Hatchments

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"His means of death, his obscure funeral -
No trophy, sword nor hatchment o'er his bones"
said by Laertes in "Hamlet" (Act 4, Scene 5) by William Shakespeare

For the layman the sight of hatchments hanging inside a church, on the wall of the nave or on inner east face of the west tower, is something of a puzzle. They are heraldic, like the commonly seen royal coats of arms, and like them are painted on a square board that is placed point upwards. But whose coats of arms do they show and why are they found in churches?

"Hatchment" is an Anglicization of the French, "achievement", and therein lies the clue to what they are. Medieval noblemen had their armour, weapons and heraldic colours displayed in church on their tomb during their funeral. In later centuries this was formalised in the custom of the family coat of arms being painted on a square board that was hung, lozenge-wise over the main entrance to the family home during the period of mourning. After the funeral the board, now called a hatchment, was often moved to the church and displayed there on a longer-term basis. Some of these have survived and adorn our churches still.

By the eighteenth century many conventions had grown up around hatchments. For example, if the wife lived on after the passing of her husband then the sinister side of the background (left from the point of view of someone holding it like a shield but right as we view it) would be painted white (see top example above), with the reverse (dexter side) indicating that the husband was the survivor. The status of women as unmarried or married was marked by the former's arms being decorated by gold cord and the latter with a golden, winged, cherub head. The last of a family line was indicated by a skull and cross bones painted under the coat of arms. It's regrettable that names and dates were never put on hatchments (though they are on royal coats of arms) and that considerable detective work has been necessary to work out who it is that they commemorate.

The parish church of St Wulfram in Grantham, Lincolnshire has six fine hatchments and two royal coats of arms (one dated 1586, the other some time before 1701). In recent years these have been grouped for display purposes and they make a fine sight spot-lit against the stone of the ancient walls.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Sony RX100
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Memorial to five brothers and a mother

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Sometimes, when my wife and I are visiting a church, a particular memorial catches our eye. It may be its modesty that makes it stand apart. Sometimes it's the ridiculous grandiosity. Occasionally it's an unusual name. Or it may be historically interesting. And then there are those whose arresting poignancy just makes you stop, pause a while and reflect. We recently came across an example of the latter in the church at Sharnbrook, Bedfordshire. The simple, straightforward inscription on the unaffected tablet needs no commentary from me - it speaks for itself. However, I did find a reference to the circumstances of the deaths of the five brothers and their mother that gives a little context to the tragic events described.

Arnold was the first to die, on 31 October 1914, a mere 10 weeks after the start of the First World War. Next was Hugh, but not until 1st March 1918, when Ada may have been feeling that her sons would survive the conflict. He was lost when his ship, HMS Calgarian, was sunk by a torpedo from a submarine. Later that year in France, on 27th September, Lewis died, and a few weeks afterwards, quite nearby on 15th October, James was killed. Cecil was killed after the war in Europe had ended when Ada must have thought that surely her losses had come to an end. He was a member of the British forces in Egypt involved in maintaining the rule of Empire and lost his life in a rebellion on 18th March 1919.

Ada Maud Jarvis had ten children and was 69 years of age when she died, a mere four months after the death of her fifth son.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Sony RX100
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A Ledbury sculpture by the Thornycrofts

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Thomas Thornycroft (1815-1885) and Mary Thornycroft (neé Francis) (1814-1895), were husband and wife sculptors. They met when Thomas was an assistant to Mary's father, the sculptor John Francis (1780-1861). Their work can be seen at many London locations, but like a lot of public sculptors of the Victorian period, familiarity with their work often doesn't bring recognition of the person (or people) who executed it.

One of the best known works by the Thornycrofts (sometimes John was principally responsible, at other times it was Mary) is the group representing Commerce on the Albert Memorial, though George Gilbert Scott, the architect responsible for the overall design of the Memorial, was critical of both the concept and composition. Another prominent London piece is Boadicea and her Daughters, a bronze of the queen of the Iceni tribe in her chariot, near Westminster Pier by the River Thames. The couple received commissions for civic pieces from many cities as well as for the royal family. Mary completed several busts and statues of Queen Victoria's children.

I recently discovered that the Thornycrofts were responsible for a memorial in Ledbury church, Herefordshire. This marble sculpture shows a sleeping child watched over by two angels. It commemorates the death of a child in the following words:

John Hamilton, the beloved infant son of John Martin and

Maria Henrietta, his wife.

Born April 23rd, 1850. Died March 18th, 1851

The work was apparently conceived by Mary Thornycroft and sculpted by her husband. It is a touching piece and one that was thought of a sufficiently high standard to be shown at the Great Exhibition in 1851.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Sony RX100
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Two memorials

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Recently I posted a photograph of a gravestone that I described as "ordinary". Probably the most interesting aspect of the memorial was the four lines of verse it carries. The writer of these clearly had no time for those tombs whose unctuous prose, through flattery, exaggeration and embellishment, with no regard for humility, proclaim to the world at great length how the deceased embodied every virtue and was held in the highest regard by all who knew him.

I was reminded of this memorial the other day when I was in the church of St Martin in Stamford, Lincolnshire. This building houses the Burghley Chapel with several tombs of the Cecil family of nearby Burghley House. It also holds several memorials to lesser mortals who did not, reach the exalted heights of, for example, Chancellor to Queen Elizabeth I (William Cecil d.1598) or hold the title of Earl of Exeter.

One of these humbler memorials stands out from the others for three reasons: it appears to be ceramic, an unusual material for a memorial; it was erected by friends of the deceased rather than his family; and the tribute it pays is couched in an unusual manner.I have no idea who Thomas Cooper Goodrich was but he was evidently liked by his friends who survived him. Apart from the fact that he excelled at cricket (I assume it means this - I suppose he could have been spectacularly bad!) the tribute dwells on only the very particular personal qualities that endeared him to those who commissioned the memorial. There is no portrait, no list of public achievements, nothing about his standing in wider society, and no hint that what is said isn't any more than the firm belief of those that penned the words.

Contrast that with the overblown memorial to John Cecil, the fifth Earl of Exeter. The laudatory remarks are in Latin on the side of a copy of a Roman sarcophagus. The Earl and his wife recline in a manner that exudes the easy comfort of the rich and powerful and they look past those who view their tomb, not deigning to meet their gaze. They wear classical rather than contemporary clothes to suggest that they are people whose influence extends beyond their own time. Flanking the tomb are life-size figures of Victory and Art. These mourners are there to emphasise the fact that these are people of significance, learning (see also the books on which his elbow rests) and stature. Behind is a framing obelisk that reaches high into the chapel. A tomb of this sort, sending these kind of messages to posterity, was fashionable at the time and de rigeur for someone of John Cecil's standing. He cannot have known that future generations would see it as both bombastic and slightly silly - just look at those giant furry feet supporting the sarcophagus!

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

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Ordinary lives recorded

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I visit a lot of churches and churchyards and see many gravestones and memorials. In Britain the earliest in parish churches (as opposed to cathedrals, abbeys, minsters etc) date from the 1600s. Over the years I've seen examples from every century between that time and the present day. Some catch my eye with their opulence, others their elegance, a few because they depart from the conventions of the day, and then some because they are - how shall I put it - simple and unaffected, in fact, ordinary.

Today's photograph falls into the latter category. It tells, in plain language, using modest lettering - no decorative flourishes - who is remembered and the basic facts about their length of life and date of death. A poignant note is struck by the reference to "5 Children who died in their Infancy" but it is added in a matter-of-fact way. There is no pictorial or decorative carving, no cherubs or leaves, no wreaths or borders.  The only "extra" added to the basic facts is a short verse of four lines. Who were these people? I don't know. They were sufficiently well-off to have a memorial in the church (unless it was brought in at a later date to be used as flooring), but probably not well-to-do, perhaps an example of the "mute inglorious Milton" that Thomas Gray wrote about. Whoever wrote or chose the verse - perhaps James Bygott himself - had clearly seen and been repelled by the sort of memorial I've frequently come across: the ones that gush on in an unrestrained and often ludicrous manner about the wonderful qualities of the deceased and how he was (it's usually a man) held in the highest esteem by all who knew him, regardless of their station in life. The four lines on this memorial are an effective riposte to such bombast.

It occurred to me as I read the memorial again on the screen of my computer that the lives briefly recorded are ordinary ones. The death of multiple children was once commonplace. Death in middle age of a (only surviving?) daughter was not unusual, nor was a lifespan that didn't quite reach the "threescore years and ten" described in the King James version of the Bible. All of which prompted a feeling of gratitude for the longer, healthier lives that we experience and expect today.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Sony RX100
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Focal Length: 10.4mm (28mm - 35mm equiv.)
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Early medieval gravestones

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The gravestones, tomb slabs and funerary monuments of English churches range in date from the twelfth century to the present day. Each one seeks to remember or exalt the deceased. Few of the older ones are in the position where they were first placed and many of these have been damaged by incident, accident or design. Sometimes they have been crudely cut so that a later architectural embellishment could be effected. Often Protestant zealots of the Reformation or later have taken their hammers to them, knocking off noses, limbs and any other easily removed projection as they sought to demonstrate their hatred of "idolatry". However, despite the vicissitudes of time, many have survived, largely intact, bequeathing to later generations information about the sculptural abilities and stylistic preferences of earlier times.

The oldest such monuments were often lids for stone coffins, decorated by a foliate cross or lines of stylised leaves. These usually date from the 1100s. Also found at this time, and a little later, are stone coffin lids with circles, quatrefoils or almond-shaped holes within which are carvings of parts of the  body that is being commemorated. Today's photographs show an example of just such a gravestone that can be seen in the church of St Denys at Sleaford, Lincolnshire. The viewer is invited to look, asit were, through "holes" in the surface of the lid, at the face, hands held in prayer and feet of a woman. The inscription around the edge tells us who she is. It says, "Ye who here pass by, for the soul of Yvette pray, who was the honoured wife of William of Rauceby on whose soul may god have mercy". These holes are incorporated in a leafy cross that decorates the surface of the coffin-shaped stone. It is likely to date from the 1100s. Despite being broken in two and now being fixed to the wall rather than laying flat on or under the ground, the stonework is still clear and the writing remains legible, a testament to the durable qualities that the sculptor conferred on the piece and to the care with which the church has been maintained for the past thousand or so years.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Sony RX100
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Focal Length: 10.4mm (28mm - 35mm equiv.)
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Apothecaries, memorials and words

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I've long been fascinated by the way that a word can fall out of use. In a blog post of  2009 I reflected on the demise during my lifetime of "aerodrome", "palings" and "petticoat". Today I've been thinking about another word that is much less used than formerly - "apothecary".

Walk down a high street today and you are very unlikely to see a shop sign advertising the services of an apothecary. However, had you trod the same route in the 1700s or 1800s such a business could well have been present. The nearest we get today to the apothecary of those centuries is the dispensing chemist or pharmacist. The first apothecaries in Britain were grocers specialising in non-perishable commodities such as preserves, wine, spices, herbs, medicinal drugs etc. In 1617 the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries was established in London following a split from the Grocers. They established a hall in Blackfriars, and until 1922 manufactured and sold pharmaceutical products there. In 1704 the Society won an important legal decision against the Royal College of Physicians which allowed them to prescribe and dispense medicines, an action that led to apothecaries evolving into practitioners of medicine as we know them today. And yet, despite this complicated background history, today most people who know the term "apothecary" associate it with the dispensing of medicine rather than the deployment of general medical skills.

Today's photograph commemorates the death in 1780, at the young age of thirty one years, of John Rugeley, an apothecary of Folkingham, Lincolnshire. Apparently he died of "the fever" - which one I don't know. His attractive slate tablet displays the florid script, flourishes and motifs that can be seen on many such memorials in this part of the county, here the work of "Casswell, Sculpt." It can be found in the village on the wall of the south aisle of St Andrew's church.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Canon
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Heraldry and grave diggers

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Heraldic coats of arms as we know them today became common in Europe around the middle of the twelfth century. They identified a family, especially the men when they were in armour, but were also used in sculpture, interior decoration and stained glass. Coats of arms were passed down through families by inheritance, often with modifications following marriage.

A typical coat of arms has a shield (escutcheon). Its surface (field) employs various colours (tinctures) in shapes (ordinaries) with motifs such as animals, leaves, shells etc (charges). A written phrase (motto) on a scroll or banner is often found below the shield. To left and right are figures, usually people or animals (supporters). The shield is topped by a helmet, its style dependent on rank, which may have a crest and is usually flanked by ragged cloth (mantling).

Recently I stood in the south aisle of the medieval church of St Mary at Long Sutton, Lincolnshire, and looked up at a memorial that included a coat of arms (of sorts). It wasn't the kind that you often see, carefully sculpted and carved in marble or fine stone, a tribute to a man (or woman) of wealth and importance. Rather, it was crudely fashioned and made fast and loose with the heraldic vocabulary. In fact, I was in two minds as to whether it was a naive attempt to emulate the style of the deceased's "betters", or a mischievous parody that poked fun at the style. The convex disc at the bottom of the memorial, in the place where a motto might be on a coat of arms, was difficult to read, the carving being barely better than scratch marks. However, from what I could read it appeared to be words in memory of someone who died in the early 1700s, perhaps 1725. One look at the carving above the disc make it very obvious that the person must have been a grave digger.

The shield is divided into four (quartered) by two large bones. In the top left corner is the bell that would toll for the deceased. The top right corner has keys on a chain, perhaps symbolising St Peter and the hope of entry into heaven. At the bottom left is a coffin and what appear to be two rib bones, whilst at the bottom right are tools of the trade of a gravedigger - a pick axe and spade. The supporters are a man, full of life, and a skeleton. Quite what is in place of the helmet above the centre of the shield I'm not sure. However, it may be a clumsy depiction of the simple helm found on the coat of arms of an untitled person. If so, the crest that surmounts it looks for all the world like an hour glass in a wooden frame, the sands of time marking the passage of life. The mantling resembles the sort of palm-like leaves that the eighteenth century often used to represent the Tree of Life. Further leaves provide the "ground" on which the supporters stand.

So, is it crude emulation or knowing parody? It's hard to say, and it may be a bit of both. What is certain is that the coat of arms documents its time in an interesting and entertaining way, and seemed like a good subject for a photograph.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Canon
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Church memorials and spelling

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"Lexicographer: a writer of dictionaries; a harmless drudge that busies himself in tracing the original and detailing the signification of words", definition from "A Dictionary of the English Language" (1755) by Samuel Johnson (1709-1784), English writer, poet, editor and lexicographer

English church memorials of the late sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries are very distinctive. They typically feature a debased classical style with the elements handled rather clumsily, large and small scale figure sculpture, heraldic devices, a descriptive text and striking paintwork.

Today's photograph shows all of these things. It can be found in the church of St Nicholas in King's Lynn, Norfolk and is one of several excellent examples of the type adorning its walls. The memorial commemorates Thomas Snelling who died in 1623. He is shown devoutly kneeling before a bible opposite his wife. Below are smaller representations of his children - a very common feature of such memorials. Corinthian columns frame the main figures, a broken segmental pediment tops the piece and at the bottom is a winged cherub's head and classical scrolls. An interesting feature is the crowned, winged skull in the top panel, presumably a reminder of the inevitable triumph of death. However, on this particular memorial it was the dedicatory panel that interested me. At the time I took the shot I'd recently been reading about the genesis of Samuel Johnson's "A Dictionary of the English Language" (1755), and the wayward spelling of the text on this piece clearly signals the need that his work was designed, in part, to address.

The second photograph is a detail from the first that shows the panel enlarged. It makes an interesting read, not only for the way it eulogises and describes the deceased (it is much less effusive than usual), also for the verse that constitutes the bottom half, but especially for that whimsical spelling and the fact that the punctuation comprises a single colon (used to abbreviate Matthew to Matt:) and one full stop. For anyone unused to reading such things it may help to know that J and Y being substituted with I, V instead of U, abbreviations such as YE (THE), W with smaller TH meaning WITH, W with smaller CH meaning WHICH, and the shortened form of ANNO DOMINI were common on such memorials and elsewhere, serving to reduce the amount of text and often to make  the line of writing fit in the allotted space.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Canon
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Gotobed East

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First names, often called Christian names, originated in a number of ways. Many are simply descriptive. For example, Charles comes from the Germanic for "man", Thomas is the Greek form of the Aramaic word meaning "twin", and Adam derives from the Hebrew for "man" which in turn comes from the word for "ruddy coloured" and links to "earth" (from which, according to the Bible Adam, the first man, came). Names such as Decimus, Septimus and Octavia usually describe the owners position in the family (tenth, seventh or eighth born). Other first names are linked to the circumstances of birth. Boys born over the period of Christmas are often called Noel, and girls are sometimes called Felicity or Prudence in the parents' hope that those qualities will attach to them throughout life. Then there are the invented names such as Pamela (from Samuel Richardson's 1740 novel of  that title) or Wendy, a name that makes its first appearance in J.M. Barrie's 1904 play, "Peter Pan". Some first names are created by pressing surnames into service for that purpose, for example Kingsley, Remington or Wilson. I suspect this may be the case with the very unusual first name featured on the memorial in today's photograph.

A Google search for Gotobed used as a first name turns up only a few references to this particular memorial and the person remembered in it. It looks like Gotobed East may have been unique in the possession of this first name. However, search for the same name as a surname and many sources can be found. Gotobed East's memorial can be found fixed to a wall at Ely Cathedral in Cambridgeshire. This location would only have been open to a wealthy and well-connected individual, and his memorial shows him to have been that as a gentleman and an officer of the Bedford Level drainage body. On his death he "left to the churchwardens of Holy Trinity parish 5 cottages in Newnham, to be occupied by 5 aged widows of the said parish", so he was clearly a benevolent person too.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Main Photo
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To get on, get a name

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It's well known that if you want to be a successful popular beat combo or even a solo artiste then you need to perform under a good name. Would The Beatles have made it as The Quarrymen? Could Cliff Richard have assaulted our ears for as long as he did as plain old Harry Rodger Webb? And would Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta have achieved popular success without her transmogrification into Lady Gaga? Or would the costumes alone have assured her superstardom? Memo to self: I must listen to one of her recordings sometime or other.

Of course, catchy names have been embraced by popular (and not so popular) music for more than a century. In the blues they are almost compulsory. My favourite blues guitarist is T-Bone Walker (Aaron Thibadeaux Walker), though I also have a liking for Lightnin' Hopkins (Sam John Hopkins). The self-styled father of Chicago blues, Muddy Waters was born McKinley Morganfield, and the early bluesman Huddie William Leadbetter found greater fame when he styled himself Lead Belly.

All this is well known and documented. It is less appreciated, however, that to get on in the world of church organ playing you also need a distinctive, indeed a memorable name. Or so it seems from my extremely exhaustive survey of the memorials to two organists that I came across recently. The first was in Peterborough Cathedral and recorded one Haydn Keeton who tickled the ivories, kicked the pedals and pulled out all the stops there for 51 years. A good innings, I thought. My next thought was, "What are the chances that his parents weren't music lovers?" With a Christian name like that it's a near certainty. Then, a couple of weeks later, at the church in Helpston, just to the north of Peterborough, the place where the poet John Clare was born and is buried, I came upon a more recent memorial to the wonderfully named Albert Snowball. Albert's time as a church organist eclipses the half century plus of Haydn, and amounted to a staggering seventy years! A truly remarkable period of service to his community.

Of course, both Haydn Keeton and Albert Snowball were fortunate to receive their wonderful names from their parents. Had they not been so blessed, and were they both budding musicians today they could do worse than use one of the Band Name Generators or advice pages on the internet. My favourite proposed band name from the link that I cite is "Squishy Fabulous"!

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

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Commemorated in slate

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In a post a while ago I commented that anyone wanting to erect a permanent memorial to themselves could do worse than have one made in brass. However, if that memorial was to be placed outside then a better choice might be a fine slate such as that found at Swithland in Leicestershire, a material that comes in grey, bluish grey or with a greenish tinge.

During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries in particular the slate from this location found its way into many churchyards in the East Midlands, Lincolnshire and even further afield. Stone masons prized it for the way very detailed patterns and letters could be cut into its smooth surface. I have a particular fondness for examples from the 1700s when florid scripts, loops, curls and swirls were used on gravestones and wall memorials made of this Swithland slate. Many churchyards in the South Holland area of Lincolnshire where I live have fine examples of this style. The memorial in today's photograph is mounted on an outside wall of the church of St Mary and the Holy Rood at Donington. It commemorates the death of a ten year old boy, Tycho Wing, who must have been a pupil at The Thomas Cowley School in Donington. The fluid script, flourishes, curving underlines, loops that emphasise, and the frame of leaf-like fronds make for a wonderfully delicate effect. Only the slightly black-letter Gothic of the word "Pickworth" departs from the overall style, and even that is brought into the design by the curls that surround it. That this piece of carved stone has been exposed to the weather for 231 years, and still carries the detail that the mason incised, is a testament to its durability and its suitability for this purpose: many of the limestone and sandstone gravestones and wall plaques of that time are now illegible.

Incidentally, the boy commemorated on this memorial must be related to the philosopher, astronomer, astrologer and instrument maker, Tycho Wing (1696-1750), who also came from Pickworth.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
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Whichcote Memorial, Aswarby

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The church of St Denys at Aswarby, Lincolnshire, has this fine memorial on the south wall of its nave. It records the death of Marian, Lady Whichcote, daughter of Henry Beckett Esq., and wife of Sir Thomas Whichcote, Bart. It notes that she was born on 27th April 1820, married on 10th July 1839, and died on 10th May 1849. The inscription ends with a verse from the Od Testament's Book of Micah. Aswarby Hall, the grand house in which she lived her short life is no more: but the Victorian stables remain, and were converted into a house in 1969. Also evident, though perhaps less well tended than in her day, is the park in which the Hall was situated. The small village of Aswarby has a number of stone-built "estate houses" in the Tudor style. They would have been for people who worked on the Hall's large estate, and were under construction around the time of Lady Whichcote's death.

I see a lot of Victorian memorials during my visits to churches. Most are fairly formulaic, some are deliberately innovative (with varying degrees of success), and others are fine compositions, often in expensive materials. And then there is a group that is distinguished by the high quality of its figure sculpture. This piece at Aswarby is such an example. It is by the Scottish sculptor, Thomas Campbell (1790-1858), a man who was apprenticed to a marble cutter in Edinburgh, who went on to study at the Royal Academy Schools in London, and who opened a studio in Rome in 1819. There he made portrait busts of English visitors to that city, as well as of Pope Pius VII. In 1829 he relocated to London producing marble busts and reliefs. His subjects included members of the aristocracy, poets, politicians and others. His relief of the actress Sarah Siddons (d.1831), has similarities with that of Lady Whichcote: the figure is in vaguely classical dress, in a classical pose, below an arch in a pedimented frame.

I've admired the sculpture shown in today's photograph since I first saw it about seven years ago. The pose, the handling of drapery, the composition with stool, book (displaying the Lord's Prayer) and lamp, all work wonderfully well. However, there is one thing that has always puzzled me - the snake. Pevsner says it is there as a symbol of eternity. But I think he is wrong. Where a snake is used for that purpose it invariably has its own tail in its mouth making an endless loop or sinuous shape. Snakes (serpents) usually represent the Devil, but I can't believe that is the case here. A grasped or downtrodden snake symbolises triumph over sin, but isn't applicable here either. Mounted on a staff a snake can be used to represent Christ, and God's authority. This idea comes from Moses saving the Israelites from a plague of snakes by raising a bronze snake on a pole, and is the reason for the use of a snake on a pole to represent healing. It seems to me that these are more likely explanations for its presence, particularly since the flame probably signifies the Holy Spirit.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 58mm (116mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
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Coronation Fountain, March

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I'd never visited March in Cambridgeshire until a couple of weeks ago. I knew of its church, St Wendreda, which has the best medieval "angel roof" in Britain: that's what we'd gone to see. But, as we drove into the town, a typical, flat, Fenland settlement of interesting main streets with buildings spanning three centuries, the first thing that caught my eye was of more recent vintage, and is the subject of today's photograph.

It was a cloudless day, but even without the strong illumination this structure would have positively glowed. It must have been repainted fairly recently, and the bright, shining colours simply drew my eye. As we drove past it I took it for a Victorian edifice, but I was wrong. Inspecting it on foot I saw a panel on it that carried this inscription: "This fountain was erected by the inhabitants of March to commemorate the coronation of his majesty King George V 22nd June 1911." So it was later than I thought, originally a fountain, but was certainly commemorative. Yet, there was no doubt too that it was in the style of so many Victorian iron-work bandstands, fountains, and park "eye-catchers". It can be seen as an example of a tried and tested format continuing to be used in the provinces: had it been erected in London a more up-to-date style would have prevailed. In place of the long-gone water was a striking plant that must have made more of a statement during the summer.

As I circled the structure, taking my photographs, enjoying the filigree metal-work of the dome, smiling at the cast-iron owls inside it at the top of each column, and noting the modern LED lighting that had been woven around the structure to give it impact at night, my wife fell into conversation with a local inhabitant, a sprightly eighty three year old who told us something about the fountain and the town. I reflected that though it was interesting, and I was glad it had survived to the present day, it was a confection that couldn't really be described as a thing of beauty so much as a fascinating historical object. However, what I couldn't deny was that it made the streetscape richer, and certainly grabbed the attention of two travellers with an architectural inclination!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Photo1 (Photo 2)
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/400 (1/1000)
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Defaced and refaced

click photo to enlarge
It is all too easy to imagine the zealots of the English Reformation rampaging through our churches, smashing the "idolatrous" medieval stained glass windows, flinging the statues of saints from their niches, scraping and scoring the wall paintings and knocking lumps off the effigies that decorated the tombs of the well-to-do. The fervour that gripped many following the split with Rome, and particularly during the Puritan period of the seventeenth century Civil War, led to many such crimes against art, history, culture, and yes, religion.

Visit a few English churches and you can't help but notice tomb effigies with missing noses, with hands broken off at the wrists, snapped swords and headless mourning angels. The parts that projected from the tombs were the easiest to destroy, and the evidence of the depredations of these early Protestants remains today. Interestingly it wasn't all tombs, or all areas that suffered in this way: many medieval masterpieces remain largely untouched by either religious fanaticism, casual vandalism or the accidents of time. In some churches subsequent generations took it upon themselves to restore damaged tombs, with varying degrees of success. In the church at Ashbourne, Derbyshire, I recall seeing alabaster effigies with noses replaced by stone that is a fair match in terms of colour, but which is much more translucent than the original material. Consequently the noses of the deceased glow when the sun shines upon them from a certain angle, and their pious countenances become comic.

Today's photograph shows an early fourteenth century alabaster tomb effigy of a lady flanked by mourning angels. It is in the church of St Mary at Melton Mowbray, Leicestershire. The identity of the person is unknown. However, at some point in the past - probably the nineteenth century - the church took the decision to restore the tomb. They did quite a good job in terms of making it convincingly whole, though to what extent it draws upon the original I can't be sure. If you look carefully you can see the edges of the joins where the replacement pieces were inserted. I took my photograph in "challenging" lighting, but managed to hand-hold this shot, the best of the series that I captured. Some post-processing has been done to minimise the distracting background and also to emphasise the main areas of interest of the effigy.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/20 seconds
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The knight and the carnations

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One of the basic themes found in all forms of art is the pairing of unlikely bedfellows. The story of Beauty and The Beast exemplifies this very well, so much so that its basic idea was plundered, and subtle changes introduced, in stories such as The Hunchback of Notre Dame and Cyrano de Bergerac.

Fashion photographers are particularly drawn to this theme, placing their model and the the clothes they are showing off in the most unlikely of contexts. The English photographer, Cecil Beaton (1904-1980), renowned for his photographs of Audrey Hepburn and other film stars, as well as for photoshoots for the big fashion houses, is generally remembered for the images of elegance that he produced. However, one photograph that sticks in my mind is of a refined woman, coat casually draped around her shoulders, reading a newspaper that she holds in her white-gloved hands, whilst sitting on a concrete splattered saw-horse among grimy buckets, spades and the like. The contrast between the subject and setting was what drew the viewer into the shot.

Today's photograph is also an unlikely pairing, but one which I think works really well. It shows a tomb of a Knight of the Order of St John, dating from the 1400s, in the church of St Botolph's, Boston, Lincolnshire. I posted an image of this knight on the blog a while ago, and it depicts the tomb as one is used to seeing such things. However, when I visited the flower festival at St Botolph's (see yesterday's post), I found that someone had surrounded this fine piece of sculpture with pink carnations (and a few orange daisies). That simple act transformed the cold, dead stone, injecting life where there was none, lightening the mood surrounding the effigy, and introducing a colour that complemented the bluish tones. It was a photographic opportunity not to be missed, so I composed this shot using the out-of-focus blooms on the left to balance the head on the right.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 17mm (34mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f3.2
Shutter Speed: 1/50 seconds
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

A matter of life and death

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"It's a funny old world - a man's lucky if he can get out of it alive."
W.C. Fields (1880-1946), U.S. actor, in film "You're Telling Me", 1934

"Eternity is a terrible thought. I mean, where's it going to end?"
Tom Stoppard (1937- ), English playwright, from "Rosencranz and Guildenstern Are Dead", 1967

"Death is nature's way of telling you to slow down." Graffito, London, 1978

Death happens very day - to individuals and to groups of people. The modern media overflows with reports and images of death. Yet, despite its ubiquity, and even though it is something that will happen to us all, modern society isn't particularly good at dealing with the subject in a straightforward way. We are good at incorporating multiple deaths in a cartoonish way in an "action" movie. And we're very good at alluding to the subject through humour, as the quotations above illustrate. But, when it comes to a funeral, or talking about our own death or that of those we know well, we're sometimes lost for words. Perhaps that's because, where we can, we shuffle the everday act of dying out of our sight, into hospitals and hospices. The past was more open about these things. Death commonly happened at home, involved young people more than it does now, and was attended by a more prescribed ceremony.

A few days ago I was trying to decode this memorial, in the church of St Laurence, Ludlow, in Shropshire. It records the death of Theophilus Salwey in 1760, and comprises a panel filled with sculpture, above which is a pediment topped by an urn, with an inscribed tablet detailing the deceased placed at the base. It is a fairly run-of-the-mill piece in the Classical style, with a concept and sculpture that doesn't rise above the average. However, it typifies some of the things that the eighteenth century had to say about death. The rather podgy putto (cherub) sits on a pedestal praying for the soul of Theophilus. To its left is an open book signifying that he was an open, honest man of learning during his lifetime. Next to it is his coat of arms, a reminder of his high status in society. Linking these two are acanthus leaves, a symbol of immortality in Classical civilization. To the right of the pedestal is a prominent skull, marked as aged by its scattered teeth, along with a few large bones. These, of course, signify death. They are balanced on a pile of closed books - a metaphor, surely, for a life that has ended. Then there is a snake with a bird-like head about to bite some fruit. The serpent's body is wound into a circle. Does it allude to the story of Adam and Eve? More likely the circle signifies eternity once more, because the items to the left of the cherub are concerned with life, while those to the right are about the afterlife. Interestingly the acanthus leaves cross from one side to the other perhaps suggesting that death is conquered through faith, and that after we leave our earthly existence life continues in heaven.

Whatever one makes of this Christian iconography sprinkled with Classical details, it can't be denied that it results in a memorial that confronts physical death more directly than is the case with the gravestones of the last hundred years. I decided to photograph it in a way that captures the main details of the central sculpture, but emphasises the, to our modern sensibilities, rather disturbing skull, so went for this diagonal composition.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 18mm (36mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f3.5
Shutter Speed: 1/125 seconds
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Colonel Cheney at Waterloo

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I first came across the church of St Luke at Gaddesby, Leicestershire, a few years ago when holidaying in the area. The other day, when I was returning home from a trip to Worcestershire, I called in again. This church is full of interest: the architecture, the opulent decoration of its south aisle, the ancient woodwork - even the rustic floors - are all fascinating. So too are the memorials, many of them slate, which date from the medieval period through to the twentieth century. However, one nineteenth century memorial is unique among those found in English churches. My description of it below is based on the small guide in the church that visitors can read.

The almost life-size equestrian statue of Colonel Edward Hawkins Cheney of the Royal Scots Greys was carved in 1848 by Joseph Gott. The Colonel fought at the Battle of Waterloo on June 18th, 1815. He had four horses killed from under him on that day, and the command of the regiment fell upon him when he was mounted on his fifth steed. Here he is shown on a collapsing horse that is dying from a bullet that has entered the front of its body below the bottom of the neck. The panel on the base of the memorial shows Sergeant Ewart in hand-to-hand combat with a French cavalry officer, trying to recapture a lost Napoleonic eagle standard.

Colonel Cheney married Eliza Ayre whose father owned Gaddesby Hall, and he inherited the property on the death of his father-in-law. This memorial was carved three years after the Colonel's death in 1845 and stood in the conservatory of the Hall. However, when the estate was sold in 1917 it was moved, on tree rollers, to St Luke's, where it was placed in the chancel, becoming the only equestrian statue to be found in an English church. There is a story, probably apocryphal, that the sculptor, after completing the statue, realised he'd forgotten the horse's tongue, and in despair, committed suicide! The horse's teeth have been stained by the apple placed in its mouth each year at the time of the Harvest Festival.

My photograph was taken using available light from the chancel windows. Thanks to Image Stabilisation I was able to hand-hold the shot at 1/13 second and still produced an acceptably sharp image.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 14mm (28mm/44mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/13 seconds
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

In loving memory

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You wouldn't think of a church yard as a place to find humour, yet I can't pass a grave stone with the words "fell asleep" (to signify the death of the person commemorated) without a smile appearing on my face. I have this mental picture of the poor man or woman closing their eyes to rest and their wickedly grinning relatives seizing their chance to quickly pop them into their grave. Euphemisms of this sort abound in churchyards, especially on gravestones of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. "Passed on", "Went to the Lord", "gone before", "gone away", "resting", "taken", and more, are used instead of the word "died". It seems that the longer we live, and the less we are familiar with death, the more we search for a different word or words to describe "our passing".

I find it quite surprising that the Victorians were reticent about giving death its true name: it was a much more familiar part of everyday experience in those days. The eighteenth century and earlier seemed to have less compunction about telling it like it is, and, though they decked their tombstones with symbols - a cherub to represent the departed soul, or a laurel wreath to signify the Christian triumph over death - they also carved skulls and bones, funeral shrouds and cadavers. Of course, many memorials of all periods do use the word "died", though just as many ignore it all together. The tradition I prefer is an inscription that simply records the name and dates of the deceased, with a few personal words from those who lived on - something that gives us a small insight into their life: perhaps an occupation, something of note that the departed was known for, a place of residence, or somesuch. I also find the words, "In loving memory", very appropriate, combining affection and a reminder of the purpose of any memorial, with just the right note of formality and solemnity.

Today's photograph is a detail from a memorial in a Lincolnshire churchyard. It is 12 feet tall, is topped by an angel, and has a large base on which is recorded the name of the deceased "who fell asleep" in 1898, below a wreath of roses (signifying virtue) and those well-used words. I photographed it on a frosty morning after a spider had used the marble sculpture as the site of its web. Seeing the wreath decked out in this way I was prompted to wonder whether the people commemorated there were still part of anyone's memory.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 22mm (44mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f4.5
Shutter Speed: 1/25 seconds
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The quest for immortality

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Is the personal quest for immortality through artefacts anything more than simple vanity? I can't see that it is. The idea that you want or need people to remember you after your death seems absurd to me. That family, friends and admirers might wish to remember a person is an entirely different matter, but naming a building after yourself, building your own marble mausoleum, having your statue cast, or writing a book with that purpose in mind, seems to me a rather pathetic act of weakness and vanity. I remember being disappointed when I read that John Keats' poetry was motivated, in large part, by his desire for fame and immortality, and that the drive that leads many to write was only a small part of his motivation. His reason for writing seemed to demean both him and his work.

This thought sometimes comes into my head as I look at the monuments and memorials in churches. Many are erected with gratitude by people who knew the deceased. But others are works commissioned by the person commemorated, and are clearly designed to portray him or her in a flattering light. Those depicting eighteenth century aristocrats in antique Roman costume, exuding classical nobility and learning, accompanied by a tablet of unctuous prose, are the ones I find particularly repugnant.

I don't know whether this fifteenth century knight of the Order of St John in the church of St Botolph, Boston, Lincolnshire, commissioned his own effigy, or whether it was made after his death. It is an interesting alabaster piece, and without sculpture such as this we would know much less about the armour of people of that time. However, as a commemorative piece it has failed, because, unlike many in this type of memorial, we no longer know precisely who is shown. We do know that the Order was active in Boston in the thirteenth century, that it maintained two hospitals and St John's church in the town, and that it was dissolved in 1540, but beyond that we know little. It may be connected with the family of Sir William Weston. Today we can enjoy it as a piece of sculpture, as social history, and as a tangible link to the place's past. But not as this person's stab at immortality.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 17mm (34mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/15
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On