Beyond Pilgrim Souvenirs and Secular Badges

Essays in Honour of Brian Spencer

Sarah Blick

• Publisher: Oxbow Books
• Year: 2007
• ISBN:
  9781782974574
• Topic: Scienze sociali
• Subtopic: Archeologia

Brian Spencer, former Keeper of the Museum of London, was a major scholar of medieval popular culture. He almost single-handedly established the study of pilgrim souvenirs and secular badges. He defined what these objects were and ascertained their function, manufacture, style, and iconography with a careful use of primary documents and intricate stylistic analysis. He identified every major souvenir and badge discovered in Great Britain during the last few decades. He also made prominent contributions to the field of seal matrices, gaming pieces, and horse paraphernalia. What bound all of these interests together was his understanding that the study of these artefacts could shed light on the beliefs and practices of a large number of people. This is reflected in the frequency with which his work is cited. This volume is a collection of essays written by those who worked with Brian directly and those with whom he corresponded.

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...