When I say human existence, I mean my own! We are so made that each of us
regards himself as the mirror of the community: what passes in our minds
infallibly seems to us a history of the universe. Every man is like the
drunkard who reports an earthquake, because he feels himself staggering.

And why am I uncertain and restless--I, a poor day-laborer in the
world--who fill an obscure station in a corner of it, and whose work it
avails itself of, without heeding the workman? I will tell you, my unseen
friend, for whom these lines are written; my unknown brother, on whom the
solitary call in sorrow; my imaginary confidant, to whom all monologues
are addressed and who is but the shadow of our own conscience.

A great event has happened in my life! A crossroad has suddenly opened in
the middle of the monotonous way along which I was travelling quietly,
and without thinking of it. Two roads present themselves, and I must
choose between them. One is only the continuation of that I have followed
till now; the other is wider, and exhibits wondrous prospects. On the
first there is nothing to fear, but also little to hope; on the other are
great dangers and great fortune. Briefly, the question is, whether I
shall give up the humble office in which I thought to die, for one of
those bold speculations in which chance alone is banker! Ever since
yesterday I have consulted with myself; I have compared the two and I
remain undecided.

Where shall I find light--who will advise me?

Sunday, 4th.--See the sun coming out from the thick fogs of winter!
Spring announces its approach; a soft breeze skims over the roofs, and my
wallflower begins to blow again.

We are near that sweet season of fresh green, of which the poets of the
sixteenth century 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 to
them every morning. I open my window, and the prospect of roofs opens out
before me in all its splendor.

He who has lived only on a first floor has no idea of the picturesque
variety of such a view. He has never contemplated these tile-colored
heights which intersect each other; he has not followed with his eyes
these gutter-valleys, where the fresh verdure of the attic gardens waves,
the deep shadows which evening spreads over the slat