strokes harden with it, and the first thing the best of us have to do on growing up is to waste precious time beating at the things, to try to get them out.  Surely the child of the most admirable and wise parents is richer with his own faulty but original point of view than he would be fitted out with the choicest selections of maxims and conclusions that he did not have to think out for himself.  I could never be a schoolmistress.  I should be afraid to teach the children.  They know more than I do.  They know how to be happy, how to live from day to day, in godlike indifference to what may come next.  And is not trying to be happy the secret we spend our lives trying to guess?  Why, then, should I, by forcing them to look through my stale eyes, show them, as through a dreadful magnifying-glass, the terrific possibilities, the cruel explosiveness of what they had been lightly tossing across the daisies, and thinking they were only toys?”

All of which sounds very pretty, but when simmered down, the wisdom, if wisdom it be, of a statement like that can be compressed into the old adage, “Where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise.”  But the point is that the world has pretty generally come to the conclusion that bliss is not necessarily the most healthful thing, either for adults or children.  “Soft and resistless!” Precisely, there is the crux.  If these “soft and resistless” minds do not receive good impressions they will receive bad ones, and it is the part of wisdom to get the good in first.  Where a mind is “to let,” some sort of tenant is sure to occupy.

Coleridge put the case in a nutshell when an English deist inveighed bitterly against the rigid instruction of Christian homes.  The deist said:  “Consider the helplessness of a little child.  Before it has wisdom or judgment to decide for itself, it is prejudiced in favour of Christianity.  How selfish is the parent who stamps his religious ideas into a child’s receptive nature, as a moulder stamps the hot iron with his model!  I shall prejudice my children neither for Christianity nor for Buddhism, nor for Atheism, but allow them to wait for their mature years.  Then they can open the question and decide for themselves.”  Later Coleridge led his friend into the garden, and then whimsically exclaimed:  “How selfish is the gardener to ruthlessly stamp his prejudice in favour of roses, violets and strawberries into a receptive garden-bed.  The time was when in April I pulled up the young weeds,—­the parsley, the thistles,—­and planted the garden-beds out with vegetables and flowers.  Now I have decided to permit the garden to go until September.  Then the black clods can choose for themselves between cockleburrs, currants and strawberries.”  The deist saw the point.