Part 23

I think that our experience of the last few years has suggested to us: first, the expediency of returning in some modified degree to the rule from which we had departed, of adopting as our normal type the architecture of _one_ period, and that not the very earliest though still an _early_ period; but, secondly, the desirableness of not making our self-imposed rule too strait; of, thirdly, making our revival distinctly _English_; though, fourthly, not refusing to enrich and amplify our English revival with the spoils of our foreign study.

I would, then, suggest that, while your basis should be the earliest form of what has been called “_complete_ Gothic” (such, for example, as that of Westminster Abbey, the eastern part of Lincoln, Newstead Abbey, and the nave of Lichfield), this should be taken rather in a _representative_ than in a _literal_ sense; that your revived style and its developments should, in short, be based on the earlier and more vigorous half of Mediæval architecture, which earlier half should be _represented_ by its central point, _as a nucleus_ round which it rallies, and into which the beauties of the _whole_ may be collected; that the point chosen should be _inclusive_ of much which preceded and followed it, and _exclusive_ of nothing with which it will consistently amalgamate. Nor would I condemn as latitudinarian an occasional departure, either forward or backward, from this _point de départ_; only asking that the early styles may be, in a certain degree, viewed as _one_ in our revival, rather then split up into _many_, and their details, with proper judgment and self-restraint, be considered capable of being united, when occasion seems really and distinctly to call for it, in one work, or the earlier and less early forms be used, as may be preferred, for buildings intended to express more of vigour or of delicacy. I would not, however, advocate too free a use of this liberty, and would therefore propose that the early “completed” style, of which Westminster Abbey is our great type, should be always viewed as our _central and normal type and rallying-point_.[89]

Then, again, I would recommend a return, loyally and unreservedly, to _English_ types. That is to say, that when there is nothing to call for a deviation from it, we should design as a matter of course _in English_. In doing this, however, I would act as a well-instructed and sensible English _writer_ would act. He would (except under extraordinary circumstances) write in his _own language_, but would never be so suicidal as to refuse to enrich his mind, and through it his writings, by the study of foreign literature. He would, however, express thoughts thus learned _in English_; any passage adopted from foreign writers he would probably translate into English, excepting only where its _ipsissima verba_ were of the essence of the quotation. So with the English _architect_. The architecture of his own country should be his normal type, but it would be madness for him to refuse the lessons he can learn abroad. The results of these lessons should, however, for the most part be translated into English, unless such translation would destroy their vigour and their meaning. He should, as I have often observed, do--not necessarily _what_, but--as the old architects did. It is patent that our Norman, our transitional Pointed, our traceried windows, and many of our minor details partake more or less of a foreign origin. True, they were not really imported from abroad, but our architects and those of France were working hand in hand and mutually aiding in the development of their common architecture; but our old builders never scrupled, nay, earnestly sought, to gather ideas wherever they went; and yet their productions, replete as they were with the riches gathered in foreign travel, were so unquestionably _English_ that we detect any departure from them at once as a foreign interpolation. Let _us_ endeavour in the same manner so to work in our foreign gatherings as not to disturb the homogeneous character of the whole, much less to suggest the idea that we are designing in a foreign dialect. We _then_ need not fear even to learn and make use of the rich arts of Italian decoration, and still less the more kindred lessons taught us in France by the men who worked side by side with our own old architects.

We are all too apt to run into extremes. We run wildly into early or late, foreign or English work, according to the rage of the moment; and perhaps hate that which we last doted on, and despise in their turn all who hold opinions we once held ourselves or shall soon entertain. I do not condemn _in toto_ a little of this tendency to mania, as it keeps up our zeal, but I would wish to restrain it and bring it within the range of reason; and I think that such a broad and liberal rule as I have suggested will tend to this end, without imposing a galling restraint or narrowing either our range of study or the wholesome variety of our practice.

In our own earliest style, and in the French examples down to a far later date, there is one feature which I confess I have a great love for--I mean the square and angular abacus. I think it is probably the feeling for this feature which has, more than any other, led to our tendency to follow French types. I would mention, however, that it is not necessarily a _foreign_ feature, as it is found in our own earlier style, and sometimes (as in the side chapels of the nave at Chichester) is continued later; nor is it necessarily a very _early_ form, as it was in France continued to a comparatively late date. I do not, therefore, see that we need deny ourselves its use. I would only _moderate_ it, and use it and our own more typical _round_ abacus, and our own _moulded_ capital, as frequently as, and on at least equal terms with, the other.

In the form of _arches_, though keeping to typical forms as a rule, I would not deny myself the use of the _round_ arch nor the plain segment where there is any practical reason for their introduction, only I would not use the abnormal forms frivolously or without a reason. I would assert the greatest liberty in such matters, yet restrain myself by common sense in the exercise of the liberty I claim.

I would again advise (particularly in the use you make of your _foreign_ studies) the avoiding of _queer, odd-looking_ features, for which there has of late been so eager an appetite. I believe that most of those we see in modern works are pure inventions for the sake of novelty and apparent cleverness. The little stumpy columns with gigantic capitals, and all the thousand-and-one pieces of quirkiness which one sees, are things which, I confess, I have rarely if ever found in old work in any country or of any period. We have really become so French of late, in our own imagination, that no Frenchman would recognise his native style as seen in our exaggerations of it. All this is a _vulgar_ vice, and should be repudiated as a person of taste would all that is _loud_ and _vulgar_ in dress or in anything else.[90]

All this has led to much neglect of our own examples, and, when we use them, to our going too much in the contrary direction; and, from want of familiarity with the endless variety they contain, we have got into the way of confining ourselves to their most typical forms, whereas a careful study of our old examples would supply us with an infinity of varieties of the most charming kind.

It has for years been a question _sub judice_, whether architectural foliated carving, etc., ought to represent natural or purely conventional forms. I am not going to open up this controversy, but I think it right to urge upon you in your studies to follow up _both_, and to aid them by careful study of the actual objects of nature which are suggestive either of one or the other. The period I have recommended as our central rallying-point was just that at which the two kinds of foliage were used together and on equal terms. My own opinion is that no art can be a _living_ one which founds its ornamentation wholly upon a _bygone conventionalism_. This does not, however, prove that we ought directly to copy nature as it comes before us. If we demand conventionalisms, though we _may_ adopt those of our predecessors, we _ought_ to be able to conventionalise for ourselves.

For my own part, as I equally admire several of the forms of foliated ornament I find in the range of works I claim as our types, I am content to use them each in their turn; but I cannot reject _nature_ as the _great guide_, though the more we are able so far to conventionalise her productions and to “_bring into service_,” and suit them to the uses to be made of them, the better will our work be.

In _sculpture_ I hold that we ought to be able to follow what is good and noble in the form of that art which belonged to the finest period of our architecture, and yet to unite it with the most perfect art which can be produced. _Greek_ art unites perfectly with Gothic, but both demand the spirit and soul of the true artist, aided by the use of what he sees in actual life. I confess, however, that so little opportunity is allowed us for cultivating this art in connection with architecture, and so small the funds at our disposal, that we have fallen into the sin of putting our sculpture into the hands of men of a very inferior class--extemporised, in fact, from amongst our ordinary carvers; and the only wonder to me is, _not_ that they do so badly, but _so well_ as they do. This is a _noble_ subject on which to follow out a new and higher aim, and the students of the Royal Academy might especially devote themselves to its realisation. I fear that we older architects shall not succeed, but we may claim aid of _you_ who have better opportunities; and I would, as a help, suggest a course of study from the finest and purest Greek side by side with the best Gothic sculpture, endeavouring to unite their qualities, and to add to them what is to be gathered from the study of nature--not only the usual study of the human figure, but rather the importing into sculpture touches of nature and fact as they come before us.

To this also we need to add the study of _animal_ sculpture, a point in which such artists as we are able to employ are usually, though not always, equally behind-hand.

Much the same may be said of figure _painting_ when used in connection with architecture. We ought only to employ those who are _really artists_, but these should train themselves especially for the subject; and if the architect could fit _himself_ for the work, so much the better, if he really does it well; though this can never become again the general practice.

I have said a little in my last lecture on the study of the old examples and fragments of _painted glass_ which you fall in with; I would wish more formally and urgently to press this upon you.

The foreign fever, from which we are but now recovering, has told most severely upon this class of art; for not only has English stained glass been neglected as our practical guide--not only has the study of it been almost wholly abandoned--but its very _conservation_ has been little cared for; and not only in the churches which contain beautiful fragments have they been contemptuously neglected as guides to the characters of new windows introduced, but they have been constantly and systematically _expelled_ from the windows in which they exist, and for which expressly they were designed, to make way for new glass, designed without any reference to their character. We have long been in the habit of abusing, and justly, the village glaziers who turn out the beautiful fragments of ancient glass which occupy the heads of lights and the openings of tracery, to make way for uniform quarry glazing; but our _glass painters_ are daily doing the same thing without remorse, and are the more inexcusable inasmuch as they cannot plead ignorance, and if they chose could make the design of their new windows a restoration of the old, and retain the old fragments in their proper places. It usually happens, however, that they _never see_ the windows for which they prepare the glass, and are culpably innocent of all knowledge of whether they or others in the church retain remnants of the works of those who are, or ought to be, their masters.[91]

I have, in more than one instance, known that some of our best glass painters, when called on to introduce windows into our finest minsters, have completed their work without any knowledge of the fact that there remained exquisite remnants of the ancient and coeval glass belonging to windows corresponding with those they were supplying, and that of the finest periods of the art; and have consequently failed to assimilate their work to what was intended by the original builders.

The clergy, too, are often greatly to blame in this. Their eagerness for _new_ glass often expels from their minds all care for the _old_. I have heard of a good-natured[92] archdeacon in one of the southern counties, who is ready to give to any friend specimens of the ancient glass he has supplanted by new in his “restored” church.

All this makes it incumbent on you to note and carefully to draw every fragment of stained glass which you meet with where it is exposed to be lost or neglected; and I would further urge on you the systematic and minute study of the better known examples, so that your knowledge of glass painting, as of architecture, may be based upon _English_ examples. Our glass painters are open to the double charge of adhering to old precedent too religiously in its _weakest_ point, and too lightly in its _strongest_; for though their works are far from being generally very close followings of the actual decorative designs of old glass, and particularly of _English_ glass, they affect to follow the grotesque drawing of the old glass painters, and often greatly exaggerate it. I would rather reverse this, for the decorative portions of old glass are so perfect that it is impossible to surpass their beauty, while the figure drawing, though often full of deep and noble sentiment, is usually quaint and even grotesque.[93]

In respect, however, of the figure drawing, I am very far indeed from advising the repudiation _in toto_ of the ancient manner. It is only the _correction_ of the drawing that I advocate. I would adhere rigidly to the principle of representing the figures mainly (though not wholly) by means of _sharp hard outline_. We know from the Greek Vases (if, indeed, any proof were wanting where the fact is so obvious) that an outline may be as absolutely artistic as a finished painting. I would further adhere to the _general sentiment_ and _artistic style_ of the old glass, but I would urge that the sentiment and style should be followed out with _as perfect drawing_ (were it possible) as an old Greek artist would have brought to bear upon it. As an imaginary illustration of what I mean, I would endeavour to realise what the result would be if pencil outline copies of the best thirteenth century figure subjects were placed in the hands of such a man as Flaxman, or any really high-class artist, capable of appreciating their sentiment and well versed in Greek art of the noblest period, for the purpose of _simply correcting_ their drawing without changing their sentiment and motive. It is just such drawing as one may suppose to result from such a process that I would wish to see in our modern church windows. In _secular_ works I would not oppose some departure from the rigidity of such a style, nor a little further addition of shading and high finish, though never to the concealment of the outline; and in both I would avoid all that is _grotesque_ or over-_quaint_ (excepting in subjects or figures which demand it, and where it is of the essence of the motive), as these qualities introduced into serious subjects are, to say the least, contrary to the general spirit of the age, and are, therefore, false and unreal.

In painted decorations on walls, etc., much greater liberty may be allowed. We have not here the _material_ limiting the class of art made use of, and the treatment may therefore suit itself freely to the conditions suggested--first, by the purpose of the building; secondly, by its scale of decorative character and the limits of cost; and thirdly, by the more or less _functional_ nature of the surface occupied. We may, in fact, vary from outline pure and simple to perfectly finished paintings, and from a severe and solemn treatment to any reasonable degree of lightness and freedom, according to the conditions: ever remembering that the more functional the surface, the less must be the apparent relief. A painting in a panel may have any amount of shadow and distance, while that occupying a wall, a pier, or a vault must be kept sufficiently flat as to avoid disturbing the functional character of the object which is the ground of the painting.

A great deal has been said about _development_ in architecture, and a good deal of harm has resulted from it: not that development is to be objected to--far from it; but because true and genuine development will never be the result of direct and deliberate effort.

The true developments we have to look for are such as will be continually forced upon us by the necessities of new materials, new modes of construction, new requirements, and the altered habits and feelings of the age in which we are living; by the different modes of decoration which will from time to time offer themselves to our notice, and the importing into English architecture arts which had previously been peculiar to that of other countries and perhaps to wholly different styles. The conditions also prescribed by works in different climates--as in India, in North America, or in Australia--demand special development.

The frank and natural meeting of these new demands and new facilities will of itself produce developments enough to distinguish the works of our revival from those of old times, without our affecting to alter those elements of our style which are not naturally affected by any such conditions. I have said so much, however, on these subjects elsewhere, that I will not venture to crowd their multitudinous details into this lecture: only suggesting, in passing, that _domestic_ architecture by its absolute demands _must_ of necessity suggest very many new developments; that another wide field for novelty of treatment is offered by the _wrought iron_ construction and _fire-proof_ construction of our day; and that there still remains to us the solution of the noble problem of the introduction and naturalisation of the _dome_ as a feature of our revived style.

I will now say a very few words on another branch of the practice of a Gothic architect: that which relates to the _repairs_ and _restoration_ of ancient buildings.

What I have said on the _study_ of ancient examples as the one and only source of knowledge of architecture, of necessity carries with it the assertion of the value of those examples, whether of a higher or of a humbler class, and the condemnation of those who would deprive us of these monuments of ancient art or tamper with their genuineness or integrity. Yet, strange to say, a large number of the architects who take in hand the so-called restoration of our ancient buildings seem utterly devoid of all feeling for their value as authentic works of olden time. I know no subject connected with architecture more mournful and distressing than the way in which our old churches are but too generally dealt with. Many of our large towns contain one or more architects who systematically prey upon the surrounding churches, more or less ruining everything they touch, and that without remorse, and combating with the utmost energy every remonstrance against their destructive habits. Nor are _they_ alone to blame. _The clergy too often love to have it so._ If they can get their churches made smart, they often seem to care little about the destruction of their antiquities; and thus, between them and their architects, whole counties are becoming denuded of a great part of the points of interest in their churches. Nay, the man who commits the greatest devastations often earns the greatest amount of commendation; and one who venerates an old building and seeks to preserve its antiquities has to _fight for every inch of ground_ against the opposition of the parties interested in the work. These destructive tendencies are not limited to the minor features of churches, but often involve the whole buildings, or large parts of them, in destruction, and that without a shadow of necessity. One of these destroyers of churches is called in, and at once condemns all he does not fancy or which can be shown to be out of repair; the clergyman appeals to the neighbourhood for funds to meet the sad state of things portrayed by his architect; the whole or part of it is destroyed, and no regard to its former design is paid in its reconstruction. This is going on all over the country, with the applause of local magnates and the laudations of the local papers: the architect and his patrons glory in their success, while the country is robbed, one by one, of its invaluable and irreplaceable antiquities.[94]

Even the societies formed for the study of our antiquities fail to lift up their voices sufficiently against this fearful Vandalism, while many who should be the guardians of our ancient churches use specious arguments in confutation of the protests of those who dare to denounce the atrocities which are perpetrated.

I have expressed myself pretty fully on the subject elsewhere, and have spoken also about the spirit in which we should undertake such additions to old churches as absolute necessity demands; and I am happy to say that the Institute of British Architects have issued most judicious and strongly-worded codes of suggestions as to the treatment of old buildings, so that I trust the public will at some time be awakened to the monstrous course which is being too generally followed. I go over the ground on this occasion because I suppose myself to be addressing many of those to whose keeping our churches and other old buildings will be at a future time committed. I desire to warn you at the outset against following the steps of those whose misdeeds I have been proclaiming; and I close these lectures with an earnest entreaty that you will enter upon practice with a solemn vow to yourselves to be the determined and consistent protectors and conservators of those precious relics of former days, now consecrated by antiquity, and from which alone you learn the art which I am urging you to study.

“It were a pious work, I hear you say, To prop the falling ruin, and to stay The work of desolation. It may be That ye say right: but, oh, _work tenderly_: Beware lest _one_ worn feature ye efface; Seek not to add _one_ touch of modern grace; Handle with reverence each crumbling stone, Respect the very lichens o’er it grown; And bid each ancient monument to stand, Supported e’en as with a filial hand. ’Mid all the light a happier day has brought We work not yet as our forefathers wrought.”

END OF VOL. I.

FOOTNOTES: