But there’s something rotten in the state of Denmark. Once upon a time there was a young mother who conceived that every mother might be the means of gracing her offspring with fine teeth: “For,” said she, “it stands to reason that for every year of wear and grind you save the child’s teeth, the man will have a fine set a year the longer.” “Nonsense, my dear madam,” said the doctor, “you are ruining the child’s teeth with all this pappy food; they’ll be no stronger than egg-shells. Give him plenty of hard crusts to crunch, a bone to gnaw; he must have something to harden his teeth upon.” Just so of the moral “teeth” by means of which the child must carve out a place for himself in this full world. He must endure hardness if you would make a man of him. Blame as well as praise, tears as well as smiles, are of human nature’s daily food; pungent speech is a ‘tool of the tongue’ not to be altogether eschewed in the building of character; let us call a spade a spade, and the child who brings the wrong book “stupid,” whether before strangers or behind them. Much better this than a chamber-conference with “Mother” about every trifle, which latter is apt to lead to a habit of morbid self-introspection. We are, in truth, between Scylla and Charybdis: on this side, the six-headed, many-toothed monster of our own unbridled love of power; on that, the whirlpool of emasculating softness which would engulf the manly virtues of our poor little Ulysses. If you must choose, let it be Scylla rather than Charybdis, counsels our Circe; better lose something through the monster with the teeth, than lose yourself in the whirlpool. But is there not a better way? Weigh his estate and thine; accustom’d, he, To all sweet courtly usage that obtains Where dwells the King. How, with thy utmost pains, Canst thou produce what shall full worthy be? One, “greatest in the kingdom,” is with thee, Whose spirit yet beholds the Father’s face, And, thence replenish’d, glows with constant grace; Take fearful heed lest he despiséd be! Order thy goings softly, as before A Prince; nor let thee out unmannerly In thy rude moods and irritable: more, Beware lest round him wind of words rave free. Refrain thee; see thy speech be sweet and rare: Thy ways, consider’d; and thine aspect, fair. FOOTNOTES: [22] “Bits of Talk about Home Matters,” by Helen Hunt Jackson. CHAPTER VI _MRS. SEDLEY’S TALE_