Is mystic still to us: to thee, how clear!
O loved great friend, at last the balm 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 the pictures, photographs of which Rossetti had given him. Several of the later paintings he had seen and discussed many times in Rossetti’s studio.
The book divides itself naturally into two parts representing 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 December 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 breakfast. 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 undress 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 collapse 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.)
“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.”