s drinking with them. It is
he who is standing up with an apron on.'

'Stradling!' exclaimed Selkirk, with sparkling eyes. But at the sight
of this apron, finding his old captain become a waiter, his hatred and
projects of vengeance were suddenly extinguished.

Alexander Selkirk returned to England in 1712. The history of his
captivity in the Island of Juan Fernandez had appeared in the papers;
several apocryphal relations had been already published, when in 1717,
Daniel De Foe published his _Robinson Crusoe_.

He is really the same personage; but in this latter version, the
Island of Juan Fernandez, in spite of distance and geographical
impossibilities, is peopled with savage Caribs; Marimonda is
transformed into the simple Friday; history is turned into romance,
but this romance is elevated to all the dignity of a philosophical
treatise.

Rendering full justice to the merit of the writer, we must
nevertheless acknowledge that he has completely altered, in a mental
view, the physiognomy of his model. Robinson is not a man suffering
entire isolation; he has a companion, and the savages are incessantly
making inroads around him. It is the European developing the resources
of his industry, to contend at once with an unproductive land and the
dangers created by his enemies.

Selkirk has no enemies to repulse, and he inhabits a fruitful country.
He needs, before every thing else, the presence of man, one of those
fraternal affections in which he refuses to believe. His sufferings
originate in his very solitude. In solitude, Robinson improves and
perfects himself; Selkirk, at first as full of resources as he, ends
by becoming discouraged and brutified.

Which of the two is most true to nature?

The first is an ideal being, for in no quarter of the globe has there
ever been found one analogous to the Robinson of De Foe; the other, on
the contrary, is to be met with every where, denying the dependence of
an isolated individual; but this dependence, even in the midst of a
prodigal nature, if it is not to the honor of man, is to the honor of
society at large.

Notwithstanding all that has been said, the solitary is a man
imbruted, vegetating, deprived of his crown. 'Solitude is sweet only
in the vicinity of great cities.'[1] By an admirable decree of
Providence, the isolated being is an imperfect being; man is completed
by man.

[Footnote 1: Bernardin de St. Pierre. Seneca had said: _Miscenda et
alternanda sunt soli