year, with the dedication to Mr. Thackeray, people looked at each
other and wondered afresh. But Currer Bell knew no more of
William Makepeace Thackeray as an individual man--of his life,
age, fortunes, or circumstances--than she did of those of Mr.
Michael Angelo Titmarsh. The one had placed his name as author
upon the title-page of Vanity Fair, the other had not. She was
thankful for the opportunity of expressing her high admiration of
a writer, whom, as she says, she regarded "as the social
regenerator of his day--as the very master of that working corps
who would restore to rectitude the warped state of things. . . .
His wit is bright, his humour attractive, but both bear the same
relation to his serious genius, that the mere lambent
sheet-lightning, playing under the edge of the summer cloud, does
to the electric death-spark hid in its womb."

Anne Bronte had been more than usually delicate all the summer,
and her sensitive spirit had been deeply affected by the great
anxiety of her home. But now that "Jane Eyre" gave such
indications of success, Charlotte began to plan schemes of future
pleasure,--perhaps relaxation from care, would be the more
correct expression,--for their darling younger sister, the
"little one" of the household. But, although Anne was cheered for
a time by Charlotte's success, the fact was, that neither her
spirits nor her bodily strength were such as to incline her to
much active exertion, and she led far too sedentary a life,
continually stooping either over her book, or work, or at her
desk. "It is with difficulty," writes her sister, "that we can
prevail upon her to take a walk, or induce her to converse. I
look forward to next summer with the confident intention that she
shall, if possible, make at least a brief sojourn at the