James I. notices “those swarms of gentry, who, through the instigation of their wives, did neglect their country hospitality, and cumber the city, a general nuisance to the kingdom.” He once said, “Gentlemen resident on their estates are like ships in port—their value and magnitude are felt and acknowledged; but when at a distance, as their size seemed insignificant, so their worth and importance were not duly estimated.” The England even of the present century is changed out of all possible knowledge; indeed those are yet living who can look back with a smile at the solemn county balls, which were almost as difficult of access, and as jealously guarded, as a court presentation of these days. The Grosvenors and Derbys even of a century ago fought keenly for the mayoralty of a country town.
Nor were good reasons wanting for eschewing London. Only two centuries ago a Sussex squire, Mr. Palmer, was fined in the sum of £1000 for residing in London rather than on his own estate in the country, and that even in face of the fact that his country mansion had been burned within the two years when his trial took place! We are told that this sentence struck terror into the London sojourners; and it was followed by a proclamation for them to leave the city with their “wives and families, and also widows.” And now we have no difficulty in understanding why there are so many large mansions in small country towns. The habit of making the best of a hard lot influenced the gentry even long after it would have been safe to have followed Mr. Palmer’s example; and so we find up to the Hanoverian period large old-fashioned houses in some small country towns, that look, as Dickens says, as if they had lost their way in infancy, and grown to their present proportions.
Sir Richard Fanshaw wrote a curious poem on the subject of the proclamation for gentlemen to reside on their own estates, of which four verses may suffice as a sample:—
“Nor let the gentry grudge to go
Into those places whence they grew,
But think them blest they may do so.
Who would pursue
The smoky glories of the town
That may go till his native earth,
And by the shining fire sit down
On his own hearth.
. . . . . . . . . .
Believe me, ladies, you will find
In that sweet life more solid joys,
More true contentment to the mind
Than all town toys.
Nor Cupid there less blood doth spill,
But heads his shafts with chaster love;
Not feathered with a sparrow’s quill,
But with a dove.”
There are even of Queen Anne’s reign many excellent specimens of town architecture in remote villages of Cheshire and Shropshire. Mr. Norman Shaw has brought this late classic architecture again into deserved repute, and quite a new work might be published of the details of them,—the well-considered mouldings, the wreaths, and chimney-pieces. Many of these houses were inhabited even in the present century by courtly—perhaps somewhat formal—gentlemen, and now they are turned into boarding-schools or village tenements. Railways, of course, have rapidly and completely changed the scene. The old moralist in Thackeray laments the change of times, when a man of quality used to enter London, or return to his country house, in a coach and pair, with outriders, and now his son “slinks” from the station in a brougham. In speaking of the change that came over the architecture of England in the Elizabethan age, when Italian forms superseded the indigenous ones, it is not for a moment meant that the change was for the better. There was an incessant craving for foreign importation, which was a subject of satire among the writers of those days.
Portia says, in the Merchant of Venice, when speaking of her English suitor, “I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere.”
No, the change to Italian architecture was not for the better. It is true that picturesqueness was not stamped out of the genius of England, and so a number of the buildings that were put up until the reign of George the Second were shapely and often noble; indeed the classic style has a breadth about it, no doubt, that makes it safe for modern architects to deal with, especially in country houses. Of course the formal rows of windows, if the house is a very large one, are a serious matter to deal with, as far as the plan is concerned. A satirist of the French school complained that in the new Palace at Versailles a large window, under pompous architraves on the outside, had to light a footman’s closet and a back staircase, a partition inside making an awkward division between the two. Still a broad classic front surrounded by elms has a stately appearance; and perhaps in certain situations, like the margin of a Westmoreland lake, might seem peculiarly well adapted to the wants of the landscape. Too often a Gothic house among trees, if of recent erection, is a mass of confusion; the chimneys and gables do not stand out clearly from each other, and breadth is entirely lost; while the architect who designed it might have safely trusted himself to an Italian façade. A thoroughly fine front, like Compton Wynyates, Hadden, or even Trevallyan Hall in the charming vale of Gresford—where every part tells, and stands out, and where, notwithstanding its many angles, breadth is preserved—is perfection in a British landscape. There are, of course, architects of the present day who can design such a building, but their name is not legion. Tudor architecture is admirably adapted for cities and towns, and much more easily handled in a street than among trees. By Tudor is here meant the English domestic style that prevailed in the sixteenth century, and this term is now commonly applied to the architecture of England after the fifteenth century. It is not a correct term in any sense of the word, but I have sought for another in vain that would be even remotely intelligible to a general reader.
Could old English architecture be revived in its purity and beauty, Italian importations could well be spared. But even before the destruction of monasteries it was on the wane, the careless indulgent life of the monks of later date is shown in all their works. The flat arched windows were devoid of any great design, and the workmanship was very bad. These were the days when grotesque groups (giving them a mild adjective) flourished and were admired, thrusting out the angels and grave apostles of the preceding centuries, and slovenly work followed careless design. Often in a building of various dates the tall light shafts of the thirteenth century rise to vast heights, and are as straight and truly worked as they were when first cut, looking indeed like one tall stone of matchless workmanship, while the masonry of the sixteenth century, especially if late, has begun to show its joints and to gape. Such conclusions continually force themselves upon the architectural student who looks below the surface for a cause.