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.