So I light the little lamp over which, on grand occasions, I make a cup of the coffee that my portress's son brought from the Levant, and I look in my bookcase for one of my favorite authors.
First, here is the amusing parson of Meudon; but his characters are too fond of talking slang:--Voltaire; but he disheartens men by always bantering them:--Moliere; but he hinders one's laughter by making one think:--Lesage; let us stop at him.

Being profound rather than grave, he preaches virtue while ridiculing vice; if bitterness is sometimes to be found in his writings, it is always in the garb of mirth: he sees the miseries of the world without despising it, and knows its cowardly tricks without hating it.
Let us call up all the heroes of his book....

Gil Blas, Fabrice, Sangrado, the Archbishop of Granada, the Duke of Lerma, Aurora, Scipio! Ye gay or graceful figures, rise before my eyes, people my solitude; bring hither for my amusement the world-carnival, of which you are the brilliant maskers! Unfortunately, at the very moment I made this invocation, I recollected I had a letter to write which could not be put off.

One of my attic neighbors came yesterday to ask me to do it.

He is a cheerful old man, and has a passion for pictures and prints.