When, however, the real divine oestrum descends upon him, he discards those follies.

Then his language, like his thought, is all his own: sublime, impassioned, burning, turbid; instinct with a deep volcanic fire of genuine enthusiasm.

The thought is simple; the diction direct; the attitude of mind and the turn of expression are singularly living, surprisingly modern.

We hear the man speak, as he spoke at Fulke Greville's supper-party, as he spoke at Oxford, as he spoke before the Sorbonne, as he might be speaking now.

There is no air of literary effort, no tincture of antiquated style, in these masculine utterances..