The poetry enclosed seems to me by no means equal to parts of the letter; but, as every one likes to judge for himself, I copy the six opening stanzas—­about a third of the whole, and certainly not the worst.

   So where he reigns in glory bright,
   Above those starry skies of night,
   Amid his Paradise of light
      Oh, why may I not be?

   Oft when awake on Christmas morn,
   In sleepless twilight laid forlorn,
   Strange thoughts have o’er my mind been borne,
      How he has died for me.

   And oft within my chamber lying,
   Have I awaked myself with crying
   From dreams, where I beheld Him dying
      Upon the accursed Tree.

   And often has my mother said,
   While on her lap I laid my head,
   She feared for time I was not made,
      But for Eternity.

   So “I can read my title clear,
   To mansions in the skies,
   And let me bid farewell to fear,
      And wipe my weeping eyes.”

   I’ll lay me down on this marble stone,
   And set the world aside,
   To see upon her ebon throne
      The Moon in glory ride.

Soon after Charlotte returned to Dewsbury Moor, she was distressed by hearing that her friend “E.” was likely to leave the neighbourhood for a considerable length of time.

   “Feb. 20th.

“What shall I do without you?  How long are we likely to be separated?  Why are we to be denied each other’s society?  It is an inscrutable fatality.  I long to be with you, because it seems as if two or three days, or weeks, spent in your company would beyond measure strengthen me in the enjoyment of those feelings which I have so lately begun to cherish.  You first pointed out to me that way in which I am so feebly endeavouring to travel, and now I cannot keep you by my side, I must proceed sorrowfully alone.  Why are we to be divided?  Surely, it must be because we are in danger of loving each other too well—­of losing sight of the Creator in idolatry of the creature.  At first, I could not say ‘Thy will be done!’ I felt rebellious, but I knew it was wrong to feel so.  Being left a moment alone this morning, I prayed fervently to be enabled to resign myself to every decree of God’s will, though it should be dealt forth by a far severer hand than the present disappointment; since then I have felt calmer and humbler, and consequently happier.  Last Sunday I took up my Bible in a gloomy state of mind:  I began to read—­a feeling stole over me such as I have not known for many long years—­a sweet, placid sensation, like those, I remember, which used to visit me when I was a little child, and, on Sunday evenings in summer, stood by the open window reading the life of a certain French nobleman, who attained a purer and higher degree of sanctity than has been known since the days of the early martyrs.”

“E.’s” residence was equally within