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Monika MazurekPedagogical University, Kraków


In English culture Gothic architecture enjoyed ambiguous reputation: on one hand, it was obviously connected with pre-Reformation times and therefore suspect. This reputation was strengthened by the Gothic novel which associated Gothic buildings with oppression and tyranny allegedly characteristic for Catholic countries. On the other hand, as a supposedly “native” English style, in contrast to imported classicism, it was hailed as the true product of free English spirit. This dichotomy proved to be particularly interesting in the 19th century, the age of the Gothic Revival. As more and more Anglican churches were restored or built in the style propagated by A. W. Pugin and John Ruskin, the English public, in particular its Low Church faction, was ambivalent or even hostile towards the growing influence of the style associated with Roman Catholicism, the enemy of Protestant England. The article discusses the selected passages from Victorian novelists, both well-known (Brontë, Trollope, Borrow) and minor ones, which describe Gothic architecture and analyzes them in the context of this debate.

keywords: Gothic, Gothic revival, Catholicism, Protestantism, Victorian novel


In novels of many Victorian writers, both of the renowned ones (Brontë, Borrow, Trollope) as well as minor ones, one can come across descriptions of Gothic and Gothic Revival Churches.[1] These descriptions turn out to be particularly interesting when read in the context of the dispute on the ecclesiastical architecture which erupted through England in the 1840s and 1850s, inspired by the fears aroused by the Catholic Emancipation of 1829 as well as the activity of the Oxford Movement and the Gothic church renovations performed under its influence. These changes, in the eyes of many, made the Anglican Church lose irrevocably its Protestant character and renounce its Reformation heritage. The main question around which this argument revolved was whether the Anglican church architecture could include Gothic elements despite of the strong association between this architectural style and Roman Catholicism, the old enemy of the Anglican Church.

One could not possibly discuss the Gothic Revival in England and controversies around it without mentioning Augustus Welby Pugin, whose name became for his contemporaries a byword for the new church architecture, as the quote below shows.

We ought to have our Abbey back, you see.

It’s different, preaching in basilicas,

And doing duty in some masterpiece

Like this of brother Pugin’s, bless his heart!

I doubt if they’re half baked, those chalk rosettes,

Ciphers and stucco-twiddlings everywhere;

It’s just like breathing in a lime-kiln: eh?

These hot long ceremonies of our church

Cost us a little–oh, they pay the price,

You take me–amply pay it![2]

With these words, tinged with pragmatism bordering on cynicism, starts the monologue of Bishop Blougram, a fictitious Catholic hierarch, in Robert Browning’s Bishop Blougram’s Apology. In 1855, when the poem was published, Augustus Pugin had been already dead, but as the above quote shows, his work changed irrevocably England’s landscape, both the architectural and the mental one. Despite the fact that many people voiced their doubts similar to the one’s expressed by the Bishop, Pugin’s success in propagating neo-Gothic as the most appropriate architectural style for churches was undeniable.


It is a well-documented fact that for Pugin Gothic and Catholicism were almost synonymous;[3] a comic poem from the 1st half of the 19th century claimed that “Mr Pugin” taught the Catholic Church that “orthodoxy had to do at all with bricks and mortar”.[4] His scathing views of the art other than the medieval one are also well-known. For instance after his visit to Il Gesù he wrote: “I looked up, hoping to see something which would stimulate my devotion. But I saw only legs sprawling over me. I expected them to kick me next and I rushed out”.[5] [emphasis original] Building neo-Gothic churches was for him an almost missionary activity and he believed that for others, just like for him, experiencing Gothic architecture can be an inspiration for conversion to Catholicism. Pugin was particularly lucky in choosing to convert in 1834, soon after the Catholic Emancipation Act of 1829 removed most of the penal laws which had limited Catholics’ civil liberties. The Act actually in many respects just legalized status quo, since the penal laws had been by this time already for the most part defunct, as for instance the clause of the Relief Act of 1791 allowing Catholics to build churches for the first time since the Reformation under the condition that they would have no bells and towers; while Catholics quickly availed themselves of the liberty provided by this act, the stipulation was largely ignored. The quickly rising number of Catholics in England (mostly owing to the Irish immigration) and Pugin’s luck in winning rich patrons made his designs very popular.

Pugin was by no means the first medievalist in England – the fashion started long before him, mostly in literature. Castles, abbeys and monasteries, evoking the eerie atmosphere of the Middle Ages were an indispensable part of the 18th-century Gothic novel. According to Holland and Sherman, they were, together with the romantic plot, the key element of the genre, which they summed up in their classic formula woman-plus-habitation.[6] Medieval architecture was also often used as a setting in Romantic poetry and in the works of the most-read British author of the 1st half of the 19th century – Walter Scott. John Henry Newman actually named Scott’s works, describing either 18th-century Jacobites or medieval knights in the aura of mystery and nostalgia, as the reason for change in the attitude of the British reading public, calling him in a letter to a friend “an instrument in the hands of Providence for the revival of Catholicity”.[7]

At the same time, since Gothic was re-discovered in the 18th century, attempts had been made to present it as the English “national” style. Firstly, Gothic was presented as the native architectural style, and when this thesis proved untenable, the next resort was the claim (used also by many other European writers with regard to their home country) that it was English Gothic which was the purest, most Gothic incarnation of the style, far surpassing the foreign variants.[8] For this reason – apart from evoking particular romantic emotions and associations – the Gothic revival was used in the 18th-century England for as a kind of architectural manifesto, expressing the political views of its founder. A garden castle, built in the allegedly national style, carried the message about the owner’s love of England and devotion to its history; what makes it even more interesting, the Gothic revival was flexible enough to be adopted both by Whigs and Tories.[9] Viscount Cobham, the leader of the Whig opposition, had a neo-Gothic Temple of Freedom built in his garden in 1741. It bore an ambiguous epigraph: “I thank God that I am not a Roman”. This inscription could be read in many ways: as the building expressing its gratitude for having been built in the “national” English style, not in the Roman classical one; however, it could be also construed as the praise of the Anglo-Saxon freedom, contrasted with the oppression of the Roman Empire, or as the expression of pride its owner took in not being a Roman Catholic, a representative of the oppressive absolutism and the Stuarts trying to win back their throne.[10]

The work of Pugin forms a part of this tradition of approaching Gothic as the national style, with the added factor of religion. Gothic for Pugin was not only a provider of mysterious frisson, but the one and only appropriate style for the nation, whose one and only true religion was in his opinion Catholicism: “our ancestors were not Roman Catholics but English Catholics”.[11] Pugin was not the only one who believed in the local specificity of English Catholicism; it was a widespread idea among English Catholics that until the Reformation English Church was due to the geographical distance from Rome a quasi-autonomous institution, and later, when English Catholics had to live in partial or total conspiracy, the isolation was even deepened.

Naturally, Pugin’s love of Gothic was not shared by many of those who believed that the only religion appropriate for England was Protestantism. The name of Newman, who before his famous conversion to Catholicism was the main figure of the Oxford Movement, has to be mentioned here once again. The Oxford Movement (also known as Tractarian) represented the Anglo-Catholic faction within the Anglican Church, known also as High Church, as opposed to the Protestant faction (Low Church), also known as Evangelical. The Evangelicals were very suspicious towards the Oxford Movement, perceiving it as the Catholic subversion within the Church of England; the emphasis of the Oxford Movement on the role of ritual and liturgy was perceived by the Low Church people as introducing through the back door Papist practices and destroying the achievements of the Reformation. Similar suspicions were aroused by the Cambridge Camden Society, active in the period 1839–1868. Its aim was the support of restoring and building neo-Gothic churches. The Cambridge Camden Society was generally considered to be an offshoot of the Oxford Movement, inspired directly by its ideals. Even though this society distanced itself from Catholicism (its official journal “The Ecclesiologist” criticised Pugin), this could not save it from being suspected of being crypto-Catholic. One of the most ferocious critics of Anglo-Catholicism, an Evangelical clergyman Francis Close stated in his text Church Architecture, Scripturally Considered:

All the finest specimens of Gothic architecture, which now form the models of imitation to our modern artists, are monuments of the most debasing ignorance, and the most notorious imposture. The pointed arch —and the fretted roof—and the gloomy crypt—and the secret stairs —and stone altars—and elevated chancels, credence tables, and painted windows; the reredos, the trypticks, the reliquary, &c. &c. are the emblems of a gloomy, false, idolatrous, and persecuting worship, from which we were mercifully delivered at the blessed Reformation!

Yet it is to these—and none but these—that the modern students of Church Architecture would bring us back. There is no relic of the mediaeval, or dark ages, which is not now commended—and efforts are making to introduce them even into our parish churches.[12]

Significantly enough, Close devoted also his sermon of 5 November 1844 to his struggle with the Cambridge Camden Society, titled tellingly The Restoration of Churches is the Restoration of Popery. The Fifth of November was the anniversary of Guy Fawkes’ Gunpowder Plot (the abortive attempt by a group of Catholic conspirators to blow up the House of Parliament in 1605). The date had a double significance, as it was on 5 November 1688 when William of Orange landed in England in order to take away the crown of his Catholic father-in-law, James II and seize the power during the Glorious Revolution. In the liturgy of the Anglican Church it was a feast day commemorated with special sermons directed against papists, accompanied outside the church by fireworks and burning the effigies of the Pope and Fawkes. Close, by choosing this particular day to deliver his sermon against the Cambridge Camden Society and “The Ecclesiologist”, was sending a clear message to his parishioners: the Church of England, once again in its history, had to fight the Papist danger, this time coming from the mock Anglicans, introducing under the pretext of renovating church buildings Catholic practices. Close’s attack was well-aimed; the Anglican bishops withdrew their official support for the Cambridge Camden Society, and in 1845 it was even suggested the society should dissolve; however, it withstood the storm, changing only its name for “The Ecclesiological Society”.[13] The Gothic revival met also with the hostile response of some Protestants in the United States. A reader of “The United States Democratic Review” criticised new Protestant churches built in the pointed style which, in his opinion, “necessarily carries us back in thought to the days of Romish darkness, and pontifical supremacy”.[14]

The association between the Middle Ages and Catholicism existed in Anglo-Saxon culture long before Pugin and, as can be ascertained from the reactions quoted above, it was not always positive. In many a Gothic novel medieval architecture was a tool of oppression for the main heroine lost in the labyrinthine corridors or imprisoned in dark dungeons. One can even find some literary works devoted to the criticism of the malignant influence of the Gothic Revival on the Anglican youth: in Kate and Rosalind (published anonymously in 1853, the author was probably Elizabeth Jane Whately) we have a satirical portrait of Mr. Sackville, the new rector in a provincial parish, clearly under the influence of the Oxford Movement. Mr Sackville begins his work in the parish with plans to replace the square church windows with the arched ones, regretfully noting that they are not made of stained glass;[15] naturally later on he turns out to be a Catholic agent under whose influence one of the female characters almost enters a monastery. The influence of the Oxford Movement on Anglicanism is portrayed critically as well in the novel Quicksands on Foreign Shores. The main positive heroine, Agatha, is a staunch Low Church Protestant, while her half-brother and his unsympathetic wife are High Church Anglo-Catholics. Both these factions drifted in the 19th century further and further apart, also regarding their views on sacred art; Unsurprisingly, Agatha’s sister-in-law, one of the main villains in the novel, says:

what can be more utterly dissimilar than Agatha’s favourite church with its hideous whitewashed walls, where her dear old Mr Hardy holds forth, with his Bible in his hand, and Mr Priestly’s beautiful little chapel with its exquisite music (almost equal to that of a Roman Catholic cathedral), and all the perfection of its rites and ceremonies! Why no stranger would ever suppose that two such buildings and two such clergymen belonged to the same church![16]

The fashion for neo-Gothic is also criticised by the Victorian writer George Borrow, in whose novel Lavengro (1851) we meet a Catholic priest saying ironically:

what we most rely upon as an instrument to bring the Dissenters over to us is the mania for gentility, which amongst them has of late become as great, and more ridiculous than amongst the middle classes belonging to the Church of England. All the plain and simple fashions of their forefathers they are either about to abandon, or have already done so. Look at the most part of their chapels — no longer modest brick edifices, situated in quiet and retired streets, but lunatic-looking erections, in what the simpletons call the modem Gothic taste, of Portland stone, with a cross upon the top, and the site generally the most conspicuous that can be found.[17]

This criticism was followed up in Romany Rye (1857):

„The English are mad after gentility,” says he; „well, all the better for us; their religion for a long time past has been a plain and simple one, and consequently by no means genteel; they’ll quit it for ours, which is the perfection of what they admire; with which Templars, Hospitalers, mitred abbots, Gothic abbeys, long-drawn aisles, golden censers, incense, et cetera, are connected; nothing, or next to nothing, of Christ, it is true, but weighed in the balance against gentility, where will Christianity be? why kicking against the beam—ho! ho!”[18]

Similarly to Newman, Borrow perceives Scott as the unwitting cause of the growth of popularity of Catholicism in England; however, in contrast to Newman, he does not find that appealing:

And in connection with the gentility-nonsense, he expatiates largely, and with much contempt, on a species of literature by which the interests of his church in England have been very much advanced—all genuine priests have a thorough contempt for everything which tends to advance the interests of their church—this literature is made up of pseudo Jacobitism, Charlie o’er the waterism, or nonsense about Charlie o’er the water.[19]

Borrow alludes here clearly to Scott’s novels, in particular the ones from the Waverley cycle, describing the failed Jacobite uprisings attempting to put the Catholic descendants of the Stuarts back on the British throne.

Reading Charlotte’ Bronte’s Villette through architecture described in it provides also an interesting insight (1853); the novel takes place for the most part in a boarding school for young ladies in a fictitious city of Villette, modelled on Brussels. The pensionnat is located in the buildings of a former convent. Brontë’s allusions to the Gothic novel are obvious: Lucy is almost held hostage between the convent walls and persecuted by the ghost of a nun who was allegedly buried alive there. However, before these “Gothic” trials Lucy is strengthened when on her way to Belgium she stops in London. Lucy is a young, impoverished woman, scared with the prospect of travelling on her own, so shy that even interacting with waiters and hotel servants is difficult for her. When crying in her hotel bed and trying to fall asleep, she hears the tolling of a bell. Only then does she realize that her hotel is in the vicinity of St Paul’s Cathedral. Early next day she notices its dome from her window:

I saw a solemn, orbed mass, dark-blue and dim – THE DOME. While I looked, my inner self moved: my spirit shook its always-fettered wings half loose; I had a sudden feeling as if I, who never yet truly lived, were at last about to taste life: in that morning my soul grew as fast as Jonah’s gourd.[20]

Naturally, many authors could reconcile their fascination with Gothic with their aversion to Catholicism, which they did not attempt to conceal, and sometimes even displayed ostentatiously. John Ruskin serves here as a good example. In The Stones of Venice (1851–1853) he clearly alludes to Pugin’s conversion, motivated allegedly mostly by the fascination with the aesthetic dimension of Catholicism; he writes with contempt about converts who were “blown into a change of religion by the whine of an organ-pipe; stitched into a new creed by gold threads on priests’ petticoats”.[21] Later on, Ruskin openly criticizes Pugin as an architect, ending on this patronizing note:

Expect no cathedrals from him; but no one, at present, can design a better finial.[…] Only do not allow his good designing of finials to be employed as an evidence in matters of divinity, nor thence deduce the incompatibility of Protestantism and art.[22]

One might surmise that Ruskin’s invectives against Pugin are not devoid of what Harold Bloom called “the anxiety of influence”; Kristine Garrigan noticed a striking similarity between Pugin and Ruskin regarding their views as well as their personalities: both of them despised the art of Renaissance and Baroque, both of them were enthusiasts of Gothic and both of them were fully convinced about the legitimacy of their own beliefs.[23] However, it was Ruskin who was often accused of stealing some ideas of his older predecessor,[24] and the need to make himself different from Pugin may have been one of the reasons for his vociferousness. What is more, rumours about the alleged conversion of Ruskin to Catholicism were widespread even after the publication of The Stones of Venice; in 1854 John Everett Millais wrote in a letter to Ruskin’s mother-in-law: “I think it very likely that J.R. will go into the Church of Rome when his parents die”.[25] It should be added that Millais was not an objective witness, since it was for his sake that right at the time of writing this letter the daughter of his correspondent was going through the process of annulling her marriage to Ruskin, which was highly embarrassing for all involved parties; in the end, as we know, the predictions regarding Ruskin’s conversion proved wrong, too. However, Millais clearly considered this rumour probable and discrediting enough to use it against his rival (later on in the same letter Millais makes oblique allusions regarding Ruskin’s mental health). In the eyes of many unsympathetic observers Ruskin’s fascination with Gothic had to lead inevitably to Catholicism.

However, the vogue for Gothic and the belief in its spiritual value was so overpowering that even the most fervent anti-Catholics succumbed to it. In 1841 in Oxford was erected the Martyrs’ Memorial in honour of Thomas Cranmer, Hugh Latimer and Nicholas Ridley, who were burned there under the reign of Queen Mary Tudor, known because of her persecution of Protestants as “the Bloody Mary”. The time and place of building the monument were not coincidental, as Oxford was the centre of the controversial Tractarian movement. The Martyrs’ Memorial was going to be a clear signal reminding Newman’s followers about the Protestant roots of the Anglican church which were largely ignored by them.[26] Nevertheless, the project by Gilbert Scott which won the competition clearly alludes to the English Gothic, and to be more precise, to the so-called “Eleanor Crosses” erected in the 13th century by king Edward I in the places where the funeral procession with the body of his beloved wife rested. As we can see, the „nationality” of architecture (the home-grown English Gothic) won over the associations with the oppressive religion.

Also in the popular literature of the 19th century we can see how the aesthetic admiration for Gothic becomes dissociated from the denominational connotations. Sometimes it led to curious results, as for instance in Catherine Sinclair’s Beatrice (1852) The main purpose of the novel is to warn against the plotting of Jesuits who surreptitiously infiltrate Scottish aristocracy in order to win money and delude young people into entering religious orders. Everything associated with Catholic forms of piety is presented with the utmost suspicion; the eponymous positive heroine (and clearly the author’s mouthpiece) claims even that “a gilt cross on the Bible is the first step towards a wooden image in the closet”.[27] However, when it comes to describing a Gothic chapel, and the one used by an aristocratic Catholic family to boot, all the reservations towards Catholicism are shunted aside.

The beautiful chapel was hung with long icicles which glittered like drawn swords hanging from the roof, and also fringing the porch, under the shadow of which they were but dimly seen… As Lady Edith stood admiring this glorious landscape, clearly shown by the silver lamp of night, suddenly the whole building, as if by magic, became lighted up inside, the fine gothic arches were brilliantly illuminated from the interior, and the reflection of the stained glass windows lay stretched, like a many0colored rainbow, on the snow beneath.[28]

The chapel is equally impressive in daylight

Every window now glittered in the golden tints of a noon-day sun, and the long row of massy cedars which led up to the porch cast a grand and solitary shade, ‘a dim religious light,’ over the beautiful building.[29]

Gothic, including the church architecture, was finally accepted as the English national style and the most appropriate for Anglican churches. In this context, the description of a church in Anthony Trollope’s The Warden published in 1855, seems to be worth quoting:

from the window [stretched] a view right through a bosky vista along which ran a broad green path from the rectory to the church--at the end of which the tawny-tinted fine old tower was seen with all its variegated pinnacles and parapets. Few parish churches in England are in better repair, or better worth keeping so, than that at Plumstead Episcopi; and yet it is built in a faulty style: the body of the church is low--so low, that the nearly flat leaden roof would be visible from the churchyard, were it not for the carved parapet with which it is surrounded. It is cruciform, though the transepts are irregular, one being larger than the other; and the tower is much too high in proportion to the church. But the colour of the building is perfect; it is that rich yellow gray which one finds nowhere but in the south and west of England, and which is so strong a characteristic of most of our old houses of Tudor architecture. The stone work also is beautiful; the mullions of the windows and the thick tracery of the Gothic workmanship is as rich as fancy can desire; and though in gazing on such a structure one knows by rule that the old priests who built it, built it wrong, one cannot bring oneself to wish that they should have made it other than it is.[30] 

This description is particularly significant when read in the context of the whole Barchester cycle, of which The Warden is the first novel, set in a fictitious diocesan town of Barchester. The Barchester cycle is a gentle satire on the power games played both within the Church of England as well as on the intersection between religion and politics. One could notice a number of similarities between the imperfect church in Plumstead Episcopi and the Arch-Deacon Doctor Grantly officiating in it; although “[h]e is a moral man, believing the precepts which he teaches, and believing also that he acts up to them; though we cannot say that he would give his coat to the man who took his cloak, or that he is prepared to forgive his brother even seven times”.[31] Still, despite his faults and peculiarities, Dr Grantly seems to be for Trollope an indispensable part of the English landscape, just like the familiar Gothic church, beautiful despite its faults which could be condemned by the purists from the Cambridge Camden Society.

While Protestants stopped associating Gothic with the oppressive Catholicism, Catholic architecture in Great Britain gradually drifted towards other styles, as a kind of backlash reaction. One could expect that Newman and English Catholics should have supported the work of Pugin as the practical realization of the romantic vision of the Middle Ages. However, what happened was a paradoxical parting of ways: while in the Anglican church, particularly in High Church the neo-Gothic was growing in popularity, Victorian Catholics preferred “ultramontane” architecture, inspired by Italian Renaissance and Baroque.[32] The evolution of Newman’s views on this matter can serve here as a particular example. As James Patrick notices, even though Newman, when still an Anglican, expressed his admiration for Gothic on numerous occasions, as can be seen in the chapel in Littlemore built under his supervision, and even though he knew and admired Pugin, he did not share his views on Gothic being one of the articles of the Catholic faith The parting of ways between Newman and the author of The True Principles was inevitable, not only because of the difference of views on architecture, but also because of the differing temperaments. A quarrel which took place in 1848 between Pugin and Newman’s fellow Frederick Faber about the rood screen in the Oratorian chapel was the final straw. The argument escalated, drawing also Newman in its vortex. It also was picked up by British Catholic journals, almost causing Pope Pius IX to intervene (Pope’s secretary Monsignor Palma, to whom Newman wrote about the whole affair, was assassinated before he managed to read Newman’s letter), and it lasted practically until Pugin’s death in 1852.[33]

The changes in the reception of Gothic can be seen also in literature. Characteristically enough, the plots of Victorian sensation novels from the latter half of the 19th century (examples include East Lynne by Ellen Wood [1861], Woman in White [1859] and The Moonstone [1868] by Wilkie Collins, or the last unfinished novel of Dickens The Mystery of Edwin Drood [1870]), even though they are rooted in the Gothic novel tradition, they take place not in the monasteries or castles in Italy and Spain but in the contemporary English cities. The generations brought up by Carlyle and Ruskin did not perceive the dark dungeons and stained-glass windows as the epitome of evil; if the neo-Gothic renovations met with criticism, it was made not on religious but aesthetic grounds, as for instance in case of Thomas Hardy (who was actually himself a professional and for some time practising architect) who in the introduction to his novel A Pair of Blue Eyes (1873) wrote mournfully:

The following chapters were written at a time when the craze for indiscriminate church-restoration had just reached the remotest nooks of western England, where the wild and tragic features of the coast had long combined in perfect harmony with the crude Gothic Art of the ecclesiastical buildings scattered along it, throwing into extraordinary discord all architectural attempts at newness there. To restore the grey carcases of a mediævalism whose spirit had fled seemed a not less incongruous act than to set about renovating the adjoining crags themselves.[34]


[1] This issue has not been discussed thoroughly yet in any of the numerous books devoted to Victorian medievalism in literature. Most of the works concentrate on the inspirations provided by medieval art, the fascination with the medieval mode of life and the nostalgia for idyllic pre-industrial society. Some of the most important works are: A. Chandler, A Dream of Order: The Medieval Ideal in Nineteenth-Century English Literature, Lincoln 1970; K.L. Morris, The Image of the Middle Ages in Romantic and Victorian Literature, London–Sydney 1984; A. D. Culler, The Victorian Mirror of History, New Haven 1985; R. Chapman, The Sense of the Past in Victorian Literature, London–Sydney 1986. Another notable work is M. Bright Cities Built to Music (Columbus 1984), devoted wholly to the aesthetic theories of the Gothic Revival.

[2] R. Browning, Bishop Blougram’s Apology, in: Men and Women and Other Poems, London 1993, p. 86.

[3] Cf.: R. Hill, God’s Architect, London 2007, pp. 371–372; C. Powell, Augustus Welby Pugin, Designer of the British Houses of Parliament, London 2006, pp. 98–99; D. Moore, The Catholic Context, in: A.W.N. Pugin: Master of Gothic Revival, ed. P. Atterbury, New Haven 1995, pp. 44–61.

[4] B. Ferrey, Recollections of A.N. Welby Pugin and His Father, Augustus Pugin, with Notices of Their Works, London 1861, p. 115.

[5] Quoted after: P. Allitt, Catholic Converts: British and American Intellectuals Turn to Rome, Ithaca 1997, p. 48.

[6] N.N. Holland, L.F. Sherman, Gothic Possibilities, in: “New Literary History” 8, 1977, p. 279.

[7] J.H. Newman, The Letters and Diaries of John Henry Newman, vol. IX: Littlemore and the Parting of Friends May 1842 – October 1843, Oxford 2006, p. 87.

[8] Cf.: S. Bradley, Englishness of Gothic: Theories and Interpretation from William Gilpin to J.H. Parker, in: “Architectural History”45, 2002, pp. 325–346.

[9] C. Brooks, The Gothic Revival, London 1999, p. 68.

[10] Ibidem, p. 55.

[11] Quoted after: R. O’Donnell, The Pugins and the Catholic Midlands, Leominster 2002, p. 10.

[12] F. Close, Church Architecture, Scripturally Considered, From the Earliest Ages to the Present Times, London 1844, pp. 79–80.

[13] K. Clark, The Gothic Revival: An Essay in the History of Taste, Harmondsworth 1964, p. 151.

[14] Quoted after: R. Smith Gothic Arches, Latin Crosses. Anti-Catholicism and American Church Designs in the Nineteenth Century, Chapel Hill 2006, pp. 84–85.

[15] [E.J. Whately?], Kate and Rosalind, London 1853, p. 33.

[16] [E.J. Whately?], Quicksands on Foreign Shores, London 1854, p. 223.

[17] G. Borrow, Lavengro, London 1851, p. 321.

[18] G. Borrow, The Romany Rye, London 1872, p. 207.

[19] Ibidem, p. 207.

[20] C. Brontë, Villette, Peterborough, Ont. 2006, p.111.

[21] J. Ruskin, The Stones of Venice, vol. 1: The Foundations, London 1851, p. 371.

[22] Ibidem, p. 373.

[23] K. Garrigan, Ruskin on Architecture, Madison 1973, p. 19–20, quoted. after: Allitt 1997, see footnote. 5, p. 50–51.

[24] Allitt 1997, see footnote. 5, p. 50.

[25] Quoted after: P. O’Malley, Catholicism, Sexual Deviance, and Victorian Gothic Culture, Cambridge 2006, p. 70.

[26] N.C. Smith, George Gilbert Scott and the Martyrs’ Memorial, in: “Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes” 42, 1979, pp. 195–206.

[27] C. Sinclair, Beatrice, or, The Unknown Relatives, London 1855, p. 376.

[28] Ibidem, p. 272.

[29] Ibidem, p. 348.

[30] A. Trollope, The Warden, Oxford 1980, pp. 160–161.

[31] Ibidem, p. 21.

[32] M. Zgórniak, Wokół renesansu w architekturze XIX wieku. Podstawy teoretyczne i realizacje, Kraków 1987 (=Ze­szyty Nau­ko­­we UJ. Prace z Historii Sztuki, 18), p. 88.

[33] J. Patrick, Newman, Pugin, and Gothic, in: “Victorian Studies” 24, 1981, pp. 185–204.

[34] T. Hardy, A Pair of Blue Eyes, Oxford 2005, p. 3.

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