of a third class of capitals; and in the instances just referred to, the overhanging square abacus without any foliage or curling tendrils spreading out to support its extremities, points, in our opinion, clearly enough to a derivation from the Doric capital, considerably enlarged downwards, and also greatly enriched. However, we leave others either to adopt or reject this notion, just as they may be disposed. At the best, all such questions are little better than matters of idle curiosity, and must always remain questions after all. To quit conjecture for fact, the fact is the Corinthian Order does not appear to have been ever matured into a distinct style and complete system by the Greeks. There is, indeed, one solitary Athenian example of Corinthian, which exhibits the utmost refinement of exquisite richness attempered by exquisite delicacy. In the Lysicrates capital,—as we will for convenience call it (the example alluded to being that of the monument of Lysicrates, otherwise called the Lantern of Demosthenes, at Athens),—foliation may be said to have attained its culminating point: rivalled it may be, but hardly surpassed. Still it must be confessed, as a whole, that Order leaves much to be desired for it, there being nothing of corresponding beauty and luxuriance in the rest of it. The cornice, for instance, is only a simple dentelled Ionic one, nor are any of the mouldings of the entablature cut. There was, however, in that particular case, above the entablature, what fully counterbalances and carries out the idea and expression of the capitals, namely, the ornamental roofing, and the matchless finial which crowns the structure, and produces a full climax of beauty and of grace. Charming as the original itself is, or, more correctly speaking, _was_, it has perhaps been more blunderingly copied and imitated than almost any other antique structure. Although the whole—its lofty-proportioned basement included—is not above 36 feet high, a copy of it, or what calls itself such, has sometimes been hoisted up on the top of a lofty tower, or raised on a modern church or chapel to serve as its belfry; or else the columns and entablature have been taken just verbatim, and applied, by way of change, as an Order, upon a scale for which the capitals, at least, were never intended. The Strand front or entrance of Exeter Hall consists of a loggia with lofty columns of the kind, whose capitals, being placed at such a height, show as no better than heavy sculptured masses whose details it is impossible, or at least requires great patience, to make out. More preposterously still, the Girard College at Philadelphia plumes itself upon exhibiting an exact copy of this Order, where the columns are magnified to the height of between fifty and sixty feet, so that all that can be made out of the capital is, that it is exceedingly rich,—by very far too much so for any other part or feature in the building;—and that is called being classical!