conviction that he was condemned to mingle the prosaic and the practical
with the fanciful and the ideal, and that, having given hostages to
fortune, he must conform even in a measure to the requirements of a
position too lucrative to be cast aside. From this time also his
physical condition, which never had been robust, began to show the
effects of sedentary life, but the warning of a long siege of nervous
dyspepsia was suffered to pass unheeded, and for five or six years he
labored prodigiously, his mind expanding and his intellect growing more
brilliant as the vital powers decayed.
It would seem that with the awakening of the consciousness of the better
powers within him, with the realization that he was destined for a place
in literature, my brother felt a quasi remorse for the years he fancied
he had wasted. He was too severe with himself to understand that his
comparative tardiness in arriving at the earnest, thoughtful stage of
lifework was the inexorable law of gradual development which must govern
the career of a man of his temperament, with his exuberant vitality and
his showy talents. It was a serious mistake, but it was not the less a
noble one. And now also the influences of home crept a little closer
into his heart. His family life had not been without its tragedies of
bereavement, and the death of his oldest boy in Germany had drawn him
even nearer to the children who were growing up around him.
Much of his tenderest verse was inspired by affection for his family,
and as some great shock is often essential to the revolution in a
buoyant nature, so it seemed to require the oft-recurring tragedies of
life to draw from him all that was noblest and sweetest in his
sympathetic soul. Had the angel of death never hovered over the crib in
my brother's home, had he never known the pangs and the heart-hunger
which come when the little voice is stilled and the little chair is
empty, he could not have written the lines which voice the great cry of
humanity and the hope of reunion in immortality beyond the grave.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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