Romance, no doubt, owes its origin to ignorance, vanity, and
superstition. In the dark ages of the World, when a man had rendered
himself famous for wisdom or valour, his family and adherents availed
themselves of his superior qualities, magnified his virtues, and
represented his character and person as sacred and supernatural.
The vulgar easily swallowed the bait, implored his protection, and
yielded the tribute of homage and praise, even to adoration; his
exploits were handed down to posterity with a thousand exaggerations;
they were repeated as incitements to virtue; divine honours were
paid, and altars erected to his memory, for the encouragement of
those who attempted to imitate his example; and hence arose the
heathen mythology, which is no other than a collection of extravagant
romances. As learning advanced, and genius received cultivation,
these stories were embellished with the graces of poetry, that they
might the better recommend themselves to the attention; they were
sung in public, at festivals, for the instruction and delight of
the audience; and rehearsed before battle, as incentives to deeds
of glory. Thus tragedy and the epic muse were born, and, in the
progress of taste, arrived at perfection. It is no wonder that the
ancients could not relish a fable in prose, after they had seen
so many remarkable events celebrated in verse by their best poets;
we therefore find no romance among them during the era of their
excellence, unless the Cyropaedia of Xenophon may be so called;
and it was not till arts and sciences began to revive after the
irruption of the barbarians into Europe, that anything of this kind
appeared. But when the minds of men were debauched by the imposition
of priestcraft to the most absurd pitch of credulity, the authors
of romance arose, and losing sight of probability, filled their
performances with the most monstrous hyperboles. If they could not