Times have changed since a certain author was executed for murdering his publisher. They say that when the author was on the scaffold he said good-bye to the minister and to the reporters, and then he saw some publishers sitting in the front row below, and to them he did not say good-bye. He said instead, "I'll see you again."
Oh the gladness of her gladness when she's glad, And the sadness of her sadness when she's sad, But the gladness of her gladness And the sadness of her sadness Are as nothing, Charles, To the badness of her badness when she's bad.
It has been said of the unseen army of the dead, on their everlasting march, that when they are passing a rural cricket ground, the Englishmen fall out of the ranks for a moment to lean over a gate and smile.