Why is it, do you suppose, that an Englishman is unhappy until he has explained America?

"If animals had a Pope," Major Thompson said to me, "their Vatican would be in London. And if by some dire submarine cataclysm that noble vessel, Great Britain, were to be shipwrecked and start to founder, believe me, there would surely be somebody in Westminster to cry from the top of the Tower: "Dogs first!"

One matter Englishmen don't think in the least funny is their happy consciousness of possessing a deep sense of humor.

The English may not like music, but they absolutely love the noise it makes.

It is a part of English hypocrisy-or English reserve-that, whilst we are fluent enough in grumbling about small inconveniences, we insist on making light of any great difficulties or griefs that may beset us.

The English have a scornful insular way Of calling the French light.

The English winter-ending in July, To recommence in August.

The maxim of the British people is "Business as usual."

English life is nothing but a huge masquerade ball in which the participants contrive to conceal their feelings, their addresses, their hobbies, their incomes, their decorations, their sorrows, their talents, their achievements, and even their names.

One of the marked superiorities the English enjoy over other peoples is their ability to imbue the foreigner with a crippling inferiority complex the moment he sets foot on British soil.