And this varied mongrel style of architecture corresponds with the confused civilization of the period,—­neither Greek nor Gothic, but a mixture of both; intolerant priests wrangling with pagan sceptics and infidels,—­Aquaviva with Pascal, the hierarchy of the French Church with Voltaire and Rousseau, Protestant divines with the Catholic clergy; Geneva and Rome compromising at Oxford, the authority of the Fathers made antagonistic to the authority of popes, new vernacular tongues supplanting Latin in the universities:  everywhere war on the Middle Ages, without full emancipation from their dogmas, ancient paganism made to uphold the Church, an unbounded activity of intellect casting off all established rules, the revival of the old Greek republics, democracy asserting its claim against absolute power; nothing settled, nothing at rest, but motion in every direction,—­science combating faith, faith spurning reason, humanity arrogating divinity, the confusion of races, Babel towers of vanity and pride in the new projected enterprises, Christian nations embroiled in constant wars, gold and silver set up as idols, the rise of new powers in the shapes of new industries and new inventions, commerce filling the world with wealth, armies contending for rights as well as for the aggrandizement of monarchies:  was there ever such a simmering and boiling and fermenting period of activities since the world began?  In such a wild and tumultuous agitation of passions and interests and ideas, how could Art reappear either in the classic severity of Greek temples or the hoary grandeur of Mediaeval cathedrals?  In this jumble we look for new creations, but no creations in art appear, only fantastic imitations.  There is no creation except in a new field, that of science and mechanical inventions,—­where there is the most extraordinary and astonishing development of human genius ever seen on earth, but “of the earth earthy,” aiming at material good.  Architecture itself is turned into great feats of engineering.  It does not span the apsis of a church; it spans rivers and valleys.  The church, indeed, passes out of mind, if not out of sight, in the new material age, in the multiplication of bridges and gigantic reservoirs,—­old Rome brought back again in its luxuries.

And yet the exactness of science and the severity of criticism—­ begun fifty years ago, in the verification of principles—­produce a better taste.  Architects have sought to revive the purest forms of both Gothic and Grecian.  If they could not create a new style, they would imitate the old:  as in philosophy, they would go round in the old circles.  As science revives the atoms of Democritus, so art would reproduce the ideas of Phidias and Vitruvius, and even the poetry and sanctity of the Middle Ages.  Within fifty years Christendom has been covered with Gothic churches, some of which are as beautiful as those built by Freemasons.  The cathedrals have been copied rigidly, even for