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
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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

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

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 mæ̅l 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 mæ̅l dūn), it would certainly have implied a “hill with a cross or crucifix,” just as, according to Professor Skeat, we have “Christ’s mæ̅l 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 Mæ̅ldune, 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].