ful, writes to _serve_ you, and at
the same time, by an imperceptible art, draws you on to be
pleased also. He represents truth with plainness, virtue with
praise; he even reprehends with a softness that carries the
force of a satire without the salt of it; and he insensibly
screws himself into your good opinion, that as his writings
merit your regard, so they fail not to obtain it."

"This is part of the character by which I define a good
writer; I say 'tis but part of it, for it is not a half sheet that
would contain the full description; a large volume would
hardly suffice it. His fame requires, indeed, a very good
writer to give it due praise; and for that reason (and a good
reason too) I go no farther with it."

CHAPTER IX.

THE PLACE OF DEFOE'S FICTIONS IN HIS LIFE.

Those of my readers who have thought of Defoe only as a writer of
stories which young and old still love to read, must not be surprised
that so few pages of this little book should be left for an account of
his work in that field. No doubt Defoe's chief claim to the world's
interest is that he is the author of _Robinson Crusoe_. But there is
little to be said about this or any other of Defoe's tales in
themselves. Their art is simple, unique, incommunicable, and they are
too well known to need description. On the other hand, there is much
that is worth knowing and not generally known about the relation of
these works to his life, and the place that they occupy in the sum total
of his literary activity. Hundreds of thousands since Defoe's death, and
millions in ages to come, would never have heard his name but for
_Robinson Crusoe_. To his contemporaries the publication of that work
was but a small incident in a career which for twenty years had claimed
and held their interest. People in these days are apt to imagine,
because Defoe wrote the most fascinating of books for children, that he
was himself simple, child-like, frank, open, and unsuspecting. He has
been so described by more than one historian of literature. It was not
so that he appeared to his contemporaries, and it is not so that he can
appear to us when we know his life, unless we recognise that he took a
child's delight in beating with their own weapons the most astute
intriguers in the most intriguing period of English history.

Defoe was essentially a journalist. He wrote for the day, and for the
greatest interest of the greatest number o