to live in foreign lands or to visit them in search of the picturesque when there is so much at home that ought to attract them. While the artist's choice of subject concerns nobody but the artist himself, and all that we may ask of him is that whatever he chooses to interpret shall be well rendered, we may agree with the contention that there is no lack of material to inspire the artist in our native land. To those who delight in things purely American, not as trees, fields, and skies are American, but as scenes of life and manners are, Mr. Remington's Bronco Buster» will give much satisfaction. The cow-man is an American product. He is neither a greaser » nor a peasant. He is not a planter, a mountaineer, a trapper, or a shepherd. When the cowboy undertakes to break in a bucking bronco, he takes upon himself a task that will amply satisfy his desire for excitement, and provide an interesting spectacle for. bystanders. In the spirited group modeled by Mr. Remington, the horse, rearing on his hind legs, his body arched, and with his fore legs bent inward from the knees in a fashion that suggests the power of a tightly coiled spring, appears ready to snap forward. The rider, with the bridle-rein in his left hand, one foot out of the stirrup, and his right hand high in the air with the whip in it, is at the crisis of the action. The movement and force of both horse and rider are given with a strength and grasp that impress by their truth at first glance. The group is so good, and its aspect so attractive, that it deserves praise not only for its technical qualities, but also for its power to please those who care as much for subject as for treatment. Frederic Remington, who before bringing out this excellent piece of character sculpture was most widely known as an illustrator and painter, was born in St. Lawrence County New York, in 1861. He studied drawing for a year in the Yale School of Fine Arts at New Haven, and went West in 1880. With the exception of this single year of instruction, he has derived all his knowledge from constant observation and study. He has written entertainingly and cleverly of life in the West, as well as illustrated it in his drawings and pictures. Of « The Bronco Buster » he speaks in characteristic fashion: « I have always had a feeling for (mud,> and I did that—a long work attended with great difficulties on my part. I propose to do some more, to put the wild life of our West into something that burglar won't have, moth eat, or time blacken. It is a great art and satisfying to me, for my whole feeling is for form.»> William A. Coffin. The Berthon Napoleon. THE Berthon portrait of Napoleon I, which appears on page 285 of this number of THE CENTURY, is now published for the first time. It was painted from sittings given to Berthon in 1809, and represents the Emperor at the summit of his career. Although no mention is made of it in any published list of Berthon's works, its authenticity is beyond question. It was given by the artist to his son, George-Théodore Berthon, on the latter's departure from France in 1841, and was by him brought to Canada. René-Théodore Berthon was a pupil (Lady Morgan says the favorite pupil ») of David, and the influence of that master is perceptible in his works. He exhibited in all the Salons from 1806 to 1842, and many of his works, notably those painted to commemorate the victories of Napoleon, were executed at the command of the Emperor or of the state. The portrait of Napoleon as emperor is still in the possession of his granddaughters at Toronto. He also painted the portrait of Pauline Bonaparte. He died at Paris in 1859. His son, also an artist, died at Toronto in 1892. H. F. Mackintosh. IN LIGHTER VEIN A Secret. You will not tell it? Nay, what need? Like timid bird, whose soft nest, made Low beneath grass and bending weed, Is by her watchful care betrayed, You do but make your secret clear, Trying so hard to hide it, dear. Madeline S. Bridges. Discovered. SEEN you down at chu'ch las' night Nevah min', Miss Lucy. What I mean? Oh, dat 's all right Nevah min', Miss Lucy. Oh, you 's sma't ez sma't kin be, Nevah min', Miss Lucy. Guess you thought you 's awful keen- Nevah min', Miss Lucy; Say now, honey, wha' 'd he say? Paul Laurence Dunbar. The War of the Roses. "T WAS a brave battle, fought on holy ground. The cause of all was just one word, said low, A moment, and the hosts of York advance; Yet see, a wave of color creeps along! Closely embattled now the White and Red; A bloodless battle, crowned with brave defeat, The Passing of Abraham Shivers. «I TELL ye, boys, hit hain't often a feller has the chance o' doin' so much good jes by dyin'. Fer 'f Abe Shivers air gone-shorely gone-the rest of us-every durn one of us-air a-goin' to be saved. Fer Abe Shivers-you hain't heerd tell o' Abe? Well, you must be a stranger in these mountains o' Kaintuck, shore. «I don't know, stranger, as Abe ever was borned; nobody in these mountains knows it 'f he was. The fust time I ever heerd tell o' Abe he was a-hollerin' fer his rights one mawnin' at daylight, endurin' the war, jes outside o' ole Tom Perkins' door on Fryin' Pan. Abe was left thar by some home-gyard, I reckon. Well, nobody air ever turned out'n doors in these mountains, as you know, an' Abe got his rights that mawnin', an' he 's been a-gittin' 'em ever sence. Tom already had a houseful, but 'f any feller got the bigges' hunk o' corn-bread, that feller was Abe; an' ef any feller got a whalin', hit was n't Abe. «Abe tuk to lyin' right naterally-looked like-afore he could talk. Fact is, Abe nuver could do nothin' but jes whisper, an' I've al'ays said the Lawd-jes to even things up-fixed Abe so he could n't lie on more 'n one side o' the river at a time. Still Abe could manage to send a lie furder with that rattlin' whisper than ole Tom could with that big horn o' hisn what tells the boys the revenoos air comin' up Fryin' Pan. «Did n't take Abe long to get to braggin' an' drinkin' an' naggin' an' hectorin'-everything, 'mos', 'cept fightin'. Nobody ever drawed Abe Shivers into a fight. I don't know as for that he was afeerd; looked like Abe was a-havin' sech a tarnation good time with his devilmint he jes did n't want to run no risk o' havin' hit stopped. An' sech devilmint! «The boys was a-goin' up the river one night to git ole Dave Hall fer trickin' Rosie Branham into evil. Some feller goes ahead an' tells ole Dave they 's comin'. Hit was Abe. Some feller finds a streak o' ore on ole Tom Perkins' land, an' racks his jinny down to town, an' tells a furriner thar, an' Tom comes might' nigh sellin' the land fer nothin'. Now Tom raised Abe, but, jes the same, the feller was Abe. «One night somebody guides the revenoos in on Hellfer-Sartain, an' they cuts up four stills. Hit was Abe. The same night a feller slips in among the revenoos while they 's asleep, and cuts off their hosses' manes an' tails-muled every durned critter uv 'em. Stranger, hit was Abe. An' as fer women-folks-well, Abe was the ill-favoredest feller I ever see, an' he could n't talk; still, Abe's whisperin' come in jes as handy as any feller's settin' up; so 'f ever you seed a man with a Winchester a-lookin' fer the feller who had cut him out, stranger, he was a-lookin' fer Abe. << Somebody tells Harve Hall, up thar at a dance on Hell-fer-Sartain one Christmas night, that Rich Harp had said somep'n ag'in' him an' Nance Osborn. An' somebody tells Rich that Harve had said somep'n ag'in Nance an' him. Hit was one an' the same feller, stranger, an' the feller was Abe. Well, while Rich an' Harve was a-gittin' well, somebody runs off with Nance. Hit was Abe. Then Rich an' Harve jes draws straws fer a feller. Stranger, they drawed fer Abe. Hit 's purty hard to believe that Abe air gone, 'cept that Rich Harp an' Harve Hall don't never draw no straws fer nothin'; but 'f by any kind o' grace Abe air gone, why, as I was a-sayin', the rest of us air a-goin' to be saved, shore. Fer Abe's gone fust, an' ef thar 's only one Jedgemint Day, the Lawd 'll nuver git to us.» Tracings. John Fox, Jr. «I LOVE to look in the mirror,» remarked Vanity. «Yes; but you never see yourself,» said Truth. « WHY do you limp?» asked a maiden, as Love walked slowly on a pleasant path. «I always stumble when the road is smooth,» he answered. MISERY sought an abode. She chose an empty heart. « WHERE,» asked one woman of another, «is the best place to keep a man's heart?» «Away from his head,> she replied. and again. «I would have had to listen to shrieks,» said A BIRD sang a beautiful song, which was echoed again the bird, «had I first uttered them.>> A WOMAN battled with a man. He disarmed her. «I am now at your mercy,» said the man. « WHY can't I break the chains you weave?» asked Love of a clever woman. « Because I make them so light, she answered. they asked a successful man. "WHAT helped you over the great obstacles of life?» «The other obstacles,» he answered. «Do you not regret the follies of the past?» asked a monk of an aged sinner. «Yes-that they are of the past,» he answered. WHY are you not more glad to see me?» asked Pleasure of one of her favorites. «Because you call so often,» answered the spoiled girl. THE DE VINNE PRESS, NEW YORK. E. Scott O'Connor. I. THE FIRST IMPRESSION. E have an involuntary reverence for all witnesses of history, be they animate or inanimate, men, animals, or stones. The desire to leave a work behind is in every man and man-child, from the strong leader who plants his fame in a nation's glory, and teaches unborn generations to know him, to the boy who carves his initials upon his desk at school. Few women have it. Perhaps the wish to be remembered is what fills that one ounce or so of matter by which modern statisticians assert that the average man's brain is heavier than the average woman's. The wish in ourselves makes us respect the satisfaction of it which the few obtain. Probably few men have not secretly longed to see their names set up for ages, like the «Paulus V Borghesius» over the middle of the portico of St. Peter's, high above the entrance to the most vast monument of human hands in existence. Modesty commands the respect of many, but it is open success that appeals to almost all mankind. But Pasquin laughed: Angulus est Petri, Pauli frons tota. Quid inde? What, then? Not being Peter's, the house is built for Paul.» The The thing itself, the central cathedral of Christendom, is so enormous that many who gaze on it for the first time do not even notice that hugely lettered papal name. building is so far beyond any familiar proportions that at first sight all details are lost upon its broad front. The mind and judgment are dazed and staggered. The earth should not be able to bear such weight upon its crust without cracking and bending like an overloaded table. On each side the colonnades run curving out like giant arms, always open to receive the nations that go up there to worship. The dome broods over all, like a giant's head motionless in meditation. The vastness of the structure takes hold of a man as he issues from the street by which he has come from Sant' Angelo. In the open space in the square and in the ellipse between the colonnades and on the steps, two hundred thousand men could be drawn up in rank and file, horse and foot and guns. Excepting it be on some special occasion, there are rarely more than two or three hundred persons in sight. The paved emptiness makes one draw a breath of surprise, and human eyes seem too small to take in all the flatness below, all the breadth before, and all the height above. Taken together, the picture is too big for convenient sight. The impression itself moves unwieldAll rights reserved. Copyright, 1896, by THE CENTURY CO. |