voyaging up the river at the flood, or see it tossing among the
breakers on the bar, but always with the confidence of its
returning sooner or later to an anchorage beside him. After the
third month of his self-imposed exile, he was forced into a more
human companionship, that was brief but regular. He was obliged to
have menial assistance. While he might have eaten his bread "in
sorrow" carelessly and mechanically, if it had been prepared for
him, the occupation of cooking his own food brought the vulgarity
and materialness of existence so near to his morbid sensitiveness
that he could not eat the meal he had himself prepared. He did not
yet wish to die, and when starvation or society seemed to be the
only alternative, he chose the latter. An Indian woman, so hideous
as to scarcely suggest humanity, at stated times performed for him
these offices. When she did not come, which was not infrequent, he
did not eat.

Such was the mental and physical condition of the Man on the Beach
on the 1st of January, 1869.


It was a still, bright day, following a week of rain and wind. Low
down the horizon still lingered a few white flecks--the flying
squadrons of the storm--as vague as distant sails. Southward the
harbor bar whitened occasionally but lazily; even the turbulent
Pacific swell stretched its length wearily upon the shore. And
toiling from the settlement over the low sand dunes, a carriage at
last halted half a mile from the solitary's dwelling.

"I reckon ye'll hev to git out here," said the driver, pulling up
to breathe his panting horses. "Ye can't git any nigher."