The HOUSE BEAUTIFUL

By Orman Cooper, Author of "We Wives," Etc.

"In the fields of taste it is always much easier to point out paths which should be avoided than to indicate the road which leads to excellence."

Such are the words of a well-known artist of the present day. I feel them to be true as I begin this paper on the House Beautiful. Taste differs so widely that it would be futile to try to set up a positive standard of beauty. Furniture has its fashions, too, though they change but slowly. So we can only lay down broad general rules with regard to the plenishment of our homes. We cannot insist on detail.

There is no single point on which a gentlewoman is more jealous of disparagement than the question of taste. Yet it is a lamentable fact that this very quality is often—I may say generally—deficient even amongst the most cultured classes. The bubble of fashion is blown in our drawing-rooms just as surely and even more foolishly than elsewhere. Individuality is seldom seen.

In order to have lovely homes inside four commonplace walls we must remember that simplicity is one true element of beauty. The best and most picturesque furniture of all ages has been simple in general form. Next, good design is always compatible with sturdy service, and can accommodate itself to the most fastidious notions of convenience. Thirdly, every article of manufacture to be really beautiful should indicate by its general design the purpose to which it will be applied. In other words, shams and make-believes must be utterly tabooed.

Taking these three principles as the basis of our plans for our own particular House Beautiful, let us consider how best we may secure such. Our halls and kitchens are perhaps the best instances of simplicity of design. In them we seldom have more utensils or articles than we need. Parquetry, or inlaying with various-coloured wood, is an ideal floor covering, even for our modern narrow hall. Next to it ranks tiling, and a plain linoleum is admissible. All these secure cleanliness. Warmth must next be suggested. To obtain this, we lay down rugs of various colours and hang heavy curtains. An oak chair, solid to look at (N.B.—Curves in furniture should suggest repose, which is out of place in a passage), a chest to hold rugs and cloaks, a small, narrow mirror to lighten up the gloom, and you have all that is necessary. A few brass dishes on the wall, a tall palm by one curtain, elks' antlers, etc., are permissible where space is obtainable. Do not, however, ever be tempted to hang muslin in the alcove or to drape with flimsy materials. Leave plenty of room for visitors to pass in and out, without finding entrance or exit blocked with exasperating detail. Colour is what really redeems a hall from monotony. This the wall-paper and curtains and rugs should give without help from trivial ornamentation.

Our kitchens are perhaps the most really beautiful spots in our homes, if we take true beauty to consist of absolute fitness for the work to be done therein. The severe wooden dresser, with its wide undershelf and commodious cupboards, is as picturesque an object as can be found. From time immemorial its shape has been unaltered, and its beauty consists in its suggestions of utility. Traditional work is mostly beautiful, as evidenced by the fact that the lines of a plough have always been the admiration of artists. Plainness is not ugliness, and the dresser, glorified, is now one of the necessary beauty spots even in our drawing-rooms. Then those Windsor chairs, with their slightly sloping backs and hollowed seats, are restful to both eye and body. The bright steel or copper range fitted with necessary knobs and useful doors is another example of the beauty of fitness. In fact, both stove and dresser are forms of truth and realism.

The two great faults to be avoided in the dining-room of our House Beautiful are dreariness and overcrowding. The French salle-à-manger is really an ideal to work towards. Unfortunately, few of us can consecrate the parlour to meals alone; this living-room has to serve many purposes. We should have it as spacious, thou, and airy as possible. Round tables have gone out of fashion, unfortunately; yet the claw-leg pedestal table is the most convenient, and consequently the most decorative, of its kind. It economises space, and is easily beautified. I have in memory a dining-room I should like to see reproduced in many a home. Just an ordinary square chamber, with two straight windows looking out on a lawn; a round table, its centre encircled with flowers; a plain sideboard, guiltless of plate-glass, but enlivened by old silver wine coolers, napkin rings, and goblets; a wide brass-bound fireplace with hobs; a high mantelpiece, surrounded with a brazen grating; a screen, and a few fine chairs. The beauty of it—and it was very beautiful—consisted in fitness for the end for which it was designed. The walls were covered with a light-tinted background for pictures (not with ornamental garden stuff in perspective). Its heavy, rich curtains hung by visible rings from a real pole; its coal-scoop was of copper, not papier-maché tinware; its cupboards full of glass that might be wanted, and silver often called for; its napery and napkins fine and fair; its thick carpet guiltless of grating greens and crude crimsons; its windows made to open, and its iron-flanged door made to shut. There was no meaningless or characterless ornamental work about this old room; no inappropriate decoration spoiled its well-designed and well-constructed tout ensemble.

As I have sketched an ideal parlour, so would I limn a bedroom I have seen. It was a queer-shaped room, with rather high windows set over some panelling in a little, crooked, dome-shaped alcove, a tiny dressing-room opened off it. The paper was yellow; the paint all white. A bed with plain brass spindles and rails stood away from draught and light, headed with creamy chintz sprinkled with Scotch rosebuds and lined with gold. The curtains of shiny chintz hung from half-inch brass rods only to the window-sill. A wide box couch under them formed a restful seat. Crossways stood a dressing-table, its toilet glass flanked with brass candle-holders, and its jewel drawers fitted with old beaten drop handles; it, as well as the wardrobe, was enamelled white. A frame screen of the same purity, its yellow silk curtains dependent by tiny rings from tiny rods, stood before the dressing-room door, and effectually shut away all washing apparatus. The floor of this room was polished all over (kept in order by weekly applications of beeswax and turpentine). On it lay white Kurd and Scinde rugs. The mantelpiece was wooden, and the chimney corner decorated with shelves painted like wainscotting and doors. These little shelves supplied vantage-grounds for lots of blue-and-white china, and though the colour-scheme may sound monotonous, infinite variety was introduced by the etceteras of the toilette. Of course, blue or terra-cotta, carried out as faithfully, would give an equally satisfactory symphony of tint. However we may decorate our bedrooms, we must not forget that space and head-room are the two requisites for health therein. Simplicity, careful keeping, and radiant cleanliness should be the keynotes of every bedroom in the House Beautiful.

In approaching the drawing-room, I feel I am treading on difficult ground—in fact, an impossible one. Abundantly diverse in everything are some of the reception-rooms I should call beautiful. Wide-mouth pickle jars swathed in art muslin are positively wrong. So are painted rolling-pins or banjos. As to cardboard plaques representing china, and paper frills cut out to look like lace—away with them! A plain brown jug full of real daisies is far more beautiful than a glass bottle covered with varnished pictures and filled with paper or silk imitations. One bit of quaint crackle or Venetian ware on our chimney-piece is restful to the eye; highly coloured shams are distressful. "Although we may tolerate insipid prettiness in perishable confectionery, we ought not to do so in objects which become associated with our daily life." Power of design and power of imitation are the two widely divergent qualities of mind required to produce a beautiful drawing-room. Ostentation of money should be avoided here.

In concluding this paper, I should like to remind my readers that all yearnings after the beautiful are legitimate and right. God has placed a love for the lovely in every human heart. He Himself—in all reverence be it spoken—has led the way. When designing furniture for the Tabernacle built for glory and for beauty in the far-away desert, He made it in the most artistic, most serviceable, and most simple of forms. Look at the description of those golden candlesticks, with their golden almond-shaped knops and elegant branches. Think of the curtains of scarlet and blue and purple, and fine twined linen. Think of the snuffers and spoons and ouches, and bolts and rings and staves, all of pure gold. Truth and grace were evermore wedded together in these patterns of the heavenly things. "Go, and do thou likewise."