Part 17

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.