circumstances, humanity became more human. And with the thought, the
consciousness of this imperative kinship, arose the vague desire, the
high resolve to be no curious dilettante in novel literary experiments,
but to compel an interpretative understanding of this complex human
environment.

Those who knew the poet intimately are aware of the loving regard he
always had for those nocturnal experiences: but perhaps few recognise
how much we owe to the subtle influences of that congenial isolation he
was wont to enjoy on fortunate occasions.

It is not my intention--it would, obviously, be a futile one, if
entertained--to attempt an analysis or elaborate criticism of the many
poems, long and short, produced by Robert Browning. Not one volume, but
several, of this size, would have to be allotted to the adequate
performance of that end. Moreover, if readers are unable or unwilling to
be their own expositors, there are several trustworthy hand-books which
are easily procurable. Some one, I believe, has even, with unselfish
consideration for the weaker brethren, turned "Sordello" into prose--a
superfluous task, some scoffers may exclaim. Personally, I cannot but
think this craze for the exposition of poetry, this passion for
"dissecting a rainbow," is harmful to the individual as well as
humiliating to the high office of Poetry itself, and not infrequently it
is ludicrous.

I must be content with a few words anent the more important or
significant poems, and in due course attempt an estimate by a broad
synthesis, and not by cumulative critical analyses.

In the selection of Paracelsus as the hero of his first mature poem,