od_ constantly testified to the ever-present reality of his spiritual
life; a life far more real to him than the sense-conscious life although he
alluded to it as his dream. In one place he says:

"Now truly, is dreamland no longer a phantasy of sleep, but a loveliness so
great that, like deep music, there could be no words wherewith to measure
it, but only the breathless unspoken speech of the soul upon whom has
fallen the secret dews."

Of the impossibility of adequately explaining the mystery of Illumination
and the sensations it inspires, he says, speaking through the Self of
_Fiona Macleod_: "I write, not because I know a mystery, and would reveal
it, but because I have known a mystery and am to-day as a child before it,
and can neither reveal nor interpret it."

This is comparable with Whitman's "when I try to describe the best, I can
not. My tongue is ineffectual on its pivots."

Another sentence from _Fiona_:

"There is a great serenity in the thought of death, when it is known to be
the gate of Life."

Like all who have gained the Great Blessing, the revelation to the mind of
that higher Self, that _we are_, William Sharp suffered keenly. The despair
of the world was his, co-equal with the Joy of the Spirit. Indeed, his is
at once the gift and the burden of the Illuminati.

Mrs. Mona Caird said of him: "He was almost encumbered by the infinity of
his perceptions; by the thronging interests, intuitions, glimpses of
wonders, beauties, and mysteries which made life for him a pageant and a
splendor such as is only disclosed to the soul that has to bear the torment
and revelations of genius."

The burden of the world's sorrow; the longings and aspirations of the soul
that has glimpsed, or that has more fully cognized the realms of the Spirit
which are its rightful home; are ever a part of the price of liberation.
The illumined mind sees and hears and feels the vibrations that emanate
from all who are travailing in the meshes of the sense-conscious life; but
through all the sympathetic sorrow, there runs the thread of a divine
assurance and certainty of profound joy--a bliss that passes comprehension
or description.

Mrs. Sharp, in the final conclusion of the _Memoirs_ says "to quote my
husband's own words--ever below all the stress and failure, below all the
triumph of his toil, lay the _beauty of his dream_."

In accordance with an oft-repeated request, these lines are inscribed on
the Iona cross carved