' 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.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25