l museums. They are generally one
on either side of the main hall, towering above the second-story
balustrade. First, the statue of Gattamelata, a Venetian general, by
Donatello. The original is in Padua. Then there is the figure of
Bartolommeo Colleoni. The original is in Venice. It is by Verrocchio and
Leopardi. These equestrians radiate authority. There is more action in
them than in any cowboy hordes I have ever beheld zipping across the
screen. Look upon them and ponder long, prospective author-producer. Even
in a simple chase-picture, the speed must not destroy the chance to enjoy
the modelling. If you would give us mounted legions, destined to conquer,
let any one section of the film, if it is stopped and studied, be
grounded in the same bronze conception. The Assyrian commanders in
Griffith's Judith would, without great embarrassment, stand this test.

But it may not be the pursuit of an enemy we have in mind. It may be a
spring celebration, horsemen in Arcadia, going to some happy tournament.
Where will we find our precedents for such a cavalcade? Go to any museum.
Find the Parthenon room. High on the wall is the copy of the famous
marble frieze of the young citizens who are in the procession in praise
of Athena. Such a rhythm of bodies and heads and the feet of proud
steeds, and above all the profiles of thoroughbred youths, no city has
seen since that day. The delicate composition relations, ever varying,
ever refreshing, amid the seeming sameness of formula of rider behind
rider, have been the delight of art students the world over, and shall so
remain. No serious observer escapes the exhilaration of this company. Let
it be studied by the author-producer though it be but an idyl in disguise
that his scenario calls for: merry young farmers hurrying to the State
Fair parade, boys making all speed to the political rally.

Buy any three moving picture magazines you please. Mark the illustrations
that are massive, in high relief, with long lines in their edges. Cut out
and sort some of these. I have done it on the table where I write. After
throwing away all but the best specimens, I have four different kinds of
sculpture. First, behold the inevitable cowboy. He is on a ramping
horse, filling the entire outlook. The steed rears, while facing us. The
cowboy waves his hat. There is quite such an animal by Frederick
MacMonnies, wrought in bronze, set up on a gate to a park in Brooklyn. It
is not the identical color