The truth of the old proverb, "The cowl doesn't make the monk," is eminently shown in literature.

It is extremely rare to find among literary men a nature and a talent that are in perfect accord.

The faculties are not the man himself.

This disconnection, whose phenomena are amazing, proceeds from an unexplored, possibly an unexplorable mystery.

The brain and its products of all kinds (for in art the hand of man is a continuation of his brain) are a world apart, which flourishes beneath the cranium in absolute independence of sentiments, feelings, and all that is called virtue, the virtue of citizens, fathers, and private life.