world. But the connection with myself, he was kind enough to
say, had been highly agreeable; nor was he by any means
desirous, as most people are, of kicking away the ladder that
had perhaps helped him to reach his present elevation. My young
friend was willing, in short, that the fresh verdure of his
growing reputation should spread over my straggling and
half-naked boughs; even as I have sometimes thought of training
a vine, with its broad leafiness, and purple fruitage, over the
worm-eaten posts and rafters of the rustic summer house. I was
not insensible to the advantages of his proposal, and gladly
assured him of my acceptance.

Merely from the title of the stories I saw at once that the
subjects were not less rich than those of the former volume;
nor did I at all doubt that Mr. Bright's audacity (so far as
that endowment might avail) had enabled him to take full
advantage of whatever capabilities they offered. Yet, in spite
of my experience of his free way of handling them, I did not
quite see, I confess, how he could have obviated all the
difficulties in the way of rendering them presentable to
children. These old legends, so brimming over with everything
that is most abhorrent to our Christianized moral sense some of
them so hideous, others so melancholy and miserable, amid which
the Greek tragedians sought their themes, and moulded them into
the sternest forms of grief that ever the world saw; was such
material the stuff that children's playthings should be made
of! How were they to be purified? How was the blessed sunshine
to be thrown into them?

But Eustace told me that these myths were the most singular