The fame of the place, however, has by degrees rendered its name inapplicable. Its romantic and picturesque qualities it still retains, but its desolation is no more. It is Robinson Crusoe's island with the spell broken--the loneliness of thirty years profaned. It is Robinson Crusoe's island monopolized by common-place colonists, who have set up _cafés_ and _restaurants_. It is Juan Fernandez captured by the savages, who appear there in the shape of the _bourgeoisie_, or as pert-looking young Frenchman, in varnished boots, escorting transparent bonnets. It is Robinson Crusoe's island, in fact, with a dash of Greenwich. In common with all those who land in any sort of island, civilized or savage, our first impulse was to secure dinner. For this purpose, we betook ourselves to the most imposing _restaurant_ of the place. Gueusquin was the name I think, of the Bois d'Aulnay. Here, in the midst of a rustic and not too French style of garden, laid out upon an eminence, stands a building which has all the aspect of the most primitive of farms. It is dedicated to Robinson Crusoe, as may be seen from the verses conspicuously painted up over the door: "Robinson! nom cher à l'enfance, Que, vieux, l'on se rappelle encore, Dont le souvenir, doux trésor, Nous reporte aux jours d'innocence." On entering we see Robinson Crusoe on every side--that is to say, all the walls are devoted to his adventures: we see multiplied in every corner the well-known goat-skin costume, pointed cap, and umbrella. Here is Crusoe outside his hut, tending his flock; there he is shooting down the savages from behind a tree. In one panel he starts back at the sight of the foot-mark in the sands, in the attitude of the leading actor of the Gymnase, to express violent surprise at the important intelligence conveyed to his mind by that powerful print. Over the window, he is feeding his goat; close to the door, he notches his calendar, or, not inappropriately, cuts his stick. He welcomes to the lonely isle the astonished white men, beside the stove; and once more steps on his native soil, just over the mantle-piece. Crusoe is every where. He is engraved on the spoons, painted on the plates, and figured on the coffee-cups. His effigy reclines upon the clock; his portrait on the vases peers through the flowers. So completely do his adventures seem associated with the place, that we almost expect to see him in his own proper person, with his parrots and dogs about him; discussing his goat's flesh at one of the rude tables, which might have been fashioned by his own hand; or busy kindling a fire upon the tiled floor, which might also be of home manufacture.