Of course, the state of health thus described came on gradually, and is not to be taken as a picture of her condition in 1836.  Yet even then there is a despondency in some of her expressions, that too sadly reminds one of some of Cowper’s letters.  And it is remarkable how deeply his poems impressed her.  His words, his verses, came more frequently to her memory, I imagine, than those of any other poet.

“Mary” says:  “Cowper’s poem, ‘The Castaway,’ was known to them all, and they all at times appreciated, or almost appropriated it.  Charlotte told me once that Branwell had done so; and though his depression was the result of his faults, it was in no other respect different from hers.  Both were not mental but physical illnesses.  She was well aware of this, and would ask how that mended matters, as the feeling was there all the same, and was not removed by knowing the cause.  She had a larger religious toleration than a person would have who had never questioned, and the manner of recommending religion was always that of offering comfort, not fiercely enforcing a duty.  One time I mentioned that some one had asked me what religion I was of (with the view of getting me for a partizan), and that I had said that that was between God and me;—­Emily (who was lying on the hearth-rug) exclaimed, ‘That’s right.’  This was all I ever heard Emily say on religious subjects.  Charlotte was free from religious depression when in tolerable health; when that failed, her depression returned.  You have probably seen such instances.  They don’t get over their difficulties; they forget them, when their stomach (or whatever organ it is that inflicts such misery on sedentary people) will let them.  I have heard her condemn Socinianism, Calvinism, and many other ‘isms’ inconsistent with Church of Englandism.  I used to wonder at her acquaintance with such subjects.”

   “May 10th, 1836.

“I was struck with the note you sent me with the umbrella; it showed a degree of interest in my concerns which I have no right to expect from any earthly creature.  I won’t play the hypocrite; I won’t answer your kind, gentle, friendly questions in the way you wish me to.  Don’t deceive yourself by imagining I have a bit of real goodness about me.  My darling, if I were like you, I should have my face Zion-ward, though prejudice and error might occasionally fling a mist over the glorious vision before me—­but I am not like you.  If you knew my thoughts, the dreams that absorb me, and the fiery imagination that at times eats me up, and makes me feel society, as it is, wretchedly insipid, you would pity and I dare say despise me.  But I know the treasures of the Bible; I love and adore them.  I can see the Well of Life in all its clearness and brightness; but when I stoop down to drink of the pure waters they fly from my lips as if I were Tantalus.

“You are far too kind and frequent