Other discussions, such as those on the theory of the dome and the practicability of its adoption in Gothic architecture, couple themselves naturally with his elaborate introduction, the great merit of which needs little or no qualification. In it Mr. Fergusson sums up his general conclusions on the subject of architecture, on the principles of construction and decoration, and the sources of beauty and grandeur in art; the whole being done in that spirit of liberal yet most judicious appreciation of merits and defects, which forces on us a comparison with many of the artistic criticisms of a recent well-known writer on art. Mr. Ruskin's flippant and contemptuous depreciation of English architecture, and that of Northern Europe generally, would perhaps be best passed over in silence, were it not for the false standard which he sets up by his extravagant exaltation of Italian forms and when we find him describing the campanile of St. Mark's, Venice, as finer than any English tower, and that at Florence as the most perfect building in the world, we own to a special satisfaction in placing Mr. Fergusson's observations in juxtaposition with his own. What a host of ugly 'church towers,' complains Mr. Ruskin, we have in England 'with pinnacles at the corners, and none in the middle! how many buildings, like King's College Chapel, Cambridge, looking like tables upside down, with their four legs in the air. What, it will be said, have not beasts four legs? Yes, but legs of different shapes, and with a head between them.' (Seven Lamps of Architecture, p. 115.) Mr. Fergusson does not, indeed, appeal to beasts, with legs of different shapes, and with their heads between their legs, nor does he build conclusions on any such subtle connexion as that which associates such extraordinary quadrupeds with college chapels, but he is ready to give to the campanile of Florence the fair meed of praise, which Mr. Ruskin churlishly withholds from the magnificent towers of Somersetshire. Of the tower of St. Mark's, Venice, (and we think deservedly) he speaks in more qualified terms.

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'Its locality and its associations have earned for it a great deal of inflated laudation; but in point of design no campanile in Italy deserves it less. The base is a mere unornamented mass of brick-work, slightly fluted and pierced unsymmetrically with small windows to light the inclined plane within. Its size, its height, and its apparent solidity are its only merits. These are, no doubt, important elements in that low idea of architectural excellence of which the Egyptian pyramids are the type, but even in these elements this edifice must confess itself a pigmy, and inferior to even a second-class pyramid on the banks of the Nile, while it has none of the beauty of design and detail displayed by the Giralda of Seville and the other towers in its neighbourhood.' (P. 549.)

In a general survey, such as that of the architecture of all nations, a strict definition of the art might have appeared necessary at the outset. But Mr. Fergusson has, we think wisely, abstained from giving any absolute definition where such an attempt would lie open to the assaults of many kinds of objectors. The existence of such qualities as beauty, fitness, order, harmony, is not, indeed, called in question; but as to the constituent elements of each whether in nature or in art, it seems impossible, in the present condition of the human mind, to look for any generally received conclusions, and it becomes a temptation to content ourselves with merely negative arguments against the definitions laid down by others.

Mr. Ruskin, in his Seven Lamps of Architecture,' affirmed dogmatically that architecture consisted entirely in the affixing certain useless features as ornaments to a construction required for utilitarian purposes; in other words, that architecture and ornament were convertible terms: and the proposition was maintained with an amount of vehemence which appeared to preclude all subsequent modifications, until we were informed by his more recent lectures at Edinburgh, that decoration was the chief part, but not the whole, of architecture; and in this latter opinion he arrives at practically the same judgment with Mr. Fergusson and Mr. Freeman. The former, while holding it to be indispensably necessary that the architect should understand construction, advocates also, as a necessity imposed by the present condition of the art, a separation, so far as is practicable, between the functions of the architect and the engineer. But the most important question discussed in the Introduction is that of the possibility of developing a new style of national architecture. The fact is assumed that we have none now deserving of the name; and undoubtedly we have none, if the term requires a national adhesion to one system of art. The matter for decision is, whether the confusion now prevalent is owing to the abandonment of that which really is our national architecture, or to its extinction and the consequent necessity of eliminating entirely new forms. Mr. Fergusson asserts the latter, maintaining that though Gothic art was a thing of our 'country and of our own race, it belongs to a state of society so different from anything that now exists, that any attempt 'to reproduce it now must at best be a masquerade, and never can be a real or an earnest form of art.' Mr. Petit, under the influence of a similar feeling, but feeling also the necessity of having some starting point, recommends, in his splendid volume of Architectural Studies in France,' the temporary adoption of what he terms the Classical style; but the sounder criticism of

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Mr. Fergusson rejects any such expedient, on the ground that it is literally impossible that we should reproduce either the 'circumstances or the feelings which gave rise to classical art, ⚫ and made it a real thing.' Nevertheless omitting (as it would seem) to state what is to be the groundwork of the style of the future, he expresses a firm belief not only in the possibility, but in the certainty, of such a development, and that too as a form of art which shall altogether surpass the most magnificent creations of the medieval mind.

We believe that future English styles, if we are to have any, must partake very largely of the character of what we now call Gothic architecture. Mr. Fergusson observes that the clergy not only in England, but on the Continent of Europe, have arrived at the conclusion that the Gothic style is the one most suited for church-building purposes; and this 'has now become so established a point, that no deviation from Gothic models is tolerated.' (P. lv.) There is evil in this if it is employed to obstruct all originality in plan or the introduction even of a new detail or moulding; but such a result is not in accordance with, but utterly opposed to, the spirit of the medieval architects themselves. And, putting aside for the present the English clergy, we have little ground for wondering at the decision of those on the Continent. Their constitutions for the most part have undergone little modification whether in a civil or ecclesiastical point of view; their ritual is the same, their cast of devotional feeling the same, the requirements of their worship the same. And for ourselves, although we have cast off the Papacy and its superstitions, we are still, with our mediæval forefathers, Englishmen and Christians, with feelings and desires which in them were at the least in germ. There is also this common ground between us and the continental nations, that Gothic architecture was strictly the growth of northern Christendom, created by the necessities of its climate as well as by the genius of its people. Some style or form there must be from out of which the future style may develope itself; and if we refuse to employ an architecture which once at least was national and with the character of which we have still so much in common, we must perforce put up with the incongruities of Mr. Petit's Classical style, the exotic growth of a Transalpine people. But assuming the Gothic to be, to whatever extent, our national style, it still remains to see what adaptations are required for altered circumstances, or whether again there are any important architectural forms, the capabilities of which have not been adequately tested by the medieval architects. One such there certainly is, which

might become the source of unimagined magnificence, a form, moreover, which, if we may speak of ritual requirements without running counter to theological parties, would seem specially adapted to ourselves. For the internal treatment of the dome in Gothic, we have several suggestive instances, as in the octagon of Ely Cathedral, and in many of our beautiful chapter-houses; although in the latter, the occurrence of the central column would seem to show that the idea of the dome had no immediate influence in their design. But some examples there are which Mr. Fergusson adduces as specimens of designed domical construction, as the Church of Chiaravalle in Milan, and more especially the tomb-house of the great Church of Batatha in Portugal. In their external treatment there is little, if anything, to guide us; but as bearing on this subject, Mr. Fergusson alludes to the Romance method of vaulting in Southern France, and advocates their system of a homogeneous stone roofing, both within and without, with the least possible interval between the two roofs, in preference to the Gothic custom of covering the stone vault as a false ceiling with a roof of wood, a practice highly dangerous in respect of risk by fire, whatever opinion we may entertain of its elegance. Yet the beauty of a stone outer roof concentric with a large extent of vaulting seems questionable. The solitary instance of Roslin, quaint-looking even with its actual proportions, is from its diminutive size inconclusive.

But after all, as Mr. Fergusson has observed with an almost discouraging force, no individual has ever invented a new style; and nothing short of concentrated national effort, stimulated by common national requirements, can bring about any such architectural developments. Still, although less sanguine in our own anticipations, while our general practice continues so confused and unsystematic, we are ready, even on the slenderest grounds, to hope, with him, that the dawn is at hand, and that after our long wanderings in the dark, daylight may again enlighten our path and gladden our hearts with the vision of 'brighter and better things than a false system has hitherto ' enabled us to attain.'

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ART. V.—A History of England from the Accession of James II. By THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. Vols. III. and IV. London: 1855.

A FTER the lapse of seven years, we welcome Mr. Macaulay's reappearance as an author. They have been seven years of eager expectation on the part of the public, and obviously of anxious research on that of the historian. The triumphs indeed of the former volumes of his history had been brilliant beyond example: prodigal of fame, as well of those more solid advantages by which she is not always accompanied. Though the splendour of the performance attracted so many searching and sometimes envious eyes, it passed through the crucible of criticism with success. Its rhetorical power filled the world with admiration, and chained the attention by a charm rarely possessed by history, and which even fiction seldom attains. Malignant critics sneered. Silly women, and sillier men chattered about Mr. Macaulay's historical novel, and the more superficial of the public took for granted that because the work was brilliant it could not be solid. To our minds, as we said seven years ago, herein truly consisted the accomplished author's highest praise. His rare combination of the powers of the imagination and the reasoning faculty, enables him to sway the judgment while he warms the fancy. With resources of fact, laid up and made available by a marvellous memory, he paints the most dry and uninviting details with a pencil dipped in the brightest colours. This union of qualities, so seldom found united in the service of history, produced a result of its kind entirely without parallel ; and the reader was so fascinated and beguiled upon his way, that he could hardly believe that the path he had been travelling was the dusty high-road of real events.

The two volumes now before us, possessing all the qualities of their predecessors, require more attentive study. The events with which they deal, more grave and important in result, are inferior in mere dramatic effect to those which the historian previously recorded. In the former volumes he told us of the progress and end of a mighty contest-how, with varied fortunes but unvarying constancy, the people of England maintained their liberties against Prerogative at home and ambition abroad how, in a school the most instructive, the blinded Stuarts learned and forgot nothing-how a Restoration laid the foundation of a Revolution-how with eyes sealed in self-will and obstinacy, and steps reckless of inevitable calamity, the last of the infatuated race walked on to the edge of the precipice, and at length