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THE COMPLETE WORKS OF JOHN RUSKIN
VOLUME I
POETRY OF ARCHITECTURE
SEVEN LAMPS OF ARCHITECTURE
[Illustration: J. Ruskin]
Library Edition
THE COMPLETE WORKS OF JOHN RUSKIN
POETRY OF ARCHITECTURE
SEVEN LAMPS
MODERN PAINTERS
VOLUME I
NATIONAL LIBRARY ASSOCIATION
NEW YORK, CHICAGO
THE POETRY OF ARCHITECTURE;
OR,
THE ARCHITECTURE OF THE NATIONS OF EUROPE
CONSIDERED IN ITS ASSOCIATION WITH NATURAL SCENERY
AND NATIONAL CHARACTER.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 1
_PART I._--THE COTTAGE.
I. THE LOWLAND COTTAGE--ENGLAND AND FRANCE 7
II. THE LOWLAND COTTAGE--ITALY 15
III. THE MOUNTAIN COTTAGE--SWITZERLAND 25
IV. THE MOUNTAIN COTTAGE--WESTMORELAND 35
V. A CHAPTER ON CHIMNEYS 45
VI. THE COTTAGE--CONCLUDING REMARKS 57
_PART II._--THE VILLA.
I. THE MOUNTAIN VILLA--LAGO DI COMO 67
II. THE MOUNTAIN VILLA--LAGO DI COMO (CONTINUED) 80
III. THE ITALIAN VILLA (CONCLUDED) 94
IV. THE LOWLAND VILLA--ENGLAND 104
V. THE ENGLISH VILLA--PRINCIPLES OF COMPOSITION 113
VI. THE BRITISH VILLA.--PRINCIPLES OF COMPOSITION.
(THE CULTIVATED, OR BLUE COUNTRY, AND THE
WOODED, OR GREEN COUNTRY) 126
VII. THE BRITISH VILLA.--PRINCIPLES OF COMPOSITION.
(THE HILL, OR BROWN COUNTRY) 145
LIST OF PLATES.
Facing Page
Fig. 1. Old Windows; from an early sketch by the Author 13
" 2. Italian Cottage Gallery, 1846 20
Cottage near la Cité, Val d'Aosta, 1838 21
" 3. Swiss Cottage, 1837. (Reproduced from the
Architectural Magazine) 28
" 4. Cottage near Altorf, 1835 29
" 5. Swiss Châlet Balcony, 1842 32
" 6. The Highest House in England, at Malham 42
" 7. Chimneys. (Eighteen sketches redrawn from the
Architectural Magazine) 48
" 8. Coniston Hall, from the Lake near Brantwood, 1837.
(Reproduced from the Architectural Magazine) 50
" 9. Chimney at Neuchatel; Dent du Midi and Mont Blanc in
the distance 20
" 10. Petrarch's Villa, Arquà, 1837. (Redrawn from the
Architectural Magazine) 98
" 11. Broken Curves. (Three diagrams, redrawn from the
Architectural Magazine) 101
" 12. Old English Mansion, 1837. (Reproduced from the
Architectural Magazine) 116
" 13. Windows. (Three designs, reproduced from the
Architectural Magazine) 122
" 14. Leading Lines of Villa-Composition. (Diagram redrawn
from the Architectural Magazine) 164
PREFATORY NOTES.
Of this work Mr. RUSKIN says in his Autobiography:--"The idea had come
into my head in the summer of '37, and, I imagine, rose immediately out
of my sense of the contrast between the cottages of Westmoreland and
those of Italy. Anyhow, the November number of Loudon's _Architectural
Magazine_ for 1837 opens with 'Introduction to the Poetry of
Architecture; or the Architecture of the Nations of Europe considered in
its Association with Natural Scenery and National Character,' by Kata
Phusin. I could not have put in fewer, or more inclusive words, the
definition of what half my future life was to be spent in discoursing
of; while the _nom-de-plume_ I chose, 'ACCORDING TO NATURE,' was equally
expressive of the temper in which I was to discourse alike on that, and
every other subject. The adoption of a _nom-de-plume_ at all implied (as
also the concealment of name on the first publication of 'Modern
Painters') a sense of a power of judgment in myself, which it would not
have been becoming in a youth of eighteen to claim...."
"As it is, these youthful essays, though deformed by assumption, and
shallow in contents, are curiously right up to the points they reach;
and already distinguished above most of the literature of the time, for
the skill of language, which the public at once felt for a pleasant gift
in me." (_Præterita_, vol. I. chap. 12.)
In a paper on "My First Editor," written in 1878, Mr. Ruskin says of
these essays that they "contain sentences nearly as well put together as
any I have done since."
The Conductor of the _Architectural Magazine_ in reviewing the year's
work said (December, 1838):--"One series of papers, commenced in the
last volume and concluded in the present one, we consider to be of
particular value to the young architect. We allude to the 'Essays on the
Poetry of Architecture,' by Kata Phusin. These essays will afford little
pleasure to the mere builder, or to the architect who has no principle
of guidance but precedent; but for such readers they were never
intended. They are addressed to the young and unprejudiced artist; and
their great object is to induce him to think and to exercise his
reason.... There are some, we trust, of the rising generation, who are
able to free themselves from the trammels and architectural bigotry of
Vitruvius and his followers; and it is to such alone that we look
forward for any real improvement in architecture as an art of design and
taste."
The essays are in two parts: the first describing the cottages of
England, France, Switzerland, and Italy, and giving hints and directions
for picturesque cottage-building. The second part treats of the villas
of Italy and England--with special reference to Como and Windermere; and
concludes with a discussion of the laws of artistic composition, and
practical suggestions of interest to the builders of country-houses.
It was the Author's original intention to have proceeded from the
cottage and the villa to the higher forms of Architecture; but the
Magazine to which he contributed was brought to a close shortly after
the completion of his chapters on the villa, and his promise of farther
studies was not redeemed until ten years later, by the publication of
_The Seven Lamps of Architecture_, and still more completely in _The
Stones of Venice_.
Other papers contributed by Mr. Ruskin to the same Magazine, on
Perspective, and on the proposed monument to Sir Walter Scott at
Edinburgh, are not included in this volume, as they do not form any part
of the series on the Poetry of Architecture.
The text is carefully reprinted from the _Architectural Magazine_. A few
additional notes are distinguished by square brackets.
A few of the old cuts, necessary to the text, are reproduced, and some
are replaced by engravings from sketches by the Author. Possessors of
the _Architectural Magazine_, vol. V., will be interested in comparing
the wood-cut of the cottage in Val d'Aosta (p. 104 of that volume) with
the photogravure from the original pencil drawing, which faces p. 21 of
this work. It is much to be regretted that the original of the Coniston
Hall (fig. 8; p. 50 of this work) has disappeared, and that the Author's
youthful record of a scene so familiar to him in later years should be
represented only by the harsh lines of Mr. Loudon's engraver.
THE EDITOR.
INTRODUCTION.
1. The Science of Architecture, followed out to its full extent, is one
of the noblest of those which have reference only to the creations of
human minds. It is not merely a science of the rule and compass, it does
not consist only in the observation of just rule, or of fair proportion:
it is, or ought to be, a science of feeling more than of rule, a
ministry to the mind, more than to the eye. If we consider how much less
the beauty and majesty of a building depend upon its pleasing certain
prejudices of the eye, than upon its rousing certain trains of
meditation in the mind, it will show in a moment how many intricate
questions of feeling are involved in the raising of an edifice; it will
convince us of the truth of a proposition, which might at first have
appeared startling, that no man can be an architect, who is not a
metaphysician.
2. To the illustration of the department of this noble science which may
be designated the Poetry of Architecture, this and some future articles
will be dedicated. It is this peculiarity of the art which constitutes
its nationality; and it will be found as interesting as it is useful, to
trace in the distinctive characters of the architecture of nations, not
only its adaptation to the situation and climate in which it has arisen,
but its strong similarity to, and connection with, the prevailing turn
of mind by which the nation who first employed it is distinguished.
3. I consider the task I have imposed upon myself the more necessary,
because this department of the science, perhaps regarded by some who
have no ideas beyond stone and mortar as chimerical, and by others who
think nothing necessary but truth and proportion as useless, is at a
miserably low ebb in England. And what is the consequence? We have
Corinthian columns placed beside pilasters of no order at all,
surmounted by monstrosified pepper-boxes, Gothic in form and Grecian in
detail, in a building nominally and peculiarly "National"; we have Swiss
cottages, falsely and calumniously so entitled, dropped in the
brick-fields round the metropolis; and we have staring square-windowed,
flat-roofed gentlemen's seats, of the lath and plaster,
mock-magnificent, Regent's Park description, rising on the woody
promontories of Derwentwater.
4. How deeply is it to be regretted, how much is it to be wondered at,
that, in a country whose school of painting, though degraded by its
system of meretricious coloring, and disgraced by hosts of would-be
imitators of inimitable individuals, is yet raised by the distinguished
talent of those individuals to a place of well-deserved honor; and the
studios of whose sculptors are filled with designs of the most pure
simplicity, and most perfect animation; the school of architecture
should be so miserably debased!
5. There are, however, many reasons for a fact so lamentable. In the
first place, the patrons of architecture (I am speaking of all classes
of buildings, from the lowest to the highest), are a more numerous and
less capable class than those of painting. The general public, and I say
it with sorrow, because I know it from observation, have little to do
with the encouragement of the school of painting, beyond the power which
they unquestionably possess, and unmercifully use, of compelling our
artists to substitute glare for beauty. Observe the direction of public
taste at any of our exhibitions. We see visitors at that of the Society
of Painters in Water Colors, passing Tayler with anathemas and Lewis
with indifference, to remain in reverence and admiration before certain
amiable white lambs and water-lilies, whose artists shall be nameless.
We see them, in the Royal Academy, passing by Wilkie, Turner and
Callcott, with shrugs of doubt or of scorn, to fix in gazing and
enthusiastic crowds upon kettles-full of witches, and His Majesty's
ships so and so lying to in a gale, etc., etc. But these pictures attain
no celebrity because the public admire them, for it is not to the public
that the judgment is intrusted. It is by the chosen few, by our nobility
and men of taste and talent, that the decision is made, the fame
bestowed, and the artist encouraged.
6. Not so in architecture. There, the power is generally diffused. Every
citizen may box himself up in as barbarous a tenement as suits his taste
or inclination; the architect is his vassal, and must permit him not
only to criticise, but to perpetrate. The palace or the nobleman's seat
may be raised in good taste, and become the admiration of a nation; but
the influence of their owner is terminated by the boundary of his
estate: he has no command over the adjacent scenery, and the possessor
of every thirty acres around him has him at his mercy. The streets of
our cities are examples of the effects of this clashing of different
tastes; and they are either remarkable for the utter absence of all
attempt at embellishment, or disgraced by every variety of abomination.
7. Again, in a climate like ours, those few who have knowledge and
feeling to distinguish what is beautiful, are frequently prevented by
various circumstances from erecting it. John Bull's comfort perpetually
interferes with his good taste, and I should be the first to lament his
losing so much of his nationality, as to permit the latter to prevail.
He cannot put his windows into a recess, without darkening his rooms; he
cannot raise a narrow gable above his walls, without knocking his head
against the rafters; and, worst of all, he cannot do either, without
being stigmatized by the awful, inevitable epithet, of "a very odd man."
But, though much of the degradation of our present school of
architecture is owing to the want or the unfitness of patrons, surely it
is yet more attributable to a lamentable deficiency of taste and talent
among our architects themselves. It is true, that in a country affording
so little encouragement, and presenting so many causes for its absence,
it cannot be expected that we should have any Michael Angelo
Buonarottis. The energy of our architects is expended in raising "neat"
poor-houses, and "pretty" charity schools; and, if they ever enter upon
a work of higher rank, economy is the order of the day: plaster and
stucco are substituted for granite and marble; rods of splashed iron for
columns of verd-antique; and in the wild struggle after novelty, the
fantastic is mistaken for the graceful, the complicated for the
imposing, superfluity of ornament for beauty, and its total absence for
simplicity.
8. But all these disadvantages might in some degree be counteracted, all
these abuses in some degree prevented, were it not for the slight
attention paid by our architects to that branch of the art which I have
above designated as the Poetry of Architecture. All unity of feeling
(which is the first principle of good taste) is neglected; we see
nothing but incongruous combination: we have pinnacles without height,
windows without light, columns with nothing to sustain, and buttresses
with nothing to support. We have parish paupers smoking their pipes and
drinking their beer under Gothic arches and sculptured niches; and quiet
old English gentlemen reclining on crocodile stools, and peeping out of
the windows of Swiss châlets.
9. I shall attempt, therefore, to endeavor to illustrate the principle
from the neglect of which these abuses have arisen; that of unity of
feeling, the basis of all grace, the essence of all beauty. We shall
consider the architecture of nations as it is influenced by their
feelings and manners, as it is connected with the scenery in which it is
found, and with the skies under which it was erected; we shall be led as
much to the street and the cottage as to the temple and the tower; and
shall be more interested in buildings raised by feeling, than in those
corrected by rule. We shall commence with the lower class of edifices,
proceeding from the roadside to the village, and from the village to the
city; and, if we succeed in directing the attention of a single
individual more directly to this most interesting department of the
science of architecture, we shall not have written in vain.
_PART I._
The Cottage.
THE LOWLAND COTTAGE:--ENGLAND, FRANCE, ITALY:
THE MOUNTAIN COTTAGE:--SWITZERLAND AND WESTMORELAND:
A CHAPTER ON CHIMNEYS:
AND CONCLUDING REMARKS ON COTTAGE-BUILDING.
THE POETRY OF ARCHITECTURE.
I.
THE LOWLAND COTTAGE--ENGLAND AND FRANCE.
10. Of all embellishments by which the efforts of man can enhance the
beauty of natural scenery, those are the most effective which can give
animation to the scene, while the spirit which they bestow is in unison
with its general character. It is generally desirable to indicate the
presence of animated existence in a scene of natural beauty; but only of
such existence as shall be imbued with the spirit, and shall partake of
the essence, of the beauty, which, without it, would be dead. If our
object, therefore, is to embellish a scene the character of which is
peaceful and unpretending, we must not erect a building fit for the
abode of wealth or pride. However beautiful or imposing in itself, such
an object immediately indicates the presence of a kind of existence
unsuited to the scenery which it inhabits; and of a mind which, when it
sought retirement, was unacquainted with its own ruling feelings, and
which consequently excites no sympathy in ours: but, if we erect a
dwelling which may appear adapted to the wants, and sufficient for the
comfort, of a gentle heart and lowly mind, we have instantly attained
our object: we have bestowed animation, but we have not disturbed
repose.
11. It is for this reason that the cottage is one of the embellishments
of natural scenery which deserve attentive consideration. It is
beautiful always, and everywhere. Whether looking out of the woody
dingle with its eye-like window, and sending up the motion of azure
smoke between the silver trunks of aged trees; or grouped among the
bright cornfields of the fruitful plain; or forming gray clusters along
the slope of the mountain side, the cottage always gives the idea of a
thing to be beloved: a quiet life-giving voice, that is as peaceful as
silence itself.
12. With these feelings, we shall devote some time to the consideration
of the prevailing character, and national peculiarities, of European
cottages. The principal thing worthy of observation in the lowland
cottage of England is its finished neatness. The thatch is firmly pegged
down, and mathematically leveled at the edges; and, though the martin is
permitted to attach his humble domicile, in undisturbed security, to the
eaves, he may be considered as enhancing the effect of the cottage, by
increasing its usefulness, and making it contribute to the comfort of
more beings than one. The whitewash is stainless, and its rough surface
catches a side light as brightly as a front one: the luxuriant rose is
trained gracefully over the window; and the gleaming lattice, divided
not into heavy squares, but into small pointed diamonds, is thrown half
open, as is just discovered by its glance among the green leaves of the
sweetbrier, to admit the breeze, that, as it passes over the flowers,
becomes full of their fragrance. The light wooden porch breaks the flat
of the cottage face by its projection; and a branch or two of wandering
honeysuckle spread over the low hatch. A few square feet of garden and a
latched wicket, persuading the weary and dusty pedestrian, with
expressive eloquence, to lean upon it for an instant and request a drink
of water or milk, complete a picture, which, if it be far enough from
London to be unspoiled by town sophistications, is a very perfect thing
in its way.[1] The ideas it awakens are agreeable, and the architecture
is all that we want in such a situation. It is pretty and appropriate;
and if it boasted of any other perfection, it would be at the expense of
its propriety.
[Footnote 1: Compare _Lectures on Architecture and Painting_, I. § 16.]
13. Let us now cross the Channel, and endeavor to find a country cottage
on the other side, if we can; for it is a difficult matter. There are
many villages; but such a thing as an isolated cottage is extremely
rare. Let us try one or two of the green valleys among the chalk
eminences which sweep from Abbeville to Rouen. Here is a cottage at
last, and a picturesque one, which is more than we could say for the
English domicile. What then is the difference? There is a general air of
_nonchalance_ about the French peasant's habitation, which is aided by a
perfect want of everything like neatness; and rendered more conspicuous
by some points about the building which have a look of neglected beauty,
and obliterated ornament. Half of the whitewash is worn off, and the
other half colored by various mosses and wandering lichens, which have
been permitted to vegetate upon it, and which, though beautiful,
constitute a kind of beauty from which the ideas of age and decay are
inseparable. The tall roof of the garret window stands fantastically
out; and underneath it, where, in England, we had a plain double
lattice, is a deep recess, flatly arched at the top, built of solid
masses of gray stone, fluted on the edge; while the brightness of the
glass within (if there be any) is lost in shade, causing the recess to
appear to the observer like a dark eye. The door has the same character:
it is also of stone, which is so much broken and disguised as to prevent
it from giving any idea of strength or stability. The entrance is always
open; no roses, or anything else, are wreathed about it; several
outhouses, built in the same style, give the building extent; and the
group (in all probability, the dependency of some large old château in
the distance) does not peep out of copse, or thicket, or a group of tall
and beautiful trees, but stands comfortlessly between two individuals
of the columns of long-trunked facsimile elms, which keep guard along
the length of the public road.
14. Now, let it be observed how perfectly, how singularly, the
distinctive characters of these two cottages agree with those of the
countries in which they are built; and of the people for whose use they
are constructed. England is a country whose every scene is in
miniature.[2] Its green valleys are not wide; its dewy hills are not
high; its forests are of no extent, or, rather, it has nothing that can
pretend to a more sounding title than that of "wood." Its champaigns are
minutely checkered into fields; we can never see far at a time; and
there is a sense of something inexpressible, except by the truly English
word "snug," in every quiet nook and sheltered lane. The English
cottage, therefore, is equally small, equally sheltered, equally
invisible at a distance.
[Footnote 2: Compare with this chapter, _Modern Painters_, vol. iv.
chap. 1.]
15. But France is a country on a large scale. Low, but long, hills sweep
away for miles into vast uninterrupted champaigns; immense forests
shadow the country for hundreds of square miles, without once letting
through the light of day; its pastures and arable land are divided on
the same scale; there are no fences; we can hardly place ourselves in
any spot where we shall not see for leagues around; and there is a kind
of comfortless sublimity in the size of every scene. The French cottage,
therefore, is on the same scale, equally large and desolate looking;
but we shall see, presently, that it can arouse feelings which, though
they cannot be said to give it sublimity, yet are of a higher order than
any which can be awakened at the sight of the English cottage.
16. Again, every bit of cultivated ground in England has a finished
neatness; the fields are all divided by hedges or fences; the fruit
trees are neatly pruned; the roads beautifully made, etc. Everything is
the reverse in France: the fields are distinguished by the nature of the
crops they bear; the fruit trees are overgrown with moss and mistletoe;
and the roads immeasurably wide, and miserably made.
17. So much for the character of the two cottages, as they assimilate
with the countries in which they are found. Let us now see how they
assimilate with the character of the people by whom they are built.
England is a country of perpetually increasing prosperity and active
enterprise; but, for that very reason, nothing is allowed to remain till
it gets old. Large old trees are cut down for timber; old houses are
pulled down for the materials; and old furniture is laughed at and
neglected. Everything is perpetually altered and renewed by the activity
of invention and improvement. The cottage, consequently, has no
dilapidated look about it; it is never suffered to get old; it is used
as long as it is comfortable, and then taken down and rebuilt; for it
was originally raised in a style incapable of resisting the ravages of
time. But, in France, there prevail two opposite feelings, both in the
extreme; that of the old pedigreed population, which preserves
unlimitedly; and that of the modern revolutionists, which destroys
unmercifully. Every object has partly the appearance of having been
preserved with infinite care from an indefinite age, and partly exhibits
the evidence of recent ill-treatment and disfiguration. Primeval forests
rear their vast trunks over those of many younger generations growing up
beside them; the château or the palace, showing, by its style of
architecture, its venerable age, bears the marks of the cannon-ball,
and, from neglect, is withering into desolation. Little is renewed:
there is little spirit of improvement; and the customs which prevailed
centuries ago are still taught by the patriarchs of the families to
their grandchildren. The French cottage, therefore, is just such as we
should have expected from the disposition of its inhabitants; its
massive windows, its broken ornaments, its whole air and appearance, all
tell the same tale of venerable age, respected and preserved, till at
last its dilapidation wears an appearance of neglect.
18. Again, the Englishman will sacrifice everything to comfort, and
will not only take great pains to secure it, but he has generally also
the power of doing so: for the English peasant is, on the average,
wealthier than the French. The French peasant has no idea of comfort,
and therefore makes no effort to secure it. The difference in the
character of their inhabitants is, as we have seen, written on the
fronts of their respective cottages. The Englishman is, also, fond of
display; but the ornaments, exterior and interior, with which he adorns
his dwelling, however small it may be, are either to show the extent of
his possessions, or to contribute to some personal profit or
gratification: they never seem designed for the sake of ornament alone.
Thus, his wife's love of display is shown by the rows of useless
crockery in her cupboard; and his own by the rose tree at the front
door, from which he may obtain an early bud to stick in the buttonhole
of his best blue coat on Sundays: the honeysuckle is cultivated for its
smell, the garden for its cabbages. Not so in France. There, the meanest
peasant, with an equal or greater love of display, embellishes his
dwelling as much as lies in his power, solely for the gratification of
his feeling of what is agreeable to the eye. The gable of his roof is
prettily shaped; the niche at its corner is richly carved; the wooden
beams, if there be any, are fashioned into grotesque figures; and even
the "air négligé" and general dilapidation of the building tell a
thousand times more agreeably to an eye accustomed to the picturesque,
than the spruce preservation of the English cottage.
19. No building which we feel to excite a sentiment of mere complacency
can be said to be in good taste. On the contrary, when the building is
of such a class, that it can neither astonish by its beauty, nor impress
by its sublimity, and when it is likewise placed in a situation so
uninteresting as to render something more than mere fitness or propriety
necessary, and to compel the eye to expect something from the building
itself, a gentle contrast of feeling in that building is exceedingly
desirable; and if possible, a sense that something has passed away, the
presence of which would have bestowed a deeper interest on the whole
scene. The fancy will immediately try to recover this, and, in the
endeavor, will obtain the desired effect from an indefinite cause.
[Illustration: FIG. 1. Old Windows: from an early sketch by the Author.]
20. Now, the French cottage cannot please by its propriety, for it can
only be adapted to the ugliness around; and, as it ought to be, and
cannot but be, adapted to this, it is still less able to please by its
beauty. How, then, can it please? There is no pretense to gayety in its
appearance, no green flower-pots in ornamental lattices; but the
substantial style of any ornaments it may possess, the recessed windows,
the stone carvings, and the general size of the whole, unite to produce
an impression of the building having once been fit for the residence of
prouder inhabitants; of its having once possessed strength, which is now
withered, and beauty, which is now faded. This sense of something lost,
something which has been, and is not, is precisely what is wanted. The
imagination is set actively to work in an instant; and we are made aware
of the presence of a beauty, the more pleasing because visionary; and,
while the eye is pitying the actual humility of the present building,
the mind is admiring the imagined pride of the past. Every mark of
dilapidation increases this feeling; while these very marks (the
fractures of the stone, the lichens of the moldering walls, and the
graceful lines of the sinking roof) are all delightful in themselves.
21. Thus, we have shown that, while the English cottage is pretty from
its propriety, the French cottage, having the same connection with its
climate, country, and people, produces such a contrast of feeling as
bestows on it a beauty addressing itself to the mind, and is therefore
in perfectly good taste. If we are asked why, in this instance, good
taste produces only what every traveler feels to be not in the least
striking, we reply that, where the surrounding circumstances are
unfavorable, the very adaptation to them which we have declared to be
necessary renders the building uninteresting; and that, in the next
paper, we shall see a very different result from the operations of
equally good taste in adapting a cottage to its situation, in one of the
noblest districts of Europe. Our subject will be, the Lowland Cottage of
North Italy.
OXFORD, _Sept., 1837._
II.
THE LOWLAND COTTAGE--ITALY.
"Most musical, most melancholy."
22. Let it not be thought that we are unnecessarily detaining our
readers from the proposed subject, if we premise a few remarks on the
character of the landscape of the country we have now entered. It will
always be necessary to obtain some definite knowledge of the distinctive
features of a country, before we can form a just estimate of the
beauties or the errors of its architecture. We wish our readers to imbue
themselves as far as may be with the spirit of the clime which we are
now entering; to cast away all general ideas; to look only for unison of
feeling, and to pronounce everything wrong which is contrary to the
_humors_ of nature. We must make them feel where they are; we must throw
a peculiar light and color over their imaginations; then we will bring
their judgment into play, for then it will be capable of just operation.
23. We have passed, it must be observed (in leaving England and France
for Italy), from comfort to desolation; from excitement, to sadness: we
have left one country prosperous in its prime, and another frivolous in
its age, for one glorious in its death.
Now, we have prefixed the hackneyed line of Il Penseroso to our paper,
because it is a definition of the essence of the beautiful. What is most
musical, will always be found most melancholy; and no real beauty can be
obtained without a touch of sadness. Whenever the beautiful loses its
melancholy, it degenerates into prettiness. We appeal to the memories of
all our observing readers, whether they have treasured up any scene,
pretending to be more than pretty, which has not about it either a tinge
of melancholy or a sense of danger; the one constitutes the beautiful,
the other the sublime.
24. This postulate being granted, as we are sure it will by most (and we
beg to assure those who are refractory or argumentative, that, were this
a treatise on the sublime and beautiful, we could convince and quell
their incredulity to their entire satisfaction by innumerable
instances), we proceed to remark here, once for all, that the principal
glory of the Italian landscape is its extreme melancholy. It is fitting
that it should be so: the dead are the nations of Italy; her name and
her strength are dwelling with the pale nations underneath the earth;
the chief and chosen boast of her utmost pride is the _hic jacet_; she
is but one wide sepulcher, and all her present life is like a shadow or
a memory. And therefore, or, rather, by a most beautiful coincidence,
her national tree is the cypress; and whoever has marked the peculiar
character which these noble shadowy spires can give to her landscape,
lifting their majestic troops of waving darkness from beside the fallen
column, or out of the midst of the silence of the shadowed temple and
worshipless shrine, seen far and wide over the blue of the faint plain,
without loving the dark trees for their sympathy with the sadness of
Italy's sweet cemetery shore, is one who profanes her soil with his
footsteps.
25. Every part of the landscape is in unison; the same glory of mourning
is thrown over the whole; the deep blue of the heavens is mingled with
that of the everlasting hills, or melted away into the silence of the
sapphire sea; the pale cities, temple and tower, lie gleaming along the
champaign; but how calmly! no hum of men; no motion of multitude in the
midst of them: they are voiceless as the city of ashes. The transparent
air is gentle among the blossoms of the orange and the dim leaves of the
olive; and the small fountains, which, in any other land, would spring
merrily along, sparkling and singing among tinkling pebbles, here flow
calmly and silently into some pale font of marble, all beautiful with
life; worked by some unknown hand, long ago nerveless, and fall and
pass on among wan flowers, and scented copse, through cool leaf-lighted
caves or gray Egerian grottoes, to join the Tiber or Eridanus, to swell
the waves of Nemi, or the Larian Lake. The most minute objects (leaf,
flower, and stone), while they add to the beauty, seem to share in the
sadness, of the whole.
26. But, if one principal character of Italian landscape is melancholy,
another is elevation. We have no simple rusticity of scene, no cowslip
and buttercup humility of seclusion. Tall mulberry trees, with festoons
of the luxuriant vine, purple with ponderous clusters, trailed and
trellised between and over them, shade the wide fields of stately Indian
corn; luxuriance of lofty vegetation (catalpa, and aloe, and olive),
ranging itself in lines of massy light along the wan champaign, guides
the eye away to the unfailing wall of mountain, Alp or Apennine; no cold
long range of shivery gray, but dazzling light of snow, or undulating
breadth of blue, fainter and darker, in infinite variety; peak,
precipice, and promontory passing away into the wooded hills, each with
its tower or white village sloping into the plain; castellated
battlements cresting their undulations; some wide majestic river gliding
along the champaign, the bridge on its breast, and the city on its
shore; the whole canopied with cloudless azure, basking in mistless
sunshine, breathing the silence of odoriferous air.
27. Now comes the question. In a country of this pomp of natural glory,
tempered with melancholy memory of departed pride, what are we to wish
for, what are we naturally to expect in the character of her most humble
edifices; those which are most connected with present life--least with
the past? what are we to consider fitting or beautiful in her cottage?
We do not expect it to be comfortable, when everything around it
betokens decay and desolation in the works of man. We do not wish it to
be neat, where nature is most beautiful, because neglected. But we
naturally look for an elevation of character, a richness of design or
form, which, while the building is kept a cottage, may yet give it a
peculiar air of cottage aristocracy; a beauty (no matter how
dilapidated) which may appear to have been once fitted for the
surrounding splendor of scene and climate. Now, let us fancy an Italian
cottage before us. The reader who has traveled in Italy will find little
difficulty in recalling one to his memory, with its broad lines of light
and shadow, and its strange, but not unpleasing mixture of grandeur and
desolation. Let us examine its details, enumerate its architectural
peculiarities, and see how far it agrees with our preconceived idea of
what the cottage ought to be?
28. The first remarkable point of the building is the roof. It generally
consists of tiles of very deep curvature, which rib it into distinct
vertical lines, giving it a far more agreeable surface than that of our
flatter tiling. The _form_ of the roof, however, is always excessively
flat, so as never to let it intrude upon the eye; and the consequence
is, that, while an English village, seen at a distance, appears all red
roof, the Italian is all white wall; and therefore, though always
bright, is never gaudy. We have in these roofs an excellent example of
what should always be kept in mind, that everything will be found
beautiful, which climate or situation render useful. The strong and
constant heat of the Italian sun would be intolerable if admitted at the
windows; and, therefore, the edges of the roof project far over the
walls, and throw long shadows downwards, so as to keep the upper windows
constantly cool. These long oblique shadows on the white surface are
always delightful, and are alone sufficient to give the building
character. They are peculiar to the buildings of Spain and Italy; for
owing to the general darker color of those of more northerly climates,
the shadows of their roofs, however far thrown, do not tell distinctly,
and render them, not varied, but gloomy. Another ornamental use of these
shadows is, that they break the line of junction of the wall with the
roof: a point always desirable, and in every kind of building, whether
we have to do with lead, slate, tile, or thatch, one of extreme
difficulty. This object is farther forwarded in the Italian cottage, by
putting two or three windows up under the very eaves themselves, which
is also done for coolness, so that their tops are formed by the roof;
and the wall has the appearance of having been terminated by large
battlements and roofed over. And, finally, the eaves are seldom kept
long on the same level: double or treble rows of tiling are introduced;
long sticks and irregular wood-work are occasionally attached to them,
to assist the festoons of the vine; and the graceful irregularity and
marked character of the whole must be dwelt on with equal delight by the
eye of the poet, the artist, or the unprejudiced architect. All,
however, is exceedingly humble; we have not yet met with the elevation
of character we expected. We shall find it however as we proceed.
29. The next point of interest is the window. The modern Italian is
completely owl-like in his habits. All the daytime he lies idle and
inert; but during the night he is all activity, but it is mere activity
of inoccupation. Idleness, partly induced by the temperature of the
climate, and partly consequent on the decaying prosperity of the nation,
leaves indications of its influence on all his undertakings. He prefers
patching up a ruin to building a house; he raises shops and hovels, the
abodes of inactive, vegetating, brutish poverty, under the protection of
aged and ruined, yet stalwart, arches of the Roman amphitheater; and the
habitations of the lower orders frequently present traces of ornament
and stability of material evidently belonging to the remains of a
prouder edifice. This is the case sometimes to such a degree as, in
another country, would be disagreeable from its impropriety; but, in
Italy, it corresponds with the general prominence of the features of a
past age, and is always beautiful. Thus, the eye rests with delight on
the broken moldings of the windows, and the sculptured capitals of the
corner columns, contrasted, as they are, the one with the glassless
blackness within, the other with the ragged and dirty confusion of
drapery around. The Italian window, in general, is a mere hole in the
thick wall, always well proportioned; occasionally arched at the top,
sometimes with the addition of a little rich ornament: seldom, if ever,
having any casement or glass, but filled up with any bit of striped or
colored cloth, which may have the slightest chance of deceiving the
distant observer into the belief that it is a legitimate blind. This
keeps off the sun, and allows a free circulation of air, which is the
great object. When it is absent, the window becomes a mere black hole,
having much the same relation to a glazed window that the hollow of a
skull has to a bright eye; not unexpressive, but frowning and ghastly,
and giving a disagreeable impression of utter emptiness and desolation
within. Yet there is character in them: the black dots tell agreeably on
the walls at a distance, and have no disagreeable sparkle to disturb the
repose of surrounding scenery. Besides, the temperature renders
everything agreeable to the eye, which gives it an idea of ventilation.
A few roughly constructed balconies, projecting from detached windows,
usually break the uniformity of the wall. In some Italian cottages there
are wooden galleries, resembling those so frequently seen in
Switzerland; but this is not a very general character, except in the
mountain valleys of North Italy, although sometimes a passage is
effected from one projecting portion of a house to another by means of
an exterior gallery. These are very delightful objects; and when shaded
by luxuriant vines, which is frequently the case, impart a gracefulness
to the building otherwise unattainable.
30. The next striking point is the arcade at the base of the building.
This is general in cities; and, although frequently wanting to the
cottage, is present often enough to render it an important feature. In
fact, the Italian cottage is usually found in groups. Isolated buildings
are rare; and the arcade affords an agreeable, if not necessary, shade,
in passing from one building to another. It is a still more unfailing
feature of the Swiss city, where it is useful in deep snow. But the
supports of the arches in Switzerland are generally square masses of
wall, varying in size, separating the arches by irregular intervals, and
sustained by broad and massy buttresses; while in Italy, the arches
generally rest on legitimate columns, varying in height from one and a
half to four diameters, with huge capitals, not unfrequently rich in
detail. These give great gracefulness to the buildings in groups: they
will be spoken of more at large when we are treating of arrangement and
situation.
[Illustration: Italian Cottage Gallery, 1846. Chimney at Neuchatel;
Dent du Midi and Mont Blanc in the distance.]
[Illustration: Cottage near la Cité, Val d'Aosta, 1838.]
31. The square tower, rising over the roof of the farther cottage, will
not escape observation. It has been allowed to remain, not because such
elevated buildings ever belong to mere cottages, but, first, that the
truth of the scene might not be destroyed;[3] and, secondly, because it
is impossible, or nearly so, to obtain a group of buildings of any sort,
in Italy, without one or more such objects rising behind them,
beautifully contributing to destroy the monotony, and contrast with the
horizontal lines of the flat roofs and square walls. We think it right,
therefore, to give the cottage the relief and contrast which, in
reality, it possessed, even though we are at present speaking of it in
the abstract.
[Footnote 3: The annexed illustration will, perhaps, make the remarks
advanced more intelligible. The building, which is close to the city of
Aosta, unites in itself all the peculiarities for which the Italian
cottage is remarkable: the dark arcade, the sculptured capital, the
vine-covered gallery, the flat and confused roof; and clearly exhibits
the points to which we wish particularly to direct attention; namely,
brightness of effect, simplicity of form, and elevation of character.
Let it not be supposed, however, that such a combination of attributes
is rare; on the contrary, it is common to the greater part of the
cottages of Italy. This building has not been selected as a rare
example, but it is given as a good one. [These remarks refer to a cut in
the magazine text, represented in the illustrated edition by a
photogravure from the original sketch.]]
32. Having now reviewed the distinctive parts of the Italian cottage in
detail, we shall proceed to direct our attention to points of general
character. I. Simplicity of form. The roof, being flat, allows of no
projecting garret windows, no fantastic gable ends: the walls themselves
are equally flat; no bow-windows or sculptured oriels, such as we meet
with perpetually in Germany, France, or the Netherlands, vary their
white fronts. Now, this simplicity is, perhaps, the principal attribute
by which the Italian cottage attains the elevation of character we
desired and expected. All that is fantastic in form, or frivolous in
detail, annihilates the aristocratic air of a building: it at once
destroys its sublimity and size, besides awakening, as is almost always
the case, associations of a mean and low character. The moment we see a
gable roof, we think of cock-lofts; the instant we observe a projecting
window, of attics and tent-bedsteads. Now, the Italian cottage assumes,
with the simplicity, _l'air noble_ of buildings of a higher order; and,
though it avoids all ridiculous miniature mimicry of the palace, it
discards the humbler attributes of the cottage. The ornament it assumes
is dignified; no grinning faces, or unmeaning notched planks, but
well-proportioned arches, or tastefully sculptured columns. While there
is nothing about it unsuited to the humility of its inhabitant, there is
a general dignity in its air, which harmonizes beautifully with the
nobility of the neighboring edifices, or the glory of the surrounding
scenery.
33. II. Brightness of effect. There are no weather stains on the walls:
there is no dampness in air or earth, by which they could be induced;
the heat of the sun scorches away all lichens, and mosses and moldy
vegetation. No thatch or stone crop on the roof unites the building with
surrounding vegetation; all is clear, and warm, and sharp on the eye;
the more distant the building, the more generally bright it becomes,
till the distant village sparkles out of the orange copse, or the
cypress grove, with so much distinctness as might be thought in some
degree objectionable. But it must be remembered that the prevailing
color of the Italian landscape is blue; sky, hills, water, are equally
azure: the olive, which forms a great proportion of the vegetation, is
not green, but gray; the cypress and its varieties, dark and neutral,
and the laurel and myrtle far from bright. Now, white, which is
intolerable with green, is agreeably contrasted with blue; and to this
cause it must be ascribed that the white of the Italian building is not
found startling and disagreeable in the landscape. That it is not, we
believe, will be generally allowed.
34. III. Elegance of feeling. We never can prevent ourselves from
imagining that we perceive in the graceful negligence of the Italian
cottage, the evidence of a taste among the lower orders refined by the
glory of their land, and the beauty of its remains. We have always had
strong faith in the influence of climate on the mind, and feel strongly
tempted to discuss the subject at length; but our paper has already
exceeded its proposed limits, and we must content ourselves with
remarking what will not, we think, be disputed, that the eye, by
constantly resting either on natural scenery of noble tone and
character, or on the architectural remains of classical beauty, must
contract a habit of feeling correctly and tastefully; the influence of
which, we think, is seen in the style of edifices the most modern and
the most humble.