THE SECULAR USES OF THE CHURCH FABRIC
Having established the proposition that ancient churches were oftentimes
erected near older pagan memorials, we are prepared to search for
supplementary motives for the determination of sites. A very superficial
survey makes it clear that no single explanation will apply to all
cases. A few of the churches built within old entrenchments may,
perhaps, as before noted (p. 17 _supra_), have been so placed in order
to obtain additional protection. Respect for tradition, or defiance of
superstition, was, however, in the majority of such cases, the uppermost
consideration: the ground was not primarily chosen because of its secure
position.
But besides the churches which accompany earthworks and megaliths, we
possess a large number of churches which stand like sentinels on
isolated hills, and these require separate study. Here again, no single
theory will serve to account for the choice of site. The facts are
familiar to those who have travelled through the more elevated parts of
the country. But it is not alone on rugged hills that we find the
Christian outposts; even on the gentle downlands the lonely church may
be seen dominating the landscape. In the South-East of England, the hill
parishes often have their churches mounted on the highest ground. Among
the Surrey churches, that of Caterham stands 600 feet above sea-level;
Chaldon and Coulsdon, 500 feet; Merstham, 400 feet[268]. Taking Sussex,
we find Pyecombe church at an elevation of 400 feet; Falmer and
Plumpton, 250 feet; and Street (Streat), 200 feet. Brook church, in the
Isle of Wight, is built on a conspicuous natural hillock. Kent supplies
us with excellent examples at Down, Cudham, and several other villages.
These instances are sufficient--the list could be extensively enlarged,
if necessary.
[Illustration:
FIG. 23. Tower of Bishopstone church (Early Norman), near Seaford,
Sussex. A typical semi-defensive tower of South-Eastern England.
]
The first comment on such a catalogue concerns the interpretation of the
figures. Obviously, it is the height of the church relatively to the
village or valley which is of importance, not the actual elevation above
the sea. For example, although the Sussex village of Bishopstone lies in
a chalk coombe, the church (Fig. 23) is built on a hillock which
overlooks the dwellings of the inhabitants. Again, with respect to
villages situated on the plain, the church frequently occupies the
highest ground. Various causes may have been at work to influence the
selection of such spots. Here, there were difficulties with the feudal
lord (p. 17 _supra_); there, the building was placed centrally so as to
serve numerous outlying townships; yonder, the church stands prominently
on the hill-top because a hamlet had arisen there before the church was
thought of.
When all these deductions have been made, there remain very many
churches unaccounted for. These have been raised, after prolonged labour
and at great expense, on some inconvenient hill, up which the
worshippers must struggle breathlessly Sunday by Sunday. Standing by one
of these churches, the observer is mastered by the conviction that he is
placed on an ancient vantage ground. Range of outlook, and effective
strength of position, must have been the fundamental ideas in the minds
of those who chose the site. Throw aside this conception, and all is
contrariety. The modern architect, unaided by the student of folk-lore
and folk-custom, is entirely at a loss when asked to explain such
apparent folly on the part of the designers.
We have before noticed (p. 17 _supra_) how the annals of folk-lore are
crowded with stories respecting these hill-top churches. The tales vary
a little in detail, but the main theme is the same. Devils, or witches,
or fairies, were in league against men, and so soon as the builders
began their work, unseen hands removed the stones by night and laid them
elsewhere, the church being finally set up only after a severe and
lengthened contest. A variant of the superstition is met with in
Scotland and Brittany, where churches are reported to have been reared
in a single night by the fairies[269]. Just noting, as we pass, that the
legends do not attempt to tell why men were so anxious to have their
churches in lofty positions, let us glance at some of these bewitched
buildings.
One of the examples best known to the writer is that of Churchdown, in
Gloucestershire. The church stands on a Liassic hill of pyramidal
outline, 500 feet above the sea-level. To climb the steep slope from the
village below is an arduous task. The devil-theory still thrives
vigorously in the neighbourhood, and the visitor will soon hear the
account of the nightly removal of the stones by the spirit of evil. It
chances that the local pronunciation of Churchdown is “Chōsen,” and this
has suggested to the otherwise serious countryfolk a weak pun. Not only,
they say, was the spot deliberately “chosen,” but the “chosen people” of
the Prayer-Book response refers specifically to the favoured inhabitants
of the village. The traveller cannot escape--
“Full of their theme, they spurned all idle art,
And the plain tale was trusted to the heart.”
Breedon church, in Leicestershire, is on a hill which similarly
overlooks the village clustered at the foot. For pedestrians, the ascent
has been made easier by cutting steps in the pathway, but carriages have
to take a circuitous route to reach the church[270]. Other churches
concerning which a contest was waged between Christian masons and the
powers of darkness are St Chad’s, Rochdale, and Capel Garmon, in
Denbighshire. In the second of these cases, the church was to have been
erected on a hill, contiguous to an ancient spring, but the stones were
repeatedly carried to a lower position[271]. This detail respecting the
spring is not without significance, as was shown in the last chapter.
Another illuminative Welsh example comes from Llanllechid, near Bangor.
Here the fairies, or spirits, bore away the stones from a field called
Caer Capel, and actually selected a situation--so the legend runs--more
convenient than the first[272]. Both Caer Capel and Llanllechid are
suggestive names, the latter gives a hint of a church built on the site
of megaliths. At Wendover, in Buckinghamshire, the builders were
thwarted by malevolent witches: at Hanchurch and Walsall, in
Staffordshire, the trouble was caused by mischievous fairies. Each
locality has its own bit of colour tinging the testimony, but to
rehearse all the variations would be tedious. The number of these
solitary hill-top churches was once probably much greater than at
present. In some instances the buildings have been demolished; in
others, modern dwellings have sprung up around the church and have
masked its isolated position. Indeed, this shifting of the population is
a factor which must never be left out of sight.
How shall we explain the superstitions attached to these churches? One
fact is manifest--the selection of site was, in the majority of cases,
freely made, in the sense that other spots were available. On a broader
interpretation, based on retrospect, we perceive that there was little
choice, since there existed an ever-present necessity for an asylum in
times of stress and danger, not to mention minor reasons. We have seen
that the traditions do not assign a cause for the persistence,--nay,
obstinacy, of the church-builders. Perhaps we should except those
churches which were erected in particular spots as the result of the
vision of some saint, or of warning cries and mysterious voices heard by
the masons. On the whole, however, we can interpret the stories only by
the aid of folklore and anthropology. Modern research has shown that, in
the earlier stages of human life in Britain, the communities dwelt
mainly on the downlands and elevated moorlands[273]. Only when the
historical period was well advanced, namely, during the late Roman and
Saxon occupations, were the thickly wooded valleys and marshy plains
settled and cultivated. The evidence, though largely inferential, is
both good and abundant, and need not be recapitulated here. All that is
essential, for the moment, is to remember that descendants of the
earlier races probably lived on, isolated in sparse communities,
wherever the conditions were favourable. This is the legitimate
conclusion to be drawn, for example, from the classical excavations made
by Pitt-Rivers in the chalk downlands of Cranborne Chase.
Anthropological tests afford similar support in other regions, such as
the Yorkshire Wolds and the Derbyshire Moors. The remnants of the older
British races, modified somewhat by intermarriage, doubtless held aloof
on their bleak hills and tablelands with considerable stubbornness. The
Teutonic farmers of the vales would not at first greatly interfere with
the hill-top folk. A time came, however, when fresh-comers began
seriously to re-invade the more elevated spots, and to form
settlements. This does not seem to have been done systematically until
after the Norman period. But it is clear that any impinging of new races
upon the older hill-top communities, however partial in its character,
would give birth to exaggeration and myth. A fair corollary may be
stated: the traditions which tell of the efforts of builders having been
baulked or defeated by demons, witches, or evil spirits, are echoes of
the time when older races still lingered sparingly on the hill-top
settlements. On the other hand, the legends which speak of dreams and
visions seem to represent a purely religious development belonging to
the Christian period.
The erection of a church on soil hitherto relegated, by silent consent,
to primitive tribal folk, or, failing these, to the wild beasts, was a
novel and startling event. We need not assume that the primary purpose
of the builders was to Christianize those remote peoples, though that
may have been a subsidiary motive. It is more likely that the church was
intended for the churchmen who built it. But to enter an area previously
left intact would provoke keen opposition. Further, it is now a
commonplace that our stories of witches and wizards, fairies and demons,
are in part, at least, derived from folk of the Neolithic and Bronze
periods, or from their near descendants. To the conquered people was
imputed magical power, while to the victors, their weapons, and their
appliances, the beaten folk paid the respect due to fear. Briefly, then,
the superstitions which we are considering seem to speak of the
projection of one race over territory long occupied by the survivors of
much earlier races, and again, of the intrusion of social habits and
religious customs among folk whose beliefs and modes of life were widely
different from those of the invaders.
Still the question is unanswered, Why were hill-tops chosen as sites of
churches? Primarily, of course, the churches were built for worship, but
the answer to the question seems to be, that, in very many cases, the
building was intended for temporary refuge and defence in those
unsettled centuries which lasted down to the Wars of the Roses (cf. p.
57 _supra_, concerning earthworks). To establish this theory, we must
consider a moderate number of instances extracted from a lengthy list.
And a clearer understanding will be promoted if our minds are chiefly
fixed, for the present, upon church towers alone, because these are the
portions of the buildings which best illustrate the theory.
As might be anticipated, the specimens of towers which furnish the most
apposite illustrations are found in the Border Counties, and in the
Welsh Marches, or, on the other hand, in those districts which have few
natural defences. Beginning with Cumberland, we have the embattled tower
of Great Salkeld church, guarded by a massive door, plated with iron,
and fitted on the inside with stout iron bars. Under the aisle of the
church are chambers, which are believed to have been used as
dungeons[274]. The tower at Burgh-on-the-Sands, near Carlisle, seems to
have served as a fortress or pele-tower[275]. (Etymologically _pele_ or
_peel_ = the _stockaded_ enclosure or fort.) Normally, the pele or
“peel” towers were special structures, and were erected along the border
irrespective of the position of churches, as at Corbridge, in
Northumberland[276]. Nevertheless, there is little doubt that strong
church towers were used as substitutes for peles in times of necessity.
Thus, the twelfth century tower of Edlingham church, in Northumberland,
is one of several that served this purpose; while Merrington church,
with its tall steeple, crowning an eminence, actually stood a siege. The
tower of Bedale church, near Richmond in Yorkshire, seems to have been
constructed purposely for defence. The narrow staircase has, in fact, a
portcullis groove, which was accidentally revealed after the steeple had
been struck by lightning. The portcullis screened the tower from the
body of the church[277]. Melsonby tower, also in Yorkshire, has been
described as “a Norman keep in miniature[278].” The round steeple of the
Early Decorated church of Roos, in Holderness, is supposed to have been
a post for watch-and-ward. It stands on high ground, and contains, near
the top, a chamber which is reached by a spiral staircase of stone[279].
We know that the surrounding district was terribly ravaged by the Danes,
and it is interesting to note that, in 1836, there was discovered, in a
ditch at Roos, a rude model of a boat with a warrior crew. This curious
object is considered to be of Scandinavian origin, and to date back to
the invasion of the Danes and vikings[280]. If it be urged that the
church fabric belongs to a period long subsequent to the raids of the
Northmen, the comment is both fair and relevant. Two replies might be
made: first, analogy indicates that churches of this kind most likely
had predecessors on the same site, and secondly, defensive structures
continued to be built long after the events which called them into
existence passed away.
From Yorkshire we pass into North-East Lincolnshire. Here we meet with a
remarkable series of Saxon towers, and here the Danish question recurs.
Popular tradition, vigorous even “yn tyme of mynde,” as Leland quaintly
expresses it, declared that the present towers were built as refuges
from the Danes. The idea was unhesitatingly accepted by the earlier
school of antiquaries, and was supported by the older architects. We now
know, as the result of comparative study of architectural styles, that
the theory is barely tenable. The three best-known towers of the group
under consideration are those of Waith, Scartho, and Holton-le-Clay, and
they are all placed by Professor Baldwin Brown in his Saxon period C[3].
In other words they are believed to belong to the time of Edward the
Confessor, when there was a revival of church-building[281]. As a
further safeguard against ante-dating these churches, we may notice Mr
Francis Bond’s dictum that we have no Anglo-Saxon tower which is earlier
than the end of the ninth century[282]. Of course, neither of these
verdicts affects the question of the existence of previous towers on the
present foundations. For instance,
[Illustration:
FIG. 24. Scartho church, Lincolnshire, from the South. The Saxon
tower differs from the ordinary defensive type in having an
original doorway at the base, seen at the West end. The doorway
facing the spectator is a later insertion (Early English) and the
parapet belongs to the Perpendicular period. There is a Saxon
belfry window, divided by a mid-wall shaft. The walls separating
the tower from the nave are three feet in thickness.
]
according to writers of the middle of the last century, and indeed, much
later, the tower of Scartho church (Fig. 24) was said to rest on large
blocks of stone which showed traces of fire, and these blocks were
thought to be relics of an older fabric which was burnt by the Danes. I
have visited this church several times, and, while believing that the
present tower may not be the original, I am not convinced that there are
any fire-marked boulders to be seen. True, the masses of stone referred
to by the topographers may now be quite concealed under the raised turf,
but it is more likely that red lumps of ferruginous grit, which are
plainly visible, have misled the antiquaries. The tower walls certainly
contain a miscellany of geological specimens,--limestones, flints,
sandstones, and rusty-coloured grits--and superficially the stains
suggest scars caused by fire. One must, however, take account of all the
circumstances that influenced church-building in a locality which, like
that under consideration, is destitute of building stone. Some two or
three miles distant is the church of Clee, the tower of which, except in
the uppermost stage, bears a close likeness to that of Scartho. (The
parapet, in each church, is a later addition.) The materials employed in
Clee tower are mainly large beach pebbles, and ice-worn “cobbles,” which
had been washed out of the now-vanished cliff of Boulder Clay at
Cleethorpes, and which must have been assiduously collected by the
perplexed and needy masons.
Professor Brown declares that there is nothing about the Lincolnshire
towers themselves to indicate a defensive character, though they are
situated in a region which was exposed to Danish visitations. These
eleventh century towers, however, he says, represent a style which was
evolved at a somewhat earlier time, when the Danes were actually
hostile. At most, he will admit only “a certain general likelihood” that
these particular towers were used for defence[283], but he notes the
general opinion that the occurrence of such towers in districts like
Lincolnshire is “hardly fortuitous[284].” The palmary fact remains, that
the Lincolnshire towers were, relatively to the exposed and unprotected
tract of marshland on which they were built, real fortresses. There are
no natural defences in the vicinity of the churches, and ordinary
dwellings must have been of an insubstantial kind. Moreover, unless the
idea of earlier buildings on the present sites be unreservedly
abandoned, there still remains the great probability of continuity of
general pattern. Long after the land ceased to be harried by pirates,
the countryfolk would anticipate, and provide against, future
onslaughts. It is no bar to this argument to oppose the fact that, as we
later folk now know, those attacks were not made. We shall, indeed, find
that defensive towers continued to be popular for several centuries
after the Norman Conquest. We may say then, that the Lincolnshire type
of Saxon tower was semi-defensive, though the existing specimens are of
post-Danish age. Further than that we are not warranted in forming
theories.
Leaving Lincolnshire, we notice a Bedfordshire example, that of Clapham.
Here the church has a massive Saxon tower, which possesses an exterior
door at a height of twenty feet from the ground. There is no window
opening in the lower portion. It is not an insignificant fact that this
tower overlooked a ford across the Ouse, which was approached by an
ancient road[285]. The striking position of the door at Clapham has many
parallels. The old tower of Swanage parish church, Dorset, had no door
lower than the second story, and access was probably gained by ladders,
which could be afterwards drawn up if required. At Norton, Derbyshire,
the doorway of the tower, which is supposed to have been erected about
A.D. 1300, is six feet from the ground, and was formerly reached by an
external staircase of stone[286]. Occasionally, the external door was
absent altogether. This was originally the case at Rugby church, the
tower of which could be entered only through the nave[287]. This tower,
which dates from the fourteenth century, is of square outline, and is
devoid of buttresses. Its loftiness is conspicuous, for it reaches a
height of 63 feet. The windows are narrow, and the lowest is twelve feet
from the ground. Consider, again, the little church of Swindon, near
Cheltenham, with which the writer was once very familiar. The tower is
of hexagonal shape, and the walls are thick and substantial. The only
windows, a quarter of a century ago, were mere loopholes, splayed
without and within, and placed near the top of the structure. A doorway
on the North-East gave access to the tower; were this entrance blocked,
one could only gain admittance by an exterior staircase on the West
side.
[Illustration:
FIG. 25. Oystermouth church, Glamorganshire, from the South-West.
The tower is less lofty than is usual with the churches of Gower,
but it has several “defensive” features. It batters from the base,
and has the characteristic battlement. There are no buttresses, but
a flat staircase-turret will be noticed. Except the debased West
window, the openings are all of very insignificant size.
]
The defensive tower, however, is perhaps seen at its best in South
Wales. In the district of Gower, in Glamorganshire, twelve out of
sixteen towers are believed to have been erected as much for defence as
for beauty; each is a stronghold as well as a campanile[288]. Generally
these towers have no buttresses, and frequently, as at Oystermouth (Fig.
25), they “batter,” or slope a little from the base upwards. This
battering is also met with in the castles of South Wales. Again, the
towers have an overhanging embattled parapet, supported on corbels.
Where exterior doors are now found, they are usually later insertions.
The original doors, where they exist, resemble those of keeps in being
situated some height from the ground. The tower, too, opens into the
nave as often by a mere doorway as by a belfry arch. Instead of belfry
windows, there are insignificant slits, and the rest of the wall is
quite blank, and destitute of architectural or decorative features. In
short, as Freeman expressed it, the essential military character of the
towers is stamped on every stone[289].
The churches of South Pembrokeshire are not less remarkable. The study
of these buildings is rendered more attractive because the area in which
they are found corresponds roughly with the territory occupied by the
non-Welsh folk of “Little England beyond Wales.” This fact may indicate
a period of severe struggles between the English and Norman intruders
and the earlier settlers, but not necessarily; since the Gower churches,
at least, would have to be explained somewhat differently. The raids of
the Norsemen upon the Pembrokeshire coast seem to have come to an end
with the eleventh century; hence dread of inland foes seems to have
caused the erection of these strong towers. Professor Freeman, who
carefully investigated the Pembrokeshire towers, and who wrote a
painstaking account of their architectural details, observed, “Every
tower is a fortress, designed to hold out as long as Zaragoza or
Sebastopol[290].” Anyone who has examined these churches, will, after
making some deduction for the literary form of expression, be prepared
to endorse this opinion. Take, for instance, the church of Gumfreston,
near Tenby (Fig. 26), already known to the reader through its medicinal
spring (p. 95 _supra_). This sequestered church is built on the inner
slopes of that high ridge which, on the North, overhangs the lovely vale
of St Florence. Almost enclosed by trees, with whose foliage the
ivy-wreathed tower quietly harmonizes, the tall fabric is approached
unwittingly, so that, when the visitor reaches the gate of the
churchyard, the
[Illustration: FIG. 26. Gumfreston church, near Tenby, Pembrokeshire, a
building with a defensive tower.]
picture calls forth a sudden exclamation of pleasure. A second and more
critical glance reveals the chief features of the tower. Its height, 65
feet, is especially noticeable. Like other towers which we have met, it
tapers a little, and it is crowned with a battlement. Each of its five
stories was evidently devoted to a particular use. Freeman has noted
them: a ringers’ chamber below, followed by stories which had windows
looking towards the North and East, then a room fitted up as a dovecot,
and lastly the belfry itself[291]. The date of the Gumfreston tower is
fixed approximately at A.D. 1300. Of the Pembrokeshire series as a
whole, Freeman says that they were all built within “castle times,” and
that they belong to “all manner of centuries from the first to the last
Harry[292].” He further considers that he could discern preparations for
habitation in “some of the vaulted apartments.” The simple character of
the Pembroke towers formerly led many writers to assign them to a
pre-Norman period, but this opinion is now discredited. On the other
hand, the evidence shows that they are not, as a class, late Tudor
buildings, as extremists in the contrary direction have suggested.
A subtle objection is made that the towers may be simply imitations of
castellated architecture, and that the resemblance, being incidental and
unintentional, has no recondite significance. There is some degree of
force in the contention, because there must have been interaction of
influence. Thus, not only in semi-secular buildings, like the abbot’s
barn of Bradford-on-Avon (Figs. 43, 44, pp. 171, 173 _infra_), but also
in castles and fortified mansions, like that of Nunney (Fig. 27), do we
meet with architectural features which are usually associated with
religious structures. Such details, as a rule, are best seen in doors
and windows, and they are in harmony with the Gothic styles of their
respective periods. Side by side with these ornamental features,
primitive arrangements for defence are retained, even in the Tudor
country mansions. In spite of this cross-influence it may be observed
that the defensive steeples occur just in those places where defence
[Illustration:
FIG. 27. Portion of Nunney Castle, Somerset, a fortified
manor-house, built A.D. 1373-1400. The corner towers probably
served as peles. In the windows (Decorated style) and in other
details, there is evidence of the relationship between religious
and secular architecture.
]
would be required. Often, as at Gumfreston, the church was the only
building strong enough to give adequate security to human beings and to
portable property. Castles do not exist everywhere, neither, indeed, do
these sturdy towers; but the one group seems to be largely complementary
to the other. Exception has also been taken to the evidential value of
the narrow window openings. Mr Allcroft, while expressing agreement with
the theory that ecclesiastical towers were frequently employed for
protection, deprecates an appeal to these narrow slits as affording
satisfactory testimony[293]. He contends that the openings were made
strait and were provided with an inner splay to minimize draughts. That
they would be moderately efficient for this purpose may be conceded. Not
only the ordinary current of air, but the high gale, had to be foreseen
and provided against. Glazing the apertures was out of the question, in
the early times when glass was a costly article, especially in remote
counties. But there is another mode of approaching the question. What
was the purpose of the well-known “oillets” in buildings purely
defensive? Even in primitive warfare no tower was impregnable if it
presented wide openings to the foe. Arrows and slingstones would, under
certain conditions, prove more swift and deadly agents than fire itself.
We may grant that the round-headed twin aperture, with its single plain
baluster-shaft in the middle, so familiar in the late Saxon towers of
England, was not avowedly of a defensive character. That admission does
not exclude a belief in the defensive value of the narrow window. During
the Perpendicular period a tiny battlemented parapet was frequently used
for the ornamentation of a capital or transom, but such a practice does
not negative the original use of the battlement in fortification.
Further it might be reasonably argued that the strait window-opening was
copied from secular strongholds because it originally served one purpose
in all cases. The point is not of prime importance, but it is worthy of
note that the narrow loophole continued to prevail after glass had come
into general use for church windows, and after bells had become common.
The price of glass was, therefore, not the deterrent. Again, the
bell-ringer would perhaps have actually welcomed a wider opening.
Whatever may have been the motive, we find that, from the Early English
period onward, the tiers of spire lights known as dormer window’s or
lucarnes, though mainly decorative in character, continued to be made
very narrow. On the other hand, these dormers were so arranged that one
series was placed, with respect to the group above or below, on
alternate sides of the spire. One fact remains; in towers which were
designed to withstand attack, the retention, if not the initiation, of
the narrow type of opening, suggests motives of strategy.
Before quitting the English towers it is well to note that the strength
of many of them was tested during the Civil War. In Devonshire alone, a
number of instances can be brought forward. The Parliamentary troopers
turned the towers of Powderham and Ottery St Mary into temporary
fortresses, while the Royalists annexed those of Tiverton, St Budeaux,
and Townstall[294]. In Wiltshire and Yorkshire, again, several churches
were used as shelter for men and horses. Thorold Rogers asserts that the
Royalists garrisoned the parish church of a Hampshire town, the name of
which, however, he does not give, and, thus protected, withstood a siege
and cannonade[295]. The reader will doubtless recall many instances in
which tradition tells of church walls battered by shot and shell. Making
due allowance for exaggeration, it must be admitted that folk-memory has
a sound basis in fact, and some, at least, of the damaged buildings may
be genuine illustrations of the effects of assault by artillery.
It is all but impossible to bid farewell to defensive steeples without
some reference to the famous round towers of Ireland. The disinclination
to ignore the subject is increased by the knowledge that these
structures afford collateral proof of the defence theory. For the best
instructed modern opinion pronounces them to be fortresses as well as
belfries. These towers, which have been the cause of an abiding
controversy, are typically tall and slender, and are surmounted by
conical caps. Their height ranges roughly from about 60 to 125 feet. The
number of examples still remaining is given as 76, and they are found
exclusively in association with some early church, or with some
ecclesiastical settlement. The usual position is near the North-West
door of the church[296]. This fact alone indicates their connection with
early Christianity. A typical round tower, somewhat restored, is that of
Devenish, situated on an islet of the same name in Lower Lough Erne,
county Fermanagh (Fig. 28). In the vicinity is the ruined priory of St
Molaise, as well as several other ecclesiastical remains.
[Illustration:
FIG. 28. Round tower of Devenish, on Devenish Isle, Lower Lough
Erne, near Enniskillen. Height, 84 feet; doorway, 9 feet from the
ground; walls, 4 feet thick. The windows approximately face the
Cardinal Points. A string course will be seen around the base of
the conical cap.
]
A gradual advance can be traced in the architectural style of the round
towers. The stages of their development were parallel to, and probably
contemporaneous with, those of the churches and oratories[297]. Three
periods of building have been distinguished. It is not until the
beginning of the tenth century, says Miss Eleanor Hull, that we find the
towers mentioned, and none can be dated earlier with certainty. They are
later in date than the churches built by St Columba at Raphoe, Kells,
and elsewhere, and they belong essentially to the period when the
Northmen made their attacks on Ireland. Nevertheless, they continued to
be built until the middle of the thirteenth century[298]. All these
facts are of vast interest when we recollect those Lincolnshire churches
which, folk-memory tells us, once served as refuges from the Danes.
Normally, the round tower contained three stories, and, like many of the
English towers before described, had the outside door placed high up in
the wall, so that it was accessible only by means of a ladder.
Similarly, the oratory of Kells has three small chambers, or attics,
between its round barrel vault and the outer pointed roof of stone;
these chambers could be reached only by the aid of a long ladder, and
entered through a hole in the inside roof. Viewed in comparison with the
other buildings of the period, the oratory represents a lofty structure.
It has a highly pitched roof, and receives no light save what is
afforded by two small windows. This building is assigned by Miss M.
Stokes to the year A.D. 807[299].
In passing, we note that the round tower was probably developed from the
beehive hut, and became specialized for a definite purpose, which we
shall discuss in a moment or two. The beehive house, in its turn, was
most likely evolved from the wattled dwellings of the ruder aborigines
of Ireland. Professor A. C. Haddon cited authorities to show that the
round towers structurally betray their pagan design, by their retention
of string-courses which serve no useful object. The towers, he
considers, are, in reality, derived from primitive wicker huts, circular
in plan, and of a somewhat tall type[300].
We now inquire what purpose the towers were intended to serve. The
answer, though given with a fair degree of decisiveness to-day, has been
long in coming, and there still exists a minority of writers who dissent
from the orthodox view, and who favour other theories, some of which are
of the fantastic kind.
The earliest name given to the round tower, so far as is yet recorded,
is _cloictech_, or belfry (A.D. 948). Naturally, therefore, one is led
to associate the towers with bells; yet, seeing that only small
hand-bells are believed to have been in existence at that date, a large
tower of masonry would not be needed for their reception. Nor, again,
would these small bells have been well heard, when rung from the top of
the tower, even by folk standing at the base[301]. The insignificant
windows of the earlier towers are, for some unknown reason, usually near
the floor. The later structures, it is true, have windows near the top,
facing different points of the compass. These examples may have been
used as belfries proper. Speaking generally, the towers were,
nevertheless, not belfries. Even could it be proved that, co-eval with
the towers, there existed a knowledge of bell-casting, that would not
settle the question, because there are no structural signs that bells
were ever hung, or rung, within the buildings. We may conclude, then,
that the towers were, in part, depositories for bells, though not
themselves actually bell-towers.
Dismissing a number of unsupported speculations, one by one, we are
finally shut in to the conclusion that the towers were originally
defensive. They were refuges for men, and storehouses for valuable
property. This is the verdict delivered by those who, like Miss M.
Stokes and Miss E. Hull, know the round towers best[302]. Mr G. T.
Clark, in his early study of the subject, thought that the towers were
principally intended to receive bells, and that their uses for refuge
and storage were later adaptations. In after years, he changed his
opinion, and declared that what he had formerly deemed the secondary
purpose, was in reality the sole one[303]. A more recent authority, Mr
Francis Bond, has compared the round tower with the Italian campanile,
of which he considered it to be a local variety. But he draws this great
distinction: the Italian structure was built to receive bells, and may
afterwards have served for defence; with the builders of the Irish
towers, refuge was the primary idea, though, at a subsequent period,
bells were hung in the fortress. There remains an authority whose voice
must be heard with great respect. Mr J. Romilly Allen, while agreeing
that the bells of the early Celtic church were portable, and that they
were rung by hand, contends that the towers were erected to accommodate
bells of a heavier kind. Nevertheless, he admits that the Viking
invasion gave an impetus to the building of the towers[304]. This
divergence from the modern view is noteworthy, though if Mr Allen’s
statement were restricted to the later buildings, the theories would
harmonize fairly well.
When the Northmen swooped down upon a district, priests and people would
hasten to the nearest tower. Thither the fugitives carried their most
precious possessions: manuscripts, relics, sacred vessels, and
vestments. Some objects of this kind may have been housed in the tower
permanently. Once gathered within their asylum, the inhabitants were
comparatively secure. They could hurl stones and other projectiles from
the narrow loopholes, while they themselves were safe from danger, at
least, until relief arrived. On the other hand, missiles thrown by the
besiegers, either from the hand or a catapult, would rarely hit the
defenders inside. A successful battery could not be made in a few
minutes, and even firing the stone tower was not a speedy mode of
overpowering the refugees.
After the Danish incursions came to an end, the towers would still serve
as spy-places against native enemies, as “strongrooms” for protection
against thieves, and, probably, as we have seen, as bell-towers for
raising alarms. The pattern of the tower, moreover, would long survive
its original necessity. Summing up, we may say that the round towers
were defensive buildings, the use of which was mainly secular, but to
some extent ecclesiastical also. Perhaps we ought rather to say that the
religious and the secular uses were so blended that no demarcation could
be made.
The round towers suggest to us parallel usages in England. The first
similarity is that of the detached church tower, which is not a rare
feature in our Gothic architecture. Selecting a few examples from a
numerous list, we notice the isolated tower of Walton, Norfolk;
Berkeley, Gloucestershire; Evesham, Worcestershire; and Ledbury,
Herefordshire. The last-named county supplies several instances, a fact
not without interest, in view of the geographical position. Bosbury
tower, Hereford, is situated 60 yards from the South side of the church;
while that of Pembridge, which stands on an eminence, is 25 yards
distant from the main body of the building. As with the hill-top
churches, the peasantry generally have a tradition to explain the
anomaly. Thus, at Warmsworth, Yorkshire, two sisters, charitable, but
obstinate, are said to have made a bequest for the building of a church.
Each lady had chosen a site for the church; neither would give way. The
fabric was in consequence built in detached portions. The bells call the
folk to church in one direction, the congregation walks away to service
in another. Obviously, the ordinary folk-tales, as told nowadays, do not
fully explain the facts. In several cases, as at Wickes and Wrabness, in
Essex, and at Brookland in Romney Marsh, it is evident, from the size
and construction of the tower, that it was built, not for hanging bells,
but for defence and refuge. The English detached towers, it will be
remarked, are usually square, not circular. The round detached tower of
Bramfield, in Suffolk, is an exception, and there may be others.
The circular towers of East Anglia (Fig. 29) are only partially
analogous to those of Ireland. They belong to various styles from the
Norman period onwards, but they are, as just mentioned, attached, not
free. Again, while the Irish towers are round because of their
development from primitive structures of that shape, the English towers
had their form determined by the nature of the building materials
available, flint and coarse rubble. Yet there are points of resemblance
also. The towers of Norfolk and Suffolk are usually devoid of ornament
or individuality. The windows, too, are commonly found in the upper
stories, and they face the Cardinal Points[305]. Many of the towers
overlook the North Sea, and they were doubtless used for posts of
observation, if not as receptacles for treasure. The custom of building
defensive towers, whether square or round, in connection with the
church, was, as before indicated, probably a legacy from Danish times.
But danger did not cease with the piratical raids of the sea-kings. No
one who has not lived on the sea-coast, especially on the East or South
coast of England, can rightly appreciate the fears which beset maritime
folk with respect to invasion. We see the alarm translated into action
at the time of the Armada, during the Dutch Wars, and at the period of
the Napoleonic struggle, when the martello towers were built, nay, we
witness its influence in our own day.
[Illustration: FIG. 29. Rushmere church, Suffolk, with Early English
round tower. The upper portion has been rebuilt.]
Of the three attached round towers still existing in the county of
Sussex, that of Piddinghoe (Fig. 30) deserves notice. The immediate
explanation of the form adopted by the builders is that the necessity of
having stone quoins was thus obviated. But if this be the sole reason,
why are not such towers more common in Sussex? Consider the facts. The
church at Piddinghoe stands on a natural platform, at a slight, but
effective, elevation above the adjacent river Ouse. The tower, built c.
A.D. 1120, has the narrow, round-headed windows of the period. One of
these, facing West, is six feet from the ground. There is no external
doorway. At the time the church was erected there seems to have been no
other defensive building. One may fairly suppose that the tower was
used as a refuge against pirates and invaders, who would have only a few
miles to sail from the mouth of the Ouse in order to reach the village.
Another Sussex tower, a square structure in this instance, that of East
Dean (Fig. 31), probably served as a partial defence of the rising
ground above Birling Gap.
[Illustration:
FIG. 30. Norman tower (c. 1120) of Piddinghoe church, Sussex, seen
from the North-West corner of the churchyard. The tower is built of
squared flint, and the short spire is timbered.
]
In tracing the parallel which has been proposed, let us not lose sight
of the fact that the church of Mediaeval England was, as such writers as
Canon Jessopp have fully demonstrated, almost incredibly rich in
priceless relics and portable treasure. Chalices and basins and
thuribles; jewelled crosses, and candlesticks wrought out of precious
metals; lanterns and bells; vestments and girdles, brooches and buckles,
these and many other valuables, needed to be protected from theft.
Large and important churches, which possessed hoards of treasure, not
uncommonly had a watchman who spent the night in the sacred building.
Sometimes he was provided with a special chamber which was situated over
the porch, sacristy or vestry[306]. The Cathedral church of St Albans,
for instance, had a celebrated watching-loft which was erected about the
year A.D. 1400[307]. At Lincoln it was considered sufficient for
watchmen to patrol the Minster after nightfall. It may be added that
down to the sixteenth century, in such German cities as Ulm and
Frankfort-on-the-Main, watchmen lived in rooms constructed in the church
steeples. On the approach of strangers, or in times of alarm, the
watchman rang a bell, blew a horn, or fired a musket.
[Illustration:
FIG. 31. East Dean church, Sussex, from the North-West. The walls
of the tower, possibly pre-Norman, are very massive, about three
feet in thickness. An apsidal structure, the foundations of which
are still traceable, was attached to the Eastern face of the tower.
]
Another detail which is germane to the question of resemblances and
contrasts, is concerned with the word “belfry.” We have seen that, from
the earliest time of which we have documentary evidence, the Irish
towers were called by a name which is equivalent to “belfry,” but that,
notwithstanding, the structures were not originally bell-towers. The
English term “belfry,” now, indeed, denotes a building for hanging
bells, yet, contrary to popular belief, the word has no etymological
connection with the word “bell.” Sir James Murray and Professor Skeat
have collected irrefragable testimony proving that the Middle English
_berfrey_, and the Old French _berfrei_, in all their various spellings,
denoted a wooden tower, or pent-house, generally movable, employed in
besieging and defending fortresses. In due time the word came to signify
a watch-or beacon-tower, then an alarm tower, and, finally, a
bell-tower. The English form _belfray_, which seems to have misled the
earlier philologists, did not appear before the fifteenth century[308].
Hence we have this curious case of opposites: the Irish towers, at an
early date, possess a name which erroneously implies that they were
merely bell-houses, while the English steeples contained bells long
before the bell-chamber got the designation “belfry,” a word which
became spuriously connected with “bell.”
This review of the Irish towers and their possible analogues in England
must not further detain us, for we must hasten to consider another
secular use of the tower. Many English steeples were set up largely to
serve as beacons and landmarks, and, in fact, this purpose was doubtless
kept in mind even when the primary intention was defensive. Sometimes,
the entire building, rather than the steeple alone, was a landmark.
Whitby Abbey church, as is well known, is reached by ascending 199 steps
from the old town lying below in the valley of the Esk. The church is
believed, with good reason, to owe its prominent position to a desire,
on the part of its founders, to provide a lighthouse for storm-tossed
mariners. Much the same may be said of the parish church (St Mary’s)
which stands on the cliffs hard by. Again, comparing the small with the
great, and choosing, for the sake of emphasis, a towerless structure,
let us take the tiny square chapel of St Aldhelm (Fig. 32), which is
perched on the summit of St Alban’s Head, in Dorsetshire. This quaint
chapel, with its vaulted roof, and its interesting Norman doorway, has
unfortunately been greatly restored. The buttresses shown in the
illustration are modern additions; they are not seen in old engravings
of the chapel. The building looks down on the waves, 440 feet below,
but, so fierce are the storms now and then, that the chapel is drenched
with spray and bombarded with small pebbles. Within, says tradition,
chantry priests were wont to offer prayers for the sailors in the
Channel, while a beacon light was burnt on the roof. And, truly, no
other explanation sufficiently accounts for the presence of the chapel
in such a remote position[309]. Perhaps a similar reason will apply to
the conspicuously placed church of Cheriton, near Folkestone (Fig. 33).
[Illustration: FIG. 32. St Aldhelm’s chapel, St Alban’s Head, Dorset; a
beacon for sailors.]
A curious legend is told of St Botolph’s church, at Northfleet, in Kent.
The tower, originally set up, it seems, to guide ships coming up the
Thames estuary, proved too serviceable, for pirates found it an
excellent beacon. It was therefore thought fit, so the story runs, to
make the tower look like a fortress, and it was accordingly rebuilt by
the villagers[310]. We notice that there are steps leading from the
churchyard to the first floor, so that one is inclined to believe a
portion of the story, at least. Whether, however, this was a feature of
the original design is uncertain.
[Illustration:
FIG. 33. Cheriton church, Kent; an isolated hill-top church, of
Norman or pre-Norman foundation, built on the edge of a steep hill
overlooking the English Channel. The site was probably chosen so
that the church would serve as a landmark for mariners and
wayfarers.
]
On Brent Tor, Devon, at a height of 1130 feet, there stands a little
church which overlooks the very edge of a precipice. The diminutive
graveyard contains a few mouldering tombstones. The building, which was
probably first set up during the Early English period, is, like so many
others found on eminences, dedicated to St Michael, the tutelary saint
of churches so placed. (Cf. St Michael’s Mount, Cornwall, with its
former chapel and shrine (Fig. 34); Mont St Michel in Normandy, with its
Benedictine Abbey; Mont St Michel at Carnac, with its chapel, calvary,
prehistoric tumulus, and pagan legends.) The church was evidently
intended as much for a landmark as for a house of prayer. To explain its
exalted position, local tradition relates that a grateful merchant had
a struggle with the Evil One concerning the site, and that mastery
remained with the trader. To ask why the merchant desired to build in
such an unfavourable situation is to supply at once the missing link of
the chain.
[Illustration:
FIG. 34. St Michael’s Mount, Cornwall. The present building on the
top of the mount is almost entirely modern, little of the original
Priory church of St Michael being traceable. In this church was the
shrine of the saint.
“Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona’s hold.”
_Lycidas._
]
One may recall how, in the days when roads were execrably muddy, and
pathways across the boggy moorlands were intricate and difficult to
follow, it was customary to erect pillars, towers, and other guide-marks
at suitable spots. For instance, Dunston pillar, in Lincolnshire, was
reared (A.D. 1751) as a lighthouse to assist travellers in crossing the
desolate, thief-ridden expanse of Lincoln Heath. The practice of
building such towers continued until the nineteenth century, as is amply
proved by the famous monuments and towers of the Isle of Wight and
Somersetshire. Often the first intention has been lost, and the
buildings are considered as mere prospect towers. It must not, however,
be inferred that the beacon towers were never used for this last
purpose, though the need of protection, and not pleasure, gave the
impulse. A conspicuous church tower would serve the same object as a
toot-hill. At Royston, near Barnsley, may be seen, below the belfry, on
the West side of the tower, an oriel window, supported by a long corbel.
The recess thus formed was locally called the “lantern” or “look-out,”
and tradition says that a light was formerly burnt within it[311]. The
case of the tower of St Nicholas, Newcastle, is especially instructive.
It was furnished with a “lantern,” and was valued as an inland
lighthouse by wayfarers over the moors. But the remarkable fact about
the tower is that, from time immemorial, it has been repaired by the
Corporation of the city. Legal opinion, to this very day, upholds the
view of the liability of the Corporation[312].
St Michael’s church, poised on the summit of an outlier of Inferior
Oolite at Glastonbury Tor (cf. p. 16 _supra_), in Somersetshire, was
doubtless, like so many other churches of that county, a day-mark for
travellers. This section may conclude with a notice of a building which
is usually considered solely as a “pilgrims’ church,” but which, I feel
convinced, at one time served also as an important beacon. The church
referred to is that of St Martha, Chilworth, near Guildford (Fig. 35).
It stands on the top of a Greensand hill (720 feet), and is, for many
miles around, an outstanding object, whether viewed from the distant
heights or from the pleasant valleys below. Common belief ascribes the
foundation to the Mediaeval folk who traversed the Pilgrims’ Way to
Becket’s shrine at Canterbury. There can be no question that pilgrims of
those days would welcome such a church, both as a landmark and
as a temporary resting-place. The name of the church, St
Martha’s-on-the-Hill, is believed to be a perversion of “Martyr’s
Church,” the martyr being St Thomas of Canterbury. But the structure,
though rebuilt and modernized, has a foundation which dates somewhat
earlier than the year of Becket’s death. For this reason, and because of
contributory local tradition of a massacre of Christians, a high
authority on church dedications urges that the name should be “Martyrs’
Church,” and that the spot is consecrated, not to one person, but to
early Christians who suffered there[313]. It should be noted, in
passing, that St Martha’s is technically called a chapel, but that it is
really a church, as described above. It possesses all the customary
parochial rights, and is used for the usual functions. Legally, the
building is what is termed a “donative,” and is independent of episcopal
jurisdiction[314].
[Illustration: FIG. 35. St Martha’s chapel, near Guildford, Surrey. The
present cruciform building is a restoration (1848) of the supposed
“Pilgrims’ Church,” which had fallen into a ruinous condition. The view
is taken from the South, a little to the East of Chilworth station. The
Tillingbourne stream is seen in the foreground.]
Leaving the tower, we come next to the nave of the church, and approach
an attractive study--one that has exercised the minds of many observers.
Why should the size of the nave be often so utterly disproportionate to
the congregation which it has to accommodate? Has the population changed
inversely to such an extent since the church was built? One might
rashly deem the riddle solved by a reference to acts enforcing
conformity in religion, or to the half-truth that “all persons went to
church in those days.” On rare occasions, perchance, the inhabitants did
all go to church, at least those who were neither infantile nor
bed-ridden. But these explanations are idle. Churches may be found,
which, even if we allow that every adult in the village was a regular
churchgoer, could never at any time have been quite filled at a purely
religious service.
Various answers have been given to the troublesome query. At Thaxted, in
Essex, in whose church, as the natives say, all the parishioners might
comfortably be put to bed, the excess of accommodation is thought to be
explainable on the assumption that the builders provided for a growing
population. The general facts, however, are strongly against this
notion. William Cobbett, who will be admitted as a careful observer,
though his conclusions were frequently hasty, exemplified both his
strength and his weakness in discussing this subject. Over and over
again, in his _Rural Rides_, and his _History of the Protestant
Reformation_, he calls attention to churches, which, in his day, would
hold three or four times the total number of the inhabitants in the
respective parishes. From these facts, he deduces that the land in
Mediaeval times supported a greater number of folk, and that the
villages were larger and much more densely populated. Other writers,
favoured with greater opportunities than were available to Cobbett,
have, nevertheless, been betrayed into the same error. But the
population theory is now so generally discredited, that it is
unnecessary to rebut it directly by an appeal to the estimated
populations of the country during each successive century. Besides, an
estimated census of the population during the Edwardian period, for
instance, can never be more than approximate, and may itself cause more
controversy than the theory which it is warranted to disprove.
The seemingly obvious answer to the puzzle of spacious churches is, as
so often happens, incorrect. The best refutation, perhaps, is afforded
by general principles, and by certain ascertained facts. These
principles and facts are bound up with what has been briefly called “the
social theory of Mediaeval Christianity.” What this theory implies will
shortly appear. From a slightly different point of view, the inordinate
size of the nave directs us to a period when secular and sacred
departments of parish life were more closely blended than they are
to-day. Before developing this idea, however, we must pause, else we
shall find another hypothesis barring our way.
This latest hypothesis, and one which will command greatest attention
because of the high reputation of its advocates, might best be termed
“the devotional theory.” It may thus be stated: a large Mediaeval church
was not necessarily built for a large congregation, but it was, first of
all, a monument, freely raised, as a permanent expression of duty and
devotion to the Divine Father. Mr Francis Bond, who propounds this
theory, is dealing primarily with Westminster Abbey, but, from the
context, it seems clear that he supports a wider application. Here is an
Abbey church, a huge building, over 500 feet in length, and 100 feet in
height; yet it was erected, as documentary evidence proves, for a
congregation which was normally under sixty[315]. “It seems hardly
conceivable,” remarks Mr Bond, “that it could have been planned and
built for pigmy man who walks beneath; it seems not built for mortal man
by mortal men; man is overpowered by his own work[316].” No, this
vastness had another purpose besides that of the accommodation of
worshippers--it was man’s tribute to the Unseen, his attempt to
symbolize the Eternal and the Infinite. For, indeed, at the Great
Sacrament, “the priest of the church officiated, congregation or no
congregation,” and in the village church all the choir that could be got
together, as a rule, consisted of the parish priest and the parish
clerk[317]. A congregation of two: yet, as Thorold Rogers observes, “it
is certain that villages with fewer than fifty or a hundred inhabitants
possessed edifices which would hold a congregation of five, or even ten
times that number[318].”
Does the “devotional theory” furnish a full explanation of the
difficulty? As befits one who has learned many valuable lessons when a
student under Mr Bond, and who has almost unqualified admiration for his
teaching, I criticize the theory with some misgiving. Yet, though Mr
Bond’s solution is probably correct, in the main, with respect to our
cathedrals, minsters, and abbey churches, it seems quite unsatisfactory
for hundreds of parish churches. All thoughtful students must, indeed,
admit that the aesthetic and devotional aspect of church
architecture--its grandeur, its freedom, its wealth of what was choicest
in design and ornament, its sculpture, painting, stained glass, and
mosaic work--cannot be eliminated when considering the question of size.
These details are parts of a whole. Again, the daily service, constantly
observed until the Reformation, and, as recent investigation has shown,
probably never wholly discarded since that event[319], was a duty
undertaken, we may readily admit, irrespective of the number of
worshippers. The building was as magnificent and costly as wealth or
self-denial could make it. The resplendent vestments, the solemn
liturgy, and the beautiful music were the best that the age could
produce. So, too, the very vastness of the structure was a token that
the founders performed their work in no niggardly spirit of economy or
time-saving:
“They dreamed not of a perishable home,
Who thus could build.”
It must be understood that, with respect to the populace, this
description is largely theoretical. In practice, such lofty sentiments
would be confined to picked leaders and their devoted adherents. Even
with these churchmen, ideals were often degraded, and always
unattainable. Of the people in general, it may be said that beneath a
veneer of religion there existed an amorphous mass of heathenism. The
monks and parish clergy of remote districts were not merely the pioneers
of religion, but they represented the outposts of civilization amid a
population of semi-barbarians. But, in architecture, it was the leaders
who counted.
In spite of all these considerations, the argument from devotion appears
to be insufficient to meet the case, unless--an improbable event--the
secular uses of the nave, which are about to be described, were the
results of afterthought. Rightly to understand the problem, we must
constantly recollect two staple facts: first, that the early churchmen
were ever ready to adopt a compromise, and, secondly, that, especially
during the Mediaeval period, there existed a close relationship between
the secular and the religious aspects of social life. So many pieces of
evidence have to be colligated to explain the working of these two
principles, that it is difficult to make a beginning. But, since the
question of compromise has already been dealt with in Chapter I., we may
chiefly confine ourselves to the second point. On the whole, a start may
best be made by reviewing the meetings, other than those strictly
concerned with worship, which were held of old time in churches. Some of
these meetings must have comprised far more able-bodied men than were
ever collected together for a strictly religious celebration. In fact, a
particular church may have had to shelter not only the inhabitants of
the parish, but also the dwellers in several outlying parishes and
hamlets. What business was it that gathered these folk together?
When discussing pagan sites, we found that open-air courts, whether
territorial, or composed of members of a free community, commonly met
near some prominent landmark, natural or artificial (p. 34 _supra_). Of
these objects, megalithic monuments--particularly menhirs and
stone-circles--were much favoured. The stone-circles, as we saw, were in
later days gradually abandoned, and the members of the community
assembled in the churches. We should reasonably expect to discover
evidence of overlapping of custom, and this is what we actually find.
For, at a date when gatherings on mounds and within cromlechs are still
sporadically recorded, we find frequent references to courts held in
churches. Thus, during the Saxon period, trial by ordeal, which was
deemed a religious transaction, was conducted by the priests in the
parish church[320]. So early as A.D. 973, says Sir G. L. Gomme, a
_gemōt_ was held in St Paul’s, London, while in A.D. 1293 a court met in
Norham church, Northumberland[321]. The County Court, a very ancient
body, presided over by the sheriff, was held in the Sheriff’s Court, or
the Manor Court, but, if these were not convenient, the members
assembled in the open air, or in the church[322]. The Welsh laws of the
ninth and tenth centuries frequently refer to churches as courts of
justice[323]. Relics, it was declared, were unnecessary at trials held
in churches, for the church was the place of relics.
What is true of the Saxon and Norman times holds good for a somewhat
later period. At Ashburton, Devonshire, the annual courts of the
manorial lord met in the chapel of St Laurence, when such officials as
the bailiff and the port-reeve were elected[324]. The court leet, which,
under the feudal system, was charged with maintenance of the peace, and
which had jurisdiction over petty offences, frequently, as at Bolton,
assembled in church[325]. The Courts of the Lord Warden of the Cinque
Ports also met in a consecrated building[326]. Sometimes the business to
be transacted was of a trivial kind. At Alvingham, Lincolnshire, “the
Commune of the servants of the Ladye Nicholas,” or their “baylifes,” are
bidden to meet in the adjacent church of St Leonard, Cockerington, to
appoint a day for mowing grass in their common pasture[327]. But whether
the matters to be considered were light or weighty, the church seemed to
be the natural building for such gatherings. Hence, when Mr A. C.
Benson, in one of his delightful essays, speaks of the “great cruciform
structures” of the Fens, “built with no idea of prudent proportion to
the needs of the places they serve,” he does not take a comprehensive
view of local requirements.
The course of events just sketched might have been anticipated. Meetings
in the open-air having been discontinued, where were the folk to meet in
council? There was a poverty of suitable buildings. Long ago Fergusson
remarked on “the almost entire absence of municipal buildings during the
whole of the Middle Ages[328].” The short list of notable examples
which he was able to bring forward served to make the general absence
more striking. A few guild halls and town halls make up the catalogue
for the cities; the smaller towns have little to show of this kind.
There is consequently a basis for the belief, expressed by some
writers[329], that the use of churches as courts of justice was
“universal in feudal England.” The assertion is doubtless too general,
but, if for the word “universal,” we read “widespread,” it would be
quite correct. The case of St Nicholas, Newcastle--a church to which
allusion has already been made (p. 131 _supra_)--supplies a noteworthy
example of this usage. For centuries the burgesses met in that church
for public business. In the tower hung a bell, known as the “common
bell,” which was tolled on these occasions. Three times a year it also
summoned the freemen to their guild meetings, when a sermon was preached
by the Lord Mayor. This bell had another name, “the thief and reever
bell” (_reever_ = freebooter, cattle-robber); tradition says that it
announced the holding of fairs, and gave warning to drovers and dealers
that no inconvenient questions would be asked concerning the beasts
which they had for sale[330].
In view of the foregoing facts, surprise need not be provoked by the
statement that consistorial courts were commonly held in places of
worship. If it be urged that much of the business of these courts
pertained strictly to religion, it may be answered that a still greater
proportion was distinctly secular[331]. At Ripon, for example, where the
collegiate church was the place of assembly, the ecclesiastical courts
took cognizance of cases of perjury, theft, defamation of character,
debt, affiliation, and so forth. A similar court sat in the “galilee”
(porch, vestibule, or ante-chapel) of Durham cathedral[332]. The most
famous of our consistories, the Court of Arches, derived its name from
the characteristic architecture of the church of St Mary-le-Bow,
London, where it was originally held[333]. The trials of Lollards and
other heretics were usually held in cathedrals or important
churches[334], but these instances must not detain us, since they belong
chiefly to the religious field of action. Yet it is really a hard task
to decide where the line of cleavage runs. The bishop in his cathedral,
and the abbot in his abbey-town, were, as Mr J. C. Jeaffreson has
observed, in many respects comparable to the lay baron or the wealthy
manorial lord. Administering large estates, these dignitaries often had
an army of tenants, from whom fealty was exacted. The business
transactions connected with the property must have been somewhat
numerous, and, from their very nature, they were constantly recurring.
It may call forth wonder nowadays to specify some of the curious
possessions once held by the Church. The Gate House, the chief prison in
Westminster, belonged to the Dean and Chapter, and the town gaol of
Salisbury to the bishop of that city[335]. Of the stocks and whipping
post we shall have to speak later. Enough has been said to prove that
secular courts, as well as justices’ sessions, formerly met in churches.
The practice, it may be added, continued, to some extent, long after the
Reformation. The persistence of some of the legal vestiges is indeed
really amazing. Not only, as Mr Addy informs us, was the ancient order
of serjeants-at-law wont to meet in the nave of old St Paul’s, to meet
clients in consultation, but each serjeant actually had a pillar
allotted to him. This rendezvous was known as Paul’s Walk. Down to a
late period, certain executors met annually in St Mary’s church at Bury
St Edmunds, for the auditing of their accounts.
But custom was never uniform with respect to these assemblies within
sacred buildings. Contemporaneously with the use, in some parishes, of
the church fabric for meetings, we find other villages where the
churchyard was the rallying-place. Several causes may have conduced to
these results. The church may have been too small; there may have been a
quarrel with some strict incumbent; more frequently, there was a dispute
about the interpretation of a prohibitory canon. Indeed, records show
that the practice was always being condemned, and always being
continued. Thus, during the reign of Henry II., the old port-moot of the
burgesses of Oxford met in St Martin’s churchyard[336]. Meetings in
church were forbidden at the Synods of Exeter and Winchester (A.D.
1287)[337]. Yet, in A.D. 1472, the inhabitants of two Yorkshire parishes
were reported to the Archbishop of York for holding councils in the
churchyard. (“_Dicunt quod omnes parochiani tenent plebisitum, et alias
ordinaciones temporales, in ecclesia et cimiterio_[338].”) Nevertheless,
in the sixteenth century, we find that one of Laud’s unpopular acts was
his attempt to stop the practice of holding lay tribunals in consecrated
places. At Tewkesbury, in particular, the townsfolk deemed this a
grievance. Armed with a licence from the bishop, and shielded by ancient
custom, the justices of the peace had long held their sessions in the
churchyard. For these acts, the primate called some of the justices into
the High Commission Court. When challenged, Laud was obliged to confess
that temporal courts might be held on consecrated ground or within the
church upon urgent occasion, yet there was no warrant for sessions which
might involve a “trial for blood[339].” Sir G. L. Gomme, who has
collected many instances of the custom which we are discussing, cites
authority to show that, in recent times, the stewards and bailiffs of a
leet would occasionally, in bad weather, disregard the canon and hold
their courts in churches[340].
As the practice of holding manorial courts in the church fell into
abeyance, or died out altogether, certain vestiges were left behind as
tell-tales of the past. The principal survival of this kind was the
announcement from the pulpit of forthcoming meetings of secular courts.
In A.D. 1656, the notice convening the Court Baron of Hathersage,
Derbyshire, was published in the village church[341]. But there are
later instances of the transaction of business within the sacred walls.
Several cases are given by Mr and Mrs Sidney Webb, whose untiring
researches deal with the period which has elapsed since the Revolution
(1689-1835)[342]. Thus, the villagers of Puxton, Somerset, down to the
year 1816, were summoned to church by “sound of bell,” in the early
morning, to perform business connected with Dolmoors Common. Of this
land, we are told, 23 parts were assigned by drawing lots, the
remaining, or twenty-fourth part, known as the “Outdrift” or “Outlet,”
being let by auction, by “inch of candle.” The rent of this plot was
employed to defray the incidental expenses of the twelvemonth. This
ancient custom was terminated, in the year mentioned, by an award under
the Enclosure Act which was passed in 1811[343]. Records of this
character could doubtless be easily paralleled by those students who
have access to parish documents. For, speaking generally, at the close
of the seventeenth century, the inhabitants at large had, both by common
law and immemorial local custom, the right to be summoned, by tolling of
the bell, to transact specific business in the vestry of the church.
This claim held good not only for the Easter “vestry,” but for such
other “town meetings” as might be judged necessary. Manifestly, these
“open” vestries could not always be accommodated in the small side-rooms
with which we are familiar--the nave must have been utilized. Within the
sacred building, officers were elected, church rates made, and
miscellaneous matters, such as those connected with commons, pasturage,
and the parish pound, were settled[344]. The old name of these
assemblies, by the way, seems to have been “town meeting,” yet the name
“vestry” goes back to A.D. 1564, at least. The summoning bell bore the
significant name of mote-bell, and it was rung for half an hour[345].
It has been affirmed, by H. R. von Gneist, that the open parish vestry
was almost unique in England, since, besides the House of Commons, it
was the only popular assembly which had the right to impose compulsory
taxation. Yet, according to Mr and Mrs Webb, the legal framework was
slight, and the proceedings were “supported with some dubiety[346].”
Again, it was argued by Professor Maitland and Bishop Hobhouse that the
vestry is not traceable before the fourteenth century--the name itself,
as we have seen, is apparently later--that it belonged to the parish,
not the township, that it was “a purely ecclesiastical entity,” and that
churchwardens are officials of comparatively modern institution. In
short, the authorities mentioned considered that the germ of the vestry
was ecclesiastical, though its civil power may have sprung from the
decay of the manorial courts[347]. It is further considered that it was
only during the reign of Henry VIII. that churchwardens were entrusted
with civil functions, such as providing arms or harness for
soldiers[348] (cf. p. 157 _infra_). In later times, even within living
memory, we have had the so-called “close” vestries. Usually, a close
vestry consisted of the clergyman, the squire, three or four farmers,
the miller, the innkeeper, and a freeholder or two. Mr and Mrs Webb
pertinently remark that, if one’s imagination is greatly swayed by the
idea of the close vestry, it will be difficult to picture the assemblies
which met in past ages. We must conceive an assembly composed of
numerous and diverse constituents, and endowed with various powers.
Here, then, we get a ray of light on the theory of social convenience as
affecting the church fabric.
We may remind ourselves, as we go along, that vestries are still held in
our English parishes, and that they meet in the room attached to the
church fabric. But their powers are now confined to ecclesiastical
matters. Other business, such as the control of parish property, and the
management of civil charities, was, by the Local Government Act of 1894,
transferred to the Parish Councils. And this mention of the stripping
away of secular powers leads us to ask, Were the original vestries,
which Professor Maitland deemed purely ecclesiastical, so entirely
restricted to church matters as at the present day? Probably not,
because, as we have seen, the secular and the ecclesiastical were, in
some measure, inextricably united. Even supposing, then, that the open
vestry did not rise from the ruins of the old village-moot, it must have
partially dealt with secular affairs. The simple fact, however, which
affects the present discussion is that the old parish meetings were,
like the modern vestry, held within the walls of the church.
Another derivative from the era of church assemblies is the custom of
electing mayors within the sacred building. Formerly, the mayors of
Sandwich, Boston, Northampton, Grantham, and other towns were chosen in
the parish church[349]. Sometimes, not only was the election conducted
in church, but the function was performed around a particular tomb. This
was the case with the mayor of New Romney and the bailiff of Lydd, in
Kent[350]. At Brightlingsea, Essex, the place of election was the
belfry.
Still another survival, eloquent even in its insignificance, is the
practice of posting secular notices on church doors. When one sees,
affixed to the door, bills referring to such subjects as regimental
orders or government commissions, and when one watches the villager
scanning the list of parliamentary voters, it is easy to dismiss the
matter by saying, “Oh! the notices are posted there because the place is
public and known to all; besides, the Church is established by law.”
Doubtless, such ideas are often present in the mind of the overseer or
parish clerk when he pins the bill on the door, but inquiring folk want
to know more. If the query be closely pressed, the response may be that
the door of the porch is not considered a part of the fabric. For this
explanation there is an appearance of reason, but, after all, the reply
is inadequate. The fact that the baptismal service, and a portion of the
marriage service, were often performed in the church porch, shows that
the structure was recognized as a part of the hallowed building. It is
true that, in France, one may observe “affiches” posted inside the
cathedral, because the porch is deemed a part of the exterior, and
notices which are placed in the latter position must be stamped, and the
duty paid. How the idea has arisen it would be difficult to say with
certainty. But there is one feature which the French and English
buildings have in common. The porch was pre-eminently the spot for
discussing parish business, because it formed a convenient shelter and
halting place for the worshippers. It was a focus of attraction to
gossips and traders alike. The real reason, then, behind the tradition,
is, not so much that the porch was a kind of no-man’s land--a neutral
territory--but that it was a most appropriate rallying point for the
transaction of business. To this subject we shall return in the next
chapter.
The retention of the Royal Arms in churches has been supposed by Mr Addy
and other writers to be a secular survival. Mr Addy suggests,
inferentially, that the practice is a relic of the “basilica-temple”
period[351]. But, in the first place, the symbol does not seem traceable
to the old civil or ecclesiastical courts. It is true that the Royal
Arms may be seen on stained glass, and, occasionally, on priestly
vestments of the pre-Reformation period. Again, in Spanish churches, the
Arms are displayed at the present time, sometimes even over the altars.
Further, although the symbol began to be exhibited in special tablets or
frames almost immediately after the death of Henry VIII., it was not
until the Restoration that the suspension of the Royal Arms was made
compulsory[352]. While it is clear, therefore, that the symbol has no
necessary connection with Protestant reformations, it seems to be
straining the facts too far when one tries to carry the practice back to
the early centuries of the English Church. It is essential, too, to
remember that Royal Arms, as we understand them, did not exist in the
pre-Conquest period. There remain, however, more authentic relics of the
union of secular and ecclesiastical affairs which must be reserved for
the present, since it is high time to consider another aspect of the
question. To do this properly, we shall require a separate chapter.