In choosing this text from my favorite Old French poet, I have no designs on my audience. Be undisturbed; the Red Knight of Arthurian romance shall not obtrude his countenance here and it is indifferent to me—on this occasion—whether there are fairy-mistresses or not. Nor am I, as some of you might think, making the ambitious attempt of defending anew the Pierian Spring. Poetry today needs no defence, unless it be the défense d'imprimer, which applies to us all, poets and philologs alike, when our knowledge and inspiration lag, and the product is not worthy of the producer. My task is at once more prosaic and more definite. I propose merely to stand my ground, as a Modern Language teacher and scholar; to state, in my own way, what I think we are about, as one convinced of the value of our profession in itself and to others—despite the blight of misgivings and protests, from one quarter and another, which periodically threatens us with ruin. This, then, is the Spring which your Chairman—like so many Chairmen before him—would defend and, if possible, protect against contamination.