Everyone knows that the Emperor Constantine (306–37) made Christianity the official religion of the Empire. The religious aspect of that act does not concern us now. But it will be appropriate to say something about the events which led to it. It is only possible to govern upon the basis of respect for authority: that is, in the long run, by consent.

The desire to celebrate the lives of famous men has no doubt been a fundamental characteristic of human nature since the beginning of time. The picture of ‘primitive’ man, squatting at night by a fire in the smoky cave, which served him for a home, relating his brief, rude, ancestral tales to an appreciative audience of two or three, rapt and forgetful (for a moment) of the harsh life outside, is neither unplausible nor improbable.

It is perhaps possible (on the principle of ex pede Herculem) to disentangle some of the elements which contributed to the experience afforded by the relation of such stories. In an uncivilized community the dead exact a tyrannical homage from the living in order that the consequences of their imagined wrath may be averted. Hence they are to be placated by all means, and their memory is to be revered by the enumeration of the glorious exploits which they performed whilfe living. For, in the ‘next world’, whither they have been translated—call it the Elysian Fields, or what you will—they are conceived of as taking joy in the celebration of their valour and the recital of their achievements.

Again, the tribe or race must be preserved, and there is no more suitable medium for the crystallization of tribal or racial virtues than oral tradition. The young men, as they listen to the deeds of their forefathers, are stirred by ‘this constant renewal of the good report of brave men’ and are themselves fired with the desire for an immortal name.

I have been teaching School Certificate Latin for twenty years. The results might be worse. Most of the candidates pass; a good many get credits; a few get distinctions. But I feel with Mr. Frank Jones that much of the work is a waste of time, and that many of the boys could be better employed.

The wisest plea for learning Latin is that it teaches us to weigh the meaning of words. The merit of Latin is that on the whole it calls a spade a spade, and we cannot translate into it even a simple-looking phrase like ‘let us make sure of winning the peace’ without knowing what it means. This point has been made so often that it need not be laboured; and anyone who has read advanced Latin with a sixth form knows it to be sound. We all have been asked whether some phrase in the version, especially if we have written it ourselves, renders the English adequately, and the question is usually apt. And though the plea is not so often met, it is true, too, that translation into and from Latin makes us weigh the power of words. If a sixth-form master were to accept ‘undoubtedly forgivable, if the departed were acquainted with forgiveness’ as a rendering of ignoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere manes, his complaisance would be challenged at once. And when a boy, unaided by Dr. Mackail, produced ‘and now in majesty my ghost shall go beneath the earth’ for et nunc magna mei terras ibit imago, it was an achievement.