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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 ofSacramentalityas 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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It will first be proper to consider whether, regarding the subjectà 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 candidiorVisa relinquere, et astra sequi:Spiritus hic erat EulaliaeLacteolus, celer, innocuus.Pruden. Perist. Hymn. 9.
Emicat inde Columba repens,Martyris os nive candidiorVisa relinquere, et astra sequi:Spiritus hic erat EulaliaeLacteolus, 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 globoCui 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 theAgnus Dei, by which our Blessed Lord Himself was represented; nor thePastor 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 thelabarumof 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 monogramihsfound 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. Byone, the Unity of the Deity was understood: bytwo, the divine and human Natures of the Saviour: bythree, of course, the doctrine of the Most Holy Trinity: byfour, the doctrine of the Four Evangelists: bysix, the Attributes of the Deity:sevenrepresented 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 IHis 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 fitThat 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 lossOf 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' instrumentOf 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 caseà priori.
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Having dealt with the argumentà 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 employVousin 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, theHerb Trinity, now generally calledHeartsease, thePassion Flower, and theLacrima 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 aprimâ facieargument 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 theDoormust 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[Greek text]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.
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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[Greek text], without distinguishing its relation to the {lii} want or necessity which brought about[Greek text]? In short, the[Greek text], 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[Greek text]which was answered in their production? Now, from this thought, we might proceed to trace out the truthfulness and reality of every[Greek text]considered in relation to the[Greek text]; 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[Greek text]of mind aresymbolisedby 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 fortheSacraments[Greek text], 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 explainallthe 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.]
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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 obviouslymostconvenient for hearing and seeing. But then, everyone knows that these are notchurchforms. 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 classeden masseas 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 itsintentional 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 particularlyanyprescribed 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 receivedbeforethe 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.
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