Although the major shareholders of the magazine were not concerned about Tennyson's lukewarm market performance and even went out of their way to reassure him not to take it too much to heart, Tennyson himself could not just lie back and accept it peacefully.
However, the more anxious he became, the worse his writing turned out, so terrible that even he could not bear to read it.
Gazing at the mountainous pile of Wordsworth, Sosse, and Coleridge's poetry collections beside him, Tennyson felt so ashamed that he wished he could bury himself alive under his discarded drafts.
"Alas..."
Tennyson, holding Thackeray's letter, shook his head and said, "William, you're not the only one wanting to give up, even I have thought about giving up the path of writing poetry."
The door to the room was gently pushed open, and a blonde lady with a black apron, holding a tray with a teapot, walked in and asked in her halting English, "Mr. Tennyson, would you like some hot water added?"
