Byways in British Archaeology

Fig. 38. Pre-conquest dial-stone, Bishopstone church, Sussex. The porch, as a whole, is believed to be of Saxon date; it contains a little long-and-short work. The chevron ornament, under the pediment, is evidently the later work of Norman artificers (c. A.D. 1120). An enlargement of the dial is given in Fig. 39.

above an angle of the chancel at Alnwick, in Northumberland, was employed to signal an alarm[387]. The branks, or scold’s bridles, barbarous relics of an earlier time, of which some thirteen are still believed to exist in Cheshire alone, seem to have been occasionally stored in churches. At least, the famous specimen at Walton-on-the-Thames, Surrey, is to be found in the vestry of the church. In several churches one may notice the old manual fire-engine placed under the church tower, and we may feel sure that its valuable aid was not confined to fires which broke out in the church. In short, we can scarcely limit the possible conveniences which were centred around the church fabric. Chained books and libraries, which were particularly numerous; records of charitable bequests; the registers with their details of the lives of individual villagers; the churchyard monumental records; nay, the reputation of the curative simples of the very walls—pellitory, whitlow grass, and spleenwort; who shall tell of all these? There is no doubt that decorative or symbolical considerations were often uppermost in the minds of later designers. The gilded weathercock was given a religious significance, though its origin may have been pagan; the dial bore an appropriate motto. But no ulterior purpose, either artistic or symbolical, is connected with the village stocks or the pillory. These instruments were severely practical.

Fig. 39. Bishopstone dial, enlarged. The five principal Day Hours, 6, 9, 12, 3, 6 o’clock, are shown by slightly prolonged lines with cruciform terminations. The first and last radii are drawn at a slight angle with the diameter. The upper semicircle contains a cross, and is surrounded with an ornamental border, usually described, and figured, as a fret; close examination seems to show that it is billet work in low relief. It is not known to whom the name Eadric refers: he was probably an ecclesiastic.

Seeing that courts were formerly held in the church, it must have been expedient to have the stocks fixed near the place of trial, so that prisoners might quickly be placed where village life was busiest. One cannot go so far as to assert, with some writers, that the churchyard was the usual situation for these instruments. If the statement were amended so as to read, “in or near the churchyard,” it would command assent. In the majority of instances, the stocks which remain seem to be in the village street, or on the village green, though generally not a stone’s throw from the church. At Brading, Isle of Wight, they are housed in a building near the entrance to the churchyard. At Hessle and Kirk Ella, in Yorkshire, and at South Harting, in Sussex, they are placed by the church gate; in the Surrey villages of Alfold and Shalford, as well as at Brent Pelham, in Hertford[388], they occupy a like position. The weather-worn stocks of Shalford are shown in Fig. 40. The specimen at Kilham, Yorkshire, stands against the churchyard wall; while about 100 yards away, the old bull-ring may be seen[389]. Haveringatte-Bower, in Essex, has its stocks set up by the side of the green under an immense hollow elm, opposite to a whipping-post. In the following places the stocks are also adjacent to the churchyard: Abinger, Surrey (on the green); Walton-on-the-Hill, near Liverpool[390]; Waltham Abbey, Essex[391]; Weston-under-Redcastle, Salop[392]; and, formerly, Prestbury, Gloucestershire[393]. Within the churchyard itself we have examples at Burnsall, Yorkshire;

Mottistone, Isle of Wight; and Crowle, in Lincolnshire. The stocks at Mottistone are very dilapidated; those at Crowle have been used within living memory[394]. Formerly stocks were kept in the Minster Yard at York, and there was a movable pair in the yard at Beverley Minster[395]. Lastly, to conclude this fragmentary list, we notice the stocks of Northorpe, Lincolnshire, which were kept in the church tower[396].

Most of the stocks which remain are perhaps not remarkably ancient. The institution, however, has a long history. Stocks are referred to in a priory charter, dated A.D. 1324, under the name of cippi. In the statute 25 Edward III. 1350, they appear as coppes; while by 7 Henry VI., c. 17, every village or town is to provide itself with a pair of stocks[397]. We can easily picture for ourselves the Mediaeval village with its institutions massed together as closely as possible around a central spot. Castle, church, court-house, tithe-barn, playing green and archery ground; the cross and the yew; the stocks and pillory; the pound and the maypole, were complementary to the usual group of farmsteads and cottages, and helped to relieve a landscape which in the pre-enclosure period was often quiet and bare. We may see baron and priest, representing the civil and the ecclesiastical powers, sitting side by side, to arrange feudal services, tolls, and holidays, to allocate tithes and settle disputes, to assess fines and declare sentences; while ever at hand waited the instruments of punishment.

Here we may make reference to a very curious relic of the old courts. Chained to the wall of the vestry in Wateringbury church, in Kent, is an official mace known locally as the “Dumb borsholder” (pr. buzzelder) of Chart. This wooden staff, which is a little over three feet in length, is surmounted by an iron ring, while the lower end is tipped with a square iron spike. At the annual court leet, the head man of the tithing of Pizein Well, in the manor of Chart, appeared before the meeting bearing this staff. Thus armed, and provided with the necessary warrant, he might search for goods unlawfully concealed. The tradition runs that he was empowered to break in, by means of the iron spike, the doors of those who resisted his authority. The Wateringbury mace, which is probably the symbolical successor of the more warlike clubs employed in the old Saxon moots, was in use down to A.D. 1748[398].

In speaking of the so-called parvise, it was incidentally stated that documents were sometimes preserved in that chamber. The storage of deeds and documents in churches has a history both ancient and continuous. The scope of the underlying principle is much wider than the needs of any particular social or political system, whether the framework of that system be manorial or extra-manorial. From the foundation of the Christian church in Britain the priest seems to have been a kind of banker, just as, in an informal manner, he was the village notary. An attenuated survival of the old order of things is seen in the rubric appended to “The Order for the Visitation of the Sick,” in our modern Prayer Book. The minister is told to admonish the sick man to make his will. More than this: men are often to be “put in remembrance” to settle all such business “whilst they are in health.” On the fly-leaves of the ancient altar-books were written various kinds of memoranda referring to sales and other transactions. An appeal to an entry in a “Christ’s Book,” or a “Gospel Book,” as representing a genuine legal record, was considered decisive[399]. Again, the manumission of slaves, an act of a semi-legal character, was probably performed at the altar, and an entry of the proceedings was made in the “church-book[400].” Of the preservation of Court Rolls in churches, we have numerous instances, ranging from the time of Canute onwards. The latest record at hand is that of the Manor of Howden, Yorkshire, the rolls of which were retained in the parish church so recently as A.D. 1809[401].

There can be little doubt that some of the old oaken church chests (Figs. 41, 42, 50) strongly clamped with iron, each furnished with an exceedingly elaborate, though clumsy, arrangement of locks, were utilized for keeping, not only the church books, registers, and vestments, but many of the parchments and manuscripts of which we are speaking. It is asserted that the ordinary parish church possessed two or three chests; where one alone has been preserved to hold the registers and other documents, it is usually the least attractive and valuable. The specimen from Llanelian in Denbigh (Fig. 41) is hewn from a single block of wood. The chest from Rainham in Essex (Fig. 42) is

handsomely carved with ornament of the Perpendicular period. It was not the provision of locks and bolts alone which gave security: stronger far was the acknowledged repute of the building itself, and the dread of the consequences of sacrilege. Behind the high altar of St Paul’s Cathedral there was formerly such a chest, in which deeds were protected[402]. Some of the remaining church coffers are skilfully carved and afford good examples of the decorative art of the architectural period to which they belong[403]. The subject merits separate examination, but the most that can be done here is to remind the reader of the broad outlines. The fact that wills were commonly deposited for safety in ecclesiastical buildings, is too well known to require emphasis. The huge collections of wills in the cathedrals of Gloucester and York, for example, at once spring to memory. We may also recall the right of sanctuary, which was vested in the church and the churchyard. Again, the Synod of Westminster, A.D. 1142, granted certain immunities, probably freedom from seizure for debt, to ploughs and other agricultural implements placed in the churchyard. All these details agree well with the theories of social convenience and unwritten religious compact.

We commenced our survey by inspecting the towers of certain churches, and afterwards, it will be remembered, we began to discuss the secular uses of the nave. This has led us to examine some historical facts connected with the church porch, which, ecclesiastically, as well as architecturally, is an integral part of the building. Indeed, it was this very inability to separate the porch from the fabric as a whole which compelled us to linger by the way. We must now retrace our steps in order to garner some further details respecting the nave, and to substantiate the assertion that the body of the church was not devoted to worship alone. One cardinal fact to be borne in mind is, that the nave was essentially the property of the parishioners, who were liable for its repair, in the same way that the rector was responsible for the upkeep of the chancel. This proposition is well attested by the canons of the church, and by all ecclesiastical writers of repute. Partly as a consequence of this separation of interests, and partly in deference to the accepted ethics of both the pre-Norman and post-Norman periods, the nave was allowed to be put to a variety of uses. In the words of Jeaffreson, “The Mediaeval nave, by turns, or simultaneously,

Fig. 43. Fourteenth century barn, Barton Farm, Bradford-on-Avon, Wiltshire. From the South-West. The barn exhibits numerous Gothic features of the period; angle buttresses, transept-like porches, gable crosses, &c. The windows, of which those at the ends are cruciform, are narrow slits, with wide splays internally. The Glastonbury barn is one of the finest in the country; the parochial tithe-barn was a much smaller building.

was a public-hall, a theatre, a warehouse, a market, a court of justice, and a place of worship; but the chancel was rigidly reserved for the mysteries and sublime offices of priestly service[404].” Already we have glanced at the judicial and legislative aspects of the question; we may now consider the remaining features. Serving the purpose of a warehouse, the thirteenth century church was sometimes used for the storage of corn and wool, a small fee being paid to the clergy for the accommodation[405]. The practice may not have been usual, but it does not seem to have been rare. For the reception of the grain and fodder which was paid to the church in kind, there was, as we know, the spacious tithe-barn (Figs. 43, 44). But other persons besides

abbot or priest were often anxious to store goods temporarily—perhaps against the time of the village fair or feast—and hence the nave of the church became, for the time, a granary or barn. Bread was stored in churches so recently as A.D. 1665[406]. The English village possessed few buildings, other than the church, which were both capacious and weather-proof. Previous to the Reformation, it must be observed, fixed pews were not often found in churches; at the most, the worshippers were supplied only with movable benches. These benches could be cleared away in times of emergency, and the nave was thus admirably fitted to receive merchandise, such as sacks of wheat, wool-packs, and boxes of treasure. Comparatively large quantities of produce could be packed in the space thus set free.

The evidence that the nave was extensively used as a market-hall is not abundant. In view of the repeated attempts to enforce the Scriptural principle respecting the House of Prayer, we have some difficulty in distinguishing between what was considered lawful and what profane. Manifestly, it would have puzzled the bishop or priest to justify the use of the nave as a mart or bazaar, save on special or urgent occasions. Grosseteste, bishop of Lincoln (d. A.D. 1253), expressly forbade markets to be held in sacred places (ne in locis sacris habeantur mercata)[407]. Frequently, the habit, after having been denounced, crept in again unawares. In one village, pleading necessity or stress of weather, and, in another, advancing no plea whatever, hucksters coming to the parish wake or the annual fair would boldly set up their stalls for the sale of victuals within the church[408]. And what was done without let or hindrance in the village was contrived craftily in the city. In old St Paul’s, and other cathedrals, stands were erected for special occasions, and were afterwards allowed to remain as centres of bargaining[409]. When driven out of the nave, the dealers could still find a harbour in the porch. The York Fabric Rolls record the fact that pedlars sold their wares in the porch of Riccal church (A.D. 1510)[410]. Even the Reformation did not bring these customs to an end.

Barnabe Googe’s Popish Kingdome (1570)—a translation, or adaptation, of the Latin work of Thomas Naogeorgus (Kirchmayer), contains, among other complaints, a bitter lament over the sale of “carpes and pykes and mullets fat,” in the church on St Ulrick’s Day (July 4th). Both Googe and Naogeorgus wrote as strong Protestants, hence there is a possibility that their pictures are too highly coloured. But it is more likely that they branded as irreligious what was an acknowledged custom. Whether they exaggerated the evil or not, their statements are supported by another Protestant, William Harrison, who wrote only a few years later (A.D. 1577). Harrison’s doleful story runs thus: “But as the number of churches increased, so the repair of the faithful unto the cathedrals did diminish, whereby they now become, especially in their nether parts, rather markets and shops for merchandise than solemn places of prayer, whereunto they were first erected[411].” In Norwich, he tells us, the church was turned into a barn, while the people, himself among them, heard service further off, on a green. There, a bell was suspended from an oak, for want of a steeple. “But now,” says he, “I understand that the oke likewise is gone[412].” Like Googe, Harrison was such a strenuous Reformer, that he ignored the antiquity of some of the customs which he condemned. Had he been able to take a detached view, he would have seen that the excesses which he witnessed had not sprung up in his day, but that they were extravagances arising from the abuse of a once recognized practice.

The Mediaeval citizen, who sauntered into the church to cross himself and to utter a momentary prayer, might often be tempted to stay a full hour to converse with his fellows. The church was a hall for social intercourse, a comfortable shelter for the poor. It was a museum of sculpture and painting, an academy of music. But, running through all these arrangements, there was a current of salutary religious influence. To judge the Mediaeval condition of affairs by the standard of the eighteenth, or the early nineteenth century, as one might be hastily led to do, would be a grievous error. The broken windows, once “richly dight,” the defaced carvings, the bare, whitewashed walls and the concealed fresco, the demolished rood-loft, the font out of position, the memorial brass at the back of the kitchen fireplace, the registers torn up by the village shopkeeper—these are features which do not belong to the period when the nave, perchance, was used as a storehouse and a market. Such treatment was left to a generation of which eye-witnesses can still speak. We must discriminate between the theoretical principle that all secular matters are bound up in religion, and the lukewarmness which engenders sheer indifference to desecration. If we learn to make this distinction, we shall put a different construction on such queer survivals as the distribution of doles and charities in church, or the scrambling for loaves in the churchyard. They are not acts of wanton irreverence; commendable or not, they are genuine relics of the older legitimate tradition.

From the sale of commodities in the nave we pass to the question of guilds and festivals. The English guilds, which once played an important part in Church history, largely owed their origin, if Dr F. A. Gasquet be correct, to the revival of the religious spirit after the desolating effects of the Black Death in A.D. 1348 and 1349. It will be remembered that the bells of Newcastle summoned the members of the local guild to church three times annually (p. 131 supra). These guilds or brotherhoods were in the habit of holding feasts and banquets. For example, the churchwardens’ accounts for the village of Chagford, Devon (A.D. 1550-99), show that a society known as the “Young Men’s Wardens” were responsible for getting up the “Church-ales.” These “Ales” we shall describe in a moment. At South Tawton, in the same county, the “St George’s Wardens” undertook the duty[413]. Frequently, the entertainments would be provided in the parsonage-house (Figs. 45, 46), or the church-house

Fig. 45. Priests’, or Clergy house, Alfriston, Sussex. Fourteenth century. It consists of a central hall (23 ft × 17 ft), at each end of which are two rooms, one above the other. The framework of the house is of oak, the intervening spaces being filled with wattle and daub. The hall has an open-timbered roof, with king-posts and cambered tie beams. It contains a hooded fireplace. There are several original windows. (See Vict. Hist. of Sussex, II. p. 384.) The old elm tree, partly visible on the right, is of unusual size for the species, having a girth of 24 feet at a height of 3 feet from the ground.

(Fig. 47), the latter of which was sometimes actually called a guild-hall[414]. The church-house was essentially a parish room, built and maintained by the community, under the direction of the churchwardens. It was built in the architectural style of the period. Unlike the parsonage-house, it was not a place of residence for the clergy. Brand has shown that barns were also used—presumably the large tithe-barns, where these existed. There is reason to believe, however, that the church itself was sometimes the guest-house on these occasions. Certainly this was often the case with the “Ales” proper, to which we must now very briefly allude. The Church-ale, or

Fig. 46. Clergy, or Parsonage house, West Dean, Sussex (c. A.D. 1280). View from North end. The building, which is of stone, consists of a hall (30 ft × 15 ft internal measurement), with a story above. The walls are 2 ft 6 in. in thickness. The solar, or loft, is approached by a stone newel staircase, built in the buttress-like projection, which is seen at the North-East angle. The chimney is elaborately constructed. In the east wall a double-lighted window, with trefoiled heads, is visible. (For fuller description, see Vict. Hist. of Sussex, II. p. 383; A. Hussey, Churches of Kent, Sussex, and Surrey, 1852, p. 219; Sussex Archaeol. Coll. III. pp. 13-22.)

Whitsun-ale, was a kind of parochial festivity in which the churchwardens usually, though, as just noticed, not always, took the initiative. Subscriptions were invited, and, with the money obtained, large quantities of malt were bought. Contributions in kind, such as eggs and meat, were also accepted. The malt was brewed, and the liquor broached, either in the church-house,

Fig. 47. Church House, or St Mary’s Guild Hall, popularly known as John of Gaunt’s Stables, Lincoln. 12th century. Principal front, showing the Transitional Norman entrance doorway, with tooth ornament in a shallow moulding. Above is a rich cornice of sculptured foliage. The buttresses are flat, and there is a Norman loop in the lower story. Within is an ancient fireplace. The roof is modern.

or as Philip Stubbs (or Stubbes), the Puritan, asserts, in the sacred building itself[415]. The church-house was doubtless a familiar institution in Elizabethan England. Examples are on record where the leases of such houses expressly stipulate that they should be available for making “Quarter ales” or Church-ales. Such buildings contained all the spits, crocks, and utensils necessary for preparing the banquet[416]. In the tower of Frensham church, Surrey, there is preserved a large cauldron of beaten copper, locally known as “Mother Ludlam’s Kettle.” This vessel has doubtless played its part in many a parish feast.

Though the church-house, or, alternatively, the tithe-barn, was, after the Reformation, generally the scene of the revels, custom was not uniform, as frequent injunctions against the holding of drinking-parties and banquets within the church sufficiently testify. The transition from church to church-house was made, it would appear, in deference to Puritan opinion, but the populace was somewhat tenacious of the old habit. One great objection to the Church-ales lay in the rude and boisterous sports with which they were associated. However slight might be the murmur against quoits, bowls, or shooting at the butts, it is plain that the baiting of bulls, bears, or badgers, the loud, and possibly lewd folk-songs, the noisy dancing parties, would pass the bounds of decency and decorum, and cry out for suppression. The feast lasted a day or two, and occasionally longer. The profits of the merrymaking formed a kind of voluntary church-rate, and were devoted to church-restoration, or the purchase of service books and vessels. It has been pertinently suggested that some of the grotesque corbel heads, so frequently found in churches, may mark the restorations which were made out of the profits of Church-ales. Nothing but a village feast, it is supposed, could have furnished the sculptor with models to enable him to represent so well gluttony and drunkenness. The theory is rather harsh, but it may contain a measure of truth.

There were other Ales besides the one just described. The Bid-ale was a co-operative banquet, devised to aid some unfortunate or impoverished parishioner. The Clerk-ale was intended to provide, or to increase, the salary of the parish clerk. There were also Lamb-ales, Bride-ales, Scot-ales, and others. In fact, occasions seem actually to have been sought for holding these holy-ales, which were of a nature at once social and benevolent[417]. Needless to say, there were two sides to this, as to every question. Regrettable, even disgraceful, though the proceedings might oftentimes become, we are yet compelled to consider the original and normal conditions. The relief of the poor has been mentioned. Tyack states that, in the year 1651, so many as seventy-two parish priests of Somersetshire certified that not only were the congregations larger during a Church-ale—not a surprising fact—but that “the service of God was more solemnly performed[418].” If such opinions were held generally—and, so far as they were held at all by the clergy, they would be reciprocated by laymen—one cannot marvel at the action of the villagers of Clungunford, Shropshire, who in 1637 complained to Archbishop Laud about the discontinuance of the Easter feast. For centuries the poor and aged folk had been regaled with bread, cheese, and beer, after evensong on Easter Sunday. Fifty years previous to the presentation of the petition, in accordance with the wishes of the ruling Archbishop, the feast had been transferred from the church to the parsonage; but now it was abandoned altogether.

Laud’s decision ran thus: “I shall not go about to break this custom so it be done in the parsonage house, in a neighbourly and decent way.” Similar cases might be brought forward to show that the tradition of feasting in church died hard[419].

We leave the tempting subject of church-ales, and, still considering the motives which led to the provision of such ample space within the sacred walls, we must take a glimpse of church-plays. The connection between the church and the drama has been partially dealt with by numerous writers, and exhaustively by Mr E. K. Chambers, in his Mediaeval Stage. On the character of the church plays we cannot dwell at length, nor is this necessary, for the subject has interested most antiquaries, and descriptions are to be found in many treatises. A brief enumeration, however, is desirable. There was the Passion Play at Easter, when a solemn representation of the burial and Resurrection of the Saviour was enacted at the altar, or beneath a specially constructed “sepulchre.” There was the Nativity play at Christmas, when clergy, choristers, and other folk, represented the scenes connected with the manger-birth[420]. But the best known performances were the Miracle Plays. At first, these were acted within the church walls, but, at a later date, the players were driven into the church-yard. The popularity of these plays became so great that the church could not accommodate the audience, and this consideration, rather than clerical disfavour, probably turned the scale. Indeed, when the drama had passed out of the hands of the clergy and choir, and had become appropriated by trade guilds or strolling players, when, too—it must be said—the plays had become tinged with ribaldry and profanity, the authorities seemed to have regretted the expulsion.

Within the church, a certain degree of oversight was always exercised; on the village green, the censorship was lax and intermittent. Occasionally, as Dr J. C. Cox asserts, the wandering troops were still allowed to use the churches[421]. An attempt was made to recover lost ground, and miracle plays were declared sinful if played on the roads or greens[422]. We must shortly return to this phase of the question, but meanwhile let us recapitulate Mr Chambers’s theory of the development of the religious drama.

Mr Chambers, after tracing the steady evolution of religious plays, concludes that the Church gradually came to make the appeal to the mimetic instinct in mankind by means of the introduction of dramatic elements into its liturgy[423]. From the fourth century, at least, the Mass was the central object of ritual, and it was from this service, little by little, that the dramatic dialogues and representations were derived and elaborated. Originally a mere symbol of a commemorative kind, the Mass became a repetition of the initial sacrifice, invested with a dramatic character[424]. Thus the ritual play proper was evolved, and out of this, in later times, sprang the familiar miracle play[425].

We may infer, then, that there was a valid reason why the religious plays should be performed in hallowed buildings. The question arises, whether this was the usual practice, or an exceptional liberty. No less an authority than Canon Jessopp, that tireless and conscientious elucidator of ancient documents, is of opinion that the use of churches for setting forth miracle plays was rare. He cites an instance where twenty-seven parishes contributed to the expenses of one of these spectacles. From this circumstance, he concludes that there must have been a “monster performance,” and that the onlookers could not well have been sheltered within the church[426]. Perhaps the case brought forward itself represents the exception, or, at any rate, belongs to the era when plays had been driven out into the churchyard. And it is extremely probable, I think, that some of the old tithe-barns (Figs. 43, 44, pp. 171-2 supra), when almost, or quite empty, would be very serviceable as theatres. Against the verdict of Canon Jessopp—a verdict which cannot be airily dismissed—we have to set undeniable facts. Mr Chambers affirms that for a long time the church proved sufficient for the accommodation of the folk who came to watch the plays. The performances spread, perhaps by degrees, from the choir to the nave. “The domus, loca, or sedes [were] set at intervals against the pillars while the people crowded to watch in the side aisles.” It was during the twelfth century that the players first sought ampler room outside the church[427]. The ousting of the performance was a gradual process.

Perhaps it would be more correct to say that the liturgical play was slow in severing its intimate connection with the church. From the churchyard it passed to the church gate, and thence to the market-place, or to some croft or field. While all these changes were being made, the village fair, as a popular institution, was becoming well established, and the outdoor play was heartily welcomed by the holiday-makers[428].

The evidence produced by Mr Chambers shows, therefore, that convenience, and not clerical censure, was the prime cause at work in removing the players from the churches. The demand for ejection was afterwards reinforced by the Reformers, but by that time the result was being otherwise brought about. It now becomes still more intelligible why plays on the green were, at one period, actually denounced. The natural home of the play was the church, and in the church it lingered. “Quite apart from the survival of ritual plays proper, the miracle play, even at the moment of its extinction, had not always and everywhere been excluded from the church itself[429].” Mr Chambers gives numerous examples, and avers that the last of all the village plays—he is evidently referring to annual institutions—that of Hascombe, Surrey, in 1539, “was at, but perhaps not in, the church[430].” A few years later, Bonner forbade the presentation of plays either in the church or churchyard[431]. This edict does not seem to have been fully obeyed, for Dr J. C. Cox declares that both in pre-Reformation and post-Reformation times the authorities occasionally suffered secular country dramas and rude historic scenes to be represented in the nave of the church[432]. Nor is this all; in the sixteenth century Bishop John Bale endeavoured to counteract the miracle plays by Protestant dramas, conceived in much the same style as the genuine works (A.D. 1538, etc.). The unintentional hardihood of some of Bale’s impersonations is said to have bordered on blasphemy.