In 1834 many place the attainment of Sir Edwin Landseer’s highest level in art; “Suspense” then appeared at the Academy, with “A Highland Shepherd Dog rescuing Sheep from a Snowdrift,” “A Scene of the olden Time at Bolton Abbey,” and other works. Of these, to our minds, “Suspense” is by far the best picture, and aptest illustration of genius; on this, if we chose, his honour should rest. “In some cases,” says Mr. Redgrave, with reference to it, “the invention of the artist is exerted rather to exercise and call forth the imagination of the spectator than to display his own.” “Suspense” is an excellent example of the pictures of this class. A noble bloodhound is watching at a closed door, shut out, one may imagine, from the wounded knight, his master. There are the steel gloves removed from the now powerless limbs—the torn eagle-plume tells of the deadly strife, and the continuous track on the floor shows how his life-blood flowed away drop by drop as he was borne within. Who does not watch with the faithful hound in deep “suspense” for some token that his master yet lives? Others, again, can read the picture far differently: these may imagine that the dog has tracked the author of some act of violence or deed of blood; the plume, torn from the casque of the struggling man, lies on the floor sprinkled with the blood shed in the struggle ere the victim was borne within the now closed portal; we recognize the scuffle of the moment, his hand clutching the door-post with fearful energy to prevent the closing, the stifled cries, the hopelessness of resistance. Yet there, like a watchful sentinel, waiting in silence, the animal crouches, whose instinct teaches him to follow untiringly the object of his search; the spectator himself waits in anxious eagerness for the reopening of the door, anticipates the spring of the animal and the renewed struggle that will ensue. In the course of Mr. Ruskin’s magnificent criticism on Tintoret, Titian, Velazquez, Veronese, and Landseer, as dog-painters, are remarks on the last-named artist which, however true they are in respect to Landseer’s “drawing-room” pictures, award but scanty justice to the masculine author of “Suspense” and its class.—See “Modern Painters,” 1860, v. pp. 260-3.

“The Highland Shepherd Dog rescuing a Sheep from a Snow-drift” tells its own tale, and needs no explanation from us. The sheep is almost smothered, its struggles avail little, but the sagacious “collie” aids it by clearing away the snow.

“Bolton Abbey in the olden Time,” engraved by Mr. S. Cousins, has been interpreted in many ways.[38] It is, perhaps, the most popular of the painter’s productions, and yet, except “Windsor Castle,” it is that which least satisfies the critic. Primarily, the difficulty of fairly and naturally interpreting it, the lack of imagination it evinces, and the artificial posing of the figures, are defects which the analytical mind hardly overcomes; secondly, it has the air of a collection of portraits of modern folks, and so belies its title. The dogs and game pertain to another category, and deserve differing judgment. The work belongs to the Duke of Devonshire. Of this our artist said that it was the first picture for which he got £400. It looks as if it had been “done on purpose,” is really only less spontaneous than the deplorable “Windsor Castle.” The monk was a portrait of Sir A. W. Callcott; Mrs. Mackenzie sat for the girl with the fish; the falconer’s boy was one Sidney Smith, a frequent model of Sir Edwin’s—not the Canon of St. Paul’s. The picture has been engraved three times, and, separately, more than one of its elements.

In the Sheepshanks Gift is a picture exhibited in 1834, the humorous and characteristic “Highland Breakfast,” showing several sheep dogs and terriers anxiously waiting the cooling of a mess of hot milk, which has been put before them in a pan. That impatient beast whose back is towards us risks his nose and vainly demurs to the delay; the next, a canine mother, yields a meal to her puppies, but gets none herself; another, longing but prudent, sniffs, and feeding in imagination, licks his mouth; beyond, a staid, experienced, and dignified retriever is content to bide his time, knowing that he, at least, will get a lion’s share; a little white terrier, toady to the last, vainly imitates his self-command. The mistress of the shieling, a fair young mother, nourishes her babe in the most approved fashion.

“The Drover’s Departure, Scene in the Grampians,” was at the Royal Academy in 1835; a picture arising out of the departure of herds from the Highlands. In the foreground the grandfather has his horn filled with “mountain dew” by his daughter, whose husband, just behind, caresses their youngest child. The plighted lovers in the background discuss probabilities. The droves are assembled, the old dog suckles her puppies for the last time, the old white pony has lost his front teeth, therefore bites sideways the last meal of home grass, the hen defends her chickens against an aggressive and hilarious puppy, the boy promotes the strife, the old woman “fidgets” every one about her. Note the position of the lovers’ hands. For the old shepherd on our left of the foreground of the composition, Mr. John Landseer was the model, Mr. R. Leslie, the marine painter, son of the first R.A. of that name, sat for the boy, who, in front, is engaged with the puppies. This picture is at South Kensington, part of the Sheepshanks Gift; “The tethered Rams” is a study for part of it. The last-named work was at the Royal Academy in 1839, is now part of the Sheepshanks Gift, and may be referred to here. The official description is the best, “Two rams are tethered to an old and fallen tree, and watched by two sheep dogs; in the mid-distance the flock is feeding under the care of a shepherd, who is talking with a Scottish lassie near him. A loch and mountains form the background.”

We have remarked that Landseer contributed some of the most popular as well as some of the best pictures to the British Institution; an instance, which has a very interesting anecdote attached to it, occurred in respect to “A sleeping Bloodhound” (“Countess”), sent to Pall Mall in 1835, a date to which our remarks have reference. This work is now in the National Gallery, bequeathed by Mr. Jacob Bell, Landseer’s constant friend and zealous “man of business.” It represents “Countess,” a dog of the kind indicated by the title, lying as if asleep, with the body slightly curved, the jowl resting on the floor and the forepaws extended. The picture has been admirably engraved by Mr. T. Landseer. The following is its history:—The hound whilst lying on a parapet at the Clock-House, West-hill, Wandsworth, Mr. Jacob Bell’s house, overbalanced herself, and falling between twenty and thirty feet, died during the night, and was taken on the following morning (Monday) to St. John’s Wood, in hopes of securing a sketch of his old favourite, who had long been waiting for a sitting. Speaking of Sir Edwin, Mr. Bell said:—“The sight of the unfortunate hound suddenly changed an expression of something approaching vexation (at the interruption during his work) into one of sorrow and sympathy, and after the first expression of regret at the misfortune, the verdict was laconic and characteristic—‘This is an opportunity not to be lost; go away; come on Thursday, at two o’clock.’ It was then about midday, Monday. On Thursday, two o’clock, there was ‘Countess’ as large as life, asleep, as she is now.” Another authority states that she knew Mr. Jacob Bell, and lived in the house at Wandsworth, from the balcony of which the dog fell. She had often heard Mr. Bell give the following version of the circumstances:—“The hound was, one dark night, anxiously watching her master’s return from London. She heard the wheels of his gig and his voice, but in leaping from the balcony where she watched, she missed her footing and fell all but dead at her master’s feet. Mr. Bell placed the hound in his gig and returned to London, called Sir Edwin Landseer from his bed, and had a sketch made then and there of the dying animal.”

The rapidity with which this picture was produced is another illustration of the facility of Sir Edwin’s brush; the canvas is no little one, it measures three feet three inches high, by four feet one inch wide.

“Comical Dogs,” now at South Kensington, shows two large, rough terriers, who have been decorated by their master, the one with an old woman’s cap, and a pipe in its mouth, the other with a great Scotch bonnet. There is a good deal of humour in this picture, but it is not one of the artist’s best paintings.

“Odin,” engraved by Mr. W. H. Simmons, a fine picture of a famous dog, and others, were exhibited in 1836. “Odin” belongs to Mr. W. Russell. We have already related an anecdote of its execution. “Odin” was a smooth mastiff, the property of Mr. Russell. In 1836 was published

“The Sportsman’s Annual,” with illustrations by Edwin Landseer, A. Cooper, and C. Hancock, thirteen lithographs of dogs, with a descriptive text.

In 1837 came “The Highland Shepherd’s Chief Mourner,” which is far more touching than direct appeals to the imagination: a lonely shepherd has finished a long life, and the picture represents his coffin covered by his maud for a pall, with his dog, the trusty companion of his later years, and chief mourner, the single and faithful guardian of the dead. The expression and attitude of the friendless animal suggest almost human woe; his limbs seem relaxed and without life, as, pressing close to the coffin and resting his head on it, he broods over his loss. The pious life of the shepherd is hinted by a Bible on a stool in front, his age and infirmities by the spectacles beside the book, never more to be used.[39]

“The Shepherd’s Grave,” painted in 1837—which appeared with the Art Treasures at Manchester, in 1857—was a picture of similar inspiration. A sheep dog lingers by his master’s grave, his head declines over the fresh heap of earth, with its bindings of withy. The moon is rising on the horizon, yet the dog remains. To show how recent has been the master’s decease, the white stone displays an incomplete inscription; the carver will return in the morning, his tools lie ready, but the dog will remain all night, and until there is no more day for him. The picture belongs to Mr. W. Wells, M.P.

“The Portrait of the Marquis of Stafford, and the Lady Evelyn Gower,” placed before the public in 1838, is a pretty picture of a girl with a fawn, round the neck of which she has placed a garland; a spaniel sits “begging” before her; a boy in a short dress, with bare shoulders and legs, is seated on the grass in front and looks up, while a noble deer-hound lolls against a tree; it is probably Landseer’s best portrait-picture. It was beautifully engraved by Samuel Cousins.

“The Life’s in the old Dog yet,” exhibited in 1838, and now the property of Mr. John Naylor, is poetical and pathetic. An old deer-hound, champion of many a hunting, was over-eager in pursuit of the deer which lies shattered at the foot of a cliff. The deer fell in a desperate leap, the dog, being close on his haunches, overran himself and fell. When the hunters came the difficulty was to recover the old dog and bring up the deer. An ancient sportsman was let down by a rope, and, in the words which give a title to the picture, hails the folks above, while he sustains the head of the dog.

When this picture was comprised in the Art Treasures Exhibition at Manchester, in 1857, it hung close to Mr. J. R. Herbert’s, “Lear disinheriting Cordelia,” a subject the artist had treated with sufficient demonstrativeness in the action and expression of the king. A humorous mistake was made by a person who was attracted by the effective design of Landseer’s brother Academician. In the broadest “Yorkshire” he demanded of a companion, “What’s 329?” The latter blundered, and read from the catalogue the title of No. 331, “There is life in the old Dog yet.” “So there is, to be sure!” ejaculated the inquirer, in happy ignorance.

The year 1838 was remarkable in the annals of Landseer, for in the Exhibition of that year was one of the finest of his works, “A Distinguished Member of the Humane Society”—the large Newfoundland dog, with a black head and a white muzzle, reclining on the last stone of a quay, while the summer ripples slowly rise at the sea-wall, where the mooring-ring catches the lapsing wavelet as it runs along the stone. The likeness of the dog is a wonderful representation; this may be truly said, notwithstanding all that can be averred in respect to the chic and dexterity, of the painter. The trick of an earnest expression, the semi-human pathos of the dog’s eyes, is not less effective than truthful. He lies in the broad sunlight, and the shadow of his enormous head is cast sideways on his flank as white as snow. He looks seaward with a watchful eye, and his quickness of attention is hinted at by the gentle lifting of his ears. 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 quay; and the fine sense of chiaroscuro displayed in the whole, induce us to rank it with the painter’s masterpieces. Superbly engraved by Mr. T. Landseer, it now belongs to Mr. Newman Smith.

“Dignity and Impudence” was at the Art Treasures Exhibition, Manchester, and first shown at the British Institution in 1839, with the title “Dogs.” The noble bloodhound of the Duke of Grafton’s breed who calmly regards an approaching person, has received on terms of intimacy a snappish little Scotch terrier, whose irritability is not soothed by grand companionship. The big dog’s name was “Grafton,” a name of his family; that of the little one is unknown to fame. The picture was bequeathed by Mr. Jacob Bell to the National Gallery. It was engraved admirably by Mr. T. Landseer, and, again, severally, by Mr. Zobel and Mr. Davey.

In the year 1839 appeared “Van Amburgh and his Animals,” a different work from that which belongs to the Duke of Wellington and was at the Academy in 1847. The latter is the less acceptable of the two; both have merits, but in the eyes of critics neither, nor any of Landseer’s later paintings of lions, approach those works of his youth we have named, “A prowling Lion,” and “A Lion enjoying his Repast.” The artist had, during a considerable portion of his life, continued his studies from lions, and whenever Mr. Mitchell, Secretary of the Zoological Society, had a dead lion on his hands, the refusal of the corpse was offered to Landseer. Until the painter was consulted, there was small chance of a zoologist dissecting “a king of the beasts.” There is a story, told originally by Charles Dickens, or at least so often fathered on that writer that it may belong to him. It is the counterpart of the tale of Sydney Smith, on “Is thy servant a dog?” Some of our artist’s ways were strange to visitors, and stories float about them which are untrue, but there is strong probability in that which tells how one evening, while a few friends were assembled at the house in St. John’s Wood, the door of the room was suddenly opened by a man-servant, who said,—with sang-froid which indicated volumes as to the nature of a speaker to whom nothing seemed unreal,—“Did you order a lion, sir?” If such beasts had arrived daily at the door, the question could not have been uttered with more imperturbability. The guests looked to their host for an answer. It is said that some were afraid, or pretended to fear, that a living lion was loitering at the gate, waiting Sir Edwin’s word to enter. No one could be quite sure; but none present expected to be given to the lion. The explanation that calmed all real or pretended fears was soon obtained; Landseer was no more prepared than his company for the question of the henchman. A lion had died suddenly at the Zoological Gardens, Regent’s Park—a lion well known to Sir Edwin. It was evening when this occurred, and the Secretary had the dead beast put in a cart, and driven to No. 1, St. John’s Wood Road, where the party was assembled, as a present acceptable to the host. As lions do not die daily in this country, the gift was worthy of the Society and the receiver. It was from this model that the picture “Nero” was painted; and it is said that the lion of that name left his skin to the British Museum; at any rate it is certain that, being duly stuffed with straw, his hide received popular admiration in a glass case in one of the upper galleries of Bloomsbury.

Sir Edwin’s lion pictures were by no means numerous. “A Lion disturbed at his Repast,” 1821, before alluded to, was the first, and accompanied by “A Lion enjoying his Repast.” The next was “Van Amburgh and his Lions,” 1839; the other, derived from the same materials, appeared in 1847. The lions of Trafalgar Square were the last we owe to Sir Edwin. Our readers remember how tardy was the appearance of these sculptures—how long Nelson’s monument remained unfinished. Besides the above, Landseer painted a picture which has not been exhibited, styled “The Lion’s Den.” This was engraved by John Landseer.

“The Lion-Dog of Malta—the last of his Tribe,” was exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1840, and shows the white flossy little creature, with a hawk’s-bell at his neck, lying on a table close to the head of a huge Newfoundland dog, on whose nose the smaller beast has placed a puny, long-fringed paw. The latter looks with glittering ferret’s eyes through its overhanging mane. The enormous head of the larger dog is bigger than the whole carcase of the little one; and his eyes have the trick of a deep, earnest expression, which none caught so well as Landseer. On the front of the group are instruments for drawing, a porte-crayon, brushes, pencils, a stump, and quill pen. Before these lies a piece of bread for rubbing out; a mouse has stolen into light, and hastily nibbles at the bread.

Many stories have been told of Landseer’s bonhomie in general company, but probably the best was that Leslie related of a dinner-party at which the two friends met in Sir Francis Chantrey’s house. This meeting happened in one of the later years of the life of Sir Francis, some time before his death in 1841. This story is best related in Leslie’s words, and as follows, from “The Autobiography” of that artist:—“Edwin Landseer, the best of mimics, gave a capital specimen of Chantrey’s manner, and at Chantrey’s own table. Dining at his house with a large party, after the cloth was removed from the beautifully polished table,—Chantrey’s furniture was all beautiful,—Landseer’s attention was called by him to the reflections, in the table, of the company, furniture, lamps, &c. ‘Come and sit in my place and study perspective,’ said our host, and went himself to the fire. As soon as Landseer was seated in Chantrey’s chair, he turned round, and imitating his voice and manner, said to him, ‘Come, young man, you think yourself ornamental; now make yourself useful, and ring the bell.’ Chantrey did as he was desired; the butler appeared, and was perfectly bewildered at hearing his master’s voice, from the head of the table, order some claret, while he saw him standing before the fire.”

The “Roebuck and rough Hounds,” a picture of 1840, represented a broken hill-side, where a young deer has fallen from one of its ledges to a lower table of rock, where the dogs have found it, and now guard the spoil until the huntsmen come. There are four dogs; one behind the prone head of the prey has the vantage-ground for watching, and looks out with globe-like, glistening eyes. Lower is a rough deer-hound, lapping blood as it flows from the buck. In front, and at the foot, are the heads of the other dogs, one with a placid expression, the other expectant of a step. It is now at South Kensington.

Another work of this year was the famous “Laying down the Law.” The picture belongs to the Duke of Devonshire, and is too well known to need description here; suffice it that, in our opinion, it shows one of the best of Landseer’s designs of that class, by investing animals with human expressions and feelings; it is to be looked on less as an animal-picture proper than as a representation of human passions in animal forms. We must accept this non-natural characteristic, this artistic heresy, otherwise the work is naught; notwithstanding all possible objections, it is never less than a fascinating satire, one of those works which override principles by innate strength. In 1841 Sir Edwin did not contribute to the Academy.

In 1840, 1841, 1842, 1843, and 1844, the Queen and Prince Albert amused themselves by etching certain designs by Landseer: impressions from these plates are very scarce. These transcripts are named in Mr. Algernon Graves’ catalogue of Sir Edwin’s works, p. 41.

“Otters and Salmon,” one of the pictures of 1842, shows the fruit of one of those visits to the Highlands which, since the tour was made with Leslie, were annual: it has been finely engraved by Mr. Gibbon. It exhibits a huge silver salmon lying on its flank, and a long-bodied, long-waisted, brown otter, cringing stealthily at the side of the fish, showing his teeth, and turning half round, snarling in the fashion of his kind. The year 1843 found the painter at work on the fresco for the garden-house at Buckingham Palace; it represents “The Defeat of Comus,” of which the sketch in oil was given to the nation by Mr. Jacob Bell. But to return to the otter. This proved the artist at work on a novel theme, which he made his own by the well-known “Otter speared” of 1844. So various had been the painter’s studies in sporting subjects,—including wild cattle, dogs of all kinds, horses of all sorts, fish, deer, ptarmigan, swans, rats, ducks, eagles, hawks, falcons, otters, to say nothing of lions; and huntsmen of all English ranks—that people naturally fancied Sir Edwin was a keen sportsman. Nevertheless, such was by no means the case; in truth, he often carried the gun as an introduction to the sketch-book.

This is proved by the story we obtain from a painter, who, while sketching in the Highlands, fell in with Ewen Cameron, an old forest-keeper of Glencoe, who for more than four-and-twenty years accompanied Landseer with the sketch-book and the gun; he had been with him from his first shooting excursion, and described the knight as but a poor shot at first, but one who improved as he grew older. He was, nevertheless, often laughed at. But one day Sir Edwin had the laugh at all the party, for, knowing that he was not the best of shots, they had deliberately posted him where the herd was not expected, “when,” as the old forester said, “it so happened that the greater number of the stags went his way, and he just made by far the biggest bag of the party;” in fact, “we found him surrounded with dead stags lying all about.”

On another occasion the gillies were astonished, just as a magnificent shot came in the way, to have Sir Edwin’s gun thrust into their hands, with “Here, take, take this,” hastily ejaculated, while the sketch-book was pulled out. The gillies were often disgusted by being led about the moors, walking with more sketching than shooting; and they grumbled dreadfully in their own tongue; “but,” said Ewen, “Sir Edwin must have had some Gaelic in him, for he was that angry for the rest of the day, it made them very careful of speaking Gaelic in his hearing after.” “The last time he was here,” repeated the forester, referring to but a few years ago, “I could not but observe to him, ‘Sir Edwin, ye’re becoming like the ptarmigan,’” alluding to that bird’s turning white as the winter approaches.

Another picture of the year 1842 was the pathetic “Highland Shepherd’s Home,” which was engraved by Mr. Gibbon, and is very popular. This was at the Academy; but a not inferior picture, painted in the Highlands, is, “Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like Home,” which was at the British Institution in that year, and is now comprised in the Sheepshanks Gift at South Kensington; it was bought by Mr. Sheepshanks from Landseer, A spaniel cowers at the entrance

of his home in a quiver of glad recognition of the shelter; he looks up with a whimper, and gleefully wags his tail, for the beast has been a vagrant. In the foreground occurs one of those little points of by-play such as often occur in Landseer’s designs. Here a snail, who does not quit his home, but rather carries it on his back, is travelling slowly and noiselessly towards the water-dish of the spaniel.

In 1842 there likewise appeared, but at the Academy, the most dexterously painted “Pair of Brazilian Monkeys, the property of the Queen,” the dashing form of “Breeze,” a retriever, which has been engraved by Mr. C. G. Lewis, and the ever-beautiful figure of “Eos,” that model of grace, a greyhound belonging to Prince Albert, which Mr. T. Landseer engraved faultlessly. In this picture Sir Edwin must have been happy, for the grace, fulness of refinement, high feeling for beauty, and that defect of the animal which arose from over-civilization, were here, and he painted them perfectly. The very defect of his art suited the truth of the subject, and “Eos” in the engraving seems the finest example of the finest strain of Landseer’s art.

“The Sanctuary” was of this year, and akin in its inspiration to those which showed Landseer at work in snow and ice, with new subjects, and hardly ever tried by an artist of his standing. The latter are the admirable “Coming Events cast their Shadows before them,” of 1844, and “Night and Morning,” the noble designs of 1853. “The Sanctuary” illustrated the refuge of a long-hunted stag on an island, or on the coast of Loch Maree; the swimming beast approaches the shore, and perfectly represents the pathos of the verses:—

We all remember the water dripping from the flanks of the beast, the swerving line, a little too mechanically drawn, of the flying fowl, the even colour of the twilight sky, the gleaming of the water, a surface broken only by the track of the ripples the exhausted swimmer’s shoulders had set in motion. The picture belongs to the Queen, and was in the International Exhibition, 1862, and at the Exposition Universelle, Paris, 1853; and while there attracted much less attention than it deserved from the French, who demand qualities which Landseer did not always succeed in furnishing. We do not think it was on account of the pathos of this picture that the jury awarded him the great gold medal, he being the only English painter to receive it; many Englishmen desired that Mulready should obtain this distinction, and the award in Landseer’s favour puzzled many, because he was much less a painter per se than Mulready, who expected a decision in the reverse direction.