oetry until
better days, when his life should have a little more silk and a little
more gold woven into its woof. But the hours of literary apprenticeship
even of prose-writers are long and arduous, especially to those whose
only patrimony is their shadow in the sun. 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. I am going to recall its origin to you.

"Nine years ago we lived together, and we possessed between us
fourteen dollars a month. Full of confidence in the future, we
rented two rooms in the Rue de Vaugirard for sixty dollars a year.
Youth reckons not. You spoke to the porter's wife of such a
sumptuous set of furniture that she let the rooms to you on your
honest face without asking references. Poor woman, what thrills of
horror ran through her when she saw our furniture set down before
her door! You had six plates, three of which were of porcelain, a
Shakspeare, the works of Victor Hugo, a chest of drawers in its
dotage, and a Phrygian cap. By some extraordinary chance, I had
two mattresses, a hundred and fifty volumes, an arm-chair, two
plain chairs, a table, and a skull. The idea of making a grand
sofa belongs to you, I confess; but it was a deplorable idea. W