alone, as peculiarly a cottage country, the remarks formerly advanced,
in the consideration of the Westmoreland cottage, are sufficient; but if
we go into mountain districts of more varied character, we shall find a
difference existing between every range of hills, which will demand a
corresponding difference in the style of their cottages. The principles,
however, are the same in all situations, and it would be a hopeless task
to endeavor to give more than general principles. In hill country,
however, another question is introduced, whose investigation is
peculiarly necessary in cases in which the ground has inequality of
surface, that of position. And the difficulty here is, not so much to
ascertain where the building ought to be, as to put it there, without
suggesting any inquiry as to the mode in which it got there; to prevent
its just application from appearing artificial. But we cannot enter into
this inquiry, before laying down a number of principles of composition,
which are applicable, not only to cottages, but generally; and which we
cannot deduce until we come to the consideration of buildings in
groups.
94. Such are the great divisions under which country and rural buildings
may be comprehended; but there are intermediate conditions, in which
modified forms of the cottage are applicable; and it frequently happens
that country which, considered in the abstract, would fall under one of
these classes, possesses, owing to its peculiar climate or associations,
a very different character. Italy, for instance, is blue country; yet it
has not the least resemblance to English blue country. We have paid
particular attention to wood; first, because we had not, in any previous
paper, considered what was beautiful in a forest cottage; and secondly,
because in such districts there is generally much more influence
exercised by proprietors over their tenantry, than in populous and
cultivated districts; and our English park scenery, though exquisitely
beautiful, is sometimes, we think, a little monotonous, from the want of
this very feature.
95. And now, farewell to the cottage, and, with it, to the humility of
natural scenery. We are sorry to leave it; not that we have any idea of
living in a cottage, as a comfortable thing; not that we prefer mud to
marble, or deal to mahogany; but that, with it, we leave much of what is
most beautiful of earth, the low and bee-inhabited scenery, which is
full of quiet and prideless emotion, of such calmness as we can imagine
prevailing over our earth when it was new in heaven. We are going into
higher walks of architecture, where we shall find a less close
connection established between the building and the soil on which it
stands, or the air with which it is surrounded, but a closer connection
with the character of its inhabitant. We shall have less to do with
natural feeling, and more with human passion; we are coming out of
stillness into turbulence, out of seclusion into the multitude, out of
the wilderness into the world.
_PART II._
The Villa.
THE MOUNTAIN VILLA: LAGO DI COMO:
THE LOWLAND VILLA:--ENGLAND:
THE BRITISH VILLA: PRINCIPLES OF COMPOSITION.
I.
THE MOUNTAIN VILLA--LAGO DI COMO.
96. In all arts or sciences, before we can determine what is just or
beautiful in a group, we must ascertain what is desirable in the parts
which compose it, separately considered; and therefore it will be most
advantageous in the present case, to keep out of the village and the
city, until we have searched hill and dale for examples of isolated
buildings. This mode of considering the subject is also agreeable to the
feelings, as the transition from the higher orders of solitary edifices,
to groups of associated edifices, is not so sudden or startling, as that
from nature's most humble peace, to man's most turbulent pride.
We have contemplated the rural dwelling of the peasant; let us next
consider the ruralized domicile of the gentleman: and here, as before,
we shall first determine what is theoretically beautiful, and then
observe how far our expectations are fulfilled in individual buildings.
But a few preliminary observations are necessary.
97. Man, the peasant, is a being of more marked national character, than
man, the educated and refined. For nationality is founded, in a great
degree, on prejudices and feelings inculcated and aroused in youth,
which grow inveterate in the mind as long as its views are confined to
the place of its birth; its ideas molded by the customs of its country,
and its conversation limited to a circle composed of individuals of
habits and feelings like its own; but which are gradually softened down,
and eradicated, when the mind is led into general views of things, when
it is guided by reflection instead of habit, and has begun to lay aside
opinions contracted under the influence of association and
prepossession, substituting in their room philosophical deductions from
the calm contemplation of the various tempers, and thoughts, and
customs, of mankind. The love of its country will remain with
undiminished strength in the cultivated mind, but the national modes of
thinking will vanish from the disciplined intellect.
98. Now as it is only by these mannerisms of thought that architecture
is affected, we shall find that, the more polished the mind of its
designer, the less national will be the building; for its architect will
be led away by a search after a model of ideal beauty, and will not be
involuntarily guided by deep-rooted feelings, governing irresistibly his
heart and hand. He will therefore be in perpetual danger of forgetting
the necessary unison of scene and climate, and, following up the chase
of the ideal, will neglect the beauty of the natural; an error which he
could not commit, were he less general in his views, for then the
prejudices to which he would be subject, would be as truly in unison
with the objects which created them, as answering notes with the chords
which awaken them. We must not, therefore, be surprised, if buildings
bearing impress of the exercise of fine thought and high talent in their
design, should yet offend us by perpetual discords with scene and
climate; and if, therefore, we sometimes derive less instruction, and
less pleasure from the columnar portico of the Palace, than from the
latched door of the Cottage.
99. Again: man, in his hours of relaxation, when he is engaged in the
pursuit of mere pleasure, is less national than when he is under the
influence of any of the more violent feelings which agitate everyday
life. The reason of this may at first appear somewhat obscure, but it
will become evident, on a little reflection. Aristotle's definition of
pleasure, perhaps the best ever given, is "an agitation, and settling of
the spirit into its own proper nature;" similar, by the by, to the
giving of liberty of motion to the molecules of a mineral, followed by
their crystallization, into their own proper form. Now this "proper
nature," [Greek: hyparchousan physin], is not the acquired national
habit, but the common and universal constitution of the human soul. This
constitution is kept under by the feelings which prompt to action, for
those feelings depend upon parts of character, or of prejudice, which
are peculiar to individuals or to nations; and the pleasure which all
men seek is a kind of partial casting away of these more active
feelings, to return to the calm and unchanging constitution of mind
which is the same in all.
100. We shall, therefore, find that man, in the business of his life, in
religion, war, or ambition, is national, but in relaxation he manifests
a nature common to every individual of his race. A Turk, for instance,
and an English farmer, smoking their evening pipes, differ only in so
much as the one has a mouthpiece of amber, and the other one of sealing
wax; the one has a turban on his head, and the other a night-cap; they
are the same in feeling, and to all intents and purposes the same men.
But a Turkish janissary and an English grenadier differ widely in all
their modes of thinking, feeling, and acting; they are strictly
national. So again, a Tyrolese evening dance, though the costume, and
the step, and the music may be different, is the same in feeling as that
of the Parisian guinguette; but follow the Tyrolese into their temples,
and their deep devotion and beautiful though superstitious reverence
will be found very different from any feeling exhibited during a mass in
Notre-Dame. This being the case, it is a direct consequence, that we
shall find much nationality in the Church or the Fortress, or in any
building devoted to the purposes of active life, but very little in that
which is dedicated exclusively to relaxation, the Villa. We shall be
compelled to seek out nations of very strong feeling and imaginative
disposition, or we shall find no correspondence whatever between their
character, and that of their buildings devoted to pleasure.
101. In our own country, for instance, there is not the slightest.
Beginning at the head of Windermere, and running down its border for
about six miles, there are six important gentlemen's seats, villas they
may be called; the first of which is a square white mass, decorated with
pilasters of no order, set in a green avenue, sloping down to the water;
the second is an imitation, we suppose, of something possessing
theoretical existence in Switzerland, with sharp gable ends, and wooden
flourishes turning the corners, set on a little dumpy mound with a slate
wall running all round it, glittering with iron pyrites; the third is a
blue dark-looking box, squeezed up into a group of straggly larches,
with a bog in front of it; the fourth is a cream-colored domicile, in a
large park, rather quiet and unaffected, the best of the four, though
that is not saying much; the fifth is an old-fashioned thing, formal,
and narrow-windowed, yet gray in its tone, and quiet, and not to be
maligned; and the sixth is a nondescript, circular, putty-colored
habitation, with a leaden dome on the top of it.
102. If, however, instead of taking Windermere, we trace the shore of
the Lago di Como, we shall find some expression and nationality; and
there, therefore, will we go, to return, however, to England, when we
have obtained some data by which to judge of her more fortunate
edifices. We notice the mountain villa first, for two reasons; because
effect is always more considered in its erection, than when it is to be
situated in a less interesting country, and because the effect desired
is very rarely given, there being far greater difficulties to contend
with. But one word more, before setting off for the south. Though, as we
saw before, the gentleman has less _national_ character than the boor,
his _individual_ character is more marked, especially in its finer
features, which are clearly and perfectly developed by education;
consequently, when the inhabitant of the villa has had anything to do
with its erection, we might expect to find indications of individual and
peculiar feelings, which it would be most interesting to follow out. But
this is no part of our present task; at some future period we hope to
give a series of essays on the habitations of the most distinguished men
of Europe, showing how the alterations which they directed, and the
expression which they bestowed, corresponded with the turn of their
emotions, and leading intellectual faculties: but at present we have to
deal only with generalities; we have to ascertain not what will be
pleasing to a single mind, but what will afford gratification to every
eye possessing a certain degree of experience, and every mind endowed
with a certain degree of taste.
103. Without further preface, therefore, let us endeavor to ascertain
what would be theoretically beautiful, on the shore, or among the
scenery of the Larian Lake, preparatory to a sketch of the general
features of those villas which exist there, in too great a multitude to
admit, on our part, of much individual detail.
For the general tone of the scenery, we may refer to the paper on the
Italian cottage; for the shores of the Lake of Como have generally the
character there described, with a little more cheerfulness, and a little
less elevation,[14] but aided by great variety of form. They are not
quite so rich in vegetation as the plains: both because the soil is
scanty, there being, of course, no decomposition going on among the
rocks of black marble which form the greater part of the shore; and
because the mountains rise steeply from the water, leaving only a narrow
zone at their bases in the climate of Italy. In that zone, however, the
olive grows in great luxuriance, with the cypress, orange, aloe, myrtle,
and vine, the latter always trellised.
[Footnote 14: That Italian mountain scenery has less elevation of
character than the plains may appear singular; but there are many simple
reasons for a fact which, we doubt not, has been felt by every one
(capable of feeling anything), who ever left the Alps to pass into
Lombardy. The first is, that a mountain scene, as we saw in the last
paper, bears no traces of decay, since it never possessed any of life.
The desolation of the sterile peaks, never having been interrupted, is
altogether free from the melancholy which is consequent on the passing
away of interruption. They stood up in the time of Italy's glory, into
the voiceless air, while all the life and light which she remembers now
was working and moving at their feet, an animated cloud, which they did
not feel, and do not miss. That region of life never reached up their
flanks, and has left them no memorials of its being; they have no
associations, no monuments, no memories; we look on them as we would on
other hills; things of abstract and natural magnificence, which the
presence of man could not increase, nor his departure sadden. They are,
in consequence, destitute of all that renders the name of Ausonia
thrilling, or her champaigns beautiful, beyond the mere splendor of
climate; and even that splendor is unshared by the mountain; its cold
atmosphere being undistinguished by any of that rich, purple, ethereal
transparency which gives the air of the plains its _depth of
feeling_,--we can find no better expression.
Secondly. In all hill scenery, though there is increase of size, there
is want of distance. We are not speaking of views from summits, but of
the average aspect of valleys. Suppose the mountains be 10,000 feet
high, their summit will not be more than six miles distant in a direct
line: and there is a general sense of confinement, induced by their
wall-like boundaries, which is painful, contrasted with the wide
expatiation of spirit induced by a distant view over plains. In ordinary
countries, however, where the plain is an uninteresting mass of
cultivation, the sublimity of distance is not to be compared to that of
size: but, where every yard of the cultivated country has its tale to
tell; where it is perpetually intersected by rivers whose names are
meaning music, and glancing with cities and villages every one of which
has its own halo round its head; and where the eye is carried by the
clearness of the air over the blue of the farthest horizon, without
finding one wreath of mist, or one shadowy cloud, to check the
distinctness of the impression; the mental emotions excited are richer,
and deeper, and swifter than could be awakened by the noblest hills of
the earth, unconnected with the deeds of men.
Lastly. The plain country of Italy has not even to choose between the
glory of distance and of size, for it has both. I do not think there is
a spot, from Venice to Messina, where two ranges of mountain, at the
least, are not in sight at the same time. In Lombardy, the Alps are on
one side, the Apennines on the other; in the Venetian territory, the
Alps, Apennines and Euganean hills; going southward, the Apennines
always, their outworks running far towards the sea, and the coast itself
frequently mountainous. Now, the aspect of a noble range of hills, at a
considerable distance, is, in our opinion, far more imposing (considered
in the abstract) than they are, seen near: their height is better told,
their outlines softer and more melodious, their majesty more mysterious.
But, in Italy, they gain more by distance than majesty: they gain life.
They cease to be the cold forgetful things they were; they hold the
noble plains in their lap, and become venerable, as having looked down
upon them, and watched over them forever, unchanging; they become part
of the picture of associations: we endow them with memory, and then feel
them to be possessed of all that is glorious on earth.
For these three reasons, then, the plains of Italy possess far more
elevation of character than her hill scenery. To the northward, this
contrast is felt very strikingly, as the distinction is well marked, the
Alps rising sharply and suddenly. To the southward, the plain is more
mingled with low projecting promontories, and unites almost every kind
of beauty. However, even among her northern lakes, the richness of the
low climate, and the magnificence of form and color presented by the
distant Alps, raise the character of the scene immeasurably above that
of most hill landscapes, even were those natural features entirely
unassisted by associations which, though more sparingly scattered than
in the south, are sufficient to give light to every leaf, and voice to
every wave.]
104. Now, as to the situation of the cottage, we have already seen that
great humility was necessary, both in the building and its site, to
prevent it from offending us by an apparent struggle with forces,
compared with which its strength was dust: but we cannot have this
extreme humility in the villa, the dwelling of wealth and power, and yet
we must not, any more, suggest the idea of its resisting natural
influences under which the Pyramids could not abide. The only way of
solving the difficulty is, to select such sites as shall seem to have
been set aside by nature as places of rest, as points of calm and
enduring beauty, ordained to sit and smile in their glory of quietness,
while the avalanche brands the mountain top,[15] and the torrent
desolates the valley; yet so preserved, not by shelter amidst violence,
but by being placed wholly out of the influence of violence. For in this
they must differ from the site of the cottage, that the peasant may seek
for protection under some low rock or in some narrow dell, but the villa
must have a domain to itself, at once conspicuous, beautiful, and calm.
[Footnote 15: There are two kinds of winter avalanches; the one, sheets
of frozen snow sliding on the surface of others. The swiftness of these,
as the clavendier of the Convent of St. Bernard told me, he could
compare to nothing but that of a cannon ball of equal size. The other is
a rolling mass of snow, accumulating in its descent. This, grazing the
bare hill-side, tears up its surface like dust, bringing away soil,
rock, and vegetation, as a grazing ball tears flesh; and leaving its
withered path distinct on the green hill-side, as if the mountain had
been branded with red-hot iron. They generally keep to the same paths;
but when the snow accumulates, and sends one down the wrong way, it has
been known to cut down a pine forest, as a scythe mows grass. The tale
of its work is well told by the seared and branded marks on the hill
summits and sides.]
105. As regards the form of the cottage, we have seen how the
Westmoreland cottage harmonized with the ease of outline so conspicuous
in hill scenery, by the irregularity of its details; but, here, no such
irregularity is allowable or consistent, and is not even desirable. For
the cottage enhances the wildness of the surrounding scene, by
sympathizing with it; the villa must do the same thing, by contrasting
with it. The eye feels, in a far greater degree, the terror of the
distant and desolate peaks, when it passes down their ravined sides to
sloping and verdant hills, and is guided from these to the rich glow of
vegetable life in the low zones, and through this glow to the tall front
of some noble edifice, peaceful even in its pride. But this contrast
must not be sudden, or it will be startling and harsh; and therefore, as
we saw above, the villa must be placed where all the severe features of
the scene, though not concealed, are distant, and where there is a
graduation, so to speak, of impressions, from terror to loveliness, the
one softened by distance, the other elevated in its style: and the form
of the villa must not be fantastic or angular, but must be full of
variety, so tempered by simplicity as to obtain ease of outline united
with elevation of character; the first being necessary for reasons
before advanced, and the second, that the whole may harmonize with the
feelings induced by the lofty features of the accompanying scenery in
any hill country, and yet more, on the Larian Lake, by the deep memories
and everlasting associations which haunt the stillness of its shore. Of
the color required by Italian landscape we have spoken before, and we
shall see that, particularly in this case, white or pale tones are
agreeable.
106. We shall now proceed to the situation and form of the villa. As
regards situation; the villas of the Lago di Como are built, _par
préférence_, either on jutting promontories of low crag covered with
olives, or on those parts of the shore where some mountain stream has
carried out a bank of alluvium into the lake. One object proposed in
this choice of situation is, to catch the breeze as it comes up the main
opening of the hills, and to avoid the reflection of the sun's rays from
the rocks of the actual shore; and another is, to obtain a prospect up
or down the lake, and of the hills on whose projection the villa is
built: but the effect of this choice when the building is considered the
object, is to carry it exactly into the place where it ought to be, far
from the steep precipice and dark mountain, to the border of the winding
bay and citron-scented cape, where it stands at once conspicuous and in
peace. For instance, in the view of Villa Serbelloni[16] from across the
lake, although the eye falls suddenly from the crags above to the
promontory below, yet all the sublime and severe features of the scene
are kept in the distance, and the villa itself is mingled with graceful
lines, and embosomed in rich vegetation. The promontory separates the
Lake of Lecco from that of Como, properly so-called, and is three miles
from the opposite shore, which gives room enough for aërial perspective.
[Footnote 16: [Villa Serbelloni, now the dépendence of the Hôtel Grande
Bretagne at Bellaggio, and Villa Somma-Riva, now called Villa Carlotta,
at Cadenabbia, and visited by every tourist for its collection of modern
statuary, are both too well known to need illustration by the very poor
wood-cuts which accompanied this chapter in the "Architectural
Magazine." The original drawings are lost; judging from that of the
cottage in Val d'Aosta we may safely believe that they were most
inadequately represented by the old cuts.]]
107. We shall now consider the form of the villa. It is generally the
apex of a series of artificial terraces, which conduct through its
gardens to the water. These are formal in their design, but extensive,
wide, and majestic in their slope, the steps being generally about 1/2
ft. high and 4-1/2 ft. wide (sometimes however much deeper). They are
generally supported by white wall, strengthened by unfilled arches, the
angles being turned by sculptured pedestals, surmounted by statues, or
urns. Along the terraces are carried rows, sometimes of cypress, more
frequently of orange or lemon trees, with myrtles, sweet bay, and aloes,
intermingled, but always with dark and spiry cypresses occurring in
groups; and attached to these terraces, or to the villa itself, are
series of arched grottoes built (or sometimes cut in the rock) for
coolness, frequently overhanging the water, kept dark and fresh, and
altogether delicious to the feelings. A good instance of these united
peculiarities is seen in Villa Somma-Riva, Lago di Como.
The effect of these approaches is disputable. It is displeasing to many,
from its formality; but we are persuaded that it is right, because it is
a national style, and therefore has in all probability due connection
with scene and character: and this connection we shall endeavor to
prove.