We never know enough about the infinitely complex circumstances of any past event to prophesy the future by analogy.
If one could make alive again for other people some cobwebbed skein of old dead intrigues and breathe breath and character into dead names and stiff portraits. That is history to me!
If the French noblesse had been capable of playing cricket with their peasants, their chateaux would never have been burnt.
Before modern times there was Walking, but not the perfection of Walking, because there was no tea.
Village cricket spread fast through the land.
The chorus-ending from Aristophanes, raised every night from every ditch that drains into the Mediterranean, hoarse and primeval as the raven's croak, is one of the grandest tunes to walk by. Or on a night in May, one can walk through the too rare Italian forests for an hour on end and never be out of hearing of the nightingale's song.
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