"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.