CHAPTER I
THE RELIGIOUS LIFE

If churches and religious houses make up religion, then London of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries surely attained the highest point ever reached in religion. The Church was everywhere. In Appendices IV. and V. will be found a list of the Parish Churches and their patronage. The abbeys, priories, nunneries, and friaries contained a vast army of ecclesiastics from archbishop to Franciscan friar: hermits, anchorites, pardoners, limitours, somnours, church officers of all kinds, were everywhere in evidence. No street but reminded the citizens by the sight of a spire or a wall, that the Church was with him always, to rule his life and to shorten his period of purgatory, on the simple condition of his obedience. Religion endeavoured to rule the whole of society: religion claimed to control the whole conduct of politics and political economy: but the power of religion has never been equal to her ambition: religion could not put a stop to war, or to the violences and outrages of war. Had she been able to do so, the world would now be held and bound in chains and slavery. Yet it was well that there should be the Church to restrain men in some degree. She kept in her own hands, so far, all learning, all science, all the arts, all the professions. The forms, duties, and rules of the Church attended all men from infancy to the grave. At the bidding of the Church the whole nation, from the King downwards, renounced meat for a fourth part of the whole year. This fact alone marks the enormous power of the Church. For hundreds of years the Church preached respect for human life and self-restraint with more or less vigour, and with more or less success. Sometimes the Church has fallen upon evil times; her ecclesiastics have been ambitious, worldly, licentious, avaricious; but they have always been, as a whole, superior to the world around them. Thus it may be said that the Church might always have been better, but that the world was always worse.

Let us, then, briefly examine into what was meant by the Religious Life of London in the fourteenth century.

There were a hundred and twenty-six parish churches in London. This seems an enormous number for a population of not more than 120,000 or thereabouts. But we have to remember what the Church did for the people. The daily services; the chanting of the daily masses for living and for dead; the funerals, the weddings, the baptisms, the visitation of the sick, the direction of Fraternities, the countless observances and customs of religion, for all these things the Church was the centre, and the parish clergy were the directors.

The boundaries of a parish were not at first rigidly laid down; they overlapped the ward boundaries; they were matters of agreement: it was not until the Poor Law made the definition necessary, that the boundaries were finally and exactly laid down.

The multiplication of parishes was partly due, no doubt, to the desire of expiating sins by building, endowing, and decorating a Church for the good of the Founder’s soul. The census of the City, taken at any time between the ninth and the fifteenth centuries, would certainly show an almost stationary figure, lowered upon a visitation of plague, or raised after a long interval without plague, pestilence, fire, or famine. The average represented about a thousand souls to every church. The origin of the City churches cannot, as a rule, be ascertained. The oldest dedications of the churches seem to show that the London parishes were settled before the Norman Conquest: most of the London churches were probably built in or about the eighth century during that strange outburst of religious enthusiasm, the first of so many which have swept over the country.

London was a city of churches: one could not escape the sight of the green churchyard, the trees standing over the graves, and the little church among them. Nor could one get away from the sound of the church bells. All day long, from daybreak until night, the bells were ringing, not only from the churches, but also from the monastic houses. High above the stroke of anvil, and the multitudinous roar of the industrial city, rolled and clanged and resounded the continual clash of the bells. What the boy Whittington heard at Highgate was not the chime of Bow Church alone; it was the sound of the bells of all the churches and all the convents of London ringing together.

I have estimated roughly that, with the parish churches and their property, a full quarter of the City was occupied by the religious houses and the places they owned. As for the proportion of the population which was supported by the Church, we may form an idea by taking the case of St. Paul’s Cathedral alone:—

In the year 1450 the Society, a Cathedral body, included the following: the Bishop, the Dean, the four Archdeacons, the Treasurer, the Precentor, the Chancellor, thirty greater Canons, twelve lesser Canons, about fifty Chaplains or chantry Priests, and thirty Vicars. Of inferior rank to these were the Sacrist and three Vergers, the Succentor, the Master of the Singing-school, the Master of the Grammar-school, the Almoner and his four Vergers, the Servitors, the Surveyor, the twelve Scribes, the Book Transcriber, the Book-binder, the Chamberlain, the Rent-Collector, the Baker, the Brewer, the Lavenders (washermen), the Singing-men and Choir Boys, of whom priests were made, the Bedesmen, and the poor folk. To these must be added the servants of all these officers—the brewer, who brewed, in the year 1286, 67,814 gallons, must have employed a good many; the baker, who ovened every year 40,000 loaves, or every day more than a hundred large and small; the sextons, grave-diggers, gardeners, bell-ringers, makers and menders of the ecclesiastical robes, cleaners and sweepers, carpenters, masons, painters, carvers, and gilders—one can very well understand that the Church of St. Paul’s found a livelihood for a thousand at least.

The same equipment was necessary in every other religious foundation. Not a monastery but had its great and lesser officers and their servants. In every one there were the bell-ringers, the singing-men and boys, the vergers, the gardeners, the brewers, bakers, cooks, messengers, scribes, rent-collectors, and all of them were complete in themselves, as was St. Paul’s, though on a smaller scale. Then if we consider the Parish Churches. In some cases two priests were attached to each Church for the daily services: if there were, say, fifteen chantries, and in some there were many more, belonging to each, we have over 2000 priests for the parish churches alone; there were, next, the people belonging to each church: the choir, the sacrist, the organist, the beadle, the sexton, the anchorite or ankress, say an average, in all, of a hundred, including the families of those who were married. This makes some 12,000 souls living upon the endowments and revenues of the City Churches.

If there were eighty monks at St. Peter’s, Westminster, there were at least a hundred people, all of them married and with families, in their service. Now there were, large and small, about twenty-five Religious Houses in and outside London. If we take an average of seventy people of various trades attached to and living by each House, and an average of thirty brethren and sisters, we have nearly 7000 people belonging to them. To sum up, therefore, there were nearly 20,000 people in the City of London and its suburbs engaged in working for, and living by, the Churches and the Religious Houses. About one-fifth of the population of London lived by the Church. This is a moderate estimate. The proportion of ecclesiastics and their servants to the general population was probably much higher.

The Bishop, in the eyes of London, was the greatest person in the country next to the King: he lived among the people and was their natural protector: he had his Palace within the precinct, in the north-west of the Cathedral; he attended the Church on all the great Festivals—Christmas, Easter, Ascension, Whitsunday, the Festivals of St. Paul and St. Erkenwald, and also on Maundy Thursday and Ash Wednesday (see Appendix VI.). He observed the greatest state possible when he rode forth: there went with him, as he journeyed from one to the other of his country houses, forty persons at least, including his squires, his chaplains, the young monks entrusted to his care, and his servants: he was profuse in charity: he was stately in his carriage and splendid in his dress. As in the days of William the Conqueror, so in those of Edward the Third, the Bishop of London, with the Mayor, stood for the City, but the Mayor stood behind the Bishop.

The Cathedral, in the midst of the City, belonged to all alike: its splendid services, the singing of the choir, the rolling of the organ, the procession of priests with their white and gold copes, the ringing of the bell every day seven times from daybreak till curfew for as many services, the shrines of the saints, flaming with gold and precious stones and rich embroideries, especially those of St. Erkenwald, St. Ethelburga, and St. Mellitus, all these things appealed to the citizen and kept him loyal to the faith.

There were, after the Cathedral dignitaries, the parish priests and the chantry priests, with the great army of those who lived by the altar; the anchorites and the hermits, the monks and friars, the nuns and sisters, all the people who formed the service of the monastic houses, the hospitals for the sick, the houses for the insane, the lepers’ houses, the schools, and the colleges. The last named were not places of education, but colleges of priests, of which All Souls, Oxford, and the College of Dulwich are two survivals. In London there were the Colleges of St. Thomas of Acon, in Cheapside, where is now Mercers’ Hall; that of St. Spirit and St. Mary founded by Whittington for a Master and four Fellows with clerks, conducts, choristers, and an almshouse; St. Michael’s, Crooked Lane, for a Master and nine Fellows; Jesus’ Commons for priests; and St. Augustine’s Papey for old and infirm priests. Quiet and pleasant places all, where life gently glided along; where there were no duties but the daily mass, no Rule, no Austerities—the ideal life for the scholar among the books of the library; and for those who loved to sit apart and meditate among the trees and flower-beds of the garden in summer, or in the glazed cloisters sheltered from the cold wind and frost of winter. Outside, in the work-a-day world, what did the people think and believe? The history of religion, or of religious thought, in London, cannot be separated from that of the whole country. It is a history of enthusiasms in successive waves. When the whole of England—in the eighth century—understood, with a new and overwhelming sense, the reality of Christianity; when Kings and Queens, Earls and Thanes and noble ladies crowded into the monasteries, there to prepare for the next world, compared with which this present world is not worth considering, then the people of London for their part rebuilt the Abbey of Westminster, and founded the House of St. Martin-le-Grand; they divided London into parishes and erected parish churches; they created guilds for the spiritual nourishment of those who could not enter the Religious House.

During the two hundred years of struggle with the Danes and Normans, these Houses were destroyed, or, if they survived, were carried on with fewer brethren and a more slender endowment.

When order returned, and a strong King made it possible for men to live without the weapons of war at hand, the mind of the people, always a profoundly religious people, turned again to the realities of the unseen world. Once more there awakened the sense of change and decay and the worthlessness of things fleeting. The Court Jesters—converted—founded hospitals; the City Fathers handed over the lands of the City to the newly founded House of the Holy Trinity. Monasteries, nunneries, and colleges sprang up everywhere. The new foundations satisfied the people for another hundred years or so. Then they woke up once more in the old way. The religious life, they discovered, is not always found in the Religious House; the hood does not make the monk. The Friars came over to the country; they showed the people a new kind of religious life; one not separated from the world, but moving and living in the world; one that saves the soul by losing it and mounts to Heaven by the prayers and gratitude of men and women whom it has lifted from the mire and slough of sin and disease and misery. No more noble form of Christianity can be presented. Francis discovered the very mind of the Founder.

For a hundred years and more the Friars kept alive the new religion. This fell off; but their early teaching survived, and was the foundation of Lollardy. When the Religious Houses were suppressed, the people of London looked on without a protest; their work was done; the City was again waking up to a new enthusiasm. The Reformation, the many sects of the new Faith, the fanaticism of the seventeenth century, the enthusiasm of the eighteenth, the Evangelical domination, the return of High Church doctrine, the development of Ritual, all these things are but manifestations of the same spirit which caused the Revival under Henry the Fourth and the Puritanism of the Civil Wars. Many changes pass over the face of London, but deep down lies, unchanged, the ancient spirit of religion.

In the Parish Church, generally a small building erected by some citizen who got a bit of the City carved out for his parish, there was little splendour. Every day mass was said in the morning, and vespers in the evening, by the Parish Priest: every morning the Chantry priests before the side altars sang mass for the souls of their founders. On All Souls’ Day the Parish Priest sang mass for the souls of all Christian men and women. There was many a poor faithful woman who could not find the money to pay for a Chantry or an obit, or an Annual, for the soul of her husband or her son—though well she knew, poor creature, how much he wanted that assistance. But she took comfort in the thought that so long as the world should last that yearly mass would be said for the benefit of all poor souls in pain.

The endowment of a Chantry generally provided for one priest, but often for two, in some cases for three, and in one, that of Adam de Bury in 1364, for seven priests. In the fourteenth century there were more than 70 chantries in St. Paul’s alone. There were also 111 obits or foundations for occasional masses—making altogether an income of £183: 18: 3-1/2.

In the reign of Richard the Second, Bishop Braybroke found that some of the chantries had fallen into decay, the endowments having been lost or wasted. He united some of the poorer ones. He also ordained that no beneficed priest should hold a chantry, and laid down regulations for the chantry priests. They were to attend the choir offices day and night; they were to take part in processions, funerals, and they were to live in Houses provided for them or in the chambers of Chantries. These priests seem to have given a great deal of trouble by the scandals which they caused. It must be remembered that they were not persons, as a rule, of scholarly habits; that their sole duty consisted in the daily mass for the soul of their Founder; and that they had the whole day to get through in idleness. They were also extremely poor, the average stipend being £5 a year, equivalent to something like £75. Archbishop Sudbury, in 1378, spoke of them in the strongest terms of reproach, summing up his enumeration of their vices by saying that their lives tended “in virorum ecclesiasticorum detestabile scandalum, et exemptum perniciosissimum laicorum.”

It is not possible, I think, to make out how far the London craftsman assisted at the Functions of the Church. At least once a year he must go to Confession. The Pope made that rule in 1215. The craftsman probably went to Confession at one of the greater festivals. Every Sunday morning he must be present at mass. That duty was then, as now, imposed on every faithful child of the Church. This law, doubtless, he did obey. There were dues to be paid: he had to pay them; there were friars who came begging: he contributed of his poverty; and he must fast in Lent and on Fridays and on certain other days—about a hundred days in all. In this point he must needs obey, because the butchers’ shops were closed, and he could buy no meat. He had to get married; to get the children baptized; to pay dues for the Vigil of the Dead. Another important function performed by the clergy was the reconciliation of enemies and the settlement of disputes by “love days.” There are many references to the love days. Piers Plowman constantly talks about them, and with bitterness, as if the Church made the office of Peacemaker a means of enriching herself. Riley quotes an ordinance forbidding people to make disturbances by getting up love days.

The memory of one of these love days has been preserved ever since the year 1484, when a dispute between two Companies of the City of London was finally adjusted. It was on the 10th of April 1484 that the Lord Mayor and the Aldermen decided a long-standing dispute between the Company of Merchant Taylors and the Company of Skinners as follows:—“The said Mayor and Aldermen, the day and year above said taking upon them the rule, direction, and charge of arbitrament of, and in the premises, ‘for norishing of peas and love between the Masters Wardeyns and Fellashipps aforesaid’ adjudged and awarded that the Masters and Wardens should dine each year together at their respective Halls; the Taylors with the Skinners on the Vigil of Corpus Christi; and the Skinners with the Taylors on the Feast of Nativity of St. John Baptist; and as to precedency each Company was to take that on each alternate year save that a Mayor of either should give that Company precedence in his year of office.”

So the Decree has been observed 414 years, while “peas and love” have reigned between the two Fellowships.

In the twelfth century we find the London clergy married, and married into families of the highest position. Their marriage, therefore, was not looked upon by the people, although forbidden by the Church, as in any way blameworthy. In the Synod of 1108, and in that of 1125, both held in London, the most stringent rules were laid down against the marriage of priests. The title of wife was denied their wives, who were called concubines; yet the priests continued to marry. Even in the sixteenth century, when Skelton took Sanctuary against the wrath of Wolsey, he brought his wife and children with him.

In the thirteenth century a renewed effort was made to enforce celibacy as rigidly as could be done. The clergy of the towns, of London at least, were compelled to keep celibate, but not those of the country where the arm of the Bishop was weak. Holinshed, for instance, speaks of the methods adopted in the year 1225 (ii. 358):—

“This yeare also, there came foorth a decree from the archbishop of Canterburie, and his suffragans, that the concubines of preests and clearkes within orders (for so were their wives then called in contempt of their wedlocke) should be denied of Christian buriall, except they repented whilest they were alive in perfect health, or else showed manifest tokens of repentance at the time of their deaths. The same decree also prohibited them from the receiving of the pax at masse time, and also of holie bread after masse, so long as the preests kept them in their houses, or used their companie publikelie out of their houses. Moreover, that they should not be purified when they should be delivered of child, as other good women were, unless they found sufficient suertie to the archdeacon, or his officiall, to make satisfaction at the next chapter or court to be holden after they should be purified. And the preests should be suspended, which did not present all such their concubines as were residant within their parishes. Also, all such women as were convict to have dealt carnallie with a preest were appointed by the same decree to doo open penance. Where the question may be asked, whether this decree was extended to preests’ wives or no? Whereunto answer may be made, that as a quadrangle in geometrie compriseth in it a triangle, and a quaternion in arithmetic conteineth a ternion; so in logike a universall proposition comprehendeth a particular. But it is said here, that all such women as had carnal knowledge with a preest, were to be punished, therefore some, and consequentlie all preests’ wives. But yet this seemeth not to be the meaning of that decree, for preests were allowed no wives, naie Sericius the pope judged that all such of the cleargie as had wives could not please God, bicause they were in carne, which words he and the residue of that litter restreined to marriage, admitting that in no case churchmen should injoy the rights of matrimonie. Wherein they offer God great injurie, in seeking to limit that large institution of wedlocke, wherein all estates are interressed.”

In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries we find the natural harvest and fruit of this enforced celibacy.

It is not my desire to bring railing accusations against the morals of the clergy. It is, however, quite certain that if a large body of men without much learning or love of learning, to whom is assigned work which occupies them for a very small portion of the day, are forbidden to marry, and if they live for the most part among the lower classes in the City, drinking freely, and as much as they can afford, the result will be, must be, the prevalence of immorality among them. There are plenty of examples and proofs of this condition of things. There is the case in 1385 of Elizabeth Moring, who received girls nominally as apprentices, but really to live a lewd life, and “to consort with friars, chaplains, and other such men.” In 1406 we read of one William Langford, chaplain, taken in adultery with Margaret, wife of Richard Dod. In 1255 a certain Chaplain and Parish Priest took Sanctuary in St. Paul’s and confessed to having stolen sixteen silver dishes. In 1320 a Chaplain is taken up for being a Night Walker and carrying arms against the peace. In 1416 William Cratford, a priest, is reported as a common and notorious thief and hawker on the roads. In 1408 Riley reports that the Letter Book about this time (Henry IV.-Henry VI.) contains “some dozens of similar charges,” viz. of fornication and adultery. The way they tried to check the vice and punish the offender was by forbidding any one to pay or engage the incriminated clerk. This was done in 1413, when two priests of St. Bride’s, Fleet Street, were taken in adultery at the same time with two women in the Church. How far can William of Langland be trusted in setting forth the truth without exaggeration? One knows not. In Piers Plowman, however, the figure of Sloth is a priest. He confesses (Skeat’s Edition, B. Passus v. p. 168):—

Many other things point to the scandalous lives of the religious. Thus, the Bishop of Lincoln—not London,—in the reign of Henry III., visiting the religious houses in his diocese, searched the bedrooms and the beds of the monks and friars, and caused examination of the closest possible kind to be made in the nunneries. This would hardly be done without grave suspicions and reports.

Another crying scandal in the Church was the appointment of foreigners to high offices and benefices.

In the year 1245 an inventory was compiled of all benefices held by foreigners and appointed by the Pope. It was found that the sum of 60,000 marks was annually paid to these foreigners. This means almost a million of our money. The bitterness that this caused was so strong that in many parts the people refused to pay their tithe or their dues. There are other indications of hostility to the pretensions of the Pope. A certain Carthusian of London was brought before the Legate for teaching that Gregory was not the true Pope. The monks of Durham refused to obey the Papal ordinance, which commanded every one who was appointed as Abbot to proceed to Rome, there to receive the Pope’s blessing. And the Archbishop of York, refusing to bestow the revenues of his diocese on Italians and foreigners, was cursed by the Pope with bell, book, and candle. This resistance, however, was before its time; it was, in fact, two hundred years too soon.

In the year 1222 we hear of certain cases of cruel death inflicted for religious reasons. They did not occur in London, but at Oxford. A man was brought before the Council at that City charged with personating Christ Himself—Holinshed says two, but Matthew of Westminster says one, and it is impossible that two persons should both at the same time pretend to be Christ. The impostor showed the stigmata upon his hands and feet and in his side: he is said to have preached against the abuses of the ecclesiastics. Indeed, there was never any time when these abuses were more flagrant than in the reign of Henry the Third. The man was clearly an enthusiast, one who had gradually become mad with religious fervour, until he actually persuaded himself that he was the Christ whose religion he tried to preach. The other was the enthusiast’s follower and disciple. With them were two women,—when was there ever enthusiast without a pious woman at his side? One of these poor creatures had been assured by the leader that she was the Virgin Mary, and the other that she was Mary Magdalene. Both of them, of course, firmly believed the assurance. The whole four were tried, the leader was actually crucified, in mockery of his pretensions, and the women were “condemned,” most likely, to be burned.

Against these examples of crime and ignorance may be set the fact that there was never any such violent and unanimous attack upon the secular clergy as we find against the friars. And we may fairly conclude that Chaucer’s portrait of the Parson was drawn from the life, and that there were among the London clergy many who might have sat for models:—

Chaucer makes the wife of the miller of Trumpington daughter of a priest and brought up in a nunnery. On this fact Skeat has a note17 of comment.

“The statement, that the parson of the town was her father, has caused surprise. In Bell’s Chaucer the theory is started that the priest had been a widower before he took orders, which no one can be expected to believe; it is too subtle. It is clear that she was an illegitimate daughter; that is why her father paid money to get her married to a miller, and why she thought ladies ought to spare her (and not to avoid her), because it was an honour to have a priest for a father, and because she had learnt so much good-breeding in a nunnery.”

The Religious Life of a MediÆval City largely consisted of the monastic life, and this again was divided between the monks and the friars.

The references to Monks and Monkery in London are, on the whole, good-humoured, from which we may infer that there was little in the way of serious scandal as regards their lives. The easy-going citizens did not expect the most ascetic life in the world from the monks and nuns, who were their own cousins, brothers, or sisters; they recognised it, however, when they found it: for instance, they held the Carthusians in the highest possible reverence, as a body of Religious who adhered strictly to an austere Rule: never ate meat, and never went outside the walls of the House. As regards the other monks, those of Holy Trinity, those of St. Bartholomew’s, those of Westminster, those of St. Mary Overies, it seems certain that they were latterly all of good family; that the austerity of the Rule had been very much relaxed; that the life of the Monastery was, as a rule, decent and dull; that it was very far from being conducive to the development of genius or learning; that it offered place and encouragement to piety of the gentler as well as the more austere kind; that it formed a home for younger sons; that it did not provoke animosity or indignation among the citizens. The well-known case of St. Alban’s, quoted by Froude,18 had it happened in London, would surely have become known by the people. Chaucer, who reflects the general feeling, has no bitterness at all towards the monk. He depicts him as fond of hunting; he is an “out-rider,” one who can go abroad on the business of the House; he rides a good horse—

He kept hounds; all his “lust” was in “priking and in hunting of the hare”; he was dressed as a layman; he was fat and in good point; “he was not pale as a for-pyned ghost,”—a picture of a man whose thoughts, indeed, were not wholly set on things spiritual. Chaucer certainly compared the man with the austere monk designed by the Rule he professed, but without bitterness. He grants the old proverb,

(a proverb also quoted by William of Langland), but in order to show that the contemporary monk was not of that opinion he adds:—

The rich clothing and unclerical garb of the monks outside the cloister, and their fondness for hunting, are the principal charges brought against them in the fourteenth century.

Let us consider the actual life of a monk, a Benedictine monk. To begin with, it is a great mistake to suppose that an Abbey was always and for choice planted in some remote and secluded spot. As the people of the eleventh and twelfth centuries no more acted without good and sufficient cause than we their descendants, there must have been a very good reason to justify the foundation of so many Religious Houses within and without the walls of the City of London. Dear to many were the quiet meadows beside the rushing stream, beneath the hanging woods, far from the noise of men, of Tintern, of Fountains, of Dryburgh, or of Blanchland: dearer to others the thought of the life close to those walls, which held so much of violence, passion, ambition, and crime, which their very presence would calm and shame and admonish; of the men broken and ruined, of the women disgraced, to whom these quiet cloisters offered a resting-place; why, to the very worst, the most hardened of murderous ruffians, to such as Chaucer’s shipman, pirate and murderer, the daily prospect of these walls, the ringing of the bells, the voices chanting Litany and Laud, the sight of the friars going about among them, the knowledge that these men and women lived in abstinence from all that the world called pleasure; that they possessed no property; that they desired none of the things which the world desires; this reflection, the obtrusion of these facts, acted as a continual admonition and call to repentance. Of course there was the danger, the continual danger, always present in human affairs, of the relaxation of the Rule; the loss of the first enthusiasm; the decay of the first intention. A Benedictine who rides abroad dressed like a knight with hawk and hound, for whom a hundred manors send up their rent, their wheat and their game; who keeps a splendid table; who admits to his order only young men well born; to whom the place is like the College of All Souls, a House of Fellows with no duties, ceases to be regarded with reverence on account of reputed piety. When not even the memory is left of the early piety; when the air is thick with stories of incontinence and greed; when the land is everywhere parcelled out among the religious; then they become intolerable, and must be swept away. We shall have to return to this subject. Meantime let us consider the monastic life at a time when the monasteries were at their wealthiest, and when the ancient Rule, although very far relaxed, had not yet become an object of common contempt, when the monks and friars had not yet quite fallen from their ancient reputation. The time chosen for this view of the monastic life is that before the Wars of the Roses, which greatly impoverished the Religious Houses and at the same time deprived them of novices. Just as the first incursions of the Danes emptied the Anglican and Saxon Monasteries, so the long Wars of the Roses called out the younger as well as the elder sons to the wars. Now, by this time, the rich monasteries were entirely recruited from the younger sons of the gentry. Great nobles placed their children in monasteries. Thus, Ralph, Earl of Westmoreland, had twenty children, and three of his daughters became nuns. Edward the Fourth made one of his daughters a nun. One of the children of Owen Tudor and Katherine of Valois was placed in Westminster Abbey as an infant, and there remained for life as a monk. Edward the First had one daughter a nun. Thirteen daughters of nobles were in Ambresbury at the same time. The fact that the Abbey was for gentlefolk is clearly brought out by the list of names of the Westminster monks given in the Podelicote case. This occurred in the year 1303. It was the robbery of the royal Treasury or the Chapel of the Pyx at Westminster. Here were kept many of the things required for the assay of new coins, and at the time of the robbery the chapel contained an altogether unusual amount of specie, about £100,000, equal to perhaps a million of money in our time. The robber was Richard de Podelicote, who got into the Abbey from the palace, which, as the king was away, was probably less strictly guarded than usual. He climbed through one of the Chapter House windows, and so into the Refectory. He carried away many of the silver cups and managed to escape safely. However, he returned another time and attacked the Treasury. For this he had to cut through solid stone walls, and conceal his work; night after night he returned, and in his confession he makes no mention of any confederates. His perseverance was successful, and he took the money and all the gold and silver things which could be conveniently melted down away with him, but left behind the large jewels that he could not easily have got rid of. However, the stuff was afterwards traced, not only to Podelicote himself but to many others. Such is the story, and most amazing it is. There is no doubt that the chief actors were hanged, though there is no actual record of such a hanging. All the monks, forty of them, were sent to the Tower, presumably for their carelessness in guarding the Treasury. They were released after two years. In a letter from the king we have a record of their names, and these names show almost in all cases gentle birth. In effect, it wants no proof to understand that the desirable endowments of a Religious House, whose Brethren were like the Fellows of a College richly founded, would not be bestowed upon the children of rustics and servants. Here and there, no doubt, a rustic’s son might get advancement by the promise of exceptional ability; but this was in the ranks of the secular clergy rather than in the Religious Houses. The future monk was brought in, appointed by interest, as to a very good thing, when a boy. It was extremely difficult to procure such an appointment.

Founder’s kin, Benefactor’s kin sometimes helped; generally it was by private interest that lads were admitted as novices. The monks were not, as a rule, anxious to enlarge their numbers: rather to keep them down, so that the revenues of the House should provide amply for all. Sometimes admission was obtained by gifts or the conveyance of land. I have said that during the Civil Wars the number of monks decreased enormously; at Westminster it declined from eighty to thirty; at Canterbury from a hundred and fifty to fifty-four; at Gloucester from a hundred to thirty-six. This decrease was due, no doubt, partly to the disastrous influence of the War on rents; partly to the demand for fighting men; partly, I believe, to an increasing distaste for the monastic life. The child fortunate enough to be appointed was formerly presented in the Church as a novice; his parents first cut off his curls, offering his long hair to the Abbey. They then placed the chalice and the Host in his hand and led him to the priest at the altar. Here they wrapped his hands in the pall of the altar, and heard read a written engagement that they would not tempt the boy from the House. After this the Abbot consecrated a hood for the boy and laid it on him. He was then taken out, shaved after the fashion of the Order, robed, and brought back, after which he was received with prayers. It took long years to break in a novice, to teach him obedience, to crush his will, to take the fighting spirit out of him, and the love instinct out of him; in fact, if stories are true, the success of the system was often incomplete in every point. The novice had to sit in silence for hours, with down-cast eyes; he was never left alone to play at freedom; he had to do everything in a manner prescribed by rule, even the lifting of a cup at meals, even the carriage of the hands when seated; things had to be said in a certain form; services were frequent, and the singing of Psalms went on all day long and half the night. The Church ceremonies were involved and elaborate. By the time the novice was admitted he already knew every Function in the book, and all the Psalms and Prayers by heart. By this time, also, the House was all the world to him. What went on outside he knew not, the House was everything—father, mother, brothers and kin; he had no ambition except to rise to monastic honours. He had completed his education. If he were a Benedictine, that education was liberal: he was taught grammar, logic, Latin, philosophy, writing and illuminating, music, singing, and the history of the Order. After his profession, the Benedictine theory was that he continued his studies. If he did they were, in most of the English Houses, sterile of results. At eighteen the novice made his profession. There was then no retreat possible for him, he was a monk for life. At first he was a Junior, and as such he read the Gospel and the Epistle for the day; he carried a taper in processions; he read the martyrology in the Chapter.

The services began at two in the morning with Matins; this finished, the Choir went to bed; the rest sang Lauds for the dead; they went to bed again and slept till daybreak or five, when they got up and had Prime; at 9 A.M. there was Tierce; at 11 A.M. there was Sext; at 2 P.M. there was Nones; at 6 P.M. there were Vespers. The monks went to bed at eight, having given up eight hours at least out of the twenty-four to services in the church. Eight hours were spent in sleep. One hour was spent in the daily gathering in the Chapter House, leaving seven for meals, exercise, recreation, and study. The rules were in some cases relaxed for scholars, but, even making allowance for such relaxation, it is clear that the monk, who was a student, was at a great disadvantage compared with the student who lived outside.

The church was, of course, the most important part of the buildings of a monastery. South of the nave was the cloister, with its four walks, in which the monks spent their time when not in church; on the east of the cloister was the Chapter House; on the south, the Refectory; on the west, the Abbot’s House. Beyond the cloister were the dormitories, the Scriptorium, the Misericordia, the Infirmary, the Guest House. Beyond these were the Kitchen, Buttery, Pantry cellars, Brewery, Bakehouse, Laundry, offices for making and mending, orchards, gardens, vineyards, fishponds etc., and stables. An important House had a great establishment to keep up. This was presided over in its various departments by the Brethren themselves, whose offices will be enumerated presently. This work occupied a good many of the Seniors. In fact there were so many offices that it is difficult to discover how they could find time for purposes of study. If they wanted to study, or if they wanted to meditate, there was the cloister, but no other place. Desks were set out there; but as the novices’ school was also carried on there with, as sometimes happened, mechanical work by some of the Brothers, it would seem impossible, according to modern ideas, to carry on serious study amid such interruptions. It is a commonplace to speak of the monotony of a Religious House. Considering that most of the inmates knew no other kind of life, they hardly felt the monotony; and, besides, we must remember that the House was filled with its own ambitions, its envyings, its disappointments, which relieved it of monotony. Who would not desire to be Abbot and to rank with an Earl? The Abbot enjoyed that rank: when he rode abroad he was followed by a retinue of a hundred persons; he could create knights; in some cases he could coin money; he was guardian to many noble children who became his pages; he administered a splendid estate. Or one might laudably desire the office of Prior: he went first after the Abbot; he had his own stall; he put on his hood before the others. Or there was the sub-Prior: he sat among the monks and saw that every one behaved properly; he also, at five o’clock in the evening, shut up the House.

Then there were administrative offices. These were the Altarer, the Precentor, the Director of Ceremonies, the Kitchener, the Seneschal, the Bursar, the Sacrist, the sub-Sacrist, the Almoner, and the Master of the Novices. There were also the offices of less honour, but which still conferred responsibility and even power; such as those of the Infirmarer, Porter, Refectorer, Hospitaller, Chamberlain, Keeper of the Granary, Master of the Common House, Orcharder, Operarius Registrar, Auditor, Secretary, Butler, Keeper of Baskets, Keeper of the Larder, apart from the mere service of the House, which required Baker, Brewer, Carpenter, Carver, Sculptor, Bookbinder, Copyist, etc. As for the morality of the monks, I am inclined to believe that the Religious Houses maintained much more of their early piety than we have been accustomed to believe. That they grew luxurious in their living, and in some cases immoral in their lives, seems to have been due to the cause assigned by Wyclyf and the Lollards—their great wealth. While they were poor they lived simple lives; they practised the Rule; they worked at copying Gospels and Mass Books; some of them kept Chronicles of their own age—an invaluable service; they received the sick and the poor. In the very worst times that the country ever experienced, the monasteries stood up here and there over all the land to witness for justice, and righteousness, and mercy. Bad as these times were, they would have been far more ferocious and more cruel but for the existence and the example of the monasteries.

At the same time, there were always scandals. Who could expect in a monastery that all the younger monks should retain their purity? And when there was nothing else to think about, who could expect men not to think about their food? In the time of Henry the Second, Giraldus Cambrensis relates that the monks of Canterbury had sixteen covers, or more, with an abundance of wine, “particularly claret, mulberry wine, mead, and other strong drinks.” And it is related by the same authority that the monks of St. Swithin’s complained to Henry the Second that the Bishop had reduced their dishes to ten. Upon which the King swore that the Bishop should reduce the number to what suited himself, namely, three. The monastic life expected of those who followed it, not a mere obedience to the Rule, but a total absorption in the spirit of the Rule, so that the Brethren should not look constantly for possible relaxation and for indulgences, but should desire more and more all the austerity possible under the Rule. And because there was everywhere a falling-off from the austerity of the Rule, new branches were continually founded, and new Orders continually sprang up, in order to return to the ancient Rule with new austerities. When the Brethren fell to relaxing any portion of the Rule, the downfall of the House began. Then the spirit went out of the services, the meaning went out of the offices, the sense went out of the Rules; the Brethren became either like Rabelais, weary to death with the daily iteration of services, or they became careless and sensual, evading and breaking vows as well as the Rule; or they became dry sticklers for order and jealous for minor customs, though the essentials had long been lost. This was already the case in the fourteenth century. Decay was active in most of the Monastic Houses; things were whispered; but still the bequests poured in upon them from citizens rich and poor; people were loth to part with the belief in the godly monks. And that there were still saintly hearts in the cloister, still pious women in the nunnery, even in the worst times of any, there can be no doubt. But, further, there can be no doubt, also, that there was never any considerable or notable body of scholars in the English Monasteries from the time of their foundation to their Dissolution, and that no Monastic Rule ever devised was calculated to create a love of learning or a school of students, theologians, or philosophers.

The monasteries possessed a vast amount of property in lands and houses. The lands were cultivated, and the houses held, in the usual manner. I gather, from what is said on the subject, that monks made good landlords, just, if exacting. In their schools they gave free education, but not to all-comers. They also taught certain trades, but not all; not those of a mere menial kind. Thus they taught carving, painting, weaving, embroidery, damask work, enamelling, lapidary work, music, and making musical instruments, illuminations, copying of MSS., medicine, surgery, the making up of drugs and the composition of cordials. Every Religious House had within itself a library, a reading-room, a school, a burial-ground, a cloister, gardens, and walks. Every novice brought some property. Everything, as I have said, points to the fact that the mediÆval monastery in England belonged to the gentry and not to the lower class.

The monastic life in London was at its best in the twelfth century; later on, besides the scandals, which perhaps were false or exaggerated, we hear of relaxations, monks obtaining license for residing outside the House, for “cutting chapel,” for indulgences in wine and other things.

Let us turn to the Friars. There were five Orders of Friars in London: the Franciscans, who came to London in 1224; the Dominicans, who settled first in Oxford, 1221; the Austin Friars, whose London House was founded in 1253; the Carmelites, or White Friars, in 1341; and the Crutched or Crossed Friars in 1244. The most numerous and most important of these, the most deeply loved and reverenced, were the Franciscans, or Grey Friars.

The first appearance of the Franciscans in London was in the year 1224, when a small company of them appeared and asked for a place wherein to build themselves a humble lodging. They were granted a place in the least desirable part of the City, close beside the Shambles, next to “Stinking Lane.” Here they stayed. For many years after their arrival they worked among the poorer classes of the people, silently and without attracting much attention. Presently it began to be noised abroad among the citizens that there was an extraordinary band of Brethren who had no money and would take none; who had no food except what was given to them; who went into the poorest and the worst streets, who prayed with the dying murderer and comforted the dying harlot, and attended the sick robber in a spirit of divine forgiveness and love. Then the hearts of all went out towards the Franciscans. Never was any Religious Order so reverenced, never were any religious men so loved and worshipped by the good people of London. All the world brought them gifts; they were ruined by the gifts; since they would not receive estates, they must have gold and jewels; with the gold they built a church, magnificent even in that age of magnificent churches; since they must remain poor, they spent all their money on the church and its decorations and furniture.

And then the inevitable decay set in; with so great a Church and so noble a House the old begging for daily bread became a form; boxes were put up in shops and houses, and the collectors came round at regular intervals and cleared them; not a citizen of any substance but left money in his will to the Franciscans; they received endowments of chantries and obits; they took money for burying great persons in the Church. The Friars grew careless and self-indulgent; the old zeal for the poor died away; they were no more seen in the hovels of the poorest. The Franciscan Rule, in fact, proved too severe to be maintained in all its rigour. Yet the Dissolution of the Religious Houses shows that in some particulars it was kept up. For instance, the only property possessed by the Grey Friars when they left their House was the rent of a few houses built within their precinct. They had no estates. The great House, with its splendid church, was maintained by the gifts of nobles and rich merchants; by the endowment, as mentioned above, of chantries; and by the masses daily bought and said, or sung, “for the intention” of the purchaser. It is the modern custom in some Catholic countries to buy a mass before undertaking any enterprise; even before beginning some necessary work, such as haymaking. This mass is sung “for the intention” of the purchaser. There is, therefore, reason to believe that the faithful purchased formerly, as they do still, masses for “good luck.”

The rise, the extent, and the gradual decay in the respect held for Friars is illustrated very remarkably by the Calendar of Wills. From this valuable book, which may be accepted as a perfectly trustworthy guide so far as it goes, I have extracted the following tables of bequests to the five Orders of Friars. These bequests were sometimes made collectively, so much each to all the Orders of Friars; sometimes singly, so much to the Austin Friars, or the Preaching Friars. It will be seen how the fashion of bequeathing money to the Friars grew and increased and how it died away, as the popular respect for the Friars decreased, and the new ideas spread.

Up to the year 1311 there are recorded in the Calendar of Wills in all five such bequests.

• Between 1311 and 1324 there are three bequests
• Between 1324 and 1332 there are five bequests
• Between 1332 and 1339 there are eight bequests
• Between 1339 and 1355 there are fifty bequests
• Between 1355 and 1400 there are one hundred and thirty-five bequests
• Between 1400 and 1412 there are seventeen bequests
• Between 1412 and 1436 there are six bequests
• Between 1436 and 1530 there are fourteen bequests

As for special and separate bequests, the Grey Friars, formerly the most popular of all, obtained only one bequest between 1396 and 1436; after that, none at all. The Black Friars got no legacies at all from 1413 to 1503; in the latter year one fell to them. The White Friars got none between 1395 and 1503, when they got one. The Austin Friars got none after 1395; the Crutched Friars none from 1460 to 1518. That is to say, in the bequests, few and small, given during this period to the various Orders, they get their share, but there is no special gift made to any.

While considering the subject of wills and bequests, I ran through the volume edited by Dr. Furnivall called The Fifty Earliest English Wills. These were from 1389 to 1439. A brief analysis shows that in most cases bequests are made to the parish church, either to the High Altar, or to the “Works,” either of vestments, or of money to the priests and clerks, or of money for masses, a rental of masses or “the year’s mind” for twenty, seven, or five years. In seventeen cases, or perhaps more, provision is made for the poor; in three cases for prisons and prisoners; in three cases for nuns; in one case for an “ankeress”; in one for mending the ways; in one for repairing a bridge; and in nine cases for friars, either the recognised Orders, all together, or one or other of them. But four of these cases belong to the country; there are, therefore, only five belonging to London. The period covers that when Lollardy was at its highest, and this result confirms the conclusion arrived at by an analysis of the Calendar of Wills; that, namely, as to the decay of respect for the Religious.

Then there are those wills published by the Camden Society (Wills from Doctors’ Commons) which belong to the time before the Reformation, viz. those of Cicely, Duchess of York, 1495; Dame Maude Parr, 1529; Archbishop Warham, and Charles Brandon.

The Duchess of York leaves bequests to certain colleges named, to the House of Sion, of which her daughter was prioress, and to certain parishes, but nothing to the Friars.

Dame Maude Parr gives forty shillings each to the four Orders of Friars in London, and twenty shillings each to the Friars of Northampton.

Archbishop Warham gives nothing to the Friars.

Again, of bequests to the various Orders, between 1356 and 1412, there are 110, between 1412 and 1544 there are only 7. The contemplation of these figures, the amazing falling-off of such bequests in the beginning of the fifteenth century, when Lollardy was rife, the failure of the Friars to recover their old position of reverence, goes far to show why in London the suppression of the Religious Houses was effected with so little opposition. The people had ceased to believe in the holiness of the Friars; as for that of the monks, it was perhaps different, as we shall see in another place.

Since we have spoken of the decay of belief in the Friars, let us also speak of the respect actually paid to them when their popularity was at its height.

Shortly after the Black Death, a letter was sent by the Mayor and Aldermen to the Pope, asking that a certain John de Werthyn, a Dominican Friar, might be appointed Penitentiarius to the City. The office itself was important. In Confession there were continually occurring certain cases not provided for in the instructions of the ordinary priest. In such a case the priest could only grant conditional absolution. He referred it to his Bishop, who either decided it himself, or, if it was one of an unusual and difficult kind, passed it on to the Penitentiarius. If he, too, found the case too grave for his decision, he referred it to the College or Court of Penitentiaries at Rome, on whose official report the Pope generally acted. The Mayor and Aldermen, after a preamble to the effect that their City had been of late grievously afflicted by a dreadful mortality, so that the merchants were not able to wait in person upon his Holiness, proceeded to petition the Pope that he would “grant unto the venerable and religious man, Brother John de Werthyn, his chaplain, a man of honour, of approved life and manners, and also of learning, sprung from the high blood of the realm, who alone of all others strengthens us with the word of Christ, that he and he only, within the City may be able to absolve the people being penitent.” They go on to ask that the office, at his death, may be continued in the Order of the Dominican Friars.

The satires against the Religious Orders began within the very century of their foundation in England. One, for example, given in Thomas Wright’s Political Poems, belongs to the reign of Edward the First. It is the poem called “The Order of Fair Ease.” The Order of Fair Ease takes a point from every Order, of course it takes the weak point in every case. To begin with, the Order is entirely confined to gentlefolk—one wonders whether Rabelais had read this satire, and whether any part of it suggested the Abbey of Thelema.

As at the Abbey of Sempringham, the Order is to receive both men and women; but whereas at Sempringham there are walls and ditches to separate the Brethren from the Sisters, in this Order there is to be no wall or ditch or anything to separate them. Three times a day, at least, they are to eat, and if they do it in company the Order will be none the worse.

From Beverley they are to take the custom of eating and drinking well at dinner, at supper, and at collation; and after collation every one is to have a piece of candle as long as from the elbow to the finger ends; and to go on drinking so long as the candle lasts.

From the Hospitallers they will take their long and sweeping robes.

From the Canons they will take the custom of eating meat three times a week, and if on Fast Days they find themselves without fish, then they are to eat whatever is in the larder.

From the Black Monks (the Benedictines) they are to borrow the habit of getting drunk every day.

From the Secular Canons, who willingly serve the ladies, the new Order is to take that point and to be constant companions of the Sisters, both before and after matins, so that the Order may not on that account fall into discredit.

In the Order of Silence, each brother shuts himself up in his cell; the new Order shall have the same rule, provided that a sister be locked up with a brother.

In the Friars Minor the Brethren are ordered to take whatever hospitality is offered them; but they take care never to rest at the house of a poor man, so in the new Order the Brethren will on no account take up their quarters unless where the owner is a rich man.

As for the Black Friars—the Preaching Order,—they may wear sandals if they please and ride if they please. The new Order will always wear sandals and will always ride.

To this we may add Chaucer’s description of a Friar. Now Chaucer was of London town. This Friar was “a wanton and a merry”; he was a “limitour,” that is to say, he had his “beat” in which he exercised his craft. “He had made full many a marriage of young women at his own cost”—that is, whom he had first seduced. He was greatly respected as a Father confessor, on account of the easy terms on which he gave absolution, so long as the services gave to the Order:

He carried knives and pins in his tippet, because the Friars had now become pedlars and carried knives, pins, purses, girdles, silk, etc., to sell in the country places. He knew all the taverns and every hostler and barmaid (tapster); he was the best beggar ever known; he could sing and play right well:

Chaucer’s company contained other functionaries, but for our purpose this is enough.

We need not suppose that the widespread hatred of friars indicated any disbelief in their doctrines. That would come later, but as yet there seemed no desire for change in doctrine. The people made songs, and told stories, about the luxury, the greed, the concupiscence, the license of the friars, but the convents remained, and the people continued to cling to the supposed sanctity of the place. A man who one day cursed the whole crew of monks, friars, and pardoners, the next day begged for a letter of fraternity, by which he might participate in the spiritual advantages of Carmelite or Augustine; he arranged for burial in the Convent Church; he would be buried in a friar’s robe; he would found a chantry, a trental, an obit, an anniversary.

It is difficult to understand the roving life of the friar. One supposes that he was always attached to his Friary. Had he a license to roam and beg? Was he a limitour, i.e. a friar licensed to hear confessions and grant absolution over a certain district? Was he a wandering preacher? Were the “simple priests” sent out by Wyclyf mendicant friars? Did the wandering preachers, whether sent by Wyclyf or not, all preach the same vague socialism? Some of these questions may be answered with some degree of certainty. The Friars of the street and road were nearly all sprung from the lower classes; even the villeins sent their sons to become Friars and Priests. A very little consideration of the vast army required for Ecclesiastical purposes, poorly paid, with slender learning, with no prospects of promotion, will show that the scholars of both Universities must have amounted to an immense number, consisting chiefly of poor scholars, with a license to beg. The Commons, in the reign of Richard the Second, complained of the way in which the sons of villeins thus bettered their condition by “advancement par clergie.” The clerks who issued from the universities obtained episcopal orders, and in some cases took upon them the vows and robes of the Mendicants. They then began to wander about the country, preaching and teaching, living on charity, received into certain houses; and so continued for the rest of their lives. For the most part, they were careful not to ask for a license from their Bishop; they had no papers; they were not attached to any House; they roamed about from village to village, from town to town; in London they preached in the streets, in the markets, at street corners; they preached not only concerning things religious, but concerning things social; and belonging themselves to the people, knew what the people wanted, and preached accordingly.

One of them, John Ball, whose preaching has been thought worthy of the historian, probably because he was considered to be so mischievous a person, taught a kind of rough socialism. “At the beginning we were all created equal: it is the tyranny of perverse men which has caused slavery to arise in spite of God’s Law: if God had willed that there should be slaves, He would have said at the beginning of the world who should be slave and who should be lord.” A poor argument, because, notoriously, we are not created equal, but unequal in every respect. Also, there is nothing to show that the Creator did not say at the beginning who should be slave and who should be lord. Froissart also speaks of John Ball:—

“This preest vsed often tymes on the sondayes after masse whanne the people were goynge out of the mynster, to go into the cloyster and preche, and made the people to assemble about hym, and wolde say thus: A ye good people, the maters gothnot well to passe in Englande, nor shall not do tylle euery thyng be common, and that there be no villayns not gentylmen.... What haue we deserued or why shulde we be kept thus in seruage? we be all come from one father and one mother, Adam and Eve: wherby can they say or shewe that they be gretter lordes than we be, sauynge by that they cause vs to wyn and labour, for that they dispende ... they dwell in fayre houses, and we haue the payne and trauele, rayne and wynde in the feldes: and by that that cometh of our labours they kepe and mayteyne their estates.... Lette vs go to the kyng, he is yonge, and shewe hym what seruage we be in.... Thus Johan (Ball) sayd on sondayes whan the people issued out of the churches with another in the feldes and in the wayes as they want togyder, affermyng howe Johan Ball sayd trouthe.”

That many of the friars held and preached similar doctrines is proved by the story of Jack Straw, who would have kept no other ecclesiastics upon earth except the Mendicants. Their popularity, of course, was advanced and preserved by the social doctrines they preached. But in London they seem to have lost their popularity very early. In the reign of Edward the Second the Preaching Friars had to fly before the rage of the people, “on account of their proud behaviour. And Richard the Second, in 1385, issued a proclamation against certain persons who, instigated by the Evil Spirit, “do openly and secretly stir up our people to destroy the houses of the said friars, tearing their habits from them, striking them, and ill-treating them against our peace.”

The greatest enemies of the mendicant were the parish priest and the monk. The former found himself abandoned; no one confessed to him; no one listened to him. They were all running after the mendicant friar, who spoke to them in their own patois, was one of themselves, who knew their ways and their wants, and confessed them easily. And Jack Straw’s rebellion showed what had been the teaching of these wanderers. Since there were so many of them that alms were not always to be obtained, some, as we have seen, became pedlars:—

Walsingham, a monk of St. Alban’s, says of them, “The friars, unmindful of their profession, have even forgotten to what end their Orders were instituted; for the holy men their law-givers desired them to be poor and free of all kinds of temporal possessions, that they should not have anything which they might fear to lose on account of saying the truth. But now they are envious of possessions, approve the crimes of the great, induce the commonalty into error, and praise the sins of both: and with the intent of acquiring possessions ... call good evil and evil good.”

And a popular song of the fourteenth century says of them:—

And see Political Songs, Edw. III.—Rich. III. vol. ii. p. 17, edited by Thomas Wright:—

And these are the questions asked of the Friar:—

• How many Orders are there?
• Which is the most perfect Order?
• Is there any Order more perfect than that of Christ?
• Since there is but one religion, how is a man an apostate who leaves his Order?
• Does the habit mean religion?
• Why do you stick out for your colours?
• Why do you eat flesh in one house and not in another?
• Why are you silent in one house and not in another?
• Why at initiation and profession do you pretend to be dead?
• Why do you build such splendid houses?
• Why are you not made Bishops?
• Can your prayers make any man better than his own prayers can do?
• Why do you preach that a man buried in your habit shall never go to hell?
• Why do you steal children for your sect?
• Why do you hear confessions of rich men?
• Why do you hate the preaching of the gospel?
• When you take a penny for a mass, what is it you sell? God’s body? Prayer? or your trouble?
• Since God knows everything, why write name of donor on your tablets?
• Why beg for yourself instead of poor men?
• Why do you not keep the Rule of St. Francis?

In the restoration of the City life of the fourteenth century, remember that in every street we find the mendicant friar; at dinner-time he walks into any house he chooses: “Peace be unto this house,” he says, after which, by the Franciscan rule, it is lawful for him to eat of all meats that are set before him; at the corner of the street there is a wandering preacher denouncing the luxury and sloth of the rich; his audience is composed of craftsmen in leather jerkins listening with eager ears and intelligent faces. He is fat and well nourished; he has a full, rich voice and a certain rude oratory that lays hold of the people and constrains them to listen. There passes along the street, in a ragged gown, a lean and hungry chantry priest; he looks at the crowd round the preacher; he hears him talk the rough, strong East Saxon dialect which has always been the language of the London craftsman. He sighs, it is his own native patois, but he cannot talk as this man talks; he is a poor scholar, once a licensed beggar, and now a ragged, half-starved priest, having nothing but his little chantry endowment. Yet, being a scholar, he could prove that this man is all wrong. So he sighs and passes on his way. There comes next a Pardoner with his box hung round his neck; that precious box in which he has a finger-nail of St. Luke, the feather with which St. Matthew’s Gospel was written, a piece of a stone thrown at St. Stephen, the last footstep of the Prophet Elijah embedded in the rock, a piece of St. Peter’s fishing-net—you can see for yourself that it is a fishing-net, and other very precious relics. The box also contains pardons and indulgences which this good man sells to the faithful. At sight of the preacher, however, the Pardoner says nothing. In vain would he open his box of relics and offer his parchment indulgences in the presence of this preacher and his listeners. Lollards all! Lollards all!

There rides along the narrow street a monk with hawk on fist bravely dressed. Behind him walk his men leading the dogs. They are going to cross London Bridge and gain the wild heath country lying beyond the Southwark and Lambeth marshes. He regards preacher and crowd alike with scorn ineffable. It is the hour of Angelus—and from every parish church, from every monastery church, from every Chapel, from every College, and from the Cathedral, the bells call the world to silent prayer. For a few moments all are hushed; the roar of London is stilled; it was not the roar of wheels so much as the sound of ten thousand hammers. The preacher is silent for a moment; his audience take off their caps; the monk who goes hawking crosses himself; the Pardoner stands bare-headed: it is but a moment, then the noise begins again.

The support of the church by the taxes or offerings of the parishioners is a singular story of conservatism and of gradual development. It was customary for the congregation on Sundays and Apostles’ days to make offerings or oblations at the celebration of the mass. This usage became regulated not by law but by custom, more binding than law, into a payment of one halfpenny by every citizen who paid a rent of 20s., and one farthing by every citizen who paid a rent of 10s. The number of days so observed amounted to 60, so that in the former case the citizen paid 2s. 6d. a year, and in the latter case 1s. 3d. a year. Observe that this custom amounted to an eighth part of the rent; applied to modern custom, for an office in the City rented at £100 a year, the citizen would now have to pay £12:10s.

Bishop Roger Le Noir converted this custom into law in 1228. In 1389 Archbishop Arundel interfered and increased the number of Apostles’ days to be so observed by 22 more, making the 2s. 6d. into 3s. 9d. An appeal to the Pope was answered by his support of the Archbishop; but the citizens continued to grumble. In 1535, probably with the desire of making the Londoners pleased with his ecclesiastical changes, Henry reduced the 3s. 5d. to 2s. 9d. And so the tax remained, until the Fire of 1666 necessitated a revision of the law.

CHAPTER II
CHURCH FURNITURE

The furniture of a London church was elaborate to a degree which astonishes those accustomed to a simple Anglican ritual. It would also, I believe, astonish the modern Catholic priest when he thinks of his own village church. The Book of the Visitation of Churches belonging to St. Paul’s Cathedral in 1297 and in 1458 (Camden Society, edited by W. Sparrow Simpson, D.D.) enables us to understand the extent and the wealth of these churches. The font, of which many specimens still remain, was generally of stone, but sometimes of marble, and sometimes of wood. It was kept locked lest the consecrated water should be used for superstitious purposes. The water was changed every week. The altar was sometimes of stone; when it was of wood a superaltar of marble or stone or jasper, with feet of silver, was placed upon it. An altar frontal was generally found, sometimes of carved wood, sometimes of embroidered work. On the altar were two chalices, one of silver or silver-gilt, and one of tin; there was a small cross, called crux parva, to distinguish it from the rood; there were phialÆ and a ferrum or stamp for stamping the altar bread with the letters XPC, IHC, DS. There was a pix or tabernacle for the reservation of the Eucharist. This was sometimes a very beautiful casket of glass, ivory, copper, silver, or enamel, hanging over the altar with canopies. There was the crismatorium, with its oil for the sick; there were the carpets before the altar; the curtains and the veils. There were various kinds of candlesticks and candelabra of copper, brass, pewter, or even of wood. The expenses of the lights were defrayed by a kind of rate. A tenant who had a cow paid 12d. a year, one who had an ewe paid 2d., one who had a wether 1d., and the possessor of a sow 2d. Of bells there were those hanging in the tower, and the small hand-bells rung at funerals and at masses. There was a processional cross; there were banners; the lectern had its hangings; there were chests for the reception of the robes and relics; there were seats for the clergy, but none for the people, who either stood or knelt on their own cushions. The pax or osculatorium was a tablet of wood, or other material, which was kissed by the celebrant. At only two of the churches in the Visitation were there any organs. Then there were the robes and veils; the dalmatic, the chasuble, the choir cope, the surplice, the canopy held over the newly-married pair, the Lenten veil which covered everything during Lent, etc. Then came the books—the Legenda, Antiphonare, Gradale, Psalterium, Troparium, Ordinale, Missale, Manuale, Epistolarium, Processionale. Many of these books were kept in duplicate: we can very well understand how the books would be constantly wearing out by daily use. To replace them in a poor parish was a work of great expense and trouble. Yet these things were considered necessaries in every church, however humble. What was to be expected of the great churches endowed and furnished by princes, nobles, and rich merchants?

The following is a list of the treasures belonging to the Church of St. Laurence Jewry:—

• “Five great bells and two small bells.
• One auter cloth with a nether part and a border of whit damaske imbrodered upon the same flowers and imags.
• One payer of certens of whit sarcenet with frenges.
• One awter cloth with a nether part and a border of cloth of golde.
• One payer of certens of sylke stayned.
• One auter cloth with a nether part and a border of red velvet with koges and one payer of sylk certyns stayned.
• One nether part of an awter cloth and a border of satten with flowers wrought upon the same and one payer certyns of sarcenet.

• One awter cloth with a nether part and a border of damaske and one payer of certyns of sylk.
• One cope of cloth of gold the grownde beeinge red.
• One cope of cloth of gold the grownde beeinge blew.
• One cope with a vestment of whit damaske wroght upon red flowers of golde and fflanmells pertayninge to the same.
• One cope with a vestment of koges and fflamels to the same.
• One cope of red velvet imbrodered with buds and cards of golde.
• One cope of blew velvet imbrodered with golde and images and also
• One vestment of red velvet with fflowers of golde.
• One vestment of dornyx bodkyn.
• One awter cloth of red velvet with fflowers of golde and y borders pertayninge to the same.
• One awter cloth with a nether part of blewe sarcenet imbrodered with garters and iiij certins of sarcenet.
• xvij awter clothes of linen cloth ix borders and xx certyns all stayned.
• ij awter clothes of lynne stayed with half-pencers.
• ij borders of stayed cloth.
• j awter cloth of ginger collered velvet with a border to the same.
• j clothe of blewe velvet that went abowt the sepulchre.
• viij lynnen clothes used in the tyme of Lent and vj certins of lynen clothe pertayninge to the same.
• ij copes of grene silk demyn and j cope of red velvet imbrodered with gold and images.
• iij borders and a font clothe all stayned.
• iij certyns of blew and yellow buckram.
• iiij certyns of sarcenett red and greene.
• iiij certyns of saye yellow and red.
• iiij certyns of red say and ij vayle clothes.
• j curten of blak sarcenett with silk frenges.
• xli gaulbez and xxx hed cloths all lynen cloths.
• j corporas case of cloth of golde.
• vj corporas cases of dyvers sorts and v corporas cloths.
• A box of coper otherwise called the pix-box with a cower of sarcenett.
• ij pewter dyshes.
• j gilt cup with a patten all gilt.
• i chalis all gilt without a patten.
• ij chalices parcell gilt with ij patens.
• iiij crosse staves ij of wode and ij of coper.
• j clothe of hear (i.e. hair) to laye upon an auter.
• xvij cosshens of sylke.
• ix candlesticks of latten smale and great.
• ij sencers of latten.
• iiij stoks of latten for water.
• j greate deske of latten.
• iiij rods of irone and a fier sholven (sic, i.e. shovell).
• Certayne olde leade iiij paxes.
• xx dieper towells and xv dieper auter clothes.
• x playn awter clothes.
• xi players cotts of lynnen cloth stayned.
• ij bere clothes to cast upon a coffyn the j bodkyn sylke and the other of lynen cloth stayned.
• xvij banners and strements of silke stayned.
• viij banners of cloth stayned.
• viij banner staves.
• j Bible.
• ij payer of organs.”

Among the minor offices of the Church, that of the blessing of the widow may be mentioned. The Benedictio ViduÆ accompanied the vow of future chastity.

Between the Gospel and the Epistle the widow knelt before the Bishop sitting on a fald stool. He asked her in the presence of the congregation if she were willing to become the spouse of Christ and to give up the lusts of the flesh. She then read, or caused to be read, the following profession:—“I, A.B., avow to God perpetual chastity of my body from henceforward, and in the presence of the Honourable Father in God, My Lord by the Grace of God, Bishop of C., I promise steadfastly to live in the Church a widow. Then the Bishop blessed the ring, sprinkled it with holy water, and put it on the widow’s finger as a sign of her marriage with Christ, saying:—

“Accipe, Famula Christi, annulum Fidei signum, connubii indicium, quem devota deferas, casta custodias, quo ad amplexus divini sporsi coronanda perficias. Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Oremus.”

He then said certain prayers, and the ceremony was completed. Of this ceremony Furnivall quotes a remarkable instance. In the year 1231 Eleanor, sister of Henry the Third (and widow of William, Earl of Pembroke, who died 15th April 1231), took the vow before Edmund, Archbishop of Canterbury, and Richard, Bishop of Chichester. Seven years later, however, she married Simon de Montfort. The Archbishop protested, and a dispensation was obtained from the Pope.

In 1351 Philippa, widow of Guy, son of Thomas, Earl of Warwick, took the vow in these words:—

“En le nom de le Seint Trinitie, Piere, Fils et Seint Esprit jeo Philippa que fu la feme Sire Guy de Warwyst face puriment et des queor et voluntie entierement, avow a Dieu et Seint Eglise, et a la benure Virgin Marie et a tout le bel compaigne delestine et a vous reverent Piere en Dieu Sir Reynaud per le Grace de Dieu Evesque de Wircester que jeo ameneray ma vie en chastitee defoie en avant, et chaste ferra de mon corps a tout temps de ma vie.”

The influence of the Church on the daily life of London may be illustrated by a brief Calendar of the Ecclesiastical Year and of the observances of the people. It is needless to remind ourselves that these observances included an immense collection of old traditions, ancient pagan customs, and superstitions grafted on the association of these days with Church history and doctrine. (See Appendix VI.) The year began with the holy season of Advent, when the Wednesdays and Fridays were days of that complete Fasting which allowed of one meal only in the day, and that without meat. On Christmas Eve, and also on St. Agnes’ Eve, girls practised certain divinations to see what husbands they would get. Thus, they wrote the names of men on onions and laid them by the fire: the part to sprout or burst was that which contained the name of the coming lover; and since it was important to know what kind of husband he would be, the maiden went to the woodstack and pulled out a stick: if it were a straight and even stick, with no knots, he would be a kind and gentle husband; if it were crooked or knotty, resignation must be cultivated. At Christmas there were mummings and feasts and merrymakings; the rooms were decked with holly and all kinds of green branches; there were pageants, masques, and moralities. In the church was acted the Nativity, with the angels and the shepherds and the Child in the cradle; in some places children danced before the altar. On the day of St. Stephen horses were made to gallop about, and were bled to keep them well throughout the year. On the day of St. John the people bought of the priests manchets made with hallowed wine as a preventive against storms. At Childermasse—28th December,—Innocents’ Day, they whipped the children so that they might remember the slaughter of the Innocents. Then came the New Year:—

The month of January was a time of great revelry, simply because the short day brought work to a close between four and five, and left a long evening.

On Twelfth Day they chose a king by lottery of the Cake: the king was lifted up on the hands of the others while he traced the sign of the Cross upon every rafter in the roof. This blessed sign kept off Devils. Another singular custom on this day was that the master of the house at eventide set down a loaf of bread on the hearth, and strewed frankincense on a pan of coals. He then, followed by the whole of his household, inhaled the fumes. This was to keep them all during the year to come from toothache, earache, or any malady of the eyes and nose. When all had thus fortified themselves, they took up the loaf and the pan of coals and bore them round the house. In so simple a way were they enabled to insure themselves against want of food and the power of witches. On Candlemas Day, 2nd February, every one offered a taper. These tapers were sovereign for keeping off ghosts, lightning, storm, and tempest. On the day of St. Blasius, they procured, at great cost, water made holy by being passed through one of the Saint’s bones. Barrels of this water were sold. Valentine’s Day they observed with zeal; says John Lydgate:—

Shrove Tuesday brought a very madness of revelry: the people dressed up like wild beasts and ran about the streets; they danced; they made shows; they feasted and drank. The street processions did not end with Shrove Tuesday, they were carried over to Ash Wednesday, when every one paraded the streets carrying a herring on a pole and singing doggerel. And the approach of spring was celebrated by the following rough sport, evidently an ancient custom:—

Then fell upon the City a time of great sadness. In the churches the images were covered up with painted cloths, on which was declared, one knows not how, the “Wrath and furie great of God”; the butchers’ stalls were closed; the shambles were innocent of blood; the cooks’ shops furnished nothing but fish; and devout people, and men and women of religion, took but one meal in the day. On Palm Sunday there was the Procession of the Entry into Jerusalem; after the Procession and Mass the boys led the Ass about the parish begging for money and eggs.

For three days before Easter in this City of multitudinous bells—bells of monasteries, bells of colleges, bells of hospitals, bells of churches—there was a stillness profound. No bells were rung at all. The sexton climbed the tower or the steeple and called to mass with a wooden clapper. The boys ran about the streets with wooden clappers calling the people to church. It is even said that during the solemn darkness of the Tenebrose, the ’prentices carried on a free fight. And during this week the curious custom was observed of bringing into every great man’s house a twisted tree. At Easter Eve all fires were put out and renewed from flint and steel. The water for baptism was hallowed with a procession of crosses, tapers, and banners. It was lucky to carry some banner. On Easter Day the Resurrection was represented in many churches. On this day, also, people ate radishes to keep off agues. On one of the three days before the Ascension the parish bounds were beaten by the parish beadles and a pack of boys. On Ascension Day it was the custom to eat birds, for their upward flight was held to be a symbol of the Ascension. At church the image of our Lord was literally pulled up to the roof with ropes, while an image of Satan was thrown down and broken to pieces.

On Whit Sunday white pigeons and doves were set free in the church. On Corpus Christi Day, the Host was carried about in a procession followed by representations of the Saints.

On the Feast of John the Baptist bonfires were lighted and the young people danced in the street, a survival of the midsummer rejoicings. Every house on this evening was decorated with leaves and branches, green birch, fennel, white lilies, St. John’s wort and garlands, with variegated lamps, which were hung up everywhere. There were miracle plays enacted in the summer on carts and wheeled machines. At Martinmas, 11th November, the beginning of winter, roast goose was eaten, and boys went about singing:

The religious functions of the Lord Mayor and Corporation were many, and were considered inseparable from the office. I have elsewhere called attention to the point that it is futile to ask whether any mediÆval Foundation, Corporation, or Institution was religious in character, because at that time nothing could be considered which was not based upon, or supported by, religion.

The following are some of the religious duties imposed upon the Mayor. On the morrow of SS. Simon and Jude the Mayor, newly elected, took the oaths at the Exchequer in the morning. He then dined, and after dinner he proceeded to the Church of St. Thomas of Acon, where prayers were said. Thence he went in procession to St. Paul’s, where, kneeling in the nave, he prayed for the soul of Bishop William, who saved the liberties of the City at the Norman Conquest. After this he went out into the churchyard, where he prayed for the souls of the Martyr’s parents buried there. This done, he returned to the Church of St. Thomas of Acon, where he and the Aldermen made an offering. This conclusion of the afternoon’s ceremonies was conducted, if it was already dark, by torchlight.

On the Day of All Saints the Mayor with his household, the Aldermen with their households, and the substantial citizens, all marched together to St. Paul’s and heard vespers.

On Christmas Day they again went to St. Paul’s to hear vespers and compline, the Mayor sitting on the right hand of the Dean.

On Whit Monday the Mayor, Aldermen, and Sheriffs met in the Church of St. Peter, Cornhill: they were met by the clergy of the City churches, and, a procession being formed in which the clergy led the way, they walked through Chepe to St. Paul’s. Entering by the north side they were met by the officials of the Cathedral, and escorted through the transepts to the south side, where they went out, and walking through “the Close of Watling Street,” i.e. the south part of St. Paul’s Precinct, they entered at the great door of the west. In the nave they heard the hymn, “Veni Creator,” while a winged angel in white robes censed the people from the roof. This done, the Mayor advanced to the Altar and laid his offering upon it. It will be observed that he represented the City, and prayed for the guidance of the Holy Spirit not for himself but for the whole City.

On Whit Tuesday the same ceremony was observed. But the procession was formed at the Church of St. Michael le Querne, outside the Precinct of Paul’s, and was joined by the common folk of Middlesex. The same ceremony was performed in the Cathedral. On Whit Wednesday the same ceremony was performed for the third time, but with the common folk of Essex. The Mayor on these two days represented, therefore, the people of two counties.

There were many other occasions in the year when the Mayor went in state to certain City churches.

On occasions of rejoicings there were also special visits. Thus, on the news of the birth of Edward the Third the Mayor and Aldermen repaired immediately to the Cathedral, where the Bishop sang mass, and after mass, to the sound of trumpets, the Mayor and Aldermen “led the Carol” (“menerent la Karole”). A few days after a great pageant was celebrated in the City.

Mention is made above of one or two charms against certain diseases. It must not be forgotten that for every disease there was a saint who could ward it off. It was part of the wise woman’s lore to know all these saints and to invoke their aid when she applied her herbs. Here is a list:—St. Appolus preserved the teeth, St. Otilia the eyes, St. Vitus the brain, St. Laurence the back and shoulders, St. Valentine prevented the falling sickness, St. Erasmus saved from colic, St. Blasius from quinsy, St. Peruel from ague, St. John from prison (a very dreadful disease), St. Mark from sudden death, St. Suran from infamy, St. Wolfgang from gout, St. Agatha from fire, St. Christopher from ghosts, St. Anne from wealth—why was not she the patron saint of this merchant city? St. Wendlin kept the cattle, St. Antony the hogs, St. Gertrude drove off mice and rats, St. Magnus grasshoppers, St. Nicolas protected mariners, St. Indocus the crops, St. George looked after the horsemen, St. Luke the painters, St. Cosmus the physicians, St. Leonard the prisoners, St. Botolph the travellers, while all these functions and many others were ascribed to the Virgin Mary, in whom was centred all the love and faith and veneration and hope possible among millions of ignorant women governed by their affections and passions.

They were great believers in charms in those days: in the peril of child-birth the women purified the chamber to keep off evil spirits; the men went to sea, on a journey, to battle, with charms hung round their necks to keep them safe. These charms were sometimes a verse of the Gospel enclosed in a silver box hung about the neck with a silver chain: or words meaning nothing, or crosses drawn with blood or painted; the men had their swords charmed or blessed; they had their horses charmed. Again, the people were great believers in astrology, necromancy, and the influence of the moon. Before undertaking anything the position of the moon was first consulted. Unless this was favourable they would not only abstain from beginning any enterprise of importance, but they would not bathe, or cut their hair, or pare their nails, or even take medicine. Some of these superstitions we know still linger, but they exercise no real influence. Lucky and unlucky days are all forgotten: omens are very feeble things, we have practically outgrown them. But we must realise that in the London of the fourteenth century the whole population were under the governance of superstitions; I am not speaking of their religion, but of the superstitious beliefs that are outside religious dogma and religious observance. The time seems to those who look into it full of activity, full of joyousness, full of brightness. All these things, undoubtedly, do belong to Plantagenet London. Wealth, good work, good wages, splendid dress, good food, good wine, good ale, and outdoor life—yet, withal, an ever-present dread of the unknown, of the immediate future, of what chance, luck, fate or the anger of a saint might bring. It was, in a word, the life which seizes with avidity on the present, and enjoys what the gods provide from day to day.

CHAPTER IV
HERMITS AND ANCHORITES

There is one branch of ecclesiastical history which has been curiously neglected, that, namely, concerned with the anchorite, ankret, anchoress, or ankress. That is to say, it is generally concluded that a hermit and an anchorite are the same persons. One might as well think that a monk is the same as a friar.

There was nothing to prevent a hermit setting up his cell wherever he pleased; yet there were certain places where a hermitage was a recognised institution, and the hermit was, so to speak, presented as to a living. Thus, there was a hermitage outside the City wall at Aldgate, one at Bishopsgate, one at Cripplegate, one at Charing Cross, one at St. Laurence Jewry; a hermitage was often found at a bridge, and by the roadside, in a forest, or in any place not too secluded, because a hermit lived upon alms, and had therefore of necessity to reside near the haunts of men. The character and reputation of the hermitage depended entirely upon the character of the occupant, and therefore varied from time to time. William of Langland speaks of “fals hermits,”—“But these hermits who build their dwelling by the highway, of yore were workmen, weavers and tailors, and carters’ knaves, and graceless clerks. They kept full hungry house and had much want, long labour and little earning, and at last espied that liars in friars’ clothing had fat cheeks. Therefore these unlearned knaves left their labour and clothed themselves in cloaks like clerks, or as if they were of some Order, or else prophets.”

Hermitages were not occupied continuously; if one hermit died, his cell was vacated, and not necessarily filled up. A few of these hermitages remain, as, for example, that of Warkworth, which is a very striking monument. On the other hand, an anchorite was a recluse; he was shut up and separated from the world; he never came out of his cell. Before a man or woman was allowed to become an anchorite he had to obtain a license from the Bishop, who also required of the Rector or Vicar of his church, of the Abbot or Prior of the House, that the anchorite should be properly supplied with food. The hermit was free to roam—solivagus; the anchorite was shut up—conclusus. The difference between the hermit and the anchorite is drawn clearly by R. Sharpe (Calendar of Wills, ii. 33).

“An Anchorite’s cell—or ankerhold, as it was sometimes called—was usually in or near a church, although not always: it was so situate that the recluse might see the altar and hear the service, and its door was locked and often walled up, one or more iron-barred windows being left open by which he could receive the Communion and the necessaries of life. He was often a priest and much resorted to as a confessor, as, indeed, were also some hermits. The latter, however, commonly followed a trade or occupation.

Although anchorites were not hermits, ankerholds were sometimes called hermitages, and the distinction between the two classes of religious is not always preserved in the Husting wills. Thus we have in one will a reference made to the tenement of the hermit of Cripplegate—a hermitage founded by Mary de St. Pol, Countess of Pembroke, for the soul of her unfortunate husband Aylmer de Valence—and in another a bequest made to the anchorite at Cripplegate, as well as to the anchorite at Holborn. That both classes were held in high esteem by the citizens of London is shown by the numerous bequests made to every anchorite and every hermit in or near London. Besides the anchorites or hermits at Cripplegate and Holborn, we have special mention made of the hermit in the meadows beyond the Thames, the hermit near Charing Cross, and the hermit near Bishopsgate: the anchorite living in the Church of St. Peter, Cornhill; Friar John Ingram, the anchorite near the hospital of St. Katharine in the neighbourhood of the Tower, previously described in the will of Geoffrey Patrik (1371) as the hermit living at a place called ‘le Swannesnest’ near the Tower; and, in the same will, Friar Richard de Swepeston, the hermit near the Church of St. Laurence in the Jewry, and Geoffrey his companion. The mention of a companion for a hermit seems incongruous, but it appears from a rule for solitaries drawn up by Grimlaic, an anchorite priest in the ninth century, or perhaps somewhat later, that several were permitted to dwell together in one enclosure and have communication by a window, provided the cell of every one was separate.”

Of ankresses there were many. Such was Juliana of Norwich, whose book of Ejaculations has been preserved: such was the anchoress of Bishopsgate, who received 40s. a year from the Sheriffs of London. Such was Christina of St. Alban’s: such were the anchoresses of St. Giles, St. Benedict, and St. Mary de Manny.

The frequent mention in the Calendar of Wills of the anchorites in and around London shows that there were always many of these inclusi, and that they were held in great respect; but since men, evidently not wealthy, left money to all, it is certain that there were not anchorites and ankresses attached to every church. So few of the old London churches are left that it is impossible to look to them for much information on this point. It is said that traces of the anchorite’s cell may still be seen in the Inner Cloisters of Westminster Abbey, but for my own part I have failed to distinguish them. They should be part of the ruins of St. Catherine’s Chapel. If, however, we turn to the village churches about the country, we find indications which point to the anchorite’s cell as well as to other things.

Thus, it is not uncommon to find in the chancel of many churches built before the fifteenth century low side windows, sometimes with shutters, sometimes without. These are commonly called lepers’ windows, and one is told how the lepers, forbidden to enter the church, were allowed to assist in the mass by looking through the window at the altar. The Cambridge Camden Society called them lychnoscopes.

As regards the theory of the lepers, we must remember the rigid laws concerning the separation of leprous persons: they were not allowed to enter inns, churches, mills, or bakehouses; they were not to touch healthy persons; they were not to eat with healthy persons; they were not to wash in streams; they were not to walk in narrow footpaths; they wore a distinctive dress, and they carried a clapper to give warning of their approach. There were also lazar-houses for their residence, no less than ninety-five of the first class in England, besides smaller ones. With these regulations, what room was there for an isolated leper in a village? Where would he live? How would he live? Where there were small lazar-houses the lepers’ window is conceivable, but not in the little village where the leper could not be allowed to live at all. So that for most of these villages we may discard the theory of the lepers’ squint altogether.

A valuable paper on the low side windows of certain Surrey churches may be found in the Transactions of the Surrey ArchÆological Society (vol. xiv. part ii.), in which the writer gives drawings of many of these windows with detailed descriptions, and shows that they served one of two purposes—either for the confessional, in which case the priest sat within the church and the penitent knelt without; he proves that the practice was common in these churches where the only other place of confession was “behind the veil,” i.e. in the chancel. The other purpose was for the anchorite to take part in the service through this window. There are indications in some of the churches that a cell formerly existed against the church wall, e.g. the marks of a peat-roof in the wall. In one church, that of Hurtly, near Rainham, the cell itself remains to this day.

The writer observes that these low side windows are not found in churches built during the second half of the fifteenth century. He attributes this to the decay into which the friars, who had formerly been the favourite confessors, had fallen. In another place, I have shown that the practice of making bequests to the friars, hermits, and anchorites of London gradually decayed and finally ceased during the same period. May we not believe that the decay of the respect formerly paid to the religious of all kinds affected the demand for anchorites and therefore the supply? It is surely reasonable to believe that when the calling or profession of an inclusus was no longer attended by the general belief in superior sanctity, one attraction, perhaps the principal one, towards the life would no longer exist, while it is certain that the knowledge and the proof of such a belief would be a powerful support and a certain encouragement to the anchorite in enduring the lonely vigils, the frosts and cold, the silence of the night, the visits and the mockeries and the terror of the Fiend, and all the miseries of the cell, which he was never to leave until death called him forth.

In my book on “Westminster” I have described the consecration of a recluse—supposing, without any historical foundation, that the Sub-prior was ready to take the place of the late anchorite. The manner of the consecration is supposed to be described by one of the monks:—

“The Sub-prior, being a priest, was taken into the choir, where he prostrated himself with bare feet. The Abbot and three of the brethren who were priests having taken their places, the Cantor began the service with the responsory, Beati in melius, after which the Abbot and assistants before the altar sang with the choir certain Psalms fourteen in number. After the Psalms followed a Litany, the choir singing after each clause, Ora pro eo. The Litany finished, the Abbot advanced towards the prostrate brother bearing a crucifix, a thurible, and holy water, and, standing over him, he thrice sprinkled him with water, censed him, and prayed over him. The Abbot then raised the candidate with his own hands, and gave him two lighted tapers, at the same time admonishing him to remain steadfast in the love of God. Then the candidate, standing, listened to the Deacon, who read first from the prophet Isaiah, next the Gospel according to Saint Luke, as on the Festival of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary. After this the new garments which he was to put on were blessed. The candidate then took the vows, which were three only, and those the same as the vows at profession, viz. of chastity, of obedience, and of steadfastness.

The candidate next kneeled at the altar, and, kissing it three times, repeated each time the words Suscipe me, Domine, etc., the choir responding. This done he offered the two tapers at the altar, and again kneeled while the Abbot removed his monastic frock and clothed him with the garments newly blessed. Then followed a service of prayer. It was the Veni Creator, with the Paternoster and Et ne nos. The Abbot then, standing on the north side of the altar, preached to the brethren and to the congregation assembled, commending the new recluse to their prayers. The candidate then himself sang the mass of the Holy Ghost.

We had now completed that part of the consecration which takes place in the church. The Abbot then took the new recluse by the hand and led him down the nave of the church, followed by the choir and all the brethren, unto the little door leading into the West Cloister. The church was filled with people to see the sight. A new recluse is not seen every day. There were the domicellae, the maidens of the Queen, come from the Palace; there were knights and pages, and even men-at-arms; there were sanctuary men, women, and children; men with hawks upon their wrists; men with dogs; merchants from the wool staple; girls of wanton looks from the streets and taverns beyond the walls. The hawks jangled their bells, the dogs barked, the women chattered, the men talked loudly, the girls looked at the brothers as they passed, and whispered and laughed: and I heard one brother say to another that this was a thing which would make the Sub-prior return to the monastery an he saw it. And all alike craned their necks to see the man who was going to be shut up in a narrow cell for the rest of his days.

The ankret’s cell is on the south side of the Infirmary Cloister. It is built of stone, being twelve feet long, eight feet broad, and with an arched roof about ten feet high. On the side of the church there is a narrow opening by which the occupant can hear mass and can see the elevation in the Chapel of St. Catherine. On the other side is a grating by which he can receive his food and converse with the world. But it is too high up for him to see out of it; therefore he has nothing to look upon but the walls of his cell. This morning the west side had been broken down in order to remove the body of the dead man and to cleanse the cell for the new-comer. So, while we gathered round in a circle, and the people stood behind us, the Abbot entered the cell, and censed it, and sprinkled it with holy water, singing more Psalms and more prayers. When he came forth the recluse himself entered, saying aloud: HÆc requies mea in seculum seculi. The choir sang another Psalm. Then the Abbot sprinkled dust upon the head of the recluse with the words beginning De terra plasmasti.

This done, the Operarius cum suis operariis replaced the stones and built up the wall anew. And then, singing another Psalm, we went back to the cloister, leaving the Sub-prior to begin his lifelong imprisonment. A stone bench for bed, his frock for blanket, a crucifix, and no other furniture. In the cold nights that followed, lying in my bed in the dormitory, I often bethought myself of the former Sub-prior alone in his dark cell, with Devils whispering temptation through the grating (Devils always assail every new recluse), well-nigh frozen, praying with trembling lips and chattering teeth. No, I am not worthy. Such things are too high for me.”

It seems as if, for a period of some hundred years, every monastic house and many churches possessed a recluse, man or woman. They were specially bound to pray for the House or the Church, probably for the parish as well. They frequently arrived at a reputation of the highest sanctity; they were consulted as an oracle. Thus Richard the Second, before he started on his dangerous journey to put down the rebellion, consulted the anchorite of Westminster. So also Henry the Fifth spent the night after his father’s funeral in weeping, prayer, and confession with the anchorite’s successor.

The anchorite’s cell was not always of the same shape or form. Sometimes it was partly or wholly underground; sometimes a grated window communicated with the outside and enabled the occupier to see and to be seen; sometimes the grated window was too high for the anchorite to see his visitors or to be seen by them. In the nunnery of Marmoustin at Tours there was an anchorite’s cell in which the occupant was totally secluded; at Royston there was a subterranean cell to which there was an approach from the outside and an opening on the top. The approach was probably blocked up when the recluse entered the cell and all communications were through the upper opening. At Bengeo, Herts. (see Appendix VII.), the anchorite’s cell consisted of a wooden hut placed against the north-east end of the chancel. It was eight feet long and six feet high; there was a recess in the wall for the anchorite’s bed and seat; there was an entrance into the church; perhaps the anchorite was a chantry priest.

Sometimes there were two ankresses living in the churchyard, but not in the same cell. Henry the Fourth before his accession to the throne endowed an anchorite’s cell in a village of Lancashire. The ankress very often took care of the church and kept it clean. As regards London, the bequests to anchorites are numerous. We read of ankresses at St. Michael’s and St. Giles, Cornhill; at St. Giles, St. Benedict, and St. Mary Manny, we read of a lady getting so many square feet of ground for the purpose of building an anchorite’s cell; we read of anchorites at St. Albans, St. Giles, and Westminster Abbey.

One of the earliest Old English works is the Ancren Reiwle or Rule for Anchorites. It was written for three ladies who had resolved upon adopting the recluse life in a village in Dorsetshire. The author is doubtful. It was perhaps Richard Poor, Bishop successively of Chichester, Salisbury, and Durham, in which case it is older than 1237, the year of Richard Poor’s death; or else by Simon of Ghent, a native of London, Archdeacon of Oxford, 1284, Bishop of Salisbury, 1297. He died in 1315. The dates are of importance, because the recluse life would not seem to have become common before the middle of the thirteenth century, and it would further seem to have fallen into disuse by the end of the fourteenth century. The work itself seems to show that these ladies were adopting a new thing, or at least an unusual thing.

During the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, however, we must remember that in every Monastic House, and in most churches, the cell of the anchorite was built against the chancel wall with an opening to allow the occupant to “see God,” i.e. to witness the elevation of the mass every day; that at all hours of the day and night were to be heard the prayers, the praises, the ejaculations, the groans of the man or woman thus buried alive.

It is difficult to understand the attraction of such a life. Probably the very horror of it attracted some minds. To be alone day and night so long as life should last, to pray continually, never to enjoy one single comfort or solace or relief from physical pain, to be always cold, always hungry, always clad in rags, always unkempt and unwashed, to have to battle every night with superstitious terrors and the invention of an excited imagination, to dwell perpetually on images of death, these things make the life so terrible that the mere merit of choosing it appeared extraordinary; the Gates of Heaven would surely be thrown open to one who had passed years of such endurance and such combat.

Picture to yourself such an anchorite. He rises slowly from his knees; his limbs are full of rheumatic pains; he straightens himself with difficulty; he advances to the grating and looks through the bars. He is a gaunt tall man, as thin as living man can be; he is clad in rags; his hair flows over his shoulders; his beard falls down to his waist; his cheeks are hollow; his shrunken eyes are like coals of fire. He prays for the Church and all the souls of those who belong to the Church, that is to say, the dead as well as the living. Great are the blessings conferred on a parish by the prayers of an anchorite! He prays all day and all night; while others sleep the anchorite is offering continual supplication. He is racked with pains; he is always cold, always hungry, always unwashed; yet he is not unhappy. He is supported by Faith undoubting; and he has consolations and compensations. The Virgin Mary sends him angels who sing carols for him alone to hear; they are a foretaste of the singing in Heaven; he is allowed even to see the gates of Heaven standing open and the blessed saints sitting on their thrones exactly like the barons at a coronation. And he is visited by devils who are always beaten back and are always returning with fresh whispers and fresh temptations. Sweet are the joys of battle! He wrestles nightly with the Fiend, and every night sends him out of the barred window screeching with rage and disappointment. Oh, the anchorite is a happy man! And sometimes he is blessed with the gift of prophecy: he knows what is coming: in the morning he remembers his vision, and perhaps the very words are taken down and preserved. He is also, if he chooses, the parish oracle: he is asked to advise on all subjects, for there is no subject into which religion cannot enter. Merchants consult him about their ventures; women about their love affairs; princes about their policy. See, there is a girl tripping over the long grass: she bears a basket; it contains a gift of food for the anchorite, such simple food as he will receive; and she comes with heightened colour because she is going to ask a question of a most delicate nature concerning a young man. In some churchyards, where the anchorite is good-humoured and popular, or where there is an ankress, the grating of a cell has been known to become a place of resort; it is said that scandals and mischievous gossip were sometimes first started outside the ankress’ cell; all the women went there to talk of what was going on in the parish; the cell became a nuisance; the parish priest spoke about it; the Bishop heard of it.

Think of the effect upon the imagination produced outside by the mere voice of the unseen solitary who, as long as he lived, would never change his clothes, nor wash himself, nor cut his hair or beard, nor look upon the face of other men, nor see the sunshine and the blue sky, nor look for any physical comfort or solace so long as life should endure. They knew he was there; they came and spoke to him; the hollow voice came out of the grave in reply; they lowered food; one day they came and heard no voice in reply; they removed the stones and looked in. God had summoned the man of long endurance; who would take his place?

I said, above, that for a hundred years there were anchorites attached to most churches. My reason for assigning this period is that the London citizens began to bequeath property to anchorites in the middle of the fourteenth century, in the year 1341, and left off the practice at the same time as they left off bequeathing property to the Friars about the year 1400. For sixty years there was a general formula with all those who had property to leave. They bequeathed small sums to their own parish church, to all the five orders of friars, to every anchorite in London, or to every anchorite, man or woman, in and about the City of London, to every hermit in London, to every leper in London, to every poor prisoner in London. The reason why the fashion of giving bequests to the maintenance of solitaries began so late and ended so quickly was, I suppose, that the practice of building anchorites’ cells became more common in the fourteenth century than it had been in former times; that men clutched at every chance of getting prayers as well as masses for their souls; that the appearance of so many newly built cells struck their imagination; that they thought the prayers of a holy anchorite must be of great efficacy inasmuch as the man not only led a saintly life but endured continual sufferings. In the same way they left money to lepers and to prisoners in order to obtain their prayers.

And the reason why the fashion of bequeathing money to anchorites suddenly ceased was that by the end of the fourteenth century the mind of London was saturated with that part of Lollardy which scoffed at hermits, friars, and monks. At the time when the House of Commons was petitioning the King to suppress all Religious Houses of every kind, the rich men of the City left off, as if by common consent, as if by a kind of conspiracy or secret resolution, the bequeathing of money to friars, hermits, and anchorites. A broad black line is drawn. No more money shall be left to these people. It would be interesting, if it were possible, to learn what became of the anchorites and the hermits. Some of them, no doubt, survived till the Reformation. Can we imagine, with the Dissolution of the Monastery, the suppression of the Anchorite? Can we imagine the old man, with his grey hair, his beard flowing to his waist, scarcely clad decently in the rags which he has worn for fifty years, with sunken cheeks and haggard face and wild eyes blinking at the light, and wondering why after so many years he is dragged out once more into the sunshine and the sight of his fellow-men?

CHAPTER V
PILGRIMAGE

Pilgrimage, never so great a craze in London as in the country, or in England as in France, plays an important part in the mediÆval life. The earliest pilgrimage was, of course, to the Holy Places of Jerusalem: it began in the second century with a journey to the site of the Ascension. The other sites multiplied with the increase of pilgrims and the demand for sites and sacred relics and associations. The desire to go pilgrimaging grew and spread with great rapidity among all classes. In the century before the Crusades the roads to Palestine were black with swarms of pilgrims: we have the history of many early pilgrimages, including that written down by the Abbot Adamnanus of Scotland from the lips of the shipwrecked pilgrim Arnulfus, and that of Willibald the English pilgrim who started with his father and sister Walfunga, his brother Wunibald, and a large party of followers and servants: in Italy the father died and the brother and sister went home: Willibald persevered and reached Jerusalem safely.

It is easy to understand why the pilgrimage attracted so many. It was full of adventure and of danger. On the other hand, it was greatly meritorious: if one was killed on a pilgrimage, the doors of heaven were thrown open: if one returned in safety the term of purgatory was shortened. Then the pilgrim got away from his work: he had nothing to do but to plod on: he wanted no money: every day brought him to some hospitable monastery where he found supper, bed, and breakfast: he made new acquaintances and new friends perpetually: the way was enlivened by talk, and by casual potations: in the evening there was sometimes revelry at an inn, with wine or ale and music and dancing and the shows of the jogleurs. Who would not exchange the dull and tedious life in the country for a time of such varied experience and entertainment?

The practice quickly became an abuse. The peasant deserted his plough, his wife, and his children, to go pilgrimaging. The craftsman left his bench and his shop, in search of adventures as a pilgrim: even the monk left his monastery to wander out into the world, sometimes never to come back again: sometimes he did come back, with the confession of broken vows. The Church, therefore, interfered. No one must go on pilgrimage without the Bishop’s license. This granted, the pilgrim was solemnly invested with the scrip and staff, and the long woollen robe which formed the chief part of his dress. The parish priest with his friends accompanied him to the boundaries of his parish and he set forth, armed with the Bishop’s license and a passport which procured him hospitality in all Christian countries.

“In the name of God,” ran the commendatory letter, “we would have your highness or holiness to know that the bearer of the present letters, our brother, has asked our permission to go peaceably on pilgrimage to Jerusalem, either for his own sins, or to pray for our preservation. Thereupon, we have given him these present letters, in which we salute you, and pray you, for the love of God and Saint Peter, to receive him as your guest, to be useful to him in going and coming back, so that he may return in safety to his house: and as is your good custom, make him pass happy days. May God the Eternal King protect you, and keep you in His kingdom!”

The Church did more than bless the pilgrim: it celebrated in one of those dramas by which so much was taught, the act of pilgrimage itself, in a service which has been preserved. The following is an abridgment:—

“In the nave of the church was erected a fort, ‘castellum,’ representing the house at Emmaus where the two travellers entered and broke bread with Christ. At the appointed time two priests, ‘of the second seats,’ appointed for the day, came forth from the vestry singing the hymn which begins ‘Jesu, nostra redemptio.’ They were to be dressed in tunics, ‘et desuper cappis transversum,’ were to have long flowing hair and beards, and were each to carry a staff and scrip. Singing this hymn, and slowly marching down the right aisle, they came to the western porch, where they put themselves at the head of the procession of choristers waiting for them, and all began together to sing, ‘Nos tuo vultu saties.’ Then the priest for the day, robed in alb and surplice, bare-footed, carrying a cross on his right shoulder, advanced to meet them, and ‘standing suddenly before them,’ asked, ‘What manner of communications are these that ye have one to another as ye talk and are sad?’ To which the two pilgrims replied, ‘Art thou a stranger in Jerusalem, and hast not known the things which are come to pass there in these days?’

‘What things,’ asked the priest. ‘Concerning Jesus of Nazareth,’ they replied, with the words which follow. ‘Oh, fools!’ said the priest, ‘and slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have spoken.’ And then, feigning to retire, the priest would there have left them, but they held him back, and pointing to the ‘castellum,’ entreated him to enter, singing, ‘Abide with us for it is towards evening and the day is far spent.’ Then singing another hymn, they led him to the ‘Fort of Emmaus,’ which they entered, and where they sat down at a table already spread for supper. Here the priest brake bread sitting between them, and being recognised by this act for the Lord, ‘suddenly vanished out of their sight.’ The pilgrims, pretending to be stupefied, arose and sang sorrowfully (lamentabiliter) ‘Alleluia,’ with the verse, ‘Did not our hearts burn within us, while he talked with us by the way, and while he opened to us the Scriptures?’ Singing this twice they walked to the pulpit, where they sang the verse, ‘Dic nobis Maria.’ After this, another priest, dressed in a dalmatic and surplice, with head muffled up like a woman, came to them and sang, ‘Sepulcrum Christi Angelicos testes.’ He then took up a cloth from one place, and a second from another place, and threw them before the great door of the choir. And (the directions conclude) then let him sing, ‘Christ has risen,’ and let the choir chaunt the two other verses which follow, and let the women and the pilgrims retire within: and the memory of this act being thus recalled, let the procession return to the choir, and the vespers be finished.”

There was also the pilgrimage of punishment, when a criminal was condemned to wander up and down the road whithersoever the Pope should direct him. There were many of those poor wretches to be met with on the road; most of them were murderers; a chain was made in which was worked up the sword or knife or other weapon with which the crime was committed; the neck, arms, and body of the criminal were bound round with this chain; so equipped, the malefactor toiled painfully from shrine to shrine, living on alms. It was not until the fourteenth century that the practice was discontinued. Can anything prove more abundantly the power of the Church than this punishment of murderers, who were simply loaded with these chains and then commanded to go forth on a pilgrimage from shrine to shrine? There was no police to enforce obedience; there was no guard set over the criminals; they were told to go and walk to a certain shrine and there to await further orders; and they obeyed.

There were two kinds of pilgrimage: peregrinatio major and peregrinatio minor. Of the former kind were those to the Holy Land and to Rome. Of the latter kind, those which generally satisfied our ancestors, were those to Walsingham with its Virgin, Glastonbury with its holy thorn, Waltham with its black cross, St. Edmund’s Bury with the body of the King, Durham with the shrine of St. Cuthbert, Chichester with that of St. Richard; there were also Beverley, Winchester, Lincoln, York, Peterborough—all famous shrines. The two places most popular were the Walsingham and the Canterbury pilgrimages. But in thinking of Chaucer’s immortal company we must remember that such companies left London daily in the summer bound for one or other of these holy places. In the illogical confusion of things belonging to the period the pilgrimage which for many was an orgy and a period of unbounded license all the way, was coupled with prayers devout and tears unfeigned.

It would be idle to look too closely into the accounts of pilgrimages for evidences of the religious spirit among the pilgrims. Yet such evidences are found, notably in the fervent prayers and praises of Felix Fabri, who will be mentioned immediately. It is sufficient to remember that with the great mass of the people religion consisted in obedience. They had but to do what the Church ordered. After death there would be purgatory. Pilgrimage and other observances shortened the period of purgatory. They went, therefore, partly with that object, partly with the desire of seeing strange countries, partly to work off the restlessness that falls upon men, as upon nations, from time to time.

Wyclyf, William of Langland, Chaucer, Gower, all the mediÆval writers, continually make allusions to pilgrims. Sometimes the life of pilgrimage is ridiculed. Thus William of Langland speaks of the “crowd of hermits with hooked staves, who wend to Walsingham and their wenches after them, boobies who are unable to labour, clothe themselves in cloaks to be known from the others, and become hermits for their ease.” Sometimes the tales of the pilgrims are derided.

Thorpe (Skeat’s Notes to Chaucer, p. 49), when examined by Arundel, Archbishop of Canterbury, in 1407, complains of the pilgrims, saying: “They will ordain to have with them both men and women that can well sing wanton songs: and some other pilgrims will have with them bagpipes: so that every town that they come through, what with the noise of their singing, and with the sound of their piping, and with the jangling of their Canterbury bells, and with the barking out of dogs after them, they make more noise than if the King came there away, with all his clarions and many other minstrels. And if these men and women be a moneth in their pilgrimage, many of them shall be an half year after, great jangelers, tale-tellers, and lyers.”

But the Archbishop said, “Leude Losell, Thou seest not ferre ynough in this matter, for thou considerest not the great trauel of pilgremys, therefore thou blamest the thing that is praisable. I say to thee that it is right well done that pilgremys have with them both syngers and also pypers, that whan one of them that goeth barfoote striketh his toe upon a stone and hurteth hym sore, and makyth him to blede; it is well done that he or his felow begyn then a songe, or else take out of his bosom a baggepipe for to drive away with suche myrthe the hurt of his felow. For with soche solace the trauel and weeriness of pilgremys is lightely and merily broughte forth.”

Sometimes the people invented saints and shrines for themselves, as when they flocked to the tomb of Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, a man far removed from the saintly life, or to that of Simon de Montfort. In 1338 a grocer of London sold a mazer ornamented with the image of St. Thomas of Lancaster. And a few years later the people made a saint of the preacher and hermit Richard Rolle of Hampole. All these popular but ephemeral saints worked miracles abundantly while the faith in their power lasted. Would that some poet had depicted the swarm of pilgrims who, in the year when the grocer sold that mazer, rode out of London on a pilgrimage to Pontefract where St. Thomas of Lancaster was buried!

Not only must men get a license to go on a pilgrimage: the shipmen who carried them were also licensed. Pilgrims to foreign parts went either to Calais and thence by land, or, if they were going to Compostella, they went all the way by sea. Thus, the ship called La CharitÉ de Paynton, Peter Cok, Captain, was licensed to carry a hundred pilgrims. “Le Petre de Dartemouth” was licensed for sixty, “La Marie de Southampton” for one hundred, “Le Thomas de Saltash” for sixty, and so on.

In the narrative of Felix Fabri (A.D. 1484) pilgrims to the Holy Land (see Palestine Pilgrims Text Society, vols. vii.-x.) we can read how the long pilgrimages were conducted on board ship. Felix sailed from Venice. The methods were much the same for pilgrims from every country, except that the ships which had to cross the Bay of Biscay, and to sail round the headlands of Portugal, were probably stouter than those which sailed in the Mediterranean alone.

The pilgrim paid so much for the voyage there and back: he was also taken to the Holy Places under escort. A special contract was entered into with each party. Thus, that of Felix consisted of twelve, viz. four noble Lords and eight attendants, viz. a kind of general manager or courier, a barber and musician, an old soldier for a manservant, a bourgeois for manciple, a cook, an ex-trader who had been a galley slave and acted as interpreter, a “man of peace,” who was a schoolmaster by profession, and Felix himself, Priest of the Order of Preaching Friars. The articles of the contract were, in brief, these—the party were to be conveyed from Venice to Joppa and back again. They were to receive two full meals a day, with a cup of malvoisie every morning before breakfast; they were to be protected from ill-usage by the galley slaves; they were to be taken to see all the Holy places; and they were to pay forty ducats a head. The value of the ducat at this time I cannot pretend to estimate. There were gold ducats and silver ducats; ducats of Hungary, Austria, Hamburg and Italy.

On the weighing of the anchors, the Germans sang together the Pilgrims’ Hymn:—

It would be pleasant to know the words of the English Pilgrims’ Hymn on arrival within sight of Joppa, when they all sang together, led by two priests. There were many nations represented on board the ship, Italians, Lombards, Gauls, Franks, Germans, English, Irish, Scots, Hungarians, Dacians, Bohemians, Spaniards, and they joined together in the “Hymn of Ambrose and Augustine,” i.e. the Te Deum Laudamus.

As for the life on board, the inconveniences, the insects, the turbulent slaves, the sea-sickness, Felix spares us nothing. The earliest of our sea songs, belonging to nearly the same date, is an account of a pilgrimage to the Shrine of Saint Iago of Compostella. It is evidently the work of one who writes from experience. The ship is filled with pilgrims, and they are all sea-sick together:—

The itinerary of two pilgrimages made by one English traveller still remains, and has been published by the Roxburghe Club. His name was William Wey, Bachelor of Divinity, formerly fellow of the Royal College of the most Blessed Mary at Eton beside Windsor. He travelled twice to Jerusalem, in 1458 and in 1462, and once to St. James of Compostella in 1465. He was “consecratus ad modum peregrinorum,” set apart by the special service: he received the license of the King, so that he was not to lose his fellowship by unauthorised absence; he left Eton to join the Augustines of Hedington, or Edinton; he made his last pilgrimage in the seventieth year of his age; and he died in the monastery in the year 1476 aged eighty-six. Evidently a strong man. He bequeathed, or gave, to the Brethren of Hedington, a great collection of valuable relics and curiosities from the Holy Land.

Unfortunately he tells nothing of the start or the return, beginning his pilgrimage at Venice. Here there was a regular service of ships, where captains undertook to do the “round trip”—to Jerusalem and back—for so much.

When he went to St. James of Compostella, there was a pilgrim fleet of six ships which sailed from Plymouth, viz. from Portsmouth, Bristol, Weymouth, Lymington, Plymouth—called the Mary White, and others—was this the annual pilgrim fleet? or was it only one of many such fleets?

The itineraries of Wey illustrate the comparative ease with which people travelled at that time. It was a long way to Palestine, but not too long for a man of seventy to undertake. The traveller relates stories of purses cut and jewels stolen, but there is no sense of other dangers or of any terrors: the pilgrims were taken on board; they were carried to the port; they were landed; they were conducted under escort to their shrines; and they were brought home again. It is noticeable that Wey’s two companions on his first pilgrimage were priests like himself. In Chaucer’s time, as is well known, all who could afford the time and money went on pilgrimage. Thus the wife of Bath:—

One imagines that the long civil wars and the widespread Lollardy, which was only silenced, not killed, interfered with the practice of pilgrimage in the fifteenth century. On the other hand, Erasmus shows us that the pilgrims to English shrines, at least, were numerous in his time. The regular service of personally conducted pilgrimages to Venice and back proves that pilgrimage to the Holy Land was not diverted or interrupted, in spite of war raging all around.

At every shrine the pilgrim bought or was presented with a sign to show that he had been there. These signs were cast in pewter or in lead. A pilgrim who had been to many shrines came home with his cap or his coat covered with these emblems. Thus Chaucer says (ArchÆologia, xxxviii. p. 130):—

Afterwards

Erasmus makes Menedemus ask, “What kind of attire is this that thou wearest? Thou art bedizened with semicircular shells, each full of images of tin and lead, and adorned with straw chains, and thy arm is girt with a bracelet of beads.” The reply is that he has been to certain shrines on pilgrimage.

Besides the ordinary insignia of pilgrimage (see Skeat’s Notes to Piers Plowman), every pilgrimage had its special signs, which the pilgrim on his return wore conspicuously upon his hat or his scrip, or hanging round his neck, in token that he had accomplished that particular pilgrimage. Thus the ampullÆ were the special signs of the Canterbury pilgrimage; the scallop-shell was the sign of the pilgrimage to Compostella (shrine of St. James in Galicia); whilst the signs of the Roman pilgrimage were a badge with the effigies of St. Peter and St. Paul, the cross-keys (keys-of-Rome) and the vernicle. The vernicle was a copy of the handkerchief of St. Veronica, which was miraculously impressed with the features of our Lord.

The late Dr. Hugo communicated to the Society of Antiquaries a paper on this subject, accompanied by several specimens found on the banks of the Thames. Remember, in examining these, that the greater number of people went about the streets adorned with these emblems. (ArchÆologia, xxxviii.)

We might expect that, as was the custom with one of the duties required of the faithful, so it would happen with others. Thus, since the soul was saved by means of prayer and praise, it mattered little who sang or said those prayers, and a rich man could endow a priest in perpetuity to say prayers for his soul every day. In the same way, since a pilgrimage was in itself a most meritorious action, and equal to many masses, a man might pay others to go on a pilgrimage for him. This, in fact, was done. We find bequests of money for pilgrimages. One merchant of London bequeathed sixty gold scudi to be given to some one who would undertake, in the name of the testator, and for the good of the testator’s soul, to go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre and the sacred places of Jerusalem. Another left money with the object of getting credit for going to the convent of Mount Sinai: while many left smaller sums for pilgrimages to Santiago di Compostella and the Blessed Virgin of Walsingham. Were there, one asks, professional pilgrims? Did men painfully work through the exercises at shrine after shrine, all for the good of souls stranger to themselves? Was there no way by which they might divert the intention of the testator and reap for the benefit of their own souls these accumulations of merits and good deeds?

When we think of a London pilgrim, one of two pictures presents itself. We either see the companies assembling at the Tabard Inn bound for the shrine of St. Thomas of Canterbury, or we see the smaller and more serious party bound for the Holy Sepulchre and the sacred places of Jerusalem. All our views of the mediÆval life are curiously narrowed by the influence of Chaucer. So strong and fine is the light thrown upon the Canterbury Pilgrims and those to Palestine that we have forgotten the many other shrines to which the pilgrim fared in search of a blessing and the remission of his sins.

But besides the English shrines already mentioned, there were other local ones for the Londoner. There was the shrine of Our Lady of Crome’s Hill, Greenwich, or that of the Holy Rood of Bermondsey, or that of Our Lady of Willesden, or that of Our Lady of Muswell, or that of “Our Lady that standeth in the Oke.” The last-named place of pilgrimage was somewhere between Highgate and Islington. May its name be supposed to linger in the modern form of Gospel Oak? The whole country, in fact, was studded all over with shrines of local celebrity. Outside London, no one, for instance, knew or cared about Our Lady of Muswell: but to Londoners she was a very real saint, to whom multitudes paid pilgrimage. Of these minor shrines, concerning which Chaucer is silent, which Erasmus never visited, there are very few historical notices extant. When they were suppressed and the images themselves burned, there was no one left to care about the records and the papers connected with them, so they, too, were burned, or they were left to moulder in the muniment chest.

Or, if the Londoner wanted a pilgrimage with little personal exertion, which might be performed in a single day, he could choose between the shrine of Edward the Confessor at Westminster, a place of the greatest sanctity: that of St. Erkenwald in St. Paul’s, also regarded as most powerful and efficacious: there were two feasts of St. Erkenwald: on these days all the clergy of the diocese repaired to the shrine robed in their copes: special indulgences were granted to those who visited this shrine.

The three shrines north of London, now so completely forgotten, all lay in the heart of the great Middlesex Forest. Each of the miraculous images was probably a Lady of the Oak: there was Our Lady of the Oak all over Europe. The miraculous figure is always found in an oak, and is always, it is said, black. Thus, Our Lady of Puy in France, supposed to be the most ancient of these figures, is described as being carved out of cedar, swathed round and round with fine linen like a mummy, deep black, the face and features extremely long, the eyes small and formed of glass, the look haggard and wild (L. and M. ArchÆological Trans. iv. 178); and there is a Black Virgin at Marseilles.

These shrines were near enough for a single day’s journey: a pleasant summer’s ride through the gardens and orchards of Islington where the Forest began, and so over the greensward and under the branches of the wood to the clearing on the top of Muswell Hill, where now stands the Alexandra Palace, and then stood the chapel containing the black image swathed with linen, crowned, decked with gold and jewels, before which stood the altar and burned the lamp day and night. Every day through the summer came the penitents, the sick, the jovial pilgrims, who only wanted to put in a plea for indulgence. Outside the chapel there were taverns and merry-making places. First the pilgrim knelt at the shrine; sometimes he went round it on his knees; and prayed, with simple belief, if not with fervour; faith made the sick man whole; faith absolved the penitent; faith made the most careless happy in the belief that Our Lady of Muswell had knocked off many—he knew not how many—years of purgatory. The religious act finished, no one objected to pleasure and merriment. There are indications that the merriment was not always seemly, nor was the pleasure always sinless. Yet pilgrimage continued because the sick who had been healed spread abroad the story of their miraculous cures, and because everybody wanted to get out of purgatory as quickly as possible, and because it was a most delightful form of holiday and recreation.

The Lollards preached against pilgrimages continually; a fact charged against them by the Church time after time. Thus, when a Lollard named William Dynet had to abjure his Lollardy in the year 1395, he swore that thenceforth he would worship images and that he would never more despise pilgrimages. A hundred and forty years more the worship of images had to continue in the land. Piers Plowman speaks with contempt of the sham holiness of pilgrims in words already quoted:

Later on, one Father Donald, a Scotch Friar, said, preaching, “Ye men of London, gang on yourself with your wives to Willesden, or else keep them at home with you in sorrow.”

In the year 1509, when there occurred a fire in Willesden Church, which damaged the sacred image, one Elizabeth, wife of John Sampson, citizen, got into trouble for expressing a not unnatural doubt of the power of the image to help others when she could not help herself. “If Our Lady of Willesden might have holpen men and women which go to her of pilgrimage, she would not have suffered her own tayle (taille) to have been burnt.”

She had to abjure these sentiments publicly. But if the ordinary citizens’ wives commonly talked in this manner, the way was surely rapidly being prepared for the Reformation. In 1530—very shortly before the end—one Dr. Crown, being questioned as to heresy, said, “I will say again, do your duty and then your devotion ... when thou comest at the Day of Judgment, He will not say unto thee ‘why wentest thou not to Wilsdon a pilgrimage?’ He will say unto thee ‘I was an hungred and thou gavest me no meat: I was nakyd and thou gavest me no clothys’: and soche lyke.”

In September 1538 all the images—those of Walsingham, Ipswich, Worcester, the Lady of Willesden, the Lady of Muswell, the Lady “that standeth in the Oak,” and many others—were brought up to London and publicly burned at Chelsea. Then the Fair, which went on all through the summer, with noisy taverns, drunken men, disorderly women, music, dancing, singing, tumblers, and minstrels, at Willesden, Muswell, and other unknown places “in the Oake,” came to a sudden end. Silence set in, and Willesden Church became the church of a little secluded village in the midst of the Forest; the road to Muswell through the woods became overgrown and forgotten, and nobody in the next generation knew where stood the oak with its sacred image, which had attracted so many thousands every year.

Besides these shrines of London, with their miraculous Virgins, there were the Holy and wonder-working Roods, of which the most important seems to have been that of Bermondsey Abbey. There were, also, objects of pilgrimage, of votive offering, and of prayer, the Holy Wells of which some 500 have been enumerated in England, and round London no fewer than sixteen. The origin of Holy Wells is a subject that belongs to archÆology and scholarship; nor indeed is this the place for an examination into the subject. Streams, rivers, fountains, springs, have all been accounted holy, and possessed each its nymph or its god, who demanded sacrifice. Wells were dressed with flowers: they were used for divination; long before Christianity newly-born children were passed through water; coins have been found by the hundred in wells where they were thrown in order to read an oracle from the troubling of the waters; there were superstitions about the springs; there were superstitions about water drawn on certain nights; there were wishing wells; there were wakes of the well; it was in some places held necessary that converts should be baptized in clear running water. Wells cured different diseases: one was good for the eye, and one for the ear. Wells sprung up miraculously to mark the site of a martyrdom, and so on.

The holy wells of London were as follows:—

1. Clerkenwell. This well, where the parish clerks held their plays, was situated at the edge of Clerkenwell Green and on the south-east corner of Ray Street. The Green stretched north-west of St. John’s Priory Church.

2. St. Chad’s Well. The site of this well, which had medicinal qualities, was just south of the present King’s Cross Station on the Metropolitan Line.

3. St. Clement’s Well was north of St. Clement’s Church, close to Clement’s Inn.

4. Islington. Here was a very holy spring, greatly believed in for its restorative qualities. It was on the site of Sadler’s Wells Theatre.

5. Hampstead. The Holy Well of Hampstead was that called afterwards the Shepherd’s Well, which is now represented by a drinking fountain in Fitzjohn’s Avenue.

6. Muswell Hill. Besides the wonder-working Virgin of Muswell Hill, there was the Well of St. Lazarus. The name implies that it was used by lepers. Robert Bruce tried to cure his leprosy by bathing in its waters.

7. Kensington Gardens. Here was the Well of St. Gover, where, until a few years ago, an attendant still dispensed the waters of the well.

8. St. Pancras Well was on the north side of St. Pancras Church.

9. At Tottenham there were two wells—that of St. Loy or St. Eloy, and that called the Bishops’ Well.

10. Skinner’s Well was not far from Clerks’ Well, which is all the information one has about it. The same may be said of Todwell, Faggeswell, Loders Well, and Radwell, all now filled up and forgotten. The site of the Holy Well was preserved until recently in the street of that name.

11. At Shoreditch there was the Well of St. John; not far from Shoreditch in Old Street, north of Tabernacle Square, was the spring of St. Agnes le Clair, called also Dame Annice, the Clear and Anniseed Clere.

CHAPTER VI
ORDEAL

Trial by ordeal was always possible in London, yet, in later years, rarely practised. The reason of its rarity was, no doubt, the fact that the accused person was in most cases the guilty person. In an age when the judgment of God could be solemnly invoked, when there was absolute belief in the punishments and tortures reserved for the guilty, a man would, as a general rule, hesitate before loading his soul, heavy with the actual crime, with perjuries and the blasphemy of calling upon an offended God to prove his innocence; to invite, that is, the Father of Justice himself to deliver a false judgment. It was this clear and unquestioning faith which made the trial by ordeal possible for the innocent man to claim, and generally impossible for the guilty.

There were many kinds of ordeal.

The first was the ordeal called the corsned, i.e. the eating of a small cake of consecrated barley bread. The accused called upon the Lord God to choke him with it if he were guilty. It was believed that in this case his throat would become contracted and his jaws fixed. It was so that Earl Godwin was said to have been adjudged guilty and choked by the Hand of Justice which he had invoked.

The second method, long practised in the case of witches, was the ordeal of cold water. The accused was stripped, his hands were tied crosswise to his feet; he was sprinkled with holy water; he was permitted to kiss the cross; a rope was tied around his waist, and at the distance of two ells from his body a knot was tied; he was then thrown into deep water; if he sank as deep as the knot he was innocent; if not, he was guilty. The administration of the ordeal was not conducted in the bare and simple method indicated above: it was placed in the hands of priests; mass was said before it; there were appropriate psalms and prayers; the accused confessed his sins to the priest; before the whole congregation he called upon God to prove his innocence; he swore upon the holy relics of the church that he was innocent. The function was one of great solemnity, and calculated to impress the minds of the people most deeply.

The ordeal by hot water was, it will be seen, as a mere ceremony, most remarkable. One case will stand for many.

Four men, all belonging to the Ward of Chepe, were accused of robbery and murder; the dead body of the murdered man had been found lying near the Standard in Chepe stripped, and showing gaping wounds; the four men were known to be “roreres,” that is, night wanderers and brawlers; the evidence against them, chiefly circumstantial, warranted their arrest; they claimed to prove their innocence by the ordeal of boiling water.

On the appointed day they were brought out from Newgate and conducted to St. Sepulchre’s Church, where they first confessed and then attended mass, being placed in the body of the church before the altar screen. After mass a short special service was sung for them; they then, one after the other, swore upon the relics that they were innocent; they demanded, singly and one after the other, the proof by ordeal; they solemnly implored the Lord to make manifest their innocence if they were innocent, or to prove their guilt if they were guilty. This done, a procession was formed. The whifflers marched first, followed by the clergy and the singing boys. Then came the prisoners guarded by the sergeant.

They were led out to Smithfield followed by a great crowd; the ordeal was not a function that could be witnessed every day; the Londoners have always turned out in force to witness an execution, or a flogging, or pillory, or any act of justice. On Smithfield, at the east of the Elms, that is, nearly in front of Bartholomew’s Hospital, a fire of wood was burning in an open grate; upon this stood a caldron full of water; the smoke of the fire rolled up round the caldron and was blown hither and thither; with it ascended, or was blown about, the steam of the boiling water; the flames crackled and licked the black sides of the caldron, the water bubbled and overflowed and hissed. Behind the caldron was a gibbet, with ropes for four. It was afterwards observed that of the four men one preserved a cheerful and confident air, the other three were haggard and wan; their limbs dragged as they went.

Arrived at the spot the Sheriff, who was present with the Alderman of Chepe, informed the prisoners—which they knew already—that at the bottom of the caldron lay a round white stone; they would each have to dip an arm into the boiling water and bring out that stone without scalding themselves.

The first to essay the adventure was the prisoner of the cheerful and the confident countenance; the guards took off his doublet; they rolled a thin piece of linen round his arm and sealed it with lead. They then bade him advance. He stepped forward; he stood beside the caldron, his arm raised; the Priest and singing men began a Psalm.

The smoke and the steam blew this way and that way; the man could not be seen sometimes for the fumes; when the wind blew aside, the people saw him still, hand upraised, watching the boiling water. Suddenly the smoke and the steam were blown aside; he plunged his arm; the smoke was blown back again; but he stood before the officers, the white stone in his hand.

The crowd shouted. The Lord had proved his innocence.

He was set aside; he would be taken back to Newgate; three days afterwards, the covering would be taken from his arm, and if there were no signs of scalding he would be set free.

The next man stepped forward.

He plunged his hand at once; he groped about for the stone; he drew out his hand; he plunged again; he drew it out with a yell of agony. No need to look at the arm searchingly, it was horribly scalded. They hanged him up at once.

The third man was brought forward.

He looked at his companion hanging; he looked at the caldron and the fire. He fell on his knees confessing the crime.

So, likewise, did the fourth man.

So, out of four ropes, three were wanted; and for four of them who were accused, the Lord Himself had pronounced the guilt of three and established the innocence of one.

The fourth method was the ordeal by fire, in which the accused had to lift a red-hot bar of iron without burning his hands, or to walk barefoot over red-hot iron; or to put his hand into a red-hot iron glove; or to pass through a blazing fire with his clothes untouched. In the case of the bar of red-hot iron, the trial took place in the church, and as soon as mass was begun the bar was placed in the coals; at the last collect it was taken off. A stand of some kind was placed near the fire, then a space of nine times the length of the prisoner’s foot was measured off; this made a distance of about seven or eight feet. This space was divided by lines into three. The prisoner had to lift up the bar and to carry it by three steps across the space. His hand was then bound up, and after three days it was examined. If it showed signs of burning he was hanged.

These kinds of ordeal naturally fell into disuse as soon as people began to suspect that there was “management” by the priests; their suspicions began certainly as early as the time of William Rufus, and perhaps earlier. The Normans, indeed, scoffed at all the old ordeals. On one occasion, when twenty prisoners had successfully passed the ordeal by fire, William Rufus laughed at the whole business and ordered them all to be tried. But the ordeal by battle stood on a different footing. In this ordeal there could be no deception and no bribing; the priest had nothing to do with it; the two parties had to fight it out to the death; it was conducted in grim and solemn earnest; it was an appeal and a heartfelt prayer to the Lord of Justice. He was called upon to show the world which was the guilty party. And just as in the ordeal by water, the consciousness of innocence gave a man assurance, and thereby enabled him to undertake the fearful task without confusion or haste, so in the Ordeal by Battle, the consciousness of innocence sent a man into the field doubly armed.

The mediÆval view of the Ordeal by Battle is set forth seriously and solemnly by Dante (De Monarchia, book ii. chap. x.)19:—

“Moreover, what is acquired by ordeal is acquired by Right. For wheresoever human judgment is at fault, either because it is involved in the darkness of ignorance or because there is not a presiding judge, then, lest justice should be left deserted, we must have recourse to Him, who so loved her as Himself to meet her demands with His own blood in death. Hence the psalm, ‘Just is the Lord, and deeds of justice hath he loved.’ Now this is what takes place when by the free assent of either side, not in hatred but in love of justice the divine judgment is sought through means of the mutual clash of strength, alike of mind and body. Which clash, since it was first tried in the single contact of man and man, we call the ordeal.

But we must ever take heed that like as, when it is a question of war, all means should first be tried in the way of award, and only in the last resort should the way of battle be tried (as Tully and Vegetius agree in saying, the one in Re militari, the other in the De Officiis), and like as in medical treatment, everything else should be tried before steel and fire, and they only in the last resort; so when every other way of finding judgment in a dispute has been exhausted, we are to recur in the last resort to this remedy, forced by a kind of compulsion of justice.

There are then two formal characteristics of the ordeal: one is that which has just now been spoken of; the other the one which was touched upon above, to wit, that the contenders or champions should enter the palÆstra, not in hate or love, but in sole zeal for justice, with common consent. And therefore Tully said well in dealing with this matter, but wars, the aim of which is the crown of Empire, should be waged less bitterly.

But if the formal characteristics of the ordeal are preserved (else were it no ordeal) are not they who have gathered together by common consent, under compulsion of justice and in zeal for her, gathered together in the name of God? And if so, is not God in their midst, since He himself promises as much in the Evangel? And if God is present, is it not impious to think that justice may succumb?—justice whom He so loves as is forenoted above! And if justice cannot succumb in the ordeal is not that which is acquired by ordeal acquired by Right?”

A Function, or an Act of Worship, undertaken and carried out in this spirit, cannot be regarded otherwise than most seriously. Let us turn to the actual manner in which the Ordeal by Battle was conducted.

The accused began by denying the whole accusation word by word. He then offered to prove his innocence by his body. If the Judge accepted the offer and decided that the duel should take place, he made the parties exchange gloves. They then had to find pledges that they would appear on the day of battle. Fines were paid to the King for permission to fight, for recreancy on failure to appear, for refusing to fight, for not holding the ordeal properly, or as a bribe to allow a fight.

For the following rules in the preparation of the ground, I am indebted to the learned pen of my friend Prof. Skeat, whose Notes to his Chaucer and his Piers Plowman are a treasure-house of learning:—

“The King shall find the field to fight in, and the lists shall be made and devised by the constable; and it is to be observed, that the list must be 60 paces long and 40 paces broad, set up in good order, and the ground within hard, stable, and level, without any great stones or other impediments; also, that the lists must be made with one door to the east, and another to the west; and strongly barred about with good bars 7 feet high or more, so that a horse may not be able to leap over them.”

It appears that there were an immense number of ordeals by battle; indeed, in such an age, when every man was a soldier, one can very well understand that this method would seem to an innocent man far superior to any form of trial. In one year of Henry the Second’s reign, there were thirty-four ordeals. Not only to an innocent man, but to the guilty the ordeal by battle commended itself; many a sturdy rogue, having little fear of God’s vengeance before his eyes, preferred the chance of battle to the certainty of the gallows; so much was this the case that criminals were sometimes pardoned on condition of fighting so many battles successfully and ridding the country of so many malefactors. The ordeal by battle brought into existence, as might have been expected, a kind of gladiator, the champion or hired fighter, who risked his neck with every fight.

These are the rules for the arming of a knight (Arch. Journal, iv.):—

“How a man shalle be armyd at his ese, when he schal fighte on foote. He schal have noo schurte up-on him, but a dowbelet of Fustean lynyd with satene, cutte fulle of hoolis; the dowbelet must be strongeli bounden there the poyntis muste be sette aboute the greet of the arme, and the beste before and behynde: and the gussetis of mayle muste be sowid unto the dowbelet in the bought of the arme, and undir the arme: the armynge poyntis muste be made of fyne twyne, suche as men make stryngis for crossebowes, and they muste be trussid smalle, and poyntid as poyntis. Also they muste be waxid with cordeweneris coode and than they wolle neythir recche nor breke. Also a payre hosyne of stamyn sengille, and a peyre of shorte bulwerkis of thynne blanket to put aboute his kneys, for chawfynge of his lighernes. Also a payre of shone of thikke cordewene, and they muste be frette with smal whipcorde; thre knottis up-on a corde; and thre coordis muste be faste sowid un-to the hele of the shoo, and fyve cordis in the myddille of the soole of the same shoo: and that ther be betwene the frettis of the heele and the frettis of the myddille of the shoo the space of thre fyngris.

Two arme a man: Firste, ye muste sette on Sabatones and tye hem upon the shoo with smale poyntis that wol breke. And then griffus, and then quisses, and then the breche of mayle. And then touletis. And then brest. And then vambras. And then rerebras. And then glovys. And then hange his daggere upon his right side. And then his shorte swerde upon the lyfte side in a rounde rynge, alle nakid, to pulle it oute lightli. And then putte his cote upon his bak. And then his basinet pynnid upon two greet staplis before the breste with a dowbille bokille behynde upon the bak, for to make the basinet sitte juste. And then his longe swerde in his hande. And then his pensille in his hande, peyntid of seynt George, or of oure lady, to blesse him with as he gooth towarde the felde, and in the felde.

The day that the Pelaunt and the defendant shalle fighte what they shal have with hem into the felde.

A tente muste be pight in the felde
Also a cheyre
Also a basyne
Also vj loves of bread
Also ij galones of wyne
Also a messe of mete, flesshe or fisshe
Also a borde and a peyre trestelis, to sette his mete and drynke on
Also a borde clothe
Also a knyf for to kutte his mete
Also a cuppe to drynke of
Also a glass with a drynke made
Also a dosen tresses of armynge poyntis
Also a hamyr and pynsones, and a bicorne
Also smale nayles a dosene
Also a long swerde, shorte swerde, and daggar
Also a kerchief to hele the viser of his basinet
Also a penselle to bere in his hande of his avowryre.

In the case of knights, we see that the weapons were those in customary use, and the duel was a fight with spears and with sword; in the case of the common sort, it was a very different thing. The gallows stood in readiness for the vanquished man; the weapons were staves armed at the end with iron shaped like a ram’s horn. There was a strict rule about the dress of the combatants, which was to be of white wool; they were bare-headed and bare-footed; their heads were shaved to avoid giving a chance for either to catch the other by the hair. In a certain duel on record the combatants first broke their staves and then fought with fists and claws and feet and teeth, especially with their teeth; they tore each other’s garments and the flesh beneath, until at last one got the other down and gouged out both eyes with his thumbs. After this there was nothing to be done but to surrender and to be carried to the gallows there to be hanged.

In the year 1350, just after the visitation of the Black Death, occurred the famous Ordeal by Battle between John de Viscomte and Thomas de la Marche. The quarrel arose in the East, where both these knights were engaged in the war then going on between the Armenians, the Cypriotes, and the Rhodians on one side, and the Saracens on the other. John de Viscomte was a cousin of the King of Cyprus and Thomas de la Marche was a natural son of Philippe de Valois, King of France. Charges were brought by the former that the said Thomas had been guilty of perjury, treason, and forgery. The particulars of the accusation do not concern us. Thomas denied the whole and challenged the accuser to single combat. It is not exactly clear why the battle was not fought out in Cyprus or in Rhodes; probably both parties desired to make as much as possible of the quarrel and of the battle; probably the case was felt to be one which interested the whole of Christendom; however that may be, it was agreed to refer the matter to the King of England as the most worthy and honourable Prince in all Christendom. The knights, therefore, arrived in England at the beginning of September 1350 with letters from the Kings of Armenia and Cyprus containing a statement of the case, and inviting the King to allow the Ordeal by Battle to take place in his presence.

The day was fixed for the 4th of October; the battle to be fought out in the Lists in his Palace of Westminster. The combatants appeared on the day appointed, fully armed and on horseback. The King, the Prince of Wales, and a great concourse of people were present. The oaths were administered and the battle began. Sir John, leaping from his horse, determined to fight on foot; in which he was followed by his adversary. Stow says that they began by running “at the tilte.” The following is Stow’s account of the fight, with the tragical conclusion:—

“For this therefore were these two worthy souldiers appointed to fight, which they performed within the listes of the King’s pallace at Westminster, on Mondaye nexte following after the feaste of Saint Michael, where Thomas, in declaration of hys innocencie, in that he was accused of, overcame his enemie, but yet killed him not, for he could not, because he was not able to wounde hym beyng so armed, with anye kynde of piercing weapon, except it were in hys face whiche was bare. For after that they hadde runne at the Tilte, and foughte on foote, as they were striving together on the grounde, wyth certaine prickes bothe shorte and sharpe, then called Gadlings, being closed in the joints of his right gauntlet, the sayde Thomas struck the sayde John in the face, and sore wounded hym: but on the other side John hadde no suche kinde of weapon, wherewyth hee myght hurte Thomas face, and therefore cryed out aloude moste horribly, wherupon by the King’s commaundemente the combatte was ended, and the victory adiudged to Thomas, who gave the sayde John being thus overcome, to the Prince of Wales for a Captive, and offered up his owne armoure to Sainte George in Sainte Paules Churche at London, wyth great devotion. These matters beyng thus finished, the Cipres man is manumitted and sette at libertie as a free man againe. And Thomas thinking boldly to goe into the presence of his brother the Frenche King, toke hys journey thyther, and at his coming, founde the sayde King and the nobilitie of Fraunce greatlye offended, and in indignation against him, for that he agreed that the combat shoulde be tried before the King of England. Wherefore Thomas thinking secretly with him selfe howe to winne the false friendship of his brother, became desirous to shewe that therein he hadde done well among all other things he greatelye praysed the nobilitie of Edwarde and his worthy fame spredde over all the worlde, and also the justice whiche he used in judging, not accepting the person of the manne of Cipres (yea thoughe he loved the Kyng himselfe verye well), neyther suffered him to be preferred before me, which am a French manne, and brother, and friende to thee my Lorde Kyng of Fraunce, judge over the sayde King Edwarde my adversarie. Also the Earle of Ewe highly praysed the King of England, for that he hadde receyved greate comforte and commoditye at hys handes during the tyme of hys Captivitie in Englande, shewing also howe farre that good Kyng hadde banished envie and hatred from hys hearte, who at a time of justyng beyng in the fielde at that exercise, and the Kyng also, was commaunded by the Kyng himselfe to beare awaye the price and pricke from them all. These commendations did the French Kyng envie at, and for indignation, he most wickedlye commaunded the setters forth of those prayses to be beheaded. And for to colour the matter the better he fayned that the Earle used too much familiaritie with the Queene his wife, and that his brother was guiltie of treason against the King of Fraunce, bycause he committed his cause and the combat to be tryed by the judgement of the King of England. After he had thus murdered his brother, he tormented his wife to death by famine, who was daughter of the noble King of Boheme, lately slaine in battayle by Geffery.”

On the 7th of June 1380 another Ordeal by Battle was held. It is a very singular story, and reads as if the guilty man were prevented from making a good fight by the knowledge of his guilt. Fabyan and Stow both refer to the incident, but only briefly; Holinshed is the authority for the fuller details. The accuser, Sir John Annesley, charged Thomas Catrington, Esquire—Fabyan calls him Carton—with having betrayed and sold to the French the castle of St. Sauveur in Normandy, of which he was Governor. He brought the charge before the Court of the Constable of England sitting at Westminster, concluding by throwing down his gauntlet and offering to justify the words in open duel. Catrington denied the charge and accepted the duel.

In the year 1384 another Ordeal of Battle took place in the Palace Lists, which, like the last, resulted in the death of the unjust. The case was this:—One Mortileto de Vilenos, a gentleman of Navarre, brought a charge of treason against John Welsh, an English gentleman, stating that the treason had been committed while Welsh was Governor of Cherbourg. They fought it out on St. Andrew’s Day, the result being the overthrow of Mortileto, who then confessed that his charge was without foundation, but that it was invented in revenge for the seduction of his wife by Welsh. He was therefore by the King’s command hanged immediately, though the Queen, Stow says, made earnest intercession to have his life saved.

Madox (Exchequer, i. 550) furnishes an account of an Ordeal by Battle with an illustration of the manner of combat:—

“Now we are speaking of Duels, I will lay before the Reader a pretty remarkable Case of a Duel that was fought in the Reign of K. Henry III. between Walter Bloweberme, an Approver, and Hamon le Stere; together with a Draught or figure of the Duel, as it was drawn at that time. The Case was this. Walter Bloweberme appealed Hamon le Stere of Robbery: alleging that they were together at Winchester, and there stole Cloaths and other Goods; whereof Hamon had, for his Share, two Coats, to wit, one of Irish Cloth, and the other a Party-coat or Cloth of Abendon and Burell of London: and that he (the said Walter) was in Fellowship with the said Hamon in the said Robbery, he offereth to prove by his Body, as the Court shall award. Hamon came and denyed the whole. And saith that he will defend himself by his Body. Whereupon it was awarded, that there should be a Duel between them. A Duel was struck. And Hamon being vanquished in the Combat, was adjudged to be hanged. It was found that Hamon had no Chattels to forfeit to the King.”

The account of a dispute about a manor in the Isle of Harty, which was to have been fought out in Tothill Fields, Westminster, but ended very tamely, is given at length in London in the Time of the Tudors, p. 391.

In the Collections of a London Citizen there are two Ordeals by Battle, one at least, very grim and horrible:

“And in that same yere (1445) there was an armyrer and hys owne man fought whythe yn the lystys in Smethefylde the last day of Januer, ande there the mayster was slayne and dyspoylyde owte of hys harnys, and lay stylle in the fylde alle that day and that nyght next folowynge. And thenne aftyrward by the kyngys commaundement, he was drawyn, hanggyde, and beheddyde, and hys hedde sette on London Brygge, and the body hynggyng a-bove erthe be-syde the towre....

Also that yere (1455) a thyffe, one Thomas Whytehorne, was take in the Neweforeste be-syde Beuley and put yn preson at Wynchester. And when the day of delyverans com he appelyd many trewe men, and by that mene he kepte hys lyffe in preson. And thoo men that he appelyd were take and put yn stronge preson and sufferde many grete paynys, and was that they sholde confesse and a-corde unto hys fals pelyng: and sum were hongyd that hadde noo frende shyppe and goode, and thoo that hadde goods gate hyr charters of pardon. And that fals and untrewe peler hadde of the kynge every day j d. ob. And thys he contynuyd al moste iij yere, and dystryde many men that were sum tym in hys company. And at the laste he appelyd on that outerly sayde that he was fals in hys appelynge, and sayde that he wolde preve hyt with hys hondys, and spende hys lyfe and blode a-pone hys fals body. And thys mater was fulle dyscretely take and hyrde or bothe pelerrys parte, and of the defendente ys parte also. And a notabylle man, and the moste petefullyste juge of al thys londe in syttyng a-pon lyffe and dethe, toke thys sympylle man that offeryd to fyght with the peler, ande fulle curtesly informyd hym of alle the condyscyons of the fyghtyng and duelle of repreffe that shulde be by-twyne a peler of the kyngys, fals or trewe, in that one party, and by-twyne the defendent, trewe or false, in that othyr party. For in cas that the peler prevaylyd in that fyght he shulde he put in preson ayen, but he shulde fare more better than he dyd be fore tyme of fyghtynge, and be i-lowe of the kyng ij d. every day as longe as hit plesyd the kyng that he shulde lyf. For in prosses the kynge may by the lawe put hym to dethe, as for a man sleer, bycause that hys pelyng, fals or trewe, hathe causyd many mannys dethys, for a very trewe man schulde with yn xxiiij howrys make opyn to be knowe alle suche fals hyd thyngys of felony or treson, yf he be nott consentynge unto the same felowschyppe, undyr payne of dethe; and thys peler ys in the same cas, wherefore he moste nedys dy by very reson. Thys ys for the pelers party.

The defendaunte ys party ys, as that nobylle man, Mayster Myhelle Skyllyng, sayde ande informyde the defender, that he and the peler moste be clothyd alle in whyte schepys leter, bothe body, hedde, leggys, fete, face, handys, and alle. Ande that they schulde have in hyr hondys ij stavys of grene hasche, the barke beyng a-pon, of iij fote in lenghthe, and at the ende a bat of the same govyn owte as longe as the more gevythe any gretenys. And in that othye ende a horne of yryn, i-made lyke unto a rammys horne, as scharpe at the smalle ende as hit myght be made. And there whype they schulde make hyr foule batayle a-pone the moste sory and wrecchyd grene that myght be founde a-bowte the towne, havyng nothyr mete ne drykne whythe, bot both moste be fastynge. And yf hyr frowarde wepyn ben i-broke they moste fyght with hyr hondys, fystys, naylys, tethe, fete, and leggys; hyt ys to schamfulle to reherse alle the condyscyons of thys foule conflycte. And yf the defendent sle that pelers, fals or trewe, the defendent shalle be hangyde by-cause of man sleynge, by soo moche that he hathe i-slayne the kyngys prover, for by hys meny the kynge hadde mony of suche as were appelyd, and that mony that rosse of hyr stuffe or goodys that they hadde was put to the kynge almys, and hys amener dystrybutyd hit unto the pore pepylle. But the kyng may by hys grace pardon the defendent yf he wylle, ys the defendent be welle namyd and of competent governaunce in the toune or citte there at hys abydyng ys; but thys fulle seldon sene by-cause of the vyle and unmanerly fyghtynge. And by reson they shulde not ben beryd in noo holy sepulture of Crystyn mannys beryng, but caste owte as a man that wylfully sleythe hym selfe. Nowe remembyr thys foule batayle, whethey ye wylle doo hyt or noo. And bothe partys consentyde to fyght, with alle the condyscyons that long there too. And the fendent desyryd that the juge wolde sende unto Mylbroke there that he dwellyde, to inquere of hys gydynge and of conversacyon. And alle the men in that toune sayde that he was the trewyste laborer in alle that contre, and the moste gentellyste there with, for he was a fyscher and tayler of crafte. And the peler desyryd the same, but he was not a-bydynge in no place passynge a monythe. And in every place there as inquesyscyon was made men sayde, ‘Hange uppe Thome Whythorne, for he ys to stronge to fyght with Jamys Fyscher the trewe man whythe an yryn rammys horne.’ And thys causyd the juge to have pytte a-pon the defendent,

The maner of fyughtynge of thes ij poore

wrecchys by-syde Wynchester.

The peler in hys a-rayment ande parelle whythe hys wepyn come owte of the Este syde, and the defendent owte of the Sowthe-Weste syde in hys aparayle, with hys wepyn, fulle sore wepynge, and a payre of bedys in hys hond; and he knelyd down a-pone the erthe towarde the Este and cryde God marcy and alle the worlde, and prayde every man of forgevenys, and every man there beyng present prayde for hym. And the fals peler callyde and sayd ‘thou fals trayter! why arte thou soo longe in fals bytter be-leve?’ And thenne the defendent rosse upe and hym and sayde, ‘My quarelle ys as faythefulle and alle soo trewe as my by-lyve, and in that quarelle I wylle fyght,’ and with the same worde smote at the peler that hys wepyn breke; and thenne the peler smote a stroke to the defendent, but the offycers were redy that he shulde smyte no more, and they toke a-way hys wepyn fro hym. And thenn they fought to gederys with hyr fystys long tyme and restyd hem, ande fought agayne, and thenn restyd agayne; and thenn they wente togedyr by the neckys. And then they bothe with hyr tethe, that the lethyr of clothyng and flesche was alle to rente in many placys of hyr bodys. And thenn the fals peler caste that meke innocent downe to the grownde and bote hym by the membrys, that the sely innocent dryde owt. And by happe more thenne strengythe that innocent recoveryd up on hys kneys and toke that fals peler by the nose with hys tethe and put hys thombe in hys yee, that the peler cryde owte and prayde hym of marcy, for he was fals unto God and unto hym. And thenn the juge commaundyd hem to cesse and hyr bothe hyr talys; and the peler sayde that he hadde accusyd hym wrongefully and xviij men, and be-sought God of marcy and of forgevenys. And thenn he was confessyd ande hanggyd, of whos soule God have marcy. Amen.

As for the defendent was pardonyd of hys lyfe, leme, and goodys, and went home; and he become an hermyts and with schorte tyme dyed.”

CHAPTER VII
SANCTUARY

It is strange that an institution which played a large part in the social scheme of the Middle Ages should have fallen so completely into decay as to be absolutely forgotten by the people, so that there is not even a legend or a tradition of it left. The memory of Sanctuary is as clean lost and forgotten as that of Frank Pledge. Yet, three hundred years ago, the constant thought of debtor or malefactor was, that, if the worst came to the worst, he could fly to St. Martin’s or to Westminster and so escape the clink of Ludgate, or the gaol of Newgate. Even the murderer always had it in mind when justice was in pursuit of him, that there was the refuge of Sanctuary, if only he might win there, where he could be received, and could abide in safety.

Like every other ecclesiastical foundation, the right of Sanctuary was originally a beneficent and wise institution, designed by the Church for the protection of the weak, and the prevention of revenge, wild justice, violence and oppression. If a man, in those days of swift wrath and ready hand, should kill another in the madness of a moment; if by accident he should wound or maim another; if by the breaking of any law he should incur the penalties of justice; if by any action he should incur the hostility of a stronger man; if by some of the many changes and chances of fortune he should lose his worldly goods and fall into debt or bankruptcy, and so become liable to imprisonment; if he had cause to dread the displeasure of king, baron, or bishop, in all these cases the right of Sanctuary was open to him. Once on the frith-stool, once clinging to the horns of the altar, he was as safe as an Israelite within the walls of a City of Refuge: the mighty hand of the Church was over him; his enemies could not touch him on pain of excommunication.

In theory every church was a sanctuary; but it was easy to blockade a church so that the refugee could be starved into submission. If a felon took refuge in a church, it was the duty of the neighbours to watch him, until he had either surrendered, or, in presence of the proper officer, had abjured the realm. If he was allowed to escape, the parish or the Ward was fined a hundred shillings, to be paid to the King. The only real safety for a fugitive from justice or revenge was in those abbeys and places which possessed special charters and immunities. Foremost among these were the Sanctuaries of Westminster and St. Martin’s-le-Grand. Outside London, the principal sanctuaries appear to have been Beverley, Hexham, Durham, and Beaulieu. But every abbey, like every church, possessed its sanctuary as a part of its privileges. That of Westminster was, if not founded, defined and regulated by Edward the Confessor; that of St. Martin’s, the existence of which was always a scandal and an offence to the City of London, was regulated by half a dozen charters of as many kings. Its refugees were principally bankrupts, debtors, and common thieves; these as offenders against property were especially hated by a trading community.

The privilege of sanctuary was beautiful in theory. “Come to me,” said the Church, “I will keep thee in safety from the hand of violence and the arm of the law; I will give thee lodging and food; my doors shall be always open to thee, day and night; I will lead thee to repentance. Come, and in safety sit down and meditate on the sins which brought thee hither.”

The invitation was extended to all, but with certain reservations. Nor was it merely a formal invitation; sanctuary was actually sought by multitudes, but traitors, Jews, infidels, and those who had committed sacrilege, were not received. In Durham Cathedral two men slept every night in the Galilee Chapel to admit any fugitive who might ring the bell or lift the knocker. Nay, sanctuary was actually converted into a city of refuge by the setting apart of a measured space, the whole of which was to be considered sanctuary. At Hexham, where four roads met in the middle of the town, a cross was set up on every one of the roads to show where sanctuary began. At Ripon and at Beverley a circle with a radius of a mile was the limit of sanctuary. At St. Martin’s-le-Grand the precinct was accurately laid down, and jealously defended. It included many streets, and the area is now almost entirely covered by the buildings of the General Post Office. At Westminster the whole precinct of the Abbey, church, monastery buildings, close, cloisters, and gardens were sacred ground.

In ArchÆologia (xvii. p. 198) is given the oath of sanctuary. I extract the whole passage:—

“Among the Harleian Manuscripts in the British Museum is a thin folio volume written upon vellum marked No. 4292, and containing the Register of Persons who sought sanctuary for different crimes at St. John of Beverley in Yorkshire, in the reigns of King Edward the Fourth, King Henry the Seventh, and King Henry the Eighth. The bookbinder, by whom it appears to have been rebound of later years, seems to have mixed some of the leaves, or, at least, to have put the entries of King Edward the Fourth’s time after some of those of King Henry the Seventh’s.

The greater part of the manuscript is of course confined to a list of names and crimes; but on the reverse of folio 17 is a copy of the oath taken by those who sought the peace of the place. I do not remember to have met with a sanctuary oath elsewhere. The bailiff of the town, by whom the oath was administered, is directed to inquire of the refugee ‘what man he killed, and wher with, and both ther names: and than gar hym lay his hand uppon the book, sayng on this wyse.

Catharine W.B. Ward.

THE MARTYRDOM OF ST. THOMAS
From a Copy, preserved in Canterbury Cathedral, of the almost obliterated Painting at the head of the Tomb of Henry IV.

Sir tak hede on your oth. Ye shal be trew and feythful to my lord archbishop of York, lord off this towne, to the provest of thessame, to the chanons of this chirch, and all othir ministers’ thereof.

Also ye shall bere gude hert to the baillie and xii. governars of this town, to all burges’ and comyners of thessame.

Also ye shall bere no poynted wapen, dagger, knyfe, ne none other wapen ayenst the kyngs pece.

Also ye shal be redy at all your power if ther be any debate or stryf or other sothan case of fyre within the town to help to s’cess it.

Also ye shal be redy at the obite of Kyng Adelstan at the Dirige and the Messe at such tyme as it is done at the warnyng of the belman of the town, and do your dewte in ryngyng, and for to offer at the messe on the morne, so help you god and thies holy Evangelists.

And then gar hym kysse the Book.’”

The history of St. Martin’s-le-Grand is the history of a stalwart resistance and defence of the rights of sanctuary against the attacks of the citizens and others. For in a lawless age no rights, no privileges, no laws are obeyed. In Wat Tyler’s rebellion his followers paid no respect to sanctuary; they dragged from the very altars the tax-collectors who had hurried thither to be out of danger. Twenty years later the City itself protested against the abuses caused by the immunities of the sanctuary. But as yet the place was too strongly fortified by charters and papal bulls for any change to be effected. The King, on the other hand, took the line that it was by the negligence of the City magistrates that so many crimes were committed, and that so many claimants of sanctuary existed.

There is a story of sanctuary at St. Paul’s told by Riley (Mem. p. 24). It was in the 17th year of King Edward the First, and on the Day of St. George, that one Walter Bacon, a chaplain, or Parish Priest, took sanctuary in the Cathedral. Thither came, in consequence, the King’s Coroner, William le Mazeliner, the warden of the City (it was during the suspension of the Mayor’s office), John le Breton, Sir Baroncin, John de Banquelle, and other trustworthy persons. Then the Coroner, in the presence of the assembled company, demanded of the man for what reason he had taken sanctuary. Whereupon the man replied that it was because he had stolen sixteen silver dishes belonging to Sir Baroncin. The dishes being restored, the Sheriff was instructed to take charge of them in a sealed packet; and two days after the packet was opened by the Sheriff in presence of the Coroner, and the dishes were given back to the said Baroncin. What became of the chaplain is not stated.

Many examples have been preserved of those who sought safety within those walls. There is the case of one Henry who stole a signet ring, a pyx for consecrated wafers; had it ever been used he would have been debarred sanctuary for sacrilege; he also stole some money and other things. He took sanctuary, then he changed his mind and fled, leaving his stolen property behind him. The Dean’s officers seized it as a “waif” left within the soke or franchise of the College. There is, again, the case of Henry Ciprian, Canon of Waltham. He, for certain offences, took refuge at St. Martin’s. It was in the year 1430, the 9th of King Henry the Sixth. The Mayor and Sheriffs thereupon seized him and dragged him out. The Dean and Canons brought the case before the King, who ordered Ciprian to be restored to sanctuary. But the smouldering hostility of the City continued and increased. The Alderman of Aldersgate, Matthew Philip, on the imposition of a certain tax, called upon the Dean of St. Martin’s for his share, alleging that it was not a privileged place; and actually levied the money by distress. The King ordered it to be restored.

In the same year occurred the famous case of St. Martin’s-le-Grand, which, though it was decided against the City, strengthened enormously the case against sanctuary.

A certain soldier named Knight lay in prison at Newgate. His friends trumped up a case of debt against him, to answer to which he had to be taken to the Guildhall; therefore he passed the south side of St. Martin’s. Five of his friends lay in ambush in Panyer Alley, and as he passed they dragged him from the officers, and so into sanctuary, where they all remained. Surely this was an abuse of the privilege. The City thought so, evidently. The Sheriffs, Philip Malpas and Robert Marshall, with the Alderman of the Ward, the City Chamberlain, and a great multitude of people, crowded into St. Martin’s demanding the prisoners, whom the Canon refused to surrender. They therefore seized them by force, chained and manacled them, stripped them to their shirts, and led them off to Newgate. Evidently it was a case which excited the greatest indignation. The King, on receiving the complaint of the Dean, ordered the release of the prisoners by letters taken from Windsor to the Tower by Lord Huntingdon. The Mayor refused to open the letters. He said that the Tower was a privileged place outside his jurisdiction, and that he could perform no official act in it, not even the opening of a letter addressed to himself as Mayor. Lord Huntingdon then produced the King’s writ, which was received and considered in the Church of Allhallows Barking. Here, with the assistance of the City clerk, John Carpenter, they found some legal objection, which they conveyed to the King.

The matter, however, was heard in the Star Chamber. The case of the Dean was based, of course, on the Charters of the House, and on the antiquity of the privileges claimed. The case of the Sheriffs, where it did not depend upon a legal quibble, rested on the enormous inconvenience and the many mischiefs caused by the sanctuary. Thus one Stody deliberately murdered a woman, took refuge in the sanctuary, and succeeded in escaping; John Frowe, having a grudge against one Robert Dodmerton, dogged him till he was close to the gate of sanctuary, where he stabbed him in the neck, so that he died, when the murderer calmly took refuge in the sanctuary. One Lullay, a Cambridge man, did exactly the same thing in the same place. It was also argued that certain criminals in the reign of Henry the Fifth had been taken from sanctuary, that a lane of the precinct in which criminals assembled had been stopped by order of the King, and that church, precinct, and lane were all portions of the City itself. These arguments prevailed not. The Sheriffs had to give up the prisoners.

Another mischief caused by this privilege was the fabrication of counterfeit plate and jewels which was established there. The Goldsmiths’ Company, who had the right to examine all goldsmiths’ shops in the City, demanded admission to St. Martin’s Precinct in order to examine the workshops there. The Dean refused permission as a right, but invited them to come in and inspect the work. He himself went with them, and caused all bad work to be destroyed. Edward the Fourth, in a statute against fraudulent goldsmiths’ work, excepted the Precinct from its operation. It is interesting to note that makers of counterfeit plate and jewels continued in their old quarters long after the Dissolution. Thus Butler says:—

Perhaps the strength of St. Martin’s was best shown in the case of William Cayens. He was one of Jack Cade’s associates, and on the dispersion of the rebels he took sanctuary in St. Martin’s. The King demanded him as a traitor. The Dean took with him all his bulls and charters and pleaded the case. In the end he won it. The traitor was to remain, but to be prevented from committing any more treason. Some time after, Cayens received the King’s pardon, and was even admitted to his favour.

When the Civil Wars broke out one Oldehall, chamberlain to the Duke of York, was ordered by the King’s advisers not to leave the City of London. He fled to sanctuary, was dragged out, and was ordered to be taken back again. Up to this point the Dean had proved too strong for the City. But in the year 1455 the sanctuary men presumed so much upon their security that they formed into companies and attacked and robbed the citizens. Thereupon the Mayor and Sheriffs broke into Sanctuary and seized the ringleaders. The Dean complained, the King sent for the Mayor and his officers, but the time was not one in which the City could be made hostile, and the prisoners were not restored.

Again, in the year following, the sanctuary men took part in an attack upon the Italian merchants. The complaints were now so general and so loud that some restriction had to be imposed on the privilege. Articles were drawn up for the better regulation of the Sanctuary. They are like those already quoted from the Archives of Beverley. Thus (1) every person on entering must declare the cause of his seeking refuge. (2) No one is to carry any weapon within the Precinct. (3) That any “erraunt and open thiefe, robber, murderer and felon noised by the common fame of the people” shall find security for good behaviour both in sanctuary and for a quarter of a year afterwards, and that he be kept in ward until he has found that security. But he may depart if he pleases. (4) The gates to be shut at certain hours. (5) Stolen goods not to be taken into sanctuary. (6) If any acts of robbery or violence be committed by a sanctuary man he is to be placed in prison and kept there. But he may depart if he will (of course to find the Sheriff’s officer waiting for him). (7) Forgers, makers of counterfeit goods, pickers of locks, etc., not to be allowed in sanctuary, (8) Strumpets and all immoral persons to be kept in prison until they amend or depart. (9) Gambling—“plays at hazard, the dice, the guell, the kayelles, the cloysh”—to be forbidden in sanctuary. (10) Sundays and holy days to be kept, and (11) every person admitted to take oath that he will obey these rules.

Already, on more than one occasion, the difference between mediÆval laws and mediÆval practice has been remarked. What, for instance, could be better than these ordinances? Everything seems to be provided for, merciful refuge for the criminal, prison for those who commit new crimes, the practice of dishonest trades forbidden, the morality of the sanctuary protected, the place to be a House of Religion and Repentance, and not a refuge and lurking place for thieves and rogues. What happened? That the sanctuary went on just as before. There was, no doubt, some little stir at the outset: the Canons ordered their servants to exercise diligence in the maintenance of these laws: we have seen the Dean going round with the Goldsmiths’ officer; perhaps he went round with his own officers, and questioned the refugees, admonished them all, both men and women, and then departed. The decay of all the Monastic and Ecclesiastical foundations was everywhere partly due to the fact that, while the Rule remained, that part of it which demanded personal service was handed over to servants and inferior officers. The criminal who ran into the sanctuary was received by a servant, not by the Canons: he was lodged by a servant, not by the Canons; then, the food provided being humble in quality and insufficient in quantity, the refugee carried on his trade in order to get more food; probably the custom grew up, as it had grown up in the prisons of Newgate and Ludgate, of paying fees to the sanctuary officers; in return for those fees everything was permitted. Men, who lived by robbery and who were well known to be robbers; women who lived by procuring and by prostitution; sharpers, forgers, fabricators of false goods, fraudulent bankrupts, receivers of stolen goods; thieves actually took sanctuary with their stolen goods in their hands; all these people lived in security and peace: they escaped the pillory, the stocks, the agony of the whipping-post, the noisome prison, and the gallows. The City did well to protest without ceasing against the abuse of the Sanctuary.

During the civil wars St. Martin’s proved a veritable Haven of Refuge to many, including the Countess of Oxford, Morton, Bishop of Ely, and other prelates, as well as both Lords and Ladies. In St. Martin’s lived and died—“rotted away piecemeal”—Miles Forrest, one of the murderers of the young Princes. A great change was made in St. Martin’s when the College was transferred by Henry the Seventh to the Abbey of St. Peter, Westminster. The Abbot became Dean of St. Martin’s; another seal was made; the duties of the Canons were performed by Vicars.

In the year 1548 all chantries, free chapels, and brotherhoods were suppressed, St. Martin’s among them. The splendid church was pulled down; the site was speedily built over by tenements and shops and taverns. But superstition and custom reserved until a much later time some of the privileges of sanctuary both at St. Martin’s and at Westminster.

The Chronicle of the west end sanctuary is somewhat nobler.

It must be understood that the whole Precinct of the Abbey and not the Church only was the sanctuary, of which the more sacred part, of course, was the Church. But the name of sanctuary was especially given to a gloomy square pile built of ragstone, about seventy-five feet square and about sixty feet high. Outside was a round tower no higher than the building itself, which contained a stair communicating with the upper storey. There were two storeys, each of which was a chapel, the lower one being especially dark and gloomy. On the roof it appears there were sometimes erected small houses for the accommodation of refugees.

By a very remarkable omission, this interesting building is not noticed by Stow or by any later writer. Stukeley first observed it, and sketched and measured it in the year 1750 when they were taking it down.

Here is a glimpse (1556) of a sanctuary procession:—

“The vi. day of December the Abbot of Westminster went a procession with his convent: before him went all the sanctuary men with crosse keys [upon their garments] and after went iij. for murder: one, the Lord Dacre’s sone, of the Northe, was wypyd (whipped) with a shett abowt him for kyllyng of a man, master West sqwyre dwellyng besyd ... and anodur theyff that dyd long to one of master comtroller ... dyd kyll Recherd Eggyllston the comtroller’s tayller, and [killed him in] the Long Acurs, the bak-syd Charyng-crosse: and a boye [that] kyld a byge boye that sold papers and pryntyd bokes [with] horlyng of a stone and yt hym under the ere in Westmynster Hall: the boy was one of the chylderyn what was [at the] sckoll ther in the abbey: the boy was a hossear sune [hosier’s son] a-boyff London-stone.”

The whipping of Lord Dacre’s son, wrapped in a white sheet, for murder, must have been edifying. Sanctuary, therefore, was not wholly free from pains and penalties. Two months later, another man in sanctuary was whipped “before the cross” for murder.

Not always, however, were the rights of sanctuary respected. That Wat Tyler should respect them was hardly to be expected. Therefore we read without surprise how he dragged the Marshal of the Marshalsea from one of the pillars of the Confessor’s shrine, to which, as the holiest place in the church, he was clinging. But the murder of the knight Hawke in the year 1398 is a very remarkable illustration of the violence and ungovernable temper into which the men of that time could fall. There were two knights named Hawke and Shackle. In the Spanish wars of the Black Prince they had between them effected the valuable capture of a Spanish noble. He exchanged his son, a youth, for himself, a method of hostage not uncommon, and went home, leaving the two Englishmen expectant of a lordly ransom. Then, however, John of Gaunt, who claimed the throne of Spain, demanded the delivery of the young Spaniard to himself. This was refused. Thereupon he threatened imprisonment, so that the knights fled and took sanctuary at Westminster, accompanied by the captive disguised as a page or valet. It would seem as if they were pursued on their flight. At least what follows does not look like a deed done in cold blood. The two knights fled into the church as the safest part of the sanctuary. Thither they were followed by Alan Bloxhall, Constable of the Tower, Sir Ralph Ferrers, and a company of fifty men. Shackle, for his part, escaped with the page—probably into the cloisters, where he could easily be conveyed to a place of safety. But Hawke remained in the church and ran round the choir followed by his enemies. This took place actually during the celebration of High Mass. At last the wretched man fell covered with wounds in front of the Prior’s stall, that is, within the choir. After this, the Prior closed the church for four months, and caused the violators of the sanctuary to be excommunicated, as well as fining them £200 apiece—equal to nearly £3000 of our money. If sanctuary, if sacrilege meant anything at all, the abbot was bound to make as much as he could of the “factum horribile.” The unfortunate Hawke was buried in the south transept.

But there were other violations of sanctuary, as when Sir Robert Tresilian, Lord Chief Justice, was dragged out from the refuge he had sought; and when the Duke of Exeter was treated likewise: on the other hand, Henry the Seventh showed his wisdom in respecting sanctuary when Perkin Warbeck took shelter there.

And sanctuary was, as a rule, respected. When Eleanor Cobham, Duchess of Gloucester, went into sanctuary at Westminster, she was unmolested, and might have stayed there all her life had she chosen. Elizabeth Woodville gave birth to her elder boy, “forsaken by her friends and in great penury,” yet in safe keeping. Here she placed the child in his father’s arms on his return. A second time she fled thither when that boy, thirteen years of age, was in the hands of her enemy and in the Tower. She took with her the younger boy, but we all know what happened. Sanctuary was broken. The Archbishops gave their consent to the sacrilege even though they knew, everybody must have known, that the boys would be murdered one after the other. It was the lot of every prince or possible heir to the throne in those times to be murdered or to be slain in battle. Henry the Sixth, Prince Edward, the Duke of York, the Duke of Clarence, the Duke of Exeter, are all examples instructive enough. Yet the Archbishops yielded. Why? I think it is clear that they dreaded above all things a boy King: above all things they wanted repose for the distracted land. It was a case of choosing between the lives of two innocent boys, or fresh wars, new distractions, which? The violation of sanctuary in this case is remarkable for the opportunity it gave the Duke of Buckingham to attack the whole system of sanctuary.

“I dare well avow it, weigh the good that they do with the hurt that cometh of them, and ye shall find it much better to lack both than to have both. And this I say, although they were not abused as they now be, and so long have been, that I fear me they will ever be, while men be afraid to set their hands to the amendment: as though God and St. Peter were the patrons of ungracious living. Now unthrifts riot and run in debt upon the boldness of these places: yea, and rich men run thither with poor men’s goods. There they build, there they spend and bid their creditors go whistle for them. Men’s wives run thither with their husbands’ plate, and say they dare not abide with their husbands for beating. Thieves bring thither their stolen goods, and there live thereon. There devise they new robberies nightly to steal out, they rob, and reave, and kill, and come in again as though those places gave them not only a safeguard for the harm they have done, but a licence also to do more mischief.”

It must not be forgotten that Skelton the poet escaped the wrath of Wolsey by taking refuge in the Westminster Sanctuary, where he lived in safety and died unmolested.

In the Italian Relations of England (Camden Society), probably written at the end of the fifteenth century, the author bears testimony of the same kind to the evils of sanctuary. Apparently the institution did not exist in Italy.

“The clergy are they who have the supreme sway over the country, both in peace and war. Amongst other things, they have provided that a number of sacred places in the kingdom should serve for the refuge and escape of all delinquents: and no one, were he a traitor to the crown, or had he practised against the king’s own person, can be taken out of these by force. And a villain of this kind, who, for some great excess that he has committed, has been obliged to take refuge in one of these sacred places, often goes out of it to brawl in the public streets, and then, returning to it, escapes with impunity for every fresh offence he may have been guilty of. This is no detriment to the purses of the priests, nor to the other perpetual sanctuaries: but every church is a sanctuary for 40 days: and, if a thief or a murderer who has taken refuge in one cannot leave it in safety during these 40 days, he gives notice that he wishes to leave England. In which case, being stripped to the shirt by the chief magistrate of the place, and a crucifix placed in his hand, he is conducted along the road to the sea, where, if he finds a passage, he may go with a ‘God speed you!’ But if he should not find one, he walks into the sea up to the throat, and three times asks for a passage: and this is repeated till a ship appears, which comes for him, and so he departs in safety. It is not unamusing to hear, how the women and children lament over the misfortune of these exiles, asking ‘how they can live so destitute out of England’: adding, moreover, that ‘they had better have died than go out of the world,’ as if England were the whole world!”

Henry the Seventh in 1483 procured a bull from Pope Innocent the Eighth, which allowed of malefactors being taken out of sanctuary when it was proved that they had left sanctuary in order to commit some mischief. And that if persons suspected of high treason took refuge it should be permitted to the King to station guards at the gates and elsewhere to keep them from going out. Later, in the year 1504, Henry the Seventh procured another bull permitting him to take out persons suspected of high treason. This bull would seem to allow the actual destruction of sanctuary.

The procedure in the claim of sanctuary was as follows (the statute being put up in the Custom Hall of the Cinque Ports, Dover), (Italian Relations):—

“And when any shall flee into the church or churchyard for felony, claiming thereof the privilege for any action of his life, the head officer of the same liberty where the said church or churchyard is, with his fellow jurats or commoners of the same liberty, shall come to him and shall ask him the cause of being there, and if he will not confess felony immediately, it shall be entered in record, and his goods and chattels shall be forfeited, and he shall tarry there forty days, or before, if he will, he shall make his abjuration in form following before the head officer, who shall assign to him the port of his passage: and after his abjuration there shall be delivered unto him by the head officer, or his assignees, a cross, and proclamation shall be made that while he be going by the highway towards the port to him assigned, he shall go in the king’s peace, and that no man shall grieve him in so doing, on pain to forfeit his goods and chattels. And the said felon shall lay his right hand on the book, and swear this:—‘You hear, Mr. Coroner, that I ... a thief, have stolen such a thing, or have killed such a woman, or man, or a child, and am the king’s felon, and for that I have done many evil deeds and felonys in this same his land, I do abjure and forswear the lands of the kings of England, and that I shall haste myself to the port of ... which you have given or assigned me: and that I shall not go out of the highway, and if I do, I will that I shall be taken as a thief, and the king’s felon, and at the same place I shall tarry but one ebb and flood, if I may have passage: and if I cannot have passage in the same place, I shall go every day into the sea to my knees and above, crying, Passage, for the love of God, and King ... his sake: and if I may not within forty days together, I shall get me again into the church, as the king’s felon. So help me God and by this book according to your judgment.’ And if a clerk flying to the church for felony, affirming himself to be a clerk, he shall not abjure the realm, but yielding himself to the laws of the realm, shall enjoy the liberties of the church, and shall be delivered to the ordinary, to be kept safe to the convict prison, according to the laudable custom of the realm of England.”

CHAPTER VIII
MIRACLE AND MYSTERY PLAYS

I have elsewhere spoken of the singular fact that no remains of a Roman theatre or amphitheatre have been found in London, and I have ventured to put forward a theory as to the site of one or both. One cannot, indeed, understand how there could be a theatre at RutupiÆ, or at Bath, and none at London. It is true that Augusta was, for the greater part of her Roman existence, a Christian City; but so was Bath; it is also true that the Church condemned the Theatre. But these facts did not destroy the Theatre. St. Augustine tells us how much he was attracted by the drama—rapiunt me spectacula theatrica. The total destruction of the Roman theatre in the country with the stage machinery and the stage traditions, we may be quite sure, was effected, not by the thunders of the Church, but by the coming of the Angles and the Saxons, and by the Desolation of Augusta. The drama had to begin again later on. As the mimetic instinct always survives every attempt at repression, the drama in some form was sure to revive. It began again in two forms: first, in the Church, the very place whence it had been denounced, and in the entertainments given by wandering mummers, minstrels, dancers, and tumblers. The wandering folk, the show folk, the ribauds, the people who cannot work, the men and women who can only earn their bread by making music and merriment, by telling stories, singing songs, performing tricks, dancing, turning somersaults, and pandering to the ever-present desire for pleasure,—these people cannot be suppressed; and they kept alive the art of acting. In England they flourished exceedingly in quiet times. What sort of rude play they performed it is not possible to ascertain. It was, I believe, a rough and ready farce, like that preserved in Rabelais, where the Farce of the Dumb Woman is presented. The people want to laugh. What do they mostly laugh at? The discomfiture of some one in some way. Enter the Dumb Woman—she makes great business with her broom; she knocks down one man with it and hits another over the nose; both men complain and suffer pain and indignity. Then the people laugh. Add music and a tumbling girl; add gestures unseemly and jokes unfit for repetition. Add, further, anything you please from the modern role of clown and pantaloon, and we shall understand the entertainment afforded by the show folk of the eleventh century. I suppose that they sometimes made fun of the priests—always a tempting subject—one reason for thinking so is that the more reverend a man wishes to be thought, the more he lays himself open to ridicule; another reason is that contemporary writers, as John of Salisbury, condemn actors with ecclesiastical plainness. They were in request, it would appear, at marriage feasts, and the nature of their entertainment is indicated by the order that any priests who were present were to get up and go away when the players began. These people have left little behind them, but they maintained the taste for scenic performances, and, no doubt, they drew away from the plough or the carpenter’s bench many a lad whose heart yearned for the music and the twinkling feet, the bright dresses, and the laughing life of these masterless vagabonds and lawless girls. But in England nothing was written or invented: it is to the Church and not to the show folk that we owe the modern drama. And it began with the laudable desire—nay, the necessity—of making people, in whom the imagination was dull, realise the doctrines of the Church. The service was in Latin, a language not comprehended any longer even in Italy; nobody could read; there were no books for them if they could: preaching, of which there was little before the Friars came, could not effect much: mural painting was not even begun: how then were the people to be taught the leading events, the foundations, in the History of the Christian Faith? Only by some kind of dramatic representation. Thus, at Christmas-time it was easy—nay, praiseworthy—to build a stall for oxen in the church; to fit it with a manger; to invite all the people to see for themselves, as if they were alive, the Virgin Mother with the Infant Christ, Joseph, the Magi, the angels, and the shepherds. On Good Friday a great crucifix was set up and solemnly lowered into the grave. On Easter Day the stone of the sepulchre was rolled away and our Lord came forth; after Easter He walked with the pilgrims of Emmaus; He appeared to the disciples. At Ascension He mounted visibly to Heaven in the sight of all. So also, He raised Lazarus; He healed the sick; He washed the feet. When the simple people looked on and saw such miracles who could doubt? Nay, who could ever forget? “There is the grave, with Lazarus in it—look at him! The grave-clothes are swathed about him, his face is white, he is dead, there is even to another sense the unmistakable proof of death. Here comes the Lord Himself. Tell me not that it is Brother Ambrose—it is the Lord Himself! Who but the Lord can bring a dead man to life? It is the Very Christ!” So they went away marvelling. These things were elementary; but they offered scope for acting, and they offered food for the imagination. Of course they became more and more realistic. The priests’ robes were exchanged for suitable dresses; the chorister, who represented an angel, added wings to his white surplice, and carried a harp and wore a crown. And the field of the drama widened. It included at length the whole scheme of Redemption from the Fall of Lucifer to the Day of Judgment.

The procession of the Patron Saint, or any other holy day, and that of Corpus Christi Day were further used to teach the people in the dramatic way. The saints marched with the Trade Guilds; they were known by what they carried. Adam and Eve wore the Tree of Knowledge; John the Baptist was a herald—everybody at that time knew what was meant by a herald; Judas followed. Of course he was received with hisses and groans, but he could not escape observation, because he carried a bag of gold and was followed by the Devil with the gallows; Christopher carried Christ; the wise men carried gifts; nothing was forgotten. That these representations sank deeply into the hearts of the people is certain, because it is only natural that this should be their effect. A story is related of a German Prince, the Landgrave Frederic of the Scarred Cheek, who, after witnessing a play of the Wise and Foolish Virgins, in which the Virgin Mary herself failed to move her Son to mercy, cried out, “What sort of thing is Christian faith if Christians cannot be pardoned even on the intercession of the mother of God and all the Saints?” And so fell into a religious melancholy such as was common in later times among Calvinists. But it wants no such story to make us understand the power of these dramatic performances. At first they were presented in dumb show; then with the words of the Bible; lastly, with words specially written for them. The next step was the transfer of the stage from the nave of the church to the place outside. This took place when the machinery required was too large for the little parish church, and when the dramatis personÆ were too numerous for the ecclesiastical staff of the Church. Then the laity became the actors, speedily the only actors. At the same time, the Church did not surrender control over the plays: in Rome there was the Fraternity of the Gonfaler: in Antwerp the Brethren of St. Luke, who were authorised to perform these plays. In England they were divided among the Trade Guilds, every one of which had to exhibit some dramatic scene on the Feast of Corpus Christi. Thus at Coventry the smiths played the Trial and Crucifixion; the Cappers played the Resurrection and Descent into Hell; the Shearmen played the Birth of Christ, the Adoration of the Magi, the Flight into Egypt and the Massacre of the Innocents. In London the Company of Parish Clerks took a prominent part, one of their performances being recorded by Stow as lasting for three days. This was at the Skinners’ Well, Smithfield, in the year 1391. Another performance is also mentioned which took place in 1409, and lasted for eight days. The civic procession of Corpus Christi, which was attended by Mayor, Sheriffs, and Aldermen, with all the City officers, together with the City clergy, and was adorned by pageants and figures and groups, was entrusted to the Skinners’ Company. I have not been able to discover other London companies entrusted with the representation of these plays. The stage was of considerable area, and contained two “rooms,” the upper room for heaven and the lower for earth; or the upper “room” was earth and the lower was hell. Sometimes there were three “rooms.” The play was introduced by a prologue: each player was presented by name: when not acting the players stood aside and were supposed to be invisible. The realism was startling. When Judas was hanged he carried to the gallows the entrails of some animal, which, when he cast himself off, he let fall. At the same time the devil, who was behind him on the gallows, cut the rope, and they both fell down into hell together. There was no shrinking from the representation of a birth upon the stage: saints in torture made jokes; Solomon quarrelled with one of his wives and drank a mug of beer; the devil carried off a soul in a wheelbarrow; at the scene of the Resurrection the gardener made fun over the effects of his herbs; the pedlar wanted to sell his wares to the women weeping over the grave; the mouth of hell vomited flames; Adam and Eve appeared as they were before the Fall; it is as if the Church wanted to make the event more real by connecting it with the actual life, the unmistakable life of men and women. From Church to Market-place was one step; from the mystery to the morality is another step; the last step of all was from the morality, an insipid performance, to the real comedy of human life, and even this had to make its way by means of the drama founded on the life of the saint. How great a step to discover that in every man there was a possible drama equal in interest to the life of any saint or martyr! There is very little positive information about the early drama in London. Yet we know that the miracle play was performed here as well as elsewhere. Stow’s contribution to our knowledge I have already quoted. FitzStephen, too, speaks of these plays. Piers Plowman mentions them as common. Chaucer’s Wife of Bath goes to processions, pilgrimages, miracle plays, and marriages. To the class of Church Play belongs the curious function of the Boy Bishop, which was practised in St. Paul’s and in many parish churches of the City. On the eve of St. Nicholas, the choristers elected one of their number to be the Boy Bishop. A set of episcopal robes was provided for the boy, including a mitre, a pastoral staff, and all the vestments:—

“Towards the end of evensong on St. John’s Day, the boy bishop and his clerks, arrayed in their copes and having burning tapers in their hands, and singing those words of the Apocalypse (ch. xiv.), Centum quadraginta, walked processionally from the Choir to the Altar of the Blessed Trinity, which the boy bishop incensed. Afterwards they all sang the anthem, and he recited the prayer commemorative of the Holy Innocents. Going back into the Choir, these boys took possession of the upper Canons’ stalls, and those dignitaries themselves had to serve in the boys’ places, and carry the candles, the thurible, the book, like acolytes, thurisers, and lower clerks. Standing on high, wearing his mitre, and holding his pastoral staff in his left hand, the boy bishop gave his solemn benediction to all present; and, while making the sign of the cross over the kneeling crowd, he said:—

Crucis signo vos consigno: vestra sit tuitio.

Quos nos emit et redemit suÆ carnis pretio.”

The day after, a sermon, which was written for him, was preached by the Boy Bishop; at this the scholars of St. Paul’s were bound to attend. It has been sometimes stated that the boy celebrated mass, but this is not true; it was impossible at any time in the history of the Church that a child or any person but a priest should be allowed to celebrate mass.

This curious and apparently irreverent ceremony formed part of the general rejoicing, mumming, and feasting of the season. Probably it was explained in something of this way. It taught the children that the things done by the altar concerned them, the young as well as the old. It deepened their impression and strengthened their hold of the simple doctrines which they were taught. It was, in other words, a presentment of the same thing in a different form.

CHAPTER IX
SUPERSTITIONS, ETC.

When we think of the great mass of people of MediÆval London, when we think of their laborious and industrious days, the precarious nature of their lives, the perils which attended them, far greater to our thinking than those of the present day—dangers ever present, of fire, famine, plague, pestilence, and war, we are moved to inquire into the ideas and beliefs which controlled the minds of this apparently inarticulate mass. There were ideas on religion, on superstitions, on manners and customs, on war, and on government. As regards their religion, there was no doubt, or question, or hesitation whatever, as to the one leading doctrine which influenced them. They were all, of course, absolutely certain that after death came either the pains of purgatory or the torments of hell. How could there be either doubt or question, when they could see depicted on the walls of the churches the Day of Judgment with the devils receiving souls and hurling them into the flames? They could see the souls themselves plunged to the neck in yellow flames, in torments unspeakable and endless, with bodies unconsumed and indestructible: the golden Heavens, the saints sitting with crowns upon their heads and harps in their hands. On these points there could be no doubt. Since every man, as the priests told them, was continually committing all kinds of sin, both carnal and venial, there was no chance for any one to escape except through the pains of purgatory. These, of course, could be procured as a substitute for the other place by the kind offices of the Church. For this reason, and among the great mass of the people for no other reason, not because the Church cultivated morality and honesty, peace and mercy and righteousness, but simply and solely in order to secure purgatory which, at least, however terrible, did offer a termination after many years: with this object in view, and with no other, the rich men built their churches, founded chantries, masses, almshouses, paid pilgrimages, gave rich presents to the Church, and built colleges for the priests.

At first a man was sufficiently fortified by the last offices ordered by the Church itself: he died in hope when he had received extreme unction. Presently, however, people became a little doubtful; the fear arose that the service of the Church for the dying might prove by itself insufficient to ensure for the soul entrance into purgatory. Accordingly, therefore, new precautions were invented. Men thought that it would be safer for them if they were buried in consecrated ground within, not outside, the walls of the church: again, it would certainly be safer to be laid as near the high altar as possible. Then again, it was discovered that the church of the monastery was more sacred, and therefore still safer than the parish church. After this, it was believed that some monasteries were even safer than others. Thus the Greyfriars Church in London was esteemed a much more desirable place of interment than St. Paul’s: it was therefore crammed from east to west with monuments of kings and princes, great lords and great ladies. Here they all lay buried in the habit of a Franciscan, hoping either to step into Heaven in the guise of a Friar, or at least, being in such a guise, to get off at the Last Day with a shorter allowance of purgatory than that due to them, or even without any purgatory at all.

It seems to us, with our ideas of equality, a most monstrous belief that a rich man should be able to buy himself out of purgatory, while a poor man must endure the full weight and penalty of his sins. I do not think that the poor man considered the matter in this way at all. On the contrary, it was one of the attributes of wealth and rank that they should make the conquest of Heaven more easy. The poor accepted the situation. Their poverty was imposed upon them with all its consequences. They could not, however they tried, rise out of it: between nobility and villeinhood there was an impassable gulf: well for them that the Lord had left open a way even after many thousand years of purgatory.

As regards the doctrines of the Church, the great mass of the people knew very little, and questioned not at all. The history of the Saints and of the Old and New Testaments they partially understood, because on the walls and in the windows of their parish churches were everywhere represented the acts of Christ and of the Apostles and those of the Saints. Moreover, as we have seen, in the mysteries or sacred plays, the scenes from the Old Testament were performed with grotesque, and even burlesque, imitations in the open air for all the world to see.

The influence of the Church on morals was probably no greater in the Middle Ages than it is now. Certainly men were no more moral than they are now. In saying this, one is not attacking the moral influence of the Church. In a time of greater rudeness, greater ignorance, greater lack of self-command, greater violence, one would expect what actually happened, viz. that there were times when the power of the Church seemed lost, e.g. in the Civil Wars of King Stephen’s reign. As for the City, much the same cheating went on in trade, and there was quite as much laxity in morals of every other kind as we can boast of in our own time. Moreover, it is always difficult to decide when the law punishes an evil-doer-whether it is the law or the preaching of the Church which restrains others from becoming evil-doers.

As regards the superstitions of the people of London. They were at all times believers in magic and sorcery, but, as always happens, many of the popular beliefs seemed often to sleep or to be dead. It was only from time to time that there occurred an outbreak of belief showing that superstition of this kind still existed among them. The most notable case, for instance, is that of Eleanor Cobham, Duchess of Gloucester, whom we heard of at p. 210: she was accused of attempting to compass the death of Henry the Sixth by means of a magic image. Everybody seems to have firmly believed this story, which, indeed, may have been perfectly true. She, however, did penance in the City of London, and was confined for life in Chester Castle, and the woman who assisted her was put to death. Later on, Richard the Third endeavoured to make out that Elizabeth Woodville had been guilty of magic and sorcery.

Other superstitions the people had, and, as at the present day, obscure persons earned their livelihood by pretending to discover where stolen property was to be found, and by telling fortunes and the like. A curious superstition is mentioned by Chaucer. He tells us that, by the help of a bone of a wether’s right shoulder, from which the flesh had been boiled (not roasted) away, some could tell what was being done in far countries, “tokens of pees and of werre, the staat of the relme, sleynge of men, and spousebreche.”

The actual attitude of the people towards the claims and pretensions of the Church are illustrated by the wills of which I have already made so liberal a use. (R. Sharpe, Calendar of Wills.) Thus, as we have seen, it was an article of faith down to the middle of the sixteenth century that the soul could be released from purgatory, or could be relieved from many years of purgatory, by good works done for the Church, by masses said after death, by the prayers of the Religious, or by securing a share in their merits. Thus, a citizen left money for the maintenance and decoration of the parish church, for obits, for trentals, i.e. services of thirty masses, for a daily mass in perpetuity; for so many masses, perhaps a thousand within three days of death; for the endowment of a chantry, and perhaps the erection of a Chantry Chapel; for the purchase of books on Church Service, vestments, altar cloths, Paschal candles, and singing candles. Again, as the maintenance of bridges was in itself a religious duty, bequests for that purpose were common. In order to secure a share in the merits of the Religious, bequests were constantly made to all the orders of the mendicant Friars—the Franciscans or Grey Friars; the Dominicans or Black Friars; the Carmelites or White Friars; the Augustinian or Austin Friars; and, though they were not always included, the Crutched Friars, or Friars of the Holy Cross. With the same object, bequests were made to the hermits, anchorites, and ankresses.

Bequests were also made—one believes out of sheer charity, apart from any considerations as to the safety of the soul—to hospitals, such as St. Bartholomew’s, St. Mary Spital, St. Mary Bethlehem, St. Thomas’s, and the three “Colleges” of lepers, “Le Loke” of Southwark, St. Giles’ in the Fields, and the House with the “misil cotes” at Hackney.

Bequests were made to the Prisons, Newgate, Ludgate, Fleet, the two Marshalseas, the Clink in Southwark, the White Lyon in Southwark, the City Compters, the Borough Compter, and the Gate House of Westminster. Bequests were also made to pilgrims, that the testator might enjoy the benefits conferred upon pilgrimage.

Bequests were made to the poor of the testator’s Company or parish: of clothes to friends or to kinsfolk: clothes made of fur, silk, satin, and fine cloth, girdles, chains, daggers, rings, weapons, armour, drinking cups, silver plate, pewter.

The wife, at her husband’s death, was entitled to one-third of the personal property; she was, however, generally provided for by a dower which exceeded the amount she could claim. I have already described the vow of perpetual widowhood, which was not an uncommon thing for a widow to make, according to the form provided by the Church. Sometimes she took the vows and entered a convent.

CHAPTER X
ORDER OF BURIAL

The display at funerals, and the ceremonies observed, the hospitality offered, and the order of the procession, formed a large part in the social life of the time, especially in times when some great man or other was always dying. The following is the order of the funeral procession of the fifteenth century, set forth in detail:—First, for the Burial of a King. (ArchÆologia.)

“What shall be don on the demyse of a King annoynted? When that a King annoynted is decessed, after his body is sp’ged, it must be washed and clensed by a Bishop for his holy annoyntment, than the body must be bamed, wrapped in laun, or reynez yf it may be gotyn, than hosyn cherte, & a perer of shone of rededlether, & do on his surcote of cloth, his cap of estate on his bed, and then ley hym on a fair borde cou’ed with cloth of gold, his on hande on his bely & a sep’r in the toder hande, & oon his face a kerchief yef the weder will it suffre. And when he may not godely longer endur, take hym away and bowell hym and then eftones bame hym, wrappe him in raynez welw trameled in cords of silke, than in tarseryn tramelled, & than in velvet, & so in clothe of gold well tramelled, and than led hym and cofre hym, and in his leed write hym a plate of his stile, name, and the date of our Lord gravyn, and yef ye cary hym, mak an ymage like him clothd in a surcote with a mantell of estate, the laces goodly lying on his bely, his sep’r in his hande, and a crown on his hed, and so cary hym in a chare open with lights and baners, accompanyed with lordes and estates as the counseill can best devyse, having the hors of that chare trapped with diverse trappers or elles with blake trappers of blake with scochons richely betyn, and his officers of armes aboute hym in his cotes of armez, and then a lorde or a knyght with a courser trapped of his armez, his herneysz upon hym, his salet or basenet on his hed crowned, a shylde and a spere till he come to the place of his ent’ring. And at the masse the same to be offred by noble ducs.”

Next, for the Burial of a person of lower rank:—

(1) The procession begins with a sword offered by the most worshipful man of the kin.

(2) Next follow those who bear the deceased’s Coat of Worship, his helmet, and his crest.

(3) Then must be borne banners of the Trinity: of Our Lady, of St. George, or of the saint, “his avower”—i.e. the patron saint of the deceased, and of his arms. There must also be a Guidon of his device with his word.

(4) There must be a double vallance about the hearse, above and below, with his word and his device written around.

(5) There must be twelve scutcheons of his arms affixed to the bars of the hearse, and three dozen “pinselles to stand above the hearse between the lights.”

(6) There must also be provided as many scutcheons as there are pillars in the church. Scutcheons may be set up in the four quarters of the church at discretion.

(7) Torches must be carried to the number of the deceased’s years, every torch to carry a scutcheon.

(8) Before and beside the hearse must walk five officers of arms bearing his coat of worship, his sword, his helmet, his crest, and his banner of arms, together with the banners already mentioned of the Holy Trinity, Our Lady, St. George, and the Saint, his avower.

(9) Cloth of gold for the ladies to give away.

(10) A company of “innocents” in white carrying tapers.

(11) The horse of the dead man, with a man-at-arms carrying the sword or spear or battle-axe.

(12) The heir must stand beside the priest when offerings are made.

This order, it will be observed, says nothing about the mourners. There were troops of mourners: the family, the relations, the friends, the servants, until the long, slow procession, singing, with the Priests of the Papey marching before, reached the whole length of Cheapside from St. Michael le Querne to St. Mildred’s.