Jesus as a child

 

There are a large number of paintings of Jesus’ nativity, of his crucifixion and resurrection, and of various other events in his adult life. Many fewer paintings have been made of his childhood as we have little information on his life up to the age of twelve. We know that he lived with Mary and Joseph who, like almost all parents, were dedicated to looking after him. This is shown in the account in Luke’s Gospel [1]:

“And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, filled with wisdom: and the grace of God was upon him. Now his parents went to Jerusalem every year at the feast of the passover. And when he was twelve years old, they went up to Jerusalem after the custom of the feast. And when they had fulfilled the days, as they returned, the child Jesus tarried behind in Jerusalem; and Joseph and his mother knew not of it. But they, supposing him to have been in the company, went a day’s journey; and they sought him among their kinsfolk and acquaintance. And when they found him not, they turned back again to Jerusalem, seeking him. And it came to pass, that after three days they found him in the temple, sitting in the midst of the doctors, both hearing them, and asking them questions. And all that heard him were astonished at his understanding and answers. And when they saw him, they were amazed: and his mother said unto him, Son, why hast thou thus dealt with us? behold, thy father and I have sought thee sorrowing. And he said unto them, how is it that ye sought me? Wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business? And they understood not the saying which he spake unto them. And he went down with them, and came to Nazareth, and was subject unto them: but his mother kept all these sayings in her heart. And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and man.”

The meeting in the temple is shown in paintings by Steen (from 1660) and by Hoffmann (from 1884) shown below. At this time, Jesus is effectively embarking on adult life, although there are a few more years to go before he actively pursued his Ministry. In Steen’s painting, Jesus is portrayed as an innocent child, with divine light shining upon him, whereas Hoffmann captures a more confident moment,

We are left with a number of questions about Jesus’ boyhood – did he grow up as other children do, or did he know everything because he was the Son of God (as implied in Luke’s gospel)? Clearly, the incident in the Temple shows that Jesus had a superior knowledge, but how did he acquire it? Alternatively, if he knew everything all along, what did he spend his childhood years doing? Before addressing this question, let’s look at two more paintings; one by Murillo (from ca. 1681), who made many images of children, and one by Millais (from 1850). The painting by Murillo (below) is clearly for veneration and worship, with Jesus standing on a block to show that he was not bound to Earth, and emphasising the link between his Earthly parents and also to God and the Holy Spirit (as represented by a dove; a conventional device used by artists to portray something that cannot be seen). I’ve written before about this painting [2] and it has always impressed me, showing, as it does, many tender emotions and, in Joseph, a sense of apprehension.

Millais, in contrast, takes an everyday approach (above), with Jesus and Mary in Joseph’s carpentry shop. There is little sign here that Jesus is the son of God, or that Mary was chosen to have the special, and unique, role of becoming his mother, even though she was a virgin at the time of divine conception. We know that much from the accounts in The Bible, but we would not guess that was part of the story from the domestic scene shown by Millais. As might be expected, the painting caused controversy when exhibited, and among the critics was Charles Dickens who wrote an article in Household Words [3] that attacked the Pre-Raphaelites in general and, especially, the painting by Millais. These extracts come from that piece:

“You behold the interior of a carpenter’s shop. In the foreground of that carpenter’s shop is a hideous, wry-necked, blubbering, red-headed boy, in a bed-gown; who appears to have received a poke in the hand, from the stick of another boy with whom he has been playing in an adjacent gutter, and to be holding it up for the contemplation of a kneeling woman, so horrible in her ugliness, that (supposing it were possible for any human creature to exist for a moment with that dislocated throat) she would stand out from the rest of the company as a Monster, in the vilest cabaret in France, or the lowest gin-shop in England. Two almost naked carpenters, master and journeyman, worthy companions of this agreeable female, are working at their trade; a boy with some small flavo[u]r of humanity in him, is entering with a vessel of water; and nobody is paying attention to a snuffy old woman who seems to have mistaken that shop for the tobacconist’s next door, and to be hopelessly waiting at the counter to be served with half an ounce of her favourite mixture. Wherever it is possible to express ugliness of feature, limb, or attitude, you have it expressed.”

From which we conclude that Dickens did not like the picture one bit, or it’s representation of the Holy Family. Of all the paintings in the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood exhibition, it was this work by Millais that created much criticism and the press “reacted ferociously to what they viewed as a repulsive, near blasphemous representation of the Holy Family” [4]. But why? Surely, the view that Jesus had a normal childhood can be accepted, and the scene in Millais’ painting is just one of everyday life, although we note that the wound in Jesus’ hand reminds us of the stigma of a nail, anchoring the image into the story of what is to come (see detail below). We also see a splash of blood by the nail in the door that is on the work bench and a splash on Jesus’ foot just to emphasise the point, and Joseph is holding Jesus’ hand open so that we can get a better look. The atmosphere is completely different to that in the painting by Murillo.

So, we are left with the two main questions: What was the childhood of Jesus really like; and was he all-knowing from the moment of birth? Of course, we don’t know the answer to either, but we do have some further information on the former.

As Mary was a virgin, we know that Jesus was her first-born child, but we also know that, by the time he was twelve, he had four brothers and at least two sisters [5]. We know, therefore, that he had the advantage of being the first-born, but we can only imagine what family life was like and whether Jesus played games and enjoyed the other activities of growing children. In the view of an atheist, Jesus’ upbringing was that of any child, although he was certainly unusual in having the talents that he later displayed as a great religious leader. To a Trinitarian, like the majority of Christians, Jesus was not only the Son of God but also part of God, together with the Holy Spirit. As such, we cannot know whether he learned much during childhood, or whether it was a matter of learning how to connect human development with being divine.

A third approach to the rôle of Jesus, Arianism, was advocated by Isaac Newton who, in addition to his extraordinary scientific achievements, studied early Christianity by consulting a large number of original sources. It is likely that he spent as much time on these researches as he did on scientific and mathematical investigations, but, because of likely hostility from many parts of the establishment, he kept his notes private. Richard Westfall [6] tells us that:

“The conviction began to possess him that a massive fraud, which began in the fourth and fifth centuries, had perverted the legacy of the early church. Central to the fraud were the Scriptures, which Newton began to believe had been corrupted to support trinitarianism. It is impossible to say exactly when the conviction fastened upon him. The original notes themselves testify to early doubts. Far from silencing the doubts, he let them possess him..

..The earlier corruption of doctrine, which called for the corruption of Scripture to support it, occurred in the fourth century, when the triumph of Athanasius over Arius imposed the false doctrine of the trinity on Christianity..

.. The mere thought of trinitarianism, ‘the fals infernal religion’, was enough to fan Newton into a rage.”

What would Newton have made of the paintings by Murillo and Millais if he saw them? To the eyes of an atheist or an Arianist, Jesus working in his father’s carpenter’s shop seems quite natural and the adoration shown in the painting by Murillo difficult to reconcile with any kind of normal childhood. Trinitarianism, and its sub-branch the worship of Mary, are embedded in the Catholic Church and have been since the early days of Christianity. Trinitarians worship Jesus through all his life, death and resurrection as he was/is part of God. They seem disinterested in questions regarding his childhood, while focussing on his life before, and after this time. This is also true of artists through the ages and reflects commissioned work from Christians.

Yet there is one point that is worth stressing and that is that Jesus, whether he had innate knowledge or not, was brought up in humble surroundings and his discourse in the Temple came as a surprise to the learned gathering. It’s a good way of showing that Jesus was at one with all strata of society. How Trinitarians tie that in with his divinity is not known (or important to them?). For atheists (and possibly Arianists), however, it presents Jesus as a great leader with a “grass roots” base of believers and thus of general appeal. The tragic events of his later life, essential to the idea of redemption, then led to the adoption of the Trinitarian view of Christian doctrine by the Catholic Church, an organisation that was certainly hierarchical and probably corrupt. It remains the basis for most Christian belief today.

[1] Luke 2: 40-52 in the Authorized King James version of The Holy Bible.

[2] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2018/04/murillos-heavenly-and-earthly-trinities.html

[3] Charles Dickens (1850) Old Lamps for New Ones. Household Words 1(12): 265-267.

[4] Christine Riding (2006) John Everett Millais. London, Tate Publishing.

[5] Matthew 13:55-56 and Mark 6:3 in the Authorized King James version of The Holy Bible.

[6] Richard Westfall (1993) The Life of Isaac Newton. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Singing in a concert

The book Walking with Gosse [1] opens with the following description: “After the summer holiday season, Paignton in the 1950s was typical of many seaside towns in the UK, being quiet and left to its residents. A small theatre put on rather good amateur pantomimes at Christmas and, at other times, hosted school music festivals, elocution contests, and the occasional Billy Graham-style Christian Crusade”. This theatre is shown below.

I was a participant in school music festivals in Paignton, always as part of a choir, and we had an interest in how we performed, as pride was at stake. We also wanted to sing as well as we could. There were set pieces and the choir practised these, so that we not only knew the words and music, but all the little nuances of expression that the music teacher wanted. On the day of the performance, we were all kitted up in school uniform and then called to the stage to do our bit. When all schools had finished, an Adjudicator described how we had all performed and then gave each choir a mark. I was fortunate in being part of a choir that always did well.

All this was in the late 1950s and early 1960s, but I was reminded of it all last evening when I attended the “Young Voices 2025” concert at Wembley Arena. My granddaughter, India, was one of the 4609 children taking part and they put on a great concert, with live music from a band, guest singers and rappers, and dancers. It all lasted nearly two hours and the children were as enthusiastic at the end (a medley of Bob Marley songs) as they had been at the beginning. It must have made a big impression on them and was all so different to the rather turgid music festivals that I enjoyed. Then, Paignton is a long way from London, but so is Norwich, where India is at school. She must have been so thrilled to be taking part in such a lively, high-quality event.

[1] Roger S Wotton (2020) Walking with Gosse. e-book

A Complete Unknown

“A Complete Unknown” is the film of the moment and tells the story of Bob Dylan’s transition from folk singer with acoustic guitar to become a different kind of icon, accompanied by electric instruments. It happened in the early 1960s, at a time when Dylan and his songs made a big impression on me.

Having spent 1962 to 1965 in the Sixth Form of the local Grammar School (above), I wasn’t sure what my future was going to be and there was no certainty that I would go on to university. It was a time of confusion and anxiety, fuelled by awareness of just what the outcome of the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962 might have been. My unhappy adolescence wasn’t helped by an unfortunate home life, as my father was, by then, seriously ill and my mother had died in 1960. Added to that, I had left religious belief behind, while all my immediate family were church-going Christians, so I didn’t have that crutch. 

I spent a lot of time looking in rock pools and in streams and going for long walks along the South Devon coast and through the countryside, reading novels and not being focussed on studying. The folk music of the day also had a strong appeal, with injustices being prominent themes. The popularity of the songs sung by “protest singers” inspired Dylan and he wrote many of his own to capitalise on the trend. Whatever his motive, the songs, and the idea of protest, appealed strongly to my adolescent self. 

After taking A-levels three years’ running, I escaped to university when I was a very young 18 and, this being 1965-6, Dylan, my hero, had now firmly changed direction and the earlier 1963 “Freewheelin” ([1] and above, left), 1964 “The Times They Are a-Changin’”[2] and “Another Side” [3] albums were followed by the transition through the 1965 “Bringing it all Back Home” [4] and “Highway 61 Revisited” [5] to the great 1966 double album “Blonde on Blonde” ([6] and above, right). It was the latter three albums that had me hooked and I don’t care what Dylan’s reasons were for producing them. The words and music left me wanting to play them over and over and those songs were a big influence on me then - and still are. 

Like all fans of the Dylan of this period, I was a bit confused by his later work but have no wish to analyse why. As Dylan said in one interview in the 1960s when pressed about the meaning, and importance, of his work, “I’m just a song and dance man”. That’s good enough for me and I’m grateful to Bob for unknowingly supporting me through some tough times. 

As I lived through the reality of the Sixties, I won’t be bothering with the film… 

[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MMFj8uDubsE&list=PLfGibfZATlGpj4XK7uSPrgpRiTXcI_VP1

[2] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PDJhPGoYL4k&list=PLL-NbN8uTOigfILSkGXwA80GIpaorJOYe

[3] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MH60aiybqjY&list=PLKZWLu6q09LNjwvtWl7fh0NCNJg-0pxWD

[4] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HNI-RQKA-cg&list=PLs-kSlFHGBGXY9nzOJ0CgWVGdEI2XXSvH

[5] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IwOfCgkyEj0&list=PLXRKTcRs-Xs7rr36o5_Cs7fBn8B7KsmRG

[6] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fm-po_FUmvM&list=PLXRKTcRs-Xs75Lys27wNEeAFjTVKMfKQ7

 

 

I won’t be around in 2050

Professor Bill McGuire of UCL is the go-to expert for discussion of volcanoes and earthquakes and the likelihood of their adverse effects. However, he has wider interests and has published a book entitled Hothouse Earth: An Inhabitant’s Guide (that I have not read) that formed the basis of an article by Eleanor Peake that appeared in the i newspaper (see above). Several sections of the article are worth quoting: 

In 27 years, society as we know it will have collapsed. Food will be extremely limited. Lawlessness will have taken over the land. Gangs will roam the countryside scavenging for resources like food, water and fuel. This breakdown won’t be sudden. It will happen over a period of months. It might even have already begun.. 

..[McGuire} is expecting, and preparing for, widespread riots by 2050. The riots will begin, he says, as they have throughout history, when we run out of food.. 

..“If we are going to see the collapse of society and the economy, then it’s going to be unbelievably hard for everyone, it’s going to be a Wild West,” he says. “If society collapses, there will be nobody to keep on top of the water supply, nobody to stop gangs roaming the countryside.”.. 

..”If we are to have any chance of survival, we need to co-operate; I think that’s absolutely critical.” 

That is a very bleak view, but one that is believable - so, how do we achieve co-operation? No-one wants the catastrophe of 2050 predicted by McGuire, and the solution lies with us turning our backs on the comfort, complacency and economic growth that we favour in the developed countries and that is an increasing feature of some developing economies. How can this be achieved? 

In the Gettysburg address of 1863, Lincoln lauded “government of the people, by the people, for the people” and this strikes me as being a good basis for organising our societies. Top-down democracies now appear to be based on gaining votes among the electorate rather than focussing on governance, especially where that needs to be long-term. Unfortunately, the challenges facing us, the ones that McGuire is highlighting, are based on much longer periods of time than the duration of elected parliaments. Solutions also require changes in the way that most international economies function, with the power of “markets” dictating everything. Add to this our seeming desire for a steadily increasing standard of living and one can see why we have the current approaches of politicians, based on what Greta Thunberg so admirably describes as “blah, blah, blah”. Of course, in common with many other voters (almost all?), I am a hypocrite in realising that global climate change provides severe challenges down the line, yet my lifestyle is based on the comfort and complacency I mentioned earlier. However, I would like to change the system to be more like Lincoln’s ideal, as this would be helpful in the long term - but how is this to be achieved? Firstly, one has to overcome top-down approaches and how is that to be done when we have a well-established political class, political parties, and a complex media network to propagate their views. A first move towards democracy would be achieved by having the choice “none of the above” on ballot papers, as we do in many surveys. Imagine! 

Another fundamental in looking at the future, and this is one that McGuire alludes to, is our need to understand that humans are part of a much wider living system and that we are as dependent on all the parts of the living planet as we are on each other. We haven’t moved from the Biblical standpoint that the environment is ours to exploit and there are many who feel that the negative consequences of our exploitation will be reduced by the implementation scientific discoveries, both now and in the future. Good for the optimists that have that view, but it does point again to an attitude that we are able to control matters and we clearly cannot. 

If we were less anthropocentric, and had more respect for the wonders of the natural world, we could shape new ways of integrative thinking. Coupled with a bottom-up approach to democracy, we could transform the future for all citizens, but will it be allowed to happen by those currently holding political and economic power? No. That’s a sad fact, but those who do respect natural history (and, incidentally, those who believe that good manners and mutual respect are among the highest human achievements) are among our most valued citizens. If their approaches spread, we may get closer to a real democratic system like that admired by Lincoln who wished that “government of the people, by the people, for the people” should not “perish from the earth”. Well it has done, hasn’t it?

Dr Dryasdust, Sir Walter Scott and Philip Henry Gosse

 

Writers of historical novels face the challenge of maintaining accuracy when describing events, while introducing narrative that is a product of their imagination. Sir Walter Scott (above, in a portrait by Sir Henry Raeburn) met this head-on and addressed it in an Introductory Epistle to Ivanhoe where, writing to the imaginary Rev Dr Dryasdust in the person of Laurence Templeton, he has this to say [1]: 

The painter must introduce no ornament inconsistent with the climate or country of his landscape; he must not plant cypress trees upon Inch-Merrin, or Scottish firs among the ruins of Persepolis; and the author lies under a corresponding restraint. However far he may venture in a more full detail of passions and feelings, than is to be found in the ancient compositions which he imitates, he must introduce nothing inconsistent with the manners of the age; his knights, squires, grooms, and yeomen, may be more fully drawn than in the hard, dry delineations of an ancient illuminated manuscript, but the character and costume of the age must remain inviolate; they must be the same figures, drawn by a better pencil, or, to speak more modestly, executed in an age when the principles of art were better understood. His language must not be exclusively obsolete and unintelligible; but he should admit, if possible, no word or turn of phraseology betraying an origin directly modern. It is one thing to make use of the language and sentiments which are common to ourselves and our forefathers, and it is another to invest them with the sentiments and dialect exclusively proper to their descendants. 

I am conscious that I shall be found still more faulty in the tone of keeping and costume, by those who may be disposed rigidly to examine my Tale, with reference to the manners of the exact period in which my actors flourished: It may be, that I have introduced little which can positively be termed modern; but, on the other hand, it is extremely probable that I may have confused the manners of two or three centuries, and introduced, during the reign of Richard the First, circumstances appropriated to a period either considerably earlier, or a good deal later than that era. It is my comfort, that errors of this kind will escape the general class of readers. 

In the Epistle, he attacks “the repulsive dryness of mere antiquity”, but also states the importance of making history interesting to a wide readership, while maintaining much detail accuracy. Writers of historical novels are likely to face criticisms from academic historians who have a knowledge of detail that is “dry” (thus Dr Dryasdust) and, even if these historians imagine the behaviour of key characters, they do not promote it with dialogue or other supposed interactions. 

It is interesting that the renowned natural historian Philip Henry Gosse (above) also used a Dr Dryasdust in the Preface to “The Romance of Natural History”, writing [2]: 

There are more ways than one of studying natural history. There is Dr Dryasdust’s way; which consists of mere accuracy of definition and differentiation; statistics as harsh and dry as the skins and bones in the museum where it is studied. There is the field-observer’s way; the careful and conscientious accumulation and record of facts bearing on the life-history of the creatures; statistics as fresh and bright as the forest or meadow where they are gathered in the dewy morning. And there is the poet’s way; which looks at nature through a glass peculiarly his own; the aesthetic aspect, which deals, not with statistics, but with the emotions of the human mind,- surprise, wonder, terror, revulsion, admiration, love, desire, and so forth,- which are made energetic by the contemplation of the creatures around him. 

Gosse was very much a natural historian of the second category, while The Romance of Natural History set out to describe his attitude to the third, for he certainly had a poet’s approach in some of his writing. So, where did Gosse get the name Dr Dryasdust? The scientist working with skins and bones bears a close resemblance to an academic historian looking at texts and contemporary material in a library. So, did Gosse base his Dr Dryasdust on the one in the Introductory Epistle to Ivanhoe? We know that Gosse was an avid reader when he lived in Carbonear in Newfoundland as a teenager and Ann Thwaite records [3]: 

..on his very first Sunday in Carbonear, he was so ‘eagerly devouring’ The Fortunes of Nigel that he ‘did not go to meeting’. It was the first time that he had read Scott and it was Mr Elson [his employer, who was also the librarian of the Carbonear Book Society].. ..who had pulled it down from the shelf, recommending the novel to him. 

That Henry Gosse had read Ivanhoe is clear, as he quotes from that novel in Omphalos, his disastrous attempt to explain the potential conflict between the Biblical account of creation and ideas on geological time scales [3,4]. Omphalos was published in 1857 and it is likely that Henry had been familiar with Scott’s novel for thirty years. 

The evidence is thus strong that Henry Gosse based his Dr Dryasdust on the fictional character addressed by Scott. Both authors wanted to popularise their subject and both were likely to be faced with opposition from academic, “pure” circles. It’s a potential conflict that exists today, perhaps even more so. We’ve all seen docudramas and other media that make our blood boil with their use of imagination over fact and it’s unfortunate that sometimes the audience is not aware of the difference. Both Walter Scott and Henry Gosse certainly were. 

[1] http://www.telelib.com/authors/S/ScottWalter/prose/ivanhoe/ivanhoe000a.html 

[2] Philip Henry Gosse (1860) The Romance of Natural History. London, J. Nisbet and Co. 

[3] Ann Thwaite (2002) Glimpses of the Wonderful: The Life of Philip Henry Gosse 1810-1888. London, Faber and Faber. 

[4] Roger S. Wotton (2021) Walking with Gosse: Natural History, Creation and Religious Conflicts. e-book

 

 

 

Hedgerows, Constable and Hockney

Devonshire has 53,000 km of hedges and: 

the county has about one fifth of all the species-rich hedges in England. Together they are of international importance, as an historical, cultural, wildlife and landscape resource [1]. 

A typical scene of hedges in Devonshire is shown in the image above, taken by my namesake Robert Wotton [2], but a hedge is not just a hedge – they have a wide variety of structures and full descriptions can be found in the web pages of Devon County Council [3] and the Devon Hedge Group [2]: 

Across the county there are great variations in the structure of hedges and in the trees and shrubs which grow on them, reflecting location, origin, age and management. Tall beech hedges are characteristic of Exmoor and high ground in the Blackdown Hills; stone faced banks distinguish Dartmoor hedges and those of the Atlantic coast; willow is common on the wet clay soils of the Culm Measures between the moors; dogwood, spindle and wayfaring tree grow in hedges on limestone outcrops along the Channel coast; elm characterises the Redlands on either side of the River Exe; massive banks line mile after mile of sunken lanes in the South Hams; and wind-sculpted trees with gorse are distinctive of hedges of exposed coasts and uplands. 

I spent my childhood in South Devon and spent hours walking through country lanes, and along the coast. Tall hedges and hills were very familiar parts of these “rambles” and the closed-in landscape always gave me a sense of security, even when the occasional sheep dog made a determined effort to round me up. Hedgerows, most often those alongside country lanes and paths (like those in the image above from the South Devon AONB web site), were the main source of my pressed flower collection. This is what I wrote about it in Walking with Gosse [4]: 

Anything connected with Nature was a hit with me and I was presented with a chance to show my ability as a naturalist during my final year at Primary School, when Miss Bedford, our class teacher, asked us to produce a pressed flower collection.. ..I soon became absorbed by the task and collected plants on solitary walks through local lanes and woods. After returning home from each foray, plants were identified with the help of books and then each was arranged between sheets of tissue paper that, in turn, were layered between heavy encyclopaedias. After pressing and drying, each flower was placed into a book with blue paper pages and held using thin strips of sticky paper, with the common name of each plant written alongside using white crayon. In a childlike way it was quite artistic (I knew nothing of Wedgwood jasperware pottery at this time, but you can imagine how the collection looked). 

Such an activity would likely be frowned upon today, but I loved it, although I didn’t go beyond thinking about the habits of each plant and how common it was – like all children, I enjoyed finding a rarity. This changed when I was older and was introduced to Max Hooper’s ideas on dating hedges, first promoted (interestingly enough) in the Devon Naturalists Trust Journal [5]. From studies on a large number of hedges, he conceived “Hooper’s Hypothesis” that the age of a hedge (in years) = the number of woody plant species in a 30-yard section x 110 [6]. Armed with this information, natural historians could date their local hedges, although Hooper stressed that it was a general rule and didn’t work for hedges that had their origins more than a thousand years ago. It was also recognised that this “rule of thumb” should be used in conjunction with local historical records. 

I had the pleasure of listening to Max Hooper talk about hedgerows when I was a postgraduate student in the Department of Zoology at the University of Durham. As a natural historian at heart, I enjoyed hearing about his ideas and also the enthusiastic way in which he delivered them. So many of our seminars were given by eminent scientists whose work seemed far away from nature and the environment, something that is even more pronounced fifty years on. He convinced me that being a natural historian was “a good thing” and that way of thinking has influenced much of my teaching. 

Aside from natural history, I’m also fascinated by art and, in the context of this essay, the way that depictions of hedges have been used by painters. John Constable painted the hedgerows of Suffolk as an integral part of compositions – as seen in Fen Lane, East Bergholt of ca. 1817 (see below). We do not have enough detail to date the hedges, but there is a contrast between the “wild” section and the part adjacent to the field on the left. Here, workers are busy, while we look down the lane that disappears round a bend, the track having come into the picture on the lower right side and then passing through a broken gate. The hedges emphasise this perspective and our eye passes to the floodplain of a river and then to a village on the other side of the valley, with its church on the right. Toiling workers, waterways, and churches all feature in many works by Constable and reflect his attitudes, beliefs and approach to Nature. He was conscious of being the son of a wealthy mill owner, was Christian, and knew how to depict landscapes that have been altered by human activity. The composition of Fen Lane, East Bergholt is satisfying and the hedges, together with the lane, draw us in, just as they would do if we encountered this scene in real life. 

Hedges were planted to mark out fields that either had different ownership, or different types of planting or grazing. They thus provide barriers and many English artists have used hedges to emphasise depth, or to partition a landscape into areas of different colour or texture. Of course, this is not just a feature of works by English painters, but I am confining myself to these in this essay. Among contemporary English artists, hedges feature in the recent work of David Hockney and I surmise that his feeling for East Yorkshire is similar to mine for South Devon: there is a sense of nostalgia in his work. In two examples, based on iPad drawings (see below), we observe winding roads with hedges in Spring, but we don’t have enough information to date any of the hedges “painted”. In both, we are reminded of the track shown in Constable’s painting of Fen Lane, yet we have no distant view, so we don’t know our destination. In an earlier watercolour (also shown below), Hockney demonstrates the role played by gaps in hedgerows, allowing us to see distant vistas (and further hedges). They invite us to look beyond limited confines. 

Landscape artists encourage us to look closely at our environment and the way that it changes over time. Hedges are features that may last for hundreds of years, as Max Hooper has shown, and there is much to see in these habitats if we take the rime to look, or do not remove them for our convenience. It’s one of the reasons why collecting blackberries, elderberries and rosehips is such a pleasurable occupation, for the avid collector keeps an eye on hedgerows from early spring through to harvest. It’s great to be so connected to Nature, just as one is when rock-pooling, walking through woods and over hills, and any other activity where the environment, and all it contains, dominates our thoughts. We all need to look outwards from time to time. 

[1] https://devonhedges.org/devon-hedges/ 

[2] https://devonhedges.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/12/1_Introduction.pdf 

[3] https://www.devon.gov.uk/historicenvironment/land-management/hedges-and-the-historic-environment/ 

[4] Roger S Wotton (2020) Walking with Gosse e-book 

[5] https://naturenet.net/blogs/2007/03/21/beyond-hoopers-hypothesis-hedgerow-survey-handbook-updated/ 

[6] https://naee.org.uk/hoopers-hedgerow-history-hypothesis/ 

 

 

Wood anemones, Edward Elgar and “Windflower”

 

Wood anemones (Anemone nemorosa) are a common feature of mature woodlands in spring and there can be carpets of these pretty plants, with their white flowers and palmate leaves (see above). They grow vegetatively by means of rhizomes and cannot photosynthesise efficiently in shade [1], so the production of leaves and flowers is therefore early in the temperate growing season, before woodland trees come into leaf. The flowers do not produce nectar but are pollinated mainly by insects [1] and that may be aided by the generation of chemical attractants by the plants. As Shirreffs [1] states, the flower “is held erect during [the] day, but closes and droops at night and in bad weather”. This habit has given rise to folklore that the flowers provide resting places for fairies at night [2,3] and their seeming intolerance of windy conditions has resulted in their common name of windflowers, as though they have a human-like sensitivity. It’s a behaviour that appeals to the imagination, especially for those who enjoy walking in woods.

Edward Elgar used Nature as a source of inspiration for his music and he knew many woods in his native Worcestershire, and elsewhere, where wood anemones grew in large numbers. One of the most important people in his life, Alice Stuart-Wortley (later Lady Stuart of Wortley), was named “Windflower” by Elgar and this may have been a reflection of her beauty and sensitivity. A daughter of the painter John Everett Millais, Alice (known as Carrie within the family) married Charles Stuart-Wortley after the death of his first wife, becoming the stepmother to Charles’ daughter, Bice, and the mother of another daughter, Clare. An important bond between Charles and Alice was their love of music and both were competent pianists and would play concertos together in addition to their separate playing. Elgar first met Alice Stuart-Wortley “two years before the Enigma Variations made him famous” [4].

Elgar was fortunate in having the unfailing support of his wife Alice, but he also enjoyed the company of other women, especially when they appreciated his music.  In describing the friendship with Alice Stuart-Wortley, Michael De-la-Noy wrote this [4]: 

..she was five years younger than Elgar, very beautiful, and she is now generally assumed to be “the Soul” enshrined in the Violin Concerto. Safely married, she was typical of the assured, aristocratic and handsome type of woman Elgar was content to place on a pedestal and worship from afar.

The reference to “the Soul” comes from an inscription in Spanish at the head of the concerto, translated as “Here is enshrined the soul of…”. As Michael Kennedy has written of a letter to Alice Stuart-Wortley [5]: 

While composing the Violin Concerto early in 1910 he [Elgar] wrote to her on 27 April: “I have been working hard at the windflower themes – but all stands still until you come and approve!”

In addition to providing inspiration, Alice Stuart-Wortley supported him when he was at his most self-pitying and despondent, and was generous in sending him, and members of his family, gifts. Not only a musical inspiration then, but a true friend.

When reading the letters to Windflower [6], I had a sense that I was intruding on a very private relationship and that made me uncomfortable. Elgar was a great letter writer and we have many of them [7,8 and see above]. Perhaps the most significant recipients were A.J.Jaeger (“Nimrod” of the Enigma Variations), who was his contact at Novello, Frank Schuster (who owned “The Hut”, a sanctuary where Elgar often retreated), and Troyte Griffiths who was a loyal friend from his youth [9] and who, like Windflower, was with him to the end. In some of these letters we see another side of Elgar, with puns and jokey light-heartedness, both characteristics of his child-like humour.

It can be said that Edward Elgar was always child-like in his need to be looked after and supported through his gloomy phases by Alice Elgar, his sister “Pollie” Grafton, and a number of others. It is clear from his comments about his daughter Carice, Windflower’s daughter Clare, and several nieces, that he was himself fond of children and the Windflower letters also show how much he cherished the company of dogs and their obvious devotion to him. Elgar was a very emotional man and that, together with his skill in orchestration, comes through in some of his music. If I’m in a melancholic mood, some pieces by Elgar reduce me to tears and that is especially so of the Violin Concerto with its “Windflower themes”. In that way, Alice Stuart-Wortley was not only an inspiration for Elgar, but the agent of profound feelings in listeners over a hundred years later. I can’t look at wood anemones without thinking of her.

 

[1] Deirdre A. Shirreffs (1985) Biological Flora of the British Isles: Anemone nemorosa L. Journal of Ecology 73: 1005-1020.

[2] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oMZYTynh6Yg&ab_channel=Mr.COutdoors

[3] https://www.woodlands.co.uk/blog/flora-and-fauna/wood-anemone-anemone-nemorosa/#:~:text=Folklore%20has%20it%20that%20the,it%20the%20flower%20of%20death

[4] Michael De-la-Noy (1983) Elgar: The Man. London, Allen Lane.

[5] Michael Kennedy (1968) Portrait of Elgar. Oxford, Oxford University Press.

[6] Jerrold Northrop Moore (editor) (1989) Edward Elgar: the Windflower Letters. Oxford, Clarendon Press.

[7] Percy M. Young (editor) (1956) Letters of Edward Elgar and Other Writings. London, Geoffrey Bles.

[8] Percy M. Young (editor) (1965) Letters to Nimrod from Edward Elgar. London, Dennis Dobson.

[9] https://rwotton.blogspot.com/2019/05/remembering-troyte-edward-elgars.html