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."