There isn't anything in England that practices a more wonderful spell over my creative mind than the lingerings of the occasion customs and rustic rounds of previous times. They review the photos my extravagant used to attract the May morning of life when at this point I just knew the world through books, and trusted it to be all that writers had painted it; and they carry with them the kind of those fair a long time ago, in which, maybe with equivalent deception, I can think the world was more home-reared, social, and glad than as of now.
By Chong Whitcraft