Misty Krueger’s collection moves scholarship on traveling women in new and exciting directions. “Transatlantic” has too often been limited to the Anglophone Atlantic, mainly connections between Britain and North America. Krueger moves closer to “circum-Atlantic,” including travels to Mexico, Peru, Surinam, Haiti, and Sierra Leone. She further expands her scope by including fictional representations of women travelers, thus bringing in women of color, who did not publish travel writing this early. For women in the long eighteenth century, travel often brought the chance to escape the domestic sphere and experience greater freedom. Krueger’s excellent introduction qualifies this by noting that “the freedoms afforded to some women travelers in this era . . . were the result of imperialism, colonization, and Black women’s trauma” (2). Her contributors continue this welcome attention to the intersectional dimensions of women’s transatlantic travel.

The first half of the book treats nonfictional travel writing, beginning with Diana Epelbaum’s impressive study of Maria Sibylla Merian’s illustrated natural history, The Metamorphosis of the Insects of Surinam. Including visual culture is a logical choice, since much early travel writing was illustrated. Epelbaum’s insightful readings of Merian’s scientific artwork explore the tension between close attention to local ecology and the international reach to which Merian aspires, as a woman trying to break into the masculine institutions of early modern science. Collecting specimens in tropical forests and swamps was challenging, involving help from local indigenous and enslaved people. “Merian’s gender comes into focus,” Epelbaum writes, “if we read the uneasy co-existence of local and global investments as a fraught performance of gender necessitated by her status as interloper” (43).

Another traveler to a tropical location was Anna Maria Falconbridge, who traveled to the Black settler colony of Sierra Leone in the early 1790s. Shelby Johnson takes a fresh perspective on Falconbridge, weighing the British Empire’s role in moving subaltern groups around the globe. Sierra Leone was founded by abolitionists in 1787 to help London’s so-called Black Poor, many of whom won their freedom by fighting with the British in North America. The colony struggled, and many settlers died. In 1791 a larger group of Black Loyalists was resettled to Sierra Leone from Nova Scotia. Falconbridge’s husband, Alexander, was sent to help re-establish the colony. Falconbridge published Two Voyages to Sierra Leone after his death, in part to get the Sierra Leone Company to pay her what they owed him. The book reprints settlers’ petitions to the Company, protesting mistreatment, but Falconbridge was an uneasy ally, given her stated support for slavery as another kind of resettlement—rescuing people from “unhappy Africa.” Can she, Johnson asks, meaningfully represent “Black suffering or Black political self-determination” (57)? Johnson pairs Falconbridge’s book with a letter from a Nova Scotia settler, Susana Smith, to Lt. John Clarkson, the trusted organizer of the exodus to Sierra Leone. Smith requests “som Sope . . . to wash my family Clos.” Johnson reads her simple request as testimony to the “threshold of livability” that was the harsh everyday reality of transatlantic travel for a woman less literate, less privileged, and less visible than Falconbridge.

Grace Gomashie’s essay takes us to another continent on the Atlantic rim: South/Central America, where two women “social explorers” wrote of their experiences in the early nineteenth century, one in Mexico and one in Peru. Both Flora Tristan’s Pérégrinations d’une paria (1833-34) and Frances Erskine Inglis Calderón de la Barca’s Life in Mexico during a Residence of Two Years in That Country (1843) focus on women’s lives in the countries they visit, observing women’s position with regard to religion, marriage, and education. Tristan, the illegitimate daughter of an elite Peruvian, had fled an abusive marriage in France, where she later became an activist and advocate for women’s rights. Peregrinations describes colorful characters including Indigenous camp followers, the free and powerful Limeñas (women of Lima), and an indomitable former first lady of Peru. Calderón, born Scottish, had lived in France and the U.S. She married the Spanish ambassador to the U.S., later ambassador to Mexico, and accompanied him there. Both writers participated to some extent in the “discourse of femininity” that steered women writers toward “subjects in the traditional female domain such as customs and traditions” (65). Both, however, criticize patriarchy, Tristan militantly, Calderón in a satirical vein. Comparing the two, Gomashie identifies a tension between female solidarity and “European pride” in superiority over less educated Latin American women.

Pam Perkins’s essay reconstructs women’s lives in 1820s Newfoundland, an island outpost of empire whose remoteness and harsh climate made it difficult for colonists to retain their identities as Britons. The colony included few leisure-class women; most settlers were fishermen and their families. No published writing by Newfoundland women before 1839 survives, but Perkins finds evidence in the journals and letters of Sir Thomas Cochrane, the island’s governor, of women’s contribution to maintaining an “English” identity at the outer boundary of the empire. Cochrane’s determination to bring “a form of feminized public sociability” to the colony affords “glimpses of a world of sunny Austenian pleasures” such as “shopping, dancing, amateur concerts, rounds of visiting” (84, 89)—even as ladies are occasionally stranded by heavy snow or thrown from a sleigh. Perkins also surveys “outport women” such as a Mrs. Selby, the companion of a fur trader, who eats bear and caribou and hunts from a dogsled, to yield a “more rounded vision of Newfoundland’s settler colonial society” (93).

The next essay straddles the blurry boundary between nonfiction and fiction. Ula Lukszo Klein reads Charles Johnson’s General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pyrates (1724) on two cross-dressing female pirates, Anne Bonny and Mary Read. Johnson’s narrative, based on the women’s official trial report, sensationalizes their stories, representing Bonny and Read as “tak[ing] advantage of the freedom of the sea in spectacular and seductive ways” (97). Less persuasively, Klein argues that race, as well as gender and class, inflects Johnson’s portrayal when the two selectively reveal their gender by baring their white breasts. The racial coding of the breast is not coincidental, Klein contends, but echoes the eighteenth-century “creation of freedom as a race-defined category” (102). She also includes visual culture: the illustration of Read and Bonny in the Dutch edition of Johnson’s book projects gender fluidity alongside the romance of the women’s transgressive existence.

The second half of the collection, on fictional women travelers, begins with a 1780 novel by Samuel Jackson Pratt, Emma Corbett, set during the American Revolution. Emma crosses the Atlantic disguised as a man, pursuing the British soldier she loves. Taken prisoner, but freed by George Washington himself, who sees through her disguise, Emma dresses as an Indigenous boy to continue her search. Jennifer Golightly’s reading centers “Emma’s sensibility as a catalyst for the humane treatment she receives” (119). The sympathy she elicits when she suffers and faints (often) works to connect men on opposite sides of the war, breaking down national identities in favor of shared humanity. Feminine sensibility reforms men, even in the hyper-masculine surroundings of wartime. The novel, Golightly concludes, “investigates questions made sharper by the war: the nature of public and private masculinity and femininity” (128).

The remaining four essays treat fictions with traveling women of color as protagonists. Alexis McQuigge reads the anonymous novel The Female American (1767) as a fantasy of female power. Its biracial heroine, Unca Eliza Winkfield, ends up as a colonizer and missionary helpmate. Before this, though, the heroine and her Indigenous mother, Unca, exercise power in ways authorized by their Indigenous heritage. The arrival of Unca Eliza’s clergyman cousin steers the plot towards its disappointing (for feminist readers) end, undoing Unca Eliza’s autonomy. Nonetheless, McQuigge concludes, “this novel ultimately reveals, through its deep contradictions and confusion . . . the value of maternal heritage and female power” (142).

Another anonymous fiction, The Woman of Colour (1808), has drawn scholarly attention since the publication of the Broadview edition, edited by Lyndon J. Dominique, in 2008. Octavia Cox disagrees with Dominique’s “buoyant reading” (160), which sees the heroine, Olivia Fairfield, as a subversive threat to the British status quo. The daughter of a Jamaican planter and an enslaved woman, Olivia crosses the Atlantic to meet a condition in her father’s will: she’ll only inherit his wealth if she marries her Caucasian cousin, Augustus. Cox reads The Woman of Colour as a “reverse-Robinsonade”: instead of a European like Crusoe “civilizing” a remote island, Olivia exposes “uncivilized aspects among apparently enlightened Europeans” (145). As both insider and outsider, Olivia can uncover the inner rot of English civilization. Rather than subversive, Cox argues, Olivia in her virtuous simplicity “proves to be more English than many native Englishwomen” (155): “the status quo is fulsomely supported, and reform rather than rebellion is espoused” (159).

Revolution is the setting for Victoria Barnett-Woods’s essay on Zelica, the Creole (1820). Barnett-Woods suggests that Leonora Sansay, the author of Secret History: or, the Horrors of San Domingo (1808), also wrote Zelica, a point debated by scholars since Zelica was rediscovered in 1992. The two novels follow roughly the same plot but take divergent approaches to the history of the Haitian Revolution. The mixed-race character of Zelica aligns ideologically with Black Haitian rule, but protects the white heroine of both books, Clara. Barnett-Woods centers creolization, defined as “the multitudinous evolutions of peoples and languages . . . aggregating and synthesizing a diverse range of cultural practices” (167). Unlike the stereotype of the mixed-race woman as “tropical temptress,” Zelica follows republican values, modeling “feminine self-determinism and creole mobility” (176). Travel is central to the novel, informing Zelica’s “proto-feminist self-perception and pro-revolutionary sensibility” (177).

The final essay in the collection, by Kathleen Morrissey, compares two fictions published a century apart: Aphra Behn’s Oroonoko (1689) and Phebe Gibbes’s Hartly House, Calcutta (1789). Both texts feature the voluntary deaths of wives: Imoinda’s “pleading for death” by her husband’s hand, and the Indian custom of sati or suttee, which Gibbes’s heroine Sophia views as a type of feminine heroism. Morrissey draws thought-provoking connections between these two novels of female travel, separated by a century, featuring transnational heroines hemmed in by the colonial patriarchy.

An afterword by Eve Tavor Bannet endorses and unpacks Krueger’s decision to include essays along “a spectrum between history and fiction in which there are no pure exemplars of either extreme” (197). Women writers’ strategies for navigating patriarchal cultures shape their modes of expression and processes of selection in ways that we need an “expanded sense of reality” to grasp (201).

Misty Krueger’s editorial vision, and her contributors’ wide-ranging insights, productively expand our sense of the risks and possibilities of women’s travel in the long eighteenth century.

Elizabeth A. Bohls, University of Oregon

With the word “fucking” charmingly hiding in plain sight on the front cover, Kathleen Lubey’s What Pornography Knows: Sex and Social Protest since the Eighteenth Century is a brilliant study that will fundamentally change the way you understand pornography and literary representations of sex. Over the course of four chapters, it “[illuminates] pornography’s three-century capacity to generate resistant social commentary across media shifts, and particularly to clarify how cultures imagine, revise, and normalize their attitudes toward gender through pornography” (5). Offering a history of the genre that does not take a pro- or anti- stance, Lubey explores how pornography “contains things in excess of sex” that allow us to explore gender, sexuality, and power in ways that are starkly different from, or are often in direct contrast to, the ways other forms of literature portray them (9). Combining book history, theory, and literary study, Lubey argues that within pornography can be found “feminist protests against social practices of heterosexuality and patriarchy” that we frequently see valorized in other genres (8). What pornography knows, as the title suggests, is social commentary.

In her first two chapters, Lubey examines the “wide web of genital reference” found in literary and visual texts to consider the social, legal, and political implications of representing genital parts and penetrative sex in the eighteenth century (29). With inspired phrases such as “genital traffic” and “genital lives of women,” she analyzes the way that these texts not only represent heterosexuality but also question heterosexuality’s relationship to safety, equity, and personhood (28,75). As pornographic texts represent sex acts inside and outside of the institution of marriage, Lubey suggests that these texts “[rethink] which people count as persons, to what degree they can claim property in their bodies, and the correspondence of those bodies to social identity” (16). Whether it is through the depiction of a man ignoring a woman’s claim to the property in her body in the pursuit of heteropenetrative sex (as in Eliza Haywood’s Fantomina [1726]), or through the confusion about who is a person and who is a thing (that results when a wig or a cork stands in for a set of genitals in visual satires), Lubey’s first chapter persuasively illustrates how pornographic texts are part of the wide-reaching conversation about the theorization of personhood as a distinctly male property in this period. If genitals can be attached and detached, as Lubey points out in her discussion of dildos, how exactly are we supposed to understand, or even meet, the essentialist requirements of a legal and political personhood that theorizes body parts as property? Building on these questions about gender and personhood, Lubey’s second chapter examines a group of eighteenth-century pornographic fictions that focus on penetration—or the lack thereof—and its social consequences for women. A particularly interesting example Lubey discusses is The Child of Nature (1774), a work of pornography that contains “zero episodes of penetrative sex” (112). Rather than describing heterosexual penetration in minute detail, The Child of Nature describes attempts to access the protagonist Fanny Ramsay’s genitals, all of which fail. That failure, Lubey maintains, “prompts social analysis,” including explicit critiques of sexual violence, domestic violence, and marriage (114). In this way, this example of pornography—pornography without sex—critiques the very systems, institutions, and behaviors that enforce women’s status as nonpersons.

In her third chapter, Lubey continues to explore how pornography does or does not contest Enlightenment conceptions of personhood within the context of the nineteenth-century pornographic conventions. She primarily focuses on Victorian works with eighteenth-century source texts in order to trace how they recycle ethical questions about penetrative sex despite strategic editing. However, her readings of how orientalist texts use Christian and white supremacist beliefs to critique sexual violence at home in sex scenes abroad and her readings of how queer texts “explode any fiction of British sexuality as temperate, domestically organized, or hetero” are important interventions as well (167). A fascinating example she includes is The Singular Life, Amatory Adventures, and Extraordinary Intrigues of John Wilmot, the Renowned Earl of Rochester (c.1830). Lubey describes how this work, unlike its predecessors, is an explicit celebration of heterosexual masculine aggression that, at times, still questions the ethics of penetrative sex. In one scene, Rochester decides to have sex with a farmer’s wife and he hesitates momentarily to question whether he should force her or try to persuade her to consent. This moment of hesitation is similar to the kinds of discussions that happen in eighteenth-century works which actively question the behaviors that facilitate women’s status as nonpersons.  While Rochester decides in favor of force, thereby treating the farmer’s wife effectively as a nonperson, the text still raises questions about his actions. However, it seems some readers ignored this philosophical moment. One of the reasons Lubey’s discussion of this work is fascinating is because she found an annotated copy in the British Library in which the annotater wrote things like “fucks strong” and “fucks strong again” in the margins (150). Evidently, the annotator (whose annotation adorns the front cover) is seriously invested in the display of heterosexual masculine aggression and has no interest in considering the ethics of what Rochester is doing. The Singular Life, Lubey contends, is representative of the tension between the eighteenth-century convention of questioning sexual ethics and the Victorian shift toward centering heterosexual male pleasure. Like its counterparts, The Singular Life seems to leave questions rather than to actively question.

In chapter four, Lubey considers how pornographic works from the eighteenth century are published in the context of women’s liberation in the twentieth century. In particular, she scrutinizes the works published by Peter Fryer who was “eager to align his work with the rising tide of feminism” (187). Despite this eagerness, Fryer displays the more insidious misogyny that inspired women such as Robin Morgan and Shulamith Firestone, to leave the New Left and found radical feminist groups like New York Radical Women. In his introduction to The Man of Pleasure’s Companion, for example, Fryer claims that middle-class women are singlehandedly responsible for the chastening of literature which he likens to castration. Clearly, Fryer was still thinking about pornography through the Victorian lens of men “fucking strong.” Alongside her discussion of the republication of eighteenth-century works, Lubey takes up the subject of the porn wars. She questions why feminist discussions of pornography assert that it is “coextensive with [patriarchal] institutions rather than critically attuned to them, capable of scrutinizing collisions of world and body” (197). In an insightful reading of anti-pornography feminist arguments, Lubey elucidates how they use history to make an ahistoricist argument and use history selectively just like Dugdale and Fryer. Instead, Lubey advocates for a reparative reading of pornography that would look at genital action within the context of the social conditions that give them meaning.

One of the most thought-provoking elements of this work is how Lubey charts the publication history of the bawdy novel The History of the Human Heart: or, the Adventures of a Young Gentleman (1749). Perhaps the most persuasive evidence of her argument, three chapters detail the editorial changes made to this text across time and how those changes reflect pornography’s ability to broadcast critiques of the systems, institutions, and behaviors that govern gender and sexuality. In chapter two, Lubey explains how The History of the Human Heart is part personal history, part scientific treatise, and part bawdy prose. Camillo’s sexual history is detailed through scenes of both penetrative and non-penetrative sex, including scenes that emphasize genital parts like Lubey discussed in chapter one. Under the descriptions of the hero Camillo’s sexual adventures appear fifteen lengthy footnotes debating, among other things, the existence of hymen and modesty—debates that were directly related to questions about women’s personhood and sexual egalitarianism. The footnotes actually reduce Camillo’s sexual history to one or two lines of printed type on the page. Lubey reads this editorial decision as evidence that the text is perhaps equally, if not more, invested in questioning women’s status as nonpersons than in depicting a man having sex. In chapter three, Lubey details how William Dugdale’s edition from the nineteenth century, retitled Memoirs of a Man of Pleasure (1844), expunges the introduction and most of the footnotes, particularly the one about modesty in discussing sexual egalitarianism, in an effort to accelerate the narrative and center men’s heterosexual pleasure.

In chapter four, Lubey describes the pulping of the Human Heart (1968) in the twentieth century by Peter Fryer (using the alias James Graham), which, in direct contrast to Fryer’s supposedly feminist goals, expunges the content that would attract feminists: he removed even more non-erotic scenes, any of the hero’s ambivalence about sexual ethics, and critiques of sexual violence. He also flattened the women characters. Lubey’s history of The Human Heart illustrates how a historicist approach not only allows us to locate social commentary within pornography but also to see how social pressures shape pornography.

What Pornography Knows is a wide-ranging study that provides fresh and exciting new interpretations of pornography and literary representations of sex. Across a preface, introduction, four chapters, and coda, Lubey reveals how pornography did convey messages of social protest, how it still might today, and how it still could in the future.

Kelly Fleming, Kenyon College

The recent increase in scholarly attention to Serious Reflections During the Life and Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe (1720) does not mean that scriptwriters will scramble to expand their Crusoe adaptations to accommodate the castaway’s metaphysical philosophizing. Neither even will university lecturers revise their syllabi to include a book that its present editors confess is “diffuse and rambling,” “lacks the genius of the earlier volumes,” and ultimately ranks “among Defoe’s infrequent failures” (xxxiv, xv, xxxv). However, as this new edition demonstrates, the third installment is a valuable part of Defoe’s oeuvre because he was an author of “fictions that contain meaningful ideas” (xx) and Serious Reflections harbors his “cherished ideas on a variety of subjects” (xvii). Or should they be considered merely as Crusoe’s ideas? Whether regarded as an integral part of a fictional trilogy that extends the development of the character who became a modern myth, or as a collection of leftover essays Defoe opportunistically assigned to his castaway adventurer with at best superficial commentary on the narrative volumes, Serious Reflections deserves serious consideration. This edition does admirable work by placing it in a broader history of ideas, showing that Defoe was reacting to live intellectual debates about Christianity, consciousness, ethics, the emotions, and far more besides. All told, the edition is a welcome contribution to Defoe scholarship and eighteenth-century studies more generally.

The edition of Serious Reflections by G. A. Starr in Pickering and Chatto’s Works of Daniel Defoe is in my view the best volume not just of the ten volumes of Novels (2008) but of the entire forty-four volumes of Works (2000–8). Starr’s 47-page introduction adroitly identifies Defoe’s “moderate Protestant position” between extremes of skepticism and credulity (1). Starr is excellent on the book’s “venturesome” play with fictionality and reality, and how it constitutes “Defoe’s retroactive self-fashioning” even if it is not straightforwardly allegorical and autobiographical, let alone the key to the whole work, as Crusoe asserts in the preface (4, 6). Starr resolves the tension between reading Serious Reflections as a coherent part of the Crusoe fiction versus reading it as Defoe’s miscellaneous musings by attending to the mediation of philosophy by a subjective perspective, positioning the book as a “series of contemplative essays, which take as subject matter various principles and attitudes, and explore them as ways of looking at oneself and the world,” so that “Crusoe’s experience provides a point of departure, not an object of analysis” for the book’s essays (32, 14). Starr’s 793 explanatory endnotes span nearly 150 pages in his edition and explore in rich detail many parallels with contemporaneous religious and philosophical writings, the Bible, and Defoe’s own oeuvre.

The notes to the Stoke Newington edition are yet more numerous at 1,343, presented as footnotes that frequently take up more of the page than the original text (page 106 has two lines of Defoe to fifty-three lines of explanatory annotation). The notes here, in general, are more interpretive than those of Starr, which I regard as an advantage of the edition when the two are considered as complementary rather than competing endeavors. A disadvantage, however, is the fact that the Stoke Newington edition proceeds pretty much as though the Starr edition does not exist, meaning that opportunities for productive dialogue and engagement are not taken. The five index entries to Starr in this edition contain just one reference to his edition of Serious Reflections, made in the context of preferring the 1720 first edition’s reading “Decoration of Government” over Starr’s emendation to “Decorum of Government” (108 n. 152). There is no citation of the edition even in that note, though it is in the bibliography, and I recall no other mention of it. Similarly, readers expecting engagement with criticism on Serious Reflections produced in recent years (e.g., Hans Turley, Leah Orr, Jason Pearl) will not find it here.¹ Melissa Free’s work on the publication history of Crusoe complicates the blanket assertions in this edition that Serious Reflections was “seldom reprinted” (xv) and that “it was almost never published along with The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures or The Farther Adventures” (xxxiv). Using Lovett’s checklist of editions, Free calculates that nearly 50% of English-language editions of Robinson Crusoe in the eighteenth century contained all three volumes, and the data indicate the unreversed plummet in editions’ inclusion of Serious Reflections only in the 1820s (91). So, Serious Reflections was the third most published work of Defoe’s in the eighteenth century, behind only its two predecessors. The edition is not as up to date and well-informed as it could have been.

The previous installment of the Stoke Newington edition’s Crusoe trilogy, the same editors’ The Farther Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, was criticized in a review by James E. May for “insufficient and sometimes inaccurate bibliographical and textual information and […] hundreds of incorrect readings in the text and in the historical collation” (50). Serious Reflections does not have the complexity of early-edition variants seen for The Farther Adventures, and this edition therefore does not contain anything comparable to the 5,703 variants noted in that edition. The “Bibliographical Descriptions” in Serious Reflections describe four copies of the 1720 first edition (and some early translations) (337-49), so I assume the criticism May levels against the edition of Farther Adventures for relying on “a single copy … as representative of all other individual copies” is inapplicable (50). I will concentrate on the text, and when reviewing scholarly editions I choose to do spot-checks. I checked the edition’s text against copies of the 1720 first edition, comparing pages 50, 100, 150, 200, and 250 of Serious Reflections and pages 28 and 78 of the Vision of the Angelick World (separately paginated in 1720). I used Harvard Houghton EC7.D3623R.1720, as well as ECCO’s copy, the Harvard copy being the one named by the editors as the “Note copy-text” at the head of their “List of Editorial Emendations” (351).²

Readers can judge for themselves the significance of the errors or silent alterations in this sample. Something has gone wrong with the “List of Editorial Emendations,” not just because apparent emendations are not recorded but also because the pages and lines do not correspond to the text. For example, “Crocrodile” is amended but this appears to be on page 27, not “17:8,” which I assume (in the absence of any explanation otherwise) refers to page 17, line 8 (it is page 13 of the 1720 text). And when “formd” is altered to “form’d” on p. 290 (a page within my spot-check sample), that would appear to correspond to an identified emendation at “213:25” (it is page ²28 of the 1720 text). I can only think the page and line references were done before the final setting of the edition and then not converted.

That is enough fussing over the text and bibliographical apparatus. The explanatory notes are the edition’s main strength and they deserve high commendation. They take the book’s content seriously and expound upon the intellectual and topical influences that shaped Defoe’s writing. I am sure that this edition will stimulate further criticism that grapples with how Serious Reflections fits into Defoe’s thought as well as Robinson Crusoe’s narrative.

Nicholas Seager, Keele University

Notes

¹ I do not mention yet more recent work, recognizing that scholarly editions may have been completed a while in advance of publication.  And I understand that the present edition was intended for publication by AMS Press before its demise.

² My thanks for assistance to Keele University doctoral candidate, Emma Stanbridge, who was on a Houghton Library Fellowship as I was writing this.

Works Cited

 Defoe, Daniel. The Farther Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, ed. Maximillian E. Novak, Irving N. Rothman, and Manuel Schonhorn. Bucknell UP, 2022.

Free, Melissa. “Un-Erasing Crusoe: Farther Adventures in the Nineteenth Century,” Book History 9 (2006): 89-130.

Lovett, Robert W. Robinson Crusoe: A Bibliographical Checklist of English Language Editions (1719–1979). Greenwood P, 1991.

May, James E. “Review: The Farther Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, ed. Maximillian E. Novak et al.” Eighteenth-Century Intelligencer 37:1 (2023): 50-56.

Orr, Leah. “Providence and Religion in the Crusoe Trilogy.” Eighteenth-Century Life 38:2 (2014): 1-27.

Pearl, Jason. “Desert Islands and Urban Solitudes in the Crusoe Trilogy.” Studies in the Novel 44:2 (2012): 125-43.

Turley, Hans. “Protestant Evangelicalism, British Imperialism and Crusonian Identity.” A New Imperial History: Culture, Identity and Modernity in Britain and the Empire, 1660–1840, edited by Kathleen Wilson, Cambridge UP, 2004, pp. 176–93.