Quite recently, in the early part of the year 1910, a discovery of great corroborative value was made at Mendlesham church, in Suffolk. Over the South porch of the church is a remarkable room, locally known as the “Priest’s Chamber.” The ceiling and walls are lined with oak planks, the windows are strongly barred, and the iron-plated doors are fitted with “log locks.” Hidden within this chamber was found a fine collection of parish armour, consisting, in all, of twenty-three “lots.” The hoard contained several rare specimens, such as the “gusset” of a breast-plate, two pairs of arm defences, and an early pauldron, or shoulder-guard. Mr Seymour Lucas, who inspected the armour, stated that the earliest portions belonged to the closing years of the fifteenth century. There can be little doubt that here, at any rate, we have a genuine instance of the storage of armour in churches, and that these decaying relics belonged to the fighting men of Mendlesham[382].
There are numerous scraps of evidence which tend incidentally to support the theory. We may look for some of these when we come to discuss the churchyard yew (Chap. IX.). More directly bearing on the point, however, is the former existence of societies, in close connection with the church, known by such names as “Robin Hood guilds[383].” These clubs appear to have been occasionally formed to promote skill in archery, though, in some instances, they may have consisted of mummers and morris dancers (cf. [p. 184] infra). Nevertheless, in the case of the Abbots Bromley horn dancers, shortly to be noticed, it is the cross-bow man, not the “hobby horse,” who is called Robin Hood.
It would be a great exaggeration to say that the church was the only place which was likely to be used as an armoury. Here and there, tithe barns and “church houses” would be available as storehouses. The squire’s mansion or the constable’s farmhouse—for that official would usually be a yeoman—were possible repositories. But the church was, after all, the centre of parish life, so that any reasons against the storage of weapons in the sacred building would be of a practical, not a religious kind.
There is a curious passage in a treatise written by the old Swedish historian, Olaus Magnus, titular Archbishop of Upsala, which deals with a side-question relating to our subject. Writing in A.D. 1555, under the section entitled “De secura positione armorum in atrio Ecclesiae,” and alluding to Northern nations generally, he says, “Templa, seu Ecclesias parochiales ingressuri ruricolae Septentrionis, ante valvas, sive in atrio absque ulla furti suspicione praedicta arma donec divina absolvuntur, praecipue tempore pacis deponunt, rursusque ad propria reversuri resumunt[384].” We may translate this as follows: Before the countryfolk of the North enter the temples or parish churches, they place the aforesaid arms in front of the door or in the porch, with no suspicion of theft, until the service is finished, especially during times of peace, and take them up again when about to return to their own affairs. Of what did the “aforesaid” arms consist, and what was the motive of bringing them to church at all? These questions are explicitly answered by the writer. When these Northern folk came from remote villages to be present at baptisms, they were allowed to bring three kinds of weapons, the bow, the sword, and the axe, and nothing besides (praeter ballistam, gladium, et securim). It was foreseen, and admitted, that the wayfarers would need a sword and a bow to keep wolves at bay and to defend themselves against robbers, while an axe would be necessary to lop off branches of trees which were obstacles in the way, or to repair bridges which had broken down[385]. Clearly, then, we have here a limitation of privileges. The old volume has a quaint illustration of arms piled up under an arch or in a vault. Why were the arms restricted in kind and number? Without doubt, to prevent brawling and quarrelling within the precincts of the church. However, storage in the church was allowed, and to this extent we have a profitable analogy. The only difference was that, according to English usage, the weapons were stowed away for a time more or less indefinite. In the Northern solitudes permanent storage in the church may have been both inconvenient and dangerous. The inhabitants were probably unruly and undisciplined. The great point of likeness between the British and Scandinavian cases lies in the tacit acknowledgement that arms did not defile a church.
It is not easy, indeed, to imagine why the history of customs should be different from that just presented. If we look at the factors aright, we find ourselves witnesses of the supremacy of the doctrine of social convenience. The priesthood, at times, no doubt, rebelled against the grosser intrusions of the laity, but for the most part there was acquiescence, if not partnership, in what would now be called sacrilege, or at least improper use of the church. The needs of the community over-rode all theoretical scruples. Did the villager wish to tell the hour of the day? Then the church-dial met his needs. From the earliest times, sundials were probably attached to churches. A portion of such a dial, bearing a Runic inscription, and belonging to a date somewhere between A.D. 1063 and 1065, was unearthed at Skelton churchyard, in Cleveland[386]. The well-known dial at Kirkdale church, Yorkshire, belongs to a slightly earlier period. Pre-Conquest mural dials, or at least, dial-stones, exist at Warnford, and Corhampton, in Hampshire, Stoke D’Abernon, in Surrey, Bishopstone, in Sussex (Figs. [38], [39]), and other places. When the dial was gradually being superseded by clocks, these were set up in the church tower. The new timekeepers long remained scarce, but even when they had come to be generally used by private persons, the public clock held its own. The weathercock, too, was found to be of great utility, and was rarely lacking on tower or spire. As with the vane, so with the cresset, or fire-pan, in which tar or tow was burnt to guide the traveller, or to arouse the countryside. The old iron cresset on Monken Hadley tower, in Middlesex, which directed the lonely wayfarer across Enfield Chase, may still be seen. Another cresset, placed
Fig. 38. Pre-conquest dial-stone, Bishopstone church, Sussex. The porch, as a whole, is believed to be of Saxon date; it contains a little long-and-short work. The chevron ornament, under the pediment, is evidently the later work of Norman artificers (c. A.D. 1120). An enlargement of the dial is given in [Fig. 39].
above an angle of the chancel at Alnwick, in Northumberland, was employed to signal an alarm[387]. The branks, or scold’s bridles, barbarous relics of an earlier time, of which some thirteen are still believed to exist in Cheshire alone, seem to have been occasionally stored in churches. At least, the famous specimen at Walton-on-the-Thames, Surrey, is to be found in the vestry of the church. In several churches one may notice the old manual fire-engine placed under the church tower, and we may feel sure that its valuable aid was not confined to fires which broke out in the church. In short, we can scarcely limit the possible conveniences which were centred around the church fabric. Chained books and libraries, which were particularly numerous; records of charitable bequests; the registers with their details of the lives of individual villagers; the churchyard monumental records; nay, the reputation of the curative simples of the very walls—pellitory, whitlow grass, and spleenwort; who shall tell of all these? There is no doubt that decorative or symbolical considerations were often uppermost in the minds of later designers. The gilded weathercock was given a religious significance, though its origin may have been pagan; the dial bore an appropriate motto. But no ulterior purpose, either artistic or symbolical, is connected with the village stocks or the pillory. These instruments were severely practical.