that the public do not understand him, and flies back to his solitude, back to his own soul.  And Mantua, and love, and adventure all die within him.  “I have all humanity,” he says, “within myself—­why then should I seek humanity?” This is the way the age’s passion for individuality shows itself in him.  Other men put it into love, war, or adventure.  He does not; he puts it into the lonely building-up of his own soul.  Even when he is brought into the midst of the action of the time we see that he is apart from it.  As he wanders through the turmoil of the streets of Ferrara in Book iv., he is dreaming still of his own life, of his own soul.  His curiosity, wars and adventures are within.  The various lives he is anxious to live are lived in lonely imaginations.  The individuality he realises is in thought.  At this point then he is apart from his century—­an exceptional temperament set in strong contrast to the world around him—­the dreamer face to face with a mass of men all acting with intensity.  And the common result takes place; the exceptional breaks down against the steady and terrible pull of the ordinary.  It is Hamlet over again, and when Sordello does act it is just as Hamlet does, by a sudden impulse which lifts him from dreaming into momentary action, out of which, almost before he has realised he is acting, he slips back again into dreams.  And his action seems to him the dream, and his dream the activity.  That saying of Hamlet’s would be easy on the lips of Sordello, if we take “bad dreams” to mean for him what they meant for Hamlet the moment he is forced to action in the real world—­“I could be bounded in a nut-shell and think myself king of infinite space, had I not bad dreams.”  When he is surprised into action at the Court of Love at Mantua, and wins the prize of song, he seems to slip back into a sleepy cloud.  But Palma, bending her beautiful face over him and giving him her scarf, wins him to stay at Mantua; and for a short time he becomes the famous poet.  But he is disappointed.  That which he felt himself to be (the supernal greatness of his individuality) is not recognised, and at last he feels that to act and fight his way through a world which appreciates his isolated greatness so little as to dare to criticise him, is impossible.  We have seen in the last chapter how he slips back to Goito, to his contemplation of himself in nature, to his self-communion, to the dreams which do not contradict his opinion of himself.  The momentary creator perishes in the dreamer.  He gives up life, adventure, love, war, and he finally surrenders his art.  No more poetry for him.