those who have a conventionalized idea of country beauty, and to whom
a charming landscape means a river winding its way between poplars, or a
mountain crowned by an old castle, this level road would look very ugly.

But I found it exquisite in spite of its straight lines. Upon the left
there was nothing to be seen but grassy meadow land over which herds of
cattle strayed. And before us, in the distance, something that resembled
a line of ramparts shut in the plains sadly: it was the edge of a rocky
plateau at whose base flowed the river. The far bank of this river was
higher than the side that we were on, and was, in some respects, of
a different character, but for the most part it was as flat and
monotonous. And it is just this sameness that has so much charm for
me, an attraction appreciated seemingly by few others. The great level
plains with their calm and tranquil straight lines are deeply and
profoundly inspiring.

There is nothing in our vicinity that I love any better than the old
road; perhaps I have an affection for it because during my school-boy
days I built so many castles-in-Spain upon those flat plains where, from
time to time, I find them again. It is one of the few spots that has not
been disfigured by factories, docks and railways. It seems a spot that
belongs peculiarly to me, and certainly no one has the power to contest
my spiritual right to it.

The sum of the charm of the sensuous world dwells in us, is an emanation
from ourselves; it is we who diffuse it, each person for himself
according to his power, and we have it back again in the measure of our
out-giving. But I did not comprehend early enough the deep meaning of
this well-known truth. . . . During my childhood and youth the charm
seemed to reside in the thing itself, to have its habitation in the old
walls and the honeysuckle of my garden; I thought it lay along the sandy
shores of the Island and upon the grassy meadows and rocky moorland
about me. Later on, in pouring out my admiration every where, as I did,
I drew too heavily upon the well-spring--I exhausted it at the source.
And, alas! I find the land of my childhood, to which I will no doubt
return to die, changed and shrunken, and only for a moment, in certain
spots, am I able to recreate the illusions I have lost;--there I am for
the most part weighed down by the crushing memories of bygone
days. . . .

As I was saying before my digression, every Wednesday evening I walked
with