The principal modern treatise on the Picturesque with a capital P, Christopher Hussey’s of 1927, is subtitled ‘Studies in a Point of View’. By the opening years of the nineteenth century the term had come to have a far more precise, if also a more complex, meaning than the adjective ‘picturesque’ as it is generally used today. But Hussey is perfectly correct: the Picturesque is no more a style than is the Sublime, it is a point of view. That point of view nevertheless influenced architecture[105] increasingly as the first half of the nineteenth century wore on. It had a solvent, and eventually a destructive, effect on the dominant Romantic Classical style as has already been suggested in discussing the later work of various leading architects in several countries.
The Picturesque had its early eighteenth-century origins[106] in England, and its most notable theorists were English. In the first quarter of the century, moreover, there was no British architect so resolutely Grecian that he did not, either on his own initiative or in deference to his clients’ wishes, experiment with alternative modes in conscious pursuit of the Picturesque. Despite the stringencies of the Greek Revival as represented, early, in Wilkins’s Downing College or, later, in Smirke’s British Museum, Smirke had built several Castellated mansions in the years before Waterloo and Wilkins the Gothic screen and the hall range at King’s College, Cambridge, in the twenties; while at the National Gallery in the thirties he handled standard Classical elements in a markedly Picturesque way. Nash was the initiator of one characteristically Picturesque mode, the asymmetrically towered Italian Villa, at Cronkhill in 1802; he also exploited in an exemplary way another longer-established one, the Rustic Cottage, in Blaise Hamlet in 1811 (Plate 50A). The score or more of Castellated mansions that Nash built were always Picturesque and irregular whether their detailing was Norman[107] or some sort of Gothic. Above all, he handled the urbanistic development which was his greatest achievement in a thoroughly Picturesque way. Soane’s Picturesque was of a less usual order and his personal tendency was as much or more towards the Sublime, otherwise a largely forgotten category after 1810.
But from 1810 on new buildings in which the basic principles of Romantic Classicism were ignored and exotic stylistic alternatives to the Grecian exploited were generally larger, more prominent, and also more creatively original than they had ever been before. C. A. Busby (1788-1838) was responsible as late as 1827 for one of the finest, most formal, and most extensive examples of Romantic Classical urbanism, Kemp Town at Brighton. Yet in 1814 he exhibited at the Royal Academy his design for Gwrych Castle, completed in 1815, which he was building in North Wales near Abergele, presumably in collaboration with his client, Lloyd Bamford Hesketh, a notable amateur (Plate 49).
The next year Nash began for the Regent the transformation of his favourite residence, the Royal Pavilion[108] at Brighton. This was at that time an elegant early example of a Romantic Classical house as first remodelled and enlarged by Henry Holland[109] (1745-1806) just before the Napoleonic Wars began. Nash now made of it an extraordinary oriental confection (as had already been proposed by Repton[110] in 1806). Part Chinese, part Saracenic, and part Indian, this is quite in the spirit of Porden’s earlier Dome near by (Plate 48). Festive and frivolous, the Pavilion resembles an oversized garden fabrick or sumptuously ornamented marquee; but the scale is fully architectural, even monumental, both externally and in the principal apartments. Not least interesting is Nash’s frank use of visible iron elements. These are not masonry-scaled like the columns he employed later in the Regent Street Quadrant and on Carlton House Terrace, but delicate and playfully decorative. The pierced ‘Chinese’ staircases of 1815-18 have naturalistically coloured bamboo detailing and the tops of the four columns that carry the monitor over the kitchen of 1818-21 are embellished with copper palm-leaves (Plate 58A).
The Pavilion had no real sequel; even the Regent, King as George IV from 1820, tired of it almost as soon as it was finished. Indeed, he forsook Brighton for good in 1823 just as the general building activity there,[111] commonly but incorrectly called ‘Regency’, was getting under way. Turning his attention to Windsor Castle, the King employed Sir Jeffrey Wyatville (1776-1840) to remodel the accumulated mass of heterogeneous construction there into a Picturesque mansion of the Castellated sort in which the real medieval elements were quite submerged. But Windsor, being much more obviously a remodelling than was the Pavilion when Nash completed it, is not a very exemplary specimen of a fake castle. Busby’s Gwrych, set against a hanging wood, its round and square towers simply detailed and tightly though asymmetrically composed, is a better instance of that abstract sculptural massing which critics of the mid century would sometimes define as ‘architecturesque’ (Plate 49). For this sort of three-dimensional composition the Italian Villa mode provided on the whole a better vehicle. Wyatville, for example, did his best to turn the vast regular mass of late seventeenth-century Chatsworth[112] into a more Picturesque adjunct to its landscape setting by Capability Brown (1715-83), by adding a long service wing on the north side and terminating that with a very large and tall loggia-topped tower.
Well before George IV undertook the remodelling of Windsor, a relatively modest mansion linked the Castellated mode more closely to the rising enthusiasm for the Middle Ages. The author of the immensely popular Waverley novels, Sir Walter Scott, employed Blore in 1816 to build Abbotsford near Melrose in Roxburghshire in this vein—it was much extended along the same lines by William Atkinson (c. 1773-1839) in 1822-3. With its definitely Scottish features Abbotsford initiated a special mode, the Scottish Baronial, that eventually received Royal sanction when Queen Victoria acquired Balmoral Castle near Ballater in 1848, a modest residence built in the late thirties by John Smith of Aberdeen. At the time she and Prince Albert first occupied this Scottish retreat Balmoral was quite small, but it was reconstructed in 1853-5 on a vastly larger scale in the same Scottish Baronial mode by William Smith, son of the original architect, working in close collaboration with Prince Albert. Thus the Queen’s two private residences, Osborne and Balmoral, both in part at least designed by the Consort, illustrated—in neither case very happily—the two major types of determinedly Picturesque design for edifices of some consequence, the Italian Villa and the Castellated; the viability of the Rustic Cottage mode was necessarily rather limited and hardly suitable for Royal use.
Castellated design was not restricted to the field of country-house building. At Conway, in Wales, the engineer Thomas Telford (1757-1834) in his suspension bridge of 1819-24 and, after him, Robert Stephenson and his associated architect Francis Thompson in the tubular bridge[113] there of 1845-9 castellated the piers out of deference to the nearby thirteenth-century Castle. Another example of Engineers’ Castellated is the first Temple Meads Railway Station at Bristol, built in 1839-40 by I. K. Brunel (1806-59). Brunel, however, had preferred Egyptian forms for the piers of the Clifton Suspension Bridge[114] near Bristol that he designed in 1829.
Somewhat more appropriately, prisons were likely to be Castellated in the forties and fifties, thus echoing the design as well as the planning of Haviland’s Eastern Penitentiary in Philadelphia. The Reading Gaol of 1842-4 by Sir George Gilbert Scott (1811-78) and his partner W. B. Moffatt (1812-87) and the Holloway Gaol in London of 1851-2 by J. B. Bunning (1802-63) are the most striking examples. Both are essentially Picturesque essays; but by the time the latter was built the accepted standards of fake-castle building had entirely changed. The reconstruction of Alton Castle in Staffordshire, about 1840, by A. W. N. Pugin (1812-52) was archaeological in intention; even more archaeological is Peckforton Castle in Shropshire, newly erected by Anthony Salvin (1799-1881) in 1846-50, and his extensive ‘restoration’ of Alnwick Castle in Northumberland carried out in the next decade. Thanks to its magnificent hill-top site and its present state of disrepair, Peckforton is in fact notably Picturesque; but the fine, hard, structurally expressive detailing of the beautiful pink sandstone may almost be considered anti-Picturesque—contemporaries praised it for its ‘realism’.
The welter of alternative Picturesque modes is most entertainingly epitomized in the model village of Edensor,[115] built by Joseph Paxton in 1839-42 at Chatsworth. He was probably assisted by John Robertson, a draughtsman for that encyclopaedist of the Picturesque, J. C. Loudon.[116] One particular mode, however, had begun to take the lead even before this ‘point of view’ came closest to dominance in the early decades of the new century. The use of Gothic[117] for new churches was common enough from the mid eighteenth century. Down to about 1820, however, this was usually done without much archaeological pretension. The mood of the protagonists of what was then called ‘Gothick’, whether architects or clients, was not very serious. Architects lacked accurate illustrations of old work such as the volumes of Stuart and Revett and other similar treatises were providing for the Grecian. In the first two decades of the new century the more thorough and general study of ancient Gothic monuments in England and the handsome publications of John Britton (1771-1857)[118] and of Nash’s Gothic specialist, the elder Pugin,[119] were gradually changing the situation. Thomas Rickman (1776-1841), a pharmacist turned medievalist, began to put his knowledge[120] of old churches to practical use; his St George’s, Birmingham, built 1819-21, is a not unsuccessful essay in revived Perpendicular. Several others had built or were building by this time churches whose relationship to monuments of the medieval past was about as close as that of most of the contemporary Grecian work to its ancient models. St Mary’s, Bathwick, in Bath, of 1814-20 is at once very early and exceptionally well-scaled. The local architect John Pinch (1770-1827) even vaulted it throughout in Bath stone.
The ultimate purging away of the frivolity of Georgian Gothick detail and the effective substitution of archaeological for Picturesque ideals in over-all composition was by no means always a gain. In two later Birmingham churches, St Peter’s, Dale End, of 1825-7, and Bishop Ryder’s of 1837-8, Rickman did not improve on St George’s, while St Luke’s, Chelsea, built in London by James Savage (1779-1852) in 1819-25, despite its great size and its stone vaulting, is as cold and dry as the Grecian churches of the day and quite inferior to Pinch’s.
Edward Garbett’s Holy Trinity, Theale, of 1820-5—with tower added after the architect’s death by John Buckler (1770-1851) in 1827-8—is rather more interesting and also premonitory of what was coming. Here the detail, imitated from Salisbury Cathedral, is thirteenth-century in character, not fifteenth-sixteenth-century, as in the churches of Pinch, Rickman, and Savage. Moreover, Theale is more boldly scaled and more plastically handled altogether than are theirs. The placing of the tower, far to the rear on the south side, while more Picturesque in its asymmetry than the standard position at the centre of the west front, is also an archaeological echo of the free-standing tower which still existed then beside Salisbury Cathedral.
Most Gothic churches built in the twenties and thirties under the Act of 1818—Commissioners’ Churches as they are called—were neither very satisfyingly Picturesque nor at all archaeological. The usual reason for preferring Gothic to Grecian, indeed, was to save money by avoiding the need for expensive stone porticoes! Barry’s Commissioners’ Churches around Manchester and in north-eastern London are among the better examples; but only his St Peter’s, Brighton, of 1824-6 (not financed by the parsimonious Commissioners) is at all elaborate. Among the most successful contemporary examples are several by one of Soane’s pupils, R. D. Chantrell, at Leeds. His Christ Church there of 1823-6 has considerable spatial grandeur in its tall nave and aisles, while the Perpendicular detailing is rich and even fairly plausible.
Generally preferable to the ecclesiastical Gothic of this decade is the collegiate work; of this more exists both at Oxford and at Cambridge than is generally realized. At King’s College, Cambridge, Wilkins’s Gothic screen fronting the quadrangle and the hall range at right angles to it are not altogether unworthy of the magnificent Perpendicular chapel and Gibbs’s Fellows Building that form the other two sides. Wilkins won the competition for this work in 1823, and it was all completed by 1827. Still more appealing, because an effectively independent entity, is Rickman’s New Court at St John’s College, also at Cambridge,[121] built by him with the aid of his pupil Henry Hutchinson (1800-31) in 1825-31 (Plate 50B). This is not very plausibly Gothic perhaps, but the papery planes of the light-coloured ashlar walls of the U-shaped quadrangle, now richly hung with creeper, form an eligibly Picturesque composition above and behind the open gallery across the south side despite their total symmetry.
By the thirties standards of Gothic design were generally rising, both in the greater degree of plausibility attained by the leading practitioners and in their more positive command of various borrowed idioms. Thus Barry’s King Edward’s Grammar School in Birmingham, designed in 1833 and built 1834-7, seems to have been a rather satisfactory Neo-Tudor design, notably Barryesque in the breadth of the composition and in the use of strong terminal features. This building was unusually literate in detail owing to the assistance of the younger Pugin, who was just about to make a tremendous personal reputation as a Gothic expert thanks to his books.[122]
Pugin’s Contrasts, published 1836, marks a turning point even more than does the acceptance in that year of Barry’s Gothic design for the Houses of Parliament. Newly converted to Catholicism, Pugin believed the building of Gothic churches to be a religious necessity. His programme of Gothic Revival was far more stringent than any existing programme of Greek Revival or, a fortiori, of Renaissance Revival. If the Gothic were really to be revived, Pugin saw that its basic principles must be understood and accepted. Merely to copy Gothic forms was as futile, and to him as immoral, as merely to copy Grecian or cinquecento ones. The methods of building of the Middle Ages must be revived; architecture must again derive its character, in what he considered to have been the true medieval way, from the direct expression of structure; and at the same time it must serve the complicated ritual-functional needs of revived medieval church practices.
In some ways Pugin’s ideas are closely parallel to those of the most rationalistic Romantic Classical theorists in France; doubtless they could be traced back, through his father, to French eighteenth-century sources (see Introduction). However, Pugin’s primary motivation was devotional and sacramental. Approaching all matters of building with passion, he could not but reject the frivolous emphasis on visual qualities that had always been characteristic of the Picturesque point of view.
The mature Gothic Revival that began with Pugin, essentially an English manifestation despite its presumptive French background and carried eventually wherever English culture extended—as far as the West Coast of the United States and to the remotest Antipodes—grew out of the Picturesque yet is itself basically anti-Picturesque. One must build in a certain way because it is right to do so, not because the results are agreeable to the eye. The Gothic Revival thus came to be, for about a decade, as absolute as the most doctrinaire sort of Grecian Classicism. When the Anglicans of the Established Church just after 1840 took over and began to apply rigidly the principles of the Catholic Pugin, a new church-architecture came into being. This is quite as characteristic of the nineteenth century as is Romantic Classicism, even though the mode was—nominally at least—entirely dependent on English medieval Gothic of the fourteenth century. Within a decade, however, Puginian Gothic, after being accepted and codified by the Cambridge Camden Society,[123] developed into a much more original mode, the High Victorian Gothic, very remote indeed from the models which Pugin had recommended as providing the only proper precedents for the Revival (see Chapter 10).
Here it will be well to consider two exceptional Gothic monuments, designed in the late thirties and built in the forties, one very large, the other rather small, which did not follow the new Puginian standards, even though in the case of one of them Pugin collaborated on the design from the first. The most Picturesque addition to the Romantic Classical scene in Edinburgh, curiously effective by contrast with the big-scaled and very cold Grecian structures near by, is the Sir Walter Scott Monument in Prince’s Street Gardens (Plate 51). This was designed in 1836 and executed in 1840-6 by G. Meikle Kemp[124] (1795-1844). His project had originally been placed below both Fowler’s and Rickman’s in a competition; as the local contender, however, he had eventually obtained the commission in 1838. The lacy elaboration of this florid shrine, if less appropriate to Sir Walter’s own brand of medievalism than Abbotsford, is certainly in the richest Late Georgian tradition of the Picturesque.
Picturesque also are certain aspects of the Houses of Parliament, notably the contrast in shape and placing of the two towers at the ends and, above all, the silhouette of the Clock Tower, almost certainly one of Pugin’s personal contributions to the design (Plate 54). But essentially the Houses of Parliament, as might be expected of Barry, their architect, are one of the grandest academic productions of the nineteenth century. Summerson has suggested a relationship to Fonthill Abbey in the way the plan is organized round a central octagon; there may also be an echo of Wyatville’s east front of Windsor in the composition of the river front. But except for the incorporation of the medieval Westminster Hall, the Crypt Chapel, and the Cloister Court, which necessitated irregularity along the landward side, the plan is almost as regular and as classically logical in its balanced provision for multiple functions as a pupil[125] of Durand might have developed. Equally regular are the façades and, in the case of the principal front towards the river, elaborately symmetrical as well.
The rich Late Gothic detail was provided in incredible profusion by Pugin, who worked under Barry against his own developing taste for earlier and less lacy Gothic forms. Doubtless, like the towers, this detailing reflects the Picturesque, but the extreme regularity of the façades provides also the characteristic reiterations of Romantic Classicism. Pugin is supposed to have said that the river front was ‘all Greek’, a considerable exaggeration. But just as Highclere shows what Barry’s basic principles of design could produce when expressed in the revived Jacobethan mode, so without too great a strain one can imagine this front executed with some sort of Renaissance detailing, if hardly in columnar Grecian guise.
Commissioned in 1836, the Houses of Parliament rose slowly. The House of Lords was opened in 1847; the House of Commons only in 1852, the year of Pugin’s early death. Even at the time of Barry’s death in 1860 the whole group was still not finished, although his eldest son (Edward Middleton, 1830-80) made but few personal contributions when he took over control and finally completed the job later in the decade. During this extended period of about thirty years the Puginian phase of the Gothic Revival had been initiated and run its entire course; even the succeeding High Victorian Gothic was more than half-way over by the mid sixties. Like the Napoleonic monuments of Paris, which were also a generation a-building, the Houses of Parliament belong historically to the period of their beginning. They are not quite pre-Victorian, since construction above ground began only in 1840 after considerable revision of the competition design, but they are definitely Early Victorian.
Not all of Pugin’s own work is as remote in character from the Houses of Parliament as his mature principles would lead one to expect. His first church of any consequence, St Marie’s, Derby, of 1838-9, is Perpendicular in style and very crisp and flat in treatment. Nevertheless, both in its detailed ‘correctness’ and in Pugin’s real command of the national Late Gothic idiom, this church marks a great advance over the work of Rickman and the other Gothic architects of the older generation who were still in practice. Scarisbrick Hall in Lancashire, a remodelling, is confused by the retention of earlier elements and also by a considerable addition made by Pugin’s son (Edward Welby, 1834-75) in the sixties. But the portions carried out in 1837-52 are quite consonant with Pugin’s work done in association with Barry. The great hall is a definitely archaeological feature of the plan yet also a feature that would be of great significance in the later development of the nineteenth-century house (see Chapter 15).
If Scarisbrick is not exactly anti-Picturesque, comparison with such a great house as Harlaxton near Grantham, first designed by Salvin in the Jacobethan mode in 1831 and rising under Burn’s supervision from 1838 on, reveals how little the Picturesque really influenced Pugin even at the beginning of his career. However, Neo-Tudor Lonsdale Square in London, begun by R. C. Carpenter (1812-55) in 1838, is still less Picturesque than Scarisbrick because of its extreme regularity. This example makes evident how far other young architects—and Carpenter was precisely Pugin’s contemporary—were behind him in understanding and exploiting even Late Gothic forms; yet within a very few years Carpenter became the most ‘correct’ of Anglican church architects by following Pugin’s lead.
In 1839 and 1840 Pugin designed two modest churches that provided favourite paradigms for Anglo-American church-building for a generation and more. St Oswald’s, Old Swan, Liverpool, built in 1840-2, adopts the fourteenth-century English parish-church plan with central western tower broach-spired, aisles, deep chancel, and south porch, each element being quite clearly expressed in the external composition. Internally the effect is low and dark, since Pugin provided no clerestory, roofed the nave with much exposed timber, and filled the traceried windows with stained glass. More original is St Wilfred’s, Hulme, Manchester, built in 1839-42, in that the tower—never completed, alas—was set at the north-west corner. The detail of St Oswald’s is fairly elaborate, including a rather rich east window. St Wilfred’s is simpler, with lancet windows to avoid the expense of fourteenth-century tracery.
A larger, more complete, and more expensively decorated example of the Old Swan model was St Giles’s, Cheadle, of 1841-6 (Plate 52A). This has a quite magnificent, if hardly very original, spired tower and interior walls all patterned in colour. Here Lord Shrewsbury, Pugin’s most important patron, provided sufficient funds to furnish the church as the architect intended. Pugin’s largest churches, unfortunately, never received the carved work, stained glass, and painted decoration that he planned for them. At St Barnabas’s, Nottingham, now the Catholic Cathedral there, of 1842-4 he achieved externally a rather fine piling up of related masses at the rear, the whole crowned by a central tower. For lack of any decoration, however, this is grim without and barren within, despite all the spatial interest of the very complex east end.
Pugin, always his own severest critic, was most nearly satisfied with the church that he built for himself next door to his own house, the Grange, at Ramsgate.[126] The house dates from 1841-3, the church from 1846-51. Externally of Kentish knapped flint and internally of Caen stone with a very heavy roof of dark oak, this edifice is worthy of his highest standards of revived medieval construction. But it is rather less original and interesting in external massing and internal spatial development than such a big bare church as St Barnabas’s. To the house we will be returning later (see Chapter 15).
Pugin’s production is largely concentrated in the years 1837-44, between the two periods of his employment by Barry on the Houses of Parliament. By 1844 other architects, Anglican and not Roman Catholic, were accepting his principles and rivalling his success. G. G. Scott, for example, never a really great architect but a notable self-publicist, after modest beginnings designed the Martyrs’ Memorial at Oxford in 1841 in the form of a fourteenth-century Eleanor Cross and followed up that prominent commission by building the large suburban London church of St Giles’s, Camberwell, in 1842-4. At that time he was still in partnership with Moffatt. Then, in 1844, he signalized the international standing of the English Gothic Revival by winning alone the competition for the Nikolaikirche in Hamburg, which he carried to completion over the years 1845-63.
Although the body of this church was all but completely destroyed by bombs, the tower and spire still dominate the Hamburg skyline (Plate 52B). It is interesting to compare this grand scenic accent with the tower and spire of the Petrikirche, almost equally prominent, built in 1843-9 by de Chateauneuf and Fersenfeld (Plate 57A). Although built, with a curious echo of London’s characteristic stock brick, of an unpleasantly yellowish brick, while the Petrikirche is of a handsome deep-red brick like de Chateauneuf’s Alte Post, the silhouette is so enriched with elaborate fourteenth-century stonework—part English, part German in derivation—that it almost rivals in richness of effect Kemp’s Walter Scott Monument in Edinburgh. Yet the scale is grand, the parts well related, and in every way it represents a more advanced, almost mid-century taste, in contrast to the simplicity and the geometrical clarity of de Chateauneuf’s square brick tower with its plain triangular gables and its very tall and svelte metal-clad spire.
From 1845 down to 1855, when Henry Clutton (1819-93) and William Burges (1827-81) won the competition for Lille Cathedral in France and G. E. Street (1824-81) received the second prize, the pre-eminence of English architects at plausible revived Gothic was generally recognized abroad. Though few of the innumerable churches built by Scott and his rivals at home in the forties are in any way really memorable, by the middle of that decade the characteristics of English church edifices had been completely revised, largely thanks to the propaganda of the Cambridge Camden Society. There is no more typical nineteenth-century product than a Victorian Gothic church of this period built to the Camdenian canon; yet the real achievement of the most original architect who designed such churches, Butterfield, belongs to the next, or High Victorian, phase (see Chapter 10). The more Puginian Carpenter, the other favourite architect of the Society, who died in 1855, is hardly as interesting a designer—however ‘correct’ he may be—in such prominent works as St Paul’s in West Street, Brighton, of 1846-8 and St Mary Magdalen’s, Munster Square, in London of 1849-51, as in what he built for Lancing College in 1851-3. There the plain high-roofed ranges with their fine smooth walls of knapped flint and very flat and simple cut-stone dressings have a quality of precision quite lacking in most contemporary churches. Almost finer is St John’s College, Hurstpierpoint, although largely posthumous in execution.
Scott, Carpenter, and Butterfield all supplied designs for churches in various parts of the British Empire; other English architects emigrated to the Dominions and to the United States, carrying with them the doctrine of the Gothic Revival, just as French architects half a century earlier had carried a rather different sort of doctrine all over the western world. As a symbol of Britain’s major world position, moreover, English churches now rose in many Continental cities, from German watering-places and French Riviera towns to remote capitals such as Athens and Istanbul. Remarkably alien in their foreign contexts, these express the vigour and the assurance, if rarely the real creative possibilities, of the Victorian Gothic.
The Established Church in England was the great patron of the revived Gothic, although other denominations were not far behind. But the use of Gothic was by no means confined to churches, nor indeed to country houses as it had largely been in the late eighteenth century. No other Gothic public buildings rivalled the Houses of Parliament; but in 1843-5 Philip Hardwick, designer of the most Grecian of railway stations, with his son (P. C., 1822-92) built the Hall and Library of Lincoln’s Inn in London of Tudor red brick with black brick diaperings and cream stone trim. This offered a foretaste of the external polychromy which would be the sign-manual of the next period of revived Gothic in England. An earlier, more severe, sort of Tudor, carried out in stone, served Moffatt, Scott’s former partner, for a mansion at No. 19 Park Lane. But this house was most exceptional; in the forties London architects and builders generally eschewed Gothic of any sort except for churches. Generically medieval, if not specifically Gothic, inspiration would eventually play a major part in forming the advanced commercial mode of the late fifties and sixties however (see Chapter 15).
The success that Victorian Gothic, initiated by a Romanist and supported by the Catholicizing wing of the Church of England, had with non-Anglicans in England and throughout the English-speaking world is surprising. Ritualistic planning, almost the essence of the Revival to Pugin and his Camdenian followers, was naturally avoided; but the Gothic work of the best Nonconformist architects, such as the Independent Church of 1852 in Glasgow by J. T. Emmett, is by no means unworthy of comparison with Scott’s, if not the more puristic Carpenter’s. Samuel Hemming of Bristol even employed a few touches of Gothic detail on the prefabricated cast-iron churches that he exported all over the world from Bristol in the early fifties.
The mature Gothic Revival, as has been said, is more anti-Picturesque than Picturesque, at least in the realm of theory; as a writer in The Ecclesiologist expressed the matter succinctly, ‘The true picturesque derives from the sternest utility.’ Yet the revived Gothic could only be expected to appeal widely to architects and to a public who had long fully accepted the Picturesque point of view. All its irregularity and variety of silhouette, its plastically complex organization and its colouristic decoration, its textural exploitation of various traditional and even near-rustic materials is profoundly opposed to the clear and cool ideals of Romantic Classicism, but fully consonant with the Picturesque.
The significance of the English Gothic Revival of the thirties and forties is manifold, and no two critics will agree how to assess it. Certainly the functional doctrines of the Revival and its renewed devotion to honest expression of real construction remain of great importance, even though much of this runs parallel to—if, indeed, it does not follow from—the more rationalistic aspects of Romantic Classical theory. In this way the Revival made a positive historical contribution, if not perhaps as new and original a one as has sometimes been maintained in recent years.
Negatively, the English Gothic Revival was clearly of very great effectiveness as a solvent, not only of the rigidities and conventionalities of Romantic Classicism, but also of the older and deeper Classical traditions that had been revived by the Renaissance and maintained for several centuries. The lack of an equally effective solvent on the Continent helps to explain why the revolutionary developments of the next period, particularly in the domestic and in the commercial fields, were so largely Anglo-American.
Even in the twentieth century it may be said that part of the profound difference between a Wright and a Perret lay in the fact that one had the tradition of the English Gothic Revival in his blood—largely through reading Ruskin—while the other had not (see Chapters 18 and 19). Still later, the California ‘Bay Region School’ of the 1930s and 1940s implies a Gothic Revival background, however little its leaders may be aware of the fact; the coeval ‘Carioca School’ of Brazil manifestly has no such background (see Chapter 25). It is therefore of more consequence to see how the ideals of the Picturesque, and concurrently the anti-Picturesque doctrines of the Gothic Revival, were accepted in the United States, than to give comparable attention to Europe, where neither the Picturesque nor the Gothic Revival were very productive of buildings of distinction. For that matter, most of the American buildings that fall under these rubrics are but feeble parodies of English originals. The Greek Revival architects of America were no unworthy rivals of the Europeans of their day; the exponents of the Picturesque and the followers of Pugin—sometimes the same men—produced little of lasting value. But when seen in relation to the later development of the American house, the contribution of the Picturesque period, lasting in America down to the Civil War and even beyond, is of real significance (see Chapter 15).
There was not much eighteenth- or very early nineteenth-century Gothick of consequence in America. Latrobe’s Sedgeley of 1798, Strickland’s Masonic Hall in Philadelphia of 1809-11, and Bulfinch’s contemporary Federal Street Church in Boston were none of them of much intrinsic interest, and all are now destroyed. Other early manifestations of the Picturesque were even rarer, and it was not until the thirties that a concerted Gothic movement got under way. Haviland’s Eastern Penitentiary of 1821-9 was very modestly Castellated; Strickland’s St Stephen’s in Philadelphia, a rather gaunt two-towered red-brick structure of 1822-3, more or less Perpendicular, represents but a slight advance in plausibility over his Masonic Hall.
The finest works of the next decade are a group of churches in and around Boston, all built of granite. Willard’s Bowdoin Street Church in Boston of 1830 and St Peter’s of 1833 and the First Unitarian or North Church of 1836-7, both in Salem, Mass., are the best extant examples (Plate 55A). The material discouraged detail, but provided, when used rock-faced, an almost antediluvian ruggedness. Tracery is generally of wood and much simplified; the most characteristic decorative features are very plain crenellations and occasional quatrefoil openings. Thus, on the whole, these monuments are closer to Romantic Classicism than to the Picturesque and have little in common with English work of their own day or even of the preceding period. However, the wooden Gothic of this period is in general of a rather lacy Late Georgian order.[127]
The mid thirties saw some quite elaborate Gothic houses of stone, such as A. J. Davis’s Blythewood of 1834 at Annandale, N.Y., and Oaklands, built by Richard Upjohn (1802-78) the next year at Gardiner, Maine. Both architects were capable of designing at the very same time Greek edifices of considerably higher quality—Davis’s Indiana State Capitol of 1831-5 at Indianapolis and Upjohn’s Samuel Farrer house of 1836 at Bangor, Maine, for example—but both were already leaders in the rising revolt against the Grecian.
Upjohn’s Trinity Church in New York completed in 1846 is the American analogue of Pugin’s St Marie’s, Derby, and by no means inferior despite its plaster vaults (Plate 53A). With Trinity to his credit Upjohn, English-born but not English-trained, became the acknowledged leader of the American ecclesiologists. At Kingscote, Newport, R.I., which he built in 1841, Upjohn also rivalled Davis as a designer of Picturesque Gothic houses. But he was almost equally addicted to Italianate forms, even in the church-building field, for there his rigid ecclesiological principles made him unwilling to use Gothic except for Episcopalians. His non-Gothic work ranges from a vague sort of Rundbogenstil, as illustrated in his Congregational Church of the Pilgrims in Brooklyn of 1844-6, once provided with a highly original spire of scalloped outline, and the more Germanic Bowdoin College Chapel in Brunswick, Maine, of 1844-55, to Italian Villas, such as that built in Newport, R.I., for Edward King in 1845-7 (now the Free Library), and even to public buildings in the Italian Villa mode, such as his City Hall in Utica, N.Y., of 1852-3 (Plate 53B). His basilican St Paul’s in Baltimore, Maryland, of 1852-6—its style is rather surprising, since the parish was Episcopalian—is more successful than most of his later Gothic churches. His Corn Exchange Bank of 1854 in New York, round-arched if not exactly Rundbogenstil, was one of the most distinguished early approaches to the use of an arcaded mode for commercial building (see Chapter 14). Of very similar character and comparable quality was the H. E. Pierrepont house in Brooklyn completed in 1857.
But Upjohn’s reputation, rightly or wrongly, is based on his Gothic churches. Externally these are usually quite close to contemporary Camdenian models; internally they are often distinguished by very original—and also very awkward—wooden arcades rising up to the open wooden roofs above. St Mary’s, Burlington, NJ., of 1846-54 is perhaps the most attractive and English-looking of his village churches, the modest cruciform plan culminating in a very simple but delicate spire over the crossing. Not least significant, moreover, are Upjohn’s still more modest wooden churches[128] of vertical board-and-batten construction, such as St Paul’s in Brunswick, Maine, of 1845. They illustrate, like his openwork wooden arcades, a real interest in expressing the stick character of American carpentry. This interest is intellectually similar to, but visually very different from, Pugin’s devotion to the direct expression of masonry construction. At building churches in stone British immigrants like Notman and Frank Wills (1827-?)[129] were not surprisingly Upjohn’s rivals in the quality of their craftsmanship.
Running parallel with Upjohn’s career is that of Davis, but with the difference that he built few churches and, as Ithiel Town’s former partner, continued on occasion, even after the latter’s retirement in 1835, to provide Grecian as well as Gothic designs. He was perhaps most successful, however, with Italian Villas such as the Munn house in Utica, N.Y., or the E. C. Litchfield house in Prospect Park, Brooklyn, N.Y., both of 1854. At Belmead, in Powhatan County, Virginia, built in 1845, he introduced Manorial Gothic to the southern plantation, but this mode never rivalled the Grecian peripteral temple in popularity in the South. Walnut Wood, the Harral house in Bridgeport, Conn., of 1846, was more typical and long retained all its original furnishings. With the building of Ericstan, the John J. Herrick house in Tarrytown, N.Y., in 1855 Davis brought the fake castle to the Hudson River valley—so frequently compared to that of the Rhine and favourite subject in these years of a new American school of landscape painters of the most Picturesque order. As a scenic embellishment Ericstan was not unlike the ruins that Thomas Cole introduced in his most Romantic and imaginary landscapes.
Despite Davis’s ranging activity, extending westward into Kentucky and Michigan, elaborate Gothic houses, whether Castellated or manorially Tudor, were relatively rare in the America of the forties and fifties. But a type of gabled cottage with a front veranda and elaborate traceried barge-boards was rather popular. This is well represented by the extant Henry Delamater house in Rhinebeck, N.Y., and also by that of William J. Rotch of 1845 in New Bedford, Mass., both by Davis himself. The mode was energetically supported by Davis’s great friend, the landscape gardener and architectural critic A. J. Downing (1815-52).
Downing was a characteristic proponent of the Picturesque point of view, leaning heavily on earlier English writers. The designs for Picturesque houses, some by Davis, some by Notman, one at least—the King Villa—by Upjohn, and others presumably by himself, illustrated in Downing’s two house-pattern books[130] were quite as likely to be towered Italian Villas as Tudor Cottages or more pretentiously Gothic designs. Most significant of all are those called Bracketted Cottages by Downing for which he recommended the board-and-batten[131] external finish that Upjohn later took up for modest wooden churches. But these, which are neither very Picturesque—at least with the capital P—nor yet at all Gothic, are better considered in relation to the general development of Anglo-American house-design in the nineteenth century (see Chapter 15).
Rare in execution, as are indeed all the more exotic Picturesque modes, but also significant for its later influence, was the Swiss Chalet. Although chalets were illustrated in the English Villa books of P. F. Robinson (1776-1858)[132] and others from the twenties, the finest extant American example is fairly late, the Willoughby house in Newport, R.I., of 1854. As this is by Eidlitz, it may be presumed to derive from Swiss[133] or German sources rather than from Robinson’s or other English designs.
Thus at Newport, already rising towards its later position as the premier American summer resort, there were by the time the Civil War broke out in the early sixties examples of the Tudor Cottage (Upjohn’s Kingscote), the towered Italian Villa (his Edward King House)—as for that matter also the more Barryesque symmetrical villa without tower, the Parish House of 1851-2 by the English-trained Calvert Vaux (1824-95)[134]—and the Swiss Chalet, not to speak of other more formal houses which here in Newport began to show very early the influence of the French Second Empire. There were also several big hotels of this period, now all destroyed. Two Grecian examples have been mentioned earlier; but the second Ocean House, built by Warren in 1845, was Gothic, a gargantuan version of a Davis-Downing Tudor Cottage. On this the Tudoresque veranda piers were carried to a fantastic height in naïve competition with the columned porticoes of the previous Ocean House and the Atlantic House.
If there were in America no castles of the scale and plausibility of Salvin’s Peckforton, no pavilions of the pseudo-oriental magnificence of Nash’s at Brighton, the will to build them was none the less present. Ericstan has already been mentioned; while at Bridgeport, Conn., P. T. Barnum erected Iranistan in 1847-8 in conscious emulation of the Regent’s pleasure dome at Brighton from designs he had obtained in England. This was carried out by Eidlitz. Longwood, near Natchez, Mississippi, by Samuel Sloan (1815-84), begun in 1860, is even more ambitiously oriental, but was left unfinished when the Civil War broke out the next year.[135] Rather curiously the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, set down like an enormous garden fabrick in L’Enfant’s Mall near the Mills obelisk, was at the insistence of its director, Robert Dale Owen,[136] designed as a Norman castle by James Renwick (1818-95). Built in 1848-9 of brownstone, this is a very monumental manifestation of the Picturesque and one of the more surprising features of a capital otherwise mostly Classical in its architecture. On the whole the happiest American achievements in the Picturesque vein were the towered Italian Villas, from Notman’s Doane house of the mid thirties down through Upjohn’s City Hall in Utica of the early fifties and Davis’s still later houses in the East and the Middle West (see Chapter 5).
The Gothic Revival in America, deriving after 1840 from Pugin and the Camdenians, was a much more alien movement than the Greek Revival. In the British Dominions and Colonies, even though the characteristic production of this period is in many ways more similar to that of the United States than to that of the homeland, the Neo-Gothic achievement appears somewhat less exotic. However, St John’s in Hobart, Tasmania, by John Lee Archer, which was completed in 1835 in the most rudimentary sort of Commissioners’ Gothic, is far inferior to the granite churches of its period in the Boston area. From that to Holy Trinity in Hobart, completed by James Blackburn in 1847, the advance in mere competence is very evident. Yet, as in the case of Upjohn in America, the Norman church that Blackburn built for the Presbyterians of Glenorchy and even more his Congregational Church at Newtown, an asymmetrically towered Italian Villa edifice, may well be preferred to his Gothic work.
Greenway’s Government House Stables of 1817-19 in Sydney, Australia, were already Castellated, but in a modest eighteenth-century way. M. W. Lewis’s Camden church of 1840-9 was based on plans sent out by Blore and simply executed in red brick. In W. W. Wardell (1823-99), who emigrated as late as 1858, Australia finally obtained an experienced Neo-Gothic architect of real ability. He had already made his mark in England a decade before his departure with Our Lady of Victories, Clapham, in London; but even that very decent early church of his required no specific mention in the English section of this chapter. His Australian work is too late to be considered here (see Chapter 11).
Across the Atlantic, communications were doubtless quicker than with the Antipodes, and the cultural climate of Canada was undoubtedly more similar to that of the homeland. The first important Neo-Gothic work in Canada, however, was built for the French and not the British community. Notre Dame, the Catholic Cathedral of Montreal, was originally designed and erected by an Irish architect, James O’Donnell (1774-1830), in 1824-9 somewhat to the disgust of most French Canadians, who considered O’Donnell’s Gothic to be Anglican when in fact it was merely Georgian. Equipped later with western towers and redecorated internally with operatic sumptuousness in the seventies, it is not easy to realize just what Notre Dame was like when O’Donnell completed it. It was bigger, certainly, but not more advanced than the New England churches of a few years later.
In 1845 Wills arrived in Canada from England and began the Anglican Cathedral at Fredericton, New Brunswick, as a moderate-sized cruciform parish-church with central tower, the whole of rather run-of-the-mill Camdenian character despite its pretensions. Very similar, but considerably larger and richer, is the Montreal cathedral which he began a decade later in 1856. His American churches, though smaller and less elaborate, have somewhat more character. Canadians must have sensed Wills’s inadequacy almost at once, for both Butterfield and G. G. Scott were asked to send out church designs in the forties. The former provided in 1848 a scheme for a more elaborate east end for Wills’s Fredericton Cathedral, which had been started only three years before. Scott’s Cathedral in St John’s, Newfoundland, initiated in 1846, deserves a relatively important place in the roster of his churches as Butterfield’s New Brunswick work does not. But this large edifice was completed only some forty years later by his son (G. G. II, 1839-97). Even the stone used here was imported from Scotland.
As in the United States, there is plenty of more-or-less Gothic domestic work in Canada, most of it relatively late. An early and rather pretentious secular edifice was the so-called Old Building of Trinity College, Toronto, erected in 1851 by Kivas Tully (1820-1905). This was a by no means incompetent example of Collegiate Gothic, but more like Wilkins’s or Rickman’s work of the twenties at Cambridge than the advanced Camdenian edifices of its own period. Canadian Neo-Gothic rose to a certain autochthonous distinction only in the next period (see Chapter 10).
If early illustrations of the Picturesque point of view and of the mature Gothic Revival are on the whole of minor interest in the English-speaking world outside Great Britain, that whole world from California to Tasmania was absorbing the propaganda of the English exponents of the Picturesque and the Gothic Revival. This had its effect in the succeeding period when the High Victorian Gothic of England was exploited to more considerable purpose than the Neo-Gothic of the Early Victorian period. By the time a great English critic came to the support of the Gothic Revival, John Ruskin (1819-1900), he had almost from the original publication of his Seven Lamps of Architecture in 1849 more readers beyond the seas than at home.[137]
Neither the Picturesque nor the Gothic Revival has the same importance on the Continent of Europe as in English-speaking countries. The Picturesque point of view was carried abroad by the great British artistic invention of the eighteenth century, the English garden—jardin anglais, englischer Garten, giardino inglese, jardin inglès, etc., to muster the various well-established and revelatory foreign terms for the more or less naturalistic mode that succeeded the architecturally ordered French gardens of the Le Nôtre type. By 1800 the Picturesque was as familiar in theory as were the international tenets of Romantic Classicism. But for all the garden fabricks that were built in Europe in the English taste, the point of view tended to remain alien. Moreover, from the continuance of Orléans Cathedral[138] in Gothic, ordered as early as 1707 by Louis XIV though not finally finished until 1829, to Schinkel’s painted Gothic visions of the opening of the nineteenth century, there is no lack of evidence of Continental interest in Gothic forms. In France there was also a very considerable theoretical interest in Gothic methods of construction that can hardly be matched in eighteenth-century England (see Introduction). But there followed in the early decades of the nineteenth century no such effective crystallization of an earlier dilettante interest in the Gothic as in England, no popular fad for building fake castles, no flood of cheap Commissioners’ Churches.
Yet, in France as in England, a new and more serious phase of the Gothic Revival did open in the late thirties, stimulated by the ideals of Catholic Revival of a series of writers from Chateaubriand to Montalembert. No great Gothic public monument like the Houses of Parliament in London was initiated in these years in Paris—nor for that matter at any later date—but several churches designed around 1840 were at least intended to be as exemplary as Pugin’s; they were also considerably more ambitious in their size and their elaboration than most of those his Catholic clients and the Camdenians’ Anglican ones were sponsoring in England at this point.
A curious example of the change in taste is the Chapelle-Saint-Louis at Dreux.[139] The original chapel was built in 1816-22 by an architect named Cramail (or Cramailler) as a Classical rotunda to serve as the mausoleum of the Orléans family. In 1839 Louis Philippe ordered its remodelling and enlargement in Gothic style by P.-B. Lefranc (1795-1856), desiring thus to associate the Orleanist dynasty with the medieval glories of French royalty in a manner already fashionable[140] with intellectuals to the left and to the right, if not with many architects. The new exterior, completed in 1848 just as the Orléans rule came to an end, is in a very lacy and unplausible sort of Gothick, not without a certain still rather eighteenth-century Rococo charm but quite inharmonious with the Classical interior. Like another Royal mausoleum of these years, the Chapelle-Saint-Ferdinand in the Avenue Pershing in Neuilly, built in 1843 in memory of an Orléans prince who had been killed in an accident near its site, the Chapelle-Saint-Louis has stained glass windows designed in 1844 by no less an artist than Ingres. These are even less appropriate in association with Lefranc’s Gothic than with the Romanesquoid mode that the elderly Fontaine—who knew, like Talleyrand, how to maintain his position under several successive regimes—used for the Neuilly chapel. They are hardly superior in quality, moreover, to the glass, whether imported from Germany or produced locally, that was being used in the early forties in England for Neo-Gothic churches.
A more important Gothic project of this date than the Chapelle-Saint-Louis was that for the large new Paris church of Sainte-Clotilde prepared in 1840 by F.-C. Gau (1790-1853), German-born but a pupil of Lebas. Doubts as to the extensive use of iron proposed by Gau held up the initiation of the construction of Sainte-Clotilde until 1846, so that several provincial Neo-Gothic edifices of some consequence were executed first. These may be compared, but only to their disadvantage, with Pugin’s churches of around 1840 as regards their plausibility, their intrinsic architectonic qualities, and the elegance of their detail. However, several of them are larger and more ambitious—being Catholic churches in a Catholic country—than are even his various cathedrals.
In any case the character of real Gothic architecture in France, as in most other European countries, made unlikely a programme of revival based chiefly on parish churches in the way of Pugin’s. The Continental Middle Ages had most notably produced cathedrals, and it was for new churches of near-cathedral scale that the re-use of Gothic was likely to be proposed. Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours, built by J.-E. Barthélémy (1799-1868) in 1840-7 on the heights of Ste Cathérine above Rouen, opens the serious phase of the Revival in France. It has a superb site and is best appreciated from a considerable distance, but the silhouette is not happy and the execution is rather hard and cold. Saint-Nicholas at Nantes was begun in 1839 just before the Rouen church by L.-A. Piel (1808-41), a confused Romantic character who died a monk, and taken over in 1843 by J.-B.-A. Lassus (1807-57), a pupil of Lebas and Henri Labrouste. It is very hard to accept this church as even in part the production of Lassus, the erudite archaeologist who brought out in 1842 the first volume of a major monograph on Chartres Cathedral and who undertook in 1845, together with the better-known E.-E. Viollet-le-Duc (1814-79), the restoration of Notre-Dame in Paris after sharing with Duban the responsibility for restoring the Sainte-Chapelle. Rather more plausible—at least in the sense that it merges fairly successfully with the original fourteenth-century nave to which it is attached—is the façade of Saint-Ouen at Rouen built in 1845-51 by H.-C.-M. Grégoire (1791-1854), a pupil of Percier.
Sainte-Clotilde was finally begun in 1846, as has been noted, and completed after Gau’s death by Ballu in 1857 (Plate 55B). This ambitious urban church of cathedral scale lacks almost as completely as those just mentioned the personal qualities of design and the integrity of revived medieval craftsmanship that give character, if not always distinction, to the churches of Pugin, Carpenter, and other leading English Gothic Revivalists of the forties. Nor does it have the grandeur of proportion of Scott’s Nikolaikirche in Hamburg, to which it is more comparable in size and pretension (Plate 52B). The style is Rayonnant, or French fourteenth-century, and the material good freestone, but deadly mechanical and quite characterless in the detailing. The parts seem somehow too large for the whole. Ballu’s west towers, for example, are excessively tall for so stubby a plan, and the chapel-surrounded chevet is too elaborate for even an urban parish church.
Two later churches by Lassus, Saint-Nicholas at Moulins, built in collaboration with L.-D.-G. Esmonnot (1807-80) in 1849, and Saint-Pierre at Dijon of 1853 hardly rival Sainte-Clotilde in size, elaboration, or even plausibility. Viollet-le-Duc was rather more of an executant architect than Lassus, even though in this decade and the next most of his vast energy and very considerable archaeological knowledge went into the restoration of medieval monuments. At Notre-Dame in Paris the Chapter House that he designed is a wholly new construction of 1847 not unworthy of comparison with the best work of Scott in these years. The block of flats (Plate 56) he built at 28 Rue de Berlin (now de Liège) in Paris in 1846-8—his first executed building—may better be compared with the most advanced English secular Gothic of its date, Salvin’s Peckforton, say, or Butterfield’s St Augustine’s College, Canterbury. The front is so simple and straightforward in composition that it fits between more conventional façades with no awkwardness, and the rather plain detailing has the ‘realism’ that was coming to be admired by this date in the most advanced English circles.
The Romanesquoid design of Fontaine’s Chapelle-Saint-Ferdinand of 1843 has been mentioned. The use of such forms was in the forties even more exceptional in France than in England. In 1852 Didron estimated—probably with some exaggeration—that over two hundred Neo-Gothic churches had been built or were building in France, a record which compares statistically, if in no other way, with English church production in this period. None of them, however, is as impressive to later eyes as Saint-Paul at Nîmes, which follows with notable success the alternative Romanesquoid mode of Fontaine’s chapel. C.-A. Questel (1807-88), a pupil of Blouet and Duban, the architect of this church, had evidently studied the Romanesque with the care and enthusiasm usually lavished on the Gothic by his generation, and the result is so great an advance over Fontaine’s work that the resemblance is merely nominal. Thus might the Camdenians have hoped to build had they considered the twelfth-century Romanesque of France as worthy of conscientious emulation as the fourteenth-century Gothic of England. Saint-Paul is a large cruciform edifice, rib-vaulted throughout in a proto-Gothic way, and crowned with a great central lantern. The detail is plausible in its design, neither too skimpy nor too elaborate, although the execution lacks any real feeling for medieval craftsmanship in stone. Questel’s church, however, is as much of an exception as Fontaine’s chapel. No Romanesque Revival got under way in the forties in France in the way that one did to a certain extent in Germany, and the few other Romanesquoid churches of high quality belong to the next period (see Chapter 8).
Minor evidence of French interest—and rising interest—in the Picturesque is not hard to find in these decades, but that is all there is. No Picturesque modes comparable to those of the Anglo-Saxon world became widely popular. In the first decade of the century the brothers Caccault built at Clisson[141] in the Vendée a whole village based on their memories of the Roman Campagna, a more considerable essay in the Italian Villa vein than anything carried out in England. But the asymmetrically towered Italian Villa[142] did not mature in France in the way that it did in England, Germany, and the United States. Séheult’s Recueil of 1821, of which a second edition appeared in 1847, is one of the earliest and richest repositories of inspiration drawn from rustic Italian building; but the edifices Séheult illustrated, however Picturesque in other ways, are all symmetrical and quite in the Durand tradition. J.-J. Lequeu (1758-c. 1824)[143] had produced bolder projects a generation earlier. These are often asymmetrical, generally quite wildly eclectic, and very vigorously plastic; but such things rarely, if ever, came to execution in France except as garden fabricks. Lequeu had no success at all in his later years.
Moreover, the Rustic Cottage mode seems to have struck no real roots in France, even though the painter Hubert Robert and the architect Richard Mique (1728-94), in designing the fabricks of Marie Antoinette’s Hameau at the Petit Trianon in 1783-6, had followed native rather than English rural models. Under the Restoration and the July Monarchy inspiration came generally from English Cottage books. Visconti’s Château de Lussy, S.-et-M., of 1844, though a fairly large structure, is really in the English Cottage mode with an asymmetrically organized plan and an irregularly composed exterior. This is almost unique and, in any case, quite undistinguished. A more vigorous flow of rustic influence entered France via Alsace and directly from Switzerland. The Chalet aux Loges of 1837 by Bonneau near Versailles was, as its name implies, a Swiss Chalet, but it quite lacked the integrity of structural expression and the originality of plastic organization of Eidlitz’s Willoughby house in Newport, R.I., which is, of course, considerably later in date. Occasional imitations of the style François I, such as the already mentioned country house by Canissié at Draveil, S.-et-O., have some irregularity both of outline and of plan; but in general the François I of the July Monarchy, like so much of the Jacobethan of Early Victorian England, is Picturesque only in detail, not in general conception.
In 1840 the elder Bridant, who also built Chalets in the succeeding years around the lake at Enghien, a watering-place on the outskirts of Paris, built a Gothic ‘Castel’ on the plain of Passy, then a fairly open suburb. This was markedly asymmetrical and consistently medieval in detail. The contemporary fame of this enlarged garden fabrick—for such it really was—indicates its unique position in contemporary production, as unique as Moffatt’s Gothic house in Park Lane in London. L.-M. Boltz, an architect of Alsatian if not German origin but a pupil of Henri Labrouste, had some success with a less feudal mode, half-timbered and asymmetrical, in the forties—a house of 1842 at Champeaux, S.-et-M., was typical.
This modest influx into France of Picturesque models from contemporary Germany as well as from contemporary England might lead one to assume that the Picturesque, if not the Gothic Revival, was more significant in Central Europe. In Germany and Austria, however, as also in Scandinavia, Picturesque and medievalizing tendencies mostly merged with Romantic Classicism in the Rundbogenstil rather than standing apart, thus constituting neither an opposition eventually rising to triumph in the English way, nor a mere gesture of aberrant protest as in France.
Schinkel’s interest in Gothic has already been touched on, but none of his more ambitious Gothic projects ever got beyond the drawing-board (see Chapter 2). There are fewer such, in any case, belonging to his later than to his earlier years. Moreover, the Gothic of the early projects naturally belongs to the contemporary High Romantic world of Wyatt’s Fonthill Abbey and Latrobe’s alternative design for the Baltimore Cathedral, not to the ethical and archaeological milieu of Pugin and the Camdenians. Most of the virtues—by no means negligible—of his Berlin Werder Church of the twenties are not Gothic virtues—not at any rate as Englishmen of the succeeding decades understood them—they are rather Romantic Classical virtues. The principal interest of his earlier Kreuzberg Memorial lies in its cast-iron material, a material anathema to Pugin as a ‘modernistic’ innovation. The Babelsberg Schloss, based principally on the modern castles that he saw on his visit to England in 1826, makes no pretensions to archaeological correctness in the way of Pugin’s Alton Castle of about 1840 or Salvin’s still later Peckforton.
A few Castellated mansions of more local inspiration, such as Hohenschwangau in Upper Bavaria, as reconstructed by J. D. Ohlmüller (1791-1839) in 1832-7, are closer in spirit to Pugin’s and Salvin’s ideals. Hohenschwangau, like certain castles built in this period on the Rhine, exploits the Picturesque possibilities of a fine site and the nostalgic overtones of a district with a romantic medieval past. Schloss Berg in Bavaria, which owes its present very domesticated Gothic character to the work done there by Eduard Riedel (1813-85) in 1849-51, hardly deserves mention in this connexion any more than do Schinkel’s more or less medievalizing country houses, so crisp and regular is their design. Curiously enough, the vast Schloss at Schwerin, begun by G. A. Demmler (1804-86) in 1844, is a more elaborate and extensive example of François I than anything this period produced in France (Plate 57B). It is also notably Picturesque, with innumerable towers and gables disposed around the sides of an irregularly polygonal court. Stüler carried this extraordinary pile to completion after Demmler left Schwerin in 1851. Not very Picturesque, but representing another sort of medievalism, were two Venetian Gothic houses Am Elbberg in Dresden, built with considerable archaeological plausibility by an architect named Ehrhardt in the mid forties. They provide a curious premonition of Ruskin and the High Victorian Gothic of England (see Chapter 10). Semper’s Gothic Cholera Fountain of 1843 in Dresden has already been mentioned.
As in France, much energy went at this time into the restoration and completion of major medieval churches in Germany. Most notable in this connexion was the work on Cologne Cathedral begun in 1824 by F. A. Ahlert (1788-1833), continued by E. F. Zwirner (1802-61), and finally completed by Richard Voigtel (1829-1902) in 1880. Assisting Zwirner, who had worked earlier under Schinkel on the Kolberg Town Hall, was (among others) Friedrich von Schmidt (1825-91), after 1860 the most important Gothic Revivalist in Austria (see Chapters 8 and 11). No more than in France did this activity in ‘productive archaeology’ in Germany lead to new building of much interest, not at least until Schmidt began to work in Vienna.