Of the many portraits depicting Sir Isaac Brock, most were painted long after his death. Just two are known to have been done from life, and only one shows him at about the time he achieved everlasting fame. Things might have been different had he survived the War of 1812, assuming that he did so with his reputation intact. As Brock the conquering hero, he was likely to have enjoyed sittings with some of the leading artists of the early nineteenth century. But he was killed only a few months after the Americans declared war. Consequently, Brock’s likeness was the inspiration for numerous artists’ impressions—all of which were accepted as bona fide. To understand how Brock’s portrait became something of a cottage industry for artistic license, it is first necessary to examine the significance of heroic iconography in commemorating his legacy.
As the military commander of Upper Canada, Brock was responsible for defending what is now southern Ontario against the threat of American invasion. His capture of Detroit in August of 1812 secured the colony’s western region in spectacular fashion, but in October of that same year, while attempting to repel an American attack on the Niagara frontier, he met with an untimely death. Despite his loss, Upper Canada emerged from the War of 1812, if not unscathed, then at least geographically intact. And rightly or wrongly, it was Brock who was praised for the colony’s salvation. In 1814, the government of a grateful province unanimously resolved to commemorate his sacrifice with a monument on Queenston Heights.1 While inadequate funding caused long delays in the monument’s construction, the necessity for an ongoing subscription drive actually helped to immortalize Brock through the occasional reiteration of his worth. Eventually, in October of 1824, the “Hero of Upper Canada” was ceremoniously re-interred in the crypt beneath a rising column of the Tuscan order.2 By the time of its completion in 1826, Brock’s Monument had become emblematic of Upper Canada’s strong attachment to Great Britain. But there was one disgruntled Upper Canadian who would take exception with all the symbolism.
In 1840, a miscreant by the name of Benjamin Lett shattered the monument with a blast of gunpowder.3 This heinous act, one of a number Lett committed in Upper Canada, was met with calls for a new monument. The proposal received an overwhelming show of support.4 But as was the case with the first monument, money was scarce. Work was finally commenced in 1853, completed in 1856, and in 1859—once the grounds were suitably landscaped—the second Brock Monument was at last inaugurated.5 There were throngs of spectators and a full complement of aging dignitaries, some of whom were invited to recount their fond memories of Brock for the assembled multitudes.6 Ironically, Lett’s villainy served to strengthen the ties of loyalty to the mother country. It also helped to shape a destiny quite apart from that of the United States. Canadian nationalism, which was even then beginning to take hold, would become a recurring theme after the confederation of Britain’s North American colonies in 1867. And because the new Dominion of Canada was still part of the British Empire, Sir Isaac Brock was just as relevant to the nation builders as he had been to their colonial antecedents.
Given the length of time required to build Brock’s first monument, it seems extraordinary that no one thought to enquire after his portrait. Had the monument been built according to the original design, the question of a likeness might have become a more pressing issue. But the bronze statue of Brock planned for the top of his monument never materialized, as there was simply no money for such an elaborate finial.7 Subsequently, when work began on Brock’s second monument, it was generally assumed that his portrait did not exist.8 As the Canadian historian Gilbert Auchinleck observed in July of 1853: “we are unacquainted with the preservation of any portrait, public or private, of Gen. Brock in this country.”9 Auchinleck was right. There was no portrait of Brock—not in Canada, at least.
Auchinleck made his observation while publishing a serialized account of the War of 1812, and he was probably disappointed at not being able to find a portrait of Brock to use as an illustration.10 But whereas Auchinleck was quick to admit defeat, other Brock enthusiasts were not so easily daunted. Whether imperialists, nationalists, or some combination of the two, these patriotic individuals recognized the value of historical portraiture in forging a unique Canadian identity. They were also intrigued by the possibility that a portrait of Brock might still be found in Guernsey, if for no other reason than he was known to have relatives there. But while the search for Brock’s portrait was lauded as a matter of national importance, the responsibility for finding it fell to a few private individuals who acted independently of one another. Unfortunately, their efforts met with repeated failure. However, just as Canadian nationalism helped to keep Brock’s memory alive, it also fostered a determination to know his face.
By the time a small profile portrait (pl. 3) was finally brought to light in the mid-1870s, it was too late to be used in conjunction with Brock’s second monument. This imposing fluted column was completed nearly fifteen years earlier, and in grand style. Among other things, there was a fanciful relief depicting his death, inaccurate renderings of his heraldic shield, and a larger-than-life statue that bore not the slightest resemblance to Brock—certainly not as he appeared in his newly discovered portrait.11 The sculptor’s liberty is perhaps understandable, given that no portrait of Brock was thought to exist. Even if the profile portrait had been discovered earlier, it hardly lent itself to heroic art on a monumental scale. After all, it was a modest little composition painted mainly in pastels. But to enterprising artists, a less-than-heroic portrait could still be used as the basis for more impressive and profitable replicas—the sporadic demand for which was a by-product of the same sense of nationalism that had prompted the search for Brock’s portrait in the first place. While none of the duplicates succeeded in capturing the essence or integrity of the original likeness, the differences were subtle enough to avoid controversy. In time, any similar-looking portrait with a label bearing Brock’s name was accepted as such, with little or no regard for historical accuracy.
This lax attitude towards Brock’s likeness was further exacerbated by a number of misidentified portraits, one of which (pl. 11) was copied almost as much as the original. Nor was there any attempt to clarify the confusion, as Canada’s art historians tended to be more interested in artists than sitters.12 And the indifference of mainstream academic historians did nothing to mitigate the problem. By the mid-twentieth century, most of these arbiters of past events were careful to avoid Brock as much as possible.13 Their condescending attitude can be traced to the professionalization of Canadian history, which began to take place in the newly formed history departments of Canada’s leading universities at the turn of that same century.14 Disdaining any association with the over-glorified biographical commemorations of Victorian times, this new breed of academic historians also shunned antiquarian pursuits and connoisseurship.15 Opportunistic artists took advantage of the situation and began painting Brock’s portrait in a manner to suit themselves. Since an accurate likeness was presumed to be the point of the exercise, none of these fictitious portraits were ever questioned. Encouraged by the prospect of not having to defend their increasingly imaginative portraits of Brock, these same opportunistic artists became especially active around the time of important anniversaries. In a cycle that continues to this day, the number of spurious likenesses began to grow ever larger. Yet, this highly dubious and rather fraudulent practice might have been halted, or at the very least curtailed, had some eminent Canadian historian been sufficiently roused to publicly challenge the abuse at an early date. But the academic types preferred to remain aloof, and they became ever more indifferent with the passage of time.
By the late 1960s, a new historiographical approach was all the rage. Favouring the people over their leaders, it further marginalized great men such as Brock. Beyond academe, however, there was still a lingering fascination with Brock’s life, as one of Canada’s most successful writers discovered when he wrote a popular history about the War of 1812. It was 1980, and The Invasion of Canada by Pierre Berton was enjoying a great deal of critical acclaim.16 While most academic historians were privately derisive of Berton’s lack of scholarly qualifications, one openly expressed his misgivings about the writer’s inconsistent treatment of historical evidence.17 Perplexed but unfazed, Berton followed up with Flames Across the Border in 1981, which was no more rigorous in its analysis than The Invasion of Canada, and yet no less popular.18 There can be no doubt that many of Berton’s academic detractors simply resented his phenomenal success, especially as he was seen to be impinging upon their own area of expertise. In reality, however, Berton was simply filling a void left by the academic historians themselves, and in the process he very ably demonstrated that Canadians had not forgotten the War of 1812. Neither had they forsaken Sir Isaac Brock.
When The Invasion of Canada began to take shape in 1979, there was already a large supply of Brock likenesses on hand. Nearly all of them were bogus, but nobody writing about Brock or the War of 1812 bothered to check the authenticity of the pictures they used to illustrate their books. Unwittingly, Berton managed to get it right, and he was one of the few who did.19 Ignorance being bliss, the misrepresentations of Brock continued unabated. Yet, the tide was slowly beginning to turn. In the late 1970s, Ludwig Kosche took it upon himself to authenticate several portraits reputed to be of Brock. Kosche, who was then librarian at the Canadian War Museum, went on to publish a substantial article in which he presented his findings.20 In it, he concluded that only two of the portraits were genuine, or painted from life. One of them was a miniature, which showed Brock as a young ensign (pl. 27). The other portrait, a half-length profile facing right, presented a more mature likeness (pl. 3). This was the portrait brought to light in the 1870s. It was also the most historically appropriate, having been painted only a few years before the War of 1812 and Brock’s meteoric rise to fame.
The article by Kosche was a commendable attempt to alert his fellow scholars to the many pitfalls associated with Brock’s portraits, and he certainly looked to be the indisputable authority on the subject. But while his article initially impressed me as a shining example of dedicated historical research, its shortcomings soon became all too apparent. In running afoul of Kosche, I vowed to carry on where he left off. However, like Kosche, I first had to contend with a certain lieutenant governor of Ontario and his own obsession with the true face of Sir Isaac Brock.