Read, in that connection, what Coventry Patmore says in his essay on “Greatness in Architecture”:
“The house and cottage builder of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was,” he says, “fully aware that the strength of a rafter lay rather in its depth than its breadth, and that, for a time at least, a few boards two inches thick and ten inches deep, set edgeways, would suffice to carry the roof, which nevertheless it pleased him better to lay upon a succession of beams ten inches square. It is the reality, and the modest ostentation of the reality, of such superfluous substantiality that constitutes the whole secret of effect in many an old house that strikes us as “architectural,” though it may not contain a single item of architectural ornament; and, in the very few instances in which modern buildings have been raised in the same fashion, the beholder at once feels that their generous regard for the far future is of almost as poetical a character as the aged retrospect of a similar house of the time of Henry VII. or Elizabeth. A man,” he goes on, “now hires a bit of ground for eighty or ninety years; and, if he has something to spare to spend on beauty, he says to himself: ‘I will build me a house that will last my time, and what money I have to spare I will spend in decorating it. Why should I waste my means in raising wall and roof which will last five times as long as I or mine shall want them?’ The answer is: Because that very ‘waste’ is the truest and most striking ornament; and though your and your family’s enjoyment of a house thus magnanimously built may last but a tenth of its natural age, there lies in that very fact an ‘ornament’ of the most noble and touching kind, which will be obvious at all seasons to yourself and every beholder, though the consciousness of its cause may be dormant; whereas the meanness of the other plan will be only the more apparent with every penny you spend in making it meretricious.”
Again, are you likely to get so good an architectural design where you cannot be fairly sure that the use for which the building is raised is likely to be permanent? And do our modern trade conditions and present enormous demand for thoughtless superfluities tend to make that prospect more probable? If not, then instability of trade, or trade directed to the satisfaction of frivolous and ephemeral demands is bad for architecture, and hinders any worthy development in it of national characteristics.
But there, mind you, in trade, lies to-day the very life of the nation; for the life of our teeming millions depends on it. By our industrial specialisation in the pursuit of wealth vast numbers of us have ceased to be self-supporting in the necessaries of life. And the question for artists is, are we basing our national life on conditions that cannot secure permanence and stability in the things which we produce? Is it a necessary condition of our industrial development that things should have a shorter life and we a shorter use for them than in the old days? To the artist the drawback of machine-made things is not necessarily in the mechanism of their production (for in some cases your machine relieves the human hand of a hard and wearing monotony), but there is a very obvious drawback if it imposes upon the worker merely another form of hard and wearing monotony, and at the same time shortens the life of the thing produced. If handicraft does not offer to the worker worthier conditions for hand and brain, and insure longer life in the thing produced, it is no good pinning our faith to it. Eliminate it, and let machinery take its place. You have not, then, in the transfer, destroyed any right values, and you are not going counter to the conditions which tend to produce national Art.
But, as an example of the particular value which does sometimes attach to hand labour (irrespective of its artistic value), I have here a small unused sample of chair-cover material of English make, produced about eighty years ago, at a probable cost—so I am told by experts—of under £2 the square yard. The chairs it was made to cover are now in my possession. During the twenty-five years of my own personal acquaintance with them they have had plenty of hard wear; but even at the corners that material has not yet begun to wear out; and the colour has only become softer and more mellow in quality.
Within the last ten years I endeavoured to get that covering matched in a modern material, and I paid for the nearest match I could get about one-fifth of the price I have quoted. That material has already gone shabby; and where it is most worn and faded the colour, instead of mellowing, has gone dead and dirty in quality. The older material will probably outlast my time.
There, then, are the comparative values of the old and the new material. You pay the higher price for the old, but in the end it is more economical. And it has this double advantage (or what would be a double advantage in a State where industrial conditions were sound), that it inclines its possessor to adopt a more permanent style of furnishing, by making age beautiful and change unnecessary; and so it sets free a great amount of human labour for other purposes; not merely the labour of the textile workers who have not to provide new covers, but the labour of the upholsterers, who are not called upon to rip off a series of old covers and fit on new ones, dragging old nails out and driving fresh nails in, with the result that the framework of the chair itself is presently worn out and a new one required in its place. All that labour is saved.
That small example is important because it exemplifies those possibilities of permanence attaching to certain forms of hand-labour out of which can be developed a school of textile manufacture indigenous in character—indigenous in that you give it time to become embedded in its domestic setting, and to make for itself domestic history. It enables you to develop an appreciation for subtleties of colour, and to secure tones and harmonies which you cannot get ready-made in a shop: it gives to a piece of furniture life-value.
But it is bad for trade!
Now why is it bad for trade? It is bad for trade because our modern industrial conditions have brought us to this pass, that it is no longer our national aim to direct labour and set it free for other work that really needs to be done. Our national problem is rather to find work for people, at times even to invent needs, and to create a fictitious turnover in trade so that we may not have upon our hands an enormous increase of the unemployed problem. And as hands go begging, as we have more hands in the country than we can employ on useful and fit labour (fit, I mean, for such fine implements as these and for the brains behind them), therefore hands are inevitably put to degrading uses, and the joy goes out of work; and for the delight (or at least the intelligent patience) of true craftsmanship is substituted the soul-destroying bondage of mechanical labour at something which is not really worth producing.