tch
goats by hunting them on foot; and he had acquired the exceedingly
difficult art of making fire by rubbing two sticks. In other words, his
whole mind was absorbed in providing a few physical necessities, and he
was rapidly becoming a savage--for a man who can't speak and can make
fire is very near the Australian. We may infer, what is probable from
other cases, that a man living fifteen years by himself, like Crusoe,
would either go mad or sink into the semi-savage state. De Foe really
describes a man in prison, not in solitary confinement. We should not be
so pedantic as to call for accuracy in such matters; but the difference
between the fiction and what we believe would have been the reality is
significant. De Foe, even in 'Robinson Crusoe,' gives a very inadequate
picture of the mental torments to which his hero is exposed. He is
frightened by a parrot calling him by name, and by the strangely
picturesque incident of the footmark on the sand; but, on the whole, he
takes his imprisonment with preternatural stolidity. His stay on the
island produces the same state of mind as might be due to a dull Sunday
in Scotland. For this reason, the want of power in describing emotion as
compared with the amazing power of describing facts, 'Robinson Crusoe'
is a book for boys rather than men, and, as Lamb says, for the kitchen
rather than for higher circles. It falls short of any high intellectual
interest. When we leave the striking situation and get to the second
part, with the Spaniards and Will Atkins talking natural theology to his
wife, it sinks to the level of the secondary stories. But for people who
are not too proud to take a rather low order of amusement 'Robinson
Crusoe' will always be one of the most charming of books. We have the
romantic and adventurous incidents upon which the most unflinching
realism can be set to work without danger of vulgarity. Here is
precisely the story suited to De Foe's strength and weakness. He is
forced to be artistic in spite of himself. He cannot lose the thread of
the narrative and break it into disjointed fragments, for the limits of
the island confine him as well as his hero. He cannot tire us with
details, for all the details of such a story are interesting; it is made
up of petty incidents, as much as the life of a prisoner reduced to
taming flies, or making saws out of penknives. The island does as well
as the Bastille for making trifles valuable to the sufferer and to us.
The