In the breast of this
other are contempt, malicious amusement, conceit, vanity, pity, and
joy in ostentation; these, also, exactly commensurable with his
advantage. Strange and sad that this should be so; but so it is.
French brings out the worst in all of us--all, I mean, but the few,
the lamentably far too few, who cannot aspire to stammer some
colloquial phrases of it.
Even in Victorian days, when England was more than geographically, was
psychologically an island, French made mischief among us, and was one
of the Devil's favourite ways of setting brother against brother. But
in those days the bitterness of the weaker brother was a little
sweetened with disapproval of the stronger. To speak French fluently
and idiomatically and with a good accent--or with an idiom and accent
which to other rough islanders seemed good--was a rather suspect
accomplishment, being somehow deemed incompatible with civic worth.
Thus the weaker ones had not to drain the last lees of their shame,
and the stronger could not wholly rejoice in their strength. But the
old saving prejudice has now died out (greatly to the delight of the
Devil), and there seems no chance that it will be revived.
Of other languages no harm comes. None of us--none, at any rate,
outside the diplomatic service--has a feeling that he ought to be
master of them.
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