I always thought it was somewhat hard on a boy to have to go through life labeled Cadwaladr; but, as I have remarked elsewhere, in England there is nothing to prevent parents from dubbing their offsprings Bayard, Bertrand du Guesclin--or, for that matter, Nebuchadnezzar. VI. FRENCH AS SHE IS TRADUCED.--MORE GRUMBLING.--"LA CRITIQUE" IS NOT THE CRITIC'S WIFE.--BOSSUET'S PROSE AND HOW IT READS IN ENGLISH.--NOTHING IMPROVES BY TRANSLATION EXCEPT A BISHOP.--A FEW FRENCH "HOWLERS."-- VALUABLE HINTS ON TRANSLATING UNSEEN PASSAGES. English boys have invented a special kind of English language for French translation. It is not the English they use with their classical and other masters; it is not the English they use at home with their parents, or at school with their comrades; it is a special article kept for the sole benefit of their French masters. The good _genus_ boy will translate _oui_, _mon père_, by "yes, my father," as if it were possible for him to forget that he calls his papa _father_, and not _my father_, when he addresses him. He very seldom reads over his translation to ascertain that it reads like English; but when he does, and is not perfectly satisfied with the result, he lays the blame on the French original. After all, it is not his fault if there is no sense in the French, and he brings a certain number of English dictionary words placed one after the other, the whole entitled FRENCH. Of course he can not call it ENGLISH, and he dares not call it NONSENSE. He calls it French, and relieves his conscience. * * * * * It will take boys long to understand that _la trompette_, _la médecine_, _la marine_, _la statuaire_, are not respectively the wives of _le trompette_, _le médecin_, _le marin_, _le statuaire_. An honest little boy once translated "_La critique doit être bonne fille_" by "The critic's wife ought to be a good girl." Poor little fellow! it is most probable that no dictionary within his reach would have explained to him that the expression _bonne fille_ meant "good-humored." * * * * * O Bossuet, veil thy face! The finest piece of French prose in existence is undoubtedly the following sentence, taken from Bossuet's funeral oration on the Great Condé: "_Restait cette redoutable infanterie de l'armée d'Espagne, dont les gros bataillons serrés, semblables à autant de tours, mais à des tours qui sauraient réparer leurs brèches, demeuraient inébranlables au milieu de tout le reste en déroute, et lançaient des feux de toutes parts._" This reads like a chant of Homer, does it not? It reads quite differently in boys' translations, I assure you, when you come to "towers that would be able to mend their breaches." This confirms you in your belief that nothing improves by translation--except a bishop. * * * * *