XII.

CONCLUSION.

At the present stage of modern art we have the principles, broadly speaking, of two great styles of architecture to guide us in the design of the buildings which we may have to erect. These are the Classic and the Gothic; for we may apply the term Classic not merely to the works of the Greeks and Romans, but to their offshoots the Byzantine and Romanesque styles, the one branching Eastward and the other Westward, altered in many respects, but founded on the older systems; and we have seen that the Renaissance was but a revival of the same methods and forms.

In each of these styles the best result has always been attained where the constructional element has been held to be as important as the decorative, where the essential and useful have not been subservient to considerations of ornament or display. In Classic work much has been done that is unworthy, in the senseless repetition of columns and pilasters which support nothing, in decoration which serves only to conceal ill-adjusted architectural lines; and the same is equally true of degenerate Gothic, in which whole walls have been covered with meaningless panels, and massive buttresses built up to receive no strain.

Nevertheless, by following only what is good in the principles of each, and by avoiding the errors which experience has enabled us to perceive, especially those which have engrafted themselves upon us by bigoted custom, we can not only produce fine work but assist in the advance of architecture.

Before deciding upon what style to employ in the composition of an edifice, it is well to first consider thoroughly the programme of what is wanted in its plan, and then the special character with which we desire to invest it both exteriorly and interiorly. It is scarcely necessary to add that both should be intimately connected.

We have seen that the best period of Gothic art was that wherein the whole structure was raised on a theory of weights and strains thrown from vault to pier, and pier to buttress; it is, therefore, absurd, when a building occupies a space between the party-walls of modern street lots, to attempt an interior construction having the appearance of corresponding with buttresses and similar contrivances for which there is no room on the outside.

If, therefore, we choose Gothic for our style, let us follow no false theory, but work on the principles demonstrated in its innumerable examples, in which it may be possible to find room for further development, introducing no feature of construction which has not a full and consistent meaning.

One can scarcely go the lengths to which many venture, in saying that Gothic architecture is suited only to ecclesiastical buildings, for there are many splendid military and civil structures, from the keeps and castles of England and France, to the town-halls of Belgium. But there is this much to be said in their favour, that while the laws of fortification and domestic life have altered entirely since the Middle Ages, on the one hand, those governing the observances of religion have remained unchanged and no manner of building is so essentially religious in its character or better calculated to command the reverence and awe of the devotee, on the other.

In support of this view many will agree in admitting that there is nothing of this religious sentiment expressed in the Corinthian colonnades of St. Peter’s, or, in fact, in any of the great number of Renaissance churches which are scattered throughout the cities of Europe, while it never fails to exercise its influence upon anyone entering the great Gothic cathedrals.

The great prevailing thought of Mediæval times was a religious one, and we see it reflected in the minutest details of the lives of the people of that age; it was, consequently, but natural that it should attain its highest expression when they filled their churches with the best that could be produced in architecture, sculpture, and painting. While the Classic orders seem out of place in a temple of Christian worship they are appropriate in civil buildings, and we have no better examples for beauty of proportion. They are the result of the thought and taste of generations of architects and have stood the test of time, for they are as pleasing to-day as in the days of ancient Greece and Rome.

It is their proportion rather than their component parts which we should follow, for a column, unless needed as a support, is a questionable decoration, and pilasters or engaged columns are only desirable where additional thickness of wall is required, used as the Gothic architect would have used buttresses, and never as mere ornaments, which are at once a fraudulent delusion and a retrogression in the progress of architecture.

A multiplicity of columns and entablatures does not make perfect architecture, but great leading lines, good proportion, clear detail, and appropriate ornament.

The guiding rule is to do nothing which has not intrinsic merit. It is better to have an absolutely plain wall than one covered with poor decoration; far better to have no cornice at all than a galvanized iron one, painted to look like stone.

The true definition of architecture is “ornamental construction.” It is not a utilitarian science, because if so there would be no _raison d’être_ for beauty of design, for mere shelter and commodious arrangement could as well be provided by the engineer as by the architect. The art of the architect lies in the composition of buildings at once suited to their purpose and beautiful to the eye; and as such his art is one that can progress, not through a series of changing fashions which grow wearisome before they have lasted a decade, but step by step, according to the example of the great periods of the past.

This example teaches us never to copy slavishly, but to imitate old examples only so far as they may suit modern needs, in principle rather than in detail, and to eschew the reproduction of defects, however picturesque, so that architecture may be a living art instead of the mummified representation of archæological researches.

In pursuing the study of so vast and splendid an art we should do so with some feeling of reverence for its dignity, not looking upon it as a mere money-making trade, for the greatest architects the world has known have been satisfied in being only worshippers at a great shrine. Reverence is a sentiment slightly regarded in an age when delicacy of feeling in such matters is often held up as a butt for the jests and derision of the vulgar, and the dignity of the art has little foothold when it has become a custom for the vendor of cheap furniture to style his shop an “Art Repository,” and the founder of cast-iron abortions to call his factory “The Art Metal Works.”

Nevertheless all of our work must reflect something of our inner thoughts, and if we do not place them upon a high plane it is not possible for their reflection to contain what is noble and true. We cannot become artists in the true sense of the word without loving and reverencing the beauty and principles which have made the art so great a one.

It is the custom among certain people to sneer at sentiment, and call for practical art; but the most practical art is essentially the product of thoughtful sentiments.

As an illustration, let us compare the Laocoön, of sculpture; the Halls of Karnak, of architecture; the Dead March, of music; the “Descent from the Cross,” of painting, with the “Dancing Faun,” the arabesques of the Renaissance, the waltzes of Chopin, and the gay feasts depicted by Paolo Veronese, and the contrast shows us that each branch of an universal art expresses the opposite feelings of gravity or tragedy, of joy or comedy, each in its separate manner.

In designing, questions arise every moment which can only be decided by an innate sentiment of what is good and appropriate. There are no fixed laws governing the height of a spire or the projection of a moulding; they are matters which depend upon correct feeling, or, in other words, upon educated taste.

If it were not so, art would become a mechanical science, and could no longer be called by that name. Emotion has no place in mechanics, but it has great influence in the arts. We know the Greeks were an emotional race, and it is said that Michael Angelo wept before a beautiful statue or painting; and the works of the people and of the individual were proportionate to the depth of their feelings, and have perhaps never been excelled.

Let us, therefore, commence this study—for the omega of this book is but the alpha of architecture—despising none of its delicate subtleties, and endeavour to grasp its principles, in the hope of doing our share in its further advance, laying aside the petty gratification of our vanity in a genuine affection for our art.

THE END

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