to sing on the downs. I hope that I shall for the future have a larger toleration for the musically untutored. But I fear that I shall not. A present desire for sleep will always prevail over the most pleasurable memory of vocalisation. I shall almost certainly blaspheme again.
The catches which we sing are the following: Scotland's (or London's) Burning; A Boat, A Boat! and Frère Jacques. The last is in French. When we render it we feel exorbitantly clever, for to sing at all, in harmony, places us among the artists, but to do it in a foreign tongue—this is culture.
To the musically untutored part-singing is an unattainable mystery, bellowing with the aid of a cornet in, as nearly as possible, unison being the summit of their ambition in this direction. But if they would only try a simple catch or two, they would find themselves executing what is admittedly one of man's most difficult feats—I mean harmonising their sounds with the sounds of other people. And they would feel like gods and never do anything else. But they know nothing of catches. The popular numbers of last year's pantomimes are all they can memorise. Now it is surely as easy to learn Frère Jacques (I dwell on this one with particular pride), which is unlike any other tune whatever, as it is to learn Give my
