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THE POETRY OF ARCHITECTURE.
137

and he cares very little about the peace which he has disturbed, or the repose which he has interrupted; though even while he thus pushes himself into the way, he keeps an air of sulky retirement, of hedgehog independence, about his house, which takes away any idea of sociability or good humour, which might otherwise have been suggested by his choice of situation. But, in spite of all these unfortunate circumstances, there are some distinctive features in our English country houses, which are well worth a little attention. First, in the approach, we have one component part of effect, which may be called peculiarly our own, and which requires much study before it can be managed well,—the avenue. It is true, that we meet with noble lines of timber trees cresting some of the larger bastions of Continental fortified cities; we see interminable regiments of mistletoed apple trees flanking the carriage road; and occasionally we approach a turreted château[1] by a broad way, "edged with poplar pale." But, allowing all this, the legitimate glory of the perfect avenue is ours still, as will appear by a little consideration of the elements which constitute its beauty. The original idea was given by the opening of the tangled glades in our most ancient forests. It is rather a curious circumstance, that, in those woods whose decay has been chiefly instrumental in forming the bog districts of Ireland,


  1. Or a city. Any one who remembers entering Carlsruhe from the north, by the two miles of poplar avenue, remembers entering the most soulless of all cities, by the most lifeless of all entrances.