Sunday Pastries With the Dead 39

The circa-1762 Old Bennington Cemetery in Bennington, VT.

Taps mic. Is this thing on? I’m back from an unintentional hiatus (blame my utterly insane freelance workload) to bring you a special Vermont edition of Sunday Pastries. I was lucky enough to stroll the grounds of Bennington Centre Cemetery when I was in the Green Mountain State for my lettering on slate class this past October, and there’s truly nothing like seeing the work of celebrated New England carvers in person.

The cemetery was established around the same time as the original meeting house beside it, which was built in 1762; the current church replaced that structure in 1805.

Among the graveyard’s almost 3,000 interred are ex-Vermont governors, U.S. senators and congressmen, and war heroes, but they didn’t interest me nearly as much as one very famous author who resided in nearby Shaftsbury from 1920 to 1929.

I’m referring to none other than Vermont poet laureate Robert Frost, the brilliant mind behind The Road Not Taken and Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening. Though perhaps his piece In a Disused Graveyard is more apropos, here. Frost and his family are buried beneath twin granite ledger stones; ironically, the well-worn path to his plot is anything but “less traveled by.” His beautiful epitaph, “I had a lover’s quarrel with the world,” echoes a haunting line in his 1941 poem The Lesson For Today. Sigh.

The headstones here gave me heart palpitations—their carvers are famous, and they’re considered some of the greatest existing examples of American folk art. I wove in and out of the orderly slab-lined rows, charting the many names I’ve read about and taking in the utterly breathtaking craftsmanship, trying to keep my cool. What struck me was the fact I was in Vermont, known for its slate, and yet almost all of the early monuments here are marble—this is because slate wasn’t discovered in the state until 1839, and quarrying began in the mid-1840s.

With that straightened out, let’s explore the work of the cemetery’s four most lauded carvers, shall we?

First up is Zerubbabel Collins, whose pieces are pictured above—more than 40 of the stones here are attributed to him. He worked in Connecticut and Vermont throughout the late 1700s; his headstones are distinguished by their decorative floral motifs and expressionless soul effigies. His intricate, whimsical borders are highly influenced by my favorite historical carving shop, the Rhode Island-based John Stevens shop. You may recognize Collins’ art from my post about the “demon vampire” of Manchester; he made Rachel Harris Burton’s gravestone.

I’m partial to the Collins stones bearing the extremely memento mori tympanum epitaph “O! Relentless Death!” It’s not like I need any more tattoo ideas, but this one is t-e-s-t-i-n-g me!

Next is Ebenezer Soule, whose trademark “Medusa head” curly wig-clad soul effigies with hypnotized-looking eyes are showcased in glorious display among the stones here. Soule lived and worked in Massachusetts, Vermont, and New Hampshire, and his creations are quite prolific throughout those states.

Every time I see Josiah Manning’s frowny-faced, bug-eyed soul effigies, Smokey Robinson’s “Tears of a Clown” cues up in my mental playlist. I also think, as with Soule’s creations, that they could be described as Medusa-esque. He hailed from Connecticut, and his two sons continued the craft; together, the Mannings created a carving style that became extremely popular in that area during the 1700s.

I adore Massachusetts and Vermont-based carver Roger Booth’s creations—they’re like a softer version of Collins’ work, and his soul effigy faces take on the unique characteristics of the deceased in ways that his contemporaries overlooked.

This is a prime spot for fans of the urn symbol (signifying the earthly body turning to dust and the soul ascending to heaven)—these are just a few beautiful examples. I especially love the above far right tympanum tableau of the interred’s wife mourning at his memorial.

Some of the stones here are helpfully annotated with markers bearing the carver’s name. Most aren’t, though, and I wasn’t able to confidently identify who created these last few. But I had to include them—the art is just too good!

Until next Sunday, fellow taphophiles!