‘O’level Latin is small Latin. It is very small Latin indeed. Why should a classical scholar be exercised by its problems? Why should a schoolmaster be exercised by them if his heart is in sixth-form Classics? Why indeed should anyone be interested?

During the recent controversy on entrance requirements for Oxford and Cambridge a curious but unmistakable reluctance could be observed among classical scholars in the universities. I mean the reluctance to defend or even pay attention to the precarious position of Latin as an entrance requirement. Those teaching Classics at provincial universities felt that this was a matter for the ancient universities since they themselves had no such requirements. And to many in the ancient universities small Latin seemed altogether too small to engage their attention. Hence the feeling, nihil ad nos. In any case, Latin, they argued, was firmly entrenched in the bigger schools, and faculty demands in all universities would do the rest.

Among those who have little direct experience of grammar schools, whose opinions are formed by chatty articles and cranky correspondence in the more light-hearted newspapers, it is an accepted view—a dogma in the proper sense of the word—that Latin is on its rapid way out of the schools and that Greek is already virtually extinct. If I explain to the curious outsider that, besides a general interest in schools, I have a special concern for the Latin and Greek taught in them, the almost invariable response is, ‘I shouldn't think you have much to do, then, nowadays’. Whether my own time is properly filled or not, it would be inappropriate to discuss in public; but the implication is worth considering. A few facts may be given, for without them opinions are of little value.

It is not easy to give a satisfactory answer to boys and girls who rightly want to know why they should embark on the study of Latin if they are to drop it after two years. The solution seemed to be to make the question unnecessary, and so a break was made at Mirfield Grammar School with the traditional approach to Latin for those pupils who were unable to pursue the normal ‘O’ level course. Previous policy had been to follow a parallel course in the two streams for the first two years. A very real fault in the system was that certain pupils parted with Latin at the end of their second year with no sense of achievement and with considerable relief. The challenge to provide a course to meet their special needs was obvious and needed to be met.

‘Reading’ is one of those unfortunate words whose meaning is not immediately clear. In order to specify what I mean on this particular occasion I have to add the word ‘aloud’, because what I want to write about is not the silent reading of Greek and Latin, but the reading of Greek and Latin so as to be heard—as indeed they were intended to be read.

In May 1862 one of the members of the Public Schools Commission asked Dr. Moberly, the Headmaster of Winchester, whether it was the habit in his school to teach modern or ancient history by set lessons, and he got the frank reply, ‘No; I should not know how to do it.’ And C. E. Graves, in the course of his evidence before the same Commissioners, said of the Greek history that he had studied a few years earlier at Shrewsbury, ‘We used to get it up from a small book by a German, written in Latin.’ The century that has passed since then has seen astonishing changes both in the content and in the methods of education, and in particular the promotion of historical studies to a place of central importance has made considerable alterations in the frontiers even if it has not been the result of deliberate ‘re-drawing the map of learning’, and it certainly constitutes one of the main factors which the contemporary cartographers of education must take into account.

‘You know, sir—you're absolutely right!’ This heartening remark, accompanied by the ingenuous smile of intellectual discovery (or was it just kindly encouragement?) came from a member of the Classical Sixth in response to a five-minute impromptu discourse of mine in which I had said something like this:

In the Fourth Form we show you, two or three times a week, how to set about translating a complex Latin period. We ask you, ‘What verb is introduced by ut?’ You say, ‘Esset’. We say, ‘Look again’; and you say, ‘Oh, no, esset is introduced by quod; ut goes with perciperent’. ‘Right; then what clause comes before the ut-clause?’ ‘An Ablative Absolute.’

In recent discussions among classical teachers about the advisability of alterations in the ‘O’ level Latin syllabus the deepest division of opinion seemed to be on the comparative value of set books and unseen translation. Many are reluctant to abandon set books, declaring that, even for those pupils who make a poor examination showing, the careful attempt to master some portion of Latin literature has been of value. On the other hand, it is said that set books may lead to parrot-like memorizing of inferior translations and that the direct experience of Latin literature which they give is generally very limited. It is possible to exaggerate the danger from poor translations. It can be assumed nowadays that boys and girls approaching an examination will use some translation or other; time might usefully be spent in the classroom comparing their accuracy and quality. Versions of a passage of Virgil by Conington, Day Lewis, Jackson Knight, and the modern equivalent of Kelly's Key might at any rate set a standard.

Latin is a wedding-garment no longer de rigueur for those entering Oxford and Cambridge Universities. Utility English jeans will in future be permissible wear. Whether this will herald a uniform change throughout the schools of the country it is early yet to say. The Crowther Committee was sure that Latin was taught in many cases merely as an insurance against possible debarment from the older universities. Whatever the truth of that, Latin will stand or continue to stand in the future by its own merits. Like Justice in the early part of the Republic, stripped of its adventitious rewards it may now lend itself to an impartial reappraisal. This seems to be the occasion for another stocktaking. Hard as it is to love gadflies, we perhaps should be grateful to those who stung us into these agonies of self-examination, so essential a condition of the good life. Stirrings indeed there have been. An impartial observer might comment that if Latin is a dead language, like Virgil's ox it appears to be the centre of a good deal of activity.