The particular product of the creative function with which we have more immediately to do is Architecture. We often hear of the laws of architecture and of architectural rules; people speak of them as they would of the rules of a game. This is a serious and most mischievous error. The laws of architecture do not consist of a series of arbitrary contrivances. They were not invented by man, but were discovered by him. The process was one of slow degrees carried on in widely-separated parts of the world, through a long succession of ages, “here a little and there a little,” often sadly marred by crudity and error, sometimes radiant with divine truth, invariably exhibiting in its results some points of relationship, the indexes of a common origin. It is a most remarkable fact that architecture in its higher forms does not bear the least resemblance to anything in nature, that it is peculiarly and exclusively a human work nevertheless, long before man came to need it, long before the foundation of the world, at the very beginning, in the councils of eternity, the laws which regulate this art were framed. And it cannot be supposed that their progressive realization throughout the course of time has been altogether unheeded by their Author. Emanating from such a source they cannot be trifled with blamelessly; I am inclined to think that they cannot be perverted with impunity. If only under such considerations we could feel ourselves called upon to deal with these laws, the present state of things could not long exist.

Amongst the lower order of animals there are many upon which the Creator has laid the obligation of becoming builders. Some of them show a degree of skill in their work which baffles reason to account for. There are many familiar examples which might be pointed to; but there is one which may be seen in museums, and is illustrated in books of natural history, that is well calculated to raise in our minds a train of strange thoughts. I refer to that kind of sponge called “Neptune’s Cup.” It consists of a hollow bow with a stem, and exactly resembles a goblet. In height it varies from three to six feet. I will quote the reflections of an eloquent author regarding it:

I never see one of these gigantic sponges without humbling myself before the wisdom of Providence. This truly monumental work is built solely by myriads of polypi, fragile animals shrunk within their holes, and only half issuing in order to plunge their imperceptible arms into the waves. Who directs and guides the invisible hands of these polypi – separated from one another often a yard apart – so as to give their works such harmonious symmetry? Who, when the narrow stem is finished, tells its population that from henceforth they must widen it? Who tells them when the time is come for hollowing the vase, and when it is the season for trimming its edges and adorning the exterior with elegant ribs? And lastly, what supreme inspiration teaches a multitude of workmen so scattered, and all caged in their little cells, that they must mould the cup in all its artistic proportions? I can understand the bee building her cell; I can see her foresight, and how a work can be arranged where all the workmen can sew, communicate with, and comprehend each other; but I admit that all seems to me incomprehensible in the architectural work of Neptune’s Cup; my mind is overwhelmed and confounded. This magnificent construction is the noblest challenge one can offer the school of materialism. Do the physico-chemical sciences explain how these animals communicate with each other so as to finish their common habitation, for it is absolutely necessary that all should be governed by one dominant idea? Certainly not. There is nothing but utter feebleness in these presumptuous theories, the audacity of which now-a-days alone makes them successful.[1]

Besides the building animals, we have those that burrow, some in the ground, some in wood, and some in even hard rocks; and there are others that form bowers by drawing the branches or leaves of growing plants around them. Then, we have animals with shells over them, which grow with their growth by a process of secretion; and we have also those that, like the soldier or hermit crab, are sent half naked into the world, requiring to find a covering for themselves. And this they do by appropriating the shells of their dead neighbours. As soon as the little soldier has his eyes opened to a sense of his situation, he seizes the nearest empty whelk shell of suitable size, into the sinuosities of which he thrusts the unprotected part of his person, and henceforth faces his enemy and attacks his prey with the most admirable adroitness and audacity.

In all these instances the Creator has laid upon his creatures the necessity of doing something for themselves, and man, the noblest of them all, has been laid under obligations corresponding in degree with his great endowments. At his entrance into the world he is probably the most helpless of God’s creatures, and he remains the longest in a state of dependence upon his parents. Except within the Tropics, he has to provide himself with clothing, and to build himself some one kind of house for the purposes of comfort and shelter; and a great many other things he has to do in order to keep soul and body together. But it is with his doings as a builder that we are chiefly concerned at the present. The bee, the swallow and the beaver is each skilful in its respective mode of working, but it will be observed that the wants of each kind are exactly similar, their works are perfectly adapted to their several circumstances, and the same wants have been met by the same works ever since these creatures appeared upon the face of the earth. They have neither improved nor changed; the cell of the first bee was as remarkable for economy of material and mathematical precision as is that of the present time. It is not so with man. His wants vary with his circumstances, and increase with his intelligence. His house should truly represent his condition, exhibiting in its form and arrangements the prominent points of his character and habits. The most primitive form of human habitation is the circular hut of the savage. It is a mere nest of mud, requiring the smallest effort of constructive skill. The builder sits in the middle, and builds round him, very much as the bird makes its nest. When more than one apartment is required, this is managed, not by building a large house and subdividing it by partitions, but by adding another little circular hut to the one already made, and another, if necessary until, in some cases, a small attached cluster of cells is formed, communicating with each other by holes just large enough to allow the inhabitants to creep through… The circular hut exhibits the operation of the merest instinct; the rectangular house indicates a certain exercise of the reasoning faculty. Some degree of mathematical skill is required in setting out the plan. Take for example a form common in Africa. It is commenced by the erection of four rows of posts in an oblong form upon which the roof is constructed. Several feet within the posts the walls of the house are built, leaving a verandah all round, under shelter of which the daylight portion of the family life is chiefly spent. The interior is subdivided into chambers by means of partitions. And thus, in the African house, with its peristyle of posts, we see the embryo Parthenon.[2]

When man has secured a moderate degree of bodily ease and comfort, his mental desires begin to make themselves felt. The aesthetic faculty manifests its existence in requiring that such objects as are associated with his principal enjoyments should bear evidence of the honorable place which they occupy in his regards as compared with those things that belong to his ordinary wants. He chooses rare and valuable materials; he fashions them into the most graceful forms; and decorates their surfaces with considerate skill. In his first efforts in art he does not imitate the objects of nature and, when he represents anything like animal life, it is in the form of imaginary monsters, bearing no resemblance to any known creature. Instead of copying nature for his decorative forms, he draws directly upon the æsthetic faculty. He begins with lines and spots, simple circles, intersected circles, stars, either single or in rows, straight lines, zigzag lines, wave lines and spiral lines, in every conceivable combination. He shows his sense of proportion in dividing spaces with noticeable degrees of relationship to each other, and probably colors the whole in harmonious contrasts. Having obeyed his building instinct in providing for himself a house, and having begun to exercise his æsthetic faculty on the objects of his especial regard, what could be more natural than that his dwelling, the centre of all that is dearest to his heart, should have a due share of his artistic labors bestowed upon it. And thus, what in the first stage was mere structure, in the next becomes architecture.

But however much man may love his own house, there is a house which demands a still higher place in his regards – the house of his God. In every age since architecture began, its highest efforts, aided by the sister arts of sculpture and painting, have been devoted to the service of the Deity. But indeed, in the grand old days, when those “kings and awful fathers of mankind” offered the best of everything to God, architecture, sculpture, and painting were not regarded as sister arts, but, along with others, as one glorious art–the combined labor of all who had the heart and skill to do it. When Moses was called upon to make the Tabernacle in the wilderness, he said unto the children of Israel:

“See, the Lord hath called by name Bezaleel, the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah; and he hath filled him with the Spirit of God, in wisdom, in understanding, and in knowledge, and in all manner of workmanship – and to devise curious works, to work in wood, and in silver, and in brass, and in the cutting of stones to set them, and in carving of wood, to make any manner of cunning work. And he hath put in his heart that he may teach, both he and Aholiab, the son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan. Them hath he filled with wisdom of heart, to work all manner of work, of the engraver, and of the cunning workman, and of the embroiderer, in blue, and in purple, in scarlet, and in fine linen, and of the weaver, even of them that do any work, and of those that devise cunning work. Then wrought Bezaleel and Aholiab, and every wise-hearted man, in whom the Lord put wisdom and understanding to know how to work for the service of the Sanctuary, according to all that the Lord had commanded. And Moses called Bezaleel and Ahiolab and every wise hearted man, in whose heart the Lord had put wisdom, even every one whose heart stirred him up to come unto the work to do it.”[3]

This is an example of the manner in which great works were undertaken in those days when faith was young and strong. And such wisdom, such knowledge, such heart-stirring zeal could not fail to produce worthy results.

Religion has been the soul of art from the beginning. In man’s anxiety to realise the idea of a God, and in his desire to bring his feelings into sympathy with the Divine nature, we see the first and most powerful motives of art. The God of the savage is a demon to be feared, and so the savage makes his idol a monster; but, as intelligence increases, the idea of the Divine nature takes a more rational form, and all that is noble in man is supposed to exist in an infinitely higher degree in God. He is adored as the giver of good, as well as feared as the dispenser of evil, and comes to be recognised as the ruler of heaven and earth. Hence we have in the Jupiter of Phidias the grandest embodiment of majesty that has ever been set before human eyes. But whether there was an image representing the majesty of God, or an ark containing the laws of God, it was found necessary to screen it from the vulgar gaze, and so the Temple arose, throwing a mystery of beauty and grandeur around the sacred symbols. The language employed in expressing adoration of the Divine Being required to be as markedly distinguished from the speech of common life as the temple from the domestic dwelling; and this elevation of language gave rise to the rhythmic or time beating art – hence poetry and music.

The form of the temple was not controlled by any utilitarian consideration; the sole aim was to exalt the glory of the Deity by expressing the builders’ feelings of adoration, and impressing the minds of the worshippers with reverential awe. The temple was meant as far as possible to represent the nature and attributes of the Divinity; and so the highest powers of the greatest minds were taxed to express in symbols and in abstract forms and combinations of lines those ideas of beauty and grandeur which resulted in the sacred architecture of the ancient Egyptians and Greeks.

It is with a feeling of the profoundest awe that we approach the valley of the Nile – a strip of verdure between two deserts; a land without rain, yet abundantly watered by its mysterious river – a river coming from some distant and unknown region; entering the land of Egypt in full-grown volume; receiving no tributary, and unaccompanied by any smaller stream; flowing onward in stately grandeur as if possessed by some great kind of life. Moved by a god-like intelligence and love towards the people under its care, it spreads its refreshing and fattening floods over the whole land at the proper time of the year, and, after saturating the ground and tempering the air for a season, it retires into the sea, leaving the sun to pour his quickening beams upon the germinating seed, which soon springs up, and yields a bountiful harvest to those who in faith had sowed upon the waters. Such a state of things was well calculated to cause reflection in the minds of the early inhabitants of this singular land – reflection leading to wonder; and the minds which have the greatest capacity for wondering are the most likely to do wonderful things. Egypt is regarded by all as the cradle of the arts; and her civilisation belongs to a period so remote as almost to justify the saying of the poet in his address to the mummy:–

“Antiquity appears to have begun
Long after thy primeval race was run.”

There is something about the whole circumstances and aspect of Egypt that excites our amazement and admiration, that leads inquiry back into the hazy region of conjecture, that leaves reason groping in the dark. Some great-hearted, far-seeing man had in the beginning instilled into the minds of his people the idea of immortality and of the resurrection of the dead. And this idea took shape in various wonderful ways. They believed that if the body were preserved the soul would return to it after many ages had elapsed, after the tugging and driving and toiling period of human existence had passed away, after the weary had had a long rest, and the sad heart had long forgotten its sorrows – that the spirit, refreshed and purified, would come again from the region of forgetfulness, and reoccupy its clay tenement with a new and glorious life which should never end. With this view they embalmed the bodies of the dead; and in the wrapping of one of those mummies was found a prayer addressed by the soul to the body, bidding it preserve itself against the great day of reunion.

The domestic dwellings of the Egyptians were built in a comparatively slim fashion, and of such perishable materials as mud and unburnt bricks, corresponding to the transitory nature of the mortal lives of their occupants; but their tombs were hollowed out deep into the hearts of the everlasting hills, or built up with almost solid masses of masonry, which, after thousands of years, have suffered even less from the destroying hand of time than have these hills. This striving after the permanent seems to be the soul of Egyptian art. It is an endeavour to realise the idea of eternity. We cannot say whether the excavations or the buildings are the most ancient. But let us begin with the excavations. All along the range of hills on the west side of the valley of the Nile we find those imperishable mansions of the expectant dead. But, alas for the uncertainty of human purposes, those tombs have long since been opened and emptied of their treasures; their unconscious inhabitants ruthlessly knocked about, and, on account of the resinous matter used in the process of embalming, their bodies broken up and used as fuel. The rock cut tombs consist of passages running in various directions into the heart of the hills. and expanding at intervals into apartments of irregular size and shape. In the larger, piers are left for the purpose of supporting the roof; and in some the roofs are vault-shaped. In general there is no attempt at architectural treatment of any kind but in lieu of that the walls are covered with paintings. It is said that when a man came to his kingdom, or other possession, he immediately began to work at his tomb. and went on excavating a passage, or expanding the work into a chamber, in accordance with the ordinary or extraordinary events of his life, the leading incidents of which were carefully recorded in pictures and hieroglyphics upon the walls, but at the moment of his death the whole work was stopped, his embalmed body, enclosed in a splendid coffin, was placed in the inner chamber, and the entrance to the tomb permanently closed. It is remarkable that in the tombs of the early inhabitants of the Delta there are no representations of battles or armed men, such as figure so prominently in the more recent works. The sea in front was not yet navigated by the ships of the Phoenicians, or the deserts traversed by the camels of the eastern merchants. That primeval people lived by themselves in their happy valley in the enjoyment of peace and plenty. The paintings in the tombs are in mere water-colors upon a coat of plaster, yet such is the dryness of the air, and the entire absence of springs in the rocks, that they remain quite fresh after countless ages have passed over them.

The pyramids were in structure the reverse of these tombs. Instead of their passages and chambers being dug out of the solid rock, they were formed of separate stones, with hills of masonry built over them. But the same desire for endless duration was manifested in them. No form could be conceived better calculated for endurance. The slope of the sides is such that even loose earth would retain the shape for centuries. There are no projecting parts to fall away, no mouldings or carvings to be wasted. The Great Pyramid is 764 feet square at the base, and 480 feet high. Its foundation is cut into the solid rock, and is built of enormous masses of a very durable sort of limestone, hewn on all sides. The passages and chambers in the interior are of insignificant dimensions as compared with the whole mass, and are planned with an intricacy of purpose which has puzzled the learned to explain. They are formed of the hardest granite, polished like crystal, the joints made so fine as to be almost invisible and are protected from the effects of super incumbent pressure by contrivances which seem to indicate an almost absurd degree of precaution; but the result is that there is not the slightest appearance of subsidence. The very high degree of mathematical, mechanical, and constructive skill which they exhibit points to a long history of preparatory progress. The pyramids have stood, it is said, for a period of 4,400 years, and, if they are not deliberately destroyed, there seems no reason why they should not stand till the world is destroyed.

W have often been told that the Egyptian temple is derived from the cave – that it is in fact, a built cavern; but this is an error. The excavated tombs of Lower Egypt are altogether destitute of architectural treatment, and the cavern temples of Upper Egypt are evidently copied from built temples. Their roofs have the shapes of beams or lintels formed upon them, and the supporting columns are similar in style to those of the built temples; indeed, there are several examples of a mixed character, partly excavated, partly built. Egyptian architecture may be said, therefore, to begin with the Temple. There is a great variety of shapes and sizes, but it is remarkable that from first to last the style remains the same. Through all the vicissitudes of their most chequered history, whatever interruption their work may have suffered, when it was resumed it was taken up just were it had been left off, – the grand old idea was adhered to until the very end. Although conquered and governed by the Persian, the Greek, and the Roman in succession, each of whom had a style of his own at home, we see no traces of his architecture in any of the temples he built whilst in Egypt. The grandeur of Egyptian architecture seems to have conquered the conqueror.

Egyptian architecture varies from extreme simplicity of form and smallness of size to great intricacy of design, elaborateness of architectural and decorative detail, and unequalled largeness of dimensions. A prevailing, although not invariable characteristic, is the sloping wall, bound at the corners with a roll-moulding, and surmounted by a horizontal cornice. The external walls are generally solid or, if occasionally pierced with openings, these are small and unmarked by any architectural treatment, so as to interfere as little as possible with the hieroglyphic inscriptions and the very peculiar style of historic sculptures with which these solid walls were sometimes covered. An almost invariable feature of the larger temples is the pylon, or frontispiece, consisting of two great towers with a comparatively small doorway betwixt them. These towers are so thin in proportion to their width and height that they look like mere walls. But there are within them stairs and passages and several storeys of chambers, possibly intended for purposes of defence; for the earlier examples are supposed to have been palaces as well as temples, they being provided with numerous apartments suitable for the residence of the king, who, at certain periods of Egyptian history, was regarded as a kind of divinity. The more recent examples have no such accommodation, and were used exclusively as temples, and consequently in some exceptional cases the pylon is dispensed with.

Sir J. Gardiner Wilkinson, from whose book some of the illustrations upon the walls are copied, gives a very intelligible description of the development of the Egyptian temple.[4] He says it was at first merely a small quadrangular chamber, a sanctuary with one entrance front; and the same continued to be its form however much the size of the sacred building was increased. Hence a hieroglyphic of the same form as its plan was made to signify temple or house. In Egyptian architecture the columns are of various kinds, representing floral and other symbols of the deities. They are said to be imitations of the lotus, the papyrus, and other forms. They are certainly very much conventionalised; nevertheless they do exhibit such marked peculiarities of those plants as are sufficient to show what is meant to be indicated.

Besides the pyramid there is another form as peculiarly Egyptian and almost as simple, the obelisk – in some respects the opposite of the pyramid, in others nearly allied. The pyramid is broad in proportion, with sides very much sloped; the obelisk is tall, with sides slightly sloped. The pyramid is a great structure, the obelisk a great single stone. In looking at the pyramid we wonder at the vast amount of labor that must have been expended in collecting hewing, and building all that mountainous pile of stones; the obelisk excites our surprise and admiration at the mechanical skill required to transport so large and long a stone from the distant quarries, and set its lofty form erect upon its base. We have the idea of duration repeated in the hardness of the granite of which it is composed; in the long course of artistic training and patient perseverance necessary to cover its surface with hieroglyphics and other sculptures; and in the air of stability with which it stands upon its stepped base. The carefully adjusted proportion, and the thickness diminishing as the height increases, deprives the mass of any idea of weight or tendency to fall. Its poise is perfect, and we regard it as an imperishable thought, a symbol of truth or justice. There is the same principle again in the outline of the temple. Looking at the back, or end elevation, we have the initial or rudimentary form, a solid wall with sloping sides. The architectural features consist in a bold roll-moulding running up the angles and across the top, and surmounted by a single large cavetto moulding for a cornice. As this form is probably the one that most readily presents itself to our minds when Egyptian architecture is named, it may be well to look for a little at the peculiarities of its formation. It stands firmly upon the ground, with its. sides spread towards the base, as a man would steady himself to resist some opposing force by setting his feet somewhat apart, or rather, on the principle of the tressel, for the sides spread from the top to the bottom. Again, considering this figure as a combination of suggestive lines, and beginning at the ground, the sloping sides lean towards each other as if intended to form a pyramid by meeting in a point at some great but uncertain altitude. But whilst the thought is thus sent upwards in search of the apex, the eye is arrested, not by a mere abrupt stopping of the lines, but by the bold simple cornice; and, with a judicious sense of architectural propriety this member which has arrested the eye presents something to entertain the mind. It is enriched with various symbolic and decorative forms which, in addition to their own proper interest, present to the artistic eye a pleasing variety of light and shade within the general shadow of the cove. Over this deep shadow the clean sharp edge of the cornice, forming a long level beam of bright light, recalls the attention from its upward flight, and sends it right and left into space, where, finding no rest, it returns with expanded powers to contemplate a form of perfect repose, and to read out the meaning of the symbolic and historic sculptures with which the broad, solid wall is completely covered. Passing round to the side of the temple, a repetition of this form, but more elongated, presents itself, and perhaps twice or thrice in succession, and each broader and higher than the other. In front we have two of these forms, of lofty proportions, placed side by side, with the entrance-door betwixt them, and composing the pylon or frontispiece. This is a kind of composition which reappears in the western front of the Gothic Cathedral with its two lofty towers. On entering the court we see facing us in some examples the same outline, but instead of the solid wall we have a portico. And observe how little the rudimentary form is disturbed by the change. There is simply a space, as it were, cut out of the solid wall to admit the columns, leaving a pair of massive jambs and a lintel, connected all round by being on the same plane, bounded by the roll-moulding, and surmounted by the cornice. All the space between the columns, except the centre one, are filled up to nearly half their height by blocks of this same rudimentary form, slightly modified, but having the usual detail of roll-moulding and cavetto cornice, so as to represent so many temples in miniature. This mode of treatment partially restores the appearance of solidity without interfering with the proportions of the columns. The centre space is left open for an entrance. It is fully twice the width of the other spaces, and, instead of the solid interfilling of these, this is furnished with a pair of jambs without a lintel; but, observe, that this feature is suggested by little bits of the roll and cavetto mouldings being formed on the tops of the jambs, and looking towards each other as if they ought to be joined.

There are various modes of impressing the mind with a sense of greatness. That which most readily presents itself is actual bulk; and we find this mode resorted to in Egyptian architecture more than in any other. Then there is variety of parts, which is some times carried out as a principle through which, by an effort of ingenuity, the mind is baffled in its attempts to grasp the subject; and thus, the feeling of incomprehensible confusion is sought to be made the equivalent of incomprehensible greatness. While I need scarcely say that we ought carefully to distinguish between these two very opposite results, I would call your attention to the more legitimate mode in which greatness of manner was effected by the Egyptians. The two most essential elements in architecture are form and composition, and each of them might be enlarged upon to a much greater extent than our time admits of: first of form. There are the pyramid, the obelisk, and the rudimentary temple forms, each having its sides sloped in a greater or less degree, and by this peculiarity suggesting a common relationship. I have already spoken of the pyramid as expressing the simple idea of stability or duration. Suppose that idea to be distinctly impressed upon the mind; then look at the obelisk. The same idea is reproduced less strongly, but there is another element added, that of proportion, expressing the idea of justice or truth. And these two ideas readily combine. Then we have the rudimentary temple form, somewhat more complicated, but nevertheless presenting to the mind a clean-cut definite shape, which the memory not only retains without effort, but which it cannot get quit of. The ideas expressed in the other two forms are still present here, but in the case of the portico there appears a third element, the columnar. These columns contrast with the severity of the general outline by their softly rounded and elegantly moulded forms elaborated into tenderness in the finer features of their capitals, the whole resting upon a background of deep quiet shadow, and exhibiting that pleasing kind of beauty which seems to smile upon us, and which corresponds with or expresses the idea of kindness or goodness. Thus we have these three ideas corresponding with unchangeableness, justice, and goodness all combined, and having their effect upon the mind heightened by the influence of various accessories.

Another object peculiarly Egyptian is the Sphinx. It doubtless had some symbolic meaning – of the nature of which there is great diversity of opinion. From the art point of view it occupies a place midway between architecture and sculpture. The perfectly symmetrical arrangement of the limbs, and the calm face, unmoved by passing events, looking straightforward as it were into the distant future, is another illustration of that idea of perpetual rest which we find constantly presented to the minds of the Egyptians. Regarded as an architectural object, we observe that the extremely simple disposition of its parts enables the mind to comprehend it with ease. This brings me to speak of the principle of repetition. Sphinxes were placed in long rows on either side of the approach to the larger temples. Having got the figure of the first one impressed upon the mind, there was no need for the worshipper to disturb his devotional feeling by looking curiously at any other, but he passed pair after pair of those hugely grand objects as he marched onwards towards the pylon, their grandeur increasing with their number. In this frame of mind he approaches the entrance, and becomes aware of the still more colossal statues, each with its obelisk at either side of the gate, the two great towers spreading broad and high before him, covered with sculpture and hieroglyphics. He enters the first court and is struck with the splendour of its colonnades of massive columns and colossal figures; then the great hall crowded with columns of the most magnificent proportions; and, when to this increasing succession of architectural sights there is added the effect of gorgeous coloring, we may have some idea of the powerful influence which the whole spectacle must have had upon the minds of the worshippers. This principle of making each successive stage in a great architectural work more interesting than the one preceding until the climax is reached is of the greatest importance, and one that was thoroughly understood by the Egyptians.

To give you some notion of the great hall at Karnak, I shall quote Mr. Fergusson’s description of it. He says:

“No language can convey an idea of its beauty, and no artist has yet been able to reproduce its form, so as to convey to those who have not seen it any idea of its grandeur. The mass of its central piers, illumined by a flood of light from the clerestory, and the smaller pillars of the wings, gradually fading into obscurity, are so arranged and lighted as to convey an idea of infinite space. At the same time, the beauty and massiveness of the forms, and the brilliancy of their colored decorations, all combine to stamp this as the greatest of man’s architectural works.”[5]

The painting and sculpture of the Egyptians are as peculiar in style as is the architecture of which they form such important elements. Much of the painting – such as that in the tombs – was executed in simple water-colors; but where it was exposed to injury – as on the sculpture and walls of the temples – a wax vehicle was used, which is very beautiful, and imparts a pleasing brilliance to the colors. The practice of painting architectural decorations which have been already carved is of very doubtful propriety; indeed, on logical and artistic grounds it can only be condemned, for at a little distance the strong colours completely destroy the effects of light and shade, which cost the sculptor much care and labour to produce. But probably the Egyptians had reasons of their own for doing it. In picture and sculpture writing the Egyptians were great masters. Their mode of delineation differed as widely from that of the realists on the one hand, as from that of the idealists on the other – or, perhaps, it bore a certain resemblance to both. Like the realists, they did not allow their æsthetic notions to interfere with their matter-of-fact representations; and, like the idealists, they avoided all unnecessary detail. Their aim was to catch the character of their subject and represent it by the simplest means possible – sometimes in outline, sometimes in mere profile in black or other dark color, on a light ground. Their sculptures of this kind were executed in what may be described as very low relief, only the figures were not raised above the ground-surface, but were cut downwards round the edges, leaving the original surface of the stone level with the greatest projection of the figures. It is supposed that this mode was adopted as a means of protecting the sculptures, it may have been to give a greater degree of force to the outlines, or perhaps merely to save the labour of reducing the surface of the stone, which, in the case of the obelisks and some other works, was extremely hard. Some of those sculptures were wrought with extraordinary delicacy. I have seen a chip of sandstone, not an inch square, with the figure of a goose upon it, in which the softness of the plumage was most admirably expressed. The Egyptian artist exercised a degree of freedom in the treatment of his subjects altogether at variance with the natural order of things. His pictures were intended to be easily understood rather than greatly admired, and so he did whatever suited his purpose best. In looking at a battle scene, you can recognise at a glance the comparative rank of the several figures by their size; and there is no doubt as to which are the victors and which the vanquished, for, almost uniformly, the Egyptian is either pursuing or slaying his enemy. But you will observe that this departure from the natural order did not arise from inability on the part of the artist to portray character and the minuter peculiarities of feature, for in these qualities the Egyptian artist is all but unrivalled. The grand triumphant action of the King and the abject submissiveness of the captive were never represented with more discriminative power. The same love of immensity which is shown in their architectural works manifests itself also in their sculpture. Indeed sculpture was with the Egyptians so much a part of architecture that it could scarcely be otherwise, and so their colossal statues have been objects of astonishment to all succeeding ages. We sometimes find them hewn out of the living rock and still forming part of the mountain side; sometimes as huge blocks transported from distant quarries by means which we cannot easily account for. The apparent rudeness of these statues is evidently more matter of purpose than of necessity. It was probably considered more consistent with propriety to indicate, rather than represent, such members as hands and feet for these awful personifications, for we see in other works no want of skill in elaborate and delicate execution. We have also seen that in other works there is plenty of action; but here there is none; all is still. The figure is sitting in an attitude of perfect repose; the limbs are arranged symmetrically; the elbows rest upon the thighs; and the hands extend along to the knees. As to the head, let me quote what De Quincey says of one of the best known to us:

That object which some four-and-thirty years ago in the British Museum struck me as simply the sublimest sight which in this sight-seeing world I had ever seen, was the Memnon’s head, then recently brought from Egypt. I looked at it, as the reader must suppose, in order to understand the depth which I have here ascribed to the impression, not as a human but a symbolic head, and what it symbolised to me were – 1st, The peace which passeth all understanding; 2nd, The eternity which baffles and confounds all faculty of computation – the eternity which had been, the eternity which was to be; 3rd, The diffusive love, not such as rises and falls upon waves of life and mortality, not such as sinks and swells by undulations of time, but a procession, an emanation from some mystery of endless dawn. You durst not call it a smile that radiated from the lips – the radiation was too awful to clothe itself in adumbrations or memorials of flesh. In that mode of sublimity, perhaps, I still adhere to my first opinion, that nothing so great was ever beheld. The atmosphere for this, for the Memnon, was the breathlessness which belongs to a saintly trance – the holy thing seemed to live by silence.[6]

1. Neither the editor nor the Natural History Museum in London has been able to identify the “eloquent author.”

2. Thomson’s brother and partner, George, who had sailed for the Cameroons as a missionary in 1871, was presumably the source of information on that “embryo Parthenon,” the African house with its “peristyle of posts.”

3. Exodus, 35.v30 to 36.v2

4. Sir John Gardner Wilkinson (1797–1875), explorer and Egyptologist, published a two volume study of The Architecture of Ancient Egypt… with remarks on the early progress of Architecture, etc. in 1850; it was presumably from this work that Thomson took the illustrations “upon the walls.” Earlier, in 1835, Wilkinson had published his Topography of Thebes, and general view of Egypt, which was revised in 1843 as a two-volume guide to Modern Egypt and Thebes. In his three-volume Manners and Customs of the Ancient Egyptians in 1836, reissued in an abridged edition with more woodcut illustrations in 1853 and reprinted in 1871, Wilkinson observed that “Architecture is a creation of the mind; it has no model in nature, and it requires great imaginative powers to conceive its ideal beauties, to make a proper combination of parts, and to judge the harmony of forms altogether new and beyond the reach of experience.”

5. James Fergusson’s description of the hypostyle hall at Karnak comes from his Illustrated Handbook of Architecture of 1855, page 232.

6. This passage about Memnon’s Head in the British Museum appears neither in the Collected Works of Thomas De Quincey edited by Masson, nor in The Uncollected Writings of Thomas de Quincey by James Hogg.