As I walked up the rocky path leading to the house, I must confess I
felt anything but sprightly. I felt that Crusoe life, after all, was not
all _caviare_. I was very depressed, and must admit a few tears, as the
whole force of what I had undertaken presented itself vividly to my
mind. What if I met with an accident? What if I were taken ill? Suppose
someone put in at night and cut my throat for the sake of plunder? Who
would help me? Who would know of my position? Might I not die any one of
a hundred deaths without the fact being known for weeks, perhaps months?
What did this idiotic idea of mine amount to after all? Where was the
pleasure? Would it not be better to be home in dear old Barton with my
skiff and pretty Priscilla?

Such were some of my thoughts, but my depression I cannot so readily
sprinkle on paper, and will not try to describe it. Let it suffice that
_I was_ depressed, and deeply too.

I felt thirsty, so wandered to the house and sat down and poured myself
out a bottle of Bass, and as I drank it, became aware of the presence of
my dog, who placed his muzzle in my hand and looked into my face with
positively tears in his dear old eyes. Why, after all, I was not alone.
No, here was a friend indeed (teste Byron), who would be ever by my side
in weal and woe. "Poor dog, are you hungry then?" Yes he was, and by the
bye, why should I not try something? We ate; and in half an hour--such
is the changeableness of the human mind--I was as happy as a sand-boy
(whatever that may be), as I wandered by the sunny shore.

I would make a tour of inspection of my estate; and, reader, if you will
kindly accompany me, I will show you the different sights of my little
island.