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, “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.”