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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.