by Unknown
At the following Luncheon in the Grand Hotel.
Admiral Sir John Green seemed to have been much struck by Bailie Reid about what was the best way to begin a speech, not to speak of ending one. I have had practically no experience of speeches since I came to St. Andrews — but now I feel that, without any doubt, the best way to begin a speech is with the name of Wester-Wemyss. And the best way to conclude a speech is with the name of Wester-Wemyss — and I don’t think that in a perfect speech there would be anything in the middle.
Well, I have really got nothing to say. I remember the first letter I ever had from Louis Stevenson. He wrote to me and he said that two men who had entered through the dreadful prison-like portal of Edinburgh University could never be absolute strangers. And I feel and hope that none of us can ever be absolute strangers again. As a citizen of St. Andrews I feel that I no longer need to speak about it, or even you, but about us.
With regard to Lord Wester-Wemyss, I noticed an hour or so ago, when the Provost was speaking so delightfully, if I may say so, about Lord Wester-Wemyss, he happened to make some remarks about various individuals as ‘Fife-men,’ but they always seemed to have been born in Edinburgh. Well, happening at that moment to look across at Wester-Wemyss I saw him turn deadly pale. I felt that I had got the skeleton out of the cupboard, that he had not even been born in Edinburgh, but farther south — I won’t give him away. I won’t say where. He spoke about the pride of having been born on the south side of the Tay. I think it is splendid the way all you people stick to this side of the Tay — and make the best of it.
In conclusion I must wind up with Wester-Wemyss. When I have been nasty about anyone — when I like anyone, I generally talk in rather a scurvy way about them, if I love them — well, I just want to say about him something which I have written down while he was speaking about divots. I say, and you will agree with me, that Wester-Wemyss is a divot that never could be replaced.
I have had a telegram from another city this morning saying, ‘We are all excited about M’Connachie, why did you choose that name?’ I have no particular reason for that name, and I beg now to give it up, and in honour of our illustrious fellow-citizen, henceforth the name of M’Connachie is to be changed to Wester-Wemyss.
University College, Dundee
May 5, 1922
I
At the formal Inauguration of the Recreation Ground, Downfield, by Earl Haig, Chancellor of St. Andrews University.
I AGREE with a great deal of, though, I regret to say, not with all the words that have fallen from your Chancellor. I agree at all events as to the necessity for having these athletic games. If I had to build a University, that would be one of the first things I would turn my attention to. I want to tell you for the last time — because I cannot get any one to believe it — how extraordinarily good at football I was at college. It is a solemn fact that I was seriously considered for the Scottish fifteen. However, I will not go on with it; not a soul will believe me. The Chancellor believes me — (Earl Haig—’Everything that Sir Fames says’) — with regard to cricket. Cricket is my game. I was a great deal amused a few minutes ago when I sent down a few pretended balls to Principal Irvine. I was put in an awkward position. I did not want to get him out. I don’t know whether you observed — you did not seem to observe — that I bowled all the time to him with my left hand.
I could tell you a little about my experiences in cricketing. I had a literary team in London. For years I had thought of it. I had a great knowledge of the game, except in the actual playing thereof. But I used to walk about in Surrey, and with another man I used to watch the villagers, and we used to think that we would play some of those villagers when they got a bit older. We got to a decrepit old village one year, and we challenged them. We set out with a team of wellknown people.
Going down in the train, I had to teach them the game. Though it was only three-quarters of an hour, they were terribly full of confidence. One man always kept saying, ‘Intellect tells in the end.’ They were such a terrible lot, and as we were discussing the name of the team, I asked an African traveller — who was one of them, and who had just come from Morocco — and who, by the way, constantly ran away at the end of each over and had to be brought back for another — I asked him what was the Moorish for ‘Heaven help us.’ He said, ‘Allah Akbar,’ and we first called ourselves that, but eventually, in compliment to me, the name was turned into the ‘Allahakbarries.’
Well, we got down to this field, and all seemed well. I told them what would happen when somebody called ‘Over.’ I won the toss, which I — think all good captains ought to do. And I sent the other men in, to teach my side the game. They had a nasty fellow, an innkeeper — a left-handed innkeeper — who hit very hard. And after a bit I left off bowling myself and put on various men to bowl. One man was so terrible once he started we could not get his over to a close — there were so many — what do you call them?—’no-balls.’ At last our turn came. I sent my team in, and I put in first the man who said intellect told in the end. He went in quite confident, and we all held our breath, and there was a mighty whack, and we all cheered and we saw him come out. He was caught by the local curate at point. I soon had to go in myself to stop the rot. While I was batting, and knocking them about a bit — we made 11 altogether — a man of a rare scholastic turn came in, and he indicated that he wanted to say something important. I went and met him halfway along the pitch. He said, ‘Should I strike the ball to however small an extent I shall run with considerable velocity.’ I don’t think we went in again, but they went in again, and then that horrible innkeeper came forward, and the way we finished it was by saying to the innkeeper that we all wanted to come and dine at his inn. And so he went away and we got him out. We were a good deal elated by that first match of ours, and our spirits began to run very high.
We went down next year. There were only nine of us who turned up. We drove about looking for two men to complete the team. We found a soldier sitting outside a public-house drinking beer with two ladies. We asked him to come and play, and he said he would if we would take the ladies. We took the ladies, and this man made 72. The last we saw of him was sitting at another public-house with two other ladies. Our last experience was at Broadway, where Mary Anderson, the famous actress, lived. She challenged us. She was frightfully keen, but could not learn the game. She had a professional to teach her husband, who was champion lawn tennis player of New York, but was no good at cricket, which is a different thing. I wanted him to make some runs to please her, and I told my men to bowl wide — as I was bowling to-day — and if they got a catch to drop it somehow. But we could not get that man to make runs however wide we bowled. If you fumbled a catch it got into your pocket. She used to be very depressed about this. She did not know the game; she called it ‘crickets.’ I remember the other side had been in first, and then we went in, and, after a varied fortune, I was out and things were looking a little blue for us, but a few runs were made by some of our men and we passed their score. She continued to run round the course in a great state of excitement, and I said, ‘Don’t bother any more; we have passed the score already.’ She said, ‘Yes, but you have still several men to go in.’
Our last match, with which I conclude these tremendously long remarks, was played at Esher against a team of real cricketers. They had five ‘Blues’ playing, and they had not been beaten that year. They went in first, and we began to get them out like anything. They were twenty times better than we were, but somehow we had all the luck. They got terrified and sent to London by telephone for a famous county player, who arrived just in time to be bowled. They made 50 or 60, and then we went in. I sent a parson in first, who was a frightfully hard worker, but a good cricketer. He had not played for some time, and was off his head with excitement, because he was having a holiday. He sang all the time because he was in such a state of glee, and he further annoyed them by running up the wicket to meet the ball halfway. That man made 135. They were in a dreadful state a
bout this. We never cared whether we won or lost. We played the game. I was sorry for them too, and let them go in a second time; and, in order to give them a chance, I went on to bowl at one end with my left hand, and put another writer, Mr. A. E. W. Mason, on at the other. My better class of bowling is slow. Its whole cunning lies in this — it makes me laugh to read in the papers about people being slow bowlers — they don’t know what slow bowling is. You go on flourishing and flourishing, preparing for the ball more and more widely, and when you finish, the ball is just about halfway down, but pursuing its relentless way to the wicket. Mason, on the other hand, is fast, but somewhat erratic. He may hit the wicket, but is as likely to hit square-leg in the stomach. We began to get their wickets, and after two or three fell, the great county man came in. I was bowling, and I was hoping he would make a big score. At my second or third ball, as soon as the ball left my hand, I said to myself, ‘Good Heavens, he is done for.’ There it went, on and on, and he took a mighty swipe at it, and then let it lay like an exhausted man against the wicket.
Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all.
II
At a Luncheon given by the University College of Dundee in the New Municipal Buildings.
I am quite bowled over by the magnificent tribute which has just been paid to me by the president (Mr. W. S. Duke Elder) of the Students’ Union in Dundee, from which already I have had many kindnesses. He is one of the people who has helped to make my stay pleasant during the last few days. While applauding his remarks I must say to you that they bear about them a slight suspicion of being not unlike the sort of thing Mr. M’Connachie says to me when he wants to get something out of me. You can gather from what he has said that we have been having some rather strenuous days in St. Andrews, and that I have been talking a great deal too much. Now, ladies and gentle men, we have reached the last speech, and I can assure you it is a great pleasure to me, and at the same time I say it with some emotion, that the last speech should be delivered in my native county. ‘East, west, hame’s best.’ The older you grow, the more you think of home as just meaning the place where you were born and lived during the first few years of your life, although it may become, as it must to all of us in time, little more than a stone or two with an inscription on them. I am prepared to cross swords with any one, even with Lord Haig, if he were to dare to say a word against St. Andrews. But once that is accepted I think you will all, at least many of you will, agree with me that lovely as that romantic city is, perhaps the most beautiful thing in it is its view of the county across the water. Whilst the Principal 1 was pointing out his flowers to me in the garden I was looking across the water at scenes very familiar to me. Many of them I could make out and distinguish clearly; others I saw very, very well in my mind’s eye. I saw the Hill of Catlaw standing out, which in my youth I thought was the highest mountain in the world. I have been since where there are high mountains, in Switzerland and
1 Sir James Irvine, Principal of St. Andrews University.
other Continents; and I tell you I still think Catlaw is the highest mountain. You remember that old poem, one of the first in the language:
‘I was weary of wandering and went me to rest
By a broad bank by a burnside;
And as I lay and leaned and looked on the waters
I slid into a slumber, it sounded so merry.’
It was written by an Englishman; but I know very well what part of the British Isles he was thinking of. Even the Principal, who has such a happy home there, and who, I think, must be an ideal Principal for any University, has that trouble when he walks that garden, trying to avoid looking across the water. He remembers the lines:
‘The little more and how much it is;
The little less and what worlds away.’
As a Forfarshire man, one of the things I am naturally proud of, is that one of the greatest cities of the Empire should be in your county. I hope you are equally proud of your community. My own opinion is that if all is well with the city, however great, your chief pride should be in your University, and that all people coming into this city of Dundee should say, ‘Show me your University first.’ When they have seen it, they will know what manner of men you are.
Often very absurd things are said about commerce, as if it was really a matter of making money. It is not that at all. Commerce means something founded by men of great ambition and imagination, men who have dreamed great dreams. All the great things in this world have had something to do with commerce. In Elizabethan days in England, the ships it sent out to America, all its great adventurers, the Armada itself, were all founded on commerce. If it had not been for these things, as a matter of fact if it had not been for commerce, I would have had to deliver this address in German.
I was speaking of England. We very seldom say much about England in Scotland; we speak a great deal more about Scotland there than we speak of England here. But I think when we are speaking about England we should remember what a wonderful country it is. And when they call us canny we ought to accept the word, as I dare say we do, in a pleasant spirit, when we remember what a canny deal we made with them in the year 1603.
I have just come from the Athletic Club, where I sent down an over to Lord Haig, which seemed to make him very uncomfortable. I could not help recalling the day when Kirriemuir and Dundee were great antagonists at cricket. I expect they are so still. They are great opponents, friendly opponents, in everything. As to which is the greater town, I do not know. But so far as cricket is concerned, I remember the old matches on the Hill of Kirriemuir; and, so far as I can recall, Kirriemuir always won. I only played twice in these matches myself. The first time I made I; but the second time I was not so fortunate. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I want to finish with some good words. I will finish with wishing good fortune and every prosperity to St. Andrews and Dundee. They are good words for me to say. Goodbye to all; and I pass for ever, as I now do, out of public life.
To the Critics’ Circle
SAVOY HOTEL — May 26, 1922
Mr. A. B. WALKLEY, President of the Circle, was in the Chair. Proposing the toast of ‘The Drama and Barrie,’ he said: —
I fear I am going to disappoint most of you at the outset, though I hope to bring unlooked-for relief to our honoured guest, Sir James Barrie. I am not going to address him as M’Connachie. Since you raised that Frankenstein’s Monster, sir, at St. Andrews — you were once a journalist yours elf, and will not have forgotten those journalistic favourites, Frankenstein and his Monster — since you raised that monster, you have been powerless to lay it. You have been M’Connachied here and M’Connachied there; M’Connachied with damnable iteration. Sir, let us drop it tonight. It is not, for one thing, the easiest of after-dinner words. And then, I fancy, it was an article intended for local consumption, for the people of Fife and Forfar. You told them in Fife how some of their queer words amazed you people in Forfarshire. Well, sir, we are Southrons and are apt to be — I won’t say amazed — but rather puzzled by the queer words of both Fife and Forfarshire. We are like Mr. Micawber, when he quoted Burns about the ‘gowans’—’I don’t know exactly what gowans may be,’ said Mr. Micawber.
So I will not address you as M’Connachie but simply as Sir James Barrie — and say that we have welcomed you to our board tonight as the best beloved of our dramatists. I avoid the word ‘great,’ still more the word ‘greatest,’ because those are idle words, characterizing nothing. Also, I am warned by a story I lately came across about Mr. Booker Washington, the great negro philanthropist. A Southern gentleman of the old school met Mr. Washington and said to him—’ Well, sir, I guess you must be the greatest man in these United States’ Mr. Washington modestly thought there must be some greater man, and instanced President Roosevelt. ‘No, sir,’ said the Southerner, ‘I did think him a great man, until he asked you to dinner.’ Well, sir, after that, as we have asked you to dinner, I feel that to use the word greatest would be an ambiguous compliment both to you and to ourselves.
It is peculiarly pleasant to me to have this privilege of toasting you as a dramatist, because I carry my mind back many, many years — let us say to a moment in the reign of Queen Victoria — when you walked with me through a little Surrey pine-wood (I remember it was a pine-wood, because you told me the fir-cones were called ‘needles ‘ in Scotland) and you confided to me how very much you wanted to write for the stage. Well, sir, you have had your heart’s desire! Heaven forbid that I should attempt at this moment to appreciate, even in a bird’s-eye view, the work you have done for our stage. This is not, I am sure you will all agree with me, an occasion for dramatic criticism; we have enough of that on other nights in the week; this is an off-night. Yet it would perhaps be just a little paradoxical if, in proposing the toast of * The Drama and Barrie,’ I should be entirely silent about the relation between the two. One word, then, on that relation I must say.
You seem to me, sir, to have transfigured our drama. I mean that, under the most familiar and homely features, you have revealed to us unsuspected shapes of beauty. I am not thinking of your lighter moods, when ‘Queen Mab hath been with you,’ your fun and whim and quaint impish fancies, your ‘ Barrieisms,’ as we have to call them, because they are unlike anything else. I am thinking of your graver moods. But I do not forget that this is a festive occasion and I must not be out of harmony with it. You remember Dickens’s story of Cruikshank at the funeral. He was on his knees, when the parson said something that annoyed him, and he whispered to his neighbour, ‘If this weren’t a funeral, I’d punch his head’ If this weren’t a festive occasion, sir, I would say that you have wrung our hearts, almost beyond pardon. If this weren’t a festive occasion, I would say that you have given us glimpses into the mysteries of life and death and time that have sent us away strangely taken, almost beside ourselves. There, I think, is your magic, your fascination. It is a fascination. Our oldest veteran of the stage — he was with you at St. Andrews — told me he had been some dozen times to ‘Mary Rose’; he simply couldn’t tear himself away.
