To know that but for thee not one
Had run the race or sought the quest,

To know that thou hast ever done
And ever been the best.

Murray was never a great athlete: his ambition did not lead him to
desire a place in the Scottish Fifteen at Football. Probably he was

more likely to be found matched against `The Man from Inversnaid.'
IMITATED FROM WORDSWORTH

He brought a team from Inversnaid
To play our Third Fifteen,

A man whom none of us had played
And very few had seen.

He weighed not less than eighteen stone,
And to a practised eye

He seemed as little fit to run
As he was fit to fly.

He looked so clumsy and so slow,
And made so little fuss;

But he got in behind--and oh,
The difference to us!

He was never a golfer; one of his best light pieces, published later
in the Saturday Review, dealt in kindly ridicule of The City of

Golf.
`Would you like to see a city given over,

Soul and body, to a tyrannising game?
If you would, there's little need to be a rover,

For St. Andrews is the abject city's name.'
He was fond, too fond, of long midnight walks, for in these he

overtasked his strength, and he had all a young man's contempt for
maxims about not sitting in wet clothes and wet boots. Early in his

letters he speaks of bad colds, and it is matter of tradition that
he despised flannel. Most of us have been like him, and have found

pleasure in wading Tweed, for example, when chill with snaw-bree.
In brief, while reading about Murray's youth most men must feel that

they are reading, with slight differences, about their own. He
writes thus of his long darkling tramps, in a rhymed epistle to his

friend C. C. C.
`And I fear we never again shall go,

The cold and weariness scorning,
For a ten mile walk through the frozen snow

At one o'clock in the morning:
Out by Cameron, in by the Grange,

And to bed as the moon descended . . .
To you and to me there has come a change,

And the days of our youth are ended.'
One fancies him roaming solitary, after midnight, in the dark

deserted streets. He passes the deep porch of the College Church,
and the spot where Patrick Hamilton was burned. He goes down to the

Castle by the sea, where, some say, the murdered Cardinal may now
and again be seen, in his red hat. In South Street he hears the

roll and rattle of the viewless carriage which sounds in that
thoroughfare. He loiters under the haunted tower on Hepburn's

precinct wall, the tower where the lady of the bright locks lies,
with white gloves on her hands. Might he not share, in the desolate

Cathedral, La Messe des Morts, when all the lost souls of true
lovers are allowed to meet once a year. Here be they who were too

fond when Culdees ruled, or who loved young monks of the Priory;
here be ladies of Queen Mary's Court, and the fair inscrutable Queen

herself, with Chastelard, that died at St. Andrews for desire of
her; and poor lassies and lads who were over gay for Andrew Melville

and Mr. Blair; and Miss Pett, who tended young Montrose, and may
have had a tenderness for his love-locks. They are a triste good

company, tender and true, as the lovers of whom M. Anatole France
has written (La Messe des Morts). Above the witches' lake come

shadows of the women who suffered under Knox and the Bastard of
Scotland, poor creatures burned to ashes with none to help or pity.

The shades of Dominicans flit by the Black Friars wall--verily the
place is haunted, and among Murray's pleasures was this of pacing

alone, by night, in that airy press and throng of those who lived
and loved and suffered so long ago -

`The mist hangs round the College tower,
The ghostly street

Is silent at this midnight hour,
Save for my feet.

With none to see, with none to hear,
Downward I go

To where, beside the rugged pier,
The sea sings low.

It sings a tune well loved and known
In days gone by,

When often here, and not alone,
I watched the sky.'

But he was not always, nor often, lonely. He was fond of making his
speech at the Debating Societies, and his speeches are remembered as

good. If he declined the whisky and water, he did not flee the
weed. I borrow from College Echoes -

A TENNYSONIAN FRAGMENT
So in the village inn the poet dwelt.

His honey-dew was gone; only the pouch,
His cousin's work, her empty labour, left.

But still he sniffed it, still a fragrance clung
And lingered all about the broidered flowers.

Then came his landlord, saying in broad Scotch,
`Smoke plug, mon,' whom he looked at doubtfully.

Then came the grocersaying, `Hae some twist
At tippence,' whom he answered with a qualm.

But when they left him to himself again,
Twist, like a fiend's breath from a distant room

Diffusing through the passage, crept; the smell
Deepening had power upon him, and he mixt

His fancies with the billow-lifted bay
Of Biscay, and the rollings of a ship.

And on that night he made a little song,
And called his song `The Song of Twist and Plug,'

And sang it; scarcely could he make or sing.
`Rank is black plug, though smoked in wind and rain;

And rank is twist, which gives no end of pain;
I know not which is ranker, no, not I.

`Plug, art thou rank? then milder twist must be;
Plug, thou art milder: rank is twist to me.

O twist, if plug be milder, let me buy.
`Rank twist, that seems to make me fade away,

Rank plug, that navvies smoke in loveless clay,
I know not which is ranker, no, not I.

`I fain would purchase flake, if that could be;
I needs must purchase plug, ah, woe is me!

Plug and a cutty, a cutty, let me buy.
His was the best good thing of the night's talk, and the thing that

was remembered. He excited himself a good deal over Rectorial
Elections. The duties of the Lord Rector and the mode of his

election have varied frequently in near five hundred years. In
Murray's day, as in my own, the students elected their own Rector,

and before Lord Bute's energetic reign, the Rector had little to do,
but to make a speech, and give a prize. I vaguely remember

proposing the author of Tom Brown long ago: he was not, however, in
the running.