John Bull, Junior: or, French as She is Traduced. O'Rell Max
sentiments! I say to myself. Who will henceforth dare say before me, in France, that England is not a disinterested nation? Yes, I will be a school-master; it is a noble profession.
A discussion takes place on the merits of private schools. A good deal of abuse is indulged in at the expense of the public schools.
I inquire of my friend the reason why.
My friend is a sceptic. He says that the public schools are overflowing with boys, and that if they did not exist, many of these private school-masters would make their fortune.
I bid him hold his wicked tongue. He ought to be ashamed of himself.
The meeting is over. The orators, with their speeches in their hands, besiege the press reporters' table. I again apply to my friend for the explanation of this.
He tells me that these gentlemen are trying to persuade the reporters to insert their speeches in their notes, in the hope that they will be reproduced in to-morrow's papers, and thus advertise their names and schools.
My friend is incorrigible. I will ask him no more questions.
There will be some people disappointed this morning, if I am to believe what my friend said yesterday. I have just read the papers. Under the heading "Meeting of the Teachers' Association," I see a long report of yesterday's proceedings at the Society of Arts. Canon Barry's speech alone is reproduced.
For many months past, M. Thiers has carried the Government with his resignation already signed in his frockcoat pocket.
"Gentlemen," he has been wont to say in the Houses of Parliament, "such is my policy. If you do not approve it, you know that I do not cling to power; my resignation is here in my pocket, and I am quite ready to lay it on the table if you refuse me a vote of confidence."
I always thought that he would use this weapon once too often.
A letter, just received from Paris, brings me the news of his overthrow and the proclamation of Marshal MacMahon as President of the Republic.
The editor of the French paper, of which I have been the London correspondent for a few months, sends me a check, with the sad intelligence that one of the first acts of the new Government has been to suppress our paper.
Things are taking a gloomy aspect, and no mistake.
To return to France at once would be a retreat, a defeat. I will not leave England, at any rate, before I can speak English correctly and fluently. I could manage this when a child; it ought not to take me very long to be able to do the same now.
I pore over the Times educational advertisements every day.
Have left my name with two scholastic agents.
I have put my project into execution, and engaged myself in a school in Somersetshire.
The post is not a brilliant one, but I am told that the country is pretty, my duties light, and that I shall have plenty of time for reading.
I buy a provision of English books, and mean to work hard.
In the mean time, I write to my friends in France that I am getting on swimmingly.
I have always been of the opinion that you should run the risk of exciting the envy rather than the pity of your friends, when you have made up your mind not to apply to them for a five-pound note.
Arrived here yesterday. Find I am the only master, and expected to make myself generally useful. My object is to practice my English, and I am prepared to overlook many annoyances.
Woke up this (Sunday) morning feeling pains all over. Compared to this, my bed at Mrs. Tribble's was one of roses. I look round. In the corner I see a small washstand. A chair, a looking-glass six inches square hung on the wall, and my trunk, make up the furniture.
I open the window. It is raining a thick, drizzling rain. Not a soul in the road. A most solemn, awful solitude. Horrible! I make haste to dress. From a little cottage, on the other side of the road, the plaintive sounds of a harmonium reach me. I sit on my bed and look at my watch. Half an hour to wait for my breakfast. The desolate room, this outlook from the window, the whole accompanied by the hymn on the harmonium, are enough to drive me mad. Upon my word, I believe I feel the corner of my eye wet. Cheer up, boy! No doubt this is awful, but better times will come. Good heavens! You are not banished from France. With what pleasure your friends will welcome you back in Paris! In nine hours, for a few shillings, you can be on the Boulevards.
Breakfast is ready. It consists of tea and bread and butter, the whole honored by the presence of Mr. and Mrs. R. I am told that I am to take the boys to church. I should have much preferred to go alone.
On the way to church we met three young ladies – the Squire's daughters, the boys tell me. They look at me with a kind of astonishment that seems to me mixed with scorn. This is probably my fancy. Every body I meet seems to be laughing at me.
Am still at M., teaching a little French and learning a good deal of English.
Mrs. R. expresses her admiration for my fine linen, and my wardrobe is a wonder to her. From her remarks, I can see she has taken a peep inside my trunk.
Received this morning a letter from a friend in Paris. The dear fellow is very proud of his noble ancestors, and his notepaper and envelopes are ornamented with his crest and crown. The letter is handed to me by Mrs. R., who at the same time throws a significant glance at her husband. I am a mysterious person in her eyes, that is evident. She expresses her respect by discreetly placing a boiled egg on my plate at breakfast. This is an improvement, and I return thanks in petto to my noble friend in Paris.
Whatever may be Mr. R.'s shortcomings, he knows how to construct a well-filled time-table.
I rise at six.
From half-past six to eight I am in the class-room seeing that the boys prepare their lessons.
At eight I partake of a frugal breakfast.
From half-past eight till half-past nine I take the boys for a walk.
From half-past nine till one I teach more subjects than I feel competent to do, but I give satisfaction.
At one I dine.
At five minutes to two I take a bell, and go in the fields, ringing as hard as I can to call the boys in.
From two to four I teach more subjects than – (I said that before).
After tea I take the boys for a second walk.
My evenings are mine, and I devote them to study.
Mr. R. proposes that I should teach two or three new subjects. I am ready to comply with his wishes; but I sternly refuse to teach la valse à trois temps.
He advises me to cane the boys. This also I refuse to do.
I cannot stand this life any longer. I will return to France if things do not take a brighter turn.
I leave Mr. R. and his "Dotheboys Hall."
At the station I meet the clergyman. He had more than once spoken to me a few kind words. He asks me where I am going.
"To London, and to Paris next, I hope," I reply.
"Are