Part 2

The donkey bends his head in a deprecating way below Betty's handsome neck, and the horse permits the companionship of an inferior with gentle tolerance. There is something very appealing about the donkey, a patient little beast of burden, meekly bearing his saddle. The bloodhound shows no little curiosity as to the shoeing process, as if it were something new to her. She sits on her haunches, thrusting her head forward, the long ears drooping, the sensitive nose sniffing the strange odors.

Among these dumb companions the blacksmith feels himself surrounded by friends. He is a lover of pets, as we see by the birdcage hanging in the window. His sturdy frame looks equal to the demands of his trade, which are in fact very laborious. It is grimy work, and only the roughest clothes can be worn. A big leather apron with a cut down the middle is, as it were, his badge of office. Our farrier does his work with conscientious earnestness, concentrating all his thought and energy upon each blow of the hammer. The task completed, he will take an honest pride in the good piece of work he has done for Betty.

It is interesting to know that old Betty's owner was Mr. Jacob Bell, an intimate friend and business adviser of Landseer.

III

SUSPENSE

A wounded knight has been brought home to his castle, and a line of blood-stains on the floor shows where he was carried through the hall to the room beyond. The family and servants press after, the door is closed, and the favorite hound is shut out in the hall alone. Only the meaningless murmur of voices, broken perhaps by the groans of his master, tells what is going on within. It is a moment of suspense, and the dog waits with drooping head, and eyes fixed mournfully on the barrier which separates him from the object of his devotion.[3] So alert is every sense that at the slightest touch upon the door he will spring forward and push his way in.

[Footnote 3: A similar situation is described in the story of _Bob, Son of Battle_, where the shepherd dog waits in suspense outside the sickroom of his mistress.]

It is some such story as this which the painter tells us in the picture called Suspense.[4] Every detail is full of meaning to the imagination. The heavy door, studded with great nails, calls to mind the old Norman castle; the gauntlets on the table and the plume on the floor suggest the armor of the mediaeval knight. The picture is like an illustration for one of Scott's novels. Our knight may have been wounded, like Ivanhoe, in a tournament. The scene of the lists rises before us, the opposite lines of mounted knights charging upon each other with their lances, the shock of the meeting, the unhorsing of many, the blows of the battle axe upon helmet and coat of mail, and finally the entrance of the squires to bear their wounded masters to a place of safety.

[Footnote 4: A pretty imaginary story is woven about the picture in Sarah Tytler's little book, _Landseer's Dogs and their Stories_.]

The hound had no part in the sports of the tourney, but the scene of his glory was the chase. When the knight went forth for a day's hunting in the forest, the whole pack went with him, waking the woodland echoes with their baying. Some familiar verses tell of

"The deep-mouthed bloodhound's heavy bay Resounding up the rocky way, And faint from farther distance borne, The echo of the hoof and horn."

The dogs' delicate sense of smell enables them to track game with unerring precision. It seems impossible to exhaust their perseverance or their wind, and it is surely not their fault if a hunting-party returns unsuccessful.

While hunting brings out the more ferocious elements of the nature, the hound is on the other hand capable of an affectionate devotion which makes him a valued friend of man. The English country gentleman is a lover of dogs and horses, and knows how to appreciate their good qualities. Out of the many animals in his kennels one dog is usually a chosen favorite which becomes his master's inseparable companion. Such a favorite is the dog of our picture, and we like to fancy that the knight is worthy the love of so noble a creature.

The hound is represented in his best and noblest aspect: all the forces of his being seem concentrated in loving anxiety. It is as if suffering brought out in the dog's nature those higher qualities by which he is allied to human beings. His countenance is intensely expressive yet thoroughly canine. Every line of the drawing brings out the dog's character,--the squat of the haunches, the position of the legs far apart, the rising of the hair on the crest of the back, the droop of the head, the flattening of the tail.

The broad collar with the ring is a symbol of his subjection. The privilege of man's friendship has cost the dog his freedom. To offset the hours of delightful companionship with his friendly master are the weary times when he must tug impotently at the chain which keeps him within the castle enclosure.

It has been said that Landseer looked upon most animals with the eyes of the artist, the poet, and the natural historian, but the dog alone he painted as a friend. Our picture is good evidence of the truth of the statement. Every resource of the painter's art was lavished upon his favorite subject with the loving care that one gives only to a friend.

The massive size of the dog is seen by comparing the figure with the height of the table and the door. The great creature practically fills the canvas. The pose is so finely conceived, the figure itself so admirably "modelled," to use the critic's phrase, that it seems almost like a work of sculpture. The light and shadow are carefully studied. The light seems to come from some source at the right, bringing out strongly the expressiveness of the dog's face. Landseer, we are told, was fond of introducing into his pictures a bit of sparkling metal. Here the reflected light on the gauntlets, like that on the spurs beside the King Charles Spaniels and on the helmet near the Sleeping Bloodhound, adds an effective touch to the composition.

Suspense has been a popular favorite among Landseer's works, and is one of the pictures referred to in the Memorial Verses published in "Punch" after the artist's death. This is the stanza describing it:--

"The lordly bloodhound with pricked ear, And scent suspicious, watches for his lord At the locked door, from whose sill, trickling clear, The blood bespeaks surprise and treacherous sword."

IV

THE MONARCH OF THE GLEN

An annual visit to the Scottish Highlands was one of Landseer's pleasures. It was here that he learned to know the habits of the deer, the subject of many of his noblest paintings. His first journey to this region was as a young man of twenty-two, in company with a friend and fellow painter, Leslie. An incident of the excursion was a visit to Abbotsford, the home of Sir Walter Scott. The painter and the novelist had much in common in their attachment to dogs, their fondness for vigorous out-of-door exercise, and their love of nature.

Landseer was deeply impressed with the rugged grandeur of the Highland scenery. Especially was his imagination stirred by the mountain solitudes, the haunt of the deer, which Scott had described in his poems. A favorite resort was the valley of Glencoe, a singularly wild and romantic spot where a long narrow ravine is shut in between almost perpendicular hills.

The painter first made the acquaintance of the deer after the ordinary manner of the sportsman. For sport in itself, however, he cared little or nothing; the great attraction of hunting was the chance to study the action of animals. His friends laughed at him for a poor shot, but his true weapon was the pencil, not the gun. One day, while deerstalking, just as a magnificent shot came his way, the gillies were astonished to have the painter thrust the gun into their hands, and hastily take out his sketch-book. It was the life and not the death of the animal in which he was chiefly interested.

The Monarch of the Glen seems to be a picture caught in just this way. The very life and character of the animal are transferred to the canvas as by a snap shot of the camera. The stag has heard some strange sound or scented some new danger, and, mounting a hill, looks abroad to see if all is well. The responsibility of the herd is his, and he has a tender care for the doe and the young deer. He must always be on the alert.

His attitude reminds one of Scott's "antlered monarch" in "The Lady of the Lake," which

"Like crested leader proud and high Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky; A moment gazed adown the dale, A moment snuffed the tainted gale."

It is with a proud sense of ownership that the monarch surveys his domain. With head erect he seems to defy the whole world of sportsmen. Behind him are piled the massive crags of the mountain peaks, with the mist rising from the valley below. This fog, so dangerous to the traveller, is a blessing to the deer, tempering the heat of the summer sun and hiding him from his enemy, man. It appealed to Landseer on account of its weird sublimity, and he liked to get the effect of it in his landscapes, especially when illumined by a burst of sunlight.

The Monarch of the Glen is a splendid specimen of his kind. The spreading horns above his head are like the boughs of an oak tree. We know from the number of branches that he is seven years old. The horns are developed at the end of the first year, and every year thereafter are displaced by new ones with an additional branch.

The large ears are held erect as if the animal could fairly see with them. His fine eyes scan the horizon with a searching glance which misses nothing. His sensitive nose detects from afar the approach of any stranger to his fastnesses. The end is always moist, in order that he may catch the way of the wind, as the hunter catches it on his moistened finger. His neck is encircled with a heavy mane, falling in a broad band, like the collar of a royal order. His body is rather short, thick, and round.

The legs, which are seen only half their length, seem strangely disproportioned to the weight of so heavy an annual. That the deer's horns are so large and his legs so small are two perpetual mysteries about this wild creature. An amusing fable by La Fontaine relates how a stag, gazing at his reflection in the water, deplores the awkwardness of his legs, and admires the beauty of his antlers. A moment later, fleeing for his life, he learns the value of his despised legs, while the boasted horns impede his progress by catching in the branches of the forest trees.

The speed of which the deer is capable is indeed marvelous. He adds to his power of fleet running a wonderful trick of bounding through space. It is said that a deer may leap six or eight feet into the air, and cover in a single bound a distance of eighteen to thirty feet. The leap is performed without apparent haste or effort, the animal rising gracefully into the air by a tiny toe-touch of the dainty hoofs. It is a sort of wingless flying.[5] The deer is besides a strong swimmer, and lakes and streams are no obstacles in his way.

[Footnote 5: See _The Trail of the Sandhill Stag_, by Ernest Seton-Thompson, from which is also drawn the information about the deer's moist nose.]

As we look into the noble face of the Monarch of the Glen, we feel a sense of kinship with him, like the experience of Yan in the beautiful story of "The Sandhill Stag." It was after following the trail of the deer many days that the youth at last came suddenly face to face with the object of his desire, "a wondrous pair of bronze and ivory horns, a royal head, a noble form behind it." As they gazed into each other's eyes, every thought of murder went out of Yan's heart, and gave place to a strange sense of fellowship. "Go now without fear," he said, "but if only you would come sometimes and look me in the eyes, and make me feel as you have done to-day, you would drive the wild beast wholly from my heart, and then the veil would be a little drawn, and I should know more of the things that wise men have prayed for knowledge of."

V

THE TWA DOGS

The Scotch poet Robert Burns, who died a few years before Landseer's birth, was a kindred spirit of the painter in his love of dogs and his sense of humor. An early picture by Landseer illustrating the poem of "The Twa Dogs" fits the verses as if painter and poet had worked together. We are told that Burns once had a collie which he named Luath, after a dog in Ossian's "Fingal." The favorite came to an untimely end, through some one's cruelty, and the poet was inconsolable. He determined to immortalize Luath in a poem, and this is the history of the tale of "The Twa Dogs."

The poem relates how

"Upon a bonny day in June When wearing through the afternoon, Twa dogs, that were na thrang[6] at hame, Forgather'd ance upon a time."

[Footnote 6: Busy.]

Of the two dogs, one is the collie Luath, here represented as the friend and comrade of a ploughman. He is described in broad Scotch as

"A gash[7] and faithfu' tyke As ever lap a sheugh[8] or dike. His honest, sonsie,[9] baws'nt[10] face, Aye gat him friends in ilka place. His breast was white, his touzie[11] back Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black; His gaucie[12] tail, wi' upward curl, Hung o'er his hurdies[13] wi' a swirl."

[Footnote 7: Knowing.]

[Footnote 8: Ditch.]

[Footnote 9: Comely.]

[Footnote 10: White-striped.]

[Footnote 11: Shaggy.]

[Footnote 12: Bushy.]

[Footnote 13: Hips.]

Luath's companion was a foreign dog, from "some far place abroad, where sailors gang to fish for cod," in short, Newfoundland. He was, moreover, a dog of "high degree," whose "locked, letter'd, braw brass collar showed him the gentleman and scholar." The "gentleman" is appropriately called Caesar, a name commonly given to Newfoundland dogs.

The picture carries out faithfully the poet's conception of both animals. Luath is here to the very life, with shaggy black back, white breast, and honest face. We only regret that his position does not allow us to see the upward curl of his bushy tail. Caesar is a black and white Newfoundland dog with a brass collar. The model is said to have been Neptune, the dog of a certain Mr. Gosling.[14]

[Footnote 14: Two years later (1824) Landseer painted the portrait of Mr Gosling's Neptune, showing head and shoulders in front view.]

Though representing opposite stations in life, The Twa Dogs were excellent friends. On this occasion, weary of their usual diversions, they sat down together on a hillock

"And there began a lang digression About the lords o' the creation."

It is Caesar who opens the conversation, expressing curiosity as to how the poor man can endure his life. Luath owns that the cotter's lot is a hard one, but declares that in spite of poverty and hardships the poor are "maistly wonderfu' contented." The talk then drifts to the corruption of politics and the vices of the rich. Caesar at last brings it to an end by describing the wearisome monotony and emptiness of the fashionable life.

By this time it was sundown, and the two friends separated, rejoicing "that they were na men, but dogs."

The contrast between the two canine types is well brought out in our picture. Even the attitudes show their opposite temperaments. The collie is a somewhat awkward figure, sitting on his haunches, with legs far apart, nervously alert. The Newfoundland dog lies at his ease with one paw elegantly crossed over the other. They talk muzzle to muzzle, the one long and pointed, the other thick and square.

In those days the collie was chiefly the poor man's dog, the indispensable aid of the shepherd, and the friend of the laborer. It was not until later years that, following the example of the Queen, the rich began to notice his good qualities, and he became a popular favorite. But neither Burns nor Landseer needed to be taught by the dictates of fashion to understand the collie's fine nature. The dog they portrayed, however, was not the luxuriously reared pet we know to-day, but the unkempt companion of humble folk.

The Newfoundland dog, though of plebeian origin, and a hard worker in his native land, is generally regarded as an aristocrat. He is dignified, gentle, and kindly in nature.

Both dogs are very sagacious, and the painter and poet agreed in giving them the thoughts and feelings of human beings. In the picture Caesar seems to be describing the fashionable revels he has witnessed, while honest Luath listens in amazement to the recital. The landscape is such as one might see in Scotland. At the foot of the hill lies a lake, beyond which is a range of low mountains.

Two years after painting the picture of The Twa Dogs, Landseer made a pilgrimage to Ayr, the birthplace of Burns, and rambled about the spots associated with the poet's memory. That he took a peculiar interest in the subject of the poem is shown by the fact that over thirty years after he painted it a second time, with some slight variations.

VI

DIGNITY AND IMPUDENCE

Any one with a sense of humor must often be struck by the resemblance between the ways of dogs and the ways of men. The dignified dog, the vulgar dog, the nervous dog, the lazy dog, the impudent dog, are all types of which there are many human counterparts. The dog, indeed, seems at times almost to mimic the manners of men. So in our picture of Dignity and Impudence we are at once reminded of a corresponding situation in human life.

The hound Grafton, posing as Dignity, lies at the entrance of his kennel, his paws overhanging the edge. His handsome head is held erect as he surveys an approaching visitor with the air of an elderly statesman receiving a political candidate. There can be no doubt that his opinions are decidedly conservative.

A small Scotch terrier has been playing about him, having no awe of his big host, but making himself quite at home in his cosy quarters. He is like a frolicsome child, playing about the statesman's chair, while the old gentleman pursues his train of thought quite undisturbed. Now at the sound of approaching footsteps the impertinent creature peeps forth, with the curiosity of his kind, to see who the newcomer is. His tongue is thrust halfway out at one side like that of a saucy street boy making faces at the passers by. Though Dignity apparently ignores the presence of Impudence, we may be sure that the little fellow's antics afford him a quiet amusement. Plainly the two dogs are the best of friends.[15]

[Footnote 15: A story of a dog friendship as odd as that between Dignity and Impudence is told apropos of this picture in Sarah Tytler's little book, _Landseer's Dogs and their Stories_.]

There is the greatest possible contrast between them, both in character and appearance. The bloodhound is of a ponderous nature which does not act without deliberation. Thoroughly aroused he may become quite terrible, but he is not hasty in his judgments. The terrier is a nervous creature, full of activity. We can see from the tense position of his head in the picture that his whole body is quivering with motion.

The bloodhound seems large even for his breed, which averages about twenty-seven inches in height. One of his huge paws is almost as large as the terrier's head and could easily crush the little creature. But in spite of his reputation for fierceness his expression here is not at all savage. It is rather grave and judicial, as if carefully summing up the character of his visitor. While the terrier saucily asks "Who are you?" the bloodhound is steadily gazing at the intruder, as if to read his secret thoughts. A modern authority on dogs quaintly says of the bloodhound's discrimination, "If he puts you down as a bad character, or one who cannot be thoroughly trusted, there must be something radically wrong about you, indeed."

Perhaps something of the gravity of the hound's countenance is due to the looseness of the skin about the head, making folds which suggest the wrinkles in an old man's face. The eyes, too, are rather deep set and impress one with the unfathomable depths of the dog's intelligence. How unlike are the shining round orbs of the little terrier. The hound's sleek short-haired coat comports well with his dignity, while the long tangled hair of the terrier suits his impudent character. With the long overhanging ears of the larger dog are amusingly contrasted the small sharp points standing upright on his companion's head. Finally, were the two dogs to lift up their voices to greet the new arrival, an odd duet would be produced by the deep baying of one, broken by the short sharp yelps of the other. Dignity and Impudence would each find perfect vocal expression.

Our picture illustrates admirably Landseer's genial gift of humor and shows us how varied was his power. As we have occasion to see elsewhere in our book, some of his works deal with pathetic, even tragic, subjects.[16] Like other men of poetic imagination the painter seemed equally ready to call forth smiles or tears. While no one can look at Dignity and Impudence without smiling at the contrast, the fun is without irony. Pomposity and impertinence are amusing qualities alike in dogs and men, but are altogether harmless.

[Footnote 16: See Suspense, The Highland Shepherd's Chief Mourner, War, and The Hunted Stag.]

The painter has here kept strictly within the proper limits of his art. A few slight changes would entirely transform the character of the picture. By exaggerating only a little the human quality of expression in the dogs' faces and suggesting a resemblance to some particular individuals, the picture would become a caricature. Cartoonists have not scrupled to borrow the design and adapt it to such purposes. Landseer himself, however, had no aim but to produce a humorous effect of contrast between the two dogs.

VII

PEACE

A flock of sheep and goats are pasturing on the meadowland above some cliffs which rise abruptly from the sea. To those familiar with the scenery of England the place recalls at once the white cliffs of Dover. The caretakers are a lad and his sister, who have brought with them a younger child. A shepherd dog is their assistant, one of those intelligent animals trained to keep the flock together and to lead it about.

It is noontide of a bright summer day. The sea lies blue and still under the clear sky. The flock no longer graze industriously, but rest in scattered groups. The young people amuse themselves quietly on the grass, and the dog has stretched himself for a nap. Overhead two large sea gulls take their flight through the air.

There is a single reminder here of a time when all was not so peaceful,--the rusty old cannon in the midst. From these uplands a battery once frowned across the Channel, threatening destruction to the approaching enemy. The booming of guns resounded where now is heard only the lowing of cattle and the laughter of children. Happily the cannon has now so long been out of use that it has become a part of the cliff, like one of the rocks. The flock gather about it as a rallying place, and in its black mouth grow tender herbs for the lambs to crop.