I will not attempt to describe at length the condition of the Greeks at the best period of their history; but certainly no people, either before or since, have achieved such a splendid series of triumphs in every department of human effort to which they thought fit to direct their energies. The people most nearly resembling them were the Jews, who occupied a less varied, but certainly not a less important, sphere. The Jews and the Greeks were both small nations, but each fulfilled a mission to mankind, the influence of which will be felt throughout the world and to the end of time. Through the Jews we received the Oracles of God, and amongst them also, at the appointed time, appeared the Saviour, proclaiming his Gospel of Peace, and setting before us the example of a noble life here with the assurance of endless bliss hereafter; through the Greeks we have art and philosophy, which, with religion, constitute the chief basis of that condition of life which it is now our great privilege to enjoy. The Egyptians sought to realise the idea of endless duration, and so all their works express their “longing after immortality.” The Greeks aimed at perfection, and all that they did bears evidence of the earnestness and ability with which they sought to realise their idea. In many departments they attained a degree of excellence which we moderns, with vastly improved means, fail to surpass; and in several instances we are still so far behind them that we are content to be their humble disciples and imitators. In the department of art I may mention poetry, rhetoric, sculpture, and architecture. In each of these branches the Greek mind showed an amount of creative energy quite sufficient to render it independent of such rudimentary suggestions as the so-called proto-Doric on which to build its Parthenon. Now, I do not mean to say that the Greeks learned nothing from the Egyptians; far from it. I believe that a people of such capacity and intelligence, and so ardent to accomplish a lofty purpose, would neither neglect nor leave untried any means which might seem calculated to promote the ends they had in view. But such success as theirs is not to be attained by any process of merely copying what has already been done. This could never lead to excellence, for the copy almost invariably falls short of the original. The more probable course for them to pursue would be to observe carefully the operation and development of those laws by which certain results were produced, and, when they had thoroughly comprehended them, to direct their efforts to a still higher reach of attainment. Instead of accurately copying architectural arrangements, or storing the memory with forms and details to be used as occasion required, the whole matter-of-fact accumulation of objects would be subjected to a process of mental analysis, reduced to fluid thought, and recast in totally different moulds. Although some archæologist, in his grubbing, amongst the tombs, were to fall in with the sketch-book of the first Greek architect, with an accurately-measured delineation of this very proto-Doric column, we would still say that all that is admirable in the Doric of the Parthenon was due to the creative intelligence of the Greek architect rather than to the capacity of taking trouble on the part of the Egyptian quarryman.

The æsthetic element in nature is presented to us in various conditions, the most opposite of which are, perhaps, forms and effects. By effects I mean those appearances of light, shade, and color which may be seen in the sea and in the sky. The forms which I would refer to as most opposite to those effects are those of the higher animals, especially that of man. And standing between forms and effects there are what may be termed masses, such as clouds, mountains, clumps of trees, and the like. There are also objects which partake more or less of both elements, such as trees. There is such an approximation to form in trees that each kind has its characteristic shape, so that we are able to distinguish them from each other.

There are two terms used in speaking of art – the picturesque and the ideal. A tree would be classed amongst the picturesque forms a man amongst the ideal. Those two objects resemble each other in so far that a tree has a body or trunk with limbs or branches terminating, in a mass of foliage, and a man has a body and limbs with a mass of hair upon his head; but a tree has no fixed number of branches nor any relative proportions of length or thickness in its trunk or branches, neither has it any very definite shape or size. It has no power of voluntary motion, but within certain limits it exhibits a degree of variety and apparently unconstrained freedom in the distribution of its parts, the direction of its growth, the tone of its color, and other qualities and conditions of its nature, such as to afford a high degree of gratification to the aesthetic faculty. Its mighty trunk, its spreading branches, with its mass of green foliage, varying in tint with the season of the year, presents an object of pleasing beauty or stately grandeur, as the case may be. And the pleasure we derive from these qualities is very much increased when a variety of different kinds are grouped together, with their various sizes shapes, and colors seen in harmonious contrast to each other; and still more so when associated with masses of mountain and rock, and effects of water, air, and sky, constituting what we call landscape. Our capacity for wondering and admiring is with the best of us very limited, and the perceptive faculty is only occasionally and partially in a state of wakefulness. Its normal condition in the vulgar mind is a state of lethargy, and that so profound that a probe with an awl is scarcely sufficient to rouse it into a degree of even stupid consciousness. Our greatest blessings being the most common are the least valued, and some of the most wonderful things, from being constantly before our eyes, are the least admired. Many aphorisms might be quoted to illustrate this state of matters, such as “Familiarity breeds contempt;” and much of the work of the divine. the philosopher, and the artist consists in the effort to rescue truth and beauty from the indignity of commonplace, by presenting them in extraordinary or novel aspects. Philosophers, in explaining the nature of light and endeavouring to give us some idea of the rate at which it travels, tell us that some stars are so distant that, although they may have been created thousands of years ago, their light may not yet have reached us; or, that if it were possible for us to fly off into space, we might, as we retire, survey backwards, as it were, all the events that have happened on our planet – that we might, by going to a sufficient distance, witness the very first act of its creation. Or suppose that we belong to some race of intelligent beings living upon the skirts of our starry system, we might now be looking into that garden which was planted in Eden as a suitable abode for that being who, as God’s viceregent upon earth, was to have dominion over all his creatures. It may appear to us as a scene glowing with every charm that the most luxuriant combination of the tropical landscape can exhibit or suggest. We wonder what new form the Creator can devise that shall surpass those we now behold, when suddenly we observe amidst the soft green light of the forest glade an object totally different from those we had admired so much – a higher order of life, a higher type of form. It is not fixed to the ground like the others, but moves at will amongst the trees and flowers with a dignity of aspect and a grace of motion altogether new and peculiarly its own. Insensible of its own beauty, it gazes around with a look of admiring wonder upon the gorgeous spectacle which is presented to its newly-opened eyes and its newly awakened consciousness. There is a lustrous radiance of color, a delicacy of light and shade, a symmetry of form, a harmony of proportion, a freedom of action and attitude. a variety in the disposition of its limbs, and a general flexibility of the whole frame which excites our utmost surprise and delight, and makes us feel that of all the wonderful and beautiful objects which God has made in this world, the human frame is the most wonderful and the most beautiful. And herein we see the true proto-Doric, a many-sided figure of infinitely greater complexity than the polygonal piers of the Egyptian tombs, the type of that ideal perfection which, in a variety of phases, was the great end of Greek effort, the guiding-star of Greek genius.

There is very little doubt that the Greeks learned much from the Egyptians and from other peoples who were before them in point of time until their architectural developments; but you may be assured that they learned most from the best examples, and nothing from things that contained nothing. “Men do not gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles,” and the best way for us to imitate the Greeks is rather to follow their example than copy their work. The majority of architectural writers say. and the great majority of people who give themselves any trouble about architectural matters believe, that Greek architecture is a limited thing, and that the short-lived effort at its revival, which was witnessed at the beginning of the present century, exhausted the whole resources of the style, and consequently it has been cast away like a bottle which, they admit, contained most excellent liquor, but, being empty, is utterly useless for any practical purpose. This is a great mistake and reflects the utmost discredit upon those who hold such views. In so far as variety of material shapes is a desirable characteristic of an architectural style, this doubtless may be found to prevail in other styles to a much greater extent than in the Greek; but if regard be had to the quality of the shapes, we are at once brought to a point which requires consideration. Variety is doubtless a very important element in architecture, but it is not all-important. Shakespere, who saw into the heart of things, makes Macbeth say, “I dare do all that may become a man, who dares do more is none.” Now this matter of variety may be carried beyond due bounds, and come to resemble an Irish turnip-field of which I read in a newspaper last summer:

It bore a somewhat scanty crop of the prosaic but useful bulbs, but by way of compensation showed a luxuriant and interesting display of indigenous weeds, of which an enthusiastic botanist counted no fewer than thirty-two varieties in a single drill. And we may be sure that those uncultivated sons of the soil would assert their freedom by growing just where the winds of heaven had strewn their seeds without the least regard to order, but, on the contrary, manifesting a strong disposition to break through and overpower the disciplined lines of the invading turnip.

Now here were two opposing elements in conflict in this field – the wilderness against the farm – the random forces of nature against the selection of art. A skilful farmer or gardener is not averse to a certain amount of variety – but it must be under control. The gardener, while gratifying the desire for variety, at the same time puts it under subjection to the law of harmonious contrast. He does not throw a handful of all sorts of seeds into his beds, but, while contrasting the one with the other, keeps every sort by itself, and by this means, when they spring up the best individuals of each sort are readily distinguished from the general mediocrity, and may be selected for further development by special treatment, their offspring being again and again subjected to the same process, until in the course of time, we have very different and very surprising results from this mode of selection. We may, on one line of development, have the root swelled out until it becomes a turnip; in another the stem, as in the kohl-rabi; in a third we have the leaves expanded and wrapped together, as in the cabbage; and, in a fourth, we have the blossom enlarged and consolidated, as in the cauliflower; and yet the typical form, – and perhaps the common parent of all these – might be seen occupying a conspicuous place in the Irish turnip-field, in the shape of what is commonly called wild mustard.

Insubordinate variety in architecture is a sure sign of want of culture. It is characteristic of the more barbarous styles, in which poverty of thought is supposed to be compensated for by great size, excessive elaboration and ornamentation, and by lavish expenditure of costly material. In Gothic architecture we find variety adopted as a leading principle, and carried out with a nobleness of spirit and a degree of artistic skill which I shall take care to do ample justice to when I come to speak of it. We are told that, besides being deficient in variety of detail, the Greek style is wanting in flexibility. There is a difference between these two qualities; but. as they are nearly allied they may be dealt with very much in the same way, and we will find opportunities of speaking of them as we proceed. When we compare Greek architecture with some other styles it must be borne in mind that there are very few examples of it remaining. In fact, all the examples which have hitherto been regarded as models for study or imitation are to be found on the Acropolis of Athens, or in its immediate neighbourhood, and may easily be enumerated. Like the Muses, they are nine. Of these seven have been used in Glasgow: the Agora, with the Choragic monument of Thrasyllus, furnishes details for our Custom House, the small temple on Ilissus (considerably enlarged) has been copied on the front of Wellington-street United Presbyterian Church, the Tower of the Winds on the end of the double range of houses between the Great Western and New City Roads; the Choragic Monument of Lysicrates on the Merchants’ House, Hutcheson-street; the Erectheion on the Royal Bank, also the Municipal and County Buildings; and the Parthenon at the Court House fronting the Green.[1] And, if you will put yourselves to the trouble of examining these examples, you will find that, though so few in number, there is considerable variety, and that all are very good. This was surely very scant material from which to furnish the world with architecture. Yet that was what the promoters of the Greek revival proposed to do, and they failed; not because of the scantiness of the material, but because they could not see through the material into the laws upon which that architecture rested. They failed to master their style, and so became its slaves. Nevertheless, the buildings which constitute the glory of Edinburgh, and which entitle it to be called the modern Athens, were the fruits of this movement and of the concentrated intelligence of British society, which at the time had its seat in our northern capital. And had it not been for the terrible commercial crisis of 1826, which exhausted its energies, and left it prostrate for the succeeding thirty years, there is no saying what the talent of its architects and the influence of its intelligence might have accomplished throughout the country. London was less fortunate in its share in the revival, and has little that is good to show. But what, I would ask, would Liverpool be without its St. George’s Hall, and what might not Elmes, its architect, have done had he not been cut off in his youth?[2] We are now devoting our attention to another revival upon the same plan, and with no better success. For the last fifty years we have been rattling and fumbling amongst the fossil remains of the great Gothic mammoth, but as yet there is no sign of returning life. Finding it impossible to apply Gothic architecture to the wants of modern society, we are now called upon to abandon the paths of modern progress, and to grope our way backwards into the gloomy recesses of the middle ages. It is to be hoped that when we have worked through the present revival, and found it nought, we may think of doing something for ourselves in the department of architecture, as we have done in many other lines of effort.

The element of variety in itself possesses that kind of interest which we find in a story. Flexibility in its ordinary form belongs to that quality of accomplishment which we call cleverness, such as we observe in feats of agility or sleight-of-hand. Neither is essentially of the things which are “a joy for ever;” the pleasure they afford is evanescent; as soon as we comprehend them our curiosity is satisfied, and we care no more about them. Moreover, while these two elements are indispensable to good design, and under certain conditions are capable of affording a very large degree of gratification they may be, as we have seen, overdone; they may, in fact, as readily belong to the faults as to the merits of a style. But I come now to speak of other two elements which we find carried to a very high degree of excellence in Greek architecture, and which have never been overdone, and never can be overdone. These are beauty or symmetry of form, and harmony of relative proportion; and these are the essential elements of Greek architecture, distinguishing it from all other styles. And these also are the essential elements of the beauty of the higher animal forms which distinguish them from all the other forms of nature. Physically, or materially, a Greek temple is not the least like the human form, or any other natural form, but in principle it bears a very close resemblance. In fact, it is the only style of architecture which harmonises with the higher class of sculpture and painting. All other styles are ruder or stronger in their parts. Indeed, I may say that amongst the different existing styles or orders of Greek architecture, the Doric is the only one that is in strict and perfect harmony with the delicacy of outline, the subtle gradations of light and shade, and the justness or truth of the relative proportions of parts which characterise the human frame. Now I do not mean to argue that because this is matter of fact in regard to the Doric of the past, that we should continue to repeat it just as we find it in the Parthenon. When we think of devoting the very highest effort of artistic genius to the service of God, as the Greeks did to their Minerva, and as our instincts tell us we should do, when we have achieved anything worthy of being commemorated in the noblest style of architecture with its complete complement of sculpture and painting, it can only be done by preserving perfect harmony amongst all the elements which compose the work. But these principles may be embodied in quite a different form from that of the Parthenon, and when British society comes to be as highly refined as the Greek once was and when it has made its demands on its artists as persistently as it has done on its mechanics, it will be responded to in like manner.

Whilst the Greek temple varies in form to some extent in different examples, there is nevertheless a particular form which is considered proper to the style, and which we find generally adhered to, or aimed at, in the best examples. The Greek, like the Egyptian temple, probably began in a simple cell with a door in one end. In the next stage a porch was formed by extending the side walls; and between the piers or antæ, formed by the ends of the walls, were placed a couple of columns upon which the entablature and cornice were carried. In the third stage we see a farther extension into a portico of four columns in front of the original porch; in the fourth, while the three first-mentioned are retained, the whole is surrounded by a row of columns forming what is termed a peristyle; and in the great temple of Jupiter-Olympus and the temple at Ephesus there was a second row outside the first all round. I have stated that Greek architecture is based upon principles similar to those that we recognise in the higher animals – that is to say, every form and outline is meant to be the best of its kind, and every part bears some proportion to the adjoining parts and to the whole. The form is a simple unit having no excrescent parts, and, in the best examples, is a little more than twice as long as it is broad. For instance, the Parthenon has eight columns in the width and seventeen in the length, and the temple of Theseus six in the width and thirteen in the length. In the Doric we have the first truly architectural peristyle; for although Mr. Fergusson, in his easy way, sees its original in the small square porches in front of some of the Egyptian temples, these were merely roofless enclosures with four columns on each face, having no cell or inner wall, and consequently without the great deep shadow which so finely reveals the delicate symmetry of the columns, and gives such dignity to the whole. This simple peristyliar form is the most majestic and beautiful that architecture has ever assumed. In especially such a building as the Parthenon, where the number of columns, seen partly in front and partly in flank, are more than the eye can readily count, and yet the effect is not as of a number of parts, but as a combined form, we are impressed with a feeling akin to that produced by the sight of a body of disciplined soldiers, a phalanx of heroes, for each column seems the embodiment of a noble soul.

The colonnade stands upon a stylobate of three degrees, and is surmounted by an entablature consisting of architrave, frieze, and cornice, and at the front and back ends, or, as they are termed, the portico and posticum, rises into a flat triangular form called the pediment, following the outline of the roof of which it is the termination, and corresponds to the gable in ordinary buildings. All these features, or members, are proportioned to each other with a degree of nicety which defies criticism. The frieze is divided lengthwise by what are called triglyphs, one over each column, and one over the space between each column. The spaces betwixt the triglyphs are called metopes. These, together with the tympanum, or inner part of the pediment, were usually filled with sculpture, which formed such an important element in Greek architecture, and, as I have said, especially in the Doric temples.

The Ionic stood next to the Doric in favor with the Greeks. It is less severe, and perhaps more elegant; and, from the air of softened refinement which pervades the whole, it has been called the feminine of the Doric. This idea has been wrought upon so as to establish the analogy even in material features. The proportions are slender and ladylike – the volutes are supposed to represent the long hair, so highly prized and so variously treated as an ornamental feature by our sisters in all ages; the neck is richly decorated, the fluting representing the long folds of hanging drapery; and the mouldings of the base are regarded as the continuation of the drapery spreading outwards upon the ground. The Doric is altogether more masculine in proportion; the capital is without decoration of any kind, and the fluting of the shaft is broader and simpler, and terminates abruptly upon the ground without a base. While all the parts of the Ionic are quite distinct from those of the Doric, the feature that is most characteristic is the capital of the column. A good deal of discussion has taken place as to its origin, as to what it is intended to represent, and as to its merit as an artistic form. From Mr. Fergusson’s eminent position as an historian, he sees it in the distance coming from Assyria and Persia. And doubtless, if the Greeks, under a feeling of helplessness from an extreme poverty of invention, had thought of appropriating such a thing as this scroll, they had sufficient opportunity in their frequent intercourse with these countries to have done so, but in this, as in the case of the Doric, the merit is all Greek. Then, as to what it is meant to represent, I would say, that whatever the Creator meant to represent by all the spiral forms of nature the Greeks had the same purpose in view. It is a form that is found very frequently in nature – in the proboscis of the elephant and of the butterfly; in shells, in locks of hair, in the fronds of the fern, and in the little forget-me not. It is, in short, a very pleasant form to look upon, and I do not remember any style of decoration that is without it. It is very notable in our own Celtic style. But Mr. Ruskin regards this capital as a thing abominable, because it does not represent any natural object;[3] and, indeed, he scouts at architecture in general for the same reason, admiring its decorations only when they happen to be natural. I have in a former lecture shown you that we should not regard nature as the source of art, so it will be unnecessary here to say anything about this particular application of Mr. Ruskin’s theory. Regarding the Ionic capital as an artistic form, it is certainly a very remarkable one, and it is not at all to be wondered at that those who look exclusively for representation in art should have been fairly puzzled by this singular object. Looked at in front it appears as if several webs of cloth had been rolled on two pins from opposite ends until within a short distance of each other, with a slack part left between the coils. But looking at the end we see at once that such a process would not produce the result. The pins cannot be accounted for; indeed the thing cannot be accounted for on any other ground than that it is an artistic invention. The lines on the end are totally different from those on the front, and yet they seem to be flowing in the same course; so that in looking at it on the angle, where both front and end are seen at once, it presents an interest arising from variance in harmonious agreement with similarity. From whatever point we look at it there is a pleasing softness in the flow of the lines with ever-varying proportions of the volutes, as they appear more or less oval according to the position from which they are viewed. And these, with the other features of the thing, form a combination at once simple and complex. The simplicity of its form enables the mind to comprehend it easily; the complex of its beautiful lines causes the memory to dwell upon it with pleasing reflection. Considering the dissimilarity between the front and ends, it might be supposed that this capital was not suited to a peristyliar building. But although none of the Athenian examples of which there are any remains were of this kind, they show a contrivance which adapts it to the purpose. This is an angular volute upon the capital of the extreme columns, by which it is made to show a face on both the front and the side. The difficulty is thus so far overcome, but the effect is awkward, and this awkward effect so conspicuous that we feel surprised that the fastidious Greek eye could regard it with any degree of toleration.

A very remarkable peculiarity of the Athenians in regard to their architecture was their apparent disregard to the element of size, or bigness. With the exception of the Parthenon, all their buildings were comparatively small, and some of those which have excited the admiration of the whole civilised world are quite diminutive. Their greatness was of the intellectual rather than of the material kind. There are engravings of the Hercules upon gems which show as much greatness of style and expression as if they were colossal statues. The small Ionic temple on the river Ilissus, near Athens (now unhappily destroyed), had more dignity of character than any other in this style, and yet the column was under fifteen feet in height – very little larger than those used in door-pieces all over the west end of Glasgow. The most elegant example in the Ionic style is the Erectheion, rather a group than a single building.[4] And the picturesque variety of its composition appears in remarkable contrast to the concentrated grandeur of the noble pile near which it is situated. It consists of three temples with four porticoes, each standing on a different level, and all arranged with such an apparently-studied violation of symmetrical order as almost to lead to the supposition that it was placed there as a foil to the Parthenon. But, notwithstanding its irregularity, the symmetrical beauty of its parts is so perfect that it is considered one of the most charming compositions in existence showing that Greek architecture, so far from being stiff and inflexible, was made to serve any purpose that was required of it, and at the same time to look a great deal more beautiful than any other style. The three temples composing this group are those of Erectheus, Minerva-Polias, and Pandrosus. The first has one portico; the second two. These three porticoes are Ionic, but each somewhat different from the others. Under the larger portico of the temple of Minerva-Polias we have the beautiful door which has been frequently copied. The smaller portico looks like some of our modern contrivances. It consists of four columns in antis, not entirely round, but, as it were, in high relief, attached to the end wall of the temple. Between those columns are three windows, which have served as models for us in nearly every street-house that has been built in Glasgow during the last sixty or seventy years, and which are likely to be copied for a good many years to come. But the most striking member of the group is the Pandrosus, in which female figures are used instead of columns. These are called Caryatides, and, although admitted to be very beautiful in themselves, their application to this purpose has been severely criticised. It is said that the bearing of such a load as the entablature evidently is, is inconsistent with the delicacy of the female form, and that it is repugnant to the best feelings of our nature to see women, whom it is our pride to honor, represented as doing work fit for only beasts-of-burden or slaves. This may be all quite true, and perhaps is a very good reason why those who think so should not repeat the offence; but the fact remains that the composition is singularly graceful, and that these ladies do not seem conscious of any degradation, but the reverse. They bear what may be supposed a canopy of some kind, with the easy grace with which the milkmaid bears her pail. This entablature furnishes another instance of the flexibility of Greek genius, and of the variety of which Greek architecture is capable. In Egyptian architecture we have human figures standing in front of square piers, but without carrying any load. In the great temple at Agrigentum, in Sicily – which is a somewhat coarse example of the Doric style – there are colossal figures of very good design, which stand in front of the piers forming what may be termed the clerestory. Their arms are raised so as to bring the elbows level with the top of the head – which is thrown forward, and the hands are clasped at the back of the neck. In this position they are made to carry a projecting portion of the small upper entablature – probably meant to give apparent support to the beams of the roof. If the figures in the Pandrosium had been aided by piers in this way, the objection would have been avoided – but on the other hand, the beauty of their forms would have been greatly marred and much concealed by the mass of these piers. Looking at this building as an architectural design, it may be said that if the perfect unity which is exhibited in the Parthenon be so incontestably right, and therefore to be adopted on all possible occasions, the extreme irregularity which characterises the Erectheion must be entirely wrong, and ought to be avoided. But it will be observed that the principle of irregularity is not recognised and followed throughout the whole building. It does not extend to the details, but merely to the disposition of the principal portions – which may be regarded as so many distinct and comparatively complete individual objects brought into juxtaposition so as to form a group, rather than as members of a single organised body. We see an illustration of the principle on a larger scale in the general view of the Acropolis, in which the Propylæa with its wings and stairs, the small Temple of Victory, the very irregular lines of the battlements, this Erectheion, and the gigantic statue of Minerva, all clustering round the majestic form of the Parthenon, form an architectural group of unrivalled beauty and interest. In fact, the principle is the same as that followed in composing a group of figures in sculpture or in a picture. Each figure is symmetrical in itself; and, as we know it to be so we do not feel called on to examine curiously each of its members. The figures individually are thus easily comprehended by the perceptive faculty; and, being arranged in various positions and attitudes in harmonious contrast, are presented to the aesthetic faculty as a variety of distinct objects in artistic combination. The Propylæa affords an example of a Greek building in which the unity of the Parthenon was departed from, as inapplicable to the purpose that was to be served, but in which the irregularity of the Erectheion was also avoided. The Citadel or Acropolis of Athens was a fortified rock rising from the middle of the city, some what like the castle rocks of Edinburgh and Stirling. Precipitous on all sides except one, and that so steep as to require a zigzag road for horses and chariots and stairs for pedestrians, the Propylæa stood at the top of this ascent and formed the entrance to the Acropolis. The principal feature consists of a double Doric portico, or rather two porticoes, for they are in different levels, standing back to back, one looking inward to the Parthenon, the other outward over the city. Two small buildings, which are supposed to have served the purpose of lodges or guard-houses, are placed one on each side, forming wings. Their fronts, which look towards each other, are composed of three small Doric columns in antis. There is a good deal of peculiar treatment about this building, showing how easily the Greek architects adapted their style to suit every circumstance. I shall point out some instances. Being on the slope of the approach, the inner and outer porticoes are on different levels. The centre intercolumniation is a half wider than the others, so as to give room for a roadway for chariots. (This deviation from the ordinary rule is observable also in the Doric portico supposed to have been the entrance to the Agora, or Market-place.) Between the two porticoes is a wall, with five gates, corresponding to the intercolumniations. A flight of steps on either side of the sloping chariot-way makes up the difference of level between the two porticoes. The roof of the outer portico is supported on two rows of Ionic columns, three in each row. This very unusual, and, in ordinary circumstances, very bad, arrangement of three columns is resorted to twice in this building. The row of three Ionic columns, being in the interior, cannot be seen from such a distance as to admit of the objectionable nature of the arrangement being felt; and, in the case of the three columns in the wing fronts, the one next the main wall is in a line with the columns of the portico; so that the intercolumniation is opposite the side space of the portico, and thus only two of the columns are seen from the open space in front. But, notwithstanding these peculiarities, the design was perfectly symmetrical in composition. It is remarkable that all the buildings on the Acropolis are set at different angles, and in this way each served the purpose of a foil to the others, and each required separate inspection for its particular merits. The small temple of the Wingless Victory on the one side of the approach, and a large pedestal, supposed to be for an equestrian statue, on the other, are so close to the Propylæa as to be included in its effect, but they are set at different angles to each other and to the principal structure.

While we are speaking of these peculiarities of Athenian architecture, I may call your attention to another example in which three columns were used in an unobjectionable way. I refer to the Choragic monument of Thrasyllus.[5] This monument is a mere frontispiece to a cave rudely hollowed out of the rock of the Acropolis, and consists of three square columns or piers, supporting an entablature and attic. The general character of the detail is Doric. But, instead of the frieze being divided into spaces by triglyphs and sculptured metopes, it is decorated with wreaths of laurel of a some what naturalistic type; and instead of the band between the architrave and frieze, which, with six guttœ or drops under each usually supports the triglyphs, there is a band with these drops in a continuous line, making a very simple and effective decoration. Over the entablature is what is termed an attic, the treatment of which is very unusual; and upon this there is a statue sitting. But the most remarkable peculiarity of the design is the fact of three columns being used; and I have to point out to you the means by which the objection to this mode of arrangement is got over. Had the three columns been of equal breadth, and the mouldings of the attic continuous, the central column would have attracted undue attention, to the disadvantage of every other part of the design, and the statue above would have emphasised the centre still more, so as to make this portion appear in advance beyond the general line of the front. Now, observe what is done. The force of the centre is reduced by making the centre column somewhat more slender than the side ones; and the preponderating power of the attic is lessened by leaving out rather more than a third of the length of the mouldings substituting two plain steps instead. Upon this the statue sits, the soft lines of its limbs and drapery being thus relieved of the too violent contrast to which it would have been subjected had the mouldings been continued from side to side immediately under it. All the parts are thus made to assume a just equipoise, whilst the various departures from ordinary modes of treatment give an interest to the design which could scarcely be expected from it, considering the fewness of its parts, and the comparative smallness of its size.

Besides the Doric and Ionic styles, the Greeks had what is termed the Corinthian, of which there are only two examples. This style is more ornamental than the Ionic, and still farther removed from the severe dignity of the Doric. The plainest example is found in the doorpiece of the building called the Tower of the Winds. I will not describe this building at length, but I would state that it affords another proof of the flexibility of Greek architecture. It is quite unique in form and proportion, and is possessed of very considerable merit in plan. Indeed, if the details had been more refined, it would have taken a high place amongst the buildings of antiquity; but it does not belong to the best period of art. It is octagonal in form, having the figures of the eight winds, with their symbols, sculptured upon its several faces near the top of the wall. It was roofed with marble, and on the apex there was the figure of a Triton turning on a pivot, with a rod in his hand, which pointed downwards to the figure of whichever wind might be blowing. Under the winds each face had a sun dial drawn upon it, and in the interior was a clepsydra or water clock. What we have chiefly to do with is the columns of the door pieces. These are a kind of Corinthian of a very simple and good type, but, like other Athenian examples, very small, the column being under fifteen feet in height over all. The shaft, like the Doric, has no base. The capital is bell-shaped with two rows of leaves; the first, or lowest, is raffled, like the leaf of the Roman Corinthian; the second is composed of what are called water-leaves – long, smooth, sedge-like leaves, sharp-pointed, and without being serrated. This capital presents a most pleasing and simple harmony, such as may be used without incurring the necessity of much general ornamentation in the surrounding parts.

The other example of Greek Corinthian is the Choragic monument of Lysicrates, “which,” says Mr. Fergusson,

notwithstanding the smallness of its dimensions, is one of the most beautiful works of art of the merely ornamental class to be found in any part of the world.

This is Mr. Fergusson’s opinion of its merit; but he has an implicit and unwavering belief in his own opinion that, whatever the Greeks could do in refining any form to a high degree of artistic, excellence, they were not equal to the invention of the rude original. And so he tells us, as if it were a matter of ascertained fact, that

the Corinthian order is as essentially borrowed from the bell-shaped capitals of Egypt as the Doric is from their oldest pillars. Like everything they touched, the Greeks soon rendered it their own by the freedom and elegance with which they treated it. As in everything else, however, the Greeks could not help betraying in this also the Asiatic origin of their art and the Egyptian order with them was soon wedded to the Ionic whose volutes became an essential, though subdued, part of this order. It is in fact a composite order, made up of the bell-shaped capital of the Egyptians and the spiral of the Assyrians.[6]

I quote this chiefly that I may have an opportunity of reiterating my disapprobation of this very small way of accounting for great things, and to ask you to consider how absurd it is to assume that every fine thing which the creative faculty of the Greeks has produced must necessarily have been copied from or suggested by some crude material object, invented long before by the primitive workmen of Egypt or Assyria, while indulging their quaint untutored fancies. It would seem as if Mr. Fergusson considered that the great merit lay in the contrivance of the first rude shape rather than in the perfecting and imbuing with thoughtful life the finest form; and, by inference that it is more hopeful for art that we should study those embryotic shapes, with the view of working some improvement upon them, than that we should draw wisdom and inspiration from the highest achievements of the most accomplished artists, and endeavour to attain to the high standard of excellence which they have set up for us. Were it not for those persistent attempts, not merely to diminish the distance that lies between rudeness and excellence, I should not have thought it necessary to remind you that architectural design consists in moulding and adapting forms and lines into harmonious proportions and combinations, by the exercise of the aesthetic faculty. Forms which do not possess these qualities cannot be regarded as in any wise connected with art; for it is the spirit, and not the body, that we look to as a means of enlightenment and as a source of enjoyment. But it is only the capital of the column that Mr. Fergusson recognises as corroborating his favourite theory of architectural succession, and that is a comparatively small member of this singularly beautiful object, which, he tells us, is one of the most beautiful things of the kind in the world. In fact, the whole thing is so small so elegant, and so exquisitely elaborated; that it is rather to be regarded as an architectural flower than as a building. In form and composition I believe that it has no prototype in either Egypt or Assyria; and I suppose Mr. Fergusson is also in this belief, or he would have told us of it plainly enough. It is a circular monument about eight feet in diameter, with six columns, having the inter columniations filled up so as to leave the columns projecting a little more than half, except at the top. It stands upon a high square base, and has no door, or any other opening. From the neck of the capital, all over the roof, and up to the top, it is one blaze of the most beautiful ornamentation ever conceived by the imagination or executed by the hand of man. Indeed, it seems to be either the type of what we know as Greek ornament, or its most perfect masterpiece – a standard of emulation to the accomplished artist, a source of education to the advanced student. Mr. Fergusson, looking at the capital of the column as the only part that he can make anything of, says “ it is in fact a composite order, made up of the bell-shaped capital of the Egyptians and the spiral of the Assyrians.” Now, what resemblance he can trace between the solid leaves in low relief upon the Egyptian lotus or papyrus capitals and the freely relieved, deeply-incised acanthus leaf, intermingled with flowers, which we see here, or between the rude nondescript scrolls of the Assyrian and the elegant combination of leaves, tendrils, and flowers in the upper part of this capital, I cannot comprehend. There are doubtless leaves in the Egyptian capitals and scrolls in the Assyrian, and both in this of the Lysicrates monument. But there are many animals, which resemble each other in having heads and tails, that are nevertheless so very distantly related as to require much research and subsequent speculation to establish even a remote degree of kindred. And we are driven to the conclusion that the recognition of relationship in this instance either affords evidence of the great keenness of Mr. Fergusson’s critical vision, or a strange suspicion of his blindness.

There are other examples of the Corinthian style in and around Athens, but as these belong to the Roman period, and exhibit the peculiarities of the Roman manner, they need not be noticed here.

To the ordinary observer Greek architecture seems a very simple thing, in which balance of parts and regular repetition are the most apparent peculiarities; that it was all very well in its way, but as regards construction it was extremely primitive and unskilful. And some good-natured folk believe that, as the Greeks were a very clever people, they might possibly have made something of their architecture if they had only known the use of the arch. It would take more time than we can at present spare to describe the peculiarities and capabilities of the arch as an artistic form. It will come up as a prominent part of our subject in treating of Roman and Mediaeval Architecture. But I may state that the reason why the Greeks did not use it as an artistic form was not that they were ignorant of it. Arches were far more numerous in Egypt than proto-Doric columns; and in Assyria, the land of scrolls, it was used as an architectural feature, but the Greeks rejected it simply because it did not suit their purpose, or, to speak more strongly, because it was diametrically opposed to their purposes.

I have stated that the striking peculiarity of the Greek mind was a desire for excellence in whatever pursuit it thought worthy of its efforts. In artistic forms the Greeks aimed at ideal perfection; and so far as we can comprehend the matter, they attained it. By the introduction of the arch into architecture the whole thing underwent a radical change. While the Egyptians and the Greeks bestowed their chief attention upon the solid parts of their buildings, the Romans and Goths adopted the openings as the principal objects of their concern. Now, it will be observed that, whereas the column is susceptible of being adjusted to the nicest proportion and the highest degree of the refinement of form, the arched opening, or void, is extremely limited in these respects. And neither in proportion nor outline has it ever assumed even the most distant approach to the degree of excellence to which the column attained under the Greeks. But it is not merely rude and intractable in itself; it never has been, and never can be, associated with those refinements which have been observed in the column and other essential features of Greek architecture. I cannot notice these at great length, but would call your attention to some of them. Externally, the Parthenon appears as a simple unit – its form is about as easily comprehended as is that of a brick; its few leading features are bold and massive, and are noticed at a single glance. There is a stylobate of three degrees, a peristyle or surrounding row of columns, and an entablature. The entablature is composed of three distinct divisions – architrave, frieze and cornice, with a pediment at each end. The material is white marble, and it is wrought with such perfection that no traces of the individual workman are to be seen. Indeed, it seems so perfect in all its parts that the idea of its being a human work does not occur to the mind of the beholder. The broad, massive, character of its parts convey an impression of light and joyfulness rather than of shadow and gloomy grandeur. The more formal features of the architecture are judiciously mixed up with the varied forms of sculpture; and the brilliant whiteness of the marble is relieved by gold, azure, and crimson. As we examine it more closely, the simplicity which struck us at our first impression gives place to a bewildering sense of the most subtle intricacy of composition, and the most exquisite refinement in detail. Indeed, some of the refinements are so extremely delicate that they escaped the very keen observation of Stuart and Revett, who were the first to delineate the Athenian buildings with any degree of accuracy. With a deep sense of the nicety of the task which they had undertaken, they provided themselves with the best instruments for minute measurement which the science of their time could produce, and they measured the detail to the thousandth-part-of-an-inch- but they failed to find out that lines which appeared straight were in reality all curved, and that so slightly, that when the discovery was made, and the curvature of the lines began to be spoken of as something else than accidental – when it was asserted that the thing was deliberately done to correct optical illusion – ordinary men laughed at what appeared the ridiculousness of the idea, and wise men received it with incredulity. But, when the matter came to be investigated, it was found that it was not peculiar to one, but common to all the buildings of the true Greek period. The apparently horizontal lines of the Parthenon are found to be curved upwards. The uppermost line of the stylobate measures in front about 101 feet, and the curvature in that length is a little less than three inches. That on the entablature is somewhat less still, and it was evidently intended to counteract the influence of the pediment – increasing in height, as it does, from the sides towards the centre. The length of the flank is about 228ft. but the curvature on this – a length more than double that of the front – is almost the same, and the reason why it is not also double is evident. It was still the influence of the pediments that had to be met, although in a different way; for, looking along the flank from either end, the peaks of the pediments were so emphasised that the horizontal lines of the stylobate and entablature would certainly have appeared as deflected downwards below the true level. Then the columns were found to be curved, not merely in proportion to their height, but, as they are slightly inclined from the perpendicular backwards from the front and inwards from the sides and thus this curvature, or entasis as it is called, becomes extremely complicated and delicate, as it must vary gradually from the greatest to the least. This slight inclination of the columns is also a wonderfully fine provision against apparent weakness. It would be tedious to follow all the delicate corrections that have been observed on the Parthenon and other buildings; but take, for instance, the degrees of the stylobate of the Parthenon. These are not equal in height but increase slightly as they rise, the second being about half an inch higher than the first, and the third about an inch higher than the second. There is even a measurable difference in the whole length of the upper and lower lines of each of these degrees. I have now to call attention to the perfect harmony that is observed between the architecture and the sculpture of the Parthenon; and, while it is greatly owing to the fact that the same law of proportion governs both, there is also the fact that all the mouldings of the Doric style are of a fineness corresponding to the gentle swellings and depressions of the muscles of the human frame. What a long history of refinement do we see indicated in the curve of the echinus of the capital, the succession of thin, sharp fillets at the lower part of it, and the narrow channels marking the neck of the column The flutes are flat, elliptical hollows, with a very narrow and almost invisible fillet between them. The members of the entablature, though mostly angular, are so varied between boldness and extreme tenderness of projection that the average leaves a pleasing impression of softness upon the mind quite in keeping with that quality in the sculpture. The sculpture which decorated this building is the finest in the world, and, strange to say, the marvellous frieze representing the Parthenaic procession occupied a position in which it could barely be seen – certainly not to advantage. And the back of the figure, called the Illissus, which Canova and Flaxman declared to be unrivalled, was turned to the wall of the tympanum, and never seen by mortal eye from the time that it was put up under the direction of Phidias until it was taken down under the direction of Lord Elgin.[7] But the Greeks did not do these things merely to be seen by man, for they said, “ The gods see everywhere.”

Before leaving this subject, I would ask you to turn and look for a moment at the Acropolis of Athens, as it appeared when Greece was the light of the world. A great rock rises from amidst the wide spread city. Its battlemented walls follow the irregularities of the precipice, here assuming the shape of a tower or bastion, there some form of grace which suggests a sacred purpose. But the chief objects are the Parthenon and its companions. And now let us shut our eyes to all outward things, let us draw a curtain over what ever architectural combinations of gorgeousness or of gloomy grandeur that may have found place in the gallery of the imagination, and let us gaze with the eye of the soul upon this most wonderful sight. John saw “the Holy City, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of Heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband.” What do we see here? A group of beautiful forms, so full of thought that they seem to think. They seem possessed of some high, contemplative, rapturous kind of life altogether different from any of the ordinary or natural sorts. We see no indication of progressive development as in plant life, no motion as in animal life; they neither move nor are moved, but sit upon that rock as upon a throne, high and lifted up in the sight of all the people, in the sight of all the gods. The resplendent whiteness of the marble, rendered still more glorious by the blaze of light which seems to envelope them as if the sun delighted in pouring his brightest rays upon that assemblage of angelic forms, that holy sisterhood standing as mediators between earth and heaven, sending upwards the prayers and praises of men, and drawing downwards the approbation and blessing of the eternal gods. The majestic Parthenon, the graceful Erectheion, the guardian Propylæa with its extended wings, and by its side the little Temple of Victory – fancy all these beautiful forms composed of marble of pearly whiteness, and the azure crimson, and gold with which they were partially tinted, seen from a distance. The colors, blending with the white, would yield a chaste irradescence resembling that of the opal. Then, suppose the colossal figure of Minerva, whom the Athenians delighted to honor, standing in the midst leaning upon her spear with her hand raised pointing to heaven, and we have one of the most glorious sights which the human eye has ever been permitted to behold, and the like of which it will never again see in this world.

1. Of Thomson’s seven Glaswegian Muses, the Wellington Street United Presbyterian Church, 1825, by John Baird I, has been demolished, but the others survive: the Custom House of 1840 by John Taylor (to which Thomson made internal alterations), the fragment of Clarendon Place, 1839–41 by Alexander Taylor, surviving at the beginning of Great Western Road; the Merchants’ House and the Municipal & County Buildings were both designed by Clarke & Bell and form part of a single block, built in stages after 1841; the Royal Bank by Archibald Elliott, 1827, in Royal Exchange Square; and William Stark’s Court House of 1809–14 in the Saltmarket, subsequently altered.

2. St George’s Hall in Liverpool was incomplete when its young architect, Harvey Lonsdale Elmes, died of tuberculosis in 1847 at the age of 34, leaving the building to be finished by C.R. Cockerell.

3. Ruskin condemned the Ionic capital in his ‘Lamp of Beauty’ in The Seven Lamps of Architecture of 1849: “It will be thought that I have somewhat rashly limited the elements of architectural beauty to imitative forms…. The Ionic capital (to my mind, as an architectural invention, exceedingly base,) nevertheless depended for all the beauty it had on its adoption of a spiral line, perhaps the commonest of all that characterise the inferior orders of animal organism and habitation. Farther progress could not be made without a direct imitation of the acanthus leaf.”

4. Thomson might well have known the Erectheion from the book by H.W. Inwood (designer of St Pancras New Church in London), The Erectheion at Athens, 1827, with its plates lithographed by his father-in-law, Michael Angelo Nicholson.

5. The Choragic Monument of Thrasyllus with its central square column as engraved by James Stuart & Nicholas Revett for volume two of The Antiquities of Athens, published in 1789, provided inspiration for Schinkel and, above all, for Thomson, who discussed this cave entrance as if it still existed although it had actually been destroyed in 1826 during the Greek war of independence.

6. The Corinthian Order was described by Fergusson on pages 266 and 273 of his Illustrated Handbook of Architecture of 1855, which Thomson evidently studied closely.

7. The Earl of Elgin removed most of the Parthenon sculptures under a firman issued at Constantinople in 1801 and the so-called ‘Elgin Marbles’ have been in the British Museum since 1817.