Test Bank Pharmacology 3rd Edition Brenner – Stevens

Test Bank Pharmacology 3rd

Edition Brenner – Stevens
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3rd-edition-brenner-stevens/

Focus on Pharmacology: Essentials for Health Professionals, 3e (Moini)

Chapter 2 Pharmacodynamics

1) The pharmacologic actions of a drug that determine its therapeutic effects are called:
A) pharmacology
B) pharmacokinetics
C) pharmacognosy
D) pharmacodynamics
Answer: D
Explanation: D) The pharmacologic actions of a drug that determine its therapeutic effects are
called pharmacodynamics, which can also determine the drug's adverse effects. The term
pharmacodynamics describes how a medication causes changes in the body. It studies the
biochemical as well as the physiologic effects of drugs, along with the molecular mechanisms
used to produce these effects.

2) Which of the following body fluids is the most commonly used to characterize pharmacologic
drug actions?
A) Urine
B) Cerebrospinal fluid
C) Blood
D) Sputum
Answer: C
Explanation: C) Blood is the body fluid most commonly used to characterize pharmacologic
drug actions. Usually, there are correlations between pharmacokinetics and pharmacodynamics
that demonstrate the relationship between drug dose and blood or other biological fluid
concentrations.

3) Which of the following can determine the dose-effect relationship?

A) Pharmacokinetics
B) Pharmacodynamics
C) Both
D) Neither
Answer: C
Explanation: C) Both pharmacokinetics and pharmacodynamics can determine the dose-effect
relationship, which is also called the dose-response relationship. It is the relationship between the
dose of a drug (or other agent) that produces therapeutic effects and the potency of the effects on
an individual person.
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4) Which of the following represents the number of patients that respond to the actions of a
drug?
A) Frequency distribution curve
B) Median effective dose
C) Dose-effect relationship
D) Median lethal dose
Answer: A
Explanation: A) The frequency distribution curve represents the number of patients that respond
to the actions of a drug. It represents the number of patients that respond to the actions of a drug
at different doses. A few patients are shown to have responded to a medication at very low doses,
whereas increasing numbers of patients responded as the dosage was increased.

5) Where are intracellular receptors located?

A) in the mitochondrion
B) in the cytoplasm
C) in the nucleus
D) in the ribosomes
Answer: B
Explanation: B) The intracellular receptors are located in the cytoplasm. Some drugs act on
these receptors, including corticosteroids and thyroid hormone.

6) Drugs must before being absorbed.

A) be diluted
B) circulate
C) be compounded
D) dissolve
Answer: D
Explanation: D) Drugs must dissolve before being absorbed. Then, they are able to pass through
the small intestine and enter the blood circulation. Some of these drugs are absorbed and
metabolized before reaching the site of action. The factors that may influence the onset, duration,
and intensity of drug effects include absorption, metabolism, reabsorption, excretion, site of
action, and observed response.

7) A drug's potency does NOT indicate anything about which of the following?
A) tolerance
B) target molecules
C) affinity
D) maximal efficacy
Answer: D
Explanation: D) A drug's potency does not indicate anything about its maximal efficacy. This
term describes the largest effect that a drug can produce.

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8) An example of a toxic agent in which a small dose causes drowsiness, but a large dose can be
fatal is:
A) carbon monoxide
B) sulfuric acid
C) hydrochloric acid
D) carbon dioxide
Answer: A
Explanation: A) Carbon monoxide is a toxic agent in which a small dose causes drowsiness, but
a large dose can be fatal. None of the answer choices have these effects.

9) A drug that blocks the effects of another substance is called which of the following?
A) stimulant
B) depressant
C) antagonist
D) potentiator
Answer: C
Explanation: C) An antagonism is a drug that blocks the effects of another substance. It can also
be another agent, and can also block functions. Antagonists are often used when treating
overdoses.

10) The amount of medication needed to produce a specific response in 50% of patients is called
the:
A) frequency distribution curve
B) median effective dose
C) maximal efficacy drug
D) dose-effect relationship
Answer: B
Explanation: B) The amount of medication needed to produce a specific response in 50% of
patients is called the median effective dose. It appears at the top of the frequency distribution
curve of a drug, which indicates if a measurable response occurred in the test group of patients.
The median effective dose is abbreviated as "ED50".

11) The therapeutic index of a drug is used to predict whether a certain:

A) drug has any side effects
B) dosage is toxic for pregnant women
C) dosage is safe for a specific patient
D) dosage is lethal for a specific patient
Answer: C
Explanation: C) The therapeutic index of a drug is used to predict whether a certain dosage is
safe for a specific patient. Like the median effective dose, frequency distribution curves are also
used to determine the median lethal dose (LD50) of a drug during preclinical trials. The
therapeutic index is calculated by dividing the LD50 by the median effective dose (ED50).

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 Another random document
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from which recovery started only in the nineties with the early work of
Martin Nyrop (1849-1925) in Copenhagen and of Hack Kampmann (1856-
1920) in Aarhus (see Chapter 24).
A characteristic urbanistic development of the seventies in Copenhagen,
the Søtorvet built in 1873-6 by Vilhelm Petersen (1830-1913) and
Ferdinand Vilhelm Jensen (1837-90), is French not German in its ultimate
inspiration. This grandiose pavilioned and mansarded range of four tall
blocks forms a shallow U-shaped square along a canal (Figure 16). Its
definitely Second Empire character may not, all the same, have derived
directly from Paris but via German or English intermediaries, so much more
typical is this of the international than of the truly Parisian mode of the third
quarter of the century.
 As late as 1893-4 the much more conspicuous Magasin du Nord
department store, built by A. C. Jensen (1847-1913) and his partner H.
Glaesel in the Kongens Nytorv in Copenhagen, also carried the high
mansarded roofs of the new Louvre, both flat-sided and convex-curved,
above its end and centre pavilions. The detailing was chastened, however,
by memories of local palaces and mansions in the nearby Amalie quarter of
the city, where Jensen had worked on the completion of the eighteenth-
century Marble Church. The Magasin du Nord thus combines two
characteristic aspects of the architecture of the period, evident in most
countries but rarely thus joined: a reflection of Napoleon III’s Paris,
elsewhere reaching its peak around 1870, and a revival of the style of the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, generally beginning about a decade
later.
In Sweden also there was some Second Empire influence, although
nothing very notable resulted from it. The Jernkontovets Building in
Stockholm erected by the brothers Kumlien (A.F., 1833-?; K.H., 1837-97)
in 1873-5 has a high mansard and pavilions combined with a respectably
academic treatment of the façades that is quite different from the bombast
of the Søtorvet. Bern’s Restaurant in Stockholm of 1886 by Åbom, whose
more conservative Renaissance Revival theatre of thirty years earlier has
been mentioned, is similarly Parisian, particularly in the decorations that
were provided by Isaeus.
With I. G. Clason (1856-1930) the tide of eclecticism in Sweden turned
more nationalistic. The Northern Renaissance of his Northern Museum,
built in 1889-1907, parallels somewhat belatedly the Meistersinger mode in
Germany; but it also shows a more refined and delicate touch, somewhat
like that of George and of Collcutt in England. As in most other countries,
the revival of the native sixteenth-century style was soon succeeded by a
revival of the Baroque, here rather academically restrained. This phase is
most conspicuously represented in Stockholm by the grouped Parliament
House and National Bank of 1897-1905 by Aron Johansson (1860-1936). In
the nineties Ferdinand Boberg (1860-1946) was also initiating a new
movement somewhat comparable to that led by Nyrop in Denmark (see
Chapter 24).
The modes of Second Empire Paris left rather more mark on Holland
than did those of the First Empire, particularly in the work of Cornelis
Outshoorn (1810-75), whose iron-and-glass Paleis voor Volksvlijt in
Amsterdam of the late fifties has been mentioned earlier. That is long gone,
but the related Galerij, a U-shaped range of mansarded blocks linked by a
sort of veranda of cast iron, till lately bounded the south of the
Frederiksplein. His enormous Amstel Hotel, near by on the farther side of
the Amstel, was built in 1863-7. At Scheveningen the Oranje Hotel (1872-
3), also by him, was one of several typical resort establishments there of an
international Second Empire order, as is also his hotel at Berg-en-Dal near
Nijmegen (1867-9). Fairly generally high mansards rose in the sixties and
seventies over the narrow house-fronts in the new quarters of Dutch cities.
However, the opposing Neo-Gothic is more significant historically in
Holland, and the secular work of Cuijpers as well as his churches, although
rather like Clason’s, is better considered in that connexion (see Chapter 11).
As in the Scandinavian countries, the nineties saw new beginnings in
Holland, in this case with the appearance of Berlage and Kromhout (see
Chapter 20).
The principal Anglo-American developments in the second half of the
century were in the specialized fields of domestic and commercial building
(see Chapters 14 and 15). England, moreover, had from 1850 to the early
seventies a lively stylistic development of her own, the High Victorian
Gothic, rather different from the later Neo-Gothic of the Continent, which
was also very influential in the Dominions and in the United States (see
Chapters 10 and 11). Nevertheless, the international Second Empire mode
flourished on both sides of the Atlantic among Anglo-Saxons to a greater
extent, perhaps, than anywhere in Europe. It is not, of course, possible to
subsume all non-Gothic work of these decades in England under the Second
Empire rubric any more than on the Continent. Yet, with certain notable
exceptions, the most vigorous and conspicuous buildings of a generically
Renaissance character were clearly inspired by Paris, and often specifically
by the New Louvre, as Prosper Mérimée noted and wrote to Viollet-le-Duc
while on a visit to London in the mid sixties.
The most considerable English public monument built just after the mid
century, the Leeds Town Hall of 1855-9, is by Cuthbert Brodrick (Plate
78A). That Brodrick was an architect markedly French in his leanings has
already been noted in describing his Leeds Corn Exchange, which is later in
date but earlier in style than his Town Hall (see Chapter 4). But this major
early work, for which Brodrick won the commission in a competition in
1853, is not easily pigeon-holed stylistically. The great hall inside derives
quite directly from Elmes’s in Liverpool, designed almost a quarter of a
century earlier, though not opened until 1856. The exterior recalls in its
grandiose scale the English Baroque of Vanbrugh more than it does
anything that had even been projected since the megalomaniac French
projects of the 1790s. The Leeds Town Hall is certainly no longer Romantic
Classical, no longer Early Victorian; yet except for the rather clumsy
originality of some of the detail and the varied outline of the tower—a late
emendation of the original project of 1853—it is hard to say how or why it
is so definitely High Victorian, and rather a masterpiece of the High
Victorian at that. Wallot in Berlin in the eighties approached Brodrick’s
mode of design in the Reichstag but had little of his command of scale or
his almost Romantic Classical control of mass.
When Brodrick designed his town hall very little was known in England
of Visconti’s project of 1852 for the New Louvre, and Lefuel had not yet
begun to elaborate the design. So vigorously individual an architect as
Brodrick was hardly likely, moreover, to find inspiration in the Hope house
of Dusillion or the Hardwicks’ Great Western Hotel. But the wave of
Second Empire influence arrived in England well before the Leeds Town
Hall was finished. When the English swarmed to Paris to visit the
International Exhibition of 1855 the character of the New Louvre became
generally known to architects and to the interested public. The Crimean War
in the mid fifties served, moreover, to bring English and French officialdom
into close contact. To English ministers and civil servants, even more than
to architects and ordinary citizens, the existing governmental
accommodations in Whitehall contrasted most unfavourably with those
Napoleon III was providing in the New Louvre. When a competition was
held in 1856-7 for a new Foreign Office and a new War Office to be built in
Whitehall, it is not surprising that most of those entrants who were not
convinced Gothicists should have modelled their projects more or less on
the work of Visconti and Lefuel.
Barry, the head of the profession, did not enter the competition; but
unofficially—for he was still an employee of the Government at the Houses
of Parliament—he prepared at this time a comprehensive scheme for the
development of the whole length of Whitehall from Parliament Square to
Trafalgar Square. In this project he crowned all his façades—including that
of his already executed Treasury—with mansards, introduced stepped-back
courts like that of the New Louvre, and marked the corners and the centres
of the court façades in the most Louvre-like way with pavilions crowned by
still taller mansards. Had this project of Barry’s been followed, London
would rival Paris and Vienna in the extent, the consistency, and the boldness
of her public buildings of this period. In fact, practically nothing ever came
of it nor, indeed, of the official competition; for by this period earlier
traditions of urbanism had all but completely died out and architectural
initiative was largely in private hands.
 When the competition was judged in 1857, the designs that received the
top prizes both for the War Office and for the Foreign Office were in the
pavilioned and mansarded manner; they derived, however, at least as much
from the Tuileries as from the New Louvre. It was the rising prestige of
Napoleon III, of course, that called public attention at this time to the
Tuileries which was his residence—as it had been, for that matter, the
residence of earlier nineteenth-century French monarchs. Otherwise no one
in England would probably have thought of reviving any of the various
periods, covering some four centuries, represented in its conglomerate mass
or of emulating its pavilioned and mansarded composition.
Since neither of these projects for ministries was ever executed, and their
respective architects—Henry B. Garling (1821-1909), on the one hand, and
H. E. Coe (1826-85) and his partner Hofland, on the other—never built
much else of consequence, it is not necessary to linger over them. However,
their designs and other Second Empire ones that received minor premiums
were extensively illustrated in professional and general periodicals, and
they provided favourite models in the sixties both in England and in the
United States. The Paris originals, on which graphic data was not only
scarcer but also less readily accessible, were not on the whole so influential.
This helps to explain why French influence appears to have been stronger
in the Anglo-Saxon world than on the Continent, even though there was
probably less direct contact with Paris.
There was also in England at this time a general tendency, even more
notable than in Austria or Germany, to enrich and elaborate plastically the
long-established Renaissance Revival mode. This is less specifically
inspired by Paris. An excellent example is provided by the extensive range
of terraces, designed by Sancton Wood (1814-86) in 1857, that flank
Lancaster Gate in the Bayswater Road in London with their boldly
projecting bay windows linked by tiers of colonnades. In other examples,
such as the National Discount Company’s offices at 65 Cornhill built by the
Francis Brothers in 1857, the capping of the whole block with a boldly
dormered mansard[206] is more obviously of Second Empire inspiration,
though the façades below are merely of a much enriched palazzo order.
When the Moseley Brothers designed in 1858 the vast Westminster
Palace Hotel near Westminster Abbey at the foot of Victoria Street, a
caravanserai intended to exceed the Hardwicks’ Great Western Hotel of
1850-2 in international luxury, they took over its pavilioned and mansarded
design. To judge from the relative dignity and sobriety of their detailing,
they would seem to have studied contemporary Parisian work—not the
New Louvre but the quieter maisons de rapport along the boulevards—
rather than merely basing themselves on the prize-winning Government
Offices projects as so many others were content to do at this time. This
hotel, which proved a failure, now serves as a block of offices, and has been
remodelled almost beyond recognition.
The next year Barry designed the Halifax Town Hall, his last work. He
did not himself propose to cap this, like the Government Offices in his
Whitehall scheme, with French mansards; those that were executed are an
emendation by his son, E. M. Barry, who carried the building to completion
in 1862 after his father’s death in 1860. But the richly arcaded articulation
of the walls and the emphatic forward breaks of the great tower and of the
more modest pavilion at the other end clearly emulate, without directly
imitating, the sumptuous plasticity of the New Louvre. Nevertheless, the
boldly asymmetrical composition, dominated by a single corner tower, is
more in the Italian Villa vein (Plate 78B).
This tower—but not the site—was lined up with the axis of Prince’s
Street, which enters Crossley Street at this point. The assured quality of its
design and above all that of its tremendous spire, more than worthy of Wren
in the ingenuity with which the silhouette of a Gothic steeple was built up
out of Renaissance elements, makes the Halifax Town Hall thoroughly
English and one of the masterpieces of the High Victorian period. Totally
devoid of Gothic elements, it has more Gothic vitality than Barry’s Houses
of Parliament, at this time just approaching completion nearly thirty years
after they were first designed.
E. M. Barry went on to crown two London station hotels, that at Charing
Cross in 1863-4 and that at Cannon Street in 1865-6, with mansards; but
these were far from being masterpieces, and that at Charing Cross has lately
been much modified. The Grosvenor Hotel, built beside the new Victoria
Station in 1859-60 by Sir James T. Knowles (1831-1908), is far more
original. He covered the whole enormous mass with a very tall convex
mansard, giving further emphasis to the broad pavilions at the ends by
carrying their roofs still higher and capping them with lanterns. Beyond this
nothing was French. The detail indeed, defined by its architect as ‘Tuscan’,
i.e. Rundbogenstil, is highly individual, partaking of the coarse gusto and
even somewhat of the naturalism of the most advanced Victorian Gothic
foliage carving of the period (see Chapter 10).
Similar mansards, but flat-sided not bulbous, and similar detail
characterize a pair of tall terraces that Knowles built in 1860 on the north
side of Clapham Common, south of London. These constituted a subtle
suburban attack on Early Victorian traditions of terrace-design that soon
had metropolitan repercussions. His Thatched House Club in St James’s
Street in London of 1865 has a great deal of very rich carving by J.
Daymond in the naturalistic vein, but is less interesting in general
composition.
Knowles’s Grosvenor was still new when John Giles outbid it with the
Langham Hotel, begun in 1864. Given a much finer site than Knowles’s at
the base of the broad avenue of Portland Place across from Nash’s All
Souls’, Langham Place, Giles rose boldly—most people now think too
boldly—to the occasion (Plate 80A). Certainly he overwhelmed Nash’s
delicate and ingenious steeple by the rounded projection and the tall square
corner tower—now bombed away at the top—with which he faced it.
Equally certainly his massive north façade, with its boldly modelled
flanking pavilions and its profusion of lively animal carvings, would
overwhelm the urbane refinement of the nearby Adam terraces flanking
Portland Place had these not by now been replaced by far inferior buildings.
For all its gargantuan scale and the somewhat elephantine playfulness of the
detail (not to speak of the dinginess to which the ‘Suffolk-white’ brickwork
and the stone trim have now been reduced), the Langham is a rich and
powerfully plastic composition, most skilfully adapted to a special site, and
more original than most of what was produced in the sixties in Paris. The
carved animals at the window heads, so varied and so humorous, deserve an
attention they rarely receive; these scurrying creatures almost seem to come
out of Tenniel, but may actually derive from Viollet-le-Duc.
That this degree of architectural originality, presented with such bold
assurance and even bombast, should within a decade or two have come to
seem tasteless and actually ugly—as, indeed, it has seemed to many ever
since—is not of major historical consequence. The age that achieved it
rejected as tasteless and insipid the architectural production of the previous
hundred years, and most notably Late Georgian work of the sort to which
the Langham stood in close proximity. What is of consequence is that such
High Victorian buildings, even when not Gothic, possessed a vitality and a
contemporaneity within their period that was very largely lacking in parallel
work on the Continent, most of which in any case is a decade or more later
in date. In their parvenu brashness, the Grosvenor and Langham balance the
contemporary achievement of the Gothic church architects—an
achievement generally more acceptable even today as it was already to
highbrows and aesthetics in the sixties—without necessarily equalling it
(see Chapter 10).
In the English hotel boom of the early and mid sixties which these big
London hotels set off, some variant of the anglicized Second Empire
became the accepted type of design; indeed, a mansarded French mode
continued to be used as late as the nineties[207] for such a big London hotel
as the Carlton built by H. L. Florence (1843-1916) in 1897. Many heavily
mansarded London hotels of the seventies and eighties are now gone or
have been turned, like the earlier Westminster Palace and the Langham, to
other uses—among these the former Grand Hotel in Trafalgar Square of
1878-80 by H. Francis and the front block of the former Cecil in the Strand
built in 1886 by Perry & Reed may at least be noted here, since they remain
so conspicuous and are so exasperatingly unavailable to travellers.
It is a resort hotel, however, the Cliff (now the Grand) at Scarborough in
Yorkshire, built by Brodrick at the height of the boom in 1863-7, just before
he retired to live in France, that remains internationally the most notable
example of the type (Plate 79). And the type could be found in such remote
spots as the famous ‘ghost town’ of the Comstock Lode, Virginia City,
Nevada, where the large and elaborate hotel is no more, or Leadville,
Colorado, where the more modest and much later Vendome Hotel, built by
Senator Tabor for his ‘Baby Doe’, is still in use, as well as in big European
cities such as Amsterdam, Frankfort, Brussels, and Budapest.
The site of Brodrick’s Grand Hotel is a superb one on the edge of the
Scarborough cliffs above the North Sea, as different as possible from the
setting of the New Louvre. Its corner pavilions are capped, not with
ordinary high mansards, but with curious roofs like pointed domes, richly
crowned with elaborate cornices. In the intricacy of their silhouette these
are not unworthy rivals of Barry’s Halifax tower. The massive walls are not
of freestone in the manner of Paris nor yet of pallid Suffolk brick with light
coloured stone or cement trim as in London. Instead, they are of warm red
brick with incredibly lush decorative trim of tawny terracotta—a
combination that M. D. Wyatt also used on the most elegant Second Empire
mansion in London, Alford House, which stood from 1872 until 1955 in
Prince’s Gate at the corner of Ennismore Gardens (Plate 83A).
Public and private architecture could hardly hope to rival the
sumptuousness of the new hotels, and in Britain rarely attempted to do so.
At Liverpool T. H. Wyatt in 1864-9 carried a U-shaped range of ornately
pavilioned and mansarded blocks that housed the Exchange around the
open space at the rear of the Town Hall, somewhat as Outshoorn carried his
Galerij around the Paleis voor Volksvlijt in Amsterdam; but that is now all
gone.
In the English countryside, the Bowes Museum at Barnard Castle in
County Durham, built in 1869-75 by J.-A.-F.-A. Pellechet (1829-1903), and
Waddesdon Manor in Buckinghamshire by another French architect, G.-H.
Destailleur (1822-93), largely of 1880-3, are unique examples of extensive
mansions completely in the Second Empire mode (Plate 76B). In London
Montagu House, designed in 1866 by the elderly Burn for the Duke of
Buccleuch, once raised in Whitehall the mansarded pavilions that Barry and
the winners of the Government Offices competition had proposed in 1857,
but this has now been demolished.
The most notable Second Empire ensemble in London, however, still
partly survives (Plate 80B). Facing the gardens of Buckingham Palace and
extending southward from the group of Late Georgian monuments around
Hyde Park Corner, are the terraces of Grosvenor Place. These were
designed[208] in 1867 and built in the following years. They provide one of
the more striking features of the London skyline inherited from the
Victorian period. Rivalling the high roofs and, almost, the tall steeples of
the Victorian Gothic, the mansards over the end houses are carried to
fantastic heights and capped with pointed upper roofs, providing several
storeys of attics; while the centre houses have convex mansards like square
domes taken straight from the New Louvre.
Below these Alpine crests, elaborated at the base with rich stone dormers,
the enormous houses are all of fine Portland stone—hardly to be found in
any earlier nineteenth-century London terraces except those of Ennismore
Gardens—and detailed with a plausibly Parisian flair—it is even said that
draughtsmen were sent to Paris to study Second Empire work at first hand.
English are the porches, however, which make plain that these pretentious
ranges are rows of dwellings like those in nearby Belgrave Square. English,
also, are the red stone bands, novel touches echoing the fashionable
‘structural polychrome’ of the contemporary Victorian Gothic, just as the
tall mansards echo its pointed roofs (see Chapter 10).
Beyond the first two blocks of Grosvenor Place the new construction of
the sixties stops; but it starts again at the farther end and surrounds the two
triangles of Grosvenor Gardens, of which Knowles’s hotel occupies part of
the farther side. It is characteristic of the Parisian inspiration of the whole
that on the east side of the Gardens great blocks of flats—’mansions’ in a
Victorian euphemism—replaced the usual London terraces of individual tall
houses, but these now serve as offices as do all the extant houses in
Grosvenor Place. For one of these blocks red brick was used, but set like a
mere panel-filling within stone frames according to a French rather than an
English tradition.
There are no other comparably pretentious examples of Second Empire
terraces in London except Cambridge Gate (1875) by Thomas Archer and
A. Green (?-1904), an unhappy intrusion among Nash’s stuccoed Regent’s
Park ranges despite its handsome execution in fine ashlar of Bath stone.
Characteristically, London domestic architecture of the late fifties and
sixties merely elaborated the Renaissance Revival formulas of the previous
decade. Not only were the chosen models generally later and richer as in
Vienna; wherever possible bolder plastic effects were achieved by a more
extensive use of ground-storey colonnades, first-storey porches, and
projecting bay windows, as on Wood’s magniloquent terraces at Lancaster
Gate or those of 1858 by C. J. Richardson (1800-72) that followed them in
Queen’s Gate.
The high standards of the earlier period were maintained only in business
palazzi, not those of London’s City, but those in big Northern towns like
Bradford and in Scotland. There good freestone was readily available and a
certain cultural lag, as well as a regional sobriety of temperament, led to the
maintenance of a more Barry-like tradition. Notable everywhere for their
academic virtues are the various National Provincial Bank buildings by
Barry’s pupil John Gibson (1819-92). The earliest, but not the most typical,
is the head office in Bishopsgate, which was begun in 1863.
A special school of Renaissance design is associated with Sir Henry
Cole’s Department of Practical Art, and this produced the various buildings
that he sponsored in the new London cultural centre in Brompton (now
usually called South Kensington). The Exhibition of 1862, on the southern
edge of the estate belonging to the Commissioners of the Great Exhibition,
was housed in a structure designed by Francis Fowke (1823-65), an army
engineer. As at the Paris Exhibition of 1855, the metal and glass
construction of this was masked externally with masonry walls, but, unlike
Cendrier’s and Viel’s Palais de l’Industrie, the whole was pavilioned and
mansarded in the Second Empire mode. A still more elaborate Second
Empire project was prepared by Fowke for the Museum of Science and Art
(later Victoria and Albert), Cole having evidently accepted all too abjectly
the criticism of his earlier temporary structure, the notorious ‘Brompton
Boilers’ (see Chapter 7). As Fowke died at this point the Museum (Plate
83B), begun in 1866, as also the associated Royal College of Science
(Huxley Building), built in 1868-71, were carried out in a much less French
vein under another army engineer, H. G. D. Scott (1822-83). The walling
material is a fine smooth red brick, very rare in the London of the
nineteenth century, beautifully laid up with thin joints. With this is
combined an enormous quantity of elaborately modelled pale cream
terracotta, as on various Central European buildings deriving from
Schinkel’s Bauakademie in Berlin of 1831-6.
In these South Kensington structures, planned by an engineer, the
emphasis is on the sculptural embellishment designed and executed by
Godfrey Sykes and other artists associated with the Department. This team-
work, by-passing as it did over-all control by an architect, was not very
successful in achieving the coherence of Knowles’s and Giles’s hotels,
although those were built for much less sophisticated clients. Much the
same team, but with still more sculptors collaborating, was responsible for
the Albert Hall, the vast circular auditorium built in 1867-71 on the
northern edge of the Commissioners’ Estate facing the most characteristic
monument of the age, G. G. Scott’s Victorian Gothic Albert Memorial. The
engineer Scott’s really notable achievement here in the metal construction
of the vast dome is unfortunately swamped by the profuse investiture of
sculptural detail in terracotta, intrinsically elegant though much of that is.
In the sixties there was some coherence in the planning of the
Commissioners’ Estate as a whole, with a garden court surrounded by a
great hemicycle of terracotta arcading by M. D. Wyatt lying behind the
1862 Exhibition Building and below the Albert Hall. In Vienna the cultural
edifices were admirably grouped along the Ringstrasse with plenty of open
space between them, however much they may have lacked intrinsic
architectural quality. In sad contrast is the way the following decades
allowed this considerable tract to become clogged up until almost no
urbanistic organization at all remains.
Other European countries tended in this period, like Denmark, Sweden,
and Holland, to follow Paris and Vienna rather than London. Only a few
works of the sixties and seventies need be singled out from the welter of
pretentious public and private construction that turned Brussels, for
example, into a ‘Little Paris’.[209] The Boulevard Anspach as a whole
suggests the Cannebière in Marseilles, although the mansards on the
buildings that line it are more plastically handled; the Exchange, in its own
square half-way down the boulevard, was built by L.-P. Suys (1823-87) in
1868-73, and this provides the focus of the mid-nineteenth-century city, as
does Garnier’s Opéra in Paris. A provincial variant of the Opéra in many
ways, despite its quite different function, this is somewhat more academic
in composition yet also rather coarser in its profuse ornamentation. Brussels
as a whole is dominated, however, by one of the grandest and most original
monuments erected anywhere in this period.
The Palace of Justice,[210] built by Joseph Poelaert (1817-79) in 1866-83,
occupies so high a site and is mounted on so mountainous a substructure
that almost the whole of its gargantuan mass is visible from all over the city.
Although generically Classical, a good deal of the external treatment has an
indefinable flavour of the monuments of the ancient civilizations of the
East, somewhat like that of the exotic churches Alexander Thomson built in
the late fifties and sixties in Glasgow (Plate 81). Even more than Thomson’s
relatively small and delicately scaled work, the Palace of Justice also
suggests the megalomaniac architectural dreams of such a Romantic
English painter as John Martin. Heavy and almost literally cruel, it has a
Piranesian spatial elaboration and a plastic vitality of the most
exaggeratedly architectonic order. Thus it quite puts to shame the urbane
Renaissance costuming of most Continental public architecture of this
period and the usual Neo-Baroque of the next.
The existence of this extraordinary edifice in a minor European capital
prepares one a little for the important part that Brussels was to play in the
nineties, even though there could hardly be two architects further apart in
spirit than Poelaert and Victor Horta, who initiated there the Art Nouveau
(see Chapter 16). So also in Glasgow, the originality of Thomson’s Queen’s
Park Church of the sixties at least opened the way for the notable
international contribution to be made by the Glaswegian C. R. Mackintosh
in the nineties. But it was Alphonse Balat (1818-95), not Poelaert, who was
Horta’s master and also in these decades professor of architecture at the
local Academy. Balat’s Musée Royale des Beaux Arts of 1875-81 already
represents a reversion to a more restrained and academic classicism with
none of Poelaert’s force and vitality. Yet this building is not without a
certain correct elegance of detail and conventional skill in composition for
which his houses of the sixties, with their Barry-like handling of the High
Renaissance palazzo theme, prepared the way. The real eclecticism of this
period lies less significantly in the variety of nominal styles employed than
in the variety of ways of employing them. It is this, rather than the
concurrent multiplication of fashionable modes, that makes it so difficult to
characterize broadly the production of the period between the mid century
and the nineties.
In several other European countries the situation was made even more
complicated than in Belgium by a very considerable cultural lag such as has
already been noted in Scandinavia. While the Rütschi-Bleuler House in
Zurich of 1869-70 by Theodor Geiger (1832-82) had the fashionable
Second Empire mansard, here high and concave, at nearby Winterthur
Semper’s Town Hall of precisely the same date, with its dominating temple
portico, might at first sight be taken for a provincial French public edifice
of the second quarter of the century. At the Zurich Polytechnic School,
where Semper became a professor in 1855,[211] the large building begun in
1859 that he erected with the local architect Wolff is equally retardataire in
style. His Observatory there of 1861-4 is a delicate and rather picturesquely
composed exercise in the quattrocento version of the Rundbogenstil, rather
like his Hamburg houses of twenty years earlier.
 If a German architect of established international reputation could be thus
affected by the conservative tastes of his Swiss clients, it is not surprising
that in the Iberian peninsula almost nothing of interest was built in this
period. It may, however, be mentioned that the building for the National
Library and Museums in Madrid, designed in 1866 by Francisco Jareño y
Alarcón (1818-92) and almost thirty years in construction, while still of the
most conventional Classical character as regards its façades, has convex
mansards over the end pavilions of quite definitely Second Empire
character. Characteristically, the Chamber of Commerce in Madrid,
completed in 1893 by E. M. Repulles y Vargas (1845-1922), illustrates the
general return of official architecture to still more conventional academic
standards towards the end of the century. But in the seventies there began in
Barcelona the career of a Spanish—or more accurately Catalan—architect,
Antoni Gaudí, who was destined to produce around 1900 some of the
boldest and most original early works of modern architecture. Gaudí’s real
links in the seventies and eighties, spiritually if not so much actually, are
with the High Victorian Gothic not the Second Empire, although the earliest
project on which he worked reflected the Palais Longchamps at Marseilles
(see Chapter 11).
The situation in the United States was naturally most like that in England.
As has already been noted, a French-trained Danish architect, Lienau,
prefigured the Second Empire mode in the Shiff house in New York as early
as 1849-50. By the mid fifties mansards of rather modest height, often with
shallow concave slopes, had appeared in Eastern cities on many houses not
otherwise particularly Frenchified. Richard M. Hunt (1827-95),[212] the first
American to study at the École des Beaux-Arts and actually an assistant as
well as a pupil of Lefuel, returned from Paris to America in 1855. But he
brought with him no lush Second Empire mode but rather the basic
academic tradition of the French official world, despite the fact that he had
himself worked in 1854 on the New Louvre. Although some of the earliest
work of H. H. Richardson, who returned from Paris a decade later after
working for several years for Labrouste’s brother Théodore, was of Second
Empire character, he showed himself from the first more responsive to
influences from contemporary England (see Chapters 11 and 13). On the
whole, the Second Empire mode, as it was practised in America through the
third quarter of the century, derived almost as completely as the local
Victorian Gothic from England. Most American architects were kept
informed of what was going on abroad through the English professional
Press, and so they naturally followed the models that were offered in the
Builder and the Building News rather than those in the publications of César
Daly.[213]
The Civil War of 1861-5 did not bring architectural production to a stop;
indeed, it seems to have had a less inhibiting effect than the aftermath of the
financial crash of 1857 in the immediately preceding years. In Washington
the building of Walter’s new wings of the Capitol, initiated in 1851,[214] and
of his cast-iron dome, designed in 1855, continued until their completion in
1865, right through the war years at President Lincoln’s express order (Plate
82A). There is nothing specifically French about this new work at the
Capitol, even though Walter had the assistance from 1855 of the Paris-
trained Hunt. On the other hand, the original more-or-less Romantic
Classical edifice that had finally been brought to completion in 1828 by
Bulfinch after so many changes of architect was largely submerged. The
new wings echo in their academic porticoes the broader portico of the
original late eighteenth-century design; but the cast-iron dome (see Chapter
7), rivalling in size the largest Baroque domes of Europe, has a high drum
and a Michelangelesque silhouette of the greatest boldness in contrast to the
Roman saucer shape of that designed by Latrobe and not much raised in
execution by Bulfinch.
It was not in Washington that the Second Empire mode was first
introduced for public buildings; Washington, indeed, would never again be
the centre of architectural influence that it was in the Romantic Classical
period, although the new state capitols begun in the sixties and seventies
were mostly capped with imitations of Walter’s dome. A ‘female seminary’
on the Hudson River, endowed by a brewer, and the new City Hall in
Boston, Mass., both dating from the opening of the sixties, are the first
monumental instances of the new mode that dominated the field of secular
public building until the financial Panic of 1873 brought the post-war boom
to a close. James Renwick,[215] who designed the very extensive Main Hall
for Matthew Vassar’s new college at Arlington near Poughkeepsie, N.Y., in
1860, was specifically instructed by his client to imitate the Tuileries—not
the New Louvre—and so he did in an elaborately pavilioned composition of
U-shaped plan crowned by various sorts of high mansards. This
overshadows in significance his earlier Charity Hospital of 1858 on
Blackwell’s Island in New York, already mansarded but very plain, and his
Corcoran Gallery of 1859, now the Court of Claims, in Washington, with a
rich but muddled façade still rather flatly conceived.
Renwick was at least as eclectic as such Europeans as Ballu and Ferstel.
Having made his first reputation with the building of the Anglican Grace
Church in New York in 1843-6—if not very Camdenian, this is at least a
fair specimen of revived fourteenth-century English Gothic—he continued
in the Gothic line with the Catholic St Patrick’s Cathedral in New York,
begun in 1859 and completed (except for the spires) in 1879. That vast two-
towered pile, however, is Gothic in a very Continental way, resembling
Gau’s and Ballu’s Sainte-Clotilde in Paris and Ferstel’s Votivkirche in
Vienna more than anything English of the period. In the late forties
Renwick had also been the agent of Robert Dale Owen’s ‘Romanesque
Revival’ aspirations in designing the Smithsonian Institution in Washington
(see Chapter 6).
For such things as the Smithsonian and his churches Renwick had plenty
of visual documents on which to lean, either archaeological treatises on the
buildings of the medieval past or illustrations of contemporary foreign
work. But for Vassar College, very evidently, he was dependent for his
inspiration on rather generalized lithographic or engraved views of the
Tuileries. Nor could he, at this relatively early date, borrow much from
published illustrations of contemporary English work in the new
international Second Empire mode. The particular plastic vitality of the
Americanized Second Empire is already notable in this early example,
however, even though the rather crude articulation of the red brick walls is
remote from anything French of any period from the sixteenth century to
the nineteenth. Later buildings by Renwick in the same mode are richer and
closer to Parisian standards, but their architectonic vitality is considerably
less.
The Boston City Hall,[216] built by G. J. F. Bryant (1816-99) and Arthur
D. Gilman (1821-82) in 1862-5, is a smaller but suaver edifice. Although it
is a compactly planned block, the articulation of the walls by successive
Roman-arched orders, coldly but competently executed in stone, is boldly
plastic below the crowning mansards. However, just before this, for the
Arlington Street Church of 1859-61, the first edifice erected in the Back
Bay district that Gilman was just laying out,[217] he had turned not to France
but to eighteenth-century England for inspiration, basing himself chiefly on
the same churches by Gibbs that had been the most popular American
models in later Colonial times.
A leading opponent of the Greek Revival, Gilman, like most Continental
architects of the day, evidently knew better what he meant to leave behind
than whither he wished to proceed. His Boston church initiated no national
wave of Gibbsian church architecture; indeed, the sixties were the heyday
of Victorian Gothic design for churches in the United States. His City Hall,
on the other hand, set off a nation-wide programme of public building in the
Second Empire mode; for Boston was now for a score of years the artistic
as well as the intellectual headquarters of the country in succession to
Philadelphia. In this programme municipalities, state authorities, and the
Federal Government all participated actively during the decade following
the Civil War. In the case of many Federal buildings, only nominally the
work of the office of the Supervising Architect, where A. B. Mullet (1834-
90) succeeded Rogers in 1865, Gilman acted in these years as consultant,
and was probably the real designer rather than Mullet or his assistants.
These vast monuments were mostly constructed during General Grant’s
presidency. Parisian in intention, yet American in their materials, they are
withal rather similar to Second Empire work in England. Few were
completed before the mode went out of favour as changes in architectural
control sometimes make evident. In the case of the New York State Capitol
in Albany, for example, begun in 1868 by Thomas Fuller (1822-98) and his
partner Augustus Laver (1834-98), both arriving from England via Canada,
Eidlitz and Richardson took over jointly in 1875, modifying the design of
the building very notably above the lower storeys towards the
Romanesquoid. Thus it was finally brought to completion by them and
others in the following twenty years. The very tall tower on the Philadelphia
City Hall, begun in 1874, was finished over a decade later. This tower,
whose crowning statue of William Penn still tops the local skyline, has
hardly anything in common with the Louvre-like pavilions below; yet the
whole is nominally the work of one architect, John McArthur, Jr (1823-90),
the grandfather of General Douglas McArthur.
Undoubtedly the association of these prominent buildings with the
unsavoury Grant administration and the fact that there were—at least in the
two cases mentioned above—major financial scandals involved in their
slow and incredibly costly construction played an important part in the early
rejection of a mode so associated with the public vices of the decade after
the Civil War. Not many of them are extant today other than the Boston,
Albany, and Philadelphia structures just mentioned and the old State
Department Building in Washington (Plate 82B).
In New York, Boston, and other large cities the vast granite piles in this
mode that long served as post offices are all gone. In Chicago the Cook
County Buildings built by J. J. Egan in 1872-5 have also long since been
replaced. In San Francisco Fuller & Laver’s extensive group of Municipal
Buildings was destroyed in the fire that followed the earthquake of 1906.
This must have been the largest, the richest, and plastically the most
complex production of the whole lot, with its triangular site, boldly
articulated massing, and central dome.
Though threatened by every new administration, the State, War and Navy
Department Building built by Mullet in 1871-5 still stands, overshadowing
the nearby White House. This is perhaps the best extant example in
America of the Second Empire—or as it is sometimes called locally, the
‘General Grant’—mode (Plate 82B). The tiers of Roman-arched orders in
fine grey granite, borrowed by Gilman as consultant architect and
presumptive designer from his earlier Boston City Hall rather than from
Paris, tower up storey above storey to carry mansards of various different
heights above the complex pavilioned plan. Cold and grand, almost without
sculptural decoration, this could hardly be less like the New Louvre or the
old Tuileries in general texture; nor is there any of the playful semi-Gothic
detail of Knowles’s and Giles’s London hotels or of the festive colouring
and lush ornamentation of Brodrick’s at Scarborough.
The contrast of the old State Department Building with its pendant on the
other side of Lafayette Square, Mills’s Grecian Treasury, finally completed
by Rogers a decade earlier, is shocking to most people. Yet it is fascinating
to read here the representational aspirations of an age that found its most
significant expression, not in its public buildings, but in the new
skyscrapers which first rose in New York at just this time, Hunt’s Tribune
Building and the Western Union Building by his pupil George B. Post.
Both, incidentally, were heavily mansarded, and the one by the American-
trained Post was much more typically Second Empire than is the French-
trained Hunt’s (see Chapter 14).
 In urban domestic architecture, both on large mansions and on the more
usual terrace houses, mansards became characteristic but not ubiquitous in
the late fifties and remained so down to the mid seventies and even later in
the West. Boston’s Back Bay district, laid out by Gilman in 1859, has a few
mansions along Commonwealth Avenue that resemble somewhat the hôtels
particuliers of Paris, and also several mansarded terraces by Bryant &
Gilman and other architects in that avenue and in Arlington and Beacon
Streets. The materials used are un-Parisian—brownstone like Gilman’s
nearby church or dark-red brick with brownstone trim—and the detail is
rarely very plausibly French. In general, inspiration still came from London,
even if nothing so extensive and spectacularly monumental as Grosvenor
Place and Grosvenor Gardens was ever produced. In New York Lienau’s
finest terrace, that built in Fifth Avenue between 55th and 56th Streets in
1869, was rather more sumptuous than the Boston examples, being of white
marble with very literate ranges of superposed orders. Hunt’s New York
work was often so authentically Parisian as quite to lack the bombast of the
international Second Empire mode. Especially interesting were his
Stuyvesant Flats in 18th Street, New York, of 1869-70. This block was a
very early example of an apartment house of the Parisian sort in America,
where they did not generally flourish much before the late eighties.
For the more characteristic free-standing houses that were built outside
cities, in suburbs, in towns, and even in the country, the Second Empire
mode was also very popular. Interpreted in wood, painted brown or grey
stone colours, these have a distinctly autochthonous character. Generally
symmetrical and tightly planned, they did not advance the development of
the American house in the way of the rival ‘Stick Style’; but in their
emphasis on complicated three-dimensional modelling, especially the
modelling of the roofs, they prepared the way for one important aspect of
the later and more original ‘Shingle Style’ (see Chapter 15).
The Second Empire episode in the United States is a curious one. On the
one hand, it was a consciously ‘modern’ movement, deriving its prestige
from contemporary Paris, not from any period of the past like the Greek, the
Gothic, or even the Renaissance Revivals—of which last, of course, it was
in some limited sense an heir. On the other hand, the considerable
originality of the mode as it was actually employed was largely unconscious
and due to the lack of accurate visual documents, or even a codified body of