Byways in British Archaeology

Afterwards, the throwing in of handfuls of earth—and perhaps of ashes also (cf. p. 290 supra, concerning charcoal)—was a rite in which many took part, the antiphonal service being chanted during the act. In the later Mediaeval period the priest seems largely to have usurped the office. The Reformation allotted the function once more to the mourners in general, at least nominally, and on rare occasions the right is still exercised. The original meaning is forgotten, and symbolism is evoked to explain the practice. And just as some writers are content to see, in the ashes, merely a symbol of penitence and humiliation, as illustrated in the old Ash Wednesday observances, so other authorities, with what appears to be a short view, deem the earth simply typical of man’s reputed origin and mortality: Hodie mihi, cras tibi. It seems more in accord with facts to recognize the bit of soil thrown into the grave as a vestigial proof of the continuity of habit, weakened to some degree because the ceremony, instead of being generally shared by the mourners, is performed vicariously by the sexton.

The next survival to claim our attention is illustrated by the Lancashire custom, in vogue not further back than the year 1888, of sending a small sheaf of wheat to be distributed, at the time of the funeral, to the relatives of the deceased person[810]. At once the words of the Burial Service, and the Scriptural allusion to the “corn of wheat,” come to mind[811]. The ancient Christians considered wheat to be a symbol of the resurrection of the body, and this idea is exemplified on a gem described by De Montfaucon. The ear of wheat, carved in wood or stone, seems to perpetuate an old pagan belief. The custom, in varied forms, is as widespread as it is time-honoured. At a modern Greek funeral two men were observed carrying each a dish of parboiled wheat to be deposited over the corpse[812]. General Pitt-Rivers quotes Professor Pearson to the effect that the burning of corn on graves was forbidden by the Church in Saxon times[813]. This ban implies that the practice had its roots in pagan soil, so that all that the Christians did was to change the underlying principle. General Pitt-Rivers himself found ears of corn mixed with the sand near a Romano-British grave which contained a skeleton, and he also recorded the finding of charred wheat in contiguity with skeletons belonging probably to the Roman period[814]. Closely connected with these observances is the practice of placing corn and other articles of food on the grave. Instances are multitudinous.

In the recesses of the Pamirs, corn, berries, and flowers are the offerings[815]; the Spaniards deposit bread and wine on the anniversary of death; the Bulgarians hold a special Feast of the Dead on Palm Sunday, and eat the remains of the funeral offerings[816]. The subject is, indeed, wide and complicated. At the back of the attenuated ceremony of to-day lies the primitive belief in the life of the dead, with the consequent feasts and sacrifices. The inquiry, upon which we cannot now enter, soon leads us into an investigation of the corn-gods and “gods of cultivation,” which are associated with the religions of primitive folk. For a discussion of these matters, the reader is referred to the exhaustive works of Professor Frazer and Mr Grant Allen.

With respect to the burial feasts of the prehistoric period, the line of descent might be easily traced. The funeral suppers given by the Greeks and Romans to the relatives of a dead person are frequently referred to by classical authors. Similar feasts are mentioned by our English writers from the time of Robert de Brunne (fl. A.D. 1288-1338) onwards[817]. Huge repasts—shall we not say orgies?—continued in fashion until the eighteenth century at least. Brand relates that, at the funeral of a Highland lord in 1725, not fewer than 100 black cattle and 300 sheep were slain “for the entertainment of the company[818].” Nowadays the feast has dwindled, in most localities, to a glass of wine and a biscuit. But there have been some amazing exceptions. Canon Atkinson, in the earlier years of his incumbency at Danby-in-Cleveland, about the middle of the nineteenth century, found that the “funeral bak’d meats” were held in high esteem. On the death of a villager of importance, invitations were sent out “not merely by the score, but by the hundred. I have myself counted,” he says, “more than three hundred seated in the church on at least four, if not five, different occasions. And the rule is, and, still more, was, that the preponderating majority of these ‘went to the burial’ at the house where the corpse lay, beginning at ten o’clock and continuing to drop in, according to convenience or distance to be traversed, throughout the morning and afternoon till it became time to ‘lift the body’ and make a start for the church.

And all these were fed—entertained, rather—at the house of mourning, if it chanced to be that of one of the principal inhabitants.” All day long there were relays of visitors, from a dozen up to a score, smoking and drinking at the house[819]. During the latter part of the entertainment glasses of wine were handed round, with crisp cakes, colloquially known as “averils” or “averil bread[820].” Canon Atkinson traced this word thus: averil, avril, then by transposition, arvil or arvel (= heir-ale). This “heir-ale,” or succession-ale, thus stands for the feast at which the heirs drank themselves into their father’s land. It is interesting to note that this etymology is supported by the highest authorities—for example, by the New Oxford Dictionary.

Whilst insisting on the continuity of custom and folk-memory, as proved by survivals, it would be very unwise to ignore the changes which have been gradually taking place since the Barrow period. Looking, for the moment, at extreme cases, the actual result appears to reveal a wide gap, and for the sake of contrast, I will quote Mr Grant Allen’s fanciful description of the burial of a chieftain in a long barrow on Ogbury Downs, Wiltshire. The passage is long and somewhat ornate, but, because it is probably correct in most of the details, and helps us to “visualize the past,” it shall be given in full. “I saw them bear aloft, with beating of breasts and loud gesticulations, the bent corpse of their dead chieftain: I saw the terrified and fainting wives haled along by thongs of raw oxhide, and the weeping prisoners driven passively like sheep to the slaughter: I saw the fearful orgy of massacre and rapine around the open tumulus, the wild priest shattering with his gleaming tomahawk the skulls of his victims, the fire of gorse and low brushwood prepared to roast them, the heads and feet flung carelessly on the top of the yet uncovered stone chamber, the awful dance of blood-stained cannibals around the mangled remains of men and oxen, and, finally, the long task of heaping up above the stone hut of the dead king the earthen mound that was never again to be opened to the light of day till, ten thousand years later, we modern Britons invaded with our prying, sacrilegious mattock the sacred privacy of the cannibal ghost[821].”

A curious side-question is raised by this mention of funeral feasts—the difficulty sometimes felt in accounting for the abundance of teeth, human and non-human, in ancient graves. Granted, that the heads of animals might be thrown into the grave as uneatable, or, perchance, as having accredited virtues, and granted, again, that teeth are among the most durable portions of a skeleton, the facts are occasionally puzzling. Baron de Baye suggests that the heads of sacrificial animals—he is referring to the Saxon period—were fixed on large stakes as offerings to the gods, and that, as the heads decayed, the teeth became detached, and were scattered over the ground, to be accidentally mixed with the soil when a fresh burial took place[822]. The explanation may be partially true, but one thinks that a simpler solution is at hand, in the successive interments and sacrifices which would be associated with one grave. This would lead to inevitable mingling of bones and teeth, and if, as is probable, the skeletons of the dead were often kept some time before they were buried, the confusion would be increased. This would account for the numbers of human teeth found in the Late-Celtic cemetery at Harlyn Bay, not corresponding to the skeletons with which they were associated. In one cist there were twenty-three teeth which did not belong to that particular interment[823]. Though putting forward the prosaic explanation of unintentional mixture, I think that there is another phase of the question—the superstitious.

Among primitive folk there is commonly a belief in the efficacy of human bones as talismans. The atlas and axis bones of the neck have been preserved for this purpose, and the skull especially has been treasured and worshipped[824]. It is very probable that pieces of human skulls which had, either in life or after death, undergone the operation of trepanning, were kept as mascots. And, remembering the part played by teeth in folk-lore and superstition, one is compelled to retain an open mind on the subject of teeth found in ancient graves. Messrs Spencer and Gillen have described, in a vivid manner, the ceremony of knocking out the teeth, as performed by some of the tribes of Central Australia. The operation is accompanied by the drinking of blood as an act of fealty, the displaced teeth being pounded, laid on a scrap of meat, and eaten by a specified relative[825]. Again, in Cornwall, the very county, as it happens, in which Harlyn Bay is situated, teeth were formerly stolen from the coffins under the floors of churches and sold as charms against disease[826]. According to the Devonshire superstition, a tooth bitten out of a churchyard skull will ward off toothache, and the Shropshire peasant has a similar legend[827]. All over England we hear of the fancy for preserving or ceremonially burning teeth which have been extracted.

Somersetshire women would hide the teeth in their hair[828], but more usually, the teeth, like the parings of the nails and locks of hair, are burnt, lest they should fall into the hands of an enemy who, by “sympathetic magic,” might injure the whole body of the owner[829]. The most suggestive evidence, however, comes from Yorkshire, Derbyshire, and Cornwall. In those counties all the teeth shed during a person’s lifetime were saved and placed in his coffin, being “required at the Resurrection.” Authentic instances are on record[830].

We have now surveyed, however inadequately, our modes of burial, the forms of the graves, the gifts deposited with the dead, and funeral feasts, and incidentally we have noticed a number of superstitions. We may fittingly terminate the discussion by glancing at the closing ceremony of a modern funeral—the placing of flowers on the grave. The practice has its aesthetic as well as its religious side, and represents the refinement of ideas which are really very ancient. Even in the time of Durandus, the funeral evergreens were deemed to be symbolical only[831]. The rite of strewing graves with flowers was symbolical, too, among the Romans. Yet this kindly ceremony belongs, in the first place, to the pre-Christian age[832], and we are bound to believe that the original objects scattered over the dead were neither evergreens nor flowers. Perhaps these prototypes were the flints and shards of which we have spoken. These “forgotten things, long cast behind,” have reappeared, in a more attractive guise, and, consecrated by time, have secured a firm hold in the sentiments of European nations.