How much the beholder gains from the liberty of the labourer may perhaps be questioned in England, where one of the strongest instincts in nearly every mind is that Love of Order which makes us desire that our house windows should pair like our carriage horses, and allows us to yield our faith unhesitatingly to architectural theories which fix a form for everything, and forbid variation from it.  I would not impeach love of order:  it is one of the most useful elements of the English mind; it helps us in our commerce and in all purely practical matters; and it is in many cases one of the foundation stones of morality.  Only do not let us suppose that love of order is love of art.  It is true that order, in its highest sense, is one of the necessities of art, just as time is a necessity of music; but love of order has no more to do with our right enjoyment of architecture or painting, than love of punctuality with the appreciation of an opera.  Experience, I fear, teaches us that accurate and methodical habits in daily life are seldom characteristic of those who either quickly perceive, or richly possess, the creative powers of art; there is, however, nothing inconsistent between the two instincts, and nothing to hinder us from retaining our business habits, and yet fully allowing and enjoying the noblest gifts of Invention.  We already do so, in every other branch of art except architecture, and we only do not so there because we have been taught that it would be wrong.  Our architects gravely inform us that, as there are four rules of arithmetic, there are five orders of architecture; we, in our simplicity, think that this sounds consistent, and believe them.  They inform us also that there is one proper form for Corinthian capitals, another for Doric, and another for Ionic.  We, considering that there is also a proper form for the letters A, B, and C, think that this also sounds consistent, and accept the proposition.  Understanding, therefore, that one form of the said capitals is proper, and no other, and having a conscientious horror of all impropriety, we allow the architect to provide us with the said capitals, of the proper form, in such and such a quantity, and in all other points to take care that the legal forms are observed; which having done, we rest in forced confidence that we are well housed.

But our higher instincts are not deceived.  We take no pleasure in the building provided for us, resembling that which we take in a new book or a new picture.  We may be proud of its size, complacent in its correctness, and happy in its convenience.  We may take the same pleasure in its symmetry and workmanship as in a well-ordered room, or a skilful piece of manufacture.  And this we suppose to be all the pleasure that architecture was ever intended to give us.  The idea of reading a building as we would read Milton or Dante, and getting the same kind of delight out of the stones as out of the stanzas, never enters our minds for a moment.  And for