[Transcriber's notes:]
This work is derived from files on the Internet Archive:
http://archive.org/details/symbolismofchurc00dura
Page numbers in this book are indicated by numbers enclosed in curly braces, e.g. {99}. They have been located where page breaks occurred in the original book.
The honorific "Mr" is without a following period in the original. The period has been inserted in this transcription.
[End Transcriber's notes.]

THE SYMBOLISM
OF
Churches and Church Ornaments

A TRANSLATION OF THE FIRST BOOK OF THE
Rationale Divinorum Officiorum

WRITTEN BY
WILLIAM DURANDUS
SOMETIME BISHOP OF MENDE
WITH AN INTRODUCTORY ESSAY AND NOTES
BY
THE REV. JOHN MASON NEALE, B.A.
AND
THE REV. BENJAMIN WEBB, B.A.
OF TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE

New York
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
743 AND 745 BROADWAY
1893

DEDICATED TO
THE CAMBRIDGE CAMDEN SOCIETY
BY
TWO OF ITS FOUNDERS

{vii}

PREFACE

The interest which has lately been displayed, as on all subjects connected with Ecclesiology, so more especially on the symbolical bearing of Church Architecture, has led us to imagine that a translation of the most valuable work on Symbolism which the middle ages can furnish, might not, at the present time, be unacceptable to churchmen.

Written, however, at a period when Christian Architecture had not attained its full glory, it necessarily leaves untouched many arrangements of similar tendency, subsequently adopted; addressed to those who had not yet learnt to doubt everything not formally proved, it assumes many points which may now seem to require confirmation: and composed for the use of a clergy habituated to a most figurative ritual, it passes over much as well known, which is now forgotten or neglected. On these accounts we have considered it necessary to prefix an Essay on the subject; in which we have endeavoured to prove that Catholic Architecture must necessarily be symbolical; to answer the more common objections to the system; and to elucidate it by reference to actual examples, and notices of the figurative arrangements of our own churches. We have also added notes, where any obscurity seemed {viii} to require explanation; and we have, both in them and in the Appendix, thrown together such passages from Martene, Beleth, S. Isidore of Seville, Hugo de S. Victore, and other writers, as tended to explain and to enforce the remarks of Durandus.

With reference to the author himself, but little is known; and that little has been told before.

William Durandus was born at Puy-moisson, in Provence, about the year 1220. A legend of his native country is told in the present work. [Footnote 1] He became the pupil of Henry de Luza, afterwards Cardinal of Ostia; and taught canon law at Modena. On this subject he composed a most learned work, the Speculum Juris; from which he obtained the title of Speculator: as also another treatise called Repertorium Juris: and a Breviarium Glossarum in Textum Juris Canonici. His high attainments marked him [Footnote 2] out for the office of Chaplain to Pope Clement IV.

[Footnote 1: See p. 126]
[Footnote 2: Mutata fortuna, says Doard: to what this refers, we know not.]

He was afterwards Auditor of the Sacred Palace; and Legate to Pope Gregory X at the Council of Lyons. He was then made Captain of the Papal forces; in which post he assisted at the reduction of several rebellious cities, and behaved with great courage. He finally became Bishop of Mende in 1286. While in this post, and resident at Rome (for he did not personally visit his diocese till 1291, the administration of the diocese being perhaps left to a nephew of the same name, who succeeded him), he finished the work, of the first book of which a translation is presented to the reader. But it probably {ix} was commenced before; for we find from a passage in its latter half, that so far had been written during the course of this same year 1286. And there is no difficulty in the title, Episcopus Miniatensis, which he gives himself in the Proeme, as this could easily have been added afterwards. But it was certainly published, as Martene observes, before 1295; because Durandus speaks of the Feasts of the Holy Apostles as semi-doubles, whereas in that year, by a constitution of Pope Urban, they were commanded to be observed as doubles. The time at which the treatise was written more especially demands our attention; because, did we imagine it only a few years later than it really was, we might well be astonished at finding no reference to the Symbolism of the Decorated Style. The interruptions amidst which the Rationale was written are feelingly alluded to by its author, in the Epilogue (p. 161). He also wrote a treatise De Modo Concilii Generalis habendi, probably either suggested by, or preparatory to, that of Lyons. He afterwards went on an embassy from the Pope to the Sultan; and is by some said to have ended this life at Nicosia in Cyprus. But the fact is not so: for having governed his diocese ten years, and having refused the proffered Archbishopric of Ravenna, he departed at Rome on the Feast of All Saints, 1296, being buried in the Church of Sancta Maria super Minervam, where his monument is yet to be seen, with the following inscription:--

{x}

Hic jacet egregius doctor proesul Mimatensis,
Nomine Duranti Guillelmus regula morum:
Splendor honestatis et casti candor amoris
Altum consiliis spatiosum mente serenum
Hunc insignibat immotum turbine mentis.
Mente pius, sermone gravis, gressuque modestus,
Extitit infestus super hostes more leonis:
Indomitos domuit populos, ferroque rebelles,
Impulit, Ecclesiae victor servire coëgit.
Comprobat officiis, paruit Romania sceptro
Belligeri comitis Martini tempore quarti:
Edidit in Jure librum, quo jus reperitur:
Et Speculum Juris, et patrum Pontificale:
Et Rationale Divinorum patefecit:
Instruxit clerum scriptis, monuitque statutis:
Gregorii deni, Nicolai scita perenni
Glossa diffudit populis, sensusque profundos:
Jure dedit mentes et corpus luce studentum:
Quem memori laude genuit Provincia dignum:
Et dedit a Podio Missone diaecesis ilium:
Inde Biterrensis, praesignis curia Papae:
Dum foret ecclesiae Mimatensis sede quietus,
Hunc vocat octavus Bonifacius; altius ilium
Promovet; hic renuit Ravennae praesul haberi.
Fit comes invictus simul hinc et marchio tandem,
Et Romam rediit: Domini sub mille trecentis
(Quatuor amotis) annis: tumulante Minerva.
Surripit hunc festiva dies, & prima Novembris.
Guadia cum Sanctis tenet Omnibus inde sacerdos:
Pro quo perpetuo datur haec celebrare capella.

The Rationale was the first work, from the pen of an uninspired writer, ever printed. The editio princeps appeared at the press of Fust in 1459; being preceded only by the Psalters of 1457 and 1459. It is, of course, of the most extreme rarity: the beauty of the typography has seldom been exceeded. Chalmers mentions, besides this, thirteen editions in the fifteenth, and thirteen in the sixteenth century: all of them are very rare.

{xi}

The editions with which we are acquainted, are those of Rome 1473; Lyons 1503, 1512, 1534, 1584; Antwerp 1570; Venice 1599, 1609. The translation has been made from the editions of 1473 and 1599. The former is a magnificent specimen of typography: the words are excessively contracted; and there are double columns to each page. Our copy is partially illuminated; and the binding is ornamented with a border of the Evangelistic Symbols. The latter contains also the first edition of the work of Beleth, and is a reprint of Doard's Lyons edition of 1565. Doard dedicated it to his brother, Bishop of Marseilles; and prefixed a Preface, in which he bestows a well-merited eulogium on Durandus, and mentions the care taken in correcting and revising the work. He also added some notes, of little worth. The Venice reprint is so vicious a specimen of typography, that from it alone the sense could in many places hardly be explained. Our copy belonged to Bishop White Kennett, who appears to have studied it diligently.

We must now say a few words as on our own share in the work. With respect to the Introduction, fully convinced as we are of the truth and importance of the general principle maintained in it, we do not wish to press, as matter of certainty, all or any of the minor details into which that theory is carried. We believe, indeed, that the more the subject has been studied, the more truthful our views will appear to be: but we wish the reader to bear in mind, that the weakness of any portion of them is no argument against their reception, as a whole. At the same time, none can be more aware than ourselves how much more ably such views might have been advocated: we have not, however, spared {xii} time or pains in the study of the subject; 'and if we have done meanly, it is that we could attain unto.'

In the Translation, we have endeavoured, too often unsuccessfully, to retain the beautiful simplicity of the original. In the obscure passages, of which there are not a few, we have mentioned the difficulty in the notes, lest the reader, by our mistake, should be led into error himself.

The quotations from Holy Scripture are given in the authorised version, except where, to bring out the author's full meaning, it was necessary to have recourse to the Vulgate; and we have then translated literally from that.

We have felt no small pleasure in thus enabling this excellent prelate, though at so far distant a land from his own, and after a silence of nearly six hundred years, being dead, yet to speak: and if the following pages are at all useful in pointing out the sacramental character of Catholic art, we shall be abundantly rewarded, as being fellow-workers with him in the setting forth of one, now too much forgotten, Church principle.

J. M. N.
B. W.
Michaelmas, 1842.

INTRODUCTORY ESSAY

SACRAMENTALITY: A PRINCIPLE OF ECCLESIASTICAL DESIGN

ANALYSIS OF THE INTRODUCTORY ESSAY

INTRODUCTION.

1. Spread of the study of Church Architecture.
2. Obvious, but indefinable, difference between old and new churches.
Wherein this consists.
Not in association,
Nor in correctness of details,
Nor in the Picturesque,
Nor in the Mechanical advantages,
But in Reality considered, in an enlarged view, as Sacramentality.
3. This probable,
from examples, and
promises in Holy Scripture.
Catholic consent,
examples to the contrary,
philosophical reasons.
4. Enunciation of the subject.
5. Writers on the subject,
Pugin, Poole, Lewis, Coddington, the writers of the
Cambridge Camden Society.

A. ARGUMENTS FOR SYMBOLISM.
I. A PRIORI.
Symbolising spirit of Catholic Antiquity, in
(a) Interpretation of Holy Scriptures.
(b) Analogy of the Jewish Ceremonies.
(c) Private manners.
(d) Emblems in Catacombs, etc.
(e) Symbolical interpretation of Heathen writers.
II. ANALOGICAL.
i. Examples of other nations.
(a) Jews.
(1) Temple rites.
(2) Legal observances.
(3) Sacred books.
(b) Turks.
(c) Infidels.
(1) Hindu and Egyptian Mythology
(2) Persian Poetry.
(d) Heretics.
{xvi}
ii. From Nature.
(a) Trinity.
(b) Resurrection.
(c) Self-sacrifice,
iii. From Art.
(a) Sculpture,
(b) Painting.
(c) Music.
(d) Language of Flowers.
iv. Parabolical teaching.
III. PHILOSOPHICAL.
Objective answering to Subjective.
All effect sacramental of the efficient.
Sacramentality of all Religion.
Ritualism peculiarly and necessarily sacramental.
Church Architecture, a condition of Ritualism.
Necessities induce accidents: and these material expressions.
Example:
Necessities of Ritualism, and their expressions in earlier
and later ages.
Hence Symbolism.
Essential.
Intended.
Conventional, which again becomes intended.
IV. ANALYTICAL.
1. Cruciformity.
2. Ascent to Altar.
3. Orientation.
4. Verticality.
V. INDUCTIVE.
Express and continuous testimony.
(a) Apostolical Constitutions.
(b) Eusebius.
(c) Symbolical writers.
Actual examples.
VI. RECAPITULATION.

B. EXAMPLES OF SYMBOLISM.
I. DOCTRINES.
(a) The Holy Trinity, set forth in
i. Nave and Two Aisles.
ii. Chancel, Nave and Apse,
iii. Clerestory, Triforium, and Pier Arches,
iv. Triple windows.
v. Altar steps.
vi. Triplicity of mouldings,
vii. Minor details.
(b) Regeneration.
i. The octagonal form of Fonts,
ii. The octagonal form of Piers,
iii. Fishes.
(c) Atonement.
i. Cruciformity.
ii. Deviation of Orientation.
iii. Double Cross,
iv. The threat Rood.
v. Details.
(d) Communion of Saints.
II. DETAILS.
(a) Windows: a series of examples.
(b) Doors.
i. Norman tympana.
ii. Double doors in Early English.
(a) These explained in two ways,
(1) Christ's entrance into the world.
(2) Our entrance into the kingdom of heaven.
(b) Difference between mouldings of Chancel arches and doors.
(c) Porches.
(d) Chancel Arch and Rood Screen.
(e) Monuments.
(a) Difference of ancient and modern symbolism in these,
(1) Sceptical character of the present age.
(2) Paganism of modern design.
(3) Reality of ancient design.
(b) Historical details of Monuments.
(f) Gurgoyles and Poppyheads.
(g) Flowers used in architecture.

C. OBJECTIONS ANSWERED.
1. Inequality of type and antitype.
2. Difference of Symbolism in the same arrangement.
3. Mechanical origin.

D. HISTORY OF SYMBOLISM.
1. Norman; as symbolising facts.
2. Early English; as symbolising doctrines.
3. Decorated; as symbolising the connection of doctrines.
4. Perpendicular; as symbolising the progress of Erastianism.
5. Flamboyant, etc.
6. Post Reformation Symbolism.

E. CONCLUSION.
Contrast between a modern and ancient Church.

Laus Deo

{xix}

INTRODUCTORY ESSAY

CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTORY

The study of Church Architecture has within the last few years become so general, and a love for it so widely diffused, that whereas, in a former generation it was a task to excite either, in the present it is rather an object to direct both. An age of church-building, such as this, ought to produce good architects, not only from the great encouragement given to their professional efforts, but from the increasing appreciation of the principles and powers of their art. And yet it cannot be denied, however we may account for the fact, that (at least among those for whom we write, the members of our own communion), no architect has as yet arisen, who appears destined to be the reviver of Christian art. It is not that the rules of the science have not been studied, that the examples bequeathed to us have not been imitated, that the details are not understood. We have (though they are but few) modern buildings of the most perfect proportions, of the most faultless details, and reared with lavish expense. It is that there is an undefined—perhaps almost undefinable—difference between a true 'old church,' and the most perfect of modern temples. In the former, at least till late in the Perpendicular era, we feel that, however {xx} strange the proportions, or extraordinary the details, the effect is church-like. In the latter, we may not be able to blame; but from a certain feeling of unsatisfactoriness, we cannot praise.

The solution of the problem,—What is it that causes this difference? has been often attempted, sometimes with partial, but never with complete, success. That most commonly given is the following:—The effect of association in old buildings,—the mellowing power of time,—the evident antiquity of surrounding objects,—the natural beauties of foliage, moss, and ivy, that require centuries to reach perfection;—as on the other hand, the bareness, the newness, nay even the sharpness and vigour of new work; these, it is said, are sufficient to stamp a different character on each. There is doubtless something in this; but that it is not the whole cause is evident from the fact, that give a modern church all the above mentioned advantages on paper, and an experienced eye will soon detect it to be modern.

Those writers who, as Grose, Milner, and Carter, lived before the details of Christian art were understood, seem to have placed its perfection in a thorough knowledge of these: experience has proved them wrong. Others, as Mr. Petit, [Footnote 3] have made a kind of ideal picturesque; and, having exalted the phantasm into an idol, have fallen down and worshipped it. Others, again, have sought for an explanation of the difficulty in mathematical contrivance and mechanical ingenuity; and the result has been little more than the discovery of curious eave-drains, and wonderful cast-iron roof-work. Lastly, Mr. Pugin (cum talis sis, utinain noster esses!) has placed the thing required in Reality. {xxi} That is, to quote his own words, in making these the two great rules of design:— 1. That there should be no features about a building which are not necessary for convenience, construction, or propriety: 2. That all ornament should consist of enrichment of the essential construction of a building.' [Footnote 4] And we may add, as a corollary, still quoting the same writer:—'The smallest detail should have a meaning or serve a purpose: the construction itself should vary with the material employed: and the designs should be adapted to the material in which they are to be executed.' Still, most true and most important as are these remarks, we must insist on one more axiom, otherwise Christian art will but mock us, and not show us wherein its great strength lieth.

[Footnote 3: See the review of his work in the Ecclesiologist, vol. i, pp. 91-105.]
[Footnote 4: Pugin's 'True Principles,' p. 1.]

A Catholic architect must be a Catholic in heart. Simple knowledge will no more enable a man to build up God's material, than His spiritual temples. In ancient times, the finest buildings were designed by the holiest bishops. Wykeham and Poore will occur to every churchman. And we have every reason to believe, from God's Word, from Catholic consent, and even from philosophical principles, that such must always be the case.

Holy Scripture, in mentioning the selection of Bezaleel and Aholiab, as architects of the Tabernacle, expressly asserts them to have been filled 'with the Spirit of God in wisdom, and in understanding, and in knowledge, and in all manner of workmanship, to devise cunning works, to work in gold, and in silver and in brass, and in cutting of stones to set them, and in carving of timber, to work in all manner of workmanship.' And this indeed is only a part of the blessing of the pure in heart: they see God, the Fountain of Beauty, even in this life; as they shall see Him, the Fountain of Holiness, in the {xxii} next. From Catholic consent we may learn the same truth. Why else was Ecclesiastical Architecture made a part of the profession of Clerks, than because it was considered that the purity and holiness of that profession fitted them best for so great a work? [Footnote 5]

[Footnote 5: Compare the general drift of the Address to Paulinus. Eusebius. H. E. X. 4.]

Nay, we have remarkable proofs that feeling without knowledge will do more than knowledge without feeling. There are instances of buildings—Lisbon cathedral and S. Peter's College chapel, Cambridge, are cases in point—which, with Debased or Italian details, have nevertheless Christian effect. And we have several similar cases, more particularly in the way of towers.

Now, allowing the respectability, which attaches itself to the profession of a modern architect, and the high character of many in that profession, none would assert that they, as a body, make it a matter of devotion and prayer; that they work for the Church alone regardless of themselves; that they build in faith, and to the glory of God.

In truth, architecture has become too much a profession: it is made the means of gaining a livelihood, and is viewed as a path to honourable distinction, instead of being the study of the devout ecclesiastic, who matures his noble conceptions with the advantage of that profound meditation only attainable in the contemplative life, who, without thought of recompense or fame, has no end in view but the raising a temple, worthy of its high end, and emblematical of the faith which is to be maintained within its walls. It is clear that modern architects are in a very different position from their predecessors, with respect to these advantages. We are not prepared to say that none but monks ought to design churches, or that it is impossible for a professional {xxiii} architect to build with the devotion and faith of an earlier time. But we do protest against the merely business-like spirit of the modern profession, and demand from them a more elevated and directly religious habit of mind. We surely ought to look at least for church-membership from one who ventures to design a church. There cannot be a more painful idea than that a separatist should be allowed to build a House of God, when he himself knows nothing of the ritual and worship of the Church from which he has strayed; to prepare both font and altar, when perchance he knows nothing of either Sacrament but that he has always despised them. Or, again, to think that any churchman should allow himself to build a conventicle, and even sometimes to prostitute the speaking architecture of the Church to the service of Her bitterest enemies! What idea can such a person have formed of the reality of church architecture? Conceive a churchman designing a triple window, admitted emblem of the Most Holy Trinity, for a congregation of Socinians! We wish to vindicate the dignity of this noble science against the treason of its own professors. If architecture is anything more than a mere trade; if it is indeed a liberal, intellectual art, a true branch of poesy, let us prize its reality and meaning and truthfulness, and at least not expose ourselves by giving to two contraries one and the same material expression.

It is objected that architects have a right to the same professional conscience that is claimed, for instance, by a barrister. To which we can only reply, that it must be a strange morality which will justify a pleader in violating truth; and how much worse for an architect to violate truth in things immediately connected with the House and worship of God? It may be asked, Do we mean to imply then that a church architect ought never {xxiv} to undertake any secular building? Perhaps, as things are, we cannot expect so much as this now: but we can never believe that the man who engages to design union-houses, or prisons, or assembly-rooms, and gives the dregs of his time to church-building, is likely to produce a good church, or, in short, can expect to be filled from above with the Spirit of Wisdom. The church architect must, we are persuaded, make very great sacrifices: he must forego all lucrative undertakings, if they may not be carried through upon those principles which he believes necessary for every good building; and particularly if the end to be answered, or the wants to be provided for, are in themselves unjustifiable or mischievous. Even in church-building itself, he must see many an unworthy rival preferred to him, who will condescend to pander to the whims and comfort of a church-committee, will suit his design to any standard of ritualism which may be suggested by his own ignorance, or others' private judgment, who will consent to defile a building meant for God's worship with pews and galleries and prayer-pulpits and commodious vestries. But hard as the trial may be, a church architect must submit to it, rather than recede from the principles which he knows to be the very foundation of his art. We would go further even, and deny the possibility of any architect's success in all the different styles of Pointed architecture, not to mention the orders of Greece and Rome, Vitruvian, Palladian, Cinque Cento, Wrennian, nay even Chinese, Swiss, Hindoo, and Egyptian at once. We have not even now exhausted the list of styles in which a modern architect is supposed to be able to design. It is even more absurd than if every modern painter were expected, and should profess, to paint equally well in the styles of Perugino, Francia, Raphael, Holbein, Claude, the Poussins, Salvator Rosa, Correggio, Van Eyck, {xxv} Teniers, Rubens, Murillo, Reynolds, West, Gainsborough, Overbeck, and Copley Fielding all at once! An architect ought indeed to be acquainted, and the more the better, with all styles of building: but if architecture, as we said before, is a branch of poesy, if the poet's mind is to have any individuality, he must design in one style, and one style only. For the Anglican architect, it will be necessary to know enough of the earlier styles to be able to restore the deeply interesting churches, which they have left us as precious heirlooms; enough of the Debased styles, to take warning from their decline: but for his own style, he should choose the glorious architecture of the fourteenth century; and, just as no man has more than one hand-writing, so in this one language alone will he express his architectural ideas.

We cannot leave this topic without referring to what the Cambridge Camden Society has said with respect to architectural competition. [Footnote 6] It is a fact that at this time many competing designs are manufactured in an architect's office, by some of his clerks, as if by machinery: if a given plan is chosen, the architect is summoned, and sees his (!) design for the first time, when he is introduced to the smiling committee-men. It is another fact that there is at this time in London a small body of persons, with no other qualification than that of having been draughtsmen in an architect's office, who get up a set of competing designs for any aspirant who chooses to give them a few instructions, and to pay them for their trouble. How much it is to be wished that there were some examination of an architect's qualifications, before he should be allowed to assume the name! It seems strange that the more able members of the profession do not themselves feel some esprit de corps, and do not at {xxvi} least endeavour to claim for their art its full dignity and importance. We fear however that very few, as yet, take that religions view of their profession, which we have shown to be seemly, even if not essential. If, however, we succeed in proving that religion enters very largely into the principles of church architecture, a religious ethos, we repeat, is essential to a church architect. At all events, in an investigation into the differences between ancient and modern church architecture, the contrast between the ancient and modern builders could not be overlooked: and it is not too much to hope that some, at least, may be struck by the fact, that the deeply religious habits of the builders of old, the hours, the cloister, the discipline, the obedience, resulted in their matchless works; while the worldliness, vanity, dissipation, and patronage of our own architects issue in unvarying and hopeless failure.

[Footnote 6: See Ecclesiologist, vol. i, pp. 69, 85.]

We said that there were philosophical reasons for the belief that we must have architects—before we can have buildings—like those of old. If it be true that an esoteric signification, or, as we shall call it, Sacramentality, [Footnote 7] ran through all the arrangements and details of Christian architecture, emblematical of Christian discipline, and suggested by Christian devotion; then must the discipline have been practised, and the devotion felt, before a Christian temple can be reared. That this esoteric meaning, or symbolism, does exist, we are now to endeavour to prove.

[Footnote 7: It may be proper to distinguish between five terms, too generally vaguely employed in common, and which we shall often have occasion to use: we mean, allegorical, symbolical, typical, figurative, and sacramental.
'Allegory employs fictitious things and personages to shadow out the truth: Symbolism uses real personages and real actions (and real things) as symbols of the truth:' British Critic, No. lxv. p. 121. Sacramentality is symbolism applied to the truth

the teaching of the Church, by the hands of the teacher: a Type is a symbol intended from the first: a Figure is a symbol not discovered till after the thing figurative has had a being.]

{xxvii}

We assert, then, that Sacramentality is that characteristic which so strikingly distinguishes ancient ecclesiastical architecture from our own. By this word we mean to convey the idea that, by the outward and visible form, is signified something inward and spiritual: that the material fabric symbolises, embodies, figures, represents, expresses, answers to, some abstract meaning. Consequently, unless this ideal be itself true, or be rightly understood, he who seeks to build a Christian church may embody a false or incomplete or mistaken ideal, but will not develope the true one. Hence, while the Parthenon, or a conventicle, or a modern church, may be conceived to have, on the one hand, so much truthfulness, as to symbolise respectively the graceful, but pagan, worship of Athene—the private judgment of the dissenter—and the warped or ill-understood or puritanised religious ethos of the modern churchman; and, on the other hand, to have so much reality as to carry out most satisfactorily Mr. Pugin's canons; yet, inasmuch as in neither case was the builder's ideal the true one, so in neither case is his architecture in any way adapted to, or an embodiment of, the ideal of the Church. Reality, then, is not of itself sufficient. What can be more real than a pyramid, yet what less Christian? It must be Christian reality, the true expression of a true ideal, which makes Catholic architecture what it is. This Christian reality, we would call Sacramentality; investing that symbolical truthfulness, which it has in common with every true expression, with a greater force and holiness, both from the greater purity of the perfect truth which it embodies, and from the association which this name will give it with those adorable and consummate examples of the same {xxviii} principle, infinitely more developed, and infinitely more holy in the spiritual grace which they signify and convey,—the Blessed Sacraments of the Church.

The modern writers who have treated on Symbolism seem to have taken respectively very partial views of the subject. Mr. Pugin does not seem in his books to recognise the particular principle which we have enunciated. We have shown that his law about Reality is true so far as it goes, but that it does not go far enough. He himself, for example, is now contemplating a work on the reality of domestic, as before of ecclesiastical, architecture. Now, nothing can be more true, nothing more useful, than this. Yet even he does not seem to have discerned that as contact with the Church endues with a new sanctity, and elevates every form and every principle of art: so in a peculiar sense the sacred end to which church architecture is subservient, elevates and sanctifies that reality which must be a condition of its goodness in common with all good architecture; in short, raises this principle of Reality into one of Sacramentality. We should be sorry to assert that Mr. Pugin does not feel this, though we are not aware that he has expressed it in his writings: but in his most lasting writings, his churches namely, it is clear that the principle, if not intentionally even, and if only incompletely, has not been without a great influence on that master mind. Yet even in these we could point to details, and in some of his earlier works to something more than details, which shew that there is something wanting; that in the bold expedients and fearless licence which his genius has led him to employ, he has occasionally gone wrong; not from the fact of his departure from strict precedent, and his vindication of a certain architectural freedom, but because in these escapements from authority, he has not invariably kept in view the { xxix} principle now advocated. However the author of the 'True Principles' might point to his churches, to prove that a reverent and religious mind, employed in administering to the material wants of the Church, (even though that reverence be misapplied, and that Church in a schismatical position), cannot fail to succeed, at least in some degree, in stamping upon his work the impress of his own faith and zeal, and in making it, at least to some extent, a living development and expression of the true ideal.

Mr. Poole, the author of the 'Appropriate Character of Church Architecture,' would appear to believe the symbolism of details rather than any general principle. He was the first, we think, to reassert that the octagonal form of fonts was figurative of Regeneration. In the latter edition of his Book he has adopted several of the symbolical interpretations advanced by the writers of the Cambridge Camden Society.

Mr. Lewis, in his illustrations of Kilpeck church (in an appendix to which he has printed a translation of some part of the 'Rationale' of our author), has given a treatise on symbolism generally, and has applied his principles to the explanation of the plan and details of that particular church. His book excited some attention at the time of publication, and was met by considerable ridicule in many quarters. To this we think it was fairly open, since the author did not seem to have grasped the true view of the subject. He appears to believe that, from the very first, all church architecture was intentionally symbolical. Now this is an unlikely supposition, inasmuch as till church architecture was fully developed, we do not think that its real significancy was understood to its full extent by those who used it. That it was, in its imperfect state, symbolical, we should be the last to deny; but it seems more in accordance {xxx} with probability, and more in analogy with the progress of other arts, to believe that at first certain given wants induced and compelled certain adaptations to those wants: which then did symbolise the wants themselves; and which afterwards became intentionally symbolical. Now such a view as this will explain satisfactorily how a Christian church might be progressively developed from a Basilican model. Mr. Hope, in his essay on Architecture, carries us back to the very earliest expedient likely to be adopted by a savage to protect him from weather, and from this derives every subsequent expansion of the art. Which may be true, and probably is true, so far at least as this: that, however first acquired, the elementary knowledge of any method of building would be, like all other knowledge, continually receiving additions and improvements, till from the first bower of branches sprang the Parthenon, and from that again Cologne or Westminster. But then it is clearly necessary to show some moral reason for so strange a development, so complete a change of form and style. Now the theory that the ethos of Catholic architects working upon the materials made to hand, namely, the ancient orders of pagan architecture and (say) the Basilican plan, gradually impressed itself upon these unpromising elements, and progressively developed from them a transcript of that ethos in Christian architecture, is intelligible at least, and presents no such difficulty as Mr. Lewis's supposition that ancient architects (he does not say when, or how long—but take Kilpeck church and say Norman architects) designed intentionally on symbolical principles. We want in this case to be informed when the change took place, from what period architects began to symbolise intentionally, at what time they forgot the traditions of church-building, which they must have had, and commenced to carry new principles into practice. {xxxi} Nor, on this supposition, do we see why there should have been any progressive development, why the Basilican and Debased-Pagan trammels were not cast away at once; nor why, if the ideal of the Norman architect was true and perfect (that is if he were a true Catholic), its expression should not have been so too: nor why any Norman symbolism, thus originated, should ever have been discarded (as it has been in later styles), instead of remaining an integral and essential part of the material expression of the Church's mind. Now our view appears to be open to no such objection. On the one hand there are given materials to work upon, and on the other a given spirit which is to mould and inform the mass. The contest goes on: mind gradually subdues matter, until in the complete development of Christian architecture we see the projection of the mind of the Church. It is quite in analogy with the history and nature of the Church, and with the workings of God's providence with respect to it, that there should be this gradual expansion and development of truth. We foresee the objection that will be raised against fixing on any period as that of the full ripeness of Christian art, and are prepared for many sneers at our advocacy of the perfection of the Edwardian architecture. But we are assured that, if there is any truth (not to say in what is advanced in this essay, but) in what has ever been proposed by any who have appreciated the genius of Pointed Architecture—to confine ourselves to our own subject—no other period can be chosen at which all conditions of beauty, of detail, of general effect, of truthfulness, of reality are so fully answered as in this. And from this spring two important considerations. Firstly, the decline of Christian art—which may be traced from this very period, if architecture be tried by any of the conditions which have been laid down—was confessedly {xxxii} coincident with, and (if what we have said is true) was really symbolical of, those corruptions, which ended in the great rending of the Latin Church; the effects of, and penalties for, which remain to this day in full operation in the whole of Western Christendom. Secondly, the Decorated style may be indeed the finest development of Christian architecture which the world has yet seen; but it does not follow that it is the greatest perfection which shall ever be arrived at. No: we too look forward, if it may be, to the time when even a new style of church architecture shall be given us, so glorious and beautiful and true, that Cologne will sink into a fine example of a transitional period, when the zeal and faith and love of the reunited Church shall find their just expression in the sacramental forms of Catholic art.

But besides the above objection to Mr. Lewis's theory we may mention the arbitrary way in which he determines on things which are to be symbolised, and then violently endeavours to find their expected types. This is quite at variance with the practice of any sober symbolist; and more especially (as we shall hereafter have occasion to point out) with that of Durandus. This forced sort of symbolism naturally leads to a disregard of precedent and authority: and accordingly we remember to have heard of a design by this gentleman for the arrangement of a chancel which professed to symbolise certain facts and doctrines; but which, whatever might be the ingenuity of the symbolism, was no less opposed to the constant rule of arrangement in ancient churches, than it was practically absurd and inconvenient for the purpose which it was meant to answer. Indeed, while Mr. Lewis insists strongly on the symbolising of facts, he does not succeed in grasping any general principle, any more than he sees the {xxxiii} difficulty there is in the way of our receiving his supposition of an intention to symbolise from the first. No architect ever sat down with an analysed scheme of doctrines which he resolved to embody in his future building: in this, as in any other department of poesy, the result is harmonious, significant, and complete, and may be resolved into its elements, though these elements might never have been laid by the poet as the foundation upon which to raise his superstructure. That were like De La Harpe's theory that an epic poet should first determine on his moral, and then draw out such a plan for his poem as may enable him to illustrate that moral. [Footnote 8]

[Footnote 8: It is with pain that we have spoken of Mr. Lewis at all, because every Ecclesiologist owes him a debt for his great boldness in turning the public attention to the subject of symbolism. Yet we believe that a prejudice has been excited by him against that subject which it will be hard to get over; for we are constrained to say, that greater absurdities were never printed than some which have appeared in his book. His explanations of the west end of Kilpeck church—his cool assumption when any bracket appears more puzzling than usual that it is of later work, and therefore not explainable—his random perversions of Scripture—his puerile conceits about the door—deserve this criticism. This same south door he extols as a perfect mine of ecclesiastical information, while he confesses himself unable to explain the symbols wrought on the two orders of the arch—that is about two-thirds of the whole! It is strange, too, that in his restoration of the church, he should have forgotten all about the bells—and have violated a fundamental canon of symbolism, by terminating his western gable in a plain Cross.]

The writers of the Cambridge Camden Society have carried out the system more fully and consistently than any others. It has evidently grown upon them, during the process of their inquiries: yet in their earliest publications, we trace, though more obscurely, the same thing. Their 'Few Words to Church-Builders' acknowledged the principle to a far greater length; and the Ecclesiologist has always acted upon it, even when not expressly referring to it. As a necessary consequence, they were the first who dwelt on the absolute necessity of a distinct and spacious chancel; the first who recommended, and {xxxiv} where they could, insisted on, the re-introduction of the rood-screen; and the first to condemn the use of western triplets. The position and shape of the font, the necessity of orientation, and some few details, they have, but only in common with others, urged.

The Oxford Architectural Society have never recognised any given principles: and in consequence Littlemore is proposed by them as a model—a church either without, or else all, chancel; and either way a solecism.

As might have been expected from a separatist, Rickman, in his treatise, gives not a single line to the principle for which we contend. Mr. Bloxam, in his excellent little work, though often referring to it—more especially in the later editions which have appeared since the labours of the Cambridge Camden Society—yet hardly gives it that prominence which we might have expected from one who possesses so just an idea of mediaeval arrangements and art.

Among the chief opposers of the system we may mention Mr. Coddington of Ware, who sees perfection in the clumsiness of Basilican arrangements, and schism in the developed art of the middle ages. This writer, as it has been observed in the Ecclesiologist, contends for two things:—1. That one great object of Romanism was to abolish the distinction between the clergy and laity: 2. That another great object of the same Church, acting by its monks, (or, as he calls them, schismatical communities) was to exalt the clergy unduly above the laity. The former assertion he does not attempt to prove: the latter he supports by pointing to the arrangement of the rood-screen, which, therefore, like the French Ambonoclasts, he wishes to pull down both in cathedrals and churches.

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This brief review of the principal writers who have treated on the Symbolism of Churches and Church Ornaments, concludes our first chapter. In it we have endeavoured to point out an acknowledged desideratum; to shew what suppositions have been advanced on the subject; to set forth wherein, and for what reason, they fail of being satisfactory; to enunciate the principle of Sacramentality as essential for the full appreciation and successful imitation of ancient church architecture; and finally, in referring to the works of some later symbolists, to shew why their hypotheses are incomplete or untenable. We have also brought under review the glaring contrasts between the methods of life of an ancient and modern architect; and, if we may so say, between the machinery of designing and the habit of mind in the two cases. We shall now proceed to examine those arguments which may lead us to suspect that some such principle as Sacramentality really exists.

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CHAPTER II
THE ARGUMENT A PRIORI

It will first be proper to consider whether, regarding the subject à priori, that is, looking at the habits and manners of those among whom the symbolical system originated, if it originated anywhere, we have reason to think them at all likely to induce that system. Now, as matter of fact, we know that the train of thought, the every-day observances, above all, the religious rites of the early Christians, were in the highest degree figurative. The rite of Baptism gave the most forcible of all sanctions to such a system; and while it sanctioned, it also suggested, some of the earliest specimens of Christian symbolism. Hence, when that rite was found to be, so to speak, connected with the word formed by the initial letters of our Blessed Saviour's name and titles, arose the Mystic Fish: hence, as we shall see, the octagonal baptistery and font. Indeed, almost every great doctrine had been symbolised at a very early period of Christianity. The Resurrection was set forth in the Phoenix, rising immortal from its ashes: the meritorious Passion of our Saviour, by the Pelican, feeding its young with its own blood: the Sacrament of the Holy Eucharist, by grapes and wheatears, or again by the blood flowing from the heart and feet of the Wounded Lamb into a chalice beneath: the Christian's renewal of strength {xxxvii} thereby in the Eagle, which descending grey and aged into the ocean, rises thence with renewed strength and vigour: the Church, by the Ark, and the vessel [Footnote 9] in which our Lord slept: the Christian's purity and innocence by the Dove: [Footnote 10] again, by the same symbol the souls [Footnote 11] of those who suffered for the Truth: again, though perhaps not so early, the Holy Spirit: the Apostles were also set forth as twelve Doves: [Footnote 12] the Ascension of our Saviour by the Flying Bird; concerning which S. Gregory [Footnote 13] teaches, 'rightly is our Redeemer called a Bird, Whose Body ascended freely into heaven': Martyrs also by birds let loose; for so Tertullian, [Footnote 14] 'There is one kind of flesh of fishes, that is of those who be regenerate by Holy Baptism; but another of birds, that is of martyrs.'

[Footnote 9: Naviculum quippe ecclesiam cogitate,—turbulentum mare hoc seculum.——S. Aug. de Verb Dom.]
[Footnote 10:
Quaeque super signum resident coeleste Columbae,
Simplicibus produnt regna patere Dei.
S. Paulin. ep. 12, ad Sever.]
[Footnote 11: Cum nollet idolis sacrificare (sc. S. Reparata) ecce, gladio percutitur: cujus anima in Columbae specie de corpore egredi, coelumque conscendere visa est.—Martyrol. Rom. viii. Id. Oct.

Emicat inde Columba repens,
Martyris os nive candidior
Visa relinquere, et astra sequi:
Spiritus hic erat Eulaliae
Lacteolus, celer, innocuus.
Pruden. Perist. Hymn. 9.

Compare also the Passion of S. Potitus,—Act. SS. Bollandi, 13 Jan. So, in the cemetery of S. Calistus, a piece of glass was found by Boldetti, on which S. Agnes was represented between two doves, the symbols of her Virginity and Martyrdom.]
[Footnote 12:
Crucem corona lucido cingit globo
Cui coronas sunt corona Apostoli,
Quorum figura est in columbarum choro.
[Footnote 13: In Evang. 29.]
[Footnote 14: De Resurrect. 52.]

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The caged bird is symbolical of the contrary; this has been found upon the phial containing the blood of a martyr. Of this, Boldetti says, 'It is represented on the mosaic of the ancient Tribune of S. Mary beyond Tiber; one being seen at the side of Isaiah the Prophet, the other at that of the Prophet Jeremiah.' In the same way, partridges and peacocks, each with its own meaning are represented. So, again, lions, tigers, horses, oxen, strange fishes, and marine monsters, represent the fearful martyrdoms to which God's servants were exposed: a point which the reader will do well to bear in mind, because in treating of Norman mouldings we shall have occasion again to refer to this matter. So, again, the extended hand symbolised Providence. We have also the seven stars, the moon, and many other symbols of a similar kind. Nor must we forget the Agnus Dei, by which our Blessed Lord Himself was represented; nor the Pastor Bonus, in which His own parable was still further parabolised. The Christian gems found in the Catacombs are all charged with some symbolical device. Upon these is the ship for the Church, the palm for the martyr, and the instrument of torture: as well as the sacred monogram expressing our Saviour's name. The same symbol blazed on the labarum of the first Christian Emperor; and the very coins symbolically showed that the Church had subdued the kingdoms of this world. That fearful heresy, Gnosticism, which arose from an over-symbolising, shows, nevertheless how deeply the principle, within due limits, belonged to the Church. The Gnostic gems exhibit the most monstrous perversions of symbolical representations: the medals of Dioclesian bear a lying symbol of a crushed and expiring Christianity. Later still, new symbols were adopted: mosaics, illuminations, ornaments, all bore some holy emblems. The monogram ihs found in every church in Western Christendom: the corresponding symbol stamps the Eucharistic wafers of the East. [Footnote 15]

[Footnote 15: See on this subject the Cambridge Camden Society's 'Argument for the Greek Origin of the Monogram IHS.']

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The symbols of the Evangelists were also of very early date, though not, in all cases, appropriated as now: for the angel and the lion fluctuated between S. Matthew and S. Mark. Numbers, too, were fruitful of allegorical meaning; and the most ingenious combinations were used to elicit an esoteric meaning from them. By one, the Unity of the Deity was understood: by two, the divine and human Natures of the Saviour: by three, of course, the doctrine of the Most Holy Trinity: by four, the doctrine of the Four Evangelists: by six, the Attributes of the Deity: seven represented the sevenfold graces of the Holy Spirit: eight (for a reason hereafter to be noticed), Regeneration: twelve, the glorious company, the Apostles, and, tropologically, the whole Church. And when a straightforward reference to any of these failed, they were added or combined, till the required meaning was obtained. A single instance may suffice:—S. Augustine, writing on that passage of S. Paul's, 'What? know ye not that the saints shall judge the world?' after explaining (Expos. super Psalm. lxxxvi) the twelve thrones, which our Saviour mentions, of the whole Church, as founded by and represented in the Apostles, finds a further meaning. 'The parts of the world be four; the east, the west, the north, and the south:' and (adds the Father) 'they are constantly named in Holy Writ. From these four winds, saith the Lord in the Gospel, shall the elect be gathered together: whence the Church is called from these four parts. Called, and how? By the Trinity. It is not called, except by Baptism, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. So four, multiplied by three, make twelve.' In accidental numbers, too, a meaning was often found. No wonder that some beheld, in the three hundred and eighteen trained servants wherewith Abraham, the Father of the Faithful, routed the combined kings, a type of the three hundred and eighteen Fathers of Nicaea, by whom the Faithful rose triumphant over the Arian heresy.

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Again, types and emblems without number were seen in the language of the Psalmist, occurring so continuously in the services of the Church. 'His faithfulness shall be thy buckler,' gives rise to a fine allegory of S. Bernard's, drawn from the triangular shape of the buckler used at the time when that Father wrote; even as we still see it, in the effigies of early knights. It protects the upper part of the body completely: the feet are less completely shielded. And so, remarks the saint, does God's providence guard His people from spiritual dangers, imaged by those weapons which attack the upper, or more vital parts of the body: but from temporal adversities He hath neither promised, nor will give so complete protection.

To mention the symbolism which attached itself to the worship of the early Church, would be to go through all its rites. Confirmation and Matrimony, and, above all, Baptism, were attended by ceremonies in the highest degree symbolical. But it is needless to dwell on them; enough has been said to prove the attachment which the Catholic Church has ever evinced to symbolism.

But the Sign of the Cross is that which gave the greatest scope to symbolism.—Our readers will probably remember the passage of Tertullian in which he says, 'we cross ourselves when we go out, and when we come in; when we lie down, and when we rise up,' etc. Indeed, as in everything they used, so in everything they saw, the Sign of the Cross. The following lines from Donne are much to the purpose:

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Since Christ embraced the Cross itself, dare I
His Image, th' Image of His Cross, deny?
Would I have profit by the Sacrifice,
And dare the chosen Altar to despise?
It bore all other sins, but is it fit
That it should bear the sin of scorning it?
Who from the picture would avert his eye,
How should he fly His pains, Who there did die?
From me no pulpit, nor misgrounded law.
Nor scandal taken, shall this Cross withdraw:
It shall not—nor it cannot—for the loss
Of this Cross were to me another Cross:
Better were worse: for no affliction.
No cross were so extreme, as to have none.
Who can blot out the Cross, which th' instrument
Of God dewed on him in the Sacrament?
Who can deny me power and liberty
'To stretch mine arms, and mine own Cross to be?
Swim—and at every stroke thou art thy Cross:
The mast and yard are theirs whom seas do toss.
Look down, thou seest our crosses in small things,
Look up, thou seest birds fly on crossed wings.

We will mention but one symbolical feature more in the trains of thought which were common among the early Christians. We refer to the esoteric meaning which was supposed to exist in the writings of heathen authors: as for example, when the Pollio of Virgil was imagined to point to the Saviour, and the Fortunate Isles of Pindar to Paradise. It were easy but needless to dwell on this subject. The few instances we have given are already amply sufficient to prove to some, to remind others, how symbolical was the religion of the early Church, and (we think) to establish our case à priori.

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CHAPTER III
THE ARGUMENT FROM ANALOGY

Having dealt with the argument à priori, we now proceed to show that, from analogy, it is highly probable that the teaching of the Church, as in other things, so in her material buildings, would be symbolical.

Firstly, let us look at other nations, and other religions. It need not be said that the symbolism of the Jews was one of the most striking features of their religion. It would be unnecessary to go through their tabernacle and temple rites, their sacrificial observances, and their legal ceremonies. The Passover, the cleansing of the leper, the scape goat, the feast of tabernacles, the morning and evening sacrifice, the Sabbatical year, the Jubilee, were all in the highest degree figurative. The very stones in the breastplate have each, according to the Rabbis, their mystical signification. And, as if still further to teach them the sacramentality, not only of things, but of events, it pleased God to make all their most famous ancestors, chiefs, and leaders, e.g. Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Joshua, David, most remarkable types of the Messiah: nay, from the beginning the principal doctrines of Christianity were, in some form or other, set forth. Regeneration and the Church, in the Flood and the Ark: the Bread and Wine in the Manna and the Stricken Rock: the two dispensations in Sarah and {xliii} Hagar. Indeed the immense extent of symbolism in the Old Testament was the mine of the Fathers. Every day they brought to light some new wealth; and, if we press the symbolism of the Church further than it was actually intended, we are only treading in the steps of her bishops and doctors. For while, of course, in commenting on and explaining the sacrifice of Isaac, the covenant of circumcision, the captivity and exaltation of Joseph, they were only developing the real meaning which God seems to have intended should be set forth by those events, there are,—as we have already hinted,—many instances where their piety found an interpretation which was perhaps never intended. Thus, because Job, while all else that belonged to him was restored double, had only the same number of children which he had lost—they have argued, that thus the separate existence of souls was represented, as the Patriarch could not be said to have lost those who were in another state of existence.

And if in the Old Testament we find authority for the principle of symbolism, much more do we in the New. We shall presently have occasion to allude to the rise and progress of the sacramentality of Baptism: we may now refer more particularly to the frequency with which S. Paul symbolises the enactments of the law; as in the case of the ox forbidden, while treading out the corn, to be muzzled. So again, the Revelation is nothing but one continued symbolical poem. The parabolic teaching of our Lord we shall presently notice.

To this we may add, the exoteric and esoteric signification of certain books, e.g., the Song of Solomon: the double interpretation of many of the prophecies, primarily of the earthly, principally of the heavenly Jerusalem: we may refer to the symbolical meaning attached, under the Christian dispensation, to certain previously {xliv} established rites, as, for instance. Holy Matrimony. With symbolical writings, enactments, events, personages, observances, buildings, vestments, for her guides and models, how could the Church Catholic fail of following symbolism, as a principle and a passion?

But not only is Christianity symbolical: every development of religion is, and must necessarily be so. On the Grecian mythology, we shall have occasion to say something more presently. The symbolism of Plato, and still further development by Proclus and the later philosophers of his school, will occur to every one. If it be asserted that the more it was touched and acted on by Christianity, the more symbolical did it become,—we only reply, So much the more to the purpose of our argument. But not only in Roman and Grecian Paganism is this the case. The Hindoo religion has much of symbolism; and some of its most striking fables, derived from whatever source—whether from unwritten tradition, or from contact with the Jews—possess this character wonderfully. Take, for instance, the example of Krishna suffering, and Krishna triumphant; represented, in the one case, by the figure of a man enveloped in the coils of a serpent, which fastens its teeth in his heel; in the other, by the same man setting his foot on, and crushing the head of the monster. Now here, it is true, the doctrine symbolised has long been forgotten among those with whom the legend is sacred: we, on the contrary, have a very plain reference to the promise concerning the Seed of the Woman and the serpent's head. This is an instance of the fact, that Truth will live in a symbolical, long after it has perished in every other form: and doubtless, when the time for the conversion of India shall have arrived, thousands will receive the truth the more willingly, in that they have had a representation of it, distorted it is true, but not destroyed, set, for so many centuries, before their eyes. {xlv} Some truths, accidentally impressed on a symbolical observance, may still live, that otherwise must have perished: just as the only memory of some of the beings that existed before the flood, is to be found in the petrified clay on which they accidentally happened to set their feet.

The Mahometan religion has also, though in an inferior degree, its symbolism; and the reason of its inferiority in this respect is plain—because, namely, it is a religion of sense. Now Catholicity, which teaches men constantly to live above their senses, to mortify their passions, and to deny themselves;—nay even Hindooism, which, so far as it approximates to the truth, preaches the same doctrine, must constantly lead men by the seen to look on to the unseen. If everything material were not made sacramental of that which is immaterial, so, as it were, bearing its own corrective with its own temptation, man could hardly fail of walking by sight, rather than by faith. But now, the Church, not content with warning us that we are in an enemy's country, boldly seizes on the enemy's goods, converting them to her own use. Symbolism is thus the true Sign of the Cross, hallowing the unholy, and making safe the dangerous: the true salt which, being cast in, purified the unhealthy spring: the true meal which removed death from the Prophet's provision. Others may amuse themselves by asserting that the Church in all that she does and enacts, is not symbolical:—we bless God for the knowledge that she is.

We need not dwell on the symbolism of heretics, insomuch as we shall have occasion to refer to it in other parts of this essay. We will rather notice, that those to whom we have been but now referring, heathens and Mahomedans, have a way of discovering a subtle {xlvi} symbolism in things which in themselves were not intended to have any deeper meaning. We may mention the odes of Hafiz—the Anacreon, or rather perhaps, the Stesichorus, of Persia. These poems, speaking to the casual reader of nothing but love, and wine, and garlands, and rosebuds, are seriously affirmed, by Persian critics, to contain a deep esoteric reference to the communion of the soul with God; just as it has been wildly supposed, that under the name of Laura, Petrarch in fact only expressed that Immortal Beauty after which the soul of the Christian is constantly striving, and to which it is constantly advancing. So in Dante, Beatrice is not only the poet's earthly love, but, as it has been well shown by M. Ozanam, the representative of Catholic theology.

To dwell on the symbolism of Nature would lead us too far from our point. But we must constantly bear in mind that Nature and the Church answer to each other as implicit and explicit revelations of God. Therefore, whatever system is seen to run through the one, in all probability runs through the other. Now, that the teaching of Nature is symbolical, none, we think, can deny. Shall we then wonder that the Catholic Church is in all her art and splendour sacramental of the Blessed Trinity, when Nature herself is so? Shall God have denied this symbolism to the latter, while He has bestowed it on the former? Shall there be a trinity of effect in every picture, a trinity of tone in every note, a trinity of power in every mind, a trinity of essence in every substance,—and shall not there be a trinity in the arrangements and details of church art? It were strange if the servant could teach what the mistress must be silent upon: that Natural Religion should be endued with capabilities not granted to Revealed Truth.

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Is not, again, the doctrine of the Resurrection wonderfully set forth by Nature? This symbolism is the more remarkable, in that to the ancients the rising of the sun and the bursting forth of the leaf must have appeared false symbolism, although they knew too well that of which autumn and evening were typical. So, to quote only one other example, the law of self-sacrifice is beautifully shadowed out by the grain that 'unless it die, abideth alone; but if it die, bringeth forth much fruit.' We may argue next from the analogy of all art. Sculpture, perhaps, has least to offer in our support. But in painting we may refer to the conventional colours appropriated to various personages; and the mechanical symbolism of poetry is known to all. Nor must we forget the conventional use of language. Archaisms, studied inversions, quaint phrases, and the like, have always been affected by those who were treating of high and holy subjects. None has employed these with happier effect than Spenser, whose language, it need not be said, never was and never could have been really used. The solemnising effect of a judicious employment of this artifice is nowhere more strongly felt than in works of Divinity. Compare for example the English language, where the conventional Thou is always addressed to the Deity, and where a stern simplicity runs through the whole of our Divine Offices, with the French which can only employ Vous in prayer, and with the Portuguese, where, in the authorised translation of the Holy Scriptures, Apostles, and Prophets—nay, our Blessed Lord Himself, speak in the polite phrases of conversational elegance. [Footnote 16]

[Footnote 16: It is on grounds similar to these, that, in our translation of Durandus, we have adopted that conventional style which has been objected to by some recent critics:—not that anyone ever naturally conversed or wrote in it, but for the sake of producing the effect which the subject seems to require. The brilliancy of a summer's day is beautiful in its place: admitted into a cathedral, it would be totally out of character.]

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Music, however, has the strongest claims to our notice. We know, for example, that each instrument symbolises some particular colour. So, according to Haydn, the trombone is deep red—the trumpet, scarlet—the clarionet, orange—the oboe, yellow—the bassoon, deep yellow—the flute, sky blue—the diapason, deep blue—the double diapason, purple—the horn, violet:—while the violin is pink—the viola, rose—the violoncello, red—and the double-bass, crimson. This by many would be called fanciful:—therefore let us turn to a passage of Haydn's works, and see if it will hold. Let us examine the sun-rise in the 'Creation.' At the commencement, as it has been well observed, our attention is attracted by a soft-streaming sound from the violins, scarcely audible, till the pink rays of the second violin diverge into the chord of the second, to which is gradually imparted a greater fulness of colour, as the rose violas and red violoncellos steal in with expanding beauty, while the azure of the flute tempers the mounting rays of the violin: as the notes continue ascending to the highest point of brightness, the orange of the clarionet, the scarlet of the trumpet, the purple of the double diapason, unite in increasing splendour—till the sun appears at length in all the refulgence of harmony.

This may serve as a specimen of the manner in which the expressions of one art may be translated into that of another, because they each and all symbolise the same abstraction.

Again, the language of flowers is a case much in point. This is a species of symbolism which has prevailed among all nations, and which our devout ancestors were not slow in stamping with the impress of religion. Witness, for example, the Herb Trinity, now generally called Heartsease, the Passion Flower, and the Lacrima Christi. And in the present day, who knows not that {xlix} the rose is for beauty—the violet for modesty—the sunflower for faithfulness—the forget-me-not for remembrance—the pansy for thought—the cypress for woe—the yew for trueheartedness—the everlasting for immortality? The flowers introduced into the ornament of churches we shall consider presently.

Furthermore, whatever was the character of our Lord's teaching—such is likely to be that of His Church. If the former were plain, unadorned, setting forth naked truths in the fewest and simplest words; then we allow that there is a primâ facie argument against the system which we are endeavouring to support. But if it were parabolic, figurative, descriptive, allegorical—why should not the Church imitate her Master? His parables are at once the surest defence, and the most probable originators, of her symbolism.

We shall have occasion in another place to draw from a consideration of the nature of our Lord's parables an argument in behalf of symbolism against one of the most formidable objections that has been raised against the system. It would here be sufficient for our purpose to notice the figurative character of our Lord's general teaching. But we have His own authority for much more than a general adoption of such a principle. Tradition hands down that He was within sight of the Temple when he pointed towards it, and uttered those gracious words, I am the Door. Be this as it may, we have from it a sufficient precedent to justify us in seeking for an emblematical meaning in the external world, and more particularly in the material sanctuary. S. Paul, on the same principle, allegorises the Jewish Temple, detail by detail:—the Holy of Holies was heaven; the High Priest, Christ; the veil, even his flesh. It is inconceivable that the Temple should be so symbolical, and so holy that our Lord Himself cleansed it from its defiling {l} money-changers: and yet that a Christian church, wherein the Great Sacrifice is commemorated and our Lord is peculiarly present, should be less symbolical—particularly when its arrangement is in exact conformity to that of the temple, [Footnote 17] —or should be less holy. At any rate the Door must be significant: at any rate the Altar, which S. Paul claims for the Christian Church, in opposition to those who 'serve the tabernacle.'

[Footnote 17: See Appendix A. ]

Again, the holy Sacraments of the Church are examples, in the highest degree, of this principle of figurative or symbolical teaching. They, indeed, are not only signs of unseen things, but the channels and instruments of grace. The latter quality we do not claim for the speaking symbolism of a material church: but architecture is an emblem of the invisible abstract, no less than Holy Baptism and the Lord's Supper. Besides the two Sacraments

our Church recognises other offices, such as Marriage, Confirmation, and the like, as Sacramentals. In short the whole Church system is figurative from first to last: not indeed therefore the less real, actual, visible, and practical; but rather the more real and practical, because its teaching and discipline are not merely material and temporary, but anticipative of the heavenly and eternal. This quality then of symbolism cannot be denied to one, and a most important, expression of the teaching of the Church, namely its architecture. The cathedral (to repeat the general in the particular) is not the less material, the less solid, the less real, because we see in it the figurative exhibition of the peculiarities of our religion and the articles of our creed.

{li}

CHAPTER IV
PHILOSOPHICAL REASONS FOR BELIEVING IN SYMBOLISM

We now propose to offer a few remarks on the philosophical reasons there seem to be for concluding that Ecclesiastical Architecture has some esoteric meaning, some figurative adaptation, more than can be appreciated, or even discerned, by the casual observer, to the uses which produced it, and which have always regulated it. We venture to approach this consideration, however, rather from a feeling that our Essay would be incomplete without some reference to this kind of argument, than from any idea of our own ability to treat on subjects so abstract and infinite; and fearing that we may not be able clearly to express or dissect those thoughts which, nevertheless, appear to our own minds both true and very important.

It is little better than a truism to assert that there is an intimate correspondence and relation between cause and effect: yet this thought opens the way to a very wide field of speculation. Mind cannot act upon matter without the material result being closely related to the mental intention which originated it: the fact that anything exists adapted to a certain end or use is alone enough to presuppose the end or use, who can see a

, without distinguishing its relation to the {lii} want or necessity which brought about

? In short, the

, whatever it may be, not only answers to that which called it forth, but, in some sort, represents materially, or symbolises, the abstract volition or operation of the mind which originated it. Show us a pitcher, a skewer, or any of the simplest utensils designed for the most obvious purposes: do not the cavity of the one, and the piercing point of the other, at once set forth and symbolise the

which was answered in their production? Now, from this thought, we might proceed to trace out the truthfulness and reality of every

considered in relation to the

; for even a deceptive thing is true and real in its relation to the mental intention of deceiving: but we intend merely to consider the way in which the abstract movements or

of mind are symbolised by the material operations or results which they have produced. In other words, we would allege that everything material is symbolical of some mental process, of which it is Indeed only the development: that we may see in everything outward and visible some inward and spiritual meaning. It is this which makes 'books in everything': finding in everything objective the material exhibition of the subjective and unseen; not claiming for the abstract mind an independence of matter, but acknowledging its union with it; and thus learning from the speculations of reason, to perceive the fitness for our nature of that system of sacramentality in which God has placed us, and to bless Him more and more for the Church, a sacramental institution, and for the Sacraments

, which it conveys. This method of viewing the subject will be our excuse for attempting on the one hand to learn by analysis from a material church itself, considered objectively, the symbolism which may be supposed to have directed its design; and on the other {liii} hand to show from the abstract necessities of the case that a material church might have been expected to be symbolically designed. But if this theory of symbolism gives light and meaning and connection to the acknowledged facts, whether abstract or material, with which we have to do; while no other view will explain all the phenomena;—it certainly recommends itself by its simplicity and harmony to a general reception. Considered in this light, the whole group of separate facts become linked together and adjusted, and so resolve themselves into a great fabric of truth, which (like the Pyramid of Cheops) is consistent and real and intelligible, when seen from any point, under any circumstances, or in any light.

But if it be granted that there is this mutual connection between the abstract and its material exhibition in every case, it will be readily admitted that a principle of sacramentality must be especially a condition of all religious acts. If we were merely spirits, without bodies or any necessary connection with matter, it would be possible perhaps for us to worship the Great Spirit in an abstract way by a sort of volition of devotion; but not being so, our souls cannot engage in adoration without the company of their material home. Hence every effort of devotion is attended by some bodily act. Whether we lift our eyes or hands to heaven, or kneel in prayer, we show forth this necessity of our being: our body has sinned, has been redeemed, will be punished or glorified, no less than the soul: it must therefore worship with the soul. Now the symbolism of the bodily acts of devotion is understood by all. We have even personated Prayer by a prostrate figure with uplifted hands. [Footnote 18]

[Footnote 18: The necessity which the body seems to feel for this symbolism may be seen in the constantly occurring fact, that in making signs, whether of inquiry or adieu, to a person at a distance, we naturally speak the words, though inaudible to him, which the gestures we use express.]

{liv}

It has been felt not only right but necessary, in all ages and places, to accompany the inward feeling of devotion with some outward manifestation of it. In other words, all religious actions are from their nature symbolical and figurative. But if the most obvious corporeal accompaniments to spiritual worship show this clearly, how much more evidently must all ritual systems appear to be symbolical? A system of worship, whether heathen, Christian, or heretical, is only the development and methodising of the simplest figurative acts of devotion; the whole affected by the peculiar relation between the object of adoration and the worshippers which in each particular system may have been pre-supposed. Why does the Mussulman take off his shoes, kneel on his carpet towards Mecca, and perform his stated ablutions? Is not each act in itself figurative and full of meaning? How could such a system, or any other system, have been originated, but with some intended typification of certain given facts or doctrines or feelings? Why does the heartless Quaker go with covered head into his bare conventicle, and sit in enforced silence? He will answer, to express his independence of idle forms, the spirituality of his worship, his repudiation of any media in his intercourse with the Divine Being. We thank him for his admission of a symbolical purpose, but we read the symbolism differently. We perceive it to express clearly enough the presumptuous pride and vanity of his sect, his rejection of all Sacraments, and his practical disbelief in the Communion of Saints. Again, is the pulpit of the Brownist symbolical; and shall not our font and altar be so at least as much? The Catholic ritual is indeed symbolical from first to last. Without the clue to its figurative meaning, we should never have understood its pregnant truthfulness and force. {lv} No one, in short, ever ventured to regard the ancient ritual as anything but highly figurative: this was claimed as its highest excellence by its observers and commentators, this was ridiculed and despised by the enemies of the Church; but was confessed by all. The more anyone meditates on the ancient ritual of the Church, the more this will be found not only the most prominent characteristic, but the only satisfactory explanation of many otherwise unintelligible requirements. This is not the place to go at any length into the consideration of the whole symbolism of the ritual system: it will be enough if it is granted that some prescribed ritual, however meagre, must be a necessary part of all religion; and that every such system is in some degree figurative or symbolical. Now to apply this to church architecture. No one will deny that, in a general point of view, the form of our churches is adapted to certain wants, and was chosen for this very adaptation. Indeed this is allowed by modern writers and builders: who defend a church which has no more than an altar-recess, on this very ground, that there is no longer any want of a deep chancel. 'I object to aisles,' says a modern architect, 'because the great end of a church is to be an auditorium.' 'The cross form,' says another, 'I always adopt, because then everyone can see the preacher if I place the pulpit in the middle.' But why not take a circle or octagon at once, or the form which is always adopted for the lecture-rooms at Mechanics' Institutes? For these plans are obviously most convenient for hearing and seeing. But then, everyone knows that these are not church forms. The modern builder then, trammelled, at least in this respect, by rule and precedent, chooses the cruciform plan, not (perhaps) for its true symbolism; but, by a wrong arrangement of this plan, still further symbolises (for example) his own undue estimation of the ordinance {lvi} of preaching. So true it is that those who would most object to symbolism, as a rule of design, are themselves (did they but know it) symbolising, in every church they build, their own arbitrary and presumptuous ideas on the subject. It is not our intention to prove here, (what has been pointed out, however, many times), the duty incumbent upon us of following in our modern churches the ancient principles of design: we are not writing with the immediate practical end of improving modern church architecture; but are endeavouring to illustrate the symbolical principles of ancient design. We shall, however, before finishing this chapter, choose an example, which will apply to us, as well as to any other branch of the Church, to show how essentially church architecture in that respect at least is a part of the Ritual system. And if Catholic worship is expressed and represented by Catholic ritual, and if church architecture is a part of this ritual, then is church architecture itself an expression and exponent of Catholic worship. A conclusion this which will well warrant the very strong language in which the Cambridge Camden Society have always asserted the great importance of this art, and have exacted from its professors such qualifications of personal holiness and liturgical knowledge as are no less above the attainment than the aspirations of the modern school.

It may not be clear to some how in any sense architecture can be called symbolical, or the outward sign of something invisible: or rather what the process is by which a given arrangement, suggested perhaps by some necessity, becomes in turn suggestive and figurative of the very purpose for which it was planned. But let us take the case of a theatre. Here it is clearly necessary that there shall be a stage or orchestra, accommodation for spectators, and means of easy exit. {lvii} Accordingly every theatre displays all these requisites. And does not the building then in turn emblem the purpose for which it was planned? The ruins of Roman theatres are not uncommon: do we fail to be recalled by them to the idea of the Roman stage? are not the several parts of the material building highly figurative and suggestive of the rules and orders of the abstract drama?

With respect to churches: let us suppose the institution and ritual of the Church to be what we know it was; and that we have to adapt some architectural arrangement to the performance of this ritual. Is there anything which will dictate any general form rather than another? Surely there is. We will not speak now of the propriety of setting aside a place for the celebration of the Holy Eucharist, or of the propriety of retaining the plan of the typical Temple; but we are considering simply what is required by practical necessity. The worshippers who are to assemble in our church are not all on an equality. There are some who are endowed with high privileges as being those consecrated to the immediate service of the sanctuary. In early times so real a thing was the distinction between the clergy and the laity, that the Church being divided into these two classes, the material edifice displayed a like division: and the nave and chancel preach to posterity the sacredness of Holy Orders, and the mutual duties arising from the relation in which the flock stand to their shepherds. But in early ages the laity were not all classed en masse as with us now. Among them were the Faithful, the Catechumens, who had not yet been admitted to Holy Baptism, and the Penitents or those who had lapsed. True to itself, church architecture provided then a separate place for each of these divisions. Does not the ground plan of such a church symbolise minutely the then state of church discipline and the {lviii} conditions of church worship? The reality and meaning of such an arrangement may be shown thus also. After the Reformation the great distinction between clergy and laity became lost or undervalued: accordingly the chancel-screens in many places disappeared, as symbolical in their absence as in their existence. But still there was a necessity for some material arrangement to protect the Altar from insult: and so altar rails came in, manifest symbols of that spirit which made their introduction allowable, if indeed not necessary: [Footnote 19] still these very rails, and the penned up reading-pew, teach that the clergy, at least when performing a function, are divided from the laity.

[Footnote 19: In the correspondence of the Rev. W. Humphrey, whose atrocious treatment by the Church Missionary Society has so lately excited the indignation of all true churchmen, it appears that one of the noble designs of this zealous priest was to restore for the peculiar congregation over which he was appointed, consisting of Faithful, Catechumens, and Unbelievers, the distinct arrangement of the ancient Church: the modern plan of having but one area for the lay worshippers being found inconvenient and injurious. That is to say, our modern church arrangement may suit and does symbolise the present state of the Church with us, but does not suit and does not symbolise the state of the missionary Church of India.]

Now it is of no consequence whatever, whether the early builders of churches intended this particular arrangement to be symbolical. The arrangement being adopted becomes necessarily, even if unintentionally, symbolical, by the process we have endeavoured to trace, and so things essentially symbolical give rise to intended symbolism: for it is a simple historical fact that the weathercock, whatever practical utility may have first suggested its use and peculiar form, has been for many centuries placed on the church spire for its intentional symbolism. [Footnote 20]And the process is repeated: for suppose one only of the conventional symbolical meanings of the weathercock had been discovered: the thoughtful mind {lix} goes on to find out other figurative senses in which its use is appropriate, and these conventional meanings become in their turn intentionally symbolised by future church builders. This may be illustrated also in the following way: The Jews, in the rite of Baptism, had probably no other idea than a reference to 'the mystical washing away of sins.' But when S. Paul had once given to that rite the new idea of a burial with Christ in the Baptismal water, and a rising again with Him, this typical meaning became an example of intended symbolism to all those who should hereafter use it.

[Footnote 20: See Rationale, p. 27.]

As we began this part of our subject with hesitation, so we finish it with some degree of apprehension. To some what has been said may seem more than ordinarily visionary and ridiculous: yet others, we hope, will feel that, however feebly and inadequately expressed, there is some truth in what has been advanced concerning the relation between the material and immaterial: that the latter welding and moulding the former into an expression of itself, makes it in turn a type of that which it expresses. So that if on the one hand, to take our particular branch of the subject, the theoretical ritual and ordinances of religion imply and require certain peculiar adaptations of the material building in which they are to be celebrated; then in turn the circumstances of the material fabric suggest and symbolise the peculiar conditions of ritual which induced them. In short we have endeavoured to prove that from our very nature every outward thing is symbolical of something inward and spiritual: but, above all things, outward religious actions are sacramental; and particularly any prescribed ritual, of which the first characteristic is that it is figurative: that the Catholic ritual is eminently symbolical, and from its nature very strikingly influences all its material appliances: that church architecture is the {lx} eldest daughter of Ritual: that the process, according to which architecture was influenced by the requirements of Ritualism was at first as simple as that by which the form of a theatre sprang from the conditions which were to be fulfilled by its builder: that thus a church (built in the fully developed style of Christian architecture) even if not built with any intention of symbolising, (though it is an historical fact that the symbolism of each part was known and received before the erection of any church of this style,) became nevertheless essentially a 'petrifaction of our religion': a fact which, once admitted and realised, becomes to succeeding church builders, whether they will or not, a rule and precedent for intentional symbolical design.

{lxi}

CHAPTER V
THE ANALYTICAL ARGUMENT

We must arrive at the same conclusion, if we consider the subject in an analytical way. For example: suppose a person, hitherto unacquainted not only with the general peculiarities of Christian churches, but also with Christianity itself, were to enter a cathedral; or (which will be a fairer case) were to visit a Catholic country, and examine its churches as a whole, would he not, if possessed of only ordinary intelligence, observe that the cross form, for example, was of most common occurrence, and, in the case of the larger buildings, was perhaps the only plan adopted? And would he not then naturally inquire why there should be this marked preference for a form, in itself inconvenient for purposes of hearing or seeing, [Footnote 21] and open to great mechanical objections, such as the almost resistless pressure of the four arms on the piers which stand at the angles of intersection?

[Footnote 21: That is, a Catholic arrangement of the church being presumed.]

But if he learnt that the religion for which these temples were designed was that of the Cross, he would at once see the propriety of this ground plan, and would confidently and truly conclude that this form was chosen in order to bring the Cross, by this symbolism, vividly and constantly before the eyes of the worshippers. To deny intended symbolism, in the case of such a person, would {lxii} clearly be absurd: shall it be less obvious to us? Our traveller would probably, being satisfied on this point, examine these buildings more closely. He would find an altar raised conspicuously above the surrounding level; and for this he might discover a practical reason; but why in so many cases (so many as well nigh to make a rule) are the steps either three or some multiple of three? Surely the fundamental doctrine of the Holy Trinity would, if explained to him, sufficiently account for this all but universal arrangement. Why, again, in every case does a screen separate one part of the church from the other? When our inquirer learns the principle of the separation of laity and clergy, this arrangement also will be at once intelligible and figurative. How unreasonable would the position of the font by the door appear to him, till he learnt the symbolical reason for its being placed there! And we may here remark that the practice of the last generation in removing old fonts, or using basins for substitutes, or in placing new fonts, near the altar, shows clearly enough that convenience and utility would have pointed out a very different place for the font from what is assigned by the canon, on symbolical grounds; grounds adduced in this case, as it would seem, to give weight to a decision so clearly opposed to all merely practical and obvious reasons. Again, the marked deviation of the orientation of the chancel from that of the nave, would be quite inexplicable till the beautiful and affecting symbolism of the arrangement were pointed out.

Again, it has not been left merely to the meditative ecclesiologist to observe that Christian architecture has as decided a characteristic of verticality, as Pagan architecture had of horizontalism. A mere artist could not fail of marking the contrast between Beauvais and the temples of Paestum. {lxiii } The contrast must then be admitted: but how must we explain it? Surely no accident could have developed the grovelling Pagan into the aspiring Gothic. What mechanical reasons could produce Westminster from even the Parthenon? But is not the phenomenon explained when we see in towering pier, spire, and pinnacle, the symbolical exhibition of that religion which alone aspires to things above, nay more, the figurative commemoration of that Resurrection itself, which alone originates, and only justifies, the same heavenward tendency. But if this be true; if these acknowledged peculiarities in Christian architecture be utterly unintelligible on any other supposition than this of a symbolical meaning, surely it is not unreasonable to receive so ready a solution of the difficulty: and, the principle admitted, why may not reasons of the same figurative nature be assigned for other arrangements, in themselves on any other interpretation not only meaningless but obviously useless or absurd?

{lxiv}

CHAPTER VI
THE INDUCTIVE ARGUMENT

We have next to show, by a process of induction, that some principles of symbolism have always been observed in designing churches: that is to say, that without any actual acquaintance with the plan, details or arrangement of existing churches, we might gather from other sources, not only the probability, but the fact, that there was some reason (not merely mechanical or accidental) for the selection and universal observation of particular forms and ornaments, and peculiar rules of distribution.

First, we shall refer to the celebrated passage of S. Clement of Rome, [Footnote 22] about performing the Divine Offices decently and in order, as to time, and place, and circumstance. 'Where and by whom God willeth these to be performed He hath Himself defined by His most supreme will.' 'But where,' says Mede, [Footnote 23] (discussing the passage with the view of establishing a particular point, namely, bowing towards the altar) 'hath the Lord defined these things, unless He hath left us to the analogy of the Old Testament?'

[Footnote 22: S. Clem. Rom., ad Corinth. I, 40.]
[Footnote 23: Mede, in Epist. lviii Folio, Lib. iv.]

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This indeed is obviously S. Clement's meaning: and not to go at any length into the consideration of all the particular forms or ceremonies of the Old dispensation which were perpetuated in the New—as the threefold Ministry deduced by S. Jerome, from the High Priest, Priests, and Levites; the Canonical Hours; the Gospel anciently laid on the altar, answering to the Two Tables, and the like—it will be sufficient to refer once more to the remarkable parallel between a Christian church and the Jewish Temple. [Footnote 24] There can be little doubt that Mede proved his point of the propriety of genuflexion towards the altar. We are contending for a much simpler thing: for no more indeed than the concession of a probability that in the earliest Christian churches there was at least this resemblance to the Temple; that there should be in both a Holy of Holies and an outer-court. Supposing this distinction to have been only made by a curtain, our point is nevertheless gained; and we would rest here on this one particular of resemblance only (though others might be insisted on); because, any one designed parallel being granted, the inference for others is easy. And here it will be enough to observe that the almost constant practice in ancient writers of applying to some one part of a Christian church a name or names derived directly from the Holy of Holies is a strong argument in our favour: though the passages are often too incidental to be adduced as evidence of an intended symbolism. [Footnote 25] But, we repeat, the fact that a particular part of a church—(if we were now arguing for rood screens, we {lxvi} should show that any such distinction of parts made a screen of some sort necessary, even if we did not know what sort of screens really existed)—the fact that a particular part of a church was distinguished by names directly carrying us back to the exactly corresponding particular part in the Temple, shows that in the arrangement at least, if not in the building, of the earliest churches there was, at least in this one point, an intention to produce an antitype to the typical Tabernacle. It is observed in a note to Neander's history [Footnote 26] that if the interpretation of Michaelis be received there is evidence of a Christian church being built at Edessa, A.D. 202, with three parts, expressly after the model of the Temple.

[Footnote 24: See this carried out by Durandus. Appendix A.]
[Footnote 25: Compare, amongst others, S. Cyprian, Ep. 55; Euseb. x, 4.

; Id. vii, 18.

(the word used in the lxx for the Sanctuary)'. S. Dionys. Areop., Ep. 8, ad Demoph.; S. Athanas., Edit, Commel. Tom. ii, p. 255; Theod. H. E. iv, 17, v, 18; Concil. Tours. (A. D. 557). can. 4; S. Germ. Constant. In Theor. rer. Eccles.; Card. Bona. Rer Liturg.i, xxv, II; Dionys. Hierarch. cap. 2; S. Chrysost. Lib vi, De Sacerdotio.]
[Footnote 26: Rose's Neander, i, 246.]

Whatever may be the authority allowed to the Apostolical Constitutions, the fact that they touch at some length upon the form of churches is enough for our purpose. 'The church,' [Footnote 27] they say, 'must be oblong in form, and pointing to the East' The oblong form was meant to symbolise a ship, [Footnote 28] the ark which was to save us from the stormy world. It would be perfectly unnecessary to support this obvious piece of symbolism by citations. The orientation is an equally valuable example of intended symbolism. We gain an additional testimony to this from the well-known passage of Tertullian, [Footnote 29] (a.d. 200,) about 'The house of our Dove.' Whether this corrupt extract be interpreted with Mede or Bingham, there can be no doubt that its {lxvii} in lucem means that the church should face the East or dayspring. The praying towards the East was the almost invariable custom in the Early Churches, and as symbolical as their standing in prayer upon the Festivals of the Resurrection. [Footnote 30] So common was orientation in the most ancient churches, that Socrates [Footnote 31] mentions particularly the church at Antioch as having its 'position reversed; for the altar does not look to the east but to the west.' This rule appears to have been more scrupulously followed in the East than in the West; though even in Europe examples to the contrary are exceptions.

[Footnote 27: Apost. Const, 2, 57, (61.)]
[Footnote 28: See also what is said on this point by Buscemi, in his Notizie della Basilica di San Pietro, ch. iii, p. 7. The church of SS. Vincenzo and Anastatio at Rome, near S. Paolo alle Tre Fontane, built by Honorius I, (A.D. 630) has its wall curved like the ribs of a ship. The constitution itself refers to the resemblance of this oblong form to a ship. See also S. Clem. Alex., Paedag, iii, 246.]
[Footnote 29: Tertull. advers. Valent., cap. 2.]
[Footnote 30: See Origen, Hom. 5, in Numer. cap, 4. Tertull. Apol. cap. 16, and Ad Nation, i, 13. S. Clem. Alex. Strom, vii, ante med. quoted by Mede.]
[Footnote 31: Hist. Eccles. Lib. v, cap. [

.]

The Apostolical Constitution in its other directions about the position of the bishop, priests, and deacons, and the separate stations for the sexes, shows (as Father Thiers [Footnote 32] has remarked) that there was even then a marked distinction between the clergy and laity though the method of division is not described. At any rate, what has been here adduced—compiled from notes taken some time since for another object, and without access (from accidental circumstances) to a library—seems enough to show that in the earliest notices of Christian churches there is distinct intimation of at least three particulars of intended symbolism.

[Footnote 32: Thiers, Dissert, de la Clôture du Choeur des Eglises. cap. 2.]

The circular form given to the church of the Holy Sepulchre was of course appropriate enough in that particular case, where the sepulchre would naturally become the centre. The circular churches of Europe were again imitated from this. The Cross form would appear to have made its first appearance in Constantinople: that is, in the city which was the first to take a completely Christian character. {lxviii} For example, the church of the Apostles built by Constantine was cruciform: and the symbolism of this is pointed out by S. Gregory Nazianzen in his poem, 'the Dream of Anastasia,' quoted by Bingham. [Footnote 33] So Evagrius describes the church of S. Simon Stylites, as cited by Buscemi, [Footnote 34] who also mentions a Cross church founded by King Childebert, about the year 550. The cathedral of Clermont, mentioned by S. Gregory of Tours, and the church of SS. Nazarius and Celsus at Ravenna, both founded about 450, were cruciform. More than this, we have examples of an oblong church being intentionally made cruciform by the addition of apsides, as at Blachernoe by Justin Junior, instanced by Bingham out of Cedrenus and Zonaras. This has been remarked also in the case of some Italian churches: though the early churches of the West seemed to have retained the oblong form, even when the details and general arrangement were Byzantine, as in the Capella Regia at Messina; the more remarkable from the peculiar influence of Constantinople in the island of Sicily. But in either case there was a symbolising intention on the part of the founders of churches.

[Footnote 33: Carm. ix, tom ii, p. 79.

]
[Footnote 34: Notizie etc. Note al Lib. 1, capo terzo. Nota 10 p. 15.]

There is mention also of octagonal churches, as at Antioch and Nazianzum: but these seem to have been mere exceptions; and perhaps from being coupled with fonts in the inscription quoted by Mr. Poole from Gruter, may have been intended to symbolise Regeneration. The first two lines are as follows:—

Octachorum sanctos templum surrexit in usus:
Octagonus fons est munere dignus eo.

{lxix}

Bingham mentions that the oblong form was sometimes called

which he explains as intimating that they had void spaces for deambulation. [Footnote 35] It seems however more likely that the name was derived from the resemblance between this form of church and a stadium; the apsidal end answering to the curve round the goal.

[Footnote 35: Book viii, 3, following Leo Allatius and Suicer.]

Some objection may be raised to our theory because Bingham, from whom of course almost all the existing passages in ancient writers about the form of churches might be gathered, does not recognise any such principles, and rather seems on the other hand to believe that there was at first no rule or law on these points. But it is not detracting from his fame for almost consummate learning to question whether his practical knowledge of church architecture, ancient or modern, was very deep. It might be shown indeed to be far otherwise. But at any rate the principle now contended for never entered his mind, or he would have seen that some of the very passages he adduces to show that the form of ancient churches was accidental, because (for example) they were often made out of Basilicae or even heathen temples, really tell against such a supposition. He quotes from Socrates [Footnote 36] a description of the conversion of a Pagan island to Christianity, about 380, and the turning the heathen temple into a church. But the words of the original, given in our note, are very remarkable: 'The guise of the temple they transformed unto the type (or pattern) of a church.' We want to prove nothing more than that there was some type of a church. It was not a mere ejection of idols that was required to make a temple into a church: but some change of form and arrangement. So also in a passage from Sozomen (vii, 15), 'The temple of Dionysus which {lxx} they had, was changed in fittings (

) into a church.' Again, a very interesting passage about the conversion of Iberia by means of a female captive in the time of Constantine is cited from Theodoret, [Footnote 37] to show that churches did exist at that date. But we find a particular form of building clearly alluded to in the original: and, more than this, 'He Who filled Bezaleel with a wise spirit for building, judged this captive also worthy of grace, so as to design the divine temple. And so she designed, and they built.' And this passage brings us at once to the famous panegyric on Paulinus, Bishop of Tyre, and builder of the church there preserved by Eusebius. In this speech the prelate is throughout supposed to have been inspired for his work, and is compared to Bezaleel, Solomon and Zerubbabel, the builders of the Tabernacle, and the First and Second Temples. And not only is the general spirit assumed to be a directly religious one: but the details are described as having a symbolical meaning.

[Footnote 36: Socrates iv, 24,

.]
[Footnote 37: Theodoret I. xxiv.

]

In the comparison between the material temple and the 'living temple' the Spiritual Church, there are several points worthy of observation. The symbolical explanation of the corner stone as our Lord, of the foundation as the Apostles and Prophets, of the stones as the members of the Church, are of course taken directly from Holy Scripture. It is scarcely necessary to remark the great authority for considering the fabric of the church as symbolical which these passages convey. Many of our readers will remember how S. Hermas carries out into considerable detail the same idea. But the Panegyrist in Eusebius distinctly refers to 'the most {lxxi} inward recesses [of that spiritual temple] which are unseen of the many, and are essentially holy and holy of holies'; [Footnote 38] that is, of course, to a Sanctuary; which he goes on to describe as having 'sacred inclosures,' and as being accessible to the priest alone; with a distinct reference to S. Paul's [Footnote 39] illustration taken from the Jewish Temple. Again he proceeds to compare the Bishop Paulinus with the 'great High Priest,' not only in being permitted to enter the holy of holies, but in doing what Christ has done, just as the Son did what He saw the Father do. 'Thus he, looking with the pure eyes of his mind unto the Great Teacher, whatsoever he seeth Him doing, as if making use of archetypal patterns, has, by building (

) as much like them as possible, wrought out images of them as closely as can be; having in no respect fallen short of Bezaleel, whom God Himself, having filled him with the Spirit of wisdom and knowledge and other skilful and scientific lore, called to be the builder of the material expression of the heavenly types in the symbols of the temple. In this way then Paulinus also, carrying wholly like a graven image in his soul Christ Himself, the Word, the Wisdom the Light . . . has constructed this magnificial temple of the most High God, resembling in its nature the pattern of the better (temple) as a visible (emblem) of that which is invisible.' [Footnote 40]

[Footnote 38: Euseb. H. E., x, 4, 21.]
[Footnote 39: Hebrews, ix, 6, 7.]
[Footnote 40: Euseb. X, iv, 24, 25.]

This remarkable passage appears to assert (i) the inspiration of the architect, (ii) the fact of this heavenly type, which (iii) material churches ought to follow; and (iv) the general symbolism of the Spiritual Church by the visible fabric. We must pass over a great deal of this oration, with a general request that such as are interested in this discussion will read the whole in the original for the sake of seeing its general spirit and bearing. {lxxii } The description of the details is of great interest. The arrangement of the porticoes, etc., is of course quite adapted to the wants of the Church in that age: it is fair to own that the chief entrance appears to have faced the East in this church. Mention is made also of seats in order for the bishops and presbyters, and of the altar in the midst: the whole being encompassed with wooden network, exquisitely worked, in order to be made inaccessible to the multitude. [Footnote 41] Further on [Footnote 42] we read that Paulinus rebuilt his church, 'such as he had been taught from the delineation of the holy oracles.' And again, 'More wonderful than wonders are the archetypes, and the intelligent and godlike prototypes and patterns (of earthly church building): namely, I say, the renewing of the divine and reasonable building in the soul'; [Footnote 43] assuming that material churches are but copies from some heavenly type. Again, a passage, in which the ruined fabric and the persecuted Church are mixed up, speaks of the Church as 'having been made after the image of God,' [Footnote 44] and more to the same effect. The symbolical prophecy of the 'fair edification' of the Gentile Church [Footnote 45] is quoted as being almost literally fulfilled in the Tyrian church, and is still further symbolised by the Panegyrist. [Footnote 46] The four-square atrium is said to set forth the four Gospels of the scripture. [Footnote 47]

[Footnote 41: Euseb. H. E., x, 43]
[Footnote 42: Ibid 53.]
[Footnote 43: Ibid 54.]
[Footnote 44: Ibid 57.]
[Footnote 45: Isaiah liv, 11.]
[Footnote 46: Euseb. X. iv, 60.]
[Footnote 47: Ibid 61.]

The whole arrangement of the church is symbolised at much length, as setting forth the different divisions of the laity and the states of the faithful with respect to advance in holiness. The great portico symbolised God the Father: the side porticoes the other Two Persons of the Most Holy Trinity. The seats represented the souls of the faithful, upon which, {lxxiii} as on the Day of Pentecost, the cloven tongues would descend and sit upon each of them. 'The revered and great and only altar, what could this be but the spotlessness of soul and holiness of holies of the common Priest of us all?' [Footnote 48] Once more, the parallel between the spiritual and the material Churches being continued, the Word, the Great Demiurgus of all things, is said to have Himself made upon earth a copy of the heavenly pattern which is the Church of the Firstborn written in heaven, Jerusalem that is above, Sion the Mount of God, and the city of the living God.

[Footnote 48: Euseb. H. E., x, 65.]

It appears then that throughout this description a symbolical meaning is found attached to the material church: and this not far-fetched or now first fancifully imagined; but appealing, as it seems, to what the auditors would be prepared to grant, and admitted by the historian without a comment, as one specimen of a class.

We have before remarked that every notice of the particular distribution of a church for the reception of the different classes of Christians, may be taken as an argument on our side: for if it can be shown that the form of churches was not arbitrary, but was adapted to certain peculiar wants, it must be granted that there was some particular law of design, and that law connected with Ritual: and then, as before pointed out, this arrangement becomes itself symbolical, and that intentionally. We shall only refer here to a passage quoted by Bingham, [Footnote 49] in which S. Gregory Thaumaturgus describes the places in church assigned respectively to the five degrees of Penitents. Mede [Footnote 50] argues for the existence of churches in the first three centuries, from the universal custom of praying towards the East, the necessity of {lxxiv} providing distinct places for the Penitents, Hearers, Catechumens, and Faithful, and from the patterns of the Jewish proseuchae and synagogues. But all these arguments seem to tell as much for some particular form of churches as for their existence: that is they prove that the earliest churches were designed on rules which, even if not intentionally symbolical (though we have shown that many were so), became by a natural process intentional among later church-builders.

[Footnote 49: Greg. Nyssen, iii, 567.]
[Footnote 50: Discourse of Churches, Folio Edn., p. 333.]

So also with respect to the great division into nave and sanctuary by a screen of some sort: concerning which the passages that might be cited from ancient writers would be innumerable. We shall only give one quoted by Father Thiers from a Poem of S. Gregory of Nazianzum, in which the balustrade or rood-screen is said to be 'between two worlds, the one immovable, the other changeful; the one of gods (or heaven) the other of mortals (or earth); that is to say between the choir and the nave, between the clergy and the laity.'

We have attempted to prove then that the earliest Christian churches were designed, or described, symbolically: by showing that there was a reason for their shape, whether oblong, cruciform, or circular; for their main division into choir and nave, and their subdivision for the penitents: for their orientation; and even to some extent for their minor internal arrangements: and that some type or pattern of a church was universally recognised. [Footnote 51]

[Footnote 51: Much stress is laid by some on the acknowledged Bascilican origin of churches as an argument against the principle here contended for. But we find a great authority on the Antiquities of Christian Rome deciding differently: 'There seems to be in the building of churches, as in the mosaics, and other works of art of the old Christian times in Rome one constant type in which the art of building could show little freedom or variety.— Beschreibung der Stadt Rom. Basiliken. vol, i, p. 430.]

{lxxv}

It would require more reading than we can boast of to give a catena of writers who have asserted the symbolism of churches. But if the point has been in any way proved for the first four centuries, enough will have been done: since from that period we can trace from existing edifices the gradual relinquishment of the peculiar Basilican plan, and general adoption of the Latin Cross, or oblong, in the West, while the East consistently retained the Greek Cross. We observe it stated [Footnote 52] that Mr. E. Sharpe, in a paper read before the Cambridge Camden Society, described the gradual typical additions' to the Basilican ground plan. Indeed symbolism, to any extent, once made known, must have become a rule and precedent to later church architects.

[Footnote 52: Ecclesiologist, vol. i, p. 120.]

S. Isidore, of Seville, incidentally mentions many symbolical arrangements: they will be found in the notes to the text of the Rationale. Many pieces of symbolism are to be found incidentally in the Decretum of Gratian.

In mentioning Durandus himself, it seems proper to anticipate an objection which may occur to some readers. The authority, it may be said, of that writer must be very small who can give such absurd derivations as cemeterium from cime, altare from alta res, allegory from allon and gore. But it must be remembered, firstly, that in the thirteenth century, Greek was a language almost unknown in Europe: next, that our author nowhere professes an acquaintance with it: further, that the science of derivation was hardly understood till within the last few years: and lastly, that Cicero's authority led Durandus into some errors; for instance, his derivation of templum from tectum amplum.

One proof of the reality of Durandus's principles we must not fail to notice. It is the express allusion which he makes to, and the graphical description which he {lxxvi} gives of, that which we know to have been the style of architecture employed in his time. The tie beams, the deeply splayed windows, the interior shafts, all prove that we are engaged with a writer of Early English date.

It is very remarkable, that Durandus, S. Isidore, Beleth, and the rest, seem to quote from some canons of church symbolism now unknown to us. Their words are often, even where they are not very connected nor intelligible, the same. One example may suffice. 'In that this rod,' says Hugh of S. Victor, 'is placed above the Cross, it is shown that the words of Scripture be consummated and confirmed by the Cross: whence our Lord said in His Passion, "It is Finished." And His Title was indelibly written over Him' (p. 200). 'In that the iron rod,' says Durandus, 'is placed above the Cross, on the summit of the church, it signifieth that Holy Scripture is now consummated and confirmed. Whence saith our Lord in his Passion, "It is Finished," and that Title is written indelibly over Him(p. 28). The following, by way of another instance, is the symbolical [Footnote 53] description of a church, written on a fly-leaf, at the beginning of a MS. 'Psalterium Glossatum,' in the public library at Boulogne, though formerly in that of S. Bertin's Abbey, at S. Omer.

[Footnote 53: British Magazine, 1843, p. 393.]

The text is either of the tenth or eleventh century; but it will be seen that the words of Durandus, writing at so great a distance of time and place, are nearly the same in some passages.

Fundamentum ipsius Camerae est Fides.
Altitudo ejus est Spes.
Latitudo ejus est Caritas.
Longitudo ejus est Perseverantia.
Latera ejus sunt Concordia et Pax.
{lxxvii}
Frontes ipsius sunt Justicia & Veritas.
Pulchritudo ejus est exemplum bonorum operum.
Fenestrae ejus sunt dicta sanctorum.
Pavimentum ejus est humilitas cordis.
Camera est conversatio coelestis.
Pilastri ejus sunt spiritales virtues.
Columnae ejus sunt boni pontifices & sacerdotes.
Interlegatio ejus est vinculum pacis.
Tectum ejus est fidelis dispensator.
* isces ejus sunt mediatio celestis.
Mensa Christi est in camera bona conversatio.
Ministerium Christi in camera sua est bona memoria.
Facinus Christi est bona voluntas.
Canterellus Christi est nitor conscientiae.
Cathedra Christi est serenitas mentis.
Sponsa Christi est sancta anima.
Camerariae Christi spiritales virtutes sunt:
Prima Sancta Caritas dicta est; illa Christi regit cameram.
Secunda est Sancta Humilitas; illa est thesauraria in camera Christi
Tertia est Sancta Patientia; illa facit luminaria in camera Christi.
Quarta Sancta Puritas; illa scopat cameram Christi.

But besides, and in our opinion stronger than this express and continuous testimony to the fact that Catholic architecture is symbolical, we have the testimony of all other branches of Catholic art, which none ever did, or could deny to be figurative and sacramental. Let us take merely the rites which accompany the close of Easter week. We enter a darkened church, illuminated only by the lighted 'Sepulchre': we hear the history of the Passion chaunted by three voices in three recitatives: we have the most mournfully pathetic strain for the 'Reproaches' which perhaps the human mind ever imagined:—we pray for Pagans—and we kneel; we pray for Turks—and we kneel; we pray for the Jews, and we kneel not; in abhorrence of the mockery that bowed the knee to the King of the Jews. We enter that church again, now perfectly darkened, except for the one lamp that renders the lectern and the books {lxxviii} thereon just visible: the solemn litanies seem in that obscurity, and amidst the silent crowd of worshippers, more solemn than usual. There is a short pause: then in one second, priests and people, voices and instruments, burst forth with the Easter Alleluia: light pours in from every window of the cathedral: showers of rose leaves fall from the roof: bells—silent for three long days, peal from every church tower: guns fire and banners wave: Dominus resurrexit vere, Alleluia, et apparuit Sinioni Alleluia.

Now, without being concerned to defend, or the contrary, any or all of these ceremonies, we ask:—Is it possible to conceive that the Church which invented so deeply symbolical a system of worship—should have rested content with an unsymbolical building for its practice? This consideration, perhaps, belongs to the analogical branch of our essay: yet it may also find a place here, as one of the strongest parts of the inductive argument.

Seeing then that there are strong reasons à priori for believing that the ritual and architecture of the Church would partake of a decidedly symbolical character: that by the analogy of the practice amongst all religionists, of the operations of God in nature, of the conditions of Art, and especially of the whole sacramental system of the Church, it is likely that church architecture itself would be sacramental: that from the nature of things everything material is in some sort sacramental, and a material fabric essentially figurative of the purpose for which it was designed: that an actual Christian church (taken as we find it) has such accidents as can be explained on no other than a symbolical supposition, and might be analysed into just those elements from which, by induction, we first constructed an hypothetical Christian church: and lastly, that from express and {lxxix} continuous historical testimony without any actual acquaintance with existing fabrics we might have deduced that the material church would be itself, to some extent, a figurative expression of the religion for the celebration of which it was constructed: it does not seem too much to assert that Christian architecture owes its distinctive peculiarities to its sacramental character, and that consequently we can neither appreciate ancient examples nor hope to rival them, at least in their perfection, without taking into account this principle of their design. In other words, the cause of that indefinable difference between an ancient and modern church which we were led to discover at the beginning of this treatise, is neither association of ideas nor correctness of detail, nor picturesqueness, nor of a mechanical nature, but (in the most general point of view) is the sacramentality, the religious symbolism, which distinguished and sanctified this as every other branch of mediaeval art.

{lxxx}

CHAPTER VII
EXAMPLES OF SYMBOLISM

In endeavouring shortly to develop the practice of symbolism, according to our view of the subject, we are fully aware that to those who have never yet bestowed a thought upon it, we shall appear mere visionaries or enthusiasts. It has been the fashion of late to smile at the whole theory, as amusing and perhaps beautiful: but quite unpractical and indeed impracticable. We cannot hope to convince by aesthetics those who are deaf to more direct arguments, and who refuse to view everything, as churchmen ought to do, through the medium of the Church. But those who agree with us in the latter duty, will perhaps suffer themselves to think twice on what will be advanced before they condemn it.

We shall consider the practice of symbolism as connected with, 1. The Holy Trinity; 2. Regeneration; 3. The Atonement; 4. The Communion of Saints; and then we shall notice several parts of a church, such as windows, doors, etc., with their specific symbolical meaning.

The doctrine of the Holy Trinity has left, as might be expected, deeper traces in the structure of our churches than any other principles of our faith. We have already noticed that possibly the Basilican arrangement might be providentially ordered with reference to this. {Ixxxi} In Saxon times we find the idea carried out, not only by the Nave and two Aisles, but also by the triple division in length, into Nave, Chancel, and Sanctum Sanctorum. This triple division is most frequently given in Norman buildings, by a central tower; with chancel and nave: we also find in this style a triple chancel arch, an arrangement never occurring at a later epoch. Thus length and breadth were made significant of this Mystery; nor was height less so. The clerestory, the triforium, and the piers cannot fail to suggest it. Indeed, where a triforium was not needed, there is often, as at Exeter and Wells, an arrangement of arcading in niches to resemble it, made that the triplicity might be retained. It is only in late Perpendicular, such as the nave of Canterbury cathedral, that the arrangement is omitted: there the eye is at once dissatisfied. Again, the triple orders of moulding, which are so much more frequent than any other number, may be supposed to refer to the same thing. The altar steps, three, or some multiple of three, certainly do. So do the three fingers with which Episcopal Benediction is given. And this is a very early symbolism. It occurs in illuminated MS. We may mention one (Harl. 5540) of the thirteenth century, where it forms a part of the first letter of S. John's gospel. So, as we shall presently see, are Eastern triplets. And reference is constantly made to the same doctrine in bosses: we may mention as a remarkable instance one that occurs in Stamford, S. Mary's, a figure with an equilateral triangle in its mouth: thereby setting forth the duty of the preacher to proclaim the doctrine of the Trinity. In large churches, the three towers undoubtedly proclaim the same doctrine. We shall hereafter show that neither in nave and aisles, in triplets, or any thing else, is the inequality any thing else than what might have been expected.

{lxxxii}

II. The Doctrine of Regeneration

We know, as a fact, that from the earliest times, baptisteries and fonts were octagonal. We know also that the reason assigned, if not by S. Ambrose himself at least by one of his contemporaries, for this form was, that the number eight was symbolical of Regeneration. For as the old Creation was complete in seven days, so the number next ensuing may well be significative of the new.

Now none can deny that very much the greater number of fonts are in this shape. To prove this we will refer to those selected by the Cambridge Camden Society in the appendix to the second edition of their 'Few Words to Church-Builders.' There we find.

Now, it is to be remembered, that the superior convenience of a cylindrical or circular form, together with the wont of Norman architects rather to symbolise facts than doctrine, accounts for the comparatively small number of octagonal fonts in that style: in later ages their preponderance is overwhelming.

The symbolism sculptured on the sides of the font hardly falls under our consideration in this place. And besides, it has been fully detailed in the publications of the Cambridge Camden Society, and of Mr. Poole. Whether the general octagonal uses of piers may not arise from a similar design, we do not pretend to decide.

{lxxxiii}

One of the most apposite illustrations in corbels, consists in three fishes intertwined in an equilateral triangle; and thus typifying our regeneration in the Three Persons of the Ever-Blessed Trinity. For it need not be said, that the fish is the emblem of the Christian, as being born again of water. The mystical vesica piscis of this form () wherein the Divinity, and (more rarely) the Blessed Virgin are represented has no reference, except in its name to a fish; but represents the almond, the symbol of virginity, and self-production.

III. The Atonement

We will notice in the third place, the symbolical representation of the great doctrine of the Atonement, in the ground lines and general arrangement of our churches.

As soon as ever Christianity possessed temples of her own, the cruciform shape was, we have seen, sometimes adopted. And so, as we all know, has it continued down to the present day. England, perhaps, has fewer examples of cross churches than any other country: the proportion of those which bear this shape being not so much as one in ten. In France, on the contrary, the ratio would probably be inverted. Into the reason of this remarkable difference we shall not now inquire: but will merely remark, that many churches which do not, in an exterior view, appear cruciform, are nevertheless, from their internal arrangements, really so. The transepts do not project beyond the aisles: but have distinct transept arches, and a window of much larger dimensions than those in the aisles. This principally occurs in city churches, or where the founders were confined for want of room. And this is the case as well in churches which have aisles to the chancel, as in Godalming, Surrey, as where the nave alone has them, {lxxxiv} as in Holy Rood, Southampton. They will be distinguished readily on the outside by the northern and southern gable. In some cathedral churches, there is a double cross: in York, this perhaps signifies the metro-political dignity of that church; in other cases, it was probably merely a method of imparting greater dignity to the building. Some churches—though they are not frequent—are in the form of a Greek Cross: that is, the four arms are all of equal length. Darlington, Durham, is an example: in this case there is a central tower. In some, as at Westminster, Gloucester, and S. Albans, the choir runs westward of the transept; in Seville, almost the whole of the choir is locally in the nave; in others, as Ely, it does not extend westward so far. These peculiarities, curious in themselves, do not affect the symbolism: and probably no modification of meaning is to be attached to them.

Mr. Lewis has asserted, that in early churches, a cross was marked on the pavement, the upper part running into the chancel, the arms extending into the transepts, and the body occupying the nave. And some such arrangement, or rather the traces of it, we have ourselves perhaps noticed. The reason it was given up, was probably the anathema pronounced by the second OEcumenical Council, on those who should tread on that holy symbol.

Thus, in the ground plan, the Cross of Christ was preached. It is often said, that the adjacent chapels, more especially the Lady Chapel, obscured the symbolism. But it must be remembered that a ground plan can only be judged of in two methods: either from a height above, for example, the tower of the church; or when marked out on paper. It is surprising, in either of these cases, how easily the most complex cathedral resolves itself to the spectator's eyes into a cross.

{lxxxv}

In looking at the details of churches, the Cross is marked on the Dos-d'ânes and plain coffin lids of the earliest times: it commences the later inscriptions on brass: it surmounts pinnacle, and gable, and porch; it is often imprinted on the jambs of the principal entrance, showing the exact spot touched in the consecration with chrism, [Footnote 54] and possibly having reference to the blood sprinkled at the Passover on the Door Post: and finally, in a more august form, is erected in the churchyard. And here we may notice another curious and beautiful expression of Catholic feeling. [Footnote 55]

[Footnote 54: It is proper to distinguish between Dedication Crosses, which are generally of considerable size, examples of which may be seen in Moorlinch, Somersetshire, and those small crosses in door jambs, as in Preston, Sussex, the use of which is not very clear, but which were perhaps intended to remind the entering worshipper to cross himself. At Yatton, Somersetshire, inside the northern door, and towards the east, is a large quatrefoil-fashioned cross: this perhaps pointed out a now destroyed benatura.]
[Footnote 55: That there are some plain crosses, cannot be denied—more especially that on which the weathercock is placed. A little consideration will, perhaps, clear up this difficulty. The cross may be viewed in two distinct lights. It may either set forth that on which our Redeemer suffered—in which case it is the symbol of glory: or it may image that Cross which every true Christian is to take up—in which case it may still be called the Symbol of Shame. In the latter signification, it may well be quite plain. But, inasmuch as our ancestors looked more to the Passion of Christ than to their own unworthiness, the former symbol is that which generally occurs. Yet not always on the church spire, perhaps for this reason:—the spire urges us, by its upward tendency, to press on towards our heavenly home—a home which can only be reached by the cheerful bearing of that cross by means of which (as it were) it points. The cross therefore is here, with propriety, plain.]

It is very uncommon to find a plain cross surmounting a church: the whole force of Christian art has sometimes been expended in wreathing and embellishing the instrument of redemption: flowers, and figures, and foliage are lavished upon it. And why? Because that which was once the by-word of Pagans, the instrument of scorn and of suffering, has become the symbol of Hope and of Glory, of Joy, and of Eternal Felicity; and its material expression has altered proportionately. {xxxvi} In that the arms frequently end in leaves and flowers, they signify the flourishing and continual increase of that Church which was planted on Mount Calvary. The Crown of Thorns is sometimes wreathed around them: but so, that it should rather resemble a Crown of Glory. The instruments of the Passion are, as every one knows, of the most ordinary occurrence. The commonest of these are—the Cross, the Crown of Thorns, the Spear, the Scourge, the Nails, and the Sponge on the pole. But in the Suffolk and Somersetshire churches many others are added. Their position is various: sometimes, as in Stogumber, Somersetshire, they appear amidst the foliage of a perpendicular capital: sometimes, as in the Suffolk churches, they are found in the open seats: often in bosses, often in brasses, often in stained glass; and sometimes the angel that supports a bracket holds them portrayed on a shield. The Five Wounds are also often found. These are represented by a heart, between two hands and two feet, each pierced; or by a heart pierced with five wounds, as in a brass at King's College chapel, Cambridge. The instruments of the Passion may sometimes be seen amongst the volutes of the stem of the churchyard cross: examples occur at Belleville, near Havre, in Normandy, and Santa Cruz, in Madeira.

Again, the very position of our blessed Saviour on the Cross as represented in the great rood and in stained glass, is not without a meaning. In modern paintings, the arms are high above the head, the whole weight of the body seeming to rest upon them. And this, besides its literal truth, gives occasion to that miserable display of anatomical knowledge in which such pictures so much abound. The Catholic representation pictures the arms as extended horizontally: thereby signifying how the Saviour, when extended on the Cross, embraced the {lxxxvii} whole world. [Footnote 56] Thus, as it ever ought to be, is physical sacrificed to moral truth. Perhaps for a similar reason S. Longinus is represented as piercing the Right Side, instead of the Left: and in a representation of the Five Wounds, it is the right side of the breast that is pierced (as in a brass at Southfleet, Kent); that being the side of the greatest strength, and thereby typifying the strength of that love wherewith our Redeemer loved us. [But this may be doubted. For it appears pretty clear that the ancient Church considered the Right Side to have been that which was really pierced. According to modern ideas, the effusion of the water was not a miracle. S. John undoubtedly considered it not only a miracle, but one of the most extraordinary which he had to relate, seeming to stop the mouth of the objector by insisting on the fact, that he himself was an eye-witness.] In some old roods, a still further departure was made from literal truth: the Saviour was represented on the Cross, as a crowned king, arrayed in royal apparel. [Footnote 57] And his figure was constantly represented as larger than that of His attendants, His Blessed Mother, and S. John, thereby signifying his immeasurable superiority over the highest of human beings.

[Footnote 56: However, in late stained glass, the modern position is sometimes found as in a Crucifixion represented in the east window of the north aisle, in Wiscombe church, Somersetshire. ]
[Footnote 57: To this we may add the conventional representation of Royal Saints, such as S. Edmund, wearing their kingly crowns during their passion. That such conventional symbolism is natural to us may be shown by alluding (without irreverence in this connection) to the way in which kings are always figured with crown and orb in popular prints: and even, as in a sign-post at Leighterton, Gloucestershire, King Charles II, hiding himself in the Royal Oak, is arrayed in all the insignia of majesty.]

Another reference to the Atonement will be found in the deviation which the line of the chancel often presents from that of the nave. It is sometimes to the north, but more frequently to the south. {lxxxviii} There are many more churches in which it occurs than those who have not examined the subject would believe: perhaps it is not too much to say that it may be noticed in a quarter of those in England. Of our cathedrals, it is most strongly marked in York and Lichfield: among the parish churches in which we have observed it, none have it so strongly as Eastbourne and Bosham, in Sussex, and S. Michael's at Coventry: in all of which the most casual glance could not but detect the peculiarity of appearance it occasions. This arrangement represents the inclination of our Saviour's Head on the Cross. In roods the Head generally inclines to the left.

Mr. Poole, after noticing the fact in York minster, seems inclined to attribute it to a desire of evading the old foundation lines of that church, which induced the builders to deviate a little from the straight line, rather than encounter the difficulty of removing this obstacle. But in the first place, however much modern church builders might bethink themselves of such an expedient, it is not at all in the character of the church architects of other days: and in the second, the explanation is applicable to York alone, one only out of many hundred churches so distinguished.

IV. The Communion of Saints

Next, we will notice the effect which the Doctrine of the Communion of Saints has exercised in the designs of churches.

In the ground plan of small churches there is little which seems to bear on this subject. The principal references to departed saints occur in the stained glass, in the rood screen, in niches, in the canopies of monuments, and in brasses. Monuments, in particular, often afford some beautiful ideas, among which we may notice {lxxxix} the angels which often are seated at the head of the effigy, supporting the helmet or pillow, and seeming to point out the care of angels for the saints. In cathedrals, however, the chapels have a very considerable effect upon the ground plan: though we cannot agree with Mr. Poole that such a modification of the principal lines of the building for the reception of these shrines and oratories, is necessarily uncatholic. He principally objects to the position of the Lady Chapel at the east end, above, as he expresses it, the High Altar. Now we believe the Lady Chapel to have occupied that place merely on grounds of convenience: not from any design—which it is shocking to imagine—of exalting the Blessed Virgin to any participation in the honours of the Deity. Sometimes, as at Durham, this chapel is at the west end: in country churches, it generally occupied the east end of the north or south aisle: and sometimes is placed over the chancel, as in Compton, Surrey, Compton Martin, Somerset, and Darenth, Kent; or over the porch, as at Fordham, Cambridgeshire. At Bristol cathedral it is on the north side of the choir. That the position of the Lady Chapel at the east end adds greatly to the beauty of the building wall hardly be denied on a comparison of York, or Lincoln, or Peterborough with Lichfield, as it now is.

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CHAPTER VIII
EXAMPLES OF SYMBOLISM CONTINUED

We come now, according to the plan we laid down, to speak of the symbolism of some particular features of a church, which do not fall so well under any of the four heads which we have been considering. And firstly, of windows.

The primary idea shadowed forth in every one of the styles, is the saying of our Lord to His disciples, ye are the light of the world. More simply set forth at first, this notion acquired, in the course of time, various methods of expression, and was subjected to different modifications; but we must retain it as the ground work or we shall be in danger of mistaking the true meaning of ancient church architects.

In Norman, then, and early English, the single lights north and south, set forth the Apostles and Doctors who have shined forth in their time as the lights of the Church: and the rich pattern of flowerwork wherewith the stained glass in them was decked, represented the variety of graces in each. But to have symbolised the servants without the Master, the members without the Head, had been at variance with all the Catholic Church has ever practised. Looking therefore to the east end, we behold that well-known feature, the Triplet: setting {xci} forth the Most Holy and Undivided Trinity. [Footnote 58] Nor is this all: to denote that all the Church has, and all She is, is from above, the string course, springing from the eastern triplet, runs round the whole church (often both within and without,) binding it, as it were, in and connecting every other light, with those at the east. Again, the Western Door, as we shall see, symbolised Christ: and two lights, typical of His two natures, are therefore generally placed over it. There are, undoubtedly, instances of western triplets: though we think that the Camden Society has well explained these.

[Footnote 58: We read, in the legend of S. Barbara, that, being confined by her father in a room where were two windows only, she added a third, by way of setting forth this Mystery.]

In some cases, there is a series of couplets on each side of the church: and, taking the hint from Durandus, we may interpret this arrangement of the mission of the Apostles two and two.

A series of triplets as in Salisbury cathedral, and the Lady Chapel of Bristol, is very rare: and, of course, not objectionable on any other grounds than that of the too cheap use of a most beautiful feature.

So far all is simple: but as we approach the decorated style, the symbolism becomes excessively complicated. The principal doctrines of the Catholic Church are set forth in each window: and to unravel the whole of these is often a task of no small difficulty. We shall proceed to give a few examples, with the explanation which appears to us probable: entreating the reader to remember, that if in any instance our conjectures should appear unfounded, the failure of probability in one case throws no discredit on the others, and still less does it invalidate the system. Durandus's silence on the language of tracery is easily explained by the consideration, that assign as late a date as we will to the {xcii} publication of his work, it came forth while the Early English style was yet in existence: and his silence on triplets only proves, what is well known to ecclesiologists, that they are far less common in foreign than in our own architecture.

In Norman windows the wheel window is conspicuous. This, whether formed with the radii like those of Barfreston, or of the Temple church, represent (as we shall presently observe that Norman symbolism usually does represent) an historical fact: namely, the martyrdom of S. Catherine. The celebrity of this Virgin Martyr may tend to explain why she should be so far honoured: a celebrity which has descended to our own day in the common sign of the Cat and Wheel: as well as the firework so denominated.

Of Norman triplets there are not many to which we can refer. The tower of Winchester, however, presenting one on each face, is a noble example. The southeastern transept of Rochester, though later, is equally in point: it contains two triplets, far apart, and one disposed above the other. The west front of S. Etienne at Caen is a well-known instance.

The earliest symbolism of Early English triplets represented the Trinity alone; the Trinity in Unity was reserved for a somewhat later period. And this was typified by the hood moulding thrown across the three lights. At other times a quatre-foiled, or cinque-foiled, circle was placed at some little distance above the triplet: thus typifying the Crown which befits the Majesty of the King of Kings. And the same Crown is often exhibited above the western couplet. But, for as much as we are 'compelled by the Christian verity to acknowledge every person by Himself to be God and Lord,' a crown is sometimes represented over each light of the triplet, as in Wimborne minster.

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Another method of representing the same doctrine was by a simple equilateral triangle for a window: whether plain, of which there are many examples, or with the toothed ornament, as in the famous example at York minster.

S. Giles's at Oxford has windows, the tracery of which will serve as an example of many: it has three tre-foiled lights, with three quatre-foiled circles, arranged triangle-wise in the head.

This type is a little varied in S. Mary Magdalene's church, in the same city, by the introduction of the ogee form.

Berkeley church has a wheel window containing three quatre-foils: the three spaces left between them and the line being tre-foiled.

The east windows of Dunchurch and Fen Stanton have been explained in the publications of the Cambridge Camden Society: the former in their 'Few Words to Church-Builders,' the latter in their illustrations of monumental brasses. Part iv.

The south transept of Chichester cathedral is a glorious specimen of decorated symbolism. In the gable is a Marygold, containing two intersecting equilateral tri-angles: the six apices of these are sex-foiled; the interior hex-agon is beautifully worked in six leaves. The lower window seven lights: in the head is an equilateral spherical tri-angle, containing a large trefoil, intersected by a smaller tre-foil. Here we have the Holy Trinity, the Divine Attributes, the perfection of the Deity.

A window in Merton College chapel has three lights: with a circle in the head containing six sex-foils.

Broughton, Oxon, has in the head of one of its windows a circle, containing two intersecting equilateral triangles, the six apices, and six spaces around, being tre-foiled.

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The east end of Lincoln, though far inferior to the south transept of Chichester, is nevertheless highly symbolical. The east window of each of the aisles has three lights, with three foliated circles, disposed triangle-wise in the head. The great east window has eight lights in two divisions, each whereof has three foliated circles in the head: and in the apex of the window is a circle containing seven foliations. The upper window has a circle of eight foliations in the head: and in the apex of the gable is an equilateral trefoil.

The next element introduced was the consideration of the Six Attributes of the Deity. One of the simplest examples was to be found in the west window of the north aisle of S. Nicholas, at Guildford: a plain circle, containing six tre-foils: these are arranged in two tri-angles, each containing three tre-foils, and the two sets are varied.

The clerestory of Lichfield cathedral (circ. 1300), is a series of spherical tri-angles, each containing three tre-foils.

A similar clerestory occurs in the north-west transept of Hereford cathedral, and the same idea is repeated in its triforium: a series of three tre-foiled lights, with three circles in the head.

The east end of Lichfield symbolises most strikingly the same glorious doctrine. The apse is tri-gonal: the windows of each side are the same: each is of three lights, with six tre-foils (emblematical of the six attributes) disposed above in the form of an equilateral tri-angle.

The east end of Chichester is rather earlier, but introduces yet another element. Here we have a triplet: and at some height above it, a wheel-window of seven circles: symbolising therefore eternity and perfection.

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The triforium and clerestory of Carlisle are singular symbols of the doctrine of the Trinity. The former has in each bay three adjacent equal lancets. The latter is a series of triplets; the central window in each being composed of three lights. We may observe, by the way, that three adjacent equal lancets are hardly ever found, whatever the reason may be. We know but of three examples: in the churches of Bosham, Sussex, Godalming, Surrey, and S. Mary-le-Crypt, Gloucester: and in all these cases they occupy the same position, the south east end of the chancel, or chancel aisle.

Dorchester church, Oxfordshire, has for one of its windows an equilateral spherical triangle with three heads, or knops, one at each angle.

We are now in a purely decorated age. And as one of its earliest windows we may mention that in the Bishop of Winchester's Palace at Southwark. It was a wheel, and contained two intersecting equilateral tri-angles: around them were six sex-foiled triangles the hexagon in the centre containing a star of six greater and six smaller rays. Here, of course, the Blessed Trinity and the divine and human natures were set forth. [Footnote 59]

[Footnote 59: We may perhaps be allowed to say a few words here on the subject of those singular windows which the Cambridge Camden Society has called Lychnoscopes.
It appears, that in Early English churches, the westernmost window on the south side of the chancel is both lower than, and in other ways (particularly by a transom) distinguished from the rest. It is sometimes merely a square aperture, as in some churches in the Weald of Sussex: sometimes a small ogee-headed light, as in old Shoreham: sometimes, where the south side of the chancel is lighted by a series of lancets, the westernmost, as in Chiddingfold, Sussex, is transomed, where the others end, and carried down lower; sometimes the lower part appears to have been originally blocked, as in Kemerton, Gloucestershire, and Kingstone next Lewes, Sussex: sometimes there are remains of clamps, as at Buckland, Kent, sometimes of shutters. Again, sometimes there are two, one north, the other south of the chancel: sometimes the same arrangement is found S.E. of the nave. On the other hand, it is never found in any but a parish church: never in late work: seldom is it ornamented. We will give a few remarkable instances. I. Dinder, Somersetshire. Here there is a double lychnoscope, north and south: the date is late Early English, and the specimen is unique from there being a rude moulding in the window arch. 2. Othery, Somersetshire. The lychnoscope itself is here blocked: it is square-headed, and of two lights: date probably Early Decorated. The church is cruciform, and a central perpendicular tower was subsequently erected. One of the diagonal buttresses is thrown out at a distance of some three feet from the window, so as to hide it: and an oblique square hole has been cut through the masonry of the buttress. This is the more remarkable, because there are stalls in the chancel, of perpendicular work, which would seem to render any window in that position useless. 3. Christon, Somersetshire. Here, almost close to the ground, is a horizontal slit which appears never to have been glazed. This is an early Norman church. So at Albury, Surrey, at the S.E. end of the south aisle. 4. S. Appolline, Guernsey. This church is of the same date as, or may be earlier than, the last. The windows are rude and square-headed slits: the lychnoscope is transomed. 5. Preston, Sussex. There are three windows in the south of the chancel, which rise one above the other, like sedilia, to the east. 6. Loxton, Somersetshire. This is an Early English church with a south western tower serving as porch. From the eastern side of this a long slit is carried through the nave wall, a distance of some twenty feet, and exactly commanding a view of the altar. It is grated at the west end, not glazed: the eastern end has long been blocked up. Way is made for it by a bulge of the wall in the angle formed towards the east by the tower and nave. This seems to form a kind of connecting link between the hagioscope and the lychnoscope.
With these windows we will venture to connect those extremely rare ones, three adjacent, unconnected, equal, lancets, as occurring of the same date at the same position. There is again another kind of lychnoscope only found where the chancel has aisles. A panel of the parclose, or wooden screen, behind the longitudinal stalls, is sometimes found pierced with a small quatrefoil, at the S.W. part of the chancel. This is vulgarly called a confessional. It seems, however, clearly connected with the lychnoscope. Examples are found at Erith, Kent, and Sundridge in the same county. Perhaps also the curious slit in the south wall of the chancel of S. Michael's church, Cambridge, communicating with a south chantry chapel is another variety.
From the above facts we deduce the following remarks: 1. That the necessity for a lychnoscope must in some cases have been very urgent: as may be proved by the example, at Othery, where a buttress is much injured to form one. 2. But yet this need was not universal, because there are many churches in which the arrangement does not occur. 3. That it appears, strictly speaking, a parochial arrangement, not being found in cathedral or collegiate churches. 4. That smaller buildings rather than larger are marked with it: it seldom occurs where there are aisles to the chancel. 5. That, where employed, lychnoscopes were only used occasionally; else the shutters which have evidently sometimes existed, would have been useless. 6. That they are very seldom ornamented, and never have stained glass. 7. That in the Perpendicular era they generally, though not universally, ceased to be used. 8. That, a large sill seems to have been a requisite to them. 9. That, where the upper part is glazed, the lower part often was not, as in the Decorated lychnoscope at Beckford, Gloucestershire. The principal hypotheses to explain the use of this arrangement are: 1. Dr. Rock's. That it was a contrivance by which lepers might see the Elevation of the Host. But the structure of the greater part of these windows forbids this idea: many instances occur in which it is splayed away from the Altar, none (except that at Loxton, and a doubtful case at Winscombe, Somersetshire, where a perpendicular addition has been made) in which it is splayed towards it. 2. That of the Cambridge Camden Society, that it was for watching the Paschal light. But this, besides being à priori improbable is refuted by that at Othery. Here the eye has to look through two apertures at some distance from each other, and therefore can command only a very small field on exactly the opposite side of the chancel. 3. It has been imagined by some that it was for confession. The idea of confession near an altar sufficiently refutes itself; but furthermore, some of these openings are so very low down that the thing would be impossible. Two solitary facts more, though they throw no light on the subject, may yet be mentioned. 1. In the church of S. Amaro, near Funchal, in Madeira, is a grating at the west-end like that at Loxton. Its use is now said to be to cool the church, though in that case one should have expected to meet it elsewhere. 2. In Sennen church by the Land's End, there is said to have been a lychnoscope (now no longer existing) used to take in the tithe-milk. We may gather on the whole, 1. that lychnoscopes could not have been used to look into a church 2. Nor to hand anything in or out. Both these are sufficiently disproved by Othery, 3. Nor to speak through. But one can hardly imagine any other use, except it were to look out of the church. We are inclined to think that it was in some way connected with the ringing of the bells, or of the sancte bell. Where the tower is central, we very often find it: as at Old Shoreham and Alfriston, Sussex: at Loxton it is evidently for some purpose connected with the tower. So in Beckford, which has a central tower; and Uffington, Berks, a cross church. And the place where the sancte bell was rung is exactly between a double lychnoscope. But what the particular use might have been we will not pretend to guess. We will conclude this long note by a question as to the authority for calling the small chancel door, the Priest's Door. It is never (originally) furnished with a lock, but always with an interior bar, thus showing that it could only have been used from the inside. So the priest could never have entered the church by this way, unless the door were previously opened for him.]
[End footnote]

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The symbolism of the more complicated decorated windows it is next to impossible to explain. Carlisle and York have doubtless their appropriate meaning; but who will now pretend to expound it?

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One exception we may make:—the east window of Bristol cathedral. It is of seven lights, but so much prominence is given to the three central ones, as strongly to set forth the Most Holy Trinity: over them is a crown of six leaves and by the numerous winged foliations around them, the Heavenly Hierarchy may, very probably, be understood.

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II. Doors

Durandus has given us a clue to the symbolical meaning which these generally present, by directing our attention to that saying of our Lord's, I am the door. And this, uttered as tradition reports it to have been, in reference to the Gate of the Temple, on which the Saviour's eyes were then fixed, gives additional force to the allusion.

In small churches, doors are seldom the subject of much symbolical ornament, except in the Norman style; but in cathedrals, some of the most strikingly figurative arrangements are often thrown into them. The Person, the Miracles, or the Doctrines of our Lord are here frequently set forth. He is sometimes, especially in the tympanum of Norman doors, as at Egleton in Rutland, represented as described in the Apocalyptic vision; with a sword in His mouth. More frequently, however, with His Blessed Mother; in order, perhaps, to connect His entrance into the world with ours into the Church, which He thereby gathered together. This in the south entrance of Lincoln minster, is enclosed in a quatre-foil: because the birth of Christ is announced by the four evangelists; and angels are represented around it in attitudes of adoration. A singular, and indeed irreverent symbol, is to be seen in a door of Lisieux church: the Holy Ghost descending on the Blessed Virgin, and the infant Saviour following Him. In the entrance to the cloisters of Norwich cathedral, the door arch is filled by nine niches, the central one being occupied by the Saviour, the others by saints. But this arrangement is much more common in French churches: where two, or even three rows of saints in the architrave are not uncommon: witness the south and west doors of S. Germain, at Amiens, and a west door of S. Etienne, at Beauvais. {xcix} This is sometimes, in late Flamboyant work, carried to an absurd extent: in a south door of Gisors, two niches actually hang down out of the soffit. Early English doors are generally double, thereby representing the Two Natures of our Saviour: but embraced by one arch, to set forth His One Person. So the celebrated door in Southwell minster: the west door in the Galilee of Ely cathedral: the entrance to the chapter House, at Salisbury; the west door of the same: so the decorated west door of York; so the door to the Chapter House there, of which the inscription truly says: Ut Rosa Phlos phlorum, sic est domus ista Domorum: so the west door and entrance to the Chapter House of Wells. The west door of Higham Ferrars has the Saviour's triumphal entrance into Jerusalem, over the double western doors. And this is the case in one of the doors of Seville cathedral. Both these connect the ideas of His entrance into the temporal, with that of ours into the spiritual, Jerusalem. In these symbolical doorways, we have one proof of the immeasurable superiority of English over French architecture: compare any of the above named with the celebrated west door of Amiens, with its twenty-two sovereigns in its soffit. Again, by way of contrast to the second Adam, by whom we enter into Heaven, we sometimes, especially in Norman churches, have the Forbidden Tree, with Adam and Eve in the tympanum: setting forth the one man by whom sin entered into the world.

The Crucifixion seldom occurs over doors: while over porches a crucifix is very common. The cause of the difference is explained by a consideration that the former are shut, the latter open: and 'when Thou hadst overcome the sharpness of Death, Thou didst open the kingdom of heaven to all believers.' Indeed it may almost be asserted that a crucifix is never seen over a {c} closed door, except where it forms a part of the usual representation of the Trinity. For the Trinity is also, in Norman churches, there represented: and that not inappropriately: inasmuch as the Trinity is the beginning of all things. A Holy Lamb is sometimes found in Norman tympana: as saith the Saviour, I am the door of the sheep. A hasty glance at Durandus [Footnote 60] might lead us to imagine that we should find the Apostles set forth under the similitude of doors: but he there probably refers to the well-known passage in the Apocalypse. Apoc. xxi, 14.

[Footnote 60: Durand. i, 26.]

This however leads us to another, and that a totally different, meaning attached to doors. We have already noticed the fact, that many Norman and Early English mouldings refer to various kinds of martyrdom: those which do so occur more frequently on doors than anywhere else; for it is written, 'We must through much tribulation enter into the kingdom of God.' And here we may observe a very curious and beautiful progression in symbolism. In the early ages of Christianity, it was a matter requiring no small courage to make an open profession of Christianity, to join one's self to the Church Militant:—and this fact has left its impress in the various representations of martyrdom surrounding the nave-doors of Norman and the first stage of Early English churches: as well as in the frightful forms which seem to deter those who would enter. But in process of time, as the world became evangelised, to be a member of the visible Church was an easy matter: the difficulty was transferred from an entrance into that, to the so living, as to have part in the Communion of Saints:—in other words, to an entrance into the Church Triumphant. And therefore in late Early English, and Decorated, the symbols which had occupied the nave-doors in the former period, are now transferred to the chancel arch.

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The different agricultural operations, the signs of the zodiac, and occupations of various kinds, sometimes found on the outside of Norman doors, signify that we must turn our backs on, and leave behind us, all worldly cares and employments, if we would enter into the Kingdom of God. In later porches, true love knots are sometimes found on the bosses: because part of the service of Holy Matrimony was performed there. The serpent, in which the handle is so universally fashioned, has probably reference to that text, 'They shall lay their hands upon serpents,' to signify that God's arm will protect us, when engaging, or about to engage in, His service. For the serpent with his tail in his mouth is not a Christian, and indeed by no means a desirable, emblem of eternity, and therefore the door handle cannot be so interpreted.

The doors are of course placed near the west end: for it is only by way of the Church Militant that we can hope to enter the Church Triumphant. One door, indeed, the priest's door, conducts at once into the chancel. Durandus is probably right in interpreting this of Christ's coming into the world; though it involves a little confusion of symbolism, inasmuch as the chancel, properly speaking, denotes the blessed place which He left: not the abode to which he came. It is to be noted as an instance of the decline of symbolism in the Perpendicular age, that in churches which have aisles to the chancel of that date, we sometimes, as at Bitton, Gloucestershire, Godalming, Surrey, and Wivelsfield and Isfield, Sussex, find an entrance at the east end of the south aisle. Though used as a priest's door, this is entirely to be blamed: what shall we say then of modern churches, which have two doors at the east end, one on {cii} each side of the altar, as Christchurch, Brighton? In Seville cathedral, a late, although fine flamboyant building, there are large doors at the east end of each choir aisle.

Porches are usually on the south side. For as the east was considered in an especial manner connected with the Kingdom of Heaven, so was the north imagined to be under the Prince of the Power of the Air. It is curious how diametrically opposed in both these ideas were Christianity and Paganism. For as by the latter the west was known as 'the better country, where lay the Isles of the Blest in their abundant peace,' so in the north dwelt the deathless and ageless Hyperboreans: whose state was the model of good government and secure happiness. That the belief of our ancestors is not yet extinct, a very slight knowledge of our country churchyards will prove: the north side of the churchyard has generally not more than one or two graves. To be buried there is, in the language of our eastern counties, to be buried out of Sanctuary: and the spot is appropriated to suicides, unbaptised persons, and excommunicates. A particular portion is, in some churchyards of Devonshire, separated for the second class and called the chrisomer. Where the contrary is the case, it may be worth inquiring how far it does not arise from the accidental position of the Churchyard Cross on the north side. There the spell seems broken: and the villagers' graves cluster around it, as if the presence of that sacred symbol were a sufficient protection to the sleeping dust. A remarkable instance of this occurs at Belleville, between Dieppe and Abbeville, in Normandy.

The doors in the transepts are, in small churches, almost invariably east or west: much more frequently the latter. This, however, is probably not symbolical: but an arrangement adopted to prevent any resemblance in the porches and transepts:—and it is a rule which needs to be much impressed on modern church builders.

{ciii}

The rule as to the western position of the doors, seems to apply generally to the churchyard.

It is worthy of remark that in the matter of doors, Protestantism presents us, as is so frequently the case, with a very unintended piece of symbolism. When we see, as in the beautiful church of Bisley, Gloucestershire, thirteen different openings, with external staircases, made into the church, through windows and elsewhere, can we forbear thinking of him who cometh not by the doors into the sheepfold, but climbeth up some other way?

III. Chancel Arch and Rood Screen

We come now to speak of the chancel arch and the rood screen, two of the most important features in a church. These, as separating the choir from the nave, denote literally the separation of the clergy from the laity: but symbolically the division between the Militant and Triumphant Churches: that is to say, the Death of the Faithful. The first great symbol which sets this forth, is the Triumphal Cross: the Image of Him [Footnote 61] who by His Death had overcome Death, and has gone before His people through the valley of its shadow.

[Footnote 61: 'Let us consider Him,' says Bishop Hall, 'now, after a weary conflict with the Devil, looking down from the Triumphal Chariot of the Cross on His Church.']

The images of Saints and Martyrs appear in the lower panelling, as examples of faith and patience to us. The colours of the rood screen itself represent their passion and victory: the crimson sets forth the one, the gold the other. The curious tracery of net-work typifies the obscure manner in which heavenly things are set forth, while we look at them from the Church Militant. And for as much as the Blessed Martyrs passed from this {civ} world to the next through sore torments, the mouldings of the chancel arch represent the various kinds of sufferings through which they went. Faith was their support, and must be ours: and Faith is set forth either in the abstract, by the limpet moulding on the chancel arch; or on the screen, as in Bishop's Hull, Somersetshire, by the Creed in raised gilt letters: or is represented by some notable action of which it was the source: so in Cleeve, Somersetshire, the destruction of a dragon runs along, not only the rood screen, but the north parclose also. But in that the power of evil spirits may be exercised against us till we have left this world, but not after, horrible forms are sometimes sculptured in the west side of the chancel arch. The foregoing remarks may perhaps explain what has been felt by some ecclesiologists as a difficulty: how it happens, since the chancel is more highly ornamented than the nave, that it is the western, or nave side, not the eastern or chancel side, of the chancel arch which invariably receives the greatest share of ornament. The straitness of the entrance to the Kingdom of Heaven is set forth by the excessive narrowness of Norman chancel arches. And the final separation of the Church Triumphant from everything that defileth was almost invariably represented by the Great Doom painted in fresco over the rood screen: of which there are still several examples, as the celebrated one in Trinity church, Coventry: and many more might be found, if the whitewash in that place were scraped off. And not only is the judgment of the world, but that of individuals here set forth: on the south side of the chancel wall of Preston church, Sussex, is a fresco of S. Michael weighing the souls: the Devil stands by, eager to secure his prize, but by the intervention of the Blessed Virgin, the scale preponderates in favour of the sinner. {cv} There might probably be an altar to the Blessed Virgin under this picture. Also deeds of faith are represented in similar positions: —so in the same church on the north chancel wall, is the fresco of the Martyrdom of S. Thomas of Canterbury. We have already noticed the triplicity, in some instances, of Norman chancel arches. A very curious triple chancel arch is to be seen at Capel-le-Ferne, Kent. We may also refer to those singular double ones, Wells and Finedon, and in another manner, Darlington, in Durham, and Barton, in Cumberland. It may be well, finally, to note the entire absence in the ground plans of our churches of any reference to Purgatory. The only instance in which chancel and nave are separated by any intervening object, is the chantry of Bishop Arundell in Chichester cathedral. Of the triple division of the church by two (so to speak) chancel arches, we have already spoken.

IV. Monuments

We now proceed to Monumental Symbolism. But it will be proper first to consider a very curious subject: namely the reason of the difference between the personages with which the effigies of the departed were of old time, and are now, surrounded. In the former case they were always real: Our Lady, S. John, S. Pancras, S. Agatha, and so on. In the latter, they are always allegorical: Faith, Virtue, Courage, Eloquence and the like. Nay, in the very ground which is common to the two—the representations of angels—we may observe a great difference: in modern monuments any angel is represented: in those of ancient date the particular one is often named: S. Gabriel, S. Raphael, etc. Now there are, we think, three good reasons to be assigned for this.

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