my algebra paper was even worse than usual.  With the best intentions in the world to master this intricate branch of knowledge, algebra conveyed nothing whatever to my brain.  To state that A + b = xy, seemed to me the assertion of a palpable and self-evident falsehood.  After looking through my paper, Tosher called me up.  “Your algebra is quite hopeless, Hamilton.  You will write me out a Georgic.  No; on second thoughts, as you seem to like your brass instrument, you shall bring it up to my house every morning for ten days, and as the clock strikes seven, you shall play me “Home, Sweet Home” under my window.”  Accordingly every morning for ten days I trudged through the High Street of Harrow with my big brass instrument under my arm, and as seven rang out from the school clock, I commenced my extremely lugubrious rendering of “Home, Sweet Home,” on the euphonium, to a scoffing and entirely unsympathetic audience of errand-boys and early loafers, until Tosher’s soap-lathered face nodded dismissal from the window.

The school songs play a great part in Harrow life.  Generation after generation of boys have sung these songs, and they form a most potent bond of union between Harrovians of all ages, for their words and music are as familiar to the old Harrovian of sixty as to the present Harrovian of sixteen.

Most of these songs are due to the genius of two men, Edward Bowen and John Farmer.  Like Gilbert and Sullivan, neither of these would, I think, have risen to his full height without the aid of the other.  Farmer had an inexhaustible flow of facile melody at his command, always tuneful, sometimes almost inspired.  In addition to the published songs, he was continually throwing off musical settings to topical verse, written for some special occasion.  These were invariably bright and catchy, and I am sorry that Farmer considered them of too ephemeral a nature to be worth preserving.  “Racquets,” in particular, had a delightfully ear-tickling refrain.  Bowen’s words are a little unequal at times, but at his best he is very hard to beat.

I had organ lessons from Farmer, and as I liked him extremely, I was continually at his house.  I enjoyed seeing him covering sheets of music paper with rapid notation, and then humming the newly born product of his musical imagination.  As I had a fairly good treble voice, and could read a part easily, Farmer often selected me to try one of his new compositions at “house-singing,” where the boys formed an exceedingly critical audience.  Either the new song was approved of, or it was received in chilling silence.  Farmer in moments of excitement perspired more than any human being I have ever seen.  Going to his house one afternoon, I found him bathed in perspiration, writing away for dear life.  He motioned me to remain silent, and went on writing.  Presently he jumped up, and exclaimed triumphantly, “I have got it!  I have got it at last!” He then showed me the words he was setting to music.  They began: