Chapter III: The Secular Uses of the Church Fabric (2)

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

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

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

“They dreamed not of a perishable home,
Who thus could build.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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