Above all these causes of selection of prehistoric sites, however, one may place the spirit of compromise which actuated the missionaries. Everywhere, the preachers found that the Saxons, who were unaware of the real origin of the old defences, attributed them to diabolism. Devil’s Dykes, Devil’s Highways, Devil’s Doors, as has been shown in another volume, meet us in every part of the country[62]. Believing firmly in the diabolic origin of the earthworks and megaliths, the Saxon was moved to fear, and to that slavish respect which is the child of fear. Yet it was pre-eminently in the open country, where such objects abounded, that the Saxon loved to dwell. It has been shown that, however much he may have avoided the walled towns—and these he did not shun altogether—the Saxon settler had no antipathy to occupation of the deserted villas and rural settlements[63]. Here, then, the potential convert, with his superstitions and aversions, lived and toiled. The monuments of earlier races he regarded with sacred awe. It would be well-nigh impossible to wean him from his creed by direct denunciation; it would be easy to win him over by toleration and compromise, and this possibility seems to supply the real explanation why earthworks and other spots with weird associations were chosen for many of the early churches. If it be asked why still more instances are not forthcoming, it may be answered that the earthworks were frequently too remote from settlements on the plains, and were too elevated in position, to tempt the builders, even when the desire for protection reinforced the primary purpose. Moreover, though the earliest open-air preachers in Saxon times may have selected the earthwork as a pulpit, the permanent church would not necessarily be built within that area. (It will save misapprehension, if an explanation of the use of the word “Saxon” be interpolated here. In strictness, there is a clear distinction between Angle and Saxon, dialectically and archaeologically. But it is impossible always to observe the differences, especially when the data are scanty. The term will be employed, then, in its old loose signification, to denote, as Mr Reginald A. Smith says, “the roving Teutonic bands that for centuries infested the Northern seas.”)
Fig. 5. The “pharos” or lighthouse, near the church within Dover Castle (Bloxam’s Gothic Eccles. Architect.). The building is hexagonal externally, and square within. The lower part is composed of flints and rubble, with bonding courses of Roman tiles. The upper part of the tower belongs to the Tudor period. The doorway shown in the drawing has now been blocked up.
We have now glanced at those churches which contain remnants of Roman ruins, and others which are built over Roman villas, or within Roman camps, and we have been led insensibly to examine buildings which are connected with earthworks of other ages. The problem of site-continuity has constantly impinged upon the question of continuity of fabrics. A few paragraphs may now be devoted to a consideration of those churches which lay claim to a possession of one or both of these features. The small ruined church of St Mary, within the confines of Dover Castle, is a well-known example. It stands in juxtaposition with an octagonal structure, usually described as a pharos, or lighthouse ([Fig. 5]), and believed by some to be a fort belonging to the Romano-British period. This polygonal tower has an exterior casing of flint, dating from the fifteenth century, but the original uneven masonry of rubble and flint, bonded with bricks at intervals, is still visible at the base. The supposition is that the church, with the lighthouse, was utilized for Christian worship during Roman times. By most modern authorities, the church itself is attributed, and perhaps more correctly, to the late Saxon period[64]. Lyminge, in Kent ([p. 4] supra), is another claimant. The foundations of a seventh-century chapel, probably of apsidal basilican plan ([Fig. 6]), have been traced here (A.D. 1899), but it is supposed that the present church, though rich in Roman materials, belongs entirely to a later epoch[65]. At Reculver (Regulbium), near Herne Bay, there is an example of a church which Professor Baldwin Brown places with that of Dover in a distinct category as representing possible authentic relics, since the buildings stand alone within deserted Roman stations. The church at Reculver stands over the foundations of a basilica, but the present building is probably altogether post-Roman, the earliest known date for the existence of a church on this spot being A.D. 670[66].
Dean Stanley held the belief, once shared by many antiquaries, that in St Martin’s at Canterbury we have a veritable monument of early British Christianity—a monument, moreover, erected over a pagan temple[67]. Bede asserts that there
Fig. 6. Chancel of Lyminge Church, Kent. In the churchyard, to the right hand, is a portion of the foundations of a seventh-century chapel, composed of re-arranged Roman materials. The church seems to occupy the site of a villa.