WILLIAM SHARP (FIONA MACLEOD) A MEMOIR COMPILED BY HIS WIFE ELIZABETH A. SHARP by ELIZABETH A. SHARP (mobi ebook reader txt) 📕

 silent ghostly wings with weird uncanny cries, and bats begin to lead

 a furiously active existence. The other night I was quite startled

 by seeing a perfectly white animal slowly approaching me: it looked

 remarkably like the ghost of a fox or wild-cat, but I am afraid it was

 only a white hare.

 So much for my surroundings. As for the few people hereabout they are

 all charmingly of the old time. After dinner, and while the claret,

 port, and sherry (the latter, oh so brandied!) are in process of

 consumption, large toddy goblets with silver spoon-ladles and smaller

 tumblers are handed round to ladies and gentlemen alike. Then come the

 large silver flagon with the hot water, the bowl with the strictly

 symmetrical lumps of sugar, three of which go to this large tumbler,

 and the cut crystal decanter of pure Glenlivet. The custom has great

 advantages, but it certainly does not conduce to the safe driving of the

 dogcart home again.

 Here is a specimen of a purely Scotch Bill of Fare, for some especially

 noteworthy occasion:

  BILL OF FARE

                        A wee drappie Talisher.

                                  ——

                   Callipee Broth.     Hotch Potch.

                                  ——

          Saumon à la Pottit Heed.   Pomphlet à la Newhaven.

                                  ——

                           Anither Drappie.

                                  ——

                     Mince Collops.    Doo Tairt.

                                  ——

                                Haggis.

                                  ——

                                An Eek.

                                  ——

                     Stuffed Bubbly Jocks an Hawm.

                Gigot of Mutton wi’ red curran jeelie.

                      Sheep’s Heed an’ Trotters.

                                  ——

                       Tatties Biled & Champit.

                             Bashed Neeps.

                          Jist a wee Donal’.

                                  ——

                   Glesky Magistrates.   Sma’ peas.

                                  ——

                    Grozet Pies.   Aiple Dumplins.

                                  ——

                        Ice Puddin wi’ cookies.

                                  ——

                     A Guid Dram to keep a’ doon.

 When I have a house of my own I shall give such a dinner some day, and

 the Sassenach hearts present shall admit there is no dinner like a

 Scotch one and no whiskey like the heavenly Celtic brew.

  And now, au revoir,

  Ever yours affectionately,

  WILLIAM SHARP.

The Directors of The Fine Art Society decided finally not to organise

the special department of Engravings of which William Sharp hoped to

take charge, therefore his engagement fell through and he was thrown

on his own resources. The outlook was very serious, for he was still

practically unknown to editors and publishers; and during the following

two years he had a hard fight with circumstances. No post of any kind

turned up for him and he had to depend solely on his pen, and for many

months was practically penniless; and many a time the only food he

could afford, after a meagre breakfast, was hot chestnuts bought from

men in the street.

I do not care to dwell on those days; I could do so little to help, and

by common consent we hid the true condition of things from his mother

and mine. Nevertheless we firmly believed in his “future”; that with

persistence and patience—and endurance—he would “gain a footing”; that

circumstances were pushing him into the one career suited to him, even

if the method seemed too drastic at times.

[Illustration: DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI]

He had already succeeded in having a poem accepted occasionally by one

or two Magazines and Weeklies. In 1879 _Good Words_ published a poem

entitled “Night,” and in 1880 two Sonnets on Schubert’s “Am Meer.”

_The Examiner_ printed some Sonnets and a poem of fifteen lines. In

1881 he contributed a long poem on Victor Hugo to _Modern Thought_,

and in February of 1882 his Sonnet “Spring Wind” was accepted by the

_Athenæum_ and it was afterward included in Hall Caine’s Century of

Sonnets. Early the following year he spent a delightful week-end with

Rossetti, at Birchington, whence he wrote to me:

  Feb. 13, 1882.

 “Just a line to tell you I am supremely content. Beautiful sea views,

 steep ‘cavey’ cliffs, a delicious luxurious house, and nice company. By

 a curious mistake I got out at the wrong place on Sunday, and had a long

 walk with my bag along the cliffs till I arrived rather tired and hot

 at my destination. I was surprised not to find Hall Caine there, but it

 appeared he clearly understood I was to get out at a different station

 altogether. I was also delayed in arriving, as I asked a countryman my

 direction and he told me to go to the left—but from the shape of the

 coast I argued that the right must be the proper way—I went to the right

 in consequence, and nearly succeeded in going over a cliff’s edge, while

 my theory was decidedly vanquished by facts. However the walk repaid it.

 Oh, the larks yesterday! It was as warm as June, and Rossetti and Caine

 and myself went out and lay in the grass (at least I did) basking in

 the sun, looking down on the gleaming sea, and hearing these heavenly

 incarnate little joys sending thrills of sweetness, and vague pain

 through all my being. I seemed all a-quiver with the delight of it all.

 And the smell of the wrack! and the cries of the sea-birds! and the

 delicious wash of the incoming tide! Oh, dear me, I shall hate to go

 back to-morrow. Caine is writing a sonnet in your book, Watts is writing

 a review for the _Athenæum_, Rossetti is about to go on with painting

 his Joan of Arc, and I am writing the last lines of this note to you.”

Little did he dream as he shook hands with his host on the Monday

morning that he was bidding a last farewell to his good friend.

Of that visit he wrote later:

 “Of my most cherished memories is a night at Birchington-on-Sea, in

 March, 1882. It had been a lovely day. Rossetti asked me to go out with

 him for a stroll on the cliff; and though he leaned heavily and dragged

 his limbs wearily as if in pain, he grew more cheerful as the sunlight

 warmed him. The sky was a cloudless blue and the singing of at least

 a score of larks was wonderful to listen to. Everywhere Spring odours

 prevailed, with an added pungency from the sea-wrack below. Beyond, the

 sea reached far to horizons of purple shaded azure. At first I thought

 Rossetti was indifferent: but this mood gave way. He let go my arm and

 stood staring seaward silently, then, still in a low tired voice, but

 with a new tone in it he murmured, ‘It is beautiful—the world and life

 itself. I am glad I have lived.’ Insensibly thereafter the dejection

 lifted from off his spirit, and for the rest of that day and that

 evening he was noticeably less despondent.

 “The previous evening Christina Rossetti and myself were seated in the

 semi-twilight in the low-roofed sitting room. She had been reading to

 him but he had grown weary and somewhat fretful. Not wishing to disturb

 him, Miss Rossetti made a sign to me to come over to the window and

 there drew my attention to a quiet hued but very beautiful sunset. While

 we were enjoying it Rossetti, having overheard an exclamation of almost

 rapturous delight from Christina, rose from his great armchair before

 the fire and walked feebly to the window. He stared blankly upon the

 dove-tones and pale amethyst of the sky. I saw him glance curiously at

 his sister, and then again long and earnestly. But at last with a voice

 full of chagrin he turned away pettishly saying he could not see what it

 was we admired so much. ‘It is all gray and gloom,’ he added; nor would

 he hear a word to the contrary, so ignorant was he of the havoc wrought

 upon his optic nerve by the chloral poison which did so much to shorten

 his life.... ‘Poor Gabriel,’ Miss Rossetti said, ‘I wish he could

 have at least one hopeful hour again.’ It was with pleasure therefore

 next day she heard of what he had said upon the cliff, and how he had

 brightened. The evening that followed was a happy one, for, as already

 mentioned Rossetti grew so cheerful, relatively, that it seemed as

 though the shadow of death had lifted. What makes it doubly memorable

 to me is that when I opened the door for Miss Rossetti when she bade me

 good-night, she turned, took my hand again, and said in a whisper, ‘I am

 so glad about Gabriel, and grateful.’”

  To E. A. S.:

  11: 4: 82.

 “...After spending a very pleasant day at Haileybury with Farquharson

 [E. A. Sharp’s brother] we arrived late in London, and while glancing

 over an evening paper my eye suddenly caught a paragraph which made

 my heart almost stop. I could not bring myself to read it for a long

 time, though I knew it simply rechronicled the heading—“Sudden Death of

 Mr. Dante Gabriel Rossetti.” He died on Sunday night at Birchington. I

 cannot tell you what a grief this is to me. He has ever been to me a

 true friend, affectionate and generous—and to him I owe more perhaps

 than to any one after yourself. Apart from my deep regret at the loss of

 one whom I so loved, I have also the natural regret at what the loss of

 his living friendship means. I feel as if a sudden tower of strength on

 which I had greatly relied had given way: for not only would Rossetti’s

 house have been my own as long as and whenever I needed, but it was his

 influence while alive that I so much looked to. Comparatively little

 known to the public, his name has always been a power and recommendation

 in itself amongst men of letters and artists and those who have to do

 with both professions. When I recall all that Rossetti has been to

 me—the pleasure he has given me—the encouragement, the fellowship—I feel

 very bitter at heart to think I shall never see again the kindly gray

 eyes and the massive head of the great poet and artist. He has gone to

 his rest. It were selfish to wish otherwise considering all things....

 If I take flowers down, part of the wreath shall be from you. He would

 have liked it himself, for he knew you through me, and he knew I am

 happier in this than most men perhaps.”

To E. A. S.:

  April 13, 1882.

“ ... I have just returned (between twelve and one at night) tired

and worn out with some necessary things in connection with Rossetti,

taking me first to Chelsea, then away in the opposite direction to

Euston Road. As I go down to Birchington by an early train, besides

having much correspondence to get through after breakfast, I can

only write a very short letter. I have felt the loss of my dear and

great friend more and more. He had weaknesses and frailties within

the last six or eight months owing to his illness, but to myself he

was ever patient and true and affectionate. A grand heart and soul, a

true friend, a great artist, a great poet, I shall not meet with such

another. He loved me, I know—and believed and hoped great things of

me, and within the last few days I have learned _how_ generously and

how urgently he impressed this upon others. God knows I do not grudge

him his long-looked-for rest, yet I can hardly imagine London without

him. I _cannot_ realise it, and yet I know that I shall never again see

the face lighten up when I come near, never again hear the voice whose

mysterious fascination was like a spell. What fools are those vain men

who talk of death: blinded, and full of the dust of corruption. As God

lives, the soul dies not. What though the grave be silent, and the

darkness of the Shadow become not peopled—to those eyes that can see

there is light, light, light—to those ears that can hear the tumult of

the disenfranchised, rejoicing. I am borne down not with the sense of

annihilation, but with the vastness of life and the imminence of things

spiritual. I _know_ from something beyond and out of myself that we

are now but dying