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.

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.