I asked if it was meant to be Roman Catholic, but I was told “no.”... It savored of Catholicism, it looked, smelt and felt Roman. There was not a corner, not a viewpoint that was not a poem. And so this (I kept saying to myself) is the soul of Barnard. I felt myself projected forward many years.... I saw it as the burial place, the memorial of Barnard. I felt that a proud and a grateful people would come there some day piously and wonderingly: in the heart of America, Barnard’s body would be in Italy. I stood at the feet of the nameless Crusader, and wondered about the soul of the man Barnard. It was evident that he was a dreamer and not a commercial artist. It was evident that his soul was athirst for certain things that his mother country lacked; for repose, mellowness of age, and tradition. Why did he not go and live and work where these things are? And I remembered that I, myself, love these things that Barnard seemed to love. I too love Italy, but I know, and Barnard knows, that Italy is a dreamland where everything is in the past and nothing is in the future, a land in which there is no incentive to work. And Barnard, doubtless, has energy. The man who can build a monument like this must have great energy. A worker does not go from here to Italy, the worker works here, where there is work to do, and so Barnard planted himself on a still hillside within view, but out of sound, of New York, and he collected stones, old worn stones from Italy and France and Spain, stones that had built tradition, and he built a little bit of old world at his gate, where his soul might some day be at rest. It seemed to me a great whole explanation--and to contain such pathos that I could not speak my thoughts. Then, of a sudden, from somewhere in a loft, the sound of voices singing. I looked around but saw no choir. Our presbyterian monk had disappeared. It was a charming sound although it was gramaphone, and I smiled to myself, at the jingling mixup of old world and new! Before we left, the American monk told us to stand at the door and have one last look, first from the left archway and then from the right, to see it from every angle. I gave a good look round and then inadvertently my eyes alighted on the black robed figure. He was standing in exactly the right place, in a set attitude, motionless, well trained. All part of the picture: “Hullo America!”