Prue had probably announced the Name without its reaching me; for the first Exclamation I heard was from Mr. Fenwick, who appeared to start from the Window-Seat, with, "Sir!—This Condescension confers both Honour and Pleasure!"
"Don't name it," said the other easily, "the Pleasure is mine. I came to see the ingenious Madman to whom I was indebted for the Letter and the Manuscript."
"Madman?" repeated Mr. Fenwick, deprecatingly.
"Yes, Madman," reiterated the other, "for who, in his Senses, would address a Poem to a Patron almost as penniless as himself?"
"Sir, there are other Claims to Reverence," replied Mr. Fenwick, "besides those of Wealth."
"Truly I hope so," replied his Visitor, "but I don't know that they are germane to the present Question. You write a Poem; you want a Mecænas; and instead of addressing a laudatory Dedication to some Peer of Mark and Magnitude, you light upon a poor Brother Witling and Authorling like myself."
"Your Courtesy lessens not the Distance between us," said Mr. Fenwick; "you are a recognised Wit and successful Man of Letters; I only a poor Aspirant."
"Aye, Man, but Wits don't make one another's Fortunes. Shakspeare, Spenser, and Jonson, did not dedicate to one another. Shakspeare had his Southampton; Spenser his Raleigh, Sidney, Hatton, Burleigh, a whole Cloud or Galaxy of Sponsors."
"There's something wrong and humiliating in the System," said Mr. Fenwick.