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.

It is an unfortunate fact that the best glass of this period is not to be seen in Paris, although we can get a fair idea of its effect from the fifteenth century canopied figures in the clerestory of St. SÉvÉrin. A few of those at the west end of this church are at once seen to differ in their design from the others, although all are of the true canopy type. These few to the west were brought from their original place in the choir of St. Germain des PrÉs. At St. SÉvÉrin we shall note several points which serve to distinguish the canopies of the fifteenth century from the earlier ones of the fourteenth. The difference is chiefly in the use of more colours in the later figures, as well as more careful architectural detail in their canopies. Further, to make his windows lighter in tone, the French glazier of the fourteenth century generally used bands of canopies only across the middle third of the surface, filling the uppermost and lowest thirds with grisaille. The fifteenth century canopies almost invariably filled the entire embrasure. Frequently during the fourteenth century the artist was not content with the light admitted by his canopies, but added to it by using white for one or more of the saints’ robes. This practice so reduced the number of colours in the background and the garments that we seldom find more than two colours within the niches of fourteenth century canopies, while in the fifteenth century we almost always find four. Then, too, there is an added feature of decoration in the later ones which is generally lacking earlier: across the back of the niche a coloured curtain is carried shoulder high behind the figure, and this curtain is almost always damasked. This can be remarked at St. SÉvÉrin, where we shall also see that all the figures stand upon elaborate pedestals, another sign that we are looking at work of the fifteenth century, for in the fourteenth they would have lacked pedestals and be found standing upon grass or some other natural and unarchitectural base. The artist was so careful to cling closely to contemporary conventions that sometimes we happen upon very amusing compromises. For example, here tradition demanded pedestals, so there they are, even though he had to make the rather ridiculous combination of a figure standing upon a half-circle of cloud neatly balanced upon the pedestal’s tessellated pavement. The conventions demanded the little pavement, the design required the clouds, so he gave us both! In these days when we are so occupied in copying older art, it is interesting to see traces of a time when they jealously clung to the styles and forms which were then new.

A brilliant yellow was the only tint obtainable by the process of staining, but it is also true that other new colours were secured, although by means of an entirely different discovery which, of itself, provided yet another new thing to combine with those already enumerated in changing glass methods. This discovery took place early in the fourteenth century and made it possible to superimpose another colour upon white or coloured glass. The method of producing this effect was very simple: the end of the blowpipe was dipped first into liquid glass of one colour, and then into another, with the result that the bubble when blown was of one colour inside and of another outside. The bubble was then opened out into the flat sheet as usual. This process had always been followed to make red glass, which was really a sheet of white coated with ruby, but now all sorts of combinations were made. Thus a brilliant purple could be obtained by coating a piece of red glass with blue; red on yellow would give a splendid orange; blue on yellow a brilliant green. Although invented early in the fourteenth century, this process did not have all its possibilities developed until during the fifteenth, when the number of layers was gradually increased until we find some specimens showing six different coats. We shall enjoy the results when we visit Quimper or Eymoutiers or Bourges. The French have a very descriptive name for glass treated in this manner: they call it “verre doublÉ,” or “lined glass,” referring to the fact that there are two layers. The abrupt change in glass windows which took place at the beginning of the fourteenth century becomes less extraordinary when we recapitulate the various discoveries in the art and realise what an effect must have been caused by such a combination as that of (a) the chance-revealed yellow stain; (b) domestic use which required glass fit for small, well-lighted interiors; (c) the demands of the architect for his narrowed and more numerous window apertures, and lastly (d) the enriching of the artist’s palette due to the new process of doubling the sheets of glass. The whole trend is now towards much more light, larger pieces of glass, brighter colours and more attention to the design at the expense of the colour effect of the window.

We have now not only set forth the great change that was so speedily effected in the style and appearance of stained glass, but further, we have enumerated the various novelties, both in popular requirements and in technique, which brought about the light tones of the fourteenth century. The steps by which was effected this transition from the thirteenth century mosaic type with its rudimentary suggestion of a canopy, to the fourteenth century figure ensconced in his little sentry-box, can be seen on but few existing windows; in fact, so little transition glass is there that the change strikes one all the more forcibly. There are, however, a few available for this purpose, notably the three eastern lancets of the Lady Chapel in the Abbey Church at FÉcamp, and a certain window in the north transept of Amiens Cathedral. The FÉcamp lancets show us the first step, where, although the glass is still entirely mosaic, the architecture at the top is brought down the sides of the figure so as to complete the sentry-box. Of course this admits no more light than the regular medallion lancets which conveniently assist our comparison by flanking on either side the three easterly ones. We have thus arrived at the enframing canopy, but have not yet conformed to the demand for more light which had now become so insistent. How will this be done? A mosaic medallion could not well be put upon a light surface, as it would look splotchy and unfinished (viz.: first chapel on the left of choir ambulatory in Rouen Cathedral), nor would it do to station unframed, isolated, coloured figures on an uncoloured surface (viz.: Ste. Radegonde at Poitiers). To avoid the unfinished appearance, they hit upon the idea of surrounding the coloured figure with a frame-like architectural border (as just seen at FÉcamp), and then put this framed picture in the midst of the plain panes. This step is exemplified by a large double-lanceted window just west of the north transept door in Amiens Cathedral. The entire window is surcharged with a number of these canopy-framed figures arranged in parallel perpendicular lines. We have now gained more light, and it is easy to see what is coming next. Instead of placing the small canopies up and down the window (as at Amiens), it would obviously be more effective to assemble them in bands across it. Both SÉes and Evreux serve to illustrate this manner of glazing. There are many examples that mark the slow development from these fourteenth century horizontal rows of canopies across a grisaille or quarry background, to the perfected canopy window of the fifteenth century, where the service of admitting light is entirely transferred from the grisaille or quarry to the canopy itself. This has been rendered possible by greatly increasing the space allotted to the simulated stonework, so as to enable it to let in all the illumination required, and at the same time perform its duty of framing the coloured part of the picture. These windows at FÉcamp and Amiens are very instructive as showing us the experimental steps which resulted in the satisfactory combination of picture and illumination, instead of splotches of colour on a light field.

It must not be thought that we have dwelt too long on this particular period of transition, for this is the only time during the Golden Age of glass that there took place an abrupt change in styles, and therefore a speedy and marked transition. There was certainly nothing hasty in the way that the broad borders and larger glass pieces of the twelfth century developed into the narrower borders and more minutely mosaic method of the thirteenth. As to the transition from the fourteenth to the fifteenth century, so slowly and so imperceptibly was it effected that we have decided to study those two centuries together as one epoch, the second being but the natural elaboration of the first. Lastly, nothing could be more measured and deliberate than the steps by which the fifteenth century canopy developed into the sixteenth century large picture panel, by first changing the canopy from Gothic to Renaissance, then enlarging the scene within the new canopy until it finally outgrew the need for the frame, and emerged therefrom in its completed state, often covering a whole window.

If at this point we turn to our histories, we shall soon encounter reasons which convincingly explain why there remains so little fourteenth-fifteenth century glass for us to see. This was the period of the English occupation of a large portion of France. A peaceful possession of a part of the country might not have interfered with the course of art in other quarters, but the English possession was far from a peaceful one. Fighting, and that of the bitterest kind, went on continually. We have only to mention the “Hundred Years War” with England (1337-1453), marked by the disastrous defeats of CrÉcy (1346) and of Poitiers (1356), to be reminded of that. It is true that Bertrand du Guesclin won a short-lived success against the English (1364), but 1415 sees them again victorious at Agincourt and their occupation of Paris in 1421. This temporary victory of Du Guesclin proved an evil thing for France, as it prolonged the fighting and increased the frightful carnage which drenched French soil with blood. It is clear that during times like these the nobility was not in a position to interest itself in beautifying chÂteaux or churches. They were most earnestly concerned in the gentle art of erecting fortifications; safety and strength were of vital importance; beauty had to stand aside and wait. The records show many instances of great architectural enterprises being halted from lack of funds or from other motives, a case in point being Troyes Cathedral, upon which no work was done for a long period of years. The nobility were injured more than the lower classes by these wars, and in the great defeats of CrÉcy, Poitiers and Agincourt their losses were frightful. Many a titled family lost its estates and many another was exterminated. In battle the middle and lower classes suffered proportionately less, because the French placed most of their reliance upon armoured knights and disdained to avail themselves of the bourgeoisie to the same extent as the English, whose splendid bowmen and yeomanry were so potent a factor in winning those great victories. The fact that the great families of France were so grievously crippled during these wars goes far to explain why glass painting languished for lack of the support which the luxury-loving class of society was not then able to give it. Almost as serious for the nobles as the losses in battle and other ravages of war, was the reign of the subtle Louis XI (1461-81), who devoted his entire life to destroying the strength of the nobility and to building upon its ruins the centralised power of the throne, meanwhile guarding this increase of kingly power by encouraging the growth of the gendarmerie, and generally the military reliability of the bourgeoisie. One incident from his life provides us with a fact of great interest to a glass student. Upon the occasion of the repulse of the Bretons by the inhabitants of the French city of St. LÔ, Louis presented to the cathedral of that town, as an expression of his approval of the bravery of its citizens, a fine set of stained glass windows. As an event in political statecraft it is most significant: he did not ennoble or enrich certain leaders, but gave the entire fighting populace a royal gift. To us it has a peculiar interest, because the incident shows that stained glass was held in such high esteem as to be considered a worthy gift from a king to a city. But before turning from a review of the evil days which fell upon France, we must notice that although the nobility suffered more heavily from battle and statecraft than any other class, the times were tragic enough for all Frenchmen, whether noble or peasant, rich or poor. The plague raged throughout the land—not once, but many times—during these two centuries and its fearsome grasp fell upon all alike. Nor was this misery enough; to all these calamities was added that of civil war of the worst type—the war of the masses against the classes. The scorn in which the nobles held the poor man was but the natural outcome of the feudal state. The man in armour despised Jacques Bonhomme, as he called him. When in 1358 the disorders afflicting the body politic caused this contempt and ill-treatment to so increase that it could no longer be endured, the uprising of the oppressed against the oppressor assumed in hideous satire the name of the Jacquerie. Before it could be finally put down, French soil was drenched again and again with blood. Even this short dip into contemporary history has revealed enough to make it passing strange that any glass at all was made in France during those trying times, and stranger still that, if made, it should have survived.

We have just seen that during most of these two centuries the French kings were fully occupied at home, first in fighting the English, with France as the battleground, and later in subduing their arrogant nobles and adding Burgundy, Franche ComtÉ, Artois, Provence and Brittany to the French crown. At the end of this period, with their home lands cleared of the English and the centralised power of the throne much strengthened, we shall see how, under Louis XII (1498) and Francis I (1515), war was carried on outside the borders of France. Under the influences of this freedom from the ravages of war, combined with taste for art learnt during the Italian campaigns and brought back to France, there sprang up an aesthetic revival called the French Renaissance. This new development is going to give us a very different style of glass painting, which we will study later under the title of the sixteenth century.

Before starting out to visit the glass of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, there are several remarks to be made upon it as a whole. There is not nearly so much left for us to see as there is of the thirteenth century. It is not going to be so easy to reach it and we shall have to take longer trips. We may journey far off to the western corner of Brittany to see the admirable Cathedral of Quimper, or else down south near AngoulÊme where we find in the small village of Eymoutiers a most charming example. Of sixteenth century glass we shall find much; of thirteenth a great deal; but of fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, only a little. At first one undoubtedly prefers the windows of the thirteenth and the sixteenth centuries, but after one has studied glass for awhile, he will surely come to feel that there is a certain fascination about the silvery glow of a canopy window that is not surpassed by the jewelled glitter of the thirteenth century or the more brilliant colouring and drawing of the sixteenth. During the period now under discussion there was a great deal of good glass made, and from the records we learn of many a fine window now long since destroyed. A fair way to judge the French glass-makers is to learn what their contemporaries across the channel thought of them. For this purpose it is worth citing from the contract for glazing Beauchamp Chapel at Warwick, which contract was made by the Earl of Warwick’s executors with a certain John Prudde of Westminster, dated 1447. This contract requires that no English glass be used, but that the windows be glazed “only with best foreign glass procurable and to use as little white, green and black glass as possible.” John Prudde got his material from France. We find another apposite statement in Britton’s History of Exeter Cathedral. He says that 500 square feet of glass was bought for the cathedral in 1302-4 and that when another large purchase was made in 1317 they sent to Rouen for it. From these citations, selected from many similar ones, we may safely gather that the English considered French glass the best, which is most significant when one reflects that just at that time English glass was at its highest point.