the proceedings were far worse.  Then, as before, the church was well filled, but the aisles were left clear; not a creature, not an obstacle was in the way.  The reason for this was made evident about the same time in the reading of the service as the disturbances had begun the previous week.  A man rode into the church upon an ass, with his face turned towards the tail, and as many old hats piled on his head as he could possibly carry.  He began urging his beast round the aisles, and the screams, and cries, and laughter of the congregation entirely drowned all sound of Mr. Redhead’s voice, and, I believe, he was obliged to desist.

Hitherto they had not proceeded to anything like personal violence; but on the third Sunday they must have been greatly irritated at seeing Mr. Redhead, determined to brave their will, ride up the village street, accompanied by several gentlemen from Bradford.  They put up their horses at the Black Bull—­the little inn close upon the churchyard, for the convenience of arvills as well as for other purposes—­and went into church.  On this the people followed, with a chimney-sweeper, whom they had employed to clean the chimneys of some out-buildings belonging to the church that very morning, and afterward plied with drink till he was in a state of solemn intoxication.  They placed him right before the reading-desk, where his blackened face nodded a drunken, stupid assent to all that Mr. Redhead said.  At last, either prompted by some mischief-maker, or from some tipsy impulse, he clambered up the pulpit stairs, and attempted to embrace Mr. Redhead.  Then the profane fun grew fast and furious.  Some of the more riotous, pushed the soot-covered chimney-sweeper against Mr. Redhead, as he tried to escape.  They threw both him and his tormentor down on the ground in the churchyard where the soot-bag had been emptied, and, though, at last, Mr. Redhead escaped into the Black Bull, the doors of which were immediately barred, the people raged without, threatening to stone him and his friends.  One of my informants is an old man, who was the landlord of the inn at the time, and he stands to it that such was the temper of the irritated mob, that Mr. Redhead was in real danger of his life.  This man, however, planned an escape for his unpopular inmates.  The Black Bull is near the top of the long, steep Haworth street, and at the bottom, close by the bridge, on the road to Keighley, is a turnpike.  Giving directions to his hunted guests to steal out at the back door (through which, probably, many a ne’er-do-weel has escaped from good Mr. Grimshaw’s horsewhip), the landlord and some of the stable-boys rode the horses belonging to the party from Bradford backwards and forwards before his front door, among the fiercely-expectant crowd.  Through some opening between the houses, those on the horses saw Mr. Redhead and his friends creeping along behind the street; and then, striking spurs, they dashed quickly down to the turnpike; the obnoxious clergyman and his friends mounted in haste, and had sped some distance before the people found out that their prey had escaped, and came running to the closed turnpike gate.