had good oral teaching in modern
languages (such, for instance, as that given at the Perse School in
Cambridge) I could forgive my teachers. We should without tears have
learned to talk fluently and write correctly in at least one modern
language, and for the sake of this I could perhaps have borne the
weariness of Greek and Latin grammar. If it were not for the tyranny of
examinations, classical teaching might be put to its proper use, which is
not to serve as an instrument of torture, but to enable us to read
ancient authors.

I would teach Latin and Greek only to older boys, and by the method in
which we all learn a modern language--that is when we have the advantage
of being at once teacher and learner. I mean by reading quickly, with a
translation if necessary; at first without understanding half of what we
read, but gradually picking up words as we go along. This is how I
learned to read easy Italian. By the advice of the late Henry Sidgwick I
began on a bad Italian translation of a French novel, because such a
version, being full of French idioms more or less literally translated,
is easier than idiomatic Italian. The right book to begin on is a good
murder story, such as one of Gaboriau's, which are fortunately to be had
in bad Italian. What would an old fashioned teacher of Greek and Latin
have said to this! In my own case I feel that the _difficulty_ of
reading the classics was good discipline, and so far educational. In
Henry Sidgwick's method one is carried along by the detective business,
and learns Italian words as a child picks up its own language, by context
and re-iteration. It will be said that this method is not applicable to
Latin and Greek, and that even if it were so, it would not be educative.
I confess I do not expect my words to sink into the hearts of the
teachers of what are unkindly called the dead languages. The great
Moloch of examination has constantly to be supplied with human children,
to say nothing of grown-up people. Some escape, but how many are reduced
to ashes?

I have said nothing about what should have been my theme, namely, the
beginning of the College year. To my thinking beginnings have something
of the melancholy that seems more appropriate to endings. Sad
associations tend to adhere to all that has the quality of periodicity.
I for one feel this when spring once more puts on the familiar look with
which our childhood and youth seemed to mingle on equal terms,