My Epitaph.
DAVID GRAY. September 27, 1861.
Gray’s Monument.
At the inauguration of the Monument erected to the Poet’s Memory in the “Auld Aisle” Burying Ground, Kirkintilloch, July 29, 1865, Mr. Bell said:—
David Gray, was born on the 29th January, 1838, and reared in his father’s house here at Merkland till he reached his fourteenth year. His parents, seeing as they did his disposition and his genius, thought they might find means to bring up their son for the Church. With that view he was sent into Glasgow, and as he required funds to aid him in the prosecution of his studies, at that very early age he became a pupil-teacher in the city. He contrived also to attend the famous University there for four successive sessions. But during all that time his mind was brimming over with poetry, which rose like a rising tide above his Latin, above his Greek, above his theological studies. He had a very ardent and ambitious fancy; he had high aspirations; he had an earnest belief that he was born to be a poet, and to attain fame. In one so young it might have been thought that this was an overweening conception of his own powers. But in reality it was not. A poet is also a vates or prophet, and there is no reason why he should not be permitted sometimes to prophesy of himself. David Gray prophesied of himself that his name would yet be known to his fellow-countrymen as a poet and a teacher, for every true poet is a true teacher. In May, 1860, when he had so far completed his studies in Glasgow, and had arrived at the age of nearly 22, he started alone for London. He had read of the great literary world of the metropolis, and he was fired with an ambition to mingle in it and to make himself, if possible, known to some of the men there. He was fortunate in forming the acquaintance, very soon after going to London, of Mr. Monckton Milnes, now Lord Houghton, who at once formed a correct appreciation of the poet’s character and genius. Lord Houghton has himself put it upon record that he found in David Gray what appeared to him to be the making of a great man. He has also recorded of him that upon first seeing him he was strongly reminded of the poet Shelley. Gray had a light, well-built form; he had a full brow and an out-looking eye; and he had a sensitive, melancholy mouth. So Lord Houghton speaks of him. He formed also in London other acquaintances of value, including Mr. Oliphant, then Private Secretary to Lord Elgin, now member for the Stirling Burghs. As to Sydney Dobell, the poet, I do not know that he actually formed the personal acquaintance of that gentleman; but he had frequent correspondence with Mr. Dobell, and received from him valuable letters, and suggestions, and assistance. He formed the acquaintance of a very estimable woman—Miss Marian James—herself an authoress of great reputation. Nearer at home he had already attained the friendly companionship of some whom he valued much. I am delighted to see two of those gentlemen present to-night—Mr. W. Freeland, David Gray’s early and attached friend, now of the Herald Office, Glasgow, and Mr. James Hedderwick, himself a poet and an editor of great reputation. He had not, however, been long in London till he was seized with a cold which rapidly assumed the character of consumption. Lord Houghton and others, feeling deeply interested in him, got him sent to the South of England for a time; but the disease making rapid progress, David Gray was seized with an irresistible home-sickness, and notwithstanding all the kindness, and all the attention of his friends in the South, in January, 1861, he made his re-appearance at his father’s house down there in Merkland. He lived there from January, 1861, to the 3d December of the same year, when he died. That is the brief record of this young poet’s life—almost all the incidents in it, all the events connected with it. But who can record, or who shall attempt to record the thousand thoughts and emotions that passed through his mind, that illuminated his fancy, and that kindled his genius? Who shall say how these familiar woods, and fields, and glens, and streams were to him dearer, a thousand times dearer and more romantic, than any woods, or fields, or glens, or streams in any other part of the world. No man but a true poet has that warm affection for home scenes, for his country, for his native land, for the friends of his youth; no man but a true poet has those sentiments in their height and in their depth; and if ever a man entertained them, the poetical remains of David Gray prove that he had them in a deep, pathetic, and most earnest manner. Upon his death-bed, within three days of his death, he received what appears to me to be a particularly beautiful letter from Marian James, breathing that alma gentile which none but a refined and pure woman possesses. I never saw David Gray, but I have seen to-night the humble room in which he was born; I have seen the home in which he was afterwards reared—a simple, rural house, belonging to a simple, honest, and upright family, such a family as Scotland is always proud of—and of such families I am proud to know that Scotland possesses her thousands and tens of thousands. I saw his mother to-night, and was deeply impressed with the apparent simplicity and earnestness of her character. I owe her my gratitude and my thanks for her presenting me with a book which belonged to her son, and which contains many of his private markings. I shall always retain it as a valuable and most esteemed possession. David Gray’s poetical susceptibility was of the most conspicuous description. He had a most refined perception of the beautiful; he had a perception of an interminable vista of beauty and truth. He had noble and pure thoughts, and he has been enabled to express those noble and pure thoughts in very noble and pure language. “The Luggie” is a most remarkable poem, containing many very fine passages, inspired partially, no doubt, by a careful perusal of Thomson’s “Seasons” and Wordsworth’s “Excursion,” and not, therefore, so entirely original as some of the author’s subsequent poems; but with passages breaking out in it every now and then which neither Thomson nor Wordsworth suggested, and which are entirely the conceptions of David Gray’s own genius. “The Luggie,” as has been well said, “may not possess in itself much to attract the painter’s eye, but it has sufficed for a poet’s love.” The series of sonnets entitled “In the Shadows”—written by the poet during his last illness—many of them bearing relation to his own condition, his own life, and his own prospects—appear to me to possess a solemn beauty not surpassed by many of the finest passages in Tennyson’s “In Memoriam,” totally distinct and unlike the “In Memoriam,” but as genuine, as sincere, as heart-stirring, and often as poetical. In the author’s own words, they admit you “to the chancel of a dying poet’s mind;” you feel when you are reading these sonnets that they are written in the sure and immediate prospect of death; but they contain thoughts about life, about the past, and about the future, most powerful and most beautiful. I am not going to ask you to take all this for granted. I think, upon an occasion like this, we ought to show some little reason for the faith that is in us; and, if it will not fatigue you too much, I propose in a few minutes to read two or three of those passages and those sonnets which strike me as worthy of all admiration. I feel confident that these works are destined to take their place amongst standard poetical works in the library of every man of literary taste. We are here, as you have said, upon the occasion of the erection of a monument to David Gray—a monument erected on the spot where he is buried, in a beautiful old churchyard, standing upon the brow of a hill, from which a fine and extensive view of the surrounding valley and hills is commanded. It is a granite monument, and will last, I hope, for centuries. I am sure that in this neighbourhood it will often be visited by persons who feel something like kindred emotions with David Gray, and they will be proud of this neighbourhood that it gave birth in that humble cottage to a man who has added so much charm to its natural scenery. It was felt at the same time, I believe, by the gentlemen in Glasgow who took the principal charge of it, that a great or imposing monument was not the thing that was wanted. A plain, simple, enduring record of respect and esteem was what was wished. Therefore, although the fund I know could have been trebled, quadrupled, with ease, it was thought that when a certain moderate sum was obtained that was enough, and by the aid of the genius of our townsman, Mr. Mossman, I venture to say that an appropriate and suitable monument has now been erected on that spot. I may mention that I find the names in the list of subscribers very varied. Among the Glasgow subscribers I find the name of Mrs. Nichol, widow of the late Professor of Astronomy in our University, who I know took a great interest in David Gray from first to last, and who, I know also, with her usual benevolence, aided in smoothing his dying pillow. I find the name of William Logan, one of the most earnest and attached friends that David Gray ever had; I find Lord Houghton; I find Mr. Bailie Cochrane; I find Mr. Stirling of Keir, the Hon. Julia Fane, the Dowager Duchess of Sutherland, Mr. Macmillan, Mr. MacLehose, Mr. J. A. Campbell, Mr. Hutton, editor of the London Spectator, and many other names. Now Lord Houghton was requested to write an appropriate inscription for this monument. I know it was a labour of love with him, and I know he was anxious to write such an epitaph as would be thought suitable both here and elsewhere; and I venture to say, and I hope you will agree with me, that he has admirably succeeded in the simplicity and truth of that epitaph which has now been engraved on the monument. Such is the young man whose fame we shall not willingly let die, because they who read his works aright derive moral improvement and intellectual benefit from them—because, young as he was when he died, he cherished pure and noble thoughts, and because he has left those pure and noble thoughts as a record to us of his life, and as an incentive to us to endeavour to cherish similar thoughts. Therefore, we owe him a debt of gratitude; and, therefore, without attempting to raise him upon a pinnacle too high—for his life was cut short before the highest aims of his ambition were attained—let it go forth that no true poet in this land, be his position in life what it may, be his birth humble or great—no true poet, no great teacher of the hearts of men, will ever find an ungrateful country in Scotland, as long as it remembers its great poets—as long as it knows that it is the land of Burns. In “The Luggie,” which you are aware is a descriptive and pastoral poem, there are varied moods of thought. There is a good deal of mere description of beautiful scenery, but that, whilst exquisitely done, is also intermingled with many thoughts and feelings which add a richness to the charm of the poet’s description. No mere description of external and lifeless nature, unless brought home to the heart by allusions to human emotion, can ever produce a very strong effect. But David Gray seems to have understood admirably how to combine those two qualities in his descriptive picture, and whilst he describes beautiful external nature, he always takes care at the same time to attract and touch the feelings. I am happy to know that David Gray died in true Christian faith, and amity with all men. I know from the esteemed clergyman who attended him weekly for many a day, that he had those true Christian sentiments which become a man, and most of all become a great man, upon his death-bed. I have had the very greatest satisfaction in being present to-night. I felt it to be an honour to be requested to come here and express my sentiments on such a subject. It is an honour which I feel, and it is a pleasure which I feel still more, for when a man has passed through this world now for a good many years, as I have done, there can be nothing dearer to his heart than expressing sympathy with the great and good, and feeling those expressions of sympathy reflected from the hearts and the eyes of a sympathising audience.