II. It is as the centralisation and protectress of this sacred influence, that Architecture is to be regarded by us with the most serious thought. We may live without her, and worship without her, but we cannot remember without her. How cold is all history how lifeless all imagery, compared to that which the living nation writes, and the uncorrupted marble bears! how many pages of doubtful record might we not often spare, for a few stones left one upon another! The ambition of the old Babel builders was well directed for this world: there are but two strong conquerors47 of the forgetfulness of men, Poetry and Architecture; and the latter in some sort includes the former, and is mightier48 in its reality; it is well to have, not only what men have thought and felt, but what their hands have handled, and their strength wrought49, and their eyes beheld50, all the days of their life. The age of Homer is surrounded with darkness, his very personality with doubt. Not so that of Pericles: and the day is coming when we shall confess, that we have learned more of Greece out of the crumbled51 fragments of her sculpture than even from her sweet singers or soldier historians. And if indeed there be any profit in our knowledge of the past, or any joy in the thought of being remembered hereafter, which can give strength to present exertion52, or patience to present endurance, there are two duties respecting national architecture whose importance it is impossible to overrate; the first, to render the architecture of the[Pg 170] day historical; and, the second, to preserve, as the most precious of inheritances, that of past ages.
III. It is in the first of these two directions that Memory may truly be said to be the Sixth Lamp of Architecture; for it is in becoming memorial or monumental that a true perfection is attained53 by civil and domestic buildings; and this partly as they are, with such a view, built in a more stable manner, and partly as their decorations are consequently animated55 by a metaphorical56 or historical meaning.
As regards domestic buildings, there must always be a certain limitation to views of this kind in the power, as well as in the hearts, of men; still I cannot but think it an evil sign of a people when their houses are built to last for one generation only. There is a sanctity in a good man's house which cannot be renewed in every tenement57 that rises on its ruins: and I believe that good men would generally feel this; and that having spent their lives happily and honorably, they would be grieved at the close of them to think that the place of their earthly abode58, which had seen, and seemed almost to sympathise in all their honor, their gladness, or their suffering,—that this, with all the record it bare of them, and all of material things that they had loved and ruled over, and set the stamp of themselves upon—was to be swept away, as soon as there was room made for them in the grave; that no respect was to be shown to it, no affection felt for it, no good to be drawn13 from it by their children; that though there was a monument in the church, there was no warm monument in the heart and house to them; that all that they ever treasured was despised, and the places that had sheltered and comforted them were dragged down to the dust. I say that a good man would fear this; and that, far more, a good son, a noble descendant, would fear doing it to his father's house. I say that if men lived like men indeed, their houses would be temples—temples which we should hardly dare to injure, and in which it would make us holy to be permitted to live; and there must be a strange dissolution of natural affection, a strange unthankfulness for all that homes have given and parents taught, a strange consciousness that we have been unfaithful to our fathers' honor, or that[Pg 171] our own lives are not such as would make our dwellings61 sacred to our children, when each man would fain build to himself, and build for the little revolution of his own life only. And I look upon those pitiful concretions of lime and clay which spring up in mildewed62 forwardness out of the kneaded fields about our capital—upon those thin, tottering63, foundationless shells of splintered wood and imitated stone—upon those gloomy rows of formalised minuteness, alike without difference and without fellowship, as solitary64 as similar—not merely with the careless disgust of an offended eye, not merely with sorrow for a desecrated66 landscape, but with a painful foreboding that the roots of our national greatness must be deeply cankered when they are thus loosely struck in their native ground; that those comfortless and unhonored dwellings are the signs of a great and spreading spirit of popular discontent; that they mark the time when every man's aim is to be in some more elevated sphere than his natural one, and every man's past life is his habitual67 scorn; when men build in the hope of leaving the places they have built, and live in the hope of forgetting the years that they have lived; when the comfort, the peace, the religion of home have ceased to be felt; and the crowded tenements68 of a struggling and restless population differ only from the tents of the Arab or the Gipsy by their less healthy openness to the air of heaven, and less happy choice of their spot of earth; by their sacrifice of liberty without the gain of rest, and of stability without the luxury of change.
IV. This is no slight, no consequenceless evil: it is ominous69, infectious, and fecund70 of other fault and misfortune. When men do not love their hearths71, nor reverence72 their thresholds, it is a sign that they have dishonored both, and that they have never acknowledged the true universality of that Christian73 worship which was indeed to supersede74 the idolatry, but not the piety75, of the pagan. Our God is a household God, as well as a heavenly one; He has an altar in every man's dwelling60; let men look to it when they rend it lightly and pour out its ashes. It is not a question of mere65 ocular delight, it is no question of intellectual pride, or of cultivated and critical fancy, how, and with what aspect of durability[Pg 172] and of completeness, the domestic buildings of a nation shall be raised. It is one of those moral duties, not with more impunity76 to be neglected because the perception of them depends on a finely toned and balanced conscientiousness77, to build our dwellings with care, and patience, and fondness, and diligent78 completion, and with a view to their duration at least for such a period as, in the ordinary course of national revolutions, might be supposed likely to extend to the entire alteration79 of the direction of local interests. This at the least; but it would be better if, in every possible instance, men built their own houses on a scale commensurate rather with their condition at the commencement, than their attainments80 at the termination, of their worldly career; and built them to stand as long as human work at its strongest can be hoped to stand; recording81 to their children what they have been, and from what, if so it had been permitted them, they had risen. And when houses are thus built, we may have that true domestic architecture, the beginning of all other, which does not disdain82 to treat with respect and thoughtfulness the small habitation as well as the large, and which invests with the dignity of contented83 manhood the narrowness of worldly circumstance.
V. I look to this spirit of honorable, proud, peaceful self-possession, this abiding84 wisdom of contented life, as probably one of the chief sources of great intellectual power in all ages, and beyond dispute as the very primal85 source of the great architecture of old Italy and France. To this day, the interest of their fairest cities depends, not on the isolated86 richness of palaces, but on the cherished and exquisite87 decoration of even the smallest tenements of their proud periods. The most elaborate piece of architecture in Venice is a small house at the head of the Grand Canal, consisting of a ground floor with two stories above, three windows in the first, and two in the second. Many of the most exquisite buildings are on the narrower canals, and of no larger dimensions. One of the most interesting pieces of fifteenth century architecture in North Italy, is a small house in a back street, behind the market-place of Vicenza; it bears date 1481, and the motto,[Pg 173] Il. n'est. rose. sans. épine; it has also only a ground floor and two stories, with three windows in each, separated by rich flower-work, and with balconies, supported, the central one by an eagle with open wings, the lateral89 ones by winged griffins standing90 on cornucopi?. The idea that a house must be large in order to be well built, is altogether of modern growth, and is parallel with the idea, that no picture can be historical, except of a size admitting figures larger than life.
VI. I would have, then, our ordinary dwelling-houses built to last, and built to be lovely; as rich and full of pleasantness as may be, within and without; with what degree of likeness91 to each other in style and manner, I will say presently, under another head; but, at all events, with such differences as might suit and express each man's character and occupation, and partly his history. This right over the house, I conceive, belongs to its first builder, and is to be respected by his children; and it would be well that blank stones should be left in places, to be inscribed92 with a summary of his life and of its experience, raising thus the habitation into a kind of monument, and developing, into more systematic93 instructiveness, that good custom which was of old universal, and which still remains94 among some of the Swiss and Germans, of acknowledging the grace of God's permission to build and possess a quiet resting-place, in such sweet words as may well close our speaking of these things. I have taken them from the front of a cottage lately built among the green pastures which descend59 from the village of Grindelwald to the lower glacier:—
"Mit herzlichem Vertrauen
Hat Johannes Mooter und Maria Rubi
Dieses Haus bauen lassen.
Der liebe Gott woll uns bewahren
Vor allem Unglück und Gefahren,
Und es in Segen lassen stehn
Auf der Reise durch diese Jammerzeit
Nach dem himmlischen Paradiese,
Wo alle Frommen wohnen,
Da wird Gott sie belohnen
Mit der Friedenskrone
Zu alle Ewigkeit."
[Pg 174]
VII. In public buildings the historical purpose should be still more definite. It is one of the advantages of Gothic architecture,—I use the word Gothic in the most extended sense as broadly opposed to classical,—that it admits of a richness of record altogether unlimited95. Its minute and multitudinous sculptural decorations afford means of expressing, either symbolically97 or literally98, all that need be known of national feeling or achievement. More decoration will, indeed, be usually required than can take so elevated a character; and much, even in the most thoughtful periods, has been left to the freedom of fancy, or suffered to consist of mere repetitions of some national bearing or symbol. It is, however, generally unwise, even in mere surface ornament99, to surrender the power and privilege of variety which the spirit of Gothic architecture admits; much more in important features—capitals of columns or bosses, and string-courses, as of course in all confessed bas-reliefs. Better the rudest work that tells a story or records a fact, than the richest without meaning. There should not be a single ornament put upon great civic100 buildings, without some intellectual intention. Actual representation of history has in modern times been checked by a difficulty, mean indeed, but steadfast101: that of unmanageable costume; nevertheless, by a sufficiently102 bold imaginative treatment, and frank use of symbols, all such obstacles may be vanquished103; not perhaps in the degree necessary to produce sculpture in itself satisfactory, but at all events so as to enable it to become a grand and expressive104 element of architectural composition. Take, for example, the management of the capitals of the ducal palace at Venice. History, as such, was indeed entrusted105 to the painters of its interior, but every capital of its arcades106 was filled with meaning. The large one, the corner stone of the whole, next the entrance, was devoted107 to the symbolisation of Abstract Justice; above it is a sculpture of the Judgment108 of Solomon, remarkable109 for a beautiful subjection in its treatment to its decorative110 purpose. The figures, if the subject had been entirely111 composed of them, would have awkwardly interrupted the line of the angle, and diminished its apparent strength; and therefore in the midst of them, entirely without[Pg 175] relation to them, and indeed actually between the executioner and interceding112 mother, there rises the ribbed trunk of a massy tree, which supports and continues the shaft113 of the angle, and whose leaves above overshadow and enrich the whole. The capital below bears among its leafage a throned figure of Justice, Trajan doing justice to the widow, Aristotle "che die legge," and one or two other subjects now unintelligible114 from decay. The capitals next in order represent the virtues115 and vices116 in succession, as preservative117 or destructive of national peace and power, concluding with Faith, with the inscription118 "Fides optima in Deo est." A figure is seen on the opposite side of the capital, worshipping the sun. After these, one or two capitals are fancifully decorated with birds (Plate V.), and then come a series representing, first the various fruits, then the national costumes, and then the animals of the various countries subject to Venetian rule.
VIII. Now, not to speak of any more important public building, let us imagine our own India House adorned119 in this way, by historical or symbolical96 sculpture: massively built in the first place; then chased with bas-reliefs of our Indian battles, and fretted120 with carvings122 of Oriental foliage123, or inlaid with Oriental stones; and the more important members of its decoration composed of groups of Indian life and landscape, and prominently expressing the phantasms of Hindoo worship in their subjection to the Cross. Would not one such work be better than a thousand histories? If, however, we have not the invention necessary for such efforts, or if, which is probably one of the most noble excuses we can offer for our deficiency in such matters, we have less pleasure in talking about ourselves, even in marble, than the Continental124 nations, at least we have no excuse for any want of care in the points which insure the building's endurance. And as this question is one of great interest in its relations to the choice of various modes of decoration, it will be necessary to enter into it at some length.
IX. The benevolent125 regards and purposes of men in masses seldom can be supposed to extend beyond their own generation. They may look to posterity126 as an audience, may hope for its attention, and labor88 for its praise: they may trust to[Pg 176] its recognition of unacknowledged merit, and demand its justice for contemporary wrong. But all this is mere selfishness, and does not involve the slightest regard to, or consideration of, the interest of those by whose numbers we would fain swell the circle of our flatterers, and by whose authority we would gladly support our presently disputed claims. The idea of self-denial for the sake of posterity, of practising present economy for the sake of debtors127 yet unborn, of planting forests that our descendants may live under their shade, or of raising cities for future nations to inhabit, never, I suppose, efficiently128 takes place among publicly recognised motives129 of exertion. Yet these are not the less our duties; nor is our part fitly sustained upon the earth, unless the range of our intended and deliberate usefulness include not only the companions, but the successors, of our pilgrimage. God has lent us the earth for our life; it is a great entail130. It belongs as much to those who are to come after us, and whose names are already written in the book of creation, as to us; and we have no right, by anything that we do or neglect, to involve them in unnecessary penalties, or deprive them of benefits which it was in our power to bequeath. And this the more, because it is one of the appointed conditions of the labor of men that, in proportion to the time between the seed-sowing and the harvest, is the fulness of the fruit; and that generally, therefore, the farther off we place our aim, and the less we desire to be ourselves the witnesses of what we have labored131 for, the more wide and rich will be the measure of our success. Men cannot benefit those that are with them as they can benefit those who come after them; and of all the pulpits from which human voice is ever sent forth, there is none from which it reaches so far as from the grave.
X. Nor is there, indeed, any present loss, in such respect, for futurity. Every human action gains in honor, in grace, in all true magnificence, by its regard to things that are to come. It is the far sight, the quiet and confident patience, that, above all other attributes, separate man from man, and near him to his Maker132; and there is no action nor art, whose majesty133 we may not measure by this test. Therefore, when we build, let[Pg 177] us think that we build for ever. Let it not be for present delight, nor for present use alone; let it be such work as our descendants will thank us for, and let us think, as we lay stone on stone, that a time is to come when those stones will be held sacred because our hands have touched them, and that men will say as they look upon the labor and wrought substance of them, "See! this our fathers did for us." For, indeed, the greatest glory of a building is not in its stones, or in its gold. Its glory is in its Age, and in that deep sense of voicefulness, of stern watching, of mysterious sympathy, nay134, even of approval or condemnation135, which we feel in walls that have long been washed by the passing waves of humanity. It is in their lasting136 witness against men, in their quiet contrast with the transitional character of all things, in the strength which, through the lapse137 of seasons and times, and the decline and birth of dynasties, and the changing of the face of the earth, and of the limits of the sea, maintains its sculptured shapeliness for a time insuperable, connects forgotten and following ages with each other, and half constitutes the identity, as it concentrates the sympathy, of nations; it is in that golden stain of time, that we are to look for the real light, and color, and preciousness of architecture; and it is not until a building has assumed this character, till it has been entrusted with the fame, and hallowed by the deeds of men, till its walls have been witnesses of suffering, and its pillars rise out of the shadows of death, that its existence, more lasting as it is than that of the natural objects of the world around it, can be gifted with even so much as these possess of language and of life.
XI. For that period, then, we must build; not, indeed, refusing to ourselves the delight of present completion, nor hesitating to follow such portions of character as may depend upon delicacy138 of execution to the highest perfection of which they are capable, even although we may know that in the course of years such details must perish; but taking care that for work of this kind we sacrifice no enduring quality, and that the building shall not depend for its impressiveness upon anything that is perishable41. This would, indeed, be the law of good composition under any circumstances, the arrange[Pg 178]ment of the larger masses being always a matter of greater importance than the treatment of the smaller; but in architecture there is much in that very treatment which is skilful139 or otherwise in proportion to its just regard to the probable effects of time: and (which is still more to be considered) there is a beauty in those effects themselves, which nothing else can replace, and which it is our wisdom to consult and to desire. For though, hitherto, we have been speaking of the sentiment of age only, there is an actual beauty in the marks of it, such and so great as to have become not unfrequently the subject of especial choice among certain schools of art, and to have impressed upon those schools the character usually and loosely expressed by the term "picturesque140." It is of some importance to our present purpose to determine the true meaning of this expression, as it is now generally used; for there is a principle to be developed from that use which, while it has occultly been the ground of much that is true and just in our judgment of art, has never been so far understood as to become definitely serviceable. Probably no word in the language (exclusive of theological expressions), has been the subject of so frequent or so prolonged dispute; yet none remained more vague in their acceptance, and it seems to me to be a matter of no small interest to investigate the essence of that idea which all feel, and (to appearance) with respect to similar things, and yet which every attempt to define has, as I believe, ended either in mere enumeration141 of the effects and objects to which the term has been attached, or else in attempts at abstraction more palpably nugatory142 than any which have disgraced metaphysical investigation143 on other subjects. A recent critic on Art, for instance, has gravely advanced the theory that the essence of the picturesque consists in the expression of "universal decay." It would be curious to see the result of an attempt to illustrate144 this idea of the picturesque, in a painting of dead flowers and decayed fruit, and equally curious to trace the steps of any reasoning which, on such a theory, should account for the picturesqueness145 of an ass3 colt as opposed to a horse foal. But there is much excuse for even the most utter failure in rea[Pg 179]sonings of this kind, since the subject is, indeed, one of the most obscure of all that may legitimately146 be submitted to human reason; and the idea is itself so varied147 in the minds of different men, according to their subjects of study, that no definition can be expected to embrace more than a certain number of its infinitely148 multiplied forms.
XII. That peculiar character, however, which separates the picturesque from the characters of subject belonging to the higher walks of art (and this is all that is necessary for our present purpose to define), may be shortly and decisively expressed. Picturesqueness, in this sense, is Parasitical149 Sublimity150. Of course all sublimity, as well as all beauty, is, in the simple etymological151 sense, picturesque, that is to say, fit to become the subject of a picture; and all sublimity is, even in the peculiar sense which I am endeavoring to develope, picturesque, as opposed to beauty; that is to say, there is more picturesqueness in the subject of Michael Angelo than of Perugino, in proportion to the prevalence of the sublime152 element over the beautiful. But that character, of which the extreme pursuit is generally admitted to be degrading to art, is parasitical sublimity; i.e., a sublimity dependent on the accidents, or on the least essential characters, of the objects to which it belongs; and the picturesque is developed distinctively153 exactly in proportion to the distance from the centre of thought of those points of character in which the sublimity is found. Two ideas, therefore, are essential to picturesqueness,—the first, that of sublimity (for pure beauty is not picturesque at all, and becomes so only as the sublime element mixes with it), and the second, the subordinate or parasitical position of that sublimity. Of course, therefore, whatever characters of line or shade or expression are productive of sublimity, will become productive of picturesqueness; what these characters are I shall endeavor hereafter to show at length; but, among those which are generally acknowledged, I may name angular and broken lines, vigorous oppositions155 of light and shadow, and grave, deep, or boldly contrasted color; and all these are in a still higher degree effective, when, by resemblance or association, they remind us of objects on which a true and essential sub[Pg 180]limity exists, as of rocks or mountains, or stormy clouds or waves. Now if these characters, or any others of a higher and more abstract sublimity, be found in the very heart and substance of what we contemplate156, as the sublimity of Michael Angelo depends on the expression of mental character in his figures far more than even on the noble lines of their arrangement, the art which represents such characters cannot be properly called picturesque: but, if they be found in the accidental or external qualities, the distinctive154 picturesque will be the result.
XIII. Thus, in the treatment of the features of the human face by Francia or Angelico, the shadows are employed only to make the contours of the features thoroughly157 felt; and to those features themselves the mind of the observer is exclusively directed (that is to say, to the essential characters of the thing represented). All power and all sublimity rest on these; the shadows are used only for the sake of the features. On the contrary, by Rembrandt, Salvator, or Caravaggio, the features are used for the sake of the shadows; and the attention is directed, and the power of the painter addressed to characters of accidental light and shade cast across or around those features. In the case of Rembrandt there is often an essential sublimity in invention and expression besides, and always a high degree of it in the light and shade itself; but it is for the most part parasitical or engrafted sublimity as regards the subject of the painting, and, just so far, picturesque.
XIV. Again, in the management of the sculptures of the Parthenon, shadow is frequently employed as a dark field on which the forms are drawn. This is visibly the case in the metopes, and must have been nearly as much so in the pediment. But the use of that shadow is entirely to show the confines of the figures; and it is to their lines, and not to the shapes of the shadows behind them, that the art and the eye are addressed. The figures themselves are conceived as much as possible in full light, aided by bright reflections; they are drawn exactly as, on vases, white figures on a dark ground: and the sculptors158 have dispensed160 with, or even struggled to[Pg 181] avoid, all shadows which were not absolutely necessary to the explaining of the form. On the contrary, in Gothic sculpture, the shadow becomes itself a subject of thought. It is considered as a dark color, to be arranged in certain agreeable masses; the figures are very frequently made even subordinate to the placing of its divisions: and their costume is enriched at the expense of the forms underneath161, in order to increase the complexity162 and variety of the points of shade. There are thus, both in sculpture and painting, two, in some sort, opposite schools, of which the one follows for its subject the essential forms of things, and the other the accidental lights and shades upon them. There are various degrees of their contrariety: middle steps, as in the works of Correggio, and all degrees of nobility and of degradation163 in the several manners: but the one is always recognised as the pure, and the other as the picturesque school. Portions of picturesque treatment will be found in Greek work, and of pure and unpicturesque in Gothic; and in both there are countless164 instances, as pre-eminently in the works of Michael Angelo, in which shadows become valuable as media of expression, and therefore take rank among essential characteristics. Into these multitudinous distinctions and exceptions I cannot now enter, desiring only to prove the broad applicability of the general definition.
XV. Again, the distinction will be found to exist, not only between forms and shades as subjects of choice, but between essential and inessential forms. One of the chief distinctions between the dramatic and picturesque schools of sculpture is found in the treatment of the hair. By the artists of the time of Pericles it was considered as an excrescence,16 indicated by few and rude lines, and subordinated in every particular to the principality of the features and person. How completely this was an artistical, not a national idea, it is unnecessary to prove. We need but remember the employment of the Laced?monians, reported by the Persian spy on the evening before the battle of Thermopyl?, or glance at any Homeric description of ideal form, to see how purely165 sculpturesque was the law which reduced the markings of the hair, lest, under the necessary disadvantages of material, they should interfere[Pg 182] with the distinctness of the personal forms. On the contrary, in later sculpture, the hair receives almost the principal care of the workman; and while the features and limbs are clumsily and bluntly executed, the hair is curled and twisted, cut into bold and shadowy projections166, and arranged in masses elaborately ornamental167: there is true sublimity in the lines and the chiaroscuro168 of these masses, but it is, as regards the creature represented, parasitical, and therefore picturesque. In the same sense we may understand the application of the term to modern animal painting, distinguished169 as it has been by peculiar attention to the colors, lustre170, and texture171 of skin; nor is it in art alone that the definition will hold. In animals themselves, when their sublimity depends upon their muscular forms or motions, or necessary and principal attributes, as perhaps more than all others in the horse, we do not call them picturesque, but consider them as peculiarly fit to be associated with pure historical subject. Exactly in proportion as their character of sublimity passes into excrescences;—into mane and beard as in the lion, into horns as in the stag, into shaggy hide as in the instance above given of the ass colt, into variegation172 as in the zebra, or into plumage,—they become picturesque, and are so in art exactly in proportion to the prominence173 of these excrescential characters. It may often be most expedient174 that they should be prominent; often there is in them the highest degree of majesty, as in those of the leopard175 and boar; and in the hands of men like Tintoret and Rubens, such attributes become means of deepening the very highest and most ideal impressions. But the picturesque direction of their thoughts is always distinctly recognizable, as clinging to the surface, to the less essential character, and as developing out of this a sublimity different from that of the creature itself; a sublimity which is, in a sort, common to all the objects of creation, and the same in its constituent176 elements, whether it be sought in the clefts and folds of shaggy hair, or in the chasms177 and rents of rocks, or in the hanging of thickets178 or hill sides, or in the alternations of gaiety and gloom in the variegation of the shell, the plume179, or the cloud.[Pg 183]
XVI. Now, to return to our immediate180 subject, it so happens that, in architecture, the superinduced and accidental beauty is most commonly inconsistent with the preservation181 of original character, and the picturesque is therefore sought in ruin, and supposed to consist in decay. Whereas, even when so sought, it consists in the mere sublimity of the rents, or fractures, or stains, or vegetation, which assimilate the architecture with the work of Nature, and bestow182 upon it those circumstances of color and form which are universally beloved by the eye of man. So far as this is done, to the extinction183 of the true characters of the architecture, it is picturesque, and the artist who looks to the stem of the ivy instead of the shaft of the pillar, is carrying out in more daring freedom the debased sculptor's choice of the hair instead of the countenance184. But so far as it can be rendered consistent with the inherent character, the picturesque or extraneous185 sublimity of architecture has just this of nobler function in it than that of any other object whatsoever186, that it is an exponent187 of age, of that in which, as has been said, the greatest glory of a building consists; and, therefore, the external signs of this glory, having power and purpose greater than any belonging to their mere sensible beauty, may be considered as taking rank among pure and essential character; so essential to my mind, that I think a building cannot be considered as in its prime until four or five centuries have passed over it; and that the entire choice and arrangement of its details should have reference to their appearance after that period, so that none should be admitted which would suffer material injury either by the weather-staining, or the mechanical degradation which the lapse of such a period would necessitate188.
XVII. It is not my purpose to enter into any of the questions which the application of this principle involves. They are of too great interest and complexity to be even touched upon within my present limits, but this is broadly to be noticed, that those styles of architecture which are picturesque in the sense above explained with respect to sculpture, that is to say, whose decoration depends on the arrangement of[Pg 184] points of shade rather than on purity of outline, do not suffer, but commonly gain in richness of effect when their details are partly worn away; hence such styles, pre-eminently that of French Gothic, should always be adopted when the materials to be employed are liable to degradation, as brick, sandstone, or soft limestone; and styles in any degree dependent on purity of line, as the Italian Gothic, must be practised altogether in hard and undecomposing materials, granite189 serpentine190, or crystalline marbles. There can be no doubt that the nature of the accessible materials influenced the formation of both styles; and it should still more authoritatively191 determine our choice of either.
XVIII. It does not belong to my present plan to consider at length the second head of duty of which I have above spoken; the preservation of the architecture we possess: but a few words may be forgiven, as especially necessary in modern times. Neither by the public, nor by those who have the care of public monuments, is the true meaning of the word restoration understood. It means the most total destruction which a building can suffer: a destruction out of which no remnants can be gathered; a destruction accompanied with false description of the thing destroyed. Do not let us deceive ourselves in this important matter; it is impossible, as impossible as to raise the dead, to restore anything that has ever been great or beautiful in architecture. That which I have above insisted upon as the life of the whole, that spirit which is given only by the hand and eye of the workman, never can be recalled. Another spirit may be given by another time, and it is then a new building; but the spirit of the dead workman cannot be summoned up, and commanded to direct other hands, and other thoughts. And as for direct and simple copying, it is palpably impossible. What copying can there be of surfaces that have been worn half an inch down? The whole finish of the work was in the half inch that is gone; if you attempt to restore that finish, you do it conjecturally192; if you copy what is left, granting fidelity194 to be possible (and what care, or watchfulness195, or cost can secure it?), how is the new work better than the old? There was yet in the old[Pg 185] some life, some mysterious suggestion of what it had been, and of what it had lost; some sweetness in the gentle lines which rain and sun had wrought. There can be none in the brute196 hardness of the new carving121. Look at the animals which I have given in Plate 14, as an instance of living work, and suppose the markings of the scales and hair once worn away, or the wrinkles of the brows, and who shall ever restore them? The first step to restoration (I have seen it, and that again and again, seen it on the Baptistery of Pisa, seen it on the Casa d' Oro at Venice, seen it on the Cathedral of Lisieux), is to dash the old work to pieces; the second is usually to put up the cheapest and basest imitation which can escape detection, but in all cases, however careful, and however labored, an imitation still, a cold model of such parts as can be modelled, with conjectural193 supplements; and my experience has as yet furnished me with only one instance, that of the Palais de Justice at Rouen, in which even this, the utmost degree of fidelity which is possible, has been attained or even attempted.
XIX. Do not let us talk then of restoration. The thing is a Lie from beginning to end. You may make a model of a building as you may of a corpse197, and your model may have the shell of the old walls within it as your cast might have the skeleton, with what advantage I neither see nor care; but the old building is destroyed, and that more totally and mercilessly than if it had sunk into a heap of dust, or melted into a mass of clay: more has been gleaned198 out of desolated199 Nineveh than ever will be out of re-built Milan. But, it is said, there may come a necessity for restoration! Granted. Look the necessity full in the face, and understand it on its own terms. It is a necessity for destruction. Accept it as such, pull the building down, throw its stones into neglected corners, make ballast of them, or mortar200, if you will; but do it honestly, and do not set up a Lie in their place. And look that necessity in the face before it comes, and you may prevent it. The principle of modern times (a principle which I believe, at least in France, to be systematically201 acted on by the masons, in order to find themselves work, as the abbey of St. Ouen was pulled down by the magistrates202 of the town by way of giving work to some[Pg 186] vagrants,) is to neglect buildings first, and restore them afterwards. Take proper care of your monuments, and you will not need to restore them. A few sheets of lead put in time upon the roof, a few dead leaves and sticks swept in time out of a water-course, will save both roof and walls from ruin. Watch an old building with an anxious care; guard it as best you may, and at any cost from every influence of dilapidation203. Count its stones as you would jewels of a crown; set watches about it as if at the gates of a besieged204 city; bind205 it together with iron where it loosens; stay it with timber where it declines; do not care about the unsightliness of the aid; better a crutch206 than a lost limb; and do this tenderly, and reverently207, and continually, and many a generation will still be born and pass away beneath its shadow. Its evil day must come at last; but let it come declaredly and openly, and let no dishonoring and false substitute deprive it of the funeral offices of memory.
XX. Of more wanton or ignorant ravage208 it is vain to speak; my words will not reach those who commit them, and yet, be it heard or not, I must not leave the truth unstated, that it is again no question of expediency209 or feeling whether we shall preserve the buildings of past times or not. We have no right whatever to touch them. They are not ours. They belong partly to those who built them, and partly to all the generations of mankind who are to follow us. The dead have still their right in them: that which they labored for, the praise of achievement or the expression of religious feeling, or whatsoever else it might be which in those buildings they intended to be permanent, we have no right to obliterate210. What we have ourselves built, we are at liberty to throw down; but what other men gave their strength, and wealth, and life to accomplish, their right over does not pass away with their death; still less is the right to the use of what they have left vested in us only. It belongs to all their successors. It may hereafter be a subject of sorrow, or a cause of injury, to millions, that we have consulted our present convenience by casting down such buildings as we choose to dispense159 with. That sorrow, that loss we have no right to inflict211. Did the cathedral of Avranches belong to the mob who destroyed it, any[Pg 187] more than it did to us, who walk in sorrow to and fro over its foundation? Neither does any building whatever belong to those mobs who do violence to it. For a mob it is, and must be always; it matters not whether enraged212, or in deliberate folly213; whether countless, or sitting in committees; the people who destroy anything causelessly are a mob, and Architecture is always destroyed causelessly. A fair building is necessarily worth the ground it stands upon, and will be so until central Africa and America shall have become as populous214 as Middlesex; nor is any cause whatever valid215 as a ground for its destruction. If ever valid, certainly not now when the place both of the past and future is too much usurped216 in our minds by the restless and discontented present. The very quietness of nature is gradually withdrawn from us; thousands who once in their necessarily prolonged travel were subjected to an influence, from the silent sky and slumbering217 fields, more effectual than known or confessed, now bear with them even there the ceaseless fever of their life; and along the iron veins218 that traverse the frame of our country, beat and flow the fiery219 pulses of its exertions220, hotter and faster every hour. All vitality221 is concentrated through those throbbing222 arteries223 into the central cities; the country is passed over like a green sea by narrow bridges, and we are thrown back in continually closer crowds upon the city gates. The only influence which can in any wise there take the place of that of the woods and fields, is the power of ancient Architecture. Do not part with it for the sake of the formal square, or of the fenced and planted walk, nor of the goodly street nor opened quay224. The pride of a city is not in these. Leave them to the crowd; but remember that there will surely be some within the circuit of the disquieted225 walls who would ask for some other spots than these wherein to walk; for some other forms to meet their sight familiarly: like him who sat so often where the sun struck from the west, to watch the lines of the dome54 of Florence drawn on the deep sky, or like those, his Hosts, who could bear daily to behold226, from their palace chambers227, the places where their fathers lay at rest, at the meeting of the dark streets of Verona.
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1
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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savageness
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| 天然，野蛮 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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anemone
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| n.海葵 | |
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vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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clefts
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| n.裂缝( cleft的名词复数 )；裂口；cleave的过去式和过去分词；进退维谷 | |
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limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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aboriginal
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| adj.（指动植物）土生的，原产地的，土著的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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valor
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| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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45
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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49
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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50
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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51
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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52
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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53
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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54
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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55
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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56
metaphorical
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| a.隐喻的，比喻的 | |
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57
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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58
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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60
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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62
mildewed
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| adj.发了霉的，陈腐的，长了霉花的v.（使）发霉，（使）长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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64
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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65
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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68
tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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69
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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fecund
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| adj.多产的，丰饶的，肥沃的 | |
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71
hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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72
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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73
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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74
supersede
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| v.替代；充任 | |
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75
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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76
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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77
conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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80
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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81
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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82
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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83
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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84
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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86
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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lateral
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| adj.侧面的，旁边的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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91
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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92
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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93
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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94
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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95
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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96
symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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symbolically
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| ad.象征地，象征性地 | |
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98
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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99
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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100
civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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101
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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102
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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103
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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104
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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105
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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107
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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108
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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109
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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110
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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111
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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112
interceding
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| v.斡旋，调解( intercede的现在分词 )；说情 | |
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113
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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114
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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115
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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116
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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117
preservative
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| n.防腐剂；防腐料；保护料；预防药 | |
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118
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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119
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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120
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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121
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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122
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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123
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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124
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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125
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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126
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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127
debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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128
efficiently
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| adv.高效率地，有能力地 | |
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129
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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130
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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131
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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132
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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133
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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134
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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135
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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136
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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137
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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138
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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139
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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140
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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141
enumeration
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| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
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142
nugatory
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| adj.琐碎的，无价值的 | |
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143
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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144
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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145
picturesqueness
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146
legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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147
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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148
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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149
parasitical
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| adj. 寄生的(符加的) | |
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150
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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151
etymological
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| adj.语源的，根据语源学的 | |
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152
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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153
distinctively
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|
| adv.特殊地，区别地 | |
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154
distinctive
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|
| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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155
oppositions
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|
| （强烈的）反对( opposition的名词复数 )； 反对党； （事业、竞赛、游戏等的）对手； 对比 | |
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156
contemplate
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|
| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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157
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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158
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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159
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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160
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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161
underneath
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|
| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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162
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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163
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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164
countless
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|
| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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165
purely
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|
| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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166
projections
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| 预测( projection的名词复数 )； 投影； 投掷； 突起物 | |
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167
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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168
chiaroscuro
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| n.明暗对照法 | |
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169
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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170
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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171
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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172
variegation
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| n.上色，彩色，斑；彩斑 | |
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173
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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174
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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175
leopard
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| n.豹 | |
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176
constituent
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|
| n.选民；成分，组分；adj.组成的，构成的 | |
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177
chasms
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| 裂缝( chasm的名词复数 )； 裂口； 分歧； 差别 | |
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178
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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179
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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180
immediate
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|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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181
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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182
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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183
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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184
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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185
extraneous
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| adj.体外的；外来的；外部的 | |
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186
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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187
exponent
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| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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188
necessitate
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| v.使成为必要，需要 | |
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189
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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190
serpentine
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|
| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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191
authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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192
conjecturally
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| adj.推测的，好推测的 | |
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193
conjectural
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| adj.推测的 | |
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194
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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195
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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196
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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197
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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198
gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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199
desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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200
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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201
systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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202
magistrates
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|
| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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203
dilapidation
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| n.倒塌；毁坏 | |
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204
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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205
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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206
crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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207
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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208
ravage
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| vt.使...荒废，破坏...；n.破坏，掠夺，荒废 | |
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209
expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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210
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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211
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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212
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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213
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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214
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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215
valid
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|
| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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216
usurped
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|
| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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217
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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218
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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219
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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220
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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221
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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222
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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223
arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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224
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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225
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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226
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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227
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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