Stained glass, then, is simply glass which has been colored in the pot, glass which has its color within itself: while painted glass—a term sometimes used as synonymous with stained glass—is properly glass which has had the color painted upon its surface, and has then been fired so that the colored or enameled surface has been vitrified. Some stained glass is of so deep a color,—red, for instance—that a thin coating of it blown over the surface of a white (that is, colorless) glass is sufficient to produce the desired color effect; if the entire thickness of the pane were of the colored glass, the effect would be much too dark: such glass is nevertheless true stained glass, and is called “flashed.”
In the early period of the art, beginning in the eleventh century and running parallel with the development of Pointed (commonly called Gothic) Architecture, only true stained glass was used. The use of enamel paints applied to the surface to produce a different color marks also the beginning of the decadence of the art; for the glory of true glass is in its jewel-like quality, its color being within itself and all absolutely translucent, while a painted glass will always be necessarily dull in comparison. The temptation to paint color upon the surface of glass is readily understood: it was an easier method, it promised wider scope, greater variety, in a word, the opportunity to make pictures somewhat as the painter may upon canvas. But glass is not canvas, and church windows are not to be pictures. Retribution has overtaken this work, and the latest and most ambitious more speedily than all; the enamel-painted glass has not stood the test of time, becoming muddy and perishing while the true ancient stained glass is still the joy and wonder of all who gaze upon it.
For, as we have said, the glory of true stained glass is in its rich, jewel-like color. Its reds, which the makers called “ruby,” its blues which they called “sapphire,” with its “emerald” greens, its “gold” and its “pearl,” never entered the field to compete with the achievements of the painter’s brush; to compare the delight they afford the beholder with that derived from a painting would be in a sense as impossible as a comparison between the fragrance of a flower and the cadence of a song.
The early makers of stained glass windows contended with great, to moderns they would be intolerable, limitations. They were almost absolutely restricted to the primary colors. They had not at first the art of blowing glass, but cast their pieces in small panes of at most four or five inches in diameter. The use of the diamond in cutting was not known till the sixteenth century. Hence their work was simply mosaic. For variety they depended upon an arrangement of geometrical patterns, or patterns of familiar architectural form and of common ecclesiastical symbols. To construct these they leaded together their pieces and bits of glass, elaborating their treatment as time went on, but always in the main upon the same lines.
When they began to portray, in panels on their windows, the forms of Our Lord, of His apostles, of saints and angels, sometimes in crude settings of scenes or incidents from Holy Scripture or Church legend, their color principle was still the same; and it was still the same in the elaboration of the merely ornamental borders with forms of leaf or flower or fruit, or of sacred emblems and inscriptions. The brown pigment with which they produced faces and features, hands, feet, outlines and ornamentations, was not a color, nor intended for a color, but simply a means of definition or delineation when this was too minute to be carried out with leads. And the stained glass it was, still, which addressed the eye and compelled attention and admiration. No more than in heraldry did the forms and emblems pretend to be pictures of the actual, realistic representations of men, or of scenes or incidents. The makers of early stained glass were, in one word, simply makers of ornamental windows of rich color and religious symbolism.
We have said that their pieces of glass were small. This is but to say that their windows were a network of leads. For there is but one way to hold together such pieces of glass in a window, and that is by leads. These leads are not a misfortune. A square yard of simple red stained glass is artistically more beautiful if composed of a hundred pieces leaded together than if it were in a single sheet. The differences in texture themselves produce a better result, and the black leads, scarcely discernible individually, contribute an additional element of pleasure. And in arranging pieces of different color side by side, intelligent leading design was itself the artist’s drawing, and effected results altogether admirable. So far was this art of leading carried in France, for instance, that windows mainly of white glass were produced, of rare beauty by simple virtue of their structural design.
All this was changed by the men who in a later age ground up their enamel pigments, glazed windows in large panes, and daubed upon them their muddy colors, with a sublime contempt for the crude laborious mosaic work of their predecessors. Would they have a representation of the earth for their figure to stand upon? it must be carpeted with grass, with green grass, and they can paint green grass upon a colorless surface; red flowers also, upon the same, with red paint, if such were desired. The Renaissance was coming; Gothic was barbarous anyway; antiquated crudities must give place to refined work worthy of the new enlightenment! Paint a picture on canvas, then paint that picture on your glass. It can be done, certainly, if you will not allow yourself to be bothered with the nuisance of leads, but just get an ample pane of glass, unobstructed, and go at it with your brush and paints!
This miserable travesty did not long hold sway, it was scarcely permitted to go its own theoretical length. There came great political changes, great religious changes, and for a long time few churches more were built, nor even those standing kept in repair. The course of Ecclesiastical Architecture suffered an interruption for several centuries, of which Mr. Ralph Adams Cram has told us feelingly in his recent writings on that subject.
But within the memory of men now living there has also come the beginning of a true revival. The awakening of the Catholic spirit in the Anglican Communion has been accompanied by an eager desire to recover lost treasures and to restore sound traditions to their former honor.