The temper of a nation is reflected in its architecture and, in a lesser
degree, in its furniture. When we look at the furniture of the last of
the Stuarts, Mary II. and her sister Anne, we see written all over it in
large letters one great virtue--sobriety.
In the oak furniture of the last of the Tudors and the first of the
Stuarts (Elizabeth and James I.) we find the same sober note; but in the
main it is more essentially English. In the Augustan era of Elizabeth we
certainly see in the more pretentious examples of Court-cupboards and
cabinets the influence of the Renaissance; but the furniture made by the
people for the people is simply English in form and decoration.
During the troublous times of the two Charles and to the end of the
revolution which placed William and Mary on the throne, the country was
alternately in the throes of gaiety and Puritanism; and a dispassionate
view leads one to suppose that "Merrie England" had the greater leaning
towards merriment. The people of England knew well enough that sobriety
was good for them, and Cromwell gave it in an unpalatable form. The
remedy was less to the country's liking than the disease, and with the
Restoration in 1660 the passions of the nation ran riot in the opposite
extreme.
The final lesson came with the twenty-nine years of misrule under
Charles II. and James II. Having drained the cup of degradation to the
dregs, the country set about her real reformation by the aid of Dutch
William, himself the grandson of a Stuart, and his cousin-consort Anne,
the daughter of the self-deposed James.
James II. had learnt his lesson from the errors of his brother Charles,
but was not wise enough to fully profit by it. He realised that misrule
had stretched his subjects' patience to the breaking-point, and during
his short reign there was a certain amount of surface calm. But beneath
was the continual struggle for absolutism on the part of the monarch and
emancipation on the part of the people. The subject is familiar to
students of history.
With the advent of the Orange _régime_ we find a distinct revolution in
English furniture. There is no evidence of a sudden change. We find
comparatively severe examples during James II.'s reign and flamboyant
patterns dating from the days of William. The transitional period was
shorter than usual, and once the tide had gathered strength in its flow
there was very little ebb.
The Civil troubles in the country had given a severe check to the arts:
the influence of the Renaissance upon furniture was upon the wane, and
the ground was lying fallow and hungry for the new styles which may be
said to have landed with William of Orange in Torbay in 1688.
The main influence in the furniture was Dutch, and the Dutch had been to
a large extent influenced by a wave of Orientalism.
Twenty-five years before this, England's most renowned, if not greatest,
architect had designed his first ecclesiastical building--the Chapel of
Pembroke Hall, Cambridge--in the classical style which he made famous in
England.
Christopher Wren was born in 1631 or 1632. He was son of Dr. Christopher
Wren, Dean of Windsor, and nephew of Matthew Wren, Bishop of Ely, who,
to celebrate his release from the Tower, built Pembroke Hall Chapel in
1663, employing his nephew as architect.
In 1664, when Christopher Wren was about thirty-two years of age, he
came in contact with John Evelyn, the diarist, who in his journal, under
date July 13, writes of him as that "miracle of a youth." The
acquaintanceship ripened into a friendship, only broken by Evelyn's
death in 1706. From Evelyn's diary we are able to glean many things
concerning the then rising young architect. The idea of the Royal
Society was the outcome of a meeting in 1660 of several scientists in
Wren's room after one of the lectures at Gresham College. On being
approached on the desirability of forming the Society, Charles II. gave
his assent and encouragement to the project, and we learn that one of
the first transactions of the Society was an account of Wren's pendulum
experiment. The Society was incorporated by Royal Charter in 1663.
It would appear that Wren had no world-wide reputation as an architect
at the time, but, probably through the instrumentality of his friend
Evelyn, he was appointed by the King as assistant to Sir John Denham,
the Surveyor-General of Works, and in the opinion of one of his
biographers, Lucy Phillimore, "the practical experience learned in the
details of the assistant-surveyor's work was afterwards very serviceable
to him."
We find him occupied in 1664 in plans for repairing old St. Paul's and
in building the Sheldonian Theatre at Oxford, which was finished in
1669. During the plague of 1665 Wren made a tour of the Continent, and
there absorbed ideas which fructified in the new style of classical
architecture which has made his name famous. During further discussions
concerning the much-needed repairs to St. Paul's came the fire of London
in 1666. This solved the difficulty, for St. Paul's was left a gaunt
skeleton in the City of Desolation. Wren's plans for the rebuilding of
the City were accepted by the King, but were never carried out in
anything like their entirety. All attempts to patch up the cathedral
were abandoned in 1673, and the ground was cleared for the new
foundations. The architect and his master mason laid the first stone on
June 21, 1675. The cathedral and the story of its building is familiar
to us all. The great architect, having drawn the circle for the dome,
called to a workman to bring him a piece of stone to mark the centre.
The man brought a fragment of an old tombstone on which was the single
word "Resurgam." All present took it as a good omen. We all know how the
last stone of the lantern was laid thirty-five years afterwards by the
architect's own son in the presence of his father. During those
thirty-five years the great freemason's hands had been full, and in the
City which rose from the ashes of the fire of 1666 no less than
fifty-four churches were either built or restored by him. In addition,
we find that the rebuilding or restoration of thirty-six halls of the
City guilds, as well as upwards of fifty notable buildings--hospitals,
colleges, palaces, cathedrals and churches--in London and the provinces,
is laid to his credit.
St. Paul's Cathedral, Wren's City churches, and the Monument, would in
themselves make London famous amongst the cities of the world. The
Monument was erected to commemorate the rebuilding of the City. The
inscription thereon absurdly attributes the origin of the fire to the
Papists. Pope satirises it in his "Moral Essays":
London's Column pointing to the skies
Like a tall bully lifts the head and lies.
Chief, for beauty, amongst the churches is St. Stephen's, Walbrook.
Canova, the great sculptor, after paying a visit to England for the
purpose of seeing the Elgin marbles, was asked if he would like to
return to the country. "Yes," he replied, "that I might again see St.
Paul's Cathedral, Somerset House, and St. Stephen's, Walbrook."
A dozen or more of Wren's churches have been swept off the map of
London, in many cases with a wantonness amounting to sacrilege; but we
can still rejoice in the possession of such gems as St. Stephen's,
Walbrook; St. Nicholas, Cole Abbey; and St. Mary Abchurch, with its
flat roof and cupola supported on eight arches. St. Dunstan's in the
East, near the Custom House, still stands testifying to the fact that
Wren could restore a church without spoiling it. St. Dunstan's, built in
the latest style of perpendicular Gothic, was left a mere shell after
the fire. Wren added the fine tower, and capped it with the curious and
graceful spire supported on flying buttresses. It is said that the
architect stood on London Bridge with a telescope anxiously watching the
removal of the scaffolding from the spire. It is scarcely credible,
however, that such a man should doubt his own powers of building. This
legend recalls the story of the building of the Town Hall at Windsor in
1686. The spacious chamber on the street level is used as a corn
exchange and above is the great hall. The anxious town councillors
declared that the great room above would collapse. Wren knew exactly how
much his four walls and great beams could bear, but, to appease the
burghers, he promised to place four columns at the intersections of the
beams. He purposely built them about two inches short, and, to this day,
after the lapse of two hundred and twenty-five years, there is still a
two-inch space between the top of each column and the ceiling it is
supposed to support. On the exterior of the building are two statues
given by Wren in 1707: one of Queen Anne and the other of her Danish
consort, Prince George. Our good Christopher could flatter on occasion.
The inscription to Prince George in his Roman costume reads, _inter
alia_:
Heroi omni saeculo venerando.
Underneath the figure of Queen Anne is the legend:
Arte tua sculptor non est imitabilis Anna
Annae vis similem sculpere sculpe Deam.
The local rhyming and free translation runs:
Artist, thy skill is vain! Thou can'st not trace
The semblance of the matchless Anna's face!
Thou might'st as well to high Olympus fly
And carve the model of some Deity!
We admit this is a very free and extended translation, but it passes
current locally. To say the least, it is high praise; but Wren had a
staunch friend in Queen Anne, and every eye makes its own beauty.
The exigencies of the time called for a great architect, and he appeared
in the person of Christopher Wren: they called for a great artist to
adorn the master's buildings, and he appeared in the guise of Grinling
Gibbon.
The discovery of Gibbon in an obscure house at Deptford goes to the
credit of gossipy John Evelyn, who on January 18, 1671, writes: "This
day, I first acquainted his Majesty (Charles II.) with that incomparable
young man Gibbon, whom I had lately met with in an obscure place by mere
accident, in a field in our parish, near Sayes Court. I found him shut
in; but looking in at the window, I perceived him carving that large
cartoon or crucifix of Tintoretto, a copy of which I had brought myself
from Venice, where the original painting remains. I asked if I might
enter; he opened the door civilly to me, and I saw him about such a work
as for the curiosity of handling, drawing and studious exactness, I
never had before seen in all my travels. I questioned why he worked in
such an obscure and lonesome place; it was that he might apply himself
to his profession without interruption, and wondered not a little how I
found him out. I asked him if he were unwilling to be known to some
great man, for that I believed it might turn to his profit, he answered,
he was yet but a beginner, but would not be sorry to sell off that
piece; on demanding the price he said £100. In good earnest, the very
frame was worth the money, there being nothing in nature so tender and
delicate as the flowers and festoons about it, and yet the work was very
strong; in the piece was more than one hundred figures of men, &c....
Of this young artist, together with my manner of finding him out, I
acquainted the King, and begged that he would give me leave to bring him
and his work to Whitehall, for that I would venture my reputation with
his Majesty that he had never seen anything approach it, and that he
would be exceedingly pleased, and employ him. The King said he would
himself go see him. This was the first notice his Majesty ever had of
Mr. Gibbon."
The King evidently did not "go see him," for under date March 1 we read:
"I caused Mr. Gibbon to bring to Whitehall his excellent piece of
carving, where being come, I advertised his Majesty.... No sooner was he
entered and cast his eye on the work, but he was astonished at the
curiosity of it, and having considered it a long time and discoursed
with Mr. Gibbon whom I brought to kiss his hand, he commanded it should
be immediately carried to the Queen's side to show her. It was carried
up into her bedchamber, where she and the King looked on and admired it
again; the King being called away, left us with the Queen, believing she
would have bought it, it being a crucifix; but when his Majesty was
gone, a French peddling woman, one Madame de Boord, who used to bring
petticoats and fans and baubles, out of France to the ladies, began to
find fault with several things in the work, which she understood no more
than an ass, or a monkey, so as in a kind of indignation, I caused the
person who brought it to carry it back to the Chamber, finding the Queen
so much governed by an ignorant French woman, and this incomparable
artist had his labour only for his pains, which not a little displeased
me; he not long after sold it for £80, though well worth £100, without
the frame, to Sir George Viner. His Majesty's Surveyor, Mr. Wren,
faithfully promised to employ him. I having also bespoke his Majesty for
his work at Windsor, which my friend Mr. May, the architect there, was
going to alter and repair universally."
Grinling Gibbon was born in 1648, and so the "incomparable young man"
would have been about twenty-three years of age when he sailed into
Royal favour. We do not know the whereabouts of the carved cartoon after
Tintoretto; but we shall find at the Victoria and Albert Museum a
carving by Gibbon, measuring 6 ft. in height by 4 ft. 4 in. in width, of
the "Stoning of St. Stephen." It is executed in limewood and lance-wood.
Walpole, in his "Catalogue of Painters," writes of the "Stoning of St.
Stephen," which was purchased and placed by the Duke of Chandos at
Canons,[2] as the carving which had "struck so good a judge" as Evelyn.
It is palpably not identical with the Tintoret subject which Evelyn
describes as "being a crucifix." Fig. 10 in Chapter III. is a remarkable
example of Gibbon's carving of fruits, flowers, and foliage.
[2] James Brydges, Duke of Chandos, who as Paymaster of the Forces
during the wars in the reign of Queen Anne amassed a large
fortune, built Canons, near Edgware, in 1715. The building and
furnishing is said to have cost between £200,000 and £250,000. It
was in the classical or Palladian style of architecture, and was
adorned with costly pillars and statuary. The great _salon_ was
painted by the Paolucci and the ceiling of the staircase by
Thornhill. Although the building was designed to stand for ages,
under the second Duke the estate became so encumbered that it was
put up to auction, and as no buyer could be found the house was
pulled down in 1747. The materials of "Princely Canons" realised
only £11,000. The marble staircase and pillars were bought by Lord
Chesterfield for his house in Mayfair. The witty Earl used to
speak of the columns as "the Canonical pillars of his house." The
Grinling Gibbon carving of the "Stoning of St. Stephen" was
transferred to Bush Hill Park, near Enfield, and finally acquired
in 1898 by the Victoria and Albert Museum at a cost of £300.
Readers who are familiar with the Belgian churches will remember the
wonderful carvings at Brussels and Mecklin by Drevot and Laurens, who
were pupils of Gibbon. They out-Gibbon Gibbon in their realism.
In Fig. 4, photographed for this book by the South Kensington
authorities, we give an illustration of a carving in pinewood of a
pendant of flowers attributed to Gibbon. It originally decorated the
Church of St. Mary Somerset, Thames Street, E.C., built 1695--one of
Wren's City churches so wantonly destroyed. To see Gibbon's wood carving
at its best we must go to St. Paul's Cathedral, Windsor Castle, and
Hampton Court Palace. At Windsor we shall also see carved marble panels
of trophies, emblems and realistic fruits, flowers and shell-fish on the
pedestal of the statue of Charles II. At Charing Cross we have another
example of his stone carving on the pedestal of the statue of Charles
the Martyr.
We have already referred to the Church of St. Mary Abchurch in Abchurch
Lane, between King William Street and Cannon Street, City. It was built
in 1686, eleven years after the first stone of St. Paul's was laid. It
also serves for the parish of St. Laurence Pountney. It lies in a quiet
backwater off the busy stream, and the flagged courtyard is still
surrounded by a few contemporary houses. Externally it is not beautiful,
but Wren and Gibbon expended loving care on the really beautiful
interior. The soft light from the quaint circular and round-headed
windows casts a gentle radiance over the carved festoons of fruit,
palm-leaves and the "pelican in her piety."
Just across, on the other side of Cannon Street, is another backwater,
Laurence Pountney Hill. Two of the old Queen Anne houses remain, No. 1
and No. 2, with beautiful old hooded doorways dated 1703. The circular
hoods are supported by carved lion-headed brackets. The jambs are
ornamented with delicate interlaced carving. No. 2 has been mutilated as
to its windows, and a modern excrescence has been built on to the ground
floor; but No. 1 appears to be much as it left the builders' hands in
1703, and still possesses the old wide staircase with twisted
"barley-sugar" balusters and carved rose newel pendants. These houses
may or may not have been designed by Wren. They seem to bear the impress
of his genius, and in any case they give us a glimpse--and such glimpses
are all too rare--of the homes of the City fathers, just as the little
church across Cannon Street brings us in touch with their religious life
in the early days of Queen Anne.
Fig. 5 represents an interesting series of turned balusters taken from
old houses of the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. They
are executed in oak, lime, ash and pinewood--mostly the latter; and
many of the details will be found repeated in the furniture legs of the
Queen Anne period. The photograph was specially taken for this volume
by the courtesy of the Director and Secretary of the Victoria and Albert
Museum.
Fig. 6 represents a contemporary doorway of a room formerly at No. 3
Clifford's Inn. It is of oak, with applied carvings in cedar of
acanthus-leaf work, enclosing a cherub's head and a broken pediment
terminating in volutes. We shall find members of the same cherub family
on the exterior of St. Mary Abchurch. Fig. 7 is the overmantel of the
same room with a marble mantelpiece of somewhat later date. This room,
now at the Victoria and Albert Museum, was erected in 1686 by John
Penhallow, who resided there till 1716.
Fig. 8 is a beautiful doorway carved in yellow pine, with Corinthian
columns and pediment. We shall find similar pediments in the tower of
Wren's church, St. Andrew's, Holborn. This doorway with the carved
mantelpiece (Fig. 9) came from an old house in Carey Street, Lincoln's
Inn Fields. These belong to the early part of the eighteenth century.
These are but a few isolated examples of beautiful settings to the
furniture of the period of the revival of classical architecture in
England. Such things are not for the modest collector, who will content
himself with the chairs, tables, and bureaux of the period--articles,
in the main, of severe outline devoid of carving, and relying for effect
much upon the rich tones of the wood employed, but withal eminently
beautiful, inasmuch as they were and are eminently useful.