So each day I looked at the map and created a tour for myself that would take in a string of attractive Cotswold villages, each with a church. In the main, I didn't know what I would find. I hadn't packed any specialist guides, and without a usable mobile internet connection to surf at breakfast-time I couldn't look up anything in advance. Truly, then, I had to be prepared for constant surprises.
And I found some. Let's kick off with a church containing some very fine marble monuments to dead aristocrats - but compromised by a mason's error that must have been rather embarrassing when discovered, and impossible to mend invisibly!
So, to Sherborne in the pretty valley of the River Windrush (lovely-sounding names on the Cotswolds!)
The present church is not ancient, but was built when the Sherborne Estate house and grounds were being constructed in the eighteenth century. The National Trust now owns the estate, but the house and grounds are mostly given over to commodious 'character' flats leased from the Trust, forming a posh little community set in lush countryside. I won't say that casual visitor is discouraged, but it all feels rather private, and not at all like the usual NT property. I followed the signed route around the side of the main building, and parked where indicated, next to the churchyard. It felt like trespassing.
Shrugging off the sensation of being where I had no right to be, I stole my way to the church entrance. Off to my left, a lady, one of the resident flat-owners, was instructing a workman as to precisely which bits of a climbing rose bush should be clipped. They didn't notice my coming and going.
Well, the inside of the church was nothing very special. Or so it seemed at first.
It was certainly neat and tidy, with a particularly well-cared-for feel to it. That coat of arms above, with the lion and unicorn, was finely painted and recently dusted. But nothing began to excite me until I advanced towards the screen.
Aha. Some large and obviously important marble monuments close to the altar. I liked this one. A female angel apparently having a conversation with a skeleton.
I'm sure it can't be intentional, but it looks as if this jaunty skeleton - what's he actually doing? Popping out of his grave for a chat? - is telling the angel what he thinks is a jolly good joke. I fear that she won't be laughing at the punchline. She's far too lofty and serene for that. The notes on this website explain the scene differently, and draw attention to the skill of the sculptors of this and the other monuments there - see http://www.english-church-architecture.net/gloucestershire/sherborne/sherborne.htm. Skill, certainly: it must have been a nightmare chiselling the skeleton's ribs and other delicate bony details. The flowing drapery that barely hides the angel's resplendent female body is no less skilfully rendered. The web link just given emphasises just how much this kind of death-monument would have cost - a truly colossal amount, compared to the wages of even the high-status servants working for the estate at the time.
On the opposite wall was another, larger, monument that is the real subject of this post.
A life-sized noble chappie - Sir John Dutton, baronet - deceased at age sixty-one but depicted in his prime - leans casually against a giant urn. Head held high, he wears the garb of a Roman patrician, a senator maybe (which gives the sculptor abundant scope for carving a realistic flowing toga) and is the epitome of the civilised gentleman of the times. Below, the inscription (thankfully in English rather than Latin) describes his career as MP and JP, his genealogy, whom he married, and mentions his chief virtues.
But what's this? Has someone meddled with the inscription?
Oops! The mason has carved the wrong name. The deceased's father, Sir Ralph Dutton, married a doctor's daughter (the man was no local sawbones, but a physician at the court of Charles II) and someone clearly boobed when researching the father-in-law's full name. It turns out that the name originally carved - John Barwick - was Peter Barwick's elder brother. See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Barwick. An unfortunate mistake!
Perhaps it was the careless blunder of the Sherborne Estate secretary, tasked with getting the facts right, but falling down on the job. It must have been highly embarrassing to discover that the right name was actually Peter Barwick, and that the small fortune lashed out on this monument was wasted. Or at least, the result was compromised with a glaring error that hit the eye. No doubt the offending secretary got demoted to swineherd. Or just dismissed, to starve in the gutter. And you can imagine the acrimonious exchanges that followed between the mason who carved the inscription in good faith and the noble heir who had commissioned this monument to his lately departed forebear:
Mason: My lord, the money for carving Sir John's monument is still owing.
Noble heir: You impudent scoundrel. You carved the wrong name! I won't pay you a penny.
Mason: My lord, it's not my fault. I was told to carve 'John Barwick' and I did, with all proper skill. Blame the person who gave me the wrong name.
Noble heir: I suppose you do have a point. What can we do about it?
Mason: Well, my lord, if we are stuck with the inscription as made, I can try carving a neat correction.
Noble heir: How neat?
Mason: Oh, it'll be very discreet, my lord. Nobody will notice. But I will require further payment...
Noble heir: Go ahead then, damn you.
But I really don't think the mason succeeded. That correction isn't at all discreet. It rather catches the eye and holds your attention!
I did wonder who precisely the 'noble heir' might be, as the inscription on the monument makes it clear that Sir John's attempts to get a son failed, despite two marriages. It turns out that his nephew got the Estate under the terms of his will (see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sir_John_Dutton,_2nd_Baronet), and after changing his surname from Naper to Dutton in order to inherit (as you would, if a fortune were at stake). He went on to found an ongoing Dutton dynasty (this time of barons).
You'll notice the strange way of stating the date of death: 1st February 1742/3. Dates around that time were affected by a reformation of the calendar, which made it legal for the year to begin on 1st January rather than 25th March, as had thitherto been customary. So anything that had happened in January, February and most of March could be assigned to a choice of years - in this instance 1742 (Old Style) or 1743 (New Style). It's explained in Wikipedia at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calendar_(New_Style)_Act_1750 and at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_Style_and_New_Style_dates. As the act of parliament that authorised this great change didn't become law until May 1751, it must be that the inscription on the lower part of this monument to the late Sir John Dutton wasn't begun until nearly ten years after he died. The upper part of the monument - that is, his statue and the urn - are dated 1749. So it seems to follow that the monument was installed in the church by 1749, but the carved inscription (showing the Old Style and New style dates) had to be left blank until 1751. The name-correction would have been made at some point after that.
No doubt that lazy estate secretary rode high until his sudden and permanent reduction to swineherd, and the squalour of a filthy and insanitary estate cottage. Or starvation in rags. He should have performed due diligence in the first place. An awful warning to the slapdash.
Amazing the things that crop up in one's Cotswold meanderings!
