At Amiens there is not much glass, and yet the student will not have wasted his time, for he will there see one of the finest cathedrals in Europe, and will furthermore be able to note what the lack of coloured glass means, in this way learning to value it even more highly than before. If a visit to this great church renders us no other service than this, we shall all agree that it is no small one. We shall never again question that a magnificent ecclesiastical interior is not only vastly improved, but actually needs its light tempered by stained glass. Our pilgrim has long ere this learnt that he cannot always rely on guide-books to tell him whether or not fine windows are to be found in certain towns, and therefore we may serve a useful purpose and save some reader a disappointing trip by setting out the facts. The cathedral owes its chief beauty to the extraordinary detail and amount of sculpture to be found without and within. So complete are the scriptural events chronicled upon its west front that Ruskin has given it the title of the “Bible in Stone.” Nor are the carvings which are to be found inside in any way inferior to those which fascinate us without. The stone screen which runs around the ambulatory would alone repay much study, but the most notable display of the carver’s art is the little army of nearly four thousand figures upon the choir stalls. Notwithstanding this wealth of sculpture, we are struck by the bareness of the lofty interior. We long for a touch of mystery and cannot but feel that in the glare of light streaming through the immensely tall uncoloured windows everything is too clearly revealed and there is lacking the softness which would add so much to the beauty of the carvings. What a change there would be for the better if we could wave a wand and by some fairy power will back into the windows their ancient glories. Everything is too stately and cold, too sharply outlined; in fact, far too much denuded of the mysterious charm, the awe-inspiring gloom which lays hold upon us at Chartres or Bourges.
Although but little of its glass has survived, it is almost all of the thirteenth century, and some is very good. In one of the choir chapels to the left is an interesting Tree of Jesse in the medallion style. The left window of the easternmost chapel has a charming blue background and a novel use of small white birds in its border. Above us in the easternmost window of the clerestory (the only one in the clerestory that has survived intact) another unique feature catches the eye—its four slender lancets contain some very decorative lettering introduced into the design. This lettering is glazed in white on a blue background and its legend when deciphered sets out that those three windows were given by Bernard d’Abbeville, Bishop of Amiens, in the year 1269. In contrast to these meagre remains of glass, there are also to be seen three fine rose windows which are completely glazed. They all have quaint names, that in the west façade being called the “Rose of the Sea”; that in the north the “Rose of the Winds”; that in the south the “Rose of Heaven.” This poetic and quaintly familiar method of naming windows is not unknown elsewhere; it is also found at Chartres. The huge western rose, thirty-eight feet in diameter, although dating from 1241, has lost its original glass and was reglazed in the sixteenth century. There are no figures in the north rose, but instead a mosaic of colour; we have noticed a similar arrangement at St. Quentin. In the south rose, red predominates, but with it there is also considerable green. If the reader decides to visit Amiens, notwithstanding the small amount of glass to be seen there, he will surely conclude that the day has not been wasted, for he will not leave that splendid interior without a truer appreciation of the great service which the glass artist rendered to the architect, as well as a sigh for the fragile beauty which is no longer there.
FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES
Nowhere in art can there be found so abrupt a change of style as that which marks in stained glass the arrival of the fourteenth century. So noticeable is the difference between the windows of the thirteenth and those of the fourteenth centuries that it can be seen at a glance. Not only were the new styles very distinctive, but they were also very enduring, for even when the fifteenth century arrived it did little but elaborate the ideas introduced by the fourteenth, and for that reason we should consider them together as forming one epoch. The new results which we now find are not only in effect, but also in light and in placing of figures. This transformation took place within a few years and was, therefore, as sudden in point of time as it was in treatment, which latter is so marked that it excites our curiosity as to its causes. It is safe to assume that we have here happened upon not only one novelty but a coincidence of several, as otherwise the change would have been much less abrupt. Most of the new elements which in combination so suddenly produced such a sweeping change can be studied from the glass which has survived to these modern days, but of one we can now only read: this was the demand for domestic glass, and unfortunately but few examples of it are left to us. The old chroniclers tell us of many private houses and buildings devoted to civil uses having their windows glazed in colour, a form of luxury hitherto found only in religious edifices. We know that it then began to be widely used, especially in Paris, but it did not survive the turbulence of those times. The effect of this novel use on glass styles was very marked. Obviously it was not practicable to employ the same sort of glass in the smaller rooms of a dwelling house that we have seen so effective in the larger interiors of religious edifices. We notice that beautiful as is the thirteenth century Ste. Chapelle, its “dim religious light” is unsuited for any building devoted to secular uses. No, the medallion window with its deep-toned panes and profusion of leads would not serve for civil or domestic purposes, nor, on the other hand, could we bring down the big personages from the clerestories of cathedrals; they were most impressive when seen from the distance which their lofty situation necessitated, but they were much too crude and coarse in their workmanship to be lowered to the level of the observer’s eye. For this new demand of domestic architecture it was obvious that something must be devised which would give more light. One method of effecting it was using coloured figures on a soft grisaille background, but this has only to be seen to be found unsatisfactory. Some examples of this exist in the north side of Ste. Radegonde at Poitiers. They are interesting, but the figures start out from the light background so violently as to plainly make them unsuitable in small interiors. Plain grisaille was not rich enough to be used in a fine private house. As a compromise between these two methods they arrived at the use of a border of greyish simulated Gothic architecture to frame the central coloured figure of a window. In this way the border admitted the light and the figure gave the richness; these Gothic frames were called “canopies.” But why a frame of architecture? The interest in Gothic had by this time spread throughout the fair land of France. Many beautiful examples of it had just come into being before people’s eyes—it was the delight of all. It was but natural that this noble style, still young, should be introduced by the glazier, especially as it lent itself to the demand for more light. Besides, in knowledge of Gothic, the glass artist was second only to the architect, as the windows were made to suit the church, not the church the windows. This observation upon the relation of the glazier to the architect brings us to another reason for the abrupt change in stained glass, and of this we can to-day readily find examples. We have said that the artist had to make his glass to suit the window apertures. About that time the architect was changing their shape. Instead of being broad and single windows they were now more numerous but narrower and taller, and were brought together in groups of two or more, separated only by stone mullions. Above this cluster of narrow lancets and in order to taper them off gracefully, were placed smaller openings called tracery lights. Without this tapering at the top, the group below would look unfinished and ill-proportioned. The few, though wide windows used during the thirteenth century were found to give too little light, and, besides, were not as decorative as the Gothic architect demanded for his more elaborate style. This new period in architecture is called “Decorated,” which name has also properly been applied to its glass. The architect not only did everything in his power to gain more light by providing many more wall apertures, but doubtless he also insisted that the glazier assist in this endeavour. We have just seen that the latter complied with this request by surrounding his coloured figures with light-admitting architectural frames of greyish-yellow. Nor did he stop there: he helped the architect to bind together more harmoniously his groups of narrow lights into which the whole window was now split up, for he realised that horizontal bands of light colour placed straight across these narrow lights would effect this purpose. The slender stone mullions which divided them showed too many perpendicular lines and tended to make the windows seem spindling, but this was corrected by the broad bands of light afforded by the grey and yellow canopy tops running along over the heads of the saints occupying the tall narrow panes. Perhaps the reader is already asking whence the artist obtained so much grey and yellow, because thirteenth century glass leaves rather a strong purple memory behind it. To answer this question is to bring forward another new thing and one which also had a large share in abruptly changing the styles. About the beginning of the fourteenth century it was discovered that if silver were floated upon the surface of glass and then exposed to the furnace, the result would be a bright yellow stain. The word “stain” is used advisedly, because by this method the surface received a durable colour not removable like paint. We have already seen that pot-metal colour was introduced throughout the mass during the time of the making of the glass and was therefore part of it from the beginning. This new stain was not applied until after the glass was made, and no other tint but yellow could be produced in this way. The discovery of this valuable secret has been variously recounted, but always the credit is given to blind chance, some silver happening to drip upon glass which, when burnt, disclosed to the surprised workman the new and beautiful yellow. Its great value in admitting light as well as in enriching the tones of a window was at once appreciated. No longer was it necessary to laboriously lead in a bit of yellow pot-metal glass where that hue was demanded by the design. Now all that was done was to float a little silver upon a large piece of glass at the point or points required, expose it to the fire, and behold! a tint that made glorious the hair of angels, or the robes of saints and high dignitaries. Touches of this rich colour also made possible architectural frames which would otherwise have seemed dull, flat and opaquely grey. Each little pinnacle could be brightened up, lines of yellow would enliven columns and the canopy window in its light soft beauty was made practicable.
15th CENTURY “CANOPY” WINDOW, ST. LÔ.
Name given because of Gothic canopy used to frame the coloured figures. The pale grey glass in the canopy portion admitted much more light than the earlier windows richly coloured throughout. Note the modestly drawn donors in the lowest panels.