Beyond Pilgrim Souvenirs and Secular Badges: Essays in Honour of Brian Spencer

Chapter 1

Brian Spencer

Born April 18th 1928. Died April 3rd 2003

Richard Spencer

I was sixteen when I realised there was no such thing as objective history. No matter how much evidence is available, all historians subjectively interpret the data before them–and the best historians are those who spin the most plausible story without resorting to over-embellishment. Like a QC at the top of their game in the Old Bailey.

By the age of twenty-one, as my father handed me back an annotated copy of my draft degree dissertation, I realised I was never going to make it as an academic historian. In his hallmark pencil handwriting, a few simple sentences were ‘offered’ to replace vast tracts of my dull waffle. In truth, I suspect he held back from a temptation to completely rewrite my masterpiece, and his pithy ‘suggestions’ were delivered with characteristic restraint. I was humbled by his superiority, but never made to feel humiliated.

As a small child, I would approach his study door with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. The smoke filled room dimly lit by a desk lamp. Piles of papers and correspondence on the desk. Hundreds of catalogue cards with photos of pilgrim badges. A magnifying glass and a slide projector. Silence. A world quite unlike any other in our house.

Usually it wasn’t long before I was politely ushered out again. But occasionally he would let me see some historic treasure to capture my imagination. Whether an old book, pilgrim badge, clay pipe or piece of jewellery, he would sit patiently as I handled it, waiting for the right moment to add some background information which brought the piece to life.

Trips to the Museum where he worked all his life shed an entirely different light on his working life. The bustling public galleries, first at the London Museum in Kensington Palace¹ and then at the purpose-built Museum of London, contrasted sharply with gentle camaraderie of museum life behind the scenes. Here, Dad seemed immensely important–holding ‘special’ sets of keys giving him access everywhere; able to walk into any department and receive a warm welcome.

Yet despite his seniority, there appeared little hierarchical about his working relationships. He married a girl who worked in the costume department, and two of his strongest working ties were with my ‘uncles’ Arthur and Paddy (Fig. 1.1).² And arguably his biggest professional contribution was to bridge the divide between the archaeologists and Thames ‘Mudlarks’, his approachable manner endearing him to both camps alike.

Fig. 1.1. Brian and Joan Spencer. (Photo: Richard Spencer).

The origins of this inclusive (rather than an elitist) approach to relationship building can in part be traced to his Methodist upbringing in Keighley, West Yorkshire.³ Born into the ‘Labour Aristocracy’ in the 1920s–his mother a seamstress, his father a lay preacher and Co-op grocer–he grew up in a family culture which prized education, classical music, chapel and a love of nature. But it was also one which was fiercely anti-elitist and anti-materialist. Dad believed in meritocracy open to all, and loathed social climbers or showmanship.

This resulted in a paternalistic approach to his social and professional relationships, where his devotion was rarely to those who already had the perfect CV or educational background, but to those who demonstrated their humanity and a genuine enthusiasm for the subject.

In his working life and at home he was much the same person. Shy, witty, scholarly and supportive with all, there is much to miss in this gentle mentor.

He was of sovereign value in all eyes,

And though so much distinguished, he was wise.

And in his bearing modest as a maid

And never yet a boorish thing had said

In all his life to any, come what might

He was a true, a perfect gentle knight.⁴

Few of us are ever likely to have his abilities as an historian. But from the historical evidence I have examined, my view–subjective though it is–is that his qualities as a person will be of more lasting value to those who knew him.

I feel certain that he would have been delighted and honoured by this collection of articles, which recognises the inspiration he gave to many.

Richard Spencer

May 2005

Notes

1 By the way, he once pointed out in his understated manner, you might be interested to know that Queen Victoria was born in this room. The room in question was his office in Kensington Palace when he was Acting Director of the London Museum during the mid-1970s.

2 Arthur Trottman was the Chief Conservationist at the Museum of London, having joined the London Museum at the age of 14 before the Second World War. Tom ‘Paddy’ Kelly was Chief Warder at the London Museum, dad having previously known him from the RAF. Neither Arthur, Paddy or my mother had university educations.

3 That he often addressed people he had affection for as ‘brother’ was, I think, an echo of this upbringing.

4 From the Prologue–Concerning the Knight; The Canterbury Tales . Chaucer.

Chapter 2

The Expert and the Collector

Brian North Lee †

Throughout life it often seems strange to observe, in retrospect, how a chance encounter can lead to something which becomes a major preoccupation. I should explain, by way of preamble, that faith and pilgrimage had been important to me from my young monastic days, as had Anglo-Saxon and mediaeval history, and that I had always been a collector of objects which fascinated me. My own specialization for decades was bookplates or ex-libris, but they have a quite different character, for they are printed on paper.

Shop-window browsing being such fun, I always indulged myself inordinately, and one day in 1986 was drawn to the displays at the Pewter Shop in Burlington Arcade, Picadilly. They included a small but diverse array of pilgrim badges and ampullae. The best was a châsse-like ampulla from Canterbury, where the shrine of St Thomas Becket was the most famed and visited in Britain, not least by pilgrims from overseas. It was late thirteenth or early fourteenth century. (Fig. 2.1) As I discovered quite recently, the incident was serendipitous also from another point of view, for the shop had only recently added such items to its range. I was fortunate in that the lady serving at the counter was Jane Stewart, who was as entranced by the subject as I was to become. She told me about the mudlarks, so busy digging the Thames foreshore and elsewhere for historical artifacts, said that a book on the subject¹ was soon to be published, and added that if I wanted to see more examples of what had recently been found I should go to the ‘under the arches’ Saturday morning market beneath Charing Cross Station. I did, and found it a thrilling experience for a number of years.

Fig. 2.1. Canterbury Ampulla, 13th century, tin. Collection of Brian North Lee. (Photo: Brian North Lee).

Though an entirely miscellaneous market, catering happily to collectors of, it seemed, almost anything, a number of stallholders had antiquities on offer. The one who most impressed me, and continues to, was Nigel Mills, who had been a mudlark himself but had scholarship and was prepared to share what he knew and admit what he did not. Most of the London dredgers for treasure put in weekly or frequent appearances, and it was a remarkable and useful scenario, for one was guaranteed sight of a sizeable percentage of pilgrim items unearthed in the past ten days or so. That some were for sale and others were not was not important, for I was learning all the time. Not surprisingly, one discerned a few scallywags amongst the assembled company, but most of the mudlarks had a genuine love for and interest in what they had brought to light, as well as antiquarian leanings; and many of them belonged to the recently formed Society of Thames Mudlarks which, thanks to them, has done so much to assist the professional archaeologists. I shall comment on dealing and sales later on, but what most intrigued me in countless educative conversations with all and sundry was the one name, always spoken of with respect, endlessly cropped up. It was Brian Spencer, and I longed to meet him.

Brian had studied history at the University of Leeds, in 1952 he became keeper of Mediaeval Collections at the Museum of London, then at Kensington Palace, had assisted in 1954 on the excavation of the Temple of Mithras in the City of London, was sometime acting director of the Museum, and from then until his retirement in 1988 he was Keeper of Mediaeval Antiquities at the new Museum of London in the Barbican. Retirement was in his case, however, something of an exaggeration, for he continued to be available at the Museum at last several times a week. The span of his career encompassed not the easiest of times for an archaeologist in his position. Appearance from 1982 and then the proliferation of metal-detectors meant that findings were no longer the prerogative of his profession, for eager amateurs soon abounded. To have ignored them would be to risk half a tale being told; but to bring them in called for exceptional qualities amongst the experts: ability to be welcoming, to meet and endeavour to enlighten enthusiasts who sometimes knew very little, and –by displaying honesty and warmth–encourage them to bring interesting things along for discussion. Brian did all that superbly; mudlarks often came to see themselves as friends of his for life, as was evidenced by the numbers at his funeral; and he was a model of integrity and insight. He was, naturally, very keenly aware that ambition or greed, or both, led some fanatics to trespass onto forbidden territory, at risk of arrest and of disadvantaging the experts for whom such as dating depended on patient and diligent excavation and was thus thwarted by their frenzy. Most dealing is a matter of buying and then selling to advantage, but metal-detecting held the promise of something for nothing, and rich pickings for the fortunate.

Anyhow, after hearing so much unqualified praise of Brian, I phoned him and our first meeting at the Museum of London followed. He turned out to be a soft-spoken Yorkshireman, somewhat spare of build but full of energy, who seemed and proved modesty itself. He had been elected a Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries of London twenty years before me, and he was in its great tradition–not given to grandiosity or superiority but simply to looking at and discussing artifacts as a fellow searcher after the knowledge which will always be elusive in part to all of us. Humility is the mark of the true scholar.

So far as pilgrim artifacts are concerned, until metal detectors came to serve as buzzing clues to potential findings, probably only about 1,800 had been recorded in Britain, so there were a great number of questions they posed which remained unanswered. Thanks to Brian’s dedication to the subject for almost fifty years, and his good fortune in being the acknowledged authority in the period when so much was happening, he was able by comparison of finds and study and definition of locations to identify many of the more elusive saints to which badges appertained, determine the times in which shrines retained popularity, and so much more. Mediaeval faith, and indeed superstition, meant that pilgrimage was big business, and the church was not tardy in attempting to bring in as much cash as possible. The relics of a saint who might heal, smile on you or otherwise bless your earthly path, were essential to that. English shrines tended to fall into two main categories. Some featured uncanonised or minor saints, revered as local workers of miracles and thus not an essential part of the major pilgrim routes, whilst others housed what in today’s quaint jargon would be termed ‘superstars’. Canterbury was the classic case, but we should remember that whilst Becket’s martyrdom set Christendom newly afire with the need for devotion and the hope of personal avail, the city already had its saints of earlier days. Thus, though Our Lady Undercroft there and St Blaise’s shrine were part of the remarkable bonanza for devotees who attended, along with the altar displaying the Becket murder weapon, and other ‘stations of the cross’ attendance at which was marked by available pilgrim tokens, there really was not space for extension to saints back in time.

Canterbury was, and understandably, the exceptional place in many respects. Few cathedrals or churches could boast of more than one saint, and even his or her drawing power could change for better or worse in the course of time. A curious instance was St Osmund of Salisbury, badges of whom Brian documented in his superb catalogue of findings there.² Osmund died in 1099 and was buried at Old Sarum, but his body and still largely extant tomb were moved to the Lady Chapel in the new cathedral of Salisbury in 1226. Two years later the Pope set the process of canonisation in progress, but it was a long drawn out affair and had its ups and downs. Suffice it to say here that the cathedral chapter spent huge sums of money to urge the business on, but it was not until 1457 that he was officially declared a saint. Within six months his bones were moved to a magnificent new shrine at the centre of the Lady Chapel. It was a pleasure to me in 1987 to give to the Salisbury & South Wiltshire Museum a badge of St Osmund (Fig. 2.2) which was certainly available to pilgrims within several years of his canonizations. I felt it needed to go home.

Fig. 2.2. St Osmund Pilgrim Badge, Salisbury, 1457 or soon after, pewter, Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum, Gift of Brian North Lee. After Brian Spencer, Pilgrim Souvenirs & Secular Badges; Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum Medieval Catalogue, Part 2 (Salisbury, 1990), cat.1.

Brian was not in my time a visitor to the Charing Cross market, and that was fully understandable. He did not himself collect significantly, and though it would have been useful to see recent finds which were not brought to his attention at work he would have been inundated with requests for comment and identification. More importantly, so busy a scene would not have lent itself to the quiet discussion and opportunity for recording and photography the Museum afforded. Nevertheless, so much was regularly being unearthed in my collecting days that it was not unusual to be shown upwards of a hundred new discoveries every Saturday. Some sites proves immensely rich, and I shall say more about several of them later, but in 1987 Butlers Wharf was a happy hunting ground for later mediaeval material.

A badge in question was a small one, c. 1500–1520, showing the Virgin and Child within a crescent moon –which the mudlarks tended to call ‘Our Lady in a boat’. (Fig. 2.3) It had earlier been supposed a badge of the cult of Our Lady of Boulogne, but its incidence at Butlers Wharf, Bankside, Bull Wharf and Billingsgate indicated a shrine close to or within London. There were two surprising things about this series of almost identical badges: the condition in which they were found was generally good and they glistened like good coal (the cynic in me would add that I sometimes sensed a whiff of boot-polish); and one rarely saw two which were clearly from the same mould. The latter indicated proliferation and popularity, and Brian ascribed them tentatively to Our Lady of Willesden, eight miles north-west of mediaeval London. Henry VII’s queen, Elizabeth of York, ranked it the equal of Our Lady of the Pew in St Stephen’s Chapel, Westminster, and early in 1503 sent a pilgrim there to pay homage on her behalf; but it did not avail her for she died a few days later having given birth to her seventh child. Brian’s great book on finds from excavations in London³ includes a full documentation on all that, and he records that over 30 specimens were recorded from Butlers Wharf. That is quite true, but three factors played their part in the full story. The mudlarks were keen for ready cash; so many very similar badges were suddenly plentiful; and because of that and due to their quality but modesty they were cheap and sold immediately. All I can add is that I saw more than ninety specimens from the same site. The expert is more likely to be shown puzzling pilgrim artifacts than totally familiar and run-of-the-mill pieces.

Fig. 2.3. Our Lady of Willesden (?) Pilgrim Badge, early 16th century. (Photo: Brian North Lee).

From the outset Brian and I were on the same wave-length and were, I think, of reciprocal assistance, though that needs qualification, for I was and remain–as this essay makes clear–a total amateur so far as his specialization is concerned. I showed him everything I acquired. All were photographed, he always kindly supplied me with a slide, and I gave what information I could as to where and in what context things were found. It was, nevertheless, a tricky area. Most mudlarks, including Ian Smith and Tony Pilson who have greatly assisted opportunities for scholarly documentation, are people to be fully relied on. Occasionally elsewhere marked diplomacy was necessary. It was always fine and safe to indicate enthusiasm for a particular saint, but the snag was provenance. It was unwise ever to indicate that one was looking especially for artifacts found at a specific site, such as say Salisbury or Canterbury, for they appeared almost miraculously (do miracles never cease?) whether or not they had ever had any contact with the place in question. It was better to ask in an almost offhand manner where something had turned up, in the hope of an honest answer. Both sites mentioned above were strictly ‘off limits’, but that was no deterrent to eager hunters who, to give them their due, endured very uncomfortable physical working conditions in order to achieve success. Perhaps the nadir of that sort of escapade was when a mudlark got himself arrested whilst delving in the river at Canterbury below the very building where the Queen Mother was at that moment being entertained.

Brian was fully aware of the extent of such invasions wherever, for the police and others were very informative on them, and it must often have anguished him to witness such infringements of propriety, not least when, as not infrequently, the miscreants begged him to put in a good word for them. On the positive side, he was instrumental in facilitating approved access to important sites for members of the Thames Society of Mudlarks, under appropriate conditions and for specified periods of time; and they sometimes–in order to assist–worked by floodlight through the night, notably at the Vintry excavation, of which more anon, when spoil was being removed too quickly for archaeological satisfaction. Illegitimate night-time incursions were not unfamiliar elsewhere, though, to others. Despite all thanks to his diplomacy and all it entailed, he remained for all on the side of the angels–or saints. An amusing and unofficial evidence of how he was regarded was a graffito which appeared one day under one of the London bridges where treasure hunters were often at work. It read ‘BRIAN SPENCER RULES O.K’. In some instances, on account of how they came to be found, it would have been inappropriate for the Museum to acquire some choice pieces. In consequence some came to me, but if years later they remained amongst the ‘wants’, I was happy to sell them on at the price I had paid.

Though probably most collectors begin in a general way and then specialise, Becket was and remained my favourite, and I also became enthusiastic about two unofficial English ‘saints’, Richard Caister of Norwich and Master John Schorn. Schorn (d. 1315) was rector of North Marston in Buckinghamshire. His reputation as a miracle-worker lasted until the Reformation, and in 1478 Richard Beauchamp, Bishop of Salisbury and Dean of Windsor, obtained permission from the Pope to move his shrine to St George’s Chapel at Windsor Castle. The Schorn badges show him standing and/or preaching, and at his side is a jackboot out of which the devil’s head peers–reference to him as an exorcist who was said to have conjured the devil into a boot. Brian researched both his story and the Schorn tokens thoroughly⁴ and gave me a good deal of information as I pursued my quest. One of my finest acquisitions was an actual half mould (Fig. 2.4) which shows the image of two badges and part of a third. It was found at a well-head near North Marston only a mile or two from the quarry from which the stone tablet had come, and it was only located because the remains of lead lugs which would have joined it to its other half got a faint signal from the metal-detector. I gave it and all my Schorn badges to the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford some years ago.⁵ One little anecdote relating to this place of pilgrimage amused me, and this is perhaps worth repeating. During a time of drought Schorn struck the ground, a chalybeate spring burst forth, and it became famous for its healing properties. In the 1980s an old friend of mine, Clive Rousse, who was a great antiquary, had the North Marston well-site restored and there was a ceremony to commemorate it. As he and others prepared to taste the water, an official from the Water Board stepped forward and forbad it, since it might be tainted. It did not deter them, and it is good to be able to report that Clive lived to the age of 95. North Marston still had Schorn’s image in addition to the well after his remains were taken to Windsor, so it remained a centre of pilgrimage. Some years ago the ladies of the parish represented him on the splendid kneelers they made for the church.

Fig. 2.4. Pilgrim Badge Mould for John Schorn found at Edels-borough near North Marston. Late 15th century. Oxford, Ashmolean Museum, Gift of Brian North Lee. (Photo: Brian North Lee).

Brian felt, and rightly so, that quite a lot of the prices I agreed to were uncomfortably high, but it was a matter of acquiring major pieces as and when they cropped up. I shall say more of this later, but my first major coup was a Billingsgate find in early 1987. A standing figure of Becket, three-dimensional, but also 89mm high, it dates from the late thirteenth or first half of the fourteenth century. It had apparently been folded in half when discarded, but opened up beautifully–and here I should digress for a moment to say that it was quite common practice to fold badges in that way in similar circumstances. It was not necessarily a sign of disrespect, and perhaps relates to such as the folding of a penny at the time of vowing pilgrimage, thus earmarking a coin as offering to be made at a shrine in due course. To return to my standing Becket figure, news of it traveled fast. I heard that someone was already keen, made arrangements to meet its joint owners in McDonalds at the Monument (over the years I did a number of deals in burger-houses), but fog prevented it; so it was a matter of waiting until the following Saturday at Charing Cross. There, though, I put in a handsome offer. I was told that nothing would procure it, so went home rather disconsolate. It was nevertheless bartered that day, as its new owner–a dealer–told me over the phone, adding that he’d been offered a markedly higher sum sight unseen. Despite that, several days later I was able to clinch the deal, and survived on bread and cheese for several months. Brian was most impressed by it, (Fig. 2.5) for the pallium is correctly marked with crosses on both back and front, and it also provides the clearest depiction of the infulae (the ribbons of the mitre) with fringed ends. It is still apparently the largest known. A dozen or more complete statuettes of the same period are known, but several others call for close scrutiny, for it was not unknown for damaged ones to be made ‘whole’ by welding on parts of damaged pieces. They are masterly creations, but it would not be appropriate to name the genius who wrought them.

Fig. 2.5. Hollow-cast Standing Figure of Thomas Becket, Canterbury. Late 13th/early 14th century, pewter. Collection of Brian North Lee. (Photo: Brian North Lee).

No-one could deny that a great many pilgrim artifacts charm us by their naive and ‘folksy’ portrayals, but there are others which display artistry of a much superior order. One instance–always and understandably coveted by the mudlarks–was some badges showing Becket on horseback. They celebrated his stately progress from Sandwich to Canterbury in 1170 after his exile, but no doubt had additional appeal as reminders of Christ’s entry into Jerusalem, though that was on a donkey, and on account of the regular hiring of horses by pilgrims to Canterbury in the manner of Chaucer’s wondrously diverse array of fellow-travelers. Quite a number of portions of badges of this type have been unearthed, but because of the intricacy of the composition even nearly complete examples are elusive. I long doubted I should ever find a worthy badge in this idiom, but in 1992 Nigel Mills, at his Covent Garden Monday stall, offered one which had been found at the Vintry site. It lacked Becket’s head and the top of his archiepiscopal cross, but was remarkable on several other counts, including its cheapness and the beauty of its cutting. Brian wrote to me on 6 February 1993: ‘Your Becket on horseback is from the same mould as the badge found in a deposit of the second half of the 14th century in the museum’s excavations at Trig Lane. Yours is in better condition and I have taken the liberty of including it in the Catalogue, since the mould cutting is so exquisite’. How right he was. Its precision of detail, the grace of the horse, and intricacy of its cutting set it apart. (Fig. 2.6) The Trig Lane one was much less clearly cast and had, for instance, extraneous flashing around the horse’s foreleg. Several badges of the same type incorporate a groom holding and restraining the lively equine, but I doubt he was ever a component of my badge.

Fig. 2.6. Thomas Becket on Horseback Pilgrim Badge, Canterbury, c. 1380, pewter. Collection of Brian North Lee. (Photo: Brian North Lee).

It was greatly helpful to me to have not only Brian’s knowledge and help at hand but also–and he went to great trouble in the matter–the opportunity to study pilgrim items which belonged to the Museum but were not on public display. A particular ampulla springs immediately to mind, and it relates, like the foregoing, to Becket’s homecoming from exile. That was celebrated annually at Canterbury on 2 December at a festival called Regressio Sancti Thomae (the return of St Thomas). A number of badges commemorate the sea-crossing which preceded the triumphal ride, but only two distinct types of ampullae have so far appeared. It was the later one, from the second half of the thirteenth century, which proved especially intriguing. One side shows Becket enthroned, his hand raised in blessing, and he is accompanied by a kneeling pilgrim and the coxswain; the other portrays Christ on the cross accompanied at left and right by Longinus with a spear and Stephaton with a bucket. The Museum of London’s example was found at Billingsgate, and the one I later acquired turned up at Sunlight Wharf. What particularly pleased Brian and me was that they were complementary informative, and for a reason few people might suspect. It was customary for Becket ampullae to be worn on the chest and suspended from a string or perhaps ribbon round the neck. In the course of much moving about and long usage there could be a tendency for the side against the body to lose definition because of abrasion from the fabric of the wearer’s clothing. The Museum’s one had been worn with Becket on the back, mine the other way round, and it followed that between them the complete composition was made plain. Little could their wearers have guessed that so many centuries later their objects of devotion would still survive to aid in making partial documentation whole. (Fig. 2.7)

Fig. 2.7. Thomas Becket of Canterbury Pilgrim Ship-shaped Ampulla. Second ½ 13th century, tin. Collection of Brian North Lee.

Fig. 2.8. Thomas Becket of Canterbury Pilgrim Ampulla with Rectangular Surround. Early 13th century, tin. Collection of Brian North Lee. (Photo: Brian North Lee).

Another joy for me in my liaisons with Brian was when he phoned