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? Duerer,

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 naive _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 Duerer 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 encyclopaedia 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

Duerer, 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