The “Journal of the Plague Year” had been issued to satisfy a popular interest excited by the appearance of the plague in France and the consequent fear of it in England.  A similar public demand occasioned the composition of “Robinson Crusoe.”  A sailor named Alexander Selkirk had been “marooned” on the uninhabited island of Juan Fernandez, and after living there alone for more than four years, had been taken off by the same captain who had abandoned him.  The interest taken in England in the narrative of this event revealed to Defoe’s acute mind a great literary opportunity.  But if he was indebted to the adventure of Selkirk for the fundamental idea of his novel, he was not the less original.  Never has a greater individuality been given to a fictitious character, or a more vivid impression of life and reality to the circumstances surrounding him.  The combination of ingenuity and simplicity which distinguishes the work, has, for a century and a half, had a peculiar fascination for children, and has awakened the wonder and admiration of men.  There are three works of English fiction of imperishable interest, all of which have attained in a high degree the quality of reality, and have charmed alike all classes and ages.  In the allegory of “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” the sense of reality was produced by the intense realization of the subject by the author, unassisted by any literary device.  In “Gulliver’s Travels” the effect was attained by a skilful observation of exact proportions, added to a circumstantial and personal method of narration, which Swift probably owed in some measure to Defoe.  If the reader can accept the possible existence of pigmies and giants, his credulity is put to no further strain.  Defoe had no difficulty of the supernatural to overcome.  He had a power almost as great as that of Bunyan of identifying himself with his hero; and he surpassed Swift in the power of circumstantial invention.

The story of “Robinson Crusoe” is too intimately known to require comment.  His over-mastering desire to go to sea, his being cast up by the breakers on the island, his endless labors, and the resolute determination which overcame them, his dangers, fears, and the consolation of religion, the foot-print on the sand, the companionship with Friday, and the final release, are recollections of our childhood too familiar to be dwelt upon.  But in this very familiarity with Robinson himself, in the brightness and endurance of our idea of him, in our acquaintance with the inmost workings of his mind and heart, is contained the evidence that Defoe not only wrote a novel of adventure, as he had intended, but that he wrote also a novel of character.