13 Thorngate Rd. | Sutherland Gardens | W. | Tuesday Night My dear Caine
You will have recd. my hurried note from Edinburgh.
On my return to London I at once looked about for the recipe you wanted — but have been unsuccessful in finding it — indeed I am afraid it must be lost, perhaps destroyed amongst other papers when I went to Italy.
The embrocation was a good for all kinds of rheumatic cold (stiff necks — strained muscles — effects of draughts etc). but I know next to nothing of its composition. The man who ordered it for me for external use in case I shd. require it during the winter following my rheumatic fever in autumn 1880 was Dr. Griffittes, of Portmadoc, North Wales.
This, alas, is all the information I can give you about it.
I am greatly better, so much so that I find it difficult to credit the doctor’s doleful prognostications: I feel I must take care, but beyond that I have no immediate cause for alarm. The worst of it is that I am one day in exuberant health and the next very much the reverse. The doctors agree that it is valvular disease of the heart, a treacherous form thereof still further complicated by hereditary bias. However, a fellow must “kick” someday — and I would as soon do so “per the heart” as, like no small number of my forbears in Scotland, from delirium tremens, sheep-stealing (in hanging days), and general disreputableness.
I am afraid poor Marston’s book has fallen rather flat.55 I have seen only one brief and worthless notice in the Lity. World — tho’ I heard from someone today that there was a notice in the Academy of last week, which I have not seen yet.
The truth is, people are tired of the “wail” in poetry, either the individual caterwaul or the general ‘howl’ — and though P.B.W. is worth a dozen of most of his detractors he is bound to go to the wall unless he will forego what unfortunately he cannot do. Independently of this, he, despite his fine and rare gifts, is too much under the shadow of Rossetti to flourish on his own little open piece of ground.
Thinking people want Hope, Faith, Energy, Joy — more than anything else do they crave that at least someone else should proclaim the last, on which the others are attendant. Joy in life, joy in death, the world will yet come to realize what that means. It is because humanity is sadder at heart than of yore that it must turn from the personality of sorrow to the impersonality of world-joy.
I rejoice to hear that you are fairly well, and that Sandown suits you.
But indeed almost any place must be better than the Inferno of London
— which I am going to make a strenuous effort in the Spring to leave.
Even if pecuniarly able, I am forbidden to marry for a year to come — and though waiting is hard now for us both, it is better even for my fianceé that nothing should be done which might result in what would
be such a grief to her. Moreover, I am medically advised that London is not the place for me at all — so if I can possibly see my way I must try a move in the Spring. Hearing of my illness, Mrs. Craik56 offered me her house in Dover for two months in the Spring or early summer, as it wd.
then be unoccupied — and there it is possible I may go.
But my art-journalistic work (a very material ‘staff’ indeed) is the main obstacle. I would need to be in London at least one day every week besides Sunday, and coming up regularly from Saty till Monday would be expensive. How do you manage with the L’pool Mercury at Sandown?
I have just today seen an announcement of your Cobwebs of Criticism
— most heartily do I wish it success. I hope I may get it for review somewhere — I remember seeing a small portion of it at Birchington.
What memories that name calls up — and what a blank he has left behind him!
When I last saw Watts he was well, and Swinburne kindly condescended to be less deaf than usual. Watt’s article on Lewis Morris has been much discussed — bardically approved, publicly but half assented to.
The interest of the hour is fixt on Lord Lytton’s57 autobiography and literary remains. I have the first two vols, and they are certainly most interesting.
You will be sorry to hear that Mary Robinson has had an attack of smallpox — fortunately she has weathered it all right — and when I called yesterday with some flowers to cheer her beautiful eyes the servant told me she was soon to be taken downstairs again.58 The Gods preserve her fair young life. Her sister Mabel has also been ill, but I am glad to say is now better.
I am hard at work, in addition to my art-editorial work and commissioned articles for the Art Journal and other magazines, upon two books which may see the light — God knows when.59
As in some way relative to my remarks on page 5 of this letter, I enclose some lines written one day last September.
Drop me a line when you have time, and believe me ever yours affectionately William Sharp
Don’t forget, if you ever want a bed for a night to let me know.
Mater Dolorosa
She, brooding ever, dwells amidst the hills;
Her Kingdom is call’d Solitude; her name — More terrible than desolating flame — Is Silence; and her soul is Pain.
Day after day some weightier sorrow fills Her heart, and each new hour she knows
The birth of further woes.
And who so, journeying, goes Unto the land wherein she dwells for aye Shall not come thence until have pass’d away
For evermore the bright joy of his years.
She giveth rest, but giveth it with tears, Tears that more bitter be
Than drops of the Dead Sea:
But never gives she peace to any soul, For how could she that rarest gift bestow
Who well doth know
That though in dreams she can attain the goal, In dreams alone her steps can thither go:
Solitude, Silence, Pain, for all who live Within the twilight realms that are her own
And even Rest to those who seek her throne, But these her gifts alone:
Peace hath she not and therefore cannot give.
W. S. | 18 Sept/83 ALS Manx Museum, Isle of Man