It has been alleged by those critics least affected by his second sight into the motives of animals, and most enamoured of the painters of brutes in their entirety—brutes as apart from men, while each specimen is distinct and individual in itself, and while it has a relation to the nature, if not the human nature, around it—that Sir Edwin sacrificed truth to sentiment till it became fantastic, and that in the pursuit he lost, not any grain of his popularity among his multitude of admirers, but something of his technical skill. It would be presumption in me to defend Sir Edwin; neither, in truth, am I inclined to write that he was never guilty of an exaggeration or fantasticalness—that he never failed in effect. But I am quite clear in the statement that it was the truth of his interpretation—not subtle, but transparent—of the dumb speech of animals which caused it to be accepted with unqualified delight by their masters, high and low; and that nothing short of the most exquisite perception of propriety on Sir Edwin’s part could have enabled him to give innumerable versions of the inner life of animals, with so little of the exaggeration and fantasticalness which would have easily become repugnant to the common sense of Englishmen.
The great English animal painter was a marvellous poet in his own department, and it ought to be simply a source of thankfulness to us that he painted poetry which those who run can read.
Yet I am about to attempt to tell again the stories which some of his animals tell me, since it may well be they have other tales for other admirers, and that, therefore, my experience may not be quite uncalled for and too much. But if in any respect I cumber with words or mar by false rendering the suggestive text which I am seeking to illustrate lovingly, I can only hope that my blunder may be forgiven.
