We left Tahiti in the afternoon, when the greater part of the population came down to the wharf to see us off. We left feeling like Ulysses when he was driven by force from the island of Calypso. And I for one, in any case, felt that come what might, I had had my dream. I had had a glimpse of Eden, a peep into the earthly paradise. I have seen many of the beautiful corners of the world. A lake in Manchuria covered with large pink lotus flowers, as delicate as the landscape on a piece of Oriental china. I have seen Linfa, the deserted ruin of the Roman Campagna, rising from waters thick with water-lilies, and a wilderness of leaves, like a castle which an enchanter has bade go to sleep for hundreds of years. I have seen, in the Scilly Isles, that island which is a white garden set in the bluest of seas. I have seen Capri, and the Greek Islands, and Brusa in Asia Minor in the spring, when the nightingales sing all day, and the roses are in full bloom, and the noise of running water is forever in your ears. But never have I seen anything so captivating as Tahiti, as those long shady walks, those great green trees, that reckless, untutored glory of blossom and foliage, those fruits, those flowers, and the birdlike talk of those careless natives, who wreathe themselves with flowers, and are happy without working, and who put scarlet flowers behind their ears to signify they are going to enjoy themselves: to have a good time; to paint the town red. In Tahiti there are no snakes, and in this respect at least Tahiti is superior to the Garden of Eden, equal to Ireland. _Across the Pacific: September 21-- October 3_ In describing the voyage across the Pacific (in “The Wrecker”), Stevenson says that there are certain periods in life which leave behind them a kind of roseate haze on the map of one’s existence. You cannot remember the details; you are merely conscious of a kind of pleasant blur. I feel the same thing about my voyage from Tahiti to San Francisco, but I have not yet forgotten and shall never forget the details. That voyage stands out for me like a kind of bath which had the power of restoring one’s youth for the time being. The trade winds blew freshly the whole time. There was a breeze even when we crossed “the line.” It was tropically warm, and yet never for one hour too hot. It was only at the end of the voyage that the freshness was overdone, that the weather grew cold, and the sea too rough for comfort; otherwise the weather was perfect. The huge clouds of the Pacific chased one another across the sky, as Stevenson describes them--“blotting out the stars” at night, and making fantastic citadels in the sunset.