the sense of injustice embitters his disposition; he hates every
one. Though he has never felt grateful for kindness, he resents
all opposition.

How should I suppose that such a child can ever be happy? He is
the slave of anger, a prey to the fiercest passions. Happy! He is
a tyrant, at once the basest of slaves and the most wretched of
creatures. I have known children brought up like this who expected
you to knock the house down, to give them the weather-cock on the
steeple, to stop a regiment on the march so that they might listen
to the band; when they could not get their way they screamed and
cried and would pay no attention to any one. In vain everybody strove
to please them; as their desires were stimulated by the ease with
which they got their own way, they set their hearts on impossibilities,
and found themselves face to face with opposition and difficulty,
pain and grief. Scolding, sulking, or in a rage, they wept and cried
all day. Were they really so greatly favoured? Weakness, combined
with love of power, produces nothing but folly and suffering. One
spoilt child beats the table; another whips the sea. They may beat
and whip long enough before they find contentment.

If their childhood is made wretched by these notions of power and
tyranny, what of their manhood, when their relations with their
fellow-men begin to grow and multiply? They are used to find everything
give way to them; what a painful surprise to enter society and meet
with opposition on every side, to be crushed beneath the weight
of a universe which they expected to move at will. Their insolent
manners, their childish vanity, only draw down upon them mortification,
scorn, and mockery; they swallow insults like water; sharp experience
soon teaches them that they have realised neither their position