Alack! how many Sarrazins and Costars there were to one Balzac, or to one d'Urfé! how numerous were the natural parasites, piteous leeches! whose wit went begging for a discarded bone! How many were condemned by their vocation to die of hunger;--and there was no help for them! Had their talent been ten times greater than it was it would have been equally impossible for them to introduce dignity into their existence. There were no journals, no reviews where an author could present his stuff or his stories for inspection; no one had ever heard of authors' rights; and however successful a play, the end of the dramatist was the same; he was allowed no literary property. How then could he live if not by crooked ways and doubtful means? If a certain amount of respect, not to say honour, were due to his profession, by what means could he acquire his share of it? Any yeoman--the first country squire--could, when so it pleased him, have a play stricken from the roll; if so it pleased him could have the rod laid over the author's back, amidst the plaudits of the contingent which we should call the _claque_. Was it any wonder that authors were pedants to the marrow of their bones when pedantry was the only paying thing in their profession? Writers who chanted their own praises did good unto themselves and enjoyed the reputation of the erudite. They were regarded as professors of mentality, they reflected credit upon the men who lodged and nourished them. For that reason,--and very logically,--when a man knew that he was being lodged and nourished for the sake of his _bel esprit_ if there was any manhood in him he entered heart and soul into his pretensions; and sleeping or waking, night or day, from head to foot, and without one hour of respite, played the part of "man of letters"; he mouthed his words, went about with brows knit, talked from his chest, and, in short, did everything to prove to the world that he was wise beyond his generation; his every effort was bent to manifest his ability; and his manners, his costumes, and his looks, all proved him to be a student of books. And when this was proven his master--the man who lodged and nourished him--was able to get his full money's worth and to stand up before the world revealed in the character of benefactor and protector of Belles Lettres. In our day things wear a different aspect. The author has reached his pinnacle, and in some cases it may even be possible that his merits are exaggerated.