Not for one moment would I detract from the teaching of those great masters. All that I care to insist upon is the immense value of Hawtrey’s teaching, equally as good as theirs, though different; the boys felt that his object was not so much to make the divine poetry of the Greeks nothing but a peg upon which to hang a discussion on grammatical problems, but in addition to reveal the soul which animated the work, and so to arouse a love of philology, lighting in the young minds of his scholars the same spark of enthusiasm which had been the beacon illuminating and making beautiful his own life. Surely if this be dilettantism, it is also that which draws the highest value out of what is called a classical education. Profoundly versed in the European classics, he was able to illustrate his lectures by quotations from French, German, and Italian sources, and so by his observations in comparative criticism he would galvanize into new life the beauties of the ancient writers, redeeming them from that deterrent dullness which attaches to what are looked upon as lessons. The result of his teaching can be seen by the great position attained by his pupils in their after life in the great world. As an older boy, and later as a young man, I often had the chance of listening to his talk upon classical subjects, which was in the highest degree interesting and stimulating. I only wish that Sir Henry Maxwell Lyte had had the same opportunity; I think that his estimate of Dr. Hawtrey would have been very different. There was something bright and sunny and joyous in his scholarship, which was absolutely free from all pedantry, and was totally different from that of the two men who preceded and followed him in his office. Dr. Keate was a stern, severe disciplinarian; indeed, in the remembrance of his severity people are apt to forget that he was famous for sound and accurate scholarship. Dr. Goodford, too, was a great scholar, but his learning was rather of a dull, dry-as-dust type. In his classes the Greek particles reigned supreme—imagination, the winged child of the muses, flew away into space, scared by the digamma. It used to be said that his children, aged five and six, were translating Plato, while the poodle dog looked out the words in Liddell and Scott’s dictionary—then, by the bye, a new apparition.