CHAPTER IV

THE SECULAR USES OF THE CHURCH FABRIC (_continued_)

For the practice of holding judicial and civil courts in churches there is, as we have seen, a sufficient explanation in the necessities of the time, and in the simple outlook which our forefathers took concerning human affairs. But the further problem arises: at what stage in the early history of the Church must we look for the germ of this custom? It has been shown that the open-air court lingered on after secular assemblies had begun to flock into the church. Yet, in the broader sense, it seems clear that civil business, to a greater or lesser extent, had been transacted in the church ever since churches were founded. All analogy points in this direction, but where is the actual evidence to be found? Some have sought it in the word “church” itself. We must therefore turn our thoughts to philology for a few moments. We shall find ourselves engrossed in an alluring, but, at the same time, a tantalizing study. Unfortunately, we cannot yet reach a final decision, and we shall have to be careful to set aside such conjectures as betray perverse ingenuity. Philological testimony is very helpful where its voice is certain; where indistinct, it may lead us far astray.

The word “church,” and its variant “kirk,” present us, in fact, with an unsolved problem. Let us attempt to summarize what is known on the subject, and so prepare the way for a startling hypothesis. First, then, both _church_ and _kirk_ were once believed by lexicographers to be purely Saxon words, but recent research has disproved this theory. After the scholarly labours of Professor Skeat, and the exhaustive analysis prepared by Sir James Murray, we are able to assert that the word _church_, though appearing in a somewhat different form, was known in West Germanic speech so early as the fourth or fifth century of our era. Moreover, there is now general agreement among scholars in referring _church_ to the Greek κῡριακόν. This word is strictly adjectival (neuter of κῡριακός) and means “of the lord,” i.e. dominical (from κῡριος = lord). The term, however, is found to occur substantively, from the third or fourth century at least, in the sense of “house of the Lord,” meaning a Christian place of worship. Writing on this phase of the subject, Sir James Murray declares that there is no other derivation, except that from κῡριακόν, which will bear scientific statement, much less examination.

The Greek origin of _church_ has, nevertheless, been assailed, but without success. The counter-argument runs thus: the ordinary Greek name for _church_ was εκκλησία, and this word, or βασιλική (_basilica_), was the name which passed into Latin and all the Romanic, as well as all the Celtic languages. In the last-named group we find, for example, the Irish and Gaelic _eglais_, and the Welsh _eglwys_. Hence there is “an _a priori_ unlikelihood” that any other Greek equivalent (e.g. κῡριακόν) should have passed into the Teutonic languages. And, as a matter of history, we know that εκκλησία was actually adopted in Gothic, though only to represent a society or an assembly, not a place or building. So far, then, there is no convincing proof against the co-existence of a Gothic representative of κῡριακόν. Moreover, it seems clear that the other Teutonic tribes did not accept _ecclesia_ on their conversion; yet one would suppose that this word, or its counterpart _basilica_, would have been adopted naturally. What was the reason for this non-acceptance? The answer is, that a Teutonic form of κῡριακόν, namely _kirika_, had already obtained a firm hold, and could not be dislodged. A minor argument against the proposed derivation is the rareness of the Greek word, but this objection has not much weight.

The objections against the early introduction of _kirika_ are mainly historical. We do not know the actual circumstances in which _kirika_, as the representative of the Greek κῡριακόν, became so powerfully entrenched as to resist all the influence of Latin Christianity to supplant it. The word may have been picked up by Teutonic invaders of the Roman Empire before those invaders had become Christianized. Curiously enough, this very question is discussed by a writer of the ninth century. But whatever may have been the cause of the transfer, the word _kirika_ (church) was brought to England by the Angles and Saxons[353].

It is of some interest to find that the Latin equivalent, _dominicum_, of the two Greek words, was employed in the sense of “house of God,” by the middle of the third century. To a certain extent this word was adopted in Old Irish, since _domnach_ (mod. Irish, _domhnach_) is frequently used to denote a church[354].

Another detail, worth noting as we pass along, is the existence of a group of place-names which appear to contain _ecclesia_ as a prefix. Out of a goodly list, we may mention Ecclesfield, Eccleshall, and Eccleston. It has been plausibly argued that these names could not have been given by the Saxons, who would have handed down words compounded with _church_, instead of _ecclesia_; that in fact, the group has an earlier history, dating from the days of Roman or Celtic Christianity. Only in this way, it is thought, could the Graeco-Latin term have formed part of a place-name. The objection to this theory--and it is a grave one--lies in the inability of its defenders to prove that the place-names possess the element _ecclesia_ at all. Most, if not all, of the names, break down under examination. In brief, Professor Baldwin Brown, who has investigated the subject, declares against the pre-Saxon origin[355].

The remarkable theory to which allusion has been made, and towards which the reader has been gradually led, was propounded by Mr Sidney O. Addy, upon whose pages toll has already been freely levied. Starting from the accepted etymological data, which have just been outlined, Mr Addy produces a striking chain of testimony. He notices that, since βασιλική, like κῡριακόν, means a king’s or lord’s house, the words _church_ and _basilica_ are virtually identical terms. Searching for evidence from North-West Spain, he found that the local council was summoned by the church bell, on Sundays, that is the _dies dominica_, or lord’s day. The Spanish custom, moreover, “is only an accidental survival of what was once the universal practice in Western Europe[356].” In addition, the facts show that the Spanish court, which is now convened by the sound of the church bell, was formerly held in the church, and was originally analogous to the old Greek ἐκκλησῖα,--the meeting of citizens assembled by the crier (ἐκκαλεῖν = to call out)[357]. In Western Europe such a court was summoned by the bell or moot-horn. Thus, the bell in the campanile of old St Paul’s Cathedral--an independent structure--summoned the citizens of London to the folk-moot[358]. The next link in the chain is supposed to be furnished by certain ancient English churches, which have apsidal terminations, and which possess, or formerly possessed, crypts. Of these churches, Brixworth, in Northamptonshire (cf. p. 9 _supra_), and Repton, in Derbyshire, are taken as types[359]. Mr Addy institutes comparisons between these old churches and the Roman basilicas, and again, between the crypts and the subterranean chambers of those basilicas. And undoubtedly the analogy is a very close one. From the harmony of design which the examination reveals, he infers that Roman and British structures alike were reared for the administration of public business and the dispensation of justice. His main conclusion is, that a new church “was the nucleus of a new liberty or free community.” It was the “house” or public hall of a new lord, or chief (the lord of the manor), who presided over that community[360]. Another valuable line of evidence may be noted. Professor Baldwin Brown has called attention to the “coenacula,” or upper chambers, which are found over the Western choir in some continental churches. These council chambers of the territorial chiefs prove, at least, the strong hold which the lord possessed over church affairs.

Several minor features are held to support the theory. A fresh interpretation is tendered of the much-discussed “squints” or hagioscopes in churches. Respecting these curious apertures, folk-memory tells us nothing. Antiquaries have never secured complete unanimity on the subject, though it is usual to say that the openings were made to allow persons standing near the door or in the transept to see the elevation of the Host at the high altar. The “squints” sometimes pass through two or three walls in succession, and they very commonly point directly to the South, or main door of the building[361]. Mr Addy, however, conceives that the openings were so arranged in order to allow the doorkeeper (_ostiarius_)--the door-ward of Middle English times--to see the president of the assembly sitting in the chancel, and thus, directly or indirectly, to take orders from him. The chancel was the tribunal (βῆμα), where, behind a screen of lattice-work, sat the lord and his assessors. Since the altar, in the oldest English churches, such as those mentioned, was situated on “the chord of the apse,” that is, just under the chancel arch, it is argued that the squints could not have been intended to enable persons to see the elevation of the Host[362]. It is also noted that the old name for the choir was the presbytery, or seat of the elders. The very word πρεσβύτερος was often applied to the “headman” of a village.

Furthermore, so early as A.D. 685, as shown by an inscription of undoubted authenticity, referring to the Saxon church at Jarrow, the English parish church was, in one instance, termed a basilica[363] (_Dedicatio basilicae_). The earliest reference in English literature, however, as given in the _New Oxford Dictionary_, is A.D. 1563[364].

Now Mr Addy’s theory, which he supports with abundant details and illustrative comparisons, is surpassingly attractive to the archaeologist, especially to one who has grasped the fact of the former unity of secular and religious movements in the village commonwealth. The conclusions are, nevertheless, open to some criticism. At the outset, the theory seems to assume that the Roman secular basilica was the immediate prototype of the Christian church, and this assumption, as will be shown in a later chapter, runs contrary to the teaching of very good authorities. Again, though Mr Addy has adduced several examples of crypts connected with buildings in the basilican style of architecture, we have just seen that the word “basilica” itself, as applied to Christian churches, cannot be traced earlier than the seventh century. One would have rather expected to find the name given to the first Romano-British churches of the country. This absence of the term, it is true, is not a fatal objection. Nor does it lie in the mouth of those who believe, that, as in the case of fortress-towers, defensive designs outlasted their real use, to deny that the provision of crypts continued after their first purpose was forgotten. Hence, one is not disposed to cavil at the example adduced from Hornsea in the East Riding, where the present building dates no earlier than the fourteenth century. There was a church in Hornsea at the time of the Domesday survey, and there may have existed a crypt before the Norman Conquest.

A more serious objection is the anachronism, for so it seems, which makes English assemblies meet indoors at the early period when open-air courts were the rule. For we are not dealing with the Norman or the Plantagenet periods. That the old Greek assemblies were held in the basilicas may be true, but the earliest moots of which we have records in Britain were held out of doors. Little can be inferred from comparing the customs of peoples who occupied different social and political levels. The British open-air gatherings were doubtless in vogue before the days of the feudal lord, or even his pre-manorial prototype. From what has gone before, it will be readily supposed that the church built near the stronghold of the feudal chief was dominated by the lord or his representative. In this special sense, the church was, indeed, the “lord’s house,” because, if necessary, it was utilized as a court-room[365]. But that the “Lord’s house” in England was ever primarily and essentially the “lord’s house” (κῡριακόν), may be doubted. Leaving aside the question of origins, we require to know by what process that particular transition from the political to the religious use was made; if it were ever effected in this country at all. The English evidence rather shows that a reverse development took place: the “Lord’s house” gradually became the “lord’s house” in the limited sense just indicated. At any rate, before the time when churches began to be commonly used as secular trysting places, that is, in the late Saxon and the Norman periods, the word “church” itself was established in popular speech. And it remains to be proved that “basilica” ever was, to any appreciable extent, an alternative term. Expressed otherwise, we may say that the word “church” would, by the time of the introduction of Christianity to Britain, have lost its primary Greek connotation, and this would scarcely be revived and transferred to Christian churches reared under a new set of conditions.

With respect to the squints, is it claimed that the early basilicas possessed similar apertures, or that these familiar skew openings were the rule, even in those churches which are most closely connected with the moated fortress? One does not overlook the abundance of squints in the churches of such a district as that around Tenby, nor forget that these buildings exhibit defensive features (p. 113 _supra_). Were the problem concerned with South Pembrokeshire as a self-contained country, the theory of the lord and his door-keeper would seem more plausible. As the facts stand, however, it is more reasonable to rely on the old, if incomplete, explanation that a line of squints permitted the door-keeper to see the altar and to ring the Sanctus bell at a given moment. Numerous minor difficulties are involved in Mr Addy’s theory. The squints are often on the North side of the building, and are not in the line of communication with the Southern door. Again, they are frequently seen in chantries and transepts, where they point to the interior of the sanctuary, if not to the altar itself, as at Whatley, in Somerset, or Leatherhead, Surrey (Fig. 36). Still further, the squints, on the whole, belong to the post-Norman period of architecture, when constructional decoration, as well as utility, was kept in view by the builders.

In the light of comparative custom, the theory of the “lord’s house” may, at first sight, appear tenable. Indeed, there may have been a time in the history of Greece when this hypothesis corresponded to the facts. Applied to this country, however, and tested in details, the theory seems to fail, and can only be countenanced with great qualifications.

[Illustration:

FIG. 36. Squint in East wall of North transept, Leatherhead church, Surrey. Persons sitting in the portion of the transept shown in the illustration can see the altar through the squint. ]

In the last chapter, allusion was made to the church porch as a centre of public life, and this part of the building has just come under notice again in connection with the door-ward. A few further remarks may now be added. The church porch was often of great size (Fig. 37). The practice of holding schools in the porch is well attested. In Derbyshire villages, such as

[Illustration:

FIG. 37. Stone porch, Wotton church, Surrey. The inner doorway dates from c. A.D. 1200, but the porch itself belongs to the 13th or 14th century. Internal measurements, 14 ft × 11 ft approx. The outer doorway and the inside arcade are modern restorations. The barge board is of the Decorated period. ]

Hope and Tideswell, the former existence of the porch-school rests on tradition alone. But John Evelyn, referring to the year 1624, says definitely that “one Frier taught us at the church porch at Wotton,” in Surrey[366]. The Surrey historian, William Bray, writing in A.D. 1818, asserts that the village schoolmaster of Wotton taught over the porch, and considers it “not altogether incurious to observe” that the son of a man of very considerable fortune should receive his first rudiments of learning in such a school. There was another school during the sixteenth century over the porch of St Sepulchre’s, London. A few more instances may be given where porch-schools existed. St Michael’s Loft, in the Priory Church, Christchurch, Hants; the parish church, Cheltenham; Selby Abbey (in a room over a chapel); Berkeley, Gloucestershire (until 1870); and Malmesbury (until 1879, or later). An interesting expression, of which little note has been made, occurs in _Twelfth Night_, Act III. Sc. 2. Maria, referring to Malvolio, says, “He’s in yellow stockings.” “And cross-gartered?” queries Sir Toby Belch. “Most villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school in the church,” runs the disdainful reply. Schools held in the body of the church have also been known in our own time, for they usually survived the porch-schools proper.

It is suggested that the stone seats often found in the porch were used as benches for the children who came to be taught or catechized. Setting aside the fact that wooden seats are also met with, it is not inherently improbable that stone ledges should have been used, particularly when we remember the chilly, comfortless fittings so familiar in monastic cloisters and chapter houses. These benches, too, may have been covered with straw or rushes. But it is more likely that the schools were held in those rooms which are constantly seen built over the porch. Here, in some parishes, the ostiarius (from _ostium_=door), who was to develop into the “usher” of the public school, probably taught his little flock of pupils[367]. The ostiarius, it may be recollected, belonged at first to one of the minor orders of the church. Occasionally a chantry priest had this duty of teaching allotted to him. It will be remembered that Roman schools were held in a verandah partly open to the street. Some of the upper chambers of porches are fitted with fireplaces. When provided with a squint, the room may have been intended to lodge a priest, whose duty it was to keep alight the sacred fire on the altar, or to house a watchman who had to guard the treasure. Often the porch-chambers have degenerated into lumber rooms. At times, as we shall see later, armour was stored in them. In many porch-chambers libraries existed[368], and, in others, documents were preserved. When employed for teaching purposes, the chamber was proportionately large[369]. In place of the overhead chamber, a gallery of oak or stone is sometimes found around the inside of the porch. Galleries of this kind, to which access is obtained by staircases, either in, or passing up the wall, are to be seen at Bildeston, Suffolk, Weston-in-Gordano, Somerset, and several other places. These “eminences” are usually believed to have accommodated the singers at weddings and festivals, and, more especially, on Palm Sunday[370]. In passing, we are obliged to notice the term “parvis” or “parvise” which is commonly used to describe the room above the porch. The usage, though fixed, is erroneous, for a parvise is strictly the enclosed space before the door of a church or cathedral. The application of the word to a porch-chamber has no precedent earlier than the nineteenth century[371].

That much informal business was carried on in the porch has been previously noted (p. 143 _supra_). Under this sheltering pent-house the layman met his fellows to arrange slight matters of public interest. In Saxon days, the finder of a stray beast would bring it to the porch, and there, in the presence of the priest and the reeve of the tun, would exhibit the animal to all possible claimants[372]. The church porch has, in fact, always been a favourite resort for the performance of certain business. In 1610, we hear of mortgages being paid off in the South porch of Ecclesfield church, near Sheffield. Welsh instances prove that rent for lands was sometimes brought to the church porch. Mrs C. King Warry, who has made a careful study of the folk-customs of the Isle of Portland, describes a practice which helps us to realize the business methods of our ancestors. The practice, which exists to-day, is a survival of the old pre-feudal mode of conveyance by “church-gift.” A father, wishing to bequeath his paddock (i.e. a small enclosure of land, with the freedom of quarrying stone therein) to his four daughters, let us suppose, proceeds in the following manner. He divides the property by means of partition walls into the requisite number of shares. Then, after the church service on Sunday evening, he conveys the property by word of mouth in the church porch. An old manuscript describes the ceremony: “The churchwardens, and some of the best inhabitants” assemble in the porch, when the testator thus expresses himself: “I, A----, desire you, my neighbours, to take notice that I give to each of my daughters an equal share of my Paddock, called----, and bounded----, as it now lys divided into four parts.” “Wherefore,” continues the manuscript, “the assembly rises and blesses (by name) the daughters[373].” It is necessary only to add that the Portland custom can be paralleled from other parts of the country.

Students of English literature will have noticed that marriages in the church porch were once common. Chaucer makes the “Wife of Bath” speak thus: “Housbondes at chirche-dore I have had fyve[374].” The allusion to the church-door is not mere rhetorical licence. According to the Sarum service, the marriage ceremony was performed in the porch (_ante ostium ecclesiae_), the nuptial benediction being pronounced at the altar afterwards. It was only when the first Prayer Book of Edward VI. was issued that the rubric was thus settled: “The persons to be married shall come into the body of the Church,” and this version has been retained to the present time[375].

Several minor details might be noted to illustrate the secular uses of the porch. Frequently the parson used the porch as a temporary stable for his horse, and, although such action is now held to call for interference on the part of the churchwardens[376], we may confidently say that public opinion has not always discountenanced the practice. Occasionally, one meets with old “stirrup stones” or “jossing blocks,” placed in such positions as to show that no prohibition could have been effectively in force against the horseman who brought his steed to church. One of these stoops still remains at the gate of Duddington churchyard, near Edinburgh, while at Edlington, Lincolnshire, the mounting block is actually fixed on the North side of the porch[377]. Doubtless, a careful search would show that many more examples remain.

Only when we have fully recognized the vitality of ancient superstitions and customs, shall we appreciate certain lingering practices connected with the porch. John Aubrey saw, in the porch of a Suffolk church, a horseshoe fixed on the wall to keep away the witches. The numerous authenticated cases of portions of human skin having been found nailed to church doors also bear on the point. Such instances carry us back, not simply to the period when the secular and the religious were combined in one mode of thought and action, but to a still earlier time when the Christian teachers could not, or would not, repress the savagery of paganism. The fragments of skin served to warn sacrilegious robbers that they, too, ran the risk of being flayed alive.

It was casually mentioned, in a preceding paragraph, that armour was sometimes stored in the porch-chamber. The subject will repay a little further examination, because it has not yet received the attention which it merits. Nor, even now, have we sufficient material available to give very positive decisions. From the time of Edward I. onwards, every parish was bound to keep in readiness an amount of armour in proportion to its population. By the time of Henry VIII., as already stated (p. 142 _supra_), this obligation was vested primarily in the churchwardens. The churchwardens were evidently the deputies of the constables, and these, in turn, were the representatives of the sheriff, who was ultimately responsible, both for the parish arms and for the training of the soldiers. Yet, before this period, the clergy, as well as the laity, were assessed for arms. Whoever was answerable for the observance of the law is a question which does not greatly concern us for the present. The most interesting part of the problem touches the storage of the armour. The subject was discussed in a valuable article by Miss Ethel Lega-Weekes in _Notes and Queries_ for 1909[378]. Was either the nave or the porch used as an armoury? or were the weapons housed elsewhere? These are questions to which one would fain get an answer.

The writer of the article which has just been cited considers it an open question whether the expression “church armour,” occurring in old documents, means the same as “town armour,” or “parish armour.” With respect to storage, it is admitted that arms may have been deposited in the church, though there has not been discovered any law or regulation enforcing this practice. It is argued that the church would be damp and unsuited for the keeping of armour: arms may have been deposited in churches, but it was such as had fallen into disuse or become obsolete. At once we may grant that iron weapons and body-coverings needed to be carefully treasured. Professor Vinogradoff pertinently observes that, in the eleventh century, well-forged helmets and swords were scarce and expensive[379]. Yet one imagines that, down to the end of the Wars of the Roses, at any rate, there was little chance for either arms or armour to rust away. The monumental armour which is found in churches is rusty and half-perished, but how many times has it been taken down since it was first suspended over the tomb? It is said that the churches of the fighting period possessed no snug, weather-proof vestries, where arms could be safely protected. But there existed chantry chapels, as well as porch-chambers, both of which might have served. Again, is it so certain that the church was markedly damp--less dry, shall we say, than the outbuildings of a feudal castle, where doubtless considerable quantities of armour were once preserved? We shall shortly see that the church was not deemed unfit for the storage of goods. If any building were kept in a weather-tight condition, surely the church was that building. In villages where no “church house” or tithe barn existed, one is inclined to think, for several reasons, that some of the armour, when not in use, was placed in the church. The clues which lead to this opinion will be gathered together in the next few lines.

We may leave out of the discussion the mouldering helmets and crumbling swords which hang derelict over many an altar tomb, and which were oftentimes specially made for purposes of commemoration. These arms, “undertakers’ properties,” as someone has well called them, are irrelevant to the general question, and are apt to prejudice an examination. Fortunately, we possess a little definite evidence as to the housing of the “town’s armour” in churches. A large equipment of such armour, of which Dr J. C. Cox gives a detailed inventory, was kept in a room over the South porch of Repton church, Derbyshire, down to the year 1840[380]. This collection comprised “corsletts,” “pickes,” “calevers,” halberds, swords, a flask and touch-box, with many other requisites. The parish books distinctly speak of the store as the “Townes Armore.” In the steeple of the parish church of Darley, also in Derbyshire, “harness and weapons” were, during the first year of Elizabeth, kept in readiness for one bill-man and one archer[381]. The poverty of this store excites a little surprise, and the explanation is not immediately forthcoming. But doubtless the population of Darley was then small, and the assessment would be proportionately low. A hoard of old armour was lighted upon accidently at Baldock, Hertfordshire--again in a chamber above the porch, which had been closed for many years. The available space was nearly choked up with armour and helmets, as well as with pikes and other weapons. Although the local historian considers that the chamber was merely the lumber room for arms removed from tombs, Dr Cox, with more reason, perhaps, considers that the relics were representative of the old store of the town’s armour.

Quite recently, in the early part of the year 1910, a discovery of great corroborative value was made at Mendlesham church, in Suffolk. Over the South porch of the church is a remarkable room, locally known as the “Priest’s Chamber.” The ceiling and walls are lined with oak planks, the windows are strongly barred, and the iron-plated doors are fitted with “log locks.” Hidden within this chamber was found a fine collection of parish armour, consisting, in all, of twenty-three “lots.” The hoard contained several rare specimens, such as the “gusset” of a breast-plate, two pairs of arm defences, and an early pauldron, or shoulder-guard. Mr Seymour Lucas, who inspected the armour, stated that the earliest portions belonged to the closing years of the fifteenth century. There can be little doubt that here, at any rate, we have a genuine instance of the storage of armour in churches, and that these decaying relics belonged to the fighting men of Mendlesham[382].

There are numerous scraps of evidence which tend incidentally to support the theory. We may look for some of these when we come to discuss the churchyard yew (Chap. IX.). More directly bearing on the point, however, is the former existence of societies, in close connection with the church, known by such names as “Robin Hood guilds[383].” These clubs appear to have been occasionally formed to promote skill in archery, though, in some instances, they may have consisted of mummers and morris dancers (cf. p. 184 _infra_). Nevertheless, in the case of the Abbots Bromley horn dancers, shortly to be noticed, it is the cross-bow man, not the “hobby horse,” who is called Robin Hood.

It would be a great exaggeration to say that the church was the only place which was likely to be used as an armoury. Here and there, tithe barns and “church houses” would be available as storehouses. The squire’s mansion or the constable’s farmhouse--for that official would usually be a yeoman--were possible repositories. But the church was, after all, the centre of parish life, so that any reasons against the storage of weapons in the sacred building would be of a practical, not a religious kind.

There is a curious passage in a treatise written by the old Swedish historian, Olaus Magnus, titular Archbishop of Upsala, which deals with a side-question relating to our subject. Writing in A.D. 1555, under the section entitled “_De secura positione armorum in atrio Ecclesiae_,” and alluding to Northern nations generally, he says, “_Templa, seu Ecclesias parochiales ingressuri ruricolae Septentrionis, ante valvas, sive in atrio absque ulla furti suspicione praedicta arma donec divina absolvuntur, praecipue tempore pacis deponunt, rursusque ad propria reversuri resumunt_[384].” We may translate this as follows: Before the countryfolk of the North enter the temples or parish churches, they place the aforesaid arms in front of the door or in the porch, with no suspicion of theft, until the service is finished, especially during times of peace, and take them up again when about to return to their own affairs. Of what did the “aforesaid” arms consist, and what was the motive of bringing them to church at all? These questions are explicitly answered by the writer. When these Northern folk came from remote villages to be present at baptisms, they were allowed to bring three kinds of weapons, the bow, the sword, and the axe, and nothing besides (_praeter ballistam, gladium, et securim_). It was foreseen, and admitted, that the wayfarers would need a sword and a bow to keep wolves at bay and to defend themselves against robbers, while an axe would be necessary to lop off branches of trees which were obstacles in the way, or to repair bridges which had broken down[385]. Clearly, then, we have here a limitation of privileges. The old volume has a quaint illustration of arms piled up under an arch or in a vault. Why were the arms restricted in kind and number? Without doubt, to prevent brawling and quarrelling within the precincts of the church. However, storage in the church was allowed, and to this extent we have a profitable analogy. The only difference was that, according to English usage, the weapons were stowed away for a time more or less indefinite. In the Northern solitudes permanent storage in the church may have been both inconvenient and dangerous. The inhabitants were probably unruly and undisciplined. The great point of likeness between the British and Scandinavian cases lies in the tacit acknowledgement that arms did not defile a church.

It is not easy, indeed, to imagine why the history of customs should be different from that just presented. If we look at the factors aright, we find ourselves witnesses of the supremacy of the doctrine of social convenience. The priesthood, at times, no doubt, rebelled against the grosser intrusions of the laity, but for the most part there was acquiescence, if not partnership, in what would now be called sacrilege, or at least improper use of the church. The needs of the community over-rode all theoretical scruples. Did the villager wish to tell the hour of the day? Then the church-dial met his needs. From the earliest times, sundials were probably attached to churches. A portion of such a dial, bearing a Runic inscription, and belonging to a date somewhere between A.D. 1063 and 1065, was unearthed at Skelton churchyard, in Cleveland[386]. The well-known dial at Kirkdale church, Yorkshire, belongs to a slightly earlier period. Pre-Conquest mural dials, or at least, dial-stones, exist at Warnford, and Corhampton, in Hampshire, Stoke D’Abernon, in Surrey, Bishopstone, in Sussex (Figs. 38, 39), and other places. When the dial was gradually being superseded by clocks, these were set up in the church tower. The new timekeepers long remained scarce, but even when they had come to be generally used by private persons, the public clock held its own. The weathercock, too, was found to be of great utility, and was rarely lacking on tower or spire. As with the vane, so with the cresset, or fire-pan, in which tar or tow was burnt to guide the traveller, or to arouse the countryside. The old iron cresset on Monken Hadley tower, in Middlesex, which directed the lonely wayfarer across Enfield Chase, may still be seen. Another cresset, placed

[Illustration:

FIG. 38. Pre-conquest dial-stone, Bishopstone church, Sussex. The porch, as a whole, is believed to be of Saxon date; it contains a little long-and-short work. The chevron ornament, under the pediment, is evidently the later work of Norman artificers (c. A.D. 1120). An enlargement of the dial is given in Fig. 39. ]

above an angle of the chancel at Alnwick, in Northumberland, was employed to signal an alarm[387]. The branks, or scold’s bridles, barbarous relics of an earlier time, of which some thirteen are still believed to exist in Cheshire alone, seem to have been occasionally stored in churches. At least, the famous specimen at Walton-on-the-Thames, Surrey, is to be found in the vestry of the church. In several churches one may notice the old manual fire-engine placed under the church tower, and we may feel sure that its valuable aid was not confined to fires which broke out in the church. In short, we can scarcely limit the possible conveniences which were centred around the church fabric. Chained books and libraries, which were particularly numerous; records of charitable bequests; the registers with their details of the lives of individual villagers; the churchyard monumental records; nay, the reputation of the curative simples of the very walls--pellitory, whitlow grass, and spleenwort; who shall tell of all these? There is no doubt that decorative or symbolical considerations were often uppermost in the minds of later designers. The gilded weathercock was given a religious significance, though its origin may have been pagan; the dial bore an appropriate motto. But no ulterior purpose, either artistic or symbolical, is connected with the village stocks or the pillory. These instruments were severely practical.

[Illustration:

FIG. 39. Bishopstone dial, enlarged. The five principal Day Hours, 6, 9, 12, 3, 6 o’clock, are shown by slightly prolonged lines with cruciform terminations. The first and last radii are drawn at a slight angle with the diameter. The upper semicircle contains a cross, and is surrounded with an ornamental border, usually described, and figured, as a fret; close examination seems to show that it is billet work in low relief. It is not known to whom the name Eadric refers: he was probably an ecclesiastic. ]

Seeing that courts were formerly held in the church, it must have been expedient to have the stocks fixed near the place of trial, so that prisoners might quickly be placed where village life was busiest. One cannot go so far as to assert, with some writers, that the churchyard was the usual situation for these instruments. If the statement were amended so as to read, “in or near the churchyard,” it would command assent. In the majority of instances, the stocks which remain seem to be in the village street, or on the village green, though generally not a stone’s throw from the church. At Brading, Isle of Wight, they are housed in a building near the entrance to the churchyard. At Hessle and Kirk Ella, in Yorkshire, and at South Harting, in Sussex, they are placed by the church gate; in the Surrey villages of Alfold and Shalford, as well as at Brent Pelham, in Hertford[388], they occupy a like position. The weather-worn stocks of Shalford are shown in Fig. 40. The specimen at Kilham, Yorkshire, stands against the churchyard wall; while about 100 yards away, the old bull-ring may be seen[389]. Haveringatte-Bower, in Essex, has its stocks set up by the side of the green under an immense hollow elm, opposite to a whipping-post. In the following places the stocks are also adjacent to the churchyard: Abinger, Surrey (on the green); Walton-on-the-Hill, near Liverpool[390]; Waltham Abbey, Essex[391]; Weston-under-Redcastle, Salop[392]; and, formerly, Prestbury, Gloucestershire[393]. Within the churchyard itself we have examples at Burnsall, Yorkshire; Mottistone, Isle of Wight; and Crowle, in Lincolnshire. The stocks at Mottistone are very dilapidated; those at Crowle have been used within living memory[394]. Formerly stocks were kept in the Minster Yard at York, and there was a movable pair in the yard at Beverley Minster[395]. Lastly, to conclude this fragmentary list, we notice the stocks of Northorpe, Lincolnshire, which were kept in the church tower[396].

[Illustration: FIG. 40. Remains of stocks, outside Shalford churchyard, Surrey.]

Most of the stocks which remain are perhaps not remarkably ancient. The institution, however, has a long history. Stocks are referred to in a priory charter, dated A.D. 1324, under the name of _cippi_. In the statute 25 Edward III. 1350, they appear as _coppes_; while by 7 Henry VI., c. 17, every village or town is to provide itself with a pair of stocks[397]. We can easily picture for ourselves the Mediaeval village with its institutions massed together as closely as possible around a central spot. Castle, church, court-house, tithe-barn, playing green and archery ground; the cross and the yew; the stocks and pillory; the pound and the maypole, were complementary to the usual group of farmsteads and cottages, and helped to relieve a landscape which in the pre-enclosure period was often quiet and bare. We may see baron and priest, representing the civil and the ecclesiastical powers, sitting side by side, to arrange feudal services, tolls, and holidays, to allocate tithes and settle disputes, to assess fines and declare sentences; while ever at hand waited the instruments of punishment.

Here we may make reference to a very curious relic of the old courts. Chained to the wall of the vestry in Wateringbury church, in Kent, is an official mace known locally as the “Dumb borsholder” (_pr._ buzzelder) of Chart. This wooden staff, which is a little over three feet in length, is surmounted by an iron ring, while the lower end is tipped with a square iron spike. At the annual court leet, the head man of the tithing of Pizein Well, in the manor of Chart, appeared before the meeting bearing this staff. Thus armed, and provided with the necessary warrant, he might search for goods unlawfully concealed. The tradition runs that he was empowered to break in, by means of the iron spike, the doors of those who resisted his authority. The Wateringbury mace, which is probably the symbolical successor of the more warlike clubs employed in the old Saxon moots, was in use down to A.D. 1748[398].

In speaking of the so-called parvise, it was incidentally stated that documents were sometimes preserved in that chamber. The storage of deeds and documents in churches has a history both ancient and continuous. The scope of the underlying principle is much wider than the needs of any particular social or political system, whether the framework of that system be manorial or extra-manorial. From the foundation of the Christian church in Britain the priest seems to have been a kind of banker, just as, in an informal manner, he was the village notary. An attenuated survival of the old order of things is seen in the rubric appended to “The Order for the Visitation of the Sick,” in our modern Prayer Book. The minister is told to admonish the sick man to make his will. More than this: men are often to be “put in remembrance” to settle all such business “whilst they are in health.” On the fly-leaves of the ancient altar-books were written various kinds of memoranda referring to sales and other transactions. An appeal to an entry in a “Christ’s Book,” or a “Gospel Book,” as representing a genuine legal record, was considered decisive[399]. Again, the manumission of slaves, an act of a semi-legal character, was probably performed at the altar, and an entry of the proceedings was made in the “church-book[400].” Of the preservation of Court Rolls in churches, we have numerous instances, ranging from the time of Canute onwards. The latest record at hand is that of the Manor of Howden, Yorkshire, the rolls of which were retained in the parish church so recently as A.D. 1809[401].

There can be little doubt that some of the old oaken church chests (Figs. 41, 42, 50) strongly clamped with iron, each furnished with an exceedingly elaborate, though clumsy, arrangement of locks, were utilized for keeping, not only the church books, registers, and vestments, but many of the parchments and manuscripts of which we are speaking. It is asserted that the ordinary parish church possessed two or three chests; where one alone has been preserved to hold the registers and other documents, it is usually the least attractive and valuable. The specimen from Llanelian in Denbigh (Fig. 41) is hewn from a single block of wood. The chest from Rainham in Essex (Fig. 42) is

[Illustration:

FIG. 41. Church chest, Llanelian, Denbigh. Hewn from a single block of timber. The dog-tongs, seen on the left, are made on the principle of the compound lever. Initials, and the date, 1748, are cut in the bars of the tongs. ]

[Illustration: FIG. 42. Church chest, Rainham, Essex. Date: second half of the fourteenth century. The carving belongs to the early Perpendicular period.]

handsomely carved with ornament of the Perpendicular period. It was not the provision of locks and bolts alone which gave security: stronger far was the acknowledged repute of the building itself, and the dread of the consequences of sacrilege. Behind the high altar of St Paul’s Cathedral there was formerly such a chest, in which deeds were protected[402]. Some of the remaining church coffers are skilfully carved and afford good examples of the decorative art of the architectural period to which they belong[403]. The subject merits separate examination, but the most that can be done here is to remind the reader of the broad outlines. The fact that wills were commonly deposited for safety in ecclesiastical buildings, is too well known to require emphasis. The huge collections of wills in the cathedrals of Gloucester and York, for example, at once spring to memory. We may also recall the right of sanctuary, which was vested in the church and the churchyard. Again, the Synod of Westminster, A.D. 1142, granted certain immunities, probably freedom from seizure for debt, to ploughs and other agricultural implements placed in the churchyard. All these details agree well with the theories of social convenience and unwritten religious compact.

We commenced our survey by inspecting the towers of certain churches, and afterwards, it will be remembered, we began to discuss the secular uses of the nave. This has led us to examine some historical facts connected with the church porch, which, ecclesiastically, as well as architecturally, is an integral part of the building. Indeed, it was this very inability to separate the porch from the fabric as a whole which compelled us to linger by the way. We must now retrace our steps in order to garner some further details respecting the nave, and to substantiate the assertion that the body of the church was not devoted to worship alone. One cardinal fact to be borne in mind is, that the nave was essentially the property of the parishioners, who were liable for its repair, in the same way that the rector was responsible for the upkeep of the chancel. This proposition is well attested by the canons of the church, and by all ecclesiastical writers of repute. Partly as a consequence of this separation of interests, and partly in deference to the accepted ethics of both the pre-Norman and post-Norman periods, the nave was allowed to be put to a variety of uses. In the words of Jeaffreson, “The Mediaeval nave, by turns, or simultaneously,

[Illustration:

FIG. 43. Fourteenth century barn, Barton Farm, Bradford-on-Avon, Wiltshire. From the South-West. The barn exhibits numerous Gothic features of the period; angle buttresses, transept-like porches, gable crosses, &c. The windows, of which those at the ends are cruciform, are narrow slits, with wide splays internally. The Glastonbury barn is one of the finest in the country; the parochial tithe-barn was a much smaller building. ]

was a public-hall, a theatre, a warehouse, a market, a court of justice, and a place of worship; but the chancel was rigidly reserved for the mysteries and sublime offices of priestly service[404].” Already we have glanced at the judicial and legislative aspects of the question; we may now consider the remaining features. Serving the purpose of a warehouse, the thirteenth century church was sometimes used for the storage of corn and wool, a small fee being paid to the clergy for the accommodation[405]. The practice may not have been usual, but it does not seem to have been rare. For the reception of the grain and fodder which was paid to the church in kind, there was, as we know, the spacious tithe-barn (Figs. 43, 44). But other persons besides

[Illustration:

FIG. 44. Interior of barn, Bradford-on-Avon. The windows, which, viewed from the outside (Fig. 43), were narrow slits, are here seen to have a wide internal splay. The timber roof is remarkably fine. Internal measurements 85 ft × 25¾ ft. ]

abbot or priest were often anxious to store goods temporarily--perhaps against the time of the village fair or feast--and hence the nave of the church became, for the time, a granary or barn. Bread was stored in churches so recently as A.D. 1665[406]. The English village possessed few buildings, other than the church, which were both capacious and weather-proof. Previous to the Reformation, it must be observed, fixed pews were not often found in churches; at the most, the worshippers were supplied only with movable benches. These benches could be cleared away in times of emergency, and the nave was thus admirably fitted to receive merchandise, such as sacks of wheat, wool-packs, and boxes of treasure. Comparatively large quantities of produce could be packed in the space thus set free.

The evidence that the nave was extensively used as a market-hall is not abundant. In view of the repeated attempts to enforce the Scriptural principle respecting the House of Prayer, we have some difficulty in distinguishing between what was considered lawful and what profane. Manifestly, it would have puzzled the bishop or priest to justify the use of the nave as a mart or bazaar, save on special or urgent occasions. Grosseteste, bishop of Lincoln (d. A.D. 1253), expressly forbade markets to be held in sacred places (_ne in locis sacris habeantur mercata_)[407]. Frequently, the habit, after having been denounced, crept in again unawares. In one village, pleading necessity or stress of weather, and, in another, advancing no plea whatever, hucksters coming to the parish wake or the annual fair would boldly set up their stalls for the sale of victuals within the church[408]. And what was done without let or hindrance in the village was contrived craftily in the city. In old St Paul’s, and other cathedrals, stands were erected for special occasions, and were afterwards allowed to remain as centres of bargaining[409]. When driven out of the nave, the dealers could still find a harbour in the porch. The York Fabric Rolls record the fact that pedlars sold their wares in the porch of Riccal church (A.D. 1510)[410]. Even the Reformation did not bring these customs to an end. Barnabe Googe’s _Popish Kingdome_ (1570)--a translation, or adaptation, of the Latin work of Thomas Naogeorgus (Kirchmayer), contains, among other complaints, a bitter lament over the sale of “carpes and pykes and mullets fat,” in the church on St Ulrick’s Day (July 4th). Both Googe and Naogeorgus wrote as strong Protestants, hence there is a possibility that their pictures are too highly coloured. But it is more likely that they branded as irreligious what was an acknowledged custom. Whether they exaggerated the evil or not, their statements are supported by another Protestant, William Harrison, who wrote only a few years later (A.D. 1577). Harrison’s doleful story runs thus: “But as the number of churches increased, so the repair of the faithful unto the cathedrals did diminish, whereby they now become, especially in their nether parts, rather markets and shops for merchandise than solemn places of prayer, whereunto they were first erected[411].” In Norwich, he tells us, the church was turned into a barn, while the people, himself among them, heard service further off, on a green. There, a bell was suspended from an oak, for want of a steeple. “But now,” says he, “I understand that the oke likewise is gone[412].” Like Googe, Harrison was such a strenuous Reformer, that he ignored the antiquity of some of the customs which he condemned. Had he been able to take a detached view, he would have seen that the excesses which he witnessed had not sprung up in his day, but that they were extravagances arising from the abuse of a once recognized practice. The Mediaeval citizen, who sauntered into the church to cross himself and to utter a momentary prayer, might often be tempted to stay a full hour to converse with his fellows. The church was a hall for social intercourse, a comfortable shelter for the poor. It was a museum of sculpture and painting, an academy of music. But, running through all these arrangements, there was a current of salutary religious influence. To judge the Mediaeval condition of affairs by the standard of the eighteenth, or the early nineteenth century, as one might be hastily led to do, would be a grievous error. The broken windows, once “richly dight,” the defaced carvings, the bare, whitewashed walls and the concealed fresco, the demolished rood-loft, the font out of position, the memorial brass at the back of the kitchen fireplace, the registers torn up by the village shopkeeper--these are features which do not belong to the period when the nave, perchance, was used as a storehouse and a market. Such treatment was left to a generation of which eye-witnesses can still speak. We must discriminate between the theoretical principle that all secular matters are bound up in religion, and the lukewarmness which engenders sheer indifference to desecration. If we learn to make this distinction, we shall put a different construction on such queer survivals as the distribution of doles and charities in church, or the scrambling for loaves in the churchyard. They are not acts of wanton irreverence; commendable or not, they are genuine relics of the older legitimate tradition.

From the sale of commodities in the nave we pass to the question of guilds and festivals. The English guilds, which once played an important part in Church history, largely owed their origin, if Dr F. A. Gasquet be correct, to the revival of the religious spirit after the desolating effects of the Black Death in A.D. 1348 and 1349. It will be remembered that the bells of Newcastle summoned the members of the local guild to church three times annually (p. 131 _supra_). These guilds or brotherhoods were in the habit of holding feasts and banquets. For example, the churchwardens’ accounts for the village of Chagford, Devon (A.D. 1550-99), show that a society known as the “Young Men’s Wardens” were responsible for getting up the “Church-ales.” These “Ales” we shall describe in a moment. At South Tawton, in the same county, the “St George’s Wardens” undertook the duty[413]. Frequently, the entertainments would be provided in the parsonage-house (Figs. 45, 46), or the church-house

[Illustration:

FIG. 45. Priests’, or Clergy house, Alfriston, Sussex. Fourteenth century. It consists of a central hall (23 ft × 17 ft), at each end of which are two rooms, one above the other. The framework of the house is of oak, the intervening spaces being filled with wattle and daub. The hall has an open-timbered roof, with king-posts and cambered tie beams. It contains a hooded fireplace. There are several original windows. (See _Vict. Hist. of Sussex_, II. p. 384.) The old elm tree, partly visible on the right, is of unusual size for the species, having a girth of 24 feet at a height of 3 feet from the ground. ]

(Fig. 47), the latter of which was sometimes actually called a guild-hall[414]. The church-house was essentially a parish room, built and maintained by the community, under the direction of the churchwardens. It was built in the architectural style of the period. Unlike the parsonage-house, it was not a place of residence for the clergy. Brand has shown that barns were also used--presumably the large tithe-barns, where these existed. There is reason to believe, however, that the church itself was sometimes the guest-house on these occasions. Certainly this was often the case with the “Ales” proper, to which we must now very briefly allude. The Church-ale, or

[Illustration:

FIG. 46. Clergy, or Parsonage house, West Dean, Sussex (c. A.D. 1280). View from North end. The building, which is of stone, consists of a hall (30 ft × 15 ft internal measurement), with a story above. The walls are 2 ft 6 in. in thickness. The solar, or loft, is approached by a stone newel staircase, built in the buttress-like projection, which is seen at the North-East angle. The chimney is elaborately constructed. In the east wall a double-lighted window, with trefoiled heads, is visible. (For fuller description, see _Vict. Hist. of Sussex_, II. p. 383; A. Hussey, _Churches of Kent, Sussex, and Surrey_, 1852, p. 219; _Sussex Archaeol. Coll._ III. pp. 13-22.) ]

Whitsun-ale, was a kind of parochial festivity in which the churchwardens usually, though, as just noticed, not always, took the initiative. Subscriptions were invited, and, with the money obtained, large quantities of malt were bought. Contributions in kind, such as eggs and meat, were also accepted. The malt was brewed, and the liquor broached, either in the church-house,

[Illustration:

FIG. 47. Church House, or St Mary’s Guild Hall, popularly known as John of Gaunt’s Stables, Lincoln. 12th century. Principal front, showing the Transitional Norman entrance doorway, with tooth ornament in a shallow moulding. Above is a rich cornice of sculptured foliage. The buttresses are flat, and there is a Norman loop in the lower story. Within is an ancient fireplace. The roof is modern. ]

or as Philip Stubbs (or Stubbes), the Puritan, asserts, in the sacred building itself[415]. The church-house was doubtless a familiar institution in Elizabethan England. Examples are on record where the leases of such houses expressly stipulate that they should be available for making “Quarter ales” or Church-ales. Such buildings contained all the spits, crocks, and utensils necessary for preparing the banquet[416]. In the tower of Frensham church, Surrey, there is preserved a large cauldron of beaten copper, locally known as “Mother Ludlam’s Kettle.” This vessel has doubtless played its part in many a parish feast.

Though the church-house, or, alternatively, the tithe-barn, was, after the Reformation, generally the scene of the revels, custom was not uniform, as frequent injunctions against the holding of drinking-parties and banquets within the church sufficiently testify. The transition from church to church-house was made, it would appear, in deference to Puritan opinion, but the populace was somewhat tenacious of the old habit. One great objection to the Church-ales lay in the rude and boisterous sports with which they were associated. However slight might be the murmur against quoits, bowls, or shooting at the butts, it is plain that the baiting of bulls, bears, or badgers, the loud, and possibly lewd folk-songs, the noisy dancing parties, would pass the bounds of decency and decorum, and cry out for suppression. The feast lasted a day or two, and occasionally longer. The profits of the merrymaking formed a kind of voluntary church-rate, and were devoted to church-restoration, or the purchase of service books and vessels. It has been pertinently suggested that some of the grotesque corbel heads, so frequently found in churches, may mark the restorations which were made out of the profits of Church-ales. Nothing but a village feast, it is supposed, could have furnished the sculptor with models to enable him to represent so well gluttony and drunkenness. The theory is rather harsh, but it may contain a measure of truth.

There were other Ales besides the one just described. The Bid-ale was a co-operative banquet, devised to aid some unfortunate or impoverished parishioner. The Clerk-ale was intended to provide, or to increase, the salary of the parish clerk. There were also Lamb-ales, Bride-ales, Scot-ales, and others. In fact, occasions seem actually to have been sought for holding these holy-ales, which were of a nature at once social and benevolent[417]. Needless to say, there were two sides to this, as to every question. Regrettable, even disgraceful, though the proceedings might oftentimes become, we are yet compelled to consider the original and normal conditions. The relief of the poor has been mentioned. Tyack states that, in the year 1651, so many as seventy-two parish priests of Somersetshire certified that not only were the congregations larger during a Church-ale--not a surprising fact--but that “the service of God was more solemnly performed[418].” If such opinions were held generally--and, so far as they were held at all by the clergy, they would be reciprocated by laymen--one cannot marvel at the action of the villagers of Clungunford, Shropshire, who in 1637 complained to Archbishop Laud about the discontinuance of the Easter feast. For centuries the poor and aged folk had been regaled with bread, cheese, and beer, after evensong on Easter Sunday. Fifty years previous to the presentation of the petition, in accordance with the wishes of the ruling Archbishop, the feast had been transferred from the church to the parsonage; but now it was abandoned altogether. Laud’s decision ran thus: “I shall not go about to break this custom so it be done in the parsonage house, in a neighbourly and decent way.” Similar cases might be brought forward to show that the tradition of feasting in church died hard[419].

We leave the tempting subject of church-ales, and, still considering the motives which led to the provision of such ample space within the sacred walls, we must take a glimpse of church-plays. The connection between the church and the drama has been partially dealt with by numerous writers, and exhaustively by Mr E. K. Chambers, in his _Mediaeval Stage_. On the character of the church plays we cannot dwell at length, nor is this necessary, for the subject has interested most antiquaries, and descriptions are to be found in many treatises. A brief enumeration, however, is desirable. There was the Passion Play at Easter, when a solemn representation of the burial and Resurrection of the Saviour was enacted at the altar, or beneath a specially constructed “sepulchre.” There was the Nativity play at Christmas, when clergy, choristers, and other folk, represented the scenes connected with the manger-birth[420]. But the best known performances were the Miracle Plays. At first, these were acted within the church walls, but, at a later date, the players were driven into the church-yard. The popularity of these plays became so great that the church could not accommodate the audience, and this consideration, rather than clerical disfavour, probably turned the scale. Indeed, when the drama had passed out of the hands of the clergy and choir, and had become appropriated by trade guilds or strolling players, when, too--it must be said--the plays had become tinged with ribaldry and profanity, the authorities seemed to have regretted the expulsion. Within the church, a certain degree of oversight was always exercised; on the village green, the censorship was lax and intermittent. Occasionally, as Dr J. C. Cox asserts, the wandering troops were still allowed to use the churches[421]. An attempt was made to recover lost ground, and miracle plays were declared sinful if played on the roads or greens[422]. We must shortly return to this phase of the question, but meanwhile let us recapitulate Mr Chambers’s theory of the development of the religious drama.

Mr Chambers, after tracing the steady evolution of religious plays, concludes that the Church gradually came to make the appeal to the mimetic instinct in mankind by means of the introduction of dramatic elements into its liturgy[423]. From the fourth century, at least, the Mass was the central object of ritual, and it was from this service, little by little, that the dramatic dialogues and representations were derived and elaborated. Originally a mere symbol of a commemorative kind, the Mass became a repetition of the initial sacrifice, invested with a dramatic character[424]. Thus the ritual play proper was evolved, and out of this, in later times, sprang the familiar miracle play[425].

We may infer, then, that there was a valid reason why the religious plays should be performed in hallowed buildings. The question arises, whether this was the usual practice, or an exceptional liberty. No less an authority than Canon Jessopp, that tireless and conscientious elucidator of ancient documents, is of opinion that the use of churches for setting forth miracle plays was rare. He cites an instance where twenty-seven parishes contributed to the expenses of one of these spectacles. From this circumstance, he concludes that there must have been a “monster performance,” and that the onlookers could not well have been sheltered within the church[426]. Perhaps the case brought forward itself represents the exception, or, at any rate, belongs to the era when plays had been driven out into the churchyard. And it is extremely probable, I think, that some of the old tithe-barns (Figs. 43, 44, pp. 171-2 _supra_), when almost, or quite empty, would be very serviceable as theatres. Against the verdict of Canon Jessopp--a verdict which cannot be airily dismissed--we have to set undeniable facts. Mr Chambers affirms that for a long time the church proved sufficient for the accommodation of the folk who came to watch the plays. The performances spread, perhaps by degrees, from the choir to the nave. “The _domus_, _loca_, or _sedes_ [were] set at intervals against the pillars while the people crowded to watch in the side aisles.” It was during the twelfth century that the players first sought ampler room outside the church[427]. The ousting of the performance was a gradual process. Perhaps it would be more correct to say that the liturgical play was slow in severing its intimate connection with the church. From the churchyard it passed to the church gate, and thence to the market-place, or to some croft or field. While all these changes were being made, the village fair, as a popular institution, was becoming well established, and the outdoor play was heartily welcomed by the holiday-makers[428].

The evidence produced by Mr Chambers shows, therefore, that convenience, and not clerical censure, was the prime cause at work in removing the players from the churches. The demand for ejection was afterwards reinforced by the Reformers, but by that time the result was being otherwise brought about. It now becomes still more intelligible why plays on the green were, at one period, actually denounced. The natural home of the play was the church, and in the church it lingered. “Quite apart from the survival of ritual plays proper, the miracle play, even at the moment of its extinction, had not always and everywhere been excluded from the church itself[429].” Mr Chambers gives numerous examples, and avers that the last of all the village plays--he is evidently referring to annual institutions--that of Hascombe, Surrey, in 1539, “was at, but perhaps not in, the church[430].” A few years later, Bonner forbade the presentation of plays either in the church or churchyard[431]. This edict does not seem to have been fully obeyed, for Dr J. C. Cox declares that both in pre-Reformation and post-Reformation times the authorities occasionally suffered secular country dramas and rude historic scenes to be represented in the nave of the church[432]. Nor is this all; in the sixteenth century Bishop John Bale endeavoured to counteract the miracle plays by Protestant dramas, conceived in much the same style as the genuine works (A.D. 1538, etc.). The unintentional hardihood of some of Bale’s impersonations is said to have bordered on blasphemy. This is one view of the matter; allowance must be made for an important fact, noted by Mr A. W. Pollard, namely, that Bale wrote as an antiquary, not as a controversialist[433].

Lest anyone should demur to this narrative of the miracle

[Illustration: FIG. 48. Morris dancers, from 14th century MS. in the Bodleian Library (Strutt).]

play, a glance at certain customs, either pagan or semi-pagan in their origin, may help to dispel all suspicion of unfairness. The old morris-dances (Fig. 48), which were associated with the church, were occasionally, as at Whitsuntide, performed within the nave. The wardens were not infrequently entrusted with the “properties” necessary for the performance of the dances. The earlier churchwardens’ accounts contain abundant references to the costumes of the dancers and mummers. The accounts of St Mary’s, Reading, contain entries of this kind so late as A.D. 1556-7[434]. We may perhaps find the immediate exemplars of some of these dances in the fandango of the Moors, especially if, as philologists tell us, the word “morris” is connected with the name of this race[435]. The ultimate origin of the custom, however, lies deeper, and goes back to the turn-over from heathenism. Some of the dances are as essentially British as any legacies which antiquity has bequeathed to us. One example, known as “Bean-setting,” is conjectured to be derived from a primitive ceremonial dance which was once performed in the springtime, when the crops were sown. In fact, dancing, and the revels with which it was accompanied, gave great trouble to the Early Fathers, who had much difficulty in safeguarding the precincts of the church from such intrusions[436]. So recently as the seventeenth century, a writer quoted by Mr Chambers could assert that, in his lifetime, he had seen clergy and singing boys dancing at Easter in the churches of Paris. Here, surely, was a vestige of paganism. And, although one cannot produce apposite parallels from Britain, there are astounding modern survivals of this kind reported from Continental churches, for example, at Seville, and at Echternach, in Luxembourg[437]. The Whit-Tuesday dancing procession at Echternach still takes place annually and attracts a huge crowd of pilgrims. The dancing is a kind of rhythmical leap, and is performed on the way from the Abbey church to the grave of St Willibrord, and then back again. Dancing in churches at Christmas--a different matter from dancing at Easter--was not unknown in England itself in the seventeenth century. John Aubrey says that, in his day, Yorkshire folk danced in the churches at Christmas-tide, singing or crying, “Yole, Yole, Yole[438]!” Philip Stubbes, in 1583, had denounced bitterly the “Devil’s dances” in church. Mention should not be omitted also of the horn dancers of Abbots Bromley, Staffordshire, whose reindeer antlers, dresses, and other properties are preserved in the parish church. There are records of horn-dancing from other places, but the Abbots Bromley performance, which is still continued annually, is most instructive, because it was carefully investigated by Dr J. C. Cox about a dozen years ago. Dr Cox then found persons living who could recollect the accompanying music being played in the church porch, while the dancers executed their steps in the churchyard. Moreover, this authority credits the tradition that, in former times, the dance, which was a preliminary to making the round of the parish, was performed in the church[439].

Having considered the use of the nave for purposes of trade and amusement, we must now notice what really seems to have been an unusual occurrence--the confinement of animals within the church. The custom was uncommon, because it never seems to have been actually sanctioned. And little wonder; decency alone demanded some limitation of such ignoble uses. In permitting the building to be employed for secular purposes, there was always a danger of licence, yet it must be said that notorious laxity seems to have usually brought a reprimand. But the practice alluded to, like a troublesome weed, refused to be extirpated. Von Hefele relates that, at the Quinsext, or Trullan Synod, held in the Imperial Palace at Constantinople in A.D. 692, the following decree was passed: “No cattle may be driven into the church, except in the greatest need, if a stranger has no shelter and his animals would otherwise perish[440].” One wonders whether a certain Essex vicar, who, in A.D. 1550, was reported for allowing sheep to be folded in the church, had ever heard of this decree. At all events, he pleaded that his action was taken “for grete and extreme necessitie sake, and not in anie contempt.” He was able to prove that there had been a heavy and unexpected fall of snow, and that the animals were placed in the church to save their lives. After the storm had abated, the sheep had been removed, and the church cleaned. The offender did not altogether escape punishment, even after this plea, for he was ordered to do penance and to distribute alms to the poor of the parish[441]. The vicar might have found a still wider loophole provided by an injunction belonging to the reign of the English king Edgar. This injunction not only specifically forbids eating, drinking, and indecorous behaviour within the church, but bans the entrance of dogs, or of more pigs than could be kept under control. The position is most remarkable, though, indeed, the expression used seems equivocal, “_Neque intra ecclesiae sepem canis aliquis veniat, neque porcorum plures quam quis regere possit_[442].” If we assume that all churchyards were actually enclosed at this period, and if we allow the wider interpretation of “_ecclesiae sepem_,” as meaning the whole enclosure of church and churchyard, the decree still appears inferentially to permit a considerable latitude of custom. That, in periods of general looseness of discipline, animals were allowed to graze in the churchyard, is well known to most readers. In the same year that the Essex clergyman was summoned for folding sheep in the church, complaint was made, concerning a churchyard in the Archdeaconry of Colchester, that “hogges do wrote up graves, and besse (= cattle) lie in the porch”; while a parish priest was “sworn to penance” for putting his horse in the churchyard[443]. But the practice could not be stopped. Essex had an unenviable reputation in this respect, for Peter Kalm, in 1748, notes that in this county and in the part of Kent around Gravesend and Rochester, grazing the churchyard was customary. Horses, pigs, and donkeys, but especially horses, were pastured among the graves. The churchyard was also kept as a meadow for hay. Let the acts be reprobated to the uttermost, they could not be entirely brought to an end. During a tithe dispute between a Derbyshire prior and the parochial clergy, lambs and wool were placed in a church, and a free fight ensued[444]. This was before the Reformation, but if we turn to such a work as Mackarness’s edition of _Prideaux’s Churchwarden’s Guide_ (1895), we find a curious hesitancy in pronouncing definitely on a somewhat kindred matter. Should the parson “merely turn a horse or a few sheep into the churchyard to pasture therein,” the churchwardens may not feel called upon to interfere. But if he lets loose animals which turn up the soil, and profane the graves, or if, again, he converts the church-porch into a stable for his horse, he may rightly be censured[445]. The mounting-blocks already mentioned (p. 157 _supra_) show that these maxims must, in former times, have been indifferently followed in some parishes.

Throughout the Middle Ages, there was prevalent another custom which is repugnant to modern ideas. This was the keeping of doves in or near churches. Most frequently, it is true, a separate structure seems to have been built to accommodate the birds, as at Garway, Herefordshire. The Garway dovecot, a fourteenth century building, would house 600 birds. Sometimes, as we have seen at Gumfreston (p. 115 _supra_), a portion of the tower was utilized as a pigeon loft, while again, as at Elkstone, Gloucestershire, a chamber was built over the chancel[446]. Incidentally, we may notice that the privilege of building a columbarium, or culver-house, as it was called, was confined to the lord of the manor, the rector, the heads of monastic houses, and freeholders. The existence of a culver-house is usually deemed a sign of Norman influence. The dovecot of Berwick, Sussex, shown in the illustration (Fig. 49), is doubtless several centuries old. A few Sussex culver-houses probably go back to the twelfth or thirteenth century, but such examples are generally in ruins. The Berwick dovecot can be traced back at least to the year 1622, when it was rented from the parson for five pounds a year.

Most persons are familiar with the old box pew, in which the territorial family used to sit during service. Frequently these apartments--for they really deserved this name--contained a fireplace. Pre-Reformation fireplaces are rare in churches, but in the Norbury chapel, or chantry, at Stoke D’Abernon, Surrey, there is a specimen dating c. A.D. 1490. During the worst days of the large private pews, which were often partially screened from the body of the church, a special compartment

[Illustration:

FIG. 49. Ancient dovecot, Berwick Court, Sussex. These buildings are usually attached to the territorial-house of the village. Sussex has many examples; some are much older than the specimen figured, but they are usually not so well preserved. The whole of the interior of the Berwick dovecot is fitted up for the birds. (See description in _Sussex Archaeol. Coll._ VI. pp. 232-3.) ]

was sometimes provided for the dogs of the local squire. Examples of these recesses could be seen at Aveley, Essex, and Northorpe, Lincolnshire, not much more than a century back[447]. At Northorpe, the dogs’ pew was just within the chancel arch. Nevertheless, not everyone, was permitted to take his dog to church. The dog-whipper was a recognized officer in many churches, and it is common to find, in church accounts, entries relating to the payment of this functionary[448]. In some cases the office was endowed, and the salary, though small, was fixed. His pew was sometimes marked with the words “The dog-whipper.” The dogs kept out of the building were doubtless those belonging to farmers and shepherds. Custom was not uniform, but, as a rule, the minister does not seem to have raised any objection to quiet animals. Some of the contrivances employed by the dog-whipper, or “dog-noper” (_noper_, _knauper_ = striker), are peculiar. Generally, the weapon was a thick stick, to which was attached a stout lash or thong, but in some churches instruments known as dog-tongs (Fig. 41, p. 169 _supra_) were used. These weapons were especially necessary when shepherd dogs flew at each other’s throats. Such fights often led to local disputes, and the incumbent then felt bound to interfere.

There are records which are more distasteful even than those which tell of taking dogs to church. When we read of card-playing and cock-fighting in church, we are really compelled to regard these as acts of wanton impiety which marked a period of deadness in religion. The records are certainly sporadic. Again, there is good reason to believe the tradition, met with at Chislehurst and elsewhere, that parishioners left the house of prayer and walked across the green to the cockpit. At Hayes, in Middlesex, it is said that the uncouth and brutal custom of throwing at cocks in the churchyard was kept up so late as A.D. 1754[449].

It has been a difficult feat to disentangle the secular use of the nave from that of the churchyard. The reason is simple: the play of social and administrative forces was rarely quite balanced and continuously uniform for any considerable length of time. Alternately, the church and the graveyard were utilized for parochial purposes, as ecclesiastical power and public opinion rose and fell. In addition, before the final severance was made, there was a period when assemblies were allowed to be held in the churchyard, on sufferance only. We have seen that, when fairs and markets were impending, the clergy sometimes permitted the church to be used as a warehouse or exchange. Contemporaneously with, as well as subsequently to, this use of the church, we find the traders being pushed into the churchyard, and thence to the village green, or a pasture field.

The village fair was commonly held on the day which was dedicated to the patron saint of the church. This coincidence often proves helpful to the investigator, for when the original dedication of a church has been lost, it may perhaps be recovered by noticing the date of the fair, which gives the anniversary of the saint[450]. (The saint’s day and the dedication festival are not now always coincident, but the divergence may not be a primitive feature.) The agreement of dates doubtless takes us back to the days when Christianity had not yet become supreme, and when the leaders took advantage of any casual support, such as would be obtained by holding the patronal festival on a day devoted to the affairs of popular assemblies or the pleasures of a general holiday. Naturally, there long remained a close connection between the feast and the church fabric which was the centre of much of the activity of the community. When fairs, in the strict sense, began to be held, the old date of the feast would still be retained. For many a century, too, no serious attempt was made to deprive the merry-makers of the right to meet within the sacred enclosure. Farmers came to buy or sell stock, labourers stood for hire, merchants arrived from distant towns to trade in wool or grain, pedlars spread their wares on the tombstones in the churchyard, while the populace gave itself over to pastime and refreshment.

Intermittently, murmurs were heard respecting these doings. Thus, in a presentment (A.D. 1416) from St Michael-le-Belfry, in the city of York, complaint is made of the tumult and clamour caused by the traders. On Sundays and holidays there was “a common market of vendibles in the churchyard.” All kinds of goods were exposed for sale (_diversa res et bona ac cirpi_ [= rushes] _vendicioni ibidem exponuntur_); while horses stood over the dead and defiled the graves[451]. Especially when a cathedral or church possessed some famous shrine or relic, as at Canterbury, Walsingham, and Glastonbury, pilgrims and traders met on common ground. For a long time it was customary, at St Audrey’s fair, to erect booths in Ely Cathedral, for the sale of laces made of thin silk[452]. Pilgrims from afar would naturally require refreshment at the end of their journey, and the victuallers of the cities were always ready to meet the demand. But, unfortunately, to the legitimate buying and selling of food and drink, was appended the boisterousness of minstrels, actors, and jugglers[453].

Perhaps the most important legislation against churchyard commerce is contained in the Statute of Winchester, A.D. 1285 (13 Edw. I., c. 6), which forbade the holding of fairs and markets in churchyards[454]. The act, however, proved ineffectual, for, in A.D. 1368, Archbishop Simon Langham found it necessary to issue a mandate against Sunday markets in the Isle of Sheppey, where the traders approached so near the church as to interrupt the celebration of Mass. Later infractions have already been noticed (p. 174 _supra_), so that the story may be cut short by citing such cases of survival as those of All Saints, Northampton, and Laughton-en-le-Morthen, Yorkshire, where, until modern times, fairs were held in the churchyards[455]. The churchyard at Laughton was of enormous size, and in this respect, at least, was well adapted for its purpose.

I have suggested that the coincidence of fair day and saint’s day is a vestige of a very early compromise, when the dedication festival was substituted for heathen ceremonial. The idea may be pursued in two other directions. First, we might observe how many fairs, or feasts, are held at seasons which are known to correspond to pagan festivals, for example, Whitsuntide and midsummer. It would then be seen to what extent the dedication periods were in harmony with those of festivals, either as regards actual coincidence of dates, or preliminary warnings.

Sir Norman Lockyer and the Rev. J. Griffith have called attention to the large number of fairs which are held on the festival, or quarter days, of the “May Year.” These writers consider that such fairs are the representatives of meetings summoned when fires were lighted and Gorsedds or Gorseddau (see p. 98 _supra_) were erected. The fairs and the churches together “mark for us the _loci_ of the original circle-worship, and the fact that we are dealing with the May Year and _not_ the solstice shows that we have to do with a very high antiquity.” Our fairs, according to this view, represent “thousands of British Gorsedds, the pedigrees of which are as unimpeachable as that of the Welsh institution[456].” To the present writer, this theory seems to go much beyond the recorded facts, but time and further inquiry may tell.

The second mode of research is to ascertain with what frequency the village fairs are, or were, kept near ancient monuments or earthworks. Thus, from time immemorial a sheep fair has been held within the oval camp on the top of Woodbury Hill, near Bere Regis, in Dorset[457]. Mr Thomas Hardy has seized upon this fact, and has deftly worked it into the opening chapter of _Far from the Madding Crowd_. Another earthwork used in this way is that known as Yarnborough, or Yarnbury Castle, in the parish of Hanging Langford, Wiltshire[458]. As these words are being written, one may see bills on the walls in London announcing that special trains are to be run on the day of the fair.

Further corroboration might be given, if it were desirable. Sometimes it is a “blue stone,” or a stone pillar, where the concourse of traders gathered. At North Thoresby, in Lincolnshire, the fair was held near a “blue stone” in a meadow near the church called Boundcroft--a significant name.

Intimately connected with the question of fairs held near old earthworks, are the sports which were associated with such places. And, in fact, the fairs and the games are two phases of one subject, while both features, in turn, will illustrate the inability of the early founders of the Church to eliminate pagan customs.

Hence, though for the moment we may appear to wander from our theme, we shall soon see that the matter is not extraneous. When we learn, for instance, that Wiltshire villagers were wont to climb Cley Hill to play a game with balls and sticks within the British earthwork at the summit, and when we hear that this took place on Palm Sunday, we express only mild surprise[459]. When, however, we read of a similar procession of men and maidens, again occurring on Palm Sunday, to the prehistoric camp on the top of St Martin’s Hill (or Martinsell), a steep-sided promontory of the chalk range near Marlborough[460], the subject becomes interesting. In discussing the churchyard yew in a later chapter we shall have occasion to recall the Martinsell anniversary (p. 381 _infra_); in the meantime we cast around for other illustrations. A like ceremony was carried out on Palm Sunday by the villagers of Avebury, Wiltshire, who mounted the famous Silbury Hill, there to eat fig cakes and drink sugar and water. The water was procured from the spring below, known as the Swallow Head. Seeing that Palm Sunday bears elsewhere the nickname of “Fig Sunday,” and that figs were often eaten at this festival, ecclesiastical writers have supposed that the custom is connected with the Gospel story of the cursing of the barren fig tree. (Figs were not always the fruit eaten; in Wessex and the West of England “fig” also means a raisin.) To the folk-lorist, however, this item will be regarded as adventitious--as an accretion which is due to ideas impressed from without. Were the habit of making these pilgrimages to early earthworks confined to one or two localities, or to one particular festival, this superficial explanation might pass unchallenged. But when we encounter instance after instance, reported from many counties, and connected with various anniversaries, then, though the ceremony be often touched with curious little tinges of local colour, we are compelled to go beyond the accidents, and to seek a common underlying principle. This, indeed, does not seem discoverable by any purely historical process. We are driven back to unconscious folk-memory and immemorial tradition--which rarely endeavour to supply a fully efficient cause--to the dim period when, though the practice of raising earthworks was not obsolete, a considerable amount of superstition, and even of ceremonial observance, was already connected with those old monuments. The period referred to roughly covers the first five or six centuries of our era. Behind this transitional stage of superstition lies the prehistoric period, with its own rites and ceremonies, and its own anniversary observances.

Let us now notice one or two cases of hill customs not connected with Palm Sunday. I am informed by Mr W. J. Lucas that it was the custom, forty years ago, for youths and maidens to ascend Chilswell Hill, near Oxford, every Good Friday, to indulge in rude sports and noisy merry-making. So coarse was the play that it was not considered proper for respectable folk to take part in the proceedings. Now one cannot, in any reasonable way, seek the origin of these games in the solemn rites connected with the Christian anniversary. Rather must we look to some ancient spring festival, such as that connected with the Saxon goddess Eostre. It would appear as if the Church in the early period could not, and in the later times would not, altogether abolish the custom. A similar Good Friday procession was formerly made to St Martha’s Hill, near Guildford, the church of which was described on p. 131 _supra_. The loud music and the riotous dancing in which the crowd took part were so indecorous that few were found to lament the discontinuance of the custom[461]. There are some curious earth-rings situated to the South of the church, half-hidden by heather, and I have elsewhere suggested that these represent part of a maze[462], within which the sports were once held. If this be correct, there is an indication of a half-hearted attempt on the part of the Church to modify the games, and turn them to a penitential purpose. Some writers have thought that the morris-dancers made use of such circles for their performances. Here, too, we may have a link which binds these outdoor customs to the practice of dancing in church.

We now see that the apparent digression respecting fairs was not altogether irrelevant. There is a thread running through the whole story. First, we have the practice of making earthworks, which continued in the Early Iron Age, almost to the dawn of documentary history. Within the ramparts, assemblies, whether peaceful or warlike, would often be held, and would be accompanied with some amount of barbaric ritual. Next, we have the period when the true purpose of the camps was becoming forgotten. Myths arose, and though it was considered fitting to hold councils within the old fortifications, for a while all was done with fear and trembling. The earthworks were peopled with giants, fairies, and evil spirits. Time passed, and fairs came into vogue. The dread of giants and “little folk” diminished, and the buyers and sellers would often be conveniently accommodated in, or around, the earthworks. The Early Fathers could not stop the gatherings, or abolish the heathen practice of charms and witchcraft, or quell the tumult of the feast-makers. The difficulties could only be circumvented. When the Christians erected a church on the site once occupied by a pagan temple, they performed a dance to their God as the heathen had previously done to theirs[463]. Occasionally, the Christian teachers built a church near an earthwork. More frequently, they retained the pagan feast-day, but diverted the ceremonies to the honour of the patron saint. The moots were allowed to gather within the church. The healing well and the primitive dance were indulgently accepted. Attracting all functions unto herself, the Church finally allowed the fairs to be held within hallowed ground. It was only when the Mediaeval period was reached that a reconsideration of policy was seriously proposed.

The subject of fairs and markets has claimed so much attention that churchyard sports must be treated rather summarily. So early as A.D. 1225 a provincial synod in Scotland forbade wrestling matches and other sports in churchyards; and the Synod of Exeter, A.D. 1287, similarly prohibited combats, dances, and stage plays. But these isolated ordinances were repeatedly ignored. “Improper and prohibited sports,” such as wrestling, football, and handball, involved the transgressors in a penalty of twopence for each offence, at Salton, Yorkshire (A.D. 1472)[464]. The rule was infringed, for, nearly half a century later (A.D. 1519), the disobedient had to be threatened with excommunication[465]. So matters went on until the Reformation, and, indeed, down to a much more recent date. Writing in A.D. 1804, Malkin avers that, at feasts and revels, dancing and games at tennis and fives were “universal in [the churchyards of] Radnorshire, and very common in other parts of the Principality[466].” It should be noted, however, that these amusements were commonly permitted only on the North side of the burial-ground, where there were rarely any graves. (Cf. Chap. VIII.) At Stoke St Milborough, Shropshire (p. 95 _supra_), the games were not discontinued until the year 1820[467].

Though this recital of events may cause a shock to devout persons, the severity of the criticism will be relaxed when the conditions are duly appreciated. Once grasp the fact that social convenience reigned almost supreme, and the master key is found. Permeating the whole of the old social customs, though doubtless, to some extent, existing entirely apart from them, there were influences essentially religious and symbolical. On actual examination, however, it is often impossible to make a severance between the practical and the ideal. Take, for example, the widespread custom of preserving natural or semi-natural curiosities, such as fossils and aerolites, in churches. Was this practice based merely on superstition, or on the satisfaction of public curiosity? We are all conversant with the legends which are attached to some of our commoner fossils, and to “thunderbolts” of various kinds[468]. When the Breton peasant, finding a “_pierre de tonnerre_,” or “_pierre de foudre_”--really a Neolithic celt or axe of stone--builds it into his chimney to ward off lightning (cf. p. 80 _supra_), he is influenced partly by superstitious fear and partly by credulity. His very superstition is turned to useful account. Similarly, the meteoric stones, such as that which Ambrose Parey (Ambroise Paré) found suspended by an iron chain in the church of Sugolia, on the borders of Hungary, was probably believed to protect the building from the effect of thunderstorms[469]. Grimm tells us of a _donner-stral_ (= “a flash of lightning”; thence, evidently, “a thunder-stone,” i.e. either an aerolite or a stone celt) which was hung up in Enisheim church, in Alsace-Lorraine. In this connection, it would be well to read the valuable paper written by Professor O. Montelius, entitled “The Sun-God’s Axe and Thor’s Hammer.” He shows that the superstitious respect paid to the stone celt appears in many countries in the most diverse guises[470]. When stone-axes were unearthed by the plough in Norway, they were regarded as gifts from the gods. It is interesting to turn to the Scriptural account of “the image which fell down from Jupiter[471],” and which was said to represent Diana. Some authorities have considered that the “image” was in reality an aerolite, but Professor W. M. Ramsay contends that it was a rude idol. This writer is of opinion that both the Authorized and the Revised Versions are wrong in giving the translation “Jupiter”; the original refers to an object falling “from a clear sky.” The tradition of images falling from the heavens was common. The image of Cybele, at Pessinus, about which a story of this kind was told, is believed to have been a “shapeless stone[472].” The reader may feel inclined to ask why, by a similar argument, the image of Diana was not likewise a shapeless stone, especially as ignorant folk everywhere are prone to assert that various objects, such as fossil belemnites and lumps of iron pyrites, have dropped out of the firmament. But is there any authenticated instance where an actual image, rather than a natural stone, has been identified as connected with this superstition?

The more noticeable fossil remains attracted attention at an early date. The Emperor Augustus decorated his villa at Capri with large fossil bones--“Giants’ bones.” The church was long considered the natural repository for other curious relics. The tusks of fossil animals were commonly placed in Continental churches during the Mediaeval period. Although there existed a collection of fossils in the museum of the Vatican, and although these had been described--inefficiently, it is true--by Michele Mercati, towards the end of the seventeenth century, yet such relics still found a home in the church. Mercati’s manuscript, with its mixture of truth and error, was not, indeed, published by Lancisi until the years A.D. 1717-19, but neither this, nor similar works, made much impression upon the unlettered crowd. Stories soon gathered around the treasured bones or fossils. At the church of Pennant Melangel, in Montgomeryshire, the rib of a mammoth became metamorphosed into a “Giant’s rib,” as well as into a bone of St Monacella[473]. In the Foljambe Chapel of Chesterfield parish church, the jaw-bone of a whale has become a rib of the Dun Cow of Warwick[474] (cf. p. 485 _infra_). A bone is preserved in the church of St Mary’s Redcliffe, Bristol, which, report says, belonged to a cow that once supplied the whole city with milk. Other folk, ruthless destroyers of myths, declare, with more reason, that the bone is that of a whale, and was brought from Newfoundland by Cabot. There are many other bones which claim to belong to this celebrated Dun Cow. Instances of church curiosities of this kind could be greatly extended; space can be found only for one, which happens to be of great interest.

In the church chest of Canewdon, near Rochford, Essex, there is preserved an immense and somewhat unattractive relic which, in all probability, is a portion of a vertebra of a whale (Fig. 50). How the bone came to be deposited in the church, and where it was found, are mysteries. The most plausible surmise is that it was dredged up by fishermen off the coast. Strange to say, the relic, which is known to the villagers as “Canute’s knee-bone,” is the second which the church has possessed. The predecessor of the present bone long since

[Illustration:

FIG. 50. “Canute’s knee-bone,” Canewdon church, Essex. The other objects are: (1) an iron-bound church chest; (2) a carved panel (c. A.D. 1410), probably part of a screen; (3) a cylindrical alms box, 8½´´ high and 12´´ in circumference, turned out of a solid piece of wood. ]

disappeared--no one knows where. There is an entry in the parish register, dated A.D. 1711, which refers to a certain “Ribbe Bone”--a portion of the skeleton of St Christopher. The Rev. C. R. Hardy, vicar of Canewdon, informs me that a later writer alludes to the “knee-cap of a Dane,” which was kept locked up in the church chest and shown to visitors. The two bones alluded to can scarcely be identical, and the facts show how rapidly a secondary myth can arise, when there is, as will at once be shown, a tributary tradition to support it. This tradition asserts that on the hill overlooking the village a battle was fought with the Danes. Professor Freeman, who closely investigated matters on the spot, came to the conclusion that the topographical details harmonized well with the description of Assandun, and that it was here that Canute met Edmund Ironsides in conflict (A.D. 1016). By the way, we notice that Canute’s nephew, Sweyn, was presented with the manor of which Canewdon forms a part. Freeman further considered that the place-name Canewdon may preserve the name of the Danish conqueror[475]. The Rev. E. W. Heygate has also suggested that Canewdon signifies “Cnut’s Down[476].” In these days, however, when etymology is based on research work, the conjectures of a past generation must be approached with suspicion. The Domesday spelling Carenduna, occurring only seventy years after the battle, and the later forms Carendun, Cannedon, Canvedon, Canudon, seem practically decisive against the proposed derivation. Title-deeds of the sixteenth century have Canudon; and the parish register of 1636, Canewdon. Mr F. W. Reader, whose reputation as an archaeologist and scientific observer is well-established, found, upon inquiry, that the pronunciation of the village name was Cańewdon, and that it is only in modern times that the accentuation of the second syllable has gained ground. Mr Hardy says that the pronunciations are equally common. This fact also tells somewhat against the popular derivation. On the whole, it seems probable that folk-memory may be fairly sound on the question of the battle, and even of Canute’s share therein, but that the suggested etymology is incorrect, and is an afterthought due to the currency of the “knee-bone” myth.

In truth, wherever we meet with these curious legacies of bones, fossils, or other objects, there we also find what Sir Thomas Browne called “fallacious enlargements.” The cathedral of St Bertrand-de-Comminges, in the French department of Haute-Garonne, possesses a stuffed crocodile. Legend says that the relic was brought thither by a Crusader, but one may doubt the story. A goose feather, kept in a recess fashioned in a pillar of Pewsey church, Wiltshire, and carefully screened by a little door of glass, was once thought, so the inscription informs us, to be a feather of the wing of the angel Gabriel. At East Wellow, near Romsey, Hampshire, an old flint-lock gun is seen attached to a beam in the chancel, and local tradition has an explanation to offer, though it is probably not the correct one. Those who are fond of such quaint trifles can find other examples[477] of symbolism and superstition. The widespread custom of suspending eggs in churches is symbolical rather than superstitious, though it has given rise to considerable debate. In Spanish churches the eggs chosen are chiefly those of the goose; and they are usually placed near statues[478]. Elsewhere, however, ostrich eggs are in favour, and especially is this the case in Mohammedan mosques, where they are hung from the ceiling. At home we have our Easter or Pasque eggs, with which many customs and much folk-lore are associated. Durandus, ever-ready to supply some strained and mystical interpretation, will have it that the ostrich eggs denote the “cherishing mercy of God[479].” Present-day writers, with a greater knowledge of comparative customs, recognize in the “world-egg” the great emblem of life, resurrection, and restoration[480]. But into this spacious field we must not now enter.

Some of the objects bequeathed to the twentieth century are not quite so free from superstition as is the ostrich egg. At Laniscat, Pont Croix, Kerdreuff, and one or two other places in Brittany, there may still be seen, in the church, “wheels of fortune.” These are large wheels with spokes; to the outside of the rim bells are attached. As the wheel is turned, the bells ring. There are boxes for the reception of money, and when the sufferer from some malady has placed his money in the box, he pulls the rope to make the bells clang. These wheels, as Mr Baring-Gould and others have pointed out, have a long pedigree[481]. They go back, first to the Roman worship of the goddess Fortuna, and finally, perhaps, to sun-worship. Among the Gaulish tribes, the wheel represented the protection afforded by the solar deity; in tombs, it was perhaps emblematic of restoration of life and vigour. The wheel, held by a god, is also found on Romano-Gaulish statues. In Christian art we meet with our wheel windows, symbolical, it is believed, of the Sun of Righteousness.

After having seen the “wheels of fortune,” one is but little impressed by the spectacle of small models of sailing vessels which may be seen suspended in the churches of the smaller seaport towns of Normandy and Brittany. These models symbolize in a pleasing manner the idea of the Church’s protection of mariners. In Belgium, votive offerings of silver horses are met with; they are the gifts of persons whose horses have recovered from some disease, or perhaps from the effects of the “evil eye.” These customs are probably of modern date, and, therefore, not directly traceable to heathen times.

It is doubtful whether we could find preserved, in churches on British soil, pagan vestiges exactly comparable with the solar wheel. In early art it is otherwise, as our architecture and ritual abundantly testify. With respect to actual relics, many a parish church shelters some object, quaint or grotesque, which had its origin in no sentiment of a purely Christian character. When superstition waned, these heirlooms, either from oversight, or, more probably, by tacit consent, were often allowed to remain within the sacred building, for the idea of the church as the house of the people never completely died away. The church continued to be the receptacle for these curious relics, and few folk were found to deny the fitness of the custom.

One by one, tiny fragments of testimony accumulate, attesting such a survival and continuance of folk-memory as few men of to-day have suspected. From the mass of facts there emerges the truth of the twofold purpose of Mediaeval church architecture--the religious and the social. Some writers have attempted to interpret the evidence on the principle that, as the ecclesiastical power diminished, the secular increased, and that the sway of custom was brought about by encroachments from the one side or the other alternately. Certainly, the problem must be surveyed from that point of view, yet it appears to me that such an outlook is only partial. For instance--to mention one objection only--at the period when clerical power was in its heyday, the church fabric appears also to have been most used for social purposes, and this fact seems to stand quite apart from the disorderly tendencies observable in times of irreligion and desecration. Whichever power, clerical or lay, chanced to be uppermost, the parochial customs, as a whole, until within the last few centuries, seem to have been fairly, though not entirely, uniform; and when external causes, whether political or economical, produced a balance of forces, the right to use the church for secondary purposes does not seem to have been seriously challenged. For the strength of the earlier faiths long continued to lie in the recognized union of political, social, and religious interests. There was no gulf fixed between the conceptions of the religious and the secular commonwealth. “Such a distinction,” says Kauffmann, “is foreign to ancient modes of thought[482].” And of the tenacity of thought and the persistency of custom we have had ample proof.