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? You will all fall into one of those two callings, the joyous or the uncongenial; and one wishes you into the first, though our sympathy, our esteem, must go rather to the less fortunate, the braver ones who 'turn their necessity to glorious gain' after they have put away their dreams. To the others will go the easy prizes of life, success, which has become a somewhat odious onion nowadays, chiefly because we so often give the name to the wrong thing. When you reach the evening of your days you will, I think, see--with, I hope, becoming cheerfulness--that we are all failures, at least all the best of us. The greatest Scotsman that ever lived wrote himself down a failure: 'The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know And keenly felt the friendly glow And softer flame. But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stained his name.' Perhaps the saddest lines in poetry, written by a man who could make things new for the gods themselves. If you want to avoid being like Burns there are several possible ways. Thus you might copy us, as we shine forth in our published memoirs, practically without a flaw. No one so obscure nowadays but that he can have a book about him. Happy the land that can produce such subjects for the pen.