The ordinary work of school inspection is not exciting to an outside spectator. There is nothing in the Three R’s to quicken the pulse, or to raise the temperature. Grammar, geography, history only seem to produce profound thankfulness in the onlooker’s mind, that he is not on the rack; there may be absurd answers, but if he laughs, the effect on the children may be disastrous. For varied interest of a mild kind, I should recommend composition and natural history. Ladies like needlework. Some can stand with a sweet smile on their faces while the children sing. Here, then, are four subjects upon which something may be said.
The list of accomplishments that I do not possess would be lengthy. But on the credit side I may put music—up to Standard III. That is not an exalted boast, but it places me far ahead of many of my old colleagues. I could look over a music paper, if it was not Tonic Sol-fa, and when the children sang school songs with the view of getting the Government Grant of 6d. or 1s., I was able to make quite valuable remarks.
For an inspector, a knowledge of music is an useful, but not altogether an enviable possession. He ought to be able to decide whether singing is correct and tuneful, but the man who does not know suffers less. (This sounds like a quotation from the Ethics, but I believe Aristotle is free from blame.) At one conference of inspectors we discussed rules for awarding the grant for singing. The code laid down the principle that, if the children sang “by note,” the possible grant was 1s. per head; if “by ear,” it was only 6d.; to get the higher grant they had to do certain exercises—that was simple enough. There were ten of us present, and it happened that I was the only man who personally conducted the examinations; the others sent their assistants. I was appealed to, as an expert, to say when we should be justified in refusing even the lower grant, that for singing by ear. One valued colleague, who admitted that he detected no difference between one tune and another, remarked that his plan was to watch the face of the head teacher. If it showed disgust and loathing, disappointment and fear, he concluded that the necessary standard had not been reached, and he refused the grant. But this obviously led to hypocrisy. And the head teacher might be no judge, or too exacting. Finally I suggested, and it was carried unanimously, THAT if the singing was so far tolerable that you could stop in the room to the very end, the grant might be paid; BUT THAT if you had to rush into the playground, a stern refusal should follow.
It was a very incomplete test. I have known men who could smile at the Salvation Army band.
In the early days there was very little note-singing. There was no extra grant for voice cultivation or any other form of scientific training; merely 1s. for twelve songs. Then, I think in 1876, came the graduated scale of 6d. or 1s., and then, or later, the number of songs was reduced to eight. As most schools could not receive more than 15s. or 17s. 6d. a head, however much they might earn, there was not much inducement to pile up the losses. But the clergy encouraged note-singing for the sake of their choirs, and the teachers found it an agreeable change from the monotony of the ordinary routine. So the work grew, till it became rare to find a school that did not attempt Tonic Sol-fa at the least. Then the special grant was merged in the large principal grant.
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):