I know hardly anything of him." "Picture to yourself," returned the editor, with slow emphasis, "a man who at his best was only a stolid country banker, and who now is sunk into fatuous senility.

I hardly know whether I dare trust myself to speak of Robb, for I confess that he has become to me an abstraction rather than a human being--an embodiment of all the vicious routine, the foul obscurantism, the stupid prejudice, which an enlightened Liberalism has to struggle against.

There he sits, a satire on our parliamentary system.

He can't put together three sentences; he never in his life had an idea.

The man is a mere money-sack, propped up by toadies and imbeciles.