"Of all questions," remarked Lady Mandeville, "I dislike being asked, 'which is your favourite poet?' Authors who appeal to the feelings are those of whom our opinions must inevitably vary most: I judge according to my mood."
"Another odious fashion of conversation is that of comparison: I look upon them as if
'Their souls were each a star, and dwelt apart.'"
"Are you an admirer of Wordsworth?"
"Yes—he is the most poetical of philosophers. Strange, that a man can be so great a poet, and yet deficient in what are poetry's two grand requisites,—imagination and passion. He describes what he has seen, and beautifully, because he is impressed with the beauty before his eyes. He creates nothing: I cannot recall one fine simile. He has often expressions of touching feeling—he is often melancholy, often tender—but with more of sympathy than energy; and for simplicity he often mistakes both vulgarity and silliness. He never fills the atmosphere around with music, 'lapping us in Elysium,' like Moore: he never makes his readers fairly forget their very identity, in the intense interest of the narrative, like Scott: he never
