cannot be said to be beautiful. It may possess others, which are
desirable or objectionable, according to their situation, or other
accidental circumstances. The nature of these will be best understood by
examining an individual building. The material is, of course, what is
most easily attainable and available without much labor. The Cumberland
and Westmoreland hills are, in general, composed of clay-slate and
gray-wacke, with occasional masses of chert[7] (like that which forms
the summit of Scawfell), porphyritic greenstone, and syenite. The chert
decomposes deeply, and assumes a rough brown granular surface, deeply
worn and furrowed. The clay-slate or gray-wacke, as it is shattered by
frost, and carried down by torrents, of course forms itself into
irregular flattish masses. The splintery edges of these are in some
degree worn off by the action of water; and, slight decomposition taking
place on the surface of the clay-slate, furnishes an aluminous soil,
which is immediately taken advantage of by innumerable lichens, which
change the dark gray of the original substance into an infinite variety
of pale and warm colors. These stones, thus shaped to his hand, are the
most convenient building materials the peasant can obtain.[8] He lays
his foundation and strengthens his angles with large masses, filling up
the intervals with pieces of a more moderate size; and using here and
there a little cement to bind the whole together, and to keep the wind
from getting through the interstices; but never enough to fill them
altogether up, or to render the face of the wall smooth. At intervals of
from 4 ft. to 6 ft. a horizontal line of flat and broad fragments is
introduced projecting about a foot from the wall. Whether this is
supposed to give strength, I know not; but as it is invariably covered
by luxuriant stonecrop, it is always a delightful object.
[Footnote 7: That is to say, a _flinty_ volcanic ash.]
[Footnote 8: Compare the treatment of a similar theme in _Modern
Painters_, vol. iv., chaps. viii.-x.]
52. The door is flanked and roofed by three large oblong sheets of gray
rock, whose form seems not to be considered of the slightest
consequence. Those which form the cheeks of the windows are generally
selected with more care from the débris of some rock, which is naturally
smooth and polished, after being subjected to the weather, such as
granite or syenite. The window itself is narrow and deep set; in the
better sort of cottages, latticed, but with no affectation of
sweetbrier or eglantine about it. It may be observed of the whole of the
cottage, that, though all is beautiful, nothing is pretty. The roof is
rather flat, and covered with heavy fragments of the stone of which the
walls are built, originally very loose; but generally cemented by
accumulated soil, and bound together by houseleek, moss, and stonecrop:
brilliant in color, and singular in abundance. The form of the larger
cottages, being frequently that of a cross, would hurt the eye by the
sharp angles of the roof, were it not for the cushion-like vegetation
with which they are rounded and concealed. Varieties of the fern
sometimes relieve the massy forms of the stonecrop, with their light and
delicate leafage. Windows in the roof are seldom met with. Of the
chimney I shall speak hereafter.
53. Such are the prevailing peculiarities of the Westmoreland cottage.
"Is this all?" some one will exclaim: "a hovel, built of what first
comes to hand, and in the most simple and convenient form; not one
thought of architectural beauty ever coming into the builder's head!"
Even so; to this illustration of an excellent rule, I wished
particularly to direct attention: that the material which Nature
furnishes, in any given country, and the form which she suggests, will
always render the building the most beautiful, because the most
appropriate. Observe how perfectly this cottage fulfills the conditions
which were before ascertained to be necessary to perfection. Its color
is that of the ground on which it stands, always subdued and gray, but
exquisitely rich, the color being disposed crumblingly, in groups of
shadowy spots; a deep red brown, passing into black, being finely
contrasted with the pale yellow of the _Lichen geographicus_, and the
subdued white of another lichen, whose name I do not know; all mingling
with each other as on a native rock, and with the same beautiful effect:
the mass, consequently, at a distance, tells only as a large stone
would, the simplicity of its form contributing still farther to render
it inconspicuous. When placed on a mountain-side such a cottage will
become a point of interest, which will relieve its monotony, but will
never cut the hill in two, or take away from its size. In the valley,
the color of these cottages agrees with everything: the green light,
which trembles through the leafage of the taller trees, falls with
exquisite effect on the rich gray of the ancient roofs: the deep pool of
clear water is not startled from its peace by their reflection; the ivy,
or the creepers to which the superior wealth of the peasant of the
valley does now and then pretend, in opposition to the general custom,
cling gracefully and easily to its innumerable crevices; and rock, lake,
and meadow seem to hail it with a brotherly affection, as if Nature had
taken as much pains with it as she has with them.
54. Again, observe its ease of outline. There is not a single straight
line to be met with from foundation to roof; all is bending or broken.
The form of every stone in its walls is a study; for, owing to the
infinite delicacy of structure in all minerals, a piece of stone 3 in.
in diameter, irregularly fractured, and a little worn by the weather,
has precisely the same character of outline which we should find and
admire in a mountain of the same material 6000 ft. high;[9] and,
therefore, the eye, though not feeling the cause, rests on every cranny,
and crack, and fissure with delight. It is true that we have no idea
that every small projection, if of chert, has such an outline as
Scawfell's; if of gray-wacke, as Skiddaw's; or if of slate, as
Helvellyn's; but their combinations of form are, nevertheless, felt to
be exquisite, and we dwell upon every bend of the rough roof and every
hollow of the loose wall, feeling it to be a design which no architect
on earth could ever equal, sculptured by a chisel of unimaginable
delicacy, and finished to a degree of perfection, which is unnoticed
only because it is everywhere.
[Footnote 9: Compare _Modern Painters_, vol. iv. chap. 18, § 7.]
55. This ease and irregularity is peculiarly delightful where
gracefulness and freedom of outline and detail are, as they always are
in mountain countries, the chief characteristics of every scene. It is
well that, where every plant is wild and every torrent free, every field
irregular in its form, every knoll various in its outline, one is not
startled by well built walls, or unyielding roofs, but is permitted to
trace in the stones of the peasant's dwelling, as in the crags of the
mountain side, no evidence of the line or the mallet, but the operation
of eternal influences, the presence of an Almighty hand. Another
perfection connected with its ease of outline is, its severity of
character: there is no foppery about it; not the slightest effort at any
kind of ornament, but what nature chooses to bestow; it wears all its
decorations wildly, covering its nakedness, not with what the peasant
may plant, but with what the winds may bring. There is no gay color or
neatness about it; no green shutters or other abomination: all is calm
and quiet, and severe, as the mind of a philosopher, and, withal, a
little somber. It is evidently old, and has stood many trials in its
day; and the snow, and the tempest, and the torrent have all spared it,
and left it in its peace, with its gray head unbowed, and its early
strength unbroken, even though the spirit of decay seems creeping, like
the moss and the lichen, through the darkness of its crannies. This
venerable and slightly melancholy character is the very soul of all its
beauty.
56. There remains only one point to be noticed, its humility. This was
before stated to be desirable, and it will here be found in perfection.
The building draws as little attention upon itself as possible; since,
with all the praise I have bestowed upon it, it possesses not one point
of beauty in which it is not equaled or excelled by every stone at the
side of the road. It is small in size, simple in form, subdued in tone,
easily concealed or overshadowed; often actually so; and one is always
delighted and surprised to find that what courts attention so little is
capable of sustaining it so well. Yet it has no appearance of weakness:
it is stoutly, though rudely, built; and one ceases to fear for its sake
the violence of surrounding agencies, which, it may be seen, will be
partly deprecated by its humility.
57. Such is the mountain cottage of Westmoreland; and such, with
occasional varieties, are many of the mountain cottages of England and
Wales. It is true that my memory rests with peculiar pleasure in a
certain quiet valley near Kirkstone, little known to the general
tourist, distant from any public track, and, therefore, free from all
the horrors of improvement:[10] in which it seemed to me that the
architecture of the cottage had attained a peculiar degree of
perfection. But I think that this impression was rather produced by a
few seemingly insignificant accompanying circumstances, than by any
distinguished beauty of design in the cottages themselves. Their
inhabitants were evidently poor, and apparently had not repaired their
dwellings since their first erection; and, certainly, had never torn one
tuft of moss or fern from roofs or walls, which were green with the rich
vegetation of years. The valley was narrow, and quiet, and deep, and
shaded by reverend trees, among whose trunks the gray cottages looked
out, with a perfection of effect which I never remember to have seen
equaled, though I believe that, in many of the mountain districts of
Britain, the peasant's domicile is erected with equal good taste.
[Footnote 10: Troutbeck, sixty years since?]
58. I have always rejoiced in the thought, that our native highland
scenery, though, perhaps, wanting in sublimity, is distinguished by a
delicate finish in its details, and by a unanimity and propriety of
feeling in the works of its inhabitants, which are elsewhere looked for
in vain; and the reason of this is evident. The mind of the inhabitant
of the continent, in general, is capable of deeper and finer sensations
than that of the islander. It is higher in its aspirations, purer in its
passions, wilder in its dreams, and fiercer in its anger; but it is
wanting in gentleness, and in its simplicity; naturally desirous of
excitement, and incapable of experiencing, in equal degree, the calmer
flow of human felicity, the stillness of domestic peace, and the
pleasures of the humble hearth, consisting in everyday duties performed,
and everyday mercies received; consequently, in the higher walks of
architecture, where the mind is to be impressed or elevated, we never
have equaled, and we never shall equal, them. It will be seen
hereafter, when we leave the lowly valley for the torn ravine, and the
grassy knoll for the ribbed precipice, that, if the continental
architects cannot adorn the pasture with the humble roof, they can crest
the crag with eternal battlements;[11] if they cannot minister to a
landscape's peace, they can add to its terror; and it has been already
seen, that, in the lowland cottages of France and Italy, where high and
refined feelings were to be induced, where melancholy was to be excited,
or majesty bestowed, the architect was successful, and his labor was
perfect: but, now, nothing is required but humility and gentleness; and
this, which he does not feel, he cannot give: it is contrary to the
whole force of his character, nay, even to the spirit of his religion.
It is unfelt even at the time when the soul is most chastened and
subdued; for the epitaph on the grave is affected in its sentiment, and
the tombstone gaudily gilded, or wreathed with vain flowers.
[Footnote 11: This too refers to the unwritten sequel.]
[Illustration: FIG. 6. The Highest House in England.]
59. We cannot, then, be surprised at the effort at ornament and other
fancied architectural beauties, which injure the effect of the more
peaceful mountain scenery abroad; but still less should we be surprised
at the perfect propriety which prevails in the same kind of scenery at
home; for the error which is there induced by one mental deficiency, is
here prevented by another. The uncultivated mountaineer of Cumberland
has no taste, and no idea of what architecture means; he never thinks of
what is right, or what is beautiful, but he builds what is most adapted
to his purposes, and most easily erected: by suiting the building to the
uses of his own life, he gives it humility; and, by raising it with the
nearest material, adapts it to its situation. This is all that is
required, and he has no credit in fulfilling the requirement, since the
moment he begins to think of effect, he commits a barbarism by
whitewashing the whole. The cottages of Cumberland would suffer much by
this piece of improvement, were it not for the salutary operation of
mountain rains and mountain winds.
60. So much for the hill dwellings of our own country. I think the
examination of the five examples of the cottage which I have given have
furnished all the general principles which are important or worthy of
consideration; and I shall therefore devote no more time to the
contemplation of individual buildings. But, before I leave the cottage
altogether, it will be necessary to notice a part of the building which
I have in the separate instances purposely avoided mentioning, that I
might have the advantage of immediate comparison; a part exceedingly
important, and which seems to have been essential to the palace as well
as to the cottage, ever since the time when Perdiccas received his
significant gift of the sun from his Macedonian master, [Greek:
perigrapsas ton hêlion, hos ên kata tên kapnodokên es ton oikon
esechôn].[12] And then I shall conclude the subject by a few general
remarks on modern ornamental cottages, illustrative of the principle so
admirably developed in the beauty of the Westmoreland building; to
which, it must be remembered, the palm was assigned, in preference to
the Switzer's; not because it was more labored, but because it was more
natural.
OXFORD, _Jan., 1838._
[Footnote 12: Herodotus viii, 137, freely quoted from memory. The story
was that three brothers took service with a kinglet in Macedonia. The
queen, who cooked their food herself, for it was in the good old times,
noticed that the portion of Perdiccas, the youngest, always "rose" three
times as large as any other. The king judged this to be an omen of the
lad's coming to fortune; and dismissed them. They demanded their wages.
"When the king heard talk about wages--you must know _the sun was
shining into the house, down the chimney_--he said (for God had hardened
his heart) 'There's your wage; all you deserve and all you'll get:' and
pointed to the sunshine. The elder brothers were dumfoundered when they
heard that; but the lad, who happened to have his knife with him, said,
'We accept, King, the gift.' With his knife he _made a scratch around
the sunstreak_ on the floor, took the shine of it three times into the
fold of his kirtle"--his pocket, we should say nowadays--"and went his
way." Eventually he became king of Macedonia, and ancestor of Alexander
the Great.]
V.
A CHAPTER ON CHIMNEYS.
61. It appears from the passage in Herodotus, which we alluded to in the
last paper, that there has been a time, even in the most civilized
countries, when the king's palace was entirely unfurnished with anything
having the slightest pretension to the dignity of chimney tops; and the
savory vapors which were wont to rise from the hospitable hearth, at
which the queen or princess prepared the feast with the whitest of
hands, escaped with indecorous facility through a simple hole in the
flat roof. The dignity of smoke, however, is now better understood, and
it is dismissed through Gothic pinnacles, and (as at Burleigh House)
through Tuscan columns, with a most praiseworthy regard to its comfort
and convenience. Let us consider if it is worth the trouble.
62. We advanced a position in the last paper, that silence is never
perfect without motion. That is, unless something which might possibly
produce sound is evident to the eye, the absence of sound is not
surprising to the ear, and, therefore, not impressive. Let it be
observed, for instance, how much the stillness of a summer's evening is
enhanced by the perception of the gliding and majestic motion of some
calm river, strong but still; or of the high and purple clouds; or of
the voiceless leaves, among the opening branches. To produce this
impression, however, the motion must be uniform, though not necessarily
slow. One of the chief peculiarities of the ocean thoroughfares of
Venice, is the remarkable silence which rests upon them, enhanced as it
is by the swift, but beautifully uniform motion of the gondola. Now,
there is no motion more uniform, silent or beautiful than that of
smoke; and, therefore, when we wish the peace or stillness of a scene to
be impressive, it is highly useful to draw the attention to it.
63. In the cottage, therefore, a building peculiarly adapted for scenes
of peace, the chimney, as conducting the eye to what is agreeable, may
be considered as important, and, if well managed, a beautiful
accompaniment. But in buildings of a higher class, smoke ceases to be
interesting. Owing to their general greater elevation, it is relieved
against the sky, instead of against a dark background, thereby losing
the fine silvery blue,--which among trees, or rising out of a distant
country, is so exquisitely beautiful,--and assuming a dingy yellowish
black: its motion becomes useless; for the idea of stillness is no
longer desirable, or, at least, no longer attainable, being interrupted
by the nature of the building itself: and, finally, the associations it
arouses are not dignified; we may think of a comfortable fireside,
perhaps, but are quite as likely to dream of kitchens, and spits, and
shoulders of mutton. None of these imaginations are in their place, if
the character of the building be elevated; they are barely tolerable in
the dwelling house and the street. Now, when smoke is objectionable, it
is certainly improper to direct attention to the chimney; and,
therefore, for two weighty reasons, _decorated_ chimneys, of any sort or
size whatsoever, are inexcusable barbarisms; first, because, where smoke
is beautiful, decoration is unsuited to the building; and secondly,
because, where smoke is ugly, decoration directs attention _to its
ugliness_.
64. It is unfortunately a prevailing idea with some of our architects,
that what is a disagreeable object in itself may be relieved or
concealed by lavish ornament; and there never was a greater mistake. It
should be a general principle, that what is intrinsically ugly should be
utterly destitute of ornament, that the eye may not be drawn to it. The
pretended skulls of the three Magi at Cologne are set in gold, and have
a diamond in each eye; and are a thousand times more ghastly than if
their brown bones had been left in peace. Such an error as this ought
never to be committed in architecture. If any part of the building has
disagreeable associations connected with it, let it alone: do not
ornament it. Keep it subdued, and simply adapted to its use; and the eye
will not go to it, nor quarrel with it. It would have been well if this
principle had been kept in view in the renewal of some of the public
buildings in Oxford. In All Souls College, for instance, the architect
has carried his chimneys half as high as all the rest of the building,
and fretted them with Gothic. The eye is instantly caught by the plated
candlestick-like columns, and runs with some complacency up the groining
and fret-work, and alights finally and fatally on a red chimney-top. He
might as well have built a Gothic aisle at an entrance to a coal wharf.
We have no scruple in saying that the man who could desecrate the Gothic
trefoil into an ornament for a chimney has not the slightest feeling,
and never will have any, of its beauty or its use; he was never born to
be an architect, and never will be one.
65. Now, if chimneys are not to be decorated (since their existence is
necessary), it becomes an object of some importance to know what is to
be done with them: and we enter into the inquiry before leaving the
cottage, as in its most proper place; because, in the cottage, and only
in the cottage, it is desirable to direct attention to smoke.
Speculation, however, on the _beau idéal_ of a chimney can never be
unshackled; because, though we may imagine what it ought to be, we can
never tell, until the house is built, what it _must_ be; we may require
it to be short, and find that it will smoke, unless it is long; or, we
may desire it to be covered, and find it will not go unless it is open.
We can fix, therefore, on no one model; but by looking over the chimneys
of a few nations, we may deduce some general principles from their
varieties, which may always be brought into play, by whatever
circumstances our own imaginations may be confined.
66. Looking first to the mind of the people, we cannot expect to find
good examples of the chimney, as we go to the south. The Italian or the
Spaniard does not know the use of a chimney, properly speaking; they
_have_ such things, and they light a fire, five days in the year,
chiefly of wood, which does not give smoke enough to teach the chimney
its business; but they have not the slightest idea of the meaning or the
beauty of such things as hobs, and hearths, and Christmas blazes; and we
should, therefore, expect, _à priori_, that there would be no soul in
their chimneys; that they would have no practiced substantial air about
them; that they would, in short, be as awkward and as much in the way,
as individuals of the human race are, when they don't know what to do
with themselves, or what they were created for. But in England, sweet
carbonaceous England, we flatter ourselves we _do_ know something about
fire, and smoke too, or our eyes have strangely deceived us; and, from
the whole comfortable character and fireside disposition of the nation,
we should conjecture that the architecture of the chimney would be
understood, both as a matter of taste and as a matter of comfort, to the
_ne plus ultra_ of perfection. Let us see how far our expectations are
realized.
67. Fig. 7, _a_, _b_ and _c_ are English chimneys. They are
distinguishable, we think, at a glance, from all the rest, by a
downright serviceableness of appearance, a substantial, unaffected,
decent, and chimney-like deportment, in the contemplation of which we
experience infinite pleasure and edification, particularly as it seems
to us to be strongly contrasted with an appearance, in all the other
chimneys, of an indefinable something, only to be expressed by the
interesting word "humbug." Fig. _7 a_ is a chimney of Cumberland, and
the north of Lancashire. It is, as may be seen at a glance, only
applicable at the extremity of the roof, and requires a bent flue. It is
built of unhewn stones, in the same manner as the Westmoreland cottages;
the flue itself being not one-third the width of the chimney, as is seen
at the top, where four flat stones placed on their edges form the
termination of the flue itself, and give lightness of appearance to the
whole. Cover this with a piece of paper, and observe how heavy and
square the rest becomes. A few projecting stones continue the line of
the roof across the center of the chimney, and two large masses support
the projection of the whole, and unite it agreeably with the wall. This
is exclusively a cottage chimney; it cannot, and must not, be built of
civilized materials; it must be rough, and mossy, and broken; but it is
decidedly the best chimney of the whole set. It is simple and
substantial, without being cumbrous; it gives great variety to the wall
from which it projects, terminates the roof agreeably, and dismisses its
smoke with infinite propriety.
[Illustration: FIG. 7. Chimneys.]