better than that of most of Apollo's children.

A word about 'Sordello.' One half of 'Sordello,' and that, with Mr.
Browning's usual ill-luck, the first half, is undoubtedly obscure. It
is as difficult to read as 'Endymion' or the 'Revolt of Islam,' and
for the same reason--the author's lack of experience in the art of
composition. We have all heard of the young architect who forgot to
put a staircase in his house, which contained fine rooms, but no way
of getting into them. 'Sordello' is a poem without a staircase. The
author, still in his twenties, essayed a high thing. For his subject--

'He singled out
Sordello compassed murkily about
With ravage of six long sad hundred years.'

He partially failed; and the British public, with its accustomed
generosity, and in order, I suppose, to encourage the others, has
never ceased girding at him, because forty-two years ago he published,
at his own charges, a little book of two hundred and fifty pages,
which even such of them as were then able to read could not
understand.

Poetry should be vital--either stirring our blood by its divine
movement, or snatching our breath by its divine perfection. To do both
is supreme glory; to do either is enduring fame.

There is a great deal of beautiful poetical writing to be had nowadays
from the booksellers. It is interesting reading, but as one reads one
trembles. It smells of mortality. It would seem as if, at the very
birth of most of our modern poems,