CHAPTER III
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.