Colonial Williamsburg Digital Library

II. PHYSICAL ANALYSIS

C. SUMMARY CHRONOLOGY

A. The Side-Passage Plan

We have seen that the side-passage layout of Robert Nicolson's original house resembled similar arrangements at the Lightfoot, Tayloe, Orrell and Palmer houses here in Williamsburg (Fig. 36). Marcus Whiffen has suggested that this plan was characteristically urban, drawing comparisons between it and the interior arrangement of terrace houses in London.²⁶ If surviving examples are a reliable indication, the side-passage house did remain primarily an urban phenomenon in Virginia until the end of the eighteenth century.²⁷

In order to understand the urban association of the side passage in Virginia, it is necessary to consider the social performance of the house type, setting aside Henry Glassie's morphological notion of a "2/3's Georgian plan."²⁸ As Edward A. Chappell points out, the side-passage house was less a reduction of some other plan form than one of several alternative packages 54 for the familiar hall/parlor house.²⁹ Architectural historian Dell Upton has suggested that this hall/parlor core was occasionally re-oriented in urban contexts so as to create a building one room wide and two rooms deep. According to Upton, the individual units of structure 17 at Jamestown (the so-called "First Statehouse") represent a transposition of the lobby entrance vernacular house plan, popular in Southeast England during the seventeenth century (Fig. 37).³⁰ Like its rural English counterpart, each Jamestown unit consisted of a front and back room, both served by a centrally located chimney against which a flight of stairs ascended to the upper floor.

Many seventeenth-century terrace houses in London exhibited the same general layout, with the additional provision of an entry or a narrow passage which afforded independent access to the front and rear rooms. Such an arrangement greatly increased the privacy of first floor rooms and provided an intermediate space between the dwelling's threshold and its interior spaces--a refinement which may be seen in a plan from Joseph Moxon's Mechanick Exercises, published about 1703. (Fig. 38).

The relevance of this plan to Robert Nicolson's house is clear when we consider that his dwelling initially exhibited 55 the same basic hall/parlor/passage formula. The original front and rear rooms (corresponding to those in Moxon's plan) conform closely to Henry Glassie's "Y2X" formula for hall/parlor dwellings in Middle Virginia (Fig. 39).³¹ Both of these rooms, as well as the upper floor, were independently served by a side passage running the entire depth of the house. Like Moxon's terrace house then, the original Nicolson plan is best understood as a re-oriented hall/parlor unit with a passage added along its side.

In densely developed areas of London where street frontage was a premium commodity, this two-room-deep plan made complete sense. The reasons for its use in Williamsburg are less clear. The half-acre lots provided for in the 1699 act "Directing the Building of the ... City of Williamsburg" resulted in lot fronts that were approximately 80 feet wide. Significantly, each of the surviving side-passage houses in Williamsburg seems to have been built on one of these undivided, half-acre parcels. The popularity of this plan could hardly have resulted from any restriction on lot widths. On the contrary, remarks of contemporary observers make it clear that the lots in Williamsburg were thought to be rather generously proportioned. Commenting in 1724 on the layout of Williamsburg, Hugh Jones observed:

The town is laid out regularly in lots or square 56 portions, sufficient each for a house and garden; so that they don't build contiguously, whereby may be prevented the spreading danger of fire; and thus also affords a free passage for the air, which is very grateful in violent hot weather.³²

Here Jones identifies the open space between buildings as a positive and distinguishing feature of Williamsburg. Baron de Graffenried appears to have had similar considerations in mind when he laid out the town of New Bern, North Carolina, in 1710:

Since in America they do not like to live crowded, in order to enjoy a purer air, I accordingly ordered the streets to be very broad and the houses well separated one from the other .... ³³

In Williamsburg, open space created what Peter Martin has called a "garden town"³⁴--a village-like setting where, according to Jones, inhabitants might dwell "comfortably, genteelly, pleasantly and plentifully ... in [a] delightful, healthful and ... thriving city."³⁵ It may be then, that the popularity of the side-passage house in Williamsburg resulted 57 partly from a desire to minimize the density of street front development, whereby hygienic open spaces and gardens could become an important part of the town's aspect. Such appears to have been the case in Charleston where large numbers of dwellings (called "single houses") are oriented with their long axes perpendicular to the street, creating large open spaces between adjacent buildings. (Fig. 40). Significantly, numerous residents chose to face their piazzas towards the gardens in these spaces.³⁶

According to Martin, the eighteenth-century Virginian came to see his garden as a "palpable sign of civilization and urbanity."³⁷ A perceived association of the side-passage house with gardens and open, healthful urban space might have invested this plan-type with an aura of gentility, especially suitable for appropriation by aspiring tradesmen like Robert Nicolson and Benjamin Powell. For wealthier citizens, the contrasting scale of townhouse and country seat provided a satisfying parallel to the modes of accommodation enjoyed by the gentry in England as they moved to and fro between London and their estates in the country. Through the town/country nature of gentry life it expressed and the "genteel" quality of urban space it helped to create, the side-passage house admirably embodied the gentlemanly self-concept of those affluent Virginians who periodically 58 converged on Williamsburg, and served as well the ambitions of those who aspired to join their ranks. In spite of apparent similarities, the side-passage plans of London and Williamsburg seem to have resulted from intentions that were really quite different.

The same may be said of the passage spaces themselves. Central passages (as opposed to porch entries) began to appear in Virginia probate inventories around 1720.³⁸ Historians who have traced social changes occurring in the colony at that time attribute the appearance of these spaces to a growing desire for privacy and social segregation as society became increasingly stratified.³⁹ At this point the passages of London and Virginia were not fundamentally different. Both functioned as circulation areas, providing a measure of privacy for the lower rooms. What ultimately distinguished the Virginia passage, however, was its performance as a primary living space.

Between the first and last quarters of the eighteenth century, diaries, travel journals, and probate inventories illuminate a gradual transformation of the passage from "Entry" 59 to "Summer Hall" to "Saloon."⁴⁰ Furnished with several tables and as many as a dozen chairs, this space ultimately became a focal point of domestic activity in affluent households. Here, one might receive guests, read, play, nap, dance, engage in conversation, or simply pass the time on a hot day with as little discomfort as possible. The growing use of this room was, perhaps, the most important factor of all in the development of the side-passage plan. For any given hall/parlor unit, this arrangement nearly doubled the size of the passage, increasing its potential as a living space, and adding considerably to its effect as an impressive, ceremonial entry. From a practical point of view, the exterior exposure of this enlarged passage offered a full measure of light and ventilation, commensurate with the increasingly important role the space was assuming in the daily routine of wealthy Virginians. A further benefit of this new plan was the removal of the chamber from the street, with its noises, odors and curious bystanders.

The path leading backward from Robert Nicolson's sidepassage house to the townhouses of London is an uncertain one at best. If the appearance of this plan-type here in Williamsburg is to be adequately accounted for, it must be examined as a solution to local needs and problems--As the passage became an increasingly important living space, Virginians sought to 60 repackage the old hall/parlor house in a way that allowed for such change. This re-formulation was encouraged by the prominence of gardens and open areas in prevailing concepts of urban space. The resulting plan form created large spaces and garden areas between adjacent buildings, achieving an open, genteel kind of urban environment. At the same time it allowed for removal of a private space, the chamber, to the rear. It is not in London, then, but here in Virginia, that we find the origins of Robert Nicolson's side-passage house.

B. The Extension

Little more than a decade seems to have passed before Nicolson undertook to enlarge his side-passage house. We have already considered some of the practical considerations which might have prompted him to do so. However, it is in a broader, social context that this extension is best understood. Nicolson's addition nearly doubled the size of his house, providing what appear to have been three additional bedchambers and a large, public room. What was this new public space and why was it added? There are at least three possible answers to this question:

1) Perhaps Nicolson's old front room had remained a relatively accessible public space, resembling earlier halls in the diversity of persons and activities it accommodated, while elsewhere in Virginia, the hall had become a formal space for entertaining--a place where those possessions expressive of one's place in society were assembled and placed on display.⁴¹ In this controlled setting, formalized exchanges with peers and inferiors proclaimed the owner's position in the scheme of things. As Nicolson moved ahead financially and socially, he might have seen the need for a newer, more formal hall--aloof from the mainstream of daily routine and indicative of his growing respectability.

This explanation is not particularly convincing since the original house incorporated a sizeable passage, indicating 62 that access to the hall had been subject to some degree of control from the very beginning. Chances are, this hall had always been a fairly formal and controlled setting.

2) One might suggest on the other hand, that Nicolson's addition represented a partitioning of the newly enlarged house between himself and his prospective lodgers. In such a case, the newer, west rooms might have encompassed a hall and chamber for the owner, with the older rooms across the passage given over to the use of lodgers. The old hall would then have performed like Joseph Kidd's "very elegant parlour ...appropriated to the use of lodgers" at the old Custis house.⁴² A similar division of the Prentis house appears in the York County records in 1776, wherein Elizabeth Prentis was given the use of the dwelling's western rooms along with the stair passage.⁴³ In recent years, Sabine Hall was divided in this same manner among members of the Wellford family.

The trouble with this theory is that the architectural finishes of the first floor, mostly dating from the enlargement of the house, make little sense when viewed as two separate domains. They suggest instead, an integrated domestic environment--similar perhaps, to one of Dell Upton's three room plans with its "perplexing" fourth room accorded only minimal 63 architectural embellishment.⁴⁴

3) In this context, a third possibility seems more likely: that Nicolson's new public room represents a large dining space of the type seen at the residence of Peyton Randolph, where the dining room (added about 1755) is the largest and most elaborately appointed space in the house.⁴⁵ Large dining rooms of this sort began to appear in Virginia during the third quarter of the eighteenth century, usually in association with larger gentry houses. In such cases the old hall or parlor was sometimes retained as a secondary public room.⁴⁶

Evidence for this sort of arrangement appears in the 1774 inventory of George William Fairfax of Belvoir, in Fairfax County. From this inventory it is clear that Fairfax's dining room was the largest space on the ground floor, having three window curtains versus two in the parlor. The best furnishings, moreover, were brought together in this dining room, where the chairs, looking glass, hangings and fireplace equipment were all appraised at a higher value than those in the parlor.

But the superior status of Nicolson's new dining space, relative to the old hall or parlor, finds no clear expression in 64 architectural terms. On the one hand, it was the largest room, adorned with a picture rail and the best chimney piece in the house. However, it originally had no cornice like that which embellishes the old hall--superior attributes are shared between two spaces.⁴⁷

A similar pair of rooms is to be seen at the house of silversmith James Geddy. The back room, largest of all, is believed to have been the dining room. A doweled and blindnailed floor together with an elaborate buffet for the display of plate, ceramics and glass are indicative of the room's social importance. Otherwise the room is exceedingly plain. In contrast, the smaller southwest room, probably the hall or parlor, is embellished with wainscotting and a cornice. But here the flooring is faced-nailed--a technique often reserved for lesser rooms. As at the Nicolson house, we find certain "best room" traits shared between two spaces.

The uncertain relationship of these two rooms calls to mind a similar pair of spaces at Wetherburn's Tavern--the "Bullhead Room" and the "Great Room". The latter was a large, rather plain space. Architecturally speaking, only the massive chimney piece and the size of the room itself would lead one to conclude that it was the best room. In the Bullhead Room, a 65 smaller, parlor-like space, the panelled chimney breast might lead one to conclude that it was the primary space. In Wetherburn's case, the superior status of the Great Room was clarified by the high quality of its furnishings.⁴⁸ This was probably true of Nicolson's new dining room, as well. At the Nicolson house and elsewhere, the ambiguous architectural relationship of the dining room and parlor reflected a prevailing uncertainty regarding the status of these two rooms as their social function and position in the dwelling's spatial hierarchy began to change.⁴⁹

This change, and the large dining spaces resulting from it, were restricted primarily to the more opulent houses in Virginia. The association of these grand dining rooms with the highest echelon of society might explain Nicolson's wish to incorporate such a space into his dwelling. Like the books he owned or the prints he purchased, this room was an urbane statement of his social and material attainment. The house of Benjamin Powell offers still another example of a large dining space in the house of an upwardly mobile tradesman, this one resulting from Powell's renovation of the structure during the third quarter of the eighteenth century. Viewed against the domestic environments created by these tradesmen, the extension of Robert Nicolson's house makes complete sense, offering 66 unexpectedly rich insights into the processes of architectural change in early Virginia.

C. Front vs. Rear

As noted earlier, Robert Nicolson's dwelling reached its present extent when he built an addition onto its western end, possibly about 1766. In the construction of this west addition, great care was taken to unite the new and existing portions of the house behind a unified, symmetrical facade. No such efforts are apparent in the rear however, where the addition is fully articulated (Fig. 41). It was only important that the house appear symmetrical and integrated from the street, regardless of its actual disposition. Edward Chappell has previously noted a similar phenomenon at the Peyton Randolph House. Much as this lack of correspondence between the real and apparent nature of an object would trouble today's architectural thinkers, it presented no difficulty to the eighteenth-century mind. Indeed, the acceptance of this dichotomy seems to have been a fundamental characteristic of the eighteenth century's aesthetic orientation. An extraordinary example of this acceptance is to be seen at Independence Hall in Philadelphia, where failure to relate window arrangement to the structure's interior layout resulted in two first floor windows being bisected by interior walls (Fig. 42). Clearly, formulation of the building's external appearance proceeded quite apart from any consideration of its interior arrangement. The formal programme of the building exterior was the preeminent concern, and the resulting elevation was imposed without regard to the spaces 68 which lay behind it.

Here in Virginia, the mansion house at Shirley plantation exhibits a similar lack of integrity between interior and exterior where, in the entry, one of the windows is completely obstructed by the great stair. This window exists for the sole purpose of maintaining an orderly composition of the mansions' east exterior elevation. The stair itself, having "no apparent means of support" is actually carried on two wrought iron bars concealed behind its scrolled soffit.

These examples reveal a decided emphasis on superficial effects as opposed to integral qualities. Many other buildings of the period exhibit evidence of this tendency. In London, speculative housing was occasionally built of timber, but cased with a thin veneer of brick, mimicking the appearance of a solid brick wall. Even the method of pointing these veneer walls, with white putty let into tinted mortar joints, was a visual ploy, intended to simulate the appearance of finer brickwork.⁵⁰

Here in Virginia, one diarist approvingly noted the use of wooden shingles on buildings, "which when painted blew you wou'd not know it from a house sclated with Isedell sclate."⁵¹ At Mount Vernon and Monticello, Washington and Jefferson applied sanded finishes to wooden siding and plastered brick columns in 69 imitation of stone.⁵² In Petersburg, the builders of Strawberry Hill were sufficiently desirous of a symmetrical elevation to erect a false chimney on the west end of the dwelling's main block, answering that on the east.⁵³

Inside, various elements of eighteenth-century interiors were painted to simulate marble or fine woods. On ceilings, papier mache ornaments were used in imitation of real stucco, and walls were covered with paper hangings that bore two dimensional representations of architectural motifs.

Appearance, then, was everything. With its artificially unified front and articulated rear, the Nicolson House partakes of this penchant for superficial effects, exhibiting little of that Ruskinian concern for "honesty" that has shaped architectural thinking in our own century.

D. ROBERT NICOLSON'S HOUSE
AND THE QUESTION OF
GEOMETRIC PROPORTIONS

In the formulation of its overall proportions, Robert Nicolson's original house resembled another of Williamsburg's gambrel-roofed, side-passage residences--the Orrell House. Marcus Whiffen has pointed out that the structural frame of this latter dwelling corresponds with the form of a regular cube, measuring 28' in width, depth and height.⁵⁴ The original portion of the Nicolson house was similar, being 2' shorter in each dimension. In both structures, the interrelation of overall measurements seems to have been governed by a simple, geometric concept. But was this really the case?

For several decades, scholars have speculated on the use of geometrically derived proportions in the design of Virginia's early buildings. In 1958 and again in 1960, Whiffen discussed various elements of the proportional system which supposedly formed the basis of a local architectural "style". Arguments for the existence of these systems are generally based on post facto analysis of individual building facades overlaid with networks of geometric figures.⁵⁵ The conception and 71 realization of Robert Nicolson's house in accordance with some geometric paradigm would appear at first glance to corroborate these findings.

But there are many who remain unconvinced by lines and arcs applied to the faces of early buildings. These constructs, they suggest, are rooted in misconceptions about who was actually involved in the creation of such edifices. They object to an analytical approach which incorporates unwarranted assumptions about the methods and academic sophistication of those ultimately responsible for bringing the built environment into existence. These scholars suggest that the whole notion of geometric proportioning betrays an imperfect understanding of the early building trades and the processes by which early structures were conceived and carried into execution.

Thus, the dialogue between proponents and skeptics has quickly reached an impasse. The disciples of Euclid swing their compasses, while their colleagues reject the resulting "evidence" as spurious or, at best, inconclusive. If the discussion is to move in a more fruitful direction, it will be necessary to bring other historical sources to bear on the question. What literary and/or graphic evidence is there for geometric proportioning?--or is corroborating evidence conspicuously absent?

The search for answers to these questions should begin with Alexander Spotswood's procurement of a design for Bruton Parish Church in the year 1711. According to Marcus Whiffen (who credits Spotswood with the design) this building exhibits a 72 series of dimensional relationships which bespeak the primary role of mathematical and geometrical paradigms in its design. In support of this claim, Whiffen cites the familiar remark of Sir William Keith, who in 1738 wrote:

He [Spotswood] was well acquainted with figures, and so good a mathematician, that his skill in architecture ... is yet to be seen in Virginia, by the Building of an elegant safe Magazine in the centre of Williamsburgh, and in the considerable improvements which he made to the Governor's House and Gardens.⁵⁶

For Keith, Spotswood's architectural skills were a direct consequence of his competence in mathematics and geometry.

This invocation of geometry and mathematics as the basis of architectural design was not without precedent. Kenneth Conant reminds us of that Romans builders laid off their plans with rule and compass--a practice acknowledged by Vitruvius, who propounded a series of ideal room proportions based on various manipulations of the square.⁵⁷ Conant goes on to propose that a 73 similar, Vitruvian system of proportions was used in developing the plan of the monastic church at Cluny, beginning with the observation that two of the "architects" (identified as such in the documents) were "of the cultivated elite"--one a former abbot, the other a psalmist and former canon of Leige. These educated men, Conant maintains, were familiar with Vitruvian precepts.⁵⁸ So far as the proposed scheme of proportions is concerned, the graphic evidence presented by Conant is, to this writer, thoroughly convincing. But again, the bulk of the evidence is deduced primarily from the building itself. Is there any direct documentary evidence of geometric proportions of this sort were known to those who created buildings?

For later centuries, the answer is yes. One engraving, produced in 1592, reveals that proportioning of the nave section at San Petronio, in Bologna, was at the time thought to correspond with an equilateral triangle. (Fig. 43). But this was a sixteenth-century interpretation of earlier, Medieval work.⁵⁹ Were such buildings demonstrably designed and erected in accordance with geometric paradigms?

Again, the answer is yes. Surviving documents reveal 74 how, during construction, the proportional scheme of Milan Cathedral evolved through a series of different forms including an equilateral triangle, a Pythagorean triangle and a square. In the debate provoked by these changes, one party declared that "Ars Sine Scientia Nilhil Est"--Art without knowledge [i.e., some guiding principle of mathematical order] is nothing.⁶⁰ Perhaps Sir William Keith and Alexander Spotswood would have agreed.

Discrete elements of buildings were especially susceptible to the application of such "knowledge". Rudolph Wittkower cites the late fifteenth-century treatise of the German mason, Roriczer, which describes a geometric procedure for laying out stone pinnacles. Sebastiano Serlio likewise offers a geometric scheme for design of a doorway in the first book of his architectural treatise, first translated into English in 1611. (Fig. 45). Rudolph Wittkower points out that this and other geometric constructs have an underlying scheme of mathematical ratios,⁶¹ but the expression of these ratios in terms of a geometric procedure is surely significant. In any event it is 75 clear that geometric proportioning was familiar to architectural practitioners in Europe the late Middle Ages and early Renaissance.

Seventeenth- and eighteenth-century theorists also believed that mathematics and geometry were the foundation architectural composition. In his translation of Freart de Chambray's Parallel of Ancient Architecture with the Modern, John Evelyn observed that architecture was "the crown and flower as it were of all the sciences mathematical."⁶² Freart himself noted:

. . . the Excellency and Perfection of an Art consists not in the Multiplicity of its Principles, but contrarily, the more simple they are and few in Number, the more worthy they are of our Admiration. This we see manifested in those of Geometry, which is in Truth the very Foundation and universal Magazine of all those Arts from whence this [art] has been extracted and without whose Aid it were impossible that it should exist.⁶³

This statement contains two important ideas. We are told that architecture cannot exist apart from geometry, and that the very simplicity of geometric principles is the source of 76 their beauty.

Freart continues:

There are [those] to be found . . . that having their first studies well founded on the Principles of Geometry before they adventured to work, do afterward easily, and with Assurance arrive to the knowledge of the Perfection of the Art. It is to such only that I address myself.⁶⁴

Clearly, some knowledge of mathematics and geometry was regarded as being essential to those who would "arrive to the knowledge" of architecture. Freart's statement leaves some question, however, as to whether geometry was a matter of practical or theoretical concern. Wren's famous dictum, published in Parentalia, clarifies things:

There are two causes of beauty, natural and customary. Natural is from Geometry, consisting in uniformity (that is equality) and proportion.⁶⁵

Here geometrical proportioning is affirmed as the natural and objective foundation of beauty in architecture. 77 Seemingly, old ideas regarding the efficacy of geometry and its expression of a universal order were still alive and well.

In the light of such pronouncements, it 's not surprising that evidence of geometric conceits, tenuous as it is, should turn up in the examination of early Virginia's more pretentious buildings.⁶⁶ But again, what independent documentary evidence is there to corroborate their existence.?

When the Byrd library at Westover was cataloged during the 1750s, Claude Perrault's seventeenth-century abridgement of Vitruvius appeared on the same shelf with several editions of Euclid, of which Byrd owned no fewer than ten different translations. During the Council's deliberations on rebuilding the burned College of William and Mary, Byrd recorded that he "read and wrote some geometry" nearly every day for two months-the only such references which appear in any of the secret diaries.⁶⁷ The concurrence of these activities seems significant, especially when we consider that they relate to one of the buildings mentioned in Whiffen's ruminations on geometric proportioning.

Intriguing as this evidence is, there remain several troublesome questions which must be answered before we can be satisfied with any explanation of geometry in Virginia's 78 eighteenth-century architecture.

If geometry was indeed regarded as the objective basis of architectural beauty, why was there no post-Renaissance exemplar (excepting Robert Morris' Lectures on Architecture) elucidating its application to the proportioning of entire buildings? Various authors from Vitruvius on discuss the geometry of discreet elements such as rooms, doors, or windows, but nowhere in the literature does one encounter a satisfactory explanation of how geometry was to be employed in the overall proportioning of structure as supposedly practiced by eighteenth century Virginians. Proportioning of the orders and their intercolumnations had definite implications for the overall dimensions of a building, but these relationships were generally presented in metric rather than geometric terms. (In any event all buildings in Virginia were astylar if columned porticos such as those at Shirley and the second Capitol are disregarded.) Notwithstanding their theoretical statements, most authors ultimately treated the subject of geometry in very practical terms. Surviving architectural drawings and contemporary building contracts are virtually silent concerning any conceptually important use of geometry in architectural design. If the proportioning of buildings through geometric procedures really was practiced, why do we find so little evidence of it beyond the post facto analysis of building plans and facades?

Even if the existence of geometric proportioning can be proven, it only leads to a series of more important questions: 79 What is the significance of this geometry? Was it an extension of craft tradition, introduced through the building trades, or was it rooted in the academic musings of elite clients and architectural dabblers?

How might this phenomenon relate to the "architectural competence" or mental geometry of space described in Henry Glassie's study of Middle Virginia? As an explanation of how volumes and spaces were conceptualized, Glassie's comprehensive grammar of house forms, controlling the shape, size and location of all elements, is persuasive, for it emphasizes the perceived relationships among spatial quantities--approximate relationships that were apparent to all, and therefore replicated with ease and frequency throughout Virginia.

The system described by Whiffen, on the other hand, would consist in two-dimensional abstraction of absolute graphic or numeric quantities, propounded by an individual designer as giving physical substance to some latent system of mathematical order. The resulting correspondence between building and idea is apparent only to the initiate. Any communication of the underlying idea requires verbal or written explanation. This presents a problem for those who, like Whiffen, suggest that geometry is the basis of the cohesive architectural style which developed in Virginia during the eighteenth century. As far as the definition of an identifiable "style" is concerned, it is clear that the cohesion of building in early Virginia owes less to Euclid than to the mental habits outlined in Henry Glassie's 80 "generative grammar."

But does the acceptance of those mental habits as the basis of Virginia's distinctive building forms necessarily mean the rejection of Whiffen's geometric proportioning? Are the processes described by Glassie and Whiffen mutually exclusive? Is it possible that the pretension of geometric proportions-whether introduced through the trades or clients--was, in some cases, grafted onto the existing "geometrical repertoire" proposed by Glassie? To put it another way, was the builder who conceptualized Robert Nicolson's Hall and Chamber as a traditional "Y₂X" entity capable of exercising that option within larger parameters of an overall geometric form--a cube?

If the geometry supposedly apparent in Williamsburg's early buildings is to be adequately understood and interpreted, we must formulate satisfactory answers to these questions.