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Page 52
"According to Aunt Melville's enthusiastic account, the construction of
the house is but little less than marvelous. 'The high walls of the
basement are built of those native, weather-stained and lichen-covered
boulders, the walls above being of a material hitherto unknown to
builders. You will scarcely believe it when I tell you they are nothing
else than the waste rubbish from brickyards, the rejected accumulations
of years--not by any means the unburned, but the overburned, the hard,
flinty, molten, misshapen and highly-colored masses of burned clay
which indeed refused to be consumed, but have been twisted into
shapeless blocks by the fervent heat. Of course, with such
unconventional materials for the main walls it would be a silly
affectation to embellish the exterior of the house with elaborate
mouldings or ornamental wood-work, and the visible details are
therefore plain to the verge of poverty. But as men of great genius can
disregard the trifling formalities of society, so there are no
architectural rules which this house is obliged to respect.'"
[Illustration: A CHOICE OF BALUSTERS.]
"That suits me perfectly," said Jack; "but I am amazed at Aunt
Melville. Never before did she make such a concession even to great
genius. Never before have I felt inclined to agree with her; but the
conviction has grown upon me of late that the new house is in danger of
being too much like other houses. If a fellow is really going in for
reform, I like to have him go the whole figure. What do you say to
beginning anew and building such a house as no mortal ever built
before--something to make everybody wonder what manner of people they
are who live in such a habitation--something to convince our neighbors
that we are no weak-minded time-servers, but are able to be an
architectural as well as domestic law unto ourselves--something to make
them stop and stare--a sort of local Greenwich from which the community
will reckon their longitude--'so many miles from the house that Jill
built'?"
"My dear, did it ever occur to you that you cannot be too thankful for
a wife who is not blown about by every wind of new doctrine? I _do_
like the plan of 'The Oaks' exceedingly, not only for itself, but for
the spirit of it, for its breadth and freedom. It seems to me a
charming illustration of the true gospel of home architecture. There is
no thoughtless imitation of something else that suits another place and
another family. Neither does it appear that the owner tried to make a
vain display for the sake of 'astonishing the natives.' He knew what he
wanted, and built the house to suit his wants, using the simplest, the
cheapest and the most durable materials at hand in the most direct and
unaffected manner. Did you notice in the sketch of the keeping-room
fireplace the little gallery passing across the end of the room above
the entrance to the sitting-room? Probably you thought that was built
for purely ornamental purposes, but it isn't. It is simply the walk
from the kitchen to another part of the attic, which can be most
conveniently reached by this interior bridge. Of course it adds to the
interest and beauty of the room, but it was not made for that purpose,
and, as I understand the matter, it is all the more beautiful because
it was first made to be useful. There is another thing in this
house--the elevator--which, queerly enough, we do not often find in
houses of more aspiring habit, where it would he of even greater value.
It is amazing to me that housekeepers will go on tugging trunks,
coal-hods and heavy merchandise of all kinds up stairways, day after
day and year after year, when a simple mechanical contrivance, moved by
water, or weights and pulleys, would save us from all these heavy
burdens. Think of the bruised knuckles, the trembling limbs that
stagger along with the upper end of a Saratoga 'cottage,' the broken
plastering at the sides, the paper patched with bright new pieces that
look 'almost worse' than the uncovered rents, and the ugly marks of
perspiring fingers."
[Illustration: THE BIG FIREPLACE IN THE KEEPING ROOM.]
[Illustration: ONE WAY TO BEGIN.]
"All of which I have seen and a part of which I have been," said Jack.
"I intended to have a lift in this house, but somehow it was left out."
"Our architect." Jill continued, "must be instructed to arrange not
only an easy staircase, but there must be a paneled wainscot at the
side. We will dispense with elegance in any other quarter, if need be,
in order to have the stairs ample, strong and well protected. I am not
over-anxious to have them ornate, although handsome stairs are very
charming if well placed; like many other beautiful things, they become
incurably ugly when too obtrusive. The architect has sent several
designs of balustrades from which we are to choose, and gives this
advice about the dimensions: 'As you have plenty of room, the staircase
should be four or four and a-half feet wide, so that two people can
easily walk over it abreast, I have arranged to make the steps twelve
inches wide, besides the projection that forms the finish--the
"nosing"--and six inches high; that is, six inches "rise" and twelve
inches "run." Some climbers think this too flat, and perhaps it is in
certain situations; but for homes, for easy, leisurely ascent by
children and old folks. I think it better than a steeper pitch. All
large dwelling-houses, and some small ones, ought to be supplied with
"passenger elevators," at least from the first to the second story.
Those who take the rooms still higher are usually able to make the
ascent in the common way. Such an elevator can undoubtedly be made that
will be safe and economical, especially where there is an ample water
supply.'"
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