During the first period of pioneering, mechanical improvements had
affected the milieu of architecture, but not architecture itself, if
one overlooks such ingenuities as the circular and octagon houses of
the eighteen-thirties. Slowly, the actual methods of construction
changed: the carpenter-builder, who had once performed every
operation, gave way to the joiner, whose work profited by putty and
paint, curtains and carpets--to the plasterer, who covered up the
raw imperfect frame--and to the plumber. Weird ornamental forms for
doors and window-architraves, for moldings and pendants, were supplied
to the builder by the catalogs of the planing and scroll-saw mills.
Invention produced novelties of contortion in wood, unique in ugliness
and imbecile in design. Like the zinc and iron statues that graced
the buildings of the Centennial Exposition, these devices record the
absorption of art in a vain technology.
One need not dwell upon the results of all these miserable efforts,
conceived in haste and aborted for profit: the phenomenon was common
to industrial civilization at this period, and can be observed in
Battersea and Manchester as well as in New York and Pittsburgh. Mr.
Thomas Hardy, who was trained as an architect, wrote the esthetic
apology for industrialism; and in proclaiming the rightness of our
architectural deserts, one cannot help thinking that he transferred to
the Wessex countryside a little of the horrible depression he must have
acquired in London.
“Gay prospects,” exclaimed Mr. Hardy, “wed happily with gay times; but,
alas! if the times be not gay! Men have more often suffered from the
mockery of a place too smiling than from the oppression of surroundings
oversadly tinged.... Indeed, it is a question if the exclusive reign of
orthodox beauty is not approaching its last quarter. The new vale in
Tempe may be a gaunt waste in Thule: human souls may find themselves in
closer harmony with external things wearing a somberness distasteful
to our race when it was young. Shall we say that man has grown so
accustomed to his spiritual Bastille that he no longer looks forward
to, and even shrinks from, a casual emergence into unusual brightness?”
Even the best work of the period is blighted with this sombreness: the
fact that so many of Richardson’s buildings have the heavy air of a
prison shows us that the Gilded Age was not, indeed, gay, and that a
spiritual Black Friday perpetually threatened the calendar of its days.