Chapter III: Part 3

Royal Rheims! In this title, "apt alliteration's artful aid" not only appeals to our ear, but is also fully justified by history. In its splendid cathedral were crowned almost all the kings of France, the sacred oil used in the ceremony having been, saith the old legend, brought from heaven by a dove for the baptism in 496 of Clovis, King of the Franks, and thereafter preserved in a sacred vessel locked away in the tomb of St. Remi. Because of this having been for so many years, nay centuries, the place of royal consecration, what more appropriate decoration could have been devised for the great clerestory embrasures than the series of the first thirty-six kings of France, each window containing in its lower half the archbishop that consecrated the king above him! All these seventy-two figures are seated, because convention demanded this if the personage represented was dead. Down upon us from their lofty station about the nave clerestory gleam these long rows of the royalties and ecclesiastical dignitaries of France, a marvellous exemplification of what colour in glass can accomplish. An echoing gleam comes to us from the clerestory of the choir; but there the figures are those of great bishops, not only of Rheims, but also of other cities in its diocese, like Laon, Soissons, etc. At first thought it may seem bad English to speak of a gleam of light as an echo of another gleam, but before you criticise the expression, stand patiently for awhile in this great house of God, looking up at these splendid windows; perhaps there will at last come over you a feeling that in all this noble harmony of colour, this blending of soft tones, there is--there must be--some dim harmony of music. One never receives this peculiar impression except from glass of the thirteenth century; later glass lacks the depth and vibration of tone, even though it gains added brilliancy. Especially splendid is the effect of the kings dominating the nave below. Those near the transepts have a deep blue background, whilst a few close to the west end have behind and around them a soft, rich red. There is no other place where such sombre depth of hue can be seen in a clerestory glazed during the thirteenth century. At Bourges they are magnificent, but their beauty is of a different and brighter sort. Here at Rheims, although raised high in the air, they yield the same dusky glow that elsewhere we usually find in the medallion panels of the choir chapels below. So wonderful are the windows above you that there is a fair chance that you would have left the cathedral without noticing that below there are no medallion windows at all; in fact, that practically none of its lower panes are glazed in colour. This is owing to the almost incredible folly of the monks of Rheims who, in the years 1739-68, removed the coloured glass from the lower embrasures to admit more light. During the two years following October, 1755, they committed the same act of vandalism in the church of St. Remi. The cathedral has three fine rose windows, of which the western one with its bright-hued gallery of kings below it is far the best. The north rose window is good, although we miss the qualities which the north rose of Notre Dame at Paris has taught us to expect. The south rose contains glass of the sixteenth century and therefore seems pale and out of place amidst the older glories. The west rosace should be seen toward sunset so as to get the rays of the sun passing directly through it. Earlier in the day it is almost gloomy in tone. There has been much discussion as to the interpretation of the figures in the gallery of kings below, but now it seems settled that it represents the coronation of the converted pagan Clovis, King of the Franks. The windows of the transepts are glazed with grisaille of a very greenish tone and somewhat darker than that generally found at this time. Among them we observe one of the series of bishops which has apparently crept away from its fellows in the choir and come around the corner into the south transept. Although the bishop series lacks, to some extent, the crude, almost savage glory of the nave's stern array of kings, they are more carefully made. As in the king windows, here also we find an upper and a lower row of personages, but in addition, a feature very much out of the ordinary and which should be remarked. Instead of placing two bishops below to balance the two above, there is but one bishop below in each window, while the space adjoining him is occupied by a fanciful representation of his cathedral. There is no attempt to accurately portray the building, although the glass artist might as well have done so, for he has gone to the pains of making no two of these little cathedral pictures alike. So minutely has he gone into detail that each has a tiny rose window and each rose is markedly different from the others. The idea is a quaint one and shows the artist to have been fertile in ideas. So dark are the faces of the bishops as to make them look in one or two cases as though they were wearing masks. This effect is heightened by the fact that the eyes are glazed in lighter hues.

In the midst of all this gorgeous and sparkling colour, what a splendid picture may we not conjure up of the scene on the 17th day of July, 1429, when Charles VII, led in by Joan of Arc, had here the kingly crown placed upon his brow. With what vast satisfaction must the grand old kings have gleamed and glowed in sombre delight that their glorious cathedral was once more French, once more fulfilling its centuries-old duty of consecrating a French king, and especially that all this had been effected by a staunch French maid, than whom patriotism has never had a more worthy exemplar. It was but common justice that during the act of coronation of the king to whom she had restored not only a throne, but also a united people, she stood at the foot of the altar holding aloft her victorious standard. A chronicler of the time truly said that having shared in all the hardships she richly deserved to share in the honours.

Not only in the cathedral do we glass hunters find justification for the title "Royal Rheims." Once more we shall see a row of French kings, this time in the small nave clerestory lights of the old church of St. Remi. In manner similar to that employed at the cathedral we also find bishops adorning the choir clerestory. Fine as these two series are, and valuable, too (because they are earlier), we must confess that they do not produce the effect which the wonderful depth of colour gave us at the cathedral. The choir clerestory embrasures are really too small to afford room for the two rows of bishops one above the other. The choir chapel windows are partly modern, and partly old with too much restoration, so that the effect is not coherent. We must, however, remark a fine Crucifixion in the middle of the east end. It is undoubtedly twelfth century and, although technically well worthy of observation, lacks the beauty which we have a right to expect from that period. The glass in the large, round Romanesque embrasures at the west end, although copied on old models, is modern and very thin in colour. A careful look at the nave clerestory will reveal that in order to complete the set of seated kings a novel method was adopted. Many of the original panels were divided in two at the middle, the upper half being used in one embrasure and the lower half in another, the missing half in each case being supplied by modern glass made to imitate the old. This reads as though the effect would be bad, but on the contrary, it is fairly good and, at all events, the designs are in accordance with the original drawings.

Besides its glass, Rheims has another great attraction for the traveller in its wealth of tapestry. A magnificent series of ten presented in 1530 by Robert de Lenoncourt hangs in the transepts of St. Remi, whilst in the cathedral we shall find around the nave walls another series of fourteen given in the same year by the same donor. The cathedral is also adorned with other tapestries which, although perhaps not of such engrossing interest as the Lenoncourt series, are nevertheless treasures. As glass viewers it is well to observe that the rich decoration provided by these splendid hangings prevents us from noticing the otherwise obnoxious glare from the uncoloured windows just over them. We mention this here because as between two interesting glass towns some of our readers might incline to one where tapestries can be seen in addition to the glass. The Cathedral of Angers provides also the same double inducement.

SOISSONS

During the two tours just concluded we have visited all the most important treasure-houses of thirteenth century glass.

There is, however, a very agreeable secondary tour. Regarded as a glass pilgrimage, it is not to be compared with the two which we have finished, but this must not be taken to mean that the glass will not be worth inspection. Besides, most of the windows to be seen are of the period, thus making it an essentially thirteenth century pilgrimage. To one in whom the love of glass and devotion to the gentle sport of automobiling is about equal, this trip will be much more attractive than the last two. The scenery through which he will pass and the history that will be recalled will add very much to the charm of this itinerary and it is therefore particularly recommended to the automobilist and especially to the exercise-loving bicyclist. The distances between the towns are not great and the landscape is varied and delightful. Beginning with Soissons, our road lies through the picturesque mediaeval stronghold of Coucy-le-Chateau to the high-perched hill city of Laon, then over the plain at its foot to battleworn St. Quentin, and lastly across the rolling country to the splendid Cathedral of Amiens. Amiens is on the line of the Paris-London expresses, so we have excellent train service back to Paris.

We will let the traveller find his way as best he may from Paris to Soissons and will join him there. He will soon observe that there has departed from Soissons the ancient glory which was hers when under Clovis, the great king of the Franks, she became the capital of his strong province of Neustria. To-day we find a quiet provincial city of only about 13,000 inhabitants, where the chief movement and life seems to centre in the barracks. One noticeable feature of the town is the really fine west front, all that remains of the Abbey of St. Jean-des-Vignes, for nine years the home of the exiled Thomas a Becket. Even from its present denuded state of desolate loneliness one realises how splendid the complete building must have been, and the now empty and staring rose window above the central portal makes us sigh for the stained glass that must once have adorned that huge opening.

Soissons is one of the towns which benefited by the great love felt by St. Louis and his mother, Blanche of Castile, for stained glass. The northern rose of the cathedral is a proof of their beneficence, and is an excellent example of its type. The central pane is occupied by a figure of the Virgin Mary, and circling round her are the medallion panels which are so much more satisfactory than the spokes-of-a-wheel treatment so popular in the next century. Around the outside of the medallions is a double border of panels containing the arms of the royal benefactress, a field of red bearing the golden castles of Castile. As for the rest of the interior, so much of its original glazing has been destroyed that the effect of glow is entirely dissipated. The nave has lost its coloured panels, and only fragments remain in the western rose. The large lancets about the east end of the choir clerestory are most decorative, and further, they provide an opportunity of testing our ability to judge glass. At first sight we are convinced that they are of true thirteenth century mosaic work, and might continue to think so, if they were not betrayed by the comparison afforded by the two genuine medallion lancets just below them in the Lady Chapel. Even then we may remain undecided, which indecision is justified when we learn their history. They were repaired and restored in 1816, much of the old glass being retained and the old designs carefully followed. This explains not only why they lack the depth of tone seen in the complete medallions below them, but also why they were so deceptive until this touchstone of comparison was applied. Notice the Adam and Eve window to the right, as the design is very unusual. In the six scenes there depicted, one above the other, Adam and Eve are of course nude, and appear always she on the left side and he on the right of each little scene, with some other personage or object between them in the middle. As a result we have a perpendicular column of Eves on one side and of Adams on the other, the light glass used to make the flesh colour forming a secondary border for the window. The southern transept is an architectural freak, because instead of a rose window it has a rounded end like the apse chapel generally found at the eastern extremity of a church. As a novelty it is agreeable, but it deprives the glazier of one of his rose windows.

LAON

Those proceeding upon this pilgrimage by automobile or bicycle, will find a treat awaiting them between Soissons and Laon. The road lies through Coucy-le-Chateau, the impressive and well-preserved ruin of a massive mediaeval fortress. The huge round towers at its corners, connected by walls thirty-five feet thick, frown down from their rocky perch upon a pleasant valley below. Snuggled up against these protecting walls is the little town, which we enter by a narrow gateway crowded in between two great solemn towers. On we go through the narrow old streets and out another well-defended portal and off on our journey. When first we espy Laon we are far off on the rolling plain which surrounds its base. It looms high in the air, the four towers of its cathedral peering out above the encircling houses, all seeming to keep watch over the tiring zigzags by means of which the road lazily climbs the height. A city built upon a hill always possesses a fascination, more especially when it has a history as long and interesting as this one. The lofty situation makes the town seem to hold itself aloof and lends it a certain proud mystery which impels us to seek to know more of it--to penetrate its reserve. Laon is even more picturesque and striking than most French hill towns, because the height upon which it stands rises abruptly from a great plain. None of the height is lost and thus all the beauty is saved. After observing how remote it is upon its long, narrow hilltop, one can well understand why the later Carlovingian kings selected this stronghold for their capital. In those early times there was no artillery to endanger their loftily secure repose. The cathedral, which is a really fine one, presents us with some of those familiarly quaint touches that prove Gothic architecture to have been so close to the heart of its times. Perched aloft among the open spaces that interpenetrate its light towers, are life-size statues of oxen, in kindly memory of the beasts of burden that hauled up from the plain below the great stones used in the building. Within the cathedral, although there is but little glass, it is all of this period and, besides, is so grouped as to do itself the greatest credit possible. All we shall find is a rose filled with medallions in the north transept and another and far finer one in the square eastern end, below which are ranged three gorgeous lancets of imposing dimensions. The northern rose contains scenes representing the sciences as understood and practised in the thirteenth century. One's memory of this rose is blue with hints of green, while of the eastern series it is reddish purple. The centre of the splendid eastern rose is occupied by a figure of the Virgin Mary between John the Baptist and Isaiah, and around this group are two circles of medallions, the inner one of twelve containing the Apostles, and the outer, of twenty-four, the Elders of the Apocalypse. This concentration of all the old glass in these two quarters has the satisfactory result that anyone standing at the crossing and looking either into the north transept or into the choir, sees nothing but the splendid richness of mosaic medallions, and is not distracted by the sight of any other style of glazing. The placing of this fine glass more than compensates for its limited amount. After this sweeping praise, we may indulge ourselves in one mild criticism: the glass in the east end would seem richer still if it were not so much illuminated from within by the white glazed windows along the sides of the choir. If this were toned down, even by modern glass, it would cause a decided improvement. At St. Quentin, we are more than reconciled to the presence of modern glass in the chapels around the choir, because it so modifies the light as to permit the thirteenth century panels in the choir clerestory to sparkle and gleam as they should. The north rose at Laon is of rare construction; the stone framework is so cumbersome, and the amount of glazed surface so modest, as to almost destroy the appearance of a rosace, and to substitute therefor that of a series of holes let into a wall. Also notice that the east rose is glazed flush with the stonework, thus presenting a level surface on the inside, while just below, in marked contrast, the three lancets are deeply recessed within. This method of constructing a rose is unusual; another example is the west rose at Mantes. The square eastern end, instead of the usual rounded apse, is believed to be one of the many results seen throughout this diocese of the influence exerted by a twelfth century English bishop. Whatever the reason for this square apse, it admirably suits the rest of the edifice.

Before leaving this delightful hilltop, we must not fail to take a stroll around the boulevards which have been constructed upon the overturned walls. The views from this promenade out over the great plain below linger long in one's memory.

ST. QUENTIN

A few miles from Madrid lies the famous palace of the Escorial, built upon a ground plan following as closely as possible the shape of a gridiron. It was erected by King Philip II in pious memory of his famous victory at St. Quentin on St. Lawrence's Day, 1557. St. Lawrence achieved martyrdom by being roasted alive on a gridiron, hence the selection of that humble utensil as a design for the royal thank-offering. There are few more interesting monuments to commemorate a victory, and one would hardly expect to hear that a battle won in northern France is commemorated by a palace far to the south across the Pyrenees. Many a time in history did St. Quentin make herself famous by her stout defences, but none ever won her so much fame as this defeat which, by delaying the Spanish forces, enabled the French armies to assemble behind her and save Paris. It was a great victory for Philip, but it cost him the possession of the French capital.

As we stood upon the lofty heights at Laon, we looked far out over a wide plain, across which, forty-five kilometres to the northwest, lies St. Quentin. The quiet streets of this well-to-do city afford little to remind us of the mediaeval strife that so often raged through them. We hear no sounds that recall to us the angry noises of besiegers without, which so often carried dismay to the stout hearts of its burghers. Unlike Laon, its situation and its buildings now present little to recall the picture of the past. The huge barn-like exterior of its great church is quite different from those we have been seeing. Even its triple-tiered flying buttresses have so short a span as to entirely miss the decorating possibilities which we have a right to expect. It lacks the lightness and grace of the true Gothic; in fact, to tell the truth, it looms up big and bulky, more like an Italian church than the beautiful French ones. But when we have once passed inside, we are provided with a most agreeable surprise, for it is much more attractive than many whose external promise has been greater. There are two sets of transepts, one beyond the other, which unusual feature not only enhances the charm of the interior, but also causes its beauty to reveal itself in a more leisurely fashion. But to the glass! In the choir clerestory are seven double windows, of which the lancets each hold two great dignitaries, one above the other. The small rosaces above, which serve to tie together these pairs of lancets, are very pleasing, nor should we fail to note the handsome wide borders of the lancets themselves, plentifully besprinkled with fleur de lis. We must particularly appreciate the service performed by the modern glass around the choir chapels in so subduing the light as to permit these splendid lancets to receive all their illumination from without and therefore to disclose, undiminished in any way, that warm glow that makes them so delightful. The hideous polychrome painting of the interior also assists in this fruitful modification of the light, but this is the only possible apology for its presence! The oldest glass here is that which fills the two side windows of the Lady Chapel. Each has twenty medallions, those on the left showing Old Testament scenes, and those on the right, episodes from the life of the Virgin. One of the large transepts has a moderately-sized rose window which does not as usual contain figures, but, instead, is filled with designs in colour. The absence of the figures does not spoil the effect; in fact, the story depicted in glass of this period is nothing like so important as the colour scheme. The details of the legend are generally elaborately worked out, often in quaint episodes, but upon this the beauty of the window does not depend. Indeed, it is not until we are at such a distance that we can no longer distinguish the little figures that the charm of the glass begins to lay hold upon us. The reason we do not find more thirteenth century panels here is because the older part of the church was reconstructed during the reign of Louis XI. Furthermore, when we consider the many sieges to which the town has been subjected, as well as the great fire of October 14, 1669, it seems strange that even this much of so fragile a treasure has survived. In this connection it is interesting to learn that in 1557, Philip II instructed his artillery to avoid hitting the great church. This very appreciation of art and respect for religion perhaps explains why, as soon as he had captured the city, he so promptly confiscated the church's gorgeous tapestries to be used later in decorating the Escorial! In 1766 an attempt was made to negotiate for them so that they could be restored to their original home, but the Spaniards replied that they could not part with so glorious a trophy. Nor was the ravaging hand of the warrior the only hostile force to which the unfortunate edifice was subjected. January 25, 1572, during a tempest, one of the great choir windows was blown in, and on Easter Day, 1582, the same fate befell the great window of the first northern transept, this time with fatal results, for in falling it killed four priests. The old glass in the nave clerestory was removed by the monks in 1747 to secure more light, which form of vandalism was, unfortunately, only too common. We must not leave without commenting upon what a delightful monument of fifteenth century Gothic is afforded by the south end of the easterly transepts. Below is a chapel shut in by a light stone screen of admirable design; above it the stretch of wall is relieved with gracefully carved patterns, while higher still appear four large lancets surmounted by a rosace, all excellently glazed. The lancets have richly coloured single figures below canopies of such size that their pinnacles occupy more than half the height of the embrasures. The only criticism possible of the otherwise satisfactory adjustment of the various portions of this south wall is that the rose is too high up and too small to balance the splendid lancets below it. Of sixteenth century glass there are two fine examples in the north end of this same pair of transepts, but we will postpone further reference to them until later on (see page 269).

Before leaving the town, one should visit the Salle Syndicale in the Hotel de Ville in order to see the fine Francois Premier fireplace, and the double arched ceiling with its quaint corbels. The windows of this room formerly contained a long series of sixteenth century scenes from the life and labours of Hercules, but a Prussian shell destroyed all but five of them.

When he leaves St. Quentin, bound for Amiens, the traveller by railway is quite as well off as the automobilist or the bicyclist. Up to this stage of our journey the two latter have had a decided advantage, but now the country has less attractions to offer and the road is one of those straight Routes Nationales whose only apology for their monotony is that they save distance.

AMIENS

At Amiens there is not much glass, and yet the student will not have wasted his time, for he will there see one of the finest cathedrals in Europe, and will furthermore be able to note what the lack of coloured glass means, in this way learning to value it even more highly than before. If a visit to this great church renders us no other service than this, we shall all agree that it is no small one. We shall never again question that a magnificent ecclesiastical interior is not only vastly improved, but actually needs its light tempered by stained glass. Our pilgrim has long ere this learnt that he cannot always rely on guide-books to tell him whether or not fine windows are to be found in certain towns, and therefore we may serve a useful purpose and save some reader a disappointing trip by setting out the facts. The cathedral owes its chief beauty to the extraordinary detail and amount of sculpture to be found without and within. So complete are the scriptural events chronicled upon its west front that Ruskin has given it the title of the "Bible in Stone." Nor are the carvings which are to be found inside in any way inferior to those which fascinate us without. The stone screen which runs around the ambulatory would alone repay much study, but the most notable display of the carver's art is the little army of nearly four thousand figures upon the choir stalls. Notwithstanding this wealth of sculpture, we are struck by the bareness of the lofty interior. We long for a touch of mystery and cannot but feel that in the glare of light streaming through the immensely tall uncoloured windows everything is too clearly revealed and there is lacking the softness which would add so much to the beauty of the carvings. What a change there would be for the better if we could wave a wand and by some fairy power will back into the windows their ancient glories. Everything is too stately and cold, too sharply outlined; in fact, far too much denuded of the mysterious charm, the awe-inspiring gloom which lays hold upon us at Chartres or Bourges.

Although but little of its glass has survived, it is almost all of the thirteenth century, and some is very good. In one of the choir chapels to the left is an interesting Tree of Jesse in the medallion style. The left window of the easternmost chapel has a charming blue background and a novel use of small white birds in its border. Above us in the easternmost window of the clerestory (the only one in the clerestory that has survived intact) another unique feature catches the eye--its four slender lancets contain some very decorative lettering introduced into the design. This lettering is glazed in white on a blue background and its legend when deciphered sets out that those three windows were given by Bernard d'Abbeville, Bishop of Amiens, in the year 1269. In contrast to these meagre remains of glass, there are also to be seen three fine rose windows which are completely glazed. They all have quaint names, that in the west facade being called the "Rose of the Sea"; that in the north the "Rose of the Winds"; that in the south the "Rose of Heaven." This poetic and quaintly familiar method of naming windows is not unknown elsewhere; it is also found at Chartres. The huge western rose, thirty-eight feet in diameter, although dating from 1241, has lost its original glass and was reglazed in the sixteenth century. There are no figures in the north rose, but instead a mosaic of colour; we have noticed a similar arrangement at St. Quentin. In the south rose, red predominates, but with it there is also considerable green. If the reader decides to visit Amiens, notwithstanding the small amount of glass to be seen there, he will surely conclude that the day has not been wasted, for he will not leave that splendid interior without a truer appreciation of the great service which the glass artist rendered to the architect, as well as a sigh for the fragile beauty which is no longer there.

FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES

Nowhere in art can there be found so abrupt a change of style as that which marks in stained glass the arrival of the fourteenth century. So noticeable is the difference between the windows of the thirteenth and those of the fourteenth centuries that it can be seen at a glance. Not only were the new styles very distinctive, but they were also very enduring, for even when the fifteenth century arrived it did little but elaborate the ideas introduced by the fourteenth, and for that reason we should consider them together as forming one epoch. The new results which we now find are not only in effect, but also in light and in placing of figures. This transformation took place within a few years and was, therefore, as sudden in point of time as it was in treatment, which latter is so marked that it excites our curiosity as to its causes. It is safe to assume that we have here happened upon not only one novelty but a coincidence of several, as otherwise the change would have been much less abrupt. Most of the new elements which in combination so suddenly produced such a sweeping change can be studied from the glass which has survived to these modern days, but of one we can now only read: this was the demand for domestic glass, and unfortunately but few examples of it are left to us. The old chroniclers tell us of many private houses and buildings devoted to civil uses having their windows glazed in colour, a form of luxury hitherto found only in religious edifices. We know that it then began to be widely used, especially in Paris, but it did not survive the turbulence of those times. The effect of this novel use on glass styles was very marked. Obviously it was not practicable to employ the same sort of glass in the smaller rooms of a dwelling house that we have seen so effective in the larger interiors of religious edifices. We notice that beautiful as is the thirteenth century Ste. Chapelle, its "dim religious light" is unsuited for any building devoted to secular uses. No, the medallion window with its deep-toned panes and profusion of leads would not serve for civil or domestic purposes, nor, on the other hand, could we bring down the big personages from the clerestories of cathedrals; they were most impressive when seen from the distance which their lofty situation necessitated, but they were much too crude and coarse in their workmanship to be lowered to the level of the observer's eye. For this new demand of domestic architecture it was obvious that something must be devised which would give more light. One method of effecting it was using coloured figures on a soft grisaille background, but this has only to be seen to be found unsatisfactory. Some examples of this exist in the north side of Ste. Radegonde at Poitiers. They are interesting, but the figures start out from the light background so violently as to plainly make them unsuitable in small interiors. Plain grisaille was not rich enough to be used in a fine private house. As a compromise between these two methods they arrived at the use of a border of greyish simulated Gothic architecture to frame the central coloured figure of a window. In this way the border admitted the light and the figure gave the richness; these Gothic frames were called "canopies." But why a frame of architecture? The interest in Gothic had by this time spread throughout the fair land of France. Many beautiful examples of it had just come into being before people's eyes--it was the delight of all. It was but natural that this noble style, still young, should be introduced by the glazier, especially as it lent itself to the demand for more light. Besides, in knowledge of Gothic, the glass artist was second only to the architect, as the windows were made to suit the church, not the church the windows. This observation upon the relation of the glazier to the architect brings us to another reason for the abrupt change in stained glass, and of this we can to-day readily find examples. We have said that the artist had to make his glass to suit the window apertures. About that time the architect was changing their shape. Instead of being broad and single windows they were now more numerous but narrower and taller, and were brought together in groups of two or more, separated only by stone mullions. Above this cluster of narrow lancets and in order to taper them off gracefully, were placed smaller openings called tracery lights. Without this tapering at the top, the group below would look unfinished and ill-proportioned. The few, though wide windows used during the thirteenth century were found to give too little light, and, besides, were not as decorative as the Gothic architect demanded for his more elaborate style. This new period in architecture is called "Decorated," which name has also properly been applied to its glass. The architect not only did everything in his power to gain more light by providing many more wall apertures, but doubtless he also insisted that the glazier assist in this endeavour. We have just seen that the latter complied with this request by surrounding his coloured figures with light-admitting architectural frames of greyish-yellow. Nor did he stop there: he helped the architect to bind together more harmoniously his groups of narrow lights into which the whole window was now split up, for he realised that horizontal bands of light colour placed straight across these narrow lights would effect this purpose. The slender stone mullions which divided them showed too many perpendicular lines and tended to make the windows seem spindling, but this was corrected by the broad bands of light afforded by the grey and yellow canopy tops running along over the heads of the saints occupying the tall narrow panes. Perhaps the reader is already asking whence the artist obtained so much grey and yellow, because thirteenth century glass leaves rather a strong purple memory behind it. To answer this question is to bring forward another new thing and one which also had a large share in abruptly changing the styles. About the beginning of the fourteenth century it was discovered that if silver were floated upon the surface of glass and then exposed to the furnace, the result would be a bright yellow stain. The word "stain" is used advisedly, because by this method the surface received a durable colour not removable like paint. We have already seen that pot-metal colour was introduced throughout the mass during the time of the making of the glass and was therefore part of it from the beginning. This new stain was not applied until after the glass was made, and no other tint but yellow could be produced in this way. The discovery of this valuable secret has been variously recounted, but always the credit is given to blind chance, some silver happening to drip upon glass which, when burnt, disclosed to the surprised workman the new and beautiful yellow. Its great value in admitting light as well as in enriching the tones of a window was at once appreciated. No longer was it necessary to laboriously lead in a bit of yellow pot-metal glass where that hue was demanded by the design. Now all that was done was to float a little silver upon a large piece of glass at the point or points required, expose it to the fire, and behold! a tint that made glorious the hair of angels, or the robes of saints and high dignitaries. Touches of this rich colour also made possible architectural frames which would otherwise have seemed dull, flat and opaquely grey. Each little pinnacle could be brightened up, lines of yellow would enliven columns and the canopy window in its light soft beauty was made practicable.

_14th century canopies seldom filled the whole embrasure,
appearing only in bands across a grisaille field; besides, their
architecture was much cruder, they lacked pedestals, etc._]

It is an unfortunate fact that the best glass of this period is not to be seen in Paris, although we can get a fair idea of its effect from the fifteenth century canopied figures in the clerestory of St. Severin. A few of those at the west end of this church are at once seen to differ in their design from the others, although all are of the true canopy type. These few to the west were brought from their original place in the choir of St. Germain des Pres. At St. Severin we shall note several points which serve to distinguish the canopies of the fifteenth century from the earlier ones of the fourteenth. The difference is chiefly in the use of more colours in the later figures, as well as more careful architectural detail in their canopies. Further, to make his windows lighter in tone, the French glazier of the fourteenth century generally used bands of canopies only across the middle third of the surface, filling the uppermost and lowest thirds with grisaille. The fifteenth century canopies almost invariably filled the entire embrasure. Frequently during the fourteenth century the artist was not content with the light admitted by his canopies, but added to it by using white for one or more of the saints' robes. This practice so reduced the number of colours in the background and the garments that we seldom find more than two colours within the niches of fourteenth century canopies, while in the fifteenth century we almost always find four. Then, too, there is an added feature of decoration in the later ones which is generally lacking earlier: across the back of the niche a coloured curtain is carried shoulder high behind the figure, and this curtain is almost always damasked. This can be remarked at St. Severin, where we shall also see that all the figures stand upon elaborate pedestals, another sign that we are looking at work of the fifteenth century, for in the fourteenth they would have lacked pedestals and be found standing upon grass or some other natural and unarchitectural base. The artist was so careful to cling closely to contemporary conventions that sometimes we happen upon very amusing compromises. For example, here tradition demanded pedestals, so there they are, even though he had to make the rather ridiculous combination of a figure standing upon a half-circle of cloud neatly balanced upon the pedestal's tessellated pavement. The conventions demanded the little pavement, the design required the clouds, so he gave us both! In these days when we are so occupied in copying older art, it is interesting to see traces of a time when they jealously clung to the styles and forms which were then new.

A brilliant yellow was the only tint obtainable by the process of staining, but it is also true that other new colours were secured, although by means of an entirely different discovery which, of itself, provided yet another new thing to combine with those already enumerated in changing glass methods. This discovery took place early in the fourteenth century and made it possible to superimpose another colour upon white or coloured glass. The method of producing this effect was very simple: the end of the blowpipe was dipped first into liquid glass of one colour, and then into another, with the result that the bubble when blown was of one colour inside and of another outside. The bubble was then opened out into the flat sheet as usual. This process had always been followed to make red glass, which was really a sheet of white coated with ruby, but now all sorts of combinations were made. Thus a brilliant purple could be obtained by coating a piece of red glass with blue; red on yellow would give a splendid orange; blue on yellow a brilliant green. Although invented early in the fourteenth century, this process did not have all its possibilities developed until during the fifteenth, when the number of layers was gradually increased until we find some specimens showing six different coats. We shall enjoy the results when we visit Quimper or Eymoutiers or Bourges. The French have a very descriptive name for glass treated in this manner: they call it "verre double," or "lined glass," referring to the fact that there are two layers. The abrupt change in glass windows which took place at the beginning of the fourteenth century becomes less extraordinary when we recapitulate the various discoveries in the art and realise what an effect must have been caused by such a combination as that of (_a_) the chance-revealed yellow stain; (_b_) domestic use which required glass fit for small, well-lighted interiors; (_c_) the demands of the architect for his narrowed and more numerous window apertures, and lastly (_d_) the enriching of the artist's palette due to the new process of doubling the sheets of glass. The whole trend is now towards much more light, larger pieces of glass, brighter colours and more attention to the design at the expense of the colour effect of the window.

We have now not only set forth the great change that was so speedily effected in the style and appearance of stained glass, but further, we have enumerated the various novelties, both in popular requirements and in technique, which brought about the light tones of the fourteenth century. The steps by which was effected this transition from the thirteenth century mosaic type with its rudimentary suggestion of a canopy, to the fourteenth century figure ensconced in his little sentry-box, can be seen on but few existing windows; in fact, so little transition glass is there that the change strikes one all the more forcibly. There are, however, a few available for this purpose, notably the three eastern lancets of the Lady Chapel in the Abbey Church at Fecamp, and a certain window in the north transept of Amiens Cathedral. The Fecamp lancets show us the first step, where, although the glass is still entirely mosaic, the architecture at the top is brought down the sides of the figure so as to complete the sentry-box. Of course this admits no more light than the regular medallion lancets which conveniently assist our comparison by flanking on either side the three easterly ones. We have thus arrived at the enframing canopy, but have not yet conformed to the demand for more light which had now become so insistent. How will this be done? A mosaic medallion could not well be put upon a light surface, as it would look splotchy and unfinished (viz.: first chapel on the left of choir ambulatory in Rouen Cathedral), nor would it do to station unframed, isolated, coloured figures on an uncoloured surface (viz.: Ste. Radegonde at Poitiers). To avoid the unfinished appearance, they hit upon the idea of surrounding the coloured figure with a frame-like architectural border (as just seen at Fecamp), and then put this framed picture in the midst of the plain panes. This step is exemplified by a large double-lanceted window just west of the north transept door in Amiens Cathedral. The entire window is surcharged with a number of these canopy-framed figures arranged in parallel perpendicular lines. We have now gained more light, and it is easy to see what is coming next. Instead of placing the small canopies up and down the window (as at Amiens), it would obviously be more effective to assemble them in bands across it. Both Sees and Evreux serve to illustrate this manner of glazing. There are many examples that mark the slow development from these fourteenth century horizontal rows of canopies across a grisaille or quarry background, to the perfected canopy window of the fifteenth century, where the service of admitting light is entirely transferred from the grisaille or quarry to the canopy itself. This has been rendered possible by greatly increasing the space allotted to the simulated stonework, so as to enable it to let in all the illumination required, and at the same time perform its duty of framing the coloured part of the picture. These windows at Fecamp and Amiens are very instructive as showing us the experimental steps which resulted in the satisfactory combination of picture and illumination, instead of splotches of colour on a light field.

It must not be thought that we have dwelt too long on this particular period of transition, for this is the only time during the Golden Age of glass that there took place an abrupt change in styles, and therefore a speedy and marked transition. There was certainly nothing hasty in the way that the broad borders and larger glass pieces of the twelfth century developed into the narrower borders and more minutely mosaic method of the thirteenth. As to the transition from the fourteenth to the fifteenth century, so slowly and so imperceptibly was it effected that we have decided to study those two centuries together as one epoch, the second being but the natural elaboration of the first. Lastly, nothing could be more measured and deliberate than the steps by which the fifteenth century canopy developed into the sixteenth century large picture panel, by first changing the canopy from Gothic to Renaissance, then enlarging the scene within the new canopy until it finally outgrew the need for the frame, and emerged therefrom in its completed state, often covering a whole window.

If at this point we turn to our histories, we shall soon encounter reasons which convincingly explain why there remains so little fourteenth-fifteenth century glass for us to see. This was the period of the English occupation of a large portion of France. A peaceful possession of a part of the country might not have interfered with the course of art in other quarters, but the English possession was far from a peaceful one. Fighting, and that of the bitterest kind, went on continually. We have only to mention the "Hundred Years War" with England (1337-1453), marked by the disastrous defeats of Crecy (1346) and of Poitiers (1356), to be reminded of that. It is true that Bertrand du Guesclin won a short-lived success against the English (1364), but 1415 sees them again victorious at Agincourt and their occupation of Paris in 1421. This temporary victory of Du Guesclin proved an evil thing for France, as it prolonged the fighting and increased the frightful carnage which drenched French soil with blood. It is clear that during times like these the nobility was not in a position to interest itself in beautifying chateaux or churches. They were most earnestly concerned in the gentle art of erecting fortifications; safety and strength were of vital importance; beauty had to stand aside and wait. The records show many instances of great architectural enterprises being halted from lack of funds or from other motives, a case in point being Troyes Cathedral, upon which no work was done for a long period of years. The nobility were injured more than the lower classes by these wars, and in the great defeats of Crecy, Poitiers and Agincourt their losses were frightful. Many a titled family lost its estates and many another was exterminated. In battle the middle and lower classes suffered proportionately less, because the French placed most of their reliance upon armoured knights and disdained to avail themselves of the bourgeoisie to the same extent as the English, whose splendid bowmen and yeomanry were so potent a factor in winning those great victories. The fact that the great families of France were so grievously crippled during these wars goes far to explain why glass painting languished for lack of the support which the luxury-loving class of society was not then able to give it. Almost as serious for the nobles as the losses in battle and other ravages of war, was the reign of the subtle Louis XI (1461-81), who devoted his entire life to destroying the strength of the nobility and to building upon its ruins the centralised power of the throne, meanwhile guarding this increase of kingly power by encouraging the growth of the gendarmerie, and generally the military reliability of the bourgeoisie. One incident from his life provides us with a fact of great interest to a glass student. Upon the occasion of the repulse of the Bretons by the inhabitants of the French city of St. Lo, Louis presented to the cathedral of that town, as an expression of his approval of the bravery of its citizens, a fine set of stained glass windows. As an event in political statecraft it is most significant: he did not ennoble or enrich certain leaders, but gave the entire fighting populace a royal gift. To us it has a peculiar interest, because the incident shows that stained glass was held in such high esteem as to be considered a worthy gift from a king to a city. But before turning from a review of the evil days which fell upon France, we must notice that although the nobility suffered more heavily from battle and statecraft than any other class, the times were tragic enough for all Frenchmen, whether noble or peasant, rich or poor. The plague raged throughout the land--not once, but many times--during these two centuries and its fearsome grasp fell upon all alike. Nor was this misery enough; to all these calamities was added that of civil war of the worst type--the war of the masses against the classes. The scorn in which the nobles held the poor man was but the natural outcome of the feudal state. The man in armour despised Jacques Bonhomme, as he called him. When in 1358 the disorders afflicting the body politic caused this contempt and ill-treatment to so increase that it could no longer be endured, the uprising of the oppressed against the oppressor assumed in hideous satire the name of the Jacquerie. Before it could be finally put down, French soil was drenched again and again with blood. Even this short dip into contemporary history has revealed enough to make it passing strange that any glass at all was made in France during those trying times, and stranger still that, if made, it should have survived.