When De Foe had arrived at sixty-five, while he was encumbered with a family, and, I fear, pinched with penury, Pope, endeavoured, by repeated strokes, to bring his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. This he did without propriety, and, as far as appears, without provocation; for our author is not in the black list of scribblers, who by attempting to lessen the poet's fame, incited the satirist's indignation. The offence and the fate of Bentley and De Foe were nearly alike. Bentley would not allow the translation to be Homer: De Foe had endeavoured to bring Milton into vogue seven years ere the Paradise Lost and Chevy Chase had been criticised in the Spectators by Addison. Our author had said in More Reformation, Let this describe the nation's character, One man reads Milton, forty ----. The case is plain, the temper of the time, One wrote the lewd, the other the sublime. An enraged poet alone could have thrust into the Dunciad, Bentley, a profound scholar, Cibber, a brilliant wit, and De Foe, a happy genius. This was the consequence of exalting satire as the test of truth; while truth ought to have been enthroned the test of satire. Yet, it ought not to be forgotten, that De Foe has some sarcasm, in his System of Magic, on the _sylphs_ and _gnomes_, which Pope may have deemed a daring invasion of his Rosicrucian territories. De Foe has not yet outlived his century, though he have outlived most of his contemporaries. Yet the time is come, when he must be acknowledged as one of the ablest, as he is one of the most captivating, writers, of which this island can boast. Before he can be admitted to this pre-eminence, he must be considered distinctly, as a poet, as a novelist, as a polemic, as a commercial writer, and as a grave historian. As a poet, we must look to the end of his effusions rather than to his execution, ere we can allow him considerable praise. To mollify national animosities, or to vindicate national rights, are certainly noble objects, which merit the vigour and imagination of Milton, or the flow and precision of Pope; but our author's energy runs into harshness, and his sweetness is to be tasted in his prose more than in his poesy. If we regard the Adventures of Crusoe, like The Adventures of Telemachus, as a poem, his moral, his incidents, and his language, must lift him high on the poet's scale. His professed poems, whether we contemplate the propriety of sentiment, or the suavity of numbers, may indeed, without much loss of pleasure or instruction, be resigned to those, who, in imitation of Pope, poach in the fields of obsolete poetry for brilliant thoughts, felicities of phrase, or for happy rhymes.