Rethinking Technology A Reader in Architectural Theory 1st Edition William Braham
Rethinking Technology A Reader in Architectural Theory 1st Edition William Braham
Rethinking Technology A Reader in Architectural Theory 1st Edition William Braham
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ISBN(s): 9780415346535, 0415346533
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Language: english
7. RETHINKING TECHNOLOGY
Rethinking Technology is an essential reference for all students of architecture, design
and the built environment; providing a convenient single source for all the key texts in
the recent literature on architecture and technology.
The essays included are chronicles, manifestos, reflections, and theories produced by
architects and architectural writers. Arranged in chronological order of original
publication, these essays allow comparisons to be made between writings produced in a
similar historical context and reveal the discipline’s long and close attention to the
experience and effects of new technologies, from the early twentieth century to the
present day.
With the ever increasing pace of technological change, the fact and condition of
change itself has become the subject of architectural discussion, made manifest in organic
and dynamic analogies and the use of terms like process, flow, and emergence. Most
architects still use the word technology to refer to the different means and methods of
building, however in recent years the term has become synonymous with the digital realm
and the whole apparatus of computerized information flow. With that change, the tools of
design and construction have become a matter of processes, networks, and systems.
The editors preface each text with a short introduction explaining the significance of
the essay in relation to the broader developments charted by the book. Cross-references
are also made between individual texts in order to highlight important thematic
connections across time.
William W.Braham is associate professor of architecture at the University of
Pennsylvania. He has written widely on environmental technologies, combining technical
analysis with historical and theoretical accounts. He is the author of Modern
Color/Modern Architecture: Amedee Ozenfant and the genealogy of color in modern
architecture (2002). Jonathan A.Hale is associate professor and director of research in
architecture at the School of the Built Environment, University of Nottingham. He is the
author of Building Ideas: An Introduction to Architectural Theory (2000). John
Stanislav Sadar is an architect and partner in the multidisciplinary design firm little
wonder.
9. RETHINKING TECHNOLOGY
A READER IN ARCHITECTURAL THEORY
EDITED BY
WILLIAM W.BRAHAM
AND
JONATHAN A.HALE
WITH
JOHN STANISLAV SADAR
LONDON AND NEW YORK
11. CONTENTS
Preface viii
Acknowledgments ix
Introduction xii
1901: Frank Lloyd Wright The Art and Craft of the Machine 1
1914: Antonio Sant’ Elia Manifesto of Futurist Architecture 15
1915: Patrick Geddes Paleotechnic and Neotechnic 19
1923: Le Corbusier Engineer’s Aesthetic and Architecture 28
1928: Siegfried Giedion Construction. Industry. Architecture 33
1929: Le Corbusier Architecture: The Expression of the Materials and Methods
of our Times
38
1929: Richard Buckminster Fuller 4D Time Lock 42
1929: Knud Lönberg-Holm Architecture in the Industrial Age 47
1932: Hugo Häring The House as an Organic Structure 51
1934: Lewis Mumford Technical Syncretism and Toward an Organic Ideology 53
1937: Karel Honzík Biotechnics: Functional Design and the Vegetable World 58
1939: Frederick J.Kiesler On Correalism and Biotechnique: A Definition and
Test of a New Approach to Building Design
61
1941: Siegfried Giedion Industrialization as a Fundamental Event 75
1948: Siegfried Giedion The Assembly Line and Scientific Management 77
1950: Ludwig Mies van der Rohe Technology and Architecture 106
1954/1962: Team 10 The Doorn Manifesto 108
1954: Richard Neutra Survival Through Design 110
1957: Konrad Wachsmann Seven Theses 119
1959: Peter Collins The Biological Analogy 121
1960: Peter Reyner Banham Functionalism and Technology 130
12. 1960: William Katavolos Organics 140
1964: Christopher Alexander The Selfconscious Process 143
1964: Marshall McLuhan Housing: New Look and New Outlook 153
1965: Peter Reyner Banham A Home is not a House 159
1969: Richard Buckminster Fuller Comprehensive Propensities 167
1969: James R.Boyce What is the Systems Approach? 172
1970: Peter Cook Experiment is an Inevitable 179
1972: Superstudio Microevent/Microenvironment 186
1973: Leopold Kohr Velocity Population 195
1973: Paolo Soleri Function Follows Form (Structure Before Performance) 198
1976: Ruth Schwartz Cowan The “Industrial Revolution” in the Home:
Household Technology and Social Change in the Twentieth Century
203
1977: Kisho Kurokawa The Philosophy of Metabolism 218
1979: Philip Steadman What Remains of the Analogy? The History and Science
of the Artificial
232
1981: Alan Colquhoun Symbolic and Literal Aspects of Technology 252
1982: Luis Fernández-Galiano Organisms and Mechanisms, Metaphors of
Architecture
256
1985: Steve Ternoey The Patterns of Innovation and Change 276
1987: Martin Pawley Technology Transfer 280
1988: Bruno Latour Mixing Humans and Nonhumans Together: The Sociology
of a Door-Closer
294
1988: Peter McCleary Some Characteristics of a New Concept of Technology 310
1992: Joseph Rykwert Organic and Mechanical 322
1994: Stewart Brand Shearing 334
1995: Rem Koolhaas Speculations on Structures and Services 338
1995: Félix Guattari Machinic Heterogenesis 342
1997: Francis Duffy Time in Office Design 356
1997: Paul Virilio The Third Interval 358
1999: Ben van Berkel and Caroline Bos Techniques: Network Spin, and
Diagrams
367
13. 1999: Ken Yeang A Theory of Ecological Design 371
2000: Bernard Cache Digital Semper 378
2002: Manuel De Landa Deleuze and the Use of the Genetic Algorithm in
Architecture
388
2002: David Leatherbarrow and Mohsen Mostafavi Surface Architecture 394
2002: William McDonough and Michael Braungart A Brief History of the
Industrial Revolution
402
2002: William J.Mitchell E-Bodies, E-Buildings, E-Cities 406
2003: SLA Changing Speeds 416
2004: Manuel Castells Space of Flows, Space of Places: Materials for a Theory
of Urbanism in the Information Age
418
Bibliography 435
Index 438
14. PREFACE
The possibility of this volume grew out of conversations at the University of
Pennsylvania over a decade ago. For a brief and remarkably intense period Ivan Illich
taught a weekly seminar in the PhD program in Architecture headed by Joseph Rykwert.
Like so many moments of intensity, it was surprisingly short lived, though its topics and
debates continue to reverberate among those fortunate enough to have participated. Illich
brought his broad experience to questions fostered by Marco Frascari’s studies of
representation, David Leatherbarrow’s writing about materials and assemblies, Peter
McCleary’s seminar on the philosophy of technology, and Rykwert’s depth of knowledge
and curiosity about everything.
Our initial proposal was to prepare a reader of essays explicitly on the philosophy of
technology, but the recent and rapid appearance of several excellent anthologies on this
subject inspired us to focus more directly on the architectural literature, which offered its
own variations on the question of technology. The first lists of essays numbered in the
hundreds, so for each text included in this reader there were at least five equally
compelling pieces that had to be left out.
The project would not have been possible without the patient and fastidious work of
John Sadar, a PhD candidate at the University of Pennsylvania. His own doctoral
research on the effects of technological innovations in early twentieth-century
architecture has added another important dimension to this collection. Some credit also
must go to all of our students at the University of Pennsylvania and the University of
Nottingham, whose questions, enquiries, and interests have often led us to places we
might not otherwise have considered.
For their enthusiasm, patience, and above all confidence in this project our thanks go
to Caroline Mallinder, Georgina Johnson, and the publishing team at Routledge/Taylor
and Francis. On a more personal note, appreciation for support, ideas, and inspiration
should also be expressed to: Andrew Ballantyne, Iain Borden, Ted Cullinan, Jocelyn
Dodd, Thomas Hughes, Don Ihde, David Leatherbarrow, Detlef Mertins, Peter McCleary,
Jane Rendell, Joseph Rykwert, Adam Sharr, and Jeremy Till.
Thanks always to the staff at the Fisher Fine Arts Library at the University of
Pennsylvania, the finest circulating library of architecture.
William W.Braham
Jonathan A.Hale
18. INTRODUCTION
William W.Braham
Jonathan A.Hale
“sometime during the 1980s the technological society
which began in the fourteenth century came to an end.
Now I recognize that dating epochs involves interpretation
and perhaps some fuzziness in assigning beginnings and
endings; but, nevertheless, it appears to me that the age of
tools has now given way to the age of systems,
exemplified in the conception of the earth as an ecosystem,
and the human being as an immune system.”1
Ivan Illich
> A reader in architectural theory
This collection of essays provides an introduction to the literature on architecture and
technology. It is offered to architects and architecture students for whom technology and
design have largely been separated in school curricula, in trades and professional
associations, and in design practice itself. It is intended to support courses in architectural
technology, architectural theory, and also the philosophy of technology. It should also be
of interest to professionals involved in teaching, or reconsidering their work in the light
of current theoretical debates. These essays reveal the discipline’s long and close
attention to the experience and effects of contemporary technology, from the early
twentieth century to the current moment.
The collection is also intended for those interested in technology as a discrete
historical, philosophical, or sociological subject, and for whom the architectural literature
will be less well known. It is notable that in the time this architectural reader was being
prepared two large new readers in the philosophy of technology were published,
suggesting the growing maturity of the field, and also making the purpose of this
collection even clearer.2
With all the historical and philosophical writing on technology
contained in those publications, architecture is only occasionally considered, and usually
as an example among other examples.
The essays included in the collection are chronicles, manifestos, reflections, and
theories offered by architects and architectural writers in their encounter with technology.
However, a comprehensive collection of such writings would fill many such volumes,
and so much of our task has been to rethink the topic itself.
19. > Why rethink technology?
Through the course of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries architects have largely
become technocrats. Even as the elite of the profession have secured their status as
visionaries and artists, the majority of architects spend their time processing the flow of
information that guides the assembly of complex technical constructions. In that respect,
an architect of the early nineteenth century would have more in common with the Roman
architect Vitruvius than he would with a practitioner of the twentieth or twenty-first
century.
Properly speaking, architects have always been concerned with technology, but since
the effects of the first industrial revolution became widespread in the early nineteenth
century, the technology encountered by architects has changed in scope and kind,
becoming a restless and accelerating process of transformation. To rethink technology at
the beginning of the twenty-first century means reconsidering the strong claims made
about technology—utopian and dystopian—by the modernist and postmodernist
architects and historians of the twentieth century, as the actual impacts of that technology
were encountered.
With the ever increasing pace of technological change, the fact and condition of
change itself has become the subject of architectural discussion, made manifest in organic
analogies and the use of terms like process, flow, and emergence. For most architects the
word technology still means the different means and methods of building, however, in
recent decades, the term has become synonymous with computers and the whole
apparatus of networked information flow. With that change, the shift described by Ivan
Illich in the opening quotation has become wholly palpable: architecture and technology
or, more precisely, the tools of design and construction, have become a matter of systems.
The goal of this collection is to chart the emergence of that “age of systems” within
the architectural discourse. But even that task would extend well into the pre-modern
period and would require many more essays than seemed manageable, so we settled on a
selective survey beginning at the turn of the twentieth century.
All of this begs a central question: in what ways is architecture technological?
Certainly the process of building is now wholly technological, as is the society in which
buildings are conceived, financed, and evaluated. Ultimately, rethinking technology and
architecture in the age of systems means rethinking the practical and ethical dimensions
of change, development, and evolution in architecture.
> Philosophy of technology
As technology changes so do society, the environment, and the practice of architecture.
The globalizing “network society” has certainly forced architects to rethink the
relationship of their work to new modes of production and construction, new patterns of
movement and settlement, and new cultural priorities. Since at least the mid-nineteenth
century—Karl Marx provides the classic example—it has been commonly assumed that
technologies change society in more or less predictable ways; that technology is both
20. autonomous (evolving) and deterministic in its effects. Through the twentieth century
philosophers and historians have debated the nature of that relationship, leading in recent
decades to a more nuanced view about their interaction and the degree to which
technology itself is “socially constructed,” or at least culturally embedded and co-
evolving.
It is usual to describe these twentieth-century developments in terms of a first and
second generation of philosophers of technology. The first generation could be traced
back to Comte, Marx, Ruskin, and other nineteenth-century figures who were all in some
way reacting—both positively and negatively—to the impact of the industrial revolution
on the social and cultural conditions of the time. By the early twentieth century these
ideas were beginning to harden into a sustained critique of technological utopianism,
most famously in the writings of the German philosopher Martin Heidegger. Heidegger
was the author of perhaps the single most important—though not always the most
popular—statement on the “essence” of modern technology, in his 1953 essay The
Question Concerning Technology. Subsequent writing in the 1950s and 1960s led to the
emergence of a distinct and identifiable field, including the urban and architectural
writers Lewis Mumford and Siegfried Giedion, alongside philosophers and sociologists
like Jacques Ellul, Herbert Marcuse, Ivan Illich, and Jurgen Habermas. What unites this
disparate group of thinkers is the belief in the autonomy of technological development—a
sense that society’s tools had turned against their creators in a kind of Frankenstein
scenario—locking us irrevocably within a technological “system” (to use Ellul’s term) or
a “megamachine,” as Mumford described it.
Another common factor within these broadly dystopian critiques was their neglect of
empirical evidence in favor of a “high-altitude” theoretical analysis. The second
generation of philosophers of technology sought to correct this imbalance by delving
inside the “black box” in an attempt to uncover the complex interactions between
technical and cultural factors. This reaction took many different forms. Authors such as
Albert Borgmann have extended Heidegger’s insights into the details of everyday life,
while others have extended the insights of Dewey or Pierce. What has since become
known as the “social constructivist” approach to technology grew out of a series of
specific social and anthropological case-studies: writings based on the historical and
ethnographic analysis of particular technological developments which attempt to show
the extent to which they are driven by social and cultural forces. Significant figures in
this field—which first came to prominence in the early 1980s—include Ruth Schwartz
Cowan, Thomas Hughes, Michel Callon, and Bruno Latour. What they sought to chart
was the often unpredictable and occasionally counterintuitive rise of new technical
innovations and their subsequent success or failure. The adoption and popularity of novel
technologies may often be based more on social, cultural, and psychological factors than
on “pure” scientifically testable qualities such as efficiency, economy, and reliability.
Current thinking in this expanding field is still influenced by both of these approaches,
whose differences might simply be characterized as philosophical versus historical or
sociological, though they are equally distinguished by the object of their study, whether it
is technology, modern science, engineering, industry, or society itself. Such differences
are legible in the names of the different academic departments, societies, and journals
that embrace these subjects. For example: the Society for the History of Technology,
founded in 1958, publishes the journal Technology and Culture; the American
21. Sociological Association organized a research committee on the Sociology of Science
and Technology in 1966; the Society for Philosophy and Technology, formed in 1976,
publishes the journal Téchne; while the European Association for the Study of Science
and Technology, formed in 1981, publishes the EASST Review.
The Dutch philosopher of technology, Hans Achterhuis, and his colleagues have
argued the field has taken an “empirical turn,” resisting large philosophical statements in
favor of investigations of the details and complex interactions surrounding even the
smallest technological artifact or condition.3
It is in that spirit that this collection from the
architectural literature might fit into the broader history and philosophy of technology.
> What is a system?
The opening quotation by Ivan Illich was drawn from his discussion about the changing
notion of contingency, particularly the idea of instrumental causality introduced in the
twelfth century, which he argued had inaugurated and characterized the age of tools or of
technology. However, he did not welcome the age of systems. He viewed it as an even
more difficult condition within which to live a good life, though he saw its emerging
attributes clearly and also recognized the degree to which ideas often precede their
realization. For him, a system was different from a tool because “when you became the
user of a system, you became part of the system.”4
The groundwork for the description of
interconnected, bottom-up, self-organizing entities has been emerging for generations—
strongly visible in concepts such as the “eco-system” which appear in the 1930s, or more
recently in the understanding of the human immune system—but this idea is actually
discernible as far back as Adam Smith’s eighteenth-century notion of the “invisible hand”
of the free market economy (conceived during the Scottish Enlightenment).5
The immediate importance of a collection of essays dedicated to tracing the changing
nature of technology in architecture is to penetrate beyond broad generalizations about
technology, society, and architecture. It is necessary to understand the broad historical
conditions and actual processes of their realization. Radical changes were encountered by
architects in every aspect of their work and they tried many different formulations to
manage and understand them. Principle among them were various kinds of organic and
biological analogies, which gained increasing precision as cybernetics, general systems
theory, and complexity analysis matured. It is important at the outset to recognize the
degree to which those same developments were changing the understanding of organic
life itself. In other words, as new paradigms of explanation develop they are applied
equally to buildings, bodies, and machines.
22. The collection is also meant to help reframe the architect’s question of how best to
work in such conditions. That becomes both an ethical and a practical question. As
Reyner Banham requested in the second edition of The Architecture of the Well-
Tempered Environment (1984), “this book must no longer be filed under Technology.”
1 Ivan Illich, The River North of the Future: the Testament of Ivan Illich, as told to David
Cayley (Toronto: House of Anasazi Press, 2005), p. 77.
2 David M.Kaplan (ed.), Readings in the Philosophy of Technology (Lanham, MD: Rowman &
Littlefield, 2004); Robert C.Scharff and Val Dusek (eds), Philosophy of Technology: The
Technological Condition: An Anthology (Maiden, MA: Blackwell, 2003).
3 Hans Achterhuis (ed.), American Philosophy of Technology: The Empirical Turn
(Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2001).
4 Illich, River North, p. 78.
5 Ronald Hamowy, “The Scottish Enlightenment and the Theory of Spontaneous Order.”
Journal of the History of Philosophy Monographs (Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois
University Press, 1987).
23. 1901 Frank Lloyd Wright
The Art and Craft of the Machine
We chose to begin this collection with an essay by the American architect Frank Lloyd
Wright (1867–1959), because it was conveniently given as a lecture at the very beginning
of the twentieth century. It also provides a useful introduction to the themes encountered
by designers in the late nineteenth century, for whom the term “Machine” served as
shorthand for the social and aesthetic effects of the first technological revolution.
The lecture was Wright’s original manifesto, and he returned to its themes and phrases
throughout his long career. It was delivered as a lecture on March 1, 1901 at the Hull
House in Chicago at the height of his first period of productivity and fame, and offers his
critique of the Arts and Craft movement. He summarizes their protest against the machine
and even paraphrased Victor Hugo on the effect of the printing press on architecture—
“The One Will Kill the Other”—from The Hunchback of Notre-Dame.
In the context of this collection, the biological themes that he uses toward the end of
the essay are critical, extending the ancient analogy between bodies and buildings into the
dynamic processes and flows of the modern, industrial city. For the rest of his career
Wright invoked the notion of an organic architecture to explain his work, using the term
in many different senses. However, in the compelling phrase, “blind obedience to organic
law,” we see the first glimmer of the age of systems.
As we work along our various ways, there takes shape within us, in some sort, an
ideal—something we are to become—some work to be done. This, I think, is denied to
very few, and we begin really to live only when the thrill of this ideality moves us in
what we will to accomplish. In the years which have been devoted in my own life to
working out in stubborn materials a feeling for the beautiful, in the vortex of distorted
complex conditions, a hope has grown stronger with the experience of each year,
amounting now to a gradually deepening conviction that in the Machine lies the only
future of art and craft—as I believe, a glorious future; that the Machine is, in fact, the
metamorphosis of ancient art and craft; that we are at last face to face with the machine—
the modern Sphinx—whose riddle the artist must solve if he would that art live—for his
nature holds the key. For one, I promise “whatever god may be”1
to lend such energy and
purpose as I may possess to help make that meaning plain; to return again and again to
the task whenever and where need be; for this plain duty is thus relentlessly marked out
for the artist in this, the Machine age, although there is involved an adjustment to
cherished gods, perplexing and painful in the extreme; the fire of many long-honored
ideals shall go down to ashes to reappear, phoenix like, with new purposes.
The great ethics of the Machine are yet, in the main, beyond the ken of the artist or
student of sociology; but the artist mind may now approach the nature of this thing from
experience, which has become the commonplace of his field, to suggest, in time, I hope,
to prove, that the machine is capable of carrying to fruition high ideals in art—higher
than the world has yet seen!
24. Disciples of William Morris cling to an opposite view. Yet William Morris himself
deeply sensed the danger to art of the transforming force whose sign and symbol is the
machine, and though of the new art we eagerly seek he sometimes despaired, he quickly
renewed his hope.
He plainly foresaw that a blank in the fine arts would follow the inevitable abuse of
new-found power, and threw himself body and soul into the work of bridging it over by
bringing into our lives afresh the beauty of art as she had been, that the new art to come
might not have dropped too many stitches nor have unraveled what would still be useful
to her.
That he had abundant faith in the new art his every essay will testify.
That he miscalculated the machine does not matter. He did sublime work for it when
he pleaded so well for the process of elimination its abuse had made necessary; when he
fought the innate vulgarity of theocratic impulse in art as opposed to democratic; and
when he preached the gospel of simplicity.
All artists love and honor William Morris.
He did the best in his time for art and will live in history as the great socialist, together
with Ruskin, the great moralist: a significant fact worth thinking about, that the two great
reformers of modern times professed the artist.
The machine these reformers protested, because the sort of luxury which is born of
greed had usurped it and made of it a terrible engine of enslavement, deluging the
civilized world with a murderous ubiquity, which plainly enough was the damnation of
their art and craft.
It had not then advanced to the point which now so plainly indicates that it will surely
and swiftly, by its own momentum, undo the mischief it has made, and the usurping
vulgarians as well.
Nor was it so grown as to become apparent to William Morris, the grand democrat,
that the machine was the great forerunner of democracy.
The ground plan of this thing is now grown to the point where the artist must take it up
no longer as a protest: genius must progressively dominate the work of the contrivance it
has created; to lend a useful hand in building afresh the “Fairness of the Earth.”
That the medicine has dealt Art in the grand old sense a death-blow, none will deny.
The evidence is too substantial.
Art in the grand old sense—meaning Art in the sense of structural tradition, whose
craft is fashioned upon the handicraft ideal, ancient or modern; an art wherein this form
and that form as structural parts were laboriously joined in such a way as to beautifully
emphasize the manner of the joining: the million and one ways of beautifully satisfying
bare structural necessities, which have come down to us chiefly through the books as
“Art.” For the purpose of suggesting hastily and therefore crudely wherein the machine
has sapped the vitality of this art, let us assume Architecture in the old sense as a fitting
representative of Traditional-art and Printing as a fitting representation of the Machine.
What printing—the machine—has done for architecture—the fine art—will have been
done in measure of time for all art immediately fashioned upon the early handicraft ideal.
With a masterful hand, Victor Hugo, a noble lover and a great student of architecture,
traces her fall in Notre-Dame.
The prophecy of Frollo, that “the book will kill the edifice,” I remember was to me as
a boy one of the grandest sad things of the world.
Rethinking technology 2
25. After seeking the origin and tracing the growth of architecture in superb fashion,
showing how in the Middle Ages all the intellectual forces of the people converged to
one point—architecture—he shows how, in the life of that time, whoever was born poet
became an architect. All other arts simply obeyed and placed themselves under the
discipline of architecture. They were the workmen of the great work. The architect, the
poet, the master summed up in his person the sculpture that carved his façades, painting
which illuminated his walls and windows, music which set his bells to pealing and
breathed into his organs—there was nothing which was not forced in order to make
something of itself in that time, to come and frame itself in the edifice.
Thus, down to the time of Gutenberg, architecture is the principal writing—the
universal writing of humanity.2
In the great granite books begun by the Orient, continued by Greek and Roman
antiquity, the Middle Ages wrote the last page.
So to enunciate here only summarily a process, it would require volumes to develop;
down to the fifteenth century the chief register of humanity is architecture.
In the fifteenth century everything changes.
Human thought discovers a mode of perpetuating itself, not only more resisting than
architecture, but still more simple and easy.
Architecture is dethroned.
Gutenberg’s letters of lead are about to supersede Orpheus’ letters of stone.
The book is about to kill the edifice.
The invention of printing was the greatest event in history.
It was the first great machine, after the great city.
It is human thought stripping off one form and donning another.
Printed, thought is more imperishable than ever—it is volatile, indestructible.
As architecture it was solid; it is now alive; it passes from duration in point of time to
immortality.
Cut the primitive bed of a river abruptly, with a canal hollowed out beneath its level,
and the river will desert its bed.
See how architecture now withers away, how little by little it becomes lifeless and
bare. How one feels the water sinking, the sap departing, the thought of the times and
people withdrawing from it. The chill is almost imperceptible in the fifteenth century, the
press is yet weak, and at most draws from architecture a super-abundance of life, but with
the beginning of the sixteenth century, the malady of architecture is visible. It becomes
classic art in a miserable manner; from being indigenous, it becomes Greek and Roman;
from being true and modern, it becomes pseudo-classic.
It is this decadence which we call the Renaissance.
It is the setting sun which we mistake for dawn.
It has now no power to hold the other arts; so they emancipate themselves, break the
yoke of the architect, and take themselves off, each in its own direction.
One would liken it to an empire dismembered at the death of its Alexander, and whose
provinces become kingdoms.
Sculpture becomes statuary, the image trade becomes painting, the canon becomes
music. Hence Raphael, Angelo, and those splendors of the dazzling sixteenth century.
1901: Frank Lloyd Wright 3
27. Parapet defended by hoarding, showing elevation, section through
hourd and coursière, and method of construction
28. Laval
The first improvements in defence, designed to meet an improved
attack, consisted in the protection of the ramparts. Behind the outer
parapet of the wall was the rampart-walk, a level path along the top
of the wall, which was sometimes protected by a parapet in the rear.
From an early date in stone fortification, it was customary to break
the upper portion of the parapet at intervals by openings called
crenellations, through which it was possible for an archer to
command a limited part of the field at right angles to the wall.95 The
29. crenellations, however, were narrow compared with the unbroken
parapets between them, and, even in advanced examples of
fortification like the ramparts of Aigues-Mortes (77) and Carcassonne
(78), these unbroken pieces are still very broad, although they are
pierced by arrow-slits. Even allowing for an arrow-slit between each
crenellation, the foot of the wall could not be commanded from
behind the parapet. In time of siege, then, it became customary to
supply the walls with projecting wooden galleries, known as
hoardings or brattices (hourds, bretèches), which could be entered
through the crenellations. The joists of the flooring passed through
holes at the foot of the parapet, and were often common to the
outer gallery and an inner gallery (coursière) covering the rampart-
walk. Both galleries had a common roof.96 In the floor of the outer
gallery, between the joists, were holes, through which missiles could
be directed upon the besiegers at the foot of the wall; while slits in
the outer face were still available for straight firing. The defenders of
the ramparts were thus able to work under shelter, with some
command both of the field and the foot of the wall. The defensive
advantages of this scheme are obvious; but the galleries were also
liable, although the usual precautions for their covering were taken,
to destruction by fire, whether from arrows tipped with burning tow,
or the more formidable red-hot stones flung by catapults. In any
case, the catapults were a serious menace to their solidity.
30. Coucy; parapet of donjon
The donjon and the towers of the enceinte were also bratticed at
the rampart-level.97 Indications of this practice are common in
military architecture abroad. The cylindrical donjon of Laval (80), a
work of the twelfth century, is covered with hoarding which is
supposed to be contemporary with the tower. The stone corbels
which carried the hoarding of the great thirteenth-century tower of
Coucy remain; and a row of plain arches pierced in the tall parapet
show how the gallery was entered from the roof (81). The
31. somewhat earlier round tower at Rouen was restored by Viollet-le-
Duc on the lines of Coucy, with a conical roof and hoarding. The
inner wall at Carcassonne and the curtain of Loches, among other
examples, keep the holes in which the joists of the hoarding were
fixed; and the walls of Nuremberg are still covered with inner
galleries or coursières. The practice of supplementing stone walls
with timber defences lasted till a late period; but, even before the
end of the twelfth century, corbelled-out parapets with
machicolations appeared in isolated instances. In subsequent
chapters we shall see how military masons and engineers applied
their architectural skill to meet the problems which siege-engines of
greater strength and tactics more finished than those of the past
forced upon them. We have now to deal with earlier efforts, which
we have to some degree anticipated.
34. In Domesday Book some fifty castles are mentioned by name or
implication; and the number was largely increased during the next
hundred years. In view, however, of the large number of temporary
private strongholds which came into being during the twelfth
century, it is difficult to estimate the number of permanent castles
until, in the later part of the century, Henry II. regulated and
restrained the efforts of private owners to guard their property with
fortresses. The castles included in Domesday do not represent the
whole number which existed at that period; and of such important
castles as Colchester and Exeter, which we know to have been
founded before 1086, there is no mention. To estimate the strategic
plan which governed the foundation of castles at its full value, we
must therefore turn for a moment to the later period at which the
defence of England by a connected system of these strongholds had
been more thoroughly achieved. Here also, it is not altogether easy,
in view of the destruction of older castles by Henry II., and the
foundation of new ones at a later epoch, to estimate the exact state
of the castles of England at the end of the twelfth century.98 But,
taking one special district, we may at least gain an approximate
notion of its lines of defence as they existed about the year 1200.
This is the north-eastern district of England, containing the main
strategic approach to Scotland, and crossed by the rivers which
descend eastwards to the sea. This was the scene of the rebellion of
the Mowbrays and the invasion of William the Lion in 1174, in
consequence of which four important castles at least, those of
Kinnard’s Ferry on the lower Trent, Thirsk and Northallerton in the
vale of Mowbray, and Kirkby Malzeard, on the highlands above the
right bank of the Ure, were demolished.99 The chief castles of this
district will be found to guard the line of the rivers. On the Trent
were Nottingham, on the north bank, and the bishop of Lincoln’s
castle of Newark,100 on the south; while the greater part of the
lower valley of the river was commanded at some distance by the
strongly-placed castles of Belvoir and Lincoln. On the borders of
Nottinghamshire and Yorkshire, Tickhill101 stood in advance of the
Don, while the narrow passage of the Don, five miles west of
35. Doncaster, was guarded by Conisbrough. These castles defended the
approach from the high land on the west; the marshy country north
and east of Doncaster, towards the Humber, although it often proved
a refuge for freebooters, needed no permanent garrison. South of
the Calder, opposite Wakefield, stood Sandal. To the east, below the
junction of the Calder and the Aire, was Pontefract, in a position of
great strength and importance.102 There was no great castle on the
Wharfe, although Harewood guarded the south bank of the river
between Otley and Tadcaster, and at Tadcaster itself there was a
castle, of which little is known; Cawood castle was simply a manor-
house of the archbishops of York.103 On the Ouse, almost in the
centre of the shire, were the two castles of York, at the head of the
tideway. Knaresborough was west of York, on the north bank of the
Nidd. Each of the dales of the North Riding had its strong castle. In
Wensleydale was Middleham, south of the Ure. Richmond, from its
cliff at the mouth of Swaledale, commanded a vast tract of country,
reaching to the Hambleton hills and the forest of Galtres, north of
York. Barnard Castle stood in a strong position on the Durham bank
of the Tees. The castles of the eastern part of the North Riding were
Skelton and Castleton, both in Cleveland, and belonging to the
house of Bruce. Helmsley stood at the entrance of Ryedale;
Pickering and Malton were on the Derwent, and Scarborough
guarded the coast. South of Scarborough, in the East Riding, the one
castle of importance at this date was Skipsea, on the low coast-line
of Holderness, between Flamborough and Spurn heads. Returning to
the border of Durham, and crossing the Tees, we find Brancepeth
and Durham on the Wear. On the south bank of the Tyne was
Prudhoe in Northumberland: north of the Tyne was the great fortress
of Newcastle. Most of the castles and small strongholds of
Northumberland were the growth of a later age. The principal
castles at this period were Mitford on the Wansbeck, Warkworth on
the Coquet, Alnwick on the Alne, Wark and Norham on the Tweed,
and Bamburgh and Holy Island, castles on the seaboard. This list
might be extended, but the most important fortresses east of the
Pennine chain are included in it, and from it the strategic geography
36. of this important district can be readily recognised. Of the thirty-four
castles in this list, ten, including the gateway-tower at Newark, had
rectangular tower-keeps, of which nine remain; Conisbrough and
Barnard Castle (87) had cylindrical tower-keeps. Of the rest, in most
cases, as at Sandal (86), the mounts remain, and in a few instances,
as at Skipsea, there are remains of a shell-keep. The shell-keeps of
Lincoln and Pickering are still excellent examples of their type. The
masonry at York, Pontefract, and Knaresborough belongs to a later
period; and in almost all instances, where masonry remains, it bears
trace of substantial later additions.
Sandal Castle; Plan
37. Barnard Castle; Plan
It will be noticed that castles which guarded passes through hilly
districts were generally placed, like Middleham and Richmond, in
comparatively open country at the foot of the pass. This was the
case with Welsh castles like Brecon and Llandovery, or the tower of
Dolbadarn, below the pass of Llanberis. The isolated position at the
head of a pass was not easily victualled, nor was it so useful as the
situation on more open ground, from which, as at Brecon or
Middleham, a larger extent of mountain country could be
commanded. Trecastle (44), at the top of the pass between Brecon
and Llandovery, has already been mentioned as a site which was
probably abandoned early: the tract which it commanded is limited
compared with that within reach of Brecon, the point towards which
all the valleys of the neighbourhood converge.
In places where a castle formed part of the defences of a walled
town, it was usually placed upon the line of the wall, so that the wall
formed for some distance part of its curtain. This can be well seen at
Lincoln, where the castle occupied the south-west angle of the older
Roman city. The castle of Ludlow is in the north-west angle of the
38. town, the wall of which joined it on its north face and at its south-
west corner. At Carlisle the castle filled up an angle of the town, the
town walls meeting its south curtain at either end. In such cases,
the castle, while defending the town, was also protected from it by a
ditch, across which a passage was furnished by a drawbridge. The
castle of Bristol stood upon the isthmus, east of the town, between
the streams of the Avon and Frome, and, in this strong position, was
joined by the city wall at either extremity of its west side. In 1313,
when the citizens were in rebellion, they cut off the castle from the
city by building a new wall on that side.104 In the case of Bristol, the
building of the castle made some alterations in the town wall
necessary, as time went on, but, from the beginning, the castle
occupied its place in the regular enceinte. If, at York, the castles
were at first built, as seems to be the case, outside the defences of
the town, the circuit was soon extended to include the castle, at any
rate, upon the right bank of the river. Although the castle of
Southampton is almost entirely gone, the points of junction of its
curtains with the west wall of the town are quite clear. Similarly, the
position of castles such as Shrewsbury, Leicester, and Nottingham, or
close to the enceinte of the town, can be traced, although little is left
of the walls. In foreign walled towns like Angers or Laval, the castle
formed, as in England, a portion of the outer defences. In later
castles like Carnarvon and Conway, the same relation to the plan of
the town was preserved. There are exceptions, of which the chief is
the Tower of London, within the Roman, but outside the medieval
city wall. Chepstow is also outside the town, between which and the
castle is a deep ravine: but in this case the town was of a growth
subsequent to the foundation of the castle. A distinction must be
drawn between castles founded in connection with fortified towns, in
which the castle formed part of a general scheme of defence, as at
Bristol and Oxford, and castles under the protection of which towns,
like Chepstow, grew up, and were subsequently fortified. A good
example of this latter class is Newcastle, in which the relations of
town and castle are exactly opposite to those at Chepstow. When
the castle was founded by the Conqueror, the place, once garrisoned
39. by the Romans, and for a time inhabited by a colony of English
monks, was probably an inconsiderable village. The town which
grew up on the site took its name from the castle, and was walled in
the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. The walls, however, were
brought down to the banks of the Tyne at some distance east and
west of the castle, which was thus contained entirely within their
circuit. At Norwich, a place of no great importance before the
Conquest, the castle is also entirely within the line of the old city
wall. One of the best examples of the connection between a walled
town and a castle is at Launceston, where the borough of Dunheved
grew up within a narrow area which was virtually the outer ward of
the strong hill-fortress.
The establishment of a castle upon a permanent site was
followed, sooner or later, by the building of stone fortifications. This
work was often very gradual. We have seen that even a castle so
important as that of York retained part of its timber stockade as late
as 1324. This, however, was an exceptional case. The walls and
towers of medieval castles show, as might be expected, a
considerable variety of masonry; but the epoch at which their
fortification in stone became general may be said to be the third
quarter of the twelfth century. In 1155 Henry II. resumed castles
and other royal property into his own hands, and ordered the
destruction of the unlicensed castles which had risen during the civil
wars of the previous reign.105 This step was followed unquestionably
by much activity in strengthening the defences of the castles which
were left.
At the same time, there are many substantial remains of stone
buildings in castles earlier than this era. Stone donjons or keeps
were certainly exceptional in England before the reign of Henry II.,
although there are a few important examples of an earlier date. It
cannot be disputed, however, that a certain number of castles were
provided with a stone curtain-wall106 and other stone buildings not
long after the Conquest. Curtain-walls thus built would follow the
line of the earthen bank surrounding the bailey, and take the place
40. of the timber stockade. They were at first of the simplest form. An
edict of the council of Lillebonne in 1080 laid down the rule, so far
as the Norman duchy was concerned, for constructing the defences
of private castles; and, although the details refer primarily to the
ordinary timber structure, they also have a bearing on the
construction of early curtains of stone. No ditch was to be deeper
than the level from which earth could be thrown by the digger,
without other help, to the soil above. The stockade was to follow a
course of straight lines, and to be without propugnacula and alatoria
—i.e., projecting towers and battlements, and rampart-walks or
galleries.107
The earliest type of curtain-wall would be strictly in accordance
with these rules—a strong wall of stone surrounding the bailey, and
climbing the sides of the mount to join the defences of the donjon.
We read of the destruction by Louis VI. of France of the stone
fortification with which the house of the lord of Maule was
surrounded;108 and the edict already quoted applies to fortifications
on level ground, and includes, not merely castles, but strong private
houses, which might not necessarily follow the castle plan. The
edict, however, proceeds to forbid altogether the construction by
private persons of castles on rocks or islands. The reason of this is
obvious. Such isolated strongholds might become, in the hands of
private owners, a centre of rebellion against the suzerain. In 1083,
Hubert of Maine held out successfully against the Conqueror in his
rock castle of Ste-Suzanne (Mayenne) on the Erve, “inaccessible by
reason of the rocks and the thickness of the surrounding
vineyards.”109 William II. in 1095 besieged Robert Mowbray in his
castle on the well-nigh impregnable rock of Bamburgh, with
considerably better fortune.110 Such rocks formed, as it were,
natural mounts which made the construction of the ordinary mount-
and-bailey castle upon them unnecessary. The hardness of the soil,
moreover, made the construction of earthworks difficult or
impossible. The natural method of defence would be to raise a stone
wall which enclosed the stronghold.
43. Richmond; great tower
Neither at Ste-Suzanne nor at Bamburgh (91) is there existing
stonework earlier than the twelfth century. Of the castle of Saint-
Céneri-le-Gérei (Orne), which we know to have been fortified with
stone walls before the end of the eleventh century,111 only
indistinguishable masses of masonry remain to-day. On the other
hand, there are a certain number of castles on rocky and isolated
sites, the walls of which may be fairly attributed, in whole or part, to
the later half of the eleventh century. The most important example is
44. Richmond castle in Yorkshire (91), on a high promontory of rock
above the Swale. The shape of the enclosure is triangular. The most
conspicuous feature of the castle is the splendid square tower or
donjon, which was completed between 1170 and 1180, and stands
on the north side of the enceinte, at the head of the approach from
the town. The curtain, however, west of the donjon, contains
“herring-bone” masonry,112 and is of a rough construction which
affords the greatest contrast to the regularly dressed and closely
jointed masonry of the great tower. The tower, on three sides, forms
an outward projection from the curtain, of great size and strength,
and is a structure of one period from the ground upwards. But, on
entering the castle, it is at once obvious that the lower part of the
south wall of the tower is formed by part of the earlier curtain. In
the middle of this section of the work is a wide doorway, with a
round-headed arch of two unmoulded orders, which now forms an
entrance into the basement of the tower. The capitals of the jamb-
shafts of this archway are of an unmistakably eleventh century
character, with volutes at the upper angles, and a row of acanthus
leaves round the bell. This type of capital is seen in such buildings as
the two abbey churches at Caen, the nave of Christchurch priory, the
west front of Lincoln minster, and other fabrics completed before
1100, and is a sure guide to the date of the work in which it occurs.
It would appear, then, that the masonry of this archway and much of
the curtain is the work of Alan of Brittany, earl of Richmond, who
certainly founded the castle, and died in 1088.113 The castle
contains more work of his date, of which something will be said in
the sequel.
45. Ludlow; Entrance to inner ward
When the great tower of Richmond was built, an entrance was
made on the first floor, from the rampart-walk of the curtain. It is
quite clear that, up to this time, the archway just described had
been the main entrance of the castle, and had probably been
covered on the side next the town by a rectangular building, which
formed the lower stage of a gateway-tower or gatehouse, lower than
the present donjon. This is borne out by a comparison with the keep
at Ludlow, where it is quite clear that an eleventh century gatehouse
46. was converted at a later period into a keep, by walling up the outer
entrance (94). A new entrance to the castle, as at Richmond, was
made in the adjacent curtain, where it could be easily commanded
by the tower. The date of the lowest stage of the donjon is revealed,
as at Richmond, by the details of capitals and shafts, which in this
case belong to an arcade in the east wall of the inner portion
(95).114
Ludlow; Wall arcade in basement of great tower
47. Ludlow; Plan
The site of Ludlow (96), like that of Richmond, is a rocky
peninsula, where a stone curtain, for which material existed on the
spot, formed the obvious means of defence. There was no mount
and no keep. Exeter, again, is an early example of a stone-walled
castle upon a rocky site, where a gateway with a tower above
formed the principal entrance. Such sites were protected naturally by
the fall of the ground on the steeper sides; the side on which
approach was possible was covered by a ditch cut in the rock. The
ditch would be crossed by a drawbridge, let down from the inner
edge, next the gateway. The gatehouse itself would be a building of
two or more stages; at Ludlow the upper stage, as completed, was
considerably loftier than the lower.115 At Exeter there were probably
48. three stages. A single upper stage remains at Tickhill. At Lewes and
Porchester there is clear evidence of an upper chamber. The
gatehouse at Porchester, as at Ludlow, was the entrance to an inner
ward, divided by a ditch from the large outer ward,116 which, at
Porchester, represented the greater part of the enceinte of the
Roman station, and contained the priory church and buildings. In
these early gatehouses, the lower stage was closed at either end by
a heavy wooden door, and was covered by a flat ceiling of timber.
There was no arrangement for a portcullis. At Ludlow the lower
stage appears to have been divided into an outer porch and inner
hall by a cross wall, in which there must have been a door; but
communication between these parts was also obtained by a narrow
barrel-vaulted passage in the thickness of the east wall, which,
opening from the outer division, turned at right angles to itself in the
direction of the length of the wall, and, with another right-angled
turn, opened into the inner hall (95). This passage was guarded by
doors, which opened inwards at either end.117 When the outer
doorway of the gatehouse was blocked, the lower stage was covered
in with a pointed barrel-vault.118
49. Porchester; Plan
As already indicated, the details of these gatehouses are very
simple, and it is only where an attempt is made at ornament that
their date can be fairly judged. Thus at Porchester, the entrance
archway, masked by defensive work of a more advanced period,
consists of an unmoulded ring of voussoirs, divided from the jambs
by plain impost-blocks. The outer bailey or base-court of the castle,
which is still surrounded by the Roman walls with their semicircular
bastions, has two gatehouses. These occupy the sites of the west
and east gates of the Roman enceinte, and the east or water-gate is
in part Roman. The western gatehouse was rebuilt at a date
contemporary with the enclosure of the castle proper within the
north-west quarter of the Roman station, and was much altered at a
later period. The archways of the Norman building remain, and show
50. no attempt at ornament, the inner one alone having impost-blocks
below the arches. The work at Porchester is usually attributed to the
early part of the twelfth century, and the ashlar facing of the side
walls of the inner gateway appears to be of that date. A similar
severity of detail is seen in the parallel case of Lewes, where the
original gatehouse was also covered in the fourteenth century by a
barbican (98). The great gatehouse of three stages, at Newark
castle (99), was the work of Alexander, bishop of Lincoln from 1123
to 1148, whose uncle, Roger, bishop of Salisbury (1107-39), appears
to have built the gatehouse at Sherborne. The archways of the lower
stage at Newark are of great width, and are as simple in detail as
those at Porchester. The outer or northern wall of the tower is faced
with finely-jointed ashlar, and the archway on this side has a hood-
moulding, with billet ornament.119
51. Lewes; Barbican
The position of the gatehouse in relation to the curtain varies. At
Richmond, Porchester, and Exeter the inner face of the gatehouse
was flush with the curtain. At Ludlow, Newark, and Tickhill it was
partly outside, but mostly inside the curtain. At Lewes the projection
was wholly internal. Its measurements also vary. Porchester was 23
feet in length by 28 feet in breadth: Exeter and Lewes were about
30 feet, Tickhill about 36 feet square: Ludlow was 31 feet broad, but
was some feet longer. The area of the gatehouse at Newark is larger
than any, and the general proportions and elevation were those of a
rectangular donjon rather than a mere gateway-tower.120
Newark; Gatehouse
Stress has been laid on the occurrence of early stone fortifications
on rocky and precipitous sites, where the ordinary earthworks were
at once impracticable and unnecessary. It will be noted, however,
52. that the gatehouses which have been described are not found wholly
in such positions. Tickhill and Lewes were mount-and-bailey castles
with strong earthworks. Porchester is on level ground, open to
Portsmouth harbour on two sides, and defended by a ditch on the
sides towards the land: the site was already walled, but the
rectangular keep appears to stand upon the base of an earlier
mount, which may have been thrown up so as to enclose the Roman
tower at the north-west angle of the station. Newark (157) stands
on a moderate height above the meeting of the Devon and an arm
of the Trent, with a deep ditch on the north and east sides towards
the town. There was no castle here before Alexander began to build
in or about 1130; and his work from the beginning consisted of a
rectangular enclosure without a mount, in which the gatehouse had
something of the importance of a keep. The necessity of defending
the entrance of the castle, whatever the nature of the site might be,
led to the construction of stone gatehouses at an early date; and, at
Tickhill or Lewes, the gate-towers were probably constructed at a
time when the mounts and embankments of the bailey were still
defended by timber.
Stone curtains which display “herring-bone” masonry may
generally be assumed to be early in date. It has been customary to
look upon “herring-bone” masonry as indicative of pre-Conquest
work, and many buildings have been described as “Saxon” on the
strength of this detail alone. On the other hand, it never occurs in
direct association with details which may be regarded as definite
criteria of pre-Conquest masonry; and the dimensions, apart from
other features, of churches in which it is found in any quantity,
usually afford suspicion of its post-Conquest origin.121 Its use in
castles, which, as has been shown, were a Norman importation into
England, demolishes its claim to be regarded as a distinctive sign of
Saxon work; and its employment in Normandy, especially in the
donjon of Falaise, where almost the whole of the inner face of the
walls shows “herring-bone” coursing, may be set against any theory
which would attribute it to English masons after the Conquest.122 It
was used by Roman builders, and much of it may be seen in the
53. towers of the enceinte at Porchester. Saxon builders, however, did
not copy Roman methods of walling, and the surest criterion of
Saxon work is the thin wall, wholly composed of dressed stone, or of
rag-work without facings. Norman builders, coming from a country
where the continuity of Roman influence was never broken, used the
ordinary Roman method of a compound wall, in which a solid rubble
core was faced with ashlar on one or both sides. It is only natural
that in early stone castles, which were constructed as quickly as
possible, the facing should be of a rough description, of coursed
rubble or of “herring-bone” courses laid in thick beds of mortar. At a
subsequent date, when masonry was added to already fortified sites,
the work could be pursued in a more leisurely manner. The most
striking example of “herring-bone” work in an English castle is in the
cross-wall of the great tower at Colchester (101), which is
unquestionably a building of the eleventh century. Here the work
was evidently hurried on, with the object of securing the greatest
amount of strength in the least possible time, and Roman tiles were
re-used in large quantities as bonding courses for the rubble walls,
and for the “herring-bone” coursing of the dividing wall. At
Richmond, as has been noted, there is a certain amount of “herring-
bone” work in the curtain. The castle was founded on an entirely
new site by Alan of Brittany: earthworks were out of the question,
and the date of the older masonry of the stone wall is beyond
dispute.
54. Colchester; Cross-wall
A very remarkable example of “herring-bone” walling is the
curtain-wall at Tamworth (48). The castle was founded by Robert
Marmion after the Conquest on the low ground at the meeting of the
Tame and Anker, the town, the fortified burh of Æthelflæd, being on
higher ground to the north. Marmion’s fortress took the mount-and-
bailey form. The bailey was a triangular platform of earth, raised
artificially above the level of the river bank, with its apex towards the
confluence of the streams. The mount was on its west side, and was
divided from it by a ditch. The defences on the side next the town
were of stone. Here the curtain-wall remains in very perfect
condition, crossing the ditch and climbing the mount, with a sloping
rampart-walk along the top. The inner face is composed entirely of
“herring-bone” courses, alternating with one, two, and sometimes
three, layers of thin horizontal stones. This appearance of more than
one horizontal course is very unusual.123 It is obvious that the site,
being commanded by the town, would be materially strengthened by
a stone wall on that side: on the south side, scarping and ditching
would have been sufficient, and there is no trace of stone-work of an
early period here. The original entrance was at the north-eastern
angle of the enclosure, and probably took the form of a stone
gatehouse.124 Other instances of “herring-bone” work in curtain-
55. walls that may be mentioned here are at Corfe, Hastings, and
Lincoln. Corfe was built on an isolated hill, which was scarped and
ditched, something after the manner of a “contour” fort of early
days: the portion of the curtain in which “herring-bone” coursing is
found follows the natural line of the edge of the hill. Hastings is a
fortress on a steep promontory: the mount, on the east side of the
enclosure, was defended by a deep ditch, and covered by a large
outer bailey with formidable earthworks. The curtain, on the east
and north sides of the inner ward, is chiefly of the thirteenth
century; but part of the north curtain, forming the north wall of the
castle chapel, is of “herring-bone” construction. Lincoln, as we have
seen, was a large mount-and-bailey fortress, surrounded by
earthworks, which, on the west side, enclosed portions of the wall of
the Roman city. “Herring-bone” masonry is seen here and there in
the west and north curtains, which have been raised on the top of
the earthen banks.125
56. Chepstow; Hall
The battlemented parapet with which the curtain-wall of a castle is
usually crowned, generally may be assigned, in its present state, to
a later repair and heightening of the curtain. This is the case at
Lincoln, where the parapet and upper part of the wall are of the
thirteenth century. It has been seen that the edict of Lillebonne in
1080 forbade the defence of the curtain by flanking towers,126
rampart-walks, and other aids to defensive warfare; and, as a matter
of fact, the full development of the fortification of the enceinte
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