No one thinks of winter when the grass is green.

For undemocratic reasons and for motives not of State, they arrive at their conclusions, largely inarticulate. Being void of self-expression they confide their views to none; but sometimes in a smoking room, one learns why things were done.

Literature is a splendid mistress, but a bad wife.

Both triumph and disaster are impostors.

And the end of the fight is tombstone white with the name of the late deceased, and the epitaph drear, "A Fool lies here who tried to hustle the East."

If the aunt of the vicar has never touched liquor, watch out when she finds the Champagne.

I've just read that I am dead. Don't forget to delete me from your list of subscribers.