greatest poet, a deeper feeling of human emotion, a happier choice of a point
of interest, and a more truthful rendering of its appropriate expression, than in
all the rest of those eight hundred squares of canvas put together.
In 1852 Punch singles out, from a wilderness of niggling landscapes and highly-
coloured and meretricious upholstery, Watts's "marvellous chalk drawing of Lord
John Russell." For the rest,
Art is more of a trade now, than it was when Raphael's studio had no other
name than bottega—in English, shop; and moreover, it is an emasculate and
man-milliner sort of a trade, instead of one demanding strong brains, and a
brave and believing heart. It is a trade mainly conversant with miserable things
and petty aims—with vanity, and ostentation and vulgarity, and sensuality and
frivolity—no longer dealing with themes of prayer and praise, with the glories of
beatitude, or the horror of damnation, with the perpetuation of family dignities
and devotions, the recording of great events, the dignifying of public and
national, or the beautifying of private and individual life. It is a trade in
ornament, and its Academy is a shop, and its Exhibition a display of rival wares,
in which the best hope and the sole aim of the many is to catch the eye of a
customer; and he who "colours most highly, is sure to please."
As a comprehensive indictment of the commercialism and triviality of Victorian art
this leaves little to be desired. For an illustration of Punch's altered opinion of the
P.R.B.'s it may suffice to quote his palinode in 1853:—
Will you consider me ridiculous or blind when I assure you, on my honour as a
puppet and a public performer, that these young gentlemen have written for me
this year four of the sweetest and deepest and most thoughtful books I have
read since I laid down Mr. Millais's historical romance of The Huguenot, last
year? I am sensible of the omniscience of the daily, and some of the weekly
papers, and I am aware that this is an opinion which should not be breathed
within ear-shot of places where they take in The Times, and the Morning Post,
and the Examiner. But I am a sort of chartered libertine, and nobody will
believe anything I say is serious, so I can enjoy the luxury of saying what I feel,
having no character to keep up. Then I tell you frankly—not forgetting Edwin
Landseer's two grand cantos of his Highland Poem, Night and Morning by the
Lochside, or Stanfield's noble paean-picture of the Battered Hull that carries the
body of Nelson, like a Viking with his ship for bier—not forgetting these and
other picture-books well worth reading—I tell you that Hunt's Claudio and
Isabella is to me the book of the collection, though it records in colours what
Shakespeare has written in words; and that little, if at all after it, comes Millais's
Order of Release, and then the Strayed Sheep and Proscribed Royalist of the
same authors. I do not mean to put either after the other, so I bracket them."