It is a very wonderful book. If only messieurs les romanciers
could photograph experience in their fiction as she has done in
some of her pages! The episode of Pachay, short as that is, is
masterly--above the reach of Balzac; how far above the laborious,
beetle--flight of Henry James! Above even George Meredith. It is
what James would give his right hand to do once. The episode of
Antonelli is very good, too, but not so exquisite as the other.

There is something pathetic about both "Asolando" and "Demeter,"
those shrivelled blossoms from the stout old laurels touched with
frost of winter and old age. But I find little to dwell upon in
either of them. Browning has more sap of life--Tennyson more ripe
and mellow mastery. Each is here in the main reproducing his
mannerism.

I am writing to you, you see, just as if I had not been silent for
so long. I take you at your word, and expect Margot to be always
the same to a comrade.

If you were only here! Keats said that "heard melodies are sweet,
but those unheard are sweeter." How false!

Yes, thus it is: somewhere by me
Unheard, by me unfelt, unknown,
The laughing, rippling notes of thee
Are sounding still; while I alone
Am left to sit and sigh and say--
Music unheard is sweet as they.

This is no momentary mood, and no light bubble-breath of