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.

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—

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,