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 art which, doubtlessly, grew out of its predecessor, “properly called the ; being one of the greatest efforts of human genius that has been witnessed in the course of ages,” and which contains the finest examples of Christian art which have yet been obtained. It was characteristic of its glorious times, when ecclesiastical institutions were, of necessity, for the social relations of mankind, and the preservation of their political liberties, so intimately connected with all state establishments, that the philosophic historian is sometimes puzzled in discriminating their respective spheres. It was fated merely to touch upon perfection, and then, as if withered by some untimely blight, to rapidly decline to the third era, when the enthusiasm for the revival of the Pagan arts and literature, joined with the influence of the Reformation's devastating principles, caused its total neglect, but fortunately, not its destruction. For happily, after a lapse of three woful centuries, the spirit of ancient times is reappearing, and we need only refer to the completion of Cologne Cathedral, and the zeal with which it is carried forward, as a proof that Christian art was not dead during that long space of time, but in a slumber, from which, perhaps, in our generation, it may completely arise, and adapting itself, with that plasticity peculiarly its genius, to the necessities of the age, exhibit more glorious developments that the world has yet seen.

“The wisest reform,” says Lord Bacon, “is renewal,” and those who hope to advance, must travel backwards 'till they reach the true starting point for future development, which is none other than that at which art began to decline. We must arrive at a knowledge, not only of the principles which guided, but of the motives which influenced the artists of the middle ages. And having obtained this much knowledge, the inferiority of modern works will be no marvel to us. Information of this kind is only attainable by a careful study, not only of the works of the middle ages, but by a loving obedience to the spirit which dictated them. This spirit is the genius of the Catholic Church, beyond whose influence all experiences teaches us that it is impossible to produce works of highest art. Examiniations of the works themselves cannot suffice, for they will only show us the surface of things. To penetrate to the moving spirit, we must study the lives of the great and good men who produced those glorious works of old, and labour to imitate their example in more respects than in their arts. We will, by this means, learn that it was not for worldly emolument or individual glory these men laboured, but for the honour of God's sanctuary, and the propagation of his religion. They did not even esteem their works so much as beautiful productions of highest art—as vehicles of instruction on the sublimest points of Christian revelation. “Everything in the Church,” says Durandus, bishop of Mende, in the twelfth century, “is full of divine signification and mystery. Everything in its abounds with eclestial sweets, when one knows how to look at it—when one knows how to draw honey from the hardest stone, and the oil from the hardest flint.” The great poet of the middle ages, Dante, says:—

A modern poet has called pointed architecture “the petrification of the Christian religion.” Did our space permit, we might multiply quotations from the fathers and schoolmen, as well as from the more recent divines of the Catholic Church, all tending to the same effect—the demonstration that Christian art was a symbolical language, expressive of the doctrines and discipline of the Christian Church. In our own times, a learned ecclesiastic, unhappily not in communion with the Catholic Church, but who, in his writings, exhibits many traits of true Catholic spirit, speaks as follows—“I proceed, then, to show that ecclesiastical architecture is a language; that it has always, and not at mere accomodation without splendour; or even at splendour without a spirit and a meaning. That from the first it was rational: that it had a soul and a sense which it laboured to embody and convey to the beholder. And while we are thus proving that ecclesiastical architecture was a language which expressed something, we shall also find that, from the very first, the things which it expressed were appropriate, that it was characteristic in its intellectural expressions; that its character was theological, doctrinal, Catholic, exclusive; aiming not only at accomodating a congregation, but at elevating their devotions and informing their mindes; attaching them to the Spiritual Church, of which the earthly building is the symbol, and leading them onwards to that heavenly Jerusalem of which the material fabric is, as it were, the vestibuile. Hence, a Christian Church always embodied some of the mysteries of the Christian religion, as the mystery of the Trinity;—always shadowed forth some part of the ecclesiastical polity, as the division of the church into clergy and laity;—always conveyed some instruction on religion and morals, as for instance, in the texts of Holy Scripture, or certain moral lessons written on the walls;—and always pre-supposed a Catholic worship, that is, a worship separate from error, and from the perversions of all sectaries.”

Symbolism appears, then, to be the great principle and object of mediæval art, and all those elements of beauty, which have been ascribed by modern writers on art, as the characteristics of pointed architecture, have been produced by it. Symbolism, fitness, and, we may add, expression, as arising from both, are the true causes of all artistic effect in architecture; and inasmuch as works of art deviate from these principles, in the same proportion do they depart from excellence; and inasmuch as we are ignorant of them, in the same ratio are we incapable of understanding or of appreciating the works which are based on them.

Some Catholics, whose idea of a Church is limited to the semi-Protestant opinion, of its being merely a place set apart in which the faithful are to pray and receive instruction, will be surprised at the notion of the material fabric being an exposition of the spiritual Church, and will scarcely understand that “A Gothic Cathedral does, as it were, and scarce by a metaphor, praise God. It is not merely a place wherein, but with which the Church worships the Almighty. Its vast and complex unity, its simple melody, so to speak, and its full and intricate harmony, is a noble hymn of praise, continually ascending to the Most High, and carrying up with it the chorus of accordant hearts.” And indeed we must confess, that we are not astonished at this sort of incredulity, for it is impossible that churches of modern erection, could convey any symbolical expression, when they were designed and erected without any regard to such significancy. But, we regret that the error has extended