John Bull, Junior: or, French as She is Traduced

XV

He can not Speak French, but he can Read it, you know. – He has a try at it in Paris. – Nasal Sounds and Accented Syllables. – How I Reduced English Words to Single Syllables, and was Successful in the Object i had in View. – A Remark on the Connection of Words.

When you ask an Englishman whether he can speak French, he generally answers:

"I can read it, you know."

"Aloud!" you inquire, with a significant smile.

"Well," he says, "I have never had much practice in reading French aloud. I mean to say that I can understand what I read. Of course, now and then I come across a word that I am not quite sure about, but I can get on, you know."

"I suppose you manage to make yourself understood in France."

"Oh! very little French is required for that; I always go to the English hotels."

He always does so on the Continent, because these hotels are the only ones that can provide him with English comfort.

When he starts for Paris he gets on capitally till he reaches Calais. There he assumes his insular stiffness, which we Continental people take for arrogance, but is, in reality, only dignified timidity.

Arrived at the Gare du Nord, he takes a cab and goes to one of the hotels in the Rue Saint Honoré or the Rue de Rivoli.

The first time he reached one of these establishments, he tripped on getting out of his cab, and fell on the pavement. The porter helped him up and asked him:

"Avez-vous du mal, monsieur?"

He thought the porter took him for a Frenchman, and he prepared to answer in French. Believing he was asked if "he had two trunks," he answers:

"No, only a portmanteau."

After this first success, he thought he would air his French.

"Garçon!" he calls; "j'ai faim."

He pronounces this quite perfectly, so perfectly that the waiter, understanding that he is married, informs him that he can have apartments ready for Madame.

"He is obstinate and will have another shot:

"Je suis fameux, garçon!"

The waiter bows respectfully.

This won't do, dear fellow; try again.

"Je suis femme!" he yells.

This staggers the waiter.

It is time to inquire of him if he speaks English.

"Can you speak English?"

"Oh yes, sir."

Our traveler is all right again, but he thinks that those confounded French people have a queer manner of pronouncing their own language.

With the exception of our nasal sounds, which I know are stumbling-blocks to Englishmen – who will always insist on calling our great music composer and pianist Saint-Saëns, "Sang Songs" – I never could understand that the difficulty of our pronunciation was insuperable. Our vowels are bold, well-marked, always sounded the same, and, except u, like the English vowels, or so nearly like them that they can not prevent an Englishman from understanding French and speaking it.

The greatest mistake he makes is in not bearing in mind that the accent should always be laid on the last syllable, or on the last but one if the word ends in e mute. How much easier this is to remember than the place of the English accented syllable, which varies constantly! In admirable, you have it on the first; in admire, on the second; in admiration, on the third. On the contrary, no difficulty about the pronunciation of the three French words, admirable, admirer, and admiration; the tonic accent falls on the last sound syllable in every case.

The less educated a man is the more stress he lays on the accented syllables; and you find the lower classes of a country lay such emphasis on these syllables that they almost pronounce nothing else. Being unable to make myself understood when pronouncing whole English words, I have often tried to use only the accented syllables when speaking to the lower class people of England; in every attempt I have been successful.

I obtained a basket of strawberries in Covent Garden Market by asking for a "bask of strawbs."

A lower class Yankee will understand few Frenchmen who speak to him of America; but he will understand them if they speak to him of Merk.

The greatest defect in an Englishman's pronunciation of French is generally in the wrong connection of words between which there is no pause.

The final consonant of a word, followed by another beginning with a vowel or h mute, should be pronounced as if it belonged to the latter word. An Englishman sounds ses amis as if it was seize amis. He should say: "se samis."

"Mon ami est à Paris" = "Mo nami è ta Paris."

Perhaps the following remark on the separation of syllables may fix the rule:

The English say: mag-nan-im-ity.

The French say: ma-gna-ni-mi-té.

You see, dear reader, how difficult it is to refrain from talking "shop," when one has been a school-master.

XVI

Public School Scholarships and Exhibitions. – Grateful Parents. – Inquiring Mothers. – A Dear little Candidate. – Ladies' Testimonials. – A Science Master well Recommended.

It seems strange that in a democratic country, overburdened with school-rates, free education should be offered in the public schools to the children of the well-to-do and even wealthy people. To give opportunities to those who have clever children and cannot afford to pay for their education, such was the spirit which dictated the foundation of scholarships and exhibitions in the public schools, which schools are under the supervision of the Charity Commissioners.

The Charity Commissioners! The organizers of that well-ordered British charity which begins at home!

But all this again does not concern me. If it did, I should say to gentlemen enjoying revenues of £700, £800, and £1,000 a year: "My dear sirs, you can afford to pay school fees for your children; please to leave these scholarships to your less fortunate countrymen."

My diary contains a few recollections about foundation scholars and their parents which suggested the foregoing remarks to me. Pardon me for having given them a place here.

I have always noticed that the parents of foundation scholars are much more troublesome and exacting than those who pay their twenty or thirty pounds a year to the school for their sons' tuition fees.

The school is their property, the masters their servants, and when complaints are lodged with the authorities you may be sure they come from them.

They imagine, for instance, that the school ought to provide the boys with books, and think it very hard that they should be called upon to pay for them. When their sons are ordered to get a new book, they generally take a fortnight to obtain it.

"Where is your book?" you say to a scholar you see looking at his neighbor's.

"Please, sir, it has not come yet; I have ordered it at the stores."

Two weeks later the book makes its appearance.

When the boys raise subscriptions for their sports, which ought to be supported especially by those who owe a debt of gratitude to the school, or for a testimonial got up in favor of a retiring master, or in memory of a celebrated old pupil, the few recalcitrants are invariably to be found among the free scholars.

Our boys one day decided on founding a little literary society. As a few periodicals were to be bought and other little expenses incurred, their committee passed a resolution that an annual subscription of five shillings should be demanded of the members.

A father immediately wrote to the young president of the new society, asking if it was compulsory for his boy to join the society, as he did not see the force of paying five shillings for what, he thought, his boy was entitled to enjoy for nothing. The pater received his due by return of post. The president of the society answered:

"Dear Sir:

"Your son is not at all compelled to join our society. The subscription of five shillings was decided upon simply to keep our meetings select."

The Englishman has a supreme contempt for what is cheap. It is in his nature. He cannot understand that there is any value in what he has not to pay for.

I cannot forget the time when a young lunatic hanged himself at Christ's Hospital, and the plethora of letters that were sent to the papers by parents who seemed to be anxious to seize the opportunity of trying to bring discredit on that splendidly conducted school, one of the most interesting philanthropic institutions in England.

A father, sheltering himself behind a pseudonym, went the length of writing to the Daily News to say that he had had three sons educated at Christ's Hospital, but that he thanked God he had not any more to send there.

The Governors of Christ's Hospital spend £60 a year upon each blue-coat boy. The three sons of this "indignant" father therefore cost the Hospital something like £2,000.

What respect this man would have felt for the school if the money had been drawn out of his own pocket in the shape of capitation fees!

The following conversation once took place between a lady and the head master of a great public school:

"I have a little boy eleven years old," said the lady, "whom my husband is anxious to have educated here. He is a very clever little fellow. We have heard that, on leaving the school to go to one of the two great universities, some boys received exhibitions varying in value from £80 to £100 a year for four years. Do you think, sir, that our son would get one, for the probability of his obtaining such an exhibition would be a great inducement to us to trust the boy to your care?"

"Well," replied the head-master, with great command over his countenance, "I am afraid I cannot commit myself to any such promise."

The lady retired. Her promising son was probably sent to a more accommodating school.

The same head-master once received the visit of a man who asked him point-blank if the scholarship examinations were conducted honestly, or, in other words, if the scholarships were given according to merit.

From the answer he received he deemed it expedient to beat a speedy retreat.

When a school has to offer, say, six scholarships to the public, and there are a hundred candidates applying for them, you may easily imagine that it is difficult to persuade the parents of the ninety-four boys who fail that the scholarships are given according to merit.

In distributing six scholarships among a hundred candidates you make six ungrateful fathers and ninety-four discontented ones.

Whilst our school was being rebuilt in another part of the metropolis, a loving mother called on the head-master in the City to intimate her intention of placing her little boy in the school as soon as the new building would be finished, and also to ask if she would be allowed to see the room in which her dear child would be taught.

It was a great pity the building was not advanced enough at the time to permit of her securing a corner for "her darling pet."

The mother to be most dreaded is the one whose husband has left her for India, or some other warm climate. She is restless, inquisitive, and never satisfied. Each remark you make to her son brings her on the school premises for inquiries. She writes letter upon letter, pays visit upon visit.

Once a week her son brings you a little note in the following style:

"Mrs. X. presents her compliments to Mr. So-and-so, and begs that her son may be excused for not having prepared his lesson, as he had a bad headache last night."

A husband may be a nuisance in a house, but when I was a school-master I always thought he was a great improvement to it.

(In the Examination Room.)

Sometimes parents send up their sons for scholarship examinations with very little luggage.

I remember a dear little boy, between ten and eleven, who was a candidate for one of our vacant scholarships.

On reaching the seat that was assigned to him, he was provided with the Latin paper by the school secretary, and presented with half a ream of beautiful writing paper for his answers.

We thought he did not appear very busy, and presently, as I came up to him, I spoke a few kind words and gave him a little pat on the back.

"Well, how are you getting on?" I said.

"Please, sir, I can't do this paper. I don't know what it is about," he said, looking at me as if for help.

"Don't you know any Latin?" I inquired.

"Yes, sir; I know my first two declensions."

"Is that all the Latin you know?"

"Yes, sir."

"I suppose you won't take up Greek, will you?"

"I expect I had better not, sir, as I have never learned any," he replied, with his eyes half out of their sockets. "Is it difficult, sir?" he suggested, thinking I was not looking satisfied with his answer.

"Not very," I replied; "but if I were you I would not have my first try at it to-day."

"Thank you, sir," said my little friend.

"Do you know any French?" I then asked.

"Please, sir, mamma taught me a few sentences."

"Well, let me hear."

"Please, sir, I know Quelle heure est-il? and Comment vous portez-vous?"

"Any grammar?"

"No, sir."

"Don't you know the French for I shall have?"

"No, sir, I don't think I do."

"Do you know any mathematics?"

"Do you mean arithmetic, sir?"

"Yes, I do."

"Please, sir, I can do addition, subtraction, multiplication, and short division."

"I suppose you will try the English subjects. Do you know any English?"

"Yes, sir, I can speak English," he said, looking at me with surprise.

"Of course you can," I replied; "but you know some history, I suppose. Have you ever read any English history?"

"Yes, sir, I have read 'Robinson Crusoe.'"

"Well, well, my poor boy, I am afraid you have not much chance of getting a scholarship."

"Haven't I?" said the dear child, and he burst into tears. Then he handed me a letter, which was addressed to the head-master.

It was a supplication from his mother. Her little boy was very clever, she said, and she hoped he would not be judged by what he actually knew, but by what she was sure he would be able to learn if admitted into the school.

Poor child! we comforted him as well as we could, and sent him back to his mamma. He was very miserable.

Ladies are sometimes great at testimonials, and they must think it very ungentlemanly of men not to favor their candidates.

When our head science mastership was vacant, over a hundred applications were lodged with the head-master for his consideration. I remember that among the candidates there was one who was only provided with a single testimonial, and this from a lady (an old lady, I imagine). The testimonial was to the effect that "she had known Mr. P. for many years. He was a good and steady young man, and she knew he was very fond of science."

This testimonial failed to secure the appointment for its owner.

XVII

The Origin of Anglomania and Anglophobia in England. – A Typical Frenchman. – Too Much of an Englishman. – A Remarkable French Master. – John Bull made to go to Church by a Frenchman. – A Noble and Thankless Career. – A Place of Learning. – Mons. and Esquire. – All Ladies and Gentlemen. – One Exception. – Wonderful Addresses.

The French in England are of two sorts, those who, by their intelligence, industry, and perseverance, have succeeded in building up an honorable position for themselves, and those who, by the lack of these qualities, vegetate there as they would be pretty sure to do anywhere.

The former do not all love the land of their adoption, but they all respect it. The latter, unwilling to lay their poverty at their own door, throw the blame upon England for not having understood them, and they have not a good word to say for her. It never occurred to them that it was theirs to study and understand England, and that England is not to be blamed for not having studied them and changed her ways to accommodate them.

They never part with a shilling without remarking that for a penny they would be able to obtain the same value in France. You often wonder how it is they stick to this country instead of honoring their own with their presence.

I have always been an admirer of that worthy Frenchman who carries his patriotism to the extent of buying all his clothing in France. He declares it impossible to wear English garments, and almost impossible to wear out French ones. Besides, he does not see why he should not give his country the benefit of some of the guineas he has picked up over here. Like every child of France, he has the love of good linen, and according to him the article is only to be found in Paris.

So he goes about in his narrow-brimmed hat, and turned-down collar fastened low in the neck, and finished off with a tiny black tie, a large expanse of shirt-front, and boots with high heels and pointed toes. As he goes along the street, he hears people whisper: "There's a Frenchman!" But, far from objecting to that, he rather likes it, and he is right.

He speaks bad English, and assures you that you require very few words to make yourself understood of the people. He does not go so far as Figaro, but his English vocabulary is of the most limited.

Without making any noise about it, he sends his guinea to all the French Benevolent Societies in England, and wherever the tricolor floats he is of the party.

He likes the English, and recognizes their solid qualities; but as he possesses many of his own, he keeps to his native stock.

How this good Frenchman does shine by the side of another type, a type which, I am happy to say, is rare – the one who drops his country.

The latter, when he speaks of England, says: "We do this, we do that, in England," not "The English do this, the English do that." He would like to say, "We English," but he hardly dares go that length.

He dresses à l'anglaise with a vengeance, makes it a point to frequent only English houses, and spends a good deal of his time in running down his compatriots.

He does not belong to any of the French societies or clubs in England. These establishments, however, do not miss him much more than his own country.

I once knew one of this category. His name ended with an e mute preceded by a double consonant. The e mute was a real sore to him, the grief of his life. Without it he might have passed for English. It was too provoking to be thus balked, and, as he signed his name, he would dissimulate the poor offending little vowel, so that his name should appear to end at the double consonant.

He was not a genius.

Acting under the theory of Figaro, "Qu'il n'est pas nécessaire de tenir les choses pour en raisonner," I have heard an Englishman, engaged in teaching French, maintain that it was not necessary to be able to speak the French language to teach it.

On the other hand, I once heard an eminent Frenchman hold that the less English a French master knew the more fit he was to teach French.

Both gentlemen begged their audience to understand that they made their statements on their own sole responsibility.

I never met a French master who had made his fortune, nor have you, I imagine.

I once met in England a French master who had not written a French grammar.

I was one day introduced to a Frenchman who keeps a successful school in the Midland counties. He makes it a rule to sternly refuse to let his boys go home in the neighboring town before one o'clock on Sundays. When parents ask him as a special favor to allow their sons to come to their house on Saturday night or early on Sunday morning, he answers: "I am sorry I cannot comply with your request. It has come to my knowledge that there are parents who do not insist on their children going to church, and I cannot allow any of my pupils to go home before they have attended divine service."

John Bull made to go to church by a Frenchman! The idea was novel, and I thought extremely funny.

To teach "the art of speaking and writing the French language correctly" is a noble but thankless career in England.

In France, the Government grants a pension to, and even confers the Legion of Honor upon, an English master¹³ after he has taught his language in a lycée for a certain number of years.

The Frenchman who has taught French in England all his lifetime is allowed, when he is done for, to apply at the French Benevolent Society for a free passage to France, where he may go and die quietly out of sight.

If you look at the advertisements published daily in the "educational" columns of the papers, you may see that compatriots of mine give private lessons in French at a shilling an hour, and teach the whole language in 24 or 26 lessons. Why not 25? I always thought there must be something cabalistic about the number 26. These gentlemen have to wear black coats and chimney-pots. How can they do it if their wives do not take in mangling?

Mystery.

In a southern suburb of London, I remember seeing a little house covered, like a booth at a fair, with boards and announcements that spoke to the passer-by of all the wonders to be found within.

On the front-door there was a plate with the inscription:

"Mons. D., of the University of France."

Now Englishmen who address Frenchmen as "Mons."¹⁴ should be forgiven. They unsuccessfully aim at doing a correct thing. But a Frenchman dubbing himself "Mons." publishes a certificate of his ignorance.

The house was a double-fronted one.

On the right window there was the inscription:

"French Classes for Ladies."

On the left one:

"French Classes for Gentlemen."

The sexes were separated as at the Turkish Baths.

On a huge board, placed over the front door, I read the following:

"French Classes for Ladies and Gentlemen.

Greek, Latin, and Mathematical Classes.

Art and Science Department.

Music, Singing, and Dancing taught.

Private Lessons given, Families waited upon.

Schools attended.

For Terms and Curriculum, apply within."

What a saving of trouble and expense it would have been to this living encyclopædia if he had only mentioned what he did not teach!

Since I have called your attention to the expression Mons., and reminded you of its proper meaning, never send a letter to a Frenchman with the envelope addressed as Mons.

I know, dear American reader, that you never do. But you have friends. Well, tell them to write Monsieur in full; or, as cobblers in their back parlors are now addressed as Esquires, rather confer the same honor upon a Frenchman. He will take it as a compliment.

Democracy is making progress in England. Where is the time when only land-owners, barristers, graduates of the Universities, were addressed as Esquires?

All ladies and gentlemen in England now.

Not all, though.

A young lady friend, who visits the poor in her district, called one day at a humble dwelling.

She knocked at the door, and on a woman opening it, asked to see Mrs. – .

"Oh! very well," said the woman, and, leaving the young lady in the street, she went inside, and called out at the top of her voice:

"Ada, tell the lady on the second floor that a young person from the district wants to see her."

Apropos of "Esquire" I should like to take the opportunity of paying a well-deserved compliment to the Postal Authorities in England.

Some eight years ago, I lived in the Herbert Road, Shooter's Hill, near London.

After three weeks of wonderful peregrinations, a letter, addressed in the following manner, duly reached me from France:

My dear compatriot had heard that "Esquire" had to be put somewhere, or else the letter would not reach me.

This is not the only letter addressed to me calculated to puzzle the postman.

A letter was once brought to me with the following high-flown inscription:

"Al gentilissimo cavaliere professore

Signor…"

But what is even this, compared to the one I received from a worthy Bulgarian, and which was addressed to

"Monsieur…

Métropolitain de Saint Paul."

I was at the time teaching under the shadow of London's great cathedral.