“The remarkable thing about Shakespeare is that he really is very good, in spite of all the people who say he is very good.”

“Swinburne, by the way, when a very young man, had gone to Walter Savage Landor, then a very old man, and been given the poet’s blessing he asked for; and Landor when a child had been patted on the head by Dr Samuel Johnson; and Johnson when a child had been taken to London to be touched by Queen Anne for scrofula, the King’s evil; and Queen Anne when a child...”

“Welsh Incident 'But that was nothing to what things came outFrom the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.'What were they? Mermaids? dragons? ghosts?'Nothing at all of any things like that.'What were they, then?' 'All sorts of queer things,Things never seen or heard or written about,Very strange, un-Welsh, utterly peculiarThings. Oh, solid enough they seemed to touch,Had anyone dared it. Marvellous creation,All various shapes and sizes, and no sizes,All new, each perfectly unlike his neighbour,Though all came moving slowly out together.'Describe just one of them.' 'I am unable.'What were their colours?' 'Mostly nameless colours,Colours you'd like to see; but one was puceOr perhaps more like crimson, but not purplish.Some had no colour.' 'Tell me, had they legs?'Not a leg or foot among them that I saw.'But did these things come out in any order?'What o'clock was it? What was the day of the week?Who else was present? How was the weather?'I was coming to that. It was half-past threeOn Easter Tuesday last. The sun was shining.The Harlech Silver Band played Marchog JesuOn thrity-seven shimmering instrumentsCollecting for Caernarvon's (Fever) Hospital Fund.The populations of Pwllheli, Criccieth,Portmadoc, Borth, Tremadoc, Penrhyndeudraeth,Were all assembled. Criccieth's mayor addressed themFirst in good Welsh and then in fluent English,Twisting his fingers in his chain of office,Welcoming the things. They came out on the sand,Not keeping time to the band, moving seawardSilently at a snail's pace. But at lastThe most odd, indescribable thing of allWhich hardly one man there could see for wonderDid something recognizably a something.'Well, what?' 'It made a noise.' 'A frightening noise?'No, no.' 'A musical noise? A noise of scuffling?'No, but a very loud, respectable noise ---Like groaning to oneself on Sunday morningIn Chapel, close before the second psalm.'What did the mayor do?' 'I was coming to that.”

“If I were a girl, I'd despair. The supply of good women far exceeds that of the men who deserve them.”

“Nor had I any illusions about Algernon Charles Swinburne, who often used to stop my perambulator when he met it on Nurses’ Walk, at the edge of Wimbledon Common, and pat me on the head and kiss me: he was an inveterate pram-stopper and patter and kisser.”

“Never use the word 'audience.' The very idea of a public, unless the poet is writing for money, seems wrong to me. Poets don't have an 'audience': They're talking to a single person all the time.”

“Malthus's school was in the centre of the town of Adrianople, and was not one of those monkish schools where education is miserably limited to the bread and water of the Holy Scriptures. Bread is good and water is good, but the bodily malnutrition that may be observed in prisoners or poor peasants who are reduced to this diet has its counterpart in the spiritual malnutrition of certain clerics. These can recite the genealogy of King David of the Jews as far back as Deucalion's Flood, and behind the Flood to Adam, without a mistake, or can repeat whole chapters of the Epistles of Saint Paul as fluently as if they were poems written in metre; but in all other respects are as ignorant as fish or birds.”