scarcely worthy of his
genius. The whole effect is disappointing. Five figures representing
Mars, Hercules, and three sons-in-law of Colleoni, who surround the
sarcophagus of the buried general, are, indeed, almost grotesque. The
angularity and crumpled draperies of the Milanese manner, when so
exaggerated, produce an impression of caricature. Yet many subordinate
details--a row of _putti_ in a Cinque Cento frieze, for instance--and
much of the low relief work, especially the Crucifixion, with its
characteristic episodes of the fainting Marys and the soldiers casting
dice, are lovely in their unaffected Lombardism.

There is another portrait of Colleoni in a round above the great door,
executed with spirit, though in a _bravura_ style that curiously
anticipates the decline of Italian sculpture. Gaunt, hollow-eyed, with
prominent cheekbones and strong jaws, this animated half-length statue
of the hero bears the stamp of a good likeness, but when or by whom it
was made I do not know.

Far more noteworthy than Colleoni's own monument is that of his daughter
Medea. She died young in 1470, and her father caused her tomb, carved of
Carrara marble, to be placed in the Dominican Church of Basella, which
he had previously founded. It was not until 1842 that this most precious
masterpiece of Antonio Amadeo's skill was transferred to Bergamo. _Hic
jacet Medea virgo._ Her hands are clasped across her breast. A robe of
rich brocade, gathered to the waist and girdled, lies in simple folds
upon the bier. Her throat, exceedingly long and slender, is circled with
a string of pearls. Her face is not beautiful, for the features,
especially the nose, are large and prominent; but it is pure and
expressive of vivid individuality. The hair curls in crisp, short
clusters; and the ear, fine and shaped almost like a Faun's, reveals the
scrupulous fidelity of the sculptor. Italian art has, in truth, nothing
more exquisite than this still-sleeping figure of the girl who, when she
lived, must certainly have been so rare of type and lovable in
personality. If Busti's Lancinus Curtius be the portrait of a humanist,
careworn with study, burdened by the laurel leaves that were so dry and
dusty; if Gaston de Foix in the Brera, smiling at death and beautiful in
the cropped bloom of youth, idealize the hero of romance; if Michael
Angelo's Penseroso translate in marble the dark broodings of a despot's
soul; if Della Porta's Julia Farnese be the Roman cour