"`Pore over their books as much as you please, but do not so much as dip into the authors,' said she, when I proposed an introduction to one of the most popular authors of the day. `These people expend their spirit on their works--the part that walks through society is a mere lump of clay, like the refuse of the wine-press after the wine has been expressed.' In conversing with a clever author you sometimes see a new idea brighten his eye or create a smile round his lip; but for worlds he would not give it utterance. It belongs to his next work, and is instantly booked in the ledger of his daily thoughts, value 3 shillings 6 pence. The man's mind is his mine; he can't afford to work it gratis, or give away the produce." If we are to draw any inference from this extract, it is, that although some noblemen do extend their patronage to literary men, at all events the general feeling is against them. I must say that I never was more amused than when I read the above sarcasm. There is much truth in it, and yet it is not true. In future when I _do_ say good things, as they call them, in company, I shall know precise value of my expenditure during the dinner or evening party by reckoning up the three-and-sixpences. One thing is clear, that if an author say half a dozen good things, he fully pays for his dinner. In the "Student," Edward Bulwer makes some remarks which range in opposition to the author of the above "Diary." In arguing that most authors may be known by their works, he says-- "Authors are the only men we really do know; the rest of mankind die with only the surface of their character understood."