“The Cat’s Paw” was sold, and soon after a renewed offer of pecuniary aid that he might establish himself, was accepted by the painter, and he found, near Regent’s Park, a small house with a garden; here a large barn was converted to a studio, and he set up his staff independently—not, however, without qualms of heart at thus quitting the “old house at home.” The fact is, he was not a man of business, nor a man of the world; he had remained so long in tutelage, and owed so much to his father, that it needed more than ordinary impulses ere he was induced to plunge into the world as the chief of a household. This diffidence was so strongly marked that, on learning that a premium of one hundred pounds was demanded for the house, Landseer was about to break off the negotiation in despair. But his adviser, who had endeavoured to buy “A Cat’s Paw,” came to his aid. “Well,” said he, on learning the difficulty which seemed insurmountable, “if that is the only obstacle, I will remove it. Go to the lawyers, and tell them to make out the lease, and that as soon as it is ready for signatures, you will pay the sum required, and I will lend you the money, which you can repay when it suits you, without interest.” This was agreed to, the lease was made out, and the money paid. Edwin Landseer returned the money by instalments of twenty pounds each, and this transaction concluded the history of the obtaining the house, which was enlarged as his means permitted and his convenience demanded. This is the house in which he lived for nearly fifty years, and in which he died. Here his sister, Mrs. Mackenzie, to whom the reader is much indebted, long acted as his housekeeper. Here the greater part of his life’s work was done, and in it, as we believe, John Landseer died. It was for many years the centre of the kindly painter’s entourage, where his friends were summoned to meet by hasty messages bidding them to pleasant parties, and it is the house which of all others in London belonging to artists has received the greatest number of distinguished visitors, always excepting that of Sir Joshua Reynolds in Leicester Square. Not long before, the district was open and the locality pertained to Red Hand Farm.[34] In those days deer were in Hyde Park, where one would now as soon expect to see a phoenix, or be gored by the stag that was painted in our artist’s next picture, as to encounter even a doe.

The “Portrait of Lord Cosmo Russell,” 1825, represents a boy in a Highland dress, holding a whip and galloping on a pony over a moor, with a dog running by his side. “Taking a Buck” shows three deer-hounds chasing a buck; one of the dogs has leaped at and seized its prey by the ear, and thus checked the progress of the latter, giving a keeper an opportunity for throwing a noose over his antlers, so that he may be pinioned and secured.

In 1826 appeared “The Dog and the Shadow” now at South Kensington. This is an illustration of the old fable; a dog with a piece of flesh in his mouth is crossing a brook by means of a fallen tree, and stops to gaze at the reflected image of himself and his prize. A worsted cap and a pair of shoes on the bank indicate that a butcher’s boy, who loitered to fish or bathe, has been plundered of part of his charge. Such is the official description. We believe it was about this time that Sydney Smith’s humorous reply was given to an invitation that he should sit to Edwin Landseer. He said, with that dashing readiness which characterized the man of jokes, “Is thy servant a dog that he should do this great thing?” This was a not very reverent paraphrase of the speech of Hazael, the messenger of Ben-hadad, king of Syria, to Elisha. There have been more than one claimant for the honour of saying this good thing; like many others of its kind, it was probably never “said” at all, but deliberately invented, with toil of brain and mental throes. There is another story of Sydney Smith, which is very good, and not less characteristic of the wit. Landseer said to the clerical dignitary, “With your love of humour, it must be an act of great self-denial to abstain from going to the theatres.” “The managers,” he replied, “are very polite; they send me free admissions, which I can’t use, and, in return, I send them free admissions to St. Paul’s.”

In 1826, when Landseer was twenty-four years of age, several of his works were etched by his pupil, Georgina, Duchess of Bedford.

The exhibition of the picture of “Chevy Chase” can hardly be said to have led to Landseer’s election as an Associate of the Academy. This honour was long anticipated, and the election occurred, as a matter of course, immediately on his attaining the age of twenty-four years, that being the limit prescribed by the laws of the artistic body. Sir Thomas Lawrence and Mr. Millais were among the few to whom similarly early elections have been vouchsafed. “Chevy Chase” is at Woburn Abbey, and the property of the Duke of Bedford, whose ancestor was the original purchaser. In this picture we see the fruits of Landseer’s visit to Sir W. Scott and to the Highlands, a district of which he may be said to have been the artistic prophet, and from which he derived more subjects than any other; its men, animals, and landscapes he illustrated from the picture next before us up to the “Flood in the Highlands” of 1860.

“The Chief’s return from Deer-stalking” (1827) is not only the first important Highland picture by our painter, but the first of his contributions to the Royal Academy as an Associate. It is one of the best of his compositions, the subject giving scope to all his powers in dealing with dogs, deer, and horses. Across the backs of a white and a black pony two magnificently antlered deer are bound. A young chief and his old companion, a mountaineer—with traces of the wear and tear of a hard life on his cheeks and in his gaunt eyes—step by the head of one of the horses. They go slowly and heedfully down the hill. Two dogs pace with them; one of these turns to a deer’s skull which lies in the herbage. With this picture is connected a more noteworthy point than those we have observed in the history of our subject. With it his style of execution was changed from the sound and deliberate firmness of youthful practice to the broader, freer, and more effective mode which next characterized his later work. The careful studies of earlier life enabled him to paint broadly, and with precision, and gave power to indicate at once that which, ere this time, was the result of ardent and long-sustained consideration. Amassed knowledge made the artist a master. It must not be concealed, however, that with this attainment of “mastery” no small sacrifice was made in solidity and elaboration of modelling. Facility that was marvellous, and dexterity which had the charm of magic, astounding to the observer, are somewhat dearly, though in a pecuniary sense profitably, purchased by the sacrifice of qualities which are higher and rarer than facility and dexterity.

With “The Chief’s return” appeared “The Monkey who had seen the World,” which was engraved by Gibbon as “The travelled Monkey,” and is a well-known design, showing the reunion of Pug and his untravelled friends. The latter are in their natural costume of hair, the former is dressed as a “beau,” with his head in powder and covered by a cocked hat of the most audacious mode; a cravat embraces his neck, and its widely-spreading ends cover his chest; a long-skirted, deep-pocketed, laced, stiff-collared coat holds his lean body, a large lapelled vest hangs nearly to his knees; breeches, stockings, and buckled shoes enclose his lower extremities; his tail is nowhere, but he carries, instead of it, a splendid cane, and bears round his neck a most superfluous eye-glass. His unsophisticated comrades contemplate this figure with expressions which may be readily imagined. The pendant eye-glass bothers them more than all the rest of his bedizenments. A few of the less bold monkeys squat and gibber behind the principal group. This picture belongs to the Baring Collection.

The British Institution comprised in this year (1827) with “Chevy Chase,” the well-known picture of a dog—Sir Walter Scott’s “Maida”—reclining by a piece of armour; a work which is entitled “Scene at Abbotsford,” and was, no doubt, designed during the visit of which we have spoken before. It is well known by Westwood’s capital engraving for the “Keepsake.” The year 1828 was for our subject one of comparative rest, so far as exhibitions were concerned; 1829 produced “The Illicit Whisky-Still in the Highlands,” an admirable work, familiar to most readers, and “A Fireside Party,” which is now at South Kensington, and shows how in a rude bothy several serious-looking terriers are lying and sitting in various attitudes of thoughtfulness and ease before the fire. These dogs belong to Malcolm Clarke, Esq., of Inverary, and are said to have been the original “Peppers” and “Mustards” described by Sir Walter Scott in “The Antiquary;” a descendant appeared in the picture of 1833, which represented Sir Walter himself and companions.

The year 1830 witnessed the election of our artist to the full honours of the Royal Academy. Having attained this point in his life, it will not be needful to follow his yearly steps; suffice it that it is our purpose to deal chiefly with Landseer’s more important productions, and to note his accessions to honours.

In “High Life” and “Low Life,” which are in the Vernon Gift, and now in the National Gallery, we have contrasted conditions. The gentle, gentlemanly stag-hound, apparently the dog of the “Scene at Abbotsford,” appears in the former of these paintings, which were first exhibited at the British Institution in 1831, and are noteworthy on account of their size, being not more than eighteen inches by thirteen inches and a half. They are among the smallest of celebrated pictures, and, comparatively, mere sketches. The second subject is a broad and brawny bull-dog, the aide of a butcher, by whose block, and guarding whose hat, pipe, boots, and pot, he sits. Our dog here is in a state of satisfaction with the recent past and the soon to come: he has had a capital meat breakfast—note the beef bone in front of the step; the sun is bright and warm, so that it makes him lazily blink one eye, while the other, being shaded, is watching. Fat, he lounges against the jamb of the door; the savour, nay the very flavour of the bone and its adjuncts, lingers about his muzzle, which he licks gently and unctuously. His prospects are almost as agreeable as his experiences; for is he not about to have a ride in the cart—note the whip hanging on the door-latch, and the boots—to market, where there will be company and canine sports. Mr. Ruskin has studied “Low Life” from his proper point of view, which is, of course, not that to be adopted in this book. See “Modern Painters,” v. 271. “Cunning signifies especially a habit or gift of over-reaching, accompanied with enjoyment and a sense of superiority. Its essential connections with vulgarity may be at once exemplified by the expression of the butcher’s dog in Landseer’s ‘Low Life.’ Cruikshank’s ‘Noah Claypole,’ in the illustrations to ‘Oliver Twist,’ in the interview with the Jew, is, however, still more characteristic. It is the intensest rendering of vulgarity absolute and utter with which I am acquainted.”

“Poachers Deer-Stalking,” another famous picture, appeared in this year (1831), with “Too Hot!” “A Lassie herding Sheep,” sent to the British Institution in 1832, was at the Art Treasures Exhibition in 1857, and at that time the property of William Wells, Esq. It needs no description here. In 1832 was exhibited a picture, which most fortunately illustrates the perfect command of the brush and the extraordinary facility which long-continued and severe studies gave to our painter. This was “Spaniels of King Charles’s Breed,” which is now in the Vernon Gift, in the National Gallery. It is sometimes styled “The Cavalier’s Pets,” and represents two dogs lying on a table, by the side of a grey hat with a large drooping ostrich feather stuck in its band. The dogs were pets of Mr. Vernon’s, and the sketch was made in his house as a commission to Landseer, but, after a short sitting, not continued for some time. One day Mr. Vernon met the artist in the street, and reminded him of the commission. Two days later the work as it now appears was delivered at Mr. Vernon’s house, although it was not begun when the meeting happened. It is due to not more than two days’ labour, and a triumph of dexterity in brush working, showing as much facility as the ancient fresco painters exhibited when they dealt with and completed an important head of a man in one day. The sweeping touches by which the feather in the felt hat is expressed have been placed with exquisite precision, and deserve the most careful consideration of all students and amateurs in dexterous art. This kind of execution, of which Landseer’s pictures exhibit innumerable illustrations, is magical; it is really more like penmanship, in which the artist astounds us by elaborate and super-skilful flourishes and the flow of lines in lines, than downright painting of the stricter order, which is not contented with exquisite craftsmanship alone. In this category of triumphs must be classed the countless imitations of hair and feathers which consummate “dragging” of the brush and incomparable skill enabled Landseer to produce rapidly and frequently. It is said, although our memories cannot verify the statement, that Landseer sent a picture of “Rabbits” to the British Gallery, i.e. the British Institution, under which he wrote, “Painted in three-quarters of an hour.”[35] Both the dogs in Mr. Vernon’s picture came to violent ends, so says our authority for this matter.[36] The white Blenheim spaniel fell from a table and was killed; the true “King Charles” fell through the railings of a staircase in his master’s house, and was picked up dead at the bottom. The history of another ill-fated dog, a subject of Landseer’s art, will be found in our account of “The sleeping Bloodhound,” which was exhibited at the British Institution in 1835, and is now in the National Gallery. This anecdote likewise illustrates Landseer’s amazing facility. Hardly less remarkable is the fact that the Hon. W. Russell’s picture “Odin,” which was exhibited in 1836, was painted within twelve hours, or at “one sitting.”[37]

As to Landseer’s facility of execution, Mr. Redgrave truly wrote thus:—“That happy facility which has already been alluded to is fairly to be illustrated in the works of Sir Edwin Landseer. Examine carefully ‘A Fireside Party,’ No. 90 (Sheepshanks Gift); here the hairy texture of the veritable race of ‘Pepper’ and ‘Mustard’ is given, as it were, hair for hair, yet it was achieved at once by a dexterous use of the painter’s brush. Or turn from this work to ‘The tethered Rams’ (No. 95, Sheepshanks Gift), where the fullest truth of a woolly texture is obtained by simply, with a full brush, applying the more solid pigment into that which has already been laid on as a ground, with a large admixture of the painter’s vehicle; days might be spent endeavouring to arrive at a result which the painter has achieved at once. The early works of this painter are a complete study for light-handed and beautiful execution; they look intuitively perfect, yet many instances are known of his extreme rapidity of execution.” It should be noted that Mr. Redgrave must refer to pictures which might be truly, if relatively, styled “early works” of Landseer. The works to which we have called attention as produced before 1826 are examples of happily directed labour, not drudgery, and anything rather than displays of tact in painting and dexterity in handling. Note the passage we have quoted from Wilkie’s letter to Sir George Beaumont. It is needful to interpose this statement, because too many persons admire such facility as an end, whereas it is but a felicitous means in art. The extraordinary felicity and skill of our painter followed more than twenty years hard study. Foolish ideas often rise in the minds of those who read stories such as we have just given, which stories are truer than the tale of the exasperated painter—was it Rubens or Zeuxis?—who dashed the foam in a pictured horse’s mouth by angrily casting his brush at the painting. Mr. Redgrave continues:—

“In the collection of the late Mr. Wells, of Redleaf, among many other works by this artist (Landseer) are two which are peculiarly illustrative of this quality; one is a spaniel rushing out of a thicket with a wounded rabbit. The rabbit and dog are of the size of life, they have the fullest appearance of completeness, yet the picture was painted in two hours and a half. The other picture is of a fallow deer, and of the size of life, painted down to the knees. Mr. Wells used to relate that on leaving the house to go to Penshurst Church, the panel for this picture was being placed on the easel by his butler, and, on his return in about three hours, the painting was complete; so complete, indeed, that it is more than doubtful if equal truth of imitation could have resulted from a more —— execution.”