A History of Architecture in all Countries, Volume 1, 3rd ed. / From the Earliest Times to the Present Day

Section I.

Like every other object of human inquiry, Architecture may be studied from two distinct points of view. Either it may be regarded statically, and described scientifically as a thing existing, without any reference to the manner in which it was invented; or it may be treated historically, tracing every form from its origin and noting the influence one style has had upon another in the progress of time.

The first of these methods is more technical, and demands on the part of the student very considerable previous knowledge before it can be successfully prosecuted. The other, besides being more popular and easily followed, has the advantage of separating the objects of study into natural groups, and tracing more readily their connection and relation to one another. The great superiority, however, of the historical mode of study arises from the fact that, when so treated, Architecture ceases to be a mere art, interesting only to the artist or his employer, but becomes one of the most important adjuncts of history, filling up many gaps in the written record and giving life and reality to much that without its presence could with difficulty be realised.

A still more important use of architecture, when followed as a history, is found in its ethnographic value. Every different race of men had their own peculiar forms in using the productions of this art, and their own mode of expressing their feelings or aspirations by its means. When properly studied, it consequently affords a means as important as language for discriminating between the different races of mankind—often more so, and one always more trustworthy and more easily understood.

In consequence of these advantages, the historical mode is that which will be followed in this work. But before entering upon the narrative, it will be well if a correct definition of what Architecture really is can be obtained. Without some clear views on the technical position of the art, much that follows will be unintelligible and the meaning of what is said may be mistaken.

A great deal of the confusion of ideas existing on the subject of Architecture arises from the fact that writers have been in the habit of speaking of Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture as three similar fine arts, practised on the same principles. This error arose in the 16th century, when in a fatal hour painters and sculptors undertook also the practice of architecture, and builders ceased to be architects. This confusion of ideas has been perpetuated to the present hour, and much of the degraded position of the art at this day is owing to the mistake then made. It cannot therefore be too strongly insisted upon that there is no essential connection between painting and sculpture on the one hand and architecture on the other.

The two former rank among what are called Phonetic arts. Their business is to express by colour or form ideas that could be—generally have been—expressed by words. With the Egyptians their hieroglyphical paintings were their only means of recording their ideas. With us, such a series of pictures as Hogarth’s ‘Mariage à la Mode’ or ‘The Rake’s Progress’ are novels written with the brush; and many of our Mediæval cathedrals possess whole Bibles carved in stone. Poetry, Painting, and Sculpture are three branches of one form of art, refined from Prose, Colour, and Carving, and form a group apart, interchanging ideas and modes of expression, but always dealing with the same class of images and appealing to the same class of feelings.

Distinct and separate from these Phonetic arts is another group, generally known as the Technic arts, comprising all those which minister to the primary wants of mankind under such various heads as food, clothing, and shelter. Between these two groups is a third called the Æsthetic arts, forming, as it were, a flux between the Technic and Phonetic arts, fusing the whole into one homogeneous mass. They take their rise from the fact that to every want which the technic arts are designed to supply, Nature has attached a gratification which is capable of refining all the useful arts into fine arts. Thus the Technic art of agriculture is capable of supplying food in its simple form; but by the refinements of cookery and of wine-making, simple meats and drinks are capable of affording endless gratification to the senses. Simple clothing to keep out the cold requires little art, but embroidery, dyeing, lace-making, and fifty other arts employ the hands of millions, and the gratification afforded by their use, the thoughts of as many more. Shelter, too, is easily provided, but ornamental and ornamented shelter, or in other words architecture, is one of the most prominent of the fine arts. Music, though hardly known as a useful art, is the most typical of the Æsthetic arts, and, “married to immortal verse,” steps upwards into the region of the Phonetic arts, just as building, when used for ornament, is raised out of the domain of the Technic arts.

Like music, colour and form may be so arranged as to afford infinite pleasure to the senses without their having any phonetic value; but when used, as sculpture and paintings are and have been in all ages, to tell a tale or to express emotion, they rank high among the Phonetic arts; and though able to express certain impressions even more vividly than can be done by words, they cannot rise to the high intellectual position that can be attained either by Poetry or Eloquence when expressed only in that verbal language which is the highest gift of God to man.

II.—Beauty in Art.

The term Beauty in Art is little else than a synonym for Perfection, but perfection in these three classes of arts is far from being the same thing, or of anything like the same value, as an intellectual expression. The beauty of a machine, however complicated, arises mainly from its adaptability to use; while a mosaic of exquisite colours, or an elevated piece of instrumental music, raises emotions of a far higher class: and a painting or a poem may appeal to all that is great or noble in human nature.

If, for instance, we take a dozen arts at random, and divide them into twelve equal component parts, as they belong to each of the three divisions, Technic, Æsthetic, or Phonetic. If we further assign one as the relative intellectual value of the Technic element, two as that due to the Æsthetic, and three as the proportionate importance of the Phonetic, we obtain the index number in the fourth column of the table below, which is probably not far from expressing the true relative value of each. Of course there are adventitious circumstances which may raise the proportionate value of any art very considerably, and, on the other hand, neglect of cultivation may depress others below their true value; but the principles on which the table is formed are probably those by which a correct estimate may be most easily obtained.

The first three arts enumerated in the above table are evidently utterly incapable of Phonetic expression, and the first hardly even can be raised to the second class, though air combined with warmth does afford pleasure to the senses. Joinery may convey an idea of perfection from the mode in which it is designed or executed; while gastronomy, as above mentioned, does really afford important gratification to the senses, approaching nearly in importance to the plain food-supplying art of cookery. Jewellery may combine extreme mechanical beauty of execution with the most harmonious arrangement of colour, and may also be made to express a meaning, though only to a very limited extent. Clothing depends on both colour and form for its perfection more than even beauty of material, and may be made to express gaiety or sorrow, though perhaps more from association than from any inherent qualities. The arts of the potter can exhibit not only perfection in execution, but practically depend both in colour and form, especially the latter, to raise their products out of the category of mere Technic arts; while the paintings on them, which are indispensable to the highest class of ceramique, render them capable of taking their place among those objects which affect a Phonetic mode of utterance. As mentioned above, floriculture and landscape gardening may, besides their use, afford infinite pleasure to the senses and even express gaiety or gloom, and, from mere prettiness, may rise towards something like sublimity in expression.

Architecture is, however, the central art of the group, which in its highest form combines all the three classes in nearly equal proportions, but not always necessarily so. The Pyramids of Egypt, for instance, though Technically the most wonderful buildings in the world, have very little Æsthetic, and hardly more than one of Phonetic, value. The great temple at Baalbec,—and in fact all the Roman temples, may be classed as containing six parts of Technic value for mechanical excellence of size and construction, four for beauty of form and detail, but certainly not more than two parts for any expression of religion or intellect they may exhibit, making up twenty for the index of their artistic value. Cologne cathedral takes very nearly the same position in the scale, but Rheims, Bourges, and the more perfect Gothic cathedrals may be classed higher, as five Technic, three Æsthetic, and four Phonetic, making twenty-three altogether as their index; and they are only surpassed by such a building as the Parthenon at Athens, which, though not so large and imposing as some others, is, so far as we know, the most perfect building yet erected by man. It owes this perfection mainly to the equal balance of parts. There is nothing so difficult or startling in its construction as there is in most Gothic cathedrals; but what there is is mechanically perfect, both in design and execution. Its form is nearly perfect, combining stability with simplicity and at the same time avoiding monotony or any appearance of greater strength than is absolutely necessary. Its details are all as exquisite in form as the Temple itself, and it was at one time coloured to an extent we can hardly now realise, but which must, when complete, have made it one of the most perfect examples of Æsthetic art. The walls of the cella were almost certainly covered with Phonetic paintings similar to those in the Lesche at Delphi; and the pediment, the metopes, the friezes, were all sculptured to such an extent as to render the Phonetic expression of the building at least equal to either its Technic or its Æsthetic excellence. It is easy to conceive a building, such as a trophy or a mausoleum, in which painting and sculpture shall be relatively more important than they are in this instance, and in which consequently the index may be raised above twenty-four; but if this were so, it ought probably to be classed among works of sculpture or painting rather than as an object of architecture.

In music the Æsthetic element naturally prevails over the other two, but Technic cleverness of execution often affords to some as much pleasure as the harmony of the sounds produced; and, on the other hand, in its power of expressing joy or sorrow and of exciting varied emotions at will, it rivals frequently the more distinct and permanent power of words themselves, when unaccompanied by Æsthetic forms of art. It is of course, however, in the outpourings of his imagination or in the logical products of his reason that man rises highest, and stands most distinctly apart from the rest of created beings; and though all may not be capable of appreciating it, it is when both Technic and Æsthetic adjuncts are laid aside, and man listens only to the voice of reason, that he reaches what, as far as we can now see, is the highest form of his artistic development.

Of course there are many other forms in which this might be expressed, and many will be inclined to dispute the correctness of the figures assigned to each art. They are, in fact, only approximations, and as a first attempt can hardly be expected to meet all the conditions of the problem. The truth of the matter is, it would have been better to use algebraic symbols and to allow every one to translate them into numbers according to his own fancy, but in the present state of matters such an attempt would have savoured of affectation. The art of criticism is not sufficiently advanced for this, but if two or three would follow up what is here indicated it might be placed on a basis from which to proceed higher. Meanwhile, perhaps the annexed diagram may serve to explain the relation of the three classes of art to one another, and the way in which they overlap and mix together so as to make up a perfect art. Like the preceding table, it will require several editions, the work of several minds, before it can be perfected, but it probably is not far from representing the truth as at present known.

There is still another relation of these arts to one another which must not be overlooked before proceeding further, as a knowledge of it is indispensable in forming a correct judgment of their respective merits. Like the Sciences, the Technic Arts hardly depend, after the first steps have been taken, on individual prowess for their advancement. An astronomer, a chemist, or a natural historian, now starts from the highest point reached by any of his predecessors, and he has only to observe and calculate, to analyse and put together again, in order to advance our knowledge. A giant may of course make a rapid stride in advance, but a hundred dwarfs will, if they persevere steadily in the right path, not only overtake him, but probably advance far beyond anything the most gigantic intellect can accomplish in science. So it is also in the mechanical arts. The immense strides that have of late years been made in improving all the machines employed in manufactures have not been made by the greatest intellects, but by thousands of men suggesting new contrivances and acquiring skill by steady improvement in manipulation. In ship-building, for instance, one of the most complex of the useful arts, no one can tell who the men were who converted the rude galleys in which our forefathers sailed to Crecy and Agincourt into the gigantic commercial steamers and war-ships of the present day. It was the result of thousands of intellects working steadily towards a well-defined aim, and accomplishing a triumph by a process which must always be successful in the Technic arts when persevered in long enough.

The case is somewhat different with the Æsthetic arts. Some men are insensible to the harmony of colour and are not offended by the crudest contrasts. Others do not perceive concords in music, and the most violent discords give them no pain; others, on the contrary, are endowed with the utmost sensibility on these points, and are consequently not only able to appreciate the beauty of the arts arising out of colour or sound, but of advancing what to those who cannot understand them is an inexplicable mystery.

When from the Æsthetic Arts we turn to the Sciences and Technic Arts, we find, as just pointed out, that the individual becomes much less important and the process everything. Every astronomer now knows more than Newton; every chemist than John Dalton. Any ordinary mechanic can start from a higher point than was reached by a Watt or an Arkwright or a Stephenson, and can surpass them. But no man can mount on the shoulders of such men as Handel or Mozart or Beethoven, and surpass them; and the higher we ascend in the scale of arts the more important does the individual become and the less so the process. A Phidias, a Raphael, a Shakespeare, are yet unsurpassed, and possibly never may be. All men may be taught to carve, to colour, and to write mechanically, and may even be instructed to practise these processes so as to afford pleasure to themselves and others; but when from this we rise to Phonetic painting, sculpture, or poetry, and the still higher region of philosophy, the individual becomes all in all, and his special genius there stamps the true value on the production.

In this respect, again, Architecture is singularly happy as a means of study. As a Technic art it is practised in the same progressive principles as all its sister arts, irrespective of individuality. As an Æsthetic art it is hardly so individual as music, because its forms and colours are permanent and capable of being repeated with such improvements as each experiment suggests in every subsequent building; but when it attempts Phonetic forms of utterance, these are seldom so absolutely integral that they cannot be separated from the building and judged of apart. A Greek Temple or a Mediæval cathedral without painting and sculpture may be poor and inanimate, but still so beautiful in its form, so grand from its mass, and so imposing from its durability, that in its Technic-Æsthetic form alone it may command our admiration, more perhaps than any other work of human hands, except of course, as said before, the highest intellectual forms of Phonetic art. Architecture thus combines in itself the steady progressive perfectibility of a Technic art quite independent of the intellectual capabilities of the architect, combined with the Æsthetic appreciation of form and colour which is mostly universal, and can at all events be generally inculcated and learned. But its greatest glory is that it can enlist in its service the higher branches of Phonetic sculpture and painting, which can be exercised only by specially gifted individuals. It is difficult to conceive all these qualities being equally combined in the person of any one architect, and in practice it is by no means necessary for success that it should be so, though, if possible, the combination would no doubt be advantageous. In criticising, on the contrary, it is always necessary to separate and distinguish between the mechanical, the sensuous, and the intellectual part of a design. Without this an intelligent appreciation of its merits or defects can hardly be obtained.

Notwithstanding all that has been pointed out already, and the advantages of its central position among the sister arts, combined with its own intrinsic merits, Architecture would never have attained to the high position it now occupies had it not been fitted with an aim which raised it far above all utilitarian feelings. In all ages, though certainly not among all nations, Architecture has been employed as one of the principal forms of worship. The desire to erect a temple to their Gods worthy to be their dwelling-place has exalted even the rude arts of savages into something worthy of admiration, and when such a nation as the Egyptians were inspired with the same desire, they produced, even in the earliest ages, temples which still excite feelings of admiration and of awe. Had the practice of architecture been restricted to supplying only the ordinary wants of mortals, it never would have risen to be the noble art it now is. Neither the palaces of the greatest kings, nor the wants of the proudest municipalities, nor the emporia of the richest commerce would have supplied that lofty aim which is indispensable for any great intellectual effort. But when, freed from all trammels of use or expense, the object is to erect a casket worthy to enshrine the sacred image of a god whom men feared but adored, the aspiration elevates the work far beyond its useful purpose. It is when men seek to erect a hall in which worshippers may meet to render that homage which is their greatest privilege and their highest aspiration, when all that man can conceive that is great and beautiful is enlisted to create something worthy of the purpose, that temples have been erected which rank among the most successful works man has yet produced. Had any exigencies of use or economy controlled the design of the Parthenon, or of any of our Mediæval cathedrals, they must have taken a much lower place in the scale than they now occupy. Their architects were, however, in fact as free from any utilitarian influences as the poets who composed the ‘Iliad’ or ‘Paradise Lost.’

III.—Definition of Architecture.

If what has just been said above is understood, it may be sufficient to make it possible to give a more definite answer than has usually been done to two questions to which hitherto no satisfactory reply has been accorded in modern times. “What,” it is frequently asked, “is the true definition of the word Architecture, or of the Art to which it applies?” “What are the principles which ought to guide us in designing or criticising Architectural objects?”

Fifty years ago the answers to these questions generally were, that Architecture consisted in the closest possible imitation of the forms and orders employed by the Romans; that a church was well designed exactly in the proportion in which it resembled a heathen temple; and that the merit of a civic building was to be measured by its imitation, more or less perfect, of some palace or amphitheatre of classic times.

In the beginning of this century these answers were somewhat modified by the publication of Stuart’s works on Athens; the word Grecian was substituted for Roman in all criticisms, and the few forms that remain to us of Grecian art were repeated ad nauseam in buildings of the most heterogeneous class and character.

At the present day churches have been entirely removed from the domain of classic art, and their merit is made to depend on their being correct reproductions of mediæval designs. Museums and town halls still generally adhere to classic forms, alternating between Greek and Roman. In some of our public buildings an attempt has recently been made to reproduce the Middle Ages, while in our palaces and clubhouses that compromise between classicality and common sense which is called Italian is generally adhered to. These, it is evident, are the mere changing fashions of art. There is nothing real or essential in this Babel of styles, and we must go deeper below the surface to enable us to obtain a true definition of the art or of its purposes. Before attempting this, however, it is essential to bear in mind that two wholly different systems of architecture have been followed at different periods in the world’s history.

The first is that which prevailed since the art first dawned, in Egypt, in Greece, in Rome, in Asia, and in all Europe, during the Middle Ages, and generally in all countries of the world down to the time of the Reformation in the 16th century, and still predominates in remote corners of the globe wherever European civilisation or its influences have not yet penetrated. The other being that which was introduced with the revival of classic literature contemporaneously with the reformation of religion, and still pervades all Europe and wherever European influence has established itself.

In the first period the art of architecture consisted in designing a building so as to be most suitable and convenient for the purposes required, in arranging the parts so as to produce the most stately and ornamental effect consistent with its uses, and in applying to it such ornament as should express and harmonise with the construction, and be appropriate to the purposes of the building; while at the same time the architects took care that the ornament should be the most elegant in itself which it was in their power to design.

Following this system, not only the Egyptian, the Greek, and the Gothic architects, but even the indolent and half-civilised inhabitants of India, the stolid Tartars of Thibet and China, and the savage Mexicans, succeeded in erecting great and beautiful buildings. No race, however rude or remote, has failed, when working on this system, to produce buildings which are admired by all who behold them, and are well worthy of the most attentive consideration. Indeed, it is almost impossible to indicate one single building in any part of the world, designed during the prevalence of this true form of art, which was not thought beautiful, not alone by those who erected it, but which does not remain a permanent object of admiration and of study even for strangers in all future ages.

The result of the other system is widely different from this. It has now been practised in Europe for more than three centuries, and by people who have more knowledge of architectural forms, more constructive skill, and more power of combining science and art in effecting a great object, than any people who ever existed before. Notwithstanding this, from the building of St. Peter’s at Rome to that of our own Parliament Houses, not one building has been produced that is admitted to be entirely satisfactory, or which permanently retains a hold on general admiration. Many are large and stately to an extent almost unknown before, and many are ornamented with a profuseness of which no previous examples exist; but with all this, though they conform with the passing fashions of the day, they soon become antiquated and out of date, and men wonder how such a style could ever have been thought beautiful, just as we wonder how any one could have admired the female costumes of the last century which captivated the hearts of our grandfathers.

It does not require us to go very deeply into the philosophy of the subject to find out why this should be the case; the fact simply being that no sham was ever permanently successful, either in morals or in art, and no falsehood ever remained long without being found out, or which, when detected, inevitably did not cease to please. It is literally impossible that we should reproduce either the circumstances or the feelings which gave rise to classical art and made it a reality; and though Gothic art was a thing of our country and of our own race, it belongs to a state of society so totally different from anything that now exists, that any attempt at reproduction now must at best be a masquerade, and never can be a real or earnest form of art. The designers of the Eglinton Tournament carried the system to a perfectly legitimate conclusion when they sought to reproduce the costumes and warlike exercises of our ancestors; and the pre-Raphaelite painters were equally justified in attempting to do in painting that which was done every day in architecture. Both attempts failed signally, because we had progressed in the arts of war and painting, and could easily detect the absurdity of these practices. It is in architecture alone of all the arts that the false system remains, and we do not yet perceive the impossibility of its leading to any satisfactory result.

Bearing all this in mind, let us try if we can come to a clearer definition of what this art really is, and in what its merits consist. Let us suppose the Diagram (Woodcut No. 2) to represent an ordinary house, such as is found in many of our London streets. The first division, A, is the most prosaic form of building, no more thought being bestowed on it than if it were a garden wall. The second division, B, is better; the cornices and string-course indicate the levels of the several floors into which the building is divided; the quoins of the door and windows are emphasized by the use of a better or different coloured brick, and the arched forms given to door and window on ground floor suggest increased strength. In the third division, C, this has been carried still further; the rustication of the stonework on the lower storey gives an appearance of greater solidity, and the importance given to the cornices, the addition of architrave mouldings round windows, with pediments to those of the first floor, and the decoration of the parapet carry the house out of the domain of building into that of architecture. The fourth division carries this still farther; the whole design is here divided into three stages—the ground floor being treated as a podium or base to the two floors above, the whole being crowned by an attic storey; greater importance is given to the front by the slight projection of two wings; the entrance doorway is emphasized, and by means of cornices, quoins, and pilasters, a play of light and shade is given to an elevation which virtually lies in one plane. In this instance not only is a greater amount of ornament applied, but the parts are so disposed as in themselves to produce a more agreeable effect; and although the height of the floors remains the same, and the amount of light introduced very nearly so, still the slight grouping of the parts is such as to produce a better class of architecture than could be done by the mere application of any amount of ornament. The diagram deals with one phase of the subject, “a town house,” and with the elevation only, the style being that generally known as Italian; if it is admitted that the last division is an object of architecture, which the first is not, it follows from this analysis that architecture commences when some embellishment is added to the building which was not strictly a structural necessity. The value of the embellishment, from an architectural point of view, depends on—the extent to which, in its application, the structural features have been recognised,—the appropriateness of the ornament,—the careful study of proportion and balance of the several parts, and,—in a certain measure, the extent to which some known precedent has been followed.

Recurring, for instance, to the Parthenon, to illustrate this principle farther. The proportions of length to breadth, and of height to both these, are instances of carefully-studied proportion and balance; and still more so is the arrangement of the porticoes and the disposition of the peristyle. If all the pillars were plain square piers, and all the mouldings square and flat, still the Parthenon could not fail, from the mere disposition of its parts, to be a pleasing and imposing building. So it is with a Gothic cathedral. The proportion of length to breadth, the projection of the transepts, the different height of the central and side aisles, the disposition and proportion of the towers, are all instances of proportion and balance, and beautiful even if without ornament. Many of the older abbeys, especially those of the Cistercians, are as devoid of ornament as a modern barn; but from the mere disposition of their parts they are always pleasing and, if large, are imposing objects of architecture. Stonehenge is an instance of ornamental construction wholly without ornament, yet it is almost as imposing an architectural object as any of the same dimensions in any part of the world. It is, however, when ornament is added to this, and when that ornament is elegant itself and appropriate to the construction and to the purposes of the building, that the temple or the cathedral ranks among the highest objects of the art and becomes one of the noblest works of man.

Even without structural decoration, a building may, by mere dint of ornament, become an architectural object, though it is far more difficult to attain good architecture by this means, and in true styles it has seldom been attempted. Still, such a building as the town hall at Louvain, which if stripped of its ornaments would be little better than a factory, by richness and appropriateness of ornament alone has become a very pleasing specimen of the art. In modern times it is too much the fashion to attempt to produce architectural effects not only without attending to ornamental construction, but often in defiance of, and in concealing that which exists. When this is done, the result must be bad art; but nevertheless it is architecture, however execrable it may be.

If these premises are correct, the art of the builder consists in merely putting materials together so as to attain the desired end in the speediest and simplest fashion. The art of the civil or military engineer consists in selecting the best and most appropriate materials for the object he has in view, and using these in the most scientific manner, so as to ensure an economical but satisfactory result. Where the engineer leaves off, the art of the architect begins. His object is to arrange the materials of the engineer, not so much with regard to economical as to artistic effects, and by light and shade, and outline, to produce a form that in itself shall be permanently beautiful. He then adds ornament, which by its meaning doubles the effect of the disposition he has just made, and by its elegance throws a charm over the whole composition.

Viewed in this light, it is evident that there are no objects that are usually delegated to the civil engineer which may not be brought within the province of the architect. A bridge, an aqueduct, the embankment of a lake, or the roof of a station, are all as legitimate subjects for architectural ornament as a temple or a palace. They were all so treated by the Romans and in the Middle Ages, and are so treated up to the present day in the remote parts of India, and wherever true art prevails.

It is not essential that the engineer should know anything of architecture, though it is certainly desirable he should do so; but, on the other hand, it is indispensably necessary that the architect should understand construction. Without that knowledge he cannot design; and although it has been conceived by some that it would be better to delegate the mechanical task to the engineer, and so restrict himself entirely to the artistic arrangement and ornamentation of his design, such a course would be fatal to the development of architectural style. It is true that in some of the works above stated, it is generally thought desirable to confide them to engineers; but in the few cases in which architects have been called in to co-operate with them, as in the roofs of the Great Western and Midland Railway Stations, the result has been so satisfactory as to suggest the advantage of such combination. In the Great Exhibition of 1851, the happiest feature, the semicircular roof of the transept, was suggested by the late Sir Charles Barry, and the developments of that form in the nave and transepts of the Crystal Palace constitute still the most beautiful features of that building. In works of a monumental character, such as town-halls, museums, or public galleries, which are designed to last for centuries, the strict economy of material, which is sometimes deemed necessary in engineering works, is not advisable, because mass, stability, and durability—three elements into which we enter later on—are of the very essence of their architectural character. In these and other works of a simple character, such as private houses, the calculations are not of so elaborate a nature as to be outside the architect’s knowledge; and although of late years the use of iron girders, stanchions, and columns has introduced a new factor among building materials which occasionally may call for the assistance of an expert to substantiate the architect’s calculations, it has hitherto been the custom to conceal these features, so that they have not entered the phase of architectural design. In course of time, when an increased knowledge of the properties of iron is acquired, we may hope to see a great development in its artistic treatment, so that it may eventually rise to the dignity and assume the character, which in the architectural styles of bygone times, all other materials have reached.

In addition, however, to the convenient arrangement and artistic treatment of a building, and its proper and sound construction, there is still a third element which requires the special endowment of an artist for its exercise. No architectural object can be considered as complete, or as having attained the highest excellence till it is endowed with a voice through the aid of phonetic sculpture and painting.

In a few words, therefore, a perfect building may be defined as one that combines:—

Besides these, however, which are the principal theoretic characteristics of architecture, there are several minor technical principles which it may be convenient to enumerate before proceeding farther.

It may also be well to give such examples as shall make what has just been indicated theoretically, clearer than can be done by the mere enunciation of abstract principles.

IV.—Mass.

The first and most obvious element of architectural grandeur is size—a large edifice being always more imposing than a small one; and when the art displayed in two buildings is equal, their effect is almost in the direct ratio of their dimensions. In other words, if one temple or church is twice or three times as large as another, it is twice or three times as grand or as effective. The Temple of Theseus differs very little, except in dimensions, from the Parthenon, and, except in that respect, hardly differed at all from the Temple of Jupiter at Elis; but because of its smaller size it must rank lower than the greater examples. In our own country many of our smaller abbeys or parish churches display as great beauty of design or detail as our noblest cathedrals, but, from their dimensions alone, they are insignificant in comparison, and the traveller passes them by, while he stands awe-struck before the portals or under the vault of the larger edifices.

The pyramids of Egypt, the topes of the Buddhists, the mounds of the Etruscans, depend almost wholly for their effect on their dimensions. The Romans understood to perfection the value of this element, and used it in its most unsophisticated simplicity to obtain the effect they desired. In the Middle Ages the architects not only aspired to the erection of colossal edifices, but they learnt how they might greatly increase the apparent dimensions of a building by a scientific disposition of the parts and a skilful arrangement of ornament, thereby making it look very much larger than it really was. It is, in fact, the most obvious and most certain, though it must be confessed perhaps the most vulgar, means of obtaining architectural grandeur; but a true and perfect example can never be produced by dependence on this alone, and it is only when size is combined with beauty of proportion and elegance of ornament that perfection in architectural art is attained.

V.—Stability.

Next to size the most important element is stability. By this is meant, not merely the strength required to support the roof or to resist the various thrusts and pressures, but that excess of strength over mere mechanical requirement which is necessary thoroughly to satisfy the mind, and to give to the building a monumental character, with an appearance that it could resist the shocks of time or the violence of man for ages yet to come.

No people understood the value of this so well as the Egyptians. The form of the Pyramids is designed wholly with reference to stability, and even the Hypostyle Hall at Karnac excites admiration far more by its massiveness and strength, and its apparent eternity of duration, than by any other element of design. In the Hall all utilitarian exigencies and many other obvious means of effect are sacrificed to these, and with such success that after more than 3000 years’ duration still enough remains to excite the admiration which even the most unpoetical spectators cannot withhold from its beauties.

In a more refined style much of the beauty of the Parthenon arises from this cause. The area of each of the pillars in the portico of the Pantheon at Rome is under 20 feet, that of those of the Parthenon is over 33 feet, and, considering how much taller the former are than the latter, it may be said that the pillars at Athens are twice as massive as those of the Roman temple, yet the latter have sufficed not only for the mechanical, but for many points of artistic stability; but the strength and solidity of the porticos of the Parthenon, without taking into consideration its other points of superiority, must always render it more beautiful than the other.

The massiveness which the Normans and other early Gothic builders imparted to their edifices arose more from clumsiness and want of constructive skill than from design; but, though arising from so ignoble a cause, its effect is always grand, and the rude Norman nave often surpasses in grandeur the airy and elegant choir which was afterwards added to it. In our own country no building is more entirely satisfactory than the nave at Winchester, where the width of the pillars exceeds that of the aisles, and the whole is Norman in outline, though Gothic in detail. On the other hand no building of its dimensions and beauty of detail can well be so unsatisfactory as the choir at Beauvais. Though it has stood the test of centuries, it looks so frail, requires so many props to keep it up, and is so evidently an overstrained exercise of mechanical cleverness, that though it may excite wonder as an architectural tour de force, it never can satisfy the mind of the true artist, or please to the same extent as less ambitious examples.

Even when we descend to the lowest walks of architecture we find this principle prevailing. It would require an immense amount of design and good taste to make the thin walls and thinner roof of a brick and slated cottage look as picturesque or so well as one built of rubble-stone, or even with mud walls, and a thatched roof: the thickness and solidity of the one must always be more satisfactory than the apparent flimsiness of the other. Here, as in most cases, necessity controls the architect; but when fettered by no utilitarian exigencies, there is no safer or readier means of obtaining an effect than this, and when effect alone is sought it is almost impossible for an architect to err in giving too much solidity to his building. Size and stability are alone sufficient to produce grandeur in architectural design, and, where sublimity is aimed at, they are the two elements most essential to its production, and are indeed the two without which it cannot possibly be attained.

VI.—Durability.

As the complement to stability, the length of time during which architectural objects are calculated to endure confers on them an impress of durability which can hardly be attained by any of the sister arts. Sculpture may endure as long, and some of the Egyptian examples of that art found near the Pyramids are as old as anything in that country, but it is not their age that impresses us so much as the story they have to tell. The Pyramids, on the other hand, in the majesty of their simple Technic grandeur, do challenge a quasi-eternity of duration with a distinctness that is most impressive, and which there, as elsewhere, is one of the most powerful elements of architectural expression.

When Horace sang—