Gardening and Architecture.
The books that have been composed upon architecture and upon
embellishing ground, abound in practical instruction necessary for a
mechanic: but in vain would we rummage them for rational principles to
improve our taste. In a general system, it might be thought sufficient
to have unfolded the principles that govern these and other fine arts,
leaving the application to the reader: but as I would neglect no
opportunity of illustrating these principles, I propose to give a
specimen of their application to gardening and architecture, being
favourite arts, though I profess no peculiar skill in either.
Gardening was at first an useful art: in the garden of Alcinoous,
described by Homer, we find nothing done for pleasure merely. But
gardening is now improved into a fine art; and when we talk of a garden
without any epithet, a pleasure garden, by way of eminence, is
understood. The garden of Alcinoous, in modern language, was but a
kitchen-garden. Architecture has run the same course. It continued many
ages an useful art merely, before it aspired to be classed with the fine
arts. Architecture therefore and gardening must be handled in a twofold
view, as being useful arts as well as fine arts. The reader however will
not here expect rules for improving any work of art in point of utility.
It is no part of my plan to treat of any useful art as such. But there
is a beauty in utility; and in discoursing of beauty, that of utility
ought not to be neglected. This leads us to consider gardens and
buildings in different views: they may be destined for use solely, for
beauty solely, or for both. Such variety in the destination, bestows
upon gardening and architecture a great command of beauties complex not
less than various, which makes it difficult to form an accurate taste in
these arts. And hence that difference and wavering of taste which is
more remarkable here than in any art that has but a single destination.
Architecture and gardening cannot otherwise entertain the mind, than by
raising certain agreeable emotions or feelings; and before we descend to
particulars, these arts shall be presented in a general view, by showing
what are the emotions or feelings that can be raised by them. Poetry, as
to its power of raising emotions, possesses justly the first place among
the fine arts; for scarce one emotion of human nature is beyond its
reach. Painting and sculpture are more circumscribed, having the command
of no emotions but what are produced by sight. They are peculiarly
successful in expressing painful passions, which are display’d by
external signs extremely legible[76]. Gardening, beside the emotions of
beauty by means of regularity, order, proportion, colour, and utility,
can raise emotions of grandeur, of sweetness, of gaiety, melancholy,
wildness, and even of surprise or wonder. In architecture, regularity,
order, and proportion, and the beauties that result from them, are still
more conspicuous than in gardening. But with respect to the beauty of
colour, architecture is far inferior. Grandeur can be expressed in a
building, perhaps more successfully than in a garden; but as to the
other emotions above mentioned, architecture hitherto has not been
brought to the perfection of expressing them distinctly. To balance this
defect, architecture can display the beauty of utility in the highest
perfection.
But gardening possesses one advantage, which never can be equalled in
the other art. A garden may be so contrived, as in various scenes to
raise successively all its different emotions. But to operate this
delicious effect, the garden must be extensive, so as to admit a slow
succession: for a small garden, comprehended at one view, ought to be
confined to one expression[77]: it may be gay, it may be sweet, it may
be gloomy; but an attempt to mix these, would create a jumble of
emotions not a little unpleasant. For the same reason, a building, even
the most magnificent, is necessarily confined to one expression.
Architecture, considered as a fine art, instead of rivaling gardening in
its progress toward perfection, seems not far advanced beyond its
infant-state. To bring it to maturity, two things mainly are wanted.
First, A greater variety of parts and ornaments than it seems provided
with. Gardening here has greatly the advantage: it is provided with such
plenty and such variety of materials, that it must be the fault of the
artists, if the spectator be not entertained with different scenes, and
affected with various emotions. But materials in architecture are so
scanty, that artists hitherto have not been successful in raising
emotions, other than those of beauty and grandeur. With respect to the
former, there are indeed plenty of means, regularity, order, symmetry,
simplicity; and with respect to the latter, the addition of size is
sufficient. But though it be evident, that every building ought to have
a certain character or expression suitable to its destination; yet this
is a refinement which artists have scarce ventured upon. A death’s head
and bones employ’d in monumental buildings, will indeed produce an
emotion of gloom and melancholy: but every ornament of this kind, if
these can be termed so, ought to be rejected, because they are in
themselves disagreeable. The other thing wanted to bring the art to
perfection, is, to ascertain the precise impression made by every single
part and ornament, cupolas, spires, columns, carvings, statues, vases,
&_c._ For in vain will an artist attempt rules for employing these,
either singly or in combination, until the different emotions or
feelings they produce be distinctly explained. Gardening in this
particular hath also the advantage. The several emotions raised by
trees, rivers, cascades, plains, eminences, and other materials it
employs, are understood; and the nature of each can be described with
some degree of precision, which is done occasionally in the foregoing
parts of this work.
In gardening as well as in architecture, simplicity ought to be the
governing taste. Profuse ornament hath no better effect than to confound
the eye, and to prevent the object from making an impression as one
entire whole. An artist destitute of genius for capital beauties, is
naturally prompted to supply the defect by crowding his plan with slight
embellishments. Hence in gardens, triumphal arches, Chinese houses,
temples, obelisks, cascades, fountains, without end; and hence in
buildings, pillars, vases, statues, and a profusion of carved work. Thus
a woman who has no just taste, is apt to overcharge every part of her
dress with ornament. Superfluity of decoration hath another bad effect:
it gives the object a diminutive look. An island in a wide extended
lake, makes it appear larger; but an artificial lake, which must always
be little, appears still less by making an island in it[78].
In forming plans for embellishing a field, an artist void of taste deals
in straight lines, circles, squares; because these show best upon
paper. He perceives not, that to humour and adorn nature is the
perfection of his art; and that nature, neglecting regularity, reacheth
superior beauties by distributing her objects in great variety with a
bold hand. A large field laid out with strict regularity, is stiff and
artificial. Nature indeed, in organized bodies comprehended under one
view, studies regularity; which, for the same reason, ought to be
studied in architecture: but in large objects, which cannot otherwise be
surveyed than in parts and by succession, regularity and uniformity
would be useless properties, because they cannot be discovered by the
eye[79]. Nature therefore, in her large works, neglects these
properties; and in copying nature the artist ought to neglect them.
* * * * *
Having thus far carried on a comparison betwixt gardening and
architecture, I proceed to rules peculiar to each; and I begin with
gardening. The simplest idea of a garden, is that of a spot embellished
with a number of natural objects, trees, walks, polish’d parterres,
flowers, streams, &_c._ One more complex comprehends statues and
buildings, that nature and art may be mutually ornamental. A third
approaching nearer perfection, is of objects assembled together, in
order to produce, not only an emotion of beauty, essential to gardens of
every kind, but also some other particular emotion, grandeur, for
example, gaiety, or any other of those above mentioned. The most perfect
idea of a garden is an improvement upon the third, requiring the
adjustment of the several parts, in such a manner as to inspire all the
different emotions that can be raised by gardening. In this idea of a
garden, the arrangement is an important circumstance; for it has been
shown, that some emotions figure best in conjunction, and that others
ought always to appear in succession and never in conjunction. I have
had occasion to observe above[80], that when the most opposite
emotions, such as gloominess and gaiety, stillness and activity, follow
each other in succession, the pleasure on the whole will be the
greatest; but that opposite or dissimilar emotions ought not to be
united, because they produce an unpleasant mixture[81]. For that reason,
a ruin, affording a sort of melancholy pleasure, ought not to be seen
from a flower-parterre, which is gay and chearful. But to pass
immediately from an exhilerating object to a ruin, has a glorious
effect; for each of the emotions is the more sensibly felt by being
contrasted with the other. Similar emotions, on the other hand, such as
gaiety and sweetness, stillness and gloominess, motion and grandeur,
ought to be raised together; for their effects upon the mind are greatly
heightened by their conjunction[82].
Kent’s method of embellishing a field, is admirable. It is painting a
field with beautiful objects, natural and artificial, disposed like
colours upon a canvas. It requires indeed more genius to paint in the
gardening way. In forming a landscape upon a canvas, no more is required
but to adjust the figures to each other: an artist who lays out ground
in Kent’s manner, has an additional task, which is to adjust his figures
to the several varieties of the field.
One garden must be distinguished from a plurality; and yet it is not
obvious wherein the unity of a garden consists. A notion of unity is
indeed suggested from viewing a garden surrounding a palace, with views
from each window, and walks leading to every corner. But there may be a
garden without a house. In this case, I must pronounce, that what makes
it one garden, is the unity of design, every single spot appearing part
of a whole. The gardens of Versailles, properly expressed in the plural
number, being no fewer than sixteen, are indeed all of them connected
with the palace, but have scarce any mutual connection: they appear not
like parts of one whole, but rather like small gardens in contiguity.
Were these gardens at some distance from each other, they would have a
better effect. Their junction breeds confusion of ideas, and upon the
whole gives less pleasure than would be felt in a slower succession.
Regularity is required in that part of a garden which joins the
dwelling-house; for being considered as a more immediate accessory, it
ought to partake the regularity of the principal object[83]. But in
proportion to the distance from the house considered as the centre,
regularity ought less and less to be studied. In an extensive plan, it
hath a fine effect to lead the mind insensibly from regularity to a bold
variety giving an impression of grandeur. And grandeur ought to be
studied as much as possible, even in a more confined plan, by avoiding a
multiplicity of small parts[84]. Nothing contributes more to grandeur,
than a right disposition of trees. Let them be scattered extremely thin
near the dwelling-house, and thickened in proportion to their distance:
distant eminences to be filled with trees, and laid open to view. A
small garden, on the other hand, which admits not grandeur, ought to be
strictly regular.
Milton, describing the garden of Eden, prefers justly the grand taste to
that of regularity.
Flowers worthy of paradise, which not nice art
In beds and curious knots; but Nature boon
Pour’d forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain;
Both where the morning sun first warmly smote
The open field, and where the unpierc’d shade
Imbrown’d the noontide-bow’rs.
_Paradise Lost, b. 4._
In the manner of planting a wood or thicket, much art may be display’d.
A common centre of walks, termed _a star_, from whence are seen a number
of remarkable objects, appears too artificial to be agreeable. The
crowding withal so many objects together, lessens the pleasure that
would be felt in a slower succession. Abandoning therefore the star,
being stiff and formal, let us try to substitute some form more natural,
that will lay open all the remarkable objects in the neighbourhood. This
may be done by openings in the wood at various distances, which, in
walking, bring successively under the eye every object as by accident.
Some openings display single objects, some a plurality in a line, and
some a rapid succession of them. In this plan, the mind at intervals is
roused and cheared by agreeable objects; and the scene is greatly
heightened by the surprise it occasions when we stumble, as it were,
upon objects of which we had no expectation.
As gardening is not an inventive art, but an imitation of nature, or
rather nature itself ornamented; it follows necessarily, that every
thing unnatural ought to be rejected with disdain. Statues of wild
beasts vomiting water, a common ornament in gardens, prevails in those
of Versailles. Is this ornament in a good taste? A _jet d’eau_, being
purely artificial, may, without disgust, be tortured into a thousand
shapes: but a representation of what really exists in nature, admits not
any unnatural circumstance. These statues therefore in the gardens of
Versailles must be condemned: and yet so insensible has the artist been
to just imitation, as to have display’d his vicious taste without the
least colour or disguise. A lifeless statue of an animal pouring out
water, may be endured without much disgust. But here the lions and
wolves are put in violent action: each has seized its prey, a deer or a
lamb, in act to devour. And yet, instead of extended claws and open
mouth, the whole, as by a hocus-pocus trick, is converted into a
different scene: the lion, forgetting his prey, pours out water
plentifully; and the deer, forgetting its danger, performs the same
operation; a representation not less absurd than that in the opera,
where Alexander the Great, after mounting the wall of a town besieged,
turns about and entertains his army with a song.
In gardening, every lively exhibition of what is beautiful in nature has
a fine effect: on the other hand, distant and faint imitations are
displeasing to every one of taste. The cutting evergreens in the shape
of animals, is a very ancient practice; as appears from the epistles of
Pliny, who seems to be a great admirer of this puerile conceit. The
propensity to imitation gave birth to this practice; and has supported
it wonderfully long, considering how faint and insipid the imitation is.
But the vulgar, great and small, devoid of taste, are entertained with
the oddness and singularity of a resemblance, however distant, betwixt a
tree and an animal. An attempt, in the gardens of Versailles, to
imitate a grove of trees by a group of _jets d’eau_, appears, for the
same reason, not less ridiculous.
In laying out a garden, every thing trivial or whimsical ought to be
avoided. Is a labyrinth then to be justified? It is a mere conceit, like
that of composing verses in the shape of an axe or an egg. The walks and
hedges may be agreeable; but in the form of a labyrinth, they serve to
no end but to puzzle. A riddle is a conceit not so mean; because the
solution is a proof of sagacity, which affords no aid in tracing a
labyrinth.
The gardens of Versailles, executed with infinite expence by men at that
time in high repute, are a lasting monument of a taste the most vicious
and depraved. The faults above mentioned, instead of being avoided, are
chosen as beauties, and multiplied without end. Nature, it would seem,
was deemed too vulgar to be imitated in the works of a magnificent
monarch; and for that reason preference was given to things unnatural,
which probably were mistaken for supernatural. I have often amused
myself with a fanciful resemblance betwixt these gardens and the Arabian
tales. Each of them is a performance intended for the amusement of a
great king: in the sixteen gardens of Versailles there is no unity of
design, more than in the thousand and one Arabian tales: and, lastly,
they are equally unnatural; groves of _jets d’eau_, statues of animals
conversing in the manner of Æsop, water issuing out of the mouths of
wild beasts, give an impression of fairy-land and witchcraft, not less
than diamond-palaces, invisible rings, spells and incantations.
A straight road is the most agreeable, because it shortens the journey.
But in an embellished field, a straight walk has an air of stiffness and
confinement: and at any rate is less agreeable than a winding or waving
walk; for in surveying the beauties of a fine field, we love to roam
from place to place at freedom. Winding walks have another advantage: at
every step they open new views. In short, the walks in a field intended
for entertainment, ought not to have any appearance of a road. My
intention is not to make a journey, but to feast my eye with the
beauties of art and nature. This rule excludes not long straight
openings terminating upon distant objects. These, beside variety, never
fail to raise an emotion of grandeur, by extending in appearance the
size of the field. An opening without a terminating object, soon closes
upon the eye: but an object, at whatever distance, continues the
opening; and deludes the spectator into a conviction, that the trees
which confine the view are continued till they join the object. Straight
walks also in recesses do extremely well: they vary the scenery, and are
favourable to meditation.
An avenue ought not to be directed in a straight line upon a
dwelling-house: better far an oblique approach in a waving line, with
single trees and other scattered objects interposed. In a direct
approach, the first appearance continues the same to the end: we see a
house at a distance, and we see it all along in the same spot without
any variety. In an oblique approach, the intervening objects put the
house seemingly in motion: it moves with the passenger, and appears to
direct its course so as hospitably to intercept him. An oblique approach
contributes also to variety: the house being seen successively in
different directions, takes on at every step a new figure.
A garden on a flat ought to be highly and variously ornamented, in order
to occupy the mind and prevent its regretting the insipidity of an
uniform plain. Artificial mounts in this view are common: but no person
has thought of an artificial walk elevated high above the plain. Such a
walk is airy, and tends to elevate the mind: it extends and varies the
prospect: and it makes the plain, seen from a height, appear more
agreeable.
Whether should a ruin be in the Gothic or Grecian form? In the former, I
say; because it exhibits the triumph of time over strength, a melancholy
but not unpleasant thought. A Grecian ruin suggests rather the triumph
of barbarity over taste, a gloomy and discouraging thought.
Fountains are seldom in a good taste. Statues of animals vomiting water,
which prevail every where, stand condemned. A statue of a whale
spouting water upward from its head, would in one sense be natural, as
whales of a certain species have that power. The design however would
scarce be relished, because its singularity would give it the appearance
of being unnatural. There is another reason against it, that the figure
of a whale is in itself not agreeable. In the many fountains in and
about Rome, statues of fishes are frequently employ’d to support a large
basin of water. This unnatural conceit cannot be otherwise explained,
than by the connection betwixt water and the fish that swim in it; which
by the way is a proof of the influence that even the slighter
connections have on the mind. The only good design for a fountain I have
met with, is what follows. In an artificial rock, rugged and abrupt,
there is a cavity out of sight at the top: the water, convey’d to it by
a pipe, pours or trickles down the broken parts of the rock, and is
collected into a basin at the foot: it is so contrived, as to make the
water fall in sheets or in rills at pleasure.
Hitherto a garden has been treated as a work intended solely for
pleasure, or, in other words, for giving impressions of intrinsic
beauty. What comes next in order is the beauty of a garden destined for
use, termed _relative beauty_[85]; and this branch shall be dispatched
in a few words. In gardening, luckily, relative beauty need never stand
in opposition to intrinsic beauty. All the ground that can be requisite
for use, makes but a small proportion of an ornamented field; and may be
put in any corner without obstructing the disposition of the capital
parts. At the same time, a kitchen-garden or an orchard is susceptible
of intrinsic beauty; and may be so artfully disposed among the other
parts, as by variety and contrast to contribute to the beauty of the
whole. In this respect, architecture is far more intricate, as will be
seen immediately: for there, it being often requisite to blend intrinsic
and relative beauty in the same building, it becomes a difficult task to
attain both in any perfection.
As gardening is brought to greater perfection in China than in any other
known country, an account of the means practised by Chinese artists to
inspire all the various emotions of gardening, will be a fine
illustration of the foregoing doctrine. In general, it is an
indispensable law with them, never to deviate from nature: but in order
to produce that degree of variety which is pleasing, every method is
used that is consistent with nature. Nature is strictly imitated in the
banks of their artificial lakes and rivers; which sometimes are bare and
gravelly, sometimes covered with wood quite to the brink of the water.
To flat spots adorned with flowers and shrubs, are opposed others steep
and rocky. We see meadows covered with cattle; rice-grounds that run
into the lakes; groves into which enter navigable creeks and rivulets.
These generally conduct to some interesting object, a magnificent
building, terraces cut in a mountain, a cascade, a grotto, an artificial
rock, and other such inventions. Their artificial rivers are generally
serpentine; sometimes narrow, noisy, and rapid; sometimes deep, broad,
and slow: and to make the scene still more active, mills and other
moving machines are often erected. In the lakes are interspersed
islands; some barren, surrounded with rocks and shoals; others inriched
with every thing that art and nature can furnish. Even in their cascades
they avoid regularity, as forcing nature out of its course: the waters
are seen bursting out from among the caverns and windings of the
artificial rocks; here an impetuous cataract, there many lesser falls:
and in its passage, the water is often impeded by trees and heaps of
stones, that seem brought down by the violence of the current. Straight
lines, generally avoided, are sometimes indulged, in order to take the
advantage of any interesting object at a distance, by directing openings
upon it.
Sensible of the influence of contrast, the Chinese artists deal in
sudden transitions, and in opposing to each other, forms, colours, and
shades. The eye is conducted, from limited to extensive views, and from
lakes and rivers to plains, hills, and woods: to dark and gloomy
colours, are opposed the more brilliant: the different masses of light
and shade are disposed in such a manner, as to render the composition
distinct in its parts, and striking on the whole. In plantations, the
trees are artfully mixed according to their shape and colour; those of
spreading branches with the pyramidal, and the light with the deep
green. They even introduce decay’d trees, some erect, and some half out
of the ground[86]. In order to heighten contrast, much bolder strokes
are risked. They sometimes introduce rough rocks, dark caverns, trees
ill formed and seemingly rent by tempests, or blasted by lightning, a
building in ruins or half consumed by fire. But to relieve the mind from
the harshness of such objects, they are always succeeded by the sweetest
and most beautiful scenes.
The Chinese study to give play to the imagination. They hide the
termination of their lakes: the view of a cascade is frequently
interrupted by trees, through which are seen obscurely the waters as
they fall. The imagination once roused, is disposed to magnify every
object.
Nothing is more studied in Chinese gardens than to raise wonder or
surprise. In scenes calculated for that end, every thing appears like
fairy-land; a torrent, for example, convey’d under ground, producing an
uncommon sound that puzzles a stranger to guess what it may be; and, to
increase our wonder by multiplying such uncommon sounds, the rocks and
buildings are contrived with cavities and interstices. Sometimes one is
led insensibly into dark caverns, terminating unexpectedly in a
landscape inriched with all that nature affords the most delicious. At
other times, beautiful walks insensibly conduct us to a rough
uncultivated field, where bushes briers and stones interrupt the
passage: when we look about for an outlet, some rich prospect
unexpectedly opens to view. Another artifice is, to obscure some capital
part by trees or other interposed objects: our curiosity is raised to
know what lies beyond; and after a few steps, we are greatly surprised
with some scene totally different from what was expected.
I close these cursory observations upon gardening, with a remark that
must touch every reader. Rough uncultivated ground, dismal to the eye,
inspires peevishness and discontent. May not this be one cause of the
harsh manners of savages? In a field richly ornamented, are collected
beautiful objects of various kinds. Such a field displays in full
lustre, the goodness of the Deity and the ample provision he has made
for our happiness; which must fill every spectator, with gratitude to
his Maker and with benevolence to his fellow-creatures. Other fine arts
may be perverted to excite irregular, and even vicious, emotions: but
gardening, which inspires the purest and most refined pleasures, cannot
but promote every good affection. The gaiety and harmony of mind it
produceth, must naturally incline the spectator to communicate his
satisfaction to others by acts of humanity and kindness.
Having finished what occurred on gardening, I proceed to rules and
observations that more peculiarly concern architecture. Architecture
being an useful as well as a fine art, buildings and parts of buildings
must be distinguished into three kinds, _viz_. what are intended for
utility solely, what for ornament solely, and what for both. A building
intended for utility solely, such as detached offices, ought in every
part to correspond precisely to that intention. The least deviation from
use, though contributing to ornament, will be disagreeable. For every
work of use being considered as a means to an end, its perfection as a
means is the capital circumstance; and every other beauty, in
opposition, is neglected as improper and impertinent. In things again
intended for ornament, such as pillars, obelisks, triumphal arches,
beauty solely ought to be regarded. A Heathen temple must be considered
as merely ornamental; for being dedicated to some deity, and not
intended for habitation, it is susceptible of any figure and any
embellishment that fancy can suggest and beauty require. The great
difficulty of contrivance, respects buildings that are intended for
pleasure as well as for use. These ends, employing different and often
opposite means, are with difficulty reconciled. In palaces, and other
buildings sufficiently extensive to admit a variety of useful
contrivance, regularity justly takes the lead. But in dwelling-houses
that are too small for variety of contrivance, utility ought to prevail;
neglecting regularity so far as it stands in opposition to convenience.
Intrinsic and relative beauty being founded on different principles,
must be handled separately; and I begin with relative beauty, as of the
greater importance.
The proportions of a door, are determined by the use to which it is
destined. The door of a dwelling-house, which ought to correspond to the
human size, is confined to seven or eight feet in height, and three or
four in breadth. The proportions proper for the door of a barn or
coach-house, are widely different. Another consideration enters. To
study intrinsic beauty in a coach-house or barn, intended merely for
use, is obviously improper. But a dwelling-house may admit ornaments;
and the principal door of a palace demands all the grandeur that is
consistent with the foregoing proportions dictated by utility. It ought
to be elevated and approached by steps; and it may be adorned with
pillars supporting an architrave, or in any other beautiful manner. The
door of a church ought to be wide, in order to afford an easy passage
for a multitude. The wideness, at the same time, regulates the height,
as will appear by and by. The size of windows ought to be proportioned
to that of the room they serve with light; for if the apperture be not
sufficiently large to convey light to every corner, the room is dark and
gloomy. Steps of stairs ought to be accommodated to the human figure,
without regarding any other proportion: these steps accordingly are the
same in large and in small buildings, because both are inhabited by men
of the same size.
I proceed to consider intrinsic beauty blended with that which is
relative. A cube in itself is more agreeable than a parallelopipedon,
which will constantly hold in small figures. But a large building in
the form a cube, appears lumpish and heavy; while the other figure, set
on its smaller base, is by its elevation more agreeable: and hence the
beauty of a Gothic tower. But let us suppose this parallelopipedon
destin’d for a dwelling house, to make way for relative beauty. Here
utility prevails over elevation and a parallelopipedon, inconvenient by
its height, is set upon its larger base. The loftiness is gone; but that
loss is more than compensated by additional convenience; and for that
reason the form of a building spread more upon the ground than raised in
height, is always preferred for a dwelling-house, without excepting even
the most sumptuous palace.
With respect to the divisions within, utility requires that the rooms be
rectangular; for otherwise void spaces will be left of no use. A
hexagonal figure leaves no void spaces; but then it determines the rooms
to be all of one size, which is extremely inconvenient. A cube will at
first be pronounced the most agreeable figure; and this may hold in a
room of a moderate size. But in a very large room, utility requires a
different figure. The chief convenience of a great room, is unconfined
motion. This directs us to the greatest length that can be obtained. But
a square room of a great size is inconvenient, by removing far from the
hand, chairs and tables, which, when unemploy’d, must be ranged along
the sides of the room. Utility therefore requires a large room to be a
parallelogram. This figure, at the same time, is the best calculated for
receiving light; because, to avoid cross-light, all the windows ought to
be in one wall; and if the opposite wall be at such distance as not to
be fully lighted, the room must be obscure. The height of a room
exceeding nine or ten feet, has little or no relation to utility; and
therefore proportion is the only rule for determining the height when
above that number of feet.
As all artists who deal in the beautiful are naturally prone to
entertain the eye, they have great opportunity to exert their taste upon
palaces and sumptuous buildings, where, as above observed, intrinsic
beauty ought to have the ascendant over that which is relative. But
such propensity is unhappy with respect to private dwelling-houses;
because in these, relative beauty cannot be display’d in any perfection,
without abandoning intrinsic beauty. There is no opportunity for great
variety of form in a small house; and in an edifice of this kind,
internal convenience has not hitherto been happily adjusted to external
regularity. I am apt to believe, that an accurate coincidence here, is
beyond the reach of art. And yet architects always split upon this rock;
for they never will give over attempting to reconcile these two
incompatibles. How else should it be accounted for, that of the endless
variety of private dwelling-houses, there is not one to be found, that
is generally agreed upon as a good pattern? The unwearied propensity to
make a house regular as well as convenient, forces the architect, in
some articles, to sacrifice convenience to regularity, and in others,
regularity to convenience. By this means, the house, which turns out
neither regular nor convenient, never fails to displease. The faults are
obvious, and the difficulty of doing better is known to the artist
only[87].
Nothing can be more evident, than that the form of a dwelling-house
ought to be suited to the climate; and yet no error is more common, than
to copy in Britain the form of Italian houses; not forgetting even those
parts that are purposely contrived for air, and for excluding the sun. I
shall give one or two instances. A colonnade along the front of a
building, hath a fine effect in Greece and Italy, by producing coolness
and obscurity, agreeable properties in warm and luminous climates. The
cold climate of Britain is altogether averse to this ornament. A
colonnade therefore, can never be proper in this country, unless when
employ’d to communicate with a detached building. Again, a logio opening
the house to the north, contrived in Italy for gathering cool air, is,
if possible, still more improper for this climate. Scarce endurable in
summer, it, in winter, exposes the house to the bitter blasts of the
north, and to every shower of snow and rain.
Having discussed what appeared necessary to be said upon relative
beauty, singly considered, or in combination with intrinsic beauty, the
next step is, to view architecture as one of the fine arts, and to
examine those buildings and parts of buildings that are solely
calculated to please the eye. In the works of nature, grand and
magnificent, variety prevails. The timid hand of art, is guided by rule
and compass. Hence it is, that in works which imitate nature, the great
art is to hide every appearance of art; which is done by avoiding
regularity and indulging variety. But in works of art that are original
and not imitative, such as architecture, strict regularity and
uniformity ought to be studied so far as consistent with utility.
In buildings intended to please the eye, proportion is not less
essential than regularity and uniformity; for we are so framed by
nature, as to be pleased equally with each of these. By many writers it
is taken for granted, that in all the parts of a building there are
certain strict proportions which please the eye; precisely as there are
certain strict proportions of sound which please the ear; and that in
both the slightest deviation is equally disagreeable. Others again seem
to relish more a comparison betwixt proportion in numbers and proportion
in quantity; and hold that the same proportions are agreeable in both.
The proportions, for example, of the numbers 16, 24, and 36 are
agreeable; and so, say they, are the proportions of a room, the height
of which is 16 feet, the breadth 24, and the length 36. This point, with
relation to the present subject, being of importance, the reader will
examine it with attention and impartiality. To refute the notion of a
resemblance betwixt musical proportions and those of architecture, it
might be sufficient to observe in general, that the one is addressed to
the ear, the other to the eye; and that objects of different senses have
no resemblance, nor indeed any relation to each other. But more
particularly, what pleases the ear in harmony, is not the proportion of
the strings of the instrument, but of the sounds that these strings
produce. In architecture, on the contrary, it is the proportion of
different quantities that pleases the eye, without the least relation to
sound. Beside, were quantity here to be the sole ground of comparison,
we have no reason to presume, that there is any natural analogy betwixt
the proportions that please in a building and the proportions of strings
that produce concordant sounds. I instance in particular an octave, the
most complete of all concords. An octave is produced by two strings of
the same tension and diameter, and as to length in the proportion of one
to two. I do not know, that this proportion will be agreeable in any two
parts of a building. I add, that concordant notes are produced by wind
instruments, which, as to proportion, appear not to have even the
slightest resemblance to a building.
With respect to the other notion instituting a comparison betwixt
proportion in numbers and proportion in quantity, I urge, that number
and quantity are so distinct from each other, as to afford no
probability of any natural relation betwixt them. Quantity is a real
quality of every substance or body: number is not a real quality, but
merely a conception that arises upon viewing a plurality of things in
succession. Because an arithmetical proportion is agreeable in numbers,
have we any reason to conclude that it must also be agreeable in
quantity? At this rate, a geometrical proportion and many others, ought
also to be agreeable in both. A certain proportion may coincide in both;
and among an endless variety of proportions, it would be wonderful, if
there never should be a coincidence. One example is given of this
coincidence, in the numbers 16, 24, and 36; but to be convinced that it
is merely accidental, we need but reflect, that the same proportions are
not applicable to the external figure of a house, and far less to a
column.
That we are framed by nature to relish proportion as well as regularity,
is indisputable: but that agreeable proportion, like concord in sounds,
is confined to certain precise measures, is not warranted by experience:
on the contrary, we learn from experience, that various proportions are
equally agreeable, that proportion is never tied down to precise
measures but admits more and less, and that we are not sensible of
disproportion till the difference betwixt the quantities compared become
the most striking circumstance. Columns evidently admit different
proportions, equally agreeable. The case is the same in houses, rooms,
and other parts of a building. And this opens an interesting reflection.
The foregoing difference betwixt concord and proportion, is an
additional instance of that admirable harmony which subsists among the
several branches of the human frame. The ear is an accurate judge of
sounds and of their smallest differences; and that concord in sounds
should be regulated by accurate measures, is perfectly well suited to
this accuracy of perception. The eye is more uncertain about the size of
a large object, than of one that is small; and in different situations
the same object appears of different sizes. Delicacy of feeling
therefore with respect to proportion in quantities, would be an useless
quality. It is much better ordered, that there should be such a latitude
with respect to agreeable proportions, as to correspond to the
uncertainty of the eye with respect to quantity.
But this scene is too interesting to be passed over in a cursory view:
all its beauties are not yet display’d. I proceed to observe, that to
make the eye as delicate with respect to proportion as the ear is with
respect to concord, would not only be an useless quality, but be the
source of continual pain and uneasiness. I need go no farther for a
proof than the very room I possess at present: every step I take, varies
to me, in appearance, the proportion of the length and breadth. At that
rate, I should not be happy but in one precise spot, where the
proportion appears agreeable. Let me further observe, that it would be
singular indeed, to find in the nature of man, any two principles in
perpetual opposition to each other. This would precisely be the case, if
proportion were circumscribed like concord; for it would exclude all but
one of those proportions that utility requires in different buildings,
and in different parts of the same building.
It is ludicrous to observe all writers acknowledging the necessity of
accurate proportions, and yet differing widely about them. Laying aside
reasoning and philosophy, one fact universally agreed on ought to have
undeceived them, that the same proportions which please in a model are
not agreeable in a large building. A room 48 feet in length and 24 in
breadth and height, is well proportioned; but a room 12 feet wide and
high and 24 long, looks like a gallery.
Perrault, in his comparison of the ancients and moderns[88], is the only
author who runs to the opposite extreme; maintaining, that the different
proportions assigned to each order of columns are arbitrary, and that
the beauty of these proportions is entirely the effect of custom. This
bewrays ignorance of human nature, which evidently delights in
proportion, as well as in regularity, order, and propriety. But without
any acquaintance with human nature, a single reflection might have
convinced him of his error; that if these proportions had not
originally been agreeable, they could not have been established by
custom. If a thing be universal, it must be natural.
To illustrate the present point, I shall add a few examples of the
agreeableness of different proportions. In a sumptuous edifice, the
capital rooms ought to be large, for otherwise they will not be
proportioned to the size of the building. On the other hand, a very
large room in a small house, is disproportioned. But in things thus
related, the mind requires not a precise or single proportion, rejecting
all others; on the contrary, many different proportions are made equally
welcome. It is only when a proportion becomes loose and distant, that
the agreeableness abates, and at last vanisheth. In all buildings
accordingly, we find rooms of different proportions equally agreeable,
even where the proportion is not influenced by utility. With respect to
the height of a room, the proportion it ought to bear to the length and
breadth, is extremely arbitrary; and it cannot be otherwise, considering
the uncertainty of the eye as to the height of a room, when it exceeds
17 or 18 feet. In columns again, even architects must confess, that the
proportion of height and thickness varies betwixt 8 diameters and 10,
and that every proportion betwixt these two extremes is agreeable. But
this is not all. There must certainly be a further variation of
proportion, depending on the size of the column. A row of columns 10
feet high, and a row twice that height, require different proportions.
The intercolumniations must also differ in proportion according to the
height of the row.
Proportion of parts is not only itself a beauty, but is inseparably
connected with a beauty of the first magnitude. Parts that in
conjunction appear proportional, never fail separately to produce
similar emotions; which existing together, are extremely pleasant, as I
have had occasion to show[89]. Thus a room of which the parts are all
finely adjusted to each other, strikes us with the beauty of proportion.
It produceth at the same time a pleasure far superior. The length, the
breadth, the height, the windows, raise each of them separately an
emotion. These emotions are similar; and though faint when felt
separately, they produce in conjunction the emotion of concord or
harmony, which is extremely pleasant. On the other hand, where the
length of a room far exceeds the breadth, the mind comparing together
parts so intimately connected, immediately perceives a disagreement or
disproportion which disgusts. But this is not all. Viewing them
separately, different emotions are produced, that of grandeur from the
great length, and that of meanness or littleness from the small breadth,
which in union are disagreeable by their discordance. Hence it is, that
a long gallery, however convenient for exercise, is not an agreeable
figure of a room. We consider it, like a stable, as destined for use,
and expect not that in any other respect it should be agreeable.
Regularity and proportion are essential in buildings destined chiefly or
solely to please the eye, because they are the means to produce
intrinsic beauty. But a skilful artist will not confine his view to
regularity and proportion. He will also study propriety, which is
perceived when the form and ornaments of a structure are suited to the
purpose for which it is appointed. The sense of propriety dictates the
following rule, That every building ought to have an expression
corresponding to its destination. A palace ought to be sumptuous and
grand; a private dwelling, neat and modest; a playhouse, gay and
splendid; and a monument, gloomy and melancholy. A Heathen temple has a
double destination: it is considered chiefly as a house dedicated to
some divinity; and in that respect it ought to be grand, elevated, and
magnificent: it is considered also as a place of worship; and in that
respect it ought to be somewhat dark or gloomy; because dimness produces
that tone of mind which is suited to humility and devotion. A Christian
church is not considered as a house for the Deity, but merely a place of
worship: it ought therefore to be decent and plain, without much
ornament: a situation ought to be chosen, humble and retired; because
the congregation, during worship, ought to be humble and disengaged
from the world. Columns, beside their chief destination of being
supports, contribute to that peculiar expression which the destination
of a building requires: columns of different proportions, serve to
express loftiness, lightness, &_c._ as well as strength. Situation also
may contribute to expression: conveniency regulates the situation of a
private dwelling-house; but, as I have had occasion to observe[90], the
situation of a palace ought to be lofty.
And this leads me to examine, whether the situation of a great house,
where the artist is limited in his choice, ought in any measure to
regulate its form. The connection betwixt a great house and the
neighbouring grounds, though not extremely intimate, demands however
some congruity. It would, for instance, displease us to find an elegant
building thrown away upon a wild uncultivated country: congruity
requires a polished field for such a building; and beside the pleasure
of congruity, the spectator is sensible of the pleasure of concordance
from the similarity of the emotions produced by the two objects. The old
Gothic form of building seems well suited to the rough uncultivated
regions where it was invented. The only mistake was, the transferring
this form to the fine plains of France and Italy, better fitted for
buildings in the Grecian taste. But by refining upon the Gothic form,
every thing in the power of invention has been done, to reconcile it to
its new situation. The profuse variety of wild and grand objects about
Inverary, demanded a house in the Gothic form; and every one must
approve the taste of the proprietor, in adjusting so finely, as he has
done, the appearance of his house to that of the country where it is
placed.
The external structure of a great house, leads naturally to its internal
structure. A large and spacious room, receives us commonly upon our
entrance. This seems to me a bad contrivance in several respects. In the
first place, when immediately from the open air we step into such a
room, its size in appearance is diminished by contrast: it looks little
compared with the great canopy the sky. In the next place, when it
recovers its grandeur, as it soon doth, it gives a diminutive appearance
to the rest of the house: passing from it, every apartment looks little.
This room therefore may be aptly compared to the swoln commencement of
an epic poem.
Bella per Emathios plusquam civilia campos.
In the third place, by its situation it serves only for a waiting-room,
and a passage to the principal apartments. And yet undoubtedly, the room
of the greatest size ought to be reserved for company. A great room,
which enlarges the mind and gives a certain elevation to the spirits, is
destined by nature for conversation. Rejecting therefore this form, I
take a hint from the climax in writing for another form that appears
more suitable. My plan is, first a handsome portico, proportioned to the
size and fashion of the front: this portico leads into a waiting-room of
a larger size; and this again to the great room, all by a progression
from small to great. If the house be very large, there may be space for
the following suit of rooms; first, a portico; second, a passage within
the house bounded by rows of columns on each side connected by arcades;
third, an octagon room, or of any other figure, about the centre of the
building; and, lastly, the great room.
Of all the emotions that can be raised by architecture, grandeur is that
which has the greatest influence on the mind. It ought therefore to be
the chief study of the artist, to raise this emotion in great buildings.
But it seems unhappy for architecture, that it is necessarily governed
by certain principles opposite to grandeur: the direct effect of
regularity and proportion, is to make a building appear less than it is
in reality. Any invention to reconcile these with grandeur, would be a
capital improvement in architecture.
Next of ornaments, which contribute greatly to give buildings a peculiar
expression. It has been a doubt with me, whether a building can
regularly admit any ornament but what is useful, or at least appears to
be useful. But considering the double aim of architecture, a fine as
well as an useful art, there is no good reason why ornaments may not be
added to please the eye without any relation to use. This liberty is
allowed in poetry, painting, and gardening, and why not in architecture
considered as a fine art? A private dwelling-house, it is true, and
other edifices where use is the chief aim, admit not regularly any
ornament but what has the appearance, at least, of use: but temples,
triumphal arches, and other buildings intended chiefly or solely for
show, may be highly ornamented.
This suggests a division of ornaments into three kinds, _viz._ ornaments
that are beautiful without relation to use, such as statues in niches,
vases, basso or alto relievo: next, things in themselves not beautiful,
but possessing the beauty of utility by imposing on the spectator, and
appearing to be of use, blind windows for example: the third kind is,
where the thing is in itself beautiful, and also takes on the
appearance of use; the case of a pilaster. With respect to the second,
it is an egregious blunder, to contrive the ornament so as to make it
appear useless. If a blind window therefore be necessary for regularity,
it ought to be so disguised, as not to be distinguished from the real
windows. If it appear to be a blind window, it is disgustful, as a vain
attempt to supply the want of invention. It shows the irregularity in a
stronger light; by signifying that a window ought to be there in point
of regularity, but that the architect had not skill sufficient to
connect external regularity with internal convenience.
From ornaments in general, we descend to a pillar, the chief ornament in
great buildings. The destination of a pillar is to support, really or in
appearance, another part termed _the architrave_. With respect to the
form of this ornament, I observe, that a circle is a more agreeable
figure than a square, a globe than a cube, and a cylinder than a
parallelopipedon. This last, in the language of architecture, is saying,
that a column is a more agreeable figure than a pilaster. For that
reason, it ought to be preferred, all other circumstances being equal.
Another reason concurs, that a column annexed to a wall, which is a
plain surface, makes a greater variety than a pilaster. There is an
additional reason for rejecting pilasters in the external front of a
building, arising from a principle unfolded above[91], _viz._ a
remarkable tendency in the mind of man, to advance every thing to its
perfection as well as to its final issue. If I see a thing obscurely in
a dim light, and by disjointed parts, my curiosity is roused, and
prompts me, out of the disjointed parts to compose an entire whole. I
suppose it to be, for example, a horse. My eye-sight being obedient to
this conjecture, I immediately perceive a horse, almost as distinctly as
in day-light. This principle is applicable to the case in hand. The most
superb front, at a great distance, appears a plain surface: approaching
gradually, we begin to perceive inequalities: these inequalities,
advancing a few steps more, take on the appearance of pillars; but
whether round or square, we are uncertain: our curiosity anticipating
our progress, cannot rest in suspense: we naturally suppose the most
complete pillar, or that which is the most agreeable to the eye; and we
immediately perceive, or seem to perceive, a number of columns: if upon
a near approach we find pilasters only, the disappointment makes these
pilasters appear disagreeable; when abstracted from that circumstance,
they would only have appeared somewhat less agreeable. But as this
deception cannot happen in the inner front inclosing a court, I see no
reason for excluding pilasters there, when there is any reason for
preferring them before columns.
With respect now to the parts of a column, a bare uniform cylinder
without base or capital, appears naked and scarce agreeable: it ought
therefore to have some finishing at the top and at the bottom. Hence the
three chief parts of a column, the shaft, the base, and the capital.
Nature undoubtedly requires a certain proportion among these parts, but
not limited within precise bounds. I suspect that the proportions in
use have been influenced in some degree by the human figure; the capital
being conceived as the head, the base as the feet. With respect to the
base indeed, the principle of utility interposes to vary it from the
human figure: the base must be so proportioned to the whole, as to give
the column the appearance of stability.
In architecture as well as in gardening, contradictory expressions ought
to be avoided. Firmness and solidity are the proper expressions of a
pedestal: carved work, on the contrary, ought to be light and delicate.
A pedestal therefore, whether of a column or of a statue, ought to be
sparingly ornamented: the ancients never ventured any bolder ornament
than the basso-relievo.
To succeed in allegorical or emblematic ornaments, is no slight effort
of genius; for it is extremely difficult to dispose them so in a
building as to produce any good effect. The mixing them with realities,
makes a miserable jumble of truth and fiction[92]. In a basso-relievo
on Antonin’s pillar, rain obtained by the prayers of a Christian legion,
is expressed by joining to the group of soldiers a rainy Jupiter, with
water in abundance running from his head and beard. De Piles, fond of
the conceit, carefully informs his reader, that he must not take this
for a real Jupiter, but for a symbol which among the Pagans signified
rain: an emblem ought not to make a part of the group representing real
objects or real events, but be detached from it, so as even at first
view to appear an emblem. But this is not all, nor the chief point.
Every emblem ought to be rejected that is not clearly expressive of its
meaning: if it be in any degree obscure, it never can be relished. The
temples of Ancient and Modern Virtue in the gardens of Stow, appear not
at first view emblematical; and when we are informed that they are so,
it is not easy to gather their meaning. The spectator sees one temple in
full repair, another in ruins: but without an explanatory inscription,
he may guess, but cannot be certain, that the former being dedicated to
Ancient Virtue, the latter to Modern Virtue, are intended a satire upon
the present times. On the other hand, a trite emblem, like a trite
simile, is disgustful[93]. Nor ought an emblem more than a simile to be
founded on low or familiar objects; for if the objects be not agreeable,
as well as their meaning, the emblem upon the whole will not be
relished. A room in a dwelling-house containing a monument to a deceased
friend, is dedicated to Melancholy. Its furniture is a clock that
strikes every minute to signify how swiftly time passes: upon the
monument, weeping figures and other hackney’d ornaments commonly found
upon tomb-stones, with a stuff’d raven in a corner: verses on death, and
other serious subjects, inscribed all around. The objects are too
familiar, and the artifice too apparent, to produce the intended effect.
The statue of Moses striking a rock from which water actually issues, is
also in a false taste; for it is mixing reality with representation:
Moses himself may bring water out of the rock, but this miracle is too
much for his statue. The same objection lies against a cascade where we
see the statue of a water-god pouring out of his urn real water.
It is observed above of gardening, that it contributes to rectitude of
manners, by inspiring gaiety and benevolence. I add another observation,
That both gardening and architecture contribute to the same end, by
inspiring neatness and elegance. It is observed in Scotland, that even a
turnpike-road has some influence of this kind upon the low people in the
neighbourhood. They acquire a taste for regularity and neatness; which
is display’d first upon their yards and little inclosures, and next
within doors. A taste for regularity and neatness thus gathering
strength, comes insensibly to be extended to dress, and even to
behaviour and manners.