Landseer had no enemies, and no detractors worth mentioning.  That his great popularity was owing to his deference to the spirit of the age goes without saying.  He never affronted popular prejudices, and was ever alert to reflect the taste of his patrons.  The influence of passing events was strong upon him:  the subtlety of Turner, the spiritual vision of Fra Angelico, the sublime quality of soul (that scorned present reward and dedicated its work to time) of Michelangelo were all far from him.

That he at times attempted to be humorous by dressing dogs in coats and trousers with pipe in mouth is to be regretted.  A dog so clothed is not funny—­the artist is.

The point has also been made that in Landseer’s work there was no progression—­no evolution.  His pictures of mountain scenery done in Scotland before he was thirty mark high tide.  To him never again came the same sweep of joyous spirit or surge of feeling.

Bank-accounts, safety and satisfaction are not the things that stir the emotions and sound the soul-depths.  Landseer never knew the blessing of a noble discontent.  But he contributed to the quiet joy of a million homes; and it is not for us to say, “It is beautiful; but is it art?” Neither need we ask whether the name of Landseer will endure with those of Raphael and Leonardo.  Edwin Landseer did a great work, and the world is better for his having lived; for his message was one of gentleness, kindness and beauty.

GUSTAVE DORE

Lacroix told Dore one day, early in his life in Paris, that he should illustrate a new edition of his works in four volumes, and he sent them to him.  In a week Lacroix said to Dore, who had called, “Well, have you begun to read my story?” “Oh!  I mastered that in no time; the blocks are all ready”; and while Lacroix looked on stupefied, the boy dived into his pockets and piled many of them on the table, saying, “The others are in a basket at the door; there are three hundred in all!”

    —­Blanche Roosevelt

[Illustration:  GUSTAVE DORE]

It was at the Cafe de l’Horloge in Paris.  Mr. Whistler sat leaning on his cane, looking off into space, dreamily and wearily.

He roused enough to answer the question:  “Dore—­Gustave Dore—­an artist?  Why, the name sounds familiar!  Oh, yes, an illustrator.  Ah, now I understand; but there is a difference between an artist and an illustrator, you know, my boy.  Dore—­yes, I knew him—­he had bats in his belfry!”

And Mr. Whistler dismissed the subject by calling for a match, and then smoked his cigarette in grim silence, blowing the smoke through his nose.

Not liking a man, it is easy to shelve him with a joke, or to waive his work with a shrug and toss of the head, but not always will the ghost down at our bidding.

In the realm of art nothing is more strange than this:  genius does not recognize genius.  Still, the word is much abused, and the man who is a genius to some is never so to others.  In defining a genius it is easiest to work by the rule of elimination and show what he is not.