with the
wolves in the snow, is likewise matter of real history; and
in a word, the adventures of Robinson Crusoe are a whole
scheme of a life of twenty-eight years spent in the most wandering,
desolate, and afflicting circumstances that ever man
went through, and in which I have lived so long in a life of
wonders, in continued storms, fought with the worst kind of
savages and man-eaters, by unaccountable surprising incidents;
fed by miracles greater than that of the ravens, suffered
all manner of violences and oppressions, injurious reproaches,
contempt of men, attacks of devils, corrections from
Heaven, and oppositions on earth; and had innumerable ups
and downs in matters of fortune, been in slavery worse than
Turkish, escaped by an exquisite management, as that in the
story of Xury and the boat of Sallee, been taken up at sea
in distress, raised again and depressed again, and that oftener
perhaps in one man's life than ever was known before;
shipwrecked often, though more by land than by sea; in a
word, there's not a circumstance in the imaginary story but
has its just allusion to a real story, and chimes part for
part, and step for step, with the inimitable life of Robinson
Crusoe."

But if Defoe had such a regard for the strict and literal truth, why did
he not tell his history in his own person? Why convey the facts
allusively in an allegory? To this question also he had an answer. He
wrote for the instruction of mankind, for the purpose of recommending
"invincible patience under the worst of misery; indefatigable
application and undaunted resolution under the greatest and most
discouraging circumstances."

"Had the common way of writing a man's private history
been taken, and I had given you the conduct or life of a man
you knew, and whose misfortunes and infirmities perhaps
you had sometimes unjustly triumphed over, all I could have
said would have yielded no diversion, and perhaps scarce
have obtained a reading, or at best no attention; the teacher,
like a greater, having no honour in his own country."

For all Defoe's profession that _Robinson Crusoe_ is an allegory of his
own life, it would be rash to take what he says too literally. The
reader who goes to the tale in search of a close allegory, in minute
chronological correspondence with the facts of the alleged original,
will find, I expect, like myself, that he has g