Mr. Burton, in his “Reign of Queen Anne,” quotes from manuscript authority a statement that Penn had been commissioned by Defoe to offer “an account of all his accomplices in whatsoever he has been concerned,” on condition that he should be freed from the pillory, which is a very confusing statement, since it seems impossible to understand what accomplices he could have had. This, according to the same authority, was considered important enough to call for a special meeting of the cabinet council; but “the Queen seems to think that his confession amounts to nothing.” Another account is that Nottingham visited him in prison and offered him his liberty if he would say who set him on to do it. Thus this _jeu d’esprit_--the first exercise of Defoe’s special and most characteristic gift, that of endowing a fictitious production with every appearance of reality--set the world aflame. It is almost a more astonishing feat than the narratives which look so like literal transcripts of experience; for the subtle power which, by a cunning fitting together of actual utterances, could thus indicate the alarming tendency and danger of a great party, is more wonderful than to create an imaginary man and trace his every action as if he were a real one. The art may be less noble, but it is more difficult. Indeed, the “Shortest Way” is about the only example of such an extraordinary achievement. Swift’s tremendous satire was more bitter, more scathing, and treated not so much the exaggerated opinions of a class as the cruel and callous indifference of human nature to the sufferings of its slaves and victims. This curious episode once more ruined Defoe. It is to be supposed that when he went into hiding his business had to be abandoned, and all his affairs got into confusion. The official document already quoted describes him as “living at Newington Green with his father-in-law, who is a lay elder of a conventicle there.” This description, however, is evidently drawn up by an enemy, since his previous bankruptcy is spoken of as fraudulent, an assertion made nowhere else. His biographer, Wilson, informs us that though he had “kept his coach” before this period, the pantile works had now to be broken up, and his business was ruined. He had, though there is no information about her, a wife and six children--perhaps supported by the elder at Newington, who very likely thought, like his brethren, but badly of Defoe.