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

 rate, we are alive; and then, alas, after all,—

  “how few Junes

  Will heat our pulses quicker...”

 * * *

 “Much cry for little wool,” some will exclaim. It may be so. Whenever

 did a first number of a new magazine fulfil all its editor’s dreams or

 even intentions? “Well, we must make the best of it, I suppose. ‘Tis

 nater, after all, and what pleases God,” as Mrs. Durbeyfield says in

 “Tess of the Durbervilles.”

 * * *

 Have you read that charming _roman à quatre_, the _Croix de Berny_?

 If so, you will recollect the following words of Edgar de Meilhan

 (_alias_ Théophile Gautier), which I (“I” standing for editor, and

 associates, and pagans in general) now quote for the delectation of all

 readers, adversely minded or generously inclined, or dubious as to our

 real intent—with blithe hopes that they may be the happier therefor:

 “Frankly, I am in earnest this time. Order me a dove-coloured vest,

 apple-green trousers, a pouch, a crook; in short, the entire outfit of a

 Lignon Shepherd. I shall have a lamb washed to complete the pastoral.”

 * * *

 This is “the lamb.”

  THE EDITOR.

The Review was well subscribed for, and many letters came to the

Editor and his secretary (myself) that were a source of interest and

amusement. Mr. Richard Whiteing—who knew the secret of the Editorship

wrote: “I want to subscribe to _The Pagan Review_ if you will let me

know to whom to send my _abonnement_ for the half year. I think, you

know, you will have to put some more clothes on before the end of the

year. You are certainly the liveliest and most independent little devil

of a review I ever saw in a first number.”

The Editor, however, swiftly realised that there could be no

continuance of the Review. Not only could he not repeat such a _tour

de force_, and he realised that for several numbers he would have to

provide the larger portion of the material—but the one number had

served its purpose, as far as he was concerned for by means of it he

had exhausted a transition phase that had passed to give way to the

expression of his more permanent self.

To Thomas A. Janvier the Editor wrote:

  RUDGWICK, SUSSEX.

  DEAR MR. JANVIER,

For though we are strangers in a sense I seem to know you well through

our friend in common, Mr. William Sharp!

I write to let you know that _The Pagan Review_ breathed its last

a short time ago. Its end was singularly tranquil, but was not

unexpected. Your friend Mr. Sharp consoles me by talking of a certain

resurrection for what he rudely calls “this corruptible”: if so the P/R

will speak a new and wiser tongue, appear in a worthier guise, and put

on immortality as a Quarterly.

In the circumstances, I return, with sincerest thanks, the subscription

you are so good as to send. Also the memorial card of our late lamented

friend—I mean the P/R, not W. S. Talking of W. S., what an admirable

fellow he is! I take the greatest possible interest in his career. I

read your kind and generous estimate of him in _Flower o’ the Vine_

with much pleasure—and though I cannot say that I hold quite so

high a view of his poetic powers as you do, I may say that perusal

of your remarks gave me as much pleasure as, I have good reason for

knowing, they gave to him. He and I have been ‘delighting’ over your

admirably artistic and charming stories in _Harper’s_. By the way,

he’s settling down to a serious ‘tussle.’ He has been “a bad boy” of

late: but about a week previous to the death of the Pagan/Review he

definitively reformed—on Sept. 11th in the early forenoon, I believe.

I hope earnestly he may be able to live on the straight henceforth:

but I regret to say that I see signs of backsliding. Still, he may

triumph; the spirit is (occasionally) willing. But, apart from this, he

is now becoming jealous of such repute as he has won, and is going to

deserve it, and the hopes of friends like yourself. Mrs. Brooks’ love

to Catherine and yourself: Mine, Tommaso Mio,

  You know you have ...

Elizabeth A. Brooks was so pleased to receive your letter.

One or two young writers sent in MS. contributions and these of course

he had to return. One came from Mr. R. Murray Gilchrist with whom he

had come into touch through his editorship of the Literary Chair in

_Young Folk’s Paper_. To him he wrote:

  RUDGWICK, SUSSEX, 10: 92.

MY DEAR SIR,

As it is almost certain that for unforeseen private reasons serial

publication of _The Pagan Review_ will be held over till sometime in

1893, I regret to have to return your MS. to you. I have read _The

Noble Courtesan_ with much interest. It has a quality of suggestiveness

that is rare, and I hope that it will be included in the forthcoming

volume to which you allude.... It seems to me that the story would

be improved by less—or more hidden—emphasis on the mysterious aspect

of the woman’s nature. She is too much the “principle of Evil,” the

“modern Lilith.” If you do not use it, I might be able—with some

alterations of a minor kind—to use it in the P/R when next Spring it

reappears—if such is its dubious fate.

  Yours very truly,

tell you—who the editor of the P/R is: if so, may I ask you to be

reticent on the matter.

  PHENICE CROFT, RUDGWICK,

  22: 10: 92.

DEAR MR. GILCHRIST,

Although I do not wish the matter to go further I do not mind so

sympathetic and kindly a critic knowing that “W. S.” and “W. H. Brooks”

are synonymous.

I read with pleasure your very friendly and cordial article in _The

Library_. By the way, it may interest you to know that the “Rape of the

Sabines” and—well, I’ll not say what else!—is also by W. H. Brooks. But

this, no outsider knows.... _The Pagan Review_ will be revived next

year, but probably as a Quarterly: and I look to you as one of the

younger men of notable talent to give a helping hand with your pen.

I suppose you come to London occasionally. I hope when you are

next south, you will come and give me the pleasure of your personal

acquaintance. I can offer you a lovely country, country fare, a bed,

and a cordial welcome.

  Yours sincerely,

  WILLIAM SHARP.

Intimation had also to be sent to each subscriber; with it was enclosed

a card with the following inscription:

  _The Pagan Review._

On the 15th September, still-born _The Pagan Review_.

Regretted by none, save the affectionate parents and a few forlorn

friends, _The Pagan Review_ has returned to the void whence it came.

The progenitors, more hopeful than reasonable, look for an unglorious

but robust resurrection at some more fortunate date. “For of such is

the Kingdom of Paganism.”

And at the little cottage a solemn ceremony took place. The Review was

buried in a corner of the garden, with ourselves, my sister-in-law Mary

and Mr. Stanley Little as mourners; a framed inscription was put to

mark the spot, and remained there until we left Rudgwick.

_Vistas_

Many schemes were mentally cartooned for the autumn and winter’s work;

but all our plans were suddenly upset by an unlooked for occurrence.

While in Rome I had had a severe attack of Roman fever; and I had never

quite recovered therefrom. The prolonged rains in the hot autumn, the

dampness of the clay soil on which lay the hamlet of Buck’s Green, made

me very ill again with intermittent low fever. It was deemed imperative

that I should not spend the whole winter in England, but go in search

of a dry warm climate. But we had not the necessary funds. So instead

of devoting himself to his dream-work, as he had hoped, my husband

laid it temporarily aside and settled himself to write between October

and Xmas, two exciting boys’ serial stories for _Young Folk’s Paper_,

and thus procured sufficient money to enable us to cross to North

Africa. “The Red Rider” and “The Last of the Vikings” were crowded

with startling adventures. The weaving of sensational plots offered

no difficulties to him, but an enjoyment. He did not consider the

achievement of any real value, and did not wish that particular kind

of writing to be associated with his name. His impressions of Algeria

and Tunisia were chronicled in a series of articles, such as “Cardinal

Lavigerie,” “The March of Rome,” “Rome in Africa,” etc.; also in a

series of letters to a friend from which I select one or two:

  BISKRA, 2d Feb., 1893.

“Here we are in the Sahara at last! I find it quite hopeless to attempt

to give you any adequate idea of the beauty and strangeness and the

extraordinary fascination of it all. The two days’ journey here was

alone worth coming to Africa for! We left Mustapha shortly before dawn

on Tuesday, and witnessed a lovely daybreak as we descended the slopes

to Agha: and there we saw a superb sunrise streaming across the peaks

and ranges of the Djurdjura of Kabylia (the African Highlands) and

athwart the magnificent bay. The sea was dead calm, and in parts still

mirrored the moon and a few stars: then suddenly one part of it became

molten gold, and that nearest us was muffled into purple-blue wavelets

by the dawn-wind. The sound of it washing in, almost at the feet of

the palms and aloes and Barbary-figtrees was delicious. We had a long

and delightful day’s journey till sunset. Our route was through Grande

Kabylie, and the mountain scenery in particular was very impressive. At

many places we had a long stop: but everywhere here railway-travelling

is more like journeying in a carriage, the rate of speed not being much

more, with ample facilities for seeing everything en route. The Kabyles

are the original inhabitants of Mauritanian Africa—and both in language

and appearance these Berbers differ markedly from the Moors and the

nomadic Arabs. They are the hardiest and most industrious though also

the most untameable, of the native races. They live in innumerable

little villages scattered among the mountains and valleys and plains of

the Djurdjura country.

“The sun sank over the uplands of Kabylia as we mounted towards the

ancient Roman outpost-city, Setif. Setif stands about 3,500 ft. high:

and crossing the plateaux beyond it was like making an excursion

through Scotland in midwinter. Still, despite the snow on the hills,

and even along the roads of Setif itself, the cold was not so severe as

we expected.

“At four next morning we steamed slowly out of Setif in full moonlight.

An hour or so later dawn broke as we passed a series of Arab

encampments, and then came another sunrise over a wild and desolate

country. We were now entirely in Mahommedan lands, for there are

comparatively few Europeans south of the city of Constantine.

“At a place called El Guerrah we stopped for half an hour for déjeuner.

Soon thereafter we passed the Salt Lakes, covered with wild-fowl,

flamingoes, and other birds. It was hereabouts that we first saw some

camels. Once more we mounted, and soon were high among the Aurès

mountains, perhaps the most delightful hill-region of North Africa,

with certainly the finest population, Berbers like the Kabyles, but

Berber-aristocrats—Berbers refined by potent inherited strains from the

Romans of old. From Batna onwards the journey was an endless delight.

We came more and more into the East, and soon grew wholly accustomed

to Arab encampments, herds of camels, Moors and Negroes coming in with

herds of bouricoes (little donkeys), wild black goats and gaunt sheep,

Nomads travelling southward or eastward, picturesque Saharians or

Spahis dashing past on grey Arab horses, and semi-nude agriculturous

Berbers. At last the desert (the hill-desert) was entered. Here one

can realise the full significance of the French epithet _tourmenté_:

and, as one fares further, of