rebelling in our minds, against the conventionality of much of the
modern work in english churches.[20] It seems not unreasonable to look
forward to the time when it shall be accounted a sin to present
caricatures of scriptural subjects in memorial church-windows. Let us
rather have the kaleidescope a thousand times repeated, or the simplest
diaper pattern on ground glass, than 'Jonahs' or 'Daniels,' as they are
represented in these days; we are tired of the twelve apostles, so
smooth and clean, in their robes of red and blue (the particular red and
blue that will come best out of the melting-pot), of yellow glories and
impossible temples.

The long-neglected art of staining glass being once more revived, let us
hope that, with it, a taste will grow up for something better than a
repetition of the grotesque.

But it is the exterior of Bayeux Cathedral that will be remembered best,
the beauty and simplicity of its design; its 'sky line,' that we pointed
out at a distance, at the beginning of this chapter, which (like the
curve of the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral in London, and many an english
nineteenth-century church we could name), leaves an impression of beauty
on the mind that the more ornate work of the Renaissance fails to give
us. It is an illustration in architecture, of what we have ventured to
call the 'simple right' and the 'elaborate wrong;' like the composition
of Raphael's Holy Family (drawn on the head of a tub), it was _right_,
whilst its thousand imitations have been wrong.

And if any argument or evidence were wanting, of the beauty and fitness
of Gothic architecture as the central feature of interest, and as a
connecting link between the artistic taste of a past and present age, we
could point to no more striking instance than this cathedral. It has