It is not beautiful.

Its streets are squalidly flat, its houses meanly rectangular.

The colouring of Scale is thought by some to be peculiarly abominable.

It is built in brown, paved and pillared in unclean grey.

Its rivers and dykes run brown under a grey northeastern sky.
Once a year it yields reluctantly to strange passion, and Spring is born in Scale; born in tortures almost human, a relentless immortality struggling with visible corruption.