Chapter VI: Part 6

In one article indeed, the Grecian model has greatly the advantage: its chorus, during an interval, not only preserves alive the impressions made upon the audience, but also prepares their hearts finely for new impressions. In our theatres, on the contrary, the audience, at the end of every act, are in a manner solicited to withdraw their thoughts from what has been passing, and to trifle away the time the best way they can. Thus in the intervals betwixt the acts, every warm impression is banished; and the spectators begin the next act cool and indifferent, as at the commencement of the play. Here is a gross malady in our theatrical representations; but a malady that luckily is not incurable. To revive the Grecian chorus, would be to revive the Grecian slavery of place and time. But I can figure a detached chorus coinciding with a pause in the representation, as the ancient chorus did with a pause in the principal action. What objection, for example, can there lie against music betwixt the acts, vocal and instrumental, adapted to the subject? Such detached chorus, beside admitting the same latitude that we enjoy at present as to time and place, would have more than one happy effect: it would recruit the spirits; and it would preserve entire, the tone, if not the tide, of passion. The music that comes first, ought to accord with the tone of the preceding passion, and be gradually varied till it accord with the tone of the passion that is to succeed in the next act. The music and the representation would both of them be gainers by their conjunction; which will thus appear. Music that accords with the present tone of mind, is, upon that account, doubly agreeable; and accordingly, though music singly hath not power to raise any passion, it tends greatly to support a passion already raised. Further, music, though it cannot of itself raise a passion, prepares us for the passion that follows: by making chearful, tender, melancholy, or animated impressions, music has power to dispose the heart to various passions. Of this power, the first scene of the _Mourning Bride_ is a shining instance: without the preparation of soft music in a melancholy strain, it would be extremely difficult to enter all at once into Almeria’s deep distress. In this manner, music and representation support each other delightfully: the impression made upon the audience by the representation, is a fine preparation for the music that succeeds; and the impression made by the music, is a fine preparation for the representation that succeeds. It appears to me clear, that, by some such contrivance, the modern drama may be improved, so as to enjoy the advantage of the ancient chorus without its slavish limitation of place and time. And as to music in particular, I cannot figure any plan that would tend more to its improvement. Composers, those for the stage at least, would be reduced to the happy necessity of studying and imitating nature; instead of indulging, according to the present fashion, in wild, fantastic, and unnatural conceits. But we must return to our subject, and finish the comparison betwixt the ancient and the modern drama.

The numberless improprieties forc’d upon the Grecian dramatic poets by the constitution of their drama, are, of themselves one should think, a sufficient reason for preferring that of the moderns, even abstracting from the improvement proposed. To prepare the reader for this article, it must be premised, that as in the ancient drama the place of action never varies, a place necessarily must be chosen to which every person may have access without any improbability. This confines the scene to some open place, generally the court or area before a palace; which excludes from the Grecian theatre transactions within doors, though these commonly are the most important. Such cruel restraint is of itself sufficient to cramp the most pregnant invention; and accordingly the Grecian writers, in order to preserve unity of place, are reduced to woful improprieties. In the _Hippolytus_ of Euripides[70], Phedra, distressed in mind and body, is carried without any pretext from her palace to the place of action, is there laid upon a couch unable to support herself upon her limbs, and made to utter many things improper to be heard by a number of women who form the chorus. What is still worse, her female attendant uses the strongest intreaties to make her reveal the secret cause of her anguish; which at last Phedra, contrary to decency and probability, is prevailed upon to do in presence of this very chorus[71]. Alcestes, in _Euripides_, at the point of death, is brought from the palace to the place of action, groaning and lamenting her untimely fate[72]. In the _Trachiniens_ of Sophocles[73], a secret is imparted to Dejanira, the wife of Hercules, in presence of the chorus. In the tragedy of _Iphigenia_, the messenger employ’d to carry Clitemnestra the news that Iphigenia was sacrificed, stops short at the place of action, and with a loud voice calls the Queen from her palace to hear the news. Again, in the _Iphigenia in Tauris_, the necessary presence of the chorus forces Euripides into a gross absurdity, which is to form a secret plot in their hearing[74]; and to disguise the absurdity, much courtship is bestowed on the chorus, not one woman but a number, to engage them to secrecy. In the _Medea_ of Euripides, that princess makes no difficulty, in presence of the chorus, to plot the death of her husband, of his mistress, and of her father the King of Corinth, all by poison. It was necessary to bring Medea upon the stage, and there is but one place of action, which is always occupied by the chorus. This scene closes the second act; and in the end of the third, she frankly makes the chorus her confidents in ploting the murder of her own children. Terence, by identity of place, is often forc’d to make a conversation within doors be heard on the open street: the cries of a woman in labour are there heard distinctly.

The Grecian poets are not more happy with respect to time than with respect to place. In the _Hippolytus_ of Euripides, that prince is banished at the end of the fourth act. In the first scene of the following act, a messenger relates to Theseus the whole particulars of the death of Hippolytus by the sea-monster. This remarkable event must have employ’d many hours; and yet in the representation it is confined to the time employ’d by the chorus upon the song at the end of the 4th act. The inconsistency is still greater in the _Iphigenia in Tauris_[75]. The song could not exhaust half an hour; and yet the incidents supposed to have happened in that time, could not naturally be transacted in less than half a day.

The Grecian artists are not less frequently obliged to transgress another rule, derived also from a continued representation, which is, that the place of action must constantly be occupied; for the very least vacuity is an interruption of the representation. Sophocles, with regard to this rule as well as others, is generally correct. But Euripides cannot bear such restraint: he often evacuates the stage, and leaves it empty for others in succession. _Iphigenia in Tauris_, after pronouncing a soliloquy in the first scene, leaves the place of action, and is succeeded by Orestes and Pylades. They, after some conversation, walk off; and Iphigenia re-enters, accompanied with the chorus. In the _Alcestes_, which is of the same author, the place of action is void at the end of the third act. It is true, that to cover this irregularity, and to preserve the representation in motion, Euripides is extremely careful to fill the stage without loss of time. But this is still an interruption, and a link of the chain broken: for during the change of the actors, there must always be a space of time, when we cannot justly say, that the stage is occupied by either set. It makes indeed a more remarkable interruption, to change the place of action as well as the actors; but that was not practicable upon the Grecian stage.

It is hard to say upon what model Terence has formed his plays. Having no chorus, there is a cessation in the representation at the end of every act. But advantage is not taken of this cessation, even to vary the place of action. The street is always chosen, where every thing passing may be seen by every person: and by this choice, the most sprightly and interesting parts of the action, which commonly pass within doors, are excluded; witness the last act of the _Eunuch_. He hath submitted to the same slavery with respect to time. In a word, a play with a regular chorus, is not more confined in place and time than his plays are. Thus a zealous sectary follows implicitly ancient forms and ceremonies, without once considering whether their introductive cause be still subsisting. Plautus, of a bolder genius than Terence, makes good use of the liberty afforded by an interrupted representation: he varies the place of action upon all occasions, when the variation suits his purpose.

The intelligent reader will by this time understand, that I plead for no change of place in our plays but after an interval, nor for any latitude in point of time but what falls in with an interval. The unities of place and time ought to be strictly observed during each act; for during the representation, there is no opportunity for the smallest deviation from either. Hence it is an essential requisite, that during an act the stage be always occupied; for even a momentary vacuity makes an interval. Another rule is not less essential: it would be a gross breach of the unity of action, to exhibit upon the stage two separate actions at the same time; and therefore to preserve this unity, it is necessary that each personage introduced during an act, be linked to those in possession of the stage, so as to join all in one action. These things follow from the very conception of an act, which admits not the slightest interruption. The moment the representation is intermitted, there is an end of that act; and we have no other notion of a new act, but where after a pause or interval, the representation is again put in motion. French writers, generally speaking, are extremely correct in this particular: the English, on the contrary, are so irregular as scarce to deserve a criticism: actors not only succeed each other in the same place without connection; but, what is still worse, they frequently succeed each other in different places. This change of place in the same act, ought never to be indulged; for, beside breaking the unity of the act, it has a disagreeable effect. After an interval, the mind can readily accommodate itself to any place that is necessary, just as readily as at the commencement of the play; but during the representation, the mind rejects change of place. From the foregoing censure must be excepted the _Mourning Bride_ of Congreve, where regularity concurs with the beauty of sentiment and of language, to make it one of the most complete pieces England has to boast of. I must acknowledge, however, that in point of regularity, this elegant performance is not altogether unexceptionable. In the four first acts, the unities of place and time are strictly observed; but in the last act, there is a capital error with respect to unity of place. In the three first scenes of that act, the place of action is a room of state, which is changed to a prison in the fourth scene: the chain of the actors withal is broken; for the persons introduced in the prison, are different from those who made their appearance in the room of state. This remarkable interruption of the representation, makes in effect two acts instead of one: and therefore, if it be a rule, that a play ought not to consist of more acts than five, this performance is so far defective in point of regularity. I may add, that even admitting six acts, the irregularity would not be altogether removed, without a longer pause in the representation than is allowed in the acting; for it requires more than a momentary interruption, to enable the imagination readily to accommodate itself to a new place, or to prorogation of time. In _The Way of the World_, of the same author, unity of place is preserved during every act, and a stricter unity of time during the whole play than is necessary.

CHAP. XXIV.

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.