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    "_. . . And remembering these, trust Pindar for the truth of his
    saying, that to the cunning workman--(and let me solemnly enforce
    the words by adding, that to him only)--knowledge comes
    undeceitful._"

                                   --RUSKIN ("Aratra Pentelici").

    "_'Very cool of Tom,' as East thought but didn't say, 'seeing as
    how he only came out of Egypt himself last night at bed-time.'_"

                                   --("Tom Brown's Schooldays").




    THE ARTISTIC CRAFTS SERIES
      OF TECHNICAL HANDBOOKS
      EDITED BY W. R. LETHABY

        STAINED GLASS WORK




[Illustration: CUTTING AND GLAZING

_Frontispiece_ (_See p. 137_)]




       STAINED GLASS WORK
    A TEXT-BOOK FOR STUDENTS
    AND WORKERS IN GLASS. BY
    C. W. WHALL. WITH DIAGRAMS
    BY TWO OF HIS APPRENTICES
    AND OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS

            NEW YORK
     D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
             MCMXIV




    Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
    at the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh




    _To his Pupils and Assistants, who, if they
    have learned as much from him as he has
    from them, have spent their time profitably;
    and who, if they have enjoyed learning as
    much as he has teaching, have spent it happily;
    this little book is Dedicated by their Affectionate
    Master and Servant,_

                                   _THE AUTHOR._




EDITOR'S PREFACE


In issuing these volumes of a series of Handbooks on the Artistic
Crafts, it will be well to state what are our general aims.

In the first place, we wish to provide trustworthy text-books of
workshop practice, from the points of view of experts who have
critically examined the methods current in the shops, and putting aside
vain survivals, are prepared to say what is good workmanship, and to set
up a standard of quality in the crafts which are more especially
associated with design. Secondly, in doing this, we hope to treat design
itself as an essential part of good workmanship. During the last century
most of the arts, save painting and sculpture of an academic kind, were
little considered, and there was a tendency to look on "design" as a
mere matter of _appearance_. Such "ornamentation" as there was was
usually obtained by following in a mechanical way a drawing provided by
an artist who often knew little of the technical processes involved in
production. With the critical attention given to the crafts by Ruskin
and Morris, it came to be seen that it was impossible to detach design
from craft in this way, and that, in the widest sense, true design is an
inseparable element of good quality, involving as it does the selection
of good and suitable material, contrivance for special purpose, expert
workmanship, proper finish, and so on, far more than mere ornament, and
indeed, that ornamentation itself was rather an exuberance of fine
workmanship than a matter of merely abstract lines. Workmanship when
separated by too wide a gulf from fresh thought--that is, from
design--inevitably decays, and, on the other hand, ornamentation,
divorced from workmanship, is necessarily unreal, and quickly falls into
affectation. Proper ornamentation may be defined as a language addressed
to the eye; it is pleasant thought expressed in the speech of the tool.

In the third place, we would have this series put artistic craftsmanship
before people as furnishing reasonable occupations for those who would
gain a livelihood. Although within the bounds of academic art, the
competition, of its kind, is so acute that only a very few per cent. can
fairly hope to succeed as painters and sculptors; yet, as artistic
craftsmen, there is every probability that nearly every one who would
pass through a sufficient period of apprenticeship to workmanship and
design would reach a measure of success.

In the blending of handwork and thought in such arts as we propose to
deal with, happy careers may be found as far removed from the dreary
routine of hack labour as from the terrible uncertainty of academic art.
It is desirable in every way that men of good education should be
brought back into the productive crafts: there are more than enough of
us "in the city," and it is probable that more consideration will be
given in this century than in the last to Design and Workmanship.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our last volume dealt with one of the branches of sculpture, the present
treats of one of the chief forms of painting. Glass-painting has been,
and is capable of again becoming, one of the most noble forms of Art.
Because of its subjection to strict conditions, and its special glory of
illuminated colour, it holds a supreme position in its association with
architecture, a position higher than any other art, except, perhaps,
mosaic and sculpture.

The conditions and aptitudes of the Art are most suggestively discussed
in the present volume by one who is not only an artist, but also a
master craftsman. The great question of colour has been here opened up
for the first time in our series, and it is well that it should be so,
in connection with this, the pre-eminent colour-art.

Windows of coloured glass were used by the Romans. The thick lattices
found in Arab art, in which brightly-coloured morsels of glass are set,
and upon which the idea of the jewelled windows in the story of Aladdin
is doubtless based, are Eastern off-shoots from this root.

Painting in line and shade on glass was probably invented in the West
not later than the year 1100, and there are in France many examples, at
Chartres, Le Mans, and other places, which date back to the middle of
the twelfth century.

Theophilus, the twelfth-century writer on Art, tells us that the French
glass was the most famous. In England the first notice of stained glass
is in connection with Bishop Hugh's work at Durham, of which we are told
that around the altar he placed several glazed windows remarkable for
the beauty of the figures which they contained; this was about 1175.

In the Fabric Accounts of our national monuments many interesting facts
as to mediæval stained glass are preserved. The accounts of the building
of St. Stephen's Chapel, in the middle of the fourteenth century, make
known to us the procedure of the mediæval craftsmen. We find in these
first a workman preparing white boards, and then the master glazier
drawing the cartoons on the whitened boards, and many other details as
to customs, prices, and wages.

There is not much old glass to be studied in London, but in the museum
at South Kensington there are specimens of some of the principal
varieties. These are to be found in the Furniture corridor and the
corridor which leads from it. Close by a fine series of English coats of
arms of the fourteenth century, which are excellent examples of
Heraldry, is placed a fragment of a broad border probably of late
twelfth-century work. The thirteenth century is represented by a
remarkable collection, mostly from the Ste. Chapelle in Paris and
executed about 1248. The most striking of these remnants show a series
of Kings seated amidst bold scrolls of foliage, being parts of a Jesse
Tree, the narrower strips, in which are Prophets, were placed to the
right and left of the Kings, and all three made up the width of one
light in the original window. The deep brilliant colour, the small
pieces of glass used, and the rich backgrounds are all characteristic of
mid-thirteenth-century glazing. Of early fifteenth-century workmanship
are the large single figures standing under canopies, and these are good
examples of English glass of this time. They were removed from
Winchester College Chapel about 1825 by the process known as
restoration.

W. R. LETHABY.

_January 1905._




AUTHOR'S PREFACE


The author must be permitted to explain that he undertook his task with
some reluctance, and to say a word by way of explaining his position.

I have always held that no art can be taught by books, and that an
artist's best way of teaching is directly and personally to his own
pupils, and maintained these things stubbornly and for long to those who
wished this book written. But I have such respect for the good judgment
of those who have, during the last eight years, worked in the teaching
side of the art and craft movement, and, in furtherance of its objects,
have commenced this series of handbooks, and such a belief in the
movement, of which these persons and circumstances form a part, that I
felt bound to yield on the condition of saying just what I liked in my
own way, and addressing myself only to students, speaking as I would
speak to a class or at the bench, careless of the general reader.

You will find yourself, therefore, reader, addressed as "Dear Student."
(I know the term occurs further on.) But because this book is written
for students, it does not therefore mean that it must all be brought
within the comprehension of the youngest apprentice. For it is becoming
the fashion, in our days, for artists of merit--painters, perhaps, even
of distinction--to take up the practice of one or other of the crafts.
All would be well, for such new workers are needed, if it was indeed the
_practice_ of the craft that they set themselves to. But too often it is
what is called the _designing_ for it only in which they engage, and it
is the duty of every one speaking or writing about the matter to point
out how fatal is that error.

One must provide a word, then, for such as these also here if one can.

Indeed, to reckon up all the classes to whom such a book as this should
be addressed, we should have, I think, to name:--

(1) The worker in the ordinary "shop," who is learning there at present,
to our regret, only a portion of his craft, and who should be given an
insight into the whole, and into the fairyland of design.

(2) The magnificent and superior artist, mature in imagination and
composition, fully equipped as a painter of pictures, perhaps even of
academical distinction, who turns his attention to the craft, and
without any adequate practical training in it, which alone could teach
its right principles, makes, and in the nature of things is bound to
make, great mistakes--mistakes easily avoidable. No such thing can
possibly be right. Raphael himself designed for tapestry, and the
cartoons are priceless, but the tapestry a ghastly failure. It could not
have been otherwise under the conditions. Executant separated from
designer by all the leagues that lie between Arras and Rome.

(3) The patron, who should know something of the craft, that he may not,
mistrusting, as so often at present, his own taste, be compelled to
trust to some one else's Name, and of course looks out for a big one.

(4) The architect and church dignitary who, having such grave
responsibilities in their hands towards the buildings of which they are
the guardians, wish, naturally, to understand the details which form a
part of their charge. And lastly, a new and important class that has
lately sprung into existence, the well-equipped, picked
student--brilliant and be-medalled, able draughtsman, able painter;
young, thoughtful, ambitious, and educated, who, instead of drifting, as
till recently, into the overcrowded ranks of picture-making, has now the
opportunity of choosing other weapons in the armoury of the arts.

To all these classes apply those golden words from Ruskin's "Aratra
Pentelici" which are quoted on the fly-leaf of the present volume, while
the spirit in which I myself would write in amplifying them is implied
by my adopting the comment and warning expressed in the other sentence
there quoted. The face of the arts is in a state of change. The words
"craft" and "craftsmanship," unheard a decade or two ago, now fill the
air; we are none of us inheritors of any worthy tradition, and those who
have chanced to grope about for themselves, and seem to have found some
safe footing, have very little, it seems to me, to plume or pride
themselves upon, but only something to be thankful for in their good
luck. But "to have learnt faithfully" one of the "ingenuous arts" (or
crafts) _is_ good luck and _is_ firm footing; we may not doubt it who
feel it strong beneath our feet, and it must be proper to us to help
towards it the doubtless quite as worthy or worthier, but less
fortunate, who may yet be in some of the quicksands around.

It also happens that the art of stained glass, though reaching to very
high and great things, is in its methods and processes a simple, or at
least a very limited, one. There are but few things to do, while at the
same time the principles of it touch the whole field of art, and it is
impossible to treat of it without discussing these great matters and the
laws which guide decorative art generally. It happens conveniently,
therefore, as the technical part requires less space, that these things
should be treated of in this particular book, and it becomes the
author's delicate and difficult task to do so. He, therefore, wishes to
make clear at starting the spirit in which the task is undertaken.

It remains only to express his thanks to Mr. Drury and Mr. Noel Heaton
for help respectively, with the technical and scientific detail; to Mr.
St. John Hope for permission to use his reproductions from the Windsor
stall-plates, and to Mr. Selwyn Image for his great kindness in revising
the proofs.

C. W. WHALL.

_January 1905._




     CONTENTS

                                                                    PAGE

     EDITOR'S PREFACE                                                 xi

     AUTHOR'S PREFACE                                               xvii


     PART I

     CHAPTER I

     Introductory, and Concerning the Raw Material                    29


     CHAPTER II

     Cutting (elementary)--The Diamond--The Wheel--Sharpening--How
     to Cut--Amount of Force--The
     Beginner's Mistake--Tapping--Possible and
     Impossible Cuts--"Grozeing"--Defects of the
     Wheel--The Actual Nature of a "Cut" in
     Glass                                                            33


     CHAPTER III

     Painting (elementary)--Pigments--Mixing--How to
     Fill the Brush--Outline--Examples--Industry--The
     Needle and Stick--Completing the Outline                         56

     CHAPTER IV

     Matting--Badgering--How to preserve Correctness of
     Outline--Difficulty of Large Work--Ill-ground
     Pigment--The Muller--Overground Pigment--Taking
     out Lights--"Scrubs"--The Need of a
     Master                                                           72


     CHAPTER V

     Cutting (advanced)--The Ideal Cartoon--The Cut-line--Setting
     the Cartoon--Transferring the Cut-line
     to the Glass--Another Way--Some Principles
     of Taste--Countercharging                                        83


     CHAPTER VI

     Painting (advanced)--Waxing-up--Cleanliness--Further
     Methods of Painting--Stipple--Dry
     Stipple--Film--Effects of Distance--Danger of
     Over-Painting--Frying                                            94


     CHAPTER VII

     Firing--Three Kinds of Kiln--Advantages and Disadvantages--The
     Gas-Kiln--Quick Firing--Danger--Sufficient
     Firing--Soft Pigments--Difference in
     Glasses--"Stale" Work--The Scientific Facts--How
     to Judge of Firing--Drawing the Kiln                            105


     CHAPTER VIII

     The Second Painting--Disappointment with Fired
     Work--A False Remedy--A Useful Tool--The
     Needle--A Resource of Desperation--The Middle
     Course--Use of the Finger--The Second Painting--Procedure       118


     CHAPTER IX

     Of Staining and Aciding--Yellow Stain--Aciding--Caution
     required in Use--Remedy for Burning--Uses
     of Aciding--Other Resources of Stained
     Glass Work                                                      129


     CHAPTER X

     Leading-Up and Fixing--Setting out the Bench--Relation
     of Leading to mode of Fixing in the
     Stone--Process of Fixing--Leading-Up Resumed--Straightening
     the Lead--The "Lathykin"--The
     Cutting-Knife--The Nails--The Stopping-Knife--Knocking
     Up                                                              133


     CHAPTER XI

     Soldering--Handling the Leaded Panel--Cementing--Recipe
     for Cement--The Brush--Division of
     Long Lights into Sections--How Joined when
     Fixed--Banding--Fixing--Chipping out the Old
     Glazing--Inserting the New and Cementing                        144




     PART II

     CHAPTER XII

     Introductory--The Great Questions--Colour--Light--Architectural
     Fitness--Limitations--Thought--Imagination--Allegory            154


     CHAPTER XIII

     Of Economy--The Englishman's Wastefulness--Its
     Good Side--Its Excess--Difficulties--A Calculation--Remedies    156


     CHAPTER XIV

     Of Perfection--In Little Things--Cleanliness--Alertness--But
     not Hurry--Realising your Conditions--False
     Lead-Lines--Shutting out Light--Bars--Their
     Number--Their Importance--Precedence--Observing
     your Limitations--A Result of
     Complete Training--The Special Limitations of
     Stained Glass--Disguising the Lead-Line--No full
     Realism--No violent Action--Self-Effacement--No
     Craft-Jugglery--Architectural Fitness founded
     on Architectural Knowledge--Seeing Work _in
     Situ_--Sketching in Glass--The Artistic Use of
     the Lead--Stepping Back--Accepting Bars and
     Leads--Loving Care--White Spaces to be Interesting--Bringing
     out the "Quality" of the
     Glass--Spotting and Dappling--"Builders-Glazing"
     _versus_ Modern Restoring                                       163


     CHAPTER XV

     A Few Little Dodges--A Clumsy Tool--A Substitute--A
     Glass Rack--An Inconvenient Easel--A
     Convenient Easel--A Waxing-up Tool--An
     Easel with Movable Plates--Making the
     most of a Room--Handling Cartoons--Cleanliness--Dust--The
     Selvage Edge--Drying a
     "Badger"--A Comment                                             182


     CHAPTER XVI

     Of Colour                                                       198


     CHAPTER XVII

     Of Architectural Fitness                                        234

     CHAPTER XVIII

     Of Thought, Imagination, and Allegory                           248


     CHAPTER XIX

     Of General Conduct and Procedure--Amount of
     Legitimate Assistance--The Ordinary Practice--The
     Great Rule--The Second Great Rule--Four
     Things to Observe--Art _v._ Routine--The
     Truth of the Case--The Penalty of Virtue in
     the Matter--The Compensating Privilege--Practical
     Applications--An Economy of Time
     in the Studio--Industry--Work "To Order"--Clients
     and Patrons--And Requests Reasonable
     and Unreasonable--The Chief Difficulty the
     Chief Opportunity--But ascertain all Conditions
     before starting Work--Business Habits--Order--Accuracy--Setting
     out Cartoon Forms--An Artist
     must Dream--But Wake--Three Plain Rules                         264


     CHAPTER XX

     A String of Beads                                               290


     APPENDIX I

     Some Suggestions as to the Study of Old Glass                   308


     APPENDIX II

     On the Restoring of Ancient Windows                             315

     APPENDIX III

     PAGE

     Hints for the Curriculum of a Technical School for
     Stained Glass--Examples for Painting--Examples
     of Drapery--Drawing from Nature--Ornamental
     Design                                                          321


     NOTES ON THE COLLOTYPE PLATES                                   327

     THE COLLOTYPE PLATES                                            337

     GLOSSARY                                                        369

     INDEX                                                           373




PART I


CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTORY, AND CONCERNING THE RAW MATERIAL


You are to know that stained glass means pieces of coloured glasses put
together with strips of lead into the form of windows; not a picture
painted on glass with coloured paints.

You know that a beer bottle is blackish, a hock bottle orange-brown, a
soda-water bottle greenish-white--these are the colours of the whole
substance of which they are respectively made.

Break such a bottle, each little bit is still a bit of coloured glass.
So, also, blue is used for poison bottles, deep green and deep red for
certain wine glasses, and, indeed, almost all colours for one purpose or
another.

Now these are the same glass, and coloured in the same way as that used
for church windows.

Such coloured glasses are cut into the shapes of faces, or figures, or
robes, or canopies, or whatever you want and whatever the subject
demands; then features are painted on the faces, folds on the robes, and
so forth--not with colour, merely with brown shading; then, when this
shading has been burnt into the glass in a kiln, the pieces are put
together into a picture by means of grooved strips of lead, into which
they fit.

This book, it is hoped, will set forth plainly how these things are
done, for the benefit of those who do not know; and, for the benefit of
those who do know, it will examine and discuss the right principles on
which windows should be made, and the rules of good taste and of
imagination, which make such a difference between beautiful and vulgar
art; for you may know intimately all the processes I have spoken of, and
be skilful in them, and yet misapply them, so that your window had
better never have been made.

Skill is good if you use it wisely and for good end; but craft of hand
employed foolishly is no more use to you than swiftness of foot would be
upon the broad road leading downwards--the cripple is happier.

A clear and calculating brain may be used for statesmanship or science,
or merely for gambling. You, we will say, have a true eye and a cunning
hand; will you use them on the passing fashion of the hour--the morbid,
the trivial, the insincere--or in illustrating the eternal truths and
dignities, the heroisms and sanctities of life, and its innocencies and
gaieties?

This book, then, is divided into two parts, of which the intention of
one is to promote and produce skilfulness of hand, and of the other to
direct it to worthy ends.

The making of glass itself--of the raw material--the coloured glasses
used in stained-glass windows, cannot be treated of here. What are
called "Antiques" are chiefly used, and there are also special glasses
representing the ideals and experiments of enthusiasts--Prior's "Early
English" glass, and the somewhat similar "Norman" glass. These glasses,
however, are for craftsmen of experience to use: they require mature
skill and judgment in the using; to the beginner, "Antiques" are enough
for many a day to come.

_How to know the Right and Wrong Sides of a Piece of "Antique"
Glass._--Take up a sheet of one of these and look at it. You will notice
that the two sides look different; one side has certain little
depressions as if it had been pricked with a pin, sometimes also some
wavy streaks. Turn it round, and, looking at the other side, you still
see these things, but blurred, as if seen through water, while the
surface itself on this side looks smooth; what inequalities there are
being projections rather than depressions. Now the side you first looked
at is the side to cut on, and the side to paint on, and it is the side
placed inwards when the window is put up.

The reason is this. Glass is made into sheets by being blown into
bubbles, just as a child blows soap-bubbles. If you blow a soap-bubble
you will see streaks playing about in it, just like the wavy streaks you
notice in the glass.

The bubble is blown, opened at the ends, and manipulated with tools
while hot, until it is the shape of a drain-pipe; then cut down one side
and opened out upon a flattening-stone until the round pipe is a flat
sheet; and it is this stone which gives the glass the different texture,
the dimpled surface which you notice.

Some glasses are "flashed"; that is to say, a bubble is blown which is
mainly composed of white glass; but, before blowing, it is also dipped
into another coloured glass--red, perhaps, or blue--and the two are then
blown together, so that the red or blue glass spreads out into a thin
film closely united to, in fact fused on to, and completely one with,
the white glass which forms the base; most "Ruby" glasses are made in
this way.




CHAPTER II

     Cutting (elementary)--The Diamond--The Wheel--Sharpening--How to
     Cut--Amount of Force--- The Beginner's Mistake--Tapping--Possible
     and Impossible Cuts--"Grozeing"--Defects of the Wheel--The Actual
     Nature of a "Cut" in Glass.


No written directions can teach the use of the diamond; it is as
sensitive to the hand as the string of a violin, and a good workman
feels with a most delicate touch exactly where the cutting edge is, and
uses his tool accordingly. Every apprentice counts on spoiling a guinea
diamond in the learning, which will take him from one to two years.

Most cutters now use the wheel, of which illustrations are given (figs.
1 and 2).

[Illustration: FIGS. 1 AND 2.]

The wheels themselves are good things, and cut as well as the diamond,
in some respects almost better; but many of the handles are very
unsatisfactory. From some of them indeed one might suppose, if such a
thing were conceivable, that the maker knew nothing of the use of the
tool.

For it is held thus (fig. 5), the pressure of the _forefinger_ both
guiding the cut and supplying force for it: and they give you an _edge_
to press on (fig. 1) instead of a surface! In some other patterns,
indeed, they do give you the desired surface, but the tool is so thin
that there is nothing to grip. What ought to be done is to reproduce the
shape of the old wooden handle of the diamond proper (figs. 3 and 4).

[Illustration: FIGS. 3 AND 4.]

The foregoing passage must, however, be amplified and modified, but this
I will do further on, for you will understand the reasons better if I
insert it after what I had written further with regard to the cutting of
glass.

_How to Sharpen the Wheel Cutter._--The right way to do this is
difficult to describe in writing. You must, first of all, grind down the
"shoulders" of the tool, through which the pivot of the wheel goes, for
they are made so large that the wheel cannot reach the stone (fig. 6),
and must be reduced (fig. 7). Then, after first oiling the pivot so that
the wheel may run easily, you must hold the tool as shown in fig. 8, and
rub it swiftly up and down the stone. The angle at which the wheel
should rest on the stone is shown in fig. 9. You will see that the angle
at which the wheel meets the stone is a little _blunter_ than the angle
of the side of the wheel itself. You do not want to make the tool _too
sharp_, otherwise you will risk breaking down the edge, when the wheel
will cease to be truly circular, and when that occurs it is absolutely
useless. The same thing will happen if the wheel is _checked_ in its
revolution while sharpening, and therefore the pivot must be kept oiled
both for cutting and sharpening.

[Illustration: FIG. 5.]

[Illustration: FIGS. 6 and 7.]

It is a curious fact to notice that the tool, be it wheel or diamond,
that is _too sharp_ is not, in practice, found to make so good a cut as
one that is less sharp; it scratches the glass and throws up a line of
splinters.

_How to Cut Glass._--Hold the cutter as shown in the illustration (fig.
5), a little sloping towards you, but perfectly upright laterally; draw
it towards you, hard enough to make it just _bite_ the glass. If it
leaves a mark you can hardly see it is a good cut (fig. 10B), but if it
scratches a white line, throwing up glass-dust as it goes, either the
tool is faulty, or you are pressing too hard, or you are applying the
pressure to the wheel unevenly and at an angle to the direction of the
cut (fig. 10A). Not that you can make the wheel _move_ sideways in the
cut actually; it will keep itself straight as a ploughshare keeps in its
furrow, but it will press sideways, and so break down the edges of the
furrow, while if you exaggerate this enough it will actually leave the
furrow, and, ceasing to cut, will "skid" aside over the glass. As to
pressure, all cutters begin by pressing much too hard; the tool having
started biting, it should be kept only _just biting_ while drawn along.
The cut should be almost _noiseless_. You think you're not cutting
because you don't hear it grate, but hold the glass sideways to the
light and you will see the silver line quite continuous.

Having made your cut, take the glass up; hold it as in fig. 11, press
downward with the thumbs and upward with the fingers, and the glass will
come apart.

[Illustration: FIG. 8.]

[Illustration: FIG. 9.]

[Illustration: FIG. 10, A and B]

[Illustration: FIG. 11.]

But you want to cut shaped pieces as well as straight. You cannot break
these directly the cut is made, but, holding the glass as in fig. 12,
and pressing it firmly with the left thumb, jerk the tool up by little,
sharp jerks of the fingers _only_, so as to tap along the underside of
your cut. You will see a little silver line spring along the cut,
showing that the glass is dividing; and when that silver line has sprung
from end to end, a gentle pressure will bring the glass apart.

[Illustration: FIG. 12.]

This upward jerk must be sharp and swift, but must be calculated so as
only just to _reach_ the glass, being checked just at the right point,
as one hammers a _nail_ when one does not want to stir the work into
which the nail is driven. A _pushing_ stroke, a blow that would go much
further if the glass were not there, is no use; and for this reason
neither the elbow nor the hand must move; the knuckles are the hinge
upon which the stroke revolves.

[Illustration: FIG. 13.]

[Illustration: FIG. 14.]

But you can only cut certain shapes--for instance, you cannot cut a
wedge-shaped gap out of a piece of glass (fig. 13); however tenderly you
handle it, it will split at point A. The nearest you can go to it is a
curve; and the deeper the curve the more difficult it is to get the
piece out. In fig. 14 A is an average easy curve, B a difficult one, C
impossible, except by "groseing" or "grozeing" as cutters call it; that
is, after the cut is made, setting to work to patiently bite the piece
out with pliers (fig. 15).

[Illustration: FIG. 15.]

Now, further, you must understand that you must not cut round all the
sides of a shaped piece of glass at once; indeed, you must only cut one
side at a time, and draw your cut right up to the edge of the glass, and
break away the whole piece which _contains_ the side you are cutting
before you go on to another.

Thus, in fig. 16, suppose the shaded portion to be the shape that you
wish to cut out of the piece of glass, A, B, C, D. You must lay your
gauge _anglewise_ down upon the piece. Do not try to get the sides
parallel to the shapes of your gauge, for that makes it much more
difficult; angular pieces break off the easiest.

[Illustration: FIG. 16.]

Now, then, _cut the most difficult piece first_. That marked 1. Perhaps
you will not cut it quite true; but, if not, then shift the gauge
slightly on to another part of the curve, and very likely it may fit
that better and so _come_ true.

Then follow with one of those marked 2 or 3. Probably it would be safest
to cut the larger and more difficult piece first, and get _both_ the
curved cuts right by your gauge; then you can be quite sure of getting
the very easy small bit off quite truly, to fit into its place with both
of them. Go on with 4, and then with one of those marked 5 or 6.
Probably it would still be best to cut the curved piece first, unless
you think that shortening it by cutting off the small corner-piece first
will make the curved cut easier by making it shorter.

In any case you must only cut one side at a time, and break it away
before you make the cut for another side.

Take care that you do not go back in your cut. You must try and make it
quite continuous onwards; for if you go back in the cut, where your tool
has already thrown up splinters, it will spoil your tool and spoil your
cut also.

Difficult curves, that it is only just possible to get out by groseing,
ought never to be resorted to, except for some very sufficient reason. A
cartoonist who knows the craft will avoid setting such tasks to the
cutter; but, unfortunately, many cartoonists do _not_ know the craft. If
people were taught the complete craft as they should be, this book would
not have been written.

Here let me say that we cannot possibly within the narrow limits of it
go thoroughly into all the very wide range of subjects connected with
glass--the chemistry, the permanence, the purity of materials. With the
exception of the practice of the craft, probably we shall not be able to
go thoroughly into any one of them; but I shall endeavour to _mention_
them all, and to do so sufficiently to indicate the directions in which
work and research and experiment may be made, for they are all three
much needed in several directions.

It becomes, for instance, now my task, in modifying the passage some
pages back as I promised, to go into one of these subjects in the light
of inquiries made since the passage in question was written; and I let
it for the time being stand just as it was, without the additional
information, because it gives a picture of how such things crop up and
of the way in which such investigations may be made, and of how useful
and pleasant they may be.

Here then let us have--


A LITTLE DISSERTATION UPON CUTTING.

Through the agent for the wheel-cutter in England I communicated with
the maker and inventor in America, and told him of our difficulties and
perplexities over here, and chiefly with regard to two points. First,
the awkwardness of the handle, which causes the glaziers here to use the
tool bound round with wadding, or enclosed in a bit of india-rubber
pipe; and, secondly, the bluntness of the "jaws" which hold the wheel,
and which must be ground down (and are in universal practice ground
down), before the tool can be sharpened.

His reply called attention to a number of different patterns of handle,
the existence of which, I think, is not generally known, in England at
any rate, and some of which seem to more or less meet the difficulties
we experience, most of them also being made with malleable iron handles,
so that fresh cutting-wheels can be inserted in the same handle. His
letter also entered into the question of the actual dynamics of
"cutting," maintaining, I think rightly, that a "cut" is made by the
edge of the wheel (this not being very sharp) forcing the particles of
the glass down into the mass of it by pressure.

With regard to the old-fashioned pattern of tool which we chiefly use in
this country, the very sufficient explanation is that they continue to
make it because we continue to demand it, a circumstance which, as he
declares, is a mystery to the inventor himself! Nevertheless, as we do
so, and, in spite of the variety of newer tools on the market, still go
on grinding down the jaws of our favourite, and wrapping round the
handle with cotton-wool, let us try and put this matter straight, and
compare our requirements with the advantages offered us.

There are three chief points to be cleared up. (1) The actual nature of
a "cut" in glass; (2) the question of sharpening the tool and grinding
down of the jaws to do so; and (3) the "mystery" of our preference for a
particular tool, although we all confess its awkwardness by the means we
take to modify it.

(1) With regard, then, to the nature of a "cut" in glass I am disposed
entirely to agree with the theory put forward by the inventor of the
wheel, which an examination of the cuts under the microscope, or even a
6 diameter lens, certainly also tends to confirm.

What happens appears to my non-scientific eyes to be this.

Glass is one of the most fissile or "splittable" of all materials; but
it is so just in the same way that ice is, and just in the opposite way
to that in which slate or talc is.

Slate or talc splits easily into thin layers or laminæ, _because it
already lies in such layers_, and these will come apart when the force
is applied between them: but _it will only split into the laminæ of
which it already is composed, and along the line of the fissures which
already exist between them_.

Glass, on the contrary (and the same is true of ice, or for that matter
of currant-jelly and such like things), appears to be a substance which
is the same in all directions, or nearly so, and therefore as liable to
split in one direction as in another, and is so loosely held together
that, once a splitting force is applied, the crack spreads very rapidly
and easily, and therefore smoothly and in straight lines and in even
planes.

The diamond, or the wheel-cutter, is such a force. Being pressed on to
the surface, it forces down the particles, and these start a series of
small vertical splits, sometimes nearly through the whole thickness of
the glass, though invisibly so until the glass is separated. And mark,
that it is the _starting_ of the splits that is the important thing;
there is no object in making them _deep_, it is only wasted force; they
will continue to split of themselves if encouraged in the proper way
(see Plates IX. and X.). Try this as follows.

Take a bit of glass, say 3 inches by 2, and make the very smallest dint
you can in it, in the middle of the narrowest dimension. You cannot make
one so small that the glass will hold together if you try to break it
across. It will break across in a straight line, springing from each end
of the tiny cut. The cut may be only 1/8 of an inch long; less--it may
be only 1/16, 1/32--as small as you will, the glass will break across
just the same.

Why?

Because the cut has _started_ it splitting at each end; and the material
being the same all through, the split will go straight on in the
direction in which it has started; there is nothing to turn it aside.

So also the pressure of the wheel starts a continuous split, or series
of splits, _downwards_, into the thickness of the glass. No matter how
small a distance these go in, the glass will come asunder directly
pressure is applied.

Now, if you press too hard in cutting, another thing takes place.

Imagine a quantity of roofing-slates piled flat one on top of another,
all the piles being of equal height and arranged in two rows, side by
side, so close that the edges of the slates in one row touch the edges
of those in the other row, along a central line.

Wheel a wheelbarrow along that line over the edges of both.

What would happen?

The top layer of slates would all come cocking their outer edges up as
the barrow passed over their inner ones, would they not?

Now, just so, if you press hard on your glass-cutting wheel, it will
press down the edges of the groove, and though there are no layers
_already made_ in the glass, the pressure will _split off_ a thin layer
from the top surface of the glass on each side in flakes as it goes
along (Plate X., D, E).

This is what gives the _noise_ of the cut, c-r-r-r-r-r-; and as the
thing is no use the noise is no use; like a good many other things in
life, the less noise the better work, much cry generally meaning little
wool, as the man found out who shaved the pig.

But the wheel or the diamond is not quite the same as the wheel of the
wheelbarrow, for it has a _wedge-shaped_ edge. Imagine a barrow with
such a wheel; what _then_ would happen to your slates? besides being
cocked up by the wheel, they would also be _pushed out_, surely?

This happens in glass. You must not imagine that glass is a rigid thing;
it is very elastic, and the wedge-like pressure of the wheel pushes it
out just as the keel of a boat pushes the water aside in ripples (Plate
X., D, E).

All these observations seem to me to bear out the theory of the
inventor, and perhaps to some extent to explain it. I am much tempted to
carry them further, and ask the questions, why a penknife as well as a
wheel will not make a cut in glass, but will make a perfectly definite
scratch on it if the glass is placed under water? and why this line so
made will yet not serve for separating the glass? and why a piece of
glass can be cut in two (roughly, to be sure, but still cut in two) with
a pair of scissors under water, a thing otherwise quite impossible?

But I do not think that the knowledge of these questions will help the
reader to do better stained-glass windows, and therefore I will not
pursue them.

(2) The question of sharpening the tool is soon disposed of.

If the tool is to be sharpened, the jaws must be ground down, whether
the maker grinds them down originally or whether we do it. Is sharpening
worth while, since the tool only costs a few pence?

Well, it's a question each must decide for himself; but I will just
answer two small difficulties which affect the matter.

If grinding the jaws loosens the pivot, it can be hammered tight again
with a punch. If sharpening wears out the oil-stone (as it undoubtedly
does, and oil-stones are expensive things), a piece of fine polished
Westmoreland slate will do as well, and there is no need to be chary of
it. Even a piece of ground-glass with oil will do.

(3) But now as to the handle. I am first to explain the amusing
"mystery" why the old pattern shown in fig. 1 still sells.

It is because the British working-man _is convinced that the wheels in
this handle are better quality than any others_.

Is he right, or is it only an instance of his love for and faith in the
thing he has got used to?

Or can it be that all workmen do not know of the existence of the other
types of handle? In case this is so, I figure some (fig. 17). Or is it
that the wheel for some reason runs less truly in the malleable iron
than in the cast iron?

[Illustration: FIG. 17.]

Certain it is that the whole trade here prefers these wheels, and I am
bound to say that as far as my experience goes they seem to me to work
better than those in other handles.

But as to all the handles themselves, I must now voice our general
complaint.

(1) They are too light.

For tapping our heavy antique and slab-glasses we wish we had a heavier
tool.

(2) They are too thin in the handle for comfort, at least it seems so to
me.

(3) The three gashes cut out of the head of the tool decrease the
weight, and if these were omitted the tool would gain. Their only use
that I can conceive of is that of a very poor substitute for pliers as a
"groseing" tool, if one has forgotten one's pliers. But (as Serjeant
Buzfuz might say) "who _does_ forget his pliers?"

The whole question of the handle is complicated by the fact that some
cutters rest the tool on the forefinger and some on the middle finger in
tapping, and that a handle the sections of which are calculated for the
one will not do equally well for the other.

But the whole thing resolves itself into this, that if we could get a
tool, the handle of which corresponded in all its curves, dimensions,
and sections with the old-established diamond, I think we should all be
glad; and if the head, wheel, and pivot were all made of the quality and
material of which fig. 1 is now made, but with the handle as I describe,
many of us, I think, would be still more glad; and if these remarks lead
in any degree to such results, they at least of all the book will have
been worth the writing, and will probably be its best claim to a white
stone in Israel, as removing one more solecism from "this so-called
twentieth century."

I shall now leave this subject of cutting for the present, and describe,
up to about the same point, the processes of painting, taking both on to
a higher stage later--as if, in fact, I were teaching a pupil; for as
soon as you can cut glass well enough to cut a piece to paint on, you
should learn to paint on it, and carry the two things on step by step,
side by side.




CHAPTER III

     Painting (elementary)--Pigments--Mixing--How to Fill the
     Brush--Outline--Examples--Industry--The Needle and
     Stick--Completing the Outline.


The pigments for painting on glass are powders, being the oxides of
various minerals, chiefly iron. There are others; but take it thus--that
the iron oxide is a red pigment, and the others are introduced, mainly,
to modify this. The red pigment is the best to use, and goes off less in
the firing; but, alas! it is a detestably ugly _colour_, like red lead;
and, do what you will, you cannot use it on white glass. Against clear
sky it looks pretty well in some lights, but get it in a sidelight, or
at an angle, and the whole window looks like red brick; while, seen
against any background except clear sky, it always looks so from all
points of view. There are various makers of these pigments. Some
glass-painters make their own, and a beginner with any knowledge of
chemistry would be wise to work in that direction.

I need not discuss the various kinds of pigment; what follows is a
description of my own practice in the matter.

_To Mix the Pigment for Painting._--Take a teaspoonful of red
tracing-colour, and a rather smaller spoonful of intense black, put them
on a slab of thick ground-glass about 9 inches square, and drop clean
water upon them till you can work them up into a paste with the
palette-knife (fig. 18); work them up for a minute or so, till the paste
is smooth and the lumps broken up, and then add about three drops of
strong gum made from the purest white gum-arabic dissolved in cold
water. Any good chemist will sell this, but its purity is a matter of
great importance, for you want the maximum of adhesiveness with the
minimum of the material.

Mix the colour well up with the knife; then take one of those
long-haired sable brushes, which are called "riggers" (fig. 19), and
which all artists'-colourmen sell, and fill it with the colour, diluting
it with enough water to make it quite thin. Do not dilute all the
pigment; keep most of it in a tidy lump, merely moist, as you ground it
and not further wetted, at the corner of your slab; but always keep a
portion diluted in a small "pond" in the middle of your palette.

[Illustration: Fig. 18.]

_How to Fill the Brush with Pigment._--Now you must note that this is a
heavy powder floating free in water, therefore it quickly sinks to the
bottom of your little "pond." _Each time you fill your_ _brush you must
"stir up the mud_," for the "mud" is what you want to get in your brush,
and not only so, but you want to get your brush _evenly full_ of it from
tip to base, therefore you must splay out the hairs flat against the
glass, till all are wet, and then in taking it off the palette,
"twiddle" it to a point quickly. This takes long to describe, but it
does not take a couple of seconds to do. You must have the patience to
spend so much pains on it, and even to fill the brush very often, nearly
for each touch; then you will get a clear, smooth, manageable stroke for
your outline, and save time in the end.

[Illustration: FIG. 19.]

_How to Paint in Outline._--Make some strokes (fig. 20) on a piece of
glass and let them dry; some people like them to stick very tight to the
glass, some so that a touch of the finger removes them; you must find
which suits you by-and-by, and vary the amount of gum accordingly; but
to begin, I would advise that they should be just removable by a
moderately hard rub with the finger, rather less hard a rub than you
close a gummed envelope with.

Practise now for a time the making of strokes, large and small, dark and
light, broad and fine; and when you have got command of your tools, set
yourself the task of doing the same thing, _copying an example placed
underneath your bit of glass_. You will find a hand-rest (fig. 21) an
assistance in this.

[Illustration: FIG. 20.]

It is difficult to give any list of examples suitable for this stage of
glass, but the kind of line employed on the best _heraldry_ is always
good for the purpose. The splendid illustrations of this in Mr. St.
John-Hope's book of the stall-plates of the Knights of the Garter at
Windsor, examples of which by the author's courtesy I am allowed to
reproduce (figs. 22-22A), are ideal for bold outline-work, and
fascinatingly interesting for their own sake. In most of these there is
not only excellent practice in _outline_, and a great deal of it, but,
mixed with it, practice also in flat washes, which it is a good thing to
be learning side by side with the other.

[Illustration: FIG. 21.]

And here let me note that there are throughout the practice of
glass-painting _many_ methods in use at every stage. Each person, each
firm of glass-stainers, has his own methods and traditions. I shall not
trouble to notice all these as we come to them, but describe what seems
to me to be the best practice in each case; but I shall here and there
give a word about others.

For instance: if you use sugar or treacle instead of gum, you get a
rather smoother-working pigment, and after it is dry you can moisten it
as often as you will for further work by merely breathing on the
surface; and perhaps if your aim is _outline only_, it may be well to
try it; but if you wish to pass shading-colour over it you must use gum,
for you cannot do so over treacle colour; nor do I think treacle serves
so well for the next process I am to describe, which here follows.

[Illustration: FIG. 22.]

[Illustration: FIG. 22A.]


_How to complete the Outline better than you possibly can by One
Tracing._--When you take up a bit of glass from the table, after having
done all you can to make a correct tracing, you will be disappointed
with the result. It will have looked pretty well on the table with the
copy showing behind it and hiding its defects, but it is a different
thing when held up to the searching daylight. This must not, however,
discourage you. No one, not the most skilful, could expect to make a
perfect copy of an original (if that original had any fineness of line
or sensitiveness of touch about it) by merely tracing it downwards on
the bench. You must put it upright against the daylight, and mend your
drawing, freehand, faithfully by the copy.

These remarks do not, in a great degree, apply to the case of hard
outlines specially prepared for literal translation. I am speaking of
those where the outline is, in the artistic sense, sensitive and
refined, as in a Botticelli painting or a Holbein drawing, and to copy
these well you want an easel.

For this small work any kind of frame with a sheet of glass in it, and a
ledge to rest your bit of glass on and a leg to stand out behind, will
do, and by all means get it made (fig. 23); but do not spend too much on
it, for later on you will want a bigger and more complicated thing,
which will be described in its proper place--that is to say, when we
come to it; and we shall come to it when we come to deal with work made
up of a number of pieces of glass, as all windows must be.

[Illustration: FIG. 23.]

This that you have now, not being a window but a bit of glass to
practise on, what I have described above will do for it.

_A note to be always industrious and to work with all your might._--I
advise you to put this work on an easel; but this is not the way such
work is usually done;--where the work is done as a task (alas, that it
could ever be so!) it is held listlessly in the left hand while touched
with the right; but no artist can afford to be at this disadvantage, or
at any disadvantage.

Fancy a surgeon having to hold the limb with one hand while he uses the
lancet with the other, or an astronomer, while he makes his measurement,
bunglingly moving his telescope by hand while he pursues his star,
instead of having it driven by the clock!

You cannot afford to be less keen or less in earnest, and you want both
hands free--ay! more than this--your whole body free: you must not be
lazy and sit glued to your stool; you must get up and walk backwards and
forwards to look at your work. Do you think art is so easy that you can
afford to saunter over it?

Do, I beg you, dear reader, pay attention to these words; for it is true
(though strange) that the hardest thing I have found in teaching has
been to get the pupil to take the most reasonable care not to hamper and
handicap himself by omitting to have his work comfortably and
conveniently placed and his tools and materials in good order. You shall
find a man going on painting all day, working in a messing, muddling
way--wasting time and money--because his pigment has not been covered up
when he left off work yesterday, and has got dusty and full of "hairs";
another will waste hour after hour, cricking his neck and squinting at
his work from a corner, when thirty seconds and a little wit would move
his work where he would get a good light and be comfortable; or he will
work with bad tools and grumble, when five minutes would mend his tools
and make him happy.

An artist's work--any artist's, but especially a glass-painter's--should
be just as finished, precise, clean, and alert as a surgeon's or a
dentist's. Have you not in the case of these (when the affair has not
been too serious) admired the way in which the cool, white hands move
about, the precision with which the finger-tips take up this or that,
and when taken up use it "just _so_," neither more nor less: the
spotlessness and order and perfect finish of every tool and material,
from those fearsome things which (though you prefer not to dwell on
their uses) you cannot help admiring, down to the snowy cotton-wool
daintily poked ready through the holes in a little silver beehive? Just
such skill, handling, and precision, and just such perfection of
instruments, I urge as proper to painting.

_What Tools are wanted to complete the Outline._--I will now describe
those tools which you want at this stage, that is, _to mend your outline
with_.

[Illustration: FIG. 24.]

You want the brush which you used in the first instance to paint it
with, and that has already been described; but you also want points of
various fineness to etch it away with where it is too thick; these are
the needle and the stick (fig. 24); any needle set in a handle will do,
but if you want it for fine work, take care that it be sharp. "How
foolish," you say; "as if you need tell us that." On the contrary,--nine
people out of ten need telling, because they go upon the assumption that
a needle _must_ be sharp, "as sharp as a needle," and cannot need
sharpening,--and they will go on for 365 days in a year wondering why a
needle (which _must_ be sharp) should take out so much coarser a light
than they want.

Now as to "sticks"; if you make a point of soft wood it lasts for three
or four touches and then gets "furred" at the point, and if of very hard
wood it slips on the glass. Bamboo is good; but the best of all--that is
to say for broad stick-lights--is an old, sable oil-colour brush,
clogged with oil and varnish till it is as hard as horn and then cut to
a point; this "clings" a little as it goes over the glass, and is most
comfortable to use.

I have no doubt that other materials may be equally good, celluloid or
horn, for example; the student must use his own ingenuity on such a
simple matter.

_How to Complete the Outline._--With the tools above described complete
the outline--by adding colour with the brush where the lines are too
fine, and by taking it away with needle or stick where they are too
coarse; make it by these means exactly like the copy, and this is all
you need do. But as an example of the degree of correctness attainable
(and therefore to be demanded) are here inserted two illustrations
(figs. 25 and 26), one of the example used, and the other of a copy made
from it by a young apprentice.

[Illustration: FIG. 25.]

[Illustration: FIG. 26.]




CHAPTER IV

     Matting--Badgering--How to preserve Correctness of
     Outline--Difficulty of Large Work--Ill-ground Pigment--The
     Muller--Overground Pigment--Taking out Lights--"Scrubs"--The Need
     of a Master.


Take your camel hair matting-brush (fig. 27 or 28); fill it with the
pigment, try it on the slab of the easel till it seems just so full that
the wash you put on will not run down till you have plenty of time to
brush it flat with the badger (fig. 29).

Have your badger ready at hand and _very clean_, for if there is any
pigment on it from former using, that will spoil the very delicate
operation you are now to perform.

Now rapidly, but with a very light hand, lay an even wash over the whole
piece of glass on which the outline is painted; use vertical strokes,
and try to get the touches to just meet each other without overlapping;
but there is a very important thing to observe in holding the brush. If
you hold it so (fig. 30) you cannot properly regulate the pressure, and
also the pigment runs away downwards, and the brush gets dry at the
point; you must hold it so (fig. 31), then the curve of the hair makes
the brush go lightly over the surface, while also, the body of the brush
being pointed downwards, the point you are using is always being
refilled.

[Illustration: FIG. 27.]

[Illustration: FIG. 28.]

[Illustration: FIG. 29.]

It takes a very skilful workman indeed to put the strokes so evenly side
by side that the result looks flat and not stripy; indeed you can hardly
hope to do so, but you can get rid of what "stripes" there are by taking
your badger and "stabbing" the surface of the painting with it very
rapidly, moving it from side to side so as never to stab twice in the
same spot; this by degrees makes the colour even, by taking a little off
the dark part and putting it on the light; but the result will look
mottled, not flat and smooth. Sometimes this may be agreeable, it
depends on what you are painting; but if you wish it to be smooth, just
give a last stroke or two over the whole glass sideways, that is to say,
holding the badger so that it stands quite perpendicular to the glass,
move it, _always still perpendicular_, across the whole surface. You
must not sway it from side to side, or kick it up at the end of each
stroke like a man white-washing; it must move along so that the points
of the hairs are all just lightly touching the glass all the time.

[Illustration: FIG. 30.]

_How to Ensure the Drawing of a Face being kept Correct while
Painting._--If you adopt the plan of doing the first painting over an
unfired outline, you must be very careful that the outline is not
brushed out of drawing in the process. If you have sufficient skill it
need not be so, for it is quite possible--if all the conditions as to
adhesiveness are right--and if you are light-handed enough--to so lay
and badger the "matt" that the outline beneath shall only be gently
softened, and not blurred or moved from its place. But in any case the
best plan is at the same time that you trace the outline of a head on to
the glass to trace it also with equal care on to a piece of tracing
paper, and arrange three or four well-marked points, such as the corner
of the mouth, the pupil of the eye, and some point on the back of the
head or neck, so that these cannot possibly shift, and that you may be
able at any time to get the tracing back into its proper place, both on
the cartoon and on the piece of glass on which you are to paint the
head. On which piece of glass also your first care should be that these
three or four points should be clearly marked and unmovable; then during
the whole progress of the painting you will always be able to verify the
correctness of the drawing by placing your piece of tracing paper over
the glass, and so seeing that nothing has shifted its place.

[Illustration: FIG. 31.]

It requires a good deal of patience and practice to lay matt
successfully over unfired outline. It is a question of the amount and
quality of the gum, the condition of your brush, even the dryness or
dampness of the air. You must try what degree of gum suits you best,
both in the outline and in the matt which you are to pass over it. Try
it a good many times on a slab of plain glass or on the plate of your
easel first, before you try on your painting. Of course it's a much
easier thing to matt successfully over a small piece than over a large.
A head as big as the palm of your hand is not a very severe test of your
powers; but in one as large as the _whole_ of your hand, say a head
seven inches from crown to chin, the problem is increased quite
immeasurably in difficulty. The real test is being able to produce in
glass a real facsimile of a head by Botticelli or Holbein, and when you
can do that satisfactorily you can do anything in glass-painting.

Do not aim to get _too much_ in the first painting, at any rate not till
you have had long practice. Be content if you get enough modelling on a
head to turn the outline into a more sensitive and artistic drawing than
it could be if planted down, raw and hard, upon the bare, cold glass.
After all it is a common practice to fire the outline separately, and
anything beyond this that you get upon the glass for first fire is so
much to the good.

But besides the quality of the _gum_ you will find sometimes differences
in the quality or condition of the _pigment_. It may be insufficiently
ground; in which case the matt, in passing over, will rasp away every
vestige of the outline, so delicate a matter it is.

You can tell when colour is not ground sufficiently by the way it acts
when laid as a vertical wash. Lay a wash, moist enough to "run," on a
bit of your easel-slab; it will run down, making a sort of
seaweed-looking pattern--clear lanes of light on the glass with a black
grain at the lower end. Those are the bits of unground material: under a
100-diameter microscope they look like chunks of ironstone or road
metal, or of rusty iron, and you'll soon understand why they have
scratched away your tender outline.

You must grind such colour till it is smooth, and an old-fashioned
_granite_ muller is the thing, not a glass one.

Now, after all this, how am I to excuse the paradox that it is possible
to have the colour ground _too_ fine! All one can say is that you "find
it so." It can be so fine that it seems to slip about in a thin, oily
kind of way.

It's all as you find it; the differences of a craft are endless; there
is no forecasting of everything, and you must buy your experience, like
everybody else, and find what suits you, learning your skill and your
materials side by side.

Now these are the chief processes of painting, as far as laying on
colour goes; but you still have much of your work before you, for the
way in which light and shade is got on glass is almost more in "taking
off" than in "putting on." You have laid your dark "matt" all over the
glass evenly; now the next thing is to remove it wherever you want light
or half-tone.

[Illustration: FIG. 32.]

_How to Finish a Shaded Painting out of the Even Matt._--This is done in
many ways, but chiefly with those tools which painters call "scrubs,"
which are oil-colour hog-hair brushes, either worn down by use, or
rubbed down on fine sandpaper till they are as stiff as you like them
to be. You want them different in this: some harder, some softer; some
round, some square, and of various sizes (figs. 32 and 33), and with
these you brush the matt away gently and by degrees, and so make a light
and shade drawing of it. It is exactly like the process of mezzotint,
where, after a surface like that of a file has been laboriously produced
over the whole copper-plate, the engraver removes it in various degrees,
leaving the original to stand entirely only for the darkest of all
shadows, and removing it all entirely only in the highest lights.

[Illustration: FIG. 33.]

There is nothing for this but practice; there is nothing more to _tell_
about it; as the conjurers say, "That's how it's done." You will find
difficulties, and as these occur you will think this a most defective
book. "Why on earth," you will say, "didn't he tell us about this, about
that, about the other?"

Ah, yes! it is a most defective book; if it were not, I would have taken
good care not to write it. For the worst thing that could happen to you
would be to suppose that any book can possibly teach you any craft, and
take the place of a master on the one hand, and of years of practice on
the other.

This book is not intended to do so; it is written to give as much
information and to arouse as much interest as a book can; with the hope
that if any are in a position to wish to learn this craft, and have not
been brought up to it, they may learn, in general, what its conditions
are, and then be able to decide whether to carry it further by seeking
good teaching, and by laying themselves out for a patient course of
study and practice and many failures and experiments. While, with regard
to those already engaged in glass-painting, it is of course intended to
arouse their interest in, and to give them information upon, those other
branches of their craft which are not generally taught to those brought
up as glass-painters.




CHAPTER V

     Cutting (advanced)--The Ideal Cartoon--The Cut-line--Setting the
     Cartoon--Transferring the Cut-line to the Glass--Another Way--Some
     Principles of Taste--Countercharging.


We have only as yet spoken of the processes of cutting and painting in
themselves, and as they can be practised on a single bit of glass; but
now we must consider them as applied to a subject in glass where many
pieces must be used. This is a different matter indeed, and brings in
all the questions of taste and judgment which make the difference
between a good window and an inferior one. Now, first, you must know
that every differently coloured piece must be cut out by itself, and
therefore must have a strip of lead round it to join it to the others.

Draw a cartoon of a figure, _bearing this well in mind_: you must draw
it in such a simple and severe way that you do not set impossible or
needlessly difficult tasks to the cutter. Look now, for example, at the
picture in Plate V. by Mr. Selwyn Image--how simple the cutting!

You think it, perhaps, too "severe"? You do not like to see the leads so
plainly. You would like better something more after the "Munich" school,
where the lead line is disguised or circumvented. If so, my lesson has
gone wrong; but we must try and get it right.

You would like it better because it is "more of a picture"; exactly, but
you ought to like the other better because it is "more of a window."
Yes, even if all else were equal, you ought to like it better, _because_
the lead lines cut it up. Keep your pictures for the walls and your
windows for the holes in them.

But all else is _not_ equal: and, supposing you now standing before a
window of the kind I speak of, I will tell you what has been sacrificed
to get this "picture-window" "like a picture." _Stained-glass_ has been
sacrificed; for this is _not_ stained-glass, it is painted glass--that
is to say, it is coloured glass ground up into powders and painted on to
white sheets of glass: a poor, miserable substitute for the glorious
colour of the deep amethyst and ruby-coloured glasses which it pretends
to ape. You will not be in much danger of using it when you have handled
your stained glass samples for a while and learned to love them. You will
love them so much that you will even get to like the severe lead line
which announces them for what they are.

But you must get to reasonably love it as a craft limitation, a
necessity, a thing which places bounds and limits to what you can do in
this art, and prevents tempting and specious tricks.

_How to Make a "Cut-line."_--But now, all this being granted, how are we
to set about getting the pieces cut? First of all, I would say that it
is always well to draw most, if not all, of the necessary lead lines on
the cartoon itself. By the necessary lead lines I mean those which
separate different colours; for you know that there _must_ be a
lead line between these. Then, when these are drawn, it is a question of
convenience whether to draw in also the more or less optional lead lines
which break up each space of uniform colour into convenient-sized
pieces. If you do not want your cartoon afterwards for any other purpose
you may as well do so: that is, first "set" the cartoon if it is in
charcoal or chalk, and then try the places for these lead lines lightly
in charcoal over the drawing: working thus, you can dust them away time
after time till they seem right to you, and then either set them also or
not as you choose.

A good, useful setting-mixture for large quantities is composed by
mixing equal parts of "white polish" and methylated spirit; allowing it
to settle for a week, and pouring off all that is clear. It is used in
the ordinary way with a spray diffuser, and will keep for any length of
time.

The next step is to make what is called the cut-line. To do this, pin a
piece of tracing-cloth over the whole cartoon; this can be got from any
artist's-colourman or large stationer. Pin it over the cartoon with the
dull surface outwards, and with a soft piece of charcoal draw lines 1/16
to 1/8 of an inch wide down the centre of all the lead lines: remove the
cloth from the cartoon, and if any of the lines look awkward or ugly,
now that you see them by themselves undisguised by the drawing below,
alter them, and then, finally, with a long, thin brush paint them in,
over the charcoal, with water-colour lamp-black, this time a true
sixteenth of an inch wide. Don't dust the charcoal off first, it makes
the paint cling much better to the shiny cloth.

When this is done, there is a choice of three ways for cutting the
glass. One is to make shaped pieces of cartridge-paper as patterns to
cut each bit of glass by; another is to place the bits of glass, one by
one, over the cut-line and cut freehand by the line you see through the
glass. This latter process needs no description, but you cannot employ
it for dark glasses because you cannot see the line through: for this
you must employ one of the other methods.

_How to Transfer the Cutting-line on to the Glass._--Take a bit of glass
large enough to cut the piece you want; place it, face upwards, on the
table; place the cut-line over it in its proper place, and then slip
between them, without moving either, a piece of black "transfer paper":
then, with a style or hard pencil, trace the cutting-line down on to the
glass. This will not make a black mark visible on the glass, it will
only make a _grease_ mark, and that hardly visible, not enough to cut
by; but take a soft dabber--a lump of cotton-wool tied up in a bit of
old handkerchief--and with this, dipped in dry whitening or powdered
white chalk, dab the glass all over; then blow the surface and you will
see a clear white line where the whitening has stuck to the greasy line
made by the transfer paper; and by this you can cut very comfortably.

But a third way is to cut the shape of each piece of glass out in
cartridge-paper; and to do this you put the cut-line down over a sheet
of "continuous-cartridge" or "cartoon" paper, as it is called, and press
along all the lines with a style or hard pencil, so as to make a furrow
on the paper beneath; then, after removing the cut-line, you place a
sheet of ordinary window-glass below the paper and cut out each piece,
between the "furrows" leaving a _full_ 1/16 of an inch. This sixteenth
of an inch represents the "heart" or core of the future _lead_; it is
the distance which the actual bits of glass lie one from the other in
the window. You must use a very sharp penknife, and you will find that,
cutting against _glass_, each shape will have quite a smooth edge; and
round this you can cut with your diamond.

This method, which is far the most accurate and craftsmanly way of
cutting glass, is best used with the actual diamond: in that case you
feel the edge of the paper all the time with the diamond-spark; but in
cutting with the wheel you must not rest against the edge of the paper;
otherwise you will be sure to cut into it. Now, whichever of all these
processes you employ, remember that there must be a _full_ 1/16 of an
inch left between each piece of glass and all its neighbours.

The reason why you leave this space between the pieces is that the core
of the lead is about that or a little less in thickness: the closer the
glass fits to this the better, but no part of the glass must go _nearer_
to its neighbour than this, otherwise the work will be pressed outwards,
and you will not be able to get the whole of the panel within its proper
limits.

[Illustration: FIG. 34]

Fig. 34 is an illustration of various kinds and sizes of lead; showing
some with the glass inserted in its place. By all means make your leads
yourself, for many of those ready made are not lead at all, or not pure
lead. Get the parings of sheet lead from a source you can trust, and
cast them roughly in moulds as at fig. 35. Fig. 36 is the shears by
which the strips may be cut; fig. 37 is the lead-mill or "vice" by which
they are milled and run into their final shape; fig. 38 the "cheeks" or
blocks through which the lead passes. The working of such an instrument
is a thing that is understood in a few minutes with the instrument
itself at hand, but it is cumbrous to explain in writing, and not worth
while; since if you purchase such a thing, obviously the seller will be
there to explain its use. Briefly,--the handle turns two wheels with
milled edges 1/16 of an inch apart; which, at one motion, draw the lead
between them, mill it, and force it between the two "cheeks" (fig. 38),
which mould the outside of the lead in its passage. These combined
movements, by a continuous pressure, squeeze out the strip of lead into
about twice its length; correspondingly decreasing its thickness and
finishing it as it goes.

[Illustration: FIG. 35.]

[Illustration: FIG. 36.]

[Illustration: FIG. 37.]

_Some principles of good taste and common sense with regard to the
cutting up of a Window; according to which the Cartoon and Design must
be modified._--Never disguise the lead line. Cut the necessary parts
first, as I said before; cut the optional parts _simply_; thinking most
of craft-convenience, and not much of realism.

[Illustration: FIG. 38.]

Do not, however, go to the extent of making two lead lines cross each
other. Fig. 39 shows the two kinds of joint, A being the wrong one
(as I hold), and B the right one; but, after all, this is partly a
question of taste.

Do not cut borders and other minor details into measured spaces; cut
them hap-hazard.

[Illustration: FIG. 39.]

Do not cut leafage too much by the outlines of the groups of leaves--or
wings by the outlines of the groups of feathers.

Do not outline with lead lines any forms of minor importance.

Do not allow the whole of any figure to cut out dark against light, or
light against dark; but if the figure is ever so bright, let an inch or
two of its outline tell out as a dark against a spot of still brighter
light; and if it is ever so dark, be it red or blue as strong as may be,
let an inch or two of its outline tell out against a still stronger dark
in the background, if you have to paint it pitch-black to do so.

By this "countercharging" (as heralds say), your composition will melt
together with a pleasing mystery; for you must always remember that a
window is, after all, only a window, it is not the church, and nothing
in it should stare out at you so that you cannot get away from it;
windows should "dream," and should be so treated as to look like what
they are, the apertures to admit the light; subjects painted on a thin
and brittle film, hung in mid-air between the light and the dark.




CHAPTER VI

     Painting (advanced)--Waxing-up--Cleanliness--Further Methods of
     Painting--Stipple--Dry Stipple--Film--Effects of Distance--Danger
     of Over-Painting--Frying.


I have mentioned all these points of judgment and good taste we have
just finished speaking of, because they are matters that must
necessarily come before you at the time you are making the cartoon, the
preliminary drawing of the window, and before you come to handle the
glass at all.

But it is now necessary to tell you how the whole of the glass, when it
is cut, must be fixed together, so that you can both see it and paint
upon it as a whole picture. This is done as follows:--

First place the cut-line (for the making of which you have already had
instructions) face upwards on the bench, and over it place a sheet of
glass, as large at least as the piece you mean to paint. Thick
window-glass, what glass-makers call "thirty-two ounce sheet"--that is,
glass that weighs about thirty-two ounces to the square foot--will do
well enough for very small subjects, but for anything over a few square
feet, it is better to use thin plate-glass. This is expensive, but you
do not want the best; what is called "patent plate" does quite well, and
cheap plate-glass can often be got to suit you at the salvage stores,
whither it is brought from fires.

Having laid your sheet of glass down upon the cut-line, place upon it
all the bits of glass in their proper places; then take beeswax (and by
all means let it be the best and purest you can get; get it at a
chemist's, not at the oil-shop), and heat a few ounces of it in a
saucepan, and _when all of it is melted_--not before, and as little
after as may be--take any convenient tool, a penknife or a strip of
glass, and, dipping it rapidly into the melted wax, convey it in little
drops to the points where the various bits of glass meet each other,
dropping a single drop of wax at each joint. It is no advantage to have
any extra drops along the _sides_ of the bits; if each _corner_ is
properly secured, that is all that is needed (fig. 40).

Some people use a little resin or tar with the wax to make it more
brittle, so that when the painting is finished and the work is to be
taken down again off the plate, the spots of wax will chip off more
easily. I do not advise it. Boys in the shop who are just entering their
apprenticeship get very skilful, and quite properly so, in doing this
work; waxing up yard after yard of glass, and never dropping a spot of
wax on the surface.

It is much to be commended: all things done in the arts should be done
as well as they can be done, if only for the sake of character and
training; but in this case it is a positive advantage that the work
should be done thus cleanly, because if a spot of wax is dropped on the
surface of the glass that is to be painted on, the spot must be
carefully scraped off and every vestige of it removed with a wet duster
dipped in a little grit of some kind--pigment does well--otherwise the
glass is greasy and the painting will not adhere.

[Illustration: FIG. 40.]

For the same reason the wax-saucepan should be kept very clean, and the
wax frequently poured off, and all sediment thrown away. A bit of
cotton-fluff off the duster is enough to drag a "lump" out on the end of
the waxing-tool, which, before you have time to notice it, will be
dribbling over the glass and perhaps spoiling it; for you must note that
sometimes it is necessary to re-wax down _unfired_ work, which a drop of
wax the size of a pinhole, flirted off from the end of the tool, will
utterly ruin. How important, then, to be cleanly.

And in this matter of removing such spots from _fired_ work, do please
note that you should _use the knife and the duster alternately_ for
_each spot_. Do not scrape a batch of the spots off first and then go
over the ground again with the duster--this can only save a second or
two of time, and the merest fraction of trouble; and these are ill saved
indeed at the cost of doing the work ill. And you are sure to do it so,
for when the spot is scraped off it is very difficult to see where it
was; you are sure to miss some, in going over the glass with a duster,
and you will discover them again, to your cost and annoyance, when you
matt over them for the second painting: and, just when you cannot afford
to spare a single moment--in some critical process--they will come out
like round o's in the middle of your shading, compelling you to break
off your work and do now what should have been done before you began to
paint.

But the best plan of all is to avoid the whole thing by doing the work
cleanly from the first. And it is quite easy; for all you have to do is
to carry the tool horizontally till it is over the spot where you want
the wax, and then, by a tilt of the hand, slide the drop into its place.

_Further Methods of Painting._--There are two chief methods of treating
the matt--one is the "stipple," and the other the "film" or badgered
matt.

_The Stipple._--When you have put on your matt with the camel-hair
brush, take a stippling brush (fig. 41) and stab the matt all over with
it while it is wet. A great variety of texture can be got in this way,
for you may leave off the process at any moment; if you leave it off
soon, the work will be soft and blurred, for, not being dry, the pigment
will spread again as soon as you leave off: but, if you choose, you can
go on stippling till the whole is dry, when the pigment will gather up
into little sharp spots like pepper, and the glass between them will be
almost clear. You must bear in mind that you cannot use scrubs over work
like the last described, and cannot use them to much advantage over
stipple at all. You can draw a needle through; but as a rule you do not
want to take lights out of stipple, since you can complete the shading
in the single process by stippling more or less according to the light
and shade you want.

[Illustration: FIG. 41.]

A very coarse form of the process is "dry" stippling, where you stipple
straight on to the surface of the clear glass, with pigment taken up off
the palette by the stippling brush itself: for coarse distant work this
may be sometimes useful.

Now as to film. We have spoken of laying on an even matt and badgering
it smooth; and you can use this with a certain amount of stipple also
with very good effect; but you are to notice one great rule about these
two processes, namely, that the same amount of pigment _obscures much
more light used in film than used in stipple_.

Light _spreads_ as it comes through openings; and a very little light
let, in pinholes, through a very dark matt, will, at a distance, so
assert itself as to prevail over the darkness of the matt.

It is really very little use going on to describe the way the colour
acts in these various processes; for its behaviour varies with every
degree of all of them. One may gradually acquire the skill to combine
all the processes, in all their degrees, upon a single painting; and the
only way in which you can test their relative value, either as texture
or as light and shade, is to constantly practise each process in all its
degrees, and see what results each has, both when seen near at hand and
also when seen from a distance. It is useless to try and learn these
things from written directions; you must make them your own, as precious
secrets, by much practice and much experiment, though it will save you
years of both to learn under a good master.

But this question of distance is a most important thing, and we must
enlarge upon it a little and try to make it quite clear.

Glass-painting is not like any other painting in this respect.

Let us say that you see an oil-painting--a portrait--at the end of the
large room in some big Exhibition. You stand near it and say, "Yes, that
is the King" (or the Commander-in-Chief), "a good likeness; however do
they do those patent-leather boots?" But after you have been down one
side of the room and turn round at the other end to yawn, you catch
sight of it again; and still you say, "Yes, it's a good likeness," and
"really those boots are very clever!" But if it had been your own
painting on _glass_, and sitting at your easel you had at last said,
"Yes,--_now_ it's like the drawing--_that's_ the expression," you could
by no means safely count on being able to say the same at all distances.
You may say it at ten feet off, at twenty, and yet at thirty the shades
may all gather together into black patches; the drawing of the eyelids
and eyes may vanish in one general black blot, the half-tones on the
cheeks may all go to nothing. These actual things, for instance, _will_
be the result if the cheeks are stippled or scrubbed, and the shade
round the eyes left as a _film_--ever so slight a film will do it. Seen
near, you _see the drawing through the film_; but as you go away the
light will come pouring stronger and stronger through the brush or
stipple marks on the cheeks, until all films will cut out against it
like black spots, altering the whole expression past recognition.

Try this on simple terms:--

Do a face on white glass in strong outline only: step back, and the face
goes to nothing; strengthen the outline till the forms are quite
monstrous--the outline of the nose as broad as the bridge of it--still,
at a given distance, it goes to nothing; the expression varies every
step back you take. But now, take a matting brush, with a film so thin
that it is hardly more than dirty water; put it on the back of the glass
(so as not to wash up your outline); badger it flat, so as just to dim
the glass less than "ground glass" is dimmed;--and you will find your
outline look almost the same at each distance. It is the pure light that
plays tricks, and it will play them through a pinhole.

And now, finally, let us say that you may do anything you _can_ do in
the painting of glass, so long as you do not lay the colour on too
thick. The outline-touches should be flat upon the glass, and above all
things should not be laid on so wet, or laid on so thick, that the
pigment forms into a "drop" at the end of the touch; for this drop, and
all pigment that is thick upon the glass like that, will "fry" when it
is put into the kiln: that is to say, being so thick, and standing so
far from the surface of the glass, it will fire separately from the
glass itself and stand as a separate crust above it, and this will
perish.

Plate IX. shows the appearance of the bubbles or blisters in a bit of
work that has fried, as seen under a microscope of 20 diameters; and if
you are inclined to disregard the danger of this defect as seen of its
natural size, when it is a mere roughness on the glass, what do you
think of it _now_? You can remove it at once by scraping it with a
knife; and indeed, if through accident a touch here and there does fry,
it is your only plan to so remove it. All you can scrape off should be
scraped off and repainted every time the glass comes from the kiln; and
that brings us to the important question of _firing_.




CHAPTER VII

     Firing--Three Kinds of Kiln--Advantages and Disadvantages--The
     Gas-Kiln--Quick Firing--Danger--Sufficient Firing--Soft
     Pigments--Difference in Glasses--"Stale" Work--The Scientific
     Facts--How to Judge of Firing--Drawing the Kiln.


The way in which the painting is attached to the glass and made
permanent is by firing it in a kiln at great heat, and thus fusing the
two together.

Simple enough to say, but who is to describe in writing this process in
all its forms? For there is, perhaps, nothing in the art of
stained-glass on which there is greater diversity of opinion and
diversity of practice than this matter of firing. But let us make a
beginning by saying that there are, it may be said, three chief
modifications of the process.

First, the use of the old, closed, coke or turf kiln.

Second, of the closed gas-kiln.

And third, of the open gas-kiln.

The first consists of a chamber of brick or terra-cotta, in which the
glass is placed on a bed of powdered whitening, on iron plates, one
above another like shelves, and the whole enclosed in a chamber where
the heat is raised by a fire of coke or peat.

This, be it understood, is a slow method. The heat increases gradually,
and applies to the glass what the kiln-man calls a "good, soaking heat."
The meaning of this expression, of course, is that the gradual heat
gives time for the glass and the pigment to fuse together in a natural
way, more likely to be good and permanent in its results than a process
which takes a twentieth part of the time and which therefore (it is
assumed) must wrench the materials more harshly from their nature and
state.

There are, it must be admitted, one or two things to be said for this
view which require answering.

First, that this form of kiln has the virtue of being old; for in such a
thing as this, beyond all manner of doubt, was fired all the splendid
stained-glass of the Middle Ages.

Second, that by its use one is entirely preserved from the dangers
attached to the _misuse_ of the gas-kiln.

But the answers to these two things are--

First, that the method employed in the Middle Ages did not invariably
ensure permanence. Any one who has studied stained-glass must be
familiar with cases in which ancient work has faded or perished.

The second claim is answered by the fact, I think beyond dispute, that
all objections to the use of the gas-kiln would be removed if it were
used properly; it is not the use of it as a process which is in itself
dangerous, but merely the misuse of it. People must be content with what
is reasonable in the matter; and, knowing that the gas-kiln is spoken of
as the "quick-firing" kiln, they must not insist on trying to fire _too_
quick.

Now I have the highest authority (that of the makers of both kiln and
pigment) to support my own conviction, founded on my own experience, in
what I am here going to say.

Observe, then, that up to the point at which actual fusion
commences--that is, when pigment and glass begin to get soft--there is
no advantage in slowness, and therefore none in the use of fuel as
against gas--no possible _disadvantage_ as far as the work goes: only it
is time wasted. But where people go wrong is in not observing the vital
importance of proceeding gently when fusion _does_ commence. For in the
actual process of firing, when fusion is about to commence, it is indeed
all-important to proceed gently; otherwise the work will "fry," and, in
fact, it is in danger from a variety of causes. Make it, then, your
practice to aim at twenty to twenty-five minutes, instead of ten or
twelve, as the period during which the pigment is to be fired, and
regulate the amount of heat you apply by that standard. The longer
period of moderate heat means safety. The shorter period of great heat
means danger, and rather more than danger.

Fig. 42 is the closed gas-kiln, where the glass is placed in an enclosed
chamber; fig. 43 is the open gas-kiln, where the gas plays on the roof
of the chamber in which the glass lies; fig. 44 shows this latter. But
no written description or picture is really sufficient to make it safe
for you to use these gas-kilns. You would be sure to have some serious
accident, probably an explosion; and as it is absolutely necessary for
you to have instruction, either from the maker or the experienced user
of them, it is useless for me to tell lamely what they could show
thoroughly. I shall therefore leave this essentially technical part of
the subject, and, omitting these details, speak of the few _principles_
which regulate the firing of glass.

[Illustration: FIG. 42.]

[Illustration: FIG. 43.]

[Illustration: FIG. 44.]

And the first is to _fire it enough_. Whatever pigment you use, and with
whatever flux, none will be permanent if the work is under-fired; indeed
I believe that under-firing is far more the cause of stained-glass
perishing than the use of untrustworthy pigment or flux; although it
must always be borne in mind that the use of a soft pigment, which will
"fire beautifully" at a low heat, with a fine gloss on the surface, is
always to be avoided. The pigment is fused, no doubt; but is it united
to the glass? What one would like to have would be a pigment whose own
fusing-point was the same, or about the same, as that of the glass
itself, so that the surface, at least, of the piece of glass softens to
receive it and lets it right down into itself. You should never be
satisfied with the firing of your glass unless it presents two
qualifications: first, that the surface of the glass has melted and
begun to run together; and second, that the fused pigment is quite
glossy and shiny, not the least dull or rusty looking, when the glass is
cool.

"What one would like to have."

And can you not get it?

Well, yes! but you want experience and constant watchfulness--in short,
"rule of thumb." For every different glass differs in hardness, and you
never know, except by memory and constant handling of the stuff, exactly
what your materials are going to do in the kiln; for as to
standardising, so as to get the glass into any known relation with the
pigment in the matter of fusing, the thing has never, as far as I know,
been attempted. It probably could not be done with regard to all, or
even many, glasses--nor need it; though perhaps it might be well if a
nearer approach to it could be achieved with regard to the manufacture
of the lighter tinted glasses, the "whites" especially, on which the
heads and hands are painted, and where consequently it is of such vital
importance that the painting should have careful justice done to it, and
not lose in the firing through uncertainty with regard to conditions.

Nevertheless, if you observe the rule to fire sufficiently, the worst
that can happen is a disappointment to yourself from the painting having
to an unnecessary extent "fired away" in the kiln. You must be patient,
and give it a second painting; and as to the "rule of thumb," it is
surprising how one gets to know, by constant handling the stuff, how the
various glasses are going to behave in the fire. It was the method of
the Middle Ages which we are so apt to praise, and there is much to be
said for practical, craftsmanly experience, especially in the arts, as
against a system of formulas based on scientific knowledge. It would be
a pity indeed to get rid of the accidental and all the delight which it
brings, and we must take it with its good and bad.

The second rule with regard to the question of firing is to take care
that the work is not "stale" when it goes into the kiln. Every one will
tell you a different tale about many points connected with glass, just
as doctors disagree in every affair of life. In talking over this matter
of keeping the colour fresh--even talking it over with one's practical
and experienced friends generally--one will sometimes hear the remark
that "they don't see that delay can do it much harm;" and when one asks,
"Can it do it any good?" the reply will be, "Well, probably it would be
as well to fire it soon;" or in the case of mixing, "To use it fresh."
Now, if it would be "as well"--which really means "on the safe
side"--then that seems a sufficient reason for any reasonable man.

But indeed I have always found it one of the chiefest difficulties with
pupils to get them to take the most reasonable precautions to _make
quite sure_ of _anything_. It is just the same with matters of
measurement, although upon these such vital issues depend. How weary one
gets of the phrase "it's not far out"--the obvious comment of a
reasonable man upon such a remark, of course, being that if it is out
_at all_ it's, at any rate, _too_ far out. A French assistant that I had
once used always to complain of my demanding (as he expressed it) such
"rigorous accuracy." But there are only two ways--to be accurate or
inaccurate; and if the former is possible, there is no excuse for the
latter.

But as to this question of freshness of colour, which is of such
paramount importance, I may quote the same authority I used before--that
of the _maker of the colour_--to back my own experience and previous
conviction on the point, which certainly is that fresh colour, used the
same day it is ground and fired the same day it is used, fires better
and fires away less than any other.

The facts of the case, scientifically, I am assured, are as follows. The
pigment contains a large amount of soft glass in a very fine state of
division, and the carbonic acid, which all air contains (especially that
of workshops), will immediately begin to enter into combination with the
alkalis of the glass, throw out the silica, and thus disintegrate what
was brought together in the first instance when the glass was made. The
result of this is that this intruder (the carbonic acid) has to be
driven out again by the heat of the kiln, and is quite likely to disturb
the pigment in every possible way in the process of its escape. I have
myself sometimes noticed, when some painted work has been laid aside
unusually long before firing, some white efflorescence or
crystallisation taking place and coming out as a white dust on the
painted surface.

Now it is not necessary to know here, in a scientific or chemical sense,
what has actually taken place. Two things are evident to common sense.
One, that the change is organic, and the other that it is
unpremeditated; and therefore, on both grounds, it is a thing to avoid,
which indeed my friend's scientific explanation sufficiently confirms.
It is well, therefore, on all accounts to paint swiftly and
continuously, and to fire as soon as you can; and above all things not
to let the colour lie about getting stale on the palette. Mix no more
for the day than you mean to use; clean your palette every day or nearly
so; work up all the colour each time you set your palette, and do not
give way to that slovenly and idle practice that is sometimes seen, of
leaving a crust of dry colour to collect, perhaps for days or weeks,
round the edge of the mass on your palette, and then some day, when the
spirit moves you, working this in with the rest, to imperil the safety
of your painting.

_How to Know when the Glass is Fired Sufficiently._--This is told by the
colour as it lies in the kiln--that is, in such a kiln that you can see
the glass; but who can describe a colour? You have nothing for this but
to buy your experience. But in kilns that are constructed with a
peephole, you can also tell by putting in a bright iron rod or other
shining object and holding it over the glass so as to see if the glass
reflects it. If the pigment is raw it will (if there is enough of it on
the glass to cover the surface) prevent the piece of glass from
reflecting the rod; but directly it is fired the pigment itself becomes
glossy, and then the surface will reflect.

This is all a matter of practice; nothing can describe the "look" of a
piece of glass that is fired. You must either watch batch after batch
for yourself and learn by experience, or get a good kiln-man to point
out fired and unfired, and call your attention to the slight shades of
colour and glow which distinguish one from the other.

_On Taking the Glass out of the Fire._--And so you take the glass out of
the fire. In the old kilns you take the fire away from the glass, and
leave the glass to cool all night or so; in the new, you remove it and
leave it in moderate heat at the side of the kiln till it is cool enough
to handle, or nearly cold. And then you hold it up and look at it.




CHAPTER VIII

     The Second Painting--Disappointment with Fired Work--A False
     Remedy--A Useful Tool--The Needle--A Resource of Desperation--The
     Middle Course--Use of the Finger--The Second Painting--Procedure.


And when you have looked at it, as I said just now you should do, your
first thought will be a wish that you had never been born. For no one, I
suppose, ever took his first batch of painted glass out of the kiln
without disappointment and without wondering what use there is in such
an art. For the painting when it went in was grey, and silvery, and
sharp, and crisp, and firm, and brilliant. Now all is altered; all the
relations of light and shade are altered; the sharpness of every
brush-mark is gone, and everything is not only "washed out" to half its
depth, but blurred at that. Even if you could get it, by a second
painting, to look exactly as it was at first, you think: "What a waste
of life! I thought I had done! It was _right_ as it was; I was pleased
so far; but now I am tired of the thing; I don't want to be doing it all
over again."

Well, my dear reader, I cannot tell you a remedy for this state of
things--it is one of the conditions of the craft; you must find by
experience what pigment, and what glass, and what style of using them,
and what amount of fire give the least of these disappointing results,
and then make the best of it; and make up your mind to do without
certain effects in glass, which you find are unattainable.

There is, however, one remedy which I suppose all glass-painters try,
but eventually discard. I suppose we have all passed through the stage
of working very dark, to allow for the firing-off; and I want to say a
word of warning which may prevent many heartaches in this matter. I
having passed through them all, there is no reason why others should.
Now mark very carefully what follows, for it is difficult to explain,
and you cannot afford to let the sense slip by you.

I told you that a film left untouched would always come out as a black
patch against work that was pierced with the scrub, however slightly.

Now, herein lies the difficulty of working with a very thick matt; for
if it is thick enough on the cheek and brow of a face to give strong
modelling when fired, _then whenever it has passed over the previous
outline-painting, for example, in the eyes, mouth, nostrils, &c., you
will find that the two together have become too thick for the scrub to
move._

Now you do not need, as an artist, to be told that it is fatal to allow
_any_ part of your painting to be thus beyond your control; to be
obliged to say, "It's too dark, but unfortunately I have no tools that
will lighten it--it will not yield to the scrub."

However, a certain amount can be done in this direction by using, on the
shadows that are _just_ too strong for the scrub, a tool made by
grinding down on sandpaper a large hog-hair brush, and, of these, what
are called stencil-brushes are as good as any (fig. 45).

You do not use this by dragging it over the glass as you drag a scrub,
but by _pricking_ the whole of the surface which you wish to lighten.
This will make little pinholes all over it, which will be sufficient to
let the patch of shadow gently down to the level of the surrounding
lighter modelling, and will prevent your dark shadows looking like
actual "patches," as we described them doing a little way back.

[Illustration: FIG. 45.]

Further than this you cannot go: for I cannot at all see how the next
process I am to describe can be a good one, though I once thought, as I
suppose most do, that it would really solve the difficulty. What I
allude to is the use of the needle.

_Of Work Etched out with a Needle._--The needle is a very good and
useful tool for stained glass, in certain operations, but I am now to
speak of it as being used over whole areas _as a substitute for the
scrub, in order to deal with a matt too dense for the scrub to
penetrate._

The needle will, to be sure, remove such a matt; that is to say, will
remove lines out of it, quite clear and sharp, and this, too, out of a
matt so dense, that what remains does not fire away much in the kiln.
Here is a tempting thing then! to have one's work unchanged by the fire!
And if you could achieve this without changing the character of the work
for the worse, no doubt this method would be a very fine thing. But let
me trace it step by step and try to describe what happens.

You have painted your outline and you put a very heavy matt over it.

Peril No. 1.--If your matt is so dense that it will not _fire off_, it
must very nearly approach the point of density at which it will _fry_.
How then about the portions of it which have been painted on, as I have
said, over _another_ layer of pigment in the shape of the _outline_?
Here is a _danger_. But even supposing that all is safe, and that you
have just stopped short of the danger point. You have now your dense,
rich, brown matt, with the outline just showing through it. Proceed to
model it with the needle. The first stroke will really frighten you; for
a flash of silver light will spring along after the point of the needle,
so dazzling in contrast to the extreme dark of the matt that it looks as
if the plate had been cut in two, while the matt beside it becomes
pitch-black by contrast. Well, you go on, and by putting more strokes,
and reducing the surrounding darkness generally, you get the drawing to
look grey--but you get it to look like a grey _pen-drawing_ or
_etching_, not like a painting at all. We will suppose that this seems
to you no disadvantage (though I must say, at once, that I think it a
very great one); but now you come to the deep shadows; and these, I need
hardly say, cut themselves out, more than ever, like dark patches or
blots, in the manner already spoken of. You try pricking it with the
brush I have described for that operation, and it will not do it; then
you resort to the needle itself, and you are startled at the little,
hard, glittering specks that come jumping out of the black shadow at
each touch. You get a finer needle, and then you sharpen even that on
the hone; and perhaps then, by pricking gingerly round the edges of the
shadows, you may get the drawing and modelling to melt together fairly
well. But beware! for if there is one dot of light too many, the
expression of the head goes to the winds. Let us say that such a thing
occurs; you have pricked one pinhole too many round the corner of the
mouth.

What can you do?

You take your tracing-brush and try to mend it with a touch of pigment;
and so on, and so on; till you timidly say (feeling as if you had been
walking among egg-shells for the last hour), "Well, I _think_ it will
_do_, and I daren't touch it any more." And supposing by these means you
get a head that looks really what you wanted; the work is all what
glass-painters call "rotten"; liable to flake off at the least touch;
isolated bits of thick crust, cut sheer out from each other, with clear
glass between.

In short, the thing is a niggling and botching sort of process to my
mind, and I hope that the above description is sufficiently life-like to
show that I have really given it a good trial myself--with, as a result,
the conclusion certainly strongly borne home to me, that the delight of
having one's work unchanged by the fire is too dearly purchased at the
cost of it.

_How to get the greatest degree of Strength into your Painting without
Danger._--Short of using a needle then, and a matt that will only yield
to that instrument, I would advise, if you want the work strong, that
you should paint the matt so that it will just yield, and only just, and
that with difficulty, to the scrub; and, before you use this tool, just
pass the finger, lightly, backwards and forwards over the matted
surface. This will take out a shimmer of light here and there, according
to the inequalities of the texture in the glass itself; the first
touches of the scrub will not then look so startling and hard as if
taken out of the dead, even matt; and also this rubbing of the finger
across the surface seems to make the matt yield more easily to the tool.
The dust remaining on the surface perhaps helps this; anyhow, this is as
far as you can go on the side of strength in the work. You can of course
"back" the work, that is, paint on the back as well as the front--a mere
film at the back; but this is a method of a rather doubtful nature. The
pigment on the back does not fire equally well with that on the front,
and when the window is in its place, that side will be, you must bear in
mind, exposed to the weather.

I have spoken incidentally of rubbing the glass with the finger as a
part of painting; but the practice can be carried further and used more
generally than I have yet said: the little "pits" and markings on the
surface of the glass, which I mentioned when I spoke of the "right and
wrong sides" of the material, can be drawn into the service of the
window sometimes with very happy effect. Being treated with matt and
then rubbed with the finger, they often produce very charming varieties
of texture on the glass, which the painter will find many ways of making
useful.

_Of the Second Painting of Glass after it has been Fired._--So far we
have only spoken of the appearance of work after its first fire, and its
influence upon choice of method for _first painting_; but there is of
course the resource which is the proper subject of this chapter, namely,
the second painting.

Very small work can be done with one fire; but only very skilful
painters can get work, on any large scale, strong enough for one fire to
serve, and that only with the use of backing. Of course if very faint
tones of shadow satisfy you, the work can be done with one fire; but if
it is well fired it must almost of necessity be pale. Some people like
it so--it is a matter of taste, and there can be no pronouncement made
about it; but if you wish your work to look strong in light and
shade--stronger than one painting will make it--I advise you, when the
work comes back from the fire and is waxed up for the second time
(which, in any case, it assuredly should be, if only for your judgment
upon it), to proceed as follows.

First, with a tracing-brush, go over all the lines and outlined shadows
that seem too weak, and then, when these touches are quite dry, pass a
thin matt over the whole, and with stippling-brushes of various sizes,
stipple it nearly all away while wet. You will only have about five
minutes in which to deal with any one piece of glass in this way, and in
the case of a head, for example, it needs a skilful hand to complete it
in that short space of time. The best plan is to make several "shots" at
it; if you do not hit the mark the first time, you may the second or the
third. I said "stipple it nearly all away"; but the amount left must be
a matter of taste; nevertheless, you must note that if you do not remove
enough to make the work look "silvery," it is in danger of looking
"muddy." All the ordinary resources of the painter's art may be brought
in here: retouching into the half-dry second matt, dabbing with the
finger--in short, all that might be done if the thing were a
water-colour or an oil-painting; but it is quite useless to attempt to
describe these deftnesses of hand in words: you may use any and every
method of modifying the light and shade that occurs to you.




CHAPTER IX

     Of Staining and Aciding--Yellow Stain--Aciding--Caution required in
     Use--Remedy for Burning--Uses of Aciding--Other Resources of
     Stained-Glass Work.


Yellow stain, or silver stain as some call it, is made in various ways
from silver--chloride, sulphate, and nitrate, I understand, are all
used. The stain is laid on exactly like the pigment, but at the back of
the glass. It does not work very smoothly, and some painters like to mix
it with Venice turpentine instead of water to get rid of this defect;
whichever you use, keep a separate set of tools and a separate palette
for it, and always keep them clean and the stain fresh mixed. Also you
should not fire it with so strong a heat, and therefore, of course, you
should never fire pigment and stain in the same batch in the kiln;
otherwise the stain will probably go much hotter in colour than you
wish, or will get muddy, or will "metal" as painters call it--that is,
get a horny, burnt-sienna look instead of a clear yellow.

_How to Etch the Flash off a Flashed Glass with Acid._--There is only
one more process, having to do with painting, which I shall describe,
and that is "aciding." By this process you can etch the flash off the
flashed glasses where you like. The process is the same as etching--you
"stop-out" the parts that you wish to remain, just as in etching; but
instead of putting the stopping material over the whole bit of glass and
then scratching it off, as you do in copper-plate etching, it is better
for the most part to paint the stopping on where you want it, and this
is conveniently done with Brunswick black, thinned down with turpentine;
if you add a little red lead to it, it does no harm. You then treat it
to a bath of fluoric acid diluted with water and placed in a leaden pan;
or, if it is only a touch you want, you can get it off with a mop of
cotton-wool on a stick, dipped in the undiluted acid; but be careful of
the fumes, for they are very acrid and disagreeable to the eyes and
nose; take care also not to get the acid on your finger-ends or nails,
especially into cuts or sore places. For protection, india-rubber
finger-stalls for finger and thumb are very good, and you can get these
at any shop where photographic materials are sold. If you do get any of
the acid on to your hands or into a cut, wash them with diluted
carbonate of soda or diluted ammonia. The acid must be kept in a
gutta-percha bottle.

When the aciding is done, as far as you want it, the glass must be
thoroughly rinsed in several waters; do not leave any acid remaining, or
it will continue to act upon the glass. You must also be careful not to
use this process in the neighbourhood of any painted work, or, in short,
in the neighbourhood of any glass that is of consequence, the fumes from
the acid acting very strongly and very rapidly. This process, of course,
may be used in many ways: you can, by it, acid out a diaper pattern, red
upon white, white upon red; and blue may be treated in the same fashion;
the white lights upon steel armour, for instance, may be obtained in
this way with very telling effect, getting indeed the beautiful
combination of steely blue with warm brown which we admire so in
Burne-Jones cartoons; for the brown of the pigment will not show warm on
the blue, but will do so directly it passes on to the white of the
acided parts. This is the last process I need describe; the many little
special refinements to be got by playing games with the lead lines; by
thickening and thinning them; by _doubling_ glass, to get depth and
intensity, or to blend new tints;--these and such like are the things
that any artist _who does his own work and practises his own craft_ can
find out, and ought to find out, and is bound to find out, for
himself--they are the legitimate reward of the hand and heart labour
spent, as a craftsman spends them, upon the material. Suffice it to say
that in spite of the great skill which has been employed upon
stained-glass, ancient and modern, and employed in enormous amount; and
in spite of the great and beautiful results achieved; we may yet look
upon stained-glass as an art in which there are still new provinces to
explore--walking upon the old paths, guided by the old landmarks, but
gathering new flowers by the way.

We must now, then, turn our attention to the mechanical processes by
which the stained-glass window is finished off.




CHAPTER X

     Leading-Up and Fixing--Setting out the Bench--Relation of Leading
     to mode of Fixing in the Stone--Process of Fixing--Leading-Up
     Resumed--Straightening the Lead--The "Lathykin"--The
     Cutting-Knife--The Nails--The Stopping-Knife--Knocking Up.


You first place your cut-line, face upward, upon the bench, and pin it
down there. You next cut two "straight-edges" of wood, one to go along
the base line of the section you mean to lead up, and the other along
the side that lies next to you on the bench as you stand at work; for
you always work _from one side_, as you will soon see. And it is
important that you should get these straight-edges at a true right
angle, testing them carefully with the set-square. Fig. 46 represents a
bench set out for leading-up.

You must now build the glass together, as a child puts together his
puzzle-map, one bit at a time, working from the base corner that is
opposite your left hand.

But first of all you must place a strip of extra wide and flat lead
close against each of your straight-edges, so that the core of the lead
corresponds with the outside line of your work.

[Illustration: FIG. 46.]

It will be right here to explain what relation the extreme outside
measurement of your work should bear to the daylight sizes of the
openings that it has to fill. I think we may say that, whatever the
"mouldings" may be on the stone, there is always a flat piece at exact
right angles to the face of the wall in which the window stands, and it is
in this flat piece that the groove is cut to receive the glass (fig. 47).

[Illustration: FIG. 47.]

Now, as the glazed light has to _fill_ the daylight opening, there must
obviously be a piece beyond the "daylight" size to go into the stone. By
slipping the glazed light in _sideways_, and even, in large lights, by
_bending_ it slightly into a bow, you can just get into the stone a
light an inch, or nearly so, wider than the opening; but the best way is
to use an extra wide lead on the outside of your light, and bend back
the outside leaf of it both front and back so that they stand at right
angles to the surface of the glass (fig. 48). By this means you can
reduce the size of the panel by almost 1/4 of an inch on each side; you
can push the panel then, without either bending or slanting it much, up
to its groove; and, putting one side as far as it will go _into_ the
groove, you can bend back again into their former place the two leaves
of the lead on the opposite side; and when you have done that slide
_them_ as far as they will go into _their_ groove, and do the same by
the opposite pair. You will then have the panel in its groove, with
about 1/4 of an inch to hold by and 1/4 of an inch of lead showing. Some
people fancy an objection to this; perhaps in very small windows it
might look better to have the glass "flush" with the stone; but for
myself I like to see a little _showing_ of that outside lead, on to
which so many of the leads that cross the glass are fastened. Anyway you
must bear the circumstance in mind in fixing down your straight-edges to
start glazing the work; and that is why I have made this digression by
mentioning now something that properly belongs to fixing.

[Illustration: FIG. 48.]

Now before beginning to glaze you must stretch and straighten the lead;
and this is done as follows (fig. 49--_Frontispiece_).

Hold the "calm" of lead in your left hand, and run the finger and thumb
of your right hand down the lead so as to get the core all one way and
not at all twisted: then, holding one end firmly under your right foot,
take tight hold of the other end with your pliers, and pull with nearly
all your force in the direction of your right shoulder. Take care not to
pull in the direction of your face; for if you do, and the lead breaks,
you will break some of your features also. It is very important to be
careful that the lead is truly straight and not askew, otherwise, when
you use it in leading, the glass will never keep flat. The next
operation is to open the lead with a piece of hard wood, such as boxwood
or _lignum-vitæ_ (fig. 50), made to your fancy for the purpose, but
something like the diagram, which glaziers call a "lathykin" (as I
understand it). For cutting the lead you must have a thin knife of good
steel. Some use an old dinner-knife, some a palette-knife cut
down--either square across the blade or at an angle--it is a matter of
taste (fig. 51).

[Illustration: FIG. 50.]

[Illustration: FIG. 51.]

Having laid down your leads A and B (fig. 52), put in the corner piece
of glass (No. 1); two of its sides will then be covered, leaving one
uncovered. Take a strip of lead and bend it round the uncovered edge,
and cut it off at D, so that the end fits close and true against the
_core_ of lead A. And you must take notice to cut with a perfectly
_vertical_ cut, otherwise one side will fit close and the other will
leave a gap.

[Illustration: FIG. 52.]

In fig. 53 A represents a good joint, B a bad one. Bend it round and cut
it off similarly at E. Common sense will tell you that you must get the
angle correct by marking it with a slight incision of the knife in its
place before you take it on to the bench for the final cut.

Slip it in, and push it in nice and tight, and put in piece No. 2.

[Illustration: FIG. 53]

But now look at your cut-line. Do you see that the inner edges of pieces
2, 3, and 4 all run in a fairly smooth curve, along which a _continuous_
piece of lead will bend quite easily? Leave, then, that edge, and put
in, first, the leads which divide No. 2 from No. 3, and No. 3 from No.
4. Now don't forget! the long lead has to come along the inside edges of
all three; so the leaf of it will overlap those three edges nearly 1/8
of an inch (supposing you are using lead of 1/4 inch dimension). You
must therefore cut the two little bits we are now busy upon _1/8 of an
inch short of the top edge of the glass_ (fig. 54), for the inside leads
only _meet_ each other; it is only the _outside_ lead that overlaps.

[Illustration: FIG. 54.]

_How the Loose Glass is held in its place while Leading._--This is done
with nails driven into the glazing table, close up against the edge of
the lead; and the best of all for the purpose are bootmakers' "lasting
nails"; therefore no more need be said about the matter; "use no other"
(fig. 55).

[Illustration: FIG. 55.]

And you tap them in with two or three sharp taps; not of a hammer, for
you do not want to waste time taking up a fresh tool, but with the end
of your leading-knife which is called a "stopping-knife" (fig. 56), and
which lead workers generally make for themselves out of an oyster-knife,
by bending the blade to a convenient working angle for manipulating the
lead, and graving out lines in the lower part of the handle, into which
they run solder, terminating it in a solid lump at the butt-end which
forms an excellent substitute for a hammer.

[Illustration: FIG. 56.]

Now as soon as you have got the bits 1, 2, 3, 4 in their places, with
the leads F, G and H, I between them, you can take out the nails along
the line K, F, H, M, one by one as you come to them, starting from K;
and put along that line one lead enclosing the whole lot, replacing the
nails outside it to keep all firm as you work; and you must note that
you should look out for opportunities to do this always, whenever there
is a long line of the cut-line without any abrupt corners in it. You
will thus save yourself the cutting (and afterwards the soldering) of
unnecessary joints; for it is always good to save labour where you can
without harm to the work; and in this case the work is all the better
for it.

Now, when you have thus continued the leading all the way across the
panel, put on the other outside lead, and so work on to a finish.

When the opposite, outside lead is put on, remove the nails and take
another straight-edge and put it against the lead, and "knock it up" by
hitting the straight-edge until you get it to the exact size; at the
same time taking your set-square and testing the corners to see that all
is at right angles.

Leave now the panel in its place, with the straight-edges still
enclosing it, and solder off the joints.




CHAPTER XI

     Soldering--Handling the Leaded Panel--Cementing--Recipe for
     Cement--The Brush--Division of Long Lights into Sections--How
     Joined when Fixed--Banding--Fixing--Chipping out the Old
     Glazing--Inserting the New and Cementing.


If the leads have got _tarnished_ you may brush them over with the wire
brush (fig. 57), which glaziers call a "scratch-card"; but this is a
wretched business and need never be resorted to if you work with good
lead and work "fresh and fresh," and finish as you go, not letting the
work lie about and get stale. Take an old-fashioned tallow "dip" candle,
and put a little patch of the grease over each joint, either by rubbing
the candle itself on it, or by melting some of it in a saucepan and
applying it with a brush. Then take your soldering-iron (fig. 58) and
get it to the proper heat, which you must learn by practice, and proceed
to "tin" it by rubbing it on a sheet of tin with a little solder on it,
and also some resin and a little glass-dust, until the "bit" (which is
of copper) has a bright tin face. Then, holding the stick of solder in
the left hand, put the end of it down close to the joint you wish to
solder, and put the end of the iron against it, "biting off" as it were,
but really _melting_ off, a little bit, which will form a liquid drop
upon the joint. Spread this drop so as to seal up the joint nice and
smooth and even, and the thing is done. Repeat with all the joints; then
turn the panel over and do the opposite side.

[Illustration: FIG. 57.]

[Illustration: FIG. 58.]

_How to Handle Leaded Lights._--I said "turn the panel over." But that
brings to mind a caution that you need about the handling of leaded
lights. You must not--as I once saw a man do--start to hold them as a
waiter does a tray. You must note that thin glass in the sheet and also
leaded lights, especially before cementing, are not rigid, and cannot be
handled as if they were panels of wood; you must take care, when
carrying them, or when they lean against the wall, to keep them as
nearly upright as they will safely stand, and the inside one leaning
against a board, and not bearing its own weight. And in laying them on
the bench or in lifting them off it, you must first place them so that
the middle line of them corresponds with the edge of the bench, or
table, and then turn them on that as an axis, quickly, so that they do
not bear their own weight longer than necessary (figs. 59 and 60).

_How to Cement a Leaded Light._--The next process is the cementing of
the light so as to fill up the grooves of the lead and make all
weather-proof. This is done with a mixture composed as follows:--
Whitening, 2/3 to plaster of Paris 1/3; add a mixture of equal
quantities of boiled linseed-oil and spirit of turpentine to make a
paste about as thick as treacle. Add a little red lead to help to harden
it, some patent dryer to cause it to dry, and lamp-black to colour.

This must be put in plenty on to the surface of the panel and well
scrubbed into the joints with a hard fibre brush; an ordinary coarse
"grass brush" or "bass brush," with wooden back, as sold for scrubbing
brushes at the oil shops, used in all directions so as to rub the stuff
into every joint.

But you must note that if you have "plated" (_i.e._ doubled) any of the
glass you must, before cementing, _putty_ those places. Otherwise the
cement may probably run in between the two, producing blotches which you
have no means of reaching in order to remove them.

[Illustration: FIG. 59.]

You can, if you like, clean away all the cement along the edges of the
leads; but it is quite easy to be too precise and neat in the matter and
make the work look hard. If you do it, a blunted awl will serve your
turn.

[Illustration: FIG. 60.]

One had better mention everything, and therefore I will here say that,
of course, a large light must be made in sections; and these should not
exceed four feet in height, and less is better. In fixing these in their
place when the window is put up (an extra wide flat lead being used at
the top and bottom of each section), they are made to overlap; and if
you wish the whole drainage of the window to pass into the building, of
course you will put your section thus--(fig. 61 A); while if you wish
the work to be weather-tight you will place it thus--(fig. 61 B). It is
just as well to make every question clear if one can, and therefore I
mention this. Most people like their windows weather-tight, and, of
course, will make the overlapping lead the top one; but it's a free
country, and I don't pretend to dictate, content if I make the situation
clear to you, leaving you to deal with it according to your own fancy.
All is now done except the banding.

[Illustration: FIG. 61 A.]

[Illustration: FIG. 61 B.]

_How to Band a Leaded Light._--Banding means the putting on of the
little ties of copper wire by which the window has to be held to the
iron crossbars that keep it in its place. These ties are simply short
lengths of copper wire, generally about four inches long, but varying,
of course, with the size of the bar that you mean to use; and these are
to be soldered vertically (fig. 62) on to the face of the light at any
convenient places along the line where the bar will cross. In fixing the
window, these wires are to be pulled tight round the bar and twisted up
with pliers, and the twisted end knocked down flat and neat against the
bar.

And this is the very last operation in the making of a stained-glass
window. It now only remains to instruct you as to what relates to the
fixing of it in its place.

_How to Fix a Window in its Place._--There is, almost always, a groove
in the stonework to receive the glass; and, except in the case of an
unfinished building, this is, of course, occupied by some form of plain
glazing. You must remove this by chipping out with a small mason's
chisel the cement with which it is fixed in the groove, and common sense
will tell you to begin at the bottom and work upwards. This done,
untwist the copper bands from the bars and put your own glass in its
place, re-fixing the bars (or new ones) in the places you have
determined on to suit your design and to support the glass, and fixing
your glass to them in the way described, and pointing the whole with
good cement. The method of inserting the new glass is described at p.
135.

[Illustration: FIG. 62.]

But that it is good for a man to feel the satisfaction of knowing his
craft thoroughly there would be no need to go into this, which, after
all, is partly masons' work. But I, for my part, cannot understand the
spirit of an artist who applies his art to a craft purpose and has not,
at least, a strong _wish_ to know all that pertains to it.




PART II


CHAPTER XII

     Introductory--The Great Questions--Colour--Light--Architectural
     Fitness--Limitations--Thought--Imagination--Allegory.


The foregoing has been written as a handbook to use at the bench, and
therefore I have tried to keep myself strictly to describing the actual
processes and the ordinary practice and routine of stained-glass work.

But can we leave the subject here?

If we were speaking of even the smallest of the minor arts and crafts,
we should wish to say something of why they are practised and how they
should be practised, of the principles that guide them, of the spirit in
which they should be undertaken, of the place they occupy in human
affairs and in our life on earth. How much more then in an Art like
this, which soars to the highest themes, which dares to treat, which is
required to treat, of things Heavenly and Earthly, of the laws of God,
and of the nature, duty, and destinies of man; and not only so, but must
treat of these things in connection with, and in subservience to, the
great and dominant Art of Architecture?

We must not shrink, then, from saying all that is in our mind: we must
ask ourselves the great questions of all art. We must investigate the
How of them, and even face the Why.

Therefore here (however hard it be to do it) something must be said of
such great general principles as those of colour, of light, of
architectural fitness, of limitations, of thought and imagination and
allegory; for all these things belong to stained-glass work, and it is
the right or wrong use of these high things that makes windows to be
good or to be bad.

Let us, dear student, take the simplest things first, not because they
are the easiest (though they perhaps are so), but because they will
gradually, I hope, warm up our wits to the point of considering these
matters, and so prepare the way for what is hardest of all.

And I think a good subject to begin with is that of Economy generally,
taking into consideration both time and materials.




CHAPTER XIII

     Of Economy--The Englishman's Wastefulness--Its Good Side--Its
     Excess--Difficulties--A Calculation--Remedies.


Those who know work in various countries must surely have arrived at the
conclusion that the Englishman is the most wasteful being on the face of
the globe! He only thinks of getting through the work, or whatever it
may be, that he has purposed to himself, attaining the end immediately
in view in the speediest manner possible without regard to anything
else, lavish of himself and of the stuff he works with. The picture
drawn by Robert Louis Stevenson in "Treasure Island" of John Silver and
his pirates, when about to start on their expedition, throwing the
remainder of their breakfast on the bivouac fire, careless whence fresh
supplies might come, is "English all over." This is the character of the
race. It has its good side, this grand disdain--it wins Battles,
Victoria Crosses, Humane Society's medals, and other things well worth
the winning; brings into port many a ship that would else be lost or
abandoned, and, year in, year out, sends to sea the lifeboats on our
restless line of coast. It would be something precious indeed that would
be worth the loss of it; but there is a medium in all things, and when a
master sees--as one now at rest once told me he often had seen--a cutter
draw his diamond down a bit of the margin out of which he had just cut
his piece, in order to make it small enough to throw away, without being
ashamed, under the bench, he must sometimes, I should think, wish the
man were employed on some warlike or adventurous trade, and that he had
a Hollander or Italian in his place, who would make a whole window out
of what the other casts away.

At the same time, it must be confessed that this is a very difficult
matter to arrange; and it is only fair to the workman to admit that
under existing conditions of work and demand, and even in many cases of
the buildings in which the work is done, the way does not seem clear to
have the whole of what might be wished in this matter. I will point out
the difficulties against it.

First, unless some system could be invented by which the amount of glass
issued to any workman could be compared easily and simply with the area
of glazed work cut from it, the workman has no inducement to economise;
for, no record being kept of the glass saved, he knows that he will get
no credit by saving, while the extra time that he spends on economy will
make him seem a slower workman, and so he would be blamed.

Then, again, it is impossible to see the colour of glass as it lies on
the bench; he has little choice but to cut each piece out of the large
sheet; for if he got a clutter of small bits round him till he happened
to want a small bit, he would never be able to get on.

There is no use, observe, in niggling and cheese-paring. There should be
a just balance made between the respective values of the man's time and
the material on which it is spent; and to this end I now give some
calculations to show these--calculations rather startling, considered in
the light of what one knows of the ordinary practices and methods.

The antique glasses used in stained-glass work vary in price from 1s. a
foot to 5s., the weight per foot being about 32 oz.

The wage of the workmen who have to deal with this costly material
varies from 8d. to 1s. per hour.

The price of the same glass thrown under the bench, and known as
"cullet," is £1 per TON.

Let us now do a little simple arithmetic, which, besides its lesson to
the workers, may, I think, come as a revelation even to some employers
who, content with getting work done quickly, may have hardly realised
the price paid for that privilege.

                     1 ton = 20 cwt.
                           x  4
                             --
                             80 qrs.
                           x 28
                            ---
                            640
  32 oz. = 2 lb.,          160
                         -----
           therefore ÷  2) 2240 lbs.
                          -----
                           1120 = number of square feet in a ton.

The worth of this at 1s. a foot (whites) is:--

                     ÷ 20) 1120 ( £56 PER TON.
                           100
                          ----
                            120
                            120

At 2s. 6d. per foot (the best of pot-metal blues, and rubies
generally):--

                               56
                               56
                               28
                              ---
             2-1/2 times 56 = 140        £140 PER TON.

At 5s. a foot (gold-pink, and pale pink, venetian, and choice glasses
generally):--

                               56
                          x     5
                              ---
                             £280 PER TON.

Therefore these glasses are worth respectively--56 times, 140 times, and
280 times as much upon the bench as they are when thrown below it! And
yet I ask you--employer or employed--is it not the case that,
often--shall we not say "generally"?--in any given job as much goes
below as remains above if the work is in fairly small pieces? Is not the
accompanying diagram a fair illustration (fig. 63) of about the average
relation of the shape cut to its margin of waste?

[Illustration: FIG. 63.]

Employers estimate this waste variously. I have heard it placed as high
as two-thirds; that is to say, that the glass, when leaded up, only
measured one-third of the material used, or, in other words, that the
workman had wasted twice as much as he used. This, I admit, was told me
in my character as _customer_, and by way of explaining what I
considered a high charge for work; but I suppose that no one with
experience of stained-glass work would be disposed to place the amount
of waste lower than one-half.

Now a good cutter will take between two and three hours to cut a square
foot of average stained-glass work, fairly simple and large in scale;
that is to say, supposing his pay one shilling an hour--which is about
the top price--the material he deals with is about the same value as his
time if he is using the cheapest glasses only. If this then is the case
when the highest-priced labour is dealing only with the lowest-priced
material, we may assume it as the general rule for stained-glass
cutting, _on the average_, that "_labour is less costly than the
material on which it is spent_," and I would even say much less costly.

But it is not to be supposed that the little more care in avoiding waste
which I am advocating would reduce his speed of work more than would be
represented by two pence or three pence an hour.

But I fear that all suggestions as to mitigating this state of things
are of little use. The remedy is to play into each other's hands by
becoming, all of us, complete, all-round craftsmen; breaking down all
the unnatural and harmful barriers that exist between "artists" and
"workmen," and so fitting ourselves to take an intelligent interest in
both the artistic and economic side of our work.

The possibility of this all depends on the personal relations and
personal influence in any particular shop--and employers and employed
must worry the question out between them. I am content with pointing out
the facts.




CHAPTER XIV

     Of Perfection--In Little Things--Cleanliness--Alertness--But not
     Hurry--Realising your Conditions--False Lead-Lines--Shutting out
     Light--Bars--Their Number--Their Importance--Precedence--Observing
     your Limitations--A Result of Complete Training--The Special
     Limitations of Stained-Glass--Disguising the Lead-Line--No full
     Realism--No violent Action--Self-Effacement--No
     Craft-Jugglery--Architectural Fitness founded on Architectural
     Knowledge--Seeing Work _in Situ_--Sketching in Glass--The Artistic
     Use of the Lead--Stepping Back--Accepting Bars and Leads--Loving
     Care--White Spaces to be Interesting--Bringing out the "Quality" of
     the Glass--Spotting and Dappling--"Builders-Glazing" _versus_
     Modern Restoring.

The second question of principle that I would dwell upon is that of
_perfection_.

Every operation in the arts should be perfect. It has to be so in most
arts, from violin-playing to circus-riding, before the artist dare make
his bow to the public.

Placing on one side the question of the higher grades of art which
depend upon special talent or genius--the great qualities of
imagination, composition, form and colour, which belong to mastership--I
would now, in this book, intended for students, dwell upon those minor
things, the doing of which well or ill depends only upon good-will,
patience, and industry.

Anyone can wash a brush clean; any one can keep the colour on his
palette neat; can grind it all up each time it is used; can cover it
over with a basin or saucer when his work is over; and yet these things
are often neglected, though so easy to do. The painter will _neglect_ to
wash out his brush; and it will be clogged with pigment and gum, get
dry, and stick to the palette, and the points of the hair will tear and
break when it is removed again by the same careless hand that left it
there.

Another will leave portions of his colour, caked and dry, at the edges
of his palette for weeks, till all is stale; and then, when the spirit
moves him, will some day work this in, full of dirt and dust, with the
fresher colour. Everything, everything should be done well! From the
highest forms of painting to tying up a parcel or washing out a
brush;--all tools should be clean at all times, the handles as well as
the hair--there is _no excuse_ for the reverse; and if your tools are
dirty, it is by the same defect of your character that will make you
slovenly in your work. Painting does not demand the same actual
_swiftness_ as some other arts; nevertheless each touch that you place
upon the glass, though it may be deliberate, should be deft, athletic,
perfect in itself; the nerves braced, the attention keen, and the powers
of soul and body as much on the alert as they would need to be in
violin-playing, fencing, or dissecting.

This is not to advocate _hurry_. That is another matter altogether, for
which also there is no excuse. Never hurry, or ask an assistant to
hurry. Windows are delayed, even promises broken (though that can scarce
be defended), there may be "ire in celestial minds"; but that is all
forgotten when we are dead; and we soon shall be, but not the window.

Another thing to note, which applies generally throughout all practice,
is the wisdom, of getting as near as you can to your conditions. For
instance, the bits of glass in a window are separated by lead lines;
pitch-black, therefore, against the light of day outside. Now, when
waxed up on the plate in the shop for painting, these will be separated
by thin cracks of light, and in this condition they are usually painted.
Can't you do better than that? Don't you think it's worth while spending
half-an-hour to paint false lead lines on the back of the plate? A
ha'p'orth of lamp-black from the oil-shop, with a little water and
treacle and a long-haired brush, like a coach-painter's, will do it for
you (see Plate XIII.).

Another thing: when the window is in its place, each _light_ will be
surrounded with stone or brick, which, although not so black as the
lead lines, will tell as a strong dark against the glass. See therefore
that while you are painting, your glass is surrounded by dark, or at any
rate not by clear, glittering light. Strips of brown paper, pinned down
the sides of the light you are painting, will get the thing quite near
to its future conditions.

As you have been told, the work is fixed in its place by bars of iron,
and these ought by no means to be despised or ignored or disguised, as
if they were a troublesome necessity: you must accept fully and
willingly the conditions of your craft; you must pride yourself upon so
accepting them, knowing that they are the wholesome checks upon your
liberty and the proper boundaries of the field in which you have your
appointed work. There should, in any light more than a foot wide, be
bars at every foot throughout the length of the light; and these bars
should be 1/2 inch, 3/4 inch, or 1 inch in section, according to the
weight of the work. The question then arises: Should the bars be set out
in their places on the paper, before you begin to draw the cartoon, or
should you be perfectly free and unfettered in the drawing and then
_make_ the bars fit in afterwards, by moving them up and down as may be
needed to avoid cutting across the faces, hands, &c.

I find more difficulty in answering this than any other _technical_
question in this book. I do not think it can be answered with a hard and
fast "Yes" or "No." It depends on the circumstances of the case. But I
incline towards the side of making it the rule to put the bars in first,
and adapt the composition to them. You may think this a surprising view
for an artist to take. "Surely," you will say, "that is putting the cart
before the horse, and making the more important thing give way to the
less!" But my feeling is that reasonable limitations of any kind ought
never to be considered as hindrances in a work of art. They are part of
the problem, and it is only a spirit of dangerous license which will
consider them as bonds, or will find them irksome, or wish to break them
through. Stained-glass is not an independent art. It is an accessory to
architecture, and any limitations imposed by structure and architectural
propriety or necessity are most gravely to be considered and not lightly
laid on one side. And in this connection it must be remembered that the
bars cannot be made to go _anywhere_ to fit a freely designed
composition: they must be approximately at certain distances on account
of use; and they must be arranged with regard to each other in the whole
of the window on account of appearance.

You might indeed find that, in any single light, it is quite easy to
arrange them at proper and serviceable distances, without cutting across
the heads or hands of the figures; but it is ten chances to one that you
can get them to do so, and still be level with each other, throughout a
number of lights side by side.

The best plan, I think, is to set them out on the side of the
cartoon-paper before you begin, but not so as to notice them; then first
roughly strike out the position your most important groups or figures
are to occupy, and, before you go on with the serious work of drawing,
see if the bars cut awkwardly, and, if they do, whether a slight
shifting of them will clear all the important parts; it often will, and
then all is well; but I do not shrink from slightly altering even the
position of a head or hand, rather than give a laboured look to what
ought to be simple and straightforward by "coaxing" the bars up and down
all over the window to fit in with the numerous heads and hands.

If, by the way, I see fit in any case to adopt the other plan, and make
my composition first, placing the bars afterwards to suit it, I never
allow myself to shift them from the level that is convenient and
reasonable for anything _except_ a head; I prefer even that they should
cut across a hand, for instance, rather than that they should be placed
at inconvenient intervals to avoid it.

The principle of observing your limitations is, I do not hesitate to
say, the most important, and far the most important, of all principles
guiding the worker in the right practising of any craft.

The next in importance to it is the right exercise of all legitimate
freedom _within_ those limitations. I place them in this order, because
it is better to stop short, by nine-tenths, of right liberty, than to
take one-tenth of wrong license. But by rights the two things should go
together, and, with the requisite skill and training to use them,
constitute indeed the whole of the practice of a craft.

Modern division of labour is much against both of these things, the
observance of which charms us so in the ancient Gothic Art of the Middle
Ages.

For, since those days, the craft has never been taught as a whole.
Reader! this book cannot teach it you--no book, can; but it can make
you--and it was written with the sole object of making you--_wish_ to be
taught it, and determine to be taught it, if you intend to practise
stained-glass work at all.

Modern stained-glass work is done by numerous hands, each trained in a
special skill--to design, or to paint, or to cut, or to glaze, or to
fire, or to cement--but none are taught to do all; very few are taught
to do more than one or two. How, then, can any either use rightful
liberty or observe rightful limitations? They do not know their craft,
upon which these things depend. And observe how completely also these
two things depend upon each other. You may be rightly free, _because_
you have rightly learnt obedience; you know your limitations, and,
_therefore_, you may be trusted to think, and feel, and act for
yourself.

This is what makes old glass, and indeed all old art, so full of life,
so full of interest, so full of enjoyment--in places, and right places,
so full even of "fun." Do you think the charming grotesques that fill up
every nook and corner sometimes in the minor detail of mediæval glass or
carving could ever be done by the method of a "superior person" making a
drawing of them, and an inferior person laboriously translating them in
_facsimile_ into the material? They are what they are because they were
the spontaneous and allowed license and play of a craftsman who knew his
craft, and could be trusted to use it wisely, at any rate in all minor
matters.


THE LIMITATIONS OF STAINED-GLASS.

The limitations of stained-glass can only be learnt at the bench, and by
years of patient practice and docile service; but it may be well to
mention some of them.

_You must not disguise your lead line._ You must accept it willingly, as
a limitation of your craft, and make it contribute to the beauty of the
whole.

"But I have a light to do of the 'Good Shepherd,' and I want a landscape
and sky, and how ugly lead lines look in a pale-blue sky! I get them
like shapes of cloud, and still it cuts the sky up till it looks like
'random-rubble' masonry." Therefore large spaces of pale sky are
"taboo," they will not do for glass, and you must modify your whole
outlook, your whole composition, to suit what _will_ do. If you must
have sky, it must be like a Titian sky--deep blue, with well-defined
masses of cloud--and you must throw to the winds resolutely all idea of
attempting to imitate the softness of an English sky; and even then it
must not be in a large mass: you can always break it up with
branched-work of trees, or with buildings.

_There should be no full realism of any kind._

_No violent action must assert itself in a window._

I do not say that there must not, in any circumstances, be any violent
action--the subject may demand it; but, if so, it must be so disguised
by the craftsmanship of the work, or treated so decoratively, or so
mixed up with the background or surroundings, that you do not see a
figure in violent action starting prominently out from the window as you
stand in the church. But, after all, this is a thing of artistic sense
and discretion, and no rules can be formulated. The Parthenon frieze is
of figures in rapid movement. Yet what repose! And in stained-glass you
must aim at repose. Remember,--it is an accessory to architecture; and
who is there that does not want repose in architecture? Name me a great
building which does not possess it? How the architects must turn in
their graves, or, if living, shake in their shoes, when they see the
stained-glass man turned into their buildings, to display himself and
spread himself abroad and blow his trumpet!

Efface yourself, my friend; sink yourself; illustrate the building;
consider its lines and lights and shades; enrich it, complete it, make
people happier to be in it.

_There must be no craft-jugglery in stained-glass._

The art must set the craft simple problems; it must not set tasks that
can only be accomplished by trickery or by great effort, disproportioned
to the importance of the result. But, indeed, you will naturally get the
habit of working according to this rule, and other reasonable rules, if
you yourself work at the bench--all lies in that.

_There must be nothing out of harmony with the architecture._

And, therefore, you must know something of architecture, not in order to
imitate the work of the past and try to get your own mistaken for it,
but to learn the love and reverence and joy of heart of the old
builders, so that your spirit may harmonise with theirs.

_Do not shrink from the trouble and expense of seeing the work_ in situ,
_and then, if necessary, removing it for correction and amendment._

If you have a large window, or a series of windows, to do, it is often
not a very great matter to take a portion of one light at least down and
try it in its place. I have done it very often, and I can assure you it
is well worth while.


OF MAKING A SKETCH IN GLASS.

But there is another thing that may help you in this matter, and that is
to sketch out the colour of your window in small pieces of glass--in
fact, to make a scale-sketch of it in glass. A scale of one inch to a
foot will do generally, but all difficult or doubtful combinations of
colour should be sketched larger--full size even--before you venture to
cut.

_Work should be kept flat by leading._

One of the main _artistic_ uses of the leadwork in a window is that, if
properly used, it keeps the work flat and in one plane, and allows far
more freedom in the conduct of your picture, permitting you to use a
degree of realism and fulness of treatment greater than you could do
without it. Work may be done, where this limitation is properly accepted
and used, which would look vulgar without it; and on the other hand, the
most Byzantine rigidity may be made to look vulgar if the lead line is
misused. I have seen glass of this kind where the work was all on one
plane, and where the artist had so far grasped proper principles as to
use thick leads, but had _curved these leads in and out across the folds
of the drapery as if they followed its ridges and hollows_--the thing
becoming, with all its good-will to accept limitations, almost more
vulgar than the discredited "Munich-glass" of a few years ago, which
hated and disguised the lead lines.

_You must step back to look at your work as often and as far as you
can._

_Respect your bars and lead lines, and let them be strong and many._

_Every bit of glass in a window should look "cared for."_

If there is a lot of blank space that you "don't know how to fill," be
sure your design has been too narrowly and frugally conceived. I do not
mean to say that there may not be spaces, and even large spaces, of
plain quarry-glazing, upon which your subject with its surrounding
ornament may be planted down, as a rich thing upon a plain thing. I am
thinking rather of a case where you meet with some sudden lapse or gap
in the subject itself or in its ornamental surroundings. This is apt
specially to occur where it is one which leads rather to pictorial
treatment, and where, unless you have "canopy" or "tabernacle" work, as
it is called, surrounding and framing everything, you find yourself at a
loss how to fill the space above or below.

Very little can be said by way of general rule about this; each case
must be decided on its merits, and we cannot speak without knowing them.
But two things may be said: First, that it is well to be perfectly bold
(as long as you are perfectly sincere), and not be afraid, merely
because they are unusual, of things that you really would like to do if
the window were for yourself. There are no hard and fast rules as to
what may or may not be done, and if you are a craftsman and designer
also--as the whole purpose of this book is to tell you you must be--many
methods will suggest themselves of making your glass look interesting.
The golden rule is to handle every bit of it yourself, and then you will
_be_ interested in the ingenuity of its arrangement; the cutting of it
into little and big bits; the lacework of the leads; thickening and
thinning these also to get bold contrasts of strong and slender, of
plain and intricate; catching your pearly glass like fish, in a net of
larger or smaller mesh; for, bear in mind always that this question
relates almost entirely to the _whiter_ glasses. Colour has its own
reason for being there, and carries its own interest; but the most
valuable piece of advice that I can think of in regard to stained-glass
_treatment_ (apart from the question of subject and meaning) is to _make
your white spaces interesting_.

The old painters felt this when they diapered their quarry-glazing and
did such grisaille work as the "Five Sisters" window at York. Every bit
of this last must have been put together and painted by a real craftsman
delighting in his work. The drawing is free and beautiful; the whole work
is like jewellery, the colour scheme delightfully varied and irregular.
The work was loved: each bit of glass was treated on its merits as it
passed through hand. Working in this way all things are lawful; you may
even put a thin film of "matt" over any piece to lower it in tone and give
it richness, or to bring out with emphasis some quality of its texture.
Some bits will have lovely streaks and swirling lines and bands in
them--"reamy," as glass-cutters call it--or groups of bubbles and spots,
making the glass like agate or pebble; and a gentle hand will rub a little
matt or film over these, and then finger it partly away to bring out its
quality, just as a jeweller foils a stone. This is quite a different thing
from smearing a window all over with dirt to make it a sham-antique; and
where it is desirable to lower the tone of any white for the sake of the
window, and where no special beauties of texture exist, it is better, I
think, to matt it and then take out simple _patterns_ from the matt: not
_outlined_ at all, but spotted and streaked in the matt itself,
chequered and petalled and thumb-marked, just as nature spots and
stripes and dapples, scatters daisies on the grass and snowflakes in the
air, and powders over with chessboard chequers and lacings and "oes and
eyes of light," the wings of butterflies and birds.

So man has always loved to work when he has been let to choose, and when
nature has had her way. Such is the delightful art of the basket and
grass-cloth weaver of the Southern seas; of the ancient Cyprian potter,
the Scandinavian and the Celt. It never dies; and in some quiet,
merciful time of academical neglect it crops up again. Such is the,
often delightful, "builders-glazing" of the "carpenters-Gothic" period,
or earlier, when the south transept window at Canterbury, and the east
and west windows at Cirencester, and many such like, were rearranged
with old materials and new by rule of thumb and just as the glazier
"thought he would." Heaven send us nothing worse done through too much
learning! I daresay he shouldn't have done it; but as it came to him to
do, as, probably, he was ordered to do it, we may be glad he did it just
so. In the Canterbury window, for instance, no doubt much of the old
glass never belonged to that particular window; it may have been,
sinfully, brought there from windows where it did belong. At Cirencester
there are numbers of bits of canopy and so forth, delightful
fifteenth-century work, exquisitely beautiful, put in as best they could
be; no doubt from some mutilated window where the figures had been
destroyed--for, if my memory serves me, most of them have no figures
beneath--and surrounded by little chequered work, and stripes and
banding of the glaziers' own fancy. A modern restorer would have
delighted to supply sham-antique saints for them, imitating
fifteenth-century work (and deceiving nobody), and to complete the
mutilated canopies by careful matching, making the window entirely
correct and uninteresting and lifeless and accomplished and forbidding.
The very blue-bottles would be afraid to buzz against it; whereas here,
in the old church, with the flavour of sincerity and simplicity around
them, at one with the old carving and the spirit of the old time, they
glitter with fresh feeling, and hang there, new and old together,
breaking sunlight; irresponsible, absurd, and delightful.




CHAPTER XV

     A Few Little Dodges--A Clumsy Tool--A Substitute--A Glass Rack--An
     Inconvenient Easel--A Convenient Easel--A Waxing-up Tool--An Easel
     with Movable Plates--Making the most of a Room--Handling
     Cartoons--Cleanliness--Dust--The Selvage Edge--Drying a "Badger"--A
     Comment.


Here, now, follow some little practical hints upon work in general; mere
receipts; description of time-saving methods and apparatus which I have
separated from the former part of the book; partly because they are
mostly exceptions to the ordinary practice, and partly because they are
of general application, the common-sense of procedure, and will, I hope,
after you have learnt from the former parts of the book the individual
processes and operations, help you to marshal these, in order and
proportion, so as to use them to the greatest advantage and with the
best results. And truly our stained-glass methods are most wasteful and
bungling. The ancient Egyptians, they say, made glass, and I am sure
some of our present tools and apparatus date from the time of the
Pyramids.


A CLUMSY KILN-FEEDER.

What shall we say, for instance, of this instrument (fig. 64), used for
loading some forms of kiln?

[Illustration: FIG. 64.]

The workman takes the ring-handle in his right hand, rests the shaft in
the crook of his left elbow, puts the fork under an iron plate loaded
with glass and weighing about forty pounds, and then, with tug and
strain, lifts it, ready to slip off and smash at any moment, and,
grunting, transfers it to the kiln. A little mechanical appliance would
save nine-tenths of the labour, a stage on wheels raised or lowered at
will (a thing which surely should not be hard to invent) would bring it
from the bench to the kiln, and _then_, if needs be, and no better
method could be found, the fork might be used to put it in.

Meanwhile, as a temporary step in the right direction, I illustrate a
little apparatus invented by Mr. Heaton, which, with the tray made of
some lighter substance than iron, of which he has the secret, decreases
the labour by certainly one-third, and I think a half (fig. 65).

[Illustration: FIG. 65.]

It is indeed only a sort of half-way house to the right thing, but,
tested one against the other with equal batches of plates, its use is
certainly less laborious than that of the fork. And that is a great
gain; for the consequence of these rough ways is that the kiln-man, whom
we want to be a quiet, observant man, with plenty of leisure and with
all his strength and attention free to watch the progress of a process
or experiment, like a chemist in his laboratory, has often two-thirds of
it distracted by the stress of needless work which is only fit for a
navvy, and the only tendency of which can be towards turning him into
one.

[Illustration: FIG. 66.]


A GLASS-RACK FOR WASTE PIECES.

Then the cutter, who throws away half the stuff under his bench! How
easy it would be, if things were thought of from the beginning and the
place built for the work, to have such width of bench and space of
window that, along the latter, easily and comfortably within reach,
should run stages, tier above tier, of strong sheet or thin plate glass,
sloping at such an angle that the cuttings might lie along them against
the light, with a fillet to stop them from falling off. Then it would be
a pleasure, as all handy things are, for the workman to put his bits of
glass there, and when he wanted a piece of similar colour, to raise his
head and choose one, instead of wastefully cutting a fresh piece out of
the unbroken sheet, or wasting his time rummaging amongst the bits on
the bench. A stage on the same principle for _choosing_ glass is
illustrated in fig. 67.

But it is in easels that improvement seems most wanted and would be most
easy, and here I really must tell you a story.


AN INCONVENIENT EASEL.

Having once some very large lights to paint, against time, the friends
in whose shop I was to work (wishing to give me every advantage and to
_save time_), had had special easels made to take in the main part of
each light at once. But an "Easel," in stained-glass work, meaning
always the single slab of plate-glass in a wooden frame, these were of
that type. I forget their exact size and could hazard no guess at their
weight, but it took four men to get one from the ground on to the bench.
Why, I wanted it done a dozen times an hour! and should have wished to
be able to do it at any moment. Instead of that it was, "Now then, Bill;
ease her over!" "Steady!" "Now lift!" "All together, boys!" and so
forth. I wonder there wasn't a strike! But did no one, then, ever see in
a club or hotel a plate-glass window about as big as a billiard-table,
and a slim waiter come up to it, and, with a polite "Would you like the
window open, sir?" quietly lift it with one hand?

[Illustration: FIG. 67.]


A CONVENIENT EASEL.

Fig. 68 is a diagram of the kind of easel I would suggest. It can either
stand on the bench or on the floor, and with the touch of a hand can be
lifted, weighing often well over a hundredweight, to any height the
painter pleases, till it touches the roof, enabling him to see at any
moment the whole of his work at a distance and against the sky, which
one would rather call an absolute necessity than a mere convenience or
advantage.

Some of these things were thought out roughly by myself, and have been
added to and improved from time to time by my painters and apprentices,
a matter which I shall say a word on by-and-by, when we consider the
relations which should exist between these and the master.


AN IMPROVED TOOL FOR WAXING-UP.

Meanwhile here is another little tool (fig. 69), the invention of one of
my youngest "hands" (and heads), and really a praiseworthy invention,
though indeed a simple and self-evident matter enough. The usual tool
for waxing-up is (1) a strip of glass, (2) a penknife, (3) a stick of
wood. The thing most to be wished for in whatever is used being, of
course, that it _should retain the heat_. This youth argued: "If they
use copper for soldering-bits because it retains heat so well, why not
use copper for the waxing-up tool? besides, it can be made into a pen
which will hold more wax."

[Illustration: FIG. 68.]

[Illustration: FIG. 69.]

So said, so done; nothing indeed to make a fuss about, but part of a
very wholesome spirit of wishing to work with handy tools economically,
instead of blundering and wasting.


AN EASEL WITH MOVABLE PLATES.

But to return for a moment to the easel. I find it very convenient not
to have it made all of one plate of glass, but to divide it so that
about four plates make the whole easel of five feet high. These plates
slip in grooves, and can be let in either at the top or bottom, the
latter being then stopped by a batten and thumbscrews. By this means a
light of any length can be painted in sections without a break. For
supposing you work from below upwards, and have done the first five feet
of the window, take out all the glass except the top plate, _shift this
down to the bottom_, and place three empty plates above it, and you can
join the upper work to the lower by the sample of the latter left in its
place to start you.


HOW TO MAKE THE MOST OF A ROOM.

The great point is to be able to get away as far as you can from your
work. And I advise you, if your room is small, to have a fair-sized
mirror (a cheval-glass) and place it at the far end of your room
opposite the easel where you are painting, and then, standing close by
the side of your easel, look at your work in the mirror. This will
double the distance at which you see it, and at the same time present it
to you reversed; which is no disadvantage, for you then see everything
under a fresh aspect and so with a fresh eye. Of course, by the use of
two mirrors, if they be large enough, you can put your work away to any
distance. You must have seen this in a restaurant where there were
mirrors, and where you have had presented to you an endless procession
of your own head, first front then back, going away into the far
distance.


HOW TO HANDLE CARTOONS.

Well, it's really like insulting your intelligence! And if I hadn't seen
fellows down on their hands and knees rolling and unrolling cartoons
along the dirty floor, and sprawling all over the studio so that
everybody had to get out of the way into corners, I wouldn't spend paper
and ink to tell you that by standing the roll _upright_ and spinning it
gently round with your hands, freeing first one edge and then another,
you can easily and quietly unroll and sort out a bundle of a dozen
cartoons, each twenty feet long, on the space of a small hearth-rug; but
so it is (fig. 70), and in just the same way you can roll them up again.


NEATNESS AND CLEANLINESS.

You should have drawers in the tables, and put the palettes away in
these with the colour neatly covered over with a basin when you leave
work. Dust is a great enemy in a stained-glass shop, and it must be kept
at arm's length.


YOU MUST TEAR OFF THE SELVAGE EDGE OF YOUR TRACING CLOTH,
otherwise the tracing cloth being all cockled at the edge, which,
however, is not very noticeable, will not lie flat, and you will be
puzzled to know why it is that you cannot get your cut-line straight;
tear off the edge, and it lies perfectly flat, without a wrinkle.


HOW TO DRY A BIG BRUSH OR BADGER AFTER IT IS WASHED.

I expect you'd try to dry it in front of the fire, and there'd be a
pretty eight-shilling frizzle! But the way is this: First sweep the wet
brush downwards with all your force, just as you shake the worst of the
wet off a dripping umbrella, then take the handle of the brush _between
the palms of your hands_, with the hair pointing downwards, and rub your
hands smartly together, with the handle between them, just as an Italian
waiter whisks up the chocolate. This sends the hair all out like a
Catherine-wheel, and dries the brush with quite astonishing rapidity.
Come now! you'd never have thought of that?

[Illustration: FIG. 70.]

       *       *       *       *       *

And why have I reserved these hints till now? surely these are things of
the work-bench, practical matters, and would have come more conveniently
in their own place? Why have I--do you ask--after arousing your
attention to the "great principles of art," gone back again all at once
to these little matters?

Dear reader, I have done so deliberately to emphasise the _First_ of
principles, that the right learning of any craft is the learning it
under a master, and that all else is makeshift; to drive home the lesson
insisted on in the former volumes of this series of handbooks, and
gathered into the sentence quoted as a motto on the fly-leaf of one of
them, that "An art can only be learned in the workshop of those who are
winning their bread by it."

These little things we have just been speaking of occurred to me after
the practical part was all written; and I determined, since it happened
so, to put them by themselves, to point this very lesson. They are just
typical instances of hundreds of little matters which belong to the
bench and the workshop, and which cannot all be told in any book; and
even if told can never be so fully grasped as they would be if shown by
master to pupil. Years--centuries of practice have made them the
commonplaces of the shops; things told in a word and learnt in an
instant, yet which one might go on for a whole lifetime without thinking
of, and for lack of which our lifetime's work would suffer.

Man's work upon earth is all like that. The things are there under his
very nose, but he never discovers them till some accident shows them;
how many centuries of sailing, think you, passed by before men knew that
the tides went with the moon?

Why then write a book at all, since it is not the best way?

Speaking for myself only, the reasons appear to be: First, because none
of these crafts is at present taught in its fulness in any ordinary
shop, and I would wish to give you at least a longing to learn yours in
that fulness; and, second, because it seems also very advisable to
interest the general reader in this question of the complete teaching of
the crafts to apprentices. To insist on the value and necessity of the
daily and hourly lessons that come from the constant presence, handling,
and use of all the tools and materials, all the apparatus and all the
conditions of the craft, and from the interchange of ideas amongst those
who are working, side by side, making fresh discoveries day by day as to
what materials will do under the changes that occur in conditions that
are ever changing.

However, one must not linger further over these little matters, and it
now becomes my task to return to the great leading principles and try to
deal with them, and the first cardinal principle of stained-glass work
surely is that of COLOUR.




CHAPTER XVI

OF COLOUR


But how hopeless to deal with it by way of words in a book where actual
colour cannot be shown!

Nevertheless, let us try.

       *       *       *       *       *

... One thinks of morning and evening; ... of clouds passing over the
sun; of the dappled glow and glitter, and of faint flushes cast from the
windows on the cathedral pavement; of pearly white, like the lining of a
shell; of purple bloom and azure haze, and grass-green and golden spots,
like the budding of the spring; of all the gaiety, the sparkle, and the
charm.

And then, as if the evening were drawing on, comes over the memory the
picture of those graver harmonies, in the full glow of red and blue,
which go with the deep notes of the great organ, playing requiem or
evening hymn.

Of what use is it to speak of these things? The words fall upon the ear,
but the eye is not filled.

All stained-glass gathers itself up into this one subject; the glory of
the heavens is in it and the fulness of the earth, and we know that the
showing forth of it cannot be in words.

Is it any use, for instance, to speak of these primroses along the
railway bank, and those silver buds of the alder in the hollow of the
copse?

One thinks of a hint here and a hint there; the very sentences come in
fragments. Yet one thing we may say securely: that the practice of
stained-glass is a very good way to _learn_ colour, or as much of it as
can come by learning.

For, consider:--

A painter has his colour-box and palette;

And if he has a good master he may learn by degrees how to mix his
colour into harmonies;

Doing a little first, cautiously;

Trying the problem in one or two simple tints; learning the combinations
of these in their various degrees of lighter or darker:

Exhausting, as much as he can, the possibilities of one or two pigments,
and then adding another and another;

But always with a very limited number of actual separate ones to draw
upon;

All the infinity of the whole world of colour being in his own hands,
and the difficulty of dealing with it laid as a burden upon his own
shoulders, as he combines, modifies, mixes, and dilutes them.

He perhaps has eight or ten spots of pure colour, ranged round his
palette; and all the rest depends upon himself.

This gives him, indeed, one side of the practice of his art; and if he
walks warily, yet daringly, step by step, learning day by day something
more of the powers that lie in each single kind of paint, and as he
learns it applying his knowledge, bravely and industriously, to add
strength to strength, brightness to brightness, richness to richness,
depth to depth, in ever clearer, fuller, and more gorgeous harmony, he
may indeed become a great painter.

But a more timid or indolent man gets tired or afraid of putting the
clear, sharp tints side by side to make new combinations of pure and
vivid colour.

And even a man industrious, alert, and determined may lose his way and
get confused amongst the infinity of choice, through being badly taught,
and especially through being allowed at first too great a range, too
wide a choice, too lavish riches.

A man so trained, so situated, so tempted, stands in danger of being
contented to repeat old receipts and formulas over and over, as soon as
he has acquired the knowledge of a few.

Or, bewildered with the lavishness of his means and confused in his
choice, tends to fall into indecision, and to smear and dilute and
weaken.

I cannot help thinking that it is to this want of a system of gradual
teaching of the elementary stages of colour in painting that we owe, on
the one side, the fashion of calling irresolute and undecided tints
"art" colours; and, on the other hand, the garishness of our modern
exhibitions compared with galleries of old paintings. For Titian's
burning scarlet and crimson and palpitating blue; and Veronese's gold
and green and white and rose are certainly not "art colours"; and I
think we must feel the justice and truth of Ruskin's words spoken
regarding a picture of Linnell's:--

"And what a relief it is for any wholesome human sight, after sickening
itself among the blank horror of dirt, ditchwater, and malaria, which
the imitators of the French schools have begrimed our various Exhibition
walls with, to find once more a bit of blue in the sky and a glow of
brown in the coppice, and to see that Hoppers in Kent can enjoy their
scarlet and purple--like Empresses and Emperors." (Ruskin, "Royal
Academy Notes," 1875.)

From this irresolution and indecision and the dull-colour school
begotten of it on the one hand, and from garishness on the other,
stained-glass is a great means of salvation; for in practising this art
the absolute judgment must, day by day, be exercised between this and
that colour, there present before it; and the will is braced by the
necessity of constant choice and decision. In short, by many of the
modern, academical methods of teaching painting, and especially by the
unfortunate arrangement, where it exists, of a pupil passing under a
succession of different masters, I fear the colour-sense is perplexed
and blunted; while by stained-glass, taught, as all art should be, from
master to apprentice, while both make their bread by it, the
colour-sense would be gradually and steadily cultivated and would have
time to grow.

This at least seems certain: that all painters who have also done
stained-glass, or indeed any other decorative work in colour, get
stronger and braver in painting from its practice. So worked Titian,
Giorgione, Veronese; and so in our days worked Burne-Jones, Rossetti,
Madox-Brown, Morris; and if I were to advise and prate about what is,
perhaps, not my proper business, I would say, even to the student of
oil-painting, "Begin with burnt-umber, trying it in every degree with
white; transparent over opaque and opaque over transparent; trying how
near you can get to purple and orange by contrast (and you will get
nearer than you think); then add sienna at one end and black at the
other to enlarge the range;--and then get a set of glass samples."

I have said that stained-glass is "a great means of salvation," from
irresolution and indecision on the one hand and from garishness on the
other; but it is only a means--the fact of salvation lies always in
one's own hands--for we must, I fear, admit that "garishness" and
"irresolution" are not unknown in stained-glass itself, in spite of the
resources and safeguardings we have attributed to the material.
Speaking, therefore, now to stained-glass painters themselves, we might
say that these faults in their own art, as too often practised in our
days, arise, strange as it may seem, from ignorance of their own
material, that very material the _knowledge_ of which we have just been
recommending as a safeguard against these very faults to the students of
another art.

And this brings us back to our subject.

For the foregoing discussion of painters' methods has all been written
to draw a comparison and emphasise a contrast.

A contrast from which you, student of stained-glass, I hope may learn
much.

For as we have tried to describe the methods of the painter in oil or
water colours, and so point out his advantages and disadvantages, so we
would now draw a picture of the glass-painter at work; if he works as he
should do.

For the painter of pictures (we said) has his colour-box of a few
pigments, from which all his harmonies must come by mixing them and
diluting them in various proportions, dealing with infinity out of a
very limited range of materials, and required to supply all the rest by
his own skill and memory.

Coming each day to his work with his palette clean and his colours in
their tubes;

Beginning, as it were, all over again each time; and perhaps with his
heart cold and his memory dull.

But the glass-painter has his specimens of glass round him; some
hundreds, perhaps, of all possible tints.

He has, with these, to compose a subject in colour;

There is no getting out of it or shirking it;

He places the bits side by side, with no possibility (which the palette
gives) of slurring or diluting or dulling them; he must choose from the
clear hard tints;

And he has the whole problem before him;

He removes one and substitutes another;

"This looks better;" "That is a pleasant harmony;" "Ah! but this makes
it sing!"

He gets them into groups, and combines them into harmonies, tint with
tint, group with group:

If he is wise he has them always by him;

Always ready to arrange in a movable frame against the window;

He cuts little bits of each; he waxes them, or gums them, into groups on
sheets of glass;

He tries all his effects in the glass itself; he sketches in glass.

If he is wise he does this side by side with his water-colour sketch,
making each help the other, and thinking in glass; even perhaps making
his water-colour sketch afterwards from the glass.

Is it not reasonable?

Is it not far more easy, less dangerous?

He has not to rake in his cold and meagre memory to fish out some poor
handful of all the possible harmonies;

To repeat himself over and over again.

He has all the colours burning round him; singing to him to use them;
sounding all their chords.

Is it not the way? Is it not common sense?

Tints! pure tints! What great things they are.

I remember an old joke of the pleasant Du Maurier, a drawing
representing two fashionable ladies discussing the afternoon's
occupation. One says: "It's quite too dull to see colours at Madame St.
Aldegonde's; suppose we go to the Old Masters' Exhibition!"

Rather too bad! but the ladies were not so altogether frivolous as might
at first appear. I am afraid _Punch_ meant that they were triflers who
looked upon colour in dress as important, and colour in pictures as a
thing which would do for a dull day. But they were not quite so far
astray as this! There are other things in pictures besides colour which
can be seen with indifferent light. But to match clear tint against
clear tint, and put together harmonies, there is no getting away from
the problem! It is all sheer, hard exercise; you want all your light for
it; there is no slurring or diluting, no "glazing" or "scumbling," and
it should form a part of the teaching, and yet it never does so, in our
academies and schools of art. A curious matter this is, that a painter's
training leaves this great resource of knowledge neglected, leaves the
whole thing to memory. Out of all the infinite possible harmonies only
getting what rise in the mind at the moment from the unseen. While
ladies who want to dress beautifully look at the things themselves, and
compare one with another. And how nicely they dress. If only painters
painted half as well. If the pictures in our galleries only looked half
as harmonious as the crowd of spectators below them! I would have it
part of every painter's training to practise some craft, or at least
that branch of some craft, which compels the choosing and arranging, in
due proportions for harmony, of clear, sharp glowing colours in some
definite material, from a full and lavish range of existing samples. It
is true that here and there a painter will arise who has by nature that
kind of instinct or memory, or whatever it is, that seems to feel
harmonies beforehand, note by note, and add them to one another with
infallible accuracy; but very few possess this, and for those who lack I
am urging this training. For it is a case of

         "the little more and how much it is,
     And the little less and what worlds away."

Millais hung a daring crimson sash over the creamy-white bed-quilt, in
the glow of the subdued night-lamp, in his picture of "Asleep," and we
all thought what a fine thing it was. But we have not thought it so fine
for the whole art world to burst into the subsequent imitative paroxysm
of crashing discords in chalk, lip-salve, and skim-milk, which has
lasted almost to this day.

At any rate, I throw out this hint for pupils and students, that if they
will get a set of glass samples and try combinations of colour in them,
they will have a bracing and guiding influence, the strength of which
they little dream of, regarding one of the hardest problems of their
art.

This for the student of painting in general: but for the glass-painter
it is absolutely essential--the central point, the breath-of-life of his
art.

To live in it daily and all day.

To be ever dealing with it thus.

To handle with the hands constantly.

To try this piece, and that piece, the little more and the little less.

This is the be-all and end-all, the beginning and the end of the whole
matter, and here therefore follow a few hints with regard to it.

And there is one rule of such dominating importance that all other hints
group themselves round it; and yet, strangely enough, I cannot remember
seeing it anywhere written down.

Take three tints of glass--a purple, let us say, a crimson, and a green.

Let it be supposed that, for some reason, you desire that this should
form a scheme of colour for a window, or part of a window, with, of
course, in addition, pure white, and probably some tints more neutral,
greenish-whites and olives or greys, for background.

You choose your purple (and, by-the-bye, almost the only way to get a
satisfactory one, except by a happy accident now and then, is to double
gold-pink with blue; this is the only way to get a purple that will
vibrate, palpitating against the eye like the petal of a pansy in the
sun). Well, you get your purple, and you get your green--not a
sage-green, or an "art-green," but a cold, sharp green, like a leaf of
parsley, an aquamarine, the tree in the "Eve" window at Fairford, grass
in an orchard about sunset, or a railway-signal lamp at night.

Your crimson like a peony, your white like white silk; and now you are
started.

You put slabs of these--equal-sized samples, we will suppose--side by
side, and see "if they will do."

And they don't "do" at all.

Take away the red.

The green and the purple do well enough, and the white.

But you _want_ the red, you say.

Well, _put back a tenth part of it_.

And how now?

Add a still smaller bit of pale pink.

And how now?

Do you see what it all means? It means the rule we spoke of, and which
we may as well, therefore, now announce:

"HARMONY IN COLOUR DEPENDS NOT ONLY UPON THE ARRANGING OF RIGHT COLOURS
TOGETHER, BUT THE ARRANGING OF THE RIGHT QUANTITIES AND THE RIGHT
DEGREES OF THEM TOGETHER."

To which may be added another, _à propos_ of our bit of "pale pink."

THE HARSHEST CONTRASTS, EVEN DISCORDS, MAY OFTEN BE BROUGHT INTO HARMONY
BY ADDED NOTES.

I believe that these are the two, and I would even almost say the only
two, great leading principles of the science of colour, as used in the
service of Art; and we might learn them, in all their fulness, in a
country walk, if we were simple enough to like things because we like
them, and let the kind nurse, Nature, take us by the hand. This very
problem, to wit: Did you never see a purple anemone? against its green
leaves? with a white centre? and with a thin ring of crimson shaded off
into pink? And did you never wonder at its beauty, and wonder how so
simple a thing could strike you almost breathless with pure physical
delight and pleasure? No doubt you did; but you probably may not have
asked yourself whether you would have been equally pleased if the
purple, green, and red had all been equal in quantity, and the pale pink
omitted.

I remember especially in one particular window where this colour scheme
was adopted--an "Anemone-coloured" window--the modification of the one
splash of red by the introduction of a lighter pink which suggested
itself in the course of work as it went along, and was the pet fancy of
an assistant--readily accepted.

The window in question is small and in nowise remarkable, but it was in
the course of a ride taken to see it in its place, on one of those
glorious mornings when Spring puts on all the pageantry of Summer, that
the thoughts with which we are now dealing, and especially the thoughts
of the infinite suggestion which Nature gives in untouched country and
of the need we have to drink often at that fountain, were borne in upon
the writer with more than usual force.

To take in fully and often the glowing life and strength and renewal
direct from Nature is part of every man's proper manhood, still more
then of every artist's artistry and student's studentship.

And truly 'tis no great hardship to go out to meet the salutary
discipline when the country is beautiful in mid-April, and the road good
and the sun pleasant. The Spring air sets the blood racing as you ride,
and when you stop and stand for a moment to enjoy these things,
ankle-deep in roadside grass, you can seem to hear the healthy pulses
beating and see the wavy line of hills beating with them, as you look at
the sun-warmed world.

It is good sometimes to think where we are in the scheme of things, to
realise that we are under the bell-glass of this balmy air, which shuts
us in, safe from the pitch-dark spaces of infinite cold, through which
the world is sweeping at eighteen miles a second; while we, with all our
little problems to solve and work to do, are riding warm by this
fireside, and the orange-tip butterflies with that curious pertinacity
of flight which is speed without haste are keeping up their incessant,
rippling patrol, to and fro along the length of every sunny lane, above
the ditch-side border of white-blossomed keck!

What has all this to do with stained-glass?

Everything, my boy! Be a human! For you have got to choose your place in
things, and to choose on which side you will work.

A choice which, in these days, more than ever perhaps before, is one
between such things as these and the money-getting which cares so little
for them. I have tried to show you one side by speaking of a little part
of what may be seen and felt on a spring morning, along a ridge of
untouched hills in "pleasant Hertfordshire:"[1] if you want to see the
other side of things ride across to Buntingford, and take the train back
up the Lea Valley. Look at Stratford (and smell it) and imagine it
spreading, as no doubt it will, where its outposts of oil-mill and
factory have already led the way, and think of the valley full up with
slums, from Lea Bridge to Ponders End! For the present writer can
remember--and that not half a lifetime back--Edmonton and Tottenham,
Brondesbury and Upton Park, sweet country villages where quiet people
lived and farmed and gardened amidst the orchards, fields, and hawthorn
lanes.

Here now live, in mile after mile of jerry-building, the "hands" who,
never taught any craft or work worthy of a man, spend their lives in
some little single operation that, as it happens, no machine has yet
been invented to perform; month after month, year after year, painting,
let us say, endless repeats of one pattern to use as they are required for
the borders of pious windows in the churches of this land.

This is the "other side of things," much commended by what is looked on
as "robust common sense"; and with this you have--nothing to do. Your
place is elsewhere, and if it needs be that it seems an isolated one,
you must bear it and accept it. Nature and your craft will solve all;
live in them, bathe in them to the lips; and let nothing tempt you away
from them to measure things by the standard of the mart.

Let us go back to our sunny hillside. "It is good for us to be here,"
for this also is Holy Ground; and you must indeed be much amongst such
things if you would do stained-glass, for you will never learn all the
joy of it in a dusty shop.

"So hard to get out of London?"

But get a bicycle then;--only sit upright on it and go slow--and get
away from these bricks and mortar, to where we can see things like
these! those dandelions and daisies against the deep, green grass; the
blazing candles of the sycamore buds against the purple haze of the oak
copse; and those willows like puffs of grey smoke where the stream
winds. Did you ever? No, you never! Well--do it then!

But indeed, having stated our _principles_ of colour, the practice of
those principles and the influence of nature and of nature's hints upon
that practice are infinite, both in number and variety. The flowers of
the field and garden; butterflies, birds, and shells; the pebbles of the
shore; above all, the dry seaweeds, lying there, with the evening sun
slanting through them. These last are exceedingly like both in colour
and texture, or rather in colour and the amount of translucency, to fine
old stained-glass; so also are dead leaves. But, in short, the thing is
endless. The "wine when it is red" (or amber, as the case may be), even
the whisky and water, and whisky _without_ water, side by side, make
just those straw and ripe-corn coloured golden-yellows that are so hard
to attain in stained-glass (impossible indeed by means of yellow-stain),
and yet so much to be desired and sought after.

Will you have more hints still? Well, there are many tropical
butterflies, chiefly among the _Pierinf_, with broad spaces of yellow
dashed with one small spot or flush of vivid orange or red. Now you know
how terrible yellow and red may be made to look in a window; for you
have seen "ruby" robes in conjunction with "yellow-stain," or the still
more horrible combination where ruby has been acided off from a yellow
base. But it is a question of the actual quality of the two tints and
also of their quantity. What I have spoken of looks horrible because the
yellow is of a brassy tone, as stain so often is, especially on
green-white glasses, and the red inclining to puce--jam-colour. It is no
use talking, therefore, of "red and yellow"--we must say _what_ red and
_what_ yellow, and how much of each. A magenta-coloured dahlia and a
lemon put together would set, I should think, any teeth on edge; yet
ripe corn goes well with poppies, but not too many poppies--while if one
wing of our butterfly were of its present yellow and the other wing of
the same scarlet as the spot, it would be an ugly object instead of one
of the delights of God. It is interesting, it is fascinating to take the
hint from such things--to splash the golden wings of your Resurrection
Angel as he rolls away the stone with scarlet beads of sunrise, not seen
but _felt_ from where you stand on the pavement below. I want the reader
to fully grasp this question of _quantity_, so I will instance the
flower of the mullein which contains almost the very tints of the
"lemon," and the "dahlia" I quoted, and yet is beautiful by virtue of
its _quantities_: which may be said to be of a "lemon" yellow and yet
can bear (ay! can it _not_?) the little crimson stamens in the heart of
it and its sage-green leaves around.

And there is even something besides "tint" and "quantity." The way you
_distribute_ your colour matters very much. Some in washes, some in
splashes, some in spots, some in stripes. What will "not do" in one way
will often be just right in the other: yes, and the very way you treat
your glass when all is chosen and placed together--matt in one place,
film in another, chequering, cross-hatching, clothing the raw glass with
texture and bringing out its nature and its life.

Do not be afraid; for the things that yet remain to do are numberless.
Do you like the look of deep vivid vermilion-red, upon dark cold green?
Look at the hip-loaded rose-briar burning in the last rays of a red
October sunset! You get physical pleasure from the sight; the eye seems
to vibrate to the harmony as the ear enjoys a chord struck upon the
strings. Therefore do not fear. But mind, it must be in nature's actual
colour, not merely "green" and "red": for I once saw the head of a
celebrated tragic actress painted by a Dutch artist who, to make it as
deathly as he could, had placed the ashen face upon a background of
emerald-green with spots of actual red sealing-wax. The eye was so
affected that the colours swung to and fro, producing in a short time a
nausea like sea-sickness. That is not pleasure.

The training of the colour-sense, like all else, should be gradual;
springing as it were from small seed. Be reticent, try small things
first. You are not likely to be asked to do a great window all at once,
even if you have the misfortune to be an independent artist approaching
this new art without a gradual training under the service of others. Try
some simple scheme from the things of Nature. Hyacinths look well with
their leaves: therefore _that_ green and _that_ blue, with the white of
April clouds and the black of the tree-stems in the wood are colours that
can be used together.

You must be prepared to find almost a sort of penalty in this habit of
looking at everything with the eye of a stained-glass artist. One seems
after a time to see natural objects with numbers attached to them
corresponding with the numbers of one's glasses in the racks:
butterflies flying about labelled "No. 50, deep," or "75_a_, pale," or a
bit of "123, special streaky" in the sunset. But if one does not obtrude
this so as to bore one's friends, the little personal discomfort, if it
exists, is a very small price to pay for the delight of living in this
glorious fairyland of colour.

Do not think it beneath your dignity or as if you were shirking some
vital artistic obligation, to take hints from these natural objects, or
from ancient or modern glass, in a perfectly frank and simple manner;
nay, even to match your whole colour scheme, tint for tint, by them if
it seems well to you. You may get help anywhere and from anything, and
as much as you like; it will only be so much more chance for you; so
much richer a store to choose from, so much stronger resource to guide
to good end; for after all, with all the helps you can get, much lies in
the doing. Do what you like then--as a child: but be sure you _do_ like
it: and if the window wants a bit of any particular tint, put it there,
meaning or no meaning. If there is no robe or other feature to excuse
and account for it in the spot which seems to crave for it,--put the
colour in, anywhere and anyhow--in the background if need be--a sudden
orange or ruby "quarry" or bit of a quarry, as if the thing were done in
purest waywardness. "You would like a bit there if there were an excuse
for it?" Then there _is_ an excuse--the best of all--that the eye
demands it. Do it fearlessly.

But to work in this way (it hardly need be said) you must watch and work
at your glass yourself; for these hints come late on in the work, when
colour, light and shade, and design are all fusing together into a
harmony. You can no more forecast these final accidents, which are the
flower and crown and finish of the whole, than you could forecast the
lost "Chord";--

     "Which came from the soul of the organ,
     And entered into mine."

It "comes from the soul" of the window.

We all know the feeling--the climaxes, exceptions, surprises,
suspensions, in which harmony delights; the change from the last bar of
the overture to the first of the opening recitative in the "Messiah,"
the chord upon which the victor is crowned in "The Meistersingers," the
59th and 60th bars in Handel's "Every Valley." (I hope some of us are
"old-fashioned" enough to be unashamed of still believing in Handel!)

Or if it may be said that these are hardly examples of the kind of
accidental things I have spoken of, being rather, indeed, the
deliberately arranged climax to which the whole construction has been
leading, I would instance the 12th (complete) bar in the overture to
"Tannhduser," the 20th and 22nd bar in Chopin's Funeral March, the
change from the minor to major in Schubert's Romance from "Rosamunde,"
and the 24th bar in his Serenade (_Ständchen_), the 13th and following
bars of the Crescendo in the Largo Appassionato of Beethoven's Op. 2. Or
if you wish to have an example where _all_ is exception, like one of the
south nave windows in York Minster, the opening of the "Sonata
Appassionata," Op. 57.

Now how can you forecast such things as these!

Let me draw another instance from actual practice. I was once painting a
figure of a bishop in what I meant to be a dark green robe, the kind of
black, and yet vivid, green of the summer leafage of the oak; for it was
St. Boniface who cut down the heathen oak of Frisia. But the orphreys of
his cope were to be embroidered in gold upon this green, and therefore
the pattern had first to be added out in white upon a blue-flashed
glass, which yellow stain over all would afterwards turn into green and
gold. And when all was prepared and the staining should have followed,
my head man sent for me to come to the shop, and there hung the figure
with its dark green robe with orphreys of _deep blue_ and _silver_.

"I thought you'd like to look at it before we stained it," said he.

"STAIN IT!" I said. "I wouldn't touch it; not for sixpence
three-farthings!"

There was a sigh of relief all round the shop, and the reply was, "Well,
so we all thought!"

Just so; therefore the figure remained, and so was erected in its place.
Now suppose I had had men who did what they were told, instead of being
encouraged to think and feel and suggest?

A serious word to you about this question of staining. It is a resource
very easily open to abuse--to excess. Be careful of the danger, and
never stain without first trying the effect on the back of the
easel-plate with pure gamboge, and if you wish for a very clear
orange-stain, mix with the gamboge a little ordinary red ink. It is too
much the custom to "pick out" every bit of silver "canopy" work with
dottings and stripings of yellow. A _little_ sometimes warms up
pleasantly what would be too cold--and the old men used it with effect:
but the modern tendency, as is the case in all things merely imitative,
is to overdo it. For the old men used it very differently from those who
copy them in the way I am speaking of, and, to begin with, used it
chiefly on _pure white glass_. Much modern canopy work is done on
greenish-white, upon which the stain immediately becomes that
greenish-yellow that I have called "brassy." A little of this can be
borne, when side by side with it is placed stain upon pure white. The
reader will easily find, if he looks for them, plenty of examples in old
glass, where the stain upon the white glass has taken even a _rosy_
tinge exactly like that of a yellow crocus seen through its white
sheath. It is perhaps owing partly to patina on the old glass, which
"scumbles" it; but I have myself sometimes succeeded in getting the same
effect by using yellow-stain on pure white glass. A whole window, where
the highest light is a greenish white, is to me very unpleasant, and
when in addition yellow-stain is used, unbearable. This became a fashion
in stained-glass when red-lead-coloured pigments, started by Barff's
formula, came into general use. They could not be used on pure white
glass, and therefore pure white glass was discarded and greenish-white
used instead. I can only say that if the practice of stained-glass were
presented to me with this condition--of abstaining from the use of pure
white--I would try to learn some useful trade.

There is another question of ideals in the treatment of colour in
stained-glass about which a word must be said.

Those who are enthusiastic about the material of stained-glass and its
improvement are apt to condemn the degree of heaviness with which
windows are ordinarily painted, and this to some extent is a just
criticism. But I cannot go the length of thinking that all matt-painting
should be avoided, and outline only used; or that stained-glass material
can, except under very unusual conditions and in exceptional situations,
be independent of this resource. As to the
slab-glasses--"Early-English," "Norman," or "stamped-circles"--which are
chiefly affected by this question, the texture and surface upon which
their special character depends is sometimes a very useful resource in
work seen against, or partly against, background of trees or buildings;
while against an entirely "borrowed" light perhaps, sometimes, it can
almost dispense with any painting. The grey shadows that come from the
background play about in the glass and modify its tones, doing the work
of painting, and doing it much more beautifully. But this advantage
cannot always be had, for it vanishes against clear sky. It is all,
therefore, a question of situation and of aspect, and I believe the
right rule to be to do in all cases what seems best for every individual
bit of glass--that each piece should be "cared for" on its merits and
"nursed," so to speak, and its qualities brought out and its beauty
heightened by any and every means, just as if it were a jewel to be cut
(or left uncut) or foiled (or left unfoiled)--as Benvenuto Cellini would
treat, as he tells you he _did_ treat, precious stones. There is a
fashion now of thinking that gems should be uncut. Well, gems are hardly
a fair comparison in discussing stained-glass; for in glass what we aim
at is the effect of a composition and combination of a multitude of
things, while gems are individual things, for the most part, to be
looked at separately. But I would not lay down a rule even about gems.
Certainly the universal, awkward, faceting of all precious stones--which
is a relic of the mid-Victorian period--is a vulgarity that one is glad
to be rid of; but if one _wants_ for any reason the special sparkle,
here or there, which comes from it, why not use it? I would use it in
_stained-glass_--have done so. If I have got my window already brilliant
and the whites pure white, and still want, over and above all this, my
"Star of the Nativity," let us say, to sparkle out with a light that
cannot be its own, shall I not use a faceted "jewel" of glass, forty
feet from the eye, where none can see what it is but only what it does,
just because it would be a gross vulgarity to use it where it would
pretend to be a diamond?

The safe guide (as far as there can be a _guide_ where I have maintained
that there should not be a _rule_) is, surely, to generally get the
depth of colour that you want by the glass itself, _if you can_, and
therefore with that aim to deal with rich, full-coloured glass and to
promote its manufacture. But this being once done and the resource
carried to its full limit, there is no reason why you should deny
yourself the further resource of touching it with pigment to any extent
that may seem fit to you as an artist, and necessary to get the effect
of colour and texture that you are aiming at, in the thing seen as a
whole. As to the exaggeration of making accidental streaks in the glass
do duty for folds of drapery, and manufacturing glass (as has been done)
to meet this purpose, I hold the thing to be a gross degradation and an
entire misconception of the relation of materials to art. You may also
lay this to mind, as a thing worthy of consideration, that all old glass
was painted, and that no school of stained-glass has ever existed which
made a principle of refusing this aid. I would never argue from this that
such cannot exist, but it is a thing to be thought on.

Throw your net, then, into every sea, and catch what you can. Learn what
purple is, in the north ambulatory at York; what green is, in the east
window of the same, in the ante-chapel of New College, Oxford, and in
the "Adam and Eve" window in the north aisle at Fairford; what blue and
red are, in the glorious east window of the nave at Gloucester, and in
the glow and gloom of Chartres and Canterbury and King's College,
Cambridge. And when you have got all these things in your mind, and
gathered lavishly in the field of Nature also, face your problem with a
heart heated through with the memory of them all, and with a will braced
as to a great and arduous task, but one of rich reward. For remember
this (and so let us draw to an end), that in any large window the spaces
are so great and the problems so numerous that a _few_ colours and
groupings of colour, however well chosen, will not suffice. Set out the
main scheme of colours first: those that shall lead and preponderate and
convey your meaning to the mind and your intended impression to the eye.
But if you stop here, the effect will be hard and coarse and
cold-hearted in its harmonies, a lot of banging notes like a band all
brass, not out of tune perhaps, but craving for the infinite embroidery
of the strings and wood.

When, therefore, the main relations of colour have been all set out and
decided for your window, turn your attention to _small_ differences, to
harmonies _round_ the harmonies. Make each note into a chord, each tint
into a group of tints, not only the strong and bold, but also the subtle
and tender; do not miss the value of small modifications of tint that
soften brilliance into glow. Study how Nature does it on the petals of
the pansy or sweet-pea. You think a pansy is purple, and there an end?
but cut out the pale yellow band, the orange central spot, the faint
lilacs and whites in between, and where is your pansy gone?

       *       *       *       *       *

And here I must now leave it to you. But one last little hint, and do
not smile at its simplicity.

For the problem, after all, when you have gathered all the hints you can
from nature or the past, and collected your resources from however
varied fields, resolves itself at last into one question--"_How shall I
do it in glass?_" And the practical solving of this problem is in the
handling of the actual bits of coloured glass which are the tools of
your craft. And for manipulating these I have found nothing so good as
that old-fashioned toy--still my own delight when a sick-bed enforces
idleness--the kaleidoscope. A sixpenny one, pulled to pieces, will give
you the knowledge of how to make it; and you will find a "Bath-Oliver"
biscuit-tin, or a large-sized millboard "postal-roll" will make an
excellent instrument. But the former is best, because you also then have
the lid and the end. If you cut away all the end of the lid except a rim
of one-eighth of an inch, and insert in its place with cement a piece of
ground-glass, and then, inside this, have another lid of clear glass
cemented on to a rim of wood or millboard, you can, in the space between
the two, place chips of the glasses you think of using; and, replacing
the whole on the instrument, a few minutes of turning with the hand will
give you, not hundreds, but thousand of changes, both of the
arrangement, and, what is far more important, of the _proportions_ of
the various colours. You can thus in a few moments watch them pass
through an almost infinite succession of changes in their relation to
each other, and form your judgment on those changes, choosing finally
that which seems best. And I really think that the fact of these
combinations being presented to us, as they are by the action of the
instrument, arranged in ordered shapes, is a help to the judgment in
deciding on the harmonies of colour. It is natural that it should be so.
"Order is Heaven's first law." And it is right that we should rejoice in
things ordered and arranged, as the savage in his string of beads, and
reasonable that we should find it easier to judge them in order rather
than confused.

Each in his place. How good a thing it is! how much to be desired! how
well if we ourselves could be so, and know of the pattern that we make!
For our lives are like the broken bits of glass, sadly or brightly
coloured, jostled about and shaken hither and thither, in a seeming
confusion, which yet we hope is somewhere held up to a light in which
each one meets with his own, and holds his place; and, to the Eye that
watches, plays his part in a universal harmony by us, as yet, unseen.

[1] West of the road between Welwyn and Hitchin.




CHAPTER XVII

OF ARCHITECTURAL FITNESS


Come, in thought, reader, and stand in quiet village churches, nestling
amongst trees where rooks are building; or in gaps of the chalk downs,
where the village shelters from the wind; or in stately cathedrals,
where the aisles echo to the footstep and the sound of the chimes comes
down, with the memory of the centuries which have lived and died. Here
the old artists set their handmark to live now they are gone, and we who
see it today see, if our eye be single, with what sincerity they built,
carved, or painted their heart and life into these stones. In such a
spirit and for such a memorial you too must do your work, to be weighed
by the judgment of the coming ages, when you in turn are gone, in the
same balance as theirs--perhaps even side by side with it.

And will you dare to venture? Have no fear if you also bring your best.
But if we enter on work like this as to a mere market for our wares, and
with no other thought than to make a brisk business with those that buy
and sell; we well may pray that some merciful scourge of small cords
drive us also hence to dig or beg (which is more honourable), lest worse
befall us!

And I do not say these things because this or that place is "God's
house." All places are so, and the first that was called so was the bare
hillside; but because you are a man and have indeed here arrived, as
there the lonely traveller did, at the arena of your wrestling. But,
granted that you mean to hold your own and put your strength into it, I
have brought you to these grave walls to consult with them as to the
limits they impose upon your working.

And perhaps the most important of all is already observed by your
_being_ here, for it is important that you should visit, whenever
possible, the place where you are to do work; if you are not able to do
this, get all the particulars you can as to aspect and surroundings. And
yet a reservation must be made, even upon all this; for everything
depends upon the way we use it, and if you only have an eye to the
showing off of your work to advantage, treating the church as a mere
frame for your picture, it would be better that your window should
misfit and have to be cut down and altered, or anything else happen to
it that would help to put it back and make it take second place. It is
so hard to explain these things so that they cannot be misconstrued; but
you remember I quoted the windows at St. Philip's, Birmingham, as an
example of noble thought and work carried to the pitch of perfection and
design. But that was in a classic building, with large, plain, single
openings without tracery. Do you think the artist would have let himself
go, in that full and ample way, in a beautiful Gothic building full of
lovely architectural detail? Not so: rather would he have made his
pictures hang lightly and daintily in the air amongst the slender
shafts, as in St. Martin's Church in the same town, at Jesus College and
at All Saints' Church, Cambridge, at Tamworth; and in Lyndhurst, and
many another church where the architecture, to say truth, had but
slender claims to such respect.

       *       *       *       *       *

In short, you must think of the building first, and make your windows
help it. You must observe its scale and the spacing and proportions of
its style, and place your own work, with whatever new feeling and new
detail may be natural to you, well within those circumscribing bounds.

But here we find ourselves suddenly brought sharp up, face to face with
a most difficult and thorny subject, upon which we have rushed without
knowing it. "Must we observe then" (you say) "the style of the building
into which we put our work, and not have a style of our own that is
native to us?"

"This is contrary to all you have been preaching! The old men did not
so. Did they not add the fancies of their own time to the old work, and
fill with their dainty, branching tracery the severe, round-headed,
Norman openings of Peterborough and Gloucester? Did fifteenth-century
men do thirteenth-century glass when they had to refill a window of that
date?" No. Nor must you. Never imitate, but graft your own work on to
the old, reverently, and only changing from it so far forth as you, like
itself, have also a living tradition, springing from mastery of
craft--naturally, spontaneously, and inevitably.

Whether we shall ever again have such a tradition running throughout all
the arts is a thing that cannot possibly be foretold. But three things
we may be quite sure of.

First, that if it comes it will not be by way of any imitative revival
of a past style;

Second, that it will be in harmony with the principles of Nature; and

Third, that it will be founded upon the crafts, and brought about by
craftsmen working in it with their own hands, on the materials of
architecture, designing only what they themselves can execute, and
giving employment to others only in what they themselves can do.

A word about each of these three conditions.

In the course of the various attempted revivals in architecture that
have taken place during the past sixty years, it has been frequently
urged both by writers and architects that we should agree to revive some
_one_ style of ancient art that might again become a national style of
architecture. It would, indeed, no doubt be better, if we must speak in
a dead language, to agree to use only one, instead of our present
confusion of tongues: but what, after all, is the adopting of this
principle at all but to engage once again in the replanting of a
full-grown tree--the mistake of the Renaissance and the Gothic revival
repeated? Such things never take firm root or establish healthy growth
which lives and goes on of its own vitality. They never succeed in
obtaining a natural, national sympathy and acceptance. The movement is a
scholarly and academic one, and the art so remains. The reaction against
it is always a return to materials, and almost always the first result
of this is a revival of simplicity. People get tired of being surrounded
with elaborate mouldings and traceries and other architectural features,
which are not the natural growth of their own day but of another day
long since dead, which had other thoughts and moods, feelings and
aspirations. "Let us have straightforward masonry and simple openings,
and ornament them with something from Nature."

So in the very midst of the pampered and enervated over-refinement of
Roman decay, Constantine did something more than merely turn the
conquering eagle back, against the course of the heavens, for which
Dante seems to blame him,[2] when he established his capital at
Byzantium; for there at once upon the new soil, and in less than a
single century, sprang to life again all the natural modes of building
and decoration that, despised as barbaric, had been ignored and
forgotten amid the Roman luxury and sham.

It is a curious feature of these latest days of ours that this searching
after sincerity should seem to be leading us towards a similar revival;
taking even very much the same forms. We went back, at the time of the
Gothic revival, to the forgotten Gothic art of stained-glass; now tired,
as it would seem, of the insincerity and mere spirit of imitation with
which it and similar arts have been practised, a number of us appear to
be ready to throw it aside, along with scholarly mouldings and
traceries, and build our arts afresh out of the ground, as was done by
the Byzantines, with plain brickwork, mosaic, and matched slabs of
marble. Definite examples in recent architecture will occur to the
reader. But I am thinking less of these--which for the most part are
deliberate and scholastic revivals of a particular style, founded on the
study of previous examples and executed on rigid academic methods--than
of what appears to be a widespread awakening to principles of
simplicity, sincerity, and common sense in the arts of building
generally. Signs are not wanting of a revived interest in building--a
revived interest in materials for their own sake, and a revived practice
of personally working in them and experimenting with them. One calls to
mind examples of these things, growing in number daily--plain and strong
furniture made with the designer's own hands and without machinery, and
enjoyed in the making--made for actual places and personal needs and
tastes; houses built in the same spirit by architects who condescend to
be masons also; an effort here and an effort there to revive the common
ways of building that used to prevail--and not so long ago--for the
ordinary housing and uses of country-folk and country-life, and which
gave us cottages, barns, and sheds throughout the length and breadth of
the land; simple things for simple needs, built by simple men, without
self-consciousness, for actual use and pleasant dwelling; traditional
construction and the habits of making belonging to the country-side.
These still linger in the time-honoured ways of making the waggon and
the cart and the plough; but they have vanished from architecture and
building except in so far as they are being now, as I have said,
consciously and deliberately revived by men who are going back from
academic methods, to found their arts once more upon the actual making
of things with their own hand and as their hand and materials will guide
them.

This was what happened in the time to which I have referred: in the dawn
of the Christian era and of a new civilisation; and it has special
interest for us of today, because it was not a case of an infant or
savage race, beginning all things from seed; but the revival, as in
Sparta, centuries before it, of simplicity and sincerity of life, in the
midst of enervation, luxury, and decay.

This seems our hope for the future.

There has already gathered together in the great field of the arts of
today a little Byzantium of the crafts setting itself to learn from the
beginning how things are actually made, how built, hammered, painted,
cut, stitched; casting aside theories and academical thought, and
founding itself upon simplicity, and sincerity, and materials. And the
architect who condescends, or, as we should rather say, aspires, to be a
builder and a master-mason, true director of his craft, will, if things
go on as they seem now going, find in the near future a band around him
of other workers so minded, and will have these bright tools of the
accessory crafts ready to his hand. This it is, if anything, that will
solve all the vexed questions of "style," and lead, if anything will, to
the art of the times to be. For the reason why the nineteenth century
complained so constantly that it had "no style of architecture" was
surely because it had _every_ style of architecture, and a race of
architects who could design in every style because they could build in
no style; knew by practical handling and tooling nothing of the real
natures and capacities of stone or brick or wood or glass; received no
criticism from their materials; whereas these should have daily and
hourly moulded their work and formed the very breath of its life,
warning and forbidding on the one hand, suggesting on the other, and so
directing over all.

I have thought fit, dear student, to touch on these great questions in
passing, that you may know where you stand; but our real business is
with ourselves: to make ourselves so secure upon firm standing ground,
in our own particular province, that when the hour arrives, it may find
in us the man. Let us therefore return again from these bright hopes to
consider those particular details of architectural fitness which are our
proper business as workers in glass.

What, then, in detail, are the rules that must guide us in placing
windows in ancient buildings? But first--_may_ we place windows in
ancient buildings at all? "No," say some; "because we have no right
to touch the past; it is 'restoration,' a word that has covered, in
the past," they say (and we must agree with them), "a mass of artistic
crime never to be expiated, and of loss never to be repaired." "Yes,"
say others, "because new churches will be older in half-an-hour--
half-an-hour older; for the world has moved, and where will you draw
the line? Also, glass has _to be renewed_, you must put in something,
or some one must."

Let each decide the question for himself; but, supposing you admit that
it is permissible, what are the proper restrictions and conditions?

You must not tell a lie, or "match" old work, joining your own on to it
as if itself were old.

Shall we work in the style of the "New art," then--"_l'art Nouveau_"?
the style of the last new poster? the art-tree, the art-bird, the
art-squirm, and the ace of spades form of ornament?

Heaven in mercy defend us and forbid it!

Canopies are venerable; thirteenth-century panels and borders are
venerable, the great traditional vestments are so, and liturgy, and
symbolism, and ceremony. These are not things of one age alone, but
belong to all time. Get, wherever possible, authority on all these
points.

Must we work in a "style," then--a "Gothic" style?

No.

What rule, then?

It is hard to formulate so as to cover all questions, but something
thus:--

Take forms, and proportions, and scale from the style of the church you
are to work in.

Add your own feeling to it from--

(1) The feeling of the day, but the best and most reverent feeling.

(2) From Nature.

(3) From (and the whole conditioned by) materials and the knowledge of
craft.

Finally, let us say that you must consider each case on its merits, and
be ready even sometimes perhaps to admit that the old white glass may be
better for a certain position than your new glass could be, while old
_stained-glass_, of course, should always be sacred to you, a thing to
be left untouched. Even where new work seems justifiable and to be
demanded, proceed as if treading on holy ground. Do not try crude
experiments on venerable and beautiful buildings, but be modest and
reticent; know the styles of the past thoroughly and add your own fresh
feeling to them reverently. And in thought do not think it necessary to
be novel in order to be original. There is quite enough originality in
making a noble figure of a saint, or treating with reverent and
dignified art some actual theme of Scripture or tradition, and working
into its detail the sweetness of nature and the skill of your hands,
without going into eccentricity for the sake of novelty, and into weak
allegory to show your originality and independence, tired with the
world-old truths and laws of holy life and noble character. And this
leads us to the point where we must speak of these deep things in the
great province of thought.

[2] Paradise, canto vi. 1.




CHAPTER XVIII

OF THOUGHT, IMAGINATION, AND ALLEGORY


"_The first thing one should demand of a man who calls himself an artist
is that he has something to say, some truth to teach, some lesson to
enforce. Don't you think so?_"

Thus once said to me an artist of respectable attainment.

"_I don't care a hang for subject; give me good colour, composition,
fine effects of light, skill in technique, that's all one wants. Don't
you think so?_"

Thus once said to me a member of a window-committee, himself also an
artist.

To both I answered, and would answer with all the emphasis possible--No!

The _first_ duty of an artist, as of every other kind of worker, is to
know his business; and, unless he knows it, all the "truths" he wishes
to "teach," and the lessons he wishes to enforce, are but degraded and
discredited in the eyes of men by his bungling advocacy.

On the other hand, the artist who has trained himself to speak with the
tongues of angels and after all has nothing to say, is also, to me, an
imperfect being. What follows is written, as the whole book is written,
for the young student, just beginning his career and feeling the
pressure and conflict of these questions. For such I must venture to
discuss points which the wise and the experienced may pass by.

The present day is deluged with allegory; and the first thing three
students out of four wish to attempt when they arrive at the stage of
original art is the presentation, by figures and emblems, of some deep
abstract truth, some problem of the great battle of life, some force of
the universe that they begin to feel around them, pressing upon their
being. Forty years ago such a thing was hardly heard of. In the
sketching-clubs at the Academies of that day, the historical, the
concrete, or the respectably pious were all that one ever saw. We can
hardly realise it, the art of the late sixties. The pre-Raphaelite
brotherhood, as such, a thing of the past, and seemingly leaving few
imitators. Burne-Jones just heard of as a strange, unknown artist, who
wouldn't exhibit his pictures, but who had done some queer new kind of
stained-glass windows at Lyndhurst, which one might perhaps be curious
to see when we went (as of course we must) to worship "Leighton's great
altar-piece." Nay, ten years later, at the opening of the Grosvenor
Gallery, the new, imaginative, and allegorical art could be met with a
large measure of derision, and _Punch_ could write, regarding it, an
audacious and contemptuous parody of the "Palace of Art"; while, abroad,
Botticelli's _Primavera_ hung over a door, and the attendants at the
_Uffizii_ were puzzled by requests, granted grudgingly (_if_ granted), to
have his other pictures placed for copying and study! Times have
altogether changed, and we now see in every school competition--often
set as the subject of such--abstract and allegorical themes, demanding
for their adequate expression the highest and deepest thought and the
noblest mood of mind and views of life.

It is impossible to lay down any hard and fast rule about these things,
for each case must differ. There is such a thing as _genius_, and where
that is there is but small question of rules or even of youth or age,
maturity or immaturity. And even apart from the question of genius the
mind of childhood is a very precious thing, and "the thoughts of youth
are long, long thoughts." Nay, the mere _fact_ of youth with its trials,
is a great thing; we shall never again have such a chance, such fresh,
responsive hearts, such capacity for feeling--for suffering--that school
of wisdom and source of inspiration! It is well to record its lessons
while they are fresh, to jot down for ourselves, if we can, something of
the passing hours; to store up their thoughts and feelings for future
expression perhaps, when our powers of expression have grown more worthy
of them; but it is not well to try to make universal lessons out of, or
universal applications of, what we haven't ourselves learned. Our own
proper lesson at this time is to learn our trade; to strengthen our weak
hands and train the ignorance of our mind to knowledge day by day,
strenuously, and only _spurred on by_ the deep stirrings of thought and
life within us, which generally ought to remain for the present
_unspoken_.

A great point of happiness in this dangerous and critical time is to
have a definite trade; learnt in its completeness and practised day by
day, step by step, upwards from its elements, in constant subservience
to wise and kind mastership. This indeed is a golden lot, and one rare
in these days; and perhaps we must not look to be so shielded. This was
the sober and happy craftsmanship of the Middle Ages, and produced for
us all that imagery and ornature, instinct with gaiety and simplicity of
heart, which decorates, where the hand of the ruthless restorer has
spared it, the churches and cathedrals of Europe.

But in these changeful days it would be rash indeed to forecast where
lies the sphere of duty for any individual life. It may lie in the
reconstruction by solitary, personal experiment, of some forgotten art
or system, the quiet laying of foundation for the future rather than
building the monument of today. Or perhaps the self-devoted life of the
seer may be the Age's chief need, and it is not a Giotto that is wanted
for the twentieth century but a Dante or a Blake, with the accompanying
destiny of having to prove as they did--

                 "si come sa di sale
     Lo pane altrui, e com'h duro calle
     Lo scendere e'l salir per l'altrui scale."[3]

But, however these things be, whether working happily in harmony with
the scheme of things around us, and only concerned to give it full
expression, or not; whether we are the fortunate apprentices of a
well-taught trade, gaining secure and advancing knowledge day by day, or
whether we are lonely experimentalists, wringing the secret from
reluctant Nature and Art upon some untrodden path; there is one last
great principle that covers all conditions, solves all questions, and is
an abiding rock which remains, unfailing foundation on which all may
build; and that is the constant measuring of our smallness against the
greatness of things, a thing which, done in the right spirit, does not
daunt, but inspires. For the greatness of all things is ours for the
winning, almost for the asking.

The great imaginative poets and thinkers and artists of the
mid-nineteenth century have drawn aside for us the curtain of the world
behind the veil, and he would be an ambitious man who would expect to
set the mark higher, in type of beauty or depth of feeling, than they
have placed it for us; but all must hope to do so, even if they do not
expect it; for the great themes are not exhausted or ever to be
exhausted; and the storehouse of the great thought and action of the
past is ever open to us to clothe our nakedness and enrich our poverty;
we need only ask to have.

"Ah!" said Coningsby, "I should like to be a great man."

The stranger threw at him a scrutinising glance. His countenance was
serious. He said in a voice of almost solemn melody--

"Nurture your mind with great thoughts. To believe in the heroic makes
heroes."[4]

All the great thoughts of the world are stored up in books, and all the
great books of the world, or nearly all, have been translated into
English. You should make it a systematic part of your life to search
these things out and, if only by a page or two, try how far they fit
your need. We do not enough realise how wide a field this is, how great
an undertaking, how completely unattainable except by carefully
husbanding our time from the start, how impossible it is in the span of
a human life to read the great books unless we strictly save the time
which so many spend on the little books. Ruskin's words on this subject,
almost harsh in their blunt common sense, bring the matter home so well
that I cannot refrain from quoting them.[5]

"Do you know, if you read this, that you cannot read that--that what you
lose today you cannot gain to-morrow? Will you go and gossip with your
housemaid, or your stable-boy, when you may talk with queens and kings;
or flatter yourselves that it is with any worthy consciousness of your
own claims to respect that you jostle with the common crowd for entrie
here, and audience there, when all the while this eternal court is open
to you, with its society wide as the world, multitudinous as its days,
the chosen, and the mighty, of every place and time? Into that you may
enter always; in that you may take fellowship and rank according to your
wish; from that, once entered into it, you can never be outcast but by
your own fault; by your aristocracy of companionship there, your own
inherent aristocracy will be assuredly tested, and the motives with
which you strive to take high place in the society of the living,
measured, as to all the truth and sincerity that are in them, by the
place you desire to take in this company of the Dead."

This is the great world of BOOKS that is open to you; and how shall you
find your way in it, in these days, amongst the plethora of the second
and third and fourth rate, shouting out at you and besieging your
attention on every stall? It is no more possible to give you entire
guidance towards this than to give complete advice on any other problem
of life; your own nature must be your guide, choosing the good and
refusing the evil in the degree in which itself is good or evil. But one
may name some landmarks, set up some guide-posts, and the best of all
guidance surely is not that of a guide-post, but that of a guide, a
kindly hand of one who knows the way, to take your hand.

Do you ask for such a guide? A man of our own day, in full view of all
its questions from the loftiest to the least, and heart and soul engaged
in them, with deep and sympathetic wisdom born of his own companionship
with all the great thoughts of the ages? One surely need not hesitate a
moment in naming as the one for our special needs the writer we have
just quoted.

Scattered up and down the whole of his works is constant reference to
and commentary upon the great themes of all ages, the great creeds of
all peoples.

"Queen of the Air," "Aratra Pentelici," "Ariadne Florentina," "The
Mornings in Florence," "St. Mark's Rest," "The Oxford Inaugural
Lectures," "The Bible of Amiens," "Fors Clavigera."

With these as portals you can enter by easy steps into the whole
universe of great things: the divine myth and symbolism of the old pagan
world (as we call it) and of more recent Christendom; all the makers of
ancient Greece and Italy and of our own England; worship and kingship
and leadership, and the high thought and noble deed of all times. And
clustering in groups round these centres is the world of books. All
Theology, Philosophy, Poetry, Sacred History; Homer, Plato, Virgil, the
Bible, and the Breviary. The great doctors and saints, kings and heroes,
poets and painters, Gerome and Dominic and Francis; St. Louis and
Coeur-de-Lion; Dante, St. Jerome, Chaucer, and Froissart; Botticelli,
Giotto, Angelico; the "Golden Legend"; and many another ancient or
modern legend and story or passage from the history of some great and
splendid life, or illuminating hint upon the beauties of liturgy and
symbolism. They, and a hundred other things, are all gathered up and
introduced to us in Ruskin's books; and we are shown them from the exact
standpoint from which they are most likely to appeal to us, and be of
use. There never was a great world made so easy and pleasant of entrance
for the adventuring traveller; you have only to enter and take
possession.

Do you incline towards myth and symbolism and allegory--the expression
of abstract thought by beautiful figures? Read the myths of Greece
expounded to you in their exquisite spirituality in the "Queen of the
Air." Or is your bent devotion and the devout life, expressed in
thrilling story and gorgeous colour? Read, say, the life of St.
Catherine or of St. George in the "Golden Legend." Or are you in love,
and would express its spring-time beauty? Translate into your own native
language of form and colour "The Romaunt of the Rose."

For the great safeguard and guide in the perilous forest of fancy is to
find enough interest in the actual facts of some history or the
qualities of some heroic character, whether real or fabled, round which
at first you may group your thought and allegory. Listen to _them_, and
try to formulate and illustrate _their_ meaning, not to announce your
own. Do not set puzzles, or set things that will be puzzling, without
the highest and deepest reasons and the apostleship urgently laid upon
you so to do--but let your allegory surround some definite subject, so
that men in general can see it and say, "Yes, that is so and so," and go
away satisfied rather than puzzled and affronted; leaving the inner few
for whom you really speak, the hearts that, you hope, are waiting for
your message, to find it out (and you need have no fear that they will
do so), and to say, "Yes, that _means_ so and so, and it is a good
thought."

For, remember always that, even if you conceive that you have a mission
laid upon you to declare Truth, it is most sternly conditioned by an
obligation, as binding as itself and of as high authority, to set forth
Beauty: the holiness of beauty equally with the beauty of holiness. No
amount of good intent can make up for lack of skill; it is your business
to know your business. Youth always would begin with allegory, but the
ambition of the good intention is generally in exactly the reverse
proportion to the ability to carry it out in expression. But the true
allegory that appeals to all is the presentment of noble natures and of
noble deeds. Where, for most people at any rate, is the "allegory" in
the Theseus or the Venus of Milo? Yet is not the whole race of man the
better for them?

Work, therefore, quietly and continually at the great themes ready set
for you in the story of the past and "understanded of the people," while
you are patiently strengthening and maturing your powers of art in
safety, sheltered from yourself, and sheltered from the condemnation due
to the too presumptuous assumption of apostleship. For it is one thing
to stand forth and say, "_I_ have a message to deliver to the world,"
and quite another to say, "_There is_ such a message, and it has fallen
to me to be its mouthpiece; woe is me, because I am a man of unclean
lips." It is needless, therefore--nay, it is harmful--to be always
breaking your heart against tasks beyond your strength. Work in some
little province; get foothold and grow outwards from it; go on from
weakness to strength, and then from strength to the stronger, doing the
things you _can_ do while you practise towards the things you hope to
do, and illustrating impersonal themes until the time comes for you to
try your own individual battle in the great world of thought and
feeling; till, mature in strength equal to the portrayal of great
natures, the Angels of God as shown forth by you may be recognised as
indeed Spirit, and His Ministers as flaming Fire.

There is even yet one last word, and that is, in all the _minor_
symbolism surrounding your subjects, to observe a due proportion. For
you may easily be tempted to allow some beautiful little fancy, not
essential to the subject, to find expression in a form or symbol that
will thrust itself unduly on the attention, and will only puzzle and
distract.

Never let little things come first, and never let them be allowed at all
to the damage, or impairing, or obscuring of the simplicity and dignity
of the great things; remembering always that the first function of a
window is to have stately and seemly figures in beautiful glass, and not
to arrest or distract the attention of the spectator with puzzles. Given
the great themes adequately expressed, the little fancies may then
cluster round them and will be carried lightly, as the victor wears his
wreath; while, on the other hand, if these be lacking no amount of
symbolism or attribute will supply their place. "_Cucullus non facit
monachum_," as the old proverb says--"It is not the hood that makes the
monk," but the ascetic face you depict within it. Indeed, rather beware
of trusting even to the ordinary, well-recognised symbols in common use,
and being misled by them to think you have done something you have not
done; and rather withhold these until the other be made sure. Get your
figures dignified and your faces beautiful; show the majesty or the
sanctity that you are aiming at in these alone, and your saint will be
recognised as saintly without his halo of glory, and your angel as
angelic without his tongue of flame.

       *       *       *       *       *

In my own practice, when drawing from the life, I make a great point of
keeping back all these ornaments and symbols of attribute, until I feel
that my figure alone expresses itself fully, as far as my powers go,
without them. No ornament upon the robe, or the crosier, or the sword;
above all, no circle round the head, until--the figure standing out at
last and seeming to represent, as near as may be, the true pastor or
warrior it claims to represent--the moment arrives when I say, "Yes, I
have done all I can,--_now_ he may have his nimbus!"

[3]

                           "how tastes of salt
     The bread of others, and how is hard the passage
     To go down and to go up by other's stairs."

                           --_Paradise,_ xvii. 58.

[4] Coningsby, Book iii. ch. i.

[5] "Sesame and Lilies," Lecture 1.




CHAPTER XIX

     Of General Conduct and Procedure--Amount of Legitimate
     Assistance--The Ordinary Practice--The Great Rule--The Second Great
     Rule--Four Things to Observe--Art _v._ Routine--The Truth of the
     Case--The Penalty of Virtue in the Matter--The Compensating
     Privilege--Practical Applications--An Economy of Time in the
     Studio--Industry--Work "To Order"--Clients and Patrons--And
     Requests Reasonable and Unreasonable--The Chief Difficulty the
     Chief Opportunity--But ascertain all Conditions before starting
     Work--Business Habits--Order--Accuracy--Setting out Cartoon
     Forms--An Artist must Dream--But Wake--Three Plain Rules.


Having now described, as well as I can, the whole of your equipment--of
hand, and head, and heart--your mental and technical weapons for the
practice of stained-glass, there now follow a few simple hints to guide
you in the use of them; how best to dispose your forces, and on what to
employ them. This must be a very broken and fragmentary chapter, full of
little everyday matters, very different to the high themes we have just
been trying to discuss--and relating chiefly to your conduct of the
thing as a business, and your relationships with the interests that
surround you; modes of procedure, business hints, practical matters. I
am sorry, just as you were beginning (I hope) to be warmed to the
subject, and fired with the high ambitions that it suggests, to take and
toss you into the cold world of matter-of-fact things; but that is life,
and we have to face it. Open the door into the cold air and let us bang
at it straight away!

Now there is one great and plain question that contains all the rest;
you do not see it now, but you will find it facing you before you have
gone very far. The great question, "Must I do it all myself, or may I
train pupils and assistants?"

Let us first amplify the question and get it fairly and fully stated.
Then we shall have a better chance of being able to answer it wisely.

I have described or implied elsewhere the usual practice in the matter
amongst those who produce stained-glass on a large scale. In great
establishments the work is divided up into branches: designers,
cartoonists, painters, cutters, lead workers, kiln-men: none of whom, as
a rule, know any branch of the work except their own.

Obviously one of the principal contentions of this book is against the
idea that such division, as practised, is an ideal method.

On the other hand, you will gather that the writer himself uses the
service of assistants.

While in the plates at the end are examples of glass where everything
has been done by the artists themselves (Plates I., II., III., IV.,
VII.).

I must freely confess that when I first saw in the work of these men the
beauty resulting from the personal touch of the artist on the whole of
the cutting and leading, a qualm of doubt arose whether the practice of
admitting _any_ other hand to my assistance was not a compromise to some
extent with absolute ideal; whether it were not the only right plan,
after all, to do the whole oneself; to sit down to the bench with one's
drawing, and pick out the glass, piece by piece, on its merits,
carefully considering each bit as it passed through hand; cutting it and
trimming it affectionately to preserve its beauties, and, later, leading
it into its place with thicker or thinner lead, in the same careful
spirit. But I do not think so. I fancy the truth to be that the _whole_
business should be opened up to all, and afterwards each should
gravitate to his place by natural fitness. For the cartoonist _once
having the whole craft_ requires more constant practice in drawing to
keep himself a good cartoonist than he would get if he also did all the
other work of each window; quantity being in this matter even essential
to quality. I think we must look for more monumental figures, achieved
by the delegation of minor craft matters, in short, by co-operation.
Nevertheless, I have never felt less certainty in pronouncing on any
question of my craft than in this particular matter; whether, to get the
best attainable results, one should do the whole of the work oneself. On
the other hand, I never felt _more_ certainty in pronouncing on any
question of the craft, than now in laying down as an absolute rule and
condition of doing good work at all: that one should be _able_ to do the
whole of the work oneself. _That_ is the key to the whole situation, but
it is not the whole key; for following close upon it comes the rule that
springs naturally out of it; that, being a master oneself, one must make
it one's object to train all assistants towards mastership also: to give
them the whole ladder to climb. This at least has been the case with the
work of my own which is shown in the other collotypes. There has been
assistance, but every one of those assisting has had the opportunity to
learn to make, and according to the degree of his talent is actually
able to make, the whole of a stained-glass window himself. There is not
a touch of painting on any of the panels shown which is not by a hand
that can also cut and lead and design and draw, and perform all the
other offices pertaining to stained-glass noted in the foregoing pages.

Speaking generally, I care not whether a man calls himself Brown, or
Brown and Co., or, co-operating with others, works under the style of
Brown, Jones and Robinson, so long as he observe four things.

(1) Not to direct what he cannot practise;

(2) To make masters of apprentices, or aim at making them;

(3) To keep his hand of mastery over the whole work personally at all
stages; and

(4) To be prepared sometimes to make sacrifices of profit for the sake
of the Art, should the interests of the two clash.

Such an one we must call an artist, a master, and a worthy craftsman. It
is almost impossible to describe the deadening influence which a routine
embodying the reverse of these four things has upon the mind of those
who should be artists. Under this influence not only is the subdivision
of labour which places each successive operation in separate hands
accepted as a matter of course, but into each operation itself this
separation imports a spirit of lassitude and dulness and compliance with
false conditions and limited aims which would seem almost incredible in
those practising what should be an inspiring art. To men so trained, so
employed, all counsels of perfection are foolishness; all idea of
tentative work, experiment, modification while in progress, is looked
upon as mere delusion. To them work consists of a series of never-varied
formulas, all fitting into each other and combined to aim at producing a
definite result, the like of which they have produced a thousand times
before and will produce a thousand times again.

"With us," once said, to a friend of the writer, a man so trained, "it's
a matter of judgment and experience. It's all nonsense this talk about
seeing work at a distance and against the sky, and so forth, while as to
the ever taking it down again for retouching after once erecting it,
that could only be done by an amateur. We paint a good deal of the work
on the bench, and never see it as a whole until it's leaded up; but then
we know what we want and get it."

"We know what we want!" To what a pass have we come that such a thing
could be spoken by any one engaged in the arts! Were it wholly and
universally true, nothing more would be needed in condemnation of wide
fields of modern practice in the architectural and applied arts, for,
most assuredly it is a sentence that could never be spoken of any one
worthy of the name of artist that ever lived. Whence would you like
instances quoted? Literature? Painting? Sculpture? Music? Their name is
legion in the history of all these arts, and in the lives of the great
men who wrought in them.

For a taste--

Did Michael Angelo "know what he wanted" when, half-way through his
figure, he found the block not large enough, and had to make the limb
too short?

Did Beethoven know, when he evolved a movement in one of his concerted
pieces out of a quarrel with his landlady? and another, "from singing or
rather roaring up and down the scale," until at last he said, "I think I
have found a motive"--as one of his biographers relates? Tennyson, when
he corrected and re-corrected his poems from youth to his death? Dürer,
the precise, the perfect, able to say, "It cannot be better done," yet
re-engraving a portion of his best-known plate, and frankly leaving the
rejected portion half erased?[6] Titian, whose custom it was to lay
aside his pictures for long periods and then criticise them, imagining
that he was looking at them "with the eyes of his worst enemy"?

There is not, I suppose, in the English language a more "perfect" poem
than "Lycidas." It purports to have been written in a single day, and
its wholeness and unity and crystalline completeness give good colour to
the thought that it probably was so.

     "Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
       While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
     He touched the tender stops of various quills,
       With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
     And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
       And now was dropt into the western bay:
     At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue;
     To-morrow, to fresh woods and pastures new."

Yet, regarding it, the delightful Charles Lamb writes:[7]--

"I had thought of the _Lycidas_ as of a full-grown beauty,--as springing
with all its parts absolute,--till, in evil hour, I was shown the
original copy of it, together with the other minor poems of its author,
in the library of Trinity, kept like something to be proud of. I wish
they had thrown them in the Cam, or sent them, after the later cantos of
Spenser, into the Irish Channel. How it staggered me to see the fine
things in their ore!--interlined, corrected, as if their words were
mortal, alterable, displaceable at pleasure; as if they might have been
otherwise, and just as good; as if inspiration were made up of parts,
and those fluctuating, successive, indifferent! I will never go into the
workshop of any great artist again, nor desire a sight of his picture,
till it is fairly off the easel; no, not if Raphael were to be alive
again, and painting another Galatea."

But the real truth of the case is that whatever "inspiration" may be,
and whether or not "made up of parts," it, or man's spirit and will in
all works of art, has to _deal with_ things so made up; and not only so,
but also as described by the other words here chosen: _fluctuating_,
_successive_, and _indifferent_. You have to deal with the whole sum of
things all at once; the possible material crowds around the artist's
will, shifting, changing, presenting at all stages and in all details of
a work of art, infinite and continual choice. "Nothing," we are told,
"is single," but all things have relations with each other. How much
more, then, is it true that every bit of glass in a window is the centre
of such relations with its brother and sister pieces, and that nothing
is final until all is finished? A work of art is like a battle; conflict
after conflict, manoeuvre after manoeuvre, combination after
combination. The general does not pin himself down from the outset to
one plan of tactics, but watches the field and moulds its issues to his
will, according to the yielding or the resistance of the opposing
forces, keeping all things solvent until the combinations of the strife
have woven together into a soluble problem, upon which he can launch the
final charge that shall bring him back with victory.

So also is all art, and you must hold all things in suspense. Aye! the
last touch more or less of light or shade or colour upon the smallest
piece, keeping all open and solvent to the last, until the whole thing
rushes together and fuses into a harmony. It is not to be done by
"judgment and experience," for all things are new, and there are no two
tasks the same; and it is impossible for you from the outset to "know
what you want," or to know it at any stage until you can say that the
whole work is finished.

"But if we work on these methods we shall only get such a small quantity
of work done, and it will be so costly done on a system like that you
speak of! Make my assistants masters, and so rivals! put a window in,
and take it out again, forsooth!" What remedy or answer for this?

Well--setting aside the question of the more or less genius--there are
only two solutions that I can see:--an increase in industry or a
possible decrease in profit, though much may be accomplished in
mitigation of these hard conditions, if they prove _too_ hard, by a good
and economical system of work, and by time-saving appliances and
methods.

But, after all, you were not looking out for an easy task, were you, in
this world of stress and strain to have the privileges of an artist's
life without its penalties? Why, look you, you must remember that
besides the business of "saving your soul," which you may share in
common with every one else, _you_ have the special privilege of
_enjoying for its own sake your personal work in the world_.

And you must expect to pay for that privilege at some corresponding
personal cost; all the more so in these days when your lot is so
exceptional a fortune, and when to enjoy daily work falls to so few.
Nevertheless, when I say "enjoy" I do not mean that art is easy or
pleasant in the way that ease is pleasant; there is nothing harder; and
the better the artist, probably the harder it is. But you enjoy it
because of its privileges; because beauty is delightful; because you
know that good art does high and unquestioned service to man, and is
even one of the ways for the advancing of the kingdom of God.

That should be pleasure enough for any one, and compensation for any
pains. You must learn the secret of human suffering--and you can only
learn it by tasting it--because it is yours to point its meaning to
others and to give the message of hope.

In this spirit, then, and within these limitations, must you guide your
own work and claim the co-operation of others, and arrange your
relationships with them, and the limits of their assistance and your
whole personal conduct and course of procedure:--

To be yourself a master.

To train others up to mastery.

To keep your hand over the whole.

To work in a spirit of sacrifice.

These things once firmly established, questions of procedure become
simple. But a few detached hints may be given. I shall string them
together just as they come.

_An Economy of Time in the Studio._--Have a portion of your studio or
work-room wall lined with thin boarding--"picture-backing" of 1/8 inch
thick is enough, and this is to _pin things on to_. The cartoon is what
you are busy upon, but you must "think in glass" all the time you are
drawing it. Have therefore, pinned up, a number of slips of paper--a
foolscap half-sheet divided _vertically_ into two long strips I find
best.

On these write down every direction to the cutter, or the painter, or
the designer of minor ornament, _the moment it comes into your mind_, as
you work at the charcoal drawing. If you once let the moment pass you
will never remember these things again, but you will have them
constantly forced back upon your memory, by the mistranslations of your
intention which will face you when you first see your work in the glass.
This practice is a huge saving of time--and of disappointment. But you
also want this convenient wall space for a dozen other needs; for
tracings and shiftings of parts, and all sorts of essays and suggestions
for alteration.

_That we should work always._--I hope it is not necessary to urge the
importance of _work_. It is not of much use to work only when we _feel
inclined_; many people very seldom do feel naturally inclined. Perhaps
there are few things so sweet as the triumph of working _through_
disinclination till it is leavened through with the will and becomes
enjoyment by becoming conquest. To work through the dead three o'clock
period on a July afternoon with an ache in the small of one's back and
one's limbs all a-jerk with nervousness, drooping eyelids, and a general
inclination to scream. At such a time, I fear, one sometimes falls back
on rather low and sordid motives to act as a spur to the lethargic will.
I think of the shortness of the time, the greatness of the task, but
also of all those hosts of others who, if I lag, must pass me in the
race. Not of actual rivals--or good nature and sense of comradeship
would always break the vision--but of possible and unknown ones whom it
is my habit to club all together and typify under the style and title of
"that fellow Jones." And at such a time it is my habit to say or think,
"Aha! I bet Jones is on his back under a plane tree!"--or thoughts to
that effect--and grasp the charcoal firmer.

It is habits and dodges and ways of thinking such as these that will
gradually cultivate in you the ability to "stand and deliver," as they
say in the decorative arts. For, speaking now to the amateur (if any
such, picture-painter or student, are hesitating on the brink of an art
new to them), you must know that these arts are not like
picture-painting, where you can choose your own times and seasons: they
are always done to definite order and expected in a definite time; and
that brings me to speak of the very important subject of "Clients."

_Of Clients and Patrons._--It must, of course, be left to each one to
establish his own relations with those who ask work of him; but a few
hints may be given.

You will get many requests that will seem to you unreasonable and
impossible of carrying out--some no doubt will really be so; but at
least _consider them_. Remember what we said a little way back--not to
be set on your own allegory, but to accept your subject from outside and
add your poetic thought to it. And also what in another place we said
about keeping all "solvent"--so do with actual suggestion of subject and
with the wishes of your client: treat the whole thing as "raw material,"
and all surrounding questions as factors in one general problem. Here
also Ruskin has a pregnant word of advice--as indeed where has he
not?--"A great painter's business is to do what the public ask of him,
in the way that shall be helpful and instructive to them."[8] You cannot
always do what people ask, but you can do it more often than a
headstrong man would at first think.

I was once doing a series of small square panels, set at intervals in
the height of some large, tall windows, and containing Scripture
subjects, the intermediate spaces being filled with "grisaille" work.
The subjects, of course, had to be approximately on one scale, and
several of them became very tough problems on account of this
restriction. However, all managed to slip through somehow till we came
to "Jacob's Ladder," and there I stood firm, or perhaps I ought rather
to say _stuck fast_. "How is it possible," I said to my client, "that
you can have a picture of the 'Fall' in one panel with Eve's figure
taking up almost the whole height of it, and have a similar panel with
'Angels Ascending and Descending' up and down a ladder? There are only
two ways of doing it--to put the ladder far off in a landscape, which
would reduce it to insignificance, and besides be unsuitable in glass;
or to make the angels the size of dolls. Don't you see that it's
impossible?" No, he didn't see that it was impossible. What he wanted
was "Jacob's Ladder"; the possibility or otherwise was nothing to him.
He said (what you'll often hear said, reader, if you do stained-glass),
"I don't, of course, know anything about art, and I can't say how this
could be done; that is the artist's province."

It was in my younger days, and I'm afraid I must have replied to the
effect that it was not a question of art but of common reason, and that
the artist's province did not extend to making bricks without straw or
making two and two into five; and the work fell through. But had I the
same thing to deal with now I should waste no words on it, but run the
"ladder" right up out of the panel into the grisaille above; an
opportunity for one of those delightful naïve _exceptions_ of which old
art is so full--like, for instance, the west door of St. Maclou at
Rouen, where the crowd of falling angels burst out of the tympanum, bang
through the lintel, defying architecture as they defied the first great
Architect, and continue their fall amongst the columns below. "Angels
Descending," by-the-bye, with a vengeance! And if the bad ones, why not
the good? I might just as well have done it, and probably it would have
been the very thing out of the whole commission which would have
prevented the series from being the tame things that such sometimes are.
Anyway, remember this--for I have invariably found it true--that _the
chief difficulty of a work of art is always its chief opportunity_. A
thing can be looked at in a thousand and one ways, and something
dauntingly impossible will often be the very thing that will shake your
jogtrot cart out of its rut, make you whip up your horses, and get you
right home.

BUT

Observe this--that all these wishes of the client should be most
strictly ascertained _beforehand_; all possibility of midway criticism
and alteration prevented. Thresh the thing well out in the preliminary
stages and start clear; as long as it _is_ raw material, all in
solution, all hanging in the balance--you can do anything. It is like
"clay in the hands of the potter," and you can make the vessel as you
please: "Out of the same lump making one vessel to honour and another to
dishonour." But when the work is _half-done_, when colour is calling out
to colour, and shape to shape, and thought to thought, throughout the
length and breadth of the work; when the ideas and the clothing of them
are all fusing together into one harmony; when, in short, the thing is
becoming that indestructible, unalterable unity which we call a Work of
Art:--then, indeed, to be required to change or to reconsider is a real
agony of impossibility; tearing the glowing web of thought, and form,
and fancy into a destruction never to be reconstructed, and which no
piecing or patching will mend.

There are many minor points, but they are really so entirely matters of
experience, that it hardly seems worth while to dwell upon them. Start
with recognising the fact that you must try to add business habits and
sensible and economical ways to your genius as an artist; in short,
another whole side to your character; and keep that ever in view, and
the details will fall into their places.

_Have Everything in Order._--Every letter relating to a current job
should be findable at a moment's notice in an office "letter basket,"
rather wider than a sheet of foolscap paper, and with sides high enough
to allow of the papers standing upright in unfolded sheets, each group
of them behind a card taller than the tallest kind of ordinary document,
and bearing along the top edge in large red letters--Roman capitals for
choice--the name of the work: and it need hardly be said that these
should be arranged in alphabetical order. For minor matters too small
for such classification it is well to have, in the _front_ place in the
basket, cards dividing the alphabet itself into about four parts, so
that unarranged small matters can be still kept roughly alphabetical.
When the work is done, transfer all documents to separate labelled
portfolios--a folded sheet of the thickest brown paper, such as they put
under carpets, is very good--and store them away for reference. Larger
portfolios for all _templates_, tracings, or architects' details or
drawings relating to the work. If you have not a good system with regard
to the ordering of these things, believe me the mere _administration_ of
a very moderate amount of work will take you _all your day_.

So also with _measurement_.


ON ACCURACY IN MEASUREMENT.

In one of Turgenieff's novels a Russian country proverb is
quoted--"Measure thrice, cut once." It is a golden rule, and should be
inscribed in the heart of every worker, and I will add one that springs
out of it--"Never trust a measurement unless it has been made by
yourself, or for yourself--to your order."

The measurements on architects' designs, or even working drawings, can
never be trusted for the dimensions of the built work. Even the
builders' templates, by which the work was built, cannot be, for the
masons knock these quite enough out, in actual building, to make your
work done by these guides a misfit. Have your own measurements taken
again. Above all, beware of trusting to the supposed verticals or
horizontals in built work, especially in tracery. A thing may be
theoretically and intentionally at a certain angle, but actually at
quite a different one. If level is important, take it yourself with
spirit-level and plumb-line.

With regard to accuracy of work _in the shop_, where it depends on
yourself and the system you observe, I cannot do better than write out
for you here the written notice by which the matter is regulated in my
own practice with regard to cartoons.

_"Rules to be Observed in Setting out Forms for Cartoons._

"In every case of setting out any form, or batch of forms, for new
windows the truth of the first long line ruled must be _tested_ by
stretching a thread.

If the lath is proved to be out, it must at once be sent to a joiner to
be accurately 'shot,' and the accuracy of _both_ its edges must then be
tested with a thread.

The first right angle made (for the corner of the form) must also be
tested by raising a perpendicular, with a radius of the compasses not
less than 6 inches and with a needle-pointed pencil, and by the
subjoined formula and no other.

From a given point in a given straight line to raise a perpendicular.
Let A B be the given straight line (this must be the _long_ side of the
form, and the point B must be one corner of the base-line): it is
required to raise from the point B a line perpendicular to the line A B.

[Illustration: FIG. 71.]

(1) Prolong the line A B at least 6 inches beyond B (if there is not
room on the paper, it must be pinned on to a smooth board, and a piece
of paper pinned on, so as to meet the edge of it, and continue it to the
required distance).

(2) With the centre B (the compass leg being in all cases placed with
absolute accuracy, using a lens if necessary to place it) describe the
circle C D E.

(3) With the centres C and E, and with a radius of not less than 9
inches, describe arcs intersecting at F and G.

(4) Join F G.

Then, if the work has been correctly done, the line F G will _pass
through the point_ B, and be perpendicular to the line A B. If it does
not do so, the work is incorrect, and must be repeated.

When the base and the springing-line are drawn on the form, the form
must be accurately measured from the bottom upwards, and _every foot
marked on both sides_. Such markings to be in fine pencil-line, and
to be drawn from the sides of the form to the extreme margin of the
paper, and you are not to trust your eye by laying the lath flat down
and ticking off opposite the inch-marks, but you are to stand the lath
on its edge, so that the inch-marks actually meet the paper, and then
tick opposite to them.

Also if there are any bars in the window to be observed, the places of
these must be marked, and it must be made quite clear whether the mark
is the middle of the bar or its edge; and all this marking must be done
lightly, but very carefully, with a needle-pointed pencil.

In every case where the forms are set out from templates, the accuracy
of the templates must be verified, and in the event of the base not
being at right angles with the side, a true horizontal must be made from
the corner which is higher than the other (the one therefore which has
the obtuse angle) and marked within the untrue line; and all
measurements, whether of feet, bars, or squaring-out lines, or levels
for canopies, bases, or any other divisions of the light, must be made
upwards FROM THIS TRUE LEVEL LINE."

These rules, I suppose, have saved me on an average an hour a day since
they were drawn up; and, mark you, an hour of _waste_ and an hour of
_worry_ a day--which is as good as saving a day's work at the least.

An artist must dream; you will not charge me with undervaluing that; but
a decorator must also wake, and have his wits about him! Start,
therefore, in all the outward ordering of your career with the three
plain rules:--

(1) To have everything orderly;

(2) To have everything accurate;

(3) To bring everything and every question to a point, _at the time_,
and clinch it.

[6] "Ariadne Florentina," p. 31.

[7] "A Saturday's Dinner."

[8] "Aratra Pentelici," p. 253.




CHAPTER XX

A STRING OF BEADS


Is there anything more to say?

A whole world-full, of course; for every single thing is a part of all
things. But I have said most of my say; and I could now wish that you
were here that you might ask me aught else you want.

A few threads remain that might be gathered up--parting words, hints
that cannot be classified. I must string them together like a row of
beads; big and little mixed; we will try to get the big ones more or
less in the middle if we can.

Grow everything from seed.

All seeds that are living (and therefore worth growing) have the power
in them to grow.

But so many people miss the fact that, on the other hand, _nothing else_
will grow; and that it is useless in art to transplant full-grown trees.

This is the key to great and little miseries, great and little mistakes.

Were you sorry to be on the lowest step of the ladder? Be glad; for all
your hopes of climbing are in that.

And this applies in all things, from conditions of success and methods
of "getting work" up to the highest questions of art and the "steps to
Parnassus," by which are reached the very loftiest of ideals.

I must not linger over the former of these two things or do more than
sum it up in the advice, to take anything you can get, and to be glad,
not sorry, if it is small and comes to you but slowly. Simple things,
and little things, and many things, are more needed in the arts today
than complex things and great and isolated achievements. If you have
nothing to do for others, do some little thing for yourself: it is a
seed, presently it will send out a shoot of your first "commission," and
that will probably lead to two others, or to a larger one; but pray to
be led by small steps; and make sure of firm footing as you go, for
there is such a thing as trying to take a _leap_ on the ladder, and
leaping off it.

So much for the seed of success.

The seed of craftsmanship I have tried to describe in this book.

The seed of ornament and design, it is impossible to treat of here; it
would require as large a book as this to itself: but I will hazard the
devotion of a page each to the A and the B of my own A B C of the
subject as I try to teach it to my pupils, and put them before you
without comment, hoping they may be of some slight use. (See figs. 72
and 73.)

But though I said that nothing will grow but seed, it does not, of
course, follow that every seed will grow, or, if it does, that you
yourself will reap the exact harvest you expect, or even recognise it in
its fruitage as the growth of what you have sown. Expect to give much
for little, to lose sight of the bread cast on the waters, not even sure
that you will know it again even if you find it after many days. You
never know, and therefore do not count your scalps too carefully or try
to number your Israel and Judah. Neither, on the other hand, allow your
seed to be forced by the hothouse of advertising or business pushing, or
anything which will distract or distort that quiet gaze upon the work by
which you love it for its own sake, and judge it on its merits; all such
sidelights are misleading, since you do not know whether it is intended
that this or that shall prosper or both be alike good.

How many a man one sees, earnest and sincere at starting, led aside off
the track by the false lights of publicity and a first success. Art is
peace. Do things because you love them. If purple is your favourite
colour, put purple in your window; if green, green; if yellow, yellow.
Flowers and leaves and buds because you love them. Glass because you
love it. It is not that you are to despise either fame or wealth.
Honestly acquired both are good. But you must bear in mind that the
pursuit of these separately by any other means than perfecting your work
is a thing requiring great outlay of TIME, and you cannot afford to
withdraw any time from your work in order to acquire them.

[Illustration: FIG. 72. Design consists of arrangement. Let us practise
arrangement separately, and on its simplest terms. Take the simplest
possible arranged form, and make all ornament spring from this, without,
for a considerable time changing its character, or making any additions
of a different character to it. If we are not then to do this what
resource have we? we may change its direction. Proceed then to do so,
observing a few very simple rules. 1. Do the work in single "stitches"
2. & to each arm of the cross in turn. 3 keep a record of each step;
that is, as soon as you have got any definite developement from your
original form, put that down on paper and leave it, drawing it over
again and developing from the second drawing. The fourth rule is the
most important of all: 4. Keep "on the spot" as much as possible, i.e.
take a number of single steps from the point you have arrived at, not a
number of consecutive steps leading farther from it. For example: "b"
here is a single step from "a", you do one thing. I do not want you to
go on developing from it [fig. "b"] as "c", "d" & "e" until you have
gone back to fig. "a" and made all the immediately possible steps to be
taken from it, one of wh. is shown, fig "f."

[Illustration: a]

[Illustration: b]

[Illustration: c]

[Illustration: c]

[Illustration: d]

[Illustration: e]

[Illustration: f]]

[Illustration: FIG. 73. Seed of design as applied to Craft & Material.
Suppose you have three simple openings. (fig. 'a'.) garret windows, or
passage windows, we will suppose, each with a central horizontal bar:
and suppose you have a number of pieces of glass to use up already cut
to one gauge, and that six of these fill a window, can you get any
little variety by arrangement on the following terms. 1. Treating both
upper and lower ranges alike 2. Allowing yourself to halve them,
vertically only. 3. Not wasting any glass. 4. Not halving more than two
in each light. How is this, fig. b? you despise it? so absurdly simple?
It is the key to all simple ornament in leaded glass. Exhaust all the
possible varieties, there are at least nine. Do them. That's all.

[Illustration: A]

[Illustration: B]

[Illustration]

[Illustration] ]

In these days and in our huge cities there are so many avenues open to
celebrity, through Society, the Press, Exhibition, and so forth, that a
man once led to spend time on them is in danger of finding half his
working life run away with by them before he is aware, while even if
they are successful the success won by them is a poor thing compared to
that which might have been earned by the work which was sacrificed for
them. It becomes almost a profession in itself to keep oneself
notorious.

To spend large slices out of one's time in the mere putting forward of
one's work, _showing_ it apart from _doing_ it, necessary as this
sometimes is, is a thing to be done grudgingly; still more so should one
grudge to be called from one's work here, there, and everywhere by the
social claims which crowd round the position of a public man.

       *       *       *       *       *

There are strenuous things enough for you in the work itself without
wasting your strength on these. We will speak of them presently; but a
word first upon originality.

Don't _strive_ to be original; no one ever got Heaven's gift of
invention by saying, "I must have it, and since I don't feel it I must
assume it and pretend it;" follow rather your master patiently and
lovingly for a long time; give and take, echo his habits as Botticelli
echoed Filippo Lippi's, but improve upon them; add something to them if
you can, as he also did, and pass then on, as he also did, to the
_little_ Filippo--Filippino--making him a truer and sweeter heart than
his father, out of the well of truth and sweetness with which
Botticelli's own heart was brimming. Do this, but at the same time
expect with happy patience, as a boy longs for his manhood, yet does not
try to hasten it and does not pretend to forestall it, the time when
some fresh idea in imagination, some fresh method in design, some fresh
process in craftsmanship, will come to you as a reward of patient
working--and come by accident, as all such things do, lest you should
think it your own and miss the joy of knowing that it is not yours but
Heaven's.

And when this comes, guard it and mature it carefully. Do not throw it
out too lavishly broadcast with the ostentation of a generous genius
having gifts to spare. Share it with proved and worthy friends, when
they notice it and ask you about it, but in the meanwhile develop and
cultivate it as a gardener does a tree. And this leads me to the most
important point of all--namely, the value, the all-sufficing value, of
_one_ new step on the road of Beauty. If such is really granted you,
consider it as enough for your lifetime. One such thing in the history
of the arts has generally been enough for a century; how much more,
then, for a generation.

For indeed there is only one rule for fine work in art, that you should
put your whole strength, all the powers of mind and body into every
touch. Nothing less will do than that. You must face it in drawing from
the life. Try it in its acutest form, not from the posed, professional
model, who will sit like a stone; try it with children, two years old or
so; the despair of it, the exhaustion: and then, in a flash, when you
thought you had really done somewhat, a still more captivating,
fascinating gesture, which makes all you have done look like lead. Can
you screw your exhaustion up _again,_ sacrifice all you have done, and
face the labour of wrestling with the new idea? And if you do? You are
sick with doubt between the new and the old. You ask your friends; you
probably choose wrong; your judgment is clouded by the fatigue of your
previous toil.

But you have gained strength. That is the real point of the thing. It is
not what you have done in this instance, but what you have become in
doing it. Next time, fresh and strong, you will dash the beautiful
sudden thought upon the paper and leave it, happy to make others happy,
but only through the pains you took before, which are a small price to
pay for the joy of the strength you have gained.

This is the rule of great work. Puzzle and hesitation and compromise can
only occur because you have left some factor of the problem out of
count, and this should never be. Your business is to take all into
account and to sacrifice everything, however fascinating and tempting it
may be in itself, if it does not fit in as part of an harmonious
_whole_. Remember in this case, when loth to make such sacrifice, the
old saying that "there's as good fish in the sea as ever came out."
Brace yourself to try for something still better. Recast your
composition. If it is defective, the defect all comes from some want of
strenuousness as you went along. It is like getting a bit of your figure
out of drawing because your eye only measured some portion of it with
one or two portions of the rest and not with the whole figure and
attitude. Every student knows the feeling. So in your composition: you
may get impossible levels, impossible relations between the subject and
the surrounding canopy: perhaps one coming in front of the other at one
point and the reverse at another point. You drew the thing dreamily: you
were not alert enough. And now you must waste what you had got to love,
because though it's so pretty it is not fitting.

But sometimes it will happen that some line of your composition is thus
hacked off by no fault of yours, by some mismeasurement of a bar by your
builder, or some change of mind or whim of your client, who "likes it
all but"---- (some vital feature). As we have said, this is not quite a
fair demand to be made upon the artist, but it will sometimes occur,
whatever we do. Pull yourself together, and, before you stand out about
it and refuse to change, consider. Try the modification, and try it in
such an aroused and angry spirit as shall flame out against the
difficulty with force and heat. Let the whole thing be as fuel of fire,
and the reward will be given. The chief difficulty may become--it is
more than an even chance that it does become--the chief glory, and that
the composition will be like the new-born Phoenix, sprung from the
ashes of the old and thrice as fair.

Then also strike while the iron is hot, and work while you're warm to
it. When you have done the main figure-study and slain its difficulty
you feel braced up, your mind clear, and you see your way to link it in
with the surroundings. Will you let it all get cold because it is toward
evening and you are physically tired, when another hour would set the
whole problem right for next day's work; now, while you are warm, while
the beauty of the model you have drawn from is still glowing in you with
a thousand suggestions and possibilities? You will do in another hour
now what would take you days to do when the fire has died down--if you
ever do it at all.

It is after a day's work such as this that one feels the true delight of
the balm of Nature. For conquered difficulty brings new insight through
the feeling of new power; and new beauties are seen because they are
felt to be attainable, and by virtue of the assurance that one has got
distinctly a step nearer to the veil that hides the inner heart of
things which is our destined home.

It is after work like this, feeling the stirrings of some real strength
within you, promising power to deal with nature's secrets by-and-by,
that you see as never before the beauty of things.

The keen eyes that have been so busy turn gratefully to the silver of
the sky with the grey, quiet trees against it and the watery gleam of
sunset like pale gold, low down behind the boughs, where the robin, half
seen, is flitting from place to place, choosing his rest and twittering
his good-night; and you think with good hope of your life that is
coming, and of all your aspirations and your dreams. And in the
stillness and the coolness and the peace you can dwell with confidence
upon the thought of all the Unknown that is moving onward towards you,
as the glow which is fading renews itself day by day in the East,
bringing the daily task with it.

You feel that you are able to meet it, and that all is well; that there
are quiet and good things in store, and that this constant renewal of
the glories of day and night, this constant procession of morning and
evening as the world rolls round, has become almost a special possession
to you, to which only those who pay the price have entrance, an
inheritance of your own as a reward of your endeavour and acquired
power, and leading to some purposed end that will be peace.

       *       *       *       *       *

Stained-glass, stained-glass, stained-glass! At night in the lofty
church windows the bits glow and gloom and talk to one another in their
places; and the pictured angels and saints look down, peopling the empty
aisles and companioning the lamp of the sanctuary.

       *       *       *       *       *

The beads worth threading seem about all threaded now, and the book
appears to be done. Thus we have gone on then, making it as it came to
hand, blundering, as it seems to me, on the borders of half a dozen
literary or illiterate styles, the pen not being the tool of our proper
craft; but on the whole saying somehow what we meant to say: laughing
when we felt amused, and being serious when the subject seemed so, our
object being indeed to make workers in stained-glass and not a book
about it. Is it worth while to try and put a little clasp to our string
of beads and tie all together?

There was a little boy (was he six or seven or eight?), and his seat on
Sunday was opposite the door in the fourteenth-century chancel of the
little Norman country church. There the great, tall windows hung in the
air around him, and he used to stare up at them with goggle-eyes in the
way that used to earn him household names, wondering which he liked
best. And for months one would be the favourite, and for months another
would supplant it; his fancy would change, and now he liked this--now
that. Only the stone tracery-bars, for there was no stained-glass to
spoil them. The broad, plain flagstones of the floor spread round him in
cool, white spaces, in loved unevenness, honoured by the foot-tracks
which had worn the stone into little valleys from the door and through
the narrow, Norman chancel-arch up towards the altar rails, telling of
generations of feet, long since at rest, that had carried simple lives
to seek the place as the place of their help or peace.

Plain rush-plaited hassocks and little brass sconces where, on lenten
nights, in the unwarmed church, glimmered the few candles that lit the
devotion of the strong, rough sons of the glebe, hedgers and ditchers,
who came there after daily labour to spell out simple prayer and praise.
But it was best on the summer Sunday mornings, when the great spaces of
blue, and the towering white clouds looked down through the diamond
panes; and the iron-studded door, with the wonderful big key, which his
hands were not yet strong enough to turn, stood wide open; and outside,
amongst the deep grass that grew upon the graves, he could see the
tortoise-shell butterflies sunning themselves upon the dandelions. Then
it was that he used to think the outside the best, and fancy (with
perfect truth, as I believe) that angels must be looking in, just as
much as he was looking out, and gazing down, grave-eyed, upon the little
people inside, as he himself used to watch the red ants busy in their
tiny mounds upon the grass plot or the gravel path; and he wondered
sometimes whether the outside or the inside was "God's House" most: the
place where he was sitting, with rough, simple things about him that the
village carpenter or mason or blacksmith had made, or the beautiful
glowing world outside. And as he thought, with the grave mind of a
child, about these things, he came to fancy that the eyes that looked
out through the silver diamond-panes which kept out the wind and rain,
mattered less than the eyes that looked in from the other side where
basked the butterflies and flowers and all the living things he so
loved; awful eyes that were at home where hung the sun himself in his
distances and the stars in the great star-spaces; where Orion and the
Pleiades glittered in the winter nights, where "Mazzaroth was brought
forth in his season," and where through the purple skies of summer
evening was laid out overhead the assigned path along which moved
Arcturus with his sons.




APPENDIX I

SOME SUGGESTIONS AS TO THE STUDY OF OLD GLASS


Every one who wants to study glass should go to York Minster. Go to the
extreme west end, the first two windows are of plain quarries most
prettily leaded, and showing how pleasant "plain-glazing" may be, with
silvery glass and a child-like enjoyment of simple patterning,
unconscious of "high art." But look at the second window on the north
side. What do you see? You see a yellow shield? Exactly. Every one who
looks at that window as he passes at a quick walk must come away
remembering that he had seen a yellow shield. But stop and look at it.
Don't you _like_ it--_I_ do! Why?--well, because it happens to be by
good luck just _right_, and it is a very good lesson of the degree in
which beauty in glass depends on juxtaposition. I had thought of it as a
particularly beautiful bit of glass in quality and colour--but not at
all! it is textureless and rather crude. I had thought of it as old--not
at all: it is probably eighteenth-century. But look what it happens to
be set in--the mixture of agate, silver, greenish and black quarries.
Imagine it by itself without the dull citron crocketting and pale
yellow-stain "sun" and "shafting" of the panel below--without the black
and yellow escutcheon in the light to its right hand--even without the
cutting up and breaking with black lead lines of its own upper half. In
short, you could have it so placed that you would like it no better,
that it would _be_ no better, than the bit of "builder's glazing" in the
top quatrefoil of the next window, which looks like, and I fancy is, of
almost the very same glass, but clumsily mixed, and, fortunately,
_dated_ for our instruction, 1779.

I do not know any place where you can get more study of certain
properties of glass than in the city of York. The cathedral alone is a
mine of wealth. The nave windows are near enough to see all necessary
detail. There is something of every period. And with regard to the nave
and clerestory windows, they have been so mauled and re-leaded that you
need not be in the least afraid of admiring the wrong thing or passing
by the right. You can be quite frank and simple about it all. For
instance, my own favourite window is the fifth from the west on the
south side. The old restorer has coolly slipped down one whole panel
below its proper level in a shower of rose-leaves (which were really,
I believe, originally a pavement), and, frankly, I don't know (and
don't care) whether they are part of his work in the late eighteenth
century or the original glass of the late fourteenth. I rather incline
to think that they came out of some other window and are bits of
fifteenth-century glass. The same with the chequered shield of Vernon in
the other light. I daresay it is a bit of builder's glazing--but isn't
it jolly? And what do you think of the colour of the little central
circle half-way up the middle light? Isn't it a flower? And look at the
petal that's dropped from it on to the bar below! or the _whole_ of the
left-hand light; well, or the middle light, or the right-hand light? If
that's not colour I don't know what is. I doubt if it was any more
beautiful when it was new, perhaps not so beautiful. Compare it, for
example, with the window in the same wall (I think next to it on the
west, which has been "restored"). The window exactly opposite seems one
of the least retouched, and the least interesting; if you think the
yellow canopies disagreeable in colour don't be ashamed to say so: they
are not unbeautiful exactly, I think, but, personally, I could do with
less of them. Yet I should not be surprised to be assured that they are
all genuine fourteenth-century. In the north transept is the celebrated
"Five Sisters," the most beautiful bit of thirteenth-century "grisaille"
perhaps in existence. That is where we get our patterns for
"kamptulicon" from; but we don't make kamptulicon quite like it. If you
want a sample of "nineteenth-century thirteenth-century" work you have
only to look over your left shoulder.

A similar glance to the right will show you "nineteenth-century
fifteenth-century" work--and show it you in a curious and instructive
transition stage--portions of the two right-hand windows of the five
being old glass worked in with new, while the right-hand one of all is a
little abbot who is nearly all old and has shrunk behind a tomb,
wondering, as it seems to me, "how those fellows got in," and making up
his mind whether he's going to stand being bullied by the new St. Peter.
In the south transept opposite, all the five eastern windows are
fifteenth-century, and some of them very well preserved, while those in
the southern wall are modern. The great east window has a history of its
own quite easily ascertainable on the spot and worthy of research and
study. Then go into the north ambulatory, look at the third of the big
windows. Well, the right-hand light; look at the bishop at the top in a
dark red chasuble, note the bits of dull rose colour in the lower dress,
the bit of blackish grey touching the pastoral staff just below the edge
of the chasuble, look at the bits of sharp strong blue in the
background. Now I believe these are all accidents--bits put in in
releading; but when the choir is singing and you can pick out every
separate note of the harmony as it comes down to you from each curve of
the fretted roof, if you don't think this window goes with it and is
music also, you must be wrong, I think, in eye or ear. But indeed this
part of the church and all round the choir aisles on both sides is a
perfect treasure-house of glass.

If you want an instance of what I said (p. 212) as to "added notes
turning discord into harmony," look at the _patched_ east window of the
south choir aisle. Mere jumble--probably no selection--yet how
beautiful! like beds of flowers. Did you ever see a bed of flowers that
was _not_ beautiful?--often and often, when the gardener had carefully
selected the plants of his ribbon-bordering; but I would have you think
of an old-fashioned cottage garden, with its roses and lilies and
larkspur and snapdragon and marigolds--those are what windows should be
like.

In addition to the minster, almost every church in the city has some
interesting glass; several of them a great quantity, and some finer than
any in the cathedral itself. And here I would give a hint. _Never pass a
church or chapel of any sort or kind_, _old or new, without looking in._
You cannot tell what you may find.

And a second hint. Do not make written pencil notes regarding colour,
either from glass or nature, for you'll never trouble to puzzle them out
afterwards. Take your colour-box with you. The merest dot of tint on the
paper will bring everything back to mind.

Space prevents our making here anything like a complete itinerary
setting forth where glass may be studied; it must suffice to name a few
centres, noting a few places in the same district which may be visited
from them easily. I name only those I know myself, and of course the
list is very slight.

YORK. And all churches in the city.

GLOUCESTER. Tewkesbury, Cirencester.

BIRMINGHAM. (For Burne-Jones glass.) Shrewsbury, Warwick, Tamworth,
Malvern.

WELLS.

OXFORD. Much glass in the city, old and new. Fairford.

CAMBRIDGE. Much glass in the city, old and new.

CANTERBURY.

CHARTRES. (If there is still any left unrestored.) St. Pierre in the
same town.

SENS.

TROYES. AUXERRE.

Of the last two I have only seen some copies. For glass by Rossetti,
Burne-Jones, and Madox-Brown, consult their lives.

There are many well-known books on the subject of ancient glass,
Winston, Westlake, &c., which give fuller details on this matter.




APPENDIX II

ON THE RESTORING OF ANCIENT WINDOWS


Let us realise what _is_ done.

And let us consider what _ought to be done_.

A window of ancient glass needs releading. The lead has decayed and the
whole is loose and shaky. The ancient glass has worn very thin, pitted
almost through like a worn-out thimble with little holes where the
alkalis have worked their way out. It is as fragile and tender as an old
oil-painting that needs to be taken off a rotten canvas and re-lined. If
you examine a piece of old glass whose lead has had time to decay, you
will find that the glass itself is often in an equally tender state. The
painting would remain for years, probably for centuries yet, if
untouched, just as dust, without any attachment at all, will hang on a
vertical looking-glass. But if you scrape it, even only with the
finger-nail, you will generally find that that is sufficient to bring
much--perhaps most--of the painting off, while both sides of the glass
are covered with a "patina" of age which is its chief glory in quality
and colour, and which, or most of which, a wet handkerchief dipped in a
little dust and rubbed smartly will remove.

In short, here is a work of art as beautiful and precious as a picture
by Titian or Holbein, and probably, as being the chief glory of some
stately cathedral, still more precious, which ought only to be trusted
to the gentle hands of a cultivated and scientific artist, connoisseur,
and expert. The glass should all be handled as if it were old filigree
silver. If the lead is so perished that it is absolutely impossible to
avoid taking the glass down, it should be received on the scaffold
itself, straight from its place in the stone, between packing-boards
lined with sheets of wadding--"cotton-wool"--attached to the boards with
size or paste, and with, of course, the "fluffy" side outwards. These
boards, section by section, should be finally corded or clamped ready
for travelling _before being lowered from the scaffold_; if any pieces
of the glass get detached they should be carefully packed in separate
boxes, each labelled with a letter corresponding to one placed on the
section as packed, so that there may be no chance of their place ever
being lost, and when all is done the whole window will be ready to be
gently lowered, securely "packed for removal," to the pavement below.
The ideal thing now would be to hire a room and do the work on the spot;
but if this is impossible on account of expense and the thing has to
bear a journey, the sections, packed as above described, should be
themselves packed, two or three together, as may be convenient, in an
outer packing-case for travelling. It should be insured, for then a
representative of the railway must attend to certify the packing, and
also extra care will be taken in transit.

Arrived at the shop, the window should be laid out carefully on the
bench and each bit re-leaded into its place, the very fragile pieces
between two bits of thin sheet-glass.

Unless this last practice is adopted _throughout_, the ordinary process
of cementing must be omitted and careful puttying substituted for it.
While if it _is_ adopted the whole must be puttied _before_ cementing,
otherwise the cement will run in between the various thicknesses of
glass. It would be an expensive and tedious and rather thankless
process, for the repairer's whole aim would be to hide from the
spectator the fact that anything whatever had been done.

What does happen at present is this. A country clergyman, or, in the
case of a cathedral, an architectural surveyor, neither of whom know by
actual practice anything technically of stained-glass, hand the job over
to some one representing a stained-glass establishment. This gentleman
has studied stained-glass on paper, and knows as much about cutting or
leading technically and by personal practice, as an architect does of
masonry, or stone-carving--neither more nor less. That is to say, he has
made sketch-books full of water-colour or pencil studies, and endless
notes from old examples, and has never cut a bit of glass in his life,
or leaded it.

Well, he assumes the responsibility, and the client reposes in the
blissful confidence that all is well.

Is all well?

The work is placed in the charge of the manager, and through him it
filters down as part of the ordinary, natural course of events into the
glazing-shop. Here this precious and fragile work of art we have
described is handed over to a number of ordinary working men to treat by
the ordinary methods of their trade. They know perfectly well that
nobody above them knows as much as they, or, indeed, anything at all of
their craft. Division of labour has made them "glaziers," as it has made
the gentlemen above stairs, who do the cartoons or the painting,
"artists." These last know nothing of glazing, why should glaziers know
anything of art? It is perfectly just reasoning; they do their very
best, and what they do is this. They take out the old, tender glass,
with the colour hardly clinging to it, and they put it into fresh leads,
and then they solder up the joints. And, by way of a triumphant wind-up
to a good, solid, English, common-sense job, with no art-nonsense or
fads about it, they proceed to scrub the whole on both sides with stiff
grass-brushes (ordinarily sold at the oil-shops for keeping back-kitchen
sinks clean), using with them a composition mainly consisting of exactly
the same materials with which a housemaid polishes the fender and
fire-irons. That is a plain, simple, unvarnished statement of facts. You
may find it difficult of belief, but this is what actually happens. This
is what you are having done everywhere, guardians of our ancient
buildings. You'll soon have all your old windows "quite as good as new."
It's a merry world, isn't it?




APPENDIX III

     Hints for the Curriculum of a Technical School for
     Stained-Glass--Examples for Painting--Examples of Drapery--Drawing
     from Nature--Ornamental Design.


_Examples for Painting._--I have already recommended for outline work
the splendid reproductions of the Garter Plates at Windsor. It is more
difficult to find equally good examples for _painting_; for if one had
what one wished it would be photographed from ideal painted-glass or
else from cartoons wisely prepared for glass-work. But, in the first
case, if the photographs were from the best ancient glass--even
supposing one could get them--they would be unsatisfactory for two
reasons. First, because ancient glass, however well preserved, has lost
or gained something by age which no skill can reproduce; and secondly,
because however beautiful it is, all but the very latest (and therefore
not the best) is immature in drawing. It is not wise to reproduce those
errors. The things themselves look beautiful and sincere because the old
worker drew as well as he could; but if we, to imitate them, draw less
well than we can, we are imitating the _accidents_ of his production,
and not the _method_ and _principle_ of it: the principle was to draw as
well as he could, and we, if we wish to emulate old glass, must draw as
well as _we_ can. For examples of Heads nothing can be better than
photographs from Botticelli and other early Tuscan, and from the early
Siennese painters. Also from Holbein, and chiefly from his drawings.
There is a flatness and firmness of treatment in all these which is
eminently suited to stained-glass work. Hands also may be studied from
the same sources, for though Botticelli does not always draw hands with
perfect mastery, yet he very often does, and the expression of them, as
of his heads, is always dignified and full of sweetness and gentleness
of feeling; and as soon as we have learnt our craft so as to copy these
properly, the best thing is to draw hands and heads for ourselves.

_Examples of Drapery._--To me there is no drapery so beautiful and
appropriate for stained-glass work in the whole world of art, ancient or
modern, as that of Burne-Jones, and especially in his studies and
drawings and cartoons for glass; and if these are not accessible, at
least we may pose drapery as like it as we can, and draw it ourselves
and copy it. But I would, at any rate, earnestly warn the student
against the "crinkly-crankly" drapery imitated from Dürer and his
school, which fills up the whole panel with wrinkles and "turnovers"
(the linings of a robe which give an opportunity for changing the
colour), and spreads out right and left and up and down till the poor
bishop himself (and in nine cases out of ten it _is_ a bishop, so that
he may be mitred and crosiered and pearl-bordered) becomes a mere peg to
hang vestments on, and is made short and dumpy for that end.

There is a great temptation and a great danger here. This kind of work,
where every inch of space is filled with ornament and glitter, and
change and variety and richness, is indeed in many ways right and good
for stained-glass; which is a broken-up thing; where large blank spaces
are to be avoided, and where each little bit of glass should look "cared
for" and thought of, as a piece of fine jewellery is put together in its
setting; and if craftsmanship were everything, much might be said for
these methods. There is indeed plenty of stained-glass of the kind more
beautiful as _craftsmanship_ than anything since the Middle Ages, much
more beautiful and cunning in workmanship than Burne-Jones, and yet
which is little else but vestments and curtains and diaper--where there
is no lesson taught, no subject dwelt on, no character studied or
portrayed. If we wish it to be so--if we have nothing to teach or learn,
if we wish to be let alone, to be soothed and lulled by mere sacred
_trappings_, by pleasant colours and fine and delicate sheen and the
glitter of silk and jewels--well and good, these things will serve; but
if they fail to satisfy, go to St. Philip's, Birmingham, and see the
solemnities and tragedies of Life and Death and Judgment, and all this
will dwindle down into the mere upholstery and millinery that it is.

_Drawing from Nature._--There is a side of drawing practice almost
wholly neglected in schools, which consists, not in training the eye and
hand to correctly measure and outline spaces and forms, but in training
the finger-ends with an H.B. pencil point at the end of them to
illustrate texture and minute detail. It is necessary to look at things
in a large way, but it is equally necessary to look at them in a small
way; to be able to count the ribs on a blade of grass or a tiny
cockle-shell, and to give them in pencil, each with its own light and
shade. I find the whole key to this teaching to lie in one golden
rule--_not to frighten or daunt the student with big tasks at first_. A
single grain of wheat, not a whole ear of corn; some tiny seed, tiny
shell; but whatever _is_ chosen, to be pursued with a needle-pointed
pencil to the very verge of lens-work. I must yet again quote Ruskin.
"You have noticed," he says,[9] "that all great sculptors, and most of
the great painters of Florence, began by being goldsmiths. Why do you
think the goldsmith's apprenticeship is so fruitful? Primarily, because
it forces the boy to do small work and mind what he is about. Do you
suppose Michael Angelo learned his business by dashing or hitting at
it?"

_Ornamental Design._--It is impossible here to enter into a description
of any system of teaching ornament. At p. 294 I have given just as much
as two pages can give of the seed from which such a thing may spring.
In some of the collotypes from the finished glass the patterns on quarry
or robe which spring from this seed may be traced--very imperfectly, but
as well as the scale and the difficulties of photography and the absence
of colour will allow.

What I find best, in commencing with any student, is to start four
practices together, and keep them going together step by step, side by
side, through the course, one evening for each, or some like division.

_Technical Work._--Cutting, glazing, &c.

_Painting Work._--By graduated examples, from simple outline up to a
head of Botticelli.

_Ornament_, as described; and

_Drawing from Nature_, in the spirit and methods we have spoken of.

Moulding the whole into a system of composition and execution, tempered
and governed as it goes along by judiciously chosen reading and
reference to examples, ancient or modern.

[9] "Ariadne Florentina," p. 108.




NOTES ON THE COLLOTYPE PLATES


It is obvious that stained-glass cannot be adequately shown in
book-illustration.

For instance, we cannot have either the scale of it or the colour--two
rather vital exceptions. These collotypes are, therefore, put forth as
mere diagrams for the use of students, to call their attention to
certain definite points and questions of treatment, and no more
pretending than if they were black-board drawings to give adequate
pictures of what glass can be or should be.

This is one reason, too, for the omission of all attempt to reproduce
ancient glass. It was felt that it should not be subjected to the
indignity of such very imperfect representation, and especially as so
many much larger books on the subject exist, where at least the _scale_
is not so ill-treated.

But, besides, if one once began illustrating old glass, one would
immediately seem to be setting standards for present-day guidance, and
this could only be done (_if done_) with many annotations and exceptions
and with a much larger range of examples than is possible here.

The following illustrations, therefore, show the attempts of a group of
workers who have endeavoured to carry into practice the principles set
forth in this book. It has not been found possible in all cases to get
photographs from the actual glass--always a very difficult thing to do.
The illustrations can be seen much better by the aid of a moderately
strong reading-lens.

PLATE I.--_Part of East Window, St. Anselm's, Woodridings, Pinner, by
Louis Davis._ The design, cartoons, and cut-line made, all the glass
chosen and painted, and the leading superintended by the artist.

[Illustration: I.--Part of Window. St. Anselm's, Woodridings, Pinner.]

PLATE II.--_Another portion of the same window, by the same. Scenes from
the Life of St. Anselm._ Executed under the same conditions as the
above. The freehand drawing and the varying thickness of the leads in
the quarry work should be noted.

[Illustration: II.--Part of Window. St. Anselm's, Woodridings, Pinner.]

PLATE III.--_Window in St. Peter's Church, Clapham Road--"Blessed are_
_they that Mourn," by Reginald Hallward._ The _whole_ of the work in
this instance, including cutting, leading, &c., is done by the artist
himself. As an instance of how little photography can do, it is worth
while to describe such a small item as the _scroll_ above the figure.
This is of glass most carefully selected (or most skilfully treated with
acid), so that the ground work varies from silvery-white to almost a
pansy-purple, and on this the verse is illuminated in tones varying from
pale primrose to the ruddiest gold--the whole forming a passage of
lovely colour impossible to achieve by any system of "copying." It is
work like this and the preceding that is referred to on p. 266.

[Illustration: III.--Window. St. Peter's Church, Clapham.]

PLATE IV.--_Central part of Window in Cobham Church, Kent, by Reginald
Hallward._ Executed under the same conditions as the preceding.

[Illustration: IV.--Part of Window. Cobham Church, Kent.]

PLATE V.--_Part of Window in Ardrahan Church, Galway--"St. Robert" by
Selwyn Image._ From the cartoon. See p. 83.

[Illustration: V.--Part of Window. Ardrahan, Galway.]

PLATE VI.--_Two Designs for Domestic Glass, by Miss M. J. Newill._ From
the cartoons.

[Illustration: VI.--From Cartoons for Domestic Glass.]

PLATE VII.--_"The Dream of St. Kenelm," by H. A. Payne._ The author had
the pleasure of watching this work daily while in progress. It was done
entirely by the artist's own hand, by way of a specimen "masterpiece" of
craftsmanship, and the aim was to use to the full extent every resource
of the material.

[Illustration: VII.--Window. "The Dream of St. Kenelm."]

PLATE VIII.--_Six "Quarries"--"Day and Night," "The Spirit on the Face
of the Waters," "Creation of Birds and Fishes," "Eden," and "The Parable
of the Good Seed," by Pupils of H. A. Payne, Birmingham School of Art._
These lose very much by reduction, and should be seen with a lens
magnifying 2-1/2 diameters. They are the designs of the pupils
themselves (boys in their teens), and are examples of bold outline
_untouched after tracing_. They are more elaborate than would be
desirable for _ordinary_ quarry glazing; being intended for interior
work on a screen, to be seen close at hand with borrowed light.

[Illustration: VIII.--Quarries. (Size of originals, 4-1/2 by 4 ins.)]

PLATE IX.--_Micro-photographs_. 1. _A piece of outline that has "fried"
in the kiln._ Magnified 20 diameters. See p. 104.

2. _A small Diamond seen from above._ Magnified 10-1/2 diameters. The
white horizontal line is the cutting edge.

3. _A larger Diamond that has been "re__set_." That is to say,
_re-ground_: the diagonal marks like a St. Andrew's Cross show the
grinding down of the old facets by which the new cutting edge has been
produced. Magnified 10-1/2 diameters.

4. No. 2 _seen from the side_. Magnified 10-1/2 diameters; the cutting
edge faces towards the left.

[Illustration: IX.--Micro-photographs from details connected with Glass
Work.]

PLATE X.--_Micro-photographs of Glass-cutting_ Very difficult to
explain. "A" is a sheet of glass seen _in section_ multiplied 15-1/2
diameters. The black marks along the _top edge_ are diamond-cuts, good
and bad, coming _straight towards the spectator_. The two outside ones
are very _bad_ cuts, far too violent, and have split off the surface of
the glass. Of the two inner ones the left-hand one is an ideally good
cut, no disturbance of the surface having occurred; the right-hand a
fairly good one, but a little unnecessarily hard. Passing over B for the
present--C is a similar piece of glass also magnified 15-1/2 diameters,
with _wheel-cuts_ seen endwise (coming towards the spectator). The one
on the left is a very bad cut, the surface of the glass having actually
split off in flakes, the next to it is a perfect cut where the surface
is intact, and note that though not a quarter so much pressure has been
employed, the split downward into the glass is deeper and sharper than
in the violent cut to the left, as is also the case with the two other
moderately good cuts to the right.

D, E--_Wheel-cuts._ In these we are looking down upon the surface of the
glass. They are bad cuts, multiplied 20 diameters; the direction of the
cut is from left to right. In the upper figure the flake of glass is
split completely off but is still lying in its place. In the lower one
the left-hand half is split, and the right-hand only partially so,
remaining so closely attached to the body of the glass as to show (and
in an especially beautiful and perfect manner) the rainbow-tinted
"Newton's rings" which accompany the phenomenon of "Interference," for
an explanation of which I must refer the reader to an encyclopædia or
some work on optics. _Good_ cuts seen from above are simply lines like a
hair upon the glass, but the diamond-cut is a coarser hair than the
wheel-cut.

If you now hold the illustration _upside down_, what then becomes the
top edge of section C shows a wheel-cut seen sideways along the section
of the glass which it has divided, the direction of this cut being from
left to right.

In the same way section "A" seen upside down gives the appearance of a
_diamond_-cut, also from left to right, and multiplied 15-1/2 diameters,
while "B" held in the same position gives the same cut multiplied 78
diameters. The nature of these things is discussed at p. 48.

In their natural colour, and under strong light, they are very beautiful
objects under the microscope. Even a 10-diameter "Steinheil lens," or
still better its English equivalent, a Nelson lens, will show them
fairly, and some such instrument, opening out a new world of beauty
beyond the power of ordinary vision, ought, one would think, to be one
of the possessions of every artist and lover of Nature.

The illustrations that follow are from the work of the author and his
pupils conjointly. Those in which no _design_ has been added are for
clearness' sake described as "by the author"; but it is to be understood
that in all instances the transcribing of the work _in the glass_ has
been the work of pupils under his supervision. All design of diaper,
canopy, lettering, and quarries is so, in all the examples selected.

[Illustration: X.--Micro-photographs. Diamond and Wheel Cuts seen in
Section and Plan.]

PLATE XI.--_From Gloucester Cathedral--"St. Boniface" by the author and
his pupils._

[Illustration: XI.--Part of Window. Gloucester Cathedral.]

PLATE XII.--_From the same--"The Stork of Iona" and "The Infant Church,"
by the same._ Canopies from Oak and Ivy.

[Illustration: XII.--Part of Window. Gloucester Cathedral.]

PLATE XIII.--_Portion of a Window in progress (destined for Ashbourne
Church), by the author._ This has been specially photographed _on the
easel_, to show how near, by the use of false leadlines, &c., the work
can be got, during its progress, to approach to its actual conditions
when finished.

[Illustration: XIII.--Portion of Unfinished Window, photographed from
Work on the Easel.]

PLATE XIV.--_Drawings from Nature, by the author's pupils._ Pieced
together from various drawings by three different hands; made in
preparation for design of Oak "canopy." See p. 324 and Plate XI.

[Illustration: XIV.--Drawings from Nature, in Preparation for Design.]

PLATE XV.--_Part of East Window of School Chapel, Tonbridge, by the
author._ From the cartoon: the figure playing the dulcimer is underneath
the manger, above which is seated the Virgin and Child.

[Illustration: XV.--Part of Window. Tonbridge School Chapel,
photographed from the Cartoon.]

PLATE XVI.--_Figure of one of the Choir of "Dominations." From
Gloucester, by the author and his pupils._

[Illustration: XVI.--Part of Window. Gloucester Cathedral.]

The names of the pupils whose work appears in Plate VIII. are J. H.
Saunders and R. J. Stubington. In Plate XIV. A. E. Child, K. Parsons,
and J. H. Stanley; and in the Plates XI. to XVI. J. Brett, L. Brett, A.
E. Child, P. R. Edwards, M. Hutchinson, K. Parsons, J. H. Stanley, J. E.
Tarbox, and E. A. Woore. The cuts in the text are by K. Parsons and E.
A. Woore.




GLOSSARY


_Antiques_, coloured glasses made in imitation of the qualities of
ancient glass.

_Banding_, putting on the copper "ties" by which the glazed light is
attached to the supporting bars.

_Base_, (1) the light-tinted glass, white, greenish or yellow, on which
the thin film of ruby or blue is imposed in "flashed" glasses; (2) the
support of the niche on which the figure stands in "canopy work."

_Borrowed light_, a light not coming direct from daylight, but from the
interior light of a building as in the case of a _screen_ of glass. (The
result is similar when a window is seen against near background of trees
or buildings.)

_Calm_ (of lead), the strip of lead, 3 to 4 feet long, as used for
leading up the glass.

_Canopy_ or "tabernacle work," the architectural framing in imitation of
a carved niche in which the figure is placed. The vertical supports
(sometimes used alone to frame in the whole light) are called
"shafting."

_Cartoon_, the design of the window, full size, on paper.

_Chasuble_, the outermost sacrificial vestment of a bishop or priest.

_Cope_, the outermost ceremonial and processional vestment of a bishop
or priest.

_Core_ (of lead), the crossbar of the "H" section as shown in fig. 34.

_Crocketting_, the ornamenting of any architectural member at intervals
with sculptured bosses or crockets.

_Cullet_, the waste cuttings of glass. Generally used over again in
greater or less quantity as an ingredient in the making of new glass.

_Cut-line_, the tracing (containing the lead lines only) by which the
work is cut and glazed.

_Flux_, the solvent which assists the melting of the metallic pigments
in the kiln. Various materials are used, _e.g._ silica and lead, but
unfortunately borax also is used, and I would warn the student to buy no
pigment without a guarantee from the manufacturer that it does not
contain this tempting but very dangerous and unstable ingredient. (See
p. 112).

_Form_, the sheet of "continuous cartridge" or cartoon paper on which
the dimensions, &c., are marked out for drawing the cartoon.

_Gauge_, (1) the shaped piece of paper by which the diamond is guided in
cutting; (2) the standard of size and shape in any piece of repeated
work (as quarry-glazing).

_Grisaille_ (from Fr. _gris_, grey), work where a pattern, generally
geometrical, in narrow coloured bands, is superimposed on a background
of whitish, grey, or greenish glass diapered with painted work in
outline or slight shading.

_Groseing_, the biting away the edge of the glass with pliers to make it
fit. With regard to this word and to the term "calm," I have never found
any one who could give a reason for the name or an authority as to its
spelling, the various spellings suggested for the _latter_ word
including Karm, Calm, Carm, Kaim, and even Qualm! But while writing this
book I in lucky hour consulted the treatise of Theophilus, and was
delighted to find both words. The term he applies to the leads is
"Calamus" (a reed), while his term for what we should call pliers is
"Grosarium ferrum" (groseing iron). So that this question is set at rest
for ever. Glaziers must henceforth accept the classic spellings "Calm"
and "Groseing," and one may suppose they will be proud to learn that
these everyday terms of their craft have been in use for 900 years, and
are older than Westminster Abbey.

_Lath_, the ruler, 3 to 8 feet long, and marked with inches, &c., used
in setting out the "forms."

_Lathykin_, doubtless old English "a little lath," described p. 137.

_Lasting-nails_, described p. 141.

_Leaf_ (of lead), the two uprights of the "H" section (fig. 34).

_Muller_, a piece of granite or glass, flat at the base, for grinding
pigment, &c.

_Obtuse_, an angle having a wider opening than a right-angle or
"perpendicular."

_Orphreys_ (_aurifrigia_, from Lat. _aurum_, gold), the bands of
ornament on ecclesiastical vestments.

_Patina_, the film produced on various substances by chemical action
(oxidation, sulphurisation, &c.), either artificially, as in bronze
sculpture, or by age, as in glass.

_Plating_, the doubling of one glass with another in the same lead.

_Quarries_, the diamond, square, or other shaped panes used in
plain-glazing.

_Reamy_, wavy or streaky glass. (See p. 179.)

_Scratch-card_, a wire brush to remove tarnish from lead before
soldering (p. 144).

_Setting_, fixing a charcoal or chalk drawing on the paper by means of a
spray of fixative.

_Shafting_, see "Canopy."

_Shooting_ (in carpentry), the planing down of an edge to get it truly
straight.

_Squaring-out_, enlarging (or reducing) any design by drawing from point
to point across proportional squares.

_Stippling_, described p. 100.

_Stopping-knife_, the knife by which the glass and lead are manipulated
in leading-up.

_Tabernacle work_, see "Canopy."

_Template_, the form in paper, card, wood, or zinc, of _shaped_
openings, by which the correct figure is set out on the cartoon-form.




     INDEX


     Accidental qualities in glass, value of, 114

     Accuracy in setting out forms, 286

     Accuracy of measurement, 115, 285

     Accuracy of work in the shop, rules for, formula for right
       angles, 286

     Aciding, 130

     Action, violent, to be avoided, 173

     Advertising, 293

     Allegory, 248

     Allegory, true allegory the presentment of noble natures, 260

     Ancient buildings, sacredness of, 245

     Ancient glass, 171, 314, 321, 328

     "Antique" glasses, 31

     Architectural fitness, 234

     Architecture, harmony with, 174

     Architecture, stained-glass accessory to, 168

     Architecture, subservient to, 155, 236

     Armour, by use of aciding in flashed blue glass, 131

     Art colours, 201

     Artist, right claim to the title, 269

     "Asleep," Millais' picture of, 209

     Assistants, to be trained to mastership, 268

     Auxerre, centre for study of glass, 315


     Backing, 126

     Badger, 72, 74

     Badger, how to dry, 193

     Banding, 151

     Barff's formula for pigment, 226

     Bars, 151, 159, 167

     Bars and lead lines, 166, 176

     "Beads," a string of, 190

     Beethoven, colour, 224, 271

     Bicycle, use of, 216

     Birds, 217

     Birmingham, Burne-Jones windows, 236, 324

     Boniface, St., a question of staining, 224

     Books, 255, 257

     Borax, untrustworthy as flux, 370

     Borrowed light, 227 (and Glossary)

     Botticelli, 64, 78, 250, 297, 322

     Brown, Madox, 203

     Brush, how to fill, 58

     Builders' glazing, 180

     Buntingford, ride from, 216

     Burne-Jones, 131, 203, 236, 250, 324

     Burning, 129

     Burnt umber, 203

     Butterfly, 217

     "Byzantium of the crafts," 243

     Byzantine revival, 241


     "Calm" of lead, 137 (and Glossary)

     Cambridge, Burne-Jones windows, 237

     Cambridge, centre for study of glass, 314

     Cambridge, King's College, for blue and red, 230

     Canopies, 245

     Canopy, 177, 300

     Canterbury, centre for study of glass, 314

     Canterbury, for blue and red, 230

     Cartoons, 83, 192

     Cathedrals, 178, 180, 215, 230, 234, 238, 246, 282, 314

     Cellini, 228

     Cement and cementing, 147

     Centres for study of glass, 314, 315

     Chartres, centre for study of glass, 230, 314

     Chartres, for blue and red, 230

     Chief difficulty (in art) the chief opportunity, 301

     Chopin, 223

     Cirencester windows, 180

     Cleanliness, 67, 164, 193

     Clients, 279

     Collotypes, notes on, 327-336

     Colour, 198-231

     Comfort in work, 67

     Commission, one's first, 292

     Conditions, importance of ascertaining at commencement, 283

     Conduct, general, 264

     Constantine and Byzantium, 240

     Co-operation, 163, 265, 268, 274-6

     Corn-colour, 217-218

     Countercharging, 94

     Covering up the pigment, 164

     Craft, complete teaching of, 174, 197

     Craftsman, right claims to the title, 269

     Craftsmanship, revival of, 243
       Middle Ages, 252

     Cullet, value of, 159

     Curriculum, 321-326

     Cut-in glass, 49

     Cut-line, 85, 89

     Cutter and cartoonist, 44

     Cutting, 37, 42, 47, 87, 162

     Cutting, advanced, 83

     Cutting-knife, 138

     Cutting-wheel (_see_ Wheel-cutter)


     Dahlia, colour of, 218

     Dante or Blake, perhaps needed today, 253

     Dante on Constantine, 240

     Dappling, 163

     Dentist, precision of a, 67

     Design, 167, 175, 325

     Diamond, 33, 88, 331

     Difficulty conquered brings new insight and new power, 302

     Difficulty, the chief opportunity in a work of art, 282

     Directing assistants, clearness in, promptness in, 277

     Discords harmonised by added notes, 212

     Distance, effect of, 102, 192

     Division of labour, 170, 269

     Docketing of papers, system of, 284

     Dodges, a few little, 182

     Doubling glass, 132

     Drapery, 230, 322

     Drawing from Nature, 324

     Drawing, Ruskin's advice on fineness in work, 325

     Du Maurier, 207

     Dürer, revision of his work, 271

     Dutch artist's portrait of actress, 220


     "Early English" glass, 31, 227

     Easels, 186, 191

     Eccentricity to be avoided, 247

     Economy, 156, 158

     Egyptians, 182

     English wastefulness, 156

     Etching (_see_ Aciding)

     Examples for painting, 321

     Examples for stained-glass work, Holbein, 322

     Expression, influence of distance on, 102


     Faceting of stones and glass, 228, 332

     Fairford, green in Eve window, 211, 230

     Fairford, old glass in, 314

     False lead lines, 166

     Fame and wealth good, but not at expense of work, 296

     Fancy, safe guide in, 259

     Film, 94, 101

     Fine work in art, 298-303

     Finish in work, precision and cleanliness, 67

     Firing, 105-119

     First duty of an artist, 248

     Five Sisters window, 178, 311

     Fixing, 135, 151

     "Flashed" glass, 33

     Flatness, desirable, obtained by leading, 176

     Flowers, 217

     Flux, 370

     Forms, accuracy of, 286-289

     Fresh methods and ideas come accidentally, 298

     Freshness of work, advantage of, 116

     Fried work, how to remove, 104

     Frying, 104


     Garish colour, 202

     Garter plates, 61, 62, 70, 71

     Gas-kiln, 108-10

     Gauge for cutting, how to make, 88

     General conduct, 264

     Giotto, 252

     Giorgione, 203

     Glass, ancient, 328

     Glass, how made, 32

     Glass, how to wax up on plate, 95

     Glass in relation to stonework, 134

     Glass, Munich, 84, 176

     Glass, Norman, 227

     Glass, old, 308, 315

     Glass, painted, 84

     Glass-painter's methods described, 205

     Glass-painting compared with mezzotint, 81

     Glass-painting compared with oil-painting, 200

     Glass, Prior's, 31

     Glass, value of accidental qualities in, 114

     Glasses, "antique," 31

     Glazing, 151, 180

     Glossary, 369

     Gloucester for blue and red, 230

     Gloucester, centre for study of glass, 314

     "God's house," 235

     Gold pink, value of, 160

     Good Shepherd, 172

     Gothic revival, the, 239

     Groseing, 43 (and Glossary)

     Groseing tool, substitute for, 55

     "Grozeing" (_see_ Groseing)

     Gum-arabic, 58

     Gum, quality and quantity of, 77


     Handel, 223

     Handling leaded lights, 146

     Hand-rest, 61

     Harmony in colour, the great rule of, 211

     Harmony, universal, 234

     Harmony with architecture, 174

     Heaton's kiln-feeder, 184

     Hertfordshire, ride through, 215

     Holbein, 64, 78, 316, 322

     Hollander, thrift of, 157

     Hurry to be avoided, 165

     Hyacinths and leaves, colour of, 221


     Image, Selwyn, 83

     Imagination, 248, 259

     Industry, 65, 278

     _In situ_, to try work, 175

     Inspiration, nature of, discussed, 273

     Italian, thrift of, 157


     "Jacob's ladder," difficulty, 280

     Joints, good and bad, 140

     Jugglery, craft, to be avoided, 174


     Kaleidoscope, 232

     Kiln-feeder, a clumsy, 183

     Kilns, 105

     King, portrait of, 102

     Knives, cutting and stopping, 138, 142

     "Knocking up," 144


     Labour and material, cost of, 162

     Lamb, Charles, on Milton's _Lycidas_, 272

     Large work, difficulty of, 77

     _L'Art Nouveau_, 245

     Lasting nails, 141

     Lathykin, 137 (and Glossary)

     Lea Valley, description of, 215

     Lead, 89

     Lead, "calm" of, 137 (and Glossary)

     Lead, 90, 132, 137

     Lead-line, 84, 172

     Lead-lines, false, 166

     Lead-mill, 91

     Lead, purity of, 90

     Lead, outer lead showing, 136

     Leaded lights, how to handle, 146

     Leading, 133

     Leadwork, artistic use of, 176

     Leadworkers, wage of, 159

     Light, 227 (and Glossary)

     Lights, 72, 146, 151

     Limitations, 154, 170

     Linnell's colour, 202

     _Lycidas_, perfection of, 271

     Lyndhurst, windows at, 237, 250


     Maclou, St., at Rouen, 282

     Man's work, nature of, 196

     Master, book no substitute for, 82

     Master, need of, 82, 195

     Material and labour, cost of, 162

     Matting, 72

     Matting-brush, 73, 75

     Matting over unfired outline, 76

     "Measure thrice, cut once," 285

     Measurement, accuracy of, 115, 285

     Measurement, relation of glass to the stonework, 134

     Meistersingers, the, 223

     Mezzotint compared with glass-painting, 81

     Michael Angelo, 271

     Middle Ages, craftsmanship of, 252

     Millais' picture of "Asleep," 209

     "Millinery and upholstery" in glass, to avoid, 324

     Morris, 203

     Muller, 79

     Munich glass, 84, 176

     Music, illustration derived from, 223


     Nails, 141

     Nativity, star of, 229

     Nature, 213, 217, 302, 324, 335

     Neatness, 96

     Needle, 68, 123

     New College, 230

     Niggling, no use in, 158

     "Nimbus," withheld till the figure is finished, 263

     "Norman" glass, 227

     Novelty not essential to originality, 247

     Numbers attached to natural objects, 221


     Oil-painting and glass-painting compared, 198

     Oil stone, substitutes for, 53

     Old glass, 171, 308, 314, 321

     Orange-tip butterfly, 214

     Order, "Heaven's first law," 233

     Orderliness, 284

     Originality not to be striven after, 297

     Ornament, system of teaching, 325

     Outline, 59-82

     Overpainting, danger of, 120

     Oxford, centre for study of glass, 314

     Oxford, New College, for green, 230

     Oxide (_see_ Pigment)


     Painted glass, 84

     Painter and glass-painter contrasted, 199

     Painting, 56, 94, 118, 321

     Painting, heaviness of, objected to by some, 227

     Painting, rule regarding amount of, 229

     Pansy, colour of, 232

     Patrons, 264

     Parthenon frieze, repose of, 173

     Perfection, 163

     Perpendicular, rules for raising a, 286

     Peterborough, Gothic tracery in Norman openings, 238

     Pictures, criticism on, 208

     Pigment, 164, 226

     Pigment, mixture of, 57

     Pigment, oxide of iron, 57

     Pigment, soft, danger of, 112

     Pigment, unpleasant red, 57

     Plain glazing, removing, 151

     Plating, 147

     Pliers, 43

     Poppies, 218

     Prices of stained glasses, 159

     Principles of old work to be imitated, not accidents, 322

     Prior's glass, 31

     Publicity, danger of wasting time on pursuit of, 296

     _Punch_, parody of the "Palace of Art," 250

     Pupils' work, 335

     Putty, substitute for cement in plated work, 318

     Putty, to be used when glass is doubled, 147


     Quarries, 331

     Quarry glazing, with subject, 177


     Rack for glass samples, 186

     Realism to be avoided, 173

     Recasting of composition, 301

     Removing the plain glazing, 151

     Repose in architectural art, 174

     Rest for hand, 61

     Restoration, 181, 245, 315

     Resurrection, sunrise in, 219

     Revivals, architectural, 239

     Rich and plain work, 177

     Right angles, formula for, 286

     Roman decadence, 240

     Room, to make the most of, 192

     Rose-briar, colour of, in sunset, 220

     Rossetti, 203

     Ruby glass, 33

     Ruby glass, value of, 160

     "Rule of thumb," 113

     Rules for work, 264, 286

     Ruskin, 202, 255, 325


     Sacredness of ancient buildings, 245

     Schubert, 223

     "Scratch-card," 144

     Scrubs, 81

     Sea-weeds, 217

     Second painting, 118, 126, 127

     Sections, how to join together in fixing, 150

     Sections, large work made in, 150

     "Seed," everything grown from, 291

     Seed of ornament, 294

     Selvage edge, to tear off, 193

     Sens, centre for study of glass, 315

     Setting mixture, 86

     Sharpening diamonds, 33

     Siennese painters, good work to copy in glass, 322

     Single fire, 127

     Sketching in glass, 175

     Soldering, 144

     Sparta, revival of simplicity in, 243

     Special glasses, 227

     Spotting, 163

     Spring morning, ride on a, 214

     Squaring outlines, 286

     Stain, 129

     "Stain it!", 225

     Stain overfiring, result of, 129

     Stained-glass, accessory to architecture, 168

     Stained-glass, ancient, to be held sacred, 245

     Stained-glass, definition and description of, 29

     Stained-glass, diapering, spotting, and streaking, 179

     Stained-glass, joys of, 303

     Stained-glass, loving and careful treatment of, 177

     Stained-glass, new developments of, 132

     Stained-glass, prices of material, 159

     Stained-glass, subservient to architecture, 155, 236

     Stained-glass _versus_ painted glass, 84

     Staining, 225

     Stale colour, danger of, 165

     Stale work, disadvantage of, 114

     Standardising, 113

     Stencil brush, 121

     Stepping back to inspect work, 176

     Stevenson, R. L., 156

     Stick, 68

     Stipple, 99, 101

     Stippling brush, 100

     Stonework, relation of glass to, 134

     Stopping-knife, 142

     Streaky glass, imitating drapery, 230

     Strength in painting, limits of, 125

     Stretching the lead, 137

     Style, 237, 246

     Subject, right limits to importance of, 248

     Sufficient firing, test of, 117

     Sugar or treacle as substitute for gum, 62

     Surgeon, precision of a, 67

     Symbolism, proportion in, 262


     Tabernacle (_see_ Canopy)

     Tamworth, 237

     Tapping, 41

     Taste, some principles of, 92

     Technical school, curriculum of, 321

     Templates to be verified, 289

     Tennyson, his constant revision, 271

     Texture of glass, use of, 126

     Theseus, 260

     Thought, imagination, allegory, 248

     Ties for banding, 151

     Thrift, 157

     Time saved by accuracy and method, 290

     Time-saving appliances, 277

     Tinning the soldering iron, 145

     Tints, method of choosing, 210

     Titian, 173, 203, 271, 316

     Tradition, 238, 242

     Troyes, centre for study of glass, 315

     Trying work _in situ_, 175

     Turgenieff, proverb on accuracy, 285

     Turpentine (Venice), 129

     Tuscan painters, good work to copy in glass, 322


     "Upholstery and millinery" in glass, to avoid, 324


     Venus of Milo, 260

     Veronese, 203

     Village church, untouched, picture of, 305

     Violent action to be avoided, 173


     Wage of lead workers, 159

     Waste, proportion of, to finished work, 162

     Wastefulness, English, 156

     Wax, best, 95

     Wax, removing spots of, 98

     Waxing-up, 95

     Waxing-up, tool for, 188

     Wells, centre for study of glass, 314

     Wheel-barrow, comparison with wheel-cutter, 51

     Wheel-cutters, 34, 35, 47, 53, 54, 56

     White, pure, value of, 227

     White spaces to be interesting, 178

     Work in the shop, rules for, 286


     Yellow and red together, 218

     Yellow, certain tints hard to obtain, 217

     Yellow stain, 129

     York, centre for study of glass, 314

     York Minster, glass in, 230, 308, 313




THE END

     Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
          Edinburgh & London