Chapter X: Private Life and Death

Leading events of his life--General habits of work--Domesticity and
privacy of life--Acquaintances and friendships--Distaste of
publicity--Leading features of character--Personal
appearance--Failure of health--Death--Funeral in Westminster
Abbey--Erection of Memorial Statue--Conclusion.

The story of Sir Charles Barry’s life has in great measure been told in the description of his general architectural work. For that work he lived; and in it he found not only the occupation, but also most of the pleasures, of his life. It is hard for those who knew and loved him best to dissociate his memory from the recollections of his ungrudging labour upon it, and its never-flagging interest to him. It will therefore be necessary in this concluding chapter to give only a brief notice of his private life and character, and a short narrative of his death and funeral. There are many private details, treasured in the most sacred memories of home, which would be out of place in a published biography. Its proper record is of facts, which have general interest; of work, which produces lasting effects; of character, so far as that character bears upon public action and has its universal lesson.

The events of his private life were few and simple. It is said that a nation is happy if its annals be dull: he was certainly fortunate in the fact, that his domestic annals were singularly uneventful; he had few troubles and difficulties, except those connected with his professional career. In the eyes of the world his course appeared to be one of uninterrupted and increasing prosperity. He spent the whole of his life in London, moving in 1827 from his first house in Ely Place, to 27, Foley Place, where his chief designs (including that for the New Palace at Westminster) were made; thence in 1841 to 32, Great George Street, in order to be near his great work while in progress; and lastly to Clapham Common, when he began to retire in some degree from his more active professional work.[119]

He never cared to leave London, except for business or for brief recreation. A short summer run was all that he needed, and there was perhaps some want of repose in his character, which prevented his caring for a country life. All his interests were in town; he rejoiced in its bustle and society; and nothing would have compensated him for a banishment from it.

His life was pre-eminently a life of work, but work which had in it, generally speaking, no flurry or painful anxiety--work, in fact, which seemed a delight and almost a necessity. He always rose early; seldom later than six o’clock, and often at four or five. He did so naturally and habitually; in this habit probably lay much of the secret of his freshness in work and freedom from all feverish and restless excitability, even at his busiest and most anxious times. Whatever his troubles or occupations might be, he could always fall asleep at night, and, thanks to his excellent constitution, sleep was to him sound and refreshing. But, as soon as nature was satisfied, the mind resumed its activity, and in the early hours of morning there came back the whole flood of anxieties and conceptions, which defied the power of sleep and demanded immediate execution. It was well that this was his habit, excepting when, in times of great excitement or difficulty, it led him to overtask his strength. For in the time of his fullest work these morning hours were the only ones, on which he could reckon with certainty, and to these he traced many of the best of his ideas. He experienced to the full, what most early risers know, that some of the brightest thoughts belong to the very hour of waking, often solving in the first freshness of the morning a difficulty, which had perplexed or conquered him over-night. At all times, but in those morning hours particularly, his rapidity of execution was something marvellous. He himself was hardly conscious of any unusual power in this respect, and would expect of others what he felt that he could do himself. Of trouble he was utterly unsparing: he would think nothing of sponging out a whole elevation, if an idea occurred to him, by which he thought that it could be improved, even in details. Of any principal feature of a great work the number of designs would be almost endless. Like most hard workers, he was to a great extent superior to interruption. In fact, for the most part he liked society during the time of his work. He would even listen to reading, or join in conversation, without allowing the secondary currents thus generated to interfere with the main stream of thought. The interruptions of business or necessity never seemed to break the thread of his ideas; seldom to flurry or discompose him. For he had this mark of readiness and clearness of conception, that he was capable, on the one hand, of setting to work at any moment, and resuming it, after interruption, just as if no interruption had occurred, and capable, on the other, of throwing it all aside at proper times, and joining in recreation or social intercourse with all the lightheartedness of a schoolboy. But for this readiness and elasticity of mind he could never have gone through the extraordinary amount of labour, which came upon him daily for many years.

On the general method of that work something has been already quoted (on page 86), from the words of one eminently qualified to judge. It frequently happened (it was so in the case of the design for the New Palace at Westminster), that the first sketch, which he made, contained all the essential features of the design as actually carried out. Such sketches, however, were eminently artistic in effect, and they would have been even apt to mislead, had they not been immediately brought to the test of accurate scale-drawing, and enlarged details. When this was done, either by his own hand or by the hands of others, the task of modification and alteration would begin, generally, however, tending after much labour to realise more fully and perfectly the conceptions at first roughly shadowed out. Occasionally it was otherwise, especially in later years, when it can hardly be doubted that his fastidiousness of taste became excessive, leading to alterations, sometimes almost inconsistent with the original design, and securing minute improvements at too high a cost. But his most successful works were those in which the original idea predominated to the last; for they naturally had both the unity of original conception, and the effect of careful study in every detail.

His tendency was perhaps to do too much for himself, and to delegate too little of important work to the many who would have gladly helped him. If he did delegate anything, he was impatient to have it finished; and what Sir Charles expected to be done in “a couple of hours” became a proverb in his office. But it was hard to complain of one who never spared himself, and there were few who did not learn energy and actual delight in work under the shadow of his example. In spite, therefore, of the extent of his requirements and of a very determined will, which he never allowed to be questioned, he always met with cheerful and ready help, and there arose up among his assistants a strong _esprit de corps_, not without enthusiasm for their chief.[120]

The early mornings till breakfast time, and the evening hours from eight o’clock till (at the earliest) eleven or twelve, were devoted to the drawing-board; the day from ten to five to superintendence of buildings in progress and to various business. This was his regular work; but during the time of the preparation of the competition drawings for the New Palace he hardly gave himself more than four or five hours’ sleep out of the twenty-four. Work, however, simply as work, never seemed to overtask his powers; it was not till anxieties and disappointments were added to it, that he began to feel the strain. It was rare, even when his strength began to fail, that he complained of its pressure: it seemed to him the natural object of life, and in it certainly lay for him the secret of happiness as well as success.

His habits of life were simple and domestic. He lived very much at home in the society of his wife and children, especially during the later years of his life. That home was pervaded by the spirit of intellectual work and energy which distinguishes the homes of professional men, and all its inmates felt the direct influence of its architectural atmosphere. Of his sons, two, Charles and Edward, followed his own profession. The former was at work independently, and the latter acted as his coadjutor, till he began to retire from the more active exercise of his profession. Their career he watched with peculiar interest, and his advice and aid were always at their command. In their names he sent in his last great architectural design,--the Plan of the Westminster Improvements, elsewhere referred to. Of his other sons, two, Godfrey and John, were engaged, the one in surveying, the other in engineering work, and so followed paths of life not wholly different to his own. So far therefore his family life still reflected something of the professional thought and feeling, which elsewhere absorbed his interest. But into any successes, which his sons achieved, he entered with a special liveliness of satisfaction, and his home relations were those of almost unbroken happiness and affection.

But although this was the case, few men had less of a recluse character. His mind was singularly open to favourable impressions of strangers, and his own free and genial manner tended to draw them to him, and elicit their most attractive qualities. His judgment of character was certainly not severe or critical, and he occasionally suffered much from taking men at their own valuation.

To young artists, especially to young architects, he was always ready to show appreciation and kindness. In their case he laid aside the severity of criticism, which he indulged in relation to the works of established reputation: he was rather inclined to overrate incipient talent, and was always glad to meet it with encouragement and advice.

But indeed any stranger who presented himself, as an unappreciated artist or an unknown discoverer, was sure of a favourable reception. Foreigners especially made their way with him, for he always liked the greater freedom and liveliness of Continental manners and character. This openness to influence remained in him to the last, very little corrected by experience, pushed even to the verge of credulity, often leading him into positions which had a tendency to compromise himself.[121] It is almost needless to add, that it was taken advantage of by unscrupulous persons, who received help and benefit from him in the time of urgent need, and turned afterwards to vilify the giver.

But although he was thus accessible to strangers, although no one could enjoy more the change and relaxation of society, and although he had many acquaintances in all ranks of life, he had few friends: with their society, added to that of his own family, he was perfectly contented. Perhaps with only one friend (Mr. Wolfe) had he any great and constant intimacy, for with him he could share the one great interest which absorbed his thoughts. Night after night Mr. Wolfe would spend with him, while the work of design was going on, always ready to give encouragement, suggestion, and criticism. And this community of artistic interest naturally developed itself into a general community of thought and feeling, not uncommon in youth, but rarely preserved in manhood and age.

Connected with these traits of character was a great, and (I think) an excessive, dislike of all public display. He had a keener sense of the conventionality and hollowness, which generally attach to it, than of the substantial reality, on which after all it must be based, or of the important functions which it performs. It was difficult to induce him to take, on any public occasion, the part required of him, by his connection with public bodies or by his own professional position; he shrank from the necessity of a speech or a lecture, even on subjects on which he might have spoken with authority.

It is probable that this feature of his character was inseparably connected with his energy of work and eminently practical tastes; but it was certainly unfortunate in its effects. It isolated him greatly from his professional brethren, and this isolation, on the one hand, prevented his exercising the full influence of his position, and on the other, deprived him of an interchange of thought and opinion, which might have told with advantage upon his own mind. The effect of this isolation perhaps increased as time went on, when new styles were rising up in architecture, and much of the work, to which his life had been devoted, was disparaged or decried. He was not indeed shaken in his old architectural creed; he believed that, in spite of the originality and talent displayed in the rising generation of architects, there was in much of their work a violation of first principles, which would eventually be felt as fatal. This conviction, and the natural vigour and buoyancy of his character, enabled him to show a bold front to all attacks, and go on, in disregard of them, in the path which he thought the right one. But he nevertheless felt them keenly. Like most men of high spirits, he was subject to periods of depression, which told more on his constitution than any amount of labour. And at such times, although, as has been seen, he received the most generous support from the members of his profession, he could but feel that in some respects he stood alone.

Such was the general tenour of his life, which at once reflected his natural character, and reacted upon it.

It must, of course, be left to others to pronounce on his artistic qualities, and to judge of the results which they produced. But it may be well to refer to the intellectual characteristics by which his mind seemed pre-eminently distinguished. One was a remarkable quickness of conception, which was intuitive on his own subjects, but which did not fail him even upon others. This quickness occasionally appeared to supersede any long abstract study. Not indeed that he would not spend infinite pains in maturing his conception, but these were given to practical developments and variations, which might be what mathematicians call “Formulas of Verification,” rather than to search for authorities and abstract reflection upon principles. I imagine that such half-unconscious intuition is characteristic of the artistic temperament, and doubt whether even Shakspere or Turner grasped, in abstract theory, those principles, which have been most truly discovered and commented upon in their works.

Joined to this quickness there was in him a remarkable fertility of design and contrivance. If a plan proved impracticable, if a design was rejected, the failure never seemed to disconcert him. Like the English infantry, he “never knew when he was beaten,” and his scattered forces were rallied instantly to another attack. This fertility was stimulated by an indestructible power of taking interest in the minutest details, and of despising all trouble in the search after perfection, whether it were in the design of a Victoria Tower, or the alteration and realteration of a drawing-room drapery. And it was perhaps supported by that resolution to have his own way, good humoured but determined, of which he was not untruly accused. For he was entirely, almost amusingly, unconscious that it had anything to do with any personal characteristic or any assertion of individual will. It seemed to him to be dictated by an artistic necessity, so strong that it was hardly possible to oppose it. The very readiness with which the ideas occurred seemed to him a guarantee that they were reasonable and almost self-evident, and why they did not occur to others, or why, when suggested, they did not commend themselves to others, he could not understand.

With these characteristics were naturally united a sanguine disposition and a quick temper. That sanguineness was of course tempered, and even over-clouded, by experience of life, and it had its period of natural reaction, when all things seemed gloomy to him, and he would pronounce his own powers a mere pretence and his life a failure. These periods acted upon, and suffered reaction from, his bodily health, and in them work was his best relief. Some excitability of temper belongs to such disposition, but there were few whom one could more truly describe as

“Irasci celerem, tamen ut placabilis esset.”

For openness and geniality were leading characteristics in his mind. He delighted in society, and in society of men of all characters and occupations; and those who do this are not likely to treasure up morbid views of men or of actions.

Closely connected indeed with this excitability was his appreciation of fun and even good-humoured mischief, and his power of entering into interests, trivial or sportive in themselves. He would take trouble and show eagerness, even in the amusements of his home circle, and be anxious that they should be carried out in the best possible way. And, even to the last, he preserved much of the impulsive freshness and youthfulness of his character, without any sign of the narrowing and chilling influence of age.

But these qualities in him were not exaggerated into exclusive prominence. The imaginative and the practical, the powers of sanguine impulse and prudential action in detail, were remarkably blended in his mind. Thus he was on the one hand emphatically an artist. Before all things he placed the power of imagination and creation, the sense of beauty, and the reverence for Art which could minister to that sense, in all the forms which it assumed, in painting, sculpture, and music, as well as in architecture. I think indeed that he required the æsthetic influence to clothe itself in visible artistic form; for the beauty of Nature in itself, and the forms of the imagination clothed merely in the words of poetry, were not the influences which laid strongest hold upon his mind. But the claims of Art were paramount, and the realisation of what was beautiful in it was to him the chief good, independent of all other results. Yet, on the other hand, he was emphatically a “man of business;” he had all the power of quick practical observation, clearness and decision in details, willingness to accept the necessity of prosaic work and drudgery, which belong to this character. The two elements in his mind harmonized, and did not clash with each other.

In the same way he was impulsive and almost rash, in the ventures he would make, and the risks he would run. The spirit of “speculation” might easily have been developed in him, even to a dangerous prominence. Difficulties he not only made light of, but he was often incapable of perceiving their full force, if it would have been fatal to a cherished idea. Yet in his execution of his schemes he could bring into play the powers of good sense, caution, and watchfulness, to make sure of every step, and to prevent divergence into the shadowy regions of the impracticable.

The same union of balancing elements of character was seen in regard of external influence upon him. His mind was certainly original, and his resolution and will most determined. Yet to external influences, direct and indirect, even to the tone of feeling and character of those who were with him, he was as certainly sensitive. Suggestion or criticism, warning or encouragement, he readily, almost unconsciously, took in, and seemed to assimilate, till they formed a part of his own mind. In respect of his own art, however, this susceptibility to external influence produced no inconsistency, for its results were fused under the power of his original conception, and therefore, while they prevented anything fantastic and whimsical, they did not weaken the vigour which belongs to self-reliance. In fact it was one of the causes of that progressiveness of mind, which was always remarked in him, and to which allusion has already been made. He had a firm grasp of certain great principles; therefore he had the power to appreciate and to assimilate knowledge, from whatever sources it came. He was fettered by no system of rules; therefore he had the elasticity of mind, without which it is impossible to profit by external influence and teaching. To the last he confessed himself a learner. Sometimes, indeed, he would take up some new idea suggested from without, with characteristic eagerness, and begin to develope from it inferences, which were to yield a new store of first principles. But when these first principles were carefully scanned, they were found to be “old friends under a new face;” and so the new modification was accepted, while the essential ideas remained substantially the same. His works, accordingly, though they showed progressiveness, were always characteristic, and had a certain unity, which no competent eye can fail to discern.

Much indeed of his success and his power of influence depended on this union of apparently opposite elements, on this absence of one-sidedness and distortion of character. It was not produced in him by the deepening and enlarging influence of abstract study. Even in his own art his knowledge was gained mainly by experience, and he studied best with the pencil in his hand. But in other fields of thought, he had in him very little of the student. His interest indeed was wide and keen enough, but it showed itself in quickness of observation and intuition, rather than in any profound study. Even from politics he to a great extent stood aloof, though he was consistently attached to the Liberal party, and his mind was certainly more innovating than conservative. Science (as has been said) interested him far more than literature. Had he not been distinguished as an artist, he might well have made himself a name in mechanical science, in which his great fertility of contrivance, his love of enterprise, and his tendency to set aside stereotyped systems and conventional rules, would have found a congenial field of exercise.

By this temperament, naturally buoyant and elastic, by the power of a disposition warm-hearted and capable of enthusiasm, by his remarkable determination of will, when once his mind was made up, and by the fact that, before he had come to a determination, he was singularly open to suggestion, by the resolution never to put up, even in little things, with what was defective or erroneous, he mostly prevailed. Clients, colleagues, even superiors, generally let him have his own way; for they felt that his determination was at least conscientious and disinterested. In his professional work especially, although he made mistakes and miscalculations, which might cause hardship, and sometimes, it may be, practical injustice, his determination was sustained by an integrity above all suspicion. Architects and engineers, dealing with large sums, the expenditure of which they alone are able to control or criticize, are frequently exposed to solicitation, and even temptation, to relax vigilance and show personal favour at the expense of justice. Even a high rank in the profession does not secure men against the exertion of this influence, and few young beginners are spared the experience of it. It is well that, especially at the present time, the profession at large stands strong in known integrity, though the exercise of the vigilance and determination, which it requires, is often a thankless work. Of that integrity Sir Charles Barry did his duty in setting an example. Though he had many enemies, none even ventured on a breath of slander in this respect.

That he was ambitious cannot be questioned. There are two kinds of ambition; there is the desire of glory in itself, which seems to be its lower form; we find a higher ambition in the desire of doing something, which is not unworthy of glory, whether it obtains it or not. I think he felt both strongly. For praise and reputation are the chief secondary rewards of an artistic life, the compensation for foregoing the more material returns, which can be best obtained in other walks of life. But he lived long enough to feel, what all experience of life teaches, the capricious manner in which such reward is bestowed, and the insufficiency of it, even when it is obtained in the fullest measure. At no time would he have sacrificed to it the higher ambition of doing that which was artistically the best, though it might draw down a storm of unpopularity and censure. Whenever the lower ambition is thus clearly subordinated, it must be regarded as an instinct of humanity, capable of giving force and life to the character, without the excitability and selfishness which mark its exclusive predominance.

The whole remembrance of his life is therefore one of work, simplicity, geniality, and vigour, guided by a conscientious devotion to duty, and kindled by a never-failing enthusiasm. Without these qualities, his artistic feeling, his power of origination and enterprise, and his genius for design, must have failed in the work and trials of life.

His personal appearance was a fair index of his character. The frontispiece, and the statue in the New Palace at Westminster, show the remarkably fine head, which indicated intellectual and artistic power, and the strong and almost sturdy figure, which was no bad type of his determination of character; but they cannot show the mobility of his expression, or that quick lighting up of the whole face, showing his delight in fun and warm geniality of feeling, which in his younger days aided the impression of his handsome features and bright complexion, and at all times gave a remarkable charm to his manner. He was one of those men who hardly seem to grow old. He came within five years of our “three score years and ten,” and yet he seemed young still, and it was almost impossible to connect with him the idea of weakness or decay.

But, when the last stone of the Victoria Tower was laid, when the flagstaff to surmount it was all but ready, his work was done, and his career drew to its close.

His constitution, originally one of remarkable strength, had been tried severely by work, and still more by anxiety and disappointment. The troubles connected with the New Palace at Westminster, not only in the Remuneration controversy, and in the many personal contests which arose out of the work, but in the fashion, which prevailed at one time, of constant depreciation of the work itself, and reflexions upon the architect, told much upon him. That much of this was ignorant he knew; that it would pass away he fully believed; but he felt it notwithstanding, for his disposition craved for sympathy and appreciation, and its sensitiveness was not dulled by age.

The effects were seen, not so much in any general weakness of health or appearance of decaying strength, as in sudden and violent attacks of illness. The first occurred in 1837, after the excessive work of the preparation of the design for the New Palace; and, as years and labours grew upon him, they became more frequent, till in 1858 he had so severe an attack of fever, that for some time his life was in imminent danger. But this seemed to pass away; he recovered much of his health and spirits, and preserved in great degree the elasticity and youthfulness of his nature. His strength, vigour, and keenness of interest in all around him were as strong as ever.

The end came most suddenly and unexpectedly. He had suffered for some time from a cough, which no remedy appeared to touch, but which nevertheless was thought to present no appearance of danger. On the 12th of May, 1860, he had been with Lady Barry to spend the afternoon at the Crystal Palace, and had seemed very calm and cheerful, speaking of the natural dispersion of their children, and of the end of life, in which they should be thrown upon each other, as at its beginning. The evening had been spent as usual, and at the regular time, about eleven o’clock, he had retired to his dressing-room. There he was seized with difficulty of breathing and pain; and, before any of his children could be summoned, almost before it was known that there was imminent danger, all was over. It was found afterwards that the cause of death was a weakness of action both in the lungs and in the heart. Death might have come suddenly at any moment. That he had felt some vague presentiment of it was shown by his having put his affairs in order early in the year. But it is doubtful whether he was conscious of its actual approach. It was a cause of thankfulness for his sake that it came so painlessly, and that, though his children, to their great grief, were absent, his wife was with him to the end.

It had been intended by his family that his funeral should be private, conducted in accordance with the privacy and simplicity of his life. But almost immediately the chief members of his profession expressed a wish that his body should be laid in Westminster Abbey, among the “representative men” of the country. The idea was readily taken up, especially in the Institute of British Architects. A deputation from that body waited on the Dean, who willingly accorded the needful permission, and it was settled that his body should be laid in the nave. It was but recently that Literature had been so honoured in the person of Lord Macaulay, and Science in the person of Robert Stephenson. Close by the side of the latter the new grave was opened.

The funeral took place on May 22nd (the day before his sixty-fifth birth-day). The family procession, moving from Clapham, was met at Vauxhall Bridge by the carriages containing the members of the Institute and other distinguished persons, and by a large body of workmen engaged in his works at the New Palace and elsewhere, who had requested permission to follow him to the grave. So augmented, it moved on to the Abbey.

“All the gentlemen who were to take part in the procession, and who numbered between 400 and 500 representatives of the great societies of arts and science in England, assembled in places adjoining the cloisters, and there awaited the arrival of the funeral _cortége_. The hearse reached Dean’s-yard a few minutes before 1 o’clock, and the coffin was borne through the old cloisters to the side entrance of the nave, where the Dean and Chapter, headed by the choir, were waiting. The procession was then formed, and to Purcell’s solemn anthem, ‘I am the resurrection and the life,’ moved slowly up the nave. First came the High Bailiff of Westminster, then the beadsmen, vergers, and choir, followed by the Dean and Chapter, and the coffin. There were eight pall-bearers--Sir Charles Eastlake, President of the Royal Academy; the Chief Commissioner of Works, the Right Hon. W. Cowper, M.P.; Mr. G. P. Bidder, President of the Institute of Civil Engineers; Lieutenant-General Sir E. Cust; the President of the Architectural Museum, Mr. A. J. Beresford Hope; the Dean of St. Paul’s; the President of the Royal Institute of British Architects, Mr. C. R. Cockerell; and Mr. Tite, F.R.S., M.P. Immediately following the body the five sons of the deceased walked as chief mourners, with the Dean of Chichester and other private friends of the late Sir Charles. To these succeeded a procession of immense length, which took nearly a quarter of an hour to file slowly into the Abbey, and for the members of which there was scarcely sufficient accommodation either in the choir or in the nave. The House of Commons was represented by Lord John Manners, Mr. J. Greene, Mr. R. S. Gard, Sir Joseph Paxton, Sir S. M. Peto, Sir A. Hood, Mr. F. V. Hume, and Mr. J. Locke. Among the Council and members of the Royal Academy were Messrs. T. Creswick, A. Elmore, J. H. Foley, S. A. Hart, J. R. Herbert, G. Jones, J. P. Knight, Sir E. Landseer, Messrs. C. Landseer, D. Maclise, P. Macdonall, W. C. Marshall, B. W. Pickersgill, F. R. Pickersgill, J. Phillip, D. Roberts, R. Redgrave, C. Stansfield, S. Smirke, R. Westmacott, and Professor Partridge. Among the associates were also Messrs. T. L. Cooper, W. Frost, P. F. Poole, E. W. Cooke, F. Goodall, G. G. Scott, B. O’Neil, R. G. Lane, and J. T. Willmore. Of the Council and members of the Royal Society there were the Rev. J. Barlow, Sir Roderick Murchison, Messrs. J. P. Guest, C. R. Weld, J. P. Gassiott, and R. W. Walton. The Council of the Institute of Civil Engineers was represented by Messrs. C. H. Gregory, T. Hawksley, J. Locke, M.P., Sir J. Rennie, F.R.S., Messrs. J. Simpson, C. Manby, F.R.S., T. H. Wyatt, J. Hawkshaw, F.R.S., J. R. Maclean, J. Cubitt, J. E. Errington, J. E. Harrison, J. D. Hemans, J. Murray, &c.; and the Council of the Architectural Museum by Messrs. E. Street, J. Clarke, R. Brandon, E. Christian, Rev. T. Scott, Messrs. G. Scharf, H. D. Chantrell, W. Slater, and J. Gibson. Of the Council and members of the Institute of British Architects there were Messrs. G. Godwin, F.R.S., T. L. Donaldson, M. D. Wyatt, V.P.S., J. H. Lewis, J. Bell, F. C. Penrose, F. J. Francis, G. Morgan, R. A. Romeau, J. H. Stevens, G. Vulliamy, B. Ferrey, C. C. Nelson, J. Norton, Sir W. Farquhar, J. J. Scoles, I. Angell, H. Ashton, I. Bellamy, J. B. Bunning, D. Burton, F.R.S., C. Fowler, H. Kendall, D. Mocatta, A. Salvin, O. Jones, J. Pennethorne, and about 150 other members of the Institute and profession.

“Among the others attending were the Earl of Carlisle, the Duchess of Sutherland, Archdeacon Hale, Mr. A. Austin, of the Board of Works; Mr. Winkworth, Society of Arts; Mr. A. W. Franks, Society of Antiquaries; Mr. Henry Ottley, Society for the Encouragement of Fine Arts; the Hon. Arthur Gordon, &c.

“As many as could be accommodated in the choir having taken their seats, the solemn service proceeded by the choir’s chanting with melancholy impressiveness Handel’s ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth,’ and the mournful cadences of Purcell’s 90th Psalm. The Dean then read the lesson, after which the choir again sang, ‘When the ear heard,’ &c. The procession was then reformed, and moved slowly to the side of the grave amid the most solemn silence.

“At the edge of this the coffin was deposited while the choir chanted in a subdued tone Croft’s touching anthem, ‘Man that is born of woman has but a short time to live,’ and ‘In the midst of life we are in death.’ The coffin was then slowly lowered to its last resting place, amid the unrestrained emotion of the mourners and friends. The Dean then proceeded with the rest of the service, which was listened to with the most profound silence, broken only by the sharp harsh rattle of the earth as it was strewed on the coffin. The choir then chanted ‘I heard a voice from Heaven,’ and still more impressively the anthem, ‘His body is buried in peace, but his name liveth for evermore.’ The ceremony concluded with the benediction pronounced by the Dean, and the solemn music of the Dead March rang through the Abbey, while the relatives and friends pressed forward to take a last glimpse of all that remained of the gifted Sir Charles Barry. A flag was hoisted in the Victoria Tower half-mast high during the day, and, as long as that tower stands, its great founder will need no other memorial of his fame with posterity.”[122]

The funeral arrangements were such as to avoid all that could jar on the solemnity of the occasion--an occasion never to be forgotten by those who took part in it. It was impossible not to feel the sincere and generous sympathy, which had assembled all the representatives of the art and science of England to do honour to his memory, and the strong personal feelings of respect and friendship, which mingled with the public demonstration, and gave it warmth and substance. The foresight of it would often have been full of support and comfort to him; the reality was deeply felt by those who followed him to the grave.

The following resolutions from the Institute of British Architects, and the Architectural Society, were evidences of the kindly sympathy of his professional brethren:--

“The Royal Institute of British Architects, impressed with the loss
which the profession and the country have sustained through the
decease of Sir Charles Barry, whose genius has conferred great
lustre upon this age, hereby record their profound sympathy with
the affliction which has fallen (more immediately) upon the widow
and family of their lamented friend.”

“The Committee of the Architectural Museum desire to express their
sense of the severe loss which Art has sustained by the demise of
Sir Charles Barry, an architect whose fame was the property of his
country, and indeed of the world. They desire also to express their
feeling of their own personal loss in him, who as one of their
Trustees, and as a cordial supporter of the Museum, had
conciliated the respect and regard of all who knew him. They beg in
the last place to offer the expression of their most sincere
sympathy and condolence to his family, and request the President to
transmit the message to them.”

These resolutions were but the concentrated expressions of the warm and kindly feeling manifested at the meeting of the Institute on May 22nd. On that occasion a paper was read by M. Digby Wyatt, Esq., V.P., “On the Architectural Career of Sir Charles Barry,” remarkable alike for the accuracy and fulness of its sketch of events, and for the generous spirit of appreciation and respect which animates its thought. It may, perhaps, be permitted me to quote its conclusion here:--

“I know not how any moral, that the ablest rhetorician in the world
could draw from Sir Charles Barry’s professional career, could be
made to speak more strongly, or admonish us more stringently, than
the facts of his life and the monuments which he has left behind
him, do for us unerringly, if we will but open our hearts to
apprehend and study them aright. His incessant labours, first to
learn and then to practise, again to learn and again to practise,
and again, and again, and again to learn and practise, so long as
his physical energies could support the activity of his intellect,
ought to convey to us all a lesson of profound humility, and a
stimulus to exertion of the most active kind.

“If he, with all his natural genius and aptitude for art, could
achieve success, in the measure in which he did achieve it, only by
never-ending and still beginning toil and study, how can we emulate
even an approximation to his excellence in our art, without an
exercise of both? His life is surely another practical illustration
of that which the lives of the greatest artists who ever lived--of
Titian, of Michael Angelo, of Raffaelle, of Leonardo da Vinci, of
Albert Durer--already bear witness to: that study and practice must
in art ever go hand-in-hand. Study without practice will but make
the pedant; practice without study can but multiply busy
worthlessness.”

These tributes to his memory, coming as they did from those who could speak with authority, have a special value of their own; with all allowances for the kindly feelings of the moment, they may be accepted as a substantial and enduring testimony. At the time, perhaps, a tribute of respect, at least as much felt and appreciated, was marked by the voluntary attendance at his funeral of the workmen who had helped to carry out his works. His family felt themselves justified (in their letter of thanks to the workmen) “in recognising in that attendance, not only a kind and cordial sympathy with their own sorrow, but also a proof of the respect with which his memory was regarded, and of the pride and interest felt, in having aided to accomplish what his genius had conceived.” And what was true of the workmen was still more true of those who had been his subordinates in the work, and had laboured cordially and efficiently in the service. He had inspired the sympathy which always attends on enthusiasm and self-sacrificing labour in a great cause.

A kindly notice in the ‘Saturday Review’ (of May 19th, 1860) may be added appropriately here, as expressing the feeling of the educated public on the occasion:--

“The death of Sir Charles Barry, at a moment when he appeared in the full enjoyment of life and intellect, is a severe public, no less than an artistic loss. We are glad to learn that his claims as one of the worthies of the age are to be recognised by a public funeral, and a resting-place beneath the vault of Westminster Abbey.... It is undeniable that Sir C. Barry has not been for many years popular with officials; but we are not inclined to think the worse of him on that account. He was through life a man of large and expansive ideas, and of resolute determination to carry out those ideas; and, as might be supposed, he was continually in collision alike with red-tape officials, and the economic bullies of supply-nights. Season after season a raid at Sir C. Barry was a sure card for a little cheap popularity in the House of Commons.... His Prize design in its first conception embodied a great mistake, the adaptation of Tudor forms to an Italian mass. Time rolled on, and the great Gothic Renaissance came into existence, owing in a great degree to this very competition. Barry was not the man to cling to an inferior and antiquated design from false shame or blindness to the movement of the age. The world was learning its lesson, and he conned that lesson with the world.... His death at this time, when he was gradually retiring from the more active pursuit of his profession, was, in one respect, as great a loss as if he had been carried off in the height of his more youthful labours. At a moment when the battle of the styles is running the risk of creating an _odium architectonicum_, and when the pernicious heresy is blossoming in influential quarters, that the dignity, the ornament, and the convenience of a metropolis are no concern of a great nation and an imperial legislature, we cannot well afford to miss the man who, from his position, talents, and age, could speak upon architectural questions with somewhat of the authority of a Nestor.”

The feelings excited by his death naturally gave rise to the desire of some external memorial of him in the scene of his architectural labours. The idea was taken up by many, chiefly by his old and kind friends Professor Donaldson and Mr. Wolfe, and it was warmly aided by the Duke of Newcastle, the most constant of all his official patrons and supporters. No monument could be erected in the over-crowded Abbey--a simple memorial brass has been placed by his family to mark his resting-place in the nave. Permission was therefore sought and granted for the erection of a statue in the New Palace. It was desired to place it in St. Stephen’s Porch, near the point which marks one of the chief features of the design--the utilisation of Westminster Hall as the grand entrance to the building, by the splendid arch and staircase at its southern end. This position, by which the main stream of people flows, was refused. The only one which could be obtained was at the foot of the public staircase leading to the upper range of Committee rooms from the “Witness Hall,” one public enough, but not very central, nor very well adapted to the exhibition of the statue in itself.

A subscription was opened, in which his family was allowed to take no part, in order that the memorial might be one from his personal friends and his professional brethren. The work was entrusted to Mr. Foley. The result is the statue, which is now placed in the position assigned to it--admirable as a work of art, and excellent as a representation of the original. It is the more remarkable, inasmuch as it was not taken from life, or even from a cast of the face after death. The only materials were a good bust by Behnes, one or two photographs, and the sculptor’s own personal recollections. The work which Mr. Foley has produced from these materials, by the fine outline of the head, and the expression of vigour and energy in the face, has the merit of giving to strangers the idea of a man who could deserve and achieve eminence. It has the hardly inferior merit of bringing back its original very simply and very effectively to those who knew him.

It is but right that it should find some place in the building to which he devoted so much labour and skill, for which he gave up so much of his life. But the principle of the old “Si monumentum quæris, circumspice” has its application to him also. He can need no monument in Westminster. His works remain; by them he would have wished to be judged; to them both now, and even more hereafter, when lapse of time has given value and solidity to men’s judgment, his reputation may safely be left.