ur belief; no one, surely, supposes that
imagination deals in nothing but impossibilities. The utmost effort, the
wildest flight of fancy, could not always keep clear of probability; and
it would be strange indeed if the romantic fiction could claim our faith
at every point where, by chance, it had touched the earth. One might as
well sift, in the same manner, a fiction of the Arabian Nights; and,
setting aside the supernatural, admit whatever is natural to be true.
The wonderful properties of Aladdin's lamp shall be given up; but that
Aladdin had an old lamp, and that his wife sold it when he was out of
the way, this shall remain admissible.

A third age, however, arrives, still more critical, more justly and
profoundly analytic. It recognises that, by the process just described,
a dead residuum of little value and doubtful reality is the utmost that
can be obtained, While the real value of the subject of this untutored
chemistry has been lost in the experiment. It returns to the
legend--contemplates it in its entire, and genuine form. It sees that
the legend is the true history of the minds that created and believed
it--a very important history--but of little or nothing else. Seen in
this light, there is, indeed, no comparison between the value of the
poetic fable as a contribution to the history of mankind, and the value
of the prosaic and ordinary fact which a half critical age (if sure of
its _guess_) would extract from it. Think for a moment of all the
marvels of the Argonautic expedition; that vessel, itself sentient and
intelligent, having its prophet as well as pilot on board, darting
through rocks which move and join together, like huge pincers, to crush
the passing ship; think of the wondrous Medea who conducted the homeward
voyage, and reflect upon the sort of people who created and credited all
these marvels. Then turn to the semi-critical version of Strabo, where
the whole expedition resolves itself into an invasion of some unknown
king, of some unknown country, whose wealth stands typified in the
golden fleece. Such writers as Strabo commit a two-fold error. They
corrupt history, and they destroy the legend. They write an unauthorised
narrative, and explain the nature and genius of the fable in a manner
equally unauthorised.

Or take an instance still more familiar. The legend tells us that
Romulus--as was thought befitting the founder of Rome--died in no
ordinary manner, but was translated to the skies.