  EARLY DAYS IN LONDON The most important influence in the early literary career of the young poet was his friendship with Dante Gabriel Rossetti. He gained not only a valued friend, who introduced him to many of the well-known writers of the time, but one who helped him in the development of his art by sound, careful criticism and kindly encouragement. His first acquaintance with the writings of the painter-poet dated from the Autumn of 1879, when on his birthday Miss Adelaide Elder had sent him a volume of poems, an incident destined to have far-reaching results. In 1899 he wrote to her: Dear Adelaide, Do you know why I thought of you to-day particularly, it being my birthday? For it was you who some two and twenty years ago sent me on the 12th of September a copy of a beautifully bound book by a poet with a strange name and by me quite unknown—Dante Gabriel Rossetti. To that event it is impossible to trace all I owe, but what is fairly certain is that, without it, the whole course of my life might have been very different. For the book not only influenced and directed me mentally at a crucial period, but made me speak of it to an elderly friend (Sir Noel Paton) through whom I was dissuaded from going abroad on a career of adventure (I was going to Turkey or as I vaguely put it, Asia) and through whom, later, I came to know Rossetti himself—an event which completely redirected the whole course of my life. It would be strange to think how a single impulse of a friend may thus have so profound a significance were it not that to you and me there is nothing strange (in To quote his own words: “By the autumn of 1880 I was within sight of that long and arduous career called the literary life. An extraordinary good fortune met me at the outset, for, through an introduction from Sir Noel Paton, I came to know, and know intimately, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, whose winsome personality fascinated me as much as his great genius impressed me. Rossetti introduced me to one who became my chief friend—the late Philip Bourke Marston; and through Rossetti also I came to know Mr. Theodore Watts, Mr. Swinburne, and others. By the spring of 1881, I was in the literary world, and in every phase of it, from the most Bohemian to the most isolated.” On the 1st of September, 1881, William Sharp presented himself at the door of 16 Cheyne Walk. The housekeeper explained that Mr. Rossetti could receive no one. The importunate stranger persisted and stated that it was of the highest importance that he should see Mr. Rossetti and so impressed her that she not only went to report to Mr. Rossetti but came back with orders to admit him. On seeing his eager visitor, the poet-painter naturally asked him what he wanted so urgently, and his visitor answered promptly, “Only to shake hands with you before you die!” “Well,” was the answer, “I am in no immediate danger of dying, but you may shake hands if you wish.” The introduction from Sir Noel Paton was then tendered; and thus began a friendship that grew to a deep affectionate devotion on the side of the younger man. Rossetti took him into the studio, and showed him the paintings he had on his easels. The two which specially impressed his visitor were “La Donna della Fenestra “After I had looked at it for a long time in happy silence, Rossetti sat behind me in the shadow and read me his translation of the poem from the Vita Nuova, which refers to Dante’s Dream. Was it not kind of him to give so much pleasure to one, a complete stranger? I also saw several other paintings of extreme beauty, but which I have no time to mention at present. He told me to come again, and shortly before I left he asked me for my address, and said that he would ask me to come some evening to talk with him, and also to meet one or two. This was altogether unexpected. Fancy having two such men for friends as Sir Noel Paton and Dante Gabriel Rossetti! I went out in a dream. The outside world was altogether idealised. I was in the golden age again. To calm myself, I went and leant over Chelsea Embankment, where there were many people as there was a regatta going on. But, though conscious of external circumstances, I was not in London. The blood of the South burned in my veins, the sky was a semi-tropical one: the river rushing past was not the Thames, but the Tiber; the granite embankment was a marble aqueduct, with vines laden with ripe fruit covering it with a fragrant veil: citrons and pomegranates were all around. Dark passionate eyes of the South met mine; the dreamy sweetness of a strange tongue sang an ineffably delicious song through and through my soul: I sank into the utmost realms of reverie, and drank a precious draught of alien life for only too brief a space. Not De Quincey in the mystic rapture of opium, not Mohammed in his vision of Paradise, drank deeper of the ineffable wine of the Supreme and Unattainable.” It was several weeks before the much-hoped-for invitation came, and the recipient was feeling so ill that he was hardly in a condition to take full advantage of it, and feared he had made a bad impression on his host. The following morning he wrote: 19 Albert St., Regent’s Park N.W., 31: 1: 80. My dear Sir, I hope you will not consider me ungrateful for the pleasure you gave me last night because I outwardly showed so little appreciation—but I was really so unwell from cold and headache that it was the utmost I could do to listen coherently. But though, otherwise, I look back gratefully to the whole evening I especially recall with pleasure the few minutes in which now and again you read. I have never heard such a beautiful reader of verse as yourself, and if I had not felt—well, shy—I should have asked you to go on reading. Voice, and tone, and expression, all were in perfect harmony—and although I have much else to thank you for, allow me to thank you for the pleasure you have given me in this also. I enclose 4 or 5 poems taken at random from my MSS. Two or three were written two or three years ago. That called the “Dancer” is modelled on your beautiful “Card-Dealer.” I have also to thank you for your kind criticisms: and hope that you do not consider my aspirations and daring hopes as altogether in vain. Despair comes sometimes upon me very heavily, but I have not yet lost heart. Yours most faithfully, William Sharp. On the 23d of February he wrote to Mrs. Caird: Dear Mona. Was unable after all to resume my letter on Friday night. On Friday morning I had a note from Rossetti wanting me to come again and dine with him—this time alone, I was glad to find. I spent a most memorable evening, and enjoyed myself more than I can tell. We dined together in free and easy manner in his studio, surrounded by his beautiful paintings and studies. Then, and immediately after dinner he told me things of himself, personal reminiscences, with other conversation He has been so kind to me every way: and this time he gave me two most valuable and welcome introductions—one to Philip Bourke Marston, the man whose genius is so wonderful, considering he has been blind from his birth—and the other to his brother Mr. Michael Rossetti, to whom, however, he had already kindly spoken about me. I am to go when I wish to the latter’s literary re-unions, where I shall make the acquaintance of some of our leading authors and authoresses. Did I tell you that the last time I dined at Rossetti’s house he gave me a copy of his poems, with something from himself written on the fly-leaf? On that occasion I also met Theodore Watts, the well-known critic of The Athenaeum. It is so strange to be on intimate terms with a man whom a short time ago I looked on as so far off. Perhaps, dear friend, when you come to stay with Elizabeth and myself in the happy days which I hope are in store for us all, you will “pop” into quite a literary circle!... I was sure, also, you would enjoy the Life of Clifford in “Mod: Thought.” What a splendid man he was: a true genius, yet full of the joy of life, sociable, fun-loving, genial, and in every way a gentleman. I was reading one of his books lately, and was struck with the sympathetic spirit he showed toward what to him meant nothing—Christianity. I wish we had more men like him. There is another man for whom I think I have an equal admiration, though of a different order in one sense—Dr. Martineau. Have you read anything of his? On Wednesday evening next I am going to a Spiritual Besides verse, I am writing a Paper just now on “Climate in Relation to the Influences of Art,” and going on with one or two other minor things. There now, I have told you all about myself.... Your friend and comrade, Will. He submitted several poems to Rossetti who had suggested that if he had a suitable sonnet it might be included in Hall Caine’s Century of Sonnets. Rossetti’s acknowledgment contained an adverse criticism on the Sonnet sent, softened by an invitation to the younger man to go again to see him. Saturday. Dear Mr. Rossetti, Thanks for your kind invitation to Philip and myself for Monday night—which we are both glad to accept. I found him in bed this morning on my way to the city—but had no scruple in waking him as I knew what pleasure your message would give. We both thank you also for promising to put us up at night. I infer from your letter that you do not think The Two Realities good enough to send to Caine: and though of course sorry, I acquiesce in your judgment. I know that none of my best work is in sonnet-form, and that I have less mastery over the latter than any other form of verse. But I will try to improve my deficiencies in this way by acting up to your suggestions. You see, I have never had the advantage of such a severe critic as you before. For instance, I have received praise from many on account of a sonnet you once saw (one of a series on “Womanhood”) called “Approaching Womanhood”—which I enclose herewith—wishing you to tell me how it is poor and what I might have made of it instead. As I am writing from the city I have no others by me (but indeed you have been bothered sufficiently Looking forward to Monday night, Yours ever sincerely, William Sharp. Eventually the Sonnets were written that satisfied his critic and were included in Hall Caine’s Anthology. About this time also he was attempting a poem relating to an imaginary episode in the early life of Christ. To me it seemed a mistake, and I urged him to consult Mr. Rossetti, who replied as follows: Thursday, Jan., 1880. My dear Sharp, I am quite unable to advise you on so abstruse a point. Strange to say, I can conceive no higher Ideal than the Christ we know; and I judge it to be very rash to lower in poetry (to the apprehension of many beautiful minds) that Ideal, by any assumption to decide a point respecting it which it is not possible to decide, whichever way belief or even conviction may tend. I did not gather fully the relation of the Wandering Jew to your poem. If the very Jew in question, how is he to know of the development of humanity before his time? That he is a symbol of course I understand; but the balance between person and symbol should be clearly determined. I hope you may enjoy yourself in such good company, and am ever, Sincerely yours, D. G. Rossetti. Sir Noel Paton had given his younger countryman an introduction also to his old friend Mrs. Craik (author of John Halifax) who, it happened, was P. B. Marston’s godmother. She had a house in Kent, at Shortlands, and to it she on several occasions invited the two young poets. During one of these days, in the late summer, Monday, 13: 12: 80. “I spent such a pleasant evening on Saturday. I went round to Francillon’s house about 8 o’clock, and spent about an hour there with him and Julian Hawthorne. Then we walked down to Covent Garden, and joined the ‘Oasis’ Club—where we met about 30 or so other literary men and artists, including the D. Christie Murray I so much wished to meet, and whom I like very much. We spent a very pleasant while a decidedly ‘Bohemian’ night, and after we broke up I walked home with Francillon, Julian Hawthorne, and Murray. Hawthorne and myself are to be admitted members at the next meeting.” He has described his friendship with the blind poet in his Introduction to a Selection of Marston’s poems published in the Canterbury Series: “I was spending an evening with Rossetti, when I chanced to make some reference to Marston’s poetry. Finding that I did not know the blind poet and that I was anxious to meet him, Rossetti promised to bring us together. I remember that I was fascinated by him at once—his manner, his personality, his conversation. ‘There is a kind of compensation,’ he remarked to me once, ‘in the way that new friendships arise to brighten my life as soon as I am bowled over by some great loss.’” Just before Christmas, William wrote: Dear Mr. Rossetti, ... I wished very much to show you two poems I had written in the earlier half of this year, and now send them by the same post. The one entitled “Motherhood” I think the better on the whole. It was written to give expression to the feeling I had so strongly of the beauty and sacredness of Motherhood in itself, and how this is the same, in degree, all through creation: the poem is accordingly in three parts—the first dealing with an example of Motherhood in the brute creation, the second with a savage of the lowest order, and the third with a civilised girl-woman of the highest type. The other—“The Dead Bridegroom”—is more purely an “art” poem. After reading it, you will doubtless recognise the story, which I believe is true. Swinburne (I understand) told it to one or two, and Meredith embodied it in a short ballad. Philip Marston told me the story one day, and, it having taken a great hold upon me, the accompanying poem was the result. After I had finished and read it to Philip, it took strong hold of his imagination also—and so he also began a poem on the same subject, treating it differently, however, and employing the complete details of the story, instead of, as It is in great part owing to his generously enthusiastic praise that I now send these for your inspection; but also because much of what may be good in them is owing to your gratefully remembered personal influence and kindness, as well as your own beautiful work.” His kindly critic answered: Jan., 1881. My dear Sharp, I have only this evening read your poems, and am quite amazed at the vast gain in distinction and reality upon anything I had seen of yours before. I read “Motherhood” first and think it best on the whole. It is full of fine things and strange variety. “The Dead Bridegroom” is less equal, but some touches are extremely fine. The close after the crisis strikes me as done with a certain difficulty and wants some pointing. As a narrative poem, I do not yet think it quite distinct enough, though it always rises at the right moment. The execution of your work needs some reform in detail. The adjectives, especially when monosyllabic, are too crowded. There are continual assonances of ings, ants, ows, etc., midway in the lines. However, the sonorousness is sometimes striking and the grip of the phrases complete at its best. I am sure you have benefited much by association with Philip Marston, though I do not mean to say that such things as these can have their mainspring elsewhere than in native gift. I will keep the poems a few days yet and then return them. Yours sincerely, D. G. Rossetti. A letter from the younger poet, written a few days later, reached me in Rome: 24: 1: 81. “Well, last Friday was a ‘red-letter’ day to me. I went to Rossetti’s at six, dined about 7.30, and stayed there all night. We had a jolly talk before dinner, and “The Dead Bridegroom” was never published, but in a letter to a friend who raised objections to the treatment of the poem “Motherhood”—he wrote in explanation: “You seem to think my object in writing was to describe the actual initial act of Motherhood—whereas such acts were only used incidentally to the idea. I entirely agree with you in thinking such a motif unfit for poetic treatment—and more, I think the choice of such would be in very bad taste and wanting in true delicacy. My aim was something very far from this—and what made me see you had not grasped it were the words—‘Besides, is not your type of civilised woman degraded by being associated with the savage and the wild beast?’ “Of course, what I was endeavouring to work out was just the opposite of this. ‘Motherhood’ was written from a deep conviction of the beauty of the state of Motherhood itself, of the holy, strangely similar bond of union it gave to all created things, and how it, as it “These were my aims and views, and I have not yet seen anything to make me change them.... “So much for ‘Motherhood.’ As to ‘The Dead Bridegroom,’ I quite admit that the advisability of choosing such subjects is a very debatable one. It is the only one of mine (in my opinion) which could incur the charge of doubtful ‘fitness.’ As a poem, moreover, it is inferior in workmanship to ‘Motherhood.’” To E. A. S.: “4: 2: 81. “I have written one of my best poems (in its own way) since writing you last. It was on Tuesday night: I did not get back till about seven o’clock, and began at once to write. Your letter came an hour or so afterward but it had to lie waiting till after midnight, when I finished, having written and polished a complete poem of thirty “And I saw thy face wax flush’d, then pale, Son of Allan! “I may have been pale, and may be red— (O Mother of God! whose eyes Watch men lie dead ’neath midnight skies.)” “Both story and verse I invented myself: and I think you will think it equal to anything I have done in power. It was a good lot to do at a sitting, wasn’t it? I will read it to you when you come home again.... I enjoyed my stay with Rossetti immensely. We did not breakfast till one o’clock on Tuesday—pretty late, wasn’t it? (I told you I had a holiday, didn’t I?) He told me again that he considered ‘Motherhood’ fit to take the foremost place in recent poetry. He has such a fine house, though much of it is shut up, and full of fine things: he showed me some of it that hardly any one ever sees. He has asked me to come to him again next Sunday. Isn’t it splendid?—and ar’n’t you glad for my sake? He told Philip that he thought I “had such a sweet genial happy nature.” Isn’t it nice to be told of that. My intense delight in little things seems also to be a great charm to him—whether in a stray line of verse, or some new author, or a cloudlet, or patch of blue sky, or chocolate-drops, etc., etc. Have you noticed this in me? I am half gratified and half amused to hear myself so delineated, as I did not know my nature was so palpable to comparative strangers. And now I am going to crown my horrid vanity by telling you that Mrs. Garnet met Philip a short time ago, and asked after the health of his friend, the “handsome young poet!” There now, amn’t I horridly conceited? (N. B.—I’m pleased all the same, you know!) “I wrote a little lyric yesterday which is one of the most musical I have ever done. To-day, I was ‘took’ by a writing mood in the midst of business hours, and despite all the distracting and unpoetical surroundings, managed to hastily jot down the accompanying lyric. It is the general end of young unknowing love.... “I had a splendid evening last night, and Rossetti read a lot more of his latest work. Splendid as his published work is, it is surpassed by what has yet to be published. The more I look into and hear his poems the more I am struck with the incomparable power and depth of his genius—his almost magical perfection and mastery of language—his magnificent spiritual strength and subtlety. He read some things last night, lines in which almost took my breath away. No sonnet-writer in the past has equalled him, and it is almost inconceivable to imagine any one doing so in the future. His influence is already deep and strong, but I believe in time to come he will be looked back to as we now look to Shakespeare, to Milton, and in one sense to Keats. I can find no language to express my admiration of his supreme gifts, and it is with an almost painful ecstasy that I receive from time to time fresh revelations of his intellectual, spiritual, and artistic splendour. I fancy one needs to be an actual poet to feel this to the full, but every one, however dim and stagnant or coldly intellectual his or her soul, must feel more or less the marvellous beauty of this wedding of the spirit of emotional thought and the spirit of language, and the child thereof—divine, perfect expression. Our language in Rossetti’s hands is more solemn than Spanish, more majestic than Latin, deeper than German, sweeter than Italian, more divine than Greek. I know of nothing comparable to it. He told me to call him Rossetti and not ‘Mr. Rossetti,’ as disparity in age disappears in close friendship, wasn’t it nice of him? It makes me both very proud and humble to be so liked and praised by the greatest master in England—proud to have so far satisfied his fastidious critical taste and to have excited such strong belief in In Italy I was making a careful study of the old masters in painting, and found that my correspondent took but lukewarm interest in my enthusiasm. Until that date he had had little opportunity of studying Painting; and at no time did the cinquecento and earlier painters really attract him. I regretted his indifference, and asked him, banteringly, if his dislike extended equally to the early masters of the pen and to those of the brush. He replied: “You ask me, if I dislike the Old Masters of Poetry as much as I do those of Painting? and I reply Certainly not, but at the same time the comparison is not fair. Most of the old poets are not only poets of their time but have special beauties at the present day, and can be read with as much or almost as much pleasure now as centuries ago. Their imagination, their scope, their detail is endless. On the other hand the Old Masters of Painting are (to me, of course, and speaking generally) utterly uninteresting in their subjects, in the way they treat them, and in the meaning that is conveyed. If it were not for the richness and beauty of their colour I would never go into another gallery from pleasure, but colour alone could not always satisfy me. But take the ‘Old Masters’ of Poetry! Homer of Greece, Virgil and Dante of Italy, Theocritus of Sicily, and in England Chaucer, Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Webster, Ford, Massinger, Marlowe, Milton! “The poetry of these men is beautiful in itself apart from the relation they bear to their times. We may not care for Dryden (though I do) or Prior or Cowley, because in the verse of these latter there is nothing to withstand the ages, nothing that rises above their times. In looking at Rubens, or Leonardo da Vinci, or Fra Angelico, we must school ourselves to admiration by saying ‘How wonderful for their time, what a near attempt at a perspective, what a near success in drawing nature—external “I never tire of that wonderful, tremendous, magnificent epoch in literature—the age of the Elizabethan dramatists. “Despite the frequent beauty of much that followed I think the genius of Poetry was of an altogether inferior power and order (excepting Milton) until once again it flowered forth anew in Byron, in Coleridge, in Keats, and in Shelley! These two last names, what do they not mean! Since then, after a slight lapse, Poetry has soared to serener heights again, and Goethe, Victor Hugo, Tennyson, and Browning have moulded new generations, and men like Rossetti, Swinburne, Morris, Marston, Longfellow, and others have helped to make still more exquisitely fair the Temple of Human Imagination. Men like Joaquin Miller and Whitman are the “We are on the verge of another great dramatic epoch—more subtle and spiritual if not grander in dimensions than that of the sixteenth century. I hope to God I live to see the sunrise which must follow the wayward lights of the present troubled dawn.... “On Monday evening (from eight till two) I go again as usual to Marston’s. I called at his door on my way here this afternoon and left a huge bouquet of wallflowers, with a large yellow heart of daffodils, to cheer him up. He is passionately fond of flowers....” That winter, despite his continued delicacy, was full of interest to William, who had always a rare capacity for throwing himself into the enjoyment of the moment, whatever it might be, or into the interests of others and dismissing from his mind all personal worries. No matter how depressed he might be, when with friends he could shake himself free from the thraldom of the black clouds and let his natural buoyant spirit have full play. His genial sunny manner, his instinctive belief in and reliance on an equal geniality in others assured him many a welcome. Among the literary houses open to him were those of Mr. and Mrs. William Rossetti, Miss Christina Rossetti, Mr. and Mrs. William Bell Scott, Mr. and Mrs. Francillon, Mr. Robert Browning, and Mr. Theodore Watts. Mr. and Mrs. George Robinson, whose daughter, Mary, distinguished herself among the poets of her generation, were especially good to him. Among artists whose studios he frequented were Mr. Ford Madox Brown, Mr. William Morris and Mr. Holman Hunt, and Sir Frederick Leighton; and among his intimate friends he counted Mathilde Blind, the poet, Louise Bevington, Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton, Belford Bax and others. There was a reverse side to the picture however. His desire and effort not to identify himself—in his original work, with any set of writers, or phase of literary Just as of old, when in Glasgow, he had wandered in the city and beyond it, and made acquaintances with all sorts and conditions of men and women, so, too, did he now wander about London, especially about the neighbourhood of “The Pool” which offered irresistible attractions and experiences to him. These he touched on later in “Madge o’ the Pool” and elsewhere. I remember he told me that rarely a day passed in which he did not “You ask about our acquaintance with Willie Sharp. Yes, we knew him well in the days when we all were gay and young.... He was a very nice-looking amiable young fellow whom every one liked, very earnest with great notions of his own mission as regards Poetry, which he took very seriously. He used to have the saving grace of fun—which kept him sweet and wholesome—otherwise he might have fallen into the morbid set.” Unfortunately, I have very few letters or notes that illustrate the light gay side of his nature—boyish, whimsical, mischievous, with rapid changes of mood. Others saw more of it at this period than I; for to me he came for sympathy in his work and difficulties; to others he went for gaiety and diversion, and to them he made light of his constant delicacy; so that the more serious side of his life was usually presented to me—and naturally our most unpromising prospects and our long engagement were not matters to inspirit either of us. At the end of August in that year his connection with the Bank of the City of Melbourne ceased. That his services were scarcely valuable to his employers may be gathered from the manner and reason of his dismissal. He has himself told the story: “I did not take very kindly to the business, and my employers saw it. One day I was invited to interview the Principal. He put it very diplomatically, said he didn’t think the post suited me (I agreed), and finally he offered me the option of accepting an agency in some out-of-the-way place in Australia, or quitting the London service. ‘Think it over,’ he said, ‘and give us your answer to-morrow.’ I think I might have given him my answer there and then. Next morning the beauty of the During the intervening months efforts to find other work resulted through the kindness of Mr. George Lillie Craik in a temporary post held for six months in the Fine Art Society’s Gallery in Bond Street. It was the proposal of the Directors to form a section dealing with old German and English Engravings and Etchings, and that William should be put in charge of it; and that meanwhile, during the six months, he should make a special study of the subject, learn certain business details to make him more efficient. The work and the prospect were a delightful change after the distasteful grind at the Bank, and he threw himself into the necessary studies with keen relish. In the autumn he spent two months in Scotland, visiting his mother, and other relatives, Mr. W. Bell Scott, and his old friend Sir Noel Paton. From Lanarkshire he wrote in September to me and to Rossetti. To E. A. S.: Lesmahagow, Sept., 1881. ... Yesterday I spent some hours in a delicious ramble over the moors and across a river toward a distant fir wood, where I lay down for a time, beside the whispering waters, seeing nothing but a semicircle of pines, a wall of purple moorland, the brown water gurgling and splashing and slowly moving over the mossy stones, 10th Sept., 1881. My dear Rossetti, Where I most enjoy myself is along the solitary banks of the Nithan: it is a true mountain stream, now rushing along in broken falls, now rippling over shallows of After the gloaming has dreamed itself into night the banks and woods along the stream seem to become a part of a weird faeryland. The shadows are simply wonderful. White owls come out and flit about on silent ghostly wings with weird uncanny cries, and bats begin to lead a furiously active existence. The other night I was quite startled by seeing a perfectly white animal slowly approaching me: it looked remarkably like the ghost of a fox or wild-cat, but I am afraid it was only a white hare. So much for my surroundings. As for the few people hereabout they are all charmingly of the old time. After dinner, and while the claret, port, and sherry (the latter, oh so brandied!) are in process of consumption, large toddy goblets with silver spoon-ladles and smaller tumblers are handed round to ladies and gentlemen alike. Then come the large silver flagon with the hot water, the bowl with the strictly symmetrical lumps of sugar, three of which go to this large tumbler, and the cut crystal decanter of pure Glenlivet. The custom has great advantages, but it certainly does not conduce to the safe driving of the dogcart home again. Here is a specimen of a purely Scotch Bill of Fare, for some especially noteworthy occasion: BILL OF FARE When I have a house of my own I shall give such a dinner some day, and the Sassenach hearts present shall admit there is no dinner like a Scotch one and no whiskey like the heavenly Celtic brew. And now, au revoir, Ever yours affectionately, William Sharp. |
|
