weapon is usually the bow, sometimes the spear; on one occasion he grapples with the lion, hand to jowl, and stabs the quarry to the heart with a short sword. The quiet dignity and royal calm with which the feat is achieved must have ensured the artist a high and enduring place in the royal favour. The action, however, of the human figures in these sculptures is always sedate and reposeful, suggestive of reserved strength perhaps, or possibly of the artist’s limitations. Whichever it is, the real power of the artist is not shown in the human figures. These, to be sure, are in part strongly anatomized; in the main, they are fairly proportioned, and, unlike the Egyptian figures, they have the shoulders drawn in proper perspective. But the faces are fixed, impassive; the eyes are not in perspective, and, as a whole, they cannot claim high merit as works of art, viewed from an abstract modern standpoint. Considered in relation to their time, they are wonderful enough, so far ahead are they of anything that we could suppose to have been accomplished in the world of that day. But they fall far short of the standard which the same artist has himself given us in animal figures of his composition. It seems as if the human figures might have been done from memory, whereas the animal forms are clearly enough from the natural model. Indeed, when we turn to these animal figures we may criticize them, not with reservation as to their age, but from the standpoint of modern art, and as individual figures they will not be found wanting. The three fundamental canons—“ proportion, action, aspect ”—have been successfully met. The lions skulk sullenly from their cages, spring furiously into action, or roll in death-agony at the will of the depicter. The lioness, with spine broken by an arrow, dragging her palsied hind-quarters, is a veritable masterpiece. The same is true of many of the figures of goats, of running and pacing wild asses, and of dogs. As a whole, these animal frescoes are nothing less than wonderful. It is worth a visit to London from the remotest land to see these sculptures from the palace of the old Assyrian king.
Still, though these bas-reliefs have intrinsic merits as works of art, their chief value is for what they teach regarding the evolution of art in the world. Previously to their discovery it had been supposed that the stiff formalism of Egyptian sculpture represented the fullest flight of pre-Grecian art; and that Greek art itself had stepped suddenly forth, rather a new creation than an evolution. But the pick and shovel of Layard at Nineveh dispelled that illusion. For these art treasures, that had lain there under the deposits of centuries, were found to represent an enormous advance upon Egyptian models, precisely in the direction of that realism for which Greek art is distinguished.
If we would judge how direct and unequivocal was the impulse which the dying nation transferred to the adolescent one in point of art, we have but to take a few steps in the British Museum, from the Assyrian rooms to the wonderful hall that holds Lord Elgin’s trophies from the desecrated Parthenon. Look then upon the frieze of bas-relief that bears the magic name of Phidias. If anything can reconcile us to the act that deprived Greece of her priceless heirlooms, it is the fact that they have found lodgment here close beside their Oriental prototypes, where half a million visitors each year may at least have an opportunity to learn the lesson that human progress is an accretion, a growth, a building upon foundations; and, specifically, that Greek art, no less than other forms of human culture, was an evolution, and not an isolated miracle. For what is the Parthenon frieze, as we now come to it fresh from the palaces of Nineveh, but an Assyrian fresco adapted to the needs and ideals of another race and developed by the genius of a newer civilization ? The profiled figures in low relief coursing together, are they different in conception from the profiled figures of the palaces we have just left ? The horses of the Parthenon frieze might almost seem to have stepped bodily from the palaces of Assur-bani-pal. They have gained something in suppleness of limb, have altered their attitude in a measure, to be sure, thanks to their new environment. But their type has not changed by so much as an actual breed of horses might be changed in as many generations. Note the head, the most typical and characteristic feature of this Grecian steed. Line for line it is the same head, trappings aside, that we have just seen at Nineveh. Even the defects of the Assyrian drawing are there—the too small and slender face, and receding lower jaw, the tiny ear, the far too full and “ chuffy ” neck. Possibly no horse in nature was ever like this, but the Assyrian artist so conceives it; the Greek copies that conception; and the distorted type will be transmitted down
