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for instance； had been children； it would have been well enough for
the child to measure their remoteness and their acts with his own
magnificent measure。 But they were only men and demi…gods。 Thus
they belong to him as he is now … a man； and not to him as he was
once … a child。 It was quite wrong to lay the child's enormous ten
years' rule along the path from our time to theirs； that path must
be skipped by the nimble yard in the man's present possession。
Decidedly the Argonauts are no subject for the boy。
What； then？ Is the record of the race nothing but a bundle of such
little times？ Nay； it seems that childhood； which created the
illusion of ages； does actually prove it true。 Childhood is itself
Antiquity … to every man his only Antiquity。 The recollection of
childhood cannot make Abraham old again in the mind of a man of
thirty…five； but the beginning of every life is older than Abraham。
THERE is the abyss of time。 Let a man turn to his own childhood …
no further … if he would renew his sense of remoteness； and of the
mystery of change。
For in childhood change does not go at that mere hasty amble； it
rushes； but it has enormous space for its flight。 The child has an
apprehension not only of things far off； but of things far apart； an
illusive apprehension when he is learning 〃ancient〃 history … a real
apprehension when he is conning his own immeasurable infancy。 If
there is no historical Antiquity worth speaking of； this is the
renewed and unnumbered Antiquity for all mankind。
And it is of this … merely of this … that 〃ancient〃 history seems to
partake。 Rome was founded when we began Roman history； and that is
why it seems long ago。 Suppose the man of thirty…five heard； at
that present age； for the first time of Romulus。 Why； Romulus would
be nowhere。 But he built his wall； as a matter of fact； when every
one was seven years old。 It is by good fortune that 〃ancient〃
history is taught in the only ancient days。 So； for a time； the
world is magical。
Modern history does well enough for learning later。 But by learning
something of antiquity in the first ten years； the child enlarges
the sense of time for all mankind。 For even after the great
illusion is over and history is re…measured； and all fancy and
flight caught back and chastised； the enlarged sense remains
enlarged。 The man remains capable of great spaces of time。 He will
not find them in Egypt； it is true； but he finds them within； he
contains them； he is aware of them。 History has fallen together；
but childhood surrounds and encompasses history； stretches beyond
and passes on the road to eternity。
He has not passed in vain through the long ten years； the ten years
that are the treasury of preceptions … the first。 The great
disillusion shall never shorten those years； nor set nearer together
the days that made them。 〃Far apart；〃 I have said； and that 〃far
apart〃 is wonderful。 The past of childhood is not single； is not
motionless； nor fixed in one point； it has summits a world away one
from the other。 Year from year differs as the antiquity of Mexico
from the antiquity of Chaldea。 And the man of thirty…five knows for
ever afterwards what is flight； even though he finds no great
historic distances to prove his wings by。
There is a long and mysterious moment in long and mysterious
childhood； which is the extremest distance known to any human fancy。
Many other moments； many other hours； are long in the first ten
years。 Hours of weariness are long … not with a mysterious length；
but with a mere length of protraction； so that the things called
minutes and half…hours by the elderly may be something else to their
apparent contemporaries； the children。 The ancient moment is not
merely one of these … it is a space not of long； but of
immeasurable； time。 It is the moment of going to sleep。 The man
knows that borderland； and has a contempt for it： he has long ceased
to find antiquity there。 It has become a common enough margin of
dreams to him； and he does not attend to its phantasies。 He knows
that he has a frolic spirit in his head which has its way at those
hours； but he is not interested in it。 It is the inexperienced
child who passes with simplicity through the marginal country； and
the thing he meets there is principally the yet further conception
of illimitable time。
His nurse's lullaby is translated into the mysteries of time。 She
sings absolutely immemorial words。 It matters little what they may
mean to waking ears； to the ears of a child going to sleep they tell
of the beginning of the world。 He has fallen asleep to the sound of
them all his life； and 〃all his life〃 means more than older speech
can well express。
Ancient custom is formed in a single spacious year。 A child is
beset with long traditions。 And his infancy is so old； so old； that
the mere adding of years in the life to follow will not seem to
throw it further back … it is already so far。 That is； it looks as
remote to the memory of a man of thirty as to that of a man of
seventy。 What are a mere forty years of added later life in the
contemplation of such a distance？ Pshaw！
EYES
There is nothing described with so little attention； with such
slovenliness； or so without verification … albeit with so much
confidence and word…painting … as the eyes of the men and women
whose faces have been made memorable by their works。 The describer
generally takes the first colour that seems to him probable。 The
grey eyes of Coleridge are recorded in a proverbial line； and
Procter repeats the word； in describing from the life。 Then
Carlyle； who shows more signs of actual attention； and who caught a
trick of Coleridge's pronunciation instantly； proving that with his
hearing at least he was not slovenly； says that Coleridge's eyes
were brown … 〃strange； brown； timid； yet earnest…looking eyes。〃 A
Coleridge with brown eyes is one man； and a Coleridge with grey eyes
another … and； as it were； more responsible。 As to Rossetti's eyes；
the various inattention of his friends has assigned to them； in all
the ready…made phrases； nearly all the colours。
So with Charlotte Bronte。 Matthew Arnold seems to have thought the
most probable thing to be said of her eyes was that they were grey
and expressive。 Thus； after seeing them； does he describe them in
one of his letters。 Whereas Mrs Gaskell； who shows signs of
attention； says that Charlotte's eyes were a reddish hazel； made up
of 〃a great variety of tints；〃 to be discovered by close looking。
Almost all eves that are not brown are； in fact； of some such mixed
colour； generally spotted in； and the effect is vivacious。 All the
more if the speckled iris has a dark ring to enclose it。
Nevertheless； the eye of mixed colour has always a definite
character； and the mingling that looks green is quite unlike the
mingling that looks grey； and among the greys there is endless
difference。 Brown eyes alone are apart； unlike all others； but
having no variety except in the degrees of their darkness。
The colour of eyes seems to be significant of temperament； but as
regards beauty there is little or nothing to choose among colours。
It is not the eye； but the eyelid； that is important； beautiful；
eloquent； full of secrets。 The eye has nothing but its colour； and
all colours are fine within fine eyelids。 The eyelid has all the
form； all the drawing； all the breadth and length； the square of
great eyes irregularly wide； the long corners of narrow eyes； the
pathetic outward droop； the delicate contrary suggestion of an
upward turn at the outer corner； which Sir Joshua loved。
It is the blood that is eloquent； and there is no sign of blood in
the eye； but in the eyelid the blood hides itself and shows its
signs。 All along its edges are the little muscles； living； that
speak not only the obvious and emphatic things； but what
reluctances； what perceptions； what ambiguities； what half…
apprehensions； what doubts； what interceptions！ The eyelids
confess； and reject； and refuse to reject。 They have expressed all
things ever since man was man。
And they express so much by seeming to hide or to reveal that which
indeed expresses nothing。 For there is no message from the eye。 It
has direction； it moves； in the service of the sense of sight； it
receives the messages of the world。 But expression is outward； and
the eye has it not。 There are no windows of the soul； there are
only curtains； and these show all things by seeming to hide a little
more； a little less。 They hide nothing but their own secrets。
But； some may say； the eyes have emotion inasmuch as they betray it
by the waxing and contracting of the pupils。 It is； however； the
rarest thing； this opening and narrowing under any influences except
those of darkness and light。 It does take place exceptionally； but
I am doubtful whe