serviceable marble boot. And this, I have begun to believe, is all
that I shall ever see of him. Else might I not be writing about him;
for else had he not so haunted me. If I knew myself destined to see
him--to see him steadily and see him whole--no matter how many years
hence, I could forthwith think about other things. I had hoped that by
this essay I might rid my mind of him. He is inexcutible, confound
him! His pedestal draws me to itself with some such fascination as had
the altar of the unknown god for the wondering Greek. I try to
distract myself by thinking of other images--images that I have seen.
I think of Bartolommeo Colleoni riding greatly forth under the shadow
of the church of Saint John and Saint Paul. Of Mr. Peabody I think,
cosy in his armchair behind the Royal Exchange; of Nelson above the
sparrows, and of Perseus among the pigeons; of golden Albert, and of
Harvey the not red. Up looms Umberto, uncouthly casting them one and
all into the shade. I think of other statues that I have not seen--
statues suspected of holding something back from even the clearest-
eyed men who have stood beholding and soliciting them. But how
obvious, beside Umberto, the Sphinx would be! And Memnon, how tamely
he sits waiting for the dawn!

Matchless as a memorial, then, I say again, this statue is. And as a
work of art it has at least the advantage of being beyond criticism.
In my young days, I wrote a plea that all the statues in the streets
and squares of London should be extirpated and, according to their
materials, smashed or melted. From an aesthetic standpoint, I went a
trifle too far: London has a few good statues. From an humane
standpoint, my plea was all wrong. Let no violence be done to the
effigies of the dead. There is disrespect in setting up a dead man's
effigy and then not unveiling it . But there would be no disrespect,
and there would be no violence, if the bad statues familiar to London