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

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:

"Now," I said, "have you had another try at that sum, any of you?"

"Yes, sir; but we can't do it," was the reply.

"Well," I said, in a relenting tone, as I went to the blackboard, "I suppose we had better do it together."

I made the boys confess it was too stupid of them to have proved unequal to this simple sum; and thus they regained my good graces.

Later in the day I received the glad tidings that the master I replaced was better (goodness knows if I had prayed for the return of his health!). He was to have his boys next time.

Thus was I enabled to retire from the field with flying colors.

If you do not love boys, never be a school-master. If you love boys and wish to become a school-master, see that you are a good disciplinarian, or take Punch's advice to those about to marry:

"Don't."

X

English Boys' Patriotism put to a Severe Test. – Their Opinion of French Victories. – King Louis VI. of France and the English Soldier at the Battle of Brenneville. – An English Boy on French Wrestling. – Young Tory Democrats. – 'Imperium et Libertas.' – A Patriotic Answer. – Duck and Drake.

I am afraid I often put the patriotism of English boys to a severe test.

I generally liked to place in their hands such books as would relate to them the glorious past of France, and teach them to respect her. Let those who do not love their country throw the first stone at me.

Bossuet's "Funeral Orations," Voltaire's "Siècle de Louis XIV.," D'Aubigné's "History of Bayard," Bonnechose's "Lazare Hoche," were among my favorite text-books.

I need not say that I always avoided recommending historical books which, like Bonnechose's "Bertrand du Guesclin," for instance, referred to struggles between France and England. For obvious reasons, I have always preferred reading the accounts of the battles of Cressy, Poictiers, and Agincourt in French histories to reading them in English ones;12 and I imagined that Bertrand du Guesclin would not inspire in my pupils the same admiration as he did in us French boys.

But what fiery patriots these British lads are! Why, they would like to monopolize all the victories mentioned in history.

Bossuet's panegyric of Louis XIV. drove them frantic, half mad. Dear little fellows! they were wriggling with pain on their seats as we were reading: "This king, the terror of his enemies, who holds the destinies of Europe in the hollow of his hand and strikes with awe the whole astonished world."

"The whole world struck with awe!" that could not be. Surely Bossuet ought to have said "with the exception of England" – a sad omission on his part.

"Who is it Bossuet is speaking of?" once remarked a good little patriot, on hearing this sentence.

"Louis XIV."

"Louis XIV.?"

"Yes; never heard of him?"

I don't think he had.

Bayard they all liked. His personal deeds of valor appealed to their young imaginations. His athletic powers especially stirred their hearts with admiration.

Besides, his exploits took place such a long time ago that they felt ready to be lenient towards him.

We once came across the name of Louis VI. of France in some French text, and I was unfortunate enough to mention in class that, at the battle of Brenneville, an English soldier came up to the French king, and called upon him to surrender, when Louis VI. remarked: "Don't you know that, at chess, the king cannot be taken prisoner?" and immediately struck the English soldier dead on the spot.

The boys seemed displeased. They looked at one another; it was evident that they thought there was something wrong. The dose was too strong for them to swallow.

I inquired of a little lad, who appeared particularly distressed, what was the matter.

"Please, sir," he said, "did not the English soldier try to kill the French king?"

"Well, I suppose he did," I replied; "but King Louis VI. was very strong, you know."

"He must have been!" he remarked, no doubt feeling more comfortable after my explanation.

This historical anecdote of an Englishman allowing himself to be felled to the ground by a Frenchman puts me in mind of a little conversation I heard in my school-days.

Two young boys, one French, the other English, were talking athletics in the playground, and the English boy asked his young friend to explain to him the principles of French wrestling.

The little French lad proceeded, in a vivacious manner, to describe the successive moves of the sport.

He used the first person singular to make his description more forcible.

"First," he said, "I would get a good grasp of your waist with my right arm, whilst I would collar you with my left one; then, don't you see, I would twist my right leg round one of yours; then – "

"Ah! but wait a minute," exclaimed the English boy, with a smile. "What should I be doing all this time? Looking at you, I suppose?"

It was at the meetings of our French Debating Society that free play was given to youthful patriotism. Good heavens! what a tabula rasa of the map of the world! What fresh jewels added to the British crown! I don't think there is a single little corner of the globe worth mentioning that these boys did not lay their hands on. With what a crushing majority the "Peace, Retrenchment, and Reform" policy was defeated! Was it not an insult to this glorious country to suggest that a reform was needed?

"The Liberals," exclaimed a young member, with a movement of Homeric indignation, "may be appreciated in Russia, but they are not Englishmen."

French collégiens are red radicals, socialists, anarchists, revolutionists – until they leave school. As I have said elsewhere, leading the lives of prisoners, they dream wild dreams of liberty, they gasp for freedom.

Young Britons, enjoying liberty from tender years, are perfectly satisfied with their lot, and are mostly Conservatives. They identify Conservatism with patriotism; and if the Franchise were extended to them, the Liberal Party would have seen its best days.

The new political school inaugurated by Lord Randolph Churchill is greatly in favor with English boys; we had many Tory Democrats among us.

"Imperium et Libertas" are two words which sound pleasantly in young English ears: the possession of a mighty Empire, and the enjoyment of that "thrice sweet and gracious goddess," Liberty.

I once asked a little English lad why his compatriots ate roast goose on the 29th of September, the anniversary of the defeat of the Spanish Armada.

"Because," he answered proudly, "the King of Spain was such a goose as to come and attack our navy!"

A colleague of mine asked the same question in a different manner, and obtained an equally wonderful answer.

"What is it the English eat on the 29th of September to commemorate the defeat of the Spanish Armada?" he asked.

"Roast duck, sir, because it was Drake who beat the Spanish!"

XI

Cricket. – I Have an Unsuccessful Try at it. – Boys' Opinion of my Athletic Qualities. – French and English Athletes. – Feats of Skill and Strength versus Feats of Endurance and Brute Force. – A Case of Eviction by Force of Arms.

I never tried my hand at cricket but once, and did not get on very well.

I was entrusted with the bat. It was a heavy responsibility. When I saw the ball come I hit hard at it, but missed it. The nasty thing struck me a woful blow on the jaw.

I did not see much in the game, and I withdrew.

Yet I confess that, as I began to understand the rules of cricket, I also began to conceive a certain amount of admiration for the game – at a respectful distance.

I always suspected the boys did not entertain any great opinion of my athletic powers. The following anecdote, related to me by some ladies, friends of mine, set my mind at rest on the subject.

These ladies, it appears, were traveling one day on the London District line. In the same compartment happened to be half-a-dozen boys, who were going to our annual school sports. The boys soon began to discuss the respective merits of the favorite runners, as well as their chances, and I am not quite sure that a little betting was not indulged in; but this the ladies did not tell me, and you must never run the risk of bringing unfounded charges against boys.

Presently a little fellow suggested that much fun would be added to the sport by the introduction of a master's race in the programme, and naturally this led the conversation to the athletic merits of the masters.

Said one of the merry company:

"What do you think of the French master?"

"Not much," said the chorus.

"Well, he is powerfully built," intimated one with a knowing look, who was, perhaps, bringing some personal recollection to bear on the subject.

"Yes," said another; "but he is too fat; he has no wind. He would be nowhere."

"What would you take him at?" asked the one with a knowing look.

"Sixty to one," was the reply.

Some discussion took place, and I "closed" at fifty to one.

Thus was my case settled.

As to the matter of athletics, to which English boys are such devotees, I cannot help thinking that they are overdone, made a hobby of, and, like most hobbies in England, ridden to excess. No doubt it is a fine thing for a boy to have plenty of outdoor amusements; it is good for him to be an adept at running, leaping, climbing, swimming; but what in the world does he learn at football, the great winter game of the English schoolboy? Why do the English so neglect pastimes that would develop dexterity of hand and limb, and devote themselves to a game which seems to me to teach nothing except respect of brute force?

"Oh! but it cultivates their powers of endurance," says somebody.

That is true, I believe; although, from what I have seen of the two, I never could discover that an Englishman was more patient under the toothache than a Frenchman.

Now, to get bruised ribs and dislocated shoulders in practicing flights out of second and third storey windows I should understand; an accomplishment of that kind might be useful in case of fire; but to what end does all the bruising of football tend?

The game of football itself seems to be the end, and "not a means to an end," as, I believe, Mr. Matthew Arnold has remarked.

Yet, behold John Bull, junior, on the football ground! The hero of a bad cause, but for all that a hero; a lusty little fellow, fearless, hardy, strong-knit, iron-muscled, and mule-headed, who, rather than let go a ball that he holds firmly in his arms, will perform feats of valor; who, simply to pass this ball between two goals, will grovel in the dust, reckless of lacerated shoulders, a broken rib or jaw-bone, and will die on a bed of suffering with a smile upon his lips if he can only hear, before closing his eyes, that his side has won the game.

Speaking from my experience, I should say that at gymnastic exercises, and all pastimes requiring a little skill, French boys are more than the equals of John Bull, junior. They are better at leaping, climbing, and wrestling. As for swimming, nine out of ten French boys are good swimmers. They do not want to emulate Captain Webb's feats when they grow up, because the object or beauty of such feats as his has never been revealed to them.

But that is the Englishman all through.

Can he swim well? Then he must straightway swim across the English Channel; he must outswim his fellow-creatures; he must be the champion of the world, and have the betting in his favor, until he turns his gift into a hobby, sets off on it, and, to the entertainment of a few Yankee excursionists, ends by being drowned in the Niagara Falls.

As for the savate, the canne, fencing, which all bring the wits into play as well as the muscles, they, even the last-named, are very little known or practiced in England. In these most young Frenchmen are well up, and as for gymnastic exercises they are more practiced in France than in England, although the English boy fondly imagines he is at the top of the ladder in all matters athletic.

The craze for athletics has inculcated in English boys the admiration for physical strength. This they like to find in their masters, as well as firmness of mind.

It is not necessary that masters should use the former. Not by any means; but there it is, and they might use it.

There is nothing to inspire people with peaceful dispositions like the sight of a good display of war material.

An ex-colleague of mine became very popular by the following occurrence, the tale of which spread through the school like wildfire.

This gentleman used to teach in a little class-room that led to the playground. One day a big boy of seventeen opened the door from the building, coolly crossed the room, and was about to open the door opposite to let himself out, when my friend caught hold of him by the collar, lifted him off the ground, and, to the stupefaction of the boys, carried him back through the room, as he would have a dog by the skin of his neck, and quietly dropped him outside the door he had entered by. Not a word was uttered, not an Oh! not an Ah! The performance, if I remember rightly, terminated somewhat comically. The boy had on a paper-collar, which remained as a trophy in the master's hands.

It was, as you see, a case of eviction vi et armis, by the force of arms.

XII

Old Pupils. – Acquaintances Renewed. – Lively Recollections Revived. – It is Easier to Teach French than to Learn it. – Testimonial Refused to a French Master. – "How de do?" – "That's What-d'ye-call-Him, the French Master."

I like meeting old pupils, especially those who, I am vain enough to think, owe to me a little part of their success in life.

Others have greatly improved since they left school. I used to consider them hopelessly stupid, and now I see them able to speak on general topics with a great amount of common sense. Though they were not fit for school, they are fit for the world. They have good manners and are gentlemen.

Some you cannot recognize with their "chimney-pots"; some will take no notice of you.

Some will come and shake hands with you, and make a tardy acknowledgment of the debt they owe you; some will express their regret that they do not owe you more.

Some will approach you diffidently, and with a grin:

"How do you do, sir? Don't you know me? I am So-and-So."

"To be sure I do."

"Don't you remember I once threw a paper ball in the room, and it fell on your desk by accident?"

"To be sure. And don't you remember what you got for it?"

"Indeed I do. But that was an accident, you know, sir."

"I dare say it was. And how are you getting on?"

"Pretty well. I am in a bank."

"Adding pounds, shillings, and pence?"

"Yes – rather slow sport."

"Slow, yes, when the pounds, shillings, and pence don't belong to you."

"You are right, sir."

"Well, you might, perhaps, have done better for yourself; you were an able boy."