Our sculptor used to grumble at the injustice done to the position of what he considered his best work, that of Wade. The marshal’s profile is displayed upon a medallion over which a female figure with wings is springing upwards with much spirit and animation to drive back Time with his scythe, etc. The figures are almost as vivacious as some of those by Rude, on the Arc de l’Etoile, including a mourning Hibernia (whose child he was) with a derelect harp, stringless.
Nearly as entertaining is Roubiliac’s memorial of an obscure General Hargrave, close by: a wonderful piece of execution, and which would be as attractive as the Nightingale one were it placed lower. The general, an excellent, spirited figure, but grotesque, is seen starting out of his bath we had almost said—but it is his tomb, his sheet falling away from his naked form, one attenuated leg lifted timorously over the edge. He has been roused by the Judgment: a little angel is sounding the trump aloft in the marble clouds. There are drums and cannon, a marble flag; whilst, on the right, a spirited Time is seen thrusting down Death, holding him in fact on the ground, a grisly skeleton, done with infinite art and reality—bones, cartilage, etc., all complete. As a sort of pictorial background, we see the Pyramids, dislodged and tumbling to pieces, the stones falling in all directions: altogether one of the most elaborate tours de force in marble existing. But the whole is placed so high that details are lost. It is astonishing to think that an artist of such power and taste should have condescended to this vulgar and ineffective realism, which was, moreover, beyond his material. Near is Fleming’s, another military tomb; two figures, one seated on an arch, with a pyramid behind, over which are spreading trees with a cleverly imitated drum and a flag. The memorial to Sir Peter Warren, in the north transept, has great merit. It consists of a spirited bust of the admiral, bluff and dogged, yet good-natured, in which “realism” is carried so far as to furnish marks of small-pox on the cheeks! The mourning female figure beside him has been admired, and is graceful enough; whilst a vigorous Hercules bends over him. The legs and arms may be noted for their muscularity, and it is said the sculptor obtained his pattern legs from those of a stalwart Irish chairman; the arms were compounded from another herculean specimen of the same race.
Roubiliac “cut,” as the vergers would call it, seven or eight monuments in the Abbey: Lady Nightingale’s, the Duke of Argyll’s, Sir Peter Warren’s, Hargrave’s, Fleming’s, Admiral Wade’s, and Handel’s. Some of these are inferior works, or are perched so high as to be beyond our appreciation. The sculptor was dreadfully put out at being thus “skied,” but he could not always look for so fine a position “on the line” as he had for his Duke of Argyll. Not long before his death the Abbey had become somewhat crowded, and the practice of building up monuments against the windows had set in, with shocking results. Nearly all the nave windows have been thus encroached upon, built up with supporting screens. After a careful examination I find that these amount to about a dozen, which could readily be cleared away, to the enormous advantage and beauty of the fane. No more important improvement than this could be conceived, or more popular if effected, for here the barbarous ignorance of our forefathers is displayed to the coarsest extent. The best of the monuments would gain by being brought low down: they might be set up in the cloisters, for instance, or made a present to St. Paul’s.
Roubiliac had a pupil, one Read, who on his death “carried on the business;” concluding that by occupying his studio, it would be assumed he could supply the same article to the public. Strange to say, this theory was accepted, and he was employed for large and important works. Many have seen or heard of the famous “Pancake” monument, put up to celebrate a now forgotten Admiral Tyrrel, who in some engagement abroad, aboard his good ship the “Buckingham,” met his death. He died on shore, but was consigned to the deep. Furnished with these heroic materials, Mr. Read set to work. Room being scarce he was given half of a deeply embayed window, and determined to excel all other efforts. His master himself had made a strange prophecy which seemed to point to this very monstrosity, for on the pupil boasting that when he was out of his time he would show the world what a monument ought to be, “the other looked at him scornfully and said: ‘Ven you do de monument, den de vorld vill see vot d—d ting you vill make.’” And so it proved. There is to be seen on the left an enormous “practicable” flag of white marble, with all the folds, etc., balanced on the right by the ship “Buckingham,” about the size of the flag. All the intervals are filled in with what seem to be corals, waves, etc., an extraordinary jumble, whilst in the centre was seen ascending from the sea the figure of the deceased admiral going up to heaven—which Nollekens always declared was like a man swinging from a gallows with a rope round his neck. Unluckily the reforming Dean Stanley deprived us of this entertainment, and strangely cut away the admiral altogether, yet leaving the other monstrosities. As the Dean said, humorously, the artist’s object seemed to be “to present the Resurrection under difficulties.”
In the south transept there is a monument to Garrick, representing the actor standing in a fantastic attitude, having suddenly drawn aside a pair of curtains to reveal himself. This excited the derision of Elia, and yet it is effective enough, and expresses Garrick’s humour fairly. Notwithstanding all Mrs. Garrick’s doting affection for her spouse, it is said this had to be put up by other hands, and the donor declares that he appealed in vain to her for her approbation or aid. Close by is a very quaint and original monument to the learned Grævius, who is shown seated in an easy attitude on the side of his sarcophagus, looking at a book in a careless happy mood. There is a quaintness about this that causes a smile.
Of sculptors so eminent as Flaxman and Chantrey there are few examples, and these not particularly remarkable. In the north transept is the ambitious monument to Lord Mansfield, who is presented seated aloft in a judicial chair, on a ponderous circular base, on whose various tiers are found Justice and the other unavoidable attendants. This has been admired, but the effect is grotesque, the Chief Justice, with a very homely air, appearing as if he was about to call on “Brother Buzfuz.” But we go round to the back, and find an exquisite female figure, in the best style of sculpture, with much grace of attitude, refinement of curves and softness and delicacy of the skin. Here we come upon those tremendous piles of masonry which Westmacott and Bacon introduced, enormous pyramidal screens on which flounder as it were huge marble figures, Neptunes and other gods and goddesses, while the suffering hero reposes in the middle nearly naked, with weeping nymphs bent over him. These vast efforts were no doubt owing to the great sums given by public grant; Bacon receiving for his “Lord Chatham” £6,000, Nollekens for the “Three Captains,” much more. Chantrey, the foremost of modern sculptors, is scarcely represented here at all.
There is a pleasing figure of Horner, full of character in the face and eyes, with an almost pictorial expression. By what must have been some miscalculation the scale is too small, and as we turn from the huge Sir William Follett—a plain, roughly-finished work of Behnes’—it seems the likeness of a half-grown youth.
The two Pitts, father and son, are here: the great earl in the north transept—his monument wrought on the most tremendous scale—a vast screen or pyramid of stone filling in the span between two pillars. Below are enormous reclining gods. But raising one’s eyes aloft we see a small dapper figure set in a niche, and stooping forward to address the public. It is the great earl in a court dress. Far away at the west end, and actually perched over the door, is his gifted son, treated in the usual heroic style; the statesman standing aloft and airily on a huge base of marble, “arrayed in his parliamentary robes as Chancellor of the Exchequer. History, in a kneeling posture, is recording his words; and on the opposite side Anarchy seated in chains.” There is also a kneeling negro. Close by him, but on the ground, is one of the most singular yet amusing effects in the Abbey, a memorial to the lamented Charles James Fox. The deceased statesman is shown in a recumbent attitude, with a rueful face, on a mattress, “expiring in the arms of Liberty,” his enormous figure as fat as marble can make it, at his feet, Peace, reclining languidly; an African on one knee, with his arms clasped to his breast as if in gratitude. The whole effect is gross, and suggests a corpulent man who has just had, or is about to have, his bath. Fox’s physique was untreatable for poetical purposes; yet we are assured that when Canova was taken to inspect this figure in Westmacott’s studio, he declared to Lord Holland “that neither in England nor out of it had he seen anything that surpassed it.” The king gave a subscription of 1,000 guineas, a handsome tribute considering his Majesty’s known feelings towards Mr. Fox.
On each side of the arched doorway of the screen we find two imposing monuments which seem to fill their places in a satisfactory way, and are in harmony with the situation. That on the left of the spectator commemorates Sir Isaac Newton. The pendant to Newton’s is Lord Stanhope, a warrior. Both are conceived in a fantastic vein. Newton’s was designed by an architect, Kent, who also conceived the well-known, familiar figure of Shakespeare, leaning in a graceful attitude on an altar, and which is almost accepted as a portrait, so familiar has it become. The figure of Newton is exceedingly good, dignified, and well executed. He is seen reposing on a couch, leaning on his elbow, an uncomfortable support. Over him is an enormous sphere, “projecting from a pyramid behind,” which seems to fill the whole space, and which is scored deeply with erratic lines delineating, we are told, “the course of the comet in 1689, with the signs, constellations, and planets.” But then comes a singular conception: on the sphere is seated Astronomy, a huge female figure, with her book, in a very thoughtful, composed, and pensive mood. The inevitable chubby cherubs are of course present, employed suitably to their strength in supporting or struggling with a scroll. This combination leaves a singular impression.