delightful, is that from the window of the breakfast-room. This is
rather a bold position, but it will appear evident on a little
consideration. It is pleasant enough to have a pretty little bit visible
from the bedrooms; but, after all, it only makes gentlemen cut
themselves in shaving, and ladies never think of anything beneath the
sun when they are dressing. Then, in the dining-room, windows are
absolutely useless, because dinner is always uncomfortable by daylight,
and the weight of furniture effect which adapts the room for the
gastronomic rites, renders it detestable as a sitting-room. In the
library, people should have something else to do, than looking out of
the windows; in the drawing-room, the uncomfortable stillness of the
quarter of an hour before dinner, may, indeed, be alleviated by having
something to converse about at the windows: but it is very shameful to
spoil a prospect of any kind, by looking at it when we are not ourselves
in a state of corporal comfort and mental good-humor, which nobody can
be after the labor of the day, and before he has been fed. But the
breakfast-room, where we meet the first light of the dewy day, the first
breath of the morning air, the first glance of gentle eyes; to which we
descend in the very spring and elasticity of mental renovation and
bodily energy, in the gathering up of our spirit for the new day, in
the flush of our awakening from the darkness and the mystery of faint
and inactive dreaming, in the resurrection from our daily grave, in the
first tremulous sensation of the beauty of our being, in the most
glorious perception of the lightning of our life; there, indeed, our
expatiation of spirit, when it meets the pulse of outward sound and joy,
the voice of bird and breeze and billow, _does_ demand some power of
liberty, some space for its going forth into the morning, some freedom
of intercourse with the lovely and limitless energy of creature and
creation.
228. The breakfast-room must have a prospect, and an extensive one; the
hot roll and hyson are indiscussable except under such sweet
circumstances. But he must be an awkward architect who cannot afford an
opening to one window without throwing the whole mass of the building
open to public view; particularly as, in the second place, the essence
of a good window view is the breaking out of the distant features in
little well-composed _morceaux_, not the general glare of a mass of one
tone. Have we a line of lake? the silver water must glance out here and
there among the trunks of near trees, just enough to show where it
flows; then break into an open swell of water, just where it is widest,
or where the shore is prettiest. Have we mountains? their peaks must
appear over foliage or through it, the highest and boldest catching the
eye conspicuously, yet not seen from base to summit, as if we wanted to
measure them. Such a prospect as this is always compatible with as much
concealment as we choose. In all these pieces of management, the
architect's chief enemy is the vanity of his employer, who will always
want to see more than he ought to see, and than he will have pleasure in
seeing, without reflecting how the spectators pay for his peeping.
229. So much, then, for position. We have now only to settle the
questions of form and color, and we shall then have closed the most
tiresome investigation which we shall be called upon to enter into;
inasmuch as the principles which we may arrive at in considering the
architecture of defense,[51] though we hope they may be useful in the
abstract, will demand no application to native landscape, in which,
happily, no defense is now required; and those relating to sacred
edifices will, we also hope, be susceptible of more interest than can
possibly be excited by the most degraded branch of the whole art of
architecture, one hardly worthy of being included under the name--that,
namely, with which we have lately been occupied, whose ostensible object
is the mere provision of shelter and comfort for the despicable shell
within whose darkness and corruption that purity of perception to which
all high art is addressed is, during its immaturity, confined.
[Footnote 51: [Referring again to the intended sequel.]]
230. There are two modes in which any mental or material effect may be
increased--by contrast, or by assimilation. Supposing that we have a
certain number of features or existences under a given influence; then,
by subjecting another feature to the same influence, we increase the
universality, and therefore the effect, of that influence; but by
introducing another feature, _not_ under the same influence, we render
the subjection of the other features more palpable, and therefore more
effective. For example, let the influence be one of shade, to which a
certain number of objects are subjected. We add another feature,
subjected to the same influence, and we increase the _general
impression_ of shade; we add the same feature, _not_ subjected to this
influence, and we have deepened the _effect_ of shade.
Now, the principles by which we are to be guided in the selection of one
or other of these means are of great importance, and must be developed
before we can conclude the investigation of villa architecture.
231. The impression produced by a given effect or influence depends upon
its degree and its duration. Degree always means the proportionate
energy exerted. Duration is either into time, or into space, or into
both. The duration of color is in space alone, forming what is commonly
called extent. The duration of sound is in space and time; the space
being in the size of the waves of air, which give depth to the tone. The
duration of mental emotion is in time alone. Now in all influences, as
is the degree, so is the impression; as is the duration, so is the
effect of the impression; that is, its permanent operation upon the
feelings, or the violence with which it takes possession of our own
faculties and senses, as opposed to the abstract impression of its
existence, without such operation on our own essence.
For example, the natural tendency of darkness or shade is to induce fear
or melancholy. Now, as the degree of the shade, so is the abstract
impression of the existence of shade; but as the duration of shade, so
is the fear or melancholy excited by it.
Consequently, when we wish to increase the abstract impression of the
power of any influence over objects with which we have no connection, we
must increase degree; but, when we wish the impression to produce a
permanent effect upon ourselves, we must increase duration.
Now, degree is always increased by contrast, and duration by
assimilation. A few instances of this will be sufficient.
232. Blue is called a cold color, because it induces a feeling of
coolness to the eye, and is much used by nature in her cold effects.
Supposing that we have painted a storm scene, in desolate country, with
a single miserable cottage somewhere in front; that we have made the
atmosphere and the distance cold and blue, and wish to heighten the
comfortless impression.
There is an old rag hanging out of the window: shall it be red or blue?
If it be red, the piece of warm color will contrast strongly with the
atmosphere; will render its blueness and chilliness immensely more
apparent; will increase the _degree_ of both, and, therefore, the
abstract impression of the existence of cold. But, if it be blue, it
will bring the iciness of the distance up into the foreground; will fill
the whole visible space with comfortless cold; will take away every
relief from the desolation; will increase the _duration_ of the
influence, and, consequently, will extend its operation into the mind
and feelings of the spectator, who will shiver as he looks.
Now, if we are making a _picture_, we shall not hesitate a moment: in
goes the red; for the artist, while he wishes to render the actual
impression of the presence of cold in the landscape as strong as
possible, does not wish that chilliness to pass over into, or affect,
the spectator, but endeavors to make the combination of color as
delightful to his eye and feelings as possible.[52] But, if we are
painting a _scene_ for theatrical representation, where deception is
aimed at, we shall be as decided in our proceeding on the opposite
principle: in goes the blue; for we wish the idea of cold to pass over
into the spectator, and make him so uncomfortable as to permit his fancy
to place him distinctly in the place we desire, in the actual scene.
[Footnote 52: This difference of principle is one leading distinction
between the artist, properly so called, and the scene, diorama, or
panorama painter.]
233. Again, Shakspeare has been blamed by some few critical asses for
the raillery of Mercutio, and the humor of the nurse, in "Romeo and
Juliet;" for the fool in "Lear;" for the porter in "Macbeth;" the
grave-diggers in "Hamlet," etc.; because, it is said, these bits
interrupt the tragic feeling. No such thing; they enhance it to an
incalculable extent; they deepen its _degree_, though they diminish its
duration. And what is the result? that the impression of the agony of
the individuals brought before us is far stronger than it could
otherwise have been, and our sympathies are more forcibly awakened;
while, had the contrast been wanting, the impression of pain would have
come over into ourselves, our selfish feeling, instead of our sympathy,
would have been awakened; the conception of the grief of others
diminished; and the tragedy would have made us very uncomfortable, but
never have melted us to tears or excited us to indignation. When he,
whose merry and satirical laugh rung in our ears the moment before,
faints before us, with "a plague o' both your houses, they have made
worms' meat of me," the acuteness of our feeling is excessive: but, had
we not heard the laugh before, there would have been a dull weight of
melancholy impression, which would have been painful, not affecting.
234. Hence, we see the grand importance of the choice of our means of
enhancing effect, and we derive the simple rule for that choice, namely,
that, when we wish to increase abstract impression, or to call upon the
sympathy of the spectator, we are to use contrast; but, when we wish to
extend the operation of the impression, or to awaken the selfish
feelings, we are to use assimilation.
This rule, however, becomes complicated, where the feature of contrast
is not altogether passive; that is, where we wish to give a conception
of any qualities inherent in that feature, as well as in what it
relieves; and, besides, it is not always easy to know whether it will be
best to increase the abstract idea, or its operation. In most cases,
energy, the degree of influence, is beauty; and, in many, the duration
of influence is monotony. In others, duration is sublimity, and energy
painful: in a few, energy and duration are attainable and delightful
together.
235. It is impossible to give rules for judgment in every case; but the
following points must always be observed:--First, when we use contrast,
it must be natural and likely to occur. Thus the contrast in tragedy is
the natural consequence of the character of human existence; it is what
we see and feel every day of our lives. When a contrast is unnatural, it
destroys the effect it should enhance.
Canning called on a French refugee in 1794. The conversation naturally
turned on the execution of the Queen, then a recent event. Overcome by
his feelings, the Parisian threw himself upon the ground, exclaiming, in
an agony of tears, "La bonne reine! la pauvre reine!" Presently he
sprang up, exclaiming, "Cependant, Monsieur, il faut vous faire voir mon
petit chien danser." This contrast, though natural in a Parisian, was
unnatural in the nature of things, and therefore injurious.
236. Secondly, when the general influence, instead of being external, is
an attribute or energy of the thing itself, so as to bestow on it a
permanent character, the contrast which is obtained by the absence of
that character is injurious, and becomes what is called an interruption
of the unity. Thus, the raw and colorless tone of the Swiss cottage,
noticed in § 42, is an injurious contrast to the richness of the
landscape, which is an inherent and necessary energy in surrounding
objects. So, the character of Italian landscape is curvilinear;
therefore, the outline of the buildings entering into its composition
must be arranged on curvilinear principles, as investigated in § 144.
237. Thirdly. But, if the pervading character can be obtained in the
single object by different means, the contrast will be delightful. Thus,
the elevation of character which the hill districts of Italy possess by
the magnificence of their forms, is transmitted to the villa by its
dignity of detail and simplicity of outline; and the rectangular
interruption to the curve of picturesque blue country, partaking of the
nature of that which it interrupts, is a contrast giving relief and
interest, while any Elizabethan acute angles, on the contrary, would
have been a contrast obtained by the absence of the pervading energy of
the universal curvilinear character, and therefore improper.
238. Fourthly, when the general energy, instead of pervading
simultaneously the multitude of objects, as with one spirit, is
independently possessed and manifested by every individual object, the
result is repetition, not unity; and contrast is not merely agreeable,
but necessary. Thus, a number of objects, forming the line of beauty, is
pervaded by one simple energy; but if that energy is separately
manifested in each, the result is painful monotony. Parallel right
lines, without grouping, are always liable to this objection; and,
therefore, a distant view of a flat country is never beautiful unless
its horizontals are lost in richness of vegetation, as in Lombardy, or
broken with masses of forest, or with distant hills. If none of these
interruptions take place, there is immediate monotony, and no
introduction can be more delightful than such a tower in the distance as
Strasburg, or, indeed, than any architectural combination of verticals.
Peterborough is a beautiful instance of such an adaptation. It is
always, then, to be remembered that repetition is not assimilation.
239. Fifthly, when any attribute is necessarily beautiful, that is,
beautiful in every place and circumstance, we need hardly say that the
contrast consisting in its absence is painful. It is only when beauty is
local or accidental that opposition may be employed.
Sixthly. The _edge_ of all contrasts, so to speak, should be as soft as
is consistent with decisive effect. We mean, that a gradual change is
better than instantaneous transfiguration; for, though always less
effective, it is more agreeable. But this must be left very much to the
judgment.
Seventhly. We must be very careful in ascertaining whether any given
contrast is obtained by freedom from external, or absence of internal,
energy, for it is often a difficult point to decide. Thus, the peace of
the Alpine valley might, at first, seem to be a contrast caused by the
want of the character of strength and sublimity manifested in the hills;
but it is really caused by the freedom from the general and external
influence of violence and desolation.
240. These, then, are principles applicable to all arts, without a
single exception, and of particular importance in painting and
architecture.[53] It will sometimes be found that one rule comes in the
way of another; in which case, the most important is, of course, to be
obeyed; but, in general, they will afford us an easy means of arriving
at certain results, when, before, our conjectures must have been vague
and unsatisfactory.
[Footnote 53: [For further discussion of which, see _Elements of
Drawing_, Letter III.]]
We may now proceed to determine the most proper _form_ for the mountain
villa of England.
241. We must first observe the prevailing lines of the near hills: if
they are vertical, there will most assuredly be monotony, for the
vertical lines of crag are never grouped, and accordingly, by our fourth
rule, the prevailing lines of our edifice must be horizontal. On the
Lake of Thun the tendency of the hills is vertical; this tendency is
repeated by the buildings,[54] and the composition becomes thoroughly
bad; but on the Lake of Como we have the same vertical tendency in the
hills, while the grand lines of the buildings are horizontal, and the
composition is good. But, if the prevailing lines of the near hills be
curved (and they will be either curved or vertical), we must not
interrupt their character, for the energy is then pervading, not
individual; and, therefore, our edifice must be rectangular.
[Footnote 54: [In their turrets and pinnacles, as shown by a poor
wood-cut in the magazine, not worth reproduction.]]
In both cases, therefore, the grand outline of the villa is the same;
but in one we have it set off by contrast, in the other by assimilation;
and we must work out in the architecture of each edifice the principle
on which we have begun. Commencing with that in which we are to work by
contrast: the vertical crags must be the result of violence, and the
influence of destruction, of distortion, of torture, to speak strongly,
must be evident in their every line. We free the building from this
influence, and give it repose, gracefulness, and ease; and we have a
contrast of feeling as well as of line, by which the desirable
attributes are rendered evident in both objects, while the _duration_ of
neither energy being allowed, there can be no disagreeable effect upon
the spectator, who will not shrink from the terror of the crags, nor
feel a want of excitement in the gentleness of the building.
242. Secondly, Solitude is powerful and evident in its effect on the
distant hills; therefore the effect of the villa should be joyous and
life-like (not flippant, however, but serene); and, by rendering it so,
we shall enhance the sublimity of the distance, as we showed in speaking
of the Westmoreland cottage; and, therefore, we may introduce a number
of windows with good effect, provided that they are kept in horizontal
lines, and do not disturb the repose which we have shown to be
necessary.
These three points of contrast will be quite enough: there is no other
external influence from which we can free the building, and the
pervading energy must be communicated to it, or it will not harmonize
with our feelings; therefore, before proceeding, we had better determine
how this contrast is to be carried out in detail.
243. Our lines are to be horizontal; then the roof must be as flat as
possible. We need not think of snow, because, however much we may slope
the roof, it will not slip off from the material, which, here, is the
only proper one; and the roof of the cottage is always very flat, which
it would not be if there were any inconvenience attending such a form.
But, for the sake of the second contrast, we are to have gracefulness
and ease, as well as horizontality. Then we must break the line of the
roof into different elevations, yet not making the difference great, or
we shall have visible verticals. And this must not be done at random.
[Illustration: Fig. 14. Leading lines of Villa-composition.]
244. Take a flat line of beauty, _a d_, fig. 14, for the length of the
edifice. Strike _a b_ horizontally from _a_, _c d_ from _d_; let fall
the verticals, make _c f_ equal _m n_, the maximum; and draw _h f_. The
curve should be so far continued as that _h f_ shall be to _c d_ as _c
d_ to _a b_. Then we are sure of a beautifully proportioned form. Much
variety may be introduced by using different curves; joining parabolas
with cycloids, etc.; but the use of curves is always the best mode of
obtaining good forms.[55]
[Footnote 55: [Compare _Modern Painters_, vol. IV. chap. xvii. § 49, and
_Elements of Drawing_, Letter III.]]
Further ease may be obtained by added combinations. For instance, strike
another curve (_a q b_) through the flat line _a b_; bisect the maximum
_v p_, draw the horizontal _r s_, (observing to make the largest maximum
of this curve towards the smallest maximum of the great curve, to
restore the balance), join _r q_, _s b_, and we have another
modification of the same beautiful form. This may be done in either side
of the building, but not in both.
245. Then, if the flat roof be still found monotonous, it may be
interrupted by garret windows, which must not be gabled, but turned with
the curve _a b_, whatever that may be. This will give instant humility
to the building, and take away any vestiges of Italian character which
might hang about it, and which would be wholly out of place.
The windows may have tolerably broad architraves, but no cornices; an
ornament both haughty and classical in its effect, and, on both
accounts, improper here. They should be in level lines, but grouped at
unequal distances, or they will have a formal and artificial air,
unsuited to the irregularity and freedom around them. Some few of them
may be arched, however, with the curve _a b_, the mingling of the curve
and the square being very graceful. There should not be more than two
tiers and the garrets, or the building will be too high.
So much for the general outline of the villa, in which we are to work by
contrast. Let us pass over to that in which we are to work by
assimilation, before speaking of the material and color which should be
common to both.
246. The grand outline must be designed on exactly the same principles;
for the curvilinear proportions, which were opposition before, will now
be assimilation. Of course, we do not mean to say that every villa in a
hill country should have the form _a b c d_; we should be tired to death
if they had: but we bring forward that form as an example of the
agreeable result of the principles on which we should always work, but
whose result should be the same in no two cases. A modification of that
form, however, will frequently be found useful; for, under the
depression _h f_, we may have a hall of entrance and of exercise, which
is a requisite of extreme importance in hill districts, where it rains
three hours out of four all the year round; and under _c d_ we may have
the kitchen, servants' rooms, and coachhouse, leaving the large division
quiet and comfortable.
247. Then, as in the curved country there is no such distortion as that
before noticed, no such evidence of violent agency, we need not be so
careful about the appearance of perfect peace; we may be a little more
dignified and a little more classical. The windows may be symmetrically
arranged; and, if there be a blue and undulating distance, the upper
tier may even have cornices; narrower architraves are to be used; the
garrets may be taken from the roof, and their inmates may be
accommodated in the other side of the house; but we must take care, in
doing this, not to become Greek. The material, as we shall see
presently, will assist us in keeping unclassical; and not a vestige of
column or capital must appear in any part of the edifice. All should be
pure, but all should be English; and there should be here, as elsewhere,
much of the utilitarian about the whole, suited to the cultivated
country in which it is placed.
248. It will never do to be speculative or imaginative in our details,
on the supposition that the tendency of fine scenery is to make
everybody imaginative and enthusiastic. Enthusiasm has no business with
Turkey carpets or easy-chairs; and the very preparation of comfort for
the body, which the existence of the villa supposes, is inconsistent
with the supposition of any excitement of mind: and this is another
reason for keeping the domestic building in richly productive country.
Nature has set aside her sublime bits for us to feel and think in; she
has pointed out her productive bits for us to sleep and eat in; and, if
we sleep and eat amongst the sublimity, we are brutal; if we poetize
amongst the cultivation, we are absurd. There are the time and place for
each state of existence, and we should not jumble that which Nature has
separated. She has addressed herself, in one part, wholly to the mind;
there is nothing for us to eat but bilberries, nothing to rest upon but
rock, and we have no business to concoct picnics, and bring cheese, and
ale, and sandwiches, in baskets, to gratify our beastly natures, where
Nature never intended us to eat (if she had, we needn't have brought the
baskets). In the other part, she has provided for our necessities; and
we are very absurd, if we make ourselves fantastic, instead of
comfortable. Therefore, all that we ought to do in the hill villa is, to
adapt it for the habitation of a man of the highest faculties of
perception and feeling; but only for the habitation of his hours of
common sense, not of enthusiasm; it must be his dwelling as a man, not
as a spirit; as a thing liable to decay, not as an eternal energy; as a
perishable, not as an immortal.