Brick seems, as we pointed out in our last paper, to have been
generally preferred to stone for house and cottage building in this
country from the sixteenth century, but during the earlier centuries,
and in places where good stone was easily procurable, the latter was
frequently used, even in the erection of cottages. A charming example
dating from the fourteenth century exists in a very perfect condition
at West Dean in Sussex. It has graceful and elegant traceried stone-cut
windows and doorways, and is a carefully constructed little building
showing excellent though simple Gothic details.
[Illustration: AT AMERSHAM.]
Cottages built of brick with stone “dressing” are common all over
England, especially in almshouses. At Amersham are six little cottages
built round an open courtyard. An inscription over the archway leading
to the garden informs us that these cottages were built by “Sir William
Drake, Barronet (_sic_), in the year of our Lord 1657, to the glory
of God, and for the relief of six poor widows well reputed in this
parish.” It is a pleasant home for these good old people and a pretty
retreat where they may spend the remainder of their days in peace.
There are many such in England: would there were many more! How far
more pleasant it is to think of these poor old souls quietly living
out the few months or years of existence, waiting for God to call
them, in such an abode rather than in a workhouse, with its hard and
fast rules, or some pretentious-looking asylum where official charity
seems to stare one in the face at every turn. No doubt in these modern
institutions sanitary arrangements are better, and matters are more
practically attended to, but something seems to be wanting in them:
they do not look like “homes.” We may perhaps be too sentimental, and
possibly are arguing from what we should ourselves feel if placed in
a similar situation, indeed we have known cases in which the poor old
folks in the country have rejoiced at their quaint old habitations
being pulled down and replaced by brand new houses.
[Illustration: AT WEST DEAN, SUSSEX.]
We were once drawing two streets, one a bit of a pretty old village,
and the other a modern suburban street which we had tried to make look
as detestable as possible, when a lady called upon us and looked at the
two. “Ah,” said she, “I am so glad that these tumbledown old cottages
are going to be replaced by your smart and cheerful-looking villas!” We
thought at first that it was a joke, but no, she was absolutely serious!
A few years back a very eminent Member of Parliament succeeded to the
possession of what was at that time the most perfect mediæval village
in England, every cottage dating back to the sixteenth or seventeenth
century. I was told of this absolutely unique place and went to see it.
To my horror I found a large gang of workmen busy upon what appeared to
be wholesale destruction. Upon inquiry I was told that Sir —— —— was
such an excellent landlord that he was rebuilding all the houses of his
tenants! There appeared to be little reason for this work, as the old
cottages which were being pulled down looked as if they would stand
quite as long as the new ones, and even if modern requirements were
supposed to necessitate different arrangements to those which satisfied
our forefathers, the beautiful old gables, with their ornamental oak
badge-boards and timber framing, might have been preserved, as the line
of frontage was not changed or the street widened.
This feeling is, however, by no means universal, and we have known
cases where those who have lived in old cottages which have been
condemned to destruction have offered to buy the sketch we were making,
as a recollection of the “dear old home.”
Unfortunately, however, now people have no “homes” for the most part,
our population is becoming nomadic, and folks move about every three
years.
A friend of ours told us that he had “moved” eleven times in ten years!
Now what love of his home can a man feel who spends ten months in each
house. At Rothenberg in Bavaria, I was buying some bread at a baker’s
shop, when I happened to see a carved stone sign over the doorway dated
1590. I remarked to the baker, “It is rather a coincidence that it
should have been a baker’s then.” “Oh,” said he, “it has always been
a baker’s, and always in the hands of the same family.” What is still
more remarkable is the fact that at Mont St. Michel in Normandy, until
some three or four years back there was a house which had been for
six centuries the home of the same family, but now the last member of
the old stock is dead. Now that was indeed a home, but what “rolling
stones” we have all become! Our very cats shame us. Pussy often
absolutely refuses to move. I once took a house, and the cat belonging
to the former tenants insisted upon remaining in the house. They took
him away with them, but he came back with the milkman in the morning.
We turned him out again, but he took up his residence in an outhouse,
and had his eye so fixed upon the back door that the moment it was
opened, he found his way in and sat in front of the kitchen fire. In
vain did the cook “rout him out,” and declare that he had “no rights
in her kitchen.” He maintained his rights, and point-blank refused to
budge. At last we absolutely took a great liking to the animal, which
showed such an attachment to his home. Directly he gained his way he
became very affectionate, and was a most amiable companion to the
children. By a curious coincidence he died the very day before we left
that house!
Love of the very place called “home” is a sentiment which should in
every way be encouraged, and it is greatly to be regretted that it
seems to be dying out, and we much fear that “flats” will give it its
deathblow.
(_To be continued._)
OUR MEDICINE CHEST.
BY “THE NEW DOCTOR.”