One feature of the Norman temple he could keep; for it was copied from the same Nature which he was trying to copy—­namely, the high-pitched roof and gables.  Mr. Ruskin lays it down as a law, that the acute angle in roofs, gables, spires, is the distinguishing mark of northern Gothic.  It was adopted, most probably, at first from domestic buildings.  A northern house or barn must have a high-pitched roof, or the snow will not slip off it.  But that fact was not discovered by man; it was copied by him from the rocks around.  He saw the mountain-peak jut black and bare above the snows of winter; he saw those snows slip down in sheets, rush down in torrents under the sun, from the steep slabs of rock which coped the hillside; and he copied, in his roofs, the rocks above his town.  But as the love for decorations arose, he would deck his roofs as nature had decked hers, till the gray sheets of the cathedral slates should stand out amid pinnacles and turrets rich with foliage, as the gray mountain-sides stood out amid knolls of feathery birch and towering pine.

He failed, though he failed nobly.  He never succeeded in attaining a perfectly natural style.

The medieval architects were crippled to the last by the tradition of artificial Roman forms.  They began improving them into naturalness, without any clear notion of what they wanted; and when that notion became clear, it was too late.  Take, as an instance, the tracery of their windows.  It is true, as Mr. Ruskin says, that they began by piercing holes in a wall of the form of a leaf, which developed, in the rose window, into the form of a star inside, and of a flower outside.  Look at such aloft there.  Then, by introducing mullions and traceries into the lower part of the window, they added stem and bough forms to those flower forms.  But the two did not fit.  Look at the west window of our choir, and you will see what I mean.  The upright mullions break off into bough curves graceful enough:  but these are cut short—­as I hold, spoiled—­by circular and triangular forms of rose and trefoil resting on them as such forms never rest in nature; and the whole, though beautiful, is only half beautiful.  It is fragmentary, unmeaning—­barbaric, because unnatural.

They failed too, it may be, from the very paucity of the vegetable forms they could find to copy among the flora of this colder clime; and so, stopped short in drawing from nature, ran off into mere purposeless luxuriance.  Had they been able to add to their stock of memories a hundred forms which they would have seen in the tropics, they might have gone on for centuries copying nature without exhausting her.

And yet, did they exhaust even the few forms of beauty which they saw around them?  It must be confessed that they did not.  I believe that they could not, because they dared not.  The unnaturalness of the creed which they expressed always hampered them.  It forbade them to look Nature freely and lovingly in the face.  It forbade them—­as one glaring example—­to know anything truly of the most beautiful of all natural objects—­the human form.  They were tempted perpetually to take Nature as ornament, not as basis; and they yielded at last to the temptation; till, in the age of Perpendicular architecture, their very ornament became unnatural again; because conventional, untrue, meaningless.