He is not an impressive person, but he is certainly an interesting person.

One feels that he has preserved by some magic of temperament, not to be analyzed by the most skilful of psychologists, the spirit of boyhood.
You may notice this spirit quite visibly in his face.

The years leave few marks on his handsome countenance.

He loves to frown and depress his lips before the camera, for, like a child, he loves to play at being somebody else, and somebody else with him is Napoleon--I am sure that he chose the title of Northcliffe so that he might sign his notes with the initial N--but when he is walking in a garden, dressed in white flannels, and looking as if he had just come from a Turkish bath, he has all the appearance of a youth.

It is a tragedy that a smile so agreeable should give way at times to a frown as black as midnight; that the freshness of his complexion should yield to an almost jaundiced yellow; and that the fun and frolic of the spirit should flee away so suddenly and for such long periods before the witch of melancholy.
Of his part in the history of the world no historian will be able to speak with unqualified approval.