I knew I was in England by the smell.

The Englishman is too apt to neglect the present good in preparing against the possible evil.

The Englishman walks before the law like a trained horse in the circus. He has the sense of legality in his bones, in his muscles.

Englishmen must have an island.

Go anywhere in England, where there are natural, wholesome, contented, and really nice English people; and what do you always find? That the stables are the real centre of the household.

England is the paradise of individuality, eccentricity heresy anomalies, hobbies, and humours.

But Lord! To see the absurd nature of Englishmen that cannot forbear laughing and jeering at everything that looks strange.

If you ask any ordinary reader which of Dickens's proletarian characters he can remember, the three he is almost certain to mention are Bill Sykes, Sam Weller and Mrs. Gamp. A burglar, a valet and a drunken midwife-not exactly a representative cross-section of the English working class.

The Englishman, be it noted, seldom resorts to violence; when he is sufficiently goaded he simply opens up, like the oyster, and devours his adversary.

I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.

You are the slaves of laws. The French are slaves of men.

There is nothing so bad or so good that you will not find Englishmen doing it; but you will never find an Englishman in the wrong. He does everything on principle.

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.

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

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

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

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

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!

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