muther he dried it on his kiln, took it to the mill, and paid his muther in turn to the miller, to have it ground into meal.

The meal, when taken home, was stored in a barrel, and with the produce of the rood of potatoes which Hugh had _sod_ on his brother-in-law's farm, became the food of himself and family. As the Brontes could not consume all the muther themselves, the surplus would be sold to provide clothing and other necessaries, and though there remains no trace of pig-stye or fowl-house, there can be little doubt that Mrs. Bronte would have both pigs and fowl to eke out her husband's earnings.

Mrs. Bronte was a famous spinner, and she handed down the art to her daughters. She had always a couple of sheep grazing on her brother's land. She carded and span the wool, her spinning-wheel singing all day beside her husband, as he beeked the kiln. Then, during the long, dark evenings, when they had no light but the red eye of the kiln, she knitted the yarn into hose and vest and shirt, and even head-gear, so that Hugh Bronte, like his sons in after years, was almost wholly clad in "homespun."

This, probably, had something to do with the general impression, which still remains in the neighborhood, of the stately and shapely forms of the Bronte men and women. The knitted woollen garments fitted close, unlike the fantastic and shapeless habiliments that came from the hands of local tailors in those days.

Alice Bronte also span nearly all the garments which she wore, and her tall and comely daughters after her were dressed in clothes which their own hands had taken from the fleece.

On principle, as well as from necessity, the Brontes wore woollen garments, and the vicar carried the same taste with him to England, where his dislike of everything made of cotton was attributed by his biographer to dread of fire. The absurd servants' gossip as to his cutting up his wife's silk gown had possibly a grain of truth in it, owing to his preference for woollen garments; but the atrocity spun out of the gossip by Mrs. Gaskell was probably an exaggeration of an innocent act. At any rate, the old man characterized the statement, I believe truly, by a small but ugly word.

All the Brontes, father, mother, sons, and daughters, to the number of twelve, were clad in wool, and they were the healthiest, handsomest, strongest, heartiest family in the whole country. They were a standing proof of the excellency of the woollen theory, and it is interesting to note how Hugh Bronte's theory and practice have received approval in our own day. For a time the Brontes had to look to others to weave their yarn into the blankets and friezes that they required, but Patrick was taught to weave as soon as he was able to throw the shuttle and roll the beam, and then his father's house manufactured for themselves everything they wore, from the raw staple to the gracefully fitting corset.

Even the scarlet mantle for which "Ayles" Bronte is still remembered in Ballynaskeagh was carded, spun, knitted, and dyed by Mrs. Bronte's own hands. The spirit of independence manifested by the Brontes in England was a survival of a still sturdier spirit that had had its origin in one of the humblest cabins in County Down.

As time passed Hugh Bronte became a famous ditcher. There is a very old man called Hugh Norton, living in Ballynaskeagh, who remembers him making fences and philosophizing at the same time. It is very probable that the introduction of corn-kilns constructed of burnt pottery may have left him without custom for his straw-mat kiln, just as the introduction of machinery at a later period left the country hand-looms idle.

In Hugh Bronte's time more careful attention began to be given to the land. Bogs were drained, fields fenced, roads constructed, bridges made, houses built, with greater energy than had ever been known before, and, although the landlord generally raised the rent on every improvement effected by the tenant, the wave of prosperity and improvement continued. Hugh Bronte was a good, steady workman, and found constant employment, and at that time wages rose from sixpence per day to eightpence and tenpence. The sod fences made by him still stand as a monument of honest work, and there are few country districts where huntsmen would find greater difficulty with the fences than in Emdale and Ballynaskeagh.

As Hugh Bronte advanced in life he continued to prosper. He removed from the Emdale cottage to a larger house in Lisnacreevy, and from thence he and his family went home to live with Red Paddy, Mrs. Bronte's brother. On the Ballynaskeagh farm the children found full scope for their energies, and they continued to prosper and purchase surrounding farms until they were in very comfortable circumstances. The Brontes were greatly advanced in their prosperity by a discovery made by one of their countrymen. John Loudon Macadam was a County Down surveyor. He wrote several treatises on road-making of a revolutionary character. His proposal was to make roads by laying down layers of broken stones, which he said would become hardened into a solid mass by the traffic passing over them.

For a time he was the subject of much ridicule, but he persevered, and proved his theory in a practical fashion. The importance of the invention was acknowledged by a grant from the government of ten thousand pounds, which he accepted, and by the offer of a baronetcy, which he declined. He lived to see the world's highways improved by his discovery, and the English language enriched by his name.

The old, unscientific road-makers were too conservative to engage in the construction of _macadamized_ roads, but the Brontes were shrewd enough to see the value of the new method, and they tendered for county contracts, and their tenders were accepted. Then the way to fortune lay open before them. They opened quarries on their own land, where they found an inexhaustible supply of stone, easily broken to the required size. With suitable stone ready to their hands they had a great advantage over all rivals, and for a generation the macadamizing of the roads in the neighborhood was practically a monopoly in the Bronte family.

I remember the excellent carts and horses employed by the Brontes on the road, and I also distinctly recollect that the names painted on the carts were spelled "Bronte," the pronunciation being "Bronte," never "Prunty," as has been alleged.

With the lucrative monopoly of road-making added to their farm profits the Brontes grew in wealth. They raised on their farm the oats and fodder required by the horses, and, as the brothers did a large amount of the work themselves and had nothing to purchase, the money received for road-making was nearly all profit.

In those days the Brontes added field to field, until they farmed a considerable tract of land, which they held from a model landlord called Sharman Crawford. That was the period at which a two-storied house was built, and there were houses occupied by the Brontes, from the two-storied house down to the thatched cottage. In fact, the house of Red Paddy McClory, in which Alice was born and reared, stood about half-way between the two-storied house and the cabin. The foundations of the house in which Charlotte Bronte's Irish grandmother was born are still visible.

Shortly after the death of old Hugh, and in the time of the Bronte prosperity, one of the brothers, called Welsh, opened a public-house in the thatched cabin referred to, and from that moment, as far as I have been able to make out, the tide of the Bronte prosperity turned.

Everything the Brontes did was genuine. Their whiskey was as good in quality as their roads, and I fear it must be added that they were among the heartiest customers for their own commodities. They ceased to work on the roads, their hard-earned money slipped through their fingers, and the public-house became the meeting-place for the fast and wild youth of the locality.

Then another brother, called William, but known as Billy, opened on the Knock Hill another public-house, which also became a centre of demoralization to the young men of the district, and a source of degradation to the keeper. I remember both these pests in full force. They were much frequented by Orangemen, who, when tired playing "The Protestant Boys," used to slake their thirst and fire their hatred of the _Papishes_ by drinking Bronte's whiskey.

I am bound to say distinctly that I do not believe any of Charlotte Bronte's Irish uncles ever became confirmed drunkards. They took to the drink business too late in life to be wholly overmastered by the passion for alcohol. Besides, their father's example, and the industrious habits of their youth and early manhood, had combined to give moral fibre to the stubborn Bronte character, which saved them from precipitate descent on the down grade.

I never saw any of the Brontes drunk, and I believe the occasional drinking of the family was limited to the two brothers who sold drink, and who would always feel bound in honor "to taste a drop" with their customers. The other brothers would drink like other people, in fairs and markets, where every transaction was ratified by a glass of grog, but I do not believe they often drank to excess.

In those days everybody drank. At births, at baptisms, at weddings, at wakes, at funerals, and in all the other leading incidents of life, intoxicating liquors were considered indispensable. If a man was too hot he drank, and if he was too cold he drank. He drank if he was in sorrow, and he drank when in joy. When his gains were great he drank, and he drank also when crushed by losses. The symbol of universal hospitality was the black bottle.

Ministers of the Gospel used to visit their people quarterly. On these visitations the minister was accompanied by one of his deacons. Into whatever house they entered they were immediately met by the hospitable bottle and two glasses, and they were always expected to fortify themselves with spirituous draughts before beginning their spiritual duties. As the visitors called at from twelve to twenty houses on their rounds, they must have been "unco fou" by the close of the day.

It is interesting to remember that when the drinking habits of the country were at their height the temperance reformation was begun in Great Britain, by the best friend the Brontes had, the Reverend David McKee. It is of still greater interest, in our present investigation, to know that Mr. McKee was moved to the action which has resulted in the great temperance reform by the Bronte public-houses at his door, and by the demoralization they were creating.

The little incident which has led to such momentous results came about in this way: the Reverend David McKee of Ballynaskeagh was the minister of the Presbyterian Church of Anaghlone. He had built his church, and he was largely independent of his congregation. One Sunday he thought fit to preach on _The Rechabites_. In the sermon he ridiculed and denounced the drinking habits of the time. The sermon fell on the congregation like a thunderbolt from a cloudless sky. Blank amazement in the audience was succeeded by hot indignation.

On the following morning an angry deputation from the congregation waited on Mr. McKee. He listened to them with patient courtesy while they urged that the sermon should be immediately burnt, and that an apology should be tendered to the congregation on the following Sunday.

When the deputation had exhausted themselves and their subject, Mr. McKee began quietly to draw attention to the happy homes which had been desolated by whiskey, the brilliant young men whom it had ruined, the amiable neighbors whom it had hurried into drunkards' graves, and then he pointed to the Brontes as an example of the baneful influence of the trade on the sellers of the stuff themselves.

The deputation, some of them Orangemen, were in no mood to listen to radical doctrines, subversive of their time-honored customs, and they began to threaten.

Mr. McKee, who was six feet six inches high, and of great muscular power, drew himself up to his full stature, and calling to his servant, then at breakfast in the kitchen, told him to saddle his best mare, as he wished to ride in haste to Newry, to publish his sermon in time for circulation on the following Sunday. Then, turning to the deputation, he thanked them for their early visit, which he hoped would bear fruit, and bowed them out of his parlor.

He rode the best horse in the whole district, and he never drew rein till he reached the printing-office in Newry, and he had the sermon ready for circulation on the following Sunday, and handed it to his people as they retired.

In 1798 Mr. McKee, then a youth, watched from a hill in his father's land the battle of Ballynahinch. He had in his arms at the time a little nephew who had been left in his charge. The little nephew became the great Doctor Edgar of Belfast, who used to boast playfully that he was "up in arms" at the battle of Ballynahinch.