The S. Paul’s Commission was renewed, with, of course, Wren’s name upon it, but the annoyances of his position increased.
In his design, S. Paul’s stood complete with a plinth over the entablature, and with statues on the four pediments only. The Commissioners took it into their heads that a balustrade with vases was greatly needed, and that it should be put up, unless Wren could ‘set forth in writing, under his hand, that it is contrary to the principles of architecture and give his opinion in a fortnight’s time.’ This looks very like a device for tormenting the old man of eighty-five, and revenging themselves for their previous defeat. Exactly within the fortnight Wren sent an answer which certainly shows no trace of failing powers.
‘I take leave, first, to declare that I never designed a balustrade. Persons of little skill in architecture did expect, I believe, to see something they had been used to in Gothick structures; and ladies think nothing well without an edging. I should gladly have complied with the vulgar taste but I suspended for the reasons following.’
The technical reasons are given, and he adds:
‘that as no provision was originally made in my plan for a balustrade, the setting up one in such a confused manner over the plinth must apparently break into the harmony of the whole machine, and, in this particular case, be contrary to the principles of architecture.’
Nothing daunted, either by Wren’s reasons or his sarcasm, and regardless of their implied promise, the wise Commissioners of the Cathedral set to work on their balustrade.
DISMISSED FROM HIS OFFICE.
This transaction belongs to the autumn of 1717. In the April of the ensuing year, George I., who cared nothing about art or architecture, and who only wished to gratify his German favourites, was easily prevailed upon to dismiss Sir Christopher Wren from that post of Surveyor-General which he had held for forty-eight years, and to bestow it upon William Benson, a favourite’s favourite, as ignorant and incapable as he was grasping and unscrupulous. There was probably but little outcry, for, as Steele[241] had truly said,
‘Nestor,’ under which name he described Wren, ‘was not only in his profession the greatest man of that age, but had given more proofs of it than any man ever did; yet for want of that natural freedom and audacity which is necessary in commerce with men, his personal modesty overthrew all his public actions.’
The person least disposed to make a complaint was Wren himself. Finding his patent superseded, he quietly retired to his house at Hampton Court, saying, ‘Nunc me jubet Fortuna expeditius philosophari.[242] One other comment he made, as a note to the date (April 26, 1718) of this dismissal: ‘Ὁτι ἀνέστη Βασιλεύς ἕτεπος ὃς οὐκ ἤδει τὸν Ἰωσήφ: καὶ οὐδὲν τούτων τῷ Γαλλίωνι ἔμελεν.✠’[243]