WHERE TO BUILD A HOUSE.
HERE and there in most country places there is found some untenanted house, or struggling cluster of trees, which goes by the name of " So-and-So's Folly." That is the polite rustic formula for marking the fact that some one built a house, or planted trees, where Nature never intended men to live or trees to thrive. There is an unkempt, deserted look about the one, and an unthrifty, ragged appearance in the other, which are quite enough in themselves to mark them as the failures of hurry or ignorance, without the censorious nickname which it has pleased the neighbourhood to attach to them. They are the standing warnings of the country-side to all who would indulge in what is, perhaps, the pet hobby of middle-class Englishmen,—the building of a house and the planting of trees. So much has been written on the subject of how to build a house, that it is strange that the general question of its site should not have received more attention. Far more importance is now attached to the position of a house, considered quite apart from considerations of sanitation or convenience, than formerly ; but the outdoor elements
which contribute to satisfaction or discontent are seldom analysed until the time for deliberation has passed. Yet disadvantages of position, view, and surroundings are far less easily overcome than any difficulties in the actual site of the building. It is possible to float a house like a ship on a sea of mud, if only enough concrete be spread round to keep the moist foundation from rising round the walls ; or whole cities may be built on piles in a peat-bog, like Venice or Amsterdam. A foundation of slipping clay can be kept in place on the side of a hill by running a drain above the clay- bed, and so keeping it dry and stationary; and a house built on sand is often as firm as another on the rock. But, once built, the die is cast, and the effects of site, in its widest sense, can neither be amended nor avoided. The one fixed idea which seems to guide public feeling as to desirable ground for a country-house at present, is that it shall be in the sandstone districts ; if possible, in the neighbourhood of heather and pine. All the useless, good-for-nothing land of Surrey and Sussex, all the heaths and pine-woods which Cobbett cursed and derided because they would not grow turnips, are being taken up by the builders, and covered with good houses. That is an economic advantage, because it is useless to take up good arable land for building ; and, in some respects, it answers the purpose of the builders. Sand is dry, and, as long as it is not crowded, is healthy. More- over, it is seldom flat, and the people who used to talk of Art, but now prefer to talk of drains, can satisfy themselves that there is a "natural fall" from their houses. Unfor- tunately, that is not the only condition of good drainage. Sand is an extremely bad absorbent, and neither deodorises nor disinfects very readily. Consequently, the house-builder must not only be able to drain, but have some land of his own to drain to ; for you cannot turn sewage loose without your neighbour's consent. The troubles of Charterhouse, with its magnificent site on the sandy hilltop at G-odalming, and of Wellington College, on its fine heath in Berkshire, are too recent to make it necessary to do more than allude to them as cases in point. We recently saw an instance of a fine old house, the modern drainage of which was considered a triumph. Yet one evening we detected a something in the air which brought back memories of happy days spent in pursuit of rats, in the malodorous haunts they love. It grew, and increased, and triumphed, until the owner of the perfectly drained house was served with a summons for " creating " a nuisance, which he had done his best to remedy. The site was perfect ; but there was no " beyond " to receive the drainage for which such ample provision had been made. Many old sites had no provision for drainage at all; and these are occupied till the present day, with no very ill effects. The Eastern counties, especially Suffolk, are full of fine old Elizabethan or Tudor houses, surrounded by deep moats, into which the house-refuse goes, and from which, or near which, the household water is obtained. Perhaps, like the Jews, who, from long habitation in the ghettos in the most unhealthy quarters of European cities, have obtained a certain immunity from typhoid diseases, the occupants of these houses have become proof against the danger. We have known them complain bitterly of the inconvenience of having to use spring water instead of that from the moats. They grow to miss their microbes.
Next to soil and sanitation, a " view " is the most common consideration in choosing a modern house-site, now that hydraulic rams and turbines make the near neighbourhood of water of less importance than it was. In spite of some instances to the contrary, we cannot but believe that this desire for a prospect from the windows is a wholly modern notion. Its usual conditions, implying a site on rising ground, and distance from the stream, are so wholly contrary to the old determining rules of cheapness and convenience, that it could hardly have formed an element in fixing a site, except acci- dentally, when defence and not enjoyment was studied. There is a saying in France that monasteries were built where the monks could obtain " good wine, good water, and a good view." In England, where we have no mountain-springs gashing from the rocks, the view was abandoned in favour of the nearness of water and the possibility of making great fish-ponds, which sup- plied cheap food all the year, and in Lent were indispensable. Nearly every English Abbey was built on the banks of a river, on the flat, and the later house-builders unconsciously imitated their example. Even early in the last century, the
great houses were set on high ground mainly with a view of showing their proportions to the best advantage, not of giving a prospect from the windows ; and country squires who built still clung to the flats and the river-banks. Modern sensi- bility cannot endure to live in these "houses in the marsh." We recently saw an instance in point of the change of sentiment in this respect. A good house had been built in 1780 on a flat water-meadow, one branch of the stream .actually running under the house, which was built on brick arches. All round were fat meadows and deep, wet planta- tions. A trout-stream ran at the bottom of the garden, though in winter the garden was at the bottom of the stream. But the old squire drank his port and ale, and did not care a rush. Neither did his son, who added a wing to the house, laid out gardens in his squashy grounds, and " embellished " his park with statues. The third squire had lived abroad, had nerves and tastes, and had learned to love the sun. He came, saw, and shivered. Hercules and Cacus had sunk knee-deep into the spongy ground, the " marish mosses" had covered the walls ; and before the next November mists, the old house was pulled down, and rising anew on the hill above. Probably the new building is neither so dry nor so comfortable as the old. But its site fulfils the requirements of modern sentiment, and the inmates are satisfied. Yet it is possible to have a view so extensive as to become a positive burden to the mind. A prospect in which the country is spread out like a military map, without incident or foreground, and making teazing demands on the mind to identify localities, is apt to become as wearisome as an over-designed wall-paper or a patchwork quilt to an invalid. It leaves no appeal to the imagination ; nothing of mystery, and little of repose. Building at the seaside is perhaps an even more modern idea than build- ing for a view. The fantastic architecture of the Pavilion at Brighton is a lasting index to the frame of mind in which the quaint departure from the fashionable inland -" watering-place " to seek health on a strip of sea-shore was regarded. Even now the bulk of seaside residences are mere sanatoriums, meant to secure a maximum of sun, sea-view, and sea-air during a limited time. A residence, in the proper sense of the word, built near the sea, probably requires more care in the choice of a site than any other. Judging from the choice made by those who have recently made the experi- ment, a sea-coast house should neither be too near to, nor in fall view of, the sea, but so far removed as to secure shelter from the prevailing winds, and so enable the trees and garden, without which no country house can offer the full enjoyment of rural life, to develop in a reasonable time. A seaside house with a fine garden is almost as rare as a country house with a line lake, and surpasses it by as much as the sedgy margin of the last is inferior to the shore of the "loud-roaring sea." Lastly, there are those sites which are already occupied, as they have been occupied for all time ; precious spots of earth, marked out by Nature to be seized by the first, or the Most fortunate. Yet even these may occasionally be bought, and the existing dwellings altered or improved. These are the spots where wood and water, soil and climate, are at their best, and Nature beckons to man to stop and go no farther. Yet, even in these, time or fancy has altered the site of the house for the time being. The Elizabethan knight has gone a fewer yards higher up the Somersetshire combe to build his " fair stone mansion " than did the Roman officer, the foundations of whose villa still show above the soil; and the modern manor-house has shifted to face the morning sun, instead of fronting the setting rays on the site of its Tudor predecessor. But no visitors, however unskilled in reading the signs of Nature in the soil, would hesitate to trust his eyes in choosing it for a home, or fail to echo the -words of the Roman centurion :—"Signifer, pone signum ; Mc optime manebimus."
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