I dislike the sneering essence of his writings.

I keep referring to his face, until the dislike seems to become personal.
How different is it with Wordsworth! And yet I cannot escape from the thought that he is always solemnly thinking of himself (but I do reverence him).

But this is curious; Byron was a greater egoist, and yet I do not feel the same with him.

He reminds me of a beast of the desert, savage and beautiful; and the former is what one would imagine a superior donkey reclaimed from the heathen to be--a very superior donkey, I mean, with great power of speech and great natural complacency, and whose stubbornness you must admire as part of his mission.

The worst is that no one will imagine anything sublime in a superior donkey, so my simile is unfair and false.