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.