As the manor-house with its hall was the centre of the organization for
civil purposes, so was the Church the religious centre of the parish.
In a considerable number of cases it certainly occupies the place of
the older temple, in which the thane or chief was godi or priest as
well as law-man in his hall.
This was not always the case; a good many of our churches are of later
and exclusively Christian foundation, and were then planted in such
place as was determined by quite other considerations.
The parish church is full of interest connected with the parish, it has
been built and decorated by the ancestors of the humble inhabitants of
the place, the yard about it contains their dust; in it they have left
something of their very best--to be swept away by the modern restorer
to put in his own stuff, manufactured at a distance, the whole executed
by a strange contractor employing strange workmen. The village people
have done nothing towards it, but have looked on to see the monumental
slabs of their forefathers torn up, some sawn in half and employed to
line drains, the frescoes that their forbears had painted scraped away,
the Jacobean altar rails turned by ancient carpenters of the village
thrown forth to rot, and their place supplied by some painted and gilt
stuff, procured from Messrs. This and That, near Covent Garden, chosen
from an illustrated catalogue.
Some wiseacres cry out because antiquaries complain at this
devastation, but have not these latter a right to complain when
parochial history written in the parish church is being obliterated?
And is it not better to leave things alone, than put them into the
hands of strangers? In my own neighbourhood is a church, Bridestowe,
that had a beautiful wood screen. An incumbent gave up this church
to a restorer. He cut down the screen, took the tracery of the
screen-windows, sawed it in half, turned it upside down, and employed
it to glue on to some wretched deal bench-ends, and to a breastwork
screen to the chancel, and to ornament a deal door.
At Sheepstor was a gorgeous screen, rich with gold and colour. I
remember it well. The church was delivered over to a local builder to
be made neat, and cheaply--above all, cheaply. He destroyed the entire
screen, and left the church a horror to behold. Now the present rector
has recovered a few poor fragments of the screen and has stuck them up,
attached to a pillar with a box beneath, pleading for subscriptions for
the reconstruction of what was wantonly destroyed fourteen years ago.
In the year 1851, when I was a boy of seventeen, I went a walking tour
in Devonshire, and halted one day at Kenton to see the church. I found
in it not only one of the finest screens in the county, but also the
very finest carved oak pulpit, richly coloured and gilt. I at once made
a careful working drawing of it to scale.
[Illustration: THE OLD PULPIT, KENTON]
Years passed away, and not till 1882 did I revisit the church--when,
judge my distress. It had been put into the hands of an architect
to "restore," and he had restored the pulpit out of existence, and
replaced it by the thing represented on the next page.
I at once asked the rector what had become of the old pulpit, which,
by the way, had been hewn out of the trunk of an enormous oak tree.
He replied that he knew nothing about it--except that he thought some
scraps of the carving were in the National School. I then went to
the school-house and questioned the master about it. He said that he
believed there was some old carving in a cupboard--and there we found
it, with dusters, old reading books, a dirty sponge, and any amount
of cobwebs and filth. The rector kindly allowed me to carry away the
scraps, and with them and my working drawing taken thirty-one years
before we found that it was possible to reconstruct the old pulpit,
and now--thanks to my cousin, who has illustrated this book, and the
zeal of the new rector of Kenton--this splendid pulpit has been
restored--really restored this time.
[Illustration: THE MODERN-GOTHIC PULPIT, KENTON]
Let this be a lesson to rectors and others who put their poor churches
into the hands of architects.
I do not know that human perversity is more conspicuous in anything
than in the monstrous Belgian carved wooden pulpits, that are the
admiration of visitors and the pride of sacristans. They are enormous
erections of oak, marvellously pieced together, and carved to represent
various sacred scenes, the figures being life-sized.
The pulpit in Antwerp Cathedral represents Europe, Asia, Africa, and
America, in half-draped allegorical figures; above whose heads trees
intertwine, with birds among the branches, and amidst leaves and
beetles and lizards and snails appears the preacher as another _lusus
naturæ_.
A good number of ancient pulpits remain in English churches, some of
oak, others of stone. A pulpit of iron is said to have existed formerly
in the Cathedral at Durham; and I have seen one such of very elaborate
character at Feldkirchen, in the Vorarlberg.
Who can say but that we shall be having them in aluminium before long!
There is a fashion in these things, and we are at the dawn of an
aluminium age. That will have one advantage; it will see the close of
the epoch of Bath-stone and marble pulpits, all ugly and unsuitable,
in our cold northern climate, where the pulpit should be calculated to
warm, not to chill.
There is a fashion not only in the material of which pulpits are made,
but also in their structure. At one time they were very high up above
the heads of the congregation, then they were let down very low, so
that the preacher was scarce raised at all, and now they are pushed a
little further up. In a church I know the central stem of the pulpit
is of stout oak. When the fancy was that the preacher should be high
up, then the end of the post was planted on the ground. Then came the
fashion that it should be low, accordingly a deep hole was sunk with
a pick under the base, and the post lowered into it. Presently it was
considered that the lowness of the pulpit was too considerable, the
preacher was inaudible at the end of the church; accordingly pick and
spade were engaged again, and the post pulled half-height up again and
there wedged. Here is a suggestion for future use. Why not have the
stem telescopic? Then the whole body of the pulpit can be made to go up
or come down, as suits the preacher's voice.
I remember some years ago hearing that Bishop Wilberforce when he ruled
the See of Oxford was once, and once only, disconcerted in the pulpit.
This was the occasion. He had gone to preach at the opening of a new
church, or the restoration of an old one, I cannot recall which. Now
one of the great improvements introduced was that the floor of the
pulpit was so contrived as to work upon a screw to adapt the height
within the pulpit to the occupant. The pulpit was circular internally,
and as the screw turned it turned the floor round. The parish clerk was
vastly pleased at the ingenuity and convenience of this arrangement,
and considered that the reopening of the church demanded imperatively
the exhibition of the new mechanism. He waited till the bishop was in
the pulpit, and had said, "Let us pray," when he went to the vestry
and began to work the crank. To his inexpressible surprise Bishop
Wilberforce found the book-board slipping from before his face, and
that he was revolving, and facing in quite a different direction from
that which he had taken up when he called for the prayers of the
congregation.
Presently the red face of the clerk appeared looking approvingly
through the vestry-door, to see how the mechanism worked, and then with
renewed energy he fell to at the crank, and round went the prelate
again, and his face to his great puzzlement was brought back to the
book-board.
He got through the collect somehow, rose to his feet, and gave out the
text.
To his infinite concern and perplexity he began his text facing the
congregation, and ended it presenting his back to them. Not only so,
but he was obviously rising out of his pulpit, or rising higher in it
as he rotated on his axis.
It was in vain that he tried to begin his sermon, and shuffled into
suitable position, the floor revolved under him, and the book-board
and sides of the pulpit seemed to be sinking away from him. A sense of
nausea, of sea-sickness, came over the right reverend father, and he
feared that in another turn his knees would be level with the edge of
the pulpit. He became giddy.
By this time the incumbent of the church had discovered what was in
process, and precipitated himself into the vestry, threw himself on the
crank, and worked it backwards with a vigour truly admirable, but with
the result that he spun the bishop round in reverse order to that in
which he had gone up, as he let him down to a suitable level.
As I heard the story, I learned that on this occasion the eloquence of
Samuel Wilberforce deserted him.
How far the tale is true, I am not in a position to say. I tell the
tale as it was current at the time.
A certain fluent pulpit orator, a great luminary in his theological
school, had a spring contrivance at the back of his pulpit, into which
he could throw himself, and in which he could sway his body from side
to side.
The trumpet mouths in connection with tubes that are carried into pews
occupied by deaf persons have given rise to mistakes.
One preacher, who was short-sighted, and who always harangued
extempore, on entering the pulpit took off his spectacles, and, seeing
something circular beside the desk, supposed it to be a shelf or
bracket, and put the glasses on it, whereupon down shot the spectacles
and blocked the tube. Another, who had been provided with a glass of
water, emptied the vessel into the receiver, and the deaf old lady at
the end of the tube received into her ear--not a gush of oratory, but a
jet of water.
One hot summers day my wife and I happened to be at Eichstätt, in
Bavaria; the day was Whitsun Eve. We tried the doors of a large church,
and found them locked, with the exception of one small side door that
opened out of a cloister, and we entered the church by that.
To my great surprise I heard a voice high pitched and ringing through
the spacious vaults in earnest pastoral address. I thought this very
odd, as no one was in the church save an old sacristan, who was
dusting and decorating the side altars previous to the ceremonies of
Whit-Sunday.
My wife and I strolled down the side aisle, looking at the pictures,
and still the impassioned harangue pealed through the church. As we
passed the sacristan he began to laugh. We went further, and, having
seen all that was to be seen in the north aisle, emerged into the nave,
with the purpose of crossing the church to look at the pictures in the
south aisle, when we saw a young curé in the pulpit, gesticulating,
pouring forth a fervid address to his dearly beloved brethren--who were
conspicuously absent. Suddenly the preacher was aware of an English
gentleman and lady as audience. He paused, lost the thread of his
discourse, put his hand into his pocket for the MS., found it, but
could not find his place; made a new rush at a sentence; his voice gave
way, and, turning tail, he ran down the pulpit stairs, and darted out
of the church in confusion. He was a young priest, recently ordained,
practising his first sermon which he was to deliver on the morrow.
I have seen what is not often seen--women occupying a pulpit, and
that in a Roman Catholic church. It came about in this way. I was at
Innsbrück when the marriage took place of the daughter of the Governor
of Tyrol, Count Taaffe, with some distinguished nobleman.
The cathedral was crammed with all the _élite_ of the place, and
there was no seeing the blush on the cheek of the bride, for there
was no seeing the bride at all for the crowd. Beside me were two very
well-dressed ladies who were extremely troubled at this. I believe,
however, they were more anxious to have a good sight of the bridegroom
than of the bride.
"My dear Ottilie," whispered one to the other, "this will never do. I
must, I positively must see them."
"But how, Nottburg, sweetest, is that to be done? We cannot get into
the gallery, that is packed."
"My angel! packed or not packed, I simply must see the ceremony. I
shall die if I don't."
"What can be done? There are women standing on the rails of the side
altars."
"My Ottilie, it is a matter of life or death. I must see."
"But how?"
"Hold--the pulpit!"
Now the pulpit was a gorgeous affair of marble and gilding, and was
accessible only by means of a little door in the wall. It was very
high. At once Nottburg and Ottilie, clinging to each other, worked a
way for themselves with their elbows, using them like fins, through the
crowd towards this particular door. I watched them. No one else had
thought of invading the pulpit. Through the door they went, and they
bolted it behind them, and in another moment there they were, bonnets
and feathers and smiles, in the pulpit, and no one could dislodge them,
as they had secured the door behind.
I have said there is a fashion in pulpits, and there is caprice as
well. A very eloquent preacher I know entertains the idea of having
space in which to stride about. Accordingly he set up in his new church
an oblong platform, measuring 10 ft. by 5 ft., and he enclosed it with
a plain deal railing, 3 ft. 6 in. high. He himself being a very tall
man, this suited him admirably. He would place both his hands on the
rail, and swing the upper portion of his body over when he sought to
be impressive. Unhappily, for a great festival, he invited by letter a
stranger, whom he had never seen, to preach for him. On the arrival of
the strange preacher, he proved to be a very small man indeed. Still,
I do not think it occurred to the incumbent to make provision, nor did
he realize what the result would be, till the _Preacher of the Day_
ascended the pulpit, when, at once, by rector, by choir, by the entire
congregation, it was seen that the sermon could, would, must be nothing
but a farce. The preacher was visible in the pulpit--and looked for all
the world like a white rabbit hopping about in a cage, his head could
hardly be seen over the top.
At once vergers were sent with hassocks, and two of these were placed
in the pulpit, one balanced on top of the other, and on this the little
man had to maintain his equilibrium--or seek to maintain it, not always
successfully, as at intervals one hassock would slip away, whereupon
the preacher's head disappeared, and the sermon was interrupted while
he chased the evading hassock and replaced it as a footstool.
When I was an undergraduate at Cambridge there was a very little
man incumbent of a certain church, and not only was he little, but
there was something indescribably comical in his appearance. The only
occasion on which I went to service there this odd little man mounted
the pulpit with great solemnity and gave out as his text: "I am
fearfully and wonderfully made." I can remember nothing of his sermon,
but the sight of the droll little object in the pulpit giving out this
text is ineffaceable in my memory.
There is one feature of the ancient pulpit which is not now reproduced.
This is the sounding-board. No sounding-boards were employed to assist
the voice in mediæval churches, but then such churches were built in
proportions acoustically suitable, and it is hard to find an ancient
church in which the voice does not travel easily. The forming of
square and high pews no doubt did much to interfere with ease in
preaching, as every such pew became a trap for catching the waves of
sound. Consequently the device of a sounding-board was introduced
when churches were chopped up into boxes, and the voice needed
concentration and assistance. When the pews disappeared, the need for
the sounding-board ceased and it has disappeared likewise.
In one of the groups of islands in the South Pacific where the Wesleyan
missionaries have succeeded in converting the natives, a friend of
mine was desirous of doing something as a recognition of much kindness
which he had received from the chief, and before leaving the island he
asked the chief what he could let him have as a token of his regard.
The native replied that there was one thing he and his people craved
for with all the ardour of their fiery tropical blood--and this was a
pulpit. In the island of Rumtifoo visible in the offing, the converts
had a very fine pulpit in their chapel, but here in this island was
none; would Mr. X---- give him a pulpit? The Englishman pondered. He
had never in his life made a pulpit, and he had never accurately
observed the organic structure of a pulpit, so as to know how to set
about to make one. However, in his desire to oblige, he took counsel
with an English sailor, and these two set to work to design and execute
a pulpit.
Their initial difficulty was, however, how to get the proper material.
No wood boards were to be had except some old champagne cases. These
cases were knocked to pieces, and out of the boards an octagonal pulpit
was reared.
When got into shape the two Englishmen walked round it, eyed it, and
agreed that something was wanting to complete it, and that was a
book-desk. Accordingly this was fashioned out of some more pieces of
the champagne cases and fastened to the pulpit, which was now removed
to the chapel and set in position.
The English makers of the pulpit next seated themselves in front of it
and studied with a critical and, as far as possible, an impartial eye.
Both agreed that it would not quite do as it was, for on the boards
composing the sides were drawn in black large champagne bottles, and
there were fragments of the inscription, "This side up," worked into
the structure.
"It must be painted," said my friend.
"It must--certainly," responded the sailor. "It don't look quite as it
ort."
But no paint was procurable in the island. However, it was discovered
that a pot of Aspinall's enamel was in the island of Rumtifoo, and
the chief managed to negotiate an exchange--whether an ox, or so many
cocoanuts, or a wife was given for the enamel pot I cannot remember.
The pot, when procured, proved to be one of emerald-green. The brighter
the better, thought my friend; and he and the sailor proceeded to paint
the pulpit, and cover over the inscription and the bottles.
Great was the eagerness of the native chief to have the pulpit opened,
and he sent to the island of Kokabundi for a native evangelist to
occupy the pulpit for the first time, and sanctify it.
The evangelist came. The chapel was crammed with native Christians, and
the preacher ascended the emerald-green pulpit.
All went well for a while, all went very well till the preacher warmed
to his subject, and then he laid hold of the book-desk and swung
himself about, and banged on it with his sable fists, till--crack,
smash!--the book-desk went to pieces.
Nothing disconcerted, rather roused to more vehement action and
harangue, the evangelist now laid hold of the sides of the pulpit, he
dashed himself from side to side, he almost precipitated himself over
the edge, he grappled with the flanks, and pulled this way, that way,
till--crack! smash!--the sides began to gape like a tulip that is going
off bloom, and presently away went one side, then another, and the
whole pulpit was a wreck.
But this was not all; the paint had not been given time thoroughly to
dry; the hands of the orator were moist, not to say sticky, and the
paint came off on his fingers and palms, and as he wiped his face,
dripping with perspiration, he left on it great smears of emerald
enamel on nose and eyebrows, cheek and chin.
The congregation was worked up as by a magnetic influence: it sighed,
allelujahed, groaned, swayed, the women laid hold of each others
tresses and pulled as they rocked themselves, and when the preacher
banged on the desk, the native males in sympathy banged on each other's
pates as well. Some screamed, some fell on their backs and kicked.
Indeed, never since the conversion of the island had there been
known such a rousing revival as on this occasion; and great was the
exultation of the natives to think that one of their own preachers by
his fervour had "busted up" an English-made pulpit.
And now a few words on the old gallery at the west end of the church,
at present disappearing everywhere.
In every man's life there have been mistakes upon which he looks back
with self-reproach. Such a mistake was that which I made on entering on
the incumbency of East Mersea, in Essex.
A deputation waited on me, consisting of labourers, who asked that I
would restore the old instrumental music in the church, which had been
abolished by my predecessor.
Now my predecessor had provided a costly harmonium, of the best
procurable quality. I had to consider this. I considered, moreover, the
agonies I had endured as a boy from the performance of a west gallery
orchestra; so I declined to entertain the project.
Next Sunday was windy. There was in the church a stove, and to the
stove-pipe outside a cowl. In the wind the cowl twisted and groaned.
Afterwards I learned from a superior farmer's wife, that, having heard
of the purpose of the deputation to call on me, at the first groan
of the cowl her blood ran cold; with horror in all her nerves she
thought--"He has given way. Here is the orchestra tuning up!"
I regret, however, that I did not yield, for I believe now that no old
institution should be abolished that is capable of improvement. It is
quite true that the performances were torturing to the ear that was
educated, nevertheless they were the best that the village musicians
could produce, and therefore ought not to have been rejected. There was
in them an element of life, they were capable of improvement, and they
were homegrown.
The harmonium was a new instrument, it had to be played by the
schoolmistress, an importation; and, after all, a harmonium is an
odious instrument, only a degree better than the old village orchestra.
But I think that it was not merely the painfulness of the performances
of the old orchestra that caused their abolition. I am sure that
many a parson would have gone on enduring, having his ears tortured
and his teeth set on edge, had it not been for the discords in the
instrumentalists, as well as in the instruments.
The quarrels in the west gallery were proverbial. Strikes had begun
there long before they began in factories and coal-mines. Sometimes the
strikes were against the parson, if he interfered with the orchestra
for intemperate proceedings--leaving bottles of ale and spirits, or
rather leaving bottles that had contained these liquors--in the
gallery after practice night. Sometimes the strikes were against the
conductor, or the first violin, and I have a recollection of one of the
strikes being an emphatic one, when the fiddle-stick performed its part
on the head of the flute, and the flute on the head of the fiddle.
There was a dear old rector I remember, who said once: "I never can be
brought to believe that there will be music in heaven, for if there
be music there, there must be choirs and orchestra; and if choirs and
orchestra, then there can be no harmony."
The bickerings, the heart-burnings, in the west gallery were a constant
source of trouble to the parson, and if he seized on a means of
establishing peace by abolishing the orchestra, he was not altogether
to blame.
The first stage in getting rid of the village orchestra was taken by
the introduction of the barrel-organ. I can well recall that stage.
Now the barrel-organ had but a limited range of tunes. Our organ had a
vein of lightness and wantonness in it. How this came about I do not
know. But one of the tunes ground out on it was "The Devil's Hop."
This would never do. There were two elements of difficulty in it. In
the first place, if this tune were not turned on we would be one tune
the poorer in divine service. But it was intolerable that any psalm
should be sung to "The Devil's Hop." After much consideration the
difficulty was solved in this way. On the organ the title "The Devil's
Hop" was altered into "De Ville's Hope," and instructions were issued
to the grinder to grind slowly and solemnly. By this means the air
served for an Easter psalm.
I possess a very interesting manuscript. A great-uncle of mine, the
late Sir Edward Sabine, when a youth, was on one of the early Polar
expeditions. Whilst he was absent, a cousin kept a diary of the daily
doings at home, for his entertainment on his return. This was in 1819.
I believe my great-uncle never read the MS., but I have done so with
great delight.
Now in it occurs this entry:
"To-day--walked to South Mimms Church where a novelty has been
introduced--a barrel-organ in the west gallery, in place of the old
orchestra. I listened and thought it very beautiful, but I do not
approve of these changes in divine service. To what will they lead?
Where will be the end?"
My dear relative who penned these words is long since dead. What would
she have said had she lived to the present day?
The barrel-organ is gone now. It is a thing of the past. The next stage
was a little wheezing organ that cost about £20, sometimes even less.
Horrible little things they were, broken-winded, giving out squeaks
and puffs, and with no bass notes at all. Moreover, they were always
getting out of order.
One had been introduced into a neighbouring church in place of the
discarded barrel-organ, and the neighbourhood was invited to be present
on the Sunday in which it was to be "opened." But alas! It had opened
itself in an unexpected and irremediable manner--irremediable on the
spur of the moment, and by inexperienced persons. There had been damp
weather, and the leather of the bellows had become unglued.
The blower bowed to his work when the organ voluntary was to begin.
"Hussh-h-h!" a puff. The keys were struck, with more vigour the blower
laboured, and louder sounded the puffs--and nothing was heard save the
puffs. Then the clerk left his desk and went to the gallery to open
an inquiry. Presently, after much whispering and knocking about of
seats in the gallery, the clerk came to the front, with a red face,
and announced _ore rotundo_, "This here be to give notice. This here
dratted orging ain't going to play this here Sunday. 'Cos hers busted
her belleys."
When there had been a fracas among the instrumentalists, or when the
organ had "busted," then the choir had to sustain the burden of the
singing unsupported. And sometimes when the organ or organist was
unequal to some new anthem on a high festival, the choir had to perform
by itself.
I recollect one notable occasion. It was Christmas. The village choir
was intent on performing the Hallelujah Chorus from the "Messiah."
Bless you, my dear readers! they were not timorous and hesitating in
those days any more than in these, when only quite recently a young
village carpenter proposed for a rustic parish entertainment a piece
out of "Lohengrin."
To return to the Hallelujah Chorus. Unhappily the organist was bowled
over by a severe cold and could not attend. The soprano was cook at
the rectory, and the plum-pudding had somehow gone wrong and must be
attended to. So she did not attend. The alto had been invited "with her
young man" to a friend's at a distance, therefore she could not attend,
and the bass had been out carolling all night and drinking ale, and was
hoarse and--well, indisposed. Accordingly, nothing daunted, our tenor
gave us the Hallelujah Chorus as a solo, without accompaniment at all,
and without the other parts. That was a wonderful performance--never to
be forgotten.
The other day I was in a restored church, with stained glass windows,
with brass candelabra, with velvet and gold hangings, with carved
oak bench-ends, and encaustic tiled floors, and--I could not help
myself--I laughed; for I saw in the side chapel a huge organ,
elaborately painted and gilt. It had three key-boards, and I could
not count all the stops. Nothing to laugh at in that; no: but there
was, in the contrast between the church as it is now and what it was
fifty years ago, as I remember it. I was then in it on a Sunday. There
were no carved benches then, but tall deal pews. There was no organ:
there was an orchestra in the west gallery, and the clerk was first
violin therein. But his duties required that he should sit near the
reading-desk at the chancel arch. Now, when it came to the giving out
a psalm, the old fellow stood up and announced: "Let us sing to the
praise and glory of God the---- Psalm." Having done this, he left
his desk and strode down the nave _whistling the tune_ very shrilly,
till he reached the west gallery, where he took his place at the
music-stand, and drew the bow across his fiddle, tuned it, and the
whole orchestra broke out into music--or, to be more exact, uproar.
In small country parishes it was by no means infrequent that the
clerk alone could read, and he had to do all the responses. When it
came to the psalm, he read out two lines audibly. Whereupon choir and
congregation sang those two lines. Then he gave out two more lines, and
those were sung. So on to the end. This was not very musical; but what
else could be done, when the power to read print was not present in the
congregation?
I do not think that the true history of the west end gallery in a
parish church is properly known. In mediæval churches there was a very
rich and elaborately carved wood screen between the chancel and the
body of the church. The screen had several purposes to serve, some
symbolical, some liturgical, some practical.
In the first place it was symbolical of death. In the Tabernacle and
Temple a veil hid the Holy of Holies; but on the death of Christ the
veil was rent asunder from the top to the bottom, and this signified
that the way into the Holiest Place was open to all, and that death
ceased to be the impenetrable mystery it had been; since Christ,
by His death, had overcome death, it was possible to look beyond
the veil and see the glorious place where is the Mercy-Seat and the
Altar-Throne, and where our Great High Priest standeth, ever making
intercession for us.
Now, in the mediæval churches, the chancel represented the Holiest
Place, or heaven, and the nave was the figure of the Church on earth.
Consequently the screen, dividing the nave from the chancel, was a
figure of death. But inasmuch as by faith we can look through and
beyond the barrier of death, the screens were made of carved work
pierced through, so that the chancel with the altar might be perfectly
visible beyond the screen. And inasmuch as death was overcome by
Christ, the crucifix stood above the screen, a figure that proclaimed
that it was through the cross of Christ alone, that the kingdom of
heaven was opened to all believers, and that death was swallowed up in
victory.
[Illustration: STAVERTON ROOD-SCREEN]
So much for the symbolic meaning of the screen. And yet, no--one word
more must be added. Last summer I was walking along the north coast of
Devon, when I visited the very fine parish church of Coombe Martyn.
This noble church possesses an exceedingly fine rood-screen that has
not been demolished. The church possesses something else of interest--a
very intelligent, quaint old parish clerk.
As I was admiring the screen, the old man, who was dusting in the
church, came up to me and said: "Please, your honour, have y' ever
heard tell why the screen-doors niver shut?"
I expressed my doubt that this was so.
"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.
But the screen served a third purpose, and that was eminently
practical. On it sat the orchestra and choir. The gallery was made
broad and solid to support them, and was furnished with a back to the
west, against which the performers might lean, and which concealed them
from the congregation in the nave. These backs have for the most part
disappeared; nevertheless, several remain. They naturally were the
first part of a screen to give way through the pressure of somnolent
human beings against it.
The choir and instrumentalists sat on the rood-screen, where they could
see every movement of the priest at the altar, and so take their cues
for singing and playing. It was essential that they should be in this
position. In Continental churches, where in many places the screens
have been mutilated or removed, the choirs still occupy their old
places. For instance, at Bruges, where the screen in the cathedral is
reduced to a mere block of black and white marble beside the chancel
steps, the musicians remain perched at the top. At Freiburg, where the
screen and gallery have been erected in one of the transepts, quite out
of sight of the altar, the singers and orchestra are on it.
At the Reformation, when the crucifix was torn away, a great ugly gap
was left in the gallery-back above the screen. In cathedrals this gap
was filled up with the organ. And in cathedrals and large churches the
organ displaced the instrumentalists.
In many churches the screen itself was destroyed or allowed to fall
into decay. But the use of the gallery was not forgotten. The priest
now occupied the reading-desk, and as this was very generally in the
body of the church, something had to be done to bring the choir and
orchestra into a suitable position facing him.
Accordingly, in a great number of cases the gallery was removed to the
west end of the church, and those who rendered the musical portion
of divine service moved with it. Hence it came about that in a vast
majority of cases the gallery at the west end, under the tower arch,
came to be the great focus and centre of music and discord.
Now the fashion has set in everywhere to pull down the west gallery and
open out the tower arch. But when the west gallery is gone, whither is
the organ to go? Where is the choir to be put? The choirs are now very
generally accommodated in the chancel, but the organ has been moved
about into various places more or less unsuitable.
At one time the fashion was to build out a sort of chapel on the north
side and to fit the organ into it; boxing it up on all sides but one.
Naturally, the organ objected to this treatment. It was made to occupy
an open space: it demanded circulation of air. In the pocket into which
it was thrust it became damp, and went out of tune.
Nothing could have been designed more senseless than these cramped
chapels for organs. The organ sets waves of air in motion, and the
walls boxing in the pipes prevented the waves from flowing. It was
found that organs in this position did not give forth a volume of sound
commensurate with their cost and size, and they were pulled out, and
stuck in side aisles, and painted and gilt, and an attempt made to
render an unsightly object comely by flourish of decoration.
But again difficulties and objections became evident. An organ ought
not to be on the damp floor, and it ought to be well elevated.
Moreover, planted at the east end of an aisle, it did not support the
congregation in their singing. It roared and boomed in the ears of the
choir; and if the service is to be an elaborate performance, in which
the congregation takes the part of audience only, then it is in the
right place. But if the divine worship is to be congregational, if all
are to be encouraged to sing, then the organ is out of place.
Consequently in a good many cases there is a talk of moving back the
organ into a west gallery.
Unhappily, an organ is a very expensive traveller. An individual can
tour round the globe at about the same cost that will move an organ
from one end of a church to another. Hundreds on hundreds of pounds
have been spent in marching the unhappy organ about; and we cannot be
sure that its wanderings are over yet.
In these restless and impatient days, when everyone has a theory and a
scheme, and desires to do what is contrary to what has been done, the
hardest of lessons to acquire, and that entailing most self-restraint,
but that which is least costly, and most calculated to give a man peace
at the last, is to let well alone.
And now before we leave the old church, something must be said about
the tower and bells.
On the Continent there is absolutely no art in bell-ringing--it is what
any fool can do; the bells are clashed together, there is no sequence
of notes, no changes in succession, there is noise, not melody. I
remember many years ago passing through the queer little village with
a queerer name, Corpsnuds, in the French Landes, on Midsummer-day.
From the quaint church-tower sounded the most extraordinary clatter of
bells, without sequence and without harmony. Moreover, from the top of
the tower fluttered an equally extraordinary flag. On more attentive
examination of the latter, when the wind was sufficiently strong to
unfurl and expand it, it became obvious that this flag was nothing more
nor less than a pair of dingy black trousers split at the seam, and
reseated with a dingy navy-blue patch.
Having made the observation, I entered the belfry, to ascertain what
produced the clatter among the bells.
There I discovered the sexton, in his blouse, very hot, very red,
profusely perspiring, racing about the interior swinging the end of a
single bell-rope.
On seeing me he halted, and wiped his brow on his sleeve. I asked him
how it was that he alone was able to ring a peal of bells.
"_Mais!_" he answered, "_C'est bien possible._ I have tied a broomstick
in a knot of the rope, among the bells, and as I whisk the rope about,
the stick rattles this bell, that bell, all of them. _Voila tout!_"
"And the banner waving augustly above the tower?" I further inquired.
"_Bien simple_," was his answer. "An old pair of my patched pantaloons.
My wife slit them; we have no parish flag, so I said--_allons! mes
pantalons._ There they are: aloft! One must do what one can in honour
of the _bon Saint Jean_."
It is in England alone that bell-ringing is an art, and oh! how lovely
an art it is--to those far away who hear the swell and fall of the
bells, the music always having a certain sadness in it. But it has its
sordid side, as has all art, and the sordid side is the interior of the
belfry; or, let us say, was, before reform pushed its way there.
There was some excuse for the ringers to conduct themselves in a free
and easy manner in the belfry when it was shut off from the body of
the church by a screen of boards against which the west gallery was
erected. Then the belfry was so much apart from the church that it
ceased to be regarded as pertaining to it, or being included within
its sacred atmosphere. Accordingly the ringers conducted themselves in
the belfry as they saw fit. They introduced pipes, also a barrel of
beer. They sketched each other on the boards, never in complimentary
style. They wrote scurrilous verses on the screen, and sometimes
conducted there all kinds of buffoon games, and played practical jokes
on each other.
Not only did they consider that they might do as they liked in the
belfry, but that they might have access to it when they liked, and ring
on whatever occasion they pleased.
Another abuse crept in. The ringers considered that they had done quite
sufficient when they had rung a peal before Divine Service. Their
ringing ended, they would withdraw to the road or loiter about the
churchyard, talking and smoking, whilst worship proceeded within the
church.
In a certain place that I know the ringers had been allowed their own
way under an indifferent rector, and the worst possible condition of
affairs had resulted. Then came a new rector with the reforming spirit
in him, and he resolved to put matters to right. Hitherto the belfry
key had been retained by the sexton, a prime offender. The parson
demanded it. The sexton refused to surrender it. Then the rector went
with a blacksmith to the tower door, broke it open, and affixed a new
lock to it with a key that he retained for himself.
Great was the indignation among the ringers, and an anonymous letter
was received by the rector:
"This be to giv Nottis. If you pass'n doant mind wot your about and let
we ring the bells as plazes we, then us wull knock your little 'ed off."
The rector was not to be intimidated. That night he went to the belfry
and locked himself in.
At the usual time for the practice to begin the ringers arrived, and he
heard them discuss him and his doings in the churchyard. That he did
not mind.
"I say," remarked the sexton, "ain't he the minister? Wot do that mean
but that he's sent by the bishop to minister to us and do jist as us
likes?"
"Shure, b'aint no meanin' in words if that ain't it," responded another.
"Us won't be pass'n-ridden," said a third.
"Us'll break open the door," said a fourth.
"And if he interferes, us'll scatt his little head open," said a fifth,
"as us wrote he--you knaws."
Then came a bang against the tower door.
Now there happened to be a little window close to the door, just large
enough for a man to put his head, but not his shoulders, through.
"I put on the lock, and I'll have it off," said the blacksmith. "I've
brought a bar o' iron on purpose."
Then the rector put his head through the window, and said, "Will you?
Here's my little head, scatt that first."
The men drew back disconcerted.
He had gained the day, and established his authority over the ringers,
and control of the belfry door.
And now, in the same place, there is as well-conducted a set of ringers
as may be found anywhere, and some of the old lot are still there. The
first step in the reform of the belfry was that of obtaining mastery
over the key.
A second step was taken when the west gallery was demolished and the
tower-arch thrown open, so that the bell-ringers were visibly in the
church, and so came to feel that they were in a sacred building in
which there must be no profanity.
In several instances much good has been done by the rector or the
curate becoming himself a ringer, or, if not that, taking a lively
interest in the ringing, and being present in the belfry, or visiting
it, on practising nights.
Some curious customs remain connected with bell-ringing. In Yorkshire
it is customary when there occurs a death in the parish to toll the
bell. Three strokes thrice repeated signify an adult male; three
strokes twice repeated signify an adult female; two, two, three, a male
infant; two, two, two, a female child. These strokes are then followed
by as many as there were years in the age of the deceased. At Dewsbury
and at Horbury, near Wakefield, on Christmas Eve, at midnight, the
devils knell is rung. When I was curate at the latter place, at first
I knew nothing of this singular knell. On my first Christmas Eve I had
retired to bed, when at midnight I heard the bell toll.
Now, my window looked out into the churchyard, and was, in fact,
opposite the tower door. I was greatly shocked and distressed, for I
had not heard that anyone was ill in the parish, and I feared that the
deceased must have passed away without the ministrations of religion.
I threw up my window and leaned out, awaiting the sexton. I counted the
strokes--three, three, three: then I counted the ensuing strokes up to
one hundred.
Still more astonished, I waited impatiently the appearance of the
sexton.
When he issued from the tower, I called to him:
"Joe, who is dead?"
The man sniggered and answered, "T'owd un, they say."
"But who _is_ dead?"
"T'owd chap."
"What old man? He must be very old indeed."
"Ay! he be owd; but for sure he'll give trouble yet."
It was not till next day that my vicar explained the matter to me.
At Dewsbury the devil's knell is thus accounted for. A certain bell
there, called Black Tom of Sothill, is said to have been an expiatory
gift for a murder, and the tolling is in commemoration of the execution
of the murderer. One Thomas Nash, in 1813, bequeathed £50 a year to
the ringers of the Abbey Church, Bath, "on condition of their ringing
on the whole peal of bells, with clappers muffled, various solemn and
doleful changes on the 14th of May in every year, being the anniversary
of my wedding-day; and also on the anniversary of my decease, to ring a
grand bob-major and merry peals unmuffled, in joyful commemoration of
my happy release from domestic tyranny and wretchedness."
A singular and beautiful custom still subsists in the village of
Horningsham, Wilts, where, at the burial of a young maiden, "wedding
peals" are rung on muffled bells.
At the induction of a new vicar or rector it is customary for him
to lock himself into the church, and then proceed to the belfry and
"ring himself in." It is, I believe, universal in England for the
parishioners to count the number of strokes he gives, as these are said
to indicate the number of years during which he will hold the cure.
There still remain in some places certain forcible evidences that
the ringers regaled themselves in the belfries, and these have taken
the shape of ale-jugs. At Hadleigh, in Suffolk, is such a pitcher of
brown glazed earthenware, that holds sixteen quarts, and bears this
inscription:
"We, Thomas Windle, Isaac Bunn, John Mann, Adam Sage, George Bond,
Thomas Goldsborough, Robert Smith, Harry West."
and below the names are these lines:
"If you love me doe not lend me,
Use me often and keep me cleanly,
Fill me full, or not at all,
If it be strong, and not with small."
At Hinderclay, a ringer's pitcher is still preserved in the church
tower, with the inscription on it:
"From London I was sent,
As plainly doth appear:
It was with this intent,
To be filled with strong beer.
Pray remember the pitchers when empty."
In a closet of the steeple of St. Peters, Mancroft, Norwich, is
another, that holds thirty-five pints. At Clare is a similar jug that
holds over seventeen quarts, and one at Beccles that will contain six
gallons less one pint.
As already said, the church bells, which the ringers regarded as their
own, or as parish property, they chose to ring on the most unsuitable
occasions, as when a "long main" at cock-fighting had been won. Church
bells were occasionally rung for successful racehorses. In the accounts
of St. Edmund's, Salisbury, is this entry:
"1646. Ringing the race-day, that the Earl of Pembroke his horse
winne the cuppe---- v^[sh]."
At Derby, when the London coach drove through the town in olden times
it was usual to announce its arrival by ringing the church bells, that
all such as had fish coming might hasten to the coach and secure the
fish whilst fairly fresh.
It used to be said that St. Peter's six bells, which first sounded the
approach of the London coach, called "Here's fresh fish come to town.
Here's fresh fish come to town." Next came All Saints', further up the
street, with its peal of ten, "Here's fine fresh fish just come into
the town. Here's fine fresh fish just come into the town." Close by
All Saints' stood St. Michael's, with but three bells, and one of them
cracked, and the strain of this peal was, "They're stinking; they're
stinking!" But St. Alkmund replied with his six, a little further on in
the street, "Put more salt on 'em, then. Put more salt on 'em, then."
The earliest bells we have are the Celtic bells of hammered bronze,
in shape like sheep bells, and riveted on one side. When these bells
were first introduced they caused great astonishment, and many stories
grew up about them. Thus, in the church of Kelly, in Devon, is an old
stained-glass window that represents St. Oudoc, Bishop of Llandaff,
with a golden yellow bell at his side. The story is told of him that he
was one day thirsty, and passing some women who were washing clothes,
he asked of them a draught of water. They answered laughingly that they
had no vessel from which he could drink. Then he took a pat of butter,
and moulded it into the shape of a cup or bell, and filled it with
water, and drank out of it. And this golden bell remained in the church
of Llandaff till it was melted up by the commissioners of Henry VIII.
A still more wonderful story was related of St. Keneth, of Gower, who,
as a babe, was exposed in an osier coracle to the waves. The seagulls
fluttered over him, and bore him to a ledge of rock, where they made a
bed for him of the feathers from their breasts. Then they brought him
a brazen bell to serve as baby's bottle, and every day the bell was
filled with milk by a forest doe.
It is with bells as with all the faculties of man. They are all "very
good" when used harmoniously; but the "sweet bells" can be "jangled out
of tune" not only by the failure of mental power--as in the case of
Hamlet--but by lack of balance and order in the moral sense.
[Illustration: THE VILLAGE INN
(from an old print)]