“Mr. Sims, have you any idea who wrote the Ancient Mariner? Or have you by chance ever heard of the Ancient Mariner?”
“Wordsworth. I believe, sir.”
Yet I am not so much discontented as afraid of sinking into a lethargy of smug iconoclasm. It is bad for the soul to cease to expect grapes of a thistle, for the next stage is to be “old and a cynic; a carrion crow,” like the old man in Prince Otto, with rotten eggs the burthen of my song.
Yet what is it that I want? My little rut is comfortable; so long have I lain in it that now my very body has conformed. I fit my easy chair beside my reading lamp; my thumbs are broadened with much holding of books. I depend on my tea.
I depend on my tea.Yesterday, calling on Lear, I must have voiced my uneasiness, for he at once suggested a hobby. His b
