ensure Philip's constant mouthing of the pipe.
I, too, smoke, and I am not foolish enough to risk my standing with
Philip by preaching where I do not practise. Besides, I observe that the
boy does not inhale, that his pipe goes out frequently, and that his
consumption of matches is much greater than his consumption of tobacco.
So I say nothing in reproof of his pipe.

But it is different with his language. Philip, I observe regretfully, is
profane. I am not mealy-mouthed myself. There are moments of high
emotional tension when silence is the worst form of blasphemy. But
Philip is profane without discrimination. His supply of unobjectionable
adjectives would be insufficient to meet the needs of the ordinary
kindergarten conversation. He uses the same swift epithet to describe
certain brands of tobacco, the weather on commencement day, the food at
his eating-house, his professors of French and of mathematics, the
spirit of the incoming freshman class, and the outlook for "snap"
courses during the coming year.

It is not my moral but my aesthetic sense that takes offence, so I ask
Philip whether it is the intensity of his feelings that makes it
impossible for him to discuss his work or his play without continual
reference to the process of perdition and the realm of lost souls; or
whether it is habit. No sooner have I put my question than I am sorry.
There is nothing the young soul is so afraid of as of satire. It can
understand being petted and it can understand being whipped; but the
sting behind the smile, the lash beneath the caress, throws the young
soul into helpless panic. It feels itself baited and knows not whither
it may flee. I have always thought that the worst type of bully is the
teacher in school or in college who indulges a pretty talent for satire
at the expense of his pupils. It is a cowardly and a demoralising
practice. It means not only hitting some one who is powerless to retort,
it means confusing the sense of truth in the adolescent mind. Here is
some one quite grown up who smiles and means to hurt you, who says good
and means bad, who says yes and means no. The young soul stares at you
and sees the standards of the universe in chaos about itself.

And I feel all the more guilty in Philip's case because I know that the
lad speaks only a mechanical lingo which goes with his bull-dog pipe and
the aggressive shade of his neckwear and his socks. The very pain and
alarm my question raises in him shows w