Village cricket spread fast through the land.

I never knew a man go for an honest day's walk for whatever distance, great or small, and not have his reward in the repossession of his soul.

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.

The best job goes to the person who can get it done without passing the buck or coming back with excuses.

There is no orthodoxy in walking. It is a land of many paths and no-paths, where every one goes his own and is right.

Many who burnt heretics in the ordinary way of their business were otherwise excellent people.

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!