says the least self-conscious of poets. Even so barren were the
rich Nile and so bleak the blue Mediterranean waters. Though
received by the kindest and most hospitable friends, Murray was
homesick, and pined to be in England, now that spring was there. He
made the great mistake of coming home too early. At Ilminster, in
his mother's home, he slowly faded out of life. I have not the
heart to quote his descriptions of brief yet laborious saunters in
the coppices, from the letters which he wrote to the lady of his
heart. He was calm, cheerful, even buoyant. His letters to his
college friends are all concerned with literature, or with happy old
times, and are full of interest in them and in their happiness.

He was not wholly idle. He wrote a number of short pieces of verse
in Punch, and two or three in the St. James's Gazette. Other work,
no doubt, he planned, but his strength was gone. In 1891 his book,
The Scarlet Gown, was published by his friend, Mr. A. M. Holden.
The little volume, despite its local character, was kindly received
by the Reviews. Here, it was plain, we had a poet who was to St.
Andrews what the regretted J. K. S. was to Eton and Cambridge. This
measure of success was not calculated to displease our alumnus
addictissimus.

Friendship and love, he said, made the summer of 1892 very happy to
him. I last heard from him in the summer of 1893, when he sent me
some of his most pleasing verses. He was in Scotland; he had
wandered back, a shadow of himself, to his dear St. Andrews. I
conceived that he was better; he said nothing about his health. It
is not easy to quote from his letters to his friend, Mr. Wallace,
still written in his beautiful firm hand. They are too full of