This was Mr. Redhead’s last appearance at Haworth for many years.  Long afterwards, he came to preach, and in his sermon to a large and attentive congregation he good-humouredly reminded them of the circumstances which I have described.  They gave him a hearty welcome, for they owed him no grudge; although before they had been ready enough to stone him, in order to maintain what they considered to be their rights.

The foregoing account, which I heard from two of the survivors, in the presence of a friend who can vouch for the accuracy of my repetition, has to a certain degree been confirmed by a letter from the Yorkshire gentleman, whose words I have already quoted.

“I am not surprised at your difficulty in authenticating matter-of-fact.  I find this in recalling what I have heard, and the authority on which I have heard anything.  As to the donkey tale, I believe you are right.  Mr. Redhead and Dr. Ramsbotham, his son-in-law, are no strangers to me.  Each of them has a niche in my affections.

“I have asked, this day, two persons who lived in Haworth at the time to which you allude, the son and daughter of an acting trustee, and each of them between sixty and seventy years of age, and they assure me that the donkey was introduced.  One of them says it was mounted by a half-witted man, seated with his face towards the tail of the beast, and having several hats piled on his head.  Neither of my informants was, however, present at these edifying services.  I believe that no movement was made in the church on either Sunday, until the whole of the authorised reading-service was gone through, and I am sure that nothing was more remote from the more respectable party than any personal antagonism toward Mr. Redhead.  He was one of the most amiable and worthy of men, a man to myself endeared by many ties and obligations.  I never heard before your book that the sweep ascended the pulpit steps.  He was present, however, in the clerical habiliments of his order . . .  I may also add that among the many who were present at those sad Sunday orgies the majority were non-residents, and came from those moorland fastnesses on the outskirts of the parish locally designated as ‘ovver th’ steyres,’ one stage more remote than Haworth from modern civilization.

“To an instance or two more of the rusticity of the inhabitants of the chapelry of Haworth, I may introduce you.

“A Haworth carrier called at the office of a friend of mine to deliver a parcel on a cold winter’s day, and stood with the door open.  ’Robin! shut the door!’ said the recipient.  ‘Have you no doors in your country?’ ‘Yoi,’ responded Robin, ’we hev, but we nivver steik ’em.’  I have frequently remarked the number of doors open even in winter.