And some philosophers have styled romance the special glory of Christianity.  It is certainly the characteristic of critical as distinguished from organic periods,—­of the mind acting mystically in a savage and unknown universe, rather than of the mind that has reduced the heavens and earth to its arts and sciences.  The novel, therefore, as the wildest organ of romance, is most appropriate to a time of great intellectual agitation, when intellectual men are but half-conscious of the tendencies that are setting about them, and consequently cease to propose to themselves final goals, do not attempt scrupulous art, but play jubilantly with current facts.  Hence, perhaps, its popularity since the first conflicts of the Protestant Reformation, and especially since the great French Revolution, when amid new inventions and new ideas mankind has contemplatively looked for the coming events, the new historical eras, which were casting their shadows before.

When, some time, Christian art shall become classical, and Christian ideas be developed by superior men as fairly as the Hellenic conceptions were, the novel may either assume to itself some peculiar excellency, or may cease to hold the comparative rank in literature which it enjoys at present.  Then the numberless prose romances which occupy the present generation of readers will, perhaps, be collected in some immense corpus, like the Byzantine historians, will be reckoned among the curiosities of literature, and will at least have the merit of making the study of antiquities easy and interesting.  There is an old couplet,—­

  Of all those arts in which the wise excel,
  Nature’s chief masterpiece is writing well.

At a time when extemporaneous composition and thoughtless reading are much in fashion, it will not be amiss to invoke profounder studies, and slower, but more useful and permanent results.  Let it be remembered that even the Divine Mind first called into being the chaos of creation, and then in seven days reviewed and elaborated it into a beautiful order.

* * * * *

A LEGEND OF MARYLAND.

“AN OWRE TRUE TALE.”

[Concluded.]

CHAPTER VII.

THE OLD CITY.

Let me now once more shift the scene.  In the summer of 1684, the peaceful little port of St. Mary’s was visited by a phenomenon of rare occurrence in those days.  A ship of war of the smaller class, with the Cross of St. George sparkling on her broad flag, came gliding to an anchorage abreast the town.  The fort of St. Inigoes gave the customary salute, which I have reason to believe was not returned.  Not long after this, a bluff, swaggering, vulgar captain came on shore.  He made no visit of respect or business to any member of the Council.  He gave no report of his character or the purpose of his visit,