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 Honore 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."

After this first success, he thought he would air his French.

"_Garcon!_" he calls; "_j'ai faim._"

He pronounces this quite perfectly, so perfectly that the waiter,
understanding that he is married, informs him that he can have
apartments ready for Madame.

"He is obstinate and will have another shot:

"_Je suis fameux, garcon!_"

The waiter bows respectfully.

This won't do, dear fellow; try again.

"_Je suis femme!_" he yells.

This staggers the waiter.

It is time to inquire of him if he speaks English.

"Can you speak English?"

"Oh yes, sir."

Our traveler is all right again, but he thinks that those confounded
French people have a queer manner of pronouncing their own language.

* * * * *

With the exception of our nasal sounds, which I know are
stumbling-blocks to Englishmen--who will always insist on calling our
great music composer and pianist Saint-Saens, "Sang Songs"--I never
could understand that the difficulty of our pronunciation was
insuperable. Our vowels are bold, well-marked, always sounded the same,
and, except _u_,