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

was a marble aqueduct, with vines laden with ripe fruit covering it

with a fragrant veil: citrons and pomegranates were all around. Dark

passionate eyes of the South met mine; the dreamy sweetness of a

strange tongue sang an ineffably delicious song through and through my

soul: I sank into the utmost realms of reverie, and drank a precious

draught of alien life for only too brief a space. Not De Quincey in the

mystic rapture of opium, not Mohammed in his vision of Paradise, drank

deeper of the ineffable wine of the Supreme and Unattainable.”

It was several weeks before the much-hoped-for invitation came, and the

recipient was feeling so ill that he was hardly in a condition to take

full advantage of it, and feared he had made a bad impression on his

host. The following morning he wrote:

  19 ALBERT ST., REGENT’S PARK N.W.,

  31: 1: 80.

  MY DEAR SIR,

I hope you will not consider me ungrateful for the pleasure you gave me

last night because I outwardly showed so little appreciation—but I was

really so unwell from cold and headache that it was the utmost I could

do to listen coherently. But though, otherwise, I look back gratefully

to the whole evening I especially recall with pleasure the few minutes

in which now and again you read. I have never heard such a beautiful

reader of verse as yourself, and if I had not felt—well, shy—I should

have asked you to go on reading. Voice, and tone, and expression, all

were in perfect harmony—and although I have much else to thank you for,

allow me to thank you for the pleasure you have given me in this also.

I enclose 4 or 5 poems taken at random from my MSS. Two or three were

written two or three years ago. That called the “Dancer” is modelled on

your beautiful “Card-Dealer.”

I have also to thank you for your kind criticisms: and hope that you

do not consider my aspirations and daring hopes as altogether in vain.

Despair comes sometimes upon me very heavily, but I have not yet lost

heart.

  Yours most faithfully,

  WILLIAM SHARP.

On the 23d of February he wrote to Mrs. Caird:

DEAR MONA.

Was unable after all to resume my letter on Friday night. On Friday

morning I had a note from Rossetti wanting me to come again and dine

with him—this time alone, I was glad to find. I spent a most memorable

evening, and enjoyed myself more than I can tell. We dined together

in free and easy manner in his studio, surrounded by his beautiful

paintings and studies. Then, and immediately after dinner he told me

things of himself, personal reminiscences, with other conversation

about the leading living painters and poets. Then he talked to me about

myself, and my manuscripts—a few of which he had seen. Then personal

and other matters again, followed, to my great delight (as Rossetti is

a most beautiful reader) by his reading to me a great part of the as

yet unpublished sonnets which go to form “The House of Life.” Some of

them were splendid, and seemed to me finer than those published—more

markedly intellectual, I thought. This took up a long time, which

passed most luxuriously for me....

He has been so kind to me every way: and this time he gave me two most

valuable and welcome introductions—one to Philip Bourke Marston, the

man whose genius is so wonderful, considering he has been blind from

his birth—and the other to his brother Mr. Michael Rossetti, to whom,

however, he had already kindly spoken about me. I am to go when I wish

to the latter’s literary re-unions, where I shall make the acquaintance

of some of our leading authors and authoresses. Did I tell you that the

last time I dined at Rossetti’s house he gave me a copy of his poems,

with something from himself written on the fly-leaf? On that occasion

I also met Theodore Watts, the well-known critic of _The Athenaeum_.

It is so strange to be on intimate terms with a man whom a short time

ago I looked on as so far off. Perhaps, dear friend, when you come to

stay with Elizabeth and myself in the happy days which I hope are in

store for us all, you will “pop” into quite a literary circle!... I was

sure, also, you would enjoy the _Life of Clifford_ in “Mod: Thought.”

What a splendid man he was: a true genius, yet full of the joy of life,

sociable, fun-loving, genial, and in every way a gentleman. I was

reading one of his books lately, and was struck with the sympathetic

spirit he showed toward what to him meant nothing—Christianity. I wish

we had more men like him. There is another man for whom I think I have

an equal admiration, though of a different order in one sense—Dr.

Martineau. Have you read anything of his?

On Wednesday evening next I am going to a Spiritual Séance, by the

best mediums—which I am looking forward to with great curiosity....

Besides verse, I am writing a Paper just now on “Climate in Relation

to the Influences of Art,” and going on with one or two other minor

things. There now, I have told you all about myself....

  Your friend and comrade,

  WILL.

He submitted several poems to Rossetti who had suggested that if he

had a suitable sonnet it might be included in Hall Caine’s _Century of

Sonnets_. Rossetti’s acknowledgment contained an adverse criticism on

the Sonnet sent, softened by an invitation to the younger man to go

again to see him.

  Saturday.

  DEAR MR. ROSSETTI,

Thanks for your kind invitation to Philip and myself for Monday

night—which we are both glad to accept. I found him in bed this morning

on my way to the city—but had no scruple in waking him as I knew what

pleasure your message would give. We both thank you also for promising

to put us up at night.

I infer from your letter that you do not think _The Two Realities_

good enough to send to Caine: and though of course sorry, I acquiesce

in your judgment. I know that none of my best work is in sonnet-form,

and that I have less mastery over the latter than any other form of

verse. But I will try to improve my deficiencies in this way by acting

up to your suggestions. You see, I have never had the advantage of

such a severe critic as you before. For instance, I have received

praise from many on account of a sonnet you once saw (one of a series

on “Womanhood”) called “Approaching Womanhood”—which I enclose

herewith—wishing you to tell me _how_ it is poor and what I might have

made of it instead. As I am writing from the city I have no others by

me (but indeed you have been bothered sufficiently already) but will

try and give one from memory—which I hastily dashed down one day in the

office.

Looking forward to Monday night,

  Yours ever sincerely,

  WILLIAM SHARP.

Eventually the Sonnets were written that satisfied his critic and were

included in Hall Caine’s Anthology.

About this time also he was attempting a poem relating to an imaginary

episode in the early life of Christ. To me it seemed a mistake, and I

urged him to consult Mr. Rossetti, who replied as follows:

  Thursday, Jan., 1880.

  MY DEAR SHARP,

 I am quite unable to advise you on so abstruse a point. Strange to

 say, I can conceive no higher Ideal than the Christ we know; and I

 judge it to be very rash to lower in poetry (to the apprehension of

 many beautiful minds) that Ideal, by any assumption to decide a point

 respecting it which it is not possible to _decide_, whichever way belief

 or even conviction may tend.

 I did not gather fully the relation of the Wandering Jew to your poem.

 If the very Jew in question, how is he to know of the development of

 humanity before his time? That he is a symbol of course I understand;

 but the balance between person and symbol should be clearly determined.

 I hope you may enjoy yourself in such good company, and am ever,

  Sincerely yours,

Sir Noel Paton had given his younger countryman an introduction also to

his old friend Mrs. Craik (author of John Halifax) who, it happened,

was P. B. Marston’s godmother. She had a house in Kent, at Shortlands,

and to it she on several occasions invited the two young poets. During

one of these days, in the late summer, they went for a drive through

the green lanes, when suddenly there came on a thunderstorm. The

carriage was shut up, but there was no way of protecting the occupant

of the box seat. So that Philip should come to no harm the younger man

took the box seat and got thoroughly wet. On reaching the house he

refused many suggestions to have his clothes dried, and went back to

town that evening in his damp garments. A violent cold ensued, which

he was unable to throw off. He was out of health, ill-nourished, owing

to his slender means, and overworked. That summer my mother had taken

a cottage in South Wales, on the estuary near Portmadoc, and my cousin

came to spend his holidays with us. A weary delicate creature arrived,

but he was sure that a bathe or two in the salt water would soon cure

him. Alas, instead of that within a few days he was laid low with

rheumatic fever, and for four weeks my mother and I nursed him and it

was the end of September before he could go back to town. That autumn

my mother let her house for six months and decided to winter in Italy

with her daughters. Although there was much that was alluring in the

prospect I was very greatly worried at leaving London, for my poet was

so weak and delicate, and I distrusted his notions of taking care of

himself. On the 13th December he wrote to me:

  Monday, 13: 12: 80.

 “I spent such a pleasant evening on Saturday. I went round to

 Francillon’s house about 8 o’clock, and spent about an hour there with

 him and Julian Hawthorne. Then we walked down to Covent Garden, and

 joined the ‘Oasis’ Club—where we met about 30 or so other literary men

 and artists, including the D. Christie Murray I so much wished to meet,

 and whom I like very much. We spent a very pleasant while a decidedly

 ‘Bohemian’ night, and after we broke up I walked home with Francillon,

 Julian Hawthorne, and Murray. Hawthorne and myself are to be admitted

 members at the next meeting.”

He has described his friendship with the blind poet in his Introduction

to a Selection of Marston’s poems published in the Canterbury Series:

“I was spending an evening with Rossetti, when I chanced to make some

reference to Marston’s poetry. Finding that I did not know the blind

poet and that I was anxious to meet him, Rossetti promised to bring us

together. I remember that I was fascinated by him at once—his manner,

his personality, his conversation. ‘There is a kind of compensation,’

he remarked to me once, ‘in the way that new friendships arise to

brighten my life as soon as I am bowled over by some great loss.’”

Just before Christmas, William wrote:

 DEAR MR. ROSSETTI,

 ... I wished very much to show you two poems I had written in the

 earlier half of this year, and now send them by the same post. The one

 entitled “Motherhood” I think the better on the whole. It was written

 to give expression to the feeling I had so strongly of the beauty and

 sacredness of Motherhood in itself, and how this is the same, in degree,

 all through creation: the poem is accordingly in three parts—the first

 dealing with an example of Motherhood in the brute creation, the second

 with a savage of the lowest order, and the third with a civilised

 girl-woman of the highest type.

 The other—“The Dead Bridegroom”—is more purely an “art” poem. After

 reading it, you will doubtless recognise the story, which I believe

 is true. Swinburne (I understand) told it to one or two, and Meredith

 embodied it in a short ballad. Philip Marston told me the story one day,

 and, it having taken a great hold upon me, the accompanying poem was the

 result. After I had finished and read it to Philip, it took strong hold

 of his imagination also—and so he also began a poem on the same subject,

 treating it differently, however, and employing the _complete_ details

 of the story, instead of, as I have done, stopping short at the lover’s

 death, and is still unfinished.

 It is in great part owing to his generously enthusiastic praise that I

 now send these for your inspection; but also because much of