He was not exacting, like those whose high claims and just demands exceed all that we possess to offer them.

The most intimate of his acquaintances never penetrated to that secluded fortress in which the soul, absent from his common life, dwelt; a fortress which he so well succeeded in concealing, that its very existence was scarcely suspected.
In his relations and intercourse with others, he always seemed occupied in what interested them; he was cautions not to lead them from the circle of their own personality, lest they should intrude into his.

If he gave up but little of his time to others, at least of that which he did relinquish, he reserved none for himself.

No one ever asked him to give an account of his dreams, his wishes, or his hopes.

No one seemed to wish to know what he sighed for, what he might have conquered, if his white and tapering fingers could have linked the brazen chords of life to the golden ones of his enchanted lyre! No one had leisure to think of this in his presence.