' That
is his criticism of a world which had given him but a scanty
welcome, and a life of foiled endeavour, of disappointed hope. Even
now there was a disappointment. His poems did not find a publisher:
what publisher can take the risk of adding another volume of poetry
to the enormous stock of verse brought out at the author's expense?
This did not sour or sadden him: he took Montaigne's advice, `not
to make too much marvel of our own fortunes.' His biographer,
hearing in the winter of 1893 that Murray's illness was now
considered hopeless, though its rapid close was not expected, began,
with Professor Meiklejohn, to make arrangements for the publication
of the poems. But the poet did not live to have this poor
gratification. He died in the early hours of 1894.
Of the merits of his more serious poetry others must speak. To the
Editor it seems that he is always at his best when he is inspired by
the Northern Sea, and the long sands and grey sea grasses. Then he
is most himself. He was improving in his art with every year: his
development, indeed, was somewhat late.
It is less of the writer than the man that we prefer to think.
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