The Philadelphia post-office reminds us very much of the Paris post-office (_Hotel des Postes_), which is situated east of the Palais Royal: it has a handsome front, but in its _tout ensemble_ does not present to view much architectural beauty either in style or design. France, like England, never considered the architecture of a country as being inseparable from its history: hence her public buildings present to view the combined peculiarities of the styles and eras of the sixteen different orders which have marked the progress of architecture since the building of the great temple of Samos.
In this country, with few exceptions, we have not studied architecture with an eye to a national feature: on the contrary, our artists have copied the styles of all nations, from which designs are made to please the eye only, without regard to originality or the age in which we live. This cannot be called an architectural construction, but rather an adaptation of Grecian models to the buildings of our own time. _There is no originality here._
A building may be well arranged for all purposes of mere convenience, but in reality, if destitute of harmony in its outward appearance, it cannot be called an architectural construction. This remark will apply to the buildings in our country generally, and equally, as stated, to those of England and France.
If the Philadelphia post-office is devoid of these requisites as regards its exterior, its interior makes full amends.
Every department is so constructed and arranged that there is no clashing or cause of impediment in the general routine of its business. Each man has his position, each _bureau_ its place, and over all the chief clerk, from an elevated position, has an eye to every action and movement of the employees. To Cornelius A. Walborn, Esq., the present efficient postmaster [1866], is the department indebted for the admirable arrangements of the Philadelphia post-office.
In speaking of the outward appearance of “our post-office,” we may be singular in our ideas of what constitutes architectural beauty, and others may appreciate what we censure. It is not, however, altogether a matter of taste with us, but a sense of what constitutes harmony. In every thing that owes its existence to nature alone, there is harmony. It is, in fact, the music of the spheres joining chorus with the growth of plants and flowers, which the ancients believed came blooming into life with music; or, as the poet says, it may be “the language of some other state, born of its memory.” Thus, in all things imitative of nature there should be harmony. Why not in art?