It has been, and doubtless for some centuries to come will be, a matter of regret that the unrivalled collection called the British Museum has not, after the incalculable labour bestowed, and the vast sums of money spent upon it, found a home more worthy of its invaluable contents than the present building. Of this huge pile—an irregular oblong—but little appeals to the eye, less to the power of discussion. The Eastern and Western Wings still remain partially exposed to view in all their normal hideousness of yellow brick, unadorned by aught save a few meagre mouldings. The front, being, of course, the most conspicuous part of the structure, has been the object of attention, and has been ornamented in a manner suiting it to the public gaze. To effect this desirable, and certainly most legitimate object, choice has strangely been made of a style which, in itself most beautiful, is so hampered and restricted by the straitest and severest rules as to be almost incapable of adaptation to purposes of modern utility, and a magnificent Ionic portico and peristyle have been erected; the building, as a whole, thus presenting a striking contrast to any other structure to be found in the metropolis.
Confront the British Museum for one moment with the Madeleine of Paris, and how great is the difference! In the latter is seen the nearest approach to true Grecian architecture, combined with admirable proportions, and tasteful and correct ornamentation; by admission of light from the roof, the unsightliness of windows inserted in the walls is avoided, and, in its entirety, the building fairly represents that which it purports to be.
Let the visitor, however, enter, and he will find himself somewhat disappointed; for, instead of seeing a tolerably correct Greek temple, he will find a singularly ineffective and mediocre Christian Church. The profuseness of decoration, much of it foreign to the style, the want of power in what should be the central point of attraction, the general horizontal character of the lines, throwing out the building in an unnatural degree—all show the abortiveness of an effort to lend the rigidity of ancient forms to the exigencies of modern tastes.
Still, to compare the Madeleine, with all its faults, to the British Museum, would be an insult to the former; not that the classical façade of our own building is without merit: the nobility and majesty of the portico and colonnade cannot well be denied, and, if built of white marble (supposing the brightness of the marble could be preserved in this variable climate) instead of their present dingy material, they would have constituted, by their own merit, a most striking and dignified object, whatever cavils might have existed as to the reality of the purpose to which they would have been applied.
A certain distance, however, is requisite for the view, and this it is most difficult to obtain; on closer inspection it will be seen that the imposing range of pillars rather draws attention to, than serves to conceal, the frightful sash windows which glare from behind it, and whose light it obscures.
In the tympanum of the portico is a group of sculptured figures by Sir R. Westmacott. To this M. Edgar Vinet, in a notice of the British Museum in the Journal des Débats, written in 1858 (30th of December) alludes in the following words:—“Un fronton récemment terminé, et dans lequel Sir Richard Westmacott, ce qui se conçoit pour un sujet pareil, a représenté, d’une manière un peu confuse, l’homme passant de l’état sauvage, sans l’influence de la religion, à la[à la] civilisation et au progrès.”
This cluster of sculpture is by no means happy, and the kindly phrase of our critic, “une manière un peu confuse,” might, with a little freedom and more truth, be rendered by the English words, muddle, cram, and confusion.
On either flank of the main building, and in advance of it, is a block of official dwelling-houses, which, as some may remember, called down much denunciation at the time they were erected; they are, however, so void of pretentiousness that they seem hardly to deserve any very lavish outpouring of righteous indignation. It is enough to say of them that they would have been better away.
The British Museum is, however, more admirable inside than out. Here, nevertheless, the Nemesis of the style pursues the observer even more unrelentingly. If some of the vast and dismal rooms be not the very halls of Eblis, at least they are eminently fitted for the depositories of the sarcophagi of those who have descended thither. The beauty of their contents may, it is true, engross the visitor’s attention for a time, but he can hardly hope to remain long free from the depression and melancholy with which the surrounding air seems impregnated. The lighting (and here, again, the blame must be exclusively laid on the style adopted) is in many places most defective; as to the mural decoration, it cannot be better described than in the words of the already quoted M. Vinet:—A l’exception de la salle de lecture, vaste rotonde dont la coupole reluit d’or la, décoration intérieure du Musée Britannique vous étonne par sa simplicité; les murailles sont nues, quelques méandres, peints à l’encaustique, entourent des plafonds percés par un vitrage, par où passe une lumière froide et grise: voilà tout ce que l’orgueilleuse Albion a cru devoir accorder à l’embellissement intérieur de son Musée: décoration conçue avec un tel puritanisme qu’elle est restée au dessous des salles d’attente des chemins de fer, comme ornementation et comme goût. Une large cheminée de fonte, chauffée à blanc huit mois de l’année, occupe le centre de chaque pièce, et, par son prosaïsme forme le plus étrange contraste avec les œuvres élégantes, filles du soleil, qui l’entourent.”
To the objection that those who thus flatly condemn one form of architecture are bound to suggest another more suitable, a ready, and by no means embarrassing answer is forthcoming. The Pointed, the most beautiful and ductile of all styles, may be left out of consideration, as being hardly of sufficient congruity to the relics of art stored in the National collection. Moreover, to have attempted a Gothic structure at the time when the present Museum was built, might have afforded an instructive example of corruptio optimi pessima, but, in all probability, would have failed in point of utility, and would most certainly have been an outrage on good taste.