sky. I have a holiday today; but what can
one do on a rainy day? I walk up and down my attic out of temper, and I
determine to light my fire.

Unfortunately the matches are bad, the chimney smokes, the wood goes out!
I throw down my bellows in disgust, and sink into my old armchair.

In truth, why should I rejoice to see the birth of a new year? All those
who are already in the streets, with holiday looks and smiling faces--do
they understand what makes them so gay? Do they even know what is the
meaning of this holiday, or whence comes the custom of New-Year's gifts?

Here my mind pauses to prove to itself its superiority over that of the
vulgar. I make a parenthesis in my ill-temper in favor of my vanity, and
I bring together all the evidence which my knowledge can produce.

(The old Romans divided the year into ten months only; it was Numa
Pompilius who added January and February. The former took its name from
Janus, to whom it was dedicated. As it opened the new year, they
surrounded its beginning with good omens, and thence came the custom of
visits between neighbors, of wishing happiness, and of New-Year's gifts.
The presents given by the Romans were symbolic. They consisted of dry
figs, dates, honeycomb, as emblems of "the sweetness of the auspices
under which the year should begin its course," and a small piece of money
called stips, which foreboded riches.)

Here I close the parenthesis, and return to my ill-humor. The little
speech I have just addressed to myself has restored me my
self-satisfaction, but made me more dissatisfied with others. I could now
enjoy my breakfast; but the portress has forgotten my morning's milk, and
the pot of preserves is empty! Anyone else would have been vexed: as for
me, I affect the most supreme indifference. There remains a hard crust,
which I break by main strength, and which I carelessly nibble, as a man
far above the vanities of the world and of fresh rolls.

However, I do not know why my thoughts should grow more gloomy by reason
of the difficulties of mastication. I once read the story of an
Englishman who hanged himself because they had brought him his tea
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, wi