nstance,
he is too fond of inversions; _i.e._ he often places the verb before the
substantive, and the accusative before the verb. W. Scott quoted, as
from me,

'The swan on _sweet_ St. Mary's lake
Floats double, swan and shadow,'

instead of _still_; thus obscuring my idea, and betraying his own
uncritical principles of composition.

Byron seems to me deficient in _feeling_. Professor Wilson, I think,
used to say that 'Beppo' was his best poem; because all his faults were
there brought to a height. I never read the 'English Bards' through. His
critical prognostications have, for the most part, proved erroneous.

Sir James Mackintosh said of me to M. de Stael, Wordsworth is not a
great poet, but he is the greatest man among poets.' Madame de Stael
complained of my style.

Now whatever may be the result of my experiment in the subjects which I
have chosen for poetical composition--be they vulgar or be they not,--I
can say without vanity, that I have bestowed great pains on my _style_,
full as much as any of my contemporaries have done on theirs. I yield to
none in _love for my art_. I, therefore, labour at it with reverence,
affection, and industry. My main endeavour as to style has been that my
poems should be written in pure intelligible English. Lord Byron has
spoken severely of my compositions. However faulty they may be, I do not
think that I ever could have prevailed upon myself to print such lines
as he has done; for instance,

'I stood at Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,
A palace and a prison on each hand.'

Some person ought to write a critical review, analysing Lord Byron's
language, in order to guard others against imitating him in these
respects.

Shelley is one of the best _artists_ of us all: I mean in workmanship of
style.

At Calgarth, dining with Mrs. and the Miss Watsons ... a very fine
portrait of the late Bishop in the dining-room.... Mr. Wordsworth there:
a very agreeable party. Walked home with him in the evening to Rydal. It
rained all the way. We met a poor woman in the road. She sobbed as she
passed us. Mr. Wordsworth was much affected with her condition: she was
swollen with dropsy, and slowly hobbling along with a stick, having been
driven from one lodging to another. It was a dark stormy night. Mr.
Wordsworth brought her back to the Lowwood Inn, where, by the landlord's
leave, she was housed in one of his barns.

One day I met Mr. M.T. Sadler at the late Archbishop'