There is assuredly a germ and a promise in the phrase.It delights us, first, because it seems to recognise the organic, as distinct from the merely constructive, character of finely civilised architecture; and next, it persuades us that Vitruvius had in truth discovered the key to size--the unit that is sometimes so obscurely, yet always so absolutely, the measure of what is great and small among things animate and inanimate.And in spite of themselves the architects of St.Peter's were constrained to take something from man; they refused his height for their scale, but they tried to use his shape for their ornament.And so in the blankest dearth of fancy that ever befel architect or builder they imagined human beings bigger than the human beings of experience; and by means of these, carved in stone and inlaid in mosaic, they set up a relation of their own.The basilica was related to the colossal figure (as a church more wisely measured would have been to living man), and so ceased to be large; and nothing more important was finally achieved than transposal of the whole work into another scale of proportions--a scale in which the body of man was not the unit.The pile of stones that make St.Peter's is a very little thing in comparison with Soracte; but man, and man's wife, and the unequal statures of his children, are in touch with the structure of the mountain rather than with that of the church which has been conceived without reference to the vital and fundamental rule of his inches.

Is there no egotism, ministering to his dignity, that man, having the law of the organism of the world written in his members, can take with him, out of the room that has been built to accord with him, into the landscape that stands only a little further away? He has deliberately made the smoking chair and the table; there is nothing to surprise him in their ministrations.But what profounder homage is rendered by the multitudinous Nature going about the interests and the business of which he knows so little, and yet throughout confessing him! His eyes have seen her and his ears have heard, but it would never have entered into his heart to conceive her.His is not the fancy that could have achieved these woods, this little flush of summer from the innumerable flowering of grasses, the cyclic recreation of seasons.And yet he knows that he is imposed upon all he sees.His stature gives laws.His labour only is needful--not a greater strength.And the sun and the showers are made sufficient for him.His furniture must surely be adjudged to pay him but a coarse flattery in comparison with the subjection, yet the aloofness, of all this wild world.This is no flattery.The grass is lumpy, as Mr.Oscar Wilde remarks with truth: Nature is not man's lacquey, and has no preoccupation about his more commonplace comforts.These he gives himself indoors; and who prizes, with any self-respect, the things carefully provided by self-love? But when that farouche Nature, who has never spoken to him, and to whom he has never had the opportunity of hinting his wishes or his tastes--when she reveals the suggestions of his form and the desire of his eyes, and amongst her numberless purposes lets him surprise in her the purpose to accord with him, and lets him suspect further harmonies which he has not yet learnt to understand--then man becomes conscious of having received a token from her lowliness, and a favour from her loveliness, compared with which the care wherewith his tailor himself has fitted him might leave his gratitude cool.