RENAISSANCE
In England there is not to be found the same awakening and change in art at the opening of the sixteenth century which is encountered in France, and is known to us as the Renaissance. This revival of art reached the English at second hand, having been transmitted to them through the French. The soldiers of Louis XII. and Francis I., who fought in Italy at the close of the fifteenth century, could not help but see and feel the new movement in matters artistic then bursting into bloom, and they carried home with them not only memories of what they had seen, but also many fine examples in their spoils of war. The tales and trophies of these soldiers proved a great force in starting the French Renaissance. One of its first fruits was the change from the then flamboyant Gothic to the classical style in architecture. In glass it was first evidenced by substituting canopies of classic form for the Gothic ones which had been so much in vogue. The pictures they enclosed were gradually widened until it soon became necessary to discard altogether the canopy frame, which, on the passing of the narrow Gothic embrasures, was seen to have outlived its usefulness. While this awakening in art ultimately reached England, it came slowly and never gained the influence it attained in France. The English ear and eye were not surprised and delighted as were the French by the return of soldiery laden with artistic spoils and enthusiastic over the new beauties which they had seen in Italy. Art in England developed quietly, steadily, as was but natural, lacking, as it did, this sudden impetus from the outside. There is another, and for us, a far more regrettable difference between those two countries during the sixteenth century, in that very little good glass was then made in England, while France was constantly adding to her wealth of windows during all of this, her great period of artistic revival. Just as the golden age of glass seemed to die in France at the end of the sixteenth century, so, in England, it perished at the end of the fifteenth, a whole century earlier. There are, however, some fine examples of the sixteenth century in England even though much of it (as at Lichfield) will prove to have come from abroad. What we shall find at Cambridge is delightful, in fact so fine is it that one must deeply regret that there are so few towns on the roster of this epoch. A modest amount of glass was made in England during the seventeenth century (as, for example, the work of the Crabeth Brothers and Von Linge in certain Oxford colleges), but as this is only fairly good and was, moreover, made by foreigners, we will not take our pilgrim to see it because its lesser interest might detract from his delightful memories of the glorious Decorated and Perpendicular windows. In English sixteenth century glass it is not easy to trace the transition from the Perpendicular canopies to the large brilliant pictures, which can be so readily studied in France. The English glazier would almost seem to have realised abruptly the beauty of the large picture windows, and to have transferred his allegiance suddenly to this new method. Delightful examples are to be seen at Shrewsbury, but most satisfying of all is the very complete series around the chapel of King’s College, Cambridge, that gem of English architecture. Lichfield must also be visited to view its Flemish windows about the Lady chapel, and St. Margaret’s Church (close to Westminster Abbey) for its east window of the same provenance. Concerning English glass of this period it may be said that it possesses all the rich colour treatment of its French contemporaries, and, moreover, that it has the added advantage of a more careful use of the leads in providing outlines for the designs. Almost insignificant as are these sixteenth century remains when compared with the innumerable ones across the Channel, their great beauty goes far towards compensating us for their lack of numbers.
RENAISSANCE TOURS
The seven towns containing noteworthy Renaissance glass fall naturally into two groups, one to the north and the other to the south. Supposing we begin with the one of greater distances, the first stage, after viewing the London windows, will be Cambridge. Thence we go north-westerly to Lichfield, and, lastly, due west to Shrewsbury. If the pilgrim has not already visited Shrewsbury on our Decorated tour, he will find an account of its sixteenth century glazing at p. 85. The second tour is to the south, and not only are all the points near London, but close to each other as well. The first will be Guildford, which lies in Surrey, as does also Gatton Park, the next in order. Twenty miles to the east, over the Kentish border, is Knole, which concludes the tour.
MAP OF RENAISSANCE TOUR
If a stay of any length is made in Cambridge, occasion may be taken to use it as a centre for side-trips to Margaretting, Levrington and Lowick. So, too, proximity may serve as an excuse for seeing Nettlestead and West Wickham on our way back to London from Knole.
LONDON
London, that capital of the world, contains no examples of early glass in situ, and it is not until we have arrived at the study of Renaissance windows that she provides something to engage our attention. It must not be overlooked that there is an excellent collection of early glass at the Victoria and Albert Museum which, by the way, is most advantageously displayed, thanks to the manner in which all light is cut off save that coming through the coloured panes: it is unfortunate that the same good taste and judgment is not in evidence at the Louvre and other great museums. Some of the original mosaic medallions from the Sainte Chapelle, Paris, are here preserved. After all, though this South Kensington exhibit is undeniably good, glass appeals to one less in a museum than when seen in its natural home, a church. Two London churches have interesting examples of Renaissance glass, which, however, came from abroad, the east window in St. Margaret’s, Westminster, and three in the east wall of St. George’s, Hanover Square.
Westminster Abbey is generally entered by the north transept door, and almost every one of its visitors overlooks the modest little parish church of St. Margaret, standing only a few paces off, so completely dwarfed and rendered almost insignificant is it by the imposing proportions of its impressive neighbour. Nevertheless, small as is this interior, it possesses a window which the Abbey would be proud to have, one of such pre-eminent excellence as to draw from Winston the statement that “the harmonious arrangement of the colouring is worthy of attention. It is the most beautiful work in this respect that I am acquainted with.” It completely fills the large eastern embrasure, and one needs but a glance to recognise it as a Renaissance work of an excellent type. The three central lancets show Christ between the thieves, and below, the Holy Women, and soldiers. The drops of blood from His wounded side fall into chalices held by three angels. The repentant thief has his soul carried away by an angel to heaven, while a devil is mocking the other one. On the north side is St. George, and below him a kneeling figure which provides the only authentic portrait of Arthur Prince of Wales. On the left is Katharine of Aragon, the fiancée of Prince Arthur, and later the first wife of Henry VIII. Above her head appears her badge, the pomegranate. As no stranger tale could be related of the vicissitudes to which a glass window could be subjected than the adventures of this window during the 300 years that elapsed between its making and its installation at St. Margaret’s, the writer is moved to set it out in full in the words of the historian of that church, Mrs. J. E. Sinclair:
“The window was ordered in 1499, and took five years to be executed at Dordrecht (or, as some authorities state, at Gouda) in Holland. It was intended as a gift from King Ferdinand the Catholic and his wife, Queen Isabella, to Henry VII. to commemorate the marriage of their children, and was originally purposed to be erected in the Lady chapel of Westminster Abbey, then in course of construction by Henry VII., and now generally designated by his name. As Prince Arthur died in 1502, before the arrival of the window in England, and as it was the policy of Henry VII. to avoid the repayment of the widow’s dowry by her marriage to his younger son, for obvious reasons, the window was never erected in the Lady chapel of the Abbey of St. Peter. After the vicissitudes of three centuries, it has been eventually put up in St. Margaret’s Church, within a very short distance of its original destination. Henry VIII., after marrying his brother’s widow, naturally disliked the window, and presented it to the Abbey of Waltham, where it remained till the Dissolution of Religious Houses in 1540. Then the Abbot, with a view to its preservation, transferred it to his private chapel at New Hall in Essex. This property, strange to relate, fell at the Reformation into the hands of Sir Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, father of Queen Katharine’s rival, Anne Boleyn. On the death of Sir Thomas without a male heir, Henry VIII. seized New Hall with the rest of the Boleyn patrimony, in right of his murdered wife, on behalf of her daughter Elizabeth. He then wished to alter the name of New Hall into Beaulieu, but the old nomenclature survived. Queen Elizabeth bestowed the estate on Ratcliffe, Earl of Essex, who sold it to Villiers, Duke of Buckingham. His son, in turn, sold it to General Monk, Duke of Albemarle, who caused the window to be taken down and buried in chests, thus preserving it from the iconoclastic zeal of the Puritans during the Civil War. The next owner of New Hall, John Olmius, offered the window, in a letter dated July 30, 1738, preserved in the British Museum, to the authorities of Wadham College, Oxford, for their chapel; he terms it ‘one of the finest large windows of painted glass in England.’ The negotiation apparently fell through, for it was bought from him by Mr. John Conyers of Copt Hall, Essex, for fifty guineas. The son of this gentleman, on February 8, 1759, sold the ‘window with its stone frame, ironwork, and other appurtenances’ to the Churchwardens of St. Margaret’s, Westminster, for £420. This sum formed part of the Parliamentary Grant of £4500 then voted for the repair of the Parish Church of the House of Commons.” The parishioners of that small sanctuary possess in this much-travelled window as inspiring and beautiful a treasure as any of those which attract so great an attendance to its mighty neighbour Westminster Abbey.
ST. GEORGE’S, HANOVER SQUARE, LONDON
A Renaissance Tree of Jesse from Belgium, readjusted to fit its new embrasures. Figures unusually large for this subject. Fine colours and drawing
Certainly one would not visit the Abbey because of its stained glass, but equally certain is it that no one who happens into its neighbourhood can resist its spell and must enter the portal, if only for a moment of old-world inspiration. Let us yield gracefully, and when we have entered look about us for what little ancient glazing remains after the visit of the Roundhead despoilers. There are fragments in the two small windows of the nave’s west end, but the most important remains are those in the east window above the altar. Here are assembled pieces dating from the thirteenth to the eighteenth centuries, which serve as a background for Edward the Confessor and his patron saint—these figures are of the fifteenth century. Passing on to the east through the maze of kingly remains, a few steps lead us up into the magnificent Henry VII. Chapel, whose noble proportions seem to mock the modesty of its name. The ancient glory of its glass has departed, but those who interest themselves in the light which heraldry throws upon history should repair to the easternmost chapel and examine the coats of arms set out upon its panes. Here are blazoned all the Tudor badges, picturing the claims upon which that new house based its right to occupy the throne of England. The red rose of Lancaster and the white one of York are there alone and in combination. The portcullis of the Beauforts, the family of Henry VII.’s mother; the Countess of Richmond’s root of daisies; the English lions; the fleur-de-lis of France; the Cadwalader dragon, a reminder of Henry’s descent from the last of the British kings; the greyhound of the Nevilles, from whom Elizabeth of York descended through her grandmother, and also the badge of her father, Edward IV.—a falcon within the open fetterlock; and last, but most significant of all, the green bush with its golden crown, emblematic of Henry’s hasty coronation on Bosworth Field with the diadem of Richard III. picked from off a hawthorn bush. In those strenuous days the proof of a legal title was not infrequently deferred until after the mailed fist had laid hold upon its prey!
St. George’s, Hanover Square, has long been famed far and wide for the great number of weddings there solemnised. It is perhaps not inappropriate that the old glass to be seen here once constituted a Tree of Jesse. The spacious window at the back of the chancel, and also those which flank it on either side, are filled with it. So large are the figures (the largest the writer has ever seen in this favourite glass design) that two of them suffice to fill each of these side windows, although their embrasures are by no means small. The glass was originally made for a church at Mechlin, Belgium, and though its figures have been necessarily readjusted to suit their new home, there remain so many sections of the vine as well as of the familiar name-labels as to make it obvious that the panels as originally combined made up a Tree of Jesse. The glazing as a whole is rich in tone, unmistakably Renaissance, and, best of all, so agreeably disposed in its present abiding-place as to make it seem as if it had always belonged there.
CAMBRIDGE
In the mind of most Americans the names of Oxford and Cambridge are firmly locked together—a sort of Siamese twins of University education. As a matter of fact, they are strangely different—very much more so, indeed, than any two American universities. While Oxford has her charming quadrangles with their delightful gardens, Cambridge not only has them also, but further rejoices in a very special beauty, her “Backs,” those admirable contrivances for preventing overstudy on the part of too zealous students. A “Back” is that portion of a college’s territory through which meanders the narrow Cam, the scenic opportunities of that slender stream being developed to the uttermost with green banks, graceful bridges, and shaded walks. The writer never pursued a course of study at Cambridge, and, therefore, is not competent to judge of the charms of her undergraduate life, but he has spent sundry happy hours canoeing on the gentle Cam, which same hours have yielded him the impression that, fascinating as the undergraduates doubtless find the lecture halls, there is much to be said in favour of idling along the delightful “Backs.” Hints of the joys of Cambridge college life pervade the clever verses of Calverley, and also those of his lineal successor, the unfortunate J. K. Stephen. Chief among the many victories of the wearers of the “light blue” are those won by the oarsmen, and these victories become doubly praiseworthy when we visit the miserable little stream on which the crews have to train. That a long line of successes have been achieved in the face of such disheartening obstacles adds all the more to the credit and glory of men like the brothers Close, the giant Muttlebury, Dudley Ward, and many another. Most of the colleges follow the quadrangle system like their Oxford cousins, but there is an exception in the case of King’s College. Here a handsome openwork screen of stone shuts off the street, but not the view. Through it we are able to see, standing haughtily apart from the neighbouring buildings, the beautiful chapel of the college, one of the few perfect buildings in existence. Goldwin Smith says, “Cambridge, in the Chapel of King’s College, has a single glory which Oxford cannot match.” It is a long, tall edifice, of the same width throughout, lighted by high windows of even size, and ceiled by graceful groups of fan vaultings of the most exquisite type. The only division of the interior is that effected by a wooden screen which runs across the middle, but, fortunately, stops before reaching a height which would interfere with an uninterrupted view of the sweep of the fan vaultings above. A full two-thirds of the wall-height is given over to lighting apertures. The records show that the two contracts for glazing the windows were dated 1527 and 1528. They require that the “wyndows be well, suerly, workmanly, substantyally, curyously, and sufficiently glase and sette up.” It is said that Holbein drew the cartoons from which they were made. The excellence and charm of this complete series makes one regret that there are so few examples of their epoch in this country; this strikes with peculiar force one coming from France, so prodigally rich in sixteenth century windows. At King’s College the large picture treatment is seen at its best. Not only is the composition of the groups of figures carefully studied, but so also is the adroit opposing of one colour by another. Particularly daring is the use of large masses of the same tint. So little was the artist willing to be hampered in the development of his colour scheme that he even made his foliage red when he happened to need that hue in a certain part of his design. Although the pictures here display careful drawing and elaborate composition, the excellence of the general result is certainly due to the fact that the artist thought fully as much of colour values as he did of his designs, something his contemporaries were prone to forget. These windows come as a delightful relief to one accustomed to the ill-considered use of Renaissance architecture that so overloads and encumbers the sixteenth century stained glass pictures on the Continent.
An exquisite sense of balance seems to prevail throughout the interior, and in no feature of the decoration is it so noticeable as in the windows. The large expanse of each is broken into two parts by a horizontal transom, and both the upper and lower divisions are again subdivided, since the central lancet of each contains a figure in Renaissance canopy over a similar figure below in the pedestal. This leaves a space two lancets wide on either side both above and below, and each of these spaces contains a large subject. This method of avoiding the monotony which would have been caused by the singlet-lancet treatment is carried out along both of the long sides. The nine lancets in the large east window permit the introduction of three pictures above, each spreading over three lancets, and the same number below. The three in the upper row set forth the Crucifixion, the central one displaying the usual subject of Christ crucified between the two thieves, while to the left is the preparation of the crosses, and to the right the taking down from the cross. The blues in these pictures are particularly fine. Above in the traceries are red Lancastrian roses, as well as some Tudor ones of red and white combined. These roses are frequently repeated in the carvings of both stone and wood, as is also the portcullis badge of the Tudors. The beautifully carved wooden panelling about the walls of the choir is rivalled by the rich stone screens that shut off the lateral chapels from the nave.
There is some seventeenth century glass in the chapel of Peterhouse College which should be seen, if only to learn how windows should not be coloured, for the thick application of blues and other tints have rendered the glass here and there almost opaque. There was in England about that time a good deal of thickly coloured, and therefore unsatisfactory, glass. One does not have to see many examples of it before the conclusion becomes inevitable that the English glaziers would better have followed the example of the Frenchmen, who, when their art became moribund at the end of the sixteenth century, let it die and gave it decent burial!
Most visitors find it difficult to escape speedily from the fascinations of Cambridge, and if some of our pilgrims be minded to make a short stay in these erudite surroundings, we will remind them that there are, not far away, three pleasing bits of glass, and all of them Trees of Jesse—one of the Perpendicular period at Margaretting, about fifty miles south-east in Essex, another one of the same period at Levrington, thirty-three miles north in Cambridgeshire, and a Decorated example of the same subject at Lowick, thirty-six miles west in Cambridgeshire. The Margaretting window is of three lancets and displays twenty-two figures, each with its own label, and together affording a peculiarly interesting study of costume. Don’t fail to notice how deftly the glazier has concealed the fact that the same cartoon is made to serve for several figures by facing them about, or varying the colour in the costumes. The handling of the whitish vine and the use of leaves is very artistic.
The Levrington window has five lancets, and its Tree of Jesse is larger and has more figures than the one at Margaretting; it shows the marks of careful restoration. Including the figures in the tracery lights, there are sixty in all—an unusually large number. Each figure is placed within a loop of the deep orange-coloured vine, these enclosures being about 12 by 8 inches. This great company of personages, and the agreeable harmony of colour, make this window well worth a visit.
Lowick Church does not have to rely alone upon its stained glass, but has many other attractions, such as its fine tombs, elaborately carved pew-heads, wooden ceiling, and last, but not least pleasing, the venerable prayer-books, dated 1724 and still in their original bindings, ornamented by coloured coats of arms on the covers. There are some heraldic panes along the south side of the chancel, but the chief interest for us is in the very fine series of sixteen personages originally forming a Decorated Tree of Jesse, but now stationed along the upper lights on the north side of the nave. The drawing is good and the colouring strong, with as yet no trace of stain, the frequent touches of yellow being of pot-metal glass. The four most westerly figures are kings, and the eastmost is a knight in full armour, his head, arms and legs being covered with chain-mail. In his hands he holds a model of the church, upon which can be distinctly seen these windows, thus clearly indicating that he was the donor.
LICHFIELD
There are few cathedrals in the world which, as one approaches, reveal themselves more charmingly than does Lichfield; here one feels an almost studied coquetry, disclosing new beauties at each stage of our advance. When viewed from a distance the three graceful spires, “The Ladies of the Vale,” seem to beckon one on to a nearer view of the sanctuary over which they preside. On entering the town it is temporarily lost from view, only promptly to appear again, this time across the little pools which lie along the south side of the Close and which, aided by the green of the trees, provide so lovely a foreground and setting for the full-length picture of the great edifice. Again we lose it, and then the last revelation of all comes when one rounds the corner into the green Close and there bursts upon you the final and complete aspect of the glorious west front, brilliant in its red sandstone, adorned by its army of over 150 stone figures of prophets, saints, and English kings, a splendid façade, impressively culminated by the towering spires that first signalled to us where we should find this lovely picture. Unfortunately for the cathedral, Bishop de Langdon, Treasurer of England under Edward I., by surrounding the Close with a wall and a fosse, made of it a stout fortress. Centuries after this very feature resulted most disastrously, for, during the Civil Wars, the military strength of its position caused it to sustain three successive sieges. Of these the first was the most disastrous, for, when the Roundheads broke in after a three days’ assault, they revenged the death of their leader, Lord Brooke, first upon the Royalist defenders, and next upon the cathedral itself, wrecking and destroying ancient tombs, stalls, &c., and, of course, the old glass. In addition to their work of destruction they carried off all that had been left by Henry VIII.’s Commissioners of the rich offerings brought by devout pilgrims to the shrine of St. Chad. To this same Lord Brooke Sir Walter Scott pays his respects in the lines telling how Lord Marmion’s body was brought
“To moated Lichfield’s lofty pile;
And there, beneath the southern aisle,
A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair,
Did long Lord Marmion’s image bear,
(Now vainly for its sight you look;
’Twas levelled when fanatic Brook
The fair cathedral stormed and took;
But thanks to Heaven and good St. Chad,
A guerdon meet the spoilers had!)”
The interior is of modest dimensions, and is elaborately decorated, the richly carved capitals, &c., giving us indications of how gorgeous it must all have been before it was looted. An interesting feature is the slight inclination of the choir northward from the axis of the nave, which is said to be symbolic of the inclination of Christ’s head on the cross after death. At Troyes and at Quimper in France there is the same deviation in orientation and the same poetic explanation, but investigation reveals that it was caused by a change in the street line in the first instance, and in the other by the annexation of an existing chapel standing slightly north of the true axis.
LADY CHAPEL, LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL
Excellent example of Renaissance colouring, freer from applied paint than then customary. This glass was brought from Belgium
Practically all of the ancient glass which originally adorned the embrasures has been destroyed; the north window of the north transept has some Early English work much restored, and on the east of the south portal of the south transept is a short lower window, in the central lancet of which is a richly dressed female figure with arms thrown about a cross. Just before entering the Lady chapel we remark two small three-lanceted windows, one on each hand, the one to the left having donors on each side, and in the middle St. Christopher carrying the infant Jesus. But it is to the seven most easterly windows of the Lady chapel that we must repair to see the famous Flemish glass, brought here in 1803, which is the cause of our visit. The dates which appear upon them run from 1534 to 1539, and they were originally made for the Abbey of Herckenrode, near Liége, Belgium, by Lambert Lombard—the earliest and best of those glaziers of the Low Countries who show the Italian influence. All are of three lancets, except the most westerly pair, which have six. The traceries above them are grouped in pyramids of trefoil openings, similar to some in the Lady chapel at Wells. The scenes are taken from the life of Christ, and there are as well portraits of certain benefactors of the Abbey. The composition as well as the grouping of the figures is not so crowded as in the slightly earlier (1527) glazing of King’s College Chapel, Cambridge, or St. Margaret’s, Westminster. The artist drew his personages on such a large scale that it is evident his work was planned for a more spacious interior—this chapel is so narrow that one cannot stand far enough away to get the full effect of the pictures. Although now in the fully developed picture epoch and passed beyond the conventional trammels of the canopy with its imitation stonework, the glazier is not forgetful of what his craft had learned during that period, for he has made agreeable use of architecture, notably as the background for the Last Supper in the east window. Even if the dates were not displayed in the usual sixteenth century continental fashion, we would have no difficulty in fixing them, not only because of the obviously Renaissance style of the architecture depicted, but also by reason of the general breadth and style of the treatment. Nor is it difficult to note the effect upon the artist of the Italian influence, coming as it did from a land where abundant sunshine makes it desirable that the illumination of the windows be somewhat reduced by the use of paint. Still, it is only fair to say that these particular windows contain much more than was then customary of glass coloured during the making and not painted afterwards. An excellent impression of the colour effect as a whole can be got if we retire to the central aisle of the nave and look east. Now the sides of the choir become a graceful frame for the three easterly windows. The upper part and the centre show an almost solid expanse of blue, while all the rest of the glass yields a golden grey, forming an excellent ensemble.
Before leaving the town, admirers of English literature will do well to visit the house in which Dr. Samuel Johnson was born. It now appropriately serves as a museum wherein are exposed a number of manuscripts, pictures, and familiar objects in some way related to that great scholar. Although the worthy Doctor said that his fellow townsmen were “more orthodox in their religion, purer in their language, and politer in their manners than any other town in the Kingdom,” one must be pardoned for taking his opinion upon manners with a pinch of salt!
GUILDFORD
In England one is constantly coming upon manifestations only to be observed in a land whose civilisation and habits of life were long ago settled and have continued stable. One of the most interesting of these is the different methods adopted for perpetuating one’s memory by a benevolent act toward the public—making it worth the public’s while to act as trustee for the preservation of the said memory, so to speak! A very charming instance thereof is afforded by the buildings erected in Guildford by Archbishop Abbott in 1619 as a permanent home for ten elderly men and eight elderly women, all presided over by a Master: according to the fashion of the times it was styled Bishop Abbott’s Hospital. Built on North Street in the quadrangular form so reminiscent of an Oxford or Cambridge college, the rich plum-colour which age has lent to the brick needs only the primly demure assistance of the formal flower beds to make the altogether charming enclosure which we see to-day. Entering this tranquil and ancient quadrangle one seems suddenly whisked by some magic wand far from the twentieth century world outside. The elderly resident of the establishment who escorts one about the premises descants upon each admirable detail in measured phrase that is pleasantly appropriate to the ancient flavour of the scene. One is shown the old dining-room below and the library above, both of which retain their Elizabethan panelling on the walls and the carved overmantels, together with much of the original furniture. The large table in the library is an interesting piece, the lumpy adornment of its legs reminding one of the puffed sleeves and trunk hose then affected by gentlemen, while the rail running along the floor and connecting the legs prevents us from forgetting that rushes then strewed the floor, and that these rails were used to provide a convenient place to put the feet. The most interesting part of the building is the small square chapel which forms the north-east corner of the quadrangle. It is lighted by two large windows dating from the end of the Renaissance period (1621) and contemporary with the chapel they adorn. They are unusually agreeable examples of the day when colour was applied to glass by enamelled painting. The serious technical defect of that method (the tendency of the enamel to peel off) is here noticeable in several spots, but not to such an extent as to impair seriously their decorative value. Of these two ample embrasures, the easterly one is the larger, having five lancets surmounted by elaborate tracery lights, while its neighbour in the north wall has but four lancets with traceries of more modest design. All these lancets contain scenes taken from the life of Jacob, the four to the north show Rachel’s subterfuge to obtain for Jacob the parental blessing that should have been Esau’s, while the five easterly ones set forth Jacob’s dream, and the trick played upon him by Laban in substituting Leah for Rebecca, together with Jacob’s retaliation by marking the cattle. Remark Esau shaking his fist at Jacob for stealing his blessing; the solidity of the stairway in Jacob’s dream; the unusual number of animals shown in all the scenes. There should also be observed the very elaborate treatment of the eastern traceries. An examination of the outside of these windows indicates that they were probably brought from some other edifice, for the wall seems to have been cut away to provide sufficient room for them.
BISHOP ABBOTT’S HOSPITAL, GUILDFORD
Charming and complete glazing of a small chapel. Renaissance glass coloured by the process of enamelling, often unsatisfactory because bits are apt to peel off
GATTON
It is not uncommon in England to find the chapel attached to the manor house of an estate used as a parish church for the neighbourhood. This is true of the family chapel at Gatton Park, Surrey, just north of Redhill, off the road leading to London. This chapel stands close to the mansion, and is connected with it by a passage. Finer carved wood than the wainscotting of this small interior is far to seek. The wooden pulpit, too, is of skilful workmanship, and together with the panelling, is said to have come from Germany, and to be the work of Albrecht Dürer; its beauty is certainly due to some great craftsman, if not to this very man. The principal illumination of the narrow edifice is derived from two large windows, one over the altar at the east end and the other of similar size in the south wall; there is none in the north one. Both these embrasures are glazed with Renaissance work of considerable excellence; the one to the east dates from about 1500, and the southerly one from about eighty years later. This latter, as is to be expected, shows a liberal use of enamel painting, something entirely absent in the earlier one, and each of its three lancets contains a different subject, against elaborate landscape backgrounds. The delicately outlined trees in the extreme distance are drawn upon a white field instead of upon the light blue then used in France. Such architecture as appears in the design is, of course, Renaissance. Across the whole of the easterly window is stretched one large picture, the “Eating of the Passover,” which is pleasantly brightened by the golden staves held by the figures who, with their raiment girded up and their feet shod by sandals, carry out to the full the Mosaic law, “And thus shall ye eat it; with your loins girded, with shoes on your feet and your staff in your hand; and ye shall eat it in haste; it is the Lord’s Passover” (Exodus xii. 2).
When about to leave this beautifully panelled charmingly glazed interior, note the small window in the west wall of the entrance vestibule. It is of a domestic type familiar during the Perpendicular epoch. In the centre are the arms of Henry VII. between two supporters. Across the quarry background are bands slanting from the left down to the right bearing the motto, “Honi soit qui mal y pense.” Some of the quarries show small leaves, and others an H surmounted by a crown. This window is similar in style to those already remarked at Salisbury, in John Halle’s hall, and others may be seen in many private houses dating from that time.
Although of modest size and possessing but two windows, Gatton Chapel is as delightful a bit of complete Renaissance glazing as one will see in England.
KNOLE
East and west across almost the whole width of Kent run three parallel lines of low hills affording many charming views which, however, are only part of the many beauties of that picturesque county. Upon the easterly end of one of these ridges lies Sevenoaks. Although the present town is by no means an ancient one, it possesses great interest in that just below its edge lies the large estate of Knole Park which, if we may play upon words, is a series of knolls that together with their intersecting glades are shaded by groves of great beeches whose soft green foliage has for many a long day sheltered the herds of deer wandering to and fro beneath them. Upon an eminence of greater size than its fellows stands the ancient dwelling known as “Knole,” a great series of courts and quadrangles combined into an abode of such size that it is said to contain, in addition to its superb state apartments, no fewer than 365 bedrooms. Enclosed within a wide sweeping battlemented wall are charming old-world gardens that nestle about the ancient grey mansion, and soften by their dainty setting of variegated flowers, green lawns and trees, the fortress-like appearance of its towers and long stretches of stone enclosure. Thanks to a fine combination of patriotism and hospitality so often seen in England, a large portion of this house is (upon payment of a trifling fee) thrown open to the study and appreciation of the public on the afternoons of Thursday and Saturday (2-5), as well as all day Friday (10-5). It is because it can be so conveniently seen by our glass-hunting pilgrim (owing to the generosity of the owners and the fact that it is under an hour by train from Charing Cross, London) that Knole has been selected to illustrate in how decorative a fashion the sixteenth century glazier could spread the gay tints of heraldic story upon his windows. Here can also be remarked one or two other minor manifestations of stained glass at that time. One of these is to be seen in the first stairway up which visitors are conducted. Upon some of its diminutive diamond-shaped panes are enamelled armorial crests, much in vogue at the end of the sixteenth century and the beginning of the following one. On one of these little panes in the chapel of Lullingstone Castle near here appears the date 1612: these on the Knole staircase are of about the same date. This house was long the property of the See of Canterbury; perhaps the pilgrim may have one of the rare opportunities to visit the bedroom so long occupied by Archbishop Cranmer and observe in the upper lights of the bay window the six large ovals containing coats of arms in enamel, bits of which have peeled off, as is so often the case with this method of applying colour. How mystified that worthy ecclesiastic would be to see the modern bathroom which now opens into his old bedroom! While speaking of Canterbury, it is of interest that we are enabled to date one of the Knole towers by the fact that a morsel of glazing high up in the traceries of one window (all that is left of the original equipment) bears a double knot, the insignia of Archbishop Bourchier, thus proving that it is at least as old as his tenancy here (1456-86). But let us come to the main reason for our visit—the Cartoon Gallery. Named after the set of Raphael’s cartoons especially copied for Charles I., and by him presented to the Earl of Dorset to decorate these walls, this long room is brilliantly lighted by a series of windows giving off upon the delightful gardens. This is no place to dwell upon the sumptuous silver furnishings of King James’ bedroom that opens out to the south, nor of the treasures of English portraiture in the rooms through which we have come to this gallery. We are here to enjoy the work of the glazier who set upon the windows the arms of the great houses allied to this one by marriage. One after another they unfold themselves all along the upper lights of this series of embrasures, and tell their story in a far more brilliant manner than can ever be attained by any musty tome on genealogy. This estate was more than once the property of the Crown, and an evidence of one of these periods is provided by the appearance on some of the westerly windows of the arms of certain Law Officers of the Crown, such as the Lord Chief Justice, Attorney-General, Chief Baron of the Exchequer, Master of the Requests, Judge of Admiralty, &c. These are somewhat earlier than those first mentioned and are freer from the unfortunate enamel painting.
Taking into consideration the dimensions of this superb apartment, and the paintings and glass that adorn it, together with the pleasing outlook upon the gardens below, it is doubtful if a more impressive gallery is to be found in any of the stately homes of England.
The chapel, which was built by Archbishop Cranmer, has an unpleasantly smeared east window, but upon its surface high up are a series of Apostles done in grey and stain which, if brought down to the level for which they were originally intended, would show themselves to be very attractive. At the south end of the little gallery used as the “Family Pew” are a group of about a dozen scenes in grey and stain of excellent execution, and so placed as to permit of a satisfactory examination of this agreeable form of Renaissance glass-painting.
If one be travelling by bicycle or automobile, a pleasant addition to this trip may be made, on the way back to London, by taking one small détour of about ten miles to visit Nettlestead, and another of about three to West Wickham Church. The glass at both these places is Perpendicular, but not of sufficient importance to have made them stations on that tour. However, they can be so conveniently seen at this stage of our rambles that they are here duly mentioned. It is only recently that, thanks to the skilful heraldic researches of W. E. Ball, LL.D., the date of the Nettlestead windows has been discovered, as well as the significance of the many coats of arms scattered over them. Recent restoration has made complete the glazing of the entire north side and also of the east window. Note the narrow one at the north of the small chancel—quarry background with a large figure standing on a bracket, very reminiscent of sundry prototypes at St. Neot in Cornwall. The other windows on this side (except the westmost) are rich, almost florid examples of the elaborated canopy style. Indeed, so deep are the tones that one is tempted to suspect that some Frenchman had a hand in their manufacture. The smaller chancel light just noted is much lower in colour and therefore more typical of the then prevailing English taste. This is also true of the westmost or “Becket window,” as it is called, because it shows scenes from that martyr’s life. The south windows retain their original glass only in the tracery lights, but it is planned to reglaze them as nearly as possible like those on the north side. Nettlestead Church is not easily noticed from the road because of some farm buildings and an orchard which mask it.
If, when we resume our journey Londonward, it be decided to take a peep at the West Wickham glass, one should be careful not to overshoot the church, for it lies at least a half-mile nearer the London road than does the village whose name it bears. The embrasures on the north and east of a chapel opening off the chancel contain examples of a saint standing on a bracket against a quarry background, which we have just observed in the Nettlestead chancel light and also on a former tour at St. Neot. The quarries here each bear the monogram “I.H.S.” in stain. The supports below the brackets are shorter than is customary. What painstaking care was used in the manufacture of these windows is revealed by an examination of the central one on the north side, bearing the familiar figure of St. Christopher carrying the infant Jesus. Notice that the little pool of water in which he stands contains small golden fishes; also remark the careful leading of the three tiny red trees in the background. This very attention to detail noticeable in all the panels has much to do with the satisfactory effect of these windows.