Part 3

No cottage is in sight, and we judge that our young people have brought their flock from a little distance. Two sturdy goats act as beasts of burden in the family, both equipped with saddle and bridle. As they rest now at one side they are the impersonations of docility and dignity, but a hint of mischief lurks in their complacent expressions. One feels decidedly suspicious of the old fellow with the long beard. Twin lambs lying at the cannon's mouth are the softest and daintiest little creatures of the flock. So, evidently, thinks the sheep beside them, gently nosing the woolly back of the one nearest.

The children are of the best type of English villagers, with fresh, sweet, happy faces. All three are well dressed and have the tidy appearance which is the sign of family thrift and prosperity. The girl has her hair brushed back smoothly from her forehead and knotted at the back like a little woman's. She bears herself with a pretty air of motherliness toward her brothers. Like other English village maidens, she is skilled in all sorts of domestic duties and has few idle moments through the day. Her sewing-basket lies beside her on the ground, and while the dog looks after the sheep, she busies herself with her work.

Evidently she has some knitting under way, and the work comes to a pause while she winds a new skein of yarn. The little toddler may now make himself useful by holding the skein. He is proud of the honor and watches the rapidly moving thread with fascinated eyes. So deftly do the fingers untangle the snarls that the task is converted into a game as absorbing as a cat's cradle puzzle. Even the older lad, of the manly age to feel himself superior to such amusements, peers over the little one's shoulder with genuine curiosity. In the excitement of their occupation, the little knitter's straw bonnet has slipped from her head far down her back, leaving the plump neck exposed to the sun.

The full significance of the picture is best understood in contrast with the companion subject, War. The two pictures have been called by a critic "true poem-pictures." The painter means to show here that the choicest blessing of Peace is the prosperity of the humbler classes, who are the bulwark of the nation. Agricultural pursuits can flourish only when arms are laid down. Happy is the land where innocent children and dumb beasts can roam in safety over the country.

The long level stretch of land and sea adds much to the impression of 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."

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.

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.

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.

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.