action, but in this exceptional instance, as if in
reminiscence of his youth, he painted a pastoral scene with much
artistic feeling.

There are a good many more figures in the picture than are usual with
our painter, and he therefore had a more difficult problem in bringing
all the parts into harmonious relations. It is interesting to contrast
it with the altogether different kind of composition in the companion
picture of War.

VIII

WAR

In the exigencies of war a stone cottage seems to have been used as a
part of some rudely improvised earthworks. A detachment of cavalry has
made a charge against this rampart, and the place now lies in ruins.
To the smoke of battle is added the smoke of burning timbers rising in
a dense cloud, which shuts out the surrounding scenes as with an
impenetrable curtain. Below the breach, in a confused heap amidst the
debris, lie some of the victims of the disaster. There are two
dragoons, vigorous men in the prime of life, and their two splendid
horses.

The man lying most plainly in sight has the appearance of an officer,
from the sash worn diagonally over his steel coat. He has fallen
backward on the ground beside his horse, one booted leg still resting
across the saddle. His face, well cut and refined, is turned slightly
away, and the expression is that of a peaceful sleeper.

On the other side of his horse, his comrade lies in a trench hemmed in
by heavy beams. Both men are already apparently quite dead: it is too
late for the army surgeon or nurse. Death has come swiftly in the
midst of action, and the tide of battle has swept on, leaving them
behind. The horse belonging to the man in the trench has died with his
rider; we see only his fine head.

The other horse, though unable to rise, is still alive. As he lies
stretched on the ground, we see what muscular strength he had,--a
beautiful creature whose glossy hide and sweeping mane and tail show
the pride his owner took in him. The two have shared together all the
hardships of the campaign,--long journeys, short rations, extremes of
cold and heat, fatigue and privation. The horse has learned to listen
for the familiar voice, so strong in command, so reassuring in danger.
Now even in his dying agony he turns with touching devotion to his
master. Not a sound comes from the closed lips, not a flutter of the
eyelids disturbs the calm of the face.

Lifting his head for a last effort, the splendid creature sends forth