however, as the Lincoln lures us from the Farragut, to the two other equestrian monuments which complete the group of Saint-Gaudens's Civil War memorials, the Shaw and the Sherman. The first of these suffers from two serious drawbacks. The bronze casting of the Shaw is far from satisfactory, and the monument is unfortunately placed in front of the State House in Boston, at a point which prevents the spectator from seeing it unobstructed at just the right distance. But it might be still further handicapped without losing its effect, which is one of interfused fire and pathos. The colored troops marching across the relief to the beat of the drum convey the needed impression of martial animation; and Shaw, on his advancing charger, deepens the sense of tense excitement which it is one of the sculptor's aims to communicate. Simultaneously, though, with our apprehension of what is spectacular and thrilling in the relief, comes our perception of the sadness in Shaw's face and the melancholy beauty of the figure that floats above him. The scheme is daring. Ever since Velasquez painted the Surrender of Breda, his arrangement of the long lances in that glorious canvas has been emulated by one artist after another, and always the collocation of verti cal lines has driven them to despair. Saint-Gaudens must have struggled sorely before he marshalled the uplifted

muskets and flags in the Shaw in an array neither restless nor inert. As the work stands, however, there is no sign of struggle. The weapons represented, like the figures, fall into an unbroken harmony. The composition is a perfect unit.

This is one explanation of the grandeur of the Sherman. The difficulty of the problem by which he was confronted when he undertook it, and the measure of his success in dealing with it, are the better understood if one pauses to consider the rarity of those occasions in history upon which similar problems have received anything like adequate solution. Ancient times give us the steeds of the Parthenon and the famous horses of St. Mark's; the splendid animal which the bronze figure of Marcus Aurelius bestrides in the Piazza del Campidoglio, at Rome; the leaping chariot team of the Vatican, and other fine but less eminent examples. The great equestrian statues of the modern world may be counted without exhausting the fingers of one hand. Verrocchio's Colleoni at Venice heads the list, with Donatello's Gat tamelata at Padua. Had Leonardo's model for the mon ument of Francesco Sforza, at Milan, not been destroyed by vandals, leaving no wrack behind, we may be sure that a third triumph would have been compassed. But of the statues that survive how many are worthy to stand be