Here, owing to the causes mentioned in the notes at p. 71, we have some
of the most elevated bits of landscape character, which the country,
whatever it may be, can afford. Its first and most distinctive
peculiarity is its grace; it is all undulation and variety of line, one
curve passing into another with the most exquisite softness, rolling
away into faint and far outlines of various depth and decision, yet none
hard or harsh; and in all probability, rounded off in the near ground
into massy forms of partially wooded hill, shaded downwards into winding
dingles or cliffy ravines, each form melting imperceptibly into the
next, without an edge or angle.
[Footnote 38: In leaving simple blue country, we hope it need hardly be
said that we leave bricks at once and forever. Nothing can excuse them
out of their proper territory.]
197. Its next character is mystery. It is a country peculiarly
distinguished by its possessing features of great sublimity in the
distance, without giving any hint in the foreground of their actual
nature. A range of mountain, seen from a mountain peak, may have
sublimity, but not the mystery with which it is invested, when seen
rising over the farthest surge of misty blue, where everything near is
soft and smiling, totally separated in nature from the consolidated
clouds of the horizon. The picturesque blue country is sure, from the
nature of the ground, to present some distance of this kind, so as never
to be without a high and ethereal mystery.
198. The third and last distinctive attribute is sensuality. This is a
startling word, and requires some explanation. In the first place, every
line is voluptuous, floating, and wavy in its form; deep, rich, and
exquisitely soft in its color; drowsy in its effect; like slow wild
music; letting the eye repose on it, as on a wreath of cloud, without
one feature of harshness to hurt, or of contrast to awaken. In the
second place, the cultivation, which, in the simple blue country, has
the forced formality of growth which evidently is to supply the
necessities of man, here seems to leap into the spontaneous luxuriance
of life, which is fitted to minister to his pleasures. The surface of
the earth exults with animation, especially tending to the gratification
of the senses; and, without the artificialness which reminds man of the
necessity of his own labor, without the opposing influences which call
for his resistance, without the vast energies that remind him of his
impotence, without the sublimity that can call his noblest thoughts into
action, yet, with every perfection that can tempt him to indolence of
enjoyment, and with such abundant bestowal of natural gifts, as might
seem to prevent that indolence from being its own punishment, the earth
appears to have become a garden of delight, wherein the sweep of the
bright hills, without chasm or crag, the flow of the bending rivers,
without rock or rapid, and the fruitfulness of the fair earth, without
care or labor on the part of its inhabitants, appeal to the most
pleasant passions of eye and sense, calling for no effort of body, and
impressing no fear on the mind. In hill country we have a struggle to
maintain with the elements; in simple blue, we have not the luxuriance
of delight: here, and here only, all nature combines to breathe over us
a lulling slumber, through which life degenerates into sensation.
199. These considerations are sufficient to explain what we mean by the
epithet "sensuality." Now, taking these three distinctive attributes,
the mysterious, the graceful, and the voluptuous, what is the whole
character? Very nearly--the Greek: for these attributes, common to all
picturesque blue country, are modified in the degree of their presence
by every climate. In England they are all low in their tone; but as we
go southward, the voluptuousness becomes deeper in feeling as the colors
of the earth and the heaven become purer and more passionate, and "the
purple of ocean deepest of dye;" the mystery becomes mightier, for the
greater and more universal energy of the beautiful permits its features
to come nearer, and to rise into the sublime, without causing fear. It
is thus that we get the essence of the Greek feeling, as it was embodied
in their finest imaginations, as it showed itself in the works of their
sculptors and their poets, in which sensation was made almost equal with
thought, and deified by its nobility of association; at once voluptuous,
refined, dreamily mysterious, infinitely beautiful. Hence, it appears
that the spirit of this blue country is essentially Greek; though, in
England and in other northern localities, that spirit is possessed by it
in a diminished and degraded degree. It is also the natural dominion of
the villa, possessing all the attributes which attracted the Romans,
when, in their hours of idleness, they lifted the light arches along the
echoing promontories of Tiber. It is especially suited to the expression
of the edifice of pleasure; and, therefore, is most capable of being
adorned by it.
200. The attention of every one about to raise himself a villa of any
kind should, therefore, be directed to this kind of country; first, as
that in which he will not be felt to be an intruder; secondly, as that
which will, in all probability, afford him the greatest degree of
continuous pleasure, when his eye has become accustomed to the features
of the locality. To the human mind, as on the average constituted, the
features of hill scenery will, by repetition, become tiresome, and of
wood scenery, monotonous; while the simple blue can possess little
interest of any kind. Powerful intellect will generally take perpetual
delight in hill residence; but the general mind soon feels itself
oppressed with a peculiar melancholy and weariness, which it is ashamed
to own; and we hear our romantic gentlemen begin to call out about the
want of society, while, if the animals were fit to live where they have
forced themselves, they would never want more society than that of a
gray stone, or of a clear pool of gushing water. On the other hand,
there are few minds so degraded as not to feel greater pleasure in the
picturesque blue than in any other country. Its distance has generally
grandeur enough to meet their moods of aspiration; its near aspect is
that of a more human interest than that of hill country, and harmonizes
more truly with the domestic feelings which are common to all mankind;
so that, on the whole, it will be found to maintain its freshness of
beauty to the habituated eye, in a greater degree than any other
scenery.
201. As it thus persuades us to inhabit it, it becomes a point of honor
not to make the attractiveness of its beauty its destruction; especially
as, being the natural dominion of the villa, it affords great
opportunity for the architect to exhibit variety of design.
Its spirit has been proved to be Greek; and therefore, though that
spirit is slightly manifested in Britain, and though every good
architect is shy of importation, villas on Greek and Roman models are
admissible here. Still, as in all blue country there is much activity of
life, the principle of utility should be kept in view, and the building
should have as much simplicity as can be united with perfect
gracefulness of line. It appears from the principles of composition
alluded to in speaking of the Italian villa, that in undulating country
the forms should be square and massy; and, where the segments of curves
are small, the buildings should be low and flat, while they may be
prevented from appearing cumbrous by some well-managed irregularity of
design, which will be agreeable to the inhabitant as well as to the
spectator; enabling him to change the aspect and size of his chamber, as
temperature or employment may render such change desirable, without
being foiled in his design, by finding the apartments of one wing
matched, foot to foot, by those of the other.
202. For the color, it has been shown that white or pale tints are
agreeable in all blue country: but there must be warmth in it, and a
great deal too,--gray being comfortless and useless with a cold
distance; but it must not be raw or glaring.[39] The roof and chimneys
should be kept out of sight as much as possible; and therefore the one
very flat, and the other very plain. We ought to revive the Greek custom
of roofing with thin slabs of coarse marble, cut into the form of tiles.
However, where the architect finds he has a very cool distance, and few
trees about the building, and where it stands so high as to preclude the
possibility of its being looked down upon, he will, if he be courageous,
use a very flat roof of the dark Italian tile. The eaves, which are all
that should be seen, will be peculiarly graceful; and the sharp contrast
of color (for this tiling can only be admitted with white walls) may be
altogether avoided, by letting them cast a strong shadow, and by running
the walls up into a range of low garret windows, to break the horizontal
line of the roof. He will thus obtain a bit of very strong color, which
will impart a general glow of cheerfulness to the building, and which,
if he manages it rightly, will not be glaring nor intrusive. It is to
be observed, however, that he can only do this with villas of the most
humble order, and that he will seldom find his employer possessed of so
much common sense as to put up with a tile roof. When this is the case,
the flat slabs of the upper limestone (ragstone) are usually better than
slate.
[Footnote 39: The epithet "raw," by the by, is vague, and needs
definition. Every tint is raw which is perfectly opaque, and has not all
the three primitive colors in its composition. Thus, black is always
raw, because it has no color; white never, because it has all colors. No
tint can be raw which is not opaque; and opacity may be taken away,
either by actual depth and transparency, as in the sky; by luster and
texture, as in the case of silk and velvet, or by variety of shade as in
forest verdure. Two instances will be sufficient to prove the truth of
this. Brick, when first fired, is always raw; but when it has been a
little weathered, it acquires a slight blue tint, assisted by the gray
of the mortar: incipient vegetation affords it the yellow. It thus
obtains an admixture of the three colors, and is raw no longer. An old
woman's red cloak, though glaring, is never raw; for it must of
necessity have folded shades: those shades are of a rich gray; no gray
can exist without yellow and blue. We have then three colors, and no
rawness. It must be observed however, that when any one of the colors is
given in so slight a degree that it can be overpowered by certain
effects of light, the united color, when opaque, will be raw. Thus many
flesh-colors are raw; because, though they must have a little blue in
their composition, it is too little to be efficiently visible in a
strong light.]
203. For the rest, it is always to be kept in view, that the prevailing
character of the whole is to be that of graceful simplicity;
distinguished from the simplicity of the Italian edifice, by being that
of utility instead of that of pride.[40] Consequently the building must
_not_ be Gothic or Elizabethan: it may be as commonplace as the
proprietor likes, provided its proportions be good; but nothing can ever
excuse one acute angle, or one decorated pinnacle,--both being direct
interruption of the repose with which the eye is indulged by the
undulations of the surrounding scenery. Tower and fortress outlines are
indeed agreeable, for their fine grouping and roundness; but we do not
allude to them, because nothing can be more absurd than the humor
prevailing at the present day among many of our peaceable old gentlemen,
who never smelt powder in their lives, to eat their morning muffin in a
savage-looking round tower, and admit quiet old ladies to a tea-party
under the range of twenty-six cannon, which--it is lucky for the
china--are all wooden ones,--as they are, in all probability, accurately
and awfully pointed into the drawing-room windows.
[Footnote 40: There must always be a difficulty in building in
picturesque blue country in England; for the English character is
opposed to that of the country: it is neither graceful, nor mysterious,
nor voluptuous; therefore, what we cede to the country, we take from the
nationality, and _vice versâ_.]
So much then for our British blue country, to which it was necessary to
devote some time, as occupying a considerable portion of the island, and
being peculiarly well adapted for villa residences.
_C. The Woody or Green Country._
204. The woody, or green country, which is next in order, was spoken of
before, and was shown to be especially our own. The Elizabethan was
pointed out as the style peculiarly belonging to it; and farther
criticism of that style was deferred until we came to the consideration
of domestic buildings provided with the means of defense. We have
therefore at present only to offer a few remarks on the principles to be
observed in the erection of Elizabethan villas at the present day.
205. First. The building must be either quite chaste, or excessively
rich in decoration. Every inch of ornament short of a certain quantity
will render the whole effect poor and ridiculous; while the pure
perpendicular lines of this architecture will always look well if left
entirely alone. The architect therefore, when limited as to expense,
should content himself with making his oriels project boldly, channeling
their mullions richly, and, in general, rendering his vertical lines
delicate and beautiful in their workmanship; but, if his estimate be
unlimited, he should lay on his ornament richly, taking care never to
confuse the eye.
Those parts to which, of necessity, observation is especially directed,
must be finished so as to bear a close scrutiny, that the eye may rest
on them with satisfaction: but their finish must not be of a character
which would have attracted the eye by itself, without being placed in a
conspicuous situation; for, if it were, the united attraction of form
and detail would confine the contemplation altogether to the parts so
distinguished, and render it impossible for the mind to receive any
impression of general effect.
Consequently, the parts that project, and are to bear a strong light,
must be chiseled with infinite delicacy; so that the ornament, though it
would have remained unobserved had the eye not been guided to it, when
observed, may be of distinguished beauty and power; but those parts
which are to be flat and in shade should be marked with great sharpness
and boldness, that the impression may be equalized.
When, for instance, we have to do with oriels, to which attention is
immediately attracted by their projection, we may run wreaths of the
finest flower-work up the mullions, charge the terminations with
shields, and quarter them richly; but we must join the window to the
wall, where its shadow falls, by means of more deep and decided
decoration.
206. Secondly. In the choice and design of his ornaments, the architect
should endeavor to be grotesque rather than graceful (though little bits
of soft flower-work here and there will relieve the eye): but he must
not imagine he can be grotesque by carving faces with holes for eyes and
knobs for noses; on the contrary, whenever he mimics grotesque life,
there should be wit and humor in every feature, fun and frolic in every
attitude; every distortion should be anatomical, and every monster a
studied combination. This is a question, however, relating more nearly
to Gothic architecture and therefore we shall not enter into it at
present.[41]
[Footnote 41: [See _Stones of Venice_, vol. III. chap. iii.]]
207. Thirdly. The gables must on no account be jagged into a succession
of right angles, as if people were to be perpetually engaged in trotting
up one side and down the other. This custom, though sanctioned by
authority, has very little apology to offer for itself, based on any
principle of composition. In street effect indeed it is occasionally
useful; and where the verticals below are unbroken by ornament, may be
used even in the detached Elizabethan, but not when decoration has been
permitted below. They should then be carried up in curved lines,
alternating with two angles, or three at the most, without pinnacles or
hipknobs. A hollow parapet is far better than a battlement, in the
intermediate spaces; the latter indeed is never allowable, except when
the building has some appearance of being intended for defense, and
therefore is generally barbarous in the villa; while the parapet admits
of great variety of effect.
208. Lastly. Though the grotesque of Elizabethan architecture is
adapted for wood country, the grotesque of the clipped garden, which
frequently accompanies it, is not. The custom of clipping trees into
fantastic forms is always to be reprehended: first, because it never can
produce the true grotesque, for the material is not passive, and,
therefore, a perpetual sense of restraint is induced, while the great
principle of the grotesque is action; again, because we have a distinct
perception of two natures, the one neutralizing the other; for the
vegetable organization is too palpable to let the animal form suggest
its true idea; again, because the great beauty of all foliage is the
energy of life and action, of which it loses the appearance by formal
clipping; and again, because the hands of the gardener will never
produce anything really spirited or graceful. Much, however, need not be
said on this subject; for the taste of the public does not now prompt
them to such fettering of fair freedom, and we should be as sorry to see
the characteristic vestiges of it, which still remain in a few gardens,
lost altogether, as to see the thing again becoming common.
209. The garden of the Elizabethan villa, then, should be laid out with
a few simple terraces near the house, so as to unite it well with the
ground; lines of balustrade along the edges, guided away into the
foliage of the taller trees of the garden, with the shadows falling at
intervals. The balusters should be square rather than round, with the
angles outward; and if the balustrade looks unfinished at the corners,
it may be surmounted by a grotesque bit of sculpture, of any kind; but
it must be very strong and deep in its carved lines, and must not be
large; and all graceful statues are to be avoided, for the reasons
mentioned in speaking of the Italian villa: neither is the terraced part
of the garden to extend to any distance from the house, nor to have deep
flights of steps, for they are sure to get mossy and slippery, if not
superintended with troublesome care; and the rest of the garden should
have more trees than flowers in it. A flower-garden is an ugly thing,
even when best managed: it is an assembly of unfortunate beings,
pampered and bloated above their natural size, stewed and heated into
diseased growth; corrupted by evil communication into speckled and
inharmonious colors; torn from the soil which they loved, and of which
they were the spirit and the glory, to glare away their term of
tormented life among the mixed and incongruous essences of each other,
in earth that they know not, and in air that is poison to them.
210. The florist may delight in this: the true lover of flowers never
will. He who has taken lessons from nature, who has observed the real
purpose and operation of flowers; how they flush forth from the
brightness of the earth's being, as the melody rises up from among the
moved strings of the instrument; how the wildness of their pale colors
passes over her, like the evidence of a various emotion; how the quick
fire of their life and their delight glows along the green banks, where
the dew falls the thickest, and the mists of incense pass slowly through
the twilight of the leaves, and the intertwined roots make the earth
tremble with strange joy at the feeling of their motion; he who has
watched this will never take away the beauty of their being to mix into
meretricious glare, or feed into an existence of disease. And the
flower-garden is as ugly in effect as it is unnatural in feeling: it
never will harmonize with anything, and if people will have it, should
be kept out of sight till they get into it.
211. But, in laying out the garden which is to assist the effect of the
building, we must observe, and exclusively use, the natural combinations
of flowers.[42] Now, as far as we are aware, bluish purple is the only
flower color which Nature ever uses in masses of distant effect; this,
however, she does in the case of most heathers, with the Rhododendron
ferrugineum, and, less extensively, with the colder color of the wood
hyacinth. Accordingly, the large rhododendron may be used to almost any
extent, in masses; the pale varieties of the rose more sparingly; and,
on the turf, the wild violet and pansy should be sown by chance, so that
they may grow in undulations of color, and should be relieved by a few
primroses. All dahlias, tulips, ranunculi, and, in general, what are
called florist's flowers, should be avoided like garlic.
[Footnote 42: Every one who is about to lay out a limited extent of
garden, in which he wishes to introduce many flowers, should read and
attentively study, first Shelley, and next Shakspeare. The latter indeed
induces the most beautiful connections between thought and flower that
can be found in the whole range of European literature; but he very
often uses the symbolical effect of the flower, which it can only have
on the educated mind, instead of the natural and true effect of the
flower, which it must have, more or less, upon every mind. Thus, when
Ophelia, presenting her wild flowers, says, "There's rosemary, that's
for remembrance; pray you, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's
for thoughts:" the infinite "beauty of the passage depends entirely upon
the arbitrary meaning attached to the flowers. But, when Shelley speaks
of
"The lily of the vale,
Whom youth makes so fair, and passion so pale,
That the light of her tremulous bells is seen
Through their pavilion of tender green,"
he is etherealizing an impression which the mind naturally receives from
the flower. Consequently, as it is only by their natural influence that
flowers can address the mind through the eye, we must read Shelley, to
learn how to use flowers, and Shakspeare, to learn to love them. In both
writers we find the wild flower possessing soul as well as life, and
mingling its influence most intimately, like an untaught melody, with
the deepest and most secret streams of human emotion.]
212. Perhaps we should apologize for introducing this in the
_Architectural Magazine_; but it is not out of place: the garden is
almost a necessary adjunct of the Elizabethan villa, and all garden
architecture is utterly useless unless it be assisted by the botanical
effect.
These, then, are a few of the more important principles of architecture,
which are to be kept in view in the blue and in the green country. The
wild, or gray, country is never selected, in Britain, as the site of a
villa; and, therefore, it only remains for us to offer a few remarks on
a subject as difficult as it is interesting and important, the
architecture of the villa in British hill, or brown, country.
VII.
THE BRITISH VILLA.--PRINCIPLES OF COMPOSITION.
_D. Hill, or Brown Country._
"Vivite contenti casulis et collibus istis."--Juvenal [xiv. 179.]
213. In the Boulevard des Italiens, just at the turning into the Rue de
la Paix (in Paris), there stand a few dusky and withered trees, beside a
kind of dry ditch, paved at the bottom, into which a carriage can with
some difficulty descend, and which affords access (not in an unusual
manner) to the ground floor of a large and dreary-looking house, whose
passages are dark and confined, whose rooms are limited in size, and
whose windows command an interesting view of the dusky trees before
mentioned.
This is the town residence of one of the Italian noblemen, whose country
house has already been figured as a beautiful example of the villas of
the Lago di Como. That villa, however, though in one of the loveliest
situations that hill, and wave, and heaven ever combined to adorn, and
though itself one of the most delicious habitations that luxury ever
projected or wealth procured, is very rarely honored by the presence of
its master; while attractions of a very different nature retain him,
winter after winter, in the dark chambers of the Boulevard des Italiens.