plished by the enthusiasm of teachers and students. Of course one cannot expect that the time should soon come when the students at these classes, in any large numbers at least, will be able to read the more difficult parts of Greek literature; though I have no doubt that some students, when once started, will advance rapidly. But we may expect, I think, that such a knowledge of Greek as enables one to read Xenophon's Anabasis, for instance, will be found such a pleasant and profitable acquisition that, even if the student should not see his way to going much further, he will think that his time has been well spent, and that his labour has been well rewarded. I rest this belief on the peculiar charm of the Greek language, and on the peculiar way in which this charm affects learners, almost from the beginning—as I know from my own experience. A simple illustration may help to make this plainer. There are many children to whom no toy is more delightful than a printing-press, and its fascination consists chiefly in the leaden types. The letter A, for instance, so clear-cut, so faultless, as it stands forth from its neat stem,—what a contrast it is to the same letter as scrawled by pen or pencil; it is a little work of art in itself, which appeals to the fancy of an intelligent child. And such as types are to him, such are the words of the Greek language to a sympathetic learner. The Greek words are, in themselves, so clear-cut, so beautifully moulded, that they begin to please one's artistic sense even before one has made much progress with the language. This pleasure
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