"There is
only a small inn at a little place called Carysford. I looked it out on
the map. I thought we'd drive there today, put up for the night to give
the horses a rest, and go on to this place of my governor's the next
day. It's on the opposite side of the lake."
He jerked his whip to the right.
"Which side, what lake?" asked Howard, hopelessly. "I see nothing of
the lake, nothing but mist and sodden hills. No wonder the word 'poet'
instinctively arouses one's animosity. When I think of the number of
well-meaning and inspired idiots who have written reams of poetry about
this place, I feel at this present moment as if I could cheerfully rend
even a Wordsworth, a Southey, or a Coleridge; and I look back with
remorse upon the hours, the throbs of admiration, I have expended upon
what I once deemed their inspired pages. If I remember rightly, most of
the lake poets went off their heads; when I gaze around me I must admit
that I am not surprised."
Stafford laughed absently; he was quite accustomed to Howard's cynical
vein.
"They're all right enough," he said. "That is, I suppose they are, for
I never read any of 'em since I left school.
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