You will have to work harder than ever, but possibly not so much at the same things; more at modern languages certainly if you are to discuss that League of Youth with the students of other nations when they come over to St. Andrews for the Conference.  I am far from taking a side against the classics.  I should as soon argue against your having tops to your heads; that way lie the best tops.  Science, too, has at last come to its own in St. Andrews.  It is the surest means of teaching you how to know what you mean when you say.  So you will have to work harder.  Isaak Walton quotes the saying that doubtless the Almighty could have created a finer fruit than the strawberry, but that doubtless also He never did.  Doubtless also He could have provided us with better fun than hard work, but I don’t know what it is.  To be born poor is probably the next best thing.  The greatest glory that has ever come to me was to be swallowed up in London, not knowing a soul, with no means of subsistence, and the fun of working till the stars went out.  To have known any one would have spoilt it.  I did not even quite know the language.  I rang for my boots, and they thought I said a glass of water, so I drank the water and worked on.  There was no food in the cupboard, so I did not need to waste time in eating.  The pangs and agonies when no proof came.  How courteously tolerant was I of the postman without a proof for us; how M’Connachie, on the other hand, wanted to punch his head.  The magic days when our article appeared in an evening paper.  The promptitude with which I counted the lines to see how much we should get for it.  Then M’Connachie’s superb air of dropping it into the gutter.  Oh, to be a free lance of journalism again—­that darling jade!  Those were days.  Too good to last.  Let us be grave.  Here comes a Rector.

But now, on reflection, a dreadful sinking assails me, that this was not really work.  The artistic callings—­you remember how Stevenson thumped them—­are merely doing what you are clamorous to be at; it is not real work unless you would rather be doing something else.  My so-called labours were just M’Connachie running away with me again.  Still, I have sometimes worked; for instance, I feel that I am working at this moment.  And the big guns are in the same plight as the little ones.  Carlyle, the king of all rectors, has always been accepted as the arch-apostle of toil, and has registered his many woes.  But it will not do.  Despite sickness, poortith, want and all, he was grinding all his life at the one job he revelled in.  An extraordinarily happy man, though there is no direct proof that he thought so.

There must be many men in other callings besides the arts lauded as hard workers who are merely out for enjoyment.  Our Chancellor? (indicating Lord Haig).  If our Chancellor has always a passion to be a soldier, we must reconsider him as a worker.  Even our Principal?  How about the light that burns in our Principal’s room after decent people have gone to bed?  If we could climb up and look in—­I should like to do something of that kind for the last time—­should we find him engaged in honest toil, or guiltily engrossed in chemistry?