Monsieur Champfleury has
given in one of his works an interesting picture of their life in
common. We translate the painful narration:--
"T'other evening I was sitting in my chimney-corner looking over a
mountain of papers, notes, unfinished articles, and fine novels
begun, but which will never have an end. I discovered amid my
landlords' receipts for house-rent (all of which I keep with great
care, just to prove to myself that they are really and truly paid)
a little copy-book, which was narrow and long, like some mediaeval
piece of sculpture. I opened this little blue-backed copy-book; it
bore the title, ACCOUNT-BOOK. How many memories were contained in
this little copy-book! What a happy life is literary life, seen
after a lapse of five or six years! I could not sleep for thinking
of that little copy-book, so I rose and sat down at my table to
discharge on these sheets all the delightful blue-backed copy-book
memories which haunted my head. Were any stranger to pick up this
little copy-book in the street, he would think it belonged to some
poor, honest family. I dare say you have forgotten the little
copy-book, although three-fourths of its manuscript is in your
hand-writing.
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