was struck down in the vigour and pride of health, to be dissected at ease by the archæologue of the eighteenth and subsequent centuries. Submerged in a deluge of bland, insinuating ashes, which penetrated into the most remote corners and crevices of every building; embalmed, instead of being petrified like its twin city Herculaneum, Pompeii has given us the only practical and sensible illustrations of what writers had let us know about their domestic arrangements. The peculiarity and singularity of this case only make the otherwise universal rule absolute. It is this:
"That hitherto, in every country, and under all circumstances, the only edifices which have survived the destruction of a city are public buildings; and that our real acquaintance with the architecture of any country in ancient times is derived exclusively from these monuments."[1]
But I have to explain why I spoke in such general terms of these edifices as beautiful.
The expression was deliberate, though it may sound equivocal. When we have to select for the future, we may have, and if we can we may indulge, our preferences; in judging of the past we must accept its legacies, and value them by its standards. If I wish to build a church, or a town-hall, or a mansion, I may naturally select mediaeval types. But not on that account would I say that the Par-
- ↑ The same may be said of later monuments. There are villages in which the church, still perfect, or partly ruined, towers over a few and poor remnants of a former town, in strange and noble disproportion to its actual occupants. Such, for example, are the old churches at Minster or Winchelsea in England, Damm in Flanders, Corbie in France, &c.
