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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。 Bu