Part 5

Now, with regard to the former of these two considerations, I allow that a faithful imitation, even of a deformed original, is capable of affording great intellectual pleasure to the beholder, provided that imitation, like that displayed in painting and sculpture, be produced through dint of materials, or tools so different from those of which is composed the original imitated, as to evince in the imitator extraordinary ingenuity and powers; but the imitation of a natural landscape, through means of the very ingredients of all natural scenery; namely, air, earth, trees, and water, (and which imitation will in general offer greater truth in proportion as it is attained through greater neglect,) cannot possess that merit which consists in the overcoming of difficulties and the display of genius; unless, indeed, it be an imitation of such a species of wild scenery as is totally foreign to the genius of the locality in which it is produced; unless it consists in substituting mountains to plains, waterfalls to puddles, and precipices to flats; and in that case, on the contrary, the attempt at imitation will become so arduous as to threaten terminating in a total failure, by only offering, instead of a sublime and improved resemblance, a most paltry and mean caricature. Since, then, in a garden, the imitation of the less symmetric arrangements of rude nature can afford little or no peculiar gratification to the mind in their sole capacity as imitations, the question becomes restricted within a very narrow compass; and all that remains to be inquired into is, whether, in that garden, the exclusive admission of mere unsymmetric forms of simple nature, or their mixture with a certain proportion of the more symmetric forms of professed art, will give more intense and more varied pleasure to the eye? And, when thus stated, I should think the question would be nearly answered in the same way by every unprejudiced person. I should think it would be denied by none, that if, on the one hand, the most irregular habitation, still, through the very nature of its construction and purposes, must ever necessarily remain most obviously symmetric and formal; if not in its whole, at least in its various details, of doors, windows, steps, entablatures, etc., and if, on the other hand, as I take it, all beauty consists in that contrast, that variety, that distinctness of each of the different component parts of a whole, from the remaining parts, which renders each individually a relief to the remainder, combined with that harmony, that union of each of these different component parts of that whole with the remaining parts, which renders each a support to the remainder, and enables the eye and mind to glide over and compass the whole with rapidity and with ease, fewer striking features of beauty will be found in a garden, where, from the very threshold of the still ever symmetric mansion, one is launched in the most abrupt manner, into a scene wholly composed of the most unsymmetric and desultory forms of mere nature, totally out of character with those of that mansion; and where the same species of irregular and indeterminate forms, already prevailing at the very centre, extend, without break or relief, to the utmost boundaries of the grounds, than will be presented in another garden, where the cluster of highly-adorned and sheltered apartments that form the mansion, in the first instance, shoot out, as it were, into certain more or less extended ramifications of arcades, porticoes, terraces, parterres, treillages, avenues, and other such still splendid embellishments of art, calculated by their architectural and measured forms, at once to offer a striking and varied contrast with, and a dignified and comfortable transition to, the more undulating and rural features of the more extended, more distant, and more exposed boundaries; before, in the second instance, through a still further link, a still further continuance of this same gradation of hues and forms, these limits of the private domain are again made in their turn, by means of their less artificial and more desultory appearance, to blend equally harmoniously on the other side, with the still ruder outlines of the property of the public at large.

No doubt, that, among the very wildest scenes of unappropriated nature, there are some so grand, so magnificent, that no art can vie with, or can enhance their effect. Of this description are the towering rock, the tremendous precipice, the roaring cataract, even the dark, gloomy, impenetrable forest. Of such, let us take great care not to destroy, or to diminish the grandeur by paltry conceits or contrivances of art. But even these are such features as, from certain conditions unavoidably attendant on them, we would not wish to have permanently under our eyes and windows; or even if we wished it, could not transport within the narrow precincts which immediately surround the mansion. A gentleman’s country residence, situated in the way it ought to be, for health, for convenience, and for cheerfulness, can only have room in its immediate vicinity for the more concentrated beauties of art. In this narrow circle, if we wish for variety, for contrast, and for brokenness of levels, we can only seek it in arcades and in terraces, in steps, balustrades, regular slopes, parapets, and such like; we cannot find space for the rock and the precipice. Here, if we admire the fleeting motion, the brilliant transparency, the soothing murmur, the delightful coolness of the crystal stream, we must force it up in an erect _jet-d’eau_, or hurl it down in an abrupt cascade; we cannot admit so near us the winding torrent, dashed at wide intervals from rock to rock. Here, if we desire to collect the elegant forms, vivid colors, and varied fragrance of the choicest shrubs and plants, whether exotics, or only natives, oranges, magnolias, and rhododendrons, or roses, and lilies, and hyacinths; we still must confine them in the boxes, the pots, or the beds of some sort of parterre; we cannot give them the appearance of spontaneously growing from amongst weeds and briers. Here, in fine, if we have a mind to secure the cool shade and the convenient shelter of lofty trees, we can only plant an avenue, we cannot form a forest. And for that, since we admire, even to an excess, symmetry of lines and disposition in that production of art called a house, we should abhor these attributes in the same excess in that other avowed production of art, the immediate appendage of the former, and consequently the sharer in its purposes and character, namely, the garden, I do not understand. There is between the various divisions of the house and those of the grounds, this difference, that the first are more intended for repose, and the latter for exercise; that the first are under cover, and the latter exposed. The difference should make a corresponding difference in the nature of the materials, and in the size and delicacy of the forms; but why it should occasion on the one side an unqualified admission, and on the other, as unqualified an exclusion of those attributes of symmetry and correspondence of parts which may be equally produced in coarser as in finer materials, on a vaster as on a smaller scale, I cannot conceive. The outside of the house is exposed to the elements as well as the grounds; and why, while columns are thought invariably to look well at regular distances, trees should be thought invariably to look ill in regular rows, is what I cannot comprehend. Assuredly the difference is as great between the eruptions of Etna, or of any other volcano, and artificial fire-works, as it is between the falls of the Niagara or of any other river, and artificial water-works. Why, then, while we gaze with admiration on a rocket, should we behold with disgust a _jet-d’eau_? And why, while we are delighted with a rain of fiery sparks, should we be displeased with a shower of liquid diamonds, issuing from a beautiful vase, and again collected in as exquisite a basin? If the place be appropriate, if the hues be vivid, if the outlines be elegant, if the objects be varied and contrasted, in the name of wonder, how should, out of all these partial elements of positive, unmixed beauty, arise a whole positively ugly? No, there can only arise a whole as beautiful as the parts; and so, those travellers who have not allowed any narrow and exclusive theories to check or destroy their spontaneous feelings, must own they have thought many of the suspended gardens within Genoa, and of the splendid villas about Rome; so they have thought those striking oppositions of the rarest marbles to the richest verdure; those mixtures of statues, and vases, and balustrades, with cypresses, and pinasters, and bays; those distant hills seen through the converging lines of lengthened colonnades; those ranges of aloes and cactuses growing out of vases of granite and of porphyry, scarce more symmetric by art, than these plants are by nature; and, finally, all those other endless contrasts of regular and irregular forms, everywhere, each individually increasing its own charms, through their contrast with those of the other, exhibited in the countries, which we consider as the earliest schools, where beauty became an object of sedulous study.

But the truth is, that in our remoter climes, we carry every theory into the extremes. Once, that very symmetry and correspondence of parts of which a certain proportion ever has, to all refined ages and nations, ancient and modern, appeared a requisite feature of the more dressy and finished parts of the pleasure garden, prevailed in all English villas with so little selection, and at the same time, in such indiscreet profusion, as not only rendered the different parts insipid and monotonous with respect to each other, but the whole mass a most formal, unharmonious blotch with regard to the surrounding country. Surfeited at last with symmetry carried to excess, we have suddenly leaped into the other extreme. Dreading the faintest trace of the ancient regularity of outline as much as we dread the phantoms of those we once most loved, we have made our country residences look dropped from the clouds, in spots most unfitted to receive them; and, at the expense, not only of all beauty, but of all comfort, we have made the grounds appear as much out of harmony, viewed in one direction with the mansion, as they formerly were viewed in the opposite direction with the country at large. Through the total exclusion of all the variety, the relief, the sharpness, which, straight or spherical, or angular, or other determinate lines and forms might have given to unsymmetric and serpentining forms and surfaces, we have, without at all diminishing the appearance of art, (which in a garden can never be totally eradicated,) only succeeded in rendering that art of the most tame and monotonous description; like that languid and formal blank verse, which is equally divested of the force of poetry and the facility of prose. Nature, who, in her larger productions, is content with exhibiting the more vague beauties that derive from mere variety and play of hues and forms; Nature herself, in her smaller and more elaborate, and if I may so call them, choicer bits of every different reign, superadds those features of regular symmetry of colors and shapes, which not only form a more striking contrast with the more desultory modifications of her huger masses, but intrinsically in a smaller space, produces a greater effect than the former can display. Examine the radii of the snow-spangle, the facettes of the crystal, the petals of the flower, the capsules of the seed, the wings, the antennæ, the rings, the stigmata of the insect and the butter-fly; nay, even in man and beast, the features of the face, and the configuration of the eye, and we shall find in all these more minute, more finished, and more centrical productions of the mineral, the vegetable, and the animal kingdoms, reigns the nicest symmetry of outline and correspondence of parts. And if art, which can only be founded upon, only spring out of nature; if art, I say, should ever only be considered as the further development of nature’s own principles, the complement of nature’s own designs, assuredly we best obey the views of nature, and best understand the purposes of art, when, leaving total irregularity to the more extended, more distant, and more neglected recesses of the park, we give some degree of symmetry to the smaller and nearer, and more studied divisions of the pleasure-ground. This principle of proportioning the regularity of the objects to their extent, the Greeks well understood. While in the Medici Venus the attitude of the body only displays the unsymmetric elegance of simple nature, the hair presents all the symmetry of arrangement of the most studious art; and unless this principle also become familiar among us there is great danger that unable to make the grounds harmonize with the mansion, we attempt to harmonize the mansion with the grounds, by converting that mansion itself into a den or a quarry.

REMARKS ON FIRE-PROOF CONSTRUCTION.

A PAPER READ BEFORE THE NEW YORK CHAPTER OF THE AMERICAN INSTITUTE OF ARCHITECTS, APRIL 6TH, 1869.

BY P. B. WIGHT, F. A. I. A.

MR. PRESIDENT AND GENTLEMEN:—A distinguished member of this body not long since remarked that a fire-proof building was easily defined: “It is a building which cannot burn, and which contains nothing that will burn.” Admitting the definition, I do not propose to dispute with the gentleman, neither do I intend to enter into an elaborate and scientific investigation of the subject; to do so would be to essay a task far beyond my powers, and one which might result in stultifying myself and wearying you. The best I can do is to collect some of the scattered results of thought and observation, into what I trust you will consider to be but a rambling dissertation upon a subject which is of great interest to all of us. It is, therefore, less with the desire to display any erudition, than to introduce the subject, and call forth the views of those assembled here, that I have chosen to address you some remarks on fire-proof buildings. In so doing it is possible that I may enter the field of criticism, and may comment upon the works of some who are here present; but whatever I may say in that direction, allow me to assure you, will be said with justice and candor, and an endeavor to follow Matthew Arnold’s definition of criticism—to find the best ideas in everything. I will look to those whose experience has been more extended than mine, for a continuation of the discussion of what I may only hint at.

It is very seldom that any building is required for such use that only non-combustible material shall be placed in it; but it is still a fact that fire-proof buildings are often called for, and are needed, wherein large amounts of combustible materials are to be placed.[A] To supply such a demand, is one of the most important problems offered to the architect for solution. Of such buildings, are storage warehouses, and stores or shops, wholesale and retail, as well as buildings for certain kinds of manufacturing processes, such as sugar-houses and carriage or furniture shops.

Having devised a building of non-combustible material throughout, the question which next arises is how to keep a conflagration in one part from extending to all the contents of the building. It seems to me, that in buildings for such purposes, the idea of making them only partially fire-proof is not to be considered for a moment, unless, perhaps, the material contained is so highly inflammable that it would destroy the material of the building, even if it is divided into fire-proof compartments, in which case it seems to be folly to go to the expense of fire-proof materials at all. When you know that no part of your building can burn of itself it is evident that every atom of it will offer some resistance to the enemy confined within. I believe, too, that it is impossible to smother or choke a fire once commenced, by the use of closed compartments. Accident or carelessness may leave some openings which will facilitate a draft in some unforeseen way. And even supposing that you have shut in your fire by some arrangement of closed compartments, can you give your compartments less air than a charcoal pit? Close it as much as you will, your confined goods, if the barriers are not forced by the immense power generated by the heat, will at last be reduced to charcoal; for you cannot open a door or window upon such a smouldering fire, but that it will instantly burst into flames. Ships have been brought to port with smouldering fires under their closed hatches, which have been in existence for weeks at a time, while but few have been eventually saved under such circumstances, except by scuttling. Such conditions do not exist with regard to buildings; in them there is not the risk of human lives, which may be saved on shipboard only by closing down the hatches, and scuttling is obviously out of the question.

Store-houses are the only class of buildings which admit of division into airtight compartments, and there is a practical objection to them in even buildings of this class; but few kinds of goods can be preserved without good ventilation. It seems, therefore, that the compartments should be open and accessible from without, but carefully divided from each other. If so, they afford good facilities to those employed in extinguishing fires; and I think that in a building thus arranged, there would be a more reasonable chance of a portion of its goods being saved.

The division of buildings into horizontal compartments, rather than vertical ones, is so much more desirable, where land is expensive, that inventors have almost exhausted their ingenuity in devising thoroughly fire-proof floors. It is obvious, however, that the division of a building by vertical fire-proof partitions, is a matter so easy of accomplishment, that it is questionable whether the horizontal division, so beset with practical difficulties, so expensive, and withal so much less to be depended upon, even when the best systems of construction are used, is ever economical, even where ground is expensive. I even question whether it is of any use to build iron floors, or floors with iron supports, for buildings to contain goods; brick piers and groined arches are alone reliable. If you divide horizontally you must have stairways within and windows on the exterior, both of which welcome the ascending flames. You may enclose your staircase in a fire-proof enclosure, and you may put the heaviest iron shutters on your windows, but you must have doors through which to gain access from your stairways, and you must open your shutters when you want light. There is a contingency that these traps may be set when the enemy comes, and then all your expensive floors represent so much wasted capital.

As yet, I believe, that no buildings in this vicinity, built purely for storage purposes, have been constructed entirely of fire-proof materials, except the St. John’s Depot of the Hudson River Railroad Company. I am not aware that any attempt has been made in these buildings to stop a conflagration among the goods on storage either by horizontal or vertical compartments. The floors, to be sure, are of iron and brick, non-combustible, but with hoistways; and it is not difficult to conjecture, even supposing that all horizontal openings and iron shutters were closed, what would be the result of a fire raging on one of those floors, hundreds of feet in expanse.

Several fires occurring recently in the Brooklyn warehouses have warned their owners to take extra precautions, even though none of these warehouses are fire-proof, if I am rightly informed. One of the best is known as the Pierrepont Stores, near the Wall Street Ferry, and the arrangement of them is well worthy of notice. These are about three hundred feet in length, and are divided into six compartments by fire-proof party walls; the width of each compartment is consequently about fifty feet, and the length about two hundred feet. The floors are of wood, and it would have been useless to make them of iron and brick; for the goods taken in them are mainly sugars, and it would be folly to attempt to arrest a fire of such combustible material in its ascending course, by any practicable device. But what is most interesting in these buildings is that each is fortified against its neighbor. Recently the party walls were carried up about six feet above the roofs, and were pierced with embrasures, through which firemen can play from the roof of one building upon the flames of another, with perfect safety to themselves. Here is an instance wherein capital would have been wasted on the expensive materials required for fire-proof floors.

It is the duty of the architect, as I conceive it, to guide the capitalist in coming to a decision on such points. If he devises economical methods, his commission is lessened, but thereby so much more capital remains unemployed, but ready for investment in other enterprises. It would be foreign to my subject to enlarge upon this point, and show how much more it is to the interest of the architect to study reasonable economy in his works, especially buildings for business purposes; but I will let the suggestion stand for what it is worth. Perhaps a knowledge of the fact that most members of our profession agree with me in this opinion would go far toward disarming the misgivings of many a client upon the question of commissions.

Buildings for manufacturing purposes next demand attention. Some time since a manufacturer and contractor for iron work remarked to me, that if some one would only put up a large fire-proof building, with good steam power, to be rented out for manufacturing purposes, his fortune would easily be made. I have often thought of the suggestion, and wondered why it had not been acted upon. He said that at that time it would be impossible to hire a fire-proof shop or room, with power, in this city. Now, there are many occupations requiring delicate, and not easily replaced machinery, or in which are involved elaborate experiments, running for long periods—the derangement of which could not be recompensed by any amount of insurance—for which a fire-proof building would be almost invaluable. The saving of insurance on such a building and its contents would be greater than the interest on the extra cost of fire-proof floors, and would enable the owner to rent his rooms at a lower rate—in proportion to the equivalent given—than could the owners of buildings with wooden floors. The extra cost of fire-proof construction in a manufacturing building is small when compared with that of a bank or public building. The walls and ceilings require neither lath nor furring, and the floors may be of flags or slate, bedded on the brick arches, or what is better, plates of cast-iron bolted to the beams—which will presently be described. All inside finish may be discarded, and iron doors, of No. 16 iron, with light wrought-iron frames, hung to stone templates in the jambs, are the only coverings required for the openings.