The moment that he came in contact with anything that was slovenly, anything that was lawless, in actual life, something rose up in him, older than any opinions, the blood of generations of good men.

He met George Sand and her poetical circle and hated it, with all the hatred of an old city merchant for the irresponsible life.

He met the Spiritualists and hated them, with all the hatred of the middle class for borderlands and equivocal positions and playing with fire.

His intellect went upon bewildering voyages, but his soul walked in a straight road.

He piled up the fantastic towers of his imagination until they eclipsed the planets; but the plan of the foundation on which he built was always the plan of an honest English house in Camberwell.