The number of English painters whose biographies appear in the Britannica would, I believe, astonish even certain English art critics; and the large amount of space devoted to them—even to inconsequent and obscure academicians—when compared with the brief notices given to greater painters of other nations, leaves the un-British searcher with a feeling of bewilderment. But not only with the large number of English painters mentioned or even with the obviously disproportionate amount of space devoted to them does the Encyclopædia’s chauvinistic campaign for England’s æsthetic supremacy cease. The criticisms which accompany these biographies are as a rule generously favorable; and, in many cases, the praise reaches a degree of extravagance which borders on the absurd.
Did this optimism of outlook, this hot desire to ferret out greatness where only mediocrity exists, this ambition to drag the obscure and inept into the glare of prominence, extend to all painters, regardless of nationality, one might forgive the superlative eulogies heaped upon British art, and attribute them to that mellow spirit of sentimental tolerance which sees good in everything. But, alas! such impartiality does not exist. It would seem that the moment the biographers of the Britannica put foot on foreign ground, their spirit of generosity deserts them. And if space is any indication of importance, it must be noted that English painters are, in the editors’ estimation, of considerably more importance than painters from abroad.
Of William Etty, to whom three-fourths of a page is devoted, we are told that “in feeling and skill as a colorist he has few equals.” The implication here that Etty, as a colorist, has never been surpassed scarcely needs refutation. It is unfortunate, however, that Mr. Etty is not with us at present to read this exorbitant testimony to his greatness, for it would astonish him, no doubt, as much as it would those other few unnamed painters who are regarded as his equals in color sensibilité. J. S. Cotman, we discover, was “a remarkable painter both in oil and water-color.” This criticism is characteristic, for, even when there are no specific qualities to praise in an English painter’s work, we find this type of vague recommendation.
No points, though, it would seem, are overlooked. Regard the manner in which J. D. Harding’s questionable gifts are recorded. “Harding,” you will find, “was noted for facility, sureness of hand, nicety of touch, and the various qualities which go to make up an elegant, highly-trained and accomplished sketcher from nature, and composer of picturesque landscape material; he was particularly skillful in the treatment of foliage.” Turning from Mr. Harding, the “elegant” and “accomplished” depicter of foliage, to Birket Foster, we find that his work “is memorable for its delicacy and minute finish, and for its daintiness and pleasantness of sentiment.” Dainty and pleasant sentiment is not without weight with the art critics of this encyclopædia. In one form or another it is mentioned very often in connection with British painters.
Landseer offers an excellent example of the middle-class attitude which the Britannica takes toward art. To judge from the page-and-a-half biography of this indifferent portraitist of animals one would imagine that Landseer was a great painter, for we are told that his Fighting Dogs Getting Wind is “perfectly drawn, solidly and minutely finished, and carefully composed.” Of what possible educational value is an art article which would thus criticise a Landseer picture?
An English painter who, were we to accept the Encyclopædia’s valuation, combines the qualities of several great painters is Charles Holroyd. “In all his work,” we learn, “Holroyd displays an impressive sincerity, with a fine sense of composition, and of style, allied to independent and modern thinking.” Truly a giant! It would be difficult to recall any other painter in history “all” of whose work displayed a “fine sense of composition.” Not even could this be said of Michelangelo. But when it comes to composition, Arthur Melville apparently soars above his fellows. Besides, “several striking portraits in oil,” he did a picture called The Return From the Crucifixion, which, so we are told, is a “powerful, colossal composition.” To have achieved only a “powerful” composition should have been a sufficiently remarkable feat for a painter of Mr. Melville’s standing; for only of a very few masters in the world’s history can it be said that their compositions were both powerful and colossal. El Greco, Giotto, Giorgione, Veronese, Titian, Michelangelo and Rubens rarely soared to such heights.
But Melville, it appears, had a contemporary who, if anything, was greater than he—to-wit: W. Q. Orchardson, to whose glories nearly a page is devoted. “By the time he was twenty,” says his biographer, “Orchardson had mastered the essentials of his art.” In short, at twenty he had accomplished what few painters accomplished in a lifetime. A truly staggering feat! We are not therefore surprised to learn that “as a portrait painter Orchardson must be placed in the first class.” Does this not imply that he ranked with Titian, Velazquez, Rubens and Rembrandt? What sort of an idea of the relative values in art will the uninformed person get from such loose and ill-considered rhetoric, especially when the critic goes on to say that Master Baby is “a masterpiece of design, color and broad execution”? There is much more eulogy of a similar careless variety, but enough has been quoted here to show that the world must entirely revise its opinions of art if the Encyclopædia Britannica’s statements are to be accepted.
Even the pictures of Paul Wilson Steer are criticised favorably: “His figure subjects and landscapes show great originality and technical skill.” And John Pettie was “in his best days a colorist of a high order and a brilliant executant.” George Reid, the Scottish artist, is accorded over half a column with detailed criticism and praise. Frederick Walker is given no less than an entire column which ends with a paragraph of fulsome eulogy. Even E. A. Waterlow painted landscapes which were “admirable” and “handled with grace and distinction”—more gaudy generalizations. When the Encyclopædia’s critics can find no specific point to praise in the work of their countrymen, grace, distinction, elegance and sentiment are turned into æsthetic virtues.
Turning to Hogarth, we find no less than three and one-half pages devoted to him, more space than is given to Rubens’s biography, and three times the space accorded Veronese! It was once thought that Hogarth was only an “ingenious humorist,” but “time has reversed that unjust sentence.” We then read that Hogarth’s composition leaves “little or nothing to be desired.” If such were the case, he would unquestionably rank with Rubens, Michelangelo and Titian; for, if indeed his composition leaves little or nothing to be desired, he is as great as, or even greater than, the masters of all time. But even with this eulogy the Encyclopædia’s critic does not rest content. As a humorist and a satirist upon canvas, “he has never been equalled.” If we regard Hogarth as an “author” rather than artist, “his place is with the great masters of literature—with the Thackerays and Fieldings, the Cervantes and Molières.” (Note that of these four “great masters” two are English.)
Mastery in one form or another, if the Britannica is to be believed, was common among English painters. The pictures of Richard Wilson are “skilled and learned compositions ... the work of a painter who was thoroughly master of his materials.” In this latter respect Mr. Wilson perhaps stands alone among the painters of the world; and yet, through some conspiracy of silence no doubt, the leading critics of other nations rarely mention him when speaking of those artists who thoroughly mastered their materials. In regard to Raeburn, the Encyclopædia is less fulsome, despite the fact that over a page is allotted him. We are distinctly given to understand that he had his faults. Velazquez, however, constantly reminded Wilkie of Raeburn; yet, after all, Raeburn was not quite so great as Velazquez. This is frankly admitted.