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BOURGES

The writer will never forget his first impression of Bourges Cathedral, as, mounted on a bicycle, he approached it over the rolling country that lies to the east towards Nevers. For a long time it seemed a great rock rising from the plain, which steadily grew larger and larger until, all at once, it took on the outlines of a huge cathedral. Fantastic as it may seem in the telling, this vast bulk looming up against the sky exactly symbolised for him the word “Bourges.” To fully appreciate this great church one should approach it this way and let it grow before one’s eyes. This is true of but few cathedrals, among which there is an easily recalled instance in England. No one ever realises all the soft grey beauty of Ely unless, thanks to his slow progress down the river Ouse, he has seen it gradually arise from the green setting of fen lands. Perhaps one reason why Bourges, when viewed from a distance, does not immediately disclose itself to be a cathedral is because one sees no perpendicular lines. On one side the great tower so tapers as to seem to slant inward, while on the other side the flying buttresses present an even greater divergence from the perpendicular. All this increases the rock-like appearance and defers the realisation that it is architecture and not nature until one is so near as to perceive some of the details. In one respect Bourges is like the town of Amiens, in that nearly all its architectural beauty is centred in the cathedral and seems to have been content to bourgeon and blossom there. Bourges has, however, one advantage in possessing a wonderful “house that Jack built,” the fifteenth century palace of Jacques Coeur, a rich merchant and banker whose wealth was the cause of his final overthrow and banishment on a trumped-up charge of debasing the coinage. Even the fact that he had lent money freely to Charles VII did not save him. Later on (page 151) we shall consider the cathedral’s fifteenth century glass, and we shall then examine the splendid window given by Jacques Coeur, perhaps the finest that period can show. Chief among the charms of the cathedral’s exterior are the splendid five-portalled west front, and the lace-like garment of flying buttresses that gracefully hangs about its sides and east end. The great apse is built upon the remains of the old Roman walls, which so elevates it above the neighbouring houses as to provide a clear view of the flying buttresses. Unfortunately, the west front does not fare so well. There is hardly a cathedral in Europe so shut in on the west by adjoining buildings. They huddle so closely about it that one has no opportunity to stand off and properly observe the elaborate carvings and other architectural features that unite to make the beauty of this famous faÇade. From the way in which each succeeding story decreases in size, it is easy to see why the big northern tower appeared to slant inward when viewed from a distance. Like one of the cathedral towers at Rouen, it is named the Tour du Beurre because it was built with money received from the sale of indulgences to eat butter during Lent.

Most Americans have, during the day-dreams of their childhood, conjured up a mental picture of the vast interior of an ancient cathedral, and of the mysteriously impressive gloom that would some day there meet their eyes. It is doubtful if any other church more completely realises this fancy of our childhood. As one enters the great building he receives an impression never to be forgotten. A feeling of vastness lays hold upon one even more strongly than at Beauvais and Amiens, both of which are actually loftier. Here the seeming height is increased by the five rows of windows, one above the other. This addition to the usual allotment of three tiers (lower arches, triforium and clerestory) gives an unusual number of light apertures. While there are no transepts, their absence leaves unbroken the lines of the side walls and thus increases the apparent size of the interior. And what a wealth of thirteenth century glass! It gleams and glows and glistens on every side, near at hand and far off in the soft richness of the choir chapels. We find it everywhere except in the nave chapels, which were glazed in the fifteenth century. Perhaps if it were not for the increased light which these later panels admit, we might find the church too much darkened by its sombre earlier glass. It is clear, however, that care was taken even from the first to sufficiently illumine the nave, because it possesses a fine series of thirteenth century grisaille windows, enriched and enlivened by broad borders of colour. The noble chapels that encircle the choir show us the effect of mosaic medallions at their best. Above in the clerestory, “like watchmen on a leaguered wall,” are stationed a glorious row of large figures which are not to be surpassed anywhere. The richness of their costumes, of the backgrounds, even of the borders, is most sumptuous. We have already noted the absence of the transepts. On our travels we shall notice that the north and south ends of transepts generally contain great rose windows. To compensate the glass artist for their absence here, the architect gave him an opportunity to glaze an elaborate series of forty-five small ones. They extend all around the interior, no two alike, and must be seen for one to appreciate how greatly they add to the interest and charm of the cathedral. It is contended by some that Bourges provides the finest field for the study of thirteenth century glass, but in this opinion we cannot agree, although gladly admitting everything else claimed for it by its staunchest adherents. Our reason for preferring Chartres is that it has more windows, and that they are practically all of the same period, so that the eye does not there find the distraction caused here by the fifteenth century glazing of the nave chapels. We prefer to rank the first four in the following order of excellence: Chartres, Bourges, Rheims, and Le Mans. It will be interesting to learn whether or not the reader agrees with us. At any rate he should see them, and now that we have enticed him so far away from Paris, he will find it as easy to return by the route that includes them as by any other.

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POITIERS

Among the many beauties of France must certainly be accounted its “cities built upon a hill.” There are a goodly number of them and their lofty position has tended to preserve them from change more than cities so placed that their expansion into suburbs was easier. Without doubt there is something fascinating, something irresistibly dominating about a town that looks down upon us. Fortunate it is for us lovers of the picturesque, whom, alas, the uses of modern convenience have made “dwellers in the plain,” that during mediÆval times the vital need of safety forced its citizens to seek the refuge of heights! No one can question the right of quaint old Poitiers to be as haughty as hill towns have always been—nay, haughtier. Think of the days when through the House of Plantagenet she gave rulers to England—when these same kings governed not only England but also the whole western half of France! We do not always remember what a long strip of territory was ruled by the Angevin dynasty, stretching all the way from the Pyrenees across the Channel and up to Scotland. One of the greatest encounters that marked the long and bitter struggle between the English and French was the Battle of Poitiers, when in 1356 the English under the Black Prince defeated and took prisoner John the Good of France and slew 11,000 Frenchmen. It was, indeed, a bloody baptism when our hill town stood sponsor to such a conflict of warring nations.

There are few cities in France which more richly repay a visit than this rather out-of-the-way place, and fewer still which have so many varied inducements to offer. The architectural remains are not only interesting but differ materially in character and epoch. The situation of the city is most striking. It is perched on the top of a flat-iron shaped hill upon the point of which the picturesque Jardin de Blossac smiles down upon the winding river Clain. It is not in this book that you should look for a description of the wonderful triple interpenetrated chimney of the Palais de Justice, nor the fourth century church of St. Jean, nor the ivory-like carvings on the faÇade of Notre Dame de la Garde. Hie thee to a guide-book for these, and the like of them, and let us to our quest! In all glass of this period, nay, of any period or any century, we shall never find a more splendid window than the Crucifixion at the east end of the cathedral. In our introduction we said that glass should not be studied from written description, but that it must be seen. Of this window this observation is even more true than of any other. Its breadth and size indicate that it dates from early in the century. The harmony and the beauty of its colours are beyond words to describe. Indeed, so ingeniously are they combined to produce their effect, that the detail is apt to escape the observer. Even after spending some time before it he may be surprised to learn that the cross is ruby-red and that the hair of the Saviour is blue. If he had read this in a book it would have been impossible to convince him that the result could be one of such great beauty. Unfortunately for the many excellent medallion windows in this cathedral, there are also a great number of uncoloured ones. It does not take us long to decide that a medallion window should never be lighted from within, because that enables one to see the cumbersome machinery used to produce its effect. One should never become aware of the numerous small pieces of unevenly surfaced glass and the vast complexity of leads which in combination produce such glorious results, but only when the light comes from without. Not only do these white panes reveal these ugly details, but by their glare they effectually extinguish the warm glow which we are accustomed to expect from the richly-coloured mosaics of the medallions. Near the west end there is a good deal of fine strapwork grisaille evidently put there to light that end of the church in contrast to the dimmer light which must have prevailed at the east end when all the medallions were still in place. Even if there were not many fine thirteenth century panels in this cathedral, and even if the town itself were not full of many interesting sights, still we would have been amply repaid for our visit by the Crucifixion window, the chef d’oeuvre of its time.

Near the cathedral is the church of St. Radegonde. This long narrow edifice has no transepts, nor, indeed, the usual division into choir and nave, and yet it boasts of a rose window, and a fine one, too, over its northern portal. The colour is really delightful and contains much of the brilliant blue for which Poitiers is famous. Its chief interest is that instead of having its figures broken up so as to monotonously radiate from the centre (which is generally true of rose windows) they are, so to speak, right side up, and all participate in forming the picture of the “Last Judgment.” There is some thirteenth century glass on the southern side of this church, but not so well preserved or so good. The windows on the northern side between the north portal and the east end are of the next century and will be considered later (page 172). We may say, however, in passing, that they are unique in that they have bright figures distributed upon a grisaille background which is surrounded by a border of rich colour.

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TOURS

Of all the great battles which have marked the world’s history there are few, if any, which so distinctly stand out from the centuries as the Battle of Tours. It was this bloody victory which in 732 rolled back the world-conquering Saracens and determined that Europe should be Christian and not Moslem. On that epoch-making day, the bloody axe of Charles Martel graved deep his name on the annals of France. But Tours has many another claim to historic renown. Touraine, the province of which it is the capital, is strewed with magnificent chÂteaux, whose very elaboration and beauty testify to how greatly French royalty and nobility loved its temperate climate. On our way from Poitiers to Tours, we shall pass through several charming little valleys and find attractive, though quiet, scenery, during most of the journey. The immediate surroundings of Tours are not pleasing. It impresses one as a dull, grey city seated demurely beside the sands that so ungracefully border most of the lower part of the river Loire. There is little to recall the echoes of the great battle and less still to remind one of the delightful mediÆval residences which are such an attractive feature throughout the rest of Touraine.

Although the cathedral was under construction all the way from the twelfth century to the sixteenth, its various styles are so combined as to make it an interesting building. It does not, however, seem to merit the enthusiastic praise lavished upon it by Henry IV and many another of its admirers. The chief objection to the interior is that it appears oppressively narrow. The explanation of this cramped effect is that the architect did not avail himself of the usual device of slightly increasing its width as the walls rose. This was generally done elsewhere and served to correct the contracted appearance which perspective tends to give as one looks up from the floor. This architectural trick is an old one, for we know that the Greeks used it not only in shaping the sides of their columns, but also to preserve the appearance of straightness in the chief horizontal lines of their buildings. In the absence of this device the walls seem to crowd together above us, thus accentuating the unpleasant narrowness of the nave.

The fine rosaces in the ends of the transepts contain fourteenth century glass, and the western rose with its gallery of eight lancets below, excellent Renaissance glazing. The chief glory of the interior, however, is the fine medallion panels all through the choir, not only in the chapels, but also, and most unusually, in the fifteen large lights of the clerestory. These clerestory medallions date from the latter part of the century, and their lateness is evidenced in a number of ways, among others, by the fact that the medallions are oval instead of round and also that they extend to the edge of the embrasure, leaving little or no room for the border. This can also be observed in the easternmost choir windows of Coutances Cathedral. We have noted before that the choir clerestory at this time was generally given over to large figures of kings, bishops, etc., in order to secure more light than medallions would admit. In the Tours clerestory the fifth window on the right and the fifth on the left (just above the great altar) show an attempt to correct the darkening effect of the medallions by alternating with them horizontal stripes of grisaille. Notice that in the easternmost embrasure the three medallions of the second tier, when considered together, form a picture of The Last Supper. This is a more elaborate exposition of the same idea exemplified by the Annunciation at the east end of the Clermont-Ferrand clerestory. A quaint touch is observable in the two medallions which show little figures of donors, each holding up in his two hands a model of his gift window. One of these is in the left-hand lower corner of the window just left of the eastern one, and the other in the right-hand corner of the sixth on the right. Some of the Tours choir chapels are glazed in white, which combined with the pierced triforium, serves to correct the lack of light caused by the unusual treatment of the clerestory.

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ANGERS

A bad name dies hard and often lingers years after it is no longer deserved. A striking example of this is found in the now unjust appellation, “Black Angers.” Black it may have been in the days when its streets were dirty and narrow, but black it is no longer. Black it may have seemed to the townspeople when their humble dwellings were frowned down upon by the seventeen gloomy towers of its haughty thirteenth century castle. Now the towers of the castle are razed, the walls that girdled the city are tumbled into the great moat to form broad boulevards, and altogether it is as agreeable a place as was ever vilified by an outgrown name. Its most important edifice, St. Maurice Cathedral, is not only a perfect treasure-house of glass, but is also the depository of a profusion of admirable tapestries. Those interested in the latter will find here (even more than at Rheims) what an added inducement they provide for the sightseer. All around the nave are suspended the series of the Apocalypse (as they are called), while on the walls of the transepts are yet others dating from the fourteenth to the eighteenth centuries. Nor are these all, for packed away in chests are many more, which upon the occasion of certain church festivals are brought out to hang in a row around the outside of the cathedral. In fact, it is only on these festival days that one learns that the interior wall space is insufficient to display half of the church’s possessions. Having set out this additional reason for visiting St. Maurice Cathedral, let us now turn to its chief charm, the splendid twelfth and thirteenth century glazing. We shall find the nave windows filled with the largest and best preserved collection of twelfth century glass that exists. They are very wide and high, characteristic of that early period. In the choir there are fourteen excellent examples of the thirteenth century medallion type, and there are others in the transepts. We shall not now speak of the two great fifteenth century rose windows, nor of the very large canopy ones which adorn the transepts, nor of the few sixteenth century panels. It is proper to say here, however, that they are excellent examples of those later periods, thus rendering this cathedral one of the best in which to compare glass styles all the way from the twelfth century to the sixteenth. The chief glory of the edifice, however, consists of those which date from the early mosaic period. So few and so unsatisfactory are the remains elsewhere found of twelfth century glass, and so excellent are they here, that it is to this church that one should come to study it. It is a most fortunate coincidence for the student that the same interior also contains many of the best types of the thirteenth century, because this very contiguity enables him to conveniently contrast them with those of the twelfth. The finer distinctions between their traits are much more noticeable to him where the examples are side by side than they would be if he had to carry the picture in his mind from one place to another. He will at once notice that the earlier borders are much wider than the later ones; some of those in the nave occupy nearly one-fourth of the window space on each side, or in other words, if brought together, the borders would fill nearly half of the entire width of the embrasure. He will also observe that the figures in the earlier ones are made of larger pieces of glass and have the draperies more tightly drawn about them. It is very significant that the pieces of glass are larger in the earlier windows: note this carefully, because in many books we are told that the later artist of the thirteenth century had no choice but to content himself with the small morsels of glass, as he had no others. Thus they would have us believe that his wonderful jewelled glow was merely the lucky result of having nothing but small fragments at his disposal. Even so brief a study of twelfth century glass as to show that the pieces then used were uniformly larger than those of the thirteenth or jewel period, is enough to demonstrate that the later artist deliberately used the smaller bits even with the added trouble of more leading. He did so for the very purpose of obtaining the sparkle and sheen that was never achieved before nor since, and therefore he should receive due credit for his results. A close examination of both the choir and nave windows will yield us many quaint and interesting details. The first on the left contains a large Virgin placed upon a panel occupying all of the window that is not given over to a wide grisaille border. Six small medallions are arranged about this panel, half of each on the panel and half protruding over the border. One of these small medallions is placed at each corner and one in the middle of the two long sides, like the pockets on a pool table. The charming elaboration and colour work of the twelfth century borders throughout the nave cannot fail to be noticed.

The set of thirteenth century windows placed about the choir have some gorgeous blues and brilliant rubies. The fifth, counting from the left side, proves to be a Tree of Jesse window, a sort of pictorially genealogical tree which we will frequently encounter on our travels. In this case the treatment is unusual, as the vine, winding up throughout the window from the loins of Jesse in the lowest medallion, not only distributes its historical personages over the central panes, but also up and down the borders as well. The very wide embrasures of this church give us an excellent opportunity of studying the colours of this period.

While we are in Angers we must visit the church of St. Serge. As we are now seeking early glass the chief interest of this small interior consists of the five grisaille windows of the twelfth century which, with their graceful design of pale brownish strapwork picked out and accentuated by points of colour, leave little to be desired in their soft beauty. They are to be found in the choir, and are considered by most authorities to be the best type of twelfth century grisaille work that exists. During a later pilgrimage we shall come again to this church to inspect the attractive fifteenth century canopy windows which decorate the nave clerestory (see page 175).

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LE MANS

The great personages in the windows of St. Julien Cathedral looked down upon a portentous spectacle on that day in the year 1133, when Henry I of England stood holding in his arms his little grandson, Henry Plantagenet, to be baptised by the Bishop of Le Mans. The vast throng that gathered for this ceremony, both within and without the newly completed cathedral, little thought that the helpless babe would one day become not only Henry II, King of England, but also the ruler of the mighty Angevin empire, which included all of England and the western half of France. They could not have foreseen that this little one would cause the House of Plantagenet to take its place in history as one of the greatest of royal houses. Strange sights have these splendid old windows gazed down upon, but never have they tempered the glare of the sun for the christening of a babe who so widely outgrew the place of his birth. In one way or another this cathedral has been connected with many a royal family. In its archives we read that when in November, 1217, it was decided to extend the choir over the Gallo-Roman wall, not only was the consent of King Philip Augustus necessary, but also that of Queen Berengaria, the widow of Richard Coeur de Lion. This double approval was needed, since Philip Augustus, although overlord, had given Le Mans to Queen Berengaria in settlement of her claims upon certain Norman towns which he had captured. Perched upon a hill rising from the river Sarthe the cathedral soars into the air from its lofty site as boldly as befits the chief sanctuary of an embattled city boasting of more than twenty sieges. Impressive as it is from the river, it is still more so from the little plain which lies just below it inside the town. There is hardly a cathedral whose east end is so beautifully revealed as is St. Julien’s from this viewpoint. We cannot help but be deeply impressed as it swings out clear against the sky, girdled by its thirteen chapels, hung about by its innumerable flying buttresses and to us rendered specially alluring by the great area of window space filled with the many lead lines and heavy iron saddle-bars which we have learnt to know mean glazing of the thirteenth century. The view of the east end of an elaborate Gothic church is always fascinating, but in this instance its height above us, the great number of chapels and the unobstructed view make it unique. The nave was constructed too early to be greatly elaborated, but if compensation is needed, it is fully provided by the thoroughly mediÆval feeling which awaits one on entering the little square just before its west entrance. The opposite side of the square is occupied by Le Grabatoire, an ancient dwelling built in the first half of the sixteenth century and in an admirable state of preservation. The traveller in France generally finds that buildings which surround an old cathedral are so much more recent in construction that they provide a jarring contrast. Here at Le Mans, on the contrary, its immediate surroundings thoroughly imbue us with the spirit of the middle ages and we are in a proper frame of mind to enter the portal and appreciate the Old World beauty inside. The interior amply fulfills the promises of the exterior. The luminous glory of the broad surfaces of the glass that seem suspended about the lofty choir is something long to be remembered. This is not the place to speak of the transepts because they were glazed in the fifteenth century; they are very fine, especially the one to the north. Oddly enough, the south end of the south transept has no window at all; its large wall space serves as a back for the organ (see page 178). Let us begin our investigations with the nave. Its triforium is a graceful gallery, but is not pierced, while the clerestory above it contains only modern glass, and therefore they will not long detain us. In the west front is one broad window of the round arched Norman type, obviously of the period which we are now considering. Within a wide border are square panels representing scenes from the life of St. Julien, after whom the edifice is named. Although this window is very broad, even for its early type, it is nevertheless not large enough to appear alone in the great west wall, and as a result, it narrows the appearance of the nave. When we move up into the choir and look back, this effect becomes all the more noticeable, while the nave is even further dwarfed by the fact that the architect, taking advantage of the greater height of the transepts, placed a clerestory window just above the point where the ridge pole of the nave joins the crossing. Thus the lone west window and the clerestory opening just above the nave roof combine to lower and contract that oldest part of the church. But to return to the nave windows; all the lower range are small and all modern except eight, the three western ones on each side and those over the two smaller west entrances. Of these eight all but two are medallions. One of them (the third from the west on the north side) is of interest because it has a border consisting of four little panels on each side enclosing figures. This sort of border is extremely rare, except in Tree of Jesse windows, where the personages are sometimes used in this way to help make up the border. An instance of this may be seen in the central panel of the second triforium window on the south side of the choir and it may also be noticed in the fifth window on the left in the east end of Angers Cathedral. We have just said that all but two of these lower nave lights are filled with medallions—of these two (the second and third on the south side), one might write a book. The writer prefers the second window to any other in France. It was made some time between 1093 and 1120 and represents the “Ascension.” As this book is not written to describe glass, but only to persuade the reader to view it, we will content ourselves by saying “go and see.” The blue and the ruby backgrounds have a limpidity of colour that cannot be rivaled. Of the third window it is fair to say that some of the panes were brought from other embrasures of this church. The upper panel, enclosing a bust of Christ, with the drapery of blue and a blue halo upon a background of ruby sprinkled with blue stars, is most delightful. These two are indeed treasures and are all that were left by the ravages of the great fire which in 1120 destroyed the earlier church. Passing from the nave to the choir we are at once struck by the grandiose effect there caused by the loftier sweep of its lines. The choir chapels have lost nearly all their original glazing, but fortunately that little gem, the Lady Chapel, still has all its eleven windows filled with medallions. These encircling chapels not only give great width to the choir, but still further width is added by the fact that the ambulatory is double. The first triforium that goes around above us is not pierced, but just above it we find the spacious embrasures of the second triforium. These latter are the largest of their kind the writer has ever seen; in fact, they are large enough to be placed in the clerestory of most cathedrals. Not satisfied with these, the architect has still further increased the lighting of the choir and given greater scope for the glazier by placing above this second triforium the lofty windows of the true clerestory, those toward the west of six lancets each, and those toward the east of two. All the panels of this great curtain of light are glazed in the mosaic style, but the pieces of glass used are noticeably larger than we have been accustomed to find in the medallion treatment. As a result, the amount of leading is reduced and a great deal more colour meets our eye, colour whose individual tones we can recognise, and not the sort, which, conflicting with other colour, produces a confused purple. At St. Julien Cathedral we get a richer tone from the medallions than we find anywhere else, but this gain in richness is partially offset by losing some of the sparkling gleam which would have resulted from smaller bits of glass set in more leads. Perhaps some of our readers will agree with Viollet-le-Duc and other great architects and writers, in regarding this choir a finer monument of the thirteenth century than that of Bourges or Chartres. If the nave of Le Mans Cathedral were as splendidly glazed as the other parts of that edifice, we might have to reconsider our opinion that Chartres affords the best chance for the student of that early period to pursue his researches.

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CHARTRES

Across the rolling grain-covered plain of La Beauce winds a long depression worn by the river Eure. Along the side of this depression we find Chartres, sloping gently up from the little river that bathes its feet and proudly lifting into the air the grey and green bulk of its cathedral, culminating in the two finest spires in France. Its light stone and the softly-shaded tiles of the roof combine to give us a delicious impression of delicate greenish grey. This softness of tone outside gives no hint of the minster gloom within, athwart which shimmer the rich dark rays slanting through the jewelled windows. Nowhere can there be found such a contrast between the exterior and interior of a cathedral. This marked difference serves but to distinguish and accentuate the special charms of each, and together they make our memory of the cathedral a most precious possession of our mental picture gallery.

As the pilgrim enters Chartres Cathedral, there is an impressive moment at hand for him, for he is penetrating the Holy of Holies of stained glass. Not only is it the most delightful expression of the thirteenth century, but also of any century, and we speak not only of France, but of all Europe.

One is almost staggered by the wealth and profusion of windows—174—and nearly all of the thirteenth century. In the west front the use of slightly larger pieces and the wonderful limpidity confirms the fact that the lovely rose showing the Last Judgment, as well as its three attendant lancets below, are of the twelfth century; the rest of the interior was glazed in the next century.

Notwithstanding all that has been written of this wonderful glass, more still remains hidden away in its pregnant mystery, that mystery that lays hold upon all who view it, be he poet, or unromantic follower of one of the homely trades whose guilds have added so generously to the tale of windows. Nor have revelations of this mystery been made alike to all. What one man has spelt out from it may remain incomprehensible to another. The obvious fact to one mind seems to another but a quaint conceit. Lasteyrie, when he told his story in 1841, felt that there was a marvellous symbolism about the change in the strength of the light, brighter as it approached the cross formed by the transepts and then growing darker as one withdrew further from that Christian emblem of spiritual illumination. To him this thought was full of great charm and some of us may agree in his poetic conception. Others may feel that the brilliancy of the remote west windows seems to refute rather than support his theory. It is certain, however, that the revelation of harmony comes to us all alike. It is related that a certain lad thought himself listening to music from the glass itself when the organ commenced playing during the time he was gazing raptly up at one of the great rose windows. This harmony of colours, this melodious flowing of tone into tone, is a glimpse vouchsafed to us all into the solemn mystery that dwells within this enchanted bower of light.

James Russell Lowell says:

If Rheims is to be known as the cathedral of kings, or Amiens characterised as the Bible in stone, then Chartres must be styled the chief sanctuary of the mediÆval guilds. We have spoken of the splendid array of royalties around the clerestory of Rheims, and how they and the many coronations of which they are reminiscent fully justify the proud title of “Royal Rheims.” Against this wealth of royal reminiscence Chartres can show but one coronation, that of Henry IV. So far was he from being disgruntled by the long siege necessitated by the stubborn defence of its burghers, that he elected to be crowned in their cathedral, partly, we feel sure, to show the approval of a warrior king for their fighting qualities. No, it is not a long array of kings that are set about to guard its windows and bear witness to their power and beneficence. At Chartres, more than anywhere in France, the Middle Ages seem to have bequeathed to us the great heartbeat of their middle classes. Here we see about us the sturdy workers of the city, the guilds of its industrious burghers. True, the great rose windows of the transepts show us the royalty and chivalry of the kingdom, but somehow they seem decorative and not dominating as they do at Rheims. Nor are our friends of the guilds here present by any man’s let or by virtue of kingly condescension. At Laon there are statues of oxen in the cathedral towers, put there in kindly remembrance of their services in dragging up the great stones from the plain far below; but at Chartres it is no kindly remembrance that has disposed about the nave and elsewhere the glass histories of guild upon guild. They are in the place because they are of the place, nor is there any attempt to disguise the homely occupations of the donors. In other towns we occasionally find a panel bearing a statement that it was presented by some company of craftsmen, but the subject is almost always a scriptural one and throws no light upon the work-a-day existence of the members. Here it is very different, for so proud were the honest workmen of the crafts which they plied, that they took infinite pains to have their windows set out scenes descriptive of the work and life of the association which gave it. The history of the Chartres guilds is well worth delving into, and one finds a luminous index provided by the long series of panels around the lower part of the nave. The glass speaks eloquently of how well organised and how rich were the middle classes of Chartres, and nowhere else can anything like so complete or interesting a set be seen. Goldsmiths, cobblers, vintners, tanners, moneychangers—so the list goes on until it swells into a total of nearly forty, and of each there is provided some little group depicting the service performed for the community by that particular trade. Several of the guilds gave more than one window, nor are they confined to the nave aisles, some having strayed so far as the choir clerestory. But for all that the windows here speak more eloquently than elsewhere of the sturdy craftsmen—the bourgeoisie that formed the backbone of old France—we must not forget that they also bear witness to the gallantry and generosity of the knightly and titled classes. To glass lovers this cathedral has a peculiar interest in the fact that St. Louis was baptised within its walls. May we not be permitted the delusion that to the undeveloped faculties of the royal babe the wonderful harmony of these windows came as a lullaby, and that the echo of this lullaby finally grew into the great love for stained glass which he later developed? Of this love we have found many traces, all leading up to its ultimate expression in the Ste. Chapelle of Paris. And where more appropriately could a French king, who loved glass, have been christened? Where else would he have had about him on his beloved windows such an array of his subjects, representing not only the highest, but also those of humbler rank, a bodyguard of four thousand figures of nobles, gentry, burghers and craftsmen? Nor are these figures content but to decorate, for some of them by their grouping serve to narrate for us nearly forty legends. A splendid proof of how much he loved this cathedral, so often revisited by him, is afforded by his splendid gift, the Rose of France, as they call the great window in the north transept. Here are the familiar combination of the French fleur de lis and the castles of Castile showing that Louis and his mother, Blanche of Castile, joined in this royal gift. In splendid reds, lemon-yellows and browns it tells the story of the glorification of the Virgin, thus repeating what we see in the carvings of the northern porch. The gorgeous five tall pointed windows below aid it to produce a glorious ensemble. Nor is it only in this quarter that we see traces of the nobler classes, for was not the south transept end decorated in similar wise with scenes showing the glorification of Christ, the gift of Dreux and Bretagne? Again we find the windows inside repeating what is shown by the carvings in the porch outside. The five tall pointed lancets under this rose are especially noteworthy, for the two which, on either side, flank the middle one containing Christ are each filled with an Evangelist carried on the shoulders of a Prophet, a very physical way of depicting the power of prophecy.

This is not the place to tell of the wonderful carvings that abound within and without this great temple, and are especially delightful around the stone screen that separates the choir from the ambulatory; nor shall we take upon us to speak in detail of the subterranean chapel to the Virgin who bore a Child, the pagan legends concerning whom “the memory of man runneth not to the contrary.” For us they are but accessories to the wonderful whole which provides so magnificent a casket for the preservation and exposition of the most splendid heritage of windows that has come down to us.

Although completely outclassed by the cathedral’s greater glory, the glazing of the church of St. Pierre is not only pleasing to the eye, but also provides a very complete and well-preserved demonstration of how the transition was effected from the light-obstructing mosaic medallions to the overlighted interiors of the fourteenth century (see page 188).

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AUXERRE

Our memories of architecture are generally those of form and not of colour. To this rule there are, however, a few exceptions, and of these the cathedral of St. Etienne at Auxerre is one of the most noteworthy. One remembers it chiefly for its rich brown colour, partly due to the tint of the stone and partly to the terra-cotta tiles which cover its roof. The deeper hue of the tiles calls out all the warmth in the shading of the stone and they together make a mellow brown picture, especially attractive if seen for the first time in the tones which it takes on towards twilight, when the low rays of the sun perform for it the same service that they do for the interior of the Corpus Christi quadrangle at Oxford. Another cathedral whose colour lingers in our memory is Chartres, where the dull green tiles of the roof tone into the greyish stone of the building, accentuating and enriching it, and leaving with us a distinct impression of a soft-hued grey church. A very picturesque city is Auxerre, sloping up from the river, with its three chief churches rising watchfully above the monotonous level of the house-tops like huge rocks anchoring the city more firmly to its foundations. Not so bulkily impressive but equally noticeable is the quaint old bell tower, which, from its great height, rings out every now and again reminders of the flight of time.

The proportions of the cathedral interior are very harmoniously adjusted. The noticeable features are that the ambulatory is lower than the nave, and that the Lady Chapel at the east end is square instead of being rounded. In view of the geographical location of Auxerre one would expect to find glass of the more florid Burgundian type; but instead it is clearly of the Champagne school. There is a quantity of good sixteenth century glazing and we would especially call the visitor’s attention to the fine blues, which he should not fail to notice. The windows we have come to see, however, are to be found in the chapels and the upper lights of the choir. Henri Villeneuve in 1220 caused to be placed in the choir clerestory the great row of fifteen, each consisting of two bays surmounted by a small rose. This arrangement is very graceful and gives an agreeable grouping. The colouring and drawing of the large figures with which they are filled testify to the good taste of their donor. Nor are the windows in the clerestory any more worthy of notice than the twenty-nine which we shall find below surrounding the choir and filling the choir chapels—almost all complete and containing fine types of the medallion style. The three nearest the transepts on each side and one or two others are glazed in white, the result of well-meaning sacrilege on the part of the monks seeking to secure more light. Fortunately their hands were stayed, so that enough of the old panels are left to give us the jewelled gleam which we are seeking. There is an unique arrangement in some of the embrasures of Auxerre which we must not fail to note. It provides an early example of the use of grisaille to increase the illumination of the interior. In several instances the coloured figure or panel has two borders, the one next it being of grisaille and the outside one of rich colour. Possibly the contrast will strike us as being too marked. We shall find that in the next century this combination is carried to such an extreme as to become positively disagreeable, but here at Auxerre it is so skillfully employed that it is not at all unpleasant. In any event, it is far better than white panes used for the same purpose.

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SENS

In these days of telephones, telegrams, express trains, automobiles, newspapers and printed books, it is difficult for us to realize that in mediÆval times thought traveled but slowly, and that two cities a few leagues apart were much more widely separated than they would now be if divided by the ocean. To-day a piece of news, an invention, some new artistic method, is flashed around the world and at once meets the eye of millions of readers. All this excites no comment. When, however, we notice that in some mediÆval period a novelty in one country very shortly thereafter appeared and was used in a neighbouring one, we are forced to conclude that there must have been some very unusual occurrence to have so far set at naught the difficulty of news transmission to which we have just referred. The history of the middle ages does not contain a stranger example of such a rapid spread of something novel than that presented by the story of how and of why William of Sens (who, in building the Cathedral of Sens, constructed the first thoroughly Gothic church) came to have the honour of introducing Gothic architecture into England by a call to rebuild Canterbury Cathedral. It so happened that just as he was completing his great work and disclosing to the world the new beauty of Gothic architecture, Pope Alexander III, exiled from Rome, took up his residence at Sens (September 30, 1163, till April 11, 1165). It is recorded that on the 19th of April, 1164, surrounded by a gorgeous array of cardinals and bishops gathered there in attendance upon the papal residence, he consecrated the altar of the Holy Virgin in the cathedral then rapidly approaching completion. Where the Pope was, there also was the centre of the Christian world, and thither of course repaired the clergy from all parts of Europe. These distinguished pilgrims were witnesses of William’s first bold attempt at the pointed arch, the chief characteristic of his great cathedral. To see was to admire. Its beauty was so striking that they could not fail to remember and recount it when they returned to their home towns, thus stimulating other architects to copy this new architecture. Never before nor since had a builder so well timed a gathering of admiring ecclesiastics. Among those who came, and saw, and remembered, was Thomas À Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, himself an exile from his see. He dwelt four years at Sens (1166-70) and what he saw there impelled him to invite William of Sens in preference to all the English architects to rebuild the Cathedral of Canterbury. It would seem strange even now, and a thing worthy of comment, if a French architect were chosen to construct an important English church, but how much more extraordinary was it that Thomas À Becket should have taken this step in 1174, after the disastrous fire which destroyed the earlier church on the site of the present Cathedral of Canterbury. William succeeded in completing the choir as it stands to-day, but it cost him his life, for as he was superintending the finishing touches of his great work, he fell from a high scaffold and received injuries from which he died. Through this introduction of the young French Gothic into England he exercised a noteworthy influence upon the beginnings of ecclesiastical Gothic in that country. We have told this story here because we know the architect and the glazier worked hand in hand. This association grows more interdependent as the Gothic blossoms into decoration and as more wall space is devoted to windows. It is fair to assume that the stained glass style then prevailing in France must have accompanied its sister, Gothic architecture, upon the latter’s invasion of England, and an examination of the early medallions at Canterbury tends to confirm this theory. Since À Becket was having the new Gothic of Sens copied, why not also its admirable glazing? In any event we know that French glass was well known and much admired by the English, and later we shall recount several instances of its being brought to glaze English churches, and even requirements made in English contracts that French and not domestic glass should be provided. While it is true that the early glass of Sens Cathedral is not so abundant as that of the sixteenth century, we have come here at this time because nothing finer is known than the few medallion windows which remain to us along the north wall of the choir. They date from the end of the twelfth century and are large, strong in tone, and in excellent preservation. The clerestory lights of the choir are filled with attractive examples of grisaille enlivened by large geometric figures in points of red, blue, etc. These designs are constructed with slender lines and without too much colour, so that plenty of soft silvery light is admitted to illuminate the choir below. So well lighted is it from the clerestory above that we are forced to conclude that all the chapel embrasures below must at one time have been filled with the gloom-producing medallions. It is unfortunate that the original set of medallions below is not complete, because if it were, we would now be able to see, thanks to the charming grisaille in the clerestory, a perfect combination of the well-lighted choir surrounded by the sombre gleam of its protecting chapels. Such a combination is rare. At Tours, at Troyes, even at Bourges, we find ourselves wishing that we had a little more light from above to set off by contrast the dark splendour of the jewelled caverns below. The clerestory at Sens shows us just the luminous effect which we have sought elsewhere, but, alas! our coloured dusk below, which should go hand in hand with it, has been almost entirely dissipated. As a result we are left with an impression of too bright an interior. The minster gloom with all its dignity is gone! We shall return later to Sens to see its splendid glass of the sixteenth century (see page 218).

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TROYES

Of all the French schools of glass which at one time or another gained renown, none ever surpassed that of Champagne. Not only do we know this from the pages of history, but it is easily proved by the innumerable examples found in the many churches of Troyes, the ancient capital of that province. The fame of the glass artists of Champagne not only began early but lasted long. In fact, in its capital, the perfected methods of the sixteenth century became so firmly established that their style and vigour lasted far over into the seventeenth century, which was not generally true elsewhere. Troyes has always enjoyed prominence and that, too, along different lines; “Troy weight” testifies to the wide fame of its jewellers. In our travels we shall observe that most towns have but one or two churches whose windows repay a visit. Troyes and Rouen are the marked exceptions to this rule, for in each we shall find many well worth examining and a great wealth of glass. Then, too, both these cities provide facilities for studying the art from the earliest to the latest period of its golden age. We will postpone consideration of Rouen until we take up the sixteenth century because its thirteenth century glass is unimportant. This is not true of Troyes, for if by some sudden calamity all its splendid Renaissance windows were destroyed, we would still most heartily recommend that our pilgrim visit the city to see the early glass in the cathedral and in the fairy-like church of St. Urbain. These two buildings alone provide the best of reasons for including Troyes in this tour. The story of the foundation of that architectural eggshell, St. Urbain, is very interesting. In 1261 there became Pope a certain Jacques PantalÉon, a native of Troyes. After his elevation to the pontificate he remembered his humble beginnings, and so far from being ashamed that his father had been a small shopkeeper, he bought the ground whereon his father’s shop had stood, as well as some of the neighbouring buildings, and erected, about 1263, one of the most delightful and airy examples of fragile grace in all Gothic architecture. The walls seem literally to be constructed of glass, so slender are the stone uprights between the windows, and so wholly is this little church uplifted and upheld by the innumerable flying buttresses that stretch away from its roof and delicate sides like the supporting guy ropes of a tent. At the Ste. Chapelle in Paris we noticed that although medallion panels give a splendid dark warmth, they do not admit light enough for a small structure. Perhaps in St. Urbain we shall feel there is too much light. The medallions of the period are there, but only in small numbers and imbedded in large fields of silvery grisaille. The lower half of the clerestory windows is in grisaille and it is only in the upper half that we find coloured figures. While it is true that we lose the silvery hue that simple grisaille generally yields, still, in exchange, we receive a low-toned glow that is delightful. The proportion of glass surface to wall space is here so great that if the grisaille had not been warmed by touches of colour, there would really have been a glare, though the embrasures contain no white glass. The more we study the subject the clearer it becomes that the glazier thoroughly understood and appreciated the possibilities of the medium in which he worked.

As we pass from St. Urbain to the larger and more impressive Cathedral of St. Pierre, we shall notice that although the artist felt the necessity for the lighter treatment in the dainty chapel-like church, he found it more appropriate in the larger edifice to so glaze his windows as to fill the place with the more solemn and dignified light suited to its greater size. The choir of the cathedral provides an unusually complete and satisfying example of this period, not only in its girdle of chapels, but also above in the gorgeous row of thirteen clerestory windows from which ferocious-looking figures stare down upon us from glittering eyes leaded into Byzantine faces. Splendid as they are, we feel that a little more light should have been admitted, and this thought must also have struck the glazier, because he resorted to a trick in the choir chapels to better illumine the eastern part of the structure. If you will step into one of these chapels you will find that in most of them he has substituted grisaille for the medallions in the lancet on either hand nearest the choir. When you stood in the choir ambulatory, this device escaped you because the arch which provides the entrance to the chapel conceals these two nearest lancets. The result of the trick is that two side-lights, properly softened by the grisaille, are thrown into the chapel. If white panes had been used, they would have illuminated the inner side of the medallion panels, thus revealing their ugly machinery of leads, and, worse still, effectually destroying their power to transmit a combination of colour and glow. Ample illumination has been furnished this cathedral by its pierced triforium and the great expanse of its clerestory, but, thanks to the remarkably warm tone of the glass, we do not find it anywhere overlighted. Even the later glass which adorns the nave and transepts and which we will discuss farther on, is so unusually strong in colour that we avoid that sharpness of contrast between thirteenth and fifteenth century work to be seen at Bourges. Decidedly, St. Pierre is one of the most beautiful interiors in France for the glass lover, and he should not fail to see what the best examples of the Champagne school has done for this church, the charm of which lays hold upon him directly he enters it (see page 222).

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CHALONS-SUR-MARNE

Certain travellers and most tourists think they can, from studying maps and reading books, obtain a very fair impression of a town before they visit it, and that the chief result of their visit will be to fill in sundry local details. If people of that ilk desire to remain high in their own estimation, they had best omit Chalons from their travels. Let us assume that one of these aforesaid folk plans a visit to Chalons. He will probably begin by studying the map, which shows a city seemingly drawn out along both sides of a long, straight street. His practised mind will conclude this the proper method to enter the town and that he can easily find his way about. Step number two will be the consultation of histories. Here he will fall upon the account of the great Battle of Chalons, in which Attila, the “Scourge of God,” met in 451 his final check, the combined army of Romans, Franks and Visigoths there putting a bloody end to his dream of an anti-Christian empire erected upon the crumbling remains of “the power that once was Rome’s.” Anyone who has noticed how surprisingly few decisive victories have been followed by widespread or lasting results must have remarked that the Battle of Chalons stands out prominently as an exception to this rule. So much for what the maps and the histories have disclosed to our experienced tourist. He is doomed to a bitter disappointment. To-day in this quiet little city of yellowish-grey houses he will find nothing reminiscent of that old-time victory. Not only will his dip into history thus prove to have been in vain, but what is more, the street plan has given him a very wrong idea of a really very pretty place. The writer himself well remembers how the map misled him. He remarked thereon the long straight street; therefore, on emerging from the railway station, he proceeded up this tiresome thoroughfare, which he found equipped with the usual provincial tram-line, both trying to tie the older part of the town to the distant railway station that bears its name. As a disappointment this first impression of Chalons was a pronounced success! Don’t fall into the same error. This was the wrong way to enter the town, but there is also a right way, especially for one who believes in first impressions.

If you want to be in a mood to enjoy the glass, branch off to the right when you reach the canal (which is not far from the station), and you will come into a park called the Jard, one of the prettiest combinations of green trees and water to be found in any provincial French city. On a later visit the writer stumbled upon this park, with the result that instead of a mental picture of an ugly town built on both sides of an ugly street, he carried away pleasantly revised memories not only of the charming Jard, but also of several little water-courses meandering through the town, affording lovely vistas every now and again in most unexpected ways. It seems certain that these streams feel equally bitterly about the ugly street, because as soon as they come near it, they promptly hide their heads and pass under it, carefully keeping out of sight in small tunnels. Wait until you see the street, and you won’t blame the streams. Now that you have by means of the woody refreshment of the green Jard purified your perceptions from the taint of railway dirt, let us enter the cathedral. We shall find the glass more interesting and instructive than impressive, but to this general observation we must make an exception on behalf of the thirteenth century windows in the clerestory behind and above the altar; they undeniably leave little to be desired. The blue of their backgrounds combines excellently with the tones of the figures. In one of the panels which shows the Crucifixion, we can readily discern that the bars supporting it at the back (called saddle bars) have been moved to one side so as not to interfere with the two figures on either side of the cross. This displacement of the saddle bars to leave undisturbed the drawing of an important personage was quite usual at that time. Later on the glazier seemed to have no objection to the intrusion of the iron bars, just as he grew to disregard the running of his leads across faces, arms, etc. This church also boasts of a fine rose window in the north transept, which is rendered even more effective by the gallery of lancets beneath it. The especial interest of the cathedral to a student of glass is undoubtedly its grisaille windows, some plain and some banded across by highly-coloured panels of the medallion type. This latter arrangement we find along the north wall of the nave, while those containing grisaille alone are in the triforium and clerestory. In the case of the banded ones we shall notice that it is only the middle third of each which has the highly-coloured panels, all the rest being grisaille, doubtless for the purpose of giving plenty of light to the nave. Although a most interesting arrangement, the effect is not that of great beauty. Some of the narrow triforium panels have a border of plain grisaille surrounding the central panel of colour work in which there are no figures; this is quite unusual. A study of the use of colour with grisaille in that century is not complete without a visit to Chalons, but this having been said we must admit that notwithstanding the splendid panels in the choir clerestory and the fine rose window in the north transept, there are several more inspiring places for one wishing to learn how greatly thirteenth century glass can beautify a religious interior. Some of the finest and most valuable twelfth and thirteenth century panels have been removed from the cathedral, and are now the property of the MusÉe des Arts Decoratifs, in Paris. Unfortunately they are not always on exhibition. On the south side of the nave is a fine series of Renaissance windows, but these, together with the grey and gold figure panels of St. Alpin, and the excellent coloured ones of the fine church of Notre Dame, will be discussed in our sixteenth century pilgrimages (see page 233).

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RHEIMS

Royal Rheims! In this title, “apt alliteration’s artful aid” not only appeals to our ear, but is also fully justified by history. In its splendid cathedral were crowned almost all the kings of France, the sacred oil used in the ceremony having been, saith the old legend, brought from heaven by a dove for the baptism in 496 of Clovis, King of the Franks, and thereafter preserved in a sacred vessel locked away in the tomb of St. Remi. Because of this having been for so many years, nay centuries, the place of royal consecration, what more appropriate decoration could have been devised for the great clerestory embrasures than the series of the first thirty-six kings of France, each window containing in its lower half the archbishop that consecrated the king above him! All these seventy-two figures are seated, because convention demanded this if the personage represented was dead. Down upon us from their lofty station about the nave clerestory gleam these long rows of the royalties and ecclesiastical dignitaries of France, a marvellous exemplification of what colour in glass can accomplish. An echoing gleam comes to us from the clerestory of the choir; but there the figures are those of great bishops, not only of Rheims, but also of other cities in its diocese, like Laon, Soissons, etc. At first thought it may seem bad English to speak of a gleam of light as an echo of another gleam, but before you criticise the expression, stand patiently for awhile in this great house of God, looking up at these splendid windows; perhaps there will at last come over you a feeling that in all this noble harmony of colour, this blending of soft tones, there is—there must be—some dim harmony of music. One never receives this peculiar impression except from glass of the thirteenth century; later glass lacks the depth and vibration of tone, even though it gains added brilliancy. Especially splendid is the effect of the kings dominating the nave below. Those near the transepts have a deep blue background, whilst a few close to the west end have behind and around them a soft, rich red. There is no other place where such sombre depth of hue can be seen in a clerestory glazed during the thirteenth century. At Bourges they are magnificent, but their beauty is of a different and brighter sort. Here at Rheims, although raised high in the air, they yield the same dusky glow that elsewhere we usually find in the medallion panels of the choir chapels below. So wonderful are the windows above you that there is a fair chance that you would have left the cathedral without noticing that below there are no medallion windows at all; in fact, that practically none of its lower panes are glazed in colour. This is owing to the almost incredible folly of the monks of Rheims who, in the years 1739-68, removed the coloured glass from the lower embrasures to admit more light. During the two years following October, 1755, they committed the same act of vandalism in the church of St. Remi. The cathedral has three fine rose windows, of which the western one with its bright-hued gallery of kings below it is far the best. The north rose window is good, although we miss the qualities which the north rose of Notre Dame at Paris has taught us to expect. The south rose contains glass of the sixteenth century and therefore seems pale and out of place amidst the older glories. The west rosace should be seen toward sunset so as to get the rays of the sun passing directly through it. Earlier in the day it is almost gloomy in tone. There has been much discussion as to the interpretation of the figures in the gallery of kings below, but now it seems settled that it represents the coronation of the converted pagan Clovis, King of the Franks. The windows of the transepts are glazed with grisaille of a very greenish tone and somewhat darker than that generally found at this time. Among them we observe one of the series of bishops which has apparently crept away from its fellows in the choir and come around the corner into the south transept. Although the bishop series lacks, to some extent, the crude, almost savage glory of the nave’s stern array of kings, they are more carefully made. As in the king windows, here also we find an upper and a lower row of personages, but in addition, a feature very much out of the ordinary and which should be remarked. Instead of placing two bishops below to balance the two above, there is but one bishop below in each window, while the space adjoining him is occupied by a fanciful representation of his cathedral. There is no attempt to accurately portray the building, although the glass artist might as well have done so, for he has gone to the pains of making no two of these little cathedral pictures alike. So minutely has he gone into detail that each has a tiny rose window and each rose is markedly different from the others. The idea is a quaint one and shows the artist to have been fertile in ideas. So dark are the faces of the bishops as to make them look in one or two cases as though they were wearing masks. This effect is heightened by the fact that the eyes are glazed in lighter hues.

In the midst of all this gorgeous and sparkling colour, what a splendid picture may we not conjure up of the scene on the 17th day of July, 1429, when Charles VII, led in by Joan of Arc, had here the kingly crown placed upon his brow. With what vast satisfaction must the grand old kings have gleamed and glowed in sombre delight that their glorious cathedral was once more French, once more fulfilling its centuries-old duty of consecrating a French king, and especially that all this had been effected by a staunch French maid, than whom patriotism has never had a more worthy exemplar. It was but common justice that during the act of coronation of the king to whom she had restored not only a throne, but also a united people, she stood at the foot of the altar holding aloft her victorious standard. A chronicler of the time truly said that having shared in all the hardships she richly deserved to share in the honours.

Not only in the cathedral do we glass hunters find justification for the title “Royal Rheims.” Once more we shall see a row of French kings, this time in the small nave clerestory lights of the old church of St. Remi. In manner similar to that employed at the cathedral we also find bishops adorning the choir clerestory. Fine as these two series are, and valuable, too (because they are earlier), we must confess that they do not produce the effect which the wonderful depth of colour gave us at the cathedral. The choir clerestory embrasures are really too small to afford room for the two rows of bishops one above the other. The choir chapel windows are partly modern, and partly old with too much restoration, so that the effect is not coherent. We must, however, remark a fine Crucifixion in the middle of the east end. It is undoubtedly twelfth century and, although technically well worthy of observation, lacks the beauty which we have a right to expect from that period. The glass in the large, round Romanesque embrasures at the west end, although copied on old models, is modern and very thin in colour. A careful look at the nave clerestory will reveal that in order to complete the set of seated kings a novel method was adopted. Many of the original panels were divided in two at the middle, the upper half being used in one embrasure and the lower half in another, the missing half in each case being supplied by modern glass made to imitate the old. This reads as though the effect would be bad, but on the contrary, it is fairly good and, at all events, the designs are in accordance with the original drawings.

Besides its glass, Rheims has another great attraction for the traveller in its wealth of tapestry. A magnificent series of ten presented in 1530 by Robert de Lenoncourt hangs in the transepts of St. Remi, whilst in the cathedral we shall find around the nave walls another series of fourteen given in the same year by the same donor. The cathedral is also adorned with other tapestries which, although perhaps not of such engrossing interest as the Lenoncourt series, are nevertheless treasures. As glass viewers it is well to observe that the rich decoration provided by these splendid hangings prevents us from noticing the otherwise obnoxious glare from the uncoloured windows just over them. We mention this here because as between two interesting glass towns some of our readers might incline to one where tapestries can be seen in addition to the glass. The Cathedral of Angers provides also the same double inducement.

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During the two tours just concluded we have visited all the most important treasure-houses of thirteenth century glass.

There is, however, a very agreeable secondary tour. Regarded as a glass pilgrimage, it is not to be compared with the two which we have finished, but this must not be taken to mean that the glass will not be worth inspection. Besides, most of the windows to be seen are of the period, thus making it an essentially thirteenth century pilgrimage. To one in whom the love of glass and devotion to the gentle sport of automobiling is about equal, this trip will be much more attractive than the last two. The scenery through which he will pass and the history that will be recalled will add very much to the charm of this itinerary and it is therefore particularly recommended to the automobilist and especially to the exercise-loving bicyclist. The distances between the towns are not great and the landscape is varied and delightful. Beginning with Soissons, our road lies through the picturesque mediÆval stronghold of Coucy-le-ChÂteau to the high-perched hill city of Laon, then over the plain at its foot to battleworn St. Quentin, and lastly across the rolling country to the splendid Cathedral of Amiens. Amiens is on the line of the Paris-London expresses, so we have excellent train service back to Paris.

We will let the traveller find his way as best he may from Paris to Soissons and will join him there. He will soon observe that there has departed from Soissons the ancient glory which was hers when under Clovis, the great king of the Franks, she became the capital of his strong province of Neustria. To-day we find a quiet provincial city of only about 13,000 inhabitants, where the chief movement and life seems to centre in the barracks. One noticeable feature of the town is the really fine west front, all that remains of the Abbey of St. Jean-des-Vignes, for nine years the home of the exiled Thomas À Becket. Even from its present denuded state of desolate loneliness one realises how splendid the complete building must have been, and the now empty and staring rose window above the central portal makes us sigh for the stained glass that must once have adorned that huge opening.

Soissons is one of the towns which benefited by the great love felt by St. Louis and his mother, Blanche of Castile, for stained glass. The northern rose of the cathedral is a proof of their beneficence, and is an excellent example of its type. The central pane is occupied by a figure of the Virgin Mary, and circling round her are the medallion panels which are so much more satisfactory than the spokes-of-a-wheel treatment so popular in the next century. Around the outside of the medallions is a double border of panels containing the arms of the royal benefactress, a field of red bearing the golden castles of Castile. As for the rest of the interior, so much of its original glazing has been destroyed that the effect of glow is entirely dissipated. The nave has lost its coloured panels, and only fragments remain in the western rose. The large lancets about the east end of the choir clerestory are most decorative, and further, they provide an opportunity of testing our ability to judge glass. At first sight we are convinced that they are of true thirteenth century mosaic work, and might continue to think so, if they were not betrayed by the comparison afforded by the two genuine medallion lancets just below them in the Lady Chapel. Even then we may remain undecided, which indecision is justified when we learn their history. They were repaired and restored in 1816, much of the old glass being retained and the old designs carefully followed. This explains not only why they lack the depth of tone seen in the complete medallions below them, but also why they were so deceptive until this touchstone of comparison was applied. Notice the Adam and Eve window to the right, as the design is very unusual. In the six scenes there depicted, one above the other, Adam and Eve are of course nude, and appear always she on the left side and he on the right of each little scene, with some other personage or object between them in the middle. As a result we have a perpendicular column of Eves on one side and of Adams on the other, the light glass used to make the flesh colour forming a secondary border for the window. The southern transept is an architectural freak, because instead of a rose window it has a rounded end like the apse chapel generally found at the eastern extremity of a church. As a novelty it is agreeable, but it deprives the glazier of one of his rose windows.

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LAON

Those proceeding upon this pilgrimage by automobile or bicycle, will find a treat awaiting them between Soissons and Laon. The road lies through Coucy-le-ChÂteau, the impressive and well-preserved ruin of a massive mediÆval fortress. The huge round towers at its corners, connected by walls thirty-five feet thick, frown down from their rocky perch upon a pleasant valley below. Snuggled up against these protecting walls is the little town, which we enter by a narrow gateway crowded in between two great solemn towers. On we go through the narrow old streets and out another well-defended portal and off on our journey. When first we espy Laon we are far off on the rolling plain which surrounds its base. It looms high in the air, the four towers of its cathedral peering out above the encircling houses, all seeming to keep watch over the tiring zigzags by means of which the road lazily climbs the height. A city built upon a hill always possesses a fascination, more especially when it has a history as long and interesting as this one. The lofty situation makes the town seem to hold itself aloof and lends it a certain proud mystery which impels us to seek to know more of it—to penetrate its reserve. Laon is even more picturesque and striking than most French hill towns, because the height upon which it stands rises abruptly from a great plain. None of the height is lost and thus all the beauty is saved. After observing how remote it is upon its long, narrow hilltop, one can well understand why the later Carlovingian kings selected this stronghold for their capital. In those early times there was no artillery to endanger their loftily secure repose. The cathedral, which is a really fine one, presents us with some of those familiarly quaint touches that prove Gothic architecture to have been so close to the heart of its times. Perched aloft among the open spaces that interpenetrate its light towers, are life-size statues of oxen, in kindly memory of the beasts of burden that hauled up from the plain below the great stones used in the building. Within the cathedral, although there is but little glass, it is all of this period and, besides, is so grouped as to do itself the greatest credit possible. All we shall find is a rose filled with medallions in the north transept and another and far finer one in the square eastern end, below which are ranged three gorgeous lancets of imposing dimensions. The northern rose contains scenes representing the sciences as understood and practised in the thirteenth century. One’s memory of this rose is blue with hints of green, while of the eastern series it is reddish purple. The centre of the splendid eastern rose is occupied by a figure of the Virgin Mary between John the Baptist and Isaiah, and around this group are two circles of medallions, the inner one of twelve containing the Apostles, and the outer, of twenty-four, the Elders of the Apocalypse. This concentration of all the old glass in these two quarters has the satisfactory result that anyone standing at the crossing and looking either into the north transept or into the choir, sees nothing but the splendid richness of mosaic medallions, and is not distracted by the sight of any other style of glazing. The placing of this fine glass more than compensates for its limited amount. After this sweeping praise, we may indulge ourselves in one mild criticism: the glass in the east end would seem richer still if it were not so much illuminated from within by the white glazed windows along the sides of the choir. If this were toned down, even by modern glass, it would cause a decided improvement. At St. Quentin, we are more than reconciled to the presence of modern glass in the chapels around the choir, because it so modifies the light as to permit the thirteenth century panels in the choir clerestory to sparkle and gleam as they should. The north rose at Laon is of rare construction; the stone framework is so cumbersome, and the amount of glazed surface so modest, as to almost destroy the appearance of a rosace, and to substitute therefor that of a series of holes let into a wall. Also notice that the east rose is glazed flush with the stonework, thus presenting a level surface on the inside, while just below, in marked contrast, the three lancets are deeply recessed within. This method of constructing a rose is unusual; another example is the west rose at Mantes. The square eastern end, instead of the usual rounded apse, is believed to be one of the many results seen throughout this diocese of the influence exerted by a twelfth century English bishop. Whatever the reason for this square apse, it admirably suits the rest of the edifice.

Before leaving this delightful hilltop, we must not fail to take a stroll around the boulevards which have been constructed upon the overturned walls. The views from this promenade out over the great plain below linger long in one’s memory.

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ST. QUENTIN

A few miles from Madrid lies the famous palace of the Escorial, built upon a ground plan following as closely as possible the shape of a gridiron. It was erected by King Philip II in pious memory of his famous victory at St. Quentin on St. Lawrence’s Day, 1557. St. Lawrence achieved martyrdom by being roasted alive on a gridiron, hence the selection of that humble utensil as a design for the royal thank-offering. There are few more interesting monuments to commemorate a victory, and one would hardly expect to hear that a battle won in northern France is commemorated by a palace far to the south across the Pyrenees. Many a time in history did St. Quentin make herself famous by her stout defences, but none ever won her so much fame as this defeat which, by delaying the Spanish forces, enabled the French armies to assemble behind her and save Paris. It was a great victory for Philip, but it cost him the possession of the French capital.

As we stood upon the lofty heights at Laon, we looked far out over a wide plain, across which, forty-five kilometres to the northwest, lies St. Quentin. The quiet streets of this well-to-do city afford little to remind us of the mediÆval strife that so often raged through them. We hear no sounds that recall to us the angry noises of besiegers without, which so often carried dismay to the stout hearts of its burghers. Unlike Laon, its situation and its buildings now present little to recall the picture of the past. The huge barn-like exterior of its great church is quite different from those we have been seeing. Even its triple-tiered flying buttresses have so short a span as to entirely miss the decorating possibilities which we have a right to expect. It lacks the lightness and grace of the true Gothic; in fact, to tell the truth, it looms up big and bulky, more like an Italian church than the beautiful French ones. But when we have once passed inside, we are provided with a most agreeable surprise, for it is much more attractive than many whose external promise has been greater. There are two sets of transepts, one beyond the other, which unusual feature not only enhances the charm of the interior, but also causes its beauty to reveal itself in a more leisurely fashion. But to the glass! In the choir clerestory are seven double windows, of which the lancets each hold two great dignitaries, one above the other. The small rosaces above, which serve to tie together these pairs of lancets, are very pleasing, nor should we fail to note the handsome wide borders of the lancets themselves, plentifully besprinkled with fleur de lis. We must particularly appreciate the service performed by the modern glass around the choir chapels in so subduing the light as to permit these splendid lancets to receive all their illumination from without and therefore to disclose, undiminished in any way, that warm glow that makes them so delightful. The hideous polychrome painting of the interior also assists in this fruitful modification of the light, but this is the only possible apology for its presence! The oldest glass here is that which fills the two side windows of the Lady Chapel. Each has twenty medallions, those on the left showing Old Testament scenes, and those on the right, episodes from the life of the Virgin. One of the large transepts has a moderately-sized rose window which does not as usual contain figures, but, instead, is filled with designs in colour. The absence of the figures does not spoil the effect; in fact, the story depicted in glass of this period is nothing like so important as the colour scheme. The details of the legend are generally elaborately worked out, often in quaint episodes, but upon this the beauty of the window does not depend. Indeed, it is not until we are at such a distance that we can no longer distinguish the little figures that the charm of the glass begins to lay hold upon us. The reason we do not find more thirteenth century panels here is because the older part of the church was reconstructed during the reign of Louis XI. Furthermore, when we consider the many sieges to which the town has been subjected, as well as the great fire of October 14, 1669, it seems strange that even this much of so fragile a treasure has survived. In this connection it is interesting to learn that in 1557, Philip II instructed his artillery to avoid hitting the great church. This very appreciation of art and respect for religion perhaps explains why, as soon as he had captured the city, he so promptly confiscated the church’s gorgeous tapestries to be used later in decorating the Escorial! In 1766 an attempt was made to negotiate for them so that they could be restored to their original home, but the Spaniards replied that they could not part with so glorious a trophy. Nor was the ravaging hand of the warrior the only hostile force to which the unfortunate edifice was subjected. January 25, 1572, during a tempest, one of the great choir windows was blown in, and on Easter Day, 1582, the same fate befell the great window of the first northern transept, this time with fatal results, for in falling it killed four priests. The old glass in the nave clerestory was removed by the monks in 1747 to secure more light, which form of vandalism was, unfortunately, only too common. We must not leave without commenting upon what a delightful monument of fifteenth century Gothic is afforded by the south end of the easterly transepts. Below is a chapel shut in by a light stone screen of admirable design; above it the stretch of wall is relieved with gracefully carved patterns, while higher still appear four large lancets surmounted by a rosace, all excellently glazed. The lancets have richly coloured single figures below canopies of such size that their pinnacles occupy more than half the height of the embrasures. The only criticism possible of the otherwise satisfactory adjustment of the various portions of this south wall is that the rose is too high up and too small to balance the splendid lancets below it. Of sixteenth century glass there are two fine examples in the north end of this same pair of transepts, but we will postpone further reference to them until later on (see page 269).

Before leaving the town, one should visit the Salle Syndicale in the Hotel de Ville in order to see the fine FranÇois Premier fireplace, and the double arched ceiling with its quaint corbels. The windows of this room formerly contained a long series of sixteenth century scenes from the life and labours of Hercules, but a Prussian shell destroyed all but five of them.

When he leaves St. Quentin, bound for Amiens, the traveller by railway is quite as well off as the automobilist or the bicyclist. Up to this stage of our journey the two latter have had a decided advantage, but now the country has less attractions to offer and the road is one of those straight Routes Nationales whose only apology for their monotony is that they save distance.

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AMIENS

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.

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