Hymns were forbidden between 10 and 4.30 (or the equivalent times). A school manager once protested to me against this restriction. I suggested that if managers chose hymns containing “doctrine distinctive of any denomination” there would be ructions. He said triumphantly that his selection would satisfy all parties: it was Moody and Sankey. The pachyderm has many advantages. But it was not always easy to draw the line, if one wanted to draw it; and it was rumoured that a pedantic inspector objected to the National Anthem, as having a religious tendency. It was probably the same man who corrected a similar error in history. The question was, Who was the wisest man that ever lived? A child, who knew more than I do, answered “Solomon,” and the teacher said “Yes”; but H.M.I. said, “No: not after 10: say ‘Solon.’” Some schools sang beautifully in two- or three-part harmony. They were not always the most successful in other branches of study, and I am inclined to doubt Shakespeare’s theory of the evil disposition of the unmusical man. We did our best to encourage harmony, beginning with simple rounds of two or three parts. And the story is told by an Inspector of established credibility, that in a certain school he had advised this rudimentary method, and was asked by an uncultured master, “What is a round?” H.M.I. explained, taking “Three blind mice” as an example: “The first class will sing the first line; then the second class will take it up, while the first class go on to the second line; and then the third class chime in.” The master listened deferentially, and promised to do his best. Next year, as the Inspector approached the school for his annual visit after formal notice, he heard from afar sounds so agonizing that he hurried on to see what had gone wrong. He found the whole school shrieking as though they were possessed by the fiends in Berlioz’ _Faust_. Naturally he asked for an explanation. “This,” said the master, “is the round you recommended. They are singing ‘The Last Rose of Summer’; the first class sing the first line, the second class the second line, and so on, as you suggested. We found it hard at first, but I think we have mastered it now.” Of course, in many schools, the head teacher is not a musician. But most of them could “hum a bit,” and they generally were awarded the grant for singing by ear. Their choice of songs was marvellous. Never shall I forget the fury of an eminent Celtic scholar, who at one time adorned the office of Inspector, when he found that a master had taught the children to sing the “pence-table” to the hallowed strains of “Llwyn On” (The Ash Grove): “Twenty pence are one and eightpence; Twenty-four pence two shillings; Thirty-pence are two and sixpence; Thirty-six pence three shillings.”