J M Barrie Courage

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COURAGE


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J. M. BARR IETHE UNIFORM EDITION OFTHE PLA YS OF J. M. BARRIE

QUALITY STREETTHE ADMIRABLE CRICHTONWHA T EVERY WOMAN KNOWSA KISS FO R CINDERELLAALICE SIT.BY.THE.FIRETHE TWELVE POUND LOOKand Other PlaysTHE OLD LADY SHOWS HE R MEDALSand Other Plays

Otlrer T itles to .followClot" 5/ net eae". Leat"e . 7/6 1tet eacl,IN ACTIVE PREPARATION

TH E UNIFORNI EDITION OFTHE WORKS OF J. M BARRIE

A WINDOW IN THRUMSAULD LICHT IDYLLSWH E N A MAN'S SINGLEMY LADY NICOTINEMARGARET OGILVYTHE LITTLE WHITE BIRDCloth 5/ ?let eae". Leatl",. 7/6 1let eacl,THE IMMORTAL PETER PAN

PETER PA N IN KENSINGTON GARDENSBy J . M. BARRIEIllustrated in Colour by ARTHUR RACKHAlIL

Origi1tal LMge Clot" Editio" 25/ m tSma Ier Cloth Edit;o" 10/6 lIet

PETER PA N AND WENDYBy J. M. BARRIEIllustrated in Colour by MAB EL LUCIE ATTWELL.Clotlt 15/- ttet

PETER AND WENDY By J. M. BARRIE~ ~ i W . I ~ r o B ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Colour and Halftone Drawings

Clutl, 10/6 1letHODDER & STOUGHTON LTD.Warwick Square, London, E.C. 4.

' j' jj g nECTORIAL ADDRESS DELIVERED IIAT ST. ANDREWS UNIVERSITY

MAY 3rd 1922

C O U R A G EBYJ. M. BARRIE

HODDER AND STOUGHTONLIMITED LONDON


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TO

THE RED GOWNS OF ST. ANDREWS


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You have had many rectors here in St.Andrews who will continue in bloom long afterthe lowly ones such as I am are dead and rottenand forgotten. They are the roses in December;you remember some one said that God gaveus memory so that we might have roses inDecember. But I do no t envy the great ones.In my experience- and you may find in the endit is yours also- the people I have cared formost and who have seemed most worth caring for-m y December roses- have been very simplefolk. Yet I wish that for this hour I could swellinto some one of importance, so as to do youcredit. I suppose you had a melting for mebecause I was hewn ou t of one of your ownquarries, walked similar academic groves, andhave trudged the road on which you will soonset forth. I would that I could pu t into your


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8 COURAGEhands a staff for that somewhat bloody march,for though there is much about myself that Iconceal from other people, to help you I wouldexpose every cranny of my mind.

But, alas, when the hour strikes for th e Rectorto answer to his call he is unable to becomethe u n d e r g r a d u ~ t e he used to be, and so theonly door into you is closed. We, your elders,are much more interested in you than you arein us. We are not really important to you. Ihave utterly forgotten the address of th e Rectorof my time, and even who he was; bu t I recallvividly climbing up a statue to ti e his coloursround its neck ,and being hurled therefrom withcontumely. We r e ~ e m b e r th e important things.I cannot provide you with that staff for yourjourney; bu t perhaps I can tell you a littleabout it , how to use it and lose it and find itagain, and cling to it more than ever. Youshall cut it- so it is ordained-everyone of youfor himself, and its name is Courage. Youmust excuse me if I talk a good deal aboutcourage to you to-day. There is nothing elsemuch worth speaking about to undergraduates

COURAGE 9OL' graduates or white-haired men an d women.It is the lovely virtue-the rib of Himself thatGod sent down to His children.

My special difficulty is that though you havehad literary rectors here before, they were thebig guns, the historians, the philosophers; youhave had none, I think, who followed my morehumble branch, which may be described asplaying hide and seek with angels. My puppetsseem more real to me than myself, and I couldge t on much more swingingly if I made oneof them deliver this address. I t is M'Connachiewho has brought me to this pass. M'Connachie,I should explain, as I have undertaken to openthe innermost doors, is the name I give to theunruly half of myself: the writing half. Weare complement and supplement. I am thehalf that is dour and practical and canny, he is the fanciful half; my desire is to be the familysolicitor, standing firm on my hearthrug amongthe harsh realities of the office furniture; whilehe prefers to fly around on one wing. I shouldnot mind him doing that, bu t he drags me withhim. I have sworn that M'Connachie shall not

B


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10 COURAGEinterfere with this address to-day; but there isno telling. I might have done things worthwhile if it had no t been for M'Connachie, andmy first piece of advice to you at any rate shallbe sound: don't copy me. A good subject fora rectorial address would be the mess the Rectorhimself has made of life. I merely cast thisforth as a suggestion, and leave the workingof it out to my successor. I do not think it hasbeen used yet.

My own theme is Courage, as you should useit in the great fight that seems to me to becoming between youth and their betters; byyouth, meaning, of course, you, and by yourbetters us. I want you to take up this posi-tion: That youth have for too long left exclus-ively in our hands the decisions in nationalmatters that are more vital to them than to us.Things about the next war, for instance, andwhy the last one ever had a beginning. I usethe word fight because it must, I think, beginwith a challenge; but the aim is the reverse ofantagonism, it is partnership. I want you tohold that the time has ~ r r i v e d for youth to

COURAGE 11demand that partnership, and to demand itcourageously. That to gain courage is whatyou come to St. Andrews for, with somealarums and excursions into college life. Thatis what I propose, but, of course, the issue lieswith M'Connachie.

Your betters had no share in the"immediate.cause of the war; we know what nation has thatblot to wipe out; but for fifty years or so weheeded not the rumblings of the distant drurn-I do not mean by lack of military preparations;and when war did come told youth, who hadto get us out of it , tall tales of what it reallyis and of the clover beds to which it leads.We were not meaning to deceive, most of uswere as honourable and as ignorant as the youththemselves; bu t that does not acquit us offailings such as stupidity and jealousy, the twoblack spots in human nature which, more thanlove of money, are at the root of all evil. I fyou prefer to leave things as they are we shallprobably fail you again. Do not be too surethat we have learned lesson, and are no t at


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12 COURAGEthis very moment doddering down some brim-stone path.

I am far from implying that even worsethings than war may not come \to a State.There are circumstances in which nothing canso well become a land, as I think this landproved when the late war did break out andthere was bu t one thing to do. There is a formof anremia that is more rotting than even anunjust war. The end will indeed have come toour courage and to us when we are afraid indire mischance to refer the final appeal to thearbitrament of arms. I suppose all the lustyof our race, alive and dead, join hands on that.

, And he is dead who will no t fight;And who dies fighting has increase.'

But if you must be in the struggle, the morereason you should know why, before it begins,and have a say in the decision whether it is tobegin. The youth who went to the war hadno such knowledge, no such say; I am sure thesurvivors, of whom there must be a number hereto-day, want you to be wiser than they were, and

COURAGE 13are certainly determined to be wiser next time

. themselves. I f you are to ge t that partnership,which, once gained, is to be for mutual benefit,it will be, I should say, by banding yourselveswith these men, not defiantly but firmly, not forselfish ends but for your country's good. Inthe meantime they have one bulwark; theyhave a General who is befriending them as Ithink never, after the fighting was over, has aGeneral befriended his men before. Perhapsthe seemly thing would be for us, their betters,to elect one of these young survivors of the car-nage to be 0UI ' Rector. He ought now to knowa few things about war that are worth our hear-ing. I f his theme were the Rector's favourite,diligence, I should be afraid of his advising agreat many of us to be diligent in sitting stilland doing no more harm.

Of course he would pu t it mOl'e suavely thanthat, though it is not, I think, by gentlenessthat you will get your rights; we are doggedones at sticking to what we have got, and sowill you be at our age. But avoid calling usugly names; we may be stubborn and we may


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14 COURAGEbe blunderers, bu t we love you more thanaught else in th e world, and once you havewon your partnership we shall all be welcomingyou. I urge you no t to use ugly names aboutanyone. In th e war it was not th e fightingmen who were distinguished for abuse; as hasbeen well said, 'Hell hath no fury like a non-combatant.' Never ascribe to an opponentmotives meaner than your own. There maybe students here to-day who have decided thissession to go in for immortality, and would liketo know of an easy way of accomplishing it.That is a way, bu t no t so easy as you think.Go through life without ever ascribing to youropponents motives meaner than your own.Nothing so lowers the moral currency; give itup, and be great.

Another sure way to fame is to know whatyou mean. I t is a solemn thought that almostno one-if he is truly eminent-knows whathe means. Look at the great ones of th e earth,the politicians. We do not discuss what theysay, bu t what they may have meant when theysaid it. In 1922 we are all wondering, and so

COURAGE 15are they, what they meant in 1914 and after-wards. They are publishing books trying tofind out; the men of action as well as the menof words. There are exceptions. I t is no tthat our statesmen are 'sugared mouths withminds therefrae ' ; many of them are the bestmen we have got, upright and anxious, nothingcheaper than to miscall them. The explanationseems just to be that it is so difficult to knowwhat you mean, especially when you havebecome a swell. No longer apparently canyou deal in 'russet yeas and honest kerseynoes'; gone for ever is simplicity, which is asbeautiful as the divine plain face of Lamb'sMiss Kelly. Doubts breed suspicions, a dan-gerous air. Without suspicion there mighthave been no war. When you are called toDowning Street to discuss what you want ofyour betters with the Prime Minister he won'tbe suspicious, not as far as you can see; bu tremember the atmosphere of generations youare in, and when he passes you the toast-racksay to yourselves, if you would be in th e mode,, Now, I wonder what he meant by that.'


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16 COURAGEEven without striking out in the way I sug

gest, you are already disturbing your bettersconsiderably. I sometimes talk this over withM'Connachie, with whom, as you may guess,circumstances compel me to pass a good dealof my time. In our talks we agree that we,your betters, constantly find you forgetting thatwe are your betters. Your answer is that thewar and other happenings have shown youthat age is not necessarily another name forsapience; that our avoidance of frankness inlife and in the arts is often, but not so oftenas you think, a cowardly way of shirking unpalatable truths, and that you have taken usoff our pedestals because we look more naturalon the ground. You who are at the rash ageeven accuse your elders, sometimes not without justification, of being more rash than yourselves. 'If Youth but only knew,' we used toteach you to sing; bu t now, just becauseYouth has been to the war, it wants to changethe next line into ' I f Age had only to do.'

In so far as this attitude of yours is merelypassive, sullen, negative, as it mainly is, de-

COURAGE 17spairing of our capacity and anticipating afuture of gloom, it is no game for man orwoman. I t is certainly the opposite of thatfor which I plead. Do not stand aloof, despising, disbelieving, bu t come in and help-insist on coming in and helping. After all, wehave shown a good deal of courage; and yourpart is to add a greater courage to it. Thereare glorious years lying ahead of you if youchoose to make them glorious. God's in Hisheaven still. So forward, brave hearts. Towhat adventures I cannot tell, bu t I know thatyour God is watching to see whether you areadventurous. I know that the great partnershipis only a first step, but I do not know what areto be the next and the next. The partnershipis but a tool; what are you to do with it?Very little, I warn you, if you are merely think-ing of yourselves; much if what is at themarrow of your thoughts is a future that evenyou can scarcely hope to see.

Learn as a beginning how world-shakingsituations arise and how they may be countered.Doubt all your betters who would deny you

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18 COURAGEthat light of partnership. Begin by doubtingall such in high places-except, of course, yOUi'professors. But doubt all other professors,--yet no t conceitedly, as some do, with theirnoses in the air; avoid all such physical risks.I f it necessitates your pushing some of us ou tof our places, still push; you will find it needssome shoving. Bu t the things courage can do !The things that even incompetence can do if itworks with singleness of purpose. The war hasdone at least one big thing: it has taken springou t of the year. And, this accomplished, ourleading people are amazed to find that the otherseasons are not conducting themselves as usual.The spring of th e year lies buried in th e fieldsof France and elsewhere. Bj the time the nexteruption comes it may be you who are respon-sible for it and your sons who are in the lava.All, perhaps, because this year you le t things slide.

We are a nice and kindly people, but it isalready evident that we are stealing back intothe old grooves, seeking cushions for our oldbones, rather than attempting to build up afairer future. That is what we mean when we

COURAGE 19say that the country is settling down. Makeh a ~ t e , or you will become like us, with only thething we proudly call experience to add to yourstock, a poor exchange for the generous feelingsthat time will take away. We have no inten-tion of giving you your share. Look aroundand see how much share Youth has now thatthe war is over. You got a handsome sharewhile it lasted.

I expect we shall beat you; unless yourfortitude be doubly girded by a desire to senda message of cheer to your brothers who fell,the only message, I believe, for which theycrave; they are no t worrying about their AuntJane. They want to know if you have learnedwisely from what befell them; if you have, theywill be braced in the feeling that they did notdie in vain. Some of them think they did.They will not take our word for it that they didnot. You are their living image; they knowyou could no t lie to them, bu t they distrust ourflattery and our cunning faces. To us theyhave passed away; but are you who steppedinto their heritage only yesterday, whose books


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20 COURAGEare scarcely cold to their hands, you who stillhear their cries being blown a c r o ~ s the linksare you already relegating them to the shades?The gaps they have left in this University areamong the most honourable of her wounds.Bu t we are no t here to acclaim them. Wherethey are now, hero is, I think, a very little word.They call to you to find out in time the truthabout this great game, which your elders playfor stakes and Youth plays for its life.

I do not know whether you are grown a littletired of that word hero, bu t I am sure the heroesare. That is the subject of one of our unfinishedplays; M'Connachie is the one who writes theplays. I f anyone of you here proposes to bea playwright you can take this for your own andfinish it. The scene is a school, schoolmasterspresent, bu t if you like you could make it auniversity, professors present. They are dis-cussing an illuminated scroll about a studentfallen in the war, which they have kindly pre-sented to his parents; and unexpectedly theparents enter. They are an old pair, backbent,they have been stalwarts in their day bu t have

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COURAGE 21now gone small; they are poor, but not so poorthat they could not send their boy to college.They are in black, not such a rusty black either,and you may be sure she is the one who knowswhat to do with his hat. Their faces aregnarled, I suppose-but I do not need to de-scribe that pair to Scottish students. Theyhave come to thank the Senatus for their lovelyscroll and to ask them to tear it up. At firstthey had been enamoured to read of what ascholar their son was, how noble and adored byall. l?ut soon a fog settled over them, for thisgrand person was not the boy they knew. Hehad many a fault well known to them; he wasno t always so noble; as a scholar he did nomore than scrape through; and he sometimesmade his father rage and his mother grieve.They had liked to talk such memories as thesetogether, and smile over them, as if they werebits of him he had left lying about the house.So thank you kindly, and would you please

\give them back their boy by tearing up thescroll? I see nothing else for our dramatistto do. I think he should ask an alumna of St.


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22 COURAGEAndrews to play the old lady (indicating MissEllen Terry). The loveliest of all youngactresses, the dearest of all old ones; it seemsonly yesterday that all the men of imagination proposed to their beloved in some suchfrenzied words as these, 'A s I can't get MissTerry, may I have you? '

This play might become historical as theopening of your propaganda in the proposedcampaign. How to make a practical advance?The League of Nations is a very fine thing, butit cannot save you, because it will be run by us.Beware your betters bringing presents. Whatis wanted is something run by yourselves. Youhave more in common with the youth of otherlands than Youth and Age can ever have witheach other; even the hostile countries sent outmany a son very like ours, from the same sortof homes, the same sort of universities, who hadas little to do as our youth had with the originof the great adventure. Can we doubt thatmany of these on both sides who have goneover and were once opponents are now friends?You ought to have a League of Youth of all

COURAGE 23countries as your beginning, ready to say to allGovernments, 'We will fight each other, butonly when we are sure of the necessity.' Areyou equal to your job, you young men? I f not,I call upon the red-gowned women to lead theway. I sound to myself as if I were advocatinga rebellion, though I am really asking for alarger friendship. Perhaps I may be arrestedon leaving the hall. In such a cause I shouldthink that I had at last proved myself worthyto be your Rector.

You will have to work harder than ever, butpossibly no t so much at the same things; moreat modern languages certainly if you are to discuss that League of Youth with the studentsof other nations when they come over to St.Andrews for the Conference. I am far fromtaking a side against the classics. I should assoon 2tl'gue against your having tops to yourheads; that way lie the best tops. Science,too, has at last come to its own in St. Andrews.I t is the surest means of teaching you how toknow what you mean when you say. So youwill have to work harder. Izaak Walton quotes


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24 COURAGEthe saying that doubtless the Almighty couldhave created a finer fruit than the strawberry,but that doubtless also He never did. Doubtless also He could have provided us with betterfun than hard work, but I don't know what itis. To be born poor is probably the next bestthing. The greatest glory that has ever cometo me was to be swallowed up in London, no tknowing a soul, with no means of subsistence,and the fun of working till the stars went out.To have known anyone would have spoilt it . Idid not even quite know the language. I rangfor my boots, and they thought I said a glassof water, so I drank the water and worked on.There was no food in the cupboard, so I did notneed to waste time in eating. The pangs andagonies when no proof came. H6w courteouslytolerant was I of the postman without a prooffor us; how M'Connachie, on the other hand. ,wanted to pun.ch his head. The magic dayswhen our article appeared in an evening paper.Th e promptitude with which I counted thelines to see how much we should ge t for it .Then M'Connacl'lie's superb air of dropping it

COURAGE 25into the gutter. Oh, to be a free lance ofjournalism again- that darling jade! Thosewere days. Too gooCl to last. Le t us be grave.Here comes a Rector.

But now, on reflection, a dreadful sinkingassails me, that this was no t really work. Th eartistic callings-you remember how Stevensonthumped them- are merely doing what youare clamorous to be at; it is no t real workunless you would rather be doing something else.My so-called labours were just M'Connachiei'unning away with me again. Still, I havesometimes worked; for instance, I feel that Iam working at this moment. And the bigguns are in the same plight as the little ones.Carlyle, the king of all rectors, has always beenaccepted as the arch-apostle of toil, and hasregistered his many woes. But it will not do.Despite sickness, poortith, want and all, he wasgrinding all his life at the one job he revelled. An extraordinarily happy man, thoughm.there is no direct proof that he thought so.

There must be many men in other callingsD


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26 COURAGEbesides the arts lauded as hard workers whoare merely ou t for enjoyment. Our Chan-cellor? (indicating Lord Haig). I f our Chan-cellor had always a passion to be a soldier, wemust reconsider him as a worker. Even ourPrincipal? How about the light that burnsin our Principal's room after decent peoplehave gone to bed? I f we could climb up andlook i n - I should like to do something of thatkind for the last time-should we find himengaged in honest toil, or guiltily engrossed inchemistry?

You will all fall into one of those two call-ings, the joyous or the uncongenial; and onewishes you into the first, though our sympathy,our esteem, must go rather to the less fortunate,the braver ones who ' turn their necessity toglorious gain' after they hav.e put away theirdreams. To the others will go the easy prizesof life-success, which has become a somewhatodious onion nowadays, chiefly because we sooften give the name to the wrong thing. Whenyou reach the evening of your days you will, I

COURAGE 27think, see-with, I hope, becoming cheerful-ness-that we are all failures, at least all thebcst of us. The greatest Scotsman that everlived 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.Bu t thoughtless follies laid him low,And stained his name.'

Perhaps the saddest lines in poetry, written bya man who could make things new for the godsthemselves.

II f you want to avoid being like Burns there

are several possible ways. Thus you mightcopy us, as we shine forth in our publishedmemoirs, practically without a flaw. No oneso obscure nowadays but that he can have abook about him. Happy the land that canproduce such subjects for the pen.

But do not put your photograph at all agesinto your autobiography. That may bring youto the ground. 'M y Life; and what I havedone with it ' ; that is the sort of title, but it isthe photographs that give away what you have


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28 COURAGEdone with it . Grim things, those portraits; ifyou could read the language of them you wouldoften find it unnecessary to read the book.The face itself, of course, is still more tell-tale,for it is the record of all one's past life. Therethe man stands in the dock, page by page; weought to be able to see each chapter of himmelting into the next like th e figures in th ecinematograph. Even the youngest of you hasgo t through some chapters already. Whenyou go home for the next vacation some one issure to say' John has changed a little; I don'tquite see in what way, but he has changed.'You remember they said that last vacation.Perhaps it means that you look less like yourfather. Think that out. I could say somenice things of your betters if I chose.

In youth you tend to look rather frequentlyinto a mirror, no t at all necessarily from vanity.You say to yourself, ' What an i.nteresting face;I wonder what he is to be up to ? ' Your eldersdo no t look into the mirror so often. We knowwhat he has been up to . As ye t there is un-fortunately no science of reading other people's

COURAGE 29faces ; I think a chair for this should be foundedin St . Andr ews.

The new professor will need to be a sublimephilosopher, and for obvious reasons he oughtto wear spectacles before his senior class. I twill be a gloriously optimistic chair, for he cantc ll his students th e glowing truth, that whatt heir faces are to be like presently dependsmainly on themselves. Mainly, no t altoget her -

' I am the master of my fate,I am th e captain of my soul.'I found the other day an old letter from

Henley that told me of the circumstances inwhich he wrote that poem. 'I was a patient,'he writes, ' in th e old infirmary of Edinburgh.I had heard vaguely of Lister, and went thereas a sort of forlorn hope on the chance ofsaving my foot . The great surgeon receivedme, as he did and does everybody, with thegreatest kindness, and for twenty months Ilay in one or other ward of the old place underhis care. I t was a desperate business, but he


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30 COURAGEsaved my foot, and here I am.' There he was,ladies and gentlemen, an d what he was doingduring that 'desperate business' was singingthat he was master of his fate.

I f you want an example of courage tr yHenley. Or Stevenson. I could tell yousome stories about these two, but they wouldno t be dull enough for a rectorial address .Fo r courage, again, take Meredith, whose laughwas' as broad as a thousand beeves at pasture.'Take, as I think, th e greatest figure literaturehas still left to us, to be added to-day to theroll of St . Andrews' alumni, though it must bein absence. The pomp and circumstance ofwar will pass, an d all others now alive may fadefrom th e scene, but I think the quiet figure ofHardy will live on .

I seem to be taking all my examples fromth e calling I was lately pretendipg to despise.I should like to read you some passages of aletter from a ma n of another calling, which Ithink will hearten you. I have th e little filmysheets here. I thought you might like to see

COURAGE 31the actual letter; it has been a long journey;it has been to th e South Pole. I t is a letter tome from Captain Scott of the Antarctic, an dwas written in th e tent yo u know of, where itwas found long afterwards with his body an dthose of some other very gallant gentlemen, hiscomrades. The writing is in pencil, still quiteclear, though toward th e end some of th e wordstrail away as into th e great silence that waswaiting for them. I t begins:

, Weare pegging out in a very comfortless spot.Hoping this letter may be found and sent to you,I write you a word of farewell. I want you to thinkwell of me and my end.' [After some private in-structions too intimate to read, he goes on]: 'Good-bye-I am not at all afraid of the end, bu t sad tomiss many a simple pleasure which I had plannedfor the future in our long marches. . . . Wearein a desperate state--feet frozen, etc., no fuel, anda long way from food, but it would do your heartgood to be in our tent, to hear our songs and ourcheery conversation. . . . ' [Later-it is here thatthe words become difficult] - ' Weare very near theend. . . . We did intend to finish ourselves whenthings proved like this, bu t we have decided to dienaturally without.'


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32 COURAGEI think it may uplift you all to stand for a

moment by that tent and listen, as he says, totheir songs and cheery conversation. When Ithink of Scott I remember the strange Alpinestory of the youth who fell down a glacier andwas lost, and of how a scientific companion,one of several who accompanied him, al l young,computed that the body would again appear ata certain date and place many years after-wards. When that time came round some ofthe survivors returned to the glacier to see ifthe prediction would be fulfilled; all old mennow; and the body reappeared as young ason the day he left them. So Scott and hiscomrades emerge ou t of the white immensitiesalways young.

How comely a thing is affliction borne cheer-fully, which is no t beyond the reach of thehumblest of us. What is beauty? I t is thesehard-bitten men singing courage to you fromtheir tent; it is the waves of their island homecrooning of their deeds to you who are to followthem. Sometimes beauty boils over and thenspirits are abroad. Ages ma y pass as we look

COURAGE 33or listen, for time is annihilated. There is avery old legend told to me by Nansen the explorer-1 ike well to be in the company of explore rsth e legend of a monk who had wanderedinto the fields and a lark began to sing. Hehad never heard a lark before, and he stoodthere entranced until the bird an d it s song ha dbecome part of the heavens. Then he wentback to the monastery an d found there a door-keeper whom he did no t know and who did notknow him. Other monks came, and they wereal l strangers to him. He told them he wasFather Anselm, but that was no help. Finallythey looked through the books of the monastery,an d these revealed that there had been a FatherAnselm there a hundred or more years before.Time ha d been blotted out while he listened tothe lark.

That, 1 suppose, was a case of beauty boilingover, or a soul boiling over; perhaps the samething. Then spirits walk.

They must sometimes walk St. Andrews. 1do no t mean the ghosts of queens or prelates,

E


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34 COURAGEbut one that keeps step, as soft as snow, withsome poor student. He sometimes catchessight of it. That is why his fellows can neverquite touch him, their best beloved; he halfknows something of which they know nothing- t he secret that is hidden in the face of theMonna Lisa. As I see him, life is so beautifulto him that it s proportions are monstrous.Perhaps his childhood ma y have been overfullof gladness; they don't like that. I f theseekers were kind he is the one for whom th eflags of his college would fly one day. Bu t theseeker I am thinking of is unfriendly, and soour student is ' th e lad that will never be old.'He often gaily forgets, and thinks he has slainhis foe by daring him, like him who, dreadingwater, was always the first to leap into it . Onecan see him serene, astride a Scotch cliff, singingto the sun the farewell thanks of a boy :'Throned on a cliff serene Man saw the sunhold a red torch above the farthest seas,

and the fierce island pinnacles pu t onin his defence their sombre panoplies;Foremost th e white mists eddied, trailed and spunlike seekers, emulous to clasp his knees,

COURAGEtill all th e beauty of the scene seemed one,led by the secret whispers of the breeze.

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, The sun's torch suddenly flashed upon his facean d died; and he sa t content in subject night~ n d dreamed of an old dead foe that had sought

and found him;a beast stirred boldly in his resting-place;And th e cold came; Man rose to his master-height,shivered, an d turned away; but the mists were

round him.'I f there is any of you here so rare that theseekers have taken an ill-will to him, as to theboy who wrote those lines, I ask you to becareful. Henley says in that poem we werespeaking of :

'Under the bludgeonings of ChanceMy head is bloody but unbowed.'A fine mouthful, but perhaps 'M y head isbloody and bowed' is better.

Let us get back to that tent with its songsand cheery conversation. Courage. I do no tthink it is to be got by your becoming solemnsides before your time. You must have beenwarned against letting the golden hours slip by.Yes, but some of them are golden only becausewe let them slip. Diligence-ambition; noble


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36 COURAGEwords, but only if ' touched to fine issues.'Prizes may be dross, learning lumber, unlessthey bring you into the arena with increasedunderstanding. Hanker not too much afterworldly prosperity-that corpulent cigar; ifyou became a millionaire you would probablygo swimming around for more like a diseasedgoldfish. Look to it that what you are doingis not merely toddling to a competency. Perhaps that must be your fate, bu t fight it andthen, though you fail, you may still be amongthe elect of whom we have spoken. Many abrave man has had to come to it at last. Butthere are th e complacent toddlers from thestart. Favour them not, ladies, especially nowthat everyone of you carries a possible marechars baton under her gown. 'Happy,' it hasbeen said by a distinguished man, ' i s he whocan leave college with an unreproaching conscience and an unsullied heart.' I don't know;he soupds to me like a sloppy, watery sort offellow; happy, perhaps, but if there be redblood in him impossible. Be no t disheartenedby ideals of perfection which can be achieved

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only by those who ru n away. Nature, that, thrifty goddess,' never gave you ' th e smallestscruple of her excellence' for that. Whateverbludgeonings may be gathering for you, I thinkone feels more poignantly at your age thanever again in life. You have not our Decemberroses to help yon; but you have June coming,whose roses do no t wonder, as do ours evenwhile they give us their fragrancc--wonderingmost when they give us most- that we shouldlinger on an empty scene. I t ma y indeed bemonstrous but possibly courageous.

Courage is the thing. All goes if couragegoes. What says our glorious Johnson ofcourage: 'Unless a man has that virtue hehas no security for preserving any other: Weshould thank our Creator three times daily forcourage instead of for our bread, which, if wework, is surely the one thing we have a rightto claim of Him. This courage is a proof ofou r immortality, greater even than gardens'when th e eve is cool.' Pray for it . 'Whorises from prayer a better man, his prayer is


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38 COURAGEanswered.' Be no t merely courageous, bu tlight-hearted an d gay. There is an officer whowas the first of our Army to land at Gallipoli.He was dropped overboard to light decoys onthe shore, so as to deceive the Turks as towhere the landing was to be. He pushed araft containing these in front of him. I t was afrosty night, and he was naked and paintedblack. Firing from th e ships was going on allaround. I t was a two-hours' swim in pitchdarkness. He did it, crawled through th e scrubto listen to the talk of the enemy, who were sonear that he could have shaken hands withthem, lit his decoys and swam back. He seemsto look on this as a gay affair. He is a V.C.now, an d you would not think to look at himthat he could ever have presented such a disreputable appearance. Would you? (indicatingColonel Freyberg).

Those men of whom I have been speaking asth e kind to fill the fife could all be light-heartedon occasion. I remember Scott by Highlandstreams trying to rouse me by maintaining th athaggis is boiled bagpipes; Henley in dispute

COURAGE 39as to whether, say, Turgenieff or Tolstoi couldhang the other on his watch-chain; he sometimes clenched the argument by casting hiscrutch at you; Stevenson responded in th esame gay spirit by giving that crutch to JohnSilver; you remember with what adequateresults. You must cultivate this light-heartedness if you are to hang your betters on yourwatch-chains. Dr. Johnson-let us have himagain-does not seem to have discovered in histravels that the Scots are a light-hearted nation.Boswell took him to task for saying that thedeath of Garrick ha d eclipsed the gaiety ofnations. 'Well, sir,' Johnson said, ' there maybe occasions when it is permissible to,' etc.But Boswell would no t le t go. 'I cannot see,sir, how it could in an y case have eclipsed th egaiety of nations, as England was th e onlynation before whom he ha d ever played.'Johnson was really stymied, bu t you wouldnever have known it. 'Well, sir,' he said,holing out, 'I understand that Garrick onceplayed in Scotland, and if Scotland has an ygaiety to eclipse, which, sir, I deny - - '


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40 COURAGEProve Johnson wrong for once at the

Students' Union and in your other societies.I much regret that there was no Students'Union at EdinburgH in my time. I hope youare fairly noisy and that members are sometimes led out. Do you keep to the old topics?King Charles's head; and Bacon wrote Shakespeare, or if he did no t he missed th e opportunity of his life. Don't forget to speakscornfully of the Victorian age; there will betime for meekness when you try to better it .Very soon you will be Victorian or that sort ofthing yourselves; next session probably, whenth e freshmen come up . Afterwards, if you goin for my sort of calling, don't begin by think-ing you are th e last word in art; quite possiblyyou are not; steady yourselves by rememberingthat there were great men before William K.Smith. Make merry while you may. Ye t lightheartedness is no t for ever an d a day. At itsbest it is th e gay companion of innocence;an d when innocence goes- as go it must- theysoon trip off together, looking for somethingyounger. Bu t courage comes all the way:

COURAGE 41, Fight on, my men, says Sir Andrew Barton,I am hurt, but I am no t slaine ;I 'II lie me down an d bleed a-whileAn d then I 'Il rise an d fight a g a i n e ~ '

Another piece of advice; almost my last. Fo rreasons you may guess I must give this in alow voice. Beware of M'Connachie. WhenI look in a mirror now it is his face I see. Ispeak with his voice. I once had a voice ofmy own, but nowadays I hear it from far awayonly, a melancholy, lonely, lost little pipe. Iwanted to be an explorer, but he willed other-wise. You will all have your M'Connachiesluring you off the high road. Unless you areconstantly on the watch, you will find that hehas slowly pushed you out of yourself andtaken your place. He has rather done for me.I think in his youth he must somehow haveguessed th e future and been fleggit by it,flichtered from th e nest like a bird, and so ou reggs were left, cold. He has clung to me, lessfrom mischief than for companionship; I halflike him and his penny whistle; with all hisfaults he is as Scotch as peat; he whispered to

F


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42 COURAGEme just now that you elected him, no t me, asyour Rector.

A final passing thought. Were an oldstudent given an hour in which to revisit th eSt . Andrews of his day, would he spend moreth an half of it at lectures? He is more likelyto be heard clattering up bare stairs in searchof old companions. Bu t if you could chooseyour hour from all th e five hundred years ofthis seat of learning, wandering at your willfrom one age to another, how would you spendi t? A fascinating theme; so many notableshades at once astir that St. Leonard's andSt . Mary's grow murky with them. Hamilton,Melville, Sharpe, Chalmers, down to Herkless,that distinguished Principal, ripe scholar an dwarm friend, th e loss of whom I deeply deplorewith you. I think if that hour were mine, andthough at St . Andrews he was but a passer-by,I would give a handsome part of it to a walkwith Dr . Johnson. I should like to haveth e time of da y passed to me in twelve languages by the Admirable Crichton. A waveof th e hand to Andrew Lang; an d then for th e

COURAGE 43archery butts with th e gay Montrose, all a-ruffledan d ringed, and in th e gallant St . Andrewsstud en t manner, continued as I understand to thispresen t day, scattering largess as he rides along,

, Bu t where is now the courtly troupeThat once went riding by ?I miss the curls of Canteloupe,The laugh of Lady Di.'

We have still left time for a visit to a housein South Street, hard by St . Leonard's. I dono t mean the house you mean. I am a Knoxman. But little will that avail, for M'Connachieis a Queen Mary man. So, after all, it is at herdoor we chap, a last futile effort to bring thatwoman to heel. One more house of call, astudent's room, also in South Street. I havechosen my student, you see, and I have chosenwell; him that sang-

, Life has not since been wholly vain.And now I bearOf wisdom plucked from joy aild painSome slender share.Bu t howsoever rich the store,

I 'd lay it downTo feel upon my back once moreThe old red gown.'


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44 COURAGEWell, we have at last come to an end. Someof you may remember when I began this address; we are all older now. I thank you foryour patience. This is my first and last publicappearance, an d I never could or would havemade it except to a gathering of Scottishstudents. I f I have concealed my emotionsin addressing you it is only the thrawn nationalway that deceives everybody except Scotsmen.I have no t been as dull as I could have wishedto be; but looking at your glowing faces cheerfulness and hope would keep breaking through.Despite th e imperfections of your betters weleave you a great inheritaL.ce . for which otherswill one da y call you to account. You comeof a race of men th e very wind of whose namehas swept to the ultimate seas. Remember-

, Heaven doth with us as we with torches do,Not light them for themselves... .'Mighty are the Universities of Scotland, andthey will prevail. Bu t even in your highestexultations never forget that they are no t four,but five. The greatest of them is the poor,

COURAGE 45proud homes you come out. of, which said solong ago: 'There shall be education in thisland.' She, no t St. Andrews, is the oldestUniversity in Scotland, and all the others areher whelps.

In bidding you good-bye, my last words mustbe of the lovely virtue. Courage, my children,and 'greet the unseen with a cheer.' 'Fighton, my men,' said Sir Andrew Barton. Fighton-you-for th e old red gown till the whistleblows.

Printed in Great Britain by T. and A CONSTABLE I..."Dat th e Edinburgh University Press


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