nor their strength. As they cannot do everything, they think they
can do nothing. They are daunted by unexpected obstacles, degraded
by the scorn of men; they become base, cowardly, and deceitful, and
fall as far below their true level as they formerly soared above
it.

Let us come back to the primitive law. Nature has made children
helpless and in need of affection; did she make them to be obeyed
and feared? Has she given them an imposing manner, a stern eye, a
loud and threatening voice with which to make themselves feared?
I understand how the roaring of the lion strikes terror into the
other beasts, so that they tremble when they behold his terrible
mane, but of all unseemly, hateful, and ridiculous sights, was there
ever anything like a body of statesmen in their robes of office
with their chief at their head bowing down before a swaddled babe,
addressing him in pompous phrases, while he cries and slavers in
reply?

If we consider childhood itself, is there anything so weak and
wretched as a child, anything so utterly at the mercy of those about
it, so dependent on their pity, their care, and their affection?
Does it not seem as if his gentle face and touching appearance
were intended to interest every one on behalf of his weakness and
to make them eager to help him? And what is there more offensive,
more unsuitable, than the sight of a sulky or imperious child,
who commands those about him, and impudently assumes the tones of
a master towards those without whom he would perish?

On the other hand, do you not see how children are fettered by the
weakness of infancy? Do you not see how cruel it is to increase