Let us then go back to the beginning and repeat again， “I was born in the year 1632 in the city of York of a good family”. Nothing could be plainer， more matter of fact， than that beginning. We are drawn on soberly to consider all the blessings of orderly， industrious middle-class life. There is no greater good fortune we are assured than to be born of the British middle class. The great are to be pitied and so are the poor； both are exposed to distempers and uneasiness； the middle station between the mean and the great is the best； and its virtues—temperance， moderation， quietness， and health—are the most desirable. It was a sorry thing， then， when by some evil fate a middle-class youth was bitten with the foolish love of adventure. So he proses on， drawing， little by little， his own portrait， so that we never forget it—imprinting upon us indelibly， for he never forgets it either， his shrewdness， his caution， his love of order and comfort and respectability； until by whatever means， we find ourselves at sea， in a storm； and， peering out， everything is seen precisely as it appears to Robinson Crusoe. The waves， the seamen， the sky， the ship—all are seen through those shrewd， middle-class， unimaginative eyes. There is no escaping him. Everything appears as it would appear to that naturally cautious， apprehensive， conventional， and solidly matter-of- fact intelligence. He is incapable of enthusiasm. He has a natural slight distaste for the sublimities of Nature. He suspects even Providence of exaggeration. He is so busy and has such an eye to the main chance that he notices only a tenth part of what is going on round him. Everything is capable of a rational explanation， he is sure， if only he had time to attend to it. We are much more alarmed by the “vast great creatures” that swim out in the night and surround his boat than he is. He at once takes his gun and fires at them， and off they swim—whether they are lions or not he really cannot say. Thus before we know it we are opening our mouthswider and wider. We are swallowing monsters that we should have jibbed at if they had been offered us by an imaginative and flamboyant traveller. But anything that this sturdy middle-class man notices can be taken for a fact. He is for ever counting his barrels， and making sensible provisions for his water supply； nor do we ever find him tripping even in a matter of detail. Has he forgotten， we wonder， that he has a great lump of beeswax on board？ Not at all. But as he had already made candles out of it， it is not nearly as great on page thirty-eight as it was on page twenty-three. When for a wonder he leaves some inconsistency hanging loose—why if the wild cats are so very tame are the goats so very shy？—we are not seriously perturbed， for we are sure that there was a reason， and a very good one， had he time to give it us. But the pressure of life when one is fending entirely for oneself alone on a desert island is really no laughing matter. It is no crying one either. A man must have an eye to everything； it is no time for raptures about Nature when the lightning may explode one’s gunpowder—it is imperative to seek a safer lodging for it. And so by means of telling the truth undeviatingly as it appears to him—by being a great artist and forgoing this and daring that in order to give effect to his prime quality， a sense of reality—he comes in the end to make common actions dignified and common objects beautiful. To dig， to bake， to plant， to build—how serious these simple occupations are； hatchets， scissors， logs， axes—how beautiful these simple objects become. Unimpeded by comment， the story marches on with magnificent downright simplicity. Yet how could comment have made it more impressive？ It is true that he takes the opposite way from the psychologist’s—he describes the effect of emotion on the body， not on the mind. But when he says how， in a moment of anguish， he clinched his hands so that any soft thing would have been crushed； how “my teeth in my head would strike together， and set against one another so strong that for the time I could not part them again”， the effect is as deep as pages of analysis could have made it. His own instinct in the matter is right. “Let the naturalists”， he says， “explain these things， and the reason and manner of them； all I can say to them is，to describe the fact. . . .” If you are Defoe， certainly to describe the fact is enough； for the fact is the right fact. By means of this genius for fact Defoe achieves effects that are beyond any but the great masters of descriptive prose. He has only to say a word or two about “the grey of the morning” to paint vividly a windy dawn. A sense of desolation and of the deaths of many men is conveyed by remarking in the most prosaic way in the world， “I never saw them afterwards， or any sign of them except three of their hats， one cap， and two shoes that were not fellows”. When at last he exclaims， “Then to see how like a king I din’d too all alone， attended by my servants”— his parrot and his dog and his two cats， we cannot help but feel that all humanity is on a desert island alone—though Defoe at once informs us， for he has a way of snubbing off our enthusiasms， that the cats were not the same cats that had come in the ship. Both of those were dead； these cats were new cats， and as a matter of fact cats became very troublesome before long from their fecundity， whereas dogs， oddly enough， did not breed at all.
Thus Defoe， by reiterating that nothing but a plain earthenware pot stands in the foreground， persuades us to see remote islands and the solitudes of the human soul. By believing fixedly in the solidity of the pot and its earthiness， he has subdued every other element to his design； he has roped the whole universe into harmony. And is there any reason， we ask as we shut the book， why the perspective that a plain earthenware pot exacts should not satisfy us as completely， once we grasp it， as man himself in all his sublimity standing against a background of broken mountains and tumbling oceans with stars flaming in the sky？
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Hamlet