CHAPTER III

THE COLONIAL ARCHITECTURE OF NEW ENGLAND

The Colonial houses of New England are of singular interest because they fill a gap in our architectural history, a gap regarded for a long time as embarrassing and awkward to bridge over. They are also peculiarly interesting because they are so full of surprises that open up with increasing frequency to repay diligent investigation on the part of the architectural student, the historian or the antiquary. They are still further interesting because they supply us with important and ample material for comparative study.

The gap alluded to is the apparent hiatus in the connexion between domestic architectural precedents and tradition in old England, on the one hand, and Colonial manifestations, as popularly conceived until very recently, on the other. In order to avoid an undue extent of introductory explanation, it will be assumed that the reader is reasonably familiar with the general characteristics of outward appearance displayed by seventeenth-century English houses and knows something of the structural methods employed in their erection. To appreciate fully and understand the spirit and peculiarities of the earliest Colonial architecture of New England, we must seek, in the course of our examination of the subject, to find a fundamental and close correspondence between it and the architecture of old England, no matter how far the visible traces of that intimate relationship may have been obscured by subsequent alterations and additions to the original houses whose fabric affords our basis of comparison. If we keep our eyes and wits alert, we shall not be disappointed in the results of our search.

While pursuing our quest for evidences of architectural descent or consanguinity, we should keep constantly in mind three things. Indeed, we _must_ keep these three facts before us to understand not only the early phases of architecture but many other aspects of seventeenth-century New England life as well. First of all, the men who built the early New England houses and the men who lived in them were Englishmen, and, as Englishmen, they were naturally disposed by temperament to be strongly conservative and to cling tenaciously to precedent and tradition, particularly in a matter of such vital importance as the fashioning of houses. They were, in short, proving the truth of Edward Eggleston’s dictum that “men can with difficulty originate, even in a new hemisphere.” In the second place, all their training in craftsmanship was English and it was but reasonable that they should continue to work in a new land with the same tools and to fashion their materials in precisely the same manner as they had been wont to do in the land of their birth. It was but natural, too, that they should perpetuate the technicalities of the trades they had learned in old England in the training they gave their apprentices. This identity and continuity of craft traditions may be clearly seen in the furniture of early New England, which is exactly the same as contemporary furniture in England in contour, joinery, and the technique and pattern of the carving. Identity and continuity of craft characteristics may also be traced in the turning of baluster spindles, in the chamfering of beams, in the framing of house timbers and in a dozen other ways. Lastly, those early American Englishmen were possessed of no mean degree of clear-headed, practical common sense and were eminently resourceful, as pioneers in a new and untamed land must needs be if their efforts at colonisation are to be crowned with success. If local exigency seemed to demand that they modify their methods to fit current needs, they were prompt to devise a suitable adaptation to meet the requirement. But these adaptations and

departures from precedent were not indulged in from mere caprice or with any deliberate and conscious intent to develop a new and original mode of architectural expression. The adaptations in each case, before they became precedents for subsequent repetition elsewhere, were suggested by obvious necessity and originality was left to take care of itself, with the usual happy results arising from the observance of the principle that the safest and truest originality comes by a gradual process of evolution, elimination and adaptation to local needs.

In view, then, of the foregoing considerations, one not unreasonably expects to find the early New England house identical or almost identical in appearance and structure with the contemporary English house of a like size, only such differences being evident as local expediency occasioned. If one could only see several such houses now as they unquestionably were at the date of their erection, this chapter would be altogether unnecessary, for the resemblance between them and their prototypes in our old home beyond the Atlantic would be so striking that the veriest dolt would be sensible of it. In nearly every instance the alterations and accretions of centuries have blurred and often hidden the points of likeness, but, by the judicious employment of archæological surgery, we may readily trace all the steps of evolutionary development from the well-known old English type to a type that became peculiarly American and local, that is to say, peculiar to New England. The steps are all logical and we can see how the early colonists began by building houses as they were accustomed to see them built in old England and ended by building a type whose characteristics were generally determined by local conditions and expediency. We can see how, by successive steps, mediæval English peculiarities of structure and design gradually gave way to methods of more recent contrivance or of foreign origin. Indeed, among all the colonists, whether of English, Dutch, Swedish or German blood, directly they had passed the temporary log-cabin stage, there was a virtual identity between the architectural forms of the parent countries and their own earliest permanent architectural attempts, and the process of differentiation did not begin until new environment and new necessities pointed the way to the adoption of new modes and forms. It is exceedingly important to recognise the strong current of continuity and to realise that the architecture of Colonial America, in its sundry manifestations, was not, as some are pleased to contend, an wholly independent growth without old-world antecedents or clearly marked historical background.

The evolution of local architecture, of course, not only mirrors the social and economic development of the colonies but also presents numerous edifying variations within the confines of New England which show how strongly the course of architectural growth in the new land was influenced by conditions locally prevalent in the old home. It can oftentimes be seen how the artisans from one particular place in England perpetuated certain idiosyncrasies of craftsmanship within limited Colonial areas and that those peculiarities are found nowhere else. In both its economic and purely technical aspects, the mode of domestic architectural expression devised in Colonial New England has many admirable features to commend it and is due partly to native Yankee mother wit and shrewd practicality quickened by the spur of necessity, and partly to the spirit of true British conservatism and attachment to long-established custom, a spirit that was strong in the early Puritans and often determined their actions in spite of themselves.

A brief survey of seventeenth-century manners and men, within the bounds of New England, will greatly assist us in forming an intelligent appreciation of the houses erected in this pioneer period. The log-cabin of the first few years of colonisation we need scarcely consider, for the rude huts erected at first were merely temporary shelters, were soon replaced by more substantial structures, and were not really representative in any sense. The houses built as soon as the colonists had an opportunity to become accustomed to their new environment and get their economic bearings, reflected a condition of society in which a modest degree of simple comfort, resulting from rigorous thrift, rewarded the majority while prosperous affluence fell to the lot of comparatively few. Well built dwellings were comfortable but not pretentious. They were apt for all ordinary domestic requirements but, save in exceptional cases, there was no approach to luxury. They usually had rooms enough for all essential purposes but rarely were any special or extra rooms set apart for distinctive uses, with the exception of the parlour or “best room,” which often held the best bed and served variously as state bedroom for most honoured guests, repository for the most treasured household gods and the choicest items of domestic equipment and, finally, as the gathering place for the more worthy visitors at times of weddings, funerals or other important occasions.

The number of bedchambers provided in most cases would nowadays be deemed totally inadequate for the people to be accommodated and, to cite only one instance thoroughly typical of innumerable others, the members of the Revere household, if we may believe the statistics of tradition, must have been packed away at nights in sardine-like and most unsanatory proximity, or else some of them slept in the cellar or on the roof. This was well on towards the latter part of the eighteenth century, too, when habits in this particular had certainly not fallen below the standards of the seventeenth century. Besides the members of the Revere family, there were various apprentices and domestics, all of whom found shelter beneath the roof of this typical seventeenth-century house. It was no uncommon thing for two or three children or young persons to sleep in one bed and there was often more than one bedstead in a room. Truckle or trundle beds for children were frequently put in the bedchambers of their elders, while indentured servants and apprentices oftentimes slept in the kitchen, or else master and mistress slept in the tempered atmosphere of the kitchen fire and underlings took to the frigid regions above. Wherever the kitchen was put into commission as a sleeping apartment, there was the folding or “let down” bed or _slawbank_, which Mrs. Earle describes as “an oblong frame with a network of rope. This frame was fastened at one end to the wall, with heavy hinges, and at night it was lowered to a horizontal position, and the unhinged end was supported on heavy wooden turned legs which fitted into sockets in the frame. When not in use the bed was hooked up against the wall, and doors like closet doors, were closed over it, or curtains were drawn over it to conceal it.” What though the sleeping arrangements of the seventeenth century, and indeed of much of the eighteenth century, for that matter, would often have called forth the sharp condemnation of a modern tenement house inspector, the colonists, nevertheless, made shift to get along in tolerable comfort and raise large families of children, with a due regard for the amenities of life, who became the most exemplary of citizens.

If the kitchen was sometimes used as a sleeping room, it was almost universally used as a living room. It was the vital point of the household whence radiated all domestic energies. It was spacious and was made as bright and cheerful as it could possibly be. Around the great open fireplace, where the cooking was done, centred all in-door activities from carding, spinning and weaving to corn husking. Here the family circle, eldest in places of greatest comfort, children and servants about the outer edge, gathered in the firelight of the long winter evenings; here the neighbour or chance traveller was entertained, and here lads and lasses, in the full glare of family publicity, did much of their courting, sometimes whispering their sweet nothings, from opposite sides of

the fireplace, through a “courting-stick,” a wooden tube six or eight feet long with mouth and ear pieces at each end.

In houses sufficiently spacious to admit of a living room or a “keeping-room” separate from the kitchen--such a room was analogous to the old English “hall”--the kitchen was still a cheerful room of great importance and the scene of many domestic fireside industries. It was a common thing to make lean-to additions to the original structure and the kitchen was often put in such an addition or in an ell extension. It was only the houses of the affluent, like that of Governour Theophilus Eaton at New Haven, built about 1640, that could boast what we should nowadays consider a very moderate number of rooms on the ground floor. Besides the great hall or living room in Governour Eaton’s house, there seem to have been a large kitchen and a pantry or buttery on one side, and on the other a parlour and a counting-house or library. Of the appointments of these rooms we may gain some idea from the inventory of Governour Eaton’s effects at the time of his death in 1657. In the hall or living room there were “a drawing Table and a round table; a cubberd & 2 long formes; a cubberd cloth & cushions; 4 setwork cushions, 6 greene cushions; a greate chaire with needleworke; 2 high chaires set work; 4 high stooles set worke; 4 low chaires set worke; 2 low stooles set work; 2 Turkey Carpette; 6 high joyne stooles; a pewter cistern & candlestick; a pr of small andirons; a pr of doggs; a pr of tongues fire pan & bellowes.” The other rooms were furnished in a comparable manner. Living rooms in less pretentious houses had similar equipment though, it is scarcely necessary to add, they were not usually so complete nor so elegant.

The very plan, or rather plans for there were several, of early New England houses proclaimed an English origin. The house of Governour Eaton, just mentioned, is said to have been built in the form of a capital E. The “E” plan was a very common form in the manor houses and even in the larger cottages of the England of Eaton’s time. It was also a very old form, “dating from the thirteenth century, if not from the twelfth, or even earlier, and it had, in its long career, come to be the expression of a regular and well-recognised arrangement.” “Other houses of this plan were built in different parts of New England for men of consequence and substance.”

“The common houses,” according to Edward E. Lambert, the antiquary, “at first were small, of one storey with sharp roofs, and heavy stone chimneys and small diamond windows.” Many of the early dwellings also had two floors. One type of these small houses commonly found in Massachusetts and Connecticut consisted of two rooms with a chimney between them. The house door opened into a small entry containing the staircase, opposite the door and carried up beside the chimney. The chimney was the core around which the house was built and projected above the middle of the ridgepole. Each room had a fireplace. To this type of house was frequently added a lean-to across the whole rear and this addition usually accommodated the kitchen. Sometimes the lean-to was incorporated in the plan when the house was built. In either case, the long, narrow lean-to room contained a fireplace which generally had a flue in the central chimney. When dwellings of this description had two rooms on the ground floor, one would be the kitchen and general living room and the other the parlour containing the “best bed,” an arrangement alluded to in a previous paragraph; where there was the additional lean-to room for the kitchen, the two other rooms would be living room and parlour.

In northern Rhode Island there was another common type that contained one room, at the end of which “was a vast stone chimney which appeared on the outside of the house.” Beside the fireplace and in the offset made by the chimney jamb, was a winding staircase--in the earliest houses it was sometimes a ladder--leading to the upper room or loft, as the case might be. An amplification of this “stone-end” type of house was occasionally found with _two_ rooms placed side by side and a fireplace in each room in relatively the same position. That these types of floor plan were part of the common English architectural heritage we shall presently see by comparison with subsequent chapters. The position of the chimney served to all intents as an exterior indication of the internal plan of the house. Of course, many departures from these two original plans are to be met with in the early Colonial houses of New England but it will usually be found that such departures are due to later additions to a structure based, in the first instance, on one or the other of them.

We are so accustomed to thinking of the old New England houses as structures covered with clapboards that we are in danger of forgetting what is underneath this outer coat. In fact, it is safe to say that the majority of people do not know what is underneath, and many would be greatly surprised if they did. After all, the clapboard casing is a disguise, and the people of New England are so thrifty and, as a rule, have been so careful to keep their buildings in good condition that the clapboards hide the traces of age that would otherwise be visible and put the oldest buildings on a par with those of later date. The clapboard casing masques different things beneath its surface. If we rip it off many of the oldest buildings, we shall find behind it nothing more nor less than an old English half-timber house, built precisely as were the half-timber or “black and white” houses in the reigns of the Tudors and Stuarts. The exigencies of climate soon made it evident that such a mode of structure was not altogether suited to the rigorous winters of New England and then, too, something must be attributed to the desire on the part of subsequent owners to follow prevalent fashion which prescribed the clapboard jackets. In houses of more recent date, of course, the clapboard shell may be regarded as an integral part of the structure but, in the earlier buildings, it is nothing but a masque, put on at a later date, to protect the walls and give added warmth when the first-adopted method of wall building was found insufficient, or in some cases, perhaps, to comply with the dictates of a passing fancy.

Whenever this clapboarding is torn off for repairs, original conditions become obvious and may readily be studied. The writer has seen such old houses, when partly denuded of their clapboard casing, reveal typical half-timber constructional methods, similar in every particular to the methods pursued by the half-timber builders in England. The cills, the studs, the diagonal timbers and all the other parts of the frame are set and joined, tenoned and pinned, just as they were in England and the spaces between the studs are “pugged” with rough brick or stones and coarse clay stiffened with chopped straw, also in the time-honoured English manner. It is quite possible that in some instances the spaces between the studs may have been “pugged” with “wattle and dab”--thick clay daubed on a loose mesh of interwoven wattles or withes--for the tradition of this process certainly crossed the Atlantic and appeared in some of the early clay chimneys of Connecticut.

So many people have expressed surprise when told of the unbroken persistence of the half-timber tradition that it will be in order to mention specific instances which, however, may be regarded as typical of many other buildings of contemporary date. For much painstaking and scholarly investigation in this field, and for much accurate restoration, the public is indebted to Joseph Everett Chandler, of Boston, whose restorations of numerous historic buildings have won him well deserved esteem and confidence.[A]

It was the writer’s privilege to see the old Bake House in Salem just after it had been rescued by private generosity from impending demolition and moved to its present site hard by the House of the Seven Gables. In the course of making necessary repairs and restorations, the clapboard casing had been entirely removed and it was possible to see fully the whole structural scheme. The timbers and pugging were as just noted. Although the windows were, at that time, of the sash type, with small panes, the traces were clearly visible of alterations that had been made at an earlier date, probably somewhere about 1720, when the sash window rose into high favour and was generally substituted for the leaded casement with small diamond-shaped panes. The timbers gave unmistakable evidence that the window apertures in the sides of the house had originally been wide enough to accommodate a range of casements and that they had been neither so high nor so low as the sash or double hung windows that took their places. In other words, the timbers showed that the apertures had been narrowed to a considerable extent and, at the same time, extended both upwards and downwards.

Inside the house, the heavy oak studs, when the laths and plaster were torn off, showed chamfered corners, usually stopped at the ends with a stop that was thoroughly mediæval in character and might be found duplicated in the beams of trussed roofs in any old building in England dating from the sixteenth century or earlier. The tops of the studs, in some cases, showed a peculiar splay outward at the sides and rough notching by way of ornament. Surely here were touches of mediæval English workmanship that had been perpetuated in the new land by a workman who had served his apprenticeship in an English village where all the old joinery traditions were preserved intact.

The overhang on the second floor projecting some distance beyond the walls of the first is another striking instance of the survival of half-timber building traditions in not a few of the old houses. We see it in the House of the Seven Gables, in the Bake House, in the Paul Revere house in Boston, in more than one old house in Marblehead, and in plenty of other ancient dwellings, some of them recently restored, throughout the land, where restorations have been intelligently undertaken and carried out. It has almost invariably proved the case either that the pendants were intact beneath the clapboards, or that the stumps of them were there, clearly showing the existence of the feature. In not a few cases the overhang has disappeared because the clapboard casing has been carried down flush with the outside of the upper storey. This was the case with the House of the Seven Gables, and it was only when the clapboard casing, in which it had been jacketed for many years, was removed that the overhang once more came to light and the stumps of the original pendants were forthwith restored. The finding of such pendants and such overhangs coupled with the frequent occurrence of such features as just noted in the case of the Bake House afford us irrefutable evidence of the perpetuation of the English half-timber building traditions. It has been fondly supposed by some that the overhang was meant for purposes of defence. It may have been turned to that use when occasion required, but defence was certainly not the original idea, for in that case the projection would doubtless have been carried all the way around the wall, as it was in the case of the block houses, where, of course, this feature was meant primarily to facilitate defence and cover the occupants as they dropped boiling oil, hot lead, or other missiles on the heads of their assailants whenever they approached near enough.

From the early New England houses, that embodied so many old English architectural traditions, was gradually evolved, under stress of local expediency, a type that met the needs of the colonists. That type was not only intensely practical in its characteristics but its simplicity and straightforwardness gave it a vital artistic interest that still commends it to our favourable consideration.