Dorsenne very justly diagnosed there one of those hypnotisms of admiration such as artists, great or small, often inspire around them.

But the author, who always generalized too quickly, had not comprehended that the admirer with Florent was grafted on a friend worthy to be painted by La Fontaine or by Balzac, the two poets of friendship, the one in his sublime and tragic Cousin Pons, the other in that short but fine fable, in which is this verse, one of the most tender in the French language: Vous metes, en dormant, un peu triste apparu.
Florent did not love Lincoln because he admired him; he admired him because he loved him.

He was not wrong in considering the painter as one of the most gifted who had appeared for thirty years.

But Lincoln would have had neither the bold elegance of his drawing, nor the vivid strength of coloring, nor the ingenious finesse of imagination if the other had lent himself with less ardor to the service of the work and to the glory of the artist.

When Lincoln wanted to travel he found his brother-in-law the most diligent of couriers.