I mentioned in a former lecture that a large proportion of the finest of the sculptures of the Parthenon were placed in such a situation where they could not be seen to advantage, and that some of the very best parts could not be seen at all, but that the Greeks explained such anomalies by saying that “the gods see everywhere.” There are no such perplexities about Roman art – nothing to suggest that the Roman artist troubled himself about any of these things, or believed that the gods could see anywhere. The Romans were a thoroughly practical people; they worked hard and ate heartily, and made the Basilicas, where they transacted their worldly business of greater importance than the temples of their gods. Instead of cherishing in their hearts a feeling of reverence for the gods, and rendering a humble obedience to the divine laws they would submit to no higher power, but set themselves up as rulers and governors over their fellow-men, extorting from them the most unquestioning allegiance. They fought with all who would fight with them, and set their heel upon the necks of those who would not. If they were not fighting abroad, they were contending with each other at home either in political faction, or in trying to outvie each other in the eyes of the people by ostentatious displays of wealth and power. This desire of theirs to become gods to other men gave a fullness and breadth to their actions not unbecoming their high pretensions. Wherever they went to conquer and cast down they also set about organising and civilising. Besides military works of great magnitude, they made roads and bridges, built aqueducts and baths hollowed out or erected amphitheatres, established markets, and opened up channels of communication with all parts of their vast empire. This restless spirit of action was not likely to produce the highest kind of art. It did not look upwards for inspiration, but outwards to command. It did not wait to enquire what the divine law might be, but without the least hesitation gave forth its own law. Mystery was henceforth abolished, art became a matter of business between you and me, as it were, or between master and slave. What was wanted was something like such and such a thing and must be done by a certain time. Thus the ideal perfection which was aimed at in Greek art gave place to matter-of-fact and utility in the art of Rome. The painting which has been preserved to us so wonderfully on the walls of the houses of Pompeii is for the most part pure Greek, and, however beautiful, must rank as greatly inferior to the best period of Athenian art.

Roman sculpture has a character of its own quite distinct from the Greek, and may possibly be as nearly allied to Etruscan as to Greek. Indeed, it is not impossible that it was to a great extent the work of the Etruscan race which had been absorbed into the general mass of the Roman people. Amongst the most recent acquisitions in the British Museum is a very remarkable specimen of sculpture. It is an Etruscan sarcophagus, found in one of the tombs of that ancient people, which, although composed merely of burnt clay, and painted in natural colors, is almost as fresh as when first brought from the studio of the artist. On the lid is the figure of an aged man, in a reclining position, with a female figure kneeling beside him. They are almost life-size. The male figure is nearly nude and very much emaciated, and the modelling is of an extremely naturalistic kind, showing the lines of the shrivelled skin upon the face and the hands and feet with a degree of minuteness quite remarkable. The head is small, and the expression of the face feeble; the hair is painted nearly white, and the skin dark red. The whole appearance of the figure is peculiar, and different in character from any race with which we are acquainted. The female figure, on the contrary, looks quite like a Greek – well modelled draped in lady-like costume, and painted of a fair complexion. Around the sides of the sarcophagus are subjects in low relief, in which the male figure on the lid can easily be distinguished as the hero. These are treated with a degree of artistic skill greatly superior to the hard realistic modelling of the male figure of the principal group.

We know little of the Etruscans except from their tombs. These and their contents are deeply interesting, showing a style of art bearing such a striking resemblance to that of Greece that we must suppose either that they had a common origin, or that the one was very strongly influenced by the other. But, whichever was the case, there can be no doubt that Roman art is greatly indebted to both. What we know of it belongs almost entirely to the period succeeding the conquest of Greece and the consequent decline of Greek art and, while bearing palpable evidence of Greek education, its motive is totally different. In the best days of Greek art ordinary portraiture was regarded as a thing scarcely to be tolerated. Their public places were thronged with the finest models of idealised humanity, and their young people were encouraged to frequent those places and, as it were, to associate with those embodiments of high excellence, in order that their manners and bearing might partake in some measure of the grace and dignity for which these noble works were distinguished, just as the youths of our own time are led into familiar intercourse with good society for the sake of the influences which may be imparted to their susceptible natures by contact with their betters. On the other hand, portraiture was the special province of Roman sculpture; and in the statues and busts which have remained to us we see a stern, almost grim, reality, which brings us at once from the pure region of imagination, and from converse with the gods, to speculate upon the relentless doings of those hard-headed determined men who conquered and beat down all the nations round about them, and turned not aside until their sword had devoured all who had the courage to withstand them, laying the whole known world prostrate at their feet. While it fared so with sculpture, architecture could not be expected to go on throwing off all inert or excrescent matter as it had been doing under the highly-refined intellects of Greece, but it became itself an excrescence under the hands of the Romans, to be in its turn thrown off when the vital principle had forsaken it, and had passed into the really essential forms of the new structures which an entire change of manners had called into existence. As soon as the Romans had got architecture under their control it assumed an expression wonderfully like their sculpture in several of its characteristics, whilst in others it exhibited that kind of voluptuous fullness of habit which critics, in speaking of a certain kind of modern literature, designate as “fleshly”. It is often found lending a gorgeousness to displays of wealth and patrician pride, but never sanctifying religion with any holy ray of spiritual truth. The delicate curves of the mouldings, which a perfect familiarity with the lines of the human frame enabled the Greeks to draw, gave place to a coarse, bold style of moulding more in accordance with the rough-and-ready habits of the Romans. Had the question, can art be taught? been put to the Roman architect of those times, he would have answered without hesitation in the affirmative. He would have explained with perfect clearness the rules for setting up each of the five orders, and shewn you a simple and unerring mode of drawing every moulding by means of compass and square. He would point out how infinitely more scientific his mode was than that of the Greeks. This art, which had hitherto engaged the powers of the wisest and ablest of men to investigate its mysteries and exhibit the operation of its laws, was now to be popularised. The law-loving, law-making Romans could not permit the laws of architecture to remain dependent in a vague, unsettled kind of way upon the life and practice of some favorite of the gods, and to be appreciated only by men of cultivated minds. They resolved that these laws should forthwith be codified, so that they might be administered by the appointment of the magistrates, and rendered serviceable to the State; that they might be used to facilitate building operations, and be set forth in such plain characters that all men might read and know them. Instead of raising the general level of public taste, the standard of merit was lowered to meet the existing state of things. Whatever was too fine to be readily comprehended was forthwith omitted. Instead of leaving the imagination to strike an average between the bold and tender contrasts of light and shade which we observed in the members of the Greek entablature, the Roman architect saved the spectator this trouble by striking this average for him. While the projections are equally bold, the extremely tender points are altogether abolished, and no part is made so fine but that it may be readily made out at a glance. In lieu of the skilful contrast of broad and narrow lights and shadows, there is a safe and easy gradation of parts between the small and great which neither excites the admiration of the learned critic nor disturbs the self-complacency of the ordinary observer. The Greeks had three distinct styles or orders, the Romans flattered themselves that they had increased these to five, but the boast is scarcely justified by the fact. The Doric of the Greeks being much too fine for Roman optics, they produced a Doric of their own – a good, sensible, every-day-looking article, quite intelligible to ordinary minds, and not requiring more than the skill of ordinary workmen to put it into shape. But not content with this, they contrived something ruder still – by leaving out the triglyphs and making certain modifications on the mouldings and proportions of the Doric, they fancied the change so great as to justify their bestowing upon it a distinct name, so they called it the Tuscan order. After all, it is a mere variety, and never attracted particular attention. It has rarely been used in this country. The other supposed addition to the orders is that is called the Composite order, which consists of a most unhappy combination of the Corinthian and Ionic orders, but, like the Tuscan, it was never regarded with much favour, either in ancient or modern times. The Roman variety of the Ionic does not reflect much credit on the taste or skill of those who manipulated the elegant Greek into the more commonplace form required for Roman purposes, and so it did not fare much better than the Tuscan or Composite. The favourite order of the Romans was the Corinthian, and its best examples exhibit a degree of beauty which places it in the foremost rank of those typical forms which must continue to command the admiration of refined minds throughout all ages. The finest example is that known as the Jupiter-Stator in Rome. Very good judges prefer it to the Greek example of the Choragic Monument of Lysicrates, and in some respects this may be admitted. The element of contrast is more skillfully managed in the Greek, but the parts are somewhat weak and thin towards the top; on the other hand, while the Roman is more complete, it is lacking in the element of contrast, and is rather too much elaborated. Indeed, so much is this the case, that the entablature, though rich and beautiful in itself, is rather scant and poor in comparison with the capital. Some parts of the entablature are decidedly inferior in design to the capital, and look as if a different hand had intruded itself into this marvellously fine work. While we miss the profound wisdom and artistic skill of the Greek – expressed with such precision and delicacy in all that he did – we find the ardent and energetic character of the Roman was as unmistakably impressed upon the works of his hands. The carving of the capitals, consoles, friezes, and enriched mouldings has an air of gorgeousness, and a spirit of rich and vigorous life about it, which is quite peculiar, and in its way quite unrivalled.

The purely structural character, which is so distinctive of Grecian architecture, very soon disappeared under the Roman management. As the Romans increased in wealth and power, the worship of the gods, the practice of virtue, and the pursuit of wisdom ceased to occupy their minds, or fully to satisfy their desires; they require gratifications of a different sort, they called for excitement, for novelty, and for variety in their amusements. These, added to the varied requirements of the complicated affairs of a great empire, led to changes in the forms of their buildings to which the architectural forms at their command could not very readily be accommodated. They had little of that creative power which the Greeks had wielded with such freedom, and so they adhered tenaciously to forms, which however beautiful in themselves, became utterly ridiculous from the incongruous manner in which they were mixed with a strange but vigorous growth which began to be seen sprouting from below, filled with the vernal juices of a new era. A radical change was taking place, the architecture of the ancient world, which through long ages had been little by little ridding itself of everything of a merely accidental or meretricious character, and by a process of centripetal consolidation had approached that state of settled tranquillity which rests upon the perfect law of God, was now to be broken up from that sure foundation. The progress of the art was henceforth to take the opposite direction, and, as it were by centrifugal dispersion, to be driven outwards even beyond the vague circumference of æsthetic movement into the whirling circle of perpetual change, guided only by human caprice. The chief cause of this great change was the adoption of the arch as an architectural feature.

There was a time, and that not very long ago, when it was usual to give the Romans the credit of inventing the arch, but more recently it has been discovered to have been used by the primeval bricklayers of Egypt and Assyria long before the Romans were heard of. Indeed, the arch is essentially a bricklayer’s contrivance, and although there are several examples of it in stone and marble which, under specially favorable circumstances, have come down to us from very remote periods of antiquity, yet the great monumental builders of Egypt and Greece, although quite familiar with it, wisely avoided its use in their more important structures, knowing well the destructive nature of this most mischievous and absurd of building contrivances. Mr. Fergusson tells us that the Hindoos say, “the arch never sleeps” [1] and, although the Mahommedans of India use it frequently, the Hindoos avoid it altogether. Everyone knows what wonderful results may be produced by the use of the hammer and wedge; and yet, strange as it may appear, these two powerful agents are brought into active and violent antagonism in this much-lauded principle of construction. The arch is composed entirely of wedges, and every stone that is laid over these acts with the force of a hammer to drive the wedge home, and, if possible, to rend asunder the walls into which they are introduced. One false step generally involves a hole series of evasions, palliations, and subterfuges, and so the arch builders were driven to the necessity of calling to their aid the auxiliary and supplementary powers of abutment, buttress and counterpoise, and by these means the destructive energies of the two opposing forces may be practically restrained for a time; and, if ordinary care be taken to prevent waste and to make such repairs as may from time to time become necessary, it is wonderful to note how long the deadly struggle may be protracted, especially if the openings are not very large or very numerous, or the walls very lofty. But if such care is not taken, there are other powers ready to step in and take part in the strife. If the joints are not kept well stopped the rain will get in, and frost following will cause the wet mortar to swell, and so test the restraining forces to their very utmost. Then there is the vibration caused by storms of wind, and even such slight influences as the rumble of passing vehicles; and, as sure as there is the minutest yielding to any of these forces, so surely will the ever-vigilant hammer drive home the wedge and secure the advantage gained. This is, you will observe, a very slow process, and as it goes on year by year, it is very little noticed; yet, in a good many years it begins to tell visibly, and by-and-by, if the process be allowed to take its natural course, the whole thing comes to the ground – and so from these various causes the adoption of the arch by the Romans has strewed Europe with ruins. There are doubtless many instances in which by great power of opposing thrust, or enormous weight of counterpoise, arched structures built by the Romans are still standing; but, unless where there are natural abutments such as in bridges jammed between the jaws of rocky chasms, the amount of material employed in the restraining forces is out of all proportion to the results, whereas lintelled buildings in Egypt and Greece, unless where shaken by the irresistible power of earthquakes, or the deliberate efforts of human violence, have stood for thousands of years without showing any other symptoms of decay than such as have resulted from the ordinary process of disintegration. We are told that we ought to use the arch because it is so very scientific, and that the lintel ought to be despised and rejected because it is so very rude; but we see that our best engineers are adopting the girder instead of the arch for wide openings. They find that to put a simple string to the bow of an arch is much easier and more economical than any such clumsy main-force contrivance as abutments, buttresses, and counterpoises; and, carrying out the principle a little farther, it is found that the two elements of hardness and tenacity while brought into opposition may at the same time be brought into perfect subordination, so that we may say that they have been put to sleep. In this way Stephenson laid a lintel over the opening formed by the sea between Caernarvon and the island of Anglesea which is considerably greater than any opening ever spanned by an arch.[2] Now, you will observe that the simple, unsophisticated lintel contains in its structure all the scientific appliances of strutting and straining used in the great tubular bridge. It has within itself the principles of the bow and string, the elements of hardness and tenacity in perfect repose, and when laid upon two jambs there is no reason why it should ever stir. We may admire a thing that is difficult to do, but the merest common sense and the highest wisdom alike recommend us to use what is easiest and best, instead of what is difficult and dangerous. In short, Stonehenge is more scientifically constructed than York Minster.

Before leaving this part of our subject, I may notice a form of the arch which has generally been regarded as the first rude stage of its development; but on more particular inquiry into the matter there will be found reason to doubt the absolute correctness of such a conclusion. As I have already said, the radiating arch is properly a bricklayer’s contrivance: the other form, or corbelled arch, is found in masonry. It is formed by projecting each successive course of stone more or less over the course below, until they meet at the top. This is sometimes done by straight sloping sides, sometimes by curved sides forming a pointed arch. But Mr. Fergusson gives a curious example found in the temple of Der-el-Bahri, in Thebes, where a semicircular arch is formed on this principle; and one more curious at Assos, where there is a pointed arched recess on one side of a wall and a semicircular one on the other, both constructed on this principle, while between there is a doorway covered with a lintel.[3] There are also examples where a lintel is introduced at a convenient height, and over it a saving-arch on the corbelled principle. On the whole, therefore, there is good reason to believe that whether or not the corbelled arch preceded the radiating arch in point of time, there seems little doubt but that it was continued in use cotemporaneously with the latter, under the well-founded belief that the horizontal courses of the corbelled arch had less tendency to push out the walls on either side than have the wedge-shaped stones of the radiating arch. There is a yet simpler form of arch, which consists of two stones laid sloping against each other. In this form the lateral thrust must be very considerable, but of course it will be greater or less according as the angle at which the stones lie to each other is more or less acute.

So much for the arch as a structural contrivance. We will now consider its merits as an architectural feature. As I have already noticed, the introduction of the arch into architecture produced a radical change. We cannot tell when it began to be so used, or who was the first to do it. The earliest examples we know are to be found in the remains of the palaces of Assyria. But while it appears from this that the Romans were not the first to use the arch in this way, there can be no doubt that upon them lies the credit or blame of bringing it into general use. And with the arch, although quite independent of it, came what is called fenestrated or windowed architecture, which led to an entire revolution in the art, and brought into active operation those principles upon which mediaeval and modern architecture are chiefly based. It will be remembered that in the lecture on Greek architecture I drew attention to the three windows between the columns of the semi-attached portico of the Erectheion, and stated that these had served as models for us in nearly every street-house that has been built in Glasgow during the last sixty or seventy years. As we know very little about the domestic or other secular buildings of the Greeks, we cannot tell to what extent they used the window as an architectural feature. Certainly this group does not appear to be a first attempt; but we are inclined to think that the Romans deserve the credit of fully adopting fenestration as an architectural principle as distinguished from the columnar, which had been growing all through the early ages of the world down to its perfect development on the Acropolis of Athens. The great importance of the change will at once appear when it is pointed out to you that from henceforth the attention of the architect was to be directed to the voids instead of the solid parts of his structures. Let us consider then the relative capabilities of these two very opposite principles. Windows may be either lintelled or arched. In the meantime we will confine our remarks to the latter. Consider on the one hand the column and all the fine wisdom that it is capable of containing, the composition of its various parts, its admirable proportions, the extreme delicacy of its outlines, and its perfect harmony with the surrounding parts of the structure. It may be made as beautiful as the imagination of man can conceive, or as his wisdom can execute – a form of ideal perfection. On the other hand, look at the arched void. It is, to begin with, a hole in a wall, and what can you make of it? First then, as to proportion. A very good proportion is two diameters for the height; but there is no proportion that can be said to be the very best. In this respect it is quite vague, or, as its admirers say, free; and freedom is a very useful quality where nothing is particularly aimed at. But it is quite clear that a form which cannot be made excellent does not belong to the highest style of art. A semicircular arch, starting from a horizontal line, is quite a satisfactory form in its way, but it is not susceptible of any very delicate treatment. But a semicircular arch springing from simple perpendicular jambs is what no educated eye can endure. The junction of the perpendicular lines with the curve seems intolerably feeble and unsteady. Many a scheme has been tried to correct the fault; some have been more successful than others, but none of them, as far as I am aware have been quite satisfactory. The first resort is the introduction of an impost-band or moulding, but this makes two emphasised points at the shoulders of the arch, and the eye wanders restlessly from the one to the other; moreover, these belong properly to the piers, which immediately become too powerful for the arched head. To restore the due preponderance of the arch, and to provide a third point which shall afford some degree of rest to the eye, a key stone is added – at best an extremely clumsy excrescence. This combining with the projections of the impost in forming a group which appears now in connection with the arched head, the attention is arrested by it, and the jambs which formerly overpowered the arch have become unduly subordinate. Besides this simple way of treating the arch, there are a great many ways of dressing it, – by surrounding it with mouldings, rustic channels, and the like, which to some extent serve to divert the attention from the original defect; but the practised eye sees through all these evasions and refuses to admit the arched opening amongst the ideal forms. The fidgetty restlessness goes on, shifting from one thing to another, but leading to no high end or soul-satisfying result. If we look at a square-headed window, we will see that few of the objections which are observed in the arch are applicable to it. At the very first sight, we find that the two jambs and lintel, being a triad, form a kind of harmonious combination, such as the eye can look at without much discomfort. If the top be found a little too powerful, a slight inclination of the jambs inward will correct this, and an opening about twice and a quarter as high as it is wide will be found a comparatively satisfactory shape without any supplementary or decorative feature whatever. But there are also several forms of dressing with architraves which admit of the nicest adjustment of proportion, the finest combination of lines, and the most delicate ornamentation. A window with architrave, frieze, cornice, and trusses may exercise the talent and test to the utmost the skill of the most highly gifted in the architectural profession. Any such attempt to refine upon the form and dressings of an arched window would be quite out of keeping with the bold, strongly-pronounced character which is peculiar to it. But, in spite of all refinements there is one thing which places the window in a position of inferiority to the column, that is, the fact, that being a void, there is no object or medium on which the eye can rest while the mind is sending forth its feelers on every side, in order that, by an intense and all-absorbing effort, it may comprehend the various thoughts or qualities presented to it into one perfectly embodied idea.

In the case of the arch, there is not only no rest for the eye, but its radiating form has the effect of sending the attention off in every direction in search of other objects, instead of supplying in itself a field of pleasurable repose. Hence the tendency in Gothic windows to fill up the central spaces by dividing and multiplying into more and more intricate traceries until it can be carried out no farther and so the whole process has to be revolutionised to begin again at the beginning. Instead of leading by concentration to repose and ideal excellence, the tendency of the arch is in the opposite direction, – towards dissipation and dispersion, to seek for variety and change in the general field of mediocrity. In its æsthetic, as in its constructive capacity, the arch never sleeps. These remarks, you will observe as I have already said, are applicable to a single opening or window, considered strictly and separately as an architectural form; considered in combination with others – as in rows – the eye is content with a less critical examination, and so, by means of well-marked horizontal lines, such as sill-courses and cornices, a row of windows may be reduced to a very tolerable degree of disciplined subordination. And the lintelled window, from being most self-contained and at the same time more in sympathy with the prevailing horizontality of buildings in general, is by far the most tractable of the two kinds.

But in every case in which the piers can with propriety be made the chief features of an architectural composition they will be found to have a degree of dignity that no merely fenestrated design can ever pretend to. It might have been from this kind of feeling that the Romans continued to use the orders as mere mural decorations long after they had ceased to be applicable in their original and properly structural form. As a striking example of this, I would call your attention to the Colosseum, and, as this building is remarkable for various reasons, it may be well that we take a general view of it and of the principles upon which it is constructed, noticing in course the external architecture. It is the hugest building of its kind; indeed, it is one of the largest single buildings which remain to us of the days of antiquity, and has been an object of wonderment to all beholders ever since it was built. The purpose of this great structure illustrates a prominent point in the character and manners of the Romans. Internally it is an immense oval-shaped basin, with a large flat bottom forming the arena, and the sloping sides, ringed with seats, tier above tier, providing accommodation for fifty or sixty thousand spectators. There is something terrible in the thought of such a vast multitude of cruel-hearted people gathered together, and, as if by community of intense thirst for blood, united into a mighty monster, shouting to the strong, hooting at the weak, and gloating with lustful eye upon the agonies of men and beasts struggling in mortal combat in the open space below. The enormous cost of such an erection as this exhibits another peculiarity of Roman character – the anxiety of the great to propitiate the favour of the multitude. Not only was this displayed in the cost of the building, but the nobles vied with each other in the extravagance of expenditure lavished upon providing combatants and other necessary means for furnishing these horrid spectacles. The ferocity of their fabled wolf foster-mother was thus kept alive in these savage pastimes, and in the exterminating wars in which this people were almost constantly engaged. As seen from the outside, this building is tremendously ugly. It is bad in form, and treated with a degree of rudeness that corresponds well with the unhallowed purpose for which it was built. Yet it has been copied, and will likely be copied again. A short inquiry into the qualities of the oval, and its suitableness as an architectural form, may be the means of leading to such a train of thought as may unsettle prejudice and perhaps confirm opinion. We derive a thoroughly satisfactory kind of pleasure from looking at a sphere, it is so faultless, so entirely complete, the gradations of light and shade which it exhibits, blended with the delicate effects of reflection, all so softly beautiful, present to our mind a perfect figure of stillness, of the unchanged and unchangeable. Now look at the oval, and consider the great variety of which this beautiful form is capable. Variety to the ordinary observer means such a palpable difference as that between big and little, long and short, thick and thin, round and square, reversed curves, opposing angles, and the like – and this is the kind of variety which the vulgar uneducated mind can alone comprehend, which it peremptorily demands, and which the coarser styles of architecture can alone supply. But, when it is considered that all that is excellent lies beyond the sphere of the ordinary observer, the popular critic, and the mere business-architect, it may be for edification to direct attention to the more subtle kind of variety which constitutes refinement and excellence, and is to be found in the merely modified differences of what is nominally the same form. In the first kind of variety the material qualities predominate; in the last the æsthetic is the more remarkable. For instance; the features of the human face, and their arrangement, are much the same in kind all over the world; and yet the variety of æsthetic form and expression to be found in that comparatively limited material, variety, is beyond measure incomprehensible. But if we limit our observation to the possible modifications of a single material form, we will be the more able to give undivided attention to the subject, and thereby derive more solid and permanent advantage. I spoke of the sphere as faultless, I would speak of the oval as admirable. Its typical object is the bird’s egg. If any of you will take the trouble to look over and carefully examine a collection of birds’ eggs, you will find your powers of discrimination, your capacity for delicate impression and nice distinction, tested to their very utmost. You will remark the expression of concentrated energy which seems contained in the compact and almost globular form of the eggs of the hawk, as compared with the more elongated and less decided form of those of the majority of what are termed sea-fowl. Some eggs are apparently the same at both ends, others show a slight preponderance of weight towards one end whilst in the case of the sea-fowl, and others which the Creator has not gifted with the building art, but has appointed them the bare rock or bare ground as a place of incubation, the eggs are shaped like a peg-top, so light at the one end and so heavy at the other, that they have no tendency to roll off their smooth bed, even though it may have a very considerable slope. Between these more noticeable forms there is a great variety of the most exquisite modifications, presenting to the earnest student such a field of observation and instruction as cannot be passed over without his being richly rewarded – his judgment raised to a degree of refinement from which it will be impossible ever to recede. The form of the egg being beautiful in itself, and having many pleasing associations, it is not wonderful that man should unconsciously seek to reproduce it in his work. The Greeks recognised the beauty of the line, and adapted its finest qualities in their mouldings, which are nearly all composed of sections of this form, the Romans, on the other hand adopted it for the ground plan of their amphitheatres, whilst the curves of their mouldings generally are composed of sections of the circle.

To return to the consideration of the Colosseum, and the suitability of the oval for the ground plan of such a structure, I would call your attention to the fact that a circle looked at obliquely assumes the oval form, varying in proportion and interest with every change of position from which we view it, but always perfect, always beautiful. But the case is quite different with the oval as a distinct shape. [I may mention that I am speaking now of the circle and the oval as geometrical figures, not of the solid forms of the sphere and the egg.] When an oval figure is set directly in front of the eye, either standing on end or lying on its side, it is a very agreeable form, and, as I have already shown, is capable of the most exquisite treatment, but when used as we frequently see it in garden-plots, and in the ceilings of rooms, it may happen to be one of the most ungainly forms that can be conceived, inasmuch, as if looked at from any other position than on the line of either of its centres, it seems distorted in a most disagreeable way. Thus, this very admirable shape, by being unskillfully applied, may, instead of affording us pleasure, produce the very opposite effect, that of extreme abhorrence; whereas, if the circle is used for these purposes it presents a series of beautiful ovals according to the various points from which it is viewed. It may be that those who planned the Colosseum and other structures of the kind, had some utilitarian purpose in view in adopting this shape; but certainly, if their motive was merely æsthetic, they committed a gross mistake. Nevertheless, the form of this building has been greatly admired, and we can only account for this from the fact that through prejudice we sometimes fail to distinguish between things that are awfully sublime and things that are awfully hideous.

Let me now draw your attention to the architecture of the exterior as illustrating a mode of treatment which was extensively adopted by the Romans. It will be remembered that, while treating of Egyptian architecture, we observed that it was composed of certain modifications and combinations of a simple form, almost a mere out line distinguished by sloping sides and horizontal cornice enclosing a solid wall having no architectural features except on the entrance front, that while this retained the initial form, it was penetrated in the smaller examples by a simple doorway, in the larger by the greater part of what may be termed the bosom of the wall being cut out and its place supplied by columns. When we came to the Greek, we found that the columnar effect which was merely exceptional in the Egyptian had become the chief characteristic, and had been developed into a complete peristyle, that the Greek temple aimed at ideal perfection not only in the general proportion of the building, but in all its parts, each part bearing some proportional relation to the adjoining parts and to the whole, that the height was divided into three well-defined members – the stylobate, colonnade, and entablature. In the Colosseum we see something totally different. There is no recognisable proportion in the length, breadth, and height to each other; there is no subdivision corresponding to stylobate, colonnade, and entablature; it has no base to give it stability, no coronal to give it dignity, no point or feature more prominent than another for the eye to rest upon. It is a mere mass divided into four storeys of equal height, the three lower ones pierced with arched openings all of the same form and character, the upper most storey blank. It belongs to that class of designs which in paperhangings and printed calicoes is called “all-over patterns.” In saying that it illustrates a mode of treatment which was extensively practised by the Romans, I mean that it is a combination of the old and new styles of architecture, the window boldly asserting its claim to consideration as representing the chief principles of the structure, while the column and entablature, which has hitherto held undisputed sway, are now reduced to the position of waiting attendance upon their ruder and more popular rivals – lending their old graces to give an air of respectability to the comparatively raw and uncouth forms of the new order of things. The architects of this period, recognising in the arched void a feature which would bend with readiness to the new and varied wants of their clients, seemed disposed to use it freely, but they were as yet in some measure under the influence of their early training, for, while they pierced their walls with arched openings, they at the same time decorated them with the orders, one over the other. On the first storey of the Colosseum there is a modification of the Doric, on the second, of the Ionic; and on the third, of the Corinthian, their columns projecting about three-quarters of their diameters from the wall. The fourth storey, which is solid wall, is very badly managed. It is ornamented with pilasters of a sort of composite character without any proper entablature. The difficulty was felt of rendering the wall-spaces quite satisfactory. A pier of sufficient width to afford the necessary structural strength looked squat and inelegant in its proportions, and so a column was placed in front of it in order partly to divert attention from the faults of the arched opening and make up for its lack of interest, but chiefly to correct the proportions of the pier by supplying the element of height, the want of which was strongly felt. Moreover, it served the further purpose of exhibiting, along with the arch and impost-pilasters, that principle of alternation which we see running through almost all kinds of architectural design – for example, in the spinal bead with its whorls, in the egg–and-tongue enrichment, in the metopes and triglyphs of the Doric frieze in the windows and buttresses of the side wall of a Gothic church – indeed, the column as used here did in some measure serve the purpose of a buttress, in addition to its decorative purpose. Then, the entablatures over these columns served two important purposes. The radiating arch has the tendency of directing or throwing off the attention at all points; the entablature has the effect of preventing this vague wandering, and by presenting a well-marked horizontal line, affords, as it were, a channel or course by which the observing faculty is carried along in one direction, so as to feel the influence of whatever provision there may be for the æsthetic faculty. The other purpose which those entablatures serve is that of hoops, which seem to bind the structure together and check its apparent disposition to burst outwards; and this is all the more necessary from the loose and unstable appearance inseparable from the oval form of the building.

At a later period, when the artistic sense became more obtuse, the basements and entablatures were broken under and over these half-relieved columns – assuming still more the character of the Gothic buttress, and initiating that tendency to the perpendicular which ultimately became the ruling principle in Gothic architecture. These broken basements and entablatures completed the degradation of the columnar style of architecture: from henceforth it became a mere mural decoration. The Romans, as has been observed, had a much more diversified and wider range of requirements than the Greeks. Their efforts were less concentrated and their aims less noble and probably for that reason their buildings lack that tendency towards definiteness and correctness of form and proportion which is so characteristic of those of the Greeks. In some instances the Greek forms were adopted, but in rectangular forms generally proportion seems to have been disregarded. Some of their temples seem to have been of that hulky sort of shape which distinguishes not a few of our modern churches – nearly, but not quite square. The circular form seems to have found more favor in their eyes, and because they liked it, they succeeded in treating it with much beauty and dignity of effect. The small temple at Tivoli must be familiar to some of you, it has been such a favourite with those artists who have painted the interesting objects in and around Rome. The effect of this very graceful little edifice, built upon the edge of a rugged precipice overhanging a cascade, is extremely pleasing, and shows how a judicious application of human art may render an inconsiderable bit of natural scenery an object of attraction and delight to all who are capable of being moved by beauty. Little can be said as to its history or purpose, but, from the character of the detail it evidently belongs to the period when Greek influences were prevalent, nevertheless it is strongly imbued with the rude vigorous spirit of Roman art. The flower upon the abacus of the capital is peculiarly Roman-like, and exhibits a freshness of growth that is quite charming. There is another example of this form in the city, commonly called the Temple of Peace, but it has suffered more from the hand of the destroyer: The upper part is entirely gone. The great mausoleum of Hadrian, now known as the Castle of Saint Angelo, must have been a very magnificent work, but it has been stripped of all its architectural and sculptural glories.

The most remarkable of those circular buildings which remain is the Pantheon, the temple of all the gods. Apart from the architectural interest attached to it, this great building is deeply significant as marking a stage in the history of the human race when old things were about to pass away. The nations of antiquity in early times had very little intercourse with each other, and, although there was a certain uniformity of religion common to each of the great races, yet the subdivisions of those races into separate nations gave rise also to considerable differences as to the deities which they worshipped, and different idols representing the same deities were supposed to have peculiarities of character and powers proper to themselves as the gods of certain countries or presiding over certain peoples. The more extended sphere of observation which the conquest of many nations opened up to the Romans enabled them to see the absurdity of the claims which these nations set forth for their respective gods and the haughty scorn which they cast upon the superstition of others recoiled upon their own faith, and caused it to wither at the root. Their doubts brought indifference, or, as some would say liberality of sentiment, for, although the educated Romans had thus ceased to believe in the power of the gods, they did not feel called upon to expose the system of error which had so long occupied their thoughts and directed their actions. They became not merely tolerant of the various forms of faith still existing in the hearts of the people, but they saw that while any vitality remained in the system it might be turned to account as an agent of government, and so they, as it were, slipped a bridle into the mouth of superstition, and made it serve them. With this purpose in view the Pantheon was dedicated to the worship of all the gods. This building has been the subject of much learned conjecture. It consists externally of an immense rotunda of rough brickwork, surmounted by a flat dome, with a Corinthian portico of very great beauty and grandeur attached to it. The shafts of the columns are of granite, each in one stone, thirty-six feet high by five feet in diameter. Those of the outside row are grey, while the inner ones are red. The capitals and bases are of white marble, as is also the entablature. The tympanum bears evidence of having been filled with bronze sculptures. From the total want of sympathy both in character and quality of design between the rotunda and the portico, it is supposed that they belong to different periods, and that the portico from the greatly superior character of its details is the earliest. From the roughness of the external walls of the rotunda it is evident that as we see it now it is incomplete, and yet, from the moulded cornices and string-courses of brick and stone with which the wall is furnished, there is little room left for any kind of architectural treatment worthy of the general importance of the structure. Possibly the rough parts of the wall may have been covered, or intended to have been covered with stucco, as many of their later buildings were in which bricks were used instead of stone or marble. But it is the interior of the Pantheon that has attracted the notice and commanded the admiration of all beholders. It is considered to be one of the grandest applications of the arch which has been achieved either in ancient or modern times. It measures one hundred and forty-five feet six inches in diameter, by one hundred and forty-seven feet in height. These are noble dimensions; but in this, as in many other instances, both ancient and modern,. the grandeur of the conception is greatly marred by the unskillfulness of the architectural treatment. The incongruity which we observed between the portico and the rotunda externally is quite as remarkable between the two principal divisions of the interior of the rotunda; but as it has been repeatedly overhauled, both in ancient and comparatively modern times, we can only judge of it as it appears to us now. The perpendicular portion of the wall is divided into two storeys, each of which is cut up into small and varied parts with correspondingly minute mouldings and carving after the fashion of the degraded Greek style, which still lingered about the Roman edifices. The first storey is divided into eight recesses, three of which on each side have an entablature over them carried by Corinthian columns and pilasters, while the entrance-opening and the corresponding recess opposite are spanned by arches broken up through the otherwise continuous entablature and reaching even to the top of the second storey. On the solid piers between these recesses there are what appear to be shrines, furnished with still smaller Corinthian columns and pilasters. and surrounded with panellings on the same minute scale. In the second storey there are openings like windows, with pediments over them, alternating with panels of a different design on the piers between, and of course detailed upon a small scale. When all this confused composition and striking detail is contrasted with the simple grandeur of the dome we are surprised that two such inconsistent modes of design should be found together in the same building, and probably by the same architect. The dome is enriched by bold coffers of a square form, which, while serving as a becoming decoration, help also to lighten the arch without weakening it. But one of the most remarkable features in this really fine interior is the mode of lighting. This is managed by a single round opening in the top of the dome. The effect is extremely fine, and gives an expression of composure and quiet dignity which perhaps no other building can show.

The aqueducts, the baths, the basilicæ, and the triumphal arches are all very characteristic Roman buildings, but our time will not admit of their being noticed in detail. Their aqueducts, stretching across valleys in long-drawn lines of arches in regular marching order bearing abundant streams of clear cold water from the grassy slopes of the mountains to the densely crowded habitations of the cities; their great bathing establishments, providing every luxury which experience and skill could devise, give evidence of the practical good sense, the wealth, and energy of that great people. The triumphal arches show a less commendable, but not less characteristic phase of their character. One of them, the Arch of Titus, is especially interesting from the sculptures upon it, which represent the triumph of the conquerors of Jerusalem carrying as trophies the sacred vessels of the Temple to gratify the vanity of the Roman mob. There is a peculiar interest attached to the basilicæ, as being the type or progenitor of the cathedral of the Middle Ages. The basilica was the place of public resort where people went to spend a pleasant hour in gossip over the current topics of the day; where the merchants met as on ’Change; where the judges dispensed justice, and young orators tried their powers of argument and persuasion upon the assembled loungers; and where anyone who had anything to say to the people had an opportunity of being heard. There, doubtless, the Apostles, and their immediate successors, when expelled from the Jewish synagogues, first told the strange story of the life, death, and resurrection of the Saviour to the wondering ears of the Gentiles. As the affairs of the empire fell into disorder, and the interest of commerce declined, the Christian religion advanced, and became a matter of absorbing interest to those who resorted to the basilicæ, until in time those buildings became places of worship; and when churches came to be required they were built after the same fashion, and continued to be called basilicæ. The transition from the basilicæ to the Gothic church was easily brought about, and thus, by an unbroken chain of successive links, the ancient and modern civilisations are bound together.

When I began these lectures my intention was to restrict them to three – the first on art in general, the second on the origin of architecture and the ancient architectural styles; and the third on the mediaeval styles, the present practice, and what we should aim at for the future. But the lectures have extended to four, and three of them have been devoted to matters which, according to the original plan, were all to have been overtaken by the second. In the first I endeavoured to explain what art is; to point out the distinction between the objective and subjective theories of art; that these two theories were aptly represented by the words fact and truth; that, according to the objective theory, art consists in the representation by painting or sculpture of what we see with our eyes, and that nature is the only legitimate source of art and test of artistic merit; that the subjective theory consists in the expression of what we feel in our hearts and conceive in our imaginations by whatever means one mind can communicate with another; that we can conceive a higher degree of excellence than is to be found within the sphere of our observation or experience; that nature is neither the source of art nor the test of excellence; and that the duty of the artist is mainly to realise that higher kind of beauty which we call the ideal. In the second lecture I showed that the laws of architecture had been instituted at the beginning in the councils of eternity, and that man, being made in the image of God, was ordained to carry out the purposes of the Creator, and that to this end he was sent into the world naked, and laid under the necessity not only of clothing himself, but of building himself a house, that in common with a great many of the lower animals he was endowed with an instinct or faculty for building; and that by this, combined with a spiritual endowment of an æsthetic faculty, and moved with the desire to honour his Creator, he has realised those laws of architecture which were divinely written upon his heart, and has produced forms and combinations which have no resemblance to anything which exists in nature. We followed the development of these laws amongst the Egyptians, showing that the motive of their art was an endeavour to realise the eternal. In the third lecture we witnessed the laws of architecture carried to the very highest degree of development to which they have hitherto attained, by the Greeks, who aimed at achieving excellence in all that they attempted. In the present lecture we have followed architecture in its decline through the Roman period, and have been brought to the very verge of the dark valley which separates the ideal and intellectual glories of the ancient world from the vigorous expression of life in the Middle Ages – and here, for the present, we must stop. It only remains for me to thank you for the attention which you have given to these very unworthy expositions of a very lofty theme, and for the kind forbearance which you have extended to my inexperience and many shortcomings; and to express our joint thanks to the trustees of the Haldane Institute for affording the means for getting up the drawings with which these lectures have been illustrated.

[The illustrations were drawings – plans, elevations, sections, details, and compositions, on a very large scale, made by students of the School of Art and Haldane Academy, under the superintendence of Mr. Greenlees, the headmaster, and an interior perspective of the great hall of the temple of Karnak, by Mr. Sellars, architect.]

1. James Fergusson, on page xxxv of his Illustrated Handbook of Architecture, 1855, wrote of the Hindus that, “As they quaintly express it, ‘An arch never sleeps,’ and it is true that by its thrust and pressure it is always tending to tear a building to pieces; in spite of all counterpoises, whenever the smallest damage is done, it hastens the ruin of a building, which, if more simply constructed, might last for ages.” – a lesson which Thomson clearly took to heart.

2. The “lintel” which the engineer Robert Stephenson laid over the sea to Anglesea was the pair of tubular wrought-iron beams of the Britannia Bridge of 1846–50 carrying lines of railway high above the Menai Strait across two spans of 460 feet.

3. The curious arch at Assos is shown on page 260 of the Illustrated Handbook of Architecture, but Fergusson did not refer to any example at Der-el-Bahri.