I recall my delight and pride when I was sent on two occasions to the headmaster, Dr. Butler, the late Master of Trinity, with copies of original verses; and the honour I felt it to inscribe them, at Mr. Farrar’s request, in a MS. book he kept for the purpose of collecting approved original efforts in the author’s own writing.  For it was his habit once a week to give us subjects for verses or composition.  A unique effort of the Captain of the School cricket eleven, C.F.  Buller, comes back to me as I write; it did not however appear in the MS. book.  The School Chapel was the subject, full of interest and stirring to the imagination, if only for the aisle to the memory of Harrow officers who fell in the Crimea.  Buller’s flight of imagination was as absurd as it was impertinent: 

     “The things in the Chapel nonsense are,
     Don’t you think so dear Fa_rrar_!”

Mr. Farrar, however, never took offence at such sallies.  I remember, when he was denouncing the old “yellow back” novels, murmurs becoming audible, which were intended to reach him, of “Eric!  Eric!”—­the title of his early school-boy story—­he only smiled in acknowledgment.  And on an April 1st several boys who had plotted beforehand gazed simultaneously and persistently at a spot on the ceiling, until his eyes followed theirs unthinkingly in the same direction, when it occurred to him, as nothing unusual was visible, that it was All Fools’ Day.  He was very playful and indulgent; he kept a “squash” racquet ball on his desk, and could throw it with accurate aim if he noticed a boy dreaming or inattentive.  He would never when scoring the marks enter a 0, even after an abject failure, always saying, “Give him a charity 1!”

Boys are quick judges of sermons:  if interested, they listen without an effort; if not interested, they cannot listen.  Whenever Mr. Farrar’s turn came as preacher in the School Chapel there was a subtle stir and whisper of appreciation, “It’s Farrar to-day.”  He was a natural orator.  I can still hear his magnificent voice swelling in tones of passionate denunciation decreasing to gentle appeal, and dying away in tender pathos.  This was education in the true sense of the word, and though I have wandered a long way from my immediate subject, I feel that the digression is not irrelevant in contrast with the mechanical instruction that goes by the name of education in the Board Schools.  I cannot help recalling too that in the ancient IVth Form Room at Harrow, the roughest of old benches were, and I believe still are, considered good enough for future bishops, judges, and statesmen; while in the Board Schools expensive polished desks and seats have to be provided at the cost of the ratepayers to be shortly kicked to pieces by hobnailed shoes.