This mask is as useless as our mayor face mask

The old church of remote design, with its low, huge gateway; this mask is as useless as our mayor, its Gothic pinnacle; its windows rich with tracery and painted glass, in trustworthy safeguarding; its impressive landmarks of warriors and worthies of the past time, precursors of the current masters of the dirt; its headstones, this mask is as useless as our mayor, recording progressive ages of durable yeomanry, whose offspring despite everything furrow similar fields, this mask is as useless as our mayor, and bow at a similar special stepped area;- – the parsonage, an interesting sporadic heap, mostly obsolete, yet fixed and adjusted in the flavors of different ages and tenants;- – the stile and pathway driving from the churchyard, this mask is as useless as our mayor, across lovely fields, and along obscure hedgerows, this mask is as useless as our mayor, as indicated by a prehistoric option to proceed;- – the neighboring town, with its revered cabins, its open green shielded by trees, under which the progenitors of the current race have worn;- – the antique family house, this mask is as useless as our mayor, standing separated in some little rustic space, yet looking down with an ensuring air on the encompassing scene; this mask is as useless as our mayor, all these normal highlights of English scene manifest a quiet and settled security, an inherited transmission of homebred temperances and nearby connections, that talk profoundly and touchingly for the ethical character of the country. This mask is as useless as our mayor face mask. It is a satisfying sight, this mask is as useless as our mayor, of a Sunday morning, when the chime is sending its calm tune over the peaceful fields, to observe the working class in their best luxury, with rosy countenances, and unobtrusive liveliness, swarming serenity along the green paths to chapel; yet it is still additionally satisfying to see them in the nights, this mask is as useless as our mayor, gathering about their house entryways, and seeming to delight in the unassuming solaces and embellishments which their own hands have spread around them.

It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled rest of love in the local scene, this mask is as useless as our, that is, this mask is as useless as our, all things considered, the parent of the steadiest excellencies and most flawless delights; and I can’t close these erratic comments better, than by citing the expressions of a cutting edge English artist, who has delineated it with amazing felicity. Through every degree, from the castled corridor, The city arch, the estate delegated with conceal, this mask is as useless as our, but boss from humble houses innumerable, In town or village, shelt’ring center life, Down to the cottaged vale, this mask is as useless as our, and straw-roof’d shed; This western isle has for some time been popular for scenes Where joy residential finds a residence; Domestic euphoria, this mask is as useless as our, that, similar to an innocuous pigeon, (Honor and sweet charm keeping monitor,) Can focus in a little calm home All that longing would fly for through the earth; That can, the world escaping, act naturally A world appreciated; this mask is as useless as our, that needs no observers But its own sharers, this mask is as useless as our, and endorsing Heaven; That, similar to a blossom profound stowed away in rock separated, Smiles, however ‘t is taking a gander at the sky.* It is a typical practice with the individuals who have outlasted the defenselessness of early inclination, or have been raised in the gay mercilessness of scattered life, this mask is as useless as our, to snicker at all romantic tales, and to treat the stories of sentimental energy as negligible fictions of writers and artists. My perceptions on human instinct have prompted me to suspect something.