nothing so
persistently avoids the directions in which it might find most
satisfaction.

[Sidenote: Adventitious effects appreciated first.]

Since construction grows rational slowly and by indirect pressure, we
may expect that its most superficial merits will be the first
appreciated. Ultimate beauty in a building would consist, of course, in
responding simultaneously to all the human faculties affected: to the
eye, by the building's size, form, and colour; to the imagination, by
its fitness and ideal expression. Of all grounds for admiration those
most readily seized are size, elaboration, splendour of materials, and
difficulties or cost involved. Having built or dug in the conventional
way a man may hang before his door some trophy of battle or the chase,
bearing witness to his prowess; just as people now, not thinking of
making their rooms beautiful, fill them with photographs of friends or
places they have known, to suggest and reburnish in their minds their
interesting personal history, which even they, unstimulated, might tend
to forget. That dwelling will seem best adorned which contains most
adventitious objects; bare and ugly will be whatever is not concealed by
something else. Again, a barbarous architect, without changing his
model, may build in a more precious material; and his work will be
admired for the evidence it furnishes of wealth and wilfulness. As a
community grows luxurious and becomes accustomed to such display, it may
come to seem strange and hideous to see a wooden plate or a pewter
spoon. A beautiful house will need to be in marble and the sight of
plebeian brick will banish all satisfaction.

Less irrational, and therefore less vulgar, is the wonder aroused by
great bulk or difficulty in the work. Exertions, to produce a great
result, even if it be material, must be allied to perseverance and
intelligent direction. Roman bridges and aqueducts, for instance, gain
a profound emotional power when we see in their monotonous arches a
symbol of the mightiest enterprise in history, and in their decay an
evidence of its failure. Curiosity is satisfied, historic imagination is
stimulated, tragic reflection is called forth. We cannot refuse
admiration to a work so full of mind, even if no great plastic beauty
happens to distinguish it. It is at any rate beautiful enough, like the
sea or the skeleton of a mountain. We may rely on the life it has made
possible to add more positive charms and clothe i