He had no one word of intimating that he had laughed or wept, was married or in love, had been commended, or cheated, or chagrined. If he had ever lived and acted, we were none the wiser for it. The capital secret of his profession, namely, to convert life into truth, he had not learned. Not a line did he draw out of real history. Then all things go into decay.
Genius leaves the temple to haunt the senate or the market.
Literature becomes frivolous. Science is cold. The remedy is already declared in the ground of our complaint of the Church. We have contrasted the Church with the Soul. All men go in flocks to this saint or that poet, avoiding the God who seeth in secret.