ism whose working he
describes there is a soul very different from that of Daniel De Foe.
Rather, he seems to see in mankind nothing but so many million Daniel De
Foes; they are in all sorts of postures, and thrown into every variety
of difficulty, but the stuff of which they are composed is identical
with that which he buttons into his own coat; there is variety of form,
but no colouring, in his pictures of life.

We may ask again, therefore, what is the peculiar source of De Foe's
power? He has little, or no dramatic power, in the higher sense of the
word, which implies sympathy with many characters and varying tones of
mind. If he had written 'Henry IV.,' Falstaff, and Hotspur, and Prince
Hal would all have been as like each other as are generally the first
and second murderer. Nor is the mere fact that he tells a story with a
strange appearance of veracity sufficient; for a story may be truth-like
and yet deadly dull. Indeed, no candid critic can deny that this is the
case with some of De Foe's narratives; as, for example, the latter part
of 'Colonel Jack,' where the details of management of a plantation in
Virginia are sufficiently uninteresting in spite of the minute financial
details. One device, which he occasionally employs with great force,
suggests an occasional source of interest. It is generally reckoned as
one of his most skilful tricks that in telling a story he cunningly
leaves a few stray ends, which are never taken up. Such is the
well-known incident of Xury, in 'Robinson Crusoe.' This contrivance
undoubtedly gives an appearance of authenticity, by increasing the
resemblance to real narratives; it is like the trick of artificially
roughening a stone after it has been fixed into a building, to give it
the appearance of being fresh from the quarry. De Foe, however,
frequently extracts a more valuable piece of service from these loose
ends. The situation which has been most praised in De Foe's novels is
that which occurs at the end of 'Roxana.' Roxana, after a life of
wickedness, is at last married to a substantial merchant. She has saved,
from the wages of sin, the convenient sum of 2,056_l._ a year, secured
upon excellent mortgages. Her husband has 17,000_l._ in cash, after
deducting a 'black article of 8,000 pistoles,' due on account of a
certain lawsuit in Paris, and 1,320_l._ a year in rent. There is a
satisfaction about these definite sums which we seldom receive from the
vague assertions of modern