Produced by Al Haines
MAY 3rd 1922
To the Red Gowns of St. Andrews
Canada, 1922
You have had many rectors here in St. Andrews who will continuein bloom long after the lowly ones such as I am are dead and rottenand forgotten. They are the roses in December; you remember someonesaid that God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.But I do not envy the great ones. In my experience—and you may findin the end it is yours also—the people I have cared for most and whohave seemed most worth caring for—my December roses—have been verysimple folk. Yet I wish that for this hour I could swell into someoneof importance, so as to do you credit. I suppose you had a meltingfor me because I was hewn out of one of your own quarries, walkedsimilar academic groves, and have trudged the road on which you willsoon set forth. I would that I could put into your hands a stafffor that somewhat bloody march, for though there is much about myselfthat I conceal from other people, to help you I would expose everycranny of my mind.
But, alas, when the hour strikes for the Rector to answer to hiscall he is unable to become the undergraduate he used to be, and sothe only door into you is closed. We, your elders, are much moreinterested in you than you are in us. We are not really important toyou. I have utterly forgotten the address of the Rector of my time,and even who he was, but I recall vividly climbing up a statue to tiehis colours round its neck and being hurled therefrom with contumely.We remember the important things. I cannot provide you with thatstaff for your journey; but perhaps I can tell you a little about it,how to use it and lose it and find it again, and cling to it morethan ever. You shall cut it—so it is ordained—every one of you forhimself, and its name is Courage. You must excuse me if I talk agood deal about courage to you to-day. There is nothing else muchworth speaking about to undergraduates or graduates or white-hairedmen and women. It is the lovely virtue—the rib of Himself that Godsent down to His children.
My special difficulty is that though you have had literary rectorshere before, they were the big guns, the historians, the philosophers;you have had none, I think, who followed my more humble branch, whichmay be described as playing hide and seek with angels. My puppetsseem more real to me than myself, and I could get on much moreswingingly if I made one of them deliver this address. It isM'Connachie who has brought me to this pass. M'Connachie, I shouldexplain, as I have undertaken to open the innermost doors, is the nameI give to the unruly half of myself: the writing half. We arecomplement and supplement. I am the half that is dour and practicaland canny, he is the fanciful half; my desire is to be the familysolicitor, standing firm on my hearthrug among the harsh realities ofthe office furniture; while he prefers to fly around on one wing. Ishould not mind him doing that, but he drags me with him. I havesworn that M'Connachie shall not interfere with this address to-day;but there is no telling. I might have done things worth while if ithad not been for M'Connachie, and my first piece of advice to you atany rate shall be sound: don't copy me. A good subject for arectorial address would be the mess the Rector himself has made oflife. I mer