WILLIAM SHARP (FIONA MACLEOD) A MEMOIR COMPILED BY HIS WIFE ELIZABETH A. SHARP - ELIZABETH A. SHARP (phonics reader TXT) 📗

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 unawakening 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 supremely

 worth knowing there, of knowing intimately: of 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 familiar stars

 where is surety. In truth is not all creative art remembrance: is not

 the spirit of ideal art the recapture 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 devious 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 destiny,

 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 destiny 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, O jealous and remorseless beyond all words to

 tell. And there is so little time at 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 constitute friendship,

 what does?) It would be strange indeed 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 the 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 fire that matters. As I say in my very shortly forthcoming

 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 perhaps

 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 circumstances make my well-being

 to a large extent dependent on what my work brings me), but that I am

 mentally 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 dumb 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 subject is not one that occurs. I cannot explain, though not

 from reluctance or perversity or any foolish and needless 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,” “photographs,”

 “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

 money, enough for the need as it arises; and, further, can win the

 sympathy and deep appreciation of the few intimate 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,

  July 1904.

 

  DEAR FRIEND,

 

 ... 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 expressive face, and I wish you had seen it. “But this

 is something quite new. I never read anything like it before” 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.”

 

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 the long day

 spent yesterday at Glastonbury and neighbourhood, and the glowing warmth

 and wonderful radiance.

 

 As usual one or two strange things happened in connection with Dr. G. We

 went across the ancient “Salmon” 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 significant 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 enigmatic 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:

 

 

  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 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

 October, according as steamers and our needs fit it. Then after six

 weeks or so in New York, we intend to sail direct to the Mediterranean

 by one of the Hamburg-American 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