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

for the opening 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 thinking

 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 invoked 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, calling 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 ignorant of my invocations. He

 locked his door to try to keep it out. Please give my greetings to Miss

 Macleod.

 

  Yours Sincerely,

B. YEATS.

 

M. wrote in acknowledgment of a long critical letter from Mr. Yeats,

to whom “she” had sent _The Washer of the Ford_:

 

 

  TARBERT ON LOCH FYNE.

 

  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 dear friend and

 confrère of whom you know were sailing, 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 poetry, 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 constellations

 of the spiritual life. Most cordially I thank you for your critical

 remarks. Even where I do not unreservedly agree, or where I venture to

 differ (as for example, 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 legendary

 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 remoteness, 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 Twilight_.

 

 I hope you are soon going to issue the promised volume of poems. When

 my own book of verse is ready—it is 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 transmuted woman passed

 from my seeing. This was a waking 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 obvious that he could not

remain in town, and that for a 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 acknowledgment 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,

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 Cotterell’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.

 

 ... The most important social matter here this winter relating to our

 Guild will be a large important dinner to be given on March 25th by

 the Author’s Club and his other friends, to Richard 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 somewhat 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

 comprehension of his genius and career....

 

On the 13th of April Mr. Stedman wrote again to report 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 throughout. 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.

 

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:

 

 

  METUCHEN, N. 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 yesterday. The whole enormous city was a mass of flags

 and innumerable Republican and Democratic insignia—with the streets

 thronged with over two million people. 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 looking eagerly for the final word

 on Tuesday night. The larger issues are now clearer: not merely that

 the Bryanite 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 tremendous 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,’ ‘O green fire

of life, pulse of the world, O Love!’ And the deeper meaning of the

expression ‘Green Life’—so familiar to all who knew ‘Fiona Macleod’—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 born of earth, he dreamed his 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

 noticed it. Some day I want to tell Annaik’s story in full....”

 

The author had read much Breton lore during his study of French

Literature, and as his interest had for a time been centred on the

land of the kindred Celt, he determined to make it the setting of a

new Romance. He had never been there, so drew on his imagination 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