of
rubbish from Confucius, with a farrago of useless knowledge anent
the breeching and birching of babies in Japan. I shall seek original
sources of information. What do you know, for instance, of lactation
and the act of sucking, Sir? I have been, like a good Christian, to
my Paley already. Hear the Archdeacon of Carlisle! "The teeth are
formed within the gums, and there they stop; the fact being, that
their farther advance to maturity would not only be useless to the
new-born animal, but extremely in its way; as it is evident that the
act of _sucking_, by which it is for some time to be nourished, will
be performed with more ease, both to the nurse and to the infant,
whilst the inside of the mouth and edges of the gums are smooth and
soft, than if set with hard-pointed bones. By the time they are
wanted, the teeth are ready." Now, dear Don, is not that an
interesting piece of information? You are not a mother, and probably
you never will be one; but can you imagine anything more unpleasant
to the maternal sensibilities than a child born with teeth? Mentally
and prophetically unpleasant, as suggestive of the amiable Duke of
Gloser, who came into the world grinning at dentists; physically
unpleasant, in respect of bites, and the impossibility of emulating
the complying conduct of Osric the water-fly, whose early politeness
was vouched for by the Lord Hamlet. Bethink you, moreover, Don, of a
wailing infant, full furnished with two rows of teeth--and nothing
to masticate! whereas he must have been more cruel than the
"parient" of the Dinah celebrated in song as the young lady who did
not marry Mr. Villikins, that does not have something ready for them
to do by the time the molars and bicuspids appear. I know the perils
of dentition. But have we not the whole family of carminatives? Did
the immortal Godfrey live and die in vain? Did not a kind Providence
vouchsafe to us a Daffy? Are there not corals? Are there not
India-rubber rings? And is there not the infinite tenderness and
pity which we learn for the small, wailing sufferer, as, during the
night which is not stilly, while the smouldering wick paints you, an
immense, peripatetic _silhouette_, upon the wall, you pace to and
fro the haunted chamber, and sing the song your mother sang while
you were yet a child? What a noble privilege of martyrdom! What but
parental love, deathless and irresistible, could tempt you thus,
in drapery more classical than comfortable, to bra