"Art," he went on, "so inspires a man with great thoughts, that it makes more than a gentleman--it makes a nobleman--of him. Who, I would ask, when he reads the sorrows of Clarissa, thinks of the trade--the mere mechanical trade--in which the author's money was earned? I cannot but believe that the time will come when the Court itself, unfriendly as it now is to men of letters, will confer titles and place upon that poor poet whose very name cannot now reach the walls of the palace." My ladies' good fortune (I mean in receiving the weekly stipend for my maintenance) was thus shared by the starving poet, whom they no longer saw, helpless to relieve him, suffering the privation of hunger. Often have I observed one or other of the sisters willingly go without her dinner, pleading a headache, in order that her portion might be reserved for Mr. Stallabras. "For sensibility," said Mrs. Esther, "is like walking up a hill: it promotes appetite." "So does youth," said Mrs. Deborah, more practical. "Mr. Stallabras is still a young man, Kitty; though you think thirty old." That he was a very great poet we all agreed, and the more so when, after a lucky letter, he secured a subscriber or two for his next volume, and was able to present us once more with a book of his own poetry. I do not know whether he more enjoyed hearing me read them aloud (for then he bowed, spread his hands, and inclined his head this way and that, in appreciation of the melody and delicacy of the sentiments), or whether he preferred to read them himself; for then he could stop when he pleased, with, "This idea, ladies, was conceived while wandering amid the fields near Bagnigge Wells;" "This came to me while watching the gay throng in the Mall;" "This, I confess, was an inspiration caught in church." "Kitty should enter these confessions in a book," said Mrs. Esther. "Surely they will become valuable in the day--far distant, I trust--when your life has to be written, Mr. Stallabras." "Oh, madam!" He bowed again, and lifted his hands in deprecation. But he was pleased. "Perhaps," he said, "meaner bards have found a place in the Abbey, and a volume dedicated to their lives. If Miss Kitty will condescend to thus preserve recollections of me, I shall be greatly flattered." I did keep a book, and entered in it all that dropped from his lips about himself, his opinions, his maxims, his thoughts, and so forth. He gradually got possessed of the idea that I would myself some day write his life, and he began insensibly to direct his conversation mainly to me. Sometimes he met me in the market, or on the stairs, when he would tell me more.