You first, after setting out your widths as in the original, increase the whole height and that of each storey by one-third; you then increase the pillars and the jambs of the triforium and clerestory windows in the same proportion: this brings you to a stand, for the arches, being semicircles, are invariable. Either you must leave them unaltered and throw all the extra height into the wall above them, or you must stilt them each to the extent of one-third of their height unless you can make use of an elastic arch which will change its proportion at pleasure. The ellipse occurs and meets the case, but it offends your eye. At length, however, the pointed arch suggests itself, and gets rid of the whole difficulty. So similar are a Romanesque and an Early Pointed bay in all other respects, that the change of proportion which I have described seems at once to effect the whole change in style.

Had the constructional motive alone existed, the pointed form would have been confined to arches of considerable span; but the demand for a variable arch adding æsthetic to the constructional claim, caused its speedy adoption in positions where strength alone would not have demanded it, though the semicircle, the plain segment, and the segmental pointed arch, were, at all subsequent periods of the style, used side by side with the true pointed form.

I have been the more particular in showing the true reasons for the change in the form of the arch, because the great majority of writers treat it purely as a matter of taste and of altered fashion; indeed, some excellent writers on the history of Mediæval architecture have strangely imagined that the pointed arch had a greater outward thrust than the round, and that the increased projection of the buttresses was necessitated by its use, instead of the two being simultaneously introduced as a double means of avoiding the evils experienced from the great thrust of the round arch and the small buttresses by which it had, during the Romanesque period, been accompanied.

I will now close my present lecture, but hope in the next to carry on the same inquiry into a number of other details, as well as into the general spirit and principles of the architecture of which I am treating, and to add some practical remarks on the application of the rationale thus traced out to our present revival of the style, and such developments as it may give rise to.

LECTURE VII.

The Rationale of Gothic Architecture—Continued.

Nothing would, perhaps, do more to show the reasonableness of the various developments in question than to trace out the details of the vaulting system; to show the varieties it exhibited in different countries and provinces and at different periods, the various modes adopted for effecting a given purpose and the many mechanical and other difficulties to be contended with, and the methods adopted of meeting them. This is, however, so extensive and so intricate a subject, that, if I had devoted these two lectures exclusively to it, I could barely have done it justice. I will, therefore, at present content myself with referring those of you who are anxious to make yourselves acquainted with it, to an admirable and elaborate essay on the subject by Professor Willis, in the Transactions of the Institute of British Architects, and to the article “Construction,” in the fourth volume of Viollet le Duc’s Dictionary. No one who has not gone carefully and practically into the subject can have any idea of the amount of forethought which it demands; so much so that, as Viollet le Duc says, the design for a vaulted building has to be commenced at the top and worked downwards; and we may often form a pretty correct idea, from the bases of a thirteenth century church, of what was the plan and construction of its vaulting.

This principle of designing each part from the first with reference to its ultimate intention is very strongly marked in French works of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and in those of the transitional period in England. The form, not only of the capital, but even of the base of each shaft, usually indicates the direction of the arched rib or order which it is destined to carry.

This was, however, lost in English works on the introduction of the circular abacus, and I must say that much expression and emphasis was lost with it. Not only, indeed, did the abacus in French work face or point in the direction of the arched rib, but its plan was often made to fit to it in the most direct manner, and even the direction of the principal stalks of the foliage had reference to the supported rib (Fig. 148).

The system of moulding, again, follows out the same laws of reason. An arch-moulding, for instance, is founded on what is supposed to be the original section of the order or rib. Thus, if the normal section of the rib be square, the section of the mouldings is made to fit to that figure (Fig. 149); if chamfered or a part of an octagon, the mouldings, again, fit to it (Fig. 150); the abacus in each case taking the normal plan of the ribs.

As to æsthetical forms, the mouldings were studiously arranged so as to produce in some parts the greatest contrasts, in others the most elegant gradations of light and shade. The heaviness of large roll mouldings was often relieved by fillets or by raised edges or “keels,” by which diversity was gained without loss of mass (Fig. 151).

Hollows, again, were relieved by the insertion of sparkling ornaments, such as the toothed ornament, the rosette, the ball-flower, the four-leaved flower, and many others; and in other instances by the introduction of bands of foliage. The sections of moulding differed entirely from those of Roman architecture, being far more free and less mechanical, and at once more delicate in feeling and more carefully studied with reference to light and shade. They resembled Greek mouldings, in fact, far more than Roman.

Enriched mouldings differed from the usual practice in antique work in this respect, that the enrichment was added to instead of being cut out of the original moulding; its practical use being to strengthen the hollows rather then to enrich the rounds. In this respect the practice of the Romanesque builder had been different; and perhaps a union of the two systems would be better than a close adherence to either.

Mouldings which receive much rain, as copings, cills, tops of cornices etc., were very much more sloped than in Classic work, so as to throw off the wet more rapidly. The custom in modern Classic buildings, where the stone is not very hard, of putting lead on the upper surface, as well as the damage often sustained when this is neglected, show the reasonableness of this increased slope. They had to do with a more rainy climate, and generally with softer stone, than the ancients, and they designed their work accordingly. The under sides, again, of projecting mouldings, as string-courses, drip-stones, water-tables, cills, etc., were carefully designed so as to prevent the wet from running round them. Base mouldings round buildings were designed in such a manner as both really and apparently to give it a substantial footing, and at the same time to add greatly to its beauty; many of them are as noble combinations as could easily be conceived.[60]

In short, it may be asserted, without fear of contradiction, that in no style of architecture has a system of moulding been generated so full of variety and so capable of suiting itself to every position; and not only to provide for the practical demands of each position, but to give to each just that kind of effect which it most demanded.

Let us now proceed to consider the window. In the days of ancient Greece, and in the earlier days of Rome, windows were necessarily kept in a very undeveloped form, through the non-existence of window glass; so much so, that in Classic architecture the window seems a thing shunned as an unhappy necessity; and the imperfect manufacture and dearness of this material, no doubt, influenced, in a considerable degree, the architecture of the later Roman and the immediately succeeding periods. In churches and other vaulted buildings, another cause would lead to the use, during the last-named (i.e., the Romanesque) period, of as small windows as would just answer the purpose. The unaided thickness and the whole length of the wall being relied on for the abutment of the vaulting, it naturally followed that perforations were as much avoided as possible, as tending to reduce the abutting mass. Accordingly, as buttresses increased in projection, greater and greater openings in the curtain wall were ventured on, simply because there was strength sufficient to admit of them, till, when Pointed architecture received its full development, and the pressure of the vaults was entirely concentrated upon the buttresses, the whole intervening space might, if needful, be converted into windows.

Simultaneously with this change, the increasing use of stained glass necessitated a corresponding increase in the area of window opening, so that we have one development facilitating, and the other rendering necessary, the constant enlargement and multiplication of the windows.

The primâ facie mode of obtaining increased window light would be by widening the openings; but as this, if carried too far, would at once injure the beauty of the window and cause inconvenience in glazing it, the more usual course adopted was to increase the number. Hence the couplets, triplets, and more numerous groups of the Early English windows. These groups, when placed in a side wall and under a level roof-plate, would naturally assume the form of arcades of equal height; but when under a gable, an arched roof, or a vaulted bay, they increased in height towards the centre,—thus giving us the two most familiar forms of grouping. The sections of the jambs were arranged (as in the earlier period) in the manner best suited to the admission of light—care being taken externally to avoid deep shadows upon the glass, and internally, to disperse the light as readily as possible through the building.

In domestic buildings, where windows have to serve the double purpose of admitting the light and facilitating external view, they were not usually grouped as above described, but were made wider in their openings, the unpleasant effect which might otherwise arise from it being obviated, and the glazing and opening of the window rendered more easy by the use of thin mullions or pillars dividing the window into two or more lights. This system offered advantages so obvious that it was very soon adopted for churches also; so that, instead of obtaining increased light, as heretofore, by the indefinite multiplication of comparatively small windows, it became customary now, for the first time in the history of architecture, to make windows of any size which their position or utility might dictate; the whole end of a church and the entire bays of its flanks being occupied, if need be, by single windows.

Now, nothing could be more rational than this development. The mode of glazing in use was most conveniently applicable to spaces of moderate width. It is true that by the more extended use of iron it was then, as it has often been in modern times, applied to openings of 6, 8, or even 10 feet in width; but narrower spaces were much more convenient. The lights, however, at Westminster Abbey (which is one of the earlier buildings in which this kind of window is systematically used in this country), are 4½ feet wide, and in France they are generally much more. The prevailing practice of placing a massive pier between each of such lights was obviously imperfect. The concentration of pressure upon the buttresses now allowed of openings of almost any size; what, then, was more reasonable than to make extensive openings, and then to subdivide them by light mullions into compartments at once sightly and convenient? That this practice has sometimes, from caprice, been carried to a vicious excess in no degree militates against its rationale; indeed, with all our modern facilities for glazing and opening our windows, we continually find the same expedient resorted to for convenience, and invariably so when any extraordinary amount of light, and consequent width of window, is needed.

The next question which would arise is, how is the arch to be filled in? This we find done at first by a plate or tympanum of stone as thick as the depth of the mullions, each light being arched, and the tympanum pierced at pleasure with such openings as suited the builder’s taste; and, later on, we find these piercings connected together into those systematic groups which we call tracery; thus converting the window into a perfectly novel and most beautiful architectural feature.

As I shall have more to say on the subject of windows when we come to secular architecture, I will limit myself to two remarks. One is this; that in positions in which there is not much height, where there is no great load to be sustained, and where the termination of the wall internally and externally is horizontal, the Mediæval architects by no means held themselves bound to the arched form, but reserved perfect liberty to put square heads to their windows; the other is a passing remark on the rationale of stained glass. I do not conceive it to be simply a decoration or a means of adding rich colouring, but that it also arose from an unconscious feeling that it was necessary to the perfect effect of an architectural interior that it should be self-inclosed. In a living-room one wishes not only for admission of light, but for facility of looking out at the windows; and this necessity prevents us from seeing the windows well as architectural features, because the focus of the eye has constantly to be changed in passing from the window itself to the view beyond. In a church, on the contrary, you do not wish to look out at the window, and it is better that it should be filled with a medium only semi-transparent, and which, being at about the same distance from the eye with the surrounding architecture, at once does away with the necessity of a change of focus, and supplies a beautiful decoration to the medium by which that object is effected.

I have not yet noticed one of the leading features of the style, and one in which it assumes a character most peculiarly its own: I mean the roof.

All previous styles of architecture with which we are acquainted, having originated in Southern countries, had roofs of a low pitch. I have no doubt that in many of those countries there were occasions in which a higher pitch would have answered better; but as the lower line harmonised better with the generally horizontal lines of their architecture, and was found to answer, they naturally adopted it. The Romanesque architecture of Southern Europe had also somewhat low roofs, and when first imported into Germany the roofs were by no means high. Gradually, however, as men forgot its connection with Italy, and viewed it as belonging to themselves, they would naturally use with it the form of roof they had found most serviceable and were most accustomed to in their ordinary buildings; and thus the high roof of the North became engrafted upon the Romanesque style, and became conspicuous feature in external architecture. Happily this change harmonised well with its general character. The arch seemed to suggest a higher pitch of roof than did trabeated construction, and when greater height was generally introduced, and the pointed arch took the place of the round, the high pitch of the roof would be found better to harmonise with it.

I view, then, the high roof as partly the result of climate and partly of the æsthetic tendency of the style. But is it to be considered as an essential characteristic of Gothic architecture? By no means. The true characteristic of the style is liberty; and in the roof, as in every other feature, perfect freedom is reserved; so that we find roofs varying from almost perfect flatness to a very high pitch, a preference being given, cæteris paribus, to the high roof where there was not some decided objection to its use.

In internal construction also the roof was founded on rational principles, good construction being always considered before beauty, but the latter made very generally to result from it.

Gothic timber roofs would form a subject which could hardly be done justice to under one or two lectures, so I will not go farther into them now. Modern carpentry has shown us how to construct roofs with less timber than was used in these structures (there was then less necessity for the economy of timber), but we have never done anything to compete with the noble pieces of ornamented carpentering bequeathed to us by our Mediæval forefathers. As to covering of roofs, I may just mention, in passing, that though the Mediæval builders made use of every material which it is customary to use for this purpose, there are several which cannot be made use of with any but a high pitch, and are therefore unusable with low roofs such as are used in other styles, as, for instance, plain tiles, ordinary stone slate, shingle, and thatch.

The next point in the rationale of Gothic architecture is one which I by no means claim as its peculiar property, inasmuch as it is common to all good architecture, though certainly our style is somewhat pre-eminent in its adoption of it. I refer to that general principle of ornamentation which trusts mainly for beauty to the useful and constructive features of the building, rather than to those which are introduced directly for appearance.

Thus, in a noble Gothic building, the ornamental character arises from a greater or less richness in the doorways, in the windows, the buttresses, the cornices, parapets, or other parts needful for the uses or construction of the building. This belongs to all noble architecture, but is more thoroughly, I think, carried out in Gothic than in other styles, and perhaps less so in modern Italian, especially in what is commonly called Paladian, than in any other. I do not lay claim to it as an argument in favour of one style above another, for all ought to possess it alike; but the absence of it in a very great deal of modern architecture is at least a proof that much reformation is needed among ourselves; and the strong degree in which it was adopted as a maxim by the Gothic architects is a proof of the reasonableness of the principles on which they acted.

There are, of course, in all styles of architecture decorations of a merely gratuitous kind, and when largeness of means leads to profusion, they are likely to be carried to excess; but in Gothic architecture of the best periods the beauty of a building (after good proportion, outline, etc., are secured) depends not on this deliberate ornamentation, but on the artistic treatment of the necessary features. Whatever parts were dictated by practical necessity were the chief objects on which decoration was expended, and to which the architect trusted for the beauty of his building.

More especially was it, par eminence, a window style. Of all the objects provided for, the admission of light was the first and chiefest; accordingly, the window was made, both within and without, the leading source of beauty. It is by the design of the windows that we define the gradations of style. It is chiefly by the windows that we describe a building, and the first question asked about a Gothic building generally relates to its windows. On them, therefore, was expended a large portion of the architectural decoration. How marvellous, then, is the inconsistency which we meet with!—people with one breath objecting to Gothic architecture—the offspring of Northern climes—as not admitting light enough, and urging the use of Southern architecture to obviate the imagined defect; and then telling you of the beauties of a modern building,[61] the great characteristic of which is, that its principal façade has no windows at all!

Next to the windows, the doorways claim the most careful attention. Indeed, in some respects, they had the precedence, inasmuch as of all parts of a building the doorway is that which challenges the closest inspection. The decorations, consequently, of doorways are those which contain the greatest amount of actual sculptured art. It is a great principle to place sculpture where it will be best seen; and as every one who enters a building must of necessity obtain a close view of the doorways, they were naturally made the great vehicles for sculpture. In France especially, every part of the doorway frequently is sculptured. Take, for example, the western portals of Amiens: the pedestal or basement of the jambs is decorated with medallions, illustrating Bible history by bas-reliefs; the jambs contain colossal statues of saints; the central pillar of the great double doorway contains the chief statue; the tympanum is filled with subjects, and the orders of the arch with angelic figures; so that the entire doorways are alive with sculpture.

The buttresses, again, those naturally uncouth projections—mere inert masses to resist the pressure from within—are rendered beautiful by their stately proportions and architectural details, the niches and statues which adorn their receding stages, and the aspiring pinnacles by which they are crowned.

The stone roof-plate, enriched with mouldings and foliage, and, perhaps, supported on sculptured corbels, becomes the crowning horizontal feature; and the parapet—the defence of the workmen engaged on the roofs—is pierced into tracery, or forms a miniature arcade, giving delicacy and lightness of effect to the generally massive structure; while the bell-tower, raised high to make its voice heard from afar, becomes the culminating ornament of the whole exterior. So completely was it the recognised principle of the architecture to render the useful and constructive parts sources of decoration, that, where any deliberate decoration was made use of, it was often formed of imitations of constructional features, such as window tracery, arcades, gables, pinnacles, columns, etc.

I am not prepared to say that this is in itself to be applauded; indeed, I think it ought, at the least, to be kept within moderate limits; but it nevertheless owed its origin to the firm hold which the principle of rendering construction the leading source of decoration had upon the architects. Being accustomed to decorate construction, they got into the habit of using constructive forms as decorations.

My illustrations have hitherto, perhaps, for the most part, been taken from churches, but the same principle of common sense applies equally to secular structures. Each is treated in a manner suited to its class and purpose. Those classes and purposes differ, as a matter of course, in a majority of cases, from their correlatives at the present day, as they did in different periods of the Middle Ages themselves, and in the different countries of Europe, at any given period; so that the mere fact of such differences existing is no argument against any lesson we may learn from them. I presume, for example, that no great analogy can be established between a Roman villa and one of the nineteenth century in England, and not much between an Italian Renaissance palace of the fifteenth century and a London mansion of the nineteenth. Even in Germany and in France at the present day the houses differ greatly from those in England. The question of the rationale of a style is rather whether it is so flexible and so essentially founded on common sense and reason that it will readily shape itself to meet practical demands, however varied they may be.

Now, it is scarcely possible for a building of the Middle Ages and one for a kindred purpose at the present day to differ more widely in their requirements than did different buildings of the same age; and if the most varied demands of one period are equally met by a given style, why should we fear that the same style would fail to meet variations proceeding from a change of manners and habits?

Take, for example, a Gothic fortification and a Gothic town hall. Can any requirements be more totally different? In one the great object was to shut off all communication from without: external windows must be either wholly avoided or reduced to mere eyelet-holes. In the other the walls are perforated with windows to the greatest extent which the strength of the structure would admit. In one the entrance must be guarded by all possible contrivances; in the other it must, as it were, open its arms widely to invite the incoming citizens. In the one the whole expression is one of stern exclusion and frowning defiance; in the other of busy concourse and festive hilarity. Now, is it possible for these widely differing demands and contrary expressions to have been more perfectly embodied than they are in the feudal castle, and in the halls of the manufacturing cities of Flanders and Germany?

Take, again, the domestic buildings of a convent, and those of the citizens of a great commercial town. Both, it is true, were human residences, and must provide for the common wants of our nature. Yet in one the great principle of the foundation was ascetic gravity and religious mortification; in the other the objects aimed at were hospitality, cheerfulness, and family enjoyment: and in each case the objects were perfectly provided for, as well as expressed in the aspect of the building. Why, then, should we imagine that because our ideas of family comfort are more perfect than in the days of our forefathers, the style of architecture which they so successfully applied to purposes differing so widely one from another will refuse to accommodate itself to a more complete form of one of the same purposes? Yet people continually tell us that Gothic architecture is feudal and monkish! Of course the castle was feudal and the convent monkish: it would have been strange if they had not, seeing that one was built for the feudal lord and the other for monks. But was the town hall or the city residence monkish? Were the warehouses of Nuremberg or the market-halls of Flanders feudal? The idea carries absurdity on the face of it. They were, in fact, built by those very communities who had used their utmost endeavours to overthrow feudalism, and were ever most strenuously opposing its authority and influence.

I have in this, and more especially in my last lecture shown you that the development of Gothic architecture itself was founded, step by step, upon common sense and upon practical considerations. In like manner were these made the great principles which guided its application.

In all classes of building, whether ecclesiastical, military, monastic, civic, domestic, commercial, or rustic, though the architecture was in reality one and the same, the treatment was absolutely and imperatively commanded by the purpose, and the expression followed by instinct. As I have said on other occasions, a Mediæval barn is as good and as true in its architecture as a cathedral; both are essentially in the same style, yet one is as obviously a barn and as absolutely subservient to the requirements of a barn, as the other is a church. One has no windows, but slits of some 4 inches wide, and yet looks as Gothic as the other, which has more window than wall.

Take, again, two commercial buildings—as the great Cloth Market at Yprès and the huge warehouses at Nuremburg—one for exhibiting manufactures, the other for stowing away goods. The first is, internally, a continuous room or gallery some 30 or 40 feet wide, and (measuring along its several ranges) about 600 or 700 feet long; its entire sides occupied by continuous and uniform ranges of large windows, and the exterior unbroken to express the unity of the interior, and its

lower storey subdivided into rooms of a small size for more varied uses; and with all this unbroken uniformity, it would be hard to find a more wonderfully striking building. The other, being for stowage, demanded multitudinous storeys and numerous supports. The storeys within are not, perhaps, more than 8 or 10 feet high, and the floors are carried on oaken pillars. The windows, being more for ventilation than light, are small and square, and closed by shutters instead of glass. The crane houses are made noble structures of timber, but no ornament is admitted, excepting to the doorways and perhaps the gables. The whole speaks its purpose so unmistakably that I do not suppose any one ever yet asked what it was; and though a mere unmasked and almost unadorned warehouse, it stands forth and asserts—and not in vain—its claims upon public admiration amongst the admired monuments of that truly interesting city.

To go into the various classes of secular buildings, and to show the consistency of their treatment, each with its own proper requirements, would fill a volume, and a volume, if it did any justice to the subject, well worth reading. I must not now go farther. I will, however, point out a few developments demanding our notice. I have before alluded to several points of difference between the windows of secular and ecclesiastical buildings. These differences were carried farther and farther according to the demands of the particular building in hand. The windows were wide or narrow, more or less numerous, subdivided or undivided, arched or square-headed, and, if arched, had high or low arches, strictly according to the demands of the rooms within; and whatever those demands were, the architecture was subordinated to them. Some buildings had windows few and far between; others were nearly all window; and of course there were all intermediate varieties. Some buildings were vaulted in every storey, giving good examples of really fireproof construction; others were fireproof through one or two storeys, and timbered above; and others, again, had timber floors throughout. In secular structures we find trabeated architecture in its truest form—not stone beams, which, when extended beyond very narrow limits, go against the nature of the material, but real beams of wood, used in a thoroughly sensible and constructive manner. I would particularly call attention to the fact that beams were not merely run into walls—where, the moment the ends so immured decay, down comes the floor; but they were aided by stone corbels, and not only so, but by timber corbels, lying on them; or if the bearings were very great, braces were added, which will carry the beams even when the ends are rotted off.

This is trabeated architecture in a very genuine form. I dare say both Greeks and Romans may have used it so, too; but as their timbers have gone to dust, the Renaissance has lost its precedents, and has too often imitated stone construction in wood, or in more modern works, in lath and plaster; for wood, having disappeared from among the precedents, has of late been to a great extent eschewed as a visible architectural material.

Then, again, we have another common-sense development—the fireplace. The Romans had a number of good methods of warming their buildings; but the straightforward, honest fireplace—the social palladium of the Englishman—we owe, I believe, to the Mediæval builders—the men who are said to have known nothing of modern comforts. There are fireplaces in old Norman castles—Conisborough, for instance—as good as in a Belgravian house, and the chimney-pieces were often a great deal handsomer. With the fireplace came that other modern feature, the chimney-shaft. Look how consistently with common sense, and with the principle of decorating what was demanded by utility, that was treated!

The oriel window or bay window was another Mediæval invention, and it would be difficult to find a feature more conducive to comfort and cheerfulness. It is often very sensibly translated into other styles; but, like the fireplace and the chimney, it belongs to the style of those “comfortless” ages of which we are treating.

The dormer window is another invention of this window age. The high roof was not to be thrown away—it must be utilised by being formed into attic storeys; windows, therefore, must be contrived wholly or in part in the roofs. Hence that highly picturesque and useful feature, which, though like the oriel, now translated into other styles, was invented in the middle ages, and, like all their inventions, originated in common sense.

I have spoken of the construction of floors, but omitted to notice the ceilings. Great scope was given to variety in their treatment. Sometimes all the timbers were shown, and, perhaps, decorated with colour, the wood-work being more or less ornamented, as the character of the building demanded. For lofty rooms this often gives a noble covering; in other cases, the beams and binding joists are shown, and the intervening spaces panelled; in others, again, the whole is panelled, and in each case any amount of decorative painting used which might be desired. There is no doubt that the ceilings in Gothic buildings were, in many cases, the types which suggested those of the earlier Renaissance buildings before people began to imitate stone construction in plaster, and to make quasi-constructive features in hollow cradling. In the middle ages, either constructive parts were exposed to view, or the decorations which concealed them were designed simply as decorations, without in any degree professing to be constructive—plain honest common sense being the ruling principle, as it ought to be, and once was in other styles.

One of the most striking ways in which this principle of common sense is displayed is in the absolute freedom exercised in planning, or, more correctly speaking, the absolute subordination of external design to the practical requirements of the interior. There was no love of irregularity for its own sake among the Mediæval builders; on the contrary, they had no objection at all to general uniformity where the circumstances of the case did not suggest a departure from it; and where irregularity was demanded for use, they did not carry it beyond what the demand required; but when the practical requirements naturally led to irregularity, they fearlessly followed them, without any of that morbid striving after forced uniformity which characterises—I will not say Classic works, for the ancients also acted on more natural principles—the great majority of modern buildings. That they did not capriciously strive after irregularity is proved by such buildings as the great market halls of Bruges and Yprès, the latter of which has a front of 450 feet long, without one deviation from uniformity, simply because the practical requirements in each wing were identical. That, when the internal requirements but slightly differed, they carried irregularity no farther than the demands of reason suggested, is proved by such fronts as that of the ducal palace at Venice, and of a very great number of street houses and palaces in different countries, where the normal idea is uniform, but the windows placed to suit rooms of varying size; but that, when the practical requirements had no reference to uniformity, they fearlessly acted on them, without any of those sickly repinings which would so sadly disturb the peace of the modern architect, still more without any torturing of the internal arrangements to make them fit to a preconceived elevation (which is the usual practice in these more enlightened days), is abundantly proved by many of the noblest works which our forefathers have bequeathed to us.

Now, far be it from me to say that this honesty of treatment belongs exclusively to Gothic architecture. It does not. It is the leading principle of all true architecture; and I have no doubt, indeed we have indisputable proof, that it was acted on by the Greeks and Romans, as well as by our own forefathers. The contrary practice seems to be an error rather of our own age than of the genuine periods of Classic art; but when the defenders of the revived Classic art use it as an objection against Mediæval architecture, we then have a full right to point out its true principles, and to show that it is an exercise of common sense so obvious and reasonable, that any style of art which refused it would stand self-condemned, as rejecting the plain demands of reason; and, though I do not hold that Classic architecture stands so condemned, it would be so if we were to admit against it the accusations of some of its own advocates. At any rate, it is fair on the part of Gothic architecture to say that in this great principle of the subordination of external design to internal requirement, it not only follows the great styles of architecture which preceded it, but that, in the opinion of its opponents, it carries out the great utilitarian principle even to an excess.

There can be no doubt that the principle is pre-eminently in harmony with the genius of Gothic architecture; more so, probably, than with any other; and if those who think it a vice desire to saddle it exclusively on our style, they cannot complain if we, who hold it to be a virtue, at the least, claim for that style the lion’s share of the credit.

I do not for a moment dispute that there is room for excess, even in acting on a principle so reasonable. If we were to make it an excuse for careless planning; if we were so affected as to seek excuses for irregularity when the arrangement, if carefully considered, offered none; or if we neglect reasonable means of avoiding them when it can be done without any injury to the arrangement, we are clearly open to the charge of excess; but, on the other hand, if we were to avoid irregularity by making two essentially different parts look alike, at the sacrifice of their practical demands; if we place windows in inconvenient or unsightly positions in the interiors of our rooms, for the sake of making them match some windows in an opposite wing, or to form a regular range, disagreeing with internal divisions; if we make sham windows where none are wanted, or omit real ones where they would be useful; or if we torture and displace our rooms to obtain uniformity; or play any of the thousand tricks which are too current amongst us to make our exteriors uniform where our interiors are the contrary; surely we are guilty of a far more culpable excess in the opposite direction, for the exaggeration of common sense is unquestionably a more venial sin than its renunciation. However this may be, Gothic architecture, whether rightly or wrongly, looks to internal requirements as paramount to external regularity; places its windows rather with reference to the rooms within than to the elevations without; and rejoices in making the exterior express in some degree the changes of purpose in the internal arrangement: but it does not reject uniformity where compatible with truth and utility, nor refuse to admit of careful artistic combinations of parts, so long as they are made subservient to, or at least do not militate against, practical requirements. As I have said before, I believe that in this it only reflects, and carries out more perfectly, the principles of true Classic art; and that, if these principles are often forgotten or rejected, it is in the main an abuse of modern date. It is, however beyond all question inherent upon that form of revived Classic art with which we are surrounded.

The same may, in fact, be said of truthfulness in minor things. It would be unjust to father the contemptible and endless fallacies of our own day upon Classic architecture. It is true that they pervade and saturate many of the modern productions of that style, and that the revival of Gothic architecture has somehow led to their exposure; but the truthfulness which we are proud to claim as one of its great and leading stars, we freely yield as the property, not of one style, but of all noble architecture.[62]

Did time permit, I might follow up the rationale of the style under consideration as evinced in the judicious employment, treatment of, and the mode of workmanship applied to, different materials as well as different branches of artistic decoration. The Mediæval architect adopted the material he could most readily obtain, and adapted his design to suit its peculiar qualities.

If he used block-stone throughout his work, or united it with rough walling-stone or rubble, or if his building were of brick, or flint, or pebbles, he studied to use them so as to look well and to aid the effect by their variety; as instances of this I will refer to the exquisite stone and flint structures in the eastern counties, and the interstratification of block stone with the thinnest rubble in some of the oolitic districts; to the domestic brick architecture of Norfolk, or Northern Germany, and of Lombardy, to the timber structures of innumerable districts and cities; to the variously-coloured stones in the buildings in Auvergne; and last, but not least, to the magnificent marble structures, with their inlayings and mosaics, which delight us when in Italy. The great principle was how best to utilise the materials which Nature had provided: where Nature had been chary in her gifts, even external plaster was not despised, but truthfully made use of; where she had been lavish, even precious stones were used as building materials, as at Prague, where there is a chapel whose interior is faced with a kind of rubble-work of polished amethyst, the stones being cut through, but otherwise unshaped, the irregular jointings being covered with embossed gilding.

In metal-work each metal was treated on its own merits and its own natural characteristics.

In decoration—frescoes, mosaics, tapestry, needlework, embossed leather, metal-work, enamels, etc., were profusely used when funds permitted. Indeed, nothing was rejected, either on the score of homeliness or expense, provided it suited the work in hand and the means at command.

But what, I may be asked, is the utility of tracing out evidences of a fact so probable on the face of it as that our forefathers acted upon reason when engaged on so practical a thing as architecture? I would reply that its utility is twofold. In the first place, we have too much lost sight of the rationale of architecture, and of the necessity of acting upon it. I do not wish to rip open old sores, or to object against other errors of which we are all of us guilty. Let us each examine ourselves, and ask ourselves how far we act upon truth and reason in our designs; and if compelled to admit our derelictions, a review like that on which we have been engaged may not be otherwise than useful—quite apart from any question about what style we are working in.

In the second place, it is an undoubted fact, that we are at a transitional period of our art, that we are dissatisfied with the present and aiming at an altered future, and that some of us are following up that aim on the basis of a revival of the style of which I have been treating, while there is a vis inertiæ in art which is not easily overcome, but yields reluctantly to change; how important, then, is it to us to know that the style we are reviving was itself based, as all good architecture must be, on the firm rock of common sense, and how essential to our success that we should place our revival on the same basis! Shall we, then, secure this object by doing only what our forefathers did? By no means; rather, as I have urged in a former lecture, let us do as they did: that is, act upon reason. They thoroughly suited all their works to their varied objects. Let us do the same, how much soever more varied our requirements may be. They made their houses comfortable to the extent of their habits; let us make ours so to the greatly increased extent of our own habits. They welcomed every invention as it arose: let us do the same by the inventions of our own prolific age. They utilised every material which presented itself to them: let us do so by all the materials which modern science or ingenuity has placed at our command; only let us do all this truthfully and consistently with reason; for example, if we meet with an invention suited to the surface decoration of rooms but devoid of constructive strength, let us use it as a surface decoration, and not, as is too commonly done, make troughs and pipes of it, and pass them off for beams and columns! If we admire a vaulted construction, by all means let us use it, but do not let us emulate the vaulting of Diocletian’s Baths and Westminster Abbey or the domes of the Pantheon or St. Sophia in lath and plaster! If we want plaster casts of ancient monuments, let us place them in our museums, but, for goodness sake, let our buildings themselves be real!

The conditions to be demanded of our future architecture, whether destined to be based upon the Classic or the Gothic Renaissance, or whether they are to continue ever, as now, to assert side by side their rival claims, are:—a perfect and unhesitating fulfilment of practical demands, whether of construction, convenience, or comfort; an equally unhesitating adoption of the materials, inventions, and mechanical and constructive appliances of the age; a capability of reasonable economy or of judicious magnificence in all degrees and proportion; a character at once noble and in harmony with the country and climate, and with national associations; a perfect freedom of treatment, united with perfect truthfulness; and a free admission of the sister arts in their highest and most perfected forms. How happy would it be for art if we could proclaim an armistice between rival styles, while the advocates of each devote heart and soul to the realisation of these conditions, so obviously demanded by reason and common sense!

That Gothic architecture is in its spirit well fitted to unite these conditions, I think may be judged by much that I have shown you in this and the preceding lecture. It lays claim in a pre-eminent degree to the character of Freedom. Free in its use of arcuated or trabeated construction, as may best suit each particular case; free in the form of its arches, which, in addition to those used in other styles, take other and excellent forms, which enable them to assume all possible proportions of height to span; free in its vaulting, which has peculiar facilities for adapting itself to every possible space and span; free in the proportions, as well as infinite in the varieties, of its columns; free as air in the sculpture it applies to their capitals, as well as to other architectural uses; free in the pitch of its roofs; in the size, number, form, and grouping of its windows; and, above all, absolutely free in its planning, in which the practical requirements of the interior have undisputed sway irrespective of external design—it seems as if it could not be otherwise than suited to an age in which freedom is the great point to be aimed at in all we undertake. Convinced that such is the case, let us devote ourselves, heart and hand, to the task; let us bring all our energies to rendering the style we select as our groundwork really and absolutely subservient to the wants and to the spirit (so far as it is a healthful and a truthful spirit) of our age; let us apply to the work all our reasoning powers, and ground all we do upon common sense. But let me not be mistaken: this cannot be done by a mere abstract effort of the mind: let me, therefore, urge upon you who are students to exercise your reason and common sense in another way, and to be assured of this, that you cannot succeed in the practice of art, unless, in addition to all the practical considerations I have had occasion to allude to, you make yourselves, in the strictest sense of the word, ARTISTS.

A Digression concerning Windows.

In the foregoing Lectures, having only brought the history of our Architecture down to the close of the thirteenth century, I have neglected that of the later styles, and, consequently in great measure, the development and progressive changes in window-tracery. This has, however, been so amply treated of in many books and essays that it is not a matter with me of much regret. I confess I had intended to have supplied the omission in subsequent lectures, but circumstances prevented.

It would have been an agreeable task to have followed up the history of window-tracery and the many details which accompanied it, through the remaining two and a half centuries of the reign of Gothic architecture—to have shown how it grew from the purely geometrical system of Westminster, Newstead, and the “Angel choir” at Lincoln into the sweeter tracery of the “Easter aisle” at St. Albans, and of St. Etheldreda’s Chapel in Holborn; and on again into the yet softer loveliness of the Lady Chapel at Chichester, the halls at Penshurst, Mayfield, the gatehouses of Battle Abbey and of St. Augustine’s at Canterbury, and the Chapel of St. Anselm and De Estria’s work at the cathedral there; and then again into the more flowing tracery of Alan de Walsingham’s work, till it fell into debility by its too sensuous ramifications, and was brought back again to vigour by the stern perpendicular work of Wykeham; and how that, in its turn, became softened down, into such works as Crosby and Eltham Halls, and again into the exuberance of the Tudor style. All this would be very pleasant, but would necessitate the treating of all contemporary variations of detail, and would swell my lectures out into another volume: more than this, I have given no such lectures. It has been my task to show the principles on which Gothic architecture was founded, and on which it attained its leading developments, rather than to follow them out to their ultimate results, on attaining which much which led to them was thrown aside, as scaffolding is taken down when a structure is completed.

I feel it necessary, however, while neglecting the more usual course of chronicling the history of window-tracery, to supplement my lectures at this point with some remarks on the general construction of windows—applicable more or less to all periods of Mediæval architecture.

The most normal form of a window in an arched style is simply an opening straight through the wall covered by a barrel arch. This is, however, obviously defective in its fitness for diffusing light in the interior, a deficiency which, though slight in the case of a large window in a thin wall, becomes serious when the window is narrow and the wall thick. The simplest method of meeting this is to splay the jambs and arch of the window, at, for example, an angle of forty-five degrees, so as to allow for the spreading of the rays of light within.

In English architecture of pre-Norman days, this was most frequently done, both within and without, by placing the glass a long way from the outer face, or perhaps in the mid-thickness of the wall (Fig. 154). This had the advantage of splaying the head or arch as well as the jamb, which allowed more high light to enter; an advantage often increased by splaying the exterior of the arch more than the jambs, giving it a bonnet-like shape, and so obtaining still higher light (Fig. 155). Windows thus splayed inside and out, may be seen in the Castle Church at Dover—some few of these are not arched but had oak lintels, splaying upwards at about forty-five degrees (Fig. 156). The bonnet-headed window may be seen at Holy Trinity Church, Colchester; Clapham Church, Bedfordshire and many other buildings.