THE JOURNAL.

_September_ 30th, 1659. I, poor miserable Robinson Crusoe, being
shipwrecked, during a dreadful storm, in the offing, came on shore on
this dismal unfortunate island, which I called the ISLAND OF DESPAIR;
all the rest of the ship's company being drowned, and myself
almost dead.

All the rest of that day I spent in afflicting myself at the dismal
circumstances I was brought to, viz. I had neither food, house, clothes,
weapon, nor place to fly to: and, in despair of any relief, saw nothing
but death before me; that I should either be devoured by wild beasts,
murdered by savages, or starved to death for want of food. At the
approach of night I slept in a tree, for fear of wild creatures; but
slept soundly, though it rained all night.

_October_ 1. In the morning I saw, to my great surprise, the ship had
floated with the high tide, and was driven on shore again much nearer
the island; which, as it was some comfort on one hand (for seeing her
sit upright, and not broken in pieces, I hoped, if the wind abated, I
might get on board, and get some food and necessaries out of her for my
relief,) so, on the other hand, it renewed my grief at the loss of my
comrades, who, I imagined, if we had all staid on board, might have
saved the ship, or, at least, that they would not have been all drowned,
as they were; and that, had the men been saved, we might perhaps have
built us a boat, out of the ruins of the ship, to have carried us to
some other part of the world. I spent great part of this day in
perplexing myself on these things; but, at length, seeing the ship
almost dry, I went upon the sand as near as I could, and then swam on