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.'