"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