THE WAY TO LEARN MODERN LANGUAGES.

I have always felt a great deal of sympathy, and even respect, for that good, honest, straight-forward young British boy who does not easily understand that in French “a musical friend” is not necessarily un ami a musique, nor “to sit on the committee,” s’asseoir sur lé comité, unless the context indicates that it is the painful operation which is meant.  Poor boy!  For him a foreign language is only his own, with another vocabulary; and so, when he does a piece of translation, he carefully replaces on his paper each word of his English text by one of the equivalents that he finds for it in his dictionary, rarely failing to choose the wrong one, as I have already said.  Now comes que.  Shall he put the subjunctive or the indicative?  He has learnt his grammar:  he could, if occasion required, recite the rules that apply to the employment of the terrible subjunctive mood.  He has even, once or twice in his life, written an exercise on the subject, and as it was headed “Exercise on the Subjunctive Mood,” he went through it with calm confidence, putting all the verbs in the subjunctive, including those that it would have been advisable to put in the indicative.  This done, he was not supposed to commit any more mistakes on this important point of grammar.  He might as well be expected to be an experienced swimmer after once reading Captain Webb’s “Art of Swimming,” and going through the various evolutions indicated in the pamphlet, a sec on the floor of his papa’s parlor.

I admit that the French teacher of a public school ought to be a good philologist to make his lessons attractive to the students of the upper forms, and insure their success under examination; I admit that he should know English thoroughly, to be able to explain to them the delicacies of the French language, and maintain good discipline in his classes; I admit that he should be able to teach grammar, philology, history, literature; but I maintain that he ought never to lose sight of the most important object of the study of a living language,-the putting of it into practice; he should, above all things, and by all means, aim at making his pupils speak French.  It is not enough that he should speak to them in French, even in the upper forms, where he would be perfectly understood:  understanding a language and speaking it are two very different things.  Neither will he attain his end by means of dull manuals of imaginary conversations with the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick-maker; these will, at most, be useful in helping a foreigner to ask for what he wants at a table d’hote.  You will not get grown-up, intelligent, and well-educated boys to come out of their shells, unless you make it worth their while.  Now, Englishmen, like Americans, love argument, very often for argument’s sake, and every school-boy, in England as in America, is a member of some society or committee, and at its meetings tries his wings, discusses, harangues, and prepares himself for that great parliamentary life, which is the strength of the nation.

Then, I ask, why not turn this love of discussion to account?

Start a French debating society in every school, and you will teach your generation to speak French.  Such a proposition may sound bold, but it has been tried in several public schools, and has proved a complete success.

What cannot a teacher do that has succeeded in winning the esteem and affection of his pupils?  First, make them respect you, then gain their hearts, and you will lead the young by a thread.

Take twenty or thirty boys, old enough to appreciate the interest you feel in them, and say to them, “My young friends, let us arrange to meet once a week, and see if we cannot speak French together.  We will chat about any thing you like:  politics even.  Do not be afraid to open your lips, it is only la premiere phrase qui coûte.  I am neither a Pecksniff nor a pedant, a dotard nor a wet blanket; in your company, I feel as young as the youngest among you.  Do not imagine that I shall bring you up for the slightest error of pronunciation you make.  I remember the time when I murdered your language, and I should be sorry to cast the first stone at you.  At first I shall only correct your glaring mistakes; by degrees, you will make fewer and fewer, although, alas! you will very likely always make some.  What does it matter?  I guarantee that in a few months you will be able to understand all that is said to you in French, and express intelligibly in the same language any idea that may pass through your brain.”

These little French parliaments work admirably; the earliest were started in two or three English schools four or five years ago.  Each has its president-the head French teacher of the school, its honorary and assistant secretaries, and, if you please, its treasurer, who supplies the members with two or three good French papers, and, when the finances of the society permit, provides the means of giving a soiree littéraire.  I have seen the minute-book of one of these interesting associations.  Since its formation, this particular debating society has altered the whole map of Europe, greatly to the advantage of the United Kingdom.  The young debaters have upset any number of governments, at home and abroad, done away with women’s rights, and declared, by a crushing majority, that ladies who can make good puddings are far more useful members of society than those who can make good speeches.  Young British boys have very strong sentiments against women’s rights.  In literature, the respective merits of the Classicists and the Romanticists have been discussed, and the “three unities” declared absurd and tyrannical by these young champions of freedom.

The speakers are not allowed to read their speeches, but may use notes for reference, and I notice that speakers, who at first only ventured short remarks, soon grew bold enough to hold forth for ten minutes at a time.  In many instances, the president has had to adjourn a debate to the next meeting, on account of the number of orators wishing to take part in it.  These minutes, written in very good French indeed, do great credit to the young secretary who enters them.  I have myself been present at meetings of these societies, and I assure you that if you could see these young fellows rise from their seats, and, bowing respectfully to the president, say to him:  “Monsieur lé President, je demande la parole,” you would agree with me that, so far as good order, perfect courtesy, and unlimited respect for opposite views are concerned, these small gatherings would compare favorably with the meetings of honorables and even right-honorables that are held at the Capitol, the Westminster Palace, and the Palais Bourbon.

It is clear to my mind that, by such means, English boys can be made to speak French in the most interesting manner, and the one best suited to their taste.  I firmly believe that if the great schools, public or private, were to start similar societies, that if all the young men knowing a little French were to form in their districts, such associations under the leadership of able and cheerful Frenchmen, England, or America for that matter, would in a few years, have a generation of French-speaking men.

I have always been at a loss to understand how boys who have been studying a language for nine or ten years should leave school perfectly unable to converse intelligibly in that language for five minutes together.  It seems nothing short of scandalous.

Yet the reason is not far to be found.  In England, at any rate, modern languages are taught like dead languages:  they are taught through the eyes, whereas they should be taught through the ears and mouth.

The French debating society seems to me the best mode of solving the difficulty.  I have often given this piece of advice to John Bull, and I myself founded a successful French debating society in England.  Let Jonathan forgive my presumption if I avail myself of his kind and generous hospitality to give him the same advice.