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.