ts the inaccurate versions of the
story, and says that the piper was not blind, but only old and silly;
and that he does not believe that, as 'the story goes,' he set up his
pipes while in the cart. After this we cannot refuse to admit that he
was really carried off and all but buried. Another device for cheating
us into acceptance of his story is the ingenious way in which he
imitates the occasional lapses of memory of a genuine narrator, and
admits that he does not precisely recollect certain details; and still
better is the conscientious eagerness with which he distinguishes
between the occurrences of which he was an eye-witness and those which
he only knew by hearsay.

This book, more than any of the others, shows a skill in selecting
telling incidents. We are sometimes in doubt whether the particular
details which occur in other stories are not put in rather by good luck
than from a due perception of their value. He thus resembles a savage,
who is as much pleased with a glass bead as with a piece of gold; but in
the 'History of the Plague' every detail goes straight to the mark. At
one point he cannot help diverging into the story of three poor men who
escape into the fields, and giving us, with his usual relish, all their
rambling conversations by the way. For the most part, however, he is
less diffusive and more pointed than usual; the greatness of the
calamity seems to have given more intensity to his style; and it leaves
all the impression of a genuine narrative, told by one who has, as it
were, just escaped from the valley of the shadow of death, with the awe
still upon him, and every terrible sight and sound fresh in his memory.
The amazing truthfulness of the style is here in its proper place; we
wish to be brought as near as may be to the facts; we want good
realistic painting more than fine sentiment. The story reminds us of
certain ghastly photographs published during the American War, which had
been taken on the field of battle. They gave a more forcible impression
of the horrors of war than the most thrilling pictures drawn from the
fancy. In such cases we only wish the narrator to stand as much as
possible on one side, and just draw up a bit of the curtain which
conceals his gallery of horrors.

It is time, however, to say enough of 'Robinson Crusoe' to justify its
traditional superiority to De Foe's other writings. The charm, as some
critics say, is difficult to analyse; and I do not profess to
demo