INTRODUCTION

The subject on which I am about to treat is one of far more importance

than the generality of men may be willing to admit; it is not a mere

question of architectural detail, respecting a few mullions and a

transverse beam, but it involves great principles connected with

discipline, and even faith, and it is a question in which all those who

either wish for the revival of ancient solemnity and reverence, or even

the preservation of what yet remains, are most deeply interested. The

contest that has been raised by the restoration of screens in England is

not altogether new; it occurred in France during the latter part of the

last century, when a vile spirit of modern innovation appears to have

arisen among a portion of the French clergy, chiefly in the capitular

bodies, and more injury was then inflicted on the great churches of that

country than was caused by the outrages of the Calvinists and Huguenots

in the civil wars of the sixteenth century. The traditions of the

church, as regards the _disposition_ and _arrangement_ of ecclesiastical

buildings in the northern countries, do not appear to have been much

affected by the revived paganism of the sixteenth century; the details

were debased and incongruous, but the _things_ remained unaltered _in

principle_,—rood lofts were erected, choirs were stalled, cruciform

churches, with aisles and lateral and lady chapels, and transepts, were

the general type followed,[1] and screens for choirs, side chapels, and

altars were universal. But gradually, from the adoption of the details

of classic antiquity, the buildings themselves became objects of

imitation, till revived paganism displayed its full absurdity in the

substitution of a temple of Jupiter for a church of the crucified

Redeemer in the huge _room_ called the Madeleine. Designed by infidels,

built by infidels, and suited only for infidel purposes, and then turned

over, for want of another use, to become a church!

The very decorations are an insult to Christianity; an ambitious

conqueror, set up as a deity, occupying the place of our divine Redeemer

himself, a mockery and a terrible blasphemy against that God to whose

service the place has been unfortunately devoted; moreover, this

monument of absurd impiety has been raised at a greater cost than what

would have produced one of the fairest churches of mediæval

construction, and it is so practically unsuited for even the ordinary

requirements of a church, that there are no means for hanging bells, but

a vain attempt was made of suspending them in the roof, where they

stunned all _within_ the building, and were inaudible to those

_without_, for whose benefit they were intended, and, after a short

trial, they were finally removed.

I have been induced to speak particularly of this edifice, as it is the

beau ideal of a modern church in the minds of those who are opposed to

screens; for the principles of these men, worked out to their legitimate

ends, are subversive of every tradition and the whole system of

ecclesiastical architecture. Screens are, in truth, the very least part

of the cause of their animosity to the churches of their Fathers, for if

any man says he loves pointed architecture, and hates screens, I do not

hesitate to denounce him as a liar, for one is inseparable from the

other, and _more_, inseparable from _Catholic arrangement in any style_,

Byzantine, Norman, Pointed, or debased. We have now to contend for the

great principles of Catholic antiquity,—tradition and reverence against

modern development and display. It is not a struggle for taste or

ornament, but a contention for _vital principles_. There is a most

intimate connection between the externals of religion and the faith

itself; and it is scarcely possible to preserve the interior faith in

the doctrine of the holy eucharist if all exterior reverence and respect

is to be abolished.

"There is no higher act in the Christian religion," says Father Le Brun,

"than the Sacrifice of the Mass; the greater portion of the other

sacraments, and nearly all the offices and ceremonies of the church, are

only the means or the preparation to celebrate or participate in it

worthily." Such being the case, it is but natural that the place where

this most holy sacrifice is to be offered up, should be set apart and

railed off from less sacred portions of the church, and we find this to

have been the case in all ages, in all styles, and in all countries

professing the Catholic faith down to a comparatively very recent

period, when in many places all feelings of sanctity, tradition, and

reverence, seemed to have been superseded by ignorant innovation and

love of change.

It will be shown in this work that the idea of room-worship, and the

all-seeing principles, is a perfect novelty. Those indeed who would make

the mass _a sight_, are only to be compared to the innovators of the

16th century, who made it essential to be _heard_; those who compiled

the Book of Common Prayer converted the mass into all-hearing service;

this was the great object of the vernacular change, that people might

_hear_ the priest; they were to be edified by what he _said_, more than

what he _did_; the sacrificial act was merged into the audible

recitation of prayers and exhortations; for this reason the altars, in

the reign of Edward the Sixth, were to be moved down from their eastern

position to the entrance of the chancel, to enable the people to hear;

this led to the demolition of stone altars and the substitution of

tables. For this reason the whole congregation crowd into the choirs of

the cathedrals, leaving the rest of the church deserted. For this

reason, in large parochial churches, the chancel has been often entirely

cut off, and a portion of the nave glazed in and reduced to such a size

that the people could hear the clergyman; these were all natural

consequences of the change of principle consequent on the translation of

the mass, and the altered nature of its celebration. That churches are

now built after the old tradition for the service of the separated

portion of the English Church, is purely owing to an internal revival of

Catholic feelings and traditions in that body: the cause is a return to

Catholic truth and reverence; the effect is the erection of churches in

accordance with those feelings. It has been a charge and reproach made

by Catholics against their separated countrymen, that the old fabrics

were unsuited to their service, and unquestionably, on the principle

that it was essential for _every one to hear_, they were so. But I will

ask these new-fashioned men if it is indispensable for _every one to

see_, how much better are they adapted for modern Catholic rites? They

become as unfit for one as the other, for it is unquestionable, that

comparatively very few persons in these cruciform churches could obtain

a view of the altar, and this _independent of any screen-work_, the

disposition of the pillars intersecting and shutting out all those who

are stationed in the aisles and transepts.

I have always imagined that one great distinction between the Protestant

and Catholic services was this, that the former was essentially a

_hearing_ service, at which only a comparatively few persons could

assist, while at the latter many thousands, or, indeed, hundreds of

thousands could unite in one great act of adoration and praise,

concentrating their thoughts and intentions with the priest who is

offering at God's altar, although he is far shut off from their vision.

_Real Protestants_ have always built rooms for their worship, or walled

up the old churches, when they have fallen into their possession, into

four or five distinct spaces, as in Scotland. But the separated church

of England, though Protestant in position, in name, and in practice, has

retained so much of the old traditions in her service, and is linked by

so many ties to older and better times, that she naturally turns back to

them with affection and reverence, and seeks, as far as her maimed rites

and fettered position will admit, to restore the departed glory of the

sanctuary. Few persons are aware that the choirs of three of the English

cathedrals were completely restalled, and after the old arrangements, by

the munificence of churchmen in the seventeenth century; moreover, the

completion of some towers and extensive works date from the same period.

It is a consoling fact, that the cathedrals of England retain more of

their old Catholic arrangements and fittings than most of those on the

continent: and as regards the fabricks, they have suffered less injury,

and have preserved their original character most wonderfully.

Architecturally, we must certainly admit that the Anglicans have been

good tenants of the old fabricks; we must not test them by the works of

preceding centuries, but by the corresponding period; and when we

reflect on the debased state of design and art that prevailed, even in

those countries which were nominally exclusively Catholic, we may be

thankful that our great religious edifices have been so well handed down

to our own times, when the recognition of their beauty and grandeur is

daily increasing.[2] I have dilated on this subject, for if the

lingering remains of Catholic traditions which have been so imperfectly

preserved since the separation of England in the sixteenth century, have

yet produced such edifying results, how much more have we reason to

expect from those who should possess them in all their fullness! and how

heart-rending, how deplorable, how scandalous is it to behold (as, sad

to say, we have now fearful examples) even priests of the very temple

combining, by word and deed, to break down the carved work of the

sanctuary, and destroying the barriers erected by ancient reverence and

faith!

But to return, I cannot too strongly impress on the minds of my readers

that the very _vitals_ of Catholic architecture are assailed by the

opponents of screens.

Those who complain of not being able to see in a Pointed church should

have assisted at an ancient service in a Roman basilica; the altar

surrounded by pillars sustaining veils and curtains, and covered by a

ciborium, was placed in _front_ of the celebrant, of whom nothing could

be discerned by the congregation except an occasional glimpse of his

head; the space behind the altar was reserved for the bishop and his

presbyters, while in front was the choir for those who sung, walled

round to a considerable height, averaging five feet, and within, or

occasionally outside, this space, were the ambones for the epistle and

gospel, marble rostrums, ascended by steps, and usually of large

dimensions; moreover, the basilicæ were constructed with aisles, like

pointed churches, so that not one-tenth part of the congregation could

have seen either the celebrant or the mensæ of the altar. And although

it does not appear that the Latin church has purposely excluded the

sight of the altar from the people, yet from the beginning the canonical

arrangement of her sacred edifices has had the practical effect of

cutting off its view from a very large portion of the assisting faithful.

Christians of the present time have but little idea of the solemnity of

the ancient worship of the Catholic church; ordained ministers were

alone permitted to fill the humblest offices about the sanctuary, every

object connected with the sacred rites were considered deserving of the

most loving care; even in the very early ages, the vessels of the altar

were usually of precious metals, and studded with jewels. The books of

the holy gospels were written in golden text on purple vellum, bound in

plates of silver encasing ivory diptychs, and deposited in portable

shrines, like relics. Though all this should fill us with admiration,

there is nothing to excite surprise, when we reflect on the very sacred

nature of the Christian mysteries—no sign typical and prophetic, as

under the Mosaic law, but our blessed Lord truly present and abiding in

the temple in the holy sacrament of the altar,—it is by no means

wonderful that the Christian worship should assume a form of solemnity

formerly unknown, and we are only astounded that with the perpetuation

of the doctrine the practice of external solemnity should have so

lamentably become decayed in the latter times; indeed, so sacred, so

awful, so mysterious is the sacrifice of the mass, that if men were

seriously to reflect on what it really consists, so far from advocating

mere rooms for its celebration, they would hasten to restore the

reverential arrangements of Catholic antiquity, and instead of striving

for front seats and first places, they would hardly feel worthy to

occupy the remotest corner of the temple. The form and arrangement of

the ancient churches originated from the deepest feelings of reverence;

the altar, or place of sacrifice, was accessible only to those who

ministered, it was enclosed by pillars and veils; the sanctuary was

veiled, the choir was enclosed, and the faithful adored at a respectful

distance. All this, and the custom of every succeeding century, is in

utter opposition to the modern all-seeing principle, and which, if it is

carried out, ends in an absurd conclusion; for if it be essential for

every worshipper to see, even a _level room_ would not answer the

purpose, and the floor must be raised like an amphitheatre to elevate

the receding _spectators_, for unless the people be thus raised, they

form a far greater barrier than any screen-work; and even at St. Peter's

itself, when the Pope celebrates, there is a living screen of Swiss

troops and noble guards that effectually shuts out the sight of what is

going on, except to those taking part in the functions, or a favoured

few, who by means of gold or interest are seated in raised loggia. If

religious ceremonies are to be regarded as spectacles they should be

celebrated in regular theatres, which have been expressly invented for

the purpose of accommodating great assemblages of persons to hear and

see well. It has been most justly said, that there is no legitimate

halting-place between Catholic doctrine and positive infidelity, and I

am quite certain that there is none between a church built on Christian

tradition and symbolism and Covent Garden Theatre with its pit, boxes,

and gallery.[3] It is only by putting the question in this forcible

contrast that persons can really understand the danger of these new

notions, or the lengths to which they may eventually lead; and I trust

it may be the means of raising a feeling of the greatest repugnance to

them in the hearts of every true Catholic.

As regards screens, I believe there are no portions of church

architecture the origin and intention of which are less understood, and

I have seen most absurd and contradictory arguments brought forward in

their defence as well as by their assailants; they have originated from

a natural as well as a symbolical intention,—it is a natural principle

to enclose any portion of a building or space which is set apart from

public use and access, and when such a boundary is erected round the

place of sacrifice in a church, it teaches the faithful to reverence the

seat of the holy mysteries, and to worship in humility.

From the earliest times the choirs and sanctuaries of the Christian

churches were separated off from the rest of the building by open

metal-work and dwarf marble walls, and at the present day, in those

churches where the old screen-work has been destroyed by debased tastes

or revolutionary violence, it has invariably been replaced by high iron

railings, as indispensably necessary for the order and discipline of the

church; and though these railings are meagre in effect and prison-like

in appearance, they are screens to all intents and purposes, and serve

like their more ornamental prototypes to exclude unauthorized persons

from the sacred enclosures.

The choirs of the early Christian churches, which were all frequented by

the people, were enclosed by open screens, like trellis-work, usually

made of brass, and this principle has descended through all ages in

churches destined for _parochial worship_ and _the use of the people_,

while in cathedral, collegiate, and conventual churches, which were

intended more especially for the use of ecclesiastics, the solid screens

were invariable, not only across the nave but round the choir, so that

the canons and religious were completely enclosed. The introduction of

these close screens was coeval with the commencement of the long

offices, and were positively necessary for those who were compelled to

remain so many hours in choir, and who would have been unable to resist

the cold if exposed to the free passage of the currents of air which

prevail in these large edifices.[4]

But, like every object generated in necessity, the church soon turned

them to a most edifying account, and while the great screen was adorned

with the principal events of our Lord's life and passion, surmounted by

the great rood, the lateral walls were carved with edifying sculptures

and sacred histories, many of which still remain, as at Notre Dame,

Paris, Amiens, Chartres, Auch, &c. I do not think that the theory, which

some writers have advanced, of these _close_ screens being erected to

increase the mystery of the celebration, and to procure greater respect

for the sacrifice, is tenable; the mass is not more holy in one church

or one altar than another, and it is most certain that no parochial

churches, built as such, ever had close screens, but always open ones;

and, indeed, we very often find altars erected outside these close

screens of cathedral and conventual churches, for the benefit of the

people, as will be seen by the plates given in this work, which would

involve a complete contradiction in principle, supposing the high altar

to be hid on symbolical grounds. The _close_ screens belong properly to

the choir rather than the altar, as in many Italian churches served by

religious, the clergy sat behind the screen, while the altar is partly

without, so that the celebration served for both the religious and the

people.

At Durham Abbey, the Jesus altar was outside of the great screen; and at

St. Alban's Abbey, in the screen which traverses the nave, there are the

evident marks of an altar which doubtless served for the parochial mass.

It will be seen from these remarks that close screens, as a principle,

are only suitable for churches intended for cathedral chapters or

conventual and collegiate bodies; and they are certainly most unsuitable

for any churches to be erected in this country under existing

circumstances, where the limited extent of means and number of the

clergy render it necessary for all services to be available for the

faithful in general, and the bishops' churches, like the original

basilicæ, to be in a manner parochial.

But as regards open screens the case is widely different; they existed

under the form of trellis (opere reticulato) in the oldest churches,

and, in succeeding centuries not only was every chancel and choir

enclosed by them, but each chapel, and even altar; they were to be found

in every parochial church, either of metal, stone, or wood; in Germany,

Flanders, and the North, metal was the usual material, but in England

and France stone and wood, while in Italy and the South they were

usually composed partly of marble and partly of metal. But their use was

universal, they commenced many centuries _before the introduction of

pointed architecture_, and _they have survived its decline_; in fact,

they belong to the first principles of Catholic _reverence and order_,

and _not to any particular style_, though, like everything else

connected with the church, they attained their greatest beauty in the

mediæval period.

The church of San Michele, at Florence, contains an altar erected in the

fourteenth century, in honour of a venerated picture of the Blessed

Virgin; it is a most interesting example of a detached altar surrounded

by a screen. Like all the Italian mediæval works, it is exquisitely

beautiful in detail, and admirable in the sculptured enrichments; it is

entirely surrounded by a screen, partly composed of bronze and partly of

marble, divided in open panels of pointed tracery; this supports a

cresting, with prickets for tapers, and at the four angles are images of

angels bearing metal candlesticks of elegant design. In order to convey

a more perfect idea of this beautiful and decorated altar, I have

figured it among the illustrations. In Ciampini's great work, "Vetera

Monimenta," are plates of some of the altars which stood in old St.

Peter's Church, at Rome, enclosed by brass screens, surrounded by

standards for lights; and as a proof of the extent of this traditional

enclosure of altars, when Antwerp Cathedral was restored to Catholic

worship, after its pillage by the Calvinists in the sixteenth century,

there not only was a great marble screen and rood loft restored across

the choir, but a new range of altars having been set up against the

pillars of the nave, each altar was enclosed by an open brass screen

about six feet high, supported on a marble base, as may be most

distinctly seen in a view of the church painted at the time by Peter

Neefs, still preserved at Bicton House, near Sidmouth, and from which I

have made the drawing etched in this work. I consider these authorities

rather important, as when this church was restored for the Catholic

worship all feeling for pointed design had been superseded by Italian;

but change of detail had not then produced change of sentiment, and I

shall clearly show that Catholic traditions, in this respect, have

survived all changes of form and ornament.

It is, therefore, these open railings, or screen-work, for which we

contend as an essential characteristic of Catholic reverence in the

enclosure of chancels, chapels, and altars; practically, they prevent

any irreverence or intrusion in the sacred places at those times when no

celebration or office is going on; and symbolically, they impress on the

minds of the faithful the great sanctity of all connected with the

sacrifice of the altar, and that, like the vicinity of the "burning

bush," the ground itself is holy. Wherever this screen or enclosures

have been removed, as in some modernized churches of Italy and France,

distressing irreverence has been the consequence; and, on more than one

occasion, I have seen an altar turned into a hat-stand within a few

minutes after the holy sacrifice had been offered up upon it, while

animals defile the frontals, and lazzaroni lounge on the steps.

These screens serve also for a most edifying purpose; while the

principal one across the chancel or choir sustains the great rood, with

its attendant imagery and ornaments, the lateral enclosures are

surmounted by ranges of metal standards for lights, to burn on great

feasts, while the mouldings and bratishings are enriched with texts and

sacred devices.

The rest of this work may be considered only as a justification and

proof of what I have advanced in this brief essay, viz.—1st. That open

screens and enclosures of choirs and chancels have existed from the

earliest known period of Christian churches down to the present century,

that they form an essential part of Catholic tradition and reverence,

and that no church intended for Catholic worship can be complete without

them. 2nd. That their introduction belongs to no particular period or

style, and that their partial disuse was not consequent on the decline

of pointed architecture, but to the decay of reverence for the sacred

mysteries themselves, as I have found screens of all styles and dates.

3rd. That closed screens are only now suited to conventual and

collegiate churches in this country, the cathedrals being required for

the worship of the people, from whom the view of the altar has never

been purposely concealed. 4th. That those who oppose the revival and

continuance of open screens are not only enemies of Catholic traditions

and practices, but the grounds of their objections militate as strongly

against every symbolic form and arrangement in ecclesiastical

architecture, and, therefore, till they retract their opposition they

are practically insulting the traditions of the church, impeding the

restoration of reverence and solemnity, and injuring the progress of

religion.

[1] The church of St. Eustache, Paris, is a striking example of a

pointed church, both in plan, disposition, and proportion, carried out

in Italian detail; but even much later, the churches of St. Roch and St.

Sulpice, in the same city, were constructed on Catholic traditions,

although all trace of the ancient detail has disappeared; they are

_cruciform_, _choral_, and _absidal_, with _aisles_ and chapels, a

clerestory, and vaulting supported by flying buttresses, and the latter

has even two great western towers for bells. Notwithstanding their

debased detail, these edifices have still the character of churches, and

are adapted by their _arrangement_ for the celebration of Catholic rites.

[2] I trust to be able before long to put forth an impartial statement

relative to the destruction of Catholic edifices and ornaments

consequent on the change of religion in England. After the most patient

investigation, I have been compelled to adopt the conclusion, that the

most fearful acts of destruction and spoliation were committed by men

who had not only been educated in the ancient faith, but who were

contented externally to profess its doctrines. I had originally fallen

into popular errors on these matters in some of my early publications,

and it is but an act of justice to affix the odium of the sacrilege on

those who were really guilty. I feel quite satisfied that one of the

most urgent wants of the time is a real statement of the occurrences

connected with the establishment of Protestantism and the loss of the

ancient faith; of course, I have to treat the subject in an

architectural view, but still I trust to bring forward many facts that

may lead to a better understanding and more charity on both sides, for

we may all exclaim, "Patres nostri pecaverunt et non sunt, _et nos

iniquitates eorum portavimus_."

[3] I have been credibly informed, that an amphitheatre was deliberately

proposed, a few years since, as the best form of a Catholic church for

London.

[4] These enclosures were also to prevent the distraction which large

bodies of people moving about the church might occasion to the

ecclesiastics.