The Sun.
London, England, 1855-11-05 00:00:00

LONDON, MONDAY. NOVEMBER 5, 1855.

The veteran LANDOR is still on the look out
from his watch tower. His eagle eye lately de-
tected, perdu, somewhere in a byeway—uncared-
for, old and impoverished—a descendant of DEFOE.
His earnest voice, sounding as of old like a
trumpet through the Press, and by means of the
Press becoming re-echoed throughout the country
far and wide, called upon us, one and all, to
see to it—that no such disgrace should fall upon
our generation, as that poverty should be the lot
in his extreme age, of any one bearing the name of
the patriot author of the "The True-Born Eng-
lishman." Fervently let us hope that the plea
advanced by SAVAGE LANDOR, in behalf of our
glorious DEFOE'S descendant, may not have been
raised in vain ; but that some substantial tribute to
his memory may solace the declining years of his
remote offsprinz, and while so doing attest
the affectionate interest with which his
fame is to this day cherished among his fellow-
countrymen. It is a meed due to the Father of
our English Essayists—to the poet of the "Jure
Divine"—to the historian of the " Plague of
London"--to the great humorist-novelist-sati-
rist-publicist—the inimitable author of the in-
comparable "Robinson Crusoe." WALTER
SAVAGE LANDOR has pointed out to us very lately
the manner in which we may signally evidence
our regard for the memory of DEFOE, our appre-
ciation of his masculine genius, and our respect
for his uncompromising :Algona. Shame to us if
the hint be not taken betimes. Shame to us if
the descendant of one so much the glory of our
literature should be allowed to pass away to his
grave unnoticed and unhonoured—his grey hairs
contemned, his penury unassuaged, his name e un-
recognised as a talisman to the respect and syra.
pathy of every True-born Englishman.
Scarcely have we listened to this startling
appeal, forced upon our notice so very unexpect-
edly by Mr. LANDOR, in behalf of an old man,
whose veins, though cooling with age, are yet
warmed with the blood that throbbed a hundred
and odd years ago in the heart of DANIEL DEFOE
--when we are aroused anew to attention by the
voice of our veteran man-of-letters calling to us
again, and this time, if possible, more earnestly
than ever, from his grey old watch tower. The
Cry raised now in such forceful accents, if it means
anything means a cry of anguish, almost of de
pair, over the dreadful spectacle of England
di • eeing away her honour, her blood, and her
treasures, because of the whims of an octogenarian
Comm aude r-in-Chief, and of the caprices of a
Germanised Government.

The truth is---we are always in extremes. For-
merly we placed at the head of our army in the
East, old Generals no longer fit for active service,
worn out, used up, done for, literally and tho-
roughly. Wonderful Captains of the Penisular-
war-time—men who ought to have been snugly
ensconced at home by their comfortable firesides,
their poor old feet in slippers and their poor old
htads tucked under flannel nightcap; instead of
straddling about Crim Tartary in jack boots " a
world too wide for their shrunk shanks," and
Playing the very devil with the meteor flag of
England among the ruins of Inkerman and far
away down. in the fatal valley of Balaklava. Now
it seems the tables are turned. The old men have
had their day, as the dogs have theirs. The
Peninsular heroes have been tried and found
Wanting. The juniors are to follow in due course
—but not rationally as
people had hoped ; on the
contrary, it appears now most irrationally. For
example. There is the supreme
post of honour
and responsibility, that of the Commander-in-
Chief. To whom in the name of fortune is this
high post awarded by our sagacious rulers, now