Fig. 175.—The Parthenon. Greek Doric: enlarged section of annulets at A.
undersides of the mutules were copied from the slanting timbers of the roof.
I will speak first of the Greek orders, not only because they were the earliest, but because the Greeks showed the greatest artistic sensibility in their choice of forms, in the composition of lines, and in their arrangements for light and shade. I begin with the Doric. The shaft is conical, and fluted with twenty shallow segmental flutes that finished under the capital, which consists of a thick square cap called the abacus, with a circular echinus under it, finished at the bottom with rings called annulets, and a little below them is a deep narrow sunk chase called the necking, and the shaft has no base.
The Greeks were a seafaring people, mainly inhabiting the sea-shore, the islands of the Archipelago, and the edges of Asia Minor, and were thus acquainted with the forms of the sea and of shells. The echinus of the Doric capital resembles the shell of the sea-urchin, or echinus, when it has lost its spines, and was probably called after it. The ovolo moulding that was most used was called the cyma or wave. At the Parthenon, the finest example of the Doric, the architrave is plain, and was once adorned with golden shields and inscriptions; it is capped by a square moulding called the tænia or band; the frieze, with its square cymatium, is capped with a carved astragal, and is divided longitudinally by the triglyphs, projecting pieces, ornamented with two whole and two half vertical channels, from which the word triglyph takes its name; below the tænia is a narrower square moulding the width of the triglyph, and beneath it, ornamented with drops called guttæ. I may point to this as a most artistic device both to relieve the monotony of the tænia and to weld the architrave with the frieze. The triglyphs begin at the angles of the frieze, and range centrally over all the rest of the columns, with an additional triglyph between each, though in the frieze over the larger central opening of the Propylæum there are two intermediate triglyphs; the nearly-square metopes between the triglyphs are filled with figure-sculpture. The cornice consists of the square mutule band, from which the mutules project, whose slanting underside is enriched with drops; and above the mutules is their capping, a narrow fascia under the corona; the corona or main projecting member of the cornice is throated at the bottom, and its capping consists of a wide fillet, deeply-throated, with a hawk’s-bill moulding under it. These together form the most superb piece of architectural work that exists, and has called forth the rapturous admiration of all the tasteful in the world, from the time it was built to the time of Ernest Renan, one of its latest distinguished admirers.
I have lingered over this order because it is a masterpiece for all time. Those who have seen it in England alone are possibly convinced that this praise has been ill-bestowed; yet even these would change their opinion if they saw it when perfectly white on a clear day in bright sunshine; but in London, even at its best, the clear air and fierce sun of Athens is wanting, as well as the pentelic marble, and the chances are that the sculpture in the metopes has been left out. This Doric of the Greeks is true architecture, fitted to the climate, and made by men of genius to charm the most gifted race the world has seen. To the Greek architect no thought and no labour was too great in designing his building, to form it so that the sun would play melodies on it from dawn to dusk. Such truly national architecture cannot be imported into a different climate without losing most of its effect, nor can it be transferred to a coarse and opaque material without losing much of its charm; while its sculpture, the finest the world has yet seen, portrayed national traditions or events connected with its faith. But even here in London, if you see paraphrases of Greek architecture just painted white on a clear sunshiny day, you will see a faint reflex of its pristine glory. The rising moon that the sun makes on the echinus, contrasted with soft graduated warm shades and sharp blue shadows, is the finest thing an architect has ever compassed. The splendid sculpture that adorned its metopes may be seen in the Elgin room of the British Museum. This one example is a model for those who seek perfection in exquisite simplicity, for almost all the mouldings are square ones, and there is no enrichment beyond the highest figure-sculpture, and one little carved astragal; and I may add, that the perfection of the whole composition of the Temple is as great as that of this part.
The Ionic.
The example, given on account of its simplicity, is from the Temple on the river Ilissus. The column differs from that of the Doric by being of slenderer proportions, by having twenty-four deep elliptical flutes with fillets in its shaft, by having a cushioned capital inserted between the thin moulded
