No story ever written exhibits so profoundly either the perfect
design of supreme genius or the curious accidental result of slovenly
carelessness in a hack-writer. This is not said in any critical spirit,
because, Robinson Crusoe, in one sense, is above criticism, and in
another it permits the freest analysis without suffering in the
estimation of any reader.

But for Robinson Crusoe, De Foe would never have ranked above the level
of his time. It is customary for critics to speak in awe of the "Journal
of the Plague" and it is gravely recited that that book deceived the
great Dr. Meade. Dr. Meade must have been a poor doctor if De Foe's
accuracy of description of the symptoms and effects of disease is not
vastly superior to the detail he supplies as a sailor and solitaire upon
a desert island. I have never been able to finish the "Journal."
The only books in which his descriptions smack of reality are "Moll
Flanders" and "Roxana," which will barely stand reading these days.

In what may be called its literary manner, Robinson Crusoe is entirely
like the others. It convinces you by its own conviction of sincerity.
It is simple, wandering yet direct; there is no making of "points" or
moving to climaxes. De Foe did unquestionably possess the capacity to
put into his story the appearance of sincerity that persuades belief at
a glance. In that much he had the spark of genius; yet that same case
has not availed to make the "Journal" of the Plague anything more than
a curious and laborious conceit, while Robinson Crusoe stands among
the first books of the world--a marvelous gleam of living interest,
inextinguishably fresh and heartening to the imagination of every reader
who has sensibility two removes above a toad.

The question arises, then, is "Robinson Crusoe" the calculated triumph