s cutting horizontal lines of black and white marble. But the
facade is a triumph of decorative art. It is strictly what has often
been described as a 'frontispiece;' for it bears no sincere relation
to the construction of the building. The three gables rise high
above the aisles. The pinnacles and parapets and turrets are stuck
on to look agreeable. It is a screen such as might be completed or
left unfinished at will by the architect. Finished as it is, the
facade of Orvieto presents a wilderness of beauties. Its pure white
marble has been mellowed by time to a rich golden hue, in which are
set mosaics shining like gems or pictures of enamel. A statue stands
on every pinnacle; each pillar has a different design; round some of
them are woven wreaths of vine and ivy; acanthus leaves curl over
the capitals, making nests for singing birds or Cupids; the doorways
are a labyrinth of intricate designs, in which the utmost elegance
of form is made more beautiful by incrustations of precious agates
and Alexandrine glasswork. On every square inch of this wonderful
facade have been lavished invention, skill, and precious material.
But its chief interest centres in the sculptures executed by
Giovanni and Andrea, sons and pupils of Nicola Pisano. The names of
these three men mark an era in the history of art. They first
rescued Italian sculpture from the grotesqueness of the Lombard and
the wooden monotony of the Byzantine styles. Sculpture takes the
lead of all the arts. And Nicola Pisano, before Cimabue, before
Duccio, even before Dante, opened the gates of beauty, which for a
thousand years had been shut up and overgrown with weeds. As Dante
invoked the influence of Virgil when he began to write his mediaeval
poem, and made a heathen bard his hierophant in Christian mysteries,
just so did Nicola Pisano draw inspiration from a Graeco-Roman
sarcophagus. He studied the basrelief of Phaedra and Hippolytus,
which may still be seen upon the tomb of Countess Beatrice in the
Campo Santo, and so learned by heart the beauty of its lines and the
dignity expressed in its figures, that in all his subsequent works
we trace the elevated tranquillity of Greek sculpture. This
imitation never degenerated into servile copying; nor, on the other
hand, did Nicola attain the perfect grace of an Athenian artist. He
remained a truly mediaeval carver, animated with a Christian instead
of a Pagan spirit, but caring for the loveliness of form which art
in