Our school magazine, edited by the boys, is a well-conducted and interesting record of school events. I can never look at it, printed as it is on beautiful paper, without going back to my school-days in France. We had a magazine of our own, too, but we had to write out two copies of each issue ourselves, and keep them locked in our desks. If we were caught reading them they were confiscated, and we were punished. In English public schools the masters subscribe, and not uncommonly write, for the magazine. The result is that, in England, the periodical is made up of wholesome literary essays, poetry, school news and anecdotes, reports of athletic and other meetings, etc., whereas, in France, it mainly consists of satires against the college and caricatures of the masters.

In a small private preparatory school where I attended for a short time, the little boys (fourteen in number) one day resolved to start a magazine. I was asked to preside at the meeting. Of course a printed paper was out of the question, and it was decided at the meeting that each of the boys would write it out in turn. Presently a true-born little Briton proposed that an annual dinner, in connection with the paper, should take place. As it was doubtful whether the magazine would enjoy life very long, an amendment, moved by another business-like member, was seized by the forelock, to the effect that the annual dinner should take place at once, and was pa.s.sed unanimously. The discussion of the _menu_ was then entered into, strong preference being manifested for tarts and cream and doughnuts. I most solemnly signed the minute of the previous meeting, and retired with the feeling that I had performed the work of a good British citizen.

XIV.

HOME, SWEET HOME!--BOYS' OPINION OF THE SEASIDE.--FRENCH AND ENGLISH BEACHES.--WHO IS HE AT HOME? WHAT WAS HIS GRANDFATHER?--REMARKS ON SWAGGERING.--"I THOUGHT HE WAS A GENTLEMAN."

I should like to echo the sentiments of many schoolboys on the subject of the place chosen by their parents for their Midsummer holidays.

As a rule, parents think themselves in duty-bound to take their boys to the seaside for these holidays.

In the case of people occupying "desirable" residences in London, this is sensible enough.

But boys who live in the country generally regret to hear that they will not be allowed to spend most of the holiday-time at home, in the midst of all their own belongings. They would prefer building houses for their rabbits, enjoying the favorite walks of their childhood; rowing on the neighboring river with their friends, even if they have to put up, in the evening, with the inconvenience of having to hear their sisters play the piano--a kind of inconvenience to which we are all subject nowadays.

But no; they are packed off to lodgings at the seaside; and they think that the sight of the sea and a few fishing-boats do not make up for rickety chairs, springless sofas, empty rooms, cheerless walls, beds stuffed with pebbles from the beach, and the loss of all home comforts and a.s.sociations.

If, as is the case in France, these boys were allowed to mix with those they meet on the beach, and get up parties with them, life might be made supportable; but, obliged as they are to keep to themselves, or to the company of their brothers and sisters (some have none), they think it was not necessary to come so far in search of boredom.

French and English beaches ill.u.s.trate best to my mind the way in which the two nations take their pleasures.

The French seem to set out for their holiday with a thorough determination to enjoy themselves. When they go to the seaside they go there on pleasure bound.

On French beaches every body makes acquaintance; the children play together under the eyes of happy papas and mammas, the grown-up ones go out in large parties bathing, boating, and fishing; and in the evening all meet at the Casino, where there are ball-rooms, concert-rooms, reading and smoking rooms, etc. No doubt many of the people you mix with there are not such as you would wish to invite to your house on a visit, but, the season over, these friends of a day are forgotten, and there remains the benefit to health and spirits from a thorough merry time.

In the English seaside resort, every bather looks askance at his fellow.

"Who is he at home?" or "What was his grandfather?" are questions that he must get satisfactorily answered before he a.s.sociates with him; and rather than run the risk of frequenting the company of persons of inferior blood he is often bored to death with the monotony of the life, and is glad when it is time to take the children back to school or his own occupations call him away from the sea.

Dear British parents, if you have a garden and fields near your house, and you would like to make your boys happy, call them home for the holidays.

Apart from the aristocracy, it has always been a subject of wonder to me that caste should be so strong among the middle cla.s.ses, in a country like England, who owes her greatness to her commercial and adventurous spirit.

In France, what is required of a _gentleman_ is high education and refined manners. A peasant's son possessing these is received in any society.

In England, boys begin swaggering about their social position as soon as they leave the nursery, and if you would have some fun, you should follow groups of public school-boys in the playground or on their way home.

Of course, in public schools, the occupation of parents cannot be an objection to their sons' admission, and in your cla.s.s-room you may have dukes' and saloon-keepers' sons sitting on the same form. These are treated on an equal footing; although I believe the head-master of a working public school would prefer the hangman's son, if a clever lad, to the son of a duke, if he were a fool.

Yes, those groups will afford you a great deal of amus.e.m.e.nt.

Here are the sons of professional men, of officers, clergymen, barristers. See them pointing out other boys pa.s.sing: "Sons of merchants, don't you know!"

These are not without their revenge, as they look at a group close by: "Sons of clerks, you know!"

But you should see the contemptuous glance of the latter as they pa.s.s the sons of shopkeepers: "Tradespeople's sons, I believe!"

Here is a little sample conversation I caught as I pa.s.sed two boys watching a game of cricket in the playground.

"Clever chap, So-and-So!" said one.

"And a nice fellow too, isn't he?" said the other.

"By-the-bye, did you know his father was a chemist?"

"A chemist! No!" exclaimed the dear boy in a subdued tone, as if the news had taken his breath away. "A chemist! you don't mean to say so.

What mistakes we are liable to make, to be sure! I always thought he was a gentleman."

XV.

HE CAN NOT SPEAK FRENCH, BUT HE CAN READ IT, YOU KNOW.--HE HAS A TRY AT IT IN PARIS.--NASAL SOUNDS AND ACCENTED SYLLABLES.--HOW I REDUCED ENGLISH WORDS TO SINGLE SYLLABLES, AND WAS SUCCESSFUL IN THE OBJECT I HAD IN VIEW.--A REMARK ON THE CONNECTION OF WORDS.

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

"I can read it, you know."

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

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

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

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

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

When he starts for Paris he gets on capitally till he reaches Calais.

There he a.s.sumes his insular stiffness, which we Continental people take for arrogance, but is, in reality, only dignified timidity.

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