THE GATE OF DEATH
I wonder if the soul upon that day
When Death’s gate opens to it, will with gaze
Rapt 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 inviting, 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, arduous 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” from which he 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 Inverness Terrace and stayed with us from Saturday till Monday. A serious difficulty now presented itself, one which threatened us both with temporary disaster. 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 opinion; 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.