To say that William Wynne Ryland might have been the greatest engraver that the world has seen would be to state an equivocal proposition, since modern print-science, to which the splendid art has given birth, scarce realises comparative methods, and has no complete list of precise terms. Yet the assertion that none have ever excelled him as a creator of the coloured stipple is a mere platitude. Also, it would be difficult to name any other artist who has produced finer work in all the three great branches of engraving--line, dot, and mezzotint. Still, like every rolling stone, he suggests rather than demonstrates the possession of superlative powers. Although few surpass him as a draughtsman, colourist, and craftsman, he shares the fate of all who pursue unworthy models. While the fair Kauffman sinks into insignificance in contrast to Sir Joshua, the man who translated her pictures into their popular form is worthy to take his place beside all the masters who fashioned engravings after Reynolds. Through the whole of his life it is the same. In careless vigour he speeds along the difficult paths that lead to the golden mountain-tops, but never reaches the summit. To Wale or to Oudry he gives more than to François Boucher. Smiling Ramsay and courtly Bute snatch him from his allegiance to the mighty Italians. Always opportunist, the pleasures of the world entangle him amidst a stifling undergrowth, where his wings may not expand to bear him aloft, free and unconfined. Nor are his copies of Angelica the best that she can offer. In humble servitude he seems to take all that is given to him. The slave of popular taste, unlike Bartolozzi he never casts off his shackles. A simpering Venus, an over-fed Cupid, a Grecian warrior with a feminine frame--these are the subjects upon which he wastes his powers. Even when opportunity comes to draw a human portrait in the person of a noble woman, he has to struggle against the mockery of a burlesque dress--furled Turkish trousers, or a Grecian turban. Yet how different is the obvious ideal! Since he could transform the work of ‘Miss Angel’ with such wondrous art, conjecture may dream of entrancing pictures after Gainsborough, in miniature, but in perfect semblance, glowing with all the gorgeous tints of the great master.