And following both are the name and date: "William Grimshaw, Haworth, 1750."

After leaving the church, I kept on up the street, following the low wall which encloses the churchyard till it rises higher, to form the boundary of the parsonage grounds. I could see only the higher branches of the shrubbery and a few sprays of ivy, which had crept over the top and were descending to clothe the outer stones with greenness and beauty, until I came to the gate, like a low door in the wall, through which I could catch a glimpse of the flower-beds and walks, which I had before looked upon from the tombstone on the opposite side. Still farther on I passed the kitchen, which has a separate gate and pathway from the street. The door stood open, and I could hear the rattle of cooking utensils and the merry laughter of a child. I thought of Tabby and "the childer" in the old times, and later, of Emily, moulding bread with a German book propped upon the table in front of her, so that she might read while she work ed. Opposite is a substantial stone barn, where chickens were strutting about and cackling in the sunshine. The street, which is more like a quiet lane, ends here, but there is an opening in the stone wall at its head, and a narrow footpath crosses the edge of several fields, till it is lost in the moors beyond. I followed this path, and took a few steps on the outskirts of the moor; but it was too late for a long walk, and I returned by the same way, pausing

near the parsonage gate to pluck a single tiny twig of ivy which had forced its way between the stones.

Directly after breakfast, the next day, I started for a walk upon the moors. It was a fresh, sweet summer-morning; the sky was clear, and dewdrops sparkled on the grass. I walked up the street past the parsonage, and took the same path that I had followed the day before. In one of the fields, leaning upon the wall and talking earnestly, were two women, apparently mother and daughter. They gave me a civil "good-morning" as I came up, and I stopped and entered into conversation with them. They had both known the Bronté family well, and the younger had been one of Charlotte's pupils. They expressed deep affection for the whole family, and especially regretted Charlotte's untimely death, so soon after her happy married life bad begun, and when there was promise of the perfection of her joy in the immediate future.

After leaving my new acquaintances, I went on towards the moors. They rose before me, south and west, in an undulating sweep as far as the eye could reach; but towards the north the fields sloped down a broad valley, in which were a few detached houses (the suburbs, as it were, of the closely-built village on the height), and among them the Methodist and Baptist chapels, each with its separate burying-ground.

The moors are not what I had formerly supposed them to be-immense tracts of level land covered with short dry grass; their surface is greatly diversified, and their unevenness, together with the thickness of the heather that grows upon them, makes walking a toilsome process. The general appearance of these wastes is that of a marsh suddenly dried up, only that to the desolation of barrenness is added the dreariness of superior elevation. They are very dreary, very desolate, even in summer, when the gorse and heather are in blossom, and the air is full of the murmur of bees; they must be bleak indeed when the snow settles upon them and the winter winds sweep over them.

And yet there is the charm of freedom in their wild solitude-a charm which impresses even the passing stranger, and which it is easy to imagine must have held strong power over the sensitive minds of the sisters, who had known them from early childhood.

There was no one in sight at this early hour, and, after wandering about till I was tired, I sat down upon a mass of heather, and, lulled by the humming of the bees and the otherwise perfect silence of the place, I lost, for a time, the consciousness of my own identity, in trying to realize the daily influences of nature and society that had shaped and disciplined those remarkable characters.

I was roused, at last, by the ringing of the bells in Haworth church-tower, answered, like an echo, by those of another church upon another hillside miles away. On my return, I followed a path which soon left the moors for the highway, and then led through green lanes and by pleasant farms to a stile at the upper end of the churchyard. As I mounted the steps, I thought that never before had I seen so cheerful-looking a burial-place. The anniversary had evidently drawn many visitors to the village, and groups of these, attired in their Sunday's best, sat with their friends upon the flat tombstones, or wandered about, reading inscriptions. The church was nearly full when I entered, and the Sunday-school children, in white dresses and blue sashes, made a fine show in the organ-gallery. The Bronté pew was still empty when I took my seat, but soon an old man entered, who, perceiving that I was a stranger, bowed politely, and made some slight remark which led to an extended conversation, in which I learned that he had been a warden of the church in Mr. Bronté's time, and a familiar friend of the whole family. He told me, too, that, being a carpenter, he had made all their coffins, and had seen them all buried, except Branwell. The opening words of the service interrupted our talk, but the old man concluded by inviting me to return with him to his

house, at its close, to see some relics of the family, which I gladly consented to do.

The service was read by the rector, Rev. John Wade, and his curate, and the sermon was preached by the vicar of Kildwick. I was quite surprised at the excellence of the singing; the organ was well played, and the children's voices had evidently received careful training. The psalms for the day were chanted in full, and even in the Lord's Prayer and the Creed the organ and choir followed the voice of the rector sentence by sentence, with soft, sweet melody, and low but distinct articulation. On expressing my surprise, afterwards, at such proficiency in the schoolchildren, I was told that the improvement dated from Mr. Nicholls' arrival in the parish as Mr. Bronté's curate. Before that time the music had been simple, as one would expect to find it in so remote and small a parish; but he had at once taken the matter in hand, and introduced a portion of the choral service of the cathedrals, to the satisfaction of all concerned.

After service, I accompanied Mr. Wood, the late warden, to his home, according to agreement. He showed me a full set of the books written by the sisters, which had been presented by Mr. Bronté, and contained his autograph, signed only a few days before his death, the recipient having supported him in bed for the purpose. I saw, also, a small water-color sketch of a girl playing on a harp, drawn by Emily in early youth. This was nothing more than the crude attempt of a beginner; but an oil-painting of "Jacob's Dream," by Branwell, which hung upon the wall, was full of promise. Another most interesting object was an old copy of somebody's "History of England," bound in leather, grown almost black with time, and with copious notes upon its yellow margins in Charlotte's fine, neat handwriting. I was told that this book had been a great favorite with her from childhood, and lay always upon her table till her death. I had hoped to

find the original crayon portrait of Charlotte in care of some friend; but I now learned that this picture, together with all her personal property, and as much of the furniture as it was practicable to move, was carried to Ireland by Mr. Nicholls, who is now living there, and has recently married his cousin, a Miss Bell. Martha, the devoted servant, accompanied him, so that every living trace of the family has disappeared from Haworth. The good old man seemed pleased by my interest in what he had to tell, and regretted that he had not something left which had belonged to the sisters to give me. When the household was broken up, after Mr. Bronté's death, a great many articles, of worth only through their associations, such as old pens, scraps of manuscript, &c., were given to him, but these had been begged or carried off by strangers, until now he had saved only one token from each member of the family for his own sorrowful pleasure. We spoke of Mrs. Gaskell's book, and he regretted the misinterpretation of character which had arisen from her eager acceptance of information from any and every source. He said that he had known Mr. Bronté intimately from his arrival in the parish till his death, and that his temper was not of a kind to require the occasional discharge of pistols as a safety-valve for the wrath which he would not allow himself to express in words. Also, that the story of his having burned up his children's colored shoes, and cut up his wife's silk dress, as protests against finery, was entirely false and absurd. His opinion of the children agreed with that of others whom I talked with. Emily was an intellectual wonder, but her sympathies were either deficient, or repressed by over-sensitiveness and the unfavorable circumstances of her short and lonely life. Anne was gentle and affectionate, but less remarkable than either of her sisters. Charlotte's character seems to have been the grandest of all, combining, as it did, great power with conscientious activity and unselfish tenderness. Branwell was a great

genius-perhaps the most splendidly gifted of all the group; and his lack of principle, while it must be bewailed, can also be partially at least-explained and excused, by contemplating the ruinous influences upon such a nature of an unoccupied and aimless life in a place so void of mental stimulus and incentives to ambition as Haworth. It was hard enough for his sisters to develop their powers in such an atmosphere, but they had housewifery as a resource, and their necessary attention to its no doubt often uncongenial cares, may have been a wholesome discipline, from which their brother was exempted, to his cost.

On returning to my quarters, I found not only the inn, but the churchyard adjoining, and the street in front, crowded with guests, many of whom, I was told, had come to attend the annual 'Rush-bearing " which was to begin next day. Of the origin and meaning of this festival I could discover nothing more than is implied in the term itself. It is still held in obedience to longestablished custom, but of its former characteristics there remain only the merry-making and small trading which were probably at first only attendant upon some kind of earnest labor. The landlord, with his wife and pretty palefaced daughter, and all the servants besides, were hurrying to and fro, preparing an elaborate dinner, which was to be eaten in the hall of the Mechanics' Institute, for lack of room elsewhere. My table, however, was spread in the private parlor of the inn, and the landlady brought me roast duck as an especial treat, there being not enough of that delicacy to set before the famished multitude. My dessert was a pie made of bilberries-a fruit of which I had often read, and which I found, in appearance and flavor, to be something between a whortleberry and a cranberry.

After dinner I went out again upon the moors, and, finding a secluded spot, lay down in the heather, where I could see nothing but the waste of purple blossoms around me and the blue sky overhead, and bade farewell in my

thoughts to the scenes and associations which I had long pictured in imagination, and had at last found so pleasant and dear in reality. The church-bell again aroused me from my reverie, and I returned by the same shady lanes that I had followed in the morning. The view from some points was very fine. There were groves and orchards and fair homesteads in the valleys, and on all sides rose the undulating outline of the Yorkshire hills, many of them thickly wooded, others cultivated far up the sides in fields whose boundaries were perceptible only by the varied color of their crops.

I was agreeably disappointed in the scenery around Haworth. It is indeed wild, and, in winter, may be oppressively dreary; but, though it presents a strong contrast to the luxurious and tender beauty of some of the midland and southern counties of England, it is far more interesting and satisfying than most regions of the United States. Indeed, I wish every sensitive mind which, in our Western tracts of dead level, swamps, stumps, and rail fences, is striving to keep alive its inborn perception of the beautiful in nature, could have, for nourishment, the variety and picturesqueness of scenery which, amid all their other privations, were the daily comfort and delight of those strong-souled Brontés.

The next morning was dark and rainy. I was to leave by the nine o'clock train; and, while breakfast was preparing, I went out in spite of the storm, and walked up the street past the parsonage kitchen, and back again through the churchyard, where I could see once more the windows of the family parlor, and Charlotte's chamber above.

As I passed the church, the door was open, and I found Mr. Wood within, who, with his assistants, was taking down the scaffolding in front of the organ, where the school-children had sat the day before. He walked up the aisle with me to the pew, and, as we stood over the vault which holds so much precious dust, and looked up at the tablet on the wall above, he told many little anecdotes of past times

how "the girls" would often come to his house because they saw so much of him at their own, though, in general, they were shy of visiting; how Branwell would come to him, and talk for hours of his longing to go out into the great world and see its wonders for himself; how, when Charlotte's portrait came from London, he was sent for without knowing why, and how Charlotte laughed because, not being accustomed to crayon pictures, he did not, at first, feel sure that it was meant for her. He spoke well of Mr. Nicholls, and said that, though it took some time for the inhabitants to understand him thoroughly, as he introduced into the management of church and school affairs many improvements which were at first considered merely as innovations, still their prejudices gradually wore away, and he became, in the end, quite popular. But the place was too full of mournful associations for him to be contented there, and, soon after Mr. Bronté's death, he returned to his old home and early friends.

My hostess gave me an affectionate good-by; and, as I passed down the street towards the station, several persons, whom I had talked with at times during my two days' visit, nodded in a friendly way from shop-windows and open doors. In the lane I met good old Mr. Wood again, who stopped to notice the pot of ivy in my hand, and to give me good wishes for the long voyage before me.

On the brow of the hill I paused before descending, and turned to take a last glimpse of Haworth. The rain had ceased, and the clouds were rolling away in great billowy masses towards the west. Even as I gazed, they parted, disclosing tranquil depths of blue beyond, and a sunbeam stole through the rift, lighting up the gray tower of the church and the slant roof of the parsonage on the height, and giving tints of almost rainbow splendor to the mists that still shrouded the valley beneath.

In view of the excitement which pervaded the literary world concerning the writings of the Bronté sisters while their

authorship remained a mystery, and the enthusiastic reception of Mrs. Gaskell's unique biography, it might seem that, at present, those writings have begun to relax their hold upon the reading public. But the crowds of strangers, both native and foreign, who every summer flock to Haworth to read for themselves that pathetic record in the little church, and turn away disappoint

ed from the closed door of the parsonage, prove that there still exists a strong interest in the lives that were so sorrowful, and yet so bravely lived.

For Emily and Anne there was short time for performance, though, in what they gave, there was glorious promise of future achievement; and for Charlotte, too, we can but echo the lament of her friend: "If she had but lived!”

On the morning of the fourth of July, 1869, two individuals, setting foot for the first time in their lives upon Long Island ground, stepped off the gangplank of the steamer Traveller, and found themselves standing in the clear, crisp morning air on the wharf at Sag Harbor.

"Lookin' for sumbody?" queried an early-risen native, who stood with both hands in his pockets, leaning reflectively against a pile of boards.

"Yes. After that Hampton stage. Where is it?"

66 Stage don't run fourth of July. Want to git over to Hampton?"

main range. The wagon was, if possible, a more melancholy affair than the horse. Two of the wheels had lost several of their spokes, and the bottom was a sort of irregular lattice-work covered with oat-straw.

With many misgivings we climbed in and sat down on the tail-board, which served for a seat.

The distance to East Hampton from Sag Harbor is about eight miles, the road-a good turnpike-winding nearly all the way through dense thickets of scrub-oak, which cover the sandy hills on either side as far as the eye can reach. It is hard to imagine any thing more dreary than this ride on ordinary occasions, although on that morning the clear, pure morning air, intoxicating to our senses as a whiff of nitrous oxide, made the journey very enjoyable.

We had resolved upon walking from East Hampton to Montauk Light, if such a thing were possible, and were desirous of obtaining information in regard to the practicability of the feat. By reference to a map of the eastern portion of Long Island, it will be seen that an unbroken ocean-beach extends from Montauk Point westward for more than thirty miles. This desolate waste, seldom visited by the general traveller, appeared to offer great temptations for the pedestrian who desired to see the Atlantic in all its original savageness, although the account given us by our driver that morning was any thing but encouraging. The distance from East Hampton to Montauk Point was twen