without sugar. There are hours in life when the most trifling cross
takes the form of a calamity. Our tempers are like an opera-glass, which
makes the object small or great according to the end you look through.

Usually, the prospect that opens out before my window delights me. It is
a mountain-range of roofs, with ridges crossing, interlacing, and piled
on one another, and upon which tall chimneys raise their peaks. It was
but yesterday that they had an Alpine aspect to me, and I waited for the
first snowstorm to see glaciers among them; to-day, I only see tiles and
stone flues. The pigeons, which assisted my rural illusions, seem no
more than miserable birds which have mistaken the roof for the back yard;
the smoke, which rises in light clouds, instead of making me dream of the
panting of Vesuvius, reminds me of kitchen preparations and dishwater;
and lastly, the telegraph, that I see far off on the old tower of
Montmartre, has the effect of a vile gallows stretching its arms over the
city.

My eyes, thus hurt by all they meet, fall upon the great man's house
which faces my attic.

The influence of New-Year's Day is visible there. The servants have an
air of eagerness proportioned to the value of their New-Year's gifts,
received or expected. I see the master of the house crossing the court
with the morose look of a man who is forced to be generous; and the
visitors increase, followed by shop porters who carry flowers, bandboxes,
or toys. Suddenly the great gates are opened, and a new carriage, drawn
by thoroughbred horses, draws up before the doorsteps. They are, without
doubt, the New-Year's gift presented to the mistress of the house by her
husband; for she comes herself to look at the new equipage. Very soon
she gets into it with a little girl, all streaming with laces, feathers