we fall, in
reading him, across some little trait of humanity which in form as well
as spirit is really identical with our own experience. Then, for the
moment, all is changed with us--gleams of light flash out, in which the
drapery becomes transparent, and we see the human form behind it, and
that entire old world in the warm glow of flesh and blood. Such is the
effect of those few child scenes of his, which throw us back into our
old familiar childhood. With all these years between us, there is no
difference between their children and ours, and child would meet child
without sense of strangeness in common games and common pleasures.

The little Ulysses climbing on the knees of his father's guest, coaxing
for a taste of the red wine, and spilling it as he starts at the unusual
taste; or that other most beautiful picture of him running at Laertes's
side in the garden at Ithaca, the father teaching the boy the names of
the fruit-trees, and making presents to him of this tree and of that
tree for his very own, to help him to remember what they were called;
the partition wall of three thousand years melts away as we look back at
scenes like these; that broad, world-experienced man was once, then,
such a little creature as we remember ourselves, and Laertes a calm,
kind father of the nineteenth century. Then, as now, the children loved
to sport upon the shore, and watch the inrolling waves;--then, as now,
the boy-architect would pile the moist sand into mimic town or castle,
and when the work was finished, sweep it away again in wanton humour
with foot and hand;--then, as now, the little tired maiden would cling
to her mother's skirt, and, trotting painfully along beside her, look up
wistfully and plead with moist eyes to be carried in her arms. Nay, and
among the grown ones, where time has not changed the occupation, and the
forms of culture have little room to vary, we meet again with very
familiar faces. There is Melantho, the not over-modest tittering
waiting-maid--saucy to her mistress and the old housekeeper, and always
running after the handsome young princes. Unhappy Melantho, true child
of universal nature! grievous work we should make with most households,
if all who resemble thee were treated to as rough a destiny. And there
are other old friends whom it is pleasant enough to recognise at so long
a distance. 'Certain smooth-haired, sleek-faced fellows--insolent where
their lords would permit them; inquisitive and