Architecture has been termed the Art of Necessity, in contradistinction to Sculpture and Painting, which have been distinguished as the offspring of elegance and luxury. To the first, the remark of the ancient poet has been deemed most peculiarly applicable,

If there be, however, distinction in the first origin, it ceases long before any of these can become the object of refined or useful inquiry. The principles of all, considered in the rank of arts, originate in the mind, though a sentiment of intelligent curiosity, or a sense of corporeal weakness, and the desire of protection, first give visible action to the latent germs of feeling and of ingenuity. Here, then, appears the accidental, not distinctive character, in the originating impulse, and in the species of imitative design thence resulting, which is afterwards to call forth the most refined evidence of human thought and genius. Man's first care would evidently be directed to the discovery or construction of means of shelter against the inclemencies of the sky under which his lot was cast. His best affections, no less than his natural wants, would prompt him to this. But the cave of the Troglodyte, or the hut of the savage, are not more connected with science and forethought, than is the den of the tiger, or the lair of the wolf, or the still more artful structure of the fowl. For no sooner is the human creature thus established, his physical desires stilled, not gratified, than begin the ceaseless aspirings of the spirit within; the workings of that wondrous maze of understanding and of feeling, of thought and volition, which so mysteriously bind, and so irresistibly direct him to his higher and better destinies. Thence, and only thence, springs, as a bright and pure emanation, though darkened for a while in struggling through an imperfect medium, every effort thereafter to instruct or to adorn a happier world.

In conformity with these views, it has appeared, that the first attempts at sculptural or pictorial representation were dedicated to piety, and to the social affections of the heart. In like manner, the earliest and rudest erections of architecture now existing, as well as the most perfect and magnificent, are temples to the Deity, or memorials of the dead. There is, in these respects, indeed, a striking proof of the existence of this law of mind,—not of mere instinct, and, at the same time, of self-denial, in favor of the generous and the holy in man's nature. Not only do we find, that, wherever the human foot has been stayed, there is the altar, the temple, and the tomb; but we meet these amid the destitution of every approach to that luxury to which the arts have been ascribed; and, finally, we discover a vast disproportion between the efforts dedicated to these tributes of gratitude and affection, and those directed to personal comfort or splendor. Jacob, while yet a wanderer in tents, consecrated, by a pillar,—the first monument on record,—the spot where reposed his beloved Rachael. Over the whole of the inhabited globe, not excepting the dark heaths of our native land, are the last resting-places of the dead, which must have required a union of care and labour given only to a duty, everywhere held inviolably sacred. Even in the wilds of the New World, there are sepulchres of like laborious structure, to which, with a steadiness surer than that of the needle, the distant tribe tracks its way though pathless woods. Compare, again, the evidence of congregated energy, and even science, in the Druidical temples only, with the glimpses we possess of the accommodations of common life. The religious edifices of Egypt even yet fill the mind with admiration; while the probable monuments of their dead, faithless, indeed, to their individual trust, shall only sink amid the ruins of the world, enduring testimonies of the power of religion and of futurity over the mind of man, and of the vain attempt to convert that power into an instrument of selfish aggrandisement. From all this, something better may be deduced than even refuting the idea, that the sublimest objects of taste indicate, in their origin, a grovelling necessity, and, in their progress, owe their most graceful improvements to an idle luxury. In this inseparable union of the primitive arts of taste with feelings of religious service and of human affection, we perceive that man, even in a state of natural darkness, is not the selfish, the irreligious being, represented by a cold and material philosophy, equally the enemy of taste as of religion.

Beyond these remarks it is not here necessary to trace the first origin of Architecture. In this art are certainly to be detected the very links of connexion, joining the knowledge of the descendants of Adam with that of the families of Noah. We learn from Scripture, that soon after the Flood, while yet the remembrance of that catastrophe was fresh in the mind, the building of a city and a tower was commenced. Such design could not have been entertained without some previous model, or, at least, assurance that it might be accomplished. Such model or such assurance could be derived only from antediluvian experience or tradition; for it is in the highest degree improbable that either could have originated, or been brought to such maturity, in so short a space as intervenes between the descent of Noah from the Ark, and the gigantic undertaking of his posterity. Again, the materials were artificial; and of such perfection, well-burnt brick, as we do not find mankind to have used in the same countries many centuries afterwards. The construction, too, of that mysterious relic of two worlds, which 'floated on the waters of the abyss,' is a proof of high advance in the arts of the first. Subsequently, all researches are at fault. From this state of intelligence and union, mankind suddenly sink into the most wretched ignorance, and disperse in wild confusion. A cause, such as the one in Sacred Writ, could alone produce this effect. Broken fragments and glimmerings of ancient knowledge, no doubt, remained with the scattered tribes of the human family. But to trace usefully the extent, reunion, and improvement of these imperfect elements, would be here a vain task. The few valuable and only authentic memorials of the very early ages are to be found in Scripture, which ascribes the origin of monuments that may be termed architectural, to ratify contracts,—to mark the place of the dead,—to indicate some remarkable event—to the altar of stone; also, it contains the descriptions of regular buildings of a later period, which have now passed away, as the walled cities which the Israelites found in Canaan; their own early labours,—the Temple of Solomon, the Palace of Lebanon, the 'House of Dagon,' and other heathen temples incidentally mentioned in Scripture, to which reference is made. All these erections and notices are confined to that part of Asia which extends from the Black Sea to the mouth of the Euphrates, and from the Mediterranean to the extremities of Persia. Over the once magnificent architecture of the whole of this extensive tract, including the seats of the most powerful and ancient monarchies of Asia,—the Assyrian, Median, Babylonian, and Persian,—except what can be gathered from scattered heaps of brick, utter forgetfulness reigns. Later information is supplied by Herodotus and the Greek writers; but, except the comparatively recent remains at Persepolis, Baalbec, and Palmyra, already noticed, nothing exists that can throw light upon our subject. A very different aspect, however, is presented in Egypt and in India, where monuments of the most remote antiquity remain, interesting in themselves, and as they tend to illustrate the progress and the revolutions of Architecture in its more modern forms. From an examination of the former, we shall be enabled to discover the germs of the more perfect Greek modes, while, in the combinations of Arabian with Indian forms, we seem to detect the rudiments of that singular style, which, under the various appellations of Arabic, Saracenic, Gothic, has extended over the whole of Europe, and a considerable portion of Asia. Thus, one of the first and one of the last departments of the present subject, one of its purest and one of its most complicated systems, originates probably in countries now to be considered, and whose monuments are coeval with the first reunion of intelligence and society among men. But, before entering upon the inquiry which is to trace this connexion through the history of the art, it becomes necessary to explain certain common and preliminary principles.

There are three grand causes of structure and form in Architecture,—three leading principles, which not only originated the primeval elements of design, but which, to a great degree, have governed all the subsequent combinations of these. This influence also extends not merely to the essentials of stability, equilibrium, and strength, but, as will afterwards appear, has suggested the system of ornament. These master dispositions, which it thus becomes necessary to bear along with the commencement, are, first, the purpose—secondly, the material of Architecture—and thirdly, the climate.

The purpose for which any building was erected, or the uses which it was contemplated to serve, would necessarily determine the magnitude, and to a certain extent, the form. Again, these considerations would suggest the most appropriate means of accomplishing the requisite ends, which, once accomplished, would constitute permanent distinctions.

The materials, again, employed in architecture, have influenced most decidedly its forms and character. This has been the case, not only in the peculiar styles which have separately been adopted in different countries, but in the general and essential principles of the science. The materials of which buildings, in all ages, have been chiefly constructed, are stone, wood, and factitious substances, are tiles and bricks. The first adopting of these materials, and, of course, the style of building, must have been recommended by the resources of the country. The law, however, which determines their arrangement is universal, arising from exigencies over which taste, and even ingenuity, exert limited control. This evidently arises from the nature of the question; for, since a mass of stone is heavier in all, and weaker in most positions, than timber of equal dimensions, the whole congeries of supporting and supported members—that is, the whole system of architecture will be affected as the one or the other material is employed. Thus, in wooden erections, the supporting members may be much fewer and less massive than in structures of stone; because, in the former, the horizontal or supported parts are both lighter, and will carry an incumbent weight—as a roof—over a much wider interval than in the latter. It is apparent, also, even for the ordinary purposes of stability, that, in constructing edifices of stone, whether of the perpendicular or horizontal members, the dimensions would be greater than in elevations of wood; and in the case of columnar structures, that the altitude, in proportion to the diameter, would be far less in stone than in timber supports. Hence, the two grand characteristics of a massive or solemn, and a light or airy, architecture. Hence, also, when genius and taste had begun to consider the arrangements of necessity and use in the relations of effect and beauty, new combinations would be attempted, which approached to one or other of these leading divisions. It must, however, be obvious, that the field of these experiments is narrowed by the very principles on which they would be first suggested. In the art we are now considering, the human agent has less power over the inertness of matter than in any other. Imagination comes in contact with reality at every step, and the laws of nature impress the boundaries of that reality, not at the risk of absurdity, but of very being. Beauty becomes here, not the creation of fantasy—a something pleasing only as it reflects our associations, or harmonizes with our feelings; but is more especially the creation of science—the object of demonstrative wisdom. Hence, perfect architectural beauty is the most sublime and the most rational of the objects of taste; because, while the susceptibilities of mind are awakened, the powers of judgment are gratified, by the certainty with which the sources of pleasure can be traced. We feel the arrangement to be beautiful; we know that it is necessary. Hence, also, the perfect modes—the true combinations of the art—are few; the error in departing from them great.

These refined perceptions do not indeed pertain to the period now contemplated; but the facility with which they can be connected with the first practice of the art, evinces how deeply rooted are the real and substantial precepts of architectural design. The leading views, also, in regard to the influence of material upon form, proportion, and distribution of parts, are supported by early history.

In Egypt, a country destitute of wood, the most ancient erections were in imitation of the natural caves in which the rude inhabitants had sought a wretched shelter. In a later age, yet one which far transcends the authentic researches of history, were reared those mysterious edifices, still standing as landmarks between known and unknown time. In the ponderous members of these solemn piles, the narrowness of the intervals, the crowded pillars, the massive base, and the lessened perpendicular, is found every principle previously assumed as characteristic of that architecture, which would be governed by necessity before the sensation of beauty had been felt, or at least methodized. Here, also, appears the first species of architectural design. Again, in that region of Asia, already noticed as the scene of the earliest recorded labours of the art, wood was abundant. From the descriptions of Holy Writ we accordingly find, that this material was much employed even in their most sacred and important buildings. Thus, though few details capable of giving any just architectural notions, are preserved of Solomon's Temple, it is yet plain, that cedar wood was the chief material both for roofs and columns, that is, both for supported and supporting members. Hence, the temples of Palestine, and of Syria generally, by which we understand the Asia of the Old Testament, already described, were more spacious, but less durable than those of Egypt, and with fewer upright supports. Of this, a singularly striking proof occurs in the catastrophe of the House of Dagon, when Samson, by overturning only two columns, brought down the whole fabric.

In an edifice constructed on the plan of the Egyptian Temple, where pillar stands crowded behind pillar, in range beyond range, to give support to the ponderous architrave and marble roof, the overturning of two of these columns would produce but a very partial disintegration. The very circumstance, also, of there being no remains in a country where once stood the most renowned cities, proves the perishable nature of the substance chiefly employed. There is evidence, also, that stone and wood were often, perhaps usually, combined—the first as a columnar or pier-like support, for horizontal beams of the latter. This plainly appears to have been the case in the oldest ruin existing in this part of the world, namely, Persepolis, where the marble columns evidently bear marks of having been connected by cross beams of wood, and to have supported a roof of the same light structure. Hence the easy conflagration of this abode of the Persian kings, in a debauch of Alexander. The columns are loftier, further apart, and fewer in number, than in Egypt. Had not the illustration of the general subject been of more importance in the establishment of this point, reference might at once have been made to the early temples of Greece, which, even to the age of Xerxes, were structures of wood; and to the well-known difference of style between them and those of Egypt. Thus we have the second species of architectural design; and again find the facts, recounted by history, according with deductions from a priori consideration of the nature, objects, and origin, of the art itself. It may afford illustration of the certainty with which the principles of reasoning operate, while the fact is singular, that ancient writers describe the huts of the nomadic tribes on their dispersion, or, at least, the earliest recorded residences of mankind, as composed of poles, formed of the branches of trees, fixed in the earth, enclosing a circular space, and meeting at top, the sloping sides being covered with leaves, reeds, or skins. This is exactly the wigwam of the aboriginal inhabitant of America. So much is man the creature of the same instincts, under similar circumstances.

Climate will necessarily operate a considerable effect upon the external arrangements of architecture. According to the latitude of the situation, buildings will be contrived to admit or exclude the sun, to give shelter from biting cold, or to secure against scorching heat, or merely to yield shade, without immediate reference to either extreme. All these, however, will not affect the internal harmonies or proprieties of the constituent parts. Climate, therefore, is only modifying, not creative, as the two preceding causes; it may suggest composition, but hardly design; for, with the exception of the pointed or flat roof, according to the humidity or dryness of the atmosphere, consequently the angular pediment surmounting the horizontal lines of the entablature, little of real form or order has been added, or materially influenced, by climate. This cause, however, has given rise to, or permitted, many picturesque combinations.

Purpose, besides the constitutional effects upon the science already described, necessarily occasions the various classes under which the labours of the architect may be arranged. Architecture, by this principle, is separated into two grand divisions—Civil and Military. The former of these, from its greater variety of purpose, is further subdivided into subordinate heads, namely, placing each in the order of its probable antiquity, Sacred, Monumental, Municipal, and Domestic. These modifications of purpose do not, indeed, give novel principles, nor do they affect any of the conclusions already explained; they have only, though strongly, influenced the practice of the art. In presenting an abstract of the history of the science of Architecture, then, it is not requisite to dwell particularly upon these divisions, nor to be guided by them in the future arrangement of our matter. But as we may occasionally revert, by a passing word, to the obvious distinctions which are thus perceived, a short explanation, especially as several scattered particulars of very early times can thus be properly assembled, will here be useful.

Sacred Architecture is a term sufficiently expressive of its own import. It was the primitive effort of the present race of man; the first impress of his existence left upon the soil, yet moist from the waters of the deluge, was the erection of an altar; and the noblest evidence of his most accomplished skill has been a temple:

From the 'altar builded by Noah,' how interesting to follow out the effects of one uncontrollable, but, when unguided, erring sentiment in the steadfast piles—'works of Memphian kings,' in the glorious proportions of Greece, where

rear their graceful height, looking tranquil magnificence—down even to the rude circle of grey stones on the bleak heath! For this inquiry, visible materials are indeed wanting; but does not the Word of Truth supply the general inference, 'The imaginations of man's heart are wicked—he has sought out many inventions—but I will be honored among the generations of men?'

Incidental allusion has already been made to the marvellous fabric reared by Solomon, which, if not in grace, in splendor of decoration appears to have exceeded all the erections of the early ages, and is the first of which written notice remains. The descriptions of this building enable us to form a reunion of the arts of Sculpture and Architecture at the commencement of the tenth century before Christ. This date, however, we consider to be at least six hundred years later than the era of any Egyptian monument, not of brick, now extant throughout the whole course of the Nile. In considering, also, the countries whence Solomon obtained workmen, will be remarked the confirmation of the preceding observations on the originating causes of styles in architecture. The hewers of stone, we are informed, were from Egypt; and the solid substructions of the Jewish temple, the massive proportions of the separate parts—resemblances still more striking in Josephus' account of the second edifice—show exactly the same principles and practice as can to this day be traced in the Egyptian structures. From Phoenicia, again, a country abounding in timber, were brought the most skilful 'hewers of wood,' that is, workmen instructed in the arts of the joiner and carpenter, and also, as may be inferred from various descriptions of the ornamental appendages, of the carver or sculptor in wood,—'and the cedar of the house within was carved with open knops and flowers;' again, and 'he made two cherubims of olive tree.' These sculptures, however, might have been finished, and, from the state of art in that country, most probably were the work of artists from Egypt. There can be no doubt that the 'House,' as the magnificent pile is emphatically termed, was of a quadrangular outline, erected upon a solid platform of stone, bearing a strong resemblance to the ancient temples still extant. Indeed, there is, in this respect, a most striking analogy between the dimensions as given in Scripture, and those of the oldest Greek temples, especially of Ægina and PÆstum. This latter we have examined, and, agreeing to the fidelity of the grounds upon which Wilkins has founded his reasonings, in the admirable dissertation on this subject in his preface to the 'Antiquities of Magna Grecia,' we cannot coincide in the final conclusion, that the Greeks borrowed the Doric order from this ancient temple of Solomon. Reference to this subject is hereafter to be made. In the meantime, while facts are fresh in the mind, it must be obvious to the reader, that, since the shell or carcass of the temple of Jerusalem was of stone, and built by Egyptian workmen, alone skilled in that material, the general arrangements would resemble those of the Egyptian temples. Consequently, the Greeks and the Jews, deriving their leading orders from one source, would naturally, though unconsciously, imitate each other. Again, since wood was employed in every part of the roof and interior by Solomon, on the principles already explained, the relative proportions of the parts, and the number of the supports, would necessarily be different, compared with the similar members of Egyptian art. But the Greeks also in part followed the laws of wooden structure; consequently both differing, on similar principles, from the original model, would yet preserve mutual resemblance in that very difference.

Monumental Architecture, deriving its origin from allied feelings and associations, would be coeval, or nearly so, with the origin of sacred. Indeed, it is not possible always to separate the two distinct purposes. Monuments have two objects in view—to honor the memory of the dead, and to preserve remembrance of the transactions of the living; both of which are recorded in Scripture. The material of a monumental erection, and consequently its design, will always, in early times, be determined by the circumstances of the vicinity, with the sole exception of wood. Hence pillars of stone, and mounds of earth, are the primitive records of both life and death. In a more advanced age, when stone could not be readily procured, brick would be employed. The magnitude and beauty will accord with the skill of the times. Hence arise sources of determining the relative antiquity of monuments, and the circumstances of the age. Under almost every privation of means, and in all countries, 'heaped earth' would present a durable and an accessible material. Hence the universality of this species of monument throughout the globe. This primitive accumulation of efforts—for an earthen mound can be considered as nothing more—seems to have given origin to the most gigantic labours of human architecture. The pyramids of Egypt, and the cognate structures of India, seem to be imitations, wonderful indeed, of the more ancient barrow. They are, in fact, but mounds of higher art and more valuable materials. Their intermediate forms, indeed, may be traced in both countries, at least in the curve which would bound the perpendicular section of the mound. In India, however, pyramids seem, from the extent of the interior, and the facility of access, to have been chiefly intended for places of crowded resort—most likely, therefore, temples. In Egypt, again, the single chamber, the imperviously closed entrance, appear to indicate with precision their original destination to have been sepulchral. It has already been remarked, that the Arts are themselves their own best interpreters, and that little faith is to be placed in the remote analogies of philology, which have too frequently been admitted in evidence beyond their value; but it has often been matter of surprise, that two words, belonging to the most ancient forms of the Syriac language, should have been overlooked in the numerous derivations of the word pyramid. Peer and Muid, as the words in question may be rendered in our characters, united, as in Eastern languages, forming compound expressions, would give almost identical sound, and in signification, 'the hill or mountain of the dead,' would be nearer the purpose and appearance than any derivation with which we are acquainted.

Under the head of Municipal Architecture is included every application of the science to those purposes of social life not included under the former heads, such as public buildings of all descriptions connected with the civil business of life, up to the arrangements of entire cities. Men, therefore, must have been assembled together for some time, they must have agreed upon certain compacts and regulations of society, before this branch could have made any progress in the world. Yet we find, that not more than a century after the flood, a city was begun, a fact already attempted to be explained; and to what was then said it may be farther added, that the Tower of Babel, which belonged to this city, was clearly monumental—it was 'to make a name.' Although no vestiges of the ancient cities of Asia or of Egypt remain, sufficient from inspection to corroborate the descriptions of history, these lead to the belief, that, in many instances, the plan and architecture were both regular and grand. The reader, however, ought to be on his guard against the amplifications of Scriptural and Homeric accounts contained in later authorities, in as far as the former describe relatively, according to the state of things in their own age and experience; whereas the latter, too often forgetting this distinction, convey the impression, that grandeur and magnificence were absolute. Yet, even with this abatement, there remains sufficient ground of admiration in the ideas excited of Thebes, Babylon, Nineveh, or Memphis. There appears, in this respect, a very striking difference between the cities of the second age, after the arts had migrated into Europe. Many circumstances tend to confirm the opinion, that, even in Greece, Municipal Architecture in general was not much studied, and that there were few, if any, really fine cities among the numerous capitals of that country. Their magnificence was concentrated in particular spots—in their agorai, or squares. Their temples usually stood apart; so that, like the cities of modern Italy, whatever might be the beauty, or the romantic effect of their distant appearance, internally, they often appear to have been little more than an irregular assemblage of narrow winding streets. Such we know Athens to have been to a very late period. Sparta was long an unwalled village. Argos, Thebes, or Corinth, cannot be placed in comparison with the before mentioned capitals of Asia and Egypt. Even Rome, to the age of Nero, was crowded, unwholesome, and mean, over a great portion of its less important surface. In one respect, however, it seems to have differed greatly from every other ancient city of which we read, namely, in the great elevation of the houses; in almost every other instance we are led to an opposite inference, which is further corroborated by the present appearance of Pompeii.

With the Domestic Architecture of the primitive ages, to which our accounts have hitherto been confined, the acquaintance to be obtained is exceedingly limited. In the description of Solomon's Palace, and in various passages of Homer, considerable details are given of the palatial dwellings; but how the greater part of mankind were lodged, few means of determining remain. Protection against the vicissitudes of climate would first employ the instinctive ingenuity of man; next, conveniency would be consulted, by enlarging the dimensions of his abode. Both these objects might be obtained, while yet the original circular area was retained. As some ideas, however, of the comforts and decencies of life prevailed, seclusion of the different orders and sexes in the members of the family would be sought; and hence division of one common apartment into separate portions. But as circular space admits of division very imperfectly, and with loss, this new necessity would introduce, or at least render permanent, the rectangular shape of the domestic abode.

Military Architecture is but little connected with the history of the science, from the peculiar nature of those principles of construction which it recognises. Here design is regulated by circumstances external to the art, and which, therefore, though enriched by novel combinations in its later and more impure modes, received originally no component elements, from a branch which has universally and largely engrossed the attention of mankind. The application of architecture to the purposes of defence, would not take place till a comparatively later period in the history of the species. Men would previously have acquired ideas of the right and value of property, and divided into separate communities by political or moral distinctions. Mere defence would be the first object in military erections; a wall, a rampart, or barrier, of altitude and strength sufficient to resist, or rather to disappoint, any sudden attack, would be all for some time required; and, subsequently, with facility of access to the summit, for the purpose of hurling stones from vantage ground upon the assailants, these defences for long would be complete, by the obvious addition of a ditch. As the arts of violence, and especially as missile warfare improved, experience would point out the impossibility of defending, even with a ditch, a long unbroken line of wall, consistently with the safety of the defenders, who, in the attempt to overlook the whole, would necessarily be exposed to the hostile weapons. To obviate this defect, and that the whole line might be seen, and the approaches commanded from points within itself, towers projecting beyond the face of the wall were constructed, thus finishing the whole of the science of ancient fortification. Cities, with towers and battlements on this plan, were found by the Jews in Syria, where they had existed for ten centuries before. The same was the system of the Greeks and Romans; and all the varieties of feudal defences are but applications, and even the inventions now in use are but modifications of the primeval fortress, which, in adaptations to the exigencies and science of the time, have also removed from it all picturesque effect and all scenic grandeur, such as the fortalice of old, even in its 'ruins grey,' yet produces.

Such is a rapid sketch of the origin and principles of architectural design; and such the extent to which, in practice, history informs us they had been carried in the ancient world. The details, necessarily very imperfect, now given, belong to what may be termed the first age in the history of the art. The second era commences with the earliest appearances of regular architectural science in Europe, marked by the erection of temples in Greece, soon after, or nearly contemporary with, the labours of Solomon, which were commenced 1015 B. C.

Before entering upon European art, it will be useful, as formerly hinted, briefly to examine the monuments still existing in Egypt of the architecture of the first age,—the probable sources of those primitive modes, which, adopted in rudeness, by Grecian taste refined and matured, have become immutable. In addition to what has already been stated in the first article, and in reference to the present subject, it will be necessary merely to explain the general character and principles of these aboriginal structures, with the view of ascertaining whether, and to what extent, these have influenced the subsequent and more perfect science of the Grecian architect.

Of ancient Egypt, the government was not only peculiar, but contemplated peculiar results—pursued, too, with undeviating purpose, through an unknown succession of ages. Hence the enduring greatness of the works it has left; but as the ends were, from the commencement, so fixed as to forbid progressive means, hence the uniformity of imperfect character in these labours, exhibiting much of the elements, but none of the perfections of taste.

The eternal durability to which, in all things, the hierarchy aspired, pointed out a style of architecture, especially in their sacred buildings, retaining, as most substantial, only the simplest forms and the largest masses. Hence, in these mysterious structures, whatever deficiency may be perceived in beauty or grace, is compensated by vastness and simplicity, the most powerful elements of the grand. In beholding these mighty fabrics, then, even laying aside the associations of unnumbered centuries, if neither the most refined nor agreeable emotions be experienced, the imagination is exalted to a high pitch of awe, astonishment, and admiration. Long withdrawing lines, unbroken surfaces, simple contours, immense blocks, even while the individual forms are destitute of proportion, harmony, or grace, will ever produce a solemn sublimity of effect.

But it now occurs to inquire, before the merit of rational design can be granted, or these architectonic labours admitted among the works of genius,—Do these lofty effects arise from principle, or are they purely accidental? Are they the meditated results of science and taste, or are they merely inevitable consequences of the large and enduring style which the political system recommended?

Upon the nature of the reply to these questions will, in a great measure, depend the rank of the Greeks, as original inventors and refiners of taste in architecture. Now, there can be no doubt that in these, to use Strabo's expression, 'barbarous monuments of painful labour,' the sublimity and imposing solemnity of the general effect is incidental, not inherent. It is the grandeur of mass, not of proportion. The imagination is subdued, indeed, by vastness, but neither is the fancy delighted by tracing a well preserved resemblance to any acknowledged prototype, nor is the judgment instructed by the contemplation of a harmony consistent in itself, though deriving its elements from no immediate source. We discover neither imitation nor creative taste, for imitation is ever destroyed by some monstrous incongruity, and originality becomes aimless through interminable variety of accessories. As a science, then, beyond the rules necessarily imposed by the leading intention of durability, we detect nothing in the architecture of Egypt like the universal harmony given to it in Greece. The same is the character of Indian art, with still more of incongruous union; for here the massive simplicity of the original, or at least earliest source, for so we have already shown Egyptian art to be, is broken down and loaded with frittered and pretending ornament, Syria, or the vast district lying between, furnishes nothing beyond conjecture, or rather in the only instance, that of Solomon's labours, where we attain some information on which implicit reliance may be placed—clear manifestations are discovered of mixed art, in which that of Egypt predominated. Thus, in the whole of the ancient world, about a thousand years before our present era, and when the Greeks first, or soon after, began to erect temples, there existed no science complete in itself, or whose principles even had been elicited from the chaotic mass of materials, by which they could have been directed, in their own matchless monuments. Whatever of grace and of beauty—of dignity and truth—of sublimity and harmonious proportion,—whatever of architectonic excellence, grounded on the most profound principles of taste, and established on the sure basis of geometry,—whatever of all this can be discovered in the building of Greece, she owes it to the superiority of native genius. Yet the obligations to Egyptian predecessors were neither few nor unimportant. The rectangular area, in which the breadth should bear a proportion less to the length, a shape of all others best adapted to beauty and convenience, was introduced. A still less obvious source of almost every higher beauty in the science—columnar architecture—was there practised so early, that whether it originated in the country, or was introduced, is unknown. Even the system of ornament may, in its rise at least, be traced in these primeval remains; for not a single detail afterwards introduced may not, in a rudimental, often nearly perfected state, be remarked; especially the beautiful idea of floral ornaments. Lastly, in the works of Egyptian art, very perfect examples of mechanical practice, both in dressing and laying the materials, might be observed in almost every instance. All these elements, however, the last excepted, jarring among themselves, whether as wholes or parts, were to be selected, arranged, methodized, and animated by grace, harmony, nobleness,—in short, the science of architecture was yet to be created.