CHAPTER II

LATIN AND BYZANTINE IVORIES

I. LATIN, LATINO-BYZANTINE AND THE EARLY BYZANTINE IVORIES

At the end of the last chapter it was shown how the Church had preserved a large number of consular diptychs, either unchanged or altered to suit Christian iconography. To that list must be added several ivory carvings with religious subjects, yet so closely connected with the class of Private Diptychs, that it is more than probable that they also have undergone transformation.

The most important among these are a fragmentary panel in the Museo Civico at Bologna and the celebrated Ivory Book of Rouen Cathedral.

On the Bologna fragment is the figure of a bearded man of heavy type, in a well designed but poorly executed robe; he clasps a roll in his left land and beneath his neatly sandalled feet is a stool, always a mark of honour, in the side of which is a deepened space with the name “Petrus” rudely inscribed. Above, in the broken pediment, is a niche with the bust of a bearded man, labelled “Marcus.” The whole is surrounded by a handsome ovolo moulding, as are also the panels of the Rouen Book Cover, which may be of a slightly later date, but they must both be placed early in the sixth century. The Rouen carvings represent St. Peter and St. Paul, without a doubt, for they are already of that iconographical type which had become fixed by the end of the preceding century, St. Paul with a bald head and long pointed beard, and St. Peter with thick hair and a round curling beard; but it is very likely that the figures on both the Bologna and Rouen tablets were originally intended for authors or poets as on the series of complimentary diptychs.

The architecture lends credence to this theory, the cannelated columns and pediment flanked by so-called “doves,” being much the same as that on the various sixth century diptychs. The drapery too, has been copied from good models, that of St. Peter, with the right arm buried in the folds of his toga, is in imitation of the famous Lateran Sophocles. Another proof of alteration is the manner in which he holds a narrow key in a grasp wide enough to contain a roll as large as that in the Bologna fragment.

There is a diptych in Tongres Cathedral,[8] which has a history carrying it back to the ninth century. The names of the Bishops of Tongres from 855-959 being engraved on the back.

It evidently belongs to the large class of ivories of mixed Latino-Byzantine origin. The vine scroll border, the flat relief and rather grooved working of the draperies, also the peculiar stockings and oriental shoes are all features of this class. St. Paul raises his hand to bless in the Greek manner, with only two fingers extended. The interpretation of this gesture is variously given, many say it is symbolical of the dual nature of Our Lord and of the Trinity.

Byzantine, equally with Italian art, sprang from the last _floraison_ of Roman Art, and grew up at Constantinople, the New Rome, but much modified by Greek and Syrian influences. At first the culture of the two Empires was so linked together, that it is the merest shade which distinguishes Roman Art in the East and West. The division widens, and the two branches stretch out, one, the purely Latin, soon to wither and almost perish, and the other to grow into that spreading tree of Byzantine Art, whose branches have scattered fruit in every part of Europe and the Levant.

The latest bloom on the purely Latin branch, before it commenced to decay, included ivories of singular beauty, as the splendid casket at Brescia and the famous Carrand diptych in the Bargello at Florence (Figs. 5 and 6). This carving is of superb finish, worthy of the beautiful Bacchante diptych, though the design is less purely classical. The first leaf represents Adam in the Earthly Paradise, engaged in naming the animals, the figure is thoroughly Greek, and the treatment closely resembles an Orpheus scene, though the curiously crimped hair and heavy hands and feet betray a decline in art. The animals show delightful touches of first-hand observation, the worrying attitude of the little dog, who, forgetting he is in Paradise, is just going to bark at the dignified goat below. The droop of the bull’s head as he grazes by the side of the Four Rivers is very natural, though the artist still adheres to the rather dry technique of animal portrayal in ancient art. These animals may be compared with those on the diptych of Bourges, which are scattered over the background in much the same way, but with less defiance of perspective, as they are supposed to be leaping in the act of fighting.

The object of much controversy is another fine Earthly Paradise carved on the back of an Areobindus diptych in the Louvre (No. 13). It is divided into registers by irregular lines of herbage; above are Adam and Eve and the Serpent, next come a series of weird mythological creatures, and then follow serried ranks of animals, fabulous and otherwise. Molinier declares it cannot be later than the sixth century, and connects it with the Bargello diptych, but there is a real difference in the feeling and technique of the animals, and a bizarre element, quite foreign to the matter-of-fact and straightforward methods of ancient art. In the opinion of de Linas and Graeven, the carving was added in the early periods of the Italian Renaissance, and the former points out a connection with the carvings on the façade of Orvieto Cathedral.

The second leaf of the Bargello diptych is covered with three rows of exquisitely carved and well characterized figures. The top row may represent the meeting of Paul and Barnabas with Peter at Damascus. The next shows Paul at Malta, shaking the viper into the fire (Acts, xviii. 3), and remaining unhurt, to the surprise of Publius, governor of the island, who stands by dressed as a man of rank in a chlamys embroidered with a segment and fastened by a rich fibula. The soldier with the strange sleeved fur coat hung over his shoulders is probably one of the governor’s guard. At the bottom we see the healing of the father of Publius, who lay sick of a fever.

The Lipsanoteca, or large ivory casket in the Museo Civico at Brescia, is a fine work of early Christian sculpture, and has far more connection with antiquity than with the early development of the art of the Middle Ages. But it is difficult to pass it by undescribed, as it gives the early types of so much that is met again in later art. Molinier classes it among the sixth century ivories of mixed style. But Westwood points out that the mingling of subjects from the Old and New Testament histories, and the small size given to some of them as border pieces, show the precise treatment of many early sarcophagi, also the classical nature of many of the details point to an early date, and he attributes it at latest to the fourth century, with which date Graeven entirely agrees.

The casket has a frieze of fifteen heads in medallions, and in the narrow borders are the symbolical Types of Old Testament history. The large central scenes are from the New Testament, showing Christ as the Good Shepherd at the Gate of the Fold, and several of the miracles which became so popular on the Italo-Byzantine ivories, including the rarer scene of the _Raising of Jairus’s daughter_, which has many features in common with the _Raising of Tabitha_ on one of a series of three most interesting little plaques in the British Museum, notably in the treatment of the long waving hair of the attendant women. On the flat lid the Cycle of the Passion is most fully illustrated, but stops short with the scene in the Prætorium before the sad representation of the Crucifixion.

The great similarity between the art of the Eastern and Western divisions of the Roman Empire has already been mentioned, and it is this similarity which causes considerable difficulty in classifying the early ivories. The three British Museum plaques just referred to as having a close connection in the scene of the _Raising of Tabitha_ to the Brescia casket, which is undoubtedly of Western origin, have also a strong resemblance to the first half of a diptych now in the Trivulzio Collection at Milan, both in the dress of the soldiers, and in the crouching figure of one of the Holy Women, which are almost identical on the two ivories. Molinier considers the Trivulzio tablet to be purely Constantinopolitan, but Graeven produces good evidence for connecting it with Latin sculpture.

This tablet is divided into two scenes from the first Easter Morn, the startled soldiers by the tomb of Christ, and the Angel appearing to the two Maries. The proportions are on the whole good, though inclining to the dumpiness peculiar to the reliefs on the sarcophagi. There are other details which betray the influence of these sculptures. The half opened door of the tomb is found on pagan coffins, and the dress of the soldiers, with the strange round headgear, rather like a cook’s cap, is often characteristic of the Jews, and is found on several of the sarcophagi. In the British Museum plaques the Israelites who stoop down to drink of the water from the rock wear exactly the same dress, treated in exactly the same manner, even to the ends of the chlamys, which fly out in rapid movement.

This dress is also found in a Codex (No. 286) at Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, and again on another set of plaques in the British Museum, which belonged to a casket, and are of a deep reddish colour. On these plaques the types of the Holy Women are the same as those on the Trivulzio tablet, and the crouching women in the _Raising of Tabitha_ in the British Museum set of three. The Crucifixion (Fig. 7) belongs to the coloured set, and is the earliest representation known, excepting that on the carved wood doors of St. Sabina at Rome, which were made by Greek workmen for Pope Celestin (432-440), and the two conceptions have much in common in modelling and pose.

It should be noticed that the _titulus_ is written only in Latin. A most important proof of the Latin origin of these ivories is the finely cut honeysuckle moulding which surrounds the door of the tomb in the Trivulzio tablet, and which is found both on the diptych of Probianus (Fig. 2) and on that of the Nicomachi family (No. 58). The tablet has another close connection with the Probianus diptych in the division of the surface into two tiers by the border, and the recognition of the existence of three dimensional space, by grouping the figures firmly on the ground. This knowledge was soon forgotten, and the figures on sculptures of scarcely later date float about one over the other without the artist being in the least troubled by the problem of the depth of inclosed space. The close connection with these diptychs points to an early date, probably not later than the first decades of the fifth century. The dividing border[9] is very common in Carlovingian ivories, and is, perhaps, one reason why Westwood and Stuhlfauth attribute the Trivulzio plaque to that epoch, but a comparison of the “space” arrangement, imperfect as it is, with any Carlovingian ivory, clearly shows the superiority of the more ancient work.

After this time angels were rarely represented without wings; the absence of wings makes the beautiful nimbed angel on the Trivulzio plaque quite indistinguishable from the figures of Christ on the British Museum plaques with the Passion. It is interesting to note, just about the end of the fourth century, the earliest representation of the symbolism of the Apocalypse in the presence of the Bull of St. Luke and St. Matthew’s Angel. The round shape of the tomb, with the raised tiled roof, is a difficult point, it appears to be the germ of the elaborate circular edifice with a cupola which became such a feature in purely Byzantine Art; but there were many circular tombs[10] in Rome for the artist to copy, and the huge round mass of the Mausoleum of Hadrian consisted of a drum, raised on a square basis, and decorated with columns and statues in a rather similar manner to the tomb on the fine Byzantine plaque with the _Ascension_, in the Munich Museum.

Thus we find the two sets of plaques in the British Museum and the Trivulzio tablet closely connected with each other and in touch with the Brescia casket. The workmanship is not so good on the smaller pieces, but on the whole the drawing is fairly correct, the drapery well designed and falling in few and soft folds over the rather chubby forms; and the whole technique is very different from the unyielding draperies and the too minute details of the consular diptychs.

Sculpture in ivory prospered, while that in marble declined. The fashion of sculptured marble sarcophagi had almost died out in the sixth century; but the Latin types and traditions were carried on by a series of carved pyxes, till they gradually merged in the Latino-Byzantine Art.

These pyxes are little circular boxes made in Italy, and dating practically from the fifth and sixth centuries. Many were of pagan origin, and decorated with mythological subjects, some being used for the toilet requisites of Roman ladies; and others were, doubtless, _accerae_, or boxes for holding incense for heathen worship, such as we see in the hand of the lovely Bacchante on the diptych of the Symmachi family in the Victoria and Albert Museum. Afterwards they found a place in Christian liturgy, being used to hold the Reservation of the Host.

The most ancient and beautiful pyx of Christian origin is in the Berlin Museum. It was probably carved in the fifth century from good antique models; on it, Christ, posed like Probianus on his diptych, and represented as a beardless youth, is teaching the Apostles. St. Peter and St. Paul (who usually takes the place of Judas among the twelve) are seated at His feet. The apostle on the right of Christ raises his hand, just in the manner of a consul about to throw the _mappa_. On the other side is a very beautiful figure of Abraham sacrificing Isaac. The style is so completely that of the sarcophagi that when the design is drawn as a flat strip it could easily be mistaken for one. In the Bargello there is a well-carved pyx with a lively picture of the Angel appearing to the Shepherds, who, with their rough short garments and thick crooked sticks are typical antique figures and very like Joseph’s brothers on the Throne of Maximian (Fig. 13). We also find on the Throne the strange basket chair in which the Virgin sits. The onward rush of the Magi, as they bear gifts to the Infant Saviour, is a very favourite motive in Byzantine Art. Their barbaric costume, of trousers and short girdled shirt, surmounted by a Phrygian cap, traces back all through ancient Greek Art, and, minus the cap, is still the summer dress of the Russian peasant.

A pyx in the Musée de Cluny (Fig. 9) is of interest, giving some of the same series of miracles that are found so repeatedly at this period, both in carvings and in the mosaics. The Healing of the Paralytic, who carries his bed, Restoring sight to the man born blind, the Woman of Samaria, the Raising of Lazarus, and the ever popular whale scenes from the Life of Jonah (Fig. 10).

The minds of the early Christians seemed turned away from the scenes of Christ’s Passion and Death, and only dwelt on His human relations as a Teacher and Healer, and on His glorious position as “Pantocrator,” Ruler of All. A great triumphal joy seems to break out in the glowing mosaics of the earlier basilicas, and again and again, Christ, the Mighty, the Ruler, is represented in enormous size on the glittering walls, and not a trace of His sufferings, which formed the chief theme of later art.

In the series of miracles Christ is nearly always represented is a young beardless man, with a slight smile, the hair sometimes cut short in Roman fashion, but more often at this period with clustering curls. This younger, or “Ideal” type is, perhaps, slightly the earlier, and we find it in the catacomb frescoes and the most ancient mosaics and sarcophagi. The so-called “Portrait” type of Christ, as a Nazarene, with long hair and beard and a grave face, tending to severity was employed at the same time and sometimes side by side in the same decoration, as in the Ivory Book of St. Lupicien, and the mosaics of S. Vitale at Ravenna, both sixth century. In each case He is figured as Pantocrator, this type being invariably bearded in Byzantine Art. On some few sarcophagi He is also represented with a beard.

Early in the third century there had been a sharp struggle about the appearance of Our Lord; many sided with Tertullian, making Him of abject form, others with Jerome and John Chrysostom declared He conquered souls by His beauty. The latter opinion prevailed, as it agreed with the existing traditions of the beauty of the Immortals. It is interesting to note that during this controversy no actual portrait was referred to, all the so-called portraits of Our Lord being of later date.

Fig. 10 is typical of a large group of ivory carvings of mixed origin. These book covers and the later pyxes are closely allied to the scenic pieces on the Throne of Maximian, though the technique is inferior, some being of very rough workmanship.

The arrangement of these panels is like that of the five-piece consular diptych mentioned in the last chapter, only the vertical side panels are divided into two pieces by a border. The three important examples of this kind of book cover are: this single panel from S. Michele di Murano, now in the Ravenna Library, the two panels of the Book of St. Lupicien, in the Bibliothèque nationale at Paris, and the pair lately discovered by Dr. Strzygowski in the Patriarchal Library at Etschmiadzin on the slopes of Mount Ararat.

The figures on the Murano panel are long and slight, and the modelling, though very barbarous, does round off to the background. Above are the well-known group of flying angels supporting a garland. These figures in the course of time have gone through a whole cycle of changes; starting from the flying Erotes who so commonly support the portrait of the deceased on Roman sarcophagi, they became clothed and elongated, as we see them here, and at last stripped and chubby again we find them on the tombs of the Medici, while their grown-up relations hover over many an Italian picture and sculpture. The peculiar dumpy dolphin is an interesting specimen of longevity, going through more than two thousand years of life from the Choragic Monument at Athens to a London Drinking Fountain without changing a line. The surprised gesture of the accompanying disciple (Fig. 9), and of the Three Children in the Fiery Furnace (Fig. 10), is another of those delightful conventions that meet us at every turn in this most naïve group of sculptures. We meet it again in the St. Lupicien panels, which are very similar, but nearer in technique to the scenes on the Throne of Maximian. The subjects vary little, but instead of Jonah there is a charming picture of the Woman of Samaria standing by the well. The figure of Christ seated in the central panel is old and bearded, and it so closely resembles the St. John Baptist on the Throne (Fig. 12) that, except for the large cruciform nimbus, it might be taken for that saint. The workmanship is coarse and the hands are terribly large and ill drawn.

The drawing on the Etschmiadzin Book Cover, which is in the same style as St. Lupicien, is still more incorrect, the legs and arms of the flying angels being quite detached and merely placed in the drapery at suitable angles. The modelling is even worse, and goes in many places sheer down to the background from a surface covered with grooved lines. Yet the figure of the youthful Christ is not unpleasing, with the wide smooth face so characteristic of early Byzantine art. The pose, with fingers raised to teach or bless, is taken directly from the Roman official type, and should be compared with the diptych of Probianus. The Virgin is accompanied by two angels, who, though without wings, can be recognized by their pointed diadems, which have been inherited by the angels in Italian painting.

There are a number of ivories of a double character, strongly influenced by Byzantine art yet not so closely allied to the Ravenna Throne as those already mentioned. The magnificent angel in the British Museum should probably be classed among these (frontispiece). It is the first half of a diptych of unusual size, and though the drapery is a little unmeaning in places, still it is good, and with the rich architecture and the thickly feathered wings, forms a splendid whole. There is nothing to compare with it in the sixth century for firmness of design; yet the tendency to fullness in the face and the wealth of detail are signs of lateness, and it can hardly be dated with any certainty before the last years of the fifth century. The first half of the Greek inscription reads, “_Receive these things that are present and learning the cause_—”. It is sad to see how soon this fine type was debased and moon faces and unstructural forms became the order of the day.

A beautiful book cover in the Bibliothèque nationale at Paris (Fig. 11) came from the Cathedral of Metz, where it had been for centuries a model to the Carlovingian and German craftsmen. The pure design and justness of the movements, together with the generous folds of the drapery, all denote a close study of the fine work of antiquity; yet the complication of the design and the exaggerated fineness of the carving, which is pierced right through, show how far the work is from the simplicity of ancient art. The Italian craftsman had still individuality enough to resist the Byzantine influence in some things. The Virgin is draped like a Roman lady, and Herod has not yet donned the dress of a Byzantine functionary, as on the later ivories where court etiquette reigns supreme.

The artist of the Milan book covers had not so much strength, and has succumbed still more to Byzantine influence. These panels have been enriched at a later date by a jewelled lamb and cross. Much of the dress and detail is still Latin, but he draws his inspiration from the apocryphal gospel of Nicodemus, and represents the Virgin receiving the Divine message, not in her own house but by the side of a stream, from which she is drawing water in a tall vase.

The three plaques of the casket of Werden (now in the Victoria and Albert Museum) belong to this series; there are the same rushing figures of the Magi, bearing strange gifts on flat dishes, and the Virgin also stands by the stream. A curious survivor of paganism is present at the Baptism of Our Lord, the allegorical figure of Jordan, not by any means a modest accessory, but a large muscular figure, proudly comparing his fine shoulders with the rather meagre proportions of the sacred figures. Decidedly the Christian artists preferred the Spirit to the Flesh, and the era of elongated figures and champagne bottle shoulders was soon to commence.

Milan Cathedral possesses another ivory carving too important to be passed over, which Molinier and Graeven attribute to this period in contradiction to Labarte, who declares it to be Italian Carlovingian of the ninth century, but the design is too closely connected with the series just under discussion for it to be possibly of later date than the sixth century. The two leaves of the diptych are crowded with active little figures, all intent on the business in hand. It should be noted that though the angel by the tomb is almost identical with that on the Trivulzio tablet, the guards are differently dressed, having the crested helmet and mailed tunic of antique Roman soldiers.

The separation of the two schools had become complete when the plaque in the Munich Museum was carved, probably well on in the sixth century. It is unmistakably Byzantine; in the lower half the Holy Women visit the Tomb, whilst above, there is a fine figure of Christ ascending to heaven; He rises with a powerful impetus, and the whole scene is far superior in vigour to the later representations. There is an interesting plaque in the Liverpool Museum, on which the Carlovingian craftsman has closely imitated the grouping of the Holy Women and the soldiers round the tomb.

The glory of the ivory craft is at Ravenna, the magnificent Throne of St. Maximian, bishop of that city from 546-553.

This _cathedra_ or episcopal chair is entirely covered with carved ivory, and has been treasured in the Cathedral for more than fourteen centuries. The throne was made in the sixth century, during that period of great artistic activity, when Justinian was engaged in beautifying Constantinople and the other great cities of his Empire. The new Church of St. Sophia was being decorated in the most gorgeous manner. The old chroniclers tell of gold and silver doors, and six doors of carved ivory; so the custom of overlaying large surfaces with ivory plaques was not an innovation. The bishop ordered his Throne and set it up at a time when Ravenna was still an important centre, and yearly adding to the number of its beautiful buildings.

S. Vitale, newly finished and decorated with the celebrated mosaic portraits of Justinian and Theodora, was consecrated by St. Maximian himself, who is pictured on the walls by the side of the Emperor. Yet, in spite of all this encouragement, art, and sculpture in particular, had already commenced that steady decline to the period of comparative stagnation which, as Professor Krumbacher, the well-known Byzantine scholar, says, affected not only art but literature, and lasted nearly two hundred years, from about 650 to 850. The decline can be traced in the mosaics at Ravenna; those in S. Vitale are not so good as those in the tomb of Galla Placidia, while the decoration of the Baptistery is the most ancient and the best.

The Throne is most precious as an exception, showing really artistic work in a period when originality was rare. The height is one yard fourteen inches, the seat being flanked by two panels rising above it and forming the arms; the front is entirely filled in by the large panel with five saints, the back is high and semi-circular, the top being arched. At the junction of the side panels, with the front and back, are upright posts, which form the feet, and rising slightly above the level of the panels are capped by flattened balls; these, and the strips of ivory which divide the back into little scenes, are carved with the most decorative vine scrolls, growing out of vases of classical shape, and peopled with a whole world of animals leaping in and out amid the leaves and bunches of grapes.

These borders show real progress and the adoption of new oriental ideas. The animated scroll work is often found on the Eastern textiles of this period, which must have formed objects of constant trade. The Koptic tombs on the Nile Delta[11] have yielded a numerous collection of contemporary textiles with beautifully woven patterns in much the same style. The vine from being a popular pagan decoration became closely connected with the Christian religion.

The carving of the wide borders on the back, if rather summary, attains the largeness of treatment as of sculpture in marble. The actual manual work on the Throne varies somewhat, and is probably the work of different artizans, Byzantine or Italian, but there can be little doubt that the whole was the work of one master mind.

The Five Saints on the front panel are of noble design and most carefully carved, but lacking in spontaneity. Each stands under the familiar round arch, and the scallop shell is arranged as a kind of halo behind each head.

The grand figure of John the Baptist stands in the middle of the Four Evangelists, among whom we are tempted to recognize St. Peter and St. Paul, but this resemblance is probably owing to the artist’s poverty of types. Above, in the border, flanked by two peacocks of evident Syrian origin, is the monogram of the saint, which reads

_Maximianus episcopus_.

The plaques on the side panels deal with the life of Joseph, and those on the back have scenes from the life of Christ. The latter were twenty-four in number, but only seven remain, four inside and three out. Some of these are carved on each side, and all are bordered with a narrow and much debased Greek bead and lozenge moulding, which is an additional help in the identification of the straying pieces. One of these lost plaques is now in the collection of Count Stroganoff at Rome; it represents on one side “the Entry into Jerusalem,” and on the other “the Nativity,” with an additional incident in the withering of the hand of the incredulous attendant, Salome, which is recounted in the apocryphal gospels. The type of Joseph in this scene is just the low-browed, bullet-headed type of the Greek wrestler, and must have been borrowed from some ancient sculpture.

In the scene of the Annunciation the Virgin sits in a high-backed chair of basket-work, just like that on the Bargello pyx, with the Visit of the Magi. She is spinning, as described in the apocryphal gospels, and beside her stands a basket for her wool.

The plaque, with the Virgin riding on an ass, is not the flight into Egypt, but the journey to Bethlehem just before the Child was born, and the languid attitude of the Virgin as she leans in weakness on the shoulder of Joseph, is rendered with much feeling.

The Baptism of Christ is peculiarly interesting as it gives an insight into the early types of this subject. The Holy Spirit in the form of a dove flies headlong downwards, and Christ is represented as a little naked child, and beside him, leaning on an urn is the personification of the River Jordan. Another remnant of pagan tradition is found in the winged and bearded genius of Sleep, who stands by Pharaoh’s couch in the “Dream Scene.” This figure also appears on a plaque in the Early Christian Room at the British Museum, which is decorated with scenes from the life of Christ, the strange bearded angel being present at the baptism. There is a very interesting ivory in the same room, a pyx representing the Martyrdom of St. Menas, which has another peculiarity in common with the carvings on the Throne, in the elaborate and curiously embroidered blouse worn by the executioner, which is like that worn by Joseph in the house of Potiphar.

The scenes from Joseph’s life are more deeply carved than the others, the figures are wonderfully characterized, the oriental faces of the Egyptians are framed in long plaits, like the Egyptian hair dressing on the monuments, which is even now to be seen on the Upper Nile. All these reliefs are a curious mixture of close observation of nature and servile imitations of classical types. The woman present at the sale of Joseph, holds her hand in her veil like many a stately figure in Roman art, but the meeting of Joseph with his old father is quite modern in its emotional force, the old man tremblingly totters forward into the arms of his stalwart young son, and one cannot help feeling irritated at the bystanders’ conventional gestures as they gaze on such a touching scene. Jacob’s wild distress (Fig. 13) is terribly realistic, and the contrasted stony despair of the bereaved Rachel is most dramatic. Rachel appears in other presentments of this subject, but the Bible narrative mentions her death some time before.

The _provenance_ of this great monument is a very thorny question,[12] many writers notice the strongly marked oriental characteristics, and some infer that it was imported from Alexandria, which then had a flourishing school of artists and craftsmen. St. Maximian certainly visited Alexandria before he was made bishop, and he may afterwards have ordered the Throne to be made there, or brought over Alexandrian workmen. There is every reason to believe the story that the Emperor Heraklius brought over a carved ivory throne from Alexandria in the beginning of the next century. The difficulty of adopting this Alexandrian theory lies in the existence of an Italo-Byzantine school in Italy, which is proved by the number of pyxes and book covers, which seem to show nearly every step between the old Latin and the almost entirely Byzantine art of the Ravenna Throne. Of course many of these may have been influenced by the carvings on the Throne, but many are undoubtedly of earlier date. Any way, with the acceptance or rejection of this theory stands or falls the European origin of several other most important ivories: first and most important, the much-discussed Berlin diptych, representing on one leaf Christ as a middle-aged man, very similar in type to the John Baptist (Fig. 12), and on the others the Virgin, attended by wingless angels; Schmirnoff, by close examination of the border, which has been partially cut away, believes he has discovered the remains of a monogram similar to that on the front panel of the Throne. Also the plaque with the _Baptism of Christ_, in the British Museum, the Tongres diptych, the “Bateman” diptych, and one or two others which are closely related in style.

Reference was made to an ivory throne brought from Alexandria to Constantinople by Heraklius (610-641). This throne was ultimately placed in the Cathedral at Grado, and the legend grew up that it was actually the episcopal throne of St. Mark, who was the first Bishop of Alexandria.

In the Castello at Milan there are a series of five plaques dealing with the subject of St. Mark’s mission to Alexandria and Cyrene, as told in the Acts of St. Mark; there is every probability that they belonged to the throne of St. Mark in Grado, which appears to have been more or less perfect in the sixteenth century, but is reported by a later writer to be entirely stripped of its decoration. The Milan reliefs are of a very distinctive technique, the drapery being marked by rib-like folds, usually in couples, and the type of face is refined, though over elaborated. They are earlier than the time of Heraklius, and probably date from the sixth century.

Three scattered plaques are unmistakably connected with this series; _St. Peter dictating the Gospel of St. Mark_, with a winged figure behind, in the Victoria and Albert Museum; _The Raising of Lazarus_ in the British Museum, and _The Annunciation_, in the Trivulzio Collection at Milan. The two last are more delicately carved, but the striking similarities of pose and drapery, and the same violent perspective of the architecture, make it almost certain that they are from the same _atelier_, if not by the hand of the same craftsman.

Two ivories of a totally different style seem to belong to the next century, but their dates are still a matter of doubt. One is a plaque in the Treasury of Trèves Cathedral, deeply undercut and full of little figures and details. Westwood says it represents the arrival of the Holy Coat to that very Cathedral.[13] The relic is in a casket held by two ecclesiastics, who sit in a gorgeous car drawn by a pair of horses. The procession is led by the Emperor Constantine and received at the church doors by his mother, Helena, who holds a cross in memorial of her journey to Jerusalem to fetch the True Cross. In the background is the Porta Nigra, and the nave of a basilica showing an apse.

Unfortunately, there is no proof of this attractive theory, though the building in the background does resemble the Porta Nigra (still existing at Trèves) and the basilica there has a very similar apse; but all Roman architecture imperfectly depicted looks much alike, every basilica has an apse, and it is not recorded how long the ivory has been in the Treasury at Trèves. Thus we must be reconciled to call it by an indeterminate name. It is certainly Byzantine, and most probably about the seventh century.

If possible there is still greater uncertainty about the second ivory, which is also of an architectural character and has lately been acquired by the Louvre authorities. It is without doubt Byzantine, and represents the conventional type of St. Paul, preaching to a distinguished and eager crowd. The relief of the ivory is very deep, and there is a certain boldness in the treatment of the mass of the crowd, also the city which towers over head, is of a very real structure and seems intended for some actual city.

Comparing the round arched buildings with the types of architecture on the sixth and seventh century mosaics, Molinier and Saglio attribute this ivory to the same period, but Schlumberger cannot believe it to be more ancient than the tenth century. The deep red colour is the remnant of the purple stain, which was probably still further enriched by gilding.

With few exceptions, it has been the common practice to colour ivories as well as statues, and though much at variance with our modern taste (which is founded on a mistaken appreciation of the tint of marble from which the colour has faded), it must have greatly enhanced the effect, especially in the smaller objects which enter almost into the province of _bijouterie_.

In the eighth century the iconoclastic[14] troubles commenced; the movement was at first one of real reform, the charge of idolatry which had been brought against the Greek Christians by their Mahometan neighbours was not without foundation, but unfortunately the love of images was deeply rooted in the heart of the people, who transferred to these little pictures and images the same homage they had paid to their local protecting deities in pagan times.

A powerful party, always a minority, gained the ear of the Emperor Leo III., the Isaurian (717-741), a man of low birth, who had raised himself to his high station by sheer merit on the field of battle, and though he has been bitterly abused by his enemies, he appears to have been quite above the average of imperial character, which, it must be confessed, did not reach an overpoweringly high level.

This man, having subdued his country’s enemies in the East, turned his active mind to the annihilation of the unhappy artists and all their works. At first his measures were moderate, the removing of pictures out of reach of the lips of the worshippers; but superstition was so deeply rooted that an abortive revolt broke out, instigated by the monks, who, besides being the most strenuous advocates for images, were also the chief manufacturers. This rebellion was easily suppressed, but it provoked severer measures, an edict was promulgated that all images were to be destroyed, and the painted walls of the churches to be covered with plaster. All opposition was punished by a rapid crescendo of penalties, by imprisonment, mutilation and excommunication. More revolts followed, Leo became still more angry, and the next thing we read of is the destruction by fire of the great Library of Constantinople, guards and all, by order of the Emperor. The guards were not a matter of importance, as a violent death one way or other was of small moment in those most unpleasant times; but the manuscripts were an irreparable loss, almost as terrible as the burning of the Alexandrian Library by the Mahometans, only a hundred years before, and for the same unreasonable reason.

These struggles continued, with less or more violence, for nearly 150 years; the choleric Leo was succeeded by his still more violent son, Constantine V. who, according to the opposite party (which contained all the chroniclers), was closely related to the Evil One, but he certainly had great energy, and was probably not so black as he was painted. He continued the work of his father with great vigour, and, it must be added, considerable cruelty.

Sometimes there was comparative calm, as when the Empress Irene seized the reins of government from her unhappy son, Constantine VI., in 797, and issued an edict of tolerance. She was a wonderful woman, and lived in imperial state for many years, against all law, human and divine; for she was many bad things, besides being a woman, and as such, debarred from government. Among her schemes was an alliance with Charlemagne, to whom she offered her hand; the offer was not accepted, and soon after she was exiled to Lesbos by another usurper, who, being a violent iconoclast, immediately restored all the oppressive laws. With delightful readiness the ecclesiastical General Councils promulgated decrees for, or against, the cult of images, according to the taste of the ruling power.

Theophilus, the last of the iconoclastic emperors, was a great builder of churches and palaces, and none of the iconoclasts went to the length of forbidding the introduction of the human form, and reducing decoration to geometrical motives and scroll work, as is the case of Arabian art.

Theophilus was succeeded by his widow, the Empress Theodora, who governing in the name of her infant son Michael III., promptly reversed all the edicts of her husband and his predecessors, and endeared herself to the Greeks, by the restoration of their beloved images, and the final defeat of the iconoclastic party, which was accomplished about 842.

Though there was a sensible difference after this movement, still it is easy to exaggerate its influence on Byzantine art. The edicts of the Emperor were not always carried out to the letter, except, perhaps, in the capital city, and even there the smaller objects were secreted, and women, always conservative, clung to their _lares_ and _penates_, keeping up the old observances as much as possible. Many an obstinate monk took pride and pleasure in setting the law at defiance, carving little diptychs with the decoration on the inner side, so that they could be folded together and slipped away in safety.

The civil art went on uninterruptedly, and in such a luxurious city the objects of secular use must have been very rich and varied. A large series of caskets have come down to us, preserved in the treasuries of churches as shrines for the relics of saints, also large oliphants, or complete tusks, hollowed out and thickly covered with linked patterns of strongly oriental style; these were first imported from the East and afterwards imitated more or less exactly by Byzantine craftsmen. In early ritual they were used as horns to announce the commencement and the end of the Mass, and also to contain relics, and it was the latter use which brought them in such numbers to the West. The miniaturists, also, continued their art, copying and illustrating texts of Homer and Virgil and other classical writers.

The iconoclastic movement, though lasting a century and a quarter, had no permanent effect in checking the natural development of art. In fact, the greater impetus given to the civil art had rather the effect of purifying the Byzantine style by constant reference to the antique, and prepared the way for the Renaissance of the tenth century. Byzantine art is still so little known that it is probable that many ivories now classed in the tenth may belong to the preceding century.

Molinier attributes even the Vienna and Bargello diptych (Fig. 5) to the mid iconoclastic period, to that lull in the storm during the reign of the Empress Irene (end of eighth century), whose portrait he considers it to be. This ivory, though more probably of the sixth century, has some slight likeness in the wide face and full neck to the two busts of Christ and the symbolic angel of St. Matthew in the Library, Ravenna (the eagle of St. John is in the Victoria and Albert Museum). These must be classed with another ivory of this period in the Louvre, a figure of Christ standing under a richly decorated arch, but the low forehead and staring eyes, with the pompous attitude, in imitation of the beautiful British Museum angel, make it positively ridiculous.

Another plaque in the Berlin Museum, the only dated ivory of the ninth century, represents an emperor being crowned by the Virgin, and bears the name of a “Basileus Leo.” The early emperors of this name are too ancient, and the last three were rabid iconoclasts, so that brings it to the Emperor Leo VI., crowned in 886. Unfortunately this work, which should be most useful for comparison, is of rough technique, and evidently a provincial production, for no craftsman of the great metropolis could have produced such uncultivated work, even on the morrow of the iconoclastic crisis.

II. BYZANTINE CASKETS.

We owe to the series of secular caskets most of our knowledge of this transitional period. They do not appear to have been articles of great luxury and were usually made of bone and sometimes indifferently carved. The fashion continued for several hundred years, and side by side with these secular caskets we have others decorated with scenes from Old Testament history, which, though very few in number at first, become more frequent as time goes on. The religious caskets have many details in common with the secular, but draw their inspiration from a different source.

There is great similarity in the design of the secular caskets, the box itself being made of wood and covered with ivory plaques. The lids are either in the shape of a truncated pyramid, and hinged, or flat and sliding into grooves. The decoration consists of an elaborate border surrounding either long scenic plaques, as in the _Veroli_ casket in the Victoria and Albert Museum (Fig. 15), or more often little squares containing a single figure (Bargello, etc.). The borders show strong oriental influence, and invariably consist of ringed rosettes connected by a pointed leaf; these rosettes sometimes alternate with coin-like medallions, and there are occasionally additional bands of varying pattern, as on the _Volterra_ casket (late Spitzer Collection) at the Musée de Cluny.

The subjects are a proof of the still lingering power of classical antiquity, and of the infiltration of oriental designs. They are either taken from ancient myths (often very imperfectly understood by the adaptor), or from scenes in the hippodrome or circus (_Volterra_); perhaps also from the statues, part of the Grecian loot that Constantine had brought from Rome to decorate his new city.

Most of these caskets are composed in the gayest frame of mind; on the beautiful ivory _Veroli_ casket the little loves, on the light fantastic toe, dance to the harping of poor, melancholy, old Polyphemus, who is compelled to cease his solitary lament and play hornpipes and jigs for the benefit of wild Bacchantes, who whirl round and round till their drapery is tossed out like foam. It is amusing to see these same ladies on the casket at Cividale, no longer carved with delicate finish, but angular and rough, the drapery flying out like wire, and the development of the muscles rivalling that of a prima ballerina.

The maker of the _Pirano_ casket in the Vienna Museum imitated the _Veroli_ in many things, as the putti and the panther, and the group of Mars caressing Venus under the chin, in the good old-fashioned Brescia diptych way, also the peculiar treatment of the hair in tiny knobby ringlets, which is found again on the Bologna casket, and on two most interesting plaques in the British Museum. One plaque represents _Christ freeing the Souls in Hades_, and the other _The Nativity_. On the first there is a group of little child-souls with polished round muscles and knobby hair, also the hair of the angels in both the scenes is of the same character, the rest of the technique has little to distinguish it from the so-called X-XI century type; but the conception of the subject is not the ordinary stereotyped one of later years, and those few peculiarities of style have such a marked connection with the _Veroli_ casket, that Graeven considers it likely that they both came from the same _atelier_, and may, perhaps, be dated about the middle of the ninth century.

Before pointing out the various similarities between these secular caskets, and those with religious subjects, it would be well to inquire into the ancestry of the separate styles.

The classical designs on the secular caskets are more completely conventionalized than would be the result of direct imitation of antique originals by later craftsmen; and the coin-like borders give a clue to finding out what were their actual models. They must have been inspired by the _repoussé_ designs on gold and silver plate, it being a very common practice, in all ages, to insert coins round the edges of precious vessels. The peculiar tapering ankles and delicate wrists are another proof of some other technique intervening between the marble sculpture and the ivories. The tendency of marble to crack if exposed to too great a weight, led to a sturdiness in all detached forms, and not even in the bronze statues are such exaggeratedly slender extremities to be found.

Ancient records often tell of large masses of plate being presented to churches in the West. A single gift to St. Germain at Auxerre in the seventh century, consisted of one hundred silver vessels, including two great dishes decorated with reliefs from the Æneid, and a third with the “Rape of Europa,” and having Greek inscriptions. If there was such a mass of plate in the West, the richness of Constantinople in gold and silver vessels must have been simply fabulous. The descriptions of the Byzantine chroniclers, and the figures given of the Venetian share in the sack of Constantinople by the Crusaders in 1204, are astounding.

The silver casket at Anagni forms a connecting link; it is the same shape and style as the ivory caskets, and the little silver reliefs are mounted in the same manner with border strips.

The caskets with religious subjects are derived from the miniatures in ancient and contemporary manuscripts, as has been abundantly proved by the complete correspondence of existing plaques and miniatures. The Victoria and Albert Museum possesses an excellent example in the strip of ivory, with Joshua receiving envoys from the people of Gibeon, which is taken almost line for line from two miniatures in the famous Joshua Roll in the Vatican Library; except that in the translation of the painting into sculpture, certain details had to be simplified, and the serried ranks of Joshua’s soldiers were reduced to a faithful copy of the forward group.

A tiny plaque in the Grüne Gewölbe at Dresden is another instance of this connection with the manuscripts. It is one of two surviving portions of a casket decorated with the life of Joseph, and is directly inspired by the wonderful Genesis codex at Vienna. This codex is especially interesting as showing the artist’s delight in scenes of domestic affection; the picture, which coincides with the ivory carving, illustrates the departure of Joseph to get news of his brethren. His father with a stately gesture bids him go, and as he goes he turns to kiss his little brother Benjamin, who follows him a little way. The sculptor has taken the moment of the kiss, and the gentleness of the action is like the little domestic scene on the casket in the Museo Kircheriano at Rome (Fig. 16).

The carvings on this casket give a graphic account of the early life and adventures of David, and are most probably derived from some lost manuscript of the Book of Samuel. The active little figures are exceedingly droll, and it is difficult not to think that a little of the gay secular spirit had crept into these more sober scenes. The lamb which sits up and begs while David pipes is particularly engaging. The front side of the sloping lid is given up to most tragic scenes. _The Massacre of the Innocents_, and the _Murder of Zachariah, the High Priest_, “_killed between the temple and the altar_.” The inscription tells us that the casket was intended as a marriage gift to a Basileus and Basilissa from another wedded pair, the portraits all being on the top.

The various details which the two series of caskets have in common, prove they belong to the same period. On the _Veroli_ casket (Fig. 15), the group of men stoning the bull which bears away Europa corresponds with a miniature in the Joshua Roll, which depicts the stoning of the captive people of Achan. The rosette border is also found on a twelfth century casket with half-length figures of saints in the Bargello. On some of these caskets the plaques are decorated with designs taken bodily from Oriental textiles and carvings; the smaller _Volterra_ casket in the Musée de Cluny is a case in point, and it has the additional charm of an openwork border of maple leaves on a gilt background.

Some writers call these caskets Italo-Byzantine because a large number have been found in the treasuries of Italian cathedrals, but their ancestry is thoroughly Byzantine. It is not impossible that some few examples were made in the West, as several stone reliefs have been found in Venetia, clearly dating from the first decade of the eleventh century, and ornamented with the same classical subjects, confused in the same way with foreign elements, and surrounded by the customary rosette border, and which are most probably copies of these Byzantine fancy goods.

The Throne of St. Peter in the apse of his church in Rome, is made up in the same way with little plaques representing the _Labours of Hercules_ and other purely pagan subjects. The ivory carvings belong to two periods, one, admittedly, of the ninth century when the Throne was restored, and the others are traditionally supposed to date from the lifetime of the apostle. It was inclosed 200 years ago in a hideous casing, and no close examination is permitted. If this chair is really of great antiquity, even if not so early as the first century, it would be a great support to Venturi’s assumption that all these secular caskets belong really to classical antiquity, and are of late Roman origin. There is a beautiful casket in the Cathedral of Troyes, of the tenth or eleventh century, which was sent back by Garnier de Traisnel, Bishop of Troyes, and Almoner to the Crusaders. Garnier died in the East, but sent home his share of the spoil from Constantinople. It is stained a rich purple and evidently belonged to the Basileus, who is depicted on horseback.

III. THE BYZANTINE RENAISSANCE.

The Golden Age of Byzantine Art commences about the beginning of the tenth century, and, roughly speaking, coincides with the rule of the great Macedonian dynasty, a period when the warrior emperors, usurpers or otherwise, kept the invading barbarians at bay.

The Byzantine chroniclers expatiate at great length on the unparalleled luxury of the Court and how the “Sacred Palace” was filled with art treasures; and they also tell us that Constantine VII., Porphrygenitus (911-959), was an enthusiastic amateur, and even employed his “sacred” fingers in carving and painting beautiful objects; it was about the only thing he did do, for the government was entirely taken out of his hands by a series of usurpers who were nominally his colleagues.

Ivory carving was only one small portion of this great stream of decorative work, but an important part, as there was practically no sculpture in stone. In the new basilica at Constantinople were some animals carved on the marble fountains, and a few inferior bas-reliefs have been found in the Crimea and Mount Athos, but the technique is merely an enlargement of the tiny reliefs, with a complete loss of that delicacy and loving finish which is the greatest charm of the ivory craft.

The number of examples of carved ivory during the tenth and eleventh centuries is so great that it is most difficult to make a selection. The Reliquary of the True Cross in the Franciscan Church at Cortona is valuable for comparison with other carvings of the tenth century, for it is dated by an inscription mentioning the Basileus Nicephorus, Conqueror of the Barbarians, who can be no other than Nicephorus Phocas (963-969). The reliquary is divided in the usual manner into four compartments by the arms of the great central crucifix, and owing to the shallowness of the space the figures are not so disproportionately tall as was mostly the case. In the research for dignity and reverence the figures became less and less earthly, the shoulders sloping away to nothing, and a growing tendency crept in to exaggerate the height out of all proportion; also the calm expression on the delicate oval faces grew more and more solemn, till on some of the later ivories it is positively lugubrious. Yet the quiet grace and exquisite dignity of a figure like that of the Virgin on the Harbaville Triptych (Fig. 17), is hardly to be found in the finest Italian art. The pose of this figure and that of John the Forerunner, Πρόδρομος, are almost identical with those on the Cortona Reliquary; the Virgin’s gesture of adoration is simple and spontaneous, and it is only when it is repeated by St. John that the balance of the pattern becomes too exact and pains the eye. The figure of Christ, grandly posed on the highbacked throne, is the type of nearly every other representation of the Saviour throughout the whole period (cf. Fig. 19) and traces back directly to the Roman official diptychs. The drapery is elegant and well considered, though the folds have a hard flatness in spite of the soft finish of the technique. The features inherit much from the antique, the well-cut brow and deeply set eyes, but the noses have increased in length and have that slight curve at the tip which is so characteristic, and becomes so pronounced, in later Byzantine Art. The fine heads, framed in their rugged mane of hair, are very picturesque, but there is such a strong family likeness among them, that it is quite refreshing to meet a bald forehead like that of St. Paul or St. John Theologus, here represented as an aged man and not as the beardless stripling of Western art. Above all, it is the hands and the well-proportioned muscular feet, which show the power of the real artist escaping from the conventionality of his subject. On the back of the panel he has freed himself entirely from the spell of classical antiquity and drunk deeply of new oriental ideas, creating a most decorative design, illustrating the “Triumph of the Cross,” which rises, ornamented with roses, above the flowering earth, stretching up to the skies, which are thickly covered with stars, and bear the Greek inscription _Jesus Christ Victorious_. Two tall cypresses, tightly bound by the symbolical vine and by ivy, bow before it, whilst from the ground spring small trees and reeds, among which wild animals run in and out.

The trees may be contrasted with the fruitful olives on the Bargello plaque of the Ascension (Fig. 18). The composition of this scene is grand in character, in spite of its small size, and there is great freedom of movement in the lower group, each pose being cleverly characterized; the grouping is scarcely freer in the Italian conception of this subject, and the upraised hand of the apostle on the Virgin’s left is to be seen, centuries later, in the famous “Assumption of the Virgin” by Titian. There are many other plaques with scenic pictures. The elaborate carving of the _Death of the Virgin_ is still fixed to the Bamberg Missal, which belonged to Cunigunda, wife of the Emperor Henry II. (1002-1028). The scene is crowded, and takes place under a richly pierced canopy. Christ holds the Infant Soul of the Virgin, whilst two angels with veiled hands fly down to receive it.

Perhaps the most beautiful of all these pictorial sculptures is a diptych now unfortunately divided. Each leaf has two scenes, the first, representing the _Holy Women kneeling before the risen Christ_ and the _Resurrection_, is at Dresden, while the other, with the _Crucifixion_ and the _Deposition_, is in the Provincial Museum at Hanover. The various scenes are treated with much freedom, and the proportions are excellent. It is enough to glance at the appalling length of the two Maries in a twelfth century plaque with the _Resurrection_ (Bargello) to realize how much we have to be thankful for in the earlier periods.

There are a large number of triptychs[15] all more or less of the Harbaville school. A fine one at the Louvre of _Christ_ and _St. Theodore_ has lost the second wing, and of another still finer one, only the splendidly carved wings remain, widely separated now, one being in Vienna and the other in the Doge’s Palace at Venice. Several of these little shrines inclose a group of the _Virgin and Child_, the two most beautiful being in the Episcopal Museums of Utrecht and Liège. Count Strogonoff in his interesting collection at Rome has a particularly fine seated _Virgin and Child_. The whole pose is most pleasing and the Infant Christ on her knee has a far more childish face than usual, the Holy Child being more often like a little man, raising his hand to bless with exaggerated dignity. But the ineradicable love of ostentation and luxury leads the artist to diminish the importance of a really dignified figure by adding a mass of gigantic and over-decorated accessories, and the legs of the throne are wrought with more exactitude than he bestows on the robe of the central figure.

There are many other interesting ivories in this fine collection, which even contains one of the lost plaques from the Throne of Maximian. Among them is a noble figure of _Christ Teaching_ which might well correspond to the _John Baptist_ at Liverpool, one of the gems of the Mayer Collection. John bears a roll with the text commencing, “Behold the Lamb of God,” which would refer to the Christ on the opposite leaf of a diptych. The Liverpool Museum also possesses a fine triptych, with Christ on the Cross, the Virgin and St. John. This is a type which seized the imagination of the German people, who constantly repeated it, losing, perhaps, in technique, but gaining in vigour and expression, as will be seen on referring to Fig. 24.

The plaque in the Cabinet des Médailles of the Bibliothèque nationale, Paris (Fig. 20), is a fitting end to an account of the ivories of the Byzantine Renaissance. It represents the _Emperor Romanus IV. and the Empress Eudoxia being crowned by Christ_. It is doubly interesting, as through its certain date (the Emperor’s reign only lasting four years 1067-1071), we can compare it with earlier work, as the Cortona Reliquary or the Harbaville triptych (Fig. 17), and see that after more than a hundred years the art had not changed for better or worse. This plaque is also interesting from its artistic value, which is very high, the figure of Christ being one of the finest in the whole range of Byzantine ivory carving. We can see that the artist was perfectly capable of rendering drapery in a soft and pliant manner, yet the tyranny of the court etiquette compelled him to envelope the Basileus and Basilissa in the stiffest of sheaths, covered with a regular mosaic of jewels; and to pay honour to the Saviour he was obliged to place under His feet that triple platform of hideous device.

“The composition of the figures is not the invention of the painters, but the law of tradition of the Catholic Church.” These are the words of a decree of the Nicene Council in the eighth century, and it is not surprising that these compositions, settled on theological grounds were inclined to be unvarying and hieratic, the wonder is that they have so many artistic qualities. Another bond for the unfortunate artist was a certain work called “A Guide to Painting,” in which minute regulations are laid down for every detail of form and colouring. It does not appear to have been in force till after this period of renaissance, but a strict adherence to these formulæ is, without doubt, the reason why it is practically impossible to tell a nineteenth from a twelfth century mosaic by reference alone to style.

This great stream of art and culture went on uninterruptedly, no matter what were the palace intrigues or the sudden changes of government. One winter night a great cry is raised, the Emperor, the brave general whose glorious campaigns had enabled the city to increase its wealth and commerce a thousandfold, had been slain, foully murdered by order of his wife and his ancient friend. Yet there is no revolt among the people; what is it to them? A few dangerous partizans are killed, and later a few of the hired murderers, and the wife in question, are offered up to the Church in expiation of the usurper’s crime. In the evening Nicephorus Phocas is Emperor, and by the next morning John Zimisces is crowned and reigning in his stead. Both the emperors were good generals, and could keep the barbarians at bay, and, for the matter of that, they were both flagrant usurpers, the rightful sovereigns, Basil and Constantine, being kept half prisoners in the palace, while their so-called colleagues ruled the country; and if freedom from invasion, wealth, and munificent patronage of the arts are signs of good government, then these usurpers were pattern rulers. This was by no means the case with Basil II., who, at the mature age of sixty flung off the tutelage of his colleagues and plunged into a wild career of conquest, earning for himself not only the title of “Destroyer of the Bulgarians,” but the hearty hatred of his subjects at home and in the provinces.

With Basil we must leave the Byzantine Empire, which had reached its apogee of political power and art production. It was centuries before the internal decay made itself felt, but the great edifice never recovered the shock of the invasion and sack of Constantinople by the Crusaders in 1204, and falling bit by bit before the attacks of the Mahometans, finally fell an easy prey to the Seljuk Turks in 1453.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Second leaf in the Royal Museum of Decorative and Industrial Art, Brussels.

[9] See the plaque with the _Judgment of Solomon_ in the Louvre.

[10] A round tomb with a cupola has been excavated in the Via Praestina, and the circular Church of S. Costanzo is the tomb of a daughter of the Emperor Constantine.

[11] _Les Tapisseries Coptes_, par M. Gerspach, Paris, 1890.

[12] Venturi considers that the Throne was made for another Maximian, Archbishop of Constantinople 345, and being taken in the course of time to Venetia, is identical with that mentioned in the Chronicle of the Deacon John; who tells of an ivory throne sent in December, 1001, by the Doge Pietro Orseolo, to the Emperor Otto III., who was then residing in Ravenna, and gave it to the Cathedral. There is no mention of an ivory throne in the Cathedral before this date. Cf. _Storia dell’ arte italiana_, vol. i., p. 466. Ricci connects this throne with that of St. Mark in Grado. Cf. _L’arte italiana decorativa e industriale_, vol. vii., p. 104.

[13] This coat is said to be the one “without seam,” for which the soldiers cast lots, and which has an undoubted history from the time of the Empress Helena, in the fourth century.

[14] From εἰκὼν, a likeness, and κλάω, I break in pieces.

[15] Full list given by Molinier, _Les Arts appliqués_, vol. i.