Non quomodo mundus dat ego do vobis, declares the marker of John Christopher Thomas, who lived but 15 days in 1930: “Not as the world gives do I give to you.” A fitting sentiment for parents trying to make sense out of their bereavement for a lost infant.
The extended passage, for which the snippet on the little marker stands, is from John 14:27: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”
Loudon Park Cemetery has endless surprises. One of them was a monument I caught out of the corner of my eye—it had more text, and in visibly different formats, than the normal monument with bare anagraphic details. The carving, especially on side 1, is actually quite beautiful. Here, I transcribe the sides beneath each photograph, reserving a few comments to the end.
IN MEMORY OF WILLIAM BAKER Born in 1747 near the Blue Ridge Mountains PENNSYLVANIA. Died in Baltimore December 30th 1816 aged 69 years.
In him were united all those virtues which charac terise the Kind Husband, the affectionate Parent, the Good Citizen, and Real Christian. He was a pattern of Integrity, Industry, Economy, Morality, and a warm supporter of all Institutions having for their object the glory of God and the Happiness of Mankind.
“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they rest from their labors.”
Keep safe O tomb! thy precious sacred trust, Till life divine awake his sleeping dust.
And also To the Memory of ANNA BAKER, Relict of William Baker, who was born in Fredericktown, Maryland October 28th, 1757. Died December 3rd 1841, aged 85 years.
The God of Abrah’m praise At whose supreme command, From earth I rise and seek the joys At His right hand.
WILLIAM, Eldest child of WILLIAM and ANNA BAKER was born in Baltimore on the 11th of September 1781. Died at “Friendsbury” on the 10th March 1865 in the 86th year of his age.
Inheriting the character of his father the testimony given of him may be truly recorded [. . . . . . . .] As a husband, a parent, a christian and a citizen [he] fulfilled the law of duty and loving kindness. In his intercourse with the world he pursued the straight path of rectitude, evincing a strong sens[e] of justice, yet ever tempered by mercy. Respected and honored by those who knew him full of years, he sank gently and gradually into death giving testimony that Jesus was with him to the end.
“So fades a summer cloud away So sinks the gale when storms are o’er So gently shuts the eye of day So dies a wave along the shore.”
JANE BAKER, Widow of WILLIAM BAKER Born in Liverpool, England, June 19th, 1784. Died at “Friendsbury” on the 18th May 1868 in the 84th year of her age.
“Her Children rise up and call her blessed.”
IN MEMORIAM RICHARD JONES. Born in Caernavon, North Wales, January 30th 1751. Died at “Friendsbury” June 4th 1811, aged 60 years. A Man full of faith and of the Holy Ghost.
ANN THOMPSON. Wife of RICHARD JONES, born in Milnthorpe Westmoreland, England, November 9th 1749. Died at “Friendsbury” June 7th 1806, aged 57 years. —— —— ——
WILLIAM GEORGE BAKER. Born on 19th January 1810. Died at “Friendsbury” October 10th 1855, aged 45 years.
MARGARETTA ARMSTRONG. Wife of WILLIAM GEORGE BAKER. Died November 10th 1845, aged 30 years.
WILLIAM ARMSTRONG BAKER. Died at “Friendsbury” September 5th 1847, aged 22 months.
Father, Mother, Child! They are not here, for God took them to himself to dwell with Christ in glory. Many years have passed since their bodies were laid in the tomb, but their memories are not buried in its dust and ashes. This model pair lived not for themselves but to do good unto others. In the midst of their use fulness on earth, they were called to a higher life in heaven leaving behind them an enduring testimony that they had not lived in vain.
“Faithful unto death.”
HENRY M. GRAVES 1839 — 1926
The poem on side 2 (figure 2) is the second stanza of Anna Laetitia Barbauld‘s The Death of the Virtuous. Here is the whole thing, on pages 315-316 the first volume of her Works of 1825. We’ve encountered her in these posts before.
Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies!— When sinks a righteous soul to rest, How mildly beam the closing eyes, How gently heaves the’ expiring breast!
So fades a summer cloud away; So sinks the gale when storms are o’er; So gently shuts the eye of day; So dies a wave along the shore.
Triumphant smiles the victor brow, Fanned by some angel’s purple wing;— Where is, O Grave! thy victory now? And where, insidious Death! thy sting?
Farewell, conflicting joys and fears, Where light and shade alternate dwell; How bright the’ unchanging morn appears! Farewell, inconstant world, Farewell!
Its duty done,—as sinks the clay, Light from its load the spirit flies; While heaven and earth combine to say, “Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies!”
There are a lot of people marked on this obelisk. Let’s see if we can sort them out. Richard Jones (1751-1811) immigrated to the U.S. from Carnarvonshire, Wales, in 1781, at the age of 30. He had married Anne Thompson (1749-1806) in Liverpool en route. He settled in Fells Point in Baltimore, now a hive of scum and villainy (I mean drinking joints) but ornamented by him with places of worship. His prosperous religiosity was passed down through the family. There he founded an urban estate called “Friendsbury.” Thus the two people on the top of side 3.
Jones’s contemporary, William Baker (1747-1816), was born near the present site of Reading Pennsylvania. When he was six, he and and unnamed sister were the sole survivors of an “indian massacre” and he was relocated to Philadelphia and thence, at age 12, to Baltimore. He married his wife Anna (1757-1841) there. He became a prominent businessman. Thus the two people on side 1.
William (I) and Anna produced William (II) (1781-1865). William II was a judge on the orphans’ court in Baltimore, and married Jones’s daughter Jane (1784-1868). From this point, everyone lives at Friendsbury. They had about a billion children who lived long enough to be cited in biographical literature. These included four sons, William (III) George Baker, Richard Jones Baker, Henry J. Baker, and Charles J. Baker. There are also mentioned five daughters, a “Mrs. Dr. Graves” and four others, unnamed. Thus the principals on side 2.
William (III) (1810-1855) had a “delicate constitution,” as they say, dying young. He was evidently quite intellectually apt, especially in mathematics; he turned to law, and ultimately became a member of the Maryland legislature. Like his forebears, he was a great philanthropist, though interestingly he is said at one point “not to be a professing Christian.” Was he an agnostic or atheist? A deist? That would make him interesting indeed, but the biographies I read dance around this question because they evidently thought it unseemly. Well. He married Margaretta Armstrong (1815-1845), and they produced the luckless William (IV) Armstrong (1845-1847). The dates indicate that the wife died during or soon after childbirth; and William (IV) followed her 22 months later. Thus the lower three persons on side 3.
Henry M. Graves (1839-1926) is perhaps the “Dr. Graves” to whom on of William (II)’s daughters was married. William (III), born in 1810, was the first of at least 9 children; were she the last child of the nine, she could not have been born before about 1820, and assuming (as I fear we must) miscarriages and infant mortality, she might well have been born around 1830, or even later. So it is entirely possible Henry M. Graves was “Dr. Graves.” However, if my counting is off, and William (III) was merely the first son, and not the first child, I suppose that Henry could be the son of a Dr. and Mrs. Graves if the latter had been born before or a very little after William (III).
The chief source of bibliographical information is George Washington Howard’s The Monumental City: Its Past History and Present Resources (Baltimore 1873); there is a biographical sketch of William (III) in the Magazine of Western History, May-October 1889, pages 169-172. A vignette of him lies between pages 168 and 169. This biographical data seems dependent upon Howard, however.
Under a late-summer mackerel sky in Baltimore’s Green Mount Cemetery stands the astounding Henry Bolte monument on its generous plot in figure 1. This prestigous corner of the cemetery, near the Gothic chapel and Hans Schuler’s famed Riggs and Baetjer monuments, is crowded with all sorts of monumental gems, and one appreciates Bolte’s (wife’s) foresight in putting their beaux-arts confection in a generous space. You can see the curbs and stones in place to keep the riff-raff at bay.
This beaux-arts folly consists of a cubic central mass with very unexpected, very wonderful colonnaded hemicycles bulging from its sides. As is often the case, the date is not clear, but I’m pretty sure Bolte’s wife, Virginia, commissioned it soon after his death in 1897. See how fresh the stone looks in her inscription, cut after she died in 1924 (figure 12).
This monument therefore represents full-bore gilded-age excess, akin to when you—or rather, I—go to the buffet and get the roast beef (because it looks so crunchy brown), and, distracted, add macaroni and cheese (to relive my childhood), and then on top of that some General Tso’s chicken (because sweet yumminess), simultaneously taking mashies and some hush puppies on the way to the table and oh! is that a pot of chili over there?
I should refine my metaphor: the Bolte architect had taste and was well informed. The architect did not go full Taco Town, so to speak, but stuffed herself with a better organized meal that conforms to rules of a sort. So think more of a plate piled high with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, yams, and bean cassarole with gravy poured over it all. Figure 1a offers archival footage of the process of design.
But it turns out that there is a second helping of this monument type served up by the Willms family. This monument is about 8 miles away in Druid Ridge Cemetery and dates, I suspect, to about 1922 (figure 3). As with the Aspiration and malleable monument types I have written about, the suburban Druid Hill work, while it is fine and mérite un détour, is slightly inferior to its urban forerunner which deserves the Michelinvaut le voyage label.
Leaving aside the statues for a moment, the two monuments (figures 2, 3) look pretty much the same. Where they differ—significantly—is in detail, which is where I’m heading. I apologize: the light and the position from which I photographed the Willms monument do not do it justice and make it look squat. It is, in fact, just a bit squatter than the Bolte monument because the architect needed to compensate for the overly tall sculpture atop its interesting roll-on-deodorant-applicator base.
The hemicycles (figures 4, 5) differ in refinement. I put the difference down in large part to automated cutting, for the coarser and sharper Willms decoration smells of the machine. Compare, for example, how the Bolte columns swell gradually, in good classical style, whereas the Willms columns have linear profiles and awful round bases like hockey pucks under them. Exquisitely, the diameter of the hockey pucks is slightly smaller than that of the toruses at the bottom of the columns: bad form!
The Bolte columns were born in an age where the machine was still aiding the skilled artisan’s hand, and I’d be surprised if they were not turned on the stonecutting equivalent of a lathe. Yet then the artisan went in by hand and cut in the complicated flutes (filled with rods, note: figure 11) and the two rings of astragals above.
By the time the Willms columns were born, the machine was guiding the technician’s hand. This studio had become so dependent upon it that its designers were beginning to steer clear of things that were hard for a machine to do: a host of refinements that required the (costly) trained eye and hand to carve.
Think of a column blank as a big cylinder suspended along its central axis of rotation; now turn that drum and apply a cutter to it which is guided by a model (nowadays they use computers to guide the cutter). Straight lines are always easier than curves, and so the Willms columns, while tapered, have straight sides. Then cutters were applied lengthwise down the column to excavate the flutes. Rotate the column one twelfth of a revolution, and carve another flute. These cutters leave a coarse surface compared to the more finished surface of the Bolte columns.
The monogram on the Bolte monument (figure 6), while a touching symbol of self-regard, is also beautifully cut. Where lines go under one another, they sink a bit and have a soft look; and the tiny triangular cut at the center of the B to the immediate left of the left hasta of the H is just wonderful. The complex interweaving of the letters reminds me of one of those Celtic weave patterns. The oak branch on the rear of the monument, too, has been sensitively carved with a softness from life (figure 7), as have the flowers on the volutes next to the hemicycles (figures 8, 4) and the laurel wreath with iris flowers and acanthus scrolls on the front (figure 12). Count the dentils in the entablature of the hemicycles of the two monuments (figures 4, 5)—one has more smaller ones, the other has a coarser grind with fewer, larger ones. I could go on, but by now you can probably spot these things for yourself. Figure 10a serves as a check to show by contrast with a landmark monument that there is a limit to the refinement of the Bolte monument.
Although it falls short of the Bolte monument, the Willms one raises an interesting question: why, as late as the 1920s, look back to a gilded-age model? I may have missed one of these in my rounds of Baltimore-area cemeteries, but it’s not like they’re thick on the ground so that the Willms monument might plausibly be interpreted as merely another example of a type that had enduring popularity; so maybe Willms saw the Bolte monument while at a funeral in Green Mount and liked it. Perhaps a very effective salesman was involved.
For example, I have in my possession a copy of the 1932 Book of Presbrey-Leland Memorials, a commercially-motivated catalogue raisonné of monuments that studio considered to be among its finest. It would have made good browsing literature for recent widows or widowers in the market for commemoration, and features monuments in historical styles. On top of that, one suspects that people dying around 1920 led the best parts of their lives in the 1880s and 1890s and perhaps had a hard time shaking off the tastes and class gestures inherited from those days. So perhaps the commissioner of the Willms monument was predisposed even as late as 1920 to prefer an outmoded style.
Turning to the statues, the Bolte one appears to be a holy figure (Mary? A wingless angel? The spirit of truth?) petting a smaller, apparently young figure. The elder figure, veiled with a heavy cape over her cinched dress is seated with the left leg raised because the foot rests on a rock. The feet are bare. Perched in the lap and looking ready to fall is a fat book. The attitude is of a fond, indulgent teacher with an eager student. The young figure is on one knee, the left, and wears a long gown with short sleeves. Her visible foot is bare, too (figures 18, 19).
The inscription, “Thy will, not mine, be done” (figure 16), may be the sculpture’s title, or a theme for the monument chosen by the commissioner. One presumes that the saying (which comes from the Gethsemone scene in Lk. 22:42, cf. Mt. 26:42) is meant to reflect the dying or deceased person’s resignation to the inevitability of death and to realize as a compensation that it is all part of God’s plan. Perhaps the young figure here is envisioned as learning, post mortem, from the holy elder what God’s will actually was. The youth of the figure would correspond to the newly reborn soul, I suppose. It is not clear to me what the sash over the younger figure’s right shoulder means.
If I were a betting man, I would say that this sculpture was produced by the same shop that produced the four sculptures in my malleable monument post. The stone used, and the treatment of the drapery seem similar.
“He shall give his angels charge over thee” proclaims the inscription under the Willms statue of an angel alighting upon an orb (figures 22-23). The angel scatters posies over the grave in an interesting take on a conventional image of grieving: they’ve been brought to the grave in a little flower basket, whereas they are usually envisioned as picked casually en route to the grave and clutched in the bearer’s hand, or cradled in a fold of the bearer’s dress (figures 24-29). The spontaneity is key. Alternatively, the grieving figure is imagined as having woven a wreath or garland of flowers. A good example can be seen in my malleable monument post.
It is possible that the Willms angel was by the same hand as the Painter monument in Druid Ridge: see the similar corkscrew treatment of the locks of hair in both (in my malleable monument post, figure 9). None of this would surprise me, as these were all clearly products of an important Baltimore area studio. In fact, now that I look, it may well be that figure 27 also shows a figure originating in that atelier, as it again has a similar treatment of the hair.
A landmark cemetery is a place where one can spend a good half an hour analyzing a rich, complicated work of art like the Bolte monument. Is it great art? No, of course not. Monuments by an Augustus Saint-Gaudens or a Vinnie Ream or a James Earle Fraser are few and far between. Money wasn’t that plentiful for most folks who commissioned funerary monuments. Yet even conceding these monuments are not objets d’art of the first rank, it’s telling that monuments as good as these were created by artisans in such numbers. Just look at that cluster of monuments in figure 1, and I stipulate that there are better ones just out of frame. A good boneyard is like a Schatzkammer filled with treats to delight the intellect and the eye, and this doesn’t even begin to consider the fascinating social history they can reveal.
But best of all is the aleatory nature of the hunt in these cemeteries: you literally never know when you’re going to spot some incredible, crazy folly like the ones I’ve talked about here, or spot a monument in which self-regard or excessive grief, marinaded in the gasoline of money, has burst out into an incredible and exotic flambé.
You may remember the legendary story of Phidippides, the man who ran from Marathon, the site of the Athenian victory over the Persians in 490 BCE, over the 26-odd miles to Athens to deliver the good news. In the earliest version he stumbles into Athens at the end of his run and no sooner does he announce the victory (“Rejoice! We win!”: χαίρετε· νικῶμεν) than his heart bursts and he dies on the spot.
Phidippides thus becomes the first runner of a marathon, that is, an extremely hard race, and he is fittingly associated with victory. This proved a potent combination for at least one Christian seeking to commemorate a life well lived in front of his family mausoleum in Druid Ridge Cemetery, a mere 8 miles outside of Baltimore. Why should this have been?
Saint Paul (figure 0), seeking a metaphor for a Christian life well lived despite the difficulties of temptations and setbacks—not to mention the difficulties of spreading the word—had written (2 Timothy 4:7), “I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.” It’s what rhetoricians call a tricolon, a group of three statements in a crescendo of increasing significance. The first two members of the tricolon are folksy sports metaphors which just about anybody would have understood, and the third explicitly ties the idea of (winning) sports competitions to keeping faith.
Most other translations render ‘course’ as ‘race,’ which makes things even more explicit, and it is in that form that the middle member of the tricolon crescendo appears on countless tombstones to celebrate (or assert) that the deceased led a Christian life. It’s all very nineteenth-centurical. We also have the well known Pauline promise (1 Cor. 15:54) that “death is swallowed up in victory,” which again makes a connection between successful life as a Christian and winning.
Sometimes those with space to burn place the whole tricolon on their monument. Yet others assume that they can allude to it because once upon a time absolutely everybody could be counted on to know the original. This idea, of course, underlies the presence of laurels and the palm frond in funerary iconography. Either one, or both, of these classically derived symbols of victory form an allusive synecdoche for the tricolon. Recall, too, the motto of Admiral Nelson (Horatio, not Harriman) and various schools (in particular of USC, as my dad never tired of telling me), “palmam qui meruit ferat,” ‘let him who has deserved it carry off the palm.’
So, we have the palm on the Raine monument in Green Mount (figure 1), and the laurels offered over the tomb of Captain Sargent in Arlington (figure 2), and the overdetermined double whammy of both on the Velati mausoleum in Rock Creek (figure 3).
Here (figure 4), in an example taken almost, but not quite entirely, at random, is the connection made explicit in the splendid Marburg monument by Hans Schuler in Green Mount (Schuler also did the angel whose hand we see in figure 2).
The patriarch, William August Marburg (1814-1873), and a goodly number of his 10 offspring are buried in Green Mount. There on the plaque with their names (figure 5) are two sprigs of laurel, and in the left hand of Schuler’s figure is the palm (figure 4). “The true victory,” we are assured, “is a life well lived.”
One of the Marburg children was not buried in Green Mount with the rest. Theodore Marburg (1862-1946), an ambassador to Belgium, built a mausoleum at Druid Ridge (figure 6). More importantly, his son, Theodore jr., is buried there. Junior had volunteered in the Royal Flying Corps when he graduated from Oxford, and in so doing lost his U.S. citizenship. After the war he was reinstated, and brought back a Belgian baroness for a wife; yet he had also lost a leg and relocated out west for the sake of rehabilitation on a ranch. The baroness left him because she did not take to the west; and he widowed a second wife when he shot himself (badly) in 1922.
His father (one presumes) had him located in the family vault in Druid Ridge. But more importantly, he worked with our old friend Hans Schuler to create a special monument for junior. The statue was cast by the Roman Bronze Works in New York (figure 8), and Schuler dated the work to 1924 (figure 7).
The statue depicts Phidippides (figures 11, 12) and is labeled in archaic Attic Greek: ΦΕΙΔΙΠΠΙΔΕΣ ΑΘΕΝΑΙΟΣ. In classical Attic we’d probably write Φειδιππίδης ὁ Ἀθηναῖος, “Phidippides the Athenian.”
As is clear in figures 9-10, the figure holds aloft the palm of victory. That is an imagined anecdotal detail from the historical story but also alludes to the deceased junior having led a well-lived life. See, incidentally, that Schuler’s Phidippides owes something to the pose of the dancing faun in figure 5 in my post, Aspirations.
In figure 12 we can see that Phidippides has dropped a sprig of laurel in order to clutch at his heart. Both of the major symbols of victory are thus present.
Symbolically, the Phidippides bears within it a constellation of interlocking ideas, Christian and classical: the notion of victory from the story of the historical/legendary Phidippides; the race (or ‘course’) from St. Paul, and also the first ‘marathon;’ the palm and laurels from conventional (classical) iconography for victory; and the notion of death as terminally punctuating the race of the well lived, faithful life. A grace note is that junior served in World War I on the winning side, a fact that is celebrated in the plaque on the statue: Theodore sr., like many fathers before him, takes whatever the record offers in order to make the most attractive presentation of his dead son’s short life. (figure 13).
The overwrought inscription is hard to read, both physically and because the text in the final 8 lines barely makes any sense (to me):
In loving memory of Capt. Theodore Marburg British Royal Flying Corps and Air Force November 27, 1893 – February 24, 1922 [Royal Flying Corps insignia]
Follow the Flag Too long it has been absent from that line in France where once again an Attila has been stopped. And yet though not visible to the eye, it is and has been there from the beginning. It is there in the hearts of those fifty thousand American boys who saw their duty clear and moved up to it.
You see Marburg jr. and the baroness in figure 14.
As a post scriptum, and thanks to the courtesy of the Harvard Museums, we can see another landmark constellation of the concepts of war (World War I), victory, and death and the palm in John Singer Sargent’s famous 1922 mural, Death and Victory, for Harvard’s fallen WWI soldiers in the Widener (figure 15).
The caption to the mural is also worth recording here: “Happy those who with a glowing faith in one embrace clasped death and victory.” The reference to faith in connection with death and victory has, as we have seen, Pauline roots.
I’m one of those people who likes flowers, even when they’re carved representations. So I take rando photos of monuments with floral decoration (and leaves and stalks). Here are some I particularly like. I’ve used a gallery, so click on the ones you want to see. All of the photos are by me. Fancy B/W images!
Abbreviations: Arlington National: Arlington National Cemetery, Arlington, VA. Congressional: Congressional Cemetery, Washington, D.C. Druid Ridge: Druid Ridge Cemetery, Pikesville, MD. Green Mount: Green Mount Cemetery, Baltimore, MD. Hollywood: Hollywood Cemetery, Richmond, VA. Mount Auburn: Mount Auburn Cemetery, Cambridge, MA. Mt. Hebron: Mount Hebron Cemetery, Winchester, VA. Mount Olivet: Mount Olivet Cemetery, Washington, D.C. Prospect Hill: Prospect Hill Cemetery, Washington, D.C. Rock Creek: Rock Creek Cemetery, Washington, D.C. Union-Flourtown: Union Cemetery, Flourtown, PA. Union-Leesburg: Union Cemetery, Leesburg, VA. West Laurel Hill: West Laurel Hill Cemetery, Bala Cynwyd, PA.
Buried in her own mausoleum in West Laurel Hill, not far from that of her father and mother, William Scott (1867-1934) and Ida Morris (1870-1938) Vare, is the luckless Ida May Vare (1898-1920), who died of tonsilitis in Beijing, China. She had made the trip to accompany her father, who was on a trade delegation from the House of Representatives, to which he belonged.
Inside her mausoleum is a stained glass window with a portrait of Vare being guided by an angelic figure (see the giant, stylized wings) who holds a lamp of revelation. She’s being guided to peace, as the window states (pax). As in other windows, the detailed work (Vare’s and the angel’s faces, the hands, the lamp) has been painted upon glass pieces, whereas the rest is depicted by abstractly mixed-color glass pieces cut to present the parts of wings, etc. It’s actually quite pretty.
We know it’s her portrait because her name is in a register at the bottom, and because the face in the window matches her picture which can be seen at her entry in Find a Grave dot com. Also there is an exterior shot of her mausoleum.
Her father, who doubtless paid for her mausoleum, was a multi-term U.S. representative for Pennsylvania and was ultimately elected to the U.S. Senate in 1927, whence he was soon bounced when charges of electoral corruption caught up with him in 1929. You can see his smug image here, as well as a picture of his mausoleum.
I have by now seen many a funerary portrait. I’ve seen busts that were made for the mausoleum, and others that I suspect were de-accessioned from the family collection and lodged in the tomb. And, of course, there are the many bas-relief portraits, and even a few bronze busts that were built into, or atop of, a monument. I’ve even seen a few full length portrait figures. But what I’ve not yet seen is a monument with a niche built into its outer surface to hold a portrait bust on a bust foot.
Frederick Raine was from Minden, Prussia, born in May 1821, and died in February 1898. His wife Pamelia lived to 1911, and so I suspect that she was responsible for this monument. In any event, accompanying the bust are a number of conventional images: palm frond of victory for a life well lived; Easter lily for resurrection, and disembodied quill writing the deeds of his life in conjunction with the symbol of resurrection. The sum of it all is: “he was a good Christian (due reward to be administered).”
That he might have been, but what detains us here is his portrait bust. It’s marble, and predictably, since it’s exposed to the elements, it’s decaying. The face has largely melted, and while the clothing still possesses some sharpness of detail, one can see that water has attacked it wherever it could get a purchase.
The face is oval, though the tall forehead, merging into a bald pate, gives the head a round look. Short hair remains at the temples and above the ears. What is left of the ears does not stick out. There is a little adipose under the chin, and the naso-labial folds are prominent. The close-set, deeply carved eyes appear to have had crows feet. The face is clean shaven except for a walrus mustache that curls down around the corners of the mouth. The mouth itself is not wide, and with the close-set eyes it gives the face a narrow, pinched look. Not enough material remains for me to judge whether there were other signs of age: slackened skin, sagging jowls, pouches under the eyes, and so forth. The neck is smooth.
The clothing is the usual package for the late-nineteenth century: heavy coat (buttoned up) over a barely visible vest, with a bow tie with a fat knot over a turned-out collar. It’s not clear to me whether the collar ever had points or not. If it did, those vulnerable protuberances have not survived. The modeling of the cloth of the coat indicates a stocky, but not fat torso underneath.
The look appears to have been one of polite interest without an emotional engagement, which is also the default for these portraits. The bust foot is round and typical of these portraits. I was able to get quite close, but I saw no traces of a signature on the bust. I don’t think it would survive the weathering the object has undergone, but as you can imagine, I wasn’t about to get in there and shift the thing around to look.
And I could have, which brings me to an important point. The damage to this bust appears almost entirely due to natural weathering and not vandalism. I am frankly astonished that the bust is still there.
What does such an unusual monument tell us? Well, before looking for an answer, it is important to acknowledge that I don’t know whether the bust was created for this monument, or whether it was taken from the household and incorporated into a monument built to receive it. It is possible to say that the monument was designed to receive a bust. A niche like that serves a purpose and is not decorative in itself. There are plenty of obelisks that have bas-relief portraits on their surfaces, even in Green Mount, so there were models for the idea of obelisk-plus-portrait, even if not for the bust-in-niche type here.
One can point to mausolea with formally incorporated portraits of the entire family, or the husband and wife, such as the Bowman mausoleum in Cuttingsville, VT (figure 4) or the Harrah mausoleum in Bala Cynwyd, PA (figure 5). I’m certain in the case of the first, and reasonably sure in the case of the second of those mausolea that the busts were made on the occasion of the construction of the mausoleum to fill ready-made niches.
Then there is the Rouss mausoleum in Winchester, VA, where the mausoleum has not been adapted specifically to hold portrait busts, but busts have been added in a relatively formal way by placing them on seriously massive free-standing columns in the chamber (figure 6). They are not matched, as the Bowman and Harrah busts are (see the bust feet), and in addition, smaller busts of the sons of the principals have been placed in something of an ad-hoc way on a shelf at the rear of the mausoleum.
My working hypothesis these days is that Rouss had the busts moved into the mausoleum which was built on the occasion of his wife’s death in 1899 (he died in 1902), and that they had been household decorations before that.
I don’t know what percentage of the motivation for putting busts into a mausoleum was to have an image of the deceased that the grieving could take comfort in viewing, and how much was to leave a lasting “Ozymandias” record of him/her/themselves. Of course, mixed motives are entirely possible and probable.
Raine raises the same questions. Certainly Mrs. Raine, who substantially outlived him, had a monument built to feature a portrait bust, as mentioned above. She could not afford, or refused to pay for a mausoleum, but clearly wanted Raine’s portrait to be visible. But why not have the portrait carved on the surface of the monument? Was there an obvious bright line in prestige and status between portraits in the round and bas-relief ones? To be sure, a portrait in the round is more complicated and expensive than a bas relief. Yet we can find people of indisputable wealth or status opting for a bas-relief, such as on the Walters’ monument in Green Mount (in her case, in bronze).
Mostly, I don’t think these questions can be answered definitively. But I do look to Victorian sentimentality—think of those little lockets they carried around for decades with images (and maybe a snippet of hair) of dead family members—and the immediacy of grief in the face of the recent death of a (say) spouse as perhaps offering clues. Whatever hopes for immortality the portraits sustained, I think the survivor took comfort in being able to come to the tomb (something people regularly did then and now) and look upon a likeness of the dead. In Bowman’s case we have explicit evidence that he did just that.
A recent trip back to Glenwood Cemetery to catch fall foliage reminded me of an eternal verity about a landmark, richly appointed cemetery: you’ll always spot something new and interesting.
In this case, it was the fine portrait of Maria Scheuch in her family plot (figure 1). I’m also growing more interested in the landscape architecture of individual plots, which is why I offer you this sorta panorama-y shot here. There’s clearly not a lot going on in this plot compared to some. But at closer range, the monument is a bit more handsome (figure 2).
The monument may have been envisioned as bearing two tondo portraits originally, or perhaps George Scheuch, who outlived his wife substantially, took advantage of the shape of the monument to have it adapted for the insertion of the bronze portrait in 1892. I suppose he always intended to get his own portrait made but (as happens) never got around to it, and when he died no one could be troubled to do it.
The portrait (figure 3) is of a handsome woman upon whom the signs of age have gently crept. Her broad forehead bears no creases, but the jowls are just beginning to sag, and the naso-labial folds are becoming prominent. The thin upper lip and downturned mouth gives the face a certain asperity. She has crows feet and is beginning to develop pouches under the eyes, most visibly under her right. There is a little adipose under the chin (I sympathise!). The eyes are widely open and look out at the wayfarer, though the head itself is averted a little to the right. The arches of the brows are not very prominent, and the eyebrows have been left as mere suggestive rounded ridges. The hair has been tightly pulled back from a central part, emphasizing the oval shape of the face. The hair is drawn back over the ears, which do not stick out prominently.
In profile (figures 4, 5), the flat facial plane belies the cubic geometry of the head. The signs of aging mentioned above are more visible in the right profile, and on the whole the right side of the head is better modeled than the left. The nose is straight and of medium length.
The gaze is frank and unemotional, bordering on stern. The artist has not attempted to infuse the portrait with any warmth or personality. I suppose that it was modeled from photographs, maybe one frontal, and one from the right; people adopted a fairly blank look in those period photographs. Between the hair pulled back and the dress buttoned up with lace collar (figure 6) I do detect a bit of a button-down personality. The cameo at her throat has been rubbed to the point that the patina has disappeared at its center.
Time to look at some nautical tombstones with an astounding treat at the end.
The “Commodore” (love the scare quotes on your own monument) owned a commercial fleet and celebrates here a ship named for a member of his family (figures 1, 2). If you’ve seen one of these before, it’s likeliest to have been this one, which is a pretty hoary chestnut as these things go. The ship is a barque, I believe.
Another barque for Captain R.A. Wamack in Hollywood Cemetery. His square sails at the top are not quite fully open, so stiff is the breeze. But the sheets are nice and crisp on this stone even though it’s weathered, and the pennants are drawn rightly with the breeze, which is coming at us. It’s not clear to me that the Thornton flags aren’t shown trailing the mast. The treatment of the water is very suggestive here.
Nikolaos Charokopos either owned or worked on a cargo freighter. I flattened my photo to B&W to minimize my dumb reflection on it.
Lieutenant Commander James Marthon never forgot his touchdown pass in the big game. He was in the rigging of the Hartford, Admiral Farragut’s flagship in the Battle of Mobile Bay in 1864 (figures 5, 6, 7). As in, “damn the torpedoes.’ I suppose the guy who takes pot shots at the enemy with a swivel cannon in the crow’s nest is as important as anyone on the ship, but Marthon was not about to let anyone forget it. One can imagine his table talk.
Very interesting is the lengthy, lengthy naval service record on the north face of the plinth. Most interesting of all is the broken column in the form of THAT VERY MAST atop which Marthon was once perched.
But I’ve saved the best for last, Captain Nathan Sargent’s wondrous foundering ship monument with the angel of death blowing the trumpet over it (figures 8-15).
I cannot get enough of this monument. The bow of the foundering ship, in sandstone, is in the last seconds of being overcome by heavy seas (figures 8, 9), and the angel of death sounds a grim blast over it.
The tan sandstone forms a nice contrast with the base in grey granite and the patinated statue. Unfortunately, the sandstone is beginning to spall here and there, though it is otherwise still pretty crisp.
The angel of death does double duty, standing in also as the conventional grieving figure that scatters flowers (or here, laurels, figure 14) at the grave. So, if you see it, in one guise the conceit is that the angel is present at the shipwreck sounding the trumpet, and in the other is present mourning alongside us at the grave. It’s a nice, multivalent conceit.
One should add that there is a metaphorical layer beneath the surface. The foundering ship is the dying (or dead) mortal—in this case Sargent—overcome not by the inexorable sea but by equally implacable death. In fact, Sargent did not go down with his, or anyone else’s ship but died a natural death on land, proving that the entire conceit must be read primarily on this metaphorical level.
The statue is signed by the talented and ubiquitous Hans Schuler, whose work can be seen in profusion in Baltimore cemeteries. He signs the statue 1911, 4 years after Sargent’s death, and accordingly we must give credit, I think, to his excellent wife Isabel Hill Sargent for commissioning this splendid and astounding monument.
It’s a fact of life that human hands are difficult to draw and model. I was reminded of this as I perused my photos from St. Mary’s Catholic Cemetery in Washington.
Two handsome mid-century monuments (figures 1, 2), well past the neoclassical and even art deco periods. The Peniston sculptor incised a fairly decent pair of hands in the figure of Jesus in Gethsemone (figure 3).
There’s one stray bit, I think, at about the knuckle of the little finger of the right hand, but it’s not a bad rendition of interlocked fingers, especially at a distance.
By contrast, the hands of the DiBuchianico Jesus (figure 4), in the same (but reflected) pose are, ahem, ‘mannered,’ to say the least. The cutter knew that he was not up to interwoven fingers—no problem with a little self-knowledge there. But everything about the proportions and articulation of these hands is pretty badly off. It’s a pity: the cutter has a neat way of doing drapery with some big looping curves.
The cover photo is of the hands of the subject of an Attic funerary stele in the Archaeological Museum of Piraeus. The photo is by Giovanni dall’Orto (with permission). Wikimedia Commons.