The school year was drawing to a close, my last year at Laurel.
Professor Black, of the English department, had assured me that, if I would tone down a bit, I could easily win a scholarship in his department, and, later, an assistant professorship.
But I preferred my rambling, haphazard course of life, which was less comfortable, but better for the freedom of mind and spirit that poets must preserve....
Dr. Hammond, when I had given him that luncheon on the borrowed money, had taken me aside and informed me that one of the professors—an influential man on the Hill (beyond that, he refused to identify him further) had advised him, Hammond, not to accept the luncheon in his honour....
"We don't approve generally of Gregory, on the Hill, you know...."
And Hammond had, he told me, replied—
"I'm sorry, but Mr. Gregory is my friend, and Dr. Ward, our literary editor, looks on him as a distinguished contributor to the Independent, and a young writer of great and growing promise" ... so the luncheon was given ... I wonder if the protesting professor was one of those invited, and if so, if he attended?...
I saw clearly that I could never fit into the formal, academic life of the college—where professors were ashamed to be seen carrying packages and bags home from the stores, but must have them delivered ... for fear of losing their social status!