tranquillity in the picture. The imagination has a delightful sense of
liberty in great spaces. Ruskin has told us that this is because space
is the symbol of infinity. However we may explain it, we certainly
have here a pleasant sense of looking across illimitable space over a
world flooded with sunshine.
The picture recalls the stories of Landseer's first lessons in drawing
in the pastures near his boyhood home. Here he practised all day on
sheep, which are the best subjects for the beginner, because they keep
still so long! In later years his preference was for animals of
livelier action, but in this exceptional instance, as if in
reminiscence of his youth, he painted a pastoral scene with much
artistic feeling.
There are a good many more figures in the picture than are usual with
our painter, and he therefore had a more difficult problem in bringing
all the parts into harmonious relations. It is interesting to contrast
it with the altogether different kind of composition in the companion
picture of War.
VIII
WAR
In the exigencies of war a stone cottage seems to have been used as a
part of some rudely improvised earthworks. A detachment of cavalry has
made a charge against this rampart, and the place now lies in ruins.
To the smoke of battle is added the smoke of burning timbers rising in
a dense cloud, which shuts out the surrounding scenes as with an
impenetrable curtain. Below the breach, in a confused heap amidst the
debris, lie some of the victims of the disaster. There are two
dragoons, vigorous men in the prime of life, and their two splendid
horses.
The man lying most plainly in sight has the appearance of an officer,
from the sash worn diagonally over his steel coat. He has fallen
backward on the ground beside his horse, one booted leg still resting
across the saddle. His face, well cut and refined, is turned slightly
away, and the expression is that of a peaceful sleeper.
On the other side of his horse, his comrade lies in a trench hemmed in
by heavy beams. Both men are already apparently quite dead: it is too
late for the army surgeon or nurse. Death has come swiftly in the
midst of action, and the tide of battle has swept on, leaving them
behind. The horse belonging to the man in the trench has died with his
rider; we see only his fine head.
The other horse, though unable to rise, is still alive. As he lies
stretched on the ground, we see what muscular strength he had,--a
beautiful creature whose glossy hide and sweeping mane and tail show
the pride his owner took in him. The two have shared together all the
hardships of the campaign,--long journeys, short rations, extremes of
cold and heat, fatigue and privation. The horse has learned to listen
for the familiar voice, so strong in command, so reassuring in danger.
Now even in his dying agony he turns with touching devotion to his
master. Not a sound comes from the closed lips, not a flutter of the
eyelids disturbs the calm of the face.
Lifting his head for a last effort, the splendid creature sends forth
a prolonged whinny. This must surely arouse the sleeper, and he fixes
his eyes on the impassive countenance with an almost human expression
of anxiety and entreaty. All in vain, and in another moment the flames
and smoke will envelop them, and soon nothing will remain to show
where they fell.
This is the story we read in our picture of War. There is nothing here
to tell us whether the fallen riders are among the victors or the
vanquished. We do not care to know, for in either case their fate is
equally tragic. It was England's iron duke who said "Nothing except
a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won."
[Illustration: Fr. Hanfstaengl, photo. John Andrew & Son, Sc.
WAR
_National Gallery, London_]
Various small touches in the composition add to the significance of
the scene. Fresh flowers among the heaps of stones show how recently
there was a smiling garden where now all is so ghastly. On the ground
lie an embroidered saddle-cloth, a bugle, and a sword, emblems of the
military life.
It is said that the horrors of war have never yet been faithfully
portrayed. Those who have lived through the experience are unwilling
to recall it, while those who draw upon their imaginations must fall
short of the reality. Whenever any powerful imagination comes
somewhere near the truth, people turn away shocked, unable to endure
the spectacle.[17] Even this picture is almost too painful to
contemplate, yet it selects only a single episode from a battlefield
strewn with scenes of equal horror.
[Footnote 17: As when the exhibition of Verestschagin's pictures was
forbidden.]
Landseer had himself seen nothing of war. The Napoleonic wars had
ended in his childhood and the Crimean war was still ten years in the
future. It was in the quiet interim of the early reign of Victoria
when the picture was painted. The object was to emphasize by contrast
the blessings of peace illustrated in the companion picture. As in
Peace we have a delightful sense of light, space, and liberty, in War
we have a suffocating sense of darkness, limitation, and horror.
Of the many tragedies of the battlefield, naturally the sort which
would most appeal to Landseer's imagination would be the relations
between horses and their riders. Always in close sympathy with animal
life, he had a keen sense of the suffering which the horses undergo in
the stress of conflict. The real hero of our picture is the horse.
In an artistic sense also the dying horse dominates the composition,
his great bulk lying diagonally across the centre of the foreground,
and his lifted head forming the topmost point of the group. All the
other figures are subordinated, both literally and in point of
sentiment. Their conflict is over and they are at rest, but the
suffering animal is even now at the climax of his agony, his terror
increased by a desolate sense of loneliness. The pathos of the
situation is the deeper because of the animal's inability to
understand his master's silence.
The sentiment is one common with Landseer, as we see in other pictures
of our collection. It is the favorite animal's love for his master
made manifest in some great trial. Like the bloodhound in the picture
of Suspense, and like The Highland Shepherd's Chief Mourner, the horse
is raised by the dignity of suffering to the level of human emotion.
IX
A DISTINGUISHED MEMBER OF THE HUMANE SOCIETY
In his walks about the city and in the country Landseer's eye was
always quick to catch sight of a fine animal of any kind. To his
remarkable habits of observation is due the perfect fidelity to nature
which we find in all his work. One day, in a street in London, he met
a Newfoundland dog carrying a basket of flowers. He was struck at once
with the singular beauty of the dog's color. Newfoundland dogs of
various colors were at that time common about London, red, brown,
bronze, black, and black and white. Landseer had already painted a
black and white one in the picture of The Twa Dogs, which we have
examined.
Here, however, was a dog of a beautiful snowy white with a head quite
black save the muzzle. The painter was not long in making his
acquaintance, and learned that he was called Paul Pry. Permission
being obtained to make the dog's portrait, our beautiful picture was
the result. It is probably this picture which gave rise to the later
custom of calling the white Newfoundland dog the Landseer
Newfoundland, to distinguish it from the black.
The Newfoundland dog is a general favorite for his many good
qualities. He is very sagacious and faithful, and unites great
strength with equal gentleness. He is at once an excellent watchdog
and a companionable member of the household. Children are often
intrusted to his care: he makes a delightful playmate, submitting
good-naturedly to all a child's caprices and apparently enjoying the
sport. At the same time he keeps a watchful eye against any danger to
his charge, and no suspicious character is allowed to molest.
It is possible to train such dogs to all sorts of useful service. In
their native country of Newfoundland they do the work of horses, and
harnessed to carts or sledges draw heavy loads. They learn to fetch
and carry baskets, bundles, and letters, and are quick, reliable
messengers.
Perhaps their most striking peculiarity is their fondness for the
water; they take to it as naturally as if it were their proper
element. They are not only strong swimmers, but also remarkable
divers, sometimes keeping their heads under the surface for a
considerable time. Nature seems specially to have fitted them for the
rescue of the drowning, and in this humane calling they have made a
noble record.
Innumerable stories are told of people, accidentally falling from
boats, bridges, or piers, who have been brought safely to land by
these dog heroes. The dog seizes the person by some part of the
clothing, or perhaps by a limb, and with the weight dragging at his
mouth, makes his way to the shore. He seems to take great pains to
hold the burden as gently as possible, keeping the head above water
with great sagacity. Some one has told of seeing a dog rescue a
drowning canary, holding it so lightly in his mouth that it was quite
uninjured.
[Illustration: Fr. Hanfstaengl, photo. John Andrew & Son, Sc.
A DISTINGUISHED MEMBER OF THE HUMANE SOCIETY
_National Gallery, London_]
It is in his capacity as a life saver that the Newfoundland dog of our
picture is represented, called by the pleasant jest of the painter, A
Distinguished Member of the Humane Society. Surely no member of the
honorable body could be more efficient than he in that good cause. He
lies at the end of a stone jetty, his fore paws hanging over its edge
a little above water level. Nothing can be seen behind him but the
gray sky, with sea gulls flying across: against this background the
massive head stands out grandly. He seems to look far out to sea, as
if following the course of a distant vessel. A gentle lifting of the
ears shows how alert is his attention; he is constantly on duty, ready
to spring into the water in an instant.
His attitude shows his great size to full advantage,--the splendid
breadth of his breast and the solidity of his flank. The open mouth
reveals the powerful jaw. A sense of his strength is deeply impressed
upon us. The pose suggests that of a couching lion, and has the same
adaptability to sculpture, as we may see by comparing it with the
bronze lion of the Nelson monument.
As the dog lies in the full sunlight, the picture is an interesting
study in the gradations of light and shadow, or of what in technical
phrase is called _chiaroscuro_. A critic calls our attention to "the
painting of the hide, here rigid and there soft, here shining with
reflected light, there like down; the masses of the hair, as the dog's
habitual motions caused them to grow; the foreshortening of his paws
as they hang over the edge of the quarry."[18]
[Footnote 18: F. G. Stephens.]
Other Newfoundland dogs are known to fame through epitaphs written in
their honor by distinguished men, such as Lord Byron, Lord Grenville,
and the Earl of Eldon. Never has dog had a nobler monument than this
Distinguished Member of the Humane Society, whose portrait ranks among
Landseer's best works.
The owner of the dog, Mr. Newman Smith, became likewise the owner of
the picture, and by him it was bequeathed to the English National
Gallery, where it now hangs.
X
A NAUGHTY CHILD
In stories of the English village life of half a century ago we often
read of the "dame school," where children took the first steps in
their education. This would be held in the cottage of the
schoolmistress, who, in our imagination, was always a kindly old woman
in a big cap and short petticoats. The children sat in rows on hard
wooden seats, or "forms," and gabbled their lessons aloud. Each was
provided with a slate on which letters and figures were laboriously
inscribed. By the great fireplace sat the mistress, and the big-faced
clock ticked off the slow hours. A striking contrast was this to the
kindergarten of the twentieth century!
Our picture shows us a corner of a dame school where a naughty child
is in a fit of temper. The rough board walls, with great projecting
beams, show how little thought was given to schoolroom adornment in
those days. The high bench, without back, is as uncomfortable a seat
as one could imagine. It is supposed that the children of that period
were strictly disciplined in good behavior, but it appears that
naughtiness was no less common then than now. The refractory pupil who
would not learn his lessons was condemned to sit on the dunce stool,
wearing the tall pointed cap. Naturally he did not yield readily to
his punishment, and there was often a struggle with the mistress
before peace was restored.
The child of our picture is evidently giving the good dame a great
deal of trouble. Neither threatening nor coaxing can induce him to
study his lesson. The book is turned face down on the form, and in a
storm of rage the boy has thrown his slate crashing to the floor. This
exhibition of temper is followed by a fit of sulks. He squeezes
himself into the smallest possible space in the corner, huddling his
feet together, toes turned in, and pressing his arms close to his
side. The raising of the shoulders reminds one of the way a cat raises
its back as it shrinks from its enemy. The child's mouth is twisted,
pouting in a scornful curve. His eyes, bright with unshed tears, glare
sullenly before him into space. Here is wilfulness and obstinacy to a
degree.
If the boy's face were not disfigured by anger, we should see in him a
handsome little fellow. He is of a sturdy build, with plump arms and
shoulders, a noble head with a profusion of flaxen curls, and a face
which might be charming in another mood. If the schoolmistress could
once win him she would have a pupil to be proud of. Such a head as his
might produce a Daniel Webster.
The episode of the schoolroom is the story the painter wished us to
read in his work. The real story of the picture is quite a
different tale. The scene of the Naughty Child's temper was Landseer's
own studio, and the child was angry, not because he had to learn a
lesson, but because he must sit for his picture. In those days, before
the invention of photography, it was indeed a tedious process to
obtain a child's portrait. It is scarcely to be wondered at that an
active boy like this should not relish the prospect of a long sitting.
[Illustration: John Andrew & Son, Sc.
A NAUGHTY CHILD
_South Kensington Museum, London_]
Landseer was struck by the child's beauty and was eager to make the
picture. The outburst of temper did not trouble him a bit. Seizing his
sketch-book he hastily drew the little fellow exactly as he looked.
It was characteristic of his art to reproduce accurately every
peculiarity of pose and motion, and he found this attitude of the
child far more novel and interesting than the stiff pose of a
commonplace portrait. It seems hardly probable that the parents could
have been pleased to have their son's ill-temper perpetuated. What
they thought of the picture we can only surmise. Certain it is that
later generations of mothers, leading their children through the
gallery where the picture hangs, could not have failed to pause and
point the moral.
Our picture emphasizes the fact that Landseer's artistic skill was not
limited to the portrayal of animal life. How natural it was to think
of him chiefly as a painter of dogs is illustrated in the familiar
witticism of Sydney Smith. Being asked if he was about to sit to
Landseer for a portrait, he asked, "Is thy servant a dog that he
should do this thing?" Had not Landseer's tastes gradually limited
his work to animal subjects, he might have become well known both for
his landscapes and his portraits. He was especially happy in the
delineation of children, whose unconscious motions display the same
free play of muscle as do the animals. We have seen in our picture of
Peace how sympathetically he entered into the heart of childhood.
Two English painters who preceded Landseer are famous for their
pictures of children, Sir Joshua Reynolds and Sir Thomas Lawrence. It
has not been thought unsuitable to compare Landseer with these great
men, in the treatment of child subjects. His works, says a critic,[19]
"without the color or subtlety of character of Reynolds or the
superfineness of Lawrence, are quite equal to the first in naturalness
and to the second in real refinement, and are without the mannerism or
affectation of either."
[Footnote 19: Cosmo Monkhouse.]
XI
THE SLEEPING BLOODHOUND
If a universal dog-lover like Landseer could be said to have a
preference for any particular kind, it was certainly for the
bloodhound. This noble animal is of very ancient origin, known
apparently to the Romans, and introduced early in English history into
Great Britain. Apparently many gentlemen of Landseer's acquaintance
were possessors of fine specimens. One of these we have already seen
in the picture of Suspense, where the dog's senses are all in intense
concentration. Here, by contrast, the Sleeping Bloodhound is seen in
complete relaxation.
We might almost fancy the picture a sequel to Suspense, and carry on
our story to another chapter, in which, the knight's wounds being
stanched, the door is opened and the dog admitted to his master's
presence. Quiet having fallen on the household, the hound retires to a
corner for a well-deserved nap. He lies on a fur rug spread in front
of an ottoman, beside which stands his master's helmet. His forelegs
are stretched out straight before him, his body curled around, his
head pushed forward in a position which from a dog's point of view
represents solid comfort.
Though asleep he is still on guard; the painter has conveyed the
impression of the dog's latent power, even in repose. Like Rab, in Dr.
John Brown's famous story, he is "a sort of compressed Hercules of a
dog." As he lies at his ease, we note the characteristics of his
kind,--the loose skin, the long soft ears, the long thick tail. Of his
most striking quality there is no visible evidence, namely, his
exquisite sense of smell. It is this which has made him so valuable to
man, both as a companion of his sports and a protector of life and
property.
In former times when the resources of government were limited,
bloodhounds often served in the useful capacity of a detective force.
In the border country between England and Scotland, before the union
of the kingdoms, these dogs were kept to maintain safety, and to track
criminals. In Cuba they were put on the pursuit of outlaws and
fugitives from justice. This explains why the dog has sometimes been
called a sleuthhound; that is, a dog set upon a _sleuth_, or trail.
In our own Southern States bloodhounds were once used to recover
runaway slaves, as we may read in "Uncle Tom's Cabin." There have been
times, too, when the dog's unique gift of scent has enabled him to
find lost children and exhausted travellers, and thus be a benefactor
to humanity.
Whatever the task set him, whether for good or ignoble ends, the
bloodhound has always fulfilled it with unflagging perseverance and
devotion. He is a dog to command both fear and admiration, and we
count ourselves fortunate if we win his good opinion.
[Illustration: Fr. Hanfstaengl, photo. John Andrew & Son, Sc.
THE SLEEPING BLOODHOUND
_National Gallery, London_]
The original of the portrait was Countess, the bloodhound of Mr. Jacob
Bell, of whom we have also heard as the owner of the bay mare Betty.
The dog had long been waiting for a portrait sitting, but the busy
painter seemed to have no time for the work. Finally occurred a
strange accident which was the immediate cause of the picture. Poor
Countess fell one night from a parapet at Mr. Bell's residence, in
some unknown way losing her balance, or missing her footing. The
distance was between twenty and thirty feet, and the dog was killed.
Mr. Bell immediately took the animal to Landseer's studio, and there
in an incredibly short time was produced this portrait.
The story explains why the painter chose the unusual theme of a
sleeping dog. Ordinarily he delighted in showing the expressiveness of
a dog's eye. This being here impossible on account of the model's
condition, we have instead a picture which we would not exchange even
for Suspense or Dignity and Impudence. If we have here less of those
higher qualities which are brought out in the dog's human
relationships, we see the better the purely animal side of his nature.
The union of power with repose is a rare combination in art, and one
we associate with Greek sculpture. The picture of the Sleeping
Bloodhound has what we call plastic qualities. We have a sense of the
massive solidity of the dog's body, as if he were modelled in clay.
In this respect the picture should be compared with the Newfoundland
dog called the Distinguished Member of the Humane Society, and with
the lion of the Nelson monument.
The helmet beside the dog is one of those picturesque accessories
which Landseer enjoyed putting into his works. Like the gauntlets in
the picture of Suspense, it suggests the knightly deeds of chivalry
with which the bloodhound seems appropriately associated. The
reflection of light from the polished surface of the metal makes an
effective touch in the picture.
It is by no accident that the helmet occupies the place it does; it is
an essential part of the composition, serving precisely the same
purpose which the cavalier's hat does in the picture of the King
Charles Spaniels. Both compositions gain by this device the necessary
height to balance their horizontal lines.
XII
THE HUNTED STAG
In his study of the deer in the Scottish Highlands, Landseer found
almost inexhaustible material for his art. In fact, nothing of
interest escaped him in the life of this noble animal. If we could
have a complete collection of his pictures on this subject, they would
set forth the entire story of the deer. The painter, as we have seen,
did his hunting with a sketch-book, and brought home, instead of so
many head of game, so many pictures with which to delight future
generations. Many of these pictures deal with tragic subjects, as in
our illustration of a Hunted Stag borne down a mountain torrent with
the hounds upon him. The pathetic side of animal life appealed
strongly to Landseer's dramatic imagination. He who could see so
readily the comic aspects of a situation was equally quick in his
appreciation of suffering.
It has been said by a close observer of animal life that no wild
animal dies a natural death.[20] Every creature of the woods lives in
the midst of perpetual dangers from some one of which, sooner or
later, he comes to a violent or tragic end. The rigor of the elements
sometimes overcomes him,--rain or snow, heat or cold, flood or
avalanche, the falling tree or the crashing rock. It may be that some
other animal which is his natural enemy finally falls upon him and
destroys him. The most cruel fate of all is when he falls into the
power of the sportsman, matching against the wild creature's instincts
his wits, his dogs, and his rifle. In such an unequal contest man
seldom fails to win.
[Footnote 20: Ernest Seton-Thompson in _Wild Animals I have known_.]
Deerstalking was long the favorite sport in England, dating from the
early days of semi-barbarism, when the only serious pursuits of the
rich were war and the chase. The forest laws of the old Norman kings
set the punishment for killing a deer, except in the chase, as great
as for taking a human life. Large tracts of land were reserved for
hunting grounds in districts which might otherwise have been covered
with prosperous villages. Down to our own times, a large pack of
hounds was maintained by the English crown solely for the use of royal
hunting parties. At length, at the beginning of the twentieth century,
the new king, Edward VII., has abolished the custom.
It would seem that the deer was well fitted by nature to cope with his
enemy the sportsman. His senses are so exquisitely delicate that he
detects the approach of the hunter at a great distance. As soon as he
takes alarm he flees from the danger, covering the ground in flying
leaps with incredible speed. From time to time he pauses on some
hilltop to locate anew the position of the enemy.