the birthright of the natives of the West Riding, each man relies upon himself, and seeks no help at the hands of his neighbour.  From rarely requiring the assistance of others, he comes to doubt the power of bestowing it:  from the general success of his efforts, he grows to depend upon them, and to over-esteem his own energy and power.  He belongs to that keen, yet short-sighted class, who consider suspicion of all whose honesty is not proved as a sign of wisdom.  The practical qualities of a man are held in great respect; but the want of faith in strangers and untried modes of action, extends itself even to the manner in which the virtues are regarded; and if they produce no immediate and tangible result, they are rather put aside as unfit for this busy, striving world; especially if they are more of a passive than an active character.  The affections are strong and their foundations lie deep:  but they are not—­such affections seldom are—­wide-spreading; nor do they show themselves on the surface.  Indeed, there is little display of any of the amenities of life among this wild, rough population.  Their accost is curt; their accent and tone of speech blunt and harsh.  Something of this may, probably, be attributed to the freedom of mountain air and of isolated hill-side life; something be derived from their rough Norse ancestry.  They have a quick perception of character, and a keen sense of humour; the dwellers among them must be prepared for certain uncomplimentary, though most likely true, observations, pithily expressed.  Their feelings are not easily roused, but their duration is lasting.  Hence there is much close friendship and faithful service; and for a correct exemplification of the form in which the latter frequently appears, I need only refer the reader of “Wuthering Heights” to the character of “Joseph.”

From the same cause come also enduring grudges, in some cases amounting to hatred, which occasionally has been bequeathed from generation to generation.  I remember Miss Bronte once telling me that it was a saying round about Haworth, “Keep a stone in thy pocket seven year; turn it, and keep it seven year longer, that it may be ever ready to thine hand when thine enemy draws near.”

The West Riding men are sleuth-hounds in pursuit of money.  Miss Bronte related to my husband a curious instance illustrative of this eager desire for riches.  A man that she knew, who was a small manufacturer, had engaged in many local speculations which had always turned out well, and thereby rendered him a person of some wealth.  He was rather past middle age, when he bethought him of insuring his life; and he had only just taken out his policy, when he fell ill of an acute disease which was certain to end fatally in a very few days.  The doctor, half-hesitatingly, revealed to him his hopeless state.  “By jingo!” cried he, rousing up at once into the old energy, “I shall do the insurance company!  I always was a lucky fellow!”