‘Walk? Why, of course!’ said Eric. ‘You don’t suppose we’ve come to this jolly Lake country, with views, and sunrises, and suchlike floating all about, to be jolted in the shandrydan of the period? It will freshen us up after the riotous doings at Hexham, where we must have given our constitutions rather “a nasty bump,” to say the least of it.’
‘Don’t talk in that horrid mundane way,’ said Hermione, who was verging on the sentimental, semi-poetical period of life. ‘There, yonder, is Rydal Mount on the side of the hill, “The modest house, yet covered with the Virginia creeper,” and overlooking that lovely Windermere. Surely no poet was ever more delightfully lodged?’
‘No poet was ever so happy in the whole world, I believe,’ assented Corisande—‘except perhaps Tennyson. Just think! He had married the “perfect woman, nobly planned”; he had the nicest, sweetest, devotedest sister, who agreed with the perfect woman, which doesn’t always happen. He was contented, even thankful for his lot. He had leisure—friends too, who _were_ friends, that is, friends in need. They stood by him when such support was of value: Raisley Calvert, who left him a legacy of a thousand pounds, which sufficed to give him leisure and ease of mind just when he most required it; and Lord Lonsdale, who paid up his father’s debt, which meant life-long independence.’
‘How very seldom the friends of poets and writers,’ said Mrs. Banneret, ‘think of the very thing which would earn their everlasting gratitude! They flatter and profess admiration, but stop short of substantial benefits. But, perhaps, after all, the poet’s healthiest frame of mind is that of independence. Being compelled to work certainly brings out the best fruit of a man’s intellect.’
‘Yes, indeed! Yet it is pitiable to think how poets and dramatists, not to mention the herd of fictionists, worked under depressing conditions of penury, even absolute want. Read the private papers of Henry Ryecroft, which no doubt faithfully represented the experience of the author. It makes your heart ache—the direst poverty, hunger and cold, shivering in semi-starvation—think of a London winter under such conditions! How he could have produced the work he did is a marvel!’