envy, of an injured sense of being neglected, he does not
show one trace. To make fun of their masters and pastors, tutors,
professors, is the general and not necessarily unkind tendency of pupils.
Murray rarely mentions any of the professors in St. Andrews except in
terms of praise, which is often enthusiastic. Now, as he was by no means
a prize student, or pattern young man for a story-book, this generosity
is a high proof of an admirable nature. If he chances to speak to his
mother about a bore, and he did not suffer bores gladly, he not only does
not name the person, but gives no hint by which he might be identified.
He had much to embitter him, for he had a keen consciousness of 'the
something within him,' of the powers which never found full expression;
and he saw others advancing and prospering while he seemed to be standing
still, or losing ground in all ways. But no word of bitterness ever
escapes him in the correspondence which I have seen. In one case he has
to speak of a disagreeable and disappointing interview with a man from
whom he had been led to expect sympathy and encouragement. He told me
about this affair in conversation; 'There were tears in my eyes as I
turned from the house,' he said, and he was not effusive. In a letter to
Mrs. Murray he describes this unlucky interview,--a discouragement caused
by a manner which was strange to Murray, rather than by real
unkindness,--and he describes it with a delicacy, with a reserve, with a
toleration, beyond all praise. These are traits of a character which was
greater and more rare than his literary talent: a character quite
developed, while his talent was only beginning to unfold itself, and to
justify his belief in his powers.

Robert Murray was the eldest child of John and Emmeline Murray: the
father a Scot, the mother of American birth. He was born at Roxbury, in
Massachusetts, on December 26th, 1863. It may be fancy, but, in his shy
reserve, his almost _farouche_ independence, one seems to recognise the
Scot; while in his cast of literary talent, in his natural 'culture,' we
observe the son of a refined American lady. To his mother he could
always write about the books which were interesting him, with full
reliance on her sympathy, though indeed, he does not often say very much
about literature.

Till 1869 he lived in various parts of New England, his father being a
Unitarian minister. 'He was a remarkably cheerful and affectionate
child,