peaked fronts of our ancient cathedrals.[1] Architects will then be no longer tempted to startle and amaze by astounding novelties, but will seek to please by harmonies that give the eye repose. And it will be felt that the architect is not a builder up only, but a beautifier, of his materials, of their arrangement, and of their uses.
But, in thus strongly advocating an architecture not depending on private exertions, or individual taste, but possessed of stable maxims and a national character, am I contemplating the possibility of this mighty city being the victim of some frightful catastrophe, which may destroy, or devastate it, and leave but solitary pillars, or broken arches, on a huge plain, to mark the spot where throbbing millions once discoursed and did many good and great things?
Not by any means. Our times are too homely for the enormities of former days. When conflagrations consumed the great cities of antiquity, there was no fire-engine in every parish; the earthquake is a stranger to our unvolcanic soil, though it paid us a passing visit lately; and diplomacy has taken the place of ploughing up cities, and sowing them with salt.[2]
But in our eventful days, and with our energetic population, we have other possible changes before us. We are building on a shifting soil. The ancient city of Volterra is subject to periodical landslips, known by the peculiar name of balzi. It is situated near the edge of a crumbling hill, at the foot of which
- ↑ See Lecture 'On the Points of Contact between Science and Art,' p. 65.
- ↑ As in the destruction of the Belgian and Ionian forts.
