Oh, Wise Young Judge.

I Was Wandering Around As Usual, In My Unpleasantly Populated Sub-conscious.

They Call Them The Haunted Shores, These Stretches Of Devonshire And Cornwall And Ireland Which Rear Up Against The Westward Ocean. Mists Gather Here, And Sea Fog, And Eerie Stories. That's Not Because There Are More Ghosts Here Than In Other Places, Mind You. It's Just That People Who Live Hereabouts Are Strangely Aware Of Them.

There Was A Wonderful Atmosphere Of Gentle Age, A Smell Of Flowers And Beeswax, Sweet Yet Faintly Sour And Musty; A Smell That Makes You Feel Very Tender Towards The Past.

Father Says Hot Water Can Be As Stimulating As An Alcoholic Drink And Though I Never Come By One...i Can Well Believe It.

So Many Of The Loveliest Things In England Are Melancholy.