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on, in sweet communionship with the phantoms of their own creation, fondly believing they are the spiritual manifestations of a pure belief. To them the fictitious theology of the witty monk is but the sign and seal of their own faith. History brings to the surface of her territory no surer fact than this—that the belief of one age becomes, in succeeding generations, the property of the credulous and the ignorant. The pathway which leads up to the abode of Truth is beset with many quagmires and bogs, and there be many who fall therein, but these venturesome pioneers become to us, who follow after, the signposts which, warning us by their misadventures, enable us to out-distance them in our journey thitherward. Intolerance views with gratified looks the unenviable and humiliating position of these brave hearts and lofty minds, and regards it as squaring with their title to consideration. But the just man, looking back and observing the distance by which he has outstripped the great sunk hearts, knows how to value the fervent love of Truth which led them to risk such terrible hazards, for he knows that it is by love such as theirs that he stands securely where he does, almost under the shadow of the abode of Truth. Had Geoffrey of Monmouth been a lover of Truth, had he been earnestly seeking for the path which leads to her dwelling-place, we would have respected his memory. Had he merely amplified the tales of the Bretons and preserved their fictitious character, we would have considered that his only object was to amuse. When, however, he not only amplifies, but tries to transform fiction into truth, he not only is not entitled to our regard but merits our censure. There can be no doubt that his intention in so doing was not to add reliable facts to illustrate history, but to gain proselytes to his faith by circulating, and giving credit to, a belief in supernatural agents,
