His paradise was for a long time a delightful spot in which he forgot himself.
When he came to perceive that things did not go on quite satisfactorily in the best of republics he was sorely grieved, and indulged in another dream, that of compelling men to be happy even by force.

Every act which seemed to him prejudicial to the interest of the people roused him to revengeful indignation.

Though he was as gentle as a child, he cherished the fiercest political animosity.

He would not have killed a fly, and yet he was for ever talking of a call to arms.

Liberty was his passion, an unreasoning, absolute passion, to which he gave all the feverish ardour of his blood.