Sir Cavendish is governor of Newfoundland from 1901-1904, throughout which time and for years afterwards he labours to perfect his ode — it must be said, to the neglect of his duties as governor.
He is often absent from official functions, which forces his wife to say that he is sick, though no one believes her, for it is common knowledge that he is upstairs in his writing room, the window of which looks out upon the rear grounds of Government House.
People walking on Circular Road on their way to Government House receptions often see him sitting side-on to the window, looking out, lost in brooding contemplation.
To a colleague who tells him in a letter “I fear we have another Pickmore on our hands,” Prime Minister Sir Robert Bond warns him not to be taken in by “the apparently inexhaustible inventiveness of Lady Boyle when it comes to devising ailments for that versifying derelict Sir Cavendish. Rest easy, my friend; the man is not sick, or no more so, shall I say, than any man who spends his days and nights composing poetry, which if that be illness he is for embalming long past due.”
In such a way are poets talked about behind their backs; in the knowledge that such things are being said of them must they persist, as I have done, my ears burning.