"Now, do y' go and look at ivery old church screen you seez," said the clerk. "If it ho'n't been meddled wi' by them blessed restorers, you'll find for sure sartain that the oak doors won't shut. Zur, see here. Here be the doors. Try 'em; they can't be made to shut."
I answered that the wood had swelled, and the joinery was imperfect.
"No, your honour," said the old man. "If you look close, you'll see it was made on purpose not to fit."
On examination it certainly did appear that the doors in question never could have been fastened. I admitted this, but doubted whether it was the same with all screen-gates.
"It's the same wi' all," said the old man. "I've looked at scores, and they was all made just the same, on purpose not to fit."
"That is very odd," said I, still incredulous.
"It was done on purpose," said the old man.
Then he came out with his explanation.
"Doant y' see, your honour. Them old men as made the screens weren't bad joiners, and they weren't fules neither. They was a sight better joiners than we be now. The reason they did it was this. For sure sartain the chancel means heaven, and the body of the church means airth. And then, doan't it say in Scriptur, 'The gates shall not be shut at all?' Very well, if the chancel be meant to tell o' the heavenly Jerusalem, then the screen gates must be made not to fit, that never nobody may never be able to fasten 'em no more. The old men weren't bad joiners, nor fules—not they."
And now—to the liturgical significance of the screen. As already said, it supported the crucifix, and the rule was that during Lent all images were to be veiled or covered with wraps. Accordingly, on the top of the screens were galleries by means of which the crucifix could be reached for the veiling on Shrove Tuesday, and the unveiling on Easter Eve.