When at length the good man was made thoroughly aware of the fact, that his son and heir boasted a name so memorable in history as that borne by the enslaver of Athens, and the disputed arranger of Homer—and it was insisted that it was a name he himself had suggested—he was as angry as so mild a man could be. “But it is infamous!” he exclaimed. “Pisistratus christened! Pisistratus! who lived six hundred years before Christ was born. Good heavens, madam! You have made me the father of an anachronism.” My mother burst into tears. But the evil was irremediable. An anachronism I was, and an anachronism I must continue to the end of the chapter. CHAPTER IV. “Of course, sir, you will begin soon to educate your son yourself?” said Mr Squills. “Of course, sir,” said my father, “you have read Martinus Scriblerus?” “I don’t understand you, Mr Caxton.” “Then you have _not_ read Martinus Scriblerus, Mr Squills!” “Consider that I have read it, and what then?” “Why then, Squills,” said my father familiarly, “you would know, that though a scholar is often a fool, he is never a fool so supreme, so superlative, as when he is defacing the first unsullied page of the human history, by entering into it the commonplaces of his own pedantry. A scholar, sir, at least one like me, is of all persons the most unfit to teach young children. A mother, sir, a simple, natural, loving mother, is the infant’s true guide to knowledge.” “Egad, Mr Caxton, in spite of Helvetius, whom you quoted the night the boy was born—egad, I believe you are right!” “I am sure of it,” said my father; “at least as sure as a poor mortal can be of any thing. I agree with Helvetius, the child should be educated from its birth; but how?—there is the rub: send him to school forthwith! Certainly he is at school already with the two great principles, Nature and Love. Observe, that childhood and genius have the same master organ in common—inquisitiveness. Let childhood have its way, and as it began where genius begins, it may find what genius finds. A certain Greek writer tells us of some man, who, in order to save his bees a troublesome flight to Hymettus, cut their wings, and placed before them the finest flowers he could select. The poor bees made no honey. Now, sir, if I were to teach my boy, I should be cutting his wings and giving him the flowers he should find himself. Let us leave Nature alone for the present, and Nature’s living proxy, the watchful mother.” Therewith my father pointed to his heir sprawling on the grass and plucking daisies on the lawn; while the young mother’s voice rose merrily, laughing at the child’s glee. “I shall make but a poor bill out of your nursery, I see,” said Mr Squills.