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 Brontë’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 175 arrived in Ireland, there was no room for doubt as to the authorship of “Jane Eyre.” The Brontës 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(rontë), 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 Brontës 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 Brontë 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 Brontë 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 Brontë 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. Brontë 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; Brontë sat at the table, watching the features of the reader as they changed from somber to gay, and from flinty fierceness to melting pathos.