This is a
little outcrop of English feeling in the midst of the assumed romance.]
189. The brick house admirably corresponds with this part of English
character; for, unable as it is to be beautiful, or graceful, or
dignified, it is equally unable to be absurd. There is a proud
independence about it, which seems conscious of its entire and perfect
applicability to those uses for which it was built, and full of a
good-natured intention to render every one who seeks shelter within its
walls excessively comfortable; it therefore feels awkward in no company;
and, wherever it intrudes its good-humored red face, stares plaster and
marble out of countenance with an insensible audacity, which we drive
out of such refined company, as we would a clown from a drawing-room,
but which we nevertheless seek in its own place, as we would seek the
conversation of the clown in his own turnip-field, if he were sensible
in the main.
190. Lastly. Brick is admirably adapted for the climate of England, and
for the frequent manufacturing nuisances of English blue country: for
the smoke, which makes marble look like charcoal, and stucco like mud,
only renders brick less glaring in its color; and the inclement climate,
which makes the composition front look as if its architect had been
amusing himself by throwing buckets of green water down from the roof,
and before which the granite base of Stirling Castle is moldering into
sand as impotent as ever was ribbed by ripple, wreaks its rage in vain
upon the bits of baked clay, leaving them strong, and dry, and
stainless, warm and comfortable in their effect, even when neglect has
permitted the moss and wall-flower to creep into their crannies, and
mellow into something like beauty that which is always comfort.
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