What do we do in order to become skilful in the exercise of an art? If we wish to become proficient in performing an unlimited series of complicated acts, what course do we adopt in order to obtain such proficiency? The first answer which suggests itself is to the effect that such skill or proficiency is acquired by a process called study or learning. We learn to do it; we study the art; we follow a course and all that the course implies; we attend lectures, we take lessons, we read the text-book containing the principles (rudimentary or otherwise) which embody the precepts relating to that art, we perform exercises; in short, we become students. Very well; let us accept the answer for what it is worth and proceed to formulate a series of supplementary questions: What are the qualities which mark the successful student? What sort of people are likely to study with success? Of what people can we predict failure or incapacity for making progress? Most people will answer: The student must possess intelligence, assiduity, and perseverance; if at the same time he should be ‘gifted,’ his progress will be much greater than the progress of one who possesses no ‘natural talents’ for learning the art in question.

This answer, on the face of it, seems a reasonable one and a right one; it gives us the impression of being in accordance with the traditions and maxims of the pedagogic world, and with our experience, either as teachers or as learners. We think of our efforts (successful or unsuccessful) to learn shorthand, piano-playing, violin-playing, singing, chess, typewriting, dancing, drawing, painting, modelling, carpentering, and a host of similar subjects; we remember the intensive acts of analysis and synthesis, the efforts of attention, the strain of comprehending, the striving to retain; we remember the hours of solid labour, the exercises, the drills, the spade-work; we consider the period of time covered by these continuous efforts, and we realize the cost at which we have acquired our present proficiency.

And yet there exists an art, we are told, in which every one of us has become proficient, an art in which every man, woman, and child throughout the world is a skilful adept, an art which has been acquired without any process resembling study, without lectures or lessons or text-books or theory, without the exercise of our powers of conscious or critical reflection, or analysis, or synthesis, or generalization, without the giving of our conscious attention, without deliberate effort or striving.

This art, we are told, requires no intelligence on the part of the one who is learning it; on the contrary, the least intelligent often prove to be among the most successful adepts, notably very young children, idiots, or barbarians of the lowest scale.

This statement seems so strange on the face of it, so paradoxical and so contrary to our preconceived notions concerning the acquiring of knowledge, that we immediately suspect some ‘catch’; we are inclined to treat as a joker the one who has so gravely made the statement. The ‘art’ in question is probably something of an absurdly rudimentary character, something of such a simple nature that it neither admits of analysis or synthesis nor requires any form of logical or co-ordinated thought. But no, the art in question is one involving at least three distinct sciences, each of which is so complex and so vast that the learned world has not yet succeeded in unravelling it or in sounding its depths.

Convinced by now that we are the object of some form of ingenious witticism, we ask: What, then, is this strange art in which the dunce excels, this art which requires of its adepts neither brains, industry, nor patience?

The answer is: The art of using the spoken and everyday form of any given language. Show me the child of three years of age, the madman, or the savage, who is not an expert at it!

Let us make sure that we have understood this answer, in order that we may not misinterpret it, in order that we may not read into it a meaning which is not there. In the first place, there is no question here of reading or writing the language, but of understanding what is said, and of expressing what we wish to say by speaking; and the art in question has nothing to do with alphabets, with letters, with spelling, with calligraphy, which are artificial developments deliberately invented by man. Nor is there any question of literary composition in prose or poetry; we are not dealing with any Æsthetic form, but merely with the ‘everyday’ form, the colloquial form, the sort of speech we use on ordinary occasions in order to express our usual thoughts. Let there be no mistake on this point: the higher forms of language, the artistic developments, eloquence or literature, may interest us, may interest us intensely, but the particular art of which we are now speaking is far removed from these heights; we are considering language as manifested by the normal colloquial form as used by the average speaker in ordinary circumstances.

Now there is no doubt whatever that proficiency in this particular sort of human activity is possessed by every human being who is not congenitally deaf or dumb; we are all able to say what we want to say, we are all able to understand what is said to us provided that the communication concerns things which are within the limits of our knowledge. We have acquired this proficiency not by a course of study as we understand the term in its ordinary use; we have not learnt it as a result of lectures or lessons; it has not come as a consequence of deliberate effort and concentration. Some of us, in exceptional circumstances, may have availed ourselves of our intelligence; but in general our intelligence, our reasoning powers, our capacities for deduction, for analysis and synthesis, have counted for nothing in the process.

Might we not then call it a ‘gift’? Did we not mention specifically that those who have a gift for a particular art can to a certain extent dispense with the qualities of intelligence, assiduity, perseverance? There is no objection against using the term ‘gift,’ provided that it is clear to our minds that everybody possesses the gift in question. Usually, however, we understand by ‘gift’ something ‘given’ to certain individuals only; consequently we are not in the habit of speaking about the gift of sight, of hearing, or of locomotion. It would be safer to avoid the term and to speak rather of our natural, spontaneous, and universal capacity for using spoken language.

But are we right as to our facts? Is it true that we acquire speech by some capacity other than our intelligence, our reasoning powers? Let our answer be based on objective and easily proven evidence. A child of two or three years of age can use the spoken language appropriate to his age, but what does that child know of reasoning? And what is its standard of intelligence? Not enough to cause it to realize or understand that two and two make four. And yet that child observes with a marvellous degree of accuracy most of the complicated laws governing his mother-tongue. And the savage. By definition he is unintelligent, he has never learnt to think logically, he has no power of abstraction, he is probably unaware that such a thing as language exists; but he will faithfully observe to the finest details the complexities (phonetic, grammatical, and semantic) of his ‘savage’ language. He will use the right vowel or tone in the right place; he will not confuse any of the dozen or so genders with which his language is endowed; a ‘savage’ language (with an accidence so rich that Latin is by comparison a language of simple structure) will to him be an instrument on which he plays in the manner of an artist, a master: and we are speaking of a savage, mark you, whose intelligence is of so low an order that for him that which is not concrete has no existence!

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 trained to use the non-natural methods, he is directed by his teacher to pay attention to everything, to use his eyes, to memorize spellings (generally non-phonetic); his books show him how to analyse, they provide him with exercises calculated to make him concentrate on the detail, and in so doing to miss the synthetic whole. Examine the adult who is supposed to have ‘learnt’ a foreign language; in the majority of cases you will find that his speech is pidgin-speech, that his sounds are wrong and wrongly distributed, that his inflexions are inaccurate, that his sentences are constructed on the model of his native language, that he uses foreign words in a way unknown to the native users of these same words. Inquire in each case how the person acquired his knowledge, and you will find that he acquired it by dint of exercising his capacities for study.

And the minority? We find a minority (alas, a small minority!) who have come to possess the foreign language as if it were their first. Their sounds are right, the distribution is right, the inflexions are accurate, their sentences are constructed on the model of those used by the native speakers, they use foreign words as the natives themselves use them, they are as accurate and as fluent in the foreign language as in their own. They do not interrupt the speaker of the language with requests to speak more slowly, to speak more distinctly, to spell or to write the words; in short, they use the second language as they use their first. Inquire in each case how the person acquired his knowledge, and you will find that he acquired it by methods making no call on his capacities for reasoning, for concentrating, for analysing, or for theorizing. Instead of selecting and adapting previously acquired habits connected with his first language, he was able to form new habits.

To sum up our inquiry, we find that there are people who have been able to use their spontaneous capacities of assimilation in order to acquire a second or a third language; we find that young children nearly always do so, that certain adults sometimes do so.

But we must make quite sure of our ground before proceeding farther. We must ascertain definitely whether all adults possess what we are calling this spontaneous capacity for assimilation, or whether this is a ‘gift’ in the usual acceptation of the term, that is, whether it is a capacity given to some but withheld by nature from others. Some maintain that from the age of reason onwards none but the gifted possess the capacity in question, and that those who do not possess it are bound to use what we shall call the studial processes. Others, on the contrary, maintain that all possess the capacity either in an active or in a latent state, that most adults deliberately but innocently inhibit their power, or that, unaware that these powers exist, they fail to take the necessary steps to awaken them from their latent into their active state.

Which of these two is the correct view?

Let us endeavour to answer this all-important question by examining those who undoubtedly do possess this ‘gift’ or natural capacity. We first inquire whether they were encouraged or disposed to resist the temptation to receive their impressions through the eyes, to resist the temptation to rely on spellings, whether they did consent to use their ears as the receptive medium. In each case we learn that they were so disposed; they did resist the temptation towards eye-work and did allow the ears to perform the work for which they were intended.

We next inquire whether the conditions were such as prohibited them from focusing their consciousness, from paying an exaggerated attention to detail, from submitting the language-matter to a form of analysis, from comparing each foreign word or form with some word or form of their native language. In each case we are informed that such were the conditions.

Our next inquiry is directed towards ascertaining whether, in the earlier stages, the conditions afforded them full and constant opportunities of hearing the language used, without being under the necessity of speaking it themselves. In each instance we are informed that those were precisely the conditions.

This is almost conclusive; we have ascertained that each successful acquirer of the foreign language was working precisely under the conditions enjoyed by the young child (and we remember that the young child is invariably a successful acquirer of foreign languages). It is, however, not conclusive enough; we have yet to inquire under what conditions the other type of adult (the supposedly non-gifted one) had been working. We ask the same three sets of questions, and in answer we learn:

(a) That he was encouraged by his teachers to learn by the medium of his eyes, to base his knowledge on spellings (generally non-phonetic), and in so doing to inhibit his ears from fulfilling their natural function.

(b) That he generally focused his consciousness, that he paid attention to detail, that he studied rules and practised analysis, that he constantly established comparisons between the foreign word and the nearest native equivalent.

(c) That conditions were such that he had few or no opportunities of hearing the language used, while he was obliged to use the language himself, to forge out sentences as best he might, neglectful of accuracy and heedless of their conformity or non-conformity with authentic models.

This is conclusive; there is no doubt about it now. Those who seemingly do not possess the spontaneous capacity for assimilating foreign languages are precisely those who were unwilling to avail themselves of it, or who were precluded from availing themselves of it. And by developing their studial powers they simply inhibited the spontaneous powers and effectively prevented them from working.

No reasonable doubt remains: we are all endowed by nature with certain capacities which enable each of us, without the exercise of our powers of study, to assimilate and to use the spoken form of any colloquial language, whether native or foreign. We may avail ourselves of these powers by training ourselves deliberately to utilize them, or, having more confidence in our studial efforts, or for some reason of special expediency, we may choose to leave our spontaneous capacities in their latent state and make no use of them. We cannot, however, afford to ignore them, and it would be foolish to deny their existence.

We shall see later what steps we must take if we wish to rouse these powers from their latent state, what we must do if we wish to enlist them and have them at our disposal for the purpose of learning or of teaching a foreign language.