In English we have a tone-system so complicated that no one has so far discovered its laws, but little English children observe each nicety of tone with marvellous precision; a learned specialist in ‘tonetics’ (or whatever the science of tones will come to be called) may make an error, but the little child will not. The grammatical system of the Bantu languages depends largely on fine shades of intonation; the dropping of the voice a semitone at certain points in the sentence, for instance, is an essential feature of their syntax, while the highly complex system of tone-mutation serves as a basis of their conjugation and declension; but no Bechuana or Matabele native, illiterate as he may be, will ever commit the slightest error in the use of his tones.

When, therefore, we find that a person has become expert in a difficult and complex subject, the theory of which has not yet been worked out, nor yet been discovered, it is manifest that his expertness has been acquired otherwise than by the study of the theory.

Let us furthermore examine what passes in our mind when we are speaking our own language, and endeavour to ascertain whether we form our sentences in unconscious obedience to some rules unknown to us, or whether we are consciously applying rules we have learnt. Do you say I go always there or I always go there? You certainly use the latter form. Why? Have you ever been told that a certain class of adverbs (among them the word always) is placed before and not after the verb? Have you been told that there are twenty-three exceptions to the rule, and have you ever learnt these exceptions? It is most probable that you have never had your attention called to the rule or to its exceptions. You put always in front of all verbs except the twenty-three exceptional verb-forms for the very reason for which the African native puts the right tone on the right syllable in the right case. In what cases do you replace the word far by the expression a long way? What are the precise laws governing the respective uses of went and did go? Which are the English ‘postpositions,’ if any? In what cases do we use nouns unpreceded by any article or other determinative word? What is the exact difference between had you and did you have? These are a few odd examples chosen at random out of the thousands of items the sum of which constitutes the theory of the structure of the English colloquial language. Most of them are not contained in any manual of English grammar nor ever taught as a school subject.

We are forced to conclude that we have become proficient in the use of our mother-tongue by some process other than that of learning by dint of conscious efforts of reasoning and synthesis.

While granting the above conclusion and recognizing its validity, some may object that the process of unconscious assimilation is not sufficient to ensure skill and proficiency in the use of the language. This objection may be supported by proofs to the effect that the English of young children (not to mention adults) is frequently ‘incorrect’ or ‘ungrammatical.’ Can this process of nature be said to have succeeded when it produces such results as “Any bloke what don’t do it proper didn’t ought to come”? Certainly the process has succeeded; most certainly the natural forces have operated with perfect success! The only trouble is that users of such sentences have succeeded in learning a dialect which most of us agree to consider a deplorable one; this dialect is to our ears an ugly and a repelling one, but in itself it is probably no easier to learn than the educated colloquial. An educated person to whom this dialect is foreign would probably have to pass a long period of study should he wish, for any particular purpose, to become expert in its use. It is quite a fallacy to suppose that a debased or vulgar form of speech is of easier acquisition than the more elevated forms. The language, dialect, patois, or form of speech taught by nature to the child (or adult) is that form which he hears spoken by those about him during the period of acquisition, be it the stilted speech of the pedant or the jargon of the slums.

Let us accept the thesis as so far proven; let us agree that this spontaneous capacity exists, that every child does become expert in this art, and that his expertness has been gained by the exercise of some powers other than those of conscious reflection or reasoning. But does not this relate solely to the acquisition of one’s mother-tongue? In the definition of the art in question the term ‘any given language’ was used. Do we conclude that this given language is the first language, or are we assuming that the same process holds good for any foreign or subsequently learnt language?

The question is a legitimate one; we may well ask ourselves whether the forces which were operative in the case of our first language are available for the acquisition of a second, third, or fourth language. Let us, as before, go to the actual facts and collect objective evidence on the point. What evidence is afforded by bilingual children, that is to say, by children who have learnt two languages simultaneously, children of mixed parentage, children whose care has been entrusted to foreign nurses, children who live abroad with their parents? In nearly all the cases of which we have any record it would appear that the two languages have been acquired simultaneously without mutual detriment; there has been practically no confusion between the two, and the one has had little or no influence on the other. Both have been acquired by the natural language-teaching forces which are at present engaging our attention.

The next evidence will consist of the testimony afforded by children who started their second language after the first had already been acquired as a going concern. We find almost invariably that the second language is picked up with the same facility and accuracy as the first. Thousands of Belgian refugee children returned to their country in possession of an English speech hardly to be distinguished from the speech of English children of their own age. Their first language had interfered in no way with their power of acquiring the second. There were, however, exceptions; in some instances the possession of the first language did interfere with the proper acquiring of the second. What was the determining factor? To what was due this differentiation? We find that in most cases the child was of a riper age, he had arrived at the age of intelligence, and had been forced to use his rudimentary intelligence as a means towards learning English. He was old enough and clever enough to receive eye-impressions side by side with ear-impressions. He was old enough to pay attention, he was intelligent enough to concentrate, he was skilful enough to analyse and to compare the second language with his first, he was able to translate. These things had a harmful influence on his work; they interfered with the processes by which nature causes us to assimilate and to remember, and the quality of his English suffered; it was to a certain extent ‘foreigner’s’ English, whereas his younger brothers spoke ‘English’ English.

And what happens in the case of the adult, of one who starts his second language from fifteen to twenty years after he has acquired the first? The same thing generally happens as in the last instance quoted, but in a more marked degree. The same interference takes place; the use of the eyes inhibits the use of the ears; the utilization of his conscious and focused attention militates against the proper functioning of the natural capacities of assimilation. Moreover, he is encouraged and