ng" afresh, with masterly disregard
to every appeal save that of his purse, when Godolphin surrendered the
treasurer's staff, and Harley once more became prime minister. "My
duty," says he, with that wonderful countenance of gravity, and that
fine air of outraged honor, which express him in his political
writings certainly, as the very prince of humbugs, "was to go along
with every ministry, so far as they did not break in upon the
constitution and the laws and liberty of my country." At what price
did he value the constitution? And how much, leaning across the
counter of his literary calling would he ask for the laws and
liberties of his country? Both Godolphin and Harley, no doubt, exactly
knew.

But enough in this brief sketch has been said of him as politician,
journalist, controversialist, spy. He heaped pamphlet upon pamphlet,
volume upon volume, and in July, 1715, was found guilty of what was
called a scandalous libel against Lord Anglesea. Sentence was
deferred, but he was never brought up for judgment. His
representations of ardent devotion to the Whig interest seem to have
procured his absolution. Be this as it may, it is extraordinary to
reflect that he should live to be fifty-eight years of age before he
could find it in him to produce that masterpiece of romance, "Robinson
Crusoe," the delight, I may truly call it, of all reading nations. The
fiction is based upon the experiences of Alexander Selkirk. He had
read Steele's story of that man lonely in the South Sea island, and
Woodes Roger's account of the discovery of him. Sir Walter Scott has
pointed out that Defoe was known to the great circumnavigator Dampier,
and he assumes with good reason that he drew many hints from the
conversation and recollections of that fine seaman. He was a
prosperous man when he wrote "Robinson Crusoe," had built a house at
Stoke Newington, and drove in his own coach. This had come about
through his successful connection with certain journals; he was also
rapidly producing, and nearly all that he wrote sold handsomely.
Almost as many fine things have been said about "Robinson Crusoe" as
about Niagara Falls, or sunrise and sunset. The world has decided to
consider it Defoe's masterpiece, and to neglect all else that he wrote
for it. Nor can the world be blamed. The deliberate and dangerous
lewdness of Defoe is one of the most deplorable things in letters. We
shelve much of Smollett, much of Fielding, without great regret, but