The Life of Daniel De Foe

by George Chalmers

The style of De Foe is plain and homely, but expressive, direct, and manly. It may be described as thoroughly English. It reflected the character of his mind, and bespoke the man of firm resolve, and unshaken integrity.

His principles were those of a sincere dissenter, of the whig school. He joined most heartily in the Revolution of 1688, and continued a steadfast friend to its principles and its hero. To William III. De Foe was devotedly attached; and after the death of that great king, vindicated his memory from the poisonous shafts of malice and slander. He was the champion of civil and religious liberty, which he evidently valued as the most precious of earthly things. Of that cause he continued the unflinching advocate, and may be regarded as the most efficient of that day which the press could boast. Through good report and evil report, under the smiles of sovereigns or incarcerated in Newgate, in prosperity or poverty, stung by the malevolence of faction, or by filial ingratitude, in health or in sickness, in gladness or in sorrow, De Foe held by the same sheet anchor of principle, remained incorruptible in his love of liberty, and died as he had lived throughout a long and eventful career, what he so justly felt himself, a "True-born Englishman," and to use his own admirable expression in Robinson Crusoe, a "broadhearted man." Honoured be his memory!

The first attempt to do justice to the merits of De Foe, and to rescue the main events of his useful and laborious life from oblivion, was made by the late Mr. George Chalmers, of the Board of Trade, whose biography the present publishers now reprint. Since that period, gentlemen of learning and ability have followed his steps. Dr. Towers, in the Biographia Britannica, has sketched the life of De Foe, and Mr. Alexander Chalmers, in the Biographical Dictionary, has also done justice to his memory. Sir Walter Scott gave the aid of his great name to the same object, by publishing an edition of De Foe. Mr. Walter Wilson, of the Middle Temple, has published lately a long and detailed Life of De Foe, which is by far the most complete yet compiled, and should be consulted by every student desirous of becoming thoroughly acquainted with the events of his chequered career. The present edition of his works will supply a desideratum in English literature, and enable his countrymen to possess, at a small cost, the various productions of his versatile genius, and be instructed by one of the most deservedly popular and really useful authors that has ever adorned the country.

We subjoin the able critiques on De Foe, by the late Charles Lamb, a man exactly qualified to appreciate him, by a writer in the Retrospective Review, and by sir Walter Scott. For the first, the world is indebted to Mr. Wilson[107]. "It has happened not seldom that one work of some author has so transcendently surpassed in execution the rest of his compositions, that the world has agreed to pass a sentence of dismissal upon the latter, and to consign them to total neglect and oblivion. It has done wisely in this, not to suffer the contemplation of excellences of a lower standard to abate or stand in the way of the pleasure it has agreed to receive from the masterpiece.

"Again, it has happened, that from no inferior merit of execution in the rest, but from superior good fortune in the choice of its subject, some single work shall have been suffered to eclipse and cast into shade the deserts of its less fortunate brethren. This has been done with more or less injustice in the case of the popular allegory of Bunyan, in which the beautiful and scriptural image of a pilgrim or wayfarer (we are all such upon earth!) addressing itself intelligibly and feelingly to the bosoms of all, has silenced and made almost to be forgotten, the more awful and scarcely less tender beauties of the Holy War made by Shaddai upon Diabolus, of the same author, a romance less happy in its subject, but surely well worthy of a secondary immortality. But in no instance has this excluding partiality been exerted with more unfairness than against what may be termed the secondary novels or romances of De Foe.

"While all ages and descriptions of people hang delighted over the Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, and shall continue to do so, we trust, while the world lasts, how few, comparatively, will bear to be told that there exist other fictitious narratives by the same author, four of them at least of no inferior interest, except what results from a less felicitous choice of situation. Roxana, Singleton, Moll Flanders, Colonel Jack—are all genuine offspring of the same father. They bear the veritable impress of De Foe. An unpractised midwife that would not swear to the nose, lip, forehead, and age of every one of them! They are, in their way, as full of incident, and some of them are every bit as romantic; only they want the uninhabited island, and the charm that has bewitched the world, of the striking solitary situation.

"But are there no solitudes out of the cave and the desert? or cannot the heart in the midst of crowds feel frightfully alone? Singleton, on the world of waters, prowling about with pirates less merciful than the creatures of any prowling wilderness; is he not alone, with the faces of men about him, but without a guide that can conduct him through the mist of educational and habitual ignorance; or a fellow heart that can interpret to him the new-born yearnings and aspirations of unpractised penitence? or when the boy, Colonel Jack, in the loneliness of the heart, (the worst solitude,) goes to hide his ill-purchased treasure in the hollow tree by night, and miraculously loses, and miraculously finds it again; whom hath he there to sympathise with him? or of what sort are his associates?

"The narrative manner of De Foe has a naturalness about it, beyond that of any novel or romance writer. His fictions have all the air of true stories. It is impossible to believe while you are reading them, that a real person is not narrating to you everywhere nothing but what really happened to himself. To this, the extreme homeliness of their style mainly contributes. We use the word in its best and heartiest sense,—that which comes home to the reader. The narrators everywhere are chosen from low life, or have had their origin in it; therefore they tell their own tales, (Mr. Coleridge has anticipated us in this remark,) as persons in their degree are observed to do, with infinite repetition, and an overacted exactness, lest the hearer should not have minded, or have forgotten some things that had been told before. Hence the emphatic sentences, marked in the good old (but deserted) Italic type; and hence, too, the frequent interposition of the reminding old colloquial parenthesis, 'I say,' 'mind,' and the like, when the story-teller repeats what to a practised reader might appear to have been sufficiently insisted upon before. What pirates, what thieves, and what harlots, are the thief, the harlot, and the pirate of De Foe? We would not hesitate to say, that in no other book of fiction, where the lives of such characters are described, is guilt and delinquency made less seductive, or the suffering made more closely to follow the commission, or the penitence more earnest or bleeding, or the intervening flashes of religious visitation, upon the rude and uninstructed soul, more meltingly or fearfully painted. They, in this, come near to the tenderness of Bunyan; while the lively pictures and incidents in them, as in Hogarth, or in Fielding, tend to diminish that fastidiousness to the concerns and pursuits of common life, which an unrestrained passion for the ideal and the sentimental is in danger of producing."

The writer in the Retrospective Review observes: "We avail ourselves with some satisfaction of an opportunity of introducing to our readers an old and valued acquaintance, as one whom they may have had the misfortune to lose sight of, amidst the perplexities of life and the competition of more obtrusive candidates for their notice. For our own part, surrounded as we are by the bustle and cares of middle age, the mere mention of our author's name falls upon us as cool and refreshing as a drop of rain in the hot and parched midday; for it never fails to bring along with it the recollection of the morning of our life, those green and pleasant years, when the solitary inhabitant of the desert island was perpetually mingling with the day-dreams of our imagination.

"After a vain attempt to apply to De Foe those laws of criticism which hold in ordinary cases, we are compelled to regard him as a phenomenon, and to consider his genius as something rare and curious, which it is impossible to assign to any class whatever. Throughout the ample stores of fiction, in which our literature abounds more than that of any other people, there are no works which at all resemble his, either in the design or execution. Without any precursor in the strange and unwonted path he chose, and without a follower, he spun his web of coarse but original materials, which no mortal had ever thought of using before; and when he had done it, seems as though he had snapped the thread, and conveyed it beyond the reach of imitation. To have a numerous train of followers is usually considered as adding to the reputation of the writer; we deem it a circumstance of peculiar honour to De Foe that he had none; for, in general, they are the faults of a great author, the parts where he exaggerates truth, or deviates from propriety, that become the prey of the imitator. Whenever he has stolen a 'grace beyond the reach of art,' whenever the vigour and freshness of nature are apparent, there he is inaccessible to imitation. The fugitive charms which are thus imparted, the volatile and subtle spirit which gives life and animation to the work, baffle and elude the grasp of mere imitative genius. In the fictions of De Foe we meet with nothing that is artificial, or that does not breathe the breath of life. The ingenuity which could counterfeit works of a more elaborate kind, and much more highly as well as curiously wrought, could make nothing of a simplicity so naked, and a manner so perfectly natural. The most consummate art was unable to follow where no vestiges of art were to be seen, for either none has been employed, or its traces are concealed as carefully as the Indian hides his footsteps from the observation of his pursuers; since to the critical eye, nothing is visible but the easy unconstraint of nature, and the fearlessness of truth. Besides, it must be allowed, that the temptation to imitate was as small as the difficulties were many and great; for whilst he transcribed from the volume of life with a fidelity and closeness that have never been equalled, with a singularly mortified taste, he chose the plainest and least inviting pages of the whole book. Those who would imitate De Foe must copy from nature herself; and instead of dressing her out to advantage, content themselves with delineating some of her simplest and homeliest features. His language is always that of the plain and unlettered person he professes himself; homely in phraseology, in expression rude and inartificial; yet like that of one who has received a distinct impression of objects which he has seen, it is often forcible, happy, and strongly descriptive. Generally speaking, in other fictitious narratives, a tendency to moralise out of reason or in a vein too elevated for the character assumed, or a continued effort to be uniformly wise, or elaborately witty, is almost sure to unmask the impostor, and expose the dreaming pedant at his desk; or, if these characteristic marks be wanting, either the narrative is inconsistent with itself, or it contradicts some known and established fact, or there is some anachronism, or other overt act against truth is committed, which critical sagacity seldom fails to detect and punish. But our author is never caught tripping in this way; he moralises to be sure, as much or more than most writers, but then his reflections are always in the right vein; he never steps from behind the curtain to figure away himself upon the stage. Either a vigilance that was perpetually on the watch preserved him from error, or he went right by mere instinct; or he so identified himself with his imaginary hero that he became in fancy the very individual he was creating, and was therefore necessarily always in character. But whatever vigilance he used, he has always the art to appear perfectly unconcerned; there is none of the constraint that usually accompanies a painful effort to support imposture; his hero is not stiff and awkward like a puppet, which has no voluntary motion, but moves freely and carelessly along the stage; talks to us in an honest, open, confidential sort of way; lays his inmost thoughts and feelings open before us, as before a confessor, without caution and subterfuge; and by never asking our belief, never seeming conscious of a possibility of its being denied, fairly compels us to grant it.