mber 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 the state of mind to which years and
observation have brought me.

"It is, by God's mercy, in our power to attain a degree of
self-government, which is essential to our own happiness, and
contributes greatly to that of those around us. Take care of over-
excitement, and endeavour to keep a quiet mind (even for your health
it is the best advice that can be given you): your moral and spiritual
improvement will then keep pace with the culture of your intellectual
powers.

"And now, madam, God bless you!

"Farewell, and believe me to be your sincere friend,

"ROBERT SOUTHEY.

Of this second letter, also, she spoke, and told me that it contained an
invitation for her to go and see the poet if ever she visited the Lakes.
"But there was no money to spare," said she, "nor any prospect of my ever
earning money enough to have the chance of so great a pleasure, so I gave
up thinking of it." At the time we conversed together on the subject we
were at the Lakes. But Southey was dead.

This "stringent" letter made her put aside, for a time, all idea of
literary enterprise. She bent her whole energy towards the fulfilment of
the duties in hand; but her occupation was not sufficient food for her
great forces of intellect, and they cried out perpetually, "Give, give,"
while the comparatively less breezy air of Dewsbury Moor told upon her
health