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[page 299:]
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PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE.
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IN the
internal
decoration,
if not in the external architecture of their residences, the English
are
supreme. The Italians have but little sentiment beyond marbles and
colors.
In France, meliora probant, deteriora sequuntur — the people
are
too much a race of gad-abouts to maintain those household proprieties
of
which, indeed, they have a delicate appreciation, or at least the
elements
of a proper sense. The Chinese and most of the eastern races have a
warm
but inappropriate fancy. The Scotch are poor decorists. The
Dutch
have, perhaps, an indeterminate idea that a curtain is not a cabbage.
In
Spain they are all curtains — a nation of hangmen. The
Russians
do not furnish. The Hottentots and Kickapoos are very well in their
way.
The Yankees alone are preposterous.
How this happens, it is not difficult
to see. We
have no aristocracy of blood, and having therefore as a natural, and
indeed
as an inevitable thing, fashioned for ourselves an aristocracy of
dollars,
the display of wealth has here to take the place and perform
the
office of the heraldic display in monarchical countries. By a
transition
readily understood, and which might have been as readily foreseen, we
have
been brought to merge in simple show our notions of taste
itself.
To speak less abstractly. In England,
for
example,
no mere parade of costly appurtenances would be so likely as with us,
to
create an impression of the beautiful in respect to the appurtenances
themselves
— or of taste as regards the proprietor: — this for the reason, first,
that wealth is not, in England, the loftiest [page 300:] object
of ambition as
constituting
a nobility; and secondly, that there, the true nobility of blood,
confining
itself within the strict limits of legitimate taste, rather avoids than
affects that mere costliness in which a parvenu rivalry may at
any
time be successfully attempted. The people will imitate the
nobles, and
the
result is a thorough diffusion of the proper feeling. But in America,
the
coins current being the sole arms of the aristocracy, their display may
be said, in general, to be the sole means of the aristocratic
distinction;
and the populace, looking always upward for models, are insensibly led
to confound the two entirely separate ideas of magnificence and beauty.
In short, the cost of an article of furniture has at length come to be,
with us, nearly the sole test of its merit in a decorative point of
view
— and this test, once established, has led the way to many analogous
errors,
readily traceable to the one primitive folly.
There could be nothing more directly
offensive to
the eye of an artist than the interior of what is termed in the United
States — that is to say, in Appallachia — a well-furnished apartment.
Its
most usual defect is a want of keeping. We speak of the keeping of a
room
as we would of the keeping of a picture — for both the picture and the
room are amenable to those undeviating principles which regulate all
varieties
of art; and very nearly the same laws by which we decide on the higher
merits of a painting, suffice for decision on the adjustment of a
chamber.
A want of keeping is observable
sometimes in the
character of the several pieces of furniture, but generally in their
colors
or modes of adaptation to use. Very often the eye is offended
by
their inartistical arrangement. Straight lines are too prevalent — too
uninterruptedly
continued — or clumsily interrupted at right angles. If curved lines
occur,
they are repeated into unpleasant uniformity. By undue precision, the
appearance
of many a fine apartment is utterly spoiled.
Curtains are rarely well disposed, or
well chosen,
in respect to other decorations. With formal furniture, curtains are
out
of place; and an extensive volume of drapery of any kind is, under any
circumstances, irreconcilable with good taste — the proper quantum, as
well
as the proper adjustment, depending upon the character of the general
effect. [page 301:]
Carpets are better understood of late
than of
ancient
days, but we still very frequently err in their patterns and colors.
The
soul of the apartment is the carpet. From it are deduced not only the
hues
but the forms of all objects incumbent. A judge at common law may be an
ordinary man; a good judge of a carpet must be a genius. Yet
we
have heard discoursing of carpets, with the air "d'un mouton qui
réve," fellows
who should not and who could not be entrusted with the management of
their
own moustaches. Every one knows that a large floor may have
a covering of large figures, and that a small one must have a
covering
of small — yet this is not all the knowledge in the world. As regards
texture,
the Saxony is alone admissible. Brussels is the preter-pluperfect tense
of fashion, and Turkey is taste in its dying agonies. Touching pattern
— a carpet should not be bedizzened out like a Riccaree Indian
—
all red chalk, yellow ochre, and cock's feathers. In brief — distinct
grounds,
and vivid circular or cycloid figures, of no meaning, are here
Median
laws. The abomination of flowers, or representations of well-known
objects
of any kind, should not be endured within the limits of Christendom.
Indeed,
whether on carpets, or curtains, or tapestry, or ottoman coverings, all
upholstery of this nature should be rigidly Arabesque. As for those
antique
floor-cloths still occasionally seen in the dwellings of the
rabble
— cloths of huge, sprawling, and radiating devises [[devices]],
stripe-interspersed,
and glorious with all hues, among which no ground is intelligible —
these
are but the wicked invention of a race of time-servers and money-lovers
— children of Baal and worshippers of Mammon — Benthams, who, to spare
thought and economize fancy, first cruelly invented the Kaleidoscope,
and
then established joint-stock companies to twirl it by steam.
Glare is a leading error in
the
philosophy
of American household decoration — an error easily recognised as
deduced
from the perversion of taste just specified. We are violently
enamored
of gas and of glass. The former is totally inadmissible within doors.
Its
harsh and unsteady light offends. No one having both brains and eyes
will
use it. A mild, or what artists term a cool light, with its consequent
warm shadows, will do wonders for even an ill-furnished apartment.
Never
was a more lovely thought than that of the astral lamp. We mean, of
course,
the astral lamp [page 303:] proper — the lamp of Argand, with
its original plain
ground-glass
shade, and its tempered and uniform moonlight rays. The cut-glass shade
is a weak invention of the enemy. The eagerness with which we have
adopted
it, partly on account of its flashiness, but principally on
account
of its greater cost, is a good commentary on the proposition
with
which we began. It is not too much to say, that the deliberate employer
of a cut-glass shade, is either radically deficient in taste, or
blindly
subservient to the caprices of fashion. The light proceeding from one
of
these gaudy abominations is unequal, broken, and painful. It alone is
sufficient
to mar a world of good effect in the furniture subjected to its
influence.
Female loveliness, in especial, is more than one-half disenchanted
beneath
its evil eye.
In the matter of glass, generally, we
proceed
upon
false principles. Its leading feature is glitter — and in that
one
word how much of all that is detestable do we express! Flickering,
unquiet
lights, are sometimes pleasing — to children and idiots always
so
— but in the embellishment of a room they should be scrupulously
avoided.
In truth, even strong steady lights are inadmissible. The huge
and
unmeaning glass chandeliers, prism-cut, gas-lighted, and without shade,
which dangle in our most fashionable drawing-rooms, may be cited as the
quintessence of all that is false in taste or preposterous in folly.
The rage for glitter — because
its idea has
become, as we before observed, confounded with that of magnificence in
the
abstract — has led us, also, to the exaggerated employment of mirrors.
We
line our dwellings with great British plates, and then imagine we have
done a fine thing. Now the slightest thought will be sufficient to
convince
any one who has an eye at all, of the ill effect of numerous
looking-glasses,
and especially of large ones. Regarded apart from its reflection, the
mirror
presents a continuous, flat, colorless, unrelieved surface, — a thing
always and obviously unpleasant. Considered as a reflector, it is
potent
in producing a monstrous and odious uniformity: and the evil is here
aggravated,
not in merely direct proportion with the augmentation of its sources,
but
in a ratio constantly increasing. In fact, a room with four or five
mirrors
arranged at random, is, for all purposes of artistic show, a room of no
shape at all. If we add to this evil, [page 303:] the attendant
glitter upon
glitter,
we have a perfect farrago of discordant and displeasing effects. The
veriest
bumpkin, on entering an apartment so bedizzened, would be instantly
aware
of something wrong, although he might be altogether unable to assign a
cause for his dissatisfaction. But let the same person be led into a
room
tastefully furnished, and he would be startled into an exclamation of
pleasure
and surprise.
It is an evil growing out of our
republican
institutions,
that here a man of large purse has usually a very little soul which he
keeps in it. The corruption of taste is a portion or a pendant of the
dollar-manufacture. As we grow rich, our ideas grow rusty. It is,
therefore, not
among our aristocracy that we must look (if at all, in
Appallachia,) for the
spirituality of a British boudoir. But we have seen apartments
in
the tenure of Americans of modern [[moderate]] means, which, in
negative
merit at least, might vie with any of the or-molu'd cabinets
of
our friends across the water. Even now, there is present to our
mind's eye a small and not ostentatious chamber with whose decorations
no fault can be found. The proprietor lies asleep on a sofa — the
weather
is cool — the time is near midnight: we will make a sketch of the room
during his slumber.
It is oblong — some thirty feet in
length and
twenty-five
in breadth — a shape affording the best (ordinary) opportunities for
the
adjustment of furniture. It has but one door — by no means a wide one —
which is at one end of the parallelogram, and but two windows, which
are
at the other. These latter are large, reaching down to the floor — have
deep recesses — and open on an Italian veranda. Their panes
are
of a crimson-tinted glass, set in rose-wood framings, more massive than
usual. They are curtained within the recess, by a thick silver tissue
adapted
to the shape of the window, and hanging loosely in small volumes.
Without
the recess are curtains of an exceedingly rich crimson silk, fringed
with
a deep network of gold, and lined with silver tissue, which is the
material
of the exterior blind. There are no cornices; but the folds of the
whole
fabric (which are sharp rather than massive, and have an airy
appearance,)
issue from beneath a broad entablature of rich giltwork, which
encircles
the room at the junction of the ceiling and walls. The drapery is
thrown
open also, or [page 304:] closed, by means of a thick rope of
gold loosely
enveloping
it, and resolving itself readily into a knot; no pins or other such
devices
are apparent. The colors of the curtains and their fringe — the tints
of crimson and gold — appear everywhere in profusion, and determine the
character of the room. The carpet — of Saxony
material — is quite
half an
inch
thick, and is of the same crimson ground, relieved simply by the
appearance
of a gold cord (like that festooning the curtains) slightly relieved
above
the surface of the ground, and thrown upon it in such a manner
as
to form a succession of short irregular curves — one occasionally
overlaying
the other. The walls are prepared with a glossy paper of a silver gray
tint, spotted with small Arabesque devices of a fainter hue of the
prevalent
crimson. Many paintings relieve the expanse of paper. These are chiefly
landscapes of an imaginative cast — such as the fairy grottoes of
Stanfield,
or the lake of the Dismal Swamp of Chapman. There are, nevertheless,
three
or four female heads, of an ethereal beauty — portraits in the manner
of
Sully. The tone of each picture is warm, but dark. There are no
"brilliant
effects." Repose speaks in all. Not one is of small size.
Diminutive
paintings give that spotty look to a room, which is the
blemish
of so many a fine work of Art overtouched. The frames are broad but not
deep, and richly carved, without being dulled or filagreed.
They
have the whole lustre of burnished gold. They lie flat on the walls,
and
do not hang off with cords. The designs themselves are often seen to
better
advantage in this latter position, but the general appearance of the
chamber
is injured. But one mirror — and this not a very large one — is
visible.
In shape it is nearly circular — and it is hung so that a reflection of
the person can be obtained from it in none of the ordinary
sitting-places
of the room. Two large low sofas of rosewood [[rose-wood]] and crimson
silk,
gold-flowered,
form the only seats, with the exception of two light conversation
chairs,
also of rose-wood. There is a piano-forte, (rose-wood, also,) without
cover,
and thrown open. An octagonal table, formed altogether of the richest
gold-threaded
marble, is placed near one of the sofas. This is also without cover —
the
drapery of the curtains has been thought sufficient. Four large and
gorgeous
Sèvres vases, in which bloom a profusion of sweet and vivid
flowers,
occupy
the slightly rounded angles of [page 305:] the room. A tall
candelabrum, bearing a
small antique lamp with highly perfumed oil, is standing near the head
of my sleeping friend. Some light and graceful hanging shelves, with
golden
edges and crimson silk cords with gold tassels, sustain two or three
hundred
magnificently bound books. Beyond these things, there is no furniture,
if we except an Argand lamp, with a plain crimson-tinted ground-glass
shade,
which depends from the lofty vaulted ceiling by a single slender gold
chain,
and throws a tranquil but magical radiance over all. |
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