WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 A MEMOIR
 
 f^^-6cca??iy 

 
 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 (FIONA MACLEOD) 
 
 A MEMOIR 
 
 COMPILED BY HIS WIFE 
 
 ELIZABETH A. SHARP 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 
 1910
 
 Copyright, 1910, by 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 
 THE TEOW PRESS • NEW YORK
 
 PREFACE 
 
 When the secret of tlie identity of Fiona Macleod — so 
 loyally guarded by a number of friends for twelve years 
 — ^was finally made known, mucb speculation arose as to 
 the nature of the dual element that had found expression 
 in the collective work of William Sharp. Many sugges- 
 tions, wide of the mark, were advanced; among others, 
 that the writer had assumed the pseudonym as a joke, 
 and having assumed it found himself constrained to con- 
 tinue its use. A few of the critics understood. Prof. 
 Patrick Geddes realised that the discussion was produc- 
 tive of further misunderstanding, and wrote to me: 
 " Should you not explain that F. M. was not simply W. S., 
 but that W. S. in his deepest moods became F. M., a sort 
 of dual personality in short, not a mere nom-de-guerre ? " 
 It was not expedient for me at that moment to do so. I 
 preferred to wait till I could prepare as adequate an ex- 
 planation as possible. My chief aim, therefore, in writ- 
 ing about my husband and in giving a sketch of his life, 
 has been to indicate, to the best of my ability, the growth 
 and development in his work of the dual literary expres- 
 sion of himself. 
 
 The most carefully compiled record of a life can be but 
 partially true, since much of necessity must be left un- 
 said. A biographer, moreover, can delineate another 
 human being only to the extent of his understanding of 
 that fellow being. In so far as he lacks, not only knowl- 
 edge of facts, but also the illumination of intuition and 
 sympathy, to that extent will he fail to present a finished 
 study of his subject. And because no one can wholly 
 know another: because one of necessity interprets an- 
 other through the colour of his or her mind, I am very 
 conscious of my own limitations in this respect. As, how- 
 ever, I have known AVilliam Sharp for more consecutive 
 
 2037279
 
 ii PEEFACE 
 
 years than any other of his intimate friends, I perhaps 
 am able therefore to offer the fullest survey of the un- 
 folding of his life ; though I realise that others may have 
 known him better than I on some sides of his nature : in 
 particular as he impressed those who had not discovered, 
 or were not in sympathy with, the " F. M." phase in him. 
 
 The life of William Sharp divides itself naturally into 
 two halves : the first ends with the publication by W. S. 
 of Vistas, and the second begins with Pharais, the first 
 book signed Fiona Macleod. It has been my endeavour 
 to tell his story by means of letters and diaries ; of letters 
 written by him, and of others written to him, concerning 
 his work and interests. To quote his own words : " A 
 group of intimate letters, written with no foreseen or 
 suspected secondary intention, will probably give us more 
 insight into the inner nature of a man than any num- 
 ber of hypothetical pros and cons on the part of a 
 biographer, or than reams of autobiography. ... I know 
 Keats for instance far better through his letters than 
 by even the ablest and most intimate memoirs that have 
 been written of him: the real man is revealed in them 
 and is brought near to us till we seem to hear his voice 
 and clasp his hand." 
 
 The diaries are fragmentary. They were usually be- 
 gun at each New Year, but were speedily discontinued; 
 or noted down intermittently, during a sojourn abroad, 
 as a record of work. He was a good correspondent, both 
 as W. S. and F. M. I have thus tried to make the 
 book as autobiographic as possible, by means of these 
 letters and diaries, and I have added only what has 
 seemed to me necessary to make the narrative sequent. 
 Unfortunately, letters have not been available from sev- 
 eral valuable sources; and I regret the absence of any 
 written by him to Walter Pater, George Meredith, Theo- 
 dore Watts-Dunton, Arthur Symons, and to one or two of 
 his most intimate friends. 
 
 I take this opportunity of expressing to many friends 
 on both sides of the Atlantic my appreciation of their 
 courtesy in placing letters at my disposal; also for per-
 
 PREFACE m 
 
 mission accorded to me by Mr. Robert Ross for the use of 
 letters from Oscar Wilde, and by Mr. Charles Baxter, for 
 letters from Robert Louis Stevenson. Through the kind- 
 ness of Mrs. Sturgis I have included among the illustra- 
 tions a portrait of her father George Meredith (dated 
 1898). I am indebted to Miss Pater for the photograph 
 of her brother Walter Pater ; and to Mr. W. M. Rossetti 
 for that of his brother Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 
 
 Of the four portraits of William Sharp, herein repro- 
 duced, the earliest was taken about the time of the publi- 
 cation of his first volume of poems. The pastel by the 
 Norwegian painter, Charles Ross, was executed in Rome 
 in 1891, two years before Pharais was written; and the 
 etching by our friend, Mr. William Strang A.R.A., who 
 has kindly sanctioned my use of it, dates to 1896, in which 
 year were published The Washer of the Ford, Green 
 Fire, and From the Hills of Dream. The final portrait 
 of my husband was taken in Sicily in 1903 by the Hon. 
 Alexander Nelson Hood (Duke of Bronte), who also has 
 permitted me to reproduce his photograph of II Castello 
 di Maniace, Bronte — on the inland shoulder of Etna — 
 close to which, on a sloping hillside, in the little wood- 
 land burial ground, and within sound of rushing waters, 
 stands the lona cross erected to the memory of William 
 Sharp and " Fiona Macleod."
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PART I: William Sharp 1 
 
 Chapter I: Childhood 3 
 
 Chapter II: Australia 17 
 
 Chapter III: Early Days in London . .35 
 
 Chapter IV: The Death op Rossetti 58 
 
 Chapter V: First Visit to Italy 78 
 
 Chapter VI: Sonnets of This Century 104 
 
 Chapter VII: The Sport of Chance 
 
 Shelley 121 
 
 Chapter VIII: Romantic Ballads 
 
 The Children of To-Morrow 135 
 
 Chapter IXi First Visit to America 149 
 
 Chapter X: Browning 
 
 The Joseph Severn Memoirs 158 
 
 Chapter XI: Rome 
 
 Sospiri di Roma 173 
 
 Chapter XII : Walt Whitman 
 
 The Pagan Review 192 
 
 Chapter XIII: Algiers 
 
 Vistas 208 
 
 PART II: Fiona Macleod 219 
 
 Chapter XIV: The Pseudonym 
 
 Pharais 221 
 
 Chapter XV: The Mountain Lovers 
 
 The Sin Eater 242 
 
 Chapter XVI: The Sin Eater 256 
 
 Chapter XVII: Runes of the Sorrows of Women 
 
 Green Fire 266
 
 vi WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Chapter XVIII: From the Hills of Dream 
 
 The Laughter of Peterkin 279 
 
 Chapter XIX: Wives in Exile 
 
 Silence Farm 292 
 
 Chapter XX: The Dominion of Dreams . . . • • 304 
 
 Chapter XXI: The Divine Adventure 
 
 Celtic 
 
 314 
 
 Chapter XXII: Provence 
 
 Maniace 328 
 
 Chapter XXIII: Lismore 
 
 Taormina 344 
 
 Chapter XXIV: Winter in Athens 
 
 Greek Backgrounds 367 
 
 Chapter XXV: The Winged Destiny 
 
 Literary Geography 381 
 
 Chapter XXVI: 1905 395 
 
 Chapter XXVII: Conclusion 421
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Frontispiece 
 William Sharp (1896), after an etching by William Strang, A. R. A. 
 
 Facing Page 
 
 Dante Gabriel Rossetti 58 
 
 William Sharp (1883), after photograph taken in Rome ... 78 
 
 Walter Pater, after a photograph by Frederick Hollyer . . . 104 
 
 William Sharp (1891), after a pastel drawing by Charles Ross . 180 
 
 Fac-Simile op an Autograph Poem by William Sharp . . . 216 
 
 Fac-Simile of an Autograph "Fiona Macleod" Poem by William 
 
 Sharp 244 
 
 II Castello di Maniace, Bronte, Sicily, after a photograph by the 
 
 Hon. Alex. Nelson Hood 332 
 
 William Sharp (1903), after a photograph by the Hon. Alex. Nelson 
 
 Hood (Duke of Bronte) 358 
 
 George Meredith, after a photograph by Frederick Hollyer . . 368 
 
 Mrs. William Sharp (1909), after a photograph by T. Craig-Annan . 414
 
 PAKT I 
 WILLIAM SHAEP
 
 " Praised he the fathomless universe, 
 For life and joy . . . and for love, sweet love." 
 
 W. Whitman. 
 
 " But one to ichom life appeals iy myriad avenues, all alluring and full 
 of wonder and mystery, cannot always abide where the heart most longs to 
 he. It is well to remember that there are Shndowy "Waters, even in the 
 cities, and that the Fount of Youth is discoverable in the dreariest towns 
 as well a^ in Hy Brasil: a truth apt to he forgotten by those of us who 
 dwell with ever-wondering delight in that land of lost romance which had 
 its own day, as this epoch of a still stranger, if less obvious, romance has 
 its passing hour." 
 
 F. M.
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 CHILDHOOD 
 
 " Childhood, -when the child is as a flower of wilding growth, 
 and when it is at one with nature, fellow with the winds 
 and birds." W. S. 
 
 " That man is fortunate who has half his desires 
 gratified, who lives to see half his desires accomplished," 
 says Schopenhauer, and taking the axiom to be true I 
 am not going back on it, for certainly more than half 
 of the desires of my boyhood and youth have been 
 fulfilled. I come of a West of Scotland stock which — 
 perhaps in part because of its Scandinavian admixture 
 — has always had in it ' the wandering blood ' : and from 
 my early days, when at the mature age of three I escaped 
 one night from the nursery and was found in the garden 
 at midnight, a huddled little white heap at the foot of 
 a great poplar that was at once my ceaseless delight and 
 wonder and a fascination that was almost terror, a de- 
 sire of roaming possessed me." 
 
 That William Sharp should be one of the fortunates 
 who, toward the end of life, could say he had fulfilled 
 more than half of his early desires, was due mainly to 
 a ceaseless curiosity and love of adventure, to a happy 
 fearlessness of disposition that prompted him when 
 starting on any quest to seize the propitious moment, 
 and if necessary to bum his boats behind him. He be- 
 lieved himself to have been bom under a lucky star. 
 Notwithstanding the great hardships and difficulties 
 that sometimes barred his way, his vivid imagination, 
 aided by a strong will and untiring perseverance, opened 
 to him many doors of the wonderland of life that lured 
 him in his dreams. The adventurous and the romantic 
 were to him as beacons; and though their lights were 
 at times overshadowed by the tragedy of human life, his
 
 4 WILLIAM SHAKP 
 
 natural buoyancy of disposition, his power of whole- 
 hearted enjoyment in things large and small, his ready 
 intuitive sympathy, preserved in him a spirit of fine 
 optimism to the end. 
 
 The conditions of his early boyhood were favourable 
 to the development of his natural inclination. 
 
 He was born on the 12th of September, 1855, at 4 
 Garthland Place, Paisley, on a day when the bells were 
 ringing for the fall of Sebastopol. He was the eldest 
 of a family of three sons and five daughters. His 
 father, David Galbreath Sharp, a partner in an old-es- 
 tablished mercantile house, was the youngest son of Wil- 
 liam Sharp, whose family originally came from near 
 Dunblane. His mother was a Miss Katherine Brooks, 
 the eldest daughter of William Brooks, Swedish Vice- 
 Consul at Glasgow, and of Swedish descent, whose wife 
 was a Miss Agnes Henderson, related to the Stewarts 
 of Shambellie and the Murrays of Philiphaugh. 
 
 Mr. David Sharp was a genial, observant man, hu- 
 mourous, and a finished mimic. Though much of his life 
 was of necessity spent in a city, he had a keen love of the 
 country, and especially of the West Highlands. Every 
 summer he took a house for three or four months on the 
 shores of the Clyde, or on one of the beautiful sea lochs, 
 or on the island of Arran, now so exploited, but then 
 relatively secluded. Very early he initiated his son in 
 the arts of swimming, rowing, and line fishing; sailed 
 with him along the beautiful shores of the Western High- 
 lands and the Inner Hebrides. 
 
 Mrs. David Sharp had been brought up by her father 
 to read seriously, and to take an interest in his favour- 
 ite study of Geology. It was she who watched over 
 her son's work at college, and made facilities for 
 him to follow his special pursuits at home. But the 
 boy was never urged to distinguish himself at college. 
 He was considered too delicate to be subjected to severe 
 mental pressure; and he met with no encouragement 
 from either parent in his wish to throw himself into the 
 study of science or literature as a profession, for such a
 
 CHILDHOOD 5 
 
 course seemed to them to offer no prospects for his future. 
 It was from Mrs. Sharp that her son inherited his Scandi- 
 navian physique and high colouring; for in appearance 
 he resembled his fair-complexioned, tall maternal grand- 
 father. The blend of nationalities in him, slight though 
 the Swedish strain was, produced a double strain. He 
 was, in the words of a friend, a Viking in build, a Scandi- 
 navian in cast of mind, a Celt in heart and spirit. 
 
 As a little child he was very delicate. 
 
 The long months each year by mountain and sea, and 
 the devotion of his Highland nurse Barbara, and his de- 
 light in open-air life, were the most potent factors in the 
 inward growth of his mind and spirit. From his earliest 
 days he was a passionate lover of nature, a tireless 
 observer of her moods and changes, for he had always 
 felt himself to be " at one with nature, fellow with 
 the winds and birds." And Barbara, the Highland 
 woman, it was she who told him stories of Faerie, 
 crooned to him old Gaelic songs, and made his childish 
 mind familiar with the heroes of the old Celtic Sagas, 
 with the daring exploits of the Viking rovers and High- 
 land chieftains. It was she who sowed the seeds in his 
 mind of much that he afterward retold under the pseu- 
 donym of Fiona Macleod. 
 
 There are two stories of his childhood I have heard 
 him tell, which seem to me to show that from earliest 
 years the distinctive characteristics of his markedly dual 
 nature existed and swayed him. From babyhood his 
 mind had been filled with stories of old heroic times^ 
 and in his play he delighted in being the adventurous 
 warrior or marauding Viking. In the gray, inclement 
 days of winter when he was shut up in his nursery away 
 from the green life in the garden and the busy wee birds 
 in the trees, he was thrown on the resources of his imag- 
 ination to fill the long hours. One snowy day, when he 
 was five years old, and he was tired of playing with his 
 baby sisters, who could not sufficiently rise to the occasion 
 and play the distressed damsels to his deeds of knightly 
 chivalry, he determined to sally forth in search of ad-
 
 6 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 venture. He buckled his sword above his kilt — it was 
 afternoon and the light was waning — stole downstairs 
 and out of the house, hatless, with flying curls, and 
 marched down the street to lay siege to the nearest 
 castle. A short distance away stood the house of a 
 friend of his father, and upon that the besieger turned 
 his attack. It loomed in his mind as the castle of his 
 desire. He strode resolutely up to the door, with great 
 difficulty, on tiptoe, reached the handle of the bell, 
 pulled a long peal, and then demanded of the maid that 
 she and all within should surrender to him and deliver 
 up the keys of the castle. The maid fell in with his 
 humour, was properly frightened, and begged to be al- 
 lowed to summon her mistress, who at once promised 
 submission, led the victor into her room, and by a blaz- 
 ing fire gave him the keys in the form of much coveted 
 sweets, held him in her lap till in the warmth he fell 
 asleep, rolled him up in a blanket, and carried him 
 home. 
 
 The other story is indicative not of the restless adven- 
 ture-loving side of him, but of the poet dreamer. 
 
 During the child's sixth year his father had taken a 
 house for the summer months on the shores of Loch 
 Long ; the great heather-clad hills, peak behind peak, the 
 deep waters of the winding loch, were a ceaseless delight 
 to the boy. But above all else there lay an undefined 
 attraction in a little wood, a little pine belt nestling on 
 the hillside above the house. It was an enchanted land to 
 him, away from the everyday world, where human beings 
 never came, but where he met his invisible playmates, 
 visible to him. " I went there very often," he wrote 
 later. " I thought that belt of firs had a personality 
 as individual as that of any human being, a sanctity 
 not to be disturbed by sport or play." It was a holy place 
 to him. The sense of the Infinite touched him there. 
 He had heard of God in the church, and as described 
 from the pulpit that Being was to him remote and for- 
 bidding. But here he seemed conscious of a Presence that 
 was benign, beautiful. He felt there was some great
 
 CHILDHOOD 7 
 
 power (he could not define the feeling to himself) be- 
 hind the beauty he saw; behind the wind he did not see, 
 but heard; behind the wonder of the sunshine and sun- 
 set and in the silences he loved, that awoke in him 
 a desire to belong to it. And so, moved to express his 
 desire in some way, he built a little altar of stones, 
 rough stones, put together under a swaying pine, and on 
 it he laid white flowers in offering. 
 
 The three influences that taught him most in child- 
 hood were the wind, the woods, and the sea. Water 
 throughout his life had an irresistible charm for him — 
 the sea, the mountain-loch, or the rushing headlong 
 waters of the hill-burns. To watch the play of moving 
 waters was an absorbing fascination, and he has told 
 me how one bright night he had crept on to a ledge of 
 wet rocks behind a hill water-fall and had lain there so 
 that he might watch the play of moonlight through the 
 shimmering veil of waters. 
 
 " When I was a child," he wrote later, " I used to 
 throw offerings — small coins, flowers, shells, even a 
 newly caught trout, once a treasured flint arrow-head — 
 into the sea-loch by which we lived. My Hebridean 
 nurse had often told me of Shony, a mysterious sea-god, 
 and I know I spent much time in wasted adoration: a 
 fearful worship, not unmixed with disappointment and 
 some anger. Not once did I see him. I was frightened 
 time after time, but the sudden cry of a heron, or the 
 snort of a pollack chasing the mackerel, or the abrupt 
 uplifting of a seal's head became over-familiar, and I 
 desired terror, and could not find it by the shore. In- 
 land, after dusk, there was always the mysterious mul- 
 titude of shadow. There, too, I could hear the wind leap- 
 ing and growling. But by the shore I never knew any 
 dread, even in the darkest night. The sound and com- 
 pany of the sea washed away all fears." 
 
 But the child was not a dreamer only. He was a high- 
 spirited little chap, who loved swimming and fishing 
 and climbing; and learned at an early age to handle the 
 oar and the tiller, and to understand the ways and
 
 8 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 moods of a sailing boat; afraid of nothing and ready 
 for any adventure that offered. 
 
 My first recollections of him go back to my childhood. 
 We were cousins; my father was his father's older 
 brother. My mother was the daughter of Eobert Far- 
 quharson, of Breda and Allargue. In 1863 my Uncle 
 David had a house at Blairmore on the Gare-loch for 
 the summer, and my mother took her children to the 
 neighbouring village of Strone, so that the cousins 
 might become acquainted. My impression of " Willie " 
 is vivid: a merry, mischievous little boy in his eighth 
 year, with bright-brown curly hair, blue-gray eyes, and a 
 laughing face, and dressed in a tweed kilt; eager, active 
 in his endless invention of games and occupations, and 
 a veritable despot over his sisters in their play. He in- 
 terested his London cousins in showing them how to find 
 crabs and spouting fish, birds' nests, and brambles ; terri- 
 fied them with tales of snakes in the grass on the hills, 
 and of the ghostly things that flitted about the woods at 
 night. But his chief delight was his punt. A great part 
 of the day he spent on and in the water, shouting with 
 delight as he tossed on the waves in the wake of a 
 steamer, and he occasionally startled us by being appar- 
 ently capsized into the water, disappearing from sight, 
 and then clambering into the punt dripping and happy. 
 But I remember that with all his love of fun and teasing^ 
 he seemed to feel himself different from the other chil- 
 dren of his age, and would fly off alone to the hillside or 
 to the woods to his many friends among the birds and 
 the squirrels and the rabbits, with whose ways and hab- 
 itations he seemed so familiar. 
 
 About the dream and vision side of his life he learned 
 early to be silent. He soon realised that his play- 
 mates understood nothing of the confused memories of 
 previous lives that haunted him, and from which he 
 drew materials to weave into stories for his school-fel- 
 lows in the dormitory at nights. To his surprise he 
 found they saw none of the denizens of the other worlds 
 — tree spirits and nature spirits, great and small — so
 
 CHELDHOOD 9 
 
 familiar to him, and who he imagined must be as obvious 
 to others as to himself. He could say about them as 
 Lafcadio Heam said about ghosts and goblins, that he 
 believed in them for the best of possible reasons, be- 
 cause he saw them day and night. 
 
 He found, as have other imaginative psychic children, 
 that he had an inner life, a curious power of vision un- 
 shared by any one about him; so that what he related 
 was usually discredited. But the psychic side of his 
 nature was too intimately a part of himself to be killed 
 by misunderstanding. He learned early to shut it away 
 — keep it as a thing apart — a mystery of his own, a 
 mystery to himself. This secrecy had two direct re- 
 sults: he needed from time to time to get away alone, 
 from other people, so as again and again to get into 
 touch with " the Green Life," as he called it, for spir- 
 itual refreshment; and it developed in him a love not 
 only of mystery for its own sake, but of mystification 
 also that became a marked characteristic, and eventu- 
 ally was one of the factors which in his literary work 
 led to the adoption of the pseudonym. 
 
 Once only, as far as I know, in the short psychic tale 
 called " The Four Winds of the Spirit," did he, in his 
 writings, make any reference to his invisible playmates. 
 I have often heard him speak of a beautiful, gentle 
 white Lady of the Woods, about whom he once wrote 
 in a letter: "For I, too, have my dream, my mem- 
 ory of one whom as a child I called Star-Eyes, and whom 
 later I called ^ Baumorair-na-mara,' the Lady of the 
 Sea, and whom at least I knew to be no other than the 
 woman who is in the heart of women. I was not more 
 than seven when one day, by a well, near a sea-loch in 
 Argyll, just as I was stooping to drink, my glancing eyes 
 lit on a tall woman standing among a mist of wild hya- 
 cinths under three great sycamores. I stood, looking, 
 as a fawn looks, wide-eyed, unafraid. She did not speak, 
 but she smiled, and because of the love and beauty in 
 her eyes I ran to her. She stooped and lifted blueness 
 out of the flowers, as one might lift foam out of a pool,^
 
 10 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 and I thought she threw it over me. When I was found 
 lying among the hyacinths dazed, and, as was thought, 
 ill, I asked eagerly after the lady in white, and with 
 hair all shiny-gold like buttercups, but when I found I 
 was laughed at, or at last, when I passionately persisted, 
 was told I was sun-dazed and had been dreaming, I said 
 no more — but I did not forget." 
 
 This boy dreamer began his education at home under 
 a governess, and of those early days I know little ex- 
 cept that he was tractable, easily taught, and sunny- 
 natured. 
 
 He has given an account of his first experiences at 
 school in a paper, " In the Days of my Youth," which 
 he was asked to contribute to M. A. P. 
 
 " The first tragedy in my life was when I was cap- 
 tured for the sacrifice of school. At least to me it 
 seemed no less than a somewhat brutal and certainly 
 tyrannical capture, and my heart sank when, at the age 
 of eight (I did not know how fortunate I was to have 
 escaped the needless bondage of early schooling till I 
 was eight years old), I was dispatched to what was then 
 one of the chief boarding-schools in Scotland, Blair 
 Lodge, in Polmont Woods, between Falkirk and Lin- 
 lithgow. It was beautifully situated, and though I then 
 thought the woods were forests and the Forth and Clyde 
 canal a mighty stream, I was glad some years ago, on 
 revisiting the spot, to find that my boyish memories 
 were by no means so exaggerated as I feared. I am 
 afraid I was much more of a credit to my shepherd and 
 fisher and gipsy, friends than to my parents or school- 
 masters. 
 
 " On the very day of my arrival a rebellion had broken 
 out, and by natural instinct I was, like the Irishman 
 the moment he arrived in America, ' agin the Govern- 
 ment.' I remember the rapture with which I evaded a 
 master's pursuing grip, and was hauled in at a window 
 by exultant rebels. In that temporary haven the same 
 afternoon I insulted a big boy, whose peculiar physiog- 
 nomy had amazed me to delighted but impolite laugh-
 
 CHILDHOOD 11 
 
 ter, and forthwith experienced my first school thrash- 
 ing. Later in the day I had the satisfaction of coming 
 out victor in an equal combat with the heir of an 
 Indian big-wig, whom, with too ready familiarity, I 
 had addressed as ' Curry.' As I was a rather delicate 
 and sensitive child, this was not a bad beginning, and 
 I recollect my exhilaration (despite aching bones and 
 smarting spots) in the thought that 'school' prom- 
 ised to be a more lively experience than I had an- 
 ticipated. 
 
 " I ran away three times, and I doubt if I learned 
 more indoors than I did on these occasions and in my 
 many allowed and stolen outings. The first flight for 
 freedom was an ignominious failure. The second occa- 
 sion two of us were Screaming Eagle and Sitting Bull, 
 and we had a smothered fire o' nights and ample pro- 
 vender (legally and illegally procured), and we might 
 have become habitual woodlanders had I not ventured to 
 a village and rolled downhill before me a large circular 
 cheese, for which, alas! I now blush to say, I forgot to 
 pay or even to leave my name and address. That cheese 
 was our undoing. The third time was nearly success- 
 ful, and but for a gale my life, in all probability, would 
 have had an altogether different colour and accent. We 
 reached the port of Grangemouth, and were successful 
 in our plot to hide ourselves as stowaways. We slept 
 that night amid smells, rats, cockroaches, and a mys- 
 terious congregation of ballast and cargo, hoping to 
 wake to the sound of waves. Alas! a storm swept the 
 Forth from west to the east. The gale lasted close on 
 three days. On the morning of the third, three pale 
 and wretched starvelings were ignominiously packed 
 back to Blair Lodge, where the admiration of comrades 
 did not make up for punishment fare and a liberal flog- 
 ging. 
 
 "A fourth attempt, however, proved successful, 
 though differently for each of us. One of the three, a 
 rotund, squirrel-eyed boy, named Robinson, was shipped 
 off as an apprentice in an Indiaman. A few years later
 
 12 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 he went to his dreamed-of South Seas, was killed in a 
 squabble with hostile islanders, and, as was afterw^ard 
 discovered, afforded a feast (I am sure a succulent one) 
 to his captors. The second of the three is now a dean 
 in the Anglican Church. I have never met him, but once 
 at a big gathering I saw the would-be pirate in clerical 
 garb, with a protuberant front, and bald. I think Rob- 
 inson had the better luck. As for the third of the three, 
 he has certainly had his fill of wandering, if he has 
 never encountered cannibals and if he is neither a dean 
 nor bald." 
 
 When their son was twelve years old, William's parents 
 left Paisley and took a house in Glasgow (India Street), 
 and he was sent as a day scholar to the Glasgow Academy. 
 In his sixteenth year he was laid low with a severe 
 attack of typhoid fever. It was to that summer during 
 the long months of convalescence in the West that many 
 of his memories of Seumas Macleod belong. Of this 
 old fisherman he wrote : " When I was sixteen I was on 
 a remote island where he lived, and on the morrow of 
 my visit I came at sunrise upon the old man standing 
 looking seaward with his bonnet removed from his long 
 white locks; and upon my speaking to Seumas (when I 
 saw he was not 'at his prayers') was answered, in 
 Gaelic of course, ' Every morning like this I take my 
 hat off to the beauty of the world.' Although I was sent 
 to the Academy at Glasgow, and afterward to the Uni- 
 versity, I spent much of each year in boating, sailing, 
 hill-climbing, wandering, owing to the unusual freedom 
 allowed to me during our summer residence in the coun- 
 try and during the other vacations. From fifteen to 
 eighteen I sailed up every loch, fjord, and inlet in the 
 Western Highlands and islands, from Arran and Colon- 
 say to Skye and the Northern Hebrides, from the Ehinns 
 of Galloway to the Ord of Sutherland. Wherever I went 
 I eagerly associated myself with fishermen, sailors, 
 shepherds, gamekeepers, poachers, gipsies, wandering 
 pipers, and other musicians." In this way he made 
 many friends, especially among the fishermen and shep-
 
 CHILDHOOD 13 
 
 herds, stayed with them in their houses, and, 'having 
 the Gaelic,' talked with them, gained their confidence, 
 and listened to tales told by old men, and old mothers 
 by the fireside during the long twilight evenings, or in 
 the herring-boats at night. 
 
 " At eighteen I ' took to the heather,' as we say in the 
 north, for a prolonged period. . . ." Up the Gare-loch, 
 close to Ardentinny, there was a point of waste land 
 running into the water, frequently used as camping 
 ground by roving tinkers and gipsies. Many a time he 
 sailed there in his little boat to get in touch with these 
 wandering folk. One summer he found there an encamp- 
 ment of true gipsies, who had come over from mid- 
 Europe, a fine, swarthy, picturesque race. The appeal 
 was irresistible, strengthened by the attraction of a 
 beautiful gipsy girl. He made friends with the tribe, 
 and persuaded the 'king' to let him join them; and so 
 he became ' star-brother ' and ' sun-brother ' to them, 
 and wandered with them over many hills and straths of 
 the West Highlands. To him, who at all times hated the 
 restrictions and limitations of conventional life, to 
 whom romance was a necessity, this free life ' on the 
 heather ' was the realisation of many dreams. In those 
 few months he learned diverse things; much wood-lore, 
 bird-lore, how to know the ways of the wind, and to use 
 the stars as compass. I do not know exactly how long he 
 was with the camp ; two months, perhaps, or three. For 
 to him they were so full of wonder, so vivid, that in later 
 life, when he spoke of them, he lost all count of time, and 
 on looking back to those days, packed with new and keen 
 experiences so wholly in keeping with his temperament, 
 weeks seemed as months, and he ceased to realise that the 
 experience was compressed into one short summer. He 
 never wove these memories into a sequent romance, 
 though in later time he thought of so doing. For one 
 thing, the present was the absorbing actuality to him, 
 and the future a dream to realise; whether in life or in 
 work the past was past, and he preferred to project him- 
 self toward the future and what it miarht have in store
 
 14 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 for him. But traces of the influence of those gipsy days 
 are to be seen in Children of To-morrow, in the charac- 
 ter of Annaik in Green Fire, and in the greater part of 
 the story of " The Gipsy Christ," published later in the 
 collection of short stories entitled Madge o' the Pool. He 
 also had projected a romance to be called The Gipsy 
 Trail, but it was never even begun. 
 
 One thing, however, I know for certain, that the tru- 
 ant's parents were greatly concerned over his disap- 
 pearance. After considerable trouble the fugitive was 
 recaptured. Not long after he was put into a lawyer's 
 office, ostensibly to teach him business habits, but also 
 the better to chain him to work, to the accepted conven- 
 tions of life, and to remove him out of the way of dan- 
 gerous temptations offered by the freer College life with 
 its long vacations. 
 
 " Not long after my return to civilisation, at my 
 parent's urgent request, I not only resumed my classes 
 at the University, but entered a lawyer's office in Glas- 
 gow (on very easy conditions, hardly suitable for a pro- 
 fessional career), so as to learn something of the law. 
 I learned much more, in a less agreeable fashion, when 
 I spent my first years in London and understood the 
 pains and penalties of impecuniosity ! The only outside 
 influence which had strongly perturbed my boyhood was 
 the outbreak of the Franco-German War, and I recall 
 the eager excitement with which I followed the daily 
 news, my exultation when the French were defeated, 
 my delight when the Prussians won a great victory. 
 A few years later I would have ' sided ' differently, 
 but boys naturally regarded the French as hereditary 
 foes." 
 
 In the autumn of 1871 he had been enrolled as student 
 at the Glasgow University, and he attended the sessions 
 of 1871-72 and 1872-73 during the Lord Rectorship of 
 The Right Honourable B. Disraeli. He did not remain 
 long enough at the university to take his degree. Yet he 
 worked well, and was an attentive scholar. Naturally, 
 English Literature was the subject that attracted him
 
 CHILDHOOD 15 
 
 specially; in that class he was under Prof. John Nichol, 
 whose valued friendship he retained for many years. 
 At the end of his second session he was one of three 
 students who were found ' worthy of special commenda- 
 tion.' The chief benefit to him of his undergraduate 
 days was the access it gave him to the University Li- 
 brary. There new worlds of fascinating study were 
 opened to him ; not only the literature and philosophy of 
 other European countries, but also the wonderful lit- 
 eratures and religions of the East. He read omnivo- 
 rously; night after night he read far into the morning 
 hours literature, philosophy, poetry, mysticism, occult- 
 ism, magic, mythology, folk-lore. While on the one hand 
 the immediate result was to turn him from the form of 
 Presbyterian faith in which he had been brought up, to 
 pu.t him in conflict with all orthodox religious teachings, 
 it strengthened the natural tendency of his mind toward 
 a belief in the unity of the great truths underlying all 
 religions ; and, to his deep satisfaction, gave him a sense 
 of brotherhood with the acknowledged psychics and 
 seers of other lands and other days. At last he found 
 a sympathetic correspondence with his thoughts and ex- 
 periences, and a clew to their possible meaning and 
 value. 
 
 In 1874, with a view to finding out in what direction his 
 son's capabilities lay, Mr. David Sharp put him into the 
 office of Messrs. Maclure and Hanney, lawyers, in Glas- 
 gow, where he remained till his health broke down and he 
 was sent to Australia. It was soon evident that he would 
 never be a shining light in the legal profession : his chief 
 interest still lay in his private studies and his earliest 
 efforts in literature. In order to find time for all he 
 wished to do, which included a keen interest in the the- 
 atre and opera whenever the chance offered, he al- 
 lowed himself during these two years four hours only 
 out of the twenty-four for sleep; a procedure which 
 did not tend to strengthen his already delicate health. 
 At no time in his life did he weigh or consider what 
 amount of physical strength he had at his disposal. His
 
 16 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 will was strong, his desires were definite ; he expected his 
 strength to be adequate to his requirements, and as- 
 sumed it was so, until, from time to time, a serious 
 breakdown proved to him how seriously he had over- 
 drawn on his reserve.
 
 CHAPTEK II 
 
 AUSTRALIA 
 
 My second meeting with my cousin was in August of 
 1875, when he spent a week with us at a cottage my 
 mother had taken at Dunoon, then one of the most 
 charming villages on the Clyde. 
 
 I remember vividly the impression he made on me 
 when I saw the tall, thin figure pass through our garden 
 gateway at sunset — he had come down by the evening 
 steamer from Glasgow — and stride swiftly up the path. 
 He was six feet one inch in height, very thin, with 
 slightly sloping shoulders. He was good-looking, with 
 a fair complexion and high colouring; gray-blue eyes, 
 brown hair closely cut, a sensitive mouth, and winning 
 smile. He looked delicate, but full of vitality. He spoke 
 very rapidly, and when excited his words seemed to tum- 
 ble one over the other, so that it was not always easy to 
 understand him. 
 
 In September my sister and I visited our Uncle and 
 Aunt at 16 Eosslyn Terrace, Glasgow, and before the 
 close of that month their son and I were secretly plighted 
 to one another. Then began a friendship that lasted un- 
 brokenly for thirty years. 
 
 It was then he confided to me that his true ambition 
 lay not in being a scientific man, as it was supposed, but 
 a poet: that his desire was to write about Mother Na- 
 ture and her inner mysteries, but that as yet he had 
 not sufficient mastery of his art to be able to put his mes- 
 sage into adequate form. After much persuasion he 
 read to me several of his early attempts, and promised 
 to send me a copy of whatever he should write. 
 
 We were very anxious to meet again before I returned 
 to London, as we should of necessity be separated till 
 the following autumn. A few days later in Edinburgh 
 
 17
 
 18 WILLIAM SHAKP 
 
 came the desired opportunity. But how and where to 
 meet? No one must know, lest our secret should be dis- 
 covered — for we well knew all our relations would be 
 unanimous in disapproval. 
 
 Instead of going to the Lawyer's office one morning 
 my cousin took an early train into Edinburgh — and I left 
 my sister to make the necessary excuses for my absence 
 at luncheon. But where to meet? We knew we should 
 run the risk of encountering relations and acquaint- 
 ances in the obvious places that suggested themselves. 
 At last a brilliant idea came to my betrothed, and we 
 spent several hours in — the secluded Dean Cemetery, 
 and were not found out! We talked and talked — about 
 his ambitions, his beliefs and visions, our hopeless pros- 
 pects, the coming lonely months, my studies — and parted 
 in deep dejection. 
 
 The immediate outcome of the day was a long poem 
 of no less than fifty-seven verses addressed to me: 
 " In Dean Cemetery " — a pantheistic dream, as its au- 
 thor described it ; and in a note to one of the verses he 
 wrote : " I hold to the rest of the poem, for there are 
 spirits everywhere. We are never alone, though we are 
 rarely conscious of other presences." 
 
 The poem is too long and too immature to quote from. 
 It was one of a series, never of course published, that 
 he wrote about this time; all very serious, for his mind 
 was absorbed in psychic and metaphysical speculation. 
 
 And the reason why he chose such serious types of 
 poems to dedicate to the girl to whom he was engaged 
 was that she was the first friend he had found who to 
 some extent understood him, understood the inner hid- 
 den side of his nature, sympathised with and believed in 
 his visions, dreams, and aims. 
 
 Immediately on my return to London he sent me 
 three long poems written in 1873 under the influence of 
 Shelley — then to him the poet of poets. Very faulty in 
 their handling, they are to me significant, inasmuch as 
 they strike the keynote of all his subsequent intimate 
 writings. " To the Pine Belt " begins with these lines :
 
 AUSTRALIA 19 
 
 To-day amid the pines I went 
 
 In a wonderment, 
 
 For the ceaseless song 
 
 Of lichened branches long 
 
 In measures free 
 
 Said to me 
 
 Strange things of another life 
 
 Than woodland strife. 
 
 In The Blue Peaks he sings of the Quest of the beckon- 
 ing dim blue hills, of which he wrote again many years 
 later in The Divine Adventure. And the third, " The 
 Eiver to KuXvy^^' is an ecstatic chant to Beauty: 
 
 O Spirit fair 
 
 Who dwelleth where 
 
 The heart of Beauty is enshrined. 
 
 Wherewith he invokes " Nature, or Beauty, or God " to 
 help him to realise the poignant dream of beauty, which 
 haunted him in diverse ways throughout his life. When 
 he sent them to me he realised how youthful and faulty 
 was the presentment, and he wrote : " If I had not prom- 
 ised to send these poems I should certainly not do so 
 now. They are very poor every way, and the only inter- 
 est they may have for you is to show you the former 
 current of my thoughts — I did indeed put Beauty in the 
 place of God, and Nature in that of his Laws. Now that 
 I see more clearly (and that is not saying much), these 
 appear trash. Still there is some good here and there. 
 I am glad I have written them, for they helped me to 
 arrive at clearer convictions. The verse and rhythm 
 are purposely uneven and irregular — it admitted of 
 easier composition to write so." While at the Univer- 
 sity he had made an eager study of comparative relig- 
 ions, their ethics and metaphysics, being then in ac- 
 tive revolt against the religious teachings in which he 
 had been brought up. This mental conflict, this weigh- 
 ing of metaphysical problems, found expression in the 
 first Book of a projected Epic on Man, to be called Up- 
 land, Woodland, Cloudland. " Amid the Uplands " only 
 was finished, and consists of two thousand lines in blank
 
 20 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 verse ; the leading idea is fairly suggested in these lines 
 from the Proem: 
 
 " And I have written in the love of God 
 And in a sense of man's proud destiny. 
 
 And I have striven to point out harmony, 
 
 An inner harmony in all things fair, 
 
 Flow'rs, tree, and cloudlet, wind, and ocean wave, 
 
 Wold, hill, and forest, with the heart of man, 
 
 And with the firmament and universe, 
 
 And thence with God. All things are part of Him." 
 
 Scattered through the many pages of philosophic ex- 
 hortation and speculation, of descriptions of nature, 
 of psychical visions, are lines that are suggestive of later 
 development, of later trend of thought, and from them 
 the following are selected: 
 
 " There is in everything an undertone . . . 
 Those clear in soul are also clear in sight, 
 And recognise in a white cascade's flash. 
 The roar of mountain torrents, and the wail 
 Of multitudinous waves on barren sands, 
 The song of skylark at the flush of dawn, 
 A mayfield all ablaze with king-cups gold, 
 The clamour musical of culver wings 
 Beating the soft air of a dewy dusk, 
 The crescent moon far voyaging thro' dark skies, 
 And Sirius throbbing in the distant south, 
 A something deeper than mere audible 
 And visible sensations; for they see 
 Not only pulsings of the Master's breath, 
 The workings of inevitable Law, 
 But also the influences subordinate 
 And spirit actors in life's unseen side. 
 One glint of nature may unlock a soul." 
 
 " Our Evil is too finite to disturb 
 The infinite of good." 
 
 " We all are wind-harps casemented on Earth, 
 And every breath of God that falls may fetch 
 Some dimmest echo of a faint refrain 
 From even the worst strung of all of us. 
 
 " Oh, I have lain upon a river's brink 
 And drank deep, deep of all the glory near,
 
 AUSTRALIA 21 
 
 Until my soul in unison did beat 
 
 With all things round me: I was at the root, 
 
 The common root of life from which all flow, 
 
 And when thus far could enter unto all; 
 
 I look'd upon a rose and seemed to grow 
 
 A bud into a bloom, I watched a tree 
 
 And was the life that quicken'd the green leaves, 
 
 I saw the waters swirling and became 
 
 The law of their wild course, and in the clouds 
 
 I felt my spirit wand'ring over heaven. 
 
 I did identify myself with aught 
 
 That rose before me, and communion held. 
 
 Death is not only change, or sleep; it is 
 God's seal to sanctify the soul's advance." 
 
 In the beginning of 1875 he made various experiments 
 in rhymed metre, all equally serious in subject and stiff 
 in handling; but in the latter part of the year he wrote 
 several little songs in a lighter vein and happier man- 
 ner. 
 
 The following year brought a fresh change in his cir- 
 cumstances, and placed him face to face with the serious 
 questions of practical means of living. His father had 
 been in bad health for some months, and he himself de- 
 veloped disquieting symptoms of chest trouble. I had 
 been in Italy during the three spring months, and was 
 overjoyed on my return to hear that we and my uncle's 
 family were to spend August at Dunoon in neighbouring 
 houses. On arriving there we found my uncle in an 
 alarming condition and his son looking extremely deli- 
 cate. Nevertheless there were many happy days spent 
 there — and rambling over the hills, boating and sailing 
 on the lochs, in talking over our very vague prospects, 
 in reading and discussing his poems. Of these he had 
 several more to show me, chief among them being an 
 idyll " Beatrice," dedicated to me, and a lyrical drama 
 " Ariadne in Naxos " which excited in me the greatest 
 admiration and pride. Toward the middle of the month 
 my uncle's condition grew hopeless, and on the 20th he 
 died. His death was a great shock to his son, whose 
 health gave way: consumption was feared (as it proved,
 
 22 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 causelessly) and in the autumn he was ordered a voyage 
 to Australia. 
 
 In September I was taken by my mother to Aberdeen- 
 shire, and thus I had no opportunity of seeing William 
 again, and the last thing I heard of him, when he had 
 left Scotland in a sailing ship, was a gloomy prediction 
 made by an old relative to my mother : " Ah, that poor 
 nephew of yours, Willie Sharp, he'll never live to reach 
 Australia." 
 
 To quote his own words : 
 
 " So to Australia I went by sailing ship, relinquishing 
 my idea of becoming a formidable rival to Swinburne 
 (whose Atalanta in Calydon had inspired me to a lyri- 
 cal drama named Ariadne in Naxos), to Tennyson 
 (whose example I had deigned to accept for an idyll 
 called 'Beatrice'), and to the author of Festus, whose 
 example was responsible for a meditative epic named 
 * Amid the Uplands.' Alas ! ' subsequent events ' make 
 it unlikely that these masterpieces will ever see the 
 light. 
 
 " In Australia I had friends with whom I stayed, and 
 from them I joined an eminent colonist whose tragic 
 end cast a cloud over a notable career as an explorer. 
 With him I saw much of the then wild country in Gipps- 
 land, beyond the Buffalo and Bogong Mountains, across 
 the Murray Eiver into the desert region of lower New 
 South Wales." 
 
 So to Australia he sailed, not only in search of health 
 but to look about and see if he would care to settle there, 
 supposing that he should find work that he could do, as 
 it was now imjoerative he should provide for his future. 
 In The Sport of Chance, and in an article " Through 
 Bush and Fern," he has given graphic descriptions of the 
 memorable ride which afforded the newcomer a unique 
 opportunity of seeing something of the interior of the 
 colony; and from these the following selections are 
 taken : 
 
 " It was the full tide of summer when my friend and I 
 started one morning in continuance of our ride south
 
 AUSTRALIA 23 
 
 through the ranges that rise and swell and slope away 
 in mighty hollows, sweeping like immense green waves 
 around the bases of those lofty Australian Alps, of which 
 Mounts Holtham, Kosciusko, and Feathertop are the 
 chief glories. Although early, the heat of the sun was al- 
 ready very powerful; but its effect was more bracing 
 than enervating, owing to the clearness and dryness of 
 the atmosphere. . . . Across the rugged mountains we 
 rode, by difficult passes over desolate plains, along 
 sweeping watercourses marked by the long funeral pro- 
 cession of lofty blue-gums, and mournful, stringy bark. 
 Day by day we saw the sun rise above the hills. We 
 slept, while our horses stood by panting with heat, under 
 what shade we could get, and arose when the sky had 
 lost its look of molten copper and had taken on once 
 more its intense ultramarine. At night as we rode 
 across the plains we heard the howling of the wild dogs 
 as they scoured afar oif , or sent flying in all directions 
 startled kangaroos, which leaped across the moonlit 
 wastes like ghosts of strange creatures in pre-Adamite 
 times. ... At last we had come to Albury to join a 
 friend who promised us some swan shooting, and it 
 thus came about that early one morning, about an hour 
 before dawn, we found ourselves crouching under the 
 shelter of some wattles growing close to the Murray 
 lagoons. Not a sound was to be heard save the monot- 
 onous swish of the river as it swept slowly onward, ex- 
 cept when at rare intervals some restless parrot or 
 cockatoo made a transient disturbance somewhere in the 
 forest. The stillness, the semi-darkness, the sound of 
 the rushing water, our expectancy, all rendered the hour 
 one of mingled solemnity and excited tension; and it 
 was with difficulty that at least one of our small party 
 repressed some sound when within a few feet a venom- 
 ous-looking snake wriggled away with a faint hiss from 
 a bunch of knotted grass." 
 
 At this juncture, unfortunately the writer was car- 
 ried away by his interest in snakes ... in rare water 
 birds and " Murray-cod," and quite forgot to finish his
 
 24 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 account of the swan shooting. It is obviously unneces- 
 sary to explain that shooting, as a sport, had no attrac- 
 tion for him; whereas observing birds and bats, fish, 
 etc., was always a preoccupying interest. 
 
 " What a day of intense heat followed that morning ! 
 When at last we reached our previous night's shelter, a 
 shepherd station known as Bidgee Bend, we were nearly 
 exhausted. 
 
 " While resting on a rough shake-down and lazily smok- 
 ing, my eye happened to glance at my saddle, which was 
 lying close at hand, and right in the midst thereof I saw 
 a large scorpion with its tail raised in that way which 
 is known to signify a vicious state of mind. Hearing my 
 exclamation, the stockman looked round, and without 
 a. word reached for a long-lashed whip, and with a blow 
 of the shaft put an end to the possibly dangerous inten- 
 tions of our unwelcome visitor. Of an extremely laconic 
 nature, our shepherd friend never uttered a word he felt 
 to be unnecessary, and when, after having asked him if 
 he saw scorpions frequently hereabouts, and received a 
 monosyllabic reply in the affirmative, I added, ' Any 
 other kind of vermin?' he muttered sleepily, with his 
 pipe in his mouth, ' Bull-dog ants, hairy spiders, centi- 
 pedes, bugs.' " 
 
 On his return to Melbourne the traveller realised that 
 there was no immediate prospect of finding work. He 
 had made inquiries in every available direction, but he 
 did not make any great effort. He realised that life in 
 the New World, under such conditions as would be open 
 to him, would be very distasteful; and greatly as he 
 had enjoyed the few months' sojourn in Australia, owing 
 chiefly to Mr. Turner's friendliness, he had little regret 
 when he went on board the Loch Tay for his homeward 
 faring. 
 
 The return voyage, too, was eventful. The route lay 
 round Cape Horn, and the ship was driven by contrary- 
 winds down into the Antarctic seas, where it encoun- 
 tered bitterly cold weather, and came close to drifting 
 icebergs.
 
 AUSTRALIA 25 
 
 The Loch Tay reached England in June, and the wan- 
 derer came direct to my mother's house in London and 
 stayed with us there for several weeks. This first 
 visit to London was uneventful, but full of quiet hap- 
 piness for us both. He had, of course, much to see, 
 and it was a delight to me to be his cicerone. It was, 
 moreover, a much wished-for opportunity to introduce 
 him to my special friends, while my mother made him 
 known to whosoever she thought would be influential in 
 helping her nephew to find some suitable post or occu- 
 pation. 
 
 I had three friends in particular I wanted him to 
 know; two were then ia London; but the third, John 
 Elder, was in New Zealand, and did not return till the fol- 
 lowing year. His sister, however, Miss Adelaide Elder, 
 was LQ town. She and my sister had been my confidants 
 during the preceding two years in the matter of our 
 engagement, and I was naturally most wishful that she 
 and my cousin should meet. We had known each other 
 from childhood — our parents were old friends — and we 
 had read and studied together, often in a quiet part of 
 Kensington Gardens reading Tennyson, Carlyle, John 
 Stuart Mill, Fichte, etc. The other friend was Miss 
 Alison — afterward Mrs. Mona Caird — the novelist and 
 essay writer. We three were friends with many tastes 
 and interests in common, not the least being all questions 
 relating to women. To my great satisfaction out of the 
 meeting with my cousin there grew deeply attached 
 friendships that lasted throughout his life. 
 
 In spite of all our efforts no work was found for the 
 wanderer; he spent the remainder of the year in Scot- 
 land and devoted his time to writing. I have about two 
 letters written to me about that time. In one, dated Au- 
 gust 21st from Braemar, he says : 
 
 "I feel another self within me now more than ever; 
 it is as if I were possessed by a spirit who must speak 
 out. ... I am in no hurry to rush into print; I do not 
 wish to write publicly until I can do so properly. It 
 would be a great mistake to embody my message in such
 
 26 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 a poem as ' Uplands/ although a fifty times better poem 
 than that is. People won't be preached to. Truth can 
 be inculcated far better by inference, by suggestion. . . . 
 I am glad to see by your note you are in good spirits. 
 I also now look on things in a different light; but, un- 
 fortunately, Lill, we poor mortals are more apt to be 
 swayed by moods than by circumstances, and look on 
 things through the mist of these moods." 
 
 In the other letter he wrote : 
 
 " I am too worried about various things to settle to 
 any kind of literary work in the meantime. The weather 
 has been wretchedly wet, and the cold is intense. I 
 do trust I shall get away from Scotland before the win- 
 ter sets in, as I am much less able to stand it than I 
 thought I was. Even with the strong air up here I can't 
 walk any distance without being much the worse for it." 
 
 One cause of the " worry " was a candid letter of criti- 
 cism he had received from Robert Buchanan, whose 
 The Book of Orm had been one of his great favourites 
 among books of modern verse. Its fine mysticism ap- 
 pealed to him, and to the author he sent a number of 
 his poems, and asked for a criticism and hoping for a 
 favourable one. But, alas, when it came it was uncom- 
 promisingly the reverse; and the older poet strongly 
 advised the young aspirant not to dream of literature 
 as a career. Many years ago, he explained, when he 
 was struggling in London he tried in vain to get certain 
 employment of the kind, but he had never succeeded and 
 had had " to buffet the sharp sea of journalism." It was 
 a great blow. It produced a deep and prolonged depres- 
 sion, and it required all my powers of persuasion and 
 reiterated belief in his possibilities to enable him to pull 
 himself together and try again. 
 
 His hope was unfulfilled and he remained in Scotland 
 throughout the winter, at Moffat, where his mother had 
 taken a house. Despite the cold and the delay, he en- 
 joyed the long rambles over the snow-clad hills and in 
 the fir woods; and wrote a number of poems afterward 
 published in The Human Inheritance; and so vivid were
 
 AUSTRALIA 27 
 
 certain effects of sunglow in the winter woods, that he 
 described them in one of his last writings included in 
 Where the Forest Murmurs. 
 
 But for the most part his mood was one of depres- 
 sion; under it he wrote the following sonnet: 
 
 THE GATE OF DEATH 
 
 I wonder if the soul upon that day 
 
 When Death's gate opens to it, will with gaze 
 
 Kapt and bewilder'd tremble at the rays 
 Of God's great glory — or if wild dismay 
 Will stun it with blank horror, while away 
 
 It watches the unguided world blaze 
 
 With speed relentless down the flowing ways 
 That end in nothing; while far off a gray 
 Wan shadow trembles ere it fades for aye? 
 
 Or if, half blinded still with death's amaze. 
 Dimly and faintly it will somewhat see, 
 
 Some Shadow become substance and unroll 
 Until there looms one vast Humanity, 
 
 One awful, mighty, and resistless Whole? 
 
 In the late Spring of 1878 William Sharp settled in 
 London. An opening had been found for him in the 
 City of Melbourne Bank by Mr. Alexander Elder, the 
 father of our friends, just in time to prevent him from 
 carrying out his decision to go as a volunteer in the 
 Turkish army during its conflict with Russia. 
 
 Neither the work nor the prospects offered were invit- 
 ing, but he was thankful to have a chance of trying his 
 fortunes in London. He bound himself as clerk in the 
 Bank for three years, on a salary of £80, <£90, and <£100. 
 As owing to the long idleness he had unavoidable debts 
 to pay off, he determined to try what he could do with 
 his pen to add to the slender income. He took a room 
 in 19 Albert Street, Regent's Park, whence he could 
 walk to the Bank, yet sleep not far away from birds 
 and trees; and he had the good fortune to fall in with 
 a kindly, competent landlady. Now began a long, ardu- 
 ous struggle for the means of livelihood, for health, 
 for a place among the literary writers of his day — 
 a " schooling in the pains and impecuniosities of life "
 
 28 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 from whieli lie learned so much. He had no influence 
 to help him; and no friends other than those he had 
 met at my mother's house. Each week-end he came 
 to 72 Inveniess Terrace and stayed with us from Sat- 
 urday till Monday. A serious difficulty now presented 
 itself, one which threatened us both with temporary dis- 
 aster. As long as my betrothed was in Scotland it was 
 quite possible to preserve the secret of our engagement. 
 Now that he was in London and a constant visitor at our 
 house it was not so simple a matter. Moreover, to me 
 it did not seem honourable toward my mother, and I 
 wished her to know. He, however, was not of my opin- 
 ion ; not only would he lose much — we both believed we 
 could not win my mother to our way of thinking — if 
 he were forbidden to come to the house, but he also 
 delighted in the very fact of the secrecy, of the mystery, 
 and, indeed, mystification, which I did not then realise 
 was a marked characteristic of his nature. For me such 
 secrecy had no charm, but was fraught with difficulties 
 and inconveniences. Many were our discussions, and at 
 last he yielded an unwilling consent. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon in the late summer a dejected 
 couple wandered about in Kensington Gardens, under 
 the old trees, trying to forecast what seemed a mourn- 
 ful future. However, our fears were groundless. My 
 mother, though she felt it her duty to point out to us the 
 hopelessness and foolishness of the engagement from a 
 worldly point of view, her strong objection to it on the 
 score of our cousinship, his delicacy and lack of pros- 
 pects, nevertheless realised the uselessness of opposing 
 her daughter's decision, accepted the inevitable, and from 
 that moment treated her nephew as her son. 
 
 Two months later he wrote to me: 
 
 26: 8: 78. 
 
 . . . Thanks for your welcome note which I received 
 a little ago. I, too, like you, was sitting at my open win- 
 dow last night (or rather this morning) with the stars 
 for my companions : and I, too, took comfort from them
 
 AUSTRALIA 29 
 
 and felt the peace hidden in their silent depths. I know 
 of nothing that soothes the spirit more than looking on 
 those awful skies at midnight. Some of our aspirations 
 seem to have burnt into life there, and, tangled in some 
 glory of starlight, to shine down upon us with beckoning 
 hands. ... I have told you before how that music, a 
 beautiful line of poetry, and other cherished things of 
 art so often bring you into close communion with my- 
 self. But there is one thing that does it infallibly and 
 more than anything else: trees on a horizon, whether 
 plain or upland, standing against a cloudless blue sky — 
 more especially when there is a soft blue haze dimly pal- 
 pitating between. Strange, is it not? I only half indefi- 
 nitely myself know the cause of it. One cause certainly 
 is the sense of music there is in that aspect — possibly 
 also the fairness of an association so sympathetic with 
 some gracious memory of the past. 
 
 P. S. — By-the-bye, have you noticed that my " Noc- 
 turne " is in the July number of Good Words'^. 
 
 This poem was of special interest to me because it 
 had been written while I had played to him on the piano 
 one evening. It was in the summer of 1878 also that he 
 just met Mr. John Elder, whom I had known from child- 
 hood. John was a graduate of Cambridge, a thinker 
 and man of fine tastes, and his new friend found a great 
 stimulus in the keen mind of the older man. Owing to 
 delicacy he could be but little in England, and till his 
 death in 1883 the two men corresponded regularly with 
 one another. From the letters of the younger man I 
 have selected one or two to illustrate the trend of his 
 mind at that date: 
 
 19 Albebt St., Regent's Pabk, 
 Oct., 1879. 
 
 My dear John, 
 
 Thanks for your welcome letter of 18th August. My 
 purpose, in my letter of May 7th, if I recollect rightly, 
 was to urge that Reason is sometimes transcended by
 
 30 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 Emotion — sufficiently often, that is to say, to prevent 
 philosophers from deriding the idea that a truth, may 
 be reached emotionally now and again, quicker than by 
 the light of Reason. God may be beyond the veil of 
 mortal life, but I cannot see that he has given us any 
 definite revelation beyond what pure Deism teaches, viz., 
 that there is a Power — certainly beneficent, most prob- 
 ably eternal, possibly (in effect, if not in detail) omni- 
 potent — who, letting the breath of His being blow through 
 all created things, evolves the Ascidian into man, and 
 man into higher manifestations than are possible on 
 earth, and whose message and revelation to man is shown 
 forth in the myriad-paged volume of nature, and the 
 inherent yearning in every human soul for something 
 out of itself and yet of it. Of such belief, I may say that 
 I am. 
 
 But my mind is like a troubled sea, whereon the winds 
 of doubt blow continually, with waves of dead hopes 
 and religious beliefs washing far away behind, and noth- 
 ing before but the weary seeming of phantasmal shores. 
 At times this faith that I cherish comes down upon me 
 like the hushful fall of snow-flakes, calming and soothing 
 all into peace ; and again, it may be, it appears as a dark 
 thunder-cloud, full of secret lightnings and portentous 
 mutterings. And, too, sometimes I seem to waken into 
 thought with a start, and to behold nothing but the blind 
 tyranny of pure materialism, and the unutterable sor- 
 row and hopelessness of life, and the bitter blackness 
 of the end, which is annihilation. But such phases are 
 generally transient, and, like a drowning man buffeting 
 the overwhelming waves, I can often rise above them 
 and behold the vastness and the Glory of the Light of 
 Other Life. 
 
 And this brings me to a question which is at present 
 troubling many others besides myself. I mean the 
 question of the immortality of the individual. I do not 
 know how you regard it yourself, but you must be aware 
 that the drift of modem thought is antagonistic to per- 
 sonal immortality, and that many of our best and most
 
 AUSTRALIA 31 
 
 intelligent thinking men and women abjure it as mi- 
 worthy of their high conception of Humanity. . . . 
 
 But is Humanity all? Has Humanity fashioned itself 
 out of primal elements, arisen and marched down the 
 long, strange ways of Time — still marching, with eyes 
 fixed on some self-projected Goal — without ever a spir- 
 itual breath blowing upon it, without ever the faintest 
 guidance of any divine hand, without ever a glance of 
 sorrowful and yearning but yet ineffably hopeful love 
 from some Being altogether beyond and transcending 
 it? Is it, can it be so? But in any case, whether with 
 the Nirvana of the follower of Buddha, the absorption 
 of the soul in the soul of God of the Deist and Theist, 
 or with the loss of the individual in the whole of the 
 Race of the Humanitarian, I cannot altogether agree. 
 It may be the " old Adam " of selfishness ; it may be 
 poverty of highest feeling and insufiSciency of intellec- 
 tual grasp; but I cannot embrace the belief in the ex- 
 tinction of the individual. . . . 
 
 23d October, 1880. 
 
 I am glad you like my stort paper in the Sectarian 
 Review and I think that you understand my motive in 
 writing it. It is no unreasoning reverence that I advo- 
 cate, no " countenancing beliefs in worn-out supersti- 
 tions," as you say; no mercy to the erring, but much 
 mercy to and sympathy with the deceived. I do not rev- 
 erence the Bible or the Christian Theology in them- 
 selves, but for the beautiful spirituality which faintly 
 but ever and again breathes through them, like a vague 
 wind blowing through intricate forests; and so far I 
 reverence the recognition of this spiritual breath in the 
 worship of those whose views are so very different from 
 my own. . . . 
 
 I have been writing a good deal lately — chiefly verse. 
 There is one thing which I am sure will interest you: 
 some time ago I wrote a sonnet called " Religion," the 
 drift of which was to show the futility of any of the 
 great creeds as creeds, and two or three weeks ago
 
 32 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 showed it to my friend Mr. Belford Bax. It seems to 
 have made considerable impression upon him, for, after 
 what he calls " having absorbed it," he has set H to very 
 beautiful recitative music. There are some fine chords 
 in the composition, preluding the pathetic melody of the 
 finale; and altogether it has given me great pleasure. 
 But what specially interests me is that it is the first 
 time (as far as I am aware) of a sonnet in any lan- 
 guage having been set to music. The form of this kind 
 of verse is of course antagonistic to song-music, and 
 could only be rendered by recitative. Do you know of 
 any instance having occurred? The sonnet in question 
 will appear in The Examiner in a week or two. 
 
 Lo, in a dream, I saw a vast dim aea 
 
 Whose sad waves broke upon a barren shore; 
 The name of this wan sea was 'Nevermore, 
 
 The land The Past, the shore Futility: 
 
 Thereon I spied three mighty Shadows; three 
 Weary and desolate Shades, of whom each wore 
 A crown whereon was writ Despair. To me 
 
 One spoke, and said, " Lo, I am He 
 
 In whom the countless millions of the East 
 
 Live, move, and hope. And all is vanity! " — 
 And I knew Buddha. Then the next : " The least 
 Am I, but once Gk)d's mightiest Prophet-Priest " — 
 
 So spake Mahomet. And then pitifully 
 
 The third Shade moaned, " I am of Galilee ! " 
 
 I also enclose the record of a vision I had lately: 
 
 Lo, in that Shadowy place wherein is found 
 The fruitage of the spirit men call dreams, 
 I wander'd. Ever underneath pale gleams 
 
 Of misty moonlight quivering all around, 
 And ever by the banks of sedgy streams 
 Swishing thro' fallen rushes with slow sound 
 
 A spirit walked beside me. From a mound. 
 
 Rustling from poplar-leaves from top to base. 
 
 Some bird I knew not shrilled a cry of dole. 
 
 So bitter, I cried out to God for grace. 
 
 Whereat he by me slackened from his pace, 
 
 Turning upon me in my cold amaze 
 
 And saying, " While the long years onward roll 
 
 Thou shalt be haunted by this hateful face — " 
 And looking up, I looked on my own soul!
 
 AUSTRALIA 33 
 
 Nov. 20, 1880. 
 
 If this note does not reach you by New Year's Day it 
 will soon after — so let me wish you most heartily and 
 sincerely all good wishes for the coming year. May the 
 "White AVings of Happiness and Peace and Health brush 
 from your path all evil things. There is something sel- 
 fish in the latter wish, for I hope so much to see you 
 before long again. Don't despise me when I say that 
 in some things I am more a woman than a man — and 
 when my heart is touched strongly I lavish more love 
 upon the one who does so than I have perhaps any right 
 to expect returned; and then I have so few friends that 
 when I do find one I am ever jealous of his or her absence. 
 
 P. S. — I wonder if this late Kentish violet will retain 
 its delicious scent till it looks at you in New Zealand. 
 It is probably the last of its race. 
 
 Feb., 1881. 
 
 I may say in reference to the Religion of Humanity 
 that my sympathy with Comtism is only limited, and 
 that though I think it is and will yet be an instrument 
 of great good, I see nothing in it of essential savingness. 
 It is even in some of its ceremonial and practical details a 
 decided retrogression — at least so it seems to me — and 
 though I do not believe in a revealed God, I think such 
 a belief higher and more precious and morally as salutary 
 as a belief in abstract Humanity. Concrete humanity ap- 
 peals more to my sympathy when filled with the breath 
 of " God " than in its relation to its abstract Self. When 
 I write again I will endeavour to answer your question 
 as to whether I believe in a God or not. My friend, we 
 are all in the hollow of some mighty moulding Hand. 
 Every fibre in my body quivers at times with absolute 
 faith and belief, yet I do not say that I believe in " God " 
 when asked such a question by those whom I am con- 
 scious misinterpret me. You have some lines of mine 
 called " The Redeemer " ; they will hint something to you 
 of that belief which buoys my soul up in the ocean of
 
 34 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 love that surrounds it. It were well for the soul, if 
 annihilation rounds off the circle of life, to sink to final 
 forgetfulness in the sea of precious human love; but it 
 is far better if the soul can be borne along that sea of 
 wonder and glory to distant ever-expanding goals, tran- 
 scending in love, glory, life all that human imagination 
 ever conceived. . . . 
 
 Farewell for the present, dear friend. 
 
 W.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 EAKLY DAYS IN LONDON 
 
 The most important influence in the early literary 
 career of the young poet was his friendship with Dante 
 Gabriel Rossetti. He gained not only a valued friend, 
 who introduced him to many of the well-known writers 
 of the time, but one who helped him in the development 
 of his art by sound, careful criticism and kindly encour- 
 agement. His first acquaintance with the writings of 
 the painter-poet dated from the Autumn of 1879, when 
 on his birthday Miss Adelaide Elder had sent him a vol- 
 ume of poems, an incident destined to have far-reaching 
 results. In 1899 he wrote to her : 
 
 Deae Adelaide, 
 
 Do you know why I thought of you to-day particu- 
 larly, it being my birthday? For it was you who some 
 two and twenty years ago sent me on the 12th of Septem- 
 ber a copy of a beautifully bound book by a poet with a 
 strange name and by me quite unknown — Dante Gabriel 
 Rossetti. 
 
 To that event it is impossible to trace all I owe, but 
 what is fairly certain is that, without it, the whole course 
 of my life might have been very different. For the book 
 not only influenced and directed me mentally at a cru- 
 cial period, but made me speak of it to an elderly friend 
 (Sir Noel Paton) through whom I was dissuaded from 
 going abroad on a career of adventure (I was going to 
 Turkey or as I vaguely put it, Asia) and through whom, 
 later, I came to know Rossetti himself — an event which 
 completely redirected the whole course of my life. 
 
 It would be strange to think how a single impulse of 
 a friend may thus have so profound a significance were 
 it not that to you and me there is nothing strange (in 
 
 35
 
 36 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 the sense of incredible) in the complex spiritual inter- 
 relation of life. Looking back through all those years 
 I daresay we can now both see a strange and in much 
 inscrutable, but still recognisable, direction. 
 
 To quote his own words: 
 
 " By the autumn of 1880 I was within sight of that 
 long and arduous career called the literary life. An 
 extraordinary good fortune met me at the outset, for, 
 through an introduction from Sir Noel Paton, I came to 
 know, and know intimately, Dante Gabriel Eossetti, 
 whose winsome personality fascinated me as much as 
 his great genius impressed me. Eossetti introduced me 
 to one who became my chief friend — the late Philip 
 Bourke Marston; and through Eossetti also I came to 
 know Mr. Theodore Watts, Mr. Swinburne, and others. 
 By the spring of 1881, I was in the literary world, and 
 in every phase of it, from the most Bohemian to the most 
 isolated." 
 
 On the 1st of September, 1881, William Sharp pre- 
 sented himself at the door of 16 Cheyne Walk. The 
 housekeeper explained that Mr. Eossetti could receive 
 no one. The importunate stranger persisted and stated 
 that it was of the highest importance that he should see 
 Mr. Eossetti and so impressed her that she not only 
 went to report to Mr. Eossetti but came back with orders 
 to admit him. On seeing his eager visitor, the poet- 
 painter naturally asked him what he wanted so urgently, 
 and his visitor answered promptly, " Only to shake 
 hands with you before you die ! " " Well," was the an- 
 swer, " I am in no immediate danger of dying, but you 
 may shake hands if you wish." 
 
 The introduction from Sir Noel Paton was then ten- 
 dered; and thus began a friendship that grew to a deep 
 affectionate devotion on the side of the younger man. 
 
 Eossetti took him into the studio, and showed him the 
 paintings he had on his easels. The two which specially 
 impressed his visitor were " La Donna della Fenestra,"
 
 EARLY DAYS IN LONDON 37 
 
 and " Dante's Dream." Li a letter written to me when 
 I was in Italy, he describes the pictures as beautiful 
 colour harmonies, and continues: 
 
 " After I had looked at it for a long time in happy 
 silence, Rossetti sat behind me in the shadow and read 
 me his translation of the poem from the Vita Nuova, 
 which refers to Dante's Dream. Was it not kind of him 
 to give so much pleasure to one, a complete stranger? 
 I also saw several other paintings of extreme beauty, 
 but which I have no time to mention at present. He told 
 me to come again, and shortly before I left he asked me 
 for my address, and said that he would ask me to come 
 some evening to talk with him, and also to meet one or 
 two. This was altogether unexpected. Fancy having two 
 such men for friends as Sir Noel Paton and Dante 
 Gabriel Rossetti! I went out in a dream. The outside 
 world was altogether idealised. I was in the golden age 
 again. To calm myself, I went and leant over Chelsea 
 Embankment, where there were many people as there 
 was a regatta going on. But, though conscious of exter- 
 nal circumstances, I was not in London. The blood of 
 the South burned in my veins, the sky was a semi-trop- 
 ical one : the river rushing past was not the Thames, but 
 the Tiber; the granite embankment was a marble aque- 
 duct, 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 inef- 
 fably 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 Mo- 
 hammed 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 invi- 
 tation 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:
 
 38 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 19 Albert St., Regent's Pabk 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 un- 
 well 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
 
 EARLY DAYS IN LONDON 39 
 
 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 mark- 
 edly 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 Ros- 
 setti, to whom, however, he had already kindly spoken 
 about me. I am to go when I wish to the latter's liter- 
 ery 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 him- 
 self written on the fly-leaf? On that occasion I also met 
 Theodore Watts, the well-known critic of The Athe- 
 naeum. 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 Eliza- 
 beth 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
 
 40 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 Seance, by the best mediums — which I am looking for- 
 ward to with great curiosity. . . . 
 
 Besides verse, I am writing a Paper just now on " Cli- 
 mate 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 Eossetti who had sug- 
 gested that if he had a suitable sonnet it might be in- 
 cluded in Hall Caine's Century of Sonnets. Eossetti'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. Eossetti, 
 
 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 pleas- 
 ure 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 Jiow 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 suffi-
 
 EAELY DAYS IN LONDON 41 
 
 ciently 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 Shabp. 
 
 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 relat- 
 ing 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 respect- 
 ing 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, 
 
 D. G. Rossetti. 
 
 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 god- 
 mother. 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^
 
 42 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 they went for a drive through the green lanes, when sud- 
 denly 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 sugges- 
 tions to have his clothes dried, and went back to town 
 that evening in his damp garments. A violent cold en- 
 sued, 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 cot- 
 tage 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 liter- 
 ary 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 ' Bohem- 
 ian ' 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."
 
 EARLY DAYS IN LONDON 43 
 
 He has described his friendship with the blind poet in 
 his Introduction to a Selection of Marston's poems pub- 
 lished 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 deal- 
 ing with an example of Motherhood in the brute crea- 
 tion, the second with a savage of the lowest order, 
 and the third with a civilised girl-woman of the high- 
 est 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 em- 
 bodied 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 em- 
 ploying the complete details of the story, instead of, as
 
 44 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 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 what may be good in them is owing 
 to your gratefully remembered personal influence and 
 kindness, as well as your own beautiful work." 
 
 His kindly critic answered: 
 
 ^ Jan., 1881. 
 
 My dear bHAEP, 
 
 I have only this evening read your poems, and am 
 quite amazed at the vast gain in distinction and reality 
 upon anything I had seen of yours before. I read 
 " Motherhood " first and think it best on the whole. It is 
 full of fine things and strange variety. " The Dead Bride- 
 groom " is less equal, but some touches are extremely fine. 
 The close after the crisis strikes me as done with a cer- 
 tain difficulty and wants some pointing. As a narrative 
 poem, I do not yet think it quite distinct enough, though 
 it always rises at the right moment. The execution of 
 your work needs some reform in detail. The adjectives, 
 especially when monosyllabic, are too crowded. There 
 are continual assonances of ings, ants, otvs, etc., midway 
 in the lines. However, the sonorousness is sometimes 
 striking and the grip of the phrases complete at its best. 
 I am sure you have benefited much by association with 
 Philip Marston, though I do not mean to say that such 
 things as these can have their mainspring elsewhere 
 than in native gift. 
 
 I will keep the poems a few days yet and then return 
 
 them. V • 1 
 
 Yours smcerely, 
 
 D. G. EOSSETTI. 
 
 A letter from the younger poet, written a few days 
 later, reached me in Rome : 
 
 24:1:81. 
 
 " Well, last Friday was a ' red-letter ' day to me. I 
 went to Eossetti's at six, dined about 7.30, and stayed 
 there all night. We had a jolly talk before dinner, and
 
 EAELY DAYS IN LONDON 45 
 
 then Shields the painter came in and stayed till about 11 
 o'clock: after that Rossetti read me all his unpublished 
 poems, some of which are magnificent — talked, etc. — and 
 we did not go to bed till about three in the morning. I 
 did not go to the Bank next day, as I did not feel well: 
 however, I wrote hard at poetry, etc., all day till seven 
 o'clock, managing to keep myself up with tea. I was 
 quite taken aback by the extent of Rossetti's praise. He 
 said he did not say much in his letter because writing 
 so often looks ^ gushing ' but he considered I was able 
 to take a foremost place among the yoimger poets of 
 the day — and that many signs in my writings pointed 
 to a first-class poet — that the opening of ' The Dead 
 Bridegroom ' was worthy of Keats — that * Motherhood ' 
 was in every sense of the word a memorable poem — 
 that I must have great productive power, and broad and 
 fine imagination — and many other things which made me 
 very glad and proud." 
 
 " The Dead Bridegroom " was never published, but in a 
 letter to a friend who raised objections to the treatment 
 of the poem "Motherhood" — he wrote in explanation: 
 
 " You seem to think my object in writing was to de- 
 scribe the actual initial act of Motherhood — whereas 
 such acts were only used incidentally to the idea. I 
 entirely agree with you in thinking such a inotif unfit for 
 poetic treatment — and more, I think the choice of such 
 would be in very bad taste and wanting in true delicacy. 
 My aim was something very far from this — and what 
 made me see you had not grasped it were the words — 
 ^ Besides, is not your type of civilised woman degraded 
 by being associated with the savage and the wild 
 beast r 
 
 " Of course, what I was endeavouring to work out 
 was just the opposite of this. ' Motherhood ' was writ- 
 ten from a deep conviction of the beauty of the state 
 of Motherhood itself, of the holy, strangely similar bond 
 of union it gave to all created things, and how it, as it
 
 46 WILLIAM SHAKP 
 
 were, forged the links whereby the chain of life reached 
 unbroken from the polyp depths we do see to the God 
 whom we do not see. Looking at it as I did, I saw it 
 transfigured to the Seal of Unity: I saw the bestial life 
 touch the savage, and the latter's low existence edge 
 complete nobility of womanhood, as — in the spirit — I 
 see this last again merge into fuller spiritual periods 
 beyond the present sphere of human life. In embodying 
 this idea I determined to take refuge in no vague tran- 
 scendentalism, or from any false feeling shirk what I 
 knew to be noble in its mystic wonder and significance: 
 and I came to the conclusion that the philosophic idea 
 could be best embodied and made apparent by moulding 
 it into three typical instances of motherhood, represent- 
 ing the brute, the savage, and the civilised woman. From 
 this point of view, I considered the making choice of the 
 initial act of motherhood — of birth — entirely justifiable, 
 and beyond reach of reproach of impurity, or even un- 
 fitness. As to the artistic working out of these typical 
 motives, I gave to the first glow and colour, to the sec- 
 ond mystery and weirdness, to the third what dignity 
 and solemnity I could. 
 
 " These were my aims and views, and I have not yet 
 seen anything to make me change them. . . . 
 
 " So much for ' Motherhood.' As to ' The Dead Bride- 
 groom,' I quite admit that the advisability of choosing 
 such subjects is a very debatable one. It is the only 
 one of mine (in my opinion) which could incur the 
 charge of doubtful ' fitness.' As a poem, moreover, it 
 is inferior in workmanship to ' Motherhood.' " 
 
 To E. A. S. : 
 
 "4:2:81. 
 
 " I have written one of my best poems (in its own way) 
 since writing you last. It was on Tuesday night : I did 
 not get back till about seven o'clock, and began at once 
 to write. Your letter came an hour or so afterward but 
 it had to lie waiting till after midnight, when I finished, 
 having written and polished a complete poem of thirty
 
 EARLY DAYS IN LONDON 47 
 
 verses in that short time. It is a ballad. The story 
 itself is a very tragic one. Perhaps the kind of verse 
 would be clear to you if I were to quote a verse as a 
 specimen : 
 
 " And I saw thy face wax flush'd, then pale, 
 And thy lips grow blue like black-ice hail, 
 With eyes on fire with the soul's fierce bale, 
 Son of Allan! 
 " I may have been pale, and may be red — 
 But this night shall one lie white and dead. 
 
 (O Mother of God! whose eyes 
 Watch men lie dead 'neath midnight skies.)" 
 
 " Both story and verse I invented myself : and I think 
 you will think it equal to anything I have done in power. 
 It was a good lot to do at a sitting, wasn't it? I will 
 read it to you when you come home again. ... I en- 
 joyed my stay with Eossetti immensely. We did not 
 breakfast till one o'clock on Tuesday— pretty late, 
 wasn't it? (I told you I had a holiday, didn't I?) He 
 told me again that he considered ' Motherhood ' fit to 
 take the foremost place in recent poetry. He has such 
 a fine house, though much of it is shut up, and full of 
 fine things : he showed me some of it that hardly any one 
 ever sees. He has asked me to come to him again next 
 Sunday. Isn't it splendid? — and ar'n't you glad for my 
 sake? He told Philip that he thought I "had such a 
 sweet genial happy nature." Isn't it nice to be told of 
 that. My intense delight in little things seems also to 
 be a great charm to him — whether in a stray line of 
 verse, or some new author, or a cloudlet, or patch of 
 blue sky, or chocolate-drops, etc., etc. Have you noticed 
 this in me ? I am half gratified and half amused to hear 
 myself so delineated, as I did not know my nature was 
 so palpable to comparative strangers. And now I am 
 going to crown my horrid vanity by telling you that Mrs. 
 Garnet met Philip a short time ago, and asked after the 
 health of his friend, the " handsome young poet ! " 
 There now, amn't I horridly conceited? (N. B. — I'm 
 pleased all the same, you know!)
 
 48 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 " I wrote a little lyric yesterday which is one of the 
 most musical I have ever done. To-day, I was ' took ' 
 by a writing mood in the midst of business hours, and 
 despite all the distracting and unpoetical surroundings, 
 managed to hastily jot down the accompanying lyric. It 
 is the general end of young unknowing love. . . . 
 
 " I had a splendid evening last night, and Rossetti read 
 a lot more of his latest work. Splendid as his published 
 work is, it is surpassed by what has yet to be published. 
 The more I look into and hear his poems the more I am 
 struck with the incomparable power and depth of his 
 genius — his almost magical perfection and mastery of 
 language — his magnificent spiritual strength and sub- 
 tlety. He read some things last night, lines in which 
 almost took my breath away. No sonnet-writer in the 
 past has equalled him, and it is almost inconceivable to 
 imagine any one doing so in the future. His influence 
 is already deep and strong, but I believe in time to come 
 he will be looked back to as we now look to Shakespeare, 
 to Milton, and in one sense to Keats. I can find no lan- 
 guage to express my admiration of his supreme gifts, 
 and it is with an almost painful ecstasy that I receive 
 from time to time fresh revelations of his intellectual, 
 spiritual, and artistic splendour. I fancy one needs to 
 be an actual poet to feel this to the full, but every one, 
 however dim and stagnant or coldly intellectual his or 
 her soul, must feel more or less the marvellous beauty 
 of this wedding of the spirit of emotional thought and 
 the spirit of language, and the child thereof — divine, 
 perfect expression. Our language in Rossetti's hands 
 is more solemn than Spanish, more majestic than Latin, 
 deeper than German, sweeter than Italian, more divine 
 than Greek. I know of nothing comparable to it. He 
 told me to call him Rossetti and not ' Mr. Rossetti,' as 
 disparity in age disappears in close friendship, wasn't 
 it nice of him? It makes me both very proud and hum- 
 ble to be so liked and praised by the greatest master in 
 England — proud to have so far satisfied his fastidious 
 critical taste and to have excited such strong belief in
 
 EARLY DAYS IN LONDON 49 
 
 my powers, and humble in that I fall so far short of him 
 as to make the gulf seem impassable." 
 
 In Italy I was making a careful study of the old mas- 
 ters in painting, and found that my correspondent took 
 but lukewarm interest in my enthusiasm. Until that date 
 he had had little opportunity of studying Painting; 
 and at no time did the cinquecento and earlier paint- 
 ers really attract him. I regretted his indifference, 
 and asked him, banteringly, if his dislike extended 
 equally to the early masters of the pen and to those 
 of the brush. 
 
 He replied : " You ask me, if I dislike the Old. Masters 
 of Poetry as much as I do those of Painting? and I re- 
 ply Certainly not, but at the same time the comparison 
 is not fair. Most of the old poets are not only poets of 
 their time but have special beauties at the present day, 
 and can be read with as much or almost as much pleas- 
 ure now as centuries ago. Their imagination, their 
 scope, their detail is endless. On the other hand the Old 
 Masters of Painting are (to me, of course, and speak- 
 ing generally) utterly uninteresting in their subjects, in 
 the way they treat them, and in the meaning that is 
 conveyed. If it were not for the richness and beauty 
 of their colour I would never go into another gallery 
 fro7n pleasure, but colour alone could not always satisfy 
 me. But take the ' Old Masters ' of Poetry ! Homer 
 of Greece, Virgil and Dante of Italy, Theocritus of 
 Sicily, and in England Chaucer, Shakespeare, Ben Jon- 
 son, Webster, Ford, Massinger, Marlowe, Milton! 
 
 " The poetry of these men is beautiful in itself apart 
 from the relation they bear to their times. We may not 
 care for Dryden (though I do) or Prior or Cowley, be- 
 cause in the verse of these latter there is nothing to 
 withstand the ages, nothing that rises above their times. 
 In looking at Rubens, or Leonardo da Vinci, or Fra An- 
 gelico, we must school ourselves to admiration by say- 
 ing * How wonderful for their time, what a near attempt 
 at a perspective, what a near success in drawing nature
 
 50 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 — external and human ! ' Would you, or any one, care 
 for a painting of Angelico's if executed in exactly the 
 same style and in equally soft and harmonious colours 
 at the present day? Could you enjoy and enter into it 
 apart from its relation to such-and-such a period of 
 early Christian Art? It may be possible, but I doubt it. 
 On the other hand take up the Old Masters of Poetry 
 and judge them by the present high standard. Take up 
 Homer — ^who has his width and space? Dante — ^who 
 has his fiery repressed intensity? Theocritus, who has 
 sung sweeter of meadows and summer suns and flowers? 
 Chaucer — who is as delicious now as in the latter part 
 of the fourteenth century! Shakespeare — who was, is, 
 and ever shall be the supreme crowned lord of verse! — 
 Take up one of the comparatively speaking minor lights 
 of the Elizabethan era. Does Jonson with his ' Every 
 Man in his Humour,' or his ' Alchemist,' does Webster 
 with his ' Duchess of Malfi,' does Ford with his * Lov- 
 er's Melancholy,' does Massinger, with his ' Virgin 
 Martyr,' do Beaumont and Fletcher with their ' Maid's 
 Tragedy,' does Marlowe with his ' Life and Death of 
 Dr. Faustus,' pall upon us? Have we ever to keep be- 
 fore us the fact that they lived so many generations or 
 centuries ago? 
 
 " I never tire of that wonderful, tremendous, magnifi- 
 cent epoch in literature — the age of the Elizabethan 
 dramatists. 
 
 " Despite the frequent beauty of much that followed I 
 think the genius of Poetry was of an altogether inferior 
 power and order (excepting Milton) until once again 
 it flowered forth anew in Byron, in Coleridge, in Keats, 
 and in Shelley ! These two last names, what do they not 
 mean! Since then, after a slight lapse. Poetry has 
 soared to serener heights again, and Goethe, Victor 
 Hugo, Tennyson, and Browning have moulded new gen- 
 erations, and men like Rossetti, Swinburne, Morris, 
 Marston, Longfellow, and others have helped to make 
 still more exquisitely fair the Temple of Human Imagi- 
 nation. Men like Joaquin Miller and Whitman are the
 
 EARLY DAYS IN LONDON 51 
 
 south and north winds that soothe or stir the leaves of 
 thought surrounding it. 
 
 " We are on the verge of another great dramatic epoch 
 — more subtle and spiritual if not grander in dimensions 
 than that of the sixteenth century. I hope to God I live 
 to see the sunrise which must follow the wayward lights 
 of the present troubled dawn. . . . 
 
 " On Monday evening (from eight till two) I go again 
 as usual to Marston's. I called at his door on my way 
 here this afternoon and left a huge bouquet of wall- 
 flowers, with a large yellow heart of daffodils, to cheer 
 him up. He is passionately fond of flowers. . . ." 
 
 That winter, despite his continued delicacy, was full 
 of interest to William, who had always a rare capacity 
 for throwing himself into the enjoyment of the moment, 
 whatever it might be, or into the interests of others and 
 dismissing from his mind all personal worries. No mat- 
 ter how depressed he might be, when with friends he 
 could shake himself free from the thraldom of the black 
 clouds and let his natural buoyant spirit have full play. 
 His genial sunny manner, his instinctive belief in and 
 reliance on an equal geniality in others assured him 
 many a welcome. 
 
 Among the literary houses open to him were those of 
 Mr. and Mrs. William Rossetti, Miss Christina Rossetti, 
 Mr. and Mrs. William Bell Scott, Mr. and Mrs. Francil- 
 lon, Mr. Robert Browning, and Mr. Theodore Watts. 
 Mr. and Mrs. George Robinson, whose daughter, Mary, 
 distinguished herself among the poets of her generation, 
 were especially good to him. Among artists whose 
 studios he frequented were Mr. Ford Madox Brown, 
 Mr. William Morris and Mr. Holman Hunt, and Sir 
 Frederick Leighton; and among his intimate friends he 
 counted Mathilde Blind, the poet, Louise Bevington, 
 Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton, Belford Bax and others. 
 
 There was a reverse side to the picture however. His 
 desire and effort not to identify himself — in his origi- 
 nal work, with any set of writers, or phase of literary
 
 52 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 expression, tended to make him of no account in the 
 consideration of some of his fellow writers. His was 
 a slow development, and while he gained greatly in 
 the technical knowledge of his art through the wise and 
 careful advice of Rossetti, the sensitive taste of Philip 
 Marston, the more severe criticism of Theodore Watts, 
 he felt he had a definite thing to say, a definite word of 
 his own to express sooner or later. It was long before 
 this finally shaped its utterance, and in the interval he 
 experimented in many directions, studied various meth- 
 ods — and of course to make a livelihood wrote many 
 " pot-boilers " — always hoping that he would ultimately 
 " find himself." Unquestionably, with his nature — which 
 vibrated so sensitively to everything that was beautiful 
 in nature and life, and had in it so much of exuberance, 
 of optimism — the severe grind for the bare necessities 
 of life, the equally severe criticism that met his early 
 efforts, proved an invaluable schooling to him. The 
 immediate result, however, was that his " other self," 
 the dreaming psychic self, slept for a time, or at any 
 rate was in abeyance. " William Sharp " gradually 
 dominated, and before long he was accepted generally 
 as literary critic and later as art critic also. So com- 
 plete, apparently, for a time, was this divorce between 
 the two radical strains in him, that only a few of his inti- 
 mates suspected the existence of the sensitive, delicate, 
 feminine side of him that he buried carefully out of 
 sight, and as far as possible out of touch with the cur- 
 rent of his literary life in London where at no time did 
 the " Fiona Macleod " side of his nature gain help or 
 inspiration. 
 
 Just as of old, when in Glasgow, he had wandered in 
 the city and beyond it, and made acquaintances with all 
 sorts and conditions of men and women, so, too, did he 
 now wander about London, especially about the neigh- 
 bourhood of " The Pool " which offered irresistible at- 
 tractions and experiences to him. These he touched on 
 later in " Madge o' the Pool " and elsewhere. I remember 
 he told me that rarely a day passed in which he did not
 
 EARLY DAYS IN LONDON 53 
 
 try to imagine himself living the life of a woman, to see 
 through her eyes, and feel and view life from her stand- 
 point, and so vividly that " sometimes I forget I am not 
 the woman I am trying to imagine." The following de- 
 scription of him, at this date, is taken from a letter 
 quoted in Mrs. Janvier's article on " Fiona Macleod and 
 her Creator " in The North American Review. 
 
 " You ask about our acquaintance with Willie Sharp. 
 Yes, we knew him well in the days when we all were gay 
 and young. . . . He was a very nice-looking amiable 
 young fellow whom every one liked, very earnest with 
 great notions of his own mission as regards Poetry, 
 which he took very seriously. He used to have the sav- 
 ing grace of fun — which kept him sweet and wholesome 
 — otherwise he might have fallen into the morbid set." 
 
 Unfortunately, I have very few letters or notes that 
 illustrate the light gay side of his nature — boyish, whim- 
 sical, mischievous, with rapid changes of mood. Others 
 saw more of it at this period than I; for to me he came 
 for sympathy in his work and difficulties; to others he 
 went for gaiety and diversion, and to them he made light 
 of his constant delicacy ; so that the more serious side of 
 his life was usually presented to me — and naturally our 
 most impromising prospects and our long engagement 
 were not matters to inspirit either of us. 
 
 At the end of August in that year his connection with 
 the Bank of the City of Melbourne ceased. That his 
 services were scarcely valuable to his employers may be 
 gathered from the manner and reason of his dismissal. 
 He has himself told the story : 
 
 " I did not take very kindly to the business, and my 
 employers saw it. One day I was invited to interview 
 the Principal. He put it very diplomatically, said he 
 didn't think the post suited me (I agreed), and finally 
 he offered me the option of accepting an agency in some 
 out-of-the-way place in Australia, or quitting the Lon- 
 don service. ' Think it over,' he said, * and give us your 
 answer to-morrow.' I think I might have given him my 
 answer there and then. Next morning the beauty of the
 
 54 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 early summer made an irresistible appeal to me. I had 
 not heard the cuckoo that season, so I resolved to forget 
 business for the day, seek the country, and hear the 
 cuckoo; and I had a very happy time, free from every- 
 body, care, and worry. Next day I was called in to see 
 the Principal. ' I should have sent word — ^busy mail 
 day,' he said. 'Was I ill?' he asked. 'No,' I replied, 
 and explained the true cause of my absence. ' That's 
 scarcely business,' he said. ' We can't do with one who 
 puts the call of the cuckoo before his work.' However, 
 his offer still held. What was I to do? I left the 
 bank." 
 
 During the intervening months efforts to find other 
 work resulted through the kindness of Mr. Greorge Lillie 
 Craik in a temporary post held for six months in the 
 Fine Art Society's Gallery in Bond Street. It was the 
 proposal of the Directors to form a section dealing with 
 old German and English Engravings and Etchings, and 
 that William should be put in charge of it; and that 
 meanwhile, during the six months, he should make a spe- 
 cial study of the subject, learn certain business details 
 to make him more efficient. The work and the prospect 
 were a delightful change after the distasteful grind at 
 the Bank, and he threw himself into the necessary studies 
 with keen relish. 
 
 In the autumn he spent two months in Scotland, vis- 
 iting his mother, and other relatives, Mr. W. Bell Scott, 
 and his old friend Sir Noel Paton. 
 
 From Lanarkshire he wrote in September to me and 
 to Rossetti. 
 
 ToE. A. S.: 
 
 Lesmahagow, Sept., 1881. 
 
 . . . Yesterday I spent some hours in a delicious ram- 
 ble over the moors and across a river toward a distant 
 fir wood, where I lay down for a time, beside the whis- 
 pering waters, seeing nothing but a semicircle of pines, 
 a wall of purple moorland, the brown water gurgling 
 and splashing and slowly moving over the mossy stones,
 
 EAELY DAYS IN LONDON 55 
 
 and above a deep cloudless blue sky — and hearing noth.- 
 ing but the hum of a dragonfly, the summery sound of 
 innumerable heather-bees, and the occasional distant 
 bleat of a sheep or sudden call of a grouse. I lay there 
 in a kind of trance of enjoyment — half painful from in- 
 tensity. I drank in not only the beauty of what I have 
 just described, but also every little and minute thing 
 that crossed my vision — a cluster of fir-needles hanging 
 steel-blue against the deeper colour of the sky, a wood- 
 dove swaying on a pine-bough like a soft gray and pur- 
 ple blossom, a white butterfly clinging to a yellow blos- 
 som heavy with honey, a ray of sunlight upon a bunch 
 of mountain-ash berries making their scarlet glow with 
 that almost terrible red which is as the blood of God in 
 the sunsets one sometimes sees, a dragonfly poised like 
 a flame arrested in its course, a little beetle stretching its 
 sharded wings upon a gray stone, a tiny blue morsel of a 
 floweret between two blades of grass looking up with, I 
 am certain, a sense of ecstatic happiness to the similar 
 skies above — all these and much more I drank in with 
 mingled pain and rejoicing. At such times I seem to 
 become a part of nature — the birds seem when they 
 sing to say things in a no longer unfamiliar speech — 
 nor do they seem too shy to approach quite close to me. 
 Even bees and wasps I do not brush away when they 
 light upon my hands or face, and they never sting me, 
 for I think they know that I would not harm them. I 
 feel at these rare and inexpressibly happy times as a 
 flower must feel after morning dew when the sun comes 
 forth in his power, as a pine tree when a rising wind 
 makes its boughs quiver with melodious pain, as a wild 
 wood-bird before it begins to sing, its heart being too 
 full for music. ... why weren't you there? 
 
 lOth Sept., 1881. 
 
 My deak Eossetti, 
 
 Where I most enjoy myself is along the solitary banks 
 of the Nithan: it is a true mountain stream, now rush- 
 ing along in broken falls, now rippling over shallows of
 
 56 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 exquisite golden-brown lines — ^now slipping with slow 
 perfect grace of motion under the overhanging boughs 
 of willow, pine, or mountain-ash — and ever and again 
 resting in deep dark linns and pools in deliciously 
 dreamful fashion, the only signs of life being a silver 
 flash from its depths as some large trout or grilse stirs 
 from the shelter of mottled boulders banking the sides, 
 or when a dragonfly like a living flame flashes backward 
 and forward after the gray gnats. Indeed, I never saw 
 such a place for dragonflies — I think there must be vast 
 treasures of rubies and emeralds under these lonely 
 moors, and that somehow the precious stones dissolve 
 and become permeated with the spirit of life, and rise 
 up living green fires or crimson and purple flames to 
 flash upon the unseen hill-winds instead of upon a wom- 
 an's bosom or in the Holy of Holies in an idolater's 
 temple. . . . 
 
 After the gloaming has dreamed itself into night the 
 banks and woods along the stream seem to become a part 
 of a weird faeryland. The shadows are simply won- 
 derful. White owls come out and flit about on 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 peo- 
 ple 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 ad- 
 vantages, but it certainly does not conduce to the safe 
 driving of the dogcart home again.
 
 EAELY DAYS IN LONDON 57 
 
 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 a la Pottit Heed. Pomphlet h la Newhaven. 
 
 Anither Drappie. 
 
 Mince Collops. Doo Tairt. 
 
 Haggis. 
 
 An Eek. 
 
 Stuffed Bubbly Jocks an Hawm. 
 
 Gigot of Mutton wi' red cur ran jeelie. 
 
 Sheep's Heed an' Trotters. 
 
 Tatties Biled & Champit. 
 
 Bashed Keeps. 
 
 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 re voir, 
 
 Ever yours affectionately, 
 
 William Shakp.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE DEATH OF EOSSETTI 
 
 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. Never- 
 theless 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. 
 
 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 fif- 
 teen lines. In 1881 he contributed a long poem on Vic- 
 tor Hugo to Modern Thought, and in February of 1882 
 his Sonnet " Spring Wind " was accepted by the Athe- 
 ncdum and it was afterward included in Hall Caine's 
 Century of Sonnets. Early the following year he spent 
 a delightful week-end with Eossetti, at Birchington, 
 whence he wrote to me : 
 
 58'
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSET'I'l
 
 THE DEATH OF EOSSETTI 59 
 
 Feb. 13, 1882. 
 
 " Just a line to tell you I am supremely content. Beau- 
 tiful sea views, steep ' cavey ' cliffs, a delicious luxuri- 
 ous 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 
 AthencBum, 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 Birching- 
 ton-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
 
 60 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 simliglit 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 Eossetti 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 Eossetti 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 Eossetti 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 Eos- 
 setti, having overheard an exclamation of almost rap- 
 turous delight from Christina, rose from his great arm- 
 chair before the fire and walked feebly to the window. 
 He stared blankly upon the dove-tones and pale ame- 
 thyst of the sky. I saw him glance curiously at his sis- 
 ter, 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 Eos- 
 setti 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 Eossetti grew so 
 cheerful, relatively, that it seemed as though the shadow 
 of death had lifted. What makes it doubly memorable
 
 THE DEATH OF EOSSETTI 61 
 
 to me is that when I opened the door for Miss Eossetti 
 when she bade me good-night, she turned, took my hand 
 again, and said in a whisper, ' I am so glad about Ga- 
 briel, and grateful.' " 
 
 To E. A. S. : 
 
 11: 4:82. 
 
 ". . . After spending a very pleasant day at Hailey- 
 bury with Farquharson [E. A. Sharp's brother] we ar- 
 rived 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 Eos- 
 setti." He died on Sunday night at Birchington. I can- 
 not 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 Eossetti'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 Eos- 
 setti 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 other- 
 wise 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."
 
 62 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 ToE. 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 Eossetti, 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 hoiv 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 dark- 
 ness 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 my- 
 self that we are now but dying to live, that there is 
 no death, which is but as a child's dream in a weary 
 night. 
 
 I am very tired. You will forgive more, my dearest 
 friend."
 
 THE DEATH OF ROSSETTI 63 
 
 ToMr. W. M. Rossetti: 
 
 13 Thobnqate Road, 
 
 SUTHEELAND GaBDENS, W., 
 
 15th April, 1883. 
 
 Dear Mr. Rossetti, 
 
 As your wife kindly expressed a wish that I would 
 send you a copy of the sonnet I left in your brother's 
 cofifin along with the flowers, I now do so. It must be 
 judged not as a literary production, but as last words 
 straight from the heart of one who loved and revered 
 your brother. Yours very sincerely, 
 
 William Sharp. 
 
 To Dante Gabriel Rossetti 
 
 AVE! MOES NON EST! 
 
 True heart, great spirit, who hast sojourn'd here 
 Till now the darkness rounds thee, and Death's sea 
 Hath surged and ebbed and carried suddenly 
 
 Thy Soul far hence, as from a stony, drear, 
 
 And weary coast the tide the wrack doth shear; 
 Thou art gone hence, and though our sight may be 
 Strained with a yearning gaze, the mystery 
 
 Is mystic still to us: to thee, how clear! 
 
 loved great friend, at last the bahn of sleep 
 
 Hath soothed thee into silence: it is well 
 
 After life's long unrest to draw the breath 
 No more on earth, but in a slumber deep. 
 
 Or joyous hence afar, the miracle 
 
 Await when dies at last imperious Death. 
 
 W. s. - 
 
 Keenly desirous of offering some tribute to the memory 
 of Rossetti, whose friendship had meant so much to him 
 during the years of struggle in London, William Sharp 
 eagerly accepted a proposal from Messrs. Macmillan that 
 he should write a biographical Record and appreciation 
 of the painter-poet, to be produced within the year. It 
 was begun in June, it was his first lengthy attempt in 
 prose and attempted with little knowledge of the art of 
 writing ; but it was written " red hot," as he used to say, 
 inspired by deep affection and profound admiration for 
 his friend. He spared no pains to make his story as 
 accurate as practicable, and visited the chief owners of
 
 64 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 the pictures, photographs of which Rossetti had given 
 liim. Several of the later paintings he had seen and 
 discussed many times in Rossetti's studio. 
 
 The book divides itself naturally into two parts repre- 
 senting the man in his dual capacity as painter and as 
 poet, and the author selected as frontispiece Rossetti's 
 most characteristic and symbolic design for his sonnet 
 on the sonnet. 
 
 In his Diary of 1890 the author refers to " my first 
 serious effort in prose, my honest and enthusiastic, and 
 indeed serviceable, but badly written ' Life of Rossetti.' " 
 And he tells that the first two thirds were written at 
 Clynder on the Gareloch (Argyll), "in a little cottage 
 where I stayed with my mother and sisters eight years 
 ago " ; and the rest was written in London, and published 
 in December. 
 
 " I remember that the book was finished one Decem- 
 ber day, and so great was the pressure I was under, 
 that, at the end, I wrote practically without a break 
 for thirty-six hours : i. e., I began immediately after an 
 early breakfast, wrote all day except half an hour for 
 dinner, and all evening with less than ten minutes for 
 a slight meal of tea and toast, and right through the 
 night. About 4 or 5 a.m. my fire went out, though I did 
 not feel chilled till my landlady came with my break- 
 fast. By this time I was too excited to be tired, and 
 had moreover to finish the book that day. I was only a 
 few minutes over breakfast, which I snatched during 
 perusal of some notes, and then buckled to again. I 
 wrote all day, eating nothing. When about 7 p.m. I came 
 to ' finis,' I threw down the pen from my chilled and 
 cramped fingers: walked or rather staggered into the 
 adjoining bedroom, but was asleep before I could un- 
 dress beyond removal of my coat and waistcoat. (What 
 hundreds of times I have been saved weariness and bad 
 headaches, how often I have been preserved from col- 
 lapse of a more serious kind, by my rare faculty of 
 being able to sleep at will at any time, however busy, 
 and for even the briefest intervals — ten minutes or less.)
 
 THE DEATH OF EOSSETTI 65 
 
 " For three weeks before this I had been overworking 
 and I was quite exhausted, partly from want of sufficient 
 nourishment. It was the saving of my brain, therefore, 
 that I slept fourteen hours without a break, and after 
 a few hours of tired and dazed wakefulness again fell 
 into a prolonged slumber, from which I awoke fresh and 
 vigorous in mind and body." 
 
 The most interesting letter which he received during 
 the interval of the writing was one from Eobert Brown- 
 ing, in answer to an inquiry concerning a letter written 
 years earlier by Eossetti to Browning, to know if the au- 
 thor of Paracelsus was also the author of Pauline. Eos- 
 setti once told "William Sharp that it was " on the fore- 
 noon of the day when the Burden of Nineveh was begun, 
 conceived rather," that he read this story (at the Brit- 
 ish Museum) " of a soul by the soul's ablest historian." 
 So delighted was Eossetti with it, and so strong his opin- 
 ion that Pauline was by Browning, that he wrote to that 
 poet, then in Florence, for confirmation. Mr. Browning, 
 in his reply — which I quote from my husband's mono- 
 graph on Browning — gave the following particulars of 
 the incident: 
 
 St, Piebee de Chabtkeuse, 
 
 Aug. 22, 1882. 
 
 Dear Mr. Sharp, 
 
 Eossetti's Pauline letter concerning which you inquire 
 was addressed to me at Florence, more than thirty years 
 ago : I must have preserved it, but, even were I at home, 
 should be unable to find it without troublesome search- 
 ing. It was to the effect that the writer, personally and 
 altogether unknown to me, had come upon a poem in the 
 British Museum, which he copied the whole of, from its 
 being not otherwise procurable, that he judged it to be 
 mi Tie, but could not be sure, and wished me to pro- 
 nounce on the matter — which I did. A year or two after, 
 I had a visit in London from Mr. Allingham and a friend 
 — who proved to be Eossetti: when I heard he was a 
 painter I insisted on calling on him, though he declared 
 he had nothing to show me — which was far enough from
 
 66 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 the case. Subsequently on another of my returns to Lon- 
 don, he painted ray portrait: not, I fancy, in oils but 
 water colours — and finished it in Paris shortly after: 
 this must have been in the year when Tennyson pub- 
 lished " Maud," unless I mistake : for I remember Tenny- 
 son reading the poem one evening, while Rossetti made 
 a rapid pen-and-ink sketch of him, very good, from an 
 unobserved corner of vantage — which I still possess and 
 duly value. This was before Rossetti's marriage. 
 
 I hope that these particulars may answer your pur- 
 pose ; and beg you to believe me, dear Mr. Sharp, 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 Robert Browning. 
 
 The young biographer wrote to every one who he 
 thought might possess drawings or paintings by Rossetti 
 — and among others he applied to Tennyson. The Poet 
 Laureate replied: 
 
 Aldwoeth, Haslemeee, 
 
 Oct. 12, 1882. 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 I have neither drawing nor painting by Rossetti. I 
 am sorry for it, for some of his work which I have seen 
 elsewhere I have admired very much; nor (as far as I 
 know) have I any letter from him, nor have I the slight- 
 est recollection of his being present when I was " read- 
 ing the proof sheets of Maud." 
 
 My acquaintance with him was in fact but an acquaint- 
 ance, not an " intimacy," though I would willingly have 
 known something more of so accomplished an artist. 
 Wishing all success to your Memorial of him, 
 
 I am. 
 
 Faithfully yours, 
 
 A. Tennyson. 
 
 The book met with immediate success; it was recog- 
 nised that the work was " one of no ordinary difficulty," 
 that the author "brought fairness and critical acumen 
 to his task," " truest enthusiasm and perseverance that
 
 THE DEATH OF ROSSETTI 67 
 
 nothing can daunt; that by reason of his friendship he 
 had unusual insight into the history and work of Ros- 
 setti," and " a critic of Art and a writer of poems he is 
 thus further to be respected in what he has to say." 
 Only three letters are in my possession of the many he 
 received from friends of his own, or of the dead poet; 
 two are from Walter Pater with whom he had recently 
 become acquainted; and the other from Christina Ros- 
 setti : 
 
 30 TOBBINGTON SQUARE. 
 
 Deae Mr. Shaep, 
 
 Thank you with warm thanks from my Mother and my- 
 self for your precious gift. She has already and with 
 true pleasure perused Chapter I. / have but glanced 
 here and there as yet but with an appetite for the feast to 
 come. I shall be both fortunate and unfortunate if I 
 find occasion for the marginal notes you want — fortu- 
 nate if even thus I can be of use : but I will rather wish 
 myse]f a very narrow field for strictures. Allow me to 
 congratulate you on the binding of the well-known mono- 
 gram and crest — a pretty point which catches and grati- 
 fies the eye at a first glance. I figure so amiably in con- 
 nection with your frontispiece that I may reasonably 
 regret having brought nothing to the transaction (in real- 
 ity) beyond good will. 
 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 Christina G. Rossetti. 
 
 This letter was received while the book was in prepa- 
 ration : 
 
 2 Bbadnob Eoad, Oxfobd, 
 
 Nov. 4, 1882. 
 
 My dear Sharp, 
 
 (I think we have known each other long enough to drop 
 the " Mr.") I read your letter with great pleasure, and 
 thank you very much for it. Your friendly interest in 
 my various essays I value highly. I have really worked 
 hard for now many years at these prose essays, and it is a
 
 68 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 real encouragement to hear such good things said of them 
 by one of the most original of young English poets. It 
 will be a singular pleasure to me to be connected, in a 
 sense, in your book on Rossetti, with one I admired so 
 greatly. I wish the book all the success both the subject 
 and the writer deserve. You encourage me to do what 
 I have sometimes thought of doing, when I have got 
 on a little further with the work I have actually on hand 
 — viz. to complete the various series of which the papers 
 I have printed in the Fortnightly are parts. The list you 
 sent me is complete with the exception of an article on 
 Coleridge in the Westminster of January, 1866, with 
 much of which, both as to matter and manner, I should 
 now be greatly dissatisfied. That article is concerned 
 with S. T. C.'s prose ; but, corrected, might be put along- 
 side of the criticism on his verse which I made for 
 Ward's " English Poets." I can only say that should you 
 finish the paper you speak of on these essays, your criti- 
 cal approval will be of great service to me with the read- 
 ing public. I find I have by me a second copy of the 
 paper on Giorgione, revised in print, which I send by 
 this post, and hope you will kindly accept. It was re- 
 printed some time ago when I thought of collecting that 
 and other papers into a volume. I am pleased to hear 
 that you remember with pleasure your flying visit to 
 Oxford ; and hope you will come for a longer stay in term 
 time early next year. At the end of this month I hope 
 to leave for seven weeks in Italy, chiefly at Eome, where 
 I have never yet been. We went to Cornwall for our 
 summer holiday, but though that country is certainly 
 very singular and beautiful, I found there not a tithe of 
 the stimulus to one's imagination which I have sometimes 
 experienced in quite unrenowned places abroad. 
 
 I should be delighted with a copy of the Eossetti vol- 
 ume from yourself; but it is a volume I should have in 
 any case purchased, and I hope it may appear in time to 
 be my companion on my contemplated journey. 
 
 Very sincerely yours, 
 
 Walter H. Pater.
 
 THE DEATH OF ROSSETTI 69 
 
 2 Beadnob Road, 
 Jan. 15, 1883. 
 
 My dear Sharp, 
 
 Thank you very sincerely for the copy of your book, 
 with the fine impression of the beautiful frontispiece, 
 which reached me yesterday. One copy of the book I 
 had already obtained through a bookseller in Rome, and 
 read it there with much admiration of its wealth of ideas 
 and expression, and its abundance of interesting infor- 
 mation. Thank you also sincerely, for the pleasant 
 things you have said about myself; all the pleasanter 
 for being said in connection with the subject of Rossetti, 
 whose genius and work I esteemed so greatly. I am 
 glad to hear that the book is having the large sale it de- 
 serves. Your letter of December 24th, was forwarded to 
 me at Rome, with the kind invitation I should have been 
 delighted to accept had it been possible, and which I hope 
 you will let me profit by some other time. Then, I heard 
 from my sisters, of your search for me in London, and 
 was very sorry to have missed you there. I shall be 
 delighted to see you here; and can give you a bed at 
 Brasenose, where I shall reside this term. 
 
 Thank you again for the pleasure your book has given, 
 and will give me, in future reading. Excuse this hurried 
 letter, and 
 
 Believe me. 
 
 Very sincerely yours, 
 
 Walter Pater. 
 
 It had been William Sharp's intention to rewrite his 
 Study on Rossetti; for in later years he was very dis- 
 satisfied with the early book, and considered his judg- 
 ment to have been immature. He had indeed arranged 
 certain publishing preliminaries ; and he wrote the dedi- 
 catory chapter; but the book itself was untouched save 
 one or two opening sentences. For this project, with 
 many others planned by William Sharp, was laid aside 
 when the more intimate, the more imperative work put 
 forward under the pseudonym of " Fiona Macleod " be-
 
 70 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 gan to shape itself in his brain. In his dedication to 
 Walter Pater (the only portion of the book that was 
 finished), the author explains his reasons for wishing to 
 write a second Study of the painter-poet. He describes 
 the new material available, and relates that in Ros- 
 setti's lifetime it was planned that a " Life should be 
 written by Philip Bourke Marston and myself, primarily 
 for publication in America. Rossetti took a humorous 
 interest in the scheme, and often alluded to it in notes 
 or conversation as the Bobbies' book (a whimsical sub- 
 stitute for the Boston firm of Roberts Brothers, whom we 
 intended to honour with our great — unwritten — work) : 
 but nothing came of the project. . . . Rossetti was 
 eager to help Marston; so he said he was charmed with 
 the idea, and promised to give all the aid in his power. 
 A week later he told me that ' there was no good in it,' 
 and that ' it had better drop ' : but, instead he suggested 
 that he should write an article upon Marston and his 
 poetry for Harper's, or Scribner's, if it were more ex- 
 pedient that such an article should appear in an Amer- 
 ican periodical, or, if preferred, for some important 
 Quarterly here. 
 
 " But you, cognizant as you are of much of this detail, 
 will readily understand and agree with me when I say 
 that no really adequate portrait of Rossetti is likely to 
 be given to us for many years to come. Possibly never : 
 for his was a nature wrought of so many complexities, 
 his a life developed perplexedly by such divers ele- 
 ments, that he will reappear, for those who come after 
 us, not in any one portraiture but as an evocation from 
 many. . . . 
 
 " Of all that has been written of Rossetti's genius and 
 achievement in poetry nothing shows more essential in- 
 sight, is of more striking and enduring worth, than the 
 essay by yourself, included in your stimulating and al- 
 ways delightful Appreciations. You, more than any one, 
 it seems to me, have understood and expressed the secret 
 of his charm. And though you have not written also of 
 Rossetti the painter, I know of no one who so well and
 
 THE DEATH OF KOSSETTI 71 
 
 from the first perceived just wherein lies his innate 
 power, his essential significance. 
 
 " Years ago, in Oxford, how often we talked these mat- 
 ters over ! I have often recalled one evening, in particu- 
 lar, often recollected certain words of yours : and never 
 more keenly than when I have associated them with the 
 early work of Rossetti, in both arts, but preeminently in 
 painting : ' To my mind Rossetti is the most significant 
 man among us. More torches will be lit from his flame — 
 or torches lit at his flame — than perhaps even enthusi- 
 asts like yourself imagine.' 
 
 " We are all seeking a lost Eden. This ideal Beauty 
 that we catch glimpses of, now in morning loveliness, now 
 in glooms of tragic terror, haunts us by day and night, 
 in dreams of waking and sleeping — nay, whether or not 
 we will, among the littlenesses and exigencies of our 
 diurnal affairs. It may be that, driven from the Eden 
 of direct experience, we are being more and more forced 
 into taking refuge within the haven guarded by our 
 dreams. To a few only is it given to translate, with rare 
 distinction and excellence, something of this manifold 
 message of Beauty — though all of us would fain be, with 
 your Marius, ' of the number of those who must be made 
 perfect by the love of visible beauty.' Among these few, 
 in latter years in this country, no one has wrought more 
 exquisitely for us than Rossetti. 
 
 " To him, and to you and all who recreate for us the 
 things we have vaguely known and loved, or surmised 
 only, or previsioned in dreams, we owe what we can 
 never repay save by a rejoicing gratitude. Our own 
 Eden may be irrecoverable, its haunting music never be 
 nearer or clearer than a vanishing echo, yet we have the 
 fortunate warranty of those whose guided feet have led 
 them further into the sunlit wilderness, who have re- 
 peated to us, as with hieratic speech, what they have 
 seen and heard. 
 
 " * From time to time,' wrote Rossetti in one of those 
 early prose passages of his which are so consecrated by 
 the poetic atmosphere — ' from time to time, however, a
 
 72 WILLIAM SHAKP 
 
 poet or a painter has caught the music (of that garden) ^ 
 and strayed in through the close stems: the spell is on 
 his hand and his lips like the sleep of the Lotus-eaters, 
 and his record shall be vague and fitful ; yet will we be in 
 waiting, and open our eyes and our ears, for the broken 
 song has snatches of an enchanted harmony, and the 
 glimpses are glimpses of Eden.' " 
 
 It was during the preparation of this early book that 
 the first volume of William Sharp's poems was published 
 — too late however to be welcomed by either of the two 
 friends who had taken so keen an interest in its growth : 
 Eossetti, to whom all the poems had been read — and 
 John Elder to whom it was originally dedicated. It is 
 entitled The Euynan Inheritance; Motherhood; Tran- 
 scripts from Nature (Elliot Stock), and contains a prefa- 
 tory poem, and last lines dedicated to myself. 
 
 " The Human Inheritance " is a long poem in four 
 cycles — the Inheritance of Childhood, Youth, Manhood 
 and Womanhood, and Old Age, and was an expression of 
 his belief that the human being should fearlessly reach 
 out to every experience that each period might have to 
 offer. Eager, and intensely alive, the poet thirsted till 
 his last breath after whatever might broaden and deepen 
 his knowledge, his understanding, his enjoyment of life. 
 
 The second long poem, " The New Hope : a Vision of 
 the Travail of Humanity," was especially connected with 
 John Elder, the outcome of many talks and letters con- 
 cerning the purport of the Travail of Humanity — con- 
 cerning a belief they both held that a great new spiritual 
 awakening is imminent that 
 
 ..." the one great Word 
 That spake, shall wonderfully again be heard " . . • 
 
 To " Motherhood " allusion has been made in one or 
 two letters. 
 
 Notwithstanding that some of the critics predicted 
 that the new name was destined to become conspicu- 
 ous, it was not by these poems, but by the Life of
 
 THE DEATH OF EOSSETTI 73 
 
 Eossetti that the real impetus was given to his literary 
 fortunes and emphasised the fact of his existence to pub- 
 lishers and the reading public. But to the poet himself 
 — and to me — the publication of the book of poems was a 
 great event. We looked upon it as the beginning of the 
 true work of his life, toward the fulfilment of which we 
 were both prepared to make any sacrifice. 
 
 I have a few letters relating to this volume of poems, 
 and append the three which the recipient especially cared 
 to preserve: 
 
 2 Bbadmoee Road, 
 
 July 30th. 
 
 My deab Shaep, 
 
 Since you have been here I have been reading your 
 poems with great enjoyment. The presence of philo- 
 sophical, as in " The New Hope " and of such original, 
 and at the same time perfectly natural motives as 
 " Motherhood " is certainly a remarkable thing among 
 younger English poets, especially when united with a 
 command of rhythmical and verbal form like yours. The 
 poem " Motherhood " is of course a bold one ; but it ex- 
 presses, as I think, with perfect purity, a thought, which 
 all who can do so are the better for meditating on. The 
 " Transcripts from Nature " seem to me precisely all, 
 and no more than (and just how is the test of excellence 
 in such things) what little pictures in verse ought to be. 
 
 Very sincerely yours, 
 
 Walter Patee. 
 
 Dear Mr. Sharp, 
 
 I have really not much to say about your poems. That 
 you are of the tribe or order of prophets, I certainly be- 
 lieve. What rank you may take in that order I cannot 
 guess. But the essential thing is that you are the thing 
 poet, and being such I doubt much whether talk about 
 your gift and what you ought to do with it will help you 
 at all. 
 
 In " Motherhood " I think you touch the highest point 
 in the volume. The " Transcripts from Nature " — some
 
 74 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 of them — give me the feel in my nerves of the place and 
 hour you describe, I like the form but I think you have 
 written a sufficient mass in this form, and that future 
 rispetti ought to be rare, that is, whenever it is necessary 
 and right to express yourself in that form. (It is harder 
 to take in many in succession than even sonnets.) The 
 longer poems seem to me as decisively the poetry of a 
 poet as the others, but they seem not so successful (while 
 admirable ia many pages and in various ways). 
 
 I believe a beautiful action, beautifully if somewhat 
 severely handled, would bring out your highest. I wish 
 you had some heroic old Scotch story to brood over and 
 make live while you are in Scotland. 
 
 I look forward with much interest to your Pre- 
 
 Raphaelism and Eossetti. 
 
 Very sincerely yours, 
 
 Edwakd Dowden. 
 
 Sept. 6, 1882. 
 
 Dear Mr. Sharp, 
 
 ... I came abroad and brought your book with me. I 
 have read it again through among the mountains and 
 have found much to admire and more than like in it ; so 
 that the hours I passed in reading it are and will be pleas- 
 ant hours to remember. If I may venture a criticism it is 
 that nature occupies more than three fourths of the Emo- 
 tion of the Book, and not Humanity, and even the pas- 
 sion and childhood and youth, and later love and age — 
 and all passions are painted iu terms of Nature, and 
 through her moods. It pleases me, for I care more for 
 Nature myself when I am not pressed on by human feel- 
 mg, than I do for Man, but an artist ought to love Man 
 more than Nature, and should write about Him for his 
 own sake. It won't do to become like the being in the 
 " Palace of Art." It will not do either to live in a Palace 
 of Nature, alone. But all this is more a suggestion than 
 an objection, and it is partly suggested to me at first by 
 the fact that the poem in the midst of The Human In- 
 heritance, Cycle III, is the nearest to the human heart
 
 THE DEATH OF EOSSETTI 75 
 
 and yet the least well written of all the cycles — at least 
 so it seems to me. I like exceedingly " The Tides of 
 Venice." It seems to me to come nearer the kind of poem 
 in which the Poet's Shuttle weaves into one web Nature 
 and Humanity and the close is very solemn and noble. 
 
 You asked me to do a critic's part. It is a part I hate, 
 and I am not a critic. But I say what I say for the sake 
 of men and women whom you may help through the giv- 
 ing of high pleasure even more than you help them in 
 this book. 
 
 With much sympathy and admiration, 
 
 I am yours most sincerely, 
 
 Stopfoed a. Brooke. 
 
 Two other deaths occurred in this year, and made a 
 profound impression on the young writer. I quote his 
 own words: 
 
 " It was in 1882 also that another friend, to whom 
 Philip Marston had also become much attached — at- 
 tracted in the first instance by the common bond of 
 unhappiness — died under peculiarly distressing circum- 
 stances. Philip Marston and myself were, if I am not 
 mistaken, the last of his acquaintances to see him alive. 
 Thomson had suffered such misery and endured such 
 hopelessness, that he had yielded to intemperate habits, 
 including a frequent excess in the use of opium. He had 
 come back from a prolonged visit to the country, where 
 all had been well with him, but through over confidence 
 he had fallen a victim again immediately on his return. 
 For a few weeks his record is almost a blank. When 
 the direst straits were reached, he so far reconquered 
 his control that he felt able to visit one whose sympathy 
 and regard had stood all tests. Marston soon real- 
 ised that his friend was mentally distraught, and en- 
 dured a harrowing experience, into the narrative of 
 which I do not care to enter. 
 
 " I arrived in the late afternoon, and found Philip in 
 a state of nervous perturbation. Thomson was lying 
 down on the bed in the adjoining room : stooping I caught
 
 76 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 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 hasm- 
 orrhage 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 car- 
 ried 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.
 
 THE DEATH OF ROSSETTI 77 
 
 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 * 
 
 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. 
 
 •Thoreau and Hawthorne.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 FIEST VISIT TO ITALY 
 
 " After Rossetti's death, I wrote," William Sharp has 
 related, " to the commission of Messrs. Macmillan, a rec- 
 ord 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 Athenmum. 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 posses- 
 sion 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 re- 
 sources 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 there- 
 fore enclosed a cheque for two hundred pounds, which I 
 
 78
 
 WILLIAM SHARP 
 From a photograph taken in Rome in 1883
 
 FIRST VISIT TO ITALY 79 
 
 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. 
 
 " 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 Glasgoiv Herald, to be taken up in the 
 autumn. During his stay in London he had made a con- 
 tinual study of the Old Masters, and his connection with 
 The Fine Art Society had brought him in touch with 
 modem 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 : 
 
 Floeence, 
 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 fa- 
 mous picture of the Virgin seated on a throne. I ad- 
 mired some frescoes by Fillipino Lippi — also those in the
 
 80 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 Choir by Ghirlandajio : in the Capella dei Strozzi (to 
 the left) I saw the famous frescoes of Orcagna, the In- 
 ferno 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 super- 
 stitions, 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 be- 
 lieve 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 (com- 
 paratively) 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 dark- 
 ness away by the western entrances (closed), a dark 
 gloom elsewhere, with gray trails of incense mist still
 
 FIRST VISIT TO ITALY 81 
 
 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 Pieta un- 
 der 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 com- 
 menced, the slashing of canes upon the stones and pil- 
 lars. I was never so impressed before. I left, and wan- 
 dered away by myself along the deserted Lung-Arno, 
 still shivering with the excitement of almost foretasted 
 death I had exioerienced, 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 enjoy- 
 ment 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
 
 82 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 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 pleas- 
 ant and agreeable, though in appearance somewhat ec- 
 centric 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, statu- 
 ettes 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 she 
 drove in and left three introductions for me which may 
 be of good service — one to Lady Paget, wife of the Brit- 
 ish Ambassador, one to the Storys, and one to Tilton, the 
 sculptor. . . . 
 
 Yesterday I perhaps enjoyed more than I have done 
 since I came to Italy. In the morning Arthur Lemon, the 
 artist, called for me, and being joined by two others 
 (Lomax, an artist, and his brother) we had a boat carried 
 over the weir and we got into it at the Cascine and rowed 
 down stream past the junction of the Mugnone and Amo, 
 till Florence and Fiesole were shut from view, and the 
 hills all round took on extra beauty — Monte Beni on the 
 right and Monte Morello on the left glowing with a haze 
 of heat, and beyond all, the steeps of Vallombrosa in 
 white — and Carrara's crags also snow-covered behind us. 
 We passed the quaint old church and village of San Ste- 
 fano and swung in-shore to get some wine. . . . 
 
 We rowed on and in due course came in sight of Signa. 
 We put on a spurt (the four of us were rowing) and as 
 we swept at a swift rate below the old bridge it seemed as 
 if half the population came out to see the unusual sight 
 of gentili signorini exerting themselves so madly when 
 they might be doing nothing. We got out and said fare- 
 well to the picturesque-looking fellow who had steered us 
 down — had some breakfast at a Trattoria, where we had 
 small fish half -raw and steeped in oil (but not at all bad)
 
 FIRST VISIT TO ITALY 83 
 
 — kid's flesh, and delicious sheep' s-milk cheese, bread, 
 and light, red, Chianti wiae. We then spent some two or 
 three hours roaming about Signa, which is a beautifully- 
 situated dreamy sleepy old place — with beautiful " bits " 
 for artists every here and there — old walls with lizards 
 basking on them in numbers — and lovely views. 
 
 We came back by Lastia, a fine ancient walled town, and 
 arrived in Florence by open tramcar in the evening, 
 finally I had a delicious cold bath. The whole day was 
 heavenly. If the river has not sunk too low when I re- 
 turn from Rome, Arthur Lemon and some other artists 
 and myself are going on a sketching trip down the Arno 
 amongst the old villages — the length of Pisa — taking 
 about two days." 
 
 I Rome. 
 
 ". . . It is too soon to give you my impressions of Rome, 
 but I may say that they partly savour of disappointment. 
 ... Of one thing however, I have already seen enough 
 to convince me — and that is that Rome is not for a mo- 
 ment to be compared to Florence in beauty — neither in 
 its environs, its situation, its streets, nor its rivers. Its 
 palaces may be grander, the interiors of its churches more 
 magnificent, its treasures of art more wonderful, but in 
 beauty it is as far short as London is of Edinburgh. 
 But it has one great loveliness which can never tire and 
 which charms immeasurably — the fountains which con- 
 tinually and every here and there splash all day and 
 night in the sunlight or in green grottoes in the courts 
 of villas and palaces. I am certain that I should hate to 
 live here — I believe it would kill me — for Rome is too 
 old to be alive — unless indeed a new Rome entirely over- 
 shadows the past. I don't suppose you will quite under- 
 stand, and I cannot explain just now — but so I feel. Flor- 
 ence (after the cold has gone) is divine — air, atmos- 
 phere, situation, memory of the past, a still virile present 
 — but Rome is an anomaly, for what is predominant here 
 is that evil mediaeval Rome whose eyes were blind with 
 blood and lust and hate. Ancient Rome is magnificent — •
 
 84 WILLIAM SHAKP 
 
 but so little remains of it that one can no more live in it 
 than in Kamak or Thebes : as for modem Rome, every- 
 thing seems out of keeping — so that one has either to 
 weary with the dull Metropolitanism of the capital of 
 Italy or else to enter into the life of the mediaeval 
 ages. . . . 
 
 I expect and believe that I shall find Rome beautiful in 
 many things, even as she is already majestic and wonder- 
 ful — and that the more one becomes acquainted with the 
 Eternal City the more one loves or at least reverences 
 and delights in it. 
 
 Meanwhile, however, with me, it is more a sense of 
 oppression that I experience — a feeling as if life would 
 become intolerable unless all sense of the past were put 
 away. I hate death, and all that puts one in mind of 
 death — and after all Rome is only a gigantic and richly 
 ornamented tomb. . . . 
 
 How I hate large cities ! Even Florence is almost too 
 large, but there at least one can always escape into open 
 space and air and light and freedom at will — and the 
 mountains are close, and the country round on all sides 
 is fair, and the river is beautiful. Do not be provoked 
 with me when I say that Signa, for instance, is more 
 beautiful to me than Rome — and that the flashing of 
 sunlight in the waters of the fountains, the green of 
 Spring in the flowered fields and amongst the trees, and 
 the songs of birds and the little happy-eyed children, 
 mean infinitely more to me than the grandest sculptures, 
 the noblest frescoes, the finest paintings. This is my 
 drawback I am afraid, and not my praise — for where 
 such hundreds are intensely interested I am often but 
 slightly so. Again and again when I find myself wearied 
 to death with sight-seeing I call to mind some loch with 
 the glory of morning on it, some mountain-side flecked 
 with trailing clouds and thrilling me with the bleating of 
 distant sheep, the cries of the cliff hawks, and the waver- 
 ing echoes of waterfalls : or, if the mood, I recall some 
 happy and indolent forenoon in the Cascine or Monte 
 Oliveto or in the country paths leading from Bellos-
 
 FIRST VISIT TO ITALY 85 
 
 guardo, where I watched the shadows playing amongst 
 the olives and the dear little green and grey lizards 
 running endlessly hither and thither — and tliinking of 
 these or such as these I grow comforted. And often 
 when walking in the Ca seine by myself at sunset I have 
 heard a thrush or blackbird call to its mate through the 
 gloom of the trees, or when looking toward Morello and the 
 Appenine chain and seeing them aglow with wonderful 
 softness, or, on the Arno's banks I have seen the river 
 washing in silver ripples and rosy light to the distant 
 crags of Carrara where the sun sank above the Pisan sea 
 — often at such times my thrill of passionate and some- 
 times painful delight is followed by the irrepressible 
 conviction that such things are to me more beautiful, 
 more worthy of worship, more full of meaning, more 
 significant of life, more excelling in all manner of love- 
 liness, than all the treasures of the Uflfizi and the Pitti, 
 the Vatican and the Louvre put together. But whenever 
 I have expressed such a conviction I have been told that 
 the works of man are after all nobler, in the truer sense 
 lovelier, and more spiritually refreshing and helpful — 
 and though I do not find them so, I must believe that to 
 most people such is the case, perhaps to the infinite 
 majority. 
 
 And, after all, why am I to be considered inferior to 
 my fellows because I love passionately in her every mani- 
 festation the mother who has borne us all, and to whom 
 much that is noblest in art is due? . . . 
 
 Yet I would not be otherwise after all. I know some 
 things which few know, some secrets of beauty in cloud, 
 and sea and earth — have an inner communion with all 
 that meets my eyes in what we call nature, and am rich 
 with a wealth which I would not part with for all the 
 palaces in Home. Do you understand me, Lill, in this? 
 . . . Poor dear! I had meant to have told her all 
 about my visit to Orvieto (alone worth coming to Italy 
 for — if only to behold the magnificent Cathedral) but 
 instead I have only relieved my mind in a kind of grum- 
 bling. . . .
 
 86 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 Wliat fascinates me most in Eome is the sculpture. 
 Well as I knew all the famous statues, from copies and 
 casts, some of them were almost like new revelations — 
 especially the Faun of Praxiteles, of which I had never 
 seen a really good copy. Can't say, however, I felt en- 
 thusiastic about the Capitoline Venus." 
 
 Rome, 16th April, 1883. 
 
 "... I have just come in from the Campagna where 
 I have spent some of the happiest hours I have yet had 
 in Rome. I went for some three miles across the glori- 
 ous open reaches of tall grass, literally dense with myri- 
 ads of flowers — not a vestige of a house to be seen, not 
 a hint of Rome, nothing but miles upon miles of rolling 
 grassy slopes till they broke like a green sea against the 
 blue-purple hills, which were inexpressibly beautiful with 
 their cloud-shadows athwart their sides and the lingering 
 snows upon their heights. There was not a sound to be 
 heard save those dear sounds of solitary places, the end- 
 less hum of insects, the cries of birds, the songs of many 
 larks, the scream of an occasional hawk, the splash of a 
 stream that will soon be dried up, and the exquisite, 
 delicious, heavenly music of the wind upon the grass and 
 in the infrequent trees. . . . And a good fairy watched 
 over me to-day, for I was peculiarly fortunate in seeing 
 one or two i^icturesque things I might have missed. 
 First, as I was listening to what a dear spark of a Untie 
 was whistling to its mate, I heard a dull heavy trampling 
 sound, and on going to a neighbouring rise I saw two 
 wild bulls fighting. I never realised before the immense 
 weight and strength these animals have. Soon after, a 
 herd of them came over the slope, their huge horns toss- 
 ing in the sunlight and often goring at each other. I 
 was just beginning to fancy that I had seen my last of 
 Rome (for I had been warned against these wild cattle 
 especially at this season when some picturesquely-at- 
 tired horsemen on shaggy little steeds came up at full 
 speed, and with dogs and long spears or poles and fran- 
 tic cries urged the already half furious, half terrified
 
 FIRST VISIT TO ITALY 87 
 
 animals forward. It was delightful to witness, and if I 
 were a painter I would be glad to paint such a scene. 
 I then went across a brook and up some slopes (half 
 buried in flowers and grasses) till I came to a few black- 
 thorn trees and an old stone-pine, and from there I had 
 a divine view. The heat was very great, but I lay in a 
 pleasant dreamy state with my umbrella stuck tentwise, 
 and I there began the first chapter of the novel I told 
 you before I left that I intended writing. I had been 
 thinking over it often, and so at last began it: and cer- 
 tainly few romances have been begun in lovelier places. 
 Suddenly, through one eye, as it were, 1 caught sight of 
 a broad moving shadow on the slope beyond me, and 
 looking up I was electrified with delight to see a large 
 eagle shining gold-bronze in the sun. I had no idea 
 (though I knew they preyed on the lambs, etc., further 
 on the Campagna and in the Maremma) that they ever 
 came so near the haunts of men. It gave one loud harsh 
 scream, a swoop of its broad wings, and then sailed 
 away out of sight into the blue haze beyond the farthest 
 reaches I could see. Away to the right I saw a ruined 
 arch, formerly some triumphal record no doubt, and near 
 it was a shepherd, clad in skins, tending his goats. No 
 other human sign — oh, it was delicious and has made 
 me in love with the very name of Rome. Such swarms 
 of lizards there were, and so tame, especially the ^reen 
 ones, which knew I wouldn't hurt them and so ran on to 
 my hands. The funniest fly too I ever saw buzzed up, 
 and sat on a spray of blackthorn blossom and looked at 
 me: I burst out laughing at it, and it really seemed to 
 look reproachfully at me — and for a moment I felt sorry 
 at being so rude. I could have lain there all day, so deli- 
 cious was the silence save for these natural sounds — and 
 all these dear little birds and insects. What surprised 
 me so much about the flowers was not only their immense 
 quantity, but also their astounding variety. At last I 
 had to leave, as it is not safe to lie long on the Campagna 
 if one is tired or hungry. So I strolled along through 
 the deep grasses and over slope after slope till at last
 
 88 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 I saw the clump of stone pines which were my landmark, 
 and then I soon joined the road. ..." 
 
 Siena, 30th April, 1883. 
 
 " You will see by the above address that I have arrived 
 in this beautiful old city. 
 
 I left Rome and arrived in Perugia on Thursday last 
 — spending the rest of the day in wandering about the 
 latter, and watching the sunset over the far-stretching 
 Umbrian country. I made the acquaintance of some nice 
 people at the Hotel, and we agreed to share a carriage 
 for a day — so early on Friday morning we started in a 
 carriage and pair for Assisi. About 3 miles from Peru- 
 gia we came to the Etruscan tombs, which we spent a 
 considerable time in exploring: I was much struck with 
 the symbolism and beauty of the ornamental portions. 
 Death evidently to the ancient Etrurians being but a 
 departure elsewhere. The comparative joyousness (ex- 
 ultation, as in the symbol of the rising sun over the chief 
 entrance) of the Etruscans contrasts greatly with the 
 joylessness of the Christians, who have done their best 
 to make death repellant in its features and horrible in 
 its significance, its possibilities. 
 
 Only a Renaissance of belief in the Beautiful being 
 the only sure guide can save modern nations from further 
 spiritual degradation — and not till the gloomy precepts 
 of Christianity yield to something more akin to the Greek 
 sense of beauty will life appear to the majority lovely 
 and wonderful, alike in the present and in the future. 
 
 After leaving the Tombs of the Volumnii we drove 
 along through a most interesting country, beautiful every- 
 where owing to Spring's feet having passed thereover, 
 till we came to the Church of Sta. Maria degli Angeli — 
 on the plain just below Assisi. We went over this, and 
 then drove up the winding road to the gray old town 
 itself, visiting, before ascending to the ruined citadel at 
 the top of the hill, the Chiesa di Santa Chiara. Lying 
 on the grass on the very summit of the hill, we had lunch, 
 and then lay looking at the scenery all round us, north.
 
 FIRST VISIT TO ITALY 89 
 
 south, east, and west. Barren and desolate and colour- 
 less, with neither shade of tree nor coolness of water, 
 these dreary Assisi hills have nothing of the grandeur 
 and beauty of the barrenness and desolation of the north 
 — they are simply hideous to the eye, inexpressibly 
 dreary, dead, and accursed. I shall never now hear 
 Assisi mentioned without a shudder, for picturesque as 
 the old town is, beautiful as are the Monastery, the Upper 
 Church, the paintings and the frescoes — they are over- 
 weighted in my memory with the hideousness of the im- 
 mediate hill-surroundings. It made me feel almost sick 
 and ill, looking from the ruined citadel out upon these 
 stony, dreary, lifeless, hopeless hills — and I had again 
 and again to find relief in the beauty of more immediate 
 surroundings — the long grasses waving in the buttresses 
 of the citadel, the beautiful yellow (absolutely stainless in 
 colour) wallflowers sprouting from every chink and 
 cranny, and the green and gray lizards darting every- 
 where and shining in the sunlight. Here at least was life, 
 not death: and to me human death is less painful than 
 that of nature, for in the former I see but change, but in 
 the latter — annihilation. These poor mountains! — once, 
 long ago, bright and joyous with colour and sound and 
 winds and waters and birds — and now without a tree to 
 give shadow where grass will never again grow, save 
 here and there a stunted and withered olive, like some 
 plague-stricken wretch still lingering amongst the de- 
 cayed desolation of his birthplace — without the music 
 and light of running water, save, perhaps twice amidst 
 their parched and serried flanks a crawling, muddy, hide- 
 ous liquid; and without sound, save the blast of the 
 winter-wind and the rattle of dislodged stones. 
 
 Yet the day was perfect — one of those flawless days 
 combining the laughter of Spring and the breath of ar- 
 dent Summer: but perhaps this very perfection accen- 
 tuates the desert wretchedness behind the old town of 
 St. Francis. Yet the veiy day before I went I was told 
 that the view from the citadel was lovely (and this not 
 with reference to the Umbrian prospect in front of Assisi,
 
 90 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 which is fine though to my mind it has been enormously 
 exaggerated) — lovely! As well might a person ask me 
 to look at the divine beauty of the Belvedere Apollo, 
 and then say to me that lovely also was yon maimed and 
 hideous beggar, stricken with the foulness of leprosy. 
 
 The hills about Assisi beautiful! Oh Pan, Pan, in- 
 deed your music passed long, long ago out of men's hear- 
 ing. ..." 
 
 Floeence, 7th May. 
 
 " On either Wednesday or Thursday last we started 
 early for Monte Oliveto, and after a long and interest- 
 ing drive we came to a rugged and wild countryj and 
 at last, by the side of a deep gorge to the famous Con- 
 vent itself. The scenery all round made a great impres- 
 sion on me — it was as wild, almost as desolate as the 
 hills behind Assisi — but there was nothing repellant, i. e., 
 stagnant, about it. While we were having something 
 to eat outside the convent (a huge building) the abbe 
 came out and received us most kindly, and brought us 
 further refreshment in the way of hard bread and wine 
 and cheese — their mode of life being too simple to have 
 anything else to offer. 
 
 Owing to the great heat and perhaps over-exposure 
 while toiling up some of the barren scorched roads, where 
 they became too hilly or rough for the horses — I had 
 succumbed to an agonising nervous headache, and could 
 do nothing for a while but crouch in a comer of the wall 
 in the shade and keep wet handkerchiefs constantly over 
 my forehead and head. In the meantime the others had 
 gone inside, and as Mrs. S. had told the abbe I was 
 suffering from a bad headache he came out to see me 
 and at once said I had had a slight touch of the sun — a 
 frequent thing in these scorched and barren solitudes. 
 He took me into a private room and made me lie down 
 on a bed — and in a short time brought me two cups of 
 strong black coffee, with probably something in it — for 
 in less than twenty minutes I could bear the light in my 
 eyes and in a few minutes more I had only an ordinary
 
 FIRST VISIT TO ITALY 91 
 
 headache. He was exceedingly kind altogether, and I 
 shall never think of Monte Oliveto without calling to 
 remembrance the Abbe Cesareo di Negro. I then spent 
 about three hours over the famous 35 noble frescoes by 
 Sodoma and Signorelli, illustrating the life of Saint Ben- 
 edict, the founder of the convent. They are exceedingly 
 beautiful — and one can learn more from this consecutive 
 series than can well be imagined. While taking my notes 
 and wondering how I was to find time (without staying 
 for a couple of days or so) to take down all particulars — 
 I saw the abbe crossing the cloisters in my direction, 
 and when he joined me he said, " la Signora " had told 
 him I was a poet and writer, and that I thought more 
 of Sodoma than any of his contemporaries, and so he 
 begged me to accept from him a small work in French 
 on the history of the convent including a fairly complete 
 account of each fresco. A glance at this showed that 
 it would be of great service to me, and save much in 
 the way of note-taking — and I was moreover glad of this 
 memento; he inscribed his name in it. . . . 
 
 The more I see of Sodoma's work the more I see 
 what a great artist he was — and how enormously under- 
 rated he is in comparison with many others better known 
 or more talked about. After having done as much as I 
 could take in, I went with the abbe over other interesting 
 parts and saw some paintings of great repute, but to me 
 unutterably wearisome and empty — and then to the libra- 
 ry — and finally through the wood to a little chapel with 
 some interesting frescoes. I felt quite sorry to leave the 
 good abbe. I promised to send him a copy of whatever 
 I wrote about the Sodomas — and he said that whenever 
 I came to Italy again I was to come and stay there for 
 a few days, or longer if I liked — and he hoped I would 
 not forget but take him at his word. Thinking of you, 
 I said I supposed ladies could not stay at the Convent — 
 but he said they were not so rigorous now, and he would 
 be glad to see the wife of the young English poet with 
 him, if she could put up with plain fare and simple 
 lodging. Altogether, Monte Oliveto made such an im-
 
 92 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 pression on me that I won't be content till I take you 
 there for a visit of a few days. . . ." 
 
 Venezia, 10th May. 
 
 "... I came here one day earlier than I anticipated. 
 What can I say? I have no words to express my de- 
 light as to Venice and its surroundings — it makes up an 
 hundredfold for my deep disappointment as to Rome. I 
 am in sympathy with everything here — the art, the ar- 
 chitecture, the beauty of the city, everything connected 
 with it, the climate, the brightness and joyousness, and 
 most of all perhaps the glorious presence of the sea. . . . 
 From the first moment, I fell passionately and irretriev- 
 ably in love with Venice : I should rather be a week here 
 than a month in Rome or even Florence: the noble city 
 is the crown of Italy, and fit to be empress of all cities. 
 
 All yesterday afternoon and evening (save an hour 
 on the Piazza and neighbourhood) I spent in a gondola 
 — enjoying it immensely: and after dinner I went out 
 till late at night, listening to the music on the canals. 
 Curiously, after the canals were almost deserted — and I 
 was drifting slowly in a broad stream of moonlight — a 
 casement opened and a woman sang with as divine a 
 voice as in my poem of The Tides of Venice : she was also 
 such a woman as there imagined — and I felt that the 
 poem was a true forecast. Early this morning I went 
 to the magnificent St. Mark's (not only infinitely nobler 
 than St. Peter's, but to me more impressive than all the 
 Churches in Rome taken together). I then went to the 
 Lido, and had a glorious swim in the heavy sea that was 
 rolling in. On my return I found that Addington Sym- 
 onds had called on me — and I am expecting W. D. How- 
 ells. I had also a kind note from Ouida. 
 
 Life, joyousness, brightness everywhere — oh, I am 
 so happy! I wish I were a bird, so that I could sing 
 out the joy and delight in my heart. After the oppression 
 of Rome, the ghastliness of Assisi, the heat and dust 
 of Florence — Venice is like Paradise. Summer is every- 
 where here — on the Lido there were hundreds of butter-
 
 FIRST VISIT TO ITALY 93 
 
 flies, lizards, bees, birds, and some heavenly larks — a 
 perfect glow and tumult of life — and I shivered with 
 happiness. The cool fresh joyous wind blew across the 
 waves white with foam and gay with the bronze-sailed 
 fisher-boats — the long wavy grass was sweet-scented and 
 delicious — the acacias were in blossom of white — life — 
 dear, wonderful, changeful, passionate, joyous life every- 
 where! I shall never forget this day — never, never. 
 Don't despise me when I tell you that once it overcame 
 me, quite ; but the tears were only from excess of happi- 
 ness, from the passionate delight of getting back again 
 to the Mother whom I love in Nature, with her wind- 
 caresses and her magic breath." 
 
 The weeks in Venice gave my correspondent the crown- 
 ing pleasure of his Italian sojourn; Venetian art ap- 
 pealed to him beyond that of any other school. The 
 frequent companionship of John Addington SjTuonds, 
 the long hours in the gondola, in the near and distant 
 lagoons were a perpetual joy to him. June he spent in 
 the Ardennes with my mother and me — at Dinant, at 
 Anseremme and at La Roche. They were happy days 
 which we spent chiefly in a little boat sailing up the 
 Lesse, dragging it over the shallows, or resting in the 
 green shade of oak and beech trees. 
 
 In July he was once more in London and hard at work. 
 Among other things he had contributed a series of arti- 
 cles on the Etrurian Cities to the Glasgoiv Herald, and 
 followed them with letters descriptive of the Ardennes, 
 then relatively little known. In August he packed all 
 his Italian notes, and joined his mother and sisters at 
 Innellan on the Clyde, and later he visited Sir Noel Paton 
 in Arran, whence he wandered over many of his old loved 
 haunts in Loch Fyne, in Mull and in lona. 
 
 On his way back to London — where he was to take up 
 his work as Art Critic to the Glasgow Herald — a serious 
 misadventure befell him. His portmanteau with all his 
 precious Italian photographs, notes and other MSS. was 
 lost. Nowhere could he trace it, and he had to return
 
 94 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 without it. He was in despair; for it meant not only the 
 loss of material for future commissions, but the loss of 
 work already finished, and in process. 
 
 It was a wet August ; and his search through the vari- 
 ous places he had passed on the Clyde was made in 
 pouring rain. Again and again on the steamers and on 
 the piers he was soaked during those miserable days. 
 He settled in London at 13 Thorngate Road, Suther- 
 land Gardens, in deep depression; his persistent appeals 
 to the Railway Company were unavailing. As the au- 
 tumn advanced his old enemy rheumatism took hold of 
 him, and he was laid low again with rheumatic fever, 
 which this time attacked his heart mainly. His sister 
 Mary came up to town and she and I nursed him. The 
 best tonic however toward recovery was the reappear- 
 ance of the lost portmanteau with its much mourned 
 over contents in a soaked and sodden condition, but still 
 legible and serviceable. 
 
 In the Introduction to a selection of Philip Marston's 
 Poems my husband relates that : 
 
 " During the spring months of 1884 I was residing at 
 Dover, and in April Marston came down from London 
 to spend a week or so with me. The weather was per- 
 fect, and our walks by shore and cliff were full of de- 
 light to us both. Once or twice we crossed to Calais for 
 the sake of the sail, and spent a few hours in the old 
 French port, and returned by the afternoon boat. In 
 the evenings, after dinner, we invariably adjourned to 
 the beach, either under the eastern bluffs, or along the 
 base of Shakespeare's Cliff, for the music of the sea, in 
 calm or tidal turbulence or tempest, had an unfailing 
 fascination for him. 
 
 " He took keen pleasure in learning how to distinguish 
 the songs of the different birds, and all spring's sounds 
 and scents were sources of exquisite pleasure. How well 
 I remember the rapt expression of puzzled delight which 
 animated his face, as one day we crossed some downs 
 to the westward of Folkestone. ' Oh, what is that? ' he 
 cried eagerly ; and to my surprise I found that what had
 
 FIRST VISIT TO ITALY 95 
 
 so excited him was the crying of the young lambs as they 
 stumbled or frisked about their mothers. He had so 
 seldom been out of London in early spring that so com- 
 mon an incident as this had all the charm of newness to 
 him. 
 
 " A frisky youngster was eagerly enticed alongside, 
 and the blind poet's almost childlike happiness in play- 
 ing with the woolly little creature was something delight- 
 ful to witness. A little later I espied one which had only 
 been a few hours in the world, and speedily placed it in 
 his arms. He would fain have carried it away with him : 
 in his tender solicitude for it he was like a mother over 
 her first-born. 
 
 " As we turned to walk homeward we met a boy hold- 
 ing a young starling in his hand. Its feeble strident 
 cries, its funny little beak closing upon his finger under 
 the impression it was a gigantic worm, delighted him 
 almost as much as the lambkin. ' A day of days ! ' was 
 his expressive commentary, as tired and hungry we 
 reached home and sat down to dinner, with the deep 
 boom of the sea clearly audible through the open win- 
 dow." 
 
 From Dover W. S. went to Paris for the first time in 
 his capacity as Art Critic, and thoroughly enjoyed him- 
 self as this letter to me shows : 
 
 Paris, 10th April, 1884. 
 
 What remains of me after to-day's heat now writes to 
 you. This morning I spent half an hour or so in M. 
 Bourget's study — and was flattered to find a well-read 
 copy of my Rossetti there. He had a delightful library 
 of books, and, for a Frenchman, quite a respectable num- 
 ber by English writers : amongst other things, I was most 
 interested in seeing a shelf of about 30 volumes with 
 letters or inscriptions inside from the corresponding con- 
 temporary critics, philosophists, etc. M. Bourget is for- 
 tunate in his friends. 
 
 I then went to breakfast with him at a famous Cafe, 
 frequented chiefly by hommes de lettres. At our table we
 
 96 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 were soon joined by Hennequin and two others. After 
 breakfast (a most serious matter!) I adjourned with 
 Bourget to his club, La Societe Historique, Cercle St. 
 Simon, and while there was introduced to one or two 
 people, and made an honorary member with full privi- 
 leges. I daresay Bourget's name is better known to you 
 as a poet, but generally his name is more familiar as the 
 author of " Essais de Psychologic Contemporaine " — an 
 admirable series of studies on the works and genius of 
 Baudelaire, Renan, Gustave Flaubert, Taine, and Sten- 
 dhal. He very kindly gave me a copy (which I am glad to 
 have from him, though I knew the book already) and 
 in it he wrote 
 
 A William Sharp 
 de son confrere 
 Paul Bourget. 
 
 After leaving him I recrossed the Champs Elysees — 
 perspired so freely that the Seine perceptibly rose — sank 
 exhausted on a seat at the Cafe de la Paix — dwelt in 
 ecstasy while absorbing a glace aux pistaches — then went 
 back to the Grand Hotel — and to my room, where after 
 a bit I set to and finished my concluding Grosvenor Gal- 
 lery Notice. 
 
 On Sunday, if I can manage it, I will go to Mdme. Bla- 
 vatsky. 
 
 On Monday Bourget comes here for me at twelve, and 
 we breakfast together (he with me this time) — and I 
 then go to M. Lucien Mariex, who is to take and introduce 
 me to M. Muntz, the writer of the best of the many books 
 on Raphael and an influential person in the Bibliotheque 
 Nationale. Somebody else is to take me to look at some 
 of the private treasures in the Ecole des Beaux Arts. In 
 the course of the week I am to see Alphonse Daudet, and 
 Bourget is going to introduce me to Emile Zola. As 
 early as practicable I hope to get to Neuilly to see M. 
 Milsand, but don't know when. If practicable I am also 
 to meet Frangois Coppee (the chief living French poet 
 after Victor Hugo) — also M. M. Richepin, F. Mistral
 
 FIRST VISIT TO ITALY 97 
 
 (author of Mireio), and one or two others. Amongst 
 artists I am looking forward to meeting Bouguereau, 
 Cormin, Puvis de Chavannes, and Jules Breton. As 
 much as any one else, I look forward to making the ac- 
 quaintance of Guizot to whose house I am going shortly 
 with M. Bourget. There is really a delightful fraternity 
 here amongst the literary and artistic world. And every 
 one seems to want to do something for me, and I feel as 
 much flattered as I am pleased. Of course my introduc- 
 tions have paved the way, and, besides, Bourget has 
 said a great deal about me as a writer — too much, I 
 know." 
 
 The two important events of 1884 were the publication 
 of a second volume of Poems, and our marriage. 
 
 In June Earth's Voices (Elliot Stock) was issued and 
 was well received at home and in America. In an ar- 
 ticle on William Sharp and Fiona Macleod written for 
 The Century in 1906 Mr. Ernest Rhys wrote of this 
 volume : 
 
 " There was an impassioned delight in nature — in na- 
 ture at large, that is — in her seas and skies, or in her 
 scenery subjectively coloured by lyric emotion to be 
 found in these early books. 
 
 " Perhaps one of his Northern poems may best serve to 
 illustrate his faculty; and there is one that is particu- 
 larly to the purpose, since it sketches * Moonrise ' from 
 the very spot — lona — with which so many of the ' Fiona ' 
 tales and fantasies were to be connected afterward. 
 
 Here where in dim forgotten days, 
 A savage people chanted lays 
 To long since perished gods, I stand: 
 The sea breaks in, runs up the sand, 
 Retreats as with a long-drawn sigh. 
 Sweeps in again, again leaves dry 
 The ancient beach, so old and yet 
 So new that as the strong tides fret 
 The island barriers in their flow 
 The ebb hours of each day can know 
 A surface change. The day is dead, 
 The Sun is set, and overhead
 
 98 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 The white north stars set keen and bright; 
 
 The wind upon the sea is light 
 
 And just enough to stir the deep 
 
 With phosphorescent gleams and sweep 
 
 The spray from salt waves as they rise. 
 
 " Sharp's early work is more like that of a lyric im- 
 provisator than of a critical modem poet. At this period 
 he cared more for the free colours of verse than for exact 
 felicity of phrase. His writings betrayed a constant 
 quest after those hardly realisable regions of thought, 
 and those keener lyric emotions, which, since Shelley 
 wrote and Kossetti wrote and painted, have so often occu- 
 pied the interpreters of the vision and spectacle of na- 
 ture. 
 
 " One may find this variously attempted or half ex- 
 pressed in several of the poems of his second book. In 
 one called 'A Eecord' (to which a special inscription 
 drew attention in the copy he sent me), he treats very 
 fancifully the mystery of transmigration. He pictures 
 himself sitting in his room, and there he resumes the 
 lives, and states of being, of many savage types of man 
 and beast viewed in passion and action — the tiger, the 
 eagle, and the primitive man who lighted the fire that 
 consumed the dry scrub and his fellow-tribesmen: 
 
 He looks around to see some god, 
 And far upon the fire-scorched sod 
 He sees his brown-burnt tribesmen lie, 
 And thinks their voices fill the sky. 
 And dreads some unseen sudden blow — 
 And even as I watch him, lo. 
 My savage-self I seem to know. 
 
 " Or again he reincarnates the Druid : 
 
 And dreaming so I dream my dream: 
 I see a flood of moonlight gleam 
 Between vast ancient oaks, and round 
 A rough-hewn altar on the ground 
 Weird Druid priests are gathered 
 While through their midst a man is led 
 With face that seems already dead.
 
 FIRST VISIT TO ITALY 99 
 
 " And again the type is changed into a Shelleyan re- 
 cluse, a hermit who had had retreated to his cave, and 
 that hermit 
 
 Was even that soul mine eyes have traced 
 Through brute and savage steadily. 
 That he even now is part of me 
 Just as a wave is of the sea. 
 
 " If there are traces of Shelley in this poem, Rossetti 
 and Swinburne have also their echo in some of its rhap- 
 sodic, highly figurative stanzas. There are unmistakable 
 germs in it, too, of some of the supernatural ideas that 
 afterward received a much more vital expression in 
 ' Fiona Macleod's ' work." 
 
 The volume was dedicated to his friend "Walter Pater 
 and from him and other writers and friends he received 
 many interesting letters, and from them I select the fol- 
 lowing : 
 
 2 Bbadmoee Road, May 28th. 
 
 My dear Shaep, 
 
 I was just thinking of sending off my long-delayed 
 acknowledgment of your charming volume, with its 
 friendly dedication (which I take as a great compliment, 
 and sincerely thank you for) when your post card ar- 
 rived. These new poems must, I feel sure, add much 
 to your poetic reputation. I have just finished my first 
 reading of them; but feel that I shall have to go back 
 many times to appreciate all their complex harmonies 
 of sense and rhythm. On a first superficial reading, I 
 incline to think that the marks of power cluster most 
 about the poem of Sospitra. Also, I prefer the Tran- 
 scripts from Nature, to the various poems included in 
 Earth^s Voices, admirable as I think many of the latter 
 to be, e. g., The Song of the Flowers, The Field Mouse, 
 The Song of the Thrush, The Cry of the Tiger, The Chant 
 of the Lion, The Hymn of the Autumn. This looks 
 shamefully matter-of-fact. But then, you asked me to 
 tell you precisely which I preferred. The Shadowed 
 Souls, among the short pieces, I find very beautiful. The
 
 100 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 whole volume seems to me distinguishable among latter- 
 day poetry for its cheerfulness and animation, and of 
 course the Australian pieces are delightfully novel and 
 fresh. Many thanks, again, from 
 
 Yours very sincerely, 
 
 Walter H. Pater. 
 
 In an article on Christina Rossetti, William Sharp re- 
 lates : 
 
 " In the beginning of May, 1884, I called to see Miss 
 Rossetti and to leave with her a copy of a just-published 
 volume of verse, but failed to find her at home. The 
 poem I cared most for was the epilogue. Madonna Na- 
 tura, but instinct told me Miss Rossetti would neither 
 like nor approve so jDagan an utterance, and the surmise 
 was correct: 
 
 30 TORBINGTON SQUARE, W. C, 
 
 May 3, 1884. 
 
 Dear Mr. Sharp, 
 
 I might say " Why do you call just when we are out? " 
 only that you might retort " Why are you out just when 
 I call!" 
 
 Thank you very much for your new volume and yet 
 more for the kindness which enriches the gift. Be sure 
 my Mother and I retain you in friendly remembrance. 
 
 An imperfect acquaintance with your text inclines me 
 for the present to prefer " the Thames " amongst rivers, 
 and the " West " among winds, and the " Thrush " among 
 song-birds. So also " Deserts " to " Cornfields." 
 
 Of course all the pieces which memorialise our dear 
 Gabriel interest us. 
 
 And " Ah Sin " I like and sympathise with : and I fear 
 it is only too lifelike. Shall I or shall I not say anything 
 about " Madre Natura "I I dare say without my taking 
 the liberty of expressing myself you can (if you think it 
 worth while) put my regret into words. 
 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 Christina G. Rossetti.
 
 FIRST VISIT TO ITALY 101 
 
 " Though I cannot recall what I wrote, write I did evi- 
 dently, and obviously also with eagerness to prove that, 
 while I accepted her gentle reproof in the spirit in which 
 she offered it, I held the point of view immaterial ; and no 
 doubt a very crude epistle it was in thought and dic- 
 tion. . . ." 
 
 That summer my Poet and I were very happy receiv- 
 ing the congratulations from our friends on the approach- 
 ing termination of our nine years of waiting. We were 
 married on a Friday the 31st October 1884 at Christ 
 Church, Lancaster Gate, and his friend Eric S. Robertson 
 — Editor of The Great Writer Series, and afterward Pro- 
 fessor of Literature and Logic at Lahore Government 
 College — acted as best man. Mrs. Craik lent us her 
 house at Dover for our honeymoon, and we also made a 
 flying visit to Paris. 
 
 The end of November found us settled in a little house 
 in Talgarth Road, West Kensington (No. 46) : our rela- 
 tives furnished the house for us and we began our new 
 life with high hopes and a slender purse. My hus- 
 band had £30 in his pocket, and I had an income of £35 
 a year. 
 
 Among the many kindly letters of congratulations came 
 one from Mr. Addington Symonds. 
 
 Davos Platz, Dec. 22, 1884. 
 
 My dear Mr. Sharp, 
 
 Allow me first to congratulate you on your marriage, 
 and settlement in London. You will remember that I was 
 privileged at Venice to see a volume of your " Tran- 
 scripts from Nature," in relation to which you told me 
 of your engagement. I am therefore interested to hear 
 of the happy event, and wish both you and Mrs. Sharp 
 all the prosperity, which it is possible for mortals to 
 enjoy! When I come to London (which I hope to do 
 next year) I shall not forget your kind invitation. 
 
 I must give you most hearty thanks for the enjoyment 
 of a rare delight in your post-card and letter about my 
 Sonnets. I have so high an esteem of your own original
 
 102 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 work in poetry that to be appreciated by you is no com- 
 mon pleasure. Such words as yours are more than many 
 of the ordinary reviews, even if kindly; and they take 
 the annoyance away, which some unjust and ignorant 
 critiques leave upon a sensitive mind. 
 
 If it were not that men like yourself, who have the 
 right and power to judge, speak thus from time to time, 
 I do not think I should care to go on publishing what I 
 take pleasure in producing, but what has hitherto brought 
 me no gains and caused me to receive some kicks. It is 
 indeed very good of you amid your pressing literary 
 occupations and the more delightful interests of your 
 life at present, to find time to tell me what you really 
 value in my work. Thank you for noticing the omis- 
 sion of the comma after islands in Sonnet on p. 38 of 
 Vag : Lit : 
 
 It has fallen out accidentally ; and if such a remarkable 
 event as a 2nd. edn. occurs, it shall be replaced. So also 
 will I alter what you rightly point out as a blemish in 
 the Sonnet on p. 200 — the repetition of deep deep and 
 sleep in the same line. That was questioned by my own 
 ear. I left it thus because I thought it added a sort of 
 oppressive dreaminess to the opening of the Sonnet, strik- 
 ing a keynote. But if it has struck you as wrong, I doubt 
 not that it should be altered; since it will not have 
 achieved the purposed effect. And those effects are after 
 all tricks. 
 
 I shall also attend to your suggestions about future 
 work. I have had it in my mind to continue the theme of 
 " Animi Figura," and to attempt to show how a character 
 which has reached apparent failure in moral and spiritual 
 matters may reconstruct a life's philosophy and find suf- 
 ficient sources of energy and health. There is no doubt 
 great difficulty in this motif. But were it possible to 
 succeed in some such adumbration of what the Germans 
 call a Versohnung, then the purgation of the passions at 
 which a work of art should aim would be effected. Be- 
 lieve me, with renewed thanks, to be very sincerely yours, 
 
 John Addington Symonds.
 
 FIRST VISIT TO ITALY 103 
 
 Many were the pleasant literary households that gave 
 a welcome to us, and in particular those of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Craik, of Mr. and Mrs. George Robinson, whose beau- 
 tiful daughters Mary, the poetess, and Mabel, the nov- 
 elist, I already knew ; of Mr. and Mrs. Francillon, of Mrs. 
 Augusta Webster, and of Dr. and Mrs. Garnett. In 
 these and other houses we met many common friends and 
 interesting people of note ; most frequently, among others, 
 Mr. Walter Pater, Mr. Robert Browning, Dr. Westland 
 Marston, Mr. and Mrs. Ford Madox Brown, Mr. and 
 Mrs. William Rossetti, Mr. and Mrs. William Morris, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Holman Hunt, Mr. Andrew Lang, Mr. Austin 
 Dobson, Mr. Frederick Shields, Mr. Theodore Watts, Sir 
 Frederick Leighton, Miss Mathilde Blind, Miss Olive 
 Schreiner, Miss Louise Bevington, Mr. and Mrs. John 
 Todhunter, Mr. and Mrs. Oscar Wilde and Mrs. Lynn 
 Linton.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 SONNETS OF THIS CENTURY 
 
 1885 was a year of hard work. It was our desire that 
 such work should be done that should eventually make it 
 possible for my husband to devote himself exclusively to 
 original work — perhaps in a year or two at most. Mean- 
 while the outlook was satisfactory and encouraging. He 
 held the post of London Art-Critic to the Glasgow Her- 
 ald, was on the staff of The Academy then under the 
 Editorship of his good friend Mr. James Cotton ; and he 
 wrote for The Examiner, The Athenaeum and other 
 weeklies. 
 
 On the appearance in The Athenaeum of his Review on 
 Marius the Epicurean the author expressed his satisfac- 
 tion in a letter : 
 
 2 Bradmoee Road, 
 
 March 1, 1885. 
 
 My dear Sharp, 
 
 I have read your article in The Athenaeum with very 
 real pleasure; feeling criticism, at once so independent 
 and so sympathetic, to be a reward for all the long labours 
 the book has cost me. You seem to me to have struck a 
 note or criticism not merely pleasant but judicious; and 
 there are one or two important points — literary ones- -on 
 which you have said precisely what I should have wished, 
 and thought it important for me, to have said. Thank 
 you sincerely for your friendly work! Also, for your 
 letter, and promise of the other notices, which I shall 
 look out for, and greatly value. I was much pleased 
 also that Mrs. Sharp had been so much interested in my 
 writing. It is always a sign to me that I have to some 
 extent succeeded in my literary aim when I gain the 
 approval of accomplished women. 
 
 104
 
 
 V 
 
 WALTER PATER
 
 SONNETS OF THIS CENTURY 105 
 
 I should be glad, and feel it a great compliment, to have 
 Marius translated into German, on whatever terms your 
 friend likes — provided of course that Macmillan ap- 
 proves. I will ask him his views on this point. As re- 
 gards the ethical drift of Marius, I should like to talk 
 to you, if you were here. I did mean it to be more anti- 
 Epicurean than it has struck you as being. In one way 
 however I am glad that you have mistaken me a little on 
 this point, as I had some fears that I might seem to l^e 
 pleading for a formal thesis, or " parti pris." Be as- 
 sured how cheering your praise — praise from so genuine 
 and accomplished a fellow- workman — has been to me. 
 Such recognition is especially a help to one whose work 
 is so exclusively personal and solitary as the kind of lit- 
 erary work, which I feel I can do best, must be. I fancied 
 you spoke of bringing your wife to Oxford this term; 
 and wish we had a room to offer you. But I think you 
 know that we have at most only room for a single visitor. 
 It will however give my sisters great jDleasure to make 
 the acquaintance of Mrs. Sharp. Only let us know a 
 week or so, if possible, before you come to Oxford, that 
 we may see as much of you as possible: and with our 
 united kind regards, believe me, my dear Sharp, 
 
 Very sincerely yours, 
 
 Walter Pater. 
 
 I hope that in generosity to me you are not wasting 
 too much of the time that belongs to your own original 
 work. I have told Macmillan to send you a properly 
 bound copy of Marius, with only a few misprints." 
 
 Mr. Theodore Watts had frequently spoken to us about 
 a romance he had in hand, and partly in print. After 
 much persuasion he sent several chapters of Aylivin to 
 us during our summer holiday, and we read them on the 
 shores of West Loch Tarbert in Argyll with keen enjoy- 
 ment. An enthusiastic letter from the younger author 
 brought this reply :
 
 106 WILLIAM SHAKP 
 
 Seafobd, Sept. 16, 1885. 
 
 My deak Sharp, 
 
 My best thanks for your most kind and suggestive let- 
 ter. I am much gratified to know that in you and Mrs. 
 Sharp I have true sympathisers in a story which although 
 it may and I hope will be generally popular, can only 
 deeply appeal to the heart of hearts of here and there one 
 of the true romantic temper. Swinburne, who has read 
 it all, tells me that the interest grows sharply and steadily 
 to the very end and the finest volume is the last. 
 
 You are right in your surmise as to the rapidity in 
 which the story was written to dictation. Both its merits 
 and its defects you will find to arise from the fact that 
 the conception came to me as one whole and that my 
 eagerness to pour it out while the imagination was at 
 white heat conquered everything. I doubt if it ever could 
 have been written save to dictation. When do you re- 
 turn! 
 
 Kindest regards to Mrs. Sharp, 
 
 Yours affectly, 
 
 Theo. Watts. 
 
 P. S. — I and Swinburne are getting some delicious 
 bathing. 
 
 In the a:rticle written for The Century Magazine, 1907, 
 on William Sharp and Fiona Macleod, Mr. Ernest Ehys 
 gives a reminiscent description of the young author and 
 of his impressions of him, on their first acquaintance : 
 
 " One summer morning, some twenty years ago, in 
 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, I was called down to an early 
 visitor, and found waiting me a superb young man — a 
 typical Norseman, as I should have thought him — tall, 
 yellow-haired, blue-eyed. His cheeks were as rosy as a 
 young girl's, his manners as frank and impulsive as a 
 boy's. He had come with an introduction from a com- 
 mon friend (Mrs. William Bell Scott), a would-be con- 
 tributor to a new periodical ; but he soon passed from the 
 discussion of an article on De Quincey to an account of
 
 SONNETS OF THIS CENTURY 107 
 
 himself that was joyously and consciously exuberant. 
 He told of adventures in Australian backwoods, and of 
 intrigues in Italy that recalled Cellini; and then he 
 turned, with the same rapid flow of brief staccato sen- 
 tences, to speak of his friend Mr. Swinburne's new vol- 
 ume of poems, or of the last time he walked along Cheyne 
 Walk to spend an evening with Rossetti. He appeared to 
 know everybody, to have been everywhere. Finally, 
 though he had apparently been sitting up all the night be- 
 fore to write an epic or a ' Quarterly ' article, he was 
 quite ready to start the same evening for Paris, not only 
 to be present at a new play there, but in order to be able 
 to talk, hours on end in the dark, about the ' Contes 
 Extraordinaires ' of M. Ernest Hello, or about a very 
 different and still more wonderful being, then little 
 known in London, called Nietzsche. 
 
 "It is not easy to avoid extravagance in speaking of 
 one who was in all things an illusionist. Sharp's sensa- 
 tions, doings, artistic ideas, and performances were not 
 to be counted by rule and measure. He was capable of 
 predicting a new religion as he paced the Thames Em- 
 bankment, or of devising an imaginary new theatre for 
 romantic drama — whose plays were yet to be written (by 
 himself) — as he rode home from the Haymarket. 
 
 " Before we separated, at that first meeting, he had 
 made more plans for events and new great works than 
 the most sanguine of imaginers and writers could hope 
 to effect in a lifetime. And, alas ! for his control of cir- 
 cumstance, within a fortnight I was summoned to his 
 sick-bed. He was down with scarlet fever, and it fell to 
 me to write from his notes, or otherwise to complete, 
 more than one essay and review which he had undertaken 
 before he fell ill. . . . 
 
 " There was another side to William Sharp. He had 
 a spirit of fun, boyish mischief even, which found the 
 slightest reflection in his work ; for his writing is not re- 
 markable for its humour. His extravagance of energy, 
 which vehemently sped his pen, led him, in the course of 
 his earlier life, into a hundred wild exploits. To him a
 
 108 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 piece of writing was an adventure. He delighted in im- 
 possible feats of composition, such as trjdng to finish a 
 whole romance between sunset and sunrise. It follows 
 ' that, with all this huge impetuosity, he was a poet who 
 was rather disinclined by temperament for the * poetic 
 pains.' What he wrote in haste he was not always anx- 
 ious to correct at leisure ; and he was happy about what 
 he wrote — at any rate, until a colder mood supervened at 
 some later stage of his development. 
 
 " In keeping with this mental restlessness, Sharp was 
 an insatiable wanderer. No sooner did he reach London 
 than he was intriguing to be off again. Some of his 
 devices in order to get work done, and to equip these 
 abrupt expeditions, were as absurd as anything told by 
 Henri Murger. Thanks to his large and imposing pres- 
 ence, his sanguine air, his rosy faith in himself, he had a 
 way of overwhelming editors that was beyond anything, I 
 believe, ever heard of in London, before or since. On 
 one occasion he went into a publisher's office, and gave 
 so alluring an account of a long-meditated book that the 
 publisher gave him a check for £100, although he had 
 not written a word of it. 
 
 " These things illustrate his temperament. He was a 
 romanticist, an illusionist. He did not see places or men 
 and women as they were ; he did not care to see them so : 
 but he had quite peculiar powers of assimilating to him- 
 self foreign associations — the ideas, the colours, the cur- 
 rent allusions, of foreign worlds. In Italy he became an 
 Italian in spirit ; in Algiers, an Arab. On his first visit to 
 Sicily he could not be happy because of the sense of 
 bloodshed and warfare associated with the scenes amid 
 which he was staying; he saw bloodstains on the earth, 
 on every leaf and flower. 
 
 " The same susceptibility marked his intercourse with 
 his fellows. Their sensations and emotions, their whims, 
 their very words, were apt to become his, and to be repro- 
 duced with an uncanny reality in his own immediate prac- 
 tice. It was natural, then, that he should be doubly sen- 
 sitive to feminine intuitions ; that he should be able, even
 
 SONNETS OF THIS CENTURY 109 
 
 on occasion, thanks to an extreme concern with women's 
 inevitable burdens and sufferings, to translate, as men 
 are very rarely able to do, their intimate dialect." 
 
 The description given by Mr. Rhys of William Sharp's 
 method of work as characterised by an impetuosity 
 which made him " disinclined for the poetic pains " be- 
 longed to one phase of his development. During the 
 early days of hard work for the bare necessities of life, he 
 had little time to devote to the writing of poetry or of 
 purely imaginative work. His literary efforts were di- 
 rected toward the shaping of his prose critical writings, 
 toward the controlled exercise of the mental faculties 
 which belonged to the William Sharp's side of himself. 
 From time to time the emotional, the more intimate self 
 would sweep aside all conscious control ; a dream, a sud- 
 den inner vision, an idea that had lain dormant in what 
 he called " the mind behind the mind " would suddenly 
 visualise itself and blot out everything else from his con- 
 sciousness, and under such impulse he would write at 
 great speed, hardly aware of what or how he wrote, so 
 absorbed was he in the vision with which for the moment 
 he was identified. In those days he was unwilling to re- 
 touch such writing; for he thought that revision should 
 be made only under a similar phase of emotion. Conse- 
 quently he preferred for the most part to destroy such 
 efforts if the result seemed quite inadequate, rather than 
 alter them. Later, when that side of his nature found 
 expression in the Fiona Macleod writings — when those 
 impulses became more frequent, more reliable, more co- 
 herent — ^he changed his attitude toward the question of 
 revision, and desired above all things to give as beautiful 
 an expression as lay in his power to what to him were 
 dreams of beauty. 
 
 For his critical work, however, he studied and pre- 
 pared himself deliberately. He believed that the one 
 method of attaining to a balanced estimate of our litera- 
 ture is by a comparative study of foreign contemporary 
 writing.
 
 no WILLIAM SHAKP 
 
 " The more interested I became in literature," he on 
 one occasion explained to an interviewer, " the more con- 
 vinced I grew of the narrowness of English criticism and 
 of the importance to the English critic of getting away 
 from the insular point of view. So I decided that the 
 surest way of beginning to prepare myself for the work 
 of the critic would be to make a study of three or four 
 of the best writers among the older, and three or four 
 among the younger school of each nation, and to judge 
 from the point of view of the nation. For example, in 
 studying French literature, I would try to judge from the 
 point of view of a Frenchman. AVhen this task was done 
 I tried to estimate the literature under consideration 
 from an absolute impersonal and impartial point of view. 
 Of course, this study took a long time, but it furnished 
 me material that has been invaluable to me in my work 
 ever since." 
 
 It was his constant endeavour to understand the un- 
 derlying motive in any phase of modem literature; and 
 he believed that " what is new in literature is not so 
 likely to be unfit for critics, as critics are likely to be unfit 
 for what is new in literature." Concerning the art of 
 Criticism he expressed his belief in an unfinished article: 
 " When I speak of Criticism I have in mind not merely 
 the more or less deft use of commentary or indication, but 
 one of the several ways of literature and in itself a rare 
 and fine art, the marriage of science that knows, and of 
 spirit that discerns." 
 
 " The basis of Criticism is imagination : its spiritual 
 quality is sympathy: its intellectual distinction is bal- 
 ance." 
 
 The occasion of his visit to Mr. Ernest Ehys was in 
 connection with a scheme for the publication of two series 
 of cheap re-issues of fine literature — a comparatively new 
 venture five-and-twenty years ago — to be published by 
 Messrs. Walter Scott: The Camelot Classics to be edited 
 by Ernest Ehys and to consist of selected prose writings, 
 and The Canterbury Poets to be edited by William 
 Sharp ; — Each volume to be prefaced by a specially writ-
 
 SONNETS OF THIS CENTURY 111 
 
 ten introduction. For the Prose Series "William Sharp 
 prepared De Quincey's Confessions of an Opium Eater, 
 and Mrs. Cunningham's Great English Painters. For a 
 third series — Biographies of Great Writers edited by 
 Eric S. Eobertson and Frank T. Marzial, he wrote his 
 monographs on Shelley in 1887, on Heine in 1888 and on 
 Browning in 1890. 
 
 Meanwhile he contributed a volume from time to time 
 to The Canterbury Poets, among others: Collections of 
 Shakespeare's Sonnets, Great Odes, American Sonnets, 
 and his Collection of English Sonnets. In preparing 
 the Edition of Shakespeare's Sonnets he consulted Mr. 
 Edward Dowden on one or two points and received the 
 following reply: 
 
 Davos Platz, Dec, 6, 1885. 
 
 Dear Mr. Sharp, 
 
 The most welcome gift of your Songs, Poems and Son- 
 nets of Shakespeare reached me to-night. I have already 
 looked it quickly through, and have seen enough to know 
 that this volume will be my constant companion in fu- 
 ture upon all my wanderings. Comparisons are odious. 
 So I will not make a list of the other travelling compan- 
 ions, which your edition of Shakespeare's lyrics is des- 
 tined to supersede. 
 
 I will only tell you why yours has the right to super- 
 sede them. First and foremost, it is more scientifically 
 complete. 
 
 Secondly, it is invaluable in its preservation of the 
 play-atmosphere, by such introductory snatches as you 
 insert e. g. on p. 20. Hitherto, we had often yearned in 
 our Shakespearean anthologies for a whiff of the play 
 from which the songs were torn. You have given 
 this just where it was needed, and else not. That is 
 right. 
 
 Thirdly, the Preface (to my mind at least) is more 
 humanly and humanely true about Shakespeare's atti- 
 tude in the Sonnets than anything which has yet been 
 written about them.
 
 112 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 (I thank you, par parenthese, for " the vox humana of 
 Hamlet!") And apropos of p. 11, I think you might 
 have mentioned Frangois Victor Hugo's translation of 
 Shakespeare's Sonnets. It is a curious piece of French 
 criticism. But the main thing left upon my mind by this 
 first cursory perusal is that you are one of those who 
 live (as Goethe has for ever put it) in " the wholes It 
 is the great thing for modem criticism to get itself up 
 out of holes and comers, mere personal proclivities and 
 scholarly niceties, into the large air of nature and of 
 man. 
 
 The critic who does this, has to sacrifice the applause 
 of coteries and the satisfaction which comes from " dis- 
 covering " something and making for his discovery a fol- 
 lowing. 
 
 But I am sure this is the right line for criticism, and 
 the one which will ultimately prevail, to the exclusion 
 of more partial ways. 
 
 I therefore, who, in my own humble way, have 
 tried as critic to preserve what Goethe also calls the 
 " abiding relations," bleibende Verhdltnisse, feel spe- 
 cially drawn to your work by the seal of largeness set 
 upon it. 
 
 You test Shakespeare in his personal poems as man, 
 from the standpoint of the whole; and this seems to me 
 eminently scientific — right. In a minor point, I can tell 
 you, as no one else could, that your critical instinct is no 
 less acute than generally right. You have quoted one of 
 my sonnets in the notes. This Sonnet was written, to 
 myself consciously, under the Shakespearean influence. 
 The influence was complex, but very potent; and your 
 discernment, your "spotting" of it, appears to me that you 
 have the right scent — fiuto (as Italians) flair (as French- 
 men call that subtle penetration into the recesses of a 
 mind regulated by style). 
 
 Thank you from my heart for this gift, which (I hope, 
 if years enough are given me) shall wear itself out in the 
 daily service of your friend, 
 
 JoHx Addington Symonds.
 
 SONNETS OF THIS CENTURY 113 
 
 In the following letter to Mr. Symonds the Editor ex- 
 plained the intention of his collected Sonnets of this Cen- 
 tury: 
 
 My dear Mr. Symonds, 12:11:85. 
 
 I am shortly going to bring out a Selection of the Best 
 Sonnets of this Century (including a lengthy Introduc- 
 tory Essay on the Sonnet as a vehicle of poetic thought, 
 and on its place and history in English Literature) — and 
 I should certainly regard it as incomplete if your fine 
 sonnet-work were unrepresented. I am giving an aver- 
 age of two to each writer of standing, but in your case 
 I have allowed for five. This is both because I have a 
 genuine admiration for your sonnet-work in the main, 
 and because I think that you have never been done full 
 justice to as a poet — though of course you have met with 
 loyal recognition in most of those quarters where you 
 would most value it. . . . 
 
 I have taken great pleasure in the preparation of the 
 little book, and I think that both poetically and technically 
 it will be found satisfactory. My main principles in 
 selection have been (1) Structural correctness. (2) Indi- 
 viduality, with distinct poetic value. (3) Adequacy of 
 Sonnet-Motive. 
 
 I hope that you are hard at work — not neglecting the 
 shyest and dearest of the muses — ? Is there any chance 
 of your being in London in the late Spring ? I hope so. 
 
 Sincerely yours, 
 
 William Sharp. 
 
 In the preparation of the volume he received several 
 interesting communications from well-known English 
 sonnet writers from which I select four. The first is from 
 the Irish poet Aubrey de Vere ; in the second Mr. George 
 Meredith answers a question concerning his volume of 
 sequent poems, Modern Love: 
 
 CuBBAGH Chase, Adake, 
 
 Dear Mr. Sharp, Dec. 5, 1885. 
 
 ... I am much flattered by what you say about my 
 sonnjets, and glad that you like them ; but I hope that in
 
 114 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 selecting so many as five for your volume you have not 
 displaced sonnets by other authors. Sir R. Hamilton's 
 are indeed, as you remark, excellent, and I rejoice that 
 you are making them better known than they have been 
 hitherto. Wordsworth once remarked to me that he had 
 known many men of high talents and several of real 
 genius ; but that Coleridge, and Sir W. H. Hamilton were 
 the only men he had known to whom he would apply the 
 term " wonderful." 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 AUBEEY DE VeEE. 
 
 BOXHILL, DOBKING, 
 Nov. 12, 1885. 
 
 Deae Sie, 
 
 You are at liberty to make your use of the Sonnet you 
 have named. The Italians allow of 16 lines, under the 
 title of " Sonnets with a tail." 
 
 But the lines of " Modem Love " were not designed for 
 
 that form. 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 Geoege Meeedith. 
 
 The third letter is from Mr. Theodore Watts-Dunton : 
 
 The Pines, Putney Hill, 
 
 Jan. 8, 1886. 
 
 My deae Shaep, 
 
 I sent off the proofs by Wednesday afternoon's post. 
 I had no idea that the arrangement of the sonnets would 
 give bother and took care to write to you to ask. The 
 matter was not at all important, and I shall be vexed, in- 
 deed, if the printers are put to trouble. The printers 
 would, unless the snow storms interfered, get my verses 
 by Thursday morning's first post. 
 
 My theory of the sonnet is exactly expressed in the 
 sonnet on the sonnet. It is that, in the octave, the emo- 
 tion flows out in a rhythmic billow : that the solidarity of 
 this billow is maintained by knitting the two quatrains 
 together by means of two rhyme sounds only : that in the
 
 SONNETS OF THIS CENTURY 115 
 
 sestet the billow ehhs back to " Life's tumultuous sea " 
 and that like the ebb of an ocean-billow it moves back- 
 ward, not solidly, but broken up into wavelets. This is 
 only the arrangement of the rhymes in the sestet, that 
 not only need hot be based upon any given system but 
 that should not be based on any given system, and should 
 be perceived entirely by emotional demands. 
 
 Yours affeotly, 
 
 Theo. Watts. 
 
 The fourth letter is from Oscar Wilde : 
 
 16 TiTE St., Chelsea. 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 It will give me much pleasure to see the sonnets you 
 mention included in your selection. Of the two, I much 
 prefer " Libertatis Sacra Fames " — and if only one is 
 taken, would like to be represented by that. Indeed I 
 like the sonnets on p. 3 and p. 16 of my volume better 
 than the one written in Holy Week at Genoa. Perhaps 
 however this is merely because Art and Liberty seem 
 to me more vital and more religious than any Creed. I 
 send you a sonnet I wrote at the Sale of Keats' s love let- 
 ters some months ago. What do you think of it 1 It has 
 not yet been published. I wonder are you including Ed- 
 gar Allan Poe's sonnet to Science. It is one I like very 
 much. 
 
 I will look forward with much interest to the appear- 
 ance of your book. 
 
 I remain 
 
 Truly yours, 
 Oscar Wilde. 
 
 on the sale by auction of keats's love letters 
 
 These are the letters which Endymion wrote 
 
 To one he loved in secret, and apart. 
 
 And now the brawlers of the auction mart 
 Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note. 
 Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote 
 
 The merchant's price: I think they love not art, 
 
 Who break the crystal of a poet's heart 
 That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat!
 
 116 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 Is it not said that many years ago, 
 
 In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran 
 With torches through the midnight, and began 
 
 To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw 
 Dice for the garments of a wretched man, 
 
 Not knowing the God's wonder, or his woe. 
 
 I wish I could grave my sonnets on an ivory tablet — 
 Quill pens and note-paper are only good enough for bills 
 of lading. A sonnet should always look well. Don't you 
 think so? 
 
 0. W. 
 
 The success of the volume was immediate, and a second 
 edition followed quickly. For it I begged that the Editor 
 would include some sonnets of his own. He had refused 
 to do so for the 1st Edition, but he now yielded to my wish 
 and included two, " Spring Wind " and " A Midsummer 
 Hour." In later editions, however, he took them out 
 again and left only the two dedicatory sonnets to D. G. 
 Eossetti, for he considered that the Editor should not be 
 represented in the body of the book. The volume was 
 generously welcomed by contemporary writers. George 
 Meredith considered it the best exposition of the Sonnet 
 known to him; to Walter Pater the Introductory Essay 
 was " most pleasant and informing," and " Your own 
 beautiful dedication to D. G. R. seems to me perfect, and 
 brought back, with great freshness, all I have felt, and so 
 sincerely, about him and his work." 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson expressed his views on the 
 sonnet in a letter to the Editor : 
 
 Skebeymoke ( Bournemouth ) . 
 
 Deak Sir, 
 
 Having at last taken an opportunity to read your pleas- 
 ant volume, it has had an effect upon me much to be re- 
 gretted and you will find the consequences in verse. I 
 had not written a serious sonnet since boyhood, when I 
 used to imitate Milton and Wordsworth with surprising 
 results : and since I have fallen again by your procuring 
 (a procuration) you must suifer along with me.
 
 SONNETS OF THIS CENTURY 117 
 
 May I say that my favourite sonnet in the whole range 
 of your book is Tennyson Turner's "The Buoy-Bell"? 
 Possibly there is a touch of association in this prefer- 
 ence; but I think not. No human work is perfect; 1jut 
 
 that is near enough. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 RoBEET Louis Stevenson. 
 
 The form of my so-called sonnets will cause you as 
 much agony as it causes me little. I am base enough to 
 think the main point of a sonnet is the disjunction of 
 thought coinciding with the end of the octave : and when 
 a lesser disjunction makes the quatrains and sestets I call 
 it an ideal sonnet ; even if it were rhymed anyhow. But 
 the cross rhyme, tears — fear, in the second is, even in 
 my base eyes, a vile flaw. 
 
 (Two sonnets were enclosed in the letter.) 
 
 THE ARABESQUE 
 (Complaint of an artist) 
 
 I made a fresco on tlie coronal, * 
 
 Amid the sounding silence and the void 
 Of life's wind-swept and unfrequented ball. 
 
 I drew the nothings that my soul enjoyed; 
 The pretty image of the enormous fact 
 
 I fled; and when the sun soared over all 
 And threw a brightness on the painted tract, 
 
 Lo, the vain lines were reading on the wall! 
 In vain we blink; our life about us lies * 
 
 O'erscrawled with crooked mist; we toil in vain 
 To hear the hymn of ancient harmonies 
 
 That quire upon the mountains as the plain; 
 And from the august silence of the skies 
 
 Babble of speech returns to us again. 
 
 THE TOUCH OF LIFE 
 
 I saw a circle in a garden sit 
 
 Of dainty dames and solemn cavaliers, 
 Whereof some shuddered at the burrowing nit. 
 
 And at the carrion worm some burst in tears; 
 And all, as envying the abhorred estate 
 
 Of empty shades and disembodied elves, 
 Under the laughing stars, early and late, 
 
 Sat shamefast at this birth and at themselves.
 
 118 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 The keeper of the house of life is fear: 
 In the rent lion is the honey found 
 By him that rent it; out of stony ground 
 
 The toiler, in the morning of the year, 
 Beholds the harvest of his grief abound 
 
 And the green corn put forth the tender ear. 
 
 William Sharp offered to include " The Touch of Life " 
 in the body of the book, and " The Arabesque " in the 
 Notes. He received this reply : 
 
 Dear Mr. Sharp, 
 
 It is very good of you, and I should like to be in one 
 of your pleasant and just notes; but the impulse was 
 one of pure imitation and is not like to return, or if it 
 did, to be much blessed. I have done so many things, 
 and cultivated so many fields in literature, that I think 
 I shall let the " scanty plot " lie fallow. I forgot to say 
 how much taken I was with Beaconsfield's lines (scarce 
 a sonnet indeed) on Wellington. I am engaged with the 
 Duke, and I believe I shall use them. 
 
 I think the " Touch of Life " is the best of my snap- 
 shots; but the other was the best idea. The fun of the 
 sonnet to me is to find a subject; the workmanship re- 
 buts me. 
 
 Thank you for your kind expressions, and believe me, 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson. 
 
 The Editor was much gratified by an appreciative let- 
 ter from John Addington Symonds concerning the Edi- 
 tion de Luxe of his Anthology : 
 
 My dear Sharp, Davos Platz, Nov. 28, 1886. 
 
 I have just received my copy of the magnificent edition 
 of your Sonnets of this Century to which I subscribed. 
 It is indeed a noble book. Let me say at once how much I 
 think you have improved the Preface. There are one 
 or two things affecting my own share in the Collection 
 to which I should like to call your attention. 
 
 I notice that in pp. xxvii-xxix of your Introduction 
 you have adopted the ideas I put forth (Academy^ Feb.
 
 SONNETS OF THIS CENTURY 119 
 
 13, 1886) about the origin of the Sonnet. But you some- 
 what confuse the argument by using the word Stornello. 
 If you look at Ancora's Poesia Popolare Italiana (Livano, 
 Vigo), pp. 175, 313, you will see that Italians regard the 
 stornello (320) as a totally dijfferent species from the 
 rispetto. I have explained the matter in my Renaissance 
 in Italy, Vol. A. p. 264. I admit that there may be dif- 
 ferences of opinion about these popular species of verse. 
 Yet I have no doubt that every one in Italy, a Stornello 
 being mentioned, would think at once of a single coup- 
 let prefaced with Fiore di granata or something of that 
 sort. However, it would be pedantic to insist upon 
 this point. I only do so because I believe I was the first 
 to indicate the probable evolution of the sonnet from the 
 same germ as the Rispetto Sesta Rima, and Ottava Rima ; 
 and I am distinctly myself of opinion that the Stornello 
 is quite a separate offshoot. 
 
 I doubt whether Sonnets in Dialogue be so rare as you 
 imply on p. 43. I know that I composed one for Lady 
 Kitty Clive in 1875. It is printed on p. 117 of my Vaga- 
 bunduli Libellus. I do not esteem it, however, and only 
 published it because it was in dialogue. . . . 
 
 Believe me very truly yours, 
 
 J. A. Symonds. 
 
 P. S. — Pater is an old acquaintance of mine. Watts I 
 never met, and I should greatly value the opportimity of 
 knowing him in the flesh — in the spirit, I need hardly say, 
 he has long been known to me. 
 
 This postscript reminds me of the fact that Mr. Pater, 
 Mr. Alfred Austin, and Mr. Theodore Watts-Dunton met 
 together one evening at our house. I especially remem- 
 ber the occasion because of an incident that occurred, 
 which indicated to us a temperamental characteristic of 
 Walter Pater. During dinner a guest asked to see a neck- 
 lace I was wearing. It was in the form of a serpent made 
 of silver wire deftly interwoven to resemble scales and to 
 make it sinuous and supple. I unfastened the serpent 
 and as I handed it to Mr. Pater who was nearest me, it
 
 120 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 writhed in a lifelike manner, and he drew back his hands 
 with a slight movement of dislike. In a flash I remem- 
 bered the passage in Marius the Epicurean in which the 
 hero's dislike to serpents is so vividly described, and I 
 realised the description to be autobiographic. Later I had 
 occasion to note the same effect. My husband and I in the 
 early summer went down to Oxford so that I might meet 
 the Misses Pater at their brother's house. In the morn- 
 ing I had seen Mr. Pater's study at Brasenose, and was 
 as charmed with the beauty and austerity of the deco- 
 ration, as with the sense of quiet and repose. In the 
 afternoon it was proposed that I should be shown the 
 Ifley Woods. My husband, always glad to handle the 
 oars, had, however, to consent to being rowed by one of 
 the boat attendants, for Mr. Pater with the timidity of a 
 recluse declined to trust himself to the unknown capabil- 
 ities of one whom he regarded rather as a townsman. 
 As Mr. Pater and I strolled through the wood I suddenly 
 noticed that my companion gave a little start and directed 
 my attention to what seemed of small interest. When, 
 however, we rejoined our companions Miss Pater asked 
 her brother if he had seen the dead adder lying on one 
 side of the path. " Oh, yes," he answered, turning his 
 head on one side with a gesture of aversion ; " but I did 
 not wish Mrs. Sharp to see it." 
 
 If The Sonnets of this Century gained us pleasant 
 friendships it also brought upon us a heavy penalty. For, 
 within the next year or two we were inundated with let- 
 ters and appeals from budding poets, from ambitious and 
 wholly ignorant would-be sonneteers, who sent sheafs of 
 sonnets not only for criticism and advice but now and 
 again with the request to find a publisher for them! A 
 large packet arrived one day, I remember, with a letter 
 from an unknown in South Africa. The writer explained 
 his poetical ambitions, and stated that he forwarded 
 for consideration a hundred sonnets. On examining the 
 packet we found one hundred poems varying in length 
 from twelve to twenty lines, but not a solitary sonnet 
 among them!
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE SPORT OF CHANCE 
 
 Shelley 
 
 In the summer of 1885 we went to Scotland and looked 
 forward to an idyllic month on West Loch Tarbert. 
 While staying with Mr. Pater in Oxford my husband had 
 seen the advertisement of a desirable cottage to be let 
 furnished, with service, and garden stocked with vege- 
 tables. He knew the neighbourhood to be lovely, the at- 
 traction was great, so we took the cottage for August, 
 and in due time carried our various MSS. and work to 
 the idyllic spot. Beautiful the surroundings were indeed : 
 — An upland moor sloping to the loch, with its opposite 
 hilly shore thickly wooded. The cottage was simplicity 
 itself in its appointments, but — the garden was merely a 
 bit of railed-in grass field destitute of plants; the vege- 
 tables consisted of a sack of winter potatoes quite un- 
 eatable, and the only service that the old woman owner 
 would give was to light the fires and wash up the dishes 
 and black our boots. Everything else . devolved on me, 
 for help I could get nowhere and though my husband's in- 
 tentions and efforts in that direction were admirable, 
 their practical qualities ended there! Yet to all the 
 drawbacks we found compensation in the loveliness of the 
 moorland, the peace of the solitude, and in the magnificent 
 sunsets. One sunset I remember specially. We had gone 
 for a wander westward. The sun was setting behind the 
 brown horizon-line of the moor, and the sky was aflame 
 with its glow. Suddenly we heard the sound of the pipes, 
 sighing a Lament. We stopped to listen. The sound came 
 nearer, and we saw walking over the brow of the upland 
 an old man with bag-pipes and streamers outlined against 
 the orange sky. We drew aside into a little hollow. As 
 he neared we saw he was gray haired, his bonnet and 
 
 [121
 
 122 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 clothes were old and weatherworn. But in his face was 
 a rapt expression as he played to himself and tramped 
 across the moor, out of the sunset toward the fishing vil- 
 lage that lay yonder in the cold evening light. 
 
 The summer was a wet one, and shortly after our re- 
 turn to town the jDoet developed disquieting rheumatic 
 symptoms. Nevertheless we were both hard at work 
 with the reviewing of pictures and books, and among 
 other things he was projecting a monograph on Shelley. 
 It was about this time I think that he decided to compete 
 for a prize of £100 offered by the Editor of The People's 
 Friend for a novel suited to the requirements of that 
 weekly, and these requirements of course dictated the 
 sensational style of story. It was my husband's one at- 
 tempt to write a novel in three volumes. He did not gain 
 the prize but the story ran serially through The People's 
 Friend, and was afterward published in 1887 by Messrs. 
 Hurst and Blackett. The scene is laid in Scotland and in 
 Australia, with a Prologue dealing with Cornwall, where 
 he had once spent a few days in order to act as best man 
 to one of his fellow-passengers on the sailing ship that 
 brought him back from Australia. 
 
 The following Review from The Morning Post and 
 letter from our poet-friend Mathilde Blind will give an 
 idea of the style and defects of the novel: 
 
 " The many who have the mental courage to allow that 
 they prefer the objective to the subjective novel may pass 
 some delightful hours in the perusal of Mr. Sharp's ' The 
 Sport of Chance.' It has prima facie an undeniable ad- 
 vantage to start with, i. e. it is unlike almost anything 
 hitherto written in the shape of a novel in three vol- 
 umes. Slightly old-fashioned, the author's manner is 
 simple and earnest, while he shows much skill in unrav- 
 elling the tangled skein of a complicated plot. He deals 
 also in sensationalism, but this is of a peculiar kind, and 
 it rarely violates the canons of probability. To south- 
 erners his highly-coloured pictures of Highland peasant 
 life, with their accompaniments of visions and second
 
 THE SPORT OF CHANCE 123 
 
 sight, may savour of exaggeration, but not so to those 
 whose youth has been past amidst similar surroundings. 
 Many episodes of the shipwrecks of ' The Fair Hope ' and 
 ' The Australasian,' are as effective as the best of those 
 written by authors who make a specialty of ' Tales of the 
 Sea.' Hew Armitage's ' quest,' in Australia, is related 
 with graphic force. The descriptions of the natural fea- 
 tures of the country, of life in the bush, and at the outly- 
 ing settlements, are all stamped with the vivid fidelity 
 that is one of the great merits of the book. Charles 
 Lamb, alias Cameron, is a singular conception. Too con- 
 sistently wicked, perhaps, to escape the reproach of being 
 a melo-dramatic villain, his misdeeds largely contribute 
 to the interest of this exciting novel." 
 
 Nov. 6, 1888. 
 
 Dear William, 
 
 . . . Your " Sport of Chance " has helped me to while 
 away the hours and certainly you have crammed sensa- 
 tion enough into your three volumes to furnish forth a 
 round dozen or so. The opening part seemed to me very 
 good, especially the description of the storm off the 
 Cornish coast, and the mystery which gradually over- 
 clouds Mona's life, but her death and the advent of a new 
 set of characters seems to me to cut the story in two, 
 while the sensational incidents are piled on like Ossa on 
 Olympus. What seemed best to me, and also most en- 
 joyable to my taste at least, are the personal reminis- 
 cences which I recognised in the voyage out to Australia 
 and the descriptions of its scenery, full of life and fresh- 
 ness. Most of all I liked the weird picture of the phos- 
 phorescent sea with its haunting spectral shapes. You 
 have probably seen something of the kind and ought to 
 have turned it into a poem; if there had been a descrip- 
 tion of some scene like it in your last volume I should 
 doubtless remember it. 
 
 With best love to Lillie, 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 Mathilde Blind.
 
 124 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 The opening of the new year 1886 — from which we 
 hoped much — was unpropitions. A wet winter and long 
 hours of work told heavily on my husband, whose ill- 
 health was increased by the enforced silence of his " sec- 
 ond self " for whose expression leisure was a necessary 
 condition. In a mood of dejection induced by these un- 
 toward circumstances he sent the following birthday 
 greeting to his friend Eric S. Robertson : 
 
 46 Talgabth Road, W. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I join with Lillie in love and earnest good wishes for 
 you as man and writer. Accept the accompanying two 
 sonnets as a birthday welcome. 
 
 There are two " William Sharp's " — one of them un- 
 happy and bitter enough at heart, God knows — though he 
 seldom shows it. This other poor devil also sends you a 
 greeting of his own kind. Tear it up and forget it, if 
 you will. 
 
 But sometimes I am very tired — very tired. 
 
 Yours ever, my dear Eric, 
 
 W. S. 
 
 TO ERIC SUTHERLAND ROBERTSON 
 (On his birthday, 18: 2: 86) 
 
 Already in the purple-tinted woods 
 
 The loud-voiced throstle calls — sweet echoings 
 Down leafless aisles that dream of bygone springs: 
 
 Already towards their northern solitudes 
 
 The fieldfares turn, and soaring high, wheel broods 
 Of wild swans with a clamour of swift wings: 
 A tremor of new life moves through all things 
 
 And earth regenerate thrills with joyous moods. 
 
 Let not spring's breath blow vainly past thine heart. 
 Dear friend: for Time grows ruinously apace: 
 Yon tall white lily in its holy grace 
 
 The winds will draggle soon: for an unseen dart 
 Moves ever hither and thither through each place, 
 
 Nor know we when or how our lives 'twill part.
 
 THE SPORT OF CHANCE 125 
 
 If 
 
 A little thing it is indeed to die: 
 
 God's seal to sanctify the soul's advance — 
 
 Or silence, and a long enfevered trance. 
 But no slight thing is it — ere the last sigh 
 Leaves the tired heart, ere calm and passively 
 
 The worn face reverent grows, fades the dim glance — 
 
 To pass away and pay no recompense 
 To Life, who liatli given to us so gloriously. 
 
 Not so for thee — within whose heart lie deep 
 
 As ingots 'neath the waves, thoughts true and fair. 
 Nor ever let thy soul the burden bear, 
 
 Of having life to live yet choosing sleep: 
 
 Yea even if thine the dark and slippery stair, 
 
 Better to toil and climb than wormlike creep. 
 
 In the early spring my husband was laid low with scar- 
 let fever and phlebitis. Recovery was slow, and at the 
 press view of the Royal Academy he caught a severe chill ; 
 the next day he was in the grip of a prolonged attack 
 of rheumatic fever. For many days his life hung in the 
 balance. 
 
 During much of the suffering and tedium of those long 
 weeks the sick man passed in a dream-world of his own; 
 for he had the power at times of getting out of or beyond 
 his normal consciousness at will. At first he imagined 
 himself the owner of a gipsy travelling-van, in which he 
 wandered over the to him well-known and much-loved 
 solitudes of Argyll, resting where the whim dictated and 
 visiting his many fisher and shepherd friends. Later, 
 during the long crises of the illness, though unconscious 
 often of all material surroundings, he passed through 
 other keen inner phases of consciousness, through psychic 
 and dream experiences that afterward to some extent 
 were woven into the Fiona Macleod writings, and, as he 
 believed, were among the original shaping influences that 
 produced them. For a time he felt himself to be prac- 
 tically dead to the material world, and acutely alive " on 
 the other side of things " in the greater freer imiverse. 
 He had no desire to return, and rejoiced in his freedom 
 and greater powers ; but, as he described it afterward, a
 
 126 WILLIAM SHAKP 
 
 hand suddenly restrained him : " Not yet, you must re- 
 turn." And he believed he had been " freshly sensi- 
 tised " as he expressed it ; and knew he had — as I had 
 always believed — some special work to do before he could 
 again go free. 
 
 The illusion of his wanderings with the travelling van 
 was greatly helped by the thoughtfulness of his new 
 friend Ernest Ehys who brought him branches of trees 
 in early leaf from the country. These I placed upright 
 in the open window; and the fluttering leaves not only 
 helped his imagination but also awoke " that dazzle in 
 the brain," as he always described the process which 
 led him over the borderland of the physical into the 
 " gardens " of psychic consciousness or, as he called it, 
 " into the Green Life." 
 
 At the end of ten weeks he left his bed. As soon as 
 possible I took him to Northbrook, Micheldever, the 
 country house of our kind friends Mr. and Mrs. Henry- 
 son Caird, who put it at our disposal for six weeks. 
 Slowly his strength came back in these warm summer 
 days, as he lay contentedly in the sunshine. But as he 
 began to exert himself new disquieting symptoms devel- 
 oped. His heart proved to be badly affected and his 
 recovery was proportionately retarded. 
 
 The Autumn found us face to face with problems hard 
 to solve, how to meet not only current expenses but also 
 serious debt, with a limited stock of precarious strength. 
 At the moment of blackest outlook the invalid received 
 a generous friendly letter from Mr. Alfred Austin en- 
 closing a substantial cheque. The terms in which it was 
 offered were as kindly sympathetic as the thought which 
 prompted them. He had, he said, once been helped in 
 a similar way with the injunction to repay the loan not 
 to the donor but to some one else who stood in need. 
 Therefore he now offered it with the same conditions 
 attached. During the long months of illness it had been 
 a constant source of regret to us that we were unable to 
 see Philip Marston or to read to him as was our habit. 
 "We were anxious, too, for in the autumn he had been
 
 THE SPORT OF CHANCE 127 
 
 prostrated by a heat stroke, followed by an epileptic 
 seizure. At last, on Christmas day 1886 William Sharp 
 went to see him and spent an hour or so with him. As 
 he tells in his prefatory Memoir to Marston's " Song- 
 tide" {Canterbury Poets): "He was in bed and I was 
 shocked at the change — as nearly a year had elapsed 
 since I had seen him I found the alteration only too 
 evident. . . . Throughout the winter his letters had been 
 full of foreboding : ' You will miss me, perhaps, when I 
 am gone, but you need not mourn for me. I think few 
 lives have been so deeply sad as mine, though I do not 
 forget those who have blessed it.' " 
 
 This was the keynote to each infinitely sad letter. 
 
 " On the last day of January 1887 paralysis set in, and 
 for fourteen days, he lay speechless as well as sightless, 
 but at last he was asleep and at peace. Looking at his 
 serene face on the day ere the coffin lid enclosed it, where 
 something lovelier than mortal sleep subtly dwelt, there 
 was one at least of his friends who forgot all sorrow in a 
 great gladness for the blind poet — now no longer blind, 
 if he be not overwhelmed in a sleep beyond our ken. 
 At such a moment the infinite satisfaction of Death seems 
 beautiful largess for the turmoil of a few ' dark disas- 
 trous years.' " 
 
 The Spring of 1887 brought a more kindly condition 
 of circumstances to us, in the form of good steady work. 
 Mr. Eric Robertson had then been selected to fill the 
 vacant chair of Literature and Logic at the University 
 of Lahore, and, on accepting, he suggested to Mr. Joseph 
 Henderson that William Sharp should be his successor 
 as Editor of the " Literary Chair " in The Young Folk's 
 Paper — the boys' weekly paper for which Robert Louis 
 Stevenson had written his " Treasure Island." " The 
 Literary Olympic " was a portion of the paper devoted to 
 the efforts in prose and verse of the Young Folk who 
 wished to exercise their budding literary talents. Their 
 papers were examined, criticised ; a few of the most mer- 
 itorious were printed, prefaced by an article of criticism 
 and instruction written by their Editor and critic. The
 
 128 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 work itself was congenial; and the interest was height- 
 ened by the fact that it put us into touch with the youth 
 of all classes, in England, Scotland, and Ireland, in town 
 and country, alike. Several of the popular novelists and 
 essayists of to-day received the chief early training in 
 the " Olympic." Many were the confidential personal 
 letters to the unknown editor, who was imagined by one 
 or two young aspirants to be white-haired and vener- 
 able. This work, moreover could be done at home, by us 
 both; and it brought a reliable income, a condition of 
 security hitherto unknown to us, which proved an excel- 
 lent tonic to the delicate Editor. 
 
 In August a letter came from Mr. Theodore Watts- 
 Dunton suggesting the possibility that an original poem. 
 The Ode to Mother Carey's Chicken contributed to my 
 little anthology Sea-Music, should be re-printed in The 
 Young Folk's Paper: 
 
 " I do especially want it to be read by boys," he wrote, 
 "who would understand and appreciate it thoroughly." 
 The poem appeared ; and drew forth an appreciative let- 
 ter from a young blacksmith who had sent contributions 
 to " The Literary Olympic." Mr. Watts-Dunton's ac- 
 knowledgment to the " Editor " was thus expressed: 
 
 " I have seen the poem in the paper and am much 
 gratified to be enabled to speak, thus, to thousands of 
 the boys of Great Britain, the finest — by far the finest — 
 boys in the world as I always think. It was a friendly 
 act on your part and the preliminary remarks are most 
 kind and touching. 
 
 " I sincerely hope that your indisposition has, by this 
 time, left you, and shall be glad to get a line to say that 
 it has. The young man's letter is most interesting. What 
 pleases me most is the manly pride he takes in his busi- 
 ness. A blacksmith is almost the only artisan whose occu- 
 pation is tinged with the older romance as Gabriel * often 
 used to say. I love still to watch them at the forge — the 
 
 * D. G. Rossetti.
 
 THE SPORT OF CHANCE 129 
 
 sparks flying round them. I hope he may not forsake 
 such a calling for the literary struggle." 
 
 In the early part of the year " The Sport of Chance " 
 had run serially through The People's Friend. Its suc- 
 cess incited the author to write a sensational boys' story 
 for The Young Folk's Paper; and accordingly in the 
 Xmas number of that weekly appeared the first install- 
 ment of " Under the Banner of St. James," a tale of the 
 conquest of Peru. This story was followed at intervals 
 by others such as " The Secret of the Seven Fountains," 
 "Jack Noel's Legacy," "The Red Riders." Although 
 the weaving of these sensational plots was a great enjoy- 
 ment to the writer of them, he at no time regarded them 
 as other than useful pot-boilers. 
 
 A letter written about this time to the Ajnerican poet 
 E. C. Stedman led to a life-long friendship with him of 
 so genial a nature that, on becoming personally ac- 
 quainted in New York two years later, the older poet 
 laughingly declared that he adopted the younger man 
 from across the seas as his " English son." 
 
 In an article on " British Song " in The Victorian 
 Poets, the Scottish poet was referred to as a Colonial. 
 He wrote to the author to point out the mistake " since 
 you are so kindly going to do me the honour of mention 
 in your forthcoming supplementary work, I should not 
 like to be misrepresented." 
 
 In replying Mr. Stedman explained that no great harm 
 has been done : 
 
 Something in your work made me suspect that, de- 
 spite your Australian tone, etc., you did not hail (as we 
 Yankees say) from the Colonies. So you will find in my 
 new vol. of Victorian Poets that I do not place you with 
 the Colonial poets, but just preceding them, and I have 
 a reference to your Rosetti volume. The limited space 
 afforded by my supplementary chapter has made my 
 references to the new men altogether too brief and in- 
 adequate. Of this I am seriously aware, but trust that
 
 130 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 you and otliers will take into consideration the scope and 
 aim of the chapter. You see I have learned that " The 
 Human Inheritance " is scarce ! Of course I shall value 
 greatly a copy from the author's hands. And I count 
 among the two pleasant things connected with my prose 
 work — my earlier and natural metier being that of a poet 
 — such letters as yours, which put me into agreeable rela- 
 tions with distant comrades-in-arms. 
 
 Beginning, as you have, with the opening of a new 
 literary period, and with what you have already done, I 
 am sure you have a fine career before you — that will 
 extend long after your American Reviewer has ceased to 
 watch and profit by its course. 
 
 Very sincerely yours, 
 
 Edmuistd C. Stedman. 
 
 A few months later Mr. Stedman wrote again : 
 
 New York, March 27, 1888. 
 
 My dear Sharp, 
 
 Let me thank you heartily, if somewhat tardily, for 
 your very handsome and magnanimous review of the 
 Victorian Poets. It breathes the spirit of fairness — and 
 even generosity — throughout. You have been more than 
 " a little blind " to my faults, and to my virtues most 
 open-eyed and " very kind " indeed. I am sufficiently 
 sure of my own purpose to believe that you have groimd 
 for perceiving that the spirit of my major criticisms is 
 essential, rather than merely " technical." I look more to 
 the breadth and imagination of the poet than to minute 
 details — though a stickler for natural melody and the 
 lasting canons of art. The real value of the book lies, of 
 course, in the chapters on some of the elder poets. You 
 are quite right in pointing out the impossibility of cor- 
 rect proportion in the details of the last chapter. It is 
 added to give more completeness to the work as a whole. 
 For the same reason, the earlier chapters on " The Gen- 
 eral Choir " were originally introduced ; but in them I 
 knew my ground better, and could point out with more 
 assurance the tendencies of the various " groups." But
 
 THE SPORT OF CHANCE 131 
 
 I write merely to say that I am heartily satisfied with 
 your criticism, and grateful for it ; and that I often read 
 your other reviews with advantage — and shall watch your 
 career, already so fruitful, with great interest. A man 
 who comes down to first principles and looks at things 
 broadly, as you are doing, is sure in the end to be a man 
 of mark. 
 
 Very faithfully yours, 
 
 Edmund C. Stedman. 
 
 One desirable result of this good fortune was a change 
 of residence to a higher part of the town, where the air 
 was purer, and access to green fields easier. To this end 
 in the Spring of 1887 we took a little house for three 
 years in Goldhurst Terrace, South Hampstead. As it 
 was numbered 17«, much annoyance was caused as our 
 letters frequently were delivered at No. 17. A name there- 
 fore had to be found, and we dubbed our new home Wes- 
 cam, a name made up of the initials of my husband, my- 
 self and our friend Mrs. Caird whose town house was 
 within two minutes' walk of us. There was a sunny study 
 for the invalid on the ground floor, to obviate as much 
 as possible the need of going up and down stairs. The 
 immediate improvement in his health from the higher 
 air and new conditions was so marked that we had every 
 reason to hope it would before many months be practi- 
 cally re-established. 
 
 The most important undertaking after the long illness 
 was the monograph on Shelley written for Great Writ- 
 ers' Series (Walter Scott) and published in the autumn 
 of 1887. It was a work of love, for Shelley had been 
 the inspiring genius of his youth, the chief influence in 
 his verse till he knew Rossetti. He was in sympathy with 
 much of Shelley's thought : with his hatred of rigid con- 
 ventionality, of the tyranny of social laws; with his an- 
 tagonism to existing marriage and divorce laws, with his 
 belief in the sanctity of passion when called forth by high 
 and true emotion. He exclaimed that 
 
 " It is my main endeavour in this short life of Shelley
 
 132 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 to avoid all misstatement and exaggeration; to give as 
 real a narrative of kis life from the most reliable sources 
 as lies within my power ; to recomit without detailed criti- 
 cism and as simply and concisely as practicable, the rec- 
 ord of his poetic achievements. To this end I shall chiefly 
 rely on anecdote and explanatory detail, or poems and 
 passages noteworthy for their autobiographical or idio- 
 syncratic value, and on indisputable facts." 
 
 He proposed merely to give a condensation of all really 
 important material; and based his monograph mainly 
 on Professor Dowden's memorable work (then recently 
 published). Many statements written by William Sharp 
 about Shelley may be quoted as autobiographic of him- 
 self. For instance : " From early childhood he was a 
 mentally restless child. Trifles unnoticed by most chil- 
 dren seem to have made keen and permanent impression 
 on him — the sound of wind, the leafy whisper of trees, 
 running water. The imaginative faculties came so early 
 into play, that the unconscious desire to create resulted 
 in the invention of weird tales sometimes based on remote 
 fact in the experience of more or less weird hallucina- 
 tions." 
 
 Or again : " The fire of his mind for ever consuming his 
 excitable body, his swift and ardent emotions, his over 
 keen susceptibilities all combined to increase the frailty 
 of his physical health." Or this in particular : " He did 
 not outgrow his tendency to invest every new and sym- 
 pathetic correspondent (and I would add, friend) with 
 lives of ideal splendour." 
 
 And in explanation of each idealization appearing to 
 him " as the type of that ideal Beauty which had haunted 
 his imagination from early boyhood," he adds : " No fel- 
 low mortal could have satisfied the desire of his heart. 
 Perhaps this almost fantastic yearning for the unattain- 
 able — this desire of the moth for the star — is the heritage 
 of many of us. It is a longing that shall be insatiable 
 even in death." With Shelley he might have said of him- 
 self : " I think one is always in love with something or 
 other; the error — and I confess it is not easy for spirits
 
 THE SPORT OF CHANCE 133 
 
 cased in flesh and blood to avoid it — consists in seeking 
 in a mortal image the likeness of what is, perhaps, eter- 
 nal." 
 
 From the many letters the biographer received after 
 the publication of his book I select three : 
 
 Beasenose College, Nov. 23J. 
 
 My dear Sharp, 
 
 I am reading your short life of Shelley with great 
 pleasure and profit. Many thanks for your kindness in 
 sending it. It seems to me that with a full, nay ! an enthu- 
 siastic, appreciation of Shelley and his work, you unite 
 a shrewdness and good sense rare in those who have 
 treated this subject. And then your book is pleasant 
 and effective, in contrast to a French book on Shelley 
 of which I read reluctantly a good deal lately. Your book 
 leaves a very definite image on the brain. 
 
 With sincere kind regards, 
 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 Walter Pater. 
 
 CiMiEZ, PKES Nice, 
 
 22(i Dec, 1887. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I wonder how it is with you now, whether you are bet- 
 ter, which I sincerely hope, and already in the Isle of 
 Wight! but I suppose you will only go after Christmas. 
 To-day it is so cold here that I wonder what it must be 
 like with you ; there is snow on the mountains behind the 
 house and the sea looks iron-gray and ungenial. 
 
 I never told you I think how much I liked your " Shel- 
 ley," which I think gives a very succinct and fair state- 
 ment of the poet's life and works. It is just what is 
 wanted by the public at large, and I thought your remarks 
 on Shelley's relations with Harriet exceedingly sympa- 
 thetic and to the point ; as well as what you say touching 
 his married life with Mary ; the passage on page 98 con- 
 cerning this disenchantment with all mortal passion 
 struck me as most happily felt and expressed. I have
 
 134 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 only one fault to find with you, and that you will tliink 
 a very selfish one (so you must excuse it), to wit that 
 when speaking of The Revolt of Islam you did not men- 
 tion in a line or so that I was the first writer who pointed 
 out, first in the " Westminster Review " and afterward 
 in my Memoir of the poet, that in Cythna Shelley had in- 
 troduced a new type of Woman into poetry. I am rather 
 proud of it, and as it was mentioned by several of Shel- 
 ley's subsequent biographers I would have been pleased 
 to have seen it in a volume likely to be so popular as 
 yours. 
 
 But enough of this small matter. 
 
 I wish you and your dear wife health and happiness. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 Mathilde Blind. 
 
 Box Hill (Dobking), 
 
 Feb. 13, 1888. 
 
 Dear Me. Sharp, 
 
 I have read your book on Shelley, and prefer it, 
 matched with the bulky. Putting out of view Matthew 
 Arnold's very lofty lift of superterrestrial nose over the 
 Godwin nest, one inclines to agree with him about our 
 mortal business of Shelley. We shall be coming next 
 to medical testimony, with expositions. You have said 
 just enough, and in the right tones. Yesterday a detach- 
 ment of the Sunday tramps under Leslie Stephen 
 squeezed at the table in the small dining-room you know, 
 after a splendid walk over chalk and sand. When you 
 are in the mood to make one of us, give me note of warn- 
 ing, and add to the pleasure by persuading your wife to 
 come with you. 
 
 And tell her that this invitation would be more courtly 
 were I addressing her directly. 
 
 I am, 
 Very truly yours, 
 George Meredith,
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ROMANTIC BALLADS 
 
 The Children of To-morrow 
 
 The three years spent at Wescam were happy years, 
 full of work and interest. Slowly but steadily as health 
 was re-established, the command over work increased, 
 and all work was planned with the hope that before very 
 long William should be able to devote himself to the form 
 of imaginative work that he knew was germinating in his 
 mind. Meanwhile he had much in hand. Critical work 
 for many of the weeklies, a volume of poems in prepara- 
 tion, and a monograph on Heine, were the immediate pre- 
 occupations. 
 
 Romantic Ballads and Poems of Phantasy was pub- 
 lished in the spring (Walter Scott). The poems had been 
 written at different times during the previous five or six 
 years. " The Son of Allan " had met with the approval 
 of Rossetti, whose influence was commented upon by cer- 
 tain of the critics. The book was well received both in 
 England and America. The Boston Literary World con- 
 sidered that in such poems as " The Isle of Lost Dreams," 
 " Twin Souls," and " The Death Child " " a conjuring 
 imagination rises to extraordinary beauty of conception." 
 These three poems are undoubtedly forerunners of the 
 work of the " Fiona Macleod " period. In the Preface the 
 writer stated his conviction that " a Romantic Revival is 
 imminent in our poetic literature, a true awakening of 
 genuinely romantic sentiment. The most recent phase 
 thereof," however, " that mainly due to Rossetti, has not 
 fulfilled the hopes of those who saw in it the prelude 
 to a new great poetic period. It has been too literary, 
 inherently, but more particularly in expression. . . . Spon- 
 taneity it has lacked supremely. ... It would seem as if 
 it had already become mythical that the supreme merit of 
 
 135
 
 136 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 a poem is not perfection of art, but the quality of the 
 imagination which is the source of such real or approx- 
 imate perfection. ... In a sense, there is neither Youth 
 nor Age in Romance, it is the quintessence of the most 
 vivid emotions of life." And further on he voices the 
 very personal belief " Happy is he who, in this day of 
 spiritual paralysis, can still shut his eyes for a while and 
 dream." 
 
 Concerning the idea of fatality that underlies the open- 
 ing ballad " The Weird of Michel Scott " — " meant as a 
 lyrical tragedy, a tragedy of a soul that finds the face of 
 disastrous fate set against it whithersoever it turn in the 
 closing moments of mortal life," he wrote to a friend, 
 " What has always impressed me deeply — how deeply I 
 can scarcely say — is the blind despotism of fate. It is 
 manifested in ^schylus, in Isaiah and in the old Hebrew 
 Prophets, in all literature, in all history and in life. This 
 blind, terrible, indifferent Fate, this tyrant Chance, stays 
 or spares, mutilates or rewards, annihilates or passes by 
 without heed, without thought, with absolute blankness 
 of purpose, aim, or passion. . . . 
 
 '' I am tortured by the passionate desire to create 
 beauty, to sing something of ' the impossible songs ' I 
 have heard, to utter something of the rhythm of life that 
 has most touched me. The next volume of romantic 
 poems will be daringly of the moment, vital with the life 
 and passion of to-day (I speak hopefully, not with arro- 
 gant assurance, of course), yet not a whit less romantic 
 than ' The Weird of Michel Scott ' or ' The Death Child.' " 
 
 Many encouraging and appreciative letters reached 
 him from friends known and unknown. 
 
 In Mr. William Allingham's opinion " Michel Scott 
 clothing his own Soul with Hell-fire is tremendous! " 
 
 Professor Edward Dowden was not wholly in accord 
 with the poet's views, as expressed in the Introduction: 
 
 Rathmines, Dubun, 
 
 My dear Sharp, J"^y i^' i^^^- 
 
 It gave me great pleasure to get your new volume from 
 yourself. I think that a special gift of yours, and one
 
 ROMANTIC BALLADS 137 
 
 not often possessed, appears in this volume of romance 
 and phantasy. I don't find it possible to particularise 
 one poem as showing its presence more than another, for 
 the unity of the volume comes from its presence. And I 
 rejoice at anything which tends to make this last quarter 
 of the century other than what I feared it would be — a 
 period of collecting and arranging facts, with perhaps 
 such generalisations as specialists can make. (Not that 
 this is not valuable work, but if it is the sole employ- 
 ment of a generation what an ill time for the imagination 
 and the emotions !) At the same time I don't think I should 
 make any demand, if I could, for Romance. I should not 
 put forth any manifesto in its favour, for this reason — 
 that the leaders of a movement of phantasy and romance 
 will have such a sorry following. The leaders of a school 
 which overvalued form and teclmique may have been 
 smaller men than the leaders of a romantic school, yet 
 still their followers were learning something; but while 
 the chiefs of the romantic and phantastic movement will 
 be men of genius, what a lamentable crowd the discijoles 
 will be, who will try to be phantastic prepense. We shall 
 have the horrors of the spasmodic school revived with- 
 out that element of a high, vague, spiritual intention 
 which gave some nobility — or pseudo-nobility — to the dis- 
 ciples of the spasmodists. We shall have every kind of 
 extravagance and folly posing as poetry. 
 
 The way to control or check this is for the men who 
 have a gift for romance to use that gift — which you have 
 done — and to prove that phantasy is not incoherence but 
 has its own laws. And they ought to discourage any and 
 every one from attempting romance who has not a genius 
 for romance. 
 
 Sincerely yours, 
 
 E. DOWDEN. 
 
 Meanwhile, the author of the ballads was at work pre- 
 paring two volumes for the Canterbury Series — a volume 
 of selected Odes, and one of American Sonnets, to which 
 he contributed prefaces — and writing critical articles for
 
 138 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 the Academy, Atlienceum, Literary World, etc. Various 
 important books were published that spring, and among 
 those which came into his hands to write about were 
 Underwoods by R. L. Stevenson, In Hospital by W. Hen- 
 ley; and from these writers respectively he received let- 
 ters of comment. I am unable to remember what was 
 the occasion of the first of the E. L. Stevenson notes, 
 what nature of request it was that annoyed the older 
 writer. Neither of his letters is dated, but from the 
 context each obviously belongs to 1888. 
 
 Deae Me. Shakp, 
 
 Yes, I was annoyed with you, but let us bury that ; you 
 have shown so much good nature under my refusal that I 
 have blotted out the record. 
 
 And to show I have repented of my wrath : is your arti- 
 cle written? If not, you might like to see early sheets of 
 my voliune of verse, not very good, but still — and the 
 Scotch ones would amuse you I believe. And you might 
 like also to see the plays I have written with Mr. Henley : 
 let me know, and you shall have them as soon as I can 
 manage. 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson. 
 
 The notice I had seen already, and was pleased with. 
 
 After the appearance of the review of Undertvoods, R. 
 L. S. wrote again : 
 
 Deae Mr. Sharp, 
 
 What is the townsman's blunder? — though I deny I am 
 a townsman, for I have lived, on the whole, as much 
 or more in the country : well, perhaps not so much. Is it 
 that the thrush does not sing at night? That is possible. 
 I only know most potently the blackbird (his cousin) 
 does: many and many a late evening in the garden of 
 that poem have I listened to one that was our faithful 
 visitor; and the sweetest song I ever heard was past 
 nine at night in the early sj^ring, from a tree near the
 
 ROMANTIC BALLADS 139 
 
 N. E. gate of Warriston cemetery. That I called what 
 I believe to have been a merle by the softer name of mavis 
 (and they are all turdi, I believe) is the head and front 
 of my offence against literal severity, and I am curious 
 to hear if it has really brought me into some serious 
 error. 
 
 Your article is very true and very kindly put : I have 
 never called my verses poetry : they are verse, the verse 
 of a speaker not a singer; but that is a fair business like 
 another. I am of your mind too in preferring much the 
 Scotch verses, and in thinking " Requiem " the nearest 
 thing to poetry that I have ever " clerkit." 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson. 
 
 R. L. S. Saranac, New York. 
 
 Mr. Henley wrote : 
 
 Merton Place, Chiswick, W., 
 
 5: 7: 88. 
 
 My dear Sharp, 
 
 I am glad to have your letter. Of course I disagreed 
 with your view of In Hospital; but I didn't think it all 
 worth writing about. I felt you'd mistaken my aim ; but 
 I felt that your mistake (as I conceived it to be) was hon- 
 estly made, and that if the work itself had failed to pro- 
 duce a right effect upon you, it was useless to attempt 
 to correct the impressions by means outside art. 
 
 Art (as I think) is treatment et prateria nil. What 
 I tried to do in In Hospital was to treat a certain subject 
 — which seems to me to have a genuine human interest 
 and importance — with discretion, good feeling, and a cer- 
 tain dignity. If I failed, I failed as an artist. My treat- 
 ment (or my art) was not good enough for my material. 
 Voild. I thought (I will frankly confess it) that I had 
 got the run of the thing — that my results were touched 
 with the distinction of art. You didn't think so, and I 
 saw that, as far as you were concerned, I had failed of my 
 effort. I was sorry to have so failed, and then the matter 
 ended. To be perfectly frank, I objected to but one ex- 
 pression — " occasionally crude " — in all the article. I
 
 140 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 confess I don't see the ijropriety of the phrase at all. My 
 method is, I know, the exact reverse of your own; but I 
 beg you to believe that my efforts — of simplicity, direct- 
 ness, bluntness, brutality even — are carefully calculated, 
 and that " crude " — which means raw, if it means any- 
 thing at all — is a word that I'd rather not have applied 
 to me. The Saturday Reviewer made use of it, and I had 
 it out with him, and he owned that it was unfortunately 
 used — that it didn't mean " raw," but something un-Mil- 
 tonic (as it were), something novel and personal and 
 which hadn't had time to get conventionalised. It's 
 stupid and superfluous to write like this ; especially as I 
 had meant to say nothing about it. But yours of last 
 night is so kind and pleasant that I think it best to write 
 what's on my mind, or rather what was on it when I read 
 your article. For the rest, it is good to hear that you're 
 re-reading, and are kind of dissatisfied with your own 
 first views. I shall look with great interest for the new 
 statement, and value it — whatever its conclusions — a 
 good deal. I have worked hard at the little book, and am 
 disposed (as you see) to take it more seriously than it 
 deserves; and whatever is said about it comes home 
 to me. 
 
 Always yours sincerely, 
 
 W. E. H. 
 
 P. ;S'. — I am glad you quoted " The King of Babylon." 
 It's my own favourite of all. I call it " a romance without 
 adjectives " and the phrase (which represents an ideal) 
 says everything. I wish I could do more of the same 
 reach and tune. 
 
 At Wescam we enjoyed once more the pleasant ways 
 of friendship that had grown about us, and especially our 
 Sunday informal evening gatherings to which came all 
 those with whom we were in sympathy. Among the most 
 frequent were Mrs. Mona Caird, the eager champion of 
 women long before the movement passed into the militant 
 hands of the suffragettes ; Walter Pater, during his Ox- 
 ford vacation ; Dr. and Mrs. Garnett ; John M. Robertson,
 
 ROMANTIC BALLADS 141 
 
 who was living the " simple life " of a socialist in rooms 
 close by ; Richard Whiteing, then leader-writing for The 
 Daily News, and author of the beautiful idyll The Island. 
 Mathilde Blind — poetess novelist, who in youth had 
 sat an eager disciple at the feet of Mazzini, came fre- 
 quently, Ernest Rhys was writing poems and editing 
 The Camelot Classics from the heights of Hampstead, 
 and his wife, then Miss Grace Little, lived in the neigh- 
 bourhood with her sisters, the eldest of whom, Lizzie Lit- 
 tle, was a writer of charming verse. W. B. Yeats came in 
 the intervals of wandering over Ireland in search of Folk 
 tales; John Davidson had recently come to London, and 
 was bitter over the hard struggle he was enduring; Wil- 
 liam Watson was a rare visitor. Another frequent vis- 
 itor was Arthur Tomson the landscape painter, who came 
 to us with an introduction from Mr. Andrew Lang. A 
 warm friendship grew up between Arthur and ourselves, 
 which was deepened by his second marriage with Miss 
 Agnes Hastings, a girl-friend of ours, and lasted till his 
 death in 1905. Mr. and Mrs. John M. Swan came occa- 
 sionally, Mr. and Mrs. William Strang, we saw fre- 
 quently, and Theodore Roussell was an ever welcome 
 guest. Sir George Douglas came now and again from 
 Kelso; Charles Mavor, editor of The Art Review, ran 
 down occasionally from Glasgow. Other frequenters of 
 our Sunday evenings were Richard Le Gallienne, whose 
 Book hills of Narcissus was then recently published; 
 Miss Alice Corkran, Mr. and Mrs. Todhunter, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Gilbert Coleridge, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Rinder, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Joseph Pennell. The Russian Nihilist Stepniak 
 and his wife were a great interest to us. I remember on 
 one occasion they told us that Stepniak intended to make 
 a secret visit to Russia — as he had done before — that he 
 was starting the next morning, and though every care 
 would be taken in matter of disguise, the risks were so 
 great that he and his wife always said farewell to one 
 another as though they never would meet again. 
 
 Mrs. Caird's town house was close to us; and she, 
 keenly interested — as my husband and I also were — in
 
 142 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 the subject of the legal position of women, had that spring 
 written two articles on the Marriage question which were 
 accepted by and published in The Westminster Revieiv in 
 July. Twelve years ago the possibilities of a general dis- 
 cussion on such subjects were very different to what exist 
 now. The sensibilities of both men and women — espe- 
 cially of those who had no adequate knowledge of the 
 legal inequalities of the Marriage laws nor of the abuses 
 which were and are in some cases still the direct out- 
 come of them — were disturbed and shocked by the plain 
 statements put forward, by the passionate plea for jus- 
 tice, for freedom from tyrannous legal oppression, exer- 
 cised consciously and unconsciously. Mrs. Caird's arti- 
 cles met with acute hostility of a kind difficult to under- 
 stand now, and much misunderstanding and unmerited 
 abuse was meted out to her. Nevertheless these brave 
 articles, published in book form under the title of The 
 Morality of Marriage, and the novels written by the same 
 pen, have been potent in altering the attitude of the pub- 
 lic mind in its approach to and examination of such ques- 
 tions, in making private discussion possible. 
 
 In the autumn of 1888 the monograph on Heine was 
 published in the Great Writers Series (Walter Scott) ; 
 and the author always regarded it as the best piece of 
 work of the kind he ever did. It seemed fitting that the 
 writer of a life of Shelley should write one of Heine, for 
 there is a kinship between the two poets. To their bi- 
 ographer Heine was the strangest and most fascinating 
 of all the poets not only of one country and one century, 
 but of all time and of all nations ; he saw in the wayward 
 brilliant poet " one of those flowers which bloom more 
 rarely than the aloe — human flowers which unfold their 
 petals but once, it may be, in the whole slow growth of 
 humanity. ... At his best Heine is a creature of con- 
 trolled impulse; at his worst he is a creature of impulse 
 uncontrolled. Through extremes he gained the golden 
 mean of art ; here is his apologia." 
 
 The book is an endeavour to handle the subject in an 
 impartial spirit, to tell the story vividly, to give a definite
 
 EOMANTIC BALLADS 143 
 
 impression of the strange personality, and in the conclud- 
 ing pages to summarise Heine's genius. But, " do what 
 we will we cannot affiliate, we cannot classify Heine. 
 When we would apprehend it his genius is as volatile as 
 his wit. ... Of one thing only can we be sure: that he 
 is of our time, of our century. He is so absolutely and 
 essentially modern that he is often antique. . . . 
 
 " As for his song-motive, I should say it was primarily 
 his Lehenslust, his delight in life: that love so intensely 
 human that it almost necessarily involved the ignoring 
 of the divine. Rainbow-hued as is his genius, he himself 
 was a creature of earth. It was enough to live. . . . He 
 would cling to life, even though it were by a rotten beam, 
 he declared once in his extremity. And the poet of life 
 he unquestionably is. There is a pulse in everything he 
 writes: his is no galvanised existence. No parlour pas- 
 sions lead him into the quicksands of oblivion. . . ." 
 
 The author was gratified by appreciative letters from 
 Dr. Richard Garnett and Mr. George Meredith : 
 
 3 St. Edmund's Terrace, 
 
 My dear Sharp, Nov. ii, 1888. 
 
 I have now finished your Heine, and can congratulate 
 you upon an excellent piece of biographical work. You 
 are throughout perfectly clear and highly interesting, 
 and, what is more difficult with your subject, accurate and 
 impartial. Or, if there is any partiality it is such as it is 
 becoming in one poet to enlist aid for another. With all 
 one's worship of Heine's genius, it must be allowed that 
 he requires a great deal of toleration. The best excuse 
 to be made for him is that his faults were largely faults 
 of race — and just now I feel amiably toward the Jews, 
 for if you have seen the Athenaeum you will have ob- 
 served that I have fallen into the hands of the Philistines. 
 Almost the only point in which I differ from you is as 
 regards your too slight mention of Platen, who seems to 
 me not only a master of form but a true though limited 
 poet — a sort of German Matthew Arnold. Your kind no- 
 tice of my translation from the Romanzen did not escape
 
 144 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 me. Something, perhaps, should have been said of James 
 Thomson, the best English translator. 
 
 Believe me, my dear Sharp, 
 
 Most sincerely yours, 
 
 R. Garnett. 
 
 Box Hill, Dec. 10, 1888. 
 
 Dear Mr. Sharp, 
 
 Your Heine gave me pleasure. I think it competently 
 done; and coming as a corrective to Stigund's work, it 
 brings the refreshment of the antidote. When I have the 
 pleasure of seeing you we will converse upon Heine. Too 
 much of his — almost all of the Love poems drew both 
 tenderness and tragic emotion from a form of sensualism, 
 much of his wit too was wilful — a trick of the mind. Al- 
 ways beware of the devilish in wit: it has the obverse 
 of an intellectual meaning, and it shows at the best inter- 
 pretation, a smallness of range. Macmillan says that if 
 they can bring out my book " Reading of Earth " on the 
 18th I may expect it. Otherwise you will not receive a 
 copy until after Christmas. 
 
 Faithfully yours, 
 George Meredith. 
 
 Mr. Meredith wrote again after the publication of his 
 poems : 
 
 Box Hill, Feb. 15, 1888. 
 
 Dear Mr. Sharp, 
 
 It is not common for me to be treated in a review 
 with so much respect. But your competency to speak 
 on the art of verse gives the juster critical tone. 
 
 Of course you have poor J. Thomson's book. I have 
 had pain in reading it. Nature needs her resources, con- 
 sidering what is wasted of her finest. That is to say, on 
 this field — and for the moment I have eyes on the narrow 
 rather than the wider. It is our heart does us this mis- 
 chief. Philosophy can as little subject it as the Laws of 
 men can hunt Nature out of women — artificial though we 
 force them to be in their faces. But if I did not set
 
 ROMANTIC BALLADS 145 
 
 Philosophy on high for worship, I should be one of the 
 "weakest. 
 
 Let me know when you are back. If in this opening of 
 the year we have the South West, our country, even our 
 cottage, may be agreeable to you. All here will be glad 
 to welcome you and your wife for some days. 
 
 Yours very cordially, 
 
 Geobge Meredith. 
 
 It was the late spring before we could visit Mr. Mere- 
 dith. The day of our going was doubly memorable to me, 
 because as we went along the leafy road from Burford 
 Bridge station we met Mr. and Mrs. Grant Allen — my 
 first meeting with them — whose home was at that time 
 in Dorking. Memorable, too, was the courteous genial 
 greeting from our host and his charming daughter; and 
 the many delightful incidents of that first week end visit. 
 William and Mr. Meredith had long talks in the garden 
 chalet on the edge of the wood. And in the evenings the 
 novelist read aloud to us. On that occasion I think it was 
 he read some chapters from " One of our Conquerors " on 
 which he was working ; another time it was from " The 
 Amazing Marriage " and from " Lord Ormont and his 
 Aminta." The reader's enjoyment seemed as great as 
 that of his audience, and it interested me to hear how 
 closely his own methods of conversation resembled, in 
 wittiness and brilliance, those of the characters in his 
 novels. Sometimes he turned a merciless play of wit on 
 his listener ; but my husband, who was as deeply attached 
 to the man as he admired the writer, enjoyed these verbal 
 duels in which he was usually worsted. The incident of 
 the visit that charmed me most arose from my stating 
 that I had never heard the nightingale. So on the Sun- 
 day afternoon we were taken to a stretch of woodland, 
 " my woods of Westermain " the poet smilingly declared, 
 and there, standing among the .tree-boles in the late 
 afternoon sun-glow I listened for the bird-notes as he 
 described them to me until he was satisfied I heard aright. 
 
 The Xmas of 1888, and the following New Year's day
 
 146 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 we passed at Tunbridge Wells, witli Mathilde Blind, in 
 rooms overlooking the common. Many delightful hours 
 were spent together in the evenings listening to one or 
 other of the two poets reading aloud their verse, or parts 
 of the novels they had in process. Mathilde was writing 
 her Tarantella; my husband had recently finished a boys' 
 serial story for Young Folk's Paper, with a highly sen- 
 sational plot entitled " The Secret of Seven Fountains," 
 and was at work on a Romance of a very different order 
 in which he then was deeply interested, though in later 
 life he considered it immature in thought and expression. 
 The boys' story was one of adventure, of life seen from 
 a purely objective point of view. The Children of To-mor- 
 row was the author's first endeavour to give expression 
 in prose to the more subjective side of his nature, to 
 thoughts, feelings, aspirations he had hitherto sup- 
 pressed; it is the direct forerunner of the series of ro- 
 mantic tales he afterward wrote as Fiona Macleod; it 
 was also the expression of his attitude of revolt against 
 the limitations of the accepted social system. The writ- 
 ing of the Monograph on Shelley had rekindled many 
 ideas and beliefs he held in common with the earlier 
 poet — ideas concerning love and marriage, viewed not 
 from the standpoint of the accepted practical standard of 
 morality, nor of the possible realisation by the average 
 humanity of a more complex code of social morality, 
 but viewed from the standpoint held by a minority of 
 dreamers and thinkers who look beyond the present 
 strictly guarded, fettered conditions of married life, to 
 a time, when man and woman, equally, shall know that 
 to stultify or slay the spiritual inner life of another 
 human being, through the radical misunderstanding be- 
 tween alien temperaments inevitably tied to one another, 
 is one of the greatest crimes against humanity. That 
 the author knew how visionary for the immediate future 
 were these ideas, which we at that time so eagerly dis- 
 cussed with a little group of intimate sympathetic friends, 
 is shown by the prefatory lines in the book :
 
 ROMANTIC BALLADS 147 
 
 " Forlorn the way, yet with strange gleams of gladness ; 
 Sad beyond words the voices far behind. 
 Yet we, perplext with our diviner madness, 
 
 Must heed them not — the goal is still to find! 
 What though beset by pain and fear and sorrow, 
 We must not fail, we Children of To-morrow." 
 
 The Children of To-morrow called forth all manner of 
 divergent opinions. It was called depressing* by one 
 critic, and out of touch with realities. Another consid- 
 ered the chief interest of the book to consist " in what 
 may be called its aims. It is clearly an attempt toward 
 greater truth in art and life." All agreed as to the power 
 displayed in the descriptions of nature. The critic in 
 Public Opinion showed discernment as to the author's in- 
 tentions when he wrote " To our mind the delightful 
 irresponsibility of this book, the calm determination 
 which it displays that now, at least, the author means to 
 please himself, to give vent to many a pent up feeling 
 or opinion constitutes one of its greatest charms. This 
 waywardness, the waywardness of a true artist, is shown 
 on almost every page. . . . Mr. Sharp states his case 
 with wonderful power and lucidity; he draws no conclu- 
 sions — as an artist they do not concern him — he leaves 
 the decision to the individual temperament." 
 
 Mathilde Blind wrote to the author : 
 
 1 St. Edmund's Tehrace, N. W., 1889. 
 
 Dear Child of the Future, 
 
 You have indeed written a strange, weird, romantic tale 
 with the sound of the sea running through it like an 
 accompaniment. Adama Acosta is a specially well-imag- 
 ined and truthful character of a high kind ; and the inter- 
 mittent wanderings of his brain have something akin to 
 the wailing notes of the instrument of which he is such 
 a master. But it is in your conception of love — the subtle, 
 delicate, ideal attraction of two beings inevitably drawn 
 to each other by the finest elements of their being — that 
 the charm of the story consists to my mind ; on the other 
 hand, you have succeeded in drawing a very realistic and
 
 148 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 vivid picture of the hard and handsome Lydia, with her 
 purely negative individuality, and in showing the deadly 
 effect which one person may exercise over another in 
 married life — without positive outward wrongdoing 
 which might lead to the divorce court. I agree with you 
 in thinking that the end is the finest part of the Romance, 
 especially the last scene where Dane and Sanpriel are in 
 the wood under the old oak tree, where the voice of the 
 rising storm with its ominous note of destiny is magnifi- 
 cently described. Such a passing away in the mid-most 
 fire of passion on the wings of the elements has always 
 seemed to me the climax of human happiness. But I fear 
 the book is likely to rouse a good deal of opposition in 
 many quarters for the daring disregard of the binding 
 sanctity of the marriage relation. If I may speak quite 
 openly and as a friend who would wish you to do your- 
 self full justice and produce the best work that is in you, 
 I wish you had given yourself more time to work out 
 some of the situations which seem, to me at least, to lack 
 a certain degree of precision and consistency. Thus, for 
 example, Dane after discovering that Ford has been try- 
 ing to murder him, and is making secret love to his wife, 
 rushes off to the painter's studio evidently bent on some 
 sort of quarrel or revenge, yet nothing comes of it, and 
 afterwards we find the would-be murderer on outwardly 
 friendly terms with the sculptor on board the house boat. 
 I must tell you by the way how powerful I think the scene 
 of the dying horse in Eatho Sands and the murder of 
 Lydia. I should also have liked to have heard a little 
 more of the real aims and objects of " The Children of 
 the Future " and would like to know whether such an asso- 
 ciation really exists among any section of the modem 
 Jews; we must talk of that this evening or some other 
 time when we meet. I hope to look in to-night with Sarra- 
 zin and Bunand who are coming to a little repast here 
 first. Madox Brown has been reading your book with 
 the greatest interest. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 Mathilde Blind.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 FIRST VISIT TO AMERICA 
 
 In the Spring of 1889 the Chair of Literature at Uni- 
 versity College, London, became vacant on the death of 
 Professor Henry Morley; and many of William Sharp's 
 friends urged him to stand for election. He was of two 
 minds on the subject. His inclinations were against 
 work of the kind, for, temperamentally, he had difficulty 
 in regulating his life in accordance with strict routine. 
 Born, as he would say, with the wandering wave in his 
 blood, the fixed and the inevitable were antipathetic to 
 him. He was, however, awake to the material importance 
 of such a post, to the advantages of a steady income. 
 Had he had himself only to consider he would not have 
 given the proposal a thought ; but he believed it to be his 
 duty to attempt to secure the post for his wife's sake, 
 though she was not of that opinion. Among the many 
 friends who advocated his election were Robert Brown- 
 ing, George Meredith, Walter Pater, Theodore Watts 
 Dunton, Alfred Austin, Dr. Richard Garnett, Prof. Minto, 
 Hall Caine, Sir George Douglas, Aubrey De Vere, Mrs. 
 Augusta Webster. When, however, the date of election 
 drew near, he consulted his doctor and withdrew his can- 
 didature. The question, to him, had all along been one of 
 security of means versus freedom of action ; and having 
 done his duty in the matter, his relief was great that the 
 decision left him in possession of his freedom. 
 
 For some time William Sharp had contemplated a visit 
 to the United States, where he was well known as poet 
 and critic, and had many friendly correspondents. So 
 he considered the moment to be opportune. He decided 
 to go ; although he was forbidden to lecture in America, 
 and very opportunely our friend Mrs. Caird asked me to 
 
 149
 
 150 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 accompany her to Austria — to the Sun-cure at Veldes in 
 the Carpathian Alps. She and I were the first to leave, 
 and eventually, my husband after his return from Amer- 
 ica joined me at Cologne and accompanied me home. 
 
 Meanwhile he made his preparations for a visit to Can- 
 ada and New York, and just before starting paid a flying 
 visit to Mr. George Meredith who had written to him : 
 
 Box Hill, July 15, 1889. 
 
 Deak Mk. Sharp, 
 
 This would have been headed to your wife, but for the 
 chances of her flying, and the letter after her. Tell her 
 we are grieved to lose the pleasure her company would 
 give, and trust to welcome her on her return. ^Vhen she 
 looks on Tyrol, let her strain an eye to see my heart on 
 the topmost peak. We hope for your coming on Satur- 
 day. 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 Geoege Meredith. 
 
 He looked forward to his American tour with keen de- 
 light. New experiences were ever alluring; he had the 
 power of throwing himself heart and soul into every 
 fresh enjoyment. Going by himself seemed to promise 
 chances of complete recovery of health; the unexplored 
 and the unknown beckoned to him with promise of excite- 
 ment and adventure. 
 
 As he wrote to Mr. Stedman : " I am a student of much 
 else besides literature. Life in all its manifestations is 
 of passionate interest for me, and I cannot rest from 
 incessant study and writing. Yet I feel that I am but on 
 the threshold of my literary life. I have a life-time of 
 ambitious schemes before me ; I may perhaps live to fulfil 
 a tenth part of them." 
 
 Mid-August found him in Canada. Fine as he consid- 
 ered the approach to Nova Scotia, Newfoundland im- 
 pressed him more. At Halifax he was the guest of the 
 Attorney General. He wrote to me " Mr. and Mrs. Long-
 
 FIRST VISIT TO AMERICA 151 
 
 ley were most kind, and so were all tlie many leading 
 people to whom I was introduced. I was taken to 
 the annual match of the Quoit Club, and was asked to 
 present the Cup to the winner at the close, with a few 
 words if I felt disposed, Parth" from being so taken 
 aback, partly from pleased excitement, and partly from 
 despair, I lost all nervousness and made a short and 
 (what I find was considered) humourous speech, so slowly 
 and coolly spoken that I greatly admired it myself ! " 
 
 At Halifax, which he considered " worth a dozen of the 
 Newfoundland capital," he was met by Professor Charles 
 Roberts who had come " to intercept me so as to go off 
 with him for a few days in Northern Scotia and across 
 the Straits to Prince Edward Island. So, a few days 
 later Prof. Roberts and I, accompanied for the first 100 
 miles by Mr. Longley, started for Pictou, which we 
 reached after 5 hours most interesting journey. The At- 
 torney General has kindly asked me to go a three days' 
 trip with him (some 10 days hence) through the famous 
 Cape Breton district, with the lovely Bras D'Or lakes: 
 and later on he has arranged for a three days' moose- 
 hunt among the forests of Southern Acadia, where we 
 shall camp out in tents, and be rowed by Indian guides." 
 
 New Glasgow delighted him; he visited Windsor and 
 Halifax : " I went with Charles Roberts and Bliss Carman 
 through Evangeline's country. En route I travelled on 
 the engine of the train and enjoyed the experience. Grand 
 Pre delighted me immensely — vast meadows, with lum- 
 bering wains and the simple old Acadian life. The 
 orchards were in their glory — and the apples delicious! 
 At one farm house we put up, how you would have en- 
 joyed our lunch of sweet milk hot cakes, great bowls of 
 huckleberries and cream, tea, apples, etc. ! We then went 
 through the forest belt and came upon the great ocean 
 inlet known as the " basin of Minas," and, leagues away 
 the vast bulk of Blomidon shelving bough-like into the 
 Sea. . . ."
 
 152 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 To E. A. S. : 
 
 (On the St. Lawrence), 
 
 12th Sept. 
 
 To-day has been a momentous birthday on the whole — 
 and none the less so because I have been alone and, what 
 is to me an infinite relief, quite unknown. I told no one 
 about my Saguenay expedition till the last moment — and 
 so there is nothing definite about me in the papers save 
 that I " abruptly left St. John " (the capital of New 
 Brunswick) and that I am to arrive in Quebec to-mor- 
 row. I sent you a card from Riviere du Loup, the north- 
 ernmost township of the old Acadians, and a delightful 
 place. I reached it early from Temiscouata (the Lake of 
 Winding Water) — a journey of extreme interest and 
 beauty, through a wild and as yet unsettled country. The 
 track has only been open this summer. Before I reached 
 its other end (the junction of the St. John river with the 
 Madawaska) I was heartily sick of New Brunswick, with 
 its oven-like heat, its vast monotonous forests with 
 leagues upon leagues of dead and dying trees, and its all 
 present forest-fires. The latter have caused widespread 
 disaster. . . . Several times we were scorched by the 
 flames, but a few yards away — and had " to rush " sev- 
 eral places. But once in the province of Quebec, and 
 everything changed. The fires (save small desultory 
 ones) disappeared: the pall of smoke lightened and van- 
 ished : and the glorious September foliage made a happy 
 contrast to the wearisome hundreds of miles of decayed 
 and decaying firs. It was a most glorious sunset — one 
 of the grandest I have ever seen — and the colour of the 
 vast Laurentian Mountain range, on the north side of the 
 St. Lawrence, superb. It was dark when we reached the 
 mouth of the Saguenay River — said to be the gloomiest 
 and most awe-inspiring river in the world — and began 
 our sail of close upon a hundred miles (it can be followed 
 by canoes for a greater length than Great Britain). The 
 full moon came up, and the scene was grand and solemn 
 beyond words. Fancy fifty miles of sheer mountains, 
 one after another without a valley-break, but simply cleft
 
 FIRST VISIT TO AMERICA 153 
 
 ravines. The deep gloom as we slowly sailed tlirough the 
 noiseless shadow brooding between Cape Eternity and 
 Cape Trinity was indescribable. We anchored for some 
 hours in " Ha ! Ha ! Bay," the famous landing place of 
 the old discoverers. In the early morning we sailed out 
 from Ha ! Ha ! Bay, and then for hours sailed down such 
 scenery as I have never seen before and never expect to 
 see again. ... At Quebec I am first to be the guest of 
 the well-known Dr. Stewart, and then of Mons. Le Moine 
 at his beautiful place out near the Indian Village of 
 Lorette and the Falls of Montmorenci — not far from the 
 famous Plain of Abraham, where Wolfe and Montcalm 
 fought, and an Empire lay in balance. 
 
 In New York, William was the guest of Mr. and Mrs. 
 E. C. Stedman at 44 East 26th Street, whence he wrote 
 to me: 
 
 "... So much has happened since I wrote to you from 
 Montreal that I don't see how I'm to tell you more than 
 a fraction of it — particularly as I am seldom alone even 
 for five minutes. Last week I left Montreal (after having 
 shot the rapids, etc.) and travelled to Boston via the 
 White Mountains, through the States of Vermont, Con- 
 necticut and Massachusetts. Boston is a beautiful place 
 — an exceedingly fine city with lovely environs. Prof. A. 
 S. Hardy ('Passe Rose,' etc.) was most kind. . . . Cam- 
 bridge and Harvard University, are also very fine. I 
 enjoyed seeing Longfellow's house (Miss L. still occupies 
 it) and those of Emerson, Lowell, etc. I spent brief 
 visits to Prof. Wright of Harvard, to Winsor the his- 
 torian, etc. On Sunday afternoon I drove with A. S. H. 
 to Belmont in Massachusetts, and spent afternoon with 
 Howells, the novelist. He was most interesting and gen- 
 ial — I had the best of welcomes from the Stedmans. They 
 are kindness personified. The house is lovely, and full of 
 beautiful things and multitudes of books. I have already 
 more invitations than I can accept: every one is most 
 hospitable. I have already met Mr. Gilder, the poet, and 
 editor of the ' Century ' ; Mr. Alden of ^ Harpers ' ; Mr,
 
 154 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 Bowen, of the ' Independent ' ; R. H. Stoddart, the 
 ' father ' of recent American letters ; and heaven knows 
 how many others. I have been elected honorary member 
 of the two most exclusive clubs in N. Y., the ' Century ' 
 and ' The Players.' Next week there is to be a special 
 meeting at the Author's Club, and I am to be the guest of 
 the evening. ..." 
 
 New York, 1: 10: 89. 
 
 " Can only send you a brief line by this mail. I enjoyed 
 my visit to Mr. Alden at Metuchen in New Jersey very 
 much. Among the new friends I care most for are a 
 married couple called Janvier. They are true Bohemians 
 and most delightful. He is a writer and she an artist . . . 
 and both have travelled much in Mexico. We dined to- 
 gether at a Cuban Cafe last night. He gave me his vol. 
 of stories called ' Colour Studies ' and she a little sketch 
 of a Mexican haunted house — both addressed to ' William 
 Sharp. Recuerdo di Amistad y carimo.' " 
 
 On leaving New York he wrote to his kind host : 
 
 Oct. 8, 1889. 
 
 My deae Stedman, 
 
 This, along with some flowers, will reach you on the 
 morning of your birthday, while I am far out on the At- 
 lantic. May the flowers carry to your j^oet-soul a breath 
 of that happy life which seems to inspire them — and may 
 your coming years be full of the beauty and fragrance of 
 which they are the familiar and exquisite symbols. You 
 have won my love as well as my deep regard and admira- 
 tion. And so I leave you to understand how earnestly 
 and truly I wish you all good. 
 
 Once more let me tell you how deeply grateful I am to 
 you and Mrs. Stedman for all your generous kindness to 
 me. We have all, somewhere, sometime, our gardens, 
 where — as Hafiz says — the roses have a subtler fra- 
 grance, and the nightingales a rarer melody; and my 
 memory of my last " fortunate Eden " will remain with 
 me always. . . .
 
 FIRST VISIT TO AMERICA 155 
 
 I shall always think of you, and Mrs. Stedman, and 
 
 Arthur, as of near and dear relatives. Yes, we are of 
 
 one family. 
 
 Farewell, meanwhile, 
 
 Ever your affectionate, 
 
 William Sharp. 
 
 This note drew from the American poet the following 
 reply : 
 
 My deab Sharp, 
 
 'Tis quite surprising — the severity wherewith you 
 have been missed, in this now very quiet household, since 
 you looked down upon its members from the Servia's 
 upper-deck, very much like Campanini in Lohengrin 
 when the Swan gets fairly under way! The quiet that 
 settled down was all the stiller, because you and we had 
 to get through with so much in your ten days chez nous. 
 Lay one consolation to heart: you won't have to do this 
 again; when you return, 'twill be to a city of which you 
 have deduced a general idea, from the turbid phantasma- 
 goria of your days and nights here. The conclusions on 
 our side were that we had formed a liking for you such 
 as we have retained after the visits of very few guests 
 from the Old World or the New. Well as I knew your 
 books and record I had the vaguest notion of your self. 
 'Tis rare indeed that a clever writer or artist strengthens 
 his hold upon those who admire his work, by personal 
 intimacy. What can I say more than to say that we thor- 
 oughly enjoyed your visit; that we think immeasurably 
 more of you +han before you came ; that you are upon our 
 list of friends to whom w^e are attached for life — for good 
 and ill. We know our own class, in taste and breeding, 
 when we find them — which is not invariably among our 
 different guests. Nor can one have your ready art of 
 charm and winning, without a good heart and comrade- 
 ship under it all: even though intent (and rightly) on 
 nursing his career and making all the points he has a 
 right to make — Apropos of this — I may congratulate 
 you on the impression you made here on the men and
 
 156 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 women whom you chanced at this season to meet; that 
 which you left with us passes the border of respect, and 
 into the warm and even lowland of affection. 
 
 That is all I now shall say about our acquaintanceship. 
 Being an Anglo-Saxon, 'tis not once in half a decade that 
 I bring myself to say so much. 
 
 And now, my dear boy, what shall I say of the charm- 
 ing surprise with which you and your florist so punctually 
 greeted my birthday? At 56 (" oh, woeful when! ") one 
 is less than ever used to the melting mood, but you drew 
 a tear to my eyes. The roses are still all over our house, 
 and the letter is your best autograph in my possession. 
 We look forward to seeing you again with us, of course — 
 because, if for no other reason, you and yours always 
 have one home ready for you when in the States, at least 
 while a roof is over our heads, even though the Latin 
 wolf be howling at our door. Mrs. Stedman avows that 
 I must give you her love, and joins with me in all the 
 words of this long letter. 
 
 Affectionately your friend, 
 
 Edmund C. Stedman. 
 
 On our return to Hampstead we resumed our Sunday 
 evening gatherings, and among other frequenters came 
 Mr. and Mrs. Henry Harland, with an introduction from 
 Mr. W. D. Howells. From Mr. George Meredith came a 
 charming welcome home. 
 
 Box Hill (Dobking), 
 
 Nov. 22, 1889. 
 
 My dear Sharp, 
 
 I am with all my heart glad of your return and the 
 good news you give of yourself and your wife. He who 
 travels comes back thrice the man he was, and if you do 
 not bully my poor Stayathoma, it is in magnanimity. 
 The moccasins are acceptable for their uses and all that 
 they tell me. Name a time as early as you can to come 
 and pour out your narrative. There is little to attract, 
 it's true — a poor interior and fog daily outside. We cast 
 ourselves on the benevolence of friends. Give your wife
 
 FIRST VISIT TO AMERICA 157 
 
 my best regards. I have questions for her about Tyrol 
 and Carinthia. 
 
 Hard at work with my " Conqueror," who has me for 
 the first of his victims. 
 
 England has not done much in your absence ; there will 
 be all to hear, nothing to relate, when you come. 
 
 Yours warmly, 
 
 George Meredith. 
 
 We went. As we walked across the fields to the cottage 
 Mr. Meredith came through his garden gate to meet us, 
 raised high his hat and voiced a welcome, " Hail daughter 
 of the Sun ! "
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 BROWNING 
 
 The Joseph Severn Memoirs 
 
 To William Sharp, as to many others, the closing days 
 of 1899 brought a deep personal sorrow in the death of 
 Robert Browning. The younger man had known him for 
 several years, and had always received a warm welcome 
 from the Poet in his house in Warwick Crescent which, 
 with its outlook on the water of broad angle of the canal 
 with its little tree clad island, he declared laughingly, re- 
 minded him of Venice. And kindly he was too, when, 
 coming to the first of our " At Homes " in South Hamp- 
 stead, he assured me with a genial smile " I like to come, 
 because I know young people like to have me." 
 
 " It is needless to dwell upon the grief everywhere felt 
 and expressed for the irreparable loss " (W. S. wrote in 
 his monograph on Browning). The magnificent closing 
 lines of Shelley's " Alastor " have occurred to many a 
 mourner, for gone indeed was " a surpassing Spirit." The 
 superb pomp of the Venetian funeral, the solemn gran- 
 deur of the interment in Westminster Abbey, do not seem 
 worth recording : so insignificant are all these accidents of 
 death made by the supreme fact itself. Yet it is fitting 
 to know that Venice has never in modern times afforded 
 a more impressive sight than those of craped proces- 
 sional gondolas following the high flower-strewn famous 
 barge through the thronged water-ways and out across 
 the lagoon to the desolate Isle of the Dead : that London 
 has rarely seen aught more solemn than the fog-dusked 
 Cathedral spaces, echoing at first with the slow tramp of 
 the pall-bearers, and then with the sweet aerial music 
 swaying upward the loved familiar words of the " Lyric 
 Voice " hushed so long before. Yet the poet was as much 
 honoured by those humble friends, Lambeth artificers and 
 
 158
 
 BKOWNING 159 
 
 a few working-women, who threw sprays of laurel before 
 the hearse — by that desolate, starving, woe-weary gentle- 
 man, shivering in his thread-bare clothes, who seemed 
 transfixed with a heart-wrung though silent emotion, ere 
 he hurriedly drew from his sleeve a large white chrysan- 
 themum, and throwing it beneath the coffin as it was 
 lifted upward, disappeared in the crowd, which closed 
 again like the sea upon this lost wandering wave." 
 
 But it was nevertheless difficult to realise that the stim- 
 ulating presence had passed away and the cheerful voice 
 was silent : " It seems but a day or two that I heard from 
 the lips of the dead poet a mockery of death's vanity — a 
 brave assertion of the glory of life. ' Death, death ! It is 
 this harping on death I despise so much,' " he remarked 
 with emphases of gesture as well as of speech — the in- 
 clined head and body, the right hand lightly placed upon 
 the listener's knee, the abrupt change in the inflection of 
 the voice, all so characteristic of him — " this idle and 
 often cowardly as well as ignorant harping ! Why should 
 we not change like everything else? In fiction, in poetry, 
 in so much of both, French as well as English, and, I am 
 told, in American art and literature, the shadow of death 
 — call it what you will, despair, negation, indifference — is 
 upon us. But what fools who talk thus ! Why, amico niio, 
 you know as well as I that death is life, just as our daily, 
 our momentarily dying body is none the less alive and 
 ever recreating new forces of existence. Without death, 
 which is our crapelike churchyardy word for change, for 
 growth, there could be no prolongation of what we call 
 life. Pshaw ! it is foolish to argue upon such a thing even. 
 For myself, I deny death as an end of everything. Never 
 say of me that I am dead ! " 
 
 On the 4th January, 1890, W. S. wrote to Mr. Thomas 
 A. Janvier : 
 
 London. 
 
 Many thanks for the Aztec Treasure House, which 
 opens delightfully and should prove a thrilling tale. I 
 don't know how you feel, but for myself I shall never 
 again publish serially till I have completed the story
 
 160 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 af orehand. You will have seen that I have been asked and 
 have agreed to write the critical monograph on Browning 
 for the Great Writer's Series. This involves a harassing 
 postponement of other work, and considerable financial 
 loss, but still I am glad to do it. 
 
 The Harlands spent New Year's Day with us, and the 
 Champagne was not finished without some of it being 
 quaffed in memorj^ of the dear and valued friends over- 
 sea. You, both of you, must come over this spring. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 William Sharp. 
 
 With each New Year a Diary was begun with the in- 
 tention of its being carefully continued throughout the 
 months, an intention however that inevitably was aban- 
 doned as the monotony of the fulfilment palled upon the 
 writer. 
 
 The Diary for 1890 begins with a careful record of 
 work and events, noted daily till mid February when it 
 ceases, to be resumed more fitfully in September and Oc- 
 tober. The year is prefaced with the motto : 
 
 " C'est a ce lendemain severe que tout artiste serieux 
 doit songer." — Sainte Beuve. 
 
 The following more important entries tell where and 
 how the monograph was written and what other work he 
 had on hand : 
 
 " Jan. 2nd. — Wrote the first 3 or 4 pages (tentative) of 
 * Browning ' : or rather the retrospective survey. Had a 
 present of a fine Proof Etching from Ford Madox Brown 
 of his Samson and Delilah (framed) as ' A New Year's 
 Card.' Also from Theodore Eoussel, three fine proof 
 Etchings, also autograph copies of books from H. Har- 
 iand, Mrs. Louise C. Moulton, and ' Maxwell Gray.' Also 
 a copy of his Balzac from Wedmore. In the evening there 
 dined with us Mrs. E. R. Pennell (Mr. P. unable to come). 
 H. Harland and Mrs. Harland : Mona and Caird. Roussel 
 could not come till later. Had a most delightful evening.
 
 BROWNING 161 
 
 * The psychic sense of rhythm is the fundamental factor 
 in each and every art.' " — W. S. 
 
 " Jan. 2nd. — (1) Wrote Chapter of The Ordeal of Basil 
 Hope. (2) Article on Haggard's new book for Young 
 Folk's Paper. ' The truest literary criticism is that which 
 sees that nowhere, at no time, in any conceivable circum- 
 stances is there any absolute lapse of intellectual activity, 
 so long as the nation animated thereby is not in its death 
 throes.' "— W. S. 
 
 " What exquisite music there is in the lines of Swin- 
 burne's in * A Swimmer's Dream ' (in this month's Neiv 
 Review). ^^ 
 
 ^^Jan. 3rd. — (1) Wrote chapter of Ordeal of Basil 
 Hope. Finished it by 12.30. Then went to R. Academy 
 Press-View and spent two hours or so in the Galleries. 
 While walking back to Club from Charing Cross thought 
 out some opening sentences for Browning, leading to the 
 wave-theory, beginning — ' In human history, waves of 
 intellectual activity concur with other dynamic move- 
 ments. It used to be a formula of criticism, etc' (wrote 
 down a couple of Pages at Club). ' Death is a variation, a 
 note of lower or higher insistence in the rhythmical se- 
 quence of Life.' " — W. S. 
 
 " Jan. 4th. — (1) Wrote article of 2,500 words upon Bal- 
 zac (for The Scottish Leader). (2) Short ' London Cor- 
 respondence ' for G. H. The profoundest insight cannot 
 reach deeper than its own possibilities of depth. The 
 physiognomy of the soul is never visible in its entirety — 
 barely ever even its profile. The utmost we can expect 
 to produce (perhaps even to perceive, in the most quin- 
 tessential moment), is a partially faithful, partially de- 
 ceptive silhouette. Since no human being has ever yet 
 seen his or her own soul, absolutely impartially and in 
 all its rounded completeness of good and evil, of strength 
 and weakness, of what is temporal and perishable and 
 what is germinal and essential, how can we expect even 
 the subtlest analyst to depict other souls than his own. 
 Even in a savage there must be dormant possibilities, 
 animal and spiritual traits of all kinds, which could to
 
 162 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 a deeper than any linman vision (as we can conceive it) 
 so colour and modify an abstract ' replica ' as to make 
 it altogether unlike the picture we should draw." — AV. S. 
 
 " Jan. 5th. — The first thing the artist should cultivate 
 if not strongly dowered in this respect by Nature, is Ser- 
 enity. A true Serenity — what Wilfred Meynell, writing 
 of Browning, in the AtliencBiim of Friday, calls ' detach- 
 ment ' — is one of the surest inspirers and preservatives 
 of that clarified psychic emotion which, in compelled or 
 propelled expressional activity, is the cause of all really 
 creative work. This true serenity is, of course, as far 
 removed from a false isolation of spirit or a contemptu- 
 ous indifference, as from constant perturbation about 
 trifles and vulgar anxiety for self." — W. S. 
 
 " Jan. 6th. — Felt very unwell this morning. . . . Heard 
 from Dr. Garnett of the death last night of Dr. West- 
 land Marston. (1) W^rote a portion of second series 
 of ' Fragments from the Lost Journal of Piero di 
 Cosimo ' (one of a series of Imaginary portraits I am 
 slowly writing for magazine publication in the first in- 
 stance). (2) 'London Letter' Reminiscences of Dr. 
 Marston, etc.)." 
 
 " Jan. 10th. — Wrote a chapter of Basil Hope. In even- 
 ing we went to Mona's. A pretty large gathering. Rous- 
 sel told me he wanted to paint my portrait, and asked 
 me to give him sittings. Some one was speaking of a 
 poem by Browning being superlatively fine because of its 
 high optimism and ethical message. The question is not 
 one of weighty message, but of artistic presentation. To 
 praise a poem because of its optimism is like commend- 
 ing a peach because it loves the sunshine, rather than 
 because of its distinguishing bloom and savour. To urge 
 that a poem is great because of its high message is almost 
 as uncritical as it would be obviously absurd to aver 
 that a postman is illustrious because of some epic or 
 history he may carry in his bag. In a word, the first 
 essential concern of the artist must be with his vehicle. 
 In the instance of a poet, this vehicle is language emo- 
 tioned to the white-heat of rhythm."
 
 BROWNING 163 
 
 " Jan. 12th. — Wrote first portion of Elegiac Poem on 
 * Browning ' commencing : 
 
 There is darkness everywhere; 
 Scarce is the city limned 
 In shadow on the lagoon. 
 No wind in the heavy air, 
 
 The stars themselves are dimmed, 
 And a mist veils the moon. 
 
 " After lunch took T. Mavor to Alfred East's to see his 
 Japanese pictures. Then I took T. M. to John M. Swan's 
 Studio. Then we went to spend half an hour with Step- 
 niak and his wife at 13 Grove Gardens." 
 
 '^ Jan. 13th. — Late in settling down, and then disin- 
 clined to write except in verse. Wrote the second and 
 final part of the Elegaic Browning Poem for Belford's 
 Magazine. It is not often that I indulge in inversions: 
 but the gain is sometimes noticeable. I think it is in this 
 stanza : 
 
 Alas, greatness is not, nor is 
 
 There aught that is under the sun, 
 Nor any mortal thing. 
 Neither the heights of bliss 
 Nor the depths of evil done, 
 Unshadowed by Death's wing." 
 
 He soon found that it was impossible to write the 
 monograph in London — ^with its ceaseless demands and 
 distractions. Under the pressure of much work he be- 
 came so unwell that we realised he could not finish the 
 book under existing conditions, therefore arranged that 
 he should leave me in charge of work at home and he 
 should go to Hastings and devote himself mainly to his 
 Broivning. On the 18th he records, from rooms over- 
 looking the sea " Blew a gale at night. The noise of the 
 sea like a vast tide in a hollow echoing cavern: and a 
 shrill screaming wail in the wind. Began my Life of 
 Browning. To bed at 12." 
 
 Then follows a record of the work done day by day : 
 on the 19th, twelve printed pages : on the 20th ten pages : 
 on the 21st four only because he lunched with Coventry 
 Patmore who was then residing at Hastings. On the
 
 164 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 22nd, thirteen pages ; on the 23rd, eleven pages, and five 
 letters. 
 
 Jan. 26th has this note: "We can no more predict 
 Browning's place in literature as it will be esteemed by 
 posterity than we can specify the fauna and flora of a 
 planet whose fires have not yet suflBciently cooled to ena- 
 ble vegetation to grow." 
 
 His stay at Hastings was rendered pleasant by the 
 neighbourliness of Coventry Patmore with whom he had 
 many long talks, and by occasional visits to Miss Betham 
 Edwards who had a house on the hill beyond the old 
 castle. 
 
 He returned to town at the beginning of February. 
 
 On the 4th he wrote " the first scene of a Play (to be 
 called either " The Lover's Tragedy," or " The Tower of 
 Silence") which was afterward rewritten and published 
 in Vistas as " A Northern Night." 
 
 The Diary continues: 
 
 " 8th February. Began about 10.30. (1) Wrote the rest 
 of Imaginary Journal (Piero di Cosimo) i. e. about 2,000 
 words. In evening posted it to Mavor for March is- 
 sue of The ''Art Revieiv. (2) Wrote long London Let- 
 ter for G. H. (2,000 words). (3) Began at 9.30 to do 
 Browning. Including quotations did 10 printed pages. 
 Re-read the early books of ' The Ring and the Book.' 
 To bed at 2.30. Tired somewhat after writing to-day, 
 in all, about 7,000 words (less Browning's quotations). 
 
 " Sunday 9th. Breakfast at eleven — Worked at Brown- 
 ing matter till 5 (in bed). In evening Mona, and Mathilde 
 came in and Frank Rinder, Ernest Rhys, etc. Wrote 
 Young Folk's Paper article. Read up till about 3 a.m. 
 
 10th. Worked six hours on end at Browning material. 
 Between tea and dinner wrote Chap. 18 of Ordeal of Basil 
 Hope; after dinner wrote Chap. 19. At 10 went up to 
 Mona's to fetch Lill. Egmont Hake there, W. Earl Hodg- 
 son and Miss Shedlock, Mathilde Blind. 
 
 11th. At British Museum all day, working at ' Odes.' 
 (This selection of Odes in the Canterbury Poets.) 
 
 In evening wrote six p. p. of Browning.
 
 BROWNING 165 
 
 12t}i. (1) In first part of day wrote 6 pages of Brown- 
 mg. (2) Short London Letter for G. H. From 5 to 8 I 
 wrote Chap. 20 of Basil Hope. (4) After dinner (between 
 9 and 12.30) wrote 8 more pages of Browning (14 in all 
 to-day). 
 
 13th. Wrote 12 pages of Browning and Chap. XXI 
 of Basil Hope. 
 
 ^^ February 14th. — In morning, late afternoon and 
 evening (from 9-12) wrote in all 18 printed pages of 
 Browning, or, including quotation, 21." 
 
 Here the Diary abruptly ends. I do not recollect on 
 what date the Browning was finished, but it was pub- 
 lished in the early autumn. And I have no recollection 
 as to what became of The Ordeal of Basil Hope, whether 
 or not it ever appeared serially, but I think not. It never 
 was issued in book form — and from the time we gave 
 up the house in Goldhurst Terrace he never gave it a 
 thought. It was characteristic of him that when a piece 
 of work was finished or discarded, it passed wholly out 
 of his mind, for his energies were always centred on his 
 work on hand and on that projected. 
 
 He was a careful student of the progress of contempo- 
 rary literatures — especially French (including Belgian) 
 Italian and American — and during the spring and sum- 
 mer he wrote a long article on American literature for 
 The National Review ; an article on D'Annunzio for The 
 Fortnightly. He also prepared a volume in English of 
 selected Essays of St. Beuve for which he wrote a careful 
 critical Preface. 
 
 The three years at Hampstead had been happy and suc- 
 cessful. William had regained health; and had a com- 
 mand of work that made the ways of life pleasant. We 
 had about us a genial sympathetic group of friends, and 
 were in touch with many keen minds of the day. Tem- 
 peramentally he could work or play with equal jest and 
 enjoyment ; he threw himself whole heartedly into what- 
 ever he did. Observant, keenly intuitive, he cared to come 
 into contact with all kinds and types of men and women ;
 
 166 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 cared continually to test tlie different minds and tem- 
 peraments he came across, providing always that they 
 had a vital touch about them, and were not comatosely 
 conventional. Curious about life, he cared incessantly to 
 experiment; restless and never satisfied (I do not mean 
 dissatisfied) he constantly desired new fields for this 
 experimentation. Therefore, happy though he had been 
 at Wescam, successful as that experiment had proved, 
 he felt it had served its turn and he longed for different 
 circumstances, different environment, new possibilities in 
 which to attempt to give fuller expression of himself. He 
 realised that nothing more would happen under the then 
 existing conditions, satisfactory though they seemed ex- 
 ternally ; that indeed the satisf actoriness was a chain that 
 was winding round him and fettering him to a form of 
 life that was becoming rigid and monotonous, and, there- 
 fore, paralysing to all those inner impulses. His visit to 
 America had re-awakened the desire to wander. So we 
 gave up our house, stored our furniture, and planned to 
 go abroad for the first winter and leave the future " in 
 the lap of the Gods " ; for was he not " of the unnumbered 
 clan that know a longing that is unquiet as the restless 
 wave ..." the " deep hunger for experience, even if it 
 be bitter, the longing for things known to be unattain- 
 able, the remembrance that strives for rebirth." That 
 summer he wrote to Mr. Stedman: 
 
 "... You will ere this have received the copy of the 
 little book of Great Odes: English and American which 
 I sent to you. I think I told you that your own beautiful 
 ' Ode to Pastoral Romance ' has appealed to many peo- 
 ple, and will, I hope and believe, send new readers to 
 you, among the new generation, as a poet. Well, we are 
 breaking up our home, and are going to leave London 
 for a long time — probably for ever as a fixed ' residentz 
 platz.' Most of my acquaintances think I am very foolish 
 thus to withdraw from the ' thick of the fight ' just when 
 things are going so well with me, and when I am making 
 a good and rapidly increasing income — for I am giving 
 up nearly every appointment I hold, and am going abroad.
 
 BKOWNING 167 
 
 having burned my ships behind me, and determined to 
 begin literary life anew. But, truly enough, wisdom does 
 not lie in money making — not for the artist who cares 
 for his work at any rate. I am tired of so much pot- 
 boiling, such increasing bartering of literary merchan- 
 dise: and wish to devote myself entirely — or as closely 
 as the fates will permit — to work in which my heart is. 
 I am buoyant with the belief that it is in me to do some- 
 thing both in prose and verse far beyond any hitherto 
 accomplishment of mine : but to stay here longer, and let 
 the net close more and more round me, would be fatal. 
 Of course I go away at a heavy loss. My income will at 
 once drop to zero, and even after six months or so will 
 scarce have risen a few degrees above that awkward limit 
 — though ultimately things may readjust themselves. 
 Yet I would rather — I am ready — I should say we are 
 ready — to live in the utmost economy if need be. We 
 shall be none the less happy : for my wife, with her usual 
 loving unselfishness and belief in me, is as eager as I am 
 for the change, despite all the risks. Among the younger 
 writers few have the surely not very high courage neces- 
 sary to give up something of material welfare for the 
 sake of art. As for us, we are both at heart Bohemians 
 — and are well content if we can have good shelter, enough 
 to eat, books, music, friends, sunshine and free nature — 
 all of which we can have with the scantiest of purses. 
 Perhaps I should be less light-hearted in the matter if 
 I thought that our coming Bohemian life might involve 
 my wife in hard poverty when my hour comes, but for- 
 tunately her future is assured. So henceforth, in a word, 
 I am going to take down the board 
 
 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 Literary Manufacturer 
 
 (All kinds of jobs undertaken) 
 
 and substitute: 
 
 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 Given up Business: Moved to Bohemia. 
 
 Publishers and Editors Need not Apply. 
 
 Friends can write to W. S. % " Drama " " Fiction " or " Poetry," 
 
 Live-as-you-will Quarter, Bohemia.
 
 168 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 This day week we leave our house for good. My wife 
 and I then go into Hampshire to breathe the hay and the 
 roses for a week at a friend's place, 7 miles across the 
 Downs north of Winchester : then back to London to stay 
 with our friend, Mrs. Mona Caird, till about the 20th of 
 July. About that date we go to Scotland, to my joy, till 
 close on the end of September. Thereafter we return 
 to London for a week or so, and then go abroad. We are 
 bound first for the lower Ehineland, and intend to stay 
 at Heidelberg (being cheap, pretty, thoroughly German, 
 with good music and a good theatre) for about two 
 months. Then, about the beginning of December, we go 
 to Rome, where we intend to settle: climatic, financial, 
 and other considerations will decide whether we remain 
 there longer than six months, but six ideal months at least 
 we hope for. Mihi sex menses satis sunt vitcs septimum 
 Oreo spondeo. 
 
 That summer we went to Clynder on the Gareloch, 
 Argyll, in order to be near my husband's old friend. Dr. 
 Donald Macleod, who, as he records in his diary " sang 
 to me with joyous abandonment a Neapolitan song, and 
 asked me to send him a MS. from Italy for Good Words." 
 While we were in the West we made acquaintance with 
 the poet-editor of The Yorkshire Herald, George Cotter- 
 ell, who became a dear and valued friend. I cannot re- 
 call if it were in the early summer of 1889 or 1890 that 
 my husband was first approached on the subject of the 
 Joseph Severn Memoirs, but I remember the circum- 
 stance. We spent a week-end in Surrey with some old 
 friends of my mother. Sir Walter and Lady Hughes, and 
 one morning Mr. Walter Severn, the painter, walked over 
 to luncheon. He spoke about my husband's Life of 
 Rossetti, then of the quantity of unpublished MSS. he and 
 his family had written by and relating to his father, 
 Joseph Severn, " the friend of Keats." Finally he pro- 
 posed that his listener should take over the MSS., put 
 them in form and write a Life of Severn, with, as the 
 special point of literary interest, his father's devoted
 
 BROWNING 169 
 
 friendship with and care of the dying poet. After con- 
 siderable deliberation, W. S. agreed to undertake the 
 work, and arrangements were made with Messrs. Samson 
 Low to publish it. The preparing of this Memoir brought 
 him into pleasant relationship not only with Mr. Walter 
 Severn, and with Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Severn, but also 
 with Ruskin, who he visited later at Coniston, where he 
 was delighted, among other things, with the fine collec- 
 tion of minerals and stones that was one of Ruskin's 
 hobbies. 
 
 The preparation of The Joseph Severn Memoirs neces- 
 sarily entailed correspondence with members and friends 
 of that family, among others with W. W. Story, the sculp- 
 tor, who sent him the following information : 
 
 " I knew Mr. Severn at Rome and frequently met and 
 saw him but I can recall nothing which would be of value 
 to you. He was, as you know, a most pleasant man — 
 and in the minds of all is associated with the memory of 
 Keats by whose side he lies in the Protestant Cemetery 
 at Rome. When the bodies were removed, as they were 
 several years ago, and laid side by side, there was a little 
 funeral ceremony and I made an address on the occasion 
 in honour and commemoration of the two friends. I re- 
 member we then had hoped that Lord Houghton would 
 have been able to be present as he had promised. But 
 he was taken ill in the East, where he was then journey- 
 ing, and I had to express the fear lest the ceremony might 
 be a commemoration not only of two but of the three 
 friends so intimately associated together. However, 
 Houghton did recover from the attack and came after- 
 ward to Rome, sadly broken." 
 
 Early in October my husband and I crossed to Antwerp 
 and stopped at Bonn. The Rhine disappointed William's 
 expectations. He wrote to a friend : " The real charm of 
 the Rhine, beyond the fascination that all rivers and riv- 
 erine scenery have for most people, is that of literary and 
 historical romance. The Rhine is in this respect the Nile 
 of Europe : though probably none but Germans feel thus 
 strongly. For myself I cannot but think it ought not
 
 170 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 to be a wholly German river, but from every point of 
 view be the Franco-German boundary. . . . Germany has 
 much to gain from a true communion with its more 
 charming neighbour. The world would jog on just the 
 same if Germany were annihilated by France, Russia 
 and Italy: but the disappearance of brilliant, vivacious, 
 intellectual France would be almost as serious a loss to 
 intellectual Europe, as would be to the people at large the 
 disappearance of the Moon." 
 
 From Rome he wrote to Mrs. Janvier : 
 
 Dec, 1890. 
 
 "... Well, we were glad to leave Germany. Broadly, 
 it is a joyless place for Bohemians. It is all beer, coarse 
 jokes, coarse living, and domestic tyranny on the man's 
 part, subjection on the woman's — on the one side : pedan- 
 tic learning, scientific pedagogism, and mental ennui; on 
 the other : with, of course, a fine leavening somewhere of 
 the salt of life. However, it is only fair to say that we 
 were not there at the best season in which to see the 
 blither side of Germans and German life. I saw a good 
 deal of the southern principalities and kingdoms — the 
 Rhine provinces, Baden, Wiirtemberg, and Bavaria. Of 
 course Heidelberg, where we stayed six wet weeks, is the 
 most picturesque of the residential places (towns like 
 Frankfort-am-Main and Mannheim are only for mer- 
 chants and traders, though they have music "galore"), 
 but I would rather stay at Stuttgart than any I saw. It is 
 wonderfully animated and pleasing for a German town, 
 and has a charming double attraction both as a mediaeval 
 city and as a modern capital. There, too, I have a friend : 
 the American novelist, Blanche Willis Howard (author 
 of Guenn, The Open Door, etc.), who is now the wife of 
 the Court-Physician to the Eling of Wiirtemberg and re- 
 joices in the title " Frau Hof-Arzt von Teuffel." Dr. von 
 Teuffel himself is one of the few Germans who seem to 
 regard women as equals. 
 
 " But what a relief it was to be in Italy again, though
 
 BROWNING 171 
 
 not just at first, for the weather at Verona was atrocious, 
 and snow lay thick past Mantua to Bologna. But once 
 the summit of the Apennines was reached, and the mag- 
 nificent and unique prospect of Florentine Tuscany lay 
 below, flooded in sunshine and glowing colour (though 
 it was in the second week of December) we realised that 
 at last we were in Italy. . . . When we came to Rome we 
 had at first some difficulty in getting rooms which at once 
 suited our tastes and our pockets. But now we are set- 
 tled in an " apartment " of 3| rooms, within a yard or so 
 of the summit of the Quirinal Hill. The ^ is a small 
 furnished corridor or ante-room: the comfortable salotto, 
 is at once our study, drawing-room, and parlour. 
 
 " We have our coffee and our fruit in the morning : and 
 when we are in for lunch our old landlady gives us de- 
 lightful colazioni of maccaroni and tomatoes, or spinach 
 and lentils, or eggs and something else, with roasted 
 chestnuts and light wine and bread. We have our dinner 
 sent in from a trattoria. 
 
 " In a sense, I have been indolent of late : but I have 
 been thinking much, and am now, directly or indirectly, 
 occupied with several ambitious undertakings. Fiction, 
 other imaginative prose, and the drama (poetic and 
 prose), besides a lyrical drama, and poetry generally, 
 would fain claim my pen all day long. As for my lyrical 
 drama — which is the only poetic work not immediately 
 modern in theme — which is called ' Bacchus in India ' ; 
 my idea is to deal in a new and I hope poetic way with 
 Dionysos as the Joy-Bringer, the God of Joyousness. In 
 the first part there is the union of all the links between 
 Man and the World he inhabits : Bacchus goes forth in 
 joy, to give his serene message to all the world. The 
 second part, ' The Return,' is wild disaster, and the bit- 
 terness of shame : though even there, and in the Epilogue, 
 will sound the clarion of a fresh Return to Joy. I tran- 
 scribe and enclose the opening scene for you — as it at 
 present stands, unrevised. The ' lost God ' referred to 
 in the latter part is really that deep corrosive Melancholy 
 whom so many poets and artists — from Dante and Durer
 
 172 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 to our own time — have dimly descried as a terrible 
 Power. 
 
 " At the moment I am most of all interested in my blank- 
 verse tragedy. It deals with a most terrible modern in- 
 stance of the scriptural warming as to the sins of the 
 father being visited upon his children : an instance where 
 the father himself shares the doom and the agony. Then 
 I have also schemed out, and hope soon to get on with, 
 a prose play, dealing with the deep wrong done to women 
 by certain existing laws. Among other prose books (fic- 
 tion) which I have "on the stocks" nothing possesses 
 me more than a philosophical work which I shall prohably 
 publish either anonymously or under a pseudonym, and, 
 I hope, before next winter. How splendid it is to be 
 alive ! if one could only crush into a few vivid years 
 the scattered fruit of wasted seasons. There is such a 
 host of things to do : such a bitter sparsity of time, after 
 bread-and-butter making, to do them in — even to dream 
 of them ! " 
 
 These various schemes planned mentally were never 
 realised. William constantly projected and of the 
 roughly drafted out possible work that absorbed him dur- 
 ing its conception, but was put aside when a more domi- 
 nating idea demanded full expression. " Bacchus in In- 
 dia " remained a fragment. Neither the tragedy nor that 
 prose play was finished, and the philosophical work was 
 never begun. A new impulse came, new work grew out 
 of the impressions of that Roman winter which swept out 
 of his mind all other cartooned work.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 ROME 
 
 Sospiri di Roma 
 
 Winter in Rome was one long delight to the emanci- 
 pated writer. It amply fulfilled even his optimistic anti- 
 cipation. He revelled in the sunshine and the beauty; 
 he was in perfect health ; his imagination was quickened 
 and worked with great activity. We had about us a little 
 group of friends, who, like ourselves, intended to live 
 quietly and simply. Among these were Mrs. Caird who 
 had come abroad for her health; Sir Charles Holroyd, 
 who had a studio in the Via Margoutta, and Mr. and 
 Mrs. Elihu Vedder. Mrs. Wingate Rinder joined us for 
 three weeks, and with her my husband greatly enjoyed 
 long walks over the Campagna and expeditions to the lit- 
 tle neighbouring hill towns. His Diary for the beginning 
 of 1891 was kept with creditable regularity, and contains 
 a record of some of these expeditions and of work done in 
 Rome, in particular of the dates on which the poems of 
 Sospiri di Roma were written. From it I have selected 
 entries. 
 
 " Jan. 2nd. . . . Read through and revised ' Bacchus 
 in India.' Added the (I think good) adjective ' sun- 
 sparkled wood. ..." 
 
 Poetry is a glorious rebirth of prose. When a beauti- 
 ful thought can be uttered in worthy prose : best so. But 
 when it moves through the mind in music, and shapes 
 itself to a lyric rhythm, then it should find expression in 
 poetry. The truest poets are those who can most ex- 
 quisitely capture, and concentrate in a few words, this 
 haunting rhythm. 
 
 Jan. 3rd. The morning broke well, though not so prom- 
 isingly as yesterday. . . . Caught the 9 a.m. train for Al- 
 
 173
 
 174 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 bano Laziale. Marnio is a fine and picturesque hill-city. 
 After passing it we admired the view of the Lake of 
 Albano, with its abrupt variations of light and profound 
 shadow. Arrived at Albano we walked by the way of 
 the Viaduct to L'Ariccia, with lovely views of the Cam- 
 pagna to the right: of Monte Cavo and Rocca di Papa 
 to the left. Then on by a lovely road to Genzano. Hav- 
 ing gone through the lower part and out again into the 
 Campagna we turned southward, and in due time reached 
 the high ground, with its olive-orchards, looking down 
 upon the Lake of Nemi. It looked lovely in its grey-blue 
 stillness, with all the sunlit but yet sombre winterliness 
 around. Nemi, itself, lay apparently silent and lifeless, 
 ' a city of dream,' on a height across the lake. One could 
 imagine that Nemi and Genzano had once been the same 
 town, and had been riven asunder by a volcano. The 
 lake-filled crater now divides these two little hill-set 
 towns. . . . AValked through Albano to the N.W. gate, 
 past the ancient tomb, and along the beautiful ilex- 
 bordered road leading to Castel-Gandolfo. Saw two Cap- 
 uchin friars with extraordinary faces. They fitted the 
 scene. Magnificent views of the Campagna, tinted with 
 a faint pink-grey mist : of Ostea, etc. : and of the strange 
 dreamful, partially sunlit Tyrrhene sea. Then through 
 Castel Gandolfo, with lovely views of Lake Albano. 
 Broke our fast with some apples. Down the steep front 
 till we joined the road just above the little station, where 
 we caught the train 10 minutes later. The Aqua Felice 
 and Claudian Aqueducts seen to great advantage in re- 
 turning across the Campagna to Rome. 
 
 Jan. 5th. A fine morning, with a delicate hint of 
 Spring in the air. . . . Caught the train for Champino, 
 near Frascati. The officials at the station seemed amazed 
 at our descending there. No one ever does so, it seems ! 
 There was literally no regular way out of the station, and 
 when I asked how we were to get out the man did not 
 know. Neither he nor the clerk, nor the others who gath- 
 ered round knew the road back to Rome ! At last some 
 one from the train suggested that if we struck across
 
 EOME 175 
 
 country we would come to the Via Appia. We had a 
 pleasant walk across a barren part of the Campagna 
 intersected by railway cuttings, and at last came to a 
 place called Frattochie, whence a road led us to the Via 
 Appia Nuova. From this again we struck across a field 
 and came upon the Via Appia Antica, adown which we 
 had a splendid and absolutely solitary walk. We saw 
 no one but a few shepherds at a distance, with their large 
 white dogs and sheep. Often stopped among the ruins, 
 or at the top of one of the grassy tombs to hear the wind 
 among the pines, along the grass, or in the crevices of 
 the wall. A few drops of rain fell as we neared the tomb 
 of Cecilia Metella, and soon the rain-storm, which we 
 had watched approaching across the Campagna, came on. 
 The first three wayside trattorie we came to were shut, 
 but in the fourth, a peasant's resort, we got some bread, 
 and white and poor Marino. We shared some of the 
 bread with a large dog, and gave some wine to a malari- 
 ous-looking poor devil of a labourer. Eeturned by the 
 Gate of San Sebastiano. 
 
 Jan. 8th. . . . Bought L'Evolution des Genres dans 
 VHistoire de la Litterature by Ferdinand Brunetiere; 
 Eoux's book on Italian Literature ; Pierre Loti's Manage 
 de Loti. After dinner copied out 'Eebirth' (Spring's 
 Advent) to send to Belford's, and ' The Sheik' for N. Y. 
 Independent. 
 
 This forenoon the house nearly opposite fell in. We 
 saw one man brought out dead. Seven others were said 
 to be buried in the ruins. The King came later on and 
 himself helped one of the wounded out and took him to 
 the hospital. 
 
 Jan. 9th. Wet and rain. The Campagna covered with 
 snow. In the forenoon I wrote four more of my ' Ebb 
 and Flow ' Series of Sea Poems — ' Phosphorescence 
 before Storm ' — ' Tempest Music ' — ^ Dead Calm : Noon ' 
 and ' Dead Calm : Midnight.' The others were written 
 some on the French coast some on the English in 1887. 
 ' Tempest-Music ' and the two * Dead Calm ' are as good 
 if not better than any in the series. In all the latter I
 
 176 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 care most for the ' Swimmer at Sunrise ' and ' The Dead- 
 Calm-Noon ' : also for ' Tempest Music' 
 
 . . . After dinner read to Lill for a bit including the 
 prose version (outline) of my " Lilith." 
 
 To-day the anniversary of the Death of Victor Em- 
 manuel, 13 years ago. The Italians idolise his memory, 
 and call him " The Father of the Country." He is rap- 
 idly becoming a Presiding Deity. 10th rewrote and great- 
 ly improved " Phosphorescence." Its two opening lines, 
 originally, 
 
 " As hill winds and sun and rains inweave a veil 
 Of lichen round vast boulders on the mountain side." 
 
 were out of keeping in imagery with the rest : and in 
 every way 
 
 " As some aerial spirit weaves a rainbow veil 
 Of Mist, his high immortal loveliness to hide." 
 
 are better. Should have preferred " wild " to " high " 
 in this line, but the 4th teiininal is " wild." Perhaps not, 
 after all. 
 
 Jan. 16th. Although it was so cold and wintry with 
 signs of snow in suspension caught the train for Tivoli. 
 The scenery extremely beautiful, and doubly fascinating 
 and strange from the whirling snow falling every here 
 and there, in strangely intermittent and separate fashion. 
 The sheep and disconsolate shepherds on one high healthy 
 part made a fantastic foreground. At Tivoli, which was 
 like a hill town in Scotland in midwinter, with a storm 
 raging, we walked past the first cascades, then up a nar- 
 row hill-path partly snowed up, partly frozen, to the 
 open country beyond. Then back and into a trattoria 
 where we had lunch of wine, omelette, bread, fruit, and 
 coffee. 
 
 Jan. 17th. Midwinter with a vengeance. Eome might 
 be St. Petersburg. Snow heavy and a hard frost. Even 
 the Fountain of the Tritone hung all over with long 
 spears and pendicles of ice. — Later, I went out, to walk 
 to and fro on the Pincio Terrace in the whirling snow.
 
 ROME 177 
 
 which I enjoyed beyond words. There was a lull, and 
 then I saw the storm clouds sweep up from the Maremma, 
 across the Campagna and blot out Rome bit by bit. 
 "Walking to and fro I composed the lyric, beginning : 
 
 " There is a land of dream : 
 I have trodden its golden ways: 
 I have seen its amber light 
 From the heart of its sun-swept days: 
 I have seen its moonshine white 
 On its silent waters gleam — 
 Ah, the strange, sweet, lonely delight 
 Of the Valleys of Dream! " 
 
 Returning by the Pincian Gate, about 5.45 there was a 
 strange sight. Perfectly still in the sombre Via di Mura, 
 with high walls to the right, but the upper pines and 
 cypresses swaying in a sudden rush of wind : to the left 
 a drifting snow-storm: to the right wintry moonshine: 
 vivid sweeping pulsations of lightning from the Cam- 
 pagna, and long low muttering growls of thunder. (The 
 red light from a window in the wall.) 
 
 Jan. 19th. After dinner read a good deal of Beddoes 
 to Lill. . . . How like Poe the first stanza of ' The Old 
 Ghost ' : every now and again there is a gleam of rare 
 moon-white beauty, as in the lovely 3rd stanza of ' The 
 Ballad of Human Life ' — the first quatrain of the 2nd 
 stanza of * Dial Thoughts,' and that beautiful line in the 
 fantastic and ultra-Shelleyian ' Romance of the Lily,' 
 
 ' As Evening feeds the waves with brooks of quiet life.' 
 
 Jan. 22nd. In the evening read through Elihu Vedder's 
 Primitive Folk. There is a definite law in the evolution 
 of sexual morale, I am sure, if one could only get at it. 
 The matter is worth going into, both for Fundamental 
 and Contemporary and Problematical Ethics. 
 
 Jan. 27th. Elizabeth and I went to the opening lecture 
 of the Archasological Society, at the Hotel Marini. Lord 
 Dufferin in the Chair. Mr. Porter, U. S. Minister, de- 
 livered an address, mainly on Cicero. . . . Lord Dufferin
 
 178 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 afterwards told us incidentally that a friend of his had 
 gone into a book shop in the Corso and asked for Max 
 O'Rell: En Amerique. The bookseller said he neither 
 had the book nor had he heard of it : now the visitor per- 
 sisted and the bookseller in despair exclaimed, ' Dio mio, 
 Signor, I never even heard of Marc Aurele having been 
 in America ! ' 
 
 Jan. 30th. After lunch we went for a drive in the 
 Campagna. . . . Delighting in the warm balmy air, the 
 superb views, the space and freedom, the soft turfy soil 
 under foot, the excited congregation of larks twittering 
 as they wheeled about, soon to pair, and one early song- 
 ster already trilling his song along the flowing wind high 
 overhead. 
 
 Between 9 p.m. and 12 p.m. my ears were full of music. 
 Wrote the Sospiri, ' The Fountain of the Aqua Paola ' ; 
 ' Ruins ' ; ' High Noon at Midsummer on the Campagna ' ; 
 ' Sussurri ' ; ' Breath of the Grass ' ; ' Red Poppies ' ; and 
 the lyric Spring. 
 
 Jan. 31st. Wrote to-day. ' The Mandolin ' {Sospiri di 
 Roma) (115 lines). In afternoon wrote 'All' Ora della 
 Stella' (Vesper Bells), partly from memory of what I 
 have heard, several times, and partly modified by a poem 
 I chanced to see to-day, Fogazzaro's ' A Sera.' " 
 
 February 2nd. Second day of the Carnival. Wrote 
 all forenoon and part of afternoon. Took up and revised 
 ' The Fountain of the Aqua Paola ' and added so largely 
 to it as to make it a new poem. It ended with ' Eternal 
 Calm.' Also wrote ' The Fallen Goddess ' — about 250 
 lines in length. In the evening wrote ' Bats' Wings ' (26 
 11) and 'Thistledown' (Spring on the Campagna) (71 
 11). 
 
 Such bursts of uncontrollable poetic impulse as came 
 to me to-day, and the last three days, only come rarely 
 in each year. It was in such a burst last year (1889 f ) 
 that I wrote ' The Weird of Michael Scott ' (each part 
 at a single sitting). 
 
 Feb. 4th. Wrote the Sospiro ' To my Dream.' 
 
 Feb. 5th. Between 10 p.m. and 1.30 a.m. wrote the poem
 
 EOME 179 
 
 which I think I will call ' Fior di Memoria ' (about 175 
 lines). 
 
 Feb. 7th. We went to Ettore Eoesler Franz's studio. 
 His water-colour drawings of (mediaeval) Rome as it was 
 from the middle of the century to within the last 7 or 
 10 years very charming and deeply interesting and valu- 
 able — and at the same time infinitely sad. Those of the 
 Prati di Castello and the Tiber Bank and Stream espe- 
 cially so: instead of this lost beauty we have hideous 
 jerry buildings, bad bridges, monotonous and colourless 
 banks, and dull municipal mediocrity and common-place 
 everywhere. 
 
 There might be a Weeping Wall in Rome as well as 
 in Jerusalem. Truly enough there will soon be absolute 
 truth in Bacon's noble saying ' The souls of the living 
 are the beauty of the world ' — for the world will be re- 
 duced to the sway of the plumber and builder, and arti- 
 ficial gardener and Bumbledom. 
 
 In evening wrote " Primo Sospiro di Primavera." 
 
 8th. In forenoon wrote " The White Peacock " (56 
 lines) — a study in Whites for Theodore Roussel. Also 
 " The Swimmer of Nemi " (Red and White) 42 lines. In 
 evening revised the " Swimmer of Nemi " and partly 
 rewrote or recast. It is much improved in definite effect ; 
 and gains by the deletion of 9 or 10 lines, pretty in them- 
 selves but not in perfect harmony. Wrote the poem com- 
 memorating the strange evening of 17th Jan. . . . called 
 it "A Winter Evening" (35 lines). Later. Wrote the 
 poem called " Scirocco " (June), 67 lines. To bed about 
 12.30. 
 
 10th. Gave first sitting to Charles Holroyd for his 
 Etching of me. 
 
 11th. Gave Charles Holroyd a second sitting. Between 
 9 and 2 a.m. wrote 
 
 "The Naked Rider" (70 lines) 
 
 " The Wind at Fidenae " (38 lines) 
 
 " The Wild Mare " (32 lines) 
 
 " A Dream at Ardea " (In Maremma) 215 lines. 
 
 12th. Wrote " La Velia " (38 lines).
 
 180 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 15th. Agnes and Lill, Charles Holroyd and the P — s 
 and I went to Tusculum by morning train. Very 
 warm as soon as we got to Frascati. Lovely Tramontana 
 day. Took a donkey to carry the wine and provisions : or 
 Lill, if necessary. After a long walk, lunched in the 
 Theatre at Tusculum. Wreathed the donkey with ivy 
 and some early blooms, and then I rode on it on to the 
 stage, a la Bacchus, flasks of Frascati under either arm. 
 
 Most glorious sunset. The view from the height above 
 Tusculum simply superb, and worth coming to see from 
 any part of the world. 
 
 17th. Yesterday was one of the most glorious days 
 possible in Rome. Cloudless sky: fresh sweet breeze: 
 deliciously warm. Went with A. to Porto d'Anzio 
 again, and walked along the coast northward. Sea un- 
 speakably glorious : blue, sunlit, with great green foam- 
 crested waves breaking on the sands, and surging in 
 among the hollow tufa rocks and old Roman remains. 
 Lay for a long time at the extreme end of the Arco Muto. 
 One of the red letter days in one's life. 
 
 Stayed up all night (till Breakfast) writing: then re- 
 vising. Between 8 p.m. and 4 a.m. wrote poem after poem 
 with unbroken eagerness. The impulse was an irresisti- 
 ble one, as I was tired and not, at first, strongly inclined 
 to write, though no sooner had I written the Italian " Ded- 
 icatory Lines " than it all came upon me. In all, besides 
 these, I wrote " Al Far della Notte " (31 lines) : " Clouds, 
 from the Agro Romano " (31) : " The Olives of Tivoli " 
 (30): "At Veii" (86): "The Bather" (68): " De Pro- 
 fundis" (26): and "Ultimo Sospiro " (37). 
 
 18th. Beautiful day. Felt none the worse for being 
 up all night. Wrote article on Ibsen's ' Rosmersholm ' 
 for Y. F. P. Wrote " Spuma dal Mare " (41 lines). 
 
 In " Spuma dal Mare " I have attempted to give some- 
 thing of the many-coloured aspects of the sea. It is 
 absurd to keep on always speaking of it as blue, or green, 
 or even grey. The following portion is as true as prac- 
 ticable, whatever other merits they may have:
 
 WILLIAM SHARP 
 After a pastel drawing by Charles Ross, 1891
 
 ROME 181 
 
 Here the low breakers are rolling thro' shallows, 
 
 Yellow and muddied, the line of topaz 
 
 Ere cut from the boulder: 
 
 Save when the sunlight swims through them slantwise, 
 
 When inward they roll, 
 
 Long billows of amber, 
 
 Crown'd with pale yellow 
 
 And gray-green spume. 
 
 Here wan gray their slopes 
 
 Where the broken lights reach them. 
 
 Dull gray of pearl, and dappled and darkling, 
 
 As when, 'mid the high 
 
 Northward drift of the clouds, 
 
 Sirocco bloweth 
 
 With soft fanning breath. 
 
 20tl%. In morning wrote out Dedicatory and other 
 Preliminary Pages, etc., etc., for my " Sospiri di Roma " 
 and after lunch took the complete MS. to Prof. Garlanda 
 of the Societa Laziale, who will take them out to the 
 Establishment at Tivoli to-day. Holroyd came with final 
 proof of his etching of me. 
 
 24th. Wrote " The Shepherd in Rome" (6'6 lines). 
 
 25th. Wrote " Sorgendo La Luna " (47 11.). 
 
 27th. Wrote poem " In July : on the Campagna " 
 (26 11.). Wrote poem "August Afternoon in Rome" 
 (59 11.). 
 
 Charles M. Ross (Norwegian painter), and Julian Cor- 
 bett (author of " The Life of Drake ") called on me to- 
 day. Mr. Ross wants to paint me in pastel and has asked 
 me to go to-morrow for that purpose." 
 
 In mid-March I went to Florence in advance of my 
 husband; and he and Mr. Corbett spent a few days to- 
 gether at the Albergo Sybilla Tivoli — where their sitting- 
 room faced the Temple of Vesta — so that he could super- 
 intend there the printing of his " Sospiri." The two 
 authors worked in the morning, and took walks in the 
 afternoon. The Diary records one expedition: 
 
 March 23. After lunch J. C. and I caught the train 
 for Palombaria Marcellina meaning to ascend to Palom- 
 bara : but we mistook the highest and most isolated moun- 
 tain town, in the Sabines and after two hours of an
 
 182 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 exceedingly wild and rugged and sometimes almost im- 
 possible mule-path, etc., we reached the wonderfully pic- 
 turesque and interesting San Polo dei Cavalieri. Bought 
 a reed pipe from a shepherd who was playing a Ranz des 
 Vaches among the slopes just below San Polo. The medi- 
 aBval castle in the middle of the narrow crooked pictur- 
 esque streets very fine. Had some wine from a comely 
 woman who lived in the lower part of the castle. Then 
 we made our way into the Sabines by Vicovaro, and 
 Castel Madama, and home late to Tivoli, very tired. 
 
 Certain tales told to him by the Italian woman, and the 
 picturesque town and its surroundings formed the basis 
 of the story " The Rape of the Sabines " which appeared 
 later in The Pagan Review. At the end of March he left 
 Rome, to his great regret ; he joined me at Pisa and thence 
 we journeyed to Provence and stayed awhile at Aries, 
 whence he wrote to Mrs. Janvier; 
 
 30: 3: 91. 
 
 Gento Cataeino, 
 
 You see I address you a la Provengale already! We 
 left Italy last week, and came to Provence. Marseilles, 
 I admit, seemed to me an unattractive place after Rome 
 — and indeed all of Provence we have seen as yet is some- 
 what chill and barren after Italy. No doubt the charm 
 will grow. For one thing, Spring is very late here this 
 year. . . . 
 
 Aries we like much. It is a quaint and pleasant little 
 town: and once I can get my mind free of those haunt- 
 ing hill-towns of the Sabines and Albans I love so much 
 — (is there any hill range in the world to equal that 
 swing of the Apennines stretching beyond Rome east- 
 ward, southward, and southwestward?) — I shall get to 
 love it too, no doubt. But oh, Italy, Italy ! Not Rome : 
 though Rome has an infinite charm, even now when the 
 jerry-builder is fast ruining it : but " greater Rome," the 
 Agro Romano ! When I think of happy days at the Lake 
 of Nemi, high up in the Albans, of Albano, and L'Ariccia, 
 and Castel Gandolfo — of Tivoli, and the lonely Monte- 
 celli, and S. Polo dei Cavalieri, and Castel Madama, and
 
 ROME 183 
 
 Anticoli Corrado, etc., among the Sabines — of the ever 
 new, mysterious, fascinating Campagna, from the Mar- 
 emma on the North to the Pontine Marshes, my heart 
 is full of longing. I love North Italy too, all Umbria 
 and Tuscany: and to know Venice well is to have a secret 
 of perpetual joy: and yet, the Agro Romano! How I 
 wish you could have been there this winter and spring! 
 You will find something of my passion for it, and of that 
 still deeper longing and passion for the Beautiful, in my 
 " Sospiri di Roma," which ought to reach you before the 
 end of April, or at any rate early in May. This very 
 day it is being finally printed off to the sound of the 
 Cascades of the Anio at Tivoli, in the Sabines — one of 
 which turns the machinery of the Societa Laziale's print- 
 ing-works. I do hope the book will appeal to you, as 
 there is so much of myself in it. No doubt it will be 
 too frankly impressionistic to suit some people, and its 
 unconventionality in form as well as in matter will 
 be a cause of offence here and there. You shall have one 
 of the earliest copies. 
 
 Yesterday was a fortunate day for arrival. It was a 
 great festa, and all the women were out in their refined 
 and picturesque costumes. The Amphitheatre was filled, 
 tier upon tier, and full of colour (particularly owing to 
 some three or four hundred Zouaves, grouped in threes 
 or fours every here and there) for the occasion of " a 
 grand Bull- Fight." It was a brilliant and amusing scene, 
 though (fortunately) the " fight " was of the most tame 
 and harmless kind: much less dangerous even for the 
 most unwary of the not very daring Arlesians than a 
 walk across the remoter parts of the Campagna. . . . 
 
 Letters from Mr. Meredith and Miss Blind, in acknow- 
 ledgment of the privately published volume of poems, 
 greatly pleased their author: 
 
 Box Hill, April 15, 1891. 
 
 Deae Sharp, 
 
 I have sent a card to the Grosvenor Club. I have much 
 to say for the Sospiri, with some criticism. Impression-
 
 184 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 istic work where the heart is hot surpasses all but highest 
 verse. When, mind. It can be of that heat only at inter- 
 vals. In the * Wild Mare ' you have hit the mark. It is 
 an unrivalled piece. 
 
 But you have at times (I read it so) insisted on your 
 impressions. That is, you have put on your cap, sharp- 
 ened your pencil, and gone afield as the Impressionistic 
 poet. Come and hear more. I will give you a Crown 
 and a bit of the whip — the smallest bit. 
 
 Give my warm regards to your wife. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 Geokge Meredith. 
 
 May 18, 1891. 
 
 Dear Will^ 
 
 I got the copy you sent me of Sospiri di Roma. . . . 
 Your nature feeling is always so intense and genuine that 
 I would have liked my own mood to be more completely 
 in harmony with yours before writing to you about what 
 is evidently so spontaneous an outcome of your true self. 
 I should have wished to identify myself with this joy 
 in the beauty of the world which bubbles up fountain- 
 like from every one of these sparkling Roman transcripts, 
 why called " Sospiri " I hardly know. One envies you 
 the ebullient delight which must have flooded your veins 
 before you could write many of these verses, notably 
 " Fior di Primavera," " Red Poppies," and " The White 
 Peacock " : the effect of colour and movement produced 
 in these last two seems to be particularly happy, as also 
 the descriptions of the sea of roses in the first which 
 vividly recalled to me the prodigal wealth of blossom on 
 the Riviera. I thorougiily agree with what George Mer- 
 edith says of the sketch of " The Wild Mare," the lines 
 of which seem as quiveringly alive as the high strung 
 nerves of these splendid creatures. 
 
 " August Afternoon in Rome " is also an admirable 
 bit of impressionism and, if I remember, just that 
 effect —
 
 ROME 185 
 
 Far in the middle-flood, adrift, unoar'd, 
 A narrow boat, Bwift-moving, black. 
 Follows the flowing wave like a living thing. 
 
 By and by if I should get to some " place of nestling 
 green for poets made " I hope to get more deeply into 
 the spirit of your book. 
 
 Come to see me as soon as ever you and Lill can man- 
 age it, either separately or together. 
 
 Always yours, 
 
 Mathilde Blind. 
 
 Concerning certain criticisms on Sospiri di Roma he 
 wrote to Mrs. Janvier: 
 
 1st May, 1891. 
 
 . . . Whether coming with praise or with blame and 
 cast me to the perdition of the unrighteous, the critics 
 all seem unable to take the true standpoint — namely, 
 that of the poet. What has he attempted, and how far 
 has he succeeded or failed ? That is what should concern 
 them. It is no good to any one or to me to say that I am 
 a Pagan — that I am " an artist beyond doubt, but one 
 without heed to the cravings of the human heart : a wor- 
 shipper of the Beautiful, but without religion, without 
 an ethical message, with nothing but a vain cry for the 
 return, or it may be the advent, of an impossible ideal." 
 Equally absurd to complain that in these " impressions " 
 I give no direct " blood and bones " for the mind to gnaw 
 at and worry over. Cannot they see that all I attempt 
 to do is to fashion anew something of the lovely vision 
 I have seen, and that I would as soon commit forgery 
 (as I told some one recently) as add an unnecessary line, 
 or " play " to this or that taste, this or that critical 
 opinion. The chief paper here in Scotland shakes its 
 head over " the nude sensuousness of ^ The Swimmer of 
 Nemi,' ' The Naked Rider,' ' The Bather,' ' Fior di Me- 
 moria,' ^ The Wild Mare ' (whose ' fiery and almost sav- 
 age realism ! ' it depreciates — tho' this is the poem which 
 Meredith says is 'bound to live') and evidently thinks
 
 186 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 artists and poets who see beautiful things and try to 
 fashion them anew beautifully, should be stamped out, 
 or at any rate left severely alone. . . . 
 
 In work, creative work above all, is the sovereign 
 remedy for all that ill which no i^hysician can cure : and 
 there is a joy in it which is unique and invaluable. 
 
 For a time, however, creative work had to be put aside. 
 The preparation of The Life and Letters of Joseph 
 Severn was a hard grind that lasted till mid- August. At 
 Whitby, on the 13th, according to his diary he "wrote 
 25 pp. digest of Severn's novel and worked at other 
 things. Later I wrote the concluding pages, finishing the 
 book at 2 a.m. I can hardly believe that this long delayed 
 task is now accomplished. But at last "Severn" is 
 done ! " 
 
 The final revision occupied him till the 28th August, 
 and in order to finish it before we went abroad on the 
 27th he wrote " all morning till 1 p.m. ; again from 9 p.m. 
 all night unbrokenly till 7 a.m. Then read a little to 
 rest my brain and wrote four letters. Had a bath and 
 breakfast and felt all right." 
 
 The 24th has the interesting entry : " Met old Charles 
 Severn at the Italian Restaurant near Portland Road 
 Station and had a long talk with him. He confirmed his 
 previous statement (end of September last year) about 
 Keats having written " The Ode to the Nightingale " 
 under " The Spaniards on Hampstead Heath." 
 
 September found us in Stuttgart in order that my 
 husband should collaborate with the American novelist 
 Blanche Willis Howard. The first days were spent in 
 wandering about the lovely hillsides around the town, 
 which he described to Mrs. Janvier: 
 
 Johannes Steasse 33, 
 
 3: 9: 91. 
 
 ... I know that you would revel in this glowing golden 
 heat, and in the beautiful vinelands of the South. South- 
 ern Germany in the vintage season is something to re-
 
 EOME 187 
 
 member with joy all one's life. Yesterday it seemed as 
 if the world above were one vast sea of deep blue wher- 
 ever a great glowing wave of light straight from the 
 heart of the sun was flowing joyously. I revel in this 
 summer gorgeousness, and drink in the hot breath of the 
 earth as though it were the breath of life. Words are 
 useless to depict the splendour of colour everywhere — 
 the glimmer of the golden-green of the vines, the im- 
 measurable sunfilled flowers, the masses of ripening fruit 
 of all kinds, the hues on the hill-slopes and in the valleys, 
 on the houses and the quaint little vineyard-cots with 
 their slanting red roofs. In the early afternoon I went 
 up through the orchards and vineyards on the shoulder 
 of the Hasenberg. It was a glory of colour. Nor have 
 I ever seen such a lovely purple bloom among the green 
 branches — like the sky of f aerieland — as in the dark-plum 
 orchards. There was one heavily laden tree which was 
 superb in its massy richness of fruit : it was like a lovely 
 vision of those thunder-clouds which come and go in July 
 dawns. The bloom on the fruit was as though the west 
 wind had been unable to go further and had let its 
 velvety breath and wings fade away in a soft visible 
 death or sleep. The only sounds were from the myriad 
 bees and was23S and butterflies : some peasants singing 
 in the valley as they trimmed the vines : and the just 
 audible sussurrus of the wind among the highest pines 
 on the Hasenberg. There was the fragrance of a myriad 
 odours from fruit and flower and blossom and plant and 
 tree and fructifying soil — with below all that strange 
 smell as of the very body of the living breathing world. 
 The festival of colour was everywhere. As I passed a 
 cottar's sloping bit of ground within his vineyards, I 
 saw some cabbages high up among some trailing beans, 
 which were of the purest and most delicate blue, lying 
 there like azure wafts from the morning sky. Altogether 
 I felt electrified in mind and body. The sunflood intox- 
 icated me. But the beauty of the world is always bracing 
 — all beauty is. I seemed to inhale it — to drink it in — to 
 absorb it at every pore — to become it — to become the
 
 188 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 heart and soul within it. And then in the midst of it 
 all came my old savage longing for a vagrant life: for 
 freedom from the bondage we have involved ourselves 
 in. I suppose I was a gipsy once — and before that " a 
 wild man o' the woods." 
 
 A terrific thunderstorm has broken since I wrote the 
 above. I have rarely if ever seen such continuous light- 
 ning. As it cleared, I saw a remarkably beautiful sight. 
 In front of my window rose a low rainbow, and suddenly 
 from the right there was slung a bright steel-blue bolt, 
 seemingly hurled with intent right through the arch. The 
 next moment the rainbow collapsed in a ruin of fading 
 splendours. . . . 
 
 I have had a very varied, and, to use a much abused 
 word, a very romantic life in its external as well as in 
 its internal aspects. Life is so unutterably precious that 
 I cannot but rejoice daily that I am alive : and yet I have 
 no fear of, or even regret at the thought of death. . . . 
 There are many things far worse than death. When it 
 comes, it comes. But meanwhile we are alive. The 
 Death of the power to live is the only death to be 
 dreaded. . . . 
 
 His Diary also testifies to his exultant mood: 
 
 Wednesday, 2:9:1891. — Another glorious day. This 
 flood of sunshine is like new life : it is new life. I rejoice 
 in the heat and splendour of it. It seems to get into the 
 heart and brain, and it intoxicates with a strange kind 
 of rapture. , . . How intensely one lives sometimes, even 
 when there is little apparently to call forth quintessen- 
 tial emotion. This afternoon was a holiday of the soul. 
 And yet how absolutely on such a day one realises the 
 savage in one. I suppose I was a gipsy once : a ' wild 
 man ' before : a wilder beast of prey before that. We 
 all hark back strangely at times. To-day I seemed to 
 remember much. , . . ^Vhat a year this has been for me : 
 the richest and most wonderful I have known. Were I 
 as superstitious as Polycrates I should surely sacrifice
 
 ROME 189 
 
 some precious thing lest the vengeful gods should say 
 " Thou hast lived too fully : Come ! . . . " 
 
 The following extracts from William's Diary indicate 
 the method of the collaboration used by the two authors : 
 
 Sunday 6th. Sept. 1891. — Blanche Willis Howard, 
 or rather, the Frau Hof-Arzt Von Teuffel, arrived last 
 night. She sent round word that she could conveniently 
 receive me in the afternoon, but as it was not to have 
 our first talk-over about our long projected joint novel, 
 Elizabeth came with me so as to make Frau Von T.'s 
 acquaintanceship. . . . She is a charming woman, and 
 I like her better than ever. As I am here to write a novel 
 in collaboration with her, and not to fall in love, I must 
 be on guard against my too susceptible self. . . . 
 
 Monday 7th. — At 3 o'clock I went to Frau Von Teuf- 
 fel's, and stayed till 5.45. We had a long talk, and skir- 
 mished admirably — sometimes " fluking " but ever and 
 again taking our man: in other words, we gained what 
 we were after, to some extent — indirectly as well as di- 
 rectly. She agrees to my proposal that we call the book 
 A Fellowe and His Wife. The two chief personages are 
 to be Germans of rank, from the Riigen seaboard. I am 
 to be the " faire wife," and have decided to live at Rome, 
 and to be a sculptor in ivory, and to have rooms in the 
 Palazzo Malaspina. Have not yet decided about my 
 name. My favourite German name is Hedwig, but Frau 
 Von T. objected that English and American readers 
 would pronounce it ' Hed-wig.' She suggested Edla : but 
 that doesn't ' fetch ' me. I think Freyda (or perhaps 
 Olga) would suit. 
 
 Tuesday, 8th. — This morning I began our novel A Fel- 
 lowe and His Wife. I wrote some nine pages of MS. 
 being the whole of the first letter written by Freia (or 
 Use) from Rome. 
 
 Thursday, 10th. — In the evening I went round to 
 Morike Strasse. We had a long talk about the book and 
 its evolution, and ultimately decided to attempt the still 
 more difiicult task of telling the whole story in the letters
 
 190 ' EOME 
 
 of Odo and Use only. Of course this is much more diffi- 
 cult : but if we can do it, so much the more credit to our 
 artistic skill and imaginative insight. ... (It was also 
 decided that Frau v. Teuffel should write Odo's letters, 
 and her collaborator. Use's. In addition to the novel 
 W. S. dramatised the story in a five-act play.) 
 
 1st October, 1891. — "Wrote to-day the long first scene 
 of Act III. of A Fellotve. In afternoon E. and I went 
 out in the town. I bought Maurice Maeterlinck's La 
 Princesse Maleine and Les Aveugles, and in the late 
 afternoon read right thro' the latter and skimmed the 
 former. Some one has been writing about him recently 
 and comparing him to Webster. In method greatly, and 
 in manner, and even in conceptive imagination, he diif ers 
 from Webster: but he is his Cousin-German. It is cer- 
 tainly hopelessly uncritical to say as Octave Mirbeau did 
 last year in a French paper or magazine that Maeter- 
 linck is another Shakespeare. He is not even remotely 
 Shakespearian. He is a writer of singular genius ; and 
 I shall send for everything he has written. Eeading 
 these things of his excited me to a high degree. It was 
 the electric touch I needed to produce my Dramatic In- 
 terludes over which I have been brooding. I believe that 
 much of the imaginative writing of the future will be 
 in dramatic prose of a special kind. . . . 
 
 Friday, 2nd. — I went to bed last night haunted by my 
 story " The Summons." To-day at 10.30 or nearer 11 
 I began to write it, and wrote without a break till 5.30, 
 by which time " A Northern Night," as I now call it, 
 was entirely finished, ' asides ' and all. Both there and 
 when I issue the Dramatic Interludes (five in all) I shall 
 send them forth under my anagram, H. P. Siwaarmill. 
 The volume will be a small one. The longest pieces will 
 be the " Northern Night," and " The Experiment of 
 Melchior van Hoek " ; the others will be " The Con- 
 fessor," " The Birth of a Soul " and " The Black Ma- 
 donna." 
 
 Saturday 3rd. — . . . This late afternoon wrote the 
 Dramatic Study, " The Birth of a Soul." Though not
 
 EOME 191 
 
 ' picturesque ' it touches a deeper note than " A North- 
 ern Night," and so is really the more impressive. 
 
 Tuesday, 6th. . . . — P. S. After writing this Entry 
 for Tuesday, shortly before 12, 1 began to write the open- 
 ing particulars of Scene II. of Act IV., and went on till 
 I finished the whole scene, shortly before 2 a.m. 
 
 Wednesday, 7th. Finished before 1 a.m. my Play, A 
 Fellowe, by writing the longish Scene III. of Act IV. 
 Went out with Lill in the afternoon. The town all draped 
 in black for the death of the King of Saxony. Wrote to 
 Frank Harris (from here, as H. P. Siwaarmill) with 
 " The Birth of a Soul." . . . 
 
 Friday, 9th. — In late evening thought out (but only so 
 far as leading lines and general drift) the drama " The 
 Gipsy-Christ." (Being The Passion of Manuel van 
 Hoek). . . .
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 WALT WHITMAN 
 
 The Pagan Review 
 
 The brilliant summer was followed by a damp and 
 foggy autumn. My husband's depression increased with 
 the varying of the year. While I was on a I'isit to my 
 mother he wrote to me, after seeing me in the morning : 
 
 Gbosvenor Club, Nov. 9th, 1891. 
 
 "... I have been here all day and have enjoyed the 
 bodily rest, the inner quietude, and, latterly, a certain 
 mental uplifting. But at first I was deep down in the 
 blues. Anything like the appalling gloom between two 
 and three-thirty ! I could scarcely read, or do anything 
 but watch it with a kind of fascinated horror. It is going 
 down to the grave indeed to be submerged in that hideous 
 pall. ... As soon as I can make enough by fiction or 
 the drama to depend thereon we'll leave this atmosphere 
 of fog and this environment of deadening, crushing, par- 
 alysing, death-in-life respectability. Circumstances make 
 London thus for us : for me at least — for of course we 
 carry our true atmosphere in ourselves — and places and 
 towns are, in a general sense, mere accidents. . . . 
 
 I have read to-day Edmond Scherer's Essais on Eng. 
 Literature: very able though not brilliant — reread the 
 best portions of Jules Breton's delightful autobiography, 
 which I liked so much last year ... all George Moore's 
 New Novel, Vain Fortune. 
 
 I had also a pleasant hour or so dipping into Ben 
 Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and other old drama- 
 tists : refreshed my forgotten acquaintanceship with that 
 silly drama " Firmilian " : and, generally, enjoyed an ir- 
 
 192
 
 WALT WHITMAN 193 
 
 responsible ramble thro' whatever came to hand. I am 
 now all right again and send you this little breath, this 
 little ' Sospiro di Guglielmo,' to give you, if perchance 
 you need it, a tonic stimulus. No, you don't need it ! " 
 
 His health was so seriously affected by the fogs that 
 it became imperative that he should get into purer air 
 so he decided to fulfil his intention of going to New 
 York even though he had been forced to relinquish all 
 ideas of lecturing. There were various publishing mat- 
 ters to attend to, and many friends to visit. In a letter 
 to Mrs. Janvier, announcing his projected visit, he tells 
 her of the particular work he had on hand: 
 
 " You will be the first to hear my new imaginative 
 work. Although in a new method, it is inherently more 
 akin to " Romantic Ballads " than to " Sospiri," but it is 
 intense dramatic prose. There is one in particular I 
 wish to read to you — three weeks from now." And he 
 adds, " Do you not long for the warm days — for the 
 beautiful living pulsing South'? This fierce cold and 
 gloom is mentally benumbing. . . . Yes you are right: 
 there are few women and perhaps fewer men who have 
 the passion of Beauty — of the thrilling ecstasy of life." 
 
 During his short stay in New York he was made the 
 welcome guest of Mr. and Mrs. Clarence Stedman; and 
 he delighted in this opportunity of again meeting his 
 good friends Mr. and Mrs. Richard Stoddart, Mr. AJden, 
 Mr. Howells, etc. But his chief interest was a memor- 
 able visit to Walt Whitman, in whose fearless independ- 
 ent, mental outlook, and joy in life, in whose vigorous in- 
 dividual verse, he had found incentive and refreshment. 
 Armed with an introduction from Mr. Stedman he pil- 
 grimaged to Camden, New Jersey, on January 23rd, and 
 found the veteran poet in bed propped up with pillows, 
 very feeble, but bright-eyed and mentally alert. William 
 described the visit in a letter to me : 
 
 " During a memorable talk on the literature of the two 
 countries past and to come, the conversation turned upon 
 a vivid episode. ' That was when you were young? ' I
 
 194 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 asked. The patriarchal old poet — who lay in his narrow 
 bed, with his white beard, white locks, and ashy-grey face 
 in vague relief, in the afternoon light, against the white 
 pillows and coverlet — looked at me before he answered, 
 with that half audacious, wholly winsome glance so char- 
 acteristic of him, ^ Now, just you tell me when you think 
 that was ! ' 
 
 " Then, with sudden energy, and without waiting for 
 a reply, he added, ' Young? I'm as young now as I was 
 then ! "What's this grey tangle ' (and as he spoke he gave 
 his straggling beard an impatient toss), ' and this decrepit 
 old body got to do with that, eh? I never felt younger, 
 and I'm glad of it — against what's coming along. That's 
 the best way to shift camp, eh? That's what I call 
 Youth!'" 
 
 When the younger man bade him farewell Whitman 
 gave him a message to take back with him across the 
 seas. " He said to me with halting breath : ' W^illiam 
 Sharp when you go back to England, tell those friends of 
 whom you have been speaking, and all others whom you 
 may know and I do not that words fail me to express my 
 deep gratitude to them for sympathy and aid truly 
 enough beyond acknowledgment. Good-bye to you and 
 to them — the last greetings of a tired old poet.' " 
 
 The impression made on my husband, by the fearless 
 serene attitude of the great poet found expression in the 
 few lines that flashed into his mind, when on March 29th 
 he read in a London evening paper of the death of Walt 
 Whitman : 
 
 IN MEMOKIAJVI 
 
 He laughed at Life's Sunset-Gates 
 
 With vanishing breath, 
 Glad soul, who went with the sun 
 
 To the Sunrise of death. 
 
 While William was in New York Mr. Stedman was 
 asked by Mr. J. W. Young to approach his guest with a re- 
 quest that he should " lecture " at Harvard upon a sub- 
 ject of contemporary Literature, " Quite a number of
 
 WALT WHITMAN 195 
 
 Harvard men are anxious to see and hear Mr. Sharp if 
 he will consent to come to Cambridge." 
 
 It was with genuine regret that, owing to his doctor's 
 strict prohibition, William felt himself obliged to refuse 
 this flattering request. He had also been asked by Mr. 
 Palmer " the leading theatrical Boss in the States to sell 
 to him the rights of my play on '■ A Fellowe and his 
 Wife,' " a proposal which he declined. 
 
 On his return to England he wrote to Mr. Janvier : 
 
 " Deab Old Man, 
 
 " I have read your stories (as I wrote the other day) 
 with particular pleasure, apart from personal associa- 
 tions. You have a delicate and delightful touch that is 
 quite your own, and all in all I for my part fully endorse 
 what Mr. Howells wrote about you recently in Harpers' 
 and said as emphatically in private. So — amico caro — 
 " go in and win ! " 
 
 I am settling down in London for a time, and am more 
 content to abide awhile now that the writing mood is at 
 last upon me again — and strong at that ! 
 
 I have not yet put my hand to any of the commissioned 
 stories I must soon turn to — but tell la sposa that I have 
 finished my " Dramatic Vistas " (two or three of which 
 I read to her), and even venture to look with a certain 
 half-content upon the last of the series — " The Lute- 
 Player " — which has been haunting me steadily since last 
 October, but which I could not express aright till the 
 other day. ..." 
 
 The immediate outcome of his visit to America was the 
 publication, by Messrs. Chas. Webster & Co., of his Ro- 
 mantic Ballads and Sospiri di Roma in one volume en- 
 titled Flower 0' the Vine. It was prefaced by a flatter- 
 ing Introduction by Mr. Janvier, to whom the author 
 wrote in acknowledgment : 
 
 Paris, 23d April, 1892. 
 
 . . . Many thanks for your letter, my dear fellow, and 
 for the " Introduction," which I have just read. I thank 
 you most heartily for what you say there, which seems
 
 196 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 to me, moreover, if I may say so, at once generous, fit- 
 tingly reserved, and likely to win attention. You yourself 
 occupy such a high place in Letters oversea that such a 
 recommendation of my verse cannot but result to my 
 weal. I have been so deep in work and engagements, that 
 I have been unable to attend to any correspondence of 
 late — and have, I fear, behaved somewhat churlishly to 
 friends across the water, and particularly to my dear 
 friends at 27th Avenue. But now the pressure of work is 
 over for the moment: my London engagements or their 
 ghosts are vainly calling to me d'Outre-Manche : I am 
 keeping down my too cosmopolitan acquaintanceship in 
 Paris to the narrowest limit : and on and after the second 
 of May am going to reform and remain reformed. If you 
 don't object to a little " roughing," you would enjoy being 
 with me and mes camarades this coming week. We like 
 extremes, so after a week or so of the somewhat feverish 
 Bohemianism of literary and artistic Paris, we shall be 
 happy at our ' gipsy ' encampment in the Forest of Fon- 
 tainebleau (at a remote and rarely visited but lovely and 
 romantic spot between the Gorge de Franchard and the 
 Gorge d'Apremont). Spring is now here in all her 
 beauty: and there is a divine shimmer of green every- 
 where. Paris itself is ew fete with her vividly emerald 
 lines and sycamores, and the white and red spires of the 
 chestnuts must make the soul of the west wind that is 
 now blowing rejoice with gladness. The Seine itself is 
 of a paler green than usual, and is suggestive of those 
 apple-hued canals and conduits of Flanders and by the 
 ' dead cities ' of north-east Holland. I forget if you know 
 Paris — but there is one of its many fountains that has 
 an endless charm for me : that across the Seine, between 
 the Quai des Grands Augustins and the Bid. St. Germain 
 — the Fontaine St. Michel — I stood watching the foam- 
 ing surge and splash of it for some time yesterday, and 
 the pearl-grey and purple-hued doves that flew this way 
 and that through the sunlit spray. It brought, as it 
 always does, many memories of beloved Eome and Italy 
 back to me. I turned — and saw Paul Verlaine beside me :
 
 WALT WHITMAN 197 
 
 and I was in Paris again, the Paris of Paris, the Aspasia 
 of the cities of the World, the only city whom one loves 
 and worships (and is betrayed by) as a woman. Then 
 I went round to Leon Vanier's, where there were many 
 of les Jeunes — Jean Moreas, Maurice Barres, Cazals, 
 Eenard, Eugene Holland, and others (including your 
 namesake, Janvier). To-night I ought to go to the 
 weekly gathering of a large number of les Jeunes at the 
 Cafe du Soleil d'Or, that favourite meeting place now of 
 les decadents, les symholistcs, and les everything else. 
 But I can't withstand this flooding sunshine, and sweet 
 wind, and spraying of waters, and toss-toss and shimmer- 
 shimmer of blossoms and leaves ; so Pll probably be off. 
 This won't be off if I don't shut up in a double sense. 
 My love to * Kathia ' and to you, dear fellow Pagans. 
 
 Ever yours rejoicingly, 
 
 William Sharp. 
 
 Tell K. that when I have * reformed ' I'll write to her. 
 Don't let her be impertinent, and say that this promise 
 will be fulfilled ad Grcscas Kalendas! 
 
 P. S. Here are my proposed ' coming-movements.' 
 
 (1) Lill joins me in Paris about 10 days hence, and 
 remains to see the two Salons, etc. 
 
 (2) From the middle of May till the middle (14th) of 
 July we shall be in London. 
 
 (3) Then Lill goes with friends to Germany, to Bay- 
 reuth (for Wagnerian joys) and I go afoot and aboat 
 among the lochs and isles and hills of the western Scot- 
 tish Highlands. 
 
 (4) We meet again in Stirling or Edinburgh, early in 
 August — and then, having purchased or hired a service- 
 able if not a prancing steed, we go off for three weeks 
 vagabondage. The steed is for Lill and our small bag- 
 gage and a little tent. We'll sometimes sleep out : some- 
 times at inns, or in the fern in Highlander's cottages. 
 Thereafter I shall again go off by myself to the extreme 
 west " where joy and melancholy are one, and where youth 
 and age are twins " as the Gaelic poet says.
 
 198 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 (5) The rest of September visiting in Scotland. 
 
 (6) Part of October in London then (0 Glad Tidings) 
 
 (7) Off for 6 months to the South: first to the Greek 
 side of Sicily: then to Rome (about Xmas) for the Spring. 
 Finally : a Poor-house in London. 
 
 The reply came swiftly: 
 
 Nbjw York, 6: 5: 92. 
 
 My dear Sharp, 
 
 Your letter of April 3rd is like a stirring fresh wind. 
 The vigour of it is delightful, and a little surprising, con- 
 sidering what you had been about. I will not cast stones 
 at you — and, if you ran on schedule time, you have been 
 reformed for four days. Your announcement that you 
 intend to stay reformed is fine in its way. What a noble 
 imagination you have! I am glad that you tolerate my 
 * introduction.' As Kate wrote you, I was very wretched 
 — unluckily for you — when it was written. I wish that 
 it were better in itself and more worthy of you. But the 
 milk is spilled. The book will look very well, I think. 
 . . . Your programme for the ensuing year fills me with 
 longing. Even the London poorhouse at the end of it 
 don't alarm me. Colonel Newcome was brought up in a 
 poorhouse — or a place of that nature ; and, even without 
 such a precedent I should be willing to go to a poor-house 
 for a while after such a glorious year. Joy and good 
 luck attend you, my dear fellow, as you go upon your 
 gay way ! . . . 
 
 Always yours, 
 
 T. A. J. 
 
 A Felloive and his Wife had in the early spring been 
 published in America and England, and also in the 
 Tauchnitz Collection, and had a flattering reception in 
 both countries. It had been preceded in February by the 
 Life and Letters of Joseph Severn published by Messrs. 
 Sampson Low & Co. 
 
 Among various articles written during the early sum- 
 mer for the Academy were one on Philip Marston, and 
 one on Maeterlinck; and in the July number of the
 
 WALT WHITMAN 199 
 
 Forum was an appreciation of Thomas Hardy — to whom 
 he had made a flying visit in March. 
 
 In acknowledgment he received the following note from 
 the novelist: 
 
 Max Gate, Dobchestee, 
 
 July, 1892. 
 
 My dear Sharp, 
 
 It did give me a great deal of pleasure to read the 
 article in the Forum, and what particularly struck me 
 was your power of grasping the characteristics of this 
 district and people in a few hours visit, during which, 
 so far as I could see, you were not observing anything. 
 I wish the execution of the novels better justified the 
 generous view you take. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Thomas Hardy. 
 
 Our delightful plans for the autumn were not carried 
 out ; for, during a visit to the art critic, J. Stanley Little, 
 at Eudgwick, Sussex, my husband saw a little cottage 
 which attracted him and we decided to take it as a pied- 
 d-terre. Pending negotiations we stayed with Mr. and 
 Mrs. Caird at Northbrook, Micheldever, where W. S. be- 
 gan to plan out the scheme of a new quarterly Review 
 that was " to be the expression of a keen pagan delight 
 in nature." I quote from his Diary : 
 
 " June 2nd, 1892. In early forenoon, after some pleas- 
 ant dawdling, began to write the Italian story, " The 
 Rape of the Sabines," which I shall print in the first 
 instance in my projected White Revieiv as by James 
 Marazion. After tea wrote about a page or so more of 
 story. Then went a walk up to One-Tree-Hill. Saw sev- 
 eral hares. The Cuckoo was calling till after 9 o'clock. 
 Noticed that the large white moths fluttered a long time 
 in one spot above the corn. Wild pigeons go to roost 
 sooner than rooks, apparently. Got back about 9.30, and 
 then finished " The Rape of the Sabines " (about 4,500 
 words).
 
 200 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 ''Friday 3rd. After breakfast went for a brisk walk 
 of over four miles. Then worked, slowly, till lunch, at 
 opening of " The Pagans " (afterwards to be called 
 "Good-Bye, my Fancy"). Then walked to the station 
 by the fields and back by the road (another 4 miles). 
 Then worked about an hour more on " The Pagans." 
 Have done to-day, in all, from 1,200 to 1,500 words of it. 
 AVhile walking in the afternoon thought out " The Oread " 
 and also the part of it which I shall use in the White 
 Review by Charles Verlayne. 
 
 Saty 4th. Did rest of " The Pagans." In afternoon 
 did first part of " The Oread." 
 
 Sunday 5th. Finished " Oread." 
 
 Tuesday 7th. Went down to Rudgwick, Sussex, by 
 appointment, and agreed to take the cottage on a 3-years' 
 lease." 
 
 Regretfully the wanderings in the Highlands had to 
 be postponed although the projector of the Review went 
 for a time to Loch Goil with a friend and I to Bayreuth. 
 In August we settled in the little eight-roomed cottage, 
 near Rudgwick, with a little porch, an orchard and gar- 
 den, and small lawn with a chestnut tree in its midst. 
 We remained at Phenice Croft two years and took much 
 pleasure in the little green enclosure that was our own. 
 The views from it were not extensive. A stretch of 
 fields and trees lay in front of the house, and from the 
 side lawn we could see an old mill whose red brick roof 
 had been weathered to picturesque shades of green. 
 Phenice Croft stood at the edge of a little hamlet called 
 Buck's Green, and across the road from our garden gate 
 stood the one shop flanked by a magnificent poplar tree, 
 that made a landmark however far we might wander. 
 It was a perpetual delight to us. William Sharp settled 
 down at once to the production of his quarterly to be 
 called, finally. The Pagan Review, edited by himself as 
 W. H. Brooks. As he had no contributors, for he realised 
 he would have to attract them, he himself wrote the whole 
 of the Contents under various pseudonyms. It was pub-
 
 WALT WHITMAN 201 
 
 lished on August 15th, 1892; the cover bore the motto 
 " Sic transit gloria Grundi " and this list of contents : 
 
 The Black Madonna By W. S. Fanshawe 
 
 [This dramatic Interlude was afterwards included in Vistas.} 
 
 The Coming of Love By George Gascoign 
 
 [Republished posthumouely in Songs Old and New.] 
 
 The Pagans : a Romance By William Dreeme 
 
 [Never finished.] 
 
 An Untold Story By Lionel Wingrave 
 
 [Sonnets afterwards printed in Bongs Old and New.} 
 
 The Rape of the Salines By James Marazion 
 
 The Oread By Charles Verlayne 
 
 Dionysos in India By William WindoTer 
 
 Contemporary Record. 
 Editorial. 
 
 The Editorial announced a promised article on " The 
 New Paganism " from the pen of H. P. Siwaarmill, but 
 it was never written. 
 
 As the Foreword gives an idea, not only of the Editor's 
 project, but also of his mental attitude at that moment — 
 a sheer revelling in the beauty of objective life and nature, 
 while he rode for a brief time on the crest of the wave 
 of health and exuberant spirits that had come to him in 
 Italy after his long illness and convalescence — I reprint 
 it in its entirety. 
 
 Editorial prefaces to new magazines generally lay great stress on the 
 effort of the directorate, and all concerned, to make the forthcoming peri- 
 odical popular. 
 
 We have no such expectation: not even, it may be added, any such 
 intention. We aim at thorough-going unpopularity: and there is every 
 reason to believe that, with the blessed who expect little, we shall not be 
 disappointed. 
 
 In the first place. The Pagan Review is frankly pagan: pagan in senti- 
 ment, pagan in convictions, pagan in outlook. This being so, it is a 
 magazine only for those who, with Mr. George Meredith, can exclaim in 
 all sincerity — 
 
 " sir, the truth, the truth ! is't in the skies. 
 Or in the grass, or in this heart of ours- 
 But O, the truth, the truth! . . ."—
 
 202 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 and at the same time, and with the same author, are not unready to admit 
 that truth to life, external and internal, very often 
 
 "... is not meat 
 For little people or for fools." 
 
 To quote from Mr. Meredith once more: 
 
 "... these things are life: 
 And life, they say, is worthy of the Muse." 
 
 But we are well aware that this is just what " they " don't say. " They," 
 " the general public," care very little about the " Muse " at all ; and the 
 one thing they never advocate or wish is that the " Muse " should be so 
 indiscreet as to really withdraw from life the approved veils of Con- 
 vention. 
 
 Nevertheless, we believe that there is a by no means numerically 
 insignificant public to whom The Pagan Review may appeal; though our 
 paramount difficulty will be to reach those who, owing to various circum- 
 stances, are out of the way of hearing aught concerning the most recent 
 developments in the world of letters. 
 
 * * 
 
 The Pagan Review conveys, or is meant to convey, a good deal by its 
 title. The new paganism is a potent leaven in the yeast of the " younger 
 generation," without as yet having gained due recognition, or even any 
 sufficiently apt and modern name, any scientific designation. The " new 
 paganism," the " modern epicureanism," and kindred appellations, are 
 more or less misleading. Yet, with most of us, there is a fairly definite 
 idea of what we signify thereby. The religion of our forefathers has not 
 only ceased for us personally, but is no longer in any vital and general 
 sense a sovereign power in the realm. It is still fruitful of vast good, 
 but it is none the less a power that was, rather than a power that is. 
 The ideals of our forefathers are not our ideals, except where the acci- 
 dents of time and change can work no havoc. A new epoch is about to 
 be inaugurated, is, indeed, in many respects, already begun; a new epoch 
 in civil law, in international comity, in what, vast and complex though the 
 issues be, may be called Human Economy. The long half-acknowledged, 
 half-denied duel between Man and Woman is to cease, neither through 
 the victory of hereditary overlordship nor the triumph of the far more 
 deft and subtle if less potent weapons of the weaker, but through a frank 
 recognition of copartnery. This new comradeship will be not less romantic, 
 less inspiring, less worthy of the chivalrous extremes of life and death, 
 than the old system of overlord and bondager, while it will open perspec- 
 tives of a new-rejoicing humanity, the most fleeting glimpses of which 
 now make the hearts of true men and women beat with gladness. Far 
 from wishing to disintegrate, degrade, abolish marriage, the " new pagan- 
 ism " would fain see that sexual union become the flower of human life. 
 But, first, the rubbish must be cleared away; the anomalies must be 
 replaced by just inter-relations; the sacredness of the individual must
 
 WALT WHITMAN 203 
 
 be recognised; and women no longer have to look upon men as usurpers, 
 men no longer to regard women as spiritual foreigners. 
 
 * * 
 
 These remarks, however, must not be taken too literally as indicative 
 of the literary aspects of The Pagan Review. Opinions are one thing, 
 the expression of them another, and the transformation or reincarnation 
 of them through indirect presentment another still. 
 
 This magazine is to be a purely literary, not a philosophical, partisan, 
 or propagandist periodical. We are concerned here with the new present- 
 ment of things rather than with the phenomena of change and growth 
 themselves. Our vocation, in a word, is to give artistic expression to the 
 artistic " inwardness " of the new paganism ; and we voluntarily turn 
 aside here from such avocations as chronicling every ebb and flow of 
 thought, speculating upon every fresh surprising derelict upon the ocean 
 of man's mind, or expounding well or ill the new ethic. If those who 
 sneer at the rallying cry, " Art for Art's sake," laugh at our efforts, we 
 are well content; for even the lungs of donkeys are strengthened by much 
 braying. If, on the other hand, those who, by vain pretensions and para- 
 doxical clamour, degrade Art by making her merely the more or less 
 seductive panoply of mental poverty and spiritual barrenness, care to do 
 a grievous wrong by openly and blatantly siding with us, we are still 
 content; for we recognise that spiritual byways and mental sewers relieve 
 the Commonwealth of much that is unseemly and might breed contagion. 
 The Pagan Review, in a word, is to be a mouthpiece — we are genuinely 
 modest enough to disavow the definite article — of the younger generation, 
 of the new pagan sentiment, rather, of the younger generation. In its 
 pages there will be found a free exposition of the myriad aspects of life, 
 in each instance as adequately as possible reflective of the mind and 
 literary temperament of the writer. The pass-phrase of the new paganism 
 is ours: Sic transit gloria Grundi. The supreme interest of Man is — 
 Woman: and the most profound and fascinating problem to Woman is, 
 Man. This being so, and quite unquestionably so with all the male and 
 female pagans of our acquaintance, it is natural that literature dominated 
 by the various forces of the sexual emotion should prevail. Yet, though 
 paramount in attraction, it is, after all, but one among the many motive 
 forces of life; so we will hope not to fall into the error of some of our 
 French confreres and be persistently and even supernaturally awake to 
 one functional activity and blind to the general life and interest of the 
 commonwealth of soul and body. It is Life that we preach, if perforce 
 we must be taken as preachers at all; Life to the full, in all its mani- 
 festations, in its heights and depths, precious to the uttermost moment, 
 not to be bartered even when maimed and weary. For here, at any 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. When- 
 ever did a first number of a new magazine fulfil all its editor's dreams
 
 204 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 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 d quatre, the Croix de Bernyl 
 If so, you will recollect the following words of Edgar de Meilhan (alias 
 Theophile Gautier), which I ("I" standing for editor, and associates, 
 and pagans in general) now quote for the delectation of all readers, ad- 
 versely 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 Editob. 
 
 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. Rich- 
 ard 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 sev- 
 eral numbers he would have to provide the larger portion 
 of the material — but the one number had served its pur- 
 pose, 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 !
 
 WALT WHITMAN 205 
 
 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 re- 
 marks gave me as much pleasure as, I have good reason 
 for knowing, they gave to him. He and I have been ' de- 
 lighting ' 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 fore- 
 noon, 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 your- 
 self. Mrs. Brooks' love to Catherine and yourself : Mine, 
 
 Tommaso Mio, 
 
 You know you have . . . 
 
 W. H. Brooks. 
 
 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
 
 206 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 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 rea- 
 sons 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 Nohle Courtesan with 
 much interest. It has a quality of suggestiveness that 
 is rare, and I hope that it will be included in the forth- 
 coming volume to which you allude. ... It seems to me 
 that the story would be improved by less — or more hid- 
 den — 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, 
 
 W. H. Brooks. 
 
 P. S. It is possible that you may surmise — or that a 
 common friend may tell you — who the editor of the P/R 
 is : if so, may I ask you to be reticent on the matter. 
 
 Phenice Ceoft, 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 re- 
 vived 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
 
 WALT WHITMAN 207 
 
 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 hope- 
 ful than reasonable, look for an unglorious but robust 
 resurrection at some more fortunate date. " For of such 
 is the Kingdom of Paganism." 
 
 W. H. Brooks. 
 
 And at the little cottage a solemn ceremony took place. 
 The Eeview 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.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ALGIERS 
 
 Vistas 
 
 ^Maky schemes were mentally cartooned for the autumn 
 and winter's work; but all our plans were suddenly up- 
 set 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 tem- 
 porarily aside and settled himself to write between Oc- 
 tober 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 start- 
 ling adventures. The weaving of sensational plots offered 
 no difficulties to him, but an enjoyment. He did not con- 
 sider 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 
 La\agerie," " The March of Rome," " Rome in Africa," 
 etc. ; also in a series of letters to a friend from which I 
 select one or two: 
 
 BiSKBA, 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 fasci- 
 
 208
 
 ALGIEES 209 
 
 nation 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 day- 
 break 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 High- 
 lands) 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 scenerj'- in particular was very 
 impressive. At many places we had a long stop: but 
 everywhere here railway-travelling is more like journey- 
 ing 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 Ber- 
 bers 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 Eoman outpost-city, Setif. 
 Setif stands about 3,500 ft. high: and crossing the pla- 
 teaux 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
 
 210 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 comparatively few Europeans south of the city of Con- 
 stantine. 
 
 " At a place called El Guerrah we stopped for half an 
 hour for dejeuner. 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 
 Aures mountains, perhaps the most delightful hill-region 
 of North Africa, with certainly the finest population, 
 Berbers like the Kabyles, but Berber-aristocrats — Ber- 
 bers 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 
 tourmente: and, as one fares further, of the Biblical 
 phrase, the abomination of desolation. The whole coun- 
 try seemed under the curse of barrenness : nothing but 
 gaunt ribbed mountains, gaunt ribbed hills, gaunt ribbed 
 sand-plains — this, or stony wastes of an arid desolation 
 beyond words. But though the country did not become 
 less awful in this respect, it grew wilder and stranger as 
 we neared Elkantara. I never saw scenery so terrific. 
 The entrance to the last Gorge was very exciting, for 
 beyond the narrow outlet lay the Sahara and all torrid 
 Africa! North of this last outpost of the colder zone 
 the date-palm refuses to flourish: and here, too, the 
 Saharan Arab will not linger ; but in a quarter of a mile 
 one passes from this arid waste into African heat and 
 a superb oasis of date-palms. It is an indescribable sen- 
 sation — that of suddenly swinging through a narrow and 
 fantastic mountain-gorge, where all is gloom and terror, 
 and coming abruptly upon the full splendour of the sun-
 
 ALGIERS 211 
 
 swept Sahara, with, in the immediate foreground, an im- 
 mense oasis of date-palms, all green and gold! The 
 vista — the vast perspectives — the glory of the sunflood! 
 From that moment, one can hardly restrain one's excite- 
 ment. Very soon, however, we had fresh and unexpected 
 cause for excitement. The train slowly came to a stop, 
 and crowds of Arabs came up. The line had been de- 
 stroyed for more than half a mile — and we were told we 
 must walk across the intervening bit of desert, and ford 
 the Oued-Merjarla, till we reached the train sent to meet 
 us. We could see it in the distance — a black blotch in 
 the golden sunlight. One account was that some revolted 
 Arabs (and some of the outlying tribes are said to be 
 in a chronic state of sullen ill will) had done the mis- 
 chief: another, and more probable, that the hill-courses 
 had swollen the torrent of the Oued-Biskra, which had 
 rent asunder the desert and displaced the lines. The 
 Arabs carried our baggage, and we set forth across our 
 first Sahara -stretch. Despite the heat, the air was so 
 light and delicious that we enjoyed the experience im- 
 mensely. The river (or rather barren river-bed with a 
 pale-green torrent rushing through a deep cleft in the 
 sandy grit) was crossed on a kind of pontoon-bridge. 
 Soon after this the sun sank. We were in the middle of 
 a vast plain, almost surrounded by a series of low, 
 pointed hills, which became a deep purple. Far to the 
 right was a chott (or salt lake) and of lucent silver. For 
 the rest, all was orange-gold, yellow-gold, green-gold, 
 with, high over the desert, a vast effulgence of a mar- 
 vellous roseate flush. Then came the moment of scarlet 
 and rose, saffron, and deepening gold, and purple. In 
 the distance, underneath the dropping sparkle of the 
 Evening Star, we could discern the first palms of the oasis 
 of Biskra. There was nothing more to experience till ar- 
 rival, we thought: but just then we saw the full moon 
 rise out of the Eastern gloom. And what a moon it was ! 
 Never did I see such a splendour of living gold. It 
 seemed incredibly large, and whatever it illumed be- 
 came strange and beautiful beyond words.
 
 212 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 " Then a swift run past some ruined outlying mud- 
 walls and Arab tents, some groups of date-palms, a flash- 
 ing of many lights and clamour of Eastern tongues — and 
 we were in Biskra : El Biskra-ed-Nokkel, to give it its full 
 name (the City of the Palms) ! We found pleasant quar- 
 ters in the semi-Moorish Hotel on Sahara. It has cool 
 corridors, with arched alcoves, on both sides, so that at 
 any time of day one may have coolness somewhere. In 
 the courtyard are seats where we can have coffee and 
 cigarettes under the palms, beside two dear little tame 
 gazelles. . . . 
 
 " This morning we had many novel and delightful 
 glimpses of oriental life. In one narrow street the way 
 was blocked by camels lying or squatting right across 
 the road. As they are laden, they open their mouths, 
 snarlingly, and give vent to an extraordinary sound — 
 part roar, part grunt of expostulation. . . . 
 
 " We came across a group of newly arrived camels 
 from the distant Oasis of Touggourt, laden with enor- 
 mous melons and j^umpkins : and, hopping and running 
 about, two baby camels ! They were extraordinary crea- 
 tures, and justified the Arab saying that the first camel 
 was the offspring of an ostrich and some now extinct kind 
 of monster. . . . Oh, this splendid flood of the sun ! 
 
 CONSTANTINE, 12th Feb., 1893. 
 
 " It would be useless to attempt to give you any idea 
 of all we have seen since I last wrote. The impressions 
 are so numerous and so vivid until one attempts to seize 
 them: and then they merge in a labyrinth of memories. 
 I sent you a P/c from Sidi Okba — the memory of which 
 with its 5,000 swarming Arab population has been some- 
 thing of a nightmare-recollection ever since. I can well 
 believe how the City of Constantine was considered one 
 of the seven wonders of the world. It is impossible to 
 conceive anything grander. Imagine a city hanging down 
 the sides of gorges nearly 1,000 feet in depth — and of the 
 most fantastic and imposing aspect. In these terrible 
 gorges, which have been fed with blood so often, the
 
 ALGIERS 213 
 
 storks and ravens seem like tiny sparrows as they fly 
 to and fro, and the blue rock-doves are simply wisps of 
 aznre. . . . 
 
 Last night I had such a plunge into the Barbaric East 
 as I have never had, and may never have again. I cannot 
 describe, but will erelong tell you of those narrow 
 thronged streets, inexplicably intricate, fantastic, bar- 
 baric: the Moorish cafes filled with motley Orientals — 
 from the turban'd Turk, the fez'd Jew, the wizard-like 
 Moor, to the Kabyl, the Soudanese, the desert Arab : the 
 strange haunts of the dancing girls: the terrible street 
 of the caged women — like wild beasts exposed for sale : 
 and the crowded dens of the Haschisch-eaters, with the 
 smoke and din of barbaric lutes, tam-tams, and nameless 
 instruments, and the strange wild haunting chanting of 
 the ecstaties and fanatics. I went at last where I saw 
 not a single European: and though at some risk, I met 
 with no active unpleasantness, save in one Haschisch 
 place, where by a sudden impulse some forty or fifty 
 Moors suddenly swung round, as the shriek of an Arab 
 fanatic, and with outstretched hands and arms cursed the 
 Gaiour-kelh (dog of an infidel!) : and here I had to act 
 quickly and resolutely. Thereafter one of my reckless 
 fits came on, and I plunged right into the midst of the 
 whole extraordinary vision — for a kind of visionary In- 
 ferno it seemed. From Haschisch-den to Haschisch-den I 
 wandered, from strange vaulted rooms of the gorgeously 
 jewelled and splendidly dressed prostitutes to the alcoves 
 where lay or sat or moved to and fro, behind iron bars, 
 the caged " beauties " whom none could reach save by 
 gold, and even then at risk; from there to the dark low 
 rooms or open pillared places where semi-nude dancing 
 girls moved to and fro to a wild barbaric music. ... I 
 wandered to and fro in that bewildering Moorish maze, 
 till at last I could stand no more impressions. So I 
 found my way to the western ramparts, and looked out 
 upon the marvellous nocturnal landscajDe of mountain and 
 valley — and thought of all that Constantino had been —
 
 214 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 Cabthage, 
 Sunday, 19th Feb. 
 
 " How strange it seems to write a line to London from 
 this London of 2,000 years ago ! The sea breaks at my 
 feet, blue as a turquoise here, but, beyond, a sheet of mar- 
 vellous pale green, exquisite beyond words. To the right 
 are the inland waters where the Carthaginian galleys 
 found haven : above, to the right, was the temple of Baal : 
 right above, the temple of Tanit, the famous Astarte, 
 otherwise " The Abomination of the Sidonians." Where 
 the Carthaginians lived in magnificent luxury, a little 
 out of the city itself, is now the Arab town of Sidi-ban- 
 Said — like a huge magnolia-bloom on the sunswept hill- 
 side. There is nothing of the life of to-day visible, save 
 a white-robed Bedouin herding goats and camels, and, 
 on the sea, a few felucca-rigged fisherboats making for 
 distant Tunis by the Strait of Goletta. But there is life 
 and movement in the play of the wind among the grasses 
 and lentisks, in the hum of insects, in the whisper of 
 the warm earth, in the glow of the burning sunshine that 
 floods downward from a sky of glorious blue. Carthage 
 — I can hardly believe it. What ivresse of the mind the 
 word creates ! " 
 
 The following letter was received shortly after our 
 return : 
 
 19 St. Maby Abbotts Tebbace, W., 
 
 7th March, 1893. 
 
 My dear Sharp, 
 
 I did not reply to your kind letter because I could not 
 divest myself of a certain suspicion of the postal ar- 
 rangements of the desert. I admit however there was 
 little warrant for misgiving since they are evidently civil- 
 ised enough to keep the natives well supplied with copies 
 of The Island. The thought of the studious Sheik pain- 
 fully spelling out that work with the help of his lexicon 
 is simply fascinating, and I have made up my mind to 
 read The Arabian Nights in the original by way of re- 
 turning the compliment. But if I talk any more about 
 myself I shall forget the immediate purpose of this let-
 
 ALGIERS 215 
 
 ter which is to ask if you and Mrs. Sharp are back again; 
 and, if you are, how and when we may see you. I think 
 this was about the date of your promised return. We 
 shall all be delighted to see you and to hear about your 
 journey. You are more than ever Children of To-morrow 
 in my esteem, to be able not only to dare such trips but 
 to do them. When I read your letter I felt more than 
 ever a child of yesterday. Do write and give us a chance 
 of seeing you as soon as you can. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 R. Whiteing. 
 
 Mr. Whiteing was one of the many friends who came 
 to our cottage for week-end visits in the ensuing spring 
 and summer. Among others whom we welcomed were 
 Mrs. Mona Caird, Miss Alice Corkran, Mr. George Cot- 
 terell, Mr. and Mrs. Le Gallienne, the Honble Roden Noel, 
 Mr. Percy White, Dr. Byres Moir, Mr. and Mrs. Frank 
 Rinder, Mr. R. A. Streatfield, Mr. Laurence Binyon, my 
 brother R. Farquharson Sharp, and my sister-in-law 
 Mary, or Marik, who for many years acted as my hus- 
 band's secretary and whose handwriting became familiar 
 to many correspondents who afterwards received letters 
 in handwriting from Fiona Macleod. 
 
 The Diary for December 1893 has the following entries : 
 
 " We came back to a lovely English Spring, the finest 
 for a quarter of a century it is said. In May E. went to 
 Paris for the Salon : I went to Ventnor and Freshwater. 
 " Wrote my long article for Harpers' on " The March of 
 Rome in North Africa." 
 
 " At the end of July we went to Scotland : first for three 
 weeks to St. Andrew's: then to Mrs. Glasford Bells' at 
 Tirinie, near Aberf eldy in Perthshire : then to Corrie, in 
 Arran, for over a fortnight. Then E. visited friends, and 
 I went to Arrochar, etc. Then at my mother's in Edin- 
 burgh: and on my way south I stopped with R. Murray 
 Gilchrist at Eyam, in Derbyshire.
 
 216 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 " In the autumn I arranged with Frank Murray of 
 Derby to publish Vistas. He could afford to give me only 
 £10, but in this instance money was a matter of little im- 
 portance. Harpers' gave me £50 for " The March of 
 Rome." Knowles asked me to do '' La Jeune Belgique " 
 for the September number which I did, and he commis- 
 sioned other work. On the head of it, too, Elkin Mat- 
 thews and John Lane have commissioned an extension of 
 the essay, and translation, for a volume to be issued in 
 the spring. In Good Words, " Froken Bergliot," a short 
 story, was much liked : later, in December, " Love in a 
 Mist " (written June /92) still more so. African articles 
 commissioned by Harpers, Atlantic Monthly, Art Jour- 
 nal, Good Words, and provisionally two others. 
 
 " Have written several stories and poems. Also done 
 the first part of a Celtic romance called Pharais, from 
 the word of Muireadach Albarmach, " Mithil domb triall 
 gu tigh na Pharais." Have mentally cartooned Nostalgia 
 (a short one vol. romance) The Woman of Thirty (do. 
 novel), Ivresse (which I have proposed to Lady Colin 
 Campbell for our collaboration in preference to Eve and 
 I) : " Passee," " Hazard of Love " : a collection of short 
 stories, collectively called The Comedy of Woman: and 
 other volumes in romance, fiction, poetry, and drama. 
 Have done part of Amor (in Sonnets mostly as yet) : and 
 the first part of " The Tower of Silence." Have thought 
 out " Demogorgon " : also, projected a dramatic version 
 of Anna Karenina. 
 
 " Some time ago signed an agreement with Swan Son- 
 nenschin & Co. to write a new life of Rossetti. It will 
 be out, I hope, next spring. Been getting slowly on 
 with it. 
 
 " Besides the bigger things I am thinking of, e. g. in 
 poetic drama " Demogorgon " : in fiction " The Lunes of 
 Youth" (Part 1 of the Trilogy of The Londoners), and 
 the Women series, have thought out The Literary Ideal 
 etc — and also the philosophical " The Brotherhood of 
 Rest." Besides, a number of short stories : some with a 
 definite end in view, that of coherent book-publication.
 
 l/i 7vi Li cc j^ 
 
 £» 
 
 ~ Hi^^ J^ 
 
 •J J'€t /xfLt, Ct^ctJ cli^t>/>. ^ /c/'AM ItrJ-f'/ /-«''<' 
 
 Fac-simile of an autograph poem by William Sharp
 
 ALGIERS 217 
 
 In the background are other works; e. g. DartJiula, 
 thought out nearly fully, which I would like to make my 
 chef d'oeuvre. In all, I have actually on hand eight books, 
 and innumerable stories, articles, etc. 
 
 The things first to be done now are 
 
 Books 1 Finish new Life of Rossetti 
 
 2 Finish Pharais 
 
 3 Write Nostalgia 
 
 4 Collaborate in Ivresse 
 
 then, The Brotherhood of Rest 
 and. The Comedy of Woman 
 and, The Lunes of Youth 
 (Articles) "The Literary Ideal": Flemgen: "Tunisia": 
 " The Province of Constantine " : " The Province of 
 Oran " : " Lyric Japan " : " Chansons D' Amour " : etc etc. 
 (Short Stories) " The late Mrs. Pygmalion" etc. etc." 
 
 Vistas was published early in 1894 by Mr. Frank Mur- 
 ray of Derby in " his Regent Series," of which Frangipani 
 by R. Murray Gilchrist was the first number. The Eng- 
 lish edition of Vistas is dedicated to Madame Elspeth H. 
 Barzia — an anagram on my name. 
 
 In the Dedication to H. W. Alden (author of " God 
 in His World") in the American edition — which con- 
 tains an extra ' Interlude ' entitled " The Whisperer " — 
 the intention of the book is thus explained: 
 
 "You asked me what my aim was in those dramatic 
 interludes which, collectively, I call Vistas. I could not 
 well explain : nor can I do so now. All are vistas of the 
 inner life of the human soul, psychic episodes. One or 
 two are directly autopsychical, others are renderings of 
 dramatically conceived impressions of spiritual emotion : 
 to two or three no quotation could be more apt than that 
 of the Spanish novelist, Emilia Pardo Bazan : ' Enter 
 with me into the dark zone of the human soul.' These 
 Vistas were written at intervals: the most intimate in 
 the spiritual sense, so long ago as the spring of 1886, 
 when during recovery from a long and nearly fatal ill-
 
 218 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 ness ' Lilith ' came to me as a vision and was withheld 
 in words as soon as I could put pen to paper. Another 
 was written in Rome, after a vain effort to express ade- 
 quately in a different form the episode of death-menaced 
 and death-haunted love among those remote Scottish 
 wilds where so much of my childhood and boyhood and 
 early youth was spent. ... I came upon for the first time 
 ' La Princesse Maleine ' and ' L'Intruse.' 
 
 " One or two of the Vistas were written in Stuttgart 
 in 1891, others a year or so later in London or else- 
 where — all in what is, in somewhat unscholarly fashion, 
 called the Maeterlinckian formula. Almost from the first 
 moment it seemed clear to me that the Belgian poet- 
 dramatist had introduced a new and vital literary form. 
 It was one that many had been seeking — stumblingly, 
 among them, the author of Vistas — but Maurice Maet- 
 erlinck wrought the crude material into a form fit for 
 swift and dextrous use, at once subtle and simple. The 
 first which I wrote under this impulse is that entitled 
 ' Finis.' The latest or latest but one (' The Whisperer,' 
 now added to this Edition) seems to me, if I may say so, 
 as distinctively individual as ' The Passing of Lilith,' 
 and some, at least of my critics have noticed this in con- 
 nection with ' The Lute Player.' In all but its final form, 
 it embodies a conception that has been with me for many 
 years, ever since boyhood: a living actuality for me, at 
 last expressed, but so inadequately as to make me differ 
 from the distinguished critic who adjudged it the best 
 of the Vistas. To me it is the most obvious failure in 
 the book, though fundamentally, so near and real emo- 
 tionally." 
 
 END OF PAET ONE
 
 Part II 
 FIONA MACLEOD
 
 / too loill set my face to the wind and throw my handful 
 
 of seed on high, 
 It is loveliness I seek, not lovely things. 
 
 F. M.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE PSEUDONYM 
 
 Pharais 
 
 The summer of 1893 was hot and sunny: and we de- 
 lighted in onr little garden with its miniature lawns, its 
 espalier fruit trees framing the vegetable garden, and 
 its juvenile but to us fascinating flower beds. Horsham, 
 our nearest town, was seven miles distant and the village 
 of Eudgwick lay a mile away up a steady ascent beyond 
 the station. William Sharp was happy once more to be 
 resident in the country, although the surroundings were 
 not a type of scenery that appealed to him. But, as he 
 wrote to a friend, it was not so much the place that he 
 liked " as what is in it conducive to that keen perturba- 
 tion, elation, excitement of mind, which is life worth 
 living." 
 
 At Phenice Croft his imagination was in a perpetual 
 ferment. Out of the projected work that he had noted 
 in his diary, out of those subjects that lay in his mind 
 to germinate and mature, or to wither and be rejected, 
 grew one or two achievements; and in particular after 
 the completion of Vistas, a romance of the Isles, Phar- 
 ais, about which his friend Mr. Cotterell in acknowledg- 
 ing a copy of these Dramatic Interludes, wrote to the 
 author : 
 
 " Vistas should mark a point in your career from 
 which you should go forward to greater things. I am 
 eager to see the Celtic romance." 
 
 The quiet and leisure at Phenice Croft, the peace, the 
 " green life " around were unspeakably welcome to my 
 husband. Once again, he saw visions and dreamed 
 dreams; the psychic subjective side of his dual nature 
 predominated. He was in an acutely creative condition ; 
 and, moreover he was passing from one phase of literary 
 work to another, deeper, more intimate, more permanent. 
 
 221
 
 222 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 So far, he had found no adequate method for the expres- 
 sion of his " second self " though the way was led thereto 
 by Sosplri di Roma and Vistas. 
 
 The Sospiri di Roma was the turning point. Those 
 unrhymed poems of irregular meter are filled not only 
 with the passionate delight in life, with the sheer joy of 
 existence, but also with the ecstatic worship of beauty 
 that possessed him during those spring months we spent 
 in Rome, when he had cut himself adrift for the time 
 from the usual routine of our life, and touched a high 
 point of health and exuberant spirits. There, at last, he 
 had found the desired incentive towards a true expres- 
 sion of himself, in the stimulus and sympathetic under- 
 standing of the friend to whom he dedicated the first of 
 the books published under his pseudonym. This friend- 
 ship began in Rome and lasted throughout the remainder 
 of his life. 
 
 And though this newer phase of his work was at no 
 time the result of collaboration, as certain of his critics 
 have suggested, he was deeply conscious of his indebted- 
 ness to this friend, for — as he stated to me in a letter 
 of instructions, written before he went to America in 
 1896, concerning his wishes in the event of his death — 
 he realised that it was " to her I owe my development 
 as ' Fiona Macleod ' though, in a sense of course, that 
 began long before I knew her, and indeed while I was 
 still a child," and that, as he believed, " without her there 
 would have been no ' Fiona Macleod.' " 
 
 Because of her beauty, her strong sense of life and 
 of the joy of life; because of her keen intuitions and 
 mental alertness, her personality stood for him as a sym- 
 bol of the heroic women of Greek and Celtic days, a sym- 
 bol that, as he expressed it, unlocked new doors in his 
 mind and put him " in touch with ancestral memories " 
 of his race. So, for a time, he stilled the critical, intel- 
 lectual mood of William Sharp to give play to the devel- 
 opment of this new found expression of subtler emotions, 
 towards which he had been moving with all the ardour 
 of his nature.
 
 THE PSEUDONYM 223 
 
 From then till the end of his life there was a continual 
 play of the two forces in him, or of the two sides of his 
 nature: of the intellectually observant, reasoning mind 
 — the actor, and of the intuitively observant, spiritual 
 mind — the dreamer, which differentiated more and more 
 one from the other, and required different conditions, 
 different environment, different stimuli, until he seemed 
 to be two personalities in one. It was a development 
 which, as it proceeded, produced a tremendous strain on 
 his physical and mental resources; and at one time be- 
 tween 1897-8 threatened him with a complete nervous 
 collapse. 
 
 And there was for a time distinct opposition between 
 these two natures which made it extremely difficult for 
 him to adjust his life, for the two conditions which were 
 equally imperative in their demands upon him. His 
 preference, naturally, was for the intimate creative work 
 which he knew grew out of his inner self; though the 
 exigencies of life, his dependence on his pen for his live- 
 lihood — and, moreover the keen active interest ^ William 
 Sharp ' took in all the movements of the day, literary and 
 political, at home and abroad — required of him a great 
 amount of applied study and work. 
 
 During those two years at Phenice Croft, to which he 
 always looked back with deep thankfulness, he was the 
 dreamer — he was testing his new powers, living his new 
 life, and delighting in the opportunity for psychic experi- 
 mentation. And for such experimentation the place 
 seemed to him to be peculiarly suited. To me it seemed 
 " uncanny," and to have a haunted atmosphere — created 
 unquestionably by him — that I found difficult to live in, 
 unless the sun was shining. This uncanny effect was felt 
 by more than one friend; by Mr. Murray Gilchrist, for 
 instance, whose impressions were described by his host 
 in one of the short " Tragic Landscapes." 
 
 Pharais was the first of the books written and pub- 
 lished under the pseudonym of " Fiona Macleod." The 
 first reference to it is in the afore noted diary : " Have 
 also done the first part of a Celtic romance called
 
 224 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 Pharais" The next is in a letter written to Mrs. Janvier 
 from St. Andrews, on 12th August, 1893, before the 
 author had decided on the use of a pseudonym: 
 
 ". . . The white flowers you speak of are the moon- 
 daisies, are they not? — what we call moonflowers in the 
 west of Scotland and ox-eye daisies in England, and mar- 
 guerites in France? ... It is very strange that you 
 should write about them to me just as I was working out 
 a scene in a strange Celtic tale I am writing, called Pha- 
 rais, wherein the weird charm and terror of a night of 
 tragic significance is brought home to the reader (or I 
 hope so) by a stretch of dew-wet moonflowers glimmering 
 white through the mirk of a dusk laden with sea mists. 
 Though this actual scene was written a year or two ago — 
 and one or two others of the first part of Pharais — I am 
 going to re-write it, your letter having brought some 
 subtle inspiration with it. Pharais is a foil to the other 
 long story I am working at. While it is full of Celtic 
 romance and dream and the glamour of the mysterious, 
 the other is a comedy of errors — somewhat in the nature, 
 so far, of "A Fellowe and His Wife" (I mean as to 
 style). In both, at least the plot, the central action, the 
 germinal motif, is original: though I for one lay little 
 stress on extraneous originality in comparison with that 
 inner originality of individual life. ... I have other 
 work on the many occupied easels in the studio of my 
 mind: but of nothing of this need I speak at present. 
 Of minor things, the only one of any importance is a 
 long article on a subject wherein I am (I suppose) the 
 only specialist among English men of letters — the Bel- 
 gian literary Eenaissance since 1880. It is entitled " La 
 Jeune Belgique," and will appear in (I understand) the 
 September number of The Nineteenth Century. . . ." 
 
 ". . . We must each ' gang our ain gait.' I'm singu- 
 larly indifferent to what other people think in any mat- 
 ter where I feel strongly myself. Perhaps it is for this 
 reason that I am rarely ' put out ' by adverse criticism or 
 opinion — except on technical shortcomings. I do a lot of
 
 THE PSEUDONYM 225 
 
 my own work here lying out on the sand-dunes by the 
 sea. Yesterday I had a strange experience. I was writ- 
 ing in pencil in Pharais of death by the sea — and almost 
 at my feet a drowned corpse was washed in by the tide 
 and the slackening urgency of the previous night's gale. 
 The body proves to be that of a man from the opposite 
 Forfar coast. It had been five days in the water, and 
 death had played havoc with his dignity of lifeless man- 
 hood. I learned later that his companion had been found 
 three days ago, tide-drifted in the estuary of the Tay. 
 It was only a bit of flotsam, in a sense, but that poor 
 derelict so sullenly surrendered of the sea changed for 
 me, for a time, the aspect of those blithe waters I love so 
 well. In the evening I walked along the same sands. 
 The sea purred like a gigantic tigress, with a whisper of 
 peace and rest and an infinite sweet melancholy. What a 
 sepulchral fraud. . . . 
 
 " Life seems to move, now high and serene and incred- 
 ibly swift as an albatross cleaving the upper air, now as 
 a flood hurled across rocks and chasms and quicksands. 
 But it is all life — even the strangely still and quiet back- 
 waters, even, indeed, the same healthful commonplace 
 lagoons where one havens so gladly often. . . ." 
 
 Three months later, he wrote to Mr. Eichard Stod- 
 dart and proposed for serial publication in Lippincotts 
 a romance to be called Nostalgia — which was never writ- 
 ten. In the same letter he speaks of " another storj% 
 Pharais," which he describes as 'written deeply in the 
 Celtic spirit and from the Celtic standpoint." Neither 
 suggestion was accepted ; and the author decided to issue 
 Pharais as soon as possible in book form, and not under 
 his own name. 
 
 When in the following year the book was published the 
 author, forgetting that he had ever written Mrs. Janvier 
 about it, sent a copy of it to her, and said merely that it 
 was a book in which he was interested. Whereupon she 
 wrote and asked if the book were not his own, and he 
 replied :
 
 226 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 ". . . Yes, Pharais is mine. It is a book out of my 
 heart, out of the core of my heart. I wrote it with the 
 pen dipped in the very ichor of my life. It has reached 
 people more than I dreamt of as likely. In Scotland es- 
 pecially it has stirred and created a new movement. 
 Here, men like George Meredith, Grant Allen, H, D. 
 Traill, and Theodore Watts hailed it as a * work of 
 genius.' Ignored in some quarters, abused in others, and 
 unheeded by the ' general reader,' it has yet had a re- 
 ception that has made me deeply glad. It is the begin- 
 ning of my true work. Only one or two know I am ' Fi- 
 ona Macleod.' Let you and my dear T.A.J, preserve my 
 secret. I trust you. 
 
 " You will find more of me in Pharais than in any- 
 thing I have written. Let me add that you will find The 
 Mountain Lovers, at which I am now writing when I can, 
 more elemental still, while simpler. . . . By blood I am 
 part Celt, and partly so by upbringing, by Spirit wholly 
 so. . . . One day I will tell you of some of the strange old 
 mysteries of earlier days I have part learned, part di- 
 vined, and other things of the spirit. You can under- 
 stand how I cannot do my true work, in this accursed 
 London." 
 
 A little later he wrote : 
 
 "... I resent too close identification with the so-called 
 Celtic renaissance. If my work is to depend solely on its 
 Gaelic connection, then let it go, as go it must. My work 
 must be beautiful in itself — Beauty is a Queen and must 
 be served as a Queen. 
 
 ". . . You have asked me once or twice about F. M., 
 why I took her name: and how and when she came to 
 write Pharais. It is too complex to tell you just now. . . . 
 The name was born naturally: (of course I had associa- 
 tions with the name Macleod.) It, Fiona, is very rare 
 now. Most Highlanders would tell you it was extinct — 
 even as the diminutive of Fionaghal (Flora). But it is 
 not. It is an old Celtic name (meaning " a fair maid")
 
 THE PSEUDONYM 227 
 
 still occasionally to be found. I know a little girl, the 
 daughter of a Highland clergyman, who is called Fiona. 
 All my work is so intimately wrought with my own ex- 
 periences that I cannot tell you about Pharais, etc., with- 
 out telling you my whole life." 
 
 As a matter of fact Pharais was not the first written 
 expression of the new work. It was preceded by a short 
 story entitled " The Last Fantasy of James Achanna " 
 that in the autumn of 1893 was sent to The Scots Ob- 
 server. It was declined by Mr. Henley who, however, 
 wrote a word of genuine encouragement. He accepted 
 Mr. Henley's decision, and the story was never reprinted 
 in its first form. It was re-written several times ; it was 
 included in The Dominion of Dreams as " The Archer." 
 During the writing of Pharais the author began to real- 
 ise how much the feminine element dominated in the 
 book, that it grew out of the subjective, or feminine side 
 of his nature. He, therefore, decided to issue the book 
 under the name of Fiona Macleod, that " flashed ready 
 made " into his mind. Mrs. Janvier wrote later and 
 asked why he, a man, chose to send forth good work 
 under the signature of a woman. He answered : 
 
 "... I can write out of my heart in a way I could not 
 do as William Sharp, and indeed I could not do so if I 
 were the woman Fiona Macleod is supposed to be, unless 
 veiled in scrupulous anonymity. . . . 
 
 " This rapt sense of oneness with nature, this cos- 
 mic ecstasy and elation, this wayfaring along the ex- 
 treme verges of the common world, all this is so wrought 
 up with the romance of life that I could not bring my- 
 self to expression by my outer self, insistent and tyran- 
 nical as that need is. . . . My truest self, the self who is 
 below all other selves, and my most intimate life and joys 
 and sufferings, thoughts, emotions and dreams, must find 
 expression, yet I cannot save in this hidden way." 
 
 He was wont to say " Should the secret be found out, 
 Fiona dies." Later in the year he wrote : " Sometimes
 
 228 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 I am tempted to believe I am half a woman, and so 
 far saved as I am by the hazard of chance from what a 
 woman can be made to suffer if one let the light of the 
 common day illuminate the avenues and vistas of her 
 heart. ..." 
 
 A copy of Vistas and one of Pliarais were sent to 
 George Meredith, who wrote in acknowledgment to the 
 author : 
 
 Box Hill, July 5, 1894. 
 
 Deae Mr. Sharp, 
 
 ' Vistas ' gave me pleasure, and a high lift at times. 
 There is the breath in it. Only beware of a hurried 
 habit of mind that comes of addiction to Impressionist ef- 
 fects. They engender that mood in readers ultimately. 
 
 ' Pharais ' is in many respects most admirable — pure 
 Celtic salt. I should have written to thank the writer 
 before this : but I am at work up to an hour of the dinner 
 bell day by day at the finish of this novel — and not too 
 happy about it. 
 
 Will you beg Miss Macleod's excuse of me for the mo- 
 ment? Her book is one to fly sure to the mark. I hope 
 you will come to me lq September, when I shall be back 
 there. 
 
 Give my warm respects to your wife. 
 
 Ever faithfully yours, 
 
 George Meredith. 
 
 The following letter to Mr. Grant Allen is one of the 
 earliest that were signed with the pseudonjnii: 
 
 1894. 
 
 Grant Allen, Esq. : 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 I have only now ascertained that you are in England. 
 I was informed that you were in the south of France. 
 Some short time ago I asked Mr. Frank Murray of 
 Derby to forward to you a copy of my just published 
 romance Pharais. I now write to ask if you will accept
 
 THE PSEUDONYM 229 
 
 it as a slight token of homage from the yomigest and 
 latest of Celtic writers to the most brilliant chamjDion of 
 the Celtic genius now living. I do not, however, send it 
 by wa}^ of inveigling you to write about it, much as any 
 word of yours would mean to me both in service and 
 honour: but primarily because of your deep and vivid 
 sympathy not only with nature but with the Celtic 
 vision of nature — and, also, let me add, because of the 
 many delightful hours I have enjoyed with your writings. 
 
 Faithfully yours, 
 
 Mr. Grant Allen replied: 
 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 
 The Ceoft, Hixdhead. 
 
 Dear Madam, 
 
 I thank you for your book, and still more for your 
 charming and too flattering letter. Pharais strikes me as 
 a beautiful and poetical piece of work. It is instinct with 
 the dreamy Celtic genius, and seems to come to us 
 straight from the Isles of the Dead. That shadowy Os- 
 sianic spirit, as of your misty straits and your floating 
 islands, reminds me exactly of the outlook from the west- 
 ern mountains over the summer-blue belted sea as I 
 saw it once on an August morning at Oban. Too shad- 
 owy, sometimes, and too purely poetical, I fear, for your 
 Saxon readers. But the opening sentences are beautiful, 
 and the nature-studies and the sense of colour through- 
 out are charming. Now, after so much praise, will you 
 forgive a few questions and a word of criticism? You 
 are, I take it, a young writer, and so an older hand may 
 give you a hint or two. Don't another time interlard 
 your English with Gaelic. Even a confirmed Celtomaniac 
 like myself finds it a trifle distracting. Don't say " the 
 English," and " the Gaelic." Give a little more story to 
 less pure poetry. Of course I recognise that your work 
 is an idyll, not a novel, a cameo, not a woodcut ; but even 
 so, it seems to me a trifle too dreamy. Forgive this 
 frankness, and remember that success still lies in the lap 
 of the Saxon. Also that we Celts have our besetting sins.
 
 230 WILLIAM SHAKP 
 
 and that perfection in literature lies in avoiding excess 
 in any direction, even that of one's own best qualities. 
 Now a question or two — because you interest me. How in 
 English letters would you write Pharais phonetically, or 
 as near it as our clumsy southern lips can compass? (I 
 have not " the Gaelic," and my Celtic blood is half Irish, 
 half Breton.) And how " Fiona? " Is it something like 
 Feena? And are you Miss or Mrs.? And do you live in 
 Edinburgh? If ever you come south, we hope you will 
 let us know; for my wife read your book before I did, 
 and interested me in it by sketching the story for me. 
 Now see how long a letter I have written unto you, going 
 the Apostle one better, with my own left hand : only the 
 busiest man in England could have found time to do it. 
 
 Faithfully yours. 
 Grant Allen. 
 
 Questions as to the identity of the author were already 
 ' in the air ' ; " F. M's " answer to Mr. Allen shows that 
 the author felt ' her ' security menaced : 
 
 KiLCBEGGAN, AeGYLL, 
 
 1894. 
 
 Dear Mr. Grant Allen, 
 
 You are very kind indeed — both to write to me, you 
 who are so busy, and to promise to do anything you can 
 for my book. It is very good of you. Truly, it is the 
 busiest people who find time to do what is impossible to 
 idle folk. . . . 
 
 I have just had a letter of deeply gratifying praise and 
 recognition from Mr. George Meredith, who says he finds 
 my work ' rare and distinctive.' He writes one phrase, 
 memorable as coming from him : " Be sure that I am 
 among those readers of yours whom you kindle." 
 
 Permit me, dear Mr. Allen, to make a small request 
 of you. If you are really going to be so kind as to say 
 anything about my book I trust you will not hint play- 
 fully at any other authorship having suggested itself to 
 you — or, indeed, at my name being a pseudonym. And, 
 sure, it will be for pleasure to me if you will be as scru-
 
 THE PSEUDONYM 231 
 
 pulous with Mr. Meredith or anyone else in private, as in 
 public, if chance should ever bring my insignificant self 
 into any chit-chat. 
 
 My name is really Fiona (i. e. Fionnaghal — of which 
 it is the diminutive: as Maggie, Nellie, or Dair are di- 
 minutives of Margaret, Helen, or Alasdair). 
 
 I hope to have the great pleasure of seeing Mrs. Allen 
 and yourself when (as is probable) I come south in the 
 late autumn or sometime in November. 
 
 Sincerely and gratefully yours, 
 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 
 St. Andbews, 1894. 
 
 Deab Mr. Grant Allen, 
 
 How generous you are! If it were not for fear of 
 what you say about my Gaelic i^hrases I should quote one 
 to the effect that the wild bees that make the beautiful 
 thoughts in your brain also leave their honey on your 
 lips. 
 
 Your Westminster review has given me keen pleasure 
 — and for everything in it, and for all the kind interest 
 behind it, I thank you cordially. 
 
 What you say about the survival of folklore as a liv- 
 ing heritage is absolutely true — how true perhaps few 
 know, except those who have lived among the Gaels, of 
 their blood, and speaking the ancient language. The 
 Celtic paganism lies profound and potent still beneath 
 the fugitive drift of Christianity and Civilisation, as the 
 deep sea beneath the coming and going of the tides. No 
 one can understand the islander and remote Alban Gael 
 who ignores or is oblivious of the potent pagan and in- 
 deed elementally barbaric forces behind all exterior ap- 
 pearances. (This will be more clearly shown in my next 
 published book, a vol. of ten Celtic tales and episodes 
 — with, I suppose, a more wide and varied outlook on 
 life, tlio' narrow at that! — than either of its predeces- 
 sors.) But excuse this rambling. Your review is all the 
 more welcome to me as it comes to me during a visit to 
 friends at St. Andrews, and to me, alas, the East Coast
 
 232 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 of Scotland is as foreign and remote in all respects as 
 though it were Jutland or Finland. . . . 
 Again with thanks, dear Mr. Allen, 
 
 Most sincerely yours, 
 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 
 P. S. In his letter Mr. Sharp says (writing to me in 
 his delightful shaky Gaelic) that ' both Grant and Nellie 
 Allen are clach-chreadJiain.^ It took me some time to 
 understand the compliment. Clach-chreadh means 
 * stone of clay ' — i. e. a Brick! 
 
 That Mr. Grant Allen was half persuaded as to the 
 identity of the author is shown in the following invita- 
 tion : 
 
 The Cboft, Hindhead, 
 
 July 12, 1894. 
 
 My deak Sharp, 
 
 Kindly excuse foolscap, I am out of note-paper, and 
 on this remote hilltop can't easily get any. As for the 
 type-writing, I am reduced to that altogether, through 
 writer's cramp, which makes my right hand useless even 
 for this machine, which I am compelled to work with my 
 left hand only. — As to Pharais, I will confess I read it 
 with some doubt as to whether it was not your own pro- 
 duction ; and after I had written my letter to Miss Mac- 
 leod, I took it to my wife and said, " Now, if this is 
 William Sharp, what a laugh and a crow he will have over 
 me ! " Le Gallienne, who is stopping with us, was sure 
 it was yours; but on second thoughts, I felt certain, in 
 spite of great likeness of style, there was a feminine 
 touch in it, and sent on my letter. All the same, however, 
 I was not quite satisfied you were not taking us in, espe- 
 cially as your book with Blanche Willis Howard had 
 shown one how womanly a tone you could adopt when 
 it suited you ; and I shan't feel absolutely at rest on the 
 subject till I have seen the " beautiful lassie " in person. 
 If she turns out to be W. S. in disguise, I shall owe you
 
 THE PSEUDONYM 233 
 
 a bad one for it ; for I felt my letter had just that name- 
 less tinge of emotion one uses towards a woman, and a 
 beginner, but which would be sadly out of place with an 
 old hand like yourself, who has alreadv won his spurs in 
 the field of letters. 
 
 We shall be glad to make your cousin's acquaintance 
 (supposing her to exist) in October. It will afford us 
 the opportunity we have long desired of asking you and 
 Mrs, Sharp to come and see us in our moorland cottage, 
 all up among the heather. Indeed, we have had it in our 
 minds all summer to invite you — you are of those whom 
 one would wish to know more intimately. I have long 
 felt that the Children of To-morrow ought to segregate 
 somehow from the children of to-day, and live more in 
 a world of their own society. 
 
 With united kindest regards, and solemn threats of 
 vengeance if you are still perpetrating an elaborate hoax 
 
 against me, 
 
 I am ever 
 
 Yours very sincerely^ 
 
 Grant Allen. 
 
 Unfortunately, there was an imperative reason for 
 bringing our residence at Rudgwick to a close. The 
 damp, autumnal days in the little cottage on its clay soil, 
 and the fatigue of constantly going up and down to town 
 in order to do the work of the Art critic for the Glasgow 
 Herald — which I for some time had undertaken — proved 
 too severe a strain on me, and I found that in the winter 
 months I could not remain at Phenice Croft without be- 
 ing seriously ill. So with great reluctance we decided 
 to give it up at midsummer. I was anxious that we 
 should seek for another cottage, on a main line of rail- 
 way, and on sandy soil ; but my husband feared to make 
 another experiment and preferred that we should make 
 our headquarters in London once again, and that he 
 should go into the country whenever the mood necessi- 
 tated. But his regret was deep. Phenice Croft had seen 
 the birth of Fiona Macleod; he had lived there with an
 
 234 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 intensity of inner life beyond anything he had ever expe- 
 rienced. He knew that life in town would create diffi- 
 culties for him, yet it seemed the wisest compromise to 
 make. Our difficulty of choice was mainly one of ways 
 and means; a considerable part of the ordinary work 
 was in my hands, and I found it difficult to do it satisfac- 
 torily away from London. He expressed his regret in a 
 letter to Mr. Murray Gilchrist: 
 
 Phenice Cboft, 
 27th March, 1894. 
 
 My dear Gilchrist, 
 
 You would have heard from me before this — but I 
 have been too imwell. Besides, I have had extreme pres- 
 sure of matters requiring every possible moment I could 
 give. My wife's health, too, has long been troubling me : 
 and we have just decided that (greatly to my disappoint- 
 ment) we must return to Hampstead to live. Personally, 
 I regret the return to town (or half town) more than I 
 can say : but the matter is one of paramount importance, 
 so there is nothing else to be done. We leave at midsum- 
 mer. As for me, one of my wander-fits has come upon 
 me: the Spring-madness has got into the blood: the sight 
 of green hedgerows and budding leaves and the blue 
 smoke rising here and there in the woodlands has 
 wrought some chemic furor in my brain. Before the 
 week is out I hope to be in Normandy — and after a day 
 or two by the sea at Dieppe, and then at beautiful and 
 romantic Rouen, to get to the green lanes and open 
 places, and tramp '■ towards the sun.' I'll send you a 
 line from somewhere, if you care to hear. 
 
 And now, enough about myself. I have often meant to 
 write to you in detail about your Stone-Dragon. . . . 
 
 I believe in you, camerado mio, but you must take a 
 firm grip of the reins ; in a word, be the driver, not the 
 driven. I think you ought to be able to write a really ro- 
 mantic romance. I hope The Labyrinth may be this 
 book : if not, then it will pave the way. But I think you 
 should see more of actual life: and not dwell so con-
 
 THE PSEUDONYM 235 
 
 tinually in an atmosphere charged with your own imagin- 
 ings — the glamour through which you see life in the main 
 at present. 
 
 Probably you are wise to spend the greater part of 
 each year as you do : but part of the year should be 
 silent otherwise — say in a town like London, or Paris, or 
 in tramping through alien lands, France or Belgium, 
 Scandinavia, or Germany, or Italy, or Spain: if not, in 
 Scotland, or Ireland, or upon our Isles, or remote coun- 
 ties. 
 
 It is because I believe in you that I urge you to beware 
 of your own conventions. Take your pen and paper, a 
 satchel, and go forth with a light heart. The gods will 
 guide you to strange thiugs, and strange things to you. 
 You ought to see more, to feel more, to know more, at 
 first hand. Be not afraid of excess. " The road of excess 
 leads to the palace of wisdom," says Blake, and truly. . . . 
 Meanwhile let me send you a word of sunshine. To be 
 alive and young and in health, is a boon so inestimable 
 that you ought to fall on your knees among your moor- 
 land heather and thank the gods. Dejection is a demon 
 to be ruled. We cannot always resist his tyranny, but 
 we can always refuse to become bondagers to his usurpa- 
 tion. Look upon him as an Afreet to be exorcised with a 
 cross of red-hot iron. He is a coward weakling, after all : 
 take him by the tail and swing him across the moor or 
 down the valley. Swing up into your best. 
 
 Be brave, strong, self-reliant. Then you live. 
 
 Your friend 
 William Sharp. 
 
 We took a small flat in South Hampstead (Rutland 
 House. Greencroft Gardens) that stood high enough for 
 us to see, on clear days, the line of the Surrey hills from 
 the windows, and to give us a fine stretch of sky above 
 the chimney pots. 
 
 The night before leaving Plienice Croft, a lovely still 
 evening, he wrote the little poem.
 
 236 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 THE WHITE PEACE 
 
 It lies not on the sunlit hill 
 
 Nor in the sunlit gleam 
 Nor ever in any falling wave 
 
 Nor ever in running stream — 
 
 But sometimes in the soul of man 
 
 Slow moving through his pain 
 The moonlight of a perfect peace 
 
 Floods heart and brain. 
 
 and sent it to me in a letter (for I had gone to town in 
 advance of him), and told me: 
 
 " Before I left I took up a handful of gravssy turf, and 
 kissed it three times, and then threw it to the four quar- 
 ters — so that the Beauty of the Earth might be seen by 
 me wherever I went and that no beauty I had seen or 
 known there should be forgotten. Then I kissed the 
 chestnut tree on the side lawn where I have seen and 
 heard so much : from the springing of the dream flowers, 
 to the surge of the sea in Pharais." ^ 
 
 Thence he went to Scotland and wrote to me from Kil- 
 creggan, where he was staying with his mother and sis- 
 ters till I could join him : 
 
 " I told you about Whistlefield 1 how it, and all the 
 moorland parts about here just now, is simply a boggy 
 sop, to say nothing of the railway works. I hope we'll 
 have fine weather in lona: it will be lovely there if we 
 go. . . . 
 
 (By the way Mr. Traill had a gratifying notice of 
 Pharais in the Graphic a week or two ago.) 
 
 I have made friends here with a Celtic Islesman from 
 lona who is settled here: and have learned some more 
 legends and customs etc. from him — also got a copy of an 
 ancient MS. map of lona with all its fields, divisions, 
 bays, capes, isles, etc. He says my pronunciation of 
 Gaelic is not only surprisingly good, but is distinctively 
 that of the Isles. 
 
 I have learned the rune also of the reading of the 
 spirit. The ' influence ' itself seems to me purely hyp-
 
 THE PSEUDONYM 237 
 
 notic. I was out with this man McC on Saty. 
 
 night last in a gale, in a small two-sailed wherry. We 
 flew before the squalls like a wild horse, and it was glori- 
 ous with the shriek of the wind, the heave and plunge of 
 the boat, and the washing of the water over the gun- 
 wales. Twice ' the black wind ' came down upon us out 
 of the hills, and we were nearly driven under water. 
 He kept chanting and calling a wild sea-rune, about a 
 water-demon of the isles, till I thought I saw it leaping 
 from wave to wave after us. Strangely, he is a different 
 man the moment others are present. He won't speak a 
 word of Gaelic, nor be ' Celtic ' in any way, nor even 
 give the word as to what will be doing in the isles at this 
 time or any other. This, however, I have noticed often: 
 and all I have ever learned has been in intimacy and 
 privily and more or less casually. On Sunday and Mon- 
 day he avoided me, and would scarce speak : having given 
 himself away and shown his Celtic side — a thing now 
 more than ever foreign to the Celtic nature, which has 
 become passionately reticent. But a few words in Gaelic, 
 and a private talk, put all right again. Last night I got 
 the rune of the ' Ivnitting of the Knots ' and some infor- 
 mation about the Dalt and the Cho-Alt about which I was 
 not clear. He has seen the Light of the Dead, and his 
 mother saw (before her marriage, and before she even 
 saw the man himself) her husband crossing a dark stream 
 followed by his four unborn children, and two in his 
 arms whom afterwards she bore still-born. ..." 
 
 To me the summer was memorable because of my first 
 visit to lona. While there he wrote part of The Sin- 
 Eater, and its prefatory dedication to George Meredith, 
 and projected some of the St. Columba tales ; he renewed 
 impressions of his earlier days on the sacred isle, and 
 stored new experiences which he afterwards embodied in 
 his long essay on lona published in The Divine Ad- 
 venture volume. 
 
 From that Isle of Dreams " Fiona " wrote to Mrs. 
 Tynan-Hinkson :
 
 238 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 Isle of Iona, 
 Dear Mrs. HiNKSON, September, 1894. 
 
 I am, in summer and autumn, so much of a wanderer 
 through the Isles and Western Highlands that letters 
 sometimes are long in reaching me. But your kind note 
 (and enclosure) has duly followed me from Edinburgh 
 to Loch Goil in eastern Argyll and thence deviously here. 
 It will be a great pleasure to me to read what you have 
 to say in the Illus. London News or elsewhere, and I 
 thank j^ou. I wish you could be here. Familiar with your 
 poetry as I am, I know how you would rejoice not only 
 in the Iona that is the holy Icolmkill but also in the Iona 
 that is Ithona, the ancient Celtic Isle of the Druids. 
 There is a beauty here that no other place has, so unique 
 is it. Of course it does not appeal to all. The Sound of 
 Iona divides the Island from the wild Ross of Mull by 
 no more than a mile of water; and it is on this eastern 
 side that the village and the ancient Cathedral and ruined 
 Nunnery etc. stand. Here it is as peaceful as, on the 
 west side, it is wild and grand. I read your letter last 
 night, at sunset, while I was lying on the Cnoc-an-Angeal, 
 the hillock on the west where the angel appeared to St. 
 Columba. To the north lay the dim features of the 
 Outer Hebrides: to the west an unbroken wilderness of 
 waves till they fall against Labrador: to the south, 
 though invisible, the coastline of Ireland. There was 
 no sound, save the deep hollow voice of the sea, and a 
 strange reverberation in a hollow cave underground. It 
 was a very beautiful sight to see the day wane across the 
 ocean, and then to move slowly homeward through the 
 gloaming, and linger awhile by the Street of the Dead 
 near the ruined Abbey of Columba. But these Isles are 
 so dear to me that I think everyone must feel alike! 
 
 I remain 
 
 Sincerely yours, 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 
 P. S. I enclose a gillieflower from close to St. Colum- 
 
 ba's tomb.
 
 THE PSEUDONYM 239 
 
 In November came a letter from Mr. Stedman : 
 
 137 West 78th St., 
 
 My deaeest Friend beyond Seas, ^^^ ^°^^* 
 
 For this in truth you now are. An older poet and 
 comrade than you once held that place in my thoughts, 
 but Time and Work have somehow laid the sword be- 
 tween us — and neither of us is to blame. I never so well 
 obeyed Emerson's advice to recruit our friendship (as 
 we grow older) as when I won, I scarcely know how or 
 why, your unswerving and ever increasing affection. In 
 truth, again, it has been of the greatest service to me, 
 during the most trying portion of my life — the period in 
 which you have given me so much warmth and air — and 
 never has it been of more worth than now you might 
 well think otherwise. 
 
 My birthday began for me with the " Sharp Number " 
 of The Chapbook. I don't know what fact of it gave me 
 the more pleasure (it came at a time when I had a-plenty 
 to worry me) — the beautiful autographic tribute to my- 
 self or the honour justly paid to my dear Esquire-at- 
 arms, whose superb portrait is the envy of our less fortu- 
 nate Yankee-torydons. The last five years have placed 
 you so well to the front, on both sides of the Atlantic, that 
 I can receive no more satisfying tributes than those 
 which you have given me before the world. I feel, too, 
 that it is only during these years that you have come to 
 your full literary strength, there is nothing which the 
 author of your " Ballads " and of " Vistas " cannot do. 
 
 It is a noteworthy fact which you will be glad to hear, 
 that your letter lay by my plate, when I came down to 
 breakfast on the morning of October the eight! The 
 stars in their courses must be in league with you. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Stedman sends her love, and says that your por- 
 trait is that of a man grown handsomer, and, she trusts, 
 more discreet and ascetic ! The month and this letter are 
 now ending with midnight. 
 
 Ever affectionately yours 
 
 Edmund C. Stedman.
 
 240 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 The Chap-book was a little semi-monthly issue pub- 
 lished by Messrs. Stone and Kimball, Chicago. No. 9, 
 the " William Sharp " number, appeared on the 15th of 
 September, three days after that author's birthday. It 
 contained the reproduction of an autograph signed poem, 
 by William Sharp " To Edmimd Clarence Stedman in 
 Birthday Greeting 8th October " ; an appreciation of 
 William Sharp's Poems by Bliss Carmen; " The Birth of 
 a Soul " one of the Dramatic Interludes afterwards in- 
 cluded in Vistas, and a portrait of the Author, 
 
 Notwithstanding the paramount interest to the author 
 of the " F. M," expression of himself as, " W. S." he was 
 not idle. After a visit to Mr. Murray Gilchrist in the 
 latter's home on the Derbyshire moors, W. S. wrote his 
 story " The Gypsy Christ," founded on a tradition which 
 he had learned from his gipsy friends, and set in a weird 
 moorland surroundings. In Harper's there appeared a 
 description of the night-wanderers on the Thames' em- 
 bankment, pathetic frequenters of " The Hotel of the 
 Beautiful Star." The July number of The Portfolio con- 
 sisted of a monograph by him on " Fair Women in Paint- 
 ing and Poetry" (afterwards published in 1)ookform by 
 Messrs. Seeley) which he, at first, intended to dedicate 
 to Mr. George Meredith. His ' second thought ' was ap- 
 proved of by the novelist, who wrote his acknowledg- 
 ment: 
 
 " You do an elusive bit of work with skill. It seems to 
 me, that the dedication was wisely omitted. Thousands 
 of curdling Saxons are surly almost to the snarl at the 
 talk about ' woman.' Next to the Anarchist, we are 
 hated." 
 
 The month of July was saddened by the death of 
 our intimate and valued friend Walter Pater ; upon that 
 friend and his work William Sharp wrote a long appre- 
 ciation which appeared in The Atlantic Monthly. An- 
 other death, at the year-end, caused him great regret, 
 that of Christina Rossetti, whom he had held in deep 
 regard. He felt, as he wrote to her surviving brother: 
 " One of the rarest and sweetest of English singers is
 
 THE PSEUDONYM 241 
 
 silent now. 1882 and 1894 were evil years for English 
 poetry." Later he wrote a careful study of her verse 
 for The Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 As a Christmas card that year he gave me a little book 
 of old wood-cut illustrations, reproduced and printed on 
 lona. On the inside of the cover he wrote what he held 
 to be his creed. It is this : 
 
 Credo 
 
 " The Universe is eternally, omnipresently and con- 
 tinuously filled with the breath of God. 
 
 " Every breath of God creates a new convolution in the 
 brain of Nature : and with every moment of change in 
 the brain of Nature, new loveliness is wrought upon the 
 earth. 
 
 " Every breath of God creates a new convolution in 
 the brain of the Human Spirit, and with every moment 
 of change in the brain of the Human Sj^irit, new hopes, 
 aspirations, dreams, are wrought within the Soul of the 
 Living. 
 
 " And there is no Evil anywhere in the Light of this 
 creative Breath : but only, everywhere, a redeeming from 
 Evil, a winning towards Good."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS 
 
 The Sin-Eater 
 
 It was soon evident that the noise and confused mag- 
 netism of the great City weighed disastrously on William 
 Sharp. At the New Year, 1895, he wrote to a friend: 
 
 " London I do not like, though I feel its magnetic 
 charm, or sorcery. I suffer here. The gloom, the streets, 
 the obtrusion and intrusion of people, all conspire 
 against thought, dream, true living. It is a vast reservoir 
 of all the evils of civilised life with a climate which makes 
 me inclined to believe that Dante came here instead of to 
 Hades." 
 
 The strain of the two kinds of work he was attempting 
 to do, the immediate pressure of the imaginative work 
 became unbearable, " the call of the sea," imperative. 
 
 As he has related in " Earth, Fire and Water " : " It 
 was all important for me not to leave in January, and in 
 one way I was not ill-pleased for it was a wild winter. 
 But one night I awoke hearing a rushing sound in the 
 street, the sound of water. I would have thought no 
 more of it had I not recognised the troubled sound of 
 the tide, and the sucking and lapsing of the flow in muddy 
 hollows. I rose and looked out. It was moonlight, and 
 there was no water. When after sleepless hours I rose 
 in the grey morning I heard the splash of waves, I could 
 not write or read and at last I could not rest. On the 
 afternoon of that day the waves dashed up against the 
 house." 
 
 An incident showed me that his malaise was curable by 
 one method only. A telegram had come for him that 
 morning, and I took it to his study. I could get no an- 
 swer. I knocked, louder, then louder, — at last he opened 
 
 242
 
 THE MOUNTAIN LOVEES 243 
 
 the door with a curiously dazed look in his face. I ex- 
 plained. He answered " Ah, I could not hear you for the 
 sound of the waves ! " It was the first indication to me, 
 in words, of what troubled him. 
 
 That evening he started for Glasgow en route for Ar- 
 ran, where I knew he would find peace. 
 
 " The following morning we (for a kinswoman was 
 with me) stood on the Greenock pier waiting for the 
 Hebridean steamer and before long were landed on an 
 island, almost the nearest we could reach that I loved so 
 well. . . . That night, with the sea breaking less than a 
 score of yards from where I lay, I slept, though for three 
 nights I had not been able to sleep. When I woke the 
 trouble was gone." 
 
 There is a curious point in his telling of this episode. 
 Although the essay is written over the signature of " Fi- 
 ona Macleod " and belongs to that particular phase of 
 work, nevertheless it is obviously " William Sharp " who 
 tells the story, for the " we " who stood on the pier at 
 Greenock is himself in his dual capacity ; " his kins- 
 woman " is his other self. 
 
 He wrote to me on reaching his destination : 
 
 CoRRiE, Isle of Abran, 
 
 20: 2: 1895. 
 
 "You will have had my telegram of my safe arrival 
 here. There was no snow to speak of along the road 
 from Brodick (for no steamer comes here) — so I had 
 neither to ride nor sail as threatened : indeed, owing to 
 the keen frost (which has made the snow like powder) 
 there is none on the mountains except in the hollows, 
 though the summits and flanks are crystal white with 
 a thin veil of frozen snow. 
 
 It was a most glorious sail from Ardrossan. The sea 
 was a sheet of blue and purple washed with gold. Ar- 
 ran rose above all like a dream of beauty. I was the 
 sole passenger in the steamer, for the whole island! 
 What made the drive of six miles more beautiful than 
 ever was the extraordinary fantastic beauty of the frozen
 
 244 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 waterfalls and bums caught as it were in the leap. 
 Sometimes these immense icicles hung straight and long, 
 like a Druid's beard: sometimes in wrought sheets of 
 gold, or magic columns and spaces of crystal. 
 
 Sweet it was to smell the pine and the heather and 
 bracken, and the salt weed upon the shore. The touch 
 of dream was upon everything, from the silent hills to the 
 brooding herons by the shore. 
 
 After a cup of tea, I wandered up the heights behind. 
 In these vast solitudes peace and joy came hand in hand 
 to meet me. The extreme loneliness, especially when I 
 was out of sight of the sea at last, and could hear no 
 more the calling of the tide, and only the sough of the 
 wind, was like balm. Ah, those eloquent silences: the 
 deep pain-joy of utter isolation : the shadowy glooms and 
 darkness and mystery of night-fall among the moun- 
 tains. 
 
 In that exquisite solitude I felt a deep exaltation grow. 
 The flowing of the air of the hills laved the parched 
 shores of my heart. . . . 
 
 There is something of a strange excitement in the 
 knowledge that two people are here : so intimate and yet 
 so far-off. For it is with me as though Fiona were asleep 
 in another room. I catch myself listening for her step 
 sometimes, for the sudden opening of a door. It is un- 
 awaredly that she whispers to me. I am eager to see 
 what she will do — particularly in The Mountain Lovers. 
 It seems passing strange to be here with her alone at 
 last. ..." 
 
 The Mountain Lovers was published in the summer of 
 1895 by Mr. John Lane. A copy of it was sent to Mr. 
 George Meredith with the following letter : 
 
 9 Uppee Coltbbidge Terrace, 
 
 mubeatfield. 
 
 Deak Sir, 
 
 Will you gratify one of your most loyal readers by the 
 acceptance of the accompanying book? Nothing helped
 
 
 ^X^^ 
 
 Fac-simile of an autograph "Fiona Macleod" poem 
 by William Sharp
 
 THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS 245 
 
 me so much, or gave me so much enduring pleasure, as 
 your generous message to me about my first book, Plia- 
 rais, which you sent through my cousin, Mr. William 
 Sharp. 
 
 Naturally, I was eager it should appeal to you — not 
 only because I have long taken keener delight in your 
 writings than in those of any living author, but also 
 because you are Prince of Celtland. . . . 
 
 I hope you will be able to read, and perhaps care for, 
 The Mountain Lovers. It is not a story of the Isles, like 
 Pliarais, but of the remote hill-country in the far north- 
 west. I know how busy you are: so do not consider it 
 necessary to acknowledge either the book or this letter. 
 Still, if some happy spirit move you, I need not say that 
 even the briefest line from you would be a deep pleasure 
 to 
 
 Yours, with gratitude and homage, 
 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 
 Acknowledgment came swiftly: 
 
 Box Hill, July 13, 1895. 
 
 Deae Madam, 
 
 If I could have written on any matter out of my press 
 of work when I received your Pliarais, there would have 
 been no delay with me to thank you for such a gift to 
 our literature. This book on the " Mountains " promises 
 as richly. Whether it touches equally deep, I cannot yet 
 say. I find the same thrill in it, as of the bard on the 
 three-stringed harp, and the wild western colour over sea 
 and isles ; true spirit of the mountains. How rare this is ! 
 I do not know it elsewhere. Be sure that I am among 
 those readers of yours whom you kindle. I could write 
 more, but I have not recovered from the malady of the 
 degout de la plume, consequent on excess — and I pray 
 that it may never fall on you. For though it is wisdom 
 at my age to cease to write, it is not well to be taught to 
 cease by distaste. That is a giving of oneself to the 
 enemy. I have to be what I am, and I disclose it to win
 
 246 AVILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 your pardon for my inexpressiveness when I am warmly 
 sensible of a generous compliment. 
 
 I am, Yours most faithful 
 
 George Meredith. 
 
 It was in 1895 that the Omar Khayyam Club under the 
 Presidentship of Mr. Edward Clodd, who was an old per- 
 sonal friend of Mr. Meredith, elected to hold its summer 
 dinner at the Burford Bridge Hotel. Mr. Thomas Hardy, 
 Mr. Watts-Dunton, Mr. George Gissing and William 
 Sharp were among the guests. Mr. Clodd knew that it 
 would be difficult to persuade Mr. Meredith to be present 
 at the dinner. Nevertheless he lured him to the Hotel, 
 and when coffee was served, (I quote from a contempo- 
 rary account) "the beautiful face of the great novelist 
 appeared within the doorway, and he was welcomed with 
 enthusiasm by all present. The president extended to 
 Mr. Meredith the right hand of fellowship on behalf of 
 the Club, in a charming and eloquent speech not devoid 
 of pathos. Mr. Meredith in his reply declared that Mr. 
 Clodd was the most amiable of Chairmen but the most 
 dastardly of deceivers. Never before, he added, had he 
 been on his legs to make a speech in public, now before 
 he knew it he was bustled over the first fence, and found 
 himself overrunning the hounds. ' I have my hands on 
 the fellow at this moment ' he continued laughingly ' and 
 I could turn on him and rend him, but I spare him.' 
 After a few graceful and characteristic sentences con- 
 cerning the Club and its object, and Omar, and expressing 
 his appreciation of his reception Mr. Meredith said in 
 conclusion : ' I thank you from my heart, everyone of 
 you.' " 
 
 Much to William Sharp's satisfaction he was elected 
 member of the Omar Khayyam Club in the autumn of the 
 same year. On receipt of the annoimcement of the fact 
 the new member wrote to the President :
 
 THE MOUNTxVIN LOVERS 247 
 
 Rutland House, 
 2d Nov., 1895. 
 
 Dear Brother-in-Omar, 
 
 On my return from Scotland the other day I found a 
 note informing me that I had been elected an Omarian 
 on the nomination of your distinguished self. 
 
 My thanks, cher confrere. 'A drop of my special grape 
 to you,' as Omar might say, if he were now among us 
 with a Hibernian accent ! Herewith I post to you another 
 babe, born into this ungrateful world so recently as yes- 
 terday. . . . Such as it is, I hope you may like it. " Ecce 
 Puella " itself was written at white heat — and ran in 
 ripples off the brain : and so is j^robably readable. 
 
 " Fragments from The Lost Journals of Piero di 
 Cosimo " when they appeared (some few years ago) won 
 the high praise of Pater — but perhaps their best distinc- 
 tion is that they took in the cocksure and levelled the 
 Omniscient. One critical wight complained that I was 
 not literal (probably from the lack of knowledge of medi- 
 eval Italian), which he clinched by the remark that he 
 had compared my version with the original! I see that 
 Silas Hocking has just published a book called " All men 
 are liars." I would fain send a copy to that critic, even 
 now. By the way, my cousin Miss Fiona Macleod wrote 
 to me the other day for your address. I understand she 
 wanted to send you a copy of her new book. If you get 
 it, you should, as a folk-lorist, read the titular story, The 
 Sin-Eater. 
 
 My wife joins with me in cordial regards, and I am 
 
 Sincerely yours, 
 William Sharp. 
 
 The President replied: 
 
 19 Cableton Road, 
 
 TUFNELL Pabk 
 
 5th Nov. 
 
 My dear Sharp, 
 
 It is an addition to the pleasant memories of my year 
 of office to know that you are of the elect. You come in 
 with Lang and Gissing. By the way, the next dinner is 
 fixed for the sixth proximo. And it is an addition to a
 
 248 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 burden of obligation willingly borne which your kind gift 
 imposes. For work such as yours has unending charm 
 for me, because while Science was my first love and is 
 still my dear mistress, I love her more for what she sug- 
 gests than what she reveals. Facts, unrelated, bore me : 
 only in their significance does one get abiding interest. 
 That is why your ' Vistas ' and such like delicate, throb- 
 bing things attract me. Some of these were especially 
 welcome on a recent dull Sunday by our ' cold restless 
 sea,' on which in bright days you promise to come with 
 Allen to look at it from my window. Your delicious story 
 of the critic sent me straight to the Journal of di Cosimo. 
 How well you produce the archaic flavour : the style has 
 a Celtic ring about it. As for ' Ecce Puella ' I await the 
 hearing of it from the voice of a ' puella ' who likes your 
 work. I was at Meredith's on Sunday week: he keeps 
 wonderfully well for him : his talk is bright as his face is 
 beautiful. He has his fling at me over the Burford 
 Bridge deception, and says that my duplicity cost you all 
 a fine speech. I tell him that the speech we had was good 
 enough for ' the likes of us.' So Fiona Macleod is your 
 cousin! She is of the ' elect.' I take it as most kind of 
 her to send me her new book, which I have as yet but 
 partly read, and am about to acknowledge. She holds a 
 weird, strong pen, and will help the Celt to make further 
 conquest of the dullard Saxons. Meredith and I talked 
 about her " Mountain Lovers " when I was with him in 
 August. 
 
 Kindest regards to Mrs. Sharp and yourself. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 Edward Clodd. 
 
 In the Autumn of 1894 we had come in touch with Pro- 
 fessor and Mrs. Patrick Geddes of Edinburgh, and a 
 friendship with far reaching results for " Fiona Mac- 
 leod " arose between the two men. Both were idealists, 
 keen students of life and nature ; cosmopolitan in outlook 
 and interest, they were also ardent Celts who believed in 
 the necessity of preserving the finer subtle qualities and
 
 THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS 249 
 
 the spiritual heritage of their race against the encroach- 
 ing predominance of materialistic ideas and aims of the 
 day. 
 
 It was the desire and dream of such idealists and 
 thinkers as Professor Geddes, and those associated with 
 him, to preserve and nurture what is of value and of 
 spiritual beauty in the race, so that it should fuse into 
 and work with, or become part of, the great acquisitions 
 and marvellous discoveries of modern thought. To hold 
 to the essential beauty and thought of the past, while 
 going forward eagerly to meet the new and ever increas- 
 ing knowledge, was the desire of both men. In their aims 
 they were in sympathy with one another ; their manner of 
 approach and methods of work were different. Patrick 
 Geddes — biologist — was concerned primarily with the 
 practical and scientific expression of his ideals ; William 
 Sharp was concerned primarily with expression through 
 the art of words. Mutually sympathetic, they were eager 
 to find some way of collaboration. 
 
 It was the dream of Professor Geddes to restore to 
 Scotland something of its older pre-eminence in the world 
 of thought, to recreate in Edinburgh an active centre 
 and so arrest the tremendous centralising power of the 
 metropolis of London; to replace the stereotyped meth- 
 ods of education by a more vital and synthetic form; 
 and to encourage national art and literature. Towards 
 the carrying out of these aims he had built a University 
 Hall and Settlement for students, artists, etc. Per- 
 haps the most important of his schemes, certainly the 
 most important from the modern scientific point of view 
 was the planning of the Outlook Tower — once an observ- 
 atory — now an educational museum on the Castle Rock 
 commanding a magnificent view of the city, of the sur- 
 rounding country, of sea and sky ; " an institution that 
 is designed to be a method of viewing the problems of 
 the science of life." According to Professor Geddes " Our 
 little scholastic colony in the heart of Edinburgh symbol- 
 ises a movement which while national to the core, is really 
 cosmopolitan in its intellectual reach."
 
 250 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 Grouped with this scientific effort, was the aim to re- 
 vive the Celtic influence in art and literature; and the 
 little colony contained a number of men and women who 
 were working to that end; notably among the painters 
 were James Cadenhead, Charles Mackie, Robert Bums, 
 John Duncan, also Pittendrigh MacGillivray the sculptor ; 
 and among the writers Professor Arthur Thomson, Dr. 
 Douglas Hyde, Nora Hopper, Rosa Mulholland, A. Per- 
 cival Graves, S. R. Crockett, Elisee Reclus, Alexander 
 Carmichael, Victor Branford, Professor Patrick Geddes, 
 F. M. and W. S. 
 
 Into that eager and sympathetic atmosphere of linked 
 thought and aim my husband and I were speedily drawn ; 
 and before long a Publishing Firm was established for 
 the issuing of Celtic Literature and Works on Science. 
 To Mr. and Mrs. Geddes was confided the important se- 
 cret relating to the personality of " Fiona Macleod," to 
 the thoughts and ideals that unlay ' her ' projected work. 
 It was arranged that William Sharp should be the Man- 
 ager in the Firm of Patrick Geddes & Colleagues (which 
 post he very soon relinquished for that of Literary Ad- 
 viser) ; an arrangement which made it possible for that 
 particular Colleague to publish three of his " F. M." 
 books under his immediate supervision and from what 
 was then one of the centres of the Celtic movement. 
 This post, naturally, necessitated frequent visits to 
 Edinburgh. For the month of August 1895 we took 
 a flat in the neighbourhood of the University settle- 
 ment so that we might share actively in the Summer 
 Session. 
 
 It was an interesting experience. The students came 
 from England, Scotland, France, Italy, and Germany; 
 among the lecturers in addition to Professors Geddes and 
 Arthur Thomson were Elisee Reclus the geographer and 
 his brother Elie Reclus, Edmond Demolins and Abbe 
 Klein. 
 
 W. S. prepared his lectures in rough outline. His in- 
 experience in such work led him to plan them as though 
 he were drafting out twelve books, with far more mate-
 
 THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS 251 
 
 rial than he could possibly use in the time at his disposal. 
 His subject was " Art and Life " divided into ten lec- 
 tures : 
 
 L Life & Art : Art & Nature : Nature. 
 II. Disintegration : Degeneration : Regeneration. 
 
 III. The Return to Nature : In Art, in Literature. The 
 
 Literary Outlook in England & America. 
 
 IV. The Celtic Renascence, Ossian, Matthew Arnold, 
 
 The Ancient Celtic Writers. 
 V. The Celtic Renascence. Contemporary. The 
 
 School of Celtic Ornament. 
 VL The Science of Criticism: What it is, what it is 
 not. The Critical Ideal. 
 VIL Ernest Hello. 
 VIII. The Drama of Life, and Dramatises. 
 IX. The Ideals of Art — pagan. Mediaeval, modern. 
 X. The Literary Ideal — Pagan, Mediaeval. The Mod- 
 ern Ideal. 
 
 One lecture only was delivered; for during it he was 
 seized with a severe heart attack and all his notes fell 
 to the ground. It was with the greatest effort that he 
 was able to bring the lecture to a close: and he realised 
 that he must not attempt to continue the course; the 
 risk was too great. Therefore, while I remained in Edin- 
 burgh to keep open house for the entertainment of the 
 students, he went to the little Pettycur Inn at Kinghorn, 
 on the north side of The Firth of Forth, till I was able 
 to join him at Tighnabruaich in the Kyles of Bute where 
 we had taken a cottage with his mother and sisters for 
 September. 
 
 Two volumes of short stories were published in the 
 late Autumn. It was the writer's great desire that work 
 should be issued by W. S. and by F. M. about the same 
 time; in part to sustain what reputation belonged to his 
 older Literary self, and in part to help to preserve the 
 younger literary self's incognito. Ecce Puella published 
 by Mr. Elkin Matthew for W. S. was a collection of
 
 252 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 stories &c. that had been written at different times and 
 issued in various magazines, and prefaced by a revised 
 and shortened version of the Monograph on " Fair 
 Women in Painting and Poetry." It contained among 
 other short stories one entitled " The Sister of Com- 
 passion," dedicated " to that Sister of compassion for all 
 suffering animals, Mrs. Moua Caird," our dear friend. 
 The other volume contained the first series of barbaric 
 tales and myths of old Celtic days, " recaptured in 
 dreams," that followed in quick succession from the pen 
 of Fiona Macleod. The Sin-Eater was the first of the 
 three F. M. books published by the new Scoto-Celtic 
 publishers. The Author was gratified by favourable 
 reviews from important journals, and by letters, from 
 which I select two. 
 
 The first is from Mr. Hamilton W. Mabie : 
 
 The Outlook, 
 13 AsTOR Place, 
 May 23d, 1897. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 The Sin-Eater came in holiday week and was one of 
 my most welcome remembrances. I have read it with 
 deep pleasure, almost with envy, so full is it of the 
 stuff which makes literature. It has the vitality and 
 beauty of a rich and living imagination. The secrets 
 of the spirit are in it, and that fellowship with the pro- 
 founder experiences which gets at the heart of a race. 
 I have not forgotten your kind words about my own 
 work; words which gave me new heart and hope. For 
 you are the very tyi3e of man to whose mind I should 
 like to appeal. The judgment of Mrs. Sharp, which you 
 quote, gave me sincere pleasure. To get the attention 
 of the few for whose opinion one cares most is a piece 
 of great good fortune; to really find one's way to their 
 hearts is best of all. I am looking forward to a good 
 long talk with you. I wish you were here today. This 
 is a divine May; balmy, fragrant, fresh; as if it had 
 never been here before. There is enough soul in Miss 
 Macleod's stories to set up a generation of average nov-
 
 THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS 253 
 
 elists. The work of the real writer seems to me a mira- 
 cle; something from the sources of our life. I have 
 found, however, so few among all my good literary 
 friends who feel al)out literature as I do that I have 
 felt at times as if I had no power of putting into words 
 what lies in my heart. This does not mean that I have 
 missed appreciation; on the contrary, I have had more 
 than I deserve. But most of the younger men here re- 
 gard literature so exclusively as a craft and so little as 
 a revelation that I have often missed the kind of fellow- 
 shij) which you gave me. The deeper feeling is, how- 
 ever, coming back to us in the work of some of the newest 
 men — Bliss Carman for instance. There is below such 
 a book as " Vistas " a depth and richness of imagination 
 which have rarely been disclosed here. I hope you will 
 find time to send me an occasional letter. You will do 
 me a real service. I am now at work on a book which 
 I hope will be deeper and stronger than anything I have 
 done yet. There is the stir of a new life here, although 
 it may be long in getting itself adequately expressed. 
 
 Yours fraternally, 
 
 Hamilton W. Mabie. 
 
 The second is from Sir George Douglas, poet, scholar, 
 and keen critic: 
 
 Spbingwood Park, Ivelso, 
 
 23:12: 95. 
 
 My deak Shakp, 
 
 Many thanks for j'our interesting letter and enclosures. 
 I am very glad to find that you think I have understood 
 Miss Macleod's work, and I think it very good of her 
 to have taken my out-spoken criticisms in such good part. 
 Certainly if she thinks I can be of any use to her in read- 
 ing over the proofs of " The Washer of the Ford," it 
 will be a great pleasure to me. I shall probably be in 
 Italy by the time she names — the end of Feb. but in 
 these days of swift posts I hope that need not matter. 
 "VMiat you tell me of Fiona's admirer is very interesting, 
 and from my recollection of the way in which books and
 
 254 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 the fancied personality of their authors possessed my 
 mind when I was a youth, I can well enter into his in- 
 fatuation. Fortunately there were no women among- 
 my " influences," or I might have been in as bad a case 
 as he! Would not this be a case for telling the secret, 
 under pledges of course, if it were only to prevent mis- 
 chief? By the way the whole incident seems to me to 
 afford excellent material for literary treatment — not by 
 you perhaps, nor yet by me (for the literary element 
 in the material puts it outside your province, and makes 
 it not quite the theme I like for my own use either) but 
 say, for W. 
 
 Yours ever sincerely, 
 
 George Douglas. 
 
 I do not quite agree with you as to the inception of 
 Miss Macleod, and possibly this is a matter in which you 
 are not the best possible judge. At any rate, without 
 going into the matter, I fancy that I could establish the 
 existence in works earlier than the Poems of Phantasy 
 of a certain mystical tendency, (German perhaps rather 
 than Celtic in its colouring at that time) but none the 
 less akin to the mysticisms of F. M. 
 
 But I may be mistaken. . . 
 
 Our friend. Sir George Douglas, had followed the lit- 
 erary career of William Sharp with careful interest, and 
 gave the same heed to the writings of " Fiona Macleod." 
 After perusal of The Sin-Eater he made a careful study 
 of the two methods of work, and wrote to the author to 
 tell him he was finally convinced from internal evidence 
 that William Sharp was the author of these books un- 
 der discussion. He did not ask for confirmation but 
 wished the author to know his conclusions. The latter, 
 who valued not only the friendship but the critical ap- 
 preciation of his correspondent, made no denial, but 
 begged that the secret might be guarded. In Sir George 
 Douglas' answer is a reference to a curious incident 
 which had happened while we were at Rudgwick. A
 
 THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS 255 
 
 letter came from an unknown correspondence containing 
 a proposal of marriage to Fiona Macleod. Whether it 
 was intended as a "draw" or not we could not decide. 
 The proposal was apparently written in all seriousness. 
 Similarities of taste, details of position, profession etc., 
 were carefully given. Acceptance was urged with all ap- 
 pearance of seriousness; therefore the refusal was 
 worded with gravity befitting the occasion.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE WASHER OF THE FOED 
 
 Owing to the publication of The Sin-Eater by a firm 
 identified with the Scoto-Celtic movement the book at- 
 tracted immediate attention. Dr. Douglas Hyde voiced 
 the Irish feeling when he wrote to my husband : " I think 
 Fiona Macleod's books the most interesting thing in the 
 new Scoto-Celtic movement, which I hope will march side 
 by side with our own." This movement was according to 
 "William Sharp " fundamentally the outcome of Ossian, 
 and immediately of the rising of the sap in the Irish na- 
 tion." Following on the incentive given by such scholars 
 as Windische, AYhitly Stokes, Kuno Meyer, and the vari- 
 ous Folklore societies, a Gaelic League had been formed 
 by enthusiasts in Ireland, and in Scotland, for the pres- 
 ervation and teaching of the old Celtic tongue; for the 
 study of the old literatures of which priceless treasures 
 lay untouched in both countries, and for the encourage- 
 ment of natural racial talent. Wales had succeeded in 
 recovering the use of her Cymric tongue ; and the expres- 
 sion in music of racial sentiment had become widespread 
 throughout that country. Ireland and the Highlands 
 looked forward to attaining to a similar result; and ef- 
 forts to that end were set agoing in schools, in classes, by 
 means of such organisations as the Irish Feis Ceoil Com- 
 mittee, the Irish Literary Society and the Irish National 
 Theatre. Their aim was to preserve some utterance of 
 the national life, to mould some new kind of romance, 
 some new element of thought, out of Irish life and tra- 
 ditions. Among the most eager workers were Dr. Doug- 
 las Hyde, Mr. W. B. Yeats, Mr. Standish O'Grady, Mr. 
 George Russell (A.E.), Dr. George Sigerson, and Lady 
 Gregory. 
 
 In Scotland much valuable work had been done by such 
 
 256
 
 THE WASHER OF THE FORD 257 
 
 men as Campbell of Islay, Cameron of Brodick, Mr. Alex- 
 ander Carmichel ; by the Gaelic League and the Highland 
 Mod and its yearly gatherings. There were writers and 
 poets also who used the old language and were conse- 
 quently known within only a small area. No conspicu- 
 ous modeni Celtic work had hitherto been written in the 
 English tongue until the appearance of the writings of 
 Fiona Macleod, and later of Mr. Neil Munro. The Sin- 
 Eater was therefore warmly welcomed on both sides of 
 the Irish Channel, and Fiona Macleod, acclaimed as the 
 leading representative of the Highland Gael, " our one 
 and only Highland novelist." The Irish Independent 
 pronounced her to be " the poet born," " her work is pure 
 romance — and she strikes a strange note in modern lit- 
 erature, but it has the spirit of the Celt, and is another 
 triumph for the Celtic genius." 
 
 In consequence of this reception, and of a special arti- 
 cle in The Bookman, speculations began to be made con- 
 cerning the unknown and unseen authoress. The High- 
 land Neivs in pursuance of its desire to awake in the 
 Highlands of Scotland an active sympathy with the grow- 
 ing Scoto-Celtic movement, was anxious to give some de- 
 tails concerning the new writer. To that end Mr. John 
 Macleay wrote to William Sharp to ask if " considering 
 your relation towards Miss Macleod, you might be able 
 to tell me where I could obtain any personal information 
 about her." In reply, a few sparse notes were sent; the 
 author in question was said to have passed her girlhood 
 in the West Highlands; her tastes, her dislike of towns 
 and her love of seclusion, were among the characteristics 
 described. 
 
 When, early in 1896, The Highland News wrote to sev- 
 eral authors to ask their views on the subject of Litera- 
 ture in the Highlands, Mr. Grant Allen, Mrs. K^therine 
 TjTian Hinkson, Fiona Macleod and William Sharp were 
 among those writers whose letters, expressive of interest 
 and sympathy, were published. 
 
 The two letters contributed by my husband were writ- 
 ten necessarily, each from a slightly different standpoint.
 
 258 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 He welcomed the opportunity of appearing in print in 
 the two characters for he believed that it would help to 
 shield the secret concerning Fiona Macleod. 
 
 The publication by P. Geddes & Coll. of The Washer of 
 the Ford — a collection of Tales and Legendary Morali- 
 ties — aroused a fresh outbreak of curiosity. For in- 
 stance, a sensational article appeared in The Highland 
 News on the vexed question of the identity of the High- 
 land writer, headed : " Mystery ! Mystery ! All in a 
 Celtic Haze." 
 
 According to it : " Highland Celts in Glasgow are, I 
 hear, hot on the scent of what they imagine to be a female 
 James Macpherson. This, of course, is Miss Fiona Mac- 
 leod. The way which Miss Macleod has led our Glas- 
 gow countrymen is strange indeed, and the literary de- 
 tective has been busy. In the first place, it is asserted 
 that Miss Fiona Macleod does not exist. No one seems 
 to have seen her. One gentleman called twice at her resi- 
 dence in Edinburgh, and Miss Macleod was out. She has 
 written about lona, but again in that well watched place 
 her name is unknown. The natural inference, you will 
 admit, is that there is something here to be "fahnd aht," 
 as the Englishman says. Seeing that the non-existence 
 of Miss Fiona Macleod has been thus established, the 
 next point is who wrote those books to which that name 
 is attached. Now, Mr. William Sharp has declared him- 
 self to be Miss Fiona Macleod's uncle; he has, too, in- 
 terested himself in Celtic things. Isn't it the second natu- 
 ral inference that he has written the books? But Mr. 
 Sharp has specifically denied the authorship. Then, of 
 course, it must be Mr. and Mrs. Sharp in collaboration. 
 But again comes denial. Mr. Sharp has addressed the 
 following note to the Glasgow " Evening News," which 
 has been somewhat persistent in casting doubt on the 
 existence of Miss Macleod — " Miss Fiona Macleod is not 
 Mr. William Sharp, Miss Fiona Macleod is not Mrs. 
 William Sharp, Miss Fiona Macleod is — Miss Fiona Mac- 
 leod." The persecuted author was much disturbed by 
 this effort to draw Fiona Macleod into a controversy, to
 
 THE WASHER OF THE FORD 259 
 
 force her to declare herself. Not only was he indig-nant 
 at what to him was an unwarrantable interference with 
 the privacy of the individual, and resented the traps that 
 were laid to catch the author should " she " be ' unwary,' 
 it was instrumental also in making him much more de- 
 termined to guard his secret at all costs. During the 
 months of controversy the subject of it accomplished a 
 considerable amount of work. 
 
 He collaborated with me in the preparation of an An- 
 thology of Celtic Poetry; prepared an edition of Ossian 
 (P. Geddes & Coll.) for which he wrote a long introduc- 
 tion; and began to work upon a humourous novel, not, 
 however, finished until 1898. 
 
 As F. M. he published The Washer of the Ford in 
 April, wrote Green Fire, and also a number of 
 Poems, which were subsequently included in From the 
 Hills of Dream. His Diary for the New Year has this 
 entry : 
 
 " Jany 7th, 1896. The British Weekly has a para- 
 graph given under all reserve that Fiona Macleod is Mrs. 
 William Sharp. Have written — as W. S. — to Dr. R. 
 Nicoll and to Mrs. Macdonell of The Bookman to deny 
 this authoritatively." 
 
 From the first we decided that it would be advisable to 
 admit that F. M. was my cousin, also, that my husband 
 acted as her adviser and ' right hand ' in the matter of 
 publishing. 
 
 The arrangements for the two first books were made by 
 W. S. in person. No such precautions were necessaiy 
 for the books brought out by P. Geddes & Col. as the head 
 of the firm was in the secret. But, as it was well known 
 in Edinburgh and elsewhere that William Sharp was 
 keenly interested in the ^ Celtic Movement,' he thought it 
 well to collaborate with me on an Anthology of Celtic 
 Poetry entitled Lyra Celtica (and published by the firm), 
 for which he prepared an Introduction and Notes. 
 
 On the 6th January, in a letter to Mrs. W^illiam Ros- 
 setti he wrote " Just back from France where I went so 
 far with my wife on her way to Central Italy. Her health
 
 260 WILLIAM SHAKP 
 
 has given way, alas, and she has been sent out from this 
 killing climate for 3 or 4 months at any rate." 
 At the end of January he wrote to me : 
 
 " Only a brief line to thank you for your letter about 
 me and Fiona. Every word you say is true and urgent, 
 and even if I did not know it to be so I would pay the 
 most searching heed to any advice from you, in whose 
 insight and judgment mentally as well as spiritually I 
 have such deep confidence. Although in the main I had 
 come to exactly the same standpoint I was wavering be- 
 fore certain alluring avenues of thought. ... If I live 
 to be an elderly man, time enough for one or more of my 
 big philosophical and critical works. Meanwhile — the 
 flame ! 
 
 The only thing of the kind I will now do — and that 
 not this year — will be the " Introduction to the Study of 
 Celtic Literature " : but for that I have the material to 
 hand, and shall largely use in magazines first. . . . Well, 
 we shall begin at once! February will be wholly given 
 over to finishing Wives in Exile and The Washer of the 
 Ford." 
 
 On the 1st February he left town and settled down to 
 work at the Pettycur Inn, Kinghorn, Fife. His Diary 
 gives the following record of work: 
 
 " Feb. 3rd. Wrote the Preface to The Washer of the 
 Ford. 
 
 ''Feb. 7th. Dictated (1750 words) article on Modern 
 Eomantic Art, for the Glasgow Herald — Also World 
 article. 
 
 Feb. 9th. Wrote " The Festival of the Birds." 
 
 Feb. 10th. Glasgow Herald Article (1500 words) on 
 The Art of the Goldsmith, and wrote ' The Blessing of 
 the Fishes.' " 
 
 In the middle of Fel)ruary William had written to Mr. 
 E. Murray Gilchrist, one of the few friends who then 
 knew the secret of the pseudonym:
 
 THE WASHER OF THE FORD 261 
 
 My dear Gilchrist, 
 
 Fiona Macleod has suddenly begun to attract a great 
 deal of attention. There have been leaders as well as 
 long and important reviews : and now the chief North of 
 Scotland paper, The Highland News, is printing two 
 long articles devoted in a most eulogistic way to F. M. 
 and her influence " already so marked and so vital, so 
 that we accej)t her as the leader of the Celtic Renais- 
 sance in Scotland." There is, also, I hear, to be a Mag- 
 azine article on her. This last week there have been 
 long and favourable reviews in the Academy and The 
 New Age. 
 
 I am glad you like my other book, I mean W. S's! 
 [Ecce Puella] There are things in it which are as abso- 
 lutely out of my real self as it is possible to be : and I am 
 glad that you recognise this. I have not yet seen my book 
 of short stories published in America under the title The 
 Gypsy Christ, though it has been out some weeks : and 
 I have heard from one or two people about it. America 
 is more indulgent to me just now than I deserve. For a 
 leading American critic writes of The Gypsy Christ that, 
 " though it will offend some people and displease others, 
 it is one of the most remarkable volumes I have read for 
 long. The titular story has an extraordinary, even a 
 dreadful impressiveness : ' Madge o' the Pool ' is more 
 realistic than ' realism ' : and alike in the scathing society 
 love-episode, ' The Lady in Hosea,' and in that brilliant 
 Algerian conte, *■ The Coward,' the author suggests the 
 method and power of Guy de Maupassant." 
 
 I hope to get the book soon, and to send you a copy. 
 As I think I told you, the setting of the G/C is entirely 
 that which I knew through you. I have made use of one 
 or two features — exaggerated facts and half facts — which 
 I trust will not displease you. Do j'ou remember my 
 feeling about those gaunt mine-chimneys: I always 
 think of them now when I think of the G/C. Funda- 
 mentally, however, the story goes back to my own early 
 experiences — not as to the facts of the story, of course. 
 . . . Then again, Arthur Sherburne Hardy, who is by
 
 262 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 many considered the St. Beuve of American criticism — in 
 surety and insight — has given his opinion of a book i. e. 
 of all he has seen of it (a comedy of the higher kind) for 
 which Stone and Kimball have given me good terms — 
 Wives m Exile — that it is " quite unlike anything else — 
 at once the most brilliant, romantic, and witty thing I 
 have read for long — to judge from the opening chapters 
 and the scheme. It will stand by itself, I think." 
 
 Personally, I think it shows the best handicraft of any- 
 thing W. S. has done in fiction. It is, of course, wholly 
 distinct in manner and method from F. M.'s work. It 
 ought to be out by May. Sunshine and blithe laughter 
 guided my pen in this book. Well, I have given you my 
 gossip about myself : and now I would much rather hear 
 about you. I wish you were here to tell me all about what 
 you have been doing, thinking, and dreaming. 
 
 Yours, 
 W. S. 
 
 I received the following letter from him in Rome ; 
 
 London, 21st Feb. 
 
 I am sure Tlie Highland News must have delighted 
 you. Let me know what you think of Fiona's and W. S.'s 
 letters. ... I am so sorry you are leaving Siena. ... I 
 follow every step of your movements with keenest in- 
 terest. But oh the light and the colour, how I envy you ! 
 
 I am hoping you are pleased with Lyra Celtica. It is 
 published today only — so of course I have heard nothing 
 yet from outsiders. Yesterday I finished my Matthew 
 Arnold essay ^ — and in the evening wrote the first part 
 of my F. M. story, " Morag of the Glen " — a strong piece 
 of work I hope and believe though not finished yet. I 
 hope to finish it by tonight. I am so glad you and 
 Mona liked the first of " The Three Marvels of Hy " 
 (pronounced Eo or Hee) so well. Pieces like " The Festi- 
 val of the Birds " seem to be born out of my brain almost 
 
 iThe essay prefaces a selection of M. A.'s poems publiahed in the 
 Canterbury Series (Walter Scott).
 
 THE WASHER OF THE FORD 263 
 
 in ail inspirational way. I hardly understand it. Yes, 
 you were in the right place to read it — St. Francis' coun- 
 try. That beautiful strange Umbria! After all, lona 
 and Assisi are not nearly so remote from each other as 
 from London or Paris. I send you the second of the 
 series " The Blessing of the Flies." It, too, was written 
 at Pettycur — as was " The Prologue." . . . There is a 
 strange half glad, half morose note in this Prologue 
 which I myself hardly apprehend in full significance. In 
 it is interpolated one of the loveliest of the ' legendary 
 moralities ' which I had meant to insert in Section I — 
 that of ' The King of the Earth.' I will send it to you 
 before long. . . . 
 
 To a correspondent he wrote about the " Three 
 Marvels of Hy " : " They are studies in old Religious 
 Celtic sentiment so far as that can be recreated in a mod- 
 ern heart that feels the same beauty and simplicity of the 
 Early Christian faith." 
 
 And to me again: "... I know you will rejoice to 
 hear that there can be no question that F. M's deepest 
 and finest work is in this " Washer' of the Ford " volume. 
 As for the spiritual lesson that nature has taught me, 
 and that has grown within me otherwise, I have given 
 the finest utterance to it that I can. In a sense my inner 
 life of the spirit is concentrated in the three pieces " The 
 Moon-Child," " The Fisher of Men," and " The Last Sup- 
 per." Than the last I shall never do anything better. 
 Apart from this intense inner flame that has been burn- 
 ing within me so strangely and deeply of late — I think 
 my most imaginative work will be found in the titular 
 piece " The Washer of the Ford," which still, tho' writ- 
 ten and revised some time ago, haunts me! and in that 
 and the pagan and animistic " Annir Choille." We shall 
 read those things in a gondola in Venice? " 
 
 He joined me in Venice on the 16tli May — glad of 
 sunshine and rest. We journeyed back to England by 
 way of the Lakes, in a time of early roses, and returned 
 to London to find the first copies of The Washer of the
 
 264 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 Ford awaiting us. Two out of many letters concerning 
 the book that came to him from friends who were in the 
 secret and watched the development of the " F. M." work, 
 were a strong incentive to further effort. 
 The first is from Mr. Frank Kinder : 
 
 My deak Will, 
 
 From my heart I thank you for the gift of this book. 
 It adds to the sum of the precious, heaven-sent things in 
 life. It will kindle the fire of hope, of aspiration and of 
 high resolve in a thousand hearts. As one of those into 
 whose life you have brought a more poignant craving 
 for what is beautiful in word and action, I thank you for 
 writing it. 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 Frank. 
 
 The second was from Mr. Janvier : 
 
 Saint Eemy de Provence, 
 
 June 22, 1896. 
 
 My deae Will, 
 
 If The Washer of the Ford were the first of Fiona's 
 books I am confident that the sex of its author would not 
 pass unchallenged. A great part of it is essentially mas- 
 culine — all the " Seanachas," and " The Annir Choille," 
 and the opening of " The Washer " : not impossible for 
 a woman to write, but unlikely. Nor would a woman have 
 written " The Annir Choille," I think, as it is written 
 here. Fiona has shown her double sex in this story more 
 completely, it seems to me, than in any other. It is writ- 
 ten with a man's sense of decency and a woman's sense of 
 delicacy — and the love of both man and woman is in it 
 to a very extraordinary degree. The fighting stories 
 seem to me to be pure man — though I suppose that there 
 are Highland women (like Scott's ''Highland Widow") 
 capable of their stern savagery. But on these alone, Fi- 
 ona's sex scarcely could have been accepted unchallenged. 
 But what seems to me to show plainest, in all the stories 
 together, is not the trifle that they are by a man or by a 
 woman but that they have come out of your inspired soul.
 
 THE WASHER OF THE FORD 2G5 
 
 They seem to be the result of some outside force con- 
 straining you to write them. And with their freshness 
 they have a curious primordial flavour — that comes, I 
 suppose, from the deep roots and full essences of life 
 which are their substance of soul. Being basic, elemen- 
 tary, they are independent of time; or even race. In a 
 literary — technically literary — way they seem to me to 
 be quite your most perfect work. I am sensitive to word 
 arrangement, and some of your work has made me rather 
 disposed to swear at you for carelessness. You have not 
 always taken the trouble to hunt for the word that you 
 needed. But these stories are as nearly perfect in finish, 
 I think, as literary endeavour can make them. And they 
 have that effect of flow and ease that can only come — at 
 least, I can imagine it only as arriving — from the most 
 persistent and laborious care. In the detail of make-up, 
 I am especially impressed by the insertion of the Shadow 
 Seers just where the key is changed radically. They are 
 at once your justifying pieces for what has gone before, 
 and an orchestral interlude before the wholly different 
 Seanachas begin. Of all in the book, my strongest affec- 
 tion is for " The Last Supper." It seems to me to be the 
 most purely beautiful, and the profoundest thing that 
 you have done. 
 
 I feel that some strong new current must have come 
 into your life; or that the normal current has been in 
 some way obstructed or diverted — for the animating 
 spirit of these new books reflects a radical change in your 
 own soul. The Pagan element is entirely subordinated 
 to and controlled by the inner passions of the soul. In a 
 word you have lifted your work from the flesh-level to 
 the soul-level. . . . 
 
 What you say in your letter of worry and ill-health 
 saddens me. It is unjust that your rare power of cre- 
 ation should be hampered in any way. But it seems to 
 me that there must be great consolation in your certain 
 knowledge that you have greatly created, in spite of all. 
 
 Always affectionately yours, 
 
 T. A. J.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 " RUNES OF THE SORROW OF WOMEN " 
 
 Green Fire 
 
 During the most active years of the Fiona Macleod 
 writings, the author was usually in a highly wrought con- 
 dition of mental and emotional tension, which produced 
 great restlessness, so that he could not long remain con- 
 tentedly anywhere. We spent the summer of 1896 moving 
 about from one place to another that had special in- 
 terest for him. First we went to Bamborough, for sea- 
 bathing (he was a fine swimmer), and to visit the little 
 Holy Isle of the Eastern Shores, Lindisfarne, lona's 
 daughter. Thence to the Clyde to be near his mother and 
 sisters. From Inverness we went to the Falls of Lora, 
 in Ossian's country, and later we moved to one of Wil- 
 liam's favourite haunts. Loch Tarbert, off Loch Fjme, 
 where our friends Mr. and Mrs. Frank Kinder had taken 
 a house for the summer. There I left him with his sec- 
 retary-sister, Mary, and returned to London to recom- 
 mence my work on The Glasgow Herald. The two fol- 
 lowing letters to me told of the progress of his work : 
 
 September 23(i. 
 
 I am now well in writing trim I am glad to say. Two 
 days ago I wrote the long-awaited " Eune of the Passion 
 of Woman " the companion piece in a sense to the ' Chant 
 of Woman' in Pharais — and have also done the Savoy 
 story " The Archer " (about 4,500 words) and all but 
 done " Ahez the Pale." Today I hope to get on with 
 the " Lily Leven." . . . 
 
 I must make the most of this day of storm for writing. 
 I had a splendid long sleep last night, and feel ' spiff.' 
 ... I am not built for mixed companies, and like them 
 
 266
 
 "RUNES OF THE SORROW OF WOMEN" 267 
 
 less and less in proportion as the imperative need of 
 F. M. and W. S. for greater isolation grows. I realise 
 more and more the literal truth of what George Meredith 
 told me — that renunciation of ordinary social pleasures 
 (namely of the ordinary kind in the ordinary way) is a 
 necessity to any worker on the high levels : and unless I 
 work that way I shall not work at all. 
 
 26th Sept. 
 
 . . . Yesterday turned out a splendid breezy day, de- 
 spite its bad opening : one of the most beautiful we have 
 had, altho' too cold for bathing, and too rough for boat- 
 ing. I went off by myself for a long sail — and got back 
 about 4. Later I went alone for an hour or so to revise 
 what had stirred me so unspeakably, namely the third 
 and concluding " Rune of the Sorrow of Women." This 
 last Rune tired me in preliminary excitement and in the 
 strange semi-conscious fever of composition more than 
 anything of the kind since I wrote the first of the three 
 in Pharais one night of storm when I was alone in Phe- 
 nice Croft. 
 
 I have given it to Mary to copy, so that I can send it to 
 you at once. Tell me what you think and feel about it. 
 In a vague way not only you, Mona, Edith and others 
 swam into my brain, but I have never so absolutely felt 
 the woman-soul within me: it was as though in some 
 subtle way the soul of Woman breathed into my brain — 
 and I feel vaguely as if I had given partial expression at 
 least to the inarticulate voice of a myriad women who 
 suffer in one or other of the triple ways of sorrow. For 
 work, and rebuilding energy, I am thankful I came here. 
 You were right : I was not really fit to go off to the Hebri- 
 des alone, at the present juncture, and might well have 
 defeated my own end. Tomorrow morning I shall be 
 writing — probably at From the Hills of Dream. 
 
 From Tighnabruaich Hotel, a lovely little village in the 
 Kyles of Bute, he wrote to me : 
 
 I am glad to be here, for though the weather has 
 changed for the worse I am so fond of the place and
 
 268 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 neighbourhood. But what I care for most is I am in a 
 strong Fiona mood, though more of dream and reverie — 
 creatively — than of actual writing : indeed it is likely all 
 my work here, or nearly all shall be done through dream 
 and mental-cartooning. I have written " The Snow Sleep 
 of Angus Ogue " for the winter Evergreen, and am glad 
 to know it is one of F. M's. deepest and best utterances. 
 
 The Evergreen was a Quarterly started by Prof. 
 Geddes, of which W. S. was Editor. Five numbers only 
 were issued. During the autumn William had prepared 
 for publication by P. Geddes & Coll a re-issue of the Tales 
 contained in The Sin-Eater and The Washer of the Ford, 
 in the form of a paper covered edition in three volumes, 
 Barbaric Tales, Spiritual Tales, Tragic Romances. Each 
 volume contained a new tale. Mr. W. B. Yeats consid- 
 ered that " Of the group of new voices none is more typi- 
 cal than the curious mysterious voice that is revealed in 
 these stories of Miss Fiona Macleod. . . . She has be- 
 come the voice (of these primitive peoples and elemental 
 things) not from mere observation of their ways, but out 
 of an absolute identity of nature. . . . Her art belongs 
 in kind, whatever be its excellence in its kind, to a greater 
 art, which is of revelation, and deals with invisible and 
 impalpable things. Its mission is to bring us near to 
 those powers and principalities, which we divine in mor- 
 tal hopes and passions. 
 
 Mr. W. E. Henley had shown considerable interest in 
 the " F. M." Tales, and had written an appreciative letter 
 to the author, who immediately acknowledged it: 
 
 1: 4: 97. 
 
 Dear Me. Henley, 
 
 I thank you for your kind letter. Any work of recog- 
 nition from you means much to me. Your advice is wise 
 and sane, I am sure — and you may be certain that I shall 
 bear it in mind. It will be difficult to follow — for absolute 
 simplicity is the most difficult of all styles, being, as it 
 must be, the expression of a mind at once so imaginative
 
 "RUNES OF THE SORROW OF WOMEN" 269 
 
 in itself, so lucid in its outlook, and so controlled in its 
 expression, that only a very few rarely gifted individuals 
 can hope to achieve the isolating ideal you indicate. 
 
 The three latest things I have written are the long 
 short-story " Morag of the Glen," " The Melancholy of 
 Ulad," and " The Archer." I would particularly like to 
 know what you think of the style and method of " The 
 Archer " (I mean, apart from the arbitrary fantasy of 
 the short supplementary part — which affords the clue 
 to the title) — as there I have written, or tried to write, 
 with the accent of that life as I know it. 
 
 F. M. 
 
 The central story of " The Archer " was one of the 
 Tales which the author valued most, and rewrote many 
 times. In its final form — " Silas," in the Tauchnitz volume 
 of F. M. Tales — it stands without the opening and clos- 
 ing episodes. Concerning the " fantasy of the short sup- 
 plementary part " a curious coincidence happened. That 
 arbitrary fantasy is the record of a dream, or vision, 
 which the author had at Tarbert. In a letter from Mr. 
 Yeats received shortly after, the Irish poet related a sim- 
 ilar experience which he had had — a vision of a woman 
 shooting arrows among the stars — a vision that appeared 
 also the same night to Mr. Arthur Sym^ons. I remember 
 the exchange of letters that passed ))etween the three 
 writers ; unfortunately Fiona's letter to Mr. Sjnnons, and 
 the latter' s answer, are not available. But I have two of 
 the letters on the subject which, through the courtesy of 
 Mr. Yeats, I am able to quote; both, unfortunately are 
 undated. F. M. describes a second vision which, how- 
 ever, had no connection with the coincidence. 
 
 Mr. Yeats wrote: 
 
 TiLLYRA Castle, 
 Co. Galway. 
 
 My dear Sharp, 
 
 Many thanks for your letter. You must have written 
 it the very morning I was writing to Miss Macleod. I 
 have just returned from the Arran Islands where I had
 
 270 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 gone on a fishing boat, and where I go again at the end 
 of this week. I am studying on the islands for the open- 
 ing chapter of a story I am about to set out upon. I met 
 two days ago an old man who hears the fairies he says 
 every night and complains much that their singing keeps 
 him awake. He showed me a flute which he had got think- 
 ing that if he played it they might be pleased and so cease 
 teasing him. I have met much curious lore here and in 
 Arran. 
 
 I have had some singular experiences myself. I in- 
 voked one night the spirits of the moon and saw between 
 sleep and waking a beautiful woman firing an arrow 
 among the stars. That night she appeared to Symons 
 who is staying here, and so impressed him that he wrote 
 a poem on her the only one he ever wrote to a dream, call- 
 ing her the fountain of all song or some such phrase. 
 She was the symbolic Diana. I invoked a different spirit 
 another night and it appeared in dreams to an old French 
 Count, who was staying here, and was like Symons ig- 
 norant of my invocations. He locked his door to try to 
 keep it out. Please give my greetings to Miss Macleod. 
 
 Yours Sincerely, 
 
 W. B. Yeats. 
 
 F. M. wrote in acknowledgment of a long critical letter 
 from Mr. Yeats, to whom " she " had sent The Washer 
 of the Ford: 
 
 Taebert on Loch Ftne. 
 Dear Mr. Yeats, 
 
 Unforeseen circumstances have prevented my writing 
 to you before this, and even now I must perforce be more 
 brief than I would fain be in response to your long and 
 deeply interesting as well as generous letter. Alas, a 
 long pencilled note (partly apropos of your vision of the 
 woman shooting arrows, and of the strange coincidence 
 of something of the same kind on my own part) has long 
 since been devoured by a too voracious or too trustful 
 gull — for a sudden gust of wind blew the quarto-sheet 
 from off the deck of the small yacht wherein I and my
 
 "RUNES OF THE SORROW OF WOMEN" 271 
 
 dear friend and confrere of whom you know were sail- 
 ing, off Skye. . . . How good of you to write to me as 
 you did. Believe me, I am grateful. There is no other 
 writer whose good opinion could please me more — for I 
 love your work, and take an endless delight in your poe- 
 try, and look to you as not only one of the rare few on 
 whose lips is the honey of Magh Mell but as one the dark 
 zone of whose mind is lit with the strange stars and con- 
 stellations of the spiritual life. Most cordially I thank 
 you for your critical remarks. Even where I do not un- 
 reservedly agree, or where I venture to diifer (as for ex- 
 ample, in the matter of the repetition of the titular words 
 in " The Washer of the Ford " poem) I have carefully 
 pondered all you say. I am particularly glad you feel 
 about the " Annir Choille " as you do. Some people 
 whom I would like to please do not care for it : yet I am 
 sure you are right in considering it one of the most vital 
 things I have been able to do. 
 
 With what delight I have read your lovely lovely poem 
 " O'Sullivan Rue to the Secret Rose ! " I have read it 
 over and over with ever deepening delight. It is one of 
 your finest poems, I think: though perhaps it can only 
 be truly appreciated by those who are familiar with leg- 
 endary Celtic history. We read it to each other, my 
 friend and I, on a wonderful sundown " when evening fed 
 the wave with quiet light," off one of the Inner Hebrides 
 (Colonsay, to the South of Oban). ... I cannot quite 
 make up my mind, as you ask, about your two styles. 
 Personally, I incline not exactly to a return to the earlier 
 but to a marriage of the two : that is, a little less remote- 
 ness, or subtlety, with a little more of rippling clarity. 
 After reading your Blake paper (and with vivid interest 
 and delight) I turned to an early work of yours which I 
 value highly, Dhoya : and I admit that my heart moved to 
 it. Between them lies, I think, your surest and finest 
 line of work — with the light deft craft of The Celtic Tivi- 
 light. 
 
 I hope you are soon going to issue the promised volume 
 of poems. When my own book of verse is ready — it is
 
 272 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 to be called From the Hills of Dream — it will give me 
 such sincere pleasure to send you a copy. By the bye, I 
 must not forget to thank you for introducing my work 
 to Mr. Arthur Symons. He wrote to me a pleasant letter, 
 and asked me to contribute to the Savoy, which I have 
 done. I dare say my friend (who sends you comradely 
 greetings, and says he will write in a day or two) will tell 
 you more from me when he and you meet. 
 
 I had a strange vision the other day, wherein I saw the 
 figure of a gigantic woman sleeping on the green hills of 
 Ireland. As I watched, the sun waned and the dark came 
 and the stars began to fall. They fell one by one, and 
 each fell into the woman — and lo, of a sudden, all was 
 bare running water, and the drowned stars and the trans- 
 muted woman passed from my seeing. This was a wak- 
 ing dream, an open vision: but I do not know what it 
 means, though it was so wonderfully vivid. In a vague 
 way I realise that something of tremendous moment is 
 being matured just now. We are on the verge of vitally 
 important developments. And all the heart, all the brain, 
 of the Celtic races shall be stirred. There is a shadow of 
 mighty changes. Myself, I believe that new spirits have 
 been embodied among us. And some of the old have come 
 back. We shall perish, you and I and all who fight under 
 the " Lifting of the Sunbeam " — but we shall pioneer a 
 wonderful marvellous new life for humanity. The other 
 day I asked an old islesman where her son was buried. 
 " He was not buried," she said, " for all they buried his 
 body. For a week ago I saw him lying on the heather, 
 and talking swift an' wild with a Shadow." The Shadows 
 are here. 
 
 I must not write more just now. 
 
 My cordial greetings to you, 
 
 Sincerely, 
 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 
 No sooner had W. S. returned to London than he fell ill 
 with nervous prostration, and rheumatism. It was soon 
 ol)vious that he could not remain in town, and that for a
 
 "RUNES OF THE SORROW OF WOMEN" 273 
 
 short time at any rate he must cease from pen-work. It 
 therefore seemed an opportune moment for him to go to 
 New York, and attend to his publishing interests there, 
 especially as Messrs. Stone & Kimball had recently failed. 
 Before starting he had read and reviewed with much 
 interest a volume of poems by the American poet, Mrs. 
 Elizabeth Stoddard, and had received a pleased acknowl- 
 edgment from her husband Richard A. Stoddard : 
 
 New York, 
 Oct. 30, 1896. 
 
 My dear Sharp, 
 
 I am greatly obliged to you for what you have written 
 about my wife's poetry, any recognition of which touches 
 me more nearly than anything that could be said about 
 my own verse. . . . My wife has told you, I presume, 
 how much I enjoyed your wife's Women's Voices, just 
 before I went into the Hospital, and how I composed a bit 
 of verse in my head when I couldn't see to feed myself. 
 Do you ever compose in that silent way? I have taught 
 myself to do without pens, ink, and paper, in verse; but 
 I can't do so in prose, which would print itself in the thing 
 I call my mind. Give my kindest regards and warmest 
 good wishes to your Elizabeth, whose charming book is a 
 favourite with my Elizabeth as well, as with 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 R. H. Stoddard. 
 
 Later, Mr. Stedman wrote an account of a dinner given 
 to Mr. Stoddard to which W. S. was invited: 
 
 Bronxville, N. Y., 
 
 Feb. 17, 1897. 
 
 My dear Sharp, 
 
 I have received your long letter of the 25th Jany, and 
 also a shorter one of the 30th written at Mr. George Cot- 
 terell's house. I will say at the outset that I feel guilty at 
 seeing the name of that loveable man and true poet ; for 
 although a year has passed since the completion of my 
 (Victorian) " Anthology " I have been positively unable 
 to write the letter which I have in my heart for him.
 
 274 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 . . . The most important social matter here this 
 winter relating to our Guild will be a large important din- 
 ner to be given on March 25th by the Author's Club and 
 his other friends, to Eichard Henry Stoddard. We are 
 going to try to make an exception to the rule that New 
 York is not good to her own, and to render a tribute some- 
 what commensurate with Stoddard's life long services, 
 and his quality as poet and man. A few invitations are 
 going to be sent to literary men abroad, and I have been 
 able to write about them to Besant, Dobson, Garnett and 
 yourself. Of course I do not expect that you will come 
 over here, and I am quite sure you will write a letter 
 which can be read at the dinner, for I have in mind your 
 personal friendship with Stoddard and affectionate com- 
 prehension of his genius and career. . . . 
 
 On the 13th of April Mr. Stedman wrote again to re- 
 port on the proceedings : 
 
 Your letter to the Stoddard Banquet was by far the 
 best and most inclusive of the various ones received, and 
 it was read out to the 150 diners and met with high 
 favour. I mailed you the full report of the affair, but 
 believe I have not written you since it came off. It 
 proved to be the most notable literary occasion yet known 
 in this city — was brilliant, magnetic, enthusiastic through- 
 out. I felt a pride in my office as Chairman. The hall 
 was one of the handsomest in America, the speaking of 
 the most eloquent type, and full of laughter and tears. 
 The Stoddards were deeply gratified by your letter. 
 
 E. C. S. 
 
 My husband arrived in New York on All Hallow E'en 
 and went direct to the hospitable house of Mr. Alden 
 whence he wrote to me : 
 
 Metuchex, X. J., 
 1st Nov., 1896. 
 
 ... Of course nothing can be done till Wednesday. 
 All America is aflame with excitement — and New York 
 itself is at fever-heat. I have never seen such a sight as
 
 "RUNES OF THE SORROW OF WOMEN" 275 
 
 yesterday. The whole enormous city was a mass of flags 
 and innumerable Republican and Democratic insignia — 
 with the streets thronged with over two million jjeople. 
 The whole business quarter made a gigantic parade that 
 took 7 hours in its passage — and the business men alone 
 amounted to over 100,000. Everyone — as indeed not only 
 America, but Great Britain and all Europe — is now look- 
 ing eagerly for the final word on Tuesday night. The 
 larger issues are now clearer : not merely that the Bryan- 
 ite 50-cent dollar (instead of the standard 100 cent) would 
 have far reaching disastrous effects, but that the whole 
 struggle is one of the anarchic and destructive against 
 the organic and constructive forces. However, this tre- 
 mendous crisis will come to an end — pro tem. at any rate 
 — on Tuesday night. . . . 
 
 During his absence, F. M.'s romance, Green Fire, was 
 published. The title was taken from a line in ' Cathal 
 of the Woods,' ' green fire of life, pulse of the world, 
 Love ! ' And the deeper meaning of the expression 
 * Green Life ' — so familiar to all who knew ' Fiona Mac- 
 leod ' — is suggested in a sentence at the close of the 
 book : " Alan knew that strange nostalgia of the mind 
 for impossible things. Then, wrought for a while from 
 his vision of green life, and flamed by another green 
 fire than that bom of earth, he dreamed hi^s dream." 
 
 To me, the author wrote from New York : 
 
 "... I am indeed glad you like Green Fire so well. 
 And you are right in your insight: Annaik is the real 
 human magnet. Ynys is an idealised type, what I mean 
 by Ideala or Esclarmoundo, but she did not take hold of 
 me like Annaik. Alan, too, is a variation of the Ian type. 
 But Annaik has for me a strange and deep attraction: 
 and I am sure the abiding personal interest must be in 
 her. You are the only one who seems to have understood 
 and perceived this — certainly the only one who has no- 
 ticed it. Some day I want to tell Annaik's story in 
 full. ..."
 
 276 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 The author had read much Breton lore during his study 
 of French Literature, and as his interest had for a tune 
 been centred on the laud of the kindred Celt, he deter- 
 mined to make it the setting of a new Romance. He had 
 never been there, so drew on his imaghiation for the 
 depiction of the places he knew of by hearsay only. The 
 result, when later he judged the book in cool criticism, 
 he considered to be unsatisfactory as to structure and 
 balance. He realised, that although the Fiona impetus 
 produced the first chapter and the latter part, the plot 
 and melodramatic character of the Breton story are due 
 to W. S. ; that the descriptions of nature are written l)y 
 F. M. and W. S. in fusion, are in character akin to the 
 descriptions in " The Children of Tomorrow," written by 
 W. S. in his transition stage. Consequently, when in 
 1905, he discussed with me what he wished preserved of 
 his writings, he asked my promise that I would never 
 republish the book in its entirety. 
 
 In order to preserve what he himself cared for, he re- 
 wrote the Highland jDortion of the book, named it " The 
 Herdsman " and included it in The Dominion of Dreams. 
 (In the Uniform Edition, it is placed, together with 
 a series of detached Thought-Fragments from Green 
 Fire, in The Divine Adventure, Vol. IV.) He never 
 carried out his intention of writing Annaik's story in 
 full. Had he done so it would have been incori3orated 
 in a story, partly reminiscent of his early sojourn 
 among the gipsies, and have been called The Gypsy 
 Trail. 
 
 Some months later Mr. W. B. Yeats wrote to AV. S. : 
 
 " I have read ' Green Fire ' since I saw you. I do not 
 think it is one of your well-built stories, and I am certain 
 that the writing is constantly too self-consciously pictur- 
 esque ; but the atmosphere, the romance of much of it, of 
 ' The Herdsman ' part in particular haunts me ever since 
 I laid it down. 
 
 ' Fiona Macleod ' has certainly discovered the ro- 
 mance of the remote Gaelic places as no one else has ever
 
 "RUNES OF THE SORROW OF WOMEN" 277 
 
 done. She has made the earth by so much the more beau- 
 tiful." 
 
 And Mr. George Russell (A. E.) wrote to F. M. from 
 Dublin : 
 
 Deak Fiona Macleod, 
 
 My friend, Willie Yeats, has just come by me wrapt in 
 a faery whirlwind, his mouth speaking great things. 
 He talked much of reviving the Druidic mysteries and 
 vaguely spoke of Scotland and you. These stirring ideas 
 of his are in such a blaze of light that, but for the inspira- 
 tion of a presence always full of enthusiasm, I would get 
 no ideas at all from him. But when he mentioned your 
 name and spoke of the brotherhood of the Celts and what 
 ties ought to unite them, I remembered a very kindly 
 letter which I had put on one side waiting for an excuse 
 to write again. So I take gladly Yeats' theory of what 
 ought to be and write. . . . 
 
 Thoughts inspired by what is written or said are aimed 
 at the original thinker and from every quarter converge 
 on his inner nature. Perhaps you have felt this. It 
 means that these people are putting fetters on you, bind- 
 ing you to think in a certain way (what they expect from 
 you) ; and there is a danger of the soul getting bent so 
 that after its first battle it fights no more but repeats 
 dream upon dream its first words in answer to their de- 
 mand and it grows more voice and less soul every day. 
 I read Green Fire a few weeks ago and have fallen in 
 love with your haunted seas. Your nature spirit is a 
 little tragic. You love the Mother as I do but you seem 
 for ever to expect some revelation of awe from her lips 
 where I would hide my head in her bosom. But the 
 breathless awe is true also — to " meet on the Hills of 
 Dream," that would not be so difficult. I think you know 
 that? Some time when the power falls on me I'll send a 
 shadow of myself over seas just to get the feeling of the 
 Highlands. I have an intuition that the " fires " are 
 awakening somewhere in the North West. I may have
 
 278 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 met you indeed and not known you. We are so different 
 behind the veil. Some who are mighty of the mighty 
 there are nothing below and then waking life keeps no 
 memory of their victorious deeds in sleep. And if I saw 
 you your inner being might assume some old Druidic 
 garb of the soul, taking that form because you are think- 
 ing the Druidic thought. The inner being is protean and 
 has a thousand changes of apparel. I sat beside a friend 
 and while he was meditating, the inner being started up 
 in Egyptian splendour robed in purple and gold. He had 
 chanced upon some mood of an ancient life. I write to 
 you of these things judging that you know of them to 
 some extent here: that your inner nature preserves the 
 memory of old initiations, so I talk to you as a comrade 
 on the same quest. You know too I think that these al- 
 luring visions and thoughts are of little import unless 
 they link themselves unto our humanity. It means only 
 madness in the end. I know people whose lamps are lit 
 and they see wonderful things but they themselves will 
 not pass from vision into action. They follow beauty 
 only like the dwellers in Tyre whom Ezekiel denounced 
 " They have corrupted their wisdom by reason of their 
 brightness." Leaving these mystic things aside what you 
 say about art is quite true except that I cannot regard 
 art as the " quintessential life " unless art comes to mean 
 the art of living more than the art of the artists. . . . 
 Sometime, perhaps, if it is in the decrees of the gods (our 
 true selves) we may meet and speak of these things. But 
 don't get enslaved by your great power of expression. It 
 ties the mind a little. There was an old Hermetist who 
 said " The knowledge of It is a divine silence and the 
 rest of all the senses. . . ." 
 
 You ask me to give my best. Sometimes I think silence 
 is the best. I can feel the sadness of truth here, but not 
 the joy, and there must always be as exquisite a joy as 
 there is pain in any state of consciousness. . . . 
 
 A. E.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 FROM THE HILLS OF DREAM 
 
 The Laughter of Peterkin 
 
 On the wanderer's return to England his volume of 
 poems From the Hills of Dream was published by P. 
 Geddes & Coll. The first edition was dedicated to our 
 godson Arthur AUhallow, younger son of Prof, and Mrs. 
 Patrick Geddes, who was born on that Hallow E'en the 
 anniversary of our Wedding-day. The volume consists 
 of poems, runes and lyrics, written by F. M. between 
 1893 and 1896 ; and a series of " prose rhythms " entitled 
 " The Silence of Amor." 
 
 A sympathetic letter from Mr. Ernest Rhys, the Welsh 
 poet, drew a quick response: 
 
 MUBEAYFIELD, MIDLOTHIAN, 
 
 23: 11: 96. 
 
 Dear Mr. Rhys, 
 
 On my coming from the West to Edinburgh, for a few 
 days, I found your very welcome and charming letter, 
 among others forwarded to me from the Outlook Tower. 
 
 It gratifies me very much that you, whose work I so 
 much admire and with whose aims and spirit I am in so 
 keen sympathy, care so well for the " Hills of Dream." 
 These are hills where few inhabit, but comrade always 
 knows comrade there — and so we are sure to meet one 
 another, whether one carry a " London Rose " or a sheaf 
 of half -barbaric Hill-Runes. It may interest you to know 
 that the name which seems to puzzle so many people is 
 (though it does exist as the name "Fiona," not only in 
 Ossian but at the present day, though rarely) the 
 Gaelic diminutive of " Fionaghal " (i, e. Flora). For the 
 rest — I was born more than a thousand years ago, in the 
 remote region of Gaeldom known as the Hills of Dream. 
 
 279
 
 280 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 There I have lived the better part of my life, my father's 
 name was Romance, and that of my mother was Dream. 
 I have no photograph of their abode, which is just under 
 the quicken-arch immediately west of the sunset-rainbow. 
 You will easily find it. Nor can I send you a photograph 
 of myself. My last fell among the dew-wet heather, and 
 is now doubtless lining the cells of the wild bees. 
 All this authentic information I gladly send you ! 
 
 Sincerely yours, 
 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 
 Early in 1897 Mr. Yeats wrote from Paris to F. M. 
 concerning aims and ideals he was endeavouring to shape 
 into expression for the re-vivifying of Celtic Ireland,, 
 and out of which has evolved the Irish National Theatre: 
 
 My deae Miss Macleod, 
 
 I owe you a letter for a long time, and can only promise 
 to amend and be more prompt in future. I have had a 
 busy autumn, always trying to make myself do more work 
 than my disposition will permit, and at such times I am 
 the worst of correspondents. I have just finished a cer- 
 tain speech in The Shadowy Waters, my new poem, and 
 have gone to The Cafe du Musee de Cluny to smoke and 
 read the Irish news in the Times. I should say I wrote 
 about your book of poems as you will have seen in the 
 Bookman. I have just now a plan I want to ask you 
 about? Our Irish Literary and Political literary organi- 
 sations are pretty complete (I am trying to start a Young 
 Ireland Society, among the Irish here in Paris at the 
 moment) and I think it would be very possible to get up 
 Celtic plays through these Societies. They would be far 
 more effective than lectures and might do more than 
 anything else we can do to make the Irish Scotch and 
 other Celts recognise their solidarity. My own plays are 
 too elaborate, I think, for a start, and have also the disad- 
 vantage that I cannot urge my own work in committee. 
 If we have one or two short direct prose plays, of (say) 
 a mythological and folklore kind, by you and by some 
 writer (I may be able to move O'Grady, I have already
 
 FKOM THE HILLS OF DREAM 281 
 
 spoken to him about it urgently) I feel sure we could get 
 the Irish Literary Society to make a start. They have 
 indeed for some time talked of doing my Land of Heart's 
 Desire. 
 
 My own theory of poetical or legendary drama is 
 that it should have no realistic, or elaborate, but only 
 a symbolic and decorative setting. A forest, for in- 
 stance, should be represented by a forest pattern and not 
 by a forest painting. One should design a scene, which 
 would be an accompaniment not a reflection of the text. 
 This method would have the further advantage of being 
 fairly cheap, and altogether novel. The acting should 
 have an equivalent distance to that of the play from com- 
 mon realities. The plays might be almost, in some cases, 
 modem mystery plays. Your Last Supper, for instance, 
 would make such a play, while your story in The Savoy 
 would arrange as a strong play of merely human tragedy. 
 I shall try my own hand possibly at some short prose 
 plays also, but not yet. I merely suggest these things 
 because they are a good deal on my mind, and not that I 
 wish to burden your already full hands. My " Shadowy 
 Waters " is magical and mystical beyond anything I have 
 done. It goes but slowly however, and I have had to re- 
 cast all I did in Ireland some years ago. Mr. Sharp 
 heard some of it in London in its first very monotonous 
 form. I wish to make it a kind of grave ecstasy. 
 
 I am also at the start of a novel which moves between 
 the Islands of Aran and Paris, and shall have to go again 
 to Aran about it. After these books I start a long cher- 
 ished project — a poetical version of the great Celtic epic 
 tale Deirdre, Cuchullin at the Ford, and Cuchullin's 
 death, and Dermot and Grainne. I have some hopes that 
 Mr. Sharp will come to Paris on his way back to England. 
 I have much to talk over with him, I am feeling more and 
 more every day that our Celtic movement is approaching 
 a new jDhase. Our instrument is sufficiently prepared as 
 far as Ireland is concerned, but the people are less so, 
 and they can only be stirred by the imagination of a very 
 few acting on all.
 
 282 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 My book The Secret Rose was to have been out in De- 
 cember but it has been postponed till February. If I 
 have any earlier copies you shall have one. I am spe- 
 cially curious to know what you think of a story called 
 " The Adoration of the Magi " which is a half prophecy 
 of a very veiled kind. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 W. B. Yeats. 
 
 The prolonged strain of the heavy dual work added to 
 by an eager experimentation with certain psychic phe- 
 nomena with which he had long been familiar but wished 
 further to investigate, efforts in which at times he and 
 Mr. W. B. Yeats collaborated — began to tell heavily on 
 him, and to produce very disquieting symptoms of nerv- 
 ous collapse. We decided therefore that he should pass 
 the dead months of the year, as he called December and 
 January, in the South of France. From St. Remy while 
 on a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Janvier he wrote to me: 
 
 " I am not going to lament that even the desire to 
 think-out anything has left me — much less the wish to 
 write — for I am sure that is all in the order of the day 
 towards betterness. But I do now fully realise that I 
 must give up everything to getting back my old buoy- 
 ancy and nervous strength — and that prolonged rest and 
 open air are the paramount needs. . . . 
 
 However, enough of this, henceforth I hope to have to 
 think of and report on the up-wave only. 
 
 I am seated in a little room close to the window — and 
 as I look out I first see the boughs of a gigantic syca- 
 more through which the mistral is roaring with a noise 
 like a gale at sea. Beyond this is a line of cypresses, and 
 apparently within a stone's throw are the extraordinary 
 wildly fantastic mountain-peaks of St. Remy. I have 
 never seen anything like them. No wonder they are 
 called the Dolomites of France. They are, too, in aspect 
 unspeakably ancient and remote. 
 
 We are practically in the country, and in every way, 
 with its hill-air and beauty, the change from Tarascon is
 
 FEOM THE HILLS OF DREAM 283 
 
 most welcome. . . . There is a strange but singularly 
 fascinating blend of north and south here just now. The 
 roar of the mistral has a wild wintry soimd, and the hiss- 
 ing of the wood fire is also suggestive of the north: and 
 then outside there are the unmistakable signs of the south 
 and those fantastic unreal like hills. I never so fully 
 recognise how intensely northern I am than when I am 
 in the south. ..." 
 
 The following fragment of a diary — all there is for 
 1897 — gives a record of the work he had in progress : also 
 shows his way of noting (or not noting!) his outgoing ex- 
 penses : 
 
 January 1st, 1897. — A day of extreme beauty at 
 Sainte-Maxime (Var). In the morning wrote letters etc., 
 and then walked into Sainte-Maxime and posted them, 
 and sent a telegram to Elizabeth, to be delivered at din- 
 ner time, with New Year greetings and Fair Wishes. 
 
 Worked at " Ahez the Pale," and, having finished the 
 revision of it from first to last, did it up with " The 
 Archer," and then sent (with long letter of general in- 
 structions about the re-issue of F. M's tales in 3 vols., 
 Spiritual Tales, Barbaric Tales, and Tragic Romances) 
 to Lilian Rea, at the Outlook Tower. 
 
 After dinner went a long walk by the sea. Noticed a 
 IDeculiarity by which tho' the sea was dead calm, and on 
 the eastern side of the littoral of Ste. Maxime made 
 hardly a ripple, the noise on the further side was like 
 that of a rushing train or of a wind among pinewoods. 
 I walked round, and found oily waves beating heavily on 
 the shore. Tidal, possibly. Expenses today: Letters 
 3.90, Telegrams 5.90, Poor Man 30. Board &c at hotel. 
 
 Total " ". 
 
 After his return to London he wrote to Mrs. Janvier : 
 
 Gbosvenob Club, 
 March 10, 1897. 
 
 . . . Although I have had an unpleasant mental and 
 physical set-back the last three days, I am steadily
 
 284 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 (at least I hope so) gaining ground — but I have never 
 yet regained the health or spirits I was in at St. Remy, 
 tho' even there far more worn in mind and body than 
 even you guessed. But with the spring I shall get well. 
 I am heart and soul with Greece in this war of race 
 and freedom — and consider the so-called " Concert " a 
 mockery and a sham. It is a huge Capitalist and Reac- 
 tionary Bogus Company. Fortunately the tide of in- 
 dignation is daily rising here — and even the Conserva- 
 tive papers are at one with the Liberal on the central 
 points. Were I a younger man — or rather were I free 
 — I would now be in Greece or on my way to join the 
 Hellenes. As you will see by enclosed, I am one of the 
 authors who have sent a special message to the Athenian 
 President of the Chamber. It is a stirring time, and in 
 many ways. . . . 
 
 March 22d. 
 
 . . . What a whirl of excitement life is, just now. I 
 am all on fire about the iniquities of this Turkish-Fi- 
 nance triumjoh over honour, chivalry, and the old-time 
 sense that the world can be well lost. There are many 
 other matters, too, for deep excitement — international, 
 national, literary, artistic, personal. It is the season of 
 sap, of the young life, of green fire. Heart-pulses are 
 throbbing to the full: brains are effervescing under the 
 strong ferment of the wine of life: the spiral flames of 
 the spirit and the red flower of the flesh are fanned and 
 consumed and recreated and fanned anew every hour 
 of every day. . . . 
 
 This is going to be a strange year in many ways : a year 
 of spiritual flames moving to and fro, of wild vicissitudes 
 for many souls and for the forces that move through the 
 minds of men. The West will redden in a new light — the 
 ' west ' of the forlorn peoples who congregate among our 
 isles in Ireland — ' the West ' of the dispeopled mind. 
 
 The common Soul is open — one can see certain shad- 
 ows and lights as though in a mirror. . . . [The letter 
 ends abruptly.]
 
 FROM THE HILLS OF DREAM 285 
 
 Towards the end of April I went to Paris to write upon 
 the two " Salons," and my husband, still very imwell, 
 went to St. Margaret's Bay, whence he wrote to me : 
 
 Sunday (on the shore by the sea, and in the sun- 
 shine). I wonder what you are doing today? I feel very 
 near you in spirit as I always do when I have been read- 
 ing, hearing, or seeing any beautiful thing — and this fore- 
 noon I have done all three, for I am looking uj^on the 
 beauty of sunlit wind-swept sea, all pale green and white, 
 and upon the deep blue sky above the white cliffs, upon 
 the jackdaws and gulls dense black or snowy against the 
 azure, upon the green life along and up the cliff-face, 
 upon the yellow-green cystus bushes below — and am list- 
 ening to the sough of the wind, soft and balmy, and the 
 rush and break of the sunlit waves among the pebbly 
 reaches just beyond me — and have been reading Maeter- 
 linck's two essays, " The Deeper Life " and " The Inner 
 Beauty." 
 
 I am longing to be regularly at work again — and now 
 feel as if at last I can do so. . . . 
 
 More and more absolutely, in one sense, are W. S. and 
 F. M. becoming two persons — often married in mind and 
 one nature, but often absolutely distinct. I am filled with 
 a passion of dream and work. . . . 
 
 Friendship, deepening into serene and beautiful flame, 
 is one of the most ennobling and lovely influences the 
 world has. . . . 
 
 WiLFioisr. 
 
 P. S. Again some more good tidings. Constables have 
 accepted my giving up The Lily Leven indefinitely — and 
 instead have agreed to my projjosal to write a child's 
 book (dealing with the Celtic Wonderworld) to be called 
 The Laughter of Peterkin. . . . 
 
 From Paris I went to St. Remy for a short visit to 
 our friends the Janviers, and my birthday found me still 
 there. My husband had been considerably perplexed how
 
 286 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 lie was to celebrate the day for me from a distance. On 
 the early morning of the 17th of May the waiter brought 
 me my coffee and my letters to my room as usual, and 
 told me gravely that a large packet had arrived for me, 
 during the night, with orders that it should not be de- 
 livered to me till the morning. Should it be brought up 
 stairs? The next moment the door was pushed open and 
 in came the radiant smiling unexpected apparition of 
 my Poet! In a little town an event of this sort is soon 
 known to everyone, and that evening when he and I went 
 for a walk, and sauntered through the little boulevards, 
 we found we were watched for and greeted by everyone, 
 and heads were popped out of windows just to see " les 
 amants." 
 
 After his equally rapid return to town he wrote to me : 
 
 " It seems very strange to be here and at work again — 
 or rather it is the interlude that seems so strange and 
 dreamlike. This time last week it was not quite cer- 
 tain if I could get away, as it depended partly upon fin- 
 ishing the Maeterlinck Essay and partly upon the post- 
 ponement of due date for the monograph on Orchardson. 
 Then Richard Whiteing came in. Then at last I said 
 that since fortune wouldn't hurry up it could go to the 
 devil — and I would just go to my dear wife: and so I 
 went. And all is well. Only a week ago today since I 
 left ! How dramatic it all is — that hurried journey, the 
 long afternoon and night journey from Paris, the long 
 afternoon and night journey to Tarascon — the drive 
 at dawn and sunrise through beautiful Provence — the 
 meeting you — the seeing our dear friends there again. 
 And then that restful Sunday, that lovely birthday ! " 
 
 And again a few days later: 
 
 " Herewith my typed copy of your AVilfion's last writ- 
 ing. Called ' The Wayfarer ' though possibly, after- 
 wards, * Where God is, there is Light,' it is one of the 
 three Spiritual Moralities of which you know two already,
 
 FEOM THE HILLS OF DEEAM 287 
 
 * The Fisher of Men ' and ' The Last Supper.' In an- 
 other way, the same profound truth is emphasised as in 
 the other two — that Love is the basic law of spiritual life. 
 ' The Eedeemer liveth ' in these three : Compassion, 
 Beauty, Love — the three chords on which these three 
 harmonies of Fiona's inner life have been bom. ..." 
 
 " The Wayfarer " was published in Cosmopolis, and 
 afterwards included in The Winged Destiny. 
 
 On the 10th of June the author went for a night to Bur- 
 ford Bridge, in order to have some talks with George 
 Meredith. While there he began to write '^ The Glory of 
 the King," and two days later he finished it on reaching 
 home. 
 
 In the summer of 1897 he visited Ireland for the 
 first time. In Dublin he met Mr. George Eussell — 
 whose beautiful verse was first published over the initials 
 A. E. — Mr. Standish O'Grady and other writers with 
 whom he had been in correspondence; and he greatly 
 enjoyed a visit to Mr. Edward Martin at Tilly ra Castle 
 in Galway. 
 
 Among several enthusiastic letters I received the fol- 
 lowing : 
 
 ... I find it almost impossible to attempt to tell you 
 the varied and beautiful delights of this lovely place. 
 . . . The country is strange and fascinating — at once so 
 austere, so remote, so unusual, and so characteristic. . . . 
 
 Lord Morris, and Martin and I go off today " to show 
 me the beauties of the wild coast of Clare." It is glori- 
 ous autumnal weather, with unclouded sky, and I am 
 looking forward to the trip immensely. We leave at 11, 
 and drive to Ardrahan, and there get a train southward 
 into County Clare, and at Ennis catch a little loopline to 
 the coast. Then for two hours we drive to the famous 
 Cliffs of Moher, gigantic precipices facing the Atlantic 
 — and then for two hours move round the wild headlands 
 of Blackhead — and so, in the afternoon, to the beautiful 
 Clare ' spa ' of Lisdoonvarna, where we dine late and
 
 288 WILLIAM SHAKP 
 
 sleep. Next day we return by some famous Round Tower 
 of antiquity, whose name I have forgotten. Another day 
 soon we are to go into Galway, and to the Aran Isles. 
 
 On Thursday Yeats arrives, also Dr. Douglas Hyde, 
 and possibly Standish O'Grady — and Lady Gregor^y, one 
 of the moving spirits in this projected new Celtic Drama. 
 She is my host's nearest neighbour, and has a lovely place 
 (Coole Park) about five miles southwest from here, near 
 Gort. I drove there, with Sir N. G. yesterday, in a car, 
 through a strange fascinating austere country. 
 
 The i^eople here are distinct from any I have seen — 
 and the women in particular are very striking with their 
 great dark eyes, and lovely complexions and their pict- 
 uresque ' snoods.' 
 
 The accent is not very marked, and the voices are low 
 and pleasant, and the people courteous to a high degree. 
 
 In the evening we had music — and so ended delight- 
 fully my first delightful day in the west. . . . 
 
 I forgot to tell you that I arrived late — and of course 
 at Athenry only — some 14 miles from here. I had to wait 
 some time till a car could be got — and what a drive I 
 had ! The man said that " Plaze God, he would have me 
 at Tull-lyra before the gintry had given me up entoirely " 
 — and he was as good as his word ! The night was dark, 
 and the roads near Athenry awful after the recent gale 
 and rains — and it was no joke to hold on to the car. 
 Whenever we came to a j^articularly bad bit (and I de- 
 clared afterwards that he took some of the stone dykes 
 at a leap) he cried — " Now thin yer honour, whin I cry 
 Whiroo! you hould on an' trust to God " — and then came 
 his wild Whiroo I and the horse seemed to spring from the 
 car, and the jarvey and I to be flying alongside, and my 
 rope-bound luggage to be kicking against the stars — and 
 then we came down with a thud, and when I had a gasp of 
 refound breath I asked if the road was as smooth and 
 easy all the way, whereat my friend laughed genially and 
 said " Be aisy at that now — shure we're coming to the bad 
 bit soon ! " . . . 
 
 Not far from here is a fairy-doctor, I am going to see
 
 FEOM THE HILLS OF DREAM 289 
 
 him some day. It is strange that when one day Lady 
 Gregory took one of Russell's mystical drawings (I think 
 of the Mor Reega) and showed it to an old woman, she 
 at once exclaimed that that was the " photograph " of the 
 fairy queen she had often seen, only that the strange 
 girdle of fan-flame was round her waist and not on her 
 head as in the drawing. An old man here also has often 
 met " the secret people," and when asked to describe one 
 strange " fairy lord " he has encountered more than once, 
 it was so like G. R's drawing that that was shown him 
 among several others, and he at once picked it out! 
 It is a haunted land. 
 
 In haste (and hunger), 
 
 WiLF. 
 
 P. S. I have been thinking much over my long-pro- 
 jected consecutive work (i. e. as W. S.) — in five sequel 
 books — on the drama of life as seen in the evolution of 
 the dreams of youth — begun, indeed, over ten years ago 
 in Paris — but presciently foregone till ten maturing years 
 should pass. 
 
 But now the time has come when I may, and should, 
 and indeed, now, must, write this Epic of Youth. That 
 will be its general collective name — and it will interest 
 you to know the now definitely fixt names of these five 
 (and all very long) books; each to be distinct and com- 
 plete in itself, yet all sequently connected: and organic 
 and in the true sense dramatic evolution of some seven 
 central types of men and women from youth to maturity 
 and climax, along the high and low, levels. 
 
 Name: The Epic of Youth. 
 
 I. The Hunters of Wisdom. 
 
 II. The Tyranny of Dreams. 
 
 III. The Star of Fortune. 
 
 IV. The Daughters of Vengeance. 
 
 V. The Iron Gates. 
 
 This will take five years to do — so it is a big task to set, 
 before the end of 1902 ! — especially as I have other work 
 to do, and F. M's, herself as ambitious. But method, and
 
 290 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 maturer power and thought, can accomplish with far 
 less nervous output, what otherwise was impossible, and 
 only at a killing or at least perilous strain. 
 So wish me well ! 
 
 But the pressure of health, of the needs of daily liveli- 
 hood, and of the more dominating ambitions of F. M. 
 prevented the fulfilment of this scheme. 
 
 Many times he talked of it, drafted out portions of it — 
 but it remained unaccomplished, and all that exists of it 
 is the beginning chapters of the first book written in 
 Paris ten years before, and then called Ccdsar of France. 
 
 London proved to be impossible to him owing to the ex- 
 citable condition of his brain. Therefore he took rooms 
 in Hastings whence he wrote to me : 
 
 Nov. 21, 1897. 
 
 I am so glad to be here, in this sunlight by the sea. 
 Light and motion — what a joy these are. The eyes be- 
 come devitalised in the pall of London gloom. . . . 
 
 There is a glorious amplitude of light. The mind 
 bathes in these illimitable vistas. Wind and Wave and 
 Sun : how regenerative these elder brothers are. 
 
 Solomon says there is no delight like wisdom, and that 
 wisdom is the heritage of age : but there is a divine un- 
 wisdom which is the heritage of youth — and I would 
 rather be young for a year than wise for a cycle. There 
 are some who live without the pulse of youth in the 
 mind : on the day, in the hour, I no longer feel that quick 
 pulse, I will go out like a blown flame. To be young; 
 to keep young : that is the story and despair of life. . . . 
 
 Among the Christmas publications of 1897 appeared 
 The Laughter of Peterkin by Fiona Macleod. This book, 
 issued by Messrs. Archibald Constable and illustrated by 
 Mr. Sunderland Rollinson, was a new departure for the 
 author, an interlude in the midst of more strenuous orig- 
 inal work, for it was the re-telling of three old tales of 
 Celtic Wonderland : " The Four White Swans," or " The
 
 FEOM THE HILLS OF DREAM 291 
 
 Children of Lir," " The Fate of the Sons of Turenn," and 
 " Darthool and the Sons of Usna." 
 
 Some years later, after the publication of Lady Greg- 
 ory's " Gods and Fighting Men," Mr. Alfred Nutt wrote 
 to F. M. and suggested that she should again turn her at- 
 tention to the re-telling of some of the beautiful old 
 Celtic tales and legends. My husband, however, realised 
 that he had far more dreams haunting the chambers of 
 his mind than he could have time to give expression to. 
 Therefore, very regretfully, he felt constrained to fore- 
 go what otherwise would have been a work of love.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 WIVES IN EXILE 
 
 Silence Farm 
 
 The production of the Fiona Macleod work was accom- 
 plished at a heavy cost to the author as that side of his 
 nature deepened and became dominant. The strain upon 
 his energies was excessive: not only from the necessity 
 of giving expression to the two sides of his nature; but 
 because of his desire, that, while under the cloak of se- 
 crecy F. M. should develop and grow, the reputation 
 of William Sharp should at the same time be maintained. 
 Moreover each of the two natures had its own needs and 
 desires, interests and friends. The needs of each were 
 not always harmonious one with the other, but created 
 a complex condition that led to a severe nervous collapse. 
 The immediate result of the illness was to cause an acute 
 depression and restlessness that necessitated a continual 
 change of environment. In the early part of 1898 he went 
 in turn to Dover, to Bournemouth, Brighton, and St. Mar- 
 garet's Bay. He was much alone, except for the occa- 
 sional visit of an intimate friend ; for I could go to him at 
 the week-ends only, as I had the work in London to at- 
 tend to. The sea, and solitude, however, proved his best 
 allies. 
 
 To Mrs. Janvier he wrote : 
 
 ... I am skirting the wood of shadows. I am filled 
 with vague fears — and yet a clear triumphant laughter 
 goes through it, though whether of life or death no one 
 knows. I am also in a duel with other forces than those 
 of human wills — and I need all my courage and strength. 
 At the moment I have recovered my physic control over 
 certain media. It cannot last more than a few days 
 
 292
 
 WIVES IN EXILE 293 
 
 at most a few weeks at a time: but in that time / am 
 myself. . . . 
 
 Let there be peace in your heart : peace and hope trans- 
 muted into joy : in your mind, the dusking of no shadow, 
 the menace of no gloom, but light, energy, full life : and to 
 you in your whole being, the pulse of youth, the flame of 
 green fire. . . . 
 
 At the end of April he wrote to R. Murray Gilchrist 
 from St. Margaret's Bay : 
 
 My dear Feiend, 
 
 I know you will have been sorry to hear that I have 
 been ill — and had to leave work, and home. The imme- 
 diate cause was a severe and sudden attack of influenza 
 which went to membranes of the head and brain, and all 
 but resulted in brain fever. This evil was averted — but 
 it and the possible collapse of your friend Will were at 
 one time, and for some days, an imminent probability. 
 
 I have now been a fortnight in this quiet sea-haven, 
 and am practically myself again. Part of my work is 
 now too hopelessly in arrears ever to catch up. Fortu- 
 nately, our friend Miss F. M. practically finished her 
 book just before she got ill too — and there is a likelihood 
 that There is But One Love [published in the following 
 year under the title of The Dominion of Dreams'] will 
 come out this Spring. A few days will decide. . . . 
 
 Your friend and Sunlover, 
 (in the deep sense you know I mean — for I 
 have suffered much, but am now again front- 
 ing life gravely and with laughing eyes), 
 
 Will. 
 
 and again after his return to London : 
 
 Rutland House. 
 My dear Robert, 
 
 . . . After months of sickness, at one time at the 
 gates of death, I am whirled back from the Iron Gates 
 and am in the maelstrom again — fighting with mind and
 
 294 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 soul and body for that inevitable losing game which we 
 call victory. Well, the hour waits : and for good or ill I 
 put forth that which is in me. The Utmost for the High- 
 est. There is that motto for all faithful failures. . . . 
 
 I am busy of course. And so, too, our friend F. M. — 
 with an elixir of too potent life. The flame is best: and 
 the keener, the less obscured of smoke. So I believe: 
 upon this I build. Cosmopolis will ere long have " The 
 Wayfarer " of hers — Good Words " The Wells of Peace " 
 — Harpers, something — Literature a spiritual ballad — 
 and so forth. But her life thought is in another and 
 stranger thing than she has done yet.^ . . . Your 
 friend W. S. is busy too, with new and deeper and 
 stronger work. The fugitive powers impel. I look 
 eagerly to new work of yours : above all to what you 
 colour with yourself. I care little for anything that is not 
 quick with that volatile part of one which is the effluence 
 of the spirit within. Write to me soon : by return best of 
 all. You can help me — as I, I hope, can help you. 
 
 It is only the fullest and richest lives that know what 
 the heart of loneliness is. 
 
 You are my comrade, and have my love, 
 
 Will. 
 
 Two, among the many letters he wrote to me during 
 that Spring — so full of suffering for him and anxiety for 
 me — are, I think, very indicative of the two phases of his 
 nature. The first relates to views we held in common; 
 the second gives an insight into the primitive elemental 
 soul that so often swayed him, and his work. 
 
 March 29, 1898. 
 
 . . . Yes, in essentials, we are all at one. We have 
 both learned and unlearned so much, and we have come to 
 see that we are wrought mysteriously by forces beyond 
 ourselves, but in so seeing we know that there is a great 
 and deep love that conquers even disillusion and disap- 
 pointment. . . . 
 
 * The Divine Adventure.
 
 WIVES IN EXILE 295 
 
 Not all the wishing, not all the dreaming, not all the 
 will and hope and prayer we summon can alter that 
 within us which is stronger than ourselves. This is a 
 hard lesson to learn for all of us, and most for a woman. 
 We are brought up within such an atmosphere of conven- 
 tional untruth to life that most people never even per- 
 ceive the hopeless futility in the arbitrary ideals which 
 are imposed upon us — and the result for the deeper na- 
 tures, endless tragic miscarriage of love, peace, and hope. 
 But, fortunately, those of us who to our own suffering 
 do see only too clearly, can still strike out a nobler ideal 
 — one that does not shrink from the deepest responsibili- 
 ties and yet can so widen and deepen the heart and spirit 
 with love that what else would be irremediable pain can 
 be transmuted into hope, into peace, and even into Joy. 
 
 People talk much of this and that frailty or this or that 
 circumstance as being among the commonest disinte- 
 grants of happiness. But far more fatal for many of us 
 is that supreme disintegrant, the Tyranny of Love — the 
 love which is forever demanding as its due that which is 
 wholly independent of l)onds, which is as the wind which 
 bloweth where it listeth or where it is impelled, by the 
 Spirit. We are taught such hopeless lies. And so men 
 and women start life with ideals which seem fair, but are 
 radically consumptive : ideals that are not only bound to 
 perish, but that could not survive. The man of fifty who 
 could be the same as he was at twenty is simply a man 
 whose mental and spiritual life stopped short while he 
 was yet a youth. The woman of forty who could have 
 the same outlook on life as the girl of 19 or 20 would 
 never have been other than one ignominiously deceived 
 or hopelessly self-sophisticated. This ought not to be — 
 but it must be as long as young men and women are fed 
 mentally and spiritually upon the foolish and cowardly 
 lies of a false and corrupt conventionalism. 
 
 No wonder that so many fine natures, men and women, 
 are wrought to lifelong suffering. They are started with 
 impossible ideals : and while some can never learn that 
 their unhappiness is the result, not of the falling short
 
 296 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 of others, but of the falsity of those ideals which they 
 had so cherished — and while others learn first strength to 
 endure the transmutations and then power to weld these 
 to far nobler and finer uses and ends — for both there is 
 suffering. Yet, even of that we make too much. We 
 have all a tendency to nurse grief. The brooding spirit 
 craves for the sunlight, but it will not leave the shadows. 
 Often, Sorroiv is our best ally. 
 
 The other night, tired, I fell asleep on my sofa. I 
 dreamed that a beautiful spirit was standing beside me. 
 He said : " My Brother, I have come to give you the su- 
 preme gift that will heal you and save you." I answered 
 eagerly : " Give it me — what is it? " And the fair radiant 
 spirit smiled with beautiful solemn eyes, and blew a 
 breath into the tangled garden of my heart — and when I 
 looked there I saw the tall white Flower of Sorrow grow- 
 ing in the Sunlight." 
 
 (To E. A. S.) 
 
 St. Margaret's Bay, 
 
 May, 1898. 
 
 I have had a very happy and peaceful afternoon. The 
 isolation, with sun and wind, were together like soft 
 cream upon my nerves : and I suppose that within twenty 
 minutes after I left the station I was not only serenely at 
 peace with the world in general, but had not a perturbing 
 thought. To be alone, alone * in the open ' above all, is 
 not merely healing to me but an imperative necessity of 
 my life — and the chief counter agent to the sap that al- 
 most every person exercises on me, unless obviated by 
 frequent and radical interruption. 
 
 By the time I had passed through the village I was 
 already ' remote ' in dreams and thoughts and poignant 
 outer enjoyment of the lovely actualities of sun and wind 
 and the green life : and when I came to my favourite coign 
 where, sheltered from the bite of the wind, I could over- 
 look the sea (a mass of lovely, radiant, amethyst-shad- 
 owed, foam-swept water), I lay down for two restful 
 happy hours in ivhich not once a thought of London or of
 
 WIVES IN EXILE 297 
 
 any one in it, or of any one living, came to me. This 
 power of living absolutely in the moment is worth not 
 only a crown and all that a crown could give, but is the 
 secret of youth, the secret of life. 
 
 how weary I am of the endless recurrence of the 
 ordinary in the lives of most people — the beloved rou- 
 tine, the cherished monotonies, the treasured certainties. 
 I grudge them to none : they seem incidental to the com- 
 mon weal: indeed they seem even made for happiness. 
 But I know one wild heart at least to whom life must come 
 otherwise, or not at all. 
 
 Today I took a little green leaf o' thorn. I looked at 
 the sun through it, and a dazzle came into my brain — and 
 I wished, ah I wished I were a youth once more, and was 
 * sun-brother ' and ' star-brother ' again — to lie down at 
 night, smelling the earth, and rise at dawn, smelling the 
 new air out of the East, and know enough of men and 
 cities to avoid both, and to consider little any gods an- 
 cient or modern, loiowing well that there is only ' The 
 Red God ' to think of, he who lives and laughs in the red 
 blood. . . . 
 
 There is a fever of the ' green life ' in my veins — below 
 all the ordinary littlenesses of conventional life and all 
 the common place of exterior: a fever that makes me ill 
 at ease with people, even those I care for, that fills me 
 with a weariness beyond words and a nostalgia for sweet 
 impossible things. 
 
 This can be met in several ways — chiefly and best by 
 the practical yoking of the imagination to the active mind 
 — in a word, to work. If I can do this, well and good, 
 either by forced absorption in contrary work (e. g. Ciesar 
 of France), or by letting that go for the time and let the 
 more creative instinct have free play: or by some radical 
 change of environment: or again by some irresponsible 
 and incalculable variation of work and brief day-ab- 
 sences. 
 
 At the moment, I am like a man of the hills held in fee : 
 I am willing to keep my bond, to earn my wage, to hold to 
 the foreseen : and yet any moment a kestrel may fly over-
 
 298 WILLIAM SHAKP 
 
 head, mocking me with a rock-echo, where only sun and 
 wind and bracken live — or an eddy of wind may have the 
 sough of a pine in it — and then, in a flash — there's my 
 swift brain-dazzle in answer, and all the rapid falling 
 away of these stupid half-realities, and only a wild in- 
 stinct to go to my own. . . . 
 
 It was in this mood that he wrote to a friend : 
 
 . . . but then, life is just like that. It is glad only 
 ' in the open,' and beautiful only because of its dreams. I 
 wish I could live all my hours out of doors : I envy no one 
 in the world so much as the red deer, the eagle, the sea- 
 mew. I am sure no kings have so royal a life as the plo- 
 vers and curlews have. All these have freedom, rejoice 
 continually on the wind's wing, exalt alike in sun and 
 shade : to them day is day, and night is night, and there is 
 nothing else. 
 
 His sense of recovery was greatly heightened by a de- 
 lightful little wander in Holland in May, with Mr. 
 Thomas A. Janvier, a jovial, breezy companion. Of all 
 he saw the chief fascination proved to be Eiland Marken, 
 as he wrote to me : 
 
 We are now in the south Zuyder Zee, with marvellous 
 sky effects, and low lines of land in the distance. Look- 
 ing back at Eiland Marken one sees six clusters of houses, 
 at wide intervals, dropped casually into the sea. 
 
 We had a delightful time in that quaintest of old 
 world places, where the women are grotesque, the men 
 grotesquer, and the children grotesquest — as for the 
 tubby, capped, gorgeous-garbed, blue-eyed, yellow-haired, 
 imperturbable babies, they alone are worth coming to 
 see. . . . 
 
 The following is a letter from his other self : 
 
 23(1 July, 1898. 
 
 My dear Mr. Ehys, 
 
 On my coming to Edinburgh for a few days I find the 
 book you have so kindly sent to me. It is none the less 
 welcome because it comes as no new acquaintance : for on
 
 WIVES IN EXILE 299 
 
 its appearance a friend we have in common sent it to me. 
 Alas, that copy lies among the sea-weed in a remote 
 Highland loch; for the book, while still reading in part, 
 slipped overboard the small yacht in which I was sailing, 
 and with it the MS. of a short story of mine appropriately 
 named " Beneath the Shadow of the Wave " ! The two 
 may have comforted each other in that solitude: or the 
 tides may have carried them southward, and tossed them 
 now to the Pembroke Stacks, now to the cliffs of Howth. 
 Perhaps a Welsh crab may now be squeaking (they do 
 say that crabs make a whistling squeak!) with a Gaelic 
 accent, or the deep-sea congers be reciting Welsh ballads 
 to the young-lady-eels of the Hebrides. Believe me, your 
 book has given me singular pleasure. I find in it the inde- 
 scribable : and to me that is one of the tests, perhaps the 
 supreme test (for it involves so much) of imaginative lit- 
 erature. A nimble air of the hills is there ; the rustle of 
 remote woods; the morning cry, that is so ancient, and 
 that still so thrills us. 
 
 I most eagerly hope that you will recreate in beauty the 
 all but lost beauty of the old Cymric singers. There is a 
 true originality in this, as in anything else. The green 
 leaf, the grey wave, the mountain wind — after all, are 
 they not murmurous in the old Celtic poets, whether Al- 
 ban or Irish or Welsh: and to translate, and recreate 
 anew, from these, is but to bring back into the world 
 again a lost wandering beauty of hill-wind or green leaf 
 or grey wave. There is, I take it, no one living who could 
 interpret Davyth ap Gwilym and other old Welsh singers 
 as you could do. I long to have the Green Book of ' the 
 Poet of the Leaves ' in English verse, and in English 
 verse such as that into which you could transform 
 
 it. . . . 
 
 P.M. 
 The Welsh poet replied: 
 
 Newcastle-on-Tyne, 
 
 27th Dec, 1898. 
 
 Dear " Fiona Macleod," 
 
 I believe I never wrote to thank you for your story in 
 the Dome, which I read eventually in an old Welsh tower.
 
 300 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 It was the right i:)lace to read such a fantasy of the dark 
 and bright blindness of the Celt : and I found it, if not of 
 your very best, yet full of imaginative stimulus. 
 
 Not many weeks ago, in very different surroundings, 
 Mr. Sharp read me a poem — two jioems — of yours. So 
 I feel that I have the sense, at least, of your continued 
 journeys thro' the divine and earthly regions of the Gael, 
 and how life looks to you, and what colours it wears. 
 What should we do were it not for that sense of the little 
 group of simple and faithful souls, who love the clay of 
 earth because heaven is wrapt in it, and stand by and sup- 
 port their lonely fellows in the struggle against the forces 
 upon forces the world sends against them? I trust at 
 some time it may be my great good fortune to see you 
 and talk of these things, and hear more of your doings. 
 
 Ernest Rhys. 
 
 From the little rock-perched, sea-girt Pettycur Inn, 
 my husband wrote to Mrs. Janvier : 
 
 The House of Dreams, 
 
 20th Dec, 1898. 
 
 ... It has been a memorable time here. I have writ- 
 ten some of my best work — including two or three of 
 the new things for The Dominion of Dreams — viz. " The 
 Rose of Flame," " Honey of the Wild Bees," and " The 
 Secrets of the Night." 
 
 What a glorious day it has been. The most beautiful 
 I have ever seen at Pettycur I think. Cloudless blue sky, 
 clear exquisite air tho' cold, with a marvellous golden 
 light in the afternoon. Arthur's Seat, the Crags and the 
 Castle and the 14 ranges of the Pentlands all clear-cut 
 as steel, and the city itself visible in fluent golden light. 
 The whole coast-line purple blue, down to Berwick Law 
 and the Bass Rock, and the Isle of May 16 miles out in the 
 north sea. 
 
 And now I listen to the gathering of the tidal waters 
 under the stars. There is an infinite solemnity — a hush, 
 something sacred and wonderful. A benediction lies upon 
 the world. Far off I hear the roaming wind. Thoughts
 
 WIVES IN EXILE 301 
 
 and memories crowd in on me. Here I have lived and 
 suffered — here I have touched the heights — here I have 
 done my best. And now, liere, I am going through a new 
 birth. 
 
 * Sic itur ad astral! ' 
 
 During the years that F. M. developed so rapidly her 
 creator felt the necessity pressing hard on him to sustain, 
 as far as he could, the reputation of W. S. He valued 
 such reputation as he had and was anxious not to let it 
 die away ; yet there was a great difference in the method 
 of production of the two kinds of work. The F. M. writ- 
 ing was the result of an inner impulsion, he wrote be- 
 cause he had to give expression to himself whether the 
 impulse grew out of pain or out of pleasure. But W. S., 
 divorced as much as could be from his twin self, wrote 
 because he cared to, because the necessities of life de- 
 manded it. He was always deeply interested in his crit- 
 ical work, for he was a constant student of Literature in 
 all its forms, and of the Literature of different countries 
 — in particular of France, America and Italy. This form 
 of study, this keen interest, was a necessity to W. S. ; 
 but fiction was to him a matter of choice. He deliberately 
 set himself to write the two novels Wives in Exile and 
 Silence Farm, because he felt W. S. ought to produce 
 some such work as a normal procedure and development ; 
 and also he felt it imperative to show some result of the 
 seclusion he was known to seek for purposes of work. He 
 was deeply interested in both books. Wives in Exile was 
 the easier to write, as it gave an outlet to the vein of 
 whimsicality in him, to his love of fun. He delighted in 
 the weaving of any plot, or in any extravaganza. The 
 book was a great relief and rest to him and was a real 
 tonic to his mind. 
 
 A little later, when he realised that something more 
 was expected of him and was too ill to attempt anything 
 in the shape of comedy, he therefore set himself to write 
 a tragic tale of the Lowlands, foimded on a true incident. 
 Into this he put serious interested work, but there was
 
 302 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 one consideration that throughout had a restraining ef- 
 fect on him — he never forgot that the book should not 
 have obvious kinship to the work of P. M., that he 
 should keep a considerable amount of himself in check. 
 For there was a midway method, that was a blending of 
 the two, a swaying from the one to the other, which he 
 desired to avoid, since he knew that many of the critics 
 were on the watch. Therefore, he strained the realistic 
 treatment beyond what he otherwise would have done, 
 in order to preserve a special method of presentment. 
 Nevertheless, that book was the one he liked best of all 
 the W. S. efforts, and he considered that it contained 
 some of his most satisfactory work. Wives in Exile was 
 published in June of 1896 by Mr. Grant Richards, and 
 Silence Farm in 1897. 
 
 The following letter from Mr. Theodore Watts-Dunton 
 was a great pleasure. It is, I believe, the only written 
 expression of what the author terms the " inwardness of 
 Ayhvin " : 
 
 The Pines, Putney Hill, 
 
 Oct. 19, 1898. 
 
 My deae Sharp, 
 
 I had no idea that you were in England, and had no 
 means of finding your address. 
 
 You read only a portion of Aylwin — as far, I think, 
 as the discovery that Winifred had been the model of 
 Wilderspin. I always intended to send you other por- 
 tions, but procrastination ruined my good intentions. 
 You and my dear friend Mrs. Sharp were very kind to it, 
 I remember, and this encourages me to hope that when 
 you come to read it in its entirety, you will like it better 
 than ever. Although it is of course primarily a love- 
 story, and, as such, will be read by the majority of read- 
 ers, it is intended to be the pronouncement of something 
 like a new gospel — the gospel of love as the great power 
 which stands up and confronts a materialistic cosmogony 
 and challenges it and conquers it. This gospel of course 
 is more fully expressed in " The Coming of Love " of 
 which I send you a copy, " The Coming of Love " is of
 
 WIVES IN EXILE 303 
 
 course a sequel to Aylwin, although, for certain reasons, 
 it preceded in publication the novel. Aylwin appears 
 in the last year of the present century, and I had a 
 certain object in delaying it for a little while longer 
 because I believe that should it have more than an ephem- 
 eral existence as to which I am of course very doubtful, 
 it will appeal fifty years hence to fifty people where it 
 now only appeals to one. I cannot think that, when a man 
 has felt the love-passion as deeply as Aylwin feels it, he 
 will find it possible, whatever physical science may prove, 
 to accept a materialistic theory of the universe. He 
 must either commit suicide or become a maniac. . . . 
 Henry Aylwin and Percy Aylwin, the Tamo Rye of " The 
 Coming of Love," spring from the same Romany ances- 
 tors and they inherited therefore the most passionate 
 blood in the Western World. Each of them is driven to a 
 peculiar spiritualistic cosmogony by the love of a girl — 
 Winifred Wynne and Rhona Boswell, though the two 
 girls are the exact opposite of each other in temperament. 
 But you really must let me get a glimpse of you some- 
 how before you leave England again. 
 
 Your affectionate 
 
 " Aylwin."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE DOMINION OF DREAMS 
 
 For the January number of The Fortnightly Review 
 for 1899 " Fiona " wrote a long study on " A Group of 
 Celtic Writers " and what she held to be " the real Cel- 
 ticism." The writers specially noted are W. B. Yeats, 
 Dr. Douglas Hyde, George Russell (A. E.), Nora Hopper, 
 Katherine Tynan Hinkson, and Lionel Johnson. With 
 regard to the Celtic Revival the writer considered that 
 " there has been of late too much looseness of phrase 
 concerning the Celtic spirit, the Celtic movement, and 
 that mysterious entity Celticism. The ' Celtic Renas- 
 cence,' the ' Gaelic glamour,' these, for the most part, 
 are shibboleths of the journalist who if asked what it is 
 that is being re-born, or what differentiating qualities 
 has the distinction of Gaelic from any other ' glamour,' 
 or what constitutes ' glamour ' itself, would as we say 
 in the North, be fair taken aback. . . . What is called 
 ' the Celtic Renascence ' is simply a fresh development of 
 creative energy coloured by nationality, and moulded by 
 inherited forces, a development diverted from the com- 
 mon way by accident of race and temperament. The 
 Celtic writer is the writer the temper of whose mind is 
 more ancient, more primitive, and in a sense more nat- 
 ural than that of his compatriot in whom the Teutonic 
 strain prevails. The Celt is always remembering; the 
 Anglo Saxon has little patience which lies far behind 
 or far beyond his own hour. And as the Celt comes of a 
 people who grew in spiritual outlook as they began what 
 has been revealed to us by history as a ceaseless losing 
 battle, so the Teuton comes of a people who has lost in 
 the spiritual life what they have gained in the moral and 
 the practical — and I use moral in its literal and proper 
 sense. The difference is a far greater one than may be 
 
 304
 
 THE DOMINION OF DREAMS 305 
 
 recognised readily. The immediate divergence is, that 
 with the Celt ancestral memory and ancestral instinct 
 constitute a distinguishable factor in his life and his 
 expression of life, and that with his Teutonic compatriot 
 vision, dream, actuality and outlook, are in the main re- 
 stricted to what in the past has direct bearing upon the 
 present, and to what in the future is also along the line 
 of direct relation to the present. . . . All that the 
 new generation of Celtic or Anglo-Celtic (for the most 
 part Anglo-Celtic) writers hold in conscious aim, is to 
 interpret anew ' the beauty at the heart of things,' not 
 along the line of English tradition but along that of racial 
 instinct, coloured and informed by individual temper- 
 ament." 
 
 Naturally the article was favourably commented upon 
 in Ireland. The immediate result in the English press 
 was the appearance in The Daily Chronicle of January 
 28th of a long unsigned article entitled " A¥lio is Fiona 
 Macleod : A Study in two styles " to suggest that in 
 response to the cry of " Author ! " so repeatedly made, 
 " we may, in our search for Miss Macleod, turn to Mr. 
 William Sharp himself and say with literal truth ' Thou 
 art beside thyself ! ' " 
 
 The writer advanced many proofs in support of his 
 contention, drawn from a close study of the writings and 
 methods of work of W. S. and F. M. ; and asked, in con- 
 clusion : " Will Mr. Sharp deny that he is identical with 
 Miss Macleod? That Miss Macleod is Mr. Sharp, I, for 
 one, have not a lingering doubt and I congratulate the 
 latter on the success, the real magic and strength of the 
 work issued under his assumed name." At first the har- 
 assed author ignored the challenge; but a few months 
 later F. M. yielded to the persuasion of her publishers 
 — who had a book of hers in the press — and wrote a dis- 
 claimer which appeared in The Literary World and else- 
 where. 
 
 In April 1899 The Dominion of Dreams was published 
 by Messrs. A. Constable & Co.
 
 306 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 To Mr. Frank Kinder the author wrote : 
 
 My dear Frank, 
 
 Today I got three or four copies of The Dominion of 
 Dreams. I wish you to have one, for this book is at once 
 the deepest and most intimate that F. M. has written. 
 
 Too much of it is born out of incurable heartache, " the 
 nostalgia for impossible things." . . . My hope is that 
 the issues of life have been woven to beauty, for its 
 own sake, and in divers ways to reach and help or enrich 
 other lives. ..." The Wells of Peace " must, I 
 think, appeal to many tired souls, spiritually athirst. 
 That is a clue to the whole book — or all but the more 
 impersonal part of it, such as the four opening stories 
 and " The Herdsman " ; this is at once my solace, my 
 hope and my ideal. If ever a book (in the deeper portion 
 of it) came out of the depths of a life it is this: and so, 
 I suppose it shall live — for by a mysterious law, only the 
 work of suffering, or great joy, survives, and that in de- 
 gree to its intensity. . . . 
 
 F. M.'s influence is now steadily deepening and, thank 
 God, along the lines I have hoped and dreamed. . . . 
 In the writings to come I hope a deeper and richer and 
 truer note of inward joy and spiritual hope will be the 
 living influence. In one of the stories in this book, " The 
 Distant Country " occurs a sentence that is to be in- 
 scribed on my gravestone when my time comes. 
 
 " Love is more great than we conceive and Death is the 
 keeper of unknown redemptions." 
 
 Lovingly, 
 Will. 
 
 To another correspondent he wrote : 
 
 . . . Well, if it gains wide and sincere appreciation 
 I shall be glad : if it should practically be ignored I shall 
 be sorry: but, beyond that, I am indifferent. I know 
 what I have tried to do : I know what I have done : I know 
 the end to which I work : I believe in the sowers who will 
 sow and the reapers who will reap, from some seed of 
 the spirit in this book : and knowing this, I have little heed
 
 THE DOMINION OP DEEAMS 307 
 
 of any other considerations. Beauty, in itself, for itself, 
 is my dream : and in some expression of it, in the difficult 
 and subtle art of words, I have a passionate absorption." 
 
 In a letter to Mr. Macleay W, S. explained that Fiona's 
 new book is the logical outcome of the others : the deeper 
 note, the vox humana, of these. I think it is more than 
 merely likely that this is the last book of its kind. I 
 have had to live my books — and so must follow an inward 
 law — that is truth to art as well as to life I think. 
 There is, however, a miscellaneous volume (of ' apprecia- 
 tions,' and mystical studies) and also a poetic volume 
 which I suppose should be classed with it. I imagine 
 that, thereafter, her development will be on unexpected 
 lines, both in fiction and the drama: judging both from 
 what I know and what I have seen. In every sense I 
 think you are right when you speak of ' surprise ' as an 
 element in what we may expect from her. ... I sup- 
 pose some of that confounded controversy about Miss M. 
 and myself will begin again. . . . 
 
 To Mr. W. B. Yeats the author wrote about the book, 
 and described our plans for the summer : 
 
 Monday, 1899. 
 
 My deae Yeats, 
 
 . . . As you well know, all imaginative work is truly 
 alive only when it has died into the mind and been born 
 again. The mystery of dissolution is the common mean 
 of growth. Eesurrection is the test of any spiritual idea 
 — as of the spiritual life itself, of art, and of any final 
 expression of the inward life. ... I have been ill — 
 and seriously — but am now better, though I have to be 
 careful still. All our plans for Scandinavia in the au- 
 tumn are now over — partly by doctor's orders, who says 
 I must have hill and sea air native to me — Scotland or 
 Ireland. So about the end of July my wife and I intend 
 to go to Ireland. It will probably be to the east coast, 
 Mourne Mountains coast. I hope you like The Dominion 
 of Dreams. Miss Macleod has received two or three very
 
 308 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 strange and moving letters from strangers, as well as 
 others. The book of course can appeal to few — that is, 
 much of it. But, I hope, it will sink deep. We leave our 
 flat about 20tli of July. Shall you be in town before then? 
 I doubt if I'll ever live in London again. It is not likely. 
 I do not know that I am overwhelmingly anxious to live 
 anywhere. I think you know enough of me to know how 
 profoundly I feel the strain of life — the strain of double 
 life. Still, there is much to be done yet. But for 
 that . . . 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 William Sharp. 
 
 Mr. Yeats' Keview of The Dominion of Dreams in the 
 Bookman (July 1899) was carefully critical ; it was his de- 
 sire " to discover the thoughts about which her thoughts 
 are woven. Other writers are busy with the way men 
 and women act in joy and sorrow, but Miss Macleod has 
 rediscovered the art of the mythmaker and gives a visible 
 shape to joys and sorrows, and make them seem realities 
 and men and women illusions. It was minds like hers 
 that created Aphrodite out of love and the foam of the 
 sea, and Prometheus out of human thought and its like- 
 ness to the leaping fire." And then he pointed out that 
 " every inspiration has its besetting sin, and perhaps 
 those who are at the beginning of movements have no 
 models and no traditional restraints. She has faults 
 enough to ruin an ordinary writer. Her search for these 
 resemblances brings her beyond the borders of coherence. 
 . . . The bent of nature that makes her turn from 
 circumstance and personalities to symbols and personifi- 
 cations may perhaps leave her liable to an obsession for 
 certain emotional words which have for her a kind of 
 symbolic meaning, but her love of old tales should tell 
 her that the old mysteries are best told in simple words." 
 
 At first this criticism caused the author much emotional 
 perturbation; but later, when he reconsidered the state- 
 ments, he admitted that there was reason for the cen- 
 sure.
 
 THE DOMINION OF DEEAMS 309 
 
 " Fiona " then asked the Irish poet to indicate the pas- 
 sages he took most exception to, and Mr. Yeats sent a 
 carefully annotated copy of the book imder discussion. 
 And I may add that a number of the revisions that differ- 
 entiate the version in the Collected Edition from the orig- 
 inal isjue are the outcome of this criticism. The author's 
 acknowledgment is dated the 16th September 1899 : 
 
 My dear Mr. Yeats, 
 
 I am at present like one of those equinoctial leaves 
 which are whirling before me as I write, now this way 
 and now that : for I am, just now, addressless, and drift 
 between East and West, with round-the-compass eddies, 
 including a flying visit of a day or two in a yacht from 
 Cantyre to North Antrim coast. . . . 
 
 I am interested in what you write about The Dominion 
 of Dreams and shall examine with closest attention all 
 your suggestions. The book has already been in great 
 part revised by my friend. In a few textual changes in 
 " Dalua " he has in one notable instance followed your 
 suggestion about the too literary " lamentable elder 
 voices." The order is slightly changed too : for " The 
 House of Sand and Foam " is to be withdrawn and 
 " Lost " is to come after " Dalua " and precede " The 
 Yellow Moonrock." 
 
 You will like to know what I most care for myself. 
 From a standpoint of literary art per se I think the best 
 work is that wherein the barbaric (the old Gaelic or Celto 
 Scandinavian) note occurs. My three favourite tales in 
 this kind are " The Sad Queen " in The Dominion of 
 Dreams, " The Laughter of Scathach " in The Washer of 
 the Ford, and " The Harping of Cravetheen " in The Sin- 
 Eater. In art, I think " Dalua " and " The Sad Queen " 
 and " Enya of the Dark Eyes " the best of The Dominion, 
 of Dreams. 
 
 Temperamentally, those which appeal to me are those 
 with the play of mysterious psychic forces in them. . . . 
 as in " Alasdair the Proud," " Children of the Dark 
 Star," " Enya of the Dark Eyes," and in the earlier
 
 310 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 tales " Cravetheen," " The Dan-nan-Ron," and the lona 
 tales. 
 
 Those others which are full of the individual note of 
 suffering and other emotion I find it very difficult to 
 judge. Of one thing only I am convinced, as is my friend 
 (an opinion shared by the rare few whose judgment really 
 means much) that there is nothing in The Dominion of 
 Dreams, or elsewhere in these writings under my name to 
 stand beside llie Distant Country ... as the deepest 
 and most searching utterance on the mystery of passion. 
 ... It is indeed the core of all these writings . . . and 
 will outlast them all. 
 
 Of course I am speaking for myself only. As for my 
 friend, his heart is in the ancient world and his mind for 
 ever questing in the domain of the spirit. I think he cares 
 little for anything but through the remembering imagina- 
 tion to recall and intei-pret, and through the formative 
 and penetrative imagination to discover certain mysteries 
 of psychological and spiritual life. 
 
 Apropos — I wish very much you would read, when it 
 appears in the Fortnightly Review — probably either in 
 October or November — the spiritual * essay ' called " The 
 Divine Adventure " — an imaginative effort to reach the 
 same vital problems of spiritual life along the separate 
 yet inevitably interrelated lines of the Body, the Will 
 (Mind or Intellect) and the soul. . . . 
 
 I have no time to write about the plays. Two are 
 typed : the third, the chief, is not yet finished. When all 
 are revised and ready, you can see them. " The Immor- 
 tal Hour" (the shortest, practically a one act play in 
 time) is in verse. Sincerely yours, 
 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 
 These two plays were finally entitled " The Immortal 
 Hour " and " The House of Usna." The third, " The En- 
 chanted Valleys," remains a fragment. 
 
 At midsummer we gave up our flat in South Hamp- 
 stead and stored our furniture indefinitely. It was de- 
 creed that we were to live no more in London; so we
 
 THE DOMINION OF DREAMS 311 
 
 decided to make the experiment of wintering at Chorley- 
 wood, Bucks. Meanwhile, we went to our dear West 
 Highlands, to Loch Goil, to Corrie on Arran, and to lona. 
 And in August we crossed over to Belfast and stayed for 
 a short time at Ballycastle, the north easterly point of 
 Ireland, to Newcastle, and then to Dublin. 
 
 From Ballycastle my husband wrote to Mrs. Janvier: 
 
 6th Aug., 1899. 
 
 . . . We are glad to get away from Belfast, tho' very 
 glad to be there, in a nice hotel, after our fatigues and 
 10 hours' exposure in the damp sea-fog. It was a lovely 
 day in Belfast, and Elizabeth had her first experience 
 of an Irish car. 
 
 We are on the shore of a beautiful bay — with the great 
 ram-shaped headland of Fair Head on the right, the At- 
 lantic in front, and also in front but leftward the remote 
 Gaelic island of Rathlin. It is the neighbourhood whence 
 Deirdre and Naois fled from Concobar, and it is from a 
 haven in this coast that they sailed for Scotland. It is 
 an enchanted land for those who dream the old dreams : 
 though perhaps without magic or even appeal for those 
 who do not " 
 
 October found us at Chorleywood, in rooms overlooking 
 the high common. Thence he wrote to Mr. Murray Gil- 
 christ : 
 
 My dear Robert, 
 
 It is a disappointment to us both that you are not com- 
 ing south immediately. Yes ; the war-news saddens one, 
 and in many ways. Yet, the war was inevitable : of that 
 I am convinced, apart from political engineering or finan- 
 cial interests. There are strifes as recurrent and inevi- 
 table as tidal waves. Today I am acutely saddened by 
 the loss of a very dear friend. Grant Allen. I loved the 
 man — and admired the brilliant writer and catholic critic 
 and eager student. He was of a most winsome nature. 
 The world seems shrunken a bit more. As yet, I cannot
 
 312 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 realise I am not to see him again. Our hearts ache 
 for his wife — an ideal loveable woman — a dear friend of 
 US both. 
 
 We are both very busy. Elizabeth has now the art- 
 work to do for a London paper as well as for The Glas- 
 goiv Herald. For myself, in addition to a great compli- 
 cation of work on hand I have undertaken (for financial 
 reasons) to do a big book on the Fine Arts in the Nine- 
 teenth Century. I hope to begin on it Monday next. It is 
 to be about 125,000 words, (over 400 close-printed pp.), 
 and if possible is to be done by December-end! . . . 
 
 You see I am not so idle as you think me. It is likely 
 that our friend Miss Macleod will have a new book out in 
 January or thereabouts — but not fiction. It is a volume 
 of ' Spiritual Essays ' etc — studies in the spiritual his- 
 tory of the Gael. 
 
 We like this most beautiful and bracing neighbourhood 
 greatly : and as we have pleasant artist-friends near, and 
 are so quickly and easily reached from London, we are as 
 little isolated as at So. Hampstead — personally, I wish 
 we were more! It has been the loveliest October I re- 
 member for years. The equinoxial bloom is on every tree. 
 But today, after long drought, the weather has broken, 
 and a heavy rain has begun. 
 
 Yours, 
 Will. 
 
 . .The Progress of Art in the Century was a longer piece 
 of work than the author anticipated. It was finished in 
 the summer of 1900, and published in The Nineteenth 
 Century Series in 1902 by The Linscott Publishing Co. 
 in America, and by W. & R. Chambers in England. In 
 the early winter the author wrote again to Mr. Gilchrist : 
 
 Chokleywood, 
 Nov., 1899. 
 
 My dear Robert, 
 
 The reason for another note so soon is to ask if you 
 cannot arrange to come here for a few days about Novem- 
 ber-end, and for this reason. You know that the Omar
 
 THE DOMINION OF DREAMS 313 
 
 Khayyam Club is the " Blue Ribbon " so to speak of Lit- 
 erary Associations, and that its occasional meetings are 
 more sought after than any other. As I think you know, 
 I am one of the 49 members — and I much want you to be 
 my guest at the forthcoming meeting on Friday Dec. 1st, 
 the first of the new year. 
 
 The new President is Sir George Robertson (" Robert- 
 son of Chitral ") — and he has asked me to write (and re- 
 cite) the poem which, annually or biennially, some one 
 is honoured by the club request to write. The moment 
 she heard of it, Elizabeth declared that it must be the 
 occasion of your coming here — so don't disappoint her as 
 well as myself ! . . . 
 
 Ever affectly. yours. 
 
 Will.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE DIVINE ADVENTURE 
 
 Celtic 
 
 In the early summer of 1900 the volume entitled The 
 Divine Adventure: lona: By Sundown Shores, with a 
 dedication to me, was published by Messrs. Chapman & 
 Hall. 
 
 Various titles had been discarded, among others " The 
 Reddening of the West," also " The Sun-Treader " in- 
 tended for a story, projected but never written, to form a 
 sequel to " The Herdsman." The titular essays had pre- 
 viously appeared in various periodicals ; the two first in 
 The Fortnightly. As the author explained in a letter to 
 Mr. Macleay, Fiona's Highland champion: 
 
 . . . There is a sudden departure from fiction ancient 
 or modern in something of mine that is coming out in 
 the November and December issues of The Fortnightly 
 Revieiv. 
 
 " The Divine Adventure " it is called — though this 
 spiritual essay is more ' remote,' i. e. unconventional, and 
 in a sense more ' mystical,' than anything I have done. 
 But it is out of my inward life. It is an essential part of 
 a forthcoming book of spiritual and critical essays or 
 studies in the spiritual history of the Gael, to be called 
 The Reddening of the West. . . . 
 
 A book I look forward to with singular interest is Mr. 
 Arthur Symon's announced Symbolist Movement in Lit- 
 erature. 
 
 This is the longest letter I have written for — well, I 
 know not when. But, then, you are a good friend. 
 Believe me, yours most sincerely, 
 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 
 314
 
 THE DIVINE ADVENTURE 315 
 
 To Mons. Anatole Le Braz, the Breton romance-writer 
 and folklorist, F. M. had written previously: 
 
 Dear M. Le Braz, 
 
 Your letter was a great pleasure to me. It was the 
 more welcome as coming from one who is not only an 
 author whose writings have a constant charm for me, 
 but as from a Celtic comrade and spiritual brother who 
 is also the foremost living exponent of the Breton genius. 
 It may interest you to know that I am preparing an 
 etude on Contemporary Breton (i. e. Franco-Breton) Lit- 
 erature; which, however, will be largely occupied with 
 consideration of your own high achievement in prose and 
 verse. 
 
 It gives me sincere pleasure to send to you by this post 
 a copy of the * popular ' edition of Adamnan's Life of St. 
 Colum — which please me by accepting. You will find, 
 below these primitive and often credulous legends of 
 lona a beauty of thought and a certain poignant ex- 
 quisiteness of sentiment that cannot but appeal to you, 
 a Breton of the Bretons. . . . 
 
 It seems to me that in writing the spiritual history of 
 lona I am writing the spiritual history of the Gael, of all 
 our Celtic race. The lovely wonderful little island some- 
 times appears to me as a wistful mortal, in his eyes the 
 pathos of infinite desires and inalienable ideals — some- 
 times as a woman, beautiful, wild, sacred, inviolate, clad 
 in rags, but aureoled with the Rainbows of the west. 
 
 " Tell the story of lona, and you go back to God, and 
 end in God." (The first words of my ' spiritual his- 
 tory'). . . . 
 
 But you will have already wearied of so long a letter. 
 My excuse is . . . that you are Anatole Le Braz, and I 
 am your far-away but true comrade, 
 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 
 On the 30th Dec. W. S. wrote to Mr. Frank Rinder : 
 
 Just a line, dear Frank, both as dear friend and lit- 
 erary comrade, to greet you on New Year's morning, and
 
 316 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 to wish you health and prosperity in 1900. I would like 
 you very much to read some of this new Fiona work, es- 
 pecially the opening pages of '* lona," for they contain a 
 very deep and potent spiritual faith and hope, that has 
 been with me ever since, as there told, as a child of seven, 
 old Seumas Macleod (who taught me so much — was in- 
 deed the father of Fiona) — took me on his knees one sun- 
 down on the island of Eigg, and made me pray to " Her.'^ 
 I have never written anything mentally so spiritually 
 autobiographical. Strange as it may seem it is almost 
 all literal reproduction of actuality with only some dates 
 and names altered. 
 
 But enough about that troublesome F. M. ! . . . 
 
 And to Mr. Gilchrist, " It was written de profundis^ 
 partly because of a compelling spirit, partly to help 
 others passionately eager to obtain some light on this 
 most complex and intimate spiritual destiny," 
 
 Some months previously William had written to an un- 
 known correspondent, Dr. John Goodchild, poet, mystie 
 and archeologist : 
 
 The Outlook Tower, 
 
 Edinburgh, 
 
 1898. 
 
 My deae Sir, 
 
 I have to thank you very cordially for your book and 
 the long and interesting letter which accompanied it. It- 
 must be to you also that I am indebted for an unrevised 
 proof-copy of The Light of the West. 
 
 Everything connected with the study of the Celtic past. 
 has an especial and deep interest for me, and there are 
 few if any periods more significant than that of the era. 
 of St. Columba. His personality has charmed me, in 
 the old and right sense of the word 'chami ' : but I have 
 come to it, or it to me, not through books (though of 
 course largel}^ through Adamnan) so much as through a 
 knowledge gained partly by reading, partly by legend- 
 ary lore and hearsay, and mainly by much brooding on 
 these, and on every known saying and record of Colum,. 
 in lona itself. When I wrote certain of my writings (e. g.
 
 THE DIVINE ADVENTURE 317 
 
 *' Muime Chriosd " and "The Three Marvels of lona") 
 I felt, rightly or wrongly, as though I had in some meas- 
 ure become interpretative of the spirit of " Colum the 
 White." 
 
 Again, I have long had a conviction — partly an emo- 
 tion of the imagination, and partly a belief insensibly de- 
 duced through a hundred avenues of knowledge and sur- 
 mise — that out of lona is again to come a Divine Word, 
 that lona, the little northern isle, will be as it were the 
 tongue in the mouth of the South. 
 
 Believe me, sincerely yours, 
 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 
 " The House of Usna " — one of three Celtic plays, on 
 which F. M. had been working for several months, was 
 brought out under the auspices of The Stage Society, of 
 which William Sharp was the first Chairman, Mr. Fred- 
 erick Whelen, the founder of that Society, had met my 
 husband at Hindhead when we were staying with his 
 uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Grant Allen, at their charm- 
 ing house. The Croft, built among the heather and the 
 pines on the hill-top just by the edge of the chasm called 
 " The Devil's Punch Bowl." 
 
 The older man was keenly interested in the project, did 
 his utmost to help towards its realisation. " The House 
 of Usna" was performed at the Fifth Meeting of the 
 Society at the Globe Theatre April 29th, 1900, together 
 with two short plays by Maeterlinck, The Interior and 
 The Death of Tintagiles. The music, composed espe- 
 cially for the short drama in three scenes, was by Mr. 
 Y. M. Capel, and the play was produced under the direc- 
 tion of Mr. Granville Barker. According to one critic: 
 " It had beauty and it had atmosphere, two very rare 
 things on the stage, but I did not feel that it quite made 
 a drama, or convince, as a drama should, by the continu- 
 ous action of inner or outer forces. It was, rather, pas- 
 sion turning upon itself, and with no language but a cry." 
 
 The author took the greatest interest in the rehearsals, 
 and in the performance. He thoroughly enjoyed the
 
 318 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 double play that was going on, as he moved about the 
 theatre, and chatted to his friends during the intervals, 
 with little heed of the risks he ran of detection of author- 
 ship. The drama itself was printed three months later 
 in The National Revieiv, and eventually published in book 
 form in America by Mr. T. B. Mosher, in 1903. 
 
 In 1900, too, the second of these dramas, " The Im- 
 mortal Hour," appeared in the November number of The 
 Fortnightly Review. It was published posthumously in 
 England (Foulis) and in America (Mosher). The 
 third play, " The Enchanted Valleys," was never finished. 
 It had been the author's intention to publish these dramas 
 in book form under the third title, and to dedicate it to 
 Mr. W. L. Courtney, who, as Editor of the Fortnightly, 
 had been a good friend to Fiona Macleod. 
 
 To his unknown correspondent the dramatist wrote 
 again : 
 
 Nov. 15, 1900. 
 
 Dear Dr. Goodchild, 
 
 I am glad that you have found pleasure in The Immor- 
 tal Hour. I wonder if you interpret the myth of Midir 
 and Etain quite differently, or if you, too, find in Midir 
 the symbol of the voice of the other world ; and what you 
 think of Dalua, the Fool, here and elsewhere. Your 
 earnest letter, written in spiritual comradeship, has been 
 read by me again and again. I do not say that the warn- 
 ing in it is not justified, still less that it is not called for : 
 but, on the other hand, I do not think I follow you aright. 
 Is it something in The Immortal Hour (or in The Divine 
 Adventure or more likely The Dominion of Dreams) that 
 impelled you to write as you did : or something seemingly 
 implied, or inferred by you 1 . . . 
 
 We seldom know how or where we really stand, or the 
 mien and aspect we unwittingly bear to the grave eyes of 
 the gods. Is it the lust of knowledge, of Hidden Things, 
 of the Delight of the World, of the magic of Mother- 
 Earth, of the Flesh — to one or all — that you allude. The 
 matter touches me intimately. 
 
 You have (I had almost said mysteriously, but why so.
 
 THE DIVINE ADVENTURE 319 
 
 for it would be more mysterious if there were no secret 
 help in spiritual comradeship) helped me at more than 
 one juncture in my life. . . . 
 
 Most sincerely, 
 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 
 Dr. Goodchild replied : 
 
 BOBDIGHEBA, 
 
 Nov. 29, 1900. 
 
 My dear Miss Macleod, 
 
 I left one or two of your questions unanswered in my 
 last. I am no Celtic scholar. It was your ' Prayer of the 
 Women ' which suggested to me first how far you might 
 feel for your sisters, and how far you might journey to 
 find succour. . . . 
 
 A woman who gazes into Columba's Well and sees 
 how the bubbles burst on its surface, needs all her own 
 wisdom lest she be dizzy, and a hand held out from the 
 opposite side the spring may help her to gaze more 
 steadily. Midhir, I believe to be the same as the oriental 
 Mitherd, the Recipient of Light, and its translator in 
 the Midhc-Myth, A voice from the " Otherworld " as you 
 say, but the wearer of the Miter, speaking not from the 
 t/n^erworld, but the Upperwov\d i.e. He is a High Priest 
 speaking in the full light of the Sun. 
 
 Etain is difficult, and my own ideas by no means formu- 
 lated. I merely suggest that ere your Etain was bom, 
 her name typified the strong hope of the singer, his im- 
 mortality, his knowledge that the Sun not merely creates 
 but re-creates in renewed beauty. 
 
 If you remember Cairbre, the son of Etain, you may 
 also remember those other Ethainn who sung before the 
 Ark in a far country. The Father is put on one side for 
 the Mother, by the singer, the Mother for the Bride. 
 Even Milton, puritan though he was, must invoke a 
 woman to the aid of " adventurous song " and is careful 
 not to change the sex when in the Muse of Sinni and Silva 
 is seen the Spirit of the Creator. 
 
 As regards Dalua, I know nothing of him by name ex- 
 cept what you yourself have written. Is there any con-
 
 320 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 nection between the name and Dala (the Celtic) which is 
 sometimes fomid in company with Brat and Death, in 
 your Celtic genealogies? 
 
 At the same time I have dimly guessed all my life how 
 folly might be better than the wisdom of wise men, and 
 remembering dimly how much wiser I was myself as a 
 child than after I had grown up, I have incessantly de- 
 sired a return to that state of childish thought, and tried 
 to learn from children, when I had the chance, the secrets 
 of their folly which carried them so near to divinity, if 
 they were not hurried away from their vision by those 
 about them. 
 
 J. A. G. 
 
 The Essay entitled "Celtic " had originally appeared in 
 the Contemporary Revieiv a few weeks before the pub- 
 lication of the new volume, and had aroused considerable 
 comment. In Britain it was regarded as a clear state- 
 ment of the aims and ideas of the so-called Celtic Revival 
 — (a term which " F. M." greatly disliked). It was 
 otherwise in Ireland, and naturally so, considering the 
 different conditions on both sides of the Irish channel out 
 of which the movement had grown. On this side political 
 considerations had not touched the question; it was 
 mainly concerned with the preservation of the old lan- 
 guage, with racial characteristic feelings, and their ex- 
 pression in literature. On the other side of the water, the 
 workers had many more issues at heart than in the High- 
 lands. So the Highland Celt and the Irish Celts did not 
 quite understand one another; an animated correspond- 
 ence ensued in private and in the press. The Irish press 
 was divided in its opinion on ' Celtic,' because the writers 
 were not of one mind among themselves in their methods 
 of working towards the one end all Celts have at heart. 
 There were those, who being ardent Nationalists re- 
 garded the Celtic literary movement as one with the po- 
 litical, or as greatly coloured by it. This factor gave 
 a special element to the Irish phase of the movement 
 which sharply differentiated it from the movement in
 
 THE DIVINE ADVENTURE 321 
 
 Scotland, Wales or Brittany. Other workers were in- 
 terested in the movement as a whole, in each of the " six 
 Celtic Nations," and " The Celtic Association " was 
 formed, with Lord Castletown at its head, with a view of 
 keeping each of the six branches of the movement in 
 touch with each other: the Irish, Scots, Welsh, Manx, 
 Breton, and Cornish or British. This Society desired to 
 make a Federation of these working sections an actual- 
 ity, and to that end decided to hold a Pan Celtic Con- 
 gress every three years. The first of these was held in 
 Dublin, and to it my husband subscribed as W. S. and 
 as F. M., though, as an obvious precaution against de- 
 tection, he did not attend it. 
 
 Opinion in Ireland was divided as to the value of such 
 a Federation; certain of the enthusiasts believed that 
 working for it drew strength and work away from the 
 central needs in Ireland. Another point of dispute was 
 the question of language; as to what did or would con- 
 stitute an Irish Literature — works written in the Erse 
 only; or all work, either in the Erse or the English tongue 
 that gave expression to and made vital the Celtic spirit 
 and aspirations. F. M. deplored the uniting of the po- 
 litical element to the movement — and naturally had no 
 inclination towards any such feeling. 
 
 William Sharp's great desire was that the Celtic spirit 
 should be kept alive, and be a moulding influence towards 
 the expression of the racial approach to and yearning 
 after spiritual beauty, whether expressed in Gaelic or in 
 the English tongue. He knew that there is a tendency, 
 with the young of those people in Scotland at least, to put 
 aside the beautiful old thoughts, or at all events their 
 outward expression, with the disuse of the older language 
 which had clothed those thoughts; he feared that to put 
 silence upon them would be to lose them after a genera- 
 tion or two. Therefore it was his great hope that the 
 genius of the race would prove strong enough to express 
 itself in either language; and he realised that its influ- 
 ence would be more potent and widespread if also it 
 found expression in the English language. Thus a mis-
 
 322 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 understanding arose; one of approach to the subject 
 rather than in essentials. 
 
 The Irish Press was divided in opinion concerning 
 " Celtic," especially The Irish Independent, Freeman's 
 Journal and All Ireland Review. In the latter a corre- 
 spondence began. One writer welcomed the Essay as 
 coming from one " possessed, as no other writer of 
 our time is possessed, with a sense of the faculty and 
 mission of the Celt, and shows not only deep intuition 
 but the power to see life steadily and to see it as a 
 whole." 
 
 " A. E." however, was of another opinion. He consid- 
 ered the essay to be out of place " in a book otherwise in- 
 spired by the artist's desire to shape in a beautiful way " ; 
 to be semi-political and inaccurate as an expression of 
 the passionate aimes of the Irish Celt; and he took ex- 
 ception to the expression of belief ' there is no racial road 
 to beauty.' 
 
 F. M. replied and endeavoured to make more clear her 
 position; but without success, as a subsequent letter 
 from the Irish poet proved. Another writer showed that 
 there was obviously a confusion of two ideas between the 
 disputants — and Mr. T. W. Rolleston closed the discus- 
 sion with a letter in which he quietly pointed out the 
 misapprehensions on both sides and concluded with the 
 generous admission : " Fiona Macleod is most emphati- 
 cally a helper, not a hinderer in this work, and one of 
 the most potent we have. For my own part I think her 
 essay ' Celtic ' indicates the lines on which we may most 
 successfully work." William Sharp realised that since 
 his essay had given rise to misapprehension of his aims 
 and ideas, it would be well to further elucidate them; 
 that moreover, as " F. M." wrote to Mr. Russell, " a truer 
 understanding has come to me in one or two points where 
 we have been at issue." He, therefore, revised and en- 
 larged his essay, and, with an added Foreword of expla- 
 nation, had it published separately in America by Mr. 
 T. B. Mosher ; and, finally, he included it in The Winged 
 Destiny.
 
 THE DIVINE ADVENTURE 323 
 
 In the early autumn the following letter came to my 
 husband from overseas: 
 
 Broxxvili-e, N. Y., 
 
 Sept. 26, 1900. 
 
 My dearest Guilielmo, 
 
 In this last year of my Century, among my little and 
 exceptional attempts to celebrate my coming birthday — I 
 wish that you the most leal and loved of our English 
 friends, may receive for once a word from me before its 
 sun goes down. Probably you are in some Lodge of the 
 lake of your Northern Night, or off for the Mountains of 
 the Moon. Still, even your restless and untamed spirit 
 must by this time have been satisfied of wandering; at 
 any rate, I doubt not this will in the end find you some- 
 where, and then you will know that my heart began to 
 go out to you as I neared another milestone. . . it has 
 suffered enough and lost enough to make it yearn fondly 
 for the frank face and dear words of a kindred, though 
 fresher heart like yours. I have a few devoted sons, and 
 you are one of them. . . . 
 
 My remembrances to Mrs. Sharp and to Fiona 
 
 McL whether she be real or hypothetical. If I could 
 
 have spared the means, and had had the strength, I 
 would have completed my recovery by a voyage to you 
 and England last summer. . . . 
 
 Ever devotedly yours, 
 
 E. C. Stedman. 
 
 The "restless spirit " was by no means tired of wander- 
 ing. Partly owing to the insistence of circumstance, 
 partly from choice, we began that autumn a series of 
 wanderings that brought us back to London and to Scot- 
 land for a few weeks only each summer. The climate of 
 England proved too severe; my husband had been seri- 
 ously ill in the New Year. Despite his appearance of 
 great vitality, his extraordinary power of recuperation 
 after every illness — which in a measure was due to his 
 buoyant nature, to his deliberate turning of his mind 
 away from suffering or from failure and " looking sun- 
 wise," to his endeavour to get the best out of whatever
 
 324 WILLIAM SHAKP 
 
 conditions he had to meet — we realised that a home in 
 England was no longer a possibility, that it would be 
 wise to make various experiments abroad rather than 
 attempt to settle anywhere permanently. Indeed, we 
 were both glad to have no plans, but to wander again how 
 and where inclination and possibilities dictated. Early 
 in October he wrote to Mr. Murray Gilchrist from Lon- 
 don: 
 
 My dear Robeet, 
 
 A little ago, on sitting down in my club to answer some 
 urgent notes (and whence I now write) my heart leapt 
 with pleasure, and an undeserving stranger received Part 
 I of a beaming welcome — for the waiter announced that 
 " Mr. Gilchrist would like to see you. Sir," Alas, it was 
 no dear Peaklander, but only a confounded interviewer 
 about the Stage Society ! . . . 
 
 Elizabeth and I leave England on the morning of the 
 12th — and go first to the South of Provence, near Mar- 
 seilles : after Yule-tide we'll go on to Italy, perhaps first 
 to Shelley's Spezzia or to Pegli of the Orange Groves 
 near Genoa : and there we await you, or at furthest a little 
 later, say in Florence. We shall be away till the end of 
 March. 
 
 Meanwhile 'tis all unpleasantness and incertitude: 
 much to do and little pleasure in the doing : a restlessness 
 too great to be salved short of departure, and the longed 
 for mental and nervous rest far away. 
 
 I have just returned from a flying visit to Dorset, and 
 saw Thomas Hardy. He is well, and at work: the two 
 happiest boons of fortune for all our kinship — and there- 
 in I hope you are at one with him. I wish you could run 
 up and see our first Stage Society production this week- 
 end (Sunday) when we bring out a short play by Hardy 
 and R. L. Stevenson and Henley's ' Macaire.' (I resigned 
 my Chairmanship but was re-elected: and so am extra 
 busy before I go.) 
 
 Your loving friend, 
 
 Will.
 
 THE DIVINE ADVENTURE 325 
 
 P. S. Miss Macleod's drama 'The Immortal Hour ' is 
 in the November Fortnightly, also her article " The Gael 
 and His Heritage " in the November Nineteenth Century. 
 
 And in addition to these a study on the Dramas of 
 Gabriele d'Annunzio appeared in The Fortnightly, in 
 September, signed " W. S." 
 
 To Mr. Macleay he sent an account of the work he had 
 on hand: 
 
 Aix-en-Provence, 
 30th Nov., 1900. 
 
 Dear Mr. Macleay, 
 
 Your friendly note has reached me here, where I have 
 been some time, this being my best centre in Provence at 
 this season for my special studies in Provencal literature 
 and history. My wife and I expect to remain here till 
 about Christmas time, and then to go on to Italy. 
 
 Pressure of urgent work — chiefly a lengthy volume on 
 the Evolution of the Fine Arts in the Nineteenth Century, 
 primarily for transatlantic publication — prevented my 
 being much in Scotland this autumn. I was a brief while 
 in Galloway visiting friends, and for a week or so at Port- 
 patrick, and a few days in Edinburgh — c'est tout. 
 
 At one time there was a chance that I might be near 
 Taynuilt, and I looked forward greatly to see Mr. Alex- 
 ander Carmichael again. He is a splendid type of the 
 true Highlander, and of a nature incomparably sweet and 
 refined — and I have the greatest admiration of him in all 
 ways. . . . 
 
 A remarkable family, and I would to Heaven there 
 were more such families in the Highlands now. Yes, 
 ivhat a book Carmina Gadelica is ! It ought to become as 
 precious to the Scottish Gael as the Greek Anthology to 
 all who love the Hellenic ideal, but with a more poignant, 
 a more personal appeal. ... I can't tell you about Miss 
 Macleod's historical romance for the good reason that 
 I don't know anything about its present prospects myself. 
 Personally I regret the long postponement, as I think 
 (judging from what I have seen) that it would be a sue-
 
 326 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 cess as a romance of history. Miss MacLeod, however, 
 l)ecame dissatisfied with what she had done, or its atmos- 
 phere, or both, and has not touched it again for some 
 months past — though the last time she spoke of the sub- 
 ject she said she hoped it would be ready by midsum- 
 mer. ... I am myself heavily engaged in work, includ- 
 ing many commissions. I've finished an essay on " Im- 
 pressionism " ("The Impressionist" I call it) for the 
 forthcoming new monthly, The North Liberal Review, 
 and am now in the throes of a long Quarterly article. 
 Then I have a Provencal book on hand, and (interlusive) 
 a Provencal romance. 
 
 You will, of course, keep all I have said of myself and 
 doings, and still more importantly of Miss Macleod, to 
 yourself. I don't think she wants anyone save friends 
 and acquaintances to know that she is abroad, and for 
 her health. And above all needing rest as she is, she 
 dreads the slightest addition to a correspondence already 
 beyond her capacities. 
 
 Before I left London I read with deep interest the 
 opening instalments of Neil Munro's new book Doom 
 Castle. It promises I think, to be his chef-d'oeuvre. 
 
 Write to me again soon, with news of your doings and 
 prospects. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 William Sharp. 
 
 The Provencal romance that he was mentally project- 
 ing — the never written Gypsy Trail — was in part to have 
 dealt with his early gipsy experiences. One among other 
 things which revived this strain of memory was our near 
 vicinage to Les Sainte-Maries, in Provence, where the 
 bones of Sarah, the gipsy servant of " les Maries/' are 
 enshrined ; also he had recently read the vivid description 
 of the gathering of the gipsy tribes at that Shrine on her 
 Feast day, written by the Provencal novelist Jean Aicard, 
 in his Le Roi des Camargues. 
 
 During my husband's first visit to Provence he had 
 been much interested in meeting certain members of Les
 
 THE DIVINE ADVENTURE 327 
 
 Felibres, the Provencal literary and linguistic National- 
 ists. He visited Frederick Mistral in his charming coun- 
 try home and noticed the similarity of physical type 
 shared by the Provencal and himself. I, also, was struck 
 by the likeness between the two men and thought that 
 Mistral might easily have passed for elder brother of 
 his Scots confrere. At Avignon we saw Madame Rou- 
 manille, the sister of Felix Gras, and widow of one of the 
 founders of Les Felibres, and her poet-daughter, Terese, 
 who inherited her father's gift. At Aix we met Mistral's 
 god-daughter Madame Marie Gasquet, daughter of the 
 poet M. Gerard, another of the original group of workers 
 in the old Langue d'CEuil. Madame Gasquet was the 
 wife of the young poet, Joachim Gasquet, between whom 
 and my husband there grew up a warm friendship.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 PROVENCE 
 
 Maniace 
 
 New Year's Day found us at Palermo where my hus- 
 band was enchanted at being presented with a little pottle 
 of freshly gathered wild strawberries; a week later we 
 traversed the island to Taormina, whence he wrote to 
 Mrs. Janvier: 
 
 Monte Venere, Taoemina, 
 
 25th Jan., 1901. 
 
 . . . Today it was too warm to work contentedly in- 
 doors even upon our little terrace with its superb views 
 over Etna and the Ionian Sea — so at 9 a.m. Elizabeth and 
 I, with a young painter-friend came up here to a divine 
 spot on the slopes of the steep and grand-shouldered Hill 
 of Venus, bringing with us our writing and sketching 
 materials and also fruit and wine and light luncheon. It 
 is now about 3 p.m. and we have lain here for hours in 
 the glorious warmth and cloudless sunglow — undisturbed 
 by any sounds save the soft sighing of the sea far below, 
 the fluttering of a young goatherd with his black flock on 
 a steep across a near ravine, and the occasional passing 
 of a muleteer or of a mountaineer with his wine-panior'd 
 donkeys. A vast sweep of sea is before us and beneath. 
 To the left, under the almond boughs, are the broad 
 straits which divide Sicily from Calabria — in front, the 
 limitless reach of the Greek sea — to the right, below, the 
 craggy heights and Monte Acropoli of Taormina — and, 
 beyond, the vast slope of snow-clad Etna. . . . 
 
 I have just been reading (for the hundredth time) in 
 Theocritus. How doubly lovely he is, read on the spot. 
 That young shepherd fluting away to his goats at this 
 moment might be Daphnis himself. Three books are 
 
 328
 
 PROVENCE 329 
 
 never fir from here: Theocritus, the Greek Anthology, 
 and the Homeric Hymns. I loved them before : now they 
 are in mv blood. 
 
 Legend has it that near this very spot Pythagoras used 
 to come and dream. How strange to think that one can 
 thus come in touch with two of the greatest men of an- 
 tiquity — for within reach from here (a pilgrimage to be 
 made from Syracuse) is the grave of ^schylus. Per- 
 haps it was here that Pythagoras learned the secret of 
 that music (for here both the sea-wind and the hill-wind 
 can be heard in magic meeting) by which one day — as told 
 in lamblicus — he cured a young man of Taormina (Tau- 
 romenion) who had become mad as a wild beast, with 
 love. Pythagoras, it is said, played an antique air upon 
 his flute, and the madness went from the youth. . . . 
 
 I shall never forget the journey across Sicily. I for- 
 get if I told 3^ou in my letter that it had been one of my 
 dreams since youth to read the Homeric Hymns and 
 Theocritus in Sicily — and it has been fulfilled: even to 
 the unlikeliest, which was to read the great HjTun to 
 Demeter at Enna itself. And that I did — in that wild and 
 remote mountain-land. Enna is now called Castrogio- 
 vanni — but all else is unchanged — though the great tem- 
 ples to Demeter and Persephone are laid low. It was a 
 wonderful mental experience to read that Hymn on the 
 very spot where Demeter went seeking — torch in hand, 
 and wind-blown blue peplos about her — her ravished 
 daughter, the beautiful Pherephata or Persephone. 
 However, I have already told you all about that — and the 
 strange coincidence of the two white doves, (which Eliza- 
 beth witnessed at the moment I exclaimed) and about 
 our wonderful sunset-arrival in Greek Tauromenion. . . . 
 
 To the same friend he described our visit to Syracuse : 
 
 Casa Politi, 
 Strada Dioxysio, 
 
 7th Feb..: 01. 
 
 ... I must send you at least a brief line from Syra- 
 cuse — that marvellous ' Glory of Hellas ' where ancient 
 Athens fell in ruin, alas, when Nicias lost here the whole
 
 330 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 army and navy and Demosthenes surrendered by the 
 banks of the Anapus — the Syracuse of Theocritus you 
 love so well — the Syracuse where Pindar heard some of 
 his noblest odes sung, where Plato discoursed with his 
 disciples of New Hellas, where (long before) the Argo- 
 nauts had passed after hearing the Sirens singing by this 
 fatal shore, and near where Ulysses derided Polyphemus 
 — and where ^schylus lived so long and died. 
 
 It seems almost incredible when one is in the beauti- 
 ful little Greek Theatre up on the rising ground behind 
 modern Syracuse to believe that so many of the greatest 
 plays of the greatest Greek tragedians (many unknown 
 to us even by name) were given here under the direction 
 of ^schjdus himself. And now I must tell you of a piece 
 of extraordinary good fortune. Yesterday turned out 
 the superbest of this year — a real late Spring day, with 
 the fields full of purple irises and asphodels and innum- 
 erable flowers, and the swallows swooping beneath the 
 multitudes of flowering almonds. We spent an unfor- 
 gettable day — first going to the Castle of ancient Eurya- 
 los — perhaps the most wonderful I have ever known. 
 Then, in the evening, I heard that today a special choral 
 performance was to be given in the beautiful hillside 
 Greek Theatre in honour of the visit of Prince Tommaso 
 (Duke of Genoa, the late King's brother, and Admiral of 
 the Fleet). Imagine our delight! And luhat a day it has 
 been — the ancient ^schylean theatre crammed once 
 more on all its tiers with thousands of Syracusans, so 
 that not a spare seat was left — while three hundred young 
 voices sang a version of one of the choral sections of 
 " The Suppliants " of ^Eschylus — with it il Principe on 
 a scarlet dais where once the tyrant Dionysius sat ! Over 
 head the deep blue sky, and beyond, the deep blue Ionian 
 sea. It was all too wonderful. . . . 
 
 While we were at Taormina the news came of the death 
 of Queen Victoria. An impressive memorial service was 
 arranged by Mr. Albert Stopford, an English resident 
 there, and held in the English Chapel of Sta. Caterina.
 
 PROVENCE 331 
 
 To attend it the Hon. Alexander Nelson Hood came 
 from the " Nelson property " of Bronte where he was 
 wintering with his father, Viscount Bridport, Duke of 
 Bronte, who for forty years had been personal Lord in 
 Waiting to the Queen. To the son we were introduced 
 by Mr. Stopford; and a day or two later we started on 
 our first visit to that strange beautiful Duchy on ^tna, 
 that was to mean so much to us. 
 
 Greatly we enjoyed the experience — the journey in the 
 little Circum-^tnean train along the great shoulder of 
 Etna, with its picturesque little towns and its great 
 stretches of devastating lava ; the first sight of the Castle 
 of Maniace — in its shallow tree-clad valley of the Si- 
 meto flanked by great solemn hills — as we turned down 
 the winding hill-road from the great lava plateau where 
 the station of Maletto stands; the time-worn quadrangu- 
 lar convent-castle with its Norman chapel, and its great 
 lona cross carved in lava erected in the court-yard to the 
 memory of Nelson ; the many interesting relics of Nelson 
 within the castle, such as his Will signed Nelson and 
 Bronte on each page, medals, many fine line engravings 
 of the battles in which he, and also Admiral Hood, took 
 part ; the beautiful Italian garden, and wild glen gardens 
 beyond. No less charming was the kindly welcome given 
 to us by the fine, hale old Courtier who — when his son one 
 afternoon had taken my husband for a drive to see the 
 hill-town of Bronte, and the magnificent views of and 
 from ^-Etna, with its crowning cover of snow — told me, as 
 we sat in the comfortable central hall before a blazing log 
 fire, many reminiscences of the beloved Queen he had 
 served so long. 
 
 In the spring we returned to England, through Italy; 
 and from Florence, where we took rooms for a month, 
 F. M. wrote to an unknown correspondent: 
 
 18th March, 1001. 
 
 My dear unknown friend, 
 
 You must forgive a tardy reply to your welcome let- 
 ter, but I have been ill, and am not yet strong. Your
 
 332 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 writing to me has made me happy. One gets many 
 letters : some leave one indifferent ; some interest ; a few 
 are like dear and familiar voices speaking in a new way, 
 or as from an obscure shore. Yours is of the last. I 
 am glad to know that something in what I have written 
 has coloured anew your own thought, or deepened the 
 subtle music that you yourself hear — for no one finds the 
 colour of life and the music of the spirit unless he or 
 she already perceive the one and love the other. Some- 
 where in one of my books — I think in the latest, The Di- 
 vine Adventure, but at the moment cannot remember — I 
 say that I no longer ask of a book, is it clever, or striking, 
 or is it well done, or even is it beautiful, but — out of how 
 deep a life does it come. That is the most searching test. 
 And that is why I am grateful when one like your- 
 self writes to tell me that intimate thought and emo- 
 tion deeply felt have reached some other and kindred 
 spirit. . . . 
 
 I am writing to you from Florence. You know it, per- 
 haps! The pale green Arno, the cream-white, irregular, 
 green-blinded, time-stained houses opposite, the tall cy- 
 presses of the Palatine garden beyond, the dove-grey 
 sky, all seem to breathe one sigh . . . La Pace! L'Oblio! 
 
 But then — life has made those words " Peace," " For- 
 getfulness," very sweet for me. Perhaps for you this 
 vague breath of another Florence than that which Bae- 
 deker described might have some more joyous interpre- 
 tation. I hope so. . . . 
 
 You are right in what you say, about the gulf between 
 kindred natures being less wide than it seems. But do 
 not speak of the spiritual life as " another life " : there 
 is no * other ' life : what we mean by that is with us now. 
 The great misconception of Death is that it is the only 
 door to another world. 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 
 The October number of The Fortnightly Review con- 
 tained a series of poems by F. M. entitled " The Ivory
 
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 PROVENCE 333 
 
 Gate," and at the same time an American edition of From 
 the Hills of Dream — altered from the original issue — 
 was published by Mr. T. Mosher, to whom the poet wrote 
 concerning the last section of the English Edition: 
 
 Dear Mr. Mosher, 12th Nov., 1901. 
 
 What a lovely ])ook Mimes is ! It is a pleasure to look 
 at it, to handle it. The simple beauty of the cover-design 
 charms me. And the contents . . . yes, these are beau- 
 tiful, too. 
 
 I think the translation has been finely made, but there 
 are a few slips in interpretative translation, and (as 
 perhaps is inevitable) a lapse ever and again from the 
 subtle harmony, the peculiar musical undulant rhythm of 
 the original. In a creative translation, the faintest jar 
 can destroy the illusion : and more than once I was rudely 
 reminded that a foreigner mixt this far-carried honey 
 and myrrh. Yet this is only " a counsel of perfection," 
 by one who perhaps dwells overmuch upon the ideal of 
 a flawless raiment for beautiful thought or dream. Nor 
 would I seem ungracious to a translator who has so 
 finely achieved a task almost as difficult as that set to 
 Liban by Oisin in the Land of the Ever-Living, when he 
 bade her take a wave from the shore and a green blade 
 from the grass and a leaf from a tree and the breath of 
 the wind and a man's sigh and a woman's thought, and 
 out of them all make an air that would be like the single 
 song of a bird. Do you wish to tempt me? Tempt me 
 then with a proposal as to " The Silence of Amor," to be 
 brought out as Mimes is ! 
 
 The short prose-poems would have to be materially 
 added to, of course: and the additions would for the 
 most part individually be longer than the short pieces you 
 know. . . . 
 
 Sincerely yours, 
 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 
 In sending a copy of the American edition of From the 
 Hills of Dream to Mr. Yeats, the author explained that, 
 though it contained new material,
 
 334 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 . . . there will be much in it familiar to you. But even 
 here there are changes which are recreative — as, for ex- 
 ample, in the instance of " The Moon-Child," where one 
 or two touches and an added quatrain have made a poem 
 of what was merely poetic. 
 
 The first 10 poems are those which are in the current 
 October Fortnightly Review. But when these are re- 
 printed in a forthcoming volume of new verse ... it will 
 also contain some of the 40 * new ' poems now included in 
 this American edition, and the chief contents will be the 
 re-modelled and re-written poetic drama The Immortal 
 Hour, and with it many of the notes to which I alluded 
 when I wrote last to you. In the present little volume it 
 was not found possible to include the lengthy, intimate, 
 and somewhat esoteric notes: among which I account of 
 most interest for you those pertinent to the occult myths 
 embodied in The Immortal Hour. 
 
 You will see, however, that one or two dedicatory pages 
 — intended for the later English new book — have here 
 found a sectional place : and will, I hope, please you. 
 
 Believe me, 
 Your friend truly, 
 
 F. M. 
 
 Mr. Yeats replied : 
 
 18 WoBUKN Buildings, 
 
 London, Saturday. 
 
 My dear Miss Macleod, 
 
 I have been a long while about thanking you for your 
 book of poems, but I have been shifting from Dublin to 
 London and very busy about various things — too busy for 
 any quiet reading. I have been running hither and 
 thither seeing people about one thing and another. But 
 now I am back in my rooms and have got things straight 
 enough to settle down at last to my usual routine. Yes- 
 terday I began arranging under their various heads 
 some hitherto unsorted folk-stories on which I am about 
 to work, and today I have been busy over your book. I 
 never like your poetry as well as your prose, but here 
 and always you are a wonderful writer of myths. They
 
 PROVENCE 335 
 
 seem your natural method of expressions. They are to 
 you what mere words are to others. I think this is 
 partly why I like you better in your prose, though now 
 and then a bit of verse comes well, rising up out of the 
 prose, in your simplest prose the most, the myths stand 
 out clearly, as something objective, as something well 
 bom and independent. In your more elaborate prose 
 they seem subjective, an inner way of looking at things 
 assumed by a single mind. They have little independent 
 life and seem unique; your words bind them to you. If 
 Balzac had written with a very personal, very highly 
 coloured style, he would have always drowned his inven- 
 tions with himself. You seem to feel this, for when you 
 use elaborate words you invent with less conviction with 
 less precision, with less delicacy than when you forget 
 everything but the myth. I will take as example, a prose 
 tale. 
 
 That beautiful story in which the child finds the Twelve 
 Apostles eating porridge in a cottage, is quite perfect in 
 all the first part, for then you think of nothing but the 
 myth, but it seems to me to fade to nothing in the latter 
 part. For in the latter part the words rise up beween 
 you and the myth. You yourself begin to speak and we 
 forget the apostles, and the child and the plate and the 
 porridge. Or rather the more mortal part of you begins 
 to speak, the mere person, not the god. You, as I think, 
 should seek the delights of style in utter simplicity, in a 
 self-effacing rhythm and language ; in an expression that 
 is like a tumbler of water rather than like a cup of wine, 
 I think that the power of your work in the future will de- 
 pend on your choosing this destiny. Certainly I am look- 
 ing forward to " The Laughter of the Queen." I thought 
 your last prose, that pilgrimage of the soul and mind and 
 body to the Hills of Dream promised this simple style. 
 It had it indeed more than anything you have done. 
 
 To some extent I have an advantage over you in hav- 
 ing a very fierce nation to write for, I have to make 
 everything very hard and clear, as it were. It is like rid- 
 ing a wild horse. If one's hands fumble or one's knees
 
 336 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 loosen one is thrown. You have in the proper sense far 
 more imagination than I have and that makes your work 
 correspondingly more difficult. It is fairly easy for me, 
 who do so much of my work by the critical, rather than 
 the imaginative faculty, to be precise and simple, but it is 
 hard for you in whose mind images form themselves with- 
 out ceasing and are gone as quickly perhaps. 
 
 But I am sure that I am right. When you speak with 
 the obviously personal voice in your verse, or in your 
 essays you are not that Fiona who has invented a new 
 thing, a new literary method. You are that Fiona when 
 the great myths speak through you. . . . 
 
 Yours, 
 
 W. B. Yeats. 
 
 I like your verses on Murias and like them the better 
 perhaps because of the curious coincidence that I did in 
 summer verses about lovers wandering ' in long forgotten 
 Murias.' 
 
 During the spring William Sharp had prepared a vol- 
 ume of selections from the j^oems of Swinburne, with an 
 Introduction by himself, for publication in the Tauchnitz 
 Collection of British Authors. Mr. Swinburne consented 
 that the selection should be made in accordance with the 
 critical taste of the Editor, with which however he was 
 not in complete agreement. He expressed his views in a 
 letter dated from The Pines, Putney Hill: 
 
 Oct. 6th. 
 
 Dear Mr. Sharp, 
 
 Many thanks for the early copy you have had the kind- 
 ness to send on to me. I am pleased to find the Nympho- 
 lept in a leading place, as I think it one of the best and 
 most representative things I ever did. I should have 
 preferred on all accounts that In the Bay had filled the 
 place you have allotted to Ave atque Vale, a poem to 
 which you are altogether too kind, in my opinion, as 
 others have been before you. I never had really much in 
 common with Baudelaire tho' I retain all my early ad-
 
 PROVENCE 337 
 
 miration for his genius at its best. I wish there were 
 fewer of such very juvenile crudities as you have se- 
 lected from my first volume of poems : it is trying to 
 find such boyish attempts as The Sundew, Aholibah, Ma- 
 donna Mia, etc., offered as examples of the work of a 
 man who has written so many volumes since in which 
 there is nothing that is not at least better and riper than 
 they. I wish too that Mater Triumphalis had not been 
 separated from its fellow poem — a much fitter piece of 
 work to stand by itself. On the other hand, I am very 
 cordially obliged to you for giving the detached extract 
 from Anactoria. I should greatly have jDreferred that 
 extracts only should have been given from Atalanta in 
 Calydon, which sorely needs compression in the earlier 
 parts. Erectheus, which would have taken up so much 
 less space, would also, I venture to think, have been a 
 better and a fairer example of the author's work. Mr. 
 Watts Dunton's objections to the book is the omission 
 of Super Flumina Babylonis. I too am much surprised 
 to find it excluded from a selection which includes so 
 much that might well be spared — nay, would be better 
 away. I would like to have seen one of what I call my 
 topographical poems in full. The tiny scrap from Loch 
 Torridon was hardly worth giving by itself. I do not 
 understand what you find obscure or melancholy in The 
 Garden of Cymodoce. It was written simply to express 
 my constant delight in the recollection of Sark. I hope 
 you will not think anything in this note captious or un- 
 gracious. Candour always seems to be the best ex^ 
 pression possible of gratitude or goodwill. 
 
 Ever sincerely yours, 
 
 A. Swinburne. 
 
 In December of 1901 F. M. wrote, ostensibly from 
 Argyll, to Dr. Goodchild : " I had hoped by this time to 
 have had some definite knowledge of what I am to do, 
 where to go this winter. But circumstances keep me 
 here. . . . Our friend, too (meaning himself as W. S.), 
 is kept to England by the illness of others. My plans
 
 338 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 though turning upon different issues are to a great ex- 
 tent dependent, later, on his. . . . 
 
 I have much to do, and still more to think of, and it 
 may be bring to life through the mysterious resurrection 
 of the imagination. 
 
 What long months of preparation have to go to any 
 writing that contains life within it. — Even the slightest, 
 the most significant, as it seems ! We, all of us who live 
 this dual life of the imagination and the spirit, do indeed 
 mysteriously conceive, and fare thereafter in weariness 
 and heaviness and long travail, only for one small un- 
 certain birth. It is the common law of the spirit — as 
 the obverse is the common law of womanhood." 
 
 And again: 
 
 " Life becomes more and more strange, complex, in- 
 terwrought, and intentional. But it is the end that mat- 
 ters — not individuals." 
 
 Owing to my Mother's serious illness I could not leave 
 England early in November, as we had intended. Lon- 
 don was impossible for my husband for he, too, was ill. 
 At first he went to Hastings, whence he wrote to Mrs. 
 Philpot — author of The Sacred Tree: 
 
 Hastings, 
 Dec. 20, 1901. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 You would have enjoyed " being me " yesterday. I had 
 a most delightful day at Rye with Henry James who 
 now lives there for many months in the year. I went 
 over early, lunched, and then we went all over that won- 
 derfully picturesque old Cinque Port. A lovely walk in 
 a frost-bound still country, and then back by the sombre 
 old Land Gate, over the misty marshes down below, and 
 the flame red Cypres Tower against a plum coloured 
 sunset, to Henry James' quaint and picturesque old 
 house to tea. It was in every way a memorable and 
 delightful day, and not least the great pleasure of inter-
 
 PROVENCE 339 
 
 course with that vivid brilliant and alive mind. He is 
 as of course, you realise, an artist to the finger tips. 
 Et Us sont rares ces diables d' esprit. I wish it were 
 spring! I long to hear the missel thrush in the blos- 
 soming pear tree: and the tingling of the sap, and the 
 laughter in the blood. I suppose we are all, all of us 
 ever dreaming of resurrections. . . . 
 
 The English climate proved equally impossible, so W. 
 S. went to Bordighera to be near Dr. Goodchild. But he 
 was too restless to remain long anywhere, and moved 
 on to Rome and finally to Sicily. He wrote to Mr. Rhys 
 after the New Year from II Castello di Maniace: 
 
 My dear Ernest, 
 
 As I think I wrote to you, I fell ill with a form of 
 fever, — and had a brief if severe recurrence of it at 
 Rome: and so was glad some time ago to get on to my 
 beloved ' Greek ' Taormina, where I rapidly ' conva- 
 lesced.' A few days ago I came on here, to the wilds 
 inlands of the Sicilian Highlands, to spend a month with 
 my dear friend here, in this wonderful old ' Castle-Fort- 
 ress-Monastery-Mansion — the Castel' Maniace itself be- 
 ing over 2,000 feet in the highlands beyond Etna, and 
 Maletto, the nearest station about 3,000. 
 
 How you and Grace would rejoice in this region. With- 
 in a day's easy ride is Enna, sacred to Demeter, and about 
 a mile or so from Castel' Maniace, in a wild desolate 
 region of a lava wilderness, is the lonely heron-haunted 
 moorland-lake wherein tradition has it Persephone dis- 
 appeared. ... W. S. 
 
 I joined him early in February at Maniace and we 
 remained with Mr. Hood for a month of sunshine and 
 flowers. Among other guests came Miss Maud Valerie 
 White. She was wishful that the pleasant days spent 
 there together should be commemorated, and proposed 
 that W. S. should write a short poem, that she would 
 set to Sicilian airs, and that the song should be dedicated
 
 340 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 to our host. To that end Mr. Hood summoned to the 
 Castello one of the peasant bagpipe players, who one 
 evening walked round and round the hall, playing the 
 airs that are played each Christmas by the pipers before 
 the shrines to the Madonna in the various churches. The 
 result of that evening was a song, " Buon' Riposo," writ- 
 ten by William Sharp, set to music by Miss Valerie 
 White, and published by Messrs. Chappell. 
 
 BUON' RIPOSO 
 
 When, like a sleeping child 
 
 Or a bird in the nest, 
 The day is gathered 
 
 To the earth's breast . . . 
 Hush! . . . 'tis the dream-wind 
 Breathing peace, 
 Breathing rest 
 Out of the gardens of Sleep in the West. 
 
 O come to me . . . wandering 
 
 Wind of the West! 
 Gray Doves of slumber 
 
 Come hither to nest. . . . 
 Ah, sweet now the fragrance 
 Below the dim trees 
 Of the White Rose of Rest 
 That blooms in the gardens of Sleep in the West. 
 
 On leaving Maniace W. vS. wrote to Dr. Goodchild : 
 
 Friday, 7th March, 1902. 
 
 To-morrow we leave here for Taormina. . . . And, not 
 without many regrets, I am glad to leave — as, in turn, I 
 shall be glad (tho' for other reasons) when the time 
 comes to leave Taormina. My wife says I am never 
 satisfied, and that Paradise itself would be intolerable 
 for me if I could not get out of it when I wanted. And 
 there is some truth in what she says, though it is a par- 
 tial truth, only. I think external change as essential to 
 some natures as passivity is to others : but this may 
 simply mean that the inward life in one person may best 
 be hypnotised by ' a still image,' that of another may best 
 be hypnotised by a wavering image or series of wavering
 
 PROVENCE 341 
 
 images. It is not change of scene one needs so much 
 as change in these wavering images. For myself, I 
 should, now, in many ways be content to spend the most 
 of my life in some quiet place in the country, with a 
 garden, a line of poplars and tall elms, and a great sweep 
 of sky. ... 
 
 Your friend atfectionately, 
 
 William Sharp. 
 
 To Mrs. Philpot. 
 
 Taormina, 
 April 3, 1902. 
 
 Dear Friend, 
 
 ... It would take pages to describe all the flowers 
 and other near and far objects which delight one con- 
 tinually. Persephone has scattered every treasure in this 
 her birth-island. From my room here in the Castello-a- 
 Mare — this long terraced hotel is built on the extreme 
 edge of a precipitous height outside the Messina Gate 
 of Taormina — I look down first on a maze of vividly green 
 almond trees sloping swiftly down to the deep blue sea, 
 and over them the snowy vastness of Etna, phantom- 
 white against the intense blue, with its hitherside 11.000 
 feet of gulfs of violet morning shadow. About midway 
 this is broken to the right first by some ancient cactus- 
 covered fragments of antiquity at the corner of a wind- 
 ing path, and then by the bend of Santa Caterina garden 
 wall with fine tall plume-like cypresses filled with a living 
 green darkness, silhouetted against the foam-white cone. 
 
 My French windows open on the terrace, it is lovely to 
 go out early in the morning to watch sunrise (gold to 
 rose-flame) coming over Calabria, and the purple-blue 
 emerald straits of Messina and down by the wildly pic- 
 turesque shores of these island coasts and across the 
 Ionian sea, and lying like a bloom on the incredible vast- 
 ness of Etna and its rise from distant Syracuse and Mt. 
 Hybla to its cone far beyond the morning clouds when 
 clouds there are — or to go out at sunrise and see a mira- 
 cle of beauty being woven anew — or at night when there 
 is no moon, but only the flashing of the starry torches.
 
 342 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 the serpentine glitter of lights, the soft cry of the aziola, 
 and the drowsy rhythmic cadence of the sea in the caves 
 and crags far below. Just now the hum of bees is almost 
 as loud as the drowsy sighing of the sea: among the 
 almonds a boy is singing a long drowsy Greek-like chant, 
 and on the mass of wild rock near the cypresses a goat- 
 herd is playing intermittently on a reed pipe. A few 
 yards to the right is a long crescent-shaped terrace gar- 
 den filled with roses, great shrublike clumps of white and 
 yellow marguerite, myrtle, lilies, narcissus, sweet-scented 
 blossom-covered geranium, oranges hanging in yellow 
 flame, pale-gold lemons. Below the branches a " Purple 
 Emperor " and a snow-white " May Queen " are hovering 
 in buttei*fly wooing. On an oleander above a wilderness 
 of pink and scarlet geraniums two blue tits are singing 
 and building, building and singing. 
 
 Since I wrote the above Easter has intervened. The 
 strange half pagan, half Christian ceremonies interested 
 me greatly, and in one of the ceremonials of one pro- 
 cessional part I recognized a striking survival of the 
 more ancient Greek rites of the Demeter and the Perse- 
 phonae-Kore cult. 
 
 To Mrs. Janvier. 
 
 Taobmina. 
 
 ... It is difficult to do anything here. I should like to 
 come sometime without nything to do — without even a 
 book to read : simply to come and dream, to re-live many 
 of the scenes of this inexhaustible region of romance: to 
 see in vision the coming and going of that innumerable 
 company — from Ulysses and his wanderers, from Py- 
 thagoras and St. Peter, from that Pancrazio who had 
 seen Christ in the flesh, from ^Eschylus, and Dionysius 
 and Hiero and Gelon, from Pindar and Simonides and 
 Theocritus, to Richard Coeur-de-Lion and Garibaldi and 
 Lord Nelson — what a strange company ! . . . 
 
 As for my own work, it is mostly (what there is of it!) 
 dealing with the literature, etc., of the south. I do not
 
 PROVENCE 343 
 
 know whether my long article on Contemporary Italian 
 Poetry is to be in the April-June issue of The Quarterly, 
 or the summer issue. I am more interested in a strange 
 Greek drama I am writing — The Kore of Enna — than in 
 anything I have taken up for a long time. My reading 
 just now is mostly Greek history and Italian literature. 
 . . . Looking on this deep blue, often violet sea, with the 
 foam washing below that perhaps laved the opposite 
 shores of Greece, and hearing the bees on the warm wind, 
 it is difficult to realise the wet and cold you have appar- 
 ently had recently in New York — or the fogs and cold in 
 London. I wish you could bask in and sun yourself on 
 this sea-terrace, and read me the last you have written 
 of " Captain Dionysius " while / give you tea ! 
 
 During our first visit to Sicily, though my husband 
 realised the beauty of the island, he could not feel its 
 charm or get in touch with the spirit of the place because 
 he was overborne by the sense of battle and bloodshed 
 that he felt pervaded it. When I suggested how much 
 the fascination of the beautiful island had seized hold 
 of me he would say : " No, I cannot feel it for the ground 
 is sodden and every leaf drips with blood." To his great 
 relief, on his return there he found, as he said, that he 
 had got beyond the surface of things, had pierced down 
 to the great essentials of the ancient land, and had be- 
 come one of her devoted lovers.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 LISMORE 
 
 Taormina 
 
 Our summer was spent on Arran, Colinsay, and on 
 " the Green Isle " of Lismore in the sea-mouth of Loch 
 Linnhe within sight of the blue hills of Morven. We had 
 rooms in the Ferr^nnan's cottage at the north point of 
 the isle, where the tide race was so strong at the ebb in 
 stormy weather that at times it was impossible to row 
 across to the Appin shore, even to fetch a telegram whose 
 advent was signalled to us by a little flag from the post 
 office — a quicker way of getting it than by the long road 
 from the Lismore post office. We spent much of our time 
 on the water in a little rowing boat. A favourite haunt 
 was a little Isle of Seals, in the loch, where we one 
 day found a baby seagull, fat and fully fledged, but a 
 prisoner by reason of a long piece of grass that had 
 tightly wound round and atrophied one of its feet. Some- 
 times our friend the ferryman would come too. At first 
 he refused to talk if I was there, because I could not 
 speak Gaelic, and he thought I was English. But at last 
 when I had reassured him that I too was a Scot, when he 
 admitted that though I had not a Highland tongue I had 
 Highland eyes just like his mother's — his shyness wore 
 away. And one day when we were out on the loch at 
 sundown, and an exquisite rosy flush lay over hill and 
 water, he stopped rowing and leant over his oars, silent 
 for a time, and at last murmured in his slow High- 
 land English " 'Tis — the — smile — of God — upon — the — 
 waters." 
 
 At Lismore F. M. wrote, to quote the author's own 
 words, " ' The Four Winds of Eire ' (long) ; ' The Magic 
 Kingdoms ' (longer and profounder, one of the best 
 
 344
 
 LISMORE 345 
 
 things F. M. has ever written) ; ' Sea-Magic ' (a narrative 
 and strange Sea-Lore) ; ' The Lynn of Dreams' (a spir- 
 itual study) ; and * Seumas ' (a memory)." 
 
 During the summer and autumn he had, as F. M., also 
 written a long study on the work of W. B, Yeats for The 
 North American Review; had arranged the first volume 
 of a selection of tales for the Tauchnitz series, entitled 
 Wind and Wave; and had prepared a revised and aug- 
 mented edition of The Silence of Amor for publication in 
 America by Mr. Mosher. W. S. meanwhile had not been 
 idle. After editing a volume of the Poems by our friend, 
 Eugene Lee-Hamilton, with a long Introduction for The 
 Canterbury Poets, he was at work on a series of articles 
 which were intended for a projected book to be called 
 Literary Geography ; and of these there appeared in 
 Harper's " Walter Scott's Land," " R. L. Stevenson's 
 Country " ; and a poem, " Capt'n Goldsack." 
 
 Unfortunately, his increasing delicacy not only dis- 
 abled him from the continuous heavy strain of work he 
 was under, but our imperative absence from England 
 necessitated also the relinquishing of my journalistic 
 work. The stress of circumstances weighed heavily on 
 him, as he no longer had the energy and buoyancy with 
 which to make way against it. At this jimcture, how- 
 ever, one or two friends, who realised the seriousness of 
 conditions petitioned that he should be put on the Civil 
 Pension List. The Hon. Alex. Nelson Hood and Mr. Al- 
 fred Austin were tlie chief movers in the matter, and 
 were backed by Mr. George Meredith, Mr. Thomas Hardy 
 and Mr. Watts Dunton. Realising however, that the 
 writings of William Sharp, considered alone, would not 
 constitute a sufficient claim, Mr. Hood urged William to 
 allow him to acquaint the Prime Minister with the author- 
 ship of the Fiona Macleod writings, and of the many 
 sacrifices their production had entailed. My husband 
 consented providing that Mr. Balfour were told " confi- 
 dentially and verbally." However, it proved necessary 
 that " a statement of entire claims to consideration should 
 be laid upon the table of the House of Commons for the
 
 346 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 inspection of members." In writing to acquaint my hus- 
 band of this regulation, Mr. Hood added : 
 
 " I do not presume to say one word to influence you in 
 the decision yoii may come to. In such a matter it is for 
 you to decide. If you will sacrifice your unwillingness 
 to appear before the world in all the esteem and admira- 
 tion which are your due, then, (I may say this) perhaps 
 you will obtain freedom — or some freedom — from anxi- 
 ety and worry that will permit you to continue your work 
 unhampered and with a quiet mind. But advice I cannot 
 give. I cannot recommend any one to abandon a high 
 ideal, and your wish to remain unknown is certainly 
 that. . . ." 
 
 To this W. S. replied ; 
 
 Edinburgh, 
 21st Aug., 1902. 
 
 My deak Alec, 
 
 You will have anticipated my decision. No other was 
 possible for me. I have not made many sacrifices just to 
 set them aside when a temptation of need occurs. In- 
 deed, even writing thus of ' sacrifices ' seems to me un- 
 worthy: these things are nothing, and have brought me 
 far more than I lost, if not in outward fortune. It is 
 right, though, to say that the decision is due to no form 
 of mental obstinacy or arrogance. Rightly or wrongly, I 
 am conscious of something to be done — to be done by one 
 side of me, by one half of me, by th'fe true inward self as 
 I believe — (apart from the overwhelmingly felt mystery 
 of a dual self, and a reminiscent life, and a woman's life 
 and nature within, concurring with and oftenest dominat- 
 ing the other) — and rightly or wrongly I believe that this, 
 and the style so strangely born of this inward life, de- 
 pend upon my aloofness and spiritual isolation as F. M. 
 To betray publicly the private life and constrained ideal 
 of that inward self, for a reward's sake, would be a poor 
 collapse. And if I feel all this, as I felt it from the first 
 (and the nominal beginning was no literary adventure, 
 but a deep spiritual impulse and compelling circum-
 
 LISMORE 347 
 
 stances of a nature upon which I must be silent) how 
 much more must I feel it now, when an added and great 
 responsibility to others has come to me, through the win- 
 ning of so already large and deepening a circle of those 
 of like ideals or at least like sympathies in our own coun- 
 try, and in America — and I allude as much or more to 
 those who while caring for the outer raiment think of and 
 need most the spirit within that raiment, which I hope 
 will grow fairer and simpler and finer still, if such is the 
 will of the controlling divine wills that, above the maze, 
 watch us in our troubled wilderness. 
 
 That is why I said that I could not adopt the sugges- 
 tion, despite promise of the desired pension, even were 
 that tenfold, or any sum. As to ' name and fame,' well, 
 that is not my business. I am glad and content to be a 
 ' messenger,' an interpreter it may be. Probably a wide 
 repute would be bad for the work I have to do. Friends 
 I want to gain, to win more and more, and, in reason, 
 " to do well " : but this is always secondary to the deep 
 compelling motive. In a word, and quite simply, I be- 
 lieve that a spirit has breathed to me, or entered me, or 
 that my soul remembers or has awaked (the phraseology 
 matters little) — and, that being so, that my concern is not 
 to think of myself or my ' name ' or ' reward,' but to do 
 (with what renunciation, financial and other, may be 
 necessary) my truest and best. 
 
 And then, believing this, I have faith you see in the 
 inward destiny. I smiled when I put down your long, 
 affectionate, and good letter. But it was not a smile of 
 bitterness: it was of serene acceptance and confidence. 
 And the words that came to my mind were those in the 
 last chorus of Oedipus at Kolonos, 
 
 " Be no more troubled, and no longer lament, for all 
 these things will be accomplished." 
 
 Then, too, there's the finitude of all things. Why 
 should one bother deeply when time is so brief. Even 
 the gods passed, you know, or changed from form to 
 form. I used to remember Kenan's ' Prayer on the 
 Acropolis ' by heart, and I recall those words " Tout n'est
 
 348 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 ici-bas que symbole et que songe. Les dieux passent 
 comme les hommes et il ne serait pas bon qu'ils fussent 
 eternels." . . . 
 
 Elizabeth, who is on a visit to Fife, will, I know, whole- 
 heartedly endorse my decision. 
 
 Again all my gratitude and affection, dear Alec, 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 Will. 
 
 Early in September Mr. Hood sent the welcome infor- 
 mation to my husband that the Prime Minister had de- 
 cided "on the strength of the assurance that Mr. Sharp 
 is F. M." to make him a grant that would meet his press- 
 ing needs and enable him to go abroad for the winter. 
 
 A few days before this message reached W. S. he had 
 written to his friend. 
 
 23d Aug. 
 
 Dear Julian, 
 
 A little line to greet you on your arrival in Venice, 
 and to wish you there a time of happy rest and inspira- 
 tion. May the spirit of the Sea-Queen whisper to you in 
 romance and beauty. 
 
 How I wish I could look in on you at the Casa Persico I 
 I love Venice as you do. I hope you will not find great 
 changes, or too many visitors: and beware of the Sep- 
 tember heats, and above all the September mosquito ! 
 
 " Julian " ought to have a great lift, and not the least 
 pleasure in looking forward to seeing you again early in 
 October is that of hearing some more of your book of 
 Venice and of the other Julian. 
 
 [''Julian" is the name of the hero of a book, Adria,. 
 on which Mr. Hood was then at work.] 
 
 If all goes well — and I have been working so hard, and 
 done so much, that things ought to go smoothly with me 
 again — then we hope to leave London for Sicily about the 
 21st Oct., and to reach Taormina about the 26th of that 
 month. 
 
 I need not say how glad I am that you Txnew I could 
 not decide otherwise than I did : and I am more than ever
 
 LISMORE 349 
 
 glad and proud of a friendship so deeply sympathetic and 
 intuitively understanding. 
 
 Ever affectionately yours, dear Friend, 
 
 Will. 
 
 P. S. By the way, you will be glad to know that Baron 
 Tauchnitz is also going to bring out in 2 vols, a selection 
 of representative tales by Fiona Macleod. The book 
 called The Magic Kingdoms has been postponed till next 
 year, but the first part of it will appear in The Monthly 
 Review in December probably. Stories, articles, studies, 
 will appear elsewhere. 
 
 Your friend W. S. has been and is not less busy, besides 
 maturing work long in hand. So at least I can't be ac- 
 cused of needless indolence. 
 
 To his great relief October-end found us at Taormina 
 once again; and on Allhallow-e'en he wrote to Mrs. 
 Janvier : 
 
 Oct. 30th. 
 
 . . . We reached Messina all right, and Giardini, the 
 Station for Taormina, in fair time ; then the lovely wind- 
 ing drive up to unique and beautiful and wildly pictur- 
 esque Taormina and to the lovely winter villa and 
 grounds of Santa Caterina where a warm welcome met 
 us from Miss Mabel Hill, with whom we are to stay till 
 the New Year. ... I have for study a pleasant room 
 on the garden terrace, at the Moorish end of the old con- 
 vent-villa with opposite the always open door windows 
 or great arch trellised with a lovely ' Japanesy ' vine, 
 looking down through a sea of roses and lemon and or- 
 ange to the deep blue Ionian Sea. The divine beauty, 
 glow, warmth, fragrance, and classic loveliness of this 
 l^lace would delight you. . . . Overhead there is a wilder- 
 ness of deep blue, instinct with radiant heat and an al- 
 most passionate clarity. Forza, Mola, Roccafiorita, and 
 other little mountain towns gleam in it like sunlit ivory. 
 Over Forza (or Sforza rather) the storm-cloud of the 
 Greco, with a rainbow hanging like a scimitar over the
 
 350 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 old, pagan, tragic, savagely picturesque mountain-ridge 
 town. The bells of the hill-chapels rise and fall on the 
 wind, for it is the beginning of All Souls festa. It is the 
 day when * things ' are abroad and the secret ways are 
 more easily to be traversed. 
 
 Beneath my Moorish arch I look down through cluster- 
 ing yellow roses and orange and lemon to green-blue 
 water, and thence across the wild-dove's breast of the 
 Ionian Sea. Far to the S. E. and S., over where Corinth 
 and Athens lie, are great still clouds, salmon-hued on the 
 horizon with pink domes and summits. An intense still- 
 ness and the phantasmagoria of a forgotten dreamland 
 dwell upon the long western promontories of the Syra- 
 cusan coast, with the cloud-like Hyblaean hill like a violet, 
 and a light as of melting honey where Leontinoi and Sira- 
 cusa lie. . . . 
 
 Nov. 8: This is a week later. I have accidentally de- 
 stroyed or mislaid a sheet of this letter. Nothing of im- 
 portance — only an account of the nocturnal festa of All 
 Souls, with the glittering lights and the people watching 
 by the graves, and leaving lights and flowers on each, the 
 one to show the wandering souls the way back to the 
 grave, the other to disguise the odour of mortality and 
 illude them with the old beauty of the lost world — and 
 the offerings of handfuls of beans, to give them suste- 
 nance on this their one mortal hour in the year). We 
 three came here yesterday (Elizabeth, Miss Hill and I) 
 and enjoyed the marvellous mountain-climbing journey 
 from the sea-level of Giarre (near Catania) up to beau- 
 tiful Linguaglossa, and Castiglione 2000 ft. high and so 
 on to Eandazzo and Maletto (3000 ft.) where we got out, 
 and drove thro' the wild lava-lands of this savage and 
 brigand haunted region to Castello di Maniace where il 
 Signor Ducino Alessandro gave us cordial and affection- 
 ate welcome. 
 
 Sunday 9th. The t eather is doubtful, but if it keeps 
 fine we are going to drive down the gorges of the Simal- 
 thos (the Simeto of today) and then up by the crags and 
 wild town of Bronte, and back by the old ^tnean hill-
 
 LISMORE 351 
 
 road of the ancient Greeks, or by the still more ancient 
 Sikelian tombs at a high pass curiously enough known 
 not by its ancient fame but as the Pass of the Gipsies. As 
 the country is in a somewhat troubled and restive state 
 just now, especially over Bronte, all pre-arrangements 
 have been made to ensure safety. . . . 
 
 I hope you have received the Tauchnitz volume of 
 " Wind and Wave." The text of Selected Tales has been 
 revised where advisable, sometimes considerably. The 
 gain is very marked I think, especially in simplicity. I 
 hope you will like the preface. The long collective-article 
 in the Contemporary for October " Sea-Magic and Run- 
 ning Water " I have already written to you about. One 
 can never tell beforehand, but in all probability the fol- 
 lowing F. M. articles will appear in December (if not 
 January) issues, viz.: 
 
 In The Monthly Rerieu- — The Magic Kingdoms. 
 In The Contemporary — The Lynn of Dreams. 
 In The Fortnightly — The Four Winds of Eirinn. 
 
 As soon as I can possibly work free out of my terribly 
 time-eating correspondence, and am further ahead with 
 my necessary and commissioned pot-boiling articles etc. 
 I want to put together two F. M. volumes, one a vol. of 
 Gaelic essays and Spiritual studies to be called For The 
 Beauty of an Idea and the other a volume of Verse to be 
 called probably " The Immortal Hour and Poems " or 
 else " The Enchanted Valleys." But I have first a great 
 deal to get off as W. S. and F. M. 
 
 What is dear old Tom doing now ? Give him my love, 
 and affectionate hug, bless the old reprobate ! I was de- 
 lighted to meet an American admirer (and two hanger-on 
 American admiresses) of his in Florence, who spoke of 
 his work with much admiration as well as personal de- 
 light. So I warmed to them mightily in consequence, and 
 had the pleasure of introducing the latest production — 
 the delightful " Consolate Giantess." 
 
 What a letter in length this is! too long for even you, 
 I fear."
 
 352 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 The following letter from Mr. Robert Hicliens, an- 
 other devoted lover of Sicily, reached William Sharp at 
 Maniace : 
 
 Dover, 
 Nov. 4, 1902. 
 
 My dear Will, 
 
 . . . The cold is setting in and today there is a fierce 
 east wind. I scarcely dare think of what you are enjoy- 
 ing. I had hoped to join you at the end of this month, 
 but the fates are unkind. When I do get away I may 
 first have to go to the Desert as I am meditating some 
 work there. Then I hope to make my way there to Sicily 
 but only late in Spring. Will you still be there ! There is 
 magic in its air — or else beauty acts on the body as pow- 
 erfully as on the soul, and purifies the blood as well as 
 the soul. . . . 
 
 Every sentence I write wrings my heart. I ought not 
 to write about Sicily. Felix was begun in that delight- 
 ful room at Maniace — with Webster, thoughtfully posed 
 by Alec — on a side table within easy reach. 
 
 Thank you again for your kind inspiring letter. I 
 value praise from you. 
 
 Yours cordially, 
 
 Robert Hichens. 
 
 Miss Hill and I returned to Sta. Caterina and left my 
 husband at Maniace, whence a few days later he wrote to 
 me: 
 
 Castello di Maniace, 
 
 15th Nov., 1902. 
 
 How you would have enjoyed today! . . . one of the 
 most beautiful of its kind I've ever had. It was quite 
 dark when we rose shortly before six, but lovely dawn 
 by 6,15, and after a gigantic breakfast we all set off all 
 armed with rifles and revolvers. We drove up to the cut- 
 ting to the left, I of a mile below Otaheite, and there di- 
 verged and went up the wild road of the Zambuco Pass, 
 and for another five miles of ascent. Then we were met 
 by the forest guard and Meli with great jennets (huge
 
 LISMORE 353 
 
 hill-mules as big as horses) and rode over the Serraspina 
 (6,000 feet). To my great pleasure it was decided we 
 could risk the further ascent of the great central AVater- 
 shed of Sicily, the Serra del Re (8,000 ft.) and I shall 
 never forget it. All the way from about 4,000 ft. the air 
 was extraordinarily light and intoxicating — and the 
 views of Central Sicily magnificent l^eyond words. When 
 we had ridden to about 7,500 feet thro' wild mountain 
 gorges, up vast slopes, across great plateaux, and at last 
 into the l)eginning of the vast dense primeval beech-for- 
 ests (all an indescribable glory of colour) we dismounted 
 and did the remaining half hour on foot. Then at last we 
 were on the summit of the great central watershed. 
 Thence everything to the south flows to the Ionian Sea, 
 everything to the north to the Tyrrhenian and Mediter- 
 ranean. 
 
 And oh the views and the extraordinary clarity ! Even 
 with the naked eye I saw all the inland mountains and 
 valleys and lost forgotten towns, Troina on its two hills, 
 Castrogiovanni and Alcara, etc. etc. And with the pow- 
 erful binoculars I could see all the houses, and trace the 
 streets and ruined temples etc. in Castrogiovanni on its 
 extraordinary raised altar-like mountain plateau. Then, 
 below us, lay all the northern shores of Sicily from Capo 
 Cefalu to Milazzo on its beautiful great bay, and Capo 
 Milazzo, and the Lipari Islands (so close with the glass I 
 could see the few houses on their wild precipitous shores, 
 from ' Volcano,' the original home of Vulcan, and Lipari 
 itself to Stromboli, and white ships sailing. Enna (Cas- 
 trogiovanni) immensely imposing and unforgettable. 
 And, behind us, Etna vaster, sheerer, more majestic, 
 more terrible, than I had ever dreamed of it. 
 
 Then we lunched, amid that extraordinary and vast 
 panorama — seeing 2,000 feet below us the " almost in- 
 accessible " famous Lake of Balzano, with its Demeter 
 and Persephone associations (itself about 6,000 feet 
 among the mountains!) All enjoyed it unspeakably, ex- 
 cept poor old Meli, very nervous about brigands — poor 
 old chap, a ransom of 800 francs had to be paid to the
 
 354 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 capitano of the brigand-lot to free his nephew, who is now 
 ill after his confinement for many days in a hole under 
 the lava, where he was half suffocated, and would have 
 soon died from cold and damp and malaria. 
 
 On the way down (in the forest, at about 6,000 feet) 
 Alec suddenly without a word dashed aside, and sprang 
 through the sloping undergrowth, and the next moment 
 I saw him holding his revolver at the head of a man 
 crouching behind a mass of bramble, etc. But the latter 
 had first managed to hide or throw away his gun^ and 
 swore he hadn't got one, and meant no harm, and that 
 the ugly weapon he carried (a light, long axe of a kind) 
 was to defend himself from the wolves ! His companion 
 had successfully escaped. The man slunk away, to be 
 arrested later by the Carabinieri. 
 
 On his return to Taormina W. S. wrote to the Author 
 of Adria, who had gone to Venice for " local colour " : 
 
 Taobmina, 
 CaKO Fea GiULIANO, 19th Nov., 1902. 
 
 To my surprise I hear from our common friend, Mr. 
 Aurelio Da Rii, the painter of Venice, that you are at 
 present staying at San-Francisco-in-Deserto. This seems 
 to me a damp and cold place to choose for November, but 
 possibly you are not to be there long : indeed, Da Eu hints 
 at an entanglement with a lady named " Adria." Per- 
 haps I am indiscreet in this allusion. If so, pray for- 
 give me. The coincidence struck me as strange, for only 
 the other day I heard our friend Alec Hood speaking of 
 an Adria, of whom, to say the least of it, he seemed to 
 think very highly. By the way, I wouldn't tell him 
 (A. H.) too much of your affairs or doings — or he may 
 put them in a book. (He's a " literary feller " you know!) 
 
 I have just been staying with him — and I wish when 
 you see him you would tell him what a happy time I had 
 at Maniace, and how pleasantly I remember all our walks 
 and talks and times together, and how the true affection 
 of a deepened friendship is only the more and more en- 
 hanced and confirmed.
 
 LISMORE 355 
 
 It is a lovely day, and very warm and delightful. Sit- 
 ting by the open French-window of my study, with a 
 bunch of narcissus on my table, there is all the illusion 
 of Spring. I have just gone into an adjoining Enchanted 
 Garden I often frequent, and gathered there some sprays 
 of the Balm of Peace, the azure blossoms of Hope, and 
 the white roses of Serenity and Happiness and sending 
 them, by one of the wild-doves of loving thought and sym- 
 pathy and affection, to Alec at Maniace. 
 
 Ever, dear Era Giuliano, with love to Da Ru, the Gra- 
 ziani, the Manins, and above all to Alec, 
 
 Yours, 
 
 Will. 
 
 And again two days later: 
 
 Shar Shan, Bor! 
 
 Which, being interpreted, is Romany (Gypsy) for 
 " How d'ye do. Mate ! " — I fear you are having a bad 
 day for your return to Maniace. Here, at any rate, 'tis 
 evil weather. Last night the wind rose (after ominous 
 signals of furtive lightnings in every quarter) to the 
 extent of tempest: and between two and three a.m. be- 
 came a hurricane. This lasted at intervals till dawn, and 
 indeed since: and at times I thought a cyclone had 
 seized Taormina and was intent on removing ' Santa 
 Caterina ' on to the top of Isola Bella. Naturally, sleep 
 was broken. And in one long spell, when wind and a 
 coarse rain (with a noise like sheep that has become 
 sleet) kept wakefulness in suspense, my thoughts turned 
 to Venice, to Giuliano in the lonely rain-beat wave- 
 washed sanctuary of San-Francisco-in-Deserto ; to Dani- 
 ele Manin, with his dreams of the Venice that was and 
 his hopes of the Venice to be; and to Adria, stilled at 
 last in her grave in the lagunes after all her passionate 
 life and heroic endeavour. And then I thought of the 
 Venice they, and you, and I, love: — and recalled lines of 
 Jacopo Sannazaro which I often repeat to myself when 
 I think of the Sea-City as an abstraction —
 
 356 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 " d'ltalia dolente 
 Eterno lumine 
 Venezia 1 " 
 
 And that's all I have to say to-day! . . . except to add 
 that this very moment there has come into my mind the 
 rememl)rance of some words of Montesquieu I read last 
 year (in the Lettres Persanes), to the effect (in Eng- 
 lish) that " altho' one had seen all the cities of the world, 
 there might still be a surprise in store for him in Ven- 
 ice," — which would be a good motto for your book. 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 Will. 
 
 The few entries in William Sharp's Diary for 1903 
 begin with New Year's Day: 
 
 Taobmina. 
 
 Thursday, 1st Jan., 1903. Yesterday afternoon I end- 
 ed literary work for the year, at p. 62 on my MS. of 
 " The King's Eing " with the sentence : " Flora Mac- 
 donald saw clearly that the hearts of these exiles and 
 New Englanders would follow a shepherd more potent 
 than any kind, the shepherd called Freedom, who for- 
 ever keeps his flocks of hopes and ideals on the hills of 
 the human heart." To-day, this afternoon, wrote till end 
 of p. 70. In the evening we dined with Robert Hichens 
 at the Hotel Timeo. 
 
 Sat. 3rd. Finished " The King's Ring." Revised; and 
 sent off to Mary to type. We lunched at the Timeo. 
 After lunch we spent an hour or more in the Greek 
 Theatre with Hichens, Then we walked to Miss Valerie 
 White's villa and had tea with her. In evening ' turned 
 in' about 9 and read Bourget's Calabria Ricordi, and 
 Lenormant on Crotone and Pythagorus." 
 
 Saturday, 9th Jan. 
 
 To the Editor of The Pall Mall Magazine: 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 I have written a story somewhat distinct in kind 
 from the work associated with my name, and think
 
 LISMOEE 357 
 
 it is one that should appeal to a far larger public than 
 most of my writings do: for it deals in a new way with 
 a subject of unpassing interest, the personality of Flora 
 Macdonald. " The King's Ring," however, is not con- 
 cerned with the hackneyed Prince Charlie episode. It is, 
 in a word, so far as I know, the only narrative present- 
 ment of the remarkable but almost unknown late-life 
 experiences of Flora Macdonald: for few know that, 
 long after her marriage, she went with her husband and 
 some of her family and settled in South Carolina, just 
 before the outbreak of the War of Independence: how 
 her husband was captured and imprisoned: how two of 
 her sons in the Navy were lost tragically at sea : and how 
 she herself with one daughter with difficulty evaded in- 
 terference, and set sail from a southern port for Scotland 
 again, and on that voyage was wounded in an encounter 
 with a French frigate. True, all these things are only 
 indicated in " The King's Ring," for fundamentally the 
 story is a love-story, that of Flora M.'s beautiful eldest 
 daughter Anne and Major Macleod, with the tragical 
 rivalry of Alasdair Stuart, bearer of the King's Ring. 
 
 Practically the facts of the story are authentic : save 
 the central episode of Alasdair Stuart, which is of my 
 own invention. I think the story would appeal to many 
 not only in Scotland and England but in America. 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 
 The story was accepted and the first instalment was 
 printed in the Pall Mall Magazine in May, 1904; but after 
 its appearance the author did not care sufficiently for 
 it to republish it in book form. 
 
 The Diary continues: 
 
 Sunday 4th. Began article on " Thro' Nelson's Duchy " 
 commissioned for TJie Pall Mall Magazine. Received 
 The Monthly Review for Jany. with the Fiona Macleod 
 article, " The Magic Kingdoms " : the Mercure de France
 
 358 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 for January: and proofs from the Pall Mall Magazine 
 of my articles on Scott and George Eliot. Among sev- 
 eral letters one from Mrs. Gilchrist, who says (apropos 
 of F. M.'s "By Sundown Shores") "she always can 
 send one back to the distance which is all the future." 
 
 Later, after a walk alone I looked in at Villa Bella 
 Rocca and had a pleasant chat with M, et Mme. Grand- 
 mont about Anatole France, Loti, and treatment of sea 
 in " Pecheur d'Islande," Bourget's and Lenormant's 
 " Calabria," etc. Wrote after dinner from 9 till 11 ; and 
 read some Bacchylides, etc. At 11.15 suddenly some 
 five or six cocks began to crow vehemently: and about 
 five minutes later abruptly stopped. 
 
 Monday 5 th. A day of perfect beauty. Divinely warm. 
 In morning sat out on Loggia two hours or so working 
 at revision. After lunch Hichens came for me and we 
 walked down to Capo San Andrea and thence took a 
 boat with two men (Francesco and his brother) across 
 to Capo Schiso (Naxos) and thence walked some five or 
 six miles back. Tea at H's. A divinely lovely sunset. 
 
 Tuesday 6th. As beautiful a day as yesterday. More 
 could be said of no day. Worked at " Thro' Nelson's 
 Duchy " material, and wrote a letter. A walk after 
 lunch. Then again a little work. Had a charming letter 
 from Joachim Gasquet, and to F. M. one from Stephen 
 Gwynn (with his "Today and Tomorrow in Ireland") 
 — and an Academy with pleasant para, about F. M. say- 
 ing just what I would want said (with an allusion to a 
 special study of F. M. in the Harvard Monthly, by the 
 Editor). 
 
 This afternoon, the Festa of the Epiphany, more great 
 doings with the delayed Xmas tree treat of the School- 
 children of Taormina. Much enjoyed it. 
 
 Thursday 8th. Finished the P. M. Mag. commissioned 
 article " Thro' Nelson's Duchy " — about 5,000 words — 
 then revised: marked with directions the 8 fine Photos 
 selected by A. N. H. (Alex. Nelson Hood) and sent off to 
 be registered. . . . 
 
 After dinner wrote one or two letters including longish
 
 WILLIAM SHARP 
 From a photograph taken by the Hon. Alex. Nelson Hood, 1903
 
 LISMORE 359 
 
 one of literary advice to Karl Walter. Read some ^s- 
 chylus' " Eumenides." 
 
 This is the letter in question: 
 
 Taobmina, 
 Jan., 1903. 
 
 My dear Walter, 
 
 ... In some respects your rendering of your sonnet is 
 towards improvement. But it has one immediate and 
 therefore fatal flaw. Since the days of Sophocles it has 
 been recognized as a cardinal and imperative law, that a 
 great emotion (or incident, or idea, or collective act) 
 must not be linked to an effective image, an incongruous 
 metaphor. Perhaps the first and last word about pas- 
 sion (in a certain sense only, of course, for to immortal 
 things there is no mortal narrowing or limiting in ex- 
 pression) has been said more than two thousand years 
 ago by Sappho and to-day by George Meredith. " The 
 apple on the topmost bough "... all that lovely frag- 
 ment of delicate imperishable beauty remains unique. 
 And I know nothing nobler than Meredith's " Passion is 
 nolile strength on fire." . . . But turn to a poet you 
 probably know well, and study the imagery in some of the 
 Passion-sonnets in " The House of Life " of Rossetti — 
 of Passion 
 
 ..." creature of poignant thirst 
 And exquisite hunger "... 
 
 — the splendid sexual diapason in the sestet of the sonnet 
 celled " The Kiss " — or, again, to " the flame-winged 
 harp-player." 
 
 ..." thou art Passion of Love, 
 The mastering music walks the sunlit sea." 
 
 Perhaps I have said enough to illustrate my indication 
 as to the opening metaphor in your sonnet. Apart from 
 the incongruity of the image, it has no logical congruity 
 with the collateral idea of Fear. The sonnet itself turns 
 on a fine emotion in your mind: let that emotion shape 
 a worthy raiment of metaphor and haunting cadence of 
 music, not as the metricist desires but as the poet au 
 fond compels.
 
 360 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 Yes, both in sonnet-writing and in your terza-rima nar- 
 rative (cultivate elision here, also fluent terminals, or you 
 will find the English prosody jib at the foreign reins) 
 you will find G. useful. But the secret law of rhythm in 
 a moving or falling wave, in the cadence of wind, in the 
 suspiration of a distant song, in running water, in the 
 murmur of leaves, in chord confluent upon chord, will 
 teach you more — if you will listen long enough and know 
 what you listen to. 
 
 I hope I have not discouraged you. I mean the re- 
 verse of that. 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 William Sharp. 
 
 I add here a letter of criticism and encouragement 
 sent by F. M. to another young writer, in the previous 
 summer, to the nephew of William Black the novelist: 
 
 LoxDOX, June, 1902. 
 
 My deae Me. Black, 
 
 As soon as possible after my return from Brittany I 
 read your MS. It is full of the true sentiment, and has 
 often charm in the expression : but I think you would do 
 well to aim at a style simpler still, freer from manner- 
 isms, and above all from mannerisms identified with the 
 work of other writers. As I am speaking critically, let 
 me say frankly that I have found your beautiful tale 
 too reminiscent ever and again of an accent, a note, a 
 vernacular (too reminiscent even in names), common to 
 much that I have written. You are sympathetic enough 
 to care for much of my work, and loyal enough to say 
 so with generous appreciation: but just because of this 
 you should be on guard against anything in my style 
 savouring of affectation or mannerism. You may be sure 
 that whatever hold my writings may have taken on the 
 imagination of what is at most a small clan has been 
 in despite of and not because of mannerisms, which some- 
 times make for atmosphere and versimilitude and some- 
 times are merely obvious, and therefore make for weak- 
 ness and even disillusion. Be on guard, therefore,
 
 LISMORE 3G1 
 
 against a sympathy which would lead you to express 
 yourself in any other way than you yourself feel and 
 in other terms than the terms of our own mind. Man- 
 nerism is often the colour and contour of a writer's 
 mind : but the raiment never fits even the original wear- 
 er, and is disastrous for the l)orrower, when the mental 
 habit of mannerism is translated into the mental incerti- 
 tude of mannerisms. You have so natural a faculty 
 and so eager a desire, that I have no hesitation in urging 
 you to devote your best thought and time and effort to 
 a worthy achievement. 
 
 But no work of the imagination has any value if it 
 be not shaped and coloured from within. Every imagina- 
 tive writer must take his offspring to the Fountain of 
 Youth, and the only way is through the shadowy and 
 silent avenues of one's own heart. My advice to you, 
 then, is, not to refrain from steeping your thought and 
 imagination in what is near to your heart and dream, 
 but to see that your vision is always your own vision, that 
 your utterance is always your own utterance, and to be 
 content with no beauty and no charm that are dependent 
 on another's vision of beauty and another's secret of 
 charm. 
 
 Meanwhile, I can advise you no more surely than to 
 say, write as simply, almost as baldly, above all as natu- 
 rally as possible. Sincerity, which is the last triumph 
 of art, is also its foster-mother. You will do well, I feel 
 sure: and among your readers you will have none more 
 interested than 
 
 Yours Sincerely, 
 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 
 To another friend he wrote in answer to a question 
 on ' style ' : 
 
 " Rhythmic balance, fluidity, natural motion, sponta- 
 neity, controlled impetus, proportion, height and depth, 
 shape and contour, colour and atmosphere, all these go 
 to every living sentence — but there, why should I weary
 
 362 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 you with uncertain words when you can have a certainty 
 of instance almost any time where you are: you have 
 but to look at a wave to find your exemplar for the ideal 
 sentence. All I have spoken of is there — and it is alive — 
 and part of one flawless whole." 
 
 From W. S. to Mrs. Janvier. 
 
 Taobmina, 
 18th Feb., 1903. 
 
 ... In fact, letters are now my worst evil to contend 
 against — for, with this foreign life in a place like this, 
 with so many people I know, it is almost impossible to get 
 anything like adequate time for essential work — and still 
 less for the imaginative leisure I need, and dreaming out 
 my work — to say nothing of reading, etc. As you know, 
 too, I have continually to put into each day the life of 
 two persons — each with his or her own interests, pre- 
 occupations, work, thoughts, and correspondence. I have 
 really, in a word, quite apart from my own temperament, 
 to live at exactly double the rate in each day of the 
 most active and preoccupied persons. No wonder, then, 
 that I find the continuous correspondence of ' two per- 
 sons ' not only a growing weariness, but a terrible strain 
 and indeed perilous handicaj) on time and energy for 
 work. . . . 
 
 A little later William Sharp started for a fortnight's 
 trip to Greece by way of Calabria — Reggio, Crotona, 
 Taranto, Brindisi to Corfu and Athens, with a view of 
 gathering impressions for the working out of his pro- 
 jected book (by W. S.) to be called Greek Backgrounds. 
 
 En route he wrote to me : 
 
 23d Jan., 1903. 
 
 " Where of all unlikely places do you think this is writ- 
 ten from? Neither Corfii nor Samothrace nor Ithaka 
 nor Zante, nor any Greek isle betwixt this and the Pelo- 
 ponnesus, but in TurkejM . . . i.e., in Turkish Albania, 
 surrounded by turbaned Turks, fezzed Albanians, and 
 picturesque kilted Epeirotes, amid some of the loveliest 
 scenery in the world.
 
 LISMORE 363 
 
 You will have had my several cards en route and last 
 from Taranto. The first of a series of four extraordi- 
 nary pieces of almost uncanny good fortune befell me en 
 route, — but it would take too long now to write in detail. 
 Meanwhile I may say I met the first of three people to 
 whom I already owe much — and who helped me thro' 
 every l)other at Brindisi. (He is a foreign Consul in 
 Greece.) 
 
 (By the way, the engine from Taranto to Brindisi was 
 called the Agamemnon and the steamer to Greece the 
 Poseidon — significant names, eh?) 
 
 I had a delightful night's rest in my comfortable cabin, 
 and woke at dawn to find the Poseidon close to the Al- 
 banian shore, and under the superb snow-crowned Acro- 
 kerannian Mountains. The scenery superb — with Samo- 
 thrace, and the Isle of Ulysses, etc., etc., seaward, and 
 the beautiful mountainous shores of Corfu (here called 
 Kepkuga (Kerkyra) on the S.W. and S. There was a 
 special Consul-Deputation on board, to land two, and 
 also to take off a number of Turks, Albanians, and Epei- 
 rotes for Constantinople. We put in after breakfast at 
 Eavri Kagavri — a Greco-Albanian township of Turkey. 
 The scattered oriental ' town ' of the Forty Saints crowns 
 a long ridge at a considerable height — the harbour-town 
 is a cluster of Turkish houses beside an extraordinary 
 absolutely deserted set of gaunt ruins. Hundreds of 
 Albanians and Epeirotes, Moslem priests and two Greek 
 papas (or popes) were on the shore-roads, with several 
 caravans each of from 20 to 50 mules and horses. Cos- 
 tumes extraordinarily picturesque, especially the white- 
 kilted or skirted Albanian mountaineers, and the Larissa 
 Turks. We were 3 hours — and I the only ' privileged ' 
 person to get thro' with the consul. We took many 
 aboard — a wonderful crew, from a wonderful place, the 
 fairyland of my Greek resident from Paris — who is on 
 his way to spend a month with his mother in Athens, 
 and has asked me to visit him at his house there. . . . 
 
 Well, the Poseidon swung slowly out of the bay, — a 
 lovely, exciting, strange, unforgettable morning — and
 
 364 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 down the lovely Albanian coast — now less wild, and 
 wooded and craggy, something like the West Highlands 
 at Loch Fyne, etc., but higher and wilder. When off a 
 place on the Turkish Albanian coast called Pothlakov 
 (Rothroukon) the shaft of the screw suddenly broke! 
 The engineer told the captain it would be five hours at 
 least before it could be mended — adding, a little later, 
 that the harm could probably not be rectified here, 
 and that we should have to ride at sea till a relief 
 boat came from Corfu or Greece to take off the passen- 
 gers, etc. 
 
 As no one has a Turkish passport, no one can get 
 ashore except lucky me, with my influential friend, in a 
 Turkish steam-pinnacle! (It is so beautiful, so warm, 
 and so comfortable on the Poseidon, that, in a sense, I'm 
 indifferent — and would rather not be relieved in a hurry.) 
 
 (Later.) Late afternoon on board — still no sign of 
 getting off. No Corfu to-day, now, though about only 
 an hour's sail from here! Perhaps tonight — or a relief 
 steamer may come. I'll leave this now, as I want to see 
 all I can in the sundown light. It is all marvellously 
 strange and lovely. WJiat a heavenly break-down ! What 
 luck! 
 
 Just had a talk with another passenger stamping with 
 impatience. I didn't soothe him by remarking I hoped 
 we should adrift ashore and be taken prisoners by the 
 Turks. He says he wants to get on. Absurd. " There's 
 more beauty here than one can take-in for days to come " 
 I said — " Damn it, sir, what have I got to do with 
 beauty," — he asked indignantly. " Not much, certainly,'^ 
 I answered drily, looking him over. An Italian maestro 
 is on board on his way to Athens — now playing delight- 
 fully in the salon. A Greek guitarist is going to play 
 and sing at moonrise. No hills in the world more beau- 
 tiful in shape and hue and endless contours — with gor- 
 geous colours. Albania is lost Eden, I think. Just 
 heard that a steamer is to come for us in a few hours, 
 or less, from Corfu, and tow us into Kerkyra (the town) 
 — and that another Austro-Lloyd from Trieste or Brin-
 
 LISMORE 365 
 
 disi will take us on to-morrow sometime from Corfu to 
 Athens. . . . The only perfectly happy person on board. 
 
 Yours, 
 Will. 
 
 Athexs, 29th Jan. 
 
 . . . This lovely place is wonderful. How I wish you 
 were here to enjoy it too. I take you with me mentally 
 wherever I go. It is a marvellous home-coming feeling 
 I have here. And I know a strange stirring, a kind of 
 spiritual rebirth. 
 
 Athens, Feb. 1st. 
 
 . . . Yesterday, a wonderful day at Eleusis. Towards 
 sundown drove through the lovely hill-valley of Daphne, 
 with its beautifully situated isolated ruin of the Temple 
 of Aphrodite, a little to the north of the Sacred Way 
 of the Dionysiac and other Processions from Aonai 
 (Athenai) to the Great Fane of Eleusis. I have never 
 anywhere seen such a marvellous splendour of living 
 light as the sundown light, especially at the Temple of 
 Aphrodite and later as we approached Athens and saw 
 it lying between Lycabettos and the Acropolis, with Hy- 
 mettos to the left and the sea to the far right and snowy 
 Pentelicos behind. The most radiant wonder of light I 
 have ever seen. 
 
 On his return to Taormina he received the following 
 letter from Mr. Hichens : 
 
 St. Stephens, 
 Canterbury. 
 
 My deae Sharp, 
 
 . . . Lately I recommended a very clever man, half 
 Spanish and half German, to read the work of Fiona 
 Macleod. I wondered how it would strike one who had 
 never been in our Northern regions, and he has just writ- 
 ten to me, and says : " I am reading with intense delight 
 Fiona Macleod's books and thank you very much for 
 telling me to get them. I ordered them all from London 
 and cannot tell you how I admire the thoughts, the style,
 
 366 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 " toute la couleur locale." They are books I shall keep 
 by me and take about with me wherever I go." I sup- 
 pose he feels they are fine, as I feel Tourgeney's studies 
 of Russian character are fine, although I have never 
 lived among Russians. I shall take Anna Karenina 
 to Italy with me and read it once more. At Marseilles 
 I saw the " Resurrection " acted. It was very interest- 
 ing and touching, though not really a very good play. 
 It was too episodical. In London it is an immense suc- 
 cess. 
 
 Well, I hope you will really come to winter in Africa. 
 You can stay at either the Oasis or the Royal and I 
 think we should be very happy. We must often go out 
 on donkey-back into the dunes and spend our day there 
 far out in the desert. I know no, physical pleasure, — 
 apart from all the accompanying mental pleasure, — to 
 be compared with that which comes from the sun and 
 air of the Sahara and the enormous spaces. This year 
 I was more enchanted than ever before. Even exquisite 
 Taormina is hum-drum in comparison. I expect to go 
 to Italy very early in May, and back to Africa quite at 
 the beginning of November. Do try to come then as 
 November is a magnificent month. Don't reply. You 
 are too busy. I often miss the walks, and your company, 
 which wakes up my mind and puts the bellows to my 
 spark of imagination. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 Robert Hichens. 
 
 I can't help being rather sorry that you won't go to 
 Sicily again for a long while. I always feel as if we 
 all had a sort of home there.- 
 
 For, as Mr. Hichens wrote to me, " I still think Taor- 
 mina the most exquisite place in Europe. On a fine 
 morning it is ineffably lovely."
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 WINTER IN ATHENS 
 
 Greek Backgrounds 
 
 During the following summer William Sharp saw 
 George Meredith for the last time. Concerning that visit 
 to Box Hill he wrote to a friend : 
 
 Monday, June 22, 1903. 
 
 ... I am so glad I went down to see George Mere- 
 dith to-day. It was goodbye, I fear, though the end may 
 not be for some time yet: not immediate, for he has 
 recovered from his recent severe illness and painful ac- 
 cident, though still very weak, but able to be up, and to 
 move about a little. 
 
 At first I was told he could see no one, but when he 
 heard who the caller was I was bidden enter, he gave me 
 a sweet cordial welcome, but was frail and weak and 
 fallen into the blind alleys that so often await the most 
 strenuous and vivid lives. But, in himself, in his mind, 
 there is no change. I felt it was goodbye, and when I 
 went, I think he felt it so also. When he goes it will be 
 the passing of the last of the great Victorians. I could 
 have (selfishly) wished that he had known a certain 
 secret: but it is better not, and now is in every way as 
 undesirable as indeed impossible. If there is in truth, as 
 I believe, and as he believes, a life for us after this, he 
 will know that his long-loving and admiring younger 
 comrade has also striven towards the hard way that few 
 can reach. What I did tell him before has absolutely 
 passed from his mind : had, indeed, never taken root, and 
 perhaps I had nurtured rather than denied what had 
 taken root. If in some ways a little sad, I am glad other- 
 wise. And I had one great reward, for at the end he 
 spoke in a way he might not otherwise have done, and in 
 
 367
 
 368 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 words I shall never forget. I liad risen, and was about 
 to lean forward and take his hands in farewell, to pre- 
 vent his half-rising, when suddenly he exclaimed " Tell 
 me something of her — of Fiona. I call her so always, and 
 think of her so, to myself. Is she well? Is she at work? 
 Is she true to her work and her ideal! No, that I know! " 
 
 It was then he said the following words, which two 
 minutes later, in the garden, I jotted down in pencil at 
 once lest I should forget even a single word, or a single 
 change in the sequence of words. " She is a woman of 
 genius. That is rare ... so rare anywhere, anytime, in 
 women or, in men. Some few women ' have genius,' but 
 she is more than that. Yes, she is a woman of genius: 
 the genius too, that is rarest, that drives deep thoughts 
 before it. Tell her I think often of her, and of the deep 
 thought in all she has written of late. Tell her I hope 
 great things of her yet. And now . . . we'll go, since it 
 must be so. Goodbye, my dear fellow, and God bless 
 you." 
 
 Outside, the great green slope of Box Hill rose against 
 a cloudless sky, filled with a flowing south wind. The 
 swifts and swallows were flying high. In the beech courts 
 thrush and blackbird called continually, along the hedge- 
 rows the wild-roses hung. But an infinite sadness was 
 in it all. A prince among men had fallen into the lonely 
 and dark way. 
 
 Goodbye it was in truth ; but it was the older poet who 
 recovered hold on life and outlived the younger by four 
 years. 
 
 A wet spring, and a still damper autumn atfected my 
 husband seriously; and while we were visiting Mrs. 
 Glassford Bell in Perthshire he became so ill that we 
 went to Llandrindod Wells for him to be under special 
 treatment. As he explained to Mr. Ernest Rhys : 
 
 Llandrindod Wells, 
 
 My deak Ernest, '^^pt.. 1903. 
 
 ... I know that you will be sorry to learn that things 
 have not gone well with me. All this summer I have
 
 GEORGE MEREDITH 
 Fi'om a photograph by F. Hollyer, about 1 898
 
 WINTER IN ATHENS 369 
 
 been feeling vaguely unwell and, latterly, losing strength 
 steadily. . . . However, the rigorous treatment, the po- 
 tent Saline and Sulphur waters and baths, the not less 
 potent and marvellously pure and regenerative Llan- 
 drindod air — and my own exceptional vitality and re- 
 cuperative powers — have combined to work a wonderful 
 change for the better; which may prove to be more than 
 " a splendid rally," tho' I know I must not be too san- 
 guine. Fortunately, the eventuality does not much trou- 
 ble me, either way: I have lived, and am content, and 
 it is only for what I don't want to leave undone that 
 the sound of ' Farewell ' has anything deeply perturbing. 
 
 W. S. 
 And later to Mrs. Janvier : 
 
 London, Sept. 30, 1903. 
 
 Thanks for your loving note. But you are not to worry 
 yourself about me. I'm all right, and as cheerful as a 
 lark — let us say as a lark with a rheumatic wheeze in its 
 little song-box, or gout in its little off-claw. . . . Anyway, 
 I'll laugh and be glad and take life as I find it, till the 
 end. The best prayer for me is that I may live vividly 
 till " Finis," and work up to the last hour. . . . 
 
 My love to you both, and know me ever your irrepres- 
 sible, 
 
 Billy. 
 
 In a letter to Mr. Alden (Aug. 25th, 1903) he describes 
 the work he had on hand at the moment, and the book he 
 had projected and hoped to write : 
 
 ". . . in the Fall Mall Magazine you may have noticed 
 a series of topographical papers (with as much or more 
 of anecdotal and reminiscent and critical) contributed, 
 under the title of " Literary Geography," by myself. 
 The first three were commissioned by the editor to see 
 how they ' took.' They were so widely liked, and those 
 that followed, that this summer he commissioned me to 
 write a fresh series, one each month till next March. Of 
 these none has been more appreciated than the double 
 article on the Literary Geography of the Lake of Geneva.
 
 370 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 Forthcoming issues are The English Lake Country, Mere- 
 dith, Thackery, The Thames, etc. In the current issue I 
 deal with Stevenson. 
 
 . . . About my projected Greek book, to comprise 
 Magna Grecia as well, i. e. Hellenic Calabria and Sicily, 
 etc. ... I want to make a book out of the material gath- 
 ered, old and new, and to go freshly all over the ground. 
 ... I intend to call it Greek Backgrounds and to deal 
 with the ancient (recreated) and modern backgrounds of 
 some of the greatest of the Greeks — as they were and are 
 — as, for example, of ^schylus, Sophocles, Euripides, 
 Empedocles, Theocritus, etc. — and of famous ancient 
 cities, Sybaris, Corinth, etc.; and deal with the home or 
 chief habitat or famous association. For instance : 
 
 (1) Calabria (Crotan and Metapontum) with Pytha- 
 goras. 
 
 (2) Eleusis in Greece, | with life and death of 
 Syracuse and Gela in Sicily ) ^schylus. 
 
 (3) Colonos Sophocles. 
 
 (4) Athens etc. with Euripides. 
 
 \ , ,r^. ^ X t with Pindar etc. etc. 
 
 and Acragas (Girgente) ) 
 
 The two following letters were acknowledgments of 
 birthday greetings. In the first to Mr. Stedman our plans 
 for that winter are described : 
 
 The Gbosvenob Club, 
 
 Oct. 2, 1903. 
 
 My dear E. C. S., 
 
 Two days ago, on Wednesday's mail, I posted a letter 
 to reach you, I hope, on the morning of your birthday — 
 and today, to my very real joy, I safely received your 
 long and delightful letter. It has been a true medicine 
 — for, as I told you, I've been gravely ill. And it came 
 just at the right moment, and warmed my heart with 
 its true affection. 
 
 ... I know you'll be truly glad to hear that the tidings 
 about myself can be more and more modified by good
 
 WINTEE IN ATHENS 371 
 
 news from my physician, — a man in whom I have the ut- 
 most confidence and who knows every weakness as well 
 as every resource and reserve of strength in me, and 
 understands my temperament and nature as few doctors 
 do understand complex personalities. 
 
 He said to me today " You look as if you were well 
 contented with the world." I answered " Yes, of course I 
 am. In the first place I'm every day feeling stronger, 
 and in the next, and for this particular day, I've just had 
 a letter of eight written pages from a friend whom I have 
 ever dearly loved and whom I admire not less than I 
 love." He knew you as a poet as well as the subtlest and 
 finest interpreter of modern poetry — and indeed (tho' I 
 had forgotten) I had given him a favourite volume and 
 also lent your Baltimore addresses. 
 
 When I'm once more in the land of Theocritus (and 
 oh how entrancing it is) I'll be quite strong and well 
 again, he says. Indeed I'm already * a live miracle ' ! 
 We sail by the Orient liner " Orizaba " on the 23rd ; reach 
 Naples (via Gibraltar and Marseilles) 9 to 10 days later; 
 and leave by the local mail-boat same evening for Mes- 
 sina — arrive there about 8 on Monday morning — catch 
 the Syracuse mail about 10, change at 12 at Giarre, and 
 ascend Mt. Etna by the little circular line to Maletto 
 about 3,000 ft. high, and thence drive to the wonderful old 
 Castle of Maniace to stay with our dear friend there, the 
 Duke of Bronte — our third or fourth visit now. We'll be 
 there about a fortnight: then a week with friends at 
 lovely and unique Taormina: and then sail once more, 
 either from Messina or Naples direct to the Pira?us, for 
 Athens, where we hope to spend the winter and spring. 
 
 How I wish you were to companion us. In Sicily, I 
 often thought of you, far oif Brother of Theocritus. You 
 would so delight in it all, the Present that mirrors the 
 magical Past ; the Past that penetrates like stars the pur- 
 ple veils of the Present. 
 
 Yes, I know well how sincere is all you say as to the 
 loving friend awaiting me — awaiting us — if ever we cross 
 the Atlantic : but it is gladsome to hear it all the same.
 
 372 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 All affectionate greetings to dear Mrs. Stedman, a true 
 and dear friend, 
 
 Ever, dear Stedman, 
 Your loving friend, 
 
 William Sharp. 
 
 13th Sept., 1903. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Gilchrist, 
 
 It is at all times a great pleasure to hear from you, 
 and that pleasure is enhanced by hearing from you on 
 my l)irthday and by your kind remembrance of the oc- 
 casion. . . . 
 
 We look forward to Athens greatly, though it is not 
 (as in Elizabeth's case) my first visit to that land of en- 
 trancing associations and still ever-present beauty. But 
 as one grows older, one the more recognises that ' cli- 
 mate ' and ' country ' belong to the geography of the soul 
 rather than to that secondary physical geography of 
 which we hear so much. The winds of heaven, the dreary 
 blast of the wilderness, the airs of hope and peace, the 
 tragic storms and cold inclemencies — these are not the 
 property of our North or South or East, but are of the 
 climes self-made or inherited or in some strange way 
 become our ' atmosphere.' And the country we dream of, 
 that we long for, is not yet reached by Cook nor even 
 chartered by Baedeker. You and yours are often in our 
 thought. In true friendship, distance means no more 
 than that the sweet low music is far off: but it is there. 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 William Sharp. 
 
 We journeyed by sea to Naples. Our hopes of a chat 
 with our friends the Janviers at Marseilles were frus- 
 trated by a violent gale we encountered. As my husband 
 wrote to Mrs. Janvier while at sea: 
 
 R.M.S. Orizaba. 
 Oct. 31, 1903. 
 
 It seems strange to write to you on the Festival of Sam- 
 hain — the Celtic Summer-end, our Scottish Hallowe'en —
 
 WINTEK IN ATHENS 373 
 
 here on these stormy waters between Sardinia and Italy. 
 It is so strong a gale, and the air is so inclement and 
 damp that it is a little difficult to realise we are approach- 
 ing the shores of Italy. But wild as the night is I want 
 to send you a line on it, on this end of the old year, this 
 night of powers and thoughts and spiritual dominion. 
 
 It was a disappointment not to get ashore at Marseilles 
 — but the fierce gale (a wild mistral) made it impossil)le. 
 Indeed the steamer couldn't approach: we lay-to for 3 
 or 4 hours behind a great headland some 4 or 5 miles to 
 S. W. of the city, and passengers and mails had to be 
 driven along the shore and embarked from a small quarry 
 pier. . . . We had a very stormy and disagreeable pas- 
 sage all the way from Plymouth and through the Bay. 
 . . . The first part of the voyage I was very unwell, 
 partly from an annoying heart attack. You may be sure 
 I am better again, or I could not have withstood the 
 wild gale which met us far south in the Gulf of Lyons 
 and became almost a hurricane near Marseilles. But 
 I gloried in the superb magnificence of the lashed and 
 tossed sport of the mistral, as we went before it like 
 an arrow before a gigantic bow. 
 
 It is now near sunset and I am writing under the shel- 
 ter of a windsail on the upper deck, blowing ^great guns ' 
 though I don't think we are in for more than a passing 
 gale. But for every reason I shall be glad to get ashore, 
 not that I want to be in Naples, which I like least of any 
 place in Italy, but to get on to Maniace . . . where I so 
 much love to be, and where I can work and dream so 
 well. . . . 
 
 But the gale increased and became one of the wildest 
 we had ever known, as William reminded me later when 
 he showed me an unrhjnued poem he had composed — ex- 
 actly as it stands — in the middle of the night, and the 
 next day, in Naples, recalled it and wrote it down. It 
 was his way of mental escape from a physical condition 
 which induced great nervous strain or fatigue, to create 
 imaginatively a contrary condition and environment, and
 
 374 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 so to identify himself with it, that he could become ob- 
 livious to surrounding actualities. This is the poem : 
 
 INVOCATION 
 
 Play me a lulling tune, O Flute-Player of Sleep, 
 
 Across the twilight bloom of thy purple havens. 
 
 Far off a phantom stag on the moonyellow highlands 
 
 Ceases; and as a shadow, wavers; and passes: 
 
 So let Silence seal me and Darkness gather, Piper of Sleep. 
 
 Play me a lulling chant, Anthem-maker, 
 
 Out of the fall of lonely seas, and the wind's sorrow: 
 
 Behind are the burning glens of the sunset-sky 
 
 Where like blown ghosts the sea-mews wail their desolate sea-dirges: 
 
 Make me of these a lulling chant, O Anthem-maker. 
 
 No — no — from nets of silence weave me, O Siglier of Sleep, 
 
 A dusky veil ash-gray as the moonpale moth's grey wing; 
 
 Of thicket-stillness woven, and sleep of grass, and thin evanishing air 
 
 Where the tall reed spires breathless — for I am tired, 
 
 O Sigher of Sleep, 
 And long for thy muffled song as of bells on the wind, and the wind's 
 
 cry 
 Falling, and the dim wastes that lie 
 Beyond the last, low, dim, oblivious sigh. 
 
 During a short visit to Maniace W. S. wrote to Mrs. 
 Philpot: 
 
 11th Nov., 19U3. 
 
 ... At this season of the year, beautiful and unique 
 in its appeal and singular wild fascination as it is, this 
 place does not suit me climatically, being for one thing 
 too high between 2,000 and 3,000 ft. and also too much 
 under the domination of Etna, who swings vast electric 
 current, and tosses thimder charged cloud-masses to and 
 fro like a Titan acolyte swinging mighty censers at the 
 feet of the Sun. We drive to Taormina on Tuesday and 
 the divine beauty and not less divinely balmy and regen- 
 erative climate — sitting as she does like the beautiful 
 goddess Falcone worshipped there of old, perched on her 
 orange and olive-clad plateau, hundreds of feet above 
 the peacock-hued Ionian Sea, with one hand as it were 
 reaching back to Italy (Calabria ever like opal or ame- 
 thyst to the North-east), with the other embracing all the 
 lands of Etna to Syracuse and the Hyblaean Mount, the
 
 WINTER IN ATHENS 375 
 
 lands of Empedocles and Theocritus, of ^Eschylus and 
 Pindar, of Stesichorus and Simonides, and so many other 
 great names — and with her face ever turned across the 
 Ionian Sea to that ancient Motherland of Hellas, where 
 once your soul and mine surely sojourned. 
 
 We shall have a delightful " going " and one you would 
 enjoy to the full. . . . Tomorrow if fine and radiant we 
 start for that absolutely unsurpassable expedition to the 
 great orange gardens a thousand feet lower at the S. W. 
 end of the Duchy. We first drive some eight miles or so 
 through wild mountain land till we come to the gorges 
 of the Simeto and there we mount our horses and mules 
 and with ample escort before and behind ride in single 
 file for about an hour and a half. Suddenly we come 
 upon one of the greatest orange groves in Europe — 26,000 
 trees in full fruit, an estimated crop of 3,000,000 ! stretch- 
 ing between the rushing Simeto and great cliffs. Then 
 once more to the saddle and back a different way to bar- 
 baric Bronte and thence a ten mile drive back along the 
 ancient Greek highway from Naxos to sacred Enna. And 
 so, for the moment, a revederla ! " 
 
 After a delightful week at Corfii we settled in Athens 
 (at Maison Merlin) for four months, and found pleasant 
 companionship with members of the English and Ameri- 
 can Schools of Archeology — of which Mr. Carl Bosen- 
 quet and Prof. Henry Fowler were resi^ectively the heads 
 — with Dr. Wilhelm head of the Austrian School, — with 
 Mr. Bikelas the Greek poet, at whose house we met sev- 
 eral of the rising Greek men of letters, and other resi- 
 dents and wanderers. 
 
 The winter was very cold and at first my husband was 
 very ill — the double strain of his life seemed to consume 
 him like a flame. At the New Year he wrote again to 
 Mrs. Philpot : 
 
 Maisox Meblix, 
 
 Deae Friend, Athexs. 
 
 This is mainly to tell you that I've come out of my se- 
 vere feverish attack with erect (if draggled) colours and
 
 376 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 hope to march " cock-a-hoopishly " into 1904 and even 
 further if the smiling enigmatical gods permit! . . . To- 
 day I heard a sound as of Pan piping, among the glens on 
 Hymettos, whereon my eyes rest so often and often so 
 long dream. Tomorrow I'll take Gilbert Murray's line 
 new version of Hippolytus or Bacchae as my pocket com- 
 panion to the Theatre of Dionysus on the hither side of 
 the Acropolis ; possibly my favourite CEdipus at Kolono& 
 and read sitting on Kolonos itself and imagine I hear on 
 the wind the rise and fall of the lonely ancient lives, se- 
 rene thought-tranced in deathless music. And in the 
 going of the old and the coming of the new year, a friend's 
 thoughts shall fare to you from far away Athens. . . . 
 As far as practicable I am keeping myself to the closer 
 study of the literature and philosophy and ethical con- 
 cepts and ideals of ancient Hellas and of mythology in 
 relation thereto, but you know how fascinating and per- 
 turbing much else is, from sculpture to vase paintings, 
 from Doric and Ionic architecture to the beauty and com- 
 plex interest of the almost inexhaustible field of ancient 
 Greek coins, and those of Graecia Magna, — And then 
 (both Eheu and Evoe!) I have so much else to do — be- 
 sides " Life " the supreme and most exciting of the arts ! 
 
 A letter of New Year wishes to Dr. Garnett from 
 W. S. ; and a copy of The House of Usna to Mr. and Mrs. 
 Ernest Rhys brought the following acknowledgments: 
 
 27 Tanza Road, Hampsteau, 
 
 Jan. 8, 1904. 
 
 My dear Shaep, 
 
 Your letter has given me infinite pleasure. . . . 
 
 Athens must be a delighful residence at this time of 
 year, especially if there are no " cold snaps," against 
 which I fear that the modem Athenians are no better 
 provided than their ancestors were. There is a very 
 amusing letter in Alisplom's epistles, describing the suf- 
 ferings of a poor parasite in a hard winter. You seem 
 to have very charming society. The name of Bikelas i&
 
 WINTER IN ATHENS 377 
 
 well known to me, but I am not much versed in Roman 
 literature. The history of Paparrhegopoulos has been a 
 good deal noticed here of late. It seems to he a really 
 classical work. By producing such the Greeks will indi- 
 cate their claim to a high position in the European fam- 
 ily, until the time has come for action, which apparently 
 has not come yet. 
 
 I quite agree in the conclusion at which they seem to 
 have arrived that it is better to have the Turks in Con- 
 stantinople than the Bulgarians, much more the Rus- 
 sians. If either of their victims once occupy it, the right- 
 ful possessors will be forever excluded. 
 
 I have not wanted for literary occupations — one a little 
 work of fancy which I am about finishing, and of which 
 you will hear more. Then I have a story to translate 
 from the Portuguese, published in the Venture; an edi- 
 tion of Browning's preface to Shelley's forged letters, 
 with an introduction by me, and the second volume of 
 English literature in conjunction w^ith Gosse, which has 
 been these six weeks ready for issue but delayed from 
 time to time to suit the Americans. It is now positively 
 announced for the 31st. 
 
 With kindest regards to Mrs. Sharp, who I hope finds 
 Attica entirely to her taste, 
 
 I am, dear Sharp, 
 
 Very sincerely yours, 
 
 R. Gaknett. 
 
 Derwen, 
 Hermitage Lane, N. W., 
 
 Jan. 28, 19U4. 
 
 Dear Miss Fiona Macleod, 
 
 Most delightful of all New Year's gifts is a really beau- 
 tiful book; and we thank you, — both of us, — for sending 
 us your most characteristic heroic-lyric tragedy, The 
 House of TJsna. We were fortunate in being allowed to 
 see it performed — how long ago can it have been? — at 
 the Stage Society's instance. . . . The '' Psychic Drama," 
 as you conceive it, opens the door to a lost world of Na- 
 ture and the emotions of Nature in the imagination. No
 
 378 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 doubt it is a frightfully difficult thing to attire these emo- 
 tions in fair and credible human dress, one that seemed 
 impossible even, but the " House of Usna " may serve as 
 a test of how far those who have the key to these emo- 
 tions can hope to fit it to old or new-old dramatic forms. 
 Your ' Foreword ' is suggestive enough to be treated sep- 
 arately; but we write from a sick house, and in such 
 states, it is harder to think of critical things than of pure 
 imaginative ones. For these last, as they rise out of your 
 magic ' House,' and haunt the ear, we owe you very whole 
 and ample thanks. 
 
 With many wishes for health and spirit in this year 
 of 1904, 
 
 We are, yours most truly, 
 
 Gr. AND E. Rhys. 
 
 With Spring sunshine and warmth my husband 
 regained a degree of strength, and it was his chief 
 pleasure to take long rambles on the neighbouring hills 
 alone, or with the young American archeologist, Mrs. 
 Roselle L. Shields, a tireless walker. We made some 
 interesting expeditions to Tyrens, Mycenae, Corinth, Del- 
 phi, etc. and from ' OlymiDia in Elis ' he wrote to a 
 friend : 
 
 " How you would love this radiant heat, this vast soli- 
 tude of ruins, the millions of flowers and dense daisied 
 grass. This fragment of vast Olympia is the most an- 
 cient Greek temple extant. It lies at the base of the Hill 
 of Kronos, of which the lowest pines are seen to the right 
 and overlooks the whole valley of the Alpheios. . . . 
 
 And the millions of flowers. They are almost incred- 
 ible in number and density. The ground is often white 
 with thick snow of daisies. Wild plums, pears, cherries, 
 etc. The radiant and glowing heat is a joy. I am sad to 
 think that this day week beautiful Greece will be out of 
 sight." 
 
 Later he wrote to Mr. Rhys:
 
 AVINTER IN ATHENS 379 
 
 Maiso.v Merlix, Athens, 
 Friday, 26th Feb., 19U4. 
 
 My dear Ernest, 
 
 . . . Yesterday I had a lovely break from work, high 
 up on the beautiful bracing dwarf-pine clad slopes of 
 Pentelicos, above Kephisia, the ancient deme of Menan- 
 der — and then across the country behind Hymettos, the 
 country of Demosthenes, and so back by the High Con- 
 vent of St. John the Hunter, on the north spur of the Hy- 
 mettian range, and the site of ancient Gargettos, the 
 place of Epicurus' birth and boyhood. At sundown I was 
 at Heracleion, some three or four miles from Athens — 
 and the city was like pale gold out of which peaked Lyca- 
 bettos rose like a purple sapphire. The sky beyond, 
 above Salamis, was all grass-green and mauve. A thun- 
 der-cloud lay on extreme Hymettos, rising from Mara- 
 thon : and three rainbows lay along the violet dusk of the 
 great hill-range. . . . 
 
 We intend to spend April in France, mostly in South- 
 em Provence, which we love so well, and where we have 
 dear French friends. 
 
 I am apparently well and strong again, hard at work, 
 hard at pleasure, hard at life, as before, and generally 
 once more full of hope and energy. 
 
 Love to you both, dear friends and a sunbeam to little 
 Stella. 
 
 Ever yours. 
 
 Will. 
 
 On leaving Greece we loitered at Hyeres in the month 
 of cherry-blossoms, and moved slowly northwards 
 through Nimes to the fantastic neighbourhood of Le Puy, 
 with its curious hill-set town and churches perched on 
 pinnacles of conical rock. 
 
 From Le Puy W. S. wrote to Mrs. Janvier: 
 
 18th April, 1904. . . . Wliat has most impressed my 
 imagination in this region is what I saw today outside of 
 fantastic Le Puy — namely at the magnificent old feudal
 
 380 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 rock-Chateau fortress of Polignac, erected on the site of 
 the famous Temple of Apollo (raised here by the Romans 
 on the still earlier site of a Druidic Temple to the Celtic 
 Sun God). I looked down the mysterious hollow of the 
 ancient oracle of Apollo, and realised how deep a hold 
 even in the France of today is maintained by the ancient 
 Pagan faith. . . .
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE WINGED DESTINY 
 
 Literary Geography 
 
 Two important events of 1904 to William Sharp were 
 the publication of The Winged Destiny, at midsummer, 
 by Messrs. Chapman & Hall ; and of his Literary Geog- 
 raphy in October. 
 
 In the Dedication to Dr. John Goodchild of The 
 Winged Destiny (the title of The Magic Kingdoms was 
 discarded), the author set forth 'her' intention: 
 
 " In this book I have dealt — as I hope in all I write — 
 only with things among which my thought has moved, 
 searching, remembering, examining, sometimes dream- 
 ing. .. . 
 
 It is not the night-winds in sad hearts only that I hear, 
 or the sighing of vain fatalities : but, often rather, of an 
 Emotion akin to that mysterious Sorrow of Eternity in 
 love with tears, of which Blake speaks in Vala. It is 
 at times, at least I feel it so, because Beauty is more 
 beautiful there. It is the twilight hour in the heart, as 
 Joy is the heart's morning. 
 
 Perhaps I love best the music that leads one into the 
 moonlit coverts of dreams, and old silence, and unawak- 
 ening peace. But Music, like the rose of the Greeks, is 
 ' the thirty petalled one ' and every leaf is the gate of an 
 equal excellence. The fragrance of all is Joy, the beauty 
 of all is Sorrow: but the Rose is one — Rosa Sempiterna, 
 the Rose of Life. As to the past, it is because of what is 
 there, that I look back: not because I do not see what is 
 here today, or may be here tomorrow. It is because of 
 what is to be gained that I look back: of what is su- 
 premely worth knowing there, of knowing intimately : of 
 
 381
 
 382 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 what is supremely worth remembering, of remembering 
 constantly: not only as an exile dreaming of the land left 
 behind, but as one travelling in narrow defiles who looks 
 back for familiar fires on the hills, or upward to the fa- 
 miliar stars where is surety. In truth is not all creative" 
 art remembrance: is not the spirit of ideal art the re- 
 capture of what has gone away from the world, that by 
 an imperious spiritual law is forever withdrawing to 
 come again newly." 
 
 To a friend W. S. wrote : 
 
 It is a happiness to me to know that you feel so 
 deeply the beauty that has been so humbly and eagerly 
 and often despairingly sought, and that in some dim 
 measure, at least, is held here as a shaken image in 
 troubled waters. It it a long long road, the road of art 
 . . . and those who serve with passion and longing and 
 unceasing labour of inward thought and outward craft 
 are the only votaries who truly know what long and devi- 
 ous roads must be taken, how many pitfalls have to be 
 avoided or escaped from, how many desires have to be 
 foregone, how many hopes have to be crucified in slow 
 death or more mercifully be lost by the way, before one 
 can stand at last on " the yellow banks where the west 
 wind blows," and see, beyond, the imperishable flowers, 
 and hear the immortal voices. 
 
 A thousand perils guard the long road. And when 
 the secret gardens are reached, there is that other deadly 
 peril of which Fiona has written in "The Lynn of 
 Dreams." And, yet again, there is that mysterious des- 
 tiny, that may never come, or may come to men but once, 
 or may come and not go, of which I wrote to you some 
 days ago, quoting from Fiona's latest writing: that des- 
 tiny which puts dust upon dreams, and silence upon sweet 
 airs, and stills songs, and makes the hand idle, and the 
 spirit as foam upon the sea. 
 
 -For the gods are jealous, jealous and remorseless 
 beyond all words to tell. And there is so little time at
 
 THE WINGED DESTINY 383 
 
 the best . . . and the little gain, the little frail crown, is 
 so apt to be gained too late for the tired votary to care, 
 or to do more than lie down saying ' I have striven, and I 
 am glad, and now it is over, and I am glad ! ' 
 
 A letter of appreciation to the author from an unknown 
 Gaelic correspondent contained this beautiful wish: 
 
 " May you walk by the waters of Life, and may you 
 rest by Still Waters, and may you know the mystery of 
 God." 
 
 To Mrs. Helen Bartlett Bridgman, " Fiona " wrote in 
 acknowledgment of a letter, and of a sympathetic, printed 
 appreciation of The Winged Destiny: 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 (For if deep sympathy and understanding do not con- 
 stitute friendship, what does?) It would be strange in- 
 deed if I did not wish to write to you after what Mr. 
 Mosher has told me, and after perusal of what you have 
 written concerning what I have tried to do with my pen. 
 There are few things so helpful, perhaps none so pleasant 
 to a writer in love with his or her work and the ideals 
 which are its source, than the swift understanding and 
 sympathy of strangers. So much of my work is aside 
 from the general temper and taste, and not only in its 
 ideals but in its ' atmosphere,' indeed even in its writer's 
 methods and manner, that I have to be content (as I 
 gladly am content) to let the wind that blows through 
 minds and hearts carry the seed whithersoever it may 
 perchance take root, and this with tbe knowledge that the 
 resting places must almost of necessity, as things are, 
 be few and far between. But it is not number that counts, 
 and, as I say, I am well content — would be content were 
 my readers far fewer than they are. It seems enough to 
 me that one should do one's best in a careful beauty and 
 in the things of the spirit. It is enough to be a torch- 
 bearer, whether the flame be a small and brief light or a 
 beacon — it is to take over and to tend and to hand on the
 
 384 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 fire that matters. As I say in my very shortly forth- 
 coming new book, The Winged Destiny, I desire to be of 
 the horizon-makers; if I can be that, however humbly, 
 I am glad indeed. This would be so with anyone, I 
 think, feeling thus. To me outside sympathy means per- 
 haps more; for I stand more isolated than most writers 
 do, partly by my will, partly by circumstances as potent 
 and sometimes more potent. It is not only that I am 
 devoid of the desire of publicity, of personal repute, and 
 that nothing of advantage therefrom has the slightest 
 appeal to me (though, alas, both health and private cir- 
 cumstances make my well-being to a large extent de- 
 pendent on what my work brings me), but that I am men- 
 tally so constituted that I should be silenced by what so 
 many are naturally and often rightly eager for and that 
 so many seek foolishly or unworthily. In this respect 
 I am like the mavis of the woods, that sings full-heartedly 
 in the morning shadow or evening twilight in secret 
 places, but will be duml) and lost in the general air of 
 noon and where many are gathered in the frequented 
 open to see and hear. 
 
 It is for these, and other not less imperative private 
 reasons, why I am known personally to so very few of 
 my fellow-writers : and why in private circles the sub- 
 ject is not one that occurs. I cannot explain, though not 
 from reluctance or perversity or any foolish and need- 
 less mystery. The few who do not know me, as you know 
 me, but with added intimacy, are loyal in safe-guarding 
 my wishes and my privacy. That explains why I refuse 
 all editorial and other requests of " interviews," " photo- 
 graphs," " personal articles " and the like. In a word, I 
 am blind to all the obvious advantages that would accrue 
 from my ' entering the arena ' as others do. I have all 
 that frequently borne in upon me. But still less so do I 
 ignore what would happen to my work, to its quality and 
 spirit, to myself, if I yielded. I may be wrong, but I do 
 not think I am. I am content to do my best, as the spirit 
 moves me, and as my sense of beauty compels me; and 
 if, with that, I can also make some often much-needed
 
 THE WINGED DESTINY 385 
 
 money, enough for the need as it arises ; and, further, can 
 win the sympathy and deep appreciation of the few inti- 
 mate and the now many unknown friends whom, to my 
 great gladness and pride, I have gained, then, indeed, I 
 can surely contentedly let wider "fame" (of all idle 
 things the idlest, when it is, as it commonly is, the mere 
 lip-repute of the curious and the shallow) go by, and be 
 indifferent to the lapse of possible but superfluous 
 greater material gain. . . ." 
 
 Dr. Goodchild, after a first acknowledgment of the 
 dedication, again wrote to F. M. : 
 
 Author's Club. 
 
 Dear Friend, J^^y^ i^o^- 
 
 . . . Yesterday I read your Preface to a friend of 
 mine, and afterwards a lady (a clever woman I believe) 
 came into the room. I had never met her before, and 
 she had never read anything of yours, but she picked 
 up the book and asked what it was. " Just read the 
 introduction " said my friend. The reader had an ex- 
 pressive face, and I wish you had seen it. " But this is 
 something quite new. I never read anything like it be- 
 fore " she said as she finished : and I fancy that many 
 will do likewise. 
 
 A woman said in my hearing not long ago, of one of 
 your poems, " I could not put out my heart for daws to 
 peck at " and I said " only the Eagle could do that, and 
 not only daws, but blackbirds of all kinds will come to 
 do that, and when the Eagles hear the call of their mates, 
 there will be such slaughter of carrion crows as the 
 World has not seen yet." 
 
 J. A. G. 
 
 A few days later William described to a friend the 
 events of 
 
 . . . one of the loveliest days of the year, with the 
 most luminous atmosphere I have seen in England — the 
 afternoon and evening divinely serene and beautiful. 
 
 I had a pleasant visit to Bath, and particularly enjoyed
 
 386 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 the long day spent yesterday at Glastonbury and neigh- 
 bourhood, and the glowing warmth and wonderful radi- 
 ance. 
 
 As usual one or two strange things happened in con- 
 nection with Dr. G. We went across the ancient " Sal- 
 mon " of St. Bride, which stretches below the hill known 
 as " Weary- All " (a corruption of Uriel, the Angel of the 
 Sun), and about a mile or less westward came upon the 
 narrow water of the ancient ' Burgh.' Near here is a 
 very old Thorn held in great respect. . . . 
 
 He put me (unknowing) to a singular test. He had 
 hoped with especial and deep hope that in some signifi- 
 cant way I would write or utter the word " Joy " on this 
 1st day of August (the first three weeks of vital import 
 to many, and apparently for myself too) — and also to see 
 if a certain spiritual influence would reach me. Well, 
 later in the day (for he could not prompt or suggest, and 
 had to await occurrence) we went into the lovely grounds 
 of the ancient ruined Abbey, one of the loveliest things 
 in England I think. I became restless and left him, and 
 went and lay down behind an angle of the East end, 
 under the tree. I smoked, and then rested idly, and then 
 began thinking of some correspondence I had forgotten. 
 Suddenly I turned on my right side, stared at the broken 
 stone of the angle, and felt vaguely moved in some way. 
 Abruptly and unpremeditatedly I wrote down three enig- 
 matic and disconnected lines. I was looking curiously at 
 the third when I saw Dr. G. approach. 
 
 " Can you make anything out of that," I said — " I've 
 just written it, I don't know why." This is the triad: 
 
 " From the Silence of Time, Time's Silence borrow. 
 In the heart of To-day is the word of To-morrow. 
 The Builders of Joy are the Children of Sorrow." 
 
 To Mr. Stedman W. S. announced our plans for the 
 coming winter : 
 
 -r^ T^ Aug. 29, 1904. 
 
 Dear Poet, 
 
 This is not an advance birthday letter, as you may 
 think ! It is to convey tidings of much import to my wife
 
 THE WINGED DESTINY 387 
 
 and myself, and I hope of pleasure to you and other 
 friends over-sea — namely that this late autumn we are 
 going to pay a brief visit to New York. 
 
 It is our intention to spend January, February, and 
 March in Rome — which for me is the City of Cities. But 
 we are going to it via New York. In a word, we intend to 
 leave England somewhere between 23rd and 26th of Octo- 
 ber, according as steamers and our needs fit it. Then 
 after six weeks or so in New York, we intend to sail di- 
 rect to the Mediterranean by one of the Hamburg- Ameri- 
 can or North-German Lloyd Special Mediterranean line, 
 sailing to Genoa and Naples. ... 
 
 I have been very busy of late, and for one thing have 
 been occupied with collecting and revising the literary 
 studies of some years past — and much else of which I'll 
 tell you when we meet. My Literary Geography, which 
 has been running serially in the Pall Mall Magazine 
 for the last 14 or 15 months will be out in book-form 
 in October. My wife's recently published little book 
 on Rembrandt has had a good reception, I am very glad 
 to say. 
 
 With all affectionate greetings to you both, ever. Dear 
 Stedman, 
 
 Affectionately your friend, 
 
 William Sharp. 
 
 Before we started for New York Literary Geography 
 (by W. S.) was published. According to the critic in 
 The World: 
 
 " It was a characteristically original idea of the author 
 to combine descriptions of certain localities with criti- 
 cisms and appreciations of those famous writers who had 
 identified themselves therewith. It gives one a fresher 
 and keener insight, for instance, into Mr. George Mere- 
 dith'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 Steven-
 
 388 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 son," " Dickens-Land," " Scott-Land," " The Country of 
 George Eliot," " Thackeray-Land," " The Bronte Coun- 
 try," " The Carlyle Country," and " Aylwin-Land " are 
 all both delightful and instructive, full of poetic descrip- 
 tion, 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 jjoets, 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 dis- 
 tinction 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 Chronicle 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 con- 
 jimction 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.'
 
 THE WINGED DESTINY 389 
 
 " Mind you, at that moment Mr. Sharp did not know 
 who the stranger was, but knew by instinct tliat the sta- 
 tion 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 tlie Thames ! " ' 
 
 " When Stevenson could inflame a cabman with this pic- 
 turesque 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 Univebsity, 
 New Yobk, 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
 
 390 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 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 Gil- 
 man, the American Musical Critic : 
 
 22 Obmidale Tebbace, 
 
 MURBAYFIELD, 31st DeC, 
 
 Dear Mr. Gilman, 
 
 Some time ago a friend played to me one or two lovely 
 airs by Mr. LoeflSer, 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 Kel- 
 tic Sonata I have heard. And now I have been sent a 
 copy of your winsome and deeply interesting and in- 
 forming little book, Phases of Modern Music. There I 
 not only find much of deep interest to me about Mr. Loef- 
 fler 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 my- 
 self 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. 
 
 1 wish I knew more of the music of these two com- 
 posers. There is a spirit abroad just now, full of a new 
 poignancy of emotion, uplifted on a secret wave of pas-
 
 THE WINGED DESTINY 391 
 
 sion 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 seem- 
 ing extravagance, of the keen pleasure I have had in 
 your cordial letter concerning my book. Phases of Mod- 
 ern 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 my- 
 self 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 Mac- 
 Dowell! 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 
 Poemes," 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 
 a 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
 
 392 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 Celtic impulse is seizing the imaginations of some of the 
 younger and more warmly-tempered of American com- 
 posers. 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 Oilman. 
 
 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 Maga- 
 zine: — " 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 ' na- 
 ture-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 vol- 
 umes. To the second volume he thought to give the title 
 " Blue Days and Green Days " (from a line of R. L. Stev- 
 enson's), and to call the third, which was to deal with the 
 stars and the skies at night, " Beyond the Blue Septen- 
 trion." Not all the projected essays for each book, how- 
 ever, were written; but those which appeared serially 
 were published posthumously in 1906, by Country Life
 
 THE WINGED DESTINY 393 
 
 under the title of Where the Forest Murmurs. Concern- 
 ing the titular essay, Mr. Alfred Noyes wrote : '' It is one 
 of those pieces of nature-study which, in Matthew Ar- 
 nold'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 per- 
 haps hardly prose at all. It is melody in words suggest- 
 ing 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 al- 
 most 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. E. Watson Gilder, Mr. 
 John Lafarge, Mrs. Julia W^ard Howe, and Miss Caro- 
 line 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 hus-
 
 394 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 band 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 " : and so both 
 the nights and the morrows go to become thistles in the 
 Valley of Oblivion. But with the advancing Spring I am 
 regathering somewhat of lost energy, and if only I were 
 back in Scotland I believe I should be hard at work! 
 Well, I shall be there soon, though I may be away again, 
 in the remote isles or in Scandinavia for the late spring 
 and summer. . . . 
 
 F. M.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 1905 
 
 " There is a great serenity in the thought of death, when it 
 is known to be the Gate of Life." Fiona Macleod. 
 
 April my husband spent in the West of Scotland, for 
 which he pined; and on his way North broke his journey 
 in Edinburgh whence he wrote to Mr. W. J. Robertson, 
 the translator into English verse of A Century of the 
 French poets of the XIX Century: 
 
 April, 1905. 
 
 Deae Mr. Robertson, 
 
 After our most pleasant evening a deux I had a com- 
 fortable journey north : and last night luxuriated in get- 
 ting to bed early (a rare thing for me) with the sure and 
 certain knowledge there would be no glorious resurrection 
 therefrom at any untimely hour. So after sleeping the 
 sleep of the true Gael — who is said to put 85 to the poor 
 Sassenach 40 winks — I woke in peace. I was thereafter 
 having a cigarette over the Scotsman when my youngest 
 (and secretary) sister brought me my letters, papers, 
 etc. and with them a long narrow box which I soon dis- 
 covered to be your generous gift of 100 of these delect- 
 able Indian cigars. It is very good of you indeed, and I 
 am grateful, and may the ancient Gaelic God Dia-Cheo, 
 God of Smoke, grant you remission of all your philologi- 
 cal sins and derivative ' howlers ' — and the more so as 
 there is no authority for any such god, and the name 
 would signify hill-mist instead of pipe-smoke ! And may 
 I have a hundred ' reves de Notre Dame de Nicotine ! ' I. 
 couldn't resist trying one. Wholly excellent. And in the 
 meditative fumes I arrived through intuition at the fol- 
 lowing derivation which I hope will find a place in your 
 book: 
 
 395
 
 396 WILLIxVM SHAEP 
 
 Roab ancient Celtic for a Good Fellow 
 
 H'Errt " " " Smoke-Maker or Smoke-Be- 
 
 stower 
 's contraction for Agiis ' and ', 
 Onn ancient Celtic for ' May Heaven Bless ' 
 
 W. J. ancient Celtic Tribal tattoo 
 
 which, assisted in dreams by the spirits of Windisch, 
 D'Arbois de Jubainville, Loth, Whitley Stokes and Kuno 
 Meyer, I take to be W. J. Roah-H'Errt-S-onn — i. e. Bill- 
 Jack, or in mod. English ' William John ' of the Clan of 
 Heaven-Blessed Friendly Smokers — i. e. William John 
 of the Eoaberrtsson, or Robertson Clan. This of course 
 disposes of Donnachie once and for all. 
 Ever sincerely yours 
 
 William Shaep. 
 
 From Edinburgh he and his secretary-sister Mary 
 went to Lismore, so that he might " feel the dear West 
 once more." From Oban he reported to Mr. W. J. Rob- 
 ertson on a post card addressed to " Ri Willeam Iain 
 MacRiobeart mhic Donnach aidh " 
 
 " Awful accident in a lonely Isle of the West. 
 
 A distinguished stranger was observing the vasty deep, 
 and had laid a flask-filled cup on a rock beside him when 
 a tamned gull upset it and at same time carried off a 
 valuable Indian cheroot. Deep sympathy is everywhere 
 expressed, for the distinguished stranger, the lost che- 
 root, and above all for the spilt cup and abruptly emptied 
 flask. A gloom has been cast over the whole island. 
 
 Verb: Sap:" 
 
 From Lismore he wrote to me : 
 
 " April 19. It was sweet to fall asleep last night to the 
 sound of the hill-wind and the swift troubled waters. We 
 had a lovely walk in the late afternoon, and again in the 
 sombre moonlit night. It came on too stormy for me 
 to go round to the Cavern later, however. I'll try again. 
 I was there about first dusk, with Mary. To my chagrin 
 there was neither sound nor sight of the sea-woman, but
 
 1905 397 
 
 she must be there for MacC. has twice heard her sob- 
 bing and crying out at him when he passed close in the 
 black darkness. There was only a lapwing wailing near 
 by, but both Mary and I heard a singular furtive sound 
 like something in a trailing silk dress whispering to it- 
 self as it slid past in the dusk — but this, I think, was a 
 curious echo of what's called ' a sobbing wave ' in some 
 narrow columnar hidden hollow opening from the sea. 
 Mary got the creeps, and loathed a story I told her about 
 a midianmara that sang lovely songs but only so as to 
 drown the listener and suck the white warm marrow out 
 of his spine. 
 
 Later I joined MacC. for a bit over the flickering fire- 
 flaucht. I got him to tell me all over again and more 
 fully about the Maighdeann Mhara. The first time he 
 heard ' something ' was before his fright last Novem- 
 ber. ' There was ceol then ' he said. . . . 
 
 I asked in Gaelic 'were songs sung!' He said 'Yes, 
 at times.' Mrs. MacC. was angry at him he said, and said 
 he hadn't the common-sense of a jenny-cluckett (a cluck- 
 ing hen) — but (and there's a world of difference in that) 
 she hadn't heard tvhat he had heard. So to cheer him up 
 I told him a story about a crab that fed on the brains of 
 a drowned man, and grew with such awful and horrible 
 wisdom that it climbed up the stairway of the seaweed 
 and on to a big rock and waved its claws at the moon and 
 cursed God and the world, and then died raving mad. 
 Seeing how it worked upon him, I said I would tell him 
 another, and worse, about a lobster — but he was just as 
 bad as Mary, and said he would wait for the lobster till 
 the morning, and seemed so absurdly eager to get safely 
 to bed that the pleasant chat had to be abruptly broken 
 off. . . . 
 
 P. S. The cold is very great, and it is a damp cold, you 
 couldn't stand it. When I got up my breath swarmed 
 about the room like a clutch of phantom peewits. No 
 wonder I had a dream I was a seal with my feet clemmed 
 on to an iceberg. A duck went past a little ago seemingly 
 with one feather and that blown athwart its beak, so
 
 398 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 strong was the north-wind blowing from that snowy mass 
 that Ben Nevis wears like a delicate veil. Cruachan has 
 covered herself with a pall of snow mist. 
 
 April 20. . . . Fiona Macleod has just been made an 
 honorary member of a French League of writers devoted 
 to the rarer and subtler use of Prose and Verse, a charm- 
 ing letter from Paul Fort acting for his colleagues Mae- 
 terlinck, Henri de Roquier, Jean Moreas, Emile Verhac- 
 ren, Comte Antoine de la Rochefoucault, Duchesse de la 
 Roche-Guyon, Richeguin, Sully Prudhomme, Henri Le 
 Sidaner, Jules Claretie, etc. etc. 
 
 We're glad, aren't we, you and I? She's our daughter, 
 isn't she? 
 
 23d April. . . . You will have got my note of yester- 
 day telling you that I have reluctantly had to relinguish 
 lona. The primary reason is its isolation at present. . . . 
 
 But from something I heard from old Mr. C. I fancy 
 it's as well for me not to visit there just now, where I'd 
 be the only stranger, and every one would know of it — 
 and where a look out for F. M. or W. S. is kept ! And, 
 too, anything heard there and afterwards utilised would 
 be as easily traced to me. . . . After Tiree and lona and 
 Coll, and Arran in the South, I don't care just now for 
 anywhere else — nearer: as for Eigg, which I loved so 
 much of old, Rum or Canna and the Outer Isles, they are 
 too inaccessible just now and Skye is too remote and too 
 wet and cold. However, it is isolation plus ' atmosphere ' 
 I want most of all — and I doubt if there is any place just 
 now I could get so much good from as Lismore. I love 
 that quiet isolated house on the rocks facing the Frith of 
 Lome, all Appin to Ben Naomhir, and the great moun- 
 tains of Morven. 
 
 It was on the sandy bindweed-held slope of the little 
 bay near the house, facing Eilean-nan-Coarach, that F. 
 wrote the prelude to The Winged Destiny — and also 
 the first piece, the " Treud-nan-Ron," which describes 
 that region, with Mr. MacC.'s seal legend, and the dear
 
 1905 399 
 
 little island in the Sound of Morvem (do you remember 
 our row to it one day?) There one could be quiet and 
 given over to dreams and to the endless fascination of 
 outer nature. . . . And I have got much of what I want 
 — the in-touch above all, the atmosphere : enough to strike 
 the keynote throughout the coming year and more, for 
 I absorb through the very pores of both mind and body 
 like a veritable sponge. Wild-life and plant-life too ex- 
 tremely interesting here. There does seem some mys- 
 tery about that cave tho' I cannot fathom it. 
 
 I've all but finished the preparation of the new Tauch- 
 nitz vol. (The Sunset of Old Tales) and expect to com- 
 plete it (for May) tonight. 
 
 24th April. . . . Yes, I was sorry to leave Lismore. 
 It may be my last time in the Gaelic west. {I don't say 
 this " down-ly " — but because I think it likely. There 
 is much I want to do, and now as much by W. S. as by 
 F. M. and that I realise must be done abroad where alone 
 can I keep well and mentally even more than physically. 
 (How I hope Fontainebleau may some day suit us.) 
 Dear MacC. was sorry to part too. He shook hands (with 
 both his) and when I said in Gaelic " Goodbye, and Fare- 
 well upon that, my friend " he said " No — no " — and then 
 suddenly said " My blessing on you — and goodbye now ! " 
 and turned away and went down the pier-side and hoisted 
 the brown sail and went away across the water, waving a 
 last farewell." 
 
 The cold proved so disastrous that my husband was 
 ordered to Neuenahr for special treatment. Thence he 
 wrote to the Hon. A. Nelson Hood: 
 
 June, 1905. 
 
 My dear Julian, 
 
 Just a brief line, for I am still very restricted in per- 
 mission as to writing, as so much depends on the rest- 
 cure which is no small factor in my redemption here. . . . 
 
 It has been * a narrow squeak.' Briefly, after a hard 
 tussle at the brink of ' Cape Fatal ' and a stumble across
 
 400 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 ' Swamp Perilous ' I got into the merely " dangerous con- 
 dition " stage — and now at last that's left behind, and I'll 
 soon be as well in body as I'm happy and serene in mind. 
 It is at best, however, a reprieve, not a lifetime-dis- 
 charge. N'importe. Much can be done with a reprieve, 
 and who is to know how long the furlough may be ex- 
 tended to. At any rate, I am well content." 
 
 To me he wrote — for I was unable to accompany him : 
 
 Neuenahe, 
 16th June, 1905. 
 
 . . . Here, at the Villa Usner, it is deliciously quiet and 
 reposeful. I had not realised to the full how much nerv- 
 ous harm I've had for long. To live near trees is alone 
 a joy and a restorative. The heat is very great but to me 
 most welcome and strengthening. ... In my room or in 
 the garden I hear no noise, no sounds save the susurrus 
 of leaves and the sweet monotony of the rushing Ahr, 
 and the cries and broken songs of birds. . . . 
 
 I could see that Dr. G. can't understand why I am not 
 more depressed or, rather, more anxious. I explained 
 to him that these physical troubles meant little to me, 
 and that they were largely the bodily effect of other 
 things, and might be healed far more by spiritual well- 
 being than by anything else : also that nature and fresh 
 air and serenity and light and warmth and nervous rest 
 were worth far more to me than all else. " But don't you 
 know how serious your condition may become at any mo- 
 ment, if you got a bad chill or setback, or don't soon get 
 better?" "Certainly," I said; "but what then? Why 
 would I bother about either living or dying? I shall not 
 die before the hour of my imloosening comes." 
 
 I want to be helped all I may be — but all the waters 
 in the world can only affect the external life, and even 
 that only secondarily very often. . . . 
 
 Monday evening. 
 
 . . . " Hoiv I enjoyed my breakfast this morning! (in 
 the lovely garden, in a vine-shadowed arbour or per-
 
 1905 401 
 
 gola, with great tall poplars and other trees billowing 
 against the deep blue). Then a cigarette, a stroll in the 
 lovely sunlit-dappled green shadowiness of an adjoin- 
 ing up-sloping avenue — and a seat for a little on a de- 
 serted south-wall bench (because of the blazing heat) 
 for a sun-bath, while I watched a nightingale helping its 
 young to fly among the creaming elders and masses of 
 wild-rose, while her mate swung on a beech-branch and 
 called long sweet exquisite cries of a thrilling poignancy 
 (which, however, might only l)e " Now then, Jenny, look 
 out, or Tommy will fall into that mass of syringa : — hillo ! 
 there's Bobby and Polly gone and got scratched pecking 
 at these confounded white wild-roses!) 
 
 Then I got up to come in and write to you (gladly in 
 one way, reluctantly in another for I seem to drink in 
 life in the strong sunlight and heat), but first stopped 
 to speak to a gorgeous solitary dandelion. I stroked it 
 gently, and said "Hullo, wee brother, isn't the world 
 beautiful? Hold up your wee head and rejoice! " And 
 it turned up its wee golden nose and said " Keep your 
 hair on, you old skidamalink, I'm rejoicing as hard as 
 ever I can. I'm always rejoicing. What else would I 
 do? You are a rum old un-shiny animal on two silly 
 legs ! " So we laughed, and parted — but he called me 
 back, and said gently in a wee soft goldy-yellow voice, 
 " Don't think me rude. Brother of Joy. It's only my way. 
 I love you because you love me and don't despise me. 
 Shake pinkies ! " — so I gave him a pinkie and he gave 
 me a wee golden-yellow pinkie-petal. . . . 
 
 Tell Marjorie ^ the wee Dandelion was asking about 
 her and sends her his love — also a milky daisy that says 
 Hooray! every morning when it wakes, and then is so 
 pleased and astonished that it remains silently smiling 
 till next morning. 
 
 This flower and bird talk doesn't bother you, does it? 
 Don't think I don't realise how ill I have been and in a 
 small way still am: but I don't think about it, and am 
 quite glad and happy in this lovely June-glory. . . ." 
 
 * The little daughter of our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Tomson.
 
 402 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 He broke his return journey at Doom with our friends 
 M. and Mme. Grandmont and wrote to me: 
 
 July, 1905. 
 
 ". . . How you'd love to be here ! 
 
 Nothing visible but green depths fading into green 
 depths, and fringing the sky-lines the endless surf of 
 boughs and branches. From the forest-glades the cooing 
 of doves and the travelling-voice of a flowing cool sweet 
 wind of this delicious morning. I always gain immensely 
 in mind and body from nearness to woodlands and green 
 growth — hence in no small part my feeling for Fontaine- 
 bleau. I'd such a lot to tell you about it — and of what 
 we should strive to obtain for ourselves in restful, fine, 
 dignified life, and much else, apropos and apart — as you 
 lay happy and contented on the long luxurious lounge 
 beside my chair on the deep balcony, half listening to me 
 and half to the soft continuous susurrus of the pine- 
 fragrant breeze — that more than an hour elajDsed while I 
 drank my tea and read your letter. . . . 
 
 " It is no exaggeration to say, that, so greatly do I 
 value and treasure afterwards certain aspects of beauty, 
 I would quite willingly go through all the suffering again 
 for the sake of the lovely impressions here last night and 
 this morning. The beauty and charm of this house and 
 its forest-environment, the young moon and the night- 
 jar at dusk (and then to soothe and sleepify me still 
 more, the soft, sweet, old-fashioned melodies of Haydn 
 from 9 to 9.30) — one or two lovely peacocks trailing 
 about in front — the swallows at corner of my great ve- 
 randah — a thousandfold peace and beauty, and the good- 
 ness of these dear friends, have not only been, and are, 
 a living continuous joy, but have been like the Heralds 
 of Spring to the return of gladness and energy into my 
 mind. Today I realise that too, for one thing, ' Fiona ' 
 has come back from afar off. It is peace and greenness 
 she loves — not the physical and psychical perturbation 
 and demoralisation of towns. 
 
 Yes, we'll make ' green homes ' for ourselves now. No 
 more long needless months in London. . . .
 
 1905 403 
 
 Despite his serenity of mind, London as usual wrought 
 him harm, and as he explained to Dr. Goodchild: 
 
 30th July. 
 
 . . . August is always a ' dark ' month for me — and 
 not as a rule, I fancy, a good one : at any rate an obscure 
 and perhaps perilous one. But this time I fancy it is on 
 other lines. I believe strong motives and influences are 
 to be at work in it perhaps furtively only: but none the 
 less potently and far reachingly. Between now and Sep- 
 tember-end (perhaps longer) many of the Dark Powers 
 are going to make a great effort. We must all be on 
 guard — for there will be individual as well as racial and 
 general attack. But a Great Unloosening is at hand. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 W. S. 
 
 We therefore went to Scotland to say goodbye to his 
 mother and sisters, and to see one or two friends, among 
 others. Miss Mary Wilson, the pastellist, at Bantaskine, 
 her home on the site of the battle of Falkirk ; Mr. D. Y. 
 Cameron, with whom my husband planned an unfulfilled 
 wander among the Western Isles; and Mr. David Ers- 
 kine of Linlathen. 
 
 While in the North he wrote to Mr. John Maesfield: 
 
 Kessock Cottage, 
 
 Nairn. 
 
 Dear Mr. Maesfield, 
 
 A brief word to tell you what pleasure I have had in 
 your little book A Mainsail Haul. It is not only that it 
 is written with delicate art : but it is rich in atmosphere 
 — a much rarer thing. The simplicity, the charm, the 
 subtle implication of floating, evasive yet fluctuating ro- 
 mance, your own keen sense of the use of words and 
 their veiled life and latent as well as obvious colour, com- 
 bine to a winning and often compelling effect. I do not 
 think any who has read Don Alfonso's drinking bout with 
 the little red man and the strange homegoing of the weed 
 and flower-grown brigantine with the Bible name, will
 
 404 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 forget it : and what dream charm also there is in " Port 
 of Many Ships," " Sea Superstition," " The Spanish Sail- 
 or's Yam." In such a splendid and delightful colour 
 fabric as " From the Spanish " " high words and rare " 
 are of course apt — but is it not a mistake to introduce 
 in " Sea Superstition " words such as " august " and 
 "wrought" in a sailor's mouth? (In the text the effect 
 seems to be enhanced not lessened, by the omission of 
 these words — " were like things in bronze," " the roof of 
 which was of dim branches.") 
 
 In " From the Spanish " I would, as a matter of per- 
 sonal taste, prefer that the end came at the close of the 
 penultimate para, the shore-drift of the Italian lute. I 
 think the strange dream-like effect would be much en- 
 hanced without (what seems to me) the superfluous 
 ' realistic ' tag. Otherwise the piece is a gem of its kind. 
 
 But you will forgive the critic (and it shows he has 
 read closely) in the admirer, I hope? 
 
 Let us have more work of the kind. There is much 
 need of it, and you are of the few who can give it. 
 
 Yours sincerely 
 
 William Sharp. 
 
 Mr. Maesfield — who had written concerning Fiona 
 Macleod to a friend : " I think the genius of a dead peo- 
 ple has found re-incarnation in her. Wherever the Celt 
 is, thence come visions and tears " — replied : 
 
 Greenwich, 
 Aug. 19, 1905. 
 
 Dear Me. Sharp, 
 
 I was deeply touched by your kind letter about my 
 little book [A Mainsail Haul]. If it should go to a sec- 
 ond edition I will make use of your suggestion. I pre- 
 pared the book rather hurriedly, and there is much in it 
 that I very much dislike, now that it cannot be altered. 
 
 The mood in which I wrote the tales you like, has gone 
 from me, and I am afraid I shall be unable to write 
 others of the same kind. In youth the mind is an empty 
 chamber ; and the spirits fill it, and move and dance there,
 
 1905 405 
 
 and colour it with their wings and raiment. In manhood 
 one has familiars. But between those times (forgive me 
 for echoing Keats) one has little save a tag or two of 
 cynicism, a little crude experience, much weariness, much 
 regret, and a vision blurred by all four faults. One is 
 weakened, too, by one's hatreds. 
 
 I thank you again for your very kind and cordial letter. 
 Yours very sincerely, 
 
 John Maesfield. 
 
 To an unknown correspondent F. M. wrote : 
 
 Sept. 15, 1905. 
 
 ... I have been away, in the isles, and for a time 
 beyond the reach of letters. I wish there were Isles 
 where one could also go at times, where no winged 
 memories could follow. In a Gaelic folk-tale, told me 
 by an old woman once, the woman of the story had only 
 to bum a rose to ashes and to hold them in the palms of 
 her hands and then to say seven times A Eileanain na 
 Sith, " Isles of Peace " ! and at once she found her- 
 self in quiet isles beyond the foam where no memo- 
 ries could follow her and where old thoughts, if they 
 came, were like phantoms on the wind, in a moment 
 come, in a moment gone. I have failed to find these 
 Isles, and so have you: but there are three which lie 
 nearer, and may be reached, Dream, Forgetfulness, and 
 Hope. 
 
 And there, it may be, we can meet, you and I. . . . 
 
 Yes, your insight is true. There is a personal sincer- 
 ity, the direct autobiographical utterance, in even, as 
 you say, the most remote and phantastic of my legends 
 as in the plainest of my words. But because they cover 
 so much illusion as well as passion, so much love gone 
 on the wind as well as love that not even the winds of 
 life and death can break or uproot, so much more of deep 
 sorrow (apart from the racial sorrow which breathes 
 through all) than of joy save in the deeper spiritual 
 sense, they were thus raimented in allegory and legend 
 and all the illusion of the past, the remote, the obscure,
 
 406 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 or the still simpler if more audacious directness of the 
 actual, the present, and the explicit. There is, perhaps, 
 a greater safety, a greater illusion, in absolute simplicity 
 than in the most subtly wrought of art. . . . 
 
 But you will understand me when I say that you must 
 not count on our meeting — at any rate not this year. I 
 too stand under obscure wings. 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 F. M. 
 
 To the Duchess of Sutherland: 
 
 ... I have the memory that recalls everything in pro- 
 portion and sequence. I have often written that art is 
 memory, is in great part memory, though not necessarily 
 a recalling of mere personal experience: and the more 
 deeply I live the more I see that this is so. . . . 
 
 When you write, I mean imaginatively, you must write 
 more and more with concentrated vision. Some time ago 
 I re-read your Four Winds of the World; much of it is 
 finely done, and in some of it your self lives, your own 
 accent speaks. But you have it in you to do work far 
 more ambitious. The last is not a word I like, or affect ; 
 but here it is convenient and will translate to your mind 
 what is in my mind. These stories are yours but they 
 are not you: and though in a sense art is a wind above 
 the small eddies of personality, there is a deeper sense 
 in which it is nothing else than the signature of person- 
 ality. Style (that is, the outer emotion that compels and 
 the hidden life of the imagination that impels and the 
 brooding thought that shapes and colours) should, spir- 
 itually, reflect a soul's lineaments as faithfully as the 
 lens of the photographer reflects the physiognomy of a 
 man or woman. It is because I feel in you a deep in- 
 stinct for beauty, a deep longing for beautiful expres- 
 sion and because I believe you have it in you to achieve 
 highly in worth and beauty, that I write to you thus. . . . 
 There is that Lady of Silence, the Madonna of Enigma, 
 who lives in the heart of many women. Could you not 
 shape something under Her eyes — shape it and colour it
 
 1905 407 
 
 with your own inward life, and give it all the nobler help 
 of austere discipline and control which is called art? 
 I have not much to tell you of myself just now. At the 
 moment I do not write to you from the beloved west 
 where I spend much of each year and where my thoughts 
 and dreams continually are. Tonight I am tired, and 
 sad, I hardly know why. 
 
 O wind, why break in idle foam 
 This wave that swept the seas — . . • 
 
 Foam is the meed of barren dreams, 
 And hearts that cry for peace. 
 
 Lift then, wind, this heart of mine 
 
 And swirl aside in foam — 
 No, wander on, unchanging heart, 
 
 The undrowning deeps thy home. 
 
 Less than a billow of the sea 
 
 That at the last doth no more roam 
 
 Less than a wave, less than a wave 
 This thing that hath no home 
 
 This thing that hath no grave! 
 
 But I shall weary you. Well, forgive me. . . . 
 
 The next letter is to Mrs. Helen Hopekirk, the Scot- 
 tish-American composer, who has set several of the F. M. 
 poems to music: 
 
 18th Oct., 1905. 
 
 My dear Mrs. Hopekirk, 
 
 I was very pleased to hear from you again. I am busy 
 with preparations for Italy, for the doctors say I should 
 be away from our damp Scottish climate from October- 
 end till Spring comes again. How far off it seems. . . . 
 Spring! Do you long for it, do you love its advent, as 
 I do? Wherever I am, St. Bride's Day is always for me 
 the joy-festival of the year — the day when the real new 
 year is born, and the three dark months are gone, and 
 Spring leans across the often gray and wet, but often 
 rainbow-lit, green-tremulous horizons of February. This 
 year it seems a longer way off than hitherto, and yet it 
 should not be so — for I go to Italy, and to friends, and
 
 408 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 to beautiful places in the sun, there and in Sicily, and 
 perhaps in Algeria. But, somehow, I care less for these 
 than I did a few years ago, than two or three years ago, 
 than a year ago. I think outward change matters less 
 and less as the imagination deepens and as the spirit 
 more and more " turns westward." I love the South : 
 and in much, and for much, am happy there : but as the 
 fatally swift months slip into the dark I realise more 
 and more that it is better to live a briefer while at a high 
 reach of the spirit and the uplifted if overwrought phys- 
 ical part of one than to save the body and soothe the 
 mind by the illusions of physical indolence and mental 
 leisure aiforded by long sojourns in the sunlands of the 
 South. . . . 
 
 How I wish I knew LoefiQer and Debussy and others 
 as you do: but then, though I love music, tho' it is one 
 of the vital things in life for me, I am not a musician, 
 alas. So even if I had all their music beside me it would 
 be like a foreign language that must be read in transla- 
 tion. Do you realise — I suppose you do — how fortunate 
 you are in being your own interpreter. Some day, how- 
 ever, I hope to know intimately all those wonderful set- 
 tings of Verlaine and Baudelaire and Mallarme and 
 others. The verbal music of these is a ceaseless pleasure 
 to me. I have a great love of and joy in all later French 
 poetry, and can never understand common attitude to 
 it here — either one of ignorance, or patronage, or com- 
 plete misapprehension. Because of the obvious fact that 
 French is not so poetic a language as English or Ger- 
 man, in scale, sonority, or richness of vocabulary — it is, 
 indeed, in the last respect the poorest I believe of all 
 European languages as English is by far the richest — 
 people, and even those who should be better informed, 
 jump to the conclusion that therefore all French poetry 
 is artificial or monotonously alike, or, at best, far infe- 
 rior to English. So far as I can judge, finer poetry has 
 been produced in France of late years than in England, 
 and very much finer than any I know in Germany. How- 
 ever, the habitual error of judgment is mainly due to
 
 1905 409 
 
 ignorance: that, and the all but universal unfamiliarity 
 with French save in its conventional usage, spoken or 
 written. . . . 
 
 " Fiona " received that summer, from Mr. Yoni Nogu- 
 chi, a volume entitled From the Eastern Sea by that 
 Japanese author, and sent acknowledgment: 
 
 On the Mediterranean. 
 
 Dear Mr. Noguchi, 
 
 Your note and delightful little book reached me, after 
 considerable delay, in southern Europe. I write this 
 at sea, and will send it with other letters, etc., to be 
 stamped and posted in Edinburgh — and the two reasons 
 of delay will show you that it is not from indolence ! 
 
 I have read your book with singular pleasure. What 
 it lacks in form (an inevitable lack, in the circumstances) 
 it offers in essential poetry. I find atmosphere and 
 charm and colour and naivete, and the true touch of the 
 poet; and congratulate you on your *■ success of sugges- 
 tion ' in a language so different in all ways from that 
 wherein (I am sure )you have already achieved the ' suc- 
 cess of finality.' 
 
 Believe me, yours very truly, 
 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 
 Later, Mr. Noguchi sent his subsequent book The 
 Summer Cloud, a collection of short prose-poems, which, 
 as he explained in his note of presentation : " In fact, I 
 had been reading your prose-poems. The Silence of 
 Amor, and wished I could write such pieces myself. And 
 here is the result ! " 
 
 It was our habit, when talking to one another of the 
 " F. M." writings, to speak of " Fiona " as a separate 
 entity — so that we should not be taken unawares if sud- 
 denly spoken to about ' her ' books. It was William's 
 habit also to write and post to himself two letters on 
 his birthday — letters of admonition and of new resolu-
 
 410 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 tions. On the 12th Sep. 1905 he brought me the two 
 birthday letters when they reached him, and gave them 
 to me to read, saying, with a smile, " Fiona is rather hard 
 on me, but she is quite right." Both letters are in his 
 handwriting and are as follows: 
 
 Gu FlONAGHAL NIC LeOID 
 
 Sliabhean n'an Aisling 
 Y-Breasil (na Tir-fo-Tuinn) 
 
 An Domhain Uaine, 
 
 12th Sept., 1905. 
 
 Dearest Fiona, 
 
 A word of loving greeting to you on the morrow of our 
 new year. All that is best in this past year is due to 
 you, mo caraid dileas : and I hope and believe that seeds 
 have been sown which will be reborn in flower and fruit 
 and may be green grass in waste places and may even 
 grow to forests. I have not always your serene faith 
 and austere eyes, dear, but I come to much in and thro' 
 my weakness as you through your strength. But in this 
 past year I realise I have not helped you nearly as much 
 as I could : in this coming year I pray, and hope, it may 
 be otherwise. And this none the less tho' I have much 
 else I want to do apart from our work. But we'll be 
 one and the same au fond even then, shall we not, Fiona 
 dear? 
 
 I am intensely interested in the fuller development of 
 the Celtic Trilogy — and shall help in all ways. You say 
 I can give you what you have not: well, I am glad in- 
 deed. Together we shall be good Sowers, Fionaghal mo 
 riin: and let us work contentedly at that. I wish you 
 Joy and Sorrow, Peace, and Unrest, and Leisure, Sun, 
 and Wind, and Eain, all of Earth and Sea and Sky in 
 this coining year. And inwardly dwell with me, so that 
 less and less I may fall short of your need as well as 
 your ideal. And may our " Mystic's Prayer " be true 
 for us both, who are one. 
 
 Ever yours, dear. 
 
 Will.
 
 1905 411 
 
 12th Sept., 1905. Hills of Dream, 
 
 My dear Will, y-Bkeasil. 
 
 Another birthday has come, and I must frankly say 
 that apart from the loss of another year, and from what 
 the year has brought you in love and friendship and all 
 that makes up life, it has not been to your credit. True, 
 you have been in America and Italy and France and 
 Scotland and England and Germany — and so have not 
 been long settled anywhere — and true also that for a 
 month or two you were seriously and for a few months 
 partially ill or * down ' — but still, after all allowances, I 
 note not only an extraordinary indolence in effort as well 
 as unmistakable laziness in achievement. Now, either 
 you are growing old (in which case admit dotage, and 
 be done with it) or else you are permitting yourself to 
 remain weakly in futile havens of ignoble repose or fret- 
 ful pseudo rest. You have much to do, or that you ought 
 to do, yourself : and as to our collaboration I see no way 
 for its continuance unless you will abrogate much of 
 what is superfluous, curtail much that can quite well be 
 curtailed, and generally serve me loyally as I in my turn 
 allow for and serve you. 
 
 Let our New Year be a very different one from the 
 last, dear friend: and let us not only beautifully dream 
 but achieve in beauty. Let the ignoble pass, and the 
 noble remain. 
 
 Lovingly yours, dear Will, 
 
 Fiona. 
 
 Some of his own copies of his F. M. books have an 
 inscription to " W. S." from his twin seF. For instance, 
 his specially bound copy of The Winged Destiny bears 
 this inscription in his handwriting : 
 
 h
 
 412 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 and is dated 12th Sept., 1904. But William did not write 
 or sign his F. M. letters himself. When not typed by 
 him, they were copied and signed for him by his sister 
 Mary, in whose handwriting is the following signature 
 — familiar to F. M.'s correspondents : 
 
 In the beginning of October we left London accom- 
 panied by Miss Mary Wilson and went to Venice by way 
 of Zurich and Innsbruck. Then to Florence to stay with 
 our friends Mr. and Mrs. Lee Hamilton, and finally, to 
 Sicily. 
 
 Taormina was beautifully sunny and restful as of 
 yore; and the delicate man rejoiced greatly in the beau- 
 tiful gardens that the Duke of Bronte was designing and 
 planting with flowers and trees, on the slopes of the hill- 
 side below the town. 
 
 A letter reached him there from Mr. Hichens : 
 
 St. Stephen's, 
 
 Oh, my dear Will, Cantebbuky. 
 
 I cannot help envying you. It is bitterly cold here, 
 like winter, and neuralgia is flitting about my twitching 
 face and shrinking head. But I will not inflict my little 
 woes upon you, and only write this word to say I am 
 sending you my book The Black Spaniel. It is a very 
 slight and mixed affair this time — my last book of sto- 
 ries I think. The new novel I have some hopes of your 
 liking, as I hope I have imprisoned something of our be- 
 loved Sicily in it. Now I am doing the last act — the last 
 to be done, I mean, of my play for Wyndham. Yes, we 
 will meet in Africa, if the gods are kind. I expect to 
 leave England for Rome on Dec. 3. I am looking for- 
 ward to Biskra immensely but must try to settle in there 
 as m?y,s^ be working then. . . . How are you both ? Happy 
 in the sun I All blessings upon you and your work. 
 
 Ever yours affectionately, 
 1 Roberto.
 
 1905 413 
 
 It had been planned that after the New Year Mr. 
 Hood, Mr. Hichens, my husband and I should go together 
 to Biskra. But as the autumn waned, we realised the 
 unwisdom of making any such plans. On hearing of 
 our reluctant decision Mr. Hichens wrote: 
 
 A/r TX7 Nov., 1905. 
 
 My dear Will, 
 
 Your letter was really a blow, but of course I thor- 
 oughly understand that you must not risk sucli a journey. 
 I am grieved about your delicate health. You must take 
 great care and stay in places where you can have your 
 comforts. I wish Rome suited you both. I am suffering 
 from London dyspepsia. Today there is a thick fog and 
 I envy you all tremendously. I am counting the days 
 till I can start for Rome. How is Taormina? Alec de- 
 scribes it as warm and splendid, and pretends that he 
 needs a sun umbrella and a straw hat! Perhaps you 
 are all bathing in the sea! Oh, these travellers' tales! 
 I am going out to bathe in the fog, so au revoir. Love 
 to you both, kindest regards to Etna from 
 
 Yours ever affectionately, 
 
 Roberto. 
 
 During one of our visits to Maniace Mr. Hichens was 
 also a guest; on a subsequent visit to that lava-strewn 
 country, on the great western slope of the shoulder of 
 Etna, he wrote to me, in 1906, about my husband : " I 
 have had many walks here with Will. I think my last 
 long walk with him here was towards Maletto. We 
 sat on a rock for a long while, looking at the snow on 
 ^tna and the wild country all around. We talked about 
 death, and he said he loved life but he did not fear death 
 at all. I remember well how alive his eyes looked. 
 He always had a very peculiar look of life in the eyes, 
 an unquenchable vitality." 
 
 On reaching Maniace W. S. wrote to a friend: 
 
 Dec. 4, 1905. 
 
 ... As my card of yesterday will have told you we 
 arrived here all right on Monday afternoon, after a won-
 
 414 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 derful journey. We left Taormina in a glory of mid- 
 summerlike warmth and beauty — and we drove down 
 the three miles of winding road from Taonnina to the 
 sea at Giardini ; thence past the bay and promontory of 
 Naxos, and at the site of the ancient famous fane of 
 Apollo Archagetes turned inland. Then through the 
 myriad lemon-groves of Al Cantara, till we crossed the 
 gorges of the Fiumefreddo, and then began the long as- 
 cent, in blazing heat, by the beautiful hill road to the 
 picturesque mountain-town of Piedemonte. There we 
 caught the little circum-^Etnean mountain loop-line, and 
 ascended the wild and beautiful slopes of Etna. Last 
 time we went we travelled mostly above the clouds, but 
 this time there was not a vestige of vapour in the radiant 
 air, save for the outriders' trail of white, occasionally 
 flame-coloured, smoke from the vast 4-mile wide mouth 
 of snow-white and gigantically-looming cone of Etna. 
 At the lofty mediaeval and semi-barbaric town of Ran- 
 dazzo we were delayed by an excited crowd at the sta- 
 tion, on account of the arrest and bringing in by the 
 carabinieri of three chained and heavily manacled brig- 
 ands, one of them a murderer, who evidently had the 
 sympathy of the populace. A woman, the wife of one 
 of the captured men, outdid any lamenting Irish woman 
 I ever saw: her frenzy was terrible — and of course the 
 poor soul was life-desolate and probably punished and 
 would likely never see her man again. Finally she be- 
 came distracted with despair and fury, and between her 
 appeals and furious curses and almost maniacal lamenta- 
 tions, the small station was anything but an agreeable 
 stopping place. The captive brigands were absolutely 
 impassive : not a glance : only, as the small train puffed 
 onward, one of them lifted a manacled arm behind one 
 of the carabinieri and made a singular sign to some one. 
 Thereafter we passed into the wild and terrible lava- 
 lands of the last frightful eruption, between Randazzo" 
 and the frontier of the Duchy of Bronte: a region as 
 wild and fantastic as anything imagined by Dore, and 
 almost terrifying in its sombre deathfulness. The great
 
 MRS. WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 From a pliotograpli by T. Craig-Aniian, 1909
 
 1905 415 
 
 and broad and sweeping mountains, and a mighty strath 
 — and we came under the peaked rocks of Maletto, a 
 little town standing 3000 feet high. Then the carriage, 
 and the armed escort, and we had that wonderful drive 
 thro' wild and beautiful lands of which I have hereto- 
 fore written you. Then about four we drove up to the 
 gates of the Castle, and passed into the great court just 
 within the gates, and had the cordial and affectionate 
 welcome of our dear host. 
 
 A few minutes later we were no longer at an ancient 
 castle in the wilds of Sicily, but in a luxurious English 
 country house at afternoon tea. ... 
 
 My husband had taken with him, as material for the 
 winter's work, his notes for the Greek Backgrounds, 
 and the finished drafts of two dramas. One, by W. S., 
 was to be called Persephoncsia, or the Drama of the 
 House of jEtna, and of it one act and one scene had been 
 written at Maniace two years before. It was to have 
 been dedicated to The Duke of Bronte. The other drama 
 was Fiona's projected play The Enchanted Valleys, of 
 which one scene only was written. But he felt unable 
 for steady work, as the following letter to the same 
 friend, shows: 
 
 ... A single long letter means no work for me that 
 day, and the need of work terribly presses, and in 
 every way, alas. My hope that I might be able for 
 some writing in the late afternoon, and especially from 5 
 to 7.30 is at present futile. I simply can't. Yesterday I 
 felt better and more mentally alert than I've done since 
 I came, and immediately after afternoon tea, I came to 
 my study and tried to work, but could not, though I had 
 one of my nature articles begun and beside me : nor had 
 I spirit to take up my reviews: then I thought I could 
 at least get some of that wearisome accumulated corre- 
 spondence worked off, but a mental nausea seized me, so 
 that even a written chat to a friend seemed to me too 
 exhausting. C'est cette maladie poignante, ce " degout
 
 416 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 de la plume," que Tourgenieff (ou Flaubert?) parlait de 
 son coeur frappe. So I collapsed, and dreamed over a 
 strange and fascinating ancient-world book by Licbten- 
 berger, and then dreamed idly, watching the flaming oak- 
 logs." 
 
 In William's Diaiy for December there are the follow- 
 ing entries : 
 
 1st. Friday. Wrote the short poem " When greenness 
 comes again." Eead Zola's wearisome " His Excellency 
 Eugene Rougon," and in the evening the " Jupiter " and 
 " Saturn " chapters in Proctor's " Otherworlds Than 
 Ours." 
 
 2d. Saty. Read and took notes and thought out my 
 Country Life article on " At the Turn of the Year." Also 
 incidentally " The Clans of the Rush, the Reed, and the 
 Fern," and one to be called " White Weather " (snow, 
 the wild goose and the wild swan). Alec and I walked 
 to the Boschetto. Began (about 1300 words) "At the 
 Turn of the Year." 
 
 3rd. Sunday. A stormy and disagreeable day. Wrote 
 long letters. In afternoon felt too tired and too sleepy 
 to work or even to write letters : so sat before the fire 
 in my study and partly over that fascinating book I 
 love often to recur to for a few pages, Lichtenberger's 
 Centaures, and partly in old dreams of my own, it was 
 7.30 and time to dress before I knew it. Heard today 
 from Ernest Rhys about the production of his and Vin- 
 cent Thomas' Opera Guinevere. Thought over an old 
 world book to be called Beyond the Foam. 
 
 Dec. 4th. In the forenoon began again and wrote 
 first thousand words of " At the Turn of the Year." 
 At 3 went to drive with Elizabeth along the Balzo to 
 near the Lake of Garrida. 
 
 Dec. 5. Tuesday. In forenoon wrote the remaining 
 and large half of " At the Turn of the Year " ; re- 
 vised the whole of it and posted it to Mary, with long 
 letter.
 
 1905 417 
 
 In afternoon a drive, despite the wet and inclement 
 weather, np to Maletto. I walked back. A lovely, if 
 unsettled sunset of blue and gold, purple brown, ame- 
 thyst, and delicate cinnamon. A marvellous light on 
 the hills. Luminous mist instead of cloud as of late. 
 For the first time have seen the Sicilian Highlands with 
 the beauty of Scotland. 
 
 From 10 till 11.30 p.m. worked at notes for " White 
 Weather " article. 
 
 Dec. 6. Wed. In the forenoon worked at Gaelic mate- 
 rial partly for articles, partly for other things. But 
 not up to writing. There is a sudden change to an April- 
 like heat: damply-hot; though fine: very trying, all feel 
 it. After lunch walked up the north heights with Alec, 
 then joined E. and D. L. in carriage and drove up past 
 Otaheite to the Saw-Mills. Lovely air, gorgeous windy 
 sky in the west, and superb but thunderous clouds in S. 
 and E. Another bad change I fear. Etna rose gigantic 
 as we ascended Otaheite-way, and from Serraspina 
 looked like an immense Phantom with a vast plume of 
 white smoke. 
 
 In afternoon (from 5.30 till 7.30) wrote 1200 words of 
 " White Weather." 
 
 Thursday. 7th. This morning fresh and bright and 
 clear, a welcome change from these recent days — with 
 the Beechwoods all frosted with snow. The Simeto 
 swollen to a big rushing river. 
 
 Worked at and finished the latter part of " White 
 Weather," and then revised and sent off to Mary to for- 
 ward with note to Country Life. Also other letters. 
 Turned out the wettest and worst afternoon we've had 
 yet, and return of severe thunderstorm. 
 
 Dec. 8. Friday. A fine morning but very doubtful if 
 yet settled. Went out and was taken by Beek to see the 
 observatory instruments and wind-registers and seismo- 
 graphs. Then took the dogs for a walk, as " off " work 
 today. 
 
 Wrote a long letter to Eobert Hichens, also to E. L. S. 
 Also, with poem " When Greenness comes again " by
 
 418 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 W. S. to C. Morley Pall Mall Magazine. In afternoon 
 we had a lovely drive up above the Alcantara Valley 
 along the mountain road toward Cesaro." 
 
 And here the Diary ends, and here too ends the writ- 
 ten work of a tired hand and brain, but of an eager 
 outlooking spirit. Ever since we left London it was evi- 
 dent that his life forces were on the ebb-tide slowly but 
 surely; and he knew it, but concerned himself little, and 
 believed he had at any rate a few months before him 
 and possibly a whole year. Yet he seemed to have an 
 inner knowledge of what was to be. In Scotland, in the 
 summer, he told me it would be his last visit there ; that 
 he knew it, and had said farewell to his mother. On 
 the afternoon when we drove up to the Saw- Mills in the 
 oak-woods he got out of the carriage and wandered 
 among the trees. When I urged him to come away, 
 as the light was waning rapidly, he touched the trees 
 again and again and said, " Ah dear trees of the North, 
 dear trees of the North, goodbye." The drive on the 
 8th, so beautiful, to him so full of fascination, was fatal 
 to him. We drove far along a mountain pass and at the 
 furthest point stopped to let him look at the superb 
 sunset over against the hillset town of Cesaro. 
 
 He seemed wrapt in thought and looked long and stead- 
 fastly at the wonderful glowing light; it was with diffi- 
 culty that I persuaded him to let us return. On the 
 way back, a sudden turn of the road brought us in face 
 to the snow covered cone of ^tna. The wind had changed 
 and blew with cutting cold straight off the snow. It 
 struck him, chilling him through and through. Half way 
 back he got out of the carriage to walk and get warm. 
 But the harm was done. That evening, before dinner, 
 he said to me : " I am going to talk as much as I can to- 
 night. That dear fellow Alec is rather depressed. Tve 
 teased him a good deal today; now I am going to amuse 
 him." He was as good as his word, anecdote, reminis- 
 cence, followed one another told in the gayest of spirits, 
 and in saying goodnight to me our host declared, " I have
 
 1905 419 
 
 never heard Will more brilliant than he has been to- 
 night." 
 
 The next morning my husband complained of pain 
 which grew rapidly more severe. The doctor was sent 
 for, and remained in the house. 
 
 On the morning of the 12th — a day of wild storm, wind, 
 thunder and rain — he recognised that nothing could 
 avail. With characteristic swiftness he turned his eager 
 mind from the life that was closing to the life of greater 
 possibilities that he knew awaited him. About 3 o'clock, 
 with his devoted friend Alec Hood by his side, he sud- 
 denly leant forward with shining eyes and exclaimed in 
 a tone of joyous recognition, " Oh, the beautiful ' Green 
 Life ' again ! " and the next moment sank back in my 
 arms with the contented sigh, " Ah, all is well." 
 
 On the 14th, in an hour of lovely sunshine, the body 
 was laid to rest in a little woodland burial-ground on the 
 hillside within sound of the Simeto ; as part of the short 
 service, his own " Invocation to Peace," from The Do- 
 minion of Dreams, was read over the grave by the Duke 
 of Bronte. Later, an Zona cross, carved in lava, was 
 placed there, and on it this inscription, chosen by him- 
 self: 
 
 Farewell to the known and exhausted, 
 Welcome the unknown and illimitable 
 
 and 
 
 Love is more great than we conceive, and Death is the keeper 
 of unknown redemptions. F. M.
 
 Nolo, truly, is Dreamland no longer a pJiantasy of sleep, 
 hut a loveliness so great that, like deep music, there could 
 be no words wherewith to measure it, hut only the hreathless 
 unspoken speech of the soul upon whom has fallen the secret 
 dews: F. M.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 CONCLUSION 
 
 " How the man subdivided his soul is the mystery," 
 wrote Mr. James Douglas. And in trying to suggest an 
 answer I would say with " F. M." — " I write, not because 
 I know a mystery and would reveal it, but because I 
 have known a mystery, and am to-day as a child before 
 it, and can neither reveal nor interpret it." For that 
 mystery concerns the evolution of a human soul; and 
 the part of it for which ' the man ' is consciously and 
 personally responsible, is the method he used, the fiction 
 he created and deliberately fostered, — rightly or wrongly 
 — for the protection of his inner, compelling self. 
 
 This deliberate ' blind ' — which according to some 
 critics " is William Sharp's most notable achievement in 
 fiction rather than the creation of any of ' her ' works " — 
 is largely the cause of the sense of confusion that exists 
 in the minds of certain of his friends, to whom he told the 
 half but not the whole of the facts. He purposely did not 
 dispel the idea of a collaborator, an idea which grew out 
 of the half veiled allusions he had made concerning the 
 friend of whom I have written, whose vivid personality 
 appealed so potently to a phase of his complex nature, 
 and stirred his imagination as no one else had done. 
 
 In a letter to Mr. W. B. Yeats signed " Fiona Macleod," 
 and written in 1899, about herself and her friend (namely 
 himself) William tried " as far as is practicable in a 
 strange and complex manner to be explicit." ' She ' 
 stated that, " all the formative and expressional as well as 
 nearly all the visionary power is my friends. In a sense 
 only his is the passive part, but it is the allegory of the 
 match, the wind, and the torch. Everything is in the 
 torch in readiness, and as you know, there is nothing in 
 the match itself. But there is a mysterious latency of fire 
 
 421
 
 422 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 between them . . . the little touch of silent igneous po- 
 tency at the end of the match — and in what these sym- 
 bolise, one adds spiritual affinity as a factor — and all at 
 once the flame is born. The torch says all is due to the 
 match. The match knows the flame is not hers. But be- 
 yond both is the wind, the spiritual air. Out of the 
 unseen world it fans the flame. In that mysterious air 
 both the match and the flame hear strange voices. The 
 air that came at the union of both is sometimes Art, 
 sometimes Genius, sometimes Imagination, sometimes 
 Life, sometimes the Spirit. It is all. 
 
 " But before that flame peojDle wonder and admire. 
 Most wonder only at the torch. A few look for the 
 match beyond the torch, and finding her are apt to at- 
 tribute to her that which is not hers, save as a spiritual 
 dynamic agent. Now and then the match may have in 
 petto the qualities of the torch — particularly memory and 
 vision : and so can stimulate and amplify the imaginative 
 life of the torch. But the torch is at once the pas- 
 sive, the formative, the mnemonic, and the artistically 
 and imaginatively creative force. He knows that in one 
 sense he would be flameless or at least without that ideal 
 blend of the white and the red — without the match: and 
 he knows that the flame is the offspring of both, that the 
 wind has many airs in it, and that one of the most potent 
 is that which blows from the life and mind and soul of 
 ' the match ' — ^but in his heart he knows that, to all others, 
 he and he alone is the flame, his alone both the visionary, 
 the formative, the expressional." 
 
 At the last, realising with deep regret that one or two 
 of the friends he cared greatly for would probably feel 
 hurt when they should know of the deception, he left 
 the following note to be sent to each immediately on the 
 disclosure of the secret : 
 
 " This will reach you after my death. You will think 
 I have wholly deceived you about Fiona Macleod. But, 
 in an intimate sense this is not so: though (and inevita- 
 bly) in certain details I have misled you. Only, it is a
 
 CONCLUSION 423 
 
 mystery. I cannot explain. Perhaps you will intuitively 
 
 understand or may come to understand. " The rest is 
 
 silence." Farewell. Txr q 
 
 William kShaep. 
 
 It is only right, however, to add that I, and I only, 
 was the author — in the literal and literary sense — of all 
 written under the name of " Fiona Macleod." 
 
 In watching the development of the " Fiona Macleod " 
 phase of expression it has seemed to me that the writer, 
 in that work, lived a new sequent life, and passed through 
 its successive phases of growth and development inde- 
 pendently of the tenor of his ordinary life as " W. S." 
 He passed from the youth in Pharais and The Mountain 
 Lovers, through the mature manhood of The Barbaric 
 Tales and Tragic Romances to the greater serenity of 
 later contemplative life in The Divine Adventure, The 
 Winged Destiny and Where the Forest Murmurs. 
 
 In surveying the dual life as a whole I have seen how, 
 from the early partially realised twin-ship, " W. S." was 
 the first to go adventuring and find himself, while his 
 twin, " F. M.," remained passive, or a separate self. 
 When " she " awoke to active consciousness " she " be- 
 came the deeper, the more impelling, the more essential 
 factor. By reason of this severance, and of the acute 
 conflict that at times resulted therefrom, the flaming of 
 the dual life became so fierce that " Wilfion " — as I 
 named the inner and third Self that lay behind that dual 
 expression — realised the imperativeness of gaining con- 
 trol over his two separated selves and of bringing them 
 into some kind of conscious harmony. This was what he 
 meant when he wrote to Mrs. Janvier in 1899, " I am go- 
 ing through a new birth." 
 
 For, though the difference between the two literary ex- 
 pressions was so marked, there was, nevertheless, a 
 special characteristic of " Wilfion " that linked the dual 
 nature together — the psychic quality of seer ship if I may 
 so call it. Not only did he, as F. M. " dream dreams " 
 and " get in touch with the ancient memory of the race "
 
 424 WILLIAM SHAEP 
 
 as some of * her ' critics have said ; but as W. S. he 
 also saw visions by means of that seership with which 
 he had been dowered from childhood. And though, lat- 
 terly, he gave expression to it only under shelter of the 
 Fiona Macleod writings — as for instance in The Divine 
 Adventure, because he was as sensitive about it as he 
 was to the subtler, more imaginative side of his dual 
 self — a few of his friends knew William Sharp as psychic 
 and mystic, who knew nothing of him as Fiona Macleod. 
 
 I have said little concerning my husband as a psychic ; 
 a characteristic that is amply witnessed to in his writ- 
 ings. From time to time he interested himself in definite 
 psychic experimentation, occasionally in collaboration 
 with Mr. W. B. Yeats; experimentation that sometimes 
 resulted in such serious physical disturbance that he 
 desisted from it in later years. 
 
 In a lecture given by Mr. Yeats to the Aberdeen Centre 
 of the Franco-Scottish Society in 1907 the Irish poet 
 referred to his friend. He considered that " Sharp had in 
 many ways an extraordiuarily primitive mind. He was 
 fond of speaking of himself as the representative of the 
 old bards," and the Irish poet thought there was really 
 something in the claim. (In a letter Mr. Yeats had ex- 
 pressed his opinion that my husband was imaginative 
 in "the old and literal sense of image-making; not 
 like a man of this age at all.") He continued that 
 W. S. was the most extraordinary psychic he had ever 
 encountered. He really believed that " Fiona Mac- 
 leod was a secondary personality — as distinct a sec- 
 ondary personality as those one reads about in books 
 of psychical research. At times he (W. S.) was really 
 to all intents and purposes a different being." He 
 would " come and sit down by my fireside and talk, and 
 I believe that when ' Fiona Macleod ' left the house he 
 would have no recollection of what he had been say- 
 ing to me." 
 
 It is true, as I have said, that William Sharp seemed 
 a different person when the Fiona mood was on him; but 
 that he had no recollection of what he said in that mood
 
 CONCLUSION 425 
 
 was not the case. That he did not understand it, is true. 
 For that mood could not be commanded at will. Differ- 
 ent influences awakened it, and its duration depended 
 largely on environment. " W. S." could set himself 
 deliberately to work normally, and was, so far, master 
 of his mind. But for the expression of the " F. M." 
 self he had to wait upon mood, or seek conditions to in- 
 duce it. But, as I have said, the psychic, visionary power 
 belonged exclusively to neither; it influenced both, and 
 was dictated by laws he did not fully understand. For 
 instance, " Lilith," " The Whisperer," " Finis," by W. S. 
 and " The Woman with the Net," " The Last Supper," 
 " The Lynn of Dreams " by F. M., were equally the re- 
 sult of direct vision. 
 
 I remember from early days how he would speak of 
 the momentary curious " dazzle in the brain " which pre- 
 ceded the falling away of all material things and pre- 
 luded some inner vision of Great Beauty, or Great Pres- 
 ences, or of some symbolic import — that would pass as 
 rapidly as it came. I have been beside him when he 
 has been in trance and I have felt the room throb with 
 heightened vibration. I regret now that I never wrote 
 down such experiences at the time. They were not 
 infrequent, and formed a definite feature in our life. 
 There are, however, two or three dream-visions belonging 
 to his last summer that I recollect. Two he had noted 
 down in brief sentences for future use. One was : 
 
 " The Lily of the World, and its dark concave, dark 
 with excess of light and the stars falling like slow rain." 
 
 The other is headed " Elemental Symbolism," " I saw 
 Self, or Life, symbolised all about me as a limitless, 
 fathomless and lonely sea. I took a handful and threw 
 it into the grey silence of ocean air, and it returned at 
 once as a swift and potent flame, a red fire crested with 
 blown sunrise, rushing from between the lips of sky and 
 sea to the sound as of innumerable trumpets." 
 
 One morning he told me that during sleep he had vis- 
 ited a city of psychic mechanism. In a huge building he 
 had seen this silent mechanism at work ; he had watched
 
 426 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 a force plunge into molten metal and produce a shaped 
 vessel therefrom. He could see nothmg that indicated 
 by what power the machinery was driven. He asked his 
 guide for exj^lanation, and he was led along passages 
 to a small room with many apertures in the walls, like 
 speaking tubes. In the centre was a table, on a chair 
 sat a man with his arm on the table, his head in his 
 hand. Pointing to him the guide said " His thought is 
 the motive force." 
 
 In another dream he visited a land where there was no 
 more war, where all men and women were equal; where 
 humans, birds and beasts were no longer at enmity, or 
 preyed on one another. And he was told that the young 
 men of the land had to serve two years as missionaries to 
 those who lived at the uttermost boundaries, " To what 
 end? " he asked. " To cast out fear, our last enemy." 
 The dream is too long to quote in its entirety, for it 
 spread over two nights, but one thing impressed him 
 greatly. In the house of his host he was struck by the 
 beauty of a framed painting that seemed to vibrate with 
 rich colour. "Who i^ainted that?" he asked. "His 
 host smiled, "We have long ceased to use brushes and 
 paints. That is a thought projected from the artist's 
 brain, and its duration will be proportionate with its 
 truth." 
 
 Once again he saw in waking vision those Divine Forges 
 he had sought in childhood. On the verge of the Great 
 Immensity that is beyond the confines of space, he saw 
 Great Spirits of Fire standing at flaming anvils. And 
 they lifted up the flames and moulded them on the anvils 
 into shapes and semblances of men, and the Great Spirits 
 took these flaming shapes and cast them forth into space, 
 so that they should become the souls of men. 
 
 He was, as Mrs. Mona Caird has truly said of him, 
 " almost encumbered by the infinity of his perceptions ; 
 by the thronging interests, intuitions, glimpses of won- 
 ders, beauties and mysteries which made life for him a 
 pageant and a splendour such as is only disclosed to the 
 soul that has to bear the torment and the revelations of
 
 CONCLUSION 427 
 
 genius. He had much to suffer, but in spite of that — 
 perhaps partly because of that — be was able to bring to 
 all a great sense of sunshine and boyish freshness, of joy 
 in life and nature and art, and in the adventure and ro- 
 mance of it all, for those who knew how to dare enough 
 to go to meet it with open hands. He gave ever the 
 sense of new power, new thresholds, new realms. His 
 friendship was a spiritual possession." And though in- 
 deed, as Mr. Frank Binder has written " there may be 
 those inclined to censure William Sharp for his silence 
 about Fiona Macleod, yet, probably, had the world known, 
 ' she ' — for in thought it is always that — would have writ- 
 ten no more. May we not remember Ossian and others 
 who shrank from revealing to all their secret? . . .1 can 
 but bear testimony to the ever-ready and eager sympathy, 
 to the sunny winsomeness, to the nobility of the soul 
 that has passed. William Sharp was one of the most 
 lovable, one of the most remarkable men of our time." 
 
 And, I would add, — to quote my husband's own words 
 — ever, below all the stress and failure, below all the 
 triumph of his toil, lay the beauty of his dream.
 
 To live in beauty — which is to put into four words all 
 the dream and spiritual effort of the soul of man. 
 
 F.M.
 
 INDEX 
 
 Alden, H. W., 217. 
 
 Allen, Grant, 311. See Letters. 
 Visit to, 317. 
 
 Algiers, 208 et seq. 
 
 America, Visits to, 93, 149, 273, 393. 
 
 Art-Critic, W. S. as, 79. 
 
 Articles : 
 
 By William Sharp, In the Days 
 of My Youth, 10; Through Bush 
 and Fern, 22; Etrurian Cities, 93; 
 Victor Hugo, 58; "Marius the 
 Epicurean," 104; "Under- 
 
 woods," 138; "In Hospital," 139; 
 Balzac, 16; "American Litera- 
 ture," 165; "D'Annunzio," 165, 
 325; PhiHp Marston, 198; Maeter- 
 linck, 198; Thomas Hardy, 199; 
 March of Rome in North Africa, 
 208; La Jeune Belgique, 216; 
 Hotel of the Beautiful Star, 240; 
 Christina Rossetti, 240; The Im- 
 pressionist, 326; Contemporary 
 Italian Poetry, 343; Through 
 Nelson's Dutchy, 357, 358. 
 By Fiona Macleod, A Group of 
 Celtic Writers, 304; Celtic, 320; 
 Contemporary Breton Liter- 
 ature, 315; The Gael and His 
 Heritage, 325; On W. B. Yeats, 
 345 
 
 Athens, 375, 379. 
 
 Austin, Alfred, 119, 126. 
 
 Australia, 22. 
 
 Alywin, 105, 302. 
 
 Bank, City of Melbourne, 27, 53. 
 
 Barbaric Tales, 268. 
 
 Bax, Belford, 32. 
 
 Blind, Mathilde, 51. See Letters. 
 
 Bordighera, 339. 
 
 Bourget, Paul, 95, 96. 
 
 Bronte, Duke of. See Hon. Alex. N. 
 
 Hood, C. V. O. 
 Brooke, Stopford A., 75. 
 "Brooks, William H." 204. 
 Brown, Ford Madox, 51. 
 Browning, Monograph on, 161, 162, 
 
 163. 
 Browning, Robert, 51, 65, 158. 
 Buchanan, Robert, 26. 
 
 Caine, T. Hall, 40, 41. 
 Caird, Mrs. Mona, 26, 38; On Mar- 
 riage, 14, 21, 162; Visit to, 168. 
 
 See Letters. 
 
 Canada, 150-153. 
 
 Carman, Bliss, 151. 
 
 Celtic Movement, The, 256 et seq. 
 
 277, 304, 305. 
 Chapbook, "Sharp Number," 239. 
 Children of Tomorrow, The, 135 et 
 
 seq. 
 Chorleywood, 311. 
 Civil Pension List and "Fiona 
 
 Macleod," 345-348. 
 Clodd, Edward, 246, 247. 
 Corbett, Julian, 181. 
 Cotterell, George, 215, 273. 
 Cotton, James, 104. 
 Courtney, W. L., 318. 
 Craik, Mrs., Author of John Halifax, 
 
 41. 
 Credo, 241. 
 
 Diaries, 160; Life of Rossetti, 64, 78; 
 Florence, 79-81, 90; Rome, 1890, 
 82-87; The Severn Journals, 185; 
 Rome and Italj-, 173; A Fellotce 
 and His Wife, 186 et seq.; The 
 Pagan Review, 102 et seq.; 
 Pharais, 221; "F. M.," 266; 
 Riviera, 324; Taormina, 1903, 
 356; Maniace, 416-418. 
 
 Divine Adventure, The, 19, 314 et 
 seq. 
 
 Dominion of Dreams, The, 304 et seq. 
 
 Douglas, Sir George, 253. 
 
 Dowden, Edward, 73, 137. 
 
 Dramas : A Fellowe and His Wife, 186; 
 The House of Usna, 317; The 
 Immortal Hour, 317. 
 
 Dramatic Interludes, 190. 
 
 Earth's Voices, 76, 97. 
 
 Ecce Puella, 242, 248, 251, 252. 
 
 Edinburgh, Sim:imer Meeting, 249- 
 
 250. 
 Elder, Adelaide, 25, 35. 
 Elder, Alexander, 27. 
 Elder, John, 29. 
 
 Emerson, Poem on the Death of, 76. 
 Evergreen, The, 268. 
 
 Fair Women in Poetry and Painting, 
 
 252. 
 Felibres, Les, 327. 
 
 Fellowe and His Wife, A, 170 et seq. 
 "Fiona Macleod." See Macleod. 
 Flower o' the Vine, 205. 
 Four Winds of the Spirit, The, 9. 
 
 429
 
 430 
 
 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 From the Hills of Dream, 259, 272, 
 279 et seq.; American Edition, 
 333-334. 
 
 Francillon, 51. 
 
 Garnett, L.L.D., C.B., Richard, 140, 
 
 143, 376. 
 Geddes, Prof. Patrick, 248-250. 
 Goodchild, Doctor John, 339, 381. 
 
 S\pfi Lpf tprfl 
 
 Gilchrist, R. Murray, 240. See 
 
 Letters. 
 Gilchrist, Mrs. See Letters. 
 Gipsy Christ, The, 240, 261. 
 Glasgow Herald, The, 79, 93. 
 Great Oaks, 166. 
 Green Fire, 14, 259, 266, et seq. 
 
 Hampstead, Residence in, 139, 141, 
 
 231. 
 Hardy, Arthur Sherburne, 261-262. 
 Harland, Henry, 160. 
 Hardy, Thomas. See Letters; Visit 
 
 to, 324. 
 Heine, Monograph on, 142-145. 
 Henley, W. E. See Letters. 
 Hichens, Robert, 353. See Letters. 
 Highland News, The, 257, 261. 
 Hinkson, Mrs. K. Tynan, 238, 257. 
 Holroyd, Sir Charles, 176; etched 
 
 portrait by, 179. 
 Hood, C. V. O., Hon. Alex. Nelson, 
 
 331, 339, 345-346, 358. See 
 
 Letters. 
 Hopekirk, Mrs. Helen, 407. 
 House of Usna, The, performance of, 
 
 310, 317-318. 
 Howard, Blanche Willis, 170. 
 Howells, W. D., 92. 
 Human hiheritance, The, 72. 
 
 Immortal Hour, The, 310. 
 lona, 236, 237. 
 
 James, Henry, quoted 53, 338-339. 
 Janvier, Mrs. C. A. , ee Letters. 
 Janvier, Thomas A. See Letters. 
 
 King's Ring, The, 35 3, 357. 
 
 Laughter of Peterkin, The, 279 et seq. 
 Le Braz, Anatole, 315. 
 Lectures at Edinburgh, 251. 
 Letters : 
 
 From WiUiam Sharp to 
 
 Alden H. M., 369. 
 
 Caird, Mrs. Mona, 38. 
 
 Clodd, Edward, 246. 
 
 Elder, Miss A. L., 35. 
 
 Elder, John, 29. 
 
 "F. M.,"410. 
 
 Friend, to a: Algiers, 208 et seq.; 
 
 On Style, 361; G. Meredith, 
 367, 382; The Winged Destiny, 
 382; Glastonbury, 385; Mani- 
 ace, 413-414. 
 
 Friends, To One or Two, 422. 
 
 Gilchrist, Mrs., 372. 
 
 Gilchrist, R. Murray; The Pagan 
 Review, 205; Personal, 234, 
 260, 261; "F. M.," 312, 316; 
 Stage Society, 324. 
 
 Goodchild, Dr. John, 340, 403. 
 
 Hood, C. V. O., Hon. Alex. Nel- 
 son, Civil Reunion, 346; JuU- 
 an, 348; Adria, 354, 371; Shan 
 Shan Bor, 355; Athens, 375, 
 379; Neuenahr, 399. 
 
 Janvier, Mrs. C. A., 170; Aries, 
 182; On Criticism, 185; Stutt- 
 gart, 186, 193; Pharais, 224, 
 226; Greek War, 283-284; New 
 Birth, 292; Pettycur, 300; Ire- 
 land, 311; Taormina, 328, 342, 
 349, 362; Illness, 369; at Sea, 
 372; LePuy,379. 
 
 Janvier, Thomas A., 159, 195. 
 
 Macleay, John, 314, 325. 
 
 Maesfield, John, 403. 
 
 Macleod, Fiona, 410. 
 
 Philpott, Mrs., Henry James, 
 338; Taormina, 341; Maniace, 
 374-375. 
 
 Rinder, Frank, Dominion of 
 Dreams, 306; Divine Adven- 
 tures,\Zib. 
 
 Robertson, Rev. Eric S., 124. 
 
 Robertson, W. J., 395-396. 
 
 Rossetri, D. G., 38, 40, 43, 55. 
 
 Rossetti, W. M., 63. 
 
 Rhys, Ernest, 339, 368, 379. 
 
 Sharp, Elizabeth A., 25, 28, 46, 
 54; on Rossetri, 59, 60, 61, 62; 
 on Poetry, 72; Nature, 84; 
 From Italy, 82, 92; Paris, 95, 
 96; America, 152 et seq. 192; 
 London, 1891, 192; W. Whit- 
 man, 193; Pharais, 231; Arran, 
 243; F. M.,260,262,263; The 
 Archer, 266, 268, 274; Green 
 Fire, 275; St. Remy, 282; W. 
 S. & F. M., 285; The Way 
 Farer, 286; Ireland, 287; 
 Hastings, 290; Personal Views, 
 294 et seq.; Maniace, 352; Al- 
 bania, 362 ; Lismore, 396 ; Neu- 
 enahr, 400; Doom, 402. Sted- 
 man, E. C, 154, 166, 370, 386. 
 
 Symonds, J. Addington, 113. 
 
 Walter, Kari, Criticism, 359. 
 
 Yeats, W. B., 307. 
 To W. S. from 
 
 Allen, Grant, 232. 
 
 Blind, Mathilde, Sport of Chance, 
 123; Shelley, 134; Children of
 
 INDEX 
 
 431 
 
 Tomorrow, 147; Sospiri di 
 
 Roma, 184. 
 Brooke, Stopford A., 75. 
 "Brooks, W. H.,"206. 
 Browning, Robert, 64. 
 Clodd, Edward, 246-247. 
 Douglas, Sir George, 253. 
 Dowden, Prof. Edward, 74, 136. 
 Garnett, Richard, 143, 376. 
 Hardy, Thomas, 199. 
 Henley, W. E., 139. 
 Hichens, Robert, 352, 365, 412, 
 
 413. 
 Hood, C. V. O., Hon. Alex. Nel- 
 son, 346. 
 Janvier, Thomas A., 198; On F. 
 
 M., 264. 
 Mabie, Hamilton W., 252. 
 Maesfield, John, 403. 
 Meredith, George, Sonnets, 114; 
 
 Shelley, 134; Poems, 144; 
 
 Heine, 143; Personal, 150, 
 
 156; Sospiri di Roma, 184; 
 
 Pharais, 228. 
 Pater, Walter, 67, 69, 73; 
 
 Motherhood, 73; The Human 
 
 Inheritance, 72, 99; Marius the 
 
 Epicurean, 104; Shelley, 133. 
 Rinder, Frank, 126. 
 Rossetti, Christina, 66, 100. 
 Rossetti, D. G., 41, 44. 
 Stedman, E. C, "Victorian 
 
 Poets," 129, 131, 150, 155; 
 
 Chapbook, 230; Personal, 274, 
 
 323. 
 Stevenson, R. L., 116, 118, 138. 
 Stoddard, Richard H., 273. 
 Story, W. W., 169. 
 Swinburne, A. C., 336-337. 
 Symonds, J. Addington, 101, 
 
 111, 119. 
 Tennyson, Alfred Lord, 66. 
 Vere, Aubrey de, 113. 
 Watts-Dunton, Theodore, 106. 
 
 114; Aylwin, 105; Sonnets, 
 
 114, 115; Poems, 128, 302. 
 Whiteing, Richard, 214. 
 Wilde, Oscar, 115. 
 Yeats, W. B., 269, 276. 
 Feom "Fiona Macleod" to: 
 Allen, Grant, 229, 230. 
 Bartlett, Bridgman Mrs., 383. 
 Black, [Kenneth], 360. 
 Editor Pall Mall Magazine, 356. 
 Gilman, Lawrence, 390. 
 Goodchild, Dr. John, 316, 318, 
 
 337. 
 Henley, W. E., 268. 
 Hinkson, Mrs. K. Tynan, 238. 
 Hopekirk, Mrs. Helen, 407. 
 Le Braz, Anatole, 315. 
 Macleay, John, 307, 314. 
 Aleredith, George, 245. 
 
 Mosher, Thomas, 330. 
 
 Noguchi, Yoni, 409. 
 
 Rhys, Ernest, 279, 298. 
 
 Sutherland, Duchess of, 406. 
 
 Unknown Correspondent, 331, 
 405. 
 
 W. S., 411. 
 
 Yeats, W. B., 270, 309, 334. 
 To "Fiona Macleod" from: 
 
 Allen, Grant, 228, 230, 232. 
 
 Gilman, Lawrence, 391. 
 
 Goodchild, Dr. John, 319, 385. 
 
 MacDowell, Edward, 389. 
 
 Meredith, George, 245. 
 
 Rhys, Ernest, 299, 377. 
 
 Russell, George ("A. E."), 277. 
 
 Yeats, W. B., Irish Theatre, 280; 
 F. M.; Style, 334; F. M. & 
 W. S., 421. 
 "Lilith," 176. 
 Lismore, 344. 
 Literature, Chair of University of 
 
 London, 149. 
 Literary Geography, 381. 
 Loeffler, Music and "F. M.," 390. 
 "Lover's Tragedy, The," 164. 
 
 Mabie, Hamilton W., 252. 
 
 Macleay, John. See Letters. 
 
 Macleod, Fiona, Foreshadowings, 
 of, V-VII, 5, 14, 19, 27, 52-53, 
 70, 97, 99, 106-109, 125, 126, 
 135; Adoption of Pseudonym, 
 222 et seq.; Attempts at Iden- 
 tification, 230, 258, 305. 
 List of books: Pharais, 221; Moun- 
 tain-Lovers, 226, 242; Sin-Eater, 
 252, 256 et seq.; Washer of the 
 Ford, 258; Green Fire, 259; From 
 the Hills of Dream, 252, 272, 
 279; Dominion of Dreams, 305; 
 Laughter of Peterkin, 279; The 
 House of Usna, 310; The Im- 
 mortal Hour, 310; The Divine 
 Adventure, 314; Where the Forest 
 Murmurs, 393; The Winged Des- 
 tiny, 2S7, 322, 381. 
 "Fiona Macleod" and "William 
 Sharp," compared, 52, 53, 97- 
 98, by Ernest Rhys, 106 et seq.: 
 Pharais, 222 et seq. 
 
 Macleod, Seumas, 12, 14, 52, 316. 
 
 Madge o' the Pool, 261. 
 
 Maesfield, John, 403. 
 
 Maeterlinck, 190, 19S. 
 
 Magic Kingdoms, The, 349, 350, 357. 
 See Winged Destiny. 
 
 Maniace, 339, 413. [See also Hon. 
 Alex. N. Hood.] 
 
 Marston, Philip Bourke, 39, 41, 42, 
 43, 70; death, 75-77; poems, 
 94, 127. 
 
 Martineau, Doctor, 39.
 
 432 
 
 WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 Meredith, George, visits to, 145 et 
 seq.; Motherhood, 73, 367, 368. 
 See Letters. 
 
 Morley, Henry, 149. 
 
 Morris, William, 151. 
 
 Mountain Lovers, The, 226, 242. 
 
 Munro, Niel, 326. 
 
 Murray, D. Christie, 42. 
 
 Negro, Abbate Cesareo di, 91. 
 Noguchi, Yoni, 409. 
 
 Odes, English and American, Great, 
 
 166. 
 Omar Khayyam Club, 246; Poem for 
 
 O.K.C.,312. 
 Orchardson, Monograph on, 286. 
 Ordeal of Basil Hope, The, 161, 162, 
 
 165. 
 Ouida, 81-82, 92. 
 
 Pagan Review, The, 192 et seq.; Fore- 
 word, 201. 
 
 Paget, Lady [Arthur], 82. 
 
 Patmore, Coventry, 163, 164. 
 
 Paton, Sir Noel, 36, 41. 
 
 Pater, Walter, 67, 70, 119-120. See 
 Letters. 
 
 Pharais, 221, et seq. 
 
 Phenice Croft, 200, 267. 
 
 Philpott, Mrs. See Letters. 
 
 Poems, books of: The Human In- 
 heritance, 72; Earth's Voices, 76; 
 Romantic Ballads, 135; Sospiri 
 di Roma, 173 et seq.; From the 
 Hills of Dream, 259. 
 
 Poems, quoted: 
 
 Amid the Uplands, 19; The Gate 
 of Death, 27; Two Sonnets, 32; 
 Sleepy Hollow, 76; Moonrise, 97; 
 To E. S. Robertson, 124; Ele- 
 gaic Poemjto R. Browning, 163; 
 In Memoriam Walt Wliitman, 
 194; The White Peace, 236; 
 Buon Riposo, 340; Invocation, 
 374; "O Wind," 407. 
 
 Projected and unfinished Books 
 quoted: Upland, Woodland and 
 Cloudland, 19; The Ordeal of 
 Basil Hope, 161; Nostalgia, 216; 
 The Woman of Thirty, 216; 
 Eve and I, 216; The Comedy 
 of Woman, 216; Demogorgan, 
 216; The Times of Youth, 217; 
 The Literary Ideal, 217; The 
 Brotherhood of Rest, 217; The 
 Late Mrs. PygmaUon,217; Epic 
 of Youth, 289; The Gipsy Trail, 
 14, 276, 326; Greek Backgrounds, 
 415; Persephonaeia, 415; En- 
 chanted Valleys, 415. 
 Province, 326. 
 
 Pseudonyms of W. S.; H. P. Siwaar- 
 mill, 201; W. H. Brooks, 200, 
 204, 205. See Pagan Review; 
 see Macleod. 
 
 Rhys, Ernest, lecture on W. S., 106, 
 
 126. See Letters. 
 Rinder, Frank. See Letters. 
 Roberts, Charles [G. D.], 151. 
 Robertson, E. S., 124, 127. 
 Romantic Ballads, 135. 
 Rome, 173 et seq. 
 Ross, Charles, 181. 
 Rossetti, Christina, 51, 60, 67, 100. 
 Rossetti, D. G., first meeting, 35, 36, 
 
 37, 43, et seq.; death, 58 et seq. 
 
 See Letters. 
 Rossetti, Wm., 39. 
 Rossetti, a Record and a Study, 63 
 
 et seq. 
 Ruskin, John, 169. 
 Ru8seU("A.E."),277, 287. 
 
 Schopenhauer, quoted, 2. 
 
 Scott, Robert Bell, 51. 
 
 Severn, Life and Letters of Joseph, 
 158, 186, 198. 
 
 Sharp, David Galbraith, 4, 15. 
 
 Sharp, Elizabeth A. See William 
 Sharp and Letters. 
 
 Sharp, Mary, " F. M's" Secretary, 94, 
 356, 396, 416, 417. 
 
 Sharp, William, Childhood, 2 et seq.; 
 College, 13-15; With the Gip- 
 sies, 13; Lawyer's Office, 14; 
 Betrothed, 17; Australia, 15, 22 
 et seq.; London, 18; City of 
 Melbourne Bank, 27, 53; Ros- 
 setti, 35 et passitn; Rossetti a 
 Record and a Study, 63, 69-70; 
 The Human Inheritance, 72; 
 First Visit to Italy, 78; Art 
 Critic, 79 et seq.; Earth's Voices, 
 97; Marriage, 97; Sonnets of this 
 Century, 104; Sport of Chance, 
 121 et seq.; Illness, 125; Shelley, 
 131; Romantic Ballads, 135 et 
 seq.; Heine, 143; Children of To- 
 morrow, 146; Canada and New 
 York, 149 et seq.; Broioning, 158 
 et seq.; Winter in Rome, 168; 
 Sospiri di Roma, 173; A Fellowe 
 and His Wife, 189; Walt Whit- 
 man, 192; Phenice Croft, 200; 
 The Pagan Revieiv, 200 et seq.; 
 Vistas, 208; Algiers, 208-212; 
 Beginning of "Fiona Macleod" 
 Writings, 221 et seq. (see Mac- 
 leod); Return to Hampstead, 
 235; The Celtic Movement, 256, 
 et seq.; America, 273; Wives in 
 Exile, 262; Sile7ice Farm, 292; 
 Madge o' the P.^ol, 261; The
 
 INDEX 
 
 433 
 
 Gipsy Christ, 261; Art in the 
 XIX Century, 312; Ireland, 287; 
 Sicily, 328; Athens, 375; Literary 
 Geography, 381, 387-389; Am- 
 erica, 393; Sicily, 422; Death, 
 418-419. 
 See also "F. M." and W. S., com- 
 pared; also Poems; also Dra- 
 mas; also Projected Books. 
 
 Shelley, Monograph on, 131. 
 
 Sicily, 328 et seq. See also Taormina 
 and Maniace. 
 
 Silence Farm, 292. 
 
 Sin-Eater, The, 252, 256 et seq. 
 
 Sport of Chance, The, 121. 
 
 Spiritual Tales, 268. 
 
 Sonnets, American, 111, 137. 
 
 Sonnets of this Century, 104 et seq. 
 
 Sospiri di Roma, 195. 
 
 Stage Society, The, 324. 
 
 Stedman, E. C. See Letters. 
 
 Stevenson, R. L. See Letters. 
 
 Stoddard, R. H. See Letters. 
 
 Storys, The [W. W.], 82. 
 
 Swinburne, A. C, 336-337. 
 
 Symonds, T. Addington, 92, 93. 
 
 Taormina, 328. 
 Tennyson, Alfred Lord, 66. 
 Thompson, James, 75, 144. 
 To the Pine Belt, 18. 
 Tragic Romances, 283. 
 
 Upland, Woodland, Cloudland, 19-20. 
 
 Vere, Aubrey de, 114, 149. 
 Visions, 289, 296, 397, 423-425. 
 Vistas, 208, 228. 
 
 Washer of the Ford, The, 258, et 
 passim. 
 
 Watts-Dunton, Theodore. See Let- 
 ters. 
 
 Where the Forest Murmurs, 27, 293. 
 
 White, Maud Valerie, 339. 
 
 Whiteing, Richard, 204. See Letters. 
 
 Whitman, Walt, 2, 93. 
 
 Wilde, Oscar, 115, 116. 
 
 "Wilfion,"285, 286, 423. 
 
 Winged Destiny, The, 331 et eeq. 
 
 Wives in Exile, 292. 
 
 Yeats, W. B., criticisms, 269, 280, 
 307, 334, 424. See Letters. 
 
 Young Folks Paper (W. S. Editor of 
 Literary Olympic), 128; Serial 
 Stories by W. S.: "Under the 
 Banner of St. James," 129; 
 " Secret of the Seven Fountains," 
 129, 146; "Jack Noels' Legacy," 
 129; "The Red Riders," 129, 
 208; "The Last of the Vikings," 
 208. 
 
 Zola, Emile, 96.
 
 BOOKS BY WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 Romantic Ballads. (Walter Scott & Co.) 
 
 Vistas. (Alfred Nutt.) 
 
 Songs and Poems. (EUiot Stock.) 
 
 Ecce Puella. (Elkin Matthews.) 
 
 Madge o' the Pool. (Constables.) 
 
 Monograph on Heine. (Walter Scott & Co.) 
 
 Monograph on Shelley. (Walter Scott & Co.) 
 
 Monograph on Browning. (Walter Scott & Co.) 
 
 Literary Geography. (Newnes.) 
 
 Art in the Century. (Messrs. W. & R. Chambers.) 
 
 Faur Women in Painting and Poetry. (Seeley.) 
 
 Uniform Edition of the Writings of "Fiona Mac- 
 leod." (William Heinemann, London; Messrs. 
 Duffield & Co., New York.) 
 
 Little Book of Nature Thoughts. Selected from 
 THE Writings of " Fiona Macleod." (T. N. 
 Foulis, London ; Thomas B. Mosher, Portland, 
 U. S. A.) 
 
 The Garden of Letters. Papers on Men and Move- 
 ments. Arranged by Mrs. Sharp. [Shortly.] 
 
 IN COLLABORATION WITH MRS. WILUAM SHARP 
 
 Lyra Celtica. (Patrick Geddes & Colt, Edinburgh.)
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONA 
 
 A 000 025 600