Abbots Langley church, Herts: a quarter of a million pounds monument

I write this as Covid seems to be upping its game, condemning us to a bleak early winter, which will perhaps extend to equally bleak mid and late winters and, who knows, a bleak spring. I find some comfort and escape in looking through photos I took and notes I made when life was more innocent, and in writing about churches that will, I trust, remain whatever else changes. Maybe you will find some comfort and escape in reading about them.

According to Matthew Paris (a monk in 13th century St Albans, a writer and artist and one of the most fascinating people of his period) Nicholas Breakspear, the only English pope, was born in Abbots Langley. On the other hand, Paris also said that Breakspear's father was called Robert when in fact his name was Richard, so we can't assume he's always correct. Nevertheless, Abbots Langley is proud to boast of Breakspear, who was born sometime in the early 12th century, as the local-boy-who-done-good. In fact, he left England soon after being ordained as a priest, probably aged about 20, and spent most of the rest of his life in France, Spain, Scandinavia and Rome. But he seems to have remembered his home county with affection as he granted numerous privileges to St Albans Abbey. 

His papacy, which began with his election, as Adrian IV, in December 1154, came at a difficult time, as shown by the undignified spat that arose between him and Frederick Barbarossa, the newly elected Holy Roman Emperor, the following June. Frederick was keen to have his position cemented by being crowned by the Pope, but at the same time was determined to show that he was the one with the true power. When the two first met Frederick refused to ceremonially lead Breakspear's horse and help him dismount. Breakspear retaliated by refusing the Emperor the kiss of peace. I like to imagine them, arms tightly crossed and lips pouting, stubbornly saying 'Shan't' to all entreaties from their advisers. 

It took more than a week for things to be patched up enough for the coronation to go ahead. The Pope must have smugly thought that he'd got the upper hand as the Emperor did lead his horse, but when it came down to it Frederick casually abandoned any allegiance he may have explicitly or implicitly promised. He failed to come to Breakspear's rescue when King William of Sicily threatened the Papal States from the south, and, as at the time many of the citizens of Rome were hostile to the papacy, the pope found himself a virtual exile in Tivoli, some miles outside the city.

However, altogether the only English pope is considered to have done a reasonably good job in trying circumstances; at least he managed to keep the Church more or less united. After his death in 1159 the papacy was riven with internecine squabbling and for 20 years there were rival popes jockeying for power. 

Unfortunately there's nothing in Abbots Langley church from Breakspear's lifetime. The first and oldest things the visitor sees on entering are the two bay late Norman nave arcades, which probably date from thirty or forty years later, the reign of Richard I (1089-99), which was in its own way just as fractious as Breakspear's.* The turbulent times don't seem to have prevented church building taking place in the county, for example the nave of Hemel Hempstead, which was probably constructed just before Abbot Langley's, or that of Kimpton, just after.

The arches are handsomely decorated with billet moulding (like a cable which has had numerous short sections chopped out of it) and chevrons (a sequence of shark's-teeth triangles), which point away from the wall rather than, as is more common, into the middle of the arch. 

Most of the piers have scalloped capitals, though the one above is surely more properly called a trumpet capital as the cones terminate in circles, not semi-circles, giving the impression that a heavenly fanfare is being blasted across the church.

However, the south pier has a very different capital. Bettley/Pevsner, in The Buildings of England, say 'the pier was renewed in the early 13th century with a shallow stiff-leaf capital'. The pier looks identical to that on the north; why renew it with one just the same? It would have been an awful lot of work for very little result. Wouldn't even just renewing the capital have been a fairly major engineering project? The Victoria County History says 'The capital of the middle pillar of this arcade is carved with good foliage without a trace of romanesque feeling; it may have been reworked, but in view of the date of the arcade the carving may be contemporary and an early example' (i.e. of stiff-leaf). We can only speculate, of course, but let's leave open the possibility that this capital is, as the VCH suggests, not a later replacement but a precursor of the Early English style that was dominant in the 13th century.**

In the early 13th century the lower stage of the tower was built, and the tower arch is acutely pointed in the then very new Gothic manner. It has two quite freely-carved stiff-leaf capitals. Early Early [sic] English foliage carvings tend to be very unnaturalistic in their rigid poses, but these (like, possibly, the capital of the south nave pier) seem to be signs of things to come.

The next major building phase in the early 14th century resulted in the south chapel, which is best appreciated from the outside. The display of flint and limestone chequerwork is probably the best in the county, and is a very welcome improvement on the numerous plain flint churches that dominate the whole of the east of England. 

The two south windows each have a spherical triangle containing a sexfoil in their tracery (yet another forward thinking motif), while the east window is a clear development of Early English intersecting tracery. All three lights have a small arch at the level of the springing, and the mullions divide into two as they branch and spread, crossing over near the top, creating six shapes in the tracery. Each shape is foliated. It's a simple design, nothing like as complex as many of the windows created during the lamentably short-lived Decorated period, but it has poise.*** Compare it to the bog-standard-boring 15th century Perpendicular window in the flanking chancel. I suppose they called it progress and said you had to keep up with the times.

At the west end of the south aisle there's a monument to the first Lord Raymond, Lord Chief Justice of the King's Bench and Baron of Abbots Langley, who died in 1733.**** In 1729 he presided over the case of Thomas Woolston, who was tried for blasphemy, having written books maintaining that the Bible must be interpreted allegorically rather than literally (for example, he questioned the literal resurrection of Christ). He was found guilty, and Raymond sentenced him to one year's imprisonment and heavy fines. He couldn't pay them and thus had to stay in prison, where he died in January 1733. Less than two months later Raymond followed him; maybe Raymond was able to pompously lecture Woolston about how wrong he was when they met in a literal Heaven, or maybe not. (In England and Wales blasphemy laws were in force until 2008; they had been largely quiescent for many decades before then, though the editor of the magazine Gay News was given a suspended prison sentence for the crime as late as 1976.)

Raymond leans on a pile of books and holds the Magna Carta. He seems very self-satisfied, holding out his left hand to a putto, deferentially crouched, who offers him a coronet. He doesn't deign to look at the poor young servant, but turns his head away in what looks like a deliberate snub. I suppose anyone with a wig as splendid as his is likely to have his self-importance go to his head.

His wife sits next to and behind him, looking down on him and holding a portrait medallion of their son. Her expression is inscrutable. What is she thinking as she surveys him?

The monument (which allegedly cost £1000, the equivalent of a quarter of a million today, an extraordinary sum if true*****) is prominently signed by Westby Gill (1678-1745), who was an architect and master carpenter. However, he only designed it; the hard work of actually carving it was down to Henry Cheere (1703-81), who was knighted in 1760 and created a baronet in 1766. Nevertheless, he signs it rather modestly. Raymond could have learned a thing or two from him. 

Raymond's son, the second (and last) Lord Raymond, who died in 1756, is commemorated in this monument by Peter Scheemakers (1691-1781), a Fleming who became one of the most prominent sculptors in Britain in the 18th century. On the left a figure representing Plenty, with a fruit-filled cornucopia in her lap, decorously dabs her eyes with her hanky, while on the right Hope refuses to give in to such girly emotionalism and grasps her anchor steadfastly.

My favourite monument is this one, to Dame Anne Raymond (d.1715), the first Lord Raymond's mother. She sits mournfully, reading a book held in her right hand; her left hand has the fingers broken off but she appears to be making an enigmatic gesture by raising her hand, palm first, to the viewer as if to say 'Keep back'. Her square-toed shoes project out of the 'frame' of the composition. 

She sits within a Corinthian aedicule, entirely typical of its period in its cool classicism, but beneath her are three naively conceived and carved wickerwork cribs, representing three of her grandchildren 'Who all dyed within few weeks after theyr Births'. They could come from a monument a century older. 

In the north aisle is this unusual and eye-catching monument to Ambrose George Armstrong, who died in 1894, aged 11. It was designed by his grieving father, Thomas, who was the Director of Art at the Department of Science and Art (which became the Royal College of Art in 1896) in South Kensington. The inscription at the bottom means 'May the angels lead him into Paradise.' In the middle is a lunette with a painted alabaster portrait head of young Ambrose. The two panels are painted plaster; on the left the young Christ disputing with the Doctors in the Temple, and on the right the Rest on the Flight into Egypt, both subjects suitable for a child. 

At the top are the figures of St Ambrose, pen in hand, and St George, who's in the act of killing the dragon. They were carved by Ruby Levick (1871-1940) who was a student at the time, and are apparently portraits of Ambrose's godfathers, which is very touching even though the figures are really too small to distinguish their facial features. The Corinthian pilasters and quantities of gilding make this a very imposing object.

15th century stained glass showing St Lawrence with a gridiron, the instrument of his martyrdom

 

The east window of the south chapel (with the Decorated tracery discussed above) contains 1911 stained glass by James Powell and Sons. It's a Benedicite, in which all of Creation praises God. There are nine scenes within the lush swirling monochrome foliage, including a starlit, icicle-threatened snowy landscape and church in the top left, a valley thick with corn centre middle, an angel sending fertile rain to the pasture top right, and a manically staring Moses with his eyes boring mercilessly into the viewer's bottom right. Altogether it's a magnificent Edwardian Arts and Crafty work.

The two other windows in the south chapel are also worth a look. This one is quite early, c.1842, by Robert Morrow (he signs it with his initials). He's an obscure figure, not featuring in Martin Harrison's Victorian Stained Glass. This window depicts scenes from the life of Christ; it's very effective from a distance with its blues and reds, though close up the drawing is rather crude.

This one is by Hardman and Co, 1870, depicting (I think) the Parable of the Talents and the Good Samaritan. By the mid-Victorian period the production of stained glass had reached a high level of competence and confidence, which can be seen when comparing this window with Morrow's slightly tentative work.

In the nave there are ten terrific 15th century corbels (though for some reason I have photographs of only six of them). The Statutory Listing says they've been renewed, but I can't see any reason to think that; they look untouched to me. Many of them stick their tongues out and grin, one mouth-puller among them. They're an amusing and intriguing bit of folk art, an entertaining contrast to the solemn, sometimes grandiose, monuments over which they preside.

The first time I visited Abbots Langley church, in 1994, there was a large and aggressively worded notice in the porch forbidding photography. I'm glad to say that on my most recent visit that was gone, and that the church was open and welcoming.

* Witness for example the rebellion in 1196 in London led by William Fitz Osbert (also known as William with the long beard), one of the first significant popular uprisings in English history. This was aimed at the wealthy (though not the monarchy) and allegedly attracted a following of 52,000. Predictably it didn't end well; he was torn apart by chains attached to horses, alongside nine accomplices. Many saw him as a martyr; half a century later Matthew Paris, with whom this account began, regarded him as a hero.

** I've just spent half an hour trying to find a date for the first use of stiff-leaf, without success. I have books about Saxon, Norman, Decorated and Perpendicular architecture, but nothing on Early English (is there one?), which is where I'd be most likely to find the answer. Eric Fernie's The Architecture of Norman England (Oxford, 2000) has a paragraph about how 'changing tastes from the 1150s to the 1180s' affected capitals, which mentions stiff-leaf, but the only example given is of Glastonbury Abbey in the early 13th century. He doesn't state or imply that this is the earliest example. It's entirely possible that no one knows when and where stiff-leaf was first used.

*** I've tried to explicate some of the complexities of Dec tracery here.

**** The inscription says 1732, but this is because Britain was still using the old Julian calendar in which the year begins on March 25th, and he died on March 18th. See the footnote here.

***** Surely it can't be true that this monument cost £1000. Another monument  by Cheere, that to Captain Philip de Sausmarez who died in 1747, cost £270.  (It's in Westminster Abbey; you can see it here.) Admittedly it's smaller and less elaborate than the Raymond monument, having no large figures, only two putti and a portrait medallion, though the pedestal and background are fancier. Even so, it's hard to believe that the monument in Abbots Langley cost almost four times as much as the one in the Abbey. Another monument in the Abbey, that to Admiral Vernon who died in 1757 (see here), cost £650, and it's roughly comparable in size and complexity to Raymond's.  I think we must conclude that the figure of £1000 is a pious exaggeration, similar to the claim sometimes made about the Saunders monument in Flamstead, Herts.

Inigo Jones' chancel screen for Winchester cathedral, now in Cambridge

 

Over the last few days I've been writing a post about the Gothic Survival and Oxhey chapel. It seems to be an appropriate time to take a look at what styles, other than Gothic, could have been available to those who designed and built it. 

Classical forms of architecture, filtered through various European Renaissance styles, began to arrive in England from the 1520s, and by the 1570s were well established. However, the few church buildings, or additions to existing medieval churches, of the latter half of the 16th century continued to be mostly in a simplified form of Gothic (with occasional exceptions, such as the west porch of Sunningwell, Berks, of c.1551, which combines Renaissance details with Gothic).

The first English architect to fully embrace classicism was Inigo Jones (1573-1652). He built the first fully classical church in the country, St Paul's, Covent Garden, in 1631. From 1634 to 1642 he was involved in repairing Old St Paul's Cathedral, including building an entirely new classical west front (which was of course destroyed, along with the rest of the cathedral, in the Great Fire of 1666). 

Much less well-known than either of these projects is Jones' chancel screen for Winchester Cathedral, made in 1637-8. It's little-known because it was removed in 1820 and replaced by a stone Gothic screen designed by William Garbett. Garbett's work lasted only half a century before being in turn replaced by a wooden Gothic screen designed by Sir George Gilbert Scott.

Engraving by G. Woodfield, from S. Gale's History of the Cathedral Church of Winchester, 1715, reproduced in English Cathedrals: The Forgotten Centuries, by Gerald Cobb

Steel engravings from John Britton's The History and Antiquities of the See and Cathedral Church of Winchester, 1820

Pictures survive to enable us to see what it looked like in situ. I think it suits the space rather handsomely. When it was replaced, fortunately it wasn't destroyed but put into store in the crypt.

In 1910 Sir Thomas Graham Jackson (1835-1924) was hired to build the Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology in Cambridge. He was already, from 1899, the consulting architect for Winchester Cathedral, and had the idea that the central section of Jones' screen could be incorporated into the fabric of the new building. And that's where it remains today, accompanied by anthropological artefacts from around the world.*

The reconstructed central section, comprising a little more than a third of the whole (the rest is still in the crypt), lacks the urns and also, most unfortunately, the symbolic female figures reclining on the pediment seen in the Woodfield picture. (One of the Britton pictures (though not the other) also shows the urns.)

Given that this is a pioneering work, it's surprising that it's so confident and accomplished. Jones had been to Italy in the party of Lord and Lady Arundel in 1613-14, and took with him his copy of Palladio's 1570 book Quattro Libri dell'Architettura, in which he made notes. (This copy still exists in the library of Worcester College, Oxford.) He clearly learnt a great deal from this experience, and this is reflected in the Winchester screen. Not only is the design absolutely convincing, but also the workmanship; the mason or masons who carved it must have been very familiar with the conventions of the Corinthian order (or Jones was able to direct them very well).

When Jones erected the screen in 1637-8 it was presumably admired by the educated. (It's hard to know what 'ordinary' people thought about it as they have left fewer records.) Everything associated with ancient Greece and Rome was considered refined and emblematic of civilisation. Medieval art and architecture came to be seen as coarse and even barbaric. The term 'Gothic' was originally used (in the later 17th century) as an insult (as we use 'vandal' as an insult today). Consequently throughout the 18th century styles of architecture based on classical models dominated.

This began to change in the mid 18th century, when the picturesque elements of Gothic began to be appreciated. But as late as 1771 Tobias Smollett, in his novel The Expedition of Humphrey Clinker, could write these words:

As for the Minster, I know not how to distinguish it, except by its great size and the height of its spire, from those other ancient churches in different parts of the kingdom, which used to be called monuments of Gothic architecture; but it is now agreed, that this stile is Saracen rather than Gothic; and, I suppose, it was first imported into England from Spain, great part of which was under the dominion of the Moors. ...

The external appearance of an old cathedral cannot be but displeasing to the eye of every man, who has any idea of propriety or proportion, even though he may be ignorant of architecture as a science; and the long slender spire puts one in mind of a criminal impaled with a sharp stake rising up through his shoulder—These towers, or steeples, were likewise borrowed from the Mahometans; who, having no bells, used such minarets for the purpose of calling the people to prayers—They may be of further use, however, for making observations and signals; but I would vote for their being distinct from the body of the church, because they serve only to make the pile more barbarous, or Saracenical.

These are the opinions of a character, Mr Bramble, not necessarily those of Smollett. He's writing (as it's an epistolary novel) about York Minster; the reference to a spire is puzzling as although the central tower did once have a wooden spire it was long gone by 1771. Perhaps Smollett hadn't actually seen York, or was mixing it up with somewhere else. Bramble is rather irascible and also criticises the Georgian architecture of Bath, but there must have been plenty of people at the time who shared his view that Gothic is 'displeasing to the eye of every man, who has any idea of propriety or proportion'.

In the 19th century the vogue changed again, and classical architecture gradually declined in status while Gothic, which was being properly studied for the first time, came to be seen as the true expression of the British. In his 1820 book about Winchester Cathedral John Britton wrote this:

That's telling it straight! 

Consequently, as we've seen, the screen was dumped.

At first it was thought sophisticated and beautiful, then 'bad' and 'unsightly'. In the 20th century tastes changed again and it was rescued from its ignoble descent into the crypt and obscurity. Now it's on public display, but who knows how many people know it's there or look at it. Thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.

* Currently (until March 2021) near the screen is a small exhibition of contemporary woven mats made by Asman people of Papua, Indonesia (see here). They're Catholic, and their take on traditional Christian iconography is very eye-catching. In this Nativity scene, for example, the animals come to worship include fish, lizards, a jellyfish and a lobster. From now on I just don't think any lobsterless Nativity scene will cut the mustard. In fact I'm going to recruit a team of daredevil interventionist artists who are going to roam the country undercover, equipped with sacks of model crustaceans, intent on infiltrating a lobster into every Nativity in the land.

Oxhey chapel: Gothic Survival and witch hunts amidst the housing estates

 

In the 60s, when I was a child (I officially became a teenager in the last few months of that decade), my maternal grandparents lived in Carpenders Park (a suburb of Watford). My family used to visit them often, and I loved their little bungalow in The Mead. Sometimes I went to stay with them, and their impeccably well-maintained back garden, my grandfather's darling, where I spent hours playing seemed like a magic kingdom. My grandfather was a compositor, and he was fond of saying that he could read upside down and back to front as well as he could read the right way round. I thought I had on my shelves his copy of a printers' and compositors' handbook, but I've just had a look and sadly I can't find it.

Anyway, naturally I don't expect anyone who might read these words to have the slightest interest in my childhood. I mention it because half a mile to the west of my grandparents' old home, across the railway track and hence in Oxhey rather than Carpenders Park, is Oxhey Chapel. This is a very surprising, and very delightful, thing to find in the middle of a post-war housing estate in what feels like an outer London suburb, a few minutes walk from a station on the Euston to Watford line. The interior of the chapel in particular is one of the most unexpected marvels of the county.

The chapel is built in a very attractive chequerwork of redbrick and knapped flint, with limestone dressings and (probably Victorian) brick buttresses. It dates from 1612 (when Oxhey was of course a settlement in its own right), and was built by Sir James Altham as an estate chapel for Oxhey Place (which burnt down in 1955). The chapel's history is as chequered as its walls. During the Civil War (1642-51, now more accurately referred to as the Wars of the Three Kingdoms) Parliamentary troops used the chapel as a store and barracks, and stripped the lead from the roof to make musket balls.* In 1688 Sir John Bucknall, the new owner of Oxhey Place, installed the splendid Carolean reredos, using woodwork from the house, and presumably patched up the building generally. 

In 1704 the chapel was given a hipped and tiled roof along with a bellcote, as seen in the photo above (which probably dates from c.1897). In 1712 more work took place, the main result of which was that the reredos was painted white (to brighten the interior). It seems shocking and outrageous to us now that such a notable piece of ecclesiastical furnishing should have been treated so casually. But I suppose it's the equivalent of us today being blase about furniture from the 1990s.

From about 1799 no services were held in the chapel and it was instead used for storage. In 1852 Thomas Grimston Bucknall Estcourt (I assume a descendant of Sir John Bucknall) restored the chapel as a church for use of the inhabitants of Oxhey. He stripped the paint from the reredos - good for him, as at the time a taste and respect for 17th century furnishings wasn't automatic, as I hope it is today. He also removed the old pulpit and pews. 

In 1866 however the estate was sold and then broken up into lots, and in 1877 a large part of it was bought by Thomas Blackwell (of Crosse and Blackwell, the food company), and in 1897 either he or his son (also Thomas) decided to return the building to its original use as an estate chapel. He employed J.E.K. Cutts for the job, and much of its current appearance is thanks to him. He unblocked the north windows and built the narthex, though the door - which I assume includes the doorway - was retained from the original west front. He also installed most of the seating, set against the north and south walls as in college chapels, and the west. It's made of teak, blends perfectly with the original furnishings, and makes a major contribution to the exquisite interior as it exists today. (Some of Cutts' photographs of his work can be seen on the website of St Matthew's church.)

Bu this wasn't the end of the mixed fortunes of the building. I don't know how long the Blackwells continued to live in Oxhey Place or use the chapel. After the First World War it became harder for families to maintain large estates, religious observance gradually declined, and even if families still worshipped they no longer expected to do so in their own private chapels. By the 1960s the chapel was verging on dereliction. A crisis was reached in the terrible winter of 62/3 when the roof partly collapsed. It would have been so easy for the building to have crumbled quietly away, hardly noticed. But fortunately an appeal raised £6,000 (the equivalent of £126,000 today) and it was rescued. A new roof** was constructed to weatherproof the building in 1963; the west and east gables also date from this time, as does the very dinky ogee hexagonal*** cupola bellcote. This changed the outward appearance of the chapel (at least as it had been since 1704), but the 'new' roof is entirely in keeping with the old building.

After this restoration the church still wasn't out of the woods (except literally: the black and white photo above shows it with trees as close neighbours, which were mostly felled as the area filled up with housing after the war). It must have been hard for such a small church to 'pay its way', especially with the numbers attending church being in steady decline since the war. Perhaps inevitably, it was declared redundant in 1977. Very fortunately it was considered to be of sufficient historical and architectural value to be vested in the Churches Conservation Trust (then called the Redundant Churches Fund), and its future is now secure (as long as the Trust can maintain its funding, of course - join now!).

The earlier 17th century isn't a period during which many churches were built (there were presumably enough medieval churches to meet the needs of nearly all congregations). However, there were a few, and most of them were built in a style that's now called Gothic Survival. (See appendix.) Externally, it would be very easy to assume the chapel was built a century or more earlier than 1612. The most obvious suggestion that Oxhey dates from before the Reformation is the windows.

St Paul's Walden, S chapel, early 16th cen

The early 16th century south chapel of St Paul's Walden church, Herts, has several windows consisting of three lights grouped together under a square hoodmould. The mullions ascend to meet the lintel, and the arches are depressed (that is, flattened). There is no cusping (triangles with two concave sides, like rose thorns, very frequently seen in Gothic window tracery). This is an entirely standard form found in late Perpendicular (or perhaps it would be better to call them Tudor) buildings. (Many windows made in the last half of the 15th century follow this pattern too, except that they usually have cusps.)

Oxhey chapel, 1612

Now compare these windows with those at Oxhey. Except for there being a group of four rather than three lights, a trivial difference, they're exactly the same. The builders of Oxhey, despite there being almost no living tradition of church building or of the Gothic style when they were working, must have adopted this style as it was the only one they knew, (or the only one they thought suitable). Gothic survived more than half a century of disuse, but was resurrected at Oxhey and some other places during the early 17th century.

Seen from the outside, the chapel is all but indistinguishable from a building dating from a century or more earlier. Fascinatingly, seen from the inside this isn't true at all. Apart from the windows, the only hint of Gothic to be seen internally is hidden up in the roof. In the spandrels between the tie-beams and the arched braces are some decorative mullion-like struts, which have cusps like those often found in medieval windows. So there are no cusps in the windows, where we might expect to find them, but there are cusps in the roof, where we wouldn't. Maybe the folk memory of cusps was so strong that they just had to find expression somewhere, even though they had to sneak in almost out of sight.

The 1688 reredos dominates the chapel (imagine it once covered in whitewash). It is very imposingly, swaggeringly baroque with its broken pediment, abundant fruit carving and twin twisted columns, and puts the Lord's Prayer, Ten Commandments and Creed unignorably front and centre. It's flanked by little swagged cartouches, and topped by an urn from which issue gilded flames. Just underneath this is a grimacing grotesque head. 

The communion rail, with mini versions of the reredos's spiral columns, and the black and white tiles are from the same period. 

Another contemporary feature is the font and its cover (though it was brought into the church from elsewhere in the 19th century). This is, quite simply, superb. It must be one of the county's best.**** It's made of oak; admire the intricate, stylised foliage (including oak leaves) with which it's carved.

This chair, which looks roughly contemporary with the other furniture, is another probably relatively recent import. The back features a very lively dog which wears a collar and has a feather- or leaf-like covering on its back. From its mouth vines sprout, which exuberantly intertwine with an oak which shoots from its - ahem - other end. At the top there's what looks like tracery from a Gothic window on its side. It's possible that all or some of this is a later pastiche, but even so it's accomplished and great fun.

This big chair (or small settle) has Tudor linenfold panelling on its back below Gothic window-style patterns. It's allegedly from St Albans cathedral. However, the tracery is quite unlike the stripped-down Perpendicular seen in the actual chapel windows and those of other Tudor building the chapel imitates. The tracery resembles that found in windows made in c.1300; (the 'light' on the left is the only one that would make a real Decorated window, however). Two of the four columns are twisted, a feature rare in England before the 17th century. I'm far from an expert on furniture, but I suggest with some degree of confidence that this piece must be much later, probably Victorian. Which doesn't make it any less enjoyable, of course. 

The doorcase, with its Corinthian pilasters, survives from the original building, but the pews and the return stalls on the west wall are as I've said from Cutts' 1897 restoration. They complement the original woodwork perfectly without outshining it.

There are two notable monuments. This one is to John Askell Bucknall, 'an Ornament to his Friends, and the Protector of his Neighbours', who died in 1796, aged 78, and whose family lived in Oxhey Place from the late 17th until the mid 19th centuries. A woman caresses a funeral urn, accompanied by a cypress tree, symbolic of mourning.

More interesting is that to Sir James Altham, who died in1616 (and his third wife, died 1638). In itself it's just a standard medium-sized Jacobean wall monument of no particular note, but it's significant partly because it was he who built the chapel in the first place, and more so because of his history. 

He was probably born in the 1550s, attended Trinity College, Cambridge, and entered Gray's Inn (to qualify as a barrister) in 1575. In 1603 he was made a sergeant-at-law (a judge), and in 1607 he was knighted and appointed one of the barons of the Exchequer. In 1611 he was one of the judges involved in the case of 'two blasphemous heretics' who were executed by burning. (These were among the last, or perhaps the very last, executions for blasphemy in England, though the death penalty for this crime was not abolished until 1676.)

The following year, 1612 (the same year, remember, when the chapel was built) he was one of the main judges who presided over the trial of the so-called Pendle (in Lancashire) witches. This is the most infamous witch trial in English history, with the highest death count. Ten people were executed (by hanging) for witchcraft, all but two of them women. (Another woman died in prison.) One particularly disturbing aspect of the trial is that one of the chief witnesses for the prosecution, Jennet Device, aged about nine, gave evidence against her own mother, Elizabeth, who was executed.*****

We know a great deal about this case as Thomas Potts, the clerk of the Lancaster assizes, wrote what was effectively an authorised account, The Wonderfull Discoverie of Witches in the Countie of Lancaster. He concludes his book 'God grant us the long and prosperous continuance of these Honourable and Reverend Judges, under whose Government we live in these North parts: for we may say, That GOD Almighty hath singled them out, and set him on his seat, for the defence of Justice. And for this great deliverance, let us all pray to GOD Almighty, that the memory of these worthy Judges may be blessed to all Posterities' [spelling modernised]. (Incidentally, I'm not sure why the title page of Potts' book gives most prominence to Altham; from my skim read it seems that Sir Edward Bromley, who gets second billing, was the most active.)

We're likely to take a different view of the judges today. True, they could only operate under the laws, understanding and prejudices of their age, but, really, if judges can't be trusted to keep a level head in the face of hysteria, who can? Altham and the others don't come out of this story very well; it's hard to see them as honourable, reverend and worthy. 

Perhaps for this reason nearly all accounts of Oxhey chapel mention Altham, and some include his involvement with the 1611 blasphemy case, but almost none of them acknowledge his connection with the Pendle trial. The Victoria County History, which gives an otherwise full account, ignores it. The Wikipedia entry on Altham does likewise. I would have been unaware of it had I not read Stiffleaf's excellent Visiting Hertfordshire Churches website (to which I'm grateful for drawing my attention to it). It's strange that this dramatic story of witches and hanging hasn't been given more coverage.

Who would ever have thought that suburban Oxhey had a link with this deplorable and shameful episode in our history? Who, when looking around this utterly charming chapel, thinks of the ten poor people executed on the orders of the man who built it, in the very year it was built?

On my one visit to Oxhey (during which I came across some very odd local street names - Delta Gain? Gibbs Couch?) someone in the community centre next door saw me looking, and came rushing out with a key to let me in. 'Witches' aside, the chapel is as enchanted as my grandparents' garden was to me as a child.

* According to the website of the nearby St Matthew's church this happened after the Battle of Uxbridge in 1649. I can't find any reference anywhere, in any of the several books I've consulted or the interweb, to this battle. There was a Treaty of Uxbridge, an unsuccessful attempt to end the fighting, in 1645. (Uxbridge is about ten mikes from Oxhey.)

** The old tiles were sold to Sir Yehudi Menuhin; he used them to roof his Hampstead house. 

*** The Statutory Listing says it's octagonal. You wouldn't believe the childish satisfaction I get from getting one over on the experts. Take that, professionals.

**** On this list are also Anstey, Ware and Caldecote.

***** I recommend this documentary made by Simon Armitage (now the Poet Laureate).

APPENDIX: THE GOTHIC SURVIVAL

The Gothic style of architecture (which wasn't given that name until long after the Middle Ages) originated in northern France in the 12th century, and spread across most of Europe. It was the dominant style until the Renaissance; in England it was essentially the only style until the early 16th century. It is characterised by pointed arches, rib vaulted ceilings, large, tall windows which often contain stained glass and have cusped tracery (which also sometimes decorates surfaces), flying buttresses, pinnacles, and rich decoration. However, these features, abundant in larger buildings such as cathedrals, won't all be found in smaller buildings, such as most parish churches. In Hertfordshire you're going to have a hard time trying to find a flying buttress, and only a little better luck tracking down rib vaults or pinnacles.

The Gothic style is often thought to have died out at the Reformation in the 1530s, and not reappeared in England until the early stages of the Gothic Revival in the 1740s. In fact, there is a more or less unbroken chain of Gothic buildings during this supposedly inactive two hundred year period. While it's true that there was very little church building in the last six decades of the 16th century, there was a significant amount in the following century (and into the next), and most of it was Gothic (especially in rural areas). Almost every county has at least one or two examples. Hertfordshire has two complete 17th century Gothic places of worship, Oxhey and Buntingford (1614-c.28), as well as several additions to existing churches in this style, for example Little Hadham (c.1632), King's Walden (early 17th cen) and Braughing (c.1630). 

There were also secular Gothic Survival buildings, often bigger and grander than the generally small and unassuming churches. Most of these secular structures are collegiate buildings in Oxford and Cambridge.

Smaller Gothic Survival buildings tend to follow a stripped-down version of the Perpendicular style of Gothic. The windows have mullions with arches at the top, often under a square head, though the arches are sometimes rounded rather than pointed. There are generally no cusps (concave triangles, like rose thorns, found in the tracery of medieval windows). Oxhey mostly follows this typical formula, as the photo at the top of the page demonstrates. 

The term 'Gothic Survival' is in many cases a misnomer. We can assume that such buildings as Oxhey are genuinely survivals rather than early revivals. In other words, they were built in an approximation of the Gothic style because the builders didn't know any other style (or, if they were vaguely aware of other styles, they never considered them suitable for their purpose). But many other buildings usually included under the heading 'Gothic Survival' are probably really conscious revivals; this applies to the collegiate buildings in Oxford and Cambridge, such as the library of St John's, Cambridge (1623-28), arguably the very first Gothic Revival building. In other words, the builders were aware of other styles and made a conscious decision to build in an old, traditional style rather than a more modern one. Perhaps we should call such buildings 'Proto-Gothic Revival', but 'Gothic Survival' is well-established and understood.

Gothic Survival buildings are often (though not always) rather plain and architecturally unexciting; the most interesting thing about them is that they exist, despite their being stylistic throwbacks. Perhaps for this reason there is no book about the subject, even though there are many dozens of buildings in this category. I once thought of trying to write one, and I have compiled extensive lists, but I'm five years into a project to write about a couple of hundred of Herts churches and I'm not even a quarter of the way through yet, so someone more industrious (and knowledgeable) than me will have to take over the job.*

As well as many humble (but often lovably so) buildings all over the country, such as Buntingford church and Oxhey chapel, there is a sequence of relatively grand ones. To choose a few more or less at random: Trinity College chapel, Cambridge (1564), St Katherine Cree church, London (1628-31), Peterhouse chapel, Cambridge (1628-32), St John's church, Leeds (1632-33), Staunton Harold church, Leicestershire (1653-63), St Mary's church, Warwick (1698-1704), the north quadrangle of All Souls' College, Oxford (by Hawksmoor, 1716) and the west towers of Westminster Abbey (also by Hawksmoor, 1722-45). In addition to the buildings themselves there are also many fixtures and fittings from the 1540s to the 1740s in a continuation or version of Gothic; for example, there is much furniture associated with Bishop John Cosin, such as the astounding font cover in Durham cathedral (1662-3). Surely the Gothic Survival is a subject that deserves much more attention.

* The only serious and reasonably lengthy discussion of the subject I've come across is in the first chapter of The Gothic Revival by Chris Brooks, Phaidon, 1999.