The only inhabitants of the nineteenth century that he ever praised were a few obscure French novelists, of whom nobody but himself had ever heard.

He had his own opinion about God Almighty, and objected to Heaven on account of the strong Clapham contingent likely to be found in residence there.
Humour made him sad, and sentiment made him ill.

Art irritated him and science bored him.

He despised his own family and disliked everybody else.

For exercise he yawned, and his conversation was mainly confined to an occasional shrug.
"Nobody liked him, but everybody respected him.