Orientation, as the word is commonly understood nowadays, may be described as the principle, and practice, according to which a sacred building or other object is set in an East-to-West line. In speaking of a Christian church, there is implied further that the altar is normally placed at the Eastern end of the building. The word “orientate,” it is hardly necessary to say, comes primarily from the Latin oriri, to rise, the reference being, of course, to the sun. To get one’s bearings with respect to the East was therefore naturally called “orientation.” There is a more general signification when the word is employed scientifically: thus, the crystals in a mass of rock may be orientated, and not necessarily to the East. There is also a broader usage of the term, mostly of literary interest, which merely conveys the sense of determination of one’s position, physically or mentally, so that even theories and opinions may be orientated, honestly or disingenuously, by their advocates. Under this definition, moreover, a building may be orientated, and yet the chief part need not face the geographical East. But it has been conjectured that there was also a Mediaeval Latin word, orientare, which specifically meant “to set towards the East,” and thus arose the fuller and more precise connotation familiar to the modern antiquary[483]. From the Mediaeval term we get our verb “to orientate,” which, like the briefer and more usual term, “to orient,” implies the setting out of a church East to West, with the altar towards the East of the edifice. Merely premising that there is an orientation of graves as well as of buildings, we will proceed to consider the case of churches only.

The most heedless observer must have noticed the main facts. The choir or chancel of a cathedral or parish church faces East, while the nave runs towards the West. The exceptions form a trifling minority. Casting about for an explanation of these exceptions, it will be found that the buildings which infringe the rule are usually modern, or that the exigencies of space permitted no alternative, or that there has been a spirit of opposition manifested of set purpose. Let us first notice a few examples where the rule is broken. The small, modern church of Well, Lincolnshire, is indeed built East and West, but the altar is situated at the West end. Eastville church, in the same county, runs North and South, its altar being towards the South[484]. St Mary Major, Exeter, which lies to the West of the cathedral, is alined North-East and South-West, but the alteration was probably made in 1866, when the church was rebuilt. The original building was of Norman date[485], and would scarcely be out of line. St Paul’s, Covent Garden, built by Inigo Jones in 1633, and rebuilt at the close of the eighteenth century, has its axis about 30° North of the East-to-West line, but the altar stands at what must be called the “East” end of the church. St John’s, Chatham, another church which transgresses the principle, was erected in the years immediately preceding the Oxford Movement, at a time when the practice of orientation had grown lax[486]. Several Georgian churches in the Paddington and Marylebone districts are out of line, while, strange to tell, a Primitive Methodist Chapel in Seymour Place, hard by, is properly orientated[487]. The fact is noticeable, since the custom is not widely observed by Nonconformists. Camden church, Peckham, is built askew, but that is doubtless owing to its founders having consisted of a coalition of Nonconformists and dissatisfied churchmen from the mother parish of Camberwell. In the Georgian era, as is well known, there was general slackness: fonts were often placed in the North and South aisles, ornaments were neglected, brasses stolen, documents mislaid and misused. To this period of slovenly treatment can be traced the anomalous alinement of St George’s, Bloomsbury. The Eastern recess having proved too small to receive an altarpiece which had been presented by the Duke of Bedford, the main axis of the church was, as it were, turned through an angle of 90°, and it is now arranged almost North and South, the original chancel being represented by a baptistery[488].

Other churches which do not conform to the usual plan are St Edmund the King, Lombard Street, and Immanuel church, Streatham Common (altar at Western end). A number of French examples might also be given, but even were it possible to compile an exhaustive list, it would only weary the reader.

Roman Catholic churches are sometimes found to have unorthodox alinements, but not so generally as is commonly believed. Frequently, the so-called lack of orientation simply means that the position of the altar is reversed. Thus, St George’s Cathedral, in Westminster, like St Peter’s at Rome, has its altar at the West end. But since the axis in these cases, as in that of the little Anglican church at Well, previously mentioned, lies East and West, I prefer to consider these churches as not fundamentally violating the rule. To this matter we must presently return. It has been asserted, and afterwards stoutly denied, that disregard of orientation, with respect to the Eastern altar, is a feature of the churches of the Jesuits[489].

A goodly number of modern churches owe their incorrect alinements to the limitations of shape, slope, and area of the ground on which the buildings are placed. Thus, while the old parish church of Hornsey, Middlesex, stands correctly, the new building is sadly discordant. This variation is caused by a corresponding difference in the long axis of the rectangular plot on which it is built. The axis of the Roman Catholic church of the English Martyrs at Streatham, again, is in marked disagreement with that of the Anglican parish church hard by; a glance at the manner in which the former edifice is wedged in seems to supply the reason. Whether the North-to-South line of the Church of the Oratory, Brompton, is to be so explained, is more uncertain. Of ancient English buildings which do not orientate, the classic example is found at the Cistercian Abbey of Rievaulx, Yorkshire. A steep bank on the one side of the church, and a river on the other, necessitated an axis from North to South.

Then we have to deal with churches designedly mis-built. The Puritan Sir Walter Mildmay, founder of Emmanuel College, Cambridge, built the original College chapel North and South, as a protest against superstition, and in marked derogation of catholic usage (A.D. 1584). This action led Evelyn to speak of “that zealous house” which was “reformed ab origine[490].” The Cambridge example is serviceable as showing the approximate date when early tradition began to be defied.

To-day, except through pure carelessness on the part of architects or builders, the Church observes the broad rule, both with respect to the axis and the Eastward altar. One or two critical instances will render this evident. When, in India, under the first Bishop of Calcutta, Dr Middleton (A.D. 1814-22), the question arose whether the chancel of a church should not face the city of Jerusalem, it was decided to build towards the East, and leave the sacred city out of account[491]. Again, it was mooted, a few years ago, whether churches situated in, and West of, the diocese of Honolulu in the Sandwich Islands (157° 53´ W.), should not have occidentation, rather than orientation, and the verdict was that the chancel should point to the rising sun[492]. Someone has remarked, in this connection, that in crossing to another hemisphere, the Northern and Southern points may be said to change values[493], but this does not affect the question of orientating from a given place on a fixed meridian. Moreover, since Honolulu lies 21° North of the Equator, it is outside this consideration altogether.

Although, as just stated, the modern builder follows the rule, he appears to lack precision in his methods. This opinion has been expressed in private letters to the writer from such high authorities as Professor Reginald Blomfield, Mr H. Phillips Fletcher, and Mr P. Mainwaring Johnston. Mr Johnston says that even in the matter of inserting the points of the compass on architectural drawings there is greater laxity than was formerly the case. The builder seems often to rely on a small portable compass, which frequently is not corrected for the variation of the needle.

By way of parenthesis, it may be noted that the lodges of Freemasons were formerly orientated, and, although the rule is not always now followed in towns, where meeting places are numerous, yet the house of assembly is still called Orient, and, in the case of a grand lodge, Grand Orient. The explanation is that the Freemasons claimed to be descended from the old ecclesiastical builders[494]. From the annals of Freemasonry we can also gather valuable information concerning the alinement of churches. In some of the Scotch lodges, there are said to exist documents which describe the actual method pursued. The site of the altar having been decided upon, a pole was thrust into the ground, and a day appointed for the building to be commenced. “On the evening previous, the Patrons, Ecclesiastics, and Masons assembled, and spent the night in devotional exercises: one being placed to watch the rising of the sun, gave notice when his rays appeared above the horizon. When fully in view, the Master Mason sent out a man with a rod, which he ranged in line between the altar and the sun, and thus fixed the line of orientation[495].”

Wordsworth refers to the ceremony in the following stanzas (he is alluding to the rising of the sun):

In passing, it will be noticed that Wordsworth seems to attach importance to the fact that the Nativity took place in the East, as if that were the reason for orientation.

Having seen that, in our day, the custom agrees faithfully with a formulated tradition, we will go back, and, pursuing the link-to-link method, strive to ascertain the origin of the idea. There existed a sound tradition in A.D. 1584, for, as already stated, Sir Walter Mildmay deliberately broke with it. A French example will help to carry us on our way. During the fourteenth century the church of Saint-BenoÎt, in Paris, had its grand altar turned towards the West, and hence bore the nickname of Saint-BenoÎt-mal-TournÉ, i.e. “Sanctus Benedictus male versus.” The church was rebuilt during the reign of Francis I. (A.D. 1515-47), when the altar was made to face East. The name, says M. L’AbbÉ Migne, was consequently changed to Saint-BenoÎt-le-BÉtournÉ, which the narrator claims as the equivalent of “Bene versus[497].” It has been questioned whether bÉtournÉ does not really mean mal-tournÉ[498], but the point to be noticed is, that orientation, in the fuller sense, was recognized in the early sixteenth century, and that even in the fourteenth, a true alinement was observed, though the altar was placed at the wrong end. M. L’AbbÉ Migne, indeed, asserts that orientation in France is known to date from the eleventh century at least[499]. Yet, in modern times, the French practice has become very uncertain, and numerous instances might be given of North-to-South alinements.

William Durand, commonly known under his Latinized name, Durandus, who was born in Provence, in A.D. 1237, has some interesting remarks on orientation. Following St Isidore, he connects the word temple with contemplate, a kinship which recent lexicographers do not discountenance. While “contemplating,” the worshippers must look towards the East, and Durandus lays down the rule that the exact position should be determined at the equinox. This would ensure that the sections of the building to the right and left of the true East-and-West line should be equal. Thus would the Church Militant show that she behaved herself with moderation, a virtue not symbolized when the median line is taken at the solstice[500].

Dr Daniel Rock asserts that the Saxons built their churches East-and-West, and numerous instances might readily be given to substantiate his statement. A specific example is cited by Dr Rock himself. Wolstan, monk of Winchester (A.D. 990), speaks of a church built by Bishop St Ethelwold (b. A.D. 908, d. 984) as pointing to the East. Like Durandus, Dr Rock favoured the equinoctial East, and urged that, in cases where the site was unfavourable, the East-and-West line should be approached as nearly as possible. The chancel should face South-East rather than North-West, assuming that the axis must run in that line[501]. This principle was formerly undoubtedly considered binding. Brand, quoting from a history of Birmingham, tells how St Bartholomew’s chapel, in that city, “veres toward the North,” because the ground space would admit of no other position. In planning St John’s chapel, Deritend, Birmingham, the architect was so anxious to catch the Eastern point, that he lost the line of the street, hence the writer humorously adds that the designer sacrificed to the East[502]. Another instance of an attempt to keep in harmony with Mediaeval teaching, is seen at Hornsey new church (p. 207 supra), which has its chancel at the Southern end, in preference to the Northern.

Granting that the Saxon churches show orientation, we are led to suppose that the idea goes back still earlier, and this is confirmed by facts. In the “Apostolical Constitutions,” a document dating probably from the latter part of the fourth century, it is ordained that the churches are to be built oblong, with the head to the East, and the congregation is directed to pray Eastward[503]. So early as A.D. 472, there was a tradition that the Apostles turned towards the East in prayer[504]. Leo I., in A.D. 443, is found condemning the people for bowing to the rising sun as they stood on the steps in the Court of St Peter’s[505]. St Basil, who flourished in the middle of the fourth century A.D., alludes distinctly to the custom of turning towards the East in prayer[506]. Several early writers might be quoted for corroborative testimony on this point. The fourth Provincial Council of Milan (A.D. 1576), speaks of the practice of orientating churches as being usual and in accordance with tradition (antiquus mos et probata traditio)[507]. Thus there is cumulative evidence, fairly satisfactory in character, of deference paid to the Eastern position, practically from the time when the Christians began to build their own churches[508].

Certain pronouncements to the contrary, which, if accepted, are calculated to weaken the force of these arguments, and to modify our views on the general question of orientation, must not be withheld. For example, Walcott asserts that orientation has never been a law of the Church, and that it has probably an Eastern origin. He also points out that, in Rome, the entrance to a Christian place of worship was frequently at the East, and that the priest at the altar faced the people[509]. The Romano-British church discovered at Silchester (see p. 23 supra) must be noted as an instance of this kind of ground plan. This “basilica,” as proved by the foundations, had a Western apse, and presumably, therefore, a Western altar, the entrance being towards the East. Fergusson, in his Illustrated Handbook of Architecture, affirms that orientation is wholly a peculiarity of Northern or Gothic races, and that the Italians never knew or practised the custom; it is found only where the inhabitants of an Italian district had been largely superseded by Gothic peoples[510]. Professor Baldwin Brown, again, asserts that “the Church of early times generally, and the Church of Rome throughout,” were indifferent to the practice of orientation. A fourth writer, whose opinion carries great weight, Professor E. B. Tylor, deals with Jewish influence, and concludes that it was scarcely effective in establishing the principle of orientation in the course of European history. He is rather of opinion that the rise of the Christian custom is sufficiently accounted for by Asiatic sun-worshippers, such as the Persians. The rite of orientation, he considers, was unknown to primitive Christianity, and was developed within its first four centuries[511].

Let us examine these statements. That orientation has never been a law of the Church may be literally true. I can find no such obligation recorded in works like Sir R. Phillimore’s Ecclesiastical Law. Yet Dr Rock refers to an authority, “one deeply read in liturgical lore,”—Bellotte, who pronounced him guilty of mortal sin who wilfully built a church which was not directed towards the East[512]. Again, Mgr Barbier de Montault, while regretting that the canonists no longer make orientation rigorously compulsory, observes that the rule, all the same, remains prescribed in the rubric of the Missal (“qui n’en reste pas moins inscrite dans la rubrique du Missel”)[513]. Above this, the evidence already adduced shows that the rule has had a very general acceptation in England since the Saxon period at least.

The churches of Rome, and indeed, of Italy as a whole, are admittedly irregular in their adherence to strict orientation. Yet even these churches largely conform to the principle, in its wider sense of East-to-West alinement. Very frequently, however, the second, and perhaps almost equally important part of the principle is ignored, that is, the altar is placed at the Western end, instead of at the Eastern. St Peter’s itself supplies a good example of this arrangement; other instances are found in St John Lateran, San Paolo fuori le Mura, and Sta Maria Maggiore. In these churches, now often called basilicas, the entrance is at the East, and the sanctuary at the West[514]. Out of fifty early churches in Rome examined by Mr G. G. Scott, forty were found to have the sanctuary at the West; of the remaining examples, “there are only seven which appear to have retained their original form and which have an Eastern sanctuary[515].” Of the forty churches just mentioned, as of some later ones, it must be noted that the alinement is by no means true East-to-West, hence the epigram of the French wit: “Tout systÈme d’orientation peut trouver son modÈle À Rome.”

To leave the matter here would nevertheless convey a false impression. It is credibly asserted that, in the cases where the altar is at the Western extremity, the celebrant faces the East, thus taking the same relative position personally as when, under a reverse arrangement, he turns his back on the congregation[516]. If, then, the axis of the church be situated East-to-West, and if the prayers be offered towards the East, orientation cannot be truly said to be neglected: the relative dispositions of portico and altar become secondary considerations.

Dr Rock, with a manifest anxiety to reconcile the diversity of practice in Rome, submitted, as an explanation, that isolated basilicas (= Christian churches) grew up over narrow, lonely pagan grottos, or the graves of martyrs, or sprang out of the halls of patrician converts[517]. That many of the anomalous alinements may be thus accounted for is probable, but too much must not be made of this method of harmonizing contradictions. Other writers, like Fergusson, have urged that the church was a basilica, or court of justice adapted to Christian worship. The word “basilica,” by the way, is said not to have been used by writers or architects of Byzantine times[518]—a significant detail, if correct (cf. p. 151 supra). For it is contended that there is, in Rome, no well-authenticated instance of the conversion of any pagan forensic basilica into a Christian church, though there are abundant examples of pagan temples which became Christian sanctuaries[519]. The actual secular basilicas would generally be still required, and still employed, century after century, for the transaction of legal business; the heathen temples, now useless for their original purpose, would be adapted and consecrated by the teachers of the new faith. The Christians most likely copied the basilican type of building for their meeting-places because it offered the simplest and most economical plan of accommodating an immense body of worshippers[520].

An attempt has been made to evolve order out of chaos by supposing that, during the early days of the Church, in some parts of the Empire, the priest stood on the Western side of the altar, namely, the side remote from the people, and that, during the celebrations, he looked towards the East, over the heads of the worshippers. The body of the church thus lay to the East of the sanctuary, and the altar was interposed between priest and congregation. At a later date, for some unassigned reason, the priest changed his position with respect to the altar, and stood with his back to the people, hence the ground-plan of the building was modified, so that the main entrance was fixed at the West, and the sanctuary at the East[521]. Thus the Eastward position of the priest was the essential feature, not the position of the altar in the church.

Fergusson’s dictum concerning the churches of Italy, however, need not be accepted without demur. It has been endorsed by writers like Sir E. Beckett (Lord Grimthorpe)[522], but is considered by others to involve overstatement. Fergusson himself admits that, while it is only by accident that we find the rule observed in Pisa, Bologna, and Ferrara, yet in more Northerly (“German”) cities like Milan and Verona, the orientation will be found correct nine times out of ten[523]. He accounts for the absence of orientation in the three first-named cities by supposing that in them the original population was not submerged by “Gothic races.” Whatever may be the precise meaning which Fergusson attaches to this phrase is of little moment, for it is fairly certain, as we shall soon see, that the principle was put into practice by peoples to whom the term could by no licence be applied. Therefore, at any rate, the custom was not, as he believes, wholly a feature of the Gothic builders. Let us recall the fact that seven out of fifty early churches in Rome are carefully oriented. Link this with the fact that many other ancient churches in that city are more or less accurately alined, and the conclusion is clear that the direction of the median line was rarely left to chance. This verdict is confirmed by an examination of early Romanesque churches elsewhere. In Auvergne, for instance, the present writer ascertained, by a careful use of the compass, that oriented churches were very common, yet Gothic influence has not, even in our day, penetrated that region to any considerable extent.

Professor Tylor’s opinion that the Jews exercised little influence on the development of the custom among the early Christians, claims great respect and attention, because of the high authority which he deservedly possesses. Yet it may be doubted whether he has not under-estimated Jewish influences, and over-estimated the effects of Jewish contact with the Persians and other peoples living East of Palestine. In the first place, one is led to conclude that Professor Tylor’s argument is somewhat weakened by the stress which is laid upon the differences of position adopted in prayer, with respect to the sun. The Brahmans, we are told, pray towards the East, the Thugs towards the West. In the first case, the symbolism represents hope, the birth of life, the glory of the rising sun; in the antithesis of the second, the gloom and horror of death, typified by the departure of the life-giver. These distinctions, though not trivial in themselves, and even less so in their later developments, seem to be largely obliterated by the very existence of adoration performed sunwards. The essence of orientation, in its early stages, appears, if one may so express it, to consist in respect paid to the sun. This deference is proved by the East-and-West axial line, as exemplified in primitive temples and monuments. Where the altar was at the Western end, the sun’s rays fell on the sacred object through the Eastern doors at sunrise. As the centuries pass by, we still find rival opinions as to the proper positions for the altar or other sacred object. The alinement is agreed upon, but the question arises, Shall the sanctuary be East or West?

Now do we not find noticeable traces of the solar idea in the Hebrew Scriptures, with a certain tendency, moreover, to the adoption of the Eastern rather than the Western position? The Tabernacle of Moses and the Temple of Solomon had their entrances towards the East, and in each building the Holy of Holies was at the West. There was also an Eastern porch to Herod’s Temple[524]. The student of the Bible and the Apocrypha will be familiar with numerous passages, which, without any wresting from the context, appear to contain the germ of the idea of orientation[525], displayed in respect paid to prayer at sunrise. In the Wisdom of Solomon, xvi. 28, these words occur, “We must prevent the sun to give thee thanks, and at the dayspring pray to thee.” Language of a very similar kind is found in more than one of the Psalms. It is undeniable that repeated attempts were made by the monotheistic Hebrews to prevent adoration of the sun. The practice is implicitly forbidden in the Second Commandment, and expressly in such passages as Deut. iv. 19. Why should these prohibitions have been necessary, unless the Jews were prone, in this matter as in some others, either to copy pagan rites, or to follow primal instincts inherited from forefathers among whom solar worship was common? Ezekiel was horror-stricken at the sight of the five-and-twenty men who worshipped the sun with their backs toward the Temple and their faces toward the East[526]. Josiah found it necessary to put down the idolatrous priests, whom the kings of Judah had ordained to burn incense to Baal, and to the sun, moon, and planets; the “chariots of the sun” he burned with fire[527]. The attention paid to direction in offering one’s prayers is illustrated again by the case of Daniel. Domiciled in a heathen land, he prayed with his face towards Jerusalem, although that city lies West, and not East, of Babylon[528]. To look again toward the Holy Temple was the prayer uttered by Jonah when in the belly of the fish[529]. In short, prayer offered towards Jerusalem was actually recommended, if not stipulated, by Solomon, as a condition of success in warfare[530]. The Jews, in later times, seem always to have been zealous in obeying the precept, though it is not recorded that they carry a compass with them for the purpose, as the Mohammedans are said to do[531].

The Book of Job contains a remarkable and enlightening passage concerning sun-worship. Protesting his integrity, the patriarch says: “If I beheld the sun when it shined, or the moon walking in brightness; And my heart hath been secretly enticed, or my mouth hath kissed my hand: This also were an iniquity to be punished by the judge[532].” Now, the ancient Greeks used to kiss their hands as an act of worship to the sun, and Tertullian had to complain that even Christians would move their lips toward the sunrise, as if affecting adoration[533]. Grimm says that Teutonic peoples would swear an oath by the sun, stretching out their hands to the all-seeing god[534].

A moment’s pause may be made to notice a remarkable parallel, suggested by Barclay. On the one side, we have the stretching out vertically of the separated fingers. On the other, as Barclay observes, we have the five large trilithons of the outer “horsehoe” of Stonehenge, graduated so that the central one corresponds to the middle finger of the hand, and the other trilithons to the other fingers, each to each. Similarly, if the fingers are brought together so as to form a circle, we get the symbol employed in the sacred salute to the sun[535]. Barclay’s comparisons may be fanciful, but who shall deny their aptness? We cannot forget the symbolism adopted in the Greek and Latin churches when the Benediction is pronounced. Even a temporary assent to Barclay’s hypothesis leads us to ask further, Whence came the custom of shading the face with the hands when the worshipper is engaged in prayer? Did the habit originate in protecting the eyes from the sun during the act of supplication?

But to return: we have seen that sun-worship, and prayer offered towards the East, or towards a hallowed site, are abundantly illustrated in the Old Testament. Again, if the Jews did not practise orientation in our specific sense of the word, they observed an East-to-West system in planning their chief place of worship. The older generations of Jews, at least, could not have been ignorant of orientation. As bondmen in Egypt, they must have become acquainted with the principle. In Canaan, they were subjected, as Professor Tylor states, to the influences of solar worship on all sides. Their heathen neighbours, the Phoenicians, bowed themselves to Baal, the Ammonites offered sacrifices to Molech, and the Syrians worshipped the god Hadad[536].

If the probabilities favour a knowledge of the idea of orientation among the Jews of the Old Testament times, reason must be shown for the assumption of a complete break between the ancient practice and the customs of the Apostolic period. For primitive Christianity was not only in great measure developed from, but was a fulfilment of, the older Judaism. The “Sun of Righteousness” in Malachi has its counterpart in the “Day spring from on high” of St Luke, the “Day star” of the Second Epistle of Peter, and the “Morning star” of the Apocalypse[537]. The “Light of the World,” or some variant of the phrase, occurs again and again. While, therefore, it would be folly to force these figurative expressions too far, it would equally be a mistake to overlook them. There is a possibility, then, of an early Christian as well as a Hebraic groundwork for subsequent developments of orientation. Perhaps the lesson was soon reinforced by Christian contact with converts from paganism, for, as already shown, we do not get far into the Christian era before we meet with oriented churches and the custom of praying towards the East. During the rite of baptism, too, as we learn from St Jerome, the candidate turned towards the West to renounce the devil, and then faced East to confess allegiance to Christ[538].

This specific inquiry may now be dropped, yet a brief survey of religions and races other than the Jewish will not only elucidate the subject generally, but will cast a light back on the question which we are leaving. We are informed, on good authority, that, in the Holy Eastern Church, orientation is “universal through Asia as well as Europe[539].” Again, with respect to the ancient Coptic churches of Egypt, it is asserted by Butler that the entrance is “almost invariably towards, if not in, the Western side, while the sanctuaries lie always on the Eastern[540].” This authority suggests that the early Christians may have derived the practice of orientation from Egypt. The ancient Egyptian temples afford wide scope for discussion. Sir J. Norman Lockyer and other workers have arranged these temples in groups according to their orientation. One temple, at Karnak, is said to be so planned that it acts as a gigantic telescope which allows a two minutes’ flash at the summer solstice, when the building is found to be accurately oriented[541]. Other temples are so alined that, on the anniversary of the dedication, the rays of the sun fall on the innermost sanctuary, and light up the statues placed therein. The sanctuaries, it should be explained, are situated at the Western end, so that the sun’s beams would shine through the Eastern entrance. Other groups of structures may, perhaps, exhibit “orientation” to Sirius, Spica, Capella, and so on[542]. The evidence goes to show that considerable nicety of observation was required to get the true axis; probably this was done either by watching the shadow cast by a vertical object when the sun was on the meridian, by stretching a cord between two stakes, carefully alined, or by keeping a standard line constantly directed towards the North Pole of the heavens. It has just been stated that Egyptian temples are sources of much controversy, and it would be unwise to attempt further to make clear one complicated question by introducing another fully as perplexing. Merely observing, then, that Sir Norman Lockyer has submitted evidence to show that the orientation of Egyptian temples influenced the temples of Greece, a country which he believes to represent a transitional stage of the custom[543], we again turn our attention to English churches.

The first obvious fact to demand notice is that few of our churches face the true equinoctial East. Over sixty years ago a series of Norfolk churches was examined, when it was found that, at West Beckham, the axis was due East; at St Peter’s, Bampton, so much as 20° North of East; and in a number of other examples the discrepancies varied from 5° to 8°[544]. In 1856, a paper was read by the Rev. W. Airy, in which he stated that, among churches which he had inspected, there were hundreds deviating between 5° and 10° from the true East, six or seven diverged above 20°, and one more than 30°[545]. The late Mr T. W. Shore, whose knowledge of Hampshire was very comprehensive and thorough, found that a line about 20° North of East was favoured in that county, about seventy churches having this inclination[546]. If, then, we assume, for the moment, that the orientation was taken from the rising sun on the day when the building was commenced, the Hampshire figures would indicate that operations were usually begun either about a month after the vernal equinox or a month before the autumnal equinox. This conclusion must not be finally accepted without inquiry. From an old map known as John Leake’s Exact Surveigh (1667), it has been found that hardly any two city churches then existing agreed in their axes, nor with the true East-to-West line. Such is the assertion made in Smith’s Old Topography of London, but I doubt whether the map, which one may see in the Library of the British Museum, will bear the strictest tests. The authority just cited affirms that he made minute measurements for his plan of Westminster and discovered that even such close neighbours as Westminster Abbey, St Margaret’s, and St Catherine’s in the Little Cloister, vary many points from each other[547]. Sir Henry Chauncy had noticed similar variations in Hertfordshire at the close of the sixteenth century, and had explained them on the theory of seasonal alinement just given[548]. It is needless to adduce further examples: let the student take a carefully adjusted compass, and test a number of churches for himself. Like the present writer, he will find that he rarely meets with a chancel which faces exactly East.

If we scan the pages of works on ecclesiology and symbolism we shall find hypotheses regarding orientation in great abundance. Whether or not the Christian practice came directly from Jewish antecedents, concerning which question, as we have seen, there is a doubt, its ultimate origin must be sought among pagan peoples. Yet the old authors were mainly unaware of these beginnings, and they, like the common folk, were driven to invent secondary explanations. And it may well be that the subsidiary beliefs were, at certain periods, fully effective—that builders did orient churches for this or that symbolical reason, unconscious meanwhile of a deeper cause which lay behind, rooted in past heathenism and strengthened by long prescription.

As we follow the tortuous threads of Mediaeval and later traditions, it becomes plain that some of the clues may be dropped as valueless. Thus, because the Tabernacle and the Temple had each the Holy Place towards the West, and because the Jews turned their faces thitherward in prayer, some writers have ingeniously supposed that the early Christians adopted the opposite arrangement, in order to mark the advent of the new Gospel. In like manner, urge these writers, the Day of Rest was changed from the seventh to the first day of the week[549]. This hypothesis respecting orientation, born in the study of the mystic, is too whimsical and lacking in proof to be seriously considered.

Two of the early Fathers submit that, since Christ, while on the Cross, looked towards the West, His followers should therefore turn towards the East to seek His face[550]. Another view is that, at the Second Advent, Christ will appear from the East, hence worship and regard should be paid towards that point of the heavens. The East was the traditional cradle of the human family; the Magi came from the East; in that quarter, relatively to Western Christendom, Christ was born, and from that quarter He ascended to heaven. To the East lies the traditional land to which we return after life’s pilgrimage[551]. St Basil had a curious theory that ancient churches were built towards the equinoctial East in order that worshippers might face the Garden of Eden, the terrestrial Paradise. As Reusens puts it, “nous devons tourner nos regards vers le paradis terrestre que Dieu planta À Eden vers l’orient[552].” The last of these esoteric explanations worth mentioning is that the devout have always been anxious to look towards Jerusalem in prayer; hence altars are built to face that quarter. To this plea, Dr Neale replies that orientation in the Eastern Church is as distinctly an Asiatic as a European practice, hence the idea is self-contradictory[553].

Here we encounter a kind of side-theory which has long been a favourite with liturgical writers. It will be remembered that Durandus laid down the ideal rule of building so as to face the equinoctial East. But we have also seen that this counsel of perfection has been little heeded. The obvious explanation of the exceptions is that the sun’s varying daily position has resulted in diversity of alinement. The obvious, however, not always being the true, other reasons have been sought, and other theories formulated. Hence arose the attractive “Saint’s Day theory,” to the effect that the axis of the building depended on the point of sunrise which corresponded to the day of the patron saint to whom the church was dedicated. So far as I am aware, the idea is not traceable, in writing, earlier than the middle of the seventeenth century, but this origin may perchance be pushed backward as the question is further studied. The following account may supply a clue.

Silas Taylor, otherwise Silas Domville, was a captain in the Parliamentary army, who later devoted himself to antiquarian pursuits. Careless in money matters, he died in debt, and his manuscripts were sold by his creditors at his death, in A.D. 1678. One manuscript contains this passage: “In the days of yore, when a church was to be built, they watched and prayed on the vigil of the dedication, and took that point of the horizon where the sun arose from the East, which makes that variation, so that few [churches] stand true, except those built between the two equinoxes. I have experimented (sic) some churches, and have found the line to point to that part of the horizon where the sun arises on the day of that Saint to whom the church is dedicated[554].” Noting, incidentally, that the expression, “between the two equinoxes,” is evidently a slip, and that the writer means “at the two equinoxes,” we are struck by the likeness between this account and that which is credited to the old Masonic lodges. The Saint’s Day theory is merely an amplification of the earlier Masonic idea, a specific practical mode of orientation being introduced.

The theory just given has been productive of an abiding controversy. It has been sanctioned by several authorities, among others by Sir Norman Lockyer[555]. But, although the subject will bear deeper investigation, there is already sufficient evidence available to prove that the theory is faulty. There exist well-established cases of variation which cannot be forced under the rule. Again, some saints have several festivals allotted to them: St Nicholas has two, St Martin three, St John four, St Peter five, St Mary the Virgin eight[556]. Suppose, moreover, the case of an ancient church dedicated, we will say, to St Barnabas, and further assume that the present-day observer examines the orientation and finds it correct for the day of that saint, June 11th. The theory would still fail, since, by an Act of Parliament passed in the year 1752, eleven days were omitted from the calendar, and the orientation would, by the hypothesis, have been taken on May 30th. In considering ancient churches, therefore, the change in reckoning must be allowed for at the start. To meet the necessities of such an example as that proposed, it must also be granted that the advice of Durandus to build at the equinox was not generally followed. But we have seen that the facts are in accord with such an assumption, so that this minor objection falls to the ground. Once more; arguing from the fact that the village feast, which is usually held on the Saint’s Day, does not always coincide with the dedication festival, Mr Airy concluded that the theory under consideration was invalid. Without prejudicing the general verdict, we notice that this contention is impaired by evidence which proves that the dates of many village feasts have, at various times, been changed to suit local convenience (cf. p. 191 supra).

A more damaging argument is supplied by Mr Airy’s assertion that he had never met with one church pointing to the place of sunrise between the 1st of May and the 9th of August[557]. If this testimony were unassailable, it would seem to indicate at least an approximation to the rule of Durandus—a pushing back of building operations towards early spring (March 22nd) or forwards to autumn (Sept. 22nd). Unfortunately, we do not know the church which, according to Mr Airy, has a deflection of 30°; unless it be situated in the Northern part of Britain it must fall between the 1st of May and the 9th of August. One cannot agree with Mr Airy’s contentions that festival orientation involved too great a knowledge of the variation of sunrise, that the “ancients” [apparently the Mediaeval builders] did not observe such “refinements,” that they had no idea of the sun’s movements “in his course Northward and Southward to the t??pa? ?e?????” [the solstices]. On the contrary, we believe that from very early times rough observations of this kind must have been taken with some frequency. The possession of this knowledge by our forefathers does not, of course, prove the case for the Saint’s Day theory. But between the idea of dedication alinements and Mr Airy’s conclusion that the variations are accidental, and represent attempts to make the fabrics bear to the East as nearly as possible, there is room for a middle opinion. Should Domville’s assertion prove true, then, whatever may have been the practice of the early Fathers, the Mediaeval builders were imbued with the symbolism of festival dedication and alinement, and would not fail to give effect to their ideal. Granted that this practice cuts at the root of the equinoctial precept, there is yet a possibility that, as with so many other customs, uniformity was never attained. Exceptions alone, numerous though they be, do not disprove the theory altogether. A smaller number of positive cases would have force against them. I incline to the belief that the Mediaeval builders followed partially the Saint’s Day principle—perhaps invented it—and that a limited list of churches may conform to the idea. If John Leake’s map, already mentioned, be really accurate, the various City churches dedicated to St Mary have approximately parallel axes, and this evidence, so far as it goes, would be confirmatory. That the explanation covers even the majority of instances is very doubtful. And, at most, it accounts only for the symbolism which produced variations of the axial line, and for the actual routine of the builders. The master reason for orientation, whether equinoctial or solstitial, is to be sought, as we have seen, in much more primitive times.

A modern theory, propounded by Herr H. Wehner, to account for discordant axes of buildings, is based upon the belief that the early Freemasons for centuries possessed, and kept secret, a knowledge of the polarity of the magnetic needle. Should it be ultimately proved that the builders employed the magnetic compass, it is urged that we shall have, in the case of dated churches, a key to the variation of the needle, and, conversely, for those churches whose date is unknown, a guide to their age[558]. That other folk, besides the Freemasons, were acquainted with the compass, is indisputable. A commonly received opinion is, that the mariner’s compass was introduced to Europe from China about the twelfth century, probably through the medium of the Arabs[559]. Strong evidence has, however, been produced to show that the instrument was discovered independently, or “re-discovered,” in Europe. Among other writers who refer unequivocally to the compass is the Englishman, Alexander Neckham (died A.D. 1217), whose description of its properties, as given in two Latin treatises, is unmistakeable[560]. Hence, from the early thirteenth century, and perhaps much before that time, the compass may have been used. But were the builders cognizant of the declination of the needle, and did they make allowance for it? This is extremely improbable. Indeed, it is authoritatively stated that the variation with which we are familiar was discovered by Stephen Burrowes (A.D. 1525-84), when voyaging between the North Cape of Finmark and Vaigatch[561]. This voyage would give a date of about the year 1553. The determinations were afterwards made by Gillebrand, who was professor of geometry at Gresham College[562].

If, then, the compass had been employed by masons previous to A.D. 1553, we should have expected, from their ignorance of its declination, considerable diversities of alinement. For the changes in declination have been very remarkable. Particulars are available dating from the year 1580. In that year, the needle pointed 11° 15´ E.; in 1622, the angle was 6° E.; while in 1657, there was no declination. By the year 1692, a swing of 6° W. had been attained, this rose to 24° 41´ W. in 1818, from which time the variation has steadily diminished[563]. These figures show that from 1580 to 1818 the needle has varied in London by so large an angle as 36° (approx.), and one may reasonably suppose that during the two or three centuries preceding there were similar alterations. The use of the compass, together with ignorance of its declination, would therefore supply a very prosaic explanation of differences in the axial line of churches.

One further attempt at solution may be mentioned. The Rev. J. Griffith, as the result of examinations of ancient megalithic monuments, has submitted that the stones were erected in such positions in order to give a three weeks’ warning of the coming equinox or solstice (cf. p. 192 supra). Arguing from this assumption, and citing the alinements of churches in corroboration, he suggests that a similar interval of preparation was provided for in the orientation of some churches. As a rule—he refers evidently to Welsh examples—the older churches are found to be oriented for May and November, then come buildings alined for the equinox. “I find,” he says, “N. 76° or 77° E., and N. 80° or 81° E., to be rather common orientations[564].” [These figures refer to azimuths; subtracting the number of degrees from 90°, we get the “amplitudes,” 13° or 14° N. and 9° or 10° N., respectively. In other words, Mr Griffith found that many churches are alined at these angles North of East.] With these figures we may compare those of Hampshire, already given. The inference to be drawn from the Welsh churches is that the builders there commenced work at dates rather nearer the equinoxes than did their contemporaries of the South of England. Mr Griffith’s interpretation gives us a theory within a theory, and requires much further study and observation before it can be accepted.

This chapter must not close without an allusion to those curious examples of churches in which the axes of nave and chancel do not correspond, but point to different points of the horizon. Such cases are often loosely described under the general term, “orientation,” but either they really represent double orientations, or, as some contend, the buildings were purposely constructed with an angular twist. The subject is usually treated as if the problem merely concerned the chancel, consequently, in works on ecclesiology, and in the semi-popular language of architects and antiquaries, a church possessing the feature now under consideration is described as having a “weeping,” “twisted,” “deflected,” or “skew chancel.” Manifestly, these expressions beg the question, for, unless it can be proved that nave and chancel are of the same age, and that the Eastern limb was purposely deflected, or that it was deflected at some subsequent re-building, it is possible that the nave is the portion which has been mis-alined. Hence we might equally well speak of a “weeping nave.” The matter is nevertheless unimportant, so long as we do not tacitly allow the popular term to hide the possibility of a re-building or a re-orienting of either limb of the church. By that one phrase, “weeping chancel,” we might be led to credit the old builders with ideas of which they were utterly unconscious, just as

Glancing down the columns of a convenient note-book, one observes, as famous examples of deflected buildings, Lichfield cathedral, which leans to the North, and Canterbury, Ely, and York cathedrals, which incline to the South. Other cases of Northern deflection are Brent Pelham, Hertfordshire (“several degrees North of East”); St Michael’s, Coventry; St Mary’s, York; North Curry, Somerset; St Mary’s, Bridlington, and Whitby Abbey[565].

The instances of deflections towards the South are much more numerous in this country. My list includes Bishopstone and Bosham, Sussex; St Mary’s, Coventry; Holy Trinity, Stratford; Priory church, Tynemouth; West Malling, Kent; St Andrew’s, Lammas, Norfolk (15°); Chipstead and Mickleham, Surrey, and many others. Further lists have been compiled from various sources, but, as the direction of the twist is not usually specified, it would serve no purpose to reproduce the whole catalogue.

Examples of unsymmetrical churches abound on the Continent, but the deflection of these is usually to the North. The Southern bend is not unknown, however, for it is found in the cathedral choirs of Geneva and Stuttgart. Some French chancels even, contrary to common belief, lean to the South. Speaking of the deflection of French churches, M. J. K. Huysmans, in his romance, La CathÉdrale, says, “This twist in the church is to be seen almost everywhere—in St Jean at Poitiers, at Tours and at Reims[566].” M. de Caumont observed the Northerly deflection in more than a hundred churches of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the examples being widely scattered[567]. The deviation, in the case of Bayonne cathedral, is at once noticed by the visitor; Mr Baring-Gould claims this irregularity as the result of English domination and English architects[568].

Returning to our own churches, we find it necessary to clear the ground somewhat. On the one hand, we have the estimate given by the able editors of Durandus, to the effect that probably about one quarter of our English churches have a deflection, and that it is usually towards the South[569]. The present writer dare not hazard the opinion that the proportion is so high, but he feels convinced that the instances are too numerous to be explainable by chance. But consider an experience of an opposite kind. About a dozen years ago, Mr G. Watson, of Penrith, stated that he had examined the plans of nearly four hundred churches as shown on the Ordnance maps, and found either no deflection at all, or, at most, a trifling variation[570]. Precisely what constitutes a trifling variation we are not told, though it may be freely admitted that the angle is often very slight. Thus, Mr W. J. Maxton and myself found that the Lady Chapel of St Saviour’s, Southwark, inclined but a degree or two East of the nave, yet surely, even this trivial deflection could have been avoided by the architect, had it been desired. It has been asserted, apparently with some reason, that York cathedral, already cited as a “leaning” edifice, has no deflection[571], and to this the reply has been given that the variation would be obvious on a good ground-plan[572]. There is no need to argue about these examples in detail, because there exist sufficient cases of undisputed deflection.

The “skew chancel” is not confined to one epoch. Yet it is submitted that we have no marked examples before A.D. 1200. The feature is most observable in churches of the time of Edward III. It is said to be doubtful whether any instance could be adduced from the Renaissance period of building; the apparent exception in the church St Mary Magdalen, Taunton, being of later date[573]. That the feature has a certain fixity is shown in the case of St Aldate, Oxford, where it exists in spite of the restoration made in 1863[574]. A late example of the “twisted” ground-plan, which is valueless as regards the present discussion, occurs in St Peter’s of the Vatican. Here we have a deflection of some feet, due to an architect’s blunder, when the Greek cross was formed into a Latin one by prolonging the nave[575].

Admitting, as we are compelled by the facts to admit, that there exist many undoubted examples of skew chancels, we next look for an interpretation. Two schools of thought, the symbolist and the rationalist, are soon encountered. The case presented by the rationalist group of authorities may be thus summarized; deflection is the result either of carelessness or of differences in the dates of building the nave and the chancel respectively. We will consider first the explanation involved in the question of dates. It is generally believed that the choir of a church was often consecrated as soon as it was completed, the consecration of the nave or vestibule being held over until that part of the building was, in turn, ready for use. For instance, as Mr Parker pointed out, the Norman choir and transepts of the earlier Westminster Abbey are known to have been consecrated in A.D. 1065, but the nave, if one were ever added, was probably not finished until the twelfth century. Separate alinements may, in such cases, have been set out, and slight errors have been made during the operation. Again, in some of the churches which show inharmonious alinements, the nave and the choir manifestly belong to different epochs, one or other portion having been rebuilt. The architect of the later period unconsciously took an orientation which deviated from the first axis, or, according to the alternative view, he was actually unable to make the axes correspond. If we assume that he employed a magnetic compass, there is a third possibility of error in the variation of that instrument. But all these hypothetical causes of miscalculation are removed if we attach weight to a simple suggestion which has been made by one or two writers. It is submitted that the axis of the nave or the choir, whichever portion was already standing, would probably be hidden from the mason’s view, through the temporary blocking up of the chancel arch. This might render harmonious alinement a task of some difficulty[576]. It has been averred that every case of deflection occurs in a church which has been partially rebuilt; hence the lack of agreement. It is difficult to say whether this statement is absolutely correct, but it seems to be true in many instances. Even so, why are the misalinements practically confined to re-buildings of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries?

Again, it is asserted that many cases of deflection were discovered only when, in modern times, the rood-screen was, for one reason or another, taken down. In such instances, it is argued, the mason would have his standard line concealed while setting out the new section of the building. But, as we shall shortly see, this fact about the rood-screen may be interpreted in another way. If we accept the Saint’s Day theory, there remains the possibility of error due to the re-dedication, or plural dedication, of churches. The difference might then conceivably originate without any re-building of the fabric. Mr Airy cites the case of Clapham, Bedfordshire. A better known example, possibly, is found in Whitby Abbey. The building, as a whole, is dedicated to St Peter and St Hilda jointly—a fact proved by the Abbey seal. St Peter’s Day is on the 29th of June, and St Hilda’s on the 25th of August[577]; it was therefore tentatively submitted that there have been two dedications for the existing building. At this point we are thrown back on the “two-period” theory, for the Abbey choir dates from the late twelfth century, while the nave, which is considered to be the deflected limb, belongs to the mid-fourteenth century. Yet why should the axis of the nave lie nine feet North of the choir line? Canon Atkinson, who carefully investigated this example, expressed the result thus: the axis of the nave diverges from true East and West by 14°·5, that of the choir by 9°·7. He adds this statement: “That it was planned so requires no elaborate proof[578].” The parish church of Whitby, St Mary’s, which is hard by, and which belongs to the twelfth century, runs exactly parallel to the Abbey choir. Why, again, assuming the theory of separate dedications, should the nave be assigned to one saint, and the choir to another[579]?

This query leads us to consider, for a moment, the subject of dedication to two, or even three patron saints. Miss Frances Arnold-Forster, in her Studies in Church Dedications, suggests several reasons for “twofold ascriptions[580].” The two names may represent that of the founder and that of the patron saint. The Lady chapel or chancel may have been placed under the invocation of one patron, and the rest of the building under another. Or, the founder may have deliberately intended to have a dual dedication. Again, when a church was rebuilt and re-dedicated, a new name may have taken its place alongside the old; such re-naming is thought to have been of frequent occurrence, especially in Cornwall. Lastly, the double dedication may be due to the union and consolidation of two parishes, as is the case with the large majority of our City churches.

Now, with respect to Whitby, we seem to have obtained a clue to the dedication difficulty, at least. The Rev. Canon G. Austen, Rector of Whitby, informs me that the Saxon Abbey was dedicated to St Peter alone. Though somewhat contrary to popular belief, it must be accepted as a proof that the ascription to St Hilda was a later addition. Let us suppose that St Hilda’s name was introduced at one or other of the rebuildings of the Abbey; and let us assume that there was a second formal dedication. This admission does not, perforce, imply our acceptance of the Saint’s Day theory as explaining the discordant alinements. Else we should expect to find many more cases of deflection among the churches with double dedications. Nor, again, does the fact of re-dedication necessarily support the notion that the builder was incapable of setting out a straight line. In short, the solution tendered enforces the very difficulties which it professes to dispel. If it can be clearly shown beyond dispute how the Mediaevalists obtained their axial line, then the theory that the misalinement is the result of re-dedication will have to be faced seriously. Until that time comes, the theory is little more than a fair surmise. As a slight contribution to the inquiry, and as a possible instance of the architect’s incapacity, the case of Leatherhead parish church may be cited. Here the tower is deflected about 3´·6´´ from the axis of the nave, while the nave diverges from the chancel. The church is dedicated to St Mary and St Nicholas, but whether there is further connection between the two facts is uncertain. It was a visit to this church which led Dr J. C. Cox to refer to “symbolic absurdity,” and the “leaning-head” theory as being propounded by “ill-instructed persons.” His own explanation of the divergences is twofold: the “endeavours to obtain the true East at differing periods of the year,” and “the well-known carelessness of Mediaeval builders in following out a true square[581].”

We next consider the arguments of the symbolists. Several solutions are offered by these authorities, though there is no great divergence of fundamental ideas. The favourite explanation, as just hinted, is that Christ, while on the Cross, faced Westwards, and that His head leaned towards the left, or South side. Another school teaches that the inclination was to the North, and, as we have already seen, such Continental churches as have varying axes, are deflected towards that point. In roods, it may be noted, the head is usually made to fall towards the left[582]. The “leaning-head” theory was accepted by Dr Rock. M. Huysmans has evidently paid so much attention to this phase of the question that he may be again quoted. Describing the fine abbey church of Preuilly-sur-Claise, in Touraine, he declares that the builders gave life to the stones. In its serpentine line, in the perspective of its aisles, and the obliquity of its vaulting, the church gives an allegorical presentment of Our Lord on the Cross, and perpetuates “the never-to-be-forgotten moment between the ‘Sitio’ and the ‘Consummatum est’[583].” M. Huysmans mentions, with reserve, the opinion of some writers, that the bent line occasionally represents the body of a saint instead of that of the Saviour; thus the curved axis of St Savin is supposed to be symbolical of the wheel which was the instrument of martyrdom of the saint[584].

There are not lacking authorities who, like Dr Cox, spurn these theories as idle fancies. “Symbolism!” exclaimed Welby Pugin, when viewing a twisted chancel in Leicestershire, “Pack of nonsense: it was because they didn’t know how to build straight[585].” This summary verdict, told by a person who heard it delivered, may, however, be countered by an opinion in the opposite sense, uttered by the same architect, and equally well attested. Asked about the bend in the nave at Whitby Abbey, which has just been mentioned, Pugin declared that it signified that the debt of redemption had been paid; “for, after the Saviour had expired on the Cross, his head would naturally lean or incline to one side[586].” Which of Pugin’s two opinions is the earlier cannot be ascertained, but even if antagonism to the “leaning head” theory were representative of his maturer judgement, he surely could not pretend that the deflection can always be ascribed to a blunder. Mr Parker himself, who advanced the theory that the twist might be due to the consecration of a building before its completion, admitted that many cases of deflection are incapable of a constructional explanation[587]. One may well ask whether the architects who reared our magnificent Gothic cathedrals, edifices whose every part, when untouched by the restorer, exhibits skill in design and workmanship, were really unable to build straight. What of the deflection at St Ouen, in the city of Rouen, a building which Fergusson enthusiastically declares was “beyond comparison the most beautiful and most perfect of the abbey edifices of France[588]?” And, coming to meaner structures, dare we say that a discrepancy of 5° or 10° is likely to be the result of mere carelessness? One might as reasonably argue that the existence of a “low side window,” with its deviations of size, shape, and position, indicates a clumsy arrangement of fenestration.

Rebutting arguments against the “theory of error” may be urged on broad grounds. We have seen that in the greater number of instances, our undeflected buildings bear to the North of the equinoctial point, indicating, if we suppose a calendar alinement at sunrise, that work was begun either a little after the advent of spring, or, less probably, a little before the autumnal equinox. Consider, then, the case of a church of which one member is to be rebuilt. Under similar conditions of starting work, the assumed error in direction might be on either side of the axis. We might perhaps conclude that it would actually tend to be on the Northern side of that axis—a Northern deviation added to a Northern deviation—for, in spite of liturgical rules, a liking for summer orientations (North of East) appears to have been very common. But, not to press this probability, it is at least claimable that, on a balance of instances, the deflections, if due to clumsy workmanship, would range themselves in equal numbers North and South of the earlier alinement. But the fact remains that the Southern variations form the rule, and we are driven to the belief that they are Southern by reason of design.

This leads us to consider an hypothesis which embraces a purpose more aesthetic than symbolical. Put shortly, this hypothesis is, that the bend was designed to produce an artistic illusion—a perspective effect whereby a building appeared to be longer than it actually was. Thus, if one of the side walls of a church with a “weeping chancel” be viewed from the Western entrance, an impression of greater length and of undefined distance is received by the spectator. Again, where a rood screen exists, the bend in the wall, not a pleasing feature, considered separately, would be concealed, but a change in the direction in a lofty roof would still produce an illusion that the church is indefinitely extended. Moreover, as the beholder caught a glimpse of a portion of the sanctuary window, which was often richly ornamented, both in form and in colour, the beauty of the vista was much enhanced. On this hypothesis, the screen, instead of being the immediate cause of the inclined axis, was an accessory to a complete design, a feature of which the effect was foreseen and provided for. To round off this question, it should be added that not many relics of screen-work exist which belong to a period earlier than the fourteenth century. A few specimens of thirteenth century work remain, and doubtless others were swept away at the Reformation, but most of the examples which have come down to us are assignable to the fifteenth century[589]. In short, the middle stage of the development of rood-lofts seems to correspond roughly with the period in which deflection is most commonly observable. This coincidence does not, indeed, solve the riddle, since each of the opposing schools may produce it as testimony.

Seeing that the “aesthetic theory” is unsupported by documentary proof, evidence must be sought in the possible existence of similar contrivances associated with other architectural features. Can such evidence be produced? The reply is in the affirmative. As one enters certain Egyptian temples, he perceives a gradual transition from light to darkness. This effect is brought about by the forced ascent of a few steps, combined with a lowering of the roof; thus the sense of gloom and mystery increases as the worshipper moves forward[590]. Again, we find that, in the columns of the Parthenon and other Greek buildings, there is an entasis, or slight convexity of outline, perchance not more than the length of a finger nail, yet sufficient to prevent the appearance of hollowness. The Parthenon is said to possess scarcely a vertical or a horizontal line throughout the whole design. The columns lean a little inwards, the corners incline diagonally, the entablature is curved and recedes in the centre[591]. Such subtle niceties, trivial when taken singly, prove that, in Classical times at least, the aesthetic phase of architecture was not ignored. The next question is, Can parallel instances of design be observed in our own country? The Norman church of Barfreston, Kent, may be cited. In this building, the axes of the nave and chancel correspond, but the walls of the chancel are so built that this portion appears to incline about 5° North. One can hardly find a rectangle in the plan of the church—“everything is oblique[592],” and apparently oblique by intention. Again, the South arcade of the nave of Scarborough parish church has a distinct curve, as if deliberately thus planned. In the case of Whitby Abbey, before cited, Canon Atkinson discovered another intentional irregularity. The West wall of the North transept projects into the interior at least a foot more than does the East wall. The view, being thus interrupted by the broken line, has a pleasing effect upon the mind of the spectator. Consider, too, the churches, to be met with in many a village, in which the pillars and mouldings of the Northern arcade are simpler than those of the Southern, the Northern windows less rich in tracery, the specimens of painted glass more sombre in motive and execution. It will be understood that a reservation must be made for those churches in which the South arcade is of slightly later date than the North. The symbolism of the Northern aspect of Nature must have been clearly appreciated for these conditions to have arisen (see p. 334 infra). Or, take the feature just alluded to as entasis, by which the optical illusion of hollowness in upright lines is corrected. Many of our spires exhibit this convexity. Mr Francis Bond, a high authority on such matters, states that the entasis probably does not exceed 1 inch for 60 feet in our best examples of Gothic spires. The important point to notice is, that the curvature exists as the result of design. True, it has been mooted whether the bulging is not an incidental consequence of a peculiar method of building, but this idea is not commonly accepted, nor does it seem to satisfy the conditions of the problem. Sometimes, as in the Lincolnshire spires of Caythorpe and Welbourn, and of Glinton (Northants), the limit just given is greatly exceeded, with results not at all pleasing to the eye[593]. Caythorpe spire, once grotesque with its “sugar loaf” protuberance, exhibits the familiar curve even after being shortened and rebuilt[594]. That there appears to be an artistic necessity for the convex treatment, or for some equivalent device, is exemplified once more in the steeple at Louth. There, the impression of concavity is prevented by increasing the projection of the crockets about one-third of the way up the spire[595]. Again, there is the artistic disposition and gradation of ornament, the delicate, enriched carvings being reserved for the parts of the building near the eye, while a “greater effective quantity” is provided in the upper parts, as on pinnacles and parapets. Perhaps the reader will admit that there is no need to press further the plea of aesthetic artifices on the part of the early builders. It is, at least, conceivable that our English masons understood the value and charm of subtle suggestions of spaciousness and mystery. To elaborate their art, and to conceal it, and to keep

may well have been one of the golden rules of the Gothic architect. For the trained eyes of the sympathetic beholder admire “both what they half create, and half perceive,” and they will find privileged pleasures in sublimities of form and colour.

Nevertheless, in the absence of positive testimony that our early builders were actuated by artistic principles such as those just described, there is no justification for putting the case a whit more strongly. Is there, indeed, any evidence at all for the intentional designing of deflected churches? St Charles Borromeo (A.D. 1538-1584) has been cited as recommending deflection towards the South, if deflection be necessary[596]. The reference is probably the result of misunderstanding St Charles’s meaning, and, in that case, the claim is vitiated. What the writer actually required was, that the High Chapel (cappella) should look directly East, equinoctial East. Should dwellings exist which obscured the view, that fact did not relieve the builder of his responsibility. If the axis of the building must be turned, it should be towards the South, and not towards the North. The passage seems to allude to the church as a whole, not to the High Chapel, but I admit that there is some little ambiguity[597].

Attention has been drawn by Mr W. F. Hobson to an early allusion to orientation, involving, as he considers, the principle of deflection also. The passage occurs in the writings of St Paulinus of Nola, c. A.D. 420. Speaking of a church which he had built, St Paulinus remarks, “Prospectus basilicae vero non, ut usitatior mos est, Orientem spectat, sed ad Domini mei B. Felicis basilicam pertinent Memoriam ejus aspiciens[598].” The statement is that the outlook of the church was not directed towards the East, following the more common practice, but towards a certain basilica, containing a particular tomb, that of the martyred presbyter, St Felix. That we have here an early instance of orientation is manifest, but whether “aspiciens” may be interpreted so as to prove deflection is doubtful. It is, however, possible that while the church had its general alinement to the sacred basilica, there was a bend or slant which caused the “chancel”—speaking conventionally—to face the monument. Mr Hobson urges that, from orientation towards a tomb and orientation for a Saint’s Day there is but a slight transition[599].

We will now attempt to sum up the evidence. Skew chancels were, in some cases at least, due to carelessness or unskilfulness. A few deflections seem to have been caused by the architect’s dislike to build on old foundations—a prejudice felt by Wren in re-building St Paul’s. The Saint’s Day theory may hold for some examples, since a few positive instances of observance, if these can be produced, cannot be nullified even by many negative exceptions. As to the symbolism of the leaning head, whimsical though it may at first sight appear, one cannot dismiss it as mere folly. Mediaeval symbolism was no dead art, and it is visible in many guises, though to a less extent than its advocates would insist. Unless, therefore, we are to believe that symbolical explanation is altogether an after-thought—the creation of cultured ecclesiastics—we have to find a reason for its existence in Mediaeval days. And, if the idea be so old as the foundation of our finest churches, we may conjecture that it received an embodiment in architecture. Lastly, the theory of artistic design, though least advocated, seems most in consonance with all the facts. The deflection does cause an agreeable optical illusion; and it is probable that this was intended. While we search in vain for some early document to throw a glimmering of light on the problem, we are bound to consider all tentative solutions unsatisfactory. He would be a bold man who should unhesitatingly affirm that one explanation will meet every case, and hardier still would be the prosaic architect who should dismiss every instance of deflection as the result of pure chance or blundering ignorance.