tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1862721371804411042024-03-18T12:13:51.504-07:00The London DeadStories from our cemeteries, crypts and churchyardsDavid Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.comBlogger386125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-82571974546938743302024-03-14T06:21:00.000-07:002024-03-14T06:21:22.428-07:00Death at the Zoo; murder, suicide and drunken accidents in the first 75 years of London's Zoological Gardens<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp2cJ2yExmw90gsdPn240ZsrGOtqu58eO1nJoeRnnCqZa2TZDvk3Gfxq2LD8PGMX-2TkcwJYI8zeFu5NNPkEeMv97wAM8Ao3BJJnIlRjIvzm7ZKdDfs8ZJXGyvOWl6falkQQJFDfFWob__sdl7Bq1G2yd9JOrFLIo4yymC0Urdk1N4gt-YaHSbnf_6P1s/s1024/Cobra%20london%20zoo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="794" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp2cJ2yExmw90gsdPn240ZsrGOtqu58eO1nJoeRnnCqZa2TZDvk3Gfxq2LD8PGMX-2TkcwJYI8zeFu5NNPkEeMv97wAM8Ao3BJJnIlRjIvzm7ZKdDfs8ZJXGyvOWl6falkQQJFDfFWob__sdl7Bq1G2yd9JOrFLIo4yymC0Urdk1N4gt-YaHSbnf_6P1s/w496-h640/Cobra%20london%20zoo.jpg" width="496" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Children
of all ages will be Interested in the chatty and pleasant account of "Half
Holidays at the Zoo," issued from the Westminster Gazette office. It is
illustrated by a large number of capital photographs of all the popular
favourites. The "Zoo" has been an institution since 1826, and during
that time there have been only two fatalities-one being the accidental crushing
of an old man by an elephant, the other, the result of a drunken man playing
with a cobra. The London "Zoo," we are told, Is the most famous, most
complete, and richest of all "Zoos” and it has an Income of £20,000 a year.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Derby Mercury - Wednesday 27 November 1895<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Charles
Morley and Hulda Friederich’s ‘chatty and pleasant’ collection of sketches from
the Westminster Gazette, published as ‘Half Holidays at the Zoo’ certainly did
not mention the deaths of Edward Horatio Girling, who was bitten by a cobra in
1852, or parrot keeper Goss, who was crushed by an elephant in 1879, so quite
why the anonymous reviewer in the Derby Mercury felt compelled to raise them is
a bit of a mystery. Perhaps he (surely it was a he) was rather disappointed
that the close and risk filled proximity of human beings with so many large,
wild and dangerous animals had only resulted in a mere two deaths in over 70
years.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">On
23 October 1852 the Daily News reported that on the previous day “Mr. WakIey
held the inquest on Edward Horatio Girling, killed by the bite of the Cobra at
the Zoological Gardens on Wednesday” at the York and Albany public house, on
the Parkway in Camden, just a short distance from the zoo. The jury were first taken to view Girling’s corpse
and were then walked to the zoo to see the snake that had killed him. Whilst
they were at the zoo David Mitchell, the Secretary of the Zoological Society, gave
them an impromptu lecture on the proper manner of handling venomous reptiles, using
a wire. The newspaper noted that during Mitchell’s talk “the serpent was taking
the water… It is about five feet long, with a flat broad head and a yellow mark
at the back of its neck.” Back at the pub the jury listened to an account of
Girling’s last moments alive, given by Mr GF Burdett the surgeon who had
attended him when he had been brought to hospital. They heard that Girling was
almost unconscious, unable to speak and kept pointing to his throat. His
complexion was livid and there were 10 small puncture wounds on either side of
his nose. Burdett ordered Girling to be placed in bed and as his breathing failed
artificial respiration and galvanic shocks were applied to try and revive him.
Artificial respiration was continued for 40 minutes after Girling stopped being
able to breath by himself but to no avail. “The most certain remedy would have
been for some person to have sucked the wound the instant after the bite, if
any one could have been found having the boldness to do it,” Mr Wakley
commented helpfully.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">How
had Girling been bitten? According to Edward Stewart, the Humming Bird keeper
and Girling’s friend, the pair had left work at 6pm the day before the accident
and gone to Girling’s for their ‘tea’ and had then gone out to see a friend who
was moving to Australia. They had drunk some porter at the friend’s house and
then moved on to a public house in Shoe Lane where they had spent the entire
night drinking before going back to work at around 6am the following morning, where
they breakfasted on gin. Stewart was asked if Girling was intoxicated. “No, no
not at all, just a little excited,” the humming bird keeper told the jury. Shortly
after 8am Stewart was passing through the reptile house with a basket of larks
when he saw Girling remove a rocco snake from its enclosure. Stewart ran over
to him and told him ‘For Gods sake’ to put the snake back. Girling laughed,
said “I am inspired!” and draped the snake around Stewart’s neck. Stewart again
told him to put the snake back, which he did. Then he walked over to another
vivarium saying “Now for the cobra!” Stewart
again asked him what he thought he was doing but Girling ignored him, removed
the snake and slipped it into his waistcoat. The cobra passed through the waistcoat
and Girling took hold of it in the middle of its body. The snake pulled back
and then darted at Girling’s face, biting on either side of the nose. The jury learned
that Girling was employed at wages of one guinea a week and that he had no
experience of handling animals. His previous job had been as a guard on the
Eastern Counties Railway. David Mitchell had trained Girling himself and told
the jury that he had previously reprimanded him for not taking sufficient care
when feeding the adders. None of the witnesses said that they had ever seen
Girling intoxicated but the jury were having none of that, they thought Girling
had clearly had far too much to drink and brought in a verdict of “died from
the mortal effects of wounds produced from the bite of a venomous serpent,
known the cobra de capello, and that the said injuries were the results of his
own rashness whilst in state of intoxication.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbQDQxbNqc5_xCyyznHm2AwvLo6MC1EiB7j45vJT4bodDyvTqn3H_ibxryglIaimjCLcF4S1ZLMhAagi2Os4fKk_iuWE0i_nnQVJbm7Al_33GKNu7nLfDVWlJ3A6vQs4Iyj0Pe9VWbYwLUamDk_jTHYUnQML1W0Izj4TI5S1pcgHaG9cIsZ0CsPKl4KWM/s1466/Man%20seized%20by%20bears%20in%20Zoological%20gardens.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1404" data-original-width="1466" height="612" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbQDQxbNqc5_xCyyznHm2AwvLo6MC1EiB7j45vJT4bodDyvTqn3H_ibxryglIaimjCLcF4S1ZLMhAagi2Os4fKk_iuWE0i_nnQVJbm7Al_33GKNu7nLfDVWlJ3A6vQs4Iyj0Pe9VWbYwLUamDk_jTHYUnQML1W0Izj4TI5S1pcgHaG9cIsZ0CsPKl4KWM/w640-h612/Man%20seized%20by%20bears%20in%20Zoological%20gardens.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif"></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">There
was a near miss in the summer of 1867 when, according to the ‘Illustrated
Police News’ (06 July 1867) an unnamed ‘countryman’ descended unobserved into
the bear pit to recover his hat which had fallen into the enclosure. He was
immediately “seized by one of the bears upon his arriving at the bottom of the
pit. No sooner had this taken place when two other boars immediately came from
their cave and also seized him, and began dragging him towards it.” The
spectators began to throw their walking sticks at the bears hoping to distract
them. A nearby zookeeper saved the day by rushing to the scene, At the sound of
his voice the bears abandoned their quarry and ‘slunk back to their cave’.
Another newspaper quoted by the Police News noted that “a man will do
astonishing things to recover his hat! A peculiar sentiment seems, indeed, to
attach to that objectionable head-dress, resembling the feeling with which an
ancient Roman or Greek regarded his shield.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">On
Sunday 18 May 1879 the Era reported on the inquest held on the death of the Zoo’s
parrot house keeper, who was 72 years when he was crushed by an elephant (none
of the newspaper accounts dignified keeper Goss with a first name);<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Fatal Accident at the Zoological Gardens. An
inquest was held on Wednesday afternoon by Dr. Hardwicke, at the University
College Hospital, on the body of Goss, the keeper of the parrot-house at the
Zoological Gardens, who died from the effects of injuries inflicted on him on
Easter Tuesday last by an elephant. The house surgeon to the hospital stated
that the patient was admitted with a fractured leg, the small bone having been
broken. There was also a dislocation of the large bone of the leg from the
corresponding bone of the ankle joint. The seventh rib was also fractured.
Amputation of the leg was performed, but the patient, who was seventy-two years
old, died of the shock of the wounds and the operation. Barnes, the driver of
the elephants, stated that he left his beasts for a few minutes in order to get
a pair of steps for the visitors to mount, and that he asked Goss to stand at
the elephant's head while he went for the steps. When he returned, he found
Goss sitting down on the seat. He said that the elephant had trodden on him and
broken his leg. The animals had already been three times round the Gardens
before the accident happened. They were quiet as usual. Mr A. D. Bartlett, who
has been manager of the Gardens for twenty years, stated that the four Indian
elephants had always been perfectly gentle, and that he had never known any of
them show symptoms of temper or vice at any time. He was on the spot a few
minutes after the accident. Barnes had gone for the steps, and Goss was
standing by the elephant's head when the animal suddenly started forward,
pushed Goss over, and trod on his foot. He thought it possible that some
mischievous person had prodded the elephant from behind with a stick or umbrella,
or else pulled his tail, thus making him suddenly start forwards. The elephant
was presented by the Prince of Wales, and was named Restom. He was one of the
smaller elephants, and weighed a ton and a quarter. He was by no means a
vicious or ill-tempered animal. Goss had been a keeper in the elephant-house
before he was made keeper of the parrot-house. He had been in the Society's
service many years, amid bore a very excellent character. The Jury returned a
verdict of " Accidental Death."<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Searching the records I have been able to
identify ‘Goss’ as John Goss, born in Pakenham in Suffolk in 1806. He married Mary
Ann Dean at St Dunstan’s in the West on 21 October 1834 and the couple went on
to have seven children, six girls and one boy. At the time of his death he was
living at 2 Egbert Street, NW1 in the house of the Zoo’s superintendent,
Clarence Bartlett, presumably a relative of the Mr A.D. Bartlett who gave
evidence at the inquest.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZbWRkMweni92g93EiIFA1mbe9kt-vp5wH3Qj3mYYh4WeoqqVzDELBLrOmFVHoYym0Dqf5IgMjgA3A0J3yl6evUO_Ejx9TD7w1D2e82-iOkDMLQKpdQEgqMMZRO2I42pIs_mENaHeXRSJstll0iTxeVL7F_Lmdy69NstN-1Etnmy8Ftc3yWRpnzjasdh8/s1600/London%20zoo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZbWRkMweni92g93EiIFA1mbe9kt-vp5wH3Qj3mYYh4WeoqqVzDELBLrOmFVHoYym0Dqf5IgMjgA3A0J3yl6evUO_Ejx9TD7w1D2e82-iOkDMLQKpdQEgqMMZRO2I42pIs_mENaHeXRSJstll0iTxeVL7F_Lmdy69NstN-1Etnmy8Ftc3yWRpnzjasdh8/w640-h360/London%20zoo.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">SUICIDE
AT THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dr H. Wynn
Westcott held an inquest on Saturday, at the Ossington Coffee Tavern, Marylebone,
concerning the death of William Farrow, forty-three years old, a helper In the monkey-house
at the Zoological Gardens, residing at 26, Egbert-place, St. Georges-road,
Regent's Park, who on Thursday morning was found in a room adjoining the
monkey- house with his throat cut. Ann Farrow, widow of the deceased, said her husband
occasionally drank, and was then violent. He kept a razor for shaving at the
gardens. The coroner's officer said Farrow took the elephant Alice to Mr.
Barnum in America. Benjamin Morley, a labourer at the Zoological Gardens,
deposed to finding the deceased in a room adjoining the monkey-house, lying on
a truss of straw with his throat cut. He lived about a quarter of an hour after
witness discovered him. James Baker, money-taker at the Gardens, said he found
a razor smeared with blood in a box about forty yards from the deceased. The
widow said the paper produced was a in her husband's handwriting. He gave it to
her on Monday evening. He was playing with bis children, and wrote the paper,
promising to become a teetotaller on and after the 16th inst., that date being
the anniversary of the deceased's return from India, and with their youngest
child finished the writinq. Mr. Charles Bartlett, acting superintendent at the
Zoological Gardens, stated that the deceased had at been in the employ of the
Zoological Society for nineteen years. Two years ago, because of his
intemperate habits, he was, reduced from the position of a keeper to that of
helper. Lately he had been very unsteady. The witness remonstrated with him, to
and he promised to become a teetotaller. During the past fortnight he had kept
sober, or nearly so. Twelve months ago he took out two lions to the Calcutta
gardens, and returned with a rhinoceros and a tiger, After hearing the evidence
of Dr. T. Bennett the jury returned a verdict of suicide whilst<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in a state of temporary insanity, induced by
habits of habitual Alcoholic intemperance.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">The
accounts of another suicide the following year were much terser. This is from
the Western Gazette of Friday 09 November 1888;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">A
well-dressed man committed suicide on Wednesday morning shooting himself
through the head with a revolver in the Zoological Garden. The man died
instantly. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">My
attempts to find out more about this incident have all resulted in failure.
Although the suicide was widely reported, interestingly there were no follow up
stories in any newspapers that I can trace even though there must have been an
inquest. In January 1898 25-year-old Ernest Harrison, a keeper at the zoo, shot
himself in the head in his lodgings there. According to the Morning Leader of
Thursday 06 January 1898 <i>“he was seen by another keeper at quarter-past
nine, and had requested the latter to feed his cranes. He seemed greatly depressed
at the time. When the second keeper relurned to Harrison’s room at half past
ten he found the door bolted and the blinds drawn. Climbing on to the roof and
looking through the skylight he saw Harrison lying on the ground with a rifle
wound in his head. The wounded man was at once removed to the North-Western
Hospital in Kentish Town-rd., where he died shortly before two o’clock in the
afternoon. The deceased was a native of Lincolnshirse, and his family have been
communicated with. His age was 25. By his side, when discovered, was found a
bottle of carbolic, and it is thought that he took poison before shooting
himself through the mouth.”<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">In
1911 another keeper shot himself through the head in his room at the keepers
lodge. 21 year old Frank Leonard Hann was found kneeling by his bedside with a
bullet wound in his right temple and a revolver by his side. His superiors and
colleagues all thought him to be <i>“rather strange in his manners”</i> according to
the Leicester Chronicle of Saturday 6 May 1911, who reported on the inquest at
St Pancras Coroner’s Court. Walter Sutton, the headkeeper, reported Hann to be “rather
late with regard to meal times” and said that <i>“after dinner sometimes he would
sit down and read a book for about 20 minutes, then suddenly jump up and say ‘This
way to the talking Mynah’ referring to a particular bird in the aviary.”</i> Sutton
also claimed to have seen Hann “reading novels”; an unwarranted slander
according to Hann’s father who stood up at the back of the court and shouted
that there had been no novels in his room and that his son had probably been
reading a book on natural history. The coroner told him to sit down and said he
would tolerate no further outbursts of that sort in his court. Further examples
of Hann’s ‘strangeness’ came from Edward Tanner, a fellow keeper, who sand that
<i>“sometimes when in the aviary he would start singing at the top of his voice and
then laugh in a deep, unnatural voice.” </i> Tanner
told the inquest that Hann had showed him a revolver and said that he would use
it to shoot stray cats in the garden. Edward Ockenden, the assistant superintendent,
told the jury that Hann was reported for being absent without leave on 25 April
and was dismissed and told to hand in his keys and uniform to the financial
clerk. Hann appeared in Ockenden’s office to argue his case but was told by the
assistant superintendent that there was nothing he could do, the matter was out
of his hands. Hann left the office, slamming the door behind him but returned
almost immediately, stormed up to Ockenden and slapped him on the left ear. Two
or three of the clerks intervened and bustled Hann out of the office. An hour
and a half later a shot was heard in the office and they soon all learned that
Hann had killed himself. </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><i>“</i></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i>Further peculiarities
of the deceased whilst on duty in the bird house was given Mr. Arthur Denman, a
Fellow of the Zoological Society, who said that had had occasion to caution him
for whistling in an annoying manner. The jury returned a verdict of suicide
whilst of unsound mind.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2N8WBYuKFOCR2udhXZegzIfeHXG-lpW-Dg33tAV9fiVVTdQCCpnOhayHuclj6BO9M50_8AnsEXsbecEzdCyDhoBg6N1BMERY7CMKlaJb5Zm0isBYxd1jf90PgPYuWuxYfqhPj-r6Tx5BFqRhVYxfYxb4n7GctTwiMUaWwCZCWfWi7zpqsm_4h9KQeSs/s1920/Monkey%20house%20london%20zoo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="1920" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2N8WBYuKFOCR2udhXZegzIfeHXG-lpW-Dg33tAV9fiVVTdQCCpnOhayHuclj6BO9M50_8AnsEXsbecEzdCyDhoBg6N1BMERY7CMKlaJb5Zm0isBYxd1jf90PgPYuWuxYfqhPj-r6Tx5BFqRhVYxfYxb4n7GctTwiMUaWwCZCWfWi7zpqsm_4h9KQeSs/w640-h458/Monkey%20house%20london%20zoo.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">In
1928 one of the Zoo;s elephant keepers was accused of murdering his colleague,
The case caused a sensation, not least because the murdered man was Sayid Ali,
an Indian, and his murderer San Dwe, was from Burma. In the small hours of the
morning on 25 August two policeman had climbed over the fence of the zoo after
hearing moaning coming from inside. <i>“At the foot of the Tapir House,”</i> according
to the Gloucester Citizen of Tuesday 04 September 1928, <i>“over which San Dwe
lived, they found him holding his foot and groaning, and wearing only his
pants, vest, and a pyjama coat.</i></span><i> </i><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">When questioned he made incoherent statements. With
the aid of torch Ali was found upstairs over the Tapir House lying dead on his
bed, clad only in his vest, with the left side of his head badly battered, and
his body also wounded. A pickaxe was at the bottom of the bed.”</span></i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> Dwe told the police that four
men had tried to kill him and that he had hidden under the bed, and then jumped
from his window. Dwe was taken to hospital and, for some reason, placed on a
mental ward. Back at the Zoo <i>“in the room at the Tapir House was found a
blood-stained sledge hammer, and in the bedroom a pickaxe similarly stained. A
green wooden box, the property of Ali had been opened, and the contents were
scattered over the floor. On top of the box were two bags of coppers. Between
the sheets and mattress of Ali's bed was a wallet containing £36 10s. in notes.
There was also a Post Office Savings Bank Book, showing deposits of £60.” </i>Later
Dwe was taken to Albany Street Station where he made his first statement
claiming that he had been laying in bed reading until about 10.30 when Ali put
out the light and stood by the window. He said to Dwe “Come and look English,
English, one by one," meaning that there was a couple in the street openly
having sexual intercourse. Ali swore at them and <i>“an Englishman shouted
back, ‘Shut up vou black man! shut up!" San Dwe said he then went to
sleep. He was awakened later and heard Sayid Ali being hit by someone. San Dwe
took some blankets and jumped out of the window.”</i> In a later interview Dwe
told the police that over the previous few months he had been repeatedly
approached, whilst training his elephants, by an English man always dressed in
a trilby and trench coat, who would question him about Ali and his savings. Dwe
confessed to accepting money from the man to answer his questions and to leave
the door of their shared room open that night. Dwe said he forgot to leave the
door open that night and the man in the trench coat and trilby and an
accomplice had then battered the door down and murdered Ali for his savings.
The two contradictory versions of the events of that night and the fact that
none of Ali’s money appeared to have been taken cast suspicion on Dwe himself. In
November he was found guilty of Ali’s murder and sentenced to death. In
December he received a reprieve and his sentence was commuted to life imprisonment.</span></p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7OCookjTdt-Pwmn_JZ18NP0HKnZgO_n0VFI-Y5yMDe4jX3Ob4zrGBfMoUTggg_UTpylSVqxr8v8N57GxAeAud0V6NAQ6i4iOwfL11-FvMHrCwX8YZzY7KNTXVOaEIxDed85Ho0MN5Msrz-wQZHRd0fbstPxf-HPXjSA5UycIV9QLof2Bz0MSNPnZO0qY/s1260/san%20dwe%20elephants.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="873" data-original-width="1260" height="444" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7OCookjTdt-Pwmn_JZ18NP0HKnZgO_n0VFI-Y5yMDe4jX3Ob4zrGBfMoUTggg_UTpylSVqxr8v8N57GxAeAud0V6NAQ6i4iOwfL11-FvMHrCwX8YZzY7KNTXVOaEIxDed85Ho0MN5Msrz-wQZHRd0fbstPxf-HPXjSA5UycIV9QLof2Bz0MSNPnZO0qY/w640-h444/san%20dwe%20elephants.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sayid Ali and San Dwe photographed before the fateful events of the 25th August 1928</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-4460689487959930412024-03-08T04:09:00.000-08:002024-03-08T04:09:11.141-08:00The Mysterious Barclay Grave; Elizabeth Anne Barclay (1834-1895) Kensal Green Cemetery<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJfPm0YPcW7bbVX5unyiCsvpteG9rRIiF9UR1fLbKlQcpdyyoR-MuEevAmADHyPmVA9XVoqp1d5vPMLV3zRDu0Skdti7iNhnV3gMlAu-c50lBC7ixTh8-_KFjlXDj6k9FUisk0B8eUA_FyVd6LKHflRDJsZ4vV7XhE_2U8XR3-AYOoPa9Po3LJLT6z0Do/s3648/Barclay%20memorial%20Kensal%20Green%20May%202013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJfPm0YPcW7bbVX5unyiCsvpteG9rRIiF9UR1fLbKlQcpdyyoR-MuEevAmADHyPmVA9XVoqp1d5vPMLV3zRDu0Skdti7iNhnV3gMlAu-c50lBC7ixTh8-_KFjlXDj6k9FUisk0B8eUA_FyVd6LKHflRDJsZ4vV7XhE_2U8XR3-AYOoPa9Po3LJLT6z0Do/w640-h480/Barclay%20memorial%20Kensal%20Green%20May%202013.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">This
memorial in Kensal Green cemetery first caught my attention back in 2013.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The unusual design is unlike anything else in
the cemetery; a trefoil cross carrying a crude depiction of Christ carved out
of one large piece of stone, it looks semi pagan, vaguely Celtic, a product of
the dark ages when Norsemen swept through the British Isles putting Christians
to the sword and ransacking monasteries. It is pretty hefty; almost four feet
tall with a span of two and a half feet across the patibulum, made from
hard-wearing, unpolished granite, it must weigh at least 650Kg. The bottom of
the cross is slotted into a base of the same stone just over three feet long, a
foot wide and 9 inches deep. The weight of the base is just a fraction of the
weight of the cross, 200Kg perhaps. Unsurprisingly then the cross is starting
to incline at quite an alarming angle. The weight of the base can’t be enough
to support the cross and as soon as earth movement took the upright out of perfect
vertical alignment, the whole memorial was going to gradually, but inexorably, topple
over in real time slow motion. Standing it back up will be quite a job, base
and cross together weigh over 130 stone, well over three quarters of a
tonne.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no epitaph or any other
inscription or mark on the memorial to give any clue as to its age or who might
be buried here. Whether some element of the memorial is missing or whether the
person buried here wanted anonymity is impossible to tell. Having admired the
rude beauty of this monument for over a decade, I decided it was time I did
some research to find out who was buried here. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvOV0ERnDK3zgYmo49G23SYE4CC1yhWfFYRX437DpvwYS4FUP_w2RF-mqhVyx3lAYpBVG5lrwVzDUHv8-KvYBJuCBYx1HEugON_uXcYJ0h6UqgRHQFR2l-Ms8gECpQu6uxEdegzAAEl11HYCzDEJt2OzVyEnfFmogRzhBMnSm_WKsFI6vXwLmTzz-7Bcc/s1284/Elizabeth%20A%20Barclay%20Kensal%20Green%20burial%20register.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="256" data-original-width="1284" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvOV0ERnDK3zgYmo49G23SYE4CC1yhWfFYRX437DpvwYS4FUP_w2RF-mqhVyx3lAYpBVG5lrwVzDUHv8-KvYBJuCBYx1HEugON_uXcYJ0h6UqgRHQFR2l-Ms8gECpQu6uxEdegzAAEl11HYCzDEJt2OzVyEnfFmogRzhBMnSm_WKsFI6vXwLmTzz-7Bcc/w640-h128/Elizabeth%20A%20Barclay%20Kensal%20Green%20burial%20register.png" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I
started by locating the grave on the cemetery maps. These give the number of
the grave and a surname. In most cases, but by no means all, the name on the map
is the name of the person buried in the grave; the name is actually that of the
grave owner, the person who purchased the plot, and is this is generally a
close relative, spouse or child, they tend to share the same name. The map gave
me the name Barclay and the plot number 35332. The grave number is useful
because these were allocated sequentially by the General Cemetery Company so it
gives us a rough date for the purchase of the grave. Graves close by numbered in
the 35000’s all dated from the 1890’s. This was a surprise; I thought the grave
might be more modern. With a surname and a timescale, I could search Deceased
online, who have Kensal Green’s burial records, for any Barclays buried in the
cemetery in the 1890’s. There were only four. I paid to view the burial record
of the person who was buried in the middle of the decade, an Elizabeth A.
Barclay, and bingo, the grave number matched 35332. The records also have the
address of the deceased, in this case Horbury Crescent, Notting Hill. With a name,
an address and a date of death it was then a relatively simple matter to search
on Ancestry for further records relating to Elizabeth Barclay.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimRA2Y1oW_mC83mwYl9Ne9o3sV7VDSI8FTCu2kjR1ohJxsWc9uFVWvkvWpZOq2fbwterGajlI1aFSDN9D8hG_9w1eyNFc6pxPiQqvV98vmqjsqo7930Oa9MlqkqF4C2tPQTsYuqH7_yP2QJTrPqPkKUX-RHXkkZmtafIJHsbk3TdHbRrdrTR_sWC-CK-I/s2124/Elizabeth%20Ann%20Barclay%20probate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="344" data-original-width="2124" height="104" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimRA2Y1oW_mC83mwYl9Ne9o3sV7VDSI8FTCu2kjR1ohJxsWc9uFVWvkvWpZOq2fbwterGajlI1aFSDN9D8hG_9w1eyNFc6pxPiQqvV98vmqjsqo7930Oa9MlqkqF4C2tPQTsYuqH7_yP2QJTrPqPkKUX-RHXkkZmtafIJHsbk3TdHbRrdrTR_sWC-CK-I/w640-h104/Elizabeth%20Ann%20Barclay%20probate.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Probate records show that Elizabeth Anne Barclay died on the 12 March 1895 at number 13 Horbury Crescent, W11 but her permanent address is given as Mendon Vean in Falmouth. Her estate is valued at £14,117 and 18 shillings which was a substantial sum in the 1890’s. On-line estimates of the cash value of £14,000 at current prices say that it would be worth over £2 million but this must be an underestimate. Some assets, particularly land and property have risen significantly more than cash values in the last 130 years. Elizabeth was the only voter registered at Horbury Cresent which means that she almost certainly owned it. The property still stands and online estimates of its current value are all over £5 million. Elizabeth also owned her property in Cornwall and also owned land. She was an extremely wealthy woman. She was baptised on 28 December 1834 at Great Bookham in Surrey which means that she was 61 when she died. Her parents were David and Maria Dorothea Barclay who had recently bought the grand mansion at Eastwick Park and its ‘uncommonly fine’ estate, once the home of the Dukes of Effingham. David Barclay, had been the Whig MP for Penryn in Cornwall and the year after her birth would be elected as MP for Sunderland. He had substantial business interests, he formed Barclay Brothers and Company, at 34 Old Broad Street, the merchant house of which he eventually became head and was also an auditor of the Rock Life Assurance Office, a director of the Anglo-Mexican Mining Association, 1825-8, and had two spells as a director of the Bank of England. The Barclays were an extremely wealthy Quaker family; Elizabeth’s grandfather Robert had bought Thrale’s brewery in Southwark. Dr Johnson, who had acted for the Thrale family during the sale, famously said that the purchaser had ‘the potentiality of becoming rich beyond the dreams of avarice’ and so it proved, the brewery became the biggest and most profitable in Europe. When Robert died in 1830, David inherited a one-eighth share in the brewery, a legacy of £15,000 and a share in the residue of the personal estate, which was sworn under £160,000. Elizabeth’s grandmother was a Gurney and two of her aunts married into the Fox family of Cornwall, Quaker aristocracy. </span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWbj_ReaWtNyy6MtLrIQIYoK1SQW3sNTvWpQX41oZ2itrNsRaC7wjX5BmznXaTla2BFOGwm08nbFGLfq6-xZZE-5MyBnOGmhu_72mQXyYyAbaOd9FqS4N67r44HFfPo3X1US7tkoBrPeRVQJ2SMZOW5VXydIe8GEXOudT3_I8O8PNHxmfaBESBX2rpdds/s4001/Barclay%20memorial.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3001" data-original-width="4001" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWbj_ReaWtNyy6MtLrIQIYoK1SQW3sNTvWpQX41oZ2itrNsRaC7wjX5BmznXaTla2BFOGwm08nbFGLfq6-xZZE-5MyBnOGmhu_72mQXyYyAbaOd9FqS4N67r44HFfPo3X1US7tkoBrPeRVQJ2SMZOW5VXydIe8GEXOudT3_I8O8PNHxmfaBESBX2rpdds/w640-h480/Barclay%20memorial.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">But
all was not well with her parents’ marriage. Outwardly respectable David
Barclay was not in reality quite the upright, moral figure he presented to the
world. The couple had six children and Elizabeth was the youngest. Her mother
died at the age of 48 in 18 in 1846 when Elizabeth was just 12. Elizabeth and
her older sister Maria were sent to live with her mother’s sister, Sophia, who
was Countess of Zetland after marrying Thomas Dundas, the Earl of Zetland, in
1823. The boys in the family stayed with their father. The scandalous reasons
for this unusual arrangement only became public knowledge three years later
when David Barlcay issued a writ of habeas corpus against his sister-in-law and
her husband, demanding that his youngest daughter be returned to his
custody. The court proceedings were widely
reported in the newspapers at the end of April when an error by David Barclay’s
lawyer, Sir Frederic Thesiger (later Lord High Chancellor of England and 1st
Baron Chelmsford) led to the reading out in open court of the Zetland’s return
to the writ. On the day scheduled for the hearing the Court told Sir Frederic
that the Attorney General had requested that the date of the hearing be
postponed. Sir Frederic was furious at the postponement and demanded that the
case go ahead. It was rescheduled for 3pm that day, to allow time for Elizabeth
to be brought back to court. When the court reconvened Sir Frederic insisted
that the Zetland’s return to the writ be read out in open court, in front of
Elizabeth and her father, despite the Attorney-General, who was acting for the
Zetland’s saying “l am anxious to prevent unnecessary discussion and painful
inquiry, but if my learned friend, who appears for Mr. Barclay, insists on a
return, I am ready to give one.” Perhaps David Barclay had not fully appraised
Sir Frederic of the full circumstances surrounding the decision by his late
wife, to place her daughters under their aunt’s protection. This is what the
Attorney General read out to the Court as reported in the West Kent Guardian of
Saturday 28 April 1849;<o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Miss
Elizabeth Anne Barclay was the youngest daughter of David Barclay and Maria
Dorothea his wife, and was sixteen years of age; that her mother died on the
24th of June, 1846, leaving two daughters, the elder being now twenty-two years
of age; that the late Mrs. Barclay was the sister of the Countess of Zetland,
and that, previously to her death, the two young ladies resided with their
father, and in the year 1844 there was a female resident in his house who acted
as governess to the children, with which female Mr. Barclay in the lifetime of
his wife carried on adulterous intercourse, which caused Mrs. Barclay the most <a name="_Hlk160788529">poignant anguish and distress</a>, and that immediately
prior to her death she requested the countess to take charge of her two
children, and always to let them remain with her, which the countess promised
to do; that on the day of Mrs. Barclay's funeral the two children, with the
concurrence of their father, went to reside with the countess, and have ever
since remained under her care and protection, with the exception of a short
visit made by Elizabeth Anne to her father; that during the years 1847 and part
of the year 1848 Mr. Barclay carried on an adulterous intercourse with a female
who resided in the neighbourhood of his house in Surrey, and that in the spring
of 1847 the earl and countess, being ignorant of the fact, permitted Elizabeth
Anne to visit her father for a short time, and that during the visit the father
allowed her to meet and associate with the female in question; that in the year
1848 differences arose between the earl and countess and Mr. Barclay as to the
custody of the children, and a negotiation took place between Sir Hedworth
Williamson, Baronet, the brother of the countess, on the part of the earl and
countess, and Charles Barclay, Esq., on the part of David Barclay, when a
written agreement was entered into that the two children should remain under
the care of the countess, and that Mr. Barclay should allow £500 per annum for
their expenses, to be paid to the elder Miss Barclay. There were also
provisions for the occasional access the father and his son to the young
ladies.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyk8rgBjHrXB1Rn9XYMQPHlqVOAElLH5N-ws3_DU79wHOWrl1jcbbjq0LTcahtk57e6hlWUpdL4bSLdoVxDznBCBbD54dK29DxBIomT-KHvjEN6JAyvSu7yBTKKzjFBo6nrIBllR43Ts2THWmXctwol2E5cJXnrz-OUwG2UWR2xH2UNqW53Z2ZXNvUtM/s4013/John%20&%20Diana%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3009" data-original-width="4013" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyk8rgBjHrXB1Rn9XYMQPHlqVOAElLH5N-ws3_DU79wHOWrl1jcbbjq0LTcahtk57e6hlWUpdL4bSLdoVxDznBCBbD54dK29DxBIomT-KHvjEN6JAyvSu7yBTKKzjFBo6nrIBllR43Ts2THWmXctwol2E5cJXnrz-OUwG2UWR2xH2UNqW53Z2ZXNvUtM/w640-h480/John%20&%20Diana%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Henry and Diana Clements, the two friendly geologists, who tentatively identified the Barclay memorial as being made of Cornish granite</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I
imagine that no one in the court knew where to look as the Attorney-General
read out his statement. Elizabeth was probably hearing these salacious details
of her father’s life for the first time and was possibly not aware of the “poignant
anguish and distress” he had caused her mother. David Barclay no doubt sat
listening in barely concealed turmoil as details of his private life were made
public and probably could not bring himself to look at his youngest daughter.
Sir Frederic, doing his best to retrieve the situation, blustered that he could
disprove all the allegations against his client but suggested that to avoid
further painful discussions in open court, that an interview be granted between
his client and Elizabeth, in the Judges Chambers, to ascertain what her wishes
were – did she want to stay with the Zetland’s or return to her father. “After
some further discussion,” reported the West Kent Guardian, “it was arranged
that Mr. Barclay and his son should see Miss Barclay in the judges' private
room, in the presence of the judges, the Earl and Countess of Zetland, and of
the Attorney-General and Sir Frederick Thesiger. A short interval having
elapsed, the judges returned, and it was understood that Miss Barclay elected
to remain under the care of the countess, but nothing transpired in court upon
the subject.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Two
years later the 18-year-old Elizabeth appears to have left the Zetland’s home
and was living in Falmouth with another of her aunts, Lucy Fox. Had there been
some sort of rift? Lucy Fox died in 1859 and by the time of the 1861 census, 28-year-old
Elizabeth was living with her father at Roscow in the parish of St Gluvias in
Falmouth. Whilst not quite Eastwick Park, the property was still very substantial
and there were six live in servants including a butler, a groom, a cook, and house,
kitchen and laundry maids. David Barclay barely had time to complete his census
return that year as he died on the first of July. Elizabeth never married and
spent the rest of her life moving between homes in London and Cornwall. After her father’s death she seems to have a
house at 26 Bolton Street, WC1 no doubt to be near her eldest brother who lived
at number 25. She also acquired her own property at Mendon Vean and was staying
there at the time of the 1881 census. I
can’t trace her in the 1891 census, perhaps she was abroad? By 1895 she was
dead. We don’t know who commissioned her memorial or why there is no epitaph or
inscription. Two geologists who looked the memorial with me told me that it was
probably made of Cornish granite which may indicate that Elizabeth had already
chosen the mason who made it while she was alive. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFAjUFkiJ4GwDY-N2o-V6Mc3ykA1PTkB52y_uIzsqciUwqOvbgT1z_vjNyjUSzwwfMvuGaZwax_3tJ9uTaV9orEFYmJKkFSYTJaQz_5rJSjv6on8-FQbgGNy6F4SHxU27Krsu8s2NqmPcT-Nt2vcO6avZNwt_DjSYb1hVgTEp6BOZ0_FeAh6_gjGJWAIE/s3912/Barclay%20memorial%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2934" data-original-width="3912" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFAjUFkiJ4GwDY-N2o-V6Mc3ykA1PTkB52y_uIzsqciUwqOvbgT1z_vjNyjUSzwwfMvuGaZwax_3tJ9uTaV9orEFYmJKkFSYTJaQz_5rJSjv6on8-FQbgGNy6F4SHxU27Krsu8s2NqmPcT-Nt2vcO6avZNwt_DjSYb1hVgTEp6BOZ0_FeAh6_gjGJWAIE/w640-h480/Barclay%20memorial%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-89038376991680541722024-02-29T03:52:00.000-08:002024-03-13T04:24:03.746-07:00When figures from the past stand tall; Ian Curtis (1956-1980) Macclesfield Cemetery & Crematorium<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvLS0w5eFylPy00GNZXCjJHBlx-W3cYki6qRP0oNkW3d-5BO5gZSfoW5r-kh7h5_RTz2_DVJqwz-4uEiz_UYfl6lfO-gUxfRdHuSZldvTQmJ6HgczDhBxx7XbbcUBfb45hjYkA_QbvMyfB9VmhsVAm5sAFgwt5h7gT40h_UPgEltx0r3MdB_oq5gpAQ4I/s4032/Ian%20Curtis%20Macclesfield.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvLS0w5eFylPy00GNZXCjJHBlx-W3cYki6qRP0oNkW3d-5BO5gZSfoW5r-kh7h5_RTz2_DVJqwz-4uEiz_UYfl6lfO-gUxfRdHuSZldvTQmJ6HgczDhBxx7XbbcUBfb45hjYkA_QbvMyfB9VmhsVAm5sAFgwt5h7gT40h_UPgEltx0r3MdB_oq5gpAQ4I/w640-h480/Ian%20Curtis%20Macclesfield.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">My father lay dying in Macclesfield, an unknown town to us but the District General there was the nearest hospital to his care home. Network Rail had closed the entire West Coast Main Line down for the weekend, between Stafford and Manchester, to carry out engineering works. With time running out for the old man I still had to get to Cheshire and my brother, with ill-concealed bad grace, agreed to pick me up from Crewe station, a 20-mile drive from Macclesfield, mainly along unlit country lanes. We drove, too fast, in the rapidly fading light of a bleak January Sunday afternoon, between high hedgerows and through small villages, making desultory conversation. I appreciated that it was a pain in the ass having to pick me up and make a forty-mile round trip but my brother seemed more resentful of my father for taking his time to die, than he did of me. In one of the many silences that punctuated our conversation, I cast around for something to say. <br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">“Wasn’t Ian Curtis from Macclesfield?” I suddenly remembered. My brother takes his time to answer.<br /></span><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">“Buried there,” he eventually says, rather tersely, knowing of my interest in such things, before adding “the cemetery is near the hospital.”<br /></span><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">At some point during one of the two nights I spent sitting by my father’s hospital bed, I recalled this conversation and checked where the singer’s grave was. The cemetery and crematorium were in Prestbury Road, a ten-minute stroll away from the hospital. As day dawned after my second sleepless night spent in a chair in dad’s hot and stuffy side room, when I went to his window to look out at the view of brick walls, service pipes and rubbish bins, I was surprised to see that it had been snowing. The snow must have been silently falling for hours as there were a good couple of inches on the ground. When my sister came to join me an hour or two later, she encouraged me to get some fresh air. Forty minutes was enough time to walk to the cemetery, stroll round, find the grave (helpfully marked on google maps), take a few photos and walk back to the hospital. The snow-covered cemetery and Curtis’ grave reminded me of Kevin Cummin’s famous photos of Joy Division taken 45 years ago, in January 1979, standing on the Princess Parkway in Hulme. Time collapsed for me and I found myself vividly reliving my own memories of the time and of the band. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGlDiTEycKyJOXT3dah7wR0begqWtV1yLWx_pSVUNSq-GiOQ4lBQ6d2BAgFMIrOr7YWFdnxgmuHkQ6606zbo-z4lATNQ1_yLhCdUpOIf0LjWsYNGF-fCctq-_6GBYPzfusu43DViMg1schCi7z6IKdDSo3Q9pLQ-2PEtOyswk667zZs7j4wa5U7znp5JM/s4032/Macclesfield%20Cemetery%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGlDiTEycKyJOXT3dah7wR0begqWtV1yLWx_pSVUNSq-GiOQ4lBQ6d2BAgFMIrOr7YWFdnxgmuHkQ6606zbo-z4lATNQ1_yLhCdUpOIf0LjWsYNGF-fCctq-_6GBYPzfusu43DViMg1schCi7z6IKdDSo3Q9pLQ-2PEtOyswk667zZs7j4wa5U7znp5JM/w640-h480/Macclesfield%20Cemetery%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Ian killed himself on the night of Saturday/Sunday 17/18 May 1980, though the 18th is usually given as his date of death. I found out the following day, the Monday, probably around 10.15pm. I was about to leave the student bar at my college when my friend Joe walked in. A bespectacled Cornishman in a worn leather jacket and crumpled cords, he looked like he was in shock and said that he needed a drink. Unusually he ordered a neat whisky. “I was listening to John Peel,” he told me, “Ian Curtis is dead.” It was my turn to be thunderstruck. We had been to the second of the three gigs Joy Division played at the Moonlight Club the previous month and the Rainbow in Finsbury Park in November when they supported the Buzzcocks. The band were everywhere – they were on the cusp of the big time, the music papers raved about them, John Peel, if no one else, played tracks from Unknown Pleasures and the various singles and EP’s every other night on his Radio 1 show and they had done their first TV appearances. Their new album was already recorded and due out in the summer. We were obsessed by two bands, The Fall and Joy Division; Joe had introduced me to both. We caught every gig we could, we bought the records, read the reviews and interviews in the music press and, about Joy Division, we gossiped because one of the girls at the college was going out with a music journalist and he knew the band well enough to go backstage and hang out with them when they were in London. He told us things about the band that weren’t common knowledge. That Ian had a wife and kid ‘up north’ and that he had a glamourous ‘French’ girlfriend (in reality she was Belgian and her name was Annik Honoré). There were hints of his marital problems. We knew about his epilepsy. We knew next to nothing but felt like we knew a lot. But now Ian Curtis was dead and we didn’t understand how or why he had died. John Peel’s announcement at the start of his show had been brief, apologising for being the bearer of bad news he told his audience that Ian Curtis, the singer of Joy Division had died and he had no further details. After saying that his thoughts were with the family and friends he played ‘New Dawn Fades’ and when the track finished my stunned friend came to knock on my door to see if I had heard and, when I wasn’t in my room, he made his way to the bar. After much discussion we decided that it must have been Ian’s epilepsy that had killed him. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjagCrdlvdew5PcgFzlmp4oxViV3MvDiNdhKAArrWEOMRUbQtaN_xNEs0UMRQHbWwK5x913tFIxEgoitwV1qHeCKFaitH6u4EVSHIG80nyBQ4LAFjwcItbrpWUCAB_pLCo8duJ-79yVrCaSUv-nGwuu_sHriGm_Z_mH5zXTKU0tXskK5n2CwGiHWTv10Wc/s1500/Ian%20Curtis%20last%20photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1161" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjagCrdlvdew5PcgFzlmp4oxViV3MvDiNdhKAArrWEOMRUbQtaN_xNEs0UMRQHbWwK5x913tFIxEgoitwV1qHeCKFaitH6u4EVSHIG80nyBQ4LAFjwcItbrpWUCAB_pLCo8duJ-79yVrCaSUv-nGwuu_sHriGm_Z_mH5zXTKU0tXskK5n2CwGiHWTv10Wc/w496-h640/Ian%20Curtis%20last%20photo.jpg" width="496" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The last known photo of Ian Curtis, a photo booth passport shot, taken for the American visa he needed for the band's forthcoming US tour</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">It
was our journalist acquaintance who first told us, a couple of days later, that
he had committed suicide, that he had hung himself in the kitchen of his house.
We found ourselves in shock all over again. Premature deaths in the music
business weren’t unknown but they were the usually the result of an accident
and drugs were generally involved somewhere. We didn’t know of any other case
where someone has actually killed themselves. Someone on the brink of success,
with fans that idolised him, a wife, a child, a girlfriend, who journalists
called a genius, killed themselves. It just did not make any sense. The
mythmaking began immediately; hagiographic accounts of the tortured, sensitive
genius, too good for this world filled the music press. Just a couple of weeks
later Dave McCulloch in Sounds wrote “his was a poetically beautiful death. It
was no cheap r’n’r death….Ian Curtis belonged to the real world: the bleak and
industrial pyre you made for him is now your own pyre, your own guilt, your own
stupidity, your own way of evading the simple truths…That man cared for you,
that man died for you, that man saw the madness in your area.” Leaving aside
the irony that the final lines in McCulloch’s angry eulogy were lifted from
songs by The Fall, what is interesting is how the writer seems to somehow blame
the reader for Curtis’ death. The singer has become a martyr to and for his
listeners! <o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQDphO4YZJ0e66vHcAHkuO7L6WTl8yvAK7zWDjknbrKgN9otKJ__UO6PBGybMTGYUtmtRrMOU86RqAKIAWnkYxshTjD3p4Bp20eVb4bw6lzJp-ajHn8d1e-QSu_8FdSg8Nm46UdPUBASmTWNq4svoD3a4v0zjO9OpG02C6AR1EiVA1vbE6rPE5fULfT0M/s4032/Macclesfield%20Cemetery%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQDphO4YZJ0e66vHcAHkuO7L6WTl8yvAK7zWDjknbrKgN9otKJ__UO6PBGybMTGYUtmtRrMOU86RqAKIAWnkYxshTjD3p4Bp20eVb4bw6lzJp-ajHn8d1e-QSu_8FdSg8Nm46UdPUBASmTWNq4svoD3a4v0zjO9OpG02C6AR1EiVA1vbE6rPE5fULfT0M/w640-h480/Macclesfield%20Cemetery%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">As
always happens following the death of a noteworthy musician within a few weeks Joy
Divisions next single ‘Love will tear us apart’ was in the charts. It only
reached number 13 but that was still incredible for an Indie band. The second
album ‘Closer’ came out a month later and reached number 6 in the album charts.
For the whole of that year the music press seemed to speak of little else other
than Joy Division and Ian Curtis’ death. I found it all rather harrowing. I had
been struggling with my own mental health issues since I had left school in 1978.
I had spent the first 8 months of 1979 attending a psychiatric day hospital and
had made multiple, incompetent, suicide attempts. At college I gritted my teeth
and marched miserably through each day, somehow hoping that things would
improve for me. Ian Curtis’ suicide was a horribly bleak reminder that life
really probably was not worth living. I found myself poring over the lyrics to
the later songs and identifying completely with Ian’s despair, like this from
that otherwise quite chipper track ‘Isolation’;</span></p><h4><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Mother
I tried please believe me<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">I’m
doing the best that I can<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">I’m
ashamed of the things I’ve been put through<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">I’m
ashamed of the person I am</span></i></span></h4>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">I
became so obsessed that at the end of the year I wrote a long letter to the NME
explaining exactly why Ian had killed himself. Much to my amazement they
published the letter; thankfully I have lost my copy and that edition of the
paper has never been digitised as my explanation was no doubt, hopelessly
callow. My heart felt theories about Ian’s reasons for killing himself were, as
these things often are, an attempt to understand my own feelings. My
identification with the singer’s emotions, as expressed in his lyrics, was so complete
that dissecting them was dissecting myself. From Ian’s suicide I moved onto
others; Sylvia Plath and John Berryman in particular. My obsession with Ian’s
death, reading Al Alvarez’s The Savage God and talking to my friends were the only
forms of therapy I had. Psychiatrists checked in on me, assessed my symptoms
and adjusted my medications but there were no other methods available to help
me deal with or understand my crippling depression. It took me quite a while,
the best part of three years perhaps, but I eventually managed to dig my way
out of the hole I was burying myself in. I learned to cope with myself, with my
emotions and with the messiness of life. My friends, all just kids themselves
at the time, helped me enormously. But Ian Cutis helped me too, and I will be forever
grateful to him for that, and for the music, which I still listen to.</span></p></div><p></p>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-21794326585144578852024-02-27T09:22:00.000-08:002024-02-27T09:22:16.956-08:00A Winter Afternoon in Brompton Cemetery; 10 January 2024<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8-d3igReNATg2MgNsgRhyKnLM0IJGPQBKQRQs_DhknuuhOthbImDbkWnqhkzjzvlZi0SxL4Ik4n2FadOwtlgatJTxJ3aUoVG_fugfOcWFmmz17iYMXkQVubcobjqRpMZvy3EYdZ5_clhIzUzl13Rz2__34m5-9KkM8t0G6jjyaaiC4qWLEanmhT7FhdY/s4032/Brompton%20Cemetery%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8-d3igReNATg2MgNsgRhyKnLM0IJGPQBKQRQs_DhknuuhOthbImDbkWnqhkzjzvlZi0SxL4Ik4n2FadOwtlgatJTxJ3aUoVG_fugfOcWFmmz17iYMXkQVubcobjqRpMZvy3EYdZ5_clhIzUzl13Rz2__34m5-9KkM8t0G6jjyaaiC4qWLEanmhT7FhdY/w640-h480/Brompton%20Cemetery%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ve strolled through
cemeteries around the world, like everyone who is deathly afraid of death and
dying (actually, which are we more afraid of —death or dying?) who wants to see
his fear's lair, to confirm that this place is calm, quiet, that it has been
made for people after all, for a rest…. A place for getting used to it as it
were. Isn’t it strange, Gaustine once said to me, it’s always other people who
are dying, but we ourselves never do.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Georgi Gospodinov -
Time Shelter<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV27CRJjjP3BvKi3qexe4bzBoT39aek9Z1yJGx4Ql20N1KU7u0kmMnMyfrE7KKrhPiaMyFyThtITlGm9xnZARfCaSyFvCuXrs7VHr_F4xxfWU4kIXT7PNkYHTXFTJGLffcVvA7pvv5raBa5Hvacj2iWv5fz6jeNsz8G88JVDqScsb31-nG8c6NoRfhxgA/s4032/Brompton%20Cemetery%204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV27CRJjjP3BvKi3qexe4bzBoT39aek9Z1yJGx4Ql20N1KU7u0kmMnMyfrE7KKrhPiaMyFyThtITlGm9xnZARfCaSyFvCuXrs7VHr_F4xxfWU4kIXT7PNkYHTXFTJGLffcVvA7pvv5raBa5Hvacj2iWv5fz6jeNsz8G88JVDqScsb31-nG8c6NoRfhxgA/w640-h480/Brompton%20Cemetery%204.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghT0OmDf2k2iwwVMkyimtI_b3ZhHiln44ezaYCeUGCAphPIjCUbYTCrxt3d3uVcH1Gbzjh3Pm3ddlTL_1eXdrW38HpVGibOx1NvgME7Gpet3avD4QGKSHMZqympoAbn8MjCE3LP6Apw_kNcebweTisK_ny_4Ko-oWtIWETUyrcw2a4TNWGjwwKb4wvrm8/s4032/Brompton%20Cemetery%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghT0OmDf2k2iwwVMkyimtI_b3ZhHiln44ezaYCeUGCAphPIjCUbYTCrxt3d3uVcH1Gbzjh3Pm3ddlTL_1eXdrW38HpVGibOx1NvgME7Gpet3avD4QGKSHMZqympoAbn8MjCE3LP6Apw_kNcebweTisK_ny_4Ko-oWtIWETUyrcw2a4TNWGjwwKb4wvrm8/w640-h480/Brompton%20Cemetery%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ZpQwSJL_eq-N1u2T_OfiO4MoNo33PFlUQhYRBfrwDrsS-OBvWiV-Ep3bVhhSOSSyqSxAqpS7OXtF_QTRARymR9xGLK61yx0DEqajKiwLOgHkGUewRn3rusxh6Pvt75w5UoGGji14jXNQDdlFChFIYUwMsiwKxYqjFkKAw_DnioNv4TEaZzAnp1SIibg/s3945/Brompton%20Cemetery%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2958" data-original-width="3945" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ZpQwSJL_eq-N1u2T_OfiO4MoNo33PFlUQhYRBfrwDrsS-OBvWiV-Ep3bVhhSOSSyqSxAqpS7OXtF_QTRARymR9xGLK61yx0DEqajKiwLOgHkGUewRn3rusxh6Pvt75w5UoGGji14jXNQDdlFChFIYUwMsiwKxYqjFkKAw_DnioNv4TEaZzAnp1SIibg/w640-h480/Brompton%20Cemetery%203.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibFsqKNXR1EgCYIfBVHWHXedvFXTNQ1WsEfo6htogiGE0t0mqQF6__QDAIHLIKMuWeYsyMXorbcDNFrWy2Lnnf8wj4neyVkzvLeIc-OlMafhhu5NdfQP3iBMuSnsg88veGozXf4f_5iPoYOU4Wc0ReHiIoReLxhxNTfNpYN4ilZBCZqI6TO7gGeLV4B3o/s4032/Brompton%20Cemetery%205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibFsqKNXR1EgCYIfBVHWHXedvFXTNQ1WsEfo6htogiGE0t0mqQF6__QDAIHLIKMuWeYsyMXorbcDNFrWy2Lnnf8wj4neyVkzvLeIc-OlMafhhu5NdfQP3iBMuSnsg88veGozXf4f_5iPoYOU4Wc0ReHiIoReLxhxNTfNpYN4ilZBCZqI6TO7gGeLV4B3o/w640-h480/Brompton%20Cemetery%205.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvdbiWz9SOssPgjiMRdHohz-NJ1cE3Rl3IknzKGrma6bFrTlU53uPtP64JI2zRA9Qs5i0W-_LBysNzV2pTyKz_MfzNQi2fnRRPIfNcRXG6gFafd4Mh-N4phWARIgZNm1Zt45RXyxsGTlKwY1dwcCAULEzrtVdzkF3dsEFuGcwrEGgbTZd-66qCB8mxKdE/s4032/Brompton%20Cemetery%207.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvdbiWz9SOssPgjiMRdHohz-NJ1cE3Rl3IknzKGrma6bFrTlU53uPtP64JI2zRA9Qs5i0W-_LBysNzV2pTyKz_MfzNQi2fnRRPIfNcRXG6gFafd4Mh-N4phWARIgZNm1Zt45RXyxsGTlKwY1dwcCAULEzrtVdzkF3dsEFuGcwrEGgbTZd-66qCB8mxKdE/w640-h480/Brompton%20Cemetery%207.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHLCza3OxdPZOAG1fiPmOu6DKg9Z917WDpbBhY0eviJ0icmEyNjDFGUEedJt9CgSH4ResEQabDJwpd-lRwrbFufHn4eSfQqs3bz0NP6ddig3Z6dDHuEcsMTWUu8GbcoGN3vJqqWe9xIJ73ygJxQYPzj_efT8ipNiH-I_xQ_0sBgiUMzsxrO94qRasMveQ/s4032/Brompton%20Cemetery%208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHLCza3OxdPZOAG1fiPmOu6DKg9Z917WDpbBhY0eviJ0icmEyNjDFGUEedJt9CgSH4ResEQabDJwpd-lRwrbFufHn4eSfQqs3bz0NP6ddig3Z6dDHuEcsMTWUu8GbcoGN3vJqqWe9xIJ73ygJxQYPzj_efT8ipNiH-I_xQ_0sBgiUMzsxrO94qRasMveQ/w640-h480/Brompton%20Cemetery%208.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw3O5o_djrKCsHc9um6SD3L5D9vsjZZWtwQm9cubz7FjKxDMYryTZ0riWRjqWYZ0Kyr95Nfvvkc29FgjjiLMVCs_G9K2av4icerDRN7K_d07nOgLmkjXbeDxGxK5kDjNyRDjR5FSLMMGcHjQPdZg4fFpu6Le1-gkCrp9ksdrWPWPNwusgrRcIZxOwwwnE/s4032/Brompton%20Cemetery%209.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw3O5o_djrKCsHc9um6SD3L5D9vsjZZWtwQm9cubz7FjKxDMYryTZ0riWRjqWYZ0Kyr95Nfvvkc29FgjjiLMVCs_G9K2av4icerDRN7K_d07nOgLmkjXbeDxGxK5kDjNyRDjR5FSLMMGcHjQPdZg4fFpu6Le1-gkCrp9ksdrWPWPNwusgrRcIZxOwwwnE/w640-h480/Brompton%20Cemetery%209.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-69824304632185961572024-02-22T08:34:00.000-08:002024-02-22T08:45:28.711-08:00Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way; Joseph Bonomi (1796-1878), Brompton Cemetery<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9IA9_2tJqxTGkFnmWokKumRHWKAH5405fxfbakVqJf4A74ges7rtZO7gKlCq-KziLgOmmOHXZMwBVP50cMLdTUu7CEZ0VEV4V7hAmdEeuSynTCkw9QVkk0dkFjjuUBBUMSSDP6S1zXxebXvSceJKRpbvPezOJvwH4VQ0B6RLnP3eF9jFchns2J5Op_Kw/s4032/Joseph%20Bonomi%20Brompton.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9IA9_2tJqxTGkFnmWokKumRHWKAH5405fxfbakVqJf4A74ges7rtZO7gKlCq-KziLgOmmOHXZMwBVP50cMLdTUu7CEZ0VEV4V7hAmdEeuSynTCkw9QVkk0dkFjjuUBBUMSSDP6S1zXxebXvSceJKRpbvPezOJvwH4VQ0B6RLnP3eF9jFchns2J5Op_Kw/w640-h480/Joseph%20Bonomi%20Brompton.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">There
are eight people buried in the private grave of Joseph Bonomi in Brompton
Cemetery, five of his children, his wife and his mother-in-law. The first four
of his children predeceased him, all dying within one harrowing week in April 1852;
the eldest still hadn’t reached their sixth birthday and the youngest was, at
just eight months, still an infant. The epitaph on the rather simple Grade II
listed headstone describes Bonomi as a ‘sculptor, traveller and archaeologist’.
The only unusual element in the design is the motif, drawn from a hieroglyph,
of the god Anubis, in his full jackal incarnation (i.e. not just jackal headed
but jackal bodied too) sitting on top of a tomb with battered sides, practicing
his guardianship of the dead.</span></p></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Iw1FUBlrKG3uhnt05lzf8_-k1AZPHBBLv8AIzU_fcKxUl-El_LPJjxovIF0zj0PD0eH7_xCJnwBdzgpihtekpBoCVjQJWm0A4fIn4t4fn1t0JMV8r6yOWzkOmEySNLBcV-HGcsIusC5Ae7Do8dXxH2GcseUicgwRqgQspCFbBpcsupmAUT87WlpEWeI/s2500/Bonomi%20Children%20burial%20Brompton%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="318" data-original-width="2500" height="82" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Iw1FUBlrKG3uhnt05lzf8_-k1AZPHBBLv8AIzU_fcKxUl-El_LPJjxovIF0zj0PD0eH7_xCJnwBdzgpihtekpBoCVjQJWm0A4fIn4t4fn1t0JMV8r6yOWzkOmEySNLBcV-HGcsIusC5Ae7Do8dXxH2GcseUicgwRqgQspCFbBpcsupmAUT87WlpEWeI/w640-h82/Bonomi%20Children%20burial%20Brompton%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Cemetery
records show that the Bonomi grave was originally dug for the funeral of the families
four young children. The gravediggers cannot have been pleased when they were
told they had to excavate a grave deep enough to take four coffins; the burial
records says a shaft 12 feet deep was dug. The Bonomi’s had been married in
September 1845 at St Marylebone Parish Church in the Marylebone Road; the groom,
at 49, was just 10 years younger than his father-in-law, his bride, Jessie
Martin, was just 20. Joseph wasted no time starting a family; the couple’s first
child, a boy, was born exactly 9 months after the wedding, in June 1846, and
was named Joseph, after his father and grandfather, and Menes, after the
Pharoah who united Upper and Lower Egypt into one Kingdom and founded the first
dynasty (fellow Egyptologists would have got the reference immediately). Their
second son, Cautley Frederick, was born 17 months later, in November 1847. A
daughter, named Jessie after her mother, was born in July 1849 and another son,
John Ignatius in September 1851. The family were living at 7 Upper Cheyne Row
in Chelsea with a couple of live in servants. Through the final months of 1851 and during
the start of the new year Joseph had been putting the finishing touches to his
book ‘Ninevah and its Palaces’, not only written but illustrated by him, and
been seeing it through the presses. It was due to be published at the end of
April. In was in this month that all four of his children fell ill with
whooping cough. Caused by a bacterium, Bordetella pertussis, this was a fairly
common disease amongst children and infants at the time. All common illnesses would have been a cause
for concern for parents at the time as without antibiotics, infections could
get out of hand and prove fatal. Even so it would have been usual to lose four
children to the same disease. On the first day of the tragedy, the 11th April,
the Bonomi’s lost their youngest and oldest children, 8-month-old baby John and
then Joseph Menes, who was just two months shy of his sixth birthday. Cautley
Frederick died on the 15th April. Perhaps
in an effort to get her somewhere where the healthy effects of sea air might
ease her breathing, 2-year-old Jessie had been removed to Worthing. It did no
good; she died there on the 17th April. Two
days later the Rev. Albert Badger, chaplain of Brompton Cemetery, presided over
the funeral whilst Joseph and Jessie watched all four of their children lowered
into the 12-foot grave shaft. </span></p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #0000ee; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmBX-tkZ7VyjnP7BJU4mydQIq7BqfYauZp_82gE-dDiYMxJTAlDJMCL4A49kzPRdvGYLWkjM-JIp_92-BIUt3vkOwxJWDUb016L9923GekDYr6RGDbR49at5-SbJSSahKHEggj52BkhodcxbiWrRl_fx6HL20P1266sSQXTNMSFGGQVpRtvGZUt-onT6M/s2532/Susan%20Martin%20burial%20Brompton.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="2532" height="85" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmBX-tkZ7VyjnP7BJU4mydQIq7BqfYauZp_82gE-dDiYMxJTAlDJMCL4A49kzPRdvGYLWkjM-JIp_92-BIUt3vkOwxJWDUb016L9923GekDYr6RGDbR49at5-SbJSSahKHEggj52BkhodcxbiWrRl_fx6HL20P1266sSQXTNMSFGGQVpRtvGZUt-onT6M/w640-h85/Susan%20Martin%20burial%20Brompton.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">The
Bonomis went on to have four more children, the first, a daughter Isabella, was
born in March 1853, less than a year after the couple has lost their first
four. Then came Cecilia in June 1855, Marion in August 1857 and a son John
Ignatius in 1858. At some point, probably after her husband had died in 1854, Jessie’s
mother, Susan, had come to live with the Bonomi’s at their new address, 13 Vicarage
Gardens in Kensington, close to Kensington Palace (the house still stands). As
the headstone explains, Susan was the widow of John Martin, the visionary
painter who was famed for his vast and dramatic canvasses showing human beings
dwarfed by fantastical landscapes, often undergoing apocalyptic upheavals,
deluges, plagues, volcanic eruptions and so on. Thomas Lawrence referred to
him, probably enviously, as ‘the most popular painter of the day’. The couple married in 1810; John was 21 but
his bride, at 30, was 9 years older than him. They went on to have ten children
of which only six survived to adulthood. Susan lived with the Bonomis for about
four years, dying herself on 30th December 1858. Cemetery records show that she
was buried on January 4th 1859 by Rev Nathaniel Badger and that the grave was dug to a
depth of 9 feet. </span></p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ4veYfA28jonWD0CxKemMcP1CW-q-SIlyJelDEkPEkqrm0cgXI7Ka213e6sXgDUrtdb_w8CJXmor7zW3MfxjZT7wS4Rnn0hPOPvWKPI0TFn6sUsZon7xvpOkHLMpOj1J6enkxj6inQ4yZEokwKRkKvnjyLm5-7MzPvG5VJToiN3YLAB1JzU2Fq8RQgH8/s1024/30-the-country-of-the-iguanodon.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="728" data-original-width="1024" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ4veYfA28jonWD0CxKemMcP1CW-q-SIlyJelDEkPEkqrm0cgXI7Ka213e6sXgDUrtdb_w8CJXmor7zW3MfxjZT7wS4Rnn0hPOPvWKPI0TFn6sUsZon7xvpOkHLMpOj1J6enkxj6inQ4yZEokwKRkKvnjyLm5-7MzPvG5VJToiN3YLAB1JzU2Fq8RQgH8/w640-h456/30-the-country-of-the-iguanodon.webp" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'The country of the Iguanodon' John Martin's imagination fired by the recent scientific discovery of the dinosaur </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRWBNHHfJ1tqNS_DeS94arLNpphMmw8P5V78njmesgRQR8Gnn9h_ydpOW-fy0im0wLNSN8k12T9VG0evGTPAYAC1Mc62AVyWCDtqQynUsVdfBIOiPW5rWSO8T_jHy_-ANg-xm0F5b25OIloRHvMLDN9bsMaCn6DDxUGfwRzggpm8yblpIXv7yqfjI8Gp0/s2500/Jesse%20Bonomi%20Burial%20record%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="319" data-original-width="2500" height="82" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRWBNHHfJ1tqNS_DeS94arLNpphMmw8P5V78njmesgRQR8Gnn9h_ydpOW-fy0im0wLNSN8k12T9VG0evGTPAYAC1Mc62AVyWCDtqQynUsVdfBIOiPW5rWSO8T_jHy_-ANg-xm0F5b25OIloRHvMLDN9bsMaCn6DDxUGfwRzggpm8yblpIXv7yqfjI8Gp0/w640-h82/Jesse%20Bonomi%20Burial%20record%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Jessie,
quite possibly worn out by grief and child bearing, survived her mother by just
9 months before dying herself, at the age of just 34, in September 1859. She
was buried on Tuesday September 13. The Rev. Nathaniel Liberty, the chaplain of
Brompton Cemetery, officiated at the funeral and her grave was dug 7 feet deep.
Her oldest child at the time of her death, Isabella, was still only six and the
youngest was just one. With a young family to look after, many men in Bonomi’s
position would have hastily remarried but the 63-year-old was probably
overwhelmed by grief. Instead, his wife’s older, unmarried sister, Isabella, came
to live with him and the children to take care of them and the household. The
family moved to a new house in Wimbledon, The Camels. Bonomi found steady
employment as the curator of the John Soane Museum in Lincolns Inn Fields and
settled into old age, focussing on his responsibility for providing for his
young family.</span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizjcianOgZThjCVQ60KF1ItD0LeHo0Az5SiJ7LH9XR1me9yQ75chB2ooE7e0AnZAs-XoBsCDqPSMjAjZ6vZXEMq-bva9ovCSYHbKI1iraM3pQK37pvdyPggAf9hShB2tMwTLV04sOgQWtZJYSpCs7FR13FjC8nTbOJL9RymxnaypBvuJpz31ysJPuZm_s/s2500/Bonomi%20burial%20record%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="373" data-original-width="2500" height="96" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizjcianOgZThjCVQ60KF1ItD0LeHo0Az5SiJ7LH9XR1me9yQ75chB2ooE7e0AnZAs-XoBsCDqPSMjAjZ6vZXEMq-bva9ovCSYHbKI1iraM3pQK37pvdyPggAf9hShB2tMwTLV04sOgQWtZJYSpCs7FR13FjC8nTbOJL9RymxnaypBvuJpz31ysJPuZm_s/w640-h96/Bonomi%20burial%20record%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Despite
already being an old man at the time of his young wife’s death, Joseph survived
her by 19 years, dying at his at his home in Wimbledon, The Camels, on the 3rd
March 1878. He was buried at Brompton on the 8th, with the Rev Nathaniel
Liberty conducting the funeral service. Because there were already 6 people in
the grave, the gravediggers only had to dig to a depth of 6 feet. On Saturday
16th March The Illustrated London News published a portrait of the recently
deceased Egyptologist and published the following obituary; </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlKRyeGe1zUU-oqhTeyly9rzDg89MOTar2XpAhR2nWdPjS-xQanjTC_WnPFUa0ZIyDwDr1dI2URvACBdTEVa0f4-qtIuqCIEqXG6C40FGkYFqH9ZfaoizyXENM41kbmBk-ytd_14TKosvdHpYYnBTuUDA4zsGaJ1ntyWPTZsdk4yIReY_N8xGnOKeJhKY/s1491/Joseph%20Bonomi%20illustrated%20london%20news%20March%2016%201878.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1491" data-original-width="1096" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlKRyeGe1zUU-oqhTeyly9rzDg89MOTar2XpAhR2nWdPjS-xQanjTC_WnPFUa0ZIyDwDr1dI2URvACBdTEVa0f4-qtIuqCIEqXG6C40FGkYFqH9ZfaoizyXENM41kbmBk-ytd_14TKosvdHpYYnBTuUDA4zsGaJ1ntyWPTZsdk4yIReY_N8xGnOKeJhKY/w470-h640/Joseph%20Bonomi%20illustrated%20london%20news%20March%2016%201878.jpg" width="470" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">THE
LATE MR. BONOMI. The death of Mr. Joseph Bonomi, Curator of Sir John Soane’s
Museum, in Lincoln’s-inn fields, was announced last week. He was Italian, born
at Rome, in 1796; but his father, who had been architect to St. Peter’s at Rome,
came about that time to live in England. The son, as he grew up in London,
became a student of the Royal Academy and a pupil of Nollekens, the sculptor.
In 1821 he was engaged to accompany Mr. Robert Hay to make a collection of
Egyptian antiquities, which has since been placed in the British Museum. He
stayed in Egypt eight years studying and drawing the hieroglyphics with Hay, Burton,
Arundale, and others. In 1833 he went with Arundale and Catherwood to the Holy
Land. At Jerusalem they were the first to visit the so-called Mosque of Omar
and make detailed sketches of it. Mr. Bonomi had adopted the Arab dress, and he
was able to pass himself as an Arab on this occasion. He also visited Sinai,
Damascus, and Baalbek. On his return to England he was busily employed in
making drawings in connection with works on Egypt, such as those of Sir Gardner
Wilkinson, Dr. Birch, and others. In 1812 the great expedition was sent out
under Lepsius by the King of Prussia, and Mr. Bonomi was added to the important
staff which composed the party. On this second visit to Egypt Mr. Bonomi was
two years in that country. A record of this expedition was cut in hieroglyphics
over the entrance-passage of the Great Pyramid of Ghizeh. These hieroglyphics
were designed and carved by Mr. Bonomi. On his return to England he produced
the drawings from which panorama of Egypt was painted and exhibited. In 1853 he
assisted Mr. Owen Jones in the works at the Egyptian Courts of the Crystal
Palace. In 1861 Mr. Bonomi was appointed Curator of Sir John Soane’s Museum. In
addition to illustrating and assisting other labours, Mr. Bonomi produced some
original works of his own, such as “Nineveh and its Palaces,” besides numerous
papers for learned societies and contributions to scientific journals. Mr.
Bonomi married one of the daughters of John Martin, the painter. The portrait
is from a photograph by Messrs. T. and J. Holroyd, of Harrogate.</span></i></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ1KS3AyTaMI67Aeig1__lnCcZHkts3421wF97zuFltIaHRzHtlAxvc-eHgZqktSM-ArmJumf-49SCQVlT0qpuYlyHYruxiCQGJzeP7-wo6xA1ujFMGb4ODXrTmhbMQIoY6ZzxnSKDm2C7zjYNds7CJg4DMqBfnLx1hvArrhszaT5y2rApXqag18qRd-M/s2500/Bonomi%20Crystal%20Palace.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2500" data-original-width="1908" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ1KS3AyTaMI67Aeig1__lnCcZHkts3421wF97zuFltIaHRzHtlAxvc-eHgZqktSM-ArmJumf-49SCQVlT0qpuYlyHYruxiCQGJzeP7-wo6xA1ujFMGb4ODXrTmhbMQIoY6ZzxnSKDm2C7zjYNds7CJg4DMqBfnLx1hvArrhszaT5y2rApXqag18qRd-M/w488-h640/Bonomi%20Crystal%20Palace.jpg" width="488" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">It
is interesting that Joseph is reported to have designed and carved a hieroglyphic
inscription in the great pyramid of Giza. If you check any reliable reference
source it was almost certainly tell you that there no hieroglyphics in the
pyramids; this, for example, is what the Encyclopaedia Britannica has to say, “contrary
to what one might expect, there are no hieroglyphic texts, treasures, or
mummies in any of pyramids of Giza.” And the last known use of hieroglyphs in Egypt
is usually accepted as a piece of graffiti on the temple of Philae known as the
Graffito of Esmet-Akhom, which was carved on 24th August AD 394. Joseph was a
member of the Prussian expedition led by Karl Richard Lepsius during the period
1842-1845. The Prussians decided to commemorate the birthday of King Friedrich
Wilhelm IV on 15 October 1842 by carving an inscription in hieroglyphics on one
of the western gables above the original entrance of the great pyramid. The
inscription was possibly written by Lepsius himself, but it was definitely designed
and carved by Bonomi who therefore gives the lie to the commonly stated facts
that there are no hieroglyphics in the pyramids themselves and that the last
recorded use of hieroglyphics was in 394 of the Common Era.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS943XTsGGiXXGW47DgMVGI2imrWWDW152F7tN3jkr0Zam9-wkqnOiNjzLcDiZS5R6dpcLMwwn0ymt4yO2xf6Ehn43msQg0rb_Ep5PpqAvBeTSg3RlVfo3G_a9l9D8MU8wbF361z7-11x3QDpB8sTBUMpMWnL9y56Ji8j7h1xar6aOsI-3ov3TsdZ68f8/s5628/Joseph%20Ignatius%20Bonomi%20burial%20record%20brompton.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="784" data-original-width="5628" height="90" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS943XTsGGiXXGW47DgMVGI2imrWWDW152F7tN3jkr0Zam9-wkqnOiNjzLcDiZS5R6dpcLMwwn0ymt4yO2xf6Ehn43msQg0rb_Ep5PpqAvBeTSg3RlVfo3G_a9l9D8MU8wbF361z7-11x3QDpB8sTBUMpMWnL9y56Ji8j7h1xar6aOsI-3ov3TsdZ68f8/w640-h90/Joseph%20Ignatius%20Bonomi%20burial%20record%20brompton.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">The
last interment in the Bonomi grave was of Joseph and Jessie’s only surviving
son, Joseph Ignatius, who had been just one when his mother died, died himself at the age of 72 on the 27th March 1930 at his
home at 55 Holland Road, Kensington. The grave was opened to a depth of 5 feet
according to the Brompton burial register. According to the 1881 census, the 23 year was
already a Lieutenant in the Kings Own Regiment of Foot (later the Kings Own
Royal Lancaster) based at Bowerham Barracks in Lancaster. He had already been
on active service and fought in South Africa in the Zulu war of 1879. He
remained a military man all his life, retiring in 1897. With nothing better to
do with his time the now retired Major, finally married. His bride was a
Frenchwoman, Jeanne Marie, who was 12 years his junior. Jeanne did not die
until 1957, when she passed away in Westminster Hospital. The couple had no
children. </span></p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1XC0TT5XjY5PASBuBUMVWWuOc2HlOVvfIxghvmjMCCP-U_rHrQo5iy2jCtqEK0JHz0NPY16l49zHGGBR7oBFV4P0yf3JXE4gaw0ZuTiC_53QdpV6UXBYTqYq2w6Pzi8IqmCN3zaK3uBwkOWncRjL8eOHNMmO4prhkFqR9aUhvWeNkz7S7EJklsruy18/s512/Joseph%20Ignatius%20Bonomi%20in%20south%20africa.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1XC0TT5XjY5PASBuBUMVWWuOc2HlOVvfIxghvmjMCCP-U_rHrQo5iy2jCtqEK0JHz0NPY16l49zHGGBR7oBFV4P0yf3JXE4gaw0ZuTiC_53QdpV6UXBYTqYq2w6Pzi8IqmCN3zaK3uBwkOWncRjL8eOHNMmO4prhkFqR9aUhvWeNkz7S7EJklsruy18/s16000/Joseph%20Ignatius%20Bonomi%20in%20south%20africa.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo of the 19 year old Joseph Ignatius Bonomi, standing at the rear of this photo </td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_crcqZzg-hccwrfe8eJ6VQTpe10uZUfQRixlrQT8POvClAdQolPWupfXfrCAYDv4fP_tMunA91rbhSZjuMbqlyKsp2kEddopucx8G-Xd57jkRNnsT5KjXwHOuD7z24NIloCd7MuaFArJb02K-qUkIn4HWjk4FB0Nb4PEiBCzHxNgg1GnSe6T7PISiFs/s2928/Bonomi%20hieroglyph.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2928" data-original-width="2928" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_crcqZzg-hccwrfe8eJ6VQTpe10uZUfQRixlrQT8POvClAdQolPWupfXfrCAYDv4fP_tMunA91rbhSZjuMbqlyKsp2kEddopucx8G-Xd57jkRNnsT5KjXwHOuD7z24NIloCd7MuaFArJb02K-qUkIn4HWjk4FB0Nb4PEiBCzHxNgg1GnSe6T7PISiFs/w400-h400/Bonomi%20hieroglyph.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><p></p>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-30689959382146507302024-02-07T08:06:00.000-08:002024-02-07T08:06:43.227-08:00The sad abode of the dead; Greyfriars Kirkyard, Edinburgh<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5fT6AP8hxCX6aiGhik62CqfenAOiOwp0y_FDf309d3VBE9rU943IUhtkmbzuK6Br44xRKDIv679-Iij57W7uyK9sQgjkODvHyw2UgYLrIIhqdk8T2hdaKFPWj0ZFFRUUZlxP6pObqdM-tXUSQqTKA04KgG1BV6ce-FSa9fZj-EhUZrEayJiZbKFtBRxI/s4024/Foulis%20of%20Ravelstoun%20Grayfriars.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2884" data-original-width="4024" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5fT6AP8hxCX6aiGhik62CqfenAOiOwp0y_FDf309d3VBE9rU943IUhtkmbzuK6Br44xRKDIv679-Iij57W7uyK9sQgjkODvHyw2UgYLrIIhqdk8T2hdaKFPWj0ZFFRUUZlxP6pObqdM-tXUSQqTKA04KgG1BV6ce-FSa9fZj-EhUZrEayJiZbKFtBRxI/w640-h458/Foulis%20of%20Ravelstoun%20Grayfriars.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Setting
aside the tombs of Roubiliac, which belong to the heroic order of graveyard
art, we Scotch stand, to my fancy, highest among nations in the matter of
grimly illustrating death. We seem to love for their own sake the emblems of
time and the great change; and even around country churches you will find a
wonderful exhibition of skulls, and crossbones, and noseless angels, and
trumpets pealing for the Judgment Day. Every mason was a pedestrian Holbein: he
had a deep consciousness of death, and loved to put its terrors pithily before
the churchyard loiterer; he was brimful of rough hints upon mortality, and any
dead farmer was seized upon to be a text. The classical examples of this art
are in Greyfriars. In their time, these were doubtless costly monuments, and
reckoned of a very elegant proportion by contemporaries; and now, when the
elegance is not so apparent, the significance remains.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Robert Louis Stevenson ‘Edinburgh; Picturesque
Notes’ (1878)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">There
is nothing like them anywhere else in the UK; the grand monuments of the 17th
century in Greyfriars are unique in their scale, their craftmanship, and their
inimitable style. The individual elements of the memorials are to be found in churchyards
and cemeteries all over Europe and North America; the hourglasses, grinning
skeletons, skull and crossbones, chubby putti resting casual elbows on craniums,
columns, urns, flaming torches, scythes, serpents and skulls (skulls and more skulls),
are executed with such exuberant vigour that their counterparts elsewhere seem
pale imitations. It is ironic that death is represented as so teeming with life
and vitality. As Robert Louis Stevenson observed, “every mason was a pedestrian
Holbein”, and Scottish churchyards are ballrooms for a never-ending dance of
death, none more so than Greyfriars.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkWc0htLvZIeJFEtowrA78GHSzS2HLlrPYBumbtkhL-XlJT8LK3AgJLPjt4kXo0QnLMVnUPK1hwl4wXwXz3ohO-JOZsssJqxleiGprS3SEFET0rUe6P_oQzVmFcDPu8Rlyp09yyeYOrDLIL63gS_Rhe4B5i-TiudjfenWHQjuG7UZUjAYyWQR54bQCBlo/s3990/Greyfriars%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbv59dH0zvAzNM5TsNft9roceXnDC-dmEJ6rn6Ts4CLgHKqiUgRmwYXPnUhGEnp-QMxa_M9Dm2JDP1jIlF4GMyy0dP1Ccbw1D_rDV7-6Md4MueTItPW1GV-Q0fN3swD_k9up_KeqJj6MzyFV39BqAlX6wMU2nIGvMXawzEHkK00jAxZ_ReNet8Y8YKrIc/s4013/Bannatyne%20monument%20grayfriars.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="4013" data-original-width="3009" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbv59dH0zvAzNM5TsNft9roceXnDC-dmEJ6rn6Ts4CLgHKqiUgRmwYXPnUhGEnp-QMxa_M9Dm2JDP1jIlF4GMyy0dP1Ccbw1D_rDV7-6Md4MueTItPW1GV-Q0fN3swD_k9up_KeqJj6MzyFV39BqAlX6wMU2nIGvMXawzEHkK00jAxZ_ReNet8Y8YKrIc/w480-h640/Bannatyne%20monument%20grayfriars.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Greyfriars
officially dates from 1562 but at least some part of the grounds may have been
used for burials before then by the Franciscan monks whose monastery occupied
the site until the reformation. The collapse of papal authority in Scotland in 1560,
the belated dissolution of the monasteries there, and the destruction of the
abbey buildings by the radically protestant local population of Edinburgh all coincided
with the need to find an alternative burial ground for the city. Up until this
point the principal site for burials had been the ground surrounding St Giles Cathedral
but after three centuries of constant use this had become overcrowded. In 1562
Mary Queen of Scots granted the land that had belonged to the Franciscans to the
town for use as a burial ground. Unusually Greyfriars was in all but name a
cemetery, a place dedicated to the burial of the dead. The church that turned
the burial ground into a kirkyard was not built until 1620. Burials continued
until the late 1800’s. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2556" data-original-width="3990" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkWc0htLvZIeJFEtowrA78GHSzS2HLlrPYBumbtkhL-XlJT8LK3AgJLPjt4kXo0QnLMVnUPK1hwl4wXwXz3ohO-JOZsssJqxleiGprS3SEFET0rUe6P_oQzVmFcDPu8Rlyp09yyeYOrDLIL63gS_Rhe4B5i-TiudjfenWHQjuG7UZUjAYyWQR54bQCBlo/w640-h410/Greyfriars%201.jpg" width="640" /></div></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Edinburgh
has become the premier tourist trap of Scotland and Greyfriars, even on a dull,
cold, January weekday afternoon was full of visitors, many drawn by the story
of the faithful dog Bobby who kept watch over his masters grave for 16 years or
the Harry Potter associations (long time Edinburgh resident JK Rowling allegedly
used the names on gravestones at Greyfriars to name her characters though some
of the supposed borrowings strike me as being slightly tenuous – there are
Potters named on the Giles memorial but every cemetery England probably has a
Potter somewhere or other. There are also Scrymgeours, a Mrs Moodie, a Thomas
Riddell and a McGonagall, amongst others.)
Visitors to the kirkyard weren’t always made as welcome as they are now.
In August 1833, an early tourist to the Scottish capital who preferred to keep
himself anonymous and therefore went by the <i>non de plume</i> of Viator,
wrote a long letter to the editor of the Caledonian Mercury detailing his
experiences at the Kirkyard;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Walking
the other day at a leisure hour into the Greyfriars' kirkyard, I happened to
step aside to look at a grave which was just dug. I was instantly accosted in
the rudest manner by a surlv semi-barbarous Celt, who demanded, in a sort of
bark, and threatening aspect, if I knew the consequences of standing there? Not
exactly sure what the consequences might be, I instantly stepped to the
footpath, which was about a yard off. He told me, however, I had no right to
stand upon the footpath, nor to be within the kirkyard at all, except on
business; that his instructions were to that effect, and that such was written
on the gate.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Events
took an even more disturbing turn when Viator suddenly realised that the gravedigger
was not, as he initially assumed, a man but a woman (a female sexton rare but
not a unique phenomenon; see the story of <a href="https://thelondondead.blogspot.com/2021/10/an-unsuitable-job-for-woman-hester.html" target="_blank">Hester Hammerton of Kingston-upon-Thames</a>);
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">On
my replying, that I did not call in question his instructions, but that I
thought he ought to deliver them with more temper and civility, her nainsell,
instead of mitigating, became still more ferocious, and, walking close up to
me, not much unlike one of the wild cats of her native mountains, <u>she</u>
gave me an unequivocal hint, that she was ready to fight me any day, and
absolutely said, that if I was not satisfied, I might just turn aside a little,
and she would give me satisfaction immediately.</span></i></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDhnDSSo5E0gYNxLjbR3lXmupBynFDCGkMst3diOuduzxMiOJwEDxr7e09fKPeVcKc1-9Er5u-aXr3PoNUIDPIjlQS8zJkeFw-G_BqJYnCIUV0c6gF7259VJ3wCHxhqnABWSP6k1CCJFcKxg5-Xh6AR5OP7eTEV0QTf74-EsNdbVLkV694Ad5KRvAytPM/s3990/Foulis%20memorial%20Grayfriars.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="2992" data-original-width="3990" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDhnDSSo5E0gYNxLjbR3lXmupBynFDCGkMst3diOuduzxMiOJwEDxr7e09fKPeVcKc1-9Er5u-aXr3PoNUIDPIjlQS8zJkeFw-G_BqJYnCIUV0c6gF7259VJ3wCHxhqnABWSP6k1CCJFcKxg5-Xh6AR5OP7eTEV0QTf74-EsNdbVLkV694Ad5KRvAytPM/w640-h480/Foulis%20memorial%20Grayfriars.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Understandably put out by his encounter with the doughty female gravedigger, Viator (a Sassenach to be sure) asks “Now, Sir, passing by the ludicrous conduct of the poor crazy grave-digger, I should like to know by what authority the churchyard is thus shut up. I thought it was a species of public property, or at least that it belonged to the inhabitants of the parish.” He goes on the lament;<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Whatever the object may be, I know not, but I am sure a great moral lesson is thus prevented from being communicated. In former times, one used to visit </span></i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Les triste sejour des Morts<i> -the place of coffins, epitaphs, and worms- the appointed rendezvous of all travellers, and to meditate upon his own destiny; or he felt a melancholy pleasure, and learned how to estimate human enjoyments, in reading the memorial of departed worth, of titled greatness, or of kindred blood; or, at all events, he gratified an innocent curiosity. The wise authorities, however, from whom this order emanates, see no occasion, it would appear. for this mode of instruction. The good old motto, "Memento Mori” it is to be feared, is a figure of speech becoming fast obsolete, and the more fashionable expression, "Memento Vivere," or as the old Epicurean maxim has it, "Carpe Diem," substituted in its place.</i></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjon3LF8zSFrUacJdCetjtOnyO9KXLAe_jFi3iVE4gzljq4tojrGzyPohSYZR6OmP1Po7k8UuSmJlsvSEiQhvQgkd5UDDF4Zgw8c2ttX3M1Nlh_Pxt-3sllV-jFKD9L5G90R1I7id2l5wKPc05YjXiDpDqBP0Op_6ty4cDcte12m4HbhOKSl4Cp2lLrWiM/s4032/Grayfriars%20skull%20&%20crossbones.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjon3LF8zSFrUacJdCetjtOnyO9KXLAe_jFi3iVE4gzljq4tojrGzyPohSYZR6OmP1Po7k8UuSmJlsvSEiQhvQgkd5UDDF4Zgw8c2ttX3M1Nlh_Pxt-3sllV-jFKD9L5G90R1I7id2l5wKPc05YjXiDpDqBP0Op_6ty4cDcte12m4HbhOKSl4Cp2lLrWiM/w640-h480/Grayfriars%20skull%20&%20crossbones.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The
Kirkyard has long associations with the Covenantors; the National Covenant, opposing
the proposed church reforms of Charles I, was signed here in 1638 (though
probably not on a tomb as is commonly depicted.) Militant Presbyterian Covenanters
were held prisoner on the churchyard following the battle of Bothwell Brig in 1679.
The area they were held in is now known as the Covenanters prison and is gated
off from the rest of the cemetery because its relative seclusion made it a preferred
location for local drug users in search of a quiet spot to shoot up. The mausoleums
which flank the prison were not yet built at the time the covenanters were held
here. There was no damp mausoleum or indeed any other shelter for them; they
were held in the open air for several months until they could be transported to
the colonies. The association with radical Protestantism continued to draw visitors
to the kirkyard until relatively recently. In May 1981 the Reverand Ian Paisley
came to Edinburgh to lead a religious ceremony to commemorate the 300 year
anniversary of the execution of the Covenantor Donald Cargill. He was not
entirely welcome, a few Republican sympathisers in the crowd yelled ‘bigot’ and
‘What about Bobby Sands’ as Paisley led a band of several hundred supporters
around central Edinburgh, laying wreaths at the Covenantor’s Memorial in Grassmarket and on the railings at
Greyfriars, the gates of which remained firmly closed against him by order of
the Environmental Committee of Edinburgh District Council, who feared unrest if
he was allowed to lay his wreath at the memorial within the grounds of the
church. Then, according to the Scotsmen
of 30 May 1981;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">At
a 35-minute service in the High-Street, before a-gathering of several hundred —
about 150 of whom had come with him from Ulster for the occasion —- he
condemned those who had. tried to disrupt the plans for the commemoration,
including Lothian Regional Council. He said: “If their ban had continued, we
would still have gone ahead. We do not intend to allow anyone to take from us
our inalienable right to practise our religion and to enjoy our religious
liberty that has been fought for in this United Kingdom.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Mr
Paisley then took a swipe at the former Labour MP, Mrs Shirley Williams, who he
said had been one of those to condemn his visit. He said: “She herself is a
Roman Catholic. I would advise Shirley Williams that she does not live in a
Roman Catholic nation but in a Protestant nation. We have still a Protestant
constitution, a Protestant throne and, thank God, Prince Charles is marrying a
Protestant. This is a Protestant land and we intend to retain this heritage and
to maintain it. Mrs Williams has no objection to a ‘foreign monarch’ the King
of the Vatican, coming to this land but she objects to me, a member of the
British House of Commons, from declaring my witness here in Edinburgh. I would
remind her that I retained my seat at the General Election. She lost
hers." <o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">After
laying the final wreath at the Mercat Cross, Mr Paisley spoke to a number of
well-wishers and signed some autographs before being driven off to a city hotel
where he was staying the night.</span></i></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBTMwR9c9coxnxe4QrvgknG8uts3PAQjWOnkJSMZI5c5-60YLr0IMiR2A2rneYTOIM29qkN0oaIHyJo2sVGXM3bZZlXfnA0qAw8dMd_fOcW8ayWdpIlFfXgBnswKJVmI8ydW-g52vo8Wl21mMoDkpIykwriJ8Yte6MnCKXPePsXF3i5rvxp1pW5AsMifo/s4032/Grayfriars.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBTMwR9c9coxnxe4QrvgknG8uts3PAQjWOnkJSMZI5c5-60YLr0IMiR2A2rneYTOIM29qkN0oaIHyJo2sVGXM3bZZlXfnA0qAw8dMd_fOcW8ayWdpIlFfXgBnswKJVmI8ydW-g52vo8Wl21mMoDkpIykwriJ8Yte6MnCKXPePsXF3i5rvxp1pW5AsMifo/w480-h640/Grayfriars.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">By
one of those ironies that are so common in graveyards where the dead are buried
unheeding of their station or role in life, the kirkyard houses the magnificent
mausoleum, designed by the renowned architect James Smith, of one of the Covenantors
great enemies, Sir George MacKenzie of Rosehaugh. MacKenzie was Lord Advocate
for Charles II and responsible for seeing the monarch’s anti-covenanter
policies put into practice. He is held responsible for using the kirkyard as a
prison for mercilessly persecuting the covenanters following the debacle at
Bothwell Brig. When he wasn’t persecuting radical protestants Mackenzie was defending
witches; whilst he didn’t deny that witchcraft existed he felt that they were
far fewer than common belief held out. The Judge became something of a bogeyman
to local children as reported by the Shields Daily Gazette of 09 October 1882;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">In
the Greyfriar's Kirkyard the Mausoleum of Sir Geo. Mackenzie, the King's
Advocate, known from savage deeds to the children of today as Bloody Mackenzie,
who pride themselves on their prowess in knocking at the mausoleum and singing
out the challenge “Bluidy Mackenzie, come oot if ye daur!" The bairns
shake their clenched little fists, spit on the Judges grave, and, when
startled, run terrified as for their mortal lives. This childish hatred renders
criticism unnecessary; his name soon makes a restless bairn fall asleep with
its head happed among the blankets.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Today
MacKenzie’s mausoleum is said to be haunted by a poltergeist which, according
to the Scotsman on 14 Bebruary 2015, was said to have been loosed upon an unsuspecting
city when a homeless man chose to bed down in the Mausoleum; <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">IT
MUST have seemed like a good idea at the time. The homeless man was without a
bed and the night was chilly. When he found the door to the mausoleum open it
could have looked inviting but quite why he decided to open a coffin and
snuggle down beside the skeleton is less easy to explain.</span></i> <i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">He may have been fine had the
entire coffin not crumbled on top of him, showering him with the dust of a
400-year-old corpse. He let out a rather loud scream, which was heard by a
passing dog-walker, who let out an even louder scream when he saw what looked
like a zombie coming straight for him. There followed a Scooby-doo moment when
they, and the dog, ran around the graveyard screaming before running off in
opposite directions.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Since
this undated and farcical incident, the article claims that <i>“there have been
350 documented attacks. 170 people have collapsed. Tourists have reported hot
spots, cold spots, somewhere in the middle spots. They have been bloodied and
bruised, pushed and pulled, by an unseen and altogether unwanted visitor to the
Black Mausoleum.”</i> Entrance to the mausoleum is the highlight on ghost tours
of the churchyard; <i>“night after night visitors spook themselves. Most leave
entertained, some leave a little frightened and others walk away from the Black
Mausoleum convinced that they have had a close brush with something very nasty
indeed,”</i> says the newspaper. </span></p><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIDimFIRWp_Hx8C3CJMD3PLdt1rROayTJ-nf6hE-cVgoZ4umrY1-sBRBDzqh_SewIDtfqwpX5gg3y7pNkPEiVRwAfkUMygnl-sHFHbGIEMIkmXnxLVuF_461ruijUekomGR5FH87u-zK2IqK4OmlYpnV5TrsXkxl7mkOJ9T_bQZ4CVZU2oHCraou3bZhY/s4032/putti%20with%20skull%20greyfriars.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIDimFIRWp_Hx8C3CJMD3PLdt1rROayTJ-nf6hE-cVgoZ4umrY1-sBRBDzqh_SewIDtfqwpX5gg3y7pNkPEiVRwAfkUMygnl-sHFHbGIEMIkmXnxLVuF_461ruijUekomGR5FH87u-zK2IqK4OmlYpnV5TrsXkxl7mkOJ9T_bQZ4CVZU2oHCraou3bZhY/w640-h480/putti%20with%20skull%20greyfriars.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">And
finally, an even more improbable story, of premature burial this time, from the
Edinburgh Evening News of Saturday 28 November 1925; <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Truth
was vouched for in the recital of the gruesome stories of the body-snatchers,
who at one time in Edinburgh plied a lucrative trade, and I can still remember
the story told by my revered "granny" of an incident that happened in
the Greyfriars Kirkyard. Despite the vigilance of the watchers, who were ever
on the alert, and whose duty it was at certain hours of the night to fire their
muskets to scare away the resurrectionists, the ghoulish work was begun ot
opening a newly-made grave. The body of a wealthy lady had been interred that
day, and a couple of expert body-snatchers were losing no time in prising open
the coffin. Their eyes were soon dazzled by the sight of a number of valuable
rings on the fingers of one of the hands. A small saw was quickly taken from
their bag, and the act of severing the finger begun. To their horror, however,
the "dead" woman sprang from her coffin, and her shrieks of pain
re-echoing as far as the Candlemaker Row, the sacrilegious pair took to their
heels and managed to escape. As was afterwards explained, the old lady, had
been buried in a trance, an occurrence said to be very common at a time when a
doctor's certificate of death was not to essential as now.</span></i></p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-UTxbmYvwnnXE0KaSmX1UAQNZpCsWMvAbGXfr15ODJe8tgL2LVEqkL6OaG_-xMl8cTgxcsFaXn9s7Wnar1XmA4SrhUkYnxsnn1tZjMB7MGMQkq-hp2GhzN9p7Dkx3DmzoQslsQHqqI4MyMrdkdv7CS0VmBXnVeU0lrYlDlfAd1tujXtZcJDxYsJSHcAU/s4032/Paton%20memorial%20greyfriars.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-UTxbmYvwnnXE0KaSmX1UAQNZpCsWMvAbGXfr15ODJe8tgL2LVEqkL6OaG_-xMl8cTgxcsFaXn9s7Wnar1XmA4SrhUkYnxsnn1tZjMB7MGMQkq-hp2GhzN9p7Dkx3DmzoQslsQHqqI4MyMrdkdv7CS0VmBXnVeU0lrYlDlfAd1tujXtZcJDxYsJSHcAU/w480-h640/Paton%20memorial%20greyfriars.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Paton Monument</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5sdoHV_ls5qsqivN2X3Wb5bQyqnkvymUkqKDGvCSDGTvO0NSTGSqtbFTUQfEfgJ9q0o_DhfOfZm4gLWeRWIfM63PnCDqUEv33PtcO2lgbp0LvtUbrEpN1yVvmfnaiRoKWeTr1SBbn2ImbhbVHRTvNRKylyCuC2eP1LJ3eZenTRvD9tsTQAdBRRNCNoEg/s4032/Mackenzie%20mausoleum%20greyfriars.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5sdoHV_ls5qsqivN2X3Wb5bQyqnkvymUkqKDGvCSDGTvO0NSTGSqtbFTUQfEfgJ9q0o_DhfOfZm4gLWeRWIfM63PnCDqUEv33PtcO2lgbp0LvtUbrEpN1yVvmfnaiRoKWeTr1SBbn2ImbhbVHRTvNRKylyCuC2eP1LJ3eZenTRvD9tsTQAdBRRNCNoEg/w640-h480/Mackenzie%20mausoleum%20greyfriars.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mausoleum of George MacKenzie</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTMzLnZ1DIvMf_imjnwEqlHG4jKF4b0QuHW2xIWl_s6Cn8Meh9jc1OwM2DckUslkYUs5Pz0Vd3VPXNdnm_OdmaOliA3V0qTS5BoMjMKmcrukaVmmhSLvY-__0iCkH0YytdiahQiQLegM5fW487J8N10e46605X_B8VaJoV7NVloW95-yD2QxyuTjtEwkE/s4032/Kincaid%20Memorial%20Greyfriars.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTMzLnZ1DIvMf_imjnwEqlHG4jKF4b0QuHW2xIWl_s6Cn8Meh9jc1OwM2DckUslkYUs5Pz0Vd3VPXNdnm_OdmaOliA3V0qTS5BoMjMKmcrukaVmmhSLvY-__0iCkH0YytdiahQiQLegM5fW487J8N10e46605X_B8VaJoV7NVloW95-yD2QxyuTjtEwkE/w640-h480/Kincaid%20Memorial%20Greyfriars.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Kincaid monument</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfrvi0pW-V1teyTci9peKoUmtcGkstS6g4b4EwDWvYQ_o_HN7DwysDg3lPEWNOcqpggkC5nBa4TVvpnyigJlcbiTTa_OW4XGoNxUz1_Y6wwk1BS4uKpV4cDZqcrtWAvIE0NWq4NyYxQXkcmX6KvOh0_nR8l77FxZEjqNKGGsJExvNVtLVz6BQMAoDAsM/s3963/Greyfriars%20memorial.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2972" data-original-width="3963" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfrvi0pW-V1teyTci9peKoUmtcGkstS6g4b4EwDWvYQ_o_HN7DwysDg3lPEWNOcqpggkC5nBa4TVvpnyigJlcbiTTa_OW4XGoNxUz1_Y6wwk1BS4uKpV4cDZqcrtWAvIE0NWq4NyYxQXkcmX6KvOh0_nR8l77FxZEjqNKGGsJExvNVtLVz6BQMAoDAsM/w640-h480/Greyfriars%20memorial.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIIl9MwMlKqEsV57BQUYvM2FrXQhLNgX2sXIadj4eomvSo6O2kNvD9RaUesyc1wqhGzV3Wc9Vie1FRWdiSw11uNkPgPCeEv2YWdv1XojI88t7cMIH3Wcdox3r53fQjJX3Y1oCSxMZma3oITnDXVh5M4Qs2OKDKA5PZXLSq1whSiGPnGBWdBqQ3R9qmLKg/s4032/Greyfiriars%20memorial%20detail.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIIl9MwMlKqEsV57BQUYvM2FrXQhLNgX2sXIadj4eomvSo6O2kNvD9RaUesyc1wqhGzV3Wc9Vie1FRWdiSw11uNkPgPCeEv2YWdv1XojI88t7cMIH3Wcdox3r53fQjJX3Y1oCSxMZma3oITnDXVh5M4Qs2OKDKA5PZXLSq1whSiGPnGBWdBqQ3R9qmLKg/w640-h480/Greyfiriars%20memorial%20detail.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail from the Paton monument</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi97IOEb4VxpQ8IkNY18x1MjvUN6oBOi6IoTk5kTiLPngB1i_cTzLgIBT93O2K6uMMvU6fP0E71r6rmeGoqEm6SSWtp2qrWzBYop68h918AeietmpytrKNUoXbL8RSBUMJ2PlZQdIJV7_hSA8jjhjEcPPkir-yZTmZd_I81FbUZkbBBqgV3dJPfJVCje0k/s3855/Forget%20not%20Greyfriars.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2891" data-original-width="3855" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi97IOEb4VxpQ8IkNY18x1MjvUN6oBOi6IoTk5kTiLPngB1i_cTzLgIBT93O2K6uMMvU6fP0E71r6rmeGoqEm6SSWtp2qrWzBYop68h918AeietmpytrKNUoXbL8RSBUMJ2PlZQdIJV7_hSA8jjhjEcPPkir-yZTmZd_I81FbUZkbBBqgV3dJPfJVCje0k/w640-h480/Forget%20not%20Greyfriars.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGKCH69uIZleL_jFSZeIMLYcCdH_rxKf6W0OeSqZDpwfry2eERW6dng0bgxIfrHSCn96whjgVRwefJzjLh-KGVuSOw10dpvYwn9bMgF2UyKtp9P_0x62nkvx7V5Q2J26Wn3t3kUDb_Kw-Zu8tXeSOSPBoVOjJ9aWriV_7soFx2IHjXhuLcHH_-UY7fjh8/s3934/Bayne%20of%20pitcairlie%20memorial%20greyfriars.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2950" data-original-width="3934" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGKCH69uIZleL_jFSZeIMLYcCdH_rxKf6W0OeSqZDpwfry2eERW6dng0bgxIfrHSCn96whjgVRwefJzjLh-KGVuSOw10dpvYwn9bMgF2UyKtp9P_0x62nkvx7V5Q2J26Wn3t3kUDb_Kw-Zu8tXeSOSPBoVOjJ9aWriV_7soFx2IHjXhuLcHH_-UY7fjh8/w640-h480/Bayne%20of%20pitcairlie%20memorial%20greyfriars.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The monument of Bayne of Pitcairlie</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p></div>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-14371686098870702652023-12-01T07:48:00.000-08:002024-02-03T09:32:49.761-08:00"Shakespeare never went to Venice, Homer never went to Troy, Dante never went to Hell"; Christopher Logue (1926-2011) Kensal Green Cemetery<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_MzJ4UYFWvfOibe2zNcPBQwbQ329g3VMKVY4sjncswpFtPp97pdgulsjPfY2VsbevJbBM62_O7ejjZumY5BST_jLtGT_VnRk2Ja3XWw-99xQU2WP9a0Or4o4wDPHab07p5ypGggE86ego-zQqJo1muhHQALdmJVZU1lNjeSG93LdhjPWEZUA2gWwZDDw/s3930/Christopher%20Logue%20Kensal%20Green%20Cemetery.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2947" data-original-width="3930" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_MzJ4UYFWvfOibe2zNcPBQwbQ329g3VMKVY4sjncswpFtPp97pdgulsjPfY2VsbevJbBM62_O7ejjZumY5BST_jLtGT_VnRk2Ja3XWw-99xQU2WP9a0Or4o4wDPHab07p5ypGggE86ego-zQqJo1muhHQALdmJVZU1lNjeSG93LdhjPWEZUA2gWwZDDw/w640-h480/Christopher%20Logue%20Kensal%20Green%20Cemetery.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Astounding. I bought this volume this morning for
thirty pence from a charity shop in West Norwood - never having heard of
Christopher Logue - and consumed it in the space of one afternoon and evening.
Great to feel again - after too long - the quickening that great writing can
put into your step, your imagination and your heart. Bought me to tears as I
finished the first section at two o'clock in Brockwell Park. Nine o'clock now
and I have (for the first time) finished the whole thing and - with gratitude -
discovered that there is MORE of this guys 'translation' of Homer to read. A
great day; thank you Christopher Logue...”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: right;">
<i><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Amazon review of “Cold Calls”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Christopher
Logue spent 40 years working on his adaptation of the Iliad. My copy of “Kings”,
his version of Book’s I and II, cost me a derisory 29 pence though I did have
to spend a couple of quid on postage and packing. It was a 20 year old second
hand copy but it was in almost pristine condition apart from what I assumed at
first glance was a previous owners name scrawled proprietarily across the title
page. A second glance revealed the signature to be ‘Christopher Logue’ and when
I turned the page to the edition notice it told me that “This revised text
first published in a signed limited edition in 1992 by…Turret Books, 42 Lambs
Conduit Street.” If a 30 pence copy of “Cold Calls” and a 29 pence signed
limited edition of “Kings” don’t constitute irrefutable evidence that
Christopher Logue is our most undervalued writer, I don’t know what does.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i7V6ajf1UR8/Vv7_cutCk3I/AAAAAAAADBk/fycSXw25NWIYrWZu_UTkJs2mz9UiCWfsA/s1600/logue_2-large_trans%252B%252BnoTNfZEEKJkRDex-nOY8ddlg7t3DHJVqtr9b9sAXGa0.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i7V6ajf1UR8/Vv7_cutCk3I/AAAAAAAADBk/fycSXw25NWIYrWZu_UTkJs2mz9UiCWfsA/s400/logue_2-large_trans%252B%252BnoTNfZEEKJkRDex-nOY8ddlg7t3DHJVqtr9b9sAXGa0.jpg" width="398" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Logue photographed at the Isle of Wight festival in 1969 (he really did get everywhere)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He was
born in Portsmouth and was educated in Catholic schools in Portsmouth and Bath.
By his own accounts he had a wayward childhood and a delinquent youth; he told
an interviewer from the Paris Review that he stole “money from my mother’s
purse, or my father’s pockets, things from shops—semipornographic magazines,
expensive toys, and sweets—and then I would be caught and punished. Once I was
taken to a juvenile court. When the time came for me to appear, my father came
with me with his retirement certificate—he was a civil servant, working in the
post office for forty-five years—wrapped in brown paper under his arm. He
unwrapped it and showed it to the magistrates. I felt incredibly proud of him,
and terribly ashamed of myself.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">His
explanation of how he came to be a poet was simple; it was down to Miss Crowe,
his elocution mistress. “As a child I had a deep voice. People would comment.
My mother wanted me to be a priest or an actor, but seeing that there wasn’t
much chance of the priesthood, she plumped for acting and sent me for elocution
lessons. Miss Crowe was an attractive woman. I used to sit on the floor and
look up her skirt—and that’s how I became a poet.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R2sNq-G7kJ8/Vv7_v3emPjI/AAAAAAAADBo/rEaWVypwHFgcgSm2Veu7YSVL-SHFCZKwA/s1600/graham-armitage-et-christopher-logue.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R2sNq-G7kJ8/Vv7_v3emPjI/AAAAAAAADBo/rEaWVypwHFgcgSm2Veu7YSVL-SHFCZKwA/s640/graham-armitage-et-christopher-logue.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As Cardinal Richelieu, about to be shot by Louis Quatorze in "The Devils" </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">After
leaving school he eschewed university in favour of the army. When they wouldn’t
let him join the commandos he enlisted in the Black Watch where his posh accent
got him dubbed ‘Charlotte’ by the other squaddies. He served in Palestine and
managed to earn himself a 16 month prison sentence and a dishonorable discharge
by stealing six army paybooks; “It was an act of spiteful masochism,” he said
later “I had … illegally, obtained six army paybooks, which were also identity
documents. I announced to everyone in my tent that I planned to sell them to
the Jews. I knew no Jews. I hardly knew what the word <span style="color: #cccccc;"><i>Jew</i></span> meant. But I
identified with those my side was against.” After leaving the army he returned
home and lived on National Assistance or worked as a park keeper and dentist’s receptionist
until he could earn a living as a poet. In 1951 he went to Paris, fell in love
with a Brazilian girl and published his first book of poems a couple of years
later. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UMPCPwRCY9w/Vv8Ab61eygI/AAAAAAAADB0/-ZyVYvvjKQU0m85jF1m7OtDg3tnQqAclA/s1600/logue%2Bin%2Bbath.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="390" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UMPCPwRCY9w/Vv8Ab61eygI/AAAAAAAADB0/-ZyVYvvjKQU0m85jF1m7OtDg3tnQqAclA/s640/logue%2Bin%2Bbath.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the bath with a friend</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He had
a rather colourful life; he was on the first Aldermaston march with Bertrand
Russell, served his second prison sentence, just a month this time, in open
prison for taking part in a sit in in Parliament Square in 1961, and
collaborated with Arnold Wesker to bring art to the workers on the factory
floors. He worked with Lindsey Anderson at the Royal Court Theatre, recorded an
album of Pablo Neruda translations with a jazz backing with George Martin when
the producer wasn’t required by the Beatles, and wrote the famous Pseud’s
Corner and True Stories columns for Private Eye (“The Journal of the American
Library Association has announced the publication of Playboy Magazine in a
Braille edition.” 5 June 1970). He appeared as an actor in several films, his
parts included Cardinal Richelieu in Ken Russell’s “The Devils” and a spaghetti
eating maniac in Terry Gilliam’s “Jabberwocky.” In his younger days in Paris he
wrote two books under the name Count Palmiro Vicarion for the Olympia Press, a
pornographic secret agent novel called “Lust” and a “Book of Bawdy Ballads (“Acknowledgements:
Many poets have helped me collect this book. I would like to thank in
particular Madame Desiree Noblock of London and Mr. Gregory Kont of Bayswater.”
A typical offering; There was a young man from Nantucket, Whose p***k was so long he could suck it, He said with a grin, As he wiped off his chin, “If my ear were a
c**t, I could f**k it.”).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Logue
married the historian Rosemary Hill in 1985. His Portland stone gravestone was
designed by his friend the architectural critic Gavin Stamp and made by Stephen
Lane of the Stone Arts & Crafts Company. The verse is a stanza from one of
Logue’s own poems ‘O come all ye faithful’: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Those
who are sure of love<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Do not
complain<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">For
sure of love is sure<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Love
comes again<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When Rosemary
married Gavin in 2014 I’m sure he didn’t complain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lNK-RGsBI54/Vv8A5suRBdI/AAAAAAAADB8/49CinTT-um465HbyyFRL3GjcgvuLBs34g/s1600/Christopher%2BLogue.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lNK-RGsBI54/Vv8A5suRBdI/AAAAAAAADB8/49CinTT-um465HbyyFRL3GjcgvuLBs34g/s640/Christopher%2BLogue.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-5459792175827309322023-11-23T07:00:00.000-08:002023-11-23T07:04:32.844-08:00Her grave is dug; Stéphane Mallarmé and Harriet Smyth (1838 -1859) Kensal Green Cemetery<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjygQ0VEscCS4fyCa4v5uku6khbBisOGsrGof4RemBT1jiqSXHEt8XTHw-EuLmosHpRrfoNGrQecPISo1BXUa9FmGmdtlr6fPEaCjl768tyeMXFXEqpBP8-jKfp2v_YLeEBs1PIvk8gdLKySxMHvbGTJ2V7dCK7vnfVMS-maWKPehpE3h8VMonmOwLvXkU/s4032/Harriet%20Smyth%20%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjygQ0VEscCS4fyCa4v5uku6khbBisOGsrGof4RemBT1jiqSXHEt8XTHw-EuLmosHpRrfoNGrQecPISo1BXUa9FmGmdtlr6fPEaCjl768tyeMXFXEqpBP8-jKfp2v_YLeEBs1PIvk8gdLKySxMHvbGTJ2V7dCK7vnfVMS-maWKPehpE3h8VMonmOwLvXkU/w640-h480/Harriet%20Smyth%20%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">If
I hadn’t been kneeling down, trying to take a photo of the colonnades reflected
in a puddle, I probably would never have noticed the newish plaque on the grave
next to the path; ‘Harriet Smyth 1838 – 1859 Friend of the young Stéphane
Mallarmé Une larme sur sa tombe, ce n'est pas trop pour tous les sourires
angeliques qu'elle nous donnait!’ The French translates as “a tear on her tomb
is not too much for all the angelic smiles she gave us!” I was intrigued. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Harriet
Smyth was born in Niagara Falls, Ontario, in 1838, the daughter of Thomas
Sheppard Smyth and Harriet Delatre. Her father was English, born in Uttoxeter,
and was described as a gentleman and a graduate of the University of Oxford.
Her mother was born in Canada to English parents; Harriet’s grandfather was Colonel
Philip Chesneau Delatre, a British army officer who had served in Ceylon and then
moved to Canada on resigning his commission, where he became President of the
Niagara Harbour and Dock Company. Harriet’s mother was close to her older
sister who had married Robert Sullivan, an Irishman who become a successful business
man in Canada and was the second ever Mayor of Toronto. The couple had nine
children but Harriet was closest to her cousin Emily. In the late 1850’s the
two families were in the habit of travelling to France to pass the winter at
Passy, then an elegant suburb of Paris. In Passy they made the acquaintance of a
neighbour, Fanny Desmoulins, who was Stéphane Mallarmé’s grandmother. The two
girls became friends with the young <a name="_Hlk151640890">Mallarmé</a>; Harriet
was four years older than the future French poet (though he seemed to be under
the impression that they were the same age, 17), Emily a year younger. Harriet
was probably already sick with the tuberculosis that was soon to kill her and
in February 1859 Mallarmé also became severely ill (his anxious father thought
he might die) but had recovered enough by April to be sent to Passy to convalesce
with his grandmother. A year or so later
<a name="_Hlk151641057">Mallarmé </a>wrote out a list of the key events of his
short life in the back of a notebook he had entitled <i>entre quatre murs </i>–
between four walls. One of these key events, written in English rather than
French was "April 1859 I passed a night with Emily." No one is sure
what Mallarmé meant by this – was he suggesting that he had lost his virginity
to the 16-year-old Canadian? The subject was never mentioned again but whatever
had happened between the two was seen by the young poet as being of unusual
significance. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihVUlfBjMJ1mqi0bivRjWKSSdjRg-F8MqBUrA2GVZ4zdqKQ_VV9t2dGVdlv9qIxt49zOArrRxHq-RCds-HfHzTyr3z0YowXIt7bBMXtfw_u9YyejFx0eb5G83GY63N8b7i3onOU_8fWqWA98H8kpiZo6KcH27SfmY8HrbIXCWjMOYnGNsmpGra5k0yGg8/s2178/Harriet%20Smyth%20July%201859%20Kensal%20Green%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="890" data-original-width="2178" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihVUlfBjMJ1mqi0bivRjWKSSdjRg-F8MqBUrA2GVZ4zdqKQ_VV9t2dGVdlv9qIxt49zOArrRxHq-RCds-HfHzTyr3z0YowXIt7bBMXtfw_u9YyejFx0eb5G83GY63N8b7i3onOU_8fWqWA98H8kpiZo6KcH27SfmY8HrbIXCWjMOYnGNsmpGra5k0yGg8/w571-h232/Harriet%20Smyth%20July%201859%20Kensal%20Green%201.jpg" width="571" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCfU0ghUTm7-hyVBuaigecYCMRUGHUYaqZx1jFHfChOhX4gzOjetkUzyGYPo4d1tCshvK1qwqQVsXKvR1SSR0ihFYToATKprFTXuhywfc3dxERSaM1SkHkuXyjoL1Sv-1PV3wuNDvI4FdVQ5_f_A7s80bBqiufq_Y2SaXguxgJqxWtGeTJb9k3AtlBKpY/s522/Harriet%20Smyth%20Morning%20Post%2015%20July%201859.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="77" data-original-width="522" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCfU0ghUTm7-hyVBuaigecYCMRUGHUYaqZx1jFHfChOhX4gzOjetkUzyGYPo4d1tCshvK1qwqQVsXKvR1SSR0ihFYToATKprFTXuhywfc3dxERSaM1SkHkuXyjoL1Sv-1PV3wuNDvI4FdVQ5_f_A7s80bBqiufq_Y2SaXguxgJqxWtGeTJb9k3AtlBKpY/s16000/Harriet%20Smyth%20Morning%20Post%2015%20July%201859.png" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Harriet
and Emily soon returned to England with their families. Harriet must have been
desperately ill by this time as she died on the 11 July at the house the Smyth
family were renting in West Kensington, 9 Edith Villas, W14. She was 21. The
family placed a short notice in the Morning Post and arranged a funeral. She
was buried at Kensal Green on 15 July. At some point in the next few weeks news
of Harriet’s death reached Mallarmé in Passy. The young poet was already
obsessing over death, he had lost his mother at the age of 5, his sister in
1857 and then just before Christmas his aunt Herminie. That summer his grandfather
was ill and left to his own devices Stéphane made a gloomy pilgrimage to the
cemetery of Père Lachaise to see the grave of the poet Béranger and wrote the
first of his Tombeaux poems, the most famous of which are his elegies for
Gautier, Poe, Verlaine and Baudelaire. When he heard of her death, he also
wrote two poems for Harriet <i>Sa fosse est creusée</i> (Her grave is dug) and <i>Sa
tombe est fermée</i> (Her grave is closed). The poems are generally regarded as
juvenilia; <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Elle
donna partout un doux souvenir d'elle!<br />
De tout... que reste-t-il? que nous peut-on montrer?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Un
nom!... sur un cercueil où je ne puis pleurer!<br />
Un nom!... qu'effaceront le temps et le lierre!<br />
Un nom!... couvert de pleurs, et demain de poussière<br />
Et tout est dit!<a href="https://d.docs.live.net/166c918330e270e7/Documents/Emily%20Sullivan%20and%20St%C3%A9phane%20Mallarm%C3%A9.docx#_edn1" name="_ednref1" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><b><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">[i]</span></b></span><!--[endif]--></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Harriet’s
story had been largely forgotten until Declan Walton, a retired UN diplomat,
once deputy director-general of food and agriculture, took an interest in Mallarmé’s
early poems and was moved by his elegies to the 21 year old and the story of
their friendship. With the help of the Friends of Kensal Green Cemetery Declan
found and restored Harriet’s grave in 2013 and paid for the plaque that commemorates
her friendship with Mallarmé. He also wrote an articule for the French academic
journal <i>Études Stéphane Mallarmé; Du nouveau sur quelques poèmes de jeunesse
Mallarmé et les demoiselles Smyth et Sullivan </i>(New Insights into Some
Youthful Poems of Mallarmé and the Misses Smyth and Sullivan.) Declan himself
died in April 2020. So it goes.</span></p><div>
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<!--[endif]-->
<div id="edn1">
<p class="MsoEndnoteText"><a href="https://d.docs.live.net/166c918330e270e7/Documents/Emily%20Sullivan%20and%20St%C3%A9phane%20Mallarm%C3%A9.docx#_ednref1" name="_edn1" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[i]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a></p><blockquote>She gave everywhere a sweet memory of her!<br />Of everything... what's left? what can you show us?<br /><br />A name!... on a coffin where I cannot cry! <br />A name!... that time and ivy will erase! <br />A name!... covered in tears, and tomorrow in dust <br />And all is said!</blockquote><p class="MsoEndnoteText"><o:p></o:p></p>
</div>
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8QbGm-p5KDRgZWgiIqsyDoqUG1gMMKkghkHPTvJwE8CREju1Aj9uF0-x8LANr2Jxd6mGh6KeRCfIj4xeBx8FWOj0f0h7Ej1VoWlOLJtYOfaKSACwewtcl2B73MAa32uvSs-qg5p9Bos6aB3R0KB8gVipX7lXf7VBmSr491UTBDTzCcTKkxivRcb0Bln4/s4032/Kensal%20Green%20Catacomb%20reflection.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8QbGm-p5KDRgZWgiIqsyDoqUG1gMMKkghkHPTvJwE8CREju1Aj9uF0-x8LANr2Jxd6mGh6KeRCfIj4xeBx8FWOj0f0h7Ej1VoWlOLJtYOfaKSACwewtcl2B73MAa32uvSs-qg5p9Bos6aB3R0KB8gVipX7lXf7VBmSr491UTBDTzCcTKkxivRcb0Bln4/w640-h480/Kensal%20Green%20Catacomb%20reflection.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The shot I was taking when I noticed Harriet's grave</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-11163670371153072652023-11-14T06:56:00.000-08:002024-03-08T02:51:49.672-08:00This extravagant journey: Steve Peregrin Took (1949-1980) Kensal Green Cemetery<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtv83jI40J1FRfxHrKtKvHJD88yvJtZWuEG3GxjmYedJHBOd-FeSeq_EaHk_y_9_6masFvnm_gd-9hdP4PFmshFjGM1XT5HD50BKDH81cXt4czTxRX_Va_vkP87mxHBA9YB7ik6d6RyWsTYklhRi1WGPPIuYSaqpK58V6gFGxyZOdGdhA1OHvl2gDD_Lo/s4032/Steve%20Took%20Kensal%20Green%20Cemetery.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtv83jI40J1FRfxHrKtKvHJD88yvJtZWuEG3GxjmYedJHBOd-FeSeq_EaHk_y_9_6masFvnm_gd-9hdP4PFmshFjGM1XT5HD50BKDH81cXt4czTxRX_Va_vkP87mxHBA9YB7ik6d6RyWsTYklhRi1WGPPIuYSaqpK58V6gFGxyZOdGdhA1OHvl2gDD_Lo/w640-h480/Steve%20Took%20Kensal%20Green%20Cemetery.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><i>I'm
taking this extravagant journey<br /></i><i>
Or so it seems to me<br /></i><i>
I just came from nowhere<br /></i><i>
And I'm going straight back there</i></span></h3></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><div><p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">The
Buzzcocks - <i>Boredom</i></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="text-align: justify;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Failure
is often more interesting than success. When
Steve Took achieved a fleeting form of fame in the early 1970’s he was already
a has been, a man whose moment had passed, who would spend what little time he
had left to live watching his friends and acquaintances become household names whilst
he slipped into obscurity. He was born Stephen Ross Porter in Eltham in 1949
and in 1967 answered an ad in the <i>International Times</i> for a drummer. The
advertiser was Marc Bolan and the group he was planning to form was called
Tyrannosaurus Rex. Adopting the name of a hobbit from <i>Lord of the Rings</i> Bolan
and Took became a duo recording three folk inspired albums that met with
limited success. Took moved to Ladbroke Grove and began to make the
acquaintance of the hipsters, druggies and drop outs that formed the W10 scene
in the late 60’s and early 70’s, one of them being Syd Barrett. Playing second fiddle to
Bolan in Tyrannosaurus Rex rankled with Took and after the recording of their third
album, <i>Unicorn</i>, he began to pester Bolan to sing and perform some of his
own material. The two fell out and Took was sacked from the band just before their
1969 tour of the US. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyYO_KgXUzqWAo9WDoVfqCPS6FTXxRt8k6OR6WtOgTb-QeaLSapxYfKQtzX4AJ0qMACESe50HH0NFHUv7jAWGgnZuMxq6Hp2zGV9xiFsBIM1hnF9A37CZlti4pF8Vq60K5kpn8WxYxnD1pmeZ4Cx5Rjx98jEZZ5Rn1aWuQLtfqaEZiLvRVpV_-ruxzBYo/s2048/steve%20took.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1580" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyYO_KgXUzqWAo9WDoVfqCPS6FTXxRt8k6OR6WtOgTb-QeaLSapxYfKQtzX4AJ0qMACESe50HH0NFHUv7jAWGgnZuMxq6Hp2zGV9xiFsBIM1hnF9A37CZlti4pF8Vq60K5kpn8WxYxnD1pmeZ4Cx5Rjx98jEZZ5Rn1aWuQLtfqaEZiLvRVpV_-ruxzBYo/w494-h640/steve%20took.jpg" width="494" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">With
Took out of the band and a new partner, Mickey Finn, Bolan shortened the name
of the group to T. Rex and within a year became a seventies rock legend. Took suddenly
found himself well known, his part in the founding legend of T. Rex was widely
reported, but unable to capitalise on his new semi celebrity status. He formed and
broke up a succession of bands including Shagrat and Steve Took’s Horns or
performed with nascent versions of acts that were to become better known like
the Pink Fairies. He worked with Rob Calvert and Nik Turner from Hawkwind,
formed shortlived bands with Larry Wallis from the Pink Fairies and Mick Farren
from the Deviants, recorded demos and talked to record companies but failed to
sign a deal or release any music. When punk exploded in 1976 his Ladbroke Grove
hippy friends somehow survived being washed away to oblivion, his friend Lemmy
from Hawkwind forming Motorhead and Larry Wallis becoming a performer and
producer for Stiff Records, but Took was well and truly finished. By 1980 he
was living in his girlfriend’s council flat in Westbourne Park Road. On Sunday 26 October he bought morphine and
magic mushrooms for himself and his girlfriend and the pair injected the
morphine that evening. Took died next day, choking to death on a cocktail
cherry. His death certificate records the cause of death as asphyxiation. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">In
the late 80’s and early 90’s some of Took’s unreleased demo tapes were cleaned
up and released on CD. They didn’t sell well, a few die hard Bolan fans
probably indulging their curiosity. It isn’t surprising, they aren’t musical
masterpieces. Spotify cruelly exposes the utter indifference met by Took’s
music; Shagrat, his venture with Larry Wallis, has a mere 186 monthly
listeners. His album ‘Crazy Diamond’ released as Steve Peregrin Took, 60
monthly listeners. And Steve Took’s Horns, just 11. T. Rex currently has 3.6
million monthly listeners. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p></p>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-46429855860083068952023-11-09T08:52:00.003-08:002023-12-21T11:46:55.029-08:00Not seeing 'Death' in Toronto; Mount Pleasant Cemetery<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2CudFkR86Dklrx7XeOvKG3m22L0rdQ3d4S5taV_B22PD7jqBITCUOIsgBqddgxid452tUE4O_aTgTK44GlquNnQb6a3tWkMyvGySQCwCjWTM20ydsHFRkTpgLy7NjWtAeKRymZIEU__91gOXbwsprx2t5U5rSiMuB3a8qdCNa3yAAHjgFeG1C6hFA2B4/s4013/Mount%20Pleasant%20Cullen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3009" data-original-width="4013" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2CudFkR86Dklrx7XeOvKG3m22L0rdQ3d4S5taV_B22PD7jqBITCUOIsgBqddgxid452tUE4O_aTgTK44GlquNnQb6a3tWkMyvGySQCwCjWTM20ydsHFRkTpgLy7NjWtAeKRymZIEU__91gOXbwsprx2t5U5rSiMuB3a8qdCNa3yAAHjgFeG1C6hFA2B4/w640-h480/Mount%20Pleasant%20Cullen.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">There
were two things I wanted to do on a recent trip to Toronto; the first was to
visit Mount Pleasant Cemetery, the second to see an exhibition called ‘Death;
Life’s Greatest Mystery’ at the Royal Ontario Museum. The exhibition, initially
organised by and shown at the Field Museum in Chicago, explores “death through
culture, science, and art, with an examination of the diversity of cultural
practices and the myriad ways death is observed in the natural word” according
to the Royal Ontario’s chief curator. There were no problems visiting the
cemetery but the exhibition closed after being open for just one day. When I
tried to buy a ticket the admission staff were cagey, telling me that an unforeseen
issue had led to the closure of the exhibition until further notice. As we were
only there for a few days that was my chance to see it gone. Only later did I find
out what had been the problem; a Palestinian American artist, Jenin Yaseen, had
staged a sit in at the museum in protest at “censorship and alteration” of one
of her paintings which features in the exhibition. The museum had promptly
closed the exhibition, presumably in an effort to minimise adverse publicity.
This didn’t work of course as the story was soon all over social and
traditional media and within 24 hours the museum had backed down and reinstated
Yaseen’s work, uncut. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE6zRimKULodf0Kndxhi5tW_QpjH0qG36VDgAnREWZM8Q9dEs8rgPIpjOM_X-E8YUiCtoPm_Re1asVYWIrNG_nGGeyHyY57M3VkZXDUJmzVP0ZNvAo9luWZuWnTxTZESGM8LKeoZBjzXPlNiX-aSsGTqt17N-K5W7e-R8i00AQKZDRdECGgjIaHyHcbpg/s4032/Mount%20Pleasant%20Eaton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE6zRimKULodf0Kndxhi5tW_QpjH0qG36VDgAnREWZM8Q9dEs8rgPIpjOM_X-E8YUiCtoPm_Re1asVYWIrNG_nGGeyHyY57M3VkZXDUJmzVP0ZNvAo9luWZuWnTxTZESGM8LKeoZBjzXPlNiX-aSsGTqt17N-K5W7e-R8i00AQKZDRdECGgjIaHyHcbpg/w640-h480/Mount%20Pleasant%20Eaton.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">What
was all the fuss about? Yaseen says that two days before the exhibition was to
open senior museum staff invited her, and three of her collaborators, to a Zoom
call to discuss changes they wanted made to the display they had worked on
which showed Palestinian burial practices. The museum was concerned that the
display had become politically sensitive following the Hamas attack on Israel
on 7 October and the subsequent Israeli bombardment of Gaza. Amongst other
changes the museum wanted to remove the words ‘Palestine’ and ‘exile’ and
wanted to crop part of an image of Yaseen’s painting which showed two Israeli soldiers
and a traditional Palestinian embroidery motif symbolising burial and death. The
four were told that if they did not agree to the changes the whole display would
be pulled along with a display concerning Jewish burial rites “to be fair to
both sides”. Yaseen and her collaborators flew to Toronto from Michigan the
following day and attended the opening of the exhibition. Unhappy at the
changes they decided to stage a sit in. The Museum’s ham-fisted attempt to
avoid controversy had spectacularly back fired. The story was now all over the
media and the museum quickly capitulated and reinstated the original display. But
not quickly enough for me to see the exhibition, alas. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisRFeeVEp5o5I_lyp3XKGBPoLuMd1JmUEsvDv4UUHuYTMERFlDkLeMX756341Ww6fmYuOeYkM5eMHp3pg3h6P9a9mVwy60Z6Fc77fKWbTgB0sOYUtWZv58DsmmBIG5lw18JedOnspUb_4G3S4-Sp9lLeiAX4-r9zVFnMq0gQm0ecb0lotzJG4G0CH_hxs/s3948/Mount%20Pleasant%20Massey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2961" data-original-width="3948" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisRFeeVEp5o5I_lyp3XKGBPoLuMd1JmUEsvDv4UUHuYTMERFlDkLeMX756341Ww6fmYuOeYkM5eMHp3pg3h6P9a9mVwy60Z6Fc77fKWbTgB0sOYUtWZv58DsmmBIG5lw18JedOnspUb_4G3S4-Sp9lLeiAX4-r9zVFnMq0gQm0ecb0lotzJG4G0CH_hxs/w640-h480/Mount%20Pleasant%20Massey.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">What
struck me most forcibly about Mount Pleasant Cemetery was how immaculately kept
it is. Its lawns are closely cropped, its paths rut free, its trees well
maintained and its memorials almost miraculously well preserved. There were no
areas taken over by wilderness, no collapsed trees, no impenetrable thickets of
bramble and dog rose and no notices warning that memorials are liable to topple
over and kill the unwary. No historic cemetery in London is this well looked
after. Luckily our unkempt and neglected burial grounds have acquired an aura
of romantic abandon that helps disguise the truth that they are shockingly
neglected. Mount Pleasant was opened in 1876, its gardens and landscape designed
by Henry Adolph Engelhardt. The 200-acre site was laid out with more than 12
miles of carriage drives. The legal status of the cemetery is controversial –
it is owned and run by the Mount Pleasant Group of Cemeteries, an organisation
which says that it is an independent non-profit corporation. Others disagreed and
said that the cemetery group is a public trust and the property of the citizens
of Ontario, as a result of the original founding law passed in 1826. A six year
legal campaign sought to bring the cemetery group back into the public sector and
in 2019 a judge agreed with the campaigners, designated the group a trust and
ordered that the directors be renamed trustees.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWrWnJ-JZgkxvbefS46M3RST9ppWcZHW4SAT3z_z8FKAAe9QxZ79um0J1GqdDX8QuUzOjjGvr5YEBE8v2VYRQSs_89UVVD5wUwoDdQrJ7g6mWxfdfTrd1CZzXDiM1y8CseZGKLBlToggh16JFfzvtTrSuWvXu1RkqP2KnGtDLgziydxeW2HZtTeHxaCC4/s3990/Mount%20Pleasant%20Massey%20interior%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2992" data-original-width="3990" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWrWnJ-JZgkxvbefS46M3RST9ppWcZHW4SAT3z_z8FKAAe9QxZ79um0J1GqdDX8QuUzOjjGvr5YEBE8v2VYRQSs_89UVVD5wUwoDdQrJ7g6mWxfdfTrd1CZzXDiM1y8CseZGKLBlToggh16JFfzvtTrSuWvXu1RkqP2KnGtDLgziydxeW2HZtTeHxaCC4/w640-h480/Mount%20Pleasant%20Massey%20interior%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">There
are fewer interesting graves than you might expect in what is probably Canada’s
premier cemetery. Ones that caught my eye were Harry Judson Crowe (1928) with
its half-naked warrior resting on one his sword and one knee, and the memorial
to Thomas Moor Junior and Isaac Hughes who died fighting against the Métis
people of the District of Saskatchewan in the North-West Rebellion of 1885. The
memorial in the form of a bench flanked by two semi naked women on the Cutten
grave is pretty memorable. It is Mount Pleasant’s mausoleums which are most
spectacular. Department store founder Timothy Eaton built an enormous Greek revival
temple guarded over by two life size bronze lions. Most famous of all is the
Massey family’s Romanesque tower built in 1891 to a design by EJ Lennox, the
architect responsible for many of Toronto’s landmark buildings (including the
Old Town Hall and Casa Loma).</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEips7aD3D-Un-dQXzrHOQ9BmsJl3a9RmODT1qEkhDAFDzYU_9P6NElargZpQOHW2x2last-JjUt_MCMnbRanLNmenhZRRSeq5Fpm3v2v0M6WF_d8QAkfhc3ZLn2qtD1a9hV-zYjrTdahql287h9QEAizODX94YM5ZzOYdtQ_0Fsu2xhekiWjhvwQzIuGnY/s4032/Mount%20Pleasant%20Tait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEips7aD3D-Un-dQXzrHOQ9BmsJl3a9RmODT1qEkhDAFDzYU_9P6NElargZpQOHW2x2last-JjUt_MCMnbRanLNmenhZRRSeq5Fpm3v2v0M6WF_d8QAkfhc3ZLn2qtD1a9hV-zYjrTdahql287h9QEAizODX94YM5ZzOYdtQ_0Fsu2xhekiWjhvwQzIuGnY/w640-h480/Mount%20Pleasant%20Tait.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaLgYvtGYJZF2SDzXhyFMchMwGhYtO3_s9jvvM1RmWRw-_QquGL7pODdzwb96xmdxCZq10mtkNnIC2domvng4MIr5rxA4gvS9EbPL8si66-LylnJesjMSn9-GoBZTGsY3oOcXuawEMDFb0GborADi7uFx1k1iUB0UQlm6Bg1t6stq4vRu7Svqmjmk5Ktc/s4032/Mount%20Pleasant%20Moore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaLgYvtGYJZF2SDzXhyFMchMwGhYtO3_s9jvvM1RmWRw-_QquGL7pODdzwb96xmdxCZq10mtkNnIC2domvng4MIr5rxA4gvS9EbPL8si66-LylnJesjMSn9-GoBZTGsY3oOcXuawEMDFb0GborADi7uFx1k1iUB0UQlm6Bg1t6stq4vRu7Svqmjmk5Ktc/w640-h480/Mount%20Pleasant%20Moore.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3DvKu99DpBKcCZ5jPuusaz9FqMPQ4GgpqL3Hfv7kyYkDoNQ1_0qzqZDepXODChHknySFnI3-qW6MTttrI2RZdPenMNufCGE1uaMfbCsE1umKa40C2b1mTQTBXTDmedgRdb4OAbA30Lvrub_Esk0fw7JD-9xpKv8NhyphenhyphenWaQei5HxjkE7Y0I-WE8jfwiawQ/s3956/Mount%20Pleasant%20Harris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2967" data-original-width="3956" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3DvKu99DpBKcCZ5jPuusaz9FqMPQ4GgpqL3Hfv7kyYkDoNQ1_0qzqZDepXODChHknySFnI3-qW6MTttrI2RZdPenMNufCGE1uaMfbCsE1umKa40C2b1mTQTBXTDmedgRdb4OAbA30Lvrub_Esk0fw7JD-9xpKv8NhyphenhyphenWaQei5HxjkE7Y0I-WE8jfwiawQ/w640-h480/Mount%20Pleasant%20Harris.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtUBMzTF2GJlEbfnxh9D4f6CP4cJMM4lqehAS1I8-KbWXR_YogckDZAXkCVAdkncVtQ1Ti2O1tDmE6Y7qqKOqG40DpabYd0kmqc8kMHusJ7R50QfJwIZS5WVUeBrryYX5gJRMskslnKKti0WNOteZ_iMzhPssYTOEaSD-VEv75El-sUeYdZUi6irk3EiQ/s4032/Mount%20Pleasant%20Haick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtUBMzTF2GJlEbfnxh9D4f6CP4cJMM4lqehAS1I8-KbWXR_YogckDZAXkCVAdkncVtQ1Ti2O1tDmE6Y7qqKOqG40DpabYd0kmqc8kMHusJ7R50QfJwIZS5WVUeBrryYX5gJRMskslnKKti0WNOteZ_iMzhPssYTOEaSD-VEv75El-sUeYdZUi6irk3EiQ/w640-h480/Mount%20Pleasant%20Haick.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvUnI9Z8cV54RE5qCSKvUE7CEBkPZoYrNBAG9k48x133kCgrMOo2tPupkQODvYgfuzEHeLCPAKA-CeoQKTfpdOO_4hDwHmSZpbctlt6PYog4WYmPzAKmybbbIsM230CjrveoUsU58-jv9F-MoMzuBcVwlM6ltKpkHiNrwkEsx4KZ8OzozLa91z-HkvEbY/s4032/Mount%20Pleasant%20Crowe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvUnI9Z8cV54RE5qCSKvUE7CEBkPZoYrNBAG9k48x133kCgrMOo2tPupkQODvYgfuzEHeLCPAKA-CeoQKTfpdOO_4hDwHmSZpbctlt6PYog4WYmPzAKmybbbIsM230CjrveoUsU58-jv9F-MoMzuBcVwlM6ltKpkHiNrwkEsx4KZ8OzozLa91z-HkvEbY/w480-h640/Mount%20Pleasant%20Crowe.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p></p>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-62105326706341231152023-10-26T11:07:00.003-07:002023-10-26T11:09:50.656-07:00I am NOT dead! Thank God, I was never in better health; John Ternouth (1796-1848) Kensal Green Cemetery<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6XxWhfzFu0IIjYGTX7Z82X0PzWLDMc6ltKlwm2yAcGHhFBJZD4d8y28CcWRW57tTMhLLZBNsOJxbV6AQe-xyA5yjPOmgwibN8QBdPt7jxiFXUfd8jDNezE208mvrpawjVJPHZoCN0o5ihTEJmv7LdR346RnzS53PLcb3S2E4D5LduQ2jRsTUkNTeY5RU/s4032/John%20Ternouth%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6XxWhfzFu0IIjYGTX7Z82X0PzWLDMc6ltKlwm2yAcGHhFBJZD4d8y28CcWRW57tTMhLLZBNsOJxbV6AQe-xyA5yjPOmgwibN8QBdPt7jxiFXUfd8jDNezE208mvrpawjVJPHZoCN0o5ihTEJmv7LdR346RnzS53PLcb3S2E4D5LduQ2jRsTUkNTeY5RU/w640-h480/John%20Ternouth%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sculptor John Ternouth's grave in Kensal Green was probably sculpted by himself</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">One
can only wonder how sculptor John Ternouth came to hear the news about his own
death. Did he stumble unsuspectingly on the ghastly fact as he perused the
morning newspaper over his breakfast? Was he blithely unaware of his own demise
until grieving relatives and stunned friends began to call at the house to express
their shock and give their condolences to his wife? Was he out and about conducting
the normal business of his Saturday when his attention was drawn to an ashen
faced acquaintance, literally rooted to the spot and looking like he had seen a
ghost, stuttering the words “but John, I thought you were dead….”? Ternouth was
a sculptor who had been commissioned to produce one of the four bronzes that
stand on the plinth of Nelson’s column. Although it was reported widely, and in
identical words, it seems likely that the original story was printed in The
Daily News on Saturday 24 October 1846; <o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Nelson
Column in Trafalgar-square.—By the death of Mr. J. Ternouth, the sculptor,
another delay has occurred in the completion of this long-deferred debt of
gratitude to the great hero Trafalgar. Mr. Ternouth, our readers will remember,
was one of the four artists entrusted with the modelling of the bronze
bas-reliefs for the base of the column. He had made his design, and sent it in
to the Woods and Forests for approval, before the retirement of Lord Lincoln
from the head of that department; and nothing has been done, we are assured, to
further the completion of the monument since Lord Morpeth's appointment, and
this not from any dislike or disinclination the part of his Lordship, but
simply from the circumstance that his time has been fully employed on matters
of greater and more immediate moment. The designs for the four great battles,
St. Vincent, the Nile, Copenhagen, and Trafalgar, are yet without official
sanction; but this delay, we trust, is only temporary. A new artist should be
nominated at once succeed Mr. Ternouth, or to complete his design, if fit for
its purpose, and sufficiently advanced to be available. Mr. Ternouth had worked
in the studio of Sir Francis Chantrey, was a gentleman of modest and affable
manners, and of some talent in his art.</span></i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZsfAmsMYp6fzZW3bMn44G7DOCTnjaWYQAj6Fns_t4rN_dQjgfJ6n0fW559or6uC54YW-NLpzudzcO_tn0jwZmnwllmZDChLWkpztA_5bXImqE0G0JMMUkslqcAZgDzYdBoG3OSexDH1qircvUESsBD0A1pecQrp-Xs2sNgohITq3zjVrSHWabM4tZyEQ/s2160/Ternouth%20relief%20for%20Nelson's%20column.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="2153" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZsfAmsMYp6fzZW3bMn44G7DOCTnjaWYQAj6Fns_t4rN_dQjgfJ6n0fW559or6uC54YW-NLpzudzcO_tn0jwZmnwllmZDChLWkpztA_5bXImqE0G0JMMUkslqcAZgDzYdBoG3OSexDH1qircvUESsBD0A1pecQrp-Xs2sNgohITq3zjVrSHWabM4tZyEQ/w638-h640/Ternouth%20relief%20for%20Nelson's%20column.jpg" width="638" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ternouth's design for the fourth plaque on Nelson's Column</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Several
other London newspapers took up the story including the Morning Post, The Express,
The Globe, The Sun and Lloyd’s Weekly Advertiser. By the following Tuesday retractions
of the story were starting to appear in the press, beginning where it had
started, with the Daily News;<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Fine
Arts. The Nelson Column and Mr. Ternouth.— In our paper of Saturday it was
stated that another delay had occurred in the completion of the column, in
consequence of the death of Mr. Ternouth. We have great satisfaction in
contradicting this piece of misinformation on the very best authority. Last evening,
we had the pleasure of a visit from Mr. Ternouth, who was, to all appearance,
in the best possible health, and certainly—considering the peculiar
circumstances of his visit—in best humour.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Mr
Ternouth also called upon several other newspapers, including the Morning Post,
handing in a letter which they also printed on Tuesday 27 October; <i>Sir, —I
am sure I need not to apologise for requesting you to insert in your paper of
to-morrow morning a direct contradiction to the paragraph in this day’s paper,
headed “Nelson Column," stating that l am dead thank God, I never was in
better health. I am, Sir, your obedient servant, JOHN TERNOUTH. 9, Lower
Belgrave-place, Pimlico. </i>The editor added that he could “vouch, judging
from appearances, that he is, happily, in the enjoyment of most excellent
health” and was excusing the error on the grounds that the offending news item
had been copied from another paper! By
the following week, apparently forgetting that his paper had also misreported Ternouth’s
premature demise, the editor was twitting the <i>Builder</i>, which in that week’s
issue “speaks of ‘the death’ of Mr. Ternouth.” Proudly adding, as though it was
the fruit of some serious piece of investigative journalism rather than a
correction letter received from the aggrieved party, that his own paper “of the
27th instant gave proof under Mr. T.’s own hand (In refutation of the rumour)
that “he never was in better health in his life.” The rumour of Mr Ternouth’s
death seemed not to be going away, the minute the lie was given in one quarter, it
rose again hydra like, in two others.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbI4vURqK5oG8hauMQww0mPK4WNodvS5NdFSx9mjVgFcmIglST7-amxG0sftC731qSSX-0hxzeGsvm8XVygHjLQgWCI5CpkFT0oPB0XLJx7pgZxJtLuLBUISP7wYkpmBOHCUg47NS8R5_dRFCN0PIBV6K64ZXoG6I87-iXb5hcsuObME6vOCYxoZfG0Sk/s1200/Ternouth%20chapter%20houise%20museum%20dunkeld.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1200" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbI4vURqK5oG8hauMQww0mPK4WNodvS5NdFSx9mjVgFcmIglST7-amxG0sftC731qSSX-0hxzeGsvm8XVygHjLQgWCI5CpkFT0oPB0XLJx7pgZxJtLuLBUISP7wYkpmBOHCUg47NS8R5_dRFCN0PIBV6K64ZXoG6I87-iXb5hcsuObME6vOCYxoZfG0Sk/w640-h428/Ternouth%20chapter%20houise%20museum%20dunkeld.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">On
the 7th November Mr Ternouth wrote to the most august publication of them all,
The Times, complaining that a “report of my death having been most
industriously circulated by several of the London daily newspapers.” Would the
Times “permit me to contradict the same through your valuable columns and
refute the account, which has been circulated to the alarm of my friends,
coupled with a feigned regret that the occurrence might tend to retard the
completion of the Nelson monument.” A week later the Athenaeum was treating the
whole affair as a joke “the long slumber which has fallen on all the
proceedings connected with the Nelson Column is lending, not unnaturally, to
rumours of the deaths of parties concerned in the works. Mr. Ternouth;, the
sculptor, has written to say that he is not dead; and we give him the benefit
of his assertion-but yet, we are of the opinion that the inference of his death
was a fair one,” they commented caustically. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Like
stopped clocks, which continue to register the correct time at least once,
sometimes twice, a day, and unlike most other misreported facts, premature reports
of a subject’s death inevitably come true. Mr. Ternouth lived barely two years longer. In
December 1848 he caught Typhus and finally died. This time the newspapers did
not bother to report his death. His last great work, his Nelson at the battle
of Copenhagen was finally fixed in place on Nelson’s column on 26<sup>th</sup>
November 1850 by which point the proud artist had been buried in Kensal Green
for over two years. </span></p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikuwWbdASaj4hNrVyuS8uj_rG9WCp4SbZp-qcxYFpD7OciOFnHnz4QlanLpuf4OGqoIo5mgNpQYkrWJJpWg6X6PiC4MG0s12xXT32TY4PGQt4Ieyb581HBz3A6C5T42ZzgUGMETRiN2uEio79BYB8G06WrUlJZ-kG9AaNp1S2KECRAJAPvD81HnkxIQEM/s1024/Newcastle%20united%20fans%201974%20ternouth%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1012" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikuwWbdASaj4hNrVyuS8uj_rG9WCp4SbZp-qcxYFpD7OciOFnHnz4QlanLpuf4OGqoIo5mgNpQYkrWJJpWg6X6PiC4MG0s12xXT32TY4PGQt4Ieyb581HBz3A6C5T42ZzgUGMETRiN2uEio79BYB8G06WrUlJZ-kG9AaNp1S2KECRAJAPvD81HnkxIQEM/w632-h640/Newcastle%20united%20fans%201974%20ternouth%20(1).jpg" width="632" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Newcastle fans turn their back on Ternouth's Nelson as they pose for the camera's just before losing the FA cup final to Liverpool, 3-0. in 1974</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-70808109988981676572023-10-20T08:45:00.003-07:002024-02-16T06:49:39.166-08:00Père Lachaise without the visitors; Zadie Smith on Kensal Green Cemetery and the search for Eliza Touchet<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghv4VPc52Y8Sr-PTfhxhGdL_2bNGWg_UMaa0CqRwIRRVnCy9ggaEdyGa9Cp5eqvE3fmXmRmZjkCv3DdnUiRB5wrODYTnBLoY3wsl6QCSt0V86lWhNO-7SooAtW-9EVpIR2KwO70IcXurXMF8kVsbnz20TLpleyaYKvrWNUjgGjn507YCQO24jAR-ZK9HQ/s3848/The%20Fraud%20Zadie%20Smith.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2886" data-original-width="3848" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghv4VPc52Y8Sr-PTfhxhGdL_2bNGWg_UMaa0CqRwIRRVnCy9ggaEdyGa9Cp5eqvE3fmXmRmZjkCv3DdnUiRB5wrODYTnBLoY3wsl6QCSt0V86lWhNO-7SooAtW-9EVpIR2KwO70IcXurXMF8kVsbnz20TLpleyaYKvrWNUjgGjn507YCQO24jAR-ZK9HQ/w640-h480/The%20Fraud%20Zadie%20Smith.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">With
nothing to do and nowhere to go, I took my regulation walk through the streets
like my fellow-Britons, but with the small difference that my eyes always
remained above shop level: trained upward to the eaves and the cornices and the
chimneys. Toward the nineteenth century, in other words, which is everywhere in
North West London, once you start looking. I began haunting the local
graveyards. I found William Ainsworth’s grave and Eliza Touchet’s grave, and
could point on a map to the unmarked pauper’s grave of the Tichborne Claimant,
as well as the corner of King’s Cross where Bogle breathed his last. It was
2020 outside but 1870 in my head.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Zadie Smith: On Killing Charles Dickens (The New Yorker, July 2023)</span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="text-align: left;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">In
a writer so tied imaginatively to the area of London she grew up in, and where
she still lives, it is inevitable that Kensal Green Cemetery finds its way into
Zadie Smith’s fiction. In ‘On Beauty’ the Belsey family attend Carlene Kipps’
funeral at the cemetery but daughter Zora is more interested in carrying out a
literary tour of the graves of dead writers (though she is under the misapprehension
that she will find Iris Murdoch here) than she is in the interment of a family
friend. Kensal Green <i>“is what La Cimetière du Père Lachaise would look like
if nobody knew it was there or went to visit it,”</i> Smith says. Her latest
book, ‘The Fraud’ features the cemetery even more heavily; based around the
Tichbourne Claimant case, of the four principal protagonists two are buried in
Kensal Green, the books narrator Eliza Touchet, and her cousin William Harrison
Ainsworth, the third, Andrew Bogle, is buried next door in St Marys Catholic
Cemetery and the fourth, Arthur Orten, the notorious Tichbourne Claimant
himself, is buried in an unmarked grave in Paddington Cemetery, a 15-minute
walk away. Other characters are, or were, buried here including W.M. Thackeray
and George Cruikshank. During the course of the novel Eliza, who was
housekeeper to her cousin and lived with him at the now demolished Kensal Lodge
on Harrow Road, takes a walk in the cemetery where she is eventually to be
buried herself, and reflects on some of the memorials to past acquaintances. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">I’m
spending the morning with Zadie Smith, and she’s taking me to a cemetery. It’s
Kensal Green Cemetery, to be exact, the largest one in London. (The interred
include Thackeray and a few minor royals which, Smith informs me, is the sign
of a “respectable” graveyard.) “Ready to get our legs stung?” she asks, as we
veer off the gravel path and plunge into thick undergrowth. I’m more concerned
about Smith, who is dressed in denim dungaree shorts, a black tank top –
“Walmart,” she says apologetically – and Palmaira sandals that look pretty
time-worn. Will the literary establishment forgive me if I let one of its finest
living novelists trip over an overgrown tombstone and sprain her ankle?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p style="text-align: center;">
</p><p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Zing Tseng in <i>Vogue</i> 23 August 2023<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm9VFMi9t0YDPB8nLnF7qQUXb9DH53EfB6DtrExuJCoUntNoDr1jVMVYJZWNiXRcmOmWTYH4Mm7zV6YQrQOkTMwJc5UMvSXgV2HeTxNvgYW7pGe_pQS79no4vpYAqcPLn8h5byElhvHkp4fH1SoMtG3sQJE25yFUo4N5DYYy4aPm-Tx5zTtuOS6NA2NJw/s1225/Eliza%20Touchet%201869%20burial%20register%20kensal%20green.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="261" data-original-width="1225" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm9VFMi9t0YDPB8nLnF7qQUXb9DH53EfB6DtrExuJCoUntNoDr1jVMVYJZWNiXRcmOmWTYH4Mm7zV6YQrQOkTMwJc5UMvSXgV2HeTxNvgYW7pGe_pQS79no4vpYAqcPLn8h5byElhvHkp4fH1SoMtG3sQJE25yFUo4N5DYYy4aPm-Tx5zTtuOS6NA2NJw/w640-h136/Eliza%20Touchet%201869%20burial%20register%20kensal%20green.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">The
Fraud</span></i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif"> is a fascinating
book and I was intrigued by Eliza Touchet, who was very real but is now completely
forgotten. Only a biography of Dickens as
extensive as Edgar Johnson’s finds space to mention her in passing when
discussing Dicken’s friendship with Harrison Ainsworth; “Ainsworth, who was
separated from his wife, had taken a pleasant dwelling named Kensal Lodge, on
the Harrow Road near the village of Willesden. Here the widow of a cousin, Mrs.
Eliza Touchet, a clever, sarcastic, fascinating talker, who was twelve years
Ainsworth's senior, acted as his hostess…” Although fantastically successful at
the time (his novel <i>‘Jack Shepherd’</i> outsold <i>‘Oliver Twist’</i>) Harrison
Ainsworth was a once famous author whose 39 novels are now all out of print and
whose reputation is that of a talentless hack. If Ainsworth was a better writer,
then Eliza Touchet could be as famous as say, Ellen Ternan. Smith rescues Eliza
from anonymity, building her whole fictional edifice around her. Closet
taphophile that she is, Smith first attempted to connect with Eliza by seeking
out her grave in Kensal Green, where her modest memorial lies just a hundred
yards or so away from Ainsworth. In an article written for the New Yorker in
July this year Smith says she found Eliza’s grave but when she was interviewed
for Vogue by Zing Tseng in August she takes Tseng to Kensal Green where the
journalist says “we are valiantly attempting to find the graves of Eliza
Touchet and William Harrison Ainsworth.” They don’t find them it seems; close
to the end of the article, as an aside, Tsing says “we’ve given up on our
cemetery quest and retired to a nearby bench to recover from the heat.” In the
postscript to the novel itself Smith says;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Mrs
Touchet – a woman always partly phantasmagoric – extends herself far beyond her
earthly span here: in reality, she died before her cousin, on the 4th of
February 1869… She too is buried in All Souls. Kensal Green, although her grave
is entirely obscured by a huge, impassable, spiky thicket of bramble.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjohBJEud6k4eFe6NLpjOdTigHm8Biv8C0H3VKmhHKnUZGdMaXXwalkU1_OGjmi2MdJ_hZjgT4IpeKpfUfmfO7FOyqSWI8r0MrfgQ32aGc4ChZ97nRCX2xOoO-PAsAM8AElQEB9MYIMcAg76-5jgosWYxBNzhu54BQjG0WxsuW8UrvneDHIGR0mzLfMmsM/s1714/156_square_KGC%20%20Touchet.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="914" data-original-width="1714" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjohBJEud6k4eFe6NLpjOdTigHm8Biv8C0H3VKmhHKnUZGdMaXXwalkU1_OGjmi2MdJ_hZjgT4IpeKpfUfmfO7FOyqSWI8r0MrfgQ32aGc4ChZ97nRCX2xOoO-PAsAM8AElQEB9MYIMcAg76-5jgosWYxBNzhu54BQjG0WxsuW8UrvneDHIGR0mzLfMmsM/w640-h342/156_square_KGC%20%20Touchet.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The plan for Square 156 showing the position of Eliza's grave</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Enthused
by the book I was keen to find Eliza Touchet’s grave. The General Cemetery Company’s
records say she is buried in grave 10481. Henry Vivian Neal, once head guide at
the cemetery and author of several books on it, told me that she was in Square 156
and provided me with a detailed map of the burials to help me locate it. Whilst
he was out and about he even checked the plot for me “Went to the cemetery this
pm – the Eliza Touchet plot is marked by a substantial dog rose – so, Zadie
Smith was right - not much to see,” he told me. Would anyone mind if I pruned the
dog rose? I asked. Not at all he told me. And so I lugged a weighty pair of heavy
duty loppers to the cemetery, all the way from East London, determined to
rescue Eliza, like the prince in Sleeping Beauty hacking his way through the forest
of thorns to rescue the somnolent princess. Once I was in front of the dog rose
it was immediately obvious that there was no headstone hidden amongst the
tangle of thorns and whipcord branches. I was disappointed and rather
surprised. Would Ainsworth, a hugely successful novelist, have let is cousin be
buried without a memorial? Despite Eliza’s unflattering portrait in the book, I
just could not believe that he would be such a miserable bastard. I checked and
rechecked the site on the grave plan and eventually realised that Eliza’s grave
should be to the right of the dog rose. But that plot carried a memorial for a married
couple called Salmon. On the plan Eliza
is to the right of the Salmon’s, not the left – was the plan wrong. I puzzled
over this for some time, walking around the grave, checking and rechecking the names
on adjacent graves. Eventually the penny dropped; if I pulled away the grass at
the side of the Salmon memorial, there was another grave beneath, a ledger
stone. Someone has put the Salmon's kerbed headstone on top of Eliza’s grave,
completely hiding it. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkx2vMNPEGG0wQsHYg7vKAiZXjI1ZQmZjxa8AtW7Wa-hHo7kqCx4QcIQ7jNS5y0ORAxGdRrhiuQgrMGux_xVQDgAmcraabs37ka0au-7deJvWTM1YrAwkH-3-LhCIvkx61CEmm4Io4tYtNUKua8i-JKF3bQad-l2D5rHsjRmCBDUsIs5DXZhtDF84oIJY/s4032/Eliza%20Touchet%20-%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkx2vMNPEGG0wQsHYg7vKAiZXjI1ZQmZjxa8AtW7Wa-hHo7kqCx4QcIQ7jNS5y0ORAxGdRrhiuQgrMGux_xVQDgAmcraabs37ka0au-7deJvWTM1YrAwkH-3-LhCIvkx61CEmm4Io4tYtNUKua8i-JKF3bQad-l2D5rHsjRmCBDUsIs5DXZhtDF84oIJY/w640-h480/Eliza%20Touchet%20-%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eliza's grave covered by the salmon's headstone and kerb, Eliza's ledger stone just visible at the bottom</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">The
Salmon headstone was inscribed to Albert Charles Salmon ‘who passed away 27th Dec
1939 aged 48 years’ and ‘In loving memory’ of his wife Florence May Salmon ‘who
passed away 28th July 1988, aged 92’. To allow Florence to rejoin the husband
from whom she had been separated for almost 50 years cemetery staff would have
had to lift the kerb and headstone from the grave so that they could dig a new shaft
down to just above Albert’s coffin. The
memorial would have been winched out of the way; handily Eliza’s grave had a
flat ledger stone and as she had been buried a hundred years earlier there were
unlikely to be relatives to object to the cemetery workers putting the Salmon’s
memorial on top of it. No doubt after Florence’s funeral the intention would
have been to put the headstone and kerb back onto the Salmon’s grave. But for reasons
unknown, perhaps they just forgot, it never happened and for the last 35 years
the Salmon’s have been smothering Eliza while their own grave was being
colonised by the dog rose. Poor Eliza, doubly forgotten in death, even her
grave obscured. Cousin William’s much
grander memorial, a little further down the path, is unlikely to find itself so
easily eclipsed. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibetBglYJcXrF3FHO_Uw10LuSVDzjQrG-6mHZq664QQxzWdRKw44PMod02GfUJrzuyPRZxcmPxrAbfxfBxsmbwb5IK9rzTDNe_kFb0m_yexLlq0LiVi02KzBLljgWc68c5KSieqkn2xpL55UYg9CSVP2VH93hV9iChDeEy58pKn7aMreaesxNCNtHdw_o/s4032/Harrison%20Ainsworth%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibetBglYJcXrF3FHO_Uw10LuSVDzjQrG-6mHZq664QQxzWdRKw44PMod02GfUJrzuyPRZxcmPxrAbfxfBxsmbwb5IK9rzTDNe_kFb0m_yexLlq0LiVi02KzBLljgWc68c5KSieqkn2xpL55UYg9CSVP2VH93hV9iChDeEy58pKn7aMreaesxNCNtHdw_o/w640-h480/Harrison%20Ainsworth%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Eliza
takes a walk in the cemetery – her she is at the Soyer monument; <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">On
a melancholy whim, she turned back and retraced her steps, passing through the
gates of All Souls. The dead stay where they are, at least. More join them, but
that is the only change. She took a seat on the first bench that presented
itself, and, looking up, grimaced at the twenty-foot monument before her,
unchanged, except for a growth of ivy around its preposterous foot-long
dedication: TO HER. When she had lived beside this graveyard, and taken her
morning constitutionals here, she had liked to pretend that the her in question
was Frances. ….. they had known the lady, not well, but they had met her. Emma
Soyer the painting prodigy…. Later she
had married the head chef at the Reform club – he was the Soyer; before that
she was plain Emma Jones – and so, like Mrs Touchet, had found herself in
possession of a dubious French name… another one of Samuel Johnson’s dogs,
paintbrush in paw… </span></i></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE8RDHlje1F3tc3faO7eKCJ1p0S3IjGdT9tg_JlmVdI7C0FN3NjlS9GriuAL4iEULK9-ZobnhczSxtejBeLAwJCff_s0egnNhmJrrPC6KwsdkcFhT1sidiqHrV3cdwVt0rUWf-m5wwQSKPZ2JkTuwyy6BKXmjTpFsCBcO8kq8EuYXayhzJT-BCpVKd5JY/s4032/Emma%20Soyer%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE8RDHlje1F3tc3faO7eKCJ1p0S3IjGdT9tg_JlmVdI7C0FN3NjlS9GriuAL4iEULK9-ZobnhczSxtejBeLAwJCff_s0egnNhmJrrPC6KwsdkcFhT1sidiqHrV3cdwVt0rUWf-m5wwQSKPZ2JkTuwyy6BKXmjTpFsCBcO8kq8EuYXayhzJT-BCpVKd5JY/w640-h480/Emma%20Soyer%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">And
here, her thoughts on the headstone for Dicken’s sister-in-law Mary Hogarth;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">She
stood up and looked about for a sadder story than her own to cheer her. She did
not have to go very far. Only a few hundred yards to the left lay the tragic
Hogarth girl. Dead without issue. Dead without making art or books or any kind
of name for herself. Dead before womanhood had even come to claim her:<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><i>Mary Scott Hogarth<br /></i></span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Young beautiful and good<br /></i><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">God in His mercy numbered her among<br /></i><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">His angels at the early age of seventeen </i></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Only
Dickens, though Mrs Touchet sourly. Only he could imagine those first two
adjectives as having any possible relation to the third. Sentimentalist, And
never more so than on this subject of his dead sister-in-law. The heaving tears
he’d shed at this young woman’s graveside! The animal moan as they lowered the
coffin! An inconvenient, revealing grief, unnatural and unmanly. He’d cried
more than his wife.</span></i></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjETnVS0Zp0g0lSxzATlPEbWzKAjsMrCABHgysH-d2kGgasRS29RRJEGgxXQ7hZiPV_zobEuiLbwp0P7r4jI8csvZrHUNx8IEm08XOdR9AvTDVYH3-iRTSkV7m1bsg7GsqhB0kAQxt8t6K99215BA29fbmntc_HUnGiJRK1KPqsN7w5S2P3mGU2mnyr-sU/s3648/Hogarth%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjETnVS0Zp0g0lSxzATlPEbWzKAjsMrCABHgysH-d2kGgasRS29RRJEGgxXQ7hZiPV_zobEuiLbwp0P7r4jI8csvZrHUNx8IEm08XOdR9AvTDVYH3-iRTSkV7m1bsg7GsqhB0kAQxt8t6K99215BA29fbmntc_HUnGiJRK1KPqsN7w5S2P3mGU2mnyr-sU/w640-h480/Hogarth%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">“Thackeray!
That pig-nosed moralist!” Eliza rants. When she isn’t reminding us of his porcine
snout, she calls him “the worm Thackeray.”
His offense? The sentence “It seems to us that Mr Cruikshank’s illustrations
really created the tale, and that Mr Ainsworth, as it were, only put words to
it.” Thackeray published ‘An Essay on the Genius of George Cruikshank’ in the
Westminster Review in 1840. As well as the one sentence Eliza takes objection
to, Thackeray spent 5 pages extolling Cruickshank at Ainsworth’s expense. </span></p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyr2uWtozxboPcOACvSGUCDFyFs9hq_dbO_FohyyFoPJ9Fr_obe1Fziamv85e3o9LHO6w0ZBD1HQbycQByDd_coCFsCtlsHsLkF3fs5YhzXVGHc-WKNLhoZOKqZEHyyY0fxKHwz9cJ68i8fS2EicbxA0-xLgux06pnhrF2ngtkW_ULVNH44ycUjM_zY5g/s4032/Thackeray%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyr2uWtozxboPcOACvSGUCDFyFs9hq_dbO_FohyyFoPJ9Fr_obe1Fziamv85e3o9LHO6w0ZBD1HQbycQByDd_coCFsCtlsHsLkF3fs5YhzXVGHc-WKNLhoZOKqZEHyyY0fxKHwz9cJ68i8fS2EicbxA0-xLgux06pnhrF2ngtkW_ULVNH44ycUjM_zY5g/w640-h480/Thackeray%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thackeray's monogram on his grave</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">The
rift between George Cruikshank and Ainsworth was even deeper than that between
him and Thackeray. Cruickshank came to genuinely believe that he was not only
suggested the plots of Ainsworth’s most successful works but that the reason
for the success in the first place was his own illustrations. In 1872 Cruikshank
published a pamphlet entitled ‘The Artist and the Author’ in which he claimed
to be the true author of not only work by Ainsworth but also by Dickens! Eliza
also dislikes Cruickshank for being one of the men who regard her as one of
Samuel Johnson’s dogs; “the antipathy was mutual,” she admits. She tells
Ainsworth’s daughters that “he drinks too much, and for another, he has a
jaundiced view of the world. You should pray for him.” Cruikshank’s memorial in the cemetery declares
that he was ‘for 30 years a total abstainer and ardent pioneer and champion by
pencil, word and pen of TOTAL abstinence from INTOXICATING DRINKS.’ But to
Eliza “Cruikshank was always a terrible drunk”.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3yX1PJ86Q479eCDe9zQCt4IDpyDQRq3S0IZVkZrTVKl8TFw7Y4mLCt4EzOCgo75cK-a6PHrvO0etMNckLyTpio8oA9GuO5JbeCXhQCbdecI7hHsyf020dhrI5KuO9mSFv71FjpEgMf2jsYpGkRI__YeTfm8vbRZ2xFEoQEJth_ymAeHk1VKSumAEW9E/s4032/Cruikshank%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3yX1PJ86Q479eCDe9zQCt4IDpyDQRq3S0IZVkZrTVKl8TFw7Y4mLCt4EzOCgo75cK-a6PHrvO0etMNckLyTpio8oA9GuO5JbeCXhQCbdecI7hHsyf020dhrI5KuO9mSFv71FjpEgMf2jsYpGkRI__YeTfm8vbRZ2xFEoQEJth_ymAeHk1VKSumAEW9E/w640-h480/Cruikshank%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-10623593439081170792023-10-11T05:52:00.000-07:002023-10-11T05:52:14.424-07:00The Mysterious Thea Canonero Altieri (1910-2006) Kensal Green Cemetery<p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchEEub90AWVWKZ3sfmmT1C-XY9OG8Iul8G-WuGcb4LTuSthXgb6tAZ_9X3Ds51PWMKyhAbWhpmvGwDT2GaqpUx-chhrE8tI1p7HqNdBvbbP-jfBxcqNr-WYfFw4zg5kA1eEuN07SuHA1IhGoTyTcF6w1-WXg6JRT7pCowqD1bkiytAvZ_Gzl7MdiGSpo/s4032/Altieri%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchEEub90AWVWKZ3sfmmT1C-XY9OG8Iul8G-WuGcb4LTuSthXgb6tAZ_9X3Ds51PWMKyhAbWhpmvGwDT2GaqpUx-chhrE8tI1p7HqNdBvbbP-jfBxcqNr-WYfFw4zg5kA1eEuN07SuHA1IhGoTyTcF6w1-WXg6JRT7pCowqD1bkiytAvZ_Gzl7MdiGSpo/w640-h480/Altieri%20Kensal%20Green.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">What
do we know about Thea Canonero Altieri? Not very much. We have her dates of
birth (21.06.1910) and death (29.10.2006) and so know that she was 96 when she
died. We know her death was registered in Camden. We know she is buried in
Kensal Green Cemetery and that she has an unusual memorial with the Italian epitaph,
‘Al di la delle stelle ci sei tu.’ We
know the epitaph is almost certainly a quote from the song “Al di la”, Italy’s
1961 Eurovision song contest entry sung by Betty Curtis. Betty’s real name was
Roberta Corti and she died in June 2006. Perhaps Italian radio stations played
her back catalogue in homage to the dead singer and evoked someone’s dim memory
of an old, obscure Eurovision entry? We are probably safe deducing that Thea
was Italian and that she was a nonna and that is probably everything we can
know with any certainty. Perhaps she
only came to England late in life, to be cared for by her family? Apart from
her death I couldn’t find any record of her. Altieri is a reasonably rare
surname in London but attempts to trace any possible relatives in North or West
London also drew blanks. I found a 1992 article in the now defunct ‘Bedfordshire
on Sunday’ free newspaper about a Fiat/Lancia garage in Bedford called Auto
Valley Services run by a pair of brothers called Giovanni and Pasquale Toriello
and their partner Tony Altieri. The figure on the grave is generally supposed to
be based on the Spirit of Ecstasy, the bonnet mascot of the Rolls-Royce. Tony
was in the motor trade, has the same surname… it is all a bit tenuous. I am not alone in my failure to discover anything
about Thea; Sheldon from the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g-ux7KF8gTg" target="_blank">Cemetery Club</a> couldn’t come up with anything
concrete either.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCcFp5qDpfCyG8AQWBP4GO24y6iS-NiNgF_NFkTs5mfbNS0vcAfQhu-3ssm_BAjcpXScxdKXZVB5a5tkCRw9EJ-bFHHypDjAsIqhCBqQ9eEkK8SKdhiZ5wcDcgF8pCNNmcXGu_M9eK8OZUja_vrwvcCWqlejL628HHPu_5d-zHTAXplAigHYv-FpzGshc/s4032/Altieri%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCcFp5qDpfCyG8AQWBP4GO24y6iS-NiNgF_NFkTs5mfbNS0vcAfQhu-3ssm_BAjcpXScxdKXZVB5a5tkCRw9EJ-bFHHypDjAsIqhCBqQ9eEkK8SKdhiZ5wcDcgF8pCNNmcXGu_M9eK8OZUja_vrwvcCWqlejL628HHPu_5d-zHTAXplAigHYv-FpzGshc/w480-h640/Altieri%202.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">This
isn’t the only spectacular modern grave in London where we know nothing about
the occupant. One of my favourite graves is the <a href="https://thelondondead.blogspot.com/2016/01/goodbye-sinjura-vassallo-hello-signora.html" target="_blank">Vassallo memorial</a> in the East
London Cemetery in Plaistow. We know very little about the occupant except her
name, Angelina Celestina Vassallo, her date of death, the 1st March 1981 and
the fact that she was 65 when she died – all information gleaned from the inscription
on the grave. That is a huge amount of
information compared to what we know about the occupant of the <a href="https://thelondondead.blogspot.com/2019/10/amos-city-of-london-cemetery.html" target="_blank">Amos grave</a> in
the City of London cemetery in Manor Park. We have the single name Amos, with
no indication if it is a surname or a first name, and that is it. The grave is
rather fine with a sculptured lurcher and side panels featuring a hare and a
jaunting car and the large headstone a cockerel. There is also an unusual
amount of poetry on the reverse of the headstone but no solid information about
the deceased, just a series of enigmatic clues. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm6LlgKiFdI_2BLJtWNoll3ZJqP5r2OEs5WXd2pI2BDu_ekz_b0tPhmobnLdlhyF8kmfbSPkNXsufrvMhe6u_b_ukeNO1CwJo32w9g1Ymok5-qBN-Udfr5-Rq5YMzXx2Vw6vpbvFCcR09e1B4eXV0rmA07p3Ha5pNztLHm4OqI2fJOGneSXPSQYDID934/s4032/Altieri%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm6LlgKiFdI_2BLJtWNoll3ZJqP5r2OEs5WXd2pI2BDu_ekz_b0tPhmobnLdlhyF8kmfbSPkNXsufrvMhe6u_b_ukeNO1CwJo32w9g1Ymok5-qBN-Udfr5-Rq5YMzXx2Vw6vpbvFCcR09e1B4eXV0rmA07p3Ha5pNztLHm4OqI2fJOGneSXPSQYDID934/w640-h480/Altieri%203.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcmTutIaf00USZ-7mQwSCmzOW0n_FHHK5XruwfkcCmlRC0Udw4jldt6sakKuGSolMyU53F4u5MnSMrUY4ykHoAxCULGwp7udGUhu39v4dDz0JvWxBGxzmmM6ZF_z6dS14FeJNagbHKW-9gpSYClgKjrym1Fb25Npmtl0LiqhALtVaynSdpL_0dgu0-BY/s2423/Vassallo%20Memorial,%20East%20London%20Cemetery,%20Plaistow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1818" data-original-width="2423" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcmTutIaf00USZ-7mQwSCmzOW0n_FHHK5XruwfkcCmlRC0Udw4jldt6sakKuGSolMyU53F4u5MnSMrUY4ykHoAxCULGwp7udGUhu39v4dDz0JvWxBGxzmmM6ZF_z6dS14FeJNagbHKW-9gpSYClgKjrym1Fb25Npmtl0LiqhALtVaynSdpL_0dgu0-BY/w640-h480/Vassallo%20Memorial,%20East%20London%20Cemetery,%20Plaistow.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The memorial of Angelina Celestina Vassallo in The East London Cemetery in Plaistow</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3YLDQ6pDlq0gHBusPuXsbxXxJoGuHhbEhFGd508omVelcWi0p70I-soFmH3xk50IpxV_a232MAQyYgdMWiglfdgErTfqu8FgxFE3uJtFjsVmHuyQnMMtjn2PR1_YzAvOrgDO4kmKvyGGILOHZGBuIMD27vtcbAmkqHxzuksx1bvRofvr2BwsVBk7A4-8/s1600/Amos%20City%20of%20London.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1170" data-original-width="1600" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3YLDQ6pDlq0gHBusPuXsbxXxJoGuHhbEhFGd508omVelcWi0p70I-soFmH3xk50IpxV_a232MAQyYgdMWiglfdgErTfqu8FgxFE3uJtFjsVmHuyQnMMtjn2PR1_YzAvOrgDO4kmKvyGGILOHZGBuIMD27vtcbAmkqHxzuksx1bvRofvr2BwsVBk7A4-8/w640-h468/Amos%20City%20of%20London.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Amos grave in the City of London Cemetery in Manor Park</td></tr></tbody></table><br />David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-44700135628770928152023-10-05T04:09:00.000-07:002023-10-05T04:09:13.953-07:00The famous cemetery gates; Lavender Hill Cemetery, Enfield<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJLBumVM_VHt7yZFYym3PH_GkHYA-OkCKvNMOGXo6rn5HtObVJaNRnlFDhsPoK8Vn51ybTP79oaCsDfTPVIK_YPShYo7qBQvli2UEAwPqMUgFyzbuzcIH78aJXPA9vVR0jzauSnHbDBjJvjohOCRj6kOwiK6e_SXjiG-EaRo6495drJBxc1fMGaeIEws/s3520/Lavender%20Hill%20Painter%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2640" data-original-width="3520" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJLBumVM_VHt7yZFYym3PH_GkHYA-OkCKvNMOGXo6rn5HtObVJaNRnlFDhsPoK8Vn51ybTP79oaCsDfTPVIK_YPShYo7qBQvli2UEAwPqMUgFyzbuzcIH78aJXPA9vVR0jzauSnHbDBjJvjohOCRj6kOwiK6e_SXjiG-EaRo6495drJBxc1fMGaeIEws/w640-h480/Lavender%20Hill%20Painter%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Anyone
alive and watching TV in the early 1970’s witnessed Lavender Hill Cemetery’s brief
moment in the national spotlight when it featured in all but one of the 74
episodes of the ITV comedy ‘On the Buses’, as the Cemetery Gates that were the terminus
of Stan and Jack’s number 11 bus route. <a href="https://diamondgeezer.blogspot.com/2021/06/cemetery-gates.html" target="_blank">DiamondGeezer</a>, though clearly not a fan of the comedy classic, paid a visit just to
see the gates in 2021. His account is worth a read. Members of the ‘On the
Buses’ fan club also make pilgrimages to the location. I literally haven’t seen
the programme since it came off air 50 years ago in 1973; as a prepubescent I loved
it but I strongly suspect that now, even through the soft focus of nostalgia, I
would find it unwatchable. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Meller
and Parsons in <i>London Cemeteries</i> say “this is a well-maintained cemetery
on an undulating site, The planting is now mature and sombre coniferous trees
surround the entrance.” They single out a hand full of memorials as being of
some interest, failing to mention the one spectacular monument in the cemetery,
and can’t find a single notable to list as being buried here. The cemetery clearly
failed to inspire them. Their down beat assessment is a little unfair; it is
one of the many minor cemeteries in London but there is much of interest to see
here and the setting is pretty. The
Enfield Burial Board was formed in 1870 in response to the usual crisis of capacity
for burials in the local churchyard, St Andrew’s. The newly formed board
acquired land at the top of Lavender Hill, appointed Thomas J. Hill to build the
two gothic chapels (one CoE, the other for non-conformists) and opened the new
cemetery for business in 1872. Judging from the reports on the meetings of the
Burial Board in the Middlesex Gazette, things ran smoothly at the cemetery,
with only minor mishaps to enliven Board meetings. In 1901 ‘the Clerk reported
that some fencing at Lavender Hill Cemetery had been damaged by a horse and
cart belonging to Mr. Walker with whom arrangement been had made for the
necessary repair.’ In 1910 ‘it was
formally reported by the Clerk that about 14 feet of the metal forming part of
the lightning conductor on the Lavender Hill Chapel had been stolen one-night
last week. The Board directed that the damage should be made good forthwith.’ In 1908 the Gazette’s reporter stifled a yawn
and perked up when there was ‘an application for permission to inter the body
of a child with that of a grandparent in an adult space of a nonpurchase grave.
After discussion the Board declined to accede to the request, being opposed to
the using up of adult spaces for burial of children.’ But that was as exciting
as it got. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ9JN1gJf7wHHsxMtjSOrdEuiGlTSrKcIKc9knEfL6PyYVg53M2gBxAD3Je_3kvN_oDd-AItPNoqO4lGh57k_iZtq2JEDaaY4tSCs0bkRN4WjaOwtPmFS-2ySR_Z7_gnKEgWH0lpQFBQcr_R176fMQK_n_npmDKCgKv-GQGsbwfgH_hvqCmpneISmt8_A/s3648/Lavender%20Hill%20sunflowers%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ9JN1gJf7wHHsxMtjSOrdEuiGlTSrKcIKc9knEfL6PyYVg53M2gBxAD3Je_3kvN_oDd-AItPNoqO4lGh57k_iZtq2JEDaaY4tSCs0bkRN4WjaOwtPmFS-2ySR_Z7_gnKEgWH0lpQFBQcr_R176fMQK_n_npmDKCgKv-GQGsbwfgH_hvqCmpneISmt8_A/w640-h480/Lavender%20Hill%20sunflowers%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Although
they mention the Bosanquet chest tomb as being one of the better memorials
Meller and Parson’s neglect to mention that James Whatman Bosanquet (1804–1877)
was a well to do banker who had a sideline in biblical and Assyrian chronology
and wrote several books on the subject. Also buried here is Joy Gardner, the 40-year-old
Jamaican who suffered cardiac arrest at her home in Crouch End in July 1993
during an immigration raid by the Metropolitan Police. Gardner was restrained,
in front of her 5 year old son, with handcuffs and leather straps and, most notoriously,
13 feet of adhesive tape wrapped around her head. After suffering cardiac arrest and respiratory
failure she was taken to the Whittington Hospital where she died 4 days later.
Three police officers stood trial for manslaughter but were acquitted of the
charges. The case aroused huge controversy. Benjamin Zephaniah wrote a poem called
‘The death of Joy Gardner’;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">They
put a leather belt around her<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">13
feet of tape and bound her<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Handcuffs
to secure her<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">And
only God knows what else,<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">She’s
illegal, so deport her<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Said
the Empire that brought her<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">She
died,<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Nobody
killed her<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">And
she never killed herself.<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">It
is our job to make her<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Return
to Jamaica<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Said
the Alien Deporters<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Who
deports people like me,<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">It
was said she had a warning<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">That
the officers were calling<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">On
that deadly July morning<br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">As
her young son watched TV</span></div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8t3lnthvDaCm9Fg-R4rz3OPUgA-8ESjhbkVFAl0KGCiwFGspoiUj91PLk6_M7Fvqlaj3pTZuAaY6va5vYtyOuJrBieAvto7ltFXiGX0GG2ADseLn0OhyjJ-f-qFIfcRQ1i7k6CynilM_776hvys4_QATAo33DDaJQcA4qp6TG4DzYs99s9F0U_UgU0XA/s3648/Lavender%20Hill%20Goodall%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8t3lnthvDaCm9Fg-R4rz3OPUgA-8ESjhbkVFAl0KGCiwFGspoiUj91PLk6_M7Fvqlaj3pTZuAaY6va5vYtyOuJrBieAvto7ltFXiGX0GG2ADseLn0OhyjJ-f-qFIfcRQ1i7k6CynilM_776hvys4_QATAo33DDaJQcA4qp6TG4DzYs99s9F0U_UgU0XA/w640-h480/Lavender%20Hill%20Goodall%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">A
war graves headstone commemorates Royal Navy Cook Neil Goodall who died aboard
HMS Sheffield on the 4th May 1982 when he was just 21. HMS Sheffield was on her
way to the Falklands when she was holed by an Exocet missile fired by the Argentinian
Air Force. A serious fire broke out but
as the ship’s fire fighting systems had been damaged by the missile the captain
eventually gave the order to abandon ship. Sheffield was towed for several days
HMS Yarmouth but high seas and the hole in her hull eventually caused her to
sink. The bodies of the 20 crew members who were killed by the attack were
still on board and sank with the ship. The wreck is now a designated war grave.
</span><span style="text-align: center;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Another
memorial mentioned by Meller and Parson’s is ‘Heinreich Faulenbach’s grave
marked by a bronze plaque on a substantial granite vault.’ In 2007 the Edmonton
Hundred Historical Society published an occasional paper by Pat Keeble and
Robert Musgrove entitled ‘Who was Heinreich Faulenbach?; a case study in family
and local history research.’ Copies of
the paper are in the university libraries at UCL, Cornell and Stanford but not,
unfortunately on-line. I can’t find out anything about Heinrich (or Henry)
Faulenbach other than he may have been the owner of a trimming warehouse in the
City of London. So the question of who Heinreich (or Heinrich, or Henry) Faulenbach
was remains a mystery. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-EimdXIpxJO9Mrgh4GHIawOUHVsQ_DCVyDUpzWwh2TVCsLPGsUeAQIiHid9ARRiWsRjDsXh6KCIE-6Cym_QGhSGApwdv-kEDgI0QD6E89nsksHjkyc589_Y0f-viiBghQuZadBzMUvuWUVlED_ack5RgTetW-oOpP0Z_jncnrLpQq04r0YZhKbGJHl28/s3648/Lavender%20Hill%20Lucena%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-EimdXIpxJO9Mrgh4GHIawOUHVsQ_DCVyDUpzWwh2TVCsLPGsUeAQIiHid9ARRiWsRjDsXh6KCIE-6Cym_QGhSGApwdv-kEDgI0QD6E89nsksHjkyc589_Y0f-viiBghQuZadBzMUvuWUVlED_ack5RgTetW-oOpP0Z_jncnrLpQq04r0YZhKbGJHl28/w640-h480/Lavender%20Hill%20Lucena%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Lavender
Hill’s most impressive monument belongs to the Lucena family. It is not
mentioned at all by Meller and Parsons and seems to have been virtually unknown
until it featured in Richard Barnes book on sculpture in London cemeteries. Meller
and Paron’s missed it I suspect because it probably heavily overgrown for many
years. The oldest photos I can find of it date from 2015 and although undergrowth
has been cleared away the memorial itself still has Ivy suckers all over it. It
must have been some find the council workmen who cleared the site. The story of the Lucena family is fascinating,
particularly that of Anne Maria Lucena, the housemaid who married her employer,
became an extremely wealthy woman and was murdered by her son-in-law. I have
already dealt with the story at length <a href="https://thelondondead.blogspot.com/2016/11/how-to-rise-in-society-housemaids-tale.html" target="_blank">here</a>, so won’t go into now. I did however some across this account of
Anne Maria’s funeral in the Middlesex Gazette of Saturday 11 January 1908 under
the headline ‘The Hampshire Tragedy’ which I think is worth reprinting in full:
</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">FUNERAL AT LAVENDER HILL. The terrible New Year's
Eve tragedy at "Velmead," Fleet, Hampshire, when the late Major
Coates Phillips made such a furious attack on the house party, resulted in the
death of a lady who was at one time a well-known Enfield resident. Mrs. Lucena,
the mother-in-law of the assailant, had, since the divorce decree terminating
the marriage of her daughter, lived with Mrs. Phillips either at South
Kensington or at the latter’s house at Fleet, near Winchfield. Until after her husband’s
death in 1876, she resided in Enfield, and the family were amongst the first to
purchase the right of sepulture in Lavender Hill Cemetery. </span></i></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj54BlL7KelLCdMRgQHVb41UP5sh5I29X0DPdXL6fvKELfKy_soVwx1-kmZL7QfXJ1s18zD54xWGBlS6GNqYGha4LbvuaPcx6gsF25yjGX0aaOnDY12p9cLAtYPxho8NwzXRL1fQPeOvLqY9XXez5di7oesd7ELwrAjztE_Qgl7NCs7CPgzQ_ZU_DZbxKI/s3648/Lavender%20Hill%20horse%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj54BlL7KelLCdMRgQHVb41UP5sh5I29X0DPdXL6fvKELfKy_soVwx1-kmZL7QfXJ1s18zD54xWGBlS6GNqYGha4LbvuaPcx6gsF25yjGX0aaOnDY12p9cLAtYPxho8NwzXRL1fQPeOvLqY9XXez5di7oesd7ELwrAjztE_Qgl7NCs7CPgzQ_ZU_DZbxKI/s3648/Lavender%20Hill%20horse%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj54BlL7KelLCdMRgQHVb41UP5sh5I29X0DPdXL6fvKELfKy_soVwx1-kmZL7QfXJ1s18zD54xWGBlS6GNqYGha4LbvuaPcx6gsF25yjGX0aaOnDY12p9cLAtYPxho8NwzXRL1fQPeOvLqY9XXez5di7oesd7ELwrAjztE_Qgl7NCs7CPgzQ_ZU_DZbxKI/w640-h480/Lavender%20Hill%20horse%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></div><div><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">It was, therefore, decided, upon a fatal termination
of the revolver shot wound, that the remains should be interred here. On the
conclusion of the inquest., last Monday, the remains, enclosed in wood and lead
shells, with an outer massive casket of polished oak, were given into the care
of the undertaker, Mr. James Oakley, of Fleet and Farringdon street, and
removed to London. On Wednesday the body was conveyed in an open hearse to
Enfield, accompanied by Mr. Field, Mr. Oakley's City manager, the mourners—for
the most part nephews and nieces- being met at the G.N. station. The weather
was in accord with the sadness of the event. Rain descended copiously, and a
gusty westerly wind swept across the cemetery. This notwithstanding, there were
about 300 spectators to witness this closing phase of the tragedy. The Vicar of
Enfield, the Rev. R. Howel Brown, officiated in the Cemetery chapel and also at
the vault, which had been opened by Mr. C. Eaton, mason. Mr. W. J. Matthews,
Clerk to the Burial Board, attended; and several police were present to repress
any unseemly display, which, however, was altogether absent. On the contrary,
the hundreds of on-looker s were evidently animated by feelings of sympathy and
commiseration with the mourners, amongst whom were: Mr. T. H. Gardiner (of the
firm of Messrs. Jackaman, Gardiner and Smith), family solicitor; Mr. F. Radian,
Mr. Stephen Benn and Mrs. Benn of Ealing; Mr. C. Augustus Benn, of Eggars Hill,
Aldershot; Mr. E. Purser, Old Windsor; Mr. A. Purser, Slough; Mr. A. W. Perry,
and several lady relatives. Mr. and Mrs E. P. Morgan, of Windmill Hill, were
also present.</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Mrs. Phillips was physically unfit to undertake the
long journey, and the ordeal of the funeral; but she sent a very handsome
wreath. Floral tributes were also sent by "Bertha," the
grand-daughter, Lady and Mrs. Humphreys, the servants at " Velmead"
and Cheniston House, Kensington, Mr. Henry Smith (the solicitor who so narrowly
escaped being killed at the time of the attack), Miss Ouchterlony ("With
best love"), Mr. F. W. Behan, Mrs. W. Lang, Dr. Sunderland (of Cavendish
Place), Mr. C. Benn, Mrs. C. A. Breay, "Alfred and Ada," "Edmund
and Tot," Mrs. A. L. Martin, Mrs. J. A. Benn and family, Mrs. and the
Misses Ouchterlony, and the family solicitors. </span></i></p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_u9mFjuKZbQIFAby2N8qMjf4GFwtEuAsxXuO_YbxQXB6GDPW4epEsMxViGO0o_eseaK5G_W0VqnRrAXKG-uRKfipm4JpZezKWhOoFv-ZTcGncR5c3wM7yoYGgIJhReYK13fKV8uZxaxfFcElAO0SeCyqIyvoqkrRb7hdC5SZgdaWaO7aymTGgBUNAM8w/s3617/Lavender%20Hill%20faulenbach%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2712" data-original-width="3617" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_u9mFjuKZbQIFAby2N8qMjf4GFwtEuAsxXuO_YbxQXB6GDPW4epEsMxViGO0o_eseaK5G_W0VqnRrAXKG-uRKfipm4JpZezKWhOoFv-ZTcGncR5c3wM7yoYGgIJhReYK13fKV8uZxaxfFcElAO0SeCyqIyvoqkrRb7hdC5SZgdaWaO7aymTGgBUNAM8w/w640-h480/Lavender%20Hill%20faulenbach%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The monument of the mysterious Heinreich Faulenbach</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The silver breastplate bore upon it the simple
inscription: ANNE MARIA LUCENA, Died 4 Jan., 1908, Aged 65 Years. Although it is many years ago since the Lucena
family resided in Enfield —Mr. Lucena died in 1876—widespread interest was
aroused in the locality on the personality of the victim of this terrible
tragedy becoming known to local residents. Especially was this so in the case
of the older inhabitants of this district who have a vivid recollection of the
family when they resided at the house now known as West View, Windmill Hill;
and gossip and stories, almost forgotten, have been fully rehearsed here during
the past, week. In this connection we might cite one anecdote which is said to
be characteristic of Mr. Lucena, who was a solicitor by profession. Back in the
70s there were two very well-known men in commercial circles in the Town—the
Brothers Young. Fred. Young was a butcher, and his place of business was at the
Pent House, now occupied by Messrs. Stansfeld. The story goes that a dog
belonging to Mr. Lucena had carried off a leg of mutton from Mr. Young's
premises, and the tradesman hit upon what he conceived to be a shrewd way of
presenting the subject of compensation to the owner of the dog. "Sir," said he to the lawyer one
day, “f you were a butcher, and a dog came into your shop and stole a leg of
mutton, what would you do?" "Why, I should charge the owner of the
dog the value of it, of course," replied Mr. Lucena. Taking the hint, it
is said that Mr. Young lost no time in sending in a bill to his "legal
adviser" for the value of the joint, accompanied by an intimation that his
animal it was that had played the thief. But in lieu of the desired remittance
the tradesman received a very different reply —no other than an amount, thus:
"To advice on a point of law, 6s. 8d. value of mutton, 5s. 4d.; balance
due, 1s. 4d. Please remit at once." We are not aware if there was ever a
settlement. </span></i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-cE3rpAFgoK0hCWDAE20gMYsUrtyJxsAx0M1KCWfBAE_idFdUKqVyRJ8VeTodl47j96zo4lc2pnFtQ3acMvreZutdfxR0pI9o3q5CcXeF4BdIfnpJ8imrla3Tj-VxVefHgkQEzA8JCltCj-g-iXbJ5CHWCaKHO9dU-wNqRRKsPH_4hOg2QFPQzw3mFw4/s3648/Lavender%20Hill%20Bosanquet%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-cE3rpAFgoK0hCWDAE20gMYsUrtyJxsAx0M1KCWfBAE_idFdUKqVyRJ8VeTodl47j96zo4lc2pnFtQ3acMvreZutdfxR0pI9o3q5CcXeF4BdIfnpJ8imrla3Tj-VxVefHgkQEzA8JCltCj-g-iXbJ5CHWCaKHO9dU-wNqRRKsPH_4hOg2QFPQzw3mFw4/w640-h480/Lavender%20Hill%20Bosanquet%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bosanquet chest tomb with the Anglican chapel in the background</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The Lucena family grave in Lavender Hill Cemetery is
located easily by what is undoubtedly the most handsome monument within those
grounds. Mr. Lucena, dying at his house on Windmill Hill in 1876, was buried in
a very spacious vault, some 10 ft. in depth and 12 ft. wide, massively
constructed and enclosed by substantial ironwork. On a foundation of granite
there stands a marble base surmounted by figures said to represent the family
at the time of the father's decease. The central figure is that of a woman
seated, contemplating a book, while at her knees are the two children, a boy
arid a girl. The former holds a dog, which is a memorial of an animal greatly
petted by the family in their happier home life at Enfield. Flanking the group
is an angel figure on each side. with outspread wings, one grasping a cross,
the other an anchor; and above the seated adult figure they hold a wreath. The whole
of this statuary is of Italian marble, and it is said that the cost of the
memorial was from £2,900 to £3,000. A tragic incident occurred during its
erection here. One of the large atones used as a slab suddenly fell, while in
an upright position, and killed one of the workmen.</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">In the appended copy of the inscription carved on
the marble, the reader will not fail to be struck, in the light of the recent
tragedy, by the aptness of the Scriptural text. It will be noted, too, that the
son's remains have, for some years past, been deposited within the vault. The
inscription reads thus: “In Loving Memory of STEPHEN LANCASTER LUCENA, ESQ.,
Who died 13 June, 1876, In his 72nd Year. This monument is erected by his
widow. STEPHIN LANCASTER LUCENA, Son of the above, Who died 4th May, 1900, Aged
34 Years. ‘In the midst of life we are in death.’" Although Mrs. Lucena
had ceased to reside in Enfield, she retained considerable property in the
locality; and we understand that only a few weeks before the sad at Velmead she
was in the Town on business connected with her properties. On that occasion she
appeared in good health, and conversed pleasantly with some local residents.</span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOB3cRcu1GJmwZChsIUbnc_h2f74QDL4QKHQO4NXVhA1tB2bTh5wsFE41_1F5EkcoDdardBNNFbREYfdUIBmFerAsJYXbsPoqawye_F_SLlU37dF4hRl3g73HbT7It3ThYOvKrjCCXdcXoK4ItEb-FHS-6FsEdfzlKiSBKKmbNnHH-40ct4g4DghjZCmk/s3648/Lavender%20Hill%20angel%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOB3cRcu1GJmwZChsIUbnc_h2f74QDL4QKHQO4NXVhA1tB2bTh5wsFE41_1F5EkcoDdardBNNFbREYfdUIBmFerAsJYXbsPoqawye_F_SLlU37dF4hRl3g73HbT7It3ThYOvKrjCCXdcXoK4ItEb-FHS-6FsEdfzlKiSBKKmbNnHH-40ct4g4DghjZCmk/w640-h480/Lavender%20Hill%20angel%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-75093538790869413092023-09-28T07:03:00.005-07:002023-09-28T07:12:50.707-07:00A fine and private place; Edward Adolphus Seymour, 11th Duke of Somerset (1775-1855) Kensal Green Cemetery<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1inpuQnYs2SUZHs07i53z2Av7yrbI5FlPuBbVEUFenuoQ7QKnBoPlnO03S5Q0uTpUCFZ9YYUpx2TevtVfGJpfieenjqIJeLt-F1-vZ3TYFNH0LgbIUvLOVEC_4mPkUSMTva3w5smoUvuyo-QfAe_iK8ER0H2pTqkzuyc7pNbKUO_6SkK95vfJYpZLxy4/s3990/Somerset%20mausoleum.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2992" data-original-width="3990" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1inpuQnYs2SUZHs07i53z2Av7yrbI5FlPuBbVEUFenuoQ7QKnBoPlnO03S5Q0uTpUCFZ9YYUpx2TevtVfGJpfieenjqIJeLt-F1-vZ3TYFNH0LgbIUvLOVEC_4mPkUSMTva3w5smoUvuyo-QfAe_iK8ER0H2pTqkzuyc7pNbKUO_6SkK95vfJYpZLxy4/w640-h480/Somerset%20mausoleum.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><i>The grave's a fine and private place,<br /></i></span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">But none, I think, do there embrace</i></div>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Andrew Marvell – ‘To his coy mistress’ <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Andrew
Marvell was wrong; the graffiti on the interior rear wall of the now bricked up
mausoleum of the Duke of Somerset in Kensal Green quite definitely states that
someone, possibly with the initials LL, “fucked here July 2000”. A cold stone floor, in the blackened inhospitable
interior of a drafty mausoleum, doesn’t strike me as a fine place to embrace but
LL is clearly made of sterner stuff than I am. The late Duke and Duchess almost
certainly never imagined that they would be sharing their final resting place
with rutting teenagers. Luckily their coffins lie in a vault below the mausoleum,
safe from prying eyes and sacrilegious fingers. Most of the recent Duke of Somerset (by recent I mean since the late 17th century) are buried in the parish church
of Maiden Bradley in Wiltshire, close to the ancestral home. But Edward
Adolphus, the 11th Duke chose to build this relatively modest mausoleum in Kensal
Green Cemetery and to be buried away from his relatives. His descendants seem
unconcerned with the poor state of repair of their ancestors grave. The door
has long gone, the doorway bricked up, and the interior thoroughly vandalised. The far wall once carried two shield-shaped
marble slabs with the names and titles of the 11th Duke and his second wife surmounted
by a ducal coronet and family crest; one of the marble slabs is now completely
missing. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Edward
Adolphus Seymour was born on 24 February 1775 at Monckton Farley in Wiltshire; he
was the third son of the tenth duke but both of his elder brothers predeceased
him. He succeeded to the peerage on the death of his father in 1793. His mother
was Anna Maria Bonnell, daughter and heir of John Bonnell of Stanton-Harcourt in
Oxfordshire. His maternal grandfather had been a successful London merchant and
no doubt the marriage between the 10<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">th</span> Duke and the commoner had
brought a welcome injection of cash into the ducal family as well as freshening up
the stale genetic lineage. Certainly Edward Adolphus developed an intellectual bent that was hitherto
unknown in the Seymour family. He was educated at Eton and was created M.A. at
Oxford on 2 July 1794. According to Edward Irving Carlyle in the 1927 D.N.B. “from
an early age he devoted himself to science and mathematics, displaying genuine
aptitude for both studies. He was equally well versed in historical and
antiquarian knowledge.” He was a fellow of the Royal Society, the Society of
Antiquaries, the Linnean Society, and a member of the Royal Asiatic Society. He
was vice-president of the Zoological Society and president of the Royal
Institution, the Royal Literary Fund, and the Linnean Society. In 1820 he was
elected president of the Astronomical Society but resigned the position after
just a few days in post at the request of his friend Sir Joseph Banks who felt
that astronomical phenomenon should be in the sole remit of the Royal Society. He
was bearer of the orb at the coronation of William IV in 1831 and of Victoria
in 1838 and was made a knight of the Garter in 1837. He was the author of two
books on Mathematics, ‘The Elementary Properties of the Ellipse deduced from
the Properties of the Circle,’ (1842) and ‘Alternate Circles and their
Connexion with the Ellipse,’ (1850). <o:p></o:p></span></p></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUUJodtcrlCh-BVkPnRQvcEwwbSYR7D0Ou0P2xadbT8dt2cpCI5ssPwxzyRbBR7xu0bwsW45ggZ_d-TvedRkFCrV88_MDSj6F32rX4148D9hh9TIbHNYAS_D3uX-9AFa2e1a2wAr1VHT_6IwTVA_tSG0enPj2uxSZ3-LxHtRWE0tmoaCAVdshaCha3pUY/s4005/Somerset%20mausoleum%20interior.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3004" data-original-width="4005" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUUJodtcrlCh-BVkPnRQvcEwwbSYR7D0Ou0P2xadbT8dt2cpCI5ssPwxzyRbBR7xu0bwsW45ggZ_d-TvedRkFCrV88_MDSj6F32rX4148D9hh9TIbHNYAS_D3uX-9AFa2e1a2wAr1VHT_6IwTVA_tSG0enPj2uxSZ3-LxHtRWE0tmoaCAVdshaCha3pUY/w640-h480/Somerset%20mausoleum%20interior.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">According
to Fisher and Jenkins in <i>The History of Parliament</i> Edward Adolphus was “credited
with ‘great amiability of temper and gentleness of manners’, he was reputedly
henpecked by his Scottish wife, who carried domestic penny-pinching to ‘a very
extraordinary length’.” When he was 25 the Duke fell in love with Lady Susan
Hamilton, the daughter of the 9th Duke of Hamilton but Lady Susan’s rather
formidable older sister Lady Charlotte took a shine to the diffident Edward and
somehow coaxed him into proposing to her instead. Charlotte was three years
older than her husband and was perhaps, at the age of 28, starting to worry
that she had been left of the shelf. On their marriage in 1800 Charlotte brought
cartloads of heirlooms from the Hamilton estate (including several Rembrandts,
Rubens and Van Dycks, and much more), not always it seems with the agreement of
the family. Thomas Creevy called her “a false devil” who robbed her elder brother
of his birthright. She had a reputation of being mean, the artist Joseph
Farington records in his diary, her dinner table as being “nothing but a leg of
mutton at the top and a dish of potatoes at the bottom”. Charlotte died on 10th
June 1827, a fortnight before what would have been their 27th wedding
anniversary. Whatever tensions there
were in the marriage did not stop the couple producing children – they had
seven. Charlotte died just two weeks shy of what would have been their 27th
wedding anniversary in 1827. Edward did eventually marry again, but not until 1836
when he was 61 and his bride, Margaret Shaw-Stewart, was 30 years his junior. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">The
burial plot and the mausoleum were acquired and built before the death of the
Duke. It was sitting empty when the Duke offered it to the heirs of Lord Raglan,
the commander of the British army in the ill-fated Crimean War, in 1855 when
the general unexpectedly died of dysentery at Sevastopol. On 21 July 1855 the
Longford Journal was confidently reporting; <o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">THE
LATE LORD RAGLAN. Arrangements have been made for the reception of the late
Lord Raglan, whose remains are expected to arrive in this country about the
24th instant, from the Crimea. They will be sent from Southampton on a special
train of the South Western Railway, to his residence, No 5. Great
Stanhope-street, London, and will be finally deposited in the mausoleum of his
Grace the Duke of Somerset, All Souls’ Cemetery, Kensal-green, Harrow-road. The
funeral will be as private as circumstances will permit.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjcL6Ol8nZrXi_zIjkAJBvrrIiuXDDeDJqFw3wjluS42VfSrbJ6CR9PhJf_uE0LD2ULnRyIQ5q7pyGr88V2IshgMuaw39oWt37VMLeWzKyvqfgezXrfT_oOz3aWP03P9gIYR5F3KPSfF4mywTIw8AKrYNExfWm_ZXVNwexW0tkusbt7ur5rDCHaQKOi2Y/s646/Edward%20adolphus%2011th%20Duke%20of%20Somerset%20by%20James%20Lonsdale.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="646" data-original-width="531" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjcL6Ol8nZrXi_zIjkAJBvrrIiuXDDeDJqFw3wjluS42VfSrbJ6CR9PhJf_uE0LD2ULnRyIQ5q7pyGr88V2IshgMuaw39oWt37VMLeWzKyvqfgezXrfT_oOz3aWP03P9gIYR5F3KPSfF4mywTIw8AKrYNExfWm_ZXVNwexW0tkusbt7ur5rDCHaQKOi2Y/w526-h640/Edward%20adolphus%2011th%20Duke%20of%20Somerset%20by%20James%20Lonsdale.jpg" width="526" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Edward Adolphus Seymour, 11th Duke of Somerset</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Lord
Raglan was not buried at Kensal Green but close to the family home at Badminton
in Gloucestershire. The Duke himself died at his home. Somerset House in Park
Lane on the 15th August 1855 at the age of 80. The Morning Post reported on his
funeral on the 24th: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">FUNERAL
OF THE DUKE OF SOMERSET Yesterday the mortal remains of the Duke of Somerset
were consigned to the tomb. The funeral procession left Park-lane at 11 o'clock
for the cemetery at Kensal- green, the mournful cortege, preceded by the
customary attendants, consisting of a hearse and six horses and six mourning
coaches, escorted by pages. The mourners were Lord Seymour, grandson of the
late duke, Lord Archibald St. Maur, Lord Algernon St. Maur, and the Rev. Mr.
Howarth (rector of St. George's, Hanover-square), be- ing in the first coach;
Mr. Blount and Mr. Tollemache, sons-in-law of the deceased; Mr. J. Osborne,
Lord Glenelg, Hon. Colonel Bruce, Mr. Stewart Nicholson, Mr. Currie, Mr. J.
Festings, &c. The remaining coaches were occupied by the chief members of
the late duke's household. In compliance with the wishes of the duke, the
funeral was conducted on a very unostentatious scale — the armorial bearings on
the hearse and the bearer of the ducal coronet being dispensed with on the
occasion. The funeral procession reached the cemetery shortly before 12
o'clock, and the body was borne to the chapel, when the solemn service was
commenced by the Rev. Mr. Howarth. After the ordinary prayers, the body was
conveyed to the mausoleum, situate at the north- western corner of the grounds,
where the burial service was concluded at about half-past 12 o'clock. It may be
as well to add that the present duke is on a cruise with Mr. Bentinck, M.P., on
board the Dream yacht, in the North Sea, and, it is feared, is still uninformed
of his father's death, which will account for his absence at the funeral. His
grace's eldest son was consequently the chief mourner.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">His
widow died at the age of 75 in 1880. This account of her funeral is from the London
Daily Chronicle of 23 July 1880;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">The
remains of the Duchess (Margaret) of Somerset were laid to rest yesterday side
by side with these of her husband, the late Duke of Somerset, in Kensal-green
Cemetery. The mausoleum, which is situate in that portion of the grounds known
as the General Cemetery, was yesterday opened for the first time since the interment
of the late duke, now a quarter of a century ago. Facing the iron-grated
entrance to the vault there are let into the wall two shield-shaped marble
slabs, one of which bears the name and titles of Edward Adolphus St Maur, Duke
of ‘Somerset, who died August 15, 1855; and the other the name of Margaret,
Duchess of Somerset, his wife with a space left for the date of her death. At
the foot of the latter shield is the passage from the Book of Ruth, “Where thou
diest I will die, and there will I be buried.” The whole is surmounted by the
ducal coronet and family crest. At half-past twelve the funeral cortege which
consisted of the hearse, drawn by four horses, five mourning carriages,
followed by the family coach and several private carriages, moved away from the
residence of the deceased duchess, Somerset House, Park-lane, and took its way along
Bayswater-road and Westbourne terrace to Kensal Green, which was reached at the
appointed time. Here the coffin, the outer casing of which was of polished oak
with brass handles and coronets, and having on its breast a plate bearing the plain
inscription, “Margaret, widow of Edward Adolphus, 11th Duke of Somerset, died
July 18, 1880," was borne into the chapel, where, as at the grave, the
funeral service was read by the chaplain, the Rev. H. C. Johnstone, M.A. From
the chapel to the mausoleum a procession was formed, in which the chief
mourners were Lord Algernon St Maur, the Lord Chief Baron, Sir Michael Shaw Stewart,
Admiral Sir William Houston Stuart, Mr. Tollemache, Mr, Percy St. Maur, Mr.
Ernest St. Maur, Sir Herbert Maxwell, Sir John Heron Maxwell, Colonel
Alexander, Mr. J. A. Shaw Stewart, Mr. Collyer Bristow, and Mr. Edward Ross.
Some flowers were placed upon the coffin as it was lowered into the vault.</span></i></p></div>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-16448554974625812562023-09-20T06:48:00.001-07:002023-10-19T02:58:35.723-07:00Dog day afternoon; Paddington Old Cemetery, Willesden Lane, NW6<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNNbVfEaXXWeU-46hWwmwfEuhvWYDeJ-eyTLelvgJ-SmJQRm2oS06Fz9v3hXZwTT329FOF9ebg6sA5z3u1q4SFx_HOMCZ1WxFMwnz4EH5DByzOLqU1EHOnrTZRtjmgP2siceh-3LaXYWYeWVZInqTRKXobi1PRMOjksEnwtcVprqJjmoqoQTELCq14maQ/s3982/Paddington%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2986" data-original-width="3982" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNNbVfEaXXWeU-46hWwmwfEuhvWYDeJ-eyTLelvgJ-SmJQRm2oS06Fz9v3hXZwTT329FOF9ebg6sA5z3u1q4SFx_HOMCZ1WxFMwnz4EH5DByzOLqU1EHOnrTZRtjmgP2siceh-3LaXYWYeWVZInqTRKXobi1PRMOjksEnwtcVprqJjmoqoQTELCq14maQ/w640-h480/Paddington%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">And
there were dogs, more dogs. Devoted dog-tendance—by schoolchildren, by women in
fairly high style, by certain homosexuals. One would have said that only the
Eskimos had nearly so much to do with dogs as this local branch of mankind. The
veterinarians must be sailing in yachts, surely.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Saul Bellow – Mr Sammler’s Planet<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">There
seemed to be more dogs on parade in Paddington Old Cemetery than I have ever
seen anywhere in London with the possible exception of Crufts. It was a sunny
September afternoon and there were, as far as I could see, no mourners
whatsoever in the cemetery. There were dozens of visitors though, large numbers
arrive on foot but also a steady stream of them kept arriving by car and
parking in front of the fenced off chapels; every single one, pedestrian or
driver, was accompanied by at least one canine, often two sometimes three. Bowls of water are scattered throughout
the cemetery for the comfort of canine visitors, most of whom were off the
leash and roaming at will. It was a very middle-class collection of hounds, certificated
pedigrees (french bulldogs, golden retrievers, dachshunds), and designer crossbreeds (cockapoos, labradoodles, schnoodles), predominated. There were no youths from
council estates with squat, muscular, short muzzled, bull baiting breeds,
shuffling their way along the paths on overdeveloped thighs and frightening the
native bourgeoisie. It was all very genteel. There wasn’t even any dog shit on
the ground; every single owner was responsibly collecting their pooch’s still
warm stools in black plastic bags and disposing of them out of sight. I have
never seen so many dogs in a cemetery. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoUf9o7D4L3DcGvaNsO37acemE925GMts_qHOklUuY25PQleUVmyO3YGNEy2Al1B68_NEySzc3W1n_T9g4cWqCDktqBpOe0592faZGWU_Wp7b_7IQQjAl2wcwL7T5WLI853clKqzy9SzhhUhnR13UQWXUV1Sktlcl91_4KrBRcFvLDgUUJ9RKGiYD8Bkg/s4032/Paddington%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoUf9o7D4L3DcGvaNsO37acemE925GMts_qHOklUuY25PQleUVmyO3YGNEy2Al1B68_NEySzc3W1n_T9g4cWqCDktqBpOe0592faZGWU_Wp7b_7IQQjAl2wcwL7T5WLI853clKqzy9SzhhUhnR13UQWXUV1Sktlcl91_4KrBRcFvLDgUUJ9RKGiYD8Bkg/w640-h480/Paddington%203.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Even
for those without a penchant for dog watching Paddington Old Cemetery is worth a visit. It does not have any really outstanding monuments but there
are quite a few interesting ones and the cemetery has more than its fair share
of occupants with colourful pasts. Paddington was one of the first municipal
cemeteries (as opposed to private ones like nearby Kensal Green or Highgate),
opening in 1855 just three years after the 1852 Metropolitan Internment Act
began the process of closing London’s churchyards and parish burial grounds to
further internments. The Paddington Burial Board acquired 24 acres of land
close to what was then the still rural village of Willesden. The cemetery was designed
and laid out by Thomas Little, a mainly ecclesiastical architect who designed the
gothic chapel at Nunhead (best known today perhaps because George Devey, a much
better architect, spent nine years working as his pupil). Little designed the
twin chapels with porte cochere and central belltower which luckily still
stands at the centre of the cemetery (though it is in the habit of shedding
masonry at inopportune moments and so is now completely fenced off to prevent
lumps of Kentish ragstone dropping onto the dog walkers). The cemetery still
has its two original lodges but both of these have been sold off and are now
private residences. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFpljVzC56EQ3OPEQp4F4pAvnLwA7F0DoOO482NGVJjrJIkaKO5YATxK9YL6LISXhmmNQ3vaXbfXgXmC3zOHRLYCHrX1YxyMli3N1XWitiGiv97vLbnw2oJ9mE2t3gue3GZJ4cbd_sBns4sxlw4VmnbiWzq1tJtJA6NFOFNK_FWPz-YDSHvR3gL_zZL_w/s4032/Paddington%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFpljVzC56EQ3OPEQp4F4pAvnLwA7F0DoOO482NGVJjrJIkaKO5YATxK9YL6LISXhmmNQ3vaXbfXgXmC3zOHRLYCHrX1YxyMli3N1XWitiGiv97vLbnw2oJ9mE2t3gue3GZJ4cbd_sBns4sxlw4VmnbiWzq1tJtJA6NFOFNK_FWPz-YDSHvR3gL_zZL_w/w640-h480/Paddington%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">The
cemetery is now immaculately kept but this was not always the case as reported
by the Marylebone Mercury on Saturday 03 July 1937; <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">PADDINGTON
CEMETERY Councillor Turner asked whether a letter had recently been received
from a relative of persons buried in the Willesden Lane Cemetery, complaining
of desecration alleged to be due to wanton neglect, and stating that "the
scene beggars description and has to be seen to be believed"; and did the
writer complain that, by reason of the overgrowth around it, he and his wife
had great difficulty in finding graves of departed relatives, and there were
other bereaved persons in similar straits? Were letters of complaint received
but not presented to the Committee? Councillor Mrs. Seale M. chairman of the
Cemetery Committee, said several letters of complaint had been received. It was
impossible to cut all the grass at the cemetery at one time. There were 32,410
graves, and not sixty per cent were looked after by the people themselves. The
others had to be cut by the Council. Letters of complaint were placed before
the committee, investigated and dealt with.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">By
the 1980’s the cemetery had become the responsibility of Westminster Council, a
responsibility that weighed heavily on the shoulders of the council leader Dame
Shirley Porter. Paddington was one the cemeteries that Dame Shirley wished to
divest the council of and sold off for a nominal sum (usually a pound) but
unlike the other three (Hanwell, East Finchley and Mill Hill) the sale of
Paddington never became a <a href="https://thelondondead.blogspot.com/2023/03/a-fortune-lost-and-fortune-found.html" target="_blank">scandal</a> for the simple reason that it was bought by a
responsible owner, Brent Council. With no intention of milking their asset
Brent simply continued to run the cemetery as a cemetery, raising a large
section of the ground in the southern part to allow new burials to take place. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDpevvAFO41x_VePJSzdkmOvKTZVvgl1ehmgU4cQAV23H4HmdBw8x_ZpNZEhATVMfwwL1SRAB2ApbqtxElYd4HkJGP5VlUdmJi1Jvcq1ECywt9lyfPxeGmiYhgmZMiC9e4D2nVtT-Z3HoBxqJcW3c3IA5R_s95yXlTGOhcBDYPsmBVMpXP0KGWJStBxK4/w640-h480/Paddington%204.jpg" width="640" /><br /></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Paddington’s
most famous burial is a relatively recent one, Michael Bond, who died at the
age of 91 at his home near Paddington and is best known, of course, as the
creator of Paddington, the bear from darkest Peru with a liking for marmalade
and a penchant for creating chaos. The bear had popular since the early 1960’s
(I eagerly read the books as a schoolchild in South Yorkshire, having seen
Thord Hird read the stories on <i>Jackanory</i>) but Bond didn’t live to see
his creations greatest triumph, taking tea with the Queen at the 2022 Jubilee
just before Her Majesty also shuffled off the mortal coil. Bond’s grave is
decorated with small Paddington statues left by admirers. There is also a
potted plant, perhaps a reference to another of his creations, the BBC TV
series <i>The Herbs</i>. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ioUU8UwL5ducqQX8mevcRq6mCVEyX21IeSq5C2cNXgv95ot602OvtEdnX1BblXVmF_ZE7wlUiR6iDXfP7Bry7yV9iGl4g96EOjbWDbb7RFQhlvgqS6qI5nwWYU5T95VFIdgXn9m9jJx0e4SZarUkFuMhw676z3bzweRPtsW0IXvdNSQtPTe7666EjmU/s4032/Paddington%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ioUU8UwL5ducqQX8mevcRq6mCVEyX21IeSq5C2cNXgv95ot602OvtEdnX1BblXVmF_ZE7wlUiR6iDXfP7Bry7yV9iGl4g96EOjbWDbb7RFQhlvgqS6qI5nwWYU5T95VFIdgXn9m9jJx0e4SZarUkFuMhw676z3bzweRPtsW0IXvdNSQtPTe7666EjmU/w640-h480/Paddington%205.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Other
interesting burials include jockey Captain Martin Becher; the identification of
his burial site was reported in the Liverpool Echo of 11 November 1996:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">GRAND
National expert Reg Green has solved a 130-year-old racing mystery. The super
sleuth has tracked down the unmarked grave of Aintree legend Captain Becher in
a London cemetery. The flamboyant jockey gave his name to Aintree's brook fence
after toppling into the water during the 1839 race. For decades his final
resting place has baffled race historians. Now race officials are planning to
mark Becher's contribution to the famous steeplechase by buying a new
headstone. The plot was grassed over in 1963 when officials at Paddington Old
Cemetery in Kilburn destroyed several damaged, unsafe and forgotten
gravestones. Records show Captain Martin Becher, 67, was buried on October 15,
1864. His wife Susan and son Ernest, five, are buried with him… Aintree
marketing manager Joe McNally said: "It is a terrific piece of detective
work. We want to get a new headstone but we need permission of living relatives
who I want to get in touch with us." <o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">No
new headstone was ever put up for Becher (whose party trick was leaping onto a
mantelpiece from a standing jump apparently, impressive for a short man) presumably
because no living descendants were traced. Becher is famous for not winning the
Grand National but another cemetery resident, Danny Maher won the Epsom Derby
three times (1903, 1905, 1906) and the Ascot Gold Cup in 1906 and 1909. He was
born in 1881 in Hartford, Connecticut and had a successful career in the US
before coming to Britain where he won an astonishing 1421 races. He died in
1916. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwLN9IIZtGm_Qw56ZIGIPmDB0LjMcxjhSmr_XWDnSxQKLAcGgYGZpGcw3XchZycBw4Ptu_f9pzEiPLQrGuWz8XX8hFSp5EMNL1jIXcw6Ig3Hy0Ui6fP1Z76QBEinFnMjmNF88gtVPfYKOJpd2aNF8IBQxvmk0f7BvzxRVNVFsHgUdcc9S4ACNXFdY0Leo/s3971/Paddington%206.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2978" data-original-width="3971" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwLN9IIZtGm_Qw56ZIGIPmDB0LjMcxjhSmr_XWDnSxQKLAcGgYGZpGcw3XchZycBw4Ptu_f9pzEiPLQrGuWz8XX8hFSp5EMNL1jIXcw6Ig3Hy0Ui6fP1Z76QBEinFnMjmNF88gtVPfYKOJpd2aNF8IBQxvmk0f7BvzxRVNVFsHgUdcc9S4ACNXFdY0Leo/w640-h480/Paddington%206.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">The
Dundee Courier (and many other newspapers) reported on 08 April 1930 on the
funeral at Paddington of actress Anita Foy Tipping; <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">ACTRESS
BURNED TO DEATH WOMEN IN TEARS AT GRAVESIDE. Moving scenes wore witnessed at
Paddington Cemetery yesterday, where the funeral took place of Miss Anita Foy
Tipping, the young actress and dancer, who was burnt to death at Twickenham
Film Studios when her frock caught fire. Scores of women, among them many of
Miss Tipping's colleagues from studio, gathered near the grave. When the
cortege arrived, and the plain oak coffin was carried to the grave, many of the
women were in tears. The brief service the graveside was conducted by Father
Herbert Vauglian, of Brondesbury. Scores pf magnificent wreaths had been sent,
and these were piled up about neighbouring graves. Among them was enormous
wreath of daffodils in the form of cushion three feet square from the
"boys and girls of the 'Here Comes the Bride' Company." Nearly all
the wreaths were composed of spring flowers, and the senders included Mr and
Mrs Julian Wylie, members of ‘Cinders’ company, the Film Artists' Guild, and
Twickenham Film Studios.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Nita
Foy, as Anita Tipping was professionally known, was a chorus girl in West End
theatres and was currently appearing in ‘Here Comes the Bridge’ at the
Piccadilly Theatre, at the time of her death. She and five other girls from the
chorus line had been given parts in a ballet scene for the fil ‘Spanish Eyes’
by Twickenham Film Studios. The scene was being shot on the last day of the production
and could only be filmed when the girls had finished at the theatre. It was
well after midnight when the exhausted actress was invited to his dressing room
by Donald Calthorp, the star of the film for a brandy and soda. Calthorp told
the inquest at Richmond Coroners Court that <i>“she came in, and sat down on
the sofa, which is beside an electric radiator, and I pulled out a small bottle
of brandy… and poured a little out and said, “Would you like soda, or water, or
plain?” Mr Coote, the assistant director, then put his head in the door and said,
“All ladies are wanted on the set.” Miss Tipping was then standing and I
noticed that her eyelashes were white with powder. I said to her, “Surely you
cannot go on. We always darken our eyelashes - it is better for the camera.”
She said, “Oh, have you got any wet black?” and I pointed at a little red tin
on a shelf over the radiator. I remember turning to the door… There was a flash
behind me… I turned round and saw that Miss Tipping was a sheet of flame.”</i>
The chorus girls were dressed in crinolines for the ballet scene and it was
this that caught fire on the electric radiator. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQVP6WcFpTgHXVGqpHu4gU5wMH3L6VyX7UfKA1ttitWVUj8EyXtFqfRG7jWk6rSWUuRCt0FTg-E7XupgMaHofdxPG9b_FJc-6a_115HvE-TOQAK6CC0nzCwgb-GhbsKh7nCKLoFIKSqdMRXQYU0TUCH7zsd8oxkVS9G8OY1WxQyf-tPwl6o2aMnX3JoBw/s4032/Paddington%207.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQVP6WcFpTgHXVGqpHu4gU5wMH3L6VyX7UfKA1ttitWVUj8EyXtFqfRG7jWk6rSWUuRCt0FTg-E7XupgMaHofdxPG9b_FJc-6a_115HvE-TOQAK6CC0nzCwgb-GhbsKh7nCKLoFIKSqdMRXQYU0TUCH7zsd8oxkVS9G8OY1WxQyf-tPwl6o2aMnX3JoBw/w640-h480/Paddington%207.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Meller
and Parsons (</span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">London Cemeteries - An Illustrated Guide and Gazetteer</i><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">) mention the mausoleum close to the Lidiard memorial; “a lavish
exercise in the fourteenth-century Gothic style including a sculpture of the
Ascension in the tympanum, fearsome over-sized gargoyles and a three-sided apse
with shattered fragments of stained glass in the lancet windows. It is a tragedy
that such an extraordinary building has suffered from neglect and vandalism.” The
broken windows at least allow you to peer in and see the coffin still sitting
on its shelf. Meller and Parsons do not name the occupant of the mausoleum, I
presume because, Like me, they could not make out the name inscribed on the
step. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn0P3rSM4By1ItNtUdYHQumefSR4RqK3kUxjpB9jbWotBGSC_7fqtlKiELNBC3bBJLZC5DY747o-OJVk9r_iMAst0y89tETS1z93Dkq4M0jiT1inZ2dZDy5Rrtg8prVjrKWfmnFioQ5oBNnjUnvMh3-QG0dkXx15NyvmgfR42XaaLKZ_tmpQTKKyoN21k/s3982/Paddington%208.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2986" data-original-width="3982" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn0P3rSM4By1ItNtUdYHQumefSR4RqK3kUxjpB9jbWotBGSC_7fqtlKiELNBC3bBJLZC5DY747o-OJVk9r_iMAst0y89tETS1z93Dkq4M0jiT1inZ2dZDy5Rrtg8prVjrKWfmnFioQ5oBNnjUnvMh3-QG0dkXx15NyvmgfR42XaaLKZ_tmpQTKKyoN21k/w640-h480/Paddington%208.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">They
also mention the ‘early examples of porcelain photographs of the deceased’ such
as the ones below; </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtWtqdQ87MLo4mzRDbu58TJduRuLF_8xxVkXWrjM5lV3-7VNWZpJFxeGKduBEHYLTTTsQXs8_jOP7kamGWKuF84otbSJyoxwR9w6RxqYuwKMNVyOi7O2jUFd17ylGMnl72AhTqTNtWkKI8_JnSDy5rhp0pJjDzQGPPv0q9pk3Fj6qQRoPVKMKd_sts04o/s4032/Paddington%209.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtWtqdQ87MLo4mzRDbu58TJduRuLF_8xxVkXWrjM5lV3-7VNWZpJFxeGKduBEHYLTTTsQXs8_jOP7kamGWKuF84otbSJyoxwR9w6RxqYuwKMNVyOi7O2jUFd17ylGMnl72AhTqTNtWkKI8_JnSDy5rhp0pJjDzQGPPv0q9pk3Fj6qQRoPVKMKd_sts04o/w480-h640/Paddington%209.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6YEJjSBt7Jhk21mhdnGfDrglNk4713n7q8FyGhTbWXbP4FLHgd8ByT0Wga1_Pet_XnzS900FXTYTeT-ZEByJ-KE7WUmrsYd9WR9ut5xHOpS8HEm1PgAgieC8pLFp9HI797Npbd72CTxGiMU9jFDHyN6_1klSqBDg-_QGR9vbJfiYAD2ZnMo99hs1SsrY/s3648/Paddington%2010.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6YEJjSBt7Jhk21mhdnGfDrglNk4713n7q8FyGhTbWXbP4FLHgd8ByT0Wga1_Pet_XnzS900FXTYTeT-ZEByJ-KE7WUmrsYd9WR9ut5xHOpS8HEm1PgAgieC8pLFp9HI797Npbd72CTxGiMU9jFDHyN6_1klSqBDg-_QGR9vbJfiYAD2ZnMo99hs1SsrY/w640-h480/Paddington%2010.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQVtpz3nDft5ZtoTVnwhFcciz9lO23XewrJOve4PEkcHJaweSB6p8JZqcBFYrzlHb6zGG9DN6cvrQu2QsnxwcqM6Ln-_Sq6VJrU1UCHAp7qtQyp4zQ8lV5q-MN6k4r4FFTlIGL6dv7fJ2ci48pRbkEOfV010JvXkQlXdOBMn6AU7zcDh9Fpkv7WktmP3o/s3814/Paddington%2011.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3814" data-original-width="2860" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQVtpz3nDft5ZtoTVnwhFcciz9lO23XewrJOve4PEkcHJaweSB6p8JZqcBFYrzlHb6zGG9DN6cvrQu2QsnxwcqM6Ln-_Sq6VJrU1UCHAp7qtQyp4zQ8lV5q-MN6k4r4FFTlIGL6dv7fJ2ci48pRbkEOfV010JvXkQlXdOBMn6AU7zcDh9Fpkv7WktmP3o/w480-h640/Paddington%2011.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-87106941625714638682023-09-14T08:38:00.002-07:002023-09-15T11:11:27.909-07:00Respeito pelos mortos; Cemitério da Lapa, Porto<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEBLS2j0_ouMugaesbqWh_OA-HHy2M0_OvbImXe3vYfjOjRGfbzBO9TgYXZSrOz1CvfCSBl7pcls_T2ML-BqTVkjFAwl2ubbsFGFzEguwtkMS1GkYkn61SwYxhv0-_XRdqVL3h3pg924RJtv6_Ytz7npXIFafdbfArnBJPjepjbT9QDpULqSu9EbyFvgo/s4032/Lapa%20cemetery%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_7_BCse_Y1mSq0rczSUUhoAOLibJhwnpXlhul1h-RsGSDhHVeQDJsLBLUwjnQD6DbiH-DQvPZN2R1eP3NPe5QYLvV4ULEnC_nY4-kpGlqS-fUBT3WDoCDnc_21rdEDGDpBMcLrLul2YS4Bx1eUP7eHYQ-kOlbTi-5213g3F0xP5c_aikFX3VAXa78t_4/s4032/Lapa%20cemetery%20Porto.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_7_BCse_Y1mSq0rczSUUhoAOLibJhwnpXlhul1h-RsGSDhHVeQDJsLBLUwjnQD6DbiH-DQvPZN2R1eP3NPe5QYLvV4ULEnC_nY4-kpGlqS-fUBT3WDoCDnc_21rdEDGDpBMcLrLul2YS4Bx1eUP7eHYQ-kOlbTi-5213g3F0xP5c_aikFX3VAXa78t_4/w640-h480/Lapa%20cemetery%20Porto.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">It
is a long uphill trudge to the Igreja de Nossa Senhora da Lapa from the centre of
Porto. Our hotel was close to the Rotunda da Boavista which meant he had a more
or less gradient free walk across the north of the city to the Cemitério da
Lapa and meant we didn’t have to make that long climb on a hellishly hot day. It
turned out to be a flying visit; we had set out to walk there on the 15th
August without realising that it was a <i>feriado</i>, a public holiday to mark
Assumption Day (marking the Virgin Mary’s ascent into heaven), which meant that
the cemetery closed early. When we first arrived, there were a few other people
there visiting graves or, a very typical sight in Portuguese cemeteries,
busying themselves with sweeping brushes and dusters, tidying up the family mausoleum.
After an hour the place was deserted until a grumpy official from the church tracked
me down and began ostentatiously tapping his watch and pointing to the exit. When
I did not scurry away immediately, he pulled a large set of keys from his
pocket and shook them at me; the meaning was clear, ‘bugger off or I’ll lock
you in.’ </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEBLS2j0_ouMugaesbqWh_OA-HHy2M0_OvbImXe3vYfjOjRGfbzBO9TgYXZSrOz1CvfCSBl7pcls_T2ML-BqTVkjFAwl2ubbsFGFzEguwtkMS1GkYkn61SwYxhv0-_XRdqVL3h3pg924RJtv6_Ytz7npXIFafdbfArnBJPjepjbT9QDpULqSu9EbyFvgo/s4032/Lapa%20cemetery%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPk_nJpnYj_UPadLlWIQD9Ng_MxT7HBpqRMCiPShu581JpJZKs0xvxk9pzjF5vzAgoQ2EEprWbmJ_3cfoxhn-nFsMnC2o4iuxNJx5RJ7zYCU29sroXQ6QdlHZBbWztxrEiVoDV8OI5NyMQVL1GodBv9LgWyyo2N1Ncl1RpFtAZZyLreo_lLwaeePRVs6M/s3933/Lapa%20Cemetery%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2950" data-original-width="3933" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPk_nJpnYj_UPadLlWIQD9Ng_MxT7HBpqRMCiPShu581JpJZKs0xvxk9pzjF5vzAgoQ2EEprWbmJ_3cfoxhn-nFsMnC2o4iuxNJx5RJ7zYCU29sroXQ6QdlHZBbWztxrEiVoDV8OI5NyMQVL1GodBv9LgWyyo2N1Ncl1RpFtAZZyLreo_lLwaeePRVs6M/w640-h480/Lapa%20Cemetery%203.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">The
cemetery attached to the Igreja da Lapa is one of Portugal’s most famous burial
grounds. Legal authorisation for the construction of a cemetery next to the
church was granted by <a href="https://thelondondead.blogspot.com/2022/11/que-horas-sao-meu-coracao-unusual.html" target="_blank">Dom Pedro IV</a> to the Lapa Brotherhood in July 1833, in the
final weeks of the year long siege of Porto during the Portuguese civil war. High mortality rates during the siege and the
subsequent cholera epidemic had rapidly filled up existing burial spaces in the
city. The catholic authorities were also aware that the liberal government of Dom
Pedro was planning to pass laws forcing municipal authorities in Portugal to
open public cemeteries, a very controversial measure at the time. Lapa was a
private Catholic cemetery and effectively became, when consecrated in 1838, the
first modern cemetery in the country. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEBLS2j0_ouMugaesbqWh_OA-HHy2M0_OvbImXe3vYfjOjRGfbzBO9TgYXZSrOz1CvfCSBl7pcls_T2ML-BqTVkjFAwl2ubbsFGFzEguwtkMS1GkYkn61SwYxhv0-_XRdqVL3h3pg924RJtv6_Ytz7npXIFafdbfArnBJPjepjbT9QDpULqSu9EbyFvgo/w640-h480/Lapa%20cemetery%202.jpg" width="640" /></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">The
original cemetery was designed like an Italian Campos Santos with large vault-
chapels at the edge of the cemetery surrounding a central section which was the
space for smaller monuments. The vault-chapels were private chapels which had
space for 8 or more coffin burials on shelves that were then enclosed with a
stone carrying the deceased’s epitaph. Only the wealthiest families could
afford a vault-chapel. The middle section of the original cemetery was the
space for more modest memorials, though it has to be said that most of these
are fairly spectacular and clearly were extremely expensive. The poor were
buried elsewhere! The cemetery proved to be extremely popular and within ten
years additional land had to be acquired to extend. Further extensions followed
during the 19th century until there was no available adjacent land to extend
onto.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit1yKt32xr3Z38Q8Ov9K8fdxBl_cJmT3Ot0UcbbM58AM1Dv6AVnVb4JGaBbhPwm1V95WXVe6XEA9OJH17HN0CP5oen5hDqMstiw0ck5NgmdgW7Rt_1FNGwqMgTJqKdicDEGjsDm1i8Kvo6M3qnUDNC2aT0LsemnCAuR0Vod_wXoYEN6O772BxDBf4AURU/s4032/Lapa%20cemetery%204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit1yKt32xr3Z38Q8Ov9K8fdxBl_cJmT3Ot0UcbbM58AM1Dv6AVnVb4JGaBbhPwm1V95WXVe6XEA9OJH17HN0CP5oen5hDqMstiw0ck5NgmdgW7Rt_1FNGwqMgTJqKdicDEGjsDm1i8Kvo6M3qnUDNC2aT0LsemnCAuR0Vod_wXoYEN6O772BxDBf4AURU/w640-h480/Lapa%20cemetery%204.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">One
of the most striking aspects of the cemetery Cemetery is its architectural
diversity. It boasts a variety of tomb styles, from neoclassical and neo-Gothic
to Art Nouveau and modernist designs. This architectural eclecticism reflects
the changing tastes and trends of the eras in which the tombs were constructed,
offering a visual journey of bourgeoise funereal fashion through time. Elaborate
angels, saints, and mournful figures can be found adorning many graves. Dotted around the cemetery are notices inscribed in stone enjoining 'Respeito pelos mortos', respect for the dead. In its
time Lapa was a trendsetting cemetery for northern Portugal and its design and
memorials were used as templates for other cemeteries such as <a href="https://thelondondead.blogspot.com/2022/09/a-morning-stroll-amongst-tombs.html">Agramonte</a>. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijH4FQZjNuB-c6IZZ54y2BNq-Oy-5ZAE97pmEqxkO9ArGbN236XNB7PqpF1pVeH6Kf4RsBuZN_v-QhQhgt5sM8i8QNJQWlhSIhUDFvv7dmLcavj4L6D3GcnEDbYgrcZirpMPmhSfV0h1qFWSyEsQhCVp5w-GCcGhRoVDNVCj1oiJ1h2F8KBEqFgUjrH_E/s4032/Lapa%20cemetery%206.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijH4FQZjNuB-c6IZZ54y2BNq-Oy-5ZAE97pmEqxkO9ArGbN236XNB7PqpF1pVeH6Kf4RsBuZN_v-QhQhgt5sM8i8QNJQWlhSIhUDFvv7dmLcavj4L6D3GcnEDbYgrcZirpMPmhSfV0h1qFWSyEsQhCVp5w-GCcGhRoVDNVCj1oiJ1h2F8KBEqFgUjrH_E/w640-h480/Lapa%20cemetery%206.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">The
tomb of António Francisco Ferreira da Silva Porto (24 August 1817 – 2 April
1890) describes him as ‘o grande sertanejo’, the great explorer of the interior
of Angola. He was famous enough at the turn of the 19thh century for his death
and funeral to be reported in the provincial English newspapers: <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Silva
Porto, the old pioneer of Portuguese exploration in Africa, has been buried at
Oporto, and extraordinary public honours were paid the remains of the deceased
on being conveyed from Lisbon to Oporto. Members of the Royal Family and the
Ministers walked immediately behind the coffin. Cardinal Ferreira dos Santos
Silvas pronounced the absolution over the remains of the Portuguese explorer,
Silva Porto, at the Lapa Church in Oporto. immense congregation was present,
including representatives of the King and Queen and Royal Family, the Minister
of Marine, and other prominent officials.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
</p><p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Tamworth Herald - Saturday 18 April 1891</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbie00liE21A1RvmJl5TmNKKxzSf5kqnSwOLQedZ7AEkjh-jrJOJ7oXt-b4L_pOsES8TpvFRN3A0lZxrr9-TleU7obZrxcA1bkbHXM5MqZWaMSNZPeXWZ_my9ERVrgrn-PIDMxIiBhxrOqoTuu2UaY7eqx458udM4oIGUGWYpWQLfE0bmYJPUhIqGgF3Y/s3956/Lapa%20cemetery%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3956" data-original-width="2967" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbie00liE21A1RvmJl5TmNKKxzSf5kqnSwOLQedZ7AEkjh-jrJOJ7oXt-b4L_pOsES8TpvFRN3A0lZxrr9-TleU7obZrxcA1bkbHXM5MqZWaMSNZPeXWZ_my9ERVrgrn-PIDMxIiBhxrOqoTuu2UaY7eqx458udM4oIGUGWYpWQLfE0bmYJPUhIqGgF3Y/w480-h640/Lapa%20cemetery%205.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhopV8OK9t5FnQQ_Vx_V8hEN9UdPGMc5BsSunLrpt_19DxkqsTU9xLRv1eg-9c3bwh8sfgCEUWrzEj3KieyKB-OYMo4TSS4pWsSEqMWRuzU-jKyGCG_NKw7UyGuYIiYNvG0DHFf3EbGhAFfNXsH7_MRYyB9W3yCk1eRbUKfWAfUJVloqmMxFDiflfelgyQ/s3959/Lapa%20cemetery%207.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2904" data-original-width="3959" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhopV8OK9t5FnQQ_Vx_V8hEN9UdPGMc5BsSunLrpt_19DxkqsTU9xLRv1eg-9c3bwh8sfgCEUWrzEj3KieyKB-OYMo4TSS4pWsSEqMWRuzU-jKyGCG_NKw7UyGuYIiYNvG0DHFf3EbGhAFfNXsH7_MRYyB9W3yCk1eRbUKfWAfUJVloqmMxFDiflfelgyQ/w640-h470/Lapa%20cemetery%207.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_anmlDUt47_xdtBHkOZAaLek5a41xI_tk4i0Y6nbjMFgGYL_kGX5YXB7u0rSTbZi3wWC1lpUNK8jgnopwbYi1LAb_Y2_EBZgdHygQ_eHdLHpG3xxTwnDooY31At2_i-QnxvRxS4t_yQg5JjApYDN15M5sla8wcX6fh0x8DyYCbZpNCNYZPSRSbPv9c8U/s4032/Lapa%20Cemetery%208.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_anmlDUt47_xdtBHkOZAaLek5a41xI_tk4i0Y6nbjMFgGYL_kGX5YXB7u0rSTbZi3wWC1lpUNK8jgnopwbYi1LAb_Y2_EBZgdHygQ_eHdLHpG3xxTwnDooY31At2_i-QnxvRxS4t_yQg5JjApYDN15M5sla8wcX6fh0x8DyYCbZpNCNYZPSRSbPv9c8U/w640-h480/Lapa%20Cemetery%208.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMqaInPWJh8RnqLZHANm5LhDfIL-KhCIXStWzk_vhpviTbYfTSS6-7QTwCjCr5CXlpKL3Kgk2bq4Cy63EEgK-hi0M4ESb6nxuxDX33GH7g_3IHcG-kI1SzCbl9DtPttTyyoy6A67ccdj2j1EOJxx3HBo7FDcUqHNTxJ3iFLJlgj4g4aYk1ZOCzgjw27nw/s4032/Lapa%20cemetery%209.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMqaInPWJh8RnqLZHANm5LhDfIL-KhCIXStWzk_vhpviTbYfTSS6-7QTwCjCr5CXlpKL3Kgk2bq4Cy63EEgK-hi0M4ESb6nxuxDX33GH7g_3IHcG-kI1SzCbl9DtPttTyyoy6A67ccdj2j1EOJxx3HBo7FDcUqHNTxJ3iFLJlgj4g4aYk1ZOCzgjw27nw/w640-h480/Lapa%20cemetery%209.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh9BICWEP0jDm-sc5kX-UMmHIV0cEOGc9kdQqNkWUZOxRCmM-Fw6DSb0BMr8XcNltM7GyoS-bUer8TN1GzaMXGCqhg5kVIZsnYfedVAm3PsXjfo4E2ncNtMJxWn9EyIuub7p8Yb43QgZjupWP9lV4mHJiP7Qh8Mr6dYxoCu7LSp_VRLn2uc1qZFs1C9bA/s4032/Lapa%20cemetery%2010.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh9BICWEP0jDm-sc5kX-UMmHIV0cEOGc9kdQqNkWUZOxRCmM-Fw6DSb0BMr8XcNltM7GyoS-bUer8TN1GzaMXGCqhg5kVIZsnYfedVAm3PsXjfo4E2ncNtMJxWn9EyIuub7p8Yb43QgZjupWP9lV4mHJiP7Qh8Mr6dYxoCu7LSp_VRLn2uc1qZFs1C9bA/w640-h480/Lapa%20cemetery%2010.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /> <p></p>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-25041677074623521552023-09-06T08:06:00.001-07:002023-09-06T08:06:37.495-07:00Churchill's personal tragedy; Marigold Churchill (1918-1921), Kensal Green Cemetery<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMDf5LmP7zo1Sg_5-qIglY6h_T-yRadh2J5XNHmUZWR7l6KWfXioBCgfyXFjwM3SaYD3VDzqkqXFzYq7JyD7IdcNKkSbOM_6OE8Mf2A8TTgA77FH5EczdTrv2HeBElTHwJd5VhSsEUucfYtQUhqg9Lz1yvZ5QTu64fNd3LZCyfhVA66qB7FQ_DbYLmeD0/s3586/Marigold%20Churchill%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2689" data-original-width="3586" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMDf5LmP7zo1Sg_5-qIglY6h_T-yRadh2J5XNHmUZWR7l6KWfXioBCgfyXFjwM3SaYD3VDzqkqXFzYq7JyD7IdcNKkSbOM_6OE8Mf2A8TTgA77FH5EczdTrv2HeBElTHwJd5VhSsEUucfYtQUhqg9Lz1yvZ5QTu64fNd3LZCyfhVA66qB7FQ_DbYLmeD0/w640-h480/Marigold%20Churchill%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">DIED
AT BROADSTAIRS MR. AND MRS. WINSTON CHURCHILL BEREAVED Taken ill while on
holiday at Broadstairs with her two sisters and only brother, little Mistress
Marigold Frances Churchill, the three-year old child of Mr. Winston Churchill,
Colonial Secretary, and Mrs. Churchill, died last night. In charge of a nurse,
the children arrived in Thanet some time ago, to stay at the residence of Col.
Charles and Mrs. Grant. Marigold was then apparently in her usual health but
was taken suddenly ill about a week ago. Up to yesterday it was understood the
complaint from which she was suffering had not been satisfactorily diagnosed.
On Monday evening her condition was so serious that the father cancelled his
engagement to attend the bedside, to which Mrs. Churchill, who had been on a
visit to the Duke and Duchess of Westminster, had hurried. Both were present
last night when their child died.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">East Kent Times and Mail -
Wednesday 24 August 1921<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Reviewing
the TV drama ‘Churchill’s Secret’ The Times (28.02.2016) noted that the death
of his young daughter “was the personal tragedy that haunted Winston Churchill
throughout his lifetime but has gone largely unnoticed.” The opening scene of the
production showed Churchill imagining two-year-old Marigold as she ran on the
beach at Broadstairs in the days prior to her death in 1921. It would have been
a feat of imagination rather than recollection for Churchill to summon up an
image of his daughter playing on the beach as neither he, nor his wife Clementine,
were with their children at Broadstairs. Churchill, as always, had urgent
government business to attend to and Clementine was visiting the Duke and Duchess
of Westminster. The French governess was nervous of reporting Marigold’s ill
health to her parents and delayed sending a telegram to Clementine until the child
was in serious danger. Clementine travelled to Broadstairs and having seen her
daughter immediately summoned Winston. Both parents were at Marigold’s bedside
when she died; according to Churchill biographer William Manchester Clementine “shrieked
in agony, like an animal in mortal pain,” when she realised her daughter was
dead.</span></p></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfgL8GOpiTuJDxMbA2KFrgnTM0UfZyfixm8crLMIXKDOGVEgohq2L8GBvPJlz73XoixcEsLVEx_o6Cp1WHgwOQXgvRTSlP6JnmNZAOSNRoV2OHIYaFYxnQmx4qPMgL5MbkDmA-nqbVK222PqKe1IdnIk4m-C3Wl27pzm5zPccYh-OiP61AwAKiHOx3VMM/s3648/Marigold%20Churchill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfgL8GOpiTuJDxMbA2KFrgnTM0UfZyfixm8crLMIXKDOGVEgohq2L8GBvPJlz73XoixcEsLVEx_o6Cp1WHgwOQXgvRTSlP6JnmNZAOSNRoV2OHIYaFYxnQmx4qPMgL5MbkDmA-nqbVK222PqKe1IdnIk4m-C3Wl27pzm5zPccYh-OiP61AwAKiHOx3VMM/w640-h480/Marigold%20Churchill.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Mr.
CHURCHILL'S LOSS The funeral took place Kensal Green yesterday Mr. Winston
Churchill's three-year-old daughter. Marigold Frances Spencer Churchill, who
died August 23 at Broadstairs. The service was conducted the Rev. B. C. H.
Andrews, chaplain, and only members of the family were Present.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Daily Herald - Saturday 27 August
1921<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The
funeral took place at Kensal Green just three days later. It was a private
ceremony but press photographers appeared in the cemetery; confronted by
Winston and asked to leave they departed without taking a single shot. There
seems to be only one photograph of Marigold in the public domain; taken with
her mother the little girl has her back to the camera and her face is not
clearly visible. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Marigold’s
memorial, attributed to the now notorious Eric Gill, is grade II listed. The
rather simple cross is in fact a replacement for a much larger Gill stone
column and sculpted crucifix that was stolen. The original inscription is still
in place on the square sectioned base. Marigold
was the only Churchill buried in the cemetery and the family had often
expressed its wish to disinter her and rebury her with the rest of the family
in Bladon churchyard in Oxfordshire, close to the ancestral home at Blenheim
Palace. An article in issue 87 of ‘Telamon’, the magazine of the Friends of Kensal
Green Cemetery says that “the task of re-interment was completed earlier this
year.” (2019). On February 27 2022 the International Churchill Society’s
website stated “The Churchill family have announced that the body of Marigold
Churchill, the fourth child of Winston and Clementine Churchill, was quietly
moved in 2020 from its original resting place at Kensal Green Cemetery in
London and reinterred at the churchyard of St. Martin’s, Bladon, where
Marigold’s parents, sisters, and brother are all laid to rest.” It isn’t clear
why the family would be announcing this two years after the event and neither
is it clear whether it actually happened in 2019 or 2020. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-53734286589374790282023-07-19T09:14:00.002-07:002023-07-19T09:14:41.265-07:00A too early date with death; Richard Newton (1777-1798) St. Paul's churchyard, Covent Garden<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpQlUBtMjngW3pHgBIfUSVXDvJcnhIkWDP1Itz4J52K0r_55qZAOpWKFxv_L49ZNnfGdWz5_sdnEnohwpdKAvs-MPfzC9ZhWFp6oNrnN1YjzNt5bxCwUv6fEYtHYuLlKNAkpCLNFfHwAgn91l-aLx9MENdunPJ5FJqcG0-XDZizTmXmsv5PYwpxSdLPlI/s1005/Newtona%20dance%20of%20death%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="626" data-original-width="1005" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpQlUBtMjngW3pHgBIfUSVXDvJcnhIkWDP1Itz4J52K0r_55qZAOpWKFxv_L49ZNnfGdWz5_sdnEnohwpdKAvs-MPfzC9ZhWFp6oNrnN1YjzNt5bxCwUv6fEYtHYuLlKNAkpCLNFfHwAgn91l-aLx9MENdunPJ5FJqcG0-XDZizTmXmsv5PYwpxSdLPlI/w640-h398/Newtona%20dance%20of%20death%203.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">A
google search for ‘William Holland undertaker’ serendipitously threw up results
for the totally unrelated print seller William Holland and images from one of
his artists, Richard Newton, who I had never previously heard of. Newton’s
promising career came to an abrupt end in 1798 when at the age of 21 an
infected louse gave him a dose of typhus and he succumbed to a lethal fever. A brief obituary appeared in the Hereford Journal
on Wednesday 12 December:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">On
Sunday morning died in the 21st year of his age, Mr. Richard Newton,
Caricaturist and Miniature-Paint of Brydges-street Covent-Garden, London, — a
native of Dormington, in this county. His natural abilities and fertile genius
promised a rapid course to first rate eminence in his profession; and his early
loss will be long regretted by his relations, friends, and numerous
acquaintances</span></i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Not
much is known about Newton’s short life. He is generally held to be a Londoner
born and bred but the Hereford Journal was sure that he was a Herefordshire
man, from the small village of Dormington. With scarcely any time to hone his talent and,
as far as we know, no formal training, he became a brilliant caricaturist and
satirist in the golden age of printmaking in London. Had he lived he would almost
certainly have been the equal of Rowlandson and Gillray. He published his first caricature at the age
of 13 and by the time of his death he had produced over 300 prints. For most of
his too short career Newton worked for the radical printseller William Holland
at his premises at 50 Oxford Street where he charged the public 1 shilling for
admittance to his 'Museum of Graphic Genius'. As well as designing prints for
Holland, Newton also illustrated editions of <a href="https://thelondondead.blogspot.com/2014/02/laurence-stern-1713-1768-st-georges.html" target="_blank">Laurence Sterne’s</a> ‘A Sentimental
Journey’ and <a href="https://thelondondead.blogspot.com/2017/06/sleeping-with-alien-portuguese-henry.html" target="_blank">Henry Fielding’s</a> ‘Tom Jones’. In 1793 Holland was prosecuted and
imprisoned for selling a copy of Thomas Paine's ‘Letter Addressed to the
Addressers’. Whilst he was serving his sentence at Newgate, Newton ran Holland’s
shop for him but shortly afterwards, according to Vic Gattrell in ‘City of Laughter’,
he opened his own shop in Brydges Street (now renamed Catherine Street) in
Covent Garden, “opposite the pit door, Drury Lane” as advertised on his later
prints. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Newton’s
satirical targets were the usual late c18th century suspects; clergymen, actors,
the aristocracy, politicians, George III, high fashion, all mocked with ribald
and earthy humour. His sense of humour had a macabre strain, with death and
undertakers being a notable theme. It was these caricatures that caught my eye;
a skeletal death clutching an hour glass and sitting on the shoulder of an undertaker
who is carrying a coffin on his back. “How do you do, my good friend and carcass box,” says death, “looking over my book I find you are next on the list.” The undertaker responds saying that “there are
many of the same name. It’s an old man of eighty on the next street.” On the
same sheet of this dance of death, a spade wielding skeleton makes off with a
naked baby while his plump mother in bonnet cries “Oh, you ugly kidnapping
monster, don’t rob me of my only little one.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPI1zsDGX-6zT0CtO5u67e855jjkNHa4tR_ojEqoAhmQeveZI7vdeyvtUxC-1HU989YvxT5pMMAEqFS1xXAkMRfRU3q5s_jCTxXaGdeRgpF25N0-oZgYv1aBWtOlLu7PqnKXmD0_PzTO7vWHbO1rUz69rnWru7_IuDTrfJQpCDRQbX5e97Bn8P2Sv_zKY/s686/Newton%20a%20dance%20of%20death.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="686" data-original-width="636" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPI1zsDGX-6zT0CtO5u67e855jjkNHa4tR_ojEqoAhmQeveZI7vdeyvtUxC-1HU989YvxT5pMMAEqFS1xXAkMRfRU3q5s_jCTxXaGdeRgpF25N0-oZgYv1aBWtOlLu7PqnKXmD0_PzTO7vWHbO1rUz69rnWru7_IuDTrfJQpCDRQbX5e97Bn8P2Sv_zKY/w594-h640/Newton%20a%20dance%20of%20death.jpg" width="594" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">In
another of his ‘Dance of Death’ series, a skeletal death lays his bony hands on
a wild haired miser to escort him by force if necessary into the next world.
The terrified miser clutches one of his money bags tight to his chest and tells
death that he doesn’t owe even a penny. On the table is piece of paper on which
is written ‘Plans for a hospital’ – perhaps Newton took his inspiration for this
image from the story of Thomas Guy, the miser who founded Guy’s Hospital? </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhTwZm5Ls9We9oRAFUl1GFqazHOzkZYgzXctLRudrRqGr9Qxqw4Q0hK5lzILH6s8_zyhaJdkpuCXs01E6gTii0M_jbj6cmwmiHRtI4It8fsJkQwTuHmySeXTCiftcRXZzYBuehMxqlZGhCgye3U0dMj30A-oAqUGkAQlUu-UnvnK1uh2MCb_-UsakGQc/s880/Newton%20undertaker.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="651" data-original-width="880" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhTwZm5Ls9We9oRAFUl1GFqazHOzkZYgzXctLRudrRqGr9Qxqw4Q0hK5lzILH6s8_zyhaJdkpuCXs01E6gTii0M_jbj6cmwmiHRtI4It8fsJkQwTuHmySeXTCiftcRXZzYBuehMxqlZGhCgye3U0dMj30A-oAqUGkAQlUu-UnvnK1uh2MCb_-UsakGQc/w640-h474/Newton%20undertaker.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">In
this picture an undertaker touts for business amongst the still living, presenting
himself, with empty coffin strapped to his back, to a high living old man, “I
am recommended by Dr Griffield,” he says “and shall be proud to inter you.” His
prospective client is clearly offended “Inter me!” he shrieks “The devil you
will!”</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzvXOqHaFmxSlUMQ70IZjubogIhUPTpnUiPEk2FyT6kMujwaGZ6-YhMEhtBQmRLBmh7NEwbeLY-rU_bt17mmcxMg7LWLfAb6YU8BblzmCmMDv6IqvHNCSUUaHNq2tm3PCaMULrBAXCLH26PCAMW1joFa2eLNp6mz_PJ-NtOdmJNDPhox_F2Dc4ZABkFY/s741/Newtona%20dance%20of%20death%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="677" data-original-width="741" height="584" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzvXOqHaFmxSlUMQ70IZjubogIhUPTpnUiPEk2FyT6kMujwaGZ6-YhMEhtBQmRLBmh7NEwbeLY-rU_bt17mmcxMg7LWLfAb6YU8BblzmCmMDv6IqvHNCSUUaHNq2tm3PCaMULrBAXCLH26PCAMW1joFa2eLNp6mz_PJ-NtOdmJNDPhox_F2Dc4ZABkFY/w640-h584/Newtona%20dance%20of%20death%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Death interrupts
a gout stricken gourmand as he is about to tuck into his dinner of roast
sucking pig…</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk2Tx8Em4_RW00ubn16P8rF9LBDQZi8CQR2WzxSXUyeglhxHN-uEoBVwQGzYHhZ7j0ZOEc0TzM4ssBiP4KlpsFP5gaTf0dKwO-0-9uJSs2UnlbOWZc7r_lPYDyyZl32aoiLJWoONf6iwIQE5GHC3xKcfhHWq9J2jfHByEI41d-cFhJQtGZhgZVHNEDyXA/s1000/Richard%20Newton%20Giving%20up%20the%20ghost.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="1000" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk2Tx8Em4_RW00ubn16P8rF9LBDQZi8CQR2WzxSXUyeglhxHN-uEoBVwQGzYHhZ7j0ZOEc0TzM4ssBiP4KlpsFP5gaTf0dKwO-0-9uJSs2UnlbOWZc7r_lPYDyyZl32aoiLJWoONf6iwIQE5GHC3xKcfhHWq9J2jfHByEI41d-cFhJQtGZhgZVHNEDyXA/w640-h456/Richard%20Newton%20Giving%20up%20the%20ghost.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“Giving
up the ghost” is one of Newton’s most successful prints, so successful in fact
that Rowlandson later produced his own version. A moribund old man lies quietly
expiring on his bed while a skeletal death stands by his window and takes aim
with his dart. A parson who is supposedly comforting the dying man snoozes in a
chair by a his bedside and an undertaker carrying a coffin on his back stands
hopefully at the door. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIduDQlUpe9izfxpNE5i7PC17miMqFVrn-DPMvrbRiCl6obcYtJUXBuoqVZaOw3br0O9_K3W4KCw1N3Now5GktAsVQhsfZS4ODZ4Dw-MB0TKtvegzoES1ejgIWYBeJwrJYILOzi5JPY8QZl3mFctUyafZ9rwrKVdLOna_7CwBiosBfl091HGKpyZK7Ze0/s1102/Undertakers%20in%20at%20the%20death%20Newton.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="695" data-original-width="1102" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIduDQlUpe9izfxpNE5i7PC17miMqFVrn-DPMvrbRiCl6obcYtJUXBuoqVZaOw3br0O9_K3W4KCw1N3Now5GktAsVQhsfZS4ODZ4Dw-MB0TKtvegzoES1ejgIWYBeJwrJYILOzi5JPY8QZl3mFctUyafZ9rwrKVdLOna_7CwBiosBfl091HGKpyZK7Ze0/w640-h404/Undertakers%20in%20at%20the%20death%20Newton.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">In
‘Undertakers in at the death’ Newton again mocks the men who make their living from
the dead. Three undertakers pursue a nightgowned old man in a red cap who is
about to be ambushed by a spear wielding, hour glass holding skeleton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One carries the traditional staff of the
funeral mute, with a cross fixed to the top hung with black crepe. Another
balances a coffin on his back.</span></p><p></p>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-65681389220036658612023-06-23T05:26:00.008-07:002023-10-13T14:49:08.159-07:00The enduring influence of Sir Thomas Browne; 'A Cabinet of Rarities' Erik Desmazières (Thames & Hudson 2012 £35) <p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNRUp8Iwo1-j0Vk_cLNugLVirMIz949U5_bAXu5FXSb_BcCtY0VJdM9kQv0dtbEfUorwy-u0kIIYABw42400UnDzWnQgS8ehAS9zK68Tbfpm5EtJkrHcuuVY0q1puVZBF5bpeepgp3CoYxFpYQpTv4vpHiETqsP0HpbSaewUcEYvOVFgdi7dhkpTM_/s1200/browne%20skull.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="765" data-original-width="1200" height="408" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNRUp8Iwo1-j0Vk_cLNugLVirMIz949U5_bAXu5FXSb_BcCtY0VJdM9kQv0dtbEfUorwy-u0kIIYABw42400UnDzWnQgS8ehAS9zK68Tbfpm5EtJkrHcuuVY0q1puVZBF5bpeepgp3CoYxFpYQpTv4vpHiETqsP0HpbSaewUcEYvOVFgdi7dhkpTM_/w640-h408/browne%20skull.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">When
the funeral pyre was out, and the last valediction over, men took a lasting
adieu of their interred friends, little expecting the curiosity of future ages
should comment upon their ashes; and, having no old experience of the duration
of their relicks, held no opinion of such after-considerations.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Sir
Thomas Browne - Hydriotaphia, Urn Burial, or, a Discourse of the Sepulchral
Urns lately found in Norfolk (1658)</span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="text-align: justify;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">When
Thomas Browne was born James I was on the throne and Shakespeare was still
alive. He is a difficult writer; his arcane subject matter, Latinate vocabulary
and long serpentine sentences can sometimes make his prose impenetrable. In the Oxford
English dictionary, he has 775 entries crediting with him with the first use of
a word in English; alchemical, ambidextrous, coexistence, computer, continuum,
disruption, hallucination, holocaust, therapeutic, and transgressive are
amongst the many words he is said to have coined. He is cited in the OED over 6500 times, which
include 4131 entries in which his writing is the earliest evidence of a word
used in the language. He perhaps never intended to be a published author; his
first book initially came out in an unauthorised edition based on a manuscript
that was circulating amongst his friends. Although he survived to a what was a
ripe old age for someone born at the beginning of the 17th century, he had been
preoccupied with mortality, the impermanence of life and the prospect of death,
since his youth. That first published book was a pirated version of the <i>Religio
Medici, </i>written when he was in his early thirties; “If we begin to die when
we live, and long life be but a prolongation of death, our life is a sad
composition; we live with death, and die not in a moment,” he wrote, rather
desolately, for a man in the prime of his life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4RZzUvWFezDyvMV81kglWtndXDKEBhubv_PKVq2dIhNm_fUBzIA6FSuZX5Nj-a7aDz21KwxZ5EBSEEifws6VotI6IXhT3yra8HMZSsaBVQ-Q36oj22ztBBjALZDE9TBe9g2_wrwWvv2CQYyDoiTyK1zLT1r_MzS7CIQ7Z0V8W4arAC6wkre1ewlwD/s3184/Browne%20skull%20illustrated%20london%20news%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2624" data-original-width="3184" height="528" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4RZzUvWFezDyvMV81kglWtndXDKEBhubv_PKVq2dIhNm_fUBzIA6FSuZX5Nj-a7aDz21KwxZ5EBSEEifws6VotI6IXhT3yra8HMZSsaBVQ-Q36oj22ztBBjALZDE9TBe9g2_wrwWvv2CQYyDoiTyK1zLT1r_MzS7CIQ7Z0V8W4arAC6wkre1ewlwD/w640-h528/Browne%20skull%20illustrated%20london%20news%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Despite
spending most of his long, relatively uneventful life in Norwich, Browne was a
Londoner, born in the parish of St Michael-le-Querne in Cheapside in 1605. His
father was a well to do mercer who died when he was 8. His mother remarried
within six months of her husband’s death, to Sir Thomas Dutton. He was educated
at William of Wykeham’s foundation in Winchester and Broadgates Hall at the
University of Oxford, graduating in 1627 and going to the continent to study
medicine at the Universities of Padua, Montpellier and Leiden, where he was
awarded a medical degree in 1633. After a short stint in West Yorkshire Browne
settled in Norwich to practice medicine, in 1637.</span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"> </span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">He married Dorothy Mileham in 1641 and the
couple had 10 children. When the Civil war broke out Browne was a staunch
Royalist living in a town largely loyal to Parliament. He did the sensible
thing, kept his views to himself and lived his life as quietly as possible during
the tumult of the war and Commonwealth. He was knighted by Charles II on a
Royal visit to Norwich in 1671. John Evelyn, one of Browne’s correspondents,
was in the royal entourage and took the opportunity to visit; he wrote
admiringly in his diary that Browne’s "whole house and garden is a
paradise and Cabinet of rarities and that of the best collection, amongst
Medails, books, Plants, natural things". He published just four books in
his lifetime, the </span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Religio Medici </i><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">(authorised version) in 1642, the </span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Pseudodoxia
Epidemica </i><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">or </span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Vulgar Beliefs </i><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">in 1646</span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">, </i><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">an</span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> </i><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">early attempt
to combat superstition and widely accepted but false ‘facts’, </span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Hydriotaphia,
Urn Burial, or a Brief Discourse of the Sepulchral Urns lately found in Norfolk</i><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">,
and </span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The Garden of Cyrus, or The Quincuncial Lozenge, or Network Plantations
of the Ancients, Artificially, Naturally, and Mystically Considered,</i><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"> both
published in 1658.</span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfsj6azBvNwGhDCYUPlWjldUBC4rx79xsCglpS948Ebff07icnB5tvDyN1dkzUIvnEcJWjwgncky7klA8gQn-jhCnhlUpy4AStsm57b9lyo3YtOl6BS37-YavRA3rWZfDM4MrPsGfvcUAuVGYH4YiPaVhfXv6CRF_8UMfy6uf0ejLh7noqiJg9xNtg_7M/s800/Thomas%20Browne.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="552" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfsj6azBvNwGhDCYUPlWjldUBC4rx79xsCglpS948Ebff07icnB5tvDyN1dkzUIvnEcJWjwgncky7klA8gQn-jhCnhlUpy4AStsm57b9lyo3YtOl6BS37-YavRA3rWZfDM4MrPsGfvcUAuVGYH4YiPaVhfXv6CRF_8UMfy6uf0ejLh7noqiJg9xNtg_7M/w442-h640/Thomas%20Browne.jpg" width="442" /></a></span></div><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif"><br /></span><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">To
be gnawed out of our graves, to have our skulls made drinking bowls, and our
bones turned into pipes, to delight and sport our enemies, are tragical
abominations….</span></i><p></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Sir Thomas Browne - Hydriotaphia<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">According
to William Stukeley Sir Thomas "dyed” on his 77th birthday, the 19th
November 1682,“after eating too plentifully of a Venison Feast." He and
was buried in the chancel of the church of St. Peter Mancroft in the centre of
Norwich, just a few yards from his house. There he remained, quietly
decomposing, for 150 years until 1840 when the sexton, George Potter, was
preparing the ground for a new grave for the vicar’s recently deceased wife. The
gravediggers were excavating a trench in front of the altar when a pickaxe hit
a piece of buried metal. This turned out to be the brass plate on a lead which
had split neatly in two from the force of the blow. The inscription on the
plate named the occupant of the lead coffin as Dr Thomas Browne <i>hoc luculo
indormiens, corporis Spagyrici pulvere plumbum in aurum convertit </i>(sleeping
in this grave, by the dust of his alchemic body he changes the lead to gold).<i> </i>In a letter to the <i>Athenaeum </i>dated
September 5thh 1840 Thomas D. Eaton, one of the churchwardens gave an account of
what happened next: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">On
a closer inspection, the coffin, quaintly described above as having been "
transmuted into gold" by the potent dust" of the mighty
"alchymist," was found to have been literally converted into a carbonate
of lead, which crumbled at the touch, disclosing the bones of its illustrious
tenant. There is no truth whatever in the report pretty widely circulated, that
the "features remained entire." The flesh had returned “to earth as
it was," but the hair of the beard was in good preservation. A portion of
this was compared with its representation in an oil painting of the knight,
suspended in the vestry, and the colour of the original corresponded exactly
with that of the copy. Now we have the testimony of Sir Thomas Browne himself,
that ''teeth, bones, and hair give the most lasting defiance to
corruption." The skull was sound, and still contained a mass of brain.
Unhappily for the phrenologists, the forehead was narrow, low, and receding;
whereas that part appropriated to the animal propensities was unusually large.
It may he right, perhaps, to add, that the venerable bones thus fortuitously
exposed were seen by few, and were reverently handled. After having slept
undisturbed for more than century and a half, it was reasonable to presume that
they had become incorporated with the soil; no sort of blame therefore could
reasonably attach to the selection of their resting place for another occupant.
I have thus given the true particulars of a circumstance which I should not
have made public, had not erroneous reports gone abroad respecting it. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSyGPIB_ISxSgEL6murW7m6tWcEKkX73uYax2S6Ow7gowmPFhV0TvH3KRZ8HajBBykhgfoAiuWOuxmvcH6SfGvxuvH69hhQVqDTIboQ8kM1pGyo5nWaEO_lp6ni6LuSqfIM0TEpyMn-WQjEU-TMj8tEimnxMClSZngWoztHiw2u0NlytpuYXs38Ajs/s1200/browne%20burial%20register.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="765" data-original-width="1200" height="408" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSyGPIB_ISxSgEL6murW7m6tWcEKkX73uYax2S6Ow7gowmPFhV0TvH3KRZ8HajBBykhgfoAiuWOuxmvcH6SfGvxuvH69hhQVqDTIboQ8kM1pGyo5nWaEO_lp6ni6LuSqfIM0TEpyMn-WQjEU-TMj8tEimnxMClSZngWoztHiw2u0NlytpuYXs38Ajs/w640-h408/browne%20burial%20register.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">One
of the ‘few’ who were summoned to see Browne’s bones was local antiquary Robert
Fitch, a man later described as one “whose ‘acquisitive complex’ was abnormally
developed even for an antiquary.” Shortly after Fitch had visited the coffin
plate was noted as missing. Fitch strenuously denied having removed and claimed
that the plate was in the possession of the sexton George Potter. Potter denied
having taken the plate or having it in his possession. Accusation and counter
accusation were made but the plate was not found; not until 1893 that is, 53
years later, when Robert Fitch died and his heirs found the coffin plate in his
desk drawer. His shamed faced executors returned the plate to the church. So
much attention had been focused on the hue and cry raised over the coffin plate
that seemingly no one had noticed that an even bigger trophy had been removed
from the grave – Browne’s toothless skull. This reappeared much sooner than the
missing coffin plate; by 1845 it was in the possession of a certain Dr. Lubbock
who donated it, along with a lock of hair also said to belong to Browne, to the
Norwich Hospital where it stayed on public display until the 1920’s. George
Potter, the sexton, was (and still is) generally claimed to have been
responsible for removing the skull from the grave and then hawking it around
Norwich trying to sell it to the highest bidder. Canon Frederick James Meyrick,
who was responsible for the campaign that led to the return of the skull to the
church in 1922, did not believe George Potter’s to be the guilty party. The
Canon, who had a rather snappy writing style for a man of the cloth, wrote an
account of the affair entitled ‘Thomas Browne; the story of his skull, his wig
and his coffin plate’ which was published in the British Medical Journal on 06
May 1922. “Now the sexton in 1840, when the grave was ‘knav’d,’ was a most worthy
and loyal servant of the church,” he wrote, “The sexton of 1840 was a man of
considerable means, for he could afford to present the church that he served
with such fidelity with a beautiful oak door.” Canon Meyrick’s money was on
Robert Fitch; “Did the antiquary, who was the only man who claimed to have seen
the skull and who most certainly ‘borrowed’ the coffin plate, also ‘borrow,’ with
or without the churchwarden’s consent, the skull?” he asks rhetorically before
answering his own question, “it looks like it.” </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwrFKCsIyzZF6bRqYE-HzdgDKKh0dMijXzDryAQnjBOAN2rBhmE1smPy4Tnel--aHxDpJyevPvCjziTcyaid1yWRYtlo6_dRGJsoAhXi8M6AG9e2OigTZT2ZIzrAMBhCdVQVD_lzxiomIaeeIeuJuBwc8q_9X_RHdBm4MFHLHXUvIsylnFN7fIdhbW/s862/Thomas%20Browne%20skull%20print%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="862" data-original-width="543" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwrFKCsIyzZF6bRqYE-HzdgDKKh0dMijXzDryAQnjBOAN2rBhmE1smPy4Tnel--aHxDpJyevPvCjziTcyaid1yWRYtlo6_dRGJsoAhXi8M6AG9e2OigTZT2ZIzrAMBhCdVQVD_lzxiomIaeeIeuJuBwc8q_9X_RHdBm4MFHLHXUvIsylnFN7fIdhbW/w404-h640/Thomas%20Browne%20skull%20print%20(1).png" width="404" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Canon
Meyrick campaigned long and hard for the return of the skull to the church and on
16 January 1922 the Westminster Gazette reported:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">SIR
T. BROWNE'S SKULL TO BE REINTERRED BY THE CHURCH. The controversy between the authorities of
the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital and of St. Peter Mancroft Church regarding the
disposal of the skull of Sir Thomas Browne, the famous seventeenth-century
Physician and philosopher, ended on Saturday by the decision of the governors
of the hospital to hand the skull back to the church, from which it had been
taken seventy years ago. The board of management of the hospital recommended
that the skull he handed back on condition that it be interred reverently, and
not exposed to public view. Canon Merrick, vicar of St. Peter's, suggested that
this first condition was like asking a hospital doctor to perform an operation,
and adding, "Don't be drunk when you do it." The skull would be
interred reverently as a matter of course. Ultimately the governors agreed by a
small minority to return the skull to the church unconditionally. Canon Meyrick
said that whether it was the skull of the great philosopher or of a poor
peasant, it had been entrusted to the church till the end of Time.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Before
reburying it in the church, Canon Meyrick sent the skull to the Royal College
of Surgeons to be weighed and measured and have a cranial cast taken. On 4 July
1922 it was reinterred in the chancel, Meyrick duly recording the fact in the
burial register noting in the address column ‘Norfolk & Norwich Hospital
Museum’ and recording Browne’s age as 317. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB_GL06Psj7oQJEg0-E3eqHFn7s68PK5_rZ12f2VYgIgRKWAL-bMLbBacDkl4l4d_x9zMJa87N5D0mc6b5sdvuN7kxtiNWfdHyIzcOTCTW02GH0NODCDd3rn3czWy4cS8-kTA8ElSFRZBIzkMXqigor8jxsJSHuzcxwQiaGbhKeG9AjeR_xQ4Adeff/s1200/Browne%20desmazieres%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="878" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB_GL06Psj7oQJEg0-E3eqHFn7s68PK5_rZ12f2VYgIgRKWAL-bMLbBacDkl4l4d_x9zMJa87N5D0mc6b5sdvuN7kxtiNWfdHyIzcOTCTW02GH0NODCDd3rn3czWy4cS8-kTA8ElSFRZBIzkMXqigor8jxsJSHuzcxwQiaGbhKeG9AjeR_xQ4Adeff/w468-h640/Browne%20desmazieres%20(1).jpg" width="468" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Browne’s
baroque prose style has garnered many literary admirers over the years
including Dr Johnson, Coleridge, Charles Lamb, Thomas De Quincey, Herman
Meville, Edgar Allen Poe, Lytton Strachey, Virginia Woolf, Borges and, most
recently, WG Sebald. The admiration is often leavened with an undercurrent of condescension;
some of Browne’s “most pleasing performances,” said Dr. Johnson, “have been
produced by learning and genius exercised upon subjects of little importance.” Coleridge
considered him a man with “a little twist in the brains” while Melville described
him as “a crack’d angel.” Chesterton wrote that he was “a man who reverences
small [things], who reduces himself to a point, without parts or magnitude, so
that to him the grass is really a forest and the grasshopper a dragon.” Jorge
Luis Borges, without even a hint of irony, considered him as the best writer of
prose in English and said in an interview “When I was a young man, I played the
sedulous ape to Sir Thomas Browne. I tried to do so in Spanish.” Browne is a
writer’s writer and it is unusual to find him influencing an artist. But the
French lithographer and printmaker Erik Desmazières seems to have often had his
imagination fired as much by writers as by other visual artists. His 2012 book <i>Le
Miroir des Vanités </i>(published in English as <i>A Cabinet of Rarities</i> by
Thames & Hudson) is, as the English subtitle puts it, an examination of the
“antiquarian obsession and the spell of death”, taking as its starting point Sir
Thomas’s posthumously published <i>Musaeum Clausum</i> (also known as the <i>Bibliotheca
Abscondita</i>). </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLGjkFwzq_TsgvxEUYZIH4-ACuTQle9vGo2eMTA3TugEaUxAor1W1vJDu7jhfsF3nA1dUhiiHMXZ4qQ_D2iuuRQM9pDCCR1TcL6BEMWKSGh3zsd_3CxZolIF1ZMY3Ej9XYK_rxt9aOkNnPSSuK15O2-WZYONpI4MV8_Q2SbFOrNhy_-Ef6w7FmMWYE/s769/Portrait-of-Sir-Thomas-Browne.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="769" data-original-width="538" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLGjkFwzq_TsgvxEUYZIH4-ACuTQle9vGo2eMTA3TugEaUxAor1W1vJDu7jhfsF3nA1dUhiiHMXZ4qQ_D2iuuRQM9pDCCR1TcL6BEMWKSGh3zsd_3CxZolIF1ZMY3Ej9XYK_rxt9aOkNnPSSuK15O2-WZYONpI4MV8_Q2SbFOrNhy_-Ef6w7FmMWYE/w448-h640/Portrait-of-Sir-Thomas-Browne.jpg" width="448" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Erik
Desmazières was born in the Moroccan city of Rabat in in 1948. His father was a
French diplomat and he spent his childhood moving between Morocco, Portugal and
France. Following family tradition, he studied political science at the Institut
d'Etudes Politiques de Paris and after graduating began working for the French
civil service. His heart was not really
in his career and at night classes he studied drawing and printmaking. In 1975
he gave up his job and devoted himself full time to his art. Under the influence
of Albrecht Dürer, Giambattista Piranesi, Jacques Callot and Maurits Escher his
prints are finely executed, highly detailed, often hyper realistic but with
fantastical elements. His has illustrated limited editions of Borges ‘The
Library of Babel’, Kleits ‘The earthquake in Chile’, Melville’s ‘Benito Cereno’
and, in 2009 Browne’s ‘Musaeum Clausum’ (the closed museum). Desmazières only produced a handful of images
for the published book but the subject matter clearly fired his imagination and
he went on to produce the dozens that appear in <i>A Cabinet of Rarities</i>. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd95hjpjTYhCgQP4tljTtIpdatrFZHWuPmXQaKNoYgb2JArYyFs0536JbvxFGTjxt2PJ07mbDziowjVMjhG_nLD95RM9wIFx7ykqXB-MI5EGn50-t70_bo9yEvnUVoTcR3HIW2zFmWAiRSSosXCtuyC1Xfjjm3n1NPlbJj4DokPHWzc6ETKLNxlbOB/s1629/Thomas%20Browne%20wunderkammer%20(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="861" data-original-width="1629" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd95hjpjTYhCgQP4tljTtIpdatrFZHWuPmXQaKNoYgb2JArYyFs0536JbvxFGTjxt2PJ07mbDziowjVMjhG_nLD95RM9wIFx7ykqXB-MI5EGn50-t70_bo9yEvnUVoTcR3HIW2zFmWAiRSSosXCtuyC1Xfjjm3n1NPlbJj4DokPHWzc6ETKLNxlbOB/w640-h338/Thomas%20Browne%20wunderkammer%20(1).png" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">In
<i>The Common Reader</i> Virginia Woolf wrote that Browne’s mind was ‘one of
the finest lumber rooms in the world — a chamber stuffed from floor to ceiling
with ivory, old iron, broken pots, urns, unicorns' horns, and magic glasses
full of emerald lights and blue mystery’. This propensity to jumble together the
most disparate objects is seen strongly in the ‘Musaeum Clausum’ and which <a name="_Hlk138418344">Desmazières </a>draws on so productively in his book. The ‘Musaeum
Clausum’ is a tract that reflects Browne's fascination with collecting and cataloguing
curiosities, antiquities, and natural objects. A Borgesian note is struck by
the fact that all the objects described in the work are invented including a
picture of “an Elephant dancing upon the Ropes with a Negro Dwarf upon his Back”,
“a large Ostridges Egg, whereon is neatly and fully wrought that famous Battel
of Alcazar, in which three Kings lost their lives”, and “the Skin of a Snake
bred out of the Spinal Marrow of a Man.” Desmazières wonderful images draw on Browne
iconography, his version of the famous photo of Browne’s skull posed on top of
a copy of <i>Religio Medici</i> and the painting of Browne and Lady Dorothy in
the National Portrait Gallery. There are countless visual mediations on death
and decay and three extraordinary fold-out panoramas of a <i>Scarabattolo</i>
(influenced by a painting by Domenico Remps?) a representation of Rembrandt’s famous
<i>Kunstkammer</i> and a phantasmagoric <i>Wunderkammer </i>with all manner of
fish, snakes, walrus and crocodiles suspended from the ceiling of a cavernous
room lined with glass cabinets crammed full of urns, vases, coral, stuffed
monkeys and birds, mummies, figurines, clocks, shells and other marvellous objects.
</span></p></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Bj1YnBBbnPV6lmQiIu_NzMCA1ylCYIXRLWT_J6Klsx7qBDdg0Gn0M7oArPC35MIpFaeeHfp4Zc0oGgqFgabBaeLUphyQR_A-iFS6jo3lFNiBpSQ33qtcubEBK1o8z3njPlKCN-b1EObBtQFBR2ND5JDNDsYxv5bippww4I5mVJk63lXHYnTdTrJa/s1177/Thmoas%20Browne%20Scarabutto.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="845" data-original-width="1177" height="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Bj1YnBBbnPV6lmQiIu_NzMCA1ylCYIXRLWT_J6Klsx7qBDdg0Gn0M7oArPC35MIpFaeeHfp4Zc0oGgqFgabBaeLUphyQR_A-iFS6jo3lFNiBpSQ33qtcubEBK1o8z3njPlKCN-b1EObBtQFBR2ND5JDNDsYxv5bippww4I5mVJk63lXHYnTdTrJa/w640-h460/Thmoas%20Browne%20Scarabutto.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-51385339231562265252023-06-13T07:26:00.000-07:002023-06-13T07:26:06.161-07:00The amputee army of angels; Putney Vale Cemetery, Stag Lane, SW15<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh42LoVAUbZVh8Bj9vjNWdGcv6Dr33_9jZ2Ssucy1xUmXOtxXnlHb1WYwTFY7twglFbxZnD2fCBK3jxlH0lKT6Ws7wq8gweaEv0L66IQ9n8a6TTW6yTAhVxZWcmnacLho0ty-N2sLJwJs20dQb3Ssr_2dEsmHhVa7v1hsWWuP0pPk_355_kE6Fwdzfg/s3648/Putney%20Vale%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh42LoVAUbZVh8Bj9vjNWdGcv6Dr33_9jZ2Ssucy1xUmXOtxXnlHb1WYwTFY7twglFbxZnD2fCBK3jxlH0lKT6Ws7wq8gweaEv0L66IQ9n8a6TTW6yTAhVxZWcmnacLho0ty-N2sLJwJs20dQb3Ssr_2dEsmHhVa7v1hsWWuP0pPk_355_kE6Fwdzfg/w640-h480/Putney%20Vale%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I
was rather shocked to see that I had taken these photos on 17 September 2014, almost
9 years ago. Where does the time go? I remember one boring afternoon as a
child, when the hours were crawling tediously by, asking my grandmother why
time went so slowly? It only goes slowly when you are young, she told me, the
older you get the faster time goes. I didn’t understand what she meant then,
but I do now. No doubt you have heard the expression life is a rollercoaster?
That is because you spend the first half of it slowly ascending that incline,
barely looking at the view, impatient to be at the top and start the fun of the
descent. And when you reach the top, the descent is over in seconds, gone by so
quickly that you can’t tell if the feeling in the pit of your stomach is anxiety
or excitement. And then you are dead! So much for the fun of the fair. Anyway,
no one is interested in my existential angst are they? Putney Vale cemetery is
why we are here…</span></p></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2GUCyAB32saciUEJ3a0Tm4UqRvetdzEtvMzrfWI7dXpxtTdkOV5G1yOZ2YNr6oeWrJZ3D5_QbXx5RohL5xbzXgkLTH3skVLL46_W6drKjbo2NIgsDOBCHiFW1jKcg4kML6h9-jaLyh0K-JXUaNVRqYFyjE5JJb1a257VaXGKRM7glh7aVy9blaKZD/s3648/Putney%20Vale%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2GUCyAB32saciUEJ3a0Tm4UqRvetdzEtvMzrfWI7dXpxtTdkOV5G1yOZ2YNr6oeWrJZ3D5_QbXx5RohL5xbzXgkLTH3skVLL46_W6drKjbo2NIgsDOBCHiFW1jKcg4kML6h9-jaLyh0K-JXUaNVRqYFyjE5JJb1a257VaXGKRM7glh7aVy9blaKZD/w640-h480/Putney%20Vale%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">On
the north-west edge of Wimbledon Common, on the other side of the busy A3 from
Richmond Park, Putney Vale isn’t easy to get to by public transport, with no
stations nearby (the closest, Southfields, is a 40-minute walk away) the only
way to get there is by a meandering bus journey from Putney, Wimbledon or
Kingston. In this affluent corner of South West London anyone who can afford to
be buried at Putney Vale won’t be using public transport. A standard grave (40-year
lease) plus burial costs at least £8711, though there are discounts if you are
a resident of the London Borough of Wandsworth. The cemetery also has a
crematorium for which the fees are much more affordable, £690 including a 45-minute
service in the chapel, though if you don’t mind being incinerated first thing
in the morning, a pre 10am slot with a 20-minute service is a bargain at £342. This
cemetery has cachet; “the hard marmoreal glitter of Putney Vale, built on fields
that had been farmland since medieval times,” say Meller and Parsons in London
Cemeteries, “was, and probably still is, one of the most popular cemeteries
south of the river, having superseded the once fashionable West Norwood and
Nunhead.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSSxSBiYWwNZuel_y_GU1_ugkTNM5bd9KaC1gZM6Oael8TQXLPAGCxoBL6_vdoah0-jUWSZm14o1Ipb1tKhTCJLboIfeKQf1S7L_gNaxA0vpEh4qYA7mpC4GKO3fNfpw_nysDnQyd5VxyO3eWELTETROPbeoklIBiyKjJQ5KSEAIrCT_LCvv_pPYeu/s3648/Putney%20Vale%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSSxSBiYWwNZuel_y_GU1_ugkTNM5bd9KaC1gZM6Oael8TQXLPAGCxoBL6_vdoah0-jUWSZm14o1Ipb1tKhTCJLboIfeKQf1S7L_gNaxA0vpEh4qYA7mpC4GKO3fNfpw_nysDnQyd5VxyO3eWELTETROPbeoklIBiyKjJQ5KSEAIrCT_LCvv_pPYeu/w480-h640/Putney%20Vale%203.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The
cemetery opened in 1891 and proved such an immediate success, that it was
extended in 1909 and then again in 1912, and now covers 45 acres. At Putney
Vale we see a late flowering of Victorian monumental masonry dating from just
before the turn of the century through to the 1920’s and beyond. There are
plenty of famous names buried here, archaeologist Howard Carter, who discovered
the tomb of Tutankhamen and died in 1939 (and whose grave, to my everlasting embarrassment,
I have never been able to locate), Russian prime minster Alexander Kerensky who
lost his position in the Bolshevik Revolution and died in exile in London in
1970, and Jacob Epstein the New York sculptor who created the Art Deco flying
angel on Oscar Wilde’s tomb in Paris but who is himself buried under a rather
dull rock (he died in 1959). I have already covered the graves of <a href="https://thelondondead.blogspot.com/2019/01/the-convergence-of-twain-j-bruce-ismay.html" target="_blank">J. Bruce Ismay</a>, the chairman of the White Star Line who was rescued from the Titanic, <a href="https://thelondondead.blogspot.com/2014/10/spending-eternity-alone-colonel.html" target="_blank">Colonel Alexander Gordon</a>, who has an Egyptian style mausoleum (which featured on a Judas Priest albim cover), <a href="https://thelondondead.blogspot.com/2014/09/caravaggio-and-ira-percival-lea-wilson.html" target="_blank">Percival Lea-Wilson</a>, who
was murdered by the IRA (and has only himself to blame) and <a href="https://thelondondead.blogspot.com/2018/07/death-by-water-antonio-pedro-da-gama.html" target="_blank">Antonio de Vasconcellos</a> who held his 26th birthday party on the pleasure steamer the <i>Marchioness</i>
the night that she was sunk by the <i>Bowbelle</i>. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMqL1QA5T3PbrwIFeCmfioySYz-ygN2TFDx0aZ2Z3FpHRCY-VWnaIl-jAki7ybsLqEkd-iZqnRUHWam3pRcS5VkHuB8VsvrVWwwMT5EljuxkoAwyZxMcgPINdVLfv17dVzkcrOEo5OfdTg8NAH3nuK3OBOaP8py7ae0UA0vk_Q_s-kgK7Cf3Ev8oxU/s3648/Putney%20Vale%204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMqL1QA5T3PbrwIFeCmfioySYz-ygN2TFDx0aZ2Z3FpHRCY-VWnaIl-jAki7ybsLqEkd-iZqnRUHWam3pRcS5VkHuB8VsvrVWwwMT5EljuxkoAwyZxMcgPINdVLfv17dVzkcrOEo5OfdTg8NAH3nuK3OBOaP8py7ae0UA0vk_Q_s-kgK7Cf3Ev8oxU/w480-h640/Putney%20Vale%204.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Its
relatively remote location and, for many years, the easy accessibility on
public footpaths from Wimbledon Common led to an unusual amount of vandalism in
the cemetery. The angels look like they have all been invalided out of the army of heaven after fighting the last battle of the Book of Revelation. There is barely a single one who has not suffered at least a single amputation, many are double amputees forlornly holding up the stumps from missing arms or hands. A figure of Christ
with open arms has also been left completely armless. The best tombs are on the
perimeter road that runs from the chapel and crematorium, round the southern
boundary and ends at the Ismay memorial. Meller and Parsons say that the monuments
range from the ‘sublime’ (the Gordon Mausoleum) “to the ridiculous, exemplified
by the flower strewing angels in the blue and orange tiled loggia on Caroline
Lyons’ tomb (1924)…. Granite, marble, limestone and bronze jostle in frenzied
commemoration of wealthy residents from Wimbledon, Putney and Streatham.” </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKOyJd2hx-UawypoHAxVgdsPB34a-wLdv9mjErhyJdaCUVmF6KWuogyPVo3CEzBr_2_oxZqXn0zOsBeHW4e_rgpsOn918OfrEkFg4NIEfJqKHWVbh8t-zNAUYAqOryhFyBdL6d86VZEvwwwUF6mrKaNwd7msI-gnr1_qryhQoYvg6yBHHKncqdOF6S/s3648/Putney%20Vale%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKOyJd2hx-UawypoHAxVgdsPB34a-wLdv9mjErhyJdaCUVmF6KWuogyPVo3CEzBr_2_oxZqXn0zOsBeHW4e_rgpsOn918OfrEkFg4NIEfJqKHWVbh8t-zNAUYAqOryhFyBdL6d86VZEvwwwUF6mrKaNwd7msI-gnr1_qryhQoYvg6yBHHKncqdOF6S/w480-h640/Putney%20Vale%205.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">When
the cemetery opened it stood close to the rifle range once used by the National
Rifle Association for its annual meetings. These stopped in 1889 but the ranges
continued to be used by army volunteers with fatal consequences for gravedigger
John Ingram who was hit in the back by a stray bullet whilst digging a grave on
Tuesday 22nd May 1894. This is the story as told by the Surrey Independent and
Wimbledon Mercury in that week’s Saturday edition; <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">On
Tuesday afternoon an accident occurred at Putney New Cemetery, Kingston Vale. It
appears that a gravedigger named John Ingram. residing at the Plain,
Wandsworth, was digging a grave in the cemetery, when he was struck in the back
by a bullet, which penetrated his shoulder blade and embedded itself in his
right lung. His cries for help soon brought aid, and he was removed to the
Putney Police Station, where he was seen by Drs. M'Geoagh and Orr. Upon their
advice he was removed to the West London Hospital. The medical men hold out no
hope of Ingram's recovery. The cemetery is situated at the rear of the
Wimbledon Common rifle ranges. and the injured man was working with his back to
them. At the time of the accident a squad of men from the Civil Service
Volunteer Corps were practising. and it is supposed that it was a stray bullet
from one if their rifles that struck Ingram. Some time ago, upon the
representations to the ranger by the inhabitants around the Common, many of the
ranges were closed, and it is understood that the Duke of Cambridge only
assented to the present use of range in question for the sake of the
metropolitan volunteers. The accident to Ingram terminated fatally, the
unfortunate man succumbing to his injuries in the hospital on Wednesday morning.
The deceased man, who was only thirty-three years of age, and resided at 78
Point Pleasant, Wandsworth, was in the employ of Mr. Williams, of High -street.
Putney, the contractor to the Putney Burial Board. It appears at the time of
the accident three corps were shooting at the ranges, namely the 12th Middlesex,
the 25th Middlesex and the 4th Surrey, but from inquiry which has been
instituted it cannot be stated by which of the three corps the shot would have
been fired.</span></i></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1syXMo54rCF5X_MUCvYLrDE25_bOp0cAuDJDnT8zTF_i-MsWH76JJKbAJu_vzKU7ng0BfOkDzpqwaqto7viMey6H7y63S6uX7ATRYbZPV27093ICN-DOabPfAw8LP5bMySqJIjlb9IeFtsmS5TvSI9htYr7N71SLNNjiXxZmsDprSj0veh_ycqGz/s3648/Putney%20Vale%206.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1syXMo54rCF5X_MUCvYLrDE25_bOp0cAuDJDnT8zTF_i-MsWH76JJKbAJu_vzKU7ng0BfOkDzpqwaqto7viMey6H7y63S6uX7ATRYbZPV27093ICN-DOabPfAw8LP5bMySqJIjlb9IeFtsmS5TvSI9htYr7N71SLNNjiXxZmsDprSj0veh_ycqGz/w640-h480/Putney%20Vale%206.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Questions
were immediately raised in Parliament by John Cumming Macdona the MP for Rotherhithe
and responded to by the Home Secretary, Herbert Asquith (a textbook politicians
answer - “I understand that a military inquiry, ordered by the General Officer
commanding the Home District, has been made, and I have no doubt that the
result of the inquiry will receive the careful consideration of the Military
Authorities with a view to the prevention of further accidents.”) By July the
Surrey Comet was reporting that the Putney Burial Board was seeking an
injunction in the High Court to stop the commander of the various volunteer
regiments from allowing his amateur soldiers practising their shooting on the
common. Whether the injunction was granted or whether the volunteer regiments
gave up of their own accord, there was no further shooting practice next to the
cemetery.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_QSav6MJ_HBiciByT2EEgk8STyc8v6cpSXMxOQL4xYhVxVFFqDj6UBQ9Hxgwy_A7BmVT28Fgp_6X8ERCAyEHuqMc4nBCJ7UfoG27wD6vGO3wlzQzvVkhaAU2bhqtLwxSZyLFqmZRkWO2vyuq_J-wT2-nN4KpUY_mzVK8wFbWTaYmEhWObqyvfZoHt/s3648/Putney%20Vale%207.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_QSav6MJ_HBiciByT2EEgk8STyc8v6cpSXMxOQL4xYhVxVFFqDj6UBQ9Hxgwy_A7BmVT28Fgp_6X8ERCAyEHuqMc4nBCJ7UfoG27wD6vGO3wlzQzvVkhaAU2bhqtLwxSZyLFqmZRkWO2vyuq_J-wT2-nN4KpUY_mzVK8wFbWTaYmEhWObqyvfZoHt/w640-h480/Putney%20Vale%207.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUI1ib-viHvNHDAlT7Bh5Z0bv91vNGYlwksBzqiYt113HWKqJE0R_kdBhyIESYCqpl-gAnWwmaAVaBj6__5h200C3FVJJjqYlq2litpTvbjGYz-C8fyhq6B2FVOzuX1My1SlYUIdlsLwVFwIN3KCqTBKX3nwz9ZVlMk5ZhcwfIU_ZVAhRJDW0ugU3S/s3648/Putney%20Vale%208.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUI1ib-viHvNHDAlT7Bh5Z0bv91vNGYlwksBzqiYt113HWKqJE0R_kdBhyIESYCqpl-gAnWwmaAVaBj6__5h200C3FVJJjqYlq2litpTvbjGYz-C8fyhq6B2FVOzuX1My1SlYUIdlsLwVFwIN3KCqTBKX3nwz9ZVlMk5ZhcwfIU_ZVAhRJDW0ugU3S/w640-h480/Putney%20Vale%208.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVx8ZMxGLj-P0OhKW_Phk48rexaqdU6Y1ZaBazsWbz-Bt4sd6nkS18f-NZPBTbGyK4-VoPONbx0SCgLJ0Kut-5xWXqLS7w012ALMychRR03-9HoSCJ8cZ7xCi12zezw_NOl3HUw6emYQkHiSMnEUWM7su7H--MNTHNsI0RcJVwZnt1Z1vgO19iu4Uj/s3648/Putney%20Vale%209.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVx8ZMxGLj-P0OhKW_Phk48rexaqdU6Y1ZaBazsWbz-Bt4sd6nkS18f-NZPBTbGyK4-VoPONbx0SCgLJ0Kut-5xWXqLS7w012ALMychRR03-9HoSCJ8cZ7xCi12zezw_NOl3HUw6emYQkHiSMnEUWM7su7H--MNTHNsI0RcJVwZnt1Z1vgO19iu4Uj/w640-h480/Putney%20Vale%209.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-28639713607277695592023-06-09T08:59:00.003-07:002023-06-09T08:59:49.181-07:00An Ash from the Ashes of the Ash? The resurrection of the Hardy Tree, St Pancras Gardens<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzDdsxep-Z3_kfKQl7h1NkASFbuyweeHArM_dGg_1XnKvo3ow9EsxKpOcmAKYxzL4TZ1cgwdSZrHJ8EasV55umnEmd4AhS-K_IsiSNCEEtkmxjq4WYrxMSaPO2_o7CqPahMPiiMDP2MFvjllfpY2WDnAVP8nWSY1bYWbtN9LDP_SgDI8A6wB09WIyL/s4032/20230608_134703.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzDdsxep-Z3_kfKQl7h1NkASFbuyweeHArM_dGg_1XnKvo3ow9EsxKpOcmAKYxzL4TZ1cgwdSZrHJ8EasV55umnEmd4AhS-K_IsiSNCEEtkmxjq4WYrxMSaPO2_o7CqPahMPiiMDP2MFvjllfpY2WDnAVP8nWSY1bYWbtN9LDP_SgDI8A6wB09WIyL/w640-h480/20230608_134703.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">If
the Hardy tree could talk, would it be telling us that “reports of my death
have been greatly exaggerated”? It certainly looked like it would photosynthesise
no more following its collapse on Boxing Day last year. The <a href="https://thelondondead.blogspot.com/2023/01/the-death-of-hardy-tree-in-st-pancras.html" target="_blank">untimely demise</a> of the Hardy tree,
generally attributed to the pathogenic bracket fungus Perenniporia fraxinea, was
<a href="https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2022/dec/29/the-guardian-view-on-the-death-of-the-hardy-tree-a-legend-uprooted" target="_blank">widely reported</a> in the media over the Christmas holidays, but were we all being
too hasty in mourning the passing of the ash? When I strolled through St
Pancras Gardens earlier this week, I was surprised to see a healthy four-foot-high
shrub growing out of the tombstones that used to surround the Hardy tree. The
council still has a seven-foot-high security fence surrounding the site so it
is impossible to get up close. I’m no expert but peering through the fence it looked
to me like there is a of bunch of ash saplings sprouting from a piece of the
supposedly dead tree, just as they would grow from a coppice stool. Which can only mean the tree is not dead. Ash
is a very robust species and can survive in very difficult conditions and
through apparently catastrophic injury. The fact that the tree ever took root
amongst a barren arrangement of tombstones, its roots moulding itself like tentacles
around the headstones, is testament to that. Will the saplings survive the
bracket fungus that must still be infecting the roots? Will the council leave
the saplings to grow and try form themselves into a new crown? Or will they ruthlessly
prune it back? Let’s pray that they the Hardy Tree a chance to resurrect itself
if it can; that will be heartening to be see, a minor miracle of resilience.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdo6RDhk1jYmfBHaujxsI0tL5L2ZT2gxyZZjaDWaWWaLstUCABEWqmtzyry5xS6k0vEeICT93heA_HzYaq4Ws4e7TlcqVnJbbYCOGnqUcB6BAfHIXzq2qJ6303o5nyP_0FCQGvzNqCqbkflZFRu_lIO_vnGh6IMtyQXtK5wtx_oBrtQEsezUI5Ib_j/s4032/20230605_133458.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdo6RDhk1jYmfBHaujxsI0tL5L2ZT2gxyZZjaDWaWWaLstUCABEWqmtzyry5xS6k0vEeICT93heA_HzYaq4Ws4e7TlcqVnJbbYCOGnqUcB6BAfHIXzq2qJ6303o5nyP_0FCQGvzNqCqbkflZFRu_lIO_vnGh6IMtyQXtK5wtx_oBrtQEsezUI5Ib_j/w480-h640/20230605_133458.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-70611000500392201502023-06-08T04:14:00.003-07:002023-06-08T04:14:43.377-07:00Felo de se, à la mode; Coq d'Argent, 1 Poultry, EC2<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiimbQWRuDKLp75HV9HlSHq_cYkOwUCf0CDyNRctbrB_FGiEhXKlff_qvUiqhP_P5fM9o71mnWGn7GNsF6QhtFbDGPFUG8ZhoAlRNQcsLhJ7IGBrlCLpOKho2Np5UbbLImT7eUiEVc6VZ0Gj9w87DitJJGXi5-sbnPBiYRdDwrCkxEj-nLMXLWToQLn/s3997/1%20Poultry.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2998" data-original-width="3997" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiimbQWRuDKLp75HV9HlSHq_cYkOwUCf0CDyNRctbrB_FGiEhXKlff_qvUiqhP_P5fM9o71mnWGn7GNsF6QhtFbDGPFUG8ZhoAlRNQcsLhJ7IGBrlCLpOKho2Np5UbbLImT7eUiEVc6VZ0Gj9w87DitJJGXi5-sbnPBiYRdDwrCkxEj-nLMXLWToQLn/w640-h480/1%20Poultry.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Why do certain locations acquire sudden popularity as places to do away with yourself? The phenomenon is not new; ‘certain
spots in London have become popular with suicides,’ observed Walter Thornbury
in 1878, ‘yet apparently without any special reason, except that even suicides
are vain and like to die with éclat.’ The judgement seems a little harsh, and
‘éclat’ seems a strange word to describe the attitude of desperate people who
take their own lives. Anyone committing suicide in public in the UK (rather
than killing themselves in the privacy of their own home or in the anonymity of
a hotel room) is likely to one of three methods, throwing themselves in front
of a swiftly moving heavy object like a train, throwing themselves from a
height, or drowning themselves. In London this makes the underground system the
most popular place to try to die – a 2017 study by Martin
& Rawala found that there were 644 attempted suicides on the tube network between
2000 and 2010, though thankfully only a proportion of these were successful (132
actual deaths between 2004 and 2010). Around 25 people a year kill themselves
in the Thames, mostly by jumping off one of the city’s bridges but many more potential
jumpers are talked down. The City of London Police, who deal with most
incidents, have suggested that anti-suicide nets are fitted to bridges to catch
suicides in mid plunge but as far as I am aware this hasn’t happened yet. A
suicide prevention fence has however been built on the Hornsey Road bridge in
Archway from which jumpers land, not in the Thames, but on the busy Archway
Road, the A1, 80 feet below. Official figures show that 5 people committed
suicide here between 2003 and 2017. Ironically Martin & Rawala’s research
reveals that Archway was the 5th most popular underground station for
attempting suicide; any would be suicide frustrated by the fences on the bridge
doesn’t have far to go to find an alternative venue to end everything. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohwe5dRNxQEMsTwq2yhpYVAqUw6r0vhazznRbEVryxAVndxfV86pf8S9Dh5b9mLEDomN2ia8vVkd0Piw_qqaswano5IeMfbh6K1BVk1KX0EpvNvL325zpy_yRLuvWuVkFnIRoO90yGURWIcy20pdZYvjkiTrfGl6LP4mKhdtxXwrg__7O5EVfgzKU/s1268/fallenwomen%201%20poultry.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="764" data-original-width="1268" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohwe5dRNxQEMsTwq2yhpYVAqUw6r0vhazznRbEVryxAVndxfV86pf8S9Dh5b9mLEDomN2ia8vVkd0Piw_qqaswano5IeMfbh6K1BVk1KX0EpvNvL325zpy_yRLuvWuVkFnIRoO90yGURWIcy20pdZYvjkiTrfGl6LP4mKhdtxXwrg__7O5EVfgzKU/w640-h386/fallenwomen%201%20poultry.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bridges over the Thames have a long tradition of suicides</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">As
with the Archway Bridge, the most celebrated suicide spots are not necessarily
the most popular, perhaps just the most spectacular. In Thornbury’s day the
spot to die in, in the Square Mile at least, was the Monument. As it is a
200-foot plunge from the viewing gallery to the pavement at Fish Street Hill,
throwing yourself over the waist high wall in the gallery meant certain death.
There were six, well publicised, suicides at the Monument before the city
corporation took preventative measures and encased the viewing platform in an
unbreachable iron cage. Clusters of felo-de-se have caused concern about copycat
suicides since Goethe had the eponymous hero of ‘The Sorrows of Young Werther’ put
a bullet through his head in the novel’s finale and earnest young men across
Europe donned yellow trousers and followed suit. In 1974 American Sociologist
David Phillips produced statistical evidence to prove that the suicide rate
increased after any well publicised suicide – a phenomenon he dubbed The
Werther Effect (but otherwise often known as ‘the power of advertising’); subsequent
studies have confirmed that the link exists. Luckily suicides generally receive
much less media attention than murders, but not always. Suicides occurring in noteworthy
locations or involving unusual methods of self-destruction are more likely to gather
media attention and the publicity may then generate further suicide attempts, creating
a suicide hotspot. This is what seems to have happened at Number 1, Poultry
between 2007 and 2016, an address less than ten minutes’ walk away from the Monument,
when 6 successful suicides, each generating more publicity than the last, gave
the address a reputation as a magnet for those desperate and hopeless enough to
want to end it all.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLYndXXmextXJPYFu6ndpg29SKkMzQxK4Xyyn7qXKcfyKtAEkhN_WXOUP4J7-3uOU-_lf29hal2QhDg6lRhl8SaXIlDhYPlWgDAAzaG2_dh-cb0uDVLhznJipW-AFve7Vr0KYVRe7dRBdvWbjDlhF-X9SxtQ7c8qHleM5cF0Y_GO-2aThntbd3ZKho/s1366/St%20Benet%20Sherehog%20map.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="593" data-original-width="1366" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLYndXXmextXJPYFu6ndpg29SKkMzQxK4Xyyn7qXKcfyKtAEkhN_WXOUP4J7-3uOU-_lf29hal2QhDg6lRhl8SaXIlDhYPlWgDAAzaG2_dh-cb0uDVLhznJipW-AFve7Vr0KYVRe7dRBdvWbjDlhF-X9SxtQ7c8qHleM5cF0Y_GO-2aThntbd3ZKho/w640-h278/St%20Benet%20Sherehog%20map.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A map of London from the early 1600's showing St Benet Sherehog on St Pancras Lane</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">1
Poultry lies almost at the heart of the City of London and has been in
almost continual occupation since the Roman’s founded Londinium in 47CE. It was the site of the church of St Benet Sherehog which stood here, just to the
north of the junction of St Pancras and Sise Lanes, from its foundation in around
1080 until it was burnt down in the Great Fire of 1666. James Elmes in </span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A
Topographical Dictionary of London and its Environs</i><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"> (1831) says:</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">ST.
BENNETT'S, SHEREHOG, the church-yard of, is opposite to Size (formerly St.
Sythe's) lane, on the south side of Pancras-lane, Bucklersbury. In the year
1323, it went by the name of St. Osyth's, subsequently corrupted to Sythes, and
next to Size, from its being dedicated to a queen and martyr of that name. But
she was divested of the tutelage of this church by Benedict Shorne, a
fishmonger of London, who rebuilt and otherwise benefited it. He dedicated it
to the saint whose name he bore, and his surname, being corrupted into Shrog,
became, subsequently, Sherehog.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">There
is some dispute about Elme’s etymology which most sources now saying that
because the church was once in the centre of the old wool district the name
comes is more likely to come from “shere hog”, meaning a ram castrated after
its first shearing (apparently sheep can be hogs or rather ‘hoggs’, not just
pigs). Debris from the fire and subsequent building buried the church and its graveyard
for over 300 years until archaeologists at the Museum of London excavated it in
the 1980’s following the demolition of the old Victorian Mappin and Webb
building and the erection of the monstrosity that currently occupies the site.
The excavations revealed 42,000 fragments of pottery, 800 coins, 54,000 animal
bones and the well-preserved churchyard containing the bones of hundreds of
former Londoners (all carefully removed and preserved at the museum) and
funeral monuments dating back to the Middle Ages. The oldest was a Purbeck
Marble headstone bearing the Latin inscription ‘+HIC : IACET : IN : TUMULO :
CONIUX : ALICIA : PETRI (In this tomb lies Alice the wife of Peter), possibly dating back as far as 1190. The site continued to be used a burial ground even
after the fire. Amongst the more recent burials uncovered was the chest tomb of
John Maurois, from London’s Huguenot community, who was buried on 21 January
1674.</span></p></div><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg91Znn8T_igeKHKoH39Xs9BOFS-fRx9PR0aed0BqtSSogq53TrzllcF59_dtHkHa3X9yn4PY7HurqgtPPJs5NT3UEyz48ETSzjKxbbmRHl_egWDKmlBiHIeEl0MiCeuAsY6u5s0RDRCZ5s97f0pnUo8e_2dvnHfWhrFPZ4F3iHXz9y_V_IU_AqQYn/s612/St%20Benet%20Sherehog.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="612" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg91Znn8T_igeKHKoH39Xs9BOFS-fRx9PR0aed0BqtSSogq53TrzllcF59_dtHkHa3X9yn4PY7HurqgtPPJs5NT3UEyz48ETSzjKxbbmRHl_egWDKmlBiHIeEl0MiCeuAsY6u5s0RDRCZ5s97f0pnUo8e_2dvnHfWhrFPZ4F3iHXz9y_V_IU_AqQYn/w640-h424/St%20Benet%20Sherehog.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tomb of John Maurois excavated by MOLAS (note the skull and femur)</td></tr></tbody></table><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">In
1861 work started on the building of Queen Victoria Street, which runs from
Blackfriars to Bank, cutting a Hausmann style diagonal swathe through the old city neighbourhoods
and leaving a triangular site at 1 Poultry. In the late 1950’s Peter Palumbo
and his father began quietly acquiring the various buildings that made up the
site. Palumbo always had major plans for the redevelopment of the area; he
commissioned the modernist American architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe to
design a new building for the site in 1962. Palumbo obtained planning
permission to build Mies’ design for free-standing, bronze-clad, 19-storey
rectilinear tower in 1969 but final approval was held back by the City
Corporation until most of the site had been acquired. By the time this
happened, in 1982, the Corporation had done a complete volte-face and was now opposed to the
scheme. A two-year public enquiry then followed with Prince Charles weighing in
with the view that it would be <i>“a tragedy if the character and skyline of
our capital city were to be further ruined and St Paul’s dwarfed by yet another
giant glass stump, better suited to downtown Chicago than the City of London”</i>.
Palumbo lost his battle to build Mies’ tower and the City Corporation lost its
battle to save the existing buildings. Palumbo was allowed to level the site
and he revenged himself by commissioning James Stirling to design the current building.
Some people are fans; architectural writer Owen Hopkins wrote that <i>“1
Poultry occupies the wedge-shaped site formed as Poultry and Queen Victoria
Street converge at Bank. The apex of the wedge is one <u>the most arresting
architectural sights</u> in London, looking out across the interchange like the
prow of a ship. It comprises a tall archway topped by a sharp wedge of glazing,
with a stone cylinder and transverse viewing deck above.”</i> Others are less
enthusiastic. Jonathan Meades wrote that Stirling’s <i>"buildings, like
their bombastic maker, looked tough but were perpetual invalids, basket
cases."</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 2016 the Department
for Culture, Media and Sport accepted advice from Historic England on an
application from the C20 Society and gave grade II listed status to 1 Poultry,
making it the most modern listed building in the UK.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyjjEi_y6Jpf2aMSEPlbxLLLbpoH34w6cJ1ZA4SwdhzhubakR15JCU5vU0PTVpED1jX1__FIbnoDIbXs6htFzmtG-tFk27Iz6bOliVC5FgT68tq9Q74nYC_kINy4Pnn8-GBFF6Kmjzh3ApiX__TG5r47hQ9Aw4USbxf2g6we2HVTaYdRac3K94lqJR/s3978/1%20Poultry%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2984" data-original-width="3978" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyjjEi_y6Jpf2aMSEPlbxLLLbpoH34w6cJ1ZA4SwdhzhubakR15JCU5vU0PTVpED1jX1__FIbnoDIbXs6htFzmtG-tFk27Iz6bOliVC5FgT68tq9Q74nYC_kINy4Pnn8-GBFF6Kmjzh3ApiX__TG5r47hQ9Aw4USbxf2g6we2HVTaYdRac3K94lqJR/w640-h480/1%20Poultry%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">The
Coq d’argent restaurant, opened in 1998 by Sir Terence Conran, occupies the top
floor of the building, its name punning on the location and the name of the
architect (Coq = Poultry, d’argent = Stirling). The restaurant has a famed roof
space whose “outdoor terraces and gardens provide a verdant oasis in the heart
of the Square Mile” according to the Coq’s <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>website. Fay Maschler, reviewing the Coq shortly
after it opened for the Evening Standard, was impressed by neither the food nor
the ambience of Sir Terence’s diner (‘"Very Ramada Inn," said my
companion as he tackled his roast pork with a piece of crackling that he
claimed was closer in spirit to a toenail than to roasted skin’) but she agreed
that “It is without question a dramatic location, made the more so by
precipitous drops into the six-storey central well and bizarre protrusions
beyond the building's edge that give the feeling of walking the plank. In the
copious publicity Sir Terence is quoted as saying that he feels sure City
workers will automatically think of Coq d'Argent as the place to celebrate a
great deal.” Uncannily prescient, she then added, “It might also serve a
function in darker times…” May 2007 and the start of the financial crisis were certainly darker times but whether
they were a factor in the decision of 33-year-old city worker Richard Ford to
kill himself, we will never know. Reporting of the Leytonstone man’s death was not
extensive and no details of his personal life were given; what interest there
was centred around the place and manner of his death rather than the motivation
for the irrevocable act that ended his life. At 11.40am on Tuesday 29 May
Richard Ford, dressed for the office in a suit and tie, took the lift to the
roof garden of the Coq d’argent and very shortly afterwards fell 7 storeys onto
the roof of a number 73 bus on Queen Victoria Street. Paramedics had to use
ladders to climb onto the roof of the bus where they found Mr Ford already
dead. A road worker who had witnessed the incident said “I turned around and
saw him falling through the air coming down on his side. He hit the roof of the
bus and it made a sickening thud. He hit it head first.” There was insufficient
interest in the story for anyone from the news media to attend the inquest.</span></p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVsopDwI54WOaBAQslOght_Fuae3DBwV_qKvh0ZZehfKRyzM9_ZGB9M19uTO6jD4sor6xHgRZexgNvVuAnF2nw8YX0VxMlIlb_adVlo4HtUjK2d03dRc0c6xt7aIUo6-WT4ROMlWbB9zZmK9Ff7mkgbZRRUk1Bl9mQR4-MgiO0SOGtv_qosMAUFLPa/s627/Coq_dArgent_255-627x418.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="627" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVsopDwI54WOaBAQslOght_Fuae3DBwV_qKvh0ZZehfKRyzM9_ZGB9M19uTO6jD4sor6xHgRZexgNvVuAnF2nw8YX0VxMlIlb_adVlo4HtUjK2d03dRc0c6xt7aIUo6-WT4ROMlWbB9zZmK9Ff7mkgbZRRUk1Bl9mQR4-MgiO0SOGtv_qosMAUFLPa/s16000/Coq_dArgent_255-627x418.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The roof garden of the Coq d'argent by Thomas Alexander Photography<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">It
was two years before the next suicide from the Coq d’argent. On Sunday the 5th
July, just a couple of days before his 25th birthday, stockbroker Anjool Maldé visited
the restaurant at midday dressed in his favourite Hugo Boss suit, bought a
glass of champagne, paying in cash, then wandered out into the empty roof
garden and, still holding the glass, climbed over the railing and jumped from
the roof. <a name="_Hlk136964421">Maldé </a>had brought up in the quiet market
town of Yarm near Stockton-on-Tees <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and
gone to St Peters College, Oxford to study Geography. Before joining Deutsche
Bank he came second in the UK Graduate of the Year awards. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His best friend told the inquest that Maldé was
convinced he would soon become the youngest vice-president of Deutsche Bank.
Instead when he was accused of posting a prank comment on a financial careers website,
pretending to be someone else, his bosses at the bank suspended him while his
computers were examined. Whilst he protested his innocence the Google email
account which sent the spoof message also sent emails to the bank client
involved, offering to pay £500 to charity to 'make the matter go away' and
saying the sender was 'feeling suicidal'. The City of London coroner Paul
Matthews recorded a verdict of suicide at the inquest in February 2010. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">On
4 September 2012, 29-year-old Rema Begum from Manor Park in Newham, was the
next to kill herself. In December the
previous year she had lost her job at the British library after falling out
with one of the managers and had subsequently been diagnosed with depression.
Her problems began to multiply; a close relative died and she struggled to deal
with her grief and then her parents began to receive anonymous letters about
her lifestyle. The poison pen letter writer culled details of her personal life
from Facebook and told her parents that she was drinking alcohol and seeing non-muslim
men. The day before she died she had been discovered in her bedroom at home by
her parents with a rope around her neck. They had taken her to A&E at the
Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel where she had convinced staff that she was
just attention seeking and not seriously suicidal. The hospital discharged her with
a referral to a mental health unit. In the early evening of the 4th September she
had taken the lift up to the terrace bar at the Coq d’argent and bought herself
a glasss of white wine. At around 6.30pm she put down her handbag and glass, placing
a note carefully beneath it. Diners watched her climb over the railings and
onto a ledge and then fall 80 feet to the pavement. Commuters heading for Bank
Station only saw her hit the ground a few feet from the tube entrance. She was
killed instantly. At the inquest her psychiatrist told the coroner, Paul
Matthews once again, that she felt guilty for not living her life “according to
her family values and religion” and felt she would be “punished for leading a
bad life”. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_lwqpKxPqjW6tDYMtVjYVE_IA15h3VmTtZAFc8RHMKGXewr9gVYCRHKPHWIOKcqFuJn1CY8ZDU7V8X4tnZxxPQxdAUGY9DU0Y8HNXuobDYGgrFVYd-u6grAxQyeKrl-_P0b5Ha4hNiA-_QVcJ-f59AjwhHrixgDJ1ngi09GVsvYbsG3lp7_wrisAq/s634/1%20Poultry%20aerial%20view.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_lwqpKxPqjW6tDYMtVjYVE_IA15h3VmTtZAFc8RHMKGXewr9gVYCRHKPHWIOKcqFuJn1CY8ZDU7V8X4tnZxxPQxdAUGY9DU0Y8HNXuobDYGgrFVYd-u6grAxQyeKrl-_P0b5Ha4hNiA-_QVcJ-f59AjwhHrixgDJ1ngi09GVsvYbsG3lp7_wrisAq/s16000/1%20Poultry%20aerial%20view.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An aerial view of outdoor area of the Coq d'argent at 1 Poultry</td></tr></tbody></table><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><div style="text-align: justify;">The
next suicide occurred less than a month later on 11 October 2012 when 46-year-old
investment analyst Nico Lambrechts killed himself at lunchtime, calling his
wife but giving her no indication of what he was planning, and then pushing a
table from the restaurant up against a wall to help him climb over it and throw
himself into the central atrium of the building. He landed amongst shoppers and
diners in the ground floor shopping centre. A married man with three children
who lived in a £2 million pound house in Surrey, Mr Lambrechts had recently
moved jobs from Merrill Lynch to a smaller company who were planning to
relocate him back to his native South Africa. Work related stress, financial issues
caused by his difficulty getting his salary transferred from South Africa to
the UK and the imminent relocation were cited at the inquest as the likely
reasons for taking his own life. Following this fourth suicide Coq d’argent
announced that they would be installing a 6 foot fence on the perimeter of the
roof to prevent any further suicide attempts. They also called in the Samaritans
to train their staff on suicide awareness and created a hot line for staff to
put any potential jumpers through to the charity. None of these preventative measures stopped
39-year-old Wilkes McDermid killing himself three years later.</div></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Wilkes
McDermid was a successful, full time, blogger, writing about London’s street
food scene. Originally working in finance, initially at Blomberg and later at
Calypso Technology, he was born in Luton to Chinese parents, and had been
William Chong before he changed his name by deed poll. There had been a
previous suicide attempt in 2012; on boxing day he had flown to South Africa
with the intention of throwing himself off Table Mountain but, as he later
wrote in his blog, strong winds, fog and the proliferation of tourists on the
mountain meant he was unable to see his plan through. Wilkes was a regular at the Coq d’argent. On the
morning of Sunday 8th February 2015 he posted details of his ‘final’ meal on
Twitter ("There seems to be a fascination on 'final meals' with many people on line" he wrote), a 400g ribeye steak at Hawksmoor in Spitalfields (presumably eaten the
day before) and in the afternoon posted another tweet saying ‘Final message...
thank you everyone’ with a link to a post on his blog explaining his reasons
for committing suicide. He then went to the Coq where he drank a beer and
smoked a cigar before throwing himself from the parapet onto the street. His
final blog entry read (in part):<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">The
reason for my death is simple. I have concluded that in the realm of dating and
relationships the primary characteristics required for men are as follows.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><ul style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt; text-align: justify;"><b><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Height</span></i></b><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">: above 5ft10<o:p></o:p></span></i></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt; text-align: justify;"><b><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Race</span></i></b><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">: huge bias towards
caucasian and black<o:p></o:p></span></i></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 36.0pt; text-align: justify;"><b><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Wealth</span></i></b><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">: or other manifestation of
power<o:p></o:p></span></i></li>
</ul><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">From
my observations and research it appears that you need two of the three criteria
for success with very few exceptions. What does this mean it means that it’s
“game over” for me. By choosing to depart early, all I am doing is to
accelerate the process of natural selection whilst saving myself a great deal
of long term pain in the process.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">On
the 17th January 2016, 29 year old Mike Halligan from Dublin became the sixth
and final person to kill themselves at the Coq d’argent. Mr Halligan was a Vodaphone
sales rep and made a special journey to London to kill himself and can only
have chosen the Coq because of the publicity surrounding the other suicides. He
travelled to London on via the Dublin-Holyhead ferry and the train to Paddington
on Saturday 16th January and spent the day on his own in the city. On the Sunday he visited
the Coq at around 2.50pm and ordered a meal. He quietly ate his food and at
then at 4.04pm he left his table, scaled the six-foot security fence on the
terrace and threw himself from the roof. He hit the ground in front of a group
of tourists who were on a walking tour. One of the group, Fabian Graimann told
the inquest “We had just been talking about the fact that Monument was a place
where suicides took place. I saw him climb over the railings facing the
direction of the Royal Exchange. He then shuffled along the outside of the
bridge facing my direction. As he reached the end he jumped forward off the
bridge.” A Metropolitan Police Sargeant who had been put in charge of the
investigation into Mr Halligan’s death told the coroner that there were various
unsent text messages on his phone; “I am
bored of life and the future possibilities disinterest me. It’s nobody’s fault.
Nothing could have been done to change it.” Another said: “I am not made for
this world.” While the final message read: “I have cracked.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Since 2016 there have been no further suicides at 1 Poultry. </span></p>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-613460089317470402023-05-31T09:49:00.003-07:002023-06-09T09:27:56.051-07:00Dust, dirt, and silence; the cadaver tomb, Fitzalan Chapel, Arundel Castle, West Sussex<div class="separator"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3wChwfYrUxgjoX-X6Y7u95UGBYuZP-WoPE7F9Y4Uq-UjaQsXU9aOsLiX3H4aZy_thEJfFfYrsR_7IapksjyQSAu2xjOrIuB3mTwuBcFx4ArmVaFr91j5ozK9N_IH1dc0PhNIEKbZTRJIHlJxW31onp0pbiXHoxZkV_0lapv3gwUIf0WDFpWS8IyDU/s4091/Fitzalan%20Chapel%20cadaver%20tomb.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2183" data-original-width="4091" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3wChwfYrUxgjoX-X6Y7u95UGBYuZP-WoPE7F9Y4Uq-UjaQsXU9aOsLiX3H4aZy_thEJfFfYrsR_7IapksjyQSAu2xjOrIuB3mTwuBcFx4ArmVaFr91j5ozK9N_IH1dc0PhNIEKbZTRJIHlJxW31onp0pbiXHoxZkV_0lapv3gwUIf0WDFpWS8IyDU/w640-h342/Fitzalan%20Chapel%20cadaver%20tomb.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">I
visited the Fitzalan chapel in Arundel principally to see the rare and famous
cadaver tomb of John Fitzalan, the 7th Earl of Arundel (1408 – 1435) but found
that there was much more to see in a place where the Earls of Arundel and Dukes
of Norfolk have been interred for more than 600 years. The chapel itself is unique
in England; although it occupies the chancel of the Anglican parish church of
St Nicholas it is the private property of the Dukes of Norfolk and has a separate
entrance in the castle grounds. The Norfolks were famous recusants during the
reformation and the chapel has remained a Roman Catholic place of worship
throughout its 650-year history. The current church was founded in 1380, by
Richard the 4<sup>th</sup> Earl of Arundel, as a collegiate chapel but he is
not buried here. The 4th Earl rebelled against King Richard II and was executed
for high treason in 1397. Some say that ‘Torment me not long, strike off my
head in one blow,’ were his last words, pleading with the executioner to make a
clean job of it, others claim his corpse stood up after the fatal slice and, headless
as it was, still managed a final recitation of the Lord’s prayer before his
soul departed to meet its maker. The paternoster declaiming body was buried at
the church of the Augustin Friars, near Old Broad Street. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMoO6INMsErqgkqzp6sA3LXSZ_CmtJmZhF_IipRIqtAGKso4GEav-s319-9m9ZGSk2t-u0x6FzQWGUymzEhu-ia9tnsEE2HFm83ojYIETnEIofTJ3ewbOObm_fGB-0FLXWHPwTMx6XU-DALFfgMaU-Ct3sM5ViaVlJqn_35f4ExTAHcGvv6Ivdevk8/s4032/Fitzalan%20Chapel%205th%20Earl%20of%20Arundel.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMoO6INMsErqgkqzp6sA3LXSZ_CmtJmZhF_IipRIqtAGKso4GEav-s319-9m9ZGSk2t-u0x6FzQWGUymzEhu-ia9tnsEE2HFm83ojYIETnEIofTJ3ewbOObm_fGB-0FLXWHPwTMx6XU-DALFfgMaU-Ct3sM5ViaVlJqn_35f4ExTAHcGvv6Ivdevk8/w640-h480/Fitzalan%20Chapel%205th%20Earl%20of%20Arundel.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">The
Earl’s son Thomas was just 16 at the time of his father’s execution but Richard
II stripped the boy of the lands and titles he should have inherited from his father.
He was placed under the supervision of the King’s half-brother John Holland,
the Duke of Exeter. Thomas chafed under the close confinement and humiliating
treatment meted out to him by Holland, particularly resenting being given the
job of removing and cleaning Exeter’s soiled boots. At the first opportunity he
fled into French exile where his older cousin took to join forces with Henry
Bolingbroke, the son of John of Gaunt and Richard II’s estranged cousin. The 18-year-old
Thomas accompanied Bolingbroke back to England in 1399 when the King was taking
part in a military campaign in Ireland. Bolingbroke’s armed uprising against
the crown soon gathered sufficient momentum to persuade Richard, from his
refuge in Conway Castle, to abdicate in return for assurances that he would not
be executed. Bolingbroke was crowned King Henry IV in October 1399, but Richard
died, almost certainly deliberately starved to death, in Pontefract Caste just
four months later. Thomas was rewarded with the return of the family lands and
titles and became the 5th Earl of Arundel after acting as King Henry’s butler
at his coronation. He served his king loyally, helping to put down rebellions
in the Welsh Marches and in the North, and eventually becoming one his most trusted
advisors. When the King’s sister, Phillipa of Lancaster, was married to Dom João
I of Portugal to help cement an Anglo-Portuguese alliance, Thomas Fitzalan was reciprocally
married to the Portuguese king’s illegitimate daughter, Beatrice de Avis de
Coimbra. It was Beatrice who commissioned the magnificent tomb for her husband
that stands in the Chapel; Thomas had contracted dysentery at the siege of Harfleur
in 1415, fighting for Henry V. The severity
of the infection forced him to return home, where he died on his 34th birthday,
the 13th October. A miserable bacterium took
from him the opportunity of becoming one of the happy few, the band of brothers,
that fought in the glorious victory of the battle of Agincourt, which took
place just 12 days after his death. The Earl’s tomb occupies the most prominent
position in the chapel, immediately in front of the high altar. Alabaster
figures of Thomas and Beatrice, carved by the royal workshops, stand on a chest
tomb on which are carved twenty-eight figures. The original iron hearse still survives
and surrounds the tomb, but now serves as a candle holder. In the castle, hanging in a winding corridor that
leads to the guest bedrooms, is a water colour of the Chapel showing what I
assume is an antiquary, sitting cross legged by the 5th Earl’s tomb consulting
a manuscript spread open across his knees. There was no artist information or
date but I was very taken with the humble picture that had been relegated to
hang with prints and watercolours of flowers and birds in a part of the castle
presumably rarely visited by the family. I tried to take a photograph, but the picture
is behind glass and my shot shows as much of me and my fellow visitors
shuffling along the narrow corridor as it does of the original painting. </span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9pgfR2VUcsptjNePThwifp_AdBUx7Q0Z5bTqH48xo3DVB9QXPmfoL1DRDsYJmfhH1gqGzZM8Y2Qm8f5bSM8eBnKYH90DS5bUqpCjlxaKFeVqzzSneg9OlH9-IVsUpTwjZfa69yXuc9QrI4YyEPWnH1BE-8u3vo8fcvK0WKyBRewqLanc7mcAwRwei/s4032/Fitzalan%20Chapel%20watercolour.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9pgfR2VUcsptjNePThwifp_AdBUx7Q0Z5bTqH48xo3DVB9QXPmfoL1DRDsYJmfhH1gqGzZM8Y2Qm8f5bSM8eBnKYH90DS5bUqpCjlxaKFeVqzzSneg9OlH9-IVsUpTwjZfa69yXuc9QrI4YyEPWnH1BE-8u3vo8fcvK0WKyBRewqLanc7mcAwRwei/w640-h480/Fitzalan%20Chapel%20watercolour.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The
5th Earl had no legitimate offspring and so his titles passed to a cousin, John
Fitzalan. The 5th Earl’s sisters conformed themselves to the loss of the title
(which was entailed to male heirs) and Arundel castle but vigorously disputed
that the deceased Earl’s other land holdings should pass to his heir. Like every other red-blooded male in the kingdom
the 6th Earl spent his life fighting the French and the Scots though he was
often distracted by the continual legal skirmishing imposed on him by his battling
female cousins. The dispute was only settled 12 years after the 6th Earl’s
death, when the 7th Earl was finally confirmed as the sole and unconditional
heir. It is the 7th Earl who is commemorated in the splendid cadaver tomb that
I was so keen to see. No one seems to be exactly sure how many cadaver, or
transi, tombs survive in England. Some experts say 33, others 43 or 44. All
agree that most transi tombs show isolated sculpted cadavers; there are only
about 10 in the country which, like the Arundel tomb, have two effigies, with
the living shown above the dead in a double decker arrangement. Like his father
and his great uncle, John Fitzalan, the 7th Earl spent the majority of his
short adulthood in France, enthusiastically dedicating himself to the
continuation of the 100 Years War and earning himself the sobriquet of ‘the
English Achilles’ in the process. On 1st
June 1435 he led his men against a superior French force at Gerboray; during
the engagement his leg was shattered by a shot from a culverin. Unable to flee
the battlefield he was taken prisoner by the French and despite being heavily
wounded refused to let himself be treated. As his condition deteriorated a
French surgeon amputated his right let despite the Earl’s protests, but it did
no good and he died on the 12th June. The French chronicler Jehan de Waurin maintained
that the Earl had been buried in the church of the Gray Friars at Beauvais and
for this reason the cadaver tomb in the chapel was believed to be a cenotaph,
until it was opened in the late 1850’s by the Duke of Norfolk’s chaplin.</span></p></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMgAK4zb3iWq8Yzq4igY5fB0iSCSQjRDuJhFHTtXhfhuWCUZgKnpUk3acCxBq0lweXRdWRjZydGuuXmjTB397DJcuMG0k21l3SrfN4fR4pH-VGLgLoN9Q0pn1FmvJgZIlltctISx1kwfNPIu96GE2qKPnKgU4Izs8l0sdu72uOpUUuzBuYWVQ1j_WG/s3990/Fitzalan%20Chapel%20Cadaver%20tomb%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2992" data-original-width="3990" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMgAK4zb3iWq8Yzq4igY5fB0iSCSQjRDuJhFHTtXhfhuWCUZgKnpUk3acCxBq0lweXRdWRjZydGuuXmjTB397DJcuMG0k21l3SrfN4fR4pH-VGLgLoN9Q0pn1FmvJgZIlltctISx1kwfNPIu96GE2qKPnKgU4Izs8l0sdu72uOpUUuzBuYWVQ1j_WG/w640-h480/Fitzalan%20Chapel%20Cadaver%20tomb%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">In
June 1860 the Rev. Canon Tierney, the Chaplin of the Duke of Norfolk at Arundel,
wrote a letter to the secretary of the Sussex Archaeological Society, William
Durrant Cooper. Cooper was a lawyer and noted antiquary, a native of Lewes who lived
at Guildford Street in Russell Square at that time and was the solicitor of the
Reform Cub and the Vestry of St Pancras. The Canon’s letter was published in
Volume 12 of the society’s journal, the <i>Sussex Archaeological Collections. ‘Mr
Dear Sir,’</i> wrote Tierney <i>‘I have long wished to send to the Society an
account of the opening of the tomb (hitherto regarded only as a cenotaph), and
of the consequent discovery of the remains, of one of the most illustrious
among the Earls of Arundel, and most renowned among the warriors of the
fifteenth century.’</i> Tierney had been
contacted by the Rev. R. W. Eyton, the vicar of Ryton in Shropshire and the
author of the 12 volumes of The Antiquities of Shropshire. Eyton had been
researching a Shropshire ancestor, Fulke Eyton, who was born around 1440 and seems
to have been in the service of John Fitzalan, the 7th Earl of Arundel, in some
capacity. On the 8th February 1451 in the castle of </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Shrawardine
in Shropshire (the castle belonged to the Fitzalans) Fulke Eyton wrote out his
last will and testament. 400 years later his descendant, the Rev. Ayton,
consulted a copy of the will held in the Prerogative Court at Canterbury and
was struck by the following passage:</span></p>
<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Also I woll that my Lord of
Arundell, that now is, aggre and compoune with you, my seide Executours, for
the bones of my Lord John his brother, that I brougte oute of France; for the which
cariage of bone, and oute of the frenchemenns handes delyveraunce, he owith me a
ml. marc and iiii c. and aftere myn Executours byn compouned with, I will that
the bones ben buried in the Collage of Arundell, after his intent; and so I to
be praide fore, in the Collage of Arundell and Almeshouse, perpetually.</span><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></i></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitobTDtkEwFg_j0MCR-G-1SpU5LxvB--zoucntAg3V3VTaQ3NPM9mvwM2EXhBj2ptjxKvdsAH_9sRI4a32_hUlb08myrz0uy9-5VeZHHl8TMEluLDaBmNmHDQiSYEKi-5Rt4VA8oLu6pcpM62aErVed-QYwoQpGm4151yWD2lCoD8-EyNmy2UR0cbd/s1306/Fitzalan%20Chapel%20excavation%20of%20cadaver%20tomb.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="970" data-original-width="1306" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitobTDtkEwFg_j0MCR-G-1SpU5LxvB--zoucntAg3V3VTaQ3NPM9mvwM2EXhBj2ptjxKvdsAH_9sRI4a32_hUlb08myrz0uy9-5VeZHHl8TMEluLDaBmNmHDQiSYEKi-5Rt4VA8oLu6pcpM62aErVed-QYwoQpGm4151yWD2lCoD8-EyNmy2UR0cbd/w400-h297/Fitzalan%20Chapel%20excavation%20of%20cadaver%20tomb.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The only illustration from Tierney's letter to William Durrant Cooper, showing the excvation of the tomb</td></tr></tbody></table><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Fulke’s
‘my Lord John’ is the 7th Earl and Fulke is claiming to have brought out of
France the Earl’s corpse, his bones, which still seem to be in his possession. For
this signal service to the Fitzalans Fulke says he is owed 1400 marks and once the
executors of the will have been ‘compounded’ with, he wills that the Earl’s
bones be buried in the College, the Chapel at Arundel, according to the Earl’s
wish. No one knew is Fulke’s executors had received the 1400 marks or if they
had handed over the body of the late Earl. The Rev. Eyton contacted Tierney as
Chaplin of the Duke of Norfolk and Tierney did what any sensible person would
do to settle the question – he dug the 7th Earl up to see if he was really
there;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">It
was evident that only an examination of the spot could answer these questions;
and accordingly, I resolved at once to solicit permission from the Duke of
Norfolk for that purpose. The permission was readily granted; but delays,
arising from various causes, occurred in the execution of the design; and thus,
it was not until Monday, the 16th of November, 1857, that we could enter on the
work. On that day, the Duke, accompanied by some of the junior members of his
family, and several friends who were visiting at the castle, proceeded to the
chapel. I own that my hopes of success were not very sanguine. The tomb stands in an opening, formed for its
reception, in the wall between the two chapels,- the principal Collegiate
Chapel on the south, and the Chapel of the Blessed Virgin on the north. Its
sides, divided into arches, are open; and, as it was supposed to stand on the
solid foundation of the wall which had been cut away for its admission, the
only place (so it seemed) in which the body could have been deposited, would be
some small vault, close to the foundation wall, either on the north, or on the
south side.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">After
digging on the south side of the monument to a depth of about 3 feet Tierney
says it became evident that there was nothing to be discovered. He was about to
order the workmen to fill in the hole again when it occurred to him to sound
what he assumed to be the foundations of the wall that had been removed when
the monument was placed within the arch. At the second stroke of the pickaxe
the seemingly solid wall gave way to reveal a chamber within which <i>‘lay the
remains of which we were in search. As, with the single exception of a small
portion of one of its sides, the coffin, which had inclosed them, was entirely
decayed and gone, the bones were at once exposed to view. They were perfectly
sound, and evidently those of a man more than six feet in height. The larger
and longer ones had retained their places tolerably well; but the skull, no
doubt in the process of removal to England, had been shaken from its socket,
and had rolled back to some distance from the rest. Not the least interesting
feature in our discovery, however, was the evidence presented to us of the identity
of the remains. The Earl's death, as you will recollect, was the result of his
wound. The limb had been shattered; and there can be no doubt that amputation
would be resorted to. Now, among the remains, only the bone of one leg could be
found.’ </i>Completely satisfied that this one legged skeleton were the mortal
remains of John Fitzalan, Tierney had them replaced in their sepulchre before
sealing up the burial chamber, filling up the hole with the removed earth and
replacing the flagstones. </span></p></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBd1XhUBzEWy-z4Xqw5-cWpqp28YSLLV1PrLz0d0wlYGp96W2PXTEi-_-9iXmspkjneKreZFaQqkhZMeVj68gu91PvexZNHGfh3oda0D-oHoe5gK_GUvVVCN9rwl8tX1OwP-LedR6DTLCJB_tqgbs7ibNqyF4vw8JV4vZIz_mEymD9qb2ROcGSHbqJ/s4032/Fitzalan%20Chapel%20mausoleum%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBd1XhUBzEWy-z4Xqw5-cWpqp28YSLLV1PrLz0d0wlYGp96W2PXTEi-_-9iXmspkjneKreZFaQqkhZMeVj68gu91PvexZNHGfh3oda0D-oHoe5gK_GUvVVCN9rwl8tX1OwP-LedR6DTLCJB_tqgbs7ibNqyF4vw8JV4vZIz_mEymD9qb2ROcGSHbqJ/w640-h480/Fitzalan%20Chapel%20mausoleum%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">In
the 1870’s the catholic 14th Duke of Norfolk found himself in a dispute with
the Anglican vicar of Arundel over who owned the Fitzalan Chapel. The vicar,
supported by the Bishop of Chichester was convinced that the Duke had no title to
the chapel which was part of the fabric of the parish church. Following the dissolution of the Chantries in
1547 Edward VI had sold the Chantry of Arundel, which included the chapel, to
the 12th Duke of Arundel, making the chancel of the church the private property
of the Howards. During the civil war Commonwealth soldiers were barracked in
the chancel, causing great damage. The family paid little subsequent attention
to the chapel and it fell into a ruinous state of neglect. The vicar launched
an action in the courts and the Duke responded initially by building a wall
between the chancel and the rest of the church and then by restoring the
chapel. The action rumbled on for several years until in 1879 Judge Coleridge, Chief
Justice of the Common Pleas, finally decided in favour of the Duke. One newspaper,
The Brief noted that <i>“it may be an anomaly that a Roman Catholic Chapel
should obtrude in a Protestant place of worship, but in this case litigation
has done no good.”</i> The Times had no sympathy for the Vicar of Arundel; <i>“In
ordinary circumstances the difficulty would not have arisen. Had the Howards
accepted the Reformation, they would doubtless have settled very peremptorily
the question of the nature of the property held in the Fitzalan Chapel by the
college they dispossessed. As the townsmen and successive vicars of Arundel
have for the past three hundred and fifty years gone on very comfortably
without insisting that their great rector and landlord should show the title
under which he buries his dead next door to their church, they must not
anticipate much compassion now that it is judicially pronounced that he has
been burying them under his own roof and not under theirs.”</i></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNCSSUgBES-6euuS8OpF8tqo9sfowLslzG_7kKl4aRjvbpkryd84wNnJJMYX0up2gd_XzuXZQOASvJoRfgEWy_xFbD_0IauzVge9JOGR_EuB6lxR_kp1VKN0_uQDvLARmHrcGzNYN-hHWB_lWn7PRd6ImWRhI55KuFPaY2lpYxLRNSVJjLGM5pqr3B/s4032/Fitzalan%20Chapel%20mausoleum.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNCSSUgBES-6euuS8OpF8tqo9sfowLslzG_7kKl4aRjvbpkryd84wNnJJMYX0up2gd_XzuXZQOASvJoRfgEWy_xFbD_0IauzVge9JOGR_EuB6lxR_kp1VKN0_uQDvLARmHrcGzNYN-hHWB_lWn7PRd6ImWRhI55KuFPaY2lpYxLRNSVJjLGM5pqr3B/w640-h480/Fitzalan%20Chapel%20mausoleum.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">An
unexpected outcome of the dispute was the 14th Duke became the first for a
hundred years to decide to be buried in the chapel along with his wife Augusta
in a wonderful example of a high Victorian mausoleum containing white marble
effigies by the sculptor Matthew Noble. Noble is responsible for many church monuments
and funerary memorials and examples of his work can be found in York Minster,
St Paul’s Cathedral and Westminster Abbey. He was also responsible for the now
lost bust of Thomas Hood which stood on Hood’s grave in Kensal Green. The two
figures stand on identical stone Gothic revival tomb chests of Purbeck Marble
designed by M. E. Hadfield, a prominent Catholic architect. Despite the renovations
carried out in the chapel the Brighton Herald reporting on the burial of the
Duke’s wife aid that <i>“the dust and dirt and silence of the bat-haunted Fitzalan
Chapel at Arundel, the burial place of the Howards, were disturbed on Wednesday,
when the remains of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk (Augusta Mary Minna Catherine)
mother of the present Duke, were placed to rest among the long line of
ancestors who lie there.”</i></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDLX-JRQRRr8D0XIINOXkpY5vssYLF-IcbAFcGpPx6BzIcg6AmwS7niVoqOAnw-Lc4Uv18-wxJVxNMmyWG6sJbZJSdfa2d27ndSPfO66nZ2WWl5Tiob-faXK5tEHZU5d9ojaOLemt9QpH6AyrtOXl3zag5QJRN4X-0wQ_9G3qTc21LwJB08Mih6-lo/s4032/Fitzalan%20Chapel%20Henry%2015th%20Duke%20of%20Norfolk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDLX-JRQRRr8D0XIINOXkpY5vssYLF-IcbAFcGpPx6BzIcg6AmwS7niVoqOAnw-Lc4Uv18-wxJVxNMmyWG6sJbZJSdfa2d27ndSPfO66nZ2WWl5Tiob-faXK5tEHZU5d9ojaOLemt9QpH6AyrtOXl3zag5QJRN4X-0wQ_9G3qTc21LwJB08Mih6-lo/w640-h480/Fitzalan%20Chapel%20Henry%2015th%20Duke%20of%20Norfolk.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The
15th Duke is also buried beneath a tomb chest of Purbeck marble with a brass
effigy. I have no details of the artist unfortunately. The Dundee Courier of Friday
16 February 1917 gives an interesting account of the Dukes funeral;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">FUNERAL
OF THE DUKE OF NORFOLK. AN IMPRESSIVE SERVICE. The funeral of the Duke of
Norfolk took place yesterday at Arundel. Overnight the casket containing the
body had been conveyed in a waggon lined with moss and flowers and drawn by
horses to the chapel in the castle, where Canon MacCall conducted a brief
choral service, which was attended only by the Duchess, her relatives, and
immediate family friends. At 9.30 yesterday morning the remains were conveyed
from the castle to St Philip Neri Church. The gathering for the procession to
the church was large and of a most representative character. The road from the
castle gates was lined on either side by some 400 members of the Sussex
Volunteer Regiment selected from the nine battalions, the late Duke having been
Honorary Colonel of the regiment, and in the progress of which from the
commencement of the war he took the keenest interest. Requiem Mass was
celebrated at the church at eleven o'clock. In the procession the Boy Scouts
carried the colours presented to them by the Duke just before the war. They
were tied with black bows, and the boys wore crepe round their hats. Preceding
the waggon bearing the coffin, was carried the Duke's coronet, and immediately
behind followed his Grace's charger, with the white and gold cloth used in
State processions. The young Duke walked with Lord Edmund Talbot. Then followed
many tenants and employees, and boys wearing black sashes and girl’s, who wore
crepe veils, from the Roman Catholic schools founded by his Grace. Bringing up
the rear was the Bishop of Southwark and other clergy. The sight of the solemn
procession deeply affected the many local people lining the pavements. High
Mass at St Philip was conducted by the Bishop of Southwark and was deeply
impressive. After the service the coffin was borne back the Castle, the remains
being deposited in the historic Fitzalan Chapel. The Duchess of Norfolk did not
attend High Mass St Philip Neri but was present with her children the private
service at Fitzalan Chapel, where the remains were interred. A solemn mass of
requiem was celebrated at the Brompton Oratory, London, yesterday, and was
attended members of the Royal Family, many members of the Diplomatic Corps, and
distinguished relatives and friends of the late Duke. The Prince of Wales was
represented by Hon. Sir Sidney Greville, Queen Alexandra by Earl Howe, and the
Duke and Duchess of Connaught by Colonel Sir Malcolm Murray. Princess Louise,
Duchess of Argyll, attended person.</span></i></p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3eX0YUHDvaGaesvqqHlBtaahpAF5a1LiLFtVCkfZZXbVi2ihFcFXeGlJH14PEli5H2Q3B4fbggJGy5IerLa5zS7Q-W_V5r3KWlY-wDdBB0xhgtJ7GxKbuQaPJ56VqPxlvW1JQ9rV6OyphvXqHA0ET9Wf2Yv-GOUK0AkZH7ZaWlGDJ4RTRAnwc-7h/s3688/Fitzalan%20Chapel%20exterior.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2766" data-original-width="3688" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3eX0YUHDvaGaesvqqHlBtaahpAF5a1LiLFtVCkfZZXbVi2ihFcFXeGlJH14PEli5H2Q3B4fbggJGy5IerLa5zS7Q-W_V5r3KWlY-wDdBB0xhgtJ7GxKbuQaPJ56VqPxlvW1JQ9rV6OyphvXqHA0ET9Wf2Yv-GOUK0AkZH7ZaWlGDJ4RTRAnwc-7h/w640-h480/Fitzalan%20Chapel%20exterior.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The entrance to the Fitzalan chapel in the grounds of Arundel Castle</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186272137180441104.post-50482118081634063392023-05-19T09:42:00.000-07:002023-05-19T09:42:16.459-07:00The reopening of the Hunterian Museum, Royal College of Surgeons<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3OpFbGHIONJPX1z85nsDWI3xnfqR3XIaIh5B9Fg36Fb5fFnxN9oFfUPNgWJHnvqYR52PpdyXwGE24L11QmZE0ZPyw8MtT5Tb6khrIY3m20WEaHC8vLEZ55tiJsQw6twoZZeYIRg1Rbq_HS2NwcBFeC0wVRR1d2c3i-_1pTfdFBG_4hSIieto5XQml/s4009/Hunterian%20museum.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3007" data-original-width="4009" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3OpFbGHIONJPX1z85nsDWI3xnfqR3XIaIh5B9Fg36Fb5fFnxN9oFfUPNgWJHnvqYR52PpdyXwGE24L11QmZE0ZPyw8MtT5Tb6khrIY3m20WEaHC8vLEZ55tiJsQw6twoZZeYIRg1Rbq_HS2NwcBFeC0wVRR1d2c3i-_1pTfdFBG_4hSIieto5XQml/w640-h480/Hunterian%20museum.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">The
<a href="https://thelondondead.blogspot.com/2017/03/the-hunterian-museum-royal-college-of.html" target="_blank">Hunterian Museum</a> of the Royal College of Surgeons reopened this week after a 6-year
closure for refurbishment. There was a fair old media fanfare to accompany
opening day last Tuesday; ‘from syphilitic skulls to human foetuses, London’s
creepiest museum reopens after six years’ was the subtle headline in the
Evening Standard. The Guardian wasn’t much better; ‘From foetuses to penises: anatomical
museum reopens in London’. Apollo Magazine called it ‘London’s most gruesome
museum’ and Time Out breathlessly listed ‘Six gross things we can’t wait to see
at the reopened Hunterian’. One of the first visitors was 38-year-old Jennifer
Sutton who had come specifically to see her own heart. Jennifer had a heart
transplant at Papworth Hospital in 2007. Her old heart is preserved in formaldehyde
and is on display in the museum. “I'm glad it's in that jar and I have a new
one,” Jennifer told the Daily Mail, “'I am grateful though as it kept me alive
for 22 hears, it's like an old friend.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">I
went for a flying visit on Thursday lunchtime and the place was packed. It
remains to be seen whether this popularity will continue or if the museum will
revert to being the rather out of the way place it used to be, when you often
had the place virtually to yourself even at weekends. They have done a rather
good job of the refurbishment. I liked the old set up but the new museum (now
on the ground floor of the Royal College) tells a more coherent story, not just
about John Hunter but also about his pupils, the surgeon anatomists who
followed in his footsteps like the brilliant artist Charles Bell or the fastest
scalpel in the west end, Robert Liston. Some of the display cases are works of
art in themselves; my favourite contains a single white bust of John Hunter
surrounded by dozens of horned animal skulls and other assorted skeletal remains.
Hundreds of Hunter’s specimens are shown in a new crystal gallery, very similar
to the old one. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXBBjGXfxRKjxS0P60HTbMFyLmgo59sB2LI6RpUIAm-nVcO0aegop03tkFA4cNtv68PivQLyVszFktS9j8bJ8F1dTrvvshYyN4RnyfNauafpuYcCbmyf_k4l3klYaRqiYcDbspw0qvEUZhDFwgYgAnowmPwsBQ-FrYbxR97ppqXcUcjy4rOPjw1hId/s3890/Hunterian%20museum%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2918" data-original-width="3890" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXBBjGXfxRKjxS0P60HTbMFyLmgo59sB2LI6RpUIAm-nVcO0aegop03tkFA4cNtv68PivQLyVszFktS9j8bJ8F1dTrvvshYyN4RnyfNauafpuYcCbmyf_k4l3klYaRqiYcDbspw0qvEUZhDFwgYgAnowmPwsBQ-FrYbxR97ppqXcUcjy4rOPjw1hId/w640-h480/Hunterian%20museum%203.jpg" width="640" /></a></p></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif"> <o:p></o:p></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">I
was given a map by a security guard at the entrance but I didn’t look at it, I
just shoved it in my pocket. There were signs up saying no flash photography
which meant that non-flash photography must be allowed – a change from the old
days when all photography was prohibited. There were too many people in to get many
general photos so I mainly confined myself to taking pictures of the specimens.
Only when I later took out the map did I see the notice printed at the bottom
in red letters “Please be aware that the Museum contains human anatomical
specimens, including fetuses. Photography of human specimens is not permitted”.
I have some good, though rather disquieting, images of the fetuses, many of
which are so well developed that they are really almost full-term dead babies,
preserved in jars. It is perhaps just as well that I feel I can’t share them. Not
everything that was on display in the old museum has made into the new. </span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"> </span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">It is interesting that the fetuses remain on
display alongside the identifiable remains of people who almost certainly did
not consent to becoming museum pieces (Jonathan Wild would not want his
skeleton exposed to public view) whilst other specimens have been removed. The
skeleton of <a href="https://thelondondead.blogspot.com/2015/01/the-irish-giant-charles-byrne-1761-1783.html" target="_blank">Charles Byrne, the Irish giant</a>, is no longer on public display
following a campaign to force the museum to give up his remains for burial.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Byrne,
who was 8 feet 4 inches tall, made a living from displaying himself in public but
had a horror of the surgeons getting hold of him for dissection after his death.
Famously he left instructions in his will to be buried at sea to avoid what he
felt would be his inevitable fate at the hands of the resurrectionists if he
allowed himself to be buried on land. At an overnight stop on the way to the
Kent coast at Margate Byrne was removed from his coffin and dispatched back to John
Hunter in London whilst the empty casket was filled with rocks to imitate the
weight of the dead man. Whilst the rock filled coffin was being dropped into
the sea from a fishing boat Byrne was back on his way to London where Hunter
carefully sectioned his corpse before boiling it in a large copper vat to
remove the flesh. For over 15 years campaigners have tried to pressurise the
Royal College of Surgeons into surrendered Byrne’s bones up for burial. In 2020
they were joined by Dame Hilary Mantel, author of the excellent novel <i>The
Giant O’Brien</i>, loosely based on Byrne’s life. She wrote to the Guardian;<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2tnz6Wz8rYpmOcQ9YdeIi8U7_FHI3iPZP7pC8a6Uj6kArnSRxbE-fpnP1veHv7KRN6VZW3UZRlt1zjry6ibH2d9eVtuNwD6I7a2gYBjoOt0sIeIrzQTjpVirIavokaVGr8eT1L2UDKVg281ODivAKQroa9zyES6RZ15sDPE6Hb-k73Zip8fpALSLM/s3930/Hunterian%20museum%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2947" data-original-width="3930" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2tnz6Wz8rYpmOcQ9YdeIi8U7_FHI3iPZP7pC8a6Uj6kArnSRxbE-fpnP1veHv7KRN6VZW3UZRlt1zjry6ibH2d9eVtuNwD6I7a2gYBjoOt0sIeIrzQTjpVirIavokaVGr8eT1L2UDKVg281ODivAKQroa9zyES6RZ15sDPE6Hb-k73Zip8fpALSLM/w640-h480/Hunterian%20museum%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">It’s
time Charles went home. I know that in
real life he was a suffering soul, nothing like the fabulous storybook giant I
created, and that his gratifications were fewer and his end very grim. I think
that science has learned all it can from the bones, and the honourable thing
now is lay him to rest. It would suit the spirit of the times, and I don’t see
a reason for delay. He’s waited long enough. “I assumed the burial at sea was
just an attempt to evade Hunter, and that if the bones were recovered from the
RCS he would be buried in Ireland. I hope there would be a welcome party for
him, and I hope I can come and join it.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Alas
Dame Hilary died in September 2022 and didn’t live to hear the news in January
this year that the Hunterian Trustees, after considering the ‘sensitivities’ of
keeping and displaying Byrnes skeleton, had decided that it would no longer be
on public view when the museum reopened. It is only a partial success for the campaigners
as the museum will retain the skeleton but only make it available for
"bona fide medical research" into gigantism. The Irish Giant isn’t
the only person to be taken off display. I did not see any sign of the <a href="https://thelondondead.blogspot.com/2013/12/caroline-crachami-sicilian-fairy.html" target="_blank">Sicilianfairy, Caroline Crachami</a>, a primordial dwarf whose remains also came into the
possession of the Hunterian in a dubious manner. I also couldn’t find the brain
of Charles Babbage which used to be on prominent display. My understanding is
that Babbage did give permission for his remains to be displayed. Perhaps I
should email the Royal College and ask why…</span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTrcKkipST1K50rKckzMRO3SYiB7_EZBVBG41aV-wXCaKLvILYRzUE4oKWLurW20AjbGO65jAfE9ghQrQSYDcOq6hMBxTrL3UD0HxEBKtSw2ijtIiLDWPk1ewqj5Imzc6PquO3hZVNXm3qeVWmJF_0jiu65i5SCS6R37oWY2D5GnSPeExbG_cSBSoy/s4032/Hunterian%204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTrcKkipST1K50rKckzMRO3SYiB7_EZBVBG41aV-wXCaKLvILYRzUE4oKWLurW20AjbGO65jAfE9ghQrQSYDcOq6hMBxTrL3UD0HxEBKtSw2ijtIiLDWPk1ewqj5Imzc6PquO3hZVNXm3qeVWmJF_0jiu65i5SCS6R37oWY2D5GnSPeExbG_cSBSoy/w480-h640/Hunterian%204.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p></p>David Binghamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09520734437016132336noreply@blogger.com2