believeyoucandowhatloverscannotdo,——makeothersfeelastheydo,——andthatiswhatIcallbeinganartist.Youwrite?Youareapoet?\"
\"Ohdear,no,\"hesaidwithasmile,halfofreliefandhalfofnaivesuperiority,\"I\'maprosewriter——onadailynewspaper.\"
Tohissurpriseshewasnotdisconcerted;ratheralookofanimationlitupherfaceasshesaidbrightly,\"Oh,then,youcanofcoursesatisfymycuriosityaboutsomething.YouknowtheroadfromSanFranciscototheCliffHouse.Exceptfortheviewofthesea-lionswhenonegetsthereit\'sstupid;mybrothersaysit\'slikealltheSanFranciscoexcursions,——adustydrivewithajulepattheendofit.Well,onedaywewerecomingbackfromadrivethere,andwhenwewerebeginningtowindalongthebrowofthatdreadfulstaringLoneMountainCemetery,IsaidIwouldgetoutandwalk,andavoidtheobtrusiveglitterofthosetombstonesrisingbeforemealltheway.Ipushedopenalittlegateandpassedin.
Onceamongthesefunerealshrubsandcoldstatuesquelilieseverythingwaschanged;Isawthestaringtombstonesnolonger,for,likethem,Iseemedtobealwaysfacingthesea.Theroadhadvanished;everythinghadvanishedbuttheendlesswasteofoceanbelowme,andthelastslopeofrockandsand.Itseemedtobethefittestplaceforacemetery,——thisendofthecrumblingearth,——
thisbeginningoftheeternalsea.There!don\'tthinkthatideamyown,orthatIthoughtofitthen.No,——Ireaditallafterwards,andthat\'swhyI\'mtellingyouthis.\"