Lectures on the rise and development of medieval architecture; vol. 1

by Sir George Gilbert Scott

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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