Canada, 1922

You have had many rectors here in St. Andrews who will continue in bloom long after the lowly ones such as I am are dead and rotten and forgotten.  They are the roses in December; you remember someone said 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 find in the end it is yours also—­the people I have cared for most and who have seemed most worth caring for—­my December roses—­have been very simple folk.  Yet I wish that for this hour I could swell into someone of importance, so as to do you credit.  I suppose you had a melting for me because I was hewn out of one of your own quarries, walked similar academic groves, and have trudged the road on which you will soon set forth.  I would that I could put into your hands a staff for that somewhat bloody march, for though there is much about myself that I conceal from other people, to help you I would expose every cranny of my mind.

But, alas, when the hour strikes for the Rector to answer to his call he is unable to become the undergraduate he used to be, and so the only door into you is closed.  We, your elders, are much more interested in you than you are in us.  We are not really important to you.  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 tie his colours round its neck and being hurled therefrom with contumely.  We remember the important things.  I cannot provide you with that staff 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 more than ever.  You shall cut it—­so it is ordained—­every one of you for himself, and its name is Courage.  You must excuse me if I talk a good deal about courage to you to-day.  There is nothing else much worth speaking about to undergraduates or graduates or white-haired men and women.  It is the lovely virtue—­the rib of Himself that God sent down to His children.

My special difficulty is that though you have had literary rectors here before, they were the big guns, the historians, the philosophers; you have had none, I think, who followed my more humble branch, which may be described as playing hide and seek with angels.  My puppets seem more real to me than myself, and I could get on much more swingingly if I made one of them deliver this address.  It is M’Connachie who has brought me to this pass.  M’Connachie, I should explain, as I have undertaken to open the innermost doors, is the name I give to the unruly half of myself:  the writing half.  We are complement and supplement.  I am the half that is dour and practical and canny, he is the fanciful half; my desire is to be the family solicitor, standing firm on my hearthrug among the harsh realities of the office furniture; while he prefers to fly around