Hinxton headstones: Classical symbolism in Christian design

For decades the only attraction that churchyard gravestones (headstones, grave markers) have had for me has been the rich patterning of lichens and ivies – for which the stone has provided such a perfect home and purchase. And only after my encounter with the remarkable headstones at Stone–in–Oxney and Boughton Monchelsea did I realise that – in certain locations – the symbols and imagery, obscured to greater or lesser degrees by organic encrustations, were rich in historical and anthropological associations.

The headstone illustrated below was one that I came across in the graveyard of the Parish Church of St Mary and St John the Evangelist, Hinxton, south Cambridgeshire. As with the headstone at Stone–in–Oxney, I looked at it completely nonplussed. What was the gravy boat shaped vessel? An oil lamp? Was the ornamental central pot a handle to the lid of the vessel? And what were the curious diagonals behind the vessel? Once again I had to appeal to my friend Adrian Barlow for an explanation: I could not have asked for more, and I print it below the photograph, to give readers a chance to apply their minds to my initial complete puzzlement. Classics scholars should have no problems . . .

[Click on images to enlarge]

The curious diagonals are reversed flaming torches, in Greek and Roman iconography a symbol of death. The bowl is on the one hand a kylix, a Greek drinking vessel used at a symposium, and so symbolically drunk dry at the end of life (hence in Macbeth, “The wine of life is drawn, And the mere lees is left this vault to brag on” 2.iii.94-5). On the other hand it is the golden bowl of Ecclesiastes Ch.12, 6-7: “Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern. Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.”

I’m not sure about the jar with the lid at the centre of the design, behind the bowl: it could be a cinerary urn, (An urn for holding a person’s ashes after cremation, especially as used by Classical and prehistoric cultures.) perhaps. Compare the leaf decoration on the lid with the image I attach. I think this is the most likely explanation – especially since, in Greek and Roman practice, the torch was carried in the funeral procession and then used to set light to the pyre.

(Adrian Barlow)

Glass blown cinerary urn, from Pozzuoli
Italy, c. 1st or 2nd century

I think Adrian is certainly right about the small pot being a funerary urn. I had assumed it to be an ornamental handle to a lid on the vessel I could not identify (and I’m sure its separation would have been clear when the stone was fresh from the mason’s yard). It seems that the mason had drawn – part–consciously (and perhaps in large part unconsciously) – from centuries of funerary symbolism: seeing that which was originally polytheistic (or even perhaps pagan) through Christian eyes. If he had the golden bowl of Ecclesiastes in mind, then he has perhaps imagined it as a kylix. Certainly, he would not have had Greek and Roman symposia in mind, devoted – as they so often were – to earthly pleasures. As to the reversed flaming torches, would he have known their origin, or would they have been taken from a pattern–book, and simply used according to the designs developed over time and available to the customer? (The original derivation of the flaming torches was the Classical Olympic Games: the torch signified life when held up, and Thanatos or Death when held down – and how clear are the representations of flames in stone relief when you know what they are!) The following passage – on the symbolism of the urn – makes it clear that masons were often ignorant of the significance of the components of their designs:

In many cases it is obvious that the precise use of the urn was a mystery to the country masons who regarded it as an ossuary, as can be seen in several cases stretching from the fens to Bedfordshire, where angels lift lids from urns with the air of inspecting cooks, to reveal the traditional skull and crossbones within. (Frederick Burgess, English Churchyard Memorials, Lutterworth)  

Solid bronze Attic Greek kylix,  ca. 480 BCE

The handles of the kylix on this headstone do not correspond to any of those on the Greek drinking vessels, all of which have a gentle upward curve: both aesthetically pleasing and functional as controlling the level of the wine when drinking. However, upward inclined handles would not have worked within the space determined by the headstone as a whole (as traditional within the period the mason was working). The combination of straight lines and subtle curves is truly inspired.

The only other headstone that I found particularly interesting – and delightful – is illustrated below. I don’t feel particularly inclined to attempt an analysis of this scene – though perhaps I should. On the one hand it seems to be a straightforward expression of peacefulness: a cherub reclining and relaxing in the rays of the sun – breaking dramatically through the clouds – in Heaven or Arcadia. On the other hand, could it possibly be a representation of the Infant Christ? And what of the lily held in his hand? The lily would appear to be an attribute of the Virgin Mary, and therefore of purity. However, it seems unlikely that such a claim about the life of the deceased would be made. Perhaps the mason plucked the image out of a pattern–book and used it purely for decorative purposes . . .  

Much more straightforward in its symbolism is this headstone from St John the Baptist, Wittersham, Kent. There seems little point in paraphrasing this entry from Signs & Symbols in Christian Art, George Fergusson, Oxford:

Ivy. Symbolically, the ivy has always been closely identified with death and immortality. Because it is forever green, it is a symbol of fidelity and eternal life.

The ivy, which clings to its support, is also a symbol of attachment and undying affection.

18th C. headstones: Stone–in–Oxney & Boughton Monchelsea / Reflections on the origins of Christianity

St Mary the Virgin, Stone–in–Oxney, Kent

Cemeteries and graveyards are perhaps places that most of us tend to avoid. They are, after all, reminders of our mortality and of our eventual erasure from all living memory (the famous remain known about through their works or deeds, but not – eventually – remembered by anyone). However, when you reach ‘a certain age’, death becomes – quite naturally – a part of your everyday thoughts. Yet, if death is the Poppy of Sleep, then I cannot see it as any but that state we were in before we were born / conceived. We are hedged by two eternities of oblivion: we had no knowledge of the first, and – God willing! – we will have no knowledge of the second.

I confess that I do not like large suburban cemeteries – such as can be seen from the railway lines that cross and re–cross London. So little attention is paid to their upkeep that their very purpose seems to be undermined. The thought occurs too, that there must be a limit to such burials if cemetery space is not to exceed housing space. However, I think that cremation must long ago have superseded burial – else we must surely by now have had to resort to catacombs. A very delicate balance has to be struck here. I remember that, following the death of my paternal grandfather in the late 1950s, a special bench and small memorial garden was created in his memory, in the broad High Street of Bletchingley, Surrey – so well was he liked, and so much did he contribute to the village. When I last saw this, in the 1980s, it was in an exceptionally sorry state, and I would not be at all surprised if it was not by now unmarked and unrecognisable; and the memory of my grandfather lost – perhaps to all but a tiny handful of septuagenarians. Must we not accept this? I think that we must: the facts speak for themselves, and sentiment plays no part in it.

Well, the forgoing forms some general thoughts on the particular subject of this piece: two headstones in two churchyards in Kent – one at Stone–in–Oxney and the other at Boughton Monchelsea. The first I encountered, at St Mary the Virgin, Oxney, is illustrated below. 

Mary wife of William SAMSON of this parish died 28 January 1783 in 28^th year. Also of their children viz Sarah, Stephen and William. Stephen died 25 May 1782 aged 4 years. Sarah and William in their infancy. Also William Samson died 15 February 1822 aged 77.

I am quite sure that if I had not (in 2005) attended a course on The Classical Origins of Early Christian Art, I would not have recognised that there was something special about this headstone carving. It is, of course, a fair question to ask: what is the connection? It is, I think, that this relief carving has about it all the vitality, seriousness, and urgency that are the very hallmarks of early Christian art – which did not actually begin to emerge in definitive form until the late second century ce (See Endnote).  

When I first looked at this headstone, I confess that I had no idea what was being depicted. I guessed that it was illustrative of a New Testament story, though I cannot say why. For full elucidation I sent the photograph to my friend, Adrian Barlow – who has an encyclopaedic knowledge of these matters – and was sent the following explanation:

The relief image on the 18th century gravestone is unique in my experience. I think it shows the appearance of Christ to Mary Magdalene on Easter morning. MM is conventionally shown barebreasted and with flowing hair (denoting her status as a fallen woman). At her feet is a jar of embalming fluid, because she had been on her way to the tomb, but had been turned away by the angel seen in the background (conflation of two NT resurrection accounts here). Jesus, whom she mistakes as the gardener, is shown holding a spade in one hand. His other hand is raised to warn her not to touch him. It's that 'Rabboni' moment.

I wondered if there was any possibility of discovering anything further about this headstone, and was advised by Adrian to contact the Church Monuments Society. This I did, and was sent the following reply from Dr Clive Easter, MInstLM. FSA, Hon Membership Secretary:

Dear Mr Hart,

I made enquiries of my colleagues in the Church Monuments Society regarding the Oxney grave marker and received the following reply

Frederick Burgess, English Churchyards Memorials, London (SPCK) 1979, 198 has the following to say about the headstone at Oxney:-

"noli  me tangere. This scene has been found only in Kent and Sussex, at Bawden, Boughton Monchelsea, Hadlow and Oxney from 1762 to 1788; and later in Sussex at Horsham, Pulborough, New Shoreham and West Grinstead, from 1801 to 1823. At Hadlow Henry Kipping's headstone of 1784 (Pl.24) shows Mary Magdalene with her vase of spices kneeling before Christ, who holds a spade, flanked by the other two Maries who stand by a church; the two crosses remain on Golgotha, with Jerusalem in the background and watchful angels in the sky."

Inspired by this, I decided to visit the church of St Peter at Boughton Monchelsea, and there discovered the fascinating variation of the scene illustrated below.

Neither the date nor the inscription were readable, and the graveyard has not been recorded. However, the date will probably be late eighteenth century

Comparing the scenes on the two gravestones, the ‘central drama’ of Christ and mm certainly appears to be the same (even though Christ’s upper body on the Monchelsea stone is so eroded and lichen covered that it’s practically impossible to make anything out). If there is a restraining angel behind mm on the Monchelsea stone, I cannot make her out. However, there are two cherubs at Monchelsea that are absent from Stone–in–Oxney. Oxney has floral motifs on either side of the

Christ's spade

stone, whereas the border around the head of the Monchelsea stone appears to be a folded ribbon. There are two clearly visible palm trees at Monchelsea, which are also at Oxney, except that the trunks have almost completely eroded – to the extent that I had not noticed them before.  

Adrian writes:

I love the lichen and the patination of the Monchelsea stone, by the way. I think there is something very moving about such beautiful work gradually disappearing through the processes of nature.

View from the eastern side of the churchyard, looking south–east across the Deer Park towards Staplehurst

An even more remarkable variation on the theme is to be found at Hadlow. I have not seen this headstone, and the illustration comes from Frederick Burgess, English Churchyards Memorials, originally published by Lutterworth, then by spck, and recently reissued by Lutterworth.

Hadlow (Kent), Henry Kipping, 1784: upper part of headstone representing the Noli me Tangere [“touch me not”] theme, where the carver has emphasised Mary’s mistaking Christ for the gardener by putting a spade in His hand.

As described above, this version shows “Mary Magdalene with her vase of spices kneeling before Christ, who holds a spade, flanked by the other two Maries who stand by a church; the two crosses remain on Golgotha, with Jerusalem in the background and watchful angels in the sky.” The church is particularly interesting: obviously none such existed at the time of the Crucifixion, and the teachings of the “disciples of Jesus continued to be part of the worship life of the synagogue until well into the ninth decade of the Christian era . . . [and] the earliest disciples, beginning with the twelve and expanding rapidly after the Easter experience, were Jews. They were not called Christians until the second or third generation of the movement” ¹ The virulence of Christian anti–Semitism is perhaps not surprising, given that the roots (and the branches) of Christianity were Jewish. It would seem that Christ was a radical Jew, practicing a radical form of Judaism, which perhaps explains why it is so hard for the church to take him seriously. It is a reasonable question to ask: what do I mean by the latter statement? And I answer that, the contrast between the immediacy and far–reaching inclusiveness of Christ’s teaching contrasts shockingly – and embarrassingly – with the hierarchies of power, wealth, and ‘rich–vestmented’ ceremony that has characterised the Christian church for centuries (and which is entrenched to this day). The obsession with the status of women within the church and of homosexuals tout court runs completely counter to what Richard Holloway describes as “the angry pity of Christ.” I think that the example of Christ’s life sets a benchmark that it is nearly impossible to reach – and not necessarily desirable for the majority of us. Further, I regard some of his teaching as extremely dangerous – as for example, Luke 12:49-53. Even university students have been persuaded to reject their parents as a result of such texts:

I have come to cast fire upon the earth, and how I wish that it were already kindled! I have a baptism with which to be baptized, and how greatly and sorely I am urged on (impelled, constrained) until it is accomplished! Do you suppose that I have come to give peace upon earth? No, I say to you, but rather division; For from now on in one house there will be five divided, three against two and two against three. They will be divided, father against son and son against father, mother against daughter and daughter against mother, mother-in-law against her daughter-in-law and daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law.

We should have the courage to redact and reject such passages, if we are not to engage in the wholesale rejection of the inspired, original, and good on account of that which is clearly bad. The quantity of literature, music, and art that we would have to reject on account of the views and actions of creative individuals would be legion. We would indeed have to shut our eyes, stop up our ears, and take to a monastery or a nunnery . . .

And what relevance, I ask, have the writings of St Augustine and Saint Aquinas to the plight of the homeless or those living on the sink estates of Britain? I do not think that I need answer my question . . .

__________________________________

¹ The Sins of Scripture: Exposing the Bible’s Texts of Hate to Reveal the Love of God, John Shelby Spong [former Episcopal Bishop of Newark], Harper Collins, 2005

Adrian Barlow has written about a fine stained glass memorial window by James Henry Hogan, which is in the church of St John the Baptist, Wittersham, on the Isle of Oxney, Kent 
Reading stained glass (ii) Wittersham

Photos © the author, except for the illustrations of early Christian art, and the photo of the headstone at Hadlow

Afterword

The multiple appropriation of Graeco–Roman, pagan, and Near–Eastern images and art forms from which the first Christian artisans had to draw, overlapped and intermingled to such a degree that it is often nearly impossible to decide whether certain images are Christian or pagan – or even a combination of both. Two examples are illustrated below.

Jonah asleep under his gourd tree. Detail of a third century sarcophagus in the church of Santa Maria Antiqua

This depiction of a naked youth asleep beneath the shade of a gourd tree could be seen or interpreted either as Jonah (saved from the belly of the serpent after three days), or as Endymion asleep in paradise (or Arcadia). 

Mercury, in his guise as protector of shepherds and their flocks, or Christ the Good Shepherd?

Such images seem to have been super–serviceable and to have caused offence neither to neither Christian nor pagan.

Third century.