Explainer

Culture

Royalty

4 May 2023

4 min read

The seen and the unseen of the coronation regalia

The coronation’s magnificent regalia is not just bling. Ian Bradley unlocks their visual symbolism and the deep meaning linking the objects.

Ian Bradley

Ian Bradley is Emeritus Professor of Cultural and Spiritual History at the University of St Andrews.

A crown, orb and sceptre rest on velvet cushions.

St Edward's Crown, and the sovereign's orb, sceptres and ring. The first colour photograph the regalia, taken in 1952.

United Kingdom Government, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

In the course of his coronation on May 6 Charles III will be presented (the technical term is invested) with a number of ancient objects and clothed in various special garments. Known collectively as the coronation regalia, all have deep symbolic significance and point to the Christian basis of the ceremony and of the British monarchy.

Crowning glory

A crown of gold with purple cloth and an orb and cross.

St Edward's Crown.

The crown which will be placed on the king’s head by the Archbishop of Canterbury is, of course, the most splendid and iconic symbol of majesty. Like the other items of the coronation regalia, it was specially made for the coronation of Charles II in 1661 to replace the medieval regalia which had been broken up and melted down during the time of the Commonwealth and Protectorate when England was without a monarchy in the mid-seventeenth century. Known as St Edward’s Crown, it replaced a medieval original which is said to have been made for King Edward the Confessor, a saintly eleventh century king who built the original Westminster Abbey and was officially canonised as a saint in 1161. Weighing nearly 5 lbs and made of solid gold, its rim is set with precious gems and from it spring two arches symbolising sovereignty. Where they meet there is a gold orb surmounted by a jewelled cross, a reminder of the cross of Christ and of His sovereignty over all.

Placing St Edward’s Crown on the monarch’s head, the Archbishop traditionally says:

‘God crown you with a crown of glory and righteousness, that having a right faith and manifold fruit of good works, you may obtain the crown of an everlasting kingdom by the gift of him whose kingdom endureth for ever.’

The orb’s different empire

An orb of gold with a cross on top of it.

The Sovereign's Orb.

The crown is not the only conspicuous symbol of Christ’s power and sovereignty that will make an appearance at the coronation. The orb, which is customarily put into the monarch’s right hand before his crowning, is the oldest emblem of Christian sovereignty, used by later Roman Emperors and Anglo-Saxon kings. A ball of gold surmounted by a large cross thickly studded with diamonds and set in an amethyst base, it acts as a reminder, in the Archbishop’s words, ‘that the whole world is subject to the Power and Empire of Christ’. Its first appearances in Britain are on a seal of Edward the Confessor in use between 1053 and 1065 and in a depiction of the crowning of King Harold in the Bayeux Tapestry. It is significant that the complex planning of Charles III’s coronation is code-named ‘Operation Golden Orb’.

The wedding ring

The ring, in Latin annulus, which is next traditionally placed on the fourth finger of the right hand has often been specifically made to fit the new sovereign, although Elizabeth II used an existing one inlaid with a ruby and engraved with St George's cross. It is presented to symbolise the marriage of monarch and country and was known in medieval times as ‘the wedding ring of England’.

The sceptre’s power

a golden sceptre topped by a cross lies next to a golden rod with an eagle on top.

The Sovereign's Sceptre and Rod.

The final pieces of regalia with which a monarch is traditionally invested before being crowned are the rod and sceptre, known in Latin as the baculus and the sceptrus. These may originally have derived from the rod and staff mentioned in Psalm 23. The solid gold sceptre has since 1910 contained the largest clear-cut diamond in the world, part of the massive Cullinan diamond found in the Transvaal in 1905. It is surmounted by a cross, which stands for kingly power and justice. The longer rod, also made of solid gold, is surmounted by a dove, signifying equity and mercy.

Working clothes

There is also deep spiritual symbolism in the traditional coronation garments worn by the sovereign. Based on ecclesiastical vestments, they are designed to emphasize the priestly and episcopal character of monarchy and are put on immediately after the anointing which is carried out with the king or queen wearing a simple linen shirt to symbolise humility. The colobium sindonis, a sleeveless garment made of white linen with a lace border is to all intents and purposes a priest’s alb or surplice. Over it is put the supertunica, a close-fitting long coat fashioned in rich cloth of gold, identical to a priest’s dalmatic - a long, wide-sleeved tunic. A girdle of the same material put round the waist has a gold buckle and hangers on which to suspend the sword with which the monarch is girded. A cloth of gold stole is placed over the shoulders. At a later stage the sovereign is traditionally vested in the imperial mantle, or pallium regale, a richly embroidered cope similar to those worn by bishops.

These garments emphasize that, like priests and bishops at their ordinations and consecrations, monarchs are set apart and consecrated to the service of God in their coronations which are first and foremost religious services. This aspect is further emphasized by the framing of the coronation service in the context of a service of Holy Communion according to the order laid down in the Book of Common Prayer.

The unseen

Some will dismiss the ancient regalia with which the monarch is invested, which have also traditionally included golden spurs, bracelets and swords, as anachronistic medieval mumbo jumbo out of keeping with our modern world. Yet they symbolise in powerful visual terms the sacramental nature of our Christian monarchy which points beyond itself to the majesty and mystery of God. In the words of a former Archbishop, Cosmo Gordon Lang, writing just before he presided at the coronation of King George VI, these ancient rites and ceremonies demonstrate ‘that the ultimate source and sanction of all true civil rule and obedience is the Will and Purpose of God, that behind the things that are seen and temporal are the things that are unseen and eternal.’

Column

Books

Character

Culture

Time

19 June 2025

4 min read

The true myths we tell about how we got here

Memoirs are the stories that make us who we are

George Pitcher

George is a visiting fellow at the London School of Economics and an Anglican priest.

Jon Tyson on Unsplash.

I’ve been asked to write a memoir. It’s because I’ve been an Anglican priest for 20 years and it’s been quite a ride – deployed to a tube station when the terrorist bombs went off on 7 July 2005, served the Archbishop of Canterbury as the child-abuse catastrophe unfolded, been the religion editor of a national newspaper and helped countless people to die and to marry as a rural parish rector.

So, I suppose it meets the minimum criterion that a memoir shouldn’t be about me so much as the events through which I passed. But it also raises questions about what a memoir is for, as well as what it’s about. I wonder about its purpose and that leads to choices of style.

I had in mind a hybrid fiction model, in which the only made-up character was me, heightening the drama of it all by being maybe bisexual and a cokehead (neither of which I have been) who encounters all the real and interesting people that I have. That might at least make it a bigger challenge for libel lawyers.

A publisher at lunch this week persuaded me that this is a very bad idea. Commercial fiction is where the action is and literary fiction (even if I could do it) is dead. It has to fit in one of the silos that people will buy – crime, romance, fantasy and so on. And I’m an old, white man, to boot.

But memoir is a good stable, she said, and it didn’t need to be a dull, linear narrative. In fact it mustn’t be that. I’m beginning to think it must be a drama and, as such, as creative an act as fiction.

So, not history. Or maybe, like history, it depends on how you look at it and how we remember. As someone quite famous remarked recently, recollections may vary. And we all have an agenda in relating them. Memoir is not a record, it’s about experience, emotion, interpretation and score-settling (I’m looking forward to that last bit).

The most obvious exemplar of this is the political memoir, which lately has ticked towards being written by the spouses of politicians. Salacious revelation seems to be the currency here, all the better if a former prime minister is alleged to have said he’d like to drag you into the undergrowth and give you one.

Memoir is also the embarrassing uncle of autobiography. It amounts only to what we remember, as we wave a glass about in the pub.

One rather hopes, for reasons of aesthetics as much as decorum, that this indicates that memoir is as much about what times were like as about being a simple record of them. This makes sense as I face the prospect, for example, of relating being with a 26-year-old mother of two as she died.

If it’s such an essentially subjective exercise, then memoir is a poor country cousin of history. Some have made it consciously so in their titles – Clive James’s Unreliable Memoirs and Python Graham Chapman’s A Liar’s Autobiography come to mind.

Incidentally, memoir is also the embarrassing uncle of autobiography. It amounts only to what we remember, as we wave a glass about in the pub, rather than the marshalling of peer-approved facts. This is what makes it so sensationally subjective. I remember standing alone in a boorish institution, heroically speaking truth to power. You remember a blithering idiot. The difference is I’ve got a publisher.

In this sense, memoirs are the stories that make us who we are. Or, naturally, who we’d like to be, or like to be seen as. In ancient Greek terms, we deploy our mythos rather than our logos, our allegory rather than our empirical reality.

But, again, these stories make us who we are. And not just the stories we tell. The stories of our nations are similarly formative. The stories that the world’s major faiths tell also define us, whether we believe them or not.

The Christian gospels are memoirs. The first three of them attempt to describe what happened. The fourth, John, is rather more allegorical. But they all, in the Jewish tradition of storytelling, in one way or another seek to describe what it was like to be in the insurgent Nazarene movement, as much as what actually happened.

Matthew, the tax-collector, writes for his audience of Jews. Luke is concerned with what it all means for the poor – and not just those economically so. Mark, first out of the trap, wants to consider what it all means for non-Jews. Their recollections may vary. But it’s reckless to suggest that this invalidates their testimony.

My memoir will contain no gospel truth. But there’s no point in embarking on an exercise that is only about what happened over 20 years of priesthood. It has to be about what it was like too.

I think that its epigraph may read: “Nothing in this book happened. Everything in it is true.”