Leaving the tower, we come next to the nave of the church, and approach an attractive study—one that has exercised the minds of many observers. Why should the size of the nave be often so utterly disproportionate to the congregation which it has to accommodate? Has the population changed inversely to such an extent since the church was built? One might rashly deem the riddle solved by a reference to acts enforcing conformity in religion, or to the half-truth that “all persons went to church in those days.” On rare occasions, perchance, the inhabitants did all go to church, at least those who were neither infantile nor bed-ridden. But these explanations are idle. Churches may be found, which, even if we allow that every adult in the village was a regular churchgoer, could never at any time have been quite filled at a purely religious service.

Various answers have been given to the troublesome query. At Thaxted, in Essex, in whose church, as the natives say, all the parishioners might comfortably be put to bed, the excess of accommodation is thought to be explainable on the assumption that the builders provided for a growing population. The general facts, however, are strongly against this notion. William Cobbett, who will be admitted as a careful observer, though his conclusions were frequently hasty, exemplified both his strength and his weakness in discussing this subject. Over and over again, in his Rural Rides, and his History of the Protestant Reformation, he calls attention to churches, which, in his day, would hold three or four times the total number of the inhabitants in the respective parishes. From these facts, he deduces that the land in Mediaeval times supported a greater number of folk, and that the villages were larger and much more densely populated. Other writers, favoured with greater opportunities than were available to Cobbett, have, nevertheless, been betrayed into the same error. But the population theory is now so generally discredited, that it is unnecessary to rebut it directly by an appeal to the estimated populations of the country during each successive century. Besides, an estimated census of the population during the Edwardian period, for instance, can never be more than approximate, and may itself cause more controversy than the theory which it is warranted to disprove.

The seemingly obvious answer to the puzzle of spacious churches is, as so often happens, incorrect. The best refutation, perhaps, is afforded by general principles, and by certain ascertained facts. These principles and facts are bound up with what has been briefly called “the social theory of Mediaeval Christianity.” What this theory implies will shortly appear. From a slightly different point of view, the inordinate size of the nave directs us to a period when secular and sacred departments of parish life were more closely blended than they are to-day. Before developing this idea, however, we must pause, else we shall find another hypothesis barring our way.

This latest hypothesis, and one which will command greatest attention because of the high reputation of its advocates, might best be termed “the devotional theory.” It may thus be stated: a large Mediaeval church was not necessarily built for a large congregation, but it was, first of all, a monument, freely raised, as a permanent expression of duty and devotion to the Divine Father. Mr Francis Bond, who propounds this theory, is dealing primarily with Westminster Abbey, but, from the context, it seems clear that he supports a wider application. Here is an Abbey church, a huge building, over 500 feet in length, and 100 feet in height; yet it was erected, as documentary evidence proves, for a congregation which was normally under sixty[315]. “It seems hardly conceivable,” remarks Mr Bond, “that it could have been planned and built for pigmy man who walks beneath; it seems not built for mortal man by mortal men; man is overpowered by his own work[316].” No, this vastness had another purpose besides that of the accommodation of worshippers—it was man’s tribute to the Unseen, his attempt to symbolize the Eternal and the Infinite. For, indeed, at the Great Sacrament, “the priest of the church officiated, congregation or no congregation,” and in the village church all the choir that could be got together, as a rule, consisted of the parish priest and the parish clerk[317]. A congregation of two: yet, as Thorold Rogers observes, “it is certain that villages with fewer than fifty or a hundred inhabitants possessed edifices which would hold a congregation of five, or even ten times that number[318].”

Does the “devotional theory” furnish a full explanation of the difficulty? As befits one who has learned many valuable lessons when a student under Mr Bond, and who has almost unqualified admiration for his teaching, I criticize the theory with some misgiving. Yet, though Mr Bond’s solution is probably correct, in the main, with respect to our cathedrals, minsters, and abbey churches, it seems quite unsatisfactory for hundreds of parish churches. All thoughtful students must, indeed, admit that the aesthetic and devotional aspect of church architecture—its grandeur, its freedom, its wealth of what was choicest in design and ornament, its sculpture, painting, stained glass, and mosaic work—cannot be eliminated when considering the question of size. These details are parts of a whole. Again, the daily service, constantly observed until the Reformation, and, as recent investigation has shown, probably never wholly discarded since that event[319], was a duty undertaken, we may readily admit, irrespective of the number of worshippers. The building was as magnificent and costly as wealth or self-denial could make it. The resplendent vestments, the solemn liturgy, and the beautiful music were the best that the age could produce. So, too, the very vastness of the structure was a token that the founders performed their work in no niggardly spirit of economy or time-saving:

It must be understood that, with respect to the populace, this description is largely theoretical. In practice, such lofty sentiments would be confined to picked leaders and their devoted adherents. Even with these churchmen, ideals were often degraded, and always unattainable. Of the people in general, it may be said that beneath a veneer of religion there existed an amorphous mass of heathenism. The monks and parish clergy of remote districts were not merely the pioneers of religion, but they represented the outposts of civilization amid a population of semi-barbarians. But, in architecture, it was the leaders who counted.

In spite of all these considerations, the argument from devotion appears to be insufficient to meet the case, unless—an improbable event—the secular uses of the nave, which are about to be described, were the results of afterthought. Rightly to understand the problem, we must constantly recollect two staple facts: first, that the early churchmen were ever ready to adopt a compromise, and, secondly, that, especially during the Mediaeval period, there existed a close relationship between the secular and the religious aspects of social life. So many pieces of evidence have to be colligated to explain the working of these two principles, that it is difficult to make a beginning. But, since the question of compromise has already been dealt with in Chapter I., we may chiefly confine ourselves to the second point. On the whole, a start may best be made by reviewing the meetings, other than those strictly concerned with worship, which were held of old time in churches. Some of these meetings must have comprised far more able-bodied men than were ever collected together for a strictly religious celebration. In fact, a particular church may have had to shelter not only the inhabitants of the parish, but also the dwellers in several outlying parishes and hamlets. What business was it that gathered these folk together?

When discussing pagan sites, we found that open-air courts, whether territorial, or composed of members of a free community, commonly met near some prominent landmark, natural or artificial (p. 34 supra). Of these objects, megalithic monuments—particularly menhirs and stone-circles—were much favoured. The stone-circles, as we saw, were in later days gradually abandoned, and the members of the community assembled in the churches. We should reasonably expect to discover evidence of overlapping of custom, and this is what we actually find. For, at a date when gatherings on mounds and within cromlechs are still sporadically recorded, we find frequent references to courts held in churches. Thus, during the Saxon period, trial by ordeal, which was deemed a religious transaction, was conducted by the priests in the parish church[320]. So early as A.D. 973, says Sir G. L. Gomme, a gemōt was held in St Paul’s, London, while in A.D. 1293 a court met in Norham church, Northumberland[321]. The County Court, a very ancient body, presided over by the sheriff, was held in the Sheriff’s Court, or the Manor Court, but, if these were not convenient, the members assembled in the open air, or in the church[322]. The Welsh laws of the ninth and tenth centuries frequently refer to churches as courts of justice[323]. Relics, it was declared, were unnecessary at trials held in churches, for the church was the place of relics.

What is true of the Saxon and Norman times holds good for a somewhat later period. At Ashburton, Devonshire, the annual courts of the manorial lord met in the chapel of St Laurence, when such officials as the bailiff and the port-reeve were elected[324]. The court leet, which, under the feudal system, was charged with maintenance of the peace, and which had jurisdiction over petty offences, frequently, as at Bolton, assembled in church[325]. The Courts of the Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports also met in a consecrated building[326]. Sometimes the business to be transacted was of a trivial kind. At Alvingham, Lincolnshire, “the Commune of the servants of the Ladye Nicholas,” or their “baylifes,” are bidden to meet in the adjacent church of St Leonard, Cockerington, to appoint a day for mowing grass in their common pasture[327]. But whether the matters to be considered were light or weighty, the church seemed to be the natural building for such gatherings. Hence, when Mr A. C. Benson, in one of his delightful essays, speaks of the “great cruciform structures” of the Fens, “built with no idea of prudent proportion to the needs of the places they serve,” he does not take a comprehensive view of local requirements.

The course of events just sketched might have been anticipated. Meetings in the open-air having been discontinued, where were the folk to meet in council? There was a poverty of suitable buildings. Long ago Fergusson remarked on “the almost entire absence of municipal buildings during the whole of the Middle Ages[328].” The short list of notable examples which he was able to bring forward served to make the general absence more striking. A few guild halls and town halls make up the catalogue for the cities; the smaller towns have little to show of this kind. There is consequently a basis for the belief, expressed by some writers[329], that the use of churches as courts of justice was “universal in feudal England.” The assertion is doubtless too general, but, if for the word “universal,” we read “widespread,” it would be quite correct. The case of St Nicholas, Newcastle—a church to which allusion has already been made (p. 131 supra)—supplies a noteworthy example of this usage. For centuries the burgesses met in that church for public business. In the tower hung a bell, known as the “common bell,” which was tolled on these occasions. Three times a year it also summoned the freemen to their guild meetings, when a sermon was preached by the Lord Mayor. This bell had another name, “the thief and reever bell” (reever = freebooter, cattle-robber); tradition says that it announced the holding of fairs, and gave warning to drovers and dealers that no inconvenient questions would be asked concerning the beasts which they had for sale[330].

In view of the foregoing facts, surprise need not be provoked by the statement that consistorial courts were commonly held in places of worship. If it be urged that much of the business of these courts pertained strictly to religion, it may be answered that a still greater proportion was distinctly secular[331]. At Ripon, for example, where the collegiate church was the place of assembly, the ecclesiastical courts took cognizance of cases of perjury, theft, defamation of character, debt, affiliation, and so forth. A similar court sat in the “galilee” (porch, vestibule, or ante-chapel) of Durham cathedral[332]. The most famous of our consistories, the Court of Arches, derived its name from the characteristic architecture of the church of St Mary-le-Bow, London, where it was originally held[333]. The trials of Lollards and other heretics were usually held in cathedrals or important churches[334], but these instances must not detain us, since they belong chiefly to the religious field of action. Yet it is really a hard task to decide where the line of cleavage runs. The bishop in his cathedral, and the abbot in his abbey-town, were, as Mr J. C. Jeaffreson has observed, in many respects comparable to the lay baron or the wealthy manorial lord. Administering large estates, these dignitaries often had an army of tenants, from whom fealty was exacted. The business transactions connected with the property must have been somewhat numerous, and, from their very nature, they were constantly recurring. It may call forth wonder nowadays to specify some of the curious possessions once held by the Church. The Gate House, the chief prison in Westminster, belonged to the Dean and Chapter, and the town gaol of Salisbury to the bishop of that city[335]. Of the stocks and whipping post we shall have to speak later. Enough has been said to prove that secular courts, as well as justices’ sessions, formerly met in churches. The practice, it may be added, continued, to some extent, long after the Reformation. The persistence of some of the legal vestiges is indeed really amazing. Not only, as Mr Addy informs us, was the ancient order of serjeants-at-law wont to meet in the nave of old St Paul’s, to meet clients in consultation, but each serjeant actually had a pillar allotted to him. This rendezvous was known as Paul’s Walk. Down to a late period, certain executors met annually in St Mary’s church at Bury St Edmunds, for the auditing of their accounts.

But custom was never uniform with respect to these assemblies within sacred buildings. Contemporaneously with the use, in some parishes, of the church fabric for meetings, we find other villages where the churchyard was the rallying-place. Several causes may have conduced to these results. The church may have been too small; there may have been a quarrel with some strict incumbent; more frequently, there was a dispute about the interpretation of a prohibitory canon. Indeed, records show that the practice was always being condemned, and always being continued. Thus, during the reign of Henry II., the old port-moot of the burgesses of Oxford met in St Martin’s churchyard[336]. Meetings in church were forbidden at the Synods of Exeter and Winchester (A.D. 1287)[337]. Yet, in A.D. 1472, the inhabitants of two Yorkshire parishes were reported to the Archbishop of York for holding councils in the churchyard. (“Dicunt quod omnes parochiani tenent plebisitum, et alias ordinaciones temporales, in ecclesia et cimiterio[338].”) Nevertheless, in the sixteenth century, we find that one of Laud’s unpopular acts was his attempt to stop the practice of holding lay tribunals in consecrated places. At Tewkesbury, in particular, the townsfolk deemed this a grievance. Armed with a licence from the bishop, and shielded by ancient custom, the justices of the peace had long held their sessions in the churchyard. For these acts, the primate called some of the justices into the High Commission Court. When challenged, Laud was obliged to confess that temporal courts might be held on consecrated ground or within the church upon urgent occasion, yet there was no warrant for sessions which might involve a “trial for blood[339].” Sir G. L. Gomme, who has collected many instances of the custom which we are discussing, cites authority to show that, in recent times, the stewards and bailiffs of a leet would occasionally, in bad weather, disregard the canon and hold their courts in churches[340].

As the practice of holding manorial courts in the church fell into abeyance, or died out altogether, certain vestiges were left behind as tell-tales of the past. The principal survival of this kind was the announcement from the pulpit of forthcoming meetings of secular courts. In A.D. 1656, the notice convening the Court Baron of Hathersage, Derbyshire, was published in the village church[341]. But there are later instances of the transaction of business within the sacred walls. Several cases are given by Mr and Mrs Sidney Webb, whose untiring researches deal with the period which has elapsed since the Revolution (1689-1835)[342]. Thus, the villagers of Puxton, Somerset, down to the year 1816, were summoned to church by “sound of bell,” in the early morning, to perform business connected with Dolmoors Common. Of this land, we are told, 23 parts were assigned by drawing lots, the remaining, or twenty-fourth part, known as the “Outdrift” or “Outlet,” being let by auction, by “inch of candle.” The rent of this plot was employed to defray the incidental expenses of the twelvemonth. This ancient custom was terminated, in the year mentioned, by an award under the Enclosure Act which was passed in 1811[343]. Records of this character could doubtless be easily paralleled by those students who have access to parish documents. For, speaking generally, at the close of the seventeenth century, the inhabitants at large had, both by common law and immemorial local custom, the right to be summoned, by tolling of the bell, to transact specific business in the vestry of the church. This claim held good not only for the Easter “vestry,” but for such other “town meetings” as might be judged necessary. Manifestly, these “open” vestries could not always be accommodated in the small side-rooms with which we are familiar—the nave must have been utilized. Within the sacred building, officers were elected, church rates made, and miscellaneous matters, such as those connected with commons, pasturage, and the parish pound, were settled[344]. The old name of these assemblies, by the way, seems to have been “town meeting,” yet the name “vestry” goes back to A.D. 1564, at least. The summoning bell bore the significant name of mote-bell, and it was rung for half an hour[345].

It has been affirmed, by H. R. von Gneist, that the open parish vestry was almost unique in England, since, besides the House of Commons, it was the only popular assembly which had the right to impose compulsory taxation. Yet, according to Mr and Mrs Webb, the legal framework was slight, and the proceedings were “supported with some dubiety[346].” Again, it was argued by Professor Maitland and Bishop Hobhouse that the vestry is not traceable before the fourteenth century—the name itself, as we have seen, is apparently later—that it belonged to the parish, not the township, that it was “a purely ecclesiastical entity,” and that churchwardens are officials of comparatively modern institution. In short, the authorities mentioned considered that the germ of the vestry was ecclesiastical, though its civil power may have sprung from the decay of the manorial courts[347]. It is further considered that it was only during the reign of Henry VIII. that churchwardens were entrusted with civil functions, such as providing arms or harness for soldiers[348] (cf. p. 157 infra). In later times, even within living memory, we have had the so-called “close” vestries. Usually, a close vestry consisted of the clergyman, the squire, three or four farmers, the miller, the innkeeper, and a freeholder or two. Mr and Mrs Webb pertinently remark that, if one’s imagination is greatly swayed by the idea of the close vestry, it will be difficult to picture the assemblies which met in past ages. We must conceive an assembly composed of numerous and diverse constituents, and endowed with various powers. Here, then, we get a ray of light on the theory of social convenience as affecting the church fabric.

We may remind ourselves, as we go along, that vestries are still held in our English parishes, and that they meet in the room attached to the church fabric. But their powers are now confined to ecclesiastical matters. Other business, such as the control of parish property, and the management of civil charities, was, by the Local Government Act of 1894, transferred to the Parish Councils. And this mention of the stripping away of secular powers leads us to ask, Were the original vestries, which Professor Maitland deemed purely ecclesiastical, so entirely restricted to church matters as at the present day? Probably not, because, as we have seen, the secular and the ecclesiastical were, in some measure, inextricably united. Even supposing, then, that the open vestry did not rise from the ruins of the old village-moot, it must have partially dealt with secular affairs. The simple fact, however, which affects the present discussion is that the old parish meetings were, like the modern vestry, held within the walls of the church.

Another derivative from the era of church assemblies is the custom of electing mayors within the sacred building. Formerly, the mayors of Sandwich, Boston, Northampton, Grantham, and other towns were chosen in the parish church[349]. Sometimes, not only was the election conducted in church, but the function was performed around a particular tomb. This was the case with the mayor of New Romney and the bailiff of Lydd, in Kent[350]. At Brightlingsea, Essex, the place of election was the belfry.

Still another survival, eloquent even in its insignificance, is the practice of posting secular notices on church doors. When one sees, affixed to the door, bills referring to such subjects as regimental orders or government commissions, and when one watches the villager scanning the list of parliamentary voters, it is easy to dismiss the matter by saying, “Oh! the notices are posted there because the place is public and known to all; besides, the Church is established by law.” Doubtless, such ideas are often present in the mind of the overseer or parish clerk when he pins the bill on the door, but inquiring folk want to know more. If the query be closely pressed, the response may be that the door of the porch is not considered a part of the fabric. For this explanation there is an appearance of reason, but, after all, the reply is inadequate. The fact that the baptismal service, and a portion of the marriage service, were often performed in the church porch, shows that the structure was recognized as a part of the hallowed building. It is true that, in France, one may observe “affiches” posted inside the cathedral, because the porch is deemed a part of the exterior, and notices which are placed in the latter position must be stamped, and the duty paid. How the idea has arisen it would be difficult to say with certainty. But there is one feature which the French and English buildings have in common. The porch was pre-eminently the spot for discussing parish business, because it formed a convenient shelter and halting place for the worshippers. It was a focus of attraction to gossips and traders alike. The real reason, then, behind the tradition, is, not so much that the porch was a kind of no-man’s land—a neutral territory—but that it was a most appropriate rallying point for the transaction of business. To this subject we shall return in the next chapter.

The retention of the Royal Arms in churches has been supposed by Mr Addy and other writers to be a secular survival. Mr Addy suggests, inferentially, that the practice is a relic of the “basilica-temple” period[351]. But, in the first place, the symbol does not seem traceable to the old civil or ecclesiastical courts. It is true that the Royal Arms may be seen on stained glass, and, occasionally, on priestly vestments of the pre-Reformation period. Again, in Spanish churches, the Arms are displayed at the present time, sometimes even over the altars. Further, although the symbol began to be exhibited in special tablets or frames almost immediately after the death of Henry VIII., it was not until the Restoration that the suspension of the Royal Arms was made compulsory[352]. While it is clear, therefore, that the symbol has no necessary connection with Protestant reformations, it seems to be straining the facts too far when one tries to carry the practice back to the early centuries of the English Church. It is essential, too, to remember that Royal Arms, as we understand them, did not exist in the pre-Conquest period. There remain, however, more authentic relics of the union of secular and ecclesiastical affairs which must be reserved for the present, since it is high time to consider another aspect of the question. To do this properly, we shall require a separate chapter.

CHAPTER IV

THE SECULAR USES OF THE CHURCH FABRIC (continued)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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