England hills, a type of a fashion almost extinct, broad and
brooding, low in the walls, small windows and far between, high roof,
wide gables, pierced by windows of various sizes, and queerly located,
as if the huge garret were inhabited by a mixed company of dwarfs and
giants, each with his own particular window suited to his height; in
the centre a massive chimney like the base of a tower, out of which
the smoke rolled in lazy curves. At the east side of the house, under
the narrow eaves, and opening, I think, into the long kitchen, was
one huge window, as high as the others, and as wide as it was high.
How it found a place there I never knew, but nothing could be more
benign in effect than its generous breadth. The panes were small and
green and warped, after the manner of glass known to former times; but
through it the sun poured a flood of warm light every morning, and on
winter evenings the glow of the firelight within made a grand
illumination far across the snowy hillsides; yet I don't think the old
window was ever truly appreciated. The others seemed to despise it,
and try to keep at a distance in their narrowness and regularity. The
little square loopholes in the gables lifted their diminutive eyebrows
in contempt; even the green door looked blank and scowling, as though
at a possible rival. I fancy the housekeeper fretted at the larger
curtain covering this wide, unwinking eye, and the extra labor
required on cleaning-days. But this one great square window was the
sole redeeming feature beneath the roof of the ancient farm-house.
Beneath the roof, I say. The roof itself was, and is, and ever shall
be the great charm of those antiquated houses,--not of the old alone,
but if any new house shall ever rise, if you succeed in building your
own so that it shall seem to be the abiding-place of the incarnate
genius of domestic happiness, the roof of your earthly paradise will
be bold and high. Pierced by windows it may be, and broken by gables,
but steep enough to shed rain and snow, and high enough to be plainly
visible to the coming guest, promising safety and welcome beneath its
tranquil shade. Practically, the steep roof is better than any other,
because a flat one cannot be as permanently covered with any known
material at so little cost, the multitudes of cheap and durable patent
roofings to the contrary notwithstanding. By steep roofs I mean any
that have sufficient pitch to allow the use of slate or shingle. Such
need not be intricate or difficult of construction to look well, but
must be honest and useful. They can be neither unless visible, and
here we see the holy alliance of use and beauty; for the character and
expression of a building depend almost wholly upon the roof. You will
lose, too, under the flat roof, the roomy garret of the old
high-roofed houses. These have for me a wonderful fascination. Whether
the rain upon the shingles, the mingled fragrance of seeds and drying
herbs, the surprising bigness of the chimney, the mysteries hidden in
the worm-eaten chests, the almost saintly charm of the long-unused
spinning-wheels, crumbling mementos of the patient industry of former
generations, or the shine of the stars through the chinks in the
shrunken boards, the old garret and all its associations are among the
"long, long thoughts." I sometimes doubt whether the modern
conveniences we are so fond of proclaiming are really an equivalent to
the rising generation for this happiest of playrooms, this storehouse
of heirlooms, this silent but potent tie, that binds us to the life,
the labor, and the love of the past.
[Illustration: FORTY-TWO FEET SQUARE.]
Let there be light, too, in this upper story. Spinning spiders and
stinging wasps are not half so terrible to the children who will make
a half-way paradise of the garret as the darkness that is covered by
an unlighted roof.
If you have been living in cottage-chambers,--rooms in which a
full-sized man can hardly stand erect in the centre, and a well-grown
baby scarcely creep at the sides, unventilated, heated beyond
endurance during the hot summer days, and retaining their heat through
the long, wakeful nights,--rooms in which the furniture must stand at
various distances from the walls as if marshalled for the
house-cleaning battle, but in which even the making of beds is a work
of supreme difficulty,--if you've been living in such rooms as these,
I don't wonder, whatever architects or other men may say, that Mrs.
John objects, and insists on good, square chambers. But good, square
chambers no more require flat roofs than good, square common-sense
requires a flat head. I don't believe you will contrive a house, of
whatever form or size, that may not be covered more cheaply, more
securely, and more tastefully by a steep roof than by a flat one. Of
course, I'm supposing your house to be isolated. Buildings in crowded
streets or in blocks require, on all accounts, entirely different
treatment. By all means, then, have wide doors, generous windows, and
high roofs; and if you must build with strict economy you may be
morally certain that your house, though not perhaps as altogether
lovely as you might wish, will still be cheerful and homelike.
Allow me to add, that, while faithfully striving to build a house that
shall be honest and cheerful, you will surely find yourself growing in
the same direction.
LETTER XXII.
From Fred.
UNPROFESSIONAL SAGACITY.
DEAR ARCHITECT: Our mutual friend John recommends me to ask your
advice in regard to plans for my new house. Possibly you may help me,
although the floor plans sent herewith are about right; rooms enough
and of the right size, the principal ones adapted to the usual widths
of carpeting. I am willing to expend something for the outside
appearance,--in fact, intend to have the best looking house in
town,--but think it would be foolish to build more rooms or larger
than I want, much more so to dispense with needed room in order to
get a certain proportion of parts. I merely mention this because, with
all due respect, I am doubtless the best judge of my own wants, and
don't care to have the dimensions of the building changed. The
relative location of the different apartments is also satisfactory,
except perhaps some slight deficiencies in the rear portion, which I
left incomplete for want of time. As to exterior, would like a French
roof and tower, with fashionable style of finish throughout.
Shall commence laying foundation next week, and you will please
consider yourself invited to eat turkey with us in the new house next
Thanksgiving.
Truly,
FRED.
LETTER XXIII.
From the Architect.
STAIRWAYS AND OUTLOOKS.
Dear Fred: Your plans are before me, also your letter; also the
proverbs of Solomon, from which I read, in order to fortify myself for
the work before me, sundry suggestions concerning the duty of faithful
friends,--the undaunted, disagreeable sort who cry aloud and spare
not. It's quite right for you to try to show what you would like,
quite true that you ought to know your own needs and tastes better
than any one else, and though I cannot agree with you, I'm glad you
have a mind of your own; those who have not are of all men most
miserable to deal with, most difficult to suit. Indeed, when a man
feels clearly a lack in his own home-life which nothing but a new
house will supply, he is sure to have some decided notions as to what
that house shall be. But when you assure me in good set terms that
this plan is your beau-ideal, I must ask, also with profound respect,
if you know what you are talking about. Put in your foundation, by all
means, but remember how much easier it is to change a few lines on
paper than to remove a stone wall. It is not a pleasant job to cut a
door into a finished and furnished room, or even to change the hanging
of it. This house, if I understand aright, you intend for a permanent
home. How immeasurably better to spend six months, if need be, in
perfecting the plans, than by and by to be tormented with defects that
can only be removed by great expense and trouble! It's a grand thing
to go ahead, provided you are right; the more "go," the worse, if you
happen to be on the wrong track. Candidly, your plan hardly deserves
to be called a beginning. The arrangement of the rear part, which you
chiefly omit, is, in fact, the most difficult and important of the
whole. But I've promised Sister Jane a chapter on kitchens, of which,
when the time comes, you can have the benefit. Meanwhile, complete the
unfinished part of your plan,--it only requires you to spend a few
brief moments,--and I will venture some suggestions on this which lies
before me.
The front stairs as laid down would reach just half-way to the second
floor,--a peculiarity of amateur sketches so universal that we will
say nothing more about it. But what principle of good taste or
hospitality requires you to blockade the main entrance to your house
with this same staircase? Do you send all your visitors, of whatever
name or nation, direct to the upper regions the moment they enter?
Why, then, make the northwest passage thither the most conspicuous
route from the door? Do you intend to restrict the family to the back
stairs, which by your showing are, like the famous _descensus Averno_,
wonderfully easy to go down, but mighty hard to get up again? Yet you
place these front stairs at the very farthest remove from the rooms
most constantly used in both stories. Perhaps you propose to announce
"apartments to let" on the second and third floors. No? What reason,
then, for imitating hotels, lodging-houses, double-barrelled
tenements, and other public and semi-public buildings from which a
short cut to the street is essential? Don't tell me you wish them to
be ornamental as well as useful. I know that; but remember the stairs
are built for the house, not the house for the stairs. You had better
lose them wholly as an ornamental feature, than destroy the charm of
what should be the most prepossessing portion of the interior.
Moreover, they can have no pleasure-giving beauty if manifestly out of
place,--a safe rule for general application. Build them where they
will be most useful, that is, as near the centre of the house as
possible; make them grand and gorgeous as the steps to an Oriental
palace,--so broad and easy of ascent that the upward and onward way
will be as tempting as were the Alps to Mr. Longfellow's aspiring
youth. But keep them away from the front door,--out of the principal
hall, which should be open, airy, and free, suggesting something
besides an everlasting getting up stairs. If the staircase hall cannot
be arranged at right angles to the main hall, an arch or ornamental
screen may be introduced, partially separating the two and giving
character to both.
Have you been living in a city of late? It must be, else why so
complacent with a narrow hall, steep, obtrusive stairs, and, O, why,
tell me why, do you not fix the location of your windows with some
regard to views, not only out of the house but through it. I remember
one country dwelling built by a retired civilian in the inevitable
city style; windows at the end giving a narrow view of the road in
front, while the entire side walls were absolutely blank and bare,
never so much as a knot-hole through which the occupants could get a
glimpse of the field and forest that stretched broadly away at either
side. I've no doubt the owner hung oil-paintings on his parlor walls,
and thought them more lovely than all out-doors,--especially when he
remembered their cost. The old Roman who declared his soldiers made a
bigger racket with their arms than Jupiter with his thunderbolts, was
modest beyond comparison with such a man. Your arrangement is not
quite so bad as that of the aforesaid civilian, but, like hosts of
others, you fail to make the most of your opportunities. Suppose you
were able to secure for a small sum a landscape painted by one of the
masters and esteemed of great value. You would think it folly to let
the chance pass unimproved. By simply cutting a hole in the wall you
may have a picture infinitely grander than human artist ever painted;
grander in its teaching, in its actual beauty, its variety, and its
permanency; grander in everything except its market value. I am not
sure but your children's children will find some one window in the old
homestead that commands a view of the everlasting hills, an heirloom
even of greater pecuniary value than the rarest work of art. Do not
forget, either, the views _through_ the house. If your windows can be
placed so that throwing open the doors from room to room or across the
hall will reveal a charming prospect in opposite directions, there's a
sense of being in the midst of an all-surrounding beauty, hardly
possible when you seem to look upon it from one side only. You have
surely been abiding in a city. The interior of your house is all that
concerns you or your family. The outside--French roof and fashionable
finish, forsooth!--is for the public to admire. They are not to have
any intimation what sort of a home is sheltered by your monstrous
Mansard; and it never occurs to you that there can be anything out of
doors worth building your house to see.
[Illustration: "LOOK OUT, NOT IN."]
Here is another unhappy result of evil examples,--the sliding-doors
between the two parlors, as you call them,--an arrangement convenient
enough, sometimes indispensable in houses built on crowded streets,
houses that only breathe the dusty air and catch the struggling
sunbeams at their narrow and remote extremities,--air and sunlight at
nobody knows how many hundred dollars the front foot. They are worse
than useless in such a house as yours.
I say your plan is scarcely a beginning; the same of this letter. But
it's enough for once.
LETTER XXIV.
From Fred.
IN A MULTITUDE OF COUNSELLORS IS SAFETY.
MY DEAR ARCHITECT: Your criticisms are not wholly without reason. I
can only plead haste and inexperience.
Have been studying arrangement of rear part, and seem to get farther
and farther from a satisfactory result. The kitchen and dining-room
must be convenient to each other, but not adjacent; the pantries and
larder easy to get at; back stairs accessible from all parts of the
house, and side entrance worked in somehow; washbowl and water-closet
not far off, but out of sight, and the whole department quite
isolated from front hall. My wife can't think of pantry and
store-rooms at the south side, nor do we want kitchen or outer door at
the north. John's sister-in-law, Miss Jane, who appears to have some
sensible notions, thinks a kitchen should always have windows on
opposite sides for light and ventilation. John says I should have a
kitchen large enough for wash-trays and a set kettle, but one of my
neighbors, who has just built a house, advises a laundry in the
cellar. Altogether it's a troublesome problem, and, frankly, I give
it up.
Do you really expect us to dispense with sliding-doors between the
parlors? I'm sure that won't pass. We would almost as soon give up the
bay-windows,--everybody has them nowadays.
Truly,
Fred.
LETTER XXV.
From the Architect.
DOORS AND SLIDING-DOORS, WINDOWS AND BAY-WINDOWS.
DEAR FRED: "Everybody has them!" What a monstrous load of iniquity and
nonsense that scape-goat has to carry! Everybody wears tight boots and
bustles and chignons and stove-pipe hats. Everybody smokes and brags,
and cheats in trade, not to mention a host of other abominations that
can give only this excuse for their being: they are common to a few
millions of people who have not learned to declare a reason for the
faith that is in them or the works that grow out of them.
Let us take time to consider this sliding-door
question,--folding-doors they used to be, and, truly, I'm not sure
that the rollers are any improvement on the hinges,--there is
something dreadfully barny about sliding-doors. Why do you want
either? You have one room which you call the parlor, supposed to be
the best in the house, as to its location, its finish, its furniture,
and its use. Three of its walls are handsomely frescoed, curtained,
and decorated with pictures or other ornaments; the fourth is one huge
barricade of panel-work. When the two parts are closed you have a
constant fancy of rheumatic currents stealing through the cracks, and
an ever-present fear lest they should suddenly fly open with
"impetuous recoil, grating harsh thunder" on their wheels, and not
exactly letting Satan in, but everything in the room fall out; an idle
fear, for they can only be shoved asunder by dint of much pushing and
pulling, especially if they are warped by having one side exposed to
more heat than the other, as usually happens. Being at last opened by
hook or crook, another room is revealed, commonly smaller, more shabby
in appearance, a sort of poor-relation attachment, spoiling the
completeness and artistic unity of the larger one. By care you may
avoid something of this; if you follow the fashion, you will have the
most of it. When the two rooms are twins, alike in every respect, they
are really one large room, fitted up, for economical reasons, with a
movable screen in the centre, by means of which you may warm
(excepting rheumatic currents as above) and use one half at a time.
But call things by their right names. Don't talk grandly about your
two parlors when you mean two halves of one. Have wide doors, by all
means, not only between rooms but into main hall,--four, six, or eight
feet, if the rooms are so wide and high that they shall not be
disproportionately large. Then, if you must have the whole broadside
of sliding or folding doors, let the two rooms thus connected be of
different styles but equal richness,--different, that they shall not
seem one room cut in two,--peers, that one shall not shame and cheapen
the other.
Doors are a great bother, at best. I wish they could be abolished.
They are always slamming, punching holes in the plastering with their
knobs, creaking on their hinges, bruising the piano, pinching babies'
fingers, and making old folks see stars when they get up in the night
to look for burglars. Heavy curtains are infinitely more graceful,
equally warm, and not half so stubbornly unmanageable. Then think of
entering a room. By her steps the goddess is revealed; but who can
walk like a goddess while forcing an entrance between two
sliding-doors, maybe wedging fast half-way through? How different
from passing in quiet dignity beneath the rich folds of overhanging
drapery! But I suppose we must leave all that to the Orientals, at
present.
"You would almost as soon give up the bay-windows!" Well, you might
e'en do worse than that. Now let your indignation boil. Bay-windows
are very charming things sometimes; sometimes they are nuisances. Some
have been so appropriate and altogether lovely that any pepper box
contrivance thrusting itself out from the main walls and looking three
ways for Sunday is supposed to be a bower of beauty, a perfect pharos
of observation, an abundant recompense for unmitigated ugliness and
inconvenience in the rest of the building. Truly, a well-ordered
bay-window will often change a gloomy, graceless room into a cheerful
and artistic one, but large, simple windows are sometimes rather to be
chosen than too much bay. In many, perhaps the majority, of cases, it
is wiser to extend the whole wall of the room in the form of a
half-hexagon or three sides of an octagon, costing no more, and
repaying the cost far more abundantly.
While on the subject let us finish it. If you indulge in a regular
bay-window, make it large enough to be of real use; don't feel
constrained to build it with more than fifteen sides; remember that
two stories will not cost twice as much as one, while the second is
pretty certain to be the pleasanter; don't carry the ceiling of the
main room level and unbroken into the bay, or, because a certain one
you may have seen looks well in its place, resolve to have another
just like it, regardless of its surroundings. I sometimes fancy there
must be a factory where bay-windows are made for the wholesale trade,
all of one style, strictly orthodox, five-sided, bracketed, blinded,
painted with striped paint, and ready to barnacle on wherever
required. In the stereotyped pattern the blinds are apt to be
troublesome. If outside, they clash against each other and refuse to
be fastened open; while inside they are a mighty maze of folds, flaps,
brass buts, and rolling slats. In the first case, wide piers between
the sash are necessary; in the second, boxings for the blinds. Both
require ample room, which, fortunately, you have. Sixthly, and in
conclusion, there is no one feature which may be more charming,
combining so much of comfort and beauty, as windows of this class,
from the simple opening, pushed forward a few inches beyond the wall
face, to the broad extension of the entire room; but there be bays and
bays.
Speaking of blinds,--what shall be done with the other windows? You
will protest against concealing your elegant, single panes of
plate-glass by outside blinds,--it won't answer to hide your light
under a bushel in that way,--and yet while there is no complete finish
without well-arranged inside shutters, they alone are sadly
inefficient in rooms with a southern exposure, where light and air are
needed. They may be fitted with boxings, into which they are folded,
or arranged to slide into the wall. I like the old-fashioned boxing,
window-seat and all, also the ancient close-panelled shutters. True
they make a room pitch-dark when closed, and it is doubtless wisest to
have some of their central folds made with movable slats, but they
give a charming sense of security and seclusion when the wintry blasts
roar around our castle. On the other hand, the light outside blinds,
that shake and rattle and bang when the stormy winds "do blow, do
blow," are a fair substitute for the cooling shade of forest-trees.
You may have learned that life is a succession of compromises.
Building in New England certainly is. No sooner do we get nicely
fortified with furnaces, storm-porches, double windows, and forty tons
of anthracite, than June bursts upon us with ninety degrees in the
shade. Then how we despise our contrivances for keeping warm, and
bless the ice-man! We wish the house was all piazza, and if it were
not for burglars and mosquitoes, would abjure walls and roof and live
in the open air. Just here is our dilemma. We go "from Greenland's icy
mountains to India's coral strands" and back again every twelve
months, whether we will or no, and are obliged to live in the same
house through it all. It's really a desperate matter. I've been to the
ant and the beasts and the birds. They recommend hibernating or
migration, but our wings are too short for the one, our fur too thin
for the other!
Seriously, you must not forget to prepare for extremes of climate.
Fortunately the walls that most thoroughly resist the cold are
effective against the heat. The doors and windows--the living,
breathing, seeing, working part of the house--demand the twofold
provision. You must have double windows in winter, to be taken off
(laid away and more or less smashed up) in summer; outside blinds to
ward off the summer sun, which may, in their turn, be removed when we
are only too glad to welcome all the sunshine there is. The
vestibules--portable storm-porches are not to be tolerated--must also
be skilful doorkeepers, proof against hostile storms, but freely
admitting the wandering zephyrs. Piazzas are not so easily managed. We
like them broad and endless in July and August, but the shadows they
cast we would fain remove when the very trees fold away their
sunshades. Often a platform, terrace, balcony,--whatever you please
to call it, practically a piazza without a roof,--is the best thing to
have, for this will not keep the sun from the windows, when comfort
requires it may be shaded by a movable awning, and by its sunny
cheerfulness it will lengthen our out-door enjoyment two or three
months in the year.
You are still floundering helplessly in the kitchen. I've no doubt
Sister Jane has excellent ideas on the subject,--probably knows ten
times as much about it as you do. Why not ask her to arrange matters
for you?
LETTER XXVI.
From Fred.
EXPERIENCE KEEPS A DEAR SCHOOL.
MY DEAR ARCHITECT: We will let the sliding-doors slide, but hold on to
the bay-windows. I've acted upon your suggestion, and called on Miss
Jane to help me through the kitchen. She is studying the matter and
will report to you soon. Meantime, will you give directions about
other inside work? I want it to be ornamental and modern in style.
Shall finish mostly in hard wood,--oak, walnut, or chestnut, perhaps
mahogany and maple. Please give me your opinion on that point. What do
you think of graining where hard wood is not used? Shall probably
carpet throughout, and hope you will not change dimensions of rooms to
spoil the fit of them. What about wainscoting halls or any of the
rooms? Suppose common floors will answer, and common plastering for
the walls, if I paper; but shall I,--or do you recommend frescoing;
and what do you say to cornices and other stucco-work?
I've no time to go over all the points in your last. Some of them seem
well put, others a little wild. But I give them a fair hearing and
suppose you won't insist upon my adopting them. Am beginning to think
I've a good deal to learn, and ought, I suppose, to be well satisfied
to learn, in some other school than that of experience.
Truly,
FRED.
LETTER XXVII.
From the Architect.
FASHION AND ORNAMENT, HARD WOOD AND PAINT.
DEAR FRED: The tone of your last, just received, is hopeful.
Conviction of ignorance is the only foundation on which Wisdom, or any
other man, ever builded a house. But it must be a genuine agony, as
I'm sure it is in your case; so you are forgiven for asking more
questions in half a dozen lines than I can answer fully in a score of
pages. Instead of taking them up separately, I might give you a
chapter of first principles, hoping you would then need no special
directions; but I find the value of most general observations lies,
like Bunsby's, in the application of 'em. It's not enough to say, "Be
honest and upright." Each particular falsehood and folly must be
summoned, tried, and condemned.