“What?” said I; “and left them in the room with all your books?” “Oh yes: he wouldn’t trouble himself about a little thing like that. Well, we dined, and we had some wine that he liked, and then he told stories about My Lords: you all do that, don’t you? And time went on. About ten o’clock the study bell rang, and the parlourmaid came in with a grin, and a message: ‘Please might the teachers go home?’ Old Goodheart had forgotten all about them. “At St. George’s his proceedings, which never varied year by year, would have surprised you. He went first to the Boys; heard some Reading; picked out some pieces for Dictation; and gave the master a lot of Arithmetic cards to deal out. Then he went to the Girls, and did the same. Lastly he went to the Infants, where he chatted with Miss Buxom, who was a great favourite of his, till 12 or so. He wound up by returning to the Boys’ and Girls’ schools, and collecting all the Dictation and Arithmetic which had been done in his absence: also he marked the slates. The school was done.” This took away my breath for a minute. Every “pass” was worth four shillings up to 1876, and the teachers usually got half the grant. They would not help the children, as a rule, though I have twice seen that done; but would they prevent copying? The Rector’s eyes twinkled: “Well, we used to get better grants and better reports too from old Goodheart than we do from you.” Odd trick: honours easy. There were many legends also in three districts of the Rev. Mr. Bluffer, H.M.I. He was of the common-room don type: formerly, and still _gourmet_: formerly rough to undergraduates; now rough to managers, teachers, and children; but withal combining a certain human element and a liberal hand in spending his own money. “Why,” I once asked, “did not the managers rise up, and demand Bluffer’s head on a charger?” And the answer was, that the old sinner would at times wash down his advice and criticisms with cheques in aid of struggling schools. There was need of some washing. The Secretary of the Department told me, some time after Bluffer’s death, a story of H.M.I.’s behaviour in school. The master was an elderly man of the village pedagogue type, and his fumbling ways were a little irritating to an official in a hurry. The first class wanted reading books, and the old man went off to fetch them; searched in one cupboard unavailingly; found them in another; collected them; piled them up in his arms, and limped back. “Look alive, man!” shouted Bluffer, with a vigorous slap on his fat thigh. The master jumped: down went the books, and the children roared. The manager, who told the story to the Secretary, was a peer of the realm, and a wealthy one. I think if he had kicked Bluffer out of the room--say 40_s._ and costs--and had let the Government grant go hang, he would have enjoyed himself more on his death-bed--and thereafter.