By some trick of memory I always associate school-boy work on the classics with a sense of warm and sunny days; rain and gloom and a chilly atmosphere must have been far the more frequent conditions, but these things are forgotten.  My old Liddell and Scott still serves me, and if, in opening it, I bend close enough to catch the scent of the leaves, I am back again at that day of boyhood (noted on the fly-leaf by the hand of one long dead) when the book was new and I used it for the first time.  It was a day of summer, and perhaps there fell upon the unfamiliar page, viewed with childish tremor, half apprehension and half delight, a mellow sunshine, which was to linger for ever in my mind.

But I am thinking of the Anabasis.  Were this the sole book existing in Greek, it would be abundantly worth while to learn the language in order to read it.  The Anabasis is an admirable work of art, unique in its combination of concise and rapid narrative with colour and picturesqueness.  Herodotus wrote a prose epic, in which the author’s personality is ever before us.  Xenophon, with curiosity and love of adventure which mark him of the same race, but self-forgetful in the pursuit of a new artistic virtue, created the historical romance.  What a world of wonders in this little book, all aglow with ambitions and conflicts, with marvels of strange lands; full of perils and rescues, fresh with the air of mountain and of sea!  Think of it for a moment by the side of Caesar’s Commentaries; not to compare things incomparable, but in order to appreciate the perfect art which shines through Xenophon’s mastery of language, his brevity achieving a result so different from that of the like characteristic in the Roman writer.  Caesar’s conciseness comes of strength and pride; Xenophon’s, of a vivid imagination.  Many a single line of the Anabasis presents a picture which deeply stirs the emotions.  A good instance occurs in the fourth book, where a delightful passage of unsurpassable narrative tells how the Greeks rewarded and dismissed a guide who had led them through dangerous country.  The man himself was in peril of his life; laden with valuable things which the soldiers had given him in their gratitude, he turned to make his way through the hostile region. [Greek text].  “When evening came he took leave of us, and went his way by night.”  To my mind, words of wonderful suggestiveness.  You see the wild, eastern landscape, upon which the sun has set.  There are the Hellenes, safe for the moment on their long march, and there the mountain tribesman, the serviceable barbarian, going away, alone, with his tempting guerdon, into the hazards of the darkness.

Also in the fourth book, another picture moves one in another way.  Among the Carduchian Hills two men were seized, and information was sought from them about the track to be followed.  “One of them would say nothing, and kept silence in spite of every threat; so, in the presence of his companion, he was slain.  Thereupon that other made known the man’s reason for refusing to point out the way; in the direction the Greeks must take there dwelt a daughter of his, who was married.”