he roof and chimneys
should be kept out of sight as much as possible; and therefore the one
very flat, and the other very plain. We ought to revive the Greek custom
of roofing with thin slabs of coarse marble, cut into the form of tiles.
However, where the architect finds he has a very cool distance, and few
trees about the building, and where it stands so high as to preclude the
possibility of its being looked down upon, he will, if he be courageous,
use a very flat roof of the dark Italian tile. The eaves, which are all
that should be seen, will be peculiarly graceful; and the sharp contrast
of color (for this tiling can only be admitted with white walls) may be
altogether avoided, by letting them cast a strong shadow, and by running
the walls up into a range of low garret windows, to break the horizontal
line of the roof. He will thus obtain a bit of very strong color, which
will impart a general glow of cheerfulness to the building, and which,
if he manages it rightly, will not be glaring nor intrusive. It is to
be observed, however, that he can only do this with villas of the most
humble order, and that he will seldom find his employer possessed of so
much common sense as to put up with a tile roof. When this is the case,
the flat slabs of the upper limestone (ragstone) are usually better than
slate.

[Footnote 39: The epithet "raw," by the by, is vague, and needs
definition. Every tint is raw which is perfectly opaque, and has not all
the three primitive colors in its composition. Thus, black is always
raw, because it has no color; white never, because it has all colors. No
tint can be raw which is not opaque; and opacity may be taken away,
either by actual depth and transparency, as in the sky; by luster and
texture, as in the case of silk and velvet, or by variety of shade as in
forest verdure. Two instances will be sufficient to prove the truth of
this. Brick, when first fired, is always raw; but when it has been a
little weathered, it acquires a slight blue tint, assisted by the gray
of the mortar: incipient vegetation affords it the yellow. It thus
obtains an admixture of the three colors, and is raw no longer. An old
woman's red cloak, though glaring, is never raw; for it must of
necessity have folded shades: those shades are of a rich gray; no gray
can exist without yellow and blue. We have then three colors, and no
rawness. It must be observed however, that when any one of the colors is
given in so slight