I was thinking yesterday, as I got up, about the special charm of the
English school. The little I saw of it has left me memories. They have a
real sensitiveness which triumphs over all the studies in concoction
which appear here and there, as in our dismal school; with us that
sensitiveness is the rarest thing: everything has the look of being
painted with clumsy tools, and what is worse, by obtuse and vulgar
minds. Take away Meissonier, Decamps, one or two others, and some of the
youthful pictures of Ingres, and all is tame, nerveless, without
intention, without fire. One need only cast one's eye over that stupid,
commonplace paper _L'Illustration_, manufactured by pettifogging artists
over here, and compare it with the corresponding English publication to
realise how wretchedly flat, flabby, and insipid is the character of
most of our productions. This supposed home of drawing shows really no
trace of it, and our most pretentious pictures show as little as any. In
these little English designs nearly every object is treated with the
amount of interest it demands; landscapes, sea-pieces, costumes,
incidents of war, all these are delightful, done with just the right
touch, and, above all, well drawn.... I do not see among us any one to
be compared with Leslie, Grant, and all those who derive partly from
Wilkie and partly from Hogarth, with a little of the suppleness and ease
introduced by the school of forty years back, Lawrence and his comrades,
who shone by their elegance and lightness.
_Delacroix._