composed of alder bushes, flecked with sunlight, which augments the half-tones of the secondary lighting. The incident is not a common one, but happens among dogs as well as in the human family. It seems that the setter in the water is a truant in the chase, and is hiding from the party, but has been discovered by his more courageous companion. What cares he, so long as he is comfortable and out of danger? He is cool and happy, doubtless knows that, like the coquette or flower, he's fair to look upon, is a pet, and won't be crushed for his actions. The types are the extremes in looks and tem pers of wholesome art, be assured, is this great camp of realism. Pope reaches for truth, his grasp upon it is firm. He never gesticulates, does not draw the attention of the world by the noise of his art, is not self-conscious. His tastes are simple, his compositions, if ever faulty, are made so by his desire to exalt his subject; and so earnestly and surely does he keep the eye centred upon the figures, that accessories seem of little consequence. Of late, however, he gives more attention to "little things," as witness in "The Truant "; the background of elder bushes is perfection in detail, a win the laurels of the academy, where the fashions are taught, and come out into the world to preach them, shall have your day, and the future shall know you as a representative of an epoch; but the natural force of the man from the shop, the man who has learned his trade and wrought work with tools of his own invention, must paint for all times. Again witness that indescribable, powerful, external and internal portrayal of the English setter; who shall ever say it is hasty in style, tiresome in manner, unnatural in color, or unlifelike? The type will never be better executed, the nature of the dog never better interpreted. Melin's "Boar Hounds at Full Cry," a superb painting, does not contain a better example of dog instinct than is shown in "The Truant"; and like Melin, Pope gives us the muscular anat omy, textures, and movement, without detracting from the spirit, the genuineness of the animal life. All of which summed up means that Pope's pictures have soul, force in them realistic or not, perfect in drawing or not, great in color or not. I like the remark of that most able of our painters, Marcus Waterman, who, with true appreciation of the artist's genius said, by way of comment upon "The Truant : "It is a grand good dog. He has succeeded. His energy and study must tend enormously to perfect his art. What patience he displayed, under the most adverse circumstances, for several weeks over the lion he found in Philadelphia! Such men usually achieve their ends." Pope in his studio, in the Phillip's Building, Boston, reminds one of the artisan. He is surrounded with his materials all ready for use; stuffed animals, models, casts of all kinds, representing a variety of creatures in many poses. large number of these he constructed A himself; many a stray cat has been made to sacrifice its life at the altar of art, has served the artist with needful details in anatomy. The paraphernalia of the sportsman is beautiful here, the walls being decorated with a grand variety of fishing-rods, baskets, nets, and huntsman's outfits. These are grouped in an artistic manner for ornamentation as well ready use. There is no attempt at color riot, no fussy collection of fabrics, antiques, armor, or curios. The artist deals direct, "first-hand" with nature, and rarely trusts himself away from her domains. Pope shows in his surroundings as that he is no imitator, that he evolves from within himself the idea that he presents; and while he is conscious of the value of advice and study, he is well able to know from what source to derive the most. While all is bustle, in transit, in the studio, while the artist attends to the matters in hand, he is unfailingly affable and interesting. There is comfort of color for the eye, a generous receptive appearance to the furniture, drapes and decorations; but over all hangs the atmosphere of artistic intent and a vigorous mind penetrating every nook and corner. VERESTCHAGIN. By Annie Eliot. AINTER and preacher ! is it art that thrills PAINT Our senses, bidding fall the waiting tears, Our careless voices, hushing comment while "Blinded by hate, man, wilt thou never know That wrong is folly? cruelty is woe? Who is the conqueror? Whose the bitter gall? A FATHERHOOD. By Zitella Cocke. LONG the vine-embowered hills of France Sounds Angelus, and merry lads and maids Muezzin calls the faithful soul to prayer; In forest aisles, fanned by the pure, sweet air - call!' F A DESCENDANT OF MASSASOIT. EW people are aware that there dwells within the borders of the old Bay State a lineal descendant of "the great and good Massasoit," and WALTER-GILMAN-PAGE. "the last of the Wampanoags." Sharing the growing interest in all that pertains to the early history of Massachusetts, as well as being desirous to gratify my own curi osity, I was recently led to take a trip to Lakeville, Mass., the home of Mrs. Zerviah Gould Mitchell, the last of her race and family, in order that I might paint her portrait. I found Lakeville to be a quiet, staid township, with homesteads occupied by people descended from good old Puritan. stock, still clinging to the abodes of their ancestors in spite of the temptations of the West, or the great cities of the East. The place is beautifully situated, and it abounds in Indian legends and Indian battle grounds. The road by the village skirts the shores of Lake Assawamsett, as picturesque as its name. At a distance of five miles or thereabouts from the village, one leaves the main road and turns off into a lovely winding woodland lane, by a rippling brook, and further on an old dilapidated sawmill. A mile or so, and a sudden bend brings you to the cottage door, where Mrs. Mitchell accords you a pleasant welcome. The rough habitation is most picturesquely situated; they seem to possess an intuitive sense for such things, these people, east or west. From immemorial have the Wampanoag tribe dwelt here on the Assawamsett Neck, though but for an act of Governor Winslow they might have been wanderers on the face of the earth; for it was he who ordered that the Neck should be a reservation for the Wampanoags, they and their descendants, forever. I had some doubts as to the success of my request, but Mrs. Mitchell granted a ready acquiescence; the fact of her having been photographed several times had doubtless somewhat paved the way for me. Hers is a strong face, somewhat masculine, but full of intelligence, lighting up in conversation, particularly if relating some of her wrongs at the hands of the pale-faces. I passed a half hour in agreeable chat, taking mental notes the while of my surroundings. The room was evidently a place where one could eat, drink and be merry; since it was kitchen, dining-room, and-containing a piano, which WALTER GILMA. PAGE. 9. sittings, and I was to begin the following morning, much to my gratification. The next day, instead of driving, I took a boat and rowed to the Indian shore, as the residents called the narrow strip of beach, from whence a path leads up to the Indian encampment. Not being familiar with the locality, I spent considerable time in seeking a landing-place, but my opportunities for enjoying the lovely panorama which the shores of the lake present were thereby increased. I was finally obliged to invade a camp of palefaces, and inquire my way of a young and pretty girl. The Indian matron was awaiting my arrival, and the pose was soon selected and work commenced. we grew better acquainted, many were the legends and tales of both Indians and whites, all of them most interesting, which she related to me, the while holding her position with remarkable steadiness. As Mrs. Mitchell was born July 24, 1807, |