which attach a man to the soil on which his ancestors were born
and died, to their traditions, their usages, their food, the
local expressions, the peculiar language of the peasants, the
smell of the soil, the hamlets, and to the atmosphere itself.

I love the house in which I grew up. From my windows I can see
the Seine, which flows by the side of my garden, on the other
side of the road, almost through my grounds, the great and wide
Seine, which goes to Rouen and Havre, and which is covered with
boats passing to and fro.

On the left, down yonder, lies Rouen, populous Rouen with its
blue roofs massing under pointed, Gothic towers. Innumerable are
they, delicate or broad, dominated by the spire of the cathedral,
full of bells which sound through the blue air on fine mornings,
sending their sweet and distant iron clang to me, their metallic
sounds, now stronger and now weaker, according as the wind is
strong or light.

What a delicious morning it was! About eleven o'clock, a long
line of boats drawn by a steam-tug, as big a fly, and which
scarcely puffed while emitting its thick smoke, passed my gate.

After two English schooners, whose red flags fluttered toward the
sky, there came a magnificent Brazilian three-master; it was
perfectly white and wonderfully clean and shining. I saluted it,
I hardly know why, except that the sight of the vessel gave me
great pleasure.

May 12. I have had a slight feverish attack for the last few