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

adjoining room: stooping I caught his whispered words that he was

dying; upon which I lit a match, and in the sudden glare beheld his

white face on the blood-stained pillow.

“He had burst one or more blood-vessels, and the hæmorrhage was

dreadful. Some time had to elapse before anything could be done;

ultimately with the help of a friend who came in opportunely, poor

Thomson was carried downstairs, and having been placed in a cab, was

driven to the adjoining University Hospital. He did not die that night,

nor when Marston and I went to see him in the ward next day was he

perceptibly worse, but a few hours after our visit he passed away.

“Thus ended the saddest life with which I have ever come in

contact—sadder even than that of Philip Marston, though his existence

was oftentimes bitter enough to endure....”

The other death was that of Emerson, whose writings had been a potent

influence in the life-thought of the young Scot from his college days.

Indeed throughout his life Emerson’s Essays were a constant stimulus

and refreshment. “My Bible,” as he called the Volume of Selected

Essays, accompanied him in all his wanderings, and during the last

weeks he spent in Sicily in 1905 he carefully studied it anew and

annotated it copiously.

On hearing of Emerson’s death he wrote a poem in memoriam—“Sleepy

Hollow”—which was printed in the _Academy_ and afterward in his second

volume of verse _Earth’s Voices_. According to _Harper’s Weekly_ (3:

6: 1882) “No finer tribute has been rendered to Emerson’s memory than

William Sharp’s beautiful poem ‘Sleepy Hollow.’ And, as _Earth’s

Voices_ is now out of print, I will quote it in full:

SLEEPY HOLLOW

_In Memoriam: Ralph Waldo Emerson_

  He sleeps here the untroubled sleep

    Who could not bear the noise and moil

    Of public life, but far from toil

  A happy reticence did keep.

  With Nature only open, free:

    Close by there rests the magic mind

    Of him who took life’s thread to wind

  And weave some poor soul’s mystery

  Of spirit-life, and made it live

    A type and wonder for all days;

    No sweeter soul e’er trod earth’s ways

  Than he who here at last did give

  His body back to earth again.

    And now at length beside them lies[1]

    One great and true and nobly wise—

  A King of Thought, whose spotless reign

  The overwhelming years that come

    And drown the trash and dross and slime

    Shall keep a record of till Time

  Shall cease, and voice of man be dumb.

  At lasts he rests, whose high clear hope

    Was wont on lofty wings to scan

    The future destinies of man—

  Who saw the Race through darkness grope,

  Through mists and error, till at last

    The looked-for light, the longed-for age

    Should dawn for peasant, prince, and sage,

  And centuries of night be past.

  Thy rest is won: O loyal, brave,

    Wise soul, thy spirit is not dead—

    Thy wing’d words far and wide have fled,

  Undying, they shall find no grave.

“After Rossetti’s death, I wrote,” William Sharp has related, “to the

commission of Messrs. Macmillan, a record of his achievements in the

two arts of literature and poetry, my first and of course immature

attempt at a book of prose. I had also written a book of poems, which,

however, did not attract much attention, though it had the honour of

a long and flattering review in the _Athenæum_. Happily, it seems to

have fallen into the hands of the editor of _Harper’s Magazine_, for

some time afterward I received a letter from him asking me to let him

see any poems I had by me. I sent him all I had and the matter passed

from my mind. Months went by, and I remember how, one day, I had almost

reached my last penny. In fact, my only possession of any value was a

revolver, the gift of a friend. That night I made up my mind to enlist

next morning. When I got up on the following morning there were two

letters for me. The usual thing, I said to myself, notice of ‘declined

with thanks.’ I shoved them into my pocket. A little later in the day,

however, recollection impelled me to open one of the letters. It was

from the editor of _Harper’s_, enclosing a cheque for forty pounds

for my few _Transcripts from Nature_, little six-line poems, to be

illustrated by Mr. Alfred Parsons, A.R.A. That money kept me going

for a little time. Still it was a struggle, and I had nearly reached

the end of my resources when one day I came across the other letter I

had received that morning. I opened and found it to be from a, to me,

unknown friend of one who had known my grandfather. He had heard from

Sir Noel Paton that I was inclined to the study of literature and art.

He therefore enclosed a cheque for two hundred pounds, which I was

to spend in going to Italy to pursue my artistic studies. I was, of

course, delighted with the windfall, so delighted, indeed, that I went

the length of framing the cheque and setting it up in my lodgings. I

tried to get my landlord to advance me the not very ambitious loan of a

needed sovereign on the spot, but he only shook his head knowingly, as

if he suspected something. However, at last, he risked a pound, and I

think I spent most of it that afternoon in taking the landlady and her

family to the pantomime.

[Illustration: WILLIAM SHARP

From a photograph taken in Rome in 1883]

“Eventually I went to Italy and spent five months away.”

Thus, the year 1883 opened with brighter prospects. Not only was it

easier to get articles accepted and published, but “William obtained

the post of London Art Critic to _The Glasgow Herald_, to be taken up

in the autumn. During his stay in London he had made a continual study

of the Old Masters, and his connection with The Fine Art Society had

brought him in touch with modern work and living artists. Therefore,

with the opportune cheque in his pocket he decided to spend the ensuing

months in careful study of pictures in Italy.

He left London at the end of February, and remained in Italy till the

end of June, when he joined my mother and myself in the Ardennes.

He went first of all to stay with an aunt of mine, Mrs. Smillie, who

had a villa in the outskirts of Florence. From that city and later from

Rome and Venice he wrote to me the following impressions:

  FLORENCE,

  Wednesday, 14: 3: 83.

... “Yesterday morning I went to Sta. Maria Novella, and enjoyed it

greatly. It is a splendid place, though on a first visit I was less

impressed than by Santa Croce....

The monumental sculpture is not so fine as in Santa Croce, but on the

other hand there are some splendid paintings and frescoes—amongst

others Cimabue’s famous picture of the Virgin seated on a throne. I

admired some frescoes by Fillipino Lippi—also those in the Choir by

Ghirlandajio: in the Capella dei Strozzi (to the left) I saw the famous

frescoes of Orcagna, the Inferno and Paradiso. They greatly resemble

the same subjects by the same painter in the Campo Santo at Pisa. What

a horrible imagination, poisoned by horrible superstitions, these old

fellows had: his Paradise, while in some ways finely imagined, is stiff

and unimpressive, and his Inferno simply repellent. It is strange

that religious art should have in general been so unimaginative. The

landscapes I care most for here are those of the early Giottesque and

pre-Raphaelite painters—they are often very beautiful—for the others,

there is more in Turner than in them all put together....”

  FLORENCE, 18: 3: 83.

“ ... Well, yesterday after lunch I went to the Chiesa del Carmine,

and was delighted greatly with the famous frescoes of Masaccio, which

I studied for an hour or more with great interest. He was a wonderful

fellow to have been the first to have painted movement, for his figures

have much grace of outline and freedom of pose. Altogether I have been

more struck by Masaccio than by any other artist save Michel Angelo and

Leonardo da Vinci. If he hadn’t died so young (twenty-seven) I believe

he would have been amongst the very first in actual accomplishment.

He _did_ something, which is more than can be said for many others

more famous than himself, who merely duplicated unimaginative and

stereotyped religious ideals....

Yesterday being Holy Thursday we went to several Churches and in the

afternoon and evening to see the Flowers for the Sepulchres. Very

much impressed and excited by all I saw. I was quite unprepared for

the mystery and gloom of the Duomo. There were (comparatively) few

people there, as it is not so popular with the Florentines as Sta.

Maria Novella—and when we entered, it was like going into a tomb.

Absolute darkness away by the western entrances (closed), a dark gloom

elsewhere, with gray trails of incense mist still floating about like

wan spirits, and all the crosses and monuments draped in black crape,

and a great canopy of the same overhead. Two acolytes held burning

tapers before only one monument, that of the Pietà under the great

crucifix in the centre of the upper aisle—so that the light fell with

startling distinctness on the dead and mutilated body of Christ. Not

a sound was to be heard but the wild chanting of the priests, and at

last a single voice with a strain of agony in every tone. This and the

mystery and gloom and pain (for, strange as it may seem to you, I felt

the agony of the pierced hands and feet myself) quite overcame me, and

I burst into tears. I think I would have fainted with the strain and

excitement, if the Agony of the Garden had not come to an end, and the

startling crash of the scourging commenced, the slashing of canes upon

the stones and pillars. I was never so impressed before. I left, and

wandered away by myself along the deserted Lung-Arno, still shivering

with the excitement of almost foretasted death I had experienced, and

unable to control the tears that came whenever I thought of Christ’s

dreadful agony. To-day (Good Friday) the others have gone to church,

but I couldn’t have gone to listen to platitudes—and don’t know if

I can bring myself to enter the catholic churches again till the

Crucifixion is over, as I dread a repetition of last night’s suffering.

I shall probably go to hear the Passion Music in the church of the

Badia (the finest in Florence for music). How I wish you were with

me....”

  FLORENCE, 3: 4: 83.

“ ... The last two days have been days of great enjoyment to me. First

and foremost they have been heavenly warm, with cloudless ardent

blue skies—and everything is beginning to look fresh and green.

Well, on Monday I drove with Mrs. Smillie away out of the Porta San

Frediano till we came in sight of Scanducci Alto, and then of the

Villa Farinola. There I left her, and went up through beautiful and

English-like grounds to the house, and was soon ushered in to Ouida’s

presence. I found her alone, with two of her famous and certainly most

beautiful dogs beside her. I found her most pleasant and agreeable,

though in appearance somewhat eccentric owing to the way in which her

hair was done, and also partly to her dress which seemed to consist

mainly of lace. A large and beautiful room led into others, all full of

bric-a-brac, and filled with flowers, books, statuettes and pictures

(poor), by herself. We had a long talk and she showed me many things of

interest. Then other people began to arrive (it was her reception day).

Before I left, Ouida most kindly promised to give me some introductions

to use in Rome. Yesterday