supposed to be next the cornice are colossal, those high in the empyrean mere flies, the effect so far is interesting and even impressive, but then the deplorable cleverness of the illusionist asserts itself. Arms and legs and angels' wings, painted presumably on thin boards, are hung out below the soffits of window openings, and the whole thing becomes ridiculous. In the Collegien Kirche, at Salzburg, Fischer von Erlach filled up the lower part of his window with fat clouds modelled in stucco, which go wandering up the walls till they lose themselves in the vault. The impression this sort of thing leaves on the spectator is that of a confused kind of nightmare, in which the reason totters, because the evidence of the senses is no longer to be trusted. There can be no question of the dexterity of these artists, but was it worth doing and is it worth doing now? One regrets that, in the interesting attempts to reintroduce Baroque decoration, these silly tricks of the illusionist have been revived. Mr Scott is surely hard put to it when he has to defend this practice by reference to the optical refinements of the Parthenon. The object of those refinements was to correct optical illusions. For instance, if a long, straight line seemed to the eye to sag, the Greeks gave it an imperceptible convex curve in order to correct a wrong impression. The object of the Baroque decorators was to give that wrong impression and to make that appear solid which was, in fact, paint. There may be other justifications of this practice, but it has no sort of analogy with the refinements of the Parthenon.

The Greek built for eternity, the Italian of the end of the 17th century for about three generations. His vehicle was stucco, paint, and gilding. His most ambitious frontages scarcely turn the corner, and the stucco rapidly disintegrates, but the method was cheap and admitted of interminable reproduction. The Palazzo Pisani at Stra is a characteristic example. This enormous villa stands on the north bank of the Brenta in front of a large walled-in garden, furnished with many grilles and gateways. You come in through an imposing entrance and pass through an open loggia of columns between two courts to the garden beyond. In the centre is a long canal, or water-piece, flanked by what were once parterres, but are now planted with maize. Chestnut

avenues run down either side, with bosquets beyond. At the further end is a second building, apparently almost as large as the first, but this turns out to be little more than a screen shutting out the roadway beyond. One's first impression is that of an immense apparatus of house and grounds, but the inherent make-believe of the whole thing forces its way into one's consciousness. The scale and spaciousness of the design are fine, but the architecture is mean, and the final impression is that of melancholy effort to conceal fallen greatness by a sham. Stra and the Pisani, how are the mighty fallen!

Baroque architecture is at its worst in Spain and Portugal, and the countries under their influence. In its origin it was essentially the child of later 17thcentury Italy; not of the Prelates and Princes of the Renaissance, but of the Italians themselves, a lazy, laughter-loving people, impatient of sustained thought, and with an irresistible instinct for the spectacular and the dramatic. From Italy it spread like an epidemic to Southern or rather to South-Eastern Europe, and it found its abiding home in Austria, where it is seen at its best. It is as if in crossing the Alps it had shed some of its follies and developed into something approaching a vernacular style. It was introduced by Italians, architects such as Martinelli, ornamentalists and draughtsmen such as Pozzo, S.J., and the Bibbiena family of theatrical designers, but the Austrian took to it like a duck to the water, it exactly suited his temperament. Fischer von Erlach and Lucas von Hildebrand, both of whom had studied under Italian masters, assimilated the Baroque, and as neither of them possessed any taste, but were both of them able men, they produced the most extravagant designs which became models for Austrian architecture throughout the 18th century. Both these men, von Erlach in particular, could plan, but they made the mistake of planning for planning's sake, and of doing strange things for the sake of doing them. Austrian baroque is at its best in domestic architecture, and particularly in country houses, which are attractive because they have forgotten to be grandiose; some of the garden designs of the early 18th century are admirable, and possess a certain whimsical

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charm not to be found in more accomplished work. There is a garden at Salzburg, laid out for the Prince Archbishop early in the 18th century, which suggest the groves of Blarney:

'Heroes standing that noble place in,
All heathen goddesses most rare,
Moses, Nero, and Nebuchodonezzar

All standing naked in the open air.'

You enter at one end between two gladiators, and a row of heroes or gods on either side of them. About twenty yards away, on the inner side of this forecourt, are two more gladiators and two more rows of goddesses, sixteen comic figures and four gladiators. In the centre of the garden is a water-piece, and four groups, Æneas and Anchises, Hercules and Antæus, Proserpine, a lady of most ample proportions, struggling stoutly in the arms of Pluto, and Venus in a chemise upheld by Mars, with a delicious smirk, suggesting, 'I know I oughtn't to like this sort of thing, but I do!' At the further end is a peculiar bronze horse in the centre of another waterpiece, and a flight of stairs to the left leading to a bridge (replaced by a modern affair), which gives access to a raised garden adorned with eight inimitable figures of dwarfs. There is also a maze cut in beech, and an aviary. It is impossible to resist a kindly feeling towards this cheerful, irresponsible, almost childish art, and I am convinced that the house of the Marquess of Carabas was designed and decorated by Bernard Fischer von Erlach.

The Baroque never established itself in France or England. Oppenord and Cuviliés brought it into fashion in France for a time, but it was laughed out of court in France by the middle of the 18th century. In England a sounder tradition was firmly established, and it made no appeal to English taste, so long as that taste existed. Nor is it ever likely to do so, except as a passing fashion. The last traces of Baroque in its most decrepit form are to be found in hotels and marine residences erected by speculative builders in the 19th century.

The result of our study is to leave us as we were. Mr Robertson wants no style. Mr Scott is all for one particular and quite peculiar style. Mr Robertson wants

efficiency. Mr Scott is indifferent to it. Possibly a more extended experience of practice might lead both of these writers to modify their views. The best modern architecture does not ignore the past, it could not do so if it tried, but it realises how much it owes to it. Neither does it, nor can it, ignore efficiency. Buildings must answer the purpose for which they are built, but that purpose must be given a generous interpretation. An architect does not think he has solved the problem of architecture because his building stands up, keeps the wet out, and is practically convenient. The difference between the architect and the mere builder is that the architect takes the consideration of plan and construction which are common to both of them, and by thought and imagination transmutes them into terms of aesthetic value. New forms and combinations of forms will develop themselves out of new conditions, but this does not mean that where we are dealing with problems which have been perfectly solved in the past, we are to turn our backs on those solutions. We stand in the arts in the same relation to the past as we do in relation to the written and spoken word. We possess a certain inherited and acquired equipment; the vital point is what use we make of that equipment, whether we are content to make a merely mechanical use of it, or whether by our own efforts and enthusiasm we fashion out of it a richer instrument for the expression of thought.

Now, it is obvious that if a man is to make the most of this inheritance, he must acquaint himself with its full extent; he must learn to discriminate between what is of permanent value and what is worthless. The weak point of modern training since the war seems to me that students are encouraged to neglect the enormous heritage of the past, and to concentrate their attention on purely modern work, usually American, itself a more or less skilful pastiche of older work. There is little fear of our returning to the revivalism of the 19th century, but there does seem to me a real danger of our young men turning their backs on the art of the past, very greatly to the detriment of their technique. Crude and ignorant brutality is not the same thing as strength, and fireworks are not to be mistaken for the flash of genius.

In the arts there seems to be no solution of the

perennial problem-who is to say what is good and what is bad in art? The old French Academy spent year after year in the attempt to define 'le bon goust,' and one has to admit with regret that their efforts were unsuccessful. It is a problem that has vexed all thinkers since the days of Aristotle. He referred all such questions to the man of knowledge and enlightenment, and this at least is better than the paralysing verdict of 'quod semper quod ubique quod ab omnibus,' which seems to put a stop to any independent judgment of the past. Yet it is not entirely satisfactory, the men of judgment sometimes differ, and the layman is set the further difficulty of deciding which he is to follow. For the artist himself the problem is less difficult. Every sincere artist who has studied his art and acquired his own technique, inevitably builds up his own conviction as to what he is aiming at, and how he is to set out to reach his ideal. However inarticulate he may be in formulating his ideals, they will be found at the back of all his work. Consciously or unconsciously he will strive to reach certain absolute standards, and the exhortations of his critics will leave him unperturbed. My own view of architecture, both now and in the future, is that the deliberate search after originality is futile. The wind bloweth where it listeth.' These things will come of their own or not at all.

REGINALD BLOMFIELD.