There is scarcely need to examine the program of study except in its broad outlines. It is enough to observe that “the young men have their study period in the morning, the girls in the afternoon, and matrons as well as learned men are their instructors.... The rest of their time is devoted to manual training and domestic art and science, as each one’s occupation is assigned to his natural inclination. When they have vacant time they are permitted to engage in honorable physical exercises either in the open spaces of the town or in the field.” Two points, however, deserve our attention. The first is that the school is run as a miniature republic. The second is the calibre of the instructors. “The instructors,” says our zealous humanist, “are not men from the dregs of human society nor such as are useless for other occupations, but the choice of all the citizens, persons whose standing in the Republic is known and who very often have access to the highest positions of the state.” The last phrase again transports me back to the modern world. I see this fine humanist ideal budding in another place. This time it is a summer school in the hills of New Hampshire, where the children govern themselves in the classroom, where there is no punishment except temporary exclusion from the group, and where, above all, each instructor is chosen because of his creative practice in the subject which he teaches: a highly gifted composer teaches music, an athlete teaches gymnastics, a poet teaches literature. Then I think of all the casual and wasted talents of people who for little more than the asking would share their love of the arts and sciences with little children, if only those who are in charge of little children were not too blind or too fearful to make use of them. Faraday’s classic lectures on the physics of the candle, and Ruskin’s addresses to a young ladies’ boarding school on the function of literature--such things might be multiplied. It is not the creation of this utopian method that is difficult; for the thing has already been done: what we need is its extension. Then children might come to school as gaily as they do in Peterborough, N. H., on the lush summer mornings; and people would not turn their backs on learning any more than they would turn their backs on life. If anyone thinks that Johann Andreæ’s prescription for a teaching staff is an impossible one, let him visit the Peterborough School, and examine its records and achievements. It remains to record the further stages of learning. The halls of the central citadel are divided into twelve departments, and except for the armory, the archives, the printing establishment, and the treasury, these halls are devoted entirely to the arts and sciences.