a third of a mile long, flanked
on either side by graceful groves of ironwork, and covered with a
continuous crystal arch, a hundred feet above your head; line it with a
profusion of tropical foliage and clambering vines, that grow as
luxuriantly as in their native woods, and interspersed with statuary and
vases gleaming everywhere through the rich masses of verdure, while here
and there fountains of rare and exquisite design, rising from broad
marble basins, relieve without lessening the immense length--and you may
have some faint idea of this peerless structure. 'No material is used in
it,' says Fergusson, 'which is not the best for its purpose, no
constructive expedient employed which was not absolutely necessary, and
it depends wholly for its effect on the arrangement of its parts and the
display of its construction.' It is in iron what Gothic is in stone.

Details, if fairly studied, would do much to nationalize our
architecture. Why should we, in designing a capital or cornice, still
cling to the classic acanthus or honeysuckle ornament, or even the
English ivy, when we have such a fund of our own? The maize and the
sugarcane, the potato blossom and the cotton boll afford so many mines
of treasure, that it is surprising that they have not already been
worked. In the architecture of the Central Park, however, a decided
impetus has been given in this direction. The details of the grand
terrace at the end of the Mall are as elaborate as those of a European
cathedral, but they are all American--all our own.

Another excellent feature of our city houses is that little strip of
garden in front, just within the sidewalk. For this, too, we think we
have some claim of originality. At least it is not European, for in
Berlin, Vienna, etc., some of the most palatial quarters are without so
much as a sidewalk--the paving stones reaching from wall to wall. Such
barrenness of arrangement cannot be relieved by any architecture, nor
was there ever a building so good that it could not be improved by a
setting of foliage. The power of mutual relief between art and nature is
wonderful. To this is owing much of the effect of the celebrated 'Place
Napoleon,' the court of the New Louvre at Paris. The contrast between
the richly wrought facades of Caen stone and the foliage in the centre,
is most grateful to the eye. Even the grand quadrangle of the Tuileries
seems dismal after it, grand as are its ogre-roofed 'pavilions' and
triumphal