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Title: Byways in British Archaeology

Author: Walter Johnson

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BYWAYS

IN

BRITISH ARCHAEOLOGY
CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS
London: FETTER·LANE, E.C.
C. F. CLAY, Manager

Edinburgh: 100, Princes Street
Berlin: A. ASHER AND CO.
Leipzig: F. A. BROCKHAUS
New York: G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Bombay and Calcutta: MACMILLAN AND CO., Ltd.

All rights reserved

BYWAYS

IN

BRITISH ARCHAEOLOGY
BY

WALTER JOHNSON, F.G.S.
AUTHOR OF FOLK-MEMORY, ETC.

Cambridge:
at the University Press
1912

Cambridge:
PRINTED BY JOHN CLAY, M.A.
AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS

PREFACE
The following chapters, though superficially presenting the appearance
of disconnected essays, really possess a strong bond of continuity. Running
through the whole, implied, where not actually expressed, will be found an
insistence on the principle which, in a former work, I ventured to call folk-
memory. This folk-memory—unconsciously, for the most part, but
sometimes with open ceremony—keeps alive those popular beliefs and
practices which are individually called survivals. With some of these
legacies from the past the present volume deals.
To a large extent the studies are connected with the church and
churchyard. The sections which treat of pagan sites, orientation, and burial
customs, embody the results of observations relating to some hundreds of
buildings in all parts of England and Wales. The chapters on “The Folk-
Lore of the Cardinal Points” and “The Labour’d Ox” partially, at least,
break virgin soil. In “The Churchyard Yew” are set down inferences drawn
from many years of investigation, the literary side of which has been
rendered difficult by the existence, in various modern works, of unfounded
statements and hypothetical references. The remainder of the book treats of
somewhat more familiar themes, though it is hoped that fresh outlooks are
suggested.
Since some of the matters here brought forward have been, and indeed
still are, provocative of keen, and even heated controversy, to anticipate
agreement with all the conclusions would be sheer folly. Nevertheless, it
may be claimed that the facts collected have been carefully sifted, the
references conscientiously verified, and the opposing theories honestly
presented.
To the multitude of friends who have rendered true service either by
supplying information or in preparing the illustrations, most grateful thanks
are expressed. Acknowledgements of all such help are recorded in due
place, but special recognition must be made of the expert assistance of Mr
Sydney Harrowing, who has borne the chief burden in illustrating the
volume. To Miss Nora Mansell thanks are tendered for the drawing of
Gumfreston church (Fig. 26). Fig. 93 is copied from a sketch prepared by
Mr C. G. Carter, of Louth. Messrs Frank Cowley and F. J. Bennett, F.G.S.,

have kindly permitted the reproduction of an original painting (Fig. 87). Mr
Worthington G. Smith, F.L.S., has courteously allowed Figs. 59 and 60 to
be taken from Man, the Primeval Savage; Fig. 80 is copied by the consent
of Professor R. S. Lull; and Figs. 4, 22 and 88 appear by the kindness of Mr
David Sydenham, the Rev. Percival Saben, M.A., and the British
Archaeological Association respectively. Dr W. Heneage Legge and Messrs
G. Allen and Sons have granted the use of the block for Fig. 92, while Figs.
84 and 85 were photographed from a horseshoe lent by the Rev. Hastings
M. Neville, B.A., of Ford, Northumberland.
Many of the photographs were taken by Mr Edward Yates, who allowed
free choice to be made from his large collection, but the following ladies
and gentlemen have also assisted: Mr O. F. Bailey, Mr Alexander Barbour,
Mr J. G. V. Dawson, Mr E. W. Filkins, Miss Truda Hutchinson, Mrs W.
Johnson, Mr A. L. Leach, F.G.S., Mr Douglas Leighton, Mr P. McIntyre,
F.G.S., Mr Llewellyn Treacher, F.G.S., Mr W. C. Walker, Mr E. C. Youens,
Mr G. W. Young, F.G.S., F.Z.S., and Mr W. Plomer Young. Permission to
use photographs has also been granted by Mr James Cheetham of Lewes,
Messrs Thos. B. Latchmore and Son, Hitchin, Mr W. Wiseman, Corfe
Castle, the Grimsby Telegraph Company, and the Watford Engraving
Company.
W. J.
January, 1912

CONTENTS
PAGE
I. Churches on Pagan Sites 1
II. Churches on Pagan Sites (continued) 51
III. The Secular Uses of the Church Fabric 101
IV. The Secular Uses of the Church Fabric (continued) 145
V. The Orientation of Churches 205
VI. The Orientation of Graves 243
VII. Survivals in Burial Customs 268
VIII. The Folk-Lore of the Cardinal Points 324
IX. The Churchyard Yew 360
X. The Cult of the Horse 408
XI. “The Labour’d Ox” 452
XII. Retrospect 488
Addenda 495
Index: A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S, T,
U, V, W, X, Y, Z 498

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FIG. PAGE
1. Roman altar, St Swithin’s, Lincoln. (Phot. Mr W. Plomer Young) 6
2. Roman tesserae, St Saviour’s Cathedral, Southwark. (Phot. Mr W. Plomer Young) 8
3. Interior of Brixworth church, Northampton. (Phot. Mr O. F. Bailey) 10
4. Ruins of Knowlton church, Dorset. (From Warne’s Ancient Dorset, by permission) 14
5. Pharos, Dover Castle. (Bloxam’s Gothic Eccles. Architecture) 19
6. Ancient foundations at Lyminge church, Kent. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 21
7. Portion of wall, St Martin’s church, Canterbury. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 22
8. The Agglestone, Studland, Dorset. (Phot. Mr W. C. Walker) 35
9. Ruins of Maplescombe church, Kent. (Phot. Mr E. W. Filkins) 39
10. Sketch plan of Maplescombe ruins. (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 39
11. Rudstone church and monolith. (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 44
12. The Cove, Stanton Drew, Somerset. (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 47
13. Corfe Castle, as it appeared in 1643. (Phot. from an old print, Mr W. Wiseman, Corfe
Castle) 53
14. Ruins of Corfe Castle. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 53
15. The Mount, Great Canfield, Essex. (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 54
16. Chapel, Goodrich Castle, Herefordshire. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 58
17. Pirton church and Toot Hill, Hertfordshire, from the South-East. (Phot. Messrs Thomas B.
Latchmore and Son, Hitchin) 60
18. Pirton church and Toot Hill, Hertfordshire, from the South-West. (Phot. Messrs Thomas B.
Latchmore and Son, Hitchin) 61
19. Toot Hill, Little Coates, Lincolnshire. (Phot. the Grimsby Telegraph Company) 72
20. Mound, Berwick churchyard, Sussex. (Phot. Mrs W. Johnson) 75
21. Chislehurst church and mound, as it appeared c. A.D. 1800. (From D. Lyson’s Environs of
London, 1795-1800) 77
22. Urns, found near Alphamstone church, Essex. (By the courtesy of the Rev. Percival Saben,
M.A.) 85
23. Tower of Bishopstone church, Sussex. (Phot. Mrs W. Johnson) 102
24. Tower of Scartho church, Lincolnshire. (Phot. the Grimsby Telegraph Company) 109
25. Oystermouth church, Glamorganshire. (From Archaeologia Cambrensis, N.S. I. 1850) 112
26. Gumfreston church, Pembrokeshire. (Miss Nora Mansell) 114
27. Corner tower, Nunney Castle, Somerset. (Phot. Mr W. C. Walker) 116
28. Round tower, Devenish, Fermanagh. (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 119
29. Rushmere church, Suffolk. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 124
30. Tower of Piddinghoe church, Sussex. (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 125
31. East Dean church, Sussex. (Phot. Mrs W. Johnson) 126
32. St Aldhelm’s chapel, St Alban’s Head, Dorset. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 128
33. Cheriton church, Kent. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 129
34. St Michael’s Mount, Cornwall. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 130
35. Distant view of St Martha’s chapel, near Guildford. (Phot. Mr Douglas Leighton) 132

36. Squint, Leatherhead church, Surrey. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 152
37. Porch of Wotton church, Surrey. (Phot. Mr G. W. Young, F.G.S.) 153
38. Dial stone, Bishopstone church, Sussex. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 163
39. Enlargement of Bishopstone dial. (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 164
40. Parish stocks, Shalford, Surrey. (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 166
41. Church chest and dog tongs, Llanelian, Denbigh. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 169
42. Church chest, Rainham, Essex. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 169
43. Fourteenth century barn, Bradford-on-Avon. (Phot. Mr W. C. Walker) 171
44. Interior of barn, Bradford-on-Avon. (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 172
45. Mediaeval Clergy House, Alfriston, Sussex. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 176
46. Mediaeval Parsonage House, West Dean, Sussex. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 177
47. Church House, or Guild Hall, Lincoln. (Phot. Mr W. Plomer Young) 178
48. Morris dancers (Strutt’s Book of Sports). (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 184
49. Dovecot, Berwick Court, Sussex. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 189
50. “Canute’s knee-bone,” Canewdon church, Essex. (Watford Engraving Company) 200
51. Tyndall’s grave in Haslemere churchyard, Surrey. (Phot. Miss Truda Hutchinson) 265
52. Round barrow, Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire. (Phot. Mr Llewellyn Treacher, F.G.S.) 266
53. Inscribed cross, Sancreed, Cornwall. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 269
54. Mediaeval stone coffins. (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 272
55. Roman and Bronze Age coffins. (From T. Wright’s The Celt, the Roman and the Saxon.)
(Mr Sydney Harrowing) 273
56. Roman coffin of lead. (T. Wright) 273
57. Grave celt, Puy-de-Dôme. (Phot. Mr J. G. V. Dawson) 298
58. Necklaces found in British barrows. (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 300
59. Skeletons of woman and child, Dunstable Downs. (By the kind permission of Mr
Worthington G. Smith, F.L.S.) 304
60. Fossil sponges (Porosphaera) artificially modified for the purpose of suspension. (By the
kind permission of Mr Worthington G. Smith, F.L.S.) 306
61. The contents of a Roman sepulchral chest. (From T. Wright’s The Celt, the Roman, and the
Saxon) 314
62. Churchyard cross, Bakewell, Derbyshire. (Phot. Mr W. Plomer Young) 329
63. Capitals, Seaford church, Sussex. (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 330
64. Low side window, Tatsfield church, Surrey. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 331
65. Devil’s Door, Worth church, Sussex. (Phot. Mr Edward Yates) 332
66. Gateway, St Stephen’s, Coleman Street, London. (Phot. Mr W. Plomer Young) 336
67. Norham churchyard, Northumberland. (Phot. Mr Alexander Barbour) 345
68. Woldingham church, Surrey, as it appeared in A.D. 1809. (Manning and Bray, Hist. and
Antiq. of Surrey) 356
69. Transverse section of yew. (Phot. Mr J. G. V. Dawson) 366
70. Vertical tangential section of yew. (Phot. Mr J. G. V. Dawson) 367
71. Yew, Tandridge churchyard, Surrey. (Phot. Mr W. Plomer Young) 370
72. Yew, Crowhurst churchyard, Surrey. (Phot. Mr W. Plomer Young) 378
73. Yew, Chipstead churchyard, Surrey. (Phot. Mr W. Plomer Young) 379
74. Yew, Mells churchyard, Somerset. (Phot. Mr W. C. Walker) 380
75. Yew, Hambledon churchyard, Surrey. (Phot. Mr W. Plomer Young) 381
76. Shooting birds with the cross-bow. (Strutt’s Book of Sports) 386

77. Shooting at the butts with the cross-bow. (Book of Sports) 386
78. Saxon bow and arrow. (Book of Sports) 387
79. Saxon archers with long-bows. (Book of Sports) 388
80. The ancestry of the horse. (By the courtesy of Professor R. S. Lull) 410
81. Cave man’s drawings of the horse. (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 412
82. Prejevalski’s horse, Zoological Gardens, London. (Phot. Mr J. G. V. Dawson) 413
83. Ancient horseshoes. (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 425
84. Round horseshoe, Ford, Northumberland. Lower surface. (Phot. Mrs W. Johnson, from a
specimen kindly lent by the Rev. Hastings M. Neville, B.A.) 427
85. Round horseshoe. Upper surface. (Phot. Mrs W. Johnson) 427
86. Hippo-sandal, Darenth, Kent. (Phot. Mr E. C. Youens, Dartford) 429
87. Capturing the White Horse. (Phot. from painting by Mr Frank Cowley) 435
88. Acoustic jars. (By the courtesy of the British Archaeological Association) 450
89. Ploughing in the eleventh century. (Anglo-Saxon Calendar, after Strutt) 459
90. Sussex oxen, turning the headland. (Phot. Mr James Cheetham, Lewes) 460
91. Ploughing on the Sussex Downs: a team of four. (Phot. Mr James Cheetham, Lewes) 461
92. Ox-yoke, Sussex. (By the kind permission of Dr W. Heneage Legge and Messrs George
Allen and Sons) 462
93. Ox-yoke, Gayton-le-Wold, Lincolnshire. (Mr Sydney Harrowing, from a sketch kindly
prepared by Mr C. G. Carter, Louth) 462
94. Old plough and horse-rake, Sussex. (Phot. Mr James Cheetham, Lewes) 463
95. Roman and Saxon ploughmen. After Wright and Strutt. (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 464
96. Ox-shoes and nail. (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 469
97. Skulls of British oxen. (Mr Sydney Harrowing) 476
98. Chartley bull, Zoological Gardens, London. (Phot. Mr J. G. V. Dawson) 478
99. Highland cattle. (Phot. Mr P. McIntyre, F.G.S.) 480

ERRATUM
Page 399, line 21. For taxa read taxo.

CHAPTER I

CHURCHES ON PAGAN SITES

Many years ago, the commanding position which the village church
frequently occupies forced itself upon the attention of the writer. As will be
shown hereafter, the builders, for some cogent reason, which may yet be
determined, chose a spot having considerable natural advantages with
respect to strength and security, and there they erected their temple. These
geographical observations would not alone have been sufficient to evoke a
general theory, had not other facts gradually come into view. One of these
facts was the frequent association of the church with earthworks, tumuli,
and similar relics of antiquity, and it was this conjunction which raised the
inquiry whether the relative positions could, in all cases, be merely
accidental. A closer and more prolonged study, involving much personal
investigation, together with a review of many isolated fragments of
archaeological literature, led to the conclusion, almost irrefutable, as it now
appears, that many of our churches stand on pagan sites. A secondary
deduction from the observed facts was the probability that, in some cases,
there has been almost continuous site-occupancy since the first Christian
church was reared.
During the inspection, numbers of records, based on imperfect
knowledge or on speculations of the earlier antiquaries, have had to be
discarded; in other instances the test has been successfully borne. The
presentation of the evidence, with its length of detail, may be somewhat
wearisome to the reader, who may, however, console himself with the
thought that he has escaped at least a moiety of the mass which has been
winnowed. Furthermore, one may recall the truth set forth by Professor E.
B. Tylor when apologizing for wealth of detail in stating a case: “The
English mind, not readily swayed by rhetoric, moves freely under the
pressure of facts[1].” One may, for a moment, arouse interest by a new
hypothesis, but it is only by the accumulation of facts that public opinion is
perceptibly influenced in the end.

Viewed strictly, every Christian church was originally built on a pagan
site, but we will limit the meaning of the adjective so that it shall apply to
those churches which were erected, not on virgin soil, but on some spot
once devoted to heathen worship, whether beneath a roof or under the open
sky. This definition would narrow the scope of the inquiry; nevertheless, to
arrive at a clear decision we shall have to survey the whole question from
pre-Roman times onward.
Our path will be greatly cleared if we recognize, and remember—what is
too commonly forgotten—that there was a Christian church in Britain long
before the mission of Augustine in A.D. 597. Apart from legends, and
documents of doubtful authenticity, some writers claim to have proved that
British Christianity was well developed before the close of the second
century of our era[2]. Other authorities assert that the evidence for the
second century is unhistorical, and that the first genuine reference to
Christians in Britain is made by Tertullian (c. A.D. 208)[3]. However this
may be—and the question of the exact date of the introduction is foreign to
our present study—there is unanimity as to the existence of a strong British
Church soon after the death of Constantine (A.D. 337). It is even stated that,
at the date just mentioned, Britain was as fully Christian as any country in
Europe[4]. At any rate, it is beyond dispute that, in A.D. 314, the British
Church was represented at the Council of Arles, in France, by three bishops,
together with a priest and a deacon[5]. Certain writers go further, and
contend that, before Britain was cut off from the Empire, the Church had a
vigorous corporate life of its own[6]. How long this organization endured,
and to what extent it was weakened or shattered by the shock of the
Teutonic invasion, are more debateable subjects. It is possible, however,
that a remnant of churchmen survived to greet the advent of Augustine[7].
This only must be said, that the existence of any continuity of Christian
tradition, however slight, might render the task of deciding what is a pagan
site more difficult. Under the influence of an unbroken tradition, churches
might be constantly rebuilt on the old foundations; hence, if this assumption
be made, additional testimony would be necessary in order to establish the
theory that any original structure was set up by the heathen. If such
evidence were lacking, the successive buildings would simply strengthen
the hypothesis of continuity of Christian worship, but would leave
untouched the problem of heathen sites.

The first problem to be attacked, then, concerns the existence of
Christian churches during the Roman period, and the after-history of such
buildings. Do any of these churches remain to us? The available evidence
seems to show that, in outlying districts, at least, churches were constructed
of wattle, and, of these structures, not a wrack could possibly have persisted
until the present day. In the cities, more durable materials, limestone, flint,
chalk, and baked tiles, would be employed, and there is some likelihood
that portions of buildings so constructed would successfully resist the
ravages of vandals and the fury of storms. Now, it is singular that the
churches which will least stand the critical test of the architect and the
antiquary with respect to a Roman origin, are precisely those which the
popular vote declares to belong to that period. The churches thus
misunderstood are those which have large quantities of undoubted Roman
materials built into their walls. The catalogue is of formidable length, but
may be soon dismissed after a few typical examples have been noticed. The
walls of the cathedral church of St Albans contain abundance of Roman
material, and a continuity of buildings, dating from the Roman occupation,
has therefore been hastily assumed. Bede, it is true, relates that a church
was built over the grave of St Alban at Verulam[8], and it is possible that the
spot is now covered by the cathedral, but we cannot wisely go beyond this,
especially when we remember how plentiful were the Roman materials
close at hand. The fact remains: from the time of the erection of the
memorial church to the founding of the monastery in A.D. 793, we have an
interval which is unbridged by trustworthy testimony. A generation ago, Mr
Roach Smith, a most sagacious observer, compiled a list of Kentish
churches which he thought might be probable restorations of pre-Saxon
structures[9]. In all of these Roman materials were found. Some of the
churches, however, like those of Reculver and Lyminge, had peculiarities of
site, and these examples will be noted later. Among the Kentish churches
whose “Romanity,” as the early antiquaries would phrase it, must be
discredited, are those of Burham, Leeds, Southfleet, and Lower Halstow.
Yet the last-named church is chiefly built of Roman spoil. The “Garden
County” also yields Cuxton[10] and St Paul’s Cray, with many another
church inwrought with Roman tiles. Crossing the Thames estuary, we find,
according to Mr Guy Maynard’s computation, thirty-five Essex churches
which have Roman tiles in their walls[11]. A writer in the Athenaeum,
commenting on this list, gives a higher figure, and asserts that Essex

contains at least sixty such churches[12]. We may safely infer from these
facts that Roman ruins existed in the neighbourhood of each of the sites at
the time when the walls were built. Any further conclusion must be viewed
with suspicion, unless Roman remains are discovered beneath the buildings.
The “argument from silence” is beset with peril in any department of
archaeology. Moreover, some of the churches in the list—which might be
greatly extended—belong, as Professor Baldwin Brown has observed, to
purely Mediaeval settlements, and consequently have little evidential
value[13].
We turn to a different class of churches—those which occupy the sites of
Roman villas. The importance of these examples rests on the probability
that some of the wealthier Roman converts would allow their dwelling-
houses to be consecrated for Christian worship. From a small reception-
room, arranged like an ordinary church, there might be developed a
Christian building, with chancel, nave, and aisles complete. A scrap of
testimony, slight though it be, favours this hypothesis. It is the discovery, on
a mosaic, among the ruins of a Roman villa at Frampton, Dorsetshire, and
again on a tile from the villa at Chedworth, Gloucestershire, of examples of
the Chi-Rho monogram[14]. This sacred monogram has also been met with
on such objects as bowls, seals, and rings. Seeing that the symbol was not
used in Rome before A.D. 312, its presence in Britain cannot date earlier. On
the other hand, remembering that the Roman departure took place in A.D.
410, we can scarcely assign the Chi-Rho to a later date. Mr J. Romilly Allen
is therefore plainly near the truth when he attributes the British examples to
the late fourth century[15].
The validity of the evidence afforded by the Chi-Rho, while
unquestionable so far as the existence of British Christianity is concerned,
is not decisive with respect to site-continuity. At the outset, one demands
that the monogram should be found in juxtaposition with the later Christian
churches built on older sites—not isolated from such buildings. On the
other hand, it would be passing strange if a large number of churches came
to be built by chance on, or adjacent to, the areas once occupied by Roman
villas, whether the confirmatory Chi-Rho were discovered or not. If we
consider the case of direct continuity non-proven, and yet rule out the
possibility of accident, a choice of two theories seems to be presented. We
might either suppose that the church builders were keenly anxious to utilize
ruined villas, or that, believing those villas to have been centres of pagan

family-worship, deliberately chose to set foundation over foundation. That
this second alternative is not altogether fanciful will be seen hereafter. A
few examples of villa sites will now be given.

Fig. 1. Roman altar (2nd century A.D.),
discovered on the site of St Swithin’s
church, Lincoln. Height, 3´; base, 1´ 9
´´ × 1´´ 3´´. The altar is hewn from a
single block of oolite. The inscription
states that the altar was erected by
Gaius Antistius Frontinus, “thrice
curator.”

The churches of West Mersea, in Essex, and Wroxeter, in Salop, are
believed to stand on sites of Roman villas; a little contributory testimony is
afforded by the fact that the shaft of the font, in each case, is fashioned from
the drum of a Roman column[16]. In the case of Wroxeter, however, the only
tessellated pavement recorded by Professor Haverfield was found a little to
the north of the church. The conditions are supposed to have been similar at
Haydon and Chollerton, in Northumberland, and at Great Salkeld, in
Cumberland; in all of these instances the fonts are said to be hollowed out
of Roman altars[17]. During the rebuilding of St Swithin’s Church, Lincoln
(A.D. 1880-88), a Roman altar (Fig. 1) was discovered beneath the tower.
The old fabric belonged to the Decorated period, while the altar dates from
the second century of the Roman occupation. There is thus an intervening
space of more than a thousand years, and this gap cannot yet be actually

bridged over. At the deserted church of Widford, in Oxfordshire, portions of
a Roman tessellated pavement were found in the chancel[18].
Professor Seebohm, who closely studied the district around Hitchin, and
discovered strong proofs of unbroken occupation of village sites, gives
some interesting examples which bear on our subject. He thinks that the
church of Much Wymondley, near that town, stands within a Roman
holding, probably that of a retired veteran[19]. A Roman cemetery was
discovered hard by, and to the east of the church is a double “tumulus,”
which Professor Seebohm conjectured to be a “toot-hill,” or a terminal
mound[20]. These toot-hills will be again mentioned; meanwhile, we are
bound to notice that more recent investigators claim this particular hillock
as an early castle-mound. Nevertheless, it is stated that the mound and its
associated bailey-court have been

Fig. 2. Pavement of red and white
tesserae, in the south aisle of the
choir, St Saviour’s Cathedral,
Southwark. Found in the adjacent
graveyard. (For a catalogue of the
relics discovered under and near the
building, see Victoria Hist. of
London, 1909, I. p. 140.)

inserted into the corner of a larger (and presumably earlier) rectangular
work[21]. A Roman villa is recorded from a field near Litlington churchyard,
Cambridgeshire, and a Roman cemetery from a spot a short distance
away[22]. Other examples have been noted at, or near, the churches of
Woodchester and Tidenham, in Gloucestershire, and Wingham, in Kent[23].

The first-named instance is the most instructive. In the churchyard an
inscribed pavement, 25 feet in diameter, was uncovered, and near at hand,
the ground plot of an extensive building was traced. The neighbourhood of
St Saviour’s Cathedral, Southwark, has yielded quantities of Roman
remains. A portion of a pavement is shown in Fig. 2. Within the last two or
three years, Roman pottery, and the upper portion of an amphora, have been
discovered while alterations were being made. These relics may be seen in
the south transept. Whether the long list of “finds,” given in the Victoria
History of London, justify the old tradition of a pagan temple may be
doubted, but, at least, the former existence of a villa is indicated. A
tessellated pavement was discovered in the south transept of Southwell
Cathedral, and Mr Francis Bond conjectures that this relic may have
belonged to a Romano-British basilica which existed there in the third
century. Did such a building exist, the church which St Paulinus is believed
to have founded on this spot in the seventh century had a prototype, which
dated four hundred years earlier[24]. In his recent standard work on
Westminster Abbey, Mr Bond has also recorded the finding of a portion of a
Roman wall, in position, under the nave of the Abbey, and a Roman
sarcophagus in the northern part of the nave. Roach Smith alludes to
foundations, probably Roman, which were unbared at Chalk Church in
Kent[25]. The Saxon church of Bosham, Sussex, is another claimant for
superposition on a Roman villa[26], and the fine old Saxon building at
Brixworth, Northants (Fig. 3), is a further example, although no part of the
present structure is older than the eighth century[27]. Our list is by no means
exhausted. A very fine mosaic floor, worked in seven colours, together with
a bath and other remains, were laid bare many years ago at Whatley House,
Somerset, just behind the ancient church of Whatley. When the church of St
Mary Major, Exeter, was being rebuilt in 1866, the Norman foundation was
seen to cover a Roman tessellated pavement[28]. Still more recently, in
1906-11, during the process of underpinning Winchester Cathedral, the
workmen discovered Roman coins and tiles[29]. These remains may have
had no causal

Fig. 3. Interior of Brixworth Church, Northampton.
Chancel and eastern portion of nave. The Saxon
arches are constructed of hard red Roman bricks or
tiles, set edgewise. The arches spring from square,
massive piers which have simple abaci. The
materials were evidently obtained from some edifice
previously in existence near the site of the church.

connection with the present building, or with any hypothetical predecessor,
yet the discovery was curious. We need have no desire to strain the
evidence. In such instances as Winchester and Wroxeter, Roman ruins and
Roman sites would be so plentiful, that no enterprising Saxon builder would
overlook the economical value of the spoils. Again, he might unwittingly
select an old site concealed by long-continued labours of earthworms, and
by natural agencies of weathering. Yet even this admission will, in its turn,
react if accepted too eagerly or too fully. We are dealing, so far, primarily
with the existence of early British churches, and if we urge that old sites
were re-occupied unintentionally, because they lay hidden from view, we
imply that, in other cases, foundations hitherto undiscovered may rest
beneath later architectural monuments. In other words, the foundations of a
pagan temple may lie beneath a Mediaeval church. There may have been
continuity up to a certain date, and then a break; after which a new builder
started work over the forgotten floor. Seeing that most of the Romano-
British towns, at least, were continuously occupied since their first
establishment[30], and that, as already shown, old material was intercalated
between the courses of masonry in newer buildings, these facts alone would
be sufficient to account for the obliteration of the earlier work[31].

Having now referred to the very doubtful instances of continuity
represented by fabrics in which there has been an adaptation of Roman
materials, and having glanced at those churches which stand on the sites of
earlier buildings, we turn to Christian edifices which have been built
adjacent to Roman camps. At present, we will consider those cases in which
there is actual contiguity, but only a suggestion of purposiveness. The ivy-
clad church of Ashtead, in Surrey, stands within a rectangular earthwork,
partially defaced, and the visitor will readily detect Roman tiles in the walls
of the chancel. At Rivenhall, in Essex, tesserae and Roman pottery were
dug up in the churchyard, and a villa was unearthed in the neighbouring
field. From the data available, one cannot decide whether or not a camp is
indicated[32]. In the same county, we notice Stoke-by-Nayland, while
Suffolk supplies us with the camp Burghcastle—a most interesting
example. St Furseus, or Fursey, built a monastery at this spot, but there
remains only the church, which lies a little to the north of the Roman
fortifications. Its walls contain triple bands of flints, faced by Roman
workmen, while vases and potsherds have been discovered in the
vicinity[33]. Squared flints of Roman workmanship were also found at
Caister by Norwich[34]. The church of St Edmund, at the last-named village,
was built by Mediaeval architects at one corner of a Roman earthwork,
which encloses an area of 34 acres. The present church, as Professor
Haverfield points out, is certainly not a Romano-British “sacellum” or
temple[35], but, in the absence of excavations, one cannot assert that no
earlier ruins lie buried underneath the edifice. The oft-quoted instance of
Castle Acre, also in Norfolk, must be dismissed as spurious. Professor
Haverfield, who has carefully examined the evidence, could find no proofs
in support of the tradition of a camp, though there was evidence of Roman
occupation in the neighbourhood[36]. Under the present section, however,
we must include Market Overton and Great Casterton in Rutland. The
church of the latter village is situated at the south-west angle of an
earthwork, presumably Roman, though of earlier construction than the
Roman road hard by[37]. At Market Overton, the church stands entirely
within a square Roman camp[38]. In the adjoining county of Lincolnshire,
we get examples at Caistor and Ancaster[39], places bearing tell-tale names.
The church of Horncastle is within a few yards of a Roman wall, a portion
of which remains visible above the land-surface[40]. Lincoln Cathedral is
built partly within and partly without a Roman camp[41].

In Durham, the church of Chester-le-Street, which contains some traces
of pre-Conquest work, was originally inside a Roman camp, now
unfortunately destroyed[42]. Ebchester Church, also in Durham, stands at the
south-western corner of the ancient Vindomora, and has a foundation of
large squared stones, but little can now be seen of the surrounding
fortifications[43]. While surveying the North of England, we notice
Moresby, near Whitehaven[44]. In Scotland, to mention but one case, we
have the Cistercian Abbey of Cupar-Angus, which was built, in A.D. 1164,
within the boundaries of a Roman camp[45]. Returning to the south, we
discover, in the churchyard of St John’s-sub-Castro, at Lewes, a small
Roman camp, of which the vallum is still traceable[46]. Porchester, in
Hampshire, is a square-walled fort which occupies an area of 9 acres, and
which encloses a Mediaeval keep and bailey-court at the north-west corner,
and a Mediaeval church and graveyard at the south-west corner[47]. In like
manner, the Norman church at Silchester nestles within the celebrated
Roman settlement. Here our list of Christian churches placed within Roman
camps must be curtailed, for we have still to consider earthworks belonging
to an earlier period. The reason for separating the two classes of earthworks
is, that those churches which were reared within Roman camps may,
probably, in some cases, have replaced more primitive buildings, while
those built inside prehistoric forts most likely had no predecessors. In other
words, we shall have to search for different motives inducing the choice of
the two respective series of sites.
At the very threshold of the inquiry a marked difference is noticed: the
pre-Roman earthworks contained no building material to entice the
churchmen within their boundaries. Turning to individual examples, we find
a most instructive case at Knowlton or Knollton, Dorsetshire, four miles
south-west of Cranborne. Here, a ruined church built by Norman labour,
though not necessarily representing the first church reared on the spot,
stands within a round British earthwork (Fig. 4). The ditch, or fosse, of the
enclosure is situated on the inner side, as in the renowned earthwork at
Avebury, Wiltshire. The Saxon church at Avebury dates in the main,
perhaps, from the early tenth century, and stands just outside the vallum.
Some writers have inferred, from the presence of the inner fosse, that these
enclosures had religious, or, at least, sepulchral associations. The Knowlton
earthwork is one of a group, and close by is a cluster of ancient, storm-

beaten yews[48]. Such a collocation, as will be seen in Chapter IX., is not
without significance.

Fig. 4. Ruins of Knowlton Church, Dorset, standing
within an ancient earthwork.

Another dilapidated chapel, now used as a barn, is situated within the
oval camp of Chisbury, near Great Bedwyn, Wiltshire. This earthwork,
which has double, and in some parts treble, lines of trenches, is described
by Sir R. Colt Hoare as one of the finest specimens of castrametation in
England. One rampart is 45 feet in height. The existing ruins represent a
Decorated fabric which was dedicated to St Martin, but Mr A. H. Allcroft,
in his Earthwork of England, suggests that a church was erected here after
the drawn battle between Wessex and Mercia in A.D. 675. On the hill above
Standish Church, Gloucestershire, is a somewhat notable camp. Although it
is said that the ditches were deepened during the Civil War, and although
Roman coins have been dug up in large numbers[49], it is conceived that the
camp was originally British. On the height just above Gunwalloe Church,
Cornwall, is a “cliff castle”—one belonging to the Group A, as defined by
the Congress of Archaeological Societies in 1903[50]. Such earthworks are
inaccessible along a portion of their boundaries, on account of the presence
of cliffs or water. The site of the church of St Dennis, also in Cornwall, is
associated with a “hill castle[51],” which is assigned to the Group B. In this
class, the earthwork follows the contour of the hill. Another contoured
camp, much disturbed and defaced, is situated on St Anne’s Hill, near
Midhurst Church, Sussex[52], while a small circular fortification may be
seen to the west of the churchyard of South Moreton, Berkshire[53]. Coldred
Church, Kent, was built actually within a fortress, conjecturally of Romano-
British date[54], though the elevation of the earthwork is rather exceptional
for that period, being about 370 feet above the sea-level, and 50 feet above
the valley towards the west. Again, at Kenardington, also in Kent, an

earthwork of unknown age, now much mutilated[55], surrounded the
graveyard and part of the neighbouring fields.
The so-called Dane’s Camp (Group B) at Cholesbury, Bucks., 600 feet
above the sea-level, encircles the church of St Lawrence with its
embankment[56]. Another St Lawrence, at West Wycombe, in the same
county, is built inside a ring earthwork (Group B), which crowns the hill.
This fort, probably of British construction, is remarkable for its double-
terraced defences, and for the manner in which it commands three
converging valleys[57]. A somewhat similar example was once visible at
Brownsover, near Rugby, where, a century ago, the church and village were
enclosed within elaborate entrenchments. These represented a fortress,
constructed on a ridge which overlooked the valleys of the Avon and the
Swift. The fort was probably prehistoric, although a cinerary urn, found in
the churchyard, was identified as Roman.
The hill-village of Burpham, in Sussex, is clustered near an oblong
promontory fort (Class A) constructed on a tongue of land, around which a
loop is formed by the river Arun. A gigantic vallum and exterior fosse cross
the neck of the peninsula. The early Norman church of the village stands
but a few yards beyond an entrance breach in the northern rampart. Mr A.
H. Allcroft, pursuing the “method of exhaustions,” declares the earthwork
to be Danish, and Mr P. M. Johnston suggests that the church occupies a
pagan site. At all events the juxtaposition can hardly be considered casual.
Immediately to the east of Hathersage churchyard, Derbyshire, may be
seen a simple circular earthwork, consisting of a high rampart with a moat
outside. It is classed by Dr J. C. Cox in the division C of the scheme above-
mentioned[58], namely, the division which embraces round enclosures of a
defensive character. An analogous earthwork adjoins the churchyard of
Tissington, also in Derbyshire[59].
Without pursuing this quest further, one or two pitfalls must be pointed
out. Entrenchments found near a parish church may sometimes represent
portions of the “ring fence” of a Mediaeval settlement; and the banks,
which once bore a hedge or palisade, might be hastily ascribed to an earlier
period. Mr Allcroft, in the work just mentioned, cites numerous warning
examples. Again, banks of boulder clay or glacial drift may assume a false
appearance of ridging, as if due to the work of man. To glacial action I
venture to assign the surface irregularities near Ludborough Church,

Lincolnshire, though they may represent the partially erased banks of the
Mediaeval village. Close by the neighbouring churchyard of St Lawrence at
Fulstow, one sees similar unevenness of the ground, the most important
hillock being perhaps a grave wherein were buried some sixscore
parishioners who died of the sweating sickness in the early seventeenth
century. Once more, the traces of earthwork, military or agricultural, below
the church of St Michael, on Glastonbury Tor, Somerset, may not be very
ancient, and I should not connect them in any manner with any ideas which
were held by the Gothic architects.
We next inquire why churches should have been built in situations such
as those which we have been considering. Mr Allcroft, arguing apparently
from the assumption that the church was a defensive building—in fact,
almost the only one in the parish—considers that it was sometimes built
near earthworks for additional security[60]. That Mr Allcroft’s premises are
sound, I shall attempt to show in the next chapter. That, in exceptional
cases, his conclusion is correct, one would not care to deny. But can the
theory be of general application? Scattered throughout the land are churches
built in exposed and lofty situations, so that traditions, varying in detail, but
related in their main principle, have sprung up to account for the choice of
these isolated and inconvenient positions. Most of the stories put fairies, or,
more commonly, the Spirit of Evil, in opposition to the efforts of the
builders. Churches were moved in a night, or the day’s work was undone by
the malignant foes. In cases of this kind, as in those instances where
churches stand in some secluded meadow, the reason may occasionally be
found in the churlishness of the manorial lord, or in the fact that the village
settlement has shifted since the church was built. Houses are demolished
and rebuilt, but the church remains. The desire to place the church in an
impregnable spot may more frequently account for the hill-structures,
which will be considered in Chapter III., though not for the churches near
earthworks, nor for the sequestered churches in the fields. Some other
explanation must be sought, and, curiously enough, Mr Allcroft has
incidentally suggested two other theories. The early missionaries to the
pagan Saxons, he supposes, made their headquarters on deserted Roman
sites, first, to demonstrate their own power in successfully defying the evil
spirits which haunted those spots, and secondly, through the bad reputation
of these earthworks, to obtain “something of a guarantee against
molestation by human beings quite as formidable[61].” While not agreeing

that the second motive would be very influential, with the first suggestion I
find myself more in harmony. The miraculous power of withstanding devils
and demons would not be without its effect on the ignorant. Moreover, the
claim would be as effective during the Mediaeval as it was during the
Saxon period. For we are not to suppose that superstition fled the land on
the advent of the Normans. Who were these new folk, and what were their
antecedents, that they should be free from slavish fears of the unknown?
Legends were without doubt attached to prehistoric remains down to a late
date; how intense and how gross are the superstitions of country folk even
in our own day, only the close student of men and books can be aware.
Thus, for some reason, inexplicable, except on anthropological grounds,
there exists among the Lincolnshire woldsmen a prejudice in favour of
burial on the heights, and many similar facts could be given.
Above all these causes of selection of prehistoric sites, however, one
may place the spirit of compromise which actuated the missionaries.
Everywhere, the preachers found that the Saxons, who were unaware of the
real origin of the old defences, attributed them to diabolism. Devil’s Dykes,
Devil’s Highways, Devil’s Doors, as has been shown in another volume,
meet us in every part of the country[62]. Believing firmly in the diabolic
origin of the earthworks and megaliths, the Saxon was moved to fear, and to
that slavish respect which is the child of fear. Yet it was pre-eminently in
the open country, where such objects abounded, that the Saxon loved to
dwell. It has been shown that, however much he may have avoided the
walled towns—and these he did not shun altogether—the Saxon settler had
no antipathy to occupation of the deserted villas and rural settlements[63].
Here, then, the potential convert, with his superstitions and aversions, lived
and toiled. The monuments of earlier races he regarded with sacred awe. It
would be well-nigh impossible to wean him from his creed by direct
denunciation; it would be easy to win him over by toleration and
compromise, and this possibility seems to supply the real explanation why
earthworks and other spots with weird associations were chosen for many
of the early churches. If it be asked why still more instances are not
forthcoming, it may be answered that the earthworks were frequently too
remote from settlements on the plains, and were too elevated in position, to
tempt the builders, even when the desire for protection reinforced the
primary purpose. Moreover, though the earliest open-air preachers in Saxon
times may have selected the earthwork as a pulpit, the permanent church

would not necessarily be built within that area. (It will save
misapprehension, if an explanation of the use of the word “Saxon” be
interpolated here. In strictness, there is a clear distinction between Angle
and Saxon, dialectically and archaeologically. But it is impossible always to
observe the differences, especially when the data are scanty. The term will
be employed, then, in its old loose signification, to denote, as Mr Reginald
A. Smith says, “the roving Teutonic bands that for centuries infested the
Northern seas.”)

Fig. 5. The “pharos” or lighthouse,
near the church within Dover
Castle (Bloxam’s Gothic
Eccles. Architect.). The building
is hexagonal externally, and
square within. The lower part is
composed of flints and rubble,
with bonding courses of Roman
tiles. The upper part of the
tower belongs to the Tudor
period. The doorway shown in
the drawing has now been
blocked up.

We have now glanced at those churches which contain remnants of
Roman ruins, and others which are built over Roman villas, or within
Roman camps, and we have been led insensibly to examine buildings which
are connected with earthworks of other ages. The problem of site-continuity
has constantly impinged upon the question of continuity of fabrics. A few
paragraphs may now be devoted to a consideration of those churches which

lay claim to a possession of one or both of these features. The small ruined
church of St Mary, within the confines of Dover Castle, is a well-known
example. It stands in juxtaposition with an octagonal structure, usually
described as a pharos, or lighthouse (Fig. 5), and believed by some to be a
fort belonging to the Romano-British period. This polygonal tower has an
exterior casing of flint, dating from the fifteenth century, but the original
uneven masonry of rubble and flint, bonded with bricks at intervals, is still
visible at the base. The supposition is that the church, with the lighthouse,
was utilized for Christian worship during Roman times. By most modern
authorities, the church itself is attributed, and perhaps more correctly, to the
late Saxon period[64]. Lyminge, in Kent (p. 4 supra), is another claimant.
The foundations of a seventh-century chapel, probably of apsidal basilican
plan (Fig. 6), have been traced here (A.D. 1899), but it is supposed that the
present church, though rich in Roman materials, belongs entirely to a later
epoch[65]. At Reculver (Regulbium), near Herne Bay, there is an example of
a church which Professor Baldwin Brown places with that of Dover in a
distinct category as representing possible authentic relics, since the
buildings stand alone within deserted Roman stations. The church at
Reculver stands over the foundations of a basilica, but the present building
is probably altogether post-Roman, the earliest known date for the existence
of a church on this spot being A.D. 670[66].
Dean Stanley held the belief, once shared by many antiquaries, that in St
Martin’s at Canterbury we have a veritable monument of early British
Christianity—a monument, moreover, erected over a pagan temple[67]. Bede
asserts that there

Fig. 6. Chancel of Lyminge Church, Kent. In the
churchyard, to the right hand, is a portion of the
foundations of a seventh-century chapel, composed of
re-arranged Roman materials. The church seems to
occupy the site of a villa.

Fig. 7. Portion of chancel wall, south side, St Martin’s
Church, Canterbury. Roman tiles are seen abundantly
in the wall on the right, and in the round arch; they are
also bonded into the wall on the left. The wall is
mainly seventh-century work, but the round-headed
doorway is later, and the buttress has been modernized.
The flat-headed doorway is probably original.

was a church on this spot in Roman times, and that the building which
existed in his day retained relics of the older structure[68]. In spite of this
tradition, the popular belief is only doubtfully tenable. The site is old, and
there may have been unbroken continuity, but the present building, though
doubtless largely composed of the original materials, has been altogether re-
arranged[69] (Fig. 7). An exception may perhaps be made for portions of the
western nave, which Professor Baldwin Brown considers may represent
early work. St Pancras, at Canterbury, by some writers judged to be older
than St Martin’s, must, under reserve, be given up, for similar reasons.
Foundations, nearly complete, of a single-celled apsidal church have been
revealed to the excavator, but the actual persistence of work above the
surface is not demonstrated[70]. Other churches put forward are Ribchester,
in Lancashire[71], and the chapel of St Peter’s-on-the-Wall, at Bradwell
(Othona), in Essex. St Peter’s Chapel represents a barnlike building, of
which the materials were evidently quarried from the adjacent fortress, but,
once again, proof of continuity is lacking.
St Joseph’s Chapel, at Glastonbury Abbey, presents us with an
interesting case of probable retention of site, though not necessarily of
continuous buildings. The earlier history of Glastonbury is, unfortunately,

mainly a history of legends and traditions. We may well discredit the tale,
told by the imaginative William of Malmesbury, a millennium after the
alleged event, that, so early as the first century of the Christian era, a chapel
constructed of osiers existed at this spot. That some kind of primitive
church or oratory, with walls of wattle, and a roof of reeds, was set up
during the Roman occupation is, however, very probable, and it may fairly
be supposed, though it cannot be proved, that no break had occurred when
the Saxon abbey was founded[72].
Among other churches for which a reasonable claim has been advanced
is that of Jarrow, which Professor Brown places in his period “A,” that is,
the period anterior to the year A.D. 800[73]. Again, the oldest part of the
cathedral church of Canterbury, as attested by experts, slightly supported by
Bede’s description, may be a relic of Roman Christianity[74]. We pass from
these examples in order to glance at a church whose age may now be
deemed undisputed, namely, the small apsidal church or basilica which was
uncovered in 1892 at Silchester (Calleva Atrebatum). The nature of the
building was at first much canvassed, and some authorities, relying chiefly
upon the absence of Christian symbols in the mosaics, and upon other
details, denied that the foundations were those of a church[75]. Curious to
relate, the Chi-Rho, along with the Omega, was found impressed on the side
of a small leaden seal which was dug up in the Silchester Forum[76], hence,
if the basilica has yielded no evidence of Christian symbolism, such
testimony lay hidden at no great distance. To be brief, not only is the
basilica now accepted as genuine by the best authorities, but Messrs G. E.
Fox and W. St John Hope declare that it is the only example of a Christian
church of Roman date yet found[77].
On the ruins of the Silchester basilica no Gothic church sprang up, so
that there was not site-continuity. Yet the parish church, which was
afterwards built during the twelfth century, within the enceinte of the
destroyed Roman town, has a direct bearing on the subject of this chapter. It
is one of the two instances of churches which Professor Brown admits as
having possibly superseded pagan Roman buildings. He does not, however,
concede that we have any examples of Saxon churches which once actually
formed parts of such temples. In all cases, the form and orientation of the
churches, he asserts, betray an ecclesiastical origin. The churches may point
to a survival of Romano-British Christianity, but that is another question[78].
Nevertheless, as Professor Brown himself notes, Silchester parish church

was built close to the remains of two small Roman shrines of Gaulish type.
The orientation of the church exactly agrees with that of one of the shrines,
and this may indicate some relationship[79]. Messrs Fox and St John Hope
have stated that the list of edifices dedicated to pagan deities in this country
is very scanty, yet it is noteworthy that, of this list, three were recorded at
Silchester. Moreover, one of these temples was found lying partly under the
graveyard of the parish church, and partly under the buildings of an
adjacent farm[80]. “Perhaps,” say these writers, “the rising power of
Christianity, as seen in the little church [the basilica] within the south-
eastern corner of the Forum, may have made for their destruction[81]” [i.e.
the destruction of the shrines]. May we not add that, should someone
excavate a second Silchester, further evidence of this kind might be
obtained? Dr Thomas Ashby’s explorations at Caerwent (Venta Silurum)
have, so far (1910), yielded no certain traces of a Christian church. The
basilica discovered on the north side of the Forum is of a civil, not
religious, character. We might frankly discard all the examples previously
given, save perhaps those in which churches stand over Roman villas, and
yet come to a wrong conclusion by arguing from the absence of particular
witnesses. Other deponents may press forward. Before, however, we can
examine these, we must make a rather lengthy digression to inquire if there
exist a priori reasons for the annexation of pagan sites by Christian
teachers.
We have, in proceeding to this examination, principally to consider the
policy which was pursued by the early missionaries. Writing about
Christianity in general, Harnack has shown that, during the third century, it
united enthusiasm with the spirit of tolerance. “Stooping to meet the needs
of the masses,” the leaders studied polytheistic customs, instituted festivals
and saints, and utilized sites already deemed sacred. To express the fact
otherwise: the religion became syncretistic in the proper meaning of that
term[82]. Christian and pagan ideas were blended. Following the wise, and,
indeed, the only practicable method—that of peaceful permeation—the
Church often retained the forms of heathen ceremonies, while actually
investing these with new meanings. The process has been pithily expressed
by Sir G. L. Gomme: “Christianity was both antagonistic to, and tolerant of,
pagan custom and belief. In principle and purpose it was antagonistic. In
practice, it was tolerant where it could tolerate freely[83].”

As a matter of history, however, we learn that the policy did not remain
strictly consistent, and a struggle for survival ensued. Under the rule of
Constantine, the tendency was to destroy heathen temples and their idols,
but by the Edict of Theodosius (A.D. 392), pagan shrines were to be
dedicated as Christian churches. Later, the Edict of Honorius (A.D. 408)
definitely forbade the demolition of heathen temples, at least in the
cities[84]. These enactments seem to have a direct bearing on cases like that
of Silchester and upon other examples, to be described hereafter. Leaping
over a gulf of nearly two centuries, we discover Pope Gregory the Great
(A.D. 601) sending a letter to the Abbot Mellitus, who was then about to visit
Britain, commanding that, while idols were to be destroyed, the temples
themselves were to be preserved. Holy water was to be sprinkled in the
buildings, altars were to be erected, and sacred relics were to be placed
therein. Anniversary festivals were to be appointed, and the new worship
inaugurated[85]. Keeping this in mind, we are not surprised to find that, on
the conversion of Ethelbert, two or three years previous to the Gregorian
edict, Augustine received a licence to restore, as well as to build
churches[86]. Whether these churches were pagan temples which had been
partially despoiled, or Romano-British basilicas which had fallen into
decay, we are left to conjecture.
On the continent, the breach of continuity of policy was still less
perceptible. Grimm distinctly states that churches were erected on the sites
of heathen trees or temples. He warns us against false conceptions of
history. We are not to picture the poor peasants as being ruthlessly expelled
from their accustomed places of worship. The heathen, he declares, were
not so tame and simple, nor were the Christians so reckless, as to lay the
axe to sacred trees, or to fire the pagan temples. The rude forefathers of the
hamlet trod the old paths to the old site. Sometimes the very walls were
retained, nay, the local idol or image was retained outside the door or within
the porch. Thus, at Bamberg Cathedral, in Bavaria, zoomorphic stones,
inscribed with runes, passed the examination of lenient judges[87]. Again,
pagan festivals were converted into Christian holy-days. The Yule-tide
merry-makings in honour of Thor—revels which have also been connected
by some writers equally with the gods Adonis, Dionysos, and Mithra—
became the festival celebration of the birth of Christ. Canon E. L. Hicks
(now Bishop of Lincoln) contends that the observance of the exact date,
December 25th, as Christmas Day, is directly borrowed from Mithraism[88].

The old German feast in memory of departed warriors was metamorphosed
into All Souls’ Day, when the spirits of resting believers were kept in
mind[89]. As with holy-days, so with symbols. Thor’s hammer was replaced
by the Christian Cross, and the heathen sprinkling of newly-born babes
became Christian baptism[90]. Thus, by the retention of holy oaks, of
idolatrous feasts, of pagan symbols and ceremonies, of the heathen names
for the days of the week, the new religion gained entrance. In Ireland,
where the problem to be faced was remarkably complex, the
Christianization of pagan myths was very noticeable[91]. Here, the very
names of the feasts long continued as in pagan times. Only when the
conciliatory policy had “eased the yoke of the new ordinances,” was it
possible to take drastic measures, and to extrude heathenism from the
places of worship[92].
But this time was slow in coming. In the heart of the Empire, as
Friedlander has shown us, the triumphant Christians did, indeed, assimilate
many heathen practices, yet they strove hard to stifle paganism altogether.
On the other hand, all over Northern Europe, the spirit of compromise was
at work. In Sweden, during this transition period, old associations were so
strong that prayers to Thor and Freya were often mingled with Christian
orisons[93]. Professor F. Kauffmann speaks of the great temple of Upsala,
with its evergreen tree, and its mysterious sacrificial well, which received
the bodies of the slain. So late as the eleventh century, this temple still stood
in all its splendour[94]. Professor O. Montelius, while noting the frequency
with which sacred stone-circles are associated with the church, considers
that the cromlechs were not places of sacrifice, but of judgement. This idea
is gaining ground in England, where also there is a tendency to change the
nomenclature of megaliths. (To avoid confusion, it must be noted that
“dolmen,” in these chapters, refers to a “table-stone,” that is, several upright
stones capped by a flat one. “Cromlech” is used in its Breton sense of stone-
circle, not in Welsh and Cornish significations of table-stone, nor in Sir
Norman Lockyer’s restricted connotation—a kind of “irregular vault
generally open at one end.”) At Gamla Upsala, near Upsala, a church was
built on the site of a temple, which was the traditional burial place of Odin,
and the centre of his worship. Modern excavations at this spot have yielded
bones of horses, pigs, and hawks, together with relics of gold and silver[95].
This example is instructive, alike for its testimony to the value of folk-
memory, and for its illustration of the employment of a pagan site. But,

indeed, example can be piled upon example. At the Danish coast-town of
Veile (or Vejle), two barrows, locally known as the graves of King Gorm
and his queen, stand by the churchyard. Hard by are ancient stone
monuments, bearing runic inscriptions[96].
Nor do these Northern cases lack counterparts elsewhere. The church at
Arrichinaga, in the province of Biscay, in Spain, was so built as to enclose
the huge stones of a great dolmen; between the stones is placed the shrine
of the patron saint[97]. The rugged land of Brittany is well-known to all
travellers for its illustrations of lingering paganism; to some of these we
shall again refer. But if we desire to learn how imperative, how inescapable,
was the spirit of compromise, we should turn to the works of old writers,
such as that curious old volume which relates Jean Scheffer’s travels in
Lapland in the latter part of the seventeenth century[98]. There, we shall
discover a strange alloy of heathenism and Christianity, visible to all,
seemingly condemned by none. Even in our own day, so recently as the
year 1895, we hear of curious practices among the Samoyads. These folk,
though nominally Christians, within modern times still sacrificed human
beings clandestinely, and conducted heathen services within the ancient
stone-circles, carefully screening the images of their gods from the public
gaze.
Returning to the high road of our inquiry, we ask whether these
examples can be paralleled in Britain. Consider for a moment the great
wealth of our folk-lore, our superstitions, our almost incredible heathen
practices. Grease from the church-bell to cure rheumatism; pellitory from
the church-wall for whooping-cough; teeth from the graveyard to serve as
charms; the midnight watchings on St Mark’s Eve; the folk-tales about
evergreens; the superstitions connected with baptisms, marriages, and
deaths; the hundred and one little beliefs which run in an undercurrent
beneath the apparently smooth surface of religious thought—do not these
suggest that we may expect to find parallels to the continental examples of
church-building on heathen soil? How strange if our islands had escaped the
influences which are seen in almost every other European country! Yet, to
speak plainly, our direct testimony is very scanty.
We know that, at Rome, the Pantheon became a Christian church, and
we have previously mooted the possibility of pagan idol-temples having
been similarly treated in Britain. Conclusive proof cannot be given, since
subsequent restorations would erase, or at least obscure, the vestiges which

we seek. Professor Baldwin Brown admits two possible examples, without
committing himself to a decided opinion. One is the church of Silchester
previously noted (p. 23 supra), and the other that of St Martin’s, Leicester.
The latter church rests on the site of a Roman columnar structure, which
would have been suitable for a temple[99]. There are also certain clues
afforded by tradition and philology. At Woodcuts Common, in Cranborne
Chase, there is an imperfect amphitheatre known as Church Barrow, which
was excavated by General Pitt-Rivers. This high authority suggested that
the depression which forms the arena was used for games, and, not
improbably, in early Saxon times, before any church was built in the
neighbourhood, for divine worship[100]. Mr Allcroft gives reasons for
supposing that the present earthwork is on the site once occupied by a
tumulus[101]. Whichever hypothesis be accepted, the name of Church
Barrow will not be lightly set aside by the folk-lorist, for it does not stand
alone. At a spot called Church Bottom, or Sunken Kirk, near Ickleton, in
Cambridgeshire, Roman relics, suggestive of a columnar building, were
discovered. Pitt-Rivers supposed that a Roman basilica, for Christian
worship, existed on the site, and that it was re-adapted when the East
Anglians became converted to Christianity[102]. The data, in this instance,
are not plentiful, and one might perhaps conjecture, with equal reason, that
the original building was pagan. An earthwork on Temple Downs, a few
miles north of Avebury, Wiltshire, was traditionally called “Old Chapel.”
By the way, we notice that the names of Kirk, Old Kirk, Sunken Kirk, and
Chapel Field, as applied to earthworks and sites containing ancient
foundations, are not uncommon[103], and one is naturally led to connect this
fact with the known association of churches and earthworks. Again, at
Llangenydd, Glamorganshire, there may be seen, in a field, the remains of a
stone-circle which is still called Yr Hen Eglwys, “the old church,” the
meadow being known as Cae’r Hen Eglwys, “Old Church Field.” Tradition
says that here the inhabitants worshipped before the present church at
Lalestone was erected. A remarkable parallel is exhibited in the Shetlands,
where churches were often built, we are assured, amid the ruins of heathen
“temples.” The analogy consists in this: that the word “kirk” is now applied
to holy spots, whether a chapel exists there or not. Again, Sandwich Kirk, in
the island of Unst, represents the ruins of a reputed chapel which stood
beside an ancient kitchen-midden. At Kirkamool, bones and pottery were
dug up under the foundations of the sacred building[104]. Germane to this

subject, one may mention the old ruins of Constantine Church, in Cornwall,
which lie near an old kitchen-midden, and which have yielded to the spade
of the explorer bones of men and domestic animals, besides pottery of the
Mediaeval, Roman, and Neolithic periods[105].
Pursuing the trail provided by philology, one must glance cursorily at the
theory propounded by Isaac Taylor that place-names like Godshill,
Godstone, Godley, Godney, Godstow, and Godmanchester, are mute
witnesses of the substitution of the new faith for the old[106]. The theory is
certainly plausible, but, as Professor W. W. Skeat pointed out in a letter to
the present writer, the question can only be settled by an appeal to carefully
compiled name-lists, especially those which give the spellings that were
current during the Middle English period. Now it chances that my friend Mr
A. Bonner has, for many years past, been making researches on these, and
similar place-names, and he has kindly allowed me the use of his
unpublished work. Thus, by the aid of Professor Skeat and Mr Bonner, one
is able to test the theory that these particular names commemorate the
establishment of Christian worship. To begin with, it must be observed that,
owing to the modern defective and misleading system of orthography, not
only may origins be disguised, but one mode of spelling may hide several
possible etymologies. Thus, the A.S. gōd (=good) is frequently confused
with god (=God); moreover, since Gōd (=Good) was also a personal name
in Anglo-Saxon, we may get further complexity; e.g. Goodrich (A.S. Gōd-
ric), in Herefordshire. Dealing with a few of the names mentioned above,
we have Godstone, Surrey, appearing in the thirteenth century as Codeston
and Coddestone, the spelling God being of much later date. Though the
question cannot be settled in the absence of an Anglo-Saxon form, it is
probable that the word denotes a personal name. Godney, Somerset,
apparently represents “Gōda’s island,” and Godley, the name of a hundred
in Surrey, “Gōda’s meadow.” Godshill (Gōds, i.e. Good’s hill), Godstow,
and Godstoke, again, all give indications of personal names.
Goodmanham, or Godmundingham, near Market Weighton, in
Yorkshire, is believed to be the spot mentioned by Bede as having a
celebrated pagan temple, and as being the scene of missionary work by
Paulinus. Isaac Taylor was at first content to follow Grimm in deriving the
word from the Norse (godi =priest, and mund, protection of the gods).
Afterwards he discovered his error, for, in a later edition of Names and their
Histories, he explains the name as the “home of the Godmundings or

descendants of Godmund.” Alas, in a posthumous edition, very recent, of
Words and Places, the old blunder creeps in again. Mr Bonner states that
the earliest form (c. A.D. 737), is Godmunddingham; the tenth century
spelling was practically the same; hence the meaning is, “ham of the
Godmund or Goodman family.”
Again, the village-name of Malden, in Surrey, has been claimed as
meaning “Hill of the Cross,” and as indicating the turn-over to Christianity.
It is true that the Anglo-Saxon mæ̅ l means a mark, and that the Domesday
form, Meldone, points to a down on which stood some mark, probably a
beacon or boundary post. Yet, although the village church is situated on the
highest spot in the neighbourhood, whence the ground slopes away on two
sides, the building does not stand on the Chalk downland, but on the
London Clay. Moreover, although we have many post-Conquest
orthographies, such as Maudon, Meaudon, and Maldene, to guide us, we
lack evidence concerning the true A. S. form. Had the name been Christ’s
Maldon (Cristes mæ̅ l dūn), it would certainly have implied a “hill with a
cross or crucifix,” just as, according to Professor Skeat, we have “Christ’s
mæ̅ l ford,” now oddly turned into Christian Malford (Wiltshire). The
evidence for Maldon, in Essex, is more satisfactory than that for the Surrey
village. Here we get the tenth century spelling Mæ̅ ldune, and, although the
modern town is built on low ground by the river Blackwater, a hill,
surmounted by a tumulus, rises behind to a height of 109 feet. Hence this
name may perhaps be the equivalent of “Hill of the Cross.”
The prefix Llan, which occurs so frequently in Wales and the Marches,
affords a surer indication of a period when the possession of a church by the
village community was the exception, and not the rule. Not only this; but
expert opinion shows that llan signifies an enclosed or fenced-in space. The
reference is therefore rather to the churchyard than to the sacred fabric, and
it is believed by some that the word retains memories of the worship held
within stone-circles. When we come to consider the relation of Bardic
assemblies with parish churches, it will appear that this supposition is
reasonable. Even in Wales, the prefix Llan-is sometimes replaced by Kil-, as
in Kilfowyr and Kilsant, in Caermathenshire; but it is chiefly in Scotland
that we look for such place-names. The word kil originally meant a hermit’s
cell, and afterwards came to be applied to a church. Finally, as an aid in
detecting places which possessed churches at an early date, and which were
thus pre-eminently worthy of special designations, we have the Norse, and

Danish, prefix, Kirk-, as in Kirby, Kirk Ella, Kirkcolm. Premising that a
little additional testimony under the head of philology will be given later,
we must now follow another clue.
On the whole, it must be conceded that the support derived from
geographical names is somewhat feeble, yet it may prove capable of being
extended as knowledge increases. Our next line of research gives fairer
promise; it brings us to examine the ancient rude monuments which are
frequently found in the vicinity of village churches.
The megalithic monuments recognized by the archaeologist are of
several kinds, but we shall be here concerned with three of these groups—
the menhir, or single upright stone; the cromlech, or stone-circle; and the
dolmen, or “stone-table.” These prehistoric remains seem to have seriously
attracted the notice of the Teutonic invaders, who were prone to follow
idolatrous practices based upon lingering traditions about the storm-fretted
stones. To this superstitious respect attention has been drawn in a previous
work[107]. Some indications of the honour imputed to these megaliths is
gleaned from a study of parish boundaries, though it is almost certain that
many of the stones erected in such positions belong to the historic period.
The old open-air tribunals, too, were wont to meet at barrows, cairns,
cromlechs, and menhirs, and at the foot of the crosses by which the menhirs
were largely supplanted. This statement holds true for other places besides
England. In the churchyard of Ste Marie du Castel, Guernsey, there existed
three large stones, which marked the spot where open-air courts were held
until recent years[108]. Evidence is also obtainable from several countries,
showing that the election and coronation of kings and princes were
associated with stone-circles. Nor, indeed, were our ancestors very exigent
in this matter; a rude natural boulder or monolith was considered a good
substitute for the artificial pillar which had been erected by forgotten folk.
Over and over again we meet with “blue-stones”—chiefly glacial boulders
—which were set up to mark the limits of a parish, or to form the trysting-
place of a manorial court[109]. Lastly, it is on record that Patrick, Bishop of
the Hebrides, desired Orlygüs to build a church wherever he found the
upright stones or menhirs.

Fig. 8. The Agglestone, Studland Heath, Dorsetshire. A
natural mass of concretionary sandstone belonging to
the Bagshot sands of the district. Much pagan
tradition is associated with this block, which has been
curiously eroded by rain, frost, and wind. The so-
called “Druid’s basins” are altogether natural cavities.

One of the best known of the natural megaliths to which traditions cling
is the Agglestone, or Hagglestone, situated on the moors near Studland, in
Dorsetshire (Fig. 8). This Agglestone is a huge inverted cone of indurated
rock in direct connection with the Lower Bagshot Sands on which it rests;
in other words, its shape and position cannot be artificial. It is a mass of
sandy material, so thoroughly cemented by oxide of iron that it has resisted
denudation with some degree of success. Yet the so-called sub-aërial
agencies, principally wind and rain, have undercut its base, rounded its
outlines, and scooped out the “rock-basins,” which the eighteenth century
antiquaries ascribed to the labours of Druids[110]. It is noteworthy that the
Agglestone belongs to a part of the country the inhabitants of which were
pictured by Bede as confirmed pagans (paganissimi)[111]. From a review of
the legends, as well as from a consideration of the name, Agglestone (most
probably from A. S. halig = holy), and its alternative designation, Devil’s
Nightcap, there is fair reason to believe that the stone had some significance
to the heathen folk of Wessex, and that it was very probably a Christian
preaching station.
The Agglestone doubtless proved too unwieldy and obdurate for the
tools of those who set up the first Christian crosses, but this has not been

the case with many other pillars, whether hewn or unhewn. Some of the
upright “crosses” of Devon and Cornwall, for instance, are of extremely
coarse workmanship, as the student may see for himself by inspecting the
illustrations given in the works of Messrs A. G. Langdon and W.
Crossing[112]. Nor need the simplicity of the early workmanship cause
surprise, for the oldest Cornish crosses date from the seventh century. A like
plainness is met in many other parts of England. At Fulstow, Lincolnshire, I
noticed a crude churchyard pillar of hard, grey chalk, roughly squared, now
mounted on a much more recent plinth. The stone is much pitted by
weathering, and is clad with lichens of varying hues. If the monolith be not
a pre-Christian relic, trimmed into a rectangular form, it is most probably a
very early pillar, co-eval with the first Early English church. It may have
been dug out of the boulder clay, like many of the stones with which the
churchyard paths are paved; or, if we accept modern theories respecting the
glacial drift on the East of the Wolds[113], it is not an ice-borne relic, but
must have been brought to the alluvial plain by man. The original home of
the pillar was in the hill-slope, several miles to the West. This Fulstow
“cross” is typical of others scattered throughout the East of England.
Reverting to Cornwall, it must be observed that the numerous inscribed
monoliths of that county are believed, on a balance of probabilities, to be of
a Christian character[114]. Specimens are frequently found in remote spots,
or they may occur in proximity to the church itself. At Camborne, an
example is seen under the communion-table; at East Cardinham, in the
graveyard; at St Cubert, in the wall of the church[115].
The early pillar “crosses,” though accounted Christian when tested by
inscription and decoration, may yet have an earlier origin. It is now a
commonplace that many of the crosses and calvaries of Brittany, “with
shapeless sculpture decked,” are merely primitive menhirs adapted by the
Christian artificer[116], and anyone who, like the writer, has had the
opportunity of comparing the Breton series with the kindred group of our
English Brittany, will readily agree that a similar story may be told of
Cornwall. Something has been written on this topic elsewhere[117], and one
need now only call attention to a curious instance of reversion in connection
with the allied subject of tombstones, to show how deep-seated and
perennial is the habit of imitation. In the “Quaker’s Cemetery,” two miles
from Penzance, the only tomb remaining within the enclosure is formed of a
massive slab of granite (5´.7´´ × 2´.1´´ × 1´.1´´), resting on large pieces of

the same kind of rock. The tomb is evidently a copy of the dolmens of the
moorland, yet its date is so recent as A.D. 1677[118]. This illustration of the
“past in the present” supplies a warning note, and is not so irrelevant as it
may appear for the moment.
We may follow our work by inspecting some interesting cases of the
occurrence of unshaped masses of stone in, or near, the fabric of the church.
We must start, however, with the clear axiom that natural blocks of stone,
where readily procurable, must, like the spoil heaps of Roman buildings, at
all times have invited the attention of masons. Not more than fifty or sixty
years ago, Sir A. C. Ramsay noted that the “greywethers,” or sarsens, of the
Marlborough Downs, were so thickly strewn over the surface, that across
miles and miles of country a person might almost leap from stone to stone,
without touching the ground. Yet, in our own day, the preservation of the
greywethers has become a serious task, because they have been found so
useful for paving-stones during the interval that has elapsed since Ramsay
wrote, and it has been difficult to stop depredations on those that remain.
Not forgetting our warning, there is still a possibility that, should the
examples of churchyard sarsens prove numerous, and should there be a co-
operation of other factors which indicate early sites of pagan worship, these
two series of circumstances may be in relationship. A solitary example
might be declared accidental; two or three citations only might raise an
incredulous smile; hence, it is the cumulative force of recurring details
which can alone afford pretence for a theory.
Situated in a long, dry Kentish valley which runs upwards in a Southerly
direction towards the escarpment of the Chalk, and at a distance of about
1½ miles from the railway station at Eynesford, one may see the forlorn
wreckage of Maplescombe church (Figs. 9, 10). This church, which had a
semicircular apse, still partially remaining, has been in ruins for three
centuries. My attention was first called to the spot by Mr Benjamin
Harrison, of Ightham, an archaeologist whose knowledge of his native
district is unsurpassed. On visiting the ruins in 1904, I found a large,
partially-sunken sarsen stone (3´.0´´ × 2´.0´´ × 1´.6´´) occupying what
appeared to be the site of the ancient altar. A few smaller sarsens were also
discernible, and other specimens, Mr Harrison states, have been carried off,
at various times, by hop-pickers, to build hearths in the fields. In the field
adjoining the church, the ploughshare has turned up

Fig. 9. Ruins of Maplescombe church, Kent. View from
the North-West. The ruins are unenclosed, amid a field
of cabbages. The interior space is overgrown with
brambles and elder bushes, but the semicircular apse
can be detected on the left.

Fig. 10. Sketch plan of the ruins of
Maplescombe church, Kent, showing
the positions of the sarsen stones.

human bones and other relics[119]. This area was presumably the graveyard,
and may have been originally unenclosed, but with this hypothesis we shall
deal in a later chapter. Parenthetically, it may be explained to the non-
geological reader that a sarsen is a hard mass of rock, which was once part
of the Bagshot Sands or the Woolwich and Reading Beds, and which,
having resisted denudation, remains on, or near, the present surface of the
soil. The earliest record of a church at Maplescombe is A.D. 1291, but the
building may, perhaps, be of Norman foundation, and the largest stone may

possibly be a sacred relic which existed previously on the present site. The
worship of “stocks and stones” died hard, and it is at least conceivable that
the church builders adapted one or more megaliths to form an altar. Further
than that we cannot go, seeing that sarsens are fairly common in the
locality. Examples of churchyard sarsens are abundant in Kent. Mr Harrison
informs me that there are specimens at Kemsing Halling and Trottescliffe;
in the last-named village, the stone is built into the church wall. At
Meopham, there are several blocks just outside the churchyard, but, as the
ground is merely fenced in, we have again, doubtless, an instance where the
demarcation between consecrated and unconsecrated soil is of modern date.
Still further records from Kent have been supplied by Mr F. J. Bennett. The
ruins of the churches at Punish and Paddlesworth (near Snodland) enclosed
in each case a large sarsen; the nave of the dismantled church at Dode
contains a good-sized specimen; several other blocks stand just outside the
graveyard wall at Birling[120]. In passing, it may be observed that the other
Kentish village named Paddlesworth, near Lyminge, contains a font, of
which the base is a massive round stone, evidently of great antiquity.
We now examine other counties where the Tertiary beds are represented.
Crossing the Thames, we find in the churchyard of Ingatestone, Essex, a
large sarsen, which was formerly a part of the foundation of the church[121].
At Pirton, in Hertfordshire, a huge mass of conglomerate, or
“puddingstone,” consisting of rounded flint pebbles cemented by a siliceous
matrix, supports the North-Western buttress of the church. The block, as
determined by my friend, Mr James Francis, F.G.S., measures 5´.6´´ × 2´.7
´´ × 1´.4´´ above the ground. At the base of two other buttresses on the
North side are further lumps of conglomerate, each about 3 feet in length.
These “puddingstones” are vulgarly believed both to breed and to increase
in size, and the superstition is put forward to account for a block of this
material which projects from the foundation of Caddington church,
Bedfordshire[122]. It is worthy of notice, in passing, that a pre-conquest
church existed at Caddington.
Our observations would be incomplete were they limited to the Tertiary
area of South-Eastern England. In Devonshire, built into the chancel wall of
North Molton church, we have a large, heavy stone, which is said to be
composed of material foreign to the district[123]. At Branscombe, in the
same county, where the church bears marks of considerable antiquity, a
rough pillar, about seven feet long, doubtfully described as a coffin lid, lies

in the churchyard. Just outside the churchyard wall of Whatley, Somerset, is
a huge rounded sarsen, and another is to be seen near the cross-roads 50
yards distant. When the London Geologists’ Association visited Whatley in
1909, a doubt was raised whether the stones were true sarsens. Some
authorities pronounced the material to be millstone grit, which could be
obtained a few miles away; while, on the contrary, no Tertiary rocks occur
in the immediate district. In Cornwall, there was discovered, under the
collapsed Western tower of Constantine church, a large, rounded boulder of
Cataclew stone, weighing a quarter of a ton. The nearest locality from
which this stone can be obtained, says the Rev. R. Ashington Bullen, is a
quarry which is 1¼ miles distant in a straight line. Mr Bullen believes that
the boulder marked a meeting-place for ceremonial observances in pagan
times, and that consequently it was assigned a place of honour in the
Christian building[124]. It will be recalled that the ruins are adjacent to a
kitchen-midden (p. 31 supra). At Bolsterstone, near Deepcar, in Yorkshire,
two large stones lie in the village churchyard. One of them has been adapted
for receiving another stone by mortising. On the high ground above the
church is a cairn known as Walderslow, and it is believed that the
churchyard stones may have had connection with this monument. The
diligent searcher will not fail to discover many other examples of these
natural megaliths, but he will doubtless preserve considerable detachment
of mind, and be wary in the acceptance of theories. The scarcity of suitable
rocks in many localities, the difficulties of transport,—whether
accomplished by ox-drawn sledges or by canal barges,—the saving of time,
and, far more important, the lessening of expenditure, are factors which
must receive full weight. Nevertheless, while maintaining due reticence, we
shall find ourselves continually wondering whether the probabilities do not
point to site-continuity. The pronounced liking for megalithic monuments
exhibited by the primitive Britons must have strongly influenced all future
comers for many a century. All analogy suggests that Mediaeval folk were
still sufficiently pagan to treat such relics with a kind of “hyperdulia.” A
sacred stone, or group of stones, may well have been embedded in the walls
of the church, or set up as an altar, in order to propitiate those who gave up
the old faith with reluctance.
When we examine megaliths which were indubitably placed in position
by the labours of men, we find ourselves on surer ground. The building of
churches near such memorials as these cannot always have been at

haphazard. Moreover, we should bear in mind that all the evidence is not
now producible. The hand of the spoiler has been busy, and the results have
been lamentable. Utility has been the common plea for the removal of many
ancient monuments, but other motives have also been at work. The famous
“Longstone” which formerly stood a little to the East of St Mabyn church,
in Cornwall, was broken up and carried away in order “to brave ridiculous
legends and superstitions[125].” Happily, the well-known menhir in
Rudstone churchyard, near Bridlington (Fig. 11), remains with us. This
pillar, which is composed of fine-grained grit, stands about 4 yards from the
North-East angle of the building. Its height is 25 feet, and it is believed by
some authorities that an equal length is concealed underground. The
monolith was first fully described by the Rev. Peter Royston, in 1873. The
present Vicar of Rudstone, the Rev. C. S. Booty, informs me that Mr
Royston’s measurements are accurate. The conjecture has been made that
the village took its name from the menhir. This may well have been the
case, but what the first syllable of the name means is another matter. The
word is commonly said to signify Rood-stone. The Domesday form
Rodestan (cf. 13th cent. Rudestone; 14th cent. Ruddestan, Rudston, etc.),
leads Mr Bonner to suppose that a personal name, Rod, Rodd, or Roda, is
indicated. If the monolith bore an incised or carved cross, Mr Bonner would
admit the rendering “Rood-stone.” But it should be remembered that a
simple pillar might have been called a cross, and that it may have been
accepted as a preaching cross. To consecrate an existing stone would save
much labour. On this view, “Rood-stone” may actually be correct.
Countryfolk do not care for etymology or archaeology, but they have not
been remiss in attributing the presence of the stone to diabolic agency. What
concerns us at the present is, that the site of the church was probably
selected because the spot had already some significance to the older
inhabitants of the neighbourhood. The whole district of Rudstone is rich in
prehistoric remains[126].
The “sacred chair” of Bede, at Jarrow, is considered by Professor Rupert
Jones to be an ancient sacred stone, which has been chiselled into shape by
modern masons[127]. The Coronation Stone, in Westminster Abbey, has also
perhaps a notable genealogy, but its deposition in its present quarters took
place long after the foundation of the Abbey, and hence the relic is not
illustrative of our theory.

Fig. 11. Rudstone church, and monolith, near Bridlington. View of the North side.

On the Greensand hill a little above Mottestone church, in the Isle of
Wight, there is a huge, untooled monolith, known as the “Longstone,” but it
is not certain that it was originally solitary. A smaller pillar lies at its base,
and Mr W. Dale, the Hampshire archaeologist, supposes that the two stones
represent a fallen dolmen, or the remnants of a cromlech[128]. Other writers
have considered the relics to be ancient boundary stones[129], but I think this
explanation not very satisfactory. The Rev. G. E. Jeans, who advocates the
boundary-theory, declares against the view that Mottestone signifies “mote-
stone,” and points out that the Domesday spelling, Modrestone, indicates a
personal name, Modr[130]. Even allowing for possible approximations made
by the Domesday scribe, the etymology given by Mr Jeans seems more
reasonable than the older one. Another Hampshire village, Twyford, on the
Itchen, is worthy of a visit in connection with megaliths. The church in this
old-world nook was believed by Dean Kitchin to be built on ground once
occupied by a stone-circle or a dolmen, and Mr Dale considers that the two
large sarsens which lie by the side of the building represent the wreckage of
this ancient monument[131]. A particularly fine yew in the graveyard will be
noticed in a subsequent chapter. On the neighbouring hillside of Shawford
Downs, there are also some linchets, or ancient cultivation terraces. These
associations imply that Twyford was not only an inhabited site, but

presumably a sacred site, at a very early period. Still another Hampshire
example is furnished by Bishopstoke, the church which Mr Hilaire Belloc
asserts was erected on the site of an old stone-circle[132]. Cobham church, in
Kent, stands a little to the North of the remains of a stone-ring. Outside the
North porch there is a large sarsen, another lies against the wall at the West
end, while a third is built into the South wall[133]. Thomas Wright long ago
pointed out that the church of Addington, in Kent, was in the immediate
neighbourhood of numerous megalithic remains, though all of these were in
a ruinous and disordered condition. In fact the area seemed to be a vast
tribal cemetery. Professor W. M. Flinders Petrie, in 1878, was able, from a
study of the monumental relics, to make an imaginary restoration of parallel
avenues of stones as they once existed. At the North-Eastern extremity,
there was a stone chamber which has unfortunately since been
disturbed[134]. Some writers have believed that the hillock on which
Addington church is built was artificial, but it is practically certain that it is
purely natural; its existence being perhaps due to a protective capping of
ironstone which has been proof against denudation.
The church of Stanton Drew, near Bristol, is placed within the precincts
of a veritable Valhalla of monumental relics. Three stone circles are
situated, as it were, within a stone’s throw of the building, the most distant
being about one-third of a mile away, and the nearest only 150 yards. But
besides these more perfect remains, there is a group close to the churchyard,
towards the South-West. This group, called the Cove, consists of two
upright blocks, 10¼ feet and 4½ feet respectively in height, and one
prostrate stone, 14½ feet in length (Fig. 12). The original character of the
monument cannot be decisively known. Mr C. W. Dymond contends that
the stones hardly represent a ruined dolmen, because of the unusual height
of two of the remaining pillars. Other speculations, hazarded, as it seems to
the writer, without a vestige of proof, regard the Cove as a “druidical chair
of state,” and, again, as a shelter for sacrificial fire. On the whole, it is safer
to consider these monoliths as survivors of a cromlech or stone-ring. The
material, which is unhewn, is a siliceous breccia of Triassic age, and was
probably brought from Harptree-under-Mendip, about seven miles from the
present position. The church, it should be added, retains portions of Norman
work[135].

Fig. 12. The Cove, Stanton Drew, Somerset; a group of megaliths situated near the village
church.

The vanished menhir of St Mabyn has been noticed (p. 42 supra), but,
before leaving the English megaliths, we ought to glance at the smallest
cromlech in Cornwall, that of Duloe, which is situated near Duloe church.
Its longer diameter is 39 feet, and its shorter, 37 feet, so that the cromlech is
slightly elliptical. The “circle” contains seven standing stones, and one
fallen or broken stone. One of the pillars, which are very unshapely, is 9
feet in height. The finding of charcoal, together with a cinerary urn
enclosing bones, near one of the pillars, is sufficient to show the sepulchral
character of the circle[136]. Cornwall should indeed prove the touchstone of
our theory, and I believe that both Cornwall and Devon would stand the test
well, could we recall the witnesses. But these, sad to relate, are for the most
part gone. Here a gatepost, there a tombstone, and yonder the hearth of a
cottage, warn us not to expect the impossible. Sir Norman Lockyer, in his
work on Stonehenge, asserts that many churches have been built on the sites
of circles and menhirs, but he proffers no actual examples[137]. He gives,
however, numerous instances from Cornwall, Ireland, and Scotland, of the
juxtaposition of megaliths and sacred wells. Now, it will be shown in the
next chapter, that churches were frequently built in proximity to holy wells,
so that we have a triple relationship. Sir Norman Lockyer’s informant

doubtless knew of other examples of church-megalith sites than those
which have been adduced[138]. Such sites are said to be not uncommon in
Wales. The church at Yspytty Kenwyn (or Cynfyn), near the Devil’s Bridge,
in Cardiganshire, had the circle of stones built, at intervals, into the
churchyard wall. There were also stone pillars at the Eastern entrance to the
church, just as they are sometimes found near stone-circles. Large megaliths
are also recorded from the churches of Tregaron, in Cardiganshire, and
Llanwrthwl, in Brecon[139]. Cordiner, an eighteenth century writer, asserts
that Benachie church, Aberdeenshire, is built within a stone-circle, and that
the practice of thus building was not infrequent in that country. And Mr W.
G. Wood-Martin has recorded at least two cromlechs in Irish
churchyards[140].
There is also a scrap of linguistic testimony which is pregnant of ancient
tradition, and which has been noted by several writers. Sir Daniel Wilson
seems to have been the first to make the fact publicly known. The common
Gaelic sentence, Am bheil thu dol d’on chlachan? (Are you going to the
stones?) may be rendered alternatively, “Are you going to the church?” and
is used in this second sense by the Scottish Highlander when addressing his
neighbour. Primarily, chlachan (clachan) means a circle of stones, hence, a
battle, or the scene of single combats. The interpretation “place of worship,”
is, as might be anticipated, derivative, though not recent. So far back as
1774, Shaw, in the chapter which he contributed to the third edition of
Pennant’s Tour in Scotland, observed, “From these circles and cairns many
churches to this day are called clachan, i.e. a collection of stones[141].”
A word of caution is necessary to those who may be inclined to accept
too hastily, and without examination, the claims of this or that megalith to a
great antiquity. For instance, there stands at the South-Eastern gate of
Binstead church, in the Isle of Wight, a grotesque figure, called by the
villagers “The Idol.” This uncouth image has been thought by some to be a
pagan object of worship. Little, indeed, is definitely known about the
object, but it is asserted, with much credibility, that the gate once formed
the door of the church, and that the image is merely a Norman keystone, or
perhaps a corbel[142]. We note, however, that if it were a corbel, it could
scarcely have been a portion of a doorway, though this matter is inessential.
Our second illustration shall be given in order to show the danger of dating
objects as pre-Christian, when they bear clear signs of Christian influence.
In the churchyard at Penrith there is a large tomb which bears the nickname

of “Giant’s Grave.” It happens that this name is often applied to prehistoric
barrows and megaliths, and in this particular instance it has been
proclaimed that the tomb is a cromlech—a “dolmen” being perhaps
intended. Hutchinson, Pennant, and other writers, were greatly exercised
concerning this ancient relic. But if the reader will turn to the beautiful
engraving of the monument in the Victoria History of Cumberland, he will
understand, even without the aid of the letterpress, that the tomb has
features decidedly Christian. The monument really consists of the shafts of
two pre-Conquest crosses, one being placed at the head and the other at the
foot, while the space between is enclosed by three “hog-backs,” one of
which has been split longitudinally[143]. Once again, in the churchyard of
Chadwell St Mary, Essex, a large sarsen, concerning which fantastic
theories were current, was observed by the Rev. J. W. Hayes to have a
weathered concavity, or “pebble-hole,” within which were carved the letters
“N. G.,” followed by the date 1691. Referring to the parish register, Mr
Hayes found an entry, made during that year, recording the death of a
churchwarden, Nathaniel Glascock. The inference was clear, and the lesson
of caution was delivered with some force. These reservations about the
nature of burial monuments lead us easily to the subject of grave-mounds,
to which we must allot a special chapter.

CHAPTER II

CHURCHES ON PAGAN SITES (continued)

Our next task is to review the evidence, collected during many years of
inquiry, respecting the mounds which are frequently seen in the
neighbourhood of churchyards. Formerly, those archaeologists who gave
any attention to this subject,—they were a very small band of observers,—
contented themselves with grouping all the mounds as “barrows” or
“tumuli.” With fuller information, we are now able to classify the hillocks
as (1) defensive mounds, (2) “moot-hills,” (3) “toot-hills,” and (4) true
barrows, or grave-mounds. Etymologically, there is nothing which warrants
the limitation of the word “tumulus” to a burial-mound, and, in actual
practice, it is often loosely applied to any kind of mound whatever. To avoid
confusion, however, it will be well, in this chapter at least, to refrain from
using “tumulus” to describe those knolls, comprised under the second and
third headings, which have not yet been proved to be of a sepulchral
character.
Taking the groups in order, we deal first with the defensive mounds,
known to archaeologists under a variety of alternative names: castle-
mounds, moated mounds or mounts, mound-castles, and mottes. And it
should at once be said that this group includes the majority of the examples
which will be adduced. This result might have been anticipated, for these
moated mounds are large and durable, and hence have escaped levelling by
spade and ploughshare.
A few words must be devoted to an explanation of mottes or mound-
castles. These hillocks were essentially low, flat-topped, truncated cones of
earthwork, usually surrounded by a ditch, and placed in direct connection
with a larger defensive enclosure. The mound was generally artificial, either
wholly or in part: the entirely natural mound is the rarest kind[144]. Of these
natural hillocks, an illustration is found in the chalk “monticle” on which
Corfe Castle is built (Figs. 13, 14). This mound need not detain us, because
it is still crowned by the ruins of what was once a solid structure of
masonry, built during the reign of Henry I. Of its true character there can,

therefore, be no doubt. The castle-mounds which we are particularly
considering, in their earlier forms at least, are believed to have supported a
kind of wooden guard-house (turris, bretasche, or keep), which was
surrounded by a stockade. Not until a later period of fortification, when the
material of the mound had subsided and become firm and solid, did a
structure of stone appear on the summit, if indeed, the wooden structure
were ever replaced by a more permanent keep or fortress. Stone keeps were
built on mottes at Kilpeck in Herefordshire, Fewston in Yorkshire, and other
places, but this does not appear to have been the more general custom.
Many mounds, at any rate, were never capped by a superstructure of
masonry.
The castle-mound, as already stated, was encompassed by a moat, which
probably, however, was not intended to contain water, except in special
cases (Fig. 15). Yet it is very possible that “puddling” was often an
undesigned result of the constant trampling to which the ditch was
subjected. It should here be explained that the Norman-French term, motte,
which is constantly applied to the moated mound, is not related to the word
“moat,” though, owing to a misunderstanding of the Latinized form, mota,
it has often been so translated. Beyond the real moat, or ditch, was the
larger enclosure to which reference has been made. This was the outer
ward, the bailey or base court; it was of horseshoe or crescentic form, and
was reached by crossing a wooden bridge. The bailey had its own moat,
which, in its turn, was engirdled on the outside by a bank passing along the
counterscarp[145].

Fig. 13. Corfe Castle, as it appeared in A.D. 1643. This is
a good example of a castle built on a natural
eminence. The hill is almost encircled by two streams,
which have cut deep valleys, and have nearly severed

the mass from the main ridge. A deep, artificial trench
on the townward side completes the isolation.

Fig. 14. Ruins of Corfe Castle, 1910.

Fig. 15. The Mount, Great Canfield, Essex, a typical
motte-and-bailey earthwork. M, motte, or castle-
mound: the top of which is about 40 feet from the
bottom of the moat. B, the bailey-court with its own

moat. D, a dam, by means of which the water of the
river Roding was probably utilized to increase the
supply for the moat. The direction of the stream is
shown by arrows. The parish church is seen near the
North-West boundary of the motte.

This short description must suffice. The question which first arises is
concerned with the age of the moated mounds. The older opinion, as
expressed by Mr G. T. Clark, and to some extent accepted by later
authorities, such as Mr I. Chalkley Gould, was, that some of the hillocks, at
least, were of Saxon date[146]. Mr Clark was largely influenced by the
belief, which most modern writers consider erroneous, that the word burh
of old documents referred to these castle-mounds. This word burh,
however, is said to stand always for a fortified town and to have never been
applied to a motte-and-bailey castle[147]. Among quite recent writers who
assign some of the mounds to an early date, may be mentioned Mr
Willoughby Gardner, who considers that, on a balance of evidence, the
simple form of moated mound may be said to have originated in Saxon
times. This view is also shared by Mr Reginald A. Smith. Again, Mr T.
Davies Pryce has brought forward evidence to show that the moated mound
belongs to diverse races and periods, and he contends that some mottes are
of much earlier date than the Norman Conquest[148]. The trend of modern
opinion, as enunciated by Dr J. H. Round, Mr W. St John Hope, Mrs E. S.
Armitage, Mr G. Neilson, Mr A. H. Allcroft, and others, places the castle-
mounds within the Norman period[149].
So far as the moated mounds are artificial and of Norman construction,
they are extraneous to our inquiry about pagan sites; they are the feudal
strongholds of which the village church was often the religious appendage.
This relationship of fortress and temple will be forced upon us in the next
chapter, and will continue to suggest itself when we discuss other matters.
But if we suppose that the Norman mottes had their Saxon forerunners, or
even that the Norman mound-builders took advantage of pre-existing knolls
of an artificial character, we are led to search for vestiges of an
accompanying Saxon church. For, under these conditions, it is conceivable
that we might have a Christian church built near a pagan mound. From the
nature of the problem, satisfactory proof is difficult to procure. Certain
moated mounds have yielded more than a hint of the adaptation by the
Normans of earlier works. The flat-topped castle-mound near the

churchyard of St Weonards, Herefordshire[150], has been claimed, on “the
testimony of the spade,” as having been a prehistoric grave-hill. This was
the view held by Mr I. C. Gould. Thomas Wright, who opened this mound
in A.D. 1855, declared that, “beyond a doubt,” it had been used for
sepulchral purposes, though the discoveries did not warrant his assigning its
specific period. It may be mentioned that a decayed yew, of considerable
age, together with other trees, adorned the hillock[151]. A similar defensive
hillock, 50 feet in diameter, near the churchyard of Thruxton,
Herefordshire, and known to the peasantry as Thruxton Tump[152], was also
found to contain animal bones and pieces of crockery[153]. I can gather no
details concerning the excavations of this last-named mound, and am
inclined to accept the claims with great reserve, principally because other
mottes have furnished similar relics, which have been proved capable of a
more obvious interpretation. The first example of these supposed barrows is
the castle-mound which is included within the present extended graveyard
at Penwortham, in Lancashire. Careful sections cut in this remarkable
hillock exhibited a profusion of remains, such as animal bones, mussel-
shells, decayed timber, and objects of iron and bronze. These relics were
disposed in layers, in such a manner as to show that the mound had been
raised in height at two different periods[154]. Successive elevations of
surface were also discovered in the moated mound adjacent to Arkholme
church, Lancashire[155]. The castle-mound, again, at Warrington, situated
about 100 yards from a church which stands almost within the fosse of the
outer ward, has been raised more than once. The last occasion when the
height was increased was during its occupation by the Parliamentary forces
in A.D. 1643[156]. In all these cases the relics seem to indicate alterations
which took place after the Norman period of mound-construction had set in.
The bronze articles found at Penwortham, and the broken amphora which is
recorded from Warrington, superficially suggest an earlier origin. But these
relics were most probably scraped up with the soil when the motte was
enlarged, or were picked up by the inhabitants somewhere in the
neighbourhood, and were afterwards blended with the refuse-stratum of that
particular period. These explorations, then, tend to discredit, in some
degree, the statements made with respect to the Herefordshire mounds. At
the same time, we must not rashly conclude that, in every instance, the
workmen commenced their work on a perfectly level surface. The story of
St Weonards teaches us caution. There were hundreds of early burial-

mounds, as well as hillocks of other kinds, which may well have served as
bases for mottes. An incidental fact, noted by Dr Round, is worth recalling.
Moated mounds are to be seen in places where, so far as we know, the
Normans never had a castle. It is clear that castle-mounds, with their
appendant bailey-courts, were sometimes thrown up, and afterwards
abandoned for other sites. Such a mound was raised by William at
Hastings[157]. This opinion is quite accordant with what has been previously
said about the absence of stone keeps on earlier mottes.
Seeing that the feudal baron dominated the village community, and that
compliance with the claims of religion was deemed secondary only to the
arrangements for personal security[158], one would naturally expect to find
the Norman church not far distant from the castle-mound. And this is
actually what one often sees: the church is either just outside the moated
mound, or within the crescentic bailey-court. It would, I think, be an over-
statement to assert, as do some writers, that the inclusion of the church
within the entrenchments is typical of the arrangement of a Norman
earthwork

Fig. 16. Chapel, Goodrich Castle,
Herefordshire (c. A.D. 1330-1450). The
beautiful window tracery has been
demolished, but below the opening on
the right are a small piscina, and a
trefoil-headed credence-table.

castle[159]. True, the association is not infrequent, but it is doubtfully the
rule. While the feudal lord would be able, by this plan, to concentrate the
ecclesiastical and the civil administration of his estates, and to exercise
keen supervision over his clerks and other dependants, he commonly had
his own chapel (Fig. 16) and domestic chaplain within the castle itself. The
disposition of the parish church would not, therefore, solely depend on the
lord’s convenience, but would be affected by many other circumstances.
We shall now be equipped for steady work in eliminating all those
examples of miscalled barrows, which are, in truth, castle-mounds. The path
will then be cleared for an advance. Without pretending to give a complete
catalogue, we must notice some of the better-known mottes. The hillocks at
Barwick-in-Elmet, Yorkshire, Great Canfield, in Essex, and, possibly,
Towcester, in Northampton, belong to Dr J. H. Round’s group of mounds
without castles[160]. The Great Canfield motte-and-bailey (Fig. 15, p. 54
supra) is a fine specimen. It is remarkable from the fact that a stream was
diverted to provide the moat with water. Moreover, it seems likely that there
was a dam on the North-East, by which the supply could be augmented
from the river Roding. The interesting Norman church of the village lies at
the North-West angle of the earthwork. Laughton-en-le-Morthen, near
Rotherham, contains another noteworthy motte. We know that the church of
the village contains some masonry belonging to the latter part of the tenth
century[161]. Hence we are moved to ask, Was the mound also of pre-
Norman date, or did the Norman settlers elect to rear their fortress near a
spot already famous? In our next chapter, we shall touch on a matter which
is of interest in this connection.
To continue the survey: we find that most counties afford examples of
mottes raised near churches. Lancashire, in addition to the cases mentioned,
contributes the Melling fortress to our list[162]; Yorkshire gives us another
mound, that of Bardsey, from the district once covered with the Forest of
Elmet. In Lincolnshire, we find Owston, where a portion of the ditch is still
visible[163], and Redbourn, which has its Castle Hill, and traces of a moated
area, often described by the older topographers. Buckinghamshire yields, at
the village of Cublington, a somewhat unusual hillock, which is probably a
moated mound,

Fig. 17. Pirton church and Toot Hill, Hertfordshire, from
the South-East. The portion of the ditch in which the
children are standing frequently holds water. Further
to the left, but out of the picture, a stretch of the moat
is permanently filled with water.

constructed during the reign of Henry III. In immediate association with
this mound, Mr Allcroft has found traces of the old village “ring-fence” (p.
16 supra), that is, an enclosure consisting of vallum and fosse, the former of
which is supposed to have carried a stockade[164]. Professor Seebohm has
recorded a mound near the church of Meppershall, in Bedfordshire[165], and
another, known as the Toot Hill, at Pirton, in Hertfordshire[166] (cf. p. 7
supra). He was of opinion that the Pirton knoll was a place of observation,
or watching-mound, but more recent inspection has led to its being classed
as a Norman motte. This oval hillock covers more than an acre of ground.
Its height is 25 feet, but there is a depression in the crown, caused by the
removal of earth to fill in the inner part of the moat.

Fig. 18. Toot Hill, Pirton, Hertfordshire; a “moated
mound.” View from a point South-West of the church.
The moat is seen at the foot of the hill, and it passes
away to the right, behind the mound.

Mr D. H. Montgomerie states that the bank and ditch of the bailey-court
may be distinctly traced in the churchyard[167] (Figs. 17, 18). Yet there must
always remain the doubt whether an earlier mound was not enlarged and
entrenched by the builders of the castle-hill. The nickname, Toot Hill, to be
noticed shortly, gives a half-hint of such a reconstruction. The Penwortham
and Arkholme mottes have taught us to scrutinize each example closely, and
on its own merits. Anywhere we might expect to find the spade telling us of
a castle-hill which conceals, within its substance, a British barrow, or a
Roman botontine or specula. A botontine, it may be explained, was a small
mound which was heaped up by Roman land-surveyors, and in which were
usually deposited a few scraps of pottery and a handful of ashes, or
fragments of the bones of animals. A specula was an earthwork “watch-
tower,” if the expression be permissible. A slightly puzzling mound,
situated a short distance from Towcester church, Northampton, revealed
coins and pottery which betrayed Roman occupation, yet these alone did
not tell when the mound itself was raised[168] (cf. p. 59 supra). Again, the
Castle Hill, at Hallaton, in Leicestershire, an earthwork of the mound-and-
court type, yielded traces of British, Roman and Saxon settlements[169]. The
Hallaton mound, however, is about a mile distant from the church.
A most interesting castle-mound, though of small size, is that of Earl’s
Barton, Northampton. The famous Saxon church of this village abuts on the
South side of the motte, which has been peeled away, either to

accommodate the tower, or for some other reason[170]. Mr Reginald A.
Smith, who quotes an article written by Professor Baldwin Brown, in which
a pre-Norman origin of the motte is called in question, points to the
undoubted Saxon age of the church tower, and thinks, with Mr G. T. Clark,
that the earthen stronghold belongs also to the Saxon period[171]. Swerford,
Oxfordshire, again, presents a deviation from the normal churchyard castle-
mound. Besides the motte and bailey-court, there is a subsidiary mound,
guarding the entrance, together with two detached platforms towards the
East. These may indicate different periods of construction.
Coming South of the Thames, we notice the castle-mound on the slope
of the hill above Brenchley church, in Kent[172]. The Saxon church of
Swanscombe, near Northfleet, which suffered severely from fire a few years
ago, has an attendant mound on the hill by which it is overlooked. This
earthwork, known as Sweyn’s Camp, has a diameter of 100 feet, and its
ground-plan, as shown in the Victoria History of Kent, suggests a somewhat
earlier date than that of the ordinary motte-and-bailey group[173]. In the
sister county of Surrey, a defensive mound is known to have existed near
Ockham church, and some of the outlying banks have escaped entire
obliteration[174]. Behind Abinger church, again, there is a hillock, which
may be a motte, or perhaps a true barrow of the Bronze Age[175]. Dr J. C.
Cox says that it is “obviously an ancient barrow,” but it appears never to
have been opened. We might proceed, county by county, and catalogue
many further examples, but it would result in wearying the reader. One
further instance only shall be given, and it chances to be that of a motte
which diverges from the type. The Norman church of Kilpeck,
Herefordshire, is built on the bank and ditch of a rectangular enclosure,
which lies outside the curvilinear courts of a castle-mound. Possibly we
have here a Norman fortification encroaching upon an earlier earthwork,
and it should be observed that the church occupies vantage-ground strong
by nature[176] (p. 52 supra). We must now dismiss the castle-mounds,
though we shall be unconsciously compelled to revert to them hereafter.
Our second group of church-mounds comprises the “Moot-Hills.” These
objects, usually artificial, vary much in size, and are not confined to the
neighbourhood of churches. The etymology of the word “moot” (O.E. mōt,
M.E. mōt, imōt = meeting, public assembly) at once gives a clue to the uses
of these mounds[177]. It was at spots of this kind, as well as at other places
having characteristic landmarks, that the early open-air assemblies were

wont to meet. Now, in the first place, we notice, as Sir G. L. Gomme has
ably shown, that open-air courts have not been confined to one race or to
one period[178]. Doubtless they are practically coeval with the formation of
the primitive village community. To attempt to fix the precise date is foreign
to our purpose, it is enough to know that open-air courts preceded the first
preaching of Christianity in Britain. Near some well-known object, then, the
men of the hamlet, the inhabitants of the forest, the warriors of the hundred,
or the tenants of the manor, met to transact their business[179]. Sir G. L.
Gomme has collected a mass of information concerning these meeting-
places. We have seen (p. 34 supra) that monoliths, stone-circles, and ancient
burial-places were much favoured as meeting-places. To this list must be
added barrows, tumuli, and mounds[180]. There is no reason to impede our
quest by stopping to enumerate examples, because the fact is now a
commonplace. Besides ancient burial-mounds, “camps” also served for
open-air courts. At Downton, in Wiltshire, there is a moot-hill about 70 feet
high, rising in six terraces from the river Avon below. Despite any later
alterations, it seems probable that the hillock was constructed within an
earthwork of earlier date. In a small volume entitled ‘The Moot’ and its
Traditions (1906), Mr Elias P. Squarey, the proprietor of the Moot House,
Downton, has collected all the available records about this interesting relic.
The old Welsh laws help us to form a picture of a gathering at a moot-
hill. During a law suit, the judge sat on the circular mound. Below, on the
left hand, sat the plaintiff, the defendant being placed on the right. The lord
must sit behind the judge, and have his back to the wind or sun, lest he be
incommoded. Mr S. O. Addy notes that, as the court was held in the
morning, the lord must have sat towards the East and faced the West, and
that, in this respect, the later indoor court was a copy of the outdoor
court[181]. A word of reminder may be said concerning the annual
ceremonies connected with the Tynwald Hill in the Isle of Man. Here we
have an instance of a national assembly meeting on a hill to elect officers
and promulgate new laws. No law was fully recognized until it had been
proclaimed from this mound. The custom is still (1910) formally observed.
Hard by is a small chapel, built on the site of an ancient church, and the
present day gathering is heralded by a religious service, the procession to
the hill being formed afterwards.
Some of the moot-hills, like that of Pirton (p. 60 supra), were Norman
mottes, though possibly not belonging wholly to the Norman period. It is

extremely probable, moreover, that some of the earlier mounds were either
actual British barrows, or were tumps raised for the specific use of folk-
moots. In other words, the first moot-hills would belong to pagan times, and
were therefore used long before the organization of the Norman form of the
manorial system, or the establishment of Norman mottes. There is hence a
likelihood that, where churches stand near moot-hills, those mounds may, in
some cases, be assigned to the pre-Christian period. Nor would it greatly
diminish this probability if it were proved that some of these hillocks were
entirely natural in their formation. The force of the argument is derived
from the fact that secular affairs and heathen ceremonies were connected
with the mounds, and that it was thought wise to retain the bond by
preaching the new faith from a building erected in the vicinity.
A pertinent fact was observed by Mr James Logan, a generation ago. He
noticed that moot-hills were the seats of assemblies which afterwards came
to be held in churches[182]. Further, he discovered that stone-circles were
also formerly used for meetings: he thus anticipated the conclusions of later
writers. One remarkable instance is given. So late as A.D. 1380, a Court of
Regality was held “apud le stand and Stanes de la Rath de Kingusie[183].”
Of the moot-hills proper, Logan found that these were often actually
dedicated to saints. The Hill of Scone was known as the Collis Credulitatis.
Here we have obviously a consecration due to the influence of Christianity.
When, at a somewhat later period, the custom was introduced of holding the
courts in churches, the clergy objected on the ground that the sacred
building was not suited to such a purpose. A canon was issued forbidding
the laity to hold such meetings within the church. These injunctions were
frequently disobeyed[184]. Up to this point, Logan is a safe guide, and his
theories can be justified by documentary evidence. He is supported, too, by
comparative customs. Professor F. Kauffmann, for instance, states that the
pagan temples of the West Teutons were situated near the places of
judgement, where the Things, or popular assemblies, were held[185]. The
“doom-rings,” or stone-circles, of Iceland were used as judgement seats
down to a late period. Thus far, Logan’s view is corroborated. But when,
misled apparently by the Christian dedications just referred to, he proceeds
to argue that moot-hills were raised after the use of churches was
disallowed, he exactly reverses the order of events. The stone-circles,
according to his own presentment of facts, must have been reared for the
same cause, and, similarly, at a late period. One suspects that vague ideas

respecting the age of the megaliths led to a hasty conclusion as to the age of
the moot-hills. The real history would be that the spots most convenient for
folk-moots were most suitable for worship, and that consequently it was
politic to build churches there. To what extent the moot-hills were originally
sepulchral is, for the moment, inessential. That verdict lies with the
labourer’s mattock and spade, not with the theories of the student, who can
only collate the records. To resume: little by little, as we shall find, secular
business began to be transacted in the churches, and the primary purpose of
moot-hills slowly vanished. One result, perhaps, was that the name “moot-
hill,” in some cases, got wrongly applied to mounds that had not been used
for assemblies. This error probably sprang from the confusion of the moat
(mota), belonging to the castle-mound, with the better known and already
accredited “moot[186].”
That some of the moot-hills are actually barrows has been proved by
excavation. Duggleby Howe, a moot-hill, or “rath,” in the East Riding, was
opened by Mr J. R. Mortimer for Sir Tatton Sykes in 1880, and was found
to be a prehistoric grave-mound. The relics happened to be very
abundant[187]. To show the fallibility even of conclusions based on the
results of experimental diggings, another case, reported by Mr Mortimer,
may be cited. Eleven miles from the Duggleby moot-hill is another hillock
known as Willy Howe. The two mounds are exactly alike in size, shape, and
other respects, yet, although Willy Howe has been twice opened, no
skeleton has been encountered. Mr Mortimer, evidently anxious to point a
much-needed moral, remarks, “Had the excavation at Duggleby been no
wider than that of Willy Howe, the two graves containing the primary
interments would not have been found[188].” To compare small things with
great, one may recall the boring and the tunnelling of the famous Silbury
Hill. The toil was barren of results, and one feels that no really safe
deduction can be drawn from this negative testimony.
Having admitted that some moot-hills are really mottes, it will be well to
lay stress on the present contention that other moot-hills are of a date
anterior to that of castle-mounds. If mota has been corrupted into “moot,”
the word “moot” itself has also suffered rough treatment. Mr Mortimer
speaks of a knoll which perplexed the antiquaries, because it was variously
known as Mud, Mude, and Mundal Hill. The real name proved to be Moot
Hill, and, although no proper excavations have been made, a bronze celt has

been dug up, along with Mediaeval relics, and Mr Mortimer believes that
the mound is a British grave[189].
Again, though the castle-mound, especially when standing near the
parish church, was convenient as a place of assembly, yet there is a danger
in resting satisfied with this truth, and refusing to probe matters further. Mr
Allcroft notices several examples of so-called moot-hills which are really
castle-mounds, and notices one in particular at Walton-on-the-Hill, Surrey,
which is believed to be of this nature. He observes that this mound is
surrounded by a ditch, which would be useless for a moot-hill, but would be
fitting for a motte on which the lord’s dwelling was built. He therefore
concludes that in such cases the motte was degraded to a moot-hill[190]. This
criticism is both acute and just, but does it cover the whole field? Moots are
very ancient institutions. Is it not quite as likely that, in many instances, the
castle-mound was an earlier moot-hill, and that the fosse was constructed
when the turris was about to be built? And how are we to know, in the
absence of proof to the contrary, that the fosse is not, in some cases, the
encircling trench of a large round barrow, deepened for purposes of
defence? Moreover can the plea of uselessness be valid against moot-hills,
when we remember the frequent occurrence of circular trenches around
these barrows and also around some megaliths? The trenches may, in some
instances, have been incidental to the mode of construction. These are not
idle questions. Some of the moot-hills of the East Riding seem to be grave-
hills which were consecrated by making incised crosses on the chalky
mound to a depth of several feet. The arms of the cross, in each case, are
directed towards the cardinal points. Mr Mortimer believes that the carving
of the symbol on the mound gave sanctity to the spot[191]. Frankness
compels one to note that the local name for these sunken crosses is bields (=
shelters), the underlying notion being that the trenches were originally dug
as cattle shelters, and that they were made crosswise to afford protection
from all quarters of the heavens. But this explanation could not possibly
apply to other crosses, in low relief, formed of ridges of earth and stones,
occurring on other ancient sites[192]. Nor is it valid for the intaglio crosses,
since these were usually found to have been filled with broken bones and
Saxon shards[193]. As shedding light on these strange discoveries, it may be
noticed that, in old Saxony, an open-air tribunal was consecrated by digging
a grave, into which were thrown ashes, a coal, and a tile[194]. In passing, we
note that these moot-hills are often known alternatively as Gallows or

Galley Hills, names which evidently denote places set apart for judicial
executions[195]. The antiquity of such names may not be very great, and
there is a possibility that the word “Galley” in some cases simply means
poor and unfertile. Yet there are traditions that gallows stood on these spots,
and both the word “gallows” and the thing denoted are ancient. The word is
as old as Beowulf, and although hanging does not appear to have been a
mode of punishment greatly favoured by the Saxons, it was not altogether
unknown. William the Conqueror made provisions to restrict the practice of
hanging, a penalty which, curious to relate, was in his day thought more
cruel than mutilation[196].
We have now reached this point: a moot-hill may be natural or artificial,
and, if artificial, it may, or may not, be a burial mound. That the pagan
Saxons respected mounds which they believed to be barrows is fairly
evident. Thomas Wright has clearly shown that Roman monumental
inscriptions not infrequently contain warnings against neglect of, or
disrespect to, the tombs of the departed. Besides, therefore, the leaven of
superstition, I consider that we must reckon with the probability of living
knowledge, the result of direct transmission, possessed by those members
of the population who understood debased Latin at the time of the Teutonic
invasion. Some of the venerated mounds were employed as boundaries[197].
We shall find, at a later stage of our studies, that the half-Christianized folk
were apt to resort to the barrows for the burial of their dead. Roads are even
reported to swerve a little from their course to avoid a grave-mound. These
clues are “light as air, but strong as links of iron.” The pivotal fact to be
remembered is that, wherever the church-builders found a reputed barrow at
a spot not altogether unsuitable in other respects, they would recognize the
sanctity of the mound, and would be enticed to accept it as a fit neighbour
for the new structure.
A possible illustration seems to be afforded by a hummock which is in
contiguity with the churchyard at Old Hunstanton, Norfolk. Canon A.
Jessopp surmised that this mound was a moot-hill[198], but excavations, we
are now informed, have proved that the knoll is purely natural[199].
Accepting the correctness of this conclusion, one may yet reasonably retain
the hypothesis that the mound was used as an open-air court. Both the early
settlers and the later architects may conceivably have mistaken the hillock
for a sepulchre. Our problem does not concern alone the character of the
knoll, but the purpose to which it was applied. We have not simply to ask, Is

the mound an artifact? but, How came the church to be associated with the
mound? Were such an instance solitary, it would not be worth a moment’s
thought. Contrariwise, if the examples are numerous, as they undoubtedly
are, we are not justified in dismissing them summarily and without reserve.
The third group of mounds placed in the vicinity of churches will detain
us a still shorter time than did the second. The “Toot Hills” are frequently
confounded with the “Moot Hills,” both in name and nature. Often, indeed,
a particular eminence would serve both purposes, and it would be difficult
to define each class with distinctness. The Toot Hill at Pirton (p. 60 supra)
is accepted as a castle motte, though it must have also been an earthwork
watch-tower. Such outposts, or places of observation, have been employed
by many peoples. Xenophon and Herodotus speak of the σκοπιἁ, or watch-
tower, while Cicero and Livy use specula in practically the same sense
(view-point or beacon). In Britain the toot-hills appear to have been utilized
throughout the Middle Ages; perhaps, too, they did not fall into entire
disuse until after the Peninsular War, but were employed, at intervals, in
times of stress and danger. When they did not serve as rallying points, they
were still valuable for beacon-fires.
The word “toot” is almost certainly derived from A. S. tōtian, to project,
to peep, the allusion being primarily to the swelling or protuberance of the
ground (cf. tumulus) and afterwards to the watch which was kept from its
summit. Professor J. Tait has collected much interesting lore concerning the
word. Thus, the word which in the Authorized Version of the Bible (Isa. xxi.
8) is rendered “watch-tower” was translated “toothyl” by Wyclif[200]. The
Vulgate renders the term by specula. Mr Allcroft further connects the word
“toot” with A.S. tutta, a spy[201]. The absurd etymologies once in vogue,
such as that which associated “toot” with Taith, a pagan deity, are now
relinquished. Among the variations and compounds of “toot” are Tout Hill,
Tothill, Tutt Hill (near Thetford), Tutbury, Tothill Fields, Touting Hill,
Beltout (Sussex), and others. Some of these are familiar to us as names of
villages and districts. Sir John Rhŷs describes vantage-points in the Isle of
Man, which are evidently the equivalents of our toot-hills. These knolls are
called cronks, and they are found near churches. Thus, we have “Cronk yn
Iree Laa,” near Jurby, a name which signifies “Hill of the Rise of Day,” or
possibly, “Hill of Watch and Ward[202].” In Ireland an artificial hillock of
this kind is called Moate-o’-Ward, or alternatively, a rath or Danes’ Grave.
In the popular mind, again, our English word has been associated with

burial mounds and banked enclosures. For instance, a long barrow in
Staffordshire is known as the Fairy’s Toot. The Toot Hill at Uttoxeter was
found to contain both Neolithic and Roman remains. Again, the
quadrilateral earthwork at Toothill, near Macclesfield, is provisionally
believed, as the result of spade-work, to be an early fortification.
Mr S. O. Addy, in his valuable work The Evolution of the English House,
speaks of the presence of “Tout” or “Touting Hills” near parish churches,
but, from his descriptions, it would seem that most of his examples are
genuine castle-mounds[203]. In two features, however, the mound which is a
toot-hill, and nothing more, occasionally differs from the other hillocks
which we are

Fig. 19. The Toot Hill, Little Coates, Lincolnshire. View
from the North-Eastern boundary. The basal portion of
the hill is entirely natural, and is now being excavated
for sand. The upper portion, surmounted by the tree,
has been modified artificially.

describing. One characteristic is the great size, as compared with barrows
and mottes, and the other is the irregularity of shape, where the mound has
been untouched by man. The writer’s notebook contains an account of a
visit to the Toot Hill at Little Coates, near Grimsby, in December, 1903. The
church of Little Coates, which is probably of early foundation, though only
the featureless chancel arch of the present building dates before the
Perpendicular Period, is about one-third of a mile distant. This Toot Hill
(Fig. 19) is a huge mound with an irregular ground plan, but the upper

portion has an elliptical contour. It is composed chiefly of sand and sandy
clays, which seem to belong to the late Glacial Period. A sand pit which was
being worked at the base of one side of the hill, yielded broken and
comminuted specimens of Ostrea, Tellina, and other marine shells. Towards
the summit, however, there were undoubted signs of man’s work. A slight
fall of snow had rendered discernible a shallow trench which encompassed
the hill slope. One could also pick out, near the base, the radial ridges and
furrows of some old-time plough, but even these had not quite obliterated
the trench. A few small flint flakes were detected on a patch bare of turf.
One suspects that this hill served both as a beacon and a watch-tower when
the Humber and the North Sea were nearer the spot, and when Grimsby was
represented by a string of islets lying amid the waters of a lagoon. This
condition of the landscape is known to have prevailed during the early
historic period. The capping of the mound covers, mayhap, the dust of more
than one celebrity. Bones and earthenware were found at, or near, this spot a
century ago, and soon after the visit just described skeletons were dug up in
the sand pit. The ultimate fate of these skeletons, and their determinations,
could not be ascertained. Perchance this toot-hill will remind the visitor of
the cremation of Beowulf, and the mound which “the Weders people
wrought on the hill,” after the funeral-pyre which they had kindled had
ceased to glow. We learn that the lamenting warriors raised
“A howe on the lithe (=body), that was high and broad,
Unto the wave-farers wide to be seen,
Then it they betimbered in time of ten days,
The battle-strong’s beacon.”

We pause for a moment to recapitulate briefly our records and results.
Wherever a mound which is intimately associated with a church is of
Norman or post-Norman construction, it tells of feudal convenience and the
centralization of business; perhaps, too, of religious expediency, with more
than a hint of the secular use of the church. In a lesser degree, this argument
of convenience applies also to the Saxon nobles. One of the means by
which a ceorl could secure thegn-right, was by building a church, and if he
followed this method, it is probable he would prefer to erect the church near
his dwelling. Again, the connection of churches with pre-Norman moot-
hills or toot-hills, whether these were “blind” mounds or grave-knolls,
suggests the deliberate choice of sites already famous. And if it be granted

that the Norman motte had, even by exception, a rudimentary origin in the
Saxon period, reasoned selection is again indicated. A mound which was the
seat of judicial and legislative assemblies would be so indissolubly linked
with the religious ceremonies of the community or tribe, that the site of the
future church may be said to have been almost predetermined.
The mounds which form our last series are the grave-hills or barrows.
These features, when found near Christian places of worship, form such a
critical test of intentional selection, that each record should be closely
scanned. British examples of the barrow and the church as neighbours are
not very abundant. In parts of the Continent, however, the records are so
numerous and so obvious that they crave a more lenient inspection. Few
European countries have been overrun by the invader during the last fifteen
hundred years to the same degree as Britain. Churches have been pulled
down and rebuilt, or they have been fired and deserted, and, long
afterwards, restored. The surrounding churchyards have been trenched and
dug far more intensively than the treasure-field of Aesop’s fable. The spade
has disturbed and distributed flints and shards, and any other primitive
relics have been broken and scattered so many times that their original
positions are unknown. Levelling has followed inequality, and, in some
cases, the graveyard has been enlarged and a secondary dispersal of soil has
been made. (The observations on burial shards in Chapter VII. should be
read in this connection.)
We will start with some of the less-authenticated examples first. A
mound, long thought to be a barrow, but now considered to be quite natural,
stands near Woodnesborough church, Sandwich, Kent. No trenching of the
mound, however, has been recorded. The late Mr T. W. Shore recorded
several instances of churchyard barrows from Hampshire, but I am not
aware that the true character of these particular mounds has ever been
investigated. Thus, at Corhampton, a church of Saxon foundation is actually
built on a mound, while at Cheriton, the church is not only placed on a
hillock, but it is also adjacent to a permanent spring[204]. This collocation of
church and spring, it may be remarked, will greet us continually. In the
churchyard of Ogbourne Maisey, Wiltshire, a fine “tumulus” stands close to
the river[205], and Mr F. J. Bennett, who records this example, informs me
that there was formerly another mound in Allington churchyard, Kent. This
last example, one is disposed to think, may have been an outpost of
Allington Castle.

The next mound which deserves attention is situated just outside the
North wall of the churchyard of Over Worton, Oxfordshire. It is a round
hillock, and has a circumference of 198 feet. Except that it is tree-clad, it
has the characteristics of the other round barrows of the district. The
assertion has been made that the mound merely represents a heap of rubbish
removed from the churchyard, but a living witness, whose memory covers
the date assigned to its construction, denies this story, and states that the
hillock was there previously[206].

Fig. 20. Supposed barrow in Berwick churchyard,
Sussex. The base of the mound is marked by the
white crosses, and by the horizontal tombstone in
the foreground.

With respect to a mound which I recently discovered in Berwick
churchyard near Lewes, in Sussex, nothing is definitely known. This
mound, which occupies the South-Western corner of the graveyard, and
which stands but a few yards from the church, appears to be mainly, if not
altogether, artificial, and is most probably a barrow. It is slightly elliptical in
shape, the diameters being approximately 48 and 42 feet respectively, while
its height is about seven feet. A large sycamore and a horse chestnut
overshadow the hillock; the former tree is shown to the spectator’s right in
Fig. 20. On this side also, towards the base of the mound, a monumental
cross is seen. In digging the grave beneath, it is said that hard chalk was
soon reached, but this proves little, since the excavation was made near the
foot of the hillock. No other graves have been dug in the mound. On the
whole, and in default of actual trenching, I am disposed to consider this

mound a true burial place. Its small size and the absence of an outer court
seem to preclude the idea of its having been a defensive mound of the
moated type.
A large barrow, hitherto unexplored, lies concealed in a wood near Ryton
church, in county Durham[207]. Another knoll, bearing the name of
Brinklow Mount, stands to the East of Brinklow churchyard, Warwickshire,
and is believed to have been originally a grave-hill, though afterwards made
to serve as a motte[208]. A low mound near Great Wigborough church,
Essex, is reputed to be the burial place of soldiers killed in battle, but it is
probably a true barrow.
One of the most interesting of these mounds, speculatively barrows, to
be seen near London, is situated on the Northern side of Chislehurst
churchyard, Kent. This hillock is surmounted by an altar tomb, the
horizontal slab of which now rests on the plinth. No tidings can be gleaned
respecting the origin of the mound. For reasons which appear to be
satisfactory to the writer, and which will be considered at a later stage
(Chapter VIII.), a knoll of this kind would scarcely be expressly raised over
an ordinary grave or vault on the North side of the graveyard so early as the
year 1712, the date when Caleb Trenchfield was interred in the mound. The
fact that this gentleman did not

Fig. 21. View of Chislehurst churchyard from
the North side, showing tumulus. (From a
print in D. Lyson’s Environs of London,

1795-1800.) Incidentally, the illustration
shows the fewness of the tombstones on
the North side of the churchyard, a century
ago.

belong to the ordinary rank of village folk would render burial in that
quarter the more noticeable, since the practice of burial on the North side
was then unusual. But a mound of this size would not be heaped up to cover
a single vault. One would infer that, unless Mr Trenchfield left instructions
for an extraordinary kind of burial, the mound existed long before, and had
no connection with Christian interments. Mr E. A. Webb, the able historian
of Chislehurst, has kindly supplied all the available facts about the tomb.
Two trees were planted on the mound, as the evidence shows, only a few
years after the burial, in 1712. The growth of the trees first damaged and
then broke the monument, and they were therefore cut down. Mr Webb
states that there is no record that the mound has ever been opened, save at
the funeral of Mr Trenchfield[209]. An illustration of the mound and tomb as
given by Daniel Lysons about the year 1800, is shown in Fig. 21. Pending
further excavations, which are, however, not likely to be made, I should
place the mound, with reserve, under the present section of our subject.
Near Bramber church, in Sussex, there is a group of “valley mounds,” 27
in number. They are circular, and have a diameter of from 15 to 20 yards.
Around each of these low eminences, which are flat-topped, runs a ditch. A
group of 38 similar mounds is situated between Applesham Creek and
Coombe church. Trial holes, which were sunk in 1908-9, under the
direction of the Brighton and Hove Archaeological Club, brought to light
bones, a Mediaeval knife, and pottery which was assigned by Mr F. W.
Reader to the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The real nature of the
mounds is still, however, undetermined.
We may amplify our references after glancing at the map of Yorkshire.
Speeton church, near Bridlington, is said to be built on a tumulus[210].
Again, Mr Mortimer discovered that a burial-ground, or, at least, a barrow,
lay beneath Fimber church, in the East Riding. His excavations, made in
1869, brought to light flint implements, pottery, shells, and human
bones[211]. The vanished building at Chapel Carn Brea, in Cornwall, which
stood on the crest of a conspicuous hill, is another instance of a church built
on, or near, a sepulchral mound[212]. The neighbourhood of this last church

abounds with antiquities, and traces of about 100 hut circles have been
recorded[213].
Oftentimes, in places where no mound is visible in the church garth, the
soil still holds relics which denote archaic interments. During the repairs
which were made some five-and-twenty years ago, at the East end of Wyre
Piddle church in Worcestershire, two skeletons were discovered in a sitting
posture. The faces were disposed towards the North-East. With the bones
were found the remains of iron shield-bosses. A kind of rough pavement
was also reached under the soil of the churchyard. The interments had been
made prior to the introduction of Christianity[214], and a mound may once
have marked the spot. From the churchyard of Llanbedr, in the Vale of
Conway, a somewhat analogous find is recorded. Six feet below the surface,
the sexton’s spade struck a flat slab of stone, and underneath this was found
a crouching, or kneeling, skeleton, surrounded by boars’ tusks[215]. The
district around is rich in British remains[216].
Some forty years ago, when the church tower of East Blatchington,
Sussex, was being restored, an urn containing burnt bones and charcoal was
discovered. The precise nature of the urn, and its after-history, do not seem
to be known. Urns were also discovered during the restoration of Arlington
church, in the same county, in the year 1892. Among the Saxon graves
which have been disturbed by the modern sexton, two Kentish examples
should be noted. In a churchyard at Faversham, the frontal bone of a human
cranium and a Saxon tumbler of transparent green glass were dug up in the
year 1853[217]. A bell-shaped cup of glass, ornamented with vertical ribs,
was found associated with a skull and other human bones in the churchyard
at Minster. The bones represented a skeleton which was computed to be
eight feet in length[218]. Whether or not the burial-places at Faversham and
Minster were ever capped with mounds must remain undecided. It is quite
probable that a small “howe” of some kind marked the spot in each case.
These Kentish discoveries add enlightenment in another direction. At a
meeting of the Prehistoric Society of East Anglia, held at Norwich, in
February, 1910, there was exhibited a polished axe which came from the
churchyard of Gresham, in Norfolk. At the same meeting, Mr J. Cox
showed a chipped celt which had been built into Gresham church tower. Its
presence there was most probably accidental, though it is well to recall the
Breton practice of building stone axes into chimneys to ward off lightning.
Mr Stephen Blackmore, the aged “Shepherd of the Downs,” who has long

been known as a collector of Neolithic implements, informs me that he
secured an excellent polished flint hatchet from a depth of four or five feet
in East Dean churchyard, Sussex. Again, in the Brighton Museum, there are
displayed two fine flint celts, the one polished, the other neatly chipped.
They were obtained from South Harting churchyard, Sussex. The chipped
specimen came from a depth of three feet below the surface[219]. No further
details can be gleaned, but, as the celts are of the types occurring in barrows
of the Neolithic and Aeneolithic periods, one may suppose that the church is
adjacent to the resting-place of some prehistoric chieftain. This is only a
reasonable hypothesis, but the discoveries at Pytchley, Northamptonshire, in
1845, lie outside the domain of guesswork. The church was built in the
early Norman period. Situated partly under the fabric itself, and partly
under the present graveyard, a British cemetery was found. Although only a
small area was excavated, twenty kist-vaens were uncovered. The Rev. W.
Abner Brown, who described the graves, believed that the Norman builders
were ignorant of the kists over which they placed their foundations, and that
the stone graves belonged to Romanized Christians. It does indeed seem
strange that pillars should be built over small hollow chambers; yet,
interpolated between these chambers and the Norman graveyard, was still
another burial ground, which had been used by the villagers long before the
Norman Conquest. Again, while it is stated that the bodies lay East and
West, “or nearly so,” this alone does not prove Christian influence. A pre-
christian date might be inferred from the relics, though these were few.
Besides Roman coins and scraps of pottery, the scanty list of grave-gifts
included a perforated tusk of the wild boar, and a rude amethystine crystal
“eardrop.” British earthenware was also found, and the whole of the data
seem rather to point to continuity. We must remember that the surface of the
churchyard once stood at a lower level, and a narrow pathway of pebbles
was actually found at a depth of six feet. The Norman architects, then, most
likely knew that they were building over a graveyard of some kind, even as
the Saxons may have been aware that their own cemetery was
superimposed upon a still older one[220].
By far the best-known churchyard tumulus, and the one which has most
successfully stood the test of exploration, is that of Taplow, in
Buckinghamshire. A study of this barrow, which remains in the old
churchyard of the village, near Taplow Court, will help to elucidate some of
the other difficulties. The church itself is no longer visible, though its ruins

remained on the spot until 1853. On clearing away the masonry, it was seen
that the foundations of the building passed through an ancient ditch. The
church had been erected at the Eastern end of an enclosure, the centre of
which was dominated by the barrow. The whole occupied high ground,
known locally as Bury Fields[221]. The folk-lorist will note, in passing, how
valuable these philological details are, since names of this kind are not
uncommon, and they generally seem to preserve the tradition of some
actual event. To proceed with the description: from time to time fragments
of pottery—British, Roman, and Saxon—together with well-worked flint
flakes, had been collected on, or near, the surface of the village
graveyard[222]. The evidence showed that the tumulus had been
intentionally shut in when the boundaries of the churchyard were first fixed.
At a later date, a yew tree had been planted on the grave-hill, and the trunk
of this ancient tree was still in existence when digging was started in the
year 1883.
Briefly, the following observations were recorded. Scattered throughout
the uppermost layer of the soil, to a depth of two or three feet, the explorers
found pieces of dressed chalk. These are supposed to have formed part of a
Norman doorway, and were doubtless buried when the church was restored,
or rebuilt, in the fourteenth century[223]. A confusing feature was the
discovery, at various levels, of coarse pottery, bones, bone tools, hammer
stones, flint flakes, and flint cores[224]. These objects were found “in larger
measure at the top of the mound, but were at no time absent[225].” Yet, at the
very bottom of the barrow, scraps of Samian ware and a portion of a Roman
“brick” were exposed[226]. These Roman vestiges, lying at the lowest
horizon, showed that the mound could not be Celtic. All the objects hitherto
described might have been collected, along with the soil, from lower levels
when the pile was raised. Are we driven to marvel at the surprising wealth
of relics? If so, we must remember that the spot had some strategical
importance, and had doubtless been occupied by Britons and Romans long
before the occasion of the construction of the barrow. There is no necessity
here to relate the engrossing story in greater detail, since this has been fully
done by Dr J. Stevens and Mr Reginald A. Smith. It is enough to state that
the barrow was heaped up to cover the remains of a Saxon chieftain. This
was distinctly shown by the character of the grave-furniture—drinking
horns, military trappings, utensils, and ornaments of Saxon date. The

circumstances connected with this primary burial, as well as the relics,
showed that the interment was of the non-Christian type[227].
For our next example we turn to the history of Ludlow. Down to the
close of the twelfth century, the parish churchyard of that town occupied the
site of a tumulus. In A.D. 1199, the barrow was cleared away, and there were
disclosed sepulchral relics which pointed to a Roman origin. The clergy,
however, declared that the remains were those of Irish saints, and thus
turned the discovery to good account[228]. This ludicrous ecclesiastical
fiction serves one purpose, and by good chance it speeds us in our present
business. Through this tale we get a hint that the priests of the Middle Ages
were inquisitive about the contents of barrows. Hallowed bones and
mythical treasure formed the lure. Canon Jessopp has related numerous
instances of this Mediaeval “hill-digging” for treasure in the county of
Norfolk[229]. Thomas Wright put the other side of the matter in a way which
arrests the eye and ear of every modern antiquary, for he thought that he
could adduce, from monastic legends, a hundred distinct examples of the
opening of barrows to search for the bones of saints[230]. From this keen
dissection of ancient burial mounds, we may infer that even the Mediaeval
churchmen imputed sanctity to barrows, although the belief found
expression in paradoxical acts of desecration.
In alluding to discoveries like that of Pytchley, we approached the
subject of cemeteries, rather than that of barrows. A few instances of pagan
burial-grounds lying beneath Christian churches may be cited. The oft-
quoted case of St Paul’s Cathedral does not properly fall under this head. It
is true that, at various times, a number of ox-skulls and boars’-tusks have
been discovered beneath the foundations. Tradition says that the cathedral
stands on the site of a temple dedicated to Diana[231]. The legend may be
fallacious, for the finding of a heap of animal bones scarcely warrants the
assumption of a pagan temple, much less of a pagan burial-place. Rather is
the indication towards one of those foundation sacrifices, which might
profitably engage attention in another volume. Moreover, the site of St
Paul’s has always been a prolific field for Roman relics, hence it is within
possibility that the bones are accidental items of a greater depository of
rejected remains.
Other records, however, may pass unquestioned. At Lewes, in
Sussex[232], and at Mentmore[233], in Buckinghamshire, churches have been
built, if not on the actual sites of Saxon cemeteries, at least, very near them.

With respect to the Mentmore interments, it is to be noted that those bodies
of which the positions were recorded lay East and West[234]. According to
the view, now widely held, such a position indicates Christian burial, but, as
will later be shown (p. 248 infra), the rule is by no means absolute.
Unfortunately, the concomitant relics were so few as to yield little support
to either theory. This difficulty is peculiarly noticeable in churchyard
discoveries. Either the records date from the pre-scientific period of
excavation, or, from the nature of the case, little modern exploration can be
attempted. Thus, numerous relics have been dug up at various times near
the West side of another Northamptonshire church,—that of Whittlebury.
These relics comprise a bronze celt, Roman coins, an inscribed legionary
tile, and several uninscribed tiles[235]. Such articles may suggest a burial-
ground, or, at least, an inhabited site, but obviously no systematic
excavations can be made.
Discoveries made at Alphamstone, in Essex, near the boundary of that
county and Suffolk, and not far from the little town of Bures, deserve some
attention. It has been a somewhat lengthy task to obtain the precise
particulars relating to the discoveries, which date from the year 1905
onwards, but through the courtesy of Miss A. Stebbing, the Rev. P. Saben,
and Mr Arthur G. Wright, the Curator of the Corporation Museum at
Colchester, I am able to present an epitome of the finds. On a spur of the
hill projecting into the valley, through which flows a small tributary of the
Stour, there must have been a kind of cemetery belonging to the Bronze
Age. The surface soil is underlain by sand, and this, again, by fine gravel.
Workmen, digging for gravel, have, at various times, lighted upon urns, the
bodies of which rested in the sandy layer. The specimens have now been
secured, by gift or purchase, for the Colchester Museum. Through the
kindness of the present rector, the Rev. P. Saben, a group of these urns is
shown in Fig. 22, though it is doubtful whether these were all taken from
one grave. With the vessels were associated numbers of white quartz
pebbles, which occur naturally in the sand and gravel, but which may have
been collected by the mourners who deposited the ashes in the urns (cf. p.
299 infra). The interest of these Alphamstone discoveries lies in the fact
that, some 200 yards distant, on the same projection of the hill, the village

Fig. 22. Group of urns (Bronze Age) found near
Alphamstone church, Essex. The large “cinerary urn,” in
the middle of the group, is ornamented with bands of
cord-markings, which form a chevron-like pattern. On
the left is a “food-vessel,” of coarse buff-coloured ware,
with overhanging rim. Of the smaller vessels on the
right, one bears an incised trellis pattern on the rim, the
other has vertical cord lines.

church was built. It has, indeed, been asserted that an urn was dug up in the
churchyard itself, but of this I can obtain no confirmation. The late
incumbent, the Rev. R. H. Anketell, for the loan of whose manuscript I am
indebted to Miss Stebbing, strongly argued that the church was erected on a
barrow, but Mr Wright’s observations do not verify this hypothesis. A
second discovery, however, was made under the church and in the
churchyard during the recent restoration of the building. This consisted of a
number of boulders, some vertical, others recumbent, pitted with what are
popularly known as “pebble-holes.” The stones were all devoid of tooling.
The proximate origin of the stones was the Boulder Clay of the district. Two
of the blocks were found under the angles of the tower, two others came
from beneath the chancel, while three were situated in, or near, the
churchyard. It is also known that other specimens had been carried away in
past times, for the purpose of repairing walls and farm buildings. Mr
Anketell considered that the church had been built over a stone-circle, but
one must hesitate a little before yielding assent. The group of stones may
represent a portion of the builder’s stock, yet we must interpret the

discovery by the light of similar occurrences. It should be added, as
establishing another bond of continuity, that Roman pottery is turned up
from time to time in the neighbourhood.
In pondering the foregoing examples, we ought frequently to call to our
aid comparative customs in more remote parts of the British Isles. Taking
Ireland, for instance, it will be seen that that country is fertile in the kind of
evidence so deplorably scanty in those portions of Britain which have been
most disturbed and overrun by the spoiler. One instance alone, as related by
Mr W. G. Wood-Martin, will exemplify the difference in the quality of the
evidence. In the graveyard of the very early church at St John’s Point, co.
Down, there were discovered numerous pagan graves arranged in a circle.
Within this series, and arranged concentrically, was another ring of smaller
graves, while the common centre was marked by a stone pillar[236]. After
this concluding example, we may sum up this side of the evidence.
Occasionally, it must be admitted, the juxtaposition of pagan and Christian
burials may be the result of coincidence. Pre-Christian burials are so
abundant and so widely scattered that, by chance, the church builders may
have stumbled on a forgotten cemetery. But this explanation will not cover
the whole of the cases. While it may be urged, with respect to the
Alphamstone cemetery, that there was probably a break in continuity, due to
the slackening of folk-memory, the objection is manifestly irrelevant to the
Taplow barrow, which must have been a conspicuous object when the
foundations of the church were being laid. Even with examples of the
Alphamstone type, there is the witness of tradition and superstition to be
heard. The salutary respect which was paid to the dead by primitive folk,
and the superstitious beliefs, cherished, half in fear, half in hope, were
centred around burial-places. These are facts to be graven on the tablets of
the memory of every archaeologist. Realizing how potent, even to-day, are
the traditions of ghosts, and fairies, and hidden treasure, wherever the dead
are known to lie, and remembering that folk-memory has frequently proved
to be sound in the identification of graves previously overlooked by the
antiquary, we are bound to conclude that nothing short of the extermination
of the whole of the inhabitants of a country-side could completely wipe
away such recollections. Even to-day, after several centuries of the printed
book, and several decades of the day school, the most definite legends, and
those with the greatest living force, are those which the peasant connects
with graves and ghosts. How much stronger was this kind of tradition when

delivered orally from father to son, and when all folk alike were under the
spell of superstition!
If it be objected that the majority of Gothic churches, perhaps even the
majority of existing Saxon churches, do not stand near pagan burial-
grounds, that the general rule was to establish new cemeteries at a distance
from the old, one would naturally answer that it is just these exceptions
which prove that the chain of continuity was never absolutely broken. The
examples where old sites were seized upon might, at first, be relatively
numerous, but they would tend to become fewer and fewer, as adherence to
ancient heathen custom weakened. A time would arrive when, save to
combat a prejudice, the pagan spots would be completely shunned, and all
churches would be built on soil newly hallowed. The evidence must be
judged as a whole, and especial weight will have to be allowed for the
records of holy wells, which we must review before closing the chapter. A
combination of features will often impress the most sceptical. When we
find, hidden away in a wilderness of moors and hills at Bewcastle, in the
Northern corner of Cumberland, the remains of a Mediaeval castle close to
a restored twelfth century church, while the shaft of a seventh century cross
stands hard by, and when we notice that a Roman camp of hexagonal
outline—a rare feature—encloses all these objects[237], we are justified in
tracing a causal connection. What, but deliberate purpose, conspired to
make warrior, churchman, and feudal lord, one after the other, settle in this
remote fastness? Confronted with testimony of this kind, the burden of
proof must rest upon those who would see, here and there, a distinct hiatus
in the history of social development. A parallel may be drawn from the
science of organic evolution. Recent researches have taught us that we must
be prepared to encounter “mutations” in the lines of descent. It is also
undeniable that ethnology may present us with similar mutations, caused,
for instance, by the advent of a conquering race or a new religion. The fresh
factor may produce either an exaltation or a retrogression, nevertheless, the
general external and internal aspects of folk-custom will, for a long time
afterwards, suffer little alteration, and the movement which is visible at the
surface will not influence the undercurrents of belief to a corresponding
extent. If the modification of the outward signs may be incautiously
exaggerated, the strength of the unseen movements of belief may be
carelessly deemed exhausted, when, in truth, it has scarcely waned at all.
The hidden pagan forces which exist in England to-day, though they are

normally kept in check by conventional habits and national religion, are
well known to the professed student of survivals, while they are largely
ignored by the orthodox historian. On the whole, then, experience teaches
that the introduction of an alien religion does not interpose an impassable
gulf between the old and the new, but that there will follow gentle
transitions in custom, probably masked, for the time, by local outbursts of
fanaticism or by the apparent sudden conversion, in certain districts, of
large masses of the people. Beneath these disquieting superficial symptoms,
there runs, in the main, an unbroken sequence of life and custom.
The present place seems convenient for expressing a warning against
certain false appearances which an old graveyard may present. Often the
area has been girdled with a trench, several feet in depth, in order to afford
greater protection against the intrusion of cattle than could be provided by a
railing or a stone wall alone. By this means, too, the animals are prevented
from browsing upon evergreen hedges where these are planted. This double
barrier is especially necessary when the church is in the neighbourhood of a
park, in which deer are kept. The wall-and-ditch arrangement, or even the
ditch only, is common in the West country, though it is not infrequent in
other districts. To allow the entrance of worshippers to the churchyard, and
at the same time to baulk the efforts of cattle, a single block of stone, or a
“grid” composed of two or three narrow slabs, set edgeways, is placed
across the trench to form a bridge. A subsidiary purpose of the ditch is that
of drainage. Or again, where the ditch is absent, rude stone pillars, sloping
outwards from the base, serve as a strait gateway. All these features may
suggest to the unwary a simple system of fortification. Moreover, one may
often trace, in the vicinity of the church, vestiges of earthen banks, the
remains of the boundaries of a Mediaeval village (cf. p. 16 supra). Thus
there is a double possibility of deception. A dry ditch does not necessarily
denote antiquity. A favourite method of setting about the enclosure of an
estate or the establishment of a coppice was to construct a trench along the
proposed limits, and this mode of delimitation seems also to have
commended itself occasionally to the churchmen of old. This practice, I am
inclined to think, accounts for the “moat,” now filled up, which formerly
encircled the churchyard at Tooting, in the South-West of London, about
two miles distant from the place where these lines are being written. Yet the
late Mr T. W. Shore, the well-known archaeologist, suggested that the
church had been built within a small British earthwork[238]. The position of

the church, at the foot of a steep hill, seems to negative this theory, and to
point to a later period, when the Church had quite triumphed over
paganism.
There is a still more seductive danger to entice the credulous investigator
who, having heard of churchyard tumuli, would fain see barrows
everywhere. Many churches have the appearance of standing on artificial
hillocks simply because, for a score of generations, the surface of the
ground has been continually raised by a succession of interments. The effect
is most marked where the graveyard is of limited area, and is held up by
strong containing masonry. The soil has long been confined within a
definite space, and the turf is now almost on a level with the coping of the
walls. The curvature of the surface and the bulging walls tell the rest of the
story. Near the fabric, the feet of the visitor are almost in a horizontal plane
with the sill of the Early English or Decorated window, so that a trench,
lined with concrete, has been cut to preserve the walls from damp. The
interpretation is obvious. The building, instead of being perched on a knoll,
is actually in process of being sunk within a hillock which has grown up
around it. Let us revert for an instant to the concealed pathway which was
found six feet below the present surface at Pytchley churchyard. One
imagines that this difference of level may sometimes be considerably
exceeded. Huxley tells us that the skeleton of a full-grown man weighs, on
the average, 24 lbs.[239] According to the analyses of bone made by
Berzelius, 67 per cent. of this weight—roughly, 16 lbs.—consists of mineral
salts which are practically indestructible[240]. Though the actual bulk of this
residue is small, we must add to it the miscellaneous materials of the more
permanent parts of the funeral furniture. This latter factor would become
important after the use of coffins had spread to all classes of village folk.
Among the most striking examples of elevated graveyards which have
come under my notice are those at Telscombe and Rottingdean in Sussex;
Brighstone or Brixton, in the Isle of Wight; and Milton Lilbourne, in
Wiltshire. Various writers have noticed a like feature in Breton and Basque
churchyards. After perusing these records afresh, two passages from the
writings of observant travellers come to mind. The first is from Peter Kalm,
the Swede, who visited England in 1748. He noticed that the floor of the
English church often goes deeper down than the surface of the churchyard
soil. From this, he inferred either that the church had sunk, or that the earth
of the churchyard had been raised, owing to burials; unless, indeed, soil had

been brought to the spot. William Cobbett’s Rural Rides affords a strong
corroboration of the facts. Cobbett’s keen eye missed little, and his quick
intuition sometimes—by no means always—suggested the correct
explanation of features which more careless tourists would have overlooked
altogether. The passage refers to the village of Rogate, near Petersfield in
Hampshire, and his remarks are so apt that a full quotation may be
pardoned. The letter is dated 12 November, 1825. “When we came to the
village of Rogate, I saw a little group of persons standing before a
blacksmith’s shop. The churchyard was on the other side of the road,
surrounded by a low wall. The earth of the churchyard was about four feet
and a half higher than the common level of the ground round about it; and
you may see, by the nearness of the church windows to the ground, that this
bed of earth has been made by the innumerable burials that have taken place
in it. The group, consisting of the blacksmith, the wheelwright, perhaps, and
three or four others, appeared to me to be in a deliberative mood. So I said,
looking significantly at the churchyard, ‘It has taken a pretty many
thousands of your forefathers to raise that ground up so high.’ ‘Yes, sir,’
said one of them[241].” Cobbett then proceeds with a little socratic
questioning of the villagers, in order to point a political moral, but with this
we are not concerned. As he trots off on his nag, however, he begins to
estimate how many hundreds of years a church has stood on the spot, and
here our musings may be in accord with his once more.
Having passed in review those churches built on Roman sites, and those
which are associated with earthworks, megaliths, and burial places, we deal
next with churches which stand near sacred wells. The testimony which
falls into this class yields the most satisfactory, as well as the most ample,
proof of the bequest of pagan sites to the Christian community. At the
outset, it must be admitted that the juxtaposition of a sacred spring and a
church does not, in every case, prove the adoption of a purely pagan site of
primitive repute. Throughout the Middle Ages pilgrimages to hallowed
wells were approved by the Church. Nevertheless, the custom had a pagan
origin, and undoubtedly, the sacred spring was visited long before it was
appropriated, and perhaps enclosed, by church folk.
The literature of holy wells is, if scattered, rather extensive, and the
various customs connected with well-dressing, with the offering of gifts to
the divinity of the waters, and with the belief in sympathetic magic, are
familiar to most folk. Here, an enraged peasant thrusts a number of pins into

a wax doll, and throws the object into the spring, fully believing that his
enemy will be injured in that part of the body which corresponds to the
pierced portion of the image. There, a well is overhung by an immemorial
thorn, which is decorated with parti-coloured rags,—offerings which are
reputed to relieve the devotee of his sickness. Yonder, the muddy bottom of
the spring hides a number of pins and copper coins, the humble oblations of
the ignorant.
The superstitions referred to are most rampant in Ireland, Wales, and
Cornwall, but they still survive also in remote parts of East Anglia,
Yorkshire, Northumberland, and other districts. Perhaps the best known
English examples of holy wells are at Tissington, Derbyshire (cf. p. 16
supra). At this village there are several wells, or rather fountains, but the
most celebrated gushes out of the hill below the parish church. On
Ascension Day, a kind of floral mosaic, designed on a framework, is placed
over this fountain. After this has been done, a religious service is held.
From statements made by various writers, it would appear that, of old, the
ceremony took place on May Day, and that flowers and fruits were
preserved long beforehand for this festival, which at its inception was
essentially pagan[242]. One need scarcely insist on the other evidence which
marks May Day as a heathen feast, but it would be advantageous to recall
the fact that well-worship was practised by the ancients. Classical writings
contain many allusions to the decoration of wells with garlands, to the
flinging of nosegays into fountains, to the veneration paid to the nymphs of
springs and streams. Now, as in the case of megaliths and tumuli, springs
which already had a great reputation would appeal strongly to the Christian
missionaries. By annexing a site which was accounted holy, the apostles
would secure that gentle transition of ideas which the times demanded. The
spring would, of course, be re-dedicated. There would also be the subsidiary
motive of advantage. A church built near a perennial spring would always
have a supply of water for baptismal purposes, or for the washing of
vessels. Indeed, after the lapse of centuries, this secondary reason would
doubtless be advanced as having alone determined the choice of site.
St Patrick and his followers, who, we are told, almost invariably chose
heathen sites for their churches, did not neglect the sacred wells. Once, at
least, St Patrick preached at a fountain “which the Druids worshipped as a
god[243].” One illuminating custom must be noted. At the well of
Tubberpatrick, in the parish of Dungiven, co. Derry, the devotees of the

well, after having uttered their prayers and washed themselves in the
waters, hang up their rags on a neighbouring bush. Then they proceed to a
standing stone below the church, repeat their prayers, walk round the stone,
and bow themselves. Next, they enter the church, where a similar ceremony
takes place. Finally, they return in procession to the upright stone. This
account is given on the authority of Mr W. G. Wood-Martin, to whose
valuable works on Ireland the reader is referred. We pass on to notice that
Sweden is similarly rich in tradition. Professor O. Montelius asserts that
offering wells are frequently found near stone-circles, just as these are often
met with in the neighbourhood of churches (cf. p. 28 supra). Some of these
wells have received tributes in recent times[244].
Scotland does not appear to have been pre-eminently noted for well-
worship. Sacred wells have, however, been recorded as existing near the
churches of Little Dunkeld, in Perthshire, Musselburgh, Strathfillan, and
many other places[245]. Perhaps some of our best illustrations of the well-
cult are derived from Wales. We will note, in passing, Sir G. L. Gomme’s
conclusions, which he based on a large number of observations, respecting
the wells of Ireland and Wales. In Ireland, the highest point reached by the
primitive cult of well-worshippers was to identify the deity as a rain-god,
while in Wales the tradition centred around a guardian spirit. A few Welsh
examples may now be briefly noted. A famous spring is that of St Tecla,
Virgin and Martyr, situated about 200 yards from Llandegla church[246]. Sir
John Rhŷs records the well known as Ffynnon Beris (Ffynon = well), near
the parish church of Llanberis, and the healing waters of Ffynnon Faglan (=
Baglan’s Well), close to the church at Llanfaglan, in Carnarvonshire[247].
This authority has also shown that, in some instances, there existed, until
late times, a guardian of the well, though whether the “priesthood” was
acquired by inheritance or otherwise could not be ascertained. Thus, at St
Elian’s Well, near Llanelian church, in Denbighshire, a “priestess” had
charge of the well so late as the close of the eighteenth century. At the
healing well of St Teilo, hard by the ruined church of Llandeilo Llwydarth,
in North Pembrokeshire, the calvaria of a skull, reputed to be that of St
Teilo, was, even within our generation, handed to the patient. With this
strange cup he secured a draught which was warranted to cure whooping-
cough. The adjacent churchyard, it may be observed, contains two of the
oldest post-Roman inscriptions in the Principality. Sir John Rhŷs thinks that
the well was probably sacred before the days of St Teilo, and that its ancient

sanctity was one of the causes which decided the choice of the ground for
the erection of the church. The faith in the well remains intact while the
church walls are in utter decay. Well-paganism has annexed the saint, and
has established a belief in the efficacy of the skull in well-ritual[248]. From
North Pembrokeshire we turn to South Pembrokeshire, to that district
known as “Little England beyond Wales,” which presents so many
interesting problems to the ethnologist and the archaeologist. It was in the
year 1898 that Mr A. L. Leach, whose careful researches in this district are
now familiar to many, first pointed out to me the interesting chalybeate
springs in the churchyard of Gumfreston, near Tenby. The waters were
reputed to have great medicinal virtue[249], and there can be little doubt that
the existence of the springs proved an inducement to the church builders.
The church itself, and the entire surroundings, will be found worthy of
retrospect later.
We pass across to the Marches and find the holy church wells almost as
numerous in Western England as in the Principality. In the county of Salop
alone we have examples at Donington, Stoke St Milborough, Ludlow
Friary, and Wenlock Priory[250]. In the Midlands, we notice St Chad’s Well
at Lichfield[251]. Journeying Southwards through Gloucestershire, we
observe that the ruined churchyard cross at Bisley covers an old well, which
is now, however, reported to be dry[252]. As we traverse Somerset, we have
our attention called to the holy well near which stands the church of St
Decumen, at Watchet. Some remote prototype of this church is reported to
have existed here so early as the year A.D. 400[253]. Another Somerset
example is that of St Agnes’ Well, near Whitestaunton church. The well is
said to be tepid and to possess healing properties. Professor Haverfield
states that, close at hand, a Roman villa was uncovered in the year 1845,
when abundant relics were found[254]. Instances such as this speak
eloquently in favour of continuous site-occupation. Still keeping to
Somerset, we have the well of St Aldhelm below the churchyard of
Doulting. The church is dedicated to the same saint. So recently as 1910, I
found that the spring, which is the source of a small stream, still retained a
hold in local story, the waters being declared good for rheumatism.
The numerous holy wells of Cornwall have been sufficiently described
by Mr R. C. Hope and the Rev. S. Baring-Gould[255], so we retrace our
steps, and, travelling Eastward, observe the spring which, traditionally
connected with St Augustine, flows from the North-East corner of Cerne

Abbas churchyard, in Dorsetshire[256]. Hampshire, as the late Mr T. W.
Shore discovered, has its Itchenswell, Maplederwell, and Holybourne. The
last name is very significant, the more so as the spring issues from below
the village churchyard. The permanent spring near the churchyard at
Cheriton has been noticed (p. 74 supra), while, at another Hampshire
church, that of Hambledon, a “bourne” or “lavant,” that is, an intermittent
spring, gushes forth at intervals[257]. In Surrey one of these bournes is
thrown out by the side of Merstham churchyard. The overflow of the
bourne waters is traditionally believed to be a portent of evil. Near the
church of Carshalton, also in Surrey, there is a well, now covered in, known
locally as Anne Boleyn’s Well. The legend runs that the horse which carried
that lady struck the ground with its hoof, thus turning “the flint stone into a
springing well.” The story is evidently an afterthought, a late attempt to
explain the association of the church and the spring.
London itself might not be expected to yield much testimony to this
romantic portion of our study. Yet several London churches had their wells.
Hard by St Giles’s churchyard there was formerly a pool, and near
Clerkenwell church was the celebrated “Clerkes’ Well” which is believed to
have given the parish its name. At the Skinners’ Well “the skinners of
London held there certain plays yearly, played of Holy Scripture.” St
Clement’s Well, Holywell Street, Strand, near the parish church of the same
name, was “fair curbed with hard stone, kept clean for common use, and
[was] always full[258].” Rapidly skimming over the Eastern counties, we
find that the Rev. G. S. Tyack, who has assiduously collected examples of
holy wells, records an example from the West end of East Dereham
graveyard, in Norfolk. In Yorkshire alone, Mr Tyack claims seventeen
wells, though whether all of these are in the neighbourhood of churches, he
does not say[259]. Lincolnshire contributes several instances; one only need
be noted. Caistor church, in that county, previously mentioned (p. 12 supra)
as standing within the confines of a Roman camp, was built near three or
four springs. One of these, a “healing” spring, issued from the side of the
churchyard. This example may be compared with that of Whitestaunton; in
each case, there seems to have been a desire on the part of both Roman
general and Christian architect to exploit the reputation previously gained
by the waters. Here our enumeration must come to an end; for fuller details
the reader may be referred to well-known works[260]. But if we forget that
worship may be conducted under the open sky as well as under a roof of

wood or stone, and if we overlook the fact that natural features, not less
than stately fanes, were dedicated to patron saints, we shall miss much of
the evidence which has fortunately been bequeathed to us.
Not connected with the subject of holy wells, but apparently forming
isolated and local features peculiar to Wales, are the well-known oval or
circular churchyards, enclosing churches which date from the Norman
period. The churchyards are usually encompassed by a road, for which there
is no obvious public requirement[261]. It has been conjectured that these
roads represent ancient ramparts, which separate the churchyard from
common ground, and this prosaic explanation may be the correct one. But
one is obliged to notice another ray of light which comes from ancient
custom. The Rev. E. Owen, who has described these churchyards, sees an
analogy to the circle of stones in which religious ceremonies were
performed by the Druids[262]—evidently he is referring to historic times.
These circles, when prehistoric, are known to the archaeologist as
“cromlechs”; the latter erections, from the fifth century onwards, were
technically called “gorseddau” (sing. gorsedd). The Gorsedd consisted
normally of a mound of earth and a circle of standing stones[263]. From
denoting the place of assembly, and afterwards, “the Great Seat,” the word
came to mean the “Assembly of Bards,” the chief member of which was
throned on a “Chair,” or stone, which occupied the centre of the circle. So
early as the ninth century, there was a separation of functions; hence we
read of the gorsedd of the bards and the legislative gorsedd[264]. My friend,
the Rev. J. W. Hayes, who has collected much curious lore respecting the
gorseddau of later centuries, notices that, though the legislative gorsedd has
now no political or judicial powers, but merely controls the bardic order, it
has a successor, for all worthy aims, in the national Eisteddfod. The
Eisteddfod has social and educational functions only, the Gorsedd, on the
contrary, was an institution for the framing of laws. Even in the year 1910,
however, the Eisteddfod was preceded each day by the Gorsedd proper.
This slight description will enable us, in the next chapter, to approach
closely to another side of our problem, but, for the present, it must be taken
as illustrative of the supposition made by Mr Owen. From the fact that, at
one village, Efenechtyd, Denbighshire, a part of the encircling road really
occupies the ancient bed of a stream, Mr Owen has further considered that
the “roads” were originally intended to be moats, and that they contained
water. This seems to be mere speculation; a more plausible explanation—

though, again, perhaps not the real one—is that the hollows formed portions
of an old stockaded village. Or again, we may have here small ring
earthworks belonging to the pre-Christian period, though not necessarily of
a defensive character. One cannot avoid recalling Stonehenge and Stennis;
the round churches of Northampton, Essex, Cambridge, and London; the
round towers of many other churches; the favourite “broken ring” of Bronze
Age barrows and Bronze Age ornaments; and the earthwork rings and
circular mazes of various periods. How much is ceremonial, and how much
constructional, in matters primitive, is a nice question. It is worthy of notice
that, in at least two instances, the churches under consideration have had
double dedications. It has been mentioned that the circular churchyard
seems to be essentially a Welsh feature. Two examples, those of Kerry and
Llanfechain, are recorded from Montgomeryshire, and two from Carnarvon.
Flint furnishes one instance, and Denbigh half a dozen[265]. England has
hitherto supplied no records, but the feature may have been overlooked, and
further observations would be valuable.
We have now completed what may have appeared, to the reader, a prolix
and tedious inquiry. Impatiently, it may be, the query is uttered, What, in
brief, is the conclusion of the whole matter? The reply may be framed by
first presenting the opinion of a high authority, Professor Baldwin Brown,
who asserts that there is no known instance where a Christian church has, in
Britain, replaced a heathen fane[266]. We have seen that there are possible
loopholes in such a general statement, and if we narrow its scope by using
the word “site,” instead of “church” or “fane,” in each member of the
sentence, the decision, with which Professor Brown would doubtless agree,
is surely in the affirmative. To deny that many Christian churches stand on
pagan sites is to blind oneself to facts. There is a folly of scepticism which
is as blameworthy as that of credulity. With respect to the buildings
themselves Professor Brown admits that such a substitution is “often
signalized on the Continent[267].” Waiving the a priori argument that like
conditions tend to beget like results, and that a series of events, in the main
homotaxial, might be predicted for North Germany and England, for
Sweden and Scotland, for Brittany and Wales, we may still choose to
express the plea otherwise. For, as has been insisted, the conditions have
not been exactly similar: Britain has suffered social disturbances to a
greater degree than any of the countries named. It is therefore safer to say
that, though there was, in Britain, as in other countries, no severe opposition

between the old and the new faiths, there is difficulty in proving the case
with respect to buildings, because of the loss of evidence.
As matters stand, the archaeologist is in the position of a diver, groping
amid the timbers of a sunken ship for lost treasure, of whose presence he is
certain, be his toll never so scanty. Or again, the archaeologist is like a
scholar, closely poring over some blurred and defaced palimpsest, if haply
he may decipher even a few of the original characters. “The drums and
tramplings of three conquests,” the fires of marauders, the mistaken zeal of
church restorers, the husbandman’s plough, the mason’s hammer, and the
sexton’s spade, to say nothing of the gnawing tooth of Time, have so
altered, if not obliterated, the records, that he must be content to read but a
little, here and there, of the full story.

CHAPTER III

THE SECULAR USES OF THE CHURCH FABRIC

Having established the proposition that ancient churches were
oftentimes erected near older pagan memorials, we are prepared to search
for supplementary motives for the determination of sites. A very superficial
survey makes it clear that no single explanation will apply to all cases. A
few of the churches built within old entrenchments may, perhaps, as before
noted (p. 17 supra), have been so placed in order to obtain additional
protection. Respect for tradition, or defiance of superstition, was, however,
in the majority of such cases, the uppermost consideration: the ground was
not primarily chosen because of its secure position.
But besides the churches which accompany earthworks and megaliths,
we possess a large number of churches which stand like sentinels on
isolated hills, and these require separate study. Here again, no single theory
will serve to account for the choice of site. The facts are familiar to those
who have travelled through the more elevated parts of the country. But it is
not alone on rugged hills that we find the Christian outposts; even on the
gentle downlands the lonely church may be seen dominating the landscape.
In the South-East of England, the hill parishes often have their churches
mounted on the highest ground. Among the Surrey churches, that of
Caterham stands 600 feet above sea-level; Chaldon and Coulsdon, 500 feet;
Merstham, 400 feet[268]. Taking Sussex, we find Pyecombe church at an
elevation of 400 feet; Falmer and Plumpton, 250 feet; and Street (Streat),
200 feet. Brook church, in the Isle of Wight, is built on a conspicuous
natural hillock. Kent supplies us with excellent examples at Down,
Cudham, and several other villages. These instances are sufficient—the list
could be extensively enlarged, if necessary.

Fig. 23. Tower of Bishopstone
church (Early Norman), near
Seaford, Sussex. A typical semi-
defensive tower of South-Eastern
England.

The first comment on such a catalogue concerns the interpretation of the
figures. Obviously, it is the height of the church relatively to the village or
valley which is of importance, not the actual elevation above the sea. For
example, although the Sussex village of Bishopstone lies in a chalk
coombe, the church (Fig. 23) is built on a hillock which overlooks the
dwellings of the inhabitants. Again, with respect to villages situated on the
plain, the church frequently occupies the highest ground. Various causes
may have been at work to influence the selection of such spots. Here, there
were difficulties with the feudal lord (p. 17 supra); there, the building was
placed centrally so as to serve numerous outlying townships; yonder, the
church stands prominently on the hill-top because a hamlet had arisen there
before the church was thought of.
When all these deductions have been made, there remain very many
churches unaccounted for. These have been raised, after prolonged labour
and at great expense, on some inconvenient hill, up which the worshippers
must struggle breathlessly Sunday by Sunday. Standing by one of these
churches, the observer is mastered by the conviction that he is placed on an
ancient vantage ground. Range of outlook, and effective strength of

position, must have been the fundamental ideas in the minds of those who
chose the site. Throw aside this conception, and all is contrariety. The
modern architect, unaided by the student of folk-lore and folk-custom, is
entirely at a loss when asked to explain such apparent folly on the part of
the designers.
We have before noticed (p. 17 supra) how the annals of folk-lore are
crowded with stories respecting these hill-top churches. The tales vary a
little in detail, but the main theme is the same. Devils, or witches, or fairies,
were in league against men, and so soon as the builders began their work,
unseen hands removed the stones by night and laid them elsewhere, the
church being finally set up only after a severe and lengthened contest. A
variant of the superstition is met with in Scotland and Brittany, where
churches are reported to have been reared in a single night by the
fairies[269]. Just noting, as we pass, that the legends do not attempt to tell
why men were so anxious to have their churches in lofty positions, let us
glance at some of these bewitched buildings.
One of the examples best known to the writer is that of Churchdown, in
Gloucestershire. The church stands on a Liassic hill of pyramidal outline,
500 feet above the sea-level. To climb the steep slope from the village
below is an arduous task. The devil-theory still thrives vigorously in the
neighbourhood, and the visitor will soon hear the account of the nightly
removal of the stones by the spirit of evil. It chances that the local
pronunciation of Churchdown is “Chōsen,” and this has suggested to the
otherwise serious countryfolk a weak pun. Not only, they say, was the spot
deliberately “chosen,” but the “chosen people” of the Prayer-Book response
refers specifically to the favoured inhabitants of the village. The traveller
cannot escape—
“Full of their theme, they spurned all idle art,
And the plain tale was trusted to the heart.”

Breedon church, in Leicestershire, is on a hill which similarly overlooks
the village clustered at the foot. For pedestrians, the ascent has been made
easier by cutting steps in the pathway, but carriages have to take a
circuitous route to reach the church[270]. Other churches concerning which a
contest was waged between Christian masons and the powers of darkness
are St Chad’s, Rochdale, and Capel Garmon, in Denbighshire. In the second
of these cases, the church was to have been erected on a hill, contiguous to

an ancient spring, but the stones were repeatedly carried to a lower
position[271]. This detail respecting the spring is not without significance, as
was shown in the last chapter. Another illuminative Welsh example comes
from Llanllechid, near Bangor. Here the fairies, or spirits, bore away the
stones from a field called Caer Capel, and actually selected a situation—so
the legend runs—more convenient than the first[272]. Both Caer Capel and
Llanllechid are suggestive names, the latter gives a hint of a church built on
the site of megaliths. At Wendover, in Buckinghamshire, the builders were
thwarted by malevolent witches: at Hanchurch and Walsall, in Staffordshire,
the trouble was caused by mischievous fairies. Each locality has its own bit
of colour tinging the testimony, but to rehearse all the variations would be
tedious. The number of these solitary hill-top churches was once probably
much greater than at present. In some instances the buildings have been
demolished; in others, modern dwellings have sprung up around the church
and have masked its isolated position. Indeed, this shifting of the population
is a factor which must never be left out of sight.
How shall we explain the superstitions attached to these churches? One
fact is manifest—the selection of site was, in the majority of cases, freely
made, in the sense that other spots were available. On a broader
interpretation, based on retrospect, we perceive that there was little choice,
since there existed an ever-present necessity for an asylum in times of stress
and danger, not to mention minor reasons. We have seen that the traditions
do not assign a cause for the persistence,—nay, obstinacy, of the church-
builders. Perhaps we should except those churches which were erected in
particular spots as the result of the vision of some saint, or of warning cries
and mysterious voices heard by the masons. On the whole, however, we can
interpret the stories only by the aid of folklore and anthropology. Modern
research has shown that, in the earlier stages of human life in Britain, the
communities dwelt mainly on the downlands and elevated moorlands[273].
Only when the historical period was well advanced, namely, during the late
Roman and Saxon occupations, were the thickly wooded valleys and
marshy plains settled and cultivated. The evidence, though largely
inferential, is both good and abundant, and need not be recapitulated here.
All that is essential, for the moment, is to remember that descendants of the
earlier races probably lived on, isolated in sparse communities, wherever
the conditions were favourable. This is the legitimate conclusion to be
drawn, for example, from the classical excavations made by Pitt-Rivers in

the chalk downlands of Cranborne Chase. Anthropological tests afford
similar support in other regions, such as the Yorkshire Wolds and the
Derbyshire Moors. The remnants of the older British races, modified
somewhat by intermarriage, doubtless held aloof on their bleak hills and
tablelands with considerable stubbornness. The Teutonic farmers of the
vales would not at first greatly interfere with the hill-top folk. A time came,
however, when fresh-comers began seriously to re-invade the more elevated
spots, and to form settlements. This does not seem to have been done
systematically until after the Norman period. But it is clear that any
impinging of new races upon the older hill-top communities, however
partial in its character, would give birth to exaggeration and myth. A fair
corollary may be stated: the traditions which tell of the efforts of builders
having been baulked or defeated by demons, witches, or evil spirits, are
echoes of the time when older races still lingered sparingly on the hill-top
settlements. On the other hand, the legends which speak of dreams and
visions seem to represent a purely religious development belonging to the
Christian period.
The erection of a church on soil hitherto relegated, by silent consent, to
primitive tribal folk, or, failing these, to the wild beasts, was a novel and
startling event. We need not assume that the primary purpose of the builders
was to Christianize those remote peoples, though that may have been a
subsidiary motive. It is more likely that the church was intended for the
churchmen who built it. But to enter an area previously left intact would
provoke keen opposition. Further, it is now a commonplace that our stories
of witches and wizards, fairies and demons, are in part, at least, derived
from folk of the Neolithic and Bronze periods, or from their near
descendants. To the conquered people was imputed magical power, while to
the victors, their weapons, and their appliances, the beaten folk paid the
respect due to fear. Briefly, then, the superstitions which we are considering
seem to speak of the projection of one race over territory long occupied by
the survivors of much earlier races, and again, of the intrusion of social
habits and religious customs among folk whose beliefs and modes of life
were widely different from those of the invaders.
Still the question is unanswered, Why were hill-tops chosen as sites of
churches? Primarily, of course, the churches were built for worship, but the
answer to the question seems to be, that, in very many cases, the building
was intended for temporary refuge and defence in those unsettled centuries

which lasted down to the Wars of the Roses (cf. p. 57 supra, concerning
earthworks). To establish this theory, we must consider a moderate number
of instances extracted from a lengthy list. And a clearer understanding will
be promoted if our minds are chiefly fixed, for the present, upon church
towers alone, because these are the portions of the buildings which best
illustrate the theory.
As might be anticipated, the specimens of towers which furnish the most
apposite illustrations are found in the Border Counties, and in the Welsh
Marches, or, on the other hand, in those districts which have few natural
defences. Beginning with Cumberland, we have the embattled tower of
Great Salkeld church, guarded by a massive door, plated with iron, and
fitted on the inside with stout iron bars. Under the aisle of the church are
chambers, which are believed to have been used as dungeons[274]. The
tower at Burgh-on-the-Sands, near Carlisle, seems to have served as a
fortress or pele-tower[275]. (Etymologically pele or peel = the stockaded
enclosure or fort.) Normally, the pele or “peel” towers were special
structures, and were erected along the border irrespective of the position of
churches, as at Corbridge, in Northumberland[276]. Nevertheless, there is
little doubt that strong church towers were used as substitutes for peles in
times of necessity. Thus, the twelfth century tower of Edlingham church, in
Northumberland, is one of several that served this purpose; while
Merrington church, with its tall steeple, crowning an eminence, actually
stood a siege. The tower of Bedale church, near Richmond in Yorkshire,
seems to have been constructed purposely for defence. The narrow staircase
has, in fact, a portcullis groove, which was accidentally revealed after the
steeple had been struck by lightning. The portcullis screened the tower from
the body of the church[277]. Melsonby tower, also in Yorkshire, has been
described as “a Norman keep in miniature[278].” The round steeple of the
Early Decorated church of Roos, in Holderness, is supposed to have been a
post for watch-and-ward. It stands on high ground, and contains, near the
top, a chamber which is reached by a spiral staircase of stone[279]. We know
that the surrounding district was terribly ravaged by the Danes, and it is
interesting to note that, in 1836, there was discovered, in a ditch at Roos, a
rude model of a boat with a warrior crew. This curious object is considered
to be of Scandinavian origin, and to date back to the invasion of the Danes
and vikings[280]. If it be urged that the church fabric belongs to a period
long subsequent to the raids of the Northmen, the comment is both fair and

relevant. Two replies might be made: first, analogy indicates that churches
of this kind most likely had predecessors on the same site, and secondly,
defensive structures continued to be built long after the events which called
them into existence passed away.
From Yorkshire we pass into North-East Lincolnshire. Here we meet
with a remarkable series of Saxon towers, and here the Danish question
recurs. Popular tradition, vigorous even “yn tyme of mynde,” as Leland
quaintly expresses it, declared that the present towers were built as refuges
from the Danes. The idea was unhesitatingly accepted by the earlier school
of antiquaries, and was supported by the older architects. We now know, as
the result of comparative study of architectural styles, that the theory is
barely tenable. The three best-known towers of the group under
consideration are those of Waith, Scartho, and Holton-le-Clay, and they are
all placed by Professor Baldwin Brown in his Saxon period C[3]. In other
words they are believed to belong to the time of Edward the Confessor,
when there was a revival of church-building[281]. As a further safeguard
against ante-dating these churches, we may notice Mr Francis Bond’s
dictum that we have no Anglo-Saxon tower which is earlier than the end of
the ninth century[282]. Of course, neither of these verdicts affects the
question of the existence of previous towers on the present foundations. For
instance,

Fig. 24. Scartho church, Lincolnshire, from the South.
The Saxon tower differs from the ordinary
defensive type in having an original doorway at the
base, seen at the West end. The doorway facing the
spectator is a later insertion (Early English) and the
parapet belongs to the Perpendicular period. There
is a Saxon belfry window, divided by a mid-wall
shaft. The walls separating the tower from the nave
are three feet in thickness.

according to writers of the middle of the last century, and indeed, much
later, the tower of Scartho church (Fig. 24) was said to rest on large blocks
of stone which showed traces of fire, and these blocks were thought to be
relics of an older fabric which was burnt by the Danes. I have visited this
church several times, and, while believing that the present tower may not be
the original, I am not convinced that there are any fire-marked boulders to
be seen. True, the masses of stone referred to by the topographers may now
be quite concealed under the raised turf, but it is more likely that red lumps
of ferruginous grit, which are plainly visible, have misled the antiquaries.
The tower walls certainly contain a miscellany of geological specimens,—
limestones, flints, sandstones, and rusty-coloured grits—and superficially

the stains suggest scars caused by fire. One must, however, take account of
all the circumstances that influenced church-building in a locality which,
like that under consideration, is destitute of building stone. Some two or
three miles distant is the church of Clee, the tower of which, except in the
uppermost stage, bears a close likeness to that of Scartho. (The parapet, in
each church, is a later addition.) The materials employed in Clee tower are
mainly large beach pebbles, and ice-worn “cobbles,” which had been
washed out of the now-vanished cliff of Boulder Clay at Cleethorpes, and
which must have been assiduously collected by the perplexed and needy
masons.
Professor Brown declares that there is nothing about the Lincolnshire
towers themselves to indicate a defensive character, though they are situated
in a region which was exposed to Danish visitations. These eleventh century
towers, however, he says, represent a style which was evolved at a
somewhat earlier time, when the Danes were actually hostile. At most, he
will admit only “a certain general likelihood” that these particular towers
were used for defence[283], but he notes the general opinion that the
occurrence of such towers in districts like Lincolnshire is “hardly
fortuitous[284].” The palmary fact remains, that the Lincolnshire towers
were, relatively to the exposed and unprotected tract of marshland on which
they were built, real fortresses. There are no natural defences in the vicinity
of the churches, and ordinary dwellings must have been of an insubstantial
kind. Moreover, unless the idea of earlier buildings on the present sites be
unreservedly abandoned, there still remains the great probability of
continuity of general pattern. Long after the land ceased to be harried by
pirates, the countryfolk would anticipate, and provide against, future
onslaughts. It is no bar to this argument to oppose the fact that, as we later
folk now know, those attacks were not made. We shall, indeed, find that
defensive towers continued to be popular for several centuries after the
Norman Conquest. We may say then, that the Lincolnshire type of Saxon
tower was semi-defensive, though the existing specimens are of post-
Danish age. Further than that we are not warranted in forming theories.
Leaving Lincolnshire, we notice a Bedfordshire example, that of
Clapham. Here the church has a massive Saxon tower, which possesses an
exterior door at a height of twenty feet from the ground. There is no
window opening in the lower portion. It is not an insignificant fact that this
tower overlooked a ford across the Ouse, which was approached by an

ancient road[285]. The striking position of the door at Clapham has many
parallels. The old tower of Swanage parish church, Dorset, had no door
lower than the second story, and access was probably gained by ladders,
which could be afterwards drawn up if required. At Norton, Derbyshire, the
doorway of the tower, which is supposed to have been erected about A.D.
1300, is six feet from the ground, and was formerly reached by an external
staircase of stone[286]. Occasionally, the external door was absent altogether.
This was originally the case at Rugby church, the tower of which could be
entered only through the nave[287]. This tower, which dates from the
fourteenth century, is of square outline, and is devoid of buttresses. Its
loftiness is conspicuous, for it reaches a height of 63 feet. The windows are
narrow, and the lowest is twelve feet from the ground. Consider, again, the
little church of Swindon, near Cheltenham, with which the writer was once
very familiar. The tower is of hexagonal shape, and the walls are thick and
substantial. The only windows, a quarter of a century ago, were mere
loopholes, splayed without and within, and placed near the top of the
structure. A doorway on the North-East gave access to the tower; were this
entrance blocked, one could only gain admittance by an exterior staircase
on the West side.

Fig. 25. Oystermouth church, Glamorganshire, from the
South-West. The tower is less lofty than is usual with the
churches of Gower, but it has several “defensive”
features. It batters from the base, and has the
characteristic battlement. There are no buttresses, but a
flat staircase-turret will be noticed. Except the debased
West window, the openings are all of very insignificant
size.

The defensive tower, however, is perhaps seen at its best in South Wales.
In the district of Gower, in Glamorganshire, twelve out of sixteen towers
are believed to have been erected as much for defence as for beauty; each is
a stronghold as well as a campanile[288]. Generally these towers have no
buttresses, and frequently, as at Oystermouth (Fig. 25), they “batter,” or
slope a little from the base upwards. This battering is also met with in the
castles of South Wales. Again, the towers have an overhanging embattled
parapet, supported on corbels. Where exterior doors are now found, they are
usually later insertions. The original doors, where they exist, resemble those
of keeps in being situated some height from the ground. The tower, too,
opens into the nave as often by a mere doorway as by a belfry arch. Instead
of belfry windows, there are insignificant slits, and the rest of the wall is
quite blank, and destitute of architectural or decorative features. In short, as
Freeman expressed it, the essential military character of the towers is
stamped on every stone[289].
The churches of South Pembrokeshire are not less remarkable. The study
of these buildings is rendered more attractive because the area in which
they are found corresponds roughly with the territory occupied by the non-
Welsh folk of “Little England beyond Wales.” This fact may indicate a
period of severe struggles between the English and Norman intruders and
the earlier settlers, but not necessarily; since the Gower churches, at least,
would have to be explained somewhat differently. The raids of the
Norsemen upon the Pembrokeshire coast seem to have come to an end with
the eleventh century; hence dread of inland foes seems to have caused the
erection of these strong towers. Professor Freeman, who carefully
investigated the Pembrokeshire towers, and who wrote a painstaking
account of their architectural details, observed, “Every tower is a fortress,
designed to hold out as long as Zaragoza or Sebastopol[290].” Anyone who
has examined these churches, will, after making some deduction for the
literary form of expression, be prepared to endorse this opinion. Take, for
instance, the church of Gumfreston, near Tenby (Fig. 26), already known to
the reader through its medicinal spring (p. 95 supra). This sequestered
church is built on the inner slopes of that high ridge which, on the North,
overhangs the lovely vale of St Florence. Almost enclosed by trees, with
whose foliage the ivy-wreathed tower quietly harmonizes, the tall fabric is
approached unwittingly, so that, when the visitor reaches the gate of the
churchyard, the

Fig. 26. Gumfreston church, near Tenby, Pembrokeshire, a building with a defensive
tower.

picture calls forth a sudden exclamation of pleasure. A second and more
critical glance reveals the chief features of the tower. Its height, 65 feet, is
especially noticeable. Like other towers which we have met, it tapers a
little, and it is crowned with a battlement. Each of its five stories was
evidently devoted to a particular use. Freeman has noted them: a ringers’
chamber below, followed by stories which had windows looking towards
the North and East, then a room fitted up as a dovecot, and lastly the belfry
itself[291]. The date of the Gumfreston tower is fixed approximately at A.D.
1300. Of the Pembrokeshire series as a whole, Freeman says that they were
all built within “castle times,” and that they belong to “all manner of
centuries from the first to the last Harry[292].” He further considers that he
could discern preparations for habitation in “some of the vaulted
apartments.” The simple character of the Pembroke towers formerly led
many writers to assign them to a pre-Norman period, but this opinion is
now discredited. On the other hand, the evidence shows that they are not, as
a class, late Tudor buildings, as extremists in the contrary direction have
suggested.
A subtle objection is made that the towers may be simply imitations of
castellated architecture, and that the resemblance, being incidental and

unintentional, has no recondite significance. There is some degree of force
in the contention, because there must have been interaction of influence.
Thus, not only in semi-secular buildings, like the abbot’s barn of Bradford-
on-Avon (Figs. 43, 44, pp. 171, 173 infra), but also in castles and fortified
mansions, like that of Nunney (Fig. 27), do we meet with architectural
features which are usually associated with religious structures. Such details,
as a rule, are best seen in doors and windows, and they are in harmony with
the Gothic styles of their respective periods. Side by side with these
ornamental features, primitive arrangements for defence are retained, even
in the Tudor country mansions. In spite of this cross-influence it may be
observed that the defensive steeples occur just in those places where
defence

Fig. 27. Portion of Nunney Castle,
Somerset, a fortified manor-house, built
A.D. 1373-1400. The corner towers
probably served as peles. In the
windows (Decorated style) and in other
details, there is evidence of the
relationship between religious and
secular architecture.

would be required. Often, as at Gumfreston, the church was the only
building strong enough to give adequate security to human beings and to

portable property. Castles do not exist everywhere, neither, indeed, do these
sturdy towers; but the one group seems to be largely complementary to the
other. Exception has also been taken to the evidential value of the narrow
window openings. Mr Allcroft, while expressing agreement with the theory
that ecclesiastical towers were frequently employed for protection,
deprecates an appeal to these narrow slits as affording satisfactory
testimony[293]. He contends that the openings were made strait and were
provided with an inner splay to minimize draughts. That they would be
moderately efficient for this purpose may be conceded. Not only the
ordinary current of air, but the high gale, had to be foreseen and provided
against. Glazing the apertures was out of the question, in the early times
when glass was a costly article, especially in remote counties. But there is
another mode of approaching the question. What was the purpose of the
well-known “oillets” in buildings purely defensive? Even in primitive
warfare no tower was impregnable if it presented wide openings to the foe.
Arrows and slingstones would, under certain conditions, prove more swift
and deadly agents than fire itself. We may grant that the round-headed twin
aperture, with its single plain baluster-shaft in the middle, so familiar in the
late Saxon towers of England, was not avowedly of a defensive character.
That admission does not exclude a belief in the defensive value of the
narrow window. During the Perpendicular period a tiny battlemented
parapet was frequently used for the ornamentation of a capital or transom,
but such a practice does not negative the original use of the battlement in
fortification. Further it might be reasonably argued that the strait window-
opening was copied from secular strongholds because it originally served
one purpose in all cases. The point is not of prime importance, but it is
worthy of note that the narrow loophole continued to prevail after glass had
come into general use for church windows, and after bells had become
common. The price of glass was, therefore, not the deterrent. Again, the
bell-ringer would perhaps have actually welcomed a wider opening.
Whatever may have been the motive, we find that, from the Early English
period onward, the tiers of spire lights known as dormer window’s or
lucarnes, though mainly decorative in character, continued to be made very
narrow. On the other hand, these dormers were so arranged that one series
was placed, with respect to the group above or below, on alternate sides of
the spire. One fact remains; in towers which were designed to withstand

attack, the retention, if not the initiation, of the narrow type of opening,
suggests motives of strategy.
Before quitting the English towers it is well to note that the strength of
many of them was tested during the Civil War. In Devonshire alone, a
number of instances can be brought forward. The Parliamentary troopers
turned the towers of Powderham and Ottery St Mary into temporary
fortresses, while the Royalists annexed those of Tiverton, St Budeaux, and
Townstall[294]. In Wiltshire and Yorkshire, again, several churches were
used as shelter for men and horses. Thorold Rogers asserts that the
Royalists garrisoned the parish church of a Hampshire town, the name of
which, however, he does not give, and, thus protected, withstood a siege
and cannonade[295]. The reader will doubtless recall many instances in
which tradition tells of church walls battered by shot and shell. Making due
allowance for exaggeration, it must be admitted that folk-memory has a
sound basis in fact, and some, at least, of the damaged buildings may be
genuine illustrations of the effects of assault by artillery.
It is all but impossible to bid farewell to defensive steeples without some
reference to the famous round towers of Ireland. The disinclination to
ignore the subject is increased by the knowledge that these structures afford
collateral proof of the defence theory. For the best instructed modern
opinion pronounces them to be fortresses as well as belfries. These towers,
which have been the cause of an abiding controversy, are typically tall and
slender, and are surmounted by conical caps. Their height ranges roughly
from about 60 to 125 feet. The number of examples still remaining is given
as 76, and they are found exclusively in association with some early church,
or with some ecclesiastical settlement. The usual position is near the North-
West door of the church[296]. This fact alone indicates their connection with
early Christianity. A typical round tower, somewhat restored, is that of
Devenish, situated on an islet of the same name in Lower Lough Erne,
county Fermanagh (Fig. 28). In the vicinity is the ruined priory of St
Molaise, as well as several other ecclesiastical remains.

Fig. 28. Round tower of
Devenish, on Devenish Isle,
Lower Lough Erne, near
Enniskillen. Height, 84 feet;
doorway, 9 feet from the
ground; walls, 4 feet thick.
The windows approximately
face the Cardinal Points. A
string course will be seen
around the base of the
conical cap.

A gradual advance can be traced in the architectural style of the round
towers. The stages of their development were parallel to, and probably
contemporaneous with, those of the churches and oratories[297]. Three
periods of building have been distinguished. It is not until the beginning of
the tenth century, says Miss Eleanor Hull, that we find the towers
mentioned, and none can be dated earlier with certainty. They are later in
date than the churches built by St Columba at Raphoe, Kells, and
elsewhere, and they belong essentially to the period when the Northmen
made their attacks on Ireland. Nevertheless, they continued to be built until
the middle of the thirteenth century[298]. All these facts are of vast interest
when we recollect those Lincolnshire churches which, folk-memory tells us,
once served as refuges from the Danes.
Normally, the round tower contained three stories, and, like many of the
English towers before described, had the outside door placed high up in the
wall, so that it was accessible only by means of a ladder. Similarly, the

oratory of Kells has three small chambers, or attics, between its round
barrel vault and the outer pointed roof of stone; these chambers could be
reached only by the aid of a long ladder, and entered through a hole in the
inside roof. Viewed in comparison with the other buildings of the period,
the oratory represents a lofty structure. It has a highly pitched roof, and
receives no light save what is afforded by two small windows. This building
is assigned by Miss M. Stokes to the year A.D. 807[299].
In passing, we note that the round tower was probably developed from
the beehive hut, and became specialized for a definite purpose, which we
shall discuss in a moment or two. The beehive house, in its turn, was most
likely evolved from the wattled dwellings of the ruder aborigines of Ireland.
Professor A. C. Haddon cited authorities to show that the round towers
structurally betray their pagan design, by their retention of string-courses
which serve no useful object. The towers, he considers, are, in reality,
derived from primitive wicker huts, circular in plan, and of a somewhat tall
type[300].
We now inquire what purpose the towers were intended to serve. The
answer, though given with a fair degree of decisiveness to-day, has been
long in coming, and there still exists a minority of writers who dissent from
the orthodox view, and who favour other theories, some of which are of the
fantastic kind.
The earliest name given to the round tower, so far as is yet recorded, is
cloictech, or belfry (A.D. 948). Naturally, therefore, one is led to associate
the towers with bells; yet, seeing that only small hand-bells are believed to
have been in existence at that date, a large tower of masonry would not be
needed for their reception. Nor, again, would these small bells have been
well heard, when rung from the top of the tower, even by folk standing at
the base[301]. The insignificant windows of the earlier towers are, for some
unknown reason, usually near the floor. The later structures, it is true, have
windows near the top, facing different points of the compass. These
examples may have been used as belfries proper. Speaking generally, the
towers were, nevertheless, not belfries. Even could it be proved that, co-
eval with the towers, there existed a knowledge of bell-casting, that would
not settle the question, because there are no structural signs that bells were
ever hung, or rung, within the buildings. We may conclude, then, that the
towers were, in part, depositories for bells, though not themselves actually
bell-towers.

Dismissing a number of unsupported speculations, one by one, we are
finally shut in to the conclusion that the towers were originally defensive.
They were refuges for men, and storehouses for valuable property. This is
the verdict delivered by those who, like Miss M. Stokes and Miss E. Hull,
know the round towers best[302]. Mr G. T. Clark, in his early study of the
subject, thought that the towers were principally intended to receive bells,
and that their uses for refuge and storage were later adaptations. In after
years, he changed his opinion, and declared that what he had formerly
deemed the secondary purpose, was in reality the sole one[303]. A more
recent authority, Mr Francis Bond, has compared the round tower with the
Italian campanile, of which he considered it to be a local variety. But he
draws this great distinction: the Italian structure was built to receive bells,
and may afterwards have served for defence; with the builders of the Irish
towers, refuge was the primary idea, though, at a subsequent period, bells
were hung in the fortress. There remains an authority whose voice must be
heard with great respect. Mr J. Romilly Allen, while agreeing that the bells
of the early Celtic church were portable, and that they were rung by hand,
contends that the towers were erected to accommodate bells of a heavier
kind. Nevertheless, he admits that the Viking invasion gave an impetus to
the building of the towers[304]. This divergence from the modern view is
noteworthy, though if Mr Allen’s statement were restricted to the later
buildings, the theories would harmonize fairly well.
When the Northmen swooped down upon a district, priests and people
would hasten to the nearest tower. Thither the fugitives carried their most
precious possessions: manuscripts, relics, sacred vessels, and vestments.
Some objects of this kind may have been housed in the tower permanently.
Once gathered within their asylum, the inhabitants were comparatively
secure. They could hurl stones and other projectiles from the narrow
loopholes, while they themselves were safe from danger, at least, until relief
arrived. On the other hand, missiles thrown by the besiegers, either from the
hand or a catapult, would rarely hit the defenders inside. A successful
battery could not be made in a few minutes, and even firing the stone tower
was not a speedy mode of overpowering the refugees.
After the Danish incursions came to an end, the towers would still serve
as spy-places against native enemies, as “strongrooms” for protection
against thieves, and, probably, as we have seen, as bell-towers for raising
alarms. The pattern of the tower, moreover, would long survive its original

necessity. Summing up, we may say that the round towers were defensive
buildings, the use of which was mainly secular, but to some extent
ecclesiastical also. Perhaps we ought rather to say that the religious and the
secular uses were so blended that no demarcation could be made.
The round towers suggest to us parallel usages in England. The first
similarity is that of the detached church tower, which is not a rare feature in
our Gothic architecture. Selecting a few examples from a numerous list, we
notice the isolated tower of Walton, Norfolk; Berkeley, Gloucestershire;
Evesham, Worcestershire; and Ledbury, Herefordshire. The last-named
county supplies several instances, a fact not without interest, in view of the
geographical position. Bosbury tower, Hereford, is situated 60 yards from
the South side of the church; while that of Pembridge, which stands on an
eminence, is 25 yards distant from the main body of the building. As with
the hill-top churches, the peasantry generally have a tradition to explain the
anomaly. Thus, at Warmsworth, Yorkshire, two sisters, charitable, but
obstinate, are said to have made a bequest for the building of a church. Each
lady had chosen a site for the church; neither would give way. The fabric
was in consequence built in detached portions. The bells call the folk to
church in one direction, the congregation walks away to service in another.
Obviously, the ordinary folk-tales, as told nowadays, do not fully explain
the facts. In several cases, as at Wickes and Wrabness, in Essex, and at
Brookland in Romney Marsh, it is evident, from the size and construction
of the tower, that it was built, not for hanging bells, but for defence and
refuge. The English detached towers, it will be remarked, are usually
square, not circular. The round detached tower of Bramfield, in Suffolk, is
an exception, and there may be others.
The circular towers of East Anglia (Fig. 29) are only partially analogous
to those of Ireland. They belong to various styles from the Norman period
onwards, but they are, as just mentioned, attached, not free. Again, while
the Irish towers are round because of their development from primitive
structures of that shape, the English towers had their form determined by
the nature of the building materials available, flint and coarse rubble. Yet
there are points of resemblance also. The towers of Norfolk and Suffolk are
usually devoid of ornament or individuality. The windows, too, are
commonly found in the upper stories, and they face the Cardinal Points[305].
Many of the towers overlook the North Sea, and they were doubtless used
for posts of observation, if not as receptacles for treasure. The custom of

building defensive towers, whether square or round, in connection with the
church, was, as before indicated, probably a legacy from Danish times. But
danger did not cease with the piratical raids of the sea-kings. No one who
has not lived on the sea-coast, especially on the East or South coast of
England, can rightly appreciate the fears which beset maritime folk with
respect to invasion. We see the alarm translated into action at the time of the
Armada, during the Dutch Wars, and at the period of the Napoleonic
struggle, when the martello towers were built, nay, we witness its influence
in our own day.

Fig. 29. Rushmere church, Suffolk, with Early English
round tower. The upper portion has been rebuilt.

Of the three attached round towers still existing in the county of Sussex,
that of Piddinghoe (Fig. 30) deserves notice. The immediate explanation of
the form adopted by the builders is that the necessity of having stone quoins
was thus obviated. But if this be the sole reason, why are not such towers
more common in Sussex? Consider the facts. The church at Piddinghoe
stands on a natural platform, at a slight, but effective, elevation above the
adjacent river Ouse. The tower, built c. A.D. 1120, has the narrow, round-
headed windows of the period. One of these, facing West, is six feet from
the ground. There is no external doorway. At the time the church was
erected there seems to have been no other defensive building. One may
fairly suppose that the tower was used as a refuge against pirates and
invaders, who would have only a few miles to sail from the mouth of the
Ouse in order to reach the village. Another Sussex tower, a square structure

in this instance, that of East Dean (Fig. 31), probably served as a partial
defence of the rising ground above Birling Gap.

Fig. 30. Norman tower (c.
1120) of Piddinghoe
church, Sussex, seen
from the North-West
corner of the
churchyard. The tower
is built of squared flint,
and the short spire is
timbered.

In tracing the parallel which has been proposed, let us not lose sight of
the fact that the church of Mediaeval England was, as such writers as Canon
Jessopp have fully demonstrated, almost incredibly rich in priceless relics
and portable treasure. Chalices and basins and thuribles; jewelled crosses,
and candlesticks wrought out of precious metals; lanterns and bells;
vestments and girdles, brooches and buckles, these and many other
valuables, needed to be protected from theft. Large and important churches,
which possessed hoards of treasure, not uncommonly had a watchman who
spent the night in the sacred building. Sometimes he was provided with a
special chamber which was situated over the porch, sacristy or vestry[306].
The Cathedral church of St Albans, for instance, had a celebrated watching-
loft which was erected about the year A.D. 1400[307]. At Lincoln it was
considered sufficient for watchmen to patrol the Minster after nightfall. It

may be added that down to the sixteenth century, in such German cities as
Ulm and Frankfort-on-the-Main, watchmen lived in rooms constructed in
the church steeples. On the approach of strangers, or in times of alarm, the
watchman rang a bell, blew a horn, or fired a musket.

Fig. 31. East Dean church, Sussex, from the
North-West. The walls of the tower, possibly
pre-Norman, are very massive, about three feet
in thickness. An apsidal structure, the
foundations of which are still traceable, was
attached to the Eastern face of the tower.

Another detail which is germane to the question of resemblances and
contrasts, is concerned with the word “belfry.” We have seen that, from the
earliest time of which we have documentary evidence, the Irish towers were
called by a name which is equivalent to “belfry,” but that, notwithstanding,
the structures were not originally bell-towers. The English term “belfry,”
now, indeed, denotes a building for hanging bells, yet, contrary to popular
belief, the word has no etymological connection with the word “bell.” Sir
James Murray and Professor Skeat have collected irrefragable testimony
proving that the Middle English berfrey, and the Old French berfrei, in all
their various spellings, denoted a wooden tower, or pent-house, generally
movable, employed in besieging and defending fortresses. In due time the
word came to signify a watch-or beacon-tower, then an alarm tower, and,
finally, a bell-tower. The English form belfray, which seems to have misled
the earlier philologists, did not appear before the fifteenth century[308].
Hence we have this curious case of opposites: the Irish towers, at an early
date, possess a name which erroneously implies that they were merely bell-
houses, while the English steeples contained bells long before the bell-

chamber got the designation “belfry,” a word which became spuriously
connected with “bell.”
This review of the Irish towers and their possible analogues in England
must not further detain us, for we must hasten to consider another secular
use of the tower. Many English steeples were set up largely to serve as
beacons and landmarks, and, in fact, this purpose was doubtless kept in
mind even when the primary intention was defensive. Sometimes, the entire
building, rather than the steeple alone, was a landmark. Whitby Abbey
church, as is well known, is reached by ascending 199 steps from the old
town lying below in the valley of the Esk. The church is believed, with
good reason, to owe its prominent position to a desire, on the part of its
founders, to provide a lighthouse for storm-tossed mariners. Much the same
may be said of the parish church (St Mary’s) which stands on the cliffs hard
by. Again, comparing the small with the great, and choosing, for the sake of
emphasis, a towerless structure, let us take the tiny square chapel of St
Aldhelm (Fig. 32), which is perched on the summit of St Alban’s Head, in
Dorsetshire. This quaint chapel, with its vaulted roof, and its interesting
Norman doorway, has unfortunately been greatly restored. The buttresses
shown in the illustration are modern additions; they are not seen in old
engravings of the chapel. The building looks down on the waves, 440 feet
below, but, so fierce are the storms now and then, that the chapel is
drenched with spray and bombarded with small pebbles. Within, says
tradition, chantry priests were wont to offer prayers for the sailors in the
Channel, while a beacon light was burnt on the roof. And, truly, no other
explanation sufficiently accounts for the presence of the chapel in such a
remote position[309]. Perhaps a similar reason will apply to the
conspicuously placed church of Cheriton, near Folkestone (Fig. 33).

Fig. 32. St Aldhelm’s chapel, St Alban’s Head, Dorset; a
beacon for sailors.

A curious legend is told of St Botolph’s church, at Northfleet, in Kent.
The tower, originally set up, it seems, to guide ships coming up the Thames
estuary, proved too serviceable, for pirates found it an excellent beacon. It
was therefore thought fit, so the story runs, to make the tower look like a
fortress, and it was accordingly rebuilt by the villagers[310]. We notice that
there are steps leading from the churchyard to the first floor, so that one is
inclined to believe a portion of the story, at least. Whether, however, this
was a feature of the original design is uncertain.

Fig. 33. Cheriton church, Kent; an isolated hill-top
church, of Norman or pre-Norman foundation, built on
the edge of a steep hill overlooking the English
Channel. The site was probably chosen so that the

church would serve as a landmark for mariners and
wayfarers.

On Brent Tor, Devon, at a height of 1130 feet, there stands a little church
which overlooks the very edge of a precipice. The diminutive graveyard
contains a few mouldering tombstones. The building, which was probably
first set up during the Early English period, is, like so many others found on
eminences, dedicated to St Michael, the tutelary saint of churches so placed.
(Cf. St Michael’s Mount, Cornwall, with its former chapel and shrine (Fig.
34); Mont St Michel in Normandy, with its Benedictine Abbey; Mont St
Michel at Carnac, with its chapel, calvary, prehistoric tumulus, and pagan
legends.) The church was evidently intended as much for a landmark as for
a house of prayer. To explain its exalted position, local tradition relates that
a grateful merchant had a struggle with the Evil One concerning the site,
and that mastery remained with the trader. To ask why the merchant desired
to build in such an unfavourable situation is to supply at once the missing
link of the chain.

Fig. 34. St Michael’s Mount, Cornwall. The present
building on the top of the mount is almost entirely
modern, little of the original Priory church of St
Michael being traceable. In this church was the shrine
of the saint.

“Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona’s hold.”
Lycidas.

One may recall how, in the days when roads were execrably muddy, and
pathways across the boggy moorlands were intricate and difficult to follow,
it was customary to erect pillars, towers, and other guide-marks at suitable
spots. For instance, Dunston pillar, in Lincolnshire, was reared (A.D. 1751)
as a lighthouse to assist travellers in crossing the desolate, thief-ridden
expanse of Lincoln Heath. The practice of building such towers continued
until the nineteenth century, as is amply proved by the famous monuments
and towers of the Isle of Wight and Somersetshire. Often the first intention
has been lost, and the buildings are considered as mere prospect towers. It
must not, however, be inferred that the beacon towers were never used for
this last purpose, though the need of protection, and not pleasure, gave the
impulse. A conspicuous church tower would serve the same object as a toot-
hill. At Royston, near Barnsley, may be seen, below the belfry, on the West
side of the tower, an oriel window, supported by a long corbel. The recess
thus formed was locally called the “lantern” or “look-out,” and tradition
says that a light was formerly burnt within it[311]. The case of the tower of
St Nicholas, Newcastle, is especially instructive. It was furnished with a
“lantern,” and was valued as an inland lighthouse by wayfarers over the
moors. But the remarkable fact about the tower is that, from time
immemorial, it has been repaired by the Corporation of the city. Legal
opinion, to this very day, upholds the view of the liability of the
Corporation[312].
St Michael’s church, poised on the summit of an outlier of Inferior
Oolite at Glastonbury Tor (cf. p. 16 supra), in Somersetshire, was doubtless,
like so many other churches of that county, a day-mark for travellers. This
section may conclude with a notice of a building which is usually
considered solely as a “pilgrims’ church,” but which, I feel convinced, at
one time served also as an important beacon. The church referred to is that
of St Martha, Chilworth, near Guildford (Fig. 35). It stands on the top of a
Greensand hill (720 feet), and is, for many miles around, an outstanding
object, whether viewed from the distant heights or from the pleasant valleys
below. Common belief ascribes the foundation to the Mediaeval folk who
traversed the Pilgrims’ Way to Becket’s shrine at Canterbury. There can be
no question that pilgrims of those days would welcome such a church, both
as a landmark and as a temporary resting-place. The name of the church, St
Martha’s-on-the-Hill, is believed to be a perversion of “Martyr’s Church,”
the martyr being St Thomas of Canterbury. But the structure, though rebuilt

and modernized, has a foundation which dates somewhat earlier than the
year of Becket’s death. For this reason, and because of contributory local
tradition of a massacre of Christians, a high authority on church dedications
urges that the name should be “Martyrs’ Church,” and that the spot is
consecrated, not to one person, but to early Christians who suffered
there[313]. It should be noted, in passing, that St Martha’s is technically
called a chapel, but that it is really a church, as described above. It
possesses all the customary parochial rights, and is used for the usual
functions. Legally, the building is what is termed a “donative,” and is
independent of episcopal jurisdiction[314].

Fig. 35. St Martha’s chapel, near Guildford, Surrey.
The present cruciform building is a restoration
(1848) of the supposed “Pilgrims’ Church,” which
had fallen into a ruinous condition. The view is
taken from the South, a little to the East of
Chilworth station. The Tillingbourne stream is seen
in the foreground.

Leaving the tower, we come next to the nave of the church, and approach
an attractive study—one that has exercised the minds of many observers.
Why should the size of the nave be often so utterly disproportionate to the
congregation which it has to accommodate? Has the population changed
inversely to such an extent since the church was built? One might rashly
deem the riddle solved by a reference to acts enforcing conformity in
religion, or to the half-truth that “all persons went to church in those days.”
On rare occasions, perchance, the inhabitants did all go to church, at least
those who were neither infantile nor bed-ridden. But these explanations are

idle. Churches may be found, which, even if we allow that every adult in
the village was a regular churchgoer, could never at any time have been
quite filled at a purely religious service.
Various answers have been given to the troublesome query. At Thaxted,
in Essex, in whose church, as the natives say, all the parishioners might
comfortably be put to bed, the excess of accommodation is thought to be
explainable on the assumption that the builders provided for a growing
population. The general facts, however, are strongly against this notion.
William Cobbett, who will be admitted as a careful observer, though his
conclusions were frequently hasty, exemplified both his strength and his
weakness in discussing this subject. Over and over again, in his Rural
Rides, and his History of the Protestant Reformation, he calls attention to
churches, which, in his day, would hold three or four times the total number
of the inhabitants in the respective parishes. From these facts, he deduces
that the land in Mediaeval times supported a greater number of folk, and
that the villages were larger and much more densely populated. Other
writers, favoured with greater opportunities than were available to Cobbett,
have, nevertheless, been betrayed into the same error. But the population
theory is now so generally discredited, that it is unnecessary to rebut it
directly by an appeal to the estimated populations of the country during
each successive century. Besides, an estimated census of the population
during the Edwardian period, for instance, can never be more than
approximate, and may itself cause more controversy than the theory which
it is warranted to disprove.
The seemingly obvious answer to the puzzle of spacious churches is, as
so often happens, incorrect. The best refutation, perhaps, is afforded by
general principles, and by certain ascertained facts. These principles and
facts are bound up with what has been briefly called “the social theory of
Mediaeval Christianity.” What this theory implies will shortly appear. From
a slightly different point of view, the inordinate size of the nave directs us to
a period when secular and sacred departments of parish life were more
closely blended than they are to-day. Before developing this idea, however,
we must pause, else we shall find another hypothesis barring our way.
This latest hypothesis, and one which will command greatest attention
because of the high reputation of its advocates, might best be termed “the
devotional theory.” It may thus be stated: a large Mediaeval church was not
necessarily built for a large congregation, but it was, first of all, a

monument, freely raised, as a permanent expression of duty and devotion to
the Divine Father. Mr Francis Bond, who propounds this theory, is dealing
primarily with Westminster Abbey, but, from the context, it seems clear that
he supports a wider application. Here is an Abbey church, a huge building,
over 500 feet in length, and 100 feet in height; yet it was erected, as
documentary evidence proves, for a congregation which was normally
under sixty[315]. “It seems hardly conceivable,” remarks Mr Bond, “that it
could have been planned and built for pigmy man who walks beneath; it
seems not built for mortal man by mortal men; man is overpowered by his
own work[316].” No, this vastness had another purpose besides that of the
accommodation of worshippers—it was man’s tribute to the Unseen, his
attempt to symbolize the Eternal and the Infinite. For, indeed, at the Great
Sacrament, “the priest of the church officiated, congregation or no
congregation,” and in the village church all the choir that could be got
together, as a rule, consisted of the parish priest and the parish clerk[317]. A
congregation of two: yet, as Thorold Rogers observes, “it is certain that
villages with fewer than fifty or a hundred inhabitants possessed edifices
which would hold a congregation of five, or even ten times that
number[318].”
Does the “devotional theory” furnish a full explanation of the difficulty?
As befits one who has learned many valuable lessons when a student under
Mr Bond, and who has almost unqualified admiration for his teaching, I
criticize the theory with some misgiving. Yet, though Mr Bond’s solution is
probably correct, in the main, with respect to our cathedrals, minsters, and
abbey churches, it seems quite unsatisfactory for hundreds of parish
churches. All thoughtful students must, indeed, admit that the aesthetic and
devotional aspect of church architecture—its grandeur, its freedom, its
wealth of what was choicest in design and ornament, its sculpture, painting,
stained glass, and mosaic work—cannot be eliminated when considering
the question of size. These details are parts of a whole. Again, the daily
service, constantly observed until the Reformation, and, as recent
investigation has shown, probably never wholly discarded since that
event[319], was a duty undertaken, we may readily admit, irrespective of the
number of worshippers. The building was as magnificent and costly as
wealth or self-denial could make it. The resplendent vestments, the solemn
liturgy, and the beautiful music were the best that the age could produce.

So, too, the very vastness of the structure was a token that the founders
performed their work in no niggardly spirit of economy or time-saving:
“They dreamed not of a perishable home,
Who thus could build.”

It must be understood that, with respect to the populace, this description
is largely theoretical. In practice, such lofty sentiments would be confined
to picked leaders and their devoted adherents. Even with these churchmen,
ideals were often degraded, and always unattainable. Of the people in
general, it may be said that beneath a veneer of religion there existed an
amorphous mass of heathenism. The monks and parish clergy of remote
districts were not merely the pioneers of religion, but they represented the
outposts of civilization amid a population of semi-barbarians. But, in
architecture, it was the leaders who counted.
In spite of all these considerations, the argument from devotion appears
to be insufficient to meet the case, unless—an improbable event—the
secular uses of the nave, which are about to be described, were the results
of afterthought. Rightly to understand the problem, we must constantly
recollect two staple facts: first, that the early churchmen were ever ready to
adopt a compromise, and, secondly, that, especially during the Mediaeval
period, there existed a close relationship between the secular and the
religious aspects of social life. So many pieces of evidence have to be
colligated to explain the working of these two principles, that it is difficult
to make a beginning. But, since the question of compromise has already
been dealt with in Chapter I., we may chiefly confine ourselves to the
second point. On the whole, a start may best be made by reviewing the
meetings, other than those strictly concerned with worship, which were held
of old time in churches. Some of these meetings must have comprised far
more able-bodied men than were ever collected together for a strictly
religious celebration. In fact, a particular church may have had to shelter
not only the inhabitants of the parish, but also the dwellers in several
outlying parishes and hamlets. What business was it that gathered these folk
together?
When discussing pagan sites, we found that open-air courts, whether
territorial, or composed of members of a free community, commonly met
near some prominent landmark, natural or artificial (p. 34 supra). Of these
objects, megalithic monuments—particularly menhirs and stone-circles—

were much favoured. The stone-circles, as we saw, were in later days
gradually abandoned, and the members of the community assembled in the
churches. We should reasonably expect to discover evidence of overlapping
of custom, and this is what we actually find. For, at a date when gatherings
on mounds and within cromlechs are still sporadically recorded, we find
frequent references to courts held in churches. Thus, during the Saxon
period, trial by ordeal, which was deemed a religious transaction, was
conducted by the priests in the parish church[320]. So early as A.D. 973, says
Sir G. L. Gomme, a gemōt was held in St Paul’s, London, while in A.D. 1293
a court met in Norham church, Northumberland[321]. The County Court, a
very ancient body, presided over by the sheriff, was held in the Sheriff’s
Court, or the Manor Court, but, if these were not convenient, the members
assembled in the open air, or in the church[322]. The Welsh laws of the ninth
and tenth centuries frequently refer to churches as courts of justice[323].
Relics, it was declared, were unnecessary at trials held in churches, for the
church was the place of relics.
What is true of the Saxon and Norman times holds good for a somewhat
later period. At Ashburton, Devonshire, the annual courts of the manorial
lord met in the chapel of St Laurence, when such officials as the bailiff and
the port-reeve were elected[324]. The court leet, which, under the feudal
system, was charged with maintenance of the peace, and which had
jurisdiction over petty offences, frequently, as at Bolton, assembled in
church[325]. The Courts of the Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports also met in
a consecrated building[326]. Sometimes the business to be transacted was of
a trivial kind. At Alvingham, Lincolnshire, “the Commune of the servants
of the Ladye Nicholas,” or their “baylifes,” are bidden to meet in the
adjacent church of St Leonard, Cockerington, to appoint a day for mowing
grass in their common pasture[327]. But whether the matters to be
considered were light or weighty, the church seemed to be the natural
building for such gatherings. Hence, when Mr A. C. Benson, in one of his
delightful essays, speaks of the “great cruciform structures” of the Fens,
“built with no idea of prudent proportion to the needs of the places they
serve,” he does not take a comprehensive view of local requirements.
The course of events just sketched might have been anticipated.
Meetings in the open-air having been discontinued, where were the folk to
meet in council? There was a poverty of suitable buildings. Long ago
Fergusson remarked on “the almost entire absence of municipal buildings

during the whole of the Middle Ages[328].” The short list of notable
examples which he was able to bring forward served to make the general
absence more striking. A few guild halls and town halls make up the
catalogue for the cities; the smaller towns have little to show of this kind.
There is consequently a basis for the belief, expressed by some writers[329],
that the use of churches as courts of justice was “universal in feudal
England.” The assertion is doubtless too general, but, if for the word
“universal,” we read “widespread,” it would be quite correct. The case of St
Nicholas, Newcastle—a church to which allusion has already been made (p.
131 supra)—supplies a noteworthy example of this usage. For centuries the
burgesses met in that church for public business. In the tower hung a bell,
known as the “common bell,” which was tolled on these occasions. Three
times a year it also summoned the freemen to their guild meetings, when a
sermon was preached by the Lord Mayor. This bell had another name, “the
thief and reever bell” (reever = freebooter, cattle-robber); tradition says that
it announced the holding of fairs, and gave warning to drovers and dealers
that no inconvenient questions would be asked concerning the beasts which
they had for sale[330].
In view of the foregoing facts, surprise need not be provoked by the
statement that consistorial courts were commonly held in places of worship.
If it be urged that much of the business of these courts pertained strictly to
religion, it may be answered that a still greater proportion was distinctly
secular[331]. At Ripon, for example, where the collegiate church was the
place of assembly, the ecclesiastical courts took cognizance of cases of
perjury, theft, defamation of character, debt, affiliation, and so forth. A
similar court sat in the “galilee” (porch, vestibule, or ante-chapel) of
Durham cathedral[332]. The most famous of our consistories, the Court of
Arches, derived its name from the characteristic architecture of the church
of St Mary-le-Bow, London, where it was originally held[333]. The trials of
Lollards and other heretics were usually held in cathedrals or important
churches[334], but these instances must not detain us, since they belong
chiefly to the religious field of action. Yet it is really a hard task to decide
where the line of cleavage runs. The bishop in his cathedral, and the abbot
in his abbey-town, were, as Mr J. C. Jeaffreson has observed, in many
respects comparable to the lay baron or the wealthy manorial lord.
Administering large estates, these dignitaries often had an army of tenants,
from whom fealty was exacted. The business transactions connected with

the property must have been somewhat numerous, and, from their very
nature, they were constantly recurring. It may call forth wonder nowadays
to specify some of the curious possessions once held by the Church. The
Gate House, the chief prison in Westminster, belonged to the Dean and
Chapter, and the town gaol of Salisbury to the bishop of that city[335]. Of the
stocks and whipping post we shall have to speak later. Enough has been
said to prove that secular courts, as well as justices’ sessions, formerly met
in churches. The practice, it may be added, continued, to some extent, long
after the Reformation. The persistence of some of the legal vestiges is
indeed really amazing. Not only, as Mr Addy informs us, was the ancient
order of serjeants-at-law wont to meet in the nave of old St Paul’s, to meet
clients in consultation, but each serjeant actually had a pillar allotted to him.
This rendezvous was known as Paul’s Walk. Down to a late period, certain
executors met annually in St Mary’s church at Bury St Edmunds, for the
auditing of their accounts.
But custom was never uniform with respect to these assemblies within
sacred buildings. Contemporaneously with the use, in some parishes, of the
church fabric for meetings, we find other villages where the churchyard was
the rallying-place. Several causes may have conduced to these results. The
church may have been too small; there may have been a quarrel with some
strict incumbent; more frequently, there was a dispute about the
interpretation of a prohibitory canon. Indeed, records show that the practice
was always being condemned, and always being continued. Thus, during
the reign of Henry II., the old port-moot of the burgesses of Oxford met in
St Martin’s churchyard[336]. Meetings in church were forbidden at the
Synods of Exeter and Winchester (A.D. 1287)[337]. Yet, in A.D. 1472, the
inhabitants of two Yorkshire parishes were reported to the Archbishop of
York for holding councils in the churchyard. (“Dicunt quod omnes
parochiani tenent plebisitum, et alias ordinaciones temporales, in ecclesia
et cimiterio[338].”) Nevertheless, in the sixteenth century, we find that one of
Laud’s unpopular acts was his attempt to stop the practice of holding lay
tribunals in consecrated places. At Tewkesbury, in particular, the townsfolk
deemed this a grievance. Armed with a licence from the bishop, and
shielded by ancient custom, the justices of the peace had long held their
sessions in the churchyard. For these acts, the primate called some of the
justices into the High Commission Court. When challenged, Laud was
obliged to confess that temporal courts might be held on consecrated

ground or within the church upon urgent occasion, yet there was no warrant
for sessions which might involve a “trial for blood[339].” Sir G. L. Gomme,
who has collected many instances of the custom which we are discussing,
cites authority to show that, in recent times, the stewards and bailiffs of a
leet would occasionally, in bad weather, disregard the canon and hold their
courts in churches[340].
As the practice of holding manorial courts in the church fell into
abeyance, or died out altogether, certain vestiges were left behind as tell-
tales of the past. The principal survival of this kind was the announcement
from the pulpit of forthcoming meetings of secular courts. In A.D. 1656, the
notice convening the Court Baron of Hathersage, Derbyshire, was published
in the village church[341]. But there are later instances of the transaction of
business within the sacred walls. Several cases are given by Mr and Mrs
Sidney Webb, whose untiring researches deal with the period which has
elapsed since the Revolution (1689-1835)[342]. Thus, the villagers of
Puxton, Somerset, down to the year 1816, were summoned to church by
“sound of bell,” in the early morning, to perform business connected with
Dolmoors Common. Of this land, we are told, 23 parts were assigned by
drawing lots, the remaining, or twenty-fourth part, known as the “Outdrift”
or “Outlet,” being let by auction, by “inch of candle.” The rent of this plot
was employed to defray the incidental expenses of the twelvemonth. This
ancient custom was terminated, in the year mentioned, by an award under
the Enclosure Act which was passed in 1811[343]. Records of this character
could doubtless be easily paralleled by those students who have access to
parish documents. For, speaking generally, at the close of the seventeenth
century, the inhabitants at large had, both by common law and immemorial
local custom, the right to be summoned, by tolling of the bell, to transact
specific business in the vestry of the church. This claim held good not only
for the Easter “vestry,” but for such other “town meetings” as might be
judged necessary. Manifestly, these “open” vestries could not always be
accommodated in the small side-rooms with which we are familiar—the
nave must have been utilized. Within the sacred building, officers were
elected, church rates made, and miscellaneous matters, such as those
connected with commons, pasturage, and the parish pound, were
settled[344]. The old name of these assemblies, by the way, seems to have
been “town meeting,” yet the name “vestry” goes back to A.D. 1564, at least.

The summoning bell bore the significant name of mote-bell, and it was rung
for half an hour[345].
It has been affirmed, by H. R. von Gneist, that the open parish vestry
was almost unique in England, since, besides the House of Commons, it
was the only popular assembly which had the right to impose compulsory
taxation. Yet, according to Mr and Mrs Webb, the legal framework was
slight, and the proceedings were “supported with some dubiety[346].” Again,
it was argued by Professor Maitland and Bishop Hobhouse that the vestry is
not traceable before the fourteenth century—the name itself, as we have
seen, is apparently later—that it belonged to the parish, not the township,
that it was “a purely ecclesiastical entity,” and that churchwardens are
officials of comparatively modern institution. In short, the authorities
mentioned considered that the germ of the vestry was ecclesiastical, though
its civil power may have sprung from the decay of the manorial courts[347].
It is further considered that it was only during the reign of Henry VIII. that
churchwardens were entrusted with civil functions, such as providing arms
or harness for soldiers[348] (cf. p. 157 infra). In later times, even within
living memory, we have had the so-called “close” vestries. Usually, a close
vestry consisted of the clergyman, the squire, three or four farmers, the
miller, the innkeeper, and a freeholder or two. Mr and Mrs Webb pertinently
remark that, if one’s imagination is greatly swayed by the idea of the close
vestry, it will be difficult to picture the assemblies which met in past ages.
We must conceive an assembly composed of numerous and diverse
constituents, and endowed with various powers. Here, then, we get a ray of
light on the theory of social convenience as affecting the church fabric.
We may remind ourselves, as we go along, that vestries are still held in
our English parishes, and that they meet in the room attached to the church
fabric. But their powers are now confined to ecclesiastical matters. Other
business, such as the control of parish property, and the management of
civil charities, was, by the Local Government Act of 1894, transferred to the
Parish Councils. And this mention of the stripping away of secular powers
leads us to ask, Were the original vestries, which Professor Maitland
deemed purely ecclesiastical, so entirely restricted to church matters as at
the present day? Probably not, because, as we have seen, the secular and the
ecclesiastical were, in some measure, inextricably united. Even supposing,
then, that the open vestry did not rise from the ruins of the old village-moot,
it must have partially dealt with secular affairs. The simple fact, however,

which affects the present discussion is that the old parish meetings were,
like the modern vestry, held within the walls of the church.
Another derivative from the era of church assemblies is the custom of
electing mayors within the sacred building. Formerly, the mayors of
Sandwich, Boston, Northampton, Grantham, and other towns were chosen
in the parish church[349]. Sometimes, not only was the election conducted in
church, but the function was performed around a particular tomb. This was
the case with the mayor of New Romney and the bailiff of Lydd, in
Kent[350]. At Brightlingsea, Essex, the place of election was the belfry.
Still another survival, eloquent even in its insignificance, is the practice
of posting secular notices on church doors. When one sees, affixed to the
door, bills referring to such subjects as regimental orders or government
commissions, and when one watches the villager scanning the list of
parliamentary voters, it is easy to dismiss the matter by saying, “Oh! the
notices are posted there because the place is public and known to all;
besides, the Church is established by law.” Doubtless, such ideas are often
present in the mind of the overseer or parish clerk when he pins the bill on
the door, but inquiring folk want to know more. If the query be closely
pressed, the response may be that the door of the porch is not considered a
part of the fabric. For this explanation there is an appearance of reason, but,
after all, the reply is inadequate. The fact that the baptismal service, and a
portion of the marriage service, were often performed in the church porch,
shows that the structure was recognized as a part of the hallowed building.
It is true that, in France, one may observe “affiches” posted inside the
cathedral, because the porch is deemed a part of the exterior, and notices
which are placed in the latter position must be stamped, and the duty paid.
How the idea has arisen it would be difficult to say with certainty. But there
is one feature which the French and English buildings have in common. The
porch was pre-eminently the spot for discussing parish business, because it
formed a convenient shelter and halting place for the worshippers. It was a
focus of attraction to gossips and traders alike. The real reason, then, behind
the tradition, is, not so much that the porch was a kind of no-man’s land—a
neutral territory—but that it was a most appropriate rallying point for the
transaction of business. To this subject we shall return in the next chapter.
The retention of the Royal Arms in churches has been supposed by Mr
Addy and other writers to be a secular survival. Mr Addy suggests,
inferentially, that the practice is a relic of the “basilica-temple” period[351].

But, in the first place, the symbol does not seem traceable to the old civil or
ecclesiastical courts. It is true that the Royal Arms may be seen on stained
glass, and, occasionally, on priestly vestments of the pre-Reformation
period. Again, in Spanish churches, the Arms are displayed at the present
time, sometimes even over the altars. Further, although the symbol began to
be exhibited in special tablets or frames almost immediately after the death
of Henry VIII., it was not until the Restoration that the suspension of the
Royal Arms was made compulsory[352]. While it is clear, therefore, that the
symbol has no necessary connection with Protestant reformations, it seems
to be straining the facts too far when one tries to carry the practice back to
the early centuries of the English Church. It is essential, too, to remember
that Royal Arms, as we understand them, did not exist in the pre-Conquest
period. There remain, however, more authentic relics of the union of secular
and ecclesiastical affairs which must be reserved for the present, since it is
high time to consider another aspect of the question. To do this properly, we
shall require a separate chapter.

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.

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

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

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.

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].

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

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.

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,

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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.

CHAPTER V

THE ORIENTATION OF CHURCHES

Orientation, as the word is commonly understood nowadays, may be
described as the principle, and practice, according to which a sacred
building or other object is set in an East-to-West line. In speaking of a
Christian church, there is implied further that the altar is normally placed at
the Eastern end of the building. The word “orientate,” it is hardly necessary
to say, comes primarily from the Latin oriri, to rise, the reference being, of
course, to the sun. To get one’s bearings with respect to the East was
therefore naturally called “orientation.” There is a more general
signification when the word is employed scientifically: thus, the crystals in
a mass of rock may be orientated, and not necessarily to the East. There is
also a broader usage of the term, mostly of literary interest, which merely
conveys the sense of determination of one’s position, physically or
mentally, so that even theories and opinions may be orientated, honestly or
disingenuously, by their advocates. Under this definition, moreover, a
building may be orientated, and yet the chief part need not face the
geographical East. But it has been conjectured that there was also a
Mediaeval Latin word, orientare, which specifically meant “to set towards
the East,” and thus arose the fuller and more precise connotation familiar to
the modern antiquary[483]. From the Mediaeval term we get our verb “to
orientate,” which, like the briefer and more usual term, “to orient,” implies
the setting out of a church East to West, with the altar towards the East of
the edifice. Merely premising that there is an orientation of graves as well
as of buildings, we will proceed to consider the case of churches only.
The most heedless observer must have noticed the main facts. The choir
or chancel of a cathedral or parish church faces East, while the nave runs
towards the West. The exceptions form a trifling minority. Casting about for
an explanation of these exceptions, it will be found that the buildings which
infringe the rule are usually modern, or that the exigencies of space
permitted no alternative, or that there has been a spirit of opposition
manifested of set purpose. Let us first notice a few examples where the rule
is broken. The small, modern church of Well, Lincolnshire, is indeed built

East and West, but the altar is situated at the West end. Eastville church, in
the same county, runs North and South, its altar being towards the
South[484]. St Mary Major, Exeter, which lies to the West of the cathedral, is
alined North-East and South-West, but the alteration was probably made in
1866, when the church was rebuilt. The original building was of Norman
date[485], and would scarcely be out of line. St Paul’s, Covent Garden, built
by Inigo Jones in 1633, and rebuilt at the close of the eighteenth century,
has its axis about 30° North of the East-to-West line, but the altar stands at
what must be called the “East” end of the church. St John’s, Chatham,
another church which transgresses the principle, was erected in the years
immediately preceding the Oxford Movement, at a time when the practice
of orientation had grown lax[486]. Several Georgian churches in the
Paddington and Marylebone districts are out of line, while, strange to tell, a
Primitive Methodist Chapel in Seymour Place, hard by, is properly
orientated[487]. The fact is noticeable, since the custom is not widely
observed by Nonconformists. Camden church, Peckham, is built askew, but
that is doubtless owing to its founders having consisted of a coalition of
Nonconformists and dissatisfied churchmen from the mother parish of
Camberwell. In the Georgian era, as is well known, there was general
slackness: fonts were often placed in the North and South aisles, ornaments
were neglected, brasses stolen, documents mislaid and misused. To this
period of slovenly treatment can be traced the anomalous alinement of St
George’s, Bloomsbury. The Eastern recess having proved too small to
receive an altarpiece which had been presented by the Duke of Bedford, the
main axis of the church was, as it were, turned through an angle of 90°, and
it is now arranged almost North and South, the original chancel being
represented by a baptistery[488].
Other churches which do not conform to the usual plan are St Edmund
the King, Lombard Street, and Immanuel church, Streatham Common (altar
at Western end). A number of French examples might also be given, but
even were it possible to compile an exhaustive list, it would only weary the
reader.
Roman Catholic churches are sometimes found to have unorthodox
alinements, but not so generally as is commonly believed. Frequently, the
so-called lack of orientation simply means that the position of the altar is
reversed. Thus, St George’s Cathedral, in Westminster, like St Peter’s at
Rome, has its altar at the West end. But since the axis in these cases, as in

that of the little Anglican church at Well, previously mentioned, lies East
and West, I prefer to consider these churches as not fundamentally violating
the rule. To this matter we must presently return. It has been asserted, and
afterwards stoutly denied, that disregard of orientation, with respect to the
Eastern altar, is a feature of the churches of the Jesuits[489].
A goodly number of modern churches owe their incorrect alinements to
the limitations of shape, slope, and area of the ground on which the
buildings are placed. Thus, while the old parish church of Hornsey,
Middlesex, stands correctly, the new building is sadly discordant. This
variation is caused by a corresponding difference in the long axis of the
rectangular plot on which it is built. The axis of the Roman Catholic church
of the English Martyrs at Streatham, again, is in marked disagreement with
that of the Anglican parish church hard by; a glance at the manner in which
the former edifice is wedged in seems to supply the reason. Whether the
North-to-South line of the Church of the Oratory, Brompton, is to be so
explained, is more uncertain. Of ancient English buildings which do not
orientate, the classic example is found at the Cistercian Abbey of Rievaulx,
Yorkshire. A steep bank on the one side of the church, and a river on the
other, necessitated an axis from North to South.
Then we have to deal with churches designedly mis-built. The Puritan
Sir Walter Mildmay, founder of Emmanuel College, Cambridge, built the
original College chapel North and South, as a protest against superstition,
and in marked derogation of catholic usage (A.D. 1584). This action led
Evelyn to speak of “that zealous house” which was “reformed ab
origine[490].” The Cambridge example is serviceable as showing the
approximate date when early tradition began to be defied.
To-day, except through pure carelessness on the part of architects or
builders, the Church observes the broad rule, both with respect to the axis
and the Eastward altar. One or two critical instances will render this
evident. When, in India, under the first Bishop of Calcutta, Dr Middleton
(A.D. 1814-22), the question arose whether the chancel of a church should
not face the city of Jerusalem, it was decided to build towards the East, and
leave the sacred city out of account[491]. Again, it was mooted, a few years
ago, whether churches situated in, and West of, the diocese of Honolulu in
the Sandwich Islands (157° 53´ W.), should not have occidentation, rather
than orientation, and the verdict was that the chancel should point to the
rising sun[492]. Someone has remarked, in this connection, that in crossing

to another hemisphere, the Northern and Southern points may be said to
change values[493], but this does not affect the question of orientating from a
given place on a fixed meridian. Moreover, since Honolulu lies 21° North
of the Equator, it is outside this consideration altogether.
Although, as just stated, the modern builder follows the rule, he appears
to lack precision in his methods. This opinion has been expressed in private
letters to the writer from such high authorities as Professor Reginald
Blomfield, Mr H. Phillips Fletcher, and Mr P. Mainwaring Johnston. Mr
Johnston says that even in the matter of inserting the points of the compass
on architectural drawings there is greater laxity than was formerly the case.
The builder seems often to rely on a small portable compass, which
frequently is not corrected for the variation of the needle.
By way of parenthesis, it may be noted that the lodges of Freemasons
were formerly orientated, and, although the rule is not always now followed
in towns, where meeting places are numerous, yet the house of assembly is
still called Orient, and, in the case of a grand lodge, Grand Orient. The
explanation is that the Freemasons claimed to be descended from the old
ecclesiastical builders[494]. From the annals of Freemasonry we can also
gather valuable information concerning the alinement of churches. In some
of the Scotch lodges, there are said to exist documents which describe the
actual method pursued. The site of the altar having been decided upon, a
pole was thrust into the ground, and a day appointed for the building to be
commenced. “On the evening previous, the Patrons, Ecclesiastics, and
Masons assembled, and spent the night in devotional exercises: one being
placed to watch the rising of the sun, gave notice when his rays appeared
above the horizon. When fully in view, the Master Mason sent out a man
with a rod, which he ranged in line between the altar and the sun, and thus
fixed the line of orientation[495].”
Wordsworth refers to the ceremony in the following stanzas (he is
alluding to the rising of the sun):

“He rose, and straight—as by divine command,
They, who had waited for that sign to trace
Their work’s foundation, gave with careful hand
To the high Altar its determined place;
Mindful of Him, who in the Orient born,
There liv’d, and on the Cross His life resign’d,
And who, from out the regions of the morn
Issuing in pomp, shall come to judge mankind[496].”

In passing, it will be noticed that Wordsworth seems to attach importance to
the fact that the Nativity took place in the East, as if that were the reason for
orientation.
Having seen that, in our day, the custom agrees faithfully with a
formulated tradition, we will go back, and, pursuing the link-to-link
method, strive to ascertain the origin of the idea. There existed a sound
tradition in A.D. 1584, for, as already stated, Sir Walter Mildmay deliberately
broke with it. A French example will help to carry us on our way. During
the fourteenth century the church of Saint-Benoît, in Paris, had its grand
altar turned towards the West, and hence bore the nickname of Saint-
Benoît-mal-Tourné, i.e. “Sanctus Benedictus male versus.” The church was
rebuilt during the reign of Francis I. (A.D. 1515-47), when the altar was
made to face East. The name, says M. L’Abbé Migne, was consequently
changed to Saint-Benoît-le-Bétourné, which the narrator claims as the
equivalent of “Bene versus[497].” It has been questioned whether bétourné
does not really mean mal-tourné[498], but the point to be noticed is, that
orientation, in the fuller sense, was recognized in the early sixteenth
century, and that even in the fourteenth, a true alinement was observed,
though the altar was placed at the wrong end. M. L’Abbé Migne, indeed,
asserts that orientation in France is known to date from the eleventh century
at least[499]. Yet, in modern times, the French practice has become very
uncertain, and numerous instances might be given of North-to-South
alinements.
William Durand, commonly known under his Latinized name, Durandus,
who was born in Provence, in A.D. 1237, has some interesting remarks on
orientation. Following St Isidore, he connects the word temple with
contemplate, a kinship which recent lexicographers do not discountenance.
While “contemplating,” the worshippers must look towards the East, and
Durandus lays down the rule that the exact position should be determined at

the equinox. This would ensure that the sections of the building to the right
and left of the true East-and-West line should be equal. Thus would the
Church Militant show that she behaved herself with moderation, a virtue
not symbolized when the median line is taken at the solstice[500].
Dr Daniel Rock asserts that the Saxons built their churches East-and-
West, and numerous instances might readily be given to substantiate his
statement. A specific example is cited by Dr Rock himself. Wolstan, monk
of Winchester (A.D. 990), speaks of a church built by Bishop St Ethelwold
(b. A.D. 908, d. 984) as pointing to the East. Like Durandus, Dr Rock
favoured the equinoctial East, and urged that, in cases where the site was
unfavourable, the East-and-West line should be approached as nearly as
possible. The chancel should face South-East rather than North-West,
assuming that the axis must run in that line[501]. This principle was formerly
undoubtedly considered binding. Brand, quoting from a history of
Birmingham, tells how St Bartholomew’s chapel, in that city, “veres toward
the North,” because the ground space would admit of no other position. In
planning St John’s chapel, Deritend, Birmingham, the architect was so
anxious to catch the Eastern point, that he lost the line of the street, hence
the writer humorously adds that the designer sacrificed to the East[502].
Another instance of an attempt to keep in harmony with Mediaeval
teaching, is seen at Hornsey new church (p. 207 supra), which has its
chancel at the Southern end, in preference to the Northern.
Granting that the Saxon churches show orientation, we are led to
suppose that the idea goes back still earlier, and this is confirmed by facts.
In the “Apostolical Constitutions,” a document dating probably from the
latter part of the fourth century, it is ordained that the churches are to be
built oblong, with the head to the East, and the congregation is directed to
pray Eastward[503]. So early as A.D. 472, there was a tradition that the
Apostles turned towards the East in prayer[504]. Leo I., in A.D. 443, is found
condemning the people for bowing to the rising sun as they stood on the
steps in the Court of St Peter’s[505]. St Basil, who flourished in the middle
of the fourth century A.D., alludes distinctly to the custom of turning
towards the East in prayer[506]. Several early writers might be quoted for
corroborative testimony on this point. The fourth Provincial Council of
Milan (A.D. 1576), speaks of the practice of orientating churches as being
usual and in accordance with tradition (antiquus mos et probata traditio)
[507]. Thus there is cumulative evidence, fairly satisfactory in character, of

deference paid to the Eastern position, practically from the time when the
Christians began to build their own churches[508].
Certain pronouncements to the contrary, which, if accepted, are
calculated to weaken the force of these arguments, and to modify our views
on the general question of orientation, must not be withheld. For example,
Walcott asserts that orientation has never been a law of the Church, and that
it has probably an Eastern origin. He also points out that, in Rome, the
entrance to a Christian place of worship was frequently at the East, and that
the priest at the altar faced the people[509]. The Romano-British church
discovered at Silchester (see p. 23 supra) must be noted as an instance of
this kind of ground plan. This “basilica,” as proved by the foundations, had
a Western apse, and presumably, therefore, a Western altar, the entrance
being towards the East. Fergusson, in his Illustrated Handbook of
Architecture, affirms that orientation is wholly a peculiarity of Northern or
Gothic races, and that the Italians never knew or practised the custom; it is
found only where the inhabitants of an Italian district had been largely
superseded by Gothic peoples[510]. Professor Baldwin Brown, again, asserts
that “the Church of early times generally, and the Church of Rome
throughout,” were indifferent to the practice of orientation. A fourth writer,
whose opinion carries great weight, Professor E. B. Tylor, deals with Jewish
influence, and concludes that it was scarcely effective in establishing the
principle of orientation in the course of European history. He is rather of
opinion that the rise of the Christian custom is sufficiently accounted for by
Asiatic sun-worshippers, such as the Persians. The rite of orientation, he
considers, was unknown to primitive Christianity, and was developed
within its first four centuries[511].
Let us examine these statements. That orientation has never been a law
of the Church may be literally true. I can find no such obligation recorded
in works like Sir R. Phillimore’s Ecclesiastical Law. Yet Dr Rock refers to
an authority, “one deeply read in liturgical lore,”—Bellotte, who
pronounced him guilty of mortal sin who wilfully built a church which was
not directed towards the East[512]. Again, Mgr Barbier de Montault, while
regretting that the canonists no longer make orientation rigorously
compulsory, observes that the rule, all the same, remains prescribed in the
rubric of the Missal (“qui n’en reste pas moins inscrite dans la rubrique du
Missel”)[513]. Above this, the evidence already adduced shows that the rule

has had a very general acceptation in England since the Saxon period at
least.
The churches of Rome, and indeed, of Italy as a whole, are admittedly
irregular in their adherence to strict orientation. Yet even these churches
largely conform to the principle, in its wider sense of East-to-West
alinement. Very frequently, however, the second, and perhaps almost
equally important part of the principle is ignored, that is, the altar is placed
at the Western end, instead of at the Eastern. St Peter’s itself supplies a
good example of this arrangement; other instances are found in St John
Lateran, San Paolo fuori le Mura, and Sta Maria Maggiore. In these
churches, now often called basilicas, the entrance is at the East, and the
sanctuary at the West[514]. Out of fifty early churches in Rome examined by
Mr G. G. Scott, forty were found to have the sanctuary at the West; of the
remaining examples, “there are only seven which appear to have retained
their original form and which have an Eastern sanctuary[515].” Of the forty
churches just mentioned, as of some later ones, it must be noted that the
alinement is by no means true East-to-West, hence the epigram of the
French wit: “Tout système d’orientation peut trouver son modèle à Rome.”
To leave the matter here would nevertheless convey a false impression. It
is credibly asserted that, in the cases where the altar is at the Western
extremity, the celebrant faces the East, thus taking the same relative
position personally as when, under a reverse arrangement, he turns his back
on the congregation[516]. If, then, the axis of the church be situated East-to-
West, and if the prayers be offered towards the East, orientation cannot be
truly said to be neglected: the relative dispositions of portico and altar
become secondary considerations.
Dr Rock, with a manifest anxiety to reconcile the diversity of practice in
Rome, submitted, as an explanation, that isolated basilicas (= Christian
churches) grew up over narrow, lonely pagan grottos, or the graves of
martyrs, or sprang out of the halls of patrician converts[517]. That many of
the anomalous alinements may be thus accounted for is probable, but too
much must not be made of this method of harmonizing contradictions.
Other writers, like Fergusson, have urged that the church was a basilica, or
court of justice adapted to Christian worship. The word “basilica,” by the
way, is said not to have been used by writers or architects of Byzantine
times[518]—a significant detail, if correct (cf. p. 151 supra). For it is
contended that there is, in Rome, no well-authenticated instance of the

conversion of any pagan forensic basilica into a Christian church, though
there are abundant examples of pagan temples which became Christian
sanctuaries[519]. The actual secular basilicas would generally be still
required, and still employed, century after century, for the transaction of
legal business; the heathen temples, now useless for their original purpose,
would be adapted and consecrated by the teachers of the new faith. The
Christians most likely copied the basilican type of building for their
meeting-places because it offered the simplest and most economical plan of
accommodating an immense body of worshippers[520].
An attempt has been made to evolve order out of chaos by supposing
that, during the early days of the Church, in some parts of the Empire, the
priest stood on the Western side of the altar, namely, the side remote from
the people, and that, during the celebrations, he looked towards the East,
over the heads of the worshippers. The body of the church thus lay to the
East of the sanctuary, and the altar was interposed between priest and
congregation. At a later date, for some unassigned reason, the priest
changed his position with respect to the altar, and stood with his back to the
people, hence the ground-plan of the building was modified, so that the
main entrance was fixed at the West, and the sanctuary at the East[521]. Thus
the Eastward position of the priest was the essential feature, not the position
of the altar in the church.
Fergusson’s dictum concerning the churches of Italy, however, need not
be accepted without demur. It has been endorsed by writers like Sir E.
Beckett (Lord Grimthorpe)[522], but is considered by others to involve
overstatement. Fergusson himself admits that, while it is only by accident
that we find the rule observed in Pisa, Bologna, and Ferrara, yet in more
Northerly (“German”) cities like Milan and Verona, the orientation will be
found correct nine times out of ten[523]. He accounts for the absence of
orientation in the three first-named cities by supposing that in them the
original population was not submerged by “Gothic races.” Whatever may
be the precise meaning which Fergusson attaches to this phrase is of little
moment, for it is fairly certain, as we shall soon see, that the principle was
put into practice by peoples to whom the term could by no licence be
applied. Therefore, at any rate, the custom was not, as he believes, wholly a
feature of the Gothic builders. Let us recall the fact that seven out of fifty
early churches in Rome are carefully oriented. Link this with the fact that
many other ancient churches in that city are more or less accurately alined,

and the conclusion is clear that the direction of the median line was rarely
left to chance. This verdict is confirmed by an examination of early
Romanesque churches elsewhere. In Auvergne, for instance, the present
writer ascertained, by a careful use of the compass, that oriented churches
were very common, yet Gothic influence has not, even in our day,
penetrated that region to any considerable extent.
Professor Tylor’s opinion that the Jews exercised little influence on the
development of the custom among the early Christians, claims great respect
and attention, because of the high authority which he deservedly possesses.
Yet it may be doubted whether he has not under-estimated Jewish
influences, and over-estimated the effects of Jewish contact with the
Persians and other peoples living East of Palestine. In the first place, one is
led to conclude that Professor Tylor’s argument is somewhat weakened by
the stress which is laid upon the differences of position adopted in prayer,
with respect to the sun. The Brahmans, we are told, pray towards the East,
the Thugs towards the West. In the first case, the symbolism represents
hope, the birth of life, the glory of the rising sun; in the antithesis of the
second, the gloom and horror of death, typified by the departure of the life-
giver. These distinctions, though not trivial in themselves, and even less so
in their later developments, seem to be largely obliterated by the very
existence of adoration performed sunwards. The essence of orientation, in
its early stages, appears, if one may so express it, to consist in respect paid
to the sun. This deference is proved by the East-and-West axial line, as
exemplified in primitive temples and monuments. Where the altar was at
the Western end, the sun’s rays fell on the sacred object through the Eastern
doors at sunrise. As the centuries pass by, we still find rival opinions as to
the proper positions for the altar or other sacred object. The alinement is
agreed upon, but the question arises, Shall the sanctuary be East or West?
Now do we not find noticeable traces of the solar idea in the Hebrew
Scriptures, with a certain tendency, moreover, to the adoption of the Eastern
rather than the Western position? The Tabernacle of Moses and the Temple
of Solomon had their entrances towards the East, and in each building the
Holy of Holies was at the West. There was also an Eastern porch to Herod’s
Temple[524]. The student of the Bible and the Apocrypha will be familiar
with numerous passages, which, without any wresting from the context,
appear to contain the germ of the idea of orientation[525], displayed in
respect paid to prayer at sunrise. In the Wisdom of Solomon, xvi. 28, these

words occur, “We must prevent the sun to give thee thanks, and at the
dayspring pray to thee.” Language of a very similar kind is found in more
than one of the Psalms. It is undeniable that repeated attempts were made
by the monotheistic Hebrews to prevent adoration of the sun. The practice
is implicitly forbidden in the Second Commandment, and expressly in such
passages as Deut. iv. 19. Why should these prohibitions have been
necessary, unless the Jews were prone, in this matter as in some others,
either to copy pagan rites, or to follow primal instincts inherited from
forefathers among whom solar worship was common? Ezekiel was horror-
stricken at the sight of the five-and-twenty men who worshipped the sun
with their backs toward the Temple and their faces toward the East[526].
Josiah found it necessary to put down the idolatrous priests, whom the kings
of Judah had ordained to burn incense to Baal, and to the sun, moon, and
planets; the “chariots of the sun” he burned with fire[527]. The attention paid
to direction in offering one’s prayers is illustrated again by the case of
Daniel. Domiciled in a heathen land, he prayed with his face towards
Jerusalem, although that city lies West, and not East, of Babylon[528]. To
look again toward the Holy Temple was the prayer uttered by Jonah when
in the belly of the fish[529]. In short, prayer offered towards Jerusalem was
actually recommended, if not stipulated, by Solomon, as a condition of
success in warfare[530]. The Jews, in later times, seem always to have been
zealous in obeying the precept, though it is not recorded that they carry a
compass with them for the purpose, as the Mohammedans are said to
do[531].
The Book of Job contains a remarkable and enlightening passage
concerning sun-worship. Protesting his integrity, the patriarch says: “If I
beheld the sun when it shined, or the moon walking in brightness; And my
heart hath been secretly enticed, or my mouth hath kissed my hand: This
also were an iniquity to be punished by the judge[532].” Now, the ancient
Greeks used to kiss their hands as an act of worship to the sun, and
Tertullian had to complain that even Christians would move their lips
toward the sunrise, as if affecting adoration[533]. Grimm says that Teutonic
peoples would swear an oath by the sun, stretching out their hands to the
all-seeing god[534].
A moment’s pause may be made to notice a remarkable parallel,
suggested by Barclay. On the one side, we have the stretching out vertically
of the separated fingers. On the other, as Barclay observes, we have the five

large trilithons of the outer “horsehoe” of Stonehenge, graduated so that the
central one corresponds to the middle finger of the hand, and the other
trilithons to the other fingers, each to each. Similarly, if the fingers are
brought together so as to form a circle, we get the symbol employed in the
sacred salute to the sun[535]. Barclay’s comparisons may be fanciful, but
who shall deny their aptness? We cannot forget the symbolism adopted in
the Greek and Latin churches when the Benediction is pronounced. Even a
temporary assent to Barclay’s hypothesis leads us to ask further, Whence
came the custom of shading the face with the hands when the worshipper is
engaged in prayer? Did the habit originate in protecting the eyes from the
sun during the act of supplication?
But to return: we have seen that sun-worship, and prayer offered towards
the East, or towards a hallowed site, are abundantly illustrated in the Old
Testament. Again, if the Jews did not practise orientation in our specific
sense of the word, they observed an East-to-West system in planning their
chief place of worship. The older generations of Jews, at least, could not
have been ignorant of orientation. As bondmen in Egypt, they must have
become acquainted with the principle. In Canaan, they were subjected, as
Professor Tylor states, to the influences of solar worship on all sides. Their
heathen neighbours, the Phoenicians, bowed themselves to Baal, the
Ammonites offered sacrifices to Molech, and the Syrians worshipped the
god Hadad[536].
If the probabilities favour a knowledge of the idea of orientation among
the Jews of the Old Testament times, reason must be shown for the
assumption of a complete break between the ancient practice and the
customs of the Apostolic period. For primitive Christianity was not only in
great measure developed from, but was a fulfilment of, the older Judaism.
The “Sun of Righteousness” in Malachi has its counterpart in the “Day
spring from on high” of St Luke, the “Day star” of the Second Epistle of
Peter, and the “Morning star” of the Apocalypse[537]. The “Light of the
World,” or some variant of the phrase, occurs again and again. While,
therefore, it would be folly to force these figurative expressions too far, it
would equally be a mistake to overlook them. There is a possibility, then, of
an early Christian as well as a Hebraic groundwork for subsequent
developments of orientation. Perhaps the lesson was soon reinforced by
Christian contact with converts from paganism, for, as already shown, we
do not get far into the Christian era before we meet with oriented churches

and the custom of praying towards the East. During the rite of baptism, too,
as we learn from St Jerome, the candidate turned towards the West to
renounce the devil, and then faced East to confess allegiance to Christ[538].
This specific inquiry may now be dropped, yet a brief survey of religions
and races other than the Jewish will not only elucidate the subject generally,
but will cast a light back on the question which we are leaving. We are
informed, on good authority, that, in the Holy Eastern Church, orientation is
“universal through Asia as well as Europe[539].” Again, with respect to the
ancient Coptic churches of Egypt, it is asserted by Butler that the entrance
is “almost invariably towards, if not in, the Western side, while the
sanctuaries lie always on the Eastern[540].” This authority suggests that the
early Christians may have derived the practice of orientation from Egypt.
The ancient Egyptian temples afford wide scope for discussion. Sir J.
Norman Lockyer and other workers have arranged these temples in groups
according to their orientation. One temple, at Karnak, is said to be so
planned that it acts as a gigantic telescope which allows a two minutes’
flash at the summer solstice, when the building is found to be accurately
oriented[541]. Other temples are so alined that, on the anniversary of the
dedication, the rays of the sun fall on the innermost sanctuary, and light up
the statues placed therein. The sanctuaries, it should be explained, are
situated at the Western end, so that the sun’s beams would shine through the
Eastern entrance. Other groups of structures may, perhaps, exhibit
“orientation” to Sirius, Spica, Capella, and so on[542]. The evidence goes to
show that considerable nicety of observation was required to get the true
axis; probably this was done either by watching the shadow cast by a
vertical object when the sun was on the meridian, by stretching a cord
between two stakes, carefully alined, or by keeping a standard line
constantly directed towards the North Pole of the heavens. It has just been
stated that Egyptian temples are sources of much controversy, and it would
be unwise to attempt further to make clear one complicated question by
introducing another fully as perplexing. Merely observing, then, that Sir
Norman Lockyer has submitted evidence to show that the orientation of
Egyptian temples influenced the temples of Greece, a country which he
believes to represent a transitional stage of the custom[543], we again turn
our attention to English churches.
The first obvious fact to demand notice is that few of our churches face
the true equinoctial East. Over sixty years ago a series of Norfolk churches

was examined, when it was found that, at West Beckham, the axis was due
East; at St Peter’s, Bampton, so much as 20° North of East; and in a number
of other examples the discrepancies varied from 5° to 8°[544]. In 1856, a
paper was read by the Rev. W. Airy, in which he stated that, among
churches which he had inspected, there were hundreds deviating between 5°
and 10° from the true East, six or seven diverged above 20°, and one more
than 30°[545]. The late Mr T. W. Shore, whose knowledge of Hampshire was
very comprehensive and thorough, found that a line about 20° North of East
was favoured in that county, about seventy churches having this
inclination[546]. If, then, we assume, for the moment, that the orientation
was taken from the rising sun on the day when the building was
commenced, the Hampshire figures would indicate that operations were
usually begun either about a month after the vernal equinox or a month
before the autumnal equinox. This conclusion must not be finally accepted
without inquiry. From an old map known as John Leake’s Exact Surveigh
(1667), it has been found that hardly any two city churches then existing
agreed in their axes, nor with the true East-to-West line. Such is the
assertion made in Smith’s Old Topography of London, but I doubt whether
the map, which one may see in the Library of the British Museum, will bear
the strictest tests. The authority just cited affirms that he made minute
measurements for his plan of Westminster and discovered that even such
close neighbours as Westminster Abbey, St Margaret’s, and St Catherine’s
in the Little Cloister, vary many points from each other[547]. Sir Henry
Chauncy had noticed similar variations in Hertfordshire at the close of the
sixteenth century, and had explained them on the theory of seasonal
alinement just given[548]. It is needless to adduce further examples: let the
student take a carefully adjusted compass, and test a number of churches for
himself. Like the present writer, he will find that he rarely meets with a
chancel which faces exactly East.
If we scan the pages of works on ecclesiology and symbolism we shall
find hypotheses regarding orientation in great abundance. Whether or not
the Christian practice came directly from Jewish antecedents, concerning
which question, as we have seen, there is a doubt, its ultimate origin must
be sought among pagan peoples. Yet the old authors were mainly unaware
of these beginnings, and they, like the common folk, were driven to invent
secondary explanations. And it may well be that the subsidiary beliefs were,
at certain periods, fully effective—that builders did orient churches for this

or that symbolical reason, unconscious meanwhile of a deeper cause which
lay behind, rooted in past heathenism and strengthened by long
prescription.
As we follow the tortuous threads of Mediaeval and later traditions, it
becomes plain that some of the clues may be dropped as valueless. Thus,
because the Tabernacle and the Temple had each the Holy Place towards the
West, and because the Jews turned their faces thitherward in prayer, some
writers have ingeniously supposed that the early Christians adopted the
opposite arrangement, in order to mark the advent of the new Gospel. In
like manner, urge these writers, the Day of Rest was changed from the
seventh to the first day of the week[549]. This hypothesis respecting
orientation, born in the study of the mystic, is too whimsical and lacking in
proof to be seriously considered.
Two of the early Fathers submit that, since Christ, while on the Cross,
looked towards the West, His followers should therefore turn towards the
East to seek His face[550]. Another view is that, at the Second Advent, Christ
will appear from the East, hence worship and regard should be paid towards
that point of the heavens. The East was the traditional cradle of the human
family; the Magi came from the East; in that quarter, relatively to Western
Christendom, Christ was born, and from that quarter He ascended to
heaven. To the East lies the traditional land to which we return after life’s
pilgrimage[551]. St Basil had a curious theory that ancient churches were
built towards the equinoctial East in order that worshippers might face the
Garden of Eden, the terrestrial Paradise. As Reusens puts it, “nous devons
tourner nos regards vers le paradis terrestre que Dieu planta à Eden vers
l’orient[552].” The last of these esoteric explanations worth mentioning is
that the devout have always been anxious to look towards Jerusalem in
prayer; hence altars are built to face that quarter. To this plea, Dr Neale
replies that orientation in the Eastern Church is as distinctly an Asiatic as a
European practice, hence the idea is self-contradictory[553].
Here we encounter a kind of side-theory which has long been a favourite
with liturgical writers. It will be remembered that Durandus laid down the
ideal rule of building so as to face the equinoctial East. But we have also
seen that this counsel of perfection has been little heeded. The obvious
explanation of the exceptions is that the sun’s varying daily position has
resulted in diversity of alinement. The obvious, however, not always being
the true, other reasons have been sought, and other theories formulated.

Hence arose the attractive “Saint’s Day theory,” to the effect that the axis of
the building depended on the point of sunrise which corresponded to the
day of the patron saint to whom the church was dedicated. So far as I am
aware, the idea is not traceable, in writing, earlier than the middle of the
seventeenth century, but this origin may perchance be pushed backward as
the question is further studied. The following account may supply a clue.
Silas Taylor, otherwise Silas Domville, was a captain in the
Parliamentary army, who later devoted himself to antiquarian pursuits.
Careless in money matters, he died in debt, and his manuscripts were sold
by his creditors at his death, in A.D. 1678. One manuscript contains this
passage: “In the days of yore, when a church was to be built, they watched
and prayed on the vigil of the dedication, and took that point of the horizon
where the sun arose from the East, which makes that variation, so that few
[churches] stand true, except those built between the two equinoxes. I have
experimented (sic) some churches, and have found the line to point to that
part of the horizon where the sun arises on the day of that Saint to whom
the church is dedicated[554].” Noting, incidentally, that the expression,
“between the two equinoxes,” is evidently a slip, and that the writer means
“at the two equinoxes,” we are struck by the likeness between this account
and that which is credited to the old Masonic lodges. The Saint’s Day
theory is merely an amplification of the earlier Masonic idea, a specific
practical mode of orientation being introduced.
The theory just given has been productive of an abiding controversy. It
has been sanctioned by several authorities, among others by Sir Norman
Lockyer[555]. But, although the subject will bear deeper investigation, there
is already sufficient evidence available to prove that the theory is faulty.
There exist well-established cases of variation which cannot be forced
under the rule. Again, some saints have several festivals allotted to them: St
Nicholas has two, St Martin three, St John four, St Peter five, St Mary the
Virgin eight[556]. Suppose, moreover, the case of an ancient church
dedicated, we will say, to St Barnabas, and further assume that the present-
day observer examines the orientation and finds it correct for the day of that
saint, June 11th. The theory would still fail, since, by an Act of Parliament
passed in the year 1752, eleven days were omitted from the calendar, and
the orientation would, by the hypothesis, have been taken on May 30th. In
considering ancient churches, therefore, the change in reckoning must be
allowed for at the start. To meet the necessities of such an example as that

proposed, it must also be granted that the advice of Durandus to build at the
equinox was not generally followed. But we have seen that the facts are in
accord with such an assumption, so that this minor objection falls to the
ground. Once more; arguing from the fact that the village feast, which is
usually held on the Saint’s Day, does not always coincide with the
dedication festival, Mr Airy concluded that the theory under consideration
was invalid. Without prejudicing the general verdict, we notice that this
contention is impaired by evidence which proves that the dates of many
village feasts have, at various times, been changed to suit local convenience
(cf. p. 191 supra).
A more damaging argument is supplied by Mr Airy’s assertion that he
had never met with one church pointing to the place of sunrise between the
1st of May and the 9th of August[557]. If this testimony were unassailable, it
would seem to indicate at least an approximation to the rule of Durandus—
a pushing back of building operations towards early spring (March 22nd) or
forwards to autumn (Sept. 22nd). Unfortunately, we do not know the church
which, according to Mr Airy, has a deflection of 30°; unless it be situated in
the Northern part of Britain it must fall between the 1st of May and the 9th
of August. One cannot agree with Mr Airy’s contentions that festival
orientation involved too great a knowledge of the variation of sunrise, that
the “ancients” [apparently the Mediaeval builders] did not observe such
“refinements,” that they had no idea of the sun’s movements “in his course
Northward and Southward to the τροπαὶ ήελίοιο” [the solstices]. On the
contrary, we believe that from very early times rough observations of this
kind must have been taken with some frequency. The possession of this
knowledge by our forefathers does not, of course, prove the case for the
Saint’s Day theory. But between the idea of dedication alinements and Mr
Airy’s conclusion that the variations are accidental, and represent attempts
to make the fabrics bear to the East as nearly as possible, there is room for a
middle opinion. Should Domville’s assertion prove true, then, whatever
may have been the practice of the early Fathers, the Mediaeval builders
were imbued with the symbolism of festival dedication and alinement, and
would not fail to give effect to their ideal. Granted that this practice cuts at
the root of the equinoctial precept, there is yet a possibility that, as with so
many other customs, uniformity was never attained. Exceptions alone,
numerous though they be, do not disprove the theory altogether. A smaller
number of positive cases would have force against them. I incline to the

belief that the Mediaeval builders followed partially the Saint’s Day
principle—perhaps invented it—and that a limited list of churches may
conform to the idea. If John Leake’s map, already mentioned, be really
accurate, the various City churches dedicated to St Mary have
approximately parallel axes, and this evidence, so far as it goes, would be
confirmatory. That the explanation covers even the majority of instances is
very doubtful. And, at most, it accounts only for the symbolism which
produced variations of the axial line, and for the actual routine of the
builders. The master reason for orientation, whether equinoctial or solstitial,
is to be sought, as we have seen, in much more primitive times.
A modern theory, propounded by Herr H. Wehner, to account for
discordant axes of buildings, is based upon the belief that the early
Freemasons for centuries possessed, and kept secret, a knowledge of the
polarity of the magnetic needle. Should it be ultimately proved that the
builders employed the magnetic compass, it is urged that we shall have, in
the case of dated churches, a key to the variation of the needle, and,
conversely, for those churches whose date is unknown, a guide to their
age[558]. That other folk, besides the Freemasons, were acquainted with the
compass, is indisputable. A commonly received opinion is, that the
mariner’s compass was introduced to Europe from China about the twelfth
century, probably through the medium of the Arabs[559]. Strong evidence
has, however, been produced to show that the instrument was discovered
independently, or “re-discovered,” in Europe. Among other writers who
refer unequivocally to the compass is the Englishman, Alexander Neckham
(died A.D. 1217), whose description of its properties, as given in two Latin
treatises, is unmistakeable[560]. Hence, from the early thirteenth century, and
perhaps much before that time, the compass may have been used. But were
the builders cognizant of the declination of the needle, and did they make
allowance for it? This is extremely improbable. Indeed, it is authoritatively
stated that the variation with which we are familiar was discovered by
Stephen Burrowes (A.D. 1525-84), when voyaging between the North Cape
of Finmark and Vaigatch[561]. This voyage would give a date of about the
year 1553. The determinations were afterwards made by Gillebrand, who
was professor of geometry at Gresham College[562].
If, then, the compass had been employed by masons previous to A.D.
1553, we should have expected, from their ignorance of its declination,
considerable diversities of alinement. For the changes in declination have

been very remarkable. Particulars are available dating from the year 1580.
In that year, the needle pointed 11° 15´ E.; in 1622, the angle was 6° E.;
while in 1657, there was no declination. By the year 1692, a swing of 6° W.
had been attained, this rose to 24° 41´ W. in 1818, from which time the
variation has steadily diminished[563]. These figures show that from 1580 to
1818 the needle has varied in London by so large an angle as 36° (approx.),
and one may reasonably suppose that during the two or three centuries
preceding there were similar alterations. The use of the compass, together
with ignorance of its declination, would therefore supply a very prosaic
explanation of differences in the axial line of churches.
One further attempt at solution may be mentioned. The Rev. J. Griffith,
as the result of examinations of ancient megalithic monuments, has
submitted that the stones were erected in such positions in order to give a
three weeks’ warning of the coming equinox or solstice (cf. p. 192 supra).
Arguing from this assumption, and citing the alinements of churches in
corroboration, he suggests that a similar interval of preparation was
provided for in the orientation of some churches. As a rule—he refers
evidently to Welsh examples—the older churches are found to be oriented
for May and November, then come buildings alined for the equinox. “I
find,” he says, “N. 76° or 77° E., and N. 80° or 81° E., to be rather common
orientations[564].” [These figures refer to azimuths; subtracting the number
of degrees from 90°, we get the “amplitudes,” 13° or 14° N. and 9° or 10°
N., respectively. In other words, Mr Griffith found that many churches are
alined at these angles North of East.] With these figures we may compare
those of Hampshire, already given. The inference to be drawn from the
Welsh churches is that the builders there commenced work at dates rather
nearer the equinoxes than did their contemporaries of the South of England.
Mr Griffith’s interpretation gives us a theory within a theory, and requires
much further study and observation before it can be accepted.
This chapter must not close without an allusion to those curious
examples of churches in which the axes of nave and chancel do not
correspond, but point to different points of the horizon. Such cases are often
loosely described under the general term, “orientation,” but either they
really represent double orientations, or, as some contend, the buildings were
purposely constructed with an angular twist. The subject is usually treated
as if the problem merely concerned the chancel, consequently, in works on
ecclesiology, and in the semi-popular language of architects and antiquaries,

a church possessing the feature now under consideration is described as
having a “weeping,” “twisted,” “deflected,” or “skew chancel.” Manifestly,
these expressions beg the question, for, unless it can be proved that nave
and chancel are of the same age, and that the Eastern limb was purposely
deflected, or that it was deflected at some subsequent re-building, it is
possible that the nave is the portion which has been mis-alined. Hence we
might equally well speak of a “weeping nave.” The matter is nevertheless
unimportant, so long as we do not tacitly allow the popular term to hide the
possibility of a re-building or a re-orienting of either limb of the church. By
that one phrase, “weeping chancel,” we might be led to credit the old
builders with ideas of which they were utterly unconscious, just as

“Learned commentators view
In Homer more than Homer knew.”

Glancing down the columns of a convenient note-book, one observes, as
famous examples of deflected buildings, Lichfield cathedral, which leans to
the North, and Canterbury, Ely, and York cathedrals, which incline to the
South. Other cases of Northern deflection are Brent Pelham, Hertfordshire
(“several degrees North of East”); St Michael’s, Coventry; St Mary’s, York;
North Curry, Somerset; St Mary’s, Bridlington, and Whitby Abbey[565].
The instances of deflections towards the South are much more numerous
in this country. My list includes Bishopstone and Bosham, Sussex; St
Mary’s, Coventry; Holy Trinity, Stratford; Priory church, Tynemouth; West
Malling, Kent; St Andrew’s, Lammas, Norfolk (15°); Chipstead and
Mickleham, Surrey, and many others. Further lists have been compiled from
various sources, but, as the direction of the twist is not usually specified, it
would serve no purpose to reproduce the whole catalogue.
Examples of unsymmetrical churches abound on the Continent, but the
deflection of these is usually to the North. The Southern bend is not
unknown, however, for it is found in the cathedral choirs of Geneva and
Stuttgart. Some French chancels even, contrary to common belief, lean to
the South. Speaking of the deflection of French churches, M. J. K.
Huysmans, in his romance, La Cathédrale, says, “This twist in the church is
to be seen almost everywhere—in St Jean at Poitiers, at Tours and at
Reims[566].” M. de Caumont observed the Northerly deflection in more than
a hundred churches of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the examples
being widely scattered[567]. The deviation, in the case of Bayonne cathedral,
is at once noticed by the visitor; Mr Baring-Gould claims this irregularity as
the result of English domination and English architects[568].
Returning to our own churches, we find it necessary to clear the ground
somewhat. On the one hand, we have the estimate given by the able editors
of Durandus, to the effect that probably about one quarter of our English
churches have a deflection, and that it is usually towards the South[569]. The
present writer dare not hazard the opinion that the proportion is so high, but
he feels convinced that the instances are too numerous to be explainable by
chance. But consider an experience of an opposite kind. About a dozen
years ago, Mr G. Watson, of Penrith, stated that he had examined the plans
of nearly four hundred churches as shown on the Ordnance maps, and found

either no deflection at all, or, at most, a trifling variation[570]. Precisely what
constitutes a trifling variation we are not told, though it may be freely
admitted that the angle is often very slight. Thus, Mr W. J. Maxton and
myself found that the Lady Chapel of St Saviour’s, Southwark, inclined but
a degree or two East of the nave, yet surely, even this trivial deflection
could have been avoided by the architect, had it been desired. It has been
asserted, apparently with some reason, that York cathedral, already cited as
a “leaning” edifice, has no deflection[571], and to this the reply has been
given that the variation would be obvious on a good ground-plan[572]. There
is no need to argue about these examples in detail, because there exist
sufficient cases of undisputed deflection.
The “skew chancel” is not confined to one epoch. Yet it is submitted that
we have no marked examples before A.D. 1200. The feature is most
observable in churches of the time of Edward III. It is said to be doubtful
whether any instance could be adduced from the Renaissance period of
building; the apparent exception in the church St Mary Magdalen, Taunton,
being of later date[573]. That the feature has a certain fixity is shown in the
case of St Aldate, Oxford, where it exists in spite of the restoration made in
1863[574]. A late example of the “twisted” ground-plan, which is valueless
as regards the present discussion, occurs in St Peter’s of the Vatican. Here
we have a deflection of some feet, due to an architect’s blunder, when the
Greek cross was formed into a Latin one by prolonging the nave[575].
Admitting, as we are compelled by the facts to admit, that there exist
many undoubted examples of skew chancels, we next look for an
interpretation. Two schools of thought, the symbolist and the rationalist, are
soon encountered. The case presented by the rationalist group of authorities
may be thus summarized; deflection is the result either of carelessness or of
differences in the dates of building the nave and the chancel respectively.
We will consider first the explanation involved in the question of dates. It is
generally believed that the choir of a church was often consecrated as soon
as it was completed, the consecration of the nave or vestibule being held
over until that part of the building was, in turn, ready for use. For instance,
as Mr Parker pointed out, the Norman choir and transepts of the earlier
Westminster Abbey are known to have been consecrated in A.D. 1065, but
the nave, if one were ever added, was probably not finished until the twelfth
century. Separate alinements may, in such cases, have been set out, and
slight errors have been made during the operation. Again, in some of the

churches which show inharmonious alinements, the nave and the choir
manifestly belong to different epochs, one or other portion having been
rebuilt. The architect of the later period unconsciously took an orientation
which deviated from the first axis, or, according to the alternative view, he
was actually unable to make the axes correspond. If we assume that he
employed a magnetic compass, there is a third possibility of error in the
variation of that instrument. But all these hypothetical causes of
miscalculation are removed if we attach weight to a simple suggestion
which has been made by one or two writers. It is submitted that the axis of
the nave or the choir, whichever portion was already standing, would
probably be hidden from the mason’s view, through the temporary blocking
up of the chancel arch. This might render harmonious alinement a task of
some difficulty[576]. It has been averred that every case of deflection occurs
in a church which has been partially rebuilt; hence the lack of agreement. It
is difficult to say whether this statement is absolutely correct, but it seems
to be true in many instances. Even so, why are the misalinements
practically confined to re-buildings of the thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries?
Again, it is asserted that many cases of deflection were discovered only
when, in modern times, the rood-screen was, for one reason or another,
taken down. In such instances, it is argued, the mason would have his
standard line concealed while setting out the new section of the building.
But, as we shall shortly see, this fact about the rood-screen may be
interpreted in another way. If we accept the Saint’s Day theory, there
remains the possibility of error due to the re-dedication, or plural
dedication, of churches. The difference might then conceivably originate
without any re-building of the fabric. Mr Airy cites the case of Clapham,
Bedfordshire. A better known example, possibly, is found in Whitby Abbey.
The building, as a whole, is dedicated to St Peter and St Hilda jointly—a
fact proved by the Abbey seal. St Peter’s Day is on the 29th of June, and St
Hilda’s on the 25th of August[577]; it was therefore tentatively submitted
that there have been two dedications for the existing building. At this point
we are thrown back on the “two-period” theory, for the Abbey choir dates
from the late twelfth century, while the nave, which is considered to be the
deflected limb, belongs to the mid-fourteenth century. Yet why should the
axis of the nave lie nine feet North of the choir line? Canon Atkinson, who
carefully investigated this example, expressed the result thus: the axis of the

nave diverges from true East and West by 14°·5, that of the choir by 9°·7.
He adds this statement: “That it was planned so requires no elaborate
proof[578].” The parish church of Whitby, St Mary’s, which is hard by, and
which belongs to the twelfth century, runs exactly parallel to the Abbey
choir. Why, again, assuming the theory of separate dedications, should the
nave be assigned to one saint, and the choir to another[579]?
This query leads us to consider, for a moment, the subject of dedication
to two, or even three patron saints. Miss Frances Arnold-Forster, in her
Studies in Church Dedications, suggests several reasons for “twofold
ascriptions[580].” The two names may represent that of the founder and that
of the patron saint. The Lady chapel or chancel may have been placed under
the invocation of one patron, and the rest of the building under another. Or,
the founder may have deliberately intended to have a dual dedication.
Again, when a church was rebuilt and re-dedicated, a new name may have
taken its place alongside the old; such re-naming is thought to have been of
frequent occurrence, especially in Cornwall. Lastly, the double dedication
may be due to the union and consolidation of two parishes, as is the case
with the large majority of our City churches.
Now, with respect to Whitby, we seem to have obtained a clue to the
dedication difficulty, at least. The Rev. Canon G. Austen, Rector of Whitby,
informs me that the Saxon Abbey was dedicated to St Peter alone. Though
somewhat contrary to popular belief, it must be accepted as a proof that the
ascription to St Hilda was a later addition. Let us suppose that St Hilda’s
name was introduced at one or other of the rebuildings of the Abbey; and let
us assume that there was a second formal dedication. This admission does
not, perforce, imply our acceptance of the Saint’s Day theory as explaining
the discordant alinements. Else we should expect to find many more cases
of deflection among the churches with double dedications. Nor, again, does
the fact of re-dedication necessarily support the notion that the builder was
incapable of setting out a straight line. In short, the solution tendered
enforces the very difficulties which it professes to dispel. If it can be clearly
shown beyond dispute how the Mediaevalists obtained their axial line, then
the theory that the misalinement is the result of re-dedication will have to be
faced seriously. Until that time comes, the theory is little more than a fair
surmise. As a slight contribution to the inquiry, and as a possible instance of
the architect’s incapacity, the case of Leatherhead parish church may be
cited. Here the tower is deflected about 3´·6´´ from the axis of the nave,

while the nave diverges from the chancel. The church is dedicated to St
Mary and St Nicholas, but whether there is further connection between the
two facts is uncertain. It was a visit to this church which led Dr J. C. Cox to
refer to “symbolic absurdity,” and the “leaning-head” theory as being
propounded by “ill-instructed persons.” His own explanation of the
divergences is twofold: the “endeavours to obtain the true East at differing
periods of the year,” and “the well-known carelessness of Mediaeval
builders in following out a true square[581].”
We next consider the arguments of the symbolists. Several solutions are
offered by these authorities, though there is no great divergence of
fundamental ideas. The favourite explanation, as just hinted, is that Christ,
while on the Cross, faced Westwards, and that His head leaned towards the
left, or South side. Another school teaches that the inclination was to the
North, and, as we have already seen, such Continental churches as have
varying axes, are deflected towards that point. In roods, it may be noted, the
head is usually made to fall towards the left[582]. The “leaning-head” theory
was accepted by Dr Rock. M. Huysmans has evidently paid so much
attention to this phase of the question that he may be again quoted.
Describing the fine abbey church of Preuilly-sur-Claise, in Touraine, he
declares that the builders gave life to the stones. In its serpentine line, in the
perspective of its aisles, and the obliquity of its vaulting, the church gives
an allegorical presentment of Our Lord on the Cross, and perpetuates “the
never-to-be-forgotten moment between the ‘Sitio’ and the ‘Consummatum
est’[583].” M. Huysmans mentions, with reserve, the opinion of some
writers, that the bent line occasionally represents the body of a saint instead
of that of the Saviour; thus the curved axis of St Savin is supposed to be
symbolical of the wheel which was the instrument of martyrdom of the
saint[584].
There are not lacking authorities who, like Dr Cox, spurn these theories
as idle fancies. “Symbolism!” exclaimed Welby Pugin, when viewing a
twisted chancel in Leicestershire, “Pack of nonsense: it was because they
didn’t know how to build straight[585].” This summary verdict, told by a
person who heard it delivered, may, however, be countered by an opinion in
the opposite sense, uttered by the same architect, and equally well attested.
Asked about the bend in the nave at Whitby Abbey, which has just been
mentioned, Pugin declared that it signified that the debt of redemption had
been paid; “for, after the Saviour had expired on the Cross, his head would

naturally lean or incline to one side[586].” Which of Pugin’s two opinions is
the earlier cannot be ascertained, but even if antagonism to the “leaning
head” theory were representative of his maturer judgement, he surely could
not pretend that the deflection can always be ascribed to a blunder. Mr
Parker himself, who advanced the theory that the twist might be due to the
consecration of a building before its completion, admitted that many cases
of deflection are incapable of a constructional explanation[587]. One may
well ask whether the architects who reared our magnificent Gothic
cathedrals, edifices whose every part, when untouched by the restorer,
exhibits skill in design and workmanship, were really unable to build
straight. What of the deflection at St Ouen, in the city of Rouen, a building
which Fergusson enthusiastically declares was “beyond comparison the
most beautiful and most perfect of the abbey edifices of France[588]?” And,
coming to meaner structures, dare we say that a discrepancy of 5° or 10° is
likely to be the result of mere carelessness? One might as reasonably argue
that the existence of a “low side window,” with its deviations of size, shape,
and position, indicates a clumsy arrangement of fenestration.
Rebutting arguments against the “theory of error” may be urged on
broad grounds. We have seen that in the greater number of instances, our
undeflected buildings bear to the North of the equinoctial point, indicating,
if we suppose a calendar alinement at sunrise, that work was begun either a
little after the advent of spring, or, less probably, a little before the autumnal
equinox. Consider, then, the case of a church of which one member is to be
rebuilt. Under similar conditions of starting work, the assumed error in
direction might be on either side of the axis. We might perhaps conclude
that it would actually tend to be on the Northern side of that axis—a
Northern deviation added to a Northern deviation—for, in spite of liturgical
rules, a liking for summer orientations (North of East) appears to have been
very common. But, not to press this probability, it is at least claimable that,
on a balance of instances, the deflections, if due to clumsy workmanship,
would range themselves in equal numbers North and South of the earlier
alinement. But the fact remains that the Southern variations form the rule,
and we are driven to the belief that they are Southern by reason of design.
This leads us to consider an hypothesis which embraces a purpose more
aesthetic than symbolical. Put shortly, this hypothesis is, that the bend was
designed to produce an artistic illusion—a perspective effect whereby a
building appeared to be longer than it actually was. Thus, if one of the side

walls of a church with a “weeping chancel” be viewed from the Western
entrance, an impression of greater length and of undefined distance is
received by the spectator. Again, where a rood screen exists, the bend in the
wall, not a pleasing feature, considered separately, would be concealed, but
a change in the direction in a lofty roof would still produce an illusion that
the church is indefinitely extended. Moreover, as the beholder caught a
glimpse of a portion of the sanctuary window, which was often richly
ornamented, both in form and in colour, the beauty of the vista was much
enhanced. On this hypothesis, the screen, instead of being the immediate
cause of the inclined axis, was an accessory to a complete design, a feature
of which the effect was foreseen and provided for. To round off this
question, it should be added that not many relics of screen-work exist which
belong to a period earlier than the fourteenth century. A few specimens of
thirteenth century work remain, and doubtless others were swept away at
the Reformation, but most of the examples which have come down to us are
assignable to the fifteenth century[589]. In short, the middle stage of the
development of rood-lofts seems to correspond roughly with the period in
which deflection is most commonly observable. This coincidence does not,
indeed, solve the riddle, since each of the opposing schools may produce it
as testimony.
Seeing that the “aesthetic theory” is unsupported by documentary proof,
evidence must be sought in the possible existence of similar contrivances
associated with other architectural features. Can such evidence be
produced? The reply is in the affirmative. As one enters certain Egyptian
temples, he perceives a gradual transition from light to darkness. This effect
is brought about by the forced ascent of a few steps, combined with a
lowering of the roof; thus the sense of gloom and mystery increases as the
worshipper moves forward[590]. Again, we find that, in the columns of the
Parthenon and other Greek buildings, there is an entasis, or slight convexity
of outline, perchance not more than the length of a finger nail, yet sufficient
to prevent the appearance of hollowness. The Parthenon is said to possess
scarcely a vertical or a horizontal line throughout the whole design. The
columns lean a little inwards, the corners incline diagonally, the entablature
is curved and recedes in the centre[591]. Such subtle niceties, trivial when
taken singly, prove that, in Classical times at least, the aesthetic phase of
architecture was not ignored. The next question is, Can parallel instances of
design be observed in our own country? The Norman church of Barfreston,

Kent, may be cited. In this building, the axes of the nave and chancel
correspond, but the walls of the chancel are so built that this portion appears
to incline about 5° North. One can hardly find a rectangle in the plan of the
church—“everything is oblique[592],” and apparently oblique by intention.
Again, the South arcade of the nave of Scarborough parish church has a
distinct curve, as if deliberately thus planned. In the case of Whitby Abbey,
before cited, Canon Atkinson discovered another intentional irregularity.
The West wall of the North transept projects into the interior at least a foot
more than does the East wall. The view, being thus interrupted by the
broken line, has a pleasing effect upon the mind of the spectator. Consider,
too, the churches, to be met with in many a village, in which the pillars and
mouldings of the Northern arcade are simpler than those of the Southern,
the Northern windows less rich in tracery, the specimens of painted glass
more sombre in motive and execution. It will be understood that a
reservation must be made for those churches in which the South arcade is of
slightly later date than the North. The symbolism of the Northern aspect of
Nature must have been clearly appreciated for these conditions to have
arisen (see p. 334 infra). Or, take the feature just alluded to as entasis, by
which the optical illusion of hollowness in upright lines is corrected. Many
of our spires exhibit this convexity. Mr Francis Bond, a high authority on
such matters, states that the entasis probably does not exceed 1 inch for 60
feet in our best examples of Gothic spires. The important point to notice is,
that the curvature exists as the result of design. True, it has been mooted
whether the bulging is not an incidental consequence of a peculiar method
of building, but this idea is not commonly accepted, nor does it seem to
satisfy the conditions of the problem. Sometimes, as in the Lincolnshire
spires of Caythorpe and Welbourn, and of Glinton (Northants), the limit just
given is greatly exceeded, with results not at all pleasing to the eye[593].
Caythorpe spire, once grotesque with its “sugar loaf” protuberance, exhibits
the familiar curve even after being shortened and rebuilt[594]. That there
appears to be an artistic necessity for the convex treatment, or for some
equivalent device, is exemplified once more in the steeple at Louth. There,
the impression of concavity is prevented by increasing the projection of the
crockets about one-third of the way up the spire[595]. Again, there is the
artistic disposition and gradation of ornament, the delicate, enriched
carvings being reserved for the parts of the building near the eye, while a
“greater effective quantity” is provided in the upper parts, as on pinnacles

and parapets. Perhaps the reader will admit that there is no need to press
further the plea of aesthetic artifices on the part of the early builders. It is, at
least, conceivable that our English masons understood the value and charm
of subtle suggestions of spaciousness and mystery. To elaborate their art,
and to conceal it, and to keep
“This modest charm of not too much,
Part seen, imagined part,”

may well have been one of the golden rules of the Gothic architect. For the
trained eyes of the sympathetic beholder admire “both what they half
create, and half perceive,” and they will find privileged pleasures in
sublimities of form and colour.
Nevertheless, in the absence of positive testimony that our early builders
were actuated by artistic principles such as those just described, there is no
justification for putting the case a whit more strongly. Is there, indeed, any
evidence at all for the intentional designing of deflected churches? St
Charles Borromeo (A.D. 1538-1584) has been cited as recommending
deflection towards the South, if deflection be necessary[596]. The reference
is probably the result of misunderstanding St Charles’s meaning, and, in
that case, the claim is vitiated. What the writer actually required was, that
the High Chapel (cappella) should look directly East, equinoctial East.
Should dwellings exist which obscured the view, that fact did not relieve the
builder of his responsibility. If the axis of the building must be turned, it
should be towards the South, and not towards the North. The passage seems
to allude to the church as a whole, not to the High Chapel, but I admit that
there is some little ambiguity[597].
Attention has been drawn by Mr W. F. Hobson to an early allusion to
orientation, involving, as he considers, the principle of deflection also. The
passage occurs in the writings of St Paulinus of Nola, c. A.D. 420. Speaking
of a church which he had built, St Paulinus remarks, “Prospectus basilicae
vero non, ut usitatior mos est, Orientem spectat, sed ad Domini mei B.
Felicis basilicam pertinent Memoriam ejus aspiciens[598].” The statement is
that the outlook of the church was not directed towards the East, following
the more common practice, but towards a certain basilica, containing a
particular tomb, that of the martyred presbyter, St Felix. That we have here
an early instance of orientation is manifest, but whether “aspiciens” may be
interpreted so as to prove deflection is doubtful. It is, however, possible that

while the church had its general alinement to the sacred basilica, there was
a bend or slant which caused the “chancel”—speaking conventionally—to
face the monument. Mr Hobson urges that, from orientation towards a tomb
and orientation for a Saint’s Day there is but a slight transition[599].
We will now attempt to sum up the evidence. Skew chancels were, in
some cases at least, due to carelessness or unskilfulness. A few deflections
seem to have been caused by the architect’s dislike to build on old
foundations—a prejudice felt by Wren in re-building St Paul’s. The Saint’s
Day theory may hold for some examples, since a few positive instances of
observance, if these can be produced, cannot be nullified even by many
negative exceptions. As to the symbolism of the leaning head, whimsical
though it may at first sight appear, one cannot dismiss it as mere folly.
Mediaeval symbolism was no dead art, and it is visible in many guises,
though to a less extent than its advocates would insist. Unless, therefore, we
are to believe that symbolical explanation is altogether an after-thought—
the creation of cultured ecclesiastics—we have to find a reason for its
existence in Mediaeval days. And, if the idea be so old as the foundation of
our finest churches, we may conjecture that it received an embodiment in
architecture. Lastly, the theory of artistic design, though least advocated,
seems most in consonance with all the facts. The deflection does cause an
agreeable optical illusion; and it is probable that this was intended. While
we search in vain for some early document to throw a glimmering of light
on the problem, we are bound to consider all tentative solutions
unsatisfactory. He would be a bold man who should unhesitatingly affirm
that one explanation will meet every case, and hardier still would be the
prosaic architect who should dismiss every instance of deflection as the
result of pure chance or blundering ignorance.

CHAPTER VI

THE ORIENTATION OF GRAVES

When the roaming antiquary stops to watch the sexton dig a grave, he
observes, not for the first time doubtless, that the graves all lie East and
West. To the person whose tastes are not antiquarian, the matter is quite
commonplace and he seldom gives it further thought. Yet, so firmly is the
custom fixed as a popular institution, and so unconsciously is it obeyed, that
it is only when it is perforce disregarded, in crowded cemetery or
churchyard, that one’s feelings receive a slight shock by reason of the
irregularity. Now these unconscious observances carry with them their
certificate of age. For, as John Brand, in the opening words of his famous
book, well declares, concerning such “vulgar rites”: “The strongest proof of
their remote antiquity is that they have outlived the general knowledge of
the very causes that gave rise to them.”
Perhaps there is a little danger of a misunderstanding: it should be made
clear that it is only in modern times that folk have become unable to give
any reason whatever for the custom. The earlier churchmen had an
explanation to tender, though, as we shall see, it was only of secondary and
derivative rank. Further, the rule was, and indeed still is, more precise in its
operation than above stated, for the head of the corpse is directed towards
the West and the feet towards the East. In other words, the normal
disposition of the corpse, according to the ancient teaching of the Church, is
that it shall face the East.
Durandus, who has already been frequently cited, states the rule, and
gives as a reason that the Eastward position is properly assumed in
prayer[600]. Bede explains the arrangement on the supposition that the
Coming of the Great Day and of the “Sun of Righteousness” will be seen
from the East, hence the dead should face the sunrise[601]. The Scriptural
allusion in Zechariah, too, has often been quoted in support of the practice;
the feet of the Messiah, so the verse runs, shall “stand in that day upon the
Mount of Olives, which is before Jerusalem on the East[602].” Larousse, to
mention but one more writer, refers to the injunction, but adds that the

bodies of priests, martyrs, and bishops are laid in a reverse direction
—“caput versus altare,” so that they face the West. A curious reason is
assigned: churchmen of high or clerical rank are expected to rise first, and
to pass onwards with the head looking West[603], a strange contradiction of
Bede’s hypothesis.
Since the effective force of a rule is tested by its exceptions, we shall
now glance at some breaches of conformity. With such transgressions of
custom one might profitably compare the deliberate refusal to orient
churches, discussed in the preceding chapter. Thus, in John Aubrey’s
Remaines of Gentilisme and Judaisme, we are assured that most of the
ancient graves at Middleton Stoney, Oxfordshire, were made to lie North
and South. Whether this were due to ignorance or to the spirit of opposition,
the author of the statement, Dr White Kennett, was unable to say. In one of
the rare and anonymous “Marprelate” tracts (A.D. 1589), now familiar to
most students through Professor Arber’s admirable “English Scholar’s
Library,” we read that Martin Month “would not be laid East and West (for
hee ever went against the haire) but North and South: I think,” adds the
tractarian, “because ‘ab aquilone omne malum,’ and the South wind ever
brings corruption with it[604].” Martin Month has not lacked followers. Mr
Hissey, in his Over Fen and Wold, has recorded a seventeenth century
example from Lincolnshire, a stronghold of Puritanism[605]. William
Glanville, who died at Wotton, near Dorking, in the year 1750, left
documentary injunctions requiring, among other curious details, that he
should be buried facing the North. In a case of infringement of the rule, as
related by Brand, the motive, strangely enough, was not contumacy, but the
desire to exhibit a visible mark of penitence and humiliation[606]. In support
of this view, attention may be called to a stone coffin which is built into an
exterior angle of two walls at Lindisfarne Priory church. The coffin lies
South-East and North-West, and is believed to have held the body of a
monk who had broken his vows.
Thomas Hearne, the antiquary, as befitted a philosopher, ordered that his
executors should determine the true orientation of his grave by means of a
compass (A.D. 1735). This was done, with the result that the monument
appeared to be awry, though the actual error, it is affirmed, lay in the
incorrect orientation of the surrounding graves[607]. One is inclined to
modify this explanation; the divergence was probably caused by the
different modes of orientation, the earlier graves having been most probably

alined by the sun or the church fabric, while that of the antiquary was set
out by the needle, and, it may be, without making allowance for the
declination. In a parenthesis, an analogous case, which came under the
notice of the present writer, may be given. An oblong kerbing of marble was
to be placed around a grave in the churchyard of Chipstead, Surrey, and the
mason was told to take his alinement from the wall of the chancel. When
the task was finished the kerbing was seen to be out of line with the
surrounding graves. Dispute was followed by a careful test. The kerb was
true to the chancel wall, but, as was then discovered, the chancel itself was
askew, when compared with the nave. Was the twist, then, of a date
posterior to that of the earliest grave-mounds, and were these made parallel
with the nave? I think the answer to the latter question is probably
affirmative, but the puzzle of dates cannot be so readily solved. It is almost
certain that none of the existing mounds is co-eval with the rebuilding or
partial rebuilding of the chancel[608], but again, the present mounds may
have been alined from a succession of earlier ones.
As already suggested, direct infraction of the general rule arrests the
attention; were it not for this, familiarity might make us blind. So again, one
may easily pass by at least two Shakespearean allusions. “Make her grave
straight,” says one sexton to the other, when about to dig Ophelia’s
grave[609], and, though certain commentators have considered the words to
imply “Make it immediately,” there is good authority against this
interpretation. The alternative reading supposes that the command is to dig
the grave East and West. This rendering of the words seems very
reasonable, seeing that they form part of an answer to the question whether
Ophelia shall have Christian burial. “I tell thee she is: and therefore make
her grave straight.” The explanation is in full accord with the tradition, held
in the South-East of England, that the bodies of suicides were buried in a
North and South direction. The instruction given by Guiderius to Cadwal
concerning the apparently dead body of Imogen is more specific:
“Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the East;
My father hath a reason for’t[610].”

The meaning probably is, “Lay his head to face the East”; although the
other interpretation, “Head directed to East, feet to West,” is possible. At
any rate the passage clearly shows that the orientation of graves was
assumed by the poet to have been observed, even in the solitudes.

A scrap of quaint, but illuminating, evidence comes from the folk-lore of
Wales, where the East wind is called “the wind of the dead men’s feet[611].”
Nor is the practice of orienting graves confined to Britain. A Scandinavian
folk-story makes the grave-diggers, either through stress of bad weather, or
“out of mischief,” bury an unpopular person, one Jón Flak, in a grave dug
North and South. Every night the dead man haunted the grave-diggers and
repeated this verse:
“Cold’s the mould at choir-back,
Cowers beneath it Jón Flak,
Other men lie East and West,
Every one but Jón Flak,
Every one but Jón Flak.”

And no rest was obtained until the body was taken up and buried in the
proper position[612]. A study of comparative customs will, however, furnish
us with departures from the British plan, although haphazard alinements
seem to be exceptional. Thus, some Australian tribes allow the head to front
the West, others the East. The Samoans, the Fijians, and the North
American Indians place the head to the East; this was also the practice of
the Peruvians. Some South American tribes and the old Ainus of Yesso
made their dead face the sunrise[613]. Plainly, while all these instances
involve alinement of the corpse, they illustrate the two opposing ideas
mentioned in the last chapter,—that of darkness and death, connected with
sunset, and that of resurrection and new life, typified by sunrise. Sir
Thomas Browne, in his Hydriotaphia, remarks: “The Persians lay North
and South: the Megarians and Phoenicians placed their heads to the East;
the Athenians, some think, towards the West, which Christians still retain.
And Beda will have it to be the posture of our Saviour[614].”
Various Greek authors attest the practice of orienting graves before the
time of Solon (died c. B.C. 558)[615]. Setting this evidence aside, and
restricting the inquiry chiefly to our own country, we have good reason to
believe that there has been continuity of custom from the Saxon period at
least. Mr Romilly Allen asserts that the East-to-West position was usual in
the early days of Christianity. Further it was formerly suggested by Mr
Reginald A. Smith that, wherever East-to-West graves are met with in
Saxon cemeteries, they indicate the burial-places of Christians, in contrast
to the tombs of the heathen. But the discoveries at Mitcham, in Surrey, of a
large number of skeletons carefully orientated, break the rule, since Mr

Smith himself shows that the burials were of pre-Saxon date, while the
associated relics point to pagan interment. Again, a cemetery which was
discovered at the Roman “level” in Bishopsgate Street, London, contained
bodies laid East and West. Since no pagan objects were associated with the
skeletons, we may perhaps conjecture that the burials were those of
Christians[616]. But the most common position of skeletons in Roman
cemeteries, according to Wright, is found to be East and West; usually,
though by no means always, the feet are towards the East[617]. This
generalization must now be considered too confident. There is the further
complication that some of the cemeteries contain burnt, as well as unburnt
bodies, suggesting a mingling of pagan and Christian burials.
We next take the pre-Roman period. Two examples from France will
serve to illustrate one stage. A cemetery at Charvais, belonging to the
earliest Iron Age, contained more than seventy graves, all but two or three
of which were so oriented that the head lay at the West end[618]. Out of five
graves excavated at Pleurs, in the department of Marne, three exhibited a
like arrangement[619]. Examples might be multiplied, so far as the Continent
is concerned; the position of the skeleton in English interments of the Iron
Age unfortunately seems not to have been much noted by investigators.
Even the excellent Guide to the Antiquities of the Early Iron Age does not
furnish much information about British orientation, the main cause,
doubtless, being the neglect of the excavators to record such details. One
remarkable interment, at Kilham, near Driffield, in the East Riding, is
worthy of notice. The grave contained the remains of a man, with the head
placed at the West end; on each side of the body a goat had been laid, with a
similar orientation[620]. Mr J. R. Mortimer, who, in 1897, conducted a series
of excavations at Kilham, gave this summary respecting the disposition of
the skeletons. Of twenty burials, eleven bodies had the head towards the
North, five towards the South, and only four West[621]. At the Late-Celtic
cemetery at Harlyn Bay, Cornwall, the majority of the skeletons, which
were contracted, lay on their left sides, and faced the East. This evidence,
which might be supplemented, plainly shows that the placing of corpses
East and West was not uniformly observed during the Early Iron Age.
But we must widen the scope of the inquiry, for it is necessary to
remember that the round barrows of the Bronze and Aeneolithic periods,
and the long barrows of the Neolithic Age, were nothing but huge graves.
Mr Mortimer’s excavations in the round barrows of Yorkshire led him to the

conclusion, that, while no rule could be formulated concerning the
alinement of the body, “the most prevalent position of the head [was] to the
West and the East[622].” Canon Greenwell’s explorations revealed a like
absence of regularity in the position of round-barrow skeletons, though the
tables which he furnishes indicate a tendency to an East-and-West
approximation. One of his results is of great interest. He found that,
wherever the head of the skeleton pointed, roughly speaking, towards the
West, the body had generally been laid on its right side; where the head was
towards the East, the body was usually resting on its left side[623]. The
inference has therefore been drawn that the corpse was made to face, not
merely the sun, but the position of the sun in the sky at the time of burial.
This opinion has been widely held until recent years, but it is now
becoming customary to heap ridicule upon it[624]. The scoffers should,
however, in fairness, consider collateral testimony.
First, it is well to note an actual record of careful orientations. For
example, it is not contested that, in the round barrows of Wiltshire there is a
strong tendency for the body to face the South[625]. If the theory just
mentioned be correct, the corpse had, in the Wiltshire graves, been placed
with the face towards the midday sun, implying a possible, but not
demonstrable intention, with some fixity of custom. General Pitt-Rivers,
who believed that the Saxons arranged the body with the head towards the
rising sun, examined 31 Saxon graves at Winkelbury. He discovered that,
while the skeleton was always alined towards an Eastern point, the exact
axis varied from E. 19° S. to E. 28° N., but was usually towards the North.
Supposing that his theory were valid, he admitted, with great candour, that
all but two of the bodies must, from their positions, have been buried in
summer. Here, again, we meet a possible, but certainly not provable,
adherence to a custom.
Let us now look at Mr Mortimer’s valuable tables, which are found on
the page of his book to which reference has just been made. From an
examination of 383 interments, Mr Mortimer obtained these results:
Bodies lying on the right side 178
” ” ” left side 103
” ” ” back 68
” ” ” chest 3
Position not known 31

The 31 unascertained positions must be ignored. The 71 instances in which
the body lay on its back or chest are obviously testimony against the “face-
to-sun” hypothesis. Moreover, of the 281 remaining cases, only 61 will be
found to have the head pointing North-East, South-East, or in intermediate
directions. At first sight, this summary is fatal to the theory. But the
question is not easily settled. Other details must be known concerning each
individual interment, and these are, to some extent, lacking. It is evident
that a corpse may occupy any one of numerous linear positions, and may lie
on either its right or left side, and yet face the sun at some time of the day.
For the sun constantly changes its position in the course of its daily journey,
and also alters its points of rising and setting. The consequence is, that a
body lying on its left side might have its head directed to any point from
North-East round to North-West approximately, and nevertheless face the
sun. If we do not know the season, or the hour, of the interment, we cannot
assert that the corpse did not so face the sun. Similarly, if the deceased
tribesman were placed on his right side, he might, broadly speaking, occupy
any position from East round to West, and yet fulfil the condition. Now the
tables show that 245 out of the 281 bodies might conceivably have been
laid as the theory supposes. Mr Mortimer gives Greenwell’s list for
comparison: it supplies details of 234 bodies. Of these bodies, 112 lay on
the right side, and 122 on the left—there is no reference to other positions.
An inspection of the columns reveals that about 200 cases might support the
“face-to-sun” theory.
It would be highly undesirable to press the facts further than is necessary
to appeal for a suspended verdict. The “face-to-sun” hypothesis was never
meant to be more than a possible explanation, but it has the virtue of
accounting for many instances in which the skeleton lies, not due East and
West, or North and South, but obliquely, at some intermediate horizon. And,
at least, the alinement of the head, if not the face, towards the sun, is not
peculiarly a British feature of prehistoric burials. Among the Tlingits, or
Tlinkits, of South Alaska, the corpse was buried with the head towards the
sun, so as to allow the soul of the deceased person to return; if the body
were laid in the contrary direction, the spirit could never come back.
Professor Frazer, who records this custom, asserts that other totemistic
peoples inter their dead, according to fixed rules, with the head towards
particular points of the compass. Professor E. B. Tylor has also collected
abundant testimony corroborative of such customs. In places widely

sundered geographically there has existed a strong desire to bury the dead
“in the path of the sun[626].” Recently, too, Dr A. W. Howitt has discovered,
just in time, at the Australian station of Wotjo, an isolated tribe which still
preserves the custom. The arrangement of the head of the corpse is
determined by the class and totem of the deceased person, and the direction
is fixed by reference to the rising sun. The practice is nearing extinction,
for, although Dr Howitt was able to secure sufficient information from the
natives to construct a kind of burial compass, they could give him no reason
for the varying dispositions. The only explanation proffered was: “Oh, that
is what our fathers told us.” Such a man was buried in such a way because
he was “nearer to us” than the others[627]. The folk-memory of this tribe
will soon become a mere echo of tradition, and the task of reconstructing
these primitive burial customs will grow increasingly difficult as each
aboriginal patch of the earth’s surface becomes influenced by civilization.
Respecting graves themselves, we readily perceive that a round barrow,
from its very nature, cannot be normally oriented. But in the British long
barrows, usually accepted as the earlier kind, the long axis generally runs
East and West. The broader end of the mound, where the sepulchral deposit
is, as a rule, discovered, is directed towards the East[628]. So that, during the
Neolithic period, some broad principle of orientation was observed, the
constraining motive being probably connected with sun-worship.
Orientation in barrow burials having been considered, one is easily led to
discuss an allied subject, in part connected with interments, in part not so
strictly related, yet tinged with like primitive ideas. This topic is the
orientation of megaliths and ancient earthworks, and it has been so
prominently put forward by Sir Norman Lockyer that no archaeologist can
pretend to be alert and watchful who has not, to some extent, followed the
discussion. Hence a notice, however slight and imperfect, is demanded. Sir
Norman Lockyer has made careful triangulations and measurements in
connection with the prehistoric monuments of Cornwall, Wiltshire, and
other counties, and his general conclusion is, that the axes of these
monuments, and their mutual geographical relations, were carefully
determined by their constructors. The assumption having been made that
the monuments were originally alined to sunrise, the problem has been to
calculate when that arrangement could have existed, because now, owing to
the alteration of the inclination of the earth’s equator with regard to the
ecliptic, the solstitial points have considerably shifted their positions.

Stonehenge, which Sir Norman Lockyer considers to have been a solstitial
temple, was accurately alined by astronomical means when erected. He
believes that the original alinement of the circles was adapted (c. B.C. 2200)
to a “farmer’s year,” May to November; but that, about B.C. 1600, a new cult
was introduced, probably from Egypt, and the lines of orientation were
changed to harmonize with a June-to-December year[629]. The investigation
has also been applied to other monuments, and it is claimed that not only
can we determine to what star a particular megalith was originally oriented,
but, as a consequence of this determination, we can discover the
approximate date also of the erection of the stones[630]. To any one who,
like the present writer, is not a skilled practical astronomer, the evidence is
difficult to handle, for the actual observations and measurements must, of
necessity, be implicitly accepted. Yet, on general grounds, one cannot avoid
the thought that the assumptions are not self-evidently true, and that even if
this were the case, the theory is pushed much further than seems reasonable.
These objections have been raised by several writers, and the views of Sir
Norman Lockyer have been exposed to severe, and, apparently,
disintegrating criticism[631]. It is but fair to add that these rebutting
arguments have been met by rejoinders, though of varying value. Do we
urge that the theory, with the minute measurements which it involves,
presupposes too high a state of culture for those early times, too deep a
knowledge of astronomy, too complicated a system of religion or worship?
We are met by the enunciation of another hypothesis, that the Druids of
Caesar’s time, admittedly men of some learning, were the descendants of
astronomer-priests of a more ancient British civilization[632]. Do we ask for
proof of re-orientation, as a result of the immigration of a new race of men?
We are thrown back on a further series of intricate astronomical data,
reinforced by similar details relating to Egyptian temples. It may be that the
objector has some misgivings as to the exactitude of the orientation of these
very temples—that is a small matter—but he would like to know the reason
for placing our rough, unhewn cromlechs and menhirs in the same category.
To the general archaeologist, the comparison between our rude
“amorpholiths” and an elaborate Eastern temple is not just. Such a person
asks questions about the instruments which the builders of the megaliths
may have used in their observations, about the possible obstacles which
may have blocked out of view portions of the horizon, about the difficulty
in ascertaining which standard line was used, where all the monoliths are so

crude and irregular. Again, which was considered the time of sunrise—the
moment when the sun’s rim peeped above the horizon, or when his centre
was clearly visible? Each position has been assumed, the one in England,
the other in Egypt. In the ages when not even the Julian calendar had been
invented, could primitive folk know, for certain, the exact date of the
solstice? In England, the sun rises on the slant: where was the observer’s
eye placed in relation to that oblique line? In one Cornish instance, at least,
it has been asserted that the stones from which the alinement had been taken
cannot be seen from the central group of stones[633]. And of Sidbury Hill,
which was deemed so important in the Stonehenge measurements, Dr T.
Rice Holmes declares that it cannot be seen from that monument, only the
trees on its summit being visible[634].
Somewhat in accord with the conclusions of Sir Norman Lockyer, but by
no means in total agreement, are the theories propounded by the Rev. J. W.
Hayes, of West Thurrock. Mr Hayes, who has made a close study of stone-
circles, especially with regard to their use in Gorseddau and other
assemblies, has kindly permitted me to read his unpublished papers, and to
glean therefrom such information as is germane to the present question. It is
manifestly impossible to give more than the briefest summary of the
evidence, or to enumerate the miscellaneous documents, written and
printed, which Mr Hayes has consulted. The leading idea is, that the stone-
circles were first erected to serve as indicators of seasons. By means of
these “dials,” the priestly caste determined the times of fasts and feasts. In
spring, there were sacrifices to ensure bountiful crops. Before entering upon
a war, there were offerings to propitiate the gods and thus to win success. A
comparison is made between the old festivals and our own Easter—itself a
pagan feast originally, and still depending on the moon for the exact date of
its observance. Analogies are also drawn from the customs of the Jews, the
Romans, and the Egyptians. The outstanding menhirs connected with stone-
circles are considered to have been intended to provide sight-lines, while
the trilithons of Stonehenge, it is suggested, marked out sky-spaces. It is
interesting to note, in passing, that Professor W. Gowland has recorded the
use of wooden trilithons by modern Japanese sun-worshippers, for
determining the position of the sun and of sacred objects.
It will be inferred that Mr Hayes’s theory makes the sacrificial use of the
circles subsidiary to a primary astronomical and judicial purpose. Yet he
takes note that the old Irish name for a cromlech—the accepted term among

modern writers for a “stone-ring”—was siorcal leacht, or “circle-stone-of-
death.” In old Irish manuscripts such circles are always associated with
pagan priests or druids. The sepulchral aspect of stone-circles, however,
seems to be largely ignored by the modern school of investigators.
Mr Hayes lays stress upon a singular fact, the true explanation of which
has long been an enigma—the frequent occurrence of a definite number of
pillars in the stone-ring. Nine is not an uncommon number in England,
though it is recorded from Ireland and Germany. (The stones of the Nine
Maidens, near St Columb Major, in Cornwall, form a row, not a circle.) The
cromlechs of Boscawen-ûn and the Dawns Mên, in Cornwall, of
Whitemoorstone Down, Dartmoor, as well as the inner “horseshoe” at
Stonehenge, have nineteen uprights. Thirty, again, is the tale of some
circles, as in the outer ring of sarsens at Stonehenge. The group of nine is
puzzling, but the arrangement of nineteen is held to represent the metonic,
Indian, or lunar cycle of the astronomers. After the lapse of nineteen years,
the sun and moon occupy relatively the same positions as at the
commencement of the cycle, so that full moon and new moon recur on the
same days of the months as before. Whether this astronomical explanation
of the number nineteen can be proved or not, one curious feature deserves
notice. The circles which show nineteen stones have a gap towards the East,
and no explorations have hitherto brought a twentieth stone to light.
It further appears that the old Gorsedd circles (p. 98 supra) consisted of
twelve stones, set 30° apart, and said to represent the twelve signs of the
Zodiac. The circles reared at the annual Eisteddfod by the neo-Druidic cult
are arranged similarly. Besides the twelve pillars, three outstanding menhirs
were fixed at the North-East, East, and South-East respectively so that the
sun’s rays at the solstices, or the equinoxes, as might be, fell on the central
stone, or “chair” within the circle. And, by a strange coincidence—or is it
due to imitation?—another plan of the Gorsedd circle, as preserved in
ancient manuscripts, gives nineteen stones, with a gap towards the East. In
this case, eight outstanding pillars were erected, so as to indicate, by
shadows or rays, (1) the summer and winter solstices, (2) the old May-
December agricultural year, (3) the equinoxes, and, possibly, (4) other solar
and lunar periods.
The weakness in the foregoing theories seems to lie in the assumption,
up to the present unproved, that the primary purpose of the cromlechs was
to serve as places of assembly. True, the convocations are supposed to have

been hedged with much ceremony, to which the stones were accessory. But,
dealing with circles, are we not liable to argue in a circle? Until the prime
purpose of the cromlechs is ascertained, the student is forced back like the
turnspit in Hudibras:
“And still he’s in the selfsame place
Where, at his setting out, he was.”

Were the stone-rings first erected for worship, and did the later conveners of
Gorseddau, retaining faint memories of ancient usages, cling to the
traditional system of orientation and astronomical measurement? Or were
the cromlechs primarily intended for open-air meetings, which were
afterwards invested by the priests with a religious character? Or, again,
were the circles first of all astronomical, and the assemblies, features of
later times? Minor theories may be neglected, although, in the present
condition of the evidence, even these might claim recognition.
Setting aside the modern Druidical ceremonies, as having a parentage no
older than the sixteenth or seventeenth century, there remain the more
ancient Gorseddau. The evidence regarding these, for the past 1500 years,
notably with respect to the practice of orientation and the use of “pointers”
to indicate the seasons, is weighty, and cannot be ignored by the impartial
student. But the grand difficulty remains. We cannot yet bridge over the
interval between oral tradition and written history, between the builders of
the Bronze and Early Iron Ages and the bards of the Arthurian period. It is
quite possible that folk-memory was effective during that dim period, but it
is equally possible that the cromlechs became gradually diverted from their
original purpose, whether sepulchral, astronomical, or other. This diversion
would be a natural process when the functions of priest and lawgiver
became more differentiated. The religious ceremonies which accompanied
legislative and judicial meetings would tend to conceal the change which
had occurred.
Sir Norman Lockyer considers the whole question of Gorsedd circles so
important, that, in the second edition of his work (1909), he has devoted a
special chapter to the subject. Should it be finally established, beyond cavil,
that Gorsedd circles have been frequently erected throughout the period
which extends from the fifth century of our era until the present day, there
will be a fair claim for continuity, if not of function, yet of habit, from
prehistoric times. But there will also arise a grave suspicion whether some

of the cromlechs, hitherto ascribed to prehistoric peoples, may not, after all,
be the more permanent Gorsedd circles of a later date. We cannot forget the
misleading stone-circle set up at Pontypridd no farther back than fifty years
ago, by the “Arch-Druid” of that time, Myfyr Morganwg (or Myvyr
Morgannwg); nor the sham “Druidic structure,” raised in the neighbourhood
of Pateley Bridge, in Yorkshire, about thirty years previously.
Having uttered these objections, and having implied the necessity of
slow-moving circumspection, one cannot think that the boundary of
knowledge has yet been reached. Frequently, excavations reveal little more
evidence than was already suspected after critical external examination. If
then the archaeologist and the astronomer can find agreement in common
premisses, the theodolite may indeed help the spade and atone for its
limitations. While feeling persuaded that our megalithic monuments were
never alined with such nicety that the orientation can be expressed in
seconds, one can still understand that they may have been set out with
greater accuracy than is commonly supposed. When we recollect, too, that
many of our megaliths had at first probably a sepulchral purpose, we shall
see no sufficient reason why they should not have been planned, at any rate,
as skilfully as funeral earthworks.
The Rev. J. Griffith, indeed, carries the orientation theory further, and
applies it to primitive earthworks of a general character—those which are
popularly known as camps and forts. Speaking of Burrington Camp,
Somerset, he claims that its Southern bank is oriented to the equinox, and
that another bank corresponds both to the sunset line at the summer solstice,
and to sunrise at the winter solstice. He adds that the star alinement of this
earthwork has been “worked out” by Sir Norman Lockyer to Arcturus.
Castle Dyke, near Aysgarth, Yorkshire, gives indications of an alinement
either to Alpha Centauri or to Capella[635].
These much-canvassed theories have led us away from our highroad, yet
the digression was really slight, seeing that many of our megaliths mark the
position of early burial-places. It is not asserted that all our ancient stone
monuments are of this character, but some, at least, of those which are
claimed as “temples,” were primarily graves; hence they come under our
survey. Here, too, it seems fitting to notice another matter, dependent to
some extent on the orientation of graves, and illustrative of the persistency
of unconscious folk-memory.

The modern sexton, having filled up the grave, banks up the surplus soil
in the form of a long, neatly-finished mound. Is there any obvious reason
why he should do this, instead of spreading out the remaining earth until all
is level? The explanation of positive necessity is not admissible: I have
noticed one churchyard in which mounds are not raised, just as, in two or
three other instances, all the tombstones are laid in a horizontal position.
The popular belief, if it is found to exist, ascribes the mound to an
economical cause—the advantage of banking up some soil to prevent the
shallow depression which is the after result of subsidence. But this does not
account for the oblong mound with curved ends—a shape which does not
altogether correspond with that of the pit which is being closed. Nor does it
explain the careful turfing-over which sometimes follows, nor the masonry
or coped tombstone which is frequently designed to preserve the accepted
form of the mound.
The only satisfactory answer to the question, so far as competent
authorities have yet discovered, is that the modern grave-mound is the
shrunken representative of the long barrow, the features having been
retained because of the inertia of social custom, and because inveterate
imitation is easier than new experiment. It is noteworthy that the modern
mound is often so large as to be unsightly. The size is especially increased
in places where, as in the little Huguenot burying ground at Wandsworth,
the pile is surmounted by a “box” tomb of brick or stone. (These mounds
are not, however, comparable in size to that of Chislehurst, p. 76 supra.) To
the late Mr Grant Allen belongs, I believe, the chief credit for the barrow
theory, the conclusion having been forced upon him by long study of the
comparative burial customs of primitive folk[636]. Thomas Wright had
earlier classed the Saxon barrow as the prototype of the modern grave-
mound; and, in the eighteenth century, Hearne had remarked, concerning
tumuli and churchyards: “But now the straitness of [churchyards] will not
permit such aggeres consecratos, as some terme them, to be made there.”
The proposed interpretation involves the assumption that the practice of
barrow-burial, in the sense of raising a tumulus of some kind over the dead,
has never completely died out in our country. Link by link, as we pass
onwards from the Neolithic period, through the Bronze and Iron Ages, and
include the Romans, Saxons, and Danes in our survey, we discover that this
claim can be made good. The chief difference between the ancient practice
and that of our own day lies in the fact that mound-burial is now almost

universal, at least throughout our country, while in former ages it was not
quite so general. One may hazard the opinion that mound-burial may have
been markedly the exception in prehistoric times. The great ones of the land
were truly laid under these earthen monuments, but in what manner the
great masses of the poorer folk were buried we may never know. Perhaps
these humbler members of the community were interred in much the same
way as nearly the whole of the present population may expect to be
interred; that is, a hole was dug in the ground, and perhaps a tiny tumulus
was heaped above the buried corpse. But the mound was not always raised,
especially when cremation came into fashion. The question need not be here
complicated by a consideration of the evolution of the coffin, since some
remarks will be made on this subject later. An instance or two will tend to
confirm the opinion just expressed. Dr T. Rice Holmes has collected
numerous records to show that there were moundless graves during the
Bronze Age[637]. Such graves were dug in caverns, or sunk on the chalk
downs, or in other soils near a settlement. Doubtless, other examples remain
yet to be discovered. The reader will, however, note that, except in the case
of caves, the original absence of a mound cannot always be absolutely
proven; the forces of Nature, aided by the plough, may have obliterated the
external signs of burial. During the Early Iron Age, mounds appear to have
been even less general than in the preceding period. Thus, several pit-
burials have been recorded from Hagbourne Hill, near Didcot,
Berkshire[638], and from the celebrated “urn-field” at Aylesford, Kent,
which dates from c. B.C. 50[639]. For the intervening Roman period, there is
no need to cite examples, since they abound, and of the Anglo-Saxon
burials, it may be sufficient to state that in various localities (Cambridge,
Northampton, Gloucester, Wiltshire), groups of graves have been found in
such close proximity that the tumuli, if they ever existed, must have been of
small dimensions[640].
All through these centuries, nevertheless, barrow-burial had persisted.
Nay, more, the barrows were often collected in groups, representing the
prototypes of our modern cemeteries. The classic example of such clusters
is seen in the barrows around Stonehenge; within a circuit of three miles it
is said that there are about three hundred barrows[641]. Another illuminating
record is that of the collection of barrows known as the Danes’ Graves, near
Kilham, on the Wolds of Yorkshire. Not fewer than 500 graves once existed
here, “massed together as in a modern churchyard, not isolated as in the

Bronze period[642].” Mr J. R. Mortimer found that the burial-mounds of
East Yorkshire fell readily into clusters, some of which contained so many
as thirty or more individual barrows. From Mr Mortimer’s conclusion that
the ground-plans of these groups agree with the outlines of certain of the
heavenly constellations, notably with that of Charles’s Wain, we must,
however, withhold assent. The Stonehenge barrows are grouped, not
actually “massed.” Other groups of tumuli might be given; we will merely
mention those interesting cases where one or two large barrows are
connected with collections of tiny mounds; the smaller ones, perhaps,
representing the resting-place of the poorer tribesmen[643]. It would be safe
to assert that most of the small barrows have ere now been long levelled
down. Of the larger mounds not a tithe of the original number remains.
The clusters of barrows, one may consider, led indirectly to the Christian
cemeteries. At first, as stated in a sermon by St Chrysostom (A.D. 403), the
Christian communities had their cemeteries outside the walls of cities[644].
Interment in churchyards was not a primitive practice, and was prohibited
by the decrees of early church councils. The custom gradually crept into use
about the sixth century[645], the innovation appearing first in connection
with monastic settlements. By the time of St Cuthbert (c. A.D. 742) the
practice was becoming well known, the bones of pious men and martyrs
being actually admitted within the building itself[646]. To such an extent did
the practice grow, that the floors of churches often became too uneven for
walking over. As a parenthesis, we note that the early ban against
churchyard burial must not be interpreted as contradicting the probability of
the building of churches near older Christian cemeteries.
Scandinavia was apparently in a state of transition from barrow burial to
small-mound burial at a later date, namely, during the Viking Age (A.D. 700-
1000). At that period it became the habit to make low barrows for the
poorer folk, the “warrior houes” being reserved for the families of powerful
chieftains[647]. And one cannot doubt that the collaterals of the
Scandinavians—the Anglo-Saxons—developed their burial customs along
similar lines. In addition, it must be remembered that these latter peoples,
when settled in England, had a marked predilection for burial in the older
and larger barrows which they found already in existence. Such “secondary
burials” are familiar to the archaeologist, and are discriminated by the level
and posture of the skeletons, as well as by the associated objects. When the
conversion of the people to Christianity became more general, such

practices were discountenanced. Down to the eighth century, however, it
was usual to bury the illegitimate offspring of nuns and others in these older
mounds.
The Capitularies of Charlemagne (A.D. 789) order the burial of Christians
in cemeteries, and expressly forbid the pagan practice of barrow-burial:
“Jubemus, ut corpora Christianorum Saxonum ad coemiteria [al.
coemeteria] Ecclesiae deferantur, et non ad tumulos paganorum[648].” The
burial-ground soon became known in Germany as “Gottes-acker” (God’s
Acre). This change, too, completed the break between cremation and simple
burial of the corpse. Orientation of graves now became a fixed rule. Keysler
suggests, and his view has since been largely upheld, that the transfer of
custom was due to the doctrine of the Resurrection, as epitomized in I Cor.
xv. 5 et seqq. and St John xii. 24[649]. In other words, the new religion
discouraged cremation, and enjoined simple earth burial, thus curiously
reviving the primitive habit (cf. p. 264 infra).
If we desire, to-day, to see folk who represent the transitional stage of
culture which connects the large tumulus with the smaller and more
insignificant mound, we may visit the natives of the Pandsh valley, in the
district of the Pamirs. Recently it has been discovered by Olufsen that these
“equine-faced” folk raise a burial-mound over the dead, and surround it by
high stones or a clay wall, according to the social standing, riches, or
holiness of the deceased man[650]. The distinctions of rank have ever been
preserved by the tomb, in spite of proverbial wisdom.
Reverting to the “mould’ring heap” of which Gray sings in his Elegy, it
may fairly be asked why the mound should be long and not round. A
decisive answer cannot be tendered. It is worth considering, nevertheless,
whether this shape does not represent a “throw-back” to Neolithic custom.
The round barrows which fell under the Christian ban enclosed the relics of
burnt or partially burnt bodies. The long barrows, which, with some
possible exceptions[651], are believed to be of earlier date, were raised over
corpses which had not been cremated. Now, if it be true, as Mr Grant Allen
supposed, that the shape of the circular tumulus was determined by the
cinerary urn around which it was piled, while the form of the long barrow
depended on the subjacent chambered tomb—the underground home or
palace of the dead person[652]—we begin to see a glimmer of light. For the
subterranean chamber, being intended to hold an uncremated corpse, would
be roughly adapted to the form of the human body. In like manner, when

inhumation was again enforced, there would be an unconscious return to the
use of the long mound. As if to show once more that no rule is of universal
application, certain exceptions must be recorded. In some village
churchyards, a few round mounds are interspersed with the long ones.
Occasionally, the round mounds may be explained by the division of a long
mound caused by the tread of careless feet, repeated throughout several
generations. That this is not always the reason, is plain to the observant eye.
Do these mounds represent the graves of children, or of unbaptized infants?
On the Sussex coast, the graves of drowned sailors are said to be thus
distinguished. Once again, why should it be customary, as in some
churchyards of Dorsetshire and the Isle of Wight, to make the long mounds
of unusual size?
A fact of some little interest, though it has no scientific bearing on our
theme, is that the late Professor Tyndall’s grave, in Haslemere churchyard,
Surrey, is a round tumulus, clad with bracken and heather. The memorial
took this unpretentious form in accordance with the expressed wish of the
philosopher himself. Through the kindness of Miss Truda Hutchinson, I am
enabled to give an illustration (Fig. 51) of the mound. For the purpose of
comparison, a round barrow situated at Henley-on-Thames is shown (Fig.
52).

Fig. 51. Tyndall’s grave, Haslemere
churchyard, Surrey. A modern round

barrow.

We have seen that orientation, as we know it, was not strictly observed
in the burials of prehistoric folk, while, in our day, it is all but universal.
Contrariwise, what was originally a common feature—the placing of the
corpse in a crouched or sitting posture—is now decidedly exceptional,
being restricted to the

Fig. 52. Round barrow, Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire.

burials of very eccentric or very pious persons[653]. Interment in an upright
position has not, however, been of infrequent occurrence. Ben Jonson was
so buried at Westminster. The case of the Hobarts, who are buried in a
brickwork vault at Blickling, Norfolk, is also often cited. The vertical
position was formerly adopted for the interment of captains in the army[654].
The body of Clement Spelman, Recorder of Nottingham, was immured (A.D.
1679) in a pillar in Narburgh church[655]. Many other curious vagaries of
custom might be given; one or two instances must suffice. Surrey folk are
familiar with Leith Hill Tower, under which lie the remains of Mr Richard
Hull, who died in 1772, and whose peculiar opinions led him to stipulate
burial in this elevated region[656]. In another instance, a corpse was buried
within a flint pyramid at the top of a fir-clad hill near Great Missenden, in
Buckinghamshire. A chapter might easily be filled with such particulars, but
enough has been said to show that, amid all these eccentricities of habit,
there is often an unwitting reversion to primitive methods. The similarities
have been revealed only by the labours of the barrow-digger and the
antiquary. Not only has the practice of orientation been found to have a very

ancient descent, but many quaint usages, ofttimes deemed abnormal, have
proved to be genuine survivals. In the next chapter some of these survivals
will be considered. Not a little pathos is associated with our knowledge of
these details. Bones which had “quietly rested under the drums and
tramplings of three conquests,” have been unromantically disturbed by the
busy archaeologist, and compelled to yield their secret. One cannot
withhold sympathy from the investigator who had obtained permission to
open a certain barrow, but who pondered and procrastinated, viewing, with
indulgent eye, the even outline of the grassy mound. Day by day his pity for
the sleeping warrior increased, and he hesitated to thrust his spade into the
wind-swept turf, until the opportunity for work had slipped away. One
admires the spirit, yet to widen the limits of knowledge that spirit has to be
sadly, though judiciously, corrected.

CHAPTER VII

SURVIVALS IN BURIAL CUSTOMS

A discussion of burial customs might, in the absence of a little careful
selection of material, tend to become rather gruesome. This may be
conceded at the outset, but, fortunately, an impersonal treatment is possible,
and one need not even imitate the mournful example of “Old Mortality.”
There is nothing morbid in a dispassionate review of customs which, in all
ages and among all peoples, seem to have been general, because born of
that vicissitude which is the common lot of man. Perhaps, in some measure,
the antiquary may be able to reach the standard of stoicism set up by John
Earle: “His grave does not fright him [the antiquary], because he has been
used to sepulchers, and he likes Death the better, because it gathers him to
his fathers[657].”
Already we have spoken of the orientation of graves, and the
degradation of the barrow to the grave-mound. Several kindred matters
must now receive attention, and in a later chapter, when chariot-burial is
considered, our eyes will again be turned backward. For customs are like
crystals with several facets; to get a true perception we must, in each case,
frequently change our point of view.
A few more instances of the development of funeral monuments may be
first noted. It has been shown elsewhere that the churchyard headstone may
be traced back, step by step, to the unhewn menhir set up by primitive man
on some bleak moorland. Within the last two or three years, there have been
discovered in France and Italy remarkable connecting links, in the so-called
“statue-menhirs,” prehistoric stones rudely carved

Fig. 53. Inscribed, ornamented, round-
headed cross, Sancreed churchyard,
Cornwall. In the head of the cross is a
figure of Our Lord in relief. The shaft is
decorated with interlaced work, and
contains a panel with an imperfect
inscription.

to represent the human head and trunk[658]. The evidence derived from
observing the gradual evolution is corroborated by strange cases of survival.
Thus in St Martha’s churchyard, near Chilworth, Surrey, low headstones,
untouched by any tool, have been set up in considerable numbers. The slabs
are merely masses of ironstone dug out of the Lower Greensand of the hill
on which the church is built. Pursuing another line of descent, Mr J.
Romilly Allen claimed that a similar kind of coarse monolith had developed
into the “wheel-cross” and the “free-standing” cross of Christian
churchyards[659] (Fig. 53 and Fig. 62). The dolmen, or “stone-table,” a
familiar prehistoric monument, has been replaced by the family vault and
the altar-tomb, the ossuary of Brittany, the flat tombstone of the village
graveyard, and the sarcophagus of the cathedral[660]. The cromlech, a circle
of upright stone pillars, is by some believed to have been the forerunner of
the temple and the round church[661]; but this claim may be waived, as not
fully proven (cf. p. 99 supra). More plausible is the theory that the rude,
unfashioned grave-stake is represented to-day by the humble wooden cross

of our cemeteries[662]. Each of these examples of unconscious imitation and
modern survival might be examined at some length, but the theories which
they illustrate are now so familiar as to be commonplace. Not quite so well
known is the theory that we have derived our custom of placing shrubs on
graves from our heathen forefathers of the Bronze Age, who were wont to
plant trees on their burial mounds[663]. Mr Grant Allen argued, with some
reason, that the pine-trees so frequently found on round barrows in the
South of England are survivors of those placed there by the first mound-
raisers, since the Scottish pine is not now indigenous to that tract of
country[664] (cf. p. 401 infra).
Attempts have been made to connect the noun “barrow” with the verb
“to bury,” but the relationship cannot really be upheld. The primary notion
involved in “barrow” was that of a height, while “to bury” was associated
with concealment or covering. The word “barrow,” it may be remarked,
went out of use in English literature before A.D. 1400, but it survived locally
in dialects, and was ultimately taken back into the nomenclature of
archaeology[665]. But, though philology forbids us to bind these two words
together, the actual continuity between mound-burial and pit-burial, as we
have seen, has never been completely broken. Something has been said
about the later development of barrows and megaliths; it is now desirable to
trace the earliest representatives of our wooden coffin. To begin with, we
notice that coffins did not come into universal use until a little over two
centuries ago. This is proved by numerous terriers and by minutes of parish
vestries. In London, it is true, burial in the simple winding-sheet seems to
have been discarded so far back as the early years of Elizabeth, but in
remote districts the custom lingered much later. Thus in the Isle of Man,
down to the early part of the eighteenth century, the bodies of the poor were
wrapped in a blanket fastened with a skewer, and were carried on a bier to
the grave. A hundred years afterwards, coffinless burials survived to a
considerable extent in county Wexford. Sir R. Phillimore quotes Lord
Stowell’s dictum that funerals were either “coffined” or “coffinless,” and
were charged for accordingly. The use of coffins is extremely ancient, but at
first the custom was by no means common[666]. There appears, in fact, to
have been no real uniformity in this, as in many other practices, since the
earliest days of English Christendom. And in this lack of system we find at
once an approximation to the customs of the barrow period, when corpses
were either enclosed, or buried without a cist, the exact reason for the

difference of treatment being not always explicable by the general ideas
held at the time.
Lest there should still be any doubt of the antiquity of coffins, it is
necessary to recall those coffins of the Middle Ages (Fig. 54), often hewn
out of a single block, and familiar to persons who have inspected the relics
of ruined abbeys and the nooks and corners of our existing parish churches.
These stone coffins are obviously the representatives of prehistoric tombs,
though they may not be in the true British line of descent. Rather do they
suggest the Roman coffins of stone, lead, or brick (Figs. 55 B, 56).
Occasionally, Roman coffins of stone are

Fig. 54. Mediaeval stone coffins. A. From
Wellesbourne churchyard, Warwickshire
(Bloxam’s Mon. Archit.). There is a hole
in the bottom of the coffin, as in the
prehistoric specimen from Gristhorpe
(Fig. 55 B). An almost exact replica of
this coffin may be seen in the Guildhall
Museum, London, associated with a
thirteenth century lid bearing a foliated
cross. B. From Eynesford church, Kent.
This specimen has a raised head-rest.

found, covered with a lid of undoubted Saxon workmanship, proving that
there had been a re-adaptation. We note, in passing, that the stone coffin
must be carefully distinguished from those hog-backed or coped stones
which were employed as grave covers in early Christian times, and to which

Mr Romilly Allen assigned a Saxon or Scandinavian origin[667]. With
respect to the wooden coffin, commonly adjudged as of Christian design,
there is occasionally some difficulty. At Colchester, wooden coffins have
been found associated with leaden ones,

Fig. 55. A. Prehistoric coffin, formed of a
hollowed oak trunk, found in a barrow at
Gristhorpe, near Scarborough. The bark is
still adhering to the timber. A hole (3´´ × 1´´)
has been cut in the bottom of the coffin. The
relics indicated that the grave probably
belonged to the Bronze Age. (After T.
Wright.)
B. Roman coffin of baked clay, Aldborough,
Yorkshire. (After T. Wright.) The shapes of
such coffins are rather variable.

Fig. 56. Roman coffin of lead, found at Colchester.
Length 4´ 3´´; depth, exclusive of lid, 9½´´; width
at head 15´´, at foot 11´´. The lid has overlapping
edges. The decoration consists of scallop shells,
concentric rings, and lines of beaded ornament.

and have been taken to indicate a Christian element among the population.
In connection with the leaden coffins were found Roman coins, mainly, of
the Constantine group, so that the burials were of late date. Yet, although
there were probably many converts in that part of England by the time of
the Diocletian persecution, A.D. 303, Mr Guy Maynard, who records the
discoveries, admits that there is little corroborative evidence of the
Christian character of the graves[668]. Looked at from either standpoint, the
association of coffins and coins seems to show a period of transition.
We are able, however, to extend our view much beyond the Roman
invasion, and to find the counterpart of the coffin in many primitive burials.
Some of the stone cists which enclosed unburnt bodies of the older Bronze
Age barrows are actually described as “coffin-shaped receptacles[669].” A
Bronze Age barrow at Hove, Brighton, contained an oak coffin in which
objects of bronze, stone, and amber had been deposited with the
skeleton[670]. Belonging to the same period was the famous barrow of
Gristhorpe, near Scarborough; in this example the interment had been made
in a hollowed oak trunk, specially prepared for the purpose[671] (Fig. 55 A).
King Barrow, near Wareham, Dorset, was found to be raised over a coffin,
wherein a cup of shale had been deposited with the body[672]. Mr J. R.
Mortimer asserts that traces of wooden supports for protecting the body are
often found. In a barrow at Easington, in Holderness, broad slabs, made
from the trunk of a willow, formed the covering. It would be superfluous to
continue the list, but should the reader desire to examine further material in
justification of the plea of continuity, he will find ample opportunity in Mr
Llewellynn Jewitt’s interesting volume[673].
The Roman and pre-Roman periods have been considered; we turn to the
Romano-British burials, and proceed in the forward direction.
Gen. Pitt-Rivers discovered “dug-out” coffins at Woodyates, and other
sites in Cranborne Chase, and he inferred the former existence of further
specimens by the presence of nails which were associated with the burials.
To ascertain whether the record can be extended into later historical times,
we might turn especially to our Northern churchyards. Some examples of
the stone cell, found at Alloa and elsewhere, are described by Sir Arthur
Mitchell as being simply cists, enlarged so as to avoid doubling up the
body[674]. Later stages of survival are witnessed by the rude box-shaped
tombstones of many churchyards in Devonshire, Gloucestershire, and other
counties[675]. Stone coffins have been dug up in the Dorsetshire graveyard

of Worth Matravers, almost identical with those which have been unearthed
from barrows in the surrounding Isle of Purbeck. In short, it is clear that the
stone coffin and the table tombstone are derived from the ancient stone cist,
and this, in its turn, bears some analogy to the chamber of the long barrow.
This endurance of custom becomes the more remarkable when we
remember that great changes have occurred in the mode of treating the
corpse at burial. At first there was inhumation; then we have a period during
which inhumation and cremation were, to some extent, contemporaneous,
while, as a variant, partial burning of the body was common. Cremation
gradually becomes obsolete, and earth-burial again comes into vogue. If we
carry back our thoughts to the advent of Christianity into Britain, we see
that the trend of custom was the exact reverse of that which obtains in our
day, when cremation is very slowly replacing earth-burial. The substitution
of inhumation for the funeral pyre is one of the four chief distinctions
drawn by Mr Romilly Allen between the burial customs of the Celtic
pagans and the Celtic Christians[676]. Yet the change was a slow one; in the
remote fastnesses of the country, the custom of burning bodies lingered for
generations, though it was generally extinct in the fourth century of our
era[677]. Indeed, Macrobius, the critic and philosopher, who wrote at the
beginning of the fifth century, declared that cremation had been
discontinued for so long a time that it was only from books that he could
glean information concerning the custom[678]. Whether the turnover from
cremation to earth-burial were always the result of religious or of racial
influences is a moot point[679]. The evidence seems to prove, as already
hinted, that in Britain the cause was mainly religious (p. 263 supra), though
one dare not assert that religion was the sole cause. Cremation must always
have been a comparatively expensive process. Someone has well said, “To
this day we speak of the ashes of the great, and the bones of the poor.” At
all events, transitions may be noted, as in the case of the famous flat-earth
burial-ground at Aylesford, which was referred to in the preceding chapter.
The ashes of the “family circle” represented at Aylesford had been enclosed
in urns, and then placed in pits, as before stated (p. 261 supra). Sir A. J.
Evans supposes that the variation of custom was due to the influence of
Belgic conquerors. The urn-burials represented at Aylesford superseded the
old skeleton interments of the late-Celtic peoples, as exemplified in the
“chariot-burials” of Yorkshire, where the skeleton of the departed warrior is
laid alongside the chariot[680]. In Scandinavia and Northern Germany there