was possible to them from the comparatively limited range of pagan imagination; their thought rarely dwelt in those regions where reason loves to ask the aid of mysticism, and all remote ideas, like all remote nations, were indiscriminately regarded by them as barbarous.  But guarded by the bounds of their civilization, as by the circumfluent ocean-stream of their olden tradition, they were prompted in all their movements by the spirit of beauty, and philosophers have accounted them the very people whose ideas were adequately and harmoniously represented in sensible forms,—­unlike the nations of the Orient, where mind is overawed by preponderating matter, and unlike the nations of Christendom, where the current spiritual meanings reach far into the shadowy realm of mystery and transcend the power of material expression.

Thus art was the main category of the Greeks, the absolute form which embraced all their finite forms.  It moulded their literature, as it did their sculpture, architecture, and the action of their gymnasts and orators.  They therefore delighted only in the highest orders and purest specimens of literature, refused to retain in remembrance any of the unsuccessful attempts at poetry which may be supposed to have preceded Homer, and gave their homage only to masterpieces in the dignified styles of the epic, the drama, the lyric, the history, or the philosophical discussion.  Equal to the highest creations, they refused to tolerate anything lower; and they knew not the novel, because their poetical notions were never left in a nebulous, prosaic state, but were always developed into poetry.

Another reason, doubtless, was the wonderful activity of the Greek mind, finding its amusement and relaxation in the forum, theatre, gymnasium, or even the barber’s shop, in constant mutual contact, in learning wisdom and news by word of mouth.  The long stories which they may have told to each other, as an outlet for their natural vitality, as extemporaneous exercises of curiosity and wit and fancy, did not creep into their literature, which included only more mature and elaborate attempts.

The modern novel was born of Christianity and feudalism.  It is the child of contemplation,—­of that sort of luxurious intellectual mood which has always distinguished the Oriental character, and was first Europeanized in the twilight of the mediaeval period.  The fallen Roman Empire was broken into countless fragments, which became feudal baronies.  The heads of the newly organized society were lordly occupants of castles, who in time of peace had little to do.  They were isolated from their neighbors by acres, forests, and a stately etiquette, if not actual hostility.  There was no open-air theatre in the vicinity, no forum alive with gossip and harangues, no public games, not even a loquacious barber’s shop.  During the intervals between public or private wars,—­when the Turks were unmolested, the crescent and the dragon left in harmless composure, and no Christians were in mortal turmoil with each other,—­it is little wonder that restless knights went forth from their loneliness errant in quest of adventures.  What was there to occupy life in those barricaded stone-towers?