To begin with, they have, so to say, a grammar of their own, whose rules and syntax are more general than our own; if you attend carefully you will be surprised to find how exactly they follow certain analogies, very much mistaken if you like, but very regular; these forms are only objectionable because of their harshness or because they are not recognised by custom.  I have just heard a child severely scolded by his father for saying, “Mon pere, irai-je-t-y?” Now we see that this child was following the analogy more closely than our grammarians, for as they say to him, “Vas-y,” why should he not say, “Irai-je-t-y?” Notice too the skilful way in which he avoids the hiatus in irai-je-y or y-irai-je?  Is it the poor child’s fault that we have so unskilfully deprived the phrase of this determinative adverb “y,” because we did not know what to do with it?  It is an intolerable piece of pedantry and most superfluous attention to detail to make a point of correcting all children’s little sins against the customary expression, for they always cure themselves with time.  Always speak correctly before them, let them never be so happy with any one as with you, and be sure that their speech will be imperceptibly modelled upon yours without any correction on your part.

But a much greater evil, and one far less easy to guard against, is that they are urged to speak too much, as if people were afraid they would not learn to talk of themselves.  This indiscreet zeal produces an effect directly opposite to what is meant.  They speak later and more confusedly; the extreme attention paid to everything they say makes it unnecessary for them to speak distinctly, and as they will scarcely open their mouths, many of them contract a vicious pronunciation and a confused speech, which last all their life and make them almost unintelligible.

I have lived much among peasants, and I never knew one of them lisp, man or woman, boy or girl.  Why is this?  Are their speech organs differently made from our own?  No, but they are differently used.  There is a hillock facing my window on which the children of the place assemble for their games.  Although they are far enough away, I can distinguish perfectly what they say, and often get good notes for this book.  Every day my ear deceives me as to their age.  I hear the voices of children of ten; I look and see the height and features of children of three or four.  This experience is not confined to me; the townspeople who come to see me, and whom I consult on this point, all fall into the same mistake.

This results from the fact that, up to five or six, children in town, brought up in a room and under the care of a nursery governess, do not need to speak above a whisper to make themselves heard.  As soon as their lips move people take pains to make out what they mean; they are taught words which they repeat inaccurately, and by paying great attention to them the people who are always with them rather guess what they meant to say than what they said.