During the fifth century B.C., Greek architects perfected a method for designing Doric peripteral temples, and this procedure was used for most temples constructed during the second half of the century in mainland Greece and in its colonies. This procedure had to be determined in order to see how it was adapted to design the Parthenon. Minor modifications enabled the architects of the Parthenon to achieve greater commensurability than for any other Doric temple (Fig. 1).

To lay foundations for a Doric temple, an architect needed to know the number of columns and the overall length. Since nearly all peripteral temples of the Doric Order have six columns on their fronts, the first decision which ordinarily needed to be made was how many columns would be used on the sides, and for hexastyle temples this ranged from ten to sixteen columns. The ratio of the number of columns on the fronts to the number on the sides determined the overall form and was the single most important ratio which had to be selected. The column number ratio was reused as the ratio for the stylobate of some of the earliest stone temples (Table 1, column 2; Table 2, column 6), and it was later applied to the krepis. It was used as the ratio of the krepis for the great majority of temples constructed from c. 535 and c. 320 (Table 1, column 1; Table 2, column 4).

In northern China, heating is represented by kang. The kang is a living and sleeping platform, a heated bed. It is constructed of brick, adobe or stone and consists of three parts: a fireplace, a kang proper and a chimney. Beneath the flat surface of the kang are flues, which conduct hot air from the fireplace through to the room. The kang allows energy to be conserved; its surface temperature of about 40 degrees C can largely be maintained overnight. It is used as a bed at night; bedding is laid out for sleeping but is put away in the morning. During the day it provides a large warm platform upon which people undertake many household activities. The kang usually occupies from one-third to one-half of the area of a room; but the entire floor of a room can be constructed and heated in this manner, in which case it is called dikang, literally a heated floor (di meaning floor). The heated bed and the heated floor are technically similar, but each developed in conjunction with a distinctive way of life, either sitting on the floor or sitting on furniture.

The paper ‘builds’ two Anglo-Saxon virtual buildings, a stone church and a timber house or small hall, using Old English vocabulary. At each phase of the construction, certain of the vocabulary is discussed, drawing on evidence from archaeology and surviving buildings, from etymology, and from contemporary translation from Latin. The aim is to investigate the potential of interdisciplinary studies in the field of Anglo-Saxon architecture and building processes.

On first consideration, it would seem highly productive to combine the forces of archaeological and semantic research to elucidate the subject of Anglo-Saxon buildings. More detailed investigation, however, often leads to disappointment, as Old English lexemes, usually occurring without elaborate explanation, are difficult to link to excavated structural remains which are not, of course, conveniently labelled with Old English technical building terms. Nevertheless, it has been found profitable to link evidence from the two disciplines in certain cases, and the aim of this article is to explore the possibilities for interdisciplinary research in this area.

… spatial organization is a function of the form of social solidarity; and different forms of social solidarity are themselves built on the foundations of a society as both a spatial and a transpatial system.

The almonries of English religious houses are among the least understood of monastic buildings and spatial areas. Unlike the main ritual areas of church and cloister and the domestic ranges, very few monastic sites retain any structural remains of almonry buildings, and those that do have been much altered in the five and a half centuries since they last performed their original function as outlets of social welfare. Only two Benedictine houses, Ely Cathedral Priory (Cambridgeshire) and Evesham Abbey (Worcestershire), contain extant substantial structural elements from what were their almonry halls, and even here nineteenth- and twentieth-century additions obscure much of the original appearance of the fabric at both places. The Benedictine Glastonbury Abbey (Somerset) retains structural remains of a late medieval date within the precinct inside the west gate, which belonged to the complex of buildings constituting the almonry. It is unclear, however, how the arrangement of this almonry was altered when a row of almshouses (St Patrick’s Almshouses) was built slightly to the east, extending over the site of the present museum, in c. 1517. Recently it has also been suggested that a small single-storey building on the precinct periphery of the Premonstratensian abbey at Titchfield (Hampshire) was an almonry schoolhouse.

The relationship between any building and its surroundings has always been an intriguing issue in the history of religious architecture. Studies on this subject usually treat the environmental conditions at the time of the building’s inception and their influence on its design. A somewhat neglected aspect is later urban requirements, which often affect the present appearance of old churches. In many cases, urban developments caused substantial modifications in the original structure of important churches, yet scholars tended to consider these changes as distracting from the artistic merits of the initial design. Stripping the building of these additions in order to discuss its original structure thus became a basic assignment for historians of religious architecture. In many cases, however, alterations originating in the development of urban needs became essential constituents in the present structure of old churches and in their daily functioning. Accordingly, they deserve to be studied as new architectonic creations.

Palladio's presentation of Roman temples in the fourth book of his treatise I quattro libri dell'architettura is one of the most significant published archaeological texts of the Cinquecento and has enjoyed great authority for centuries. When it appeared in 1570, Palladio's archaeological opus presented a milestone in the history of Roman archaeology. The sheer size of the project, which incorporated surveys of twenty-five major Roman buildings carefully measured and drawn, including extensive surveys of architectural details and the elements of the classical orders, presented in ninety-nine woodcuts, by far exceeded any similar publication of the time. Palladio's contemporaries Antonio Labacco and Pirro Ligurio presented a couple of Roman buildings in their publications, while Serlio's presentation was more substantial but presented measurements unsystematically and often left readers wondering about the actual forms of the buildings. Palladio's is arguably the most ambitious project in the history of Roman archaeology. Even in later centuries, similar projects by Antoine Desgodetz or Edward Cresy and George Lidwell Taylor were much more limited in scope.

In 1560 Sir William Cecil, Queen Elizabeth's Principal Secretary and Privy Councillor (Fig. 1), transferred his London residence from Cannon's Row at the hub of the court at Whitehall to the golden three-quarter mile of the Strand. Straight away he named the property ‘Cecil House’ and it became his principal household residence during the law terms, the most active periods of government business. There was no more prestigious location and the house was to remain his London headquarters throughout his career until he died there in 1598.

For the Riding-House, 'tis of so vast extent,
It does some mighty Temple represent,
Where seeing them ride, Admiring Indians wo'd
Adore each Horse there as a Semi-God.

In 1668, Mr Thomas Povey made a tour of the great houses of Derbyshire. He visited Chatsworth, Hardwick Hall, and then that ‘considerable Prince, the Duke of Newcastle, and his Pallace, Stables, Riding Houses, and Horses, which are more extraordinarie, then are to bee seene in Europe, If the Curiositie and Excellencie of their Manège Discipline, and Methods, bee considered'. The Duke of Newcastle was William Cavendish (1593-1676), well known for his interest in architecture, and renowned across Europe as an expert in the art of manège or horsemanship. His riding houses at Bolsover Castle and Welbeck Abbey survive, although the latter has been much altered (Figs 1,2 and 3). The first part of this article will examine their date, form and function, particularly through an assessment of the surviving fabric of the Riding House range at Bolsover, and will set them within the context of William Cavendish's other projects for buildings connected with horsemanship in Antwerp and London. The second part will go on to examine the social significance of William Cavendish's horsemanship and its importance for his political career. The tension between innovation and tradition that has been seen in William's Advice on politics and society, written for Charles II, can also be seen reflected in his practice of horsemanship. The concluding section, however, will argue that William Cavendish had personal reasons for wishing to be thought of on horseback, like Perseus upon Pegasus'.

Among Inigo Jones’s earliest surviving drawings is one that is generally described as being an elevation for a stable (Fig. 1). This pen and ink drawing, executed in a loose, curvaceous hand, shows a tall, rusticated archway, flanked at an upper level by a pair of windows. Above is a low pediment, with a cartouche and flanking figures, supporting three elegant statues. On either side of this central range are lower, single-storey balustraded bays, each with a large window. Beyond these are lower, lean-to ranges, with a single door flanked by a pair of small, circular windows.

The design is not entirely happy and reveals Inigo Jones’s immaturity as an architect. The windows flanking the arch are cramped. The clash between the size of the quoins on the central block and those on the flanking bays is uncomfortable. The sudden jump of scale from the three central elements to the lean-tos is not convincing. The line of the lean-to roofs cuts uncomfortably close to the architraves of the doors. Nevertheless, as one of Jones’s first designs for a freestanding building the design is of great interest.

Historians of the English court have become increasingly interested in the relationship between court ceremonial and the liturgy of the Chapel Royal. The Chapel Royal (which is capitalized in this article — as opposed to individual chapel buildings which are not) was the department of the royal household that attended to its spiritual needs. It is now accepted that the etiquette of the Tudor and Stuart court owed a great deal to the monarch’s public attendance at chapel, and its yearly pattern was heavily influenced by the church year. This recognition places the royal chapels in a central position in the choreography of the court. It also allows historians to view these important buildings in a new light as one of the most important ceremonial spaces in the royal houses, rather than merely an adjunct to the great outer rooms, the presence chamber and privy chamber.

According to Sir Christopher Wren's son, writing many years after the events described, the Sheldonian Theatre in Oxford (Figs 1-2) was to have

That purse belonged to Gilbert Sheldon, Archbishop of Canterbury and former warden of All Souls College, Oxford, whose willingness to finance the Theatre necessitated the scaling back of the project. Although Wren's initial scheme is currently presumed lost, an unidentified project for a theatre (Fig. 3), today amongst the Wren drawings at All Souls, can be associated with the original design. The drawing, together with newly discovered documents, sheds new and unexpected light on the early history of Wren's first major building.

Historians are paying greater attention to the libraries of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century architects. As Christy Anderson, Hilary Ballon, and Claude Mignot have shown, libraries provide rich, often untapped sources of both bibliographical and biographical information. A book list or a personal inventory can reveal not only what an architect read, but also how he defined himself intellectually. Like a self-portrait, a library is both an intensely personal statement and an outward show of how its owner wishes to be perceived.

This article describes the library of François Blondel, based on a newly discovered catalogue held in the Minutier Central of the Archives Nationales. The catalogue was prepared by the bookseller, Arnoult Seneuze, and forms a separate part of the general inventaire après décès, drawn up by the Parisian notary, Charles Dupuis, at the request of Blondel's heirs: his widow, Louise Boucher, and his son, Nicolas Blondel, abbe de Thenailles.

Why did the English Gothic Revival ignore continental architecture for so long? Horace Walpole used motifs from Rouen Cathedral at Strawberry Hill in the mid-eighteenth century, it is true, and James Wyatt drew on the Portuguese abbey of Batalha for part of Fonthill Abbey, but these were straws in a wind that did not blow with any force until around 1850. The shift towards continental Gothic at that time, associated with Ruskin and with Benjamin Webb, is well known. Yet the national monoculture that went before tends to be taken for granted, or to be overlooked in favour of the growth of Gothic archaeology or of the incipient ‘Battle of the Styles’. This Late Hanoverian concentration on home-grown Gothic is doubly surprising when compared with the increasingly plural classicism of the day, which embraced Greek, Roman, Italian Renaissance, Louis XIV, and even Egyptian variants. It will be argued here that this cordon sanitaire can be linked with two continuing beliefs, sometimes held together, sometimes separately: that Gothic was invented in England, and that it reached its purest or finest expression there.

In 1984 Hertford celebrated seven hundred years as an Oxford College. Such a monumental event deserved commemoration, and was marked despite the fact that Hertford was actually founded in 1874. This celebration was not the product of deceit or ignorance — merely creative accountancy. Although nominally a Victorian foundation, the college can claim an admittedly erratic descent from the original Hart Hall, which dates from around 1284. Over the years, it was associated with other academic halls; absorbed by Exeter College; refounded — briefly — as Hertford College; replaced by Magdalen Hall; and then, in 1874, it took the form we know today. This confusion of origins is reflected in the college's fabric. As Hertford's first historian put it, ‘Since its establishment the history of the College has been written largely in its buildings.' Above all, this means T. G. Jackson's work: his ‘Bridge of Sighs', his staircase — the ‘bastard child of Blois’ as Pevsner puts it, his chapel, hall, and accommodation blocks. All share a common free classicism. But, as a series of neglected, ignored, and previously undiscovered drawings reveal, this classicism was not set in stone from the start. There were near-Gothic alternatives too. This variant Hertford was not included in Sir Howard Colvin's Unbuilt Oxford, and it deserves further research. It gives an insight into T. G. Jackson's ways of working. It offers a vision of a wholly different Hertford. Above all, it reveals a truly Victorian dilemma: the. response of historicists to their historical context; the search for an appropriate style.

A central theme throughout Lethaby's writings is the conviction that architecture must fuse the ideas and strategies of multiple disciplines and world-views, and in particular, those of ‘art’ and ‘science'. Victorian readings of ‘myth’ demonstrated that such a fusion of ‘art’ and ‘science’ was not only possible, but that it also had distinct advantages. Foremost amongst these was the belief that the language of myth possessed a clarity and efficiency — the ability to speak in multiple ‘tongues’ and communicate with both ‘man’ and ‘child’ — which had been lost in modern language. Suggesting that architecture, ‘to excite an interest, [both] real and general', must ‘possess a symbolism immediately comprehensible [to] the great majority of spectators', the English architect and theorist William Richard Lethaby (1857-1931) applied Victorian observations on myth to the invention of a modern architectural language. In Architecture, Mysticism and Myth (1891), Lethaby achieved this by arguing that a modern architecture, like the mythic construct of the ‘temple idea', must give representation to both the ‘known’ — rational observations of the phenomenal world — and the ‘imagined’ — subjective inventions of the artisan or architect.

This essay seeks to explore the relationship between Jewish and British identity in the architecture of Anglo-Jewry by reference to a small selection of architecturally important or representative synagogues in this country that are still standing and that have been recorded for the Survey of the Jewish Built Heritage. The Survey was set up in 1997 under the auspices of the Jewish Memorial Council with the support of the Heritage Lottery Fund, English Heritage and the RIBA to record and research the vanishing architectural heritage of the Jewish communities of Britain and Ireland. In the process it aims to promote protection and preservation and public access to historic Jewish buildings and sites nationwide.

Among Auguste Perret's papers is a letter from Le Corbusier thanking him for a brief holiday spent in the south of France in May 1915 as Perret's guest. The importance of this visit for the development of Le Corbusier's Dom-ino project has been noted by several writers. It is, however, important in another way. The holiday was spent at Saint-Clair, near Le Lavandou, the home of the painter Théo van Rysselberghe, who had lent it to Perret so that he might recuperate from an illness (Fig. 1). At Saint-Clair, escaping from a cold Swiss spring and the unfolding horror of the war, and surrounded by works of art, Le Corbusier discussed architecture with his former teacher in a setting of unspoiled natural beauty. A tiny sketch contained in Le Corbusier's letter evokes the place: sea, mountains, and luxuriant vegetation viewed through the enormous window of a studio filled with paintings and objets d' art. Here, it seems, Le Corbusier's fascination with the world of art was incubated; significantly, it occurred under the aegis of Perret.

At the beginning of the 1930s three eminent artists, two architects and a painter, became involved in a fascinating project. The architects Hendricus Theodorus Wijdeveld, from Amsterdam, and Erich Mendelsohn, from Berlin, together with the painter Amédée Ozenfant, from Paris — all three of them in their mid-forties and at the peak of their careers — made plans to found an art academy at the Côte d’Azur. It was an ambitious enterprise, which progressed far beyond the stage of conceptual plans. Potential financial sponsors were secured, an appropriate building plot was bought, and articles of association were passed. Leaflets and booklets presenting information on the school’s exceptional teaching programme were translated into several languages, printed and circulated. Artists of international reputation from all disciplines were enlisted as future teaching staff and an impressive list of well known figures from the fields of science, politics, and the arts joined the advisory committee as members.

In my earlier essay on ‘Christ Church Streatham and the Rise of Constructional Polychromy’, I noted that ‘sometime between May and September 1842 [James] Wild departed for Cairo, together with Joseph Bonomi, as part of Richard Lepsius's expedition. There he remained over five years ….’ These dates I concluded from receipts paid to him for work at Streatham and now held in the London Metropolitan Archives and from information contained in Mark Crinson's book Empire Building, Ornamentalism and Victorian Architecture.

Since writing this, Professor Michael Port has kindly brought to my attention documents which he discovered in the Hampstead Parish Church Archives which throw some further light on Wild's movements. It would seem that his time in Egypt was not as lengthy or as continuous as I had thought.

In February 1842 the Revd Thomas Ainger, vicar of St John's Church, Hampstead, had promoted an architectural competition for the enlargement of the church to provide additional accommodation for the poor of what was a rapidly increasing parish. In March, entries were received from Robert Hesketh, William Lovell, W. J. Donthorne and Louis Vulliamy, but the winning design came from James Wild. This would have suited Wild well, for his work at Streatham was now pretty well finished, the church having been consecrated the previous November.