literature, was a new departure by almost an old man. He was all but, if
not quite, sixty when _Robinson Crusoe_ appeared: and a very few
following years saw the appearance of his pretty voluminous "minor"
novels. The subject of the first every one knows without limitation: it
is not so certain, though vigorous efforts have been made to popularise
the others, that even their subjects are clearly known to many people.
_Captain Singleton_ (1720), _Moll Flanders_, and _Colonel Jack_ (both
1722) are picaresque romances with tolerably sordid heroes and heroines,
but with the style entirely rejuvenated by Defoe's secret. _Roxana_
(1724), a very puzzling book which is perhaps not entirely his writing,
is of the same general class: the _Voyage round the World_ (1725), the
least interesting, but not _un_interesting, is exactly what its title
imports,--in other words, the "stuffing" of the _Robinson_ pie without
the game. The _Memoirs of a Cavalier_ (1720) approach the historical
novel (or at least the similar "stuffing" of that) and have raised
curious and probably insoluble questions as to whether they are
inventions at all--questions intimately connected with that general one
referred to above. One or two minor things are sometimes added to the
list: but they require no special notice. The seven books just mentioned
are Defoe's contribution to the English novel. Let us consider the
quality of this contribution first--and then the means used to attain
it.

Their novel-quality (which, as has been hinted, has not been claimed so
loudly or so steadily as it should have been for Defoe) is the quality
of Story-Interest--and this, one dares say, he not only infused for the
first time in full dose, but practically introduced into the English
novel, putting the best of the old mediaeval romances aside and also
putting aside _The Pilgrim's Progress_, which is not likely to have been
without influence on himself. It may be said, "Oh! but the _Amadis_
romances, and the Elizabethan novels, and the 'heroics' must have
interested or they would not have been read." This looks plausible, but
is a mistake. Few people who have not studied the history of criticism
know the respectable reluctance to be _pleased_ with literature which
distinguished mankind till very recent times; and which in fact kept the
novel back or was itself maintained by the absence of the novel. In life
people pleased themselves irregularly enough: in literature they could