“English, utterly English!  Nothing on God’s earth could be more English than this whole collection.  The personality of the artist (it happened that he was an Irishman), the countenances of the subjects, their dress, the discreetly suggestive backgrounds, all have the characteristic touch of British culture, very refined, very high-bred, very quiet, very much clarified, very confident, very neat, very well-appointed, a little dreamy and just a little wearisome—­the precise qualities which at the same time impress and annoy us in the English.”

This is exactly what might be said of Pater’s writing, but that is full-grown English.  Pater is not a model for children, they would find him more than “just a little wearisome.”  If anyone could put into words what Sir Joshua Reynolds’ portraits of children express, that would be exactly what we want for the model of their English.  They can write and they can speak in a beautiful way of their own if they are allowed a little liberty to grow wild, and trained a little to climb.  Their charm is candour, as it is the charm of Sir Joshua’s portraits, with a quiet confidence that all is well in the world they know, and that everyone is kind; this gives the look of trustful innocence and unconcern.  Their writing and talking have this charm, as long as nothing has happened to make them conscious of themselves.  But these first blossoms drop off, and there is generally an intermediate stage in which they can neither speak nor write, but keep their thoughts close, and will not give themselves away.  Only when that stage is past do they really and with full consciousness seek to express themselves, and pay some attention to the self-expression of others.  This third stage has its May-day, when the things which have become hackneyed to our minds from long use come to them with the full force of revelations, and they astonish us by their exuberant delight.  But they have a right to their May-day and it ought not to be cut short; the sun will go down of itself, and then June will come in its own time and ripen the green wood, and after that will come pruning time, in another season, and then the phase of severity and fastidiousness, and after that—­if they continue to write—­they will be truly themselves.

In every stage we have our duty to do, encouraging and pruning by turns, and, as in everything else, we must begin with ourselves and go on with ourselves that there may be always something living to give, and some growth; for in this we need never cease to grow, in knowledge, in taste, and in critical power.  The means are not far to seek; if we really care about these things, the means are everywhere, in reading the best things, in taking notes, in criticising independently and comparing with the best criticism, in forming our own views and yet keeping a willingness to modify them, in an attitude of mind that is always learning, always striving, always raising its standard, never impatient but permanently dissatisfied.