Full of high aspirations, he accepted the commission which was to give him immortality, and agreed to execute it for the sum of £14,000. Considering that the whole was nearly twenty feet high, and comprised carvings and marbles, and bronze castings and much delicate detail, this was cheap. But the artist was a careless, unbusiness-like man; the cash was served out to him as he asked for it by Mr. Penrose, the architect of “the fabric.” He took his time over the matter, and one day it was discovered that almost the whole sum was spent and scarcely half the work executed. The
CHIMNEY PIECE, BY STEEVENS.
THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON’S MONUMENT.
modelling was fairly complete, but there were the castings, the erection, etc.; the artist had no more money to go on with, and ruin stared him in the face. In this condition he fell into the hands of Mr. Ayrton, a rough official, without delicacy, and who only looked to his strict duty. This unfeeling but still conscientious man—at least, to the nation—peremptorily called on the artist to deliver what he had been paid for to perform, and, on his failure, actually seized on his studio and all his models, by way of execution. The unfortunate sculptor wrote a piteous letter, appealing to Mr. Gladstone for mercy, which had no result. There was much hubbub. Mr. Ayrton was abused by some and praised by others, for doing his duty by the nation. At last, after much clamour, and appeals ad misericordiam, it was resolved that he should have another chance; further time was given, some more money was granted, and the ill-fated artist set to work with what spirit he could muster. Before he could do much he died, and the “job” being now left on their hands the Government had to make what they could of the business. An artist was found who undertook to complete the whole for £5,000 or £6,000 more, and it was finally set up at a total cost of £27,000. There can be no question that the poor artist was in the wrong and behaved badly; but at the same time it must be said this improvidence was owing to a good spirit. He wished to furnish the best of work and the best of material. In this view, the visitor should note the exquisite and perfectly pure character of the marble columns, and that there are no exceptions to this excellence is owing to the generous recklessness of the sculptor, who rejected many pieces before he accepted one that was suitable. The beautiful delicacy of the tracery on these columns is worth notice, and could only be brought out by a material of a corresponding delicacy. The general result, however, is unsatisfactory. The artist intended to have a small equestrian figure on the top, which the rough Ayrton declared would exhibit the Duke as “riding over his own recumbent body,” so an emblematic group was proposed instead. This pedestal, however, is still left vacant. The monument is, moreover, unsuited to the place, and so large for the area that no proper view of it can be obtained. The large window behind still further hinders the effect. At the time it was judiciously suggested that it should be shifted and placed across the chapel, with the wall for a background. The sarcophagus on which the Duke reposes is oddly balanced on a small base, and his head and feet project between the columns. Steevens has done other work, but there is a certain violence and extravagance in his conceptions which must modify the high opinion once entertained of him.
St. Paul’s does not offer so much farcical entertainment as the Abbey in fantastic memorials; but the figures displayed have an unvarying tameness and platitude. Few would recognize Dr. Johnson in the undraped man with the head bent down, the work of Bacon, and which is reared at the corner of the choir. Here we find a number of ponderous generals and commanders, not one of whom shows the spirit displayed by the effigies at Westminster. Still there are some of interest, one or two of Flaxman’s, such as that of Howard: the Napiers, however, are dreadful. All the modern work is rather indifferent; witness the black doors to the sham tomb, flanked by two “lumpy” figures. Worst of all are the amateurish relievos let into apsidal spaces in the aisles, in memory of regiments. The iron gates to the choir aisles are really fine pieces of work, solid and yet airy in treatment. The treatment of the choir, under modern rearrangements, has had the effect of narrowing it to an extraordinary degree. The organ, divided in two and perched aloft at each side, has helped this effect, and the stalls encroach too much. It is forgotten now that the arched screen gallery placed at one of the doors stood across the entrance to the choir with the organ at the top, the fine commemorative inscriptions to Wren below, “Si monumentum requiris, circumspice.”[12]