is chronicled in the continuation of her veracious history."

The old man gently replaced the salver and crossed the room to the great wall. Taking a corner of the tapestry in his hand, he said:

"This is woven after a lost design of Raphael. The light is quite insufficient to let you see more than the grace of the outline. It covers the gem of my collection."

And he slowly drew the curtain aside. "This is the Cartoon of the Soldiers surprised while bathing by the Pisans. I have searched for the fragments in all parts of the world, and I still lack a fewone here, to the left below the center, two farther up and more to the side, and the entire right lower corner. One of the most important I have at last traced back here to Florence, and another, I believe, is in possession of a Russian nobleman. I hope to have them all in time. You see the force of the composition. I regret that it is too dark to observe the details."

He let the tapestry fall and walked with me towards the door. As I turned to bid him farewell, I noticed an old, worn Ovid in a most sumptuous binding.

"How comes this to have so rich a dress?" I asked.

"Have you forgotten Jove in the thatched house?" he replied. "Look at the name written in front."

It was Touchstone's copy.

Leaving him surrounded with his marvelous treasures, I walked slowly through the deserted streets. I lingered in the Piazza della Signoria, wishful to return to inquire how he had brought together

so valuable a collection. But the hour was late. Indeed, it was quite night. As I paused, the clouds broke and the moon shone out from behind the Palazzo Vecchio. And the tower that, beginning in mid-air, springs from the overhanging battlement into the heavens, cast a shadow pointing me homeward. I followed the omen.

When I awoke next morning from a refreshing sleep, I realized that the old bibliomaniac had never once let go of my priceless Boccaccio. Nay, before my very eyes, he had placed it on his shelf between Bach's "Passion According to St. John " and his recovered "Tragedies of Euripides," with a gesture altogether so natural that I failed to observe what book he put there. I rushed with all speed to the Via Torta, but I could find no trace of the house I had entered the day before. Room, fountain, books, pictures, the veiled Cartoon of Michelangelo, the strange custodian-all had vanished!

I stood bewildered in the narrow street until, at last, a friendly hand was laid upon my shoulder. It was M, the bestinformed antiquary in Florence. He, if any one, could direct me in my search.

"Whereabout in this street is that wonderful collection," I cried, "with the great Titian portrait of an old man with a long beard, clothed in furs and sitting amid his books, holding a letter in his hand?"

"What old-wives' tale have you been listening to?" said M. "That Titian is a myth. At least, there used to be such a portrait, but it is long since lost. Some say it now belongs to its original, the Wandering Jew."

V

ICTOR HUGO, in his poem "Les Enfants," prays that he may never see the summer without its flowers, the cage without birds, the hive without bees, nor the house without children; and he might have added, among these things void of beauty without their correlatives, the niche without the statue. In American architecture there has been no greater abuse of the prerogative of the architect than that of leaving undone, with the owner's abetment, things he started out to do. In his plans he delights us with statues adroitly dispersed among elements otherwise monotonous; but these statues never appear in the completed building, though only too frequently niches are built in the walls, like holes in a cheese, and become permanent reminders of perfection dreamed of but never attained. If New Yorkers had no other reason to congratulate themselves upon the new Appellate Court House, they could at least be thankful for this, that every one of the twenty-odd statues provided for in the original plans is actually in place, each fitting perfectly into a scheme of adornment which makes the façade of the building a unique example of combined architectural and sculptural ornament.

The conditions under which the building was erected were most favorable; there was no competition, for one architect,

James Brown Lord (whose work in remodeling some court-rooms in the Constable Building brought him such acclaim that he was unhesitatingly commissioned to draw the plans), had entire charge. A bill for a special appropriation of seven hundred thousand dollars was put through the Legislature, and Mr. Lord was left free to select some twenty-five artists and sculptors who were in his estimation most competent to execute the different parts of the work. To their sympathetic co-operation with him is due that harmonious ensemble which was the architect's chief desire to attain. This harmony is seen in the courtroom, where, on entering, the impression received is that this is the work of one man; later we discover that six painters, a glass-worker, and wood-carvers took part in the decorations. In every part of the building is seen this same unity; there are no breaks of monotonous blank spaces, though there are perhaps a few blemishes. The capitals of the Madison Avenue columns and those of the pilasters behind crowd unnecessarily on one another, though, indeed, this might be argued as a purposeful planning meant to suggest largeness of form, so that the end, which is only fifty feet wide, shall not look emaciated in comparison with the Twenty-fifth Street front, which is one hundred and fifty feet long.

Again, the balustrades of the railing on the sidewalk and upon the attic are unclassical and ugly in shape, smacking of the turning-lathe at every bulging; and the Twenty-fifth Street entrances are somewhat narrow. But, with these few exceptions, the details, decorative and sculptural, are worked out with a scholarly view to their adding richness whenever possible; the spirit of classical symmetry is stamped on every space; everywhere follow harmoniously, one after the other, on capital, cornice, and ceiling, richly molded bands of egg and dart, the fret, the meander, and the acanthus.

The success of Mr. Lord's work is undoubtedly due to the fact that the designs for his architectural embellishments were connected with recognized basal architectural forms, carried out with appropriate ornament; for, as Charles Lamb founded his design for the Dewey Arch upon the Arch of Titus, so Mr. Lord chose a regular Corinthian model for the CourtHouse. The building is of New England marble, and there are six Corinthian columns and a pediment on Twenty-fifth Street, four columns and four pilasters on Madison Avenue, the main building being comparatively simple, with an attic supporting the sculptures, which consist of two main groups, "Peace" and "Justice," and a row of figures representing the lawgivers of dif ferent races.

If we could strip

our city buildings of

these, how changed would the sky-lines become ! For in looking up at these imposing statues the sky, by contrast, seems to take on the intense blue of the Italian sky, and almost we find Nature and Art in sympathy-a condition of things rarely attained in a large city.

Mr. Ruckstuhl, the sculptor of the group of "The Army" on the Dewey Arch, was in charge of the sculptural adjuncts for the Court-House. The figures of "Force" and "Wisdom" which flank the entrance were modeled by him.

They seem to be overcharged with detail; but in view of the fact that they are placed nearer the spectator than the

other statues, this may not be objectionable. He makes "Force" the incarna-. tion of the military force of the Nation, ready to answer the call of "Wisdom," but slightly drawing his sword sword toward himself to suggest the supremacy of the civil power. "We

must not use force till just laws are defied" is cut on the plinth. The head of "Force" is a composite of Grant, Miles, and Admiral Bunce. "Wisdom" points to the text, supposed to be in the Book of Wisdom-"Every law not based on wisdom is a menace to the State." Mr. Ruckstuhl further explains the motives of his statues as follows: "Wisdom and force alone produce the triumph of law-the prevalence of justice, the prevalence of peace, and finally the fruits of peace. Hence Wisdom' and 'Force' are at the foundation of the Court-House." From

these two columns the mind is led up to a tympanum containing an allegory of the "Triumph of Law;" this is crowned by a group of "Justice." A similar group of "Peace" is placed on the east end. Daniel Chester French is the sculptor of this group of "Justice;" it is worthy to be reckoned as equal to his "Peace on the Dewey Arch, the statue of "Liberty" at the World's Fair, "Washington" at the Paris Exposition, and "Death Staying the Hand of the Sculptor "in Boston. Justice itself is not perhaps so nicely balanced as the Columbian goddess, for she holds in each hand a torch level with her head, making the pose slightly archaic, and her face, looking down, has neither the definite strength of the "Liberty" nor the sweetness of "Peace" on the Arch. But the figure is truly monumental, and the perpendicular sides of the plinth on which she stands, together with the upright torches, by their vertical lines bring the group very properly into a unison with the severe architectural forms of the building. This quality, which some of the more flamboyant statues on the building lack, is completed by the two male figures in entire repose at her feet, one reading a book of law, the other resting content as it were in his strength, and both modeled with muscular fullness. They form the base of a triangle of which "Justice's" head is the apex, and which, though in no way too obvious, is easily discernible by the expert; the whole composing a mass that has been tried and found acceptable since the days of perfect Grecian art. Mr. French has recently returned from Europe, where he saw to the erection of his Washington," one of the features of the Paris Exposition. He is busy at present on several commissions, among them six figures for the State Court-House at St. Paul, Minnesota, and new doors for the Congressional Library.

Upon the attic of the Twenty-fifth Street front stand eight statues; several of them are by sculptors who have done previous work on the Dewey Arch, "Mohammed," by Charles A. Lopez (who made the group of "The East Indies," north of the Arch), being that nearest the west. The Moslem prophet wears Oriental robes and holds a large scimitar. Viewed from every side, no disturbing masses mar the repose of this calm figure. Following it

comes E. C. Potter's "Zoroaster," and the great occult is somewhat more animated than the other figures. His gesticulating right hand hides his face from the Madison Avenue spectators, but from the extreme east he appears dramatic.

In "Alfred the Great," J. S. Hartley (who modeled the figures of Commodore Perry on the Arch) has conceived the father of English education as a stalwart Saxon, bearded, long-haired, a crown on his head, a long cloak flowing from his shoulders, holding a sword against his breast, and a book, presumably of his Anglo-Saxon translations, in his left hand. This is dignified and carefully finished in detail.

"Lycurgus," by George E. Bissell, is next; the Spartan seems to support too heavy draperies in the upper part, though the lines of the toga are good. In his right hand he holds a scroll; his left hand grasps his toga as an orator to-day grasps the lapel of his coat while addressing an audience.

Then, to the right, east of French's group, stands the classical figure, again in a toga, of" Solon," the Grecian father of jurisprudence, by Herbert Adams, whose figure of "Victory" from the Congressional Library was repeated at the foot of the masts north and south of the Arch.

Then follows "Louis IX.," by John Donoghue. Louis IX. is justly selected to represent the Gauls, as virtually the founder of French law; he was the first to introduce a code into France. Mr. Donoghue's figure is perhaps less picturesque than might be expected in these days when the great Rodin is showing us how tremendously powerful and monumental character-sculpture may be. Its action is more violent than that of the others; the left hand seems unnecessarily extended; the right hand holds a scroll with conspicuous volutes, and the drapery falls heavily from the shoulders.

Augustus Lukeman (designer of "Cushing" on the Dewey Arch), in his "Manu," has availed himself of the modern note, as the work seems almost painted in marble, à la Sargent, and has given us a hooded figure like that painter's "Hosea" in the Boston Public Library. No doubt we would invite criticism for inconsistency should we, just after mentioning Rodin, say that this statue is