“Here,” he whispered, “is a family of cowards, two parents and three children, a sister and two brothers. One of the brothers is a poet of some ability, but his family opposes him on the ground that it is not nice and proper to write such sentiments as he desires to give forth. Instead of lending a word of encouragement to his feeble will, as relatives are supposed to do, they show him their utmost contempt. And he does not realize that contempt from certain persons is a compliment. They are Pharisees of the purest type; and no more profound coward exists than a Pharisee, for he or she is invariably a conscious coward, shamming sincerity.” The Excelsior descended to the open air, and I gladly followed him; for the atmosphere was close and exotic within. “Now I excuse you;” he said to me, yawning, “please do not visit me again for at least some months.” IX I am on the Pacific seaboard, seated in an ocean breeze; the sun, falling delicately through a mist, makes me feel like a young god awaiting the daughters of men. It seems as though all nature would utter passionate yearnings upon this warm, buxom day. Yonder in clear view are the round, beautifully curved hills, rising gently from the soft smooth water, like breasts from a woman’s form. And the firm, supple ship masts leap upward upon the waves. “The time of the singing of birds is come, And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.” Where is my mate? I am ready for her, and she for me. And yet we are denied each other. By what right? By whose authority? There is evil thought in forbidding the pure, the naturally pure, to embrace. In front of me, built up from the shifting beach, is a huge, stolid sea-wall, composed of a multitude of boulders, stuck together with crude, coarse cement. I have examined these boulders somewhat carefully with my eyes. They have each and every one of them been rolled and washed and moulded by the sea. And yet no two are alike. Some are beautifully shaped with radiant crystals in their make-up. Some are jagged, rough-edged pyramids, uncut, with moss upon them. Many are flat rocks, worn by the beatings of countless aeons of waves until they are quite colorless. And then there is another kind which resembles these last and yet seem different. I refer to the plain, ordinary, flat, stupid stone, looking for all the world as if it had been created merely to be trodden upon. But the boulders that interest and amuse me most are those which are sheer bulks of matter or rather hulks of space, having their own way, always getting the place they want, boulders which are proud and satisfied with being exactly the sort of boulders that they are. I think that they like being big boulders chiefly because they catch the eye.