ly 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.
M