Chapter I: Make the Acquaintance of Public School Boys.--"when I Was a Little (1)

BOY."--AN AWFUL MOMENT.--A SIMPLE THEORY.--I SCORE A SUCCESS.

I am not quite sure that the best qualification for a school-master is to have been a very good boy.

I never had great admiration for very good boys. I always suspected, when they were too good, that there was something wrong.

When I was at school, and my master would go in for the recitation of the litany of all the qualities and virtues he possessed when a boy--how good, how dutiful, how obedient, how industrious he was--I would stare at him, and think to myself: How glad that man must be he is no longer a boy!

"No, my dear little fellows, your master was just like you when he was mamma's little boy. He shirked his work whenever he could; he used to romp and tear his clothes if he had a chance, and was far from being too good for this world; and if he was not all that, well, I am only sorry for him, that's all."

* * * * *

I believe that the man who thoroughly knows all the resources of the mischievous little army he has to fight and rule is better qualified and prepared for the struggle.

We have in French an old proverb that says: "It's no use trying to teach an old monkey how to make faces."

The best testimonial in favor of a school-master is that the boys should be able to say of him: "It's no use trying this or that with him; he always knows what we are up to."

How is he to know what his pupils are "up to" if he has not himself been "up to" the same tricks and games?

The base of all strategy is the perfect knowledge of all the roads of the country in which you wage war.

To be well up in all the ways and tricks of boys is to be aware of all the moves of the enemy.

* * * * *

It is an awful moment when, for the first time, you take your seat in front of forty pairs of bright eyes that are fixed upon you, and seem to say:

"Well, what shall it be? Do you think you can keep us in order, or are we going to let you have a lively time of it?"

All depends on this terrible moment. Your life will be one of comfort, and even happiness, or one of utter wretchedness.

Strike the first blow and win, or you will soon learn that if you do not get the better of the lively crew they will surely get the better of you.

* * * * *

I was prepared for the baptism of fire.

I even had a little theory that had once obtained for me the good graces of a head-master.

This gentleman informed me that the poor fellow I was going to replace had shot himself in despair of being ever able to keep his boys in order, and he asked me what I thought of it.

"Well," I unhesitatingly answered, "I would have shot the boys."

"Right!" he exclaimed; "you are my man."

If, as I strongly suspected from certain early reminiscences, to have been a mischievous boy was a qualification for being a good school-master, I thought I ought to make a splendid one.

The result of my first interview with British boys was that we understood each other perfectly. We were to make a happy family. That was settled in a minute by a few glances at each other.

IV.

THE "GENUS" BOY.--THE ONLY ONE I OBJECT TO.--WHAT BOYS WORK FOR.

Boys lose their charm when they get fifteen or sixteen years of age. The clever ones, no doubt, become more interesting to the teacher, but they no longer belong to the _genus_ boy that you love for his very defects as much as for his good qualities.

I call "boys" that delightful, lovable race of young scamps from eleven to fourteen years old. At that age all have redeeming points, and all are lovable. I never objected to any, except perhaps to those who aimed at perfection, especially the ones who were successful in their efforts.

For my part, I like a boy with a redeeming fault or two.

By "boys" I mean little fellows who manage, after a game of football, to get their right arm out of order, that they may be excused writing their exercises for a week or so; who do not work because they have an examination to prepare, but because you offer them an inducement to do so, whether in the shape of rewards, or maybe something less pleasant you may keep in your cupboard.

V.

SCHOOL BOYS I HAVE MET.--PROMISING BRITONS.--SLY-BOOTS.--TOO GOOD FOR THIS WORLD.--"NO, THANKS, WE MAKES IT."--FRENCH DICTIONARIES.--A NAUGHTY BOY.--MOTHERS' PETS.--DIRTY BUT BEAUTIFUL.--JOHN BULLY.--HIGH COLLARS AND BRAINS.--DICTATION AND ITS TRIALS.--NOT TO BE TAKEN IN.--UNLUCKY BOYS.--THE USE OF TWO EARS.--A BOY WITH ONE IDEA.--MASTER WHIRLIGIG.--THE INFLUENCE OF ATHLETICS.--A GOOD SITUATION.--A SHREWD BOY OF BUSINESS.--MASTER ALGERNON CADWALADR SMYTH, AND OTHER TYPICAL SCHOOLBOYS.

Master Johnny Bull is a good little boy who sometimes makes slips in his exercises, but mistakes--never.

He occasionally forgets his lesson, but he always "knows" it.

"Do you know your lesson?" you will ask him.

"Yes, sir," he will reply.

"But you can't say it."

"Please, sir, I forget it now."

Memory is his weak point. He has done his best, whatever the result may be. Last night he knew his lesson perfectly; the proof is that he said it to his mother, and that the excellent lady told him he knew it very well. Again this morning, as he was in the train coming to school, he repeated it to himself, and he did not make one mistake. He knows he didn't.

* * * * *

If he has done but two sentences of his home work, "he is afraid" he has not quite finished his exercise.

"But, my dear boy, you have written but two sentences."

"Is that all?" he will inquire.

"That is all."

"Please, sir, I thought I had done more than that." And he looks at it on all sides, turns it to the right, to the left, upside down; he reads it forwards, he reads it backwards. No use; he can't make it out.

All at once, however, he will remember that he had a bad headache last night, or maybe a bilious attack.

The bilious attack is to the English schoolboy what the _migraine_ is to the dear ladies of France: a good maid-of-all-work.

* * * * *

Sometimes my young hero brings no exercise at all. It has slipped, in the train, from the book in which he had carefully placed it, or there is a crack in his locker, and the paper slipped through. You order excavations to be made, and the exercise has vanished like magic. Johnny wonders.

"Perhaps the mice ate it!" you are wicked enough to suggest.

This makes him smile and blush. He generally collapses before a remark like this.

* * * * *

But if he has a good excuse, behold him!

"I could not do my exercise last night," said to me one day a young Briton. It was evident from his self-satisfied and confident assurance that he had a good answer ready for my inquiry.

"You couldn't," I said; "why?"

"Please, sir, grandmamma died last night!"

"Oh! did she? Well, well--I hope this won't happen again."

This put me in mind of the boy who, being reproached for his many mistakes in his translation, pleaded:

"Please, sir, it isn't my fault. Papa _will_ help me."

An English schoolboy never tells stories--never.

A mother once brought her little son to the head-master of a great public school.

"I trust my son will do honor to the school," she said; "he is a good, industrious, clever, and trustworthy boy. He never told a story in his life."

"Oh! madam, boys never do," replied the head-master.

The lady left, somewhat indignant. Did the remark amount to her statement being disbelieved, or to an affirmation that her boy was no better than other boys?

* * * * *

Of course every mother is apt to think that her Johnny or Jenny is nature's highest utterance. But for blind, unreasoning adoration, commend me to a fond grandmamma.

The first time I took my child on a visit to my mother in dear old Brittany, grandmamma received compliments enough on the subject of the "lovely petite blonde" to turn her head. But it did not want much turning, I must say. One afternoon, my wife was sitting with Miss Baby on her lap, and grandmamma, after devouring the child with her eyes for a few moments, said to us:

"You are two very sensible parents. Some people are so absurd about their babies! Take Madame T., for instance. She was here this morning, and really, to hear her talk, one would think that child of hers was an angel of beauty--that there never was such another."

"Well, but, grandmamma," said my wife, "you know yourself that you are forever discoursing of the matchless charms of our baby to your friends."

"Ah!" cried the dear old lady, as serious as a judge; "but that's quite different; in our case it's all true."

* * * * *

If you ever hope to find the British schoolboy at fault, your life will be a series of disappointments. Judge for yourself.

I (once): "Well, Brown, you bring no exercise this morning. How is that?"

PROMISING BRITON: "Please, sir, you said yesterday that we were to do the 17th exercise."

I (inquiringly): "Well?"

P. B. (looking sad): "Please, sir, Jones said to me, last night, that it was the 18th exercise we were to do."

I (surprised): "But, my dear boy, you do not bring me any exercise at all."

P. B. (looking good): "Please, sir, I was afraid to do the wrong one."

Dear, dear child! the thought of doing wrong but once was too much for him! I shall always have it heavy on my conscience to have rewarded this boy's love of what is right by calling upon him to write out each of those exercises five times.

* * * * *

That thick-necked boy, whom you see there on the front row aiming at looking very good, and whom his schoolfellows are wicked and disrespectful enough to surname "Potted Angel," is sad and sour. His eyes are half open, his tongue seems to fill his mouth, and to speak, or rather to jerk out the words, he has to let it hang out. His mouth moves sideways like that of a ruminant; you would imagine he was masticating a piece of tough steak. He blushes, and never looks at you, except on the sly, with an uncomfortable grin, when your head is turned away. It seems to give him pain to swallow, and you would think he was suffering from some internal complaint.

This, perhaps, can be explained. The conscience lies just over the stomach, if I am to trust boys when they say they put their hands on their conscience. Let this conscience be heavily loaded, and there you have the explanation of the grumbling ailment that disturbs the boy in the lower regions of his anatomy.

To be good is all right, but you must not over-do it. This boy is beyond competition, a standing reproach, an insult to the rest of the class.

You are sorry to hear, on asking him what he intends to be, that he means to be a missionary. His face alone will be worth L500 a year in the profession. Thinking that I have prepared this worthy for missionary work, I feel, when asked what I think of missionaries, like the jam-maker's little boy who is offered jam and declines, pleading:

"No, thanks--we makes it."

I have great respect for missionaries, but I have always strongly objected to boys who make up their minds to be missionaries before they are twelve years old.

* * * * *

Some good, straightforward boys are wholly destitute of humor. One of them had once to put into French the following sentence of Charles Dickens: "Mr. Squeers had but one eye, and the popular prejudice runs in favor of two." He said he could not put this phrase into French, because he did not know what it meant in English.

"Surely, sir," he said to me, "it is not a prejudice to prefer two eyes to one."

This boy was wonderfully good at facts, and his want of humor did not prevent him from coming out of Cambridge senior classic, after successfully taking his B.A. and M.A. in the University of London.

This young man, I hear, is also going to be a missionary. The news goes far to reconcile me to the noble army of John Bull's colonizing agents, but I doubt whether the heathen will ever get much entertainment out of him.

* * * * *

Some boys can grasp grammatical facts and succeed in writing a decent piece of French; but, through want of literary perception, they will give you a sentence that will make you feel proud of them until you reach the end, when, bang! the last word will have the effect of a terrible bump on your nose.

A boy of this category had to translate this other sentence of Dickens:[2] "She went back to her own room, and tried to prepare herself for bed. But who could sleep? Sleep!"[3]

[2] "The Old Curiosity Shop."

[3] Here I have to make a painful confession. I have actually
acceded to a request from my American publishers, men wholly
destitute of humor, to supply the reader with a translation of
the few French sentences used in this little volume. This
monument of my weakness will be found at the end.

His translation ran thus: "Elle se retira dans sa chambre, et fit ses preparatifs pour se coucher. Mais qui aurait pu dormir? _Sommeil!_"

I caught that boy napping one day.

"Vous dormez, mon ami?... _Sommeil_, eh?" I cried.

The remark was enjoyed. There is so much charity in the hearts of boys!

Another boy had to translate a piece of Carlyle's "French Revolution": "'Their heads shall fall within a fortnight,' croaks the people's friend (Marat), clutching his tablets to write----Charlotte Corday has drawn her knife from the sheath; plunges it, with one sure stroke, into the writer's heart."

The end of this powerful sentence ran thus in the translation: "Charlotte Corday a tire son poignard de la gaine, et d'une main sure, elle le plonge dans le coeur de _celui qui ecrivait_."

When I remonstrated with the dear fellow, he pulled his dictionary out of his desk, and triumphantly pointed out to me:

"WRITER (substantive), _celui qui ecrit_."

And all the time his look seemed to say:

"What do you think of that? You may be a very clever man; but surely you do not mean to say that you know better than a dictionary!"

Oh, the French dictionary, that treacherous friend of boys!

The lazy ones take the first word of the list, sometimes the figurative pronunciation given in the English-French part.

Result: "_I have a key_"--"_J'ai un ki_."

The shrewd ones take the last word, to make believe they went through the whole list.

Result: "_A chest of drawers_"--"_Une poitrine de calecons_."

The careless ones do not take the right part of speech they want.

Result: "_He felt_"--"_Il feutra_"; "_He left_"--"_Il gaucha_."

With my experience of certain French dictionaries published in England, I do not wonder that English boys often trust in Providence for the choice of words, although I cannot help thinking that as a rule they are most unlucky.

Very few boys have good dictionaries at hand. I know that Smith and Hamilton's dictionary (in two volumes) costs twenty shillings. But what is twenty shillings to be helped all through one's coaching? About the price of a good lawn-tennis racket.

I have seen boys show me, with a radiant air, a French dictionary they had bought for six-pence.

They thought they had made a bargain.

Oh, free trade! Oh, the cheapest market!

Sixpence for that dictionary! That was not very expensive, I own--but it was terribly dear.

* * * * *

When an English boy is about to write out his French exercise, he invariably begins by heading the copy

"FRENCH,"

written with his best hand, on the first line.

This is to avoid any misunderstanding about the language he is going to use.

I have often felt grateful for that title.

* * * * *

Children are very great at titles and inscriptions.

Give them a little penny pocket-book, and their keen sense of ownership will make them go straightway and write their name and address on the first page. When this is done, they will entitle the book, and write on the top of each page: "Memorandum Book."

When I was at school, we French boys used to draw, on the back of the cover of our books, a merry-Andrew and a gibbet, with the inscription:

"Aspice Pierrot pendu,
Quod librum n'a pas rendu.
Si librum redidisset,
Pierrot pendu non fuisset."

I came across the following lines on some English boys' books:

"Don't steal this book for fear of shame,
For here you see the owner's name;
Or, when you die, the Lord will say:
'Where is that book you stole away?'"

* * * * *

Boys' minds are like a certain place not mentioned in geographies: they are paved with good intentions. Before they begin their work, they choose their best nib (which always takes some time). This done, they carefully write their name and the title of the exercise. FRENCH looks magnificent. They evidently mean to do well. The first sentence is generally right and well written. In the second you perceive signs of flagging; it then gets worse and worse till the end, which is not legible. Judge for yourself, here is a specimen. It collapses with a blot half licked off.

Master H. W. S.'s flourish after his signature is not, as you see, a masterpiece of calligraphy; but it is not intended to be so. It is simply an overflow of relief and happiness at the thought that his exercise is finished.

Translate the flourish by--

"Done!!!"

* * * * *

H. W. S. is not particularly lucky with his genders. Fortunately for him, the French language possesses no neuter nouns, so that sometimes he hits on the right gender. For this he asks no praise. Providence alone is to be thanked for it.

Once he had to translate: "His conduct was good." He first put _sa conduite_. After this effort in the right direction, his conscience was satisfied, and he added, _etait bon_. Why? Because an adjective is longer in the feminine than in the masculine, and with him and his like the former gender stands very little chance.

* * * * *

I remember two very strange boys. They were not typical, I am happy to say.

When the first of them was on, his ears would flap and go on flapping like the gills of a fish, till he had either answered the question or given up trying, when they would lie at rest flat against his head. If I said to him sharply: "Well, my boy, speak up; I can't hear," his ears would start flapping more vigorously than ever. Sometimes he would turn his eyes right over, to see if he could not find the answer written somewhere inside his head. This boy could set the whole of his scalp in motion, bring his hair right down to his eyes, and send it back again without the least difficulty. These performances were simply wonderful. The boys used to watch him with an interest that never flagged, and more than once I was near losing my countenance.

One day this poor lad fell in the playground, and cut his head open. We were all anxious to ascertain what it was he had inside his head that he always wanted to get at. The doctor found nothing remarkable in it.

The other boy was a fearful stammerer. The manner in which he managed to get help for his speech is worth relating. Whenever he had to read a piece of French aloud, he would utter the letter "F" before each French word, and they would positively come out easily. The letter "F" being the most difficult letter for stammerers to pronounce, I always imagined that he thought he would be all right with any sound, if he could only say "F" first.

He was successful.

A boy with whom you find it somewhat difficult to get on is the diffident one who always believes that the question you ask him is a "catch." He is constantly on guard, and surrounds the easiest question with inextricable difficulties. It is his misfortune to know that rules have exceptions, and he never suspects that it would enter your head to ask him for the illustration of a general rule.

He knows, for instance, that nouns ending in _al_ form their plural by changing _al_ into _aux_; but if you ask him for the plural of _general_, he will hesitate a long while, and eventually answer you, _generals_.

"Do you mean to say, my boy, that you do not know how to form the plural of nouns in _al_?"

"Yes, sir, but I thought _general_ was an exception."

* * * * *

I pass over the wit who, being asked for the plural of _egal_, answered, "two gals."

* * * * *

A diverting little boy in the class-room is the one who always thinks "he has got it." It matters little to him what the question is, he has not heard the end of it when he lifts his hand to let you know he is ready.

"What is the future of _savoir_?"

"Please, sir, I know: _je savoirai_."

"Sit down, you ignoramus."

And he resumes his seat to sulk until you give him another chance. He wonders how it is you don't like his answers. His manner is generally affable; you see at once in him a mother's pet who is much admired at home, and thinks he is not properly appreciated at school.

Mother's pets are to be recognized at a glance. They are always clean and tidy in face and person. Unfortunately they often part their hair in the middle.

* * * * *

Such is not the testimonial that can be given to young H. He spends an hour and a pint of ink over every exercise.

He writes very badly.

To obtain a firm hold of his pen, he grasps the nib with the ends of his five fingers. I sometimes think he must use his two hands at once. He plunges the whole into the inkstand every second or two, and withdraws it dripping. He is smeared with ink all over; he rubs his hands in it, he licks it, he loves it, he sniffs it, he revels in it. He wishes he could drink it, and the ink-stands were wide enough for him to get his fist right into it.

This boy is a most clever little fellow. When you can see his eyes, they are sparkling with mischief and intelligence. A beautiful, dirty face; a lovely boy, though an "unwashed."

* * * * *

A somewhat objectionable boy, although he is not responsible for his shortcomings, is the one who has been educated at home up to twelve or fourteen years of age.

Before you can garnish his brain, you have to sweep it. You have to replace the French of his nursery governess--who has acquired it on the _Continong_--by a serious knowledge of _avoir_ and _etre_.

He comes to school with a testimonial from his mother, who is a good French scholar, to the effect that he speaks French fluently.

You ask him for the French of

"_It is twelve o'clock_,"

and he answers with assurance:

"_C'est douze heures_."

You ask him next for the French of

"_How do you do?_"

and he tells you:

"_Comment ca va-t-il?_"

You call upon him to spell it, and he has no hesitation about it: "_Comment savaty_?"

You then test his knowledge of grammar by asking him the future of _vouloir_, and you immediately obtain: "_Je voulerai_."

You tell him that his French is very shaky, and you decide on putting him with the beginners.

The following day you find a letter awaiting you at school. It is from his indignant mother. She informs you that she fears her little boy will not learn much in the class you have put him in. He ought to be in one of the advanced classes. He has read Voltaire[4] and can speak French.

[4] Poor little chap!

She knows he can, she heard him at Boulogne, and he got on very well. The natives there had no secrets for him; he could understand all they said.

You feel it to be your duty not to comply with the lady's wishes, and you have made a bitter enemy to yourself and the school.

This boy never takes for granted the truth of the statements you make in the class-room. What you say may be all right; but when he gets home he will ask his mamma if it is all true.

He is fond of arguing, and has no sympathy with his teacher. He tries to find him at fault.

A favorite remark of his is this:

"Please, sir, you said the other day that so-and-so was right. Why do you mark a mistake in my exercise to-day?"

You explain to him why he is wrong, and he goes back to his seat grumbling. He sees he is wrong; but he is not cured. He hopes to be more lucky next time.

When you meet his mother, she asks you what you think of the boy.

"A very nice boy indeed," you say; "only I sometimes wish he had more confidence in me; he is rather fond of arguing."

"Oh!" she exclaims, "I know that. Charley will never accept a statement before he has discussed it and thoroughly investigated it."

* * * * *

As a set-off for Charley, there is the boy who has a blind confidence in you. All you say is gospel to him, and if you were to tell him that the French word _voisin_ is pronounced _kramshaka_, he would unhesitatingly say _kramshaka_.

Nothing astonishes him; he has taken for his motto the _Nil admirari_ of Horace. He would see three circumflex accents on the top of a vowel without lifting his eyebrows. He is none of the inquiring and investigating sort.

* * * * *

Another specimen of the Charley type is the one who has been coached for the public school in a Preparatory School for the Sons of Gentlemen, kept by ladies.

This boy has always been well treated. He is fat, rubicund, and unruly. His linen is irreproachable. The ladies told him he was good-looking, and his hair, which he parts into two _ailes de pigeon_, is the subject of his incessant care.

He does not become "a man" until his comrades have bullied him into a good game of Rugby football.

* * * * *

On the last bench, right in the corner, you can see young Bully. He does not seek after light, he is not an ambitious boy, and the less notice you take of him the better he is pleased. His father says he is a backward boy. Bully is older and taller than the rest of the class. For form's sake you are obliged to request him to bring his work, but you have long ago given up all hope of ever teaching him any thing. He is quiet and unpretending in class, and too sleepy to be up to mischief. He trusts that if he does not disturb your peace you will not disturb his. When a little boy gives you a good answer, it arouses his scorn, and he not uncommonly throws at him a little smile of congratulation. If you were not a good disciplinarian, he would go and give him a pat on the back, but this he dares not do.

When you bid him stand up and answer a question, he begins by leaning on his desk. Then he gently lifts his hinder part, and by slow degrees succeeds in getting up the whole mass. He hopes that by this time you will have passed him and asked another boy to give you the answer. He is not jealous, and will bear no ill-will to the boy who gives you a satisfactory reply.

If you insist on his standing up and giving sign of life, he frowns, loosens his collar, which seems to choke him, looks at the floor, then at the ceiling, then at you. Being unable to utter a sound, he frowns more, to make you believe that he is very dissatisfied with himself.

"I know the answer," he seems to say; "how funny, I can't recollect it just now."

As you cannot waste any more time about him, you pass him; a ray of satisfaction flashes over his face, and he resumes his corner hoping for peace.

The little boys dare not laugh at him, for he is the terror of the playground, where he takes his revenge of the class-room.

His favorite pastime in the playground is to teach little boys how to play marbles. They bring the marbles, he brings his experience. When the bell rings to call the boys to the class-rooms, he has got many marbles, the boys a little experience.

* * * * *

One of my pet aversions is the young boy who arrays[5] himself in stand-up collars and white merino cravats.

[5] Being a little bit of a philologist, I assume this verb comes
from the common (very common) noun, _'Arry_.

George Eliot, I believe, says somewhere that there never was brain inside a red-haired head. I think she was mistaken. I have known very clever boys with red hair.

But what I am positive about is that there is no brain on the top of boys ornamented with stand-up collars.

Young Bully wears them. He comes to school with his stick, and whenever you want a match to light the gas with he can always supply you, and feels happy he is able for once to oblige you.

* * * * *

In some boys I have often deplored the presence of two ears. What you impart through one immediately escapes through the other. Explain to them a rule once a week, they will always enjoy hearing it again. It will always be new to them. Their lives will ever be a series of enchantments and surprises.

You must persevere, and repeat things to them a hundred times, if ninety-nine will not do. Who knows there is not a John Wesley among them?

"I remember," once said this celebrated divine, "hearing my father say to my mother: 'How could you have the patience to tell that blockhead the same thing twenty times over?' 'Why,' said she, 'if I had told him only nineteen times, I should have lost all my labor.'"

* * * * *

I am not sure that the boy with only one ear is not still more tiresome. He always turns his deaf ear to you, and makes his little infirmity pay. "He is afraid he did not quite hear you, when you set the work yesterday." For my part, I met the difficulty by having desks placed each side of my chair. On my left I had the boys who had good right ears; on my right, those who had good left ones.

I can not say I ever saw many signs of gratitude in boys for this solicitude of mine in their behalf.

* * * * *

At dictation time the two-eared boy is terrible, and you need all the self-control you have acquired on the English shores to keep your head cool.

Before beginning, you warn him that a mute _e_, or an _s_, placed at the end of a vowel, gives a long sound to that vowel, that _ie_ is long in _jolie_, and _i_ is short in _joli_; that _ais_ is long in _je serais_, and _ai_ is short in _je serai_.

Satisfied that he is well prepared, you start with your best voice:

"_Je serais...._"

The boy looks at you. Is he to write _je serais_ or _je serai_?

To settle his undecided mind, you repeat:

"_Je serais_,"

and you may lay great emphasis on ais, bleating for thirty seconds like a sheep in distress.

He writes something down at last. You go and see the result of your efforts. He has written

"_Je serai._"

_Drat_ the boy!

Next time you dictate a word ending in _ais_, he won't be caught again.

He leaves a blank or makes a blot.

* * * * *

You must never take it for granted that you have given this boy all the explanations he requires to get on with his work. You will always find that there is something you have omitted to tell him.

He is not hopelessly stupid, he personifies the _vis inertiae_; he is indifferent, and takes but one step at a time.

He will tell you he did not know that there were notes at the end of his French text-books. When he knows that there are such notes, he will inform you next time that you did not tell him he was to look at them.

He sees things, but at first he does not know what they are for unless they are labelled, and he will ignore the use of a chair if you do not point out the flat part of this piece of furniture, or better still, touch it, saying, "Chair--to sit upon."

The following are bits of conversation you will have with him in the class-room:

"How is it you have no copy to give me?"

"I thought we only had to prepare the piece."

Of course you know what it means when a boy tells you he has "prepared" his work, but has not written it down. So you tell him he is to bring a copy next time. He does, for he is most anxious to do as he is told.

When you ask him to give you the translation of the piece _viva voce_, he tells you:

"Please, sir, you did not tell us we were to learn the piece."

"But, my boy, don't you understand that you are doing a piece of French twice a week in order to learn the language?"

He never thought of that. He had to write out the translation of a piece of French, and he has done it. He did not know he had to draw such bewildering conclusions as you have just mentioned.

He does as he is told, and he marvels you do not consider him a model of a boy.

If he were placed at the door of the reading-room of the British Museum, with orders to inform people that they must take their umbrellas or sticks to the cloak-room, he would carry out the intentions of the librarians with a vengeance.

"Take your stick or your umbrella to the cloak-room," he would say to the first person presenting himself at the door.

"But I have not got either," might reply the visitor.

"That's no business of mine; go and fetch them," he would naturally suggest.

He can grasp but one idea at a time, and this one idea does not lead to another in his mind. There it remains like the buried talent.

* * * * *

Master Whirligig is a light-headed boy. It requires very little to entertain him. The falling of a book, a cough, a sneeze, an organ in the street, will send him into fits of hilarity behind his pocket-handkerchief, and when the school breaks up for the Midsummer holidays, he will be able to tell you the exact number of flies that passed through the class-room during the term.

He is never still for a moment. Always on the look-out for fresh events, he is the nearest approach to perpetual motion yet discovered.

The cracks in this boy's cranium may be explained physiologically. Matter subjected to constant motion gets heated, as we all know. Now young Whirligig's skull is but scantily furnished with brain matter, and it would be wise of him to keep it still. This he seems to be incapable of doing. He is for ever jerking and shaking it, churning the contents in fact. The churn heated, hot vapors are generated; they expand, the pressure is too great, they must escape--they force an outlet--hence the cracks.--Q.E.D.

* * * * *

If you want to see the good average English schoolboy in all his glory, make him write out a rule of French grammar, and tell him to illustrate it with an example.

Nine times out of ten his example will illustrate the contrary to the rule.

He has heard over and over again, for instance, that a French past participle, conjugated with the auxiliary _avoir_, sometimes agrees with its direct object and sometimes does not. This he thinks very hard upon him. Funny temper these past participles have! You never know when they will agree. It is not fair, now, is it? By consulting his grammar, he would be enabled to satisfy his master. But he does not do that. He trusts to his luck, and has a shot. After all, his chance is 50 per cent. He generally fails to hit.

Is he not a most unlucky little creature?

Ask this boy to give you the French for "this woman is good," he will answer you: "_Bonne est cette femme_." He has heard that _bon_ was one of those few adjectives that have to be placed before the noun, and that is very unfair to him, isn't it?

* * * * *

If you set an exercise to English boys, to be written out on the spot, they all set off quickly, the question being, as they look at one another:

"Who shall have finished first?"

This I hold to be due to the influence of athletics.

"Please, sir, I've done!" will exclaim the winner triumphantly, as he looks at the rest of the class still busy scratching their paper.

You generally like to know what boys intend to be, in order to direct your attention more specially to the subjects they will require to be grounded in for such or such an examination.

Most boys from twelve to fourteen years old will tell you "they do not know," when you ask them what they will be. Many of them are undecided, many indifferent; some are shy, and afraid you will think it conceited of them to believe they are fit to be one day doctors, officers, barristers, clergymen, etc.

A few answer "I don't know," on the tune of "What is that to you?"

As it is always impolitic to take more interest in people than they do themselves, you do not insist.

Once I asked a nice and clever little boy what he wanted to be.

This little boy's papa was at the time enjoying the well-salaried _far niente_ of a chaplaincy attached to an old philanthropical institution that had not had any inmates for many years past.

"Please, sir, I want to be like papa," he answered, ingenuously.

* * * * *

My young friend T. had no taste for languages, except, perhaps, bad language, if I am to believe certain rumors of a punishment inflicted upon him by the head-master not long ago.

He prepares for the army, but I doubt whether he will succeed in entering it, unless he enlists. I regret it for her Majesty's sake, for he would make a capital soldier. He is a first-rate athlete, resolute, strong, and fearless. He would never aim at becoming a field-marshal, and I hold that his qualities ought to weigh in an examination for the army as much as a little Latin and Greek.

I never heard of great generals being particularly good at Latin, except Julius Caesar, who wrote his Commentaries on the Gallic Wars in that language, and without a dictionary, they say.

My young friend is the kind of boy who, in the army, would be sure to render great service to his country; for, whether he killed England's enemy or England's enemy killed him, it would eventually be for the good of England.

* * * * *

Ah! now, who is that square-headed boy, sitting on the second form near the window? He looks dull; he does not join in the games, and seldom speaks to a school-fellow. He comes to school on business, to get as much as he can for his money.

He is not brilliant, but steady-going; he is improving slowly but surely. He goes on his jog-trot way, and always succeeds in being placed among the first twelve boys of the class. He is what is called a "respectable person."

He never smiles, and you would think he had on his shoulders the responsibility of the management of the London and Westminster Bank.

His books are carefully covered in brown paper or American cloth. He writes rough copies on the backs of old exercises, and wipes his pen when he has finished his work. He buys his books second-hand in Holywell Street,[6] and when he has finished with them they have the same market value as when he bought them.

[6] A street in London where Jews sell second-hand books.

He lends old nibs and half-sheets of paper, and requires the borrower to give him back new nibs and foolscap sheets.

He studies French with all the energy he is capable of, because his father has told him that, with a good knowledge of French, he will command a good salary in the City.

You ask him what he will be, and he answers you:

"In business."

This boy will be a successful man--a lord-mayor, perhaps.

I can not take leave of the class-room without mentioning the boy who is proud of his name.

"What is your name, my boy?"

"Algernon Cadwaladr Smyth."

"Oh! your name is Smith, is it?"

"No, sir; my name is Cadwaladr Smyth."

"You spell your name S-m-i-t-h, don't you?"

"No, sir; S-m-y-t-h," he answers, almost indignantly.

Dear boy! he is as proud of the y of his name as a Howard is of his ancestors--although I am not quite sure the Howards ought to be very proud of their name, seeing that it is but a corruption of _Hog-ward_.

I always thought it was somewhat hard on a boy to have to go through life labeled Cadwaladr; but, as I have remarked elsewhere, in England there is nothing to prevent parents from dubbing their offsprings Bayard, Bertrand du Guesclin--or, for that matter, Nebuchadnezzar.

VI.

FRENCH AS SHE IS TRADUCED.--MORE GRUMBLING.--"LA CRITIQUE" IS NOT THE CRITIC'S WIFE.--BOSSUET'S PROSE AND HOW IT READS IN ENGLISH.--NOTHING IMPROVES BY TRANSLATION EXCEPT A BISHOP.--A FEW FRENCH "HOWLERS."-- VALUABLE HINTS ON TRANSLATING UNSEEN PASSAGES.

English boys have invented a special kind of English language for French translation.

It is not the English they use with their classical and other masters; it is not the English they use at home with their parents, or at school with their comrades; it is a special article kept for the sole benefit of their French masters.

The good _genus_ boy will translate _oui_, _mon pere_, by "yes, my father," as if it were possible for him to forget that he calls his papa _father_, and not _my father_, when he addresses him.

He very seldom reads over his translation to ascertain that it reads like English; but when he does, and is not perfectly satisfied with the result, he lays the blame on the French original. After all, it is not his fault if there is no sense in the French, and he brings a certain number of English dictionary words placed one after the other, the whole entitled FRENCH.

Of course he can not call it ENGLISH, and he dares not call it NONSENSE.

He calls it French, and relieves his conscience.

* * * * *

It will take boys long to understand that _la trompette_, _la medecine_, _la marine_, _la statuaire_, are not respectively the wives of _le trompette_, _le medecin_, _le marin_, _le statuaire_.

An honest little boy once translated "_La critique doit etre bonne fille_" by "The critic's wife ought to be a good girl."

Poor little fellow! it is most probable that no dictionary within his reach would have explained to him that the expression _bonne fille_ meant "good-humored."

* * * * *

O Bossuet, veil thy face!

The finest piece of French prose in existence is undoubtedly the following sentence, taken from Bossuet's funeral oration on the Great Conde:

"_Restait cette redoutable infanterie de l'armee d'Espagne, dont les gros bataillons serres, semblables a autant de tours, mais a des tours qui sauraient reparer leurs breches, demeuraient inebranlables au milieu de tout le reste en deroute, et lancaient des feux de toutes parts._"

This reads like a chant of Homer, does it not? It reads quite differently in boys' translations, I assure you, when you come to "towers that would be able to mend their breaches."

This confirms you in your belief that nothing improves by translation--except a bishop.

* * * * *

From my little collection of what is called in the scholastic profession "Howlers," I extract the following, with my apologies to their perpetrators.

* * * * *

_La fille de feu ma bonne et estimee cousine est toujours la bienvenue_, "My good and esteemed cousin, the daughter of fire, is always welcome."

* * * * *

_Mon frere a tort et ma soeur a raison_, "My brother has some tart and my sister has some raisins."

* * * * *

_Elle partit dans la matinee du lendemain_, "She took part in the morning performance of legerdemain."

This is a specimen of German _geist_ perpetrated by a candidate to our scholarships, and a young subject of his Venerable Majesty Emperor William.

Honor to whom honor is due.

* * * * *

When I said that boys do not look at the notes given at the end of their text-books, it was nothing short of a libel, as two cases following will prove.

* * * * *

_Diable! c'est qu'il est capricieux, le bonhomme!_

A boy looked at a note on this phrase, and found: "_capricieux_, akin to Latin _capra_ (a goat)." Next day, he brought his translation, which ran thus:

"The good man is devilishly like a goat."

* * * * *

The next two "howlers" were indulged in by my boys, as we were reading Jules Sandeau's _Mademoiselle de la Seigliere_.

The Baroness de Vaubert says to the Marquis de la Seigliere: "_Calmez-vous_."

A boy having translated this by "Calm yourself," I observed to him:

"Couldn't you give me something more colloquial?"

Boy, after a moment's reflection:

"Keep your hair on, old man."

* * * * *

_Je laisse Renaud dans les jardins d'Armida_, "I leave this fox in the gardens of Armida," and, between brackets, the following explanatory statement:

("Jerusalem delivered Tasso in the hands of an enchantress named Armida.")[7]

[7] I reproduce the note which had "helped" the boy:

["_Renaud dans les jardins d'Armida_," _the enchanted gardens
of Armida_ ("_Jerusalem Delivered_," _Tasso_), _figuratively,
in the hands of an enchantress._]

* * * * *

_Chaque age a ses plaisirs_ was translated by a nice little boy, "Every one grows old for his preserves."

(Evidently written after a surfeit of jam.)

* * * * *

The vagaries of my young friends are thrown into the shade by some achievements of professional translators which I have come across in America. A French master may occasionally enjoy the drolleries that a magnificent disdain for dictionary trammels and a violent yearning towards the playground will betray his pupil into; but I imagine that a publisher, who pays in hard cash for the faithful translation of a French book, can scarcely be pleased to find that the work has been interlarded with mirth-provoking blunders thrown in gratis.

I extract the two following examples of "French as she is traduced" from the translation of one of my books that the American pirates did me the honor to publish:

_Les exploits d'Hercule sont de la Saint Jean aupres de_..., "The exploits of Hercules are but of the St. John order compared to...."

_Monsieur, ne vous retournez pas_, "Sir, do not return yourself."

* * * * *

But to return to John Bull, junior.

I pass young worthies who translate "_I have never read any thing by Moliere_" by "_Je n'ai pas jamais lit quelque chose par Moliere_," on the ground that "it is so in English." This "French" sentence was, by-the-bye, the first essay on Moliere I received at the hands of the English boys.

Some little fellows, trusting their sense of sight, have the objectionable habit of writing the translation of a text before looking at it, at all events before seeing it.

Result: "_Il raccommodait les vieux souliers_"--"_He recommended the old soldiers._"

A clever boy, whilst reading a comedy at first sight, translated "EGLANTINE (_baissant les yeux_)" by "EGLANTINE (_kissing his eyes_)."

You naughty boy!

* * * * *

I once read the following sound advice given in the preface of a French Translation book:

"HINTS ON TRANSLATING UNSEEN PASSAGES."

"1. Read the passage carefully through, at least twice."

"2. Keep as closely as possible to the original in sense, but use
English idiom boldly."

"3. Never write down nonsense."

Now, and whilst I think of it, why _unseen_?

It may be that I do not perceive the niceties of the English language, but this commonly used word, "unseen," never conveyed any meaning to my mind. Would not "unforeseen" be a better word? I would timidly suggest.

If the book in question succeeded in making boys carry out the foregoing suggestions, it would be worth its weight in gold.

As far as my experience goes, the only hint which I have known them follow is the one that tells them to use English idiom boldly.

A drawback to these hints is that they are given in the preface. Now, dear colleagues and _confreres_, which of you has ever known a school-boy read the preface of his book?

VII.

ENGLISH BOYS ON FRENCH ETYMOLOGIES.--WHY "SILENCE" IS THE ONLY FRENCH NOUN, ENDING IN "ENCE," THAT IS OF THE MASCULINE GENDER.--A VALUABLE SERVICE RENDERED BY THE AUTHOR TO HIS LAND OF ADOPTION.--LEARNED ETYMOLOGIES.--RETURN TO OLD PHILOLOGICAL METHODS.--REMARKABLE QUESTIONS. --WRITTEN AND ORAL EXAMINATIONS.--A KIND EXAMINER.--HOW LONG WOULD IT TAKE THE MOON TO FALL TO THE EARTH?--HOW MANY YARDS OF CLOTH IT TAKES TO COVER AN ASS.--I EXAMINE IN GERMAN.

French boys, and only of late, are made to go through a course of French philology during their last two years at school; but English school-boys, who are seldom taught to speak French, and who would find it just as difficult to make themselves understood in Paris as they would in Pekin, are made to study the "rudiments" of French philology, that is to say, the origin of words they are unable to put together so as to make French sentences of them.

I might take this opportunity for discussing whether English school-boys should not leave alone all this nonsense, and devote the little spare time they have to learning how to put French words together with a decent pronunciation; but I have promised myself to discuss nothing in this little volume of personal recollections, and I will keep my word.

After all, what Englishmen want to be able to do is to write a letter in French, and to ask for a steak or a mutton-chop in a French restaurant, without having to low or bleat to make the waiter understand that it is beef or mutton they want.

I did not go to England to make reforms; I accept things as I see them, and I generally wait to give my advice until I am asked for it.

So French philology is taught. A hundred exercises, which I have under my eyes, show me the results of the philological teaching of French in England.

* * * * *

For once--now for once only, let me make a boast.

Small as I am, I have rendered a valuable service to the land of my adoption. Yes, a service to England, nothing short of that.

For over fifteen years, the French examiners in the University of London invariably every year asked the candidates for Matriculation the following question--I had almost said riddle:

"Which is the only French substantive ending in _ence_ that is of the masculine gender, and why?"

You may picture to yourself the unhappy candidates, scratching their heads, and going, in their minds, through the forty and some thousand words which make up the French vocabulary.

Those only who were "in the know" could answer that the famous word was _silence_, as it came from the Latin neuter noun _silentium_, the other French nouns ending in _ence_ (from Latin feminine nouns in _entia_) being feminine.