n 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
asserted to be a name that 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 Aiartinus Scriblerus, Mr. Squills!"

"Consider that I have read it; and what then?"

"Why, then, Squills," said my father, familiarly, "you son 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 anything. 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 teachers,--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 loving proxy, the watchful mo