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The foliate carving of the tower-porch capitals at St.-Benoit-sur-Loire reveals three groups distributed systematically: on the ground floor, Group 1; on the upper floor, Group 2 on the eastern piers; and Group 3 in the western half and flanking the eastern chapels. The same three groups appear at Selles-sur-Cher, respectively in the chevet, on the south and west walls, and in the tower; and in differing combinations at Meobecq, Issoudun, and St.-Outrille-les-Gracay. Architectural comparison places the chevet of Selles and, by extension, the entire family of capitals ca. 1090 and beyond.

Gallery: in Elizabethan and Jacobean houses, a long room or ‘long gallery’, usually on the upper floor and extending the whole length of the house . . .J. Harris and J. Lever, Illustrated Glossary of Architecture 850-1830 (1969)The ‘long gallery’: a name and a room perfectly familiar these days to anyone visiting or reading about English country houses and, indeed, equally familiar since the midnineteenth century to those acquainted with prints and descriptions of country-house interiors. Does the name, however, as we use it today, go back much further than the nineteenth century and what are the problems which the word ‘gallery’ itself can present?

Rome's Biblioteca Casanatense (I Rc) came into being through a bequest made in 1698 to the Dominican Order by Gerolamo Cardinal Casanate.1 The friars used the money to construct a research center in an upper floor of a large building directly behind their mother church, Santa Maria sopra Minerva. From the church, which was already four centuries old and the repository of holy relics and of art works by Lippi and Michelangelo, one could enter the library by a raised, covered walkway, now no longer in use. The original Dominican library survives intact, although visitors may enter it only with a staff member as a guide. Well worth seeing, the large oval room has bookshelves two stories high on all sides, surmounted by windows and a high arched ceiling. From every shelf hangs a leather dust apron that protects the books on the shelf below.

IN the autumn of 1891 Pierre la Rose and I settled into 14 Matthews, where we continued as room-mates for the whole of our course at Harvard, until our graduation in June, 1895. Number 14 was on the third or fourth floor at the back of Matthews, and as you sat in our window seat you had to your left Harvard Square, to your right the beautiful rosebrick oblong of Massachusetts Hall, with its ancient thick walls and incongruous modern fire-escapes, which at certain hours would be black with students retiring from Charles Eliot Norton's course in fine arts on the upper floor. La Rose, whom I had met at Exeter Academy the year before, had pretensions to taste in furnishing, and we had orange sash-curtains, and over the upright piano a bust of Richelieu (why Richelieu I can not say) set off against an India shawl. There was a crucifix too, more, I always felt, for artistic than religious reasons, though la Rose, who had an ecclesiastical turn of mind, insisted upon it. He used to madden me by talking about " The Church " -with none of the adjectives I was used to adding-and about doctrinal subtleties incomprehensible to me, with his friend Gaillard Lapsley and with other upper-classmen. Lapsley intimidated me with his strenuous learning. The court fool of our group, the irreverent and ribald jester, was John Mack; and his translation of Newman's title, Apologia pro Vita Sua, as " Apology for Living in a Sewer," solaced my wounded sense of being nothing but a sectarian and outsider. On the whole, I was fortunate in my room-mate. As a youngest son, ten years younger than my next older brother, I had been somewhat spoiled in boyhood, so that my early tastes were hardly more than boyish enthusiasms and headstrong prejudices. I idolized Dickens, for instance, but despised Thackeray; along with Moszkowski, Grieg, and Nevin, whom I admired for their prettiness, I placed Beethoven, but