nothing for it but `putting a stout heart to a stey brae,' as the

Scotch proverb says. Editors want good work, and on finding a new
man who is good, they greatly rejoice. But it is so difficult to do

vigorous and spontaneous work, as it were, in the dark. Murray had
not, it is probable, the qualities of the novelist, the narrator.

An excellent critic he might have been if he had `descended to
criticism,' but he had, at this time, no introductions, and probably

did not address reviews at random to editors. As to poetry, these
much-vexed men receive such enormous quantities of poetry that they

usually reject it at a venture, and obtain the small necessary
supplies from agreeable young ladies. Had Murray been in London,

with a few literary friends, he might soon have been a thriving
writer of light prose and light verse. But the enchantress held

him; he hated London, he had no literary friends, he could write
gaily for pleasure, not for gain. So, like the Scholar Gypsy, he

remained contemplative,
`Waiting for the spark from heaven to fall.'

About this time the present writer was in St. Andrews as Gifford
Lecturer in Natural Theology. To say that an enthusiasm for totems

and taboos, ghosts and gods of savage men, was aroused by these
lectures, would be to exaggerate unpardonably. Efforts to make the

students write essays or ask questions were so entire a failure that
only one question was received--as to the proper pronunciation of

`Myth.' Had one been fortunate enough to interest Murray, it must
have led to some discussion of his literary attempts. He mentions

having attended a lecture given by myself to the Literary Society on
`Literature as a Profession,' and he found the lecturer `far more at

home in such a subject than in the Gifford Lectures.' Possibly the
hearer was `more at home' in literature than in discussions as to

the origin of Huitzilopochtli. `Literature,' he says, `never was,
is not, and never will be, in the ordinary sense of the term, a

profession. You can't teach it as you can the professions, you
can't succeed in it as you can in the professions, by dint of mere

diligence and without special aptitude . . . I think all this
chatter about the technical and pecuniary sides of literature is

extremely foolish and worse than useless. It only serves to glut
the idle curiosity of the general public about matters with which

they have no concern, a curiosity which (thanks partly to American
methods of journalism" target="_blank" title="n.新闻业；新闻工作">journalism) has become simply outrageous.'

Into chatter about the pecuniary aspect of literature the Lecturer
need hardly say that he did not meander. It is absolutely true that

literature cannot be taught. Maupassant could have dispensed with
the instructions of Flaubert. But an `aptitude' is needed in all

professions, and in such arts as music, and painting, and sculpture,
teaching is necessary. In literature, teaching can only come from

general education in letters, from experience, from friendly private
criticism. But if you cannot succeed in literature `by dint of mere

diligence,' mere diligence is absolutelyessential. Men must read,
must observe, must practise. Diligence is as necessary to the

author as to the grocer, the solicitor, the dentist, the barrister,
the soldier. Nothing but nature can give the aptitude; diligence

must improve it, and experience may direct it. It is not enough to
wait for the spark from heaven to fall; the spark must be caught,

and tended, and cherished. A man must labour till he finds his
vein, and himself. Again, if literature is an art, it is also a

profession. A man's very first duty is to support himself and
those, if any, who are dependent on him. If he cannot do it by

epics, tragedies, lyrics, he must do it by articles, essays, tales,
or how he honestly can. He must win his leisure by his labour, and

give his leisure to his art. Murray, at this time, was diligent in
helping to compile and correct educational works. He might, but for

the various conditions of reserve, hatred of towns, and the rest,
have been earning his leisure by work more brilliant and more

congenial to most men. But his theory of literature was so lofty
that he probably found the other, the harder, the less remunerative,

the less attractive work, more congenial to his tastes.
He describes, to Mrs. Murray, various notablevisitors to St.

Andrews: Professor Butcher, who lectured on Lucian, and is `very
handsome,' Mr. Arthur Balfour, the Lord Rector, who is `rather

handsome,' and delights the listener by his eloquence; Mr.
Chamberlain, who pleases him too, though he finds Mr. Chamberlain

rather acrimonious in his political reflections. About Lucian, the
subject of Mr. Butcher's lecture, Murray says nothing. That

brilliant man of letters in general, the Alcibiades of literature,
the wittiest, and, rarely, the most tender, and, always, the most

graceful, was a model who does not seem to have attracted Murray.
Lucian amused, and amuses, and lived by amusing: the vein of

romance and poetry that was his he worked but rarely: perhaps the
Samosatene did not take himself too seriously, yet he lives through

the ages, an example, in many ways to be followed, of a man who
obviously delighted in all that he wrought. He was no model to

Murray, who only delighted in his moments of inspiration, and could
not make himself happy even in the trifles which are demanded from

the professional pen.
He did, at last, endeavour to ply that servile engine of which

Pendennis conceived so exalted an opinion. Certainly a false pride
did not stand in his way when, on May 5, 1889, he announced that he

was about to leave St. Andrews, and attempt to get work at proof-
correcting and in the humblest sorts of journalism" target="_blank" title="n.新闻业；新闻工作">journalism in Edinburgh.

The chapter is honourable to his resolution, but most melancholy.
There were competence and ease waiting for him, probably, in London,

if he would but let his pen have its way in bright comment and
occasional verse. But he chose the other course. With letters of

introduction from Mr. Meiklejohn, he consulted the houses of Messrs.
Clark and Messrs. Constable in Edinburgh. He did not find that his

knowledge of Greek was adequate to the higher and more remunerative
branches of proof-reading, that weary meticulous toil, so fatiguing

to the eyesight. The hours, too, were very long; he could do more
and better work in fewer hours. No time, no strength, were left for

reading and writing. He did, while in Edinburgh, send a few things
to magazines, but he did not actually `bombard' editors. He is `to

live in one room, and dine, if not on a red herring, on the next
cheapest article of diet.' These months of privation, at which he

laughed, and some weeks of reading proofs, appear to have quite
undermined health which was never strong, and which had been sorely

tried by `the wind of a cursed to-day, the curse of a windy to-
morrow,' at St. Andrews. If a reader observes in Murray a lack of

strenuous diligence, he must attribute it less to lack of
resolution, than to defect of physical force and energy. The many

bad colds of which he speaks were warnings of the end, which came in
the form of consumption. This lurking malady it was that made him

wait, and dally with his talent. He hit on the idea of translating
some of Bossuet's orations for a Scotch theologicalpublisher.

Alas! the publisher did not anticipate a demand, among Scotch
ministers, for the Eagle of Meaux. Murray, in his innocence, was

startled by the caution of the publisher, who certainly would have
been a heavy loser. `I honestly believe that, if Charles Dickens

were now alive and unknown, and were to offer the MS. of Pickwick to
an Edinburgh publisher, that sagacious old individual would shake

his prudent old head, and refuse (with the utmost politeness) to
publish it!' There is a good deal of difference between Pickwick

and a translation of old French sermons about Madame, and Conde, and
people of whom few modern readers ever heard.

Alone, in Edinburgh, Murray was saddened by the `unregarding'
irresponsive faces of the people as they passed. In St. Andrews he

probably knew every face; even in Edinburgh (a visitor from London
thinks) there is a friendly look among the passers. Murray did not

find it so. He approached a newspaper office: `he [the Editor whom
he met] was extremely frank, and told me that the tone of my article

on--was underbred, while the verses I had sent him had nothing in
them. Very pleasant for the feelings of a young author, was it not?

. . . Unfavourable criticism is an excellent tonic, but it should be
a little diluted . . . I must, however, do him the justice to say

that he did me a good turn by introducing me to -, . . . who was
kind and encouraging in the extreme.'

Murray now called on the Editor of the Scottish Leader, the
Gladstonian organ, whom he found very courteous. He was asked to

write some `leader-notes' as they are called, paragraphs which
appear in the same columns as the leading articles. These were

published, to his astonishment, and he was `to be taken on at a
salary of--a week.' Let us avoid pecuniary chatter, and merely say

that the sum, while he was on trial, was not likely to tempt many
young men into the career of journalism" target="_blank" title="n.新闻业；新闻工作">journalism. Yet `the work will be very

exacting, and almost preclude the possibility of my doing anything
else.' Now, as four leader notes, or, say, six, can be written in

an hour, it is difficult to see the necessity for this fatigue.
Probably there were many duties more exacting, and less agreeable,