WHAT WE MAY LEARN BY LOOKING OUT OF WINDOW
March 3d
A poet has said that life is the dream of a shadow: he would better havepared it to a night of fever! What alters of restlessness andsleep! what disfort! what sudden starts! what ever-returning thirst!
what a chaos of mournful and fused fancies! We either sleep norwake; we seek in vain for repose, aop short on the brink ofa. Two thirds of humaence are wasted iation, and thelast third iing.
When I say humaence, I mean my own! We are so made that each ofus regards himself as the mirror of the unity: asses in ourminds infallibly seems to us a history of the universe. Every man islike the drunkard who reports ahquake, because he feels himselfstaggering.
And why am I uain aless--I, a poor day-laborer in the world--who fill an obscure station in a er of it, and whose work it availsitself of, without heeding the workman? I will tell you, my unseenfriend, for whom these lines are written; my unknown brother, on whom thesolitary call in sorrow; my imaginary fidant, to whom all monologuesare addressed and who is but the shadow of our own sce.
A great event has happened in my life! A crossroad has suddenly openedin the middle of the monotonous way along which I was travelling quietly,and without thinking of it. Two roads present themselves, and I mustchoose between them. One is only the tinuation of that I havefollowed till now; the other is wider, and exhibits wondrous prospects.
On the first there is nothing to fear, but also little to hope; oher are great dangers and great fortune. Briefly, the question is,whether I shall give up the humble offi which I thought to die, forone of those bold speculations in which ce alone is banker! Eversince yesterday I have sulted with myself; I have pared the two andI remain undecided.
Where shall I find light--who will advise me?
Sunday, 4th.--See the sun ing out from the thick fogs of winter!
Spring annous approach; a soft breeze skims over the roofs, and mywallflins to blow again.
We are hat sweet season of fresh green, of which the poets of thesixteenth tury sang with so much feeling:
Now the gladsome month of May.
All things newly doth array;Fairest lady, let me too.
In thy love my life renew.
The chirping of the sparrows calls me: they claim the crumbs I scatter tothem every m. I open my window, and the prospect of roofs opensout before me in all its splendor.
He who has lived only on a first floor has no idea of the picturesquevariety of such a view. He has never plated these tile-coloredheights whitersect each other; he has not followed with his eyesthese gutter-valleys, where the fresh verdure of the attic gardens waves,the deep shadows which evening spreads over the slated slopes, and thesparkling of windows which the setting sun has kio a blaze offire. He has not studied the flora of these Alps of civilization,carpeted by lis and mosses; he is not acquainted with the myriadinhabitants that people them, from the microscopisect to the domesticcat--that reynard of the roofs who is always on the prowl, or in ambush;he has not withe thousand aspects of a clear or a cloudy sky; northe thousand effects of light, that make these upper regions a theatrewith ever-ging ses! How many times have my days of leisure passedaway in plating this wonderful sight; in disc its darker hter episodes; in seeking, in short, in this unknown world for theimpressions of travel