I have related this matter in some detail, because, to a certain extent, it goes against modern theories for which I have much respect. The use of force in education should be very rare. But for the conquest of fear it is, I think, sometimes salutary. Where a fear is irrational and strong, the child, left to himself, will never have the experiences which show that there is no ground for apprehension. When a situation has been experienced repeatedly without harm, familiarity kills fear. It would very likely be useless to give the dreaded experience _once_; it must be given often enough to become in no degree surprising. If the necessary experience can be secured without force, so much the better; but if not, force may be better than the persistence of an unconquered fear. There is a further point. In the case of my own boy, and presumably in other cases too, the experience of overcoming fear is extraordinarily delightful. It is easy to rouse the boy’s pride: when he has won praise for courage, he is radiantly happy for the rest of the day. At a later stage, a timid boy suffers agonies through the contempt of other boys, and it is much more difficult then for him to acquire new habits. I think therefore that the early acquisition of self-control in the matter of fear, and the early teaching of physical enterprise, are of sufficient importance to warrant somewhat drastic methods. Parents learn by their mistakes; it is only when the children are grown up that one discovers how they ought to have been educated. I shall therefore relate an incident which shows the snares of overindulgence. At the age of two and a half, my boy was put to sleep in a room by himself. He was inordinately proud of the promotion from the night-nursery, and at first he always slept quietly through the night. But one night there was a terrific gale, and a hurdle was blown over with a deafening crash. He woke in terror, and cried out. I went to him at once: he had apparently waked with a nightmare, and clung to me with his heart beating wildly. Very soon his terror ceased. But he had complained that it was dark--usually, at that time of year, he slept all through the dark hours. After I left him, the terror seemed to return in a mitigated form, so I gave him a night-light. After that, he made an almost nightly practice of crying out, until at last it became clear that he was only doing it for the pleasure of having grown-up people come and make a fuss. So we talked to him very carefully about the absence of danger in the dark, and told him that if he woke he was to turn over and go to sleep again, as we should not come to him unless there was something serious the matter. He listened attentively, and never cried out again except for grave cause on rare occasions. Of course the night-light was discontinued. If we had been more indulgent, we should probably have made him sleep badly for a long time, perhaps for life.