r. f. murray-his poems with a memoir-第1章

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R。　F。　Murray：　His　Poems　with　a　Memoir　by　Andrew　Lang



by　R。　F。　Murray/Andrew　Lang









R。　F。　MURRAY1863…1893







Much　is　written　about　success　and　failure　in　the　career　of

literature；　about　the　reasons　which　enable　one　man　to　reach　the

front；　and　another　to　earn　his　livelihood；　while　a　third；　in

appearance　as　likely　as　either　of　them；　fails　and；　perhaps；　faints

by　the　way。　　Mr。　R。　F。　Murray；　the　author　of　The　Scarlet　Gown；　was

among　those　who　do　not　attain　success；　in　spite　of　qualities　which

seem　destined　to　ensure　it；　and　who　fall　out　of　the　ranks。　　To　him；

indeed；　success　and　the　rewards　of　this　world；　money；　and　praise；

did　by　no　means　seem　things　to　be　snatched　at。　　To　him　success　meant

earning　by　his　pen　the　very　modest　sum　which　sufficed　for　his　wants；

and　the　leisure　necessary　for　serious　essays　in　poetry。　　Fate　denied

him　even　this；　in　spite　of　his　charming　natural　endowment　of　humour；

of　tenderness；　of　delight　in　good　letters；　and　in　nature。　　He　died

young；　he　was　one　of　those　whose　talent　matures　slowly；　and　he　died

before　he　came　into　the　full　possession　of　his　intellectual　kingdom。

He　had　the　ambition　to　excel；　＇Greek　text＇；　as　the　Homeric　motto　of

his　University　runs；　and　he　was　on　the　way　to　excellence　when　his

health　broke　down。　　He　lingered　for　two　years　and　passed　away。



It　is　a　familiar　story；　the　story　of　lettered　youth；　of　an　ambition；

or　rather　of　an　ideal；　of　poverty；　of　struggles　in　the　‘dusty　and

stony　ways'；　of　intellectual　task…work；　of　a　true　love　consoling　the

last　months　of　weakness　and　pain。　　The　tale　is　not　repeated　here

because　it　is　novel；　nor　even　because　in　its　hero　we　have　to　regret

an　‘inheritor　of　unfulfilled　renown。'　　It　is　not　the　genius　so　much

as　the　character　of　this　St。　Andrews　student　which　has　won　the

sympathy　of　his　biographer；　and　may　win；　he　hopes；　the　sympathy　of

others。　　In　Mr。　Murray　I　feel　that　I　have　lost　that　rare　thing；　a

friend；　a　friend　whom　the　chances　of　life　threw　in　my　way；　and

withdrew　again　ere　we　had　time　and　opportunity　for　perfect

recognition。　　Those　who　read　his　Letters　and　Remains　may　also　feel

this　emotion　of　sympathy　and　regret。



He　was　young　in　years；　and　younger　in　heart；　a　lover　of　youth；　and

youth；　if　it　could　learn　and　could　be　warned；　might　win　a　lesson

from　his　life。　　Many　of　us　have　trod　in　his　path；　and；　by　some

kindness　of　fate；　have　found　from　it　a　sunnier　exit　into　longer　days

and　more　fortunate　conditions。　　Others　have　followed　this　well…

beaten　road　to　the　same　early　and　quiet　end　as　his。



The　life　and　the　letters　of　Murray　remind　one　strongly　of　Thomas

Davidson's；　as　published　in　that　admirable　and　touching　biography；　A

Scottish　Probationer。　　It　was　my　own　chance　to　be　almost　in　touch

with　both　these　gentle；　tuneful；　and　kindly　humorists。　　Davidson　was

a　Borderer；　born　on　the　skirts　of　‘stormy　Ruberslaw；'　in　the　country

of　James　Thomson；　of　Leyden；　of　the　old　Ballad　minstrels。　　The　son

of　a　Scottish　peasant　line　of　the　old　sort；　honourable；　refined；

devout；　he　was　educated　in　Edinburgh　for　the　ministry　of　the　United

Presbyterian　Church。　　Some　beautiful　verses　of　his　appeared　in　the

St。　Andrews　University　Magazine　about　1863；　at　the　time　when　I　first

‘saw　myself　in　print'　in　the　same　periodical。　　Davidson's　poem

delighted　me：　　another　of　his；　‘Ariadne　in　Naxos；'　appeared　in　the

Cornhill　Magazine　about　the　same　time。　　Mr。　Thackeray；　who　was　then

editor；　no　doubt　remembered　Pen's　prize　poem　on　the　same　subject。　　I

did　not　succeed　in　learning　anything　about　the　author；　did　not　know

that　he　lived　within　a　drive　of　my　own　home。　　When　next　I　heard　of

him；　it　was　in　his　biography。　　As　a　‘Probationer；'　or　unplaced

minister；　he；　somehow；　was　not　successful。　　A　humorist；　a　poet；　a

delightful　companion；　he　never　became　‘a　placed　minister。'　　It　was

the　old　story　of　an　imprudence；　a　journey　made　in　damp　clothes；　of

consumption；　of　the　end　of　his　earthly　life　and　love。　　His　letters

to　his　betrothed；　his　poems；　his　career；　constantly　remind　one　of

Murray's；　who　must　often　have　joined　in　singing　Davidson's　song；　so

popular　with　St。　Andrews　students；　The　Banks　of　the　Yang…tse…kiang。

Love　of　the　Border；　love　of　Murray's　‘dear　St。　Andrews　Bay；'　love　of

letters；　make　one　akin　to　both　of　these　friends　who　were　lost　before

their　friendship　was　won。　　Why　did　not　Murray　succeed　to　the　measure

of　his　most　modest　desire？　　If　we　examine　the　records　of　literary

success；　we　find　it　won；　in　the　highest　fields；　by　what；　for　want　of

a　better　word；　we　call　genius；　in　the　lower　paths；　by　an　energy

which　can　take　pleasure　in　all　and　every　exercise　of　pen　and　ink；

and　can　communicate　its　pleasure　to　others。　　Now　for　Murray　one　does

not　venture；　in　face　of　his　still　not　wholly　developed　talent；　and

of　his　checked　career；　to　claim　genius。　　He　was　not　a　Keats；　a

Burns；　a　Shelley：　　he　was　not；　if　one　may　choose　modern　examples；　a

Kipling　or　a　Stevenson。　　On　the　other　hand；　his　was　a　high　ideal；　he

believed；　with　Andre　Chenier；　that　he　had　‘something　there；'

something　worthy　of　reverence　and　of　careful　training　within　him。

Consequently；　as　we　shall　see；　the　drudgery　of　the　pressman　was

excessively　repulsive　to　him。　　He　could　take　no　delight　in　making

the　best　of　it。　　We　learn　that　Mr。　Kipling's　early　tales　were

written　as　part　of　hard　daily　journalistic　work　in　India；　written　in

torrid　newspaper　offices；　to　fill　columns。　　Yet　they　were　written

with　the　delight　of　the　artist；　and　are　masterpieces　in　their　genre。

Murray　could　not　make　the　best　of　ordinary　pen…work　in　this　manner。

Again；　he　was　incapable　of　‘transactions；'　of　compromises；　most

honourably　incapable　of　earning　his　bread　by　agreeing；　or　seeming　to

agree　with　opinions　which　were　not　his。　　He　could　not　endure　（here　I

think　he　was　wrong）　to　have　his　pieces　of　light　and　mirthful　verse

touched　in　any　way　by　an　editor。　　Even　where　no　opinions　were

concerned；　even　where　an　editor　has　（to　my　mind）　a　perfect　right　to

alter　anonymous　contributions；　Murray　declined　to　be　edited。　　I

ventured　to　remonstrate　with　him；　to　say　non　est　tanti；　but　I　spoke

too　late；　or　spoke　in　vain。　　He　carried　independence　too　far；　or

carried　it　into　the　wrong　field；　for　a　piece　of　humorous　verse；　say

in　Punch；　is　not　an　original　masterpiece　and　immaculate　work　of　art；

but　more　or　less　of　a　joint…stock　product　between　the　editor；　the

author；　and　the　public。　　Macaulay；　and　Carlyle；　and　Sir　Walter　Scott

suffered　editors　gladly　or　with　indifference；　and　who　are　we　that　we

should　complain？　　This　extreme　sensitiveness　would　always　have　stood

in　Murray's　way。



Once　more；　Murray's　interest　in　letters　was　much　more　energetic　than

his　zeal　in　the　ordinary　industry　of　a　student。　　As　a　general　rule；

men　of　original　literary　bent　are　not　exemplary　students　at　college。

‘The　common　curricoolum；'　as　the　Scottish　laird　called　academic

studies　generally；　rather　repels　them。　　Macaulay　took　no　honours　at

Cambridge；　mathematics　defied　him。　　Scott　was　‘the　Greek　dunce；'　at

Edinburgh。　　Thackeray；　Shelley；　Gibbon；　did　not　cover　themselves

with　college　laurels；　they　read　what　pleased　them；　they　did　not　read

‘for　the　schools。'　　In　short；　this　behaviour　at　college　is　the　rule

among　men　who　are　to　be　distinguished　in　literature；　not　the

exception。　　The　honours　attained　at　Oxford　by　Mr。　Swinburne；　whose

Greek　verses　are　no　less　poetical　than　his　English　poetry；　were

inconspicuous。　　At　St。　Andrews；　Murray　read　only　‘for　human

pleasure；'　like　Scott；　Thackeray；　Shelley；　and　the　rest；　at

Edinburgh；　Oxford；　and　Cambridge。　　In　this　matter；　I　think；　he　made

an　error；　and　one　which　affected　his　whole　career。　　He　was　not　a　man

of　private　fortune；　like　some　of　those　whom　we　have　mentioned。　　He

had　not　a　business　ready　for　him　to　step　into。　　He　had　to　force　his

own　way　in　life；　had　to　make　himself　‘self…supporting。'　　This　was

all　the　more　essential　to　a　man　of　his　honourable　independence　of

character；　a　man　who　not　only　would　not　ask　a　favour；　but　who

actually　shrunk　back　from　such　chances　as　were　offered　to　him；　if

these　chances　seemed　to　be　connected　with　the　least　discernible

shadow　of　an　obligation。　　At　St。　Andrews；　had　he　chosen　to　work　hard

in　certain　branches　of　study；　he　might　probably　have　gained　an

exhibition；　gone　to　Oxford　or　elsewhere；　and；　by　winning　a

fellowship；　secured　the　leisure　which　was　necessary　for　the

development　of　his　powers。　　I　confess　to　believing　in　strenuous　work

at　the　classics；　as　offering；　apart　from　all　material　reward；　the

best　and　most　solid　basis；　especially　where　there　is　no　exuberant

original　genius；　for　the　career　of　a　man　of　letters。　　The　mental

discipline　is　invaluable；　the　training　in　accuracy　is　invaluable；

and　invaluable　is　the　life　led　in　the　society　of　the　greatest　minds；

the　noblest　poets；　the　most　faultless　artists　of　the　world。　　To

descend　to　ordinary　truths；　scholarship　is；　at　lowest；　an　honourable

gagne…pain。　　But　Murray；　like　the　majority　of　students　endowed　with

literary　originality；　did　not　share　these　rather　old…fashioned

ideas。　　The　clever　Scottish　student　is　apt　to　work　only　too　hard；

and；　perhaps；　is　frequently　in　danger　of　exhausting　his　powers

before　they　are　mature；　and　of　injuring　his　health　before　it　is

confirmed。　　His　ambitions；　to　lookers…on；　may　seem　narrow　and

school…boyish；　as　if　he　were　merely　emulous；　and　eager　for　a　high

place　in　his　‘class；'　as　lectures　are　called　in　Scotland。　　This　was

Murray's　own　view；　and　he　certainly　avoided　the　dangers　of　academic

over…work。　　He　read　abundantly；　but；　as　Fitzgerald　says；　he　read

‘for　human　pleasure。'　　He　never　was　a　Greek　scholar；　he　disliked

Philosophy；　as　presented　to　him　in　class…work；　the　gods　had　made　him

poetical；　not　metaphysical。



There　was　one　other　cause　of　his　lack　of　even　such　slender

commercial　success　in　letters　as　was　really　necessary　to　a　man　who

liked　‘plain　living　and　high　thinking。'　　He　fell　early　in　love　with

a　city；　with　a　placehe　lost　his　heart　to　St。　Andrews。　　Here；　at

all　events；　his　critic　can　sympathise　with　him。　　His　‘dear　St。

Andrews　Bay；'　beautiful　alike　in　winter　mists　and　in　the　crystal

days　of　still　winter　sunshine；　the　quiet　brown　streets　brightened　by

the　scarlet　gowns；　the　long　limitless　sands；　the　dark　blue　distant

hills；　and　far…off　snowy　peaks　of　the　Grampians；　the　majestic

melancholy　towers；　monuments　of　old　religion　overthrown；　the　deep

dusky　porch　of　the　college　chapel；　with　Kennedy's　arms　in　wrought

iron　on　the　oaken　door；　the　solid　houses　with　their　crow　steps　and

gables；　all　the　forlorn　memories　of　civil　and　religious　feud；　of

inhabitants　saintly；　royal；　heroic；　endeared　St。　Andrews　to　Murray。

He　could　not　say；　like　our　other　poet　to　Oxford；　‘Farewell；　dear

city　of　youth　and　dream！'　　His　whole　nature　needed　the　air；　‘like

wine。'　　He　found；　as　he　remarks；　‘health　and　happiness　in　the　German

Ocean；'　swimming　out　beyond　the　‘lake'