For a moment I compared myself to that monarch of the waste⁠—Robinson Crusoe. We had been both thrown companionless⁠—he on the shore of a desolate island: I on that of a desolate world. I was rich in the so called goods of life. If I turned my steps from the near barren scene, and entered any of the earth’s million cities, I should find their wealth stored up for my accommodation⁠—clothes, food, books, and a choice of dwelling beyond the command of the princes of former times⁠—every climate was subject to my selection, while he was obliged to toil in the acquirement of every necessary, and was the inhabitant of a tropical island, against whose heats and storms he could obtain small shelter.⁠—Viewing the question thus, who would not have preferred the Sybarite enjoyments I could command, the philosophic leisure, and ample intellectual resources, to his life of labour and peril? Yet he was far happier than I: for he could hope, nor hope in vain⁠—the destined vessel at last arrived, to bear him to countrymen and kindred, where the events of his solitude became a fireside tale. To none could I ever relate the story of my adversity; no hope had I.