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of all works of fiction; for although the facts of the narrative had
probably never any actual existence, they are so rendered as to be
instinctively received as the component parts of a thing eternally
true in nature.

But in actual life the Robinson Crusoes are few, and the shipwrecked
mariners many. The mass of castaways, when they find themselves
separated from their kind, their comforts, their necessaries, yield,
after a few feeble efforts, or without effort at all, to what is
called their fate, and die of cold, or hunger, or despair. These
multitudes we take no note of. They pass away from the earth like
shadows; or, if our eye follows them for a moment till the view is
lost in the crowding incidents of life, we look upon them as the
victims of unavoidable and irresistible circumstances, and so turn
calmly away. But it would be well to examine this notion; to contrast
the victims with the vanquishers; to inquire whether the train of
circumstances really differed in their several cases; and so to
ascertain the share individual character may have had in the result.
Let us, by all means, continue to pity the victims, whether we find
their bones bleaching in the desert, or stirred on the shore by the
tide; but it may be suspected that we ought to pity them less for the
hardness of their fate than for the weakness which could not withstand
it. A French writer has finely said, that history is the struggle of
the human race with destiny. Even so, we think, is the history of
individuals.

Look abroad into ordinary life, and examine the condition of its
castaways. One finds himself alone in the crowd of mankind, with wind
and tide against him, surrounded by influences like evil spirits, the
earth dry and famished under his foot, and the heavens black with
thunder above his head. He has no experience, little physical
strength, only ordinary talent; but he has nerve and will: he can plod
when necessary; he can stoop or climb as the time demands; he can cut
a new path when he loses the old one; and so, step by step, he goes
on--this gallant Crusoe--till he has conquered circumstances and
reached a secure shelter. Another man: but here we must speak of
crowds and classes, for imbecility affects whole regions of society at
once. A certain branch of industry, we shall say--agriculture,
handloom weaving, anything--is struck with decay, and its followers
thrown out of employment. What course do the unfortunates take? They
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