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

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.

"Well," I said one day to the examiner, an eminent confrère and friend, "don't you think you make the candidates waste a good deal of their valuable time, and that it would be better to ask them the question (if you must ask it) in a straightforward manner?"

He thought I was right, and for two years more the question was asked again, but in the following improved manner:

"Explain why silence is the only French noun, ending in ence, that is of the masculine gender."

This was sensible, and I hoped the examiner would for a long time to come be in smooth water.

The gods willed it otherwise.

One morning he came to me in a great state of excitement.

"I am furious!" he said. "I believe one of the candidates has been laughing at me."

"You don't say so!" I remarked.

"I believe so," he continued, whilst untying a bundle of papers. "Now look at this," he cried, handing me a copy; "have you ever seen such impudence?"

I looked, but could make nothing out of it.

"What's the matter?" I inquired.

"Well, I asked the candidates the question about the gender of silence."

"I know, the famous question, eh?"

"Never mind that. See the answer one of them gives me," and he pointed it out to me. It ran thus:

"Silence is the only French noun, ending in ence, that is masculine, because it is the only thing women can not keep."

Tears of sympathy for the boy trickled down my cheeks; I thought it was lovely.

"Well," I said, when I had recovered, "it serves you right."

"I will plough that boy!" he ejaculated.

"No, you won't do that," I said. "How did he do the rest of the paper?"

"Very well, indeed; the impudent scamp is a clever fellow."

"And a wit," I added; "you must not plough him."

I never knew the fate of that boy, although I believe I saved him.

But what I do know is that never, never since, has the question found place in the Matriculation papers of the University of London.

A boy, having to give the etymology of the French word dimanche, and explain why "book" and "pound" are expressed by the same French word livre, perpetrated the following:

"Dimanche is a compound word, formed from di (twice), and manche (to eat), because you take two meals on that day (Sunday)."⁸

"Livre stands for 'book' as well as for 'pound,' because the accounts of 'pounds' are kept in 'books.'"

It was the same boy who, being asked for the meaning of cordon bleu, answered "a teetotaler."

A young Briton, having to derive the French word tropique, wrote:

"This word comes from trop (too much), and ique (from Latin hic which means here), with the word heat understood, that is to say: Tropique, it is too hot here."

Another boy, with a great deal of imagination and power of deduction, having to give the derivation of the French word cheval, wrote the following essay:

"Cheval comes from the Latin equus. The letter u was written v, which gave

equus = eqvus = quevus

"This word became quevalus, which finally gave cheval."

We might exclaim with d'Aceilly:

 
"Cheval vient d'equus, sans doute;
Mais il faut convenir aussi
Qu'à venir de là jusqu'ici,
Il a bien changé sur la route."⁹
 

This boy's method is, after all, a return to the old methods. If we consult Ménage's Etymological Dictionary, we see that he easily derives rat from mus, and haricot from faba, to take only two instances of the method.

"The Latin mus," he says, "became muratus, and then ratus, which gave us rat."

He deals no less successfully with haricot, viz:

"The Latin faba became by corruption fabaricus, which altered into fabaricotus, and finally into aricotus, which gave us haricot."

After this we may appreciate Voltaire's remark that "philologists take no account of vowels, and very little notice of consonants."

Nor do boys.

If the answers given by candidates at examinations are often remarkable, the questions asked by the examiners are often more wonderful still. Here are a few which have been seriously asked, and —proh pudor!– published:

"Define, with reference to passages in the Lettres Provinciales, 'grâce suffisante,' 'grâce efficace,' 'grâce actuelle,' 'casuisme,' 'pouvoir prochain,' 'probabilisme.' Also explain what is meant by 'casuistry.' What can be said in its defence?"

"Give some account of Escobar."

"What are the principal differences between the Latin and the French languages?"

Well might an eminent confrère exclaim one day:

"Is not all this printed and published to discourage the study of French?"

I once heard an examiner ask a dear little fellow, aged eleven, the following poser:

"Give me the derivations of all the words of the French sentence you have just read aloud."

Poor little boy! He took the examiner for a wonderful man.

So he was.

English examinations consist of so many papers to be taken up; the "viva voce" does not play an important part in England, as it does in France.

A "viva voce" examination very often gives the examiner a better idea of the candidate's abilities and knowledge than a written one, but it has many drawbacks. It favors babblers and the self-assured, and does not enable the timid to show themselves at their best.

The more learned the examiner, the more kind and indulgent is he to the candidates.

Sainte-Claire Deville, the famous French chemist, had to be declined by the authorities at the Sorbonne as an examiner, because he used to answer his questions himself to save the candidates trouble.

"How do you prepare oxygen?" he would ask. "By heating chlorate of potash, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"You place the chlorate of potash in a thin glass flask, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now a small quantity of manganese bi-oxide, mixed with the chlorate of potash, enables you to obtain the oxygen at a much lower temperature, does it not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very good – now, another question."

And so forth.

On the other hand, there are examiners who make it a rule to bully the candidates, or, worse still, to snub them. They will ask preposterous questions with the mere object of disconcerting them.

"How long would it take the moon to fall to the earth?" I once heard an examiner ask a candidate to the baccalauréat ès-sciences.

A facetious examiner once got his due from a young Parisian candidate.

After asking him a few "catches," and obtaining no answers he suddenly said to him:

"Do you know how much cloth would be required to cover an ass?"

"I do not, sir," replied the lad, "but if you are anxious to know, I will ask your tailor."

The audience laughed heartily, and the examiner, seeing that this time the laughter was not on his side, congratulated the boy on his wit, and immediately asked him a few sensible questions, which were answered respectfully, and proved that the candidate had his subjects as ready as his wit.

I was once asked to examine the French and German classes of an important English school.

I wrote to "my lords and gentlemen," saying that my knowledge of German was not such as to enable me to find fault with other people's.

The governors answered that it did not matter, and I was directed to proceed to the Examination.

I got over the difficulty by sharing the work and the fees with an able German, who prepared the questions and corrected the copies.

VIII

English Boys on French Composition. – "Go Ahead" is not in French "Allez une Tete." – How Boys Set about French Composition. – A Written Proof of their Guilt. – How Large Advertisements can Help Them. – A Stumbling-block cleared away.

You have achieved a great success when you have succeeded in getting into young boys' heads that French is not English replaced by equivalent words to be found in a dictionary.

This is the way boys generally set about writing a piece of English into French.

They take the first English word, open their dictionary, and put down the French word they have found for it (the wrong one, as a rule, if more than one is given). Then they take the second English word, to which they apply the same process, until they come to a stop, which they carefully reproduce in the French (many don't). This done, they take their blotting-paper, apply it on the copy, rub it hard for a minute or two, and knock off to enjoy a well-deserved rest.

The amount of blotting-paper used by boys is prodigious. A word is no sooner written down than it is fixed on the paper by a good hearty rubbing down. They are afraid it will evaporate if not properly secured on the paper at once.

Suppose your young pupils have to put into French "I give you."

They will first write je, then donne. After the English word "you," they are referred to a note. They look at this note (many don't), and see that they must put the pronoun vous before the verb. They do so between the lines, and thus write down the proof of their iniquity:

vous

"je ^ donne."

Although the boys use their eyes to look at things, there are few who use them to see.

Young S. was an exception.

Having to put into French, "No sovereign ever was more worthy," he brought me:

"Jamais souverain ne fut plus digne."

I congratulated him on his achievement, and as I was suspicious he had been helped at home I asked him how he came to write this. He then said to me that on his way home he had seen in the station a large advertisement of a tooth-paste maker. The advertisement consisted of a huge woman's head, showing two rows of beautiful teeth, with this inscription:

"Avec de belles dents jamais femme ne fut laide."

He had come to the conclusion that this French phrase could help him, and he took it down at the station.

This young Briton has a great future before him.

A boy having to translate "I have gone out," begins by writing "j'ai." That is understood. When afterwards he finds that the verb sortir is conjugated with the auxiliary être, he changes j'ai into je suis. Nine times out of ten he trusts his memory, or rather he leaves it to chance, and he keeps j'ai.

French books are loaded with facts, but few with explanations.

All the French grammars I know publish the list of the neuter verbs that are conjugated with the auxiliary être, but none give boys the reason why these verbs are conjugated with être and not with avoir. Boys learn this list of verbs and forget it, and you know little of boys' nature if you imagine that they will consult their grammar at every turn. Some do, to be sure, but how many?

I do not know of one French grammar that tells students that neuter verbs, which express a state as well as an action, or rather that neuter verbs which express that a state is enjoyed as soon as the action is over, are conjugated with être.

A boy will understand you, and remember what you say, if you tell him:

"As soon as you have died, you are dead. This is why the verb mourir, expressing the state of being dead, as soon as the action of dying is over, has to be conjugated with être."

"As soon as you have arrived, you are arrived."

"As soon as you have been born, you are born."

"Therefore all these verbs arriver, naître, venir, sortir, partir, etc., are conjugated with être."

"By this reasoning, with courir (to run) you get an absurdity. 'As soon as you have run you are run' is an absurdity. Therefore courir, expressing only an action, not a state, takes avoir."

Yes, boys will understand all that, and nothing gives them more pleasure than having their minds satisfied with a little explanatory food. I have seen rays of happy satisfaction flashing over scores of young faces as they got hold of these facts.

For the same reason, reflexive verbs are conjugated with être, because they also express that a state is enjoyed as soon as the action is over.

"As soon as you have washed yourself you are washed – if you have done it properly, of course."

Tell the boys so, and they will laugh, and they will understand you, and they will be grateful to you.

I could give hundreds of instances in which a few explanatory words would settle grammatical facts in boys' minds; but, although I am tempted at almost every page to turn this book into a class – book, I must bear in mind that my aim is not to instruct, and pass on.

IX

How to be Happy though a school-master. – Suggestions and Hints for the Class-room. – Boys on History and Geography. – "Maxims" and "Wise Thoughts." – Advice to Those About to Teach. – "Sir," and not "Mossoo." – "Frauleins" and "Mademoiselles." – "Check" your Love for Boys. – No Credit. – We are all Liable to Make Mistakes. – I Get an Insight into "Stocks."

I know masters who spend their time looking at their books with their heads downwards, and who only occasionally lift them up to say to a boisterous class:

"Now then, now then!"

They might as well tell the boys: "Just take a minute's rest, my dears, will you? In a moment I shall be looking at my desk again, then you will be able to go on."

Face the boys, or you will be nowhere.

Always be lively. If you once let the boys go to sleep, you will never wake them up again.

Always look the same in face and person. Your moustache curtailed, your whiskers shaved, or the usual shape of your coat altered, will cause a revolution in your class.

Never show your temper if you have one, and keep the changes of your temperature for the benefit of your wife and family. If you once show your boys that they have enough power to disturb your equilibrium and interfere with your happiness, it is for them a victory, the results of which they will always make you feel.

If you are annoyed by a boy constantly chatting with his neighbors, see if he has a brother in the class. If he has, place them side by side, and peace will be restored. Brothers will sometimes quarrel in class, but have a quiet chat together, never.

Never overpraise clever boys, or they will never do another stroke of work. Never snub the dull ones; you don't know that it is not out of modesty that they will not shine over their schoolfellows.

Never ask young English public schoolboys any questions on history that may be suggested to you by the proper names you will come across in the text. Their knowledge of history¹⁰ does not go much beyond the certainty that Shakespeare was not a great Roman warrior, although his connection with Julius Cæsar, Antony, and Coriolanus keep a good many still undecided as to the times he lived in.

Ask them under whose reign Ben Jonson flourished, and you will be presented by them with a general survey of English history from the Norman Conquest to the reign of Her Most Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria. A good many will also take the opportunity of making a show of their knowledge of literary history (the temptation is irresistible), and add that he was a great man who wrote a good dictionary, and was once kept waiting for a long time in Lord Chesterfield's antechamber, "which he did not like." Boys are generally good at historical anecdotes, a remnant of their early training.

We once had to put into French the following sentence:

"Frederick the Great of Prussia had the portrait of the young Emperor in every room of his Sans-Souci Palace, and being asked the reason why he thus honored the portrait of his greatest enemy, answered that the Emperor was a busy, enterprising young monarch, and that he found it necessary always to have an eye upon him."

I asked the class who this Emperor was that Frederick the Great seemed to fear so much, and I obtained many answers, including Alexander the Great and most well-known imperial rulers down to Napoleon the First; but not one named Joseph II. of Austria.

Another time we were translating a piece of Massillon, taken from his celebrated Petit Carême.

When we came to the following passage, in his sermon on Flattery: "The Lord," once said the holy King, "shall cut off all flattering lips, and the tongue that speaketh proud things," I asked the boys, who, by-the-bye, were referred in the notes to Psalm xii. 3, who was this holy King mentioned by Massillon?

The first answer was "Charles I." The second was "Saint Louis," and I should not probably have received the proper answer if I had not expressed my astonishment at finding that nobody in the class seemed to know who wrote the Psalms.

Even after this remark of mine, many boys remained silent; but at last one timidly suggested "David."

He did not seem to be quite sure.

"This," I thought to myself at the time, "is hardly an encouragement to make children read the Bible twice a day from the time they can spell."

The knowledge of geography is not more widespread than the knowledge of history among these same boys. So, if you have no time to waste don't ask them where places are.

They know where England is; they know more or less precisely the position of India, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, the Cape of Good Hope, and such other spots of the earth as are marked in red on the maps published in England.

France, Russia, Germany, Austria, Italy, Spain, Turkey, they could after a few hesitations find out on the map of Europe, but as they are not marked in red, their patriotism prevents them from taking any more interest in these countries.

France, however, is rather interesting to them as being a part of the globe in which the French irregular verbs come by nature.

Never expect any thanks for all the trouble you have taken over your pupils.

When boys succeed in their examinations, it is owing to their intelligence and industry; when they fail, it is owing to the bad teaching of their masters. Boys can do no wrong; get this well engraven on your minds.

When a boy laughs at a mistake made by a schoolfellow, do not believe that he does so out of contempt, and that he knows better. Ask him for the answer immediately, and he will be as quiet as you please.

If you observe him a little, you will see that he never begins to laugh before you have declared the answer of his schoolfellow to be wrong; he would never know himself.

I always carefully prepared the piece of French that my pupils had to translate, in order to be ready with all the questions suggested to me by the text; but I never prepared composition: I preferred working it in class with them, so as to show them that scores of French sentences properly rendered an English one. I think it is a mistake to impose one rendering of an English sentence. Anybody can do this – with a key.

Be not solemn in class, nor aim at astonishing the boys with your eloquence.

To look at their staring eyes and gaping mouths, you may perhaps imagine that they are lost in ecstatic admiration. Look again, they are all yawning.

When you have made the personal acquaintance of the boys who are to make up a class during the term, you can easily assign to them seats that will not perhaps please them, but which will insure peace. A quiet boy placed between two noisy chatterboxes, or a chatterbox placed between two solemn boys, will go a long way towards securing your comfort and happiness. The easiest class-room to manage is the one furnished with separate desks. Then you may easily carry the government on the old principle of Divide et regna.

If you see a boy put his hand before his mouth whilst he is talking, snub him hard for it. Tell him that, when you were a boy and wanted to have a quiet chat with a neighbor, you were not so silly as to thus draw the master's attention and get your little conversation disturbed.

We are none of us infallible, not even the youngest of us, as the late Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, once wittily remarked.

Never be tired of asking for advice; you will become a good school-master only on condition that you will take constant advice from the old stagers.

If, however, you should discover that, in the middle of your lesson, your pupils are all sound asleep, don't go and tell the head-master, and ask him how you should set about keeping them awake. This is beyond his advice.

The General commanding a French military school had once decided upon having a lecture on Hygiene given to the pupils on Monday afternoons. The day was badly chosen. A French Sunday always means for a French boy a little dissipation in the shape of a good dinner at home or with friends, and on Monday afternoons we generally felt ready for a little doze, if the lecture was in the least prosy.

The lecturer, tired of addressing sleeping audiences, lodged a complaint with the General, and asked that his lecture should henceforth take place on another day of the week.

This could not be arranged, but the General soon decided upon a plan to set matters to rights.

"I will place a basof ¹¹ in the room," he said; "he will take down the names of all those who go to sleep, and I shall have them kept in on the following Sunday."

When the lecturer made his next appearance, followed by the basof, we thought it would be prudent to listen, and the lesson passed off without accident.

The following Monday, however, the poor lecturer had not proceeded very far, when he discovered that we were all asleep – and that so was the basof.

Of course the General inflicted a severe punishment upon us, and also upon the offending Cerberus.

Moral.– I believe that, if a lecturer or a master had gone to complain to an English head-master that all his pupils went to sleep whilst he lectured, the head-master would have answered him:

"My dear sir, if your lecture sends your audience to sleep, it is your fault, not mine, and I don't see how I can help you."

And the sooner the man sent in his resignation, the better for the comfort of all concerned.

If you are a Frenchman, never allow your boys to call you Mossoo, Myshoo, Mounzeer, or any other British adaptation of Monsieur. If you do, you may just as well allow them to pat you on the back and call you "Old chappie." They should call you "Sir," otherwise you will lose your footing and fail to be the colleague of the English masters. You will only be the Mossoo of the place, something, in the world, like the Mademoiselle (from Paris), or the Fraulein (from Hanover), of the Establishment for Young Ladies round the corner.

All the Frauleins come from Hanover, as all the Mademoiselles are Parisian and Protestants, if I am to believe the column of scholastic advertisements in the English newspapers.

This is wonderful, is it not?

If you set any value on your reputation and your time, never carry the interest which you naturally take in your pupils the length of inviting them to come to your house to receive extra teaching at your hands, unless it be as a means of improving your revenue.

I once determined to devote all my Saturday evenings to two young fellows whom I was anxious to pass through the Indian Civil Service examination. I thus worked with them five months. Their fathers were men of position. I never received so much as a post-card of thanks from them. If I had charged them a guinea for each visit, I should have received two checks with "many thanks for my valuable services," which would have benefited my banking account and given satisfaction to my professional vanity.

I have since "checked" my love for boys.

Shun interviews with parents, mothers especially, as you would the plague. Leave this privilege to the head-master, who is paid handsomely for these little drawbacks to his position. If they invite you to dinner, do not fall into the snare, but remember that a previous engagement prevents you from having the pleasure of accepting their kind invitation. Never enter into correspondence with them on the subject of "their dear boy." If, to inflict scruples on your conscience, they should enclose a stamped envelope, give a penny to the first beggar you meet on leaving school. Relieve the conscience, but, whatever you do, don't answer.

Always pretend you have not seen a breach of discipline when you are not quite sure about the offender, or, when sure, you can not bring a clear charge against him. You have no time for investigations.

Wait for another chance. A boy never rests upon an unpunished offence.

Offence and punishment should be exchanged like shots.

No credit: cash.

If you correct little boys' copies yourself, you will find that you have undertaken a long and wearisome task that brings no result. When you return these copies, they are received with thanks, folded up, carefully pocketed, and never looked at again. Make the boys reserve a good wide margin for the corrections. Underline all their mistakes, and, under your eyes, make them correct the mistakes themselves.

However well up you may be in your subjects, you are sure to find yourself occasionally tripping. The derivation of a certain word will escape you for a moment, or the right translation of another will not come to your mind quickly enough. With grown-up and intelligent young fellows in advanced classes, no need to apologise. But with little boys you must remember that you are an oracle. Never for a moment let them doubt your infallibility; call up all the resources of your ingenuity, and find a way out of the difficulty. So a good actor, whose memory fails him for the time, calls upon his imagination to supply its place. And must not any man, who would gain and keep the ear of a mixed audience, be a bit of an actor, let his theatre be the hustings, the church, or the class-room? Has not a master to appear perfectly cross when he is perfectly cool, or perfectly cool when he is perfectly cross? Is not this acting?

It once fell to my unhappy lot to be requested to take an arithmetic class twice a week, during the temporary absence of a mathematical master. In my youth I was a little of a mathematician, but figures I was always bad at. As for English sums, with their bewildering complications of pounds, shillings, pence, and farthings, which that practical people still fondly cling to, it has always been a subject of wonder to me how the English themselves do them. How I piloted those dear boys through Bills of Parcels I don't know; but it is a fact that we got on pretty well till we reached "Stocks." Here my path grew very thorny.

One morning the boys all came with the same sad story. None had been able to do one of the sums I had given them from the book. They had all tried; their brothers had tried; their fathers had tried; not one could do it.

A short look at it convinced me that I should have no more chance of success than all those Britons, young and old, but it would never do to let my pupils know this. They must suppose that those few moments had been sufficient for me to master the sum in. So, assuming my most solemn voice, I said:

"Why, boys, do you mean to tell me you can not do such a simple sum as this?"

"No, we can't, sir," was the general cry.

"Why, Robinson, not even you?" I said to the top boy. "I always considered you a sharp lad. Jones, you cannot? Nor Brown? Well, well; it's too bad."

And, putting on a look of pitying contempt – which must have been quite a success, to judge by the dejection written on the faces before me – I proceeded to give them a little lecture on their arithmetical shortcomings. I felt saved. It was near the time for dismissing the class.

"Boys," said I, to finish up, "I must have been sadly mistaken in you; the best thing we can do is to go back to addition and subtraction to-morrow."

Without being quite so hard as that upon them, I set them an easy task for the next lesson; the bell rang, and the boys dispersed.

I immediately went to the head mathematical master, and had the difficulty explained away in a few seconds.

How simple things are when they are explained, to be sure!

Armed with a new insight into Stocks, I was ready for my young friends the following Friday. After the ordinary work had been got through: