as if they were in front: in these cases they are very fairly omitted in the drawing of an elevation to which they do not belong. This may be the case with the design adduced.

I will trespass no farther than to apologise for having made my remarks so lengthy; but I think, when your correspondent is at such pains in raking together charges against the profession, it is but fair to allow architects to defend themselves.-G. G. S. London, May 10. 1834.

Mr. Austin's Chimney Pots and Shafts. (p. 159.) — In this article, you have introduced some ornaments among the chimney shafts, that were not intended for such; and, fearing that they may meet the eye of those by whom they were designed, I think it should be remarked they were not intended to be used as chimney pots by me. Fig. 74, p. 160, is a sundial pillar; figs. 77. and 79. are oriental vases, modeled expressly for the new grand Pantheon Bazaar, under the immediate direction of Sidney Smirke, Esq., architect; fig. 87. is a pedestal designed for one of the principal rooms in Ironmongers' Hall; and fig. 89. is an enriched Gothic font or pedestal, restored from an example in Henry VII.'s Chapel. It should also be observed, that the chimney shafts are drawn to a scale of a quarter of an inch to a foot, and the other ornaments to a scale of half an inch to a foot, except fig. 69., which is to a larger scale, being the smallest-sized chimney pot made. Felix Austin. Artificial Stone Works, New Road, Regent's Park, June 7. 1834.

Durability of Austin's Artificial Stone.—With regard to the durability of my artificial stone, you say (p.159.) that I "consider it very nearly, if not quite, as durable as Portland stone." Now, I beg most confidently to assert, that I consider it more durable, and considerably superior to Portland stone; having for several years made fountains and reservoirs of large dimensions that have withstood the severest winters, and having had basins in my own yard, where the water contained in them has been frozen into solid bodies of ice, which have not sustained the least injury. The only precaution necessary, is that of breaking a hole in the surface of the ice, and the reason for this is evident; for as the water, when transformed into ice, occupies more space, and the surface, when frozen, does not allow the water below it to expand, if a vent in this or some other way were not afforded to it, it must necessarily break the vessel. The hole in the surface of the ice, by affording the water an opportunity of escaping through the aperture (which must be occasionally reopened), prevents the vessel from bursting. That water does escape through the hole in the surface will appear from the little hillock of ice that forms itself round the aperture.— Id.

ART. IV. Queries and Answers.

PLATE-WARMER. Have you seen the following very great improvement on the common plate-warmer? If you have, as you study comfort, I think you will approve it. It appears to be a pedestal for a bust to stand upon; but, when opened, is found to be lined with tin, with shelves for plates, and a place at the bottom for a heater. The effect is much superior to the usual ingenious mode of hiding a fire from everybody at dinner. There is one objection; and that was, when I saw it, that there was a smell of burning wood but this I attributed to the newness of the timber of which it was constructed. At any rate, your correspondent, Mr. Mallet, might produce a very elegant piece of furniture for the purpose in cast or wrought iron. — Thos. Wilson. Banks, near Barnsley, Jan. 18. 1833.

Concrete for Foundations. — Amongst the numerous plans which have been adopted for securing the foundations of buildings, this appears now to occupy a prominent place. I should feel obliged if any of your correspondents would inform me of the proportions of materials, and what is considered as the best - Investigator. Keni, June 6. 1834.

to use.

THE

ARCHITECTURAL MAGAZINE.

AUGUST, 1834.

ORIGINAL COMMUNICATIONS.

ART. I. On those Principles of Composition, in Architecture, which are common to all the Fine Arts. By the CONDUctor.

THE principles of composition in any art must necessarily depend upon the end which that art is intended to effect. The objects of architecture may be reduced to three; utility, durability, and beauty. The principle of utility determines the situation, dimensions, arrangement, and local relations of buildings; that of durability, the mode of their construction, and the nature of their materials; and that of beauty, their appearance as objects of taste. The first two of these objects we shall pass over for the present, as being, from their practical and mechanical nature, much more generally understood than the latter; and we shall, therefore, limit our observations, in this and some succeeding articles, to the principles of composition in architecture, with reference to the production of beauty.

Beauty in architecture, as in other arts, and as in nature, is of many kinds; but in architecture all these kinds may be included in two classes: first, those kinds of beauty which result from a combination of what may be called the elementary materials of architecture as a fine art, without reference to the works of preceding artists; and, secondly, those which result from architectural combinations which have reference to the works of preceding artists.

The elementary materials of architecture, considered as an art of taste, are forms, lines, lights, shades, and colours. The principal element, however, is form, which may be said to give rise to lines, lights and shades, and, to a certain extent also, even to colours.

The elements of architecture, considered as an art established by preceding artists, are to be found in the elementary forms of the different styles of building; such as the Grecian, the Gothic, &c., with all their numerous varieties and subvarieties. We shall confine ourselves, in this article, to those fundamental principles of composition which apply to architecture, in common with all the fine arts.

The first principle in all combinations, whether of lines, forms,

colours, or sounds, is that of producing a whole. The reason why this is a fundamental principle is, that the mind can only attend to one sensation at one time; and hence, that where more objects than one are presented to it, they must be so presented as to produce only a single sensation. A single sensation, produced by a number of objects, may be called a composite sensation, as opposed to a simple sensation, or one produced by a single object. For example, a hundred bricks, if strewed promiscuously over a piece of ground, could only be looked at separately one after another, and would therefore produce a hundred separate sensations: but, if these bricks were thrown together in a heap, they might be observed by one glance of the eye; and in that case would produce only one single sensation or impression on the mind. If the heap were large, and the spectator placed so near it as that he could not see the whole at one glance, he would then experience a confusion of sensations; because he would see those bricks which were near the eye individually, and others, farther from it, in parts; without, however, being able to see the heap as a whole. This example illustrates two subordinate principles in the formation of a whole; that of contiguity, or the necessity of bringing those parts which compose the whole in contact; and that of distance, or the necessity of adjusting the dimensions of the object, or its distance from the spectator, to the powers of vision in the human eye.

If we suppose the heap of bricks to be at such a distance from the eye as to be taken in at a glance, and consequently easily comprehended as a single object; and if we further suppose it to be in the form of a cone, or a pyramid; this will give an additional idea or sensation: but even this additional sensation may be still easily included in the one composite sensation produced by the whole. We may next suppose the pyramid arranged like steps; this will not interfere with the idea of a whole, though it will add still farther to the composite nature of the sensation produced by it. If we suppose these steps alternately of white and black marble, the object may still be viewed as a whole; but if the lower half of the pyramid were to be of steps of one colour, and the upper half of steps of another colour; or if the lower half were arranged in steps, and the upper half without steps, then the mind would receive two distinct sensations, that produced by the lower half, and that by the upper half; and these two sensations would no longer unite in forming a composite sensation of easy comprehension; that is, in forming a whole. From these particulars, two conclusions relative to the composition of a whole may be deduced: first, that a great number of simple sensations may enter into the idea of it; and, secondly, that all these simple sensations must unite in forming one composite sensation. Thus we arrive at two familiar prin

ciples, viz., that of the necessity of the unity of the whole, and that of the necessity of the connection of the parts which compose it.

That the human mind is adapted for viewing, as a whole, an indefinite number of parts, may be rendered evident to every reader, by his considering the number of particulars that enter into the composite idea of the meaning of a written or printed sentence; say of one thousand letters, in a hundred words. In casting the eye rapidly over such a sentence, the meaning is caught at once; but it can only be caught in consequence of each of the thousand letters in that sentence having produced its separate simple sensation; each of the separate words having also produced its separate composite sensation; and each of the members of the proposition, or subject of the sentence, having also produced its composite sensation.

We may here mention, incidentally, that in this way what is called the association of ideas may be formed: the sight of a letter leads to the idea of words and sentences; and the sound of a word leads to the idea of its separate letters. The view of a single brick raises up in the mind the idea of a wall or a house; and a house calls up in the mind the idea of the bricks, and of all the other component parts of which it is constructed. It is, in many cases, by the exercise of the mind in tracing these associations, that the emotion of beauty is experienced; and this emotion of beauty is to be considered as the result of a composite sensation, in the same way as what may be called a sensation of beauty is produced by a single sensation, from viewing any agreeable form or colour.

On looking at any pleasing object, whether in nature or in art, it will always be found, on analysing it, that, whether it be merely agreeable, or supremely beautiful, it still forms a whole: this quality of forming a whole being independent of every other description of beauty, and yet being common to all the different kinds of it. On the other hand, no composition whatever, though its parts, when taken separately, may each be of the greatest beauty, will please when these parts are put together, unless in that state they form a whole. Parts, also, which, if viewed separately, have little or no beauty, may, when combined in due subordination to the principle of unity, form a beautiful whole. A multitude of objects enter into the composition of those landscapes which include a considerable portion of distant scenery. Many of these objects, taken separately, may not only be of little beauty, but may be disagreeable, or even deformed; yet some one principle, by operating alike on this immense number of seemingly discordant particulars or sensations, reduces them all to one agreeable composite sensation. This principle, in the background of a natural landscape, is distance; and, in the foreground of a natural landscape, is continuous light, or

continuous shade. In like manner, all discordant compositions may be rendered accordant, if not positively beautiful, by some uniting principle which may be applied in common to all their parts. The whole of a discordant landscape may be reduced to unity of expression, by increasing the distance of the picture from the eye, by excess of either light or shade being thrown over every part of it, or by sameness of colouring; and a house, or other building, which, in respect to its forms, its lines, or its style, is discordant, may be rendered tolerable, by being whitewashed in every part, or by being stained in every part with dark tints, so as to give the whole an appearance of age and antiquity. We are far from saying that by processes of this kind beauty can be produced; we only assert that discordant parts may be reduced to a whole, and that deformity may be neutralised, and thus rendered accordant, or at least tolerable. Our object, in stating these things so much in detail, is, if possible, to convey to every reader an idea of the paramount necessity of the principle of a whole pervading every composition whatever. We shall next proceed to develope other principles.

Every work of art, to give pleasure to the human mind as such, must be recognised as a work of art. This is self-evident. If it were possible for an artist to form imitations of trees, stones, rocks, ground, or animals, all so perfect as to be undistinguishable from similar productions of nature, they would be considered as natural objects: and, consequently, whatever gratification they might otherwise afford, they could give no pleasure as works of art; since, as before observed, to enable them to do so, it must be known that they were formed by the hand of man. The heap of bricks, before referred to, was recognisable as a work of art, from the artificial forms of the bricks: had the forms of which this heap was composed been natural, such as small stones, gravel, or lumps of earth, unless the shape of the heap had approached to some regular geometrical or artificial form, it would not have been recognisable as a work of art, and could have given no pleasure as such. The recognition of art, therefore, is a primary principle in architecture, as, indeed, it is in all the fine arts, even in those which are considered the most purely imitative. Hence it is that the irregular style of landscape-gardening, as described or treated by some who seem to consider it a mere imitation of natural scenery, is, in so far as it perfectly attains such an end, no fine art at all. How, indeed, can there be any art in that work which, when in its perfect state, must necessarily be mistaken for nature? Landscape-gardening is, doubtless, like architecture, to a certain extent, a fine art; but not by virtue of its creating fac-similes of natural scenery. No work of man can rank as a fine art, in the composition of which the recognition of art is not a fundamental principle. How this