The time of falling asleep is a child’s immemorial and incalculable hour.  It is full of traditions, and beset by antique habits.  The habit of prehistoric races has been cited as the only explanation of the fixity of some customs in mankind.  But if the inquirers who appeal to that beginning remembered better their own infancy, they would seek no further.  See the habits in falling to sleep which have children in their thralldom.  Try to overcome them in any child, and his own conviction of their high antiquity weakens your hand.

Childhood is antiquity, and with the sense of time and the sense of mystery is connected for ever the hearing of a lullaby.  The French sleep-song is the most romantic.  There is in it such a sound of history as must inspire any imaginative child, falling to sleep, with a sense of the incalculable; and the songs themselves are old.  “Le Bon Roi Dagobert” has been sung over French cradles since the legend was fresh.  The nurse knows nothing more sleepy than the tune and the verse that she herself slept to when a child.  The gaiety of the thirteenth century, in “Le Pont d’Avignon,” is put mysteriously to sleep, away in the tete a tete of child and nurse, in a thousand little sequestered rooms at night.  “Malbrook” would be comparatively modern, were not all things that are sung to a drowsing child as distant as the day of Abraham.

If English children are not rocked to many such aged lullabies, some of them are put to sleep to strange cradle-songs.  The affectionate races that are brought into subjection sing the primitive lullaby to the white child.  Asiatic voices and African persuade him to sleep in the tropical night.  His closing eyes are filled with alien images.

THE ILLUSION OF HISTORIC TIME

He who has survived his childhood intelligently must become conscious of something more than a change in his sense of the present and in his apprehension of the future.  He must be aware of no less a thing than the destruction of the past.  Its events and empires stand where they did, and the mere relation of time is as it was.  But that which has fallen together, has fallen in, has fallen close, and lies in a little heap, is the past itself—­time—­the fact of antiquity.

He has grown into a smaller world as he has grown older.  There are no more extremities.  Recorded time has no more terrors.  The unit of measure which he holds in his hand has become in his eyes a thing of paltry length.  The discovery draws in the annals of mankind.  He had thought them to be wide.

For a man has nothing whereby to order and place the floods, the states, the conquests, and the temples of the past, except only the measure which he holds.  Call that measure a space of ten years.  His first ten years had given him the illusion of a most august scale and measure.  It was then that he conceived Antiquity.  But now!  Is it to a decade of ten such little years as these now in his hand—­ten of his mature years—­that men give the dignity of a century?  They call it an age; but what if life shows now so small that the word age has lost its gravity?