Now, I have to put together a general position, and I pretend to no training in such things.  I propose to do it, therefore, by writing down one after another the three or four fundamental ideas which I have found for myself, pretty much in the way that I found them.  Then I shall roughly synthesise them, summing up my personal philosophy or natural religion; then I shall describe my startling discovery that the whole thing had been discovered before.  It had been discovered by Christianity.  But of these profound persuasions which I have to recount in order, the earliest was concerned with this element of popular tradition.  And without the foregoing explanation touching tradition and democracy I could hardly make my mental experience clear.  As it is, I do not know whether I can make it clear, but I now propose to try.

My first and last philosophy, that which I believe in with unbroken certainty, I learnt in the nursery.  I generally learnt it from a nurse; that is, from the solemn and star-appointed priestess at once of democracy and tradition.  The things I believed most then, the things I believe most now, are the things called fairy tales.  They seem to me to be the entirely reasonable things.  They are not fantasies:  compared with them other things are fantastic.  Compared with them religion and rationalism are both abnormal, though religion is abnormally right and rationalism abnormally wrong.  Fairyland is nothing but the sunny country of common sense.  It is not earth that judges heaven, but heaven that judges earth; so for me at least it was not earth that criticised elfland, but elfland that criticised the earth.  I knew the magic beanstalk before I had tasted beans; I was sure of the Man in the Moon before I was certain of the moon.  This was at one with all popular tradition.  Modern minor poets are naturalists, and talk about the bush or the brook; but the singers of the old epics and fables were supernaturalists, and talked about the gods of brook and bush.  That is what the moderns mean when they say that the ancients did not “appreciate Nature,” because they said that Nature was divine.  Old nurses do not tell children about the grass, but about the fairies that dance on the grass; and the old Greeks could not see the trees for the dryads.

But I deal here with what ethic and philosophy come from being fed on fairy tales.  If I were describing them in detail I could note many noble and healthy principles that arise from them.  There is the chivalrous lesson of “Jack the Giant Killer”; that giants should be killed because they are gigantic.  It is a manly mutiny against pride as such.  For the rebel is older than all the kingdoms, and the Jacobin has more tradition than the Jacobite.  There is the lesson of “Cinderella,” which is the same as that of the Magnificat—­ EXALTAVIT HUMILES.  There is the great lesson of “Beauty and the Beast”; that a thing must be loved before it is loveable.  There