LESSER LIGHTS YET GREAT

“A man’s a man for a’ that.”

Sir David Wilkie (1785–1841) was the son of a Scotch minister. He was born in November 1785. The child was father to the man, for nothing pleased the laddie so much as scribbling in pencil on his copybook and on every piece of paper he could lay hands on. He never sought to illustrate mythological subjects or fairy stories. It was always the animals, the surrounding objects, the people about him, which the little mannikin was drawing. At last he was allowed to cultivate his gift, and, in 1799, when he was just fourteen, he was placed in the Trustees Academy at Edinburgh, and, in 1805, he became a student of the Royal Academy schools. Oh these happy student days, how Wilkie loved them! How hard he worked, how frugal he was; all this is related in his biography. He had many friends, amongst whom was Haydon, the self-centred, the warm-hearted, the unfortunate painter. It was in rendering the actual life around him that Wilkie from the first excelled, and it was this talent that had been foreshadowed in his childish scribblings. “I could draw before I could read, and paint before I could spell,” he says.

He has been compared to Goldsmith, the Goldsmith of art; the comedy and tragedy of life as it went on around him, its humour, its delicious contradictions, its simple yet often heart-breaking pathos, charmed and attracted him. Everything that was sincere, however humble, interested him. If we compare him with Hogarth, we will see that as Hogarth saw nothing but the baseness of life, Wilkie saw its pity and its innocent happiness. He inspired great affection, and he gave it back with all the strength of his nature. Haydon has told us that the “Village Politicians” was exhibited in 1806, and was very favourably noticed in the papers. When he read the notices, “I was in the clouds,” says Haydon, “hurried over my breakfast, rushed away, met Jackson, who joined me, and we both bolted into Wilkie’s room. I roared out ‘Wilkie, my boy, your name’s in the paper.’ ‘Is it rea-al-ly?’ said David. I read the puff. We huzzaed, and, shaking hands, all three danced round the table until we were tired.” Next day the friends went arm in arm to the Gallery. There was no getting near. Wilkie, pale as death, kept saying, “Dear, dear, it’s just wonderful.” From that time forward his success was assured.

Here is “The Blind Fiddler” (99). Wilkie was a great admirer of the Dutch school, and, in painting this picture, he borrowed one by Teniers, and kept it by him all the time he was at work. It shows the interior of a farmhouse; the mother tosses her baby to the tune of the fiddler, the father snaps his fingers, the boy, making a pair of bellows his fiddle, the poker his bow, mimics the musician, the girl listens intently; even the dog is all attention to the music. The picture is full of elaborate details and none are far-fetched. It is a scene that might take place in any happy home circle. Another picture, “The Village Festival” (122), and “The Bagpiper” (329) are pages torn from the life of the rustics about.

Wilkie had a second manner in which he became an historical painter. His most celebrated historical picture was “John Knox Preaching to the Lords of the Congregation.” Wilkie grew more and more in popularity. He was made an Associate in 1809, and a full R.A. in 1811. After the death of Sir Thomas Lawrence, he was appointed painter in ordinary to his Majesty, and, after the death of Sir Henry Raeburn, limner to the King in Scotland. Then came a short period of illness and his sudden death. He had gone in search of health to the Holy Land and to Egypt. He died on the 1st June, 1841. His body was committed to the deep, and Turner painted the scene. “I wish I could paint them blacker,” he said, when some one objected to the black sails in the picture.

Let us now look at two strange pictures by Blake, the poet-painter (1757–1827). He was a visionary, and he painted visions; he was a poet with the heart of a child and a child’s imagination. He wrote the “Songs of Innocence,” those lovely songs pure and bright as the voice of spring. He ornamented each song with a fanciful border, printed poem and design in wonderful colours. It was his dead brother, he said, who appeared in a dream and taught him thus to ornament his poems.

Wordsworth and Shelley were singing of the war of the spiritual and the material world, and Blake, enraptured by Wordsworth’s poetry, dreamt of bringing mystic Swedenborgianism into art. He lived among dreams and spirits, and people called him mad. They did not buy his pictures, they paid no attention to his poetry, but he was content. In the picture of “The Spiritual Form of Pitt guiding Behemoth” (1110), we see the spiritual form of Pitt as Blake imagined it. “Pitt,” he says, in his catalogue to the pictures he exhibited, “is that angel who pleads to perform the Almighty’s order.” The picture really means the power of statesmanship to control the brute forces. It is full of a strange symbolism. I could write to you much about Blake’s beautiful soul. He lived and died in great poverty, always sustained by the love of his wife, and for all the misery of his outward circumstances he was happy. “May God make this world to you, my child, as beautiful as it has been to me,” he said, stroking the hair of a little girl who had been brought by her mother to see him. As he lay dying he sang songs to his Maker. His life is a beautiful and unique example of the spirit triumphing over all the diverse circumstances of the material world. His other picture in this Gallery is the “Procession from Calvary” (1164).

Landseer (1802–1873) contrasts with this mystic painter. He is the painter of dogs and of all the dear dumb creatures that we love. He knew all their attitudes, and their least movements possessed a meaning for him. He sympathised with them so much that he made their expression quite human. For this he has been found fault with, and yet it is this which draws us to him. The texture of the animals’ coats, the fire or the wistfulness of their eyes, the eager poise of their bodies in action, the beautiful laxity of their lines in repose, all this he studied. He has gained his knowledge by his loving watchfulness. He entered the Academy schools when he was thirteen. “Where is my little dog boy?” Fuseli, the keeper, used to ask when Landseer was missing.

I think the animals understood and loved him as much as he loved and understood them. A story was told me by a friend of his that I have never seen in print. Landseer had a beautiful dog, which he was always painting. The poor dog did not like to be made such constant use of, and he plainly showed his reluctance, and told his master that he thought it unfair. One day Landseer said to him, “This is the last time I shall ask you to sit, the very last,” so the dog wagged his tail and sat beautifully and patiently to the end. When the picture was done Landseer renewed his promise, and the dog henceforth took his ease and was happy. One day my friend came on a visit to the artist. “This is a jolly dog of yours; I should like to paint him,” he said. “Certainly,” replied Landseer, forgetting all about his promise, and he whistled to the dog, and bade him sit. The dog, said my friend, sat up surprised; he looked at his master, and, when the signal was renewed, he threw his head back and uttered one long dismal howl, sprung out of the window and disappeared. They sought for him everywhere, but Landseer had broken his promise, and the dog had vanished. I hope he came back after the visitor had left.

Landseer was very young when he began painting. His father was an engraver, and he educated his sons in art. At thirteen years of age the boy won a medal from the Society of Arts for the drawing of a large Alpine mastiff. From that time to the year of his death, in 1873, his life was a series of triumphs. He was elected an Associate of the Academy when he was twenty-four, and four years later he was made a full Academician. He won the friendship of many remarkable men, among others of Sydney Smith and Dickens. He was as great a social, as he was an artistic, success; he sang beautifully; he told stories with great zest and point. The Queen and Prince Albert honoured him with their friendship, and the Queen knighted him in 1850.

“DIGNITY AND IMPUDENCE” (604)

BY SIR EDWIN LANDSEER, R.A.

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“Dignity and Impudence” (604), is a perfect bit of character drawing. Grafton is the name of the bloodhound who stands alert, with chest thrown back and head uplifted, intently watching. His paw hangs over the lintel of his kennel, but he is not fussed; he is quietly surveying the stranger who is entering, and whom we do not see. He is “Dignity.” A small Scotch terrier represents “Impudence.” He sits in the same kennel, and he is all in a flurry at the approach of the stranger; we seem to hear him bark. It is a perfect representation of dignity and impudence. See how beautifully the glossy hair of the animals’ coats is painted, their eyes speak. Then look at “Shoeing the Bay Mare” (606). A farrier is trying on a shoe on the hind foot of a mare, whose name was “Old Betty,” and she stands in a characteristic attitude; on her neck is no halter, for “Old Betty” would never wear one. She used to love to go to the blacksmith to have her shoe put on. The bloodhound who is watching is called Lama, and the donkey in the background, a grey furry donkey, is also watching. The farrier is a portrait. I want you to notice the glossiness and crispness of the hide of the animals. It is really a portrait group. We seem to know the three animals—“Betty,” the mare of character, “Lama,” the bloodhound of observation, and the dear old ass behind—all are watching intently the farrier at his work.

“The King Charles Spaniels” (409) and “The Sleeping Bloodhound” (603) are the beautiful representations of three animals who all died violent deaths. The bloodhound had fallen asleep upon a balcony, awaiting his master’s return. He heard the wheels of his carriage in the distance, and, leaping down, missed his balance, fell between twenty and thirty feet, and died during the night. Landseer painted the splendid dog while he lay dead. The little spaniels also died from falls.

Landseer, the lover of animals, died in 1873, and received a public funeral in St. Paul’s Cathedral. The design is his of the great lions at the foot of Nelson’s statue in Trafalgar Square.