Of course, in public schools, the occupation of parents cannot be an objection to their sons' admission, and in your class-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 amusement. Here are the sons of professional men, of officers, clergymen, barristers. See them pointing out other boys passing: "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 pass the sons of shopkeepers: "Tradespeople's sons, I believe!" * * * * * Here is a little sample conversation I caught as I passed 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 assumes 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 Honoré or the Rue de Rivoli. The first time he reached one of these establishments, he tripped on getting out of his cab, and fell on the pavement. The porter helped him up and asked him: "_Avez-vous du mal, monsieur?_" He thought the porter took him for a Frenchman, and he prepared to answer in French. Believing he was asked if "he had two trunks," he answers: "No, only a portmanteau."