order to pursue that single, absorbing, exquisite gratification.  I am afraid, sir, you think me very foolish.  I know the first letter I wrote to you was all senseless trash from beginning to end; but I am not altogether the idle dreaming being it would seem to denote.  My father is a clergyman of limited, though competent income, and I am the eldest of his children.  He expended quite as much in my education as he could afford in justice to the rest.  I thought it therefore my duty, when I left school, to become a governess.  In that capacity I find enough to occupy my thoughts all day long, and my head and hands too, without having a moment’s time for one dream of the imagination.  In the evenings, I confess, I do think, but I never trouble any one else with my thoughts.  I carefully avoid any appearance of preoccupation and eccentricity, which might lead those I live amongst to suspect the nature of my pursuits.  Following my father’s advice—­who from my childhood has counselled me, just in the wise and friendly tone of your letter—­I have endeavoured not only attentively to observe all the duties a woman ought to fulfil, but to feel deeply interested in them.  I don’t always succeed, for sometimes when I’m teaching or sewing I would rather be reading or writing; but I try to deny myself; and my father’s approbation amply rewarded me for the privation.  Once more allow me to thank you with sincere gratitude.  I trust I shall never more feel ambitious to see my name in print:  if the wish should rise, I’ll look at Southey’s letter, and suppress it.  It is honour enough for me that I have written to him, and received an answer.  That letter is consecrated; no one shall ever see it, but papa and my brother and sisters.  Again I thank you.  This incident, I suppose, will be renewed no more; if I live to be an old woman, I shall remember it thirty years hence as a bright dream.  The signature which you suspected of being fictitious is my real name.  Again, therefore, I must sign myself,

   “C.  Bronte.

“P.S.—­Pray, sir, excuse me for writing to you a second time; I could not help writing, partly to tell you how thankful I am for your kindness, and partly to let you know that your advice shall not be wasted; however sorrowfully and reluctantly it may be at first followed.

   “C.  B.”

I cannot deny myself the gratification of inserting Southey’s reply:—­

   “Keswick, March 22, 1837.

   “Dear Madam,

“Your letter has given me great pleasure, and I should not forgive myself if I did not tell you so.  You have received admonition as considerately and as kindly as it was given.  Let me now request that, if you ever should come to these Lakes while I am living here, you will let me see you.  You would then think of me afterwards with the more good-will, because you would perceive that there is neither severity nor moroseness in