that the new architecture is essentially 'youthful; and strongly conscious of its origins'-I presume its origins in the schools, for it certainly originated nowhere else. And he gives as its essential qualities: (1) That it should be efficient and answer its purpose; (2) that it should aim at the sensational and dramatic rather than the emotional and intellectual,' the film and the cinematograph, let us say, rather than the triumph of Scipio and the ceiling of the Sistine; (3) that it should turn its back on all previous styles. It is recognised that there should at present only be one style, that of the present.'

In regard to the first of these qualities we are all agreed that architecture must answer its purpose, whatever it may be, and it was because it does not do so that Street's Law Courts, great work as it was in many ways, sounded the knell of Gothic architecture for civil and domestic buildings. Before the end of the 19th century all serious architects took this condition of efficiency for granted, and though foolish things were still done in our museums and public buildings, Norman Shaw showed in his New Scotland Yard what a really great designer could do in handling a public building, if he could let his intelligence play freely round his problem, and if he was allowed by the authorities to do so. Shaw's building remains the finest public building erected in London since Somerset House. It is on the old lines, and yet it is splendidly original, far more so than the newest of our new architecture. The new architecture claims to be essentially efficient-that is, I suppose, practical and exactly fitted for its purpose-but it has methods of being so peculiar to itself. The object of a projecting stone window-sill, for instance, is to protect the wall below from the dripping of water, but I note that in the latest effort of the new architecture the window-sill is omitted, and wide, shallow, vertical grooves are thoughtfully provided from the bottom of one window opening to the top of the window below, in order that none of the rain-water falling on the window above may be lost to the wall and window below.

The second quality of the new architecture is that it is to be 'sensational and dramatic,' and Mr Robertson, forgetful of his insistence on 'efficiency,' remarks, 'The architectural value of a building lies not in its practical

efficiency, although this is a contributing factor, but in the effect it produces on the beholder.' The use of the building seems to have been forgotten, a fallacy that we shall also meet in Mr Scott's essay. The architect is to be a purveyor of thrills for the onlooker; apparently he is to follow the notorious example of the cubists, the vorticists, and the non-representative painters—anything to startle. At first sight it might seem that the new architects are adopting the familiar old slogan, 'Épater les bourgeois.' It is only fair to Mr Robertson to say that this is not his intention. Indeed, he loves his bourgeois, takes him into his confidence, and is anxious only to show him the right way, so that both he and his architect may work together for righteousness; but if the house is ill-planned and ill-built, no amount of startling originality on the outside or revolutionary decoration within will compensate the owner for the discomfort of living in it.

Mr Robertson bases his argument on a curious theory of aesthetic borrowed from Dr Walford Davies and relating to the effects of music. Music is supposed to make its appeal (1) to the sensations, a pleasant titivation so to say, resulting (2) in the stirring of emotion, which (3) is realised by the intellect, and (4) confirmed as 'real' by intuition. These are described as concentric circles; the appeal, for example, may get no further than circle (2), or it may skip circle (2) and reach circle (3), or it may stop at circle (3) and miss confirmation by circle (4). There seems to be some confusion between circles (1) and (4), and circle (4) seems to refer to some instinct for 'reality' in the Platonic sense-that is, to an apprehension of the absolute 'idea' of beauty, as it exists apart from its physical manifestation. Surely the 'sensational and dramatic' appeal, the shock motive, which seems to be a principal element of the new architecture, could make little or no appeal to the intuition of 'real' beauty. Mr Robertson's illustrations do not help us much. Gothic, we are told, being vertical suggests the driving force of the emotions and the 'transverse beam of classic, the restful tranquillity of the intellect.' But the intellect is neither restful nor tranquil; it is, on the contrary, exceedingly active, and there are other emotions besides those of a general upset. One does not see why the

restlessness and insistence on small details of Gothic ecclesiastical architecture should be regarded as the only possible source of appeal to the emotions. Emotions quite as powerful, quite as noble, may be roused by the restraint and simplicity of Greek Doric, by the evidence of purpose and overmastering will of the Roman baths and theatres and aqueducts. When Mr Robertson says 'Classical architecture is curiously ideal, since it gives the appearance of detachment from function,' I find myself absolutely at a loss to understand him, because this is exactly what classical architecture does not do. It is so obviously a version of the post and beam construction, whereas in a Gothic cathedral-the choir of Westminster Abbey, for example-I find myself wondering what it all means: those clusters of little shafts disappearing at some enormous height into the shadows of the vaulting; those narrow bays; those acutely pointed arches, when it could all have been done so much more simply than it is. The whole conception of it seems impossibly remote from the time we live in, and as a method of covering in a large floor space amazingly inefficient and wasteful. The comparison of classic to the palm tree as 'elegant but never emancipated' and of Gothic to the cedar with its muscular force, constructive strength, free and independent,' does not clear the air, even when reinforced by a further comparison with the silver birch. After all, the sober facts of history and of actual buildings, so far as they can be ascertained by critical study, are a safer guide to practice than all the rhetoric in the world, and we shall never get to the root of the matter in æsthetic till we prefer the dry light of the intellect to the vague aspirations of the sentimentalist.

The most formidable claim of our young lions in architecture is that they are starting a new manner of their own. They consider that the past has no meaning for them, and that all that they have to do is to look to the present. Instead of the assiduous study of the masterpieces of the past, to which most of us owe what little skill we possess in the art of design, the students in our architectural schools look to the master in charge and to contemporary work as illustrated in the technical papers for their inspiration, and armed with the time

honoured ruling of Mr Lancelot Brown that 'knowledge hampers originality,' they start bravely on their architectural careers, unimpeded by the knowledge of the past. Mr Robertson's reference to the work of that past is exiguous and somewhat uncritical. He mentions as prominent examples of Renaissance houses, Castle Howard (Vanbrugh), Kedleston (Pain and R. Adam), Coleshill (Inigo Jones), Stowe (Kent), and Spencer House (Vardy). These houses are not variations on one theme, but so different in intention as to be almost different in kind. One might as well give as typical products of the Reformation, Martin Luther, Tate and Brady, and Dr Pusey. Mr Robertson describes the Four Courts and the Custom House at Dublin as 'excellent examples of the Wren School,' but that is exactly what they are not. If Mr Robertson refers to any competent history of 17th- and 18th-century architecture, he will find that Wren's manner was the result of hints from late Jacobean, Inigo Jones and the architects of Louis XIV, fused by his own incomparable genius into a manner peculiar to himself; that towards the end of his life he went quite out of fashion, left in the cold by what I have called elsewhere the conspiracy of silence of Lord Burlington's clique, Colin Campbell, Kent, and the Palladians; that Chambers, who succeeded them, was an out-and-out Palladian, and that Gandon, the architect of the Dublin buildings, who was a pupil of Chambers, adhered strictly to the tradition of Chambers, and was quite uninfluenced by Wren's cheerful and most attractive manner. The whole cast of Wren's temperament, his traditions and associations, were entirely different from those of Chambers and Gandon, but our young heroes regard the work of the 18th century as vieux jeu, fit only to be lumped together and cast out on the rubbish heap. They must find the results somewhat embarrassing. The fashionable idea just now of a great commercial building is that of a gigantic cube in which holes are punched at regular intervals for doors and windows. Composition, silhouette, and proportion are disregarded. The great masters of the past felt that something more than this was required of them. Mr Robertson has, therefore, to go to Tibet to find a justification for the latest exploits of the new architecture,

2

and he finds it in the Potala at Lhassa. The Potala is a vast monastery, admirably adapted for its site, on an isolated rocky hill. The building starts low down on the hillside, and towers up above its summit, and though not exactly symmetrical, it is sufficiently so to make a fine composition; and one is grateful to Mr Robertson for calling attention to this impressive building, but what sort of analogy has it to the vast business premises now being built in London? The Potala stands gaunt and austere on a hill apparently some hundreds of feet high in a desolate mountainous country. It is more remote from adjoining buildings than the Acropolis at Athens, and its purpose is to house some extraordinary monks. Our 'new architecture' buildings are erected for purposes of trade and business, the space in front of them, except in squares and opposite the river, is restricted, and they are wedged in among innumerable other buildings. One might as well justify the skyscrapers of New York by the towers of S. Gemignano. If efficiency is one of the tests of the new architecture, the 'new' architects must look elsewhere than at Lhassa to justify their prodigious structures. In point of fact they seem to have drawn their inspiration from the creations of contemporary German and Austrian architects. Whatever merits they may have they are alien to the English tradition and temperament.

The fact is that the new architecture' is advancing in a circle. Some of its newest ideas were commonplaces before the war. 'Efficiency' was run to a standstill at the Art Workers' Guild thirty years ago. Mr Robertson writes well on colour and texture, but I can recollect a brilliant paper on texture read by Prof. Prior in the 'nineties, and of course Norman Shaw showed long ago what can be done in architecture by the considered use of material. So, too, on the question of professionalism, Mr Robertson points out that the architect must definitely elect whether he is going to be a professional man and nothing else or an artist. Mr Robertson, who rightly elects for the latter, seems to be unaware that nearly forty years ago the issue 'Architecture a profession or an art' was definitely raised against the Institute of Architects by some of us younger men, led by Shaw and Jackson. But what happened before the war is to the