entry,
rather than overdone royalty. His work represents a certain mood in
design that in architecture is called colonial. Such portraits go with
houses like Mount Vernon. Let the photographer study the flat blacks in
the garments. Let him note the transparent impression of the laces and
flesh-tints that seem to be painted on glass, observing especially the
crystalline whiteness of the wigs. Let him inspect also the
silhouette-like outlines, noting the courtly self-possession they convey.
Then let the photographer, the producer, and the author, be they one man
or six men, stick to this type of picturization through one entire
production, till any artist in the audience will say, "This photoplay was
painted by a pupil of Gilbert Stuart"; and the layman will say, "It looks
like those stately days." And let us not have battle, but a Mount Vernon
fireside tale.

Both the Chicago and New York museums contain many phases of one same
family group, painted by George de Forest Brush. There is a touch of the
hearthstone priestess about the woman. The force of sex has turned to the
austere comforting passion of motherhood. From the children, under the
wings of this spirit, come special delicate powers of life. There is
nothing tense or restless about them, yet they embody action, the beating
of the inner fire, without which all outer action is mockery.
Hearthstone tales keyed to the mood and using the brush stroke that
delineates this especial circle would be unmistakable in their
distinction.

Charles W. Hawthorne has pictures in Chicago and New York that imply the
Intimate-and-friendly Photoplay. The Trousseau in the Metropolitan Museum
shows a gentle girl, an unfashionable home-body with a sweetly sheltered
air. Behind her glimmers the patient mother's face. The older woman is
busy about fitting the dress. The picture is a tribute to the qualities
of many unknown gentlewomen. Such an illumination as this, on faces so
innocently eloquent, is the light that should shine on the countenance of
the photoplay actress who really desires greatness in the field of the
Intimate Motion Picture. There is in Chicago, Hawthorne's painting of
Sylvia: a little girl standing with her back to a mirror, a few blossoms
in one hand and a vase of flowers on the mirror shelf. It is as sound a
composition as Hawthorne ever produced. The painting of the child is
another tribute to the physical-spiritual textures from which humanity is
made. Ah, you p