The Project Gutenberg eBook, Stained Glass Tours in France, by Charles Hitchcock Sherrill This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Stained Glass Tours in France Author: Charles Hitchcock Sherrill Release Date: December 28, 2010 [eBook #34772] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STAINED GLASS TOURS IN FRANCE*** E-text prepared by D Alexander and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) STAINED GLASS TOURS IN FRANCE BY CHARLES HITCHCOCK SHERRILL NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY, MCMVIII LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD Copyright, 1908, by JOHN LANE COMPANY INTERIOR OF SAINTE CHAPELLE, PARIS. INTERIOR OF SAINTE CHAPELLE, PARIS. Built by St. Louis (Louis IX) 1248. Window surfaces pleasantly broken up into “medallion” designs. Walls constructed almost entirely of sheets of richly toned glass (see Page 26). TO THAT REMORSELESS CRITIC MY WIFE THIS BOOK IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED CONTENTS PAGE Introduction 13 Thirteenth Century and Earlier 25 Thirteenth Century Tour 37 Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries 117 Fourteenth and Fifteenth Century Tours 134 Sixteenth Century 197 Sixteenth Century Tours 212 Itineraries 295 Index 297 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Sainte Chapelle, Paris Frontispiece PAGE Medallion Panel, Louvre 28 Map, Thirteenth Century Tours 41 Medallion Lancet, Tours 54 Chartres Transepts 73 Thirteenth Century Rose, Laon 106 Fifteenth Century “Canopy,” St. Lô 122 Map, Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries Tours 136 Fifteenth Century “Canopy,” Riom 159 Renaissance “Picture,” Montfort l’Amaury 200 Map, Sixteenth Century Tours 214 Renaissance Rose, Sens 221 Creation Window, Troyes 228 Constable of Montmorency and his Sons 270 Tree of Jesse, Beauvais 283 Dedication of the Ste. Chapelle 294 FOREWORD The purpose of this book is a very simple one. It is to provide an answer to the question, “Where does one find good stained glass in France, and how can it most conveniently be seen?” All the books upon this subject are more or less technical and are intended rather for the student than the sightseer. During the six years that the writer has been studying glass, he has so often been asked the above question, as to finally conclude that an answer in the form of a simple touring handbook might be of service. To that end he has put together notes taken on sundry vacation trips. The reader should be indulgent, for the writer is not an authority on glass—just a lawyer on a holiday. In addition to the purpose already described, it is hoped that this little book may also serve to lure forth into the charming French country some who have hitherto neither heard nor cared much about glass, so that they may see the wonderful beauty that the stained- glass window can alone reveal. Charles Hitchcock Sherrill. 20, East 65th Street, New York, Christmas, 1907. INTRODUCTION The reason for the existence of a window is obvious. When the dwelling ceased to be a cave and became a house, the need for a light aperture at once arose. Neither the house nor the window concern us until long after the house had been made thoroughly habitable, and its windows after much evolution are finally filled with a sheet of translucent substance, which, while excluding the weather, would admit the light. Our interest does not begin until the wish to decorate the house naturally brought about a desire to decorate the window. We will pass over the story of the discovery of glass and its gradual improvement; nor will we pause to consider the very earliest examples now extant, nor examine the steps through which it must have passed to reach so advanced a stage as we find in the twelfth century. This is a book to tell where to see windows, and therefore it must not take up stained glass until a period is reached when examples are sufficiently numerous and beautiful to repay a visit to them. At what date then, shall we make our beginning? There is practically nothing until we come to the charming remains of the twelfth century; but because these latter are very few and those few in churches which also contain glass of the next century, we shall commence with the heading of “Thirteenth Century and Earlier.” That explains why we have selected this particular epoch as the starting point of our investigations. Our windows will themselves disclose to us that the Golden Age of French stained glass falls of itself into three subdivisions—the first comprising the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the second the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and the third the sixteenth century. Of the second subdivision we shall find but few examples, of the first more, and of the third most. No matter how far back we push our researches, we are sure to be surprised at the advanced state of the art represented by any window which attempts a picture. In fact, we shall happen upon no satisfactory traces of the evolution which must have led up to even the crudest and oldest story-window. We are forced, therefore, to conclude that this evolution must have occurred in another art, and the result there evolved transferred into this one. This conclusion is much strengthened when we read that St. Sophia, built by Justinian during the sixth century in Constantinople, contained not only glass mosaics on the walls, but also in its windows. Here we have the key to the [Pg 11] [Pg 12-3] [Pg 14] puzzle. The many artists who were then occupied in designing mosaics, worked out their pictures in little pieces of glass on the wall until they had developed along that line as far as possible. Then they doubtless bethought themselves that these glass mosaics would be even more effective if they could devise a means of illuminating their picture by letting the light shine through the colour. To accomplish this they contrived to hold the morsels of glass securely in place, first by wooden or stucco frames, and later by long ribbons of lead having channels on each side to retain the edges of the glass. This form of mosaic so held up to the light became a stained-glass window. Thus we easily understand that when the idea arrived of taking the mosaic picture off the wall and putting it into the embrasure of the window, the art of making that picture out of bits of glass had already been fully developed. We shall avoid the technicalities of glass making, as they do not suit our holiday mood. Nor is there good reason why we should discuss any use of glass save that which is required in the construction of our windows. Let us, however, in passing, refer to the very curious fact that a severe blow was dealt to all other sorts of glassware when the artists turned their attention to the making of windows. Glassware had constantly improved in design and colour up to the time (early in the twelfth century) when the great interest in windows sprang up. This new taste seemed to at once throw all other developments of this material into a comatose condition which lasted on through the five centuries composing the Golden Age of the window. This observation receives a peculiar confirmation when we notice that, at the end of the sixteenth century, stained glass suddenly lost its vogue at the same time that glassware sprang into renewed favour through the artistic skill and inventive genius of the Venetians. Indeed, the decadence of stained glass seemed to be the signal for the revival of hollow glassware. To revert for a moment to the time when window making caused a halt in the improvement of hollowware, it is interesting to note that glass making then left its former haunts and betook itself to the forests, where it lurked until the stained-glass window having shot its bolt, hollowware again engaged the attention of the artists and was once more manufactured nearer to the homes of its purchasers. During this period of partial seclusion the glass produced was of a peculiar quality called in English “forest glass” and in French “verre de fougère” (referring to the wild fern or bracken which was burnt to provide the necessary alkali). The two names combine to explain to us that wood and not coal was used by the glass-blower and also that his alkali had to be gotten in an unusual way. The toughness of this “forest glass” was admirably suited to the requirements of the window-maker. As this book will be confined to an examination of French stained glass, it is appropriate to cite Theophilus, who when in the twelfth century he wrote his celebrated Latin treatise on this general subject, stated that the art was a French one. This makes it all the more important that we trace its beginnings in France, as well as inquire whence came the influence which so strongly marked them. This inquiry will reveal that it was to Byzantium that the early glaziers were indebted for their quaint style of drawing. In early glass we will observe the constrained, ungainly poses of the bodies, arms and legs, as well as the staring-eyed, ill-proportioned heads, not only in the medallion type of windows, but also in the larger figures glaring down from the clerestories. Very interesting conclusions may be reached if we place side by side three figures, one taken from thirteenth century glass, another from a Limoges enamel made any time from the tenth to the thirteenth century, and the third from the famous mosaics of St. Mark’s in Venice. We have selected an enamel from Limoges because that was the only locality in which a continued as well as a renowned cult of enamelling existed in France during the centuries named, while the reason for choosing St. Mark’s is that it is one of the finest extant examples of Byzantine art. Notice the same constraint in the drawing of all these three figures, the same awkward pulling of garment folds to delineate the form, and the same quaint morsel of conventional architecture about the top (which last, by the way, indicated that the personage below was a high dignitary of either church or state). The resemblance is too striking to be merely a coincidence, especially as each of these figures used in the comparison is typical of hundreds of others. This very resemblance hints at its own explanation. The dates of the figures show the order in which these peculiarities of style must have been transmitted. The Byzantine mosaics of St. Mark’s are much the oldest; then came the Limoges enamels, and lastly the stained glass windows. Thus we learn not only where our windows originated in France, but also whence came the designs that the Limoges enamellers taught the glazier. Abbe Texier, in his “Essai Historique et Descriptif sur les Argentiers et les Emailleurs de Limoges” (1841), says that French stained glass began in the neighbourhood of Limoges, whose highly vaunted school of enamellers were strongly influenced by the Byzantine types of the Venetian school and that therefore it was but natural that the glass artist should also have yielded to the Byzantine influence. As showing how this influence reached Limoges, he states that in 979 a Venetian colony settled there for the purpose of trading in spices and other commodities of the East, conveyed from Egypt by way of Marseilles. Winston says that the Venetian Doge Orseolo I came to sojourn in France in 978 and that the erection of the Church of St. Front, Périgueux (near Limoges), is ascribed to him. James Ferguson, in his Illustrated Handbook of Architecture, tells us that the Venetians (as the great carriers and merchants of the Levant) were in constant communication with Byzantium. These facts provide a ready explanation of why these same pronounced Byzantine types can be remarked first in the mosaics of St. Mark’s, next in the enamels of Limoges and lastly on the stained glass windows of the thirteenth century. The older the glass, the more closely does the drawing follow these models; the attitudes are more constrained and awkward, and the folds of the garment are more tightly drawn around the figures, nor does the artist allow himself any freedom from the traditions of that school. Later on the drawing becomes more graceful and the lines are freer. Anyone who desires to go thoroughly into the technical side of this art will find a most exhaustive and scholarly book in Lewis F. Day’s “Windows of Stained Glass” (1897). The best book in French is Oliver Merson’s excellent “Vitraux” (1895). Let us now postpone any further consideration of the general subject until after we, with our own eyes, have seen enough windows to have collected material for discussion. This brings us to the selection of towns, and the consideration of routes. [Pg 15] [Pg 16] [Pg 17] [Pg 18] [Pg 19] We have referred to how naturally stained glass divides itself into three epochs, viz.: 1. Thirteenth century and earlier. 2. Fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. 3. Sixteenth century. Visits to the glass of these epochs will be, for convenience, subdivided into the following tours: EPOCH I (a) Bourges, Poitiers, Tours, Angers, Le Mans, Chartres. (b) Auxerre, Sens, Troyes, Chalons, Rheims. (c) Soissons, Laon, St. Quentin, Amiens. EPOCH II (a) Evreux, Rouen. (b) Bourges, Moulins, Riom, Clermont-Ferrand, Eymoutiers, Limoges, Poitiers, Angers, Le Mans (Alençon), Sées, Verneuil, Chartres. Also separate visit to Quimper. EPOCH III (a) Vincennes, Sens, Troyes, Chalons. (b) Montfort l’Amaury, Conches, Pont-Audemer, Caudebec, Rouen (Grand-Andely, Elbeuf, Pont de l’Arche). (c) Ecouen, Montmorency, Chantilly (St. Quentin), Beauvais. Also separate visits to Bourg, Auch and Champigny-sur-Veude. At the back of the book will be found a table showing distances by road, and also the usual index. It must be admitted that even in so delightful a country as France, one’s wanderings gain an added zest if guided by a more definite purpose than is the slave of the red-backed Baedeker, intent upon exhausting the sights of every place visited. This admitted, we have then to consider not only the stranger on his first visit to France, but also the experienced traveller who already knows the beauties of its roads and the lazy charm of its historic towns. If our reader is of the latter sort he will especially hail some new quest as a reason for revisiting old scenes in search of charms heretofore unseen or unappreciated. It was especially him that the writer had in mind when putting together the rambling notes covering six years of glass study. He knows what varied forms of beauty await those who are sufficiently energetic to escape from the ultra-modern charms of Paris, that fascinator of foreigners. He knows the quaint villages, the perfect roads, the ancient castles, the magnificent cathedrals that are waiting to be explored. To him we will tell the story of a wonderful beauty where light lies imprisoned in colour—a beauty which can be seen nowhere so well as in France. What if you have already visited every nook and corner of this picturesque land? Come out again with us and add another to the many reasons for your love of France. Take up the modern equivalent of the pilgrim’s staff and shell and fare forth, being well assured that your eyes will be opened to the appreciation of something which, to be loved, has only to be wisely seen—the window of stained glass. THIRTEENTH CENTURY Before spending any time in studying the subject of stained glass windows, let us go and see some good ones. One of the safest ways to learn how to appreciate any art is to look at fine examples of it. Of stained glass this is particularly true, because no method of reproduction, even colour photography, can give any idea of the unique result there obtained by combining light with colour. No flat tints can ever produce the effect of warmth and translucence that is yielded by colour illuminated through and through by the rays of the sun. We will assume that we are in Paris. Fortunately for our purpose there are easily accessible two splendid specimens of early glass, one the glazing of the Ste. Chapelle and the other the rose windows high up in the western façade and in the transept ends of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. The former is the most perfect instance of a thirteenth century chapel preserving intact its original glazing, while the rose in the northern transept of Notre Dame is probably the finest one of its period in the world. Thus we make an excellent beginning and our interest is at once stimulated to see more. Observe the difference in the placing of these windows, as well as in the points from which we view them, as it will prove peculiarly useful in disclosing how they should be set in order to best reveal their beauties. Every tourist that visits Paris goes, as a matter of course, to the Ste. Chapelle, that net of Gothic in which lies enmeshed such treasures of colour and light. This sparkling marvel lies modestly nestled among the law courts, whose plainer modern buildings serve but to accentuate its wonderful beauty. We shall not be long in learning who was its founder, for the golden fleur de lis of France and castles of Castile strewed over its walls of glass mutely remind us that it was built by the good Louis IX and that with him was associated his mother, Queen Blanche of Castile. No king of France so loved and befriended our gentle art as St. Louis. In many another French window this same combination of heraldic emblems will demonstrate how diligently these two royalties [Pg 20] [Pg 21] [Pg 22] [Pg 23-5] [Pg 26] (or others in their honour) strove to introduce and spread the luminous beauty of this craft. This fragile chef d’œuvre was constructed by order of its royal patron to provide a sanctuary worthy to contain the sacred relics acquired by him in the Holy Land. No effort or expense was spared to fit it for its high purpose. By reason of its royal founder as well as of its object, we can be sure that in the Ste. Chapelle we have an example of the best taste of the thirteenth century. St. Louis laid the first stone in 1245, and so expeditiously was the work carried on that it was finished and consecrated April 25, 1248, and we read that all its wealth of glass was installed before the consecration. Although we shall refrain from technical words as much as possible, we can see at a glance why these were called “medallion” windows. Each subject treated is enclosed in a narrow round framing of colour, thus breaking up the entire surface into medallions. It prevented confusion of subjects and at the same time gave a balance to their treatment. It is a good omen for the future of our combined sightseeing and study that we can begin with something so complete and charming as the perfect Ste. Chapelle. And yet, although it is glowingly, mystically lovely with a beauty attributable chiefly to its glass, other thirteenth century churches will teach us to notice that here it is the interior that is benefited and not the windows. So small is the edifice that we cannot stand far enough away from the glass to let it develop the glittering glow that refraction of the rays of light lends to the glazing of the thirteenth century, but which no other period can show us. In order to fully realise what we have lost by being too near the windows, take the short stroll that brings you to the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Enter its great gloom, go forward until you are opposite the rose window in the north transept, and look up. If you have in you any poetry, any sensuous sympathy with colour and light, you will receive an artistic thrill so strong as to at once elevate you to membership in our Brotherhood of Glass Lovers. Our pilgrim staring up at the great rose window will note the splendid purplish glow that comes from it. Now he will realise that he missed this gorgeous jewelled gleam at the Ste. Chapelle, and for the reason that he was too close to the glass. After he has grown accustomed to this new feature, he will begin to notice some of the causes for it. The effect is undoubtedly glowing purple, and yet it is not produced by purple glass. It results from the merging of the reds and blues, rendered possible, nay, assisted by the smallness of the pieces of the glass, and this observation also explains why this same effect was not obtained in later periods when the glass fragments become so large that the colours remain distinct and do not run into each other. Because we are too near the Ste. Chapelle glass we remember it as red and blue, but the memory of the Notre Dame windows, which can be viewed from a proper distance, is a splendid purple. 13th CENTURY MEDALLION, MUSÉE DU LOUVRE. 13th CENTURY MEDALLION, MUSÉE DU LOUVRE. Window surface broken up into medallions, each enclosing a little scene. The black outlines of the picture are provided by the leaden strips which hold together the pieces of glass. Paint is used only to mark the features, folds in the garments, etc. Here the lead lines assist the picture—later they mar it. It is to be hoped that you have had the good fortune to first visit these two buildings on a rainy or grey day. That is the sort of weather for a glass pilgrim to be abroad and stirring, for his windows will be lighted to the same extent all around the church. If it is a sunny day, the windows towards the sun will seem thin in colour, whilst those on the shady side will be thick and flatly toned. He may assure himself that he is mistaken, and that the difference in effect is caused by the strong glare of the sun on the one side, and on the other side the lack of it—we repeat that he may assure himself of this, but he will get the wrong effect, notwithstanding. Make a mental note of this point and when you go glass hunting, [Pg 27] [Pg 28] [Pg 29] join the farmers in praying for rain! We must seek elsewhere than in Paris to find what this mosaic of tiny morsels of different hued glass can accomplish in the small chapels surrounding the choir of a great cathedral. We shall learn what a glorifying curtain of subdued colour it will provide and how when viewed from the nave of the church these chapels become gleaming caverns, forming a semi-circular background for the well-lighted choir in their midst. Even whilst we are drinking in the great beauty of this splendidly impressive half-circle of chapels, we must realise that delightful as is this method of subduing and beautifying the light, it would be most unwise to use this same style of glass in the clerestory above. Not only would the choir be too dark, but, besides, we would lose the contrast of light against gloom that renders it so impressive in its dignity. This observation introduces another type of glazing for which we shall seek in vain after this century. If we demand more light from our clerestory and at the same time insist on coloured glass, then we must use fewer strips of light-obscuring lead, which means fewer and larger pieces of glass. Thus we will obtain more illumination than is yielded by the heavily- leaded windows below. Now we begin to understand that the light of the medallion window is sombre because so much of its surface is occupied by the great quantity of lead required to bind together its small pieces of glass. These numerous lead lines serve a very artistic purpose, for, by breaking the refraction of the rays of light passing through the small bits of glass and diffusing them, they have much to do with blending the colours and producing the delightful jewelled effect that we at once noticed in Notre Dame. We have purposely used the phrase “much to do,” because it is only one of several causes. The quality of the glass itself had a great share in that result. It is quite different from that found later on, for it was, as yet, quite imperfect, and no two pieces had the same thickness or were surfaced alike. This very unevenness assisted in breaking up the light rays. Another cause for its brilliancy was that its translucence was not obscured by paint. A piece of glass was yellow or blue because its colour was introduced while it was being made in the pot and therefore was diffused throughout the mass. For this reason it was called “pot metal glass.” We shall find that later on they discovered how to tint the surface of glass by the invention first of staining and later by enamelling, both of which had a marked effect and will be spoken of at the proper time. One of the results of colouring glass in the pot was that generally the tone would not be equal throughout; for instance, a piece of blue glass would not be evenly blue in all its parts. This difference in the shading of each piece, as well as the unevenness of its surface, produced a brilliancy which the more perfect methods that came later could never hope to achieve. The freedom from surface paint made possible a limpidity of colour which by contrast makes later painted or enamelled windows seem almost dull. During the twelfth and thirteenth centuries the only paint used was a brown pigment, which served to delineate features and sometimes to accentuate the folds of garments, etc. We must also remember that as the artist worked with small pieces of glass and therefore used a great many lead lines, all the outlines needed by his picture could be put in with leads, and hence it was only natural that he became very expert in drawing with them. The result of his skill in this particular is surprisingly attractive and we shall sorely miss it later, when less and less attention was paid to the drawing and decorative value of the leads because of the increased desire for large pieces of glass with pictures painted upon them. In fact, so far from early traditions did they of the sixteenth century stray, that we shall see strips of lead running right across an arm or a face! Their value from an artistic standpoint seemed at that time nearly forgotten, and instead of being used to beautify the drawing, they were only tolerated as a part of the machinery necessary to support the glass in its framework. Before leaving the subject of paint upon glass, it is well to remark that although we may admire the brilliancy of these early windows and may rejoice that the artist had not yet learned to obscure his colour, nevertheless, if we were examining windows in Italy, that land of everlasting sunshine, we might find a little painting upon the surface a genuine relief to the eye. There is such a thing as too much sunshine. Geography must be considered in criticising glass. We promised to avoid as much as possible the study of the technical, but it must be admitted that we have drifted into it, and that our attempt to learn why clerestory windows differ from the lower ones, has brought with it an exposition of the technique of the thirteenth century. To briefly recapitulate, it consists of— (a) Small pieces of glass. (b) Obviously requiring a great many lead lines to bind them together. (c) Glass that is uneven in surface and in the distribution of its colour. (d) Glass coloured throughout the mass (pot metal glass). (e) Glass that is practically unobscured by paint. But let us get up to our clerestory windows. It has been instructive arriving there, but now let us see what had to be done to admit more light through these upper embrasures. In the first place it was clear that there had to be less leading, which meant larger pieces of glass. For this purpose there was devised a conventional style of decoration giving a most pleasing result. This consisted of a series of large figures of saints, kings, or other great personages. Unfortunately we cannot see this sort of clerestory window in Paris, but a visit to Bourges or Rheims or Chartres will soon convince you how splendidly they serve their purpose. At Notre Dame, in the choir clerestory, one sees only a poor imitation of the destroyed old windows; owing to the paint upon the glass, the yellows are dull and the reds are thick and muddy. When you have seen one of these rows of huge figures, the reason for the device becomes clear. The folds of garments of such size permitted the use of large sheets of glass, and as little lead and no paint were needed, the light was not obscured. The drawing of the folds, etc., was executed by the leads which, in any event, were required for structural reasons. So large are some of these figures that often we shall find that their eyes were not drawn with pigment, but were separately leaded in. This would not have been agreeable in the lower range of windows, but high up in the air, far above the observer’s head, it produced the effect desired. Nor was this the only trick indulged in by the artist. Sometimes he permitted himself very odd uses of colour. You will notice that during this century he generally employed [Pg 30] [Pg 31] [Pg 32] [Pg 33] [Pg 34] brown glass instead of white for flesh tints. Of course he did not have what we call white glass—that was a perfection not yet reached, but he might have used pink. No, he preferred brown; and when you have seen the glorious rows of clerestory figures looking down upon you at Rheims or Chartres, you will know that he was right. His colours were so rich and strong that white glass in the faces would have been too sharp a contrast and would have spoilt the harmony of tones. Nor was this the only strange choice of tints. You will be startled to read that blue is used for the hair of the Christ in a Crucifixion scene, and yet so cleverly was it worked in that many an observer of the splendid east window of Poitiers Cathedral has gone away without noticing that the hair is blue or that the cross is bright red! The effect of the picture was achieved, proof that the artist knew and developed the possibilities existing in his materials. That certainly always has been and always will be one of the great tests of artistic ability. While in Notre Dame notice another method of glazing prevalent in that century and which also had for its raison d’être the need for light in the upper windows. This is what is called “grisaille,” a panel of greenish-grey glass, sometimes surrounded by a border of the same tone, sometimes by one of gayer tints, but always, during this period, a broad border. Back in the twelfth century, where we first find these windows, the borders are wider still. Their small pieces of glass are held together by leads arranged in conventional designs, often in what is called strap work, i.e., the seeming interlacing of straps in a sort of basket pattern, very simple and agreeable. The light comes through in a cool, silvery tone which blends well with the stone structure about it. In Notre Dame we see examples of these windows, some with grisaille borders, and also a few with coloured ones, but on our travels we shall find much better types at Bourges, at Chalons-sur-Marne, and elsewhere. As a result of our sightseeing we will learn that the best of the early glaziers realised that to compensate for the dim light yielded by the medallion windows below, it was necessary to have better illumination from above. Of course this combination in perfection was not often accomplished, but we generally find that if the artist did not himself take care to admit sufficient light, somebody that came later corrected the error. Often we find that the monks, to obtain more light in the choir, removed the coloured panels and substituted plain glass. In several instances, notably at Amiens, they attempted to sanctify their vandalism by destroying only so much stained glass in a window as to leave a large white cross upon it. When we come to the next century we shall see what this vandalism in favour of better-lighted church interiors is going to produce. For the sake of clearness let us review the steps by which we have reached our conclusions. First we saw that the thirteenth century window has far more charm in its colour than in its drawing, which, although generally true of all glass, is never so emphatically true as during this period. While examining the colour composition, we have learnt how a window is constructed, and that in turn has taught us why it is best to view it from a little distance. The next step was to conclude that therefore this style of glass was not well adapted to domestic architecture or for small buildings. Further, we have remarked the odd style of drawing then in vogue which, traced back, proves but one of the many imprints which Byzantine art left upon those times. More time might at this point be profitably devoted to study, but this little volume is not intended for a text-book. Its chief object is to persuade you to go about France and see for yourself its wonderful windows. It is to be hoped that even this small amount of research will prove useful in increasing your enjoyment of the glass. Let us now consider how many and which towns we will visit, and also how we can most satisfactorily group them together so as to provide convenient trips. THIRTEENTH CENTURY PILGRIMAGES The glass we have seen in Paris gives but a hint of the richness of this period exemplified elsewhere in France. How much or how little we shall see depends upon the reader. If he has time or inclination for but one example, he should visit Chartres. In giving this advice we solemnly warn him that if he has even a faint idea of seeing more than one, then he should defer Chartres until the last. It so far surpasses the others that they must be seen before it or they will suffer by comparison. If the reader can only visit a few towns, then he will doubtless wish to consider what else they contain besides glass, as these other features may influence him in making his selection. For example, if he is interested in tapestry it is clear that he will prefer Rheims and Angers to other churches equally important in their glass, but lacking such additional attractions. Then, too, nearness to Paris may decide him in favour of one cathedral instead of another requiring a longer journey. With each of our towns we will mention any such extra inducement as tapestry, paintings, etc. At the back will be found a table of distances, not only from Paris, but also from each town to the next. If the reader has plenty of time, we suggest three pilgrimages. If his time is in any way limited, he can either take one or more of them, or else make such adjustment of them as best suits his convenience. It must, of course, be understood that there is some thirteenth century glass which will not be visited by us, but any one who has followed these itineraries will have seen all of the best. When we reflect how fragile is a glass window, it is really marvellous that we shall find so much of this easily destroyed beauty after the stress of centuries. Only a few churches can show anything like a complete series of windows, and fewer still a series all glazed during the same period. Chartres, that treasure-house of glass, is the nearest approach to a perfectly complete example. Le Mans, perhaps, is next. Bourges is splendid in its thirteenth century glory, but there the hypercritical may find that the fifteenth century glazing of the nave chapels interferes with the earlier effect. The clerestory of Rheims Cathedral boasts row on row of gorgeous kings and bishops, [Pg 35] [Pg 36] [Pg 37] [Pg 38] but there we look in vain for the medallion windows to give us the usual glowing chapels below. These differences are not mentioned to criticise, but to point out that we shall find a variety and not a monotony of beauty. Now for the three itineraries: (a) Our first tour is the longest, starts at the point most distant from Paris, and then works back to that city. We begin at Bourges, 4-¼ hours by railway, 227 kilometres by road. From Bourges we go to Poitiers, then to Tours, to Angers, to Le Mans, and end at Chartres. Chartres is only 1-¼ hours from Paris, 88 kilometres by road. (b) Before starting on the second tour we must consult time-tables in order to make connections for Auxerre, which is 35 minutes beyond La Roche, a station on the main line to Lyons and the south. If we could take a through train from Paris, the journey would be under three hours. By automobile it is 168 kilometres, leaving Paris by the road to Fontainebleau. From Auxerre we come back to Sens, then to Troyes, to Chalons-sur-Marne, and lastly to Rheims, two hours from Paris (145 kilometres). If the time or inclination of the pilgrim makes it expedient that this trip be shortened, then, if he is a railway traveller, let him begin by Troyes and come around by Chalons and Rheims. If, on the other hand, he is travelling by automobile, he might as well see Sens just before Troyes, because by road Sens is not much off the line from Paris to Troyes and is well worth that small detour. The railway journey, however, between Sens and Troyes is a tedious one of more than two hours, because it is a branch line where there are no expresses. (c) The last tour is most convenient to Paris, and although clearly secondary in importance as a glass pilgrimage, the scenery is so very attractive that it will particularly appeal to the automobilist and bicyclist. We begin by visiting Soissons, an hour and a quarter by train (95 kilometres by road), then Laon, next St. Quentin and last Amiens, an hour and a quarter by train (131 kilometres) from Paris. If he is “en automobile,” the pilgrim may return to Paris by way of Beauvais, for it is not much out of his way. If, however, he is travelling by railway, then he should omit Beauvais, for he will find only exasperatingly slow trains from Amiens to Beauvais. The thirteenth century glass there is unimportant, and, besides, we shall later visit it for that of the sixteenth century. If the reader intends to take all of these three tours he should begin with (c), then take (b), and lastly (a). If he can take but two, then begin with (b) and end with (a). If there is time but for one, (a) is the best. The automobilist may unfold his maps and prepare a combination trip if he likes, for that is one of the licensed joys of automobiling. The old- fashioned traveller by railway will, however, find the order here set out the most convenient one. There is a splendid series of medallion windows around the choir chapels of the Cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand, but it is too far out of our way to be properly included in any of the above tours. Rouen, too, has fine medallion work of this period in its cathedral, but the later glass there is so much more interesting that we will not include it in these groups. Both these towns will be visited later in their appropriate order, and we shall then have an opportunity to enjoy their delightful thirteenth century windows. 13th CENTURY TOURS. [Pg 39] [Pg 40] [Pg 41] 13th CENTURY TOURS. (a) Bourges, Poitiers, Tours, Angers, Le Mans, Chartres. (b) Auxerre, Sens, Troyes, Chalons, Rheims. (c) Soissons, Laon, St. Quentin, Amiens. (For table of distances, see Page 295.) BOURGES The writer will never forget his first impression of Bourges Cathedral, as, mounted on a bicycle, he approached it over the rolling country that lies to the east towards Nevers. For a long time it seemed a great rock rising from the plain, which steadily grew larger and larger until, all at once, it took on the outlines of a huge cathedral. Fantastic as it may seem in the telling, this vast bulk looming up against the sky exactly symbolised for him the word “Bourges.” To fully appreciate this great church one should approach it this way and let it grow before one’s eyes. This is true of but few cathedrals, among which there is an easily recalled instance in England. No one ever realises all the soft grey beauty of Ely unless, thanks to his slow progress down the river Ouse, he has seen it gradually arise from the green setting of fen lands. Perhaps one reason why Bourges, when viewed from a distance, does not immediately disclose itself to be a cathedral is because one sees no perpendicular lines. On one side the great tower so tapers as to seem to slant inward, while on the other side the flying buttresses present an even greater divergence from the perpendicular. All this increases the rock-like appearance and defers the realisation that it is architecture and not nature until one is so near as to perceive some of the details. In one respect Bourges is like the town of Amiens, in that nearly all its architectural beauty is centred in the cathedral and seems to have been content to bourgeon and blossom there. Bourges has, however, one advantage in possessing a wonderful “house that Jack built,” the fifteenth century palace of Jacques Cœur, a rich merchant and banker whose wealth was the cause of his final overthrow and banishment on a trumped-up charge of debasing the coinage. Even the fact that he had lent money freely to Charles VII did not save him. Later on (page 151) we shall consider the cathedral’s fifteenth century glass, and we shall then examine the splendid window given by Jacques Cœur, perhaps the finest that period can show. Chief among the charms of the cathedral’s exterior are the splendid five-portalled west front, and the lace-like garment of flying buttresses that gracefully hangs about its sides and east end. The great apse is built upon the remains of the old Roman walls, which so elevates it above the neighbouring houses as to provide a clear view of the flying buttresses. Unfortunately, the west front does not fare so well. There is hardly a cathedral in Europe so shut in on the west by adjoining buildings. They huddle so closely about it that one has no opportunity to stand off and properly observe the elaborate carvings and other architectural features that unite to make the beauty of this famous façade. From the way in which each succeeding story decreases in size, it is easy to see why the big northern tower appeared to slant inward when viewed from a distance. Like one of the cathedral towers at Rouen, it is named the Tour du Beurre because it was built with money received from the sale of indulgences to eat butter during Lent. Most Americans have, during the day-dreams of their childhood, conjured up a mental picture of the vast interior of an ancient cathedral, and of the mysteriously impressive gloom that would some day there meet their eyes. It is doubtful if any other church more completely realises this fancy of our childhood. As one enters the great building he receives an impression never to be forgotten. A feeling of vastness lays hold upon one even more strongly than at Beauvais and Amiens, both of which are actually loftier. Here the seeming height is increased by the five rows of windows, one above the other. This addition to the usual allotment of three tiers (lower arches, triforium and clerestory) gives an unusual number of light apertures. While there are no transepts, their absence leaves unbroken the lines of the side walls and thus increases the apparent size of the interior. And what a wealth of thirteenth century glass! It gleams and glows and glistens on every side, near at hand and far off in the soft richness of the choir chapels. We find it everywhere except in the nave chapels, which were glazed in the fifteenth century. Perhaps if it were not for the increased light which these later panels admit, we might find the church too much darkened by its sombre earlier glass. It is clear, however, that care was taken even from the first to sufficiently illumine the nave, because it possesses a fine series of thirteenth century grisaille windows, enriched and enlivened by broad borders of colour. The noble chapels that encircle the choir show us the effect of mosaic medallions at their best. Above in the clerestory, “like watchmen on a leaguered wall,” are stationed a glorious row of large figures which are not to be surpassed anywhere. The richness of their costumes, of the backgrounds, even of the borders, is most sumptuous. We have already noted the absence of the transepts. On our travels we shall notice that the north and south ends of transepts generally contain great rose windows. To compensate the glass artist for their absence here, the architect gave him an opportunity to glaze an elaborate series of forty-five small ones. They extend all around the interior, no two alike, and must be seen for one to appreciate how greatly they add to the interest and charm of the cathedral. It is contended by some that Bourges provides the finest field for the study of thirteenth century glass, but in this opinion we cannot agree, although gladly admitting everything else claimed for it by its staunchest adherents. Our reason for preferring Chartres is that it has more windows, and that they are practically all of the same period, so that the eye does not there find the distraction caused here by the fifteenth century glazing of the nave chapels. We prefer to rank the first four in the following order of excellence: Chartres, Bourges, Rheims, and Le Mans. It will be interesting to learn whether or not the reader agrees with us. At any rate he should see [Pg 42] [Pg 43] [Pg 44] [Pg 45] [Pg 46] them, and now that we have enticed him so far away from Paris, he will find it as easy to return by the route that includes them as by any other. POITIERS Among the many beauties of France must certainly be accounted its “cities built upon a hill.” There are a goodly number of them and their lofty position has tended to preserve them from change more than cities so placed that their expansion into suburbs was easier. Without doubt there is something fascinating, something irresistibly dominating about a town that looks down upon us. Fortunate it is for us lovers of the picturesque, whom, alas, the uses of modern convenience have made “dwellers in the plain,” that during mediæval times the vital need of safety forced its citizens to seek the refuge of heights! No one can question the right of quaint old Poitiers to be as haughty as hill towns have always been— nay, haughtier. Think of the days when through the House of Plantagenet she gave rulers to England—when these same kings governed not only England but also the whole western half of France! We do not always remember what a long strip of territory was ruled by the Angevin dynasty, stretching all the way from the Pyrenees across the Channel and up to Scotland. One of the greatest encounters that marked the long and bitter struggle between the English and French was the Battle of Poitiers, when in 1356 the English under the Black Prince defeated and took prisoner John the Good of France and slew 11,000 Frenchmen. It was, indeed, a bloody baptism when our hill town stood sponsor to such a conflict of warring nations. There are few cities in France which more richly repay a visit than this rather out-of-the-way place, and fewer still which have so many varied inducements to offer. The architectural remains are not only interesting but differ materially in character and epoch. The situation of the city is most striking. It is perched on the top of a flat-iron shaped hill upon the point of which the picturesque Jardin de Blossac smiles down upon the winding river Clain. It is not in this book that you should look for a description of the wonderful triple interpenetrated chimney of the Palais de Justice, nor the fourth century church of St. Jean, nor the ivory-like carvings on the façade of Notre Dame de la Garde. Hie thee to a guide- book for these, and the like of them, and let us to our quest! In all glass of this period, nay, of any period or any century, we shall never find a more splendid window than the Crucifixion at the east end of the cathedral. In our introduction we said that glass should not be studied from written description, but that it must be seen. Of this window this observation is even more true than of any other. Its breadth and size indicate that it dates from early in the century. The harmony and the beauty of its colours are beyond words to describe. Indeed, so ingeniously are they combined to produce their effect, that the detail is apt to escape the observer. Even after spending some time before it he may be surprised to learn that the cross is ruby-red and that the hair of the Saviour is blue. If he had read this in a book it would have been impossible to convince him that the result could be one of such great beauty. Unfortunately for the many excellent medallion windows in this cathedral, there are also a great number of uncoloured ones. It does not take us long to decide that a medallion window should never be lighted from within, because that enables one to see the cumbersome machinery used to produce its effect. One should never become aware of the numerous small pieces of unevenly surfaced glass and the vast complexity of leads which in combination produce such glorious results, but only when the light comes from without. Not only do these white panes reveal these ugly details, but by their glare they effectually extinguish the warm glow which we are accustomed to expect from the richly-coloured mosaics of the medallions. Near the west end there is a good deal of fine strapwork grisaille evidently put there to light that end of the church in contrast to the dimmer light which must have prevailed at the east end when all the medallions were still in place. Even if there were not many fine thirteenth century panels in this cathedral, and even if the town itself were not full of many interesting sights, still we would have been amply repaid for our visit by the Crucifixion window, the chef d’œuvre of its time. Near the cathedral is the church of St. Radegonde. This long narrow edifice has no transepts, nor, indeed, the usual division into choir and nave, and yet it boasts of a rose...