In the first place, he became a more idle man. The rich enervating
climate began to tell upon his mind, as it did upon Lucia's health. He
missed that perpetual spur of nervous excitement, change of society,
influx of ever-fresh objects, which makes London, after all, the best
place in the world for hard working; and which makes even a walk along
the streets an intellectual tonic. In the soft and luxurious West
Country Nature invited him to look at her, and dream; and dream he
did, more and more, day by day. He was tired, too--as who would not
be?--of the drudgery of writing for his daily bread; and relieved from
the importunities of publishers and printers'-devils, he sent up fewer
and fewer contributions to the magazines. He would keep his energies
for a great work; poetry was, after all, his forte: he would not
fritter himself away on prose and periodicals, but would win for
himself, etc. etc. If he made a mistake, it was at least a pardonable
one.
But Elsley became not only a more idle, but a more morose man. He
began to feel the evils of solitude. There was no one near with whom
he could hold rational converse, save an antiquarian parson or two;
and parsons were not to his taste. So, never measuring his wits
against those of his peers, and despising the few men whom he met
as inferior to himself, he grew more and more wrapt up in his own
thoughts and his own tastes. His own poems, even to the slightest turn
of expression, became more and more important to him.
Pages:
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312