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

 descriptions of certain localities with criticisms and appreciations

 of those famous writers who had identified themselves therewith. It

 gives one a fresher and keener insight, for instance, into Mr. George

 Meredith’s poems to know how much they reveal of the lovely country

 in which he lives, and how many of his exquisite similes are drawn

 from observation of the birds and beasts and plants which he sees

 daily around his home under the shadow of Box Hill. “The Country of

 Stevenson,” “Dickens-Land,” “Scott-Land,” “The Country of George

 Eliot,” “Thackeray-Land,” “The Brontë Country,” “The Carlyle Country,”

 and “Aylwin-Land” are all both delightful and instructive, full of

 poetic description, sound criticism, and brilliant flashes of wit; and

 not less so are the chapters on the “literary geography” of the Thames

 from Oxford to the Nore, the English Lakes, with all their associations

 with Wordsworth and his brother poets, and the Lake of Geneva, which

 might have been called Voltaire-Land were it not that so many other

 famous personalities and authors are identified with Geneva and its

 surroundings that the solitary distinction might seem invidious.”

The book was dedicated to the author’s friend of early days, Mr. George

Halkett (then Editor of _The Pall Mall Gazette_) with the reminder that

 “More years ago now than either of us cares to recall, we were both, in

 the same dismal autumn for us, sent wandering from our native lands in

 Scotland to the end of the earth. I remember that each commiserated the

 other because of that doctor’s doom in which we both, being young and

 foolish, believed. Since then we have sailed many seas and traversed

 many lands, and I, at least, have the wayfaring fever too strong upon me

 ever to be cured now.”

The critic in the _Daily Chronicl_e explained that the “book is all

an affair of temperament, and the only thing which really matters is

that Mr. Sharp has made excellent stuff out of his impressions....

For instance, the first time he saw Robert Louis Stevenson was not as

it should have been, in the land of Alan Breck; it was at Waterloo

Station. Is the literary geographer abashed by this conjunction of two

sympathetic Scots in a dismal London shed? Not a bit of it:

 ‘He was tall, thin, spare—indeed, he struck me as almost fantastically

 spare. I remember thinking that the station draught caught him like a

 torn leaf blowing at the end of a branch.’

“Mind you, at that moment Mr. Sharp did not know who the stranger was,

but knew by instinct that the station draught ought to make poetical

use of him. More than that, Mr. Sharp saw that Stevenson had the air of

a man just picked out of a watery grave. Anybody could see this.

 ‘That it was not merely an impression of my own was proved by the

 exclamation of a cabman, who was standing beside me expectant of a

 “fare” who had gone to look after his luggage: “Looks like a sooercide,

 don’t he, sir? One o’ them chaps as takes their down-on-their-luck

 ’eaders into the Thames!”’

“When Stevenson could inflame a cabman with this picturesque fantasy,

no wonder he turned Waterloo Station into the home of romance. But this

was not all. The ‘sooercide’ had still more magic about him. Stevenson

was waiting for a friend to arrive by train, and when the friend

appeared, the drowned _revenant_ became another being.

 ‘The dark locks apparently receded, like weedy tangle in the ebb; the

 long sallow oval grew rounder and less wan; the sombre melancholy

 vanished like cloud-scud on a day of wind and sun, and the dark eyes

 lightened to a violet-blue and were filled with sunshine and laughter.’

“This extraordinary man was carrying a book and dropped it. Then

happened something which expanded Waterloo Station into the infinite:

 ‘I lifted and restored it, noticing as I did that it was the _Tragic

 Comedians_, ...

In 1902 W. S. had been greatly gratified by a request from the

composer, Mr. McDowell, couched in generous terms of appreciation:

  COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY,

  NEW YORK, May 25th.

  MISS FIONA MACLEOD,

  MY DEAR MADAM,

 Your work has so grown into my life that I venture to ask you to permit

 my placing your name on some music of mine. Your poems have been an

 inspiration to me and I trust you will accept a dedication of music

 that is yours already by right of suggestion. By this I do not mean

 that my music in any way echoes your words but that your words have been

 a most powerful incentive to me in my music and I crave your sympathy

 for it.

  Sincerely yours,

  EDWARD MACDOWELL.

At the end of 1904 F. M. wrote to Mr. Lawrence Gilman, the American

Musical Critic:

  22 ORMIDALE TERRACE,

  MURRAYFIELD, 31st Dec.

  DEAR MR. GILMAN,

 Some time ago a friend played to me one or two lovely airs by Mr.

 Loeffler, and I was so much impressed by their unique quality and their

 atmosphere of subtle beauty that I wrote to find out what I could about

 this composer, and also about another, Mr. MacDowell, whose beautiful

 Keltic Sonata I have heard. And now I have been sent a copy of your

 winsome and deeply interesting and informing little book, _Phases

 of Modern Music_. There I not only find much of deep interest to me

 about Mr. Loeffler and Mr. MacDowell, but find your whole book at once

 informing and fascinating. In addition I had the great pleasure of

 coming unexpectedly upon allusions to myself and my writings: and I

 would like you to know how truly I appreciate these, and how glad I am

 that a critic touched to such fine issues in the great art of Music, and

 with so keen a sense for the new ideals of beauty, the new conceptions

 of style and distinction, should care for what I am trying to do in my

 own art.

 I hope you are writing another book. Whether on musical subjects only,

 or on literary and musical subjects in conjunction (which of course

 would appeal to a wider section of the reading public), any such book

 would I am sure, be welcomed by all who know _Phases of Modern Music_.

 I wish I knew more of the music of these two composers. There is a

 spirit abroad just now, full of a new poignancy of emotion, uplifted on

 a secret wave of passion and ecstasy, and these men seem to me of that

 small but radiant company who have slept and dreamed in the other world

 and drank moon-dew.

 Let me thank you again for all the pleasure you have given me, and

  Believe me

  Most truly yours,

  FIONA MACLEOD.

Mr. Lawrence Gilman replied:

  NEW YORK,

  Jan 14, 1905.

  MY DEAR MISS MACLEOD,

 It would not be easy for me to tell you, without seeming extravagance,

 of the keen pleasure I have had in your cordial letter concerning my

 book, _Phases of Modern Music_. The deep impression which your own

 work has made upon me must already have become evident to you through

 even the most cursory reading of my book—an impression the extent and

 definiteness of which I myself had scarcely realised. You will know,

 then, how great a satisfaction it is for me to hear that you have been

 interested in my thoughts on musical subjects, and that they have seemed

 to you worthy of the friendly praise which you have spoken in your

 letter.

 So you know and like the music of Loeffler and MacDowell! That is good

 to hear; for few, even in this country, where they have been active in

 their art for so long, are sensible of the beauty and power of their

 work. Do you know Loeffler’s latest production—“Quatre Poëmes,” settings

 of verses by Verlaine and Baudelaire? They are written for voice,

 piano, and viola: a singular and admirable combination. Mr. MacDowell

 will be glad to hear of your pleasure in his “Keltic Sonata,” for he is

 one of your most sensitive admirers: it was he, indeed, who first made

 me acquainted with your work. Have you heard his earliest sonatas—the

 “Norse,” “Eroica,” and “Tragica”? They are not very far behind the

 “Keltic” in distinction and force, though lacking the import and

 exaltation of the latter.

 You would be surprised, I think, to know how the Celtic impulse is

 seizing the imaginations of some of the younger and more warmly-tempered

 of American composers. I am enclosing a programme of a concert given

 recently in Boston, consisting entirely of music written on Celtic

 themes.

 Thank you again.

  Very faithfully yours,

  LAWRENCE GILMAN.

When in New York William Sharp had written to Mr. Alden “on behalf of

Miss Macleod” concerning her later nature-essay work, and explained

that “Some months ago, by special request from the Editor of _Country

Life_ Miss M. began contributing one or two of these papers. From the

first they attracted notice, and then the Editor asked her if she would

contribute a series to appear as frequently as practicable—averaging

two a month—till next May when they would be issued in book-form. As

Miss M. enjoys writing them, she agreed.”

In the same letter he spoke of a subject on which he had long

meditated. He proposed it for _Harper’s Magazine_:—“I have long been

thinking over the material of an article on the Fundamental Science of

Criticism, to be headed, say ‘A New Degree: D. Crit.’” This project

among many others was never worked out. But the ‘nature-papers’ were a

great pleasure to him, and in 1904 and 1905 he wrote on many subjects

for _Country Life_, over the signature of F. M., also several poems

that were afterwards included in the second edition of _From the Hills

of Dream_.

As month by month the number of nature essays grew, he planned to

issue them in two, and later in three volumes. To the second volume

he thought to give the title “Blue Days and Green Days” (from a line

of R. L. Stevenson’s), and to call the third, which was to deal with

the stars and the skies at night, “Beyond the Blue Septentrion.” Not

all the projected essays for each book, however, were written; but

those which appeared serially were published posthumously in 1906,

by _Country Life_ under the title of _Where the Forest Murmurs_.

Concerning the titular essay, Mr. Alfred Noyes wrote: “It is one of

those pieces of nature-study which, in Matthew Arnold’s phrase, have

that rarest of all modern qualities—‘Healing Power.’”

And according to _The Contemporary Review_:

“Fiona Macleod’s prose baffles description. It is perhaps hardly prose

at all. It is melody in words suggesting scenes as much by sound as

by the passage of ideas. The ideas conveyed by the actual words are

supplemented by the rhythm or melody conveyed by the sequence of

words. But it is, when all analysis is ended, something quite alone:

pure music of a strange and curious quality that is neither prose nor

poetry, but thrilling with the pain and passion of a Gaelic chant. It

conveys to the mind and heart the scenes and sounds of nature with

almost magical accuracy.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The immediate object of our short visit to New York and Boston was that

I should know in person some of the many friends my husband valued

there, and I was specially interested to make the acquaintance of Mr.

and Mrs. Stedman, who gave me a warm welcome, of Mr. and Mrs. Alden,

Mr. and Mrs. R. Watson Gilder, Mr. John Lafarge, Mrs. Julia Ward

Howe, and Miss Caroline Hazard whom we visited at Wellesley College.

But winter set in with December. The cold proved so severe that we

sailed for and reached Naples in time to spend Xmas Day with friends

at Bordighera whence W. S. wrote to Mr. Murray Gilchrist: “We are back

from America (thank God) and are in Italy (thank Him more).... For

myself I am crawling out of the suck of a wave whose sweep will I hope

be a big one of some months and carry me far.”

       *       *       *       *       *

In Rome we took rooms at the top of Fischer’s Park Hotel, whence from

the balconies we had a superb view over Rome. There we saw a few

friends—in particular Mr. Hichens who was also wintering there; but my

husband did not feel strong enough for any social effort. As he wrote

to Mr. Mosher:

  11th Feb., 1905.

 Dubious and ever varying health, with much going to and fro in quest of

 what is perhaps not to be found (for mere change of climate will not

 give health unless other conditions combine to bring about the miracle)

 have, among other causes, prevented my writing to you as I had intended,

 or, indeed, from doing much writing of any kind. I have written a few

 articles for _Country Life_—and little else, published or unpublished.

 The days go by and I say “at night”—and every night I am too tired or

 listless, and say “tomorrow”: