On entering he acknowledged that the effect was simple and imposing, in apparent size grander than St. Peter’s, and even approaching the sublime. But the details appeared to him unworthy of special notice.
The Campanile was one of the few specimens of Italian Gothic which commanded his warm admiration. He longed for the spire (which had been rejected as savouring of “la brutta maniera Tedesca”): but the lofty and graceful proportion of the tower charmed him. What he admired above all was the simplicity and distinctness of outline, which, he complained, was wanting in many of the finest Gothic towers. Nothing compensated him for a ragged or uncertain outline. His constant reference to this great work of Giotto showed that the impression was one neither weak, nor unfruitful of results. A liking for towers grew upon him; designs for them became the most cherished creations of his imagination, till he seemed to think that no design could be complete without them.
His notices of Milan cathedral are chiefly interesting as showing the growing importance of Gothic architecture in his mind. At his first visit he was merely struck with the elaborate richness of its material and workmanship, and the solemn magnificence of its interior. At his return in 1820, an accurate plan and section of the church are given; the grandeur of the interior is still more deeply felt; and some points, such as the introduction of the tabernacle-niches and statues over each cluster of shafts, noticed as interfering with it. But, while justice is still done to the richness and elaboration of the exterior, it is severely criticised. The “pinnacles are noted as rising too suddenly out of the solid mass to an enormous height;” the lantern-spire “as far too slender for the substructure;” the general design noted as “unhappy; much of its laboured enrichment is mis-applied; there is a want of harmony and continuity in its parts; and the sensation created is rather that of wonder at the treasures lavished upon it, than of genuine admiration.”
At Florence the Bridge della Trinita was an object of especial interest to him. “As it was still a question what was the exact form of its arches, and particularly whether they were or were not pointed, he determined to measure two of them, and, as time and means were wanting to accomplish this from below, he ingeniously set out level lines on the outside of the parapet, and let fall a series of ordinates to the fillet of the archivolt. After a long and careful investigation, he came to the conclusion that the arches were not designed to be pointed; but the original curve had been so crippled by irregular settlement, that its exact nature could not now be ascertained. He greatly admired the elegance of proportions in the arch and superstructure. To the curve itself, however, he had a decided objection. He had, and always retained, an antipathy to the ellipse and all which he considered irregular curves. Whether in single arches or vaulting, no curves pleased him that were not portions of circles, and whenever in the course of his practice semicircular vaulting would have destroyed proportion, he would adopt a coved ceiling, or any other expedient, rather than resort to the hated ellipse. In his first design for the new Westminster Bridge, the arches were segments of circles, and it was not without difficulty that he could be induced to substitute the ellipse. Even in Gothic work he never willingly employed a Tudor arch; but, where cramped for height, he preferred the arch formed by two flat segments of circles, making an angle with the jambs (as seen in certain windows at Winchester). Irregularity in curves excited in him a feeling that was absolutely painful.”
In this indefatigable study and criticism he passed the last few months of his sojourn abroad. They were months of intense enjoyment: for his spirits were buoyant, his disposition frank and genial. Work he always loved for its own sake, and difficulties he rather enjoyed.[24] But they were also months of serious thought and study. “It was evident” (says his friend) “that the leading principles of composition which influenced him throughout his career were already rooted in his mind.”
First and foremost came a love of truth. “The false in architecture he abhorred; and all external features, which did not at least indicate the internal design, he condemned ruthlessly. Even a blank window offended him. The showy but screen-like façades, so often applied in Italy to comparatively mean buildings, were to him impostures, worthy of contempt.”
Next came a love of unity and regularity. “That he had an artist’s eye for the picturesque was certain from the happy choice he was sure to make of the best points of view for sketching. But actually to plan irregularity, because it was picturesque, he thought unworthy of the dignity of art.” Every feature, especially every ornamental feature, he would rigidly subordinate to the preservation of the main outline and the main principle of the design, sometimes even at the cost of boldness and variety. Unity rather than multiplicity of effect he thought the object of human art—a lower beauty indeed than that which results from the unstudied harmony of Nature, but the only one which seemed to him really attainable. This view he continued to maintain, and, though he saw much beauty in works designed on the opposite principle, yet the observation of their general effect tended to confirm him in his theory.
Connected with this was his great love of the effect of spaciousness. The church “degli Angeli,” in the Baths of Diocletian at Rome, made a lasting impression upon him. “Its noble proportions and simplicity of design satisfied this instinctive desire of space, for the loss of which no variety of plan and no picturesque effect could compensate. No sooner did he enter a building than he measured with a glance its utmost capacity; and all that stood in his way,—piers, columns, and sometimes even the vault itself,—became obstructions which he longed to clear away.” In the grand nave above referred to the same feeling led him to dislike the position of the entrance at the side. In all great oblong halls he would have the door at the end, that the whole might be seen at first entrance. Except by necessity, he never gave up this principle.
Probably the next point most evident in his criticism was the love of perfection and completeness in detail. Nothing disturbed him so much as incongruity or want of keeping in the various parts of a design; the mingling of grandeur with pettiness, and of rich decoration with bare and unadorned features,[25] seemed an offence against harmony; and he held that the hand of a master of his art was almost as much shown in the study and adaptation of every detail, as in the conception of a great general design. With this was connected his keen sense of symmetry and proportion. “The least offence against either—a single feature out of scale, an opening too narrow, or even a moulding too heavy—jarred upon him like a discord.” This sensitiveness was in fact carried to excess; “a single fault in a composition would blind him to its beauties; it needed to be overcome by an effort on his part or even the promptings of others; and it necessarily made him hypercritical, for, no building being perfect, he was rarely heard to praise any.” It is but fair to add that in this same hypercriticism he never spared his own designs, whether past or present, and often incurred by it almost endless labour.
These principles fixed in his mind, he left Italy, well acquainted with Greek, Egyptian, and Italian architecture, and with his interest and attention already attracted to the reviving Gothic. The work of life was now to commence in earnest; he was resolved to enter it fettered by the traditions of no single school, ready to think and work for himself.