Part 4

Sad havoc has been played with the ancient glass, but here we cannot blame the Puritans alone. To be sure, they exercised their usual zeal in destroying the windows as far up as they could reach, but it must be admitted that they only completed the task earlier begun by the citizens, who were wont to amuse themselves by shooting with arrows and crossbow bolts at the roof and at the windows. This appears in the defence set up by the Dean when, during the time of Henry VIII., charges had been brought against him for permitting the cathedral to fall into such shocking disrepair. Notwithstanding the efforts of the crossbow vandals and their successors, the Puritans, there has been preserved for us a very considerable amount of old glass, and that, too, of the Early English type, a period of which there are so few remains in England. These remnants are so placed as to be seen to great advantage. They fill the east windows of the north and south aisles of the choir, and the large windows in the end of the great northerly transept. The old glazing of the eastern windows of the north and south choir aisles is complete and very interesting. It is not so beautiful as it would have been if the spaces between the brilliant medallions had also been filled with colour instead of the greenish grisaille which the practical Englishman used so as to admit more light than would have been possible through the entirely coloured panes of his more artistic, if less utilitarian, French contemporary. He succeeded in getting his illumination, but he lost the jewelled shimmer that meets one's eyes at Chartres and Reims. Moreover, there is also lacking the richness and solidity of tone which is so enjoyable in France. The French system was followed at Canterbury, and there is a marked difference in the effect of that glass from this at Lincoln. Unfortunately, the great east window between these two excellent aisle ones is filled with modern glass that suffers sadly by comparison with its ancient neighbours.

Passing to the transepts we shall encounter the pleasant custom so rare in England (though common in France) of giving a familiar name to a great window. Here the splendid northern rose is called "The Dean's Eye," and its sister to the south "The Bishop's Eye," which names they have borne for more than six hundred years. Many are the reasons that have been advanced for these titles, but probably the practical one is correct, viz., the Dean's Eye faces the Deanery and the Bishop's Eye the Bishop's palace. Among the many fanciful and more poetic explanations there is one which, although it is less reasonable, we must be pardoned for finding more attractive, viz., as the north is the region of the Evil One, it is proper that the Dean's Eye should look into that direction in order to guard against any attempt on his part to invade the sanctuary. The Bishop's Eye is turned toward the sunny south, "The region of the Holy Spirit whose sweet influence alone can overcome the wiles of the wicked one." The older of the pair, the Dean's Eye, was probably glazed about 1220. It is best seen from the gallery or from the triforium which runs along just below it, and is a fine rose of the usual type. Below it there extends a row of five pointed lancets containing very light toned grisaille which almost entirely lacks the usual touches of colour. Below these are two larger lancets flanking the doorway; the one to the east has grisaille quarries as a border and within, geometric designs in colour. The westerly lancet shows a vine in whose branches are angels playing upon musical instruments, the whole surrounded by grisaille touched with colour. Across in the southern end of these transepts is one of the most delightful windows to be seen anywhere, the Bishop's Eye. Not only is this rose window a jewel of the glazier's art, but the mason as well has added a wondrous charm by the lightness of his stone traceries and the curious interpenetrated stone frame which he has placed about it. The architect, too, has joined in beautifying the _ensemble_ by stationing below it four large lancets of such harmonious proportions as admirably to balance and set off their more important neighbour just above them. In these lancets are found some Early English glass--broad borders of grisaille enframing the rich-toned medallions within. The Bishop's Eye was glazed about the middle of the fourteenth century and yields a warm greenish grey light. Instead of having its lines radiate from the centre in the customary manner, its gracefully curved mullions tend to flow up and down and suggest the fibres of five great leaves standing upright side by side.

YORK

To one approaching York by road, especially if coming by way of Scarcroft Hill, the ancient appearance of the town seems to translate it out of the Middle Ages. The dust-grey line of walls along the grassy banks that slope down to the moat, sweep far around in unbroken majesty, strengthened here and there by bastions or by a sturdy gatehouse. To complete the old-world picture, above the walls peep red-tiled gables, or occasionally the towers and spires of numerous churches, all dominated by the great bulk of the cathedral.

Insignificant historically ever since the days when the city of Eboren was the capital of Britain, York is chiefly known for the use of its name in two prolonged struggles (fought out, however, on other fields), the one between the House of York and Lancaster, called "The War of the Roses," and the other the great contest lasting from 601 on till the middle of the fourteenth century to decide whether the Archbishop of York or he of Canterbury should be the Primate of England. York's unimportance in English history may be due partly to its situation too far north to have been in the heart of the constant struggle for power, and partly to the fact that it was so repeatedly ravaged by Danes and other invaders, the worst blow of all being when William the Conqueror gave all that neighbourhood such a dreadful harrowing that the lands from York to Durham laid untilled for nine years, and did not fully recover for centuries. Almost the sole exception to this unimportant _role_ was the seven years during which Edward I. moved the law courts to York and made it his royal capital. Fortunately for the city, its connection with the bloody struggle of the rival Roses was almost entirely confined to lending its name to one of the Houses, for this great drama was chiefly enacted to the south of it. Although the other famous contest to which we alluded, and which dragged its weary length through nearly eight centuries, had to do only with ecclesiastical predominance, yet it exercised a potent influence upon the destinies of the generations it concerned. It is impossible to obtain a realising sense of men and events in the Middle Ages unless one takes into account the tremendous force, and that, too, a militant one, exercised by the great ecclesiastics. A striking example is provided by Archbishop Scrope of York, who aspired so high that he rebelled against his king and was only defeated after the strenuous campaign described in Shakespeare's "Henry IV." He was executed at York in 1405. We remarked another example at Canterbury in the bloody ending of a Becket's attempt to brave Henry II. Because he was Archbishop of Canterbury and opposed to the king, it is not surprising to find that the contemporary Archbishop of York, Roger Pont l'Eveque, was a staunch adherent of Henry. It was this very Roger who, in 1176, precipitated one of the many disgraceful rows that besmirched this struggle for the Primacy. The Papal Legate was presiding at the Council of Westminster, and a Becket's successor, Richard of Canterbury, was seated on his right. Roger came in late, and, declining to accept any but the most honoured seat, sat down on Richard's lap, whereupon a brawl ensued, ending in Roger's discomfiture. Pitiable as was this scene, at least it was less disastrous to the people at large than many another episode of this tedious and acrimonious struggle, finally ended by the Bull of Pope Innocent VI., designating the Archbishop of Canterbury as the Primate of all England.

York is by all odds the most important of all English glass centres. Although one often finds occasion elsewhere to curse the glass-destroying Puritan, at York it must be admitted that the presence of so many ancient windows is due to the control exercised by Fairfax over his Parliamentary troops after a successful siege of the place. He well deserved the butt of sack and tun of French wine voted him by the Corporation in recognition of his efforts in restraining the misguided enthusiasm of the soldiery. Indeed, his action here almost atones for the devilish tricks at Canterbury of "Blue Dick" Culmer.

Even the most casual observer, and one entirely unlearned in our beautiful art, cannot fail to notice how large an amount of wall-space is given over to ancient glass in York Minster. As a matter of fact it covers an area of more than 25,000 square feet, easily double that in any other English cathedral, and challenging comparison with any in the world. Nor are the examples confined to one epoch, for there are fragments of Norman mosaic medallions in the great transepts and the vestibule of the chapter-house, Early English in the "Five Sisters" and along the nave clerestory, Decorated in the nave and chapter-house, and Perpendicular in the choir. Not only are these examples plentiful, but they are of the first order. Entering by the door at the southern end of the great transepts, one is at once confronted by the five tall lancets opposite him in the north wall, filled with the most deliciously soft greyish green grisaille. Of their type there is nothing in the world to approach them for beauty. From where we stand the lead lines used in construction do not exist as lines, but melt away into a dainty film, like dew on the grass at morn. This set of lights is gracefully grouped, and is known by the pleasantly familiar title of the "Five Sisters." Many fanciful tales are told of when and where they were constructed and how they received this name. Dickens in his "Nicholas Nickleby" relates an engaging legend to explain how the design and the name were provided for them. That this legend has no basis in fact should not make us forget that his narrative has doubtless caused many of his readers to visit these windows--a most excellent justification. Dickens tells of five maiden ladies having worked upon a large piece of embroidery and how, years later, when four of them met together in York (the youngest, Alice, having been buried in the minster's nave), "They sent abroad, to artists of great celebrity in those times (Henry IV.), and having obtained the church's sanction to their work of piety, caused to be executed in five large compartments of richly stained glass, a faithful copy of their old embroidery work. These were fitted into a large window until that time bare of ornament; and when the sun shone brightly, as she had so well loved to see it, the familiar patterns were reflected in their original colours, and throwing a stream of brilliant light upon the pavement, fell warmly on the name of Alice." Those of our company who are by nature critical may point out that the windows date from the thirteenth century, not from the reign of Henry IV., and also that they contain grisaille, not colour, and further, that being at the end of the north transept, they could not very well throw a stream of light into the nave! The writer urges leniency of criticism, but nevertheless, one is forced to the melancholy conclusion that the great Dickens could never have delighted his eyes by this splendid glass, else he could not have made the windows coloured, or placed them in the nave! As for the four surviving sisters, they are certainly open to the severest censure in that they sent abroad for stained glass during the reign of Henry IV., because there was then the highest development of the art in England, and its product could not be approached by that of any foreign contemporaries. Close inspection discloses the design of the leads to be that of a graceful adjustment of the foliage of the benet plant. At the bottom of the central light is observable a panel of highly coloured mosaic glass. The glazing of the five small lancets above is modern. We must turn to the nave to see the rest of the Early English glass, of which, however, only fragments remain. They are to be found along the clerestory, in all of its tracery lights on the south side except the third from the west, and also some in its lower panes; on the north side they are in the traceries of the second from the west, the next five east of it, and also in the lower panels of the fifth and seventh.

The church of St. Dennis, Walmgate, has attractive panels of early English glass dating from the latter half of the thirteenth century inserted in two Decorated windows on the north side of the church.

An account of the Decorated glass at York will be found at p. 76, and of that of the Perpendicular at p. 185.

DECORATED

Before crossing the threshold into the two next periods (the Decorated and Perpendicular), it is worth pausing to notice that although architecture generally tends to elaborate as time goes on, the opposite was true in England during the two centuries of which we are about to speak. In fact, the work of the earlier of these two epochs obviously deserves the title of "Decorated" and the later does not. Its glass, too, is much more florid than its successor, and is far more ambitiously ornamental. It bears many bits of leafy foliage, twining vine tendrils, &c., all drawn as true to life as possible. Later these bits of flora are rarely used, and then only in a conventional and, therefore, less decorative form. In our introduction we have stated that in England, the arrival of the fourteenth century does not show the abrupt difference found in France between the light-obscuring mosaic glass of the thirteenth century and the fainter tints of the fourteenth, permitting the brighter interior then demanded. The explanation seems to be that the English, having been early forced by cloudy skies to use light-admitting grisaille (either alone, or combined with their early medallions) already enjoyed the proper illumination which, at the beginning of the fourteenth century, was so lacking in France as to bring about a cry for light at any cost. In place of the early fourteenth century glare that strikes one at Sees, Evreux, and in St. Ouen at Rouen, we have rich strong colour in their contemporaries at Tewkesbury, Wells and Bristol. Occasionally grisaille will be found pleasantly combined with small coloured scenes, as at Dorchester and in Merton Chapel, Oxford, but even then it seems much like a local survival of the thirteenth century tradition. So much for the difference between the English Decorated and the French fourteenth century windows. Now let us briefly consider what it was that succeeded to the mosaic medallion style seen at Canterbury, Lincoln, &c., and also what causes must have been at work to produce the change. About the end of the thirteenth century there chanced to be discovered a method of producing yellow which obviated the necessity of cutting out a piece of glass of that tint and laboriously leading it into the picture where needed, as was still obligatory if they wanted blue or red, &c. Some lucky glazier stumbled on the fact that if chloride of silver be put on a sheet of glass it would, when exposed to the fire, produce a handsome golden stain, and that only at the points to which it was applied. Many stories are related to explain this discovery, but as they are all more pleasing than convincing, it seems best to credit Dame Fortune with this valuable assistant to the glazier. It is obvious that this facility in staining a touch of yellow just at the point desired by the artist was eagerly seized upon. He at once made use of it to decorate the robes of great personages, or to brighten the hair of women and angels, as well as to liven any bits of stonework necessary to his drawing. It made possible the development of an unimportant detail in the earlier windows into the perfected result called the "Canopy window," which we shall learn to know as a most useful and satisfactory combination of decoration and serviceability. It will be remembered that from the earliest times there frequently appeared above the heads of saints certain conventional coverings meant to indicate an architectural shelter. Upon the arrival of the Decorated period this detail became more complete, the roof being fully depicted (although as yet in flat drawing, with no attempt at perspective) and columns added at the side to support it, thus completely enclosing the little figures in a niche. Here we have the first, or Decorated canopy, now complete in form although crude. It must be noticed, however, that these canopies, generally drawn to a small scale, do not attempt alone to fill the embrasures, and either are shown in bands across a ground of grisaille or occur alone surrounded by grisaille. Their architectural portion is of a strong brassy yellow, that colour being provided by pot metal glass leaded in. Now comes the next and final development. The discovery of yellow stain did away with the laborious need for leading in the yellow bits to simulate stonework, so the limit as to size of the canopy was removed, and at once they began to increase in dimensions. The obvious result ensued, each canopy was made to fill an entire lancet, its simulated stonework occupying as much surface as the enclosed figure, and we have the logical whole of a decorative colour panel within surrounded by a frame of lighter panes which admit the necessary amount of illumination. So satisfactory did this style of window prove that it persisted longer than almost any other type of glazing, and we must remember it is the discovery of yellow stain that we have to thank for making this result possible.

During the period we are now considering, the canopy was, of course, rather crude, in fact it looked more like a sentry-box than anything else. There was as yet no pedestal beneath it, and the pinnacles at the top showed entire ignorance of perspective, as well as of drawing in relief. During the Perpendicular period that followed, they did little but elaborate this canopy idea, combining and softening the colours so as to prevent jarring contrasts, and generally much improving the logical combination of a coloured central portion surrounded by light-admitting canopy framing. Without the use of yellow stain all this would have been difficult, if not impossible, for without the little touches of gold livening the grey stonework these canopies would have been dull and unconvincing.

Nor was this the only novelty in the method of imparting colour to glass. They now began to enrich their palettes by coating one colour with another, thus getting a tint not before obtainable. For example, red on blue gave a rich purple, blue on yellow a fine green, &c. This was effected in a very simple manner. Suppose the glass-blower wanted a purple--he dipped his pipe into liquid blue glass, and started to blow his bubble. When it began to take shape he dipped the small bubble into liquid red glass and then finished his blowing. This last dipping of course coated the outside of the blue bubble with red, and when it was completely blown, cut and opened out, it produced a sheet which was red on one side and blue on the other. Held up to the light, the red and blue combined to produce purple. Nor did the glass-blower confine himself to combinations of two colours, for the writer knows of an instance in France showing six superimposed coats. The French call this "verre double" (or lined glass), a very descriptive name. In passing we may say that although this manner of colouring glass first reached prominence during the Decorated period, it was but an elaboration of the way the ruby or red glass had always been made, _i.e._, coated on to the colourless glass.

We have said that the earlier canopies did not have pedestals below them. This lack was soon noted, and the need was felt for something to complete them below; the first expedient hit upon for this purpose was shields gay with heraldic tinctures. Not only were these decorative, but we shall learn at Tewkesbury and Gloucester how valuable they have proved to be in enabling those learned in heraldry definitely to date windows whose histories have long since been forgotten.

It must not be overlooked that the architect had much to do with the development from the mosaic to the canopy style. He decided to change from the wide single windows that one sees at Salisbury, and to substitute for them groups of narrower lights separated only by slender stone mullions and all bound together at the top and tapered off by a pyramid of smaller openings called tracery lights. These latter will be particularly enjoyed by the glass-lover while studying this period, for the Decorated glazier was singularly happy in his treatment of these smaller panes--much more so, in fact, than his successor of the Perpendicular era, who was obliged to conform to the stiff little pill-boxes provided for him by the architect. The use of vines and leaves was of great assistance in this problem of treating small irregular openings; nor were these the only motives--at Wells there is a very happy use of busts filling small trefoils.

Besides the canopy treatment, the English glazier of the Decorated period was very fond of the Tree of Jesse theme, and, as is usually the case with congenial tasks, obtained most satisfactory results. He used it to great effect in his broad windows made up of several narrow lights, separated by slender mullions. The very shape of these windows invited this design, because a separate branch of the vine bearing its little personages could be run up each lancet without disturbing the coherence of the picture. The men of that time used the Tree of Jesse nearly as much as did their fellow craftsmen across the Channel during the sixteenth century. In France the descendants of Jesse almost always appear as blossoms on the vine, but their earlier English prototypes usually stand in small cartouches formed by convolutions of the vine. This brings us to yet another reason why the Decorated glazier liked the Tree of Jesse. We have already stated that he was much given to introducing leaves, tendrils, &c., done in the natural manner, which, of course, made him entirely at home in delineating the great vine rising from the loins of the Patriarch. What success he achieved with this style of window we shall judge for ourselves at Ludlow, Bristol, and Wells.

A convenient touchstone for deciding whether a window belongs to this or the next period is provided by an examination of the manner in which the artist executed his shading. It was smeared upon Decorated glass, and a close inspection will reveal the streaky lines. During the Perpendicular epoch the shading was stippled on with the end of a brush.

To recapitulate, the distinctive features of the Decorated epoch may be enumerated as follows: