The church inside is old, and quaint, and simple; it can neither be called elegant, comfortable, spacious nor antique. Old Mr. Bronte was to preach, and the Rev. Mr. Nicholls read the service. As a compliment to a stranger, I had been invited by the organist of the church to play the organ--a neat little instrument of some eight or ten stops; and it was while "giving out" the familiar tune of Antioch that I noticed, in the reflection of a little mirror placed above the keyboard, that Mr. Bronte had entered the church, and was passing up the aisle. He wore the customary black gown, and the lower part of his face was quite buried in an enormous white neckcloth--the most monstrous article of the kind I had ever beheld. The reflection in that little mirror I shall never forget. The old man, walking feebly up the aisle, shading his eyes with his right hand, and supporting himself with a cane, the quiet congregation, and the singular dress and venerable bald head of the old preacher, all formed a character-picture, that is not often seen. His sermon was extempore, and consisted of a series of running paraphrases and simple and touching explanations upon a few verses selected from the Lamentations of Jeremiah. * * * * * After church, my friend the stationer walked with me on the moors. Charlotte Bronte's experience of the world was so very limited, that in drawing the characters in her novels, she had to select the real, living people in the vicinity. Thus, my friend pointed out one house and another to me as being the residence of many of the originals of many of the characters in her works, especially in "Shirley." Soon, however, our path across the moors took us out of human habitations, and among the moorland solitudes the Bronte sisters so fondly loved. Cold and desolate as they appear from a distance, a nearer examination proves them to be replete with exquisite beauty. Delicate heather-blooms carpet the immense slope, and bend like nodding plumes, in graceful waves, to the breezes that play heedlessly down the hill-side. Gay yellow buttercups, bright purple heath-flowers, and dark bilberries, vary the general violet tint, while the tiny stems of these gentle plants spring from rich tufts of emerald moss, and are pushed aside by the spray-like leaves of the wild fern. The hum of bees imparts a half busy, half drowsy sound to the scene, while far down the long easy slopes are little valleys, through which trickle talkative brooks, that sometimes peep between the low foliage on their margins, and are the next moment lost to sight behind the crowding bushes. It is no wonder that Charlotte and her sisters loved their quiet walks along the moors.