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162 Colnaghi have now under their care a collection of sculptures in ivory by a refined and thoughtful French sculptor, already well known by his works in marble, the Baron Henri di Triqueti.

Ivory has been too long neglected as a substance for the production of the highest class of objects of art. This accomplished artist has sought to restore a material so precious and beautiful to the rank it bore in the best age of ancient Greece. The greatest of her sculptors used it, as we know, for their choicest works. Out of it Phidias fashioned the features of his Athenian Minerva and of his Olympian Jove, whilst his renowned pupil, Alcamenes, chose it for the more voluptuous forms of the youthful Bacchus. Alas! none of these monuments of Greek genius—the most perfect, if we are to believe the united testimony of ancient authors, that Greek art produced—have been preserved to us. Not that the material is so perishable as some might be inclined to believe. Have we not in the British Museum the Assyrian ivories, carved eight centuries at least before the Christian æra, and those from the tombs of Egypt, probably of a much earlier date? Not only is ivory not so liable to perish, but even when decay has commenced, and the very substance is crumbling away, it can be restored by a simple yet ingenious process to its original hardness. The ivories from Nineveh, which fell to dust almost at the touch, have been made solid again; and even the tusks of elephants which have been for ages buried in the soil have been supplied artificially with that gelatinous matter which once held their component particles together. Thus, this apparently fragile and delicate substance has a property of escaping destruction which is not even possessed by the hardest of metals and the most compact of marbles. Public and private collections contain remarkable specimens of ivory carvings of the Roman times. Then sculptured tablets in ivory were classed amongst the most valued gifts; and the Roman consuls, on being raised to their dignity, were in the habit of presenting them to their friends. These consular diptychs, as they are called, for they usually consisted of two leaves like the cover of a book, were frequently ornamented with the portrait of the donor, and usually inscribed with his name. Some may still be seen in museums; and, although they do not possess the interest or value as works of art which would attach to similar remains of the best Greek period, yet several are not undeserving of notice for beauty of design and execution. The early Christian artist, too, chose this pure and chaste substance as the fittest to embody his conceptions of the Virgin and her Child and other sacred subjects; nor was it less coveted by the sculptor of the “renaissance,” for its exquisite beauty, whilst the charm it imparted to the representation of human flesh, enabled him to carry out the inspiration of his rich and voluptuous fancy. Even Michael Angelo did not scruple to employ it for some of his mighty conceptions. What prodigious sums are now given for the classic works of Benvenuto Cellini, the graceful groups of Fiammingo, and even the indifferent imitations of far less skilful Flemish artists! These precious objects have always been considered the ornament of the public museum and the pride of the private collection. But, although abundantly employed for mere useful purposes during the last century, ivory seems to have been unaccountably neglected for the higher purposes of art. It is remarkable that during this period no really eminent artist appears to have felt its beauty, or understood its capabilities for representing the delicate and glowing surface of human flesh. No name of note has been connected for the last hundred years with an important work in the material. M. di Triqueti is the first who has availed himself of it to produce an original and well-studied work of art.

The ancients frequently combined metals with ivory, and especially bronze. Our artist has also sought to revive this union, and to join the two so that each should hold its due place and set off the other. His idea was first fully carried out in a recumbent figure of Cleopatra, included in the present collection. And well carried out it has been, for he has produced a statue which, although small in size, is of singular beauty, of deep expression, and of exceeding truthfulness. The dying queen has fallen back upon her throne; her eyes are closing for ever; her right hand grasps her robes convulsively in the last throes of death; her left arm, around which is twined the fatal asp, hangs by her side, and is stiffening into lifeless rest. Her beautiful bosom is bare, and her ample drapery hangs loosely about her limbs. Again following the example of the ancients, the sculptor has delicately touched with gold her tiara, her sandals, and her ornaments, and has carried a graceful coloured border round the edges of her robe. The whole of the statue is in ivory, the throne, embossed with figures, in bronze, and the base of marble—a combination harmonious to the eye and well suited to the subject. The execution is most careful and delicate. It is impossible to imagine anything more true to nature than the bosom—which seems almost to heave with the last struggling breath—or the arm falling at her side. The drapery is finely conceived, and admirably executed in graceful and natural folds.

But the most remarkable object in the collection is a vase, on which the sculptor has lavished all his skill and all his thought. Those who feel the true end of art will not think that the labour and time he has bestowed upon this beautiful work have been thrown away, for it is not as a mere object of curiosity, but as a monument of art, that we must look at it. We are too much accustomed to confine the application of the term “fine arts” to certain things—pictures or statues—set as it were apart, only to be admired, without significance or use. But the “fine arts” attained their highest and most noble development when applied to the purposes and wants of everyday life—when the distinction now drawn between what is purely ornamental and what is purely useful was unknown.